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By Sarah
I went to them and they ran from me, dropping their protection as they went; they were to be mine -- and I was to be theirs.

We gazed into each others' eyes with anticipation, waiting for the other to make the first move; then, each making it ourselves.

They ran and were chased; I was excited by the air of things. Suddenly, finding myself wrapped and tangled in their arms, I felt and saw the soft white stuff sliding down my body, along theirs.

Coming behind me, they made their move, and pressed in, pushing forward while I pushed back; it did not hurt -- nothing stung or burned, none of the expected feelings were felt at all.

It was guys on girls, sometimes; other times, girls on girls, or just a general free-for-all. It was always me -- me on them, they on I.

As I sat, brushing out my hair, they pulled at it -- playing with it, freeing it.

I was wet as they flung their projectiles at me. Sometimes, they hit me with hard ones and sometimes with soft, but always, I readily returned the favor.

Our faces reddened and our bodies ached, but we played still. Licking my lips and rubbing my hands together, I found warmth.

Reaching inside my bra, I freed the bulges and proceeded to extend my arms and slide the hard parts down their backs, down their fronts, down their bodies.

I knew the time would come when they would give in, when they could take no more, but I knew, too, my time was near. I waited to conquer them and they rejoiced in making me their conquest.

I fell for it -- fell hard: fell for the same thing, the same team of men, knowing their secret, but letting them continue their game.

I was between them, both trying to get me, to make me theirs, and I was ready for them. Holding one hard ball in each of my tiny hands, I pressed at it, feeling its texture, its shape.

A hole in one, a perfect shot, and many great memories: this was with one. Another had twisting moves and amazing tricks, but I could take them, handle them both; I was ready! And then, there was the one, the one who's single finger tried to reach me, to touch my body, to greet me.

When we were done we had left wet spots -- puddles on the floor; these remained even after our desires burned down.

When some of them had gone, I collected what was left behind and slid it between my fingers, feeling it drip and ooze -- finally, deciding who was to be the recipient of this treat, of this special sensation.

There was the fateful question later, after all had been pleased, and all had lost something to someone, "Saria, are you still wet?"; then, the fateful answer, "Yup."

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