Much to his delight, her hands worked the jeans and they fell to the floor. Kicked away with a flick of a leg, his breath caught looking at their smoo...hness. Pink panties greeted him. On their triangular face, puffed out and displayed, was the biggest wet spot Keith could see. To him, that meant no question of the ring working. Satisfied, he took his shirt off. “Do we really need to shower?” he asked her taking his shoes and then socks off. “No, let’s fuck,” she said. Eyebrows raised in. Even if it had been, it was unlikely that more than a couple of people could have recognized her from this angle. It was a portrait of anger and abuse and violence. For all that the flames lept around her body, it was obvious that the woman was not the victim. She was the perpetrator.The screen changed again to my most recent painting of Kelly. Still not a photographic portrait. Somehow, in fact, this image was less related to the woman herself and more to the dreamlike attachment to the male. More

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