Below you will find the results of my having challenged myself for a number of days to write a short story with a beginning and middle and an end inside of 30 minutes. Here is what I came up with. I hope you like it.
“I thought you liked flogging?”
“I do like flogging.”
“Well, it seems like all we do is flogging. I’ve been flogged every night for two weeks. Christ, enough with the flogging.”
Nort’s erection vanished like a parakeet in a handkerchief.
“That’s not even your good flogger. I bought you a new flogging whip for your birthday, and you haven’t even used it, yet. I mean…”
“Well, it’s a nice flogger, and I’d feel bad about getting blood and sweat all over it.”
“Nonononono. You’re right. I’ll go get it, right now.”
“You don’t have to go get it, right now. I mean…”
“No. I’ll go find the box. It’s right next to the iron maiden.”
“It’s still in the box? You haven’t even taken it out of the box, yet?”
“OK, I’m beginning to think that this is going to be it for the evening.”
Nort and Elvira met at a charity rubber duck race near the Martin Street Bridge. Nort’s acromegaly had cleared up, and he was looking to get back into the dating scene. Elvira was an Olympic Judo medalist who took sexual pleasure in being publicly humiliated by Boy Scouts. She owned 11 whips, an electric cattle prod, an acoustic cattle prod and a paddle with the words “Here Come De Judge” stenciled on it.
They’d seen each other around.
“Looks like your head has returned to its normal size,” Elvira said to Nort, that morning at the duck race.
Nort played it cool.
“Yeah. I, uh…”
By lunchtime, they were at one of the leading Burger Kings in town.
They sat at a booth in the corner, a single candle’s golden flame burnt between them.
“When the waitress brings the dinner rolls, I want you to pelt me with the dinner rolls and call me a buffoon,” commanded Elvira.
“I don’t think they have rolls, here.”
“I brought some of my own.”
Elvira had a portrait of Ethan Allen over her bed; she told everyone that it was The Marquis de Sade.
On their first ‘outing,’ North had injured himself with the cat o’nine tails, requiring a trip to urgent care. The physician, who had previously treated Nort’s acromegaly, was a discreet man.
“What’s the matter, Nort?” he asked. “Head getting big, again?”
Elvira tore pages from the magazines in the waiting room.
“Are those riding jodhpurs?” asked the nice old lady with the broken finger.
“No. These are for evenings out,” answered Elvira through the vinyl.