by Debra Hyde
On her stomach, L senses Cassandra peering over her, at her right shoulder. There, the sacrifice waits, resting upon her skin. Cassandra approves its placement. Consent came weeks ago, in advance of this hallmark, their first anniversary.
Yet consent does not make the first slice of the knife any less painful. It burns her, pervades her, and L surrenders to it, sinking into the sensation. Each cut shapes her, redefines her. In this moment, this space, it remakes her.
Just as Cassandra has done over the last year. Yet no matter how much of life L considers through the filter of Cassandra's ownership, she is still her own person. Because without personage, submission is nothing more than obliteration.
Cassandra knows too. As she watches the knife do its work, as the body piercer etches this new mark across L's shoulder, she silently celebrates her good fortune. Soon, she will have a nightly reminder of that fortune every time she curls around L. It will mark the night she whispered her most private truth to L. It will mark the night that she truly became L's mistress, as much bound to L as L was to her.
L whimpers as the mark takes shape; Cassandra places her hand on L's head, a benediction of comfort, a call for courage. Then, lovingly, she strokes L's hair. Around them, the women of Hippolyte watch, amazed by the simplicity of Cassandra's gesture. They marvel at the new leaf the once haughty Cassandra has turned.
The piercer wipes welling blood from broken skin. L relaxes now, at one with the ebb and flow of cut, then wipe. Its rhythm is like breathing—like life itself. Transported, L thinks one word. Sandra.
The cutting symbolizes L's longing for Sandra, as Cassandra. It speaks of Cabochard and leather. Of ardor and desire. Of impulse and patience. Of submission discovered and surrendered to.
Nearly completed, it draws an awe of appreciation from those surrounding L. Tara, Quinn, Reese, they all marvel over it. Cassandra smiles, nods, and tells L how beautiful she looks. A weak smile curls at the edge of L's lips—she's too endorphin-drenched to express much else. But love surges anew, full and glorious, a sunburst of adulation.
Just like the cutting on her back. Despite its raw weeping, its splendor is unmistakable—radiance, in the form of a Tenerife lace wheel.
THE END
