Her comment was enough to throw the Flogger's best ace pitcher off his forty game winning form.

The World Series. Game seven, after each team taking the home field advantage. Tied at the end of the ninth, the game would go into extra innings, with the Floggers gaining a run in the top half.

Thus the hometown Whipsnappers brought out their ace Battered to be pinch hit. She had already appeared in each game, going seventeen for seventeen, intimidating the pitchers from the bases as she graciously arrived at first base to have the clothespins closed upon her nips. Her almost casual strides to second base to receive the pins closing along her sex lips and that clit. All shown in close-up on the big screens and home TV of course. Then ho-humming as she strode to third, pausing at the shortstop to receive a hard bat to her marvelous half-moon shaped buns. And then at third base, after receiving the blow-up butt plug with long hair tail, she walked home eight times, waving to the crowd, for the ceremonial yanking of the pins and plug.

Now she waited for Mongoose's next pitch of the bullwhip. It caught her outside the strike zone, along the left hip along a row of previous stripes. A called Bareskin which brought out the Flogger's coach but the umpire sent him back. A 2-0 count. The third missed entirely. Then the fourth pitch creased the underside of her right breast for a strike. The next pitch caught her on the inside of her hip, and was called a strike. Full count. One of the new World Series rules came into play. With a full count Mongoose was allowed to step down off the mound and position himself anywhere in the infield for the next pitch. He chose along the first base line about twelve feet from her.

The Goddess stretched her right leg over the plate to stand on foot in each box, hands on hips, her ever so slightly dimpled chin and ski jump nose turned up to gaze off in the distance. A simple touch anywhere from collarbone down to an inch of thigh was a strike, a touch to a nipple or the clit an immediate out. Anywhere else was a Bareskin. The whip flickered at her right breast but in review was shown to never touch skin. She could go to first.

But she didn't. Sweet Suzi Swisher was brought out to pinch run for the Goddess. Suzi ran to first, her soft boobs bouncing in differing directions, occasionally colliding bringing cheers from the crowd. There she was met with the other rule changes for the extra innings. The pins were closed upon her little nips then weighted down with World Series medals that dropped her boobs a full inch. If she reached second then weights would be added to the pins applied to her cute pussy. At shortstop a bat to each bun. And at third, instead of a hair tail, a heavy log chained to the plug that she would have to drag to home plate. But Suzi was a gamer, and her short frame was loved by all in both leagues.

The call for a new Battered to stand in the box brought The Goddess up again, the manager had decided she would be pinch hitted with a runner taking her place on the base paths. Not a new call by any means, but the Whipsnappers were up against the best team in both leagues. The Floggers had won over a hundred games. And most by the expert bullwhippers in their pitching staff.

Once more The Goddess posed with a foot in each box, ready to receive, challenging him with her magnificent strike zone. The Mongoose was back on the mound and missed three touches to her navel.

His manager came out. A new pitcher was brought in, the second best ace, Felix. His first pitch snapped the left nipple drawing a discernible liquid. An out. Suzi at first swayed her boobs back and forth and cheered her teammate on as The Goddess stepped into the box again as the next to be pinch hit.

Felix missed four in a row. Juanita jogged to first and Suzi skipped to second, the medals flopping around to bounce off her ribs. Each girl got their added rewards.

Paulson came on to pitch for the Floggers, and once more intimidated by The Goddess he went four and one with a lonely upper cut on the left of her camel toe. Marjorie came on to pinch run. Suzi got her two wallops at shortstop and staggered to third base, hands on knees to receive the plug and then it chained to the log. Her boobs swayed with the weights as everyone in Whipsnapper stadium wanted to see Suzi drag that log to home plate.

The bases were now loaded. Austin was brought in and the lefthander easily scored two strikes on The Goddess across her mound, one cutting a slice thru the logo. Then two straight misses. His next pitch swept up and caught her just under her dimple. While her body from neck down was in play, the face wasn't, and thus Austin was sent to the showers. The count was 3-2.

Morton was brought out; he had a sore arm from pitching the comeback win in game five. He placed a nice cut along the inner side of her right breast. She staggered out of the box, the first time in Series play. Two outs now and still she stepped right back in for either that four Bareskins that would allow her pinch runner, the others to advance, and Suzi drag that damn log to tie the game, or be struck out.

Morton's sore arm quickly took the count to 3-0 when he requested to be relieved. The Floggers had one available pitcher left. The rookie, Smith, had pitched just once in the series, and that was the losing pitch in game two. A mocking cheer went up as he stepped onto the mound. If the Floggers best couldn't bring The Goddess down, then this kid certainly would not.

The Goddess shook her short hair and smiled at Smith. She wiggled her breasts, shifted her hips from one to the other, even half turned to coyly look at him over her shoulder, her wounded left breast still aching but proudly enticing him. He uncoiled the bullwhip while the crowd settled down after doing the wave. He smiled back at The Goddess, a boyish embarrassed smile. Then let loose with a smack that snaked around her hands on hips posture to crease her left bun. "Ouch!" she was heard to say. 1-0.

He smacked her hard across her belly. She stepped slightly out of the box. Generally the rules said the Battered had to stay in the box, but this was the World Series, no one wanted that rule to apply. 1-1.

She shook it off but before she was fully settled back the whip found her right breast, crossing the previous cut there. She glared at him. 1-2. Then a tap on the left forearm, 2-2. The next touch drove her from the box backwards towards her own dugout. 3-2. She was out of the box. With a full count he could step off the mound as long as he stayed in the field of play. She turned and he wrapped around her waist just under the breasts. This should have been a strike, but ruled that only a full touch to a nipple or the clit could be the final out.

But he would not let her go back to the box, instead relentlessly driving her with touches to her buns, across the top of her breasts, and snaps at the mound. She fell to her knees and he scored her spine and as she rose up in pain his backhand crossed her breasts in a diagonal that missed either nipple. She screamed for the first time in the series.

Weakened, she rose and tried to step forward but he snapped at her cameltoe creasing the right. The count remained the same. She backed up and sat down on the top of the dugout for a rest. The crowd was dismayed, yelling for her to get back in the box and make him miss, let Suzi drag that log in for the winning run, for the parade the next day, for the money she'd make in bonuses.

The Goddess paid no attention. She was receiving the worse battering in her entire career. She was tired, and just wanted it over with. She let him wrap her torso twice more, the yanking of the whip off being more harmful than the wrap itself. And then she swayed as he placed one right between her breasts. She fell back on the dugout roof. A cameraman rushed in to get his TV camera placed to look up at her sex, the boobs beyond, though her face was hidden.

Smith paused to take an item out from around his neck and hold up the ring. She raised her head to glare back at him. "I can't marry you, you're in another league!"

Downhearted, he turned his back to walk back to the mound, the hometown crowd suddenly quiet, unsure to boo the Goddess for turning him down, or cheer that she did.

Then as if an afterthought he snapped in a backhand motion, not caring what the verdict would be.

Alas, there was no parade for the Whipsnappers. The home town crowd silently departed while the jubilant Floggers danced and drank champagne in the clubhouse. Smith signed for a ten year contract.

Plans to erect a statue of The Goddess standing proud, feet apart, ready for the next whip stroke, in the front of the stadium, lay on the owner's sky box floor, torn and forgotten.