Teaching Leanna Sweet

Red curls tumble over her bare shoulders like fire in a windstorm. She laughs low, breathy, already soaking the sheets with anticipation. Her small frame belies everything her body is about to do. We dip the thick end of the bat in lube and press. The wood spreads her in one steady push; her giggle spills out around it, cut only by the wet sound of her cunt stretching. She bucks toward the intrusion, toes curling, and before the bat is halfway buried her hips roll in open invitation for more. When the bat slides free with a soft pop she stays open, pink and glistening, no sign of strain beyond a flush across her chest. My fist sinks in next, knuckles disappearing past the ring of muscle like they belong there. She gasps once, sharp, then laughs again, letting me knuckle deeper until my wrist disappears and my fingers spread inside her heat. Every tremor travels up my arm, her muscles fluttering greedy and alive. Petite never meant fragile.