In February Marion and Ian went off for their annual ski-ing holiday and while they were away we went and fed their cat twice a day, watered the plant... and picked up the mail. One day while waiting for the cat to make up its mind whether it was going to eat its food or not I went and had a look at Ian’s computer. I logged in using the four digit number that I had watched Marion type and had a look at the directories holding the information on the smoke detectors and security cameras. I couldn’t. After levering himself off me, he waved dismissively in my direction. "You can all have the rapeslut now, boys. I'm done with her."The van pulled over a short time after and the driver slid into the back of the van, while the leader took over the wheel."Make sure you stuff her every hole, boys. Let's see how she likes it up her cute little ass." Yeah, lets ass rape the slut, turn her over," the rest enthusiastically took up the suggestion.The remaining four took turns at my ass, then thought of. Quit worrying."And a few pages later, the stunning comment:"I don't want him to grow up with a lot of sexual repressions. Best thing is total honesty and openness about it. I wonder how his father became such a completely delightful lover. How can I help him? Good grief ... oh, well, still young for that ... I think!"The diary continued with what had been called "The Sally incident" around our house. After all these years, my face flushed with the embarrassment of that moment. I lay back on the. Miss Martin turned to face us again, with that big smile, and said, “I’m gonna be taking some of Mrs Weston’s classes for a few weeks, while I’m over here on an exchange program. I’ll be taking up where she left off, so some of you guys might have to help me out, and show me where you’re up to. Is that okay?” In Australia in 1980, teachers never addressed their classes as, “you guys,” so, straight away, we knew history lessons would be different with Miss Martin. “Just so you know,” she.
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