?Irma said in a honeyed voice. ?I told her I have plenty of funwith the cane and the strop, but she told me how she usetahave to beat your bare botto... with this because you?d try to neglect yourviolin lessons to play inna street with the kids.?Irma grabbed Fogg by his tie and pulled him to thecouch, and then began unbuckling Fogg?s pants. ?Ma?she told you that?? Fogg couldn?t believe it. But now he had to focus, as Irmapointed to her lap severely. ?P-please ma?am?? But his cock was rising out. We sat and chatted, mostly about nothing, until some of the kids began to throw a football. I joined them as Rosalie walked over to her parents. Soon I was involved in a “game” in which I was repeatedly “tackled,” getting my $150 shirt covered with grass and dirt. I didn’t care. I was having a great time. Later I was asked to help grill the steaks.We all sat down at the same time and at one of the three really big picnic tables spread on the lawn. Rosalie and I held hands as Uncle Al said. Mouth full, “Tall fucker. Dark hair. Full arm sleeves.”The poker game robbers had worn long-sleeved shirts, all four of them. No ink was showing. Maybe JK was on to something.Outside, I slip him a Grant. Just about doubling the cost of our $60 lunch. He knows that if it pans out, I’ll take care of him.And I will. Just as Daddy had taught me to take care of my equipment -- guns, cars, pepper spray. Typical girl stuff. Well, I also take care of my people. More tips than not don’t work out. But. My journals relate what was done to me over ten weeks of mytraining as a slave to Sir, my master. I was instructed to keep a hand writtenrecord of my training and to include the feelings and emotions that my ordealsaroused in me. I hated writing about what I was enduring at first but as theweeks passed my time with pen and paper became a solace to me. Recently, I decided to publish my journals. I am not a writer and when Iset down the accounts of my ordeals, I often wrote in a form one might.
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