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Subject: Premiership Lads part 92: The Rain in Spain Part ninety-two: The Rain in Spain Sergio Ramos swaggered his way into the gym extension at the far end of his well-manicured gardens and flipped a switch on the air conditioning before patrolling the different weight stations and exercise machines he’d invested in over the years. The 6ft Real Madrid captain prowled to the far end of the sizeable home gym and caught sight of himself in the mirrored wall down the left-hand side of the extension. The tall Spaniard allowed himself a few moments’ vain self-assessment. In his youth, the 34-year-old footballer had been quite insecure about his appearance, always feeling too tall and gangly, too goofy or awkward-looking; years of styling, of intense fitness training, of top-level footballing success had all wiped those insecurities away. Looking at himself now, Ramos knew with a confidence bordering on arrogance that he was a fine masculine specimen. For many years this self-satisfaction had been largely grounded in his rabid sex life with his beautiful partner — and the sporadic bouts of infidelity where desperate women (often older than he) would open up and beg for his prowess. Now, as he checked himself out in the gym mirrors, he thought back to poker night instead; he thought about randy little Hazard and his willingness to play. Wasn’t that an even bigger confirmation of his alpha male status…? He grinned at his reflection, enjoying the tight olive-coloured lycra shorts that clung to his thighs and his ample package and, as he turned sideways, curved about the architectural masterpiece of his glutes; the pale grey tshirt wasn’t particularly fitted, but it still clung around his chest and shoulders and the edge of the sleeves hugged his tight biceps. He gave himself an admiring nod and stroked his reddish-brown beard, then turned at the sound of the doors and the arrival of his workout buddies for the afternoon. Ramos grinned his welcome and gestured across his fitness kingdom. `Are you ready to sweat, gentlemen?’ he asked challengingly in smooth Spanish. He had many close friends on the Madrid squad, that was true, but he always felt a homely comfort in his bromances with the other more local players, his comrades on the national squad, and few more than these two smiling younger blokes on their way in now. `Always ready,’ boasted 24-year-old Marcos Asensio, strutting across the centre of the gym and clapping his large, tanned hands together playfully, eyeing up the free weights. `Who shall drip the most, that’s the question?’ chuckled Franciso Suarez, Isco, closing the glassy doors behind him and padding after his younger teammate, giving a little wave of greeting towards their host. Sergio beamed at both men, pleased to have the company for his workout today, rather than his pack of children getting in the way demanding his attention, or settling for the audience of his adoring fans on Instagram Live. He approached and greeted both men with Spanish ease — a kiss to Marco’s forehead and a gentle squeeze of one shoulder, a fuller hug of 28-year-old Isco and a playful pat of his rounded backside; comfortably tactile Spanish men. They got to work. Sergio bashed on some low-level dance music and pulled a sweat band around his brow, dragging back his dark auburn hair and working his intense tattooed leg muscles in a series of positions and routines. Testing his bulging calves on one seated weight machine, Ramos admired himself in the mirror yet again, looking at the slow bulge and relax of his powerful legs, enjoying the thought of what they could achieve on a pitch and how much they could endanger a hapless opponent who didn’t know how dirty his playing style was. Comfortable in his work, he allowed his eyes to wander: nearby, short wiry Isco was hoisting a weighted bar over his shoulders and dropping into repeated squats. Sergio enjoyed the look of intense focus on the dark-bearded man’s ever-boyish face, but that wasn’t where his thoughtful eyes settled; he looked at the way the loose white gym shorts of his 7-year teammate pulled and contracted with each dip, their fabric tightening around the squash of Isco’s meaty buttocks, then loosening; tightening, loosening; tightening, loosening. All that Latino booty, he laughed inwardly, wasted on a hairy bloke! Beyond him, Asensio was working more cautiously, still in long-term recovery from last year’s major injury; the tall winger was kneeling forward on a bench and pulling dumb-bells up in a series of bicep and shoulder exercises that brought slow definition to his long tanned arms and made the veins bulge in his long neck. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his floppy dark hair bounced at the fringe as he worked up and down; he glanced up, caught Sergio watching, and grinned bashfully across the gym at his double captain. With young Marco’s eyes on him for a moment, Sergio turned to his right and upped the weight setting on his leg machine, then forced his shins upward to work his calves harder than ever before; he saw Marco’s surprise and admiration and flashed an arrogant wink at his junior colleague, then grunted completion on this station of his workout, stepping up and shaking the tension out of all four limbs. Outside, weak sunshine was greying prematurely — a spell of glorious early summer in Madrid was failing and clouds massed in the skies. It cast an eerie light in the big glassy space of Ramos’ gym, but he enjoyed the shadows it created as he whipped off his sweat-damp tshirt and admired his body once more in the mirrors, shameless in front of the other two. Isco, pausing in the middle of some weighted lunges just by him, looked up and laughed. `How are mere mortals supposed to work out in the presence of that?’ he half-mockingly asked, dumping the dumb-bells from his hands and panting wearily. He pulled up his own Nike top and rubbed sweat from his bearded face with it, baring his smoothly toned but far less defined stomach and chest. `You smug prick! God bless you.’ Sergio chuckled, smirked at him, and got back to work, building up a fine shimmer of sweat on his defined body. When he was done with his sets of leg and core exercises, he moved to one of the treadmills by the windows and set off on a jog, placing his phone in the cradle by the control panel to scan through some messages and notifications while he ran. He began at a gentle jog, easing his aching legs into the motion, and looked at the string of text messages at the top of his unbox, unread during his lazy day with the family. A couple from family, one more business-like inquiry from his agent, something from a charity he was partnered with, and then — `Hope you’re still keeping well, Burro, miss visiting you guys in the sun! x’ He smiled at the name beside this simple check-in: David B. He punched a few buttons and upped the speed into a more intense run and thought back to that strange memory from his first day at Real Madrid, taken quite literally in hand by his experienced mentor. Even then, he happily told himself, other men had respected his sexual presence; hadn’t England’s hero wanted to acknowledge that somehow with that strange, intimate gesture? Had he been showing his respect for the sexual energy of 19-year-old Sergio, admiring his endowment and showing him what a stallion he was? Married mersin escort dad David Beckham must be entirely straight, he reasoned comfortably, and yet even he’d had to take a grab and show some interest in Ramos. He was now realising how much that standalone incident, so separate from the friendship he’d later developed with David, had helped to ease him into Madrid life; how much it had confirmed and asserted his ego in that challenging transition period. Isco and Marco were joining him at the two parallel treadmills, but they could not keep pace. Sergio grinned into the window view of the rolling Spanish hills beyond and pounded the conveyor belt beneath his trainers, upping the pace once more to show off his speed and strength; to his right, speedy Isco upped his own speed, but not quite as much, whilst recovering Asensio remained at a gentler speed, too careful to compete. Outside there was a flash of lightning and a dull rumble of thunder. Sergio revelled in the numinous power of it and tore past his distance target with a cocky smile on his face. Next to him, Isco let out a whistling hoot of annoyance and hopped his sore feet onto the rungs at the side of the treadmill then punched at the `stop’ button with a big, exhausted sigh. `Fucking hell,’ the attacking midfielder announced, `I’m done! I’m done…!’ The sprightly 28-year-old hopped off his machine, gasping and grumbling, and Asensio seemed to take this as permission to abandon his own cardio. This left Sergio still hammering it at top speed on his machine, another little win for his machismo. Outside, he saw heavy raindrops slap the glass and it felt greyer and darker than ever. Finally, his lungs aching, he pushed the machine into warm-down and eased the thundering stride of his legs. When it eased to barely a jog, he turned his head to see the other two men still watching him, their admiration apparent on their handsome Latin faces. He turned the machine off and turned fully round, resting one arm on the bars along the side of the treadmill as he smirked down at his partners, a foot above even Marco now as he lingered on the machine. `You two need to push yourselves more,’ he advised vainly. `The season will be back before we know it, gentlemen.’ Isco scoffed and rolled his sore shoulders, looking out of the windows. `Well, at least I will not need a shower when I make it home,’ he said idly. All three of them turned to look at the hammering rains against the wall of windows, the stormy view over the Spanish countryside. `We’ll get soaked,’ Marco commented gloomily. `We are already soaked!’ Isco pointed out, nudging him with an elbow. It was true: all three of the married footballers dripped with sweat, their hair slick with it and their deeply tanned skin glossy. `Don’t go out in the rain,’ Sergio grunted at them dismissively, `wait here and cool off. It will pass.’ He swaggered over to the side and plucked some fresh towels from a boxy shelf, tossing one each at the other two before unfolding one himself and moving towards the mirror, where he ran it over his sculped chest and about his sweaty neck, then through his ragged mid-length hair. He stretched in front of the mirrors and let the other two gradually join him, then stood tall and twanged the tight elastic waist of his lycra shorts a couple of times. He looked at exhausted Marco and smugly congratulated his own fitness; ten years older than the winger, but stronger and faster. Much more ripped. Perhaps not as cute, he mused. `The rain is going nowhere,’ remarked Isco thoughtfully, slumping down onto the gym floor with his bare back to the mirror; he had his top off now too, a towel draped around his smooth shoulders. `But I cannot be fucked to move!’ Sergio laughed at this and swung himself down, easing into a sitting position at his side, back to the mirror wall, and slapped the padded flooring to his right to invite Marco down beside them. He stretched his long muscular legs out in front of him, twisting his feet around at the ankle, then patted Isco’s sweaty leg and Marco’s when he joined him. The three men relaxed side by side and panted, looking across at the storm battering the windows. Ramos lifted his arms and cast them about their shoulders, draping his arm muscles behind their necks and pulled them to him in a lazy group hug, skin sticky on skin, all shirtless in their varied shorts. `Francisco,’ he mused out of the blue, `how does such a short man have such a big bulge?’ He nodded down to the front of the younger guy’s white shorts, which had ridden up about his chunky thighs in his sitting position, emphasising the weighty package in their front, one Sergio had casually noted on the pitch so often; well, the cheeky fucker could never stop grabbing it! `God is kind,’ laughed the relaxed Spaniard, fumbling at this package in the nylon. Marco looked more embarrassed by the turn in dialogue, looking past Sergio to check what he was on about, but an awkward expression settling on his long tanned face as the other two laughed deeply at the public review. Sergio instantly turned to look between Asensio’s shimmering sweaty legs; he was wearing more skimpy gym shorts than Isco’s quite baggy white ones. Dark blue fabric bunched at the top of his legs and held tightly to the decent-sized package there at the front of his shorts. `You too, my man, do not worry!’ chuckled Ramos, looking up from it to the young player’s embarrassed frown. `Ignore him, Marco,’ sighed Isco’s voice. `He is just hinting for us to comment on his donkey dick monster bulge. Our delightful captain!’ `Friends,’ scoffed Ramos complacently, arms still dangling about the other men’s shoulder muscles, `I do not need anyone to tell me how generous I am down there… just look at the lad!’ He parted his thighs a bit and grinned down at the way his privates bulged oppressively through the shaped olive lycra of the shorts. As both Isco and Asensio looked at it too, he ran his hands gently to the base of their necks and lightly massaged at the tip of their spines. `It is obscene,’ Isco evaluated with playful disgust. `You are a lucky man, captain,’ mumbled Marco less comfortably. `His wife is the lucky one,’ joked Isco. `Just like mine! Hah.’ `You wanna feel it, Asensio?’ Sergio asked suddenly but in a syrupy voice of casual disinterest. He felt Isco’s reaction to his left, tensing up a bit at this unexpected idea; his attention was on Marco though, and he could see him blinking and frowning at the concept. `Well, you keep staring at it, young man!’ Sergio gave a throaty laugh to ease the tension, knowing he needed to be a little more cautious in his strategy here. `Ignore him, Marco,’ Isco said again in his confident sigh. But after he said it, he brought his right hand down with a gentle pat to the front of his captain’s shorts. `Don’t humour this donkey’s vanity, please!’ As if to stop Marco feeling obliged, the bearded midfielder was giving a casual, disinterested pull at the big package for them all, and Sergio let out a sniggering sigh of appreciation. `Careful,’ he teased in a low growl, `you’ll get it even bigger.’ At that, Isco yanked back his hand and laughed dismissively, his shoulders shifting and bunching beneath Sergio’s left arm; Marco was staring down at where the other guy’s hand had briefly rested, escort mersin looking both appalled and fascinated by the transgression he’d witnessed. `Go on,’ Ramos urged gently, `you may as well, Asensio.’ `Marco,’ interjected Isco, `he is just trying to show you as a coward. Don’t let him play you.’ But Asensio ignored this advice. He lifted his left paw and ran it slowly over the front of Sergio’s lycra, tracing the rise and fall of the mound with his fingertips. Sergio let out a low sighing moan at the contact, slightly tightened the hold of his right arm about the youngster’s shoulders. Marco’s hand relaxed a little and hung limply over the outline of his cock. Isco let out a gruff chuckle and a tut, and squeezed his own hefty bulge. `You arrogant son of a bitch,’ he chided his captain. Sergio sighed again and relaxed his back and head into the slippery mirror wall. `Not arrogant,’ he corrected. `I just know I am alpha here. Eh, friends?’ Marco pulled his fingers away, rubbing the length as he did, and pulled ever so slightly away, mumbling a `yes’ and forcing out a chuckle to match Isco’s easy dismissive laugh. Sergio grinned to himself and lifted his biceps off their shoulders, bringing his arms up and over their heads, breaking the hug from its centre; he let his hands stretch out left and right and brought them dropping down into the crotches of his two workout pals. This was okay, wasn’t it? After all, big masculine Beckham had offered up his own hand to initiate him, even if he’d not really understood the proposition fully at 19…? Sergio played each hand against the enclosed privates of the other guys. `I am alpha,’ he repeated, `but a captain knows how to look after his team.’ He let his fingers find the soft twitching shape of a dick in the respective shorts, his sweaty arm muscles pinning their torso gently back to the wall in case they overreacted to this contact. Neither lad said a word, but he could feel their nervous breathing in his elbows. He lifted his hands a moment, chuckled again, then went in properly; simultaneously edging his fingers inside the waist of two pairs of shorts; his left hand creeping into the baggy confines of Isco’s white shorts and their sweat-soaked mesh lining, closing about the fat fleshy snake inside; his right hand pressing into the tighter hug of skimpier gym shorts and sliding under the droop of Marco’s quivering bollocks. Still, nobody said a thing. Next, he pulled their meats out into view, flopping Isco’s thick schlong out of his shorts, dragging Marco’s thinner piece out between his fingers. He teasingly stroked each, surprised how much he enjoyed it; well, it was just like toying with his own dong, wasn’t it? With a tiny bit of novelty. He shrugged away his own adventure and flicked his head from side to side, watching their expressions: Isco staring down into his crotch with an almost bemused half-smile, Marco gawping in greater shock as his foreskin was dragged back and forth. `Look,’ Sergio breathed, `just look at the size of Isco’s sausage, pal.’ He enjoyed the shifty way Asensio looked up from his own invaded privates, eyes skipping over Sergio’s straining package, and found the surprising heft of Isco’s semi being teased into life at the other side of the three-way. `It’s going to be full size if you do not stop!’ chided Isco with a self-conscious snigger. `Careful there, captain…!’ `But Marco wants to see it full size,’ Sergio teased, gripping it tighter and tugging it firmly into hardness. He stopped toying with Marco’s cock and instead curled his right arm about his shoulders once more, pulling him over a bit to keep him focused on the growing proportions of Isco’s chorizo. It was a long and thick piece, exaggerated by Isco’s smaller stature next to them. It was soon fully hard and Isco looked more shy than proud of its impressive size. `Marco here wants to touch it, Isc — what you think to that?’ `Huh? Fuck, who cares, now you’ve got it going!’ `I don’t want to touch it…’ `Yeah you do. You look like you’ve just seen God himself.’ Laughing to himself, Sergio pressed his back into the wall and slowly used his legs to push himself upright; uncertainly, unsteadily, the other two followed him, until the three of them were stood hunched together. Standing between his teammates, Ramos gently stroked the throbbing hard-on while massaging encouragingly at Marco’s back and neck. Asensio shot him and Isco confused, curious glares, then moved around a little to form an almost circle of sweaty muscle: he reached down and Sergio pulled his fingers loose to make room. Isco let out a grateful little purr as the nervous 24-year-old grabbed his oversized tool. Sergio enjoyed the purr, but even more, he enjoyed the breathy yelp of the youngest experimenter. `Now, friends,’ he growled, `you can see a real weapon.’ He pushed down the lycra of his shorts and fumbled out his own straining monster. It was huge. Less disproportionately impressive than Isco’s, perhaps, but a thicker and longer rod of rock-hard muscle. Gently, he took Marco’s other hand, and laid it on top of his meat. Then he leant his left arm about Isco’s back and stood still as Asensio began to cautiously stroke both of their dicks at the same time. `That’s it,’ the Spanish captain moaned. `Good work.’ `Guys?’ Marco pleaded, though his hands didn’t stop for a moment. `Just go with it?’ murmured Isco uncertainly but excited. `You sure?’ trembled Asensio. `Isc,’ Ramos moaned, `you need to help him out, don’t you…?’ `Huh?’ `Poor Marco is missing out. Yeah?’ `Oh…’ Isco reached out and the uneven triangle was complete: he grabbed the smaller but rock hard nob of the 24-year-old Spanish hunk and pulled cautiously on it whilst Marco continued his gentle jerking of two pricks. Sergio stood on, tempted to join the fray and grab Isco’s fat piece of himself, but resisting this mild urge; he liked the dynamic, the sense of his own power and control between these two hot-blooded men, so strong and aggressive yet submitting to his authority in the rainy afternoon. But was this enough? Yeah, he had the biggest, thickest dick; yeah, his body was more ripped and athletic than either professional footballer beside him; yeah, these two uncertain lads were fumbling with another dick for the first time in their lives, and yet… He needed more. He brought his hands up against their backs, both their backs, and rubbed gently. Brilliantly, the other Madrid blokes took this as encouragement, and he felt Marco’s hold on his fat cock grow a bit tighter and more confident. But he stroked on, tickling his fingers and thumbs up their spines then down to massage the dip of their lower backs, and then… cautiously himself, he moved his hands south and gently squeezed their bottoms, comparing them mentally as he did. For all his smooth paler torso, Isco’s backside was a bit hairy, more of a match for his bearded face. It was quite soft and plump beneath his grab and reminded him of his beautiful wife. Marco’s was much firmer, smoother. He saw the panic flash in both sets of eyes. `Relax, gentlemen,’ he said in a low voice. Careful to do it at the exact same moment, he stretched out his index fingers, and slid them tentatively between the two sets of buttocks, pressing it down the two different cracks mersin escort bayan and hearing the different noises it caused: the hoarse, almost alarmed grunt of Isco on his left; the higher-pitched, anxious thrill of Marco on his right. `Just keep going, boys,’ he growled, and rubbed his fingers against their tight unexplored holes. `Just keep playing…’ He couldn’t quite do the next bit in sync, it was too new to him. He focused on the left, more excited by the way he could feel Isco straining gently away from him, fearful of this added attention. He pressed his finger into the hairy tightness between those chubby cheeks and was deeply satisfied when he felt the sticky heat of entering. Then he tightened the muscles of his right arm and did the same to Marco, so he had one finger sliding gently but firmly into each guy. More grunts and yelps of pained surprise, but hands working even more furiously on their three raging erections. Sergio eased his fingers in then back out, only risking an inch or two of insertion. His dick strained and throbbed beneath Marco’s increasingly assertive pulls. He grinned down at the sight of it, watching his sweaty prick pulled and squeezed right beside the other two hand-jobs; god, Isco’s big nob really was a fat beauty, maybe it wasn’t much smaller than his own after all! And the curved bony cock of Marco Asensio had its own delicate beauty next to them, it was beautiful seeing manly bearded Isco grabbing at it with such surprising relish. All three of them must be getting close now! `Fuck, fuck!’ cried Isco suddenly. `Fucking stop it, guys, it’s-` He was backing away, pulling his soft cheeks away from Sergio’s grasping hand; triggered by the alarmed yelps of the 28-year-old, Marco was twisting round and staring across to the door too. Sergio laughed at their twitchy behaviour before even bothering to turn his gaze, seeing the silhouette of someone beyond the frosted glass door, about to enter. Fuck, he thought, this was not ideal, but… well, who had a right to criticise him? He ruled these men, was he ashamed to have them play with his monster cock and serve him like they ought to? He braced himself for discovery and watched the gym door open, sensing rather than seeing the other two skitter about him, grabbing protectively at their exposed cocks and arses. Sergio looked across at the intruder and smiled. `Fuck,’ exclaimed Isco again, slipping from Spanish to English, `this is not what it looks like…’ `Buddy,’ groaned Asensio, both hands clamped over his crotch, `what are you doing here?’ Eden Hazard stared over the silent gym at them, hovering at the door in the damp blue tracksuit he wore, eyebrows raised and a fascinated grin spreading on his lips. He let go of the door handle and it rattled shut behind him. He looked from Isco to Marco to the alpha male. `Hola,’ said Ramos with an authoritative smirk. He lifted a single hand, the one that until a moment ago had been trying to explore Isco’s juicy bottom, and pointed at the floor just in front of him. `Come here, Hazard. You are here just in time, Belgian.’ In the corner of his eye, he saw panicked confusion on the other guys’ faces, saw them about to drag up their shorts from where they stretched above their knees. `Relax,’ he barked at them. `Eden here knows… it’s feeding time.’ Hazard crossed the gym in a few paces, eyes lighting up. He sank down onto his knees against the flooring, half-unzipped his tracksuit top, and stared up at his captain with immediate loyalty. Sergio grinned down at this sight, one he had secretly feared might never be repeated, and slapped his big hard cock forward until the tip of it thwacked one then the other cheek, then pressed in against pursed lips. Eden opened his mouth, and Isco and Marco gasped as one. `Come closer, friends,’ Sergio commanded, and they did. He stood there, delighting in his position as captain and master of men; sliding the length and girth of his donkey-dick in and out of Eden’s hungry mouth. Wow, he was just as filthy and hungry sober! Who would have known? Sergio reached out as he let his cock be pleasured, finding those other two cocks again with his palms and fingers, encouraging the two younger Spaniards to join him at his muscular flanks. He yanked clumsily on their pricks and stared down at hungry, lapping Hazard, uninterested in what coincidence had brought the bi-curious Belgian into his lap at this perfect moment, just intensely satisfied by the attention his meat was receiving. `Hazard,’ groaned Marco in surprise, `are you…?’ `He’s a good teammate,’ snapped Ramos. `He’s a good cocksucker,’ grunted Isco in disbelief. `Hell, man. Go for it.’ Ramos decided enough was enough. He pulled his cock from Eden’s lips, trailing saliva, and gave one stubbled cheek a gentle slap of authority. He took his prick in his right hand and wanked it furiously, cupping the other beneath his tight loaded balls. Next to him, Isco caught on and began to do the same. Marco was about to stammer some confused question but Ramos glared fiercely at him and he started wanking instead. All three married Spanish stallions pleasuring themselves while Eden crouched in front of them, face alight with a mischievous grin of expectation. Sergio’s load hit first, driven wilder by the brief sucking he’d received. But he was a heavy cummer; he was still pumping wads of sticky spunk onto Eden’s waiting tongue and nose and brow as Isco blew his load, silvery streaks of his juices splashing over Eden’s sharp bearded jawline. The men’s groans mingled and mixed and then both of them looked sharply to the right as Marco Asensio let out a wolfish cry of pleasure and the biggest of the three cum-shots struck the Belgian right in the mouth. Sergio blinked in shock: who would have thought Marco’s smaller prick could carry quite such force?! Eden remained on his knees, his face running with their juices, his nostrils flared and his eyes blinking rapidly. Sergio smiled confidently down at the bitch he’d just made of his younger teammate, the Chelsea icon fully initiated into his squad even more than that first wet blow-job after poker, no awkward shy Bale ruining the atmosphere. No, instead of Bale, he had two hot Spanish wingmen; he looked from Isco to Marco with a faint pride in their experimental playfulness. `Isco,’ he snapped, `fetch him a towel. Marco, you beast, where did all THAT come from…?’ He backed off, playing with his aching dick, sweatier than ever. A towel was passed to Hazard, who got up and rubbed cum off his face and chuckled to some private joke of his own. Marco was saying a prayer to himself in Spanish and Isco was firing nervous questions at Eden: `Are you okay?’ `Is that stuff disgusting?’ `Have you done this before??’ Ramos ignored them all, turned to enjoy his glossy naked reflection in the mirror, ran a lazy hand over his pecs and down his abs. The captain of club and country, the master of other men. He cut off their conversation with a simple statement. `The rain is over,’ he called, nodding to the windows. The three men fell silent and looked his way. `I feel like a swim. Whose pool are we using?’ He grinned at them one by one, felt their loyalty and submission. All at once, they offered, an eagerness to please in their voices and gestures. He grinned, satisfied, and led them out into the watery sunshine. **THANKS FOR ALL THE KIND COMMENTS ABOUT THE RECENT STORIES SINCE THE SERIES TURNED 90… JUST TRYING TO FIGURE OUT ALL THE REQUESTS AND IDEAS (I TRY TO PLEASE!) AND TRYING TO WORK OUT THE PERFECT STORY FOR EPISODE 100**

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