“You look the artist,” Lucinda commented, “with your black tights, long straight hair, mannish shirt, and black beret.”Bridget and Scotty rode...their bicycles to Bridget’s apartment, an attic garret on High Street, where one room, with a bare wooden plank floor and a single, north facing window fronted by the higher leaves of an enormous old oak, was devoted to painting. Under her easel was a splattered “tarp of many colors,” as Bridget referred to it. Half-painted canvasses leaned in wild. Resting on her magnificent breast, a gentle squeeze bringing about an unconscious gasp that opened her lips for greater exploration of my tongue. My hand went down faster than before to the end of her t-shirt. She was lost entirely, absolutely unaware of the invader breaking the lines of modesty that none other had ever been allowed past. The contact of bare flesh sent Fresh jolts of electricity through her, making her unconsciously pull me in further than what hadn’t been believed possible. We. More

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