Torture, death, and terror seemed prevalent in every painting. A woman being butchered in some kind of ritualistic ceremony. A woman drowning in a lak.... A woman hanging in a barn being sliced with a scythe. Jaclyn placed her hands over her mouth and gasped. Something told her these paintings were not just the sick imaginings of the artist. No, this was the illustrated history of the Balko family.Regretting she'd ever stepped foot in this room, Jaclyn turned to leave, when one of the paintings. What did he want, pushing himself towards her? No, not that. She didn’t do that. His hands were on her face. Please, please. I can’t, I’ve never. Please, I’ve imagined, I’ve wanted so long. I want to watch. She could smell his muskiness, she could see the throbbing of his prick, she felt the heat emanating from it, and then the softness of its skin. She touched her lips to its warmth. Encouraged, he pushed his hips forward. She kissed it softly, then again, then again. Okay. Her lips parted and. More

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