I slipped from the bed. Sauron’s bed. My master. I went to the bathroom and peed. Sitting there, wiping myself, I decided to leave. It would be the perfect crime, in a way, trapping my lover inside Sauron’s house, leaving both him and Sauron to each other’s company. I wanted to go home. I saw no way to extricate myself short of just walking out, as my master slept in his bed. When he awoke, I would be given new chores. I longed no longer to do them. I wanted to regain a sense of myself again. A beach brat, playing, teasing. I didn’t wish for domination anymore. Creeping down the hall to the guest bedroom, I found my clothes there. I wished I’d worn a bra now, but the t-shirt would have to do. I slipped it on. I wanted a shower but I couldn’t risk waiting. Once Sauron woke, I would be his again. I slipped on my shorts. I felt messy. I looked in the mirror and tried to fluff out my hair and then, feeling the skin crawl on my back, I imagined I saw Sauron in the doorway, his penis huge, wanting to possess me again. I bolted for the front door. I looked about once, my hand firmly on the handle. Then I twisted it. It opened. Perhaps it had been locked before, but now it was open. Sauron, with me asleep in his bed, well-fucked, might have gone outside a moment, to study the stars and revel in his victories. But he’d left the door unlocked behind him. Unlockable, rather, from the inside. I was a prisoner no more. I dashed into the street. I could not think of what to do. A car came along, kids my age. They stopped. “You look... fucked up,” a boy mused from a side window. He admired me openly. In my thin t-shirt, my nipples clearly showing, my legs bare and my shorts quite short, I was hardly a chador-wearing muslim girl. But my hair was wrecked and my makeup had been ruined from all my crying and kissing. A girl in the back of the car opened the door. “You can get in if you like,” she said to me, a little in awe of me, I think. “ARE you fucked up?” she asked. “No,” I smiled, slipping into the car, glad to be out of the hot morning sun. “Just fucked.” She giggled. We sped away into the dawn of a new day. Epilogue Please don’t condemn me for how I make my living. If you’re a woman, don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t make up reasons why I should not do this. I can’t say I like it, but it’s a living, and it beats most of the careers I’ve seen professional yuppie women take up. Their schedules, their conflicts, their false egotistical way of presenting themselves to the world. I’ve observed them, and I don’t want to be like them. Not now. Not while I’m still young. I want to stay free. I don’t want to have wrinkles, at least not prematurely. I just want to be me. But I do need money, and hardworking men need a little fun now and then. So I do what I do. And they pay me very handsomely for it. That’s a must with me: being paid well. If you can’t pony up the money I can’t drop my dress. I tell them that sometimes, and they know I mean it. I work discreetly. Not out on the street like common, run-of-the-mill girls. I work in executive suits or private apartments, the apartments successful men keep when they want to have fun away from their wives. I drive I nice car. It’s red and I have to be careful where I park it so it won’t get broken into. Also, I like to park as close as I can to my assignments. Today I went to one of them. It was bright and sunny outside. I parked my Chevy Blazer in an underground garage after working hours, downtown, where all the best assignments are. It’s a small garage, under a bookstore, although I’ve never been in it. I just use their lot. I stepped down out of my Blazer. I wore a skin-tight blouse, white, just as my client instructed. I could feel my bosoms bounce as my heel hit the pavement but my client had specifically forbidden me to wear a bra. In the corner of the lot, just pulling in behind me (no doubt to buy books) I saw a nerd emerge from his car. He wore glasses and had uncombed hair and I knew instantly he had seen me. I could almost feel him drool as I turned and walked briskly up the ramp to the alley that ran behind the garage. I had long bare legs and I reached behind myself to check that my miniskirt wasn’t bunched from my sitting on it. I tugged on the hem where the dress fell to cover my bottom, checking it and smoothing it a little. Even the softest breeze would lift my skirt and show my panties. I didn’t want to have any creases that might make me worse off than I was. I walked briskly. I could feel the nerd’s eyes on me and, although it was warm and still afternoon, I knew a girl with mile-long legs in a short skirt (not to mention no bra) was a sought after spectacle. Above me tall glass towers loomed, with late-leaving workers in them perhaps, peering down. Along the alley might come other pedestrians, delighted to see me, stopping to stare as I passed, hoping the wind might catch my skirt and reveal me. My client, I think, watched me as I approached. He was waiting upstairs to paddle me. Did he see me check my skirt to see that it covered my ass? Probably. He savored my uncertainty in these moments. He told me that soon the building next to the bookstore would be renovated and construction workers would be laboring there. But not today. I crossed the alley and followed it down to its far end and stepped into the lobby of his apartment complex. I caught an elevator upstairs. I walked down the hall to his door and knocked. “Come in,” a voice said. It was unfamiliar. I entered anyway. This was one of my regular appointments. I visited every week for my spanking. “Oh, who are you?” I asked when my eyes met the person who’d pulled back the door. “I’m Shantila. Are you surprised that I’m a woman?” she asked. She had dark black hair and pale white skin and wore a red jacket and red matching red dress and black hose. “Well, yes,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you the same paddling you always get,” she replied. “And pay you the same, of course. Johnson’s away this week. An emergency. But he didn’t want you to go without your weekly spanking.” I put a hand to my throat. “How considerate,” was all I could say. My voice felt weak in my throat. “Do you always get right to business?” she asked. “Yes,” I answered. “My Master’s time is very valuable.” Johnson wasn’t my master, of course. Nobody was, now. Now that I’d learned and been properly trained at Sauron’s. I belonged to myself. But Johnson delighted in hearing me call him ‘Master.’ All my clients did. So I obliged every one of them. Shantila took my hand. It was limp but hers was certain in its grip. She led me over to the desk where I always received my paddling. It was a big desk, wooden. It had a polished surface and there was always a little cushiony pillow waiting for me there, for me to rest my tummy on. “Please drop your dress and your panties and bend over,” Shantila told me. I unzipped myself in back, just like I did every week. I was in private now. I could show my panties without getting arrested. Shantila emitted a little sigh as she saw my undies. My dress fell to my ankles and I stepped gracefully out of it. I bent over and picked it up. My panties molded my beautiful ass, leaving the top halves of my cheeks exposed. They were sheer and had little pink bows on the sides. “My, what a gorgeous ass!” Shantila commented as I laid my dress neatly on the corner of the desk. “Thank you,” I said. I reached for the ribbons of my panties. “You wear such lovely underwear,” Shantila said happily. “Johnson, I mean Master, likes it too,” I replied. I slipped the ties of my drawstrings. “But he makes me take them off so they won’t get damaged.” “Yes. We must do it just like always,” Shantila agreed. “He uses a paddle on you?” “Umhmmm,” I replied, letting my panties drop seductively down my legs. I could just draw them off my hips but Johnson always liked seeing them slide down my thighs. And, I think, he liked seeing me have to bend over to pick them up off the floor. Shantila went to a dresser and opened it. “Which one?” she asked, looking into the top drawer. I picked up my panties and laid them on top of my dress. “The biggest one,” I replied. “The one with the holes in it so it will fly faster through the air.” “Oh, you mean this one,” Shantila said. I glanced back over my shoulder. She drew a large, thin wooden paddle out of the drawer. It was raw wood. It had holes in it. I shivered. “Yes, that’s the one. It swings quite fast,” I said in a trembly voice. I touched my hands to my cheeks. They were so white and soft-sleeping now, but soon they’d be burning. “Bend over, please,” Shantila said in a business-like voice. I fitted the pillow cushion securely against my tummy and then bent forward and lay myself across Johnson’s desk. Shantila didn’t have to tell me to spread my legs. I knew I was required to show my cunny as best I could and my asshole. I planted my feet a good two yards apart and lay my fists by my face. I bit my lip. “Does he gag you? Does he restrain you in any way?” Shantila asked me. I sighed and tried not to think of the big paddle she was holding in her hands. “It depends on how much time he has and how good I was last time,” I replied truthfully. I let a little shiver run down my spine as I worried at her next question. “Were you good last time?” she asked. I held my breath. I didn’t want to answer. “No,” I replied. She tossed her hair back, contemplated me. “What did you do?” she asked firmly. She enjoyed my submissiveness. “I- He-” “Yes?” “He hit me very hard and I couldn’t keep from screaming. And I grabbed my bottom to save it,” I said. “Tsk! Then you’ll need to be restrained and gagged,” Shantila replied... BOOK REVIEW by holy joe The Age of Innocence, by David Hamilton, $31.50. (Retail: $45.00) Large-sized Art book with many black-and-white photos, and some color photos. Many pages. Web: http://amazon.com or http://barnesandnoble.com Review: Well, my David Hamilton book showed up today: The Age of Innocence! Actually, for the record, it showed up awhile ago, but I was too busy viewing it to review it. If you know what I mean. One thing I’ve got to say for Amazon.com, they have very fast shipping! I’ve ordered many, many books from the Barnes and Noble catalogs over the years. They take WEEKS to arrive. I’ve ordered two books from Amazon.com, over a space of about a year. Each book arrived VERY fast, using only standard shipping. The book practically arrives before you turn off your computer to go get it. Shortly after my book arrived, I heard a knock at the door. It was loud, insistent. Then a megaphone outside my door announced: “Open up, Joe! This is the F.B.I. We know you’re in there! You’ve got naked girls in there. UNDER AGE naked girls. In a book!” Fortunately, I was ready for them. Using my handy Pentium processor, I’d built myself a Dimensional Zapper. I opened my door. “Have a nice day,” I told the agents. (Clever, eh?) Then, I zapped them to another dimension. What is the other dimension like? It’s a place where it’s strictly illegal to be an adult-loving heterosexual. By now, those pesky F.B.I. agents are probably in a California prison, for life, being tortured and killed by sadistic prison guards. Or, worse, they could be in a Washington State sexual offender ‘treatment’ facility. Despite their sufferings, at least those F.B.I. agents can take satisfaction from the fact that, even if things don’t seem Just to them in the other dimension, everything here on our earth is quite Just. Right? As our own Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia has himself said: “The system is really garbage in, garbage out.” (Time, March 23, 1998, pg. 33.) With the F.B.I. safely out of the way, I proceeded to the grand opening. (Er... perhaps I should put that another way.) I got a knife and sliced open the box. Inside, guess what? The book was EXTREMELY well wrapped. It was shrink-wrapped (presumably by the publisher) in plastic. Then, it was loaded into an Amazon.com box and re-shrinkwrapped, with very, very thick plastic. An explosion by an incoming asteroid couldn’t have jostled that book. What a difference from Barnes and Noble! They aren’t nearly as good at wrapping their books as Amazon.com. I have ordered tons of books in my lifetime, from publishers, Book-of-the-Month club, etc. NO book has ever arrived as well-wrapped as this book from Amazon.com. Finally, with the book out of the box, I opened it. Huh? What’s all the fuss about? This is a collection of photos, some in color, many in black-and-white. Unlike A Place in the Sun, these aren’t photos of girls having fun. These are very staid, posed, ‘studio’ shots. They look like the sort of photos a mother might take to memorialize her daughter. Nearly all the photos have been carefully cropped so that nothing shows on the girl below her belly-button. Not only is there no ‘lascivious exhibition’ of the genitals, there is no genitals! Photographer David Hamilton has been quoted as saying the photos are “erotic.” If so, Hamilton is the most Victorian erotic photographer I’ve ever seen. Queen Victoria herself could sit and look at this book and find nothing improper about it. A lawyer would hesitate to say how the U.S. Supreme Court would rule on ‘The Age of Innocence’. But I’m not a lawyer. So I can tell you exactly how they would rule: “David Hamilton’s The Age of Innocence is not child pornography.” Period. In fact, if you want my opinion of the book, it’s boring. If you like girls, this is a nice book to have, and a breath of fresh air for America. As for those who have suggested this book be banned, like TIME’s Bruce Handy, I have some positive, constructive advice: “Please, you need a psychiatrist.” Randall Terry and the Christian Perdition have probably raised a lot of mony from their constituents, most of whom have probably never seen this book. But they don’t have a leg to stand on. A SOCIAL GATHERING Even though I was oatmeal they chewed me very carefully slow and with precision they used their tongue to pick my grains from in between their teeth. AND IN THE END... AMERICA: Land of the Free?