Crossing Lines

If there’s a pattern to Giles whipping me, you won’t find it staring at my arse. Sure, by the time he’s finished, there’s a shitload of stripes slashed into it, painted on by a steady hand...but unless he’s really pissed, by the time he’s fucked me to take the sting away, they’ve faded to illegibility.

No secret message either. Could be a cry for help, but if it is, I drown it out, yelling. No. The pattern’s in what puts that crop in his hand in the first place.

I don’t try to work it out.

I just bend over.

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