Fifty three

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Once George left, Ringo bursted into tears. Sobs racked his frame violently, hiccups and broken cries escaping his lips. He tried to hold it in, stifling his sobs in the pillow as much as he could. His arms ached and the handcuffs bit and cut his wrists. His bum throbbed with pain, bright red and purpling with handprint bruises.

What did he do to deserve this?

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