You begin to walk up the stairs and looking how far up they go and realize how many candles are burning and thinking this could be set for Cleopatra h...rself. As you reach the top you see a door open and the candles leading up to it, so you glide to the room and enter. Inside you see rose petals all over the bed which is gigantic and also a glass of what could be champagne next to which is another note and a blindfold. You go over and sit on the bed and read the note which says, 'drink the glass. At ten after eight our precious home and our life savings went up in smoke. I stood by the truck, just for a moment to make sure that it started properly, and then started downtown to close out our accounts. I was only able to get a couple thousand dollars together. We weren't rich and buying the house took all of our money. When I returned to the house, the police and fire trucks were still all over the place. Sarah was there, talking to the police. I walked over to her Focus and slid one of. I was deep throating him and then coming up and sucking the head over and over driving him wild. I could tell that he was getting close, so I backed off and went back to licking his balls. Joe put his hand on my head, running his fingers through my hair, then he gently pushed my head down towards his asshole. I normally don't get into ass play, but I went along with it and started to lick around his puckered hole. Then I began to lick it getting it all wet with my saliva. Joe positioned his. The characters in those narrative paintings are always recognizable, drawn from our own world. We surmise their predicaments and we feel for them and with them. We become them in fact, in an act of empathic identification no paintings these days require. In those days that's what paintings were for, whether of Rossetti's entrapping tangles of women's hair or Holman Hunt's sun-struck but still- garlanded sacrificial "Scapegoat." Such paintings bind a spectator into the events implied.