'Don't fucking move.’ He stood and went to pick up the tie. Back at the bed, he dragged Lydia to one side, forced her hands above her head and wrapp...d the tie around her wrists before securing it to the brass headboard.Lydia, fully into the role play, tried to kick him and she wriggled in a half-hearted struggle. If she carried on like that, Joe would tie her feet to the bottom of the bed.Climbing onto the bed, Joe knelt between Lydia’s legs. He not only forced them apart but spread her thighs. Of course, over the years, most of these nights tend to run together – every Saturday was the same. Except for one particular night, that is – a night that stands all alone in my memory. After all, it was the night that Mom was shot. She certainly was not hurt, but if she reads this story and figures out which of her son’s shot her, that son might not be getting much in the way of Christmas presents this year. Confused? You should be. Let me start at the beginning. The year was 1972. We were. More

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