First of all, you've gotta make the pitch, and it's got to go where you want it to go. You miss -- even by a little -- and instead of exploiting a hit...ter's weakness, he's exploiting yours.Second, even if you know his weakness and are able to make the pitch, you seldom can rely on that same pitch, over and over again. Not during the same at-bat, against the same hitter. So what, if maybe he fouls off your breaking ball low and outside. Fine. That's strike one. The art of pitching involves either. “I think it would almost be worth it.”“You’ll just want it more if you have to wait.”“Tease.”“It’s my job,” Becky laughed, and then walked back toward the terminal, her bottom swaying in an exaggerated, sexy dance.Christine followed, thinking that this was going to be a long couple of hours.The conversation actually steered away from sex over Starbucks and a salad, turning toward Christine filling in gaps of family history. The two hours passed far quicker than either woman would have imagined. I was bargaining to worry after close to an hour had passed before she came back. I asked if the line was long? She said that isn't the only thing that was. I took me drink and we watched as the first runner came to the finish line, no big surprise he was was a skinny black guy from some shit hole country. We stayed untill the slow walkers started crossing the finish line. She said I'm ready to go.I agreed and we found a MARTA bus headed back to the lot we parked in. Once in the car I got the. I could feel my pussy lubricating. I was feeling distinctly 'big girl' talking like this."ANYBODY HOME?' Dad was at the top of the stairs. I jumped down and headed for the other end of the room, grasping for the ends of my bra straps."YEAH, DAD! IT'S BASEMENT CLEANING DAY! ALMOST DONE! CARLY'S DUSTING YOUR OFFICE NOW."I was grinning as I watched Mark pushing and prodding his hardon so it wasn't sticking out of his pants. He turned and grabbed a broom just as Dad started down the stairs."Where's.