Aren’t they marvellous? The superfit, superhot tennis girl, hardly out of her teens, concentrating fiercely on outsmarting and outspeeding her opponent, her tight, rounded arse invitingly displayed in its wisp of frilly panties as she serves? The brilliant runner, crouched on the track, intense, waiting for the starting gun, her lycra-painted rump rising to command? The leggy long-jumper brushing sand from her shorts and pulling them out of her tight arse-crack as she stalks back and the red flag is raised? The hurdler, going for gold but sprawling in ungainly invitation as she lands hard on her bouncy tits? Don’t you want to force them into another competition which they’re bound to lose? To defeat, to humiliate, to use however you want?
This one’s a bit plump, probably running in a vain attempt to make her bottom look not quite so big, but she really shouldn’t be running into that forest, should she?