by Sandra Davies
Caged by guilt and shadowed bars of branding irons, breasts and belly besmirched by centuries of soot from the roof-supporting pillar he had lashed me to, I remained defiant.
“My face? Do you want the world to know?”
His eyes were anthracite-implacable.
“I mean to guarantee you’ll not lie down for another man. Fire is cleansing, only the letter negotiable. Before I gag you, do you choose A or W?”
“'Adulteress' more accurate, I do not charge.”
He had ever admired my honesty, my spirit, but I’d failed to think it through.
He smiled, acknowledging. “But 'whore' the shortest word.”
Author bio: Writer, printmaker, east-coast orientated.