Yes.

You nearly jump out of your seat when someone strong pounds the front door with the meaty part of their hand. Not a nock. A pound, closed fist. Your eyes widen as you see your finger is still holding down on the mouse button from clicking the link. “I didn’t.” You whisper as you look at the picture that sucked in your attention. “Why? It isn’t even well drawn.” It looks like a picture taken of a pencil drawing, but it could easily be a digital image. A woman, young, but not childish at all, not even youthful, really, her hair is matted and wet, platinum blonde, you decide, short on top, shaved on the sides, she has way to many piercings, it’s hard to tell, they could be just extra feathery lines for shading. She is on her back, abs drawn in dark enough to look silly, a sports bra tight on a flat chest, with the Adidas logo carefully drawn, the clearest thing in the image. She wears nothing else, her black painted toenails prominently on display, her rather well drawn feet the forefront of the image. A massive dildo is in her ass so deeply that it is pressing out against her oh so darkly shaded abs, signs of the artist drawing and redrawing the stomach area over and over again as if trying to figure out exactly what the perfect stomach bulge would look like. The look on her face is a mix of pain and something else. Not pleasure, not ecstasy, not even joy. Just something. Her hands are clenched fists. She isn’t bound, or ****, no one else is even there. Yet it doesn’t seem like she did this to herself. She could just stand up. Pull it out. Anything. But no. You think she is trying to get deeper and you need to know why.

The hand knocks again. A voice full of gravel calls out, “You coming?”