You grab a bite to eat at a local diner

A couple guys from HQ show up moments after being summoned, bagging and tagging the Russian bitch that rudely interrupted your workout. Once everyone is gone, you sneak off to a secluded corner of the park, shrouded by a canopy of trees that comes close to blocking out the sun.

You take off your trench coat, now that the threat is dealt with you can let it all hang out for a little bit. You examine Bao’s harness, thankfully the ropes supporting her weren’t compromised during the attack. Her head lolls back and forth as you walk, stroking your cock ever so slightly with the warm folds of her esophagus.

Your routine had been interrupted by Katrina’s ambush, normally at the end of your workout you feed Bao a hot, sweaty load of sperm. But now, everything’s out of wack, a Russian agent that you’ve never heard of managed to find you in the middle of your morning routine. You need to lay low for a while, at least until your boss can give you some answers.

And speaking of your boss, he’s calling you right now.

“Hello? Davis, talk to me,” you bark into the phone. Your boss hates when you called him by his last name, but right now, you’re too worked up to care.

“Johnson, you can either call me by my first name, or by my agent number. I am your boss,” he says exasperated through the phone. You ignore him.

“Who the fuck was that girl, and how does she know who I am?!” You shout.

“We’re still trying to figure that out right now Johnson, our interrogators are working her over as we speak. But for right now, I’m gonna need you to lay low for a while. If you’re still in the area, you need to get the fuck out of there, find a restaurant or something that you never go to and wait there for further instructions.” Before you start to protest, the phone clicks. He hung up on you.

Irritated, you fling your phone into the bushes. You had wanted to interrogate the bitch yourself, and instead the boss was making you hide like a coward. But orders are orders, and this one is no different.

Before you leave, you need to blow off some steam. You had been buried in Bao’s throat for hours, and by now your erection was throbbing. You hunker down into a partial squat, preparing to make mincemeat of the traitor’s esophagus.

You start fucking her face, hard and fast, pounding her chin with your pubic bone like a she owes you money. Your dick slides in and out of her throat with schleppy little gulps, the only sound the little turncoat can make with a fat cock in her throat.

You had been blessed, not just with near superhuman athletic ability, or the charisma of a politician. God had gifted you with a massive schlong as well, eight and a half inches long and about as thick as Bao’s little ankles. This oversized sausage of yours put fear into the hearts of double agents, fear that if they turn, they might end up like poor little Bao, a glorified pocket pussy that you use to suck you off while you workout.

And you’re approaching the ‘off’ part. Bucking your hips, thrusting into her face as hard as you can, you grab the back of her head and squeeze it into your groin, burying your cock a full 8 and a half inches deep in her gullet. Your calves tense up, and you explode in Bao’s throat. Your cock throbs over and over, each pulse sending a hot pulse of cum directly into her stomach. Bao’s stomach lurches repeatedly, regurgitating the semen you just fed her. You lift her up and down gently, using her throat to milk out the last few drops of cum.

You collapse to the ground on your back, drained from the events of this morning. You lay there for a while, daydreaming, counting the leaves on the trees, finally jumping to your feet and putting your trench coat back on.

You call a taxi and take the long way to a crumby, run down diner called O’Ryans. The inside is barren, save for an elderly couple enjoying a hot stack of flapjacks. You take a seat at the counter, handing the waitress a five dollar bill and telling her she can keep the change if she makes you a fresh pot of coffee. Bao sags a bit with you hunched over like this, if you look carefully the crown of her buttcheeks is visible through the fabric of your trench coat.

The interior of the diner is barren, an out-of-the-way hole-in-the-wall like this doesnt exactly have money for renovations. There’s a mirror behind the counter, a mirror in which you spot the elderly man pointing at you while he whispers to a waitress. Instantly your spy senses kick in, you’ve already been through one **** attempt today, what’s one more? You hone in on the old man’s lips, it’s tough to read them through a mirror, but you make out the words ‘a bomb strapped to his chest.’

Your eyes widen, a drop of sweat drips down your forehead. This man wasn’t a spy, just some old dumbass that mistook you for a terrorist!

You flinch when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Spinning out of their grasp, you turn to face a startled waitress.

“Um, hi,” she begins. She leans in to whisper to you. “I know this is probably a big misunderstanding, but that old man over there is convinced you have a bomb strapped to your chest.”

Your heart flutters in your chest while you try to come up with a plausible way out of this. “Oh, uh, haha, that’s ridiculous, I don’t have a bomb strapped to my chest!”

The waitress wrinkles her face politely. “Do you think you could take off your coat and show him? He’s really worked up about this, he’s about to call the police.”

“No!” You shout without thinking. ‘Fuck,’ you think to yourself. ‘Now they absolutely think I’m a terrorist.’ You weigh your options in your head. ‘Taking the coat off is out of the question. Better come up with an exit strategy here.’

“No… Because…” You mush the waitress’s face back, bolting for the door. However, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, and this one is no different. The old man’s wife trips you on your way to the door.