Long Ball(4)

She’s a live wire, ready to explode, everywhere I touch her. It’s the most euphoric experience of my life. She is shy and beautiful and so willing to please. When I lean down to lick her nipple, she screams in ecstasy. I suck and lick and nibble against her swelling breasts as her body writhes beneath me and she quietly begs for more.

More than more, I’d give her everything. I lick her clit and she pulls my hair. Fistfuls of it as my tongue ravishes her pink center. Her taste is unlike everything I’ve ever experienced, and all I want is more more more. She moans beautifully as I slip my fingers into her tight wetness, f*cking her slowly and nibbling on her clit. We’re making music in the back of my truck in a way the greats could never hope to.

Put this girl on the radio, with her throaty panting. The way she cries out makes me crazy, my cock desperate to enter her, to feel her completely. But I don’t, because listening to her unfold by my fingers and my tongue is the sexiest thing in the world.

When she comes in my mouth, it’s like heaven has rained down over me. I don’t stop licking her until she shivers and begs for relief. Except I don’t let up. I replace my tongue with my fingers as I move back up her body, kissing all of the curves and dips along the way.

“I want to be inside you,” I whisper in her ear. Her hips press against my hand as I toy with her swollen clit. “I want you to ride me like the sexy cowgirl you are.”

“Going to buck me off?” She’s throaty and sultry. She grabs my cock and squeezes gently. “Like a big bronco?”

“Only if you want me to.”

She has no response as I suck on her ear lobe, only to push me down and climb over top of me, her curves silhouetted in the moonlight. Her damp * slides against my cock as she adjusts herself and I force in thoughts of Coach Wyatt in a towel into my mind so I don’t immediately come in this gorgeous girl the moment I enter her.

She deserves more than that. I want more than that.

She groans as I slide into her, almost as in pain. I freeze, holding tight to her. Slowly, her hips move up and down, side to side. I can feel her easing on me, trying to get used to my size. Little by little, she moves faster, getting into the rhythm stroke by stroke, until I am hanging onto her hips, thrusting deep inside her as she fondles herself and cries out.

Being inside of her is a religious experience. She’s tight, so tight, and warm. Every thrust brings a chorus of gasps and moans in my ear. It’s the best sex of my life. Except it didn’t feel like sex. It felt like music, like the perfect country song. A full George album starts and ends before we collapse together. I pull the blanket over us and we fall asleep beneath the winking stars.

In the morning, she’s gone. I feel the emptiness before I see it, and I will myself back to sleep, but it doesn’t matter. Her absence is known. I get dressed, fold up the blanket, and blare Dierks Bentley on the way home. I couldn’t stop her from leaving, but I still have the taste of her on my tongue.





1





Five Years Later





“Heads up!”

I duck as a bar of soap goes flying across the stalls. It’s nowhere near me, but after being pummeled in the head with a bar of Ivory more than once, you learn to start ducking. Every time. The soap hits the wall of the stall and lands on the floor.

“That’s why you’re only a reliever,” I holler, shutting off the water and grabbing my towel before Knickers can retaliate. He’s done it before. “Can’t aim for shit.”

“Ooohhh!” I hear Kemp on the other side of me, beating against the wall. “Sick burn!”

“You’re an idiot, Fife,” Knickers yells.

Those two have been at each other’s throats for a week now, because Knickers thinks Kemp stole his girl. Considering Kemp never keeps a girl, I’m not entirely sure what the issue is, but I’ve become increasingly jaded over the years.

“Victory tastes so goddamn sweet.” Kemp follows me back to the locker room to change. “It’s even better when we’re at home and all the ladies want to congratulate us at the bars later.”

We high-five, even though we both know he’ll be the one getting all the ladies and I’ll be the one picking up his leftovers and apologizing on behalf of the Kansas City Royals. Some of those leftovers may have contributed to my overall jadedness.

A few of us pile into Carlos’ Land Rover, which I always tell him is a ridiculous buy because who the hell needs to go off-roading in Kansas City? Also, who the hell would take this car off-roading? That’s what trucks are for. Kemp grabs the front seat and immediately changes the radio station to a club channel.

I never get the country music I’m hoping for in the car, even as I’ve shed the role as resident Rookie. Then again, I also never offer to drive, because I don’t want these guys to screw up my car. Carlos has been playing longer than I have and his contract is much bigger. While we’re both sending money back home, he’s still rolling in a lot more dough.

“This bigass car and you still can’t afford satellite radio?” Kemp snickers and we all laugh, giving him shit, enjoying the night.

Winning a game will do that to you.

I wouldn’t exactly say I’m cheap--my truck was probably worth as much as this Land Rover, but I’m not going to pay to fix it when these drunk *s start puking. Matter of fact, I’m probably going to Uber home because drunk Octivio is annoying. He speaks rapid-fire Portuguese and I can’t understand a thing he says. Somehow, I always get stuck with him by the end of the night.