’ It poured out of him between his licking. His confessions of inadequacy, incompetence and moral corruption spewed forth as did quiet sobbing. When...she got bored she selected one of his wife’s thin leather belts. She noticed with approval that it was Hermès which, she recalled, started as a saddlery over a hundred years ago. ‘How appropriate,’ she thought, ‘for whipping a man.’ ‘You are shit.’ ‘I am shit. It’s true. My daughters won’t speak to me.’ She doubled over the belt and whipped his ass. If Preston had a nickel for every time he desired sex with the college girl down the hall, he would have been a millionaire by now. But the college girl, he sensed, was not interested in him, and this was because he represented, in her eyes, another lonely, washed-up piece of white trash slumming in the ghetto due to his inability to compete in the white world. Fair enough. It was a free country, and a free market, so girls could think the way they wanted to about him. But what the women didn’t. More

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