There is a message within a message in every handwritten note, a subtle impression of the writer’s soul. Here, her handwriting wrote with the elegant fluency that only comes from the heart, the ebony stream flowing from her fountain pen slowly transcribing a secret she’d never ever dared reveal. How could a small rectangle of plain white card ever hope to contain something of such importance?
It made her shiver to see her secret written out so explicitly in an undulating line of black on white. It was as if her private fantasy had finally escaped from the gilded cage in which she had kept it hidden all these years. She was beginning to realise that on this little piece of card she had inscribed a magic spell, and those twenty-four words were imbued with the power to change her entire world. That was scary.
And also, she had to admit to herself, rather exciting.
Tinsel and baubles glimmered in the candlelight. She was sitting at the dining room table, alone for the evening, a chance to wrap Christmas presents for the nearest and dearest. One present had particular significance, it was the one into which she’d slip the note she was writing. But only if she was bold enough.
A lump of sanded driftwood occupied the middle of the table, a platform for the tall fat candle that illuminated the room, its warm brightness complementing the colourful glow of the Christmas tree fairylights. She looked into the flickering flames, turning the little card between her fingers. Over and over. Prevaricating, hesitating. Reading and re-reading what she’d written, checking the spelling, wondering if she’d said enough, or far too much, feeling the cool sharp points of the card’s crisp corners tingle her fingertips.
“My love,” it began.
“I’ve been fascinated by spanking since I was a girl.”
“I long for it, I crave it.”
“Please. Will you spank me?”
You must read the rest here. Merry Christmas!