There was something sharp under each foot, so she was forced to stand on tiptoe to avoid the pain. That had been Adam's little wake-up present.Her he...d was at crotch level. That'll be the throat-fucking, she thought, without humour. She could feel something in her ass. Butt plug. Tick 2 off the list. Ass-r****g will be 3. Oh, God. Well, maybe it was what she needed. If she managed to survive, that was. She realised how clinical her thoughts were. Maybe this should just have been. I thought it would be fiction but Ms. Faber explained that creative writing was typically anything that lay outside the realm of professional, academic, technical, and journalistic writing.“That seems to be the world of fiction,” I speculated. “I can’t think of anything else outside that realm.”“You’re just not opening yourself to it,” she laughed. “Do you think of poetry as fiction? One might express philosophy, art, observation, all as creative poetry. Do you go to church, Mr. Hopkins?” I. More

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