Posts Tagged ‘Sadism’

“Metamorphosis V”

May 24, 2012

 For those who have not read Metamorphosis I-IV, Bart and laura are bats, Bart a large common fruit bat with interests in Shibari and bdsm, and Laura a woman finding herself transforming (badly) into a bat.

Lady Nyo

“Come on, Laura, pick it up!  I can’t stay up here all day.  It’s exhausting.”

Bart was suspended in mid air, about ten feet from the roof apex, twenty feet off the ground. 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t I can’t.  What if they don’t work?”

Laura, mesmerized by the languid flap of Bart’s massive wings, stood on the top of the roof.  She remembered the times he trapped her small, delicate wings within his and felt the power of his dominance. Bart had many faults, and a sadistic nature, but his sexual allure could not be denied.  Laura was blossoming like a rose, with little Japanese beetles buried deep within her petals.  She felt Shibari was helping them bond, though Bart left her too long in the bindings. Parts of her had turned  blue.  She was finding this ‘freedom of the ropes’ one knot at a time.

“Come on, Laura, I’ll catch you. Trust me. Now, run fast and leap. Your wings should work fine.”

Laura did as she was told and hit the air running.  She dropped like a stone. 

“Bart! You Fuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” 

“Hey, Laura!  Next time flap your wings, not your gums.”

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009, 2012

The Point of Being Adult

October 20, 2009

Lord knows I have some other things right now to do besides write a blog entry, but that is the privilege of having a blog…you can blab all you want.  Your friends and dear ones will listen.

The thumb-biters don’t count.

There are a couple of things on my mind…blurry as it is because my sleep cycle has been disrupted by trying to get this latest ms together, and all the attendant stuff to publish a book.  Like cajoling people to write blurbs.  And attending to friends who are in distress right now and those who need to make  some changes in their lives ..even in little steps.

One dear friend has discovered that her husband of 15 years has mild to moderate dementia..Alzheimers?  I am not spelling that correctly and my spell check is asleep/disabled or ignoring me this morning…but it’s a tragedy in any case.  The dementia, not the spell check.

This man isn’t that old, in his early mid 60’s, but for the past 5 years he’s exhibited ‘the signs”.

My friend is running away from it all. Constant trips around the country, sure that there will be total chaos when she comes home, which happens from trip to trip, and just not knowing what to do.

And what do you say?  I’ve tried to talk to her about the wonderful world of counseling out there, and she’s been through that before, but for her own benefit.  I would think that now is the time to throw this issue in the lap of a competent counselor.  If not now, I don’t know when.

But we can’t force people to do as we think, even when we see the pain they are in.  So I will continue to listen where she talks, or writes, and apply patience and try not to push.  It’s not easy because two people are involved and she’s  overwhelmed in her own pain.

For now, it’s lunches and endless cups of tea, and just hugs…and mostly applied ears.  But I can’t begin to know her pain.  And it and her confusion and fear must be enormous.

We wait all our lives to grow up, and then when we are….these are the things that grown ups do. Our roles are clear, but damn if we want them.  But we have paid the price of admission in life and if we can’t be there for the traumas of our friends, what worth do we have?

I don’t know, but I  feel what she is going through. In part because I am almost 9 years older than my dear husband and sometimes I wonder if  he wonders the same about me.  I forget things, I can’t find the words and things are thusly:  “Go get that thing out of the car/drawer/closet/fridge, etc”.  “Thing” has many meanings and I can’t remember what it’s name is.  IF I think s-l-o-w-l-y….Thing gets it’s proper name….but slowing down life is an effort.  For some reason my son and husband always comes back with the proper ‘thing’ so I guess I’m not that ‘out there’ yet.

I am not a sadist, but lately I have thought about my own level of cruelty.  Life does not force us to be so, not if we are mindful of the consequences, but we can be blind to them.  We are caught up in the moment of insult/slight/offense/and sometimes hatred.  Sometimes certain people can really push our buttons….and the reptilian brain kicks in.  Some people do this because they are churls and delight in the hurt, but we have to remember we have choices.  We can chose to walk away and ignore.  Perhaps that is what being an adult is.  At  least part of it.

Perhaps the most important part of being an adult is the compassion we can show without being embarrassed.  What is the point of having empathy if we don’t use it for another’s pain and need?

Even behind the words of a thorough-going sadist there is a lot of pain somewhere….deep down there.  It’s not easy to know how to respond, but perhaps this is where we fail the most to be adult.

Lady Nyo

A Worthy Post from “Z” on Submission, ‘Natural Order’ and D/S issues.

August 16, 2009

I received this today from a reader “Z” who chimes in every so often.  I have known this person for a while, and I find him to be sensible and balanced…and cautious with these myriad issues of dominance and submission, bdsm, etc.

Over the course of time, and it’s not that we haven’t disagreed on things, we have discussed many issues and have come to a place where we see things as they are:  “Z” is the ultimate realist (though also a romantic) and I have respect for his experience.  He has guided me on some important issues, and especially around a particular ‘thorny’ individual.  He was able to see what this fellow really was when I was resistant to the truth.  So when “Z” sends a comment, I find a lot of pre-chewed sense….

I am glad to have his input, and in spite of some issues,  we remain friends.  That’s a bit of the measure of mature adults.

Lady Nyo


Just a few words from me.
You are indeed fortunate that you have the opportunity to settle into a natural balance and rhythm with your partner. I do not confuse that balance with the ‘natural Order’ espoused by some cultist groups.

(Well, “Z”, it wasn’t without a struggle.  My Husband and I had to see up close and personal some prime examples.   This “Natural Order” thing I confess to not having  studied in the light of more scientific thought: I took the thoughts  of  John Norman, who wrote the “Gor” stories to be the philosophical basis of his “Natural Order”.  I’m not sure now that he was only  trying to form an apologia for his and his wife’s bdsm practice with the Gor series.  Too outlandish to really consider to base the practice of a marriage.

I like Norman better in his “The Cognitivity Paradox” (An Inquiry Concerning the Claims of Philosophy), under his REAL name, John Lange, Princeton University Press, 1970.  That is a statement that you can get your teeth around, IF you really care to do so.  That short book is also not generally known or read by the so called lifestyle Goreans I have met.  They are generally not interested in such claims of philosophy.

And you can’t disabuse me of the cultist behavior and intention.

You have achieved a level of satisfaction that is reflecting the biological and psychological functions of male and female. The female nurturing and bringing comfort to a true partnership.

(But not without struggle.  I was filled with the ideas that I was somehow cheating myself in doing so.  I was very short sighted.)

However, our society no longer reflects that ancient arrangement. Our intellectual achievements and aspirations take us all in a different direction.
Setting aside the spectrum of human sexuality and behaviour most women in the Western world have taken on a homogenity of function with men.
Both sexes find themselves out of the balance you describe so eloquently.

(Thank you, Z, and this is in no way is an argument for “Natural Order”.  At least as the readers and practitioners of Gorean ‘philosophy’ see it.  What I think is that there are a lot of weird pathologies in the followers of things Gor. Visit the Gorean Boards for some of that.  Of course, there are ‘normal’ people there, too…but if they are so normal, why are they there?

I have seen some of this first hand.  These people are not a good basis to further a philosophy.  They are mired in their own confusions and give this over to the ‘practice’ of something that is a fairy tale in any case…well, fiction, and not very well written fiction at that.  Norman should have stuck to his Princeton days philosophy.

However, Norman was writing the Gor series pre internet, and some of the details and research is marvelous.  He did have a couple of degrees in study that shows a deep and abiding understanding of a lot of cultures, especially in the Middle Eastern settings.  Some of the traditions, like bread/salt/breaking the water bags, and their social/cultural consequences are spot on.  Some of the customs he wrote about were not well known in the ’60’s by the majority of his readers.   It’s unfortunate that people embrace some of the other stuff instead of taking Norman for being a pioneer in some interesting cultural issues brought forth in fiction. )

Hence the searching for something to satisfy those un met psychic and biologic urges.

In some cases that searching leads to the excesses you have described in other posts.

You know that I dislike stereotypical labels. D/s and BDSM can be like uniforms constraining one into a set of alternate social ‘norms’.
Sex is the closest and most intimate of partnerships. The libido perhaps the strongest biologic driver we have. It is no surprise that this arena is where our most basic needs are often expressed.

To be ’submissive’ is quite natural. However, it does not have to entail bindings and whips, nor utter slavery to another.
It is naturally expressed in the opening to a lover and receiving what they g

(Exactly…and this is where ‘submission’ is distorted by Gorean/D/S/bdsm adherents.  We went through hell trying to conform to these ideas, and there were many of them, and in the end… was a very simple  issue.  It didn’t have the ‘drama’ of all this above.  It became a simple bond between a normal man…and a normal woman.  Those ‘awakenings’ to a very interesting issue were fulfilled without the trappings ….just a peaceful resolve in a long term marriage…which at first seemed wanting of something…until we saw what was the plight of others.  And it didn’t hold expressed fear or trepidation, a pandering to an overwhelming and unhealthy ego, a dominance that was ‘on’ because it was fearful of being ‘off’.  (Of course, the issues of sadism here compounds the issue)

It was a bond of respect and admiration for the creativity and strength of what was opposite without jarring behavior.)

I guess that where the balance you have now found is missing from their role, the reaction is to seek a more intense expression of submission. It may be this is where the problems of abuse and violation can arise.

(I think you very right, Z.  That intensity is on both sides:  it’s the submissive trying to ‘prove’ that she really is a ‘submissive’  (and I have been accused of ‘denying my submission’..or submissive state) to gain the approval of this Dom…. to placate his insecurities and anger.  So the submissive opens herself to more and more …ah….abusive behavior…or degrading behavior, or humiliating behavior… if the Dom so pleases….and the Dom takes it as his ‘due’.  Because he’s the Dom.

Or because he’s a real  sadist.  I have found that not all Doms are made of the same cloth.  In fact….real Doms are not tied up in these behaviors above…they know play from real.  I didn’t.

LOL!….I am glad that we  found other ways to address this issue of
Domination and Submission in our marriage. Perhaps where there is a lot of hurt and history, couples apply the whip and try to get ‘deeper’ into this issue of  D/s, but I think it does come down to a ‘natural order’…a balance of natures and attendant tasks…

Just not what some make of it.

Just a few musings

My regards


And thank you, Z.  Always informative and a pleasure.

Lady Nyo…who would like at some point to address this knotty issue of ‘service’. ( but really not so knotty)

“Devil’s Revenge” ….

November 16, 2008

This is my second novel, yet unfinished, and I have gone back just to read and weep. It’s full of lust and sex and little refinement, but I can work on that. I wrote it exactly two years ago this month….in the flush of sexual arousal. I had just started writing erotica and didn’t know my way around a bush, but I was fascinated with words and their possible effects.

So, I am posting Chapter 29 because I am pissy this morning and don’t want to write something serious.

“Devil’s Revenge” is a time-warp story, a woman wrenched from the 21st century to the early 19th. She is confronted by a confusing devil, yes, actually a devil, Garrett Cortelyou, and a very old, transsexual devil, M. Gormosy…sometimes, when it pleases him….Madame Gormosy. A couple of characters have followed her (Betsy) into this novel from another novel she has been writing (hey! it’s actually finished, too!) and they torment her. The main tormentor is named Obadiah Voorhees, and he is plum insane. He’s a sadist and a really, really bad character….and if I continue to post this, you will find out why. Miserable fellow.

This book was called “Another Story” but it was such a bad title, that this morning I changed it to “Devil’s Revenge”….It probably will change again.

Lady Nyo

“DEVIL’S REVENGE” Chapter 29

“Oh! La! Look at you! Gone a week, and what do I come back to?”

Madame Gomosy sweeps into my bedroom this morning, with a riding crop in her hand. This doesn’t portend well. I am sitting in a wrinkled chemise, my mob cap over my eyes. It can’t be more than eight o’clock, and my eyes are barely open. I look at her blearily and remember her role the other afternoon with my drunken gallant.

“Good Morning to you, Madame Gomosy. Would you like a cup of tea?” She glides gracefully to a chair across the tea table from me, and looks at me with a pinched mouth.

“I understand, Madame, that you accompanied my ‘husband’ to a tavern. To be correct, two taverns. Perhaps a bit excessive, don’t you think, for one afternoon?” I raised my cup and looked over the rim at her.

“Do not be too concerned, dear lady. I was quite transformed.” ‘Her’ voice was a deep baritone. He certainly was a man, regardless the dress he assumed before me. I jumped with the shock of hearing his natural voice, and he grinned devilishly back at me.

I blushed deeply, the thoughts of how much he had seen me in my ‘natural’ state flooding my mind. My hands shook as I replaced the cup in the saucer.

“You know, he was quite ill when he came home. He passed out on the bed as soon as he hit it. I would thank you to consider I am alone here and have trouble enough out of him when he is sober.”

‘Madame’ Gomosy laughed, a deep rumble from her elegant throat. “Some men, or devils to think of it, never do learn their limit. Ah! The next time, ask him for me to accompany him home, and we can put him to bed together. We can spend some time in front of the fire, putting a fine pair of horns on his head.”

I looked at him, my mouth opened wide, my eyes round with shock. Then I started to laugh. What a scene before my eyes, my Demon Lover snoring away, and Madame Gomosy on her knees between my thighs! Apparently, Madame read my mind, for she laughed, but in her usual womanly voice.

“Ah, cherie! There is much a woman can teach another about pleasure. Men, now, they take a lick and a stab at it, but they have their minds elsewhere, if not their hands. Women, now, we carry our pleasure palaces around with us, and know how to knock at the entrance. Men, they pound at the door.”

I giggled at her words. So had it been my experience. There was an ‘art’ a ‘delicacy’ if you would, most men did not seem to know.

“But enough! We have much to do today. Can you guess the reason for this whip?” She looked at me expectantly, one eyebrow arched elegantly on her brow.

I was afraid to think. “No, unless we are to ride out on horses. But surely, too wet a day for such?” I was hopeful here.

“Ah!”, she scoffed in disgust. M. Demon told me you were naïve, but I would not believe him! Quel dommage! Do we start at the beginning? If we must, we must.”

Madame rapped on the table with the whip “First, Mon Dieu!, we get you dressed. Again, no tricks with your breath, my dear, I will lace you up tight today. This whip will assure your…ah…compliance, n’est-ce pas?

Oh God. That corset again. I had left off wearing it, and now would pay the price. On top of this, I had been eating toast and bread with my teas for a week. I was fatter even in a week of indulgence, and that corset would be a real pain.

“Up! Cherie. Come to the bedpost.” Madame Gomosy swept her wide paneled overdress to the bed, her crop in her hand. I followed, grabbing off my mob cap and shaking my hair behind my head. Madame came before me, and lifted my chin with her whip. She looked carefully at my face and neck, and I started to giggle. Perhaps Madame Gomosy would transform herself into a French Nazi in years to come. She certainly handled that whip like she was comfortable. There came to my mind another reason, but I didn’t want to think of it. Inspite of myself, I shivered.

Madame tapped my shoulder with her whip and my chemise fell in a pool around my feet. “Here, step into this.” She helped pull up the double laced corset over my body. Positioning it and me bracing myself on the bedpost, with my arms high, she started the lacing. Then, she muttered a low curse under her breath in German (!) and turned me around to face her. She started to lace me up from the front, from the bottom, which grazed my pubic mound, to the top of my breasts. Then she twirled me around again, and started lacing the back. She pulled the hips not very tight, because I was slim hipped, and she was aiming at reducing my waist and containing my too florid bosom. She started pulling the lacing up close at the top of my back, and then she worked her way down my back to my waist. She spent quite a few minutes behind me, pulling and tugging, and finally she told me to turn around. She looked at the top of the corset and reaching in with her hands, pulled each breast up to the top of the corset, forming a round half melon above the corset, my nipples peeking out the top a bit.

“Ah! Now you look more presentable.” I could barely breath, and I was painfully clear that I had nothing on me except the corset. And I was cold.

“Ah, my dear girl. I will warm you up fast enough.” Madame read my mind, and I didn’t like the content of her words.

“Now, cherie, walk up and down the room for me.”

“Madame! Please let me put something on my bottom. I am freezing!”

“Non, mon petit. I want to see you walk, and I want to see how your gait effects you..ah…hips. We are going to work on the Art of Seduction today.”

“Ah, Madame, isn’t that now a bit like closing the barn door after the horse gets out?”
I looked at her with my own eyebrows raised.

She looked a bit confused, and then her face cleared. “Ah! You think I work here only for the pleasures of M. Demon, yes? Non, stupid young girl…It is M. Abigor that I worry about. He is a most discerning Devil, ma cherie. If he is not pleased with your deportment, he could…how do you say? Ah! Turn you to burnt toast.”

Something like that, Madame. I thought about her words. So I was being groomed for M. Abigor? For what reason? Before I could form a question to ask, she answered me.

“My dear, M. Garrett’s future depends much upon your impression on M. Abigor. He
has gone out on a long limb to champion M. Garrett. We must labor here, both of us, to put you in the best light in M. Abigor’s eyes.” She sat down on one of the chairs, pushing her skirts gracefully from behind her. “Now, please walk up and down the room as you would dressed each day.”

I do as she asked, feeling silly, walking on a cold wood floor naked except a tight and exposing corset. I heard her sigh behind me.

“Ah, it is sad that we aren’t all endowed with Venus’ charms. Your, ah, bush is scant and too light. And your, ah, pleasure mound is not impressive. You don’t move your hips at all, dear. You walk like a savage in a straight line.” She looked at me sadly. “Come here.” I went over to her, feeling silly standing in front of her.

“Turn around.” She whacked me hard across the left buttock. Then the right. I jumped and turned around, my face in shock.

“Now, I want you to feel the pain on each cheek. I want with each step for you to be aware of the red welt growing on your derriere. I am going to come behind you and beat you just a little as the pain recedes. Nothing now, to arouse you, cherie, just a tap to make you aware of your hips.”

Hah! Arouse me! Pain never aroused me. Or, at least I never even thought of it’s possibility. I had spent my life, it seemed, avoiding pain. And this was pain that was combined with humiliation. Ah, Madame Gomosy! We are separated by more than centuries!

She made me walk up and down the room for a good half hour, and I really tried to ‘swing’ my hips elegantly. The trick was to roll my hips downward, and to keep my breasts and chest area completely unaffected by what was happening beneath. All my bellydancing didn’t seem to matter much here. My arms were to be held elegantly rounded and low by the front of my gown, if I ever wore one again…..Madame continued to hit me sharply with her crop whenever I forgot to think with each step. Finally she told me to go lie down on the bed on my stomach. I was more than grateful, for I was a mass of stinging, little welts. I apparently was a slow learner here.

Madame Gomosy came and sat on the side of the bed, and loosened the corset in the back. She gently smoothed her hands over my backside and the top of my legs, and even where she missed and got me in the back of my thighs with her whip. Her aim was not always good. She had some cooling ointment in her hands, and she spread them over my skin for quite a while. I was falling asleep when her fingers began to stray deeper into the top of my thighs. I turned on my side to look at Madame, and in her place was a very handsome middle aged man, with powdered hair. His face was flushed with his emotion and I noticed that his cock was standing straight up in the air outside his breeches. It quivered there, shuddered actually, and Monsieur had his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow and as I made a noise in my throat, Monsieur opened his eyes and stared into my face. He grinned at me, shrugged his shoulders, and before my eyes, transformed himself back into the elegant Madame Gomosy! I had to laugh. His expression was so human. There was more to this devil than I knew. I wondered if she/he had been a courtesan in previous lives.

“Where do you think M. Pompadour learned her skills, my darling? And Nell Gywnne and Diane de Poitiers? All the great whores learned from my teachings.” She sounded very proud of herself.

“Proud? Well, kingdoms rose and fell on my teachings. Just like the royal cocks they entertained.” Madame was vulgar and witty today. “Each woman became a skilled whore under my tutorage. Of course, they all had a certain beauty. But they were wanted by their masters for different…ah…talents. Madame Pompadour was good with her mouth, she learned well to cover her sharp little teeth. Nellie Gywnne was known for another part of her figure. She had the most lucious derriere possible. Ah! Round and rosy and it was clearly superior to her front. Charles II used her in that fashion more than any other. It surprised me that she had two children by him.”

Madame had quite a history. I was blushing in spite of myself. But my backside didn’t hurt like before.

“Now, my dear young woman, I want you to get up and walk some more. Let me see how you turn at the end of the room. Remember to take small bites of the floor!”

I walked as she directed, but still she was not pleased. She came up in front of me, her arms on her hips and holding my glaze, she put one strong arm around my waist and drew me to her. She placed the handle of the riding crop at my naked mound and gently rubbed it there. I started to jump back, but she held me firmly to her dress. She was strong for a woman, but then again, she was actually a man. Ah! She applied more pressure to the whip and slipped it into the moisture there. She certainly knew what she was doing and she was arousing me fast.

Suddenly she released me, and said in a sharp voice. “Now, walk around the room like you have just been fucked by your lover. Float on your spent passion and think of his cock in you only minutes before.” I staggered around the room, her former motions with her whip effecting me without a doubt. However, something in my gait pleased Madame, and she allowed me to pull on a petticoat and place a shawl over my shoulders.

“Bonne, my cherie! You must use that which you have. You have many attributes that are hidden. You can’t rely on your lovely red and blond hair. You must push forth that part of your body that is best. Your breasts, though unfashionable in my time, are full and bountiful. I know that M. Abigor likes big breasts. Perhaps we can fit your dress and chemise so your nipples peek out above the lace like little mice noses. Ah! That would be sweet!”

I wonder at Madame’s taste. Mice noses. She followed me with the whip, applying the handle to my buttocks, my stomach, my breasts….not hurting me, but correcting me with the handle, pushing my buttocks under my hips, my stomach in, my back straight. She wanted me to pout out my breasts, complete with the mouse noses, yet the corset held me flat. She wanted a miracle here. She showed me some pictures of women posing for portraits, their breasts exposed, the drapery of their gowns pulled down and arranged artfully around their shoulders, exposing them. She wanted me to perceive my breasts as on display, as exposed to all eyes. To lead into the room with them. To tantalize all eyes with their presence, whether to envy or arousal. To frame my breasts with holding my arms close to my body, to lean towards company, maintaining my eyes with theirs, and dropping them modestly to my own cleavage. Hah!

We practiced my sitting, my back rigid to the chair, my legs not crossed over each other, but relaxed from the hips down and open under my skirt. That was supposed to be alluring in her society, and was an invitation for imagination as to what was under those voluminous skirts. Since no pantaloons were worn, the imagination was inflamed with the chance to slip up a hand onto the tops of the thighs, and if there was little protest, to slip a finger into the heat of a woman. Whether she was willing or not did not matter much, because the game was played with force on the man’s part, and resistance on the woman’s. She was to give up her treasure, or at least the tease of her treasure with resistance, but she was expected to give it up, nevertheless, to the petitioner. It seemed that sex was given and taken as a matter of course, between rooms in passing, in the hallway, thrown up against a wall, one leg raised and fastened around the waist of a man. Also, with the petticoats thrown over the backsides, and the woman leaning on the staircase, the man plowing her from behind. The backs of sofas were convenient, as was leaning over a wide and deep windowsill, with the skirts raised to her waist. There was also the variation of a man under her skirts, with them pulled over his head and body, she leaning against a wall, or perhaps her lower body obscured by a balcony, where she waves to her husband, who is walking in the garden talking to his steward, while her lover’s tongue is deep in her nether lips, putting a fine set of horns on her husband. She must remain detached and aloof from all, and not moan or groan her delight at his tonguing her treasure. A gasp is allowed, like she has been bit by a fly, but she must, above all else, maintain her decorum. Even though what she does here would ruin her reputation and put ridicule on her husband for all time.

All this and more, Madame Gomosy instructed me through pictures in her book and her recounting experiences. Whether she related her history as a man or a woman, I did not feel free to ask. But she certainly had a rich history of such debauchery. I had a bit of a problem with the book she was trying to instruct me from. It was Aretino’s Amours, and some of the positions, like the ‘wheelbarrel’ looked impossible to achieve. Some of the positions d’amore sent me into hysterics. The muscular cheeks of the women, along with the men, did little to arouse me. Madame applied her whip to restore my decorum.

But of course, this was only half of the instruction. The more ‘pointed’ event was what a lady was expected to do to her lover. Apparently, oral delights were expected in return. Madame could see that I was tiring, was hungry, and having to pee, and she gracefully delayed the rest of the lessons for the morrow. I was grateful, for a couple of hours in Madame Gomosy’s company had something of the effect of a week with the Marquis de Sade. Perhaps the whip contributed to this. She left me after the noon hour, and it took me another to get the damn corset off me. Madame, knowing what I would likely do, had tied the lacings, front and back, into nautical knots, and if she knew how I struggled, she would have had her revenge.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2008

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