Added: Valentina Prisco - Date: 15.01.2022 09:08 - Views: 37987 - Clicks: 5463
An archive of ball busting stories taken from the former site bbstories. By hughgee. I paid for thirty minutes here. She sounded and looked like Fran Drescher, but was more realistically built, having a few actual curves to offer underneath her gray lunchtime female executive suit.
They stood opposite each other in the sweltering apartment. It was his turn. I want it all, baby. Gimme all you got. She raised her eyebrows in disdain, peering up at him, blew a pink bubble over her red lips. His nostrils flaired, his hair bristled, though it already was bristled. I can do this.
She took two steps and was within reach of him. She put her hands up on his shoulders, looking up at him. She looked apprehensive. Like she had experience in this kind of stuff; experience he was apparently lacking. His jaw muscles clenched tight in his cheeks. His hands hanging at his sides turned into fists. His face peered down at her and something like rage over took it. They call me Numbnuts! I can take it! His words got cut off as her bony knee thrust up into his groin. He had gone completely Indian ballbusting stories over this single blow.
She went to knee him again but halted it halfway up when she saw the strength; the cocksuredness immediately leave his face. She waited two seconds on one foot, in something like a half-flamingo position, watching him nervously. By the time she went to kick again he was bent over so her knee hit him on the top of the head, the next knee on his shoulder. You want a broken neck or what? A second later he was on the floor, writhing Indian ballbusting stories like an accordioned straw wrapper that someone was dripping carbonated soda on. She had her hand on one hip, alternately examining the nails on her other hand and peering down at him, as he began to make loud soaring groaning noises, like the sound of distant but emphatic ghosts.
Multiple shots. One shot is enough. I am a lady, no matter whatchoo or anybody tinks. She waited, stood over him. He could not answer. His scorched pathetic moans continued. He was in a fetal ball with his hands in his crotch, but it was a flailing fetal ball that she now had to step away from Nice doin' bidness wit yous.
See y'round maybe. She closed the door behind her. The room went dark for the most part, except for the beam of light shining through the blinds on the suffering, sweating forehead of the guy she'd just left prostrate in one blow. Detective Daphne Wojciewski needed answers. The guy wasn't cooperating. His fault. It was he who'd jumped her from behind just as she was exiting her car.
He was much larger, far and away the brawnier, but his narrow male hips were no match for her equestrian thrusters and, while he reached and wrapped a semi-chokehold on her, she'd driven her big bucket posterior backwards, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. The big man fell like a house of cards. Still, he'd have been up in a second were it not for Wojo's quick turnaround and even quicker toe blast: the black pleather pump split his kneeling legs like goal posts and sent him down to all fours—but she wasn't finished yet.
I suggest you follow," she said smartly, bringing him to his feet.
He complied but stood shakily. Wojo saw he might go down again any second. Everything business-like! Quite an octave raise from the deep, imposing baritone he'd originally accosted her with. She was face to face and sick of it. Had enough and the day was young. Brown saddle of freckles over her nose wrinkling up as she glared and menaced. Grunts and feeble squeaks and heavy eyelids beating frenetically and eyes rolling up back into the head and down again.
The guy wanted to talk. Fact is he couldn't. Wojo was her own worst enemy: She played too rough. Wojo scanned her surroundings. When they got to the chain link fence she stopped, and with her Indian ballbusting stories hand struggled at his fly and then, voila, his package was out, exposed to the open air, but still being strangled by her slender, pale, merciless digits.
Her free hand now went into her purse, brought out a pair of handcuffs. The big man's chin was jutting up to the sky, Adam's apple bulging. He did a big in-over-his-head gulp a-la-Vince McMahon as he felt the cold metal go noose-like around his 'n. Wojo tugged upward on the cuffs, testing it, letting him know what he was in for. Standing on tip toes with his package cuffed to the fence a few critical inches too high for comfort.
What'd the boss send me after THIS bitch for? He puffed and huffed and his mind raced as he sought a way out--but no way. There wasn't a way. This was really happening. Get me out of here! His hands clung to the fence; he looked down and around and dribbled panic-stricken saliva like he was thirty stories up. He clung and he hung, clung and he hung. Wojo went back to the car, took out a donut and some coffee, skirt spread wide and thick as she sat on the edge of the hood and watched and ate and sipped quite calmly, quite calmly indeed. A couple minutes went by. Poor guy, she thought.
Yeah, she had a heart. Someone under that hard cynicism she felt a little bad for every guy she'd ever de-nutted before. Still, there was that other side she had. One that didn't take no shit; one that's cracking a smile as the poor dumb bastard's legs're beginning to shake now. Yep, calves can't take much more. Look at those white knuckles hanging onto that fence.
Give 'im another minute. She went back around to the driver's side, reached in the open window, extracted a romance novel, then it was back to hood, flipping through s and more coffee sipping. Gotta do something to fight this monotony, Indian ballbusting stories thought. Look over. Poor bastard's leg shaking like convulsions now.
Instant smile, suppressed chuckle. Thank goodness. Doesn't take much to get you f ckers to talk.
Wojo took her time finishing her donut and coffee, thinking and waiting, reading, sipping, till he was pretty much begging and mewling and would've sold his grandmother out. Serves him right, she thought. Don't jump me.
Not if you got balls, you don't. When she did come to his rescue finally, first she took time to taunt him, rub it in a bit, blow in his ear, brandish and wave that flashy Indian ballbusting stories, precious little, vital little key on the outskirts of his hallucinating peripheral vision.
The guy was sobbing into the fence unabashedly. Savoring the moment even longer, she stuck a finger through one of the holes in the fence, wrapped it around and caressed the tight thin bulging skin of his sack with a long red fingernail. Even now, she noted, will a man quiver with enjoyment if you do this. What a putz. She soundly rapped the end of the finger a few times on the peachy-like bulge--TAP, TAP, TAP--and watched his eyes roll up, roll up, the lids blink, blink, and the dry mouth wheeze and plead.
But when she pressed down, when she made like she was trying to leave a fingernail impression on the skin of that peach, then that was all she wrote. It was Rocco! Easy gettin' you guys to talk. Yeah, too easy. The fella got his desperate wish. He was standing there bent over on top, spacey-eyed and head hanging down at chest level, shoulders in a bunch, and he was hanging on, protecting his liberated sack with all debilitated might.
A thick pistoned-delivered knee to those same goobers dropped him for good. Damn skirt, she thought. Damn butt, she thought again.
New business she had to attend to. Yeah, Louie. Go get the sonuvabitch. Once and for all.Indian ballbusting stories
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