’ She thought. ‘But aren’t all artists mad?’ she asked of no one, pacing the floor and smoking feverishly on her cigarette. ‘Van Gogh cut of... his ear, Latrec indulged in absinthe, Chatterton and Plath killed themselves how many other artists, writers, poets and musicians had gone mad or died? Was it the curse of the creative thought process that tormented them, the pursuit of artistic integrity or the deep passionate yearning to show the beauty only they could see? The line from an Eliot poem. We would be here in Italy for more than one week so there would be impossible to not think of it and to not want anything, I knew myself that well but I had to make mom believe I would change. "Well, I don't want to ruin this vacation and hurt you two, so I guess we forget about it and I'll go back to masturbating in may room instead. I am used to that so there is nothing new really. "John, I don't...." She stammered, like she two was cast between two sides in her head. "If you really really. I did as I was told.After that night he would have parties and have me strip for his friends. He would give me to a different guy each time and I would be used like a whore. Sometimes he would sit in the corner and watch and when the guy finished with me he would shove his hard cock in my mouth and hold my head as he fucked my face. If I sucked his cock good I wouldn’t get whipped but if I didn’t I knew that my ass would be set on fire again. I began to practice my cock sucking skills on his. Uh. Yeah. Ah. Ah. Ah. FUCK."And as Dennis' hands clamp her waist tighter, as he works his pelvis against her a little harder:"Ah ah ah FUCK AH AH AH-"Her hair is red. She has a nose-ring and a tattoo on one arm and another on her stomach. Her tits flop in front of his face, back and forth. Her mouth is open in what could be mistaken for an expression of someone watching T.V slackjawed… except she’s watching him, open-mouthed.And that’s one falsetto-ass pitch she’s got. Girls his age don’t sound.