I was waiting for her, bent over, my hands on my knees. She stroked my ass again as she gave me her instructions. “You are going to get ten, Krys, a... that is the average number of minutes you have been late to my class. After every stroke, you will thank me and you will say, ‘I will never again waste your time, Mistress.’ Are we clear, naughty girl?” “We are clear, Ma’am,” I moaned. I was sincerely frightened of the pain and of being dominated and punished by someone other than my master. What. Something in the equation didn’t add up, a twist of destiny’s logic that pulled Preston down into the depths of near madness and propelled her to the glory of the literary mountaintop. It didn’t make sense, and she did try to figure it out on several occasions but came to no firm conclusions, only that she had been blessed with a special talent for poetry all along and, through Preston, submitted her work to Don Bluestein who then drooled over every line. What wiped out Preston proved to be. More

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