By Thursday I started to relax somewhat, a little less concerned about the police, but still not dismissing that possibility. I hadn’t been shot, so...that was also reassuring. I showered and shaved, made coffee, even had some breakfast and tidied up the back yard. I still felt incredibly guilty and debated whether I needed to move, which seemed to be a realistic and probably best course of action. I didn’t want to move, but rationalized that moving to another part of time might be the best. Your glans surprised me with how large it felt in my mouth. I squeezed it a little with my tongue, learning the texture of you, the taste of you, clean and fragrant from the bath. I explored you with my tongue, tracing the furrow underneath the head, tasting the fluid oozing from your tip and playing with the little opening there. My hands were busy as well. One grasped your shaft, and the other cupped your swollen testicles, caressing them, squeezing them lightly. "Sara..." you moaned, and. More

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