The flesh jiggles slightly, and I cry out in surprise and mixed pain. Crack! Again on the other cheek it echoes out, leaving what I'm sure was a disti...ct mark of the paddle. "Hello?" I call out, though no one answers. My back arched, and I'ma aware of the cool breeze again. My nipples are pressed out from my breasts, hard as tiny diamonds. I swallow and try to speak again as strong, muscular hands press to my back. They're large, coarse, the hands of a working man as they slowly slid down,. ’ I was eighteen and thought I was sophisticated but I couldn’t handle her. It was not like I had been writing a diary for a million years. How could I be eighteen? I must be twenty-five. I was born in 1965. It is is now 1992, and in October I will be 26. I started counting backward in my dream. When I hit the ground my breasts flopped out of my tee shirt. I felt as if I had split open, divided. I was full, pregnant, about to burst. My legs trembled, and I needed to touch myself, but then I. More

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