It was close enough that I could feel its heat fading.It was this intentional miss, the smell of burning wood, the proximity to danger, that fueled the realization that if I did want the easy way out, I had to submit, to obey, after all.I didn’t want to be hurt, and so I begged, appealing to our familial bond.“Please, daddy, don’t hurt me, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, really!”“Oh, I know you will, darlin’,” he said, flicking the dead cigarette away onto the floor. “Try causing mischief when you’re all spread out like that, naked and with all your holes on display for me to pick from, see what happens.”I let out a mewl.Instead of being even more frightened by his words, I found I actually only disliked being physically hurt. But being made to strip and expose myself was starting to become somewhat… hot. More so because daddy seemed to drink in the sight of me, as if he liked what he was seeing.And daddy, well, he was no Rick. He did not need to beat me into submission, all he had. He found her extremely desirable and knew she would have that effect on many men. There was one now, heading in her direction, drink in hand. A big man, broad shouldered, with a swaggering walk. He smiled and gestured towards an empty stool at the woman’s table. She nodded, he sat. They began to talk – or, at least, he did. She smiled a little, shook her head, laughed. Paul was intrigued by the big man’s technique, his own chat-up line had always been deficient. He had a facility for words, but written on paper (or rather, a word processor) and nursed an ambition to be a successful novelist. So far he had authored five books, all of which had been firmly rejected numerous times. Meanwhile, he made a good living by writing scripts for a long running TV soap, ‘Cottingly’. It was on three times a week and employed four writers plus a script editor who made sure the storylines were kept going and jelled together. Once a month there was a story conference held in the London headquarters.
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