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As soon as you sign, would you please put that cucumber up my ass? You'll get a lucrative signing bonus if I squeal like a pig."Nothing was holding me to the farm besides cucumbers, so I signed his contract. After signing he read my name. "Ruthie Baby? You were born to play baseball with that name. You know... Ruthie Baby...Babe Ruth. His nickname was 'the Sultan of Swat.' Ironically, that's also the nick of my dominitrix." He then rubbed his bottom with a wistful smile on his lips.Keeping my word, I got my largest one and gave him a good going over with the cucumber. Feeling happy about my future in baseball I decided to treat the scout to a bonus. I easily wrapped my fingers around his diminutive member and began jerking his midget gherkin. (Or is that his little person gherkin?)He moaned, "You are handling my mighty bat so well. Are you choking up on it?" I don't think anyone could choke on that tiny thing. Were you circumcised with a guillotine?" Three seconds later he came and I. After an hour, then after a few more, then again until she lost count, her father would return, pull his trousers off, climb between her legs, and take her quickly and forcefully, each time spending himself deep in his daughter's cunt. She could feel the semen drip from her abused opening as she lay there, thinking of Noor, wondering where she might be. Night fell and her father brought her a bowl of porridge, which he fed to her as she lay there. "The longer you spend on your back, the better the chances," he said, feeding her a last spoonful and then positioning himself atop her again. After his last orgasm, which took longer to come, he fell asleep atop her, his harsh breathing in her ear, the stench of his sweat in her nostrils.For the rest of the week she endured this treatment, then when her bleeding began her father kicked her out of his room completely. "I don't want to see you until you stop," he said, shoving her roughly away. "And I won't be enjoying myself either,.
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Beneath the blanket, in his lap, lay a freshly oiled Smith & Wesson Russian and, along his right leg, a Winchester carbine. His speckled horse raised its ears and looked toward the trail. The mule, half deaf, went on dozing. The strange horse stopped. The Palouse gave a soft, inquiring whinny and stared into the brush. A mama duck, whose voice he had come to know, quacked fussily. Wings flapped the water. As soon as the ruckus died down, a peculiar, husky voice called out the traditional, ‘Hello the camp.’ ‘Come–’ His voice nearly failed him. ‘Come ahead.’ The rider dismounted. Spurs tinkled with a slow, light, tentative step. The trail was a cow path and, cows being as they are, led into a thick patch of scrub oak. To pass through it, it was necessary to bend low and proceed with caution. He’d had a time persuading the mule that evil spirits did not lurk in there. He heard his visitor crunch through the oak. He saw the boots, first. Black. Shiny. Coated with a thin film of dust..

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