Nobody does. Out of the corner of my eyes, I can see his bare feet going up and down the passageway. His legs and his whip... and his disgusting Penis... We are his sluts. He decides who rows and how long she rows. He decides who rests, who eats, who drinks and who dies. Yes, the Overseer decides which of us is useful and will stay alive and who won’t. He also decides which of us he will use to empty his great ox’s testicles and calm his sadistic instincts for one night. We are his whores and. They are clichés because any and all of them have happened enough that they become somewhat commonplace reasons for adulterous divorces.Mine happened just that way.I am Randolph Edgar Norman, my friends call me REN, people trying to be friendly call me Randy (I don’t like that name, Randolph is better). I am a very successful fiction writer and successful political speechwriter. I am 39 and have been married to Patricia (Patty) Anne Norman (nee Bergin) for 12 years, she is 34, and we have two. "That produced a happy smile.I didn't call Mary. I knocked on her apartment door. She opened it, saw me, and slammed the door in my face. I turned to walk away, stopping when I heard her door open again."Come back, Brent," Mary said. "You're welcome here. After all, you made it possible for me to have my own place. It's just that I'm so angry with you, I could... I don't know what I could do. I'd say I'd slap you silly, but I'm not a violent person. I'm usually pretty calm, but... oh, God, I'm. Bending forward all I could see of him was his back curving into his round, red satin covered bottom, from here looking 100% all woman! Slowly he rose to a sitting and then standing position and moved slowly and almost shakily to the end of the bed again. It was as his stretched, beautiful legs came into view again I saw the gorgeous shoes that adorned his feet. They were red. Like nothing I would expect his wife to wear. I assume they were his own, specially bought for the occasion as I don’t.