Donaldson and his wife, Lois, my aforementioned brother-in-law and his wife and Mary Ellen, my dead husband's younger sister now in her fourth year at West Point.
They were watching me being abused as a prelude to entering Morrosco's Funeral Home in Melrose, Massachusetts for their son's wake. Donaldson had been traveling through the streets of Kabul when a mine had exploded under his Humvee.
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Trace used to say that his family considered arms their profession and pain their hobby.
How did a nice girl like me from Lowell, Massachusetts get mixed up with this group of patriotic sadists? My predilection for reaching an orgasm only after a sound flogging had brought Trace Donaldson and I together. As a result, I had a five-year commitment to patch up soldiers in whatever piss poor backwater the Army selected.
Over time, I learned that pain was the additive I required to blow the searing hot wind of sexual satisfaction through my brain.The Donaldson's were regular army to the core and then some. Pictures of Donaldson's killed in combat lined the grand staircase of the family mansion.British bayonets had gutted a Uriah Donaldson at Bunker Hill.Major General Charles Donaldson, my father-in-law's grandfather, had ridden across France with Patten only to meet a bad end years later at the Chosan Reservoir in a shithole called Korea. The current batch of living and recently dead Donaldson's was as tough a bunch as this country could produce.
Equally devoted to the study of military tactics and the works of Marquis De Sade, they were a twisted lot.The Donaldson's are a rich and twisted family of super patriotic practioners of S&M.