fThinking about the three domains of development (biosocial, cognitive, psychosocial) and school age children (7-11), describe two items/activities/toys etc. that would promote development in the 3 d

scomfort I had with using it is gone, replaced with that blandness you feel when using any other adjective or describing any other job. Doctor. Welder. Whore. Makes no difference, we all had bills. I have a thing for the word "whore". Probably because it reminds me of something British and aristocratic, and I sort of have a thing for British stuff. Especially their swear words. Sure as hell beat "prostitute". Or sex worker, which is just a tidied up euphemism. Semantics. Mr. Bedlam struggled on top of me, wailing his usual macho-possessive nonsensities. "You like that, don't you bitch-boy?" and all that stuff. He amused me. Of course, his name wasn't really Bedlam; it was Beedham. I just called him that because of his situation. You see, Mr Beedham was a self-loathing closeted gay. Which I suppose is what you get when you suppress your urges for eighteen years of marriage, making it to manifest as a sort of sexual masochism. Like hating other gays somehow made his own gayness diminish. He continued pounding away. He always insisted on missionary style. Or doggy in front of a mirror. He wanted to see my face in agony. It got him off. I felt something for him. Not love, God no. The same thing you feel for a crippled dog or abandoned child. Pity? Probably that. Pity was something I did my best to avoid, both giving and receiving. Cock, on the other hand, I traded as desired. Mr Bedlam slapped me, hard. Then spat on my face. I pretended to like it. That's what he wanted. Today, I was his pounding meat, his punching bag, his sexual-frustration vent. He squeezed my nipples and it hurt like hell. I screamed in pain. Some things aren't easy to brush aside. Besides, my nipples were really sensitive. Something I cursed when I had the time. He came. Just like that. I felt him empty himself into me, jerking like he was having a seizure. Yeah, go on big man, let it all out. The first time we fucked, he actually cried. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just let him have his cry. I think it was regret, or maybe it was joy from having his first desired fuck in years. Whatever it was, he wanted an encore. Actually twelve. I've been counting. I'm dedicated like that. He got off me, breathing heavily. "Hey." He turned around, somehow looking a mixture of exhausted, satisfied and irritated. He'd been pounding me for at least twenty minutes. That's not counting the thirty-or so minutes of hitting, sucking and spitting I'd endured. He narrowed his eyes at me as if I wanted to ask him to include me in his will or something. I nodded at my hands. "Untie me. I gotta go." His expression cleared a bit and he obliged. I rubbed my sore wrists and examined them quickly. Not so much bruising this time. It should heal completely in a few days. I rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom. I really needed to take a piss. And wash all the spit off my face. I examined myself. A few small barely-noticeable bruises from where he'd hit me. Somehow, I had adapted to taking these types of hits with minimal scarring. I was rapidly evolving to suit my role; adapting to my environment as we were taught in 7th grade. Maybe Charles Darwin was really on to something. I washed my face with warm water and went back into the room. Mr Bedlam was dressed and tying his shoes. Probably off to pick his kid from school or something. It wasn't usual having sex-sessions at noon, but an extended lunch break was the only chance he got to fuck me, or any other whore who took up the offer. One of the perks of being your own boss. He wasn't bad to look at, to be honest. A few strands of grey, a body that was still in shape with barely a bump of a beer gut, some muscle under that padding of family-man fat, a worn-looking face that showed that he must have been good-looking in his earlier years. He looked at me and then I realized I must have been star