mark sessnatz
Tribune
I have a longer, more involved story I've been working on for the forum, but in the meantime, the idea for this shorter piece popped into my head, inspired by a phrase that's been in the news a lot lately. I hope people aren't too offended by the more...consensual...nature of the action in this one. 
The setting is a town in Europe-ish sometime in the eighteenth century-ish.
Part One:
She could tell that the job was wearing on him. Since the new governor had taken over administration of at the Gaol, Gregor, her husband, came home every day increasingly exhausted, frustrated, and sullen. Not that he (or she for that matter) had ever expected that serving as a bailiff would be easy or fun. Dealing with criminals, physically and constantly, was always going to be somewhat taxing. But Gregor was an honest man and regarded it as an honest living. He left his qualms at the doorstep and that was that. Now, it seemed, the emotional walls were breaking down, and so was he. When Greta tried to press him on what was wrong, Gregor would mumble a few syllables about the new governor being “a brute” or “swine” and then simply sulk, leaving his wife to stoke the hearth or tend the stove in exasperated silence, wondering what all he wasn’t saying.
A side-effect of Gregor’s perpetual grim temperament was that they had not made love for nigh on two months, and Greta was nearly at wit’s end. At twenty-seven, she was no longer a young girl but still far from past her prime and still had all of her earthly appetites. A lot of appetite. Frankly, she was growing ravenous. With Gregor’s long hours and her tending their modest house, she was left with plenty of time on her own to ruminate. She was not averse to pleasuring herself when desperate, but she craved his touch. His huge, rough hands, the scrape of his black beard, the weight of him wrapped around her. Anything at all. He could hurt her if he would only touch her. He could hurt her.
On a Friday, Greta was warming a pot of stew when she heard, felt, and smelled him come home. Heard the door creak open, felt the floor vibrate slightly from his weight (as it always did), and smelled the heady musk of sweat and leather that preceded his arrival. She loved that smell. She set down her spoon just as his six-and-a-half-foot frame filled the kitchen doorway, reduced only somewhat by his now near-constant slouch. The two of them made a striking pair. Gregor was tall, broad and muscled, with curly black hair and beard, dressed in a thick white shirt, tall boots and a sturdy leather waistcoat. Greta was fit and healthy, but dainty, with soft brown eyes, softer brown hair, wore a simple blouse, corset and apron. She was barefoot, as always when doing the housework and at her full height she barely reached her husband’s chin.
Standing on tiptoe, she greeted him with a kiss on his scruffy cheek He squeezed her hand and grunted but did not smile. She met his gaze, seeing the weariness in his eyes. Brushing past her, he slumped into a kitchen chair, the wood protesting under his bulk. From his belt he pulled something long and black and tossed it with a thud onto the table. Greta followed him and gave him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.
“How was it today, dearest?” she asked. Gregor sighed heavily.
“Harder every day,” he replied. “I didn’t take this position just to beat people.”
“You’re doing your best,” Greta said.
“I feel like a damned butcher.” He leaned his head on his hand. Greta wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on top of his head. As she did so, she glanced at the table and realized what the object was he’d set down. It was the whip he carried for his work at the prison; a fearsome instrument, around a meter and a half from end to end, black as tar, with six wicked thongs of hard, knotted leather. A genuine weapon designed for scoring deep gouges in the skin of hardened criminals, it looked highly incongruous on a kitchen table. She stared at it, feeling goose-pimples rising all over her body.
“Would you like me to move that?” Greta asked, indicating the whip. Gregor looked up absently.
“Move…what? Oh,” he noticed where she was pointing. “I didn’t mean to bring it home. Get it out of my sight.” He shifted his weight on the creaky chair and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. Greta straightened up and picked the scourge up off the table.
“I’ll put it with your coat,” she announced. He grunted in reply.
She padded across the worn wooden floor into the front parlor, carrying the lash, still fascinated by it. She turned it over in her hand, feeling the weight of it (heavier than she expected), feeling the coarse texture of the tanned leather thongs, the sharp edges of the knots. As she reached the hook by the door where Gregor hung his worn woolen overcoat, she stopped, unable to put it down. She ran her fingers through the tails, her heart racing.
Slowly, dreamily, as if possessed, Greta raised the whip and draped the tails backward over her shoulder, dragging the ends gently across her back. Even through the cloth of her blouse she could feel the knotted ends. She wondered what it would feel like on her naked skin. Her breath quickened. She felt a burning heat between her legs. She closed her eyes and her imagination took hold. She envisioned herself surround by a crowd in the prison yard. She was naked down to her waist, shamefully exposed to the chill air and the dour spectators. Her hands were stretched high over her head, locked tightly in rough manacles binding her face-forward to the weathered wooden post. Behind her stood her husband. She couldn’t see him but she knew it was him, knew the smell. His shirtsleeves rolled up, muscles tensed, he raised that brutal lash and brought it down whistling through the air toward her helpless body. She tensed for the blow. She heard his voice:
“Everything alright, love?” Gregor called from the other room.
Greta opened her eyes, regaining composure, she looked at the whip in her hands, which she’d been gripping so hard her knuckles were white. She swallowed.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Stew’s boiling over,” Gregor said matter-of-factly.
Greta cursed under her breath and ran briskly back into the kitchen. She did not leave the whip behind.
Over supper, Gregor bemoaned his day to his wife, while she lovingly stroked his arm. At the root of his distress was, as always, the prison Governor. The man was a tyrant, far too strict and far too harsh in his dealings with the inmates, while the bulk of the actual dirty work fell to Gregor. He’d flogged four people this week, including a woman (did he notice Greta flushing at that detail?). The previous week it had been half a dozen. He’d always thought of his job as keeping order, but now it just seemed to be to inflict pain. He drained his wine, feeling drained himself.
Greta was sympathetic but concerned. They lived a modest but comfortable life in town which depended on Gregor’s salary. It was out of the question for him to leave his position. He knew no other trades, and they would have nowhere else to go but back to Greta’s family’s farm in the countryside, but that wouldn’t be enough to support them both. She wished there were some way she could lift him up and get him to take some pride in the work again. She drained her own wine. Reaching across the table, she grasped her husband’s hand.
“You’re no longer yourself, dearest,” she said.
“I no longer feel like myself,” he sighed, “I feel like another man’s tool. A blunt instrument.”
Greta stood up from her chair. She stood behind Gregor, running her hands tenderly up his arms. She could feel the wine swimming around her head already, drowning her sensible inhibitions. It was the curse of being her size.
“Poor man,” she cooed, “Poor strong, handsome man...You’ve forgotten how strong you are! How powerful!” She massaged his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned back, relaxing a bit for the first time since he came home. She pressed her face to the top of his curly head and breathed in his scent. “Hold me,” she whispered.
Finally stirred to action, (perhaps assisted by the drink) Gregor stood up to his full height. He took his wife by her shoulders and met her gaze, staring deeply into her pleading brown eyes. He pulled her into a vigorous embrace and kissed her, and she kissed him back, hungrily, greedily. When he pulled back for breath, she stroked his face.
“That’s it,” she said softly.
They kissed again and he held her tighter, pushing her backwards across the room until her back was up against the door frame. She writhed against him, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, his hair, feeling the fire once more. But she wasn’t satisfied. A mad, reckless desire had consumed her.
This time, when they pulled apart, Greta thrust something into Gregor’s hands. He looked down and startled. It was his own whip, the six vicious tails he had wielded all day. Greta had left it earlier on the sideboard next to where they stood, and now was presenting it to him with a wild look in her eyes.
“What’s this for?” he asked blankly.
“Do you trust me?” she said pointedly.
“Of course.”
“I need you to do something for me,” She spoke softly, her arms wrapped around his neck. “I need you to use it on me.”
“What?” he recoiled, “I can’t!”
“I need—” she looked away, slightly embarrassed. “It’s hard to explain, but I need to feel it. I’ve felt so little of anything for so long! And I need you to feel powerful again.”
He squeezed the whip, twisting it around and around in his hands.
“What if I hurt you badly?” he asked.
“I want this,” she said, “I trust you. Completely.” She reached up and kissed his forehead, then turned and drifted into the next room. Gregor looked at the weapon in his hands, then after a moment, he followed her.
The setting is a town in Europe-ish sometime in the eighteenth century-ish.
Part One:
She could tell that the job was wearing on him. Since the new governor had taken over administration of at the Gaol, Gregor, her husband, came home every day increasingly exhausted, frustrated, and sullen. Not that he (or she for that matter) had ever expected that serving as a bailiff would be easy or fun. Dealing with criminals, physically and constantly, was always going to be somewhat taxing. But Gregor was an honest man and regarded it as an honest living. He left his qualms at the doorstep and that was that. Now, it seemed, the emotional walls were breaking down, and so was he. When Greta tried to press him on what was wrong, Gregor would mumble a few syllables about the new governor being “a brute” or “swine” and then simply sulk, leaving his wife to stoke the hearth or tend the stove in exasperated silence, wondering what all he wasn’t saying.
A side-effect of Gregor’s perpetual grim temperament was that they had not made love for nigh on two months, and Greta was nearly at wit’s end. At twenty-seven, she was no longer a young girl but still far from past her prime and still had all of her earthly appetites. A lot of appetite. Frankly, she was growing ravenous. With Gregor’s long hours and her tending their modest house, she was left with plenty of time on her own to ruminate. She was not averse to pleasuring herself when desperate, but she craved his touch. His huge, rough hands, the scrape of his black beard, the weight of him wrapped around her. Anything at all. He could hurt her if he would only touch her. He could hurt her.
On a Friday, Greta was warming a pot of stew when she heard, felt, and smelled him come home. Heard the door creak open, felt the floor vibrate slightly from his weight (as it always did), and smelled the heady musk of sweat and leather that preceded his arrival. She loved that smell. She set down her spoon just as his six-and-a-half-foot frame filled the kitchen doorway, reduced only somewhat by his now near-constant slouch. The two of them made a striking pair. Gregor was tall, broad and muscled, with curly black hair and beard, dressed in a thick white shirt, tall boots and a sturdy leather waistcoat. Greta was fit and healthy, but dainty, with soft brown eyes, softer brown hair, wore a simple blouse, corset and apron. She was barefoot, as always when doing the housework and at her full height she barely reached her husband’s chin.
Standing on tiptoe, she greeted him with a kiss on his scruffy cheek He squeezed her hand and grunted but did not smile. She met his gaze, seeing the weariness in his eyes. Brushing past her, he slumped into a kitchen chair, the wood protesting under his bulk. From his belt he pulled something long and black and tossed it with a thud onto the table. Greta followed him and gave him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.
“How was it today, dearest?” she asked. Gregor sighed heavily.
“Harder every day,” he replied. “I didn’t take this position just to beat people.”
“You’re doing your best,” Greta said.
“I feel like a damned butcher.” He leaned his head on his hand. Greta wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on top of his head. As she did so, she glanced at the table and realized what the object was he’d set down. It was the whip he carried for his work at the prison; a fearsome instrument, around a meter and a half from end to end, black as tar, with six wicked thongs of hard, knotted leather. A genuine weapon designed for scoring deep gouges in the skin of hardened criminals, it looked highly incongruous on a kitchen table. She stared at it, feeling goose-pimples rising all over her body.
“Would you like me to move that?” Greta asked, indicating the whip. Gregor looked up absently.
“Move…what? Oh,” he noticed where she was pointing. “I didn’t mean to bring it home. Get it out of my sight.” He shifted his weight on the creaky chair and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. Greta straightened up and picked the scourge up off the table.
“I’ll put it with your coat,” she announced. He grunted in reply.
She padded across the worn wooden floor into the front parlor, carrying the lash, still fascinated by it. She turned it over in her hand, feeling the weight of it (heavier than she expected), feeling the coarse texture of the tanned leather thongs, the sharp edges of the knots. As she reached the hook by the door where Gregor hung his worn woolen overcoat, she stopped, unable to put it down. She ran her fingers through the tails, her heart racing.
Slowly, dreamily, as if possessed, Greta raised the whip and draped the tails backward over her shoulder, dragging the ends gently across her back. Even through the cloth of her blouse she could feel the knotted ends. She wondered what it would feel like on her naked skin. Her breath quickened. She felt a burning heat between her legs. She closed her eyes and her imagination took hold. She envisioned herself surround by a crowd in the prison yard. She was naked down to her waist, shamefully exposed to the chill air and the dour spectators. Her hands were stretched high over her head, locked tightly in rough manacles binding her face-forward to the weathered wooden post. Behind her stood her husband. She couldn’t see him but she knew it was him, knew the smell. His shirtsleeves rolled up, muscles tensed, he raised that brutal lash and brought it down whistling through the air toward her helpless body. She tensed for the blow. She heard his voice:
“Everything alright, love?” Gregor called from the other room.
Greta opened her eyes, regaining composure, she looked at the whip in her hands, which she’d been gripping so hard her knuckles were white. She swallowed.
“Of course,” she answered.
“Stew’s boiling over,” Gregor said matter-of-factly.
Greta cursed under her breath and ran briskly back into the kitchen. She did not leave the whip behind.
***
Over supper, Gregor bemoaned his day to his wife, while she lovingly stroked his arm. At the root of his distress was, as always, the prison Governor. The man was a tyrant, far too strict and far too harsh in his dealings with the inmates, while the bulk of the actual dirty work fell to Gregor. He’d flogged four people this week, including a woman (did he notice Greta flushing at that detail?). The previous week it had been half a dozen. He’d always thought of his job as keeping order, but now it just seemed to be to inflict pain. He drained his wine, feeling drained himself.
Greta was sympathetic but concerned. They lived a modest but comfortable life in town which depended on Gregor’s salary. It was out of the question for him to leave his position. He knew no other trades, and they would have nowhere else to go but back to Greta’s family’s farm in the countryside, but that wouldn’t be enough to support them both. She wished there were some way she could lift him up and get him to take some pride in the work again. She drained her own wine. Reaching across the table, she grasped her husband’s hand.
“You’re no longer yourself, dearest,” she said.
“I no longer feel like myself,” he sighed, “I feel like another man’s tool. A blunt instrument.”
Greta stood up from her chair. She stood behind Gregor, running her hands tenderly up his arms. She could feel the wine swimming around her head already, drowning her sensible inhibitions. It was the curse of being her size.
“Poor man,” she cooed, “Poor strong, handsome man...You’ve forgotten how strong you are! How powerful!” She massaged his shoulders. He closed his eyes and leaned back, relaxing a bit for the first time since he came home. She pressed her face to the top of his curly head and breathed in his scent. “Hold me,” she whispered.
Finally stirred to action, (perhaps assisted by the drink) Gregor stood up to his full height. He took his wife by her shoulders and met her gaze, staring deeply into her pleading brown eyes. He pulled her into a vigorous embrace and kissed her, and she kissed him back, hungrily, greedily. When he pulled back for breath, she stroked his face.
“That’s it,” she said softly.
They kissed again and he held her tighter, pushing her backwards across the room until her back was up against the door frame. She writhed against him, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, his hair, feeling the fire once more. But she wasn’t satisfied. A mad, reckless desire had consumed her.
This time, when they pulled apart, Greta thrust something into Gregor’s hands. He looked down and startled. It was his own whip, the six vicious tails he had wielded all day. Greta had left it earlier on the sideboard next to where they stood, and now was presenting it to him with a wild look in her eyes.
“What’s this for?” he asked blankly.
“Do you trust me?” she said pointedly.
“Of course.”
“I need you to do something for me,” She spoke softly, her arms wrapped around his neck. “I need you to use it on me.”
“What?” he recoiled, “I can’t!”
“I need—” she looked away, slightly embarrassed. “It’s hard to explain, but I need to feel it. I’ve felt so little of anything for so long! And I need you to feel powerful again.”
He squeezed the whip, twisting it around and around in his hands.
“What if I hurt you badly?” he asked.
“I want this,” she said, “I trust you. Completely.” She reached up and kissed his forehead, then turned and drifted into the next room. Gregor looked at the weapon in his hands, then after a moment, he followed her.
.
