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. my bratty, sexy little sister.As soon as we got in the car, Cindy reached for the radio, which was set to the college station I like. I slapped her hand hard -- a sharp little CRACK sound echoing in the garage -- and said, "Put your seatbelt on." Cindy pouted, but sullenly tugged the shoulder harness down and fastened it across her waist. I buckled in too and started the car.Three blocks away from the house, Cindy made a face at the Sonic Youth track that was playing. "This sucks," she declared, and reached for the radio again.This time I slapped her face with a deft backhand that left a red mark on her cheek. The CRACK was louder this time.Cindy was stunned. Neither of my parents ever hit us, not even spankings when we were little. She sat frozen, gaping at me, mouth wide open. I'd just wheeled the car onto the main drag when she finally got her voice back."YOU CAN'T HIT ME!" she screamed, in that fire alarm voice that always set my jaw on edge. "Y-you -- I'M TELLIN' MOM YOU DID. As he was thinking about what he could do Buffy burst into his house. "Giles, Giles!" she shouted. She froze and stared at the orb in Giles hand."Buffy are you..." Giles trailed off as he remembered the Orb of Kanuu. 'Ok,' he thought any doubt that this was the mystical orb was now gone. Another use for the orb came to mind as Giles stared at the beautiful young Slayer who stood before him. As she started to come back into focus he spoke. "Buffy, look at the orb. Concentrate on the orb and feel yourself relaxing. The orb is making you feel warm inside. You like watching it."Giles saw Buffy's eyes begin to glaze as she stared at the orb. He also felt his trousers grow tighter around his groin. "Buffy how do you feel?" Great," she replied in a slurred voice.It was working Giles couldn't believe it. "Ok, Buffy, listen to my voice. I am your Watcher and you are my Slayer, so you must obey me. Do you understand?" Yes." 'Yes' what? Say it." You are my Watcher and I am your Slayer, so I must.
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But that was the joy of a Cornish beach in early May. In August, it would be virtually impossible to move for sun-blotched bodies, the pervasive, sickly blend of more than a dozen varieties of sun tan lotion heavy in the air. So although a group of guys had arrived in the interim, immediately commencing a loud and boisterous game of football in the space between me and the ever-rolling waves, it hadn’t really mattered at first. In fact, it had provided a welcome distraction from my novel. God only knew what had possessed me to bring a work of sappy romantic fiction along on this trip. There were six of them playing three against three, their bags and discarded clothing acting as make-shift goalposts. And though they clearly weren’t teenagers–at a guess, their average age was at least thirty years old–they were behaving as though they were, their constant banter and ribbing of each other audible on the breeze. But then even I could deduce that the tall, skinny bloke they called Tim.

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