Good Boy behind the Rose Garden.

He stood there for a moment, leaning against the tree, his chest heaving, the scent of his own cum mingling with the earthy smells of the forest...

The sun beat down along Eric’s broad shoulders. The air hung still, cloying with the scent of freshly cut grass and baked earth. Sweat beads, thick and warm, tracked a path from his hairline, snaking down his temple, past the stubble on his jaw, and finally disappearing into the collar of his work shirt.

Hanging open under his workwear, his shirt appeared as though painted onto him, and a line of salt formed across his mid-back. His Steelers baseball cap sat the wrong way around and was equally as sodden from the day’s labour. The straps of his overalls framed his shoulders, pinching the shirt fabric, pulling it tight as if to magnify his muscled frame.

Whilst he busied himself upon his work, his mind, however, paid no attention to the shirt, the straps or the heat. It drifted, as it often did these days, back to that experience of the darkroom…