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Ch. 5: Rounding Third
It boils down to this moment: Andy on his knees, a stoic expression hiding from me. His phantom moan occupies my brain. What I know he'd do for me--what he wants me to do to him-- sparks a flame that tingles in my stomach and lodges a lump in my throat. I throb, a single integrated whole. This is what happiness feels like. He means everything and nothing to me right now.
Cuz' it's the bottom of the ninth. (Of course it is.) Two down, a runner on first, and a one run edge in our favor...what difference happiness in this moment?
Crouching behind the plate, his face hidden in the cage of his mask, Andy signs our secret code there in the wedge of muscle and tendons that is the source of his power over me. I fixate on that spot, subconsciously reading his message while lusting for it. I want his cock. Not want. Need.
I remember the craving in his eyes when I doubled up with Cruz. And the ravenous hunger many times before as he worshipped my rock-hard dick with his mouth and both hands, clubbing his face with it. The way he looked at me. Like some existential need as he laid back, opening himself up to me. Like the answer to all the questions in the universe resonated within him. Why was he so hooked?
And how might I know the answer myself?
Two fingers pressed inside his left thigh. It was automatic. Lift knee, release my grip, let it rip. The ball follows a perfect arc along the briefest edge of a single helix. Swing, batter, batter, batter. Swing.
"Strike one!"
Do I dare? And do I dare? There is no time to turn back; I have the question now. Having measured out my life with coffee spoons. Having allowed myself to ask and wonder, and willing myself to find an answer that knows me, I respond. I'm here. It's my right and a major fucking responsibility.
"Strike two!"
I caught you looking.
I'll acknowledge I wasn't looking because I shut down that part of me. I had memories of my father. I had the obligations of my mother. I had a dream. One day.
The guys are on their feet. Coach Hendricks shouts his encouragement. The ESPN crew hovers near the gate at third base, teeing up their questions about my dad, the future, this team. Go for it, they all seem to say. Waiting on a high knee cock, a pause. Up the middle. A slider. Fast and hard. Slow curve. Knuckle ball, sinker, cutter. Pound it. Slam it! Just get this mother fucker out!
***** I hear the click of the door swing closed behind me. He stands with the remote pointed at the TV, ESPN on mute. His surprised look as I overtake him in an instant, a gentle push toward the bed behind him. His legs lift reflexively.
He doesn't know.
As I kiss him, I lift lift lift his shirt and separate to yank it over his head, then I tug tug tug and pull his pants inside out. I nearly rip his baby blue briefs.
I move to his neck and bite. My lips replace my teeth, and I lift them to his ear: "This is for you. And me." My mouth traces a path down his body, latching onto his left nipple, chewing and licking and suckling. It is salty and hard. I move to the other and trigger a similar response.
I hold his ankles in my hands and move to his abs, looking up to expectation filling his face. He wants me to munch his ass and tries to pull his legs back. But I switch hit. No regret in these next five seconds: his fat cock is waiting.
"What the?!" That final word lost when I plant my face in his crotch. I wrap one hand around his pork and spike myself before licking it like a lollipop. It is the most unexpected thrill of my life. Its girth is inexplicable. The pliant steeliness impossible to recreate; a woodsy musk belonging only to him. I want to bite but know I need his cock in other ways for a long long time.
Unless you've tried, you can't fathom the power of giving head. Simple as that. Is it the effacing effect? The big F-U to cultural taboo? The possibility of denuding him or just making him cum?
Perhaps.
"Give me yours, too, buddy." Andy crunches up--his abs ripple on the smooth, flat surface of his torso--pulling at my shoulders to twist me around. I oblige, rotating on his fuck skewer so I am straddling his torso after nearly knocking his skull with my knee. (It's not easy to multitask!)
I start to apologize but instantly feel my stiff dick engulfed in the warm wet cavity of his mouth before squeezing down his tight throat. He gags as he waves me off. Then both hands clutch my cranium as he starts a deliberate face fuck, flexing into my mouth for a final millimeter each time. I grunt. Grunt. Gasp. Stretch. As I see-saw my hips on his face.
He releases my head and pushes at my pelvis. I pull a curly hair off my tongue. I hear him breathing; I feel him thinking; I re-focus my oral efforts. I want the answer and am willing to work for it.
Andy has something up his sleeve, and I nearly chomp off his dick when he licks my hole. No one told me! And yet, why am I so surprised? How could it NOT feel this incredible? Andy's tongue is warm and wet and proboscis-like, and I don't know where to concentrate my feeling: decisions, decisions. But I don't have to choose, thank god. Until he slips a finger inside me.
"Is this OK, bud?" is his question that's moot. I feel...activated. Detonated! Vulnerable, yes, but in a way that lets me relax into it and prods me to say: More. Now. Please. Let me put myself in your hands--or reverse it, literally--and allow someone else to drive for a change. I'm your passenger tonight. I'll ride you.
The sensations overwhelm me. Every hole must be plugged, and I know what comes next as certain as the sun, the inevitable terminus of the narrative I started willingly. The train is, indeed, pulling into the station. I grip his stick in front of my face, squeeze till it turns crimson and plumps more than possible. I simply stare. Fat pickle? How about a fucking tree limb! Imagining. I hear him masticating behind me, and I know it's time. Time to pay the piper and time to call it what it is. I'm hooked. Cock hound. Cock-bound. Whaddya gonna do about it?!
Raise your hand if you've been here before. I haven't. I turn myself around, facing the one holding my future in his....glans. (Sue me.) I look at him. He dares not channel his expectations but I feel his bat nudging behind me. I cup his chin and lean, our lips sealing this pact. I need him to breed me so I can move on with the rest of my life. It's an awesome responsibility, and somebody's gotta do it!
No passing words between us. He puts the bottle in my hand that I turn on end and squeeze into my open palm. Just a dab'll do ya. I reach back and smear it over his head. He watches my reaction while I slide up and down. I put more lube on my fingertips and reach back again to finger my hole and get me slick. I imagine tapping me on the shoulder here, asking how I came to find myself in this position. I'd see my fingers sneaking up my ass while the hot guy below me strokes my cock like a billy club. Fucking wild, I think, and without another thought I skooch back and rest my pucker on his pole.
"Deep breath then push out like shitting bricks." This is meant to be helpful, I know, and so I just go for it. And it seems fine, until I get past the head. Then I feeeeel. ev. er. y. inch.
"Breathe, baby." I want to laugh: such an endearing word in such an odd situation. Fucking is literally the weirdest thing. Strike that. It's literally a pain in the ass; I will not show him, though.
He ruffles my hair and his eyes smile with sympathy. "You're almost there." This cannot be possible, so I reach back to judge for myself. Yup. I am being torn in half. I will bleed to death from my ass, and what will ESPN have to say about that?
It hurts. I'm not gonna lie. My cock is deflating, no matter how hard Andy works it. What I feel behind me is his balls pulled up so tight my finger slides beyond and into his crack. I rub his hole, and his cock pulses inside me, a flash and a plump that I feel everywhere. And then a spark, a woozy buzz that makes my pelvis contract and my dick come back to life. And another: a jolt inside that I feel in my nipples and armpits. Andy must have seen because he smiles and now pistons his hips. "I think we just started your engine, buddy." And although I am stretched in an impossible way, I relax and let my weight fall on him. Christthatfeelssogood!
He pinches my nipple--hard--while jacking me again with his other hand. His eyes never leave my face. I feel myself burning from the attention and, gawd, what he's doing back there? Not myself, I reach for the hand on my nipple and pull it to my mouth, take two, three fingers, sucking up and down, moaning like I'm in heat and needing to feel it everywhere.
"Suck me while I fuck you, stud." Oh yes I will. "It's so fucking hot watching you." I rock back onto his cock then up into his fist. A fingernail scrapes my throat but I don't flinch. He drags fingers back across my tongue, out of my mouth, around my lips.
"Look at me." I lift my heavy lids as far as I can and swallow. I breathe hard every few seconds--like a sigh but one that reeks of pleasure. I am putty. I want him to make me. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" No, but do you know what you've done to me, Andy? His eyes are so kind. I want.... I can't.... It's in me and rubbing my skin from the inside, caressing my belly and it feels like maybe his lips and it feels like happy and I feel I might burst and evaporate and become part of the air around us. Like Wonka-vision. Indeed, like chocolate and kisses and a juicy cock staking its claim up my fuck chute.
"Hey, come back here." I open my eyes again to see Andy's quizzical expression while he methodically pumps my insides and out. "Where are you?"
I laugh. "I'm here." Oh, god, I'm here. I am a sheen of sweat; Andy's forehead is dripping. "You're like a fucking drug, you know?" I am panting. And as I lean toward him he shifts his weight and rolls us over. He presses my quads to my chest, my hammies burning a little from the stretch. But it brings him closer, and I can grip his ass with my outsized reach. That familiar butt. He's in total control here, and I look to his eyes to read what he's feeling. Not necessary; he's going to let me know.
"You're so tight. And warm. And soft in the best way. It's like fucking caramel." He glides in and out like a syncopated butter churn, filling me completely. My hole is stretched, but I grip him, squeezing my glutes and what I can inside. Every time he pushes he grazes that spot, that fat head dragging back and forth across my love nut. Like his fingers across my tongue.
I wish I could see us, and I look around the room for something that reflects. But I'm on my back, so all I see is his head in the mirror over the desk-credenza thingy. If you didn't know, you wouldn't have a clue he's boning someone, just concentrating, extremely fixated on it.
I'm telling you this story; you must think I'm chatty. Trust me: my interior monologue is buried under layers of dirt, a history of familial and social expectations and, maybe hard to believe, a singular focus on throwing a ball 85 miles an hour or more with pinpoint accuracy. Feeling mustn't threaten. I can want more than one thing, or at least I'm beginning to come around to the idea of it.
"Oh, fucking god, Scott, I'm gonna lose it." He bucks a little. "I'm gonna cum; you're making me so hot." This is what abandonment looks like. The good kind. "I can't hold it!" His eyes are scrunching and he looks like he's in thrall. He grips my ankles and holds them high, leaning forward and ramming me harder and harder as his voice starts to rise in pitch and volume. "Fuck, man! I'm there. I can't... Ahhh! Fuck! AHHHhhhhnng!" His body spasms and twitches like I've never felt. Wet heat fills me, and he rubs against my spot again and again, priming my own reaction.
"Shit! Don't stop!" I squeeze with each burst. Because if he stops I will disappear before I know how this kind of story ends. He sets me off. His dick punches a button that trips a wire that opens the floodgates. And in what can only be called an eruption, I douse his belly, my chest, neck, face, and half the state of Nebraska with the hot spunk of the son of a Hall of Famer. This shit is probably worth something to someone! And it keeps coming, and Andy keeps thrusting to keep the faucet running, as difficult as that must be.
I need to catch my breath.
***** I don't know how much time passes before I realize he's looking at me. He's in sleeping shorts, lying beside me on top of the wrinkled sheet. "You took it like a champ." Must be the afterglow.
"I am a champion." I smile.
"We are champs. WE." He points with his head indicating the trophy on the small table; mine's in a duffle back in my room. I'm proud and happy for the whole team. I am. But that's a world away; this is me here, now, moving alongside him, bent elbow, my head propped in my hand as I rest the other on his broad smooth chest.
His heart beats. I tap along its rhythm as I open my mouth: "Yes. WE are."
We lay there a bit, me lifting my head to trace a fingertip path across his pecs and nipples and throat. He's almost purring. His belly rises and falls, up now down, settling into a pace that feels like sleep. I glance at his face, anxious I missed my moment; he's watching, a smile glittering in his eyes. What a beautiful man.
The wind up: "Hey, Andy. Can I tell you something?" I look down then, feeling a blush.
"Always." He reaches two fingers to my temple and lets them slide over my cheekbone till they rest on my lips to turn my face back to him. "What is it?"
And although he's not inside me, he is in me. "I think...I think this is what love is supposed to feel like." Holding my breath, trying to keep us whole.
Andy raises his eyebrows and snorts. "No, Scott. I think that's wrong." I feel a puncture and nearly drown but freeze my body. The beat he makes me wait. "This IS what love feels like." And he reaches behind my neck and pulls me in, stopping just as our lips brush together so what he says next he says into my mouth. "I've been in love with you behind your back, Scotty." He bites my lower lip, and I think nothing else might matter. But then: "And you love me." I feel his smile before melting into this kiss, and I think, I do.
And I say into his mouth, "I do."
At the edge of the room, Sports Center runs a story about the game, focusing on the son of a Phillies superstar who died too young. Neither of us notices.