Her face contorted and she threw her head back, loudly moaning "Fuck me, Daddy! I quickly responded, sliding her down into the soft chair, rolling her skirt up to bare her wet pussy and askew panties.
I unbuckled my belt and opened my pants, my hard cock breathing in the hot air of the club. I had no eyes on anyone around us, only eyes for the beautiful, sex-crazed chick in front of me.
I spread open her legs and placed my cock at her entrance, her legs on either side of me. I felt the heat of her pussy as I wriggled it around her lips, bathing my cockhead in her juices.
Then I shoved it into her hard, growling "I'll take that pussy of yours! Her eyes flickered for a moment and then opened again, locking onto mine. She licked her lips and hissed, "take it, Daddy!
I leaned over her and kissed her, grabbing her lip for a moment with my teeth, then thrusting my tongue into her mouth while my cock plunged time and time again into her tight wet hole.
She grabbed my head and pulled herself up to kiss and bite my neck, then screamed out in passion. She howled into my ear "fuck me fuck me hard and deep then cum in me so everyone knows I'm yours! I grabbed her legs and put them up over my shoulders. Her walls closed in on my cock in this position and I grunted with each thrust. Her heels wobbled around my ears as I folded her in half, pumping, pounding, bouncing her into the chair.
The straps of her dress fell down and she wriggled her breasts free. One sight of them made me drool, panting, "Bella, you hot fuck I slammed in deep, cock throbbing. Her legs started to shake. I felt her pussy churning and that sent me over the top. I slammed in, hard, freezing inside her quaking pussy as my hot load emptied into her cumming hole.
We sat there, dimly aware how many people had watched that display of passion. We could only look into each other's eyes. Photo taken at Planet QoS. Add me www. The story "Drunken Muse" was audio recorded on a hidden voice recorder during the conversations about two decades ago. The story-teller didn't know or consent to the recording. The audio tapes on compact cassettes were never used. The records were partially damaged and lost. I am so pumped to get back to painting as I return to the second year of the art school after a full year suspension.
Art studios are the huge L-shaped lofts with super tall ceilings 20 feet no less with the wall to wall windows so that sunlight illuminates the space from south and east side designed for the purpose so that one could paint there from morning till sunset.
In a studio there are classical gypsum sculptures, expensive copies of Venus de Milo, David, Laocoon and the others. In the art studio there stood the noses, eyes, lips, feet, and palms on the wood shelves. Sketching the gypsum body parts helps you to build the classic academic base on which stands the whole modern and contempo art. This sort of teaching is specific for the art schools that preserve the traditions they had been founded on. There is only few art schools like this and of this caliber left now.
Could be that this is the only legendary school that continues to function as if nothing had changed in the world. In the rest of the world with billions of some art classes nobody knows what does the old tradition of art school is for, its totally unfashionable. Studying classic art en. The smell of art is what defines the studio but not from human presence, something like an aroma reminiscent of the eastern market where smoke from hookaahs mix with the oil vapors, exotic fragrance from candles and spices.
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The Art Studios were never renovated since the times they were built over years ago. The wood floors are saturated with art oils as if the floor is waxed with the organic oils from nuts, linen linseed oil, poppy seed oil, and so forth.
Adding to the mix the varnishes used by painters pine wood varnish, Dammar varnish and others It makes this ART SMELL to be the most intoxicating and ever-lasting musk.
The instance you enter the studio space you feel the belonging to a knighthood and the whole art history.
You are the undivided part of those people who left their creation imprints. Super pumped up after the long break up with the arts after my full year of non-stop party marathons I had returned to the bohemian life style. The only difference is that there is some meaning in the bohemian life style, something to create, to shape. Not just spend time doing sports and girls but something on a whole 'nother level only with the same sub text and by far more emotionally connected.
The bohemian I think is much more my thing, that fits me as a person.
Maybe because my old man is the greatest sculptor. I returned into the world to kiss its ground. I like everything about it, the babeville and its fashion circus. Take me for example, I am chilling in a suit jacket. It was professionally hand-tailored out of a denim Pajamas with stripes and starry silk underlining. And over that an authentic LONG military Germany Waffen Elite Officer black Leather Coat from the WWII, only it is without a Swastika.
About students attend the studies. The art school accepts only the best of best with few exception such as the kids of celebrity artists, writers and musicians and people who had real power in the city. I wasn't enrolled for money or the A-lister parents, but for my talents.
The Art specialty painting, drawing, sculpture teachers here are the world-wide recognized contemporary artists. In a matter of my working ethics these important artists would point at me as the example of how fast I work, how well I sketch in color, how I always choose the most unexpected and unusual angle for my composition and so on I never work on an academie live drawing of a model, live painting of a model the given eighty - ninety hours. My whole process is about six - nine hours to fully complete the work so I get out of the studio for some action and fun.
Still I am criticized SUPER harshly for cutting the classes. There is another side of the coin. It was about the time of my graduating year. The art teachers actually always considered me to be the leading artist among all students. They would grade all my artworks high on my personal record I knew nothing about.
Pushing to the limits of impossible. It will be revealed in the future when I got to befriend a secretary at the Dean's office. That was how the art school's system pushed the talented students to go further to open up their potential. Willing or not but the doubts get in my head.
The bad grades were corrupting my vision. Totally clueless that these bad grades in my case were used as "disciplinary measures" for my behavior of anarchy. These grades had nothing to do with my artworks. And yet my best drawings and paintings are graded the lowest. At the same time the art professors are taking my works home. I always find empty walls where my works were displayed for the semester shows. Sooner or later the missing artworks got me enraged. My classmates tell me the back story on what REALLY had happened.
All the art professors usually go the painting major's finals. So they just took my artworks right off the wall. Ever since I heard this back story I flaunt how IDGAF to even pick up my works with the bad grades after the finals end. Like a bunch of some doomsday looters in sight of an electronic store the art students same as the teachers vultured my artworks.
Later some of my paintings and drawings were seen at the school's museum, especially the paintings. In the art school the art teachers are the privileged kind who exhibit regularly. All are the accomplished artists with big names. Another thing about my artworks no longer mine and in someone else's possession is the story that involves someone with the top art rep being the art dynasty. Even so it happed that the leading art professor nicknamed Molly for her annoying facial mole used my art stuff to have her son who studied same years as me, just never expelled, to apply to an art academy with the highest qualification requirements.
Molly's son portfolio sucked. To get him qualified to apply she gave her son all of my artworks she collected. The juice was given to me by the reliable sources. The story was concurred by the eye-witnesses the students who were applying to the same academy together with Molly's son. Some of these students knew my work by the style, special color palette and the brushwork.
They all knew that Molly's son was using my artworks. He only had to forge his signature and remove mine. It could explain why I was expelled three times for the chronic absence, for sabotaging the lectures - getting my classmates to leave the studio and go to the movies or to the beach.
I was sucked into work as if a drug addiction. I was penetrating deeper to the very core of creativity. Reading books, going to the museums, working in the field, working in the museums to copy masters.
I completely forgot all about life around me.
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Practically I was devoured and digested with my nails and hair by that devil called the academic art. It sucked out the leftovers of my soul. I stayed in the studio after the classes to work. There were only few students like this, spiritually close to me.
To them it was their life style since the day they had entered the art school unlike me. Whenever I'd get bored with art I'd quit working and just leave without asking permission.
Now as if something had hit me hard and I started to really work. Most art students here typically come from such backgrounds when they did their baby steps and studied in the children's secondary art school from an early age and tutored by art teachers at home.
I had a tendency to take on a higher complexity uindiataazakhabar.comepared without the experience of any art school training the eight years on a daily basic with teachers and methodical practice.
As long as I remember myself I was drawing, during my school years, on the notebooks, with chalk on the asphalt, with stick on the sand.
I did it subconsciously, not knowing what I was doing. Why did my brain moved into the direction of noticing those things that normal people should not be noticing? That the leaves on the trees are not at all green, but violet. The falling shadows from the street lights are not at all outlined by black, the contours are the absolute blue. Stuff like this filled up my head so that there was no place left for just a thought about girls, more so even the thoughts to manipulate my body functions.
For instance using the. I remember how I hallucinated during my work imagining that someone had come into my studio and I spoke to "the guest.
Once I was walking on a street without any awareness. My mind was no longer in command of anything accept the obsession with my painting. As I was pushing the limits of what was humanly possible in a matter of progress from the previous stage when I could draw and paint with intuitive results now I considered as totally armature waste of art materials.
My condition would be hard to describe since I could hardly remember what was it like during that madly intense period. I know that I was working non-stop and did make some major break through.
It worked but at the same time the progress turned its evil side, I wasn't able to stop even for a brief moment. Something happened to my otherwise incorruptible memory that I could only remember few things from that period. And one of those things was my death walk through the city streets on a day I was supposed to disappear.
avoiding the cars, for the first time I felt the fear of madness that can easily take my life. It wasn't something I would fear if I was in my other life when loosing it would be quite an ordinary thing and not due to my lost mind. Whatever it was I survived with no chances to stay alive that day. I had more chances to live on when I was shot at execution style, when I was drowning in bad storm, climbing on a building like a cat, and on many others such occasions.
Some guardian angel was looking over me as I came to the final moment of certain death, blind, deaf, disoriented and delusional. As we finished with draperies, still life, gypsum figures we moved on to the nude.
To draw and paint from the live sitter, male or female model. There comes an old fat hag to be posed before the artists. She will be POSING even during the breaks. There would be plenty of the cast shadow a type of shadow that is created on a formand a drop shadow below the image. This type of models was as unattractive as the fat ones.
The art students without an eye for a drawing and technique produced their works of caricature quality. With the lost proportions the models looked like animals, skinny chickens or fat frogs.
I x-rayed the flubs of fat to see the bones to connect them to muscles, to build a form. When I moved from the classicism to modern I refused to see any modern or contemporary art, never wanted to see it, or ever saw it I entered the Modern art on my own, as my foot stepped into the forth dimension. I was sleeping in the studio right on the floor near my work and placed an electric heater near by. It was impossible to heat up whole place where fifty heavy-duty easels only took a quarter of the studio space.
In the center there was a huge round stage made from a special hard wood to hold any number of models when needed for the multiple human-figure compositions. The place was full of easels, portable and the large for the field. The chairs, tables, palettes, boxes with paint, cases with paper and lots of other art stuff piled up into mountains.
The parquet floor was always covered in fresh oil paints even though the teachers tried in vein to prove a fact that working neatly was by far more productive. A guard at the main door was a real watch dog, he faithfully guarded the pathway knowing every student's face.
But since there were out of town students who had no place to live they were given a place in this dorm. The beds were of a good prison-like quality so the survival was possible. Another thing is what was happening in the dorm. On a typical day nobody there had any money left after the expensive art materials. Not a penny to get high. From one bite of that bread you could instantly drop dead as if your legs got cut off by a train.
The receptors inside the nose absorb the fumes to hit right into the brain, this way the booze doesn't ever enter the digestive system and blood.
Some pissheads in desperation poured vodka into a wine bottle cap to inhale it like coke. After one cap screw it was a total alchoholocaust. There were many ways of economizing: to use a medical thin rubber tube to suck the drink very slowly, one bottle would. It was the usual schizophrenic day for me. I had my dose of coffee and ate on a way to the studio.
I couldn't understand this thing about my artworks. Why did my classmates literally begged on their knees to have the C-graded artworks I was never satisfied with. It became my trade mark to give away all of my stuff left and right. I didn't know why I let go of my drawings and paintings so easy.
Now I regret that. It would be interesting to see the growth. Once I happened to tell a guy from my class who worked very hard on his drawing he wasn't a good draftsman : "Oh Wow! you are doing a lot of progress, buddy, congrats! The guy suddenly goes red, stares at me wide-eyed with anger or confusion I couldn't quite understand At some point I am thankful to the teachers for their sneaky methods and experience on how to tame the most unruly and bring them into the art's stable. On the other hand these people were like sadistic fascists who used their special gases on me experimenting, would I survive it and live on.
The bohemian hyped up life only started after the classes at about seven in the evening. This part of the artist's life was full of sex, booze, and drugs, more sex booze drugs and orgies. The art youth was progressive, the sex - communal with the conveniently shared girlfriends and boyfriends.
There was a small group of idiots who followed their criteria of achievement: to draw and paint a vase with flowers so that it comes to life, right out of the canvas to the carrying hands of the one who painted it. The art group was lead by me and another guy soon one month later to disappear forever for the reasons unknown.
After the classes me and few others searched for a studio. Found it. Not my studio.
Any studio with the door unlocked. Out of nowhere shows up some dude who was a new student, he was much older, about twenty three, somewhere from Texas and just plain untalented. If a brush would fall it seemed the atomic bomb had exploded somewhere near. We would exchange vicious cursing at the jittery creaking sneezing noise maker.
When you are focusing intensely and can't quite catch the brush stroke to complete the shaping of a form so that the image would turn real and come out of the flat surface the nerves are high strung to the limit. The last months I just never left the studio, didn't even come outside. Slept on my German coat in the corner. It was veiled with the drapery. I'd wake up in the morning. The doorman was already used to give me the keys knowing that I sleep and work there.
It came with a warning that if I am discovered I must tell any story and solemnly kept the secret. The memories from those years distract me from telling what I want.
It's about the event that had closed for me the entry into the forth dimension. Whether the bros wanted to elevate my mental state, or they needed to get my works it had really caused me distraction. I was focusing on my work. Suddenly I hear the sounds of music in the studio. That asshole doorman will come here. The way it is on here is so buzz-killing. As interesting as it was to play with the real forms in sculpting I disliked dealing with the clay.
Those times I believed the painting to be so much more in gradations, possibilities and complexity. Now I changed my mind to consider any art media possess the unlimited possibilities. I agreed. Suddenly the guys were fixing to leave and I had to ask: "So?
Who will finish building up the sculpture if you're leaving? It was pointless to argue, they'd already been drunk and I was only getting nervous. I have changed the lighting set up many ways in vein. Suddenly, out of nowhere Muse appears. A young, very-very attractive girl about eighteen.
The returned gang introduced her to me:. I approached the model, took off her coat and hanged it, removed her blouse and explained that she can go behind the curtain.
Suddenly I feel elated with the anticipation of the new and amazing subject for the work.
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I was fed up with the poor set up and the struggle to "find" the good lighting for the gypsum head. How wonderful it turned out that I could make some picturesque oil sketches. When the model took off her bra, her young breasts, her nipples instantly distract my attention from work. Could be that something about this evening or the environment was different.
First time in a long while the music was playing, the glasses jingled and filled up with wine. They seemed to try bargaining: "We brought you the model, hey girl turn around! My former palls in another life that was long forgotten.
Today the serious artists who always worked together with me had left the moment this bad company swam by. Now I was looking at their watery eyes winking at the model. They caressed her things as she reclined on the wooden stage to rest. I wanted to figure out why did they distract me even more now? It was getting late when the cold winds penetrate the place from the drafty wall size windows. I put on my sweater in the starting freezer. I looked at the laughing bunch who labored on my sculpture.
I had finished sketching the figure. I came up to the stage to set up the heater. I asked the model if she could sit some more taking breaks whenever she needs to move. I held my breath working imagining how awesome would be to have such a model every day. With a shaky hand I was working fast as a machine expecting any minute now she would say that she is too cold to sit another minute and she leaves, its all over. I will have to kill her and sit her lifeless body on a chair to complete my work.
The heater I placed caused the red reflexes on the body. I was painting and had to get the color right. So I removed the heater. The model immediately complained about the cold. Kuz brought her a glass of wine asking me why did I remove the heater. From wine her face flushed red. I tried to adjust the color scale, laying brushstrokes over the whole figure. Same in our med school, the nut cases," She openly declared to the others when I was on a floor looking from a lower viewpoint.
Not his tho, his will pass, he loves the young girls very much". You are the medic? We are forever in debt to yous for allowing us come to the mortuary and for helping with the dead bodies What we have here is a zombie.
You are the goddess who saves the body as your calling. What I heard was polluting my pure artistic brain with that life I refused. Now I was paying attention not to the mammary glands but to her breasts. Her back muscles are slightly weak. As I looked over the skeleton the muscles slowly disappeared. No matter how hard I tried to focus my x-rays were weakened.
Maybe the electricity turned off inside my head. Six months of my immaculate virginity and celibacy was broken by a wine glass. The red wine like the blood of innocents was running in my throat filling up the brain that shortly was boiling with vigor. So I said:.
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He was cheering me on yet reminding that I should first finish the drawing. I was far away from normality. A actual girl weaved from the reality. But the process was a transformation with splitting dimensions.
I couldn't focus on my work. I returned to my easel and continued working. She was fidgeting changing poses uncomfortable this something hurting that But it was only natural, she was sitting naked on a plain hard wooden chair. She was sliding from one side of the chair to another. First work was washed off with turpentine and I wiped up the canvas dry with a rag.
I was sketching now not with a charcoal but brushing in umber. It resulted in an interesting tonality and I was captured again. The model squirming on her hard chair complained. I thought a little and told her to lay on the stage.
Underneath her I spread some drapery. After few wine glasses I took off my sweater, my cheeks were on fire. Hers too. I unbuttoned my shirt, my blood was boiling, the body was washed with the warmth. Sit, sit, you poor thingy, I'll assist you" And he jumped on the stage. Turn her head down. I was outraged after I just washed everything off my canvas ready to work, but this wasn't going anywhere.
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I kept asking Alex what did he mean by not disturbing me when he messed everything up. I heard the girls laughing trills.
For like ten minutes I was staring in the infinity in the emptiness Then I yelled: "Why are you sucking her? Get away from her, let her lay there quietly. Meanwhile Kuz, I noticed, was taking off his pants.
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Lorenzo came up to me and took the brushes from my hands placing all in my field easel he closed up. Go draw some vases, fuck off to another studio. For free? scientist, from the med school who is helping us in our artistic quests, to understand the core of anatomy not only from the outside but from the inside.
I recommend you, in order to comprehend, as you must know, you can only know the truth from the inside, experiencing the inside, to understand the outside. Here is another glass of wine.
Look how Alex is working how he is learning. I looked at the bare ass's motions back and forth, at the girl who was lifting her legs and actively moving her hips.
Alex jumped off, wiped up his cock with the drapery, he also wiped out the girl. Understanding the Muse comes only from the inside.
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Lorenzo nearly helped my cock inside the girl cheering on: "Just do it, little one, everything is gonna be great. Honey, turn him back into a soldier that we've lost. He continued slurring his poems. On the other side Lorenzo had joined in groping her breasts. I was on top. I didn't hear any sounds of music, the entry door was covered with the draperies as the orgy just steamed up for the whole night. I exhaled my dragon breath to hear no more questions. Took my coat and left the building.
Walking the street I met Alex. Like Cures Like. Flashing my legs My polka dot dress. Spectator shoes, open toes.
These are not pantyhose, I have to pull them up.
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Wore this to church and no panties is my style now. My house, hall is floor to ceiling mirrors. Details, this material has some gleam, perfect the sides of my hips are pockets. and the back of hem has split skirt. I didn't turn around to ever shoot that part.
Sandal foot. My pussy cat bow slings. Natural makeup. Light bulb overhead, my new camera. Big Plastic earrings are so cool, for this hot season. i made a small album for this dress. I have added the fact i am wearing a polka dot silk scarf.
Checking the album. I see there is only one pic where i am not NOT WEARING IT. There i have on a hat and bag, ready for church. Note: WARNING: Contains Nudity, Sex, Adult Content, Blowjob, Handjob, Masturbation, Cunnilingus, Sex Toy, Ahegao, Nakadashi, Sperm and Adult Language! Don't watch this! Cyrille Le Paradox: Oh! That's a good idea! I am going to buy the "Bishoujo SF Alien Battle"! When he buys "Bishoujo SF Alien Battle" with Credit Card and goes to home, Le Paradox goes to his bedroom].
Cyrille Le Paradox: Mmmmmmmmm Cyrille Le Paradox: Ooooohhhhhhhhh Le Paradox is giving Octavio a Handjob while Octavio is rubbing Le Paradox's clitoris, Cyrille grabs Octavio's penis and begin moving in masturbate from seeing the Fourth Naughty scene]. Cyrille Le Paradox: Ooooohhhhhhhhhh! Aaahhhhhhhhh yes, baby Octavio is giving Le Paradox a Cunnilingus: Licking Le Paradox's Clitoris.
Le Paradox is rubbing his small breasts]. Cyrille Le Paradox: Ooooohhhhhhhh! Mrs Black left explained that her husband rightwho she met aged 15 and married aged 18, was not the man many in her community thought.
I know differently now. She then urged his victims to come forward and speak out, adding: 'I am so extremely sorry and devastated. You are all my babies now and I will do what I can to navigate through your healing process. It has no power in the light. Give yourself permission to be heard, be it a whisper or a bloodcurdling scream.
After her bombshell Facebook Live video, Mrs Black spoke to the New Zealand Herald to explain her husbands' behaviour in more detail. She said: 'He thought he was entitled to have women wherever he slept for the night.
That might have rolled a few hundred years ago but it's not what I signed up for.
A video of a year-old girl forced to undress in public and in front of her peers has gone viral on social media
Prostitutes, orgies, group sex - all of it. She added: 'This goes deep and wide, in terms of the paedophile ring, to the highest heights you can imagine. These people aren't just labourers and workers at fast food restaurants. These people are suits and people in power. The views expressed in the contents above are those of our users and do not necessarily reflect the views of MailOnline. Argos AO. com River Island Groupon Debenhams Wayfair Very Boohoo Nike Currys Virgin Media ASOS TUI My Profile Logout Login.
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Tuesday, Aug 10th 1PM 26°C 4PM 26°C 5-Day Forecast. RELATED ARTICLES Previous 1 Next. Share this article Share. Read more: Widow says her former husband's paedophile rings goes to 'highest heights' - NZ Herald. Share or comment on this article: 'Prostitutes, orgies, group sex - all of it': Esteemed politician 'was a paedophile,' wife claims e-mail 3. Most watched News videos Man in stolen Audi is killed in crash with HGV while fleeing cops Moment Muslim police officer confronts anti-lockdown protesters Beaming Queen attends official welcome ceremony at Balmoral Coronavirus vaccines in numbers: 47m receive first dose Man shot during brazen daylight robbery in Oakland's Chinatown Muslim mob torches Hindu temple after boy charged with blasphemy NYT reporter Annie Karni talks about Obama birthday bash Minister: 'Up to the employer' on pay cuts for working from home Chaos as Tower Bridge is left stuck open due to technical fault Police race to Westminster Bridge as man jumps into Thames Sneakbo flees for safety after gang confronts him in Marbella Hindu temple burns after eight-year-old urinates in religious school.
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