I know there are haters out there that don't like my spelling and grammar. Tough. If it bothers you that much, cut and paste it to Word, edit it, then read it. It's up to you. It's late at night when I write this, and sometimes I am too tired to catch all the mistakes. Please just let them slide and enjoy my tale. I do enjoy writing it. And yes, there will be more House Girl stories later.
I could tell you the story about how we followed up our state championship in football with a state championship in basketball, but that wouldn’t be true. Not only did we not win state, we barely won half of our games in total. Boy’s basketball in Centerville just wasn’t as important. Wrestling was though. The Baldwins had a great year, with James and Joe winning state titles at 185 and 178 respectively. Jack missed his entire senior wrestling season recovering from the broken leg in football. I spent the season on the freshman basketball team playing seventh or eighth man on a pretty average team. But when I did play, I was setting records. They were records for steals immediately followed by turnovers and for shots not taken. I did get a chance to keep stats for the girls basketball games, which I thought was kind of cool because my girlfriend Katie Schultz put away her cheer outfit during basketball to be a player herself.

And Katie could play. As a freshman playing point guard on the junior varsity, she was so quick and smart that she really stood out. By being the statistician for girls basketball, I got to see all of her games and I also learned to spot trends and tendencies by watching how all of Katie’s teammates played. Katie was the quarterback for her squad and had to keep her team focused on the plays at hand. I learned a lot by watching not only what she said, but how she said it. Katie also dressed for the varsity games, but she seldom got any significant minutes, even though she was certainly capable enough. Katie and I had a great time talking about strategy and how to see plays before they happened. Somewhere along the way, she became a closer sports ally than Rusty or Jack. Rusty played basketball, and he was a pretty good player at the small forward position, but pretty good was relative on a team that would have to improve to be mediocre.

My father started working with Coach Lenning after the first of the year. Coach Kennedy cleared out his office and Coach Lenning moved in. It was a sad day at Centerville High when Coach Kennedy left for the final time. Every current player and every past player who could make it lined the short walk from the athletic complex to the faculty parking lot where Coach Kennedy parked. Flanking Coach Kennedy were his entire staff. I think he shook hands with every person there, so it took a while for him to make the trip. We never stopped applauding. I saw Coach wipe his eyes several times when he saw some of the old familiar faces who had gone on to be lawyers, doctors, bankers, barbers, grocers, farmers, and drunks. A more genuine outpouring of emotion I had never witnessed in person. To me it rivaled the scenes from his namesake’s burial a decade earlier. I was standing near his old Chevy Impala when he finally made it through the crowd. Jack Baldwin was leaning on his crutches next to me. Coach tried to shake his hand, but Jack would have none of it. He threw his crutches down and hopped on one leg to throw his arms around the old coach’s neck and gave him a hug to last a lifetime.

“Get well Jack. I talked to Coach Andros. You have a half scholarship to OSU and then when you are ready, you will get a full scholarship.” Now it was Jack’s turn to tear up.

“FRESHman, you will do great things. Listen to Coach Lenning like you listened to me and I will expect to see you playing on Saturdays for four years and Sundays for ten more. Got it? I’ve never had an athlete with more talent than you, and if you look around these fellas here,” he waved at the assemblage, “you know that’s saying something.”

“Yes sir. I’ll do my best.” I was so eloquent in those days.

“I know you will, Pauly. I know you will.” And with that, he climbed into that old Impala and drove off.

I spent the holiday break working for Mister. The feed lots needed scraping, the barns needed mucking, and the summer equipment needed work. It either rained or snowed or sleeted the entire break. I was either cold and wet or wet and freezing every day. Around two o’clock each day I had to leave my job to go into town to practice. I was the only player that took a shower before practice. I had to clean off the perfume of the barnyard and warm up. I put my clothes into a nylon feed sack to haul home and put on going-home clothes that I carried into town with me. My dad asked for and got moved from days to nights at the mill. He did this to accommodate his new coaching responsibilities. He’d get off at 7 in the morning and then sleep until it was time for me to go to practice. Then he’d drive us both into town; spend the time huddled up with Coach Lenning as they worked out a scheme to repeat as state champions, then he’d drive us home. He’d have a late supper and take a nap until it was time to go to work. He never once complained. In fact, I’d never seen him so animated. He was in a great mood all the time. At work, they made him into the night foreman. Now he was running the entire mill and crew of twenty men that took big pieces of wood and turned them into smaller pieces of wood. With it came a nice increase in his wages.

We moved soon after. Not very far, just over to the Bradley place. The Bradley place was owned by the spinster daughter of Rear Admiral H.C. Bradley, a retired veteran of World War I. He died a few years before I was born and his daughter cash-rented the acreage and the barns to Loeschen Farms to supplement her income from the many stocks and bonds her father had left to her. That winter, Miss Bradley moved into a nursing home and sold the farm and buildings to Mister Loeschen. When the sale was finalized, Mister had stopped by and asked my dad if he wouldn’t mind moving out to the place to buy it on land contract. Mister Loeschen made my father an offer he couldn’t refuse. There would be no money down, and Mister sold him the house, the outbuildings and five acres for the same price as just the house would have brought on the open market. There was a couple stipulations, including that Mister got the use of the outbuildings and five acres until the land contract was paid off, then he’d rent from us, just as he had Miss Bradley. The cost per month was less than the rent we were already paying. My dad said yes before he spoke with my mom or with us kids. He just came home and said, “Pack your stuff. We are moving to a new house for Christmas.”

It was an act of generosity I didn’t expect from Mister Loeschen, but one I came to find out much later, wasn’t out of character for him. He was a big, gruff ex-marine with a heart of gold. Just don’t cross him.

Becka was devastated when she first heard. Even though we had cooled off our sexual urges to an occasional mutual masturbation and even rarer intercourse, we slept in the same bed almost every night. She didn’t want to have to sleep in her own room by herself and frankly, I didn’t either. But when we finally got to tour the inside of the house, her mind changed in a heartbeat.

Downstairs there was a master bedroom with its own bathroom. There was a huge kitchen with a built in nook for casual meals. There was also a formal dining room, a formal living room, the Admirals old office with polished walnut cabinetry, a separate bathroom, and a suite for a maid. Nowadays, the maid’s suite would be called a guest suite or mother-in-law suite. Upstairs there were four large bedrooms. Two had an interconnected bathroom that allowed entry from either side. The two front bedrooms shared a bathroom in the hall. There was a third floor that was little more than a fancy attic. The roof was so close that the ceiling pitched severely. This entire floor was filled with Bradley memorabilia. The entire house was heated by wood furnace with an electric fan system to circulate the heated air. It was built before forced-air systems and it kept this old house surprisingly warm. The downside was that it was wood heat. Wood heat means work, no matter how you slice it. Since our house payment was less than the rent, the extra work didn’t bother him, particularly since he had me to be his mule.

The strange part of the deal was that the house came furnished. All of the furniture that had been accumulated during the lifetimes of the Bradley’s by Miss Bradley to Mister Loeschen. When we walked in, it was as if she had just left it. I don’t know if Mister ever set foot in the house before selling it to us, memorabilia and all. Everything upstairs was covered in a layer of dust. It was obvious that Miss Bradley hadn’t been up there in quite a while. After we spent a good day cleaning, my sister was the proud new owner of an actual four-poster bed with a silk canopy. She claimed the bedroom in the back corner of the house, over the maid’s quarters below. It had pale blue brocade wallpaper that had a whimsical scroll work. It looked girly enough, in spite of the color. I claimed the room on the other end of the bathroom shared by these two bedrooms. My room had a sleigh bed and it was gigantic. The house was clearly older than the plumbing, which had been added in much later. One of the drawbacks of having so many bathrooms added on after the house was built was that the closets were sacrificed. Instead of actual closets, we each had tall wardrobes and highboy chests to put our clothes in. Surrounding three quarters of the house was a deep porch with a gently sloping roof. Later I would find out just how handy that porch was when it came to finding my way out of the house and into trouble.

Christmas that year was a festive affair. We spent most of the time cleaning that big old house and taking an inventory of the many and varied antiques we inherited. We harvested a huge tree that my father insisted on paying Mister for. We decorated it with paper chains and popcorn garlands. We had a few ornaments that my mother had preserved from year to year, but it lacked any lights so it was really only impressive during the daylight hours, but it made the house smell fantastic. Another great feature of the house was the massive staircase that descended right down the middle of the house to the foyer. On both sides were polished mahogany bannisters. Excellent for sliding. And the feature that I appreciated most were that the stairs creaked. If Becka and I were in a compromising position, we’d have an alert long before either of our parents could make it to our rooms. Our shared bathroom had a more modern tub and shower. They were out of place for such a regal old house. But Becka and I made due. Instead of sitting on the toilet while I soaked in the tub, she perched on the long counter holding the sink. She could actually lounge on the counter if she felt like it. She looked dead sexy lying on her side, her head propped up on one hand, on knee sticking up making a figure four with her legs. When she assumed that position, I knew she was in the mood for more than snuggling and my cock would stir. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe she saw my cock engorge and that got her juices flowing. Either way, when she propped up, I knew we were going to have a good time.

Another great feature of the house was the proximity to the Schultz Farm. We were now next door neighbors, less than half a mile apart. Something I would come to enjoy more and more when the weather improved.

Becka and I spent some time exploring the buildings. We found two old wooden basketball backboards propped up in one of the metal buildings and decided that we had enough room to have our own basketball court. So I enlisted Rusty and we hung the backboards at each end of the metal building and swept the great expanse of cement floor as clean as possible. There were four 200 watt light bulbs high in the ceiling and after replacing three of them, we had enough light to play night games kind of. When the Pipe Crew found out we had our own indoor lighted basketball court, our house became a kind of local community center. Katie and her little sister Kim would come over as well. They had three wheeler Hondas that they rode through the fields between our two houses. Kim and Becka became pretty close friends and Kim started teaching Becka about farms and animals. They are still friends today. Krissy Schultz would stop by sometimes as well, particularly if all the young men were playing basketball. She didn’t play herself, but she liked to provide a distraction whenever she could catch someone’s eye, which was pretty much all the time.

A couple nights before New Years, Jack Baldwin had come out with his brothers. He somehow convinced Krissy Schultz to go up in the barn with him. Jack still had a cast on his leg and that ladder was a wooden affair nailed to the side of the barn. In one of the most impressive feats of strength I had ever seen, Jack scaled thirty feet of ladder using just his arms, holding his legs out to the side until he got to the loft. I vowed I would learn how to do that and it became my obsession.

Other than a few stolen kisses, Katie and I had a hard time finding time alone. Becka was still a little jealous and she made certain that she kept tabs on me when Katie was around. Though we’d already made love in that barn, it wasn’t until spring until we were able to repeat that performance. Rusty was another matter. When Rusty was around, Becka always made herself scarce. Rusty leered at my kid sister and she didn’t care for that. Rusty would hang out at our house whenever he got a chance, so Becka started hanging around Kim Schultz a lot. I thought it was great that Becka had a friend like Kim to hang with. Rusty and I spent a lot of time up in the loft of that big barn, talking about all kinds of things. Sex mostly.

“Look Paul, I think you owe me one. When do I get to collect?” he finally asked.

“You are a horny bastard, aren’t you?”

“Only for you. And for your sister. Becka is really starting to get cute. So is Kim Schultz.”

“Easy Rusty, that’s my sister and her friend you are talking about. They’re only twelve.” I was filled with a little more than brotherly protection. I had some jealousy boiling up in me too.

“Hey, old enough to bleed, old enough to butcher,” he mocked. I punched him kind of hard and the fight was on. It wasn’t much of a fight. Rusty was heavier and stronger, but I was wiry and strong. And Rusty wasn’t trying to win; he was trying to get me in position to rub his cock against mine through our pants. It worked. I couldn’t stay mad at him. Finally I flipped him on his back and ground my groin against his face. That put his groin where I could reach it easily so I gripped his hard cock through his jeans and squeezed.

“Suck my dick, Rusty. Or I will rip this thing off by the root.” I pulled at his hard-on until he groaned in pleasure and protest. I unbuttoned my fly and pressed my underwear clad cock against his face. He forced his hands up between us and pulled my cock out. He licked every part of it before pulling it into his mouth with a satisfied hum. I unbuttoned his fly and fished his cock out. I spit on my hand and started sliding my wet hand up and down his rod, twisting my wrist as I went. When I felt him tense up, I squeezed the base of his cock hard, refusing to let him cum. He moaned around my shaft when I did this. As soon as his cock stopped throbbing I would spit on my hand and start again. He responded by trying to suck my entire cock into his stomach.

It was time.

I unbuttoned Rusty’s top button and pushed his blue jeans down to his knees.

“Roll over,” I commanded. He immediately complied.

“Spread your cheeks.” He reached back and pulled his cheeks apart. I could see his brown eye winking at me. I spit on his hole a couple of times to get it wet. I knelt behind him and leaned over until my cock was lodged against his hole. He wiggled a little and I felt him pressing back, helping get me inside. Here was my best friend begging me to fuck his ass. I obliged his wishes and pressed my cockhead into his sphincter. This was much harder to accomplish than I had imagined. Even with his help, I was beginning to wonder if I was too big to fit. When his ass finally yielded and my dick sank two inches into his bowels, the sensation of his anal muscles squeezing my cock was exquisite. I was instantly hooked on anal sex. I had to slowly rock my cock in and out and spread more spit on the shaft until I was able to get fully inside his colon. Oh my God it was great. Remembering how his cock felt in my ass and the way he had fucked me inspired me to do the same to him. Slowly I pulled out and just as my cockhead was about to be released, I reversed direction and buried my tool deeper and deeper until my pubic hair was parting his ass cheeks. On the fourth full thrust, Rusty came in his hand. He begged me to let him spread it on my cock so I let him. Now I had a little better lubricant and I was able to pick up my pace.

Rusty’s grunts got so loud I finally made him stuff a fist into his own mouth by threatening to stop if he didn’t quiet down. I was afraid he was loud enough to be heard in Linfield County. I loved fucking Rusty’s ass. I loved hearing him grunt. I loved how dangerous it made me feel. I loved how his ass widened after he got really turned on, allowing me to pound him deeper in the guts. I loved the feeling of his balls smacking mine when I was deep in him. I loved the feeling of his strong hips in my hands and seeing the muscles in his back flex and tense with our fucking. I loved the feeling of that hot nasty hole gripping my entire shaft as I stroked in and out.

“Cum in me Pauly. Cum in my ass,” panted Rusty. He was pushing back against me, trying to get more of me into his stretched rectum. His back was glistening with sweat, and my own sweat was dripping from my nose and chin as I worked hard on his ass.

“Blast it, Pauly. Blast it!” Blast it I did.

I came so hard I collapsed on his back, slowing my stroke to a near stop. Just tiny increments in and then out. Due to my cum coating his well fucked ass, my rod now slipped in and out with ease. This made me hard all over again. With my belly to his back, I started to fuck him again, feeling the hot confines of his rectum begging my onslaught. This time our fucking was a little more languid, more sensual, less urgent, aching need. His neck was exposed to me and I began to kiss it, tasting the salt of his arousal sweat. I don’t know what came over me. I gave him a hickey.

It was the only hickey I have ever given anyone, ever. While I had long hair that would cover a hickey, Rusty did not. He was pissed when he found out and had to tell everyone he burnt it on a hot exhaust pipe while working on a piece of equipment.

I withdrew my cock and had Rusty roll onto his back. I pulled his pants the rest of the way off and pushed his knees to his chest. My cock slid easily into his well-used hole. I could hear the slippery slopping sounds of my cock sliding in and out of his ass. We kissed. At that moment, I loved Rusty as much as I loved anyone. He pulled his knees to his chest until his prostate was in the right position to be abused and when his second orgasm hit, mine was just behind. We lay there exhausted until I heard my mother calling us for supper. We got dressed, still sticky and sweaty from our sexual congress and climbed unsteadily out of the barn and down to the ground. We each took an upstairs bathroom and cleaned up as best we could before joining my family at the table.

In his abused and satiated state, Rusty didn’t leer at Becka and she found out he could actually be charming when he couldn’t sit with both cheeks down on the chair at the same time. Nor did Rusty engage with me, using his crude banter. My mother gave us both quizzical looks. She was used to us being hot and sweaty from our games and sports, wolfing at each other about the game we had just finished. Either she could sense something different or she could smell something different. But pther than the occasional odd glance, dinner went pretty normally.

In the large living room of the new house was a stereophonic record player and radio. It was massive, a console five feet wide and three feet high. Becka and I never realized that it was also a color television set that was hooked to a tall antenna that stood on its own tower next to the rear of the house. We’d never been around a console television, so it didn’t occur to us that it opened up and revealed a screen inside. It was Kim Schultz that asked if we wanted to watch TV in our own house. She slid back the doors and pulled the power button out. Becka and I were mesmerized when we first saw a clear picture on a color. We weren’t used to watching TV without a lot of effort, so this was something new and foreign for us. But after that first night with the Rusty and Kim Schultz we didn’t watch television again until we had someone over who asked to watch it. Even in those days, what was on wasn’t an interesting to us as a family. We still preferred to read and play games and listen to sports on the radio, even on those infrequent times when the game was broadcast on TV.

Admiral Bradley left quite a collection of books behind when he died. Fortunately, his daughter never wanted to part with any of them. My father spent his time in the Admirals old leather chair behind the desk pouring over works by O Henry, Dickens, Homer, and Thoreau. There were also old sea journals that my father read with great interest along with massive tomes on military strategy. In the Admirals former office was a pair of deep brown leather couches. I would camp on one to do my homework, preferring the natural ambiance of the old salt’s office to any other room in the house. In a room like that, studying seemed to be the natural thing to do. I was like my father in that respect. My mother and sister stayed away from our new den. They thought it smelled horrible, redolent of dust and age and pipe smoke of the decades. I thought it smelled wonderfully manly and important. It remained the only room in the house that was never changed over time, just added to.

Spring came soon enough, and basketball ended with a whimper for the boys’ team. The girls’ team made it to state and won in the first round before losing the next two and getting sent home. Between the end of the basketball season and the beginning of the baseball season, Mister put me to work driving a White Field Boss tractor, pulling a disc and drag harrow over the fields behind him as he plowed. Mister pulled an eight bottom plow at three miles an hour. I pulled that disc and harrow at six miles an hour and my spread was almost exactly sixteen bottoms wide. So Mister had to plow all day to be far enough ahead of me to keep me from catching up to him. I spent every afternoon and most nights in that tractor. We would call it a day around midnight or when I finally caught up to his plow. Mister had to hire Old Ralph Horner to drive the plow after baseball started. Mister planted his largest ever crops of green beans and sweet corn on contract to the Blue Lake Cannery. Mister had also planted his first crop of rye grass for seed the previous fall, when the price of rye grass seed went over eight cents a pound on the spot market. Once the planting was done, Mister was a regular feature at the CHS games, watching us play baseball.

My life held pretty much the same old routine. Get up, go to school, go to practice, go to work if there was work to be done, go to bed, repeat. I never felt any pressure to keep working for Mister. Not from my family and not from Mister either. I did it because I had a genuine affection for the work and respect for the man and I wanted be part of his success. His discipline was a positive influence for me. Occasionally the routine was broken on a Saturday night when someone got married or buried and Mister manned the grill down at the Grange Hall. Then everyone in the county turned out for the get-together and no one worked in the fields. It was on those nights that Katie and I got the opportunity to continue our physical relationship.

On the baseball field, something strange happened. I’d played baseball all my life, but until high school I was pretty average. I had good speed so I played outfield. I was a light hitter, more of a slap and run kind of guy, able to beat out most throws, so I had a relatively deliberate swing that I really only tried to put on the ball, not swing for the fences. I’d played kid-pitch in the Colts and Ponies, but now I was playing with young men four and five years more mature. Coach Harris put me in left center field and made me shag fly balls for hours during batting practice. I could get to most anything and he just loved testing my speed. The strange thing was my throws back to the shagger at the mound. No matter where I was on the field, I could pretty much peg the glove held out by the shagger and the ball made a satisfying sssssst! as it flew through the air, then a nice THWACK when it settled in the webbing of the shagger’s glove. It wasn’t a big league arm, but it was pretty decent for a freshman, or so I thought. I had a great time shagging flies and winging the ball back in. I didn’t notice the other outfielders watching my movements and the fluid motion of my arm. Coach Harris waved me in.

“Have you ever done in pitching David?” he asked, standing on the back of the mound.

“Not really, sir. Just dirt clods and pickup games in the yard.”

“Son, I want you to go over to Coach Parsons over there, and let him work with you. Do what he says, alright?”

“Yes sir.” I trotted to the side of the diamond where Coach Parsons was working with the pitchers.

“It’s about time, Pauly,” joked Jack Baldwin. His broken leg had finally healed and he was trying to regain his pitching form that had garnered him a little attention from the college scouts the past two years. He had a little hitch in his stride now and was trying to work himself back into prime shape. The other nine boys who made up the pitching battery at Centerville High welcomed me like an old friend.

“Let’s see your stuff,” said Coach Billy Parsons as he spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. Billy Parsons was an old school pitcher, having played for the Seattle Pilots and Kansas City Royals before poor control of his off the field behavior got him thrown out of the professional game for good. He once won nineteen games for the Pilots and was deemed nearly unhittable. Now he lived in Centerville in an apartment over his sister’s garage and coached the Centerville pitchers for what amount to his annual drinking budget.

“Come on Phenom, let’s see that pop-gun.” I took one of three practice mounds and did what I thought were the motions to throw a strike over the plate.

“What the HELL was that?” Coach Parsons was off his perch and striding over to me on the mound. Luckily I was too scared to speak and incur a greater wrath. “The rest of you ninnies get to work,” he commanded to the battery. They all went back to their regular routine.

“Come here, boy. First of all, you are doing it wrong. When I say ‘it’ I mean EVERYTHING. Other than hold your glove on the correct hand, nothing you did looked like a pitcher. We are going to start over.”

“Coach,” I stammered. “If you want, I can go back to the outfield and shag flies.”

“I walked all the way over here to show you how to pitch a damn baseball and you want to quit and go catch flies? Jesus. H. Fucking. Christ.” He shook his head. I measured the distance he had walked to come berate me. It looked like nine yards to me. Apparently it was a long way to him.

“First of all, hold it like this.” He moved the ball to the tips of his fingers and the side of his thumb. In his big hands, it looked like a cue ball. “Treat it like a feather and throw it like a dart. Like this.” He did a slide step pitch and the ball whistled through the air and made a loud pop in the catcher’s mitt.

“I want you to stand like this, look over your left shoulder at the catcher. Stand with your right foot tight against the rubber. Keep your hands in front of your chest. Lift your left foot, turn your toe where you want the ball to go, cock the ball behind your shoulder and fire. Got that?” I nodded, but it seemed like a lot to remember. I spent the rest of that practice learning out to pitch from the stretch. Every day for two weeks, I worked from the stretch while the rest of the team worked from the wind-up. I was beginning to feel like an outsider. Without being told, I switched my delivery to the wind-up and then hell rained down on me.

“WHAT THE SAM HILL ARE YOU DOING PAUL DAMN DAVID???!!!!” bellowed Billy Parsons. “WHO THE HELL TOLD YOU TO WIND-UP?” Everyone came to a halt. Some of the guys even smiled. When Billy Parsons got wound up, he was hilariously profane. “DO YOU THINK YOU ARE SOME KIND OF STAAAARRTING PITCHER?” I shook my head no. “THEN WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING PITCHING OUT OF THE WIIIIIND UP?” I was afraid to shrug my shoulders, so I just stood there frozen. “DAMMIT JACK BALDWIN, CLUE THAT NIMROD IN.”

Jack laughed and put his arm around me, guiding me off the mound and over the bullpen bench. “Pauly, you are going to do great things on the mound, but not as a starter. You have been chosen as a reliever. Maybe even a closer.” I was bewildered. My knowledge of the game was pretty limited. Jack spent the rest of practice talking about pitching strategy and the role of the relievers and closers. Then he explained that if I ever got into a game, it was likely that I would have runners on base, so I would have to pitch from the stretch to keep them honest and not stealing the next base as I worked through a full windup.

“With your arm, you may never need to work from a wind-up.” It felt good that he complimented my arm, but I couldn’t see why I had a better arm than anyone else. “How many pitches do you know?”

“How many?” I asked him back. “One. I hold it like this and throw it to the catcher.”

“That’s the No. 1. It’s the fast ball. The heater. The Cheese. After that, you have the No. 2, the Curve Ball. The No. 3, the Change-up. Some guys know No. 4, the Sinker, but you are just going to rock and fire. Throw the heat and dare them to swing. “

Now I was really confused. Of course I’d heard of those other pitches, but I’d never consider that I would have to throw them. I decided to keep throwing what Coach Parsons told me to throw until I was told otherwise.

A week before our first game, Coach Parsons sent me out to pitch for a scrimmage setup. The batters needed to face some real pitching and he wanted to see if I could throw it over the plate when the plate was being protected by a teammate. The catcher was Joe Baldwin, and he gave me a grin and a nod as I took the mound. Working from the stretch, I pinpointed where I wanted the pitch to go in my head, raised my left foot, pointed my toe and fired. The batter, Hank Hannigan swung and I was afraid he’d knock it into Cherokee County but there was a pop! and the ball was lodged squarely in the catcher’s mitt. There was some chatter behind me from my teammates and some chatter from the dugout, telling the batter to dig in and swat one. I fired again and again Harry swung too late and the ball was in the catcher’s glove. As I stared at the catcher, he patted the inside of his left thigh and then waggled his finger higher toward his knee. He was calling for a high, inside pitch, off the plate. I nodded and fired. The ball came in across the letters of the batter and he bailed. Everyone howled. Now Harry looked pissed. But he didn’t crowd the plate any more. He was half a foot farther back than before. This time Joe patted his right groin and pointed low. I delivered off the plate and low and Hannigan took a mighty cut, missing by a foot. A four pitch strike-out.

“Who’s up next?” challenged Coach Harris. There was a clamoring for a batter and Rusty was the first out of the dugout. He gave me an evil grin and tugged on his batting glove. Three center of the plate strikes later, he was glaring at me as he stomped back to the dugout. I struck out the entire team. Only James Baldwin managed to get a piece of a pitch when he came around to bunt and sent the ball ricocheting skyward. His brother caught it easily.

“That’s enough!” Coach Harris grinned. “David, back to the bullpen. Give someone else a turn before you make these girls believe they will never get a hit again.” The pitchers all slapped me on the butt and patted me on the shoulder.

“Head in,” growled Billy Parsons. “Go see Doc Tree and get a rubdown and ice.” As I was walking away, he growled again. “Hey Phenom!” I turned. “Nice outing.” His first words of praise made me float the rest of the way into the locker room.

In the locker room, I stripped down to my jock and headed for the connected training room. Bart Trelease was our trainer. Everyone called him Doc or Tree or even Doc Tree. I hopped on the training table and he started giving my pitching arm a good rubdown. I was sitting on the edge of the table with me legs spread. He put my right hand on his shoulder and began to knead the muscles of my shoulder and arm. After he worked it over for several minutes, he told me to lay face down. I did. He gave me a full rubdown using Atomic Balm. The heat did my muscles good. He worked over everything, from the backs of my ankles to the back of my neck. He slid his hand under the straps of my jock and worked the muscles of my gluteus maximus as well. I parted my legs a little, to offer him better access to my ass, hoping he would take the hint, knowing full well I was just having another live fantasy.

“Flip,” he ordered. I flopped over onto my back. Again he worked me over from the top of my feet to the muscles in my face. I let my hand fall off of the table and dangle, daring him to let me cup his cock and balls. He let me touch the side of his hip and it seemed innocent enough. But as he moved up, he back away from my hopeful hand and next I felt his opposite hip against my hand. Still, having his cock so near caused me to have dirty thoughts and my own arousal was straining the elastic of my jock strap. Of course he could tell.

“That looks uncomfortable,” he said in a low voice. “Would you like to give it some air before it suffocates.” He didn’t have to ask me twice. I raised my hips and lowered my jock clear of my ass. Doc grabbed it and slid it the rest of the way down my legs. Now I was free and hard like Chinese arithmetic.

Doc continued to rub me down, now concentrating on my groin, going nearer and nearer to my cock and balls. In my head I was begging him to stroke me and provide me with manual release. I felt both hands in the grooves of my groin, so agonizingly close to actually touching. I spread my legs, hoping to encourage further touching. Bad touching.

“All done,” he declared, slapping me on the stomach. I didn’t move. I just looked at him with desperate eyes, unable to voice what I was so eager to have. “Are you still sore?”

I nodded.

“Any place in particular?”

Again I nodded.

“I could get in so much trouble Paul.”

I shrugged.

“Are you certain this is what you need?”

I nodded again.

“Close your eyes then.” I did.

The feel of his hot breath on my cock caused it to jump. My hard-on struck him under his nose. I could feel his hand closing on my balls as his mouth encircled the crown of my cock. He held my cockhead in his mouth as his strong hand stroked me into orgasm. As I was beginning to shoot, he slipped his mouth farther down my shaft and formed a tight seal. I felt him swallow all of my salty load.

“My turn,” I said slipping off the table and squatting in front of him. He tried to object until he felt my mouth around his cockhead. Then he moved his hands behind my head and plunged his not small cock into my throat. His was a fast and furious thrusting, cumming as he continued to pound my mouth. I swallowed it all.

“Thanks Doc, I needed that!” I declared through a grin flavored with his grease. “I’m going to take a shower. Next time you can work a little harder on my ass. I think you left some muscles kind of tense.”

After I got home that night, I couldn’t help but relive the experience as I lay in bed. The bathroom door opened and my naked little sister slid into bed with me.

“I need to sleep with you tonight, Pauly. Can I cuddle with you?”

“Of course you can Becka.” I threw back the covers to reveal my own naked form and hard cock.

“I was hoping you would say so Pauly.”

Anonymous readerReport

2014-07-10 01:08:40
Nah man, the sports literature is wonderfully accurate, u said u dont know so I'm just saying, this guy obviously has real experience

anonymous readerReport

2013-10-08 02:36:02
Well, I wasn't offended by any of the gay aspects to this story. However, I think the title should be changed to diary of a man whore. I mean seriously this guy will fuck anything with heartbeat. He has a girlfriend but cheats on her with everyone and anyone he can yet. Also, this is pretty boring for me. I am not much of a sports fan, but I would think that even if I was, this would still be boring. Reading about some guy boy who is supposed to be great at sports, has a big dick (yeah, you and 99% of all guys who write about sex) and fucks everyone involved in his life is just so blah.

anonymous readerReport

2012-11-10 20:25:09

anonymous readerReport

2012-11-10 20:23:44

anonymous readerReport

2012-10-29 18:14:45
It's a good story but to much sports stuff more sex plz both gay and straight

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