A Dallas sportswriter had paid some nerdy mathematician to calculate how low my average for the rest of the season could go before I'd drop below .400... The guy estimated the number of at bats I'd get over the remaining 17 games of the schedule, and concluded that I could hit a little under .300 the rest of the way and still make it over the .400 hump.That was comforting, but I wondered what I'd have to hit to reach my true goal of .407 -- one point better than The Splendid Splinter, Ted. Her hand was a blur, sliding that fat cock in and out of her ass almost faster than his eyes could follow, and she started huffing and puffing, like the little engine that could, with quick little gasps. She slipped a hand down her belly and onto her pussy. Her fingers spread her lips and held them open while she rubbed her clit. He was there, his climax hanging by a thread, the familiar tingling rush electrifying his kneecaps, when he heard her loudly chanting, “Yes, yes, fuck my ass, oh, God,. More

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