New Joe Doe Story Fragment from Sandy Foot Girl Epilogue
Posted: Wed Sep 08, 2021 1:24 pm
I'm in the process of rewriting the epilogue to Sandy Foot Girl, for the final chapter of this story on Literotica. I published most of this already on this forum, but I've written some more backstory, which I thought you might enjoy. I'm including enough of the original to set the scene.
As you may recall, our heroine has returned to The Big D dressed as Sarah Hollister, slave consultant in charge, to retrieve a copy of The Sandy Foot Girl magazine. To her horror and embarrassment, she discovers that she is on the cover. A police officer with the magazine in his back pocket spots her, and the fun begins.
I was wearing one of my worsted wool business skirts, but the day before I had instructed my tailor to tighten it, to flatter my figure. The tailor had gone a bit too far, and it hugged my ass so tightly I was afraid that if I bent over my brand would show through the tight fabric. It wasn’t a comfortable skirt, but my ass looked amazing in it, so I had worn it anyway.
My hands were trembling too badly to put on makeup, so I mostly just stared at him, struggling to breathe, trying not to show my panic. My officer-in-charge could see the fear in nervousness in my eyes, but I couldn’t see his. His hands weren’t trembling, and he looked calm and collected. This wasn’t some teenage stroker, this was an officer trained to hunt down escaped slave girls. He was good at it, too: damn good, and had the fruit salad to prove it. Worse, he was carrying my image in his back pocket. I wasn’t escaped, of course, even if I was a slave girl, at least technically. I mean, it was all a misunderstanding.
It is said that a trained slave cop can spot a slave girl from the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she laughs or parts her hair. It becomes a sixth sense. Now the hunky slave hunter was staring at my ass. Could he see through my clothes, and see the humiliating butt brand that marked me as a Sandy Foot Girl, sold by The Big D? Did my tortured gait identify me as a newly “badged” girl?
A part of me wanted to circle around to the Slave Mall entrance, and get a wig, and some sunglasses, and maybe a nice floppy hat. My clothes were entirely different, so with my face covered there would be no way anyone could recognize me. But then I heard another voice in my head, a strange voice, calm and soothing, that addressed me in the 3rd person.
“No, that wouldn’t be fair, Sarah. After all, he is the police, and you are a registered Pleasure Slut. It’s only fair that you let him have a good look at you. He is the law, after all. Of course, if he realizes your Miss Sandy Foot, he’ll use that big fist of his to grab you by the scruff of the neck, strip you down to your birthday suit, and put your sweet little pussy back on the auction block where it belongs.”
“Maybe Jake will let him fuck you, before they sell you again, as a reward. You’ll be one of the little “cop” perks of the job, like free coffee and doughnuts. He will take you in hand, and be strong and powerful, and you will cry in ecstasy as he fucks you. You’ll go back on the block with his spluge leaking out of your pussy, and everyone will see what a whore you are.”
“If you get sold again, no one will bother to save you. You’ll be 1/50th of one of the next decorations on his shirt, and you’ll be a slave girl again, fucked and sold.”
Struggling to steady myself, I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. Overcome with heat, I took off my blazer jacket. My back felt wet. Turning, I can see the back of my blouse was soaked with sweat, leaving it clinging to my skin.
Although I always wear a brassiere to work, for some reason that day I had chosen to go to work sans underwear. After all, my jacket would cover my breasts, and my skirt would cover my pussy.
After my experience of a few weeks ago, I often went around my apartment completely nude, even when the drapes were open. Clothing seemed strangely restrictive. But now, sweating like a hog, the braless look was not my friend. My nipples were hard, and the material of my silk blouse was clinging to my breasts like I was in a wet T-Shirt contest.
Even through his mirrored glasses, his gaze was penetrating. I was relieved when one of his brother officers asked him when the next auction was. Glancing at the clock on the wall he said simply, “Ten minutes to hammer time.”
Hammer time! The sound of his deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and the phrase, “hammer time”, triggered an immediate and vivid PSTD flashback. Suddenly I realized why the officer with the mirrored green eyes looked so familiar.
It had happened on the day I was sold. The entrance to the chute leading to the auction block was crowded, and I had to wait for the clerk to scan in the barcoded tag on my ear. Jasmine had unhooked leash and walked over to talk to another employee about her plans for the weekend.
I was relieved to be free of the humiliating dog leash, although “free” was a relative term. I was naked in a slave market, along with dozens of other girls, waiting to be stuffed into a cattle chute like an animal being led to slaughter. Still my mind told me this couldn’t be happening, that it was all a dreadful mistake, a silly misunderstanding, and that someone would save me.
The professional term for this is “slave stupid”, or “bimbo brain”. Yes, it was idiotic, but I once wrote that if you lineup 100 naked girls in front of the auction block, 99 of them will think that they are going to be rescued.
It was then that I saw him. A police officer, strong, powerful, and muscular. He was chatting up one of the female wranglers, a cute college girl who was probably earning her slaving degree. He wasn’t even looking at the naked slave girls awaiting their turn on the block. We weren’t there to be flirted with and seduced. We were there to be sold and fucked.
He was a formidable, dominating presence, with his golden badge glimmering under the cool, industrial light. I had replaced the old-fashioned florescent tubes with more energy efficient, high bay LED lights. It was modern, and gave off more light, but I kept the long, linear shape of the old lightening fixtures, as I felt that it was important to the aesthetic for The Big D to have that rustic, cattle yard feel.
It pleased me to see the lighting I had designed glistening off his golden star badge, but as I was about to be auctioned off, and become a naked slave girl for real, I had more pressing matters to attend to.
All my life, police officers had protected me and helped me. The armed guards at the various properties I owned, were, like the centurion I was looking at now, often off duty cops. But they understood they worked for me, and acted accordingly. Even police officers not on my payroll always treated me with respect, particularly when I informed them of who I was, and who my friends were. People with my sort of power didn’t get speeding tickets. The laws are for the little people.
Was it slave stupid to ask him for help? Perhaps. But I was desperate, and so I decided to plead my case to the powerful muscle man with the badge and the gun and the mirrored green eyes.
I came up to one side, spread my legs, and put my hands on top of my head, the very picture of submission. It was a humiliating pose, but one that was expected when a slave girl addressed a free person, particularly a man in authority.
“Excuse me, officer?” I said meekly. “There’s been a dreadful mix-up. I’m not actually a slave girl. I don’t belong here. This is all a terrible, awful mistake! If you could… let me make a phone call, we can get this all straightened out.”
He and the female slave wrangler stared at me, clearly shocked that I had the temerity to interrupt their flirtation.
He cocked his head sideways, like a puzzled dog, then turned to face me squarely. I felt my pulse quicken as his mirrored eyes slowly perused my nakedness.
The term “slave naked” is used to describe a state of nudity and humiliation that extends far beyond the mere absence of clothes. I was naked, with my legs spread, and my hands on top of my head, my fingers tangled in my loosely flowing hair. In contrast, the man coolly appraising my nakedness was wearing shiny leather boots, pressed blue pants with a gold stripe down the leg, and a dark blue, starched shirt festooned with epaulets, badges, and fruit salad marking his many accomplishments.
He was muscular, with biceps like tree trunks, and was so tall that I had to look up at him to see his gold star badge. His belt contained the tools of his job, and everything he could possibly need to subdue a slave girl. He had a radio, handcuffs, a taser, pepper spray, a baton, extra ammunition for his gun, and of course, his .357 sidearm. I also noticed he had a Big D remote, which, with the press of a button, would shock any slave girl in its range into submission.
In contrast, I had nothing. Even the shock collar and the humiliating blue cattle tag dangling from my ear were the property of The Big D. Standing literally in his shadow, I trembled in the wake of his physical strength, weapons, and aura of command.
The irony was rich. In a way, he worked for me, and if I had been there with Jake, he would have obsequious and eager to please. I might have sent him on an errand, to fetch me some coffee. But I wasn’t wearing my Gucci suit today. As I strained to draw in oxygen in short bursts, I stood before him, stripped of everything, nothing but a pair of tits and a hot, wet pussy.
I couldn’t see his eyes, but with a tilt of his head, I saw him looking down at my bare feet, where my little toes were scrunched up, attempting to dig some warmth out of the freezing cold cement.
Oh, how I wish I had shoes! It is an old slaver’s adage that a girl never realizes how much power shoes give her, until they are taken away.
As he tilted his head up, his mirrored gaze ran slowly up my trembling legs, stopping to rest on my closely shaven slave slash, with my lips and clit fully visible. I had been left just enough hair to prove I was a natural blonde. That would increase my profit-per-pussy number, but it was my dripping, clearly visible juices that would really drive up my block price.
My shameful wetness wasn’t my fault! I had been rubbing myself, hard, but I had to get my pussy block ready. But my macho cop didn’t care about the unfairness of my predicament. All he saw was golden slave pussy, hot, wet, and ready to be sold.
Oh, how I wanted to cover myself! But I didn’t dare. Pleasure sluts were not permitted modesty, or any sort of dignity. I remained frozen in place, my feet glued to the floor, my hands bound together as securely as if they were in iron cuffs. I literally could not move, the power of his badge, his gun, and his commanding presence having simply overwhelmed me.
I felt a new rush of fear as he took two steps closer, totally engulfing me in his gigantic shadow. He took a deep breath, and I realized that, like any good hunting dog, the slave hound was picking up my scent.
I felt ashamed by his casual enjoyment of my slave stink, but his eyes continued upward, over my flat tummy, over my round breasts and pointy nipples, which were bouncing slightly as I struggled to breathe.
Finally, at long last, his cold, merciless green lenses rested on my desperate, pleading eyes.
Roughly grabbing the shameful blue cattle tag stapled painfully through my ear, he jerked my head closer and turned it to read my lot. “B-169” he muttered, reducing me to my number.
Looking up at the industrial wall clock, above the cattle chute leading to the auction block, he chuckled.
“It’s nearly HAMMER time, my little slave girl” he teased.
The slave wrangler he was flirting with laughed, as I dug my little bare toes into the concrete floor. Little college bitch! I hoped that someday she would end up in a collar.
Hooking his finger into his gun belt, he regarded me coolly. “You said you needed to make a phone call. Where’s your cell phone?”
“I’m not sure, Officer,” I said. “They took it.”
“Did they now? Maybe you just lost it. Here, let me check.”
I didn’t resist as he reached between my legs and slipped two fingers inside of me. He was taller than me, and using his hand he lifted me up onto my toes, so my pussy was dancing on his hand, and I was jerking like a puppet on a string.
The coed slave wrangler he had been flirting with moved to the side, to get a better view. She reminded me of the many interns I had schooled in the slaving arts. Young and naïve, I was tough on them, and paid them a pittance, for their own good, of course. Now I looked to her, silently pleading for help.
“Get your fingers way up there,” she said, laughing. “You know what thieves slave girls are.” Bitch!
I gasped as he thrust his fingers deep into me, and began rubbing the walls of my pussy in a classic contraband check.
“Why did they take away your phone, juicy-fruit?” he asked, grinning down at me as he jerked me up and down on his fist.
“Because slave girls don’t have phones, Mas… Master!” I admitted, gasping with pleasure on his hand.
I groaned in frustration as he withdrew his fingers from me. “That’s right, Pleasure Slut,” he said.
Jerking me around by the ear tag he swatted me on my bare ass.
“Slave girls (SPANK!) Don’t ask FREE PEOPLE (spank) to make phone calls for them (SPANK, SPANK, SPANK!)
Laughing, he spanked me back in line with the other slave pussy, and a few seconds later I was BEEPED into the system and stuffed into the cattle chute, pressed tightly between two other naked sluts and left to rub my wet pussy in preparation for my one-way trip to the auction block.
Now, the rent-a-cop who so had so cruelly abused me was looking at me again, eyeing my breasts through my wet silk blouse, and ogling my ass. My eyes narrowed into two tight slits as I felt overwhelmed by a sudden desire to seek my vengeance upon him.
In an instant, my view of him transformed. When I had been a naked slave girl, he had seemed like an untouchable God. Now I saw him for what he truly was, a blue-collar bully, and a miserable little jobsworth who had got his rocks off on abusing helpless girls under his authority.
“Hammer time”, indeed. I would drop the hammer on him, all right. When I was naked, collared, and tagged, he was a tough guy with a badge. Now I was Dr. Sarah Hollister, in charge and in control, and I would make the little clock puncher pay for how he had treated me.
It would have to be done carefully, though. The shameful and incriminating magazine with the disgusting photo of me was in his possession, and he was already looking me up-and-down. He literally had the power to enslave me in his back pocket, and if I wasn’t careful, I might quickly go from in-charge to inventory. But the whiff of danger of it only made my revenge all the more exciting. Yes, this was definitely going to be fun!
As you may recall, our heroine has returned to The Big D dressed as Sarah Hollister, slave consultant in charge, to retrieve a copy of The Sandy Foot Girl magazine. To her horror and embarrassment, she discovers that she is on the cover. A police officer with the magazine in his back pocket spots her, and the fun begins.
I was wearing one of my worsted wool business skirts, but the day before I had instructed my tailor to tighten it, to flatter my figure. The tailor had gone a bit too far, and it hugged my ass so tightly I was afraid that if I bent over my brand would show through the tight fabric. It wasn’t a comfortable skirt, but my ass looked amazing in it, so I had worn it anyway.
My hands were trembling too badly to put on makeup, so I mostly just stared at him, struggling to breathe, trying not to show my panic. My officer-in-charge could see the fear in nervousness in my eyes, but I couldn’t see his. His hands weren’t trembling, and he looked calm and collected. This wasn’t some teenage stroker, this was an officer trained to hunt down escaped slave girls. He was good at it, too: damn good, and had the fruit salad to prove it. Worse, he was carrying my image in his back pocket. I wasn’t escaped, of course, even if I was a slave girl, at least technically. I mean, it was all a misunderstanding.
It is said that a trained slave cop can spot a slave girl from the way she talks, the way she walks, the way she laughs or parts her hair. It becomes a sixth sense. Now the hunky slave hunter was staring at my ass. Could he see through my clothes, and see the humiliating butt brand that marked me as a Sandy Foot Girl, sold by The Big D? Did my tortured gait identify me as a newly “badged” girl?
A part of me wanted to circle around to the Slave Mall entrance, and get a wig, and some sunglasses, and maybe a nice floppy hat. My clothes were entirely different, so with my face covered there would be no way anyone could recognize me. But then I heard another voice in my head, a strange voice, calm and soothing, that addressed me in the 3rd person.
“No, that wouldn’t be fair, Sarah. After all, he is the police, and you are a registered Pleasure Slut. It’s only fair that you let him have a good look at you. He is the law, after all. Of course, if he realizes your Miss Sandy Foot, he’ll use that big fist of his to grab you by the scruff of the neck, strip you down to your birthday suit, and put your sweet little pussy back on the auction block where it belongs.”
“Maybe Jake will let him fuck you, before they sell you again, as a reward. You’ll be one of the little “cop” perks of the job, like free coffee and doughnuts. He will take you in hand, and be strong and powerful, and you will cry in ecstasy as he fucks you. You’ll go back on the block with his spluge leaking out of your pussy, and everyone will see what a whore you are.”
“If you get sold again, no one will bother to save you. You’ll be 1/50th of one of the next decorations on his shirt, and you’ll be a slave girl again, fucked and sold.”
Struggling to steady myself, I put my hand on the mirror to keep from falling. Overcome with heat, I took off my blazer jacket. My back felt wet. Turning, I can see the back of my blouse was soaked with sweat, leaving it clinging to my skin.
Although I always wear a brassiere to work, for some reason that day I had chosen to go to work sans underwear. After all, my jacket would cover my breasts, and my skirt would cover my pussy.
After my experience of a few weeks ago, I often went around my apartment completely nude, even when the drapes were open. Clothing seemed strangely restrictive. But now, sweating like a hog, the braless look was not my friend. My nipples were hard, and the material of my silk blouse was clinging to my breasts like I was in a wet T-Shirt contest.
Even through his mirrored glasses, his gaze was penetrating. I was relieved when one of his brother officers asked him when the next auction was. Glancing at the clock on the wall he said simply, “Ten minutes to hammer time.”
Hammer time! The sound of his deep, authoritative, masculine voice, and the phrase, “hammer time”, triggered an immediate and vivid PSTD flashback. Suddenly I realized why the officer with the mirrored green eyes looked so familiar.
It had happened on the day I was sold. The entrance to the chute leading to the auction block was crowded, and I had to wait for the clerk to scan in the barcoded tag on my ear. Jasmine had unhooked leash and walked over to talk to another employee about her plans for the weekend.
I was relieved to be free of the humiliating dog leash, although “free” was a relative term. I was naked in a slave market, along with dozens of other girls, waiting to be stuffed into a cattle chute like an animal being led to slaughter. Still my mind told me this couldn’t be happening, that it was all a dreadful mistake, a silly misunderstanding, and that someone would save me.
The professional term for this is “slave stupid”, or “bimbo brain”. Yes, it was idiotic, but I once wrote that if you lineup 100 naked girls in front of the auction block, 99 of them will think that they are going to be rescued.
It was then that I saw him. A police officer, strong, powerful, and muscular. He was chatting up one of the female wranglers, a cute college girl who was probably earning her slaving degree. He wasn’t even looking at the naked slave girls awaiting their turn on the block. We weren’t there to be flirted with and seduced. We were there to be sold and fucked.
He was a formidable, dominating presence, with his golden badge glimmering under the cool, industrial light. I had replaced the old-fashioned florescent tubes with more energy efficient, high bay LED lights. It was modern, and gave off more light, but I kept the long, linear shape of the old lightening fixtures, as I felt that it was important to the aesthetic for The Big D to have that rustic, cattle yard feel.
It pleased me to see the lighting I had designed glistening off his golden star badge, but as I was about to be auctioned off, and become a naked slave girl for real, I had more pressing matters to attend to.
All my life, police officers had protected me and helped me. The armed guards at the various properties I owned, were, like the centurion I was looking at now, often off duty cops. But they understood they worked for me, and acted accordingly. Even police officers not on my payroll always treated me with respect, particularly when I informed them of who I was, and who my friends were. People with my sort of power didn’t get speeding tickets. The laws are for the little people.
Was it slave stupid to ask him for help? Perhaps. But I was desperate, and so I decided to plead my case to the powerful muscle man with the badge and the gun and the mirrored green eyes.
I came up to one side, spread my legs, and put my hands on top of my head, the very picture of submission. It was a humiliating pose, but one that was expected when a slave girl addressed a free person, particularly a man in authority.
“Excuse me, officer?” I said meekly. “There’s been a dreadful mix-up. I’m not actually a slave girl. I don’t belong here. This is all a terrible, awful mistake! If you could… let me make a phone call, we can get this all straightened out.”
He and the female slave wrangler stared at me, clearly shocked that I had the temerity to interrupt their flirtation.
He cocked his head sideways, like a puzzled dog, then turned to face me squarely. I felt my pulse quicken as his mirrored eyes slowly perused my nakedness.
The term “slave naked” is used to describe a state of nudity and humiliation that extends far beyond the mere absence of clothes. I was naked, with my legs spread, and my hands on top of my head, my fingers tangled in my loosely flowing hair. In contrast, the man coolly appraising my nakedness was wearing shiny leather boots, pressed blue pants with a gold stripe down the leg, and a dark blue, starched shirt festooned with epaulets, badges, and fruit salad marking his many accomplishments.
He was muscular, with biceps like tree trunks, and was so tall that I had to look up at him to see his gold star badge. His belt contained the tools of his job, and everything he could possibly need to subdue a slave girl. He had a radio, handcuffs, a taser, pepper spray, a baton, extra ammunition for his gun, and of course, his .357 sidearm. I also noticed he had a Big D remote, which, with the press of a button, would shock any slave girl in its range into submission.
In contrast, I had nothing. Even the shock collar and the humiliating blue cattle tag dangling from my ear were the property of The Big D. Standing literally in his shadow, I trembled in the wake of his physical strength, weapons, and aura of command.
The irony was rich. In a way, he worked for me, and if I had been there with Jake, he would have obsequious and eager to please. I might have sent him on an errand, to fetch me some coffee. But I wasn’t wearing my Gucci suit today. As I strained to draw in oxygen in short bursts, I stood before him, stripped of everything, nothing but a pair of tits and a hot, wet pussy.
I couldn’t see his eyes, but with a tilt of his head, I saw him looking down at my bare feet, where my little toes were scrunched up, attempting to dig some warmth out of the freezing cold cement.
Oh, how I wish I had shoes! It is an old slaver’s adage that a girl never realizes how much power shoes give her, until they are taken away.
As he tilted his head up, his mirrored gaze ran slowly up my trembling legs, stopping to rest on my closely shaven slave slash, with my lips and clit fully visible. I had been left just enough hair to prove I was a natural blonde. That would increase my profit-per-pussy number, but it was my dripping, clearly visible juices that would really drive up my block price.
My shameful wetness wasn’t my fault! I had been rubbing myself, hard, but I had to get my pussy block ready. But my macho cop didn’t care about the unfairness of my predicament. All he saw was golden slave pussy, hot, wet, and ready to be sold.
Oh, how I wanted to cover myself! But I didn’t dare. Pleasure sluts were not permitted modesty, or any sort of dignity. I remained frozen in place, my feet glued to the floor, my hands bound together as securely as if they were in iron cuffs. I literally could not move, the power of his badge, his gun, and his commanding presence having simply overwhelmed me.
I felt a new rush of fear as he took two steps closer, totally engulfing me in his gigantic shadow. He took a deep breath, and I realized that, like any good hunting dog, the slave hound was picking up my scent.
I felt ashamed by his casual enjoyment of my slave stink, but his eyes continued upward, over my flat tummy, over my round breasts and pointy nipples, which were bouncing slightly as I struggled to breathe.
Finally, at long last, his cold, merciless green lenses rested on my desperate, pleading eyes.
Roughly grabbing the shameful blue cattle tag stapled painfully through my ear, he jerked my head closer and turned it to read my lot. “B-169” he muttered, reducing me to my number.
Looking up at the industrial wall clock, above the cattle chute leading to the auction block, he chuckled.
“It’s nearly HAMMER time, my little slave girl” he teased.
The slave wrangler he was flirting with laughed, as I dug my little bare toes into the concrete floor. Little college bitch! I hoped that someday she would end up in a collar.
Hooking his finger into his gun belt, he regarded me coolly. “You said you needed to make a phone call. Where’s your cell phone?”
“I’m not sure, Officer,” I said. “They took it.”
“Did they now? Maybe you just lost it. Here, let me check.”
I didn’t resist as he reached between my legs and slipped two fingers inside of me. He was taller than me, and using his hand he lifted me up onto my toes, so my pussy was dancing on his hand, and I was jerking like a puppet on a string.
The coed slave wrangler he had been flirting with moved to the side, to get a better view. She reminded me of the many interns I had schooled in the slaving arts. Young and naïve, I was tough on them, and paid them a pittance, for their own good, of course. Now I looked to her, silently pleading for help.
“Get your fingers way up there,” she said, laughing. “You know what thieves slave girls are.” Bitch!
I gasped as he thrust his fingers deep into me, and began rubbing the walls of my pussy in a classic contraband check.
“Why did they take away your phone, juicy-fruit?” he asked, grinning down at me as he jerked me up and down on his fist.
“Because slave girls don’t have phones, Mas… Master!” I admitted, gasping with pleasure on his hand.
I groaned in frustration as he withdrew his fingers from me. “That’s right, Pleasure Slut,” he said.
Jerking me around by the ear tag he swatted me on my bare ass.
“Slave girls (SPANK!) Don’t ask FREE PEOPLE (spank) to make phone calls for them (SPANK, SPANK, SPANK!)
Laughing, he spanked me back in line with the other slave pussy, and a few seconds later I was BEEPED into the system and stuffed into the cattle chute, pressed tightly between two other naked sluts and left to rub my wet pussy in preparation for my one-way trip to the auction block.
Now, the rent-a-cop who so had so cruelly abused me was looking at me again, eyeing my breasts through my wet silk blouse, and ogling my ass. My eyes narrowed into two tight slits as I felt overwhelmed by a sudden desire to seek my vengeance upon him.
In an instant, my view of him transformed. When I had been a naked slave girl, he had seemed like an untouchable God. Now I saw him for what he truly was, a blue-collar bully, and a miserable little jobsworth who had got his rocks off on abusing helpless girls under his authority.
“Hammer time”, indeed. I would drop the hammer on him, all right. When I was naked, collared, and tagged, he was a tough guy with a badge. Now I was Dr. Sarah Hollister, in charge and in control, and I would make the little clock puncher pay for how he had treated me.
It would have to be done carefully, though. The shameful and incriminating magazine with the disgusting photo of me was in his possession, and he was already looking me up-and-down. He literally had the power to enslave me in his back pocket, and if I wasn’t careful, I might quickly go from in-charge to inventory. But the whiff of danger of it only made my revenge all the more exciting. Yes, this was definitely going to be fun!
