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. I had done this thing many times, but always in? great privacy, so none should know my secretjoy.? But now I was compelled to do it inthe open, with his eyes upon me.? But Idid as he said, and in the end there was no pretense. For in fact he had leftme? unsatisfied, and it was kind of himto insist on this release. Now my feet hurt still, and I was untidy between my legs.Some of his cream was leaking out and was mixed with my own blood and juices.He withdrew from the case a small digital camera. More

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