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Patty Kowalski

Exercising her Second Amendment rights. In her own way.


“Damn!” Maurice says, jumping to his left, hindered by his heavy boots, once again unable to catch the moist ping pong ball. He picks it up off the cold ground and flips it to Sandy. “That was some curve!”

“She’s left-handed, so it’s a screwball,” Tom points out. As Sandy rinses the gritty ball in the bucket she flips another one to Patty. With her left hand Patty pops it into her vagina. In her other hand is a slice of pizza and she takes another bite. The diet soda is to her right.

It’s lunch recess and they’re in the courtyard. The tree well hasn’t had a tree in it for some time but it’s perfectly suited for Patty’s purposes. Her butt sits on the concrete lip, her legs in a wide split, and her toes grasp the two little metal knobs (shaped like flowers) five feet apart. She practices almost every day now. The courtyard, not well tended, is a dreary place this time of year when it’s cold out, but it’s become a hangout as everyone watches Patty perfect her craft. Today she’s working on making the ball curve both ways. Last week she made three hundred dollars doing this at Teaser’s.

Her friends all know about her work there, not that any of them have actually seen it. One has to be 21 to enter (the patrons, of course, not the dancers). Now it’s Tom’s turn and as he stands back, ten feet away, ready for the “pitch”, Maurice says, “I don’t know how any of the guys can catch these.”

“Gamal wants me to -- UNHH! -- shoot three balls, and make it one out of three.” This time she grunted out a straight fastball. Tom was expecting a curveball and jumped to the side when he should have stayed where he was. Once again a gritty ball is flipped to Sandy, who is sitting on the other well, over a bucket of water with about twenty balls floating on the surface. She does the counting; Patty wants to do fifty pitches, which takes about twenty minutes.

Georgina is there, and Sam and Delores and the gang from the front row at Advanced Placement Biology, taught by Mr. Barker, who last week had the strange experience of hearing Patty volunteer an answer about the enervation of the anal sphincter. Besides admiring the achievements of Patty’s vagina, they also are admiring her body. No one else’s is on display, of course, but it’s an unspoken certainty that hers is the best in the school. As she shoots a curveball at Kenny they see the workings of her abdominals and her hard, concave tummy; the flexing of her leg muscles; the curling of her rough toes around the knobs. Tom thinks she might be “telegraphing” her pitches; her big toes point inward when she’s throwing a curve, but her pinky toes point in for a screwball. Above, her breasts are tight and red in the cold air, her nipples stiff and poking out at them. How does she stand it, being naked outside on a day like this? No one really asks the question any more. Patty is a tough girl. Also practical. Yesterday everyone tromped around the school miserably in wet clothes and shoes, after coming in through that morning downpour. The sleek, wet bare body of their friend, who doesn’t even use an umbrella, waltzed in lightly on unburdened bare feet. She plopped her wet butt onto the chair behind her desk in first-period History and by the end of the period was totally dry. Bare skin dries swiftly.

“UNNH!” Her grunts echo off the surrounding school walls, and can be heard from inside the school, if you’re in an abutting classroom with no one talking. She can be seen through the windows but they’ve gotten used to the sight.

“One out of three?” Sandy says.

“Yes -- he’s a real asshole. ‘You’re not’ -- UNHH! -- ‘being fair’, he says. ‘No one catches them any more.’”

“They should give you more than twenty for each ball,” Kenny says, having wiped his jacket off after tripping over some kind of dead plant.

“I told him just make the guys sit back more. If they -- UNHH! -- move that pool table they can go back twenty feet. Jerry and I measured it last week.” Jerry is Kenny’s uncle. “I’ll still win, of course.” Of that, there is no doubt.

Rajiv, a new kid at the school, shy, ventures a request. “Patty, can you untie and tie my shoes?”

“Not now, my toes are too cold.” Sensing she might have hurt his feelings, she adds, “Later -- UNHH! -- okay? After -- English.” Which is their second-to-last class. When she’s asked to tie shoes with her toes it tends to draw a crowd. Usually it’s before the bell rings, sitting back on top of a desk, knees apart. She can also do buttons and zippers. With her toes the naked girl can clothe the world.

“I saw Kathy’s new dress at church,” Sioban says. “Bright pink! She looked like a little princess.”

“Thanks -- it cost -- UNHH! -- sixty dollars.” And now, having fooled Lawanda with a screwball, Patty pops another one in, turns her pelvis, lifts her butt off the concrete, and aims at the window of Mr. Barker’s freshman biology class, forty feet away. She carefully shoots at a 45-degree angle, which they learned in calculus yesterday maximizes distance. The ball softly taps against the window, causing Mr. Barker to turn. It’s not an insult but an affectionate way of saying “hi” and a show of support. He had a story to tell in the booth on Saturday; it doesn’t look like his marriage will last much longer. The man and the naked girl, separated by gender and age and the possession of clothes and shoes and marital status and a great difference in the things they worry about, and also separated by a window and about fifty feet, exchange a little smile.

“You can shoot farther now,” Tom observes, having gone to the window to retrieve the ball.

“Thanks -- UNHH! . . . How many is that?”

“Forty-four,” Sandy says.

“I think all those orgasms are improving your muscle tone,” Kenny says.

“Ha!” It is Sioban, rejoicing at catching number forty-five. This makes seven catches, three by her. It’s a funny thing, when it comes to catching ping pong balls shot out of a vagina, girls do better than boys.

“I hate to admit it but -- UNHH -- I think you’re right.”

The readout now measures not only number of orgasms but total contractions. The University is now three weeks into the new “regimen” and last Wednesday Patty exceeded 100 contractions for the first time.

“Number eight, yesterday, that was amazing,” Maurice says. “I thought you were going to fall off the pedestal.”

“Yeah, that was --- UNHH! -- bad. I almost passed out.”

“I think that’s why they increased the size of the insertion detectors,” Sandy says. They have all learned to use the proper terminology. “To make her body more, uh, stable.”

“I still hate it -- UNHH! It’s like riding two goddamn baseball -- bats.”

Tom catches number forty-nine, a weak lob, and Jill number fifty, a pop fly. Patty is finally getting winded. Now she brings her legs together, catches her breath, and stuffs the last of the pizza into her mouth. The bells ring and the kids go back into the school, lugging their bookbags, Patty behind the rest, shaking out her legs as she walks. Tomorrow she will be a little sore in places no other girl gets sore. The bucket of ping pong balls stays outside.

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