With her still scrunched up on the settee, chin on her chest, tits wobbling, legs wide, pussy at my mercy, I knelt next to her and split those sticky ...abia with a middle finger. She was so wet she took two digits easily. ‘Oh!’ the girl yipped, blinking at me, jaw slack. ‘Oh, that’s so fucking nice…’ With the initial shock dissipating quickly I grinned and nodded and growled, ‘Wait and see.’ I’d been in similar situations before. I’d had women in this position in the past, them squirming against. It seemed to consist of only one smooth line, as if he had never taken the brush off of the canvas. It was unmistakingly me, the girl in the painting. It was my body, my face, my hair. Mr. Monet had painted me. As I was staring at the canvas, I felt him touching me. He threw his arms around me and pressed his body against mine. He held my hips and lowered his face into my neck. I could feel his breath on my skin, I could even hear it. I tried to keep my thoughts with the painting, but that. More

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