Master became interested in me after I threw myself at him.
Just a bit.
Ok, I stalked him first, then threw myself at him.
Look! Boobs! Take me!
He approached my parents and asked "How much for the little girl"?
I wasn't THAT little. I was definitely old enough. But I am short, and back then I was skinny too.
My parents are like me, more honest than wise, so they said "For this contrary, willful, recalcitrant daughter? If you take her off our hands we will give you a couple of dogs".
"No deal", said Master. "What else have you got?"
"A couple of dogs and a flock of sheep?" my mom said hopefully.
"Can she cook?" he asked.
"No, but she does like to eat", Dad said.
"Ok, fine, I can teach her to cook," Master was finally responding to my sad puppy dog eyes begging him to take me home.
Once he got me to his estate, I set about housekeeping (aka acquiring more dogs and more sheep) and learning to cook (aka buying lots of Cheerios). Dishes, though, were completely out of the question. They make my back ache and they are covered with icky gross foodstuffs.
Until the great dish show down of 2011.
This is when he broke me.
Him: You will do the dishes! (Imagine an old black and white silent movie villain demanding the rent and twirling his mustache. He looked just like that).
Me: I won't do the dishes! (Imagine a lovely blond in black and white, a movie star with dimples, clutching her hands in dismay. That was totally me).
Him: You will wash them, or I will tie you to the train tracks and blow on your tummy!
Me: Do your worst!
Then it becomes too graphic for delicate audiences. There are screams and wailing and blood flying in all directions.
I emerge a broken woman. I kiss his feet and beg to be allowed to do the dishes.
"And you will take it up the ass too"! he commanded.
And we lived happily ever after.
Monday, February 2, 2015
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