After a number of years reading Nifty stories, this is my first contribution. It's fiction, and probably a bit slow-developing for some tastes. Any similarities to actual people or places are purely coincidental.
If it's not legal for you to read this, please move along to something more appropriate. Copyright K. Moreno.
First Pitch
Chapter 1
Colby sat in his locker as he dressed for the afternoon's baseball game. It wasn't so much dressing as hydrating. An early heat wave was sending the temperatures soaring and they would be playing in the heat and humidity of the midwestern afternoon. Most of the rest of the team had gone out for batting practice. Colby waited in the cooler, empty, locker room, dreading having to go out into the May afternoon. If this kept up, it was going to be a long summer.
He looked every bit a baseball player. His 6'2 frame carried about 215 pounds. As a catcher, he had thick, strong legs. His shoulders were broad enough for his last name, LaMontange, to be sewn across the back without curving.
In street clothes, you might have thought California surfer with his curly blonde hair, blue eyes and beard cut to about a week's worth of stubble. But when he spoke, there was just a hint of southern twang to dispel the surfer notion.
Three years ago, he'd been one of the top catcher prospects in the minor leagues. A shoulder injury and two surgeries later, his professional baseball career was hanging by a thread in the independent league. Colby had always worn his uniform old school style with high socks. As he pulled them on each day, he could hear his grandfather talking about the way the uniform should be worn.
He pulled his pinstripe jersey off the hanger and slid it on, buttoning it and then pulling his pants up. He grabbed his protective cup and tucked it into his jock strap before buttoning the uniform pants and zipping the zipper. He had the belt to go, but always left that for last. His own baseball superstition.
Colby reached into the equipment bag and pulled out his shin guards and chest protector. He buckled them into place as he ran the scouting report through his head. It was time to head down to the bullpen to warm up the starting pitcher. His catcher's gear on, he stood up and buckled the belt, grabbed the equipment bag and walked toward the dugout.
For most of his life, Colby's nickname was CJ, short for Colby Jeremiah. But in this clubhouse, he'd been dubbed Monty, short for his last name LaMontagne. In the dugout, he set the equipment bag in its usual spot, grabbed his catcher's mitt, helmet and mask and started toward the bullpen, when he heard the coach bark, "Monty!"
"What's up, coach?"
"Sergio's going to warm up the lefty. We've got a wounded veteran throwing out the first pitch since it's Memorial Day. He seems pretty nervous about it. See if you can get him to relax a bit before he plants the pitch 15 feet in front of the plate."
"Ok, coach."
Looking at a scrap of paper, the coach said, "his name is Lance Wilkinson. Marine sergeant. Did two tours in Iraq and got hurt last year in Afghanistan. Don't let him make a fool of himself."
"Got it."
Sgt. Wilkinson was standing by the screen behind home plate. Coach was right, he did look uncomfortable. Before he left the dugout, Colby took a first baseman's glove from his bag.
A doe-eyed intern wearing a too-tight tank top was babbling at the mid- late-20s sergeant who didn't look like he was hearing a word she was saying. When Colby approached, she interrupted her sentence. "Ooh. And this is Colby. He's one of the nicest players, and are you going to be catching the pitch?"
"Hi Amber. Yes, I'm going to get Sgt. Wilkinson ready to go." Colby moved in and with both mitts tucked under his left arm, extended his right hand to shake with the Marine.
"Sgt. Wilkinson, thank you for your service, sir. I'm grateful for all you've done."
Rather sheepishly, Lance replied, "thank you." The Marine was dressed in his service uniform, and Colby noticed that it fit him well. Colby was wearing wrap around sun glasses, so his eyes wandered some, but he was careful to make sure his eyes didn't linger too long.
What he didn't realize was that Lance was doing the same thing to him - though his mirrored aviator style glasses gave him a little more cover. Lance took in the athletic figure in front of him and fought the urge to drool. The pinstripes pointed toward the crotch of the rather tight uniform pants.
He knew the ballplayer was wearing a protective cup, but there was no mistaking the way the uniform fit. "Are you kidding me? They send a walking wet dream up here to talk to me," Lance thought to himself. "Why not a scrawny infielder or lanky pitcher?"
Lance was lost in his thoughts when Colby asked, "so how's that arm? You play much ball?"
"No sir. Football was king around my house growing up."
"Well, why don't you and I stretch it out a bit so that you don't plant this pitch in the dirt."
Lance nodded.
Colby handed Lance the glove and a baseball and walked a few steps back toward first base. The two men tossed the ball back and forth. Colby with ease and Lance with growing effort as Colby continue to step backward after every other toss.
"Fuck," Lance thought to himself, "does this guy have any idea how hot he is? He doesn't come off like a conceited jock at all. He might actually be human."
Before Lance realized it, he was easily tossing the baseball from home plate to first base, much further than the distance he would have to throw it from the pitcher's mound.
Colby caught the last toss and realized they were about to play the national anthem. Then it would be time for the first pitch. He trotted back toward home plate.
The anthem singer belted out a stirring rendition of the patriotic song and then a series of fireworks were fired from beyond left field. Colby wondered why they shot fireworks for day games when you really couldn't see them. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lance's body language change. He was frozen.
"You ok, sir?" He asked.
No response.
"Sgt. Wilkinson, are you ok?"
This time the response was inaudible. Was it nerves? What was it?
The Public Address announcer started to introduce Lance and Amber-the-perky-intern appeared at the Marine's side to walk him out to the pitcher's mound. After reciting his career accolades, the crowd cheered him loudly and Lance reluctantly waved. Colby dropped into a squat behind home plate and motioned toward the Marine.
He was completely frozen. Colby had no idea what had changed. But he knew what was about to happen. This pitch could end up anywhere. As easy as they had been tossing the ball back and forth just moments before, the sergeant was now a wreck. Lance uncorked a pitch that sailed high and wide to Colby's left. He lept to his feet and managed to catch it before it sailed to the screen behind him.
The crowd applauded but Lance never heard them. With Colby's glove on his left hand he walked quickly toward the gate. The photographer and intern tried to get him to slow down for the customary photo with the player that caught the pitch. But Lance was getting off the field as fast as he could. He didn't want to be there.
The photographer shrugged and Colby walked back toward the third base dugout while the intern scampered after the Marine.
"Thought I told you to get him loosened up, Monty," the coach barked.
"He was doing great until the fireworks. Poor guy vapor locked," Colby replied glumly.
In the short time he'd been out there, Colby had worked up a pretty good sweat. He put his catcher's mitt down and got a cold towel from the equipment manager, wrapping it around his neck. "As men in uniform go Lance was pretty damn good looking," Colby thought to himself. "I think there was a pretty nice body under that uniform."
Colby's brief daydream was interrupted by the starting pitcher standing next to him. "Yo. You ready to do this?"
"Always," he said confidently. Colby started to trot out on the field. "Let's go."
Three and a half hours later, Colby again sat in front of his locker, now wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and ice bags on his knees. The coaches were urging the team to get organized as the team was leaving on a road trip and had a 10-hour bus ride ahead.
Colby was organizing his gear in the oversized equipment bag in front of him. "If anybody sees our friend the Marine, he's still got my first base glove," He said to no one in particular.
Half an hour later Colby was fully loaded down with a backpack on, a box lunch under his arm, and his suitcase and equipment bag in tow. He Colby slowly walked toward the bus and a long ride to Minnesota. He stopped at his well aged Toyota SUV with oxidized blue paint and expired Tennessee plates. Rummaging through the back seat filled with sports equipment and guitar cases, he found a well worn first base glove and tucked it in the oversized equipment bag. Colby grabbed one of the guitar cases and slammed the door.
The equipment manager, anxious to get the bus going and not upset the coach urged Colby toward the bus. Everyone else was on board. "We're leaving!" Colby put his gear under the bus and the driver closed the bins behind him.
Chapter 2
Across town, Lance had been home for several hours. Home was, much to his chagrin, his parents house and the same room he'd slept in growing up. He was upset. Frustrated. He cursed the medication. Cursed the war. Cursed the scars. Cursed the fear he couldn't escape.
In the garage, he tinkered with the engine of a classic Triumph motorcycle he was rebuilding. As the night grew late, Lance's father emerged from the house and walked straight to the stereo and turned it off. "Don't care if you stay out here all night, but your mother and I don't have to try to sleep through that crap, and neither do the neighbors. Now. You know there's appointments in the morning, right?"
"Yes, sir." Lance replied curtly and without looking up. His father retreated to the house.
Lance kept an eye on the lights, and about 45 minutes after the house was dark, he walked in, drank a tall glass of cold water and climbed the stairs to his room without turning on a light. He dropped his worn jeans to the floor and climbed into bed hoping that sleep would come quickly.
In the night, Lance woke with a start. His pulse was quick. He was hot. But this was something he hadn't felt in a long time. He ran his hand down his t-shirt covered torso until he reached his groin. His cock was standing straight out, fully hard and sticky.
He wrapped his fingers around his cock which was wet with pre-cum. It felt good. As he started to stroke himself, he let out a moan. In the faint light, he looked down. He hadn't been this horny since before he was hurt. His cock was so hard it hurt.
Lance slid his boxers off. He continued to stroke his cock. With his free hand, he rubbed a nipple and gasped. Stroking faster, he lowered his hand and felt his balls. He cupped them and tugged on them. It all felt so good. He could feel himself building toward orgasm.
He closed his eyes. Breathing heavier, he envisioned Colby. He was unzipping the ball player's uniform and freeing his large cock from a jock strap. He tasted it, taking the tip of Colby's rapidly hardening cock in his mouth. Oh yes. It had been so long.
Stroking faster and harder, Lance groaned. In his mind, he was sucking Colby's cock with all his might.
Responding to the furious stroking, his cock was dripping and covering his fingers in precum. Imagining the taste of the jock's cock, he stopped stroking for a moment and brought his sticky fingers to his lips and tasted himself. He imagined the jock's smell and taste as he sucked his fingers. At that moment he wasn't even touching his cock, but he felt all seven inches throb.
Lance scooped another couple drops off the tip of his cock and brought them to his lips. As he started to slowly jerk his cock again, he sucked the fingers into his mouth and soaked them. He wished he was tasting a real cock. With his right hand wrapped around his cock, he took the wet fingers of his left hand and pointed them at his ass.
Stroking faster, he felt the cool wet fingers tease his hole. Legs spread wide, he shoved a finger inside himself. He gasped audibly. He moved it around a little and moaned. He wouldn't even get a second finger in. Lance felt his balls draw close and past the point of no return. He shuttered as his cock erupted. Lance heard the first shot of cum splatter on the pillow beside him and felt at least four more shots land on his chest.
Breathing heavily, he continued to stroke his still hard cock. He hadn't cum that much without getting fucked in ages. His cock finally started to soften and he released it from his hand.
He pulled off the t-shirt that was now bunched up around his shoulders and wiped his stomach clean. He tossed the t-shirt to the side of the bed and curled up. "Was that real?" He wondered to himself. "Did I just whack off to that damn ball player?"
The alarm clock came quickly and Lance awoke naked in bed with his boxers around one ankle. His morning wood was harder than he remembered it being in a long time. As he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, he saw the t-shirt he'd used as a cum rag a few hours before. "What the hell," he mumbled aloud.
He stood up and kicked his boxers to the side. He walked toward the bathroom, his mostly stiff cock leading the way. Under the spray of the shower, he soaped his body, his hands lingering on his cock and balls longer than usual. Lance gave thought to stroking off again.
His mother's shrill voice ended any thought of that as he heard her bellow through the door to the bedroom, "your appointment is in 45 minutes, Lance!" He sighed. His cock faded. He turned the water off and stepped out from the shower.
He quickly dressed and grabbed his wallet and keys. With as much energy as he'd had in some time, he walked down stairs and out the front door, to his truck. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Something caught his eye. He looked into the passenger seat and saw the baseball glove from the day before. "Well," Lance thought aloud, "this is awkward."
To be continued....
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