Chapter 363: Caught Officer Megan Taking A Piss

Megan stepped forward, arms wrapped around herself, eyes red-rimmed from earlier crying.

"You guys are finally back..." she said, voice cracking. "We were all so worried about you... all of you."

Nicole broke away from Mira and threw herself at Megan—sister hugging sister—both of them dissolving into quiet, relieved tears.

We all sat down—spreading out in a loose circle around the small fire Jack had kept burning. The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in long golden shafts, warming the clearing despite the lingering chill of fear.

Angela moved to my side without a word. She dipped a strip of clean cloth into a small metal bowl of water someone had fetched from the nearby stream, then gently tilted my chin up with careful fingers.

"Hold still," she murmured, voice soft. "You’re a mess."

She dabbed at the dirt and fake blood on my cheeks, my forehead, the corner of my mouth. Her touch was tender—almost intimate—thumb brushing my lower lip as she wiped away the last smear. Every time her fingers grazed my skin, I felt Mira’s gaze on us—sharp, possessive, burning.

I caught Mira watching. Our eyes met. She blushed instantly—deep, guilty crimson—and looked away, suddenly very interested in smoothing the blanket over Paul’s legs.

I cleared my throat, breaking the quiet tension.

"Have they found any supplies these days?" I asked, voice low but carrying.

Lisa—sitting cross-legged near the fire—nodded quickly.

"They found a pond nearby," she said. "Tried fishing. Even got some fish—three decent-sized ones. Jack cleaned them. We’ve got enough for tonight, maybe tomorrow if we’re careful."

Jack grunted in agreement, poking the fire with a stick.

"Water’s clean too," he added. "Boiled it just to be safe. We can fill the canteens before we move again."

I nodded—taking it in.

Mira shifted closer to me—subtly, so no one else would notice. Her knee brushed mine. She kept her eyes on Paul, pretending to adjust his bandage, but her fingers trembled slightly. Every few seconds, her gaze flicked to my chest—right where her breasts had been crushed against me earlier, right where she’d clung so desperately in front of her son.

The memory was still vivid on her face: the way her nipples had dragged against my shirt, stiff and aching; the way her hips had unconsciously rocked once against my thigh when she’d first pulled me up; the mortifying realization that Bill had seen it all—his mother grinding against me in raw, animal relief.

She bit her lip—hard—trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat that climbed her throat, a flush of arousal that made her pulse throb low in her belly.

Angela finished cleaning my face and sat back, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a tender touch that lingered just a second too long. Her fingers trailed down my jawline, her breath warm against my skin, but my attention was already elsewhere.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Megan slipping away from the group—sneaky, quiet, her hips swaying with that deliberate, teasing rhythm she always had. She glanced back once, making sure no one was watching, then vanished into the thick underbrush bordering the camp.

Curiosity hooked me instantly. What was she up to? I waited a beat—pretending to adjust my torn shirt—then followed, moving like a shadow through the trees.

The forest was dense here, leaves crunching softly under my boots, but I kept my steps light, silent. After about 50 meters, the camp’s voices faded to a distant murmur, and I paused behind a thick oak, peering around.

Megan had stopped—looking left and right with that nervous, furtive energy, making sure the camp was far enough behind her that no one could accidentally stumble upon her little private moment.

She ducked behind the massive tree trunk, its bark rough and gnarled, disappearing from direct view. The forest swallowed the last echoes of distant voices, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the faint chirp of late-afternoon birds.

I crept closer—heart thudding with a mix of curiosity and dark excitement—keeping my steps silent, breath controlled. The World Map confirmed it: her red dot pulsed steadily right behind that tree, no other blips nearby. She was completely alone. Perfect.

I edged around the trunk just enough to peek, staying low and hidden in the shadow of a thick fern.

There she was.

Megan’s round, plump ass was thrust out toward me like an offering—two perfect, creamy globes, smooth and flawless, glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy. The cheeks were impossibly full and firm, jiggling ever so slightly with each tiny shift of her weight, the soft flesh dimpling where her thighs met the lower curve.

A thin sheen of sweat made her skin glisten, highlighting every luscious contour—the deep cleft between those generous cheeks, the gentle flare of her hips, the way her ass tapered into a narrow waist that begged to be gripped.

The sight alone was enough to make my cock swell painfully against my zipper, thickening with raw, animal hunger.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pants and black lace panties in one impatient motion—yanking them both down to her ankles in a single, hurried tug.

The fabric bunched around her boots, trapping her legs slightly apart. Her ass cheeks naturally parted as she widened her stance for balance, revealing everything: the tight, pink pucker of her asshole winking in the open air, and below it, the soft, shaved lips of her pussy—already swollen and flushed a deeper pink, glistening with a slick sheen that had nothing to do with urine yet. A single bead of arousal clung to her inner fold, trembling, ready to drip.

Megan let out a soft, relieved exhale—almost a moan—as she squatted lower, ass pushing out further, cheeks spreading wider. The roundness of her ass became even more obscene in this position—plump globes quivering, the cleft opening like an invitation, her tight little hole flexing once as she relaxed her muscles.

Then it started.

A sharp, hissing sound filled the quiet clearing—loud, wet, unmistakable. Her piss erupted in a forceful golden stream, arcing from between her parted pussy lips with impressive pressure. The hiss was sharp and rhythmic at first—

ssssssshhhhhh

—like a high-pressure faucet turned on full blast, the liquid splashing hard against the dry leaves and dirt below in a steady, splattering rhythm.

Each pulse of her stream made her ass cheeks clench and release, the round flesh jiggling deliciously with every surge. Droplets sprayed outward in tiny arcs, catching the sunlight like liquid diamonds before pattering onto the forest floor.

The scent hit me—sharp, tangy, mixed with the warm, musky aroma of her arousal. It was intoxicating—primal, forbidden. Her pussy lips fluttered slightly with each strong jet, the inner folds glistening more visibly now as her own slickness mixed with the urine.

A few stray drops clung to her swollen clit, trembling there before falling in slow, teasing drips. The stream pulsed in time with her breathing—harder when she exhaled, softer when she inhaled—creating a filthy, erotic cadence:

hissssssh—pause—hissssssh—pause—hissssssh.