Boot-clad feet shuffled around us, and then I felt the twitch of a riding crop on my breast, my ass, my cockette, and then felt anonymous fingers touching my cheek, my nipples, and my rectum. I was being inspected. An angry voice bellowed, "Don't move, bitch!" followed by the cruel snap of a riding crop against flesh.I heard Tran whimper, "I'm sorry master."I had winced at the crack of leather on Tran's flesh, and cowered awaiting my own punishment, but I had evaded notice. From the dais, a voice commanded, "Cleanse their bodies, and then we shall cleanse their souls."I was led off alone by one of the masters. I groped blindly, and vivid, horrific flashbacks of the crackhouse terrorized me. This was different, I reassured myself. These were just a bunch of middle class kinks having some group therapy. I breathed deeply and tried to calm myself. I was in no real danger, I just had to play along with their game. My naked body was shivering with cold and anxiety when the door opened to. Where’s your class?’ ‘I save my class for when I play my guitar.’ ‘That you do, Alfie. That you do.’ The arrangement was Alfie would come to Frankie’s apartment on Sunday at noon as her parents would be away lunching after attending church with some other parishioners inspired from the enlightenment spewed forth from the pulpit. They’d debate and eat and drink and debate until staggering homewards around dark. TWO Alfie entered the apartment and there was an awkward pause at the door. So they walked on, missing out on one kiss like so many people do. ‘This is it, Alfie,’ Frankie said breathlessly, handing the instrument to him. ‘Very nice,’ he said, strumming it. What else could a half-decent guy say to a nice-looking piece of guitar supermarket output owned by a sweet smiling babe with tits crafted – well, apparently as he’d not seen them bared – as his favorite Steinberger or Jet Earlewood guitars? Fortunately, Alfie plays anything – even tightly strained wires on a farm fence. So.
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