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The Monsters, sans Nigella, sat at the little beach, with imported sand, opposite the boathouse from the pier. Each rested their butts on portable lawn and lounge chairs, with only Belle on the ground, a root of a maple at the edge of the lawn area above the sand, her feet actually in the sand. She played her viola while Eddie and the little brother strummed acoustic guitars and the older brother used bongos for the drumming. Joe didn’t recognize the slow tune, nor what Eddie sang.She appeared like an angel, the face and body, without wings.Her words they would sparkle like the facets on diamond rings.She seemed to care for what I cared for, wanted to know what I knew.Every touch seemed to please her, every word would ring true.Hours seemed like moments and moments like eternity.The way you want it always, when love is a certainty.When silence springs like sunshine when you hold each other’s hand.And hearts beat together and you’re at each other’s command.The way I always wanted it. Totally naked they stand shivering in the cool breeze. They aren’t really cold but frightened, and they have good reason. For now I put away the riding crops and pass out thick strips of leather. One woman begins to cry just seeing the instruments of torture.We do not waste much time but immediately begin our chase, catching a few of the girls off-guard, their yelps at the stinging slaps of the leather warning the others to run for their lives. The women run frantically, but they cannot escape. There is no where to go; the park is too small.One woman slips on the grass and slides a yard or two on her chest. A belt lashes her bottom half-a-dozen times before she manages to get back on her feet.The stillness of the night is broken by cries of pain and the terrible lashing of leather against flesh. It is exhilarating, forbidden, dangerous. I am ecstatic.Then the women begin their attack. They come at us in pairs, one girl sacrificing her bottom to the lash while the other takes care of.
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