I sat on a bench and gazed at one of his paintings. My dad sat next to me and asked, 'Waddaya think, cupcake?' 'What is it?' I answered with a questio... of my own. 'It's sensation, feeling. It's called non-objective art, Katy. Non-objective art doesn't depict anything. It evokes sensations or emotions from its viewers. What do you feel when you look at that painting?'"I was eight years old then, Jason, and the painting was huge; it covered one wall in the room. I pointed to the lower left part. Michael this is my ex-husband Phillip and his friend from work, Tom." He gave me a rather distrustful look, as if he wasn't sure whether to shake my hand or kick my ass. From the size of the guy and his friend, I much preferred the former so I stuck my hand out. "Nice to meet you, Phillip. And you too, Tom." I shook their hands. Tom was ok with it, but I noticed Phillip gave my hand a little bit of a squeeze as if to silently signal I had better be damn careful with Jennifer. I took note of. But she couldn't get away and suddenly, following Tony's hoarse directions, the boys holding her ankles drew the slenderly quaking columns of her legs up off the floor and back over her shoulders until her very toes were touching the head of the bed. Every muscle in her body felt as though it were being stretched beyond belief, and now the flat plane of her hair-fringed pussy was offered up to the hulking giant of a boy like a sacrificial offering. There was nothing she could do to defend. The last crew member was too horny to wait. He was jerking off as his fellow crew member took his blow job. Both came at the same time and both shot their cum in her face and on her pretty, perky tits. She was covered with French cum. She was smiling with happiness. I found some cloth to dampen and wiped her off. I still loved her so much. Maybe even more now. It was time for them to sail. I had taken leave for a week and would fly to Marseille to meet her. I said my goodbyes and I knew she.