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>I kicked a small football through the damp grass towards an old cast iron bench that had sat in these grounds for as long as I can remember. It was autumn, and mushy dead brown leaves were being trodden into the moist lawn by my feet as I followed the path of my ball, finally arriving at the old bench.<
Sir
You grabbed me right from the first paragraph. I look forward to relishing each word as the story unfolds.
Warren C. E. Austin
The Gay Deceiver
Toronto, Canada
"... comme recherché qu'un délice callipygian"
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