I spent the whole afternoon painting, and my hand is shaking. I tried to paint a beautiful landscape, but my palette was filled with carnal pinks and deep blues. In the end, all that's on the canvas is the outline of a hand—huge, powerful, with distinct knuckles, as if it's about to burst through the canvas and strangle my throat—or caress my trembling cunt. My father's hands are like that. When he complimented my dress today, I got so wet down there, my panties sticking to my lips. I'm such a hopeless slut, aren't I? Only by thinking about the feel of his rough palm rubbing against my inner thigh can I feel alive, not just a hollow shell that breathes.