“No!” she whined. She begged him with her eyes. “Please Sir, please don’t stop!” She didn’t want him to stop. She wanted to cum. He would not be convinced. Closing her eyes, she let the dying sensations wash over her. Every muscle was tied in knots. Pussy tight and wet. Clit throbbing and so close to cumming it was hard to breathe. She felt something cold and slender being pushed into her hot pussy. Startled she jumped and tried to see what it was. He held her firm on the seat with his hand. Looking up at her, his passion glazed eyes calmed her. Whatever it was he wouldn’t hurt her.She watched as he flipped open the top of his ring and got a fingertip full of a clear gel. Opening her labia wide he spread it on her fully exposed clit. Just the slightest touch had her moaning and thrusting again. It was cool against her heat. But it tingled. Wow, did it tingle! He pulled away and released her. Still she couldn’t stop moving. Whatever it was it felt like a million fingers were caressing. It wasn't exactly a high compliment, but Ortega's words weren't intended to be mean-spirited or deflating. He was simply reminding me that I remained very much an afterthought on the Saints' pitching staff."Anyway," Ortega continued, tempering his earlier remark somewhat, "Bill Bowman and I understand each other. He's not going to work you so hard that you can't contribute to the Club. Long as you keep me posted, how much you've done with Bowman, I'll be happy." There's still a chance Bowman won't like me enough to do this," I reminded Ortega. "I haven't even actually met the man in person yet." Oh, he'll do it," Carlos told me. "He's kind of excited about it. I can tell. And I know you've got enough going for you, he'll be interested."I finally met Bill Bowman on the Friday in early July when we had only two more days in St. Paul before another eight-day road trip. As he requested, I met him at his home, just a few miles west of Minneapolis, at ten a.m. The Saints were playing that.
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