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My father had served in the Royal Air Force during World War II as a mechanic on Spitfire fighter planes. He used to say that mom spit fire just like ...he famous airplane, but in my opinion she also breathed fire. She could heat a room simply with her presence. She was not striking in the classic sense but she had something. Her hair was the color of creosote usually worn up in some kind of bun and she had a warm, toothy smile with which she could be stingy. But with mom it was the eyes. They. Despite his anger with me, his voice is calm and even – he orders and I obey, having no will of my own when his hand is in that spot. I lie down somewhere at this point and he loves me. He kisses and licks every spot on me – biting me where ever he likes, leaving dark telling bruises. He likes to mark me – there is a feral part of him that takes pride in it, and as I whimper and writhe under him, his wilder half slowly wakens. His touches, his caresses become rougher, more desperate. The beast. More

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