A few years ago,I undertook to write 5 short pieces a week, all from writing prompts. That should explain whey Microfantasy Monday is a draw. I wrote over fifty of them before running out of steam (although I may return to them). They are almost all bdsm related, and some are parts of a series. I’m going to post one a week here as they get cleaned up (although I may not post all of them, some are — shall we say — less good.)
This one got some comments and a favorable review, and was the 19th written/posted.
When I was a child I spoke as a child I understood as a child I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things. -- I Cor. xiii. 11.
It had been years since I put it away, still a childish girl of 22. I had met Henry, and while he could never be like Samuel, I knew that he would always be there for me, a thing Samuel had never been able to promise. So I packed it away in a box, unwilling to completely let go of ancient promises and forbidden hopes.
Long afterward, I came upon it again, unboxing things left too long in an attic. I was 45, had three wonderful children. Henry was a Vice-President at the bank. Conservative, a pillar of the community. I put it on again, the spikes radiating outward. The passion overcoming me, my desire for Samuel overwhelming me. I played with the idea of finding him again, as I masturbated — trying to excite myself, but not to actually come. Just like he used to do.
The kids were at college, and I was alone at home most of the time. I found myself pulling it out again and again. Then one day Henry came home early, the noise from the door opening pulling me out of my submissive reverie. I put it back in the attic again, and left it there.
Henry died a few weeks ago, at age sixty-five. He went young, but we had a good life. The kids, their spouses and children — precious grandchildren — all left, and I remembered the box in the attic.
I went upstairs, and retrieved it, unpacking the old, cracked leather of the neglected collar.
I stood, naked, my breasts drooping, my skin covered in wrinkles, my hair expertly done by my stylist of so many years. I lifted the collar to my neck, clasping and latching it, and I was young again. My hair the rich, long black of youth, bound in a ponytail at his request. He was walking around me, with the rope, winding it around me, binding me. Next he grabbed the whips, and beat me, over and over again.
For leaving him with no explanation. For marrying another man, having another man’s children. For, worst of all, neglecting the care of the collar I had promised to keep and care for as a symbol of my submission, our love. When I wore it, I was Samuel’s, and no one else’s. Forty years later, it was still true. I felt my soul kneel to his, wherever it was, and I went down to my own knees.
I slid my hand over my aged breasts, and between my legs, masturbating and crying for new and ancient loss.
And thought, once again, about finding him, and apologizing.