“Fuck the bitch,” Coach Riggs growled, shooting Mitchell a mean look. “How’s it feel getting bred by a rookie, tough guy?”
Drops of fresh sweat from Peters’s handsome face rained down on Mitchell’s. Drunk on the taste of Cordero’s funky, uncut cock,
he trembled each time the rookie thrust in and the head of his cock nudged his prostate, teasing him with pleasure. Mitchell
got so focused on that nagging itch deep inside, he didn’t resist when Coach Riggs let up on him. Something hot sprayed the
side of his face. Mitchell tipped his eyes to the right to see Riggs pounding his meat. Another shot of jock cum hit his cheek.
“Fuck, here it comes!” the coach moaned.
Riggs moved in closer and pressed his shooting hose against Cordero’s shaft, forcing a second dick between Mitchell’s stuffed
lips. A blast of Coach Riggs’s sperm doused his tongue.
“Drink
that,
you overpaid fuck,” Riggs huffed between gasps for breath. He finished unloading, pulled out, and shook his dick clean on
Mitchell’s face.
The coach’s orgasm seemed to push Derek Peters over the edge. Mitchell heard the rookie grunt, and as his fuck-thrusts intensified,
the cock lodged up his ass felt as though it had doubled in size. The shortstop closed his eyes and bit down, growling out
a sigh through clenched teeth.
“Fuck, yeah!” Peters spat.
A blast of wetness flooded Mitchell’s asshole, powerful enough to force him to the edge of shooting. Peters briefly slumped
on top of him, pinning his dick against the tails of his pinstriped uniform shirt, before jumping off him and leaving his
can filled with young jock cum.
Cordero blew next. Giving no warning except for a deep baritone grunt, he stepped back so that only the crimped lower ridge
of his uncut cockhead was balanced on Mitchell’s tongue and squirted several shots of bitter cock snot across the pitcher’s
taste buds.
“Ay, papi!” Cordero grunted. He savagely pinched Mitchell’s nostrils shut. “Swallow it!”
Mitchell gulped down the catcher’s load. Cordero released him, stepped away, and deposited the last of his spunk on Mitchell’s
face beside the dregs of their coach’s cum. That left only Spencer, who took hold of Mitchell’s straining hard-on and squeezed
it by the root, tight enough to keep him from shooting.
“Finish him off, Spence,” urged Cordero, who stood still stiff with his pants around his ankles.
Spencer nodded. “I really want to nut in his mouth, but the rookie’s already lubed up that asshole of his for me.”
Mitchell stared at Spencer’s cock, which was easily twice as thick as Derek Peters’s, and panicked. Using the temporary lull
caused by three of his attackers having shot their wads, he jumped off the desk and tried to escape. He got only a step toward
the door before the three spent jocks rolled him back onto his stomach atop the desk.
Spencer grabbed a handful of Mitchell’s butt. “I’ve been watching this butt of yours from center field all season,” he chuckled.
He slid a finger between the cheeks, found Mitchell’s hole, and wiggled it into the wetness of the shortstop’s load. “I’m
gonna finally get a piece of it.”
“Yeah, fuckers, well enjoy it while you can,” Mitchell grunted defiantly, even though Spencer’s probing was intensifying the
pleasurable itch inside him. “ ’Cause once I walk out of here, everyone’s gonna know what you did to me!”
Spencer lined his cock up with Mitchell’s cumslickened asshole. “Nobody’s gonna listen to any shit from you,” he said. “ ’Specially
after that stunt you pulled out there today.”
“Yeah, and nobody believes this shit goes on in baseball,” added Cordero. He swung his cock like a bat at Mitchell’s face.
Spencer pushed his dick into the pitcher’s hole. Mitchell seized in place and howled. He willed his chute to open as best
he could to accommodate Spencer’s invasion, and held on to the side of the desk as the catcher stuffed him to capacity. Spencer
reached between his legs and grabbed hold of Mitchell’s boner, stroking it as he rode him on the edge of the coach’s desk.
“That’s right, asshole,” said Riggs. He gripped Mitchell’s face by the chin and held it while Spencer plowed him. “You seem
not to have grasped the reason behind this little attitude readjustment session. From now on, you’re gonna be kind and courteous
to your fellow teammates, you shithead.” Spencer slammed in hard in rhythm to the coach’s words. “You’re gonna go out there
and win on the days that you start, and you’re gonna give no less than a hundred percent—in the clubhouse as well as on the
mound!”
Spencer grunted out a feral “Fuck!” His stroke-hold on Mitchell’s cock sped up.
“And you’re gonna wear those pinstripes with pride, ’cause if you don’t start acting like one of the team, there’s twenty-five
other guys out there in that locker room who’re gonna have a go at your ass and mouth just like we did. And that ain’t counting
the trainer, bench coach, and the rest of my staff,” Riggs threatened. “You got that clear, dick-breath?”
Mitchell nodded and groaned, his expression a mix of pain and pleasure. They’d broken him. They’d won. But it was a small
price to pay for the incredible feel of Spencer’s cock squirting up his ass, and the center fielder’s hand around his shaft,
which at long last jacked him into shooting.
Before he’d finished cumming fully, Spencer wiped a hand across Mitchell’s face, forcing him to taste himself. Huffing a swear
under his breath, Spencer dismounted, leaving Mitchell soaked in cum, sweat, and the stink of baseball and man-sex. Saying
little more, the three players picked up their uniforms and headed out, leaving him once again alone with Coach Riggs.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Riggs said, dismissing him with a mean look and a wave of his hand.
Mitchell eased off the desk and stood. He reached for his towel and mopped his face. “The rest of the team’s gonna know,”
he said. “I swear to you, they’ll know what you did to me today!”
Coach Riggs pulled out his desk chair and kicked his stirruped feet onto it, crossing them casually, unimpressed with the
threat. “They already do, fucker.”
Mitchell turned around to see that the others hadn’t shut the door, and that beyond the open frame a dozen men from the team
stood just outside the office looking pissed off, arms folded, most in a state of undress.
“Don’t forget, shithead, I expect you to win the next time I hand you the ball—or I’ll be handing you
two.
”
All that week and for several after, the local and national media vilified Mike Mitchell. Though he didn’t win every game
he started over the rest of the season, he only lost a few, and not for lack of effort. He knew if he didn’t do his best,
his teammates would have him by the balls.
Dan Kelly
I
hadn’t been single in years, and didn’t want to be, but my friends kept insisting that I enjoy it while it lasted. They were
under the impression that someone who had been off the market for as long as I had basically regained his “fresh meat” status.
They were also sure I would be snatched up by a wonderful guy before long.
So I let them play dress-up with me… and before you know it, we’re in a leather bar, and I’m wearing jeans, a leather vest,
and a dog collar.
I’m just hanging out at the bar, talking to one of my buddies, and this huge arm comes down, banging an empty beer bottle
onto the counter. My vision is blocked by a wall of muscle, bear fuzz, and tattoo. My eyes are practically poked out by these
two raging hard nipples, perfectly framed by a chain-link harness.
My perspective shifts—actually, it crawls its way up the towering figure in front of me while I feel a bunch of my chest hairs
being sharply tugged at just hard enough to be uncomfortable, but not hard enough for me to burst out with “What the fuck
do you think you’re doing?”
And the man looking down at me with demanding eyes says, “Who knew under all those conservative clothes there was this nice
mat of fur?”
“Oh… hi.” I smile back at the disarming raised lip that’s both sweet and severe—a smile I look forward to seeing whenever
I need some contracting work done around the house. “I didn’t know this was your scene.”
I could’ve guessed, though. My handyman reeked of testosterone every time he came over. It smelled doubly delicious on hot
summer days when not even the air-conditioning could prevent his strenuous tasks from leaving his tattered T-shirt with large
wet pit stains and treasure-trail streaks down the midriff.
“Yeah? Well I knew damn well that behind your goodie-goodie little happy homemaker exterior, you were this wild animal,” he
said with a smirk. If I wasn’t half-naked already, I would’ve felt so with the way he was gazing down at me.
“Uh… actually, I’m just playing around. Came here with my friends.”
“And this is OK with the husband?” He pressed really close to me and my mouth went dry.
“Um… we’re not together anymore,” I replied flatly.
The bartender came over and asked us if we needed anything, just as my handyman was saying something, which I was almost sure
was “Can’t say that I’m sorry.”
“What?” I asked after he had dismissed the bartender.
“Follow me,” he said, and began to walk off.
“Wait a minute,” I called. “Where are you going?” Two hundred-plus pounds of mass turned around and responded with a look.
His eyes weren’t being so specific now. They were teasing me, not telling me what they expected to be seeing in front of them
in the near future. “I’ ve…my friends. I’ve gotta tell my friends.”
His dark brows came together in a V of unspoken impatience. I thought it in my best interest not to keep him waiting.
As he sauntered out, I followed him…Well, actually, I followed the thick patch of hair right above the seat of his jeans.
Each tendril was perfectly placed, forming a weave that resembled an arrow pointing the way down to the large globes beneath.
I couldn’t focus long enough to contemplate what I might be getting myself into.
Out on the sidewalk, I called, “Where are we going?”
“Come on,” he said, not looking back. He used a set of keys to open a door between the bar and the next store-front.
I followed him in and up the steps. “You live right above the bar?”
“It’s not as quaint as your perfect little white picket fence, but it’s home,” he said as we entered the apartment.
And it
was
home. Nothing freaky. A small living space with a sofa bed and a kitchen area only feet away. Neat, clean, and cozy. Nothing
to make me feel threatened, only typical living necessities—remote control, coasters,
TV Guide
, some nudie mags, and a box of condoms on the coffee table—to make me feel at ease.
“Nice place,” I said as he threw his keys on the kitchen counter.
I didn’t get to look around much. He was hovering over me, inches away, practically suffocating me with his chest once again.
I tried to back up a little, but the now-closed door got in my way. His arms were around me, his large hands on the back of
my head and easily directing my mouth to one of his huge nipples—but he didn’t force my mouth onto it. He just left it there,
touching, poking at my lips.
All sense of reason left me. I didn’t bother to argue with him. I took in his swelling knob and sucked it, felt each and every
hair that swept across my tongue. I savored the softness of his nipple in my mouth and drew it in deeper until my lips struck
hard pec, then I sank my teeth into that. He breathed out a bit and stroked the back of my head with one hand. The other grabbed
my vest and pulled it off in one swift tug. It dropped to the floor as I switched to the other nipple.
I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him in, but his arms blocked the meeting of our torsos as
my
nipples began being circled. I felt my knees weaken as they responded, came alive, became buttons for him to play with… his
fingers squeezing… and tugging. My upper body instinctively tried to pull away. Part of me wanted to scream, but my groin
began to rotate of its own accord. I sank my teeth harder into his pec and felt his nipple morph into something new as it
was suckled beyond its expectations. My nipples knew what it was going through. Through the excruciating discomfort, they
were able to detect an incredible sensation that struck my every nerve— positively. Part of me wanted to tell him to stop,
afraid he was going to mangle my nipples permanently, but another part of me insisted they could take it.
Just when I thought that my brain was going to fry trying to decide what it was enjoying from the tit torture—the pleasure
or the pain—he separated from me, still holding me by the back of my head. And then I was being smothered by an armpit. I
could smell his fresh musk, the release of sweat, in each strand of hair. He obviously hadn’t used deodorant before coming
down to the bar—it was pure, natural, unscathed man-pit. I lapped up that delicious man flavor, munched on the muscles surrounding
his deep pit, ran the surface of my tongue along the smooth, taut skin that stretched across his cavern.
“You little fucking whore. You made me wait so long for this. All those times you’d sit all innocently talking to me when
I was on a coffee or lunch break. I wanted to rip you apart right there, and you fuckin’ knew it. Look what you do to me.”
He gripped my hair like a handle and pointed my head down to his crotch. Exploding like a starburst around the head of his
bulge was a dark, wet stain of precum. He brought my head down to it; I felt so degraded being led around like an animal.
I placed my mouth over the spot on his jeans and slurped on it. The moist coarseness of the material and the hot object beneath
it made me literally foam at the mouth.
He threw back his head for a minute as my lips ravished his cockhead. That was about the only sign that I was actually doing
something right. He was so calm and collected, as compared with me—a quivering mess. The controlled, rhythmic, quiet inhalation
and exhalation of air from his nose and mouth was incredibly erotic to me, though. He pulled me back up to my feet and slammed
his mouth onto mine. His tongue crawled along the roof of my mouth as his shadowy whiskers stabbed at the area surrounding
my lips. I was sure I was going to pass out from the realization of a long-dormant fantasy.