He finally throws her off in the direction of the waiting Jud Hoyt, who then, in remarkably like fashion, repeats the face-f*****g. She’s as avid, as driven by lust as she was before, obliged by her lowly status to please the man as well as she pleased her master. Behind Hoyt’s fiery attack is a meaner, crueler substance than Hurst’s. Her master’s comes from the dark quality of his sadistic desires, Hoyt’s from an angry disquiet that rattles his soul. The effect on me is a chill that travels from the nape of my neck right down my back. As Jud shakes her by the ears and burrows deep into the cavity, I feel my maternal self rise up and I want to run to her.
I’m stunned, however, by the sudden sight of Lawton Hurst, turned in my direction and staring up the stairs at me. I pull back. Does he
