Then came the recurring stab of pain. "Why can I not prove myself in combat like my valiant and doughty ancestors? Why am I doomed to be a feeble woma... all my life?" She recalled that day when her darling friend Martha had felled her with a single fearsome blow to the jaw, instantaneously reducing her to a state of semi-comatose humiliation. She had always accepted that the punch in question had been well merited and richly deserved, but the fact that she been able to do no other than succumb. Next was Becca."How old are you Miss?" he asked."I'm eighteen." she said."Okay. Well, as long as you're eighteen." he said.She also had on a bra. She wiggled like it was tickling her when he ran his fingers along her ribs and around her breasts. When he searched between her legs she actually leaned forward, toward him. She was grinning when he came up to do her hair. It was in a pony tail and she dipped her head like she was looking at the floor."You want me to take my scrunchy off?" she. More

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