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Just think of Picasso. His mistress was his model, but no one would suggest that his paintings 'looked' like her." You've told me about Picasso," Rita...said. She was pulling her clothes on angrily—not just the robe she usually slipped into, but dressing to leave. "Where's that book?" I assumed she meant my book of Picasso. I retrieved it and she dragged me over to sit and look at the book. My style was nothing like Picasso, but I'd always admired his work. She began turning the pages, focusing. Now, his hands moved down her shoulders, across the sides of her chest, all the way down to her waist, firmly holding her down, before lingering ever so slightly above her belly button, before cupping her tits. He was rubbing them, massaging them, squeezing them, each brush of his long fingers against her nipples sending waves of pleasure and excitement through her body. By now, she had become quite aware of the hot wetness running down her thighs, her pussy sorely neglected. She wished for his. More

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