“Do you want to sit for a painting?” I asked. “Maybe we could make love after. Or during.” I kissed her and she melted into my arms like a kit...en.“I hate to delay you but could we make love first?” she whispered. “And again after?”“Yeah. I’d love to do a painting of you with that just-fucked look.” And that was what we did. No one else was home, so we fucked right there on the tarp-covered floor. Then I painted her with that slightly bemused expression she gets and her glassy eyes. I knew that. She’d been born Eleanor Guinevere Smithson. An only child of poor, but honest, hardworking tenant farmers in southern Maryland. She’d known from a very early age that there was more to life than what her parents were living. She also knew that somehow, someway, she would not only have that life but have it as soon as she could leave the farm.She was fourteen when her chance came, a chance she grabbed with both hands, and until fairly recently, she’d never had reason to look back. Her parents. More

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