After obsequious darkness had crept in, soon it was thick night as two lone terrestrial
green recruits fresh out of college, clad in T–shirts and shorts, and with rucksacks
strapped on their backs…appeared in the remoteness of this retired corner of the world.
Everyone that knew them had always known that both of them were hackers, enamored with amateur sports. The biomale and biofemale—equating to someone who was born into the sex that they identify with—cleaved to the notion where adventures are to the adventurous, and lived dangerously. Simply, to do something risky, especially on a habitual basis was their mantra.
After all, that running, swimming, and stuff, Todd Griffin stiffly lent himself to
Wendy Thomason’s aromatic embraces, including a massage with aromatic oils, aromas that put him in a pleasure spiral, not a rinse cycle.
When they had first met, they had hit it off immediately—they were on the same wavelength.
It had been just three weeks since having done some trapeze sailing with the harness attached by a cable to the dinghy’s mast. They skillfully balanced the stinkpot by leaning backward out over the windward side, using every necessary precaution not to collide with the groyne or the low wall barrier built out into the sea to check erosion and drifting.