The smell of the toilets as Doyle had held him. The taste of hiscum. Art shook his head a little. What had he done? How had he let it getto that point... Questions raced through his brain, as fast as the hangoverwould let them. He could have stopped it, couldn't he? Why hadn't hestopped it? Had he wanted to stop it? Could he stop it now?The deep, hum of a phone text alert sounded from behind him, running histrain of thought off the tracks. The screen lit up, turned towards theceiling. Art didn't. She seemed very natural as she grinned and giggled while the photographer took the shots. “Go ahead, Emma,” said the photographer, “Go ahead and touch yourself (click) you know you are beautiful (click) express yourself (click) that’s it, you’re beautiful, Emma (click) you’ve really learned.” As he talked to her, she became bolder and began to laugh, almost teasingly, as she began to create more and more naughty poses. She gripped the top of her tunic and leaned toward the camera, laughingly. More

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