I looked into his. The sheer blueness of them, and the depth in his dark face. Never had I seen such a face. “Your people must be handsome,” I told him.
“I did not know my mother, Beatrice. She died in childbirth. Mon pére was a miles, a knight like I. He is now gone on to be with Jesus. He died in a bad war in Burgundy. There is no end to bad wars. I was raised by good nuns and priests. They made me believe in miracles. The miracle that I was born and lived and can give myself to others. That I uphold truth and honor; is that not a miracle?”
“Yes,” I said, kissing his firm stomach crossed with rippling veined muscles, getting great patches of his dark body hair into my mouth, and joyously licking it. I sucked on one of his n*****s, pasted with hair from his chest. His c**k got hard, and
