It was still a sore point between us. At least he had the decency to look shamefaced.“Well if you put it like that…” he began.“How else can I ...ut it,” I asked, stroking the soft downy hair on his chest. “You’d have been the spectre at the feast.”“I suppose so,” he grudgingly agreed, then turned to face me. “Want to stay the rest of the night? It’s very late.”“Please; if it’s okay with you,” I smiled through orgasm-dazed eyes. “Pete’s bringing Leanne round to my place tomorrow lunchtime.”“You. We went to the same parochial grade schools; had our first communion the same Sunday in May; and if you still lived in the neighborhood, got confirmed together; got married in the parish church; baptized your babies; and your funeral service all happened in the same neighborhood.Hot tempers and unblushing passion are alright in Italian parents, but apparently not in first born Italian daughters. I made it through the fifth grade as home and thought my young life was going okay. Friends to hang. It’s…throbbing.Mark nodded and slowly gave another turn.I gasped my breath and bit my lips. As the vice began to really press my testicle, I felt the first drops of sweat appearing on my body. At this point, the pressing feeling suddenly transformed to heavy pain.I barely managed to hold back my whimpers. The pain was worse than I imagined. It felt like torture. But the torture didn’t even started.For a few seconds I couldn’t speak, only breathe. Then Mark’s voice pulled me back to awareness.. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck! Ever since she'd begun the drawing class. Led by a teacher who sold works at a mind-control gallery, a teacher with an unusually compelling voice. Led by a painter who painted... What? What were his paintings like? Holly and Katia posed for some of them, but what were they like? She fucking had to know!It was torture, but she ground her finger-fucking to a dead halt, panting for breath, trying to unearth the sane part of herself. It was there, it was still there. Her.
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