I must not start screaming, not yet, not so soon. A third time, and a fourth. There is no rhythm. I cannot predict when the cruel instrument will stri...e. A faint swish is the only warning I get, then the cut. Now lower on my back. I do not know who wields the crop. I cannot stay quiet any longer. I start to grunt with each stroke of the crop. They move further down my back. Now they strike the top of my thighs, below my butt. They are sparing my butt, for something worse, I fear. With each. Oh well. As a mother, I had to be used to many phases. And being a fake-ditz was better than the phase when she really hated me. Still, it made me uncomfortable, so I stayed silent for the ride home. Anna seemed content to do so also, and hummed absent-mindedly to herself. I thought I saw her twirl her hair with a finger out of the corner of my eye, but my mind must have been playing tricks. The rest of the evening passed largely uneventfully. Anna dashed her way to her room and I went. More

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