For your weekend pleasure, here's a submission from Dear Reader, Jim.
Glenda shifted gears, from a slow sensual swirling to a more rapid-paced up and down motion on my cock. Her little hand pumped up and down and her other squeezed my balls as she sucked me into a frenzy.
We were in an almost-69 position. Her tiny ass next to my cheek, all she had to do was throw her leg over my head and I’d be tasting that tiny trimmed pussy of hers. I encouraged her to do so, but she resisted, instead letting me continue to stroke her wet slit and rub her magic button as she focused on my manhood.
“Glenda, let me make love to you… I need to put it in your pussy,” I begged, as I grew nearer and nearer to a huge orgasm. I really wanted to bust that pussy wide open.
She stopped sucking for a moment, but stroking my cock and rubbing it against her cheek.
“Are you the kind of guy who has to get up and leave the moment you have your orgasm? Or will you stay and play for another hour?” she asked.
“You said your husband is coming over with Shannon,” I said, enjoying the break in the action, which was really not as much a break as a change of scenery.
“I lied – he won’t be here until after dinner. We have all afternoon. I’d really like to get you off this way, if you promise to stay and play,” she offered. Well, who would turn down an offer like that?
“I’ll stay as long as I’m welcome,” I said.
Glenda shifted gears, from a slow sensual swirling to a more rapid-paced up and down motion on my cock. Her little hand pumped up and down and her other squeezed my balls as she sucked me into a frenzy.
We were in an almost-69 position. Her tiny ass next to my cheek, all she had to do was throw her leg over my head and I’d be tasting that tiny trimmed pussy of hers. I encouraged her to do so, but she resisted, instead letting me continue to stroke her wet slit and rub her magic button as she focused on my manhood.
“Glenda, let me make love to you… I need to put it in your pussy,” I begged, as I grew nearer and nearer to a huge orgasm. I really wanted to bust that pussy wide open.
She stopped sucking for a moment, but stroking my cock and rubbing it against her cheek.
“Are you the kind of guy who has to get up and leave the moment you have your orgasm? Or will you stay and play for another hour?” she asked.
“You said your husband is coming over with Shannon,” I said, enjoying the break in the action, which was really not as much a break as a change of scenery.
“I lied – he won’t be here until after dinner. We have all afternoon. I’d really like to get you off this way, if you promise to stay and play,” she offered. Well, who would turn down an offer like that?
“I’ll stay as long as I’m welcome,” I said.
Glenda sighed, rubbed my cock against her tightly-closed lips a few times, then resumed mouth-fucking me. I was in heaven. “Come in my mouth,” she said on the upstroke, her hand tightening around the base of my pleasure. Her other hand continued to squeeze and release my balls in time with her sucking. “MMMMmmmmmm,” she hummed, taking me to a new level.
My breathing picked up and I began to hump in time with her sucking. Glenda released my balls and let her index finger wander to my ass. Circling my starfish a few times, she tentatively tried to push it into me. Her other hand and her mouth were relentless in their work, and this quickly pushed me to the
edge.
“Glenda, I’m coming,” I warned her, giving her time enough to pull off and let me shoot my load wherever she wanted to aim it. Instead, she lifted slightly and stroked me furiously, her mouth closed on the head of my cock, both hands now stroking me tightly, her tongue pressed hard against my squirt-hole. It was the classic Catholic-girl fake swallow, making me feel like she was taking it all while not really getting any cum in her mouth. And it was AWESOME.
My cock jerked in her hand twice, three, four, five squirts as my come splashed against her tongue and ran down my cock. Each squirt lubricating my pecker to a new degree, each squirt more exquisite and pleasurable then the last. Glenda ran my pecker in circles around her lips as I shot off, her hands milking my cock and squeezing my balls in an attempt to drain every drop. As I collapsed, she ran her mouth up and down the bottom of my cock, like she was playing harmonica, her tongue flicking and teasing, her hand curling over the top and rubbing my squirt-hole as the last few drops emerged. Glenda went back north and took the entire head in her mouth and gave me a playful, painful “going away” bite, sucking out the last few drops and spitting them out, stroking them into the skin of my manhood. Her cheeks were splashed with my goop and a large wet spot was forming between my legs.
“Like that? That’s how we do it on the other side of the pond,” she said, her English accent positively lilted in the morning air in her bedroom. I sighed and closed my eyes. This was shaping up to be a wonderful day.
Glenda was my first “baseball Mom.” I was the manager of a little-league team made up of 13 boys and one girl, all about 12 years old. Glenda’s daughter, Shannon, was the only girl in a league of more than 200 boys.
After baseball sign-ups, the kids all auditioned in the local gymnasium. They fielded five fly balls, five grounders, then took ten swings in the batting cage. The coaches assessed their “skills,” if you could call them that at age 12, and drafted their teams. Most of the managers had been doing this for a few
years, and already had their drafts selected. As a newbie, I was clueless. Aside from the obviously talented twenty or so kids, they all seemed equally inept. So I just took notes and took my chances. When it came time to pick between the last two children, the choice was one skinny boy and one skinny girl – Shannon. I picked Shannon because I thought it would be terrible for her to be the only girl in the league and also the last choice in the draft.
Shannon was the only child of a single Mom. Glenda and her husband had split up a year earlier, I came to learn. She had moved here from England eight years ago, and was now a U.S. citizen. But she still had the cutest British accent. She stood 5 foot 4 inches tall in high heels, and had a bite-sized body, about 110 pounds, perfectly proportioned. Just a handful of tits and a softball-sized bottom in tight blue jeans every time I saw her. She had Americanized just right.
Glenda approached me on draft day and thanked me for picking Shannon. “I was so happy when she wasn’t picked last. That was a brave thing to do, Jim,” she said, offering me a handshake. I took a chance and kissed the back of her hand instead of the shake. I swear she blushed.
“We’ll make a baller out of her, I promise,” I told her. She looked perplexed. “Base-baller. We’ll make her a good baseball player,” I explained. Glenda looked relieved.
Over the next few weeks of practice, Shannon turned out to be a decent player. She could hold her own against her teammates and the team got cohesive. When we had our first few games, some of the other teams taunted her about hitting “like a girl.” Her teammates stood behind her, and when she hit a double in her second game, she knocked the shortstop on his ass at second base. Our entire team erupted, “How do you like our girl now?” It was a magic moment.
Glenda approached me after the game. “You’re doing wonders for Shannon’s confidence – she loves playing for you.”
“Well, I love your little girl. She reminds me of my first girlfriend, ‘Peanut.’ She was a scrappy little tomboy just like your girl here,” I said, rubbing Shannon’s head. Shannon blushed. “Aw coach,” she said.
“Would you think you could come to the house and give Shannon a little hitting practice this weekend? Is that a lot to ask – I don’t know the protocol for something like this,” Glenda asked.
“But Mom, Dad has me all weekend,” Shannon interrupted.
“He’s bringing you home at noon on Sunday. Perhaps your coach could pop on by for a bit in the afternoon?” she said, as much to me as she said it to Shannon.
“I’d be happy to come over, if you make me some tea,” I said.
“Then it’s agreed – see you at our house at noon Sunday,” she said, and shook my hand as Shannon disappeared to participate in the post-game snackage. Glenda held my hand for a second longer and looked me straight in the eye. “Make that 11 a.m. You have my address…” It was not a request. My cock twitched as I discerned that the look in her eye meant something awesome was in the works.
It was the beginning of a wonderful summer.
My breathing picked up and I began to hump in time with her sucking. Glenda released my balls and let her index finger wander to my ass. Circling my starfish a few times, she tentatively tried to push it into me. Her other hand and her mouth were relentless in their work, and this quickly pushed me to the
edge.
“Glenda, I’m coming,” I warned her, giving her time enough to pull off and let me shoot my load wherever she wanted to aim it. Instead, she lifted slightly and stroked me furiously, her mouth closed on the head of my cock, both hands now stroking me tightly, her tongue pressed hard against my squirt-hole. It was the classic Catholic-girl fake swallow, making me feel like she was taking it all while not really getting any cum in her mouth. And it was AWESOME.
My cock jerked in her hand twice, three, four, five squirts as my come splashed against her tongue and ran down my cock. Each squirt lubricating my pecker to a new degree, each squirt more exquisite and pleasurable then the last. Glenda ran my pecker in circles around her lips as I shot off, her hands milking my cock and squeezing my balls in an attempt to drain every drop. As I collapsed, she ran her mouth up and down the bottom of my cock, like she was playing harmonica, her tongue flicking and teasing, her hand curling over the top and rubbing my squirt-hole as the last few drops emerged. Glenda went back north and took the entire head in her mouth and gave me a playful, painful “going away” bite, sucking out the last few drops and spitting them out, stroking them into the skin of my manhood. Her cheeks were splashed with my goop and a large wet spot was forming between my legs.
“Like that? That’s how we do it on the other side of the pond,” she said, her English accent positively lilted in the morning air in her bedroom. I sighed and closed my eyes. This was shaping up to be a wonderful day.
Glenda was my first “baseball Mom.” I was the manager of a little-league team made up of 13 boys and one girl, all about 12 years old. Glenda’s daughter, Shannon, was the only girl in a league of more than 200 boys.
After baseball sign-ups, the kids all auditioned in the local gymnasium. They fielded five fly balls, five grounders, then took ten swings in the batting cage. The coaches assessed their “skills,” if you could call them that at age 12, and drafted their teams. Most of the managers had been doing this for a few
years, and already had their drafts selected. As a newbie, I was clueless. Aside from the obviously talented twenty or so kids, they all seemed equally inept. So I just took notes and took my chances. When it came time to pick between the last two children, the choice was one skinny boy and one skinny girl – Shannon. I picked Shannon because I thought it would be terrible for her to be the only girl in the league and also the last choice in the draft.
Shannon was the only child of a single Mom. Glenda and her husband had split up a year earlier, I came to learn. She had moved here from England eight years ago, and was now a U.S. citizen. But she still had the cutest British accent. She stood 5 foot 4 inches tall in high heels, and had a bite-sized body, about 110 pounds, perfectly proportioned. Just a handful of tits and a softball-sized bottom in tight blue jeans every time I saw her. She had Americanized just right.
Glenda approached me on draft day and thanked me for picking Shannon. “I was so happy when she wasn’t picked last. That was a brave thing to do, Jim,” she said, offering me a handshake. I took a chance and kissed the back of her hand instead of the shake. I swear she blushed.
“We’ll make a baller out of her, I promise,” I told her. She looked perplexed. “Base-baller. We’ll make her a good baseball player,” I explained. Glenda looked relieved.
Over the next few weeks of practice, Shannon turned out to be a decent player. She could hold her own against her teammates and the team got cohesive. When we had our first few games, some of the other teams taunted her about hitting “like a girl.” Her teammates stood behind her, and when she hit a double in her second game, she knocked the shortstop on his ass at second base. Our entire team erupted, “How do you like our girl now?” It was a magic moment.
Glenda approached me after the game. “You’re doing wonders for Shannon’s confidence – she loves playing for you.”
“Well, I love your little girl. She reminds me of my first girlfriend, ‘Peanut.’ She was a scrappy little tomboy just like your girl here,” I said, rubbing Shannon’s head. Shannon blushed. “Aw coach,” she said.
“Would you think you could come to the house and give Shannon a little hitting practice this weekend? Is that a lot to ask – I don’t know the protocol for something like this,” Glenda asked.
“But Mom, Dad has me all weekend,” Shannon interrupted.
“He’s bringing you home at noon on Sunday. Perhaps your coach could pop on by for a bit in the afternoon?” she said, as much to me as she said it to Shannon.
“I’d be happy to come over, if you make me some tea,” I said.
“Then it’s agreed – see you at our house at noon Sunday,” she said, and shook my hand as Shannon disappeared to participate in the post-game snackage. Glenda held my hand for a second longer and looked me straight in the eye. “Make that 11 a.m. You have my address…” It was not a request. My cock twitched as I discerned that the look in her eye meant something awesome was in the works.
It was the beginning of a wonderful summer.
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