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Raleigh Daniels' voice boomed through my answering machine with both commanding enthusiasm and harried disinterest. He was calling at the behest of a friend of a friend who told him I was in the throws of a career upheaval and was looking to change directions altogether. Accounting had provided me the predictability and income my counselors at UNC Chapel Hill promised it would, and it provided almost as much excitement as monitoring the rain gauge in a drought. Seven years up the ladder at Chicago's self-proclaimed "third largest and most respected" accounting firm, I had grown tired. I could not muster excitement for anything. I ate at my favorite restaurant more out of a sense of obligation to fund my waiter's acting lessons than any passion for the menu. I isolated myself from friends, family, and fuck buddies. Escort services fit easier into my schedule, and at $250 an hour I was guaranteed that the body attached to the cock in my ass was no older than 25 and had no more than 8% body fat. I also knew he didn't expect me to care about his needs as I pushed his head into the pillow and pounded out my frustrations. I woke up with a hard less and less frequently.
Raleigh spit out directions to an office in Port St. Lucie, an unimpressive town on Florida's east coast, where the AA affiliate of an NL East franchise was based. He spelled the name of my contact slowly, as if he suddenly thought I had become drunk midway through his message. "R-O-G-E-R Sullivan. Sullivan, Irish guy, knows his shit. Don't make me look bad. Bestaluck to ya." I wrote the information in my planner and saved the message anyway. Over the next two days I donated furniture, suits, shoes, art work, and an unused set of $1,200 cookware I bought to ensure I'd begin eating out less. Karen Stapleton assured me she'd rent out my condo within a month or she'd personally pick up the mortgage. On an unusually warm Midwestern day in February, I settled into the leather of my BMW, stowed the Metallica box set on the passenger floor, and left behind the most security I'd known in my adult life.
As I passed the sign announcing St. Lucie County, my dick still tingled from a surprising, and surprisingly expert, blow job courtesy of a truck driver from Houston. We'd stood at the mirrors of the rest stop for several minutes before he motioned me to follow him to the furthest stall. He towered over my 5'10" frame by at least four inches. His hamstrings strained at the backs of his jeans and the well-worn Atlanta Braves t-shirt showed hours of disciplined sculpting. I braced myself against the wall as he bobbed his head on my dick and rubbed his Levi's until a wet spot dominated his crotch. For the first time in months my cock felt fully engorged. It almost ached. "You swallow?" He grunted and picked up the pace just enough to answer yes. As cum welled up and the nascent tingle of an orgasm radiated through my thighs, I leaned my head against the cold tile and felt years of futility gush into my trucker's mouth. He gagged slightly before quickly getting a handle on things. The head of my dick burned with sensitivity as he completely juiced my pole. He stood to gather his composure and I cupped him tightly, undoing the buttons on his jeans with skill I never knew I developed. I dropped to one knee and pulled his jimmy from a pair of worn, cotton boxers, moistened and cooled by sticky pre-cum.
My trucker firmly placed his hand on the back of my head and guided his shaft smoothly in and out of my mouth. Spit collected on my goatee before dribbling down my neck. As my shirt became damp, my concentration centered on making this cowboy cum so hard he'd jump with simultaneous pain and ecstasy. His breath quickened and I slowed my pace. He tried to dictate the tempo and I persisted in slowing him to the point where he fucked my face like a southern drawl. After more than ten minutes of rhythmic pumping, his nuts tightened and I slowed down even more. At last, his thick spunk shot into my mouth and his legs trembled as he tried to silence himself. He exhaled deeply. I looked up at his face while holding the head of his cock gently with my teeth. He rolled his head skyward and relaxed. I stood and averted eye contact while we smoothed out the evidence of our encounter.
The humid Florida air swirled around me as I sped down I-95, through pine forests and billboards proclaiming the benefits of gated living, home made ice cream, and wholesale jewelry. I pulled into a parking lot haphazardly paved with oyster shells. The dust settled as the engine ticked. My care seemed almost to sense that the only additional drive it would make that day would be the short trip to the ocean front condominium that financed the recreational drug use of a Canadian college student who had the good fortune of being the only living relative of its deceased owner. The shells crunched under my feet, reminding me that I would no longer don wing tips as part of my uniform. From here on my work shoes were the Nikes that smelled of hours of running along Lakeshore Boulevard. The relief almost made me cry.
"You must be Hardy." The white-haired man with a slight limp and leathery skin extended his stubby arms to make my acquaintance.
"Yep, that's me, I bet you're Roger." He continued inventorying a new shipment of athletic cups and batting gloves without answering my statement.
"Raleigh says you're a bean counter who wants to try his hand at coaching."
I felt embarrassed by the truth of my presence. "Gitcher stuff and meet me in the locker room, it's the next building over, with the hibiscus plants around out front. Some fucking girlfriend's idea. Titty dancer; you'll find a lot of 'em around here so if you're lookin' ta git laid you won't have a problem."
"Thanks," I said, as I turned to retrieve my bag from the trunk. I walked into the locker room and the scent of men invaded me. In the distance I could hear the chatter of players and the occasional "thwack" of bat on ball. I studied the walls. The lockers. The moldy carpet. The laundry hamper. The air. I sat on a bench and Roger strode through the doorway and tossed me a plastic bag with a uniform inside it.
"You 'bout 5'10" a buck eighty?"
"That's my address." Roger smiled and pointed to the far wall.
"There's the coaching staffs' lockers. You can git a lock at the Wal-Mart down the road but you'd do best to keep your Rolex at home."
Roger's voice cracked with a little condescendence and annoyance, as if the politeness he'd stored up for my arrival had run dry. I knew I'd have to earn respect and shed suspicion only with results on the field. As an assistant hitting coach, my new spread sheet was the team's batting average, especially the individual stats of the hottest prospects. Time was my friend and my nemesis. An unexpected dread crept into my mind and I reminded myself that had I not made this trek, I'd be suffering through another client conference or numbing review of profits and losses. I could not blow this chance to shed the end result of my upper-middle class upbringing.
The next afternoon I met with my new boss, Eddie Murray, and the players. I settled into my role and the first tense hours passed without humiliation. Over the next ten days I put my conditioned organizing to use as I broke down players' performances by various factors; including weather conditions, time of day, even if I knew a guy was hungover. I devised practice schedules and batting orders that I hoped would increase the numbers without bruising egos. As practices progressed toward the grind of the AA season, I grew more confident and my guys began to ask questions where they would before question me. This was working and I was becoming a baseball coach. The only issue that nagged at me was keeping my closet door shut. I made a trip every so often to a Ft. Lauderdale bath house where I'd suck dick and get fucked. On the road I jerked off in the shower. That was universal, though, and dugout discussions frequently centered on new techniques. A backup catcher from Olympia, Washington swore he could think himself into cumming. Travis Shoop. A raw talent who needed more self discipline and better taste in music. He lacked the defensive intuition of a Johnny Bench or even a Jason Varitek. But he could flat knock the shit out of a baseball and spent his downtime in the weight room. He benched 375lbs. and could squat over 400. He developed a forearm exercise that gave him a Popeye-like appearance but that looked so painful that none of the other guys would even try it. He took a perverse delight in his willingness to inflict pain on his body. And he was effortlessly handsome.
Midway through the season our starting catcher went on the DL with a chronic groin injury. Travis got the call. After a disappointing stretch where he hit .232 with no RBIs an one home run, Travis' confident swagger began to wane. He became impatient with himself and with Coach Murray's batting tips. Murray was an old-school hitting coach and he didn't always like my unconventional suggestions. After Travis ripped the sink from a visiting team's locker room following his third straight "0 for," Murray asked me to step in. If Travis' numbers didn't improve he'd go back down and a 19 year-older from Santa Fe Community College in Tallahassee would take over. Travis knew his leash was getting shorter and he agreed to give my suggestions at least three at-bats before declaring them a failure. As we worked together, Travis and I became close friends. We shared a lot of experiences and ideals. Travis' dad was an executive for a company that made valve stems for Schwinn bicycles and his mother headed the Ladies' Auxiliary. His sister followed their parents' advice and earned a master's in chemical engineering. She worked for a pharmaceutical company in Maryland, where she lived with her husband and two kids. Unlike his sister, Travis rejected college and stubbornly pursued his dream to play in the bigs. When he was twelve, in exchange for two consecutive straight-A report cards, his mother re-decorated his bedroom in Dodger Blue. He secretly slept in his jock. At the same time, Travis realized too that he didn't share his buddies' new-found obsession with girls and their private parts. Because spontaneous hard ons are common among thirteen year-olds, his post game boners did not raise suspicion, though he knew they were triggered by thoughts of being with other boys. To keep his secret, Travis assumed the role of the prototypical high-school jock, who fucked the cheerleaders and shared the details. After his fourth consecutive three-hit game, Travis' confidence returned. On the bus ride back to the Motel 6, several of the players snuck up behind him and doused him with frigid Gatorade. The team erupted in the kind of macho giddiness that seems appropriate only if you're under 30. The celebration continued and the skipper relaxed the curfew. The team hatched plans to get as drunk as possible before lights out. As part of the coaching staff, I was not permitted to fraternize with players. I lamented my exclusion from their night and determined to sneak off into town in search of a big dick and a mouthful of cum. I learned of an adult bookstore about a mile from the motel that catered to the secret gay lives of the local married men. After an early dinner in the Waffle House that occupied the southwestern corner of a ratty strip mall, I called a taxi and took a ride to Trixxx. I had long ago learned to ignore the conspicuous nature of these establishments. They were utilitarian and served their intended purpose well. I didn't expect conversation. I expected to get a cock in my hole and I usually got what I expected. Tonight was the exception. Trixxx was empty and I alternated between walking its concrete floors and leaning against its concrete walls. I was the only paying customer of the night.
I returned to the motel horny and disappointed. During the five-minute ride I tried to think of a new way to masturbate. Impossible. I had tried every way, including Travis' "hands free" method. I couldn't make it work. When I opened the door to Room 12, my roommate, the team's 70-something equipment man, was between comatose and deceased. I could have gotten gang banged and he'd have slept the entire time. I shed my clothes and stepped into the bathroom. The tiles on the floor didn't match and the mirror was blotchy and dull. The fan clanged as if it was polishing rocks. The knobs turned the wrong way. As soon as the warm water poured over my chest and headed south, my dick sprang to life. The veins turned purple and the head swelled. I felt like one pull on its length would unleash a flood of juice. I cupped my balls in my left hand and began to stroke my fat Irish tool. I wasn't blessed with 7" but I got the girth of a Coke can. My first boyfriend called it stubby. I preferred stout. After no more than thirty seconds I felt my stout friend beginning to spew. I backed away from the showerhead and positioned my left palm to receive the salty chowder. The warmth was stark against my hand as it filled my palm. My cock twitched and I coaxed out every drop. I studied the puddle and lifted my hand to my mouth. As my own cum coated my tongue, I held it and swirled it around before swallowing. I went to bed after drying off, the saltiness lingering as a sweet reminder. I thought of Travis. I had no idea of what lie ahead the next day. As the bus pulled into another polite southern town, a thunderstorm loomed over the hills that framed its western edge. It looked like a rain out. It smelled like a rain out. We were rained out. Rain outs were particularly cruel since they almost invariably meant boredom far more intense than that which ordinarily pervades the nature of minor league baseball. I resigned to an evening of snowy re-runs and bad local news.
By 5:00 the rain was gone and the sun burned its way west. I stood on the second floor balcony and studied the air that seemed like it had been washed with a grandmother's loving hands. I heard a familiar gait approach from my left. It was Travis and he looked hotter than I ever recalled. He wore a pair of tattered khaki shorts that hugged his massive thighs. His perfectly structured legs tapered down into a pair of Adidas running shoes that he wore always without socks. His calves flexed as his heels lifted him forward. He was shirtless. "Whatup chief?" Travis greeted everyone the same. "Not much, Travis, how's it hangin?" "'Bout eight inches today, chief." Travis grinned and his round, confident face molded around his dark brown eyes. "You're eight inches and I'm Todd Helton." "No," Travis said looking shyly toward his feet, "you're better looking." I stared hard at Travis and his gaze rose to meet mine. In the moment that only two gay men who've just outed each other share, we soaked in a rush of excitement and nervous energy. "You wanna grab a beer?" I asked as we remained locked in our new discovery. "Or something," Travis replied. With no more conversation we went to my room.
As the heavy door closed behind us, what remained of the afternoon light nearly disappeared from the room, stopped by the efficient drapes. I stepped into Travis and pulled his body to mine. We kissed violently, groping and roaming with our hands, clumsily at first, then with purpose, grabbing muscle, skin, pulling our clothes off, grinding our cocks together, still thrusting tongue on tongue, on lips, moving, tasting. Our breathing fell into sync and we fell onto the bed. "God, I've wanted this for so long." Travis spoke to me closely, filling me with his breath, sweet from candy or liquor. Or something. "Hardy, I wanna fuck you so bad. I wanna fuck you so fucking bad." His voice trailed off and we writhed together, our intensity building. I moved my tongue over his neck and felt his stubble. He moaned and rolled on top of me, pinning my shoulders to the bed. We dove into each other again, our passion driving us on. I grabbed his ass and felt it tense at my touch. He sat up slightly and I moved down to take his cock in my mouth. He was tanned and tight. His 205 lbs. were distributed flawlessly over his 6" frame. His smooth torso resisted all fat and his arms were muscled from years in the gym. A thick trail of hair sprouted just below his navel and led to his curly nest. He wasn't eight but easily seven. I tasted his pre-cum as I buried my face in his bush. I knew he'd cum and cum soon and I wanted that wad in my ass. I pulled my legs up and locked my ankles behind him.
With one steady push Travis was in my hole. Gasping hard, I pulled him deeper, grinding my ass, bucking and heaving. Travis grabbed my shoulders and began to fuck me steadily. Pulling almost all the way out, he glided his pole into my prostate, sending a wave of intense pleasure through my loins. We rocked, in, out, pushing, grinding, quickening, growling, biting, fucking harder. Pulling his body vertical, Travis wrapped his thick forearms around my upper thighs and started pounding my hole. Sweat poured from his nose and pooled in my navel. The bed creaked and my body jolted as he slammed into me. His cock seemed to grow harder and thicker, filling me more with each entry. He plowed me and I rode him hard. I pulled my knees up and felt the stir of an orgasm stirring in my nuts, radiating out. Travis' moans became louder and more frequent. "I'm gonna cum." With each push Travis cried out, "I'm gonna cum, fuck, I'm gonna cum, oh, shit, Hardy, I'm gonna cum so... Ahhhhh." His spunk filled my ass and I felt my cock burn. He pushed forward, arching his back, making sure he was spent, and I reached down to finish myself off. Travis pulled my hands away and dove onto my rod. I had no time to warn him before I exploded into his mouth. He slurped and swallowed, draining my shaft. Dry. We fell back, exhausted. Our hair matted from sweat. As we caught our breath we caressed each other. Like lovers do. Travis pulled himself to my face and kissed me. We lay still and listened to the aftermath. The room grew completely dark and the sound of players and other guests echoed in the breezeway.
For the rest of the season Travis and I would sneak away when time and circumstances permitted. We fucked hard and furiously. We fucked as often as we could. We fucked standing in bathrooms, in empty stadiums, behind buildings, vacant halls. We explored each other with abandon, spending ourselves each time. After the team was eliminated from the playoffs in the first round, Travis was picked up by another franchise and moved to the Arizona desert. I stayed in Florida. We haven't spoken much in the three years since, but when we do there is a familiarity and warmth that comes only from knowing one another so intimately. I often think of Travis when I'm jerking off or getting fucked. And always I drift back to that first time. I can smell him, taste him, feel him pounding my ass. I keep a photo of us taken at a team dinner. His arm is resting on my shoulder and his eyes are glistening. There are storm clouds in the background and if you look closely you can see the rain heading our way.
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