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The gifted and talented club was invitation only — Gary's invitation, that is. Trouble was: Gary had no real training or authority to be administering IQ tests.

Instead, he gave kids a short multiple-choice test, the Mickey Mouse kind sold in bookstores. Then, based on his findings, he labeled certain kids — the kids he liked and wanted to spend more time with — as "gifted.

I was gifted, according to Gary. This was a real convenience, as he demanded I join his, and only his, after-school clubs. He signed me up for his drama club too and encouraged me to sing in the school talent contest.

On the night of the show, various kids performed their acts, and the winner was chosen based on audience response. Gary was among the judges who awarded me first prize.

After that, I was given the lead in all the school plays that he directed. To the other parents, I suppose it seemed that Gary was harmlessly lauding his new daughter.

In a certain way, he was. Not because he actually thought I was gifted or talented. Gary was a narcissist, and narcissists view their families as extensions of themselves, as trophies.

Gary believed he was superior, so it was imperative that the world see his daughter as superior too. Behind closed doors it was a different story.

Gary treated me with a dizzying blend of over-involvement, neglect, overindulgence and cruelty. With Svengali-like skill, he quickly took over every aspect of my life, dictating what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used.

Gary dictated what I wore, to whom I talked, even what toys I used. He also strove to monopolize my time — an easy accomplishment since my mother left for work before I awoke and didn't return until evening.

During the school year, this meant Gary had me all to himself for an hour each morning and at least three hours every afternoon.

Once summer came, he had me all day, every day, all to himself. This meant being subjected to daily "training sessions" — intense periods when I was explicitly instructed on how to behave and think like a slave.

Much like a dog must be trained to sit, to stay, to heel, practitioners of sadomasochism believe a sex slave must be trained in how to speak, sit, serve.

In short, like a dog, she must be taught total obedience. Gary's dungeon was in the basement. Instead, he left a series of nails and hooks attached to the ceiling beams, which could quickly and easily hold a harness, a rope or some other type of bondage device.

While much of Gary's paraphernalia had to be kept hidden, I could tell he also had some fun in displaying a few tools of his trade.

The dog cage, for instance, was left in plain sight — folded up in a cluttered corner where it appeared to be waiting for the next garage sale.

He also kept a wooden paddle hanging on the wall of his home office, which he jokingly told guests was for "errant children.

Nor did most people realize that he kept a set of metal handcuffs in his desk drawer, right next to a stun gun and his handgun. I can't remember being threatened with the gun — although it may have happened.

Due to amnesia, as well as the normal forgetfulness of memory, there are many details about my abuse I can't recall. I know this because, over the years, eyewitnesses have told stories about my abuse that I cannot personally remember.

I do, however, remember Gary threatening me with the stun gun repeatedly. He even used it on me once.

Once was all it took. For after experiencing the excruciating, utterly indescribable pain it inflicted, I never, ever wanted to experience it again.

When he wasn't hurting me, he lavished me with parental attention. On the long drives to and from school, he would initiate conversations about history, politics and art.

We ate nearly every meal together while he instructed me on things like table manners and ethnic cuisine.

He gave me my first typewriter and influenced my decisions to become both a writer and psychologist. He took the time to open up the world for me.

He was my first and most significant mentor. Under my mother's care, I'd been neglected and deprived. She was constantly at work, leaving me alone and lonely.

Gary preyed on that loneliness. Like any skilled pedophile, he identified what I needed, and he gave it to me.

He made me feel special, talented, smart. Even sexually, staying on Gary's good side had its advantages. For once he felt I had become sufficiently trained and submissive, most of the torture tapered off.

Afternoons in the basement were replaced by the bedroom. And his fervor to cause me pain was replaced with a passion to bring me pleasure.

I suspect it made him feel powerful — like more of a man. Nearly every day at 4 p. The weird part, of course, was that his "lover" was just under four feet tall and weighed less than 60 pounds.

There was also the inconvenient fact that his official lover, my mother, refused to vanish. Unable to ditch her physically, he did it emotionally instead.

Every evening, he locked himself in his home office. Every weekend, he went to his store. As I was expected to work for him, I followed wherever he went.

Very early on, my mother began to notice this pattern, and she didn't like it. Not one bit. Being immature, she didn't handle the situation with grace.

She felt excluded, which she was. So she began to yell a lot, mostly at me. One particular Saturday morning we had probably been living with Gary for about six weeks , I was in the bathroom getting dressed for the flea market, just as I did every weekend.

But my mother wasn't happy, so she stood in the doorway, whining. You oughta be staying home with me. Just then, Gary came into the hall.

My mother cornered him. Gary, as always, remained calm during my mother's onslaught. Nonchalantly, he remarked, "Why don't you let Mooch decide what she wants to do today?

She's perfectly capable of choosing. After a moment of silence, the mother shrugged apologetically and fessed up: her sleeping companion was her son.

Because of our unique situation five people in a three-bedroom home, custody schedules, etc. Yet one thing remains consistent: on Tuesday nights, my husband sleeps on the couch in the living room, and my 9-year-old daughter sleeps with me.

Before the birth of my daughter, I bragged endlessly about my plans to breastfeed. Yet despite a large investment in a private lactation consultant and a breast pump that rivaled a Dyson DC41 Animal, I produced about four drops of milk.

As soon as I cracked open the first can of formula, I shut my mouth and got back to taking care of business, and life was better for all of us, most important, our infant.

So despite the fact that I once thought that a 9-year-old sleeping with a parent was a terrible idea, I have to eat my words. I work full time, and this is time I spend catching up with my daughter.

We hop in bed, talk about our days, watch lousy TV and cuddle. Most of these nights, my daughter asks me to sing her to sleep, and I bask in the glory that at this point in her life, she still thinks I can sing like Adele.

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