She moved to take Clyde’s place at the edge of the bed, crossing her legs. Every move she made was so sensual, so slow and inviting. Clyde turned on...his knees to face her, his head hung low. “And when was the last time my little slut touched himself?” She stroked the side of his face, her fingers affectionately gliding over his loosely hung hair and following down along his cheekbone and jawline. “24 days ago Mistress, when you last allowed me to on Saturday the third,” Clyde responded, his. Indeed, those first tentative summer days brought with them something like the dawn of a new era, an age when for some people simply eating and breathing in relative freedom took on the distinctive aura of religious epiphany. And yet… …Tomas Podgolskiv found as he wandered through the Vidzgiris that he had become something of an agnostic. He no longer wanted to worship on the altar of gyroscopically-controlled electro-mechanically-actuated steering vanes, he no longer wanted to watch his. More

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