The more I fretted about the situation the worse it got. My brain was overloaded. There was the crowd, taking my pictures, there were the strangers ...eeing my nakedness for the first time, and there was the artist, dabbling paint on my body from just inches away. My pussy was on fire, dying to be touched and relieved of the tension. The artist was finally done. He was checking his work and realized there was touch-up needed on my vagina. I was not paying attention until I realized he was. That is exploitative, it's perverted. And it is, I was right and I still believe that. I still feel like, in any deep moral sense, me masturbating to my sleeping mother like that was in a sense worse than everything else that was to happen later that year, in the winter. Later, at least, it was undeniably mutual. But later it went a lot further, and there was a lot more to regret.3.Our apartment building -- that converted motel that was a shoddy excuse for one, anyway - was in the middle of. More

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