The young man Leander and the young woman Hermoine do not know me, but he can convince them; he is a convincing man. They agree to lie with us. We have stripped our bed and we recline and watch them undress each other. They are beautiful, flawless; the young woman with cropped hair, so that the tender nape is visible. The young man with tousled blond hair, sun-streaked, which falls across his muscular shoulders.

They sit down to strip us, and we watch their faces as he finds the long straight legs of a man, hard to the touch, and she finds the soft breasts and rounded belly. They lean and kiss, mouthing muscle and nipple, and our hands find a wet crevice and a bundle of soft genitalia which grows under our touch.

Someone has done this before. Hermione allows our mouth to find a pearl buried in folds; we hear her gasp, which he has heard before. Leander strokes our phallus, stoops to suck, and we feel our own flesh grow, blood pumping into receptive channels, which we have felt before but feels wonderful, oh, the flex of the pelvis into the caressing hand and mouth.

Then we lie over the woman's body, feel her thighs close on our hips, the hard muscle yearning toward her, feeling for a home. Ah, to plunge and feel her vagina velvet-soft, wet, a sucking, pulling motion, a movement like a rider's urging a horse over the line. We are arrived at orgasm, and we cry aloud.

I am unsatisfied; I watch the woman receive another lover, know the long heat which is building in her, the slow increment of passion, and hear her cry as the climax blooms around the penis.

I am fallen, spent, exhausted.