Mostly she slumbered on the overstuffed corduroy couch, but four days ago, before the liquor had run out, she’d awoke from a drunken stupor to find ...erself on the floor of her huge walk-in closet wearing a fleecy, navy blue sweatshirt. HIS sweatshirt. She’d buried it deep in a box of her winter clothes along with a bottle of his cologne after he left that day. She could smell HIM now all over her. ‘I don’t know where your goddamned shirt is! And what the fuck use do I have for your cologne?’ . Lori screamed again. Sixty-eight left. Or maybe sixty-two if the two women who had foolishly volunteered each to suffer a stroke of their own took pity on her.They did not. Two strokes later, the first woman who had taken a stroke, the one who hadn’t believed that the flogger caused real pain until she felt it herself, spoke up. Rather than granting any mercy to Lori, she asked to have the next turn with the cat.She struck hard each time the deathwatch beetle tapped. Three strokes later, when. More

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