Date: Mon, 17 Jun 2013 21:53:27 -0700
From: K Moreno <niftysouthpaw@gmail.com>
Subject: First Pitch - Chapters 1-2

After a number of years reading Nifty stories, this is my first
contribution. It's fiction, and probably a bit slow-developing for some
tastes. Any similarities to actual people or places are purely
coincidental.

If it's not legal for you to read this, please move along to something more
appropriate. Copyright K. Moreno.

First Pitch

Chapter 1

Colby sat in his locker as he dressed for the afternoon's baseball game. It
wasn't so much dressing as hydrating. An early heat wave was sending the
temperatures soaring and they would be playing in the heat and humidity of
the midwestern afternoon. Most of the rest of the team had gone out for
batting practice. Colby waited in the cooler, empty, locker room, dreading
having to go out into the May afternoon. If this kept up, it was going to
be a long summer.

He looked every bit a baseball player. His 6'2 frame carried about 215
pounds. As a catcher, he had thick, strong legs. His shoulders were broad
enough for his last name, LaMontange, to be sewn across the back without
curving.

In street clothes, you might have thought California surfer with his curly
blonde hair, blue eyes and beard cut to about a week's worth of stubble.
But when he spoke, there was just a hint of southern twang to dispel the
surfer notion.

Three years ago, he'd been one of the top catcher prospects in the minor
leagues. A shoulder injury and two surgeries later, his professional
baseball career was hanging by a thread in the independent league. Colby
had always worn his uniform old school style with high socks. As he pulled
them on each day, he could hear his grandfather talking about the way the
uniform should be worn.

He pulled his pinstripe jersey off the hanger and slid it on, buttoning it
and then pulling his pants up. He grabbed his protective cup and tucked it
into his jock strap before buttoning the uniform pants and zipping the
zipper. He had the belt to go, but always left that for last. His own
baseball superstition.

Colby reached into the equipment bag and pulled out his shin guards and
chest protector. He buckled them into place as he ran the scouting report
through his head. It was time to head down to the bullpen to warm up the
starting pitcher. His catcher's gear on, he stood up and buckled the belt,
grabbed the equipment bag and walked toward the dugout.

For most of his life, Colby's nickname was CJ, short for Colby Jeremiah.
But in this clubhouse, he'd been dubbed Monty, short for his last name
LaMontagne. In the dugout, he set the equipment bag in its usual spot,
grabbed his catcher's mitt, helmet and mask and started toward the bullpen,
when he heard the coach bark, "Monty!"

"What's up, coach?"

"Sergio's going to warm up the lefty. We've got a wounded veteran throwing
out the first pitch since it's Memorial Day. He seems pretty nervous about
it. See if you can get him to relax a bit before he plants the pitch 15
feet in front of the plate."

"Ok, coach."

Looking at a scrap of paper, the coach said, "his name is Lance Wilkinson.
Marine sergeant. Did two tours in Iraq and got hurt last year in
Afghanistan. Don't let him make a fool of himself."

"Got it."

Sgt. Wilkinson was standing by the screen behind home plate. Coach was
right, he did look uncomfortable. Before he left the dugout, Colby took a
first baseman's glove from his bag.

A doe-eyed intern wearing a too-tight tank top was babbling at the mid-
late-20s sergeant who didn't look like he was hearing a word she was
saying. When Colby approached, she interrupted her sentence. "Ooh. And this
is Colby. He's one of the nicest players, and are you going to be catching
the pitch?"

"Hi Amber. Yes, I'm going to get Sgt. Wilkinson ready to go." Colby moved
in and with both mitts tucked under his left arm, extended his right hand
to shake with the Marine.

"Sgt. Wilkinson, thank you for your service, sir. I'm grateful for all
you've done."

Rather sheepishly, Lance replied, "thank you." The Marine was dressed in
his service uniform, and Colby noticed that it fit him well. Colby was
wearing wrap around sun glasses, so his eyes wandered some, but he was
careful to make sure his eyes didn't linger too long.

What he didn't realize was that Lance was doing the same thing to him -
though his mirrored aviator style glasses gave him a little more cover.
Lance took in the athletic figure in front of him and fought the urge to
drool. The pinstripes pointed toward the crotch of the rather tight uniform
pants.

He knew the ballplayer was wearing a protective cup, but there was no
mistaking the way the uniform fit. "Are you kidding me? They send a walking
wet dream up here to talk to me," Lance thought to himself. "Why not a
scrawny infielder or lanky pitcher?"

Lance was lost in his thoughts when Colby asked, "so how's that arm? You
play much ball?"

"No sir. Football was king around my house growing up."

"Well, why don't you and I stretch it out a bit so that you don't plant
this pitch in the dirt."

Lance nodded.

Colby handed Lance the glove and a baseball and walked a few steps back
toward first base. The two men tossed the ball back and forth. Colby with
ease and Lance with growing effort as Colby continue to step backward after
every other toss.

"Fuck," Lance thought to himself, "does this guy have any idea how hot he
is? He doesn't come off like a conceited jock at all. He might actually be
human."

Before Lance realized it, he was easily tossing the baseball from home
plate to first base, much further than the distance he would have to throw
it from the pitcher's mound.

Colby caught the last toss and realized they were about to play the
national anthem. Then it would be time for the first pitch. He trotted back
toward home plate.

The anthem singer belted out a stirring rendition of the patriotic song and
then a series of fireworks were fired from beyond left field. Colby
wondered why they shot fireworks for day games when you really couldn't see
them. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lance's body language
change. He was frozen.

"You ok, sir?" He asked.

No response.

"Sgt. Wilkinson, are you ok?"

This time the response was inaudible. Was it nerves? What was it?

The Public Address announcer started to introduce Lance and
Amber-the-perky-intern appeared at the Marine's side to walk him out to the
pitcher's mound. After reciting his career accolades, the crowd cheered him
loudly and Lance reluctantly waved. Colby dropped into a squat behind home
plate and motioned toward the Marine.

He was completely frozen. Colby had no idea what had changed. But he knew
what was about to happen. This pitch could end up anywhere. As easy as they
had been tossing the ball back and forth just moments before, the sergeant
was now a wreck. Lance uncorked a pitch that sailed high and wide to
Colby's left. He lept to his feet and managed to catch it before it sailed
to the screen behind him.

The crowd applauded but Lance never heard them. With Colby's glove on his
left hand he walked quickly toward the gate. The photographer and intern
tried to get him to slow down for the customary photo with the player that
caught the pitch. But Lance was getting off the field as fast as he could.
He didn't want to be there.

The photographer shrugged and Colby walked back toward the third base
dugout while the intern scampered after the Marine.

"Thought I told you to get him loosened up, Monty," the coach barked.

"He was doing great until the fireworks. Poor guy vapor locked," Colby
replied glumly.

In the short time he'd been out there, Colby had worked up a pretty good
sweat. He put his catcher's mitt down and got a cold towel from the
equipment manager, wrapping it around his neck. "As men in uniform go Lance
was pretty damn good looking," Colby thought to himself. "I think there was
a pretty nice body under that uniform."

Colby's brief daydream was interrupted by the starting pitcher standing
next to him. "Yo. You ready to do this?"

"Always," he said confidently. Colby started to trot out on the field.
"Let's go."

Three and a half hours later, Colby again sat in front of his locker, now
wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and ice bags on his knees. The coaches
were urging the team to get organized as the team was leaving on a road
trip and had a 10-hour bus ride ahead.

Colby was organizing his gear in the oversized equipment bag in front of
him. "If anybody sees our friend the Marine, he's still got my first base
glove," He said to no one in particular.

Half an hour later Colby was fully loaded down with a backpack on, a box
lunch under his arm, and his suitcase and equipment bag in tow. He Colby
slowly walked toward the bus and a long ride to Minnesota. He stopped at
his well aged Toyota SUV with oxidized blue paint and expired Tennessee
plates. Rummaging through the back seat filled with sports equipment and
guitar cases, he found a well worn first base glove and tucked it in the
oversized equipment bag. Colby grabbed one of the guitar cases and slammed
the door.

The equipment manager, anxious to get the bus going and not upset the coach
urged Colby toward the bus. Everyone else was on board. "We're leaving!"
Colby put his gear under the bus and the driver closed the bins behind him.

Chapter 2

Across town, Lance had been home for several hours. Home was, much to his
chagrin, his parents house and the same room he'd slept in growing up. He
was upset. Frustrated. He cursed the medication. Cursed the war. Cursed the
scars. Cursed the fear he couldn't escape.

In the garage, he tinkered with the engine of a classic Triumph motorcycle
he was rebuilding. As the night grew late, Lance's father emerged from the
house and walked straight to the stereo and turned it off. "Don't care if
you stay out here all night, but your mother and I don't have to try to
sleep through that crap, and neither do the neighbors. Now. You know
there's appointments in the morning, right?"

"Yes, sir." Lance replied curtly and without looking up. His father
retreated to the house.

Lance kept an eye on the lights, and about 45 minutes after the house was
dark, he walked in, drank a tall glass of cold water and climbed the stairs
to his room without turning on a light. He dropped his worn jeans to the
floor and climbed into bed hoping that sleep would come quickly.

In the night, Lance woke with a start. His pulse was quick. He was hot. But
this was something he hadn't felt in a long time. He ran his hand down his
t-shirt covered torso until he reached his groin. His cock was standing
straight out, fully hard and sticky.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock which was wet with pre-cum. It felt
good. As he started to stroke himself, he let out a moan. In the faint
light, he looked down. He hadn't been this horny since before he was hurt.
His cock was so hard it hurt.

Lance slid his boxers off. He continued to stroke his cock. With his free
hand, he rubbed a nipple and gasped. Stroking faster, he lowered his hand
and felt his balls. He cupped them and tugged on them. It all felt so good.
He could feel himself building toward orgasm.

He closed his eyes. Breathing heavier, he envisioned Colby. He was
unzipping the ball player's uniform and freeing his large cock from a jock
strap. He tasted it, taking the tip of Colby's rapidly hardening cock in
his mouth. Oh yes. It had been so long.

Stroking faster and harder, Lance groaned. In his mind, he was sucking
Colby's cock with all his might.

Responding to the furious stroking, his cock was dripping and covering his
fingers in precum. Imagining the taste of the jock's cock, he stopped
stroking for a moment and brought his sticky fingers to his lips and tasted
himself. He imagined the jock's smell and taste as he sucked his fingers.
At that moment he wasn't even touching his cock, but he felt all seven
inches throb.

Lance scooped another couple drops off the tip of his cock and brought them
to his lips. As he started to slowly jerk his cock again, he sucked the
fingers into his mouth and soaked them. He wished he was tasting a real
cock. With his right hand wrapped around his cock, he took the wet fingers
of his left hand and pointed them at his ass.

Stroking faster, he felt the cool wet fingers tease his hole. Legs spread
wide, he shoved a finger inside himself. He gasped audibly. He moved it
around a little and moaned. He wouldn't even get a second finger in. Lance
felt his balls draw close and past the point of no return. He shuttered as
his cock erupted. Lance heard the first shot of cum splatter on the pillow
beside him and felt at least four more shots land on his chest.

Breathing heavily, he continued to stroke his still hard cock. He hadn't
cum that much without getting fucked in ages. His cock finally started to
soften and he released it from his hand.

He pulled off the t-shirt that was now bunched up around his shoulders and
wiped his stomach clean. He tossed the t-shirt to the side of the bed and
curled up. "Was that real?" He wondered to himself. "Did I just whack off
to that damn ball player?"

The alarm clock came quickly and Lance awoke naked in bed with his boxers
around one ankle.  His morning wood was harder than he remembered it being
in a long time. As he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed,
he saw the t-shirt he'd used as a cum rag a few hours before. "What the
hell," he mumbled aloud.

He stood up and kicked his boxers to the side. He walked toward the
bathroom, his mostly stiff cock leading the way. Under the spray of the
shower, he soaped his body, his hands lingering on his cock and balls
longer than usual. Lance gave thought to stroking off again.

His mother's shrill voice ended any thought of that as he heard her bellow
through the door to the bedroom, "your appointment is in 45 minutes,
Lance!" He sighed. His cock faded. He turned the water off and stepped out
from the shower.

He quickly dressed and grabbed his wallet and keys. With as much energy as
he'd had in some time, he walked down stairs and out the front door, to his
truck. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. Something caught his
eye. He looked into the passenger seat and saw the baseball glove from the
day before. "Well," Lance thought aloud, "this is awkward."

To be continued....

Constructive comments are welcome - niftysouthpaw@gmail.com