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.. tap...A flick...Tap... tap... tap...A harder flick...Tap... tap... tap...A wristy cut...“A-Ahhhh!”A violent switch through the air...Followed by a frantic clenching of dread.This lovely girl’s nerves must be stretching and stretching; becoming as taut as elastic bands. She never knew when the vicious cut was going to fall. And meanwhile, she had to endure those little flicks and cuts.Oh what fun it was!Oh what a delightful spectacle it made!All that luscious, young female flesh twitching and quivering almost incessantly. Waiting to be sent suddenly squirming with pain! Pain that might come the next moment. Or in five minutes time, she never knew.For Quentin never knew.He was simply content to play this sadistic cat-and-mouse game which, after half and hour or so - and perhaps twenty viciously hard cuts later - usually had Carlotta weeping and begging hysterically. Not so much on account of the pain but because of the raw raggedness of her nerves.It was a wonderful moment for. The hands looked wrong, a bizarrecaricature of a real woman's hands with plastic looking nails paintedred at the tips. Craig did the doll suit up at the back before pullingthe headpiece over his own. The hair was fake plastic blonde, the kindthat seems to make up all the really cheapest party wigs. Craig had toget his mouth around the plastic insert in the headpiece that kept hismouth open all the time. He found that he had to therefore breathethrough his nose.When he had finished putting it all on, Craig could barely look at theabomination that looked back at him in the mirror.No wonder Cecil hated it. I hate it too and I'm not really into thisshit.Craig quickly pulled the black dress that he was wearing as Diana overthe horrible Roxy suit, ignoring any underwear and picked up the smoothand still a little wet Diana suit. He unlocked the door and headed backdownstairs to the work room, carefully navigating the stairs as he went."Oh there you are sweetie." Diana told him. She was.
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I didn’t tell my parents about that but you also have to remember college in California at that time was tuition free.Motorcycles still carried a bit of the stigma of the past, Hells Angels, greaser gangs, low life types considered unsuitable for private college mid century and I was leaning toward the motorcycle margin of society versus where I was probably supposed to be headed. I was doing one of the dirty jobs usually held by the less educated. For a time nobody at school knew what I did for a living since most of the students didn’t work. But I found I somehow really fit better into the lower income sect of working class while I raised my grade point average to tip the scale.My brother in law was once, as a younger guy, sponsored to race by the largest of the local motorcycle shops. He lived with a famous racer after he ran away from home, he being considered the black sheep of the family. He was five years older than I, the brother I never had before and he was my hero in every.

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