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Title: SSC02: Unholy Ground
Date: June 10, 2002
Author: rcg (rcg1574@yahoo.com)
This story is copyright 2002 (C) by rcg. It may not be distributed, reproduced, or publicly archived without the consent of the author. This story contains adult situations. If you are under the age of majority in your area, stop reading now. Under no condition may this header be modified or removed.
I don't think this story is that edgy, but it is about an uncomfortable topic for many people. While based in truth, this story is, I remind you, purely fictional.
Unholy Ground
I walk carefully behind the row of tilting headstones, so as not to tread on the graves of those long past. I am not a shred superstitious, but the habit was instilled in me at a young age. The inscriptions on many of the stones are worn beyond recognition, but I need no guide to find the one I seek. It seems farther into the bush than I remember it.
Perhaps the bush has encroached, or perhaps it is my failing vision, but I can no longer get close enough to make out the inscription. No matter, I know what it reads.
"Wasyl Federchuk
1907 - 1962"
Once upon a time I loved him and he loved me. I still love him, I suppose, despite...
It always began the same. "Gloria" he would call to me from the kitchen. Usually I was his 'darling', or 'dear', but never then.
Sometime I knew what I had done wrong, sometimes I was left to wonder, sometimes it didn't matter.
"You've earned a strapping" he would say, "get over the table." I would bend over, my breasts pressed firmly onto its hard oak surface, bottom pulled tight to keep my feet on the floor. He wold pull out the thick leather razor strop that hung by the washstand and lay it on the table, near my face.
Words were rarely spoken while he raised the hem of my long dress and rolled it clear up to my neck. He would slide his strong, hairy hand under my tummy and find the knot in the drawstring of my knickers. To this day I have no idea how he always managed to undo it so deftly with a single hand squezed beneath me.
My knickers would be pulled clear and let to fall to my ankles. He would order me to spread my feet as far as the waist of my fallen underwear would allow. Sometimes he would place both hands betwen my bare thighs and spread them apart himself.
He would lift the strap from the table, wipe it with a clean rag, then raise it high behind me.
It would strike down with a swish and a crack that I always heard before I felt.
Usually I would shriek in pain. Never would I reach back or move from the table. Always the strap would descend again.
How many I could never predict. Once and only once he strapped until a welt broke and bled. Sometimes it was as few as three or four. Usually it was more.
When the strapping ended, as suddenly as it began, he would gather me into his strong caring arms, my dress falling into place, my knickers discarded on the floor, and lead me up the stairs and onto the soft down bed, where he would show his love for me till we were both exhausted and sore.
With a tear in my eye I turn and walk away from my fathers grave. My husband waits in the car. He doesn't understand; few can, but I love him still.
He rests in unholy ground, but I alone remember his love and mercy
rcg
020610