MLB Playoffs 2013 (part 2)
Disclaimer: This story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives.
NL Wild Card Game - Pittsburgh, PA
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The ballpark in the heart of Pittsburgh was quiet, the crack of the bat saved for another day, the fans all gone home, the postgame interviews and recaps and postmortems all finished. The Cincinnati Reds were packed up and at their hotel ready to go home, the Pirates done celebrating their first postseason win in 20 years and getting ready to head to St. Louis. In the lower levels of the stadium, it was just as silent, not a sound echoing across the concrete halls.
Not a sound, that is, except the heavy, hungry breathing and occasional growled "Fuck" that slipped from Russell Martin's lips.
The Pittsburgh catcher, powerfully muscled at 5'10", 215 pounds, had been stripped down to a pair of black mesh shorts, which were presently hanging loosely around his knees, and a pair of black and gray New Balances that Martin hadn't had the time to finish tying, so they too sat loose around his feet. "Ungh," the catcher grunted. He grasped his dick at the base. It was thick and dripping hard. Martin didn't dare lift his fingers any higher than about halfway up the 8-inch shaft -- a single stroke over the tip and buckets of come would be pouring from his raging-hard prick.
"Ahh..." Martin gasped as that spot deep inside him lit up once again. His other hand, the one that wasn't desperately clutching his impressive dick, instead gripped tightly against the soft cushion of the locker room couch. As he looked down to see a fat drop of pre-come spill from his cockhead and fall to soak into the seat of the couch, Russ couldn't help thinking back to just a few hours ago when he'd been sitting in that exact spot with his buddies and teammates, just shooting the shit and relaxing before the game, not really imagining that four hours later he'd be getting fucked like a bitch in that very same MLB pro jock hangout.
"Fuck me," Russell Martin groaned.
Behind him, Marlon Byrd grinned. He wrapped one incredibly thick arm around Russell's torso, pulling his teammate closer to him. At 36, Byrd was still a beast, standing just 6-foot but a full 245 pounds of muscle. Dressed in a Pirates under-armor that he intentionally wore suctioned to his upper body and a pair of sweats that he'd shucked to his ankles at the first opportunity, the outfielder was the picture of athletic power, perhaps enhanced by occasional supplementation but with no apparent negative effects on Byrd's chiseled physique -- or any other important functions of a pro ballplayer.
As his teammate could well attest. Martin clenched his eyes shut, groaning in pain and pleasure, as Marlon Byrd's 9-inch cock sank deeper than ever before inside his tight jock ass. "Fuck, Mar...fuck me..."
Byrd slowly slid his dick back a few inches, then drove deep again. As he did he leaned his head in, his lips right at Martin's ear. "What you think I'm doin', man?" He picked up the pace again, pistoning his cock in and out of Martin's practically untouched ass.
It wasn't like Russ did this all the time. Yeah, he might've fucked around in the minors with a guy or two when they were on the road in some no-name town and the whole team was hard and hungry in their pinstripe uniform pants. But he was a seasoned major leaguer by now, with stints in New York and LA. He wasn't supposed to be reduced to this.
Not that he wasn't really fucking enjoying it.
"Fuck, you're big," Martin groaned. He gripped his dick tighter. Jesus, he was gonna fucking explode any second.
Marlon started fucking him harder. It really got him going, fucking this dude who to him was still just a kid, who'd lit the cool Pittsburgh night on fire with his two bombs, who had enough thick muscle on him to constantly remind Byrd that this was a man he was fucking, a hard-training, heavy-lifting stud, but small enough by comparison to the older ballplayer that Byrd still felt in control. As if there were any doubt about that, the way the catcher had eyed him all through the postgame interviews, clammed up in the locker room when he caught a glimpse of Byrd's dick tenting his sweats but took his sweet time changing, waiting till everybody else left, then offered only the slightest resistance when Marlon finally bought what Russ had been selling all night. Martin had spun away from Byrd's hand on his ass, but once the big outfielder pinned him to his locker and started driving his dick against Russell Martin's firm quads, the catcher got a look in his eye that let Byrd know he was owned.
"Be straight with me, man...I ain't the only one you been wantin' to fuck yo' tight ass, am I?" Marlon reached around, hooking his fingers under Russell's and groping the catcher's balls, then moving his hand up to palm his teammate's hard stomach.
Martin sucked in a sharp breath as Byrd's 9-incher bottomed out again. "No..."
"Yeah, didn't think so." Byrd licked Martin's neck, let his hand rise to cup Martin's thick pec, feeling the weight of the muscle there and then holding the catcher's powerful body against his as he drove his dick deep again. "Who else?"
"Fuck, I dunno...ungh!"
"Who?"
"Fuck, Mercer. Barmes. Unnhh...Marte."
"Yeah," Byrd said, slowing the pace. He'd eyed the Pirates' young left fielder more than once across the outfield, lean and ripped at 6'2", 180, gorgeous ass. "What you wanna do with him?"
Russell Martin was on the edge, the very fucking edge. His 8-inch dick was red, the crown swollen and wet with pre-jizz. His muscles throbbed. His balls ached. "Want him to fuck me."
"Yeah?" Marlon imagined that, the tall Dominican just fuckin' laying the pipe to his teammate, a gritty look of determination on his face as he fucked Russell Martin. "Who else?"
"Unghhh..." Martin was just about to the point where he couldn't even form a thought, let alone a word. But then from deep inside, another name came to his mind. "Votto," he whispered.
"What you say?" Byrd grabbed Martin's hips with both hands, fucking relentlessly now. The catcher had to let go of his hard dick and hold on tight, his triceps rising into prominence as he held himself up, just to keep his teammate from fucking him right into the couch.
"Votto," he said again, his voice no louder but deeper and hungrier than before. "I want Joey Votto to fuck me deep...ungh..and hard..ngh...and all fuckin' night..."
Byrd chuckled as he glanced toward the clubhouse door, then picked up the pace yet again. "Too bad he ain't gonna be around. Guess yo' ass is stuck with me." The massive Pirates outfielder drove himself deep one last time, one enormous bicep wrapping all the way around Martin's body, then came with a growl deep in Russell Martin's ass.
The catcher himself was only a moment behind. Thinking about the big Cincinnati first baseman, 6'2", 220, and a mug like a 50s movie star, drove him right over the limit. Russ's dick jerked like a shotgun reloading, then fired the biggest load Russ Martin had ever shot all over the couch and the soft carpeted floor beyond. Martin had never come so much in his life. He could barely believe it himself when he looked down and saw his throbbing cock still pumping out cream ten seconds after he first tumbled over the edge. As he ran his fingers up his still rock-hard shaft and shuddered in pleasure, a thought passed through his mind: I'm gonna have to get Votto's phone number.
A similar thought would have been passing through the mind of Joey Votto himself, had the 30-year-old franchise player for the Reds been capable of thinking anything at that moment. Around a corner and down the hall toward the clubhouse entrance, hidden from view of the two Pirates but able to hear every word, every groan, every come-slick stroke, Joey stood, a single palm holding him up against the wall. The first baseman's dick still rose high and hard into the red mesh of his Reds warm-up shorts even though those shorts were soaked with the cream Joey had just emptied all over them, jizz dripping down his thick 8.5-inch shaft and down the front of his shorts. A few drops of sweat trickled between his pecs before dribbling down over the ridges of his abs, all bare since he'd been in the middle of changing when he got Byrd's text:
gunna fuck him now if u wanna watch
Joey hadn't bothered with a shirt after seeing that.
His shorts, which he'd kept on, hung low over his ass, stretched loose by the steady tugging of both hands, one which Joey had slid down the front of his body to wrap around his aching dick, the other which he'd used to reach down between his legs and gently stroke the very edge of his tight hole. By the time Russell Martin grunted his name, Joey Votto had slid two fingers inside himself and was steadily jerking his hard cock as he barreled toward eruption. When he'd finally recovered enough to stand up straight, Joey leaned over and peered around the corner. The guys were gone.
When he got back to his own locker room and started packing up his stuff for the final time that year, Joey noticed a text on his phone. The number was new. He opened it and his dick instantly thickened and rose into his shorts again.