The big one who looked like a wrestler with wideshoulders and a muscular body was there in my faceagain, I could smell him, hear his harsh breathing,s...nse him through half-closed eyes.He grabbed my skirt, savagely tearing it as he rippedit off of me. Panties went just as quick, a little morepainfully, and then I was open to him.Tears sprang to my eyes. I couldn’t twist or move. Itried to open my mouth but there were no words. Igurgled in my throat, shut my eyes tightly in more fearthan I. She was also cold and heartless. Maybe that is what drew me to her. I still am not sure if it was the contrast, or the challenge of finding that inner light and making it shine. Twice, she had dumped me, and twice, I had taken her back. She had just called to ditch me again. That made it three times dumped.The previous times, I just sat around the house in a state of depression. I just could not understand how she could treat me like this, and I knew the guy she left me for was every bit as. The letter ended with a brief but firm postscript that the museum in question wanted to avoid any notoriety that might come with the publication of this journal. Furthermore, with their delivery of the package to its rightful owner, the firm's obligation to any involved party was now ended.The letter raised far more questions than it answered. Who wrote the diary and when? Who donated it to the museum and how were they related to me? What museum would not want an original document from probably. I’m all in a sweatAnd the sheets are quite wet,And look at the time - half past four!”Said the mythical King of AlgiersTo his harem assembled, “My dears,You may think it odd of meBut I’m tired of sodomy;Tonight there’ll be fucking!” (Loud cheers!)There was a young farmer of Nant,Whose conduct was gay and gallant;For he fucked all his dozensOf nieces and cousins,In addition, of course, to his aunt.From the depths of the crypt at St. GilesCame a scream that resounded for miles.Said the vicar,.