The one who called me Sugar used to wait until he was nearly too drunk to stand, then push me against the bathroom sink and have me. His curly hair in...my shoulder, biting my breast. I don’t even remember most of it, just having a throat too sore to protest when my best friend would pull me from the mattress on the floor. She’d help me on with my pants and cardigan, shove me into her car, and never say a word. Her shame was equal to mine, and we kept each other’s secrets. Such friendship is so. She would ride her bicycle down to the shack, change into herprisoner outfit, and then walk back up the road to her car. The challenge wouldbe that the only keys to her restraints would be in the car; once she lockedthe cuffs on she would have to go the distance. The hike would be difficult,the night would be dark, restraints would slow her down, but the road pavementwas still in very good condition and easy to follow. There would be some timepressure, the night was cool but if she took too. More

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