Chapter 7

I turned around once, noted Tacoma’s tight package (six inches of soft, hidden cock), smiled, and asked, “Are you okay back there?”

“Yes, Robert. I’m enjoying the stroll. It’s a lovely view so far. You have a very nice estate. Twelve acres, correct?”

“Yes. Did you look it up online?

“I did.”

“The downward slope is quite steep. Be careful. Don’t twist an ankle.”

“Hardly a challenge. We did rougher things in the Navy.”

I thought, Of course you did, rough Tacoma, and answered him with, “Good to know, lad. That’s what I like to hear.”

In silence, we walked for another fifty feet or so, downhill, following the rancid smell of the pool, closing in on its obnoxious aroma which began to turn my stomach, and possibly Tacoma’s.

* * * *

In the distance, at the bottom of the sloped hill, sat the silent and ugly pool surrounded by cement and empty Adirondack chairs.

Tacoma stood beside me with his hands on his hips. “It looks infected with disease, bacteria, and algae.”