“Do you ever keep any of them?”I glanced over, studying her as we paused on the road, enjoying the profile of her face… and tits… but mostly h...r face. The shape of her nose. Her brows. Her mouth. Her chin.“For a while. And then I sell them. Hopefully.”“It looks so different. I mean, from your painting. Like you painted the version you’d see if you were just remembering it in a dream. And I’m not even stoned.”She laughed at that. More of a giggle, really. I joined in as I rolled the truck over. I had my fingers deep inside her curly red bush, and my other hand was sparring with Mr Smith's hand as we both took turns frigging my wife. With his other hand, he was tipping back martinis.We were in the hot tub less than 20 minutes when Mrs Smith said, "You know, water makes a crummy lubricant. I'll bet I've got some better lube upstairs."The four of us towelled off, and trooped up the stairs, a long, winding affair that climbed up to the vaulted, cathedral-style ceilings. Mr Smith suddenly. More

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