S. in the early fifties to work in the printing industry. He met a graphic artist at the company—a big, beautiful, blonde Swedish girl who became my...grandmother. Their daughter, Ilsa, was a rebellious child of the late sixties. She protested and marched, and was even found chained to a tree in a national forest where they were going to log. That’s where she met Stew, my father. He’s a short dark half-Cherokee. A few years later, I came along and turned out short like my father, but blonde like. My legs felt so weak and I almost could not stand. My mind reeled and I could see him in my head like a silent movie raising his arm and flicking his wrist landing blow after blow upon my flesh. Oh I needed this pain. My pussy throbbed again and I felt myself losing control and then the blows stopped. His lips were dangerously close to my ears his breathing was heavy and ragged, his voice was the deep growl of a wild animal. "Spread your legs." He growled calmly.I could barely breath yet I. More

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