Recent Post: MILF HUNTER MILFHUNTER went to Debra・s place every afternoon, right after school, and I spent at least six hours there every Saturday. I drew everything from spoons and thimbles to the shiny globe in her garden and the broken barn door. After I made each drawing, she would critique my work, and the comments would usually end with the words, :that・s wrong;, :that・s not right;, or :what were you thinking about?;. If I had screwed up really bad, the comment was always :that stinks;. The rejection of my efforts would have been hard to take had she not then shown me what she meant and why. She also seemed to be a touching person, because she often punctuated her points with a touch on my arm, or by picking up my hand and moving it to feel some surface irregularity I hadn・t seen. On a few occasions, she stood behind me again, and the same intense tension snapped my senses to attention. On those occasions, I fear I was not very attentive to much of anything except the growth of my cock, but she didn・t seem to notice.
The first Saturday in October, as had become her custom, Debra met me on he porch.
:I think you・re ready to graduate to something a little more challenging. Let・s try some pastels and see how you handle that oak tree out back.;
Pastels are indeed a challenging medium. They allow the subtle blending of colors with a fingertip, and the pictures tend to be soft in tone and texture. I had worked with them a little, and found that they allowed almost no error. It was nearly impossible to cover a dark shade with a lighter one without everything looking like dark grey mud.