Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Turning in Rob’s arms, Mike presses his mouth to Rob’s in a hungry kiss. “Your turn,” he murmurs into Rob as his hands tickle down Rob’s chest. They pull his shirt free from his shorts, then smooth under the fabric to rub over his taut stomach. “So firm,” Mike purrs. “God, I love a man in shape. You work out?”

  Another opening where he can mention he plays ball, too.

  Another moment he lets slip by. “You could say that.” Rob grabs the bottom of his shirt in both hands and tugs it up over his head. Before it’s even clear, Mike is kissing him again. Then Rob tosses the shirt aside and hurries to unbuckle his belt.

  Mike beats him to it. His nimble fingers are down the front of Rob’s shorts in seconds, pushing the zipper wide. The shorts drop to the floor in a sigh of fabric, the belt buckle thudding gently on the carpet. As Mike kisses him again, Rob steps out of the shorts, then steps on the back of his sneakers one at a time to get rid of those, too. Mike backs up, giving Rob room. Another step takes off his left sock, the next, his right. When he’s as nude as Mike, he wraps his arms around the shortstop and presses their naked bodies together. They meet like two pieces of a puzzle, each fitting nicely into the other.

  Rob’s hands cup Mike’s buttocks, pulling them up and apart, separating them as he pulls Mike close. With a moan, Mike steps back, not to put distance between them but in an attempt to guide Rob to the bed. The room is small, and they don’t have far to go—another step or two and the back of Mike’s knees bump against the side of the mattress. He falls back on it, suddenly out of Rob’s embrace, and Rob grins down at the beautiful, hard, naked man smiling back.

  “There are condoms in my suitcase,” Mike says. One hand drifts down over Rob’s chest, as if reluctant to stop touching him. He tilts his head to one side, indicating the open suitcase beside the television stand. “Lube, too. If we’re going to do this…”

  “Hell, yeah, we are,” Rob assures him. Catching Mike’s hand in his, he raises it to his lips and kisses the battered knuckles. “Wait right here.”

  He hurries to the suitcase. It rests on a small stand provided by the hotel specifically for this purpose. The suitcase is on its back, open, and the clothing inside is so neatly packed, Rob almost hates to ruffle through it looking for the condoms. Then he notices the zippered mesh bag hanging on the inside of the suitcase’s upper half. A handful of condoms are tucked inside, along with a well-used tube of super-slippery silicone lubricant.

  Unzipping the bag, he grabs a condom and the lube. When Rob turns around, Mike has stretched out on the bed in an inviting pose—on his back, Mike props himself up on his elbows and gives Rob a come hither look that shoots straight through him to stiffen his dick. One of Mike’s legs is straight, the toes on his foot pointing at Rob; the other is hitched up, the knee leaning a bit to the side, allowing Rob an honest look at the balls hanging low between Mike’s legs. Above the ruddy, hairy sacs, Mike’s cock stands hard as an exclamation point, lying flush against his lower belly.

  “Like what you see?” Mike asks, a playful smile tugging up one corner of his mouth.

  Rob’s throat closes, his mouth dries up, and his tongue swells, rendering him speechless. My God, he thinks, looking at the tanned flesh burnished by the lamp beside the bed. I want that, every inch of that. I want it now.

  Crossing to the bed, he kneels at the foot of the mattress between Mike’s spread legs. The condom and lube fall from his hands; he doesn’t need them yet. Instead he crawls toward Mike, his arms catching under Mike’s knees to pull Mike’s legs up around his head as he leans into Mike’s center. A faint musky scent drifts up to him, a sexy smell that clenches his balls. Licking out his tongue, Rob touches it to the dimple in the center of Mike’s balls, just below where his cock begins.

  Mike gasps, his legs shuddering in Rob’s arms.

  Dipping down, Rob traces the curve of Mike’s scrotum, down one side, around the bottom, then up the other. Mike sobs, “Yes!” His legs cross behind Rob’s head, his ankles locking together, and he squeezes his knees together in an attempt to draw Rob closer. “Please.”

  He doesn’t have to beg. Rob licks under the soft sac, nosing it aside to delve into the cleft of Mike’s buttocks. He tastes the hint of puckered skin; when his tongue rubs over the hole, Mike’s whole body strums with pleasure, and little whimpering sounds escape Mike’s throat. “Yes,” he sighs, throwing his head back so it hangs above the pillows. “Where did you learn that?”

  Rob smiles, his hot breath fanning Mike’s genitals and wafting back up at him. He kisses Mike’s scrotum, then turns his attention to the main attraction, the piece de resistance, the star of the show. He’s been looking forward to this all evening, and allows himself a moment to savor the sight of Mike’s erect cock rising above him like an obelisk of power before he tongues the base and sets it aquiver.

  Slowly he moves up, inch by inch, memorizing each vein, each freckle, each wrinkle along the way. Up Mike’s length, around the shaft, like a child studiously devouring a delicious lollipop, Rob uses his lips and tongue to knead his way to Mike’s cockhead. His nose bumps the flared tip first, then Rob’s mouth covers over it. The taste of salty pre-cum fills his senses. Mike thrusts up into Rob, who opens wide to take in as much of the thick dick as he can. His lips sink down Mike’s smooth length almost to the base, where dark, kinked hair tickles Rob’s nose.

  Using his cheeks and throat and tongue, Rob works Mike’s cock until the weeping tip threatens to overflow. Then Rob pulls back and looks down at this evening’s lover. Mike has dropped his elbows and lies spread out on the bed, sweat beading on his chest and temples, and in the faint stubble above his upper lip. Leaning over, Rob kisses away the drops, then catches Mike’s lip between both of his. “Fuck me,” he growls.

  Mike’s response is a slight nod, barely there. Suckling on Mike’s lip, Rob finds the condom by touch alone and tears open the package. His fingers know the routine without thought, and within seconds, the condom is rolled down onto Mike’s stiff cock.

  Rob sits back, retrieves the lube, and squirts a healthy dollop onto the tip of the condom. With rough hands, he rubs it along Mike’s length, pulling back when Mike starts bucking into his palms. Not yet, he thinks, squirting more lube into his hands and rubbing them together. I’m not letting that go to waste, not tonight.

  When both hands are slick with lube, Rob grabs his own cock and slathers it, then dips lower to douse his balls. Spreading his knees a little, he reaches behind him and runs his hands down the crack in his ass, then leans over when his forefingers find his tight hole. The pain is sharp but not unpleasant; both fingers pierce into his ass, rimming him, stretching him, widening him for Mike’s entry. He gasps in lust, and Mike reaches forward to stroke Rob’s cock. “Don’t do it all yourself,” he chides.

  Rob lets himself be guided into position—he climbs over Mike’s knees and sits on the flat of Mike’s belly. He lets Mike’s hands push him back, then feels the arrowed tip of Mike’s cock slide against the cleft of his buttocks. He gets up on his knees and reaches behind him to hold Mike’s cock steady. Back, over a little, wait for it, wait…

  The bulbous head butts against his hole, presses for one breathless moment, then pushes in with a familiar burn that makes Rob cry out in passion. “Yes!” he gasps, sinking down as he impales himself on Mike’s erection. “God, you’re huge. Fuck me, fuck me.”

  Mike grasps Rob’s hips as they begin to move in an age-old rhythm. The bed thumps against the wall with each thrust; if any of Mike’s teammates are home next door, they’ll have no doubt what their shortstop is up to right now. Thud, thud, punctuated by Mike’s breathy moans and Rob’s lusty cries. “Fuck me,” and “harder,” and “Jesus Christ, harder, uh uh uh.” Like a well-oiled machine, their bodies move in synch, their movements melding together into one thrusting, pumping, fucking creature fumbling toward ecstasy and nearing release.

  * * * *

  Some time later Rob stirs. He lays half on top of Mike, bot
h of them above the bed covers, their bellies sticky with cum where their flesh presses together. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Rob glances across Mike to the clock on the bedside table. It’s shortly after midnight. As Rob swings his legs over the side of the bed, Mike murmurs, “You really have to go?”

  “It’s getting late,” Rob says.

  Mike laughs softly. “The old nine to five, eh? Some of us have to work tomorrow, I know.”

  Another opportunity to tell him what Rob does for a living. A moment’s silence, and the opportunity is gone.

  Rob stretches, savoring the snap and pop in the small of his back, then runs a hand along Mike’s bare leg. The hair on Mike’s thigh puffs up under Rob’s touch. “You’re here for a week, right?”

  He feels Mike’s hand trace the curve of his spine. “About that. You want to do this again?”

  “Give me your number,” Rob says. It doesn’t really answer the question, but it sounds like it does.

  As Mike fumbles with the complementary pad of paper and hotel pen on the bedside table, Rob ducks into the bathroom to relieve himself. A quick piss, then a washcloth run under hot water to clean off his stomach and dick. He wrings out the washcloth, wets it down real good again, then rubs it between the tender crack in his butt. As he fingers himself, he remembers how Mike’s thickness filled his ass. Yeah, he wants to do this again, definitely. But whether Mike will want to or not after their first game Tuesday remains to be seen.

  He could still say something, he knows, but it’s really too late now. He’s waited too long. Oh well—he had fun while it lasted.

  Exiting the bathroom, he picks up his clothes from in front of the door. Shakes out his shirt, slips it on over his head. Shakes out his shorts, pretends he doesn’t see the tighty whities slip free of one pant leg before he steps into them. The rough khaki rubs against his balls and cock, his sore ass, but he leaves the undies. Let Mike sniff them later, if he likes, or jerk off with them wrapped around his face.

  Rob grins at that image, but plays it off by grinning at himself in the mirror as he smoothes down his hair.

  Still naked, Mike comes up behind him with a piece of paper folded in his hand. “Here,” he says, slipping his hand into the front pocket of Rob’s shorts. His fingers curl around the base of Rob’s cock, exciting it again, then he pulls his hand from the pocket, leaving the piece of paper behind. Wrapping his arms around Rob’s waist, he kisses the back of Rob’s neck and meets Rob’s reflection in the mirror. “Call me.”

  Rob turns in Mike’s arms. “We’ll see.” He seals the promise with a last, lingering kiss that has Mike’s dick hard and pressing against the front of Rob’s shorts by the time they break apart.

  Later, in the cab of his truck, where it’s dark, he slides down low in the driver’s seat and unzips his shorts. Lets himself hang out into the fresh air as he drives, one hand on the wheel, one slowly stroking his semi-hard dick. Remembering Mike on him, in him. Remembering the feel of flesh, the taste of skin, the smell of sex. By the time he gets home, his palm is sticky with his own juices all over again.

  Who is he kidding? He’ll call.

  * * * *

  But Monday comes and goes without a chance to even think of Mike. There’s ball practice from sun-up to sun-down; the Rebels are on a winning streak and they don’t want to break their stride in the coming weeks. If they can best the Waves in seven games, they have a shot at the Championship. No matter how great the sex was last night, Mike takes a back seat to that.

  Because Rob’s the starting pitcher, he spends most of the day lobbing baseballs for the rest of the team to hit. He’s tempted to throw a few curves into the mix, shake things up a bit—he can pitch a no-hitter if he wants—but a quick shake of the coach’s head nips that idea in the butt. “Save it for tomorrow, ace,” Evans says, with a hard clap on Rob’s back. “Did you check out their batters like I told you?”

  Rob nods. “Nothing to it. I doubt they’ll hit anything tomorrow.”

  The coach nods, satisfied. Silently Rob amends, Most of them won’t hit squat. I’m not so sure about number 3. He never saw Mike at bat. If there’s one wild card in tomorrow’s pack, it’s him.

  By the end of practice, Rob’s shoulder is sore and a dull ache has settled into his elbow like arthritis. He heads home almost gratefully, exhausted and tired. A couple pain pills, an ice pack for the elbow, a heating pad for the shoulder, and he falls asleep in front of the television watching reruns of The A-Team on cable.

  Somewhere on the Monday side of midnight, he remembers Mike’s phone number tucked into the front pocket of the shorts he wore the night before. I’ll call him later, he thinks. The guy will be here for a week, won’t he? They’ll have plenty of time to hook up again, right?

  Right?

  * * * *

  Tuesday’s game starts at 6:30, which means the gates open at five, and Rob needs to be at the Diamond no later than three in the afternoon. There are snacks on a table outside the locker room—Gatorade and power bars, mostly, along with bottles of ice cold water—and a clean, pressed uniform waiting for him at his locker. He gets in early enough to grab a quick shower, then dresses as the rest of his team begins to arrive. Catcalls and whistles echo through the locker room, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated with laughter as the guys change into their uniforms. The team’s mascot comes down to boost morale, and someone takes a few pictures of him with a cell phone, flanked by teammates who wear nothing more than damp towels and big smiles. If that shows up on Facebook tomorrow, Coach Evans will be livid.

  Then it’s out to the batting cage for practice. Rob takes a few swings himself, but he’s rarely in the lineup so he doesn’t worry when he hits nothing but pop flies. A few people already in the stands love it, though—they hover around the end of the stadium near the batting cage, gloves in hand, hoping to catch something. When it’s Rob’s turn to pitch, he sometimes throws a high ball into the stands just to watch the crowd fight over it.

  He doesn’t see the Wildwood Waves arrive, but at some point he looks across the field and sees the pale blue and green uniforms of the visiting team as some of the players take the time to stretch out before the game starts. From this distance, he can’t pick out faces, but he sees the number 3 on the back of a shirt and, above it, the word Hennessey.

  Mike.

  With difficulty, Rob returns to his practice pitches, but one part of his mind keeps wandering back to Sunday evening and the time spent in Mike’s bed. He should’ve said something then about playing for the Rebels, but it’s too late now. As soon as the announcer starts reeling off the names of the players, Mike will hear Rob’s and think…what?

  I should’ve told him, Rob thinks, chucking the ball a little too hard on the next pitch. The batter dives to the ground to avoid being hit. If not that first night, then the next, at least. I could’ve called him up yesterday and told him, but I didn’t.

  “Hey!” the batter yells, dusting off the front of his uniform as he stands. “Are we on the same team here or what?”

  “Sorry,” Rob mutters. His gaze drifts across the field to number 3. He could head on over and say hi, but that would look bad. The stands are filling up, the other players are watching, everyone will see them. Everyone will know.

  Too late to do anything about it now, he tells himself. Just play ball now, and if you still want to get with him later, worry what he’ll have to say about it then.

  If. Like there’s any question. Of course Rob wants another night with that man. Who wouldn’t?

  * * * *

  He should’ve said something, he knows he should’ve. As the announcer reels off the names of the Richmond Rebels, the players take the field, and Rob approaches the pitcher’s mound with a growing sense of dread. His name’s near the end, and soon enough, the dreaded words roll across the stands and over the field. “Pitching for the Rebels today is R-R-R-R-Robin R-R-R-R-Ritchie!”

  The crowd goes wild, as always. Rob knows the cheers are m
ostly for the way his name rolls off the announcer’s tongue, but he raises his arms and waves, anyway. His photo flashes across the Jumbo-Tron screen, the same way everyone else’s did, but he doesn’t look up at it today. No, he’s watching the visitor’s dugout. Mike leans over the rail with the rest of his team.

  Rob watches as he glances up at the screen, a smile lingering on his lips from whatever the teammate next to him said. He sees Rob’s photo on the screen—Rob knows he does because a thin furrow clouds his brow. Then Mike turns to look at the pitcher’s mound, at Rob himself, putting two and two together.

  The furrow deepens. The smile slips away. Rob resists the urge to throw a quick wave Mike’s way.

  Sorry, he thinks. He should’ve said something, he knows that now. Even if he calls the number tonight, will Mike bother to answer? Rob thinks not.

  He turns away from the visitor’s dugout and removes his hat as the announcer introduces the young girl who will sing this evening’s National Anthem. Hat over his heart, eyes on the flag flying above the scoreboard, he feels Mike’s glare across the field. This is going to be a long night.

  * * * *

  The way the Diamond runs their minor league games almost ensures the home and visiting teams never interact. Between the top and bottom of each inning, the mascot gyrates on the roof of the home team dugout while local vendors host silly contests designed to boost the crowd’s morale. There’s never a moment where the home team is coming in and the visitors pass them as they take the field, or vice versa. Rob never has to worry about actually running into Mike during the game until the guy comes up to bat.

  Rob pushes all thought from his head, clearing it as he faces off against the batter. Nothing else exists for him but the man poised to swing on home plate. He won’t even let himself look out the corner of his eye at the visitor’s dugout. He’s committed to the game, full on, bring it. As each batter steps up to the plate, Rob sees the number on the front of the man’s jersey, remembers watching the man swing during practice, and throws a ball he knows the man won’t be able to hit.