Hot Jocks, page 8
“Oh, god!” he moaned, clawing at the wall, writhing on the end of my dick.
I crowded his back and crammed his butt, pressing my peeper to the spy slot again. The b-ballers were still going at it wet and steamy, buttocks glistening and shivering, dongs dripping and dancing as I pumped my cock back and forth in cheerleader lad’s gripping bum. This was 4-D action better than the film department could deliver.
Plastering my hands to the wall and my eye to the hole, I pistoned Sergio’s ass, smacking sharply up against his rippling cheeks, stuffing his sucking chute full of knowledge. He tore a hand off the wall and grabbed hold of his own smooth-shafted erection, fisting in rhythm to my dicking. I rocked and cocked him, the heat and humidity on our side of the wall as thick and heavy as that on the other side.
“Fuck, I’m gonna come in your ass, Sergio!” I bellowed, fast-fucking the pom-pom sexpot, my flapping balls gone to boil. The anal and visual stimulation was just too much for me; this was going to be a crash course in homoerotic studies for Sergio—the ass-celerated program.
“Yes, please come in my butt!” he cried, jerking for joy. His gorgeous bronze body shuddered with more than just my furious cock-thumping, his prick going off in his flying hand and dousing the wall with sizzling sperm.
I churned my hips and Sergio’s bung in a frenzy. The hoop boys were leaving the shower room, prancing out of sight in a sweaty blur of swinging dicks and clenching cheeks. My bumsplitting cock surged out of control, and I slammed up against little Sergio with a roar of ecstasy, spunking his chute and splashing his bowels.
My body jellied and my brain turned to mush, as I opened up the stunning student’s mind and ass to the exquisite pleasures of an endless river of heated semen, even as I stared through a glazed eye and a crude peephole at the water-dappled studs exiting the shower room.
At the exhausted, panting end of it all, Sergio spun around in my arms and lovingly gazed up at me with his wet baby-browns. “Are you going to arrest me?” he pouted.
I cleared my throat, and some of my head. “I think you’ve, uh, learned your lesson—for tonight,” I replied sagely, if not by the book.
He kissed me softly and shyly on the lips, smiling. “More community service same time, same place tomorrow night, Officer Chad?”
“Agreed,” I exhaled, satisfied to let the punishment fit the crime in this case. The young man could really learn from his mistake, in the hands of a qualified teacher like myself. And he had certainly given me something to cheer about.
RINGER DAVE
Dale Chase
I take the throw at second with a runner closing fast and think I’ve turned the double play right up to the second he catches my leg and sends me flying. It’s one of those moments that breaks into pieces: the smack of the ball into my glove, cheers from the stands, the thunk of my foot on the bag, and then the collision, limbs tangling while over at first my errant throw has left the runner safe. I untangle myself from the player who upended me and that’s when it hits, another collision, only this time it’s welcome.
We’re still on the ground, the little crowd’s excitement dying down, and because of what’s happening inside me it’s like they’ve pegged this other action. And it makes me want to divert them, call out “Hey, it’s only a game,” which is a total lie because this guy is drilling me all over again, this time with an unmistakable look. When I stand up I offer my hand, pull him to his feet, and that brief connection confirms it all. What passes between us is totally electric.
Since he’s out I don’t get a chance to pursue things on the field. He trots to his dugout and I’m left to resume play. I go into my crouch but keep glancing over and there he is, standing away from the others with his hip thrown forward just enough to make it a come-on but then the ball is in play and I’m taking a hard grounder, tossing it to Bingham at second. Let him take it this time. We’re in the third inning and I start calculating how long ’til I’m up again.
This isn’t some county rec-park league, it’s a highly competitive bunch of law firms that have been playing fast-pitch softball for longer than I’ve been a member of the bar. My firm, Gardner, Cary & Crow, is in second place; the hottie’s firm, Llewellyn & Snow, is in third, and he’s a late addition, not on the team when the season began. I look around and see everything suddenly changed: ballpark greener, sounds sharper, night air more invigorating. Even the bag at second seems firmer. I kick it as I head back to short after covering second again and then the inning is over. Trotting off the field, I take a long look at my new heartthrob.
I’m up first and aware he’s watching when I nail an outside pitch and send it deep to right center, getting myself a stand-up double. He plays second base so he’s in the vicinity and before play resumes, he cruises over behind me and says, “Nice ass,” then circles back to his position. I want to hang around but get the steal sign so I’m gone on the next pitch, sliding into third where I’m out. As I pick myself up I turn and give him a look. His reply is a wicked grin.
If there is a way to fix a game, I am going to find it, because there is something hot about this on-field action. If he drills the ball at me in his next at bat, my plan is to bobble it so he’ll get on base, but I can’t overpower instinct and when it does come my way, I automatically scoop it up, throw to first and get him out. I’m in full motion before I realize I’m going against the plan, but it’s too late. As he heads back to the dugout he gives me an exaggerated hangdog slump that cracks me up.
The whole night is like this, and I’m in a kind of pleasure hell because I don’t want to talk with my teammates, I just want to concentrate on that second baseman. My dick is hard half the time. I suspect his is too. He’s a big guy but moves like he was born to play the game. Dark-haired, olive-skinned, he fills out his Llewellyn tee to perfection. As if to underscore his talent, he gets on base every inning after I threw him out.
He leads off the fifth by crushing the ball so hard it sticks in the left field chain-link fence. I watch his home-run trot and as much as I hate us giving up the run, I enjoy him cruising past me. As he goes by I’m speechless, but my dick tries to crawl out of my jeans.
I bunt my way on in the final inning, then steal second. He takes a perfect throw and I should be out but he drops it, the crowd issuing a collective groan, as I’m safe. And I know he did it on purpose because he’s too good to make that kind of error. “Thanks,” I tell him while he hovers, acting like he’ll nab me when I step off the base.
“Anytime,” he replies, “and I do mean anytime.”
“Later,” I say.
“You’re on.”
Then he’s back in position and I’m trying to concentrate on the game because it’s now tied. I’m the winning run but that doesn’t matter anymore. Oh, I want to score but not on the bases. Then Murphy, our powerhouse paralegal, hits one to the fence and that’s it. I scramble home to cheers, then welcome Murph, a big bear of a man who I’ve always thought would be great in bed. As we do the postgame cheers, I glance over to my opponent, see him taking time changing his shoes. When the hubbub dies down, I linger as well, laughing with my teammates but begging off the postgame celebration. They gradually disperse and finally it’s just the two of us in opposite dugouts. And then, with a resounding clunk, the lights go out.
I saunter over, realizing whatever is going to happen between us is going to happen here, and I get a rise out of that. The ballpark is a world unto itself when empty, a great dark blanket filled with promise.
“You’re new to the company,” I say when I reach him.
“Couple weeks. Dave Jakes.”
“Well, thanks for the error at second. That cost you.”
“Just a game,” he says, sliding an arm around my waist. “So who are you?”
“John Perello,” I tell him just before I kiss him, and then we are off. We work our way out to center field and sink into the grass. It’s warm, one of those still summer nights that demands you do things. As Dave unfastens my jeans he says he’s never done a shortstop. “Actually, no ballplayers,” he adds.
“Me either.”
The ball field, located at the edge of the city, is in one corner of a large park bordered by tracts of fifties-style ranch houses. It’s one of those pockets of humanity that settles down quickly after dark, families stuffed with dinner and parked in front of the television. On the street side the field has a nice row of shrubs that I’ve never thought much about until now. They, along with a benevolent sliver of moon, offer privacy.
Lying on the grass, I get Dave’s tee up and am licking his tits while he has my dick out, pulling not with urgency but with the expert hand of a man who enjoys a slow climb. I work my tongue down his smooth chest to his stomach and then sit up long enough to open his jeans and find out what he’s got and oh, mercy, does he have a surprise for me. What springs up is not only a long piece of meat but a thick one which, even in the weak light, manages to impress. I take hold, enjoying the girth, but am soon overtaken by the urge to climb on. I get out of my jeans and underwear, find a condom in my pocket, get it down over this delectable salami, then stand over him. I pause to savor the sight of what I am about to receive, then begin a slow descent, purposely torturing myself with anticipation. Dave loses patience and demands, “C’mon, gimme a squat!”
“In good time,” I reply, thighs tight as I ease myself down enough to let his knob skate my ass. I balance for a few seconds, then get serious, spreading myself to allow the fat plug entrance.
I have never had such a dick as this. Soon as the head pops in, I am in ecstasy and I let him know it, carrying on like a madman as I take it inch by inch, thighs now screaming for me to drop onto the target. But I take it slowly, savoring his blazing into new territory; it’s the dick of a lifetime and oh, man, I’ve almost got it all.
Dave is going nuts under me and finally raises up to grab me at the waist and pull me down onto him, ramming his honker up into my gut. Once he’s fully inside he starts to thrust and I start to rock, which allows him to lie back. We get a good rhythm going, and then I pull myself up so I can get the full thrust, rising almost off him, then dropping back down which spears me all over again, and I keep doing this, going after the impact of that first thrust until I’m spraying jizz all up his chest.
While I’m unloading I throw my head back like I’m about to howl at the moon but issue no more than grunts to the stars. And then I’m empty and coming down and thinking how there should have been a comet or meteor or something streaking across the sky, something to light things up like he just did me. But then Dave starts to buck, ramming into me while gripping my waist and growling like some lion who’s landed his prey.
When he’s done, he falls back and I climb off. He pulls off the condom and I see he’s still half-hard, magnificent cock lolling like it’s reluctant to admit it’s done. I stretch out beside him.
“Some good ride,” I tell him between long breaths.
“You bet,” he manages, and for a while we lie in the grass. Then his hand reaches for mine, which takes things to a whole other level, that squeeze just as intimate as what we’ve done, if not more so.
“I wish I played center field,” I tell him after a while. We’re still holding hands, still half-naked. “How cool would it be to come trotting out here during a game and know it’s sacred ground? Softball and fucking. Great combo.”
“Instead some guy’s going to be running around out here without a clue.”
“When do we play you guys again?” I ask.
“Next month. Should be one more game between us before the playoffs.”
“Gonna be some battle what with us so close in the standings,” I offer. “What do you do at Llewellyn & Snow?”
“Uh, consulting at present, possible permanent position.”
“You’re a ringer!” I cry, sitting up. “You don’t even work there, do you, you’re just on board for your bat.”
He sits up, starts to dress. “I’m an employee, I’m being paid for my work.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem, just a surprise,” I tell him as I too pull up my pants. “Ringer Dave.”
When we’re both back together, I put my arms around him. “With a dick like that, I don’t care what you do for the firm, I just care what you do for me. Now are we headed for your place or mine?”
“Uh, well, uh, I really have to call it a night. Early morning and all that; you know how it is.”
I actually do know because law firms pretty much take over their associates’ lives. Fifteen-hour days are often the norm and I’m due in the office at seven A.M., but who cares when I’ve found this incredible guy. But I can’t argue, even if I want to, even if I suspect he doesn’t work there at all.
“Okay then, when can I see you?”
“You know O’Rourke’s on Seventh?”
“I can find it,” I tell him.
“Friday night at eight?”
“You’re on.”
His car turns out to be a motorcycle and after a long kiss good night, I watch him settle onto the big brute. I don’t begin to know what make or model, not being into bikes, but he looks good astride it. His helmet is one of those black shells that meet minimal helmet laws but probably don’t protect you much, so he’s a rebel too. As he kicks the bike into gear he nods and then rumbles away. I stand watching until he turns a corner, reminding myself again that there was a softball game and we won. We’re still in second place. Trouble is, that doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot anymore.
Next day is the usual insanity at work but I find time to check Llewellyn & Snow’s website to search their staff. Scrolling down through partners, associates, paralegals, clerks, I know I won’t find Dave Jakes, and if I ask why they’d just say he was new and not yet up on the site. I wonder if he’s even in the building and think about dropping in over there. I know enough guys from the league to justify some inquiry, but when I start trying to construct specifics, I see myself as ridiculous and let it go. So he’s a ringer. They still lost the game. And I sure as hell won.
Talk about a long week: I jerk off in the shower morning and night, always to the memory of Dave’s fat cock going up my chute. The guy is really something even when he’s not in the room.
Friday morning’s jerk-off session is total anticipation. I think about letting it alone, letting things build up for the big show that night, but I can’t not think about Dave, which gets me stiff, and what’s a guy to do? Besides, seeing him in person will juice me to the max.
O’Rourke’s turns out to be a grungy biker bar and I have a bit of trepidation going inside. Dave is already there, laughing with a bunch of scruffies at the bar, and when I come in he introduces me as a hell of a shortstop before getting me off into a back booth with a couple of beers. Opposite each other, we sit holding back an onslaught as we drink and talk about our upcoming games on Tuesday and our respective Thursday practice sessions.
“That Murphy is something,” Dave says of our paralegal grizzly.
“The man can hit,” I reply, “but so can you. Where’d you learn to play like that?”
He shrugs. “Played ball soon as I was old enough to hold a bat. My dad’s a baseball nut. He taught me the mechanics of hitting, said coaches never stress it enough.”
“Seems he was right.”
I hate small talk. I want to fuck, and yet I also want to know this guy better. But if we fuck we will get to know each other better and if we’re at his house, better still.
“So are we going to drink the night away or get serious?” I ask, dick so stiff I want to get it out then and there.
“What do you have in mind?” he says with a grin.
“More of what I got on the field and I don’t mean sliding into second base.”
He finishes his beer. “Let’s go.”
“Your place or mine?” I ask.
“Yours.”
I want to ask why mine, but my dick overcomes any objection and Dave follows me to my downtown condo. In the elevator I’m all over him, groping his crotch while he sucks my tongue. Once we’re inside my place, nothing is said. Clothes go flying and we don’t care that the drapes are open. He does me standing, bent over the back of a chair.
“God, yes,” I moan, trying to say more but lost to the feel of him going at me. My dick doesn’t fire this time but stands hard and dripping and when Dave begins to pound me, grunting with each thrust, I know he’s coming a bucket load.
When he’s empty he surprises me. He pulls out, tosses the condom, and says, “Now me. Where’s the bedroom?”
I pull him down the hall and he leaps onto my bed, raises his legs to present me his butthole. “Fuck me, man,” he says.
I scramble for a condom from the nightstand, suit up, slather on lube and get in position, lamplight allowing a good view of his juicy pucker. Guiding my dick to it, I spear him in one hard thrust that gets a “Yeah” out of him and then we’re off.
Doing this guy is the best. Seeing that big dick of his standing tall while I go at him gets me hotter than I could believe possible, and when he starts pulling and wagging the thing like some oversized toy, I’m driven totally around the bend. There’s no slow speed to this fuck, it’s full out all the way, which makes it way too quick. And watching him as I do it is the ultimate because there is no better look than a guy with his legs in the air, taking cock.
After this we collapse into a heap and sleep before a word passes between us and when I wake he is gone. And it isn’t even midnight. “Shit,” is all I say before rolling over and going back to sleep.
The result of this departure is a dented sort of weekend in which I see a movie with friends, go to brunch with my brother and his wife, and hear myself engaging in conversation but with a crimp in everything because I carry disappointment around like some backpack full of mud. And in with the disappointment is a pissed-off mood that, by Monday, has me going to Llewellyn & Snow to see if Dave really works there.
