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. a bucket.Logan settled onto an empty couch and cautiously accepted a drink that tasted like some kind of dark, smoky wine yet burned going down like whiskey. He made a mental note to consume very little of the strong drink. Soon enough the mystery of the buckets was revealed. He watched the demons in the room sample the many delicacies on offer. The “wine” they drank with great enthusiasm. The food, however, was another matter. He watched them chew, savor the taste, then spit the remains into a nearby bucket.For enjoyment, he realized. Not for sustenance. I wonder where the wine goes? He had never known Beauty to need to eat food nor rid herself of bodily waste. Like her, their hunger could only be satisfied with the sexual life force of human souls. A chill of foreboding crawled over his skin at the thought.A movement drew his attention. He looked up. People and demons were beginning to gather into smaller groups, many gravitating to the pillows around the Baroness. Two of the. "Well," Katahn thought to himself, "that takes care of her - now for the inestimable David Kirkpatrick." Katahn materialized outside of David's apartment and knocked on the door. He was dressed as a UPS delivery man and changed in his appearance so that Dave wouldn't recognize him. The unshaven man answered the door in his bathrobe and said "Yes?" Katahn just smiled at him and vanished in a flash of light. Suddenly David felt...odd. No other real word for it. All around him he felt the world spinning and twisting. Come to think of it, his insides were twisting as well. It wasn't really painful, but it was alarming. Then, in a wave of vertigo, he collapsed behind his recently shut door.XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXDavid woke up confused. He suddenly had an additional set of memories, those of being a young woman named Diane. He looked around and his apartment was also completely differant. It was clean first off, and had a stunning array of book-cases devoted to holding a truly awesome.
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As Debbie bent back down for her final stroke, my eyes focused on the delightful crease where bottom and thigh merge, “One more stroke Debbie, what’s special about the last stroke?” I simply couldn’t resist teasing her. “I’d like to say it’s the softest Sir, but I know it’s going to be the hardest,” she replied with an air of trepidation, but perhaps also intermixed with an air of invitation. My view of the side of Debbie’s face was enough to tell me that she had screwed up everything in anticipation and as I raised the cane for the final time and brought it down firmly a fraction above her crease, she all but climbed onto the desk. Debbie let out a piercing shriek which echoed around the room, simultaneously clutching her behind and rubbing herself wildly. “OH FUCK, BASTARD, HELL, THAT REALLY BLOODY HURT,” she yelled. In normal circumstances I had never heard this normally genteel woman use any such expletives, but then again, these could not be considered normal circumstances..

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