I finished my drink and then amused myself with studying the Trent parlor. Expensive hutches held pristine arrangements of ceramic figurines and imported pottery. Photographs leaned on tables with the wry smiles of vacationing relatives. The environment was warm and nonthreatening in every regard. Finally, I noticed a painting almost hidden in the corner of the room, a watercolor of soft desert pastels rising and rippling to form something like a narrow canyon at sunset but more like an aroused cunt masquerading as a landscape.
Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances