Free Craving Flight by Tamsen Parker Page A

ribcage.
    “There’s my sweet little bird. You’re fragile, but so strong.”
    So I bear it until like the other ones, the bite fades and turns more into a throb. We’ve got to be close to finished. How much more can he ask of me? But then I remember the last cane. That’s how much more.
    He picks it up, swishes it through the air a few times and my heart beats harder. Getting down on one knee to my side, he wraps an arm around me so that my upper arms are braced against it. He has enough play for a decent swing but he won’t be able to put his full force behind the blows, and I can steady myself against him so I don’t pull too hard on my hair.
    “Pick a number between one and twenty.”
    Oh, I hate this game. Forcing me to choose. He’s so very wicked. I won’t pick a low number because I don’t want to disappoint him but I can’t pick too high because I’m afraid. Before I can entirely psych myself out, I blurt, “Twelve.”
    “Mmm.” His noise of acknowledgement doesn’t give me much to work with, but I don’t have long to think about it because the first stripe is landing across my behind, a defined line of pain. And I know by now that he wants me to count for him, thank him.
    “One. Thank you, master.”
    And on it goes, line after line, hurt after hurt, tallying the strikes and expressing my gratitude. The strange thing is, I really am grateful. Thankful for him allowing me to be this way without disdain, for giving this to me freely and even joyfully. I thank Hashem, too, for sending me this man with whom I can share this. With whom I’m able to create these moments of wholeness and abandon in a life otherwise fraught with fear that I’ll never be good enough for anyone.
    I choke out eleven and he leans into me. Talks low in my ear. “Beg me for it, Tzipporah. Ask me to hurt you. Plead with me to hit you harder, make you suffer.”
    I’m so wet between my legs I can barely stand it, the pain ratcheting up my desire and making me crave him. The clamps have been jolted with every strike, reminding me anew of their presence and I’m practically out of my mind. So it’s no surprise I do as he asks and babble the words frantically.
    “Please, master. I need more. Hit me, bruise me. I want to feel this for days. Leave your marks on me. Make it hurt. I want to hurt for you. Please.”
    The cane falls across my flesh for the last time, this strike crossing the ones he’s already made. He’s hit me so hard I cry out without wanting to. There’s nothing to do but scream. And cry. The tears I’ve been choking back finally spill and I start to bawl, the sobs racking my body.
    It’s such a relief. It’s over, but I’ve done it. I’ve made him happy and in return, he’s set me free, given me permission to fall completely and utterly apart.
    He murmurs small, gruff words while he holds me, the sounds of the Yiddish soothing precisely because I can’t understand and for the moment I give up trying. I haven’t made much of an effort to learn because not so many people in my community speak it, not like in the Hasidic neighborhoods. In fact, it might be only the Kleins and a couple of the other more conservative families who use it and then not often. I’ve heard Elan speak it with his family, especially his brothers, but he doesn’t usually use it around me. I’m glad he’s chosen to now.
    After I’ve calmed, he starts to untie me. It takes a long time because he’s doing most of it single-handedly, keeping my slumped body against him so there’s not too much weight on my scalp or my shoulders. When I’m finally free, he picks me up and lays me on the bed.
    I find the lace edges of the bedspread easily though my eyes are closed. Curling my fingers around the side, I stroke weakly at them, needing to touch, needing to hold something solid.
    “Are you with me, Tzipporah? Can you tell me?”
    “Mmm.”
    “I need more than that.”
    Demanding man. I don’t think I can open my eyes and talk