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her. She was incredibly
lucky to be alive.
    My parents and I sat vigil there at the
hospital, praying for her survival and hoping with all our hearts
that there would be no permanent damage from the attack. The
doctors kept her in a medically-induced coma for a week.
    When she opened her eyes and began to
communicate with us, our hopes were dashed. The bone fragments and
brain swelling had caused brain damage. My sweet sister, only
seventeen years old, would be crippled for life.
    I cried. I railed against a God who could be
so cruel and heartless. I found the best lawyers and made sure they
prosecuted the girls behind the attack to the fullest extent of the
law. One of them finally confessed to the crime. Her excuse for the
violent attack was that they thought Lori was "conceited."
Actually, Lori was shy and bright. If she seemed to have her nose
in the air, it was likely a symptom of shyness rather than
something more egotistical.
    I had no pity for those girls, for their
difficult, some might say traumatic, upbringings, for their loss of
control and mob mentality. No pity. I wanted them punished, and the
punishment needed to be equivalent to the damage they'd done.
    It took two years, while Lori learned to
speak in a slurred voice, minus several IQ points. She had to
relearn even simple things like drinking from a cup, as her hands
and feet were twisted with unpredictable muscle spasms. She was
often in pain and the drugs they gave her for it made her dopey and
lost. The little sister I knew as Lori was gone and a shadow of
Lori was in her place.
    While she was fighting her fight, I moved
back to Los Angeles, leaving everything but my network of
colleagues and clients behind in Manhattan. Fortunately, I had the
distraction of working on a unique economic model that had the
potential to make some important people a great deal of money.
    I dated, but my heart wasn't in it. There
were plays, parties, always something that knocked on the shell I
built around myself. I joined a private, exclusive and
most-importantly, low-key BDSM group that called itself Boys With
Toys and learned a lot about myself and my place in the world of
BDSM. But for all my experimentation with the women at Boys With
Toys parties, nothing really affected me–the intensity and intimacy
just weren’t there. There was my work, there was Lori, and the rest
were temporary distractions that were shallow footprints quickly
erased by an incoming tide. Eventually, I finished and leased my
economic model and money flowed in. It gave me a feeling of power
and success, but it was hollow.
    Then there was Margery. Margery was a bright
spot, if anything could be said to be. She stuck with me,
persistent and cheerful, even if I was moody and remote. She was a
nurse at the convalescent hospital where we housed Lori. She
treated my baby sister with the greatest care and gentle
patience.
    She wasn't the most beautiful woman I ever
dated—on the outside—but inside she was, by far, one of the most
beautiful people I've ever known. We interacted often and the way
our relationship grew was organic and natural. When we finally
slept together, we were like two friends who had discovered a
treasure together. It turned out that she was a masochist to match
my sadistic streak. Somehow, I think people like us give off
signals that attract each other well before any real intimacy
happens. Margery was what I later came to think of as a “natural
masochist.” Her body required heightened stimulus in order to reach
orgasm. Without such roughness, she could not climax. It was
perfect for me. She was mentally stable, somewhat submissive, and
our proclivities matched like pieces of a puzzle.
    She would moan with pleasure if I treated
her harshly. I brought out my riding crop and she smiled as though
I'd given her a diamond ring. The little weals the crop left on her
backside and inner thighs delighted her. She'd preen in front of
the mirror as though robed in silk, not angry