She was tied spread-eagled, so vulnerable and open. She stared at the approaching Bishop. His mouth was wet and trembly, his eyes black like a snake’s. His skin seemed to gleam in the darkness.
“Hello, my dear,” he whispered, toying with a lock of her hair. “We meet again.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The figures around her laughed at her plaintive query. Her voice was so breathy and weak. But she was only a young girl, barely fifteen, and they were all adults. She assumed that they were of her village.
The Bishop pulled away, turned to face the hooded spectators. He turned back to her, and she saw that he had a long, black taper, lit. The flame was a bit of comfort in the night.
He murmured a few words, then tipped the candle over her. Hot wax struck her n*****s, her public mound. She
