Except for one particular night, that is – a night that stands all alone in my memory. After all, it was the night that Mom was shot. She certainly ...as not hurt, but if she reads this story and figures out which of her son’s shot her, that son might not be getting much in the way of Christmas presents this year. Confused? You should be. Let me start at the beginning. The year was 1972. We were living in a small town in western Pennsylvania. There were three of us: Roger was 15 and Rory was 10.. It was the most powerful of cumming I had felt, as I raised my two sweaty fingers with my cunny juices under his nose, 'Smell your dirty nieces cunt uncle', I said out loud, as more cunt juice flowed freely from me, as I turned onto my side and eased onto him, my slow gyrations on his hip bone, exciting me more, my hand now covering his boner encased in his underpants, it's thickness exciting me more as I thought of it prying me open all the way down to my uterus.I was easing myself onto him,. They were duped into them, but that was not a sufficient excuse. They had what is legally known as "a duty of care," and they'd failed to take sufficient care. They had, for example, taken the CIA's word that this situation was one where "time was of the essence", permitting arrest before a warrant was obtained, even though there'd been a whole day in which to obtain a warrant.We filed suit against the NSA and its sole named employee for breaching our Fourth Amendment rights (their monitoring. A few minutes later, Nancy came by and looked at him nervously. “I’m sorry, Dave, it’s just that you surprised me!”“No, it’s my fault. I should have trusted you and stayed away. I don’t know why I decided to follow you. I’m an idiot!”“No, I shouldn’t have jumped in your shit. I’m sorry,” she responded.“I’d better be going. Can I see you again?” he asked nervously.“Of course. Why?” she asked, confused.“Well, I wasn’t sure if I pissed you off or...”“Christ, don’t be silly! Monday night, my.