Tom was a pleasant enough man in his mid-thirties. What he lacked in brains he sure made up for in looks, damn him!He was British, much to my surprise... I’d always assumed that all surfers were American or Australian. I was partially correct, he had grown up surfing the waves of Cornwall, before moving to Australia to chase the bigger ones. It was there that he’d met Cassie the previous year.Tom and Paul were on deck trying to have a conversation as Paul was preparing the barbeque. I was treated. “Fuck,” you think to yourself. “You haven’t even agreed upon a safe word ahead of time. Oh well.”He stands at the foot of the bed, appraising your naked body. His eyes devour you in a way that you hope will be soon followed by his mouth and tongue. He slowly takes off his slacks and shirt, leaving him in his black boxer briefs. He then reaches into his small, gray roller suitcase – his “bag of tricks” you called it – and pulls out a black, silk scarf.With a small grin he walks toward the head. More

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