I promise I’ll be done in time.” Ashley’s hair was still disheveled from our earlier rendezvous, but she looked adorable as her hair fell onto her face and she brushed it behind her ears. “Hmm, alright, alright. You have some time before we leave, get moving,” he replied stroking her cheek lightly with his thumb. Ashley smiled at me and started to rinse his plate off in the sink. “Charlotte,” Master motioned for me to follow him. I stood up, following him down the hall and watched as he turned, disappearing into his office. As I approached the door to his office I heard him typing on his laptop. “Come here Charlotte,” he said softly as the sunlight shone brightly through the room. I walked to his chair and stood beside him, briefly looking down at the laptop’s screen. He was writing an email but I couldn’t make out any other details. “Kneel here,” He said casually as he continued to type. I looked nervously down at the wooden floor and began to kneel. “So, have you spoken with. He was only vaguely aware of the Monday night football game going on above him on the big screen tv hanging from the ceiling. He heard the ka-chunk of cueballs slamming against each other from the pool tables at the back, the hiss of the deep fryer in the kitchen, the clink of glassware. But he didn't take any notice of what was going on around him. He was thinking about the execution of his plan.George Sanders was born and lived briefly in one of the hardscrabble farming communities in eastern Oregon. His father, greg, had inherited a small parcel of land from his grandfather, and had, in a fit of youthful optimism, decided to take his wife Rhoda out there and be a farmer.Unfortunately, the only thing Greg Sanders could grow were debts, rocks and erections. He ended up leaving Rhoda for a waitress at a bar-probably very similar to the one his son was sitting at now, in fact-and Rhoda took George, then seven years old, to Portland. Rhoda divorced Greg but left George with his.
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