I looked at my husband and he was leaning back with his eyes closed. He was wearing black slacks and it looked like the front of them had a small wet ...pot. I guess he had been enjoying himself. I shook my head at his kink. I saw a movement and slowly another cock was being fed through the hole. This one was different from all the rest. It was black and very dark. It was also very big because it just kept coming through the hole. It was so thick I wondered if the hole was wide enough. It looked. " He took a sip of the brandy and continued with a sadly wry expression. "Lord knows by now most of those involved even from a peripheral perspective are no longer with us." What year is it, Mr. Fogg?" Why it's 1857. Surely you know..."He waved by protest away and continued. "Please believe me there are many days when I do not recall what year it is." Gray then paused and began anew. "In 1796 here in London, there was an artist named Basil Hallward. Basil was a profoundly talented portrait. I was truly jealous with having to share him with others. The man who proved his love to me in the most extreme ways; yes, the gruesome rape and beating of another comrade was most definitely dealt with as a capital offense and justified according to military protocol; however I preferred my starry-eyed belief that the colonel merely used the unfortunate secondary event as an excuse to avenge me.Thinking about it, I would rather have seen him sodomize the bastards with the same metal pipe that. I walk over to you and sit down. You put down your book and we begin to talk, each of us looking at the other, checking each other out, continuing our conversation from our chats, our emails, our half hour on the phone. It is now dark outside. The sky is cloudy and the air is heavy and hot, the humidity clinging to us as we go out to your van. Not my car, a sedan with clear windows. But your van, with tinted windows and a large back seat. We drive away from the parking lot, looking for.