I looked down at him, willing the softnessfrom my heart–for a moment, I promised the resultant ache, only for amoment–thinking of home, those things that I missed, the lessons I hadlearned here. Passion. Repentance. Forgiveness. Love. I bent my head slowly, kissed him softly. Penitently.And he returned it, forgiving. Last night, I dreamed of a black horse. Upon waking,I looked in the dictionary of dreams I keep in my bedside table, to seeif there is any significance to this particular nighttime vision. It seemsa dream of a black horse is a dream of passion. It was no dream. I bear the stripes still. And how I long for him. I am lost–in a world that no longer makes senseto me, a world where the smell of those golden apples is but a breath away,but always a step beyond my reach. I remember stories that would thrill anymortal to laughter, to tears, to sorrow and joy, and yet I cannot recall thewords. My golden cage, where I sang and piped, learned their songs. ”“At least you got to keep your job,” I said with a smile. “How are the stripes?”“Look,” she said, turning, lifted her skirt, and bent over. She was now wearing normal knickers, but the marks of the cane could be seen across her bottom. She pulled her knickers down so I could see the full effect. “What a wonderful sight. Those earlier knickers looked beautiful.”“I thought you might like them. I wore them specially. Are you looking forward to later?”“Nervous, if I am honest.”“Maybe you have reason to be,” she smiled.We sat down to eat a light meal and had drinks on the patio as evening drew in. Time and conversation seemed amazingly easy as we relaxed in each other’s company.At six-thirty, Sophie said, “I need to get a couple of things together, do not be late. The Headmistress does not like to be kept waiting.” With that, she swept upstairs.I decided I would grab a quick shower and prepare for my meeting. I felt sure an extremely strict headmistress was waiting.Seven o’clock found me.
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