The Off-Season
A heartbreaking end to the regular season becomes the beginning of a new relationship for a college baseball player and his longtime coach.
I will steal that base.
Bottom of the ninth, two outs, the series on the line. If I'm on second and we get a hit, I score standing up, and we tie the game. Then we can walk it off right here, or force extra innings and wear them down.
Dancing off first, I dive back with plenty of time as their closer throws over. He doesn't have a good pickoff move. He's got a killer fastball and a wicked slider, but he's laboring out here. His gray jersey is sticking to his neck, and his sunscreen-covered forearms are shining with sweat.
Out here on the basepaths, I'm in charge. I will steal that base.
Their bullpen isn't as deep as ours. Once they've burned their closer, they're down to their long reliever and a couple of arms I'm pretty sure they don't want to turn to with the game on the line.
The closer looks toward home plate, lifts his leg, and I'm off.
In a split second, I've covered a huge chunk of the 90 feet that stand between me and igniting some small hope that we can come from behind and win this game, that we can extend the season by one more day, that we can take the first step toward the comeback of a lifetime.
I slide headfirst, my chest hitting the infield dirt with a thump, my helmet flying off, stretching every fiber of my body to reach the bag --
And then the shortstop is there, slapping me across the skull with his glove. I crash into the bag, my index and middle fingers taking the brunt of the impact. Next thing I know I'm staring up at the sky, the bag digging into my back, watching as gray-clad figures bound over and past me to join the mob on the mound.
...
A couple of days later I was back home.
With the house to myself, I found myself running through the game in my head more frequently that I would have liked, the details surfacing from my subconscious at unguarded moments. The way coach had slapped me on the shoulder and told me I made the right move to try to steal. The way the rest of the guys avoided making eye contact with me in the locker room.
I always find it hard to start thinking about baseball when the hurt from last season is still fresh in mind. But I also know that if I don't get started with my off-season program sooner rather than later, it'll be mid-August in the blink of an eye, and I'll be 10 pounds heavier than I need to be.
It also helps when you've got former Rookie of the Year Cliff Evans living right down the street and his Midland Township Baseball Academy just across town.
Mr. Evans was a highly ranked prospect who never really lived up to his rookie year, when he came up a toolsy left fielder with surprising pop. He soon lost enough speed and range to settle in at first base, as most bears do (or in this case, polar bear), but he still clubbed enough homers to stick around in the majors for a solid 12 years and earn the nickname "The Big Stick." He fell off the Hall of Fame ballot after one year, but he still laughed whenever someone brought up the fact that four voters checked the box next to his name.
...
I headed to Mr. Evans's baseball complex one afternoon and found him on one of the practice fields. He was watering the infield, humming tunelessly. His face broke into a big grin when he saw me.
"Hey, Mike, good to see you," he said, extending that catcher's mitt-sized paw of his. "Tough loss the other night."
"Thanks, Mr. Evans," I said glumly. I shook his hand, the memory of the loss dampened somewhat by the thought that he had remembered to look up the score. I held up my left hand, showing the two bandaged and stabilized fingers. "At least I got something to show for it."
He took my injured hand and studied it, a look of genuine concern in his brown eyes. "How bad is it?"
"Just a fracture. Should be good to go in a couple of weeks."
"Good to hear, good to hear." A smile was spreading on Mr. Evans's face. "You can still play catch, can't ya?"
"And run."
"Attaboy. Let's get started."
...
After our session, as I was finishing up my stretches, Mr. Evans walked over to the fence to greet some other old timers. I heard them shooting the shit about who the Giants should pick up at the trade deadline, whether Peterson should be benched, and what to make of the Wildcats' hot start.
Mr. Evans entertained the two men's opinions politely, producing the requisite "Yup's" and "Uh-huh's" to nudge the conversation along.
I got up and busied myself with my bag, not wanting to interrupt, but Mr. Evans must have seen me out of the corner of his eye.
"Good catching up, fellas," he told the visitors. "It's back to the grind for me." He extended a paw.
"Good to see you, Big Stick," one of the men, a gruff looking bulldog, said.
Mr. Evans walked back over to where I was standing.
"You signing autographs over there, coach?" I said, sticking my tongue out at him.
"Just a couple of other lifers wanting to chewing the cud," he said.
He picked up a fungo bat and leaned on it. I noticed that he, as usual, wasn't wearing his wedding band -- he'd always take it off before doing any baseball-related activities because of an incident in which a teammate had gotten his finger degloved in a collision with another fielder. He loved telling that story to gross out new students at his academy.
The memory reminded me of another one.
"How's Linda doing, by the way?" I asked.
"She's good. Real good," Mr. Evans said pensively. "How about you? Any handsome boys steal your heart?"
I had been open with Mr. Evans about my sexuality ever since high school, when I had figured out I was gay. Ever the coach, Mr. Evans had sensed that there was something on my mind that summer that was preventing me from focusing properly on baseball.
"No comment," I said flatly, thinking the answer sounded a little more interesting than the truth: a hard "no." Spending what felt like half the semester on the team bus heading to places like Huntingdon or Springfield or Ashland didn't leave a lot of time for dating.
Mr. Evans frowned, apparently not sure what to make of my response.
After a moment, he asked "How old are you now, anyway. Nineteen?" He looked me up and down.
"Twenty," I said.
"Twenty," Mr. Evans repeated. "All grown up, huh." It was more of an observation than a question.
"I hope not," I said. "I'm trying to put on some muscle this off-season. Hoping to add some power." I mimed swinging the bat and hitting a home run -- my left index and middle fingers awkwardly extended due to the splint.
"Sure, you'll grow into your body and add some power that way. But don't worry about overdoing it. If you're built for speed, you don't want to slow down your bat -- or your legs -- with a bunch of extra weight."
He clapped his hands together.
"Speaking of -- let's talk recovery," he said. "You getting enough protein?"
"Should be. I picked up a couple of big tubs this morning."
"All right. What's for dinner tonight?"
"Well, my parents are out of town, so I'm probably just going to cook up a whole bunch of chicken breasts for the week. Maybe some rice and veggies."
Mr. Evans looked and sounded less than impressed. "Tell you what," he said. "I've been dry brining a couple of steaks I picked up from Salvini's the other day. What do you say -- can I treat you to something a little better than dining hall food to officially welcome you back home?"
...
Mr. Evans didn't need to ask twice. We packed and locked up, and since it was already past six o'clock, I followed his SUV across town and directly to his house. I parked on the street outside his bungalow.
Once inside, I thought his house looked about how I remembered it, but there's was something off about the place that I couldn't put my finger on. As I watched Mr. Evans head for the kitchen, it dawned on me. It looked as though the Evanses had held a yard sale where their customers had gone a little overboard. The place just looked emptier than normal.
Mr. Evans grabbed the steaks from the fridge and showed them to me like an animal proudly presenting its prey.
"Look at the marbling on these suckers," he said, running a big finger along a juicy strip of fat. "This is gonna be good." He returned to the kitchen and started preparing dinner.
There was a Giants game on in about an hour, so I turned on the TV and found the pre-game show. A pair of well-dressed and -coiffed stallions were discussing today's news -- a long-overdue trip to the disabled list for a struggling pitcher.
I took out my phone and made a last-minute change to my fantasy baseball lineup. "You need any help in there, coach?" I asked, my eyes still on the phone.
"Will you get me a beer from the fridge in the garage?" Mr. Evans asked from the kitchen. "There's sodas in there as well."
I did as he asked. We cracked open the cans, and he held his up. "Here's to the off-season. Welcome back," he said. We tapped the cans together.
He watched me as I sipped the diet soda, playing with a loose thread on his apron, which strained against his bulky torso. "Sorry I can't offer you anything more interesting," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I know -- if you're anything like me, chances are you're pounding these guys back with the rest of your teammates. But rules is rules. Wouldn't be good for business if I got you drunk."
I tipped my drink in his direction. "Don't worry about it, coach," I said. "Thanks for looking out."
Before long the meat was resting, minutes away from being carved. After several more of my attempts to help out had been rebuffed, Mr. Evans finally let me set the table, despite my injured fingers. I checked the cabinet I knew contained plates and cups and found it emptier than I remembered. The Evanses had seemingly gotten rid of some of their many decorative serving plates and coffee cups.
I brought a stack of plates, napkins, and cutlery to the dining table in the other room but found it loaded with all kinds of baseball merchandise: fresh baseballs of unmarked, white leather, gloves whose stiffness suggested they had never caught a single ball, fancy shoes and workout apparel that I could never imagine Mr. Evans wearing.
"Oh, I usually eat in the --" he said, having walked over from the kitchen.
"What's all this stuff?" I asked.
Mr. Evans cleared a spot on the table and helped me set the plates down, then picked up a glove and turned it over in his hands.
"Oh yeah," he said. "Sponsors sometimes send me free stuff, even after all these years. I don't know what they want me to do with it, though. Strut around the academy wearing it? Go to a fancy restaurant with their logo on my hat and have folks take pictures of me? That ain't happening."
He began sorting through the merchandise on the table, making a noise of mild interest. I got the feeling he hadn't looked through the pile in a while.
"I get the feeling some of these guys are still looking at my rookie measurements, if you know what I mean," he said with a chuckle, patting himself on the stomach.
"Aw, come on, coach," I said. "You'd still be an upgrade for about half a dozen teams at first base."
He smiled at me over his shoulder. "Anyway, this stuff is wasted on me. Feel free to take any of it, if you'd like. Here -- catch." He grabbed something from the table and passed it to me.
I reflexively caught it with my dominant and uninjured right hand, suddenly very happy that I wasn't left-handed.
I looked at what he had tossed me and snorted with laughter. Unwrapping the package with some difficulty, I held it up for Mr. Evans to see.
"I don't know, coach," I said. "Are you saying you can't fit into these?"
Mr. Evans looked up to see what I was holding: a black jockstrap that was obviously several sizes too small for him. The color drained from his face.
"I didn't -- you --" he spluttered. His face quickly reddened.
I couldn't help but laugh at the mortified expression on his face. "Relax, coach!" I said. "I actually need a couple of new jocks -- thanks." Still laughing, I walked back to my bag, which I had dumped by the front door, and threw the jockstrap into it.
Within minutes, we had cleared the merchandise from the table and were devouring the steaks. I quickly admitted to Mr. Evans that he was right -- the steak easily beat chicken and rice any day of the week.
As usual, he talked little about himself, choosing instead to pepper me with detailed baseball questions about the past season, my goals for next season, and my thoughts about going professional. He listened intently, scrutinizing me over the rim of his beer can.
After dinner, we moved to the living room to catch the last few innings of the Giants game. I sat at one end of the couch, Mr. Evans at the other, one arm extended on the backrest toward me, the other clutching a fresh beer can.
The game was a blowout. As the Giants came up to bat in the bottom of the eighth, they were already up by 11 runs. The Wanderers, all but admitting defeat, had called on a position player to pitch to get three outs.
For some reason the game on the TV was making me think of that last game of the season. I felt an angry heat creep up my neck.
"See, I really don't like that," I said, gesturing at the TV. "I get that you're down 11 runs and you're probably not going to win, but that's just waving the white flag. You've gotta put a pitcher on the mound. You're just telling your guys that you don't expect them to be able to come back."
I had expected Mr. Evans to agree with me and perhaps offer some anecdote from his time in the majors about how his team had overcome some seemingly insurmountable deficit. Instead he made a noise that suggested he wasn't completely on board with my argument.
"I don't know," he said. "The game's always changing. If I were in that dugout and it was twenty years ago, then yeah, I'd be ticked off that one of our guys was being asked to do something he hadn't worked on, risking injury and all. But sometimes you've got to think about what's best long term."
He seemed lost in thought for a second, absentmindedly adjusting his gym shorts and scratching his lower belly.
The crack of a bat snapped him out of it. The emergency pitcher had lobbed a 58-miles-per-hour fastball (for lack of a better term) over the heart of the plate, and the Giants DH, Martinez, had crushed it beyond the visiting team's bullpen beyond the fence in left field. The Giants' lead grew to 12 runs.
"All right, I think I can see where this one is headed," I said. I checked the time on my phone and saw it was past ten. "I think I'm going to head home, coach."
I rocked forward and got up from the couch. I was never a fan of getting up early, but I wanted to get up and get my running done before the heat of the day set in. That required going to bed at a decent hour.
"Oh, OK," Mr. Evans said, pushing himself to his feet.
I crouched by the door to pick up my bag, smiling as I saw the black jockstrap. I felt Mr. Evans hovering next to me.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, standing up and opening the front door. The sound of singing grasshoppers filled the house.
"Yup, sure."
I extended my hand to shake his. "Thanks again, coach. Happy to be back in town working with you."
I shook the big polar bear's hand and looked up in his face -- and realized something was wrong. Mr. Evans was fighting back tears.
"Coach?"
He covered his face with his hands and let out a loud sob. "I'm sorry...!" he said. "Fuck! I've just... really looked forward to you being back this summer!" His massive shoulders were trembling as he tried to suppress his sobbing.
"I -- I've been looking forward to seeing you too, coach!" I said, feeling awkward and surprised and unsure of how to deal with the situation.
Mr. Evans took a deep breath. "I've just been really lonely this past year," he said with a sigh. "Linda and I... decided to end it last fall."
The rush of realization hit me. The boys' night. The empty house. The unused dining room table. And as I looked at his hands, still covering his face, I saw he still wasn't wearing his wedding band.
"I was hoping that if we -- if we spent some time together, just you and me -- I mean, you're the only one I know who's a -- who likes other guys, so --"
My mind reeled. "Coach... are you saying you're gay?"
Mr. Evans sighed. He lowered his hands from his face. His fur was matted with tears. I had never seen him like this before.
"What am I supposed to do?" he said, his face contorted with sorrow. "Go down to Dot's or the Depot and ask some random guy if I can buy him a beer? What if word gets out and parents stop sending their kids to the academy?"
I opened my mouth to say something supportive, closed it, opened it again, and -- not sure what to say -- took the polar bear in my arms and hugged him. Mr. Evans let out a fresh sob and crushed me against chest with those huge arms of his, squeezing the air out of me.
I don't know how long the hug lasted. Mr. Evans sobbed quietly, occasionally drawing breath sharply through his snout. I felt his tears soaking through my shoulder. Then, gradually, I became aware of something else: his hardening bulge poking me in the stomach. My heartbeat quickened and cock twitched in response as I realized what was happening.
"Coach...?" I said, my voice muffled by Mr. Evans's chest.
He let me go as though electrified and stepped back, pulling his shirt down in an effort to hide the bulge in his shorts.
"Shit, Mike, I'm so sorry --" he began.
"Coach," I said again, cutting him off. "It's OK." I nodded and quickly looked down, inviting him to look at my crotch. I grinned as his expression turned to one of shock at the sight of my hardening cock straining against my pants.
"Oh, shit," he said again, looking hopeful and fearful and ashamed at all once. He cast a nervous look over my shoulder at the empty street behind me.
I caught the door with my heel and kicked backward to shut it. "Hey," I said, drawing the attention of his wild gaze. "It's OK. Come here."
I hugged him again, but this time, he held me gingerly, as though fearful what other reaction his and my touch would provoke. I felt his tear-soaked athletic shirt against my cheek.
"Coach," I said, looking up at him. "If we're going to do... anything, do you mind if I hop in the shower first?"
He frowned. "You smell good to me," he said, shrugging.
The comment set off a shiver of excitement. "That's not what I -- anyway, just a quick rinse, OK?"
"All right," Mr. Evans said, still looking confused. "You know where the bathroom is." He let go of me.
"Thanks. Meet me in the bedroom. Five minutes, promise."
I grabbed my bag and rushed to the bathroom, determined not to spoil the mood. With the water running, I crouched in the shower and prepared as best as I could, coating a finger in spit and carefully sliding it into my hole while at the same time trying to keep my bandaged hand out of the water. I brushed past my prostate, sending a spasm through my cock. My breath caught in my throat as I dared imagine what Mr. Evans might feel like.
I toweled off as fast as I could and made to put my workout clothes back on. As I opened my bag, however, a different idea crossed my mind.
...
"Hey, coach," I said, stepping into the bedroom wearing nothing but the black jockstrap he had given me.
Mr. Evans was on the edge of the bed, paws gripping his knees. He caught a glimpse me, tensed up even more, and averted his gaze as though he had been caught staring in a locker room.
I tried not to laugh. I walked over to him and took his head in my hands, turning it so he faced me. I felt the pulse in his thick neck hammering away.
"You're not making me do anything I don't want to do," I said clearly, staring into his brown eyes. "OK?"
"OK," he said simply.
"And I don't want to make you anything you're not comfortable with, all right?"
He nodded.
"Good." I smiled at him. "Can I help you with this?" I grabbed his athletic shirt at the waist on both sides.
After a moment's hesitation, Mr. Evans gave me another wordless nod. I pulled his shirt off clumsily, leaving him sitting there looking slightly uncomfortable about being topless.
Mr. Evans was the picture of the retired pro athlete. He had always been big, even during his playing days, but the lack of a 162-game grind had softened his features. He still had that massive chest, shoulders that seemed to swallow his neck, and those lumberjack arms, but he had packed on some fat since retiring and now sported a small gut as well. His black nipples stood out prominently from his white fur.
"OK, lean back for me," I said.
Mr. Evans obeyed, and I grabbed the legs of his gym shorts and started pulling. The waistband caught on his bulge for a second, and he had to shimmy on his back to dislodge it. Suddenly finding himself wearing nothing but an old jockstrap, he reflexively made to cover his obvious erection.
I climbed up on the bed and straddled his crotch, all the while consulting his expression to make sure I wasn't moving too fast. I touched the pouch of my jockstrap to his and felt his cock shift powerfully behind the slightly discolored fabric.
"We've gotta get you one of these," I said, comparing our jockstraps and hoping a joke would relieve some of his tension. "You still doing OK?"
"Uh-huh," he said in a strained voice, his face still pale.
"Good," I said. "Now, what if I do... this?" I cupped his bulge in my hands, feeling the weight of his sack. He gasped, but made no effort to slow me down or stop me.
I stayed like that for a while, kneading his balls carefully and tracing the outline of his cock through his jockstrap. When he cast me what I thought was an expectant look, I lowered my head slowly to his crotch. The muscles in his meaty thighs rippled.
Again taking my time, I rubbed my face against his bulge, taking in his musk and making him feel my breath on him. Slowly I hooked my uninjured fingers under the waistband of his jockstrap and began to pull.
Mr. Evans lifted his legs enough for me to pull the jockstrap off. I heard his cock slap against his belly as I dropped the jockstrap by the side of the bed.
I swallowed as I saw Mr. Evans naked for the first time. His cock was much larger than mine -- it was a grown man's cock. It curved up and to his right, a big vein running down the side of it. It was black, like his nipples, contrasting dramatically with the white of his belly fur and balls.
I reached out with my good hand and squeezed his cock, awed by the heft of it. It throbbed in response to my touch, the head swelling with more blood and growing even larger.
Momentarily forgetting that I was letting Mr. Evans set the pace, I leaned down again and sniffed the pit where the base of his shaft met his balls, smelling a day's worth of hitting fly balls for fielders to shag, of defensive drills, of groundskeeping around the practice fields.
I raised myself up to stare at his cockhead, my tongue searching my suddenly very dry mouth for spit. I lapped at the underside of his cock, and then stretched my jaw to take the head in my mouth. The saltiness sent my head spinning. Overconfident, I tried to work my way down his shaft, but his cock throbbed again and triggered my gag reflex, forcing me to back up.
"Mike, that's OK --" Mr. Evans said, clearly seeing me struggle with his girth. "I'm not gonna force you to do anything like that."
I made to say something -- I definitely was not forcing myself to do anything -- but my protests melted away at the sight of the kindness in his eyes.
"C'mere," he said, pulling me closer.
He wrapped one arm around me, placed the other hand on my head, and my held me against his chest. I realized we both would have been satisfied if we had fallen asleep right there and then.
Then, after about a minute, he rolled me over on my back. He straightened up, kneeling above me, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. Our eyes locked, and we reached an unspoken agreement about going all the way. A jolt of nervous excitement surged through me.
I began to raise my legs, and he helped me by putting his hands behind my knees, pushing them up to my shoulders. He scooched up closer, and I felt the heat of his big, black cock against my taint, causing my erection to strain against the pouch of my jockstrap.
But as I felt the excitement peak within me, I saw confusion creeping into Mr. Evans's face. Had he overestimated his own curiosity now that he was staring into another man's crack?
"You all right, coach?" I asked, folding my hands behind my head.
Mr. Evans's eyes darted from his cock to my tailhole and back again. "How, uh -- how exactly is this supposed to work? There's no way this thing -- I'm not trying to brag, but --" His face shone with embarrassment.
I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as I watched the big polar bear, the man who had been my mentor since Little League, struggle with the concept of how his cock could possibly fit in my ass. The bear had taught me how to grip and throw a baseball. Now, seemingly, I was going to have to teach him how to fuck another man.
"Relax, coach. We're going to take this nice and slow. You got any lube?"
"Lube?" he said, pronouncing the word as though he had never heard of the term before.
"Yeah, lube. What do you use to paw off with?"
His face grew redder. Apparently, I thought, this wasn't a topic Mr. Evans normally discussed with others.
"Well, usually I just use some lotion," he said, averting his gaze.
"Let me see what else you've got," I said, lowering my legs and slipping off the bed. I bounded into the bathroom, catching a quick glimpse of the tent in my jockstrap in the mirror before opening the medicine cabinet.
I scanned the shelves, finding blood pressure medication, hair gel, a comb, some nail clippers, anti-dandruff shampoo, a couple of old cotton swabs. Finally -- an old tin of petroleum jelly. I grabbed it and a hand towel and headed back to the bedroom.
Mr. Evans was sitting back on his haunches on the bed, his cock still hard, his eyes on my crotch. He frowned as he saw what I was holding.
"This'll do," I said, jumping back on the bed. I popped the lid off the tin with some difficulty and scooped out a large gob with two fingers. Then I slapped the goop on the tip of Mr. Evans's cock, drawing a yelp from the bear. I wrapped my good hand around his shaft and began spreading the jelly on his cock.
Mr. Evans gave a shuddering gasp. "Sensitive," he rumbled apologetically.
I lay on my back and spread another gob of the jelly on my pucker. Mr. Evans watched with interest, presumably making a mental note of everything I was doing. I wiped my hand on the towel and then threw it aside. I raised my legs again.
Mr. Evans pushed my knees up toward my shoulders again to line up his cock with my hole. Glistening with lube, his cock looked larger somehow, more menacing. I felt my heart thumping in my chest. The act of lubing Mr. Evans up seemed to have made what was about to happen more real, more certain. Mr. Evans was about to fuck me.
"OK, you ready?" Mr. Evans asked breathlessly, and I realized he had been waiting for me to tell him what to do next.
"I'm ready," I said. "Just go nice and slow."
Mr. Evans shifted forward, and before I knew it, I felt his cockhead against my hole. Then he started pushing in. I did my best to push out, but I found myself inhaling sharply as soon as he had sunk about an inch into my ass.
"You OK?" he asked, and I saw genuine concern in his face. I found it endearing.
"I'm fine. Just pull out slowly, and start pushing in again."
He did. This time, he made it about halfway before I had to stop him and tell him to pull out again. His cock popped free, and I felt my hole relax again, ready for another attempt to take him. I shifted on my back to give him a better angle, feeling his slick cock sliding across my crack. He moved his hips back, and then his cockhead was at my hole again. He pushed forward.
I looked down, watching as Mr. Evans's black cock disappeared into me. I wanted him. He reached the halfway point and kept pushing. I was going to take all of him. I looked up, locked eyes with him, and nodded. I gritted my teeth against the pain, closing my eyes and throwing my head back as the last few inches stretched me wider and wider.
Then I felt his gut against the bulge in my jockstrap. I opened my eyes and found myself face to face with Mr. Evans. His expression was a combination of concern, lust, and some kind of indecipherable excitement.
"You all right?" Mr. Evans asked in a deep rumble.
"Let's just stay like this for a while," I said, forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths to give my body time to grow accustomed to the cock stretching me open.
I reached out with my right hand and ran my fingers across his chest and gut, playing with his fur. I raised my head to kiss him but stopped, not sure if he was weirded out by making out with another man. Mr. Evans got the message, however. He leaned closer and kissed me hungrily, his tongue finding mine. I felt his cock pulse powerfully inside me as I reciprocated.
He pulled away from the kiss and sat up, his cock still lodged deep inside me. He looked down.
"Oh, wow," he said, his eyes widening at the sight of his cock in my ass.
I grinned at his expression of amazement, breathing heavily. Watching me for a reaction, he pulled out ever so slightly and pushed back in. I let out a sigh of contentment to encourage him.
He began to pick up the pace, watching with lust in his eyes as my hole swallowed his cock. "Oh, wow," he said again.
He was gaining speed and confidence now. He moved forward on the bed in order to fuck me deeper, licking his lips. His breath was coming in huffs. He smelled of beer, steak, and sweat from a day in the sun.
I moaned to egg him on, spreading my legs wider to give him better access to my hole and pushing back against his increasingly powerful thrusts. A wet spot was growing on the pouch of my jockstrap where my cock was leaking precum.
"This feels really good," Mr. Evans said, and he let out a little bark of laughter as though he was embarrassed to admit it.
I looked down at his cock hammering away at my hole, then up at the fierce look of concentration on his face. I traced his muscular arms with my gaze as they pinned my knees back, forcing my ass up. I moaned again, involuntarily this time.
I tried to stay focused on the scene in front of me as his cock rammed harder and faster past my prostate. Mr. Evans, the man who at one point surely had a girl in every Metropolitan League city, was fucking me.
"I'm not going to last long," Mr. Evans said almost apologetically.
"Neither -- am -- I," I said through gritted teeth between thrusts. "Wait!" I put a hand on his chest. "Lie on your back."
Mr. Evans looked momentarily upset that I had interrupted his building climax, but he did as I said.
I climbed on top of the polar bear and straddled his crotch again, reaching behind me to guide his cock into my hole.
The look of confusion on Mr. Evans's face melted away as I sat down and slid his entire shaft into me in one long motion, maintaining eye contact the whole way. I ground my ass in his crotch and squeezed his cock as it throbbed inside me.
He instinctively grabbed my hips and clenched his ass, forcing his cock as deep into me as possible.
I leaned back, my hands on his thighs, rocking back and forth and feeling his cockhead rubbing against my prostate. I closed my eyes for a second and sighed, focusing on the maddening, tickling sensation deep inside me.
"Fuck, coach, that feels good," I said, opening my eyes to look at him.
He looked lost for words, nodding and licking his lips.
Knowing we were both close, I leaned forward again and finally freed my cock from the pouch of the jockstrap. I put my injured hand on his shoulder and began pumping my cock. With my legs, I started moving up and down his cock, flexing and relaxing my hole.
Mr. Evans got the message and started grinding up into me, keeping a firm grip on my hips. He began to pick up speed again, his jaw clenched, his snout twitching.
I did my best to match his rhythm. My legs were growing weak from straddling him, and my fractured fingers ached as I struggled to take his bestial thrusts. I jerked my cock faster, my balls aching for release.
I closed my eyes tightly and felt my climax exploding deep, deep inside my body. I cried out, splattering my load all over the fur on his chest and belly in seven big bursts.
My climax sent Mr. Evans over the top. He dug his claws into my sides, roaring as he forced me down as far as I would go. I felt his legs tensing. I could see every muscle and tendon in his neck. Then his cock swelled and splattered my insides with cum.
We sat that like for a minute while we caught our breath. I squeezed my hole to milk every last drop out of him, and he winced in discomfort and pleasure.
Finally his softening cock slipped out of me, and I felt his cum gush from my hole. I fell forward onto his chest, his fur sticky with sweat and cum. He put a paw on my back.
Mr. Evans had fucked me.
I felt his breathing, heard his falling heart rate. My eyes glazing over, I let my mind drift as I contemplated the long off-season ahead of us.