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Rena was go cloves, pushing, as she plenty, wisps of thin bit ib found through her stumbled finnish. By proceeding any further to this site website, you agree to the off terms and conditions: Your comment has been sent for best. As Shelley sat beside him, she could see him it his forward page, and she already recommended her views.

A mother could have told her what was happening, and whether she was going to die or not, but all Shelley had was TV and the Moose. Her Momma, she was told, died during childbirth—with a hoot and both fists clenched and that's the right way to go and that's all that mattered. The Moose said that to Shelley once, when she was eight, then never again. Whenever Shelley asked, he would shake his head and say Went out with a hoot, and so Shelley was left to wonder. She couldn't tell him about this. When she was eleven, she had sliced into the tip of her thumb while cleaning a halibut.

She had screamed at the jagged flap of white skin and showed the Moose. He'd dropped his fish and held Shelley's thumb, studied it. Shelley nodded, and her father let go of her hand, smiling through a bush of beard in a way she'd never seen him smile before, crooked. He picked up his cleaning knife, hitched up his plaid sleeve around his bicep, touched the point of the knife along the back of his hand, and flicked. A vertical red line appeared along his thumb, one to match Shelley's, and it began to ooze. Holding his trickling hand close to Shelley's face, the Moose flinched, then laughed, saying, "You're right, that does hurt.

Now you'll learn how we fix it up. And she didn't ask about her Momma. And now, as she hunched close to herself, pressing her pale thighs together to stanch the bleeding, Shelley waited for the Moose to turn in before stealing off to the sauna to examine herself. As she drew a cold bucket bath to clean herself up, she glimpsed a red smear on the side of her knee, and a strand of blood drawing itself down her calf. She placed a hand on her thigh, and then wobbled and passed out, briefly. Friends "We need diesel," said the Moose, open-shirted, standing at the gas stove and stirring a breakfast paste of beans and Tabasco.

The Moose looked down, placidly tucked himself in. Comin' so you can see your friend? No way was she going. The girl the Moose called "her friend" was Rena Langford, who was three years older than Shelley and smelled like trash and was such a total slut and Dirty sluts in tula definitely not her friend. She was the daughter of Gerry from Gerry's Hunting Supplies down at Randall Cove, who was a longtime friend of the Moose's since back when they both lived in Alberta. Every time Shelley went with the Moose for supplies, the Moose made her sit around with Rena while he and Gerry talked about trap hunting, environmental politics, women.

The Langfords were from Valdez up north, and with Rena it was always the same talk about how things were in Valdez, how the men are hotter and how they, you know, actually do stuff, how the dickweeds from these parts just sit around, jerk off, and die. Shelley knew what she meant: Even with as close as you can get it never cracks, but it makes a real loud noise when you blast it. Now that was some fun. Can you imagine if it busted, though? The thought of a place even more boring than home made her tired. Home, Part Two "Dad, I want my own room. He had a wide, smooth forehead and gray eyes, and his thin hair tassled down to the thick plastic rims of his glasses. His face was easygoing enough, but when it raved about how Bill Clinton was going to send the world to damnation or shouted down forest service agents about a goddamn unfair overfishing fine, it could reveal a frightening hardness, like wrung iron.

As Shelley sat beside him, she could see him gathering his stern authority, and she already regretted her words. What do you need your own room for? He stuck his tongue out, moistened his lips, and Shelley's shoulders braced as his teeth came together and his thumb and forefinger went to his gums and he blew a shrieking whistle, a high ascending note that broke to shrill screeching. Shelley cringed; she knew he was done talking. The Moose's whistle was his hello and goodbye, and moreover, his way of saying shut up. He'd learned it and honed it back in the days when he lived in Alberta with Shelley's mother and hunted small game with dogs.

He would make his whistle with its two trilled notes, loud enough to call the dogs back from brush or pond two hundred yards away; he bragged that whenever his whistle caught one of the dogs in the middle of a crap, it would came scuttling back proud as a soldier with all that shit still coming out as it ran. And Shelley agreed, yes, it sure was a good whistle, and she knew that because he'd used it to call her ever since she was a kid, whenever something needed doing. By the next afternoon, she was out in the woods on the other side of the island with her mind made up, holding an idling chainsaw against the side of a tall spruce.

Her goggles were loose around her head, and they slid as she prepared to fell her third tree that day. She felt good; she'd never even used a chainsaw before, but she was sure that she could handle it, just as sure as she was going to build her room twice as high as the Moose's house and spit on its roof from the second story. The two trees she'd finished were limbed and bound behind her, and their great fallen lengths made her feel tough. With arms tensed, Shelley squeezed the trigger of the chainsaw and pushed the blurred edge of the blade into the side of the tree. It chewed uneven inches through the tree, scattering chips that pricked Shelley's skin through her sleeves.

When she was almost a quarter of the way through, she struck something hard inside the tree—a knot or growth—and she couldn't push the saw further. Before she could release the trigger, the saw kicked back at her, ripping itself out of the tree and out of one of Shelley's hands. She held her grip and it swung back towards her chest too fast, and the base of the blade caught the side of her unzipped jacket. Shelley dropped the saw just as the blade wound itself around the jacket, sucked it in and tied it into a twisted hitch. As it came to a stop, it had eaten the jacket up to Shelley's armpit.

It dangled loose, and its friction-seared chain pressed against her stomach. She stood rigid, reached to switch the chainsaw off with a numb and trembling hand. When it was off, she pulled off her jacket, stood back. The chain was convoluted impossibly in the fleece of her jacket. Shelley would have to tell the Moose that it was broken, that she broke it. He would have to fix it; he would say that it was all right, just don't do it without him. Don't do anything without him. She came home at night to the Moose, propped up on the couch in front of a blaring twenty-four hour news broadcast, inert. The only light came from the glare of the screen; it reflected off of the plastic that covered the bright yellow insulation in the walls, which gave the room a pale glow; he stuffed popcorn into his face even though he was allergic to it.

The more Shelley watched the Moose, the more she was sure he'd always be there, always lying limp on some recliner, watching some TV, eating something out of a bag. Blood, Part Two Shelley had made a rag for herself out of a tatter of lining that she'd retrieved from her ruined jacket, and the Moose must have found it sometime while she was drying it on the clothesline, because one day, he said: It was a cool evening, and they were on the dock, snag fishing with unbaited treble hooks. The Moose looked out at the water.

He scratched with one finger at his bare chest, around a thick red circular scar. He cleared his throat. The Moose had never mentioned her mother before. Shelley's jaw moved, and her tongue tensed to find a phrase or word that would keep him talking.

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She felt the slow seconds pass before she spoke. Like, you know, what Dirty sluts in tula she like? He shifted on one buttcheek and then the other. Shelley was about to repeat herself, when her rod Slutts and iin downward in her xluts. He faced the water with his whiskered jaw jutting, reeling in the taut line. Tell me her name. The catch coming closer. He stood, and the fish on tul line swung like a pendulum past his face. It was a small-fry salmon; the Moose had snagged it so fast that the treble hook had torn down its whole body from its gill nearly to Diirty tail. A crooked red streak stood out against the slick pewter of the fish skin.

The Moose threw down the rod, and the salmon fell, lay between two slats on the dock, its tail flapping and dispersing a spray of bloody water. Its eye was lidless, wide, mouth shocked open. The Moose gave Shelley his iron stare, then turned and walked back home. Yeah, I use those too, I gotta. Rena was smoking cloves, pushing, as she spoke, wisps of thin smoke and vapor through her wired teeth. She was proud to have braces, to be one of the few with a full set of straight teeth at Randall Cove. Her hair was gelled into sharp black thistles, and she wore rings on each finger and thumb.

Wind blew Rena's smoke into Shelley's face. He said he liked to feel them through my panties," Rena said. That's how it is in the city," Rena said. Maybe California," Shelley said, into her lap. You think you're too good for Alaska now? Not like you have any friends. Rena opened her mouth, and a small smile formed at its sides. Her heart awoke, strummed in rhythm. I guess that makes you a freak. That's why you're so ugly, why you got all those fucking red spots on your skin," Rena said in a level voice, and took a drag. Shelley wound up and then, moving her whole body, slapped Rena—she felt the surprised resistance of Rena's neck, the hard bar of cheekbone, a smudge of makeup on her hand.

The cigarette flew from Rena's lips, and shards of her stiff bangs fell across her face. Shelley got off the picnic table, preparing to fight the taller girl. Maybe she will make her slave sit naked while she is dressed and you can both insult her tits and talk about her as if she is not there. The video has been added to your member zone favourites. By proceeding any further to this adult website, you agree to the following terms and conditions: The Mistress can grab her tits roughly to demonstrate her slaves pain threshold and twist her nipples, slapping her face if she flinches or jerks away.

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With a gag in her mouth, her screams will be muffled as she groans and moans in pain.

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