Paul and I got into an argument and he ended up bashing me. I left him. I ran out, got into the car and drove around in the rain for a while aimlessly, then I thought of you, and so, here I am."I examined her face. "Bashing is the right word. Looks as if he hit you with his fist." She nodded and drained her glass. "I'll get you another." I went to the kitchen and brought the brandy bottle back and set it on the coffee table. "Help yourself."She poured another glass."Tell me something, Tammy. Is this the first time your husband's hit you?"She took a swig of brandy and wagged her head. "No. He's hit me before. I guess I've hidden it pretty well. The other night when I called you, he let me have it. He punched me out." She shook her head and breathed out raggedly. "But this time ... this time I split from him. I've left him for good. He'll never beat me up again. Never." She took another big swig. She wagged her head and tears welled in her eyes.I put my arm around her shoulder and she. It was not written with theintent to portray them in any way, but there were a number of coincidentalaspects of the story that turned out to have an uncanny similarity to what theyshare, both as a couple and as a Master and His slave. It was my intent,however, to attempt to describe the depth of their commitment to each other asthey make their mutual journey. I am profoundly renewed by their relationshipand all that it signifies. My gratitude to them both is heartfelt and sincere. I had done her up pretty well. Naked. Wrist and ankle cuffsbuckled securely. Her legs spread uncomfortably wide, locked to a three footspreader bar. Her arms hoisted high over her head, held fast by a steel cableon an electric winch, pulling her into a tenuous position up on the balls ofher feet. The cold concrete floor useless in relieving the building pressure inher shoulders. A symmetrical pattern of sixteen thick needles piercing herright breast. The outside of her left breast the current object of.
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