SOFT BALL or MY BEST POSITION

I pounded my hand into my black baseball mitt. "C'mon, you can do it!" I
yelled to our pitcher, who looked like he was standing a million miles
away. He probably couldn't even hear me. I shook my head in disgust. I
wondered again how I had gotten into this mess.

We were playing co-ed intramural softball. Well, it was supposed to be
co-ed, but I was the only girl on our team, Joey's Jambalayas. The only
girl on almost any of the teams, in fact. For some reason, most of the
girls preferred cheerleading and sorority pajama parties to sweating it
out with the guys. Not me. I'd played team softball in high school, and
I was thrilled to be playing again. I was nineteen, a sophomore, and I
was dating Joey when the season started. Yes, that Joey.

I wasn't sleeping with Joey Jambalaya any more by the time game number
twelve came around. But I was having too much fun every Sunday to quit,
so I stayed on the team. That was a good thing too. Most of the guys on
the team were bad-hit okay-field NCAA Division III-Z wannabes, and they
needed all the help they could get. On the other hand, I was a decent
singles hitter and played a great Second Base. Or at least I did, until
week twelve.

But that week a worm infiltrated my Jambalaya fruit basket. His name was
Michael Hunter, and he'd joined the team as a favor to his pre-med roomie,
who was quitting to study for his MCATs. At the beginning of the game,
the whole Jambalaya team trotted out to take the field. I jogged out to
second and stopped, like I always did. Then I noticed that the new guy
was standing right next to me, between me and the base.

"Excuse me?" I said. "Can I help you?"

"Nope," he responded.

I noticed that he was giving me the old once-over as we both stood there.
That wasn't really a surprise. All the guys did at at one point or
another. I was in good shape from the softball and from my running, which
I did every night. I even used that to my advantage in the games. On
game days I would always wear a pair of pretty tight denim short-shorts
that showed off my ass, and a scoop-necked shirt that hugged my curves and
displayed some cleavage.

Usually the guys on the other team were so busy ogling me that they'd get
distracted. Pitchers forgot to pitch me hard and fast. Fielders weren't
careful when I was baserunning. And opposing runners never wanted to hurt
me by running me over at second base, so they'd get into easy outs. Who
says women are stupid?

But this guy Hunter, he was giving me the Eagle Eye on a totally different
level. He wasn't just imagining me naked, like everybody else. No, I
could tell that his imagination was much more vivid. I narrowed my eyes
and looked right back at him. But he seemed to enjoy that even more, and
I could swear that he was even smiling to himself, like a judge at a Wet
T-Shirt contest. Or maybe like the guy that gets to splash buckets of
water on the girls' tits.

He was giving me the creeps. And he was just standing there at second
base. Who the hell did he think he was?

"Hey buddy," I said in my friendliest we're-just-teammates-so-get-your-
eyes-off-my-boobs voice. "Shouldn't you be out in Right Field by now?"

"Second Base is my position," he said. He stood there, not moving.

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. "Not on this team, Buster,"
I said. "I play Second. New guy plays Right, and bats eighth. You have
a problem with that?"

He looked right back at me, his eyes doing a vertical rhumba as they
danced over my figure. Then he looked into my eyes and smiled, a lopsided
sort of grin.

"OK, have it your way," he said. "But you'll see. And then you'll be
sor-ree." With that, he turned around and jog-trotted his way out into
deep Right Field. He stopped, gave me a cocky wave, and put on a pair of
blue Ray-Ban Terminator sunglasses. Great. I had been warned. But what
was he warning me about?

I turned toward home plate, where the other team's leadoff batter was
taking a practice swing. I noticed that he was a lefty, and from the
looks of things he was a lefty pull-hitter. That meant he'd be hitting
the ball in my direction. And in Hunter's direction.

As it turned out, I was right. The leadoff batter was a lefty.

So were the next six batters in a row.

The first inning was a disaster. I made a few good fielding plays on
short-hop grounders, and we got the first two guys out pretty quickly.
But then they started hitting 'em to the outfield, and our new right
fielder turned every play into an adventure. He lost two pop flies in the
sun. A hard line drive broke right as he broke left. A soft roller down
the first-base line turned into an inside-the-park home run. After they'd
scored four runs, Jambalaya Joey looked at him in disgust. And then he
looked at me, also in disgust. For which I couldn't blame him, since I
had dumped him two weeks ago without even a farewell fuck. I had always
promised him one, but then I reneged.

In retrospect, I should've done it. I barely would've felt anything, and
it wouldn't have taken too long. I could've even caught up on some of my
reading for my English class. Hell, I could've finished two, maybe three
pages.

But I hadn't and so it was no wonder that I was soon in Right Field,
cursing Mikey-Boy under my breath. And over my breath. And at the top of
my lungs, especially when he made a miraculous back-handed stop of a hard
screaming liner. What a bastard!

To make matters worse, the whole team was falling all over themselves
congratulating him after the catch. Like he'd just won the game
singlehandedly. So he made a nice play. Big deal. I sat on the end of
the bench to sulk by myself as we came up to bat.

He walked over and sat down next to me. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't
mean to show you up. But I can't catch fly balls to save my life. That's
why I always play Second Base. Besides," he added, "you can't really
blame me. I did warn you, after all."

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. "Mmm-hmmm," I said. "You
did warn me. But since we weren't really making eye contact, I didn't get
your full meaning."

He wasn't even embarrassed. He just raised one eyebrow.

"I mean, you WERE looking at my tits the whole time. Look at you! You're
doing it again!" And he was, too.

Hunter wrenched his eyes away from my breasts to look me in the face.
"All the other guys might do that. And to be honest, I'm not sure I could
help myself either. Your breasts are beautiful," he said. "But only
because they are a part of you. You are a beautiful woman, and I couldn't
stop staring at you if I tried. All of you."

I didn't quite know how to respond, even though I realized that he was
still staring at my boobs. And then he turned away and went up to bat.
Hey! The little shit was batting in my number seven slot! What a
silver-tongued bastard! I knew then that I had better watch my step with
this one. he was dangerous. And he knew it.

We lost the game, eleven to two. Hunter didn't make any more errors, and
neither did I. He did bat only one-for-five, though. I could swear that
at least twice he made out on purpose. And when I came up after him I
could feel his eyes on me as he stared at me in my stance from his seat on
the bench. The first time it made me nervous. The second and third times
I got so mad that I smacked a single and then a double. And when I did,
he smiled at me and winked.

At the end of the game, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was him
again.

"Hey, look. I feel really shitty about the game today, and especially for
taking your position. How's about you stick around for some extra
practice." He must've seen the look on my face, because he hastily added
"for me, I mean. Maybe some BP and some fielding practice. Fly balls, so
I could do better in Right Field next game."

I made a slow nod, and so for the next hour we threw the ball back and
forth, occasionally hitting a few. We also talked. He told me about his
plans for after graduation, how he thought he might either go corporate or
else go find a remote cabin, maybe under a waterfall. And he was funny,
too. He kept telling me the wierdest things, talking and joking up a
storm. "I don't know exactly what I'm gonna do with my life," he said.
"Maybe even some kind of writing. With a twist. Stuff you have to think
about. I might..."

I waited, but he didn't finish. "Might what?" I asked.

"Exactly," he answered.

I didn't get it. I said so.

He grinned at me. "Think about what you just said," he smirked. "Try
saying it again out loud, and pay attention this time."

I was baffled. "What I said? You mean, Might What? I don't..."

Light dawned. A light bulb went on over my head. Might...What.
MightWhat. Migh tWhat. My Twat. Very funny. What a comedian.

He grinned even wider. "Sophomoric shit, isn't it? I could take a pen
name. Wouldn't even have to change my real name very much. I could just
shorten it in strategic ways. Wouldn't that be great?" I reared back and
threw the next one over his head. He ran after it, snickering.

After a while he started to look good out there. Too good, if you asked
me. I was suspicious, but I was too hot and tired to wonder why he was
suddenly a superstar outfielder. It was a relief when he finally said
"Hey, it's almost eight o'clock. Let's call it a day and hit the showers,
OK?"

But there was a problem when we got inside. In front of the men's locker
room stood a yellow plastic sign, one of those "Caution: Do Not Enter"
things. Then a big black guy in a blue outfit emerged from the room and
picked up the sign with a pinkie. He dragged it across the hallway until
it was in front of the doorway to the women's lockers and showers. He
looked at Mike.

"S'ok, buddy," he gestured with his elbow at the men's door. "You can go
in now. It's all spic and span."

"Um, what about me?" I said.

"Sorry, Little Girl," he said. "I gotta clean out the Ladies' now, or
I'll lose my job. You can go in first and get your stuff, though.
Wouldn't advise hangin' around - it's gonna be at least an hour."

What could I do? I went in and got my stuff. When I came out, the black
guy went in. He slammed the door behind him.

I looked at Mike. Mike looked at me. Then he reached out and swung open
the men's locker room door.

"Well, I don't know about you," he said. "But I really need a shower."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do?" I almost screamed.

"You could wait for the guy to finish up in the Girls' Room," he said,
speculatively.

"But that's gonna take an HOUR!" I wailed. "I can't wait that long! And
it's getting late!"

He blinked once, and looked straight at me. "Or you might..." he trailed
off. Then he shook his head.

I looked straight at him, staring directly into his dark eyes.

"Might What?" I purred.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he swallowed once, hard,
and tried again.

"Well," he said. "There's no one around, and I wouldn't want you to wait
here outside, all alone. Especially not so late. So you could..."

He swallowed again.

"...You could just come on in to the Boys'. We could take turns or
something. Really. This would definitely be the best way."

He'd regained his composure and was completely earnest. Sincere. And
clearly full of it. Which might explain why his eyes opened wide when I
calmly said "okay" and walked into the men's locker room.

That must've been the most dedicated janitor in the history of floor
buffers. When Mike flicked on the light switch we saw that the room was
so clean it almost sparkled. He turned to me as the door clicked shut
behind us.

"Why don't you go first?" he said. "I'll wait out here till you're
finished. And I won't look. Honest."

"That would be such a shame," I said. He looked baffled, and then leered.
"You waiting out here all alone, I mean," I went on. "And I usually take
kinda long showers." His eyes gleamed like he couldn't wait to hear what
was coming. I tried to look thoughtful. I'm pretty sure I didn't really
succeed, since I was fighting back a grin. He wasn't bothering to hide
the look on his face. He looked like a kid who'd just found his dad's
Playboy stash. Or his Hustlers. Whatever.

I tried to look stern. "There are rules, though." He nodded. "Right.
Rules." I ticked them off on my fingers. "I stand on one side of the
room. You're on the other. No touching. Looking is OK, but not too
much. And if you ever tell anyone else on the team about this, you're
dead. All right?"

He nodded. "Right. Rules." I sighed, and then shook my hair out of my
ballgame ponytail. I crossed my arms in front of me and pulled my shirt
off over my head. Standing in my bra, I bent down to untie my sneakers
and pull off my shorts. I stood up in my underwear. "What is this, a
free show?" I snapped.

He grinned again and yanked off his own t-shirt. Then he pulled down his
pants, a little carefully. Acting like I did this all the time, I reached
back and undid my bra (not a sports bra, either - how the hell would a
minimizing spandex band distract opposing teams?) and stepped out of my
panties.

Totally naked, I toyed with my hair as I watched him finish stripping. He
wasn't bad looking at all. He had sandy hair and dark eyes, a pleasant
face except for a permanent smart-alecky grin. His chest was flat and a
little hairy, his tummy just slightly rounded at his belly button. I bet
that would probably get worse over the next couple years.

But most interesting was the thing that went BOING as he gingerly lowered
his boxer shorts. It wasn't huge. Not even especially oversized. But it
looked friendly and cheerful as it bobbed there, pointing right at my
naked body. Sort of like Mike himself, at the moment. I smiled and
turned toward the showers. I felt his eyes riveted to my ass as I walked,
and I swayed a little extra for him.

The shower room was one of those gigantic rooms with showerheads spaced
every few feet apart on the tiled walls. It was like the rooms you saw in
military movies or soft-core porn flicks about girls' boarding schools.
You know, the ones you could get out of the video store in high school
because they weren't rated X, only "R-but-you-gotta-be-17." The room was
clean and shining, so I didn't even put on my shower shoes. I just chose
a place close to the door and turned on the faucets.

The water did feel good washing over me. I faced the wall to wet down my
front, and closed my eyes. As I heard Mike pad in behind me, I turned
around. I let the water run down my back and then straightened up,
tilting my head back. I stood there across from him, my body wet and
glistening. With my head bent back a little and my arms up over my head,
my breasts were thrust out and pulled up. Smiling, I moved my arms so the
round ice-cream scoops (with cherries on top!) bounced and jiggled wetly.
At the top of my legs, the curly triangle of my bush was matted and
dripping from the shower spray. And that wasn't the only reason it was
wet, either.

As I turned back around I heard a faucet squeak once, and then nothing.
Then a voice spoke from just behind my shoulder, into my ear.

"I know it's crazy," he said, "but none of the other showers seem to be
working right now. I guess we'll just have to share."

(Concluded in #2/2...go get it!!!)

From taria29c@aol.com Thu Jul 24 22:50:15 1997
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: {ASS} SOFT BALL by TAR1A - a homage (2/2)
From: taria29c@aol.com (Taria29c)
Date: 25 Jul 1997 02:50:15 GMT
--------
(Continued from #1/2...read that first!!!)

I leaned my head back until it was resting against his chest. "I guess
so," I breathed. "I could use a little help washing the hard-to-reach
places anyway."

Still leaning against him, I held out the bar of soap in my hand. He took
it, and reached around my waist with it. With one hand he guided the soap
in circles around my shoulders, under my arms, down my sides. Then, with
firm, hard strokes, he soaped up my breasts. Lathering up both hands, he
cupped my slick and slippery tits. His hands squeezed and grabbed,
tweaking my small pink nipples until they were hard little points digging
into his palms. He played with them until I moaned.

I spread my legs apart and leaned back on him for support as those magic
hands descended to my bush. His soapy fingers plunged through the thicket
of short-and-curlies until they parted my lips. I gasped as his fingers
entered me, and I moaned as he teased my clit. His hard-on prodded my
rump, and it slid into the crack between my asscheeks as I pushed back
against him.

I turned around and hooked my arms around his neck, and held on tight as
he lathered up my back and my ass. He crouched a little to move his hands
lower, and I spread my legs apart again as he snuck a soapy finger inside
my dark nether hole.

"You do a thorough job," I said. Actually I kind of croaked. I was
beginning to lose the power of speech by this point.

"Every nook and cranny," he said, as his hands massaged round and round my
ass.

"Are you absolutely sure?" I whispered in his ear. "I think I'd like the
full inspection. You know, check all the connections, make sure
everything's running smoothly."

"Customer's always right," he said. "Where would you like me to start,
ma'am?"

I wriggled my slick body against him, letting his hard cock poke at me a
bit. "I think you oughta lie down underneath. So you can check under the
hood."

I had to give him this: he was game. Even though this was a public shower
(cleaner than usual, maybe, but STILL...), Mike lay down on his back on
the floor under the spray. I straddled his face and lowered my pussy down
until it nestled on his mouth. As his mouth started working on me I moved
back and forth, making "mmm-mmm-mmm" pleasure noises.

"I'm glad you decided to practice," I gurgled through the shower spray.
"Your tongue has All-Star potential. Have you ever done this before?"

"Mrrfl mrrfl glub glub," he answered. But before I could get a
translation, I felt the tremors of my orgasm building. I came hard and
fast, grinding my pussy harder into his face as I grunted and gasped my
way over the top. I must've drowned the poor boy, I realized, so I sat
back a little and got ready to administer CPR.

He made a raspberry as water washed over his now-exposed face.
"Fthw-fthw-ptui" he sputtered. I lifted myself up a little.

"If you do become a writer," I said, "you should write a story about this.
There's nothing sexier than a shower, except for eating a girl out in
one."

"Well," he said, "they always say to write from experience. But I haven't
had that experience enough to really write about it with authority."

"You mean shower sex, or eating girls out?" I asked.

"Either," he answered. "Are you sure that'd make a really interesting
story?"

"Maybe we could make it a little more interesting," I said with a soggy
grin. I got up and turned around, then squatted back down over his face
again. As his All-American tongue returned to its task, I ran my hands
down his sides. I settled my pussy down further with a contented sigh. I
leaned forward and grasped his engorged cock in my hands. I stroked it
once, and was rewarded with a muffled moan from beneath me. "Mrrrrrf..."
he said, and I leaned down further and took him in my mouth.

I made an "O" with my lips and wrapped them around the mushroom cap at the
top of his cock. My tongue licked at it, running around the rim and
tickling at his little tiny hole. Then I sucked the length of him into my
open mouth, his warm hardness covered with a cool wet layer of shower
water. As my head bobbed up and down, I clutched the base of his shaft
tightly in my hand (this was a trick I'd perfected over years of blow job
practice at the high school level. It used to drive Joey Jambalaya
totally wild).

I felt the vibrations at my pussy increase as his muffled groans
escalated. I wasn't about to come again so soon anyway, so I skootched
forward a little on his chest to give him breathing room. As soon as his
face was free I heard him go "OHHHHurgle!" Apparently when I got out of
the way Mike got smacked dead-on by a stream of pouring water from the
shower. He didn't seem to mind much.

I intensified the pressure of my squeezing and sucking, milking his slick
wet cock for all it was worth. Within seconds I felt it pulse and jerk in
my mouth, and then he exploded between my lips. I pulled back and pumped
his shaft, letting the running water wash us clean as he came. No muss no
fuss! Best thing about shower sex.

I looked back at him over my shoulder. His eyes had rolled back in his
head and he really did seem to be drowning this time. So I clambered off
him and we both rinsed and soaped a bit more before we shut off the water.
We stood there smiling sorta goofy at each other for a minute, drenched
to the bone. Then we walked out to the locker room where we'd left our
towels.

We padded out, tracking wet footprints onto the clean floor. As we
toweled off, I said "is it true? That you don't have much experience, I
mean."

"Scout's honor," he said. "I really have been a Boy Scout all my life. I
always looked a lot, but I never really did anything until I finally had
sex with a girl back home."

I propped one leg up on a yellow bench and dabbed at my upper thigh.
"When?" I asked.

"When?"

"When was your first time?"

He looked downright sheepish. "Um - New Year's."

I was incredulous. "THIS New Year's? A few months ago? And how many
times since then?"

He blushed and concentrated on scrubbing a particularly damp toenail.

I dropped my towel and laughed out loud. "You've only had sex ONCE?
Jesus, you're practically still a virgin!"

He looked hurt, and cranky. "We can't all be fast starters, y'know" he
muttered, a little defensively.

I walked over to where he stood behind another one of the low yellow
benches. I stepped over it to stand beside him, and softly touched his
cheek. "That's not what I meant, Mike. The way you put the moves on me,
the way you touched me...I was sure you'd done this a million times. It
never occurred to me that you were still new at this. At sex."

We were quiet for a moment. I broke the silence. "Did you enjoy it?
Having sex, I mean."

The blush faded and he grinned. "It was OK. I mean, it was great - it
was sex. I can't imagine what 'bad' sex could be like. I waited my whole
life to get laid, and it was sure a lot better than NOT getting laid. If
you catch my drift."

I smiled and turned around to grab my towel. It was on the floor, on the
other side of the yellow bench in front of us. I bent to get it, but it
was still just out of reach. I got down lower and bent over even further,
stretching out my arm. "I think I know what you're saying," I said, still
trying to snag my towel. "But it seems to me that you didn't really get
the full enjoyment out of the experience. And that's a shame, because
you're such a natu-raaaaaah!"

I trailed off into a startled shriek. While I sprawled there all bent
over the bench, he had moved up behind me and run his palms down my
asscheeks. I felt him spread them apart slightly and then trailed two
"Boy Scout salute" fingers down my crack, over my asshole, and down to my
pussy. As I crouched there motionless with my legs parted, he inserted
them inside me and circled them round and round. Then he withdrew them
and spread some of my hot wet juices on the outer folds of my pussy lips.

"Boy Scout motto," he said. "Always be prepared for anything that comes
up. And something just did. Come up, that is."

I "uhhhhh"-ed deep in my throat and rocked my hips a little. "What does
the Scout Manual say to do in a situation like this?" I groaned.

I felt the tip of his erect cock probing behind me, seeking my opening.
"To advance in the Scouts you usually have to improvise," he said. I felt
him poke at me again and reached a hand underneath me to guide him.
"That's the way you make Eagle Scout," I agreed. I swiveled my hips
upwards a little and aimed him at my entrance, and he slid in with
pleasurable friction as he drove his hard cock home.

"Oooooooh," I gasped, and he started to slowly thrust in and out of me
from behind. "Yes, like that. Are you SURE you've only done this once?"

He laughed, and I felt him grasp my hips with his hands as he fucked me.
"It's a good thing you brought me off once already," he said, "because
otherwise I'd be finished by now." "Mmmm, good thing," I repeated. "Very
good. Very very. Oh yes, fuck me!"

We moved in tandem, rocking back and forth as he plumbed my depths with
his erect tool. I don't know if he was any good as a Boy Scout, and I
don't know if there was a special merit badge for fucking. Or maybe
they'd call it "Tactile Heterosexual Stimulation." Or a merit badge in
"Birds-and-Bees Studies." But he was pretty skilled in any case, and I
felt myself climbing toward orgasm again within a few moments.

"Oh that's good," I said. "Don't stop." And he didn't. Instead his
hands roved around my ass, making me groan even louder. And when one
finger accidentally (?) brushed my anus I moaned. And damned if the Boy
Scout didn't improvise! He moistened his thumb down at the juncture of
his prick and my cunt, and then casually inserted it in my ass.

I rammed myself back, impaling myself on his cock and his thumb, and
screamed. As the orgasm hit me and exploded all around me I dimly heard
him call out, and then I felt him erupt into my pussy. My cunt muscles
clenched and spasmed in the aftermath, coaxing yet another few spurts of
his ooze out of his still-jerking cock. Then our muscles unclenched and
he pulled out (or, more accurately, sort of slid out wetly), and our mixed
juices dripped onto the once-sparkly clean floor below.

The we both straightened up and, for the second time that evening, toweled
off. We dressed quickly and got ready to go.

"So," I asked him. "Did you get anything constructive out of our extra
practice session?"

He grinned at me for the umpteenth time. "Yep," he said. For one thing,
I think I'm learning to appreciate the enthusiasm and energy of college
coeds."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Nothing else?" I said, archly.

"Well," he said, looking at me sidelong. "I've also developed a taste for
women who appreciate a little competition. And I found out that a little
advance planning never hurts."

I narrowed my eyes. "Planning?" I said, in a dangerous voice.

There was a gleam in his eyes for just a moment. Then it faded, and he
continued. "I've also discovered that I'm irresistable when I'm charming
and sincere. And especially when a woman feels sorry for me." I glared
at him and he chuckled. Soon I was laughing too.

"You really are a glib devil," I said fondly, and I kissed him on the
cheek. "That's what I thought when I first saw you, and now I know I was
right."

We left the gym building and started to go off in separate directions.
"Remember the rules!" I shouted. "Tell anybody on the team about this and
you're a dead man, Mike Hunter!"

"Right!" he yelled back. "Rules!" Then he laughed again. "Don't worry!
Your secret is safe with me!" And then he was gone.

There was no sign of him at the game the following week. Or the week
after that.

When I checked with the Registrar, I found out there was no student named
Michael Hunter attending the college. I never saw hide nor hair of the
boy again.

For weeks I wondered about him. Who was he? Was he from another college?
Why had he finagled his way into the softball game in the first place?
And I kept thinking about what he'd said about advance planning. What
if...?

No, he couldn't have. He wouldn't. The only way it was possible was if
he joined the game, faked his lousy play, convinced me to stay late, timed
the janitor's schedules, maybe paid him off...

All that for me? No, he wouldn't have. Would he?

Then again, he WAS a pretty sneaky fuck.

For all I knew, maybe he even wrote a story about it. But who'd ever want
to read anything he wrote, anyway?


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