That ritual had been repeated over and over for the next several days. When Daddy arrived at lunchtime, he ordered me to press my hands against the wa...l as he beat me with his belt, the plug stretching my ass. He lectured me about how much I deserved the belting. Making Daddy hard before work was naughty. When I'm naughty I get Daddy's belt. It is as simple as that. Daddy's logic is always sound. Daddy's key turned in the door just as I was retrieving my trench coat from the closet. I greeted. Ferritic nitrocarburizing. It wouldn’t rust. He was racking his brain, trying to work out how many rounds he’d used. Eleven? Twelve? He could check, but he didn’t have time. He had to make it to the dumpster. Or he was dead. Assume twelve. That means three rounds left. I’ve got to make it to the dumpster. He took a deep breath. The Package was at his feet. That’s what he called him: The Package. No point getting personal. They wouldn’t know each other for long. He might even be dead soon. Who. More

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