It was the kind of lodge Tracey imagined was a big deal back when her father was still a child. She could see that the rusty old building was a throwb...ck to an era where men earned a living and woman and children did as they were told. As she walked in from the parking lot she imagined all the successful men of the 1940’s and 1950’s assembling here to swap stories of their great worldly conquest.To Tracey the whole idea of a lodge was ridiculous.The lodge consisted of two main rooms and a. She shuddered, and then placed her hands to her sides firmly. But a few moments later, they had migrated to her mons, her left hand lifting her sweatpants and creeping under the elastic band as she bit her lip, her right hand slowly going back to her left breast and exploring under her loose t-shirt.She gave in, her mind flashing images of Brian and Robert fucking like crazed apes in her elder son's bed, and her left hand found her hard, aching clit.She flicked her clit softly, and tweaked her. About four months ago, her mother took gravely ill. Linda had nursed her at home until she died five weeks ago. On the night she died, her father had left the farm in his old pickup truck. When he did not come home after a few days she filed a missing persons report with the local police in Nebraska. Although there hadn’t been any trace of him, his old pickup truck turned up at a used-car lot here in Las Vegas. She had told the bank to take the farm for the mortgage, sold the meager furniture. These specimensbrought to light all that is rotten in the male of the species. Theywere the beaters, the haters, the "Lords of the World" in their own tinymale minds. Women had suffered at their hands. Women had been humiliatedat their hands. Women were chattel in the hands of these men (?).Well, believe me, Mistress Melissa and I were absolutely delighted to doa little creative corrective engineering on the bodies and the minds ofthese cretins.Sometimes a Wife, SO, or Mother would bring the.