Author's Disclaimer: The author has created fictitious persons in an effort to tell a story and as such does not reflect any actual person real or fake, living or dead. As always feel free to submit fan mail and constructive criticism to the provided e-mail address.
It had been months since the Great Revelation and Carlos was already tired of the New World Order. He had grown weary of the constant assaults, catcalls, and all around gross objectification he experienced daily. He wasn't sure what was worse: being raped frequently or the stiffy he got from the rapings, the compliments, and the slightest hint of stimulation. Still, he figured, it was way better than the life he had left behind in Cuba. Here he was totally free to be what he wanted to be the most in the world: a baseball player. Shortly after the Great Revelation, the MLB had announced that they were going to take the necessary steps to align themselves with the new Black List laws. After all, Latinos & other Blacklisters made up over 40% of their players' population.
He was on his way to the stadium from his downtown apartment suite that he had acquired (after having been recruited by the KC Royals). The Cuban had been provided with a new luxurious sports car as part of a sign-on bonus given to him by the team's owner. The pre-treated all velvet interior seating felt amazing against his caramel brown flesh. He had left his apartment, giving himself a twenty minute early arrival window for the day's proceedings. As he drove, some of the bumps and cracks would jiggle and jostle him allowing the fabric to stroke and caress his exposed form. His member crept up his diamond cut abs to its full eight veiny inches, expanding to a round thickness of five and a half inches. He had kept his pubes shaven with only the tiniest suggestion of stubble, just like his scalp. Other than a pair of sneakers and socks on his feet, he wore a pair of designer sunglasses, a silver Rolex watch, and silver medallion that had his name in Egyptian hieroglyphs. He had remembered learning that men were allowed to wear accessories (so long as they didn't cover too much of their flesh) from the first interview Juan Padilla had given on Late Nights with Teddy. He had hoped that Juan was a rebel...a freedom fighter that would spark a revolution that would take back the rights he so desperately longed for. Sadly, however, his dreams of a rebellion were crushed when he saw the photos and the salacious performance that the Colombian gave live on stage. Carlos knew that he would have no choice but to accept these new changes.
He arrived early to the stadium just as predicted, locking the car on the way in. The echoes of his meaty testicles and stiffened member smacking against his body filled the empty halls as he made his way up to the press room. He had managed to snag a dish towel that he kept in the car (in the event that needed to blow a wad anytime he left the apartment). Carlos had stationed himself in the front, near the aisle, so as as not to be missed when he asked his questions. While he waited, the athlete thought that perhaps he had enough time to jerk a load out before anyone would catch him in the act. He ran a hand across both perfectly plump pectoral muscles down his shredded six-pack, smacking his penis against his exposed supple body. He spat onto his hand before sliding it up and down, massaging the tender masculine growth that brought him such joy in life. Carlos continued stroking, lost in a sea of sexual perversion, building an all too familiar tension in his loins. The more he stroked the better he felt...and he needed to feel damn good with everything that he was now being forced to endure.
"Nuhhhh - uhhhhhh - ay - ay - ay," he whimpered as a flood of jism erupted, minutes later, from the piss slit carved into the bubblegum pink head. He tried to soak up the fluid with the rag, but it was far too much for the little cloth to endure. Wave after wave continued to pour forth, soaking the entire rag in a torrent of his warm sticky chowder. Soon the rag had been drowned in his seed, dripping with his fluids, rolling off his body and onto the floor. "Ay - fuuuuck," he said aloud as his eyes darted around for something to mop up the ring of goo that had formed underneath his chair. Frantically he searched high and low forgetting that the rag was still on his abs. The jizz drenched terrycloth fell with a sploosh as it hit the floor transforming the small ring of fluid into a large puddle. His face went red from embarrassment as it was too late for him to do anything. The other players soon started filling up the doorway, stopping only to stare in gleeful surprise at the mess their teammate was faced with.
"Clean up in the conference room," a blonde one called out, as he started to chortle with delight. "Dude, you couldn't wait until one of us arrived to give you head before blowing your wad?"
"Jou know waht - FUCK JOU," Carlos tried to counter.
"Name a time and place sexy, and it'll be on like fucking Donkey Kong!"
Carlos grimaced as he concluded too little too late what had flown out of his mouth. "Alright men," the coach interrupted before the Cuban could say anything, "settle down. Now as Señor Álvarez was kind enough to demonstrate, we are needing to make some key changes to how we handle new certain legal codes as well a major shift in consumer tastes that occurred fairly recently. To that end we will be making sweeping changes to certain activities, procedures, and the like in order to stay compliant with the new policies."
"Don't these policy changes only apply to Blacklisters?" someone from a few rows back queried.
"For the most part: yes...but every team in every sport in the U.S. is having to implement similar changes. In an effort to be more appealing to our audience, starting today, the field will now be covered in a durable, but soft foam mat with a slick plastic, seminal resistant tarp. We will be mandating Nerf sponge bats and balls just like every other team. And finally, to appease consumer interests, all blacklist players will be coated head to toe in baby oil, while all players will abstain from wearing footwear while on the field, dugout, or any other place while on the clock." A wave of disdainful groans erupted from the players as one of them raised his hand. "No need to raise your hand Johnson, just ask your question...this isn't high school."
"Sorry coach, but uhhhh do we non-Blacklisters have to adhere to all of these rules?"
"Yes, in order to minimize injuries to all parties you will all make the equipment changes. Non-Blacklisters won't need to coat themselves in baby oil while playing and will be allowed to dress in their respective team uniforms." The coach glanced at the notes to confirm that everything he was telling them to be true. "Look, I'm not too thrilled about it either, but we don't wanna get sued by every legal and ethics committee in the U.S. Besides the top brass of the MLB have mandated these changes as outlined by the Black List Council and hand delivered by the state appointed archon himself."
"So the archon is a man?" another shot.
"Yes, and knowing that much is all I can say on that...even then that may be too much info. Thank you all for attending; this meeting is officially adjourned." With all of that said, the coach vacated the room in order to give the players some privacy to discuss the situation at hand.
The players huddled up into a circle comprising the entire team of about thirty players: on one side sat the Blacklisters with the remainder sitting next to them. "Ok," one of the players broke the silence finally, "so here's what I want to know: are we allowed to rape our Blacklisted teammates?" A couple others made their own affirmations wanting to know if they could do the same as the ten Blacklisters on the team fidgeted nervously in their seats. Each one was stricken with fear, knowing full well as to what the answer would be.
"Legally speaking," one of the other teammates replied, "we can, but we shouldn't. We want to foster a safe, fun, and friendly environment for all of our teammates, even Blacklisters. I mean, would you want to be raped by Johnson?" the man who asked about raping others shook his head. "What about you Jackson? How would you feel if we gang raped you in the showers?"
Jackson, stunned at the implication replied, "I-I-I'd hate it and I wouldn't be able to trust any one of you guys anymore."
"Right - so let's all take an oath: from this moment forward we will not rape any blacklisted teammates...no matter how attractive or delectable or how inviting..." His voice trailed off as he stared at one of the Blacklister's taut muscular frame. The blacklisted teamster writhed in his seat trying to ward off the repugnant gaze, his penis hardening as if it knew what the other man was thinking. "And you know they are quite inviting...and warm...and smooth and supple. They tease you with their smokin' hot bods...I mean if they didn't want it, they would cover up their exposed flesh." Soon Carlos, along with the other Blacklisters, realized that they were in a den full of ravenous wolves and they were just raw meat. He cleared his throat, breaking the oppressive tension that had filled the room driving the speaker back to his point. "Uhh what was I saying?"
"How jou guys weren't gonna rape us," Carlos responded trying to maintain an air of control, his heart still racing from the anxiety of the moment.
"Yeah - exactly - we wooooon't rape you!"
"OK," one of the others proclaimed, "but what if I find Lopez, like, really, really, attractive? Can I rape him then?"
Carlos shook his bald head, "no."
"Not even a little?" another protested.
"No," Carlos reiterated feigning weariness of the conversation, "even a tiny rape isss still a rape."
"Awwww, man" came a collective response from a few.
"But jou can ask him out."
"Then I can rape him? I mean if we go on a date and I pay for his meal and he doesn't put out, THEN I should rape him, right?" The protestor looked hopeful as he stared at Carlos, searching for some sign of confirmation.
"Again, no...in the event that Lopez, Hernandez, or any one of us doesn't put out, jou should - NOT - RAPE US! PERIODT - END OF DISCUSSION! ISSS EVERYONE CLEAR?" The non-Blacklisters nodded in defeat as they hung their heads not wanting to catch Carlos's ire as they got up. "Ay chihuahua - Dios, concédeme la fuerza ahora," the Cuban baseball player muttered under his breath as the group dispersed from the conference room.
It had been a few days and true to their word none of the players had assaulted one another. If the tension in the room was any indicator, however, it would show that was not from a lack of sexual attraction. Three of the Blacklisters had begrudgingly taken to "dating" the non-Blacklisters in an effort to curb their sexual appetites, hoping that this might alleviate the chances of other members getting raped. Anytime there was the slightest hint of being violated, they would instead offer their ass or mouth, taking in as many stiff cocks as they could. They had grown accustomed to the levels of pain believing that this was their penance turning the non-blacklisted men on. Gang bangs and bukakke circles had been serrupticiously woven into the day-to-day activities so as to keep everyone's hormones in check. Sex had not only become a warm-up to the day's activities, it had also become a cool down and a stress reliever. Two more Blacklisters soon had to offer themselves up as it became apparent that there weren't enough holes to go around to relieve mounting pressures. Once on the field, it was easier to keep the lustful longings at bay as guys would focus more on baseball practice than on sodomizing players. Still, there were instances in which Carlos would catch a man staring at him or taking too long with a congratulatory ass pat. He tried to shake it off and beat his meat when alone, but the compliments, longing stares, and lip smacking were all growing in frequency.
"Hey Carlos," one of them playfully called out to him one day, "man... me and a few of the other guys were just wanting to let you know how...amazing you were on the field today." Carlos was about to take a shower when he noticed four of the other guys had approached him. His tawdry, well-carved body glistened under the fluorescent lights still drenched from the mandated baby oil. "The other guys and I were wondering when you were gonna start `dating' us." The man licked his lips before speaking again, "ya see, we think that you'd be waaayyyyy more popular if you asked us out." The foursome had him cornered like a gazelle that had stumbled into a den full of ravenous lions. Carlos's heart began beating faster and faster as his mighty member hardened with rampant disregard of the situation. The leader leaned in and started to stroke the trapped Cuban's still slick pole as he could feel the warmth of the man's moist breath on his neck. Carlos let out a whimper not of fear but of sexual delight as the man's rough beefy hand slid up and down his aggressive rager. "Or we could take turns milking you right now, if you prefer," his aggressor hissed. The Latino let out a moan, longing for the sweet release of an orgasm into the man's rugged grasp.
"Puh-puh-please," Carlos begged in between pants of desire as he was being manhandled.
"Please what? Please go out with you or please milk you like the sex-starved bull that you are?"
The words got caught in Carlos's throat as the teammate continued with the stroke-session. He had long since surrendered to what was happening, cursing himself for not having a stronger will. "Puh-lease - por favor - don't ssssstop," he was trapped in a gilded cage of ecstasy and his handlers knew it.
The man released his grip and knelt down in front of the toasted caramel looking stallion. "I bet you taste better than you look," he said as he wrapped his lips around the helpless Latino's brown and pink rod. Carlos released a deep, guttural groan as he felt his member being enveloped by his teammate's warm silky mouth. It was the best blowjob he had received in ages, which further weakened his already dwindling resolve to stay unavailable. Up and down the teammate's mouth bobbed with such tender loving finesse; the man seemingly unfazed by the baby oil. Right before the Latino could blow his wad, the teamster pulled his head back and repositioned himself underneath the man's bare balls. His tongue darted and slithered with such ease and fervor that it sent Carlos's head spinning with lust, literally weakening his knees. It was just then that he felt two large pressures holding him up, that he briefly flipped open his eyes to see that two more men had pinned his arms to the cement wall. For once he was relieved to find two strong men holding him in place, allowing him to focus on the waves of pleasure permeating his smoking hot body. His eyes darted trying to find the fourth man only to witness him playing with his unfurled trouser-snake; he was getting off on just watching. Another tsunami of bliss yanked him back to the matter-at-hand as his attacker had overpowered his senses once more.
The one that was playing with his nuts had gone back to sucking on his boner, deep-throating it with all the skill of a $100 whore. It wasn't long before he felt blast after blast erupt forth, flooding his teammate almost to the point of drowning him. Goo continued to spurt out and over the teammate, sprinkling his uniform with love juice, as he pulled away with shock and confusion from the man's volcano. "WHAT snort THE ACTUAL choke FUCK MAN," his teammate tried to catch his breath. "FUCK DUDE wheeze YOU AIN'T HUMAN! YOU'RE A FUCKING BEAST OR SOMETHING! NO WONDER YOU GET TURNED ON SO EASILY!" The final gush hit the man in the face as he fell back away from Carlos's love stick. "How often do you need to milk that thing?" he stared in disbelief, wiping away the spicy sauce as best as he could.
"More dan jou realize," Carlos snickered as the other two guys had let go at this point.
It had been a week since that incident and already his fame had outpaced the story. Jokes started springing up about how his father was some sort of beast and his mother was Latino. Other stories mentioned how his father was a gigolo before the Great Revelation, while other stories stated that his father was some sort of god or demon of lust and fertility. All but three remained unconvinced that the orgasm had actually happened the way that it did and went with the belief that it was a stress-induced hallucination or the guy (that was giving head) was actually wasted at the time. A group of guys decided that the best course of action was to over-power the Cuban and forcibly milk him repeatedly. A couple of them wanted to know how many consecutive orgasms he could produce before being fully emptied out.
Carlos and the other Blacklisters would spend an hour or two oiling each other down before every practice, making sure to get a nice thick sheen over their taut muscular frames. Each one of them would rub their meaty masculine paws over the other carefully...so as not to arouse their partner. When it came time to coat each other's genitals, however, they decided to be as slow and un-stimulating as possible...which always failed. They would end up having to do a circle jerk, popping milky loads onto the shower tile to make it easier to clean later. It would be at this time Carlos would be the most vulnerable as he would be busy supervising the circle jerk while opting to save his voluminous loads for when he was alone. As a mother hawk would circle her chickadees, he too would circle the group making sure each Blacklister shot at least one wad onto the tile. With his back to the locker room, five of the men launched an offensive and dragged him to a nearby bench. His fellow Blacklisters did little to help opting to cower with fear while letting out a second fear-laced cream bomb onto the tile. "What the fuck," he cried as he struggled to free himself. "Jou guys said that jou weren't gonna rape anyone!"
"And we're not," one of the guys replied, "we just wanna check you out. Besides it's not rape if no one penetrates you and everyone here is planning to keep their junk covered; right guys?" The others nodded in agreement as a couple of them verbalized their confirmations. "We're just gonna jack you off and help you release all of the tension that has been building since you finished oiling up."
"Gracias, but no thanks guys; I don't need any tension released today. I have things well in hand as it is. Also, my doctor just checked my production levels a few days ago."
"Oh that wasn't a choice...it was never a choice." Carlos had been tied to one of the benches (normally used for dressing by Non-Blacklisters), by way of makeshift restraints. His enrobed teammates gathered around him as the leader of the pack started by blowing a soft breeze over the helpless Cuban. The Latino's member began to stiffen, throbbing and pulsating to life. How he had managed to stifle his boner for this long was any man's guess, but there it was...slowly rising like dough in an oven. Carlos could feel each pulse slide across his oiled soaked thighs, licking at his rippling stomach. He wished that he could stop himself...that maybe someone would put an end to this madness and he could just continue to get ready. He stared up in the hope that one of his teammates would cut in and end this. Instead, his gaze was met with their collective enthralled expressions. The leader reached out his hand, sliding the palm and fingers over the Latino's rigid pleasure stick. Up and down...down and up...the appendage was massaged and coaxed...his meat soldier stimulated with the hope of drawing out their wanton desirable results. Carlos moaned and panted as the others started verbally teasing him, calling him a "little cum burro" and "jizz factory." These little jabs at his expense only furthered the fuels of the Cuban's passions, edging him closer to the anticipated outcome.
"Por favor señores...I wanna cum so badly...I need to... necesito..." he moaned, begging his teammates to get him off. The illusions of disgust and revulsion had now faded from his being as he surrendered to the all too familiar churning in his loins. His teammates started arguing as to who would be allowed to play with him. They each wanted a turn at pleasuring his oil soaked caramel flesh and none of them would take no for an answer. The captain of this little escapade decided everyone would get five minutes at playing with the Blacklister's tool. Just as Carlos was about to blow his mighty wad, the hand would be torn away from his enraged growth, leaving him in a state of sweet agony. He would whimper and mew until another hand was placed onto his aching crotch meat. It wasn't until his first attacker got his third turn before he finally got his sweet release. Seminal fluids erupted like a volcano, coating the ceiling with sauce, and cascading down onto all beneath. Blast upon blast continued to come as though someone had turned a fire hose on to full strength and just let it ware itself out. It took all of five minutes before Carlos's penis had spent its last drop, leaving the man with a big sticky grin from ear-to-ear.
The thoroughly drenched teammates stared in abject disbelief at everything they had witnessed. If they hadn't seen it for themselves...if they hadn't been coated in the Cuban's juices...they would have never believed it. Their mouths hung open, agape as they stared in fascination, words escaping their frazzled minds. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, one of them broke the silence, "that was fucking AWESOME! I WANT HIM TO BE MY NEW BOYTOY!"
"We all want him to be our new boytoy," came another.
"Now, now muchachos," Carlos beamed, "there's plenty of me to go around and a helluva lot more spunk where that came from."