Michelle Monroe

Michelle showed up coughing and feverish. Ten days later I was still laid up, but the thin rope marks I left across her skin should have lasted weeks after the bug cleared out. She’s blonde, stripped down, wrists lashed tight with cord that bites deep, a fat black ball gag stretching her mouth wide. Every strike of the cane lands clean and hard, raising welts in perfect parallel lines while she fights the ropes and drools around the gag. The thin cord keeps every limb pinned, no slack, no give. She strains, but it only pulls the knots tighter. Sweat beads on her back, each welt shining under the lights. The punishment doesn’t let up until she’s shaking and every inch of exposed skin carries the red signature of the cane. The ropes stay. The gag stays. The marks stay. And she stays exactly where she’s put.