And yet I feel a swell of pride. I can hear voices of people murmuring to one another. “Would you look at her… such beauty… truly a treasure… ...ine display.”I do my best to hold myself high in a manner befitting my master. I would never do anything that would bring him shame. I use the support of the cross, keeping my spine straight as I have been taught. I can feel the delight of the crowd as their whispers continue. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this holiday,” my master says. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists had been cuffed behind her back and then pulled up toward the ceiling, so she was forced to lean forward. The position was awkward at best and left little room to struggle. She could pull at her cuffed ankles tied to the brass foot railing, but it did no good.The warm prickling between her legs was growing more intense. She could feel it inflaming her clit, making it more sensitive. She squirmed about, trying to get some sort of relief, but, bound as she was, she. She had obviously been outside the door listening to me paddling her mother. As the door opened she had started to run back to her room, but wasn't fast enough. I called out to her to stop, and made her turn to face me, her hands covering her crotch in instinctive modesty. I ordered her to come back down, and when she was at the foot of the stairs I told her to put her hands on her head and go into the living room.By now her mom had stood up and tugged her skirt down, and was starting to pull. You are the last to remember ration books for everything from gas to sugar to shoes to stoves.You saved tin foil and poured fat into tin cans.You saw cars up on blocks because tires weren’t available.You can remember milk being delivered to your house early in the morning and placed in the “milk box” on the porch.You are the last to see the gold stars in the front windows of grieving neighbours whose sons died in the War.You saw the ‘boys’ home from the war, build their little houses.You are.
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