I thought I told you, there’s no crying in baseball. There’s no crying in baseball! And you are in the on-deck circle. Uh oh…
Batter Up, Kitten.
Papa throws heat, baby girl. The kind that makes Kershaw and Verlander look like tee ball. So I suggest you dig your heels in, take a deep breath, because my Up and In is gonna make you wonder if you want to play for the other team.
You know that cheap mascara you see people buy at the grocery store. Buy some. Daddy wants to see it run tonight.
I’m not sure why I find this sexy. Part of me thinks I know I shouldn’t. But tears, running down her face with a smile, is the epitome of the paradox of dominance and submission.
Fear. Sensory annihilation.
Orgasms too intense to handle. Kicking and squirming your way across the bed as I run at you like I am trying to steal home plate.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your ass. Every hole. And I’m not in the mood to say “Please.”
No. I’m taking you. Angrily. Hard. I’m going to force orgasms on your delicate feminine body and you are going to hate and love me at the same time.
Here it comes. Hey, batter, batter…