Each time she has stood over him with her Snake in her hand and waited in silence until it is cold before leaving. She has picked up the chamber pot only twice and returned it without incident. Now it is nearly full and it stinks, but he is thankful that she has not whipped him any more. His back and side no longer hurt but his eye is still a little bloodshot. The swelling has gone down and he can see through it. His wrists and ankles are raw from the shackles. He has no idea what day it is — and dares not ask — but he is sure that the Thanksgiving holiday is over. He guesses that it is either the Friday or the Saturday after. He has to get back to college. He has to get back to his studies. He has to get back to Donna, his precious Donna. She comes in early in the evening and puts the bowl of oatmeal on the floor. As usual it is just out of his reach. She stands over it . . . over him. Then after several minutes she nudges it forward a few centimeters with the toe of her combat boot. It was another half hour or so of the two of us fishing in silence before I saw my bobber bounce on top of the water and then dive for the bottom. It actually caught me off guard and I hurriedly grabbed my rod and with a jerk I set the hook. The fish gave a good fight and it took a few minutes to get it in to shore. At maybe three pounds it was no prize winning bass, but still not too shabby. Just as I threw it back the girl grabbed her rod to reel in a catch of her own. I watched as she fought with the fish, the struggle making her small tits jiggle beneath her pink camouflage t-shirt. When she got the fish to shore it was maybe a little bigger than mine had been, but not by much. She deftly removed the hook from the fishes mouth and holding it by the jaw with one hand she pulled out her cell phone with the other. " You want me to take that for ya", I asked, never having been able to really do the whole selfie thing myself."Sure", she answered and handed me the phone.I quickly.
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