The first few swings did not connect. The man with the flogger wanted her to hear the sound it made swishing past. Each time she heard it, she tensed involuntarily, then relaxed when she realized it hadn’t struck. He did this a couple of times, then he landed a blow on her shoulder.

It hit mid-length in the tresses, a little stingy since it was the first strike, but most of the bulk landed at once with a thud. It was a feeling she’d longed for some time. He struck the other shoulder the same way. Then he began going back and forth, slow mid-length strikes with little power. He was just warming her up. The blows tickled, as they often did at the start of a session, but also because he was going gentle.

She’d fucked a murder last night. And then her mind went to those sick dark places… if only she’d known. The cum of a murderer was powerful stuff… depending on how black you wanted your magic to go. She shook the grotesque thought from her head.

The blows came down to the beat of the music. To the rhythm of Derek fucking her. To the laps of her own tongue on Luna’s pussy. To the charged stare of a stranger. To her feeling lighter and more buoyant, knowing if she wanted, she could snap the cuffs and slip into an eternal high. She relished the consuming burning feeling her body sang in praise of the pain.

Opening her eyes she saw that a small crowd had gathered. Who wouldn’t, she thought, want to watch a naked woman ecstatically flogged? Nearly all were in black, some swaying and embracing to the music. Others were just mesmerized watching their performance.

Among the crowd, she spotted a lone man, tall, pale-skinned, with dark eyes, who watched her closely. He was alone, and she had the strongest sense of deja-vu until she remembered where she’d last seen him, last night at the club. He’d been her glimpse, received her shy smile, and vanished.

Something about him drew her eyes to him as suede crashed on skin. He was not shy in his watching her, his gaze met hers eagerly. Morgaine suddenly wanted to give this performance to him, a gift for making her feel so sexy the previous night, for guiding her to the couple that fucked her. She wanted this to be his payment for making her feel.

When the man flogging her inquired she replied, “Green.” His hand swept along her back focusing on the shoulders where most of the blows landed. It was lovely that he was checking on her so early, but she wanted the main course already.

He stepped back and repeated the false swings. They went by faster this time, he was telling her that it was going to really begin. And he did. He swung his arm in a sideways figure eight in front of him, letting the tips of the tresses crisscross over the skin. Blows landed on her shoulders, spine, and he crept ever downward to include her ass. The tips hit her like hot angry needles, making her skin come alive with a thousand sharp ghostly stabs.

With the flogger striking skin, forcing her to breathe, to take the pain, to turn it into a lingering burning, she could not help but think of the sex. Derek, an unseen shadow behind her, filling her, pounding against her, trying to tear her apart. And Luna, bright white teeth and an insatiable hunger guiding her, demanding ever more, making her feel so tiny.

Morgaine pulled on the wrist cuffs bringing herself into what she considered an embrace with the cross. She couldn’t get her arms around it, but pulling against it almost felt like a hug. The stings walked up and down her back. Her instinct with the first biting blows was to flinch away, when she couldn’t she tried leaning back into it. Neither worked and she pulled her limbs tight, hugging the cross with sheer force.

As it continued she could feel herself forcing a regular breathing pattern. A series of sharp cuts, breathe in, another series on the opposite side, breathe out. She winced her eyes shut, sounds faded, and all that existed was the crisscrossing cuts across her back, the unrelenting slashes back and forth. It was supposed to be a thuddy pain, she didn’t remember it being so sharp.

Focusing on her breathing became a religion. Her mantra; in, out. She was getting where she needed to be, the lightheadedness slowly swallowing all her loneliness and shuffling thoughts. In this moment she felt pure, the pain was taking her elsewhere, to a place where she could truly think.

“Green,” she said with an intoxicated smile when he asked again.

A song began playing. Notes broken and fragmented like a malfunctioning machine. A lover telling his girl how badly he wants to be with her, wants to own her heart, how badly he wants to fuck her, and tear her apart. The blows came down, harder now, not just tips now, but the full weight of the tails hitting her now, so much more thumpy.

She breathed feeling the blows, relishing what they did to her. Her skin glowed, the stinging melted into duller constant ache, punctuated when the flogger struck. It felt beautiful, and she smiled in the pain's wake. She drifted sedately with no thoughts, just riding the feel of her burning backside and how it made her float.

There were unintelligible words. And she realized he was beside her. Not the stranger, but the man flogging her. Asking her how she felt. His hands whispered across her back, burning trails of fire robbing her of the cool tickle of air. He pressed into her, hiding his other hand, as it slid along her front, over skin un-kissed by the flogging. The fleshy contact burnt circuits out in her head, and the contradicting sides screamed in ecstasy and agony at once. She felt him slip his hand lower, to the front of her thong, exactly where he should not be touching. He whispered, “You’re wet.”

She didn’t care. “Green.”

And the blows came down again, sending her spiraling into the quiet religious place. This was why she’d come. This was where her soul and mind could speak the same language. This was where she was whole.

There was a shuffling, and the cuffs at her feet came undone. There were angry words, and then her wrists were freed. Someone protested, “She doesn’t want aftercare.”

The man freeing her didn’t listen or care, shoving the man with the flogger away, and then sweeping Morgaine up into his arms. She floated away with him, away from the cross, to a dark corner. Her arms wrapped around broad shoulders and everything in the world felt so wonderful, as if made just for her. The man carrying her sat in a chair, throwing her legs over his lap, letting her arms remain wrapped around his shoulders. He rocked gently and pressed her face to his chest.

This was where she needed to be. Adrift in bliss, the burn of lashes on her skin, mind blank. She needed clarity, a clear mind. This was where she could determine what she ought to do next. A policeman had asked her questions and suggested she was involved in murder. Beyond that, she didn’t know much about how, why, when, or who really. Before she could proceed, she would need to know more.

Was this something she could leave to the policeman? It was a question for the mundane, the endless masses of normal people trapped in this world without magic. Their world, the world of the purely physical, was mired in problems like this. She had transcended all that when she awoke. Her world was so much vaster. Jail was not something she could or was willing to risk.

Who was killed and why? To remove herself from accusation she would need to know these things. Luna had been the queen of the club, but did anyone at Darkness truly know her? Morgaine also went to Darkness, perhaps not as often. Without question, she knew that no one there truly knew her. The DJ wove spells with his records. The bartender was so close to waking himself. Once in a rare while other casters and weavers would visit, but most of the patrons and staff were sleepers.

Were the owners awoken? Who were they? Was it incidental that Luna patronised the club, or was the club a hunting ground? Too many questions and conspiracies swirled through Morgaine’s vivid imagination. No, she needed to focus on what was known, not endless speculation.

She needed to discover more about Luna, about her murder, and about Derek. All paths led back to the apartment. She was sure the police had picked through it, but Morgaine would be able to see things they had not. If the murderer was a sleeper, she could help guide the police to their quarry. And in the unlikely event the murderer was awoken… she’d be better prepared than a sleeper policeman in dealing with something that operated outside the boundary of reality.

When Morgaine looked up a set of deep purple eyes flecked with gold looked down into hers. And she felt herself float into them, lost in purple and gold swirls, as the music played, and the crowd whispered around them.

“Shh,” He whispered to her, “Just relax.”

She closed her eyes and simply relished melting into him. He was so much bigger than her, with a broad chest, firm arms, and rock-solid thighs that held her easily. She just melted into the feel of the heat through his clothing.

There was something else though, lingering, like a scent of cologne. She could feel that he was a weaver like her. Whoever he might be he could cast magic and she could feel, and taste, and smell it on him. It was just a faint whisp, but it was enough to tell.

She looked back up at him afraid and nervous about what she could not tell. He gazed back down at her.

“I know you weave.” He said.

The words sent a chill through her. The weavers, the awakened, were so rare. There might be one in a thousand thousand. She’d met others before, the DJ, a barista, a chef, and every time, it was a shock meeting. Finally, she was able to talk to someone who knew, just as she did, that reality was a lie.

In her euphoric state, she wanted to weep. Instead, she buried her face in the stranger's chest.

“Let's get you home,” he whispered.

All she could do was nod.

YouTube link to song in this chapter:

She Wants Revenge - Tear You Apart

First Part:

Darkly Woven Part 1