Handed On

If only Henry had the prowess of a McManus and the youth of Patrick, he thought. Or if Henry had a well-built friend.

As he was being fucked, Marc was looking beyond the pavilion, through the latticework. A gardener was working in a nearby bed. He was older than Henry, but even more heavily muscled. He moved with the grace of a dancer. He was stripped to the waist, and his flimsy-material shorts were pulled down in front to just below the line of curly hair, black, flecked with gray, of his pubes. They were held up in back by bulbous cheeks. When he stood and turned, Marc could see that the gigantic bulge of his basket was what pulled the shorts down in front.

He was a god. Not young, but Zeus-like, with perfectly defined bulging musculature and curly hair on his chest running down into his shorts and on the backs of his forearms and cascading out of his armpits. All virile man.

He was watching the fucking now that he’d seen Marc and Powl in the pavilion. There was a little smile on his face. He stripped off his shorts and Marc gasped at the size of his cock and his low-hanging balls.