Crucifixion

August 15, 1788  
   
   
Mon Cher Donatien  
   
As a daughter of the Enlightenment, I have always been wary of religion. Preferring instead the sect of reason. Of cause and effect, of action then reaction. But I have adored the ritual of Nazarene worshipers. All of their imagery, their symbolism. Perhaps that is why I crave the time you bequeath me. The time in your temple of my discovery.  
   
So, I was not surprised when I faced it in our chamber. The Saint Andrew Cross was made of a heavy oak. Lacquered in a flat black paint, that absorbed light, hope. Chains were eye bolted and properly spaced for wrists and ankles, my wrists and ankle.    
   
You motioned for me to position myself before it. I raised my arms, first one, then the other. In silence you locked my manacles in place. Then bent down to fasten my ankles in the same fashion. The bondage was tight, but loose enough for lengthy play. I glanced over at the full mirror off to my right.    
   
I was pinned in place. Naked save my restraints. My long black hair flowing down my back like a mane. The candlelight caressed my ivory skin, giving it an inviting glow. An invitation I knew you would accept.    
   
Your footsteps grew softer, you were walking away. I heard the chair stir, then you sit. Time to savor, time to reflect. I had learned how you did this, why you did this. So much of my schooling was about patience and reflection. Letting me get in touch with myself. My bonds kept me still, let me focus. Focus on you and all that you did, both the delight and the punishment. But also let me go inward, first through the use of blindfolds.  
   
My gaze returned to my reflection. Who was this woman? I hardly recognized her. No longer the angry, jaded woman of minor nobility. Longing for more stature, more respect. Now chained here in a dungeon of my own making. The jailor’s key dangling around my neck. This was beauty, this was power.    
   
“What is it that you do not want me to now?” The question no longer startled me, haunted me. I was like a parishioner at confess, with my most unholy priest.    
   
“I love this, all of this.” The words echoed in the warm room. I elaborated, “How you have taken me, taken me from myself, from the world. My Hades taking his Persephone. Bring me to your realm, keeping me… here.” The words drifted away with their laden weight. I felt light, free… despite the shackles that kept me in my place. Where you put me.  
   
“Are you hoping for a resurrection?” You asked. Not an odd question given my attachment to the cross. I could not answer, did not have an answer.  
   
“Aren’t we all?” I dared to answer with a question. You let a soft, knowing laugh.  
   
“Most of us are beyond salvation,” you shot back. “A chosen few resurrect ourselves.”  
The slap of the flogger jolted me. I straightened up, pulled against my restraints. I felt the diffuse burn from the suede fingers across my back. Lost in my thoughts, your words I had failed to notice you had come up behind me. You focused lower, going down my back towards a better target. There you began a crisscrossing rhythm. An X across my behind, symmetric to the one I was chained to.

Then you… stopped.

“Where are you now?” The question echoed in my mind.

“I don’t know,” was all I could muster in reply.

“Manifique,” you whispered. Then resumed my flogging.