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The park around the mansion is only illuminated by an impossibly bright full moon, casting the gravel lane surrounded by cypress trees on which I am walking in a ghostly silver light. The moon's rays are so strong that only a few stars, far away from the silver orb, twinkle in the dark. Even if I knew the constellations, I couldn't make them out. There is no sound, save for the grsssh, grrsssh that my sandaled feet make on the coarse gravel.
I look down and see that I am wearing a chiffon dress. Strangely, down my front the gauzy material fits rather snugly while behind me long streamers of gauzy fabric billow in the wind, even though the air is still and silent. I notice I am naked underneath the dress, my nipples are sharp points where the chiffon strains around my bosom. It is not cold. The air is rather warm and humid; it smells of olives, thyme and rosemary. It reminds me of a holiday I spent on a Greek island a long, long time ago.
I look up and see that the cypress-lined lane ends in a large circular clearing. At the perimeter of the clearing are low white marble benches, each bench separated from the next by a white marble statue. There's a statue of a man, a warrior, on an armored horse. There's a statue of a satyr, that looks mischievous on his goat legs and that sports a clearly visible erection. There is statue of a frail woman standing in a big seashell. Inside the perimeter of benches are a number of broken Ionian columns, except in the very center, where a single gazebo stands gleaming in the silver moonlight. The gazebo has a perfectly round, hemisphere cupola and is supported by a six thin Ionian columns on it's rim. A tiny hemisphere is attached on top of the cupola; it's made of some kind of metal, because it reflects the moon's rays with that typical metallic luster.
I become aware of a faint throbbing in the air, pulsing like a heartbeat. The air is still here and the streaming fronds of chiffon of my dress descend and cling around my body. As I walk slowly towards the clearing, my sandaled feet still making that soft grrssh, grssh sound in the gravel, I get the feeling of attentiveness, of expectation of things to come. A whiff of ozone reaches my nostrils, briefly registering above the Greek island smells. On passing the statue of the satyr, the throbbing increases, both in intensity and tempo. As I walk away from the statue to the gazebo in the middle, the throbbing wanes, but I feel that I am being watched and that my thin garments are but a command away from being removed from my body.
In the middle of the gazebo stands a man, taller and more muscular than a mere mortal. His skin shines white and pale in the moonlight and I see that he is naked. I part my lips to say something but no words come out. That is most perplexing, because, as I entered the gazebo and left the gravel, the low heels of my sandals click-clack on the rough stone floor and I can clearly hear that, as well as the faint throbbing rhythm. He must have heard my footsteps, because he turns around to face me. I inhale deeply; he has every appearance of a Greek god come to life.
His proportions are perfect. Not an ounce of fat is visible, unlike my 300-and then-some pounds husband, who is doing his best to improve the impression of a beached walrus every day. To be honest, my husband wasn't always like that; he was much sharper and more sophisticated when we got married, no twelve years ago. Nowadays making love with my husband is an ordeal and we do it only rarely. Not much is lost in that department; I married him for his money and he married me to show off a pretty young wife to his business associates.
The man in the gazebo holds out his hand to me, palm upwards. I place my hand in his, softly resting on his skin. He is cool to the touch, hard and unyielding, yet also soft, silky and luxurious. I look at him again and notice that his chest and head are slightly oversized, but it is not unbecoming. He has strong and well-defined muscles without being excessive or exaggerated like one sees on bodybuilders. He is naked in his entirety; his penis is still flaccid and rather small with a small sack, as it would be when he is cold. He is not circumcised. If he has scars I can't see them. In fact, there's not a blemish to be soon, he appears smooth and perfect all over.
.... There is more of this story ...