There was a gentle, warm breeze as we crossed the park and emerged through the gate onto the canal towpath. Trees overhung the path and there was that...lovely summer smell along with the occasional putter of canal boats as they plied the waterway. We held hands.“She called you her ‘almost wife’.”“Yep. She does that. It’s because I called her my ‘almost boyfriend’ once. People see her and see butch. I see a beautiful, clever, free spirit. She hates convention.” She stopped and turned so we were. Her lip trembles. I imagine she'd have carried the hope of freedom as her excuse for doing anything I asked. Perhaps she assumed that I'd kill her if she disobeyed. The truth is worse, and she starts to cry in earnest. The sight of her chained up and crying, it's too much. I snatch up a cat o' nine tails and whip the front of the Post full force. Red streaks are left behind the leather straps' path, marking her tits and stomach. The Post shrieks in surprised pain before regaining her composure.. More

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