Home Run

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This is a work of pure fiction intended for adult readers of legal adult age, at least 18 years-old and older. Anyone younger should leave now. My stories involve sex in various forms between consenting persons and should not be construed as a guideline for living anyone's everyday life.

HOME RUN Part 2

By

Greylock Writer

The next two weeks were a blur of bliss with these new feelings of camaraderie with the team, my friendship with Rick Quick and the tiniest hope that our raw feelings were more than a convenient lust. I half expected Rick to pull into himself afraid our new secret relationship might shine on him like a very public question of his character.

But instead of making our favorite MVP cautious, Rick Quick became outgoing, gregarious, more passionate about things other than playing baseball than anyone could ever remember. His generosity grew whether it be in time spent helping us lesser mortals with our baseball skills or money directed to those who needed a bit of help. Back then, many young players had basic rookie contracts and were paid the league minimum. A lot of them had to go home and work another job during the off season. I'd be one of them. But Rick knew when to pick up a check or pay for a deserving night out. The team players, trainers, bat boys, coaches all saw him with even more esteem, a greater awe. I was fortunate enough to be given a bit of credit as the lucky mascot who broke a bad streak.

As Fan Appreciation Day wound up our time in the Grapefruit League in Arizona, we stood and signed autographs for more than 90 minutes. Those who got Rick to sign acted like they had won the lottery. If they ended up with me, they gave me a puzzled look not knowing who I was, then accepted my awkward squiggle. For some, though, an autograph was a promise of the season ahead. And who knew what obscure players might one day achieve legendary status? The Cubs had a history of churning out stars even if they had trouble churning out championships.

When we got back to our room though, when the door was locked and the lights were dim, we were settling into a one-on-one, equal footing. And we needed that because spring training was winding up and the more grueling travel of the regular season was just ahead. Once we left Mesa, the games would count for real and the pressures would increase.

The urgency of white hot lust had ebbed as we settled into each other. Back in the hotel, I just took a good hard look at Rick and thanked fate -- or whatever -- that had tossed us together. Sure we both grew up in Sprindgdale, but four years separated us. I was aware of his exploits, but he was totally unaware of me until I interviewed him for our hometown newspaper a few weeks ago. I haven't described Rick because I assumed everyone knew him from all the games on TV and all the pictures in the press.

Right now, Rick seemed to exist just for me. So, I just held fast to his perfect face, so symmetrical, such a square jaw, his short dark auburn hair with sneaky ginger highlights and the deep blue eyes that seemed to have X-ray vision. Maybe that was only when he look at me. Only his wry, crooked smile seemed to spoil the picture of perfection, but in fact made it more appealing.

Tonight, our next to last in The Valley of the Sun, we started with sweet, swapped kisses. We licked along each other's necks and cheeks, blew soft puffy breaths of air up our necks and into our ears. We tickled each other physically and emotionally like teenagers still exploring our developing senses of self and sensuality. There was an onset of security.

Rick made a bit of a show about stripping out of his cool business casual clothes and getting down to a new black jock I'd never seen. He beckoned me with a finger and unbuttoned my shirt with a tortured slowness, staring straight into my eyes, drilling right into my head. Playfully, he licked his lips as he worked my tighty whities down an inch, then back up. He hooked his thumbs on either side and wriggled them lower until my tangle of blond pubic hair showed the fleshy root of my happy twitching prick. He edged them up again. Finally, I just yanked the damn things off and pressed into him, my hard cock frotting on his still trapped 8-incher in that bulging black jock. We ground into each other playfully as we kissed.

Often we stopped and just rubbed our fingers across our bodies. We tasted each other. We sniffed. I really wasn't a whole lot more experienced than Rick and was surprised that the smell and taste of his armpits was as intoxicating as any of the anejo tequilas now trending in the bars. His scent was both sugary and sharp and Rick seemed to almost buckle at the knees as I gave those pits a thorough spit scouring while we were still standing toe-to-toe. His raging hardon would jump and dance as I ate his underarms, then it started drooling pre-cum in thick white streams that coursed down his veiny cock. I regularly went down to slurp that jizz all into my eager mouth before we made a mess on the hotel carpet.

"They expect some damage," Rick laughed as I tidied up his splooge. "Ballplayers ain't the daintiest guests. Or is this now part of the deal?" He raised an eyebrow and I laughed back at him, grasping him in a big, happy, bear hug. "That whole cleanliness is next to Godliness thing?"

"You're my God, baby. Maybe everyone's"

"You know, Mr. Matt Parks, you little bastard, you're that real life straight arrow everybody used to make me out to be." Rick seemed quiet and sincere.

"Oh, you are still that damn straight arrow to the public," I responded. "Only I know you're a little bent."

"More than a little," he said bringing his lips to mine with some serious crushing action. "Much more than a fucking little."

Hhhmm. I'd never heard him swear before. Where was this headed?

Then he ground his crotch into me and I forgot about the psychology. Was he wanting to get down and dirty, really dirty?

I was content to let Rick do with me as he pleased. Just oral? OK. Cuddling and some mutual JO? Fine by me. If he wanted to take me hard and waste my ass hammering me to an encompassing ecstacy? All the better. Fuck me, baby, fuck me. Just bring it the hell on.

Yet, tonight seemed devoted to tenderness and sweetness. We gently stroked each others hard cocks as we kissed. There was depth to the lovemaking with an understated fervor that seemed to fit our changing circumstances.

"My place or yours?" Rick teased. He nuzzled more and as his lips slid down my throat I was more than ready for his destination, a determined lengthy suck. "Oh, you are ready," he purred as he licked up my precum without touching my excited dick.

And he was set to plunge down on me to start that exquisite dance of lips and tongue and cock, the phone rang sharply. We looked at each other and didn't answer. Rick began his sensuous journey again from my neck to my tingling nipples down to my waiting erection. I was rolling his full balls between my fingers.

Again the damn phone. We looked at each other. It kept ringing. I reached out and grabbed it.

Our grizzled third base coach, Al Potts, Pottsy to all of us, barked out his question. "Youse guys chowed yet?"

"No," I started to say we planned to order in.

"Good," he said. "Get your baby asses down to the banquet room. I forgot to tell youse, Mickey's got a spread laid out and he wants to go over the opening day lineup as we eat it up."

"Now?" I asked.

"Five minutes ago, princess, if that's all right with you and the stud."

"Sure," I told him. Princess? Pottsy often made inappropriate comments. Still...... I wondered.

"Rick is around, ain't he?" Pottsy sounded like he expected that Rick might be out somewhere.

"Yeah," I said. "He was just about to get something to drink."

"Can it," he said. "Get your Ricky boy down here. He's the fuckin' center of attention after all and we gotta get him primped and primed before we get back to Wrigley. We got a whole new series of commercials featuring his bony ass."

"Wilco," I affirmed as I settled the receiver in and clued Rick in on the meeting. "Some ole shit, I guess," he laughed. "I clean forgot this last minute meeting stunt crap." He stuck his tongue in my mouth and slapped my butt. "This can wait a while."

It'll have to," I said, disappointed we faced a command performance.

The gathering was OK. The food was nothing special. MickeyD's might have been better. The socializing was all right, too. After all, we already were together all the time. Our manager Mickey Walsh did make some news. Rick was slotted in at cleanup. Again. There had been some speculation that he might move up to the three hole to get a few more at bats during the long season ahead. But he stayed just where he'd been the past couple seasons, hitting fourth, batting cleanup.

The big surprise, for me, was that I made the team. I'd shown an ability to field a number of positions and had hit .288 in my three brief weeks of spring training, enough to get me to The Show as a rookie. But I still suspected that I was heading to Cincinnati for Opening Day because I had calmed Rick Quick, our biggest attraction, and restored his power prowess after his mid-training rocky patch. The Cubbies' superstar was in my corner and I'd get a legitimate look in real games in this ongoing pinch-me-again fantasy.

We were slated for Thursday's Season Opener in Cincinnati. The Reds, as the oldest team in pro baseball, traditionally hosted the first game of season, then took a day off as all the other teams swung into action. The Cubs would play the Reds again on Saturday and Sunday. Then we would head up to Milwaukee and down to St. Louis before actually playing our first home game in Chicago. That should enable us to round into form a bit and get ready for the fans -- and the famous blustery winds and ivied walls -- in the baseball cathedral called Wrigley Field.

It was a tense battle with the Reds. They took a 2-1 lead after eight innings by scraping out two runs in the bottom on the eight on our scratchy middle relief. But after Stash Powlinski doubled with two out in the top of the ninth, Rick blasted a majestic home run to left-center and we held on for the win. Whew! I never got into the game, but my heart was in my throat the whole time. Afterwards most of us went to a German restaurant downtown where we ate plenty of schnitzel and most of us slammed down more than a couple beers each. Even Rick had a couple, raising more than a few eyebrows.

I joined him and a couple others walking around a pretty dead downtown afterward until most of the beer was flushed out of our systems. Rick caught my eye and I nodded. We were ready to retire and got a cab back to our room.

"Nice game," I cooed as I locked our door and draped my arms around him.

"Two hits with a dinger. I'll take it to start," he whispered.

"To start?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said nuzzling against me. "Home runs always get me horny."

"And how did you solve that without a roomie?" My breath was hot in his ear.

"Usually, I didn't," he admitted.

I pulled back and looked at him. "Didn't you jerk off at least?"

"Masturbation is a sin," he said quietly. "That was drummed into me over and over."

My arms rubbed his back. "Poor baby. So you never......."

"Well," admitted. "I did. Eventually. When I felt too backed up."

"How often was that?" I asked, genuinely concerned.

"Every couple months or so. Sometimes longer."

"Oh, baby, no wonder you were so anxious....."

"Well, I had wet dreams," Rick said. "Sopping, sticky, a friggin' mess to clean up."

"I'm sure."

"Guess you know what that led to, huh?"

"Sure do, Rick," I said. "Thank goodness you got past that hell."

"I hope I am," he said as he kissed me. "Enough damn talking."

Rick was past talking. His hands grabbed my ripe, rounded ass cheeks and pried them apart. He licked a couple fingers. The index finger from his right hand circled my hole and jabbed inside. He was gentler when he added the middle finger. I made happy growling noises.

"Nice, huh?" he asked. "Want a third?"

"You know it. I'll even try a fourth."

"New territory, huh," he said more as a statement than a question.

"Don't get any ideas of adding that scary huge thumb." Rick laughed freely. It was almost a giggle. "At least not tonight."

"Really? Someday?"

"I'm open to it," I admitted. Rick laughed again. "No stupid pun intended." After a short pause I added, "Besides we've still got a lot of regular vanilla stuff to explore"

"Vanilla?" he asked confused.

"Plain. Straightforward. Conventional. Vanilla"

"Oh, Mattie," he said, quickly rotating those four digits in my asshole as he slid them in an out rapidly. "I don't think any damn thing we do together is conventional."

"Everybody's got an opinion," I teased.

"Yeah, kid," he agreed. "And I've got you right by your opinion." He twisted his fingers more and scraped them along my prostate until I started quivering.

I was in an exquisite agony. "Uh, Rick," I gasped. "Nice as this is, we need to cool it."

He wiggled his fingers as much as he could and just looked at me.

"We need to keep you fresh for Saturday. Relaxed," I told him. "The team still hasn't been hitting much and you're going to have to carry us for a while here at the start."

He stopped his hand work and listened, "So?"

"We need something stimulating but calming," I explained. "Stop the rectal exam and we're going to do something very vanilla, very soothing. But very effective."

"Sounds like a contradiction, Matt," he smiled.

"I understand. But I'm pretty sure this will work."

"Shoot, man."

I explained that he lie back and should prop himself up on two pillows. "Then bend your legs and spread 'em giving me access to your beautiful, hairy butthole."

"I am NOT hairy down there," he chided.

"No, babe, you're not. That was a tease." He looked puzzled. "You're a righthander, so I want you to lick your left wrist and the inside heel of your left palm. Get them really wet. As wet as you can."

"You are really shittin' me," he laughed. Again there was that surprise coarse language. Maybe I was pulling a little verbal Daddy out of Rick that we could utilize in the future.

"No, this is important. And this is weirdly sensual."

He looked at me with keener interest. An eyebrow went up. I looked at his beautiful cock and saw that it was barely chubbed now. I almost sucked into my mouth but restrained myself. I looked directly in his eyes.

"Now, take your left hand down to your sleepy prick and start gently rubbing it along your wrist and into that little valley of your palm. Alternate. Back and forth. Wherever it's wettest."

He started to do it with a goofy grin like he knew I'd gone nuts. But, after a few strokes he just looked at me in surprise.

"Nice, huh?" I asked. "Make sure to keep licking that wrist and hand as you rub and swipe. Sofly, slowly."

By his third wetting of his wrist and palm his breathing was short and shallow.

"Man," he gasped. The tense edging was underway. "This is so different. So damn smooth."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Smooth as a baby's butt. Not at all like the roughness of your calloused fingers pulling on that big hardon. Keep rubbing that wrist and palm. The pleasure should build."

"Yup," he whispered. "The damn tingle's almost like an electric current."

"Just keep licking and stroking. Keep it wet," I told him as I went down and started a really slow tonguing of his ass lips. "Stroke it, man. The cockhead, the sides of your dick, the ridges...."

Rick was rubbing a bit faster. I probed his ass slowly, in, out in the rising rhythm he was using to stroke himself off.

"Mattie, man. Mattie, this is putting me on edge. I can't fucking believe it. Oh, man, Mattie."

"Keep going, Rick," I urged. "This is a slower buildup. It gets you close and keeps you there until you just finally spill over and spunk."

I resumed my slow, ever-deeper probing of his ass chute. But I wanted to see what was happening so I licked a couple fingers and gently inserted them into his tight hole. He gasped as they slid in and I started a slow, circular stimulation.

I could watch Rick now. He licked his wrist and palm and quickly had his cock sliding again. This produced a sensation so unlike a standard jerk.

Then he started to quiver and shake. "Uh, uh, oooh, uh," he uttered as he neared.

"Gentle, gentle," I said. I could see he was leaking so much precum now that he had no more need to lick his wrist or palm.

"Stroke it," I ordered. "Stroke that dick. You're ready, Rick. You're ready."

I twisted my fingers in his ass harder and deeper.

"Stop," he gasped. "Shit, don't stop."

His breathing was rough and ragged like he wasn't in control.

"Rub it," I ordered. "Rub it. And cum for me, baby. Cum for me. Everything is in that cock. Let it out, baby. Cum for me. Cum for yourself. Cum."

As he kept up the rubbing the first cum shot out down above his body and blasted my cheek.

"Pump it out, Rick. Cum. Cum. Cum. Damn it, cum!"

And with a great "Argh!" more heavy spurts shot out as Rick thrashed around. "Oh. Oh. Oh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck," was all he managed.

Then he just stopped. He got very still. I slowly drew my fingers out of his butt.

"Shit, that's your damn definition of vanilla?" he growled.

"Well," I explained. "Not quite. Because I can't finger myself while I rub one out like that."

Rick started to raise his wrist to his mouth to lick away the cum that was dripping on it.

"Oh, no, fucker. That spunk is mine. I was the coach and that's my damn reward."

He smiled. "Come up here and try to get it."

I nodded. "OK. As soon as I vacuum up this pool of jizz swimming in your abs."

And after I had sucked all his cum into my mouth, I brought my head up to Rick's. I pointed to my mouth. "Want some?' I mumbled. So we swapped his load back and forth as we kissed until his thick gift was down our throats and into our guts.

"Glad you decided to share," he said. "But I get ALL of yours." He reached toward my groin.

But I disabused him of the notion. "I'm good tonight. We can brush our teeth. Or, just let the love linger."

I was beat. So, was Rick. He already was into the regular shallow breathing of a very sound sleep. The new relaxation therapy had worked. We'd find out soon if it also would produce results Saturday at the ballpark. "Play relaxed and free," I whispered in his ear. "Free."

Copyright 2021 Greylock Writer