Teaching Pocahontas

Pocahontas carries that rare, runway kind of beauty, bronze skin stretched over full hips and breasts that demand attention. Yet her slit is small—painfully so, or so she insists. That’s why she kneels now, legs spread wide, positioning the fat end of a wooden baseball bat between her folds. A generous drizzle of lube glistens on the rounded knob. She pushes, grunts, rocks her pelvis. Muscle gives way with a soft, wet sound as the head sinks in. Thick veins on the handle press against her stretched lips. Then Marie arrives, shedding clothes in two impatient motions. She grips the bat just above Pocahontas’s entrance, leans in, and drives it deeper. Pocahontas cries out, hips lifting, taking another inch each thrust of Marie’s fist-pushing rhythm. When Marie finally pulls the bat free, her own hand follows straight inside—fingers curled, knuckles popping past the tight ring—until her forearm disappears and Pocahontas arches, mouth open, utterly claimed.