“I’m Mark,” I answer, smiling friendly.“He’s the gardener.” Now, that hurt. My relaxed mood vanishes immediately. Not “my lover”. Not ...��Mark”. Just “the gardener”. As if my job explains everything that anyone might need to know about me.“You fuck the gardener? You’ve got to be kidding. That’s low, even for you.”“Low? Why is it lower to fuck a gardener than a brain surgeon?” I ask, but they apparently choose to ignore my exceedingly witty comment.“Brian, we’ve never been exclusive. And you’ve. Em bucked and kicked frantically; she couldn't open her mouth to scream, desperately twisting her head around, unable to break the vise-like pressure. The smell of prune syrup thickened the air; it was hard to breathe.Em struggled fiercely, but the weight of their bodies was too great, two already sitting on her arms and pressing down on her shoulders, one leg crushed under the weight of two more, one perched lewdly on her pelvis and trying to strangle her other thigh, another wrestling against. More

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