With every backward thrust of his bow, a hairy jelly-like engorgement extruded from between the straining buttons. The first violin was played by a ma... who had one eye at least an inch below the other and such an apology for a beard that it could only be excused insofar as it obscured his receding chin. And as for the other violinist—the only woman in the quartet—however unprepossessing her musical colleagues might be, could even they stomach the horror of ever having to fuck her? From her. Setting it up where the light was good, he drew the curtains to shield the room from the street, and asked his model to strike a natural pose. The young man complied, standing with a hint of a slight slouch, his thumbs hooked into this waistband. The firelight made shadows on the contours of his face, and in the hollows of his wrists, and Camorra smiled. "Delightful, my young man. Now, if you would so good as to turn to your left very slightly, it shall be perfect." He complied, and the shadows. More

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