Copyright 1997 to <mijita@thetreehouse.net>. Please respect this copyright. Don't distribute or archive this story in any way except for personal use without explicit permission. No, it's not in the public domain. Ask first, okay? Thanks.

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[Image of Little Miss Naughty] For Tori
by Mija

I saw a white iron headboard at Macy's today and thought of Tori . . . and ribbons.

How to explain? We lived together a year, me nineteen, she twenty. Friends first of course. Also lovers - but not 'of course'. Such good Catholic girls, so surprised at finding ourselves kissing, touching.

Despite being friends, despite being lovers . . . or maybe because . . . this was no calm relationship. There was too much anger inside us both. Our fights were loud, hard, mean - mostly over our families.

Her mother made midnight calls in drunken rages to rip at Tori's self-esteem. I didn't try and comfort her - instead yelled she should hang up the damned phone, finally yanking the jack out of the wall.

Whenever my father called, I rearranged my life, Tori's life, ignored plans with her, made us have dinner with him. She understood why I never refused. And her anger boiled over. The spanking that night wasn't play.

And I discovered I loved her all the more.

That evening, once again I couldn't bear the intensity of our passion and pushed Tori away. She held my hands, made me hold the white iron headboard.

"Don't. Let me."

Again I pushed Tori away. She grabbed my hands and held them as she started again her - our - gentle rhythm, her mouth feeling softer than it ever spoke. I closed myself - wouldn't - couldn't let her.

"You will let me."

I didn't resist as she turned me over, held my hands in the small of my back, took her hairbrush from the night table and spanked me . . . hard . . . until promises to be good were drowned out by sobs.

She turned me back over, the sheet feeling rough against my tender bottom. Tori again closed my hands on the cold, strong headboard.

"Let me."

- "I can't."

Tears started to fall again.

She kissed them away, the brush in her hand smoothing my hair. Tori undid my hair's red ribbon. Took and wrapped it around my wrists and the headboard. Tied a knot.

I pulled at the bonds. Not hard, but making sure they were really tied. They were.

Now I couldn't push Tori away, couldn't close myself from her. Blinding jolts of sensation passed through my body, Tori's gift to me. As I lay, still trembling, she untied my hands, held me to her as I kissed and caressed both her mouths.

I came home the next day to find all fourteen of my multi-colored hair ribbons in bows tied to her headboard. I knew I wouldn't push her away again.

Yet ultimately I did. And on the day I publicly bound myself to the wrong person, I received a gift from Tori. A flat white box full of my ribbons, all untied.

My eyes fill as I think of that year. Both of us so hurt, trying to heal each other. Our anger, the parts of our life together that weren't healthy, cutting off finally our desire to bind ourselves together.

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