..to his magnificent cock. I held it tight, excited about what is to come. Master let me play with him, I could feel him watching, faint smile visible...through the mist. "Good boy," he whispered to my ear. I was afraid he would kiss me, I do not like kissing. I like...well dominance. But Master didn't kiss me, he just reached over and started to feel me up. Gently inspecting my penis and my scrotum. I didn't know if I can jerk him off here, or well...suck him, so I decided that I will wait for. Each week I'd visit and sit for a while on a little folding stool and hold a conversation – imaginary, but somehow real – with my dead love. I would keep an eye on the little meadow and pull out the occasional dandelion, thistle or willowherb, then, twice a year, mow it down and rake off the 'hay'. I had to explain to the cemetery gardener why I didn't want it trimmed every week; the flowers had to mature and seed, or do whatever they were supposed to do in order to return the following year,. More

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