Love is in the air

[npc-excolo.livejournal.com]

Sunday, February 14th
Valentine's Day

I sit on my bed with my legs crossed, writing real careful in my notebook. MRS CLARA GRANGER I write, all tidy, then underneath I practice my signature. Clara Granger. That nice man at the market swore it wouldn't take too long for him to propose after he drank the potion. After I practice my signature a few times I write our names together. PETER AND CLARA, and I put them inside a nice big heart.

I hear Momma shouting for me and I sigh. I know she won't approve when Peter and I get together, cos he is a bunch older than me and she says seventeen is way too young to settle down. But I know she married Pop at nineteen, so she's just a hypocrite. And Peter's a real good catch - got his own job, his own place. There's that Maya of course to worry about, I think, and I push my pencil a bit too hard into the page and the point breaks. But once Peter's had the potion he won't remember that he likes her. I just need to work out how to get it to him.

Momma shouts again.

"Coming!" I shout. I know she wants me to go to that dumb Valentine's market and help her sell quilts. Ugh. But Peter might be around town, so I check my hair is nice before I go down.

***

This punch just don't look too appetising. I sigh and shout for Clara again. What is that girl doing? Probably dreaming about that barman. She thinks I don't know she's moony about him. I'm just glad he's got a sweetheart, or else he might go for my Clara - she's real pretty and men like adoring girls. He's much too old for her. I taste the punch and it's real nice, course it is, made from our fruits, but the colour just don't pop. Feeling a bit guilty, I get out some food colourant and drop it in, and it goes a nice reddish colour. That's about right for Valentine's, ain't it? I stopper up the barrel. Clara comes down.

"Get those quilts in the cart, will you?" I say, hustling her out and then getting the punch on the wagon. Roads are clear, so we get set up easy. Just a few stalls for this - jewellery, flowers, all kinds of novelties. I put out the prettiest quilts - maybe some guy'll think one'd make a nice present for his wife, and more practical than earbobs - and set up the punch.

"Free punch, sir?" I say, holding out a cup. After a bit of prodding I get Clara dishing up punch too. Hopefully it'll be a good day.

[OPEN]
[Closed]

Comments

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He makes me start over, like I thought he would, but at least he doesn’t add any more. My ass is throbbing already, but the thought that I’ve probably disappointed him hurts more. He gives me a minute to feel wretched before he begins again, harder than before, though that shouldn’t be possible. The blow gets me up on my toes and hissing, and I’ve barely forced myself to say the number and come back down when I feel his hand on my back and his voice in my ear. A scrap of praise that just leaves me wanting more. I can do this, for him. I will do this.

Another blow, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it doesn’t feel as hard. I don’t forget to count this one properly, and then he lets me have another. The sting is sort of piling up, becoming too much, and then bleeding out, feeling like the moment after you touch a coal, only stretched out for minutes. Each new stroke spreads it a bit more, but he’s going slowly enough that I can find some rhythm in the haze of pain. A strike, a count, a little pause to let me feel it completely and just start absorbing it, and then another strike. Toward the end, only the noise jars me, and the blows just lap up on one another like waves hitting the beach. I know he must be working his way from the top of my ass nearly to my knees, because all of that’s on fire, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where each one hits each time.

I tense for the next one, but the rhythm’s broken. No noise, no spike on top of it all, just the base of heated soreness that he’s built up. I try to remember the last number out of my mouth. Was it twenty? Must have been. I lick my lips and say thank you, adding a ‘sir’ for good measure. I stay down, though, waiting to see what he wants of me next.

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

(con't below)