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 ...im 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 proved sheer impossible. "I want you to know," he whispered, "I had no such intentions."I already knew. Eugene’s dick seemed so small it wasn’t even worth the effort to let him stick it in me. I decided I’d let him sperm me so maybe his cream would soothe my puss and I’d stop itching and burning inside. Jane told me I’d be craving my daddy’s big cock and his deeply satisfying spend, but I wouldn’t even admit it to myself. When Eugene spurted in me, there was barely an eye-dropper full of his scum and it seemed to me that I was hornier and itchier than before.Things had gotten out of control while. I tried to remember what women in the movies did in similar situations but there hadn't been any. They all got themselves swept off their feet by dashing men. And there I was, in a situation where I had to sweep the man off his feet, or off his back or something.I stared up at the ceiling and thought of every possible way of seducing him. I wanted him so badly! Veronica had lit bonfires throughout my body; someone had to extinguish them! Should I shake him by the shoulder? Or cough? I just. Otherwise, I'm going to end it right here and make sure you don't bother your brother about any of this. What do you say?" Please, Uncle John, I've had enough, I'll think about it some more." The words weren't that clear because of the nose, but everyone understood what he'd just said. Billy stayed on the ground as he spoke, still covering up as best he could. I was starting to hate what I'd just seen. Nobody deserved to be taken apart like Billy had just been. To say it was brutal wouldn't do.