There - footsteps on the path to the pool. I pull my finger out, which sucks and pulls, and lick it to taste my own defilement. That does not help - i... is Brandon. Brandon was American, Californian to be exact, and built like the sort of Grecian hero one only sees in museums, usually missing an arm or leg or cock - yet he had it all, as if he had sprung from his pedastal, and greeted the mortals for a day in the dullness of modernity. He looks at me with a suspcious eye, it arouses me, and I. “What’s your name?”“Does it matter?”“Yes. I need to know what to call you when you beg me for more.”I arched an eyebrow. Cocky bastard. “I’m not going to tell you my name,” I teased.“I see. Well if you won’t tell me yours, I won’t tell you mine.”“Fine by me.” I had him under control.His smile widened. “Doesn’t matter anyway, most women call me God when I make them scream. Oh God, Oh God… ” he panted in a mock female squeal.“Funny!” This man was growing on me. “And you’re going make me scream. More

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