Date: Fri, 22 Mar 2013 05:36:37 -0700 (PDT) From: Joe Hunter Subject: Baseball Diamond Tails - 8C All the usual disclaimers apply: +This story is a work of fiction. If you think it is real, you have a very active imagination. +Do not read this story if you live in an area where it is illegal to do so. +Scenes of sexual activity between an adult male and a young boy are represented. Do not read further if this offends you. +Please do not imitate the actions portrayed herein - the author cannot accept responsibility for any actions promoted by this story. If you would like to get in touch, please e-mail me at: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Support Nifty! Joe ____________________________ BASEBALL DIAMOND TAILS - 8C (copyright 2013, Joe Hunter) ::::::::::::::::::::::: Center Field: Part C ::::::::::::::::::::::: So there it was. My team was complete. I had laid my plans, every scheme had worked, and now it was up to me. One thing I knew for sure: nothing would be the same as the previous year. No season ever was like any other, but this would be an extreme difference. The year before, the core of our team had been boys possessing finely honed baseball skills. Like the conductor of a world-class symphony orchestra, my job had been to organize them, weld them into one harmonious whole, and let their talent do the rest. The result had been an undefeated season, a league championship, the best All-Star team we had ever fielded -- and every bit of that was now in the past; a team picture hanging on our sponsor's office wall, the names already forgotten. Our trophies were gathering dust on bedroom shelves. The snapshots taken on bright sunny afternoons lay in scrapbooks sitting in unopened drawers. In the season facing me now, a role of symphony conductor would get me exactly nowhere. Despite the handicap of drafting in last position I had assembled athletic talent, but it was raw and untrained. It would take all the ability I had as coach to produce a winning baseball team. And there was very little time. Opening Day was in two weeks, and our first opponent would be Mike's team, Skyline Gas. "Okay! Everybody over here!" I roared, clapping my hands. Thirteen boys gathered around me, faces eager, their taut young bodies half bared by the muscle shirts I had given them. I pointed and shouted, "Laps! Two times around!" Casey and the other veterans took off, followed moments later by Slick, Kelly and the rest of my newbies. The big open tract of our practice area held two softball fields; the one I used, plus another in the far opposite corner. Twice around was over half a mile and the boys finished strung out in a line, the best athletes up front. Casey was leading, Tiny and Evan brought up the rear. Every boy was panting, sweat already darkening their new practice shirts, and soon they were gasping because without any time to rest I started them on a dozen suicides, sprinting from one side of the field to the other. This was my well tested regimen for the start of every new season. Running was fundamental, a drill even the rawest new player could do, no instruction required. The last thing I wanted was to waste time with a lot of words. Plus the running was a symbolic act; every boy was participating in a drill they all could do - instant conversion from loosely knit group to team. Of course there was an added advantage for me. It was a beautiful clear spring day. The afternoon sun was hot. By the end of those suicide sprints every one of my players was glistening with sweat and I was surrounded by thirteen perfect young boys; damp shorts clinging to slender forms, the half shirts I had given them revealing taut smooth waists. It was a sight I never tired of. "Right!" I yelled, clapping my hands. "Relay drill!" My veterans formed lines, I pushed the new players into place, tossed a baseball to the lead kids and they turned to throw to the next in line, who turned and throw to the next, relaying the ball up and down the line. A simple drill, but very useful, and one requiring a minimum of instruction. And so it began - our first practice with the full team assembled, players old and new. Ahead of us stretched the inviting prospect of another season filled with endless summer days, exciting baseball games, happy adventures.... Standing there with my boys around me, I thought of seasons past, wondering how this one would go. One thing I knew for certain; win or lose, there was no such thing as a bad season. How could there be with so many wonderful boys? "Let it be forever," I often whispered to myself. "Let the seasons come and go until the Sun grows cold. Just me and my boys..." First practice, second practice, third... By the third day of practice parents had stopped lingering after dropping their players off and even Evan's mother was no longer hanging around. "It's safe, Mouse," I would yell as soon as her car went out of sight down the road. My small towheaded player would gleefully don his practice shirt, or even run around with no shirt at all. Casey was the surprise. Still diffident, still shy, it was amazing how much better he played compared to the year before. Out from under the shadow of his older brother he was like a different boy; leaping to make catches in the outfield, solid hitting.... During batting practice, I loved watching Casey hit. On every swing the wrestling toned muscles in his hard slender body would stand out, making him, for just that instant, the image of a young dark-haired demigod. My team came together in those first three days, assuming the character it would have for the entire season. It was a team without superstars, or any acknowledged leader; just boys who were dependable and loyal, who had learned to love the game. The closest thing to a captain was my right handed pitcher, Bryce, who the others called 'Top gun' or 'Top'. He was a strong sturdy boy with long dirty blonde hair and a lanky appearance resulting from his rapid growth in the past year. Very quiet, nearly as diffident as Casey, Bryce had the strongest arm on the team. His best friend was Brandon, a brown haired ordinary sized boy who hated his first name so we all called him 'Bo'. Bo was an awkward kid, the 12-year-old with the least ability, but he would play any position I put him in, do his very best, and I could count on him to know what to do in any situation, even if he could not always make the play. Cowboy, whose real name was Kit, was my other 12-year-old right-hander. He was a sharp featured, dark-haired ranch kid, undersized as an 11-year-old, and still a runt at 12, but there was power and a fiery competitive spirit in that slim, wiry body. In addition to baseball, Cowboy loved to rodeo and I always worried that some sort of injury would deprive us of his accurate, disciplined pitching. Two more 12-year-olds, Jamie and Adam, rounded out my group of veterans. Left-handed Jamie, or 'JJ' as he was called, had long blonde hair, an infectious grin, and like most left-handers he was a little crazy. His coach in the 9 and 10 league had warned me that he was a hyperactive handful, but I never had any problem with him. I liked using JJ as a pitcher, or else at first base. Adam, my dark-haired leftfielder had the nickname 'Rainman', something I never got the full story on. He was a solemn youngster, not very talkative, and because we had him on the team, we automatically got two good 11-year-old players: Flick, a lively little chatterbox who was Adam's younger brother, and a cousin named Gary. Both had excelled at the 9 and 10 level. Flick, known as 'Wheels' to his friends, could pitch and was speedy on the base paths. Gary, equally talented and known as 'Peewee', could play just about any position. Neither one would ever grow big enough to overwhelm anyone, but they were quick lively kids with plenty of talent, fun to coach. My other pair of gifted 11-year-old acquisitions, Kelly and Slick, the lacrosse players, where everything I had hoped for. Tough, sturdy natural athletes, neither one had played baseball before, but they picked it up like a duck takes to water. By the third practice they were not only leading the infield drills, but demonstrating that they could pitch as well. Kelly was a lefty, so along with JJ that gave me two valuable southpaws. Slick, the right-hander, had devastating accuracy. With their shaggy blonde hair and muscled builds the two boys might have been taken for brothers, a pair of little Vikings, and my eye often followed them as they ran around at practice in their muscle shirts. Roy Harris, their former lacrosse coach, a young CPA for the railroad, was so pissed at me for kidnapping his two stars into baseball that when I ran into him at the gas station he walked past, glaring, without saying a word. Tiny, Evan, and Dink were my other three draftees. With time and patience Tiny would make a catcher, plus that pudgy kid could smack the ball around when he caught it just right. Evan, my little Mouse, was a delight to coach, always enthusiastic, never discouraged. For him, just the experience of being on a team with other boys his own age, of having a chance to run around in the sunshine with his shirt off, would have been enough to make him happy. Learning to swing a bat, catch, throw a ball, even make an occasional play? These were delightful added bonuses! He responded to praise and encouragement with such a willingness to try his best that, every time I caught myself admiring my little towhead, his sturdy body glistening with sweat, it occurred to me how lucky I had been in the draft to have gotten him. "If only his mother didn't keep him on such a tight leash," was often the thought running through my head. But the real treasure of the entire business was Dink. A classic find! Unexpected gold found at the bottom of a trunk in the attic! Dink was a real ballplayer. Even though he was only 11 he could hit, pitch, throw and field as well as any of the 12-year-olds. At the plate he was absolutely fearless, and whenever he came to bat during practice all the other kids backed up. "Not a word," I told my veterans when we huddled at the end of every practice. "No one says anything about him. We'll surprise the other teams!" "Yeah," Casey would say, eyes gleaming with mischief. Then he would put a fist out for all the others to touch with theirs. "This season's gonna' be fun!" It was Casey who saw the most of Dink because, except for that first day when big brother Lance brought them, Dink and Casey always came with Casey's mother, Ruth. She would drop them off, then leave immediately for the field where Cody's upper league team was practicing. In that family, it was always pretty clear who got the attention. But Casey no longer seemed to mind. Free now, out from under Cody's shadow, he was a happier boy. On Saturday we had our first scrimmage, an away game I arranged with a buddy who coached a team in a neighboring town. Evan's mother, Carol, who had jumped right into the role of team mother, nodded her head when I asked her to arrange transportation with the other parents. But the mention of pizza at an arcade afterwards scandalized her. "Pizza! Coach, I never allow Evan to have that stuff. It's the worst possible thing! And as for video games..." "Oh, absolutely," I assured her quickly, concealing my initial impulse to burst into laughter. (Team mothers did not grow on trees. The good ones were every bit as valuable as their ballplayer sons and it was vital not to offend her!) "Video games... Yes, a complete waste of time. But, here's the thing..." Using the tact with which I had learned to handle these situations, I got Carol on board with the idea that our team outing would be a treat only, and not some regular occurrence. "Well," she said at last, getting out her notebook, "I'll let Evan go. But no pizza! He can have his usual snacks." "What do you usually make?" I asked, curious as to what these snacks might be. "Celery and carrot sticks," she told me proudly. "Vitamins and healthy fiber. He loves them!" With an effort I controlled my features. "Yes. I'm sure he does..." "Don't worry, Coach. I'll send him with enough to share with all the other boys." "Ah... Yes, yes that would be best..." Somehow I managed to get away before completely losing it. On Saturday, to my surprise, Ruth arrived with only Casey in the car. I was about to ask where Dink was when I saw him in the front seat of Lance's old Land Rover pulling in behind her. "Coach?" Ruth was rolling down her window. "Can you bring Casey back today? Cody's team is doing a car wash and I've got to help supervise." "Sure." I put an arm around Casey who had gotten out of the car and was standing next to me. "You tell Cody I said to make lots of money!" "Thanks, Coach." And with that Ruth was off. "You and me today, kid," I told Casey who was smiling. "Think we can handle it?" He nodded and I gave his sturdy shoulders a quick hug. Then both Dink and big brother Lance were at my elbow, the handsome teen asking, "Coach, you want any help today?" "You bet! Umpire, bench coach, first base coach, score book keeper, you name it. Your call." Lance shrugged. "All four if you want, Coach. Whatever you need." "Umpire," I said, grinning. "Better you than me!" Then I went to see how Carol was dealing with the transportation. Scrimmage games at my buddy's field in the other town were always fun, and this one was no exception. He and I both knew how to juggle things to keep the score close. One of our rules was to rotate players to different positions every inning and this resulted, at one point, in two all-11-year-old infields going against each other. It was a treat to see Dink do some nifty handling of a few hot grounders at third base. Then, as an added bonus, I also got to hear him mouth off to the opposing batters with a creative mastery of obscenity unusual in a boy his age. Unfortunately, although I found it entertaining, that kind of thing was strictly verboten in our level of play. "Gotta' knock that off, Hot Stuff," I cautioned after a few of his choice speculations about the anatomy of the batter had raised eyebrows among parents within earshot. "Our league rules say you can't razz the batter." "What kinda candy ass crap is that?" Dink protested indignantly. "Razzin' the batter's part a' baseball!" "Right," I patted his shoulder. "In the Big's it definitely is. But you can't here. They don't allow it. Only positive stuff to your teammates." "Geez!" Dink kicked at the dirt in disgust. "What a bunch a..." Then he looked up with a grin. "Okay, Coach." "That a' boy." I gave him a wink, and after that Dink confined himself to cheering for his teammates. No more eyebrows were raised - but the game was definitely less colorful. Casey did a fine job for me, not only chasing down a few long fly balls out in center, but also performing well when I rotated him through positions in the infield. At the plate he went two for two, a single and a double. But then I asked him to bunt his third time up, partly for practice, but mostly so Casey would not drive in even more runs. "Give these guys a break," I told him, patting his firm butt. Casey nodded solemnly, went to the plate, and laid down such a nice sacrifice bunt along the first base line that runs scored anyway. "You the Man, Tiger," I said when he trotted back, grinning. In the end we let the home team win by a run. It was, after all, their field. Then we all adjourned to the local fun center, where "Priority One" was to keep Carol busy and distracted while the Mouse gobbled down a few forbidden pizza slices. "Here, let me dump this for you," I whispered, taking the plastic bag of rabbit food his mother had made him bring along. "You can tell her all the other kids loved it!" Mouse giggled happily, handed the bag to me, and then ran off escorted by Kelly and Slick who were teaching him how to play "Ultimate Street Fighter" or some such game. "Hooo, boy," I muttered to myself. "Carol ain't gonna' recognize that kid by the end of this season!" Already Carol had resigned herself to Mouse wearing his team practice shirt. If we got Evan into Fall Youth Football and then Wrestling I could foresee the day when pizza might not be quite such a dirty word. Even the occasional "kid rated" videogame might be allowed in the house! Looking around, I saw the arcade had taken on what I considered the right look. Young boys in tight jeans and a half shirts were everywhere, midriffs of every sort on display, from the sculpted perfection of Casey's hard six-pack, to the taut muscular sheets of boys like Bryce or JJ, and even the roll of tummy fat around my chunky catcher, Tiny. The big youngster was having a wonderful time, eating slices of his favorite food, pizza, and beating all challengers on Pac-Man, a game he turned out to be a champion at. Casey remained close the entire time, sitting next to me while we ate, patrolling at my side as I rode herd on our more rambunctious team members, and occasionally playing video games with me. Casey's favorite was a car racing game that could be played head to head, and he was good at it, too. Good enough to beat me every time, although he politely allowed me to win twice. "Now cut that out," I growled the second time he did that. "If you can beat me, then beat me! Don't worry about my getting mad." Casey grinned back, eyes glowing with happy mischief... When the party broke up, I double checked with Carol to make sure all the kids had rides, shook hands with Lance again as he was leaving with Dink to thank him for umpiring, and then with Casey's assistance, I helped my buddy, the other coach, do some rough cleanup before we settled the bill. "Same thing when All-Stars begin?" he asked as we finished. "Heck, yeah!" We shook hands and then Casey and I left. The Fun Center was part of a larger mall complex and on our way out to the entrance I saw Casey eye a display of wooden bead necklaces in a shop window. "Want one of those, Tiger?" I asked. He looked up at me, nodding, so I took him inside. It was a long narrow shop, dimly lit, the aisles crammed with rock posters, tee-shirts, necklaces, anklets, bracelets, chains, belts, ear hoops and every other accessory. We browsed until Casey found the necklace display and I helped him pick out a choker of wooden beads whose brown color complemented his tan. At the sales counter where a girl with piercings in ears, nose, lips and tongue accepted my payment, there was a collection of colorful wrist rings. Casey looked at me and I nodded. "Whatever you want, Tiger." He ended up getting an entire collection; red, blue, gold, black, white, green - all shoved onto his left wrist. Then he selected four silky head bandannas as well. Outside, walking to my SUV, I admired the way Casey's new beads and wrist rings set off his lithe slenderness, already so well presented in the tight jeans and muscle shirt. "Nice," I told him, and the boy gave me a shy happy look. In the SUV he slid over to press against my side, placing a hand on my thigh. I stroked the inside of his leg through the blue jeans. "You're not in any big hurry to get home, are you?" Casey shook his head. On our way up the Interstate, Casey kept his legs parted wide so I could explore up in his crotch, rubbing the hard bulge I found there. When we reached town I drove directly to my apartment. Inside, with the door locked behind us, Casey came into my arms for a quick hug, then he wandered around looking at things. "Coach, did Cody ever like come here?" "Nope," I lied, shaking my head. "He never did." This answer seemed to please the boy and while I got out a 2-liter of Coke and poured into glasses, he disappeared in the back for a bit, checking out the rest of the apartment. "This is nice," he told me after returning to drink his soda. "So's this." I reached out to touch his new bead necklace. Casey touched it with me, then looked down at his bare midriff, poking a finger into his belly button. "There's like this kid at school. He's got like this thing..." I nodded. "Mike Tucker. He has a stud piercing there." "You know him?" Casey looked up in surprise. "Sure. I would've drafted him if he had signed up, but he's doing soccer." "Uh-huh." Casey pulled up his muscle shirt, glanced at me, and I helped him slide it completely off. With a finger the boy rubbed the pointed tip of his left nipple. I noticed it was hard. "That kid's got like a thing here, too." "Yeah. A nipple piercing." Casey shook his head. "I wouldn't want nothin' like that." "Good!" Putting an arm around the boy I drew him close. "'Cause you're not gettin' that. You're perfect just the way you are!" With a giggle Casey hugged me while I stroked his smooth young body. My palm slid first on the muscular curve of his shoulder, then down the silky sweep of slender back all the way to his hard jutting butt. Casey giggled again when I gave the rounded mounds a gentle squeeze. "Everybody says like I got a good butt." "Oh, yeah?" I bent to inhale the lovely fragrance of his dark hair. "Who's 'everybody'?" He rubbed his hand on my back. "Other kids. An' my mom. She's always sayin' it to Cody, too. That, like, our butts stick out." "Well, it's true." I said this with a chuckle as I squeezed again. "You're butt does stick out. But that's good. It's because you and your brother are both good athletes. You're strong." Casey was wiggling, pushing a bulging hardness in his crotch against my thigh. "I'm strong all over, ain't I, Coach?" "Better believe it, kid." I stroked up and down his silken back. "Then..." He squirmed some more, hugging me tight, sliding his palm on my back in imitation of what I was doing. "Then, like, how come I ain't like bigger?" "You're big," I assured him, caressing the boy. "You're my centerfielder. The captain of my outfield. You're plenty big enough for me!" At these words, Casey's arms locked so tight around me he was trembling. "You like me a lot, don't you, Coach," he whispered. "Yeah... A real lot..." I bent to breathe in his scent again, this time kissing the top of his head. "I like you, too, Coach. Like a real, real lot." "I know..." And taking the boy up in my arms, I carried him to my bedroom. When I placed Casey gently on the soft coverlet of the bed he stretched back his arms, then lifted his head to watch as I took off his Nikes and unbuttoned his jeans. "Not big..." I was muttering. "Who says so? You're plenty big... Look how much you've grown... Just look at these big feet!" The boy giggled as I lifted his feet up, tickling the soles. Then, as I pulled the zipper down on his jeans, Casey lifted his hips so I could tug at the tight denim, working it off along with his underwear briefs. Freed of constriction, a perfect four-inch boy boner popped out, the tip of its circumcised head gleaming wetly. Casey wiggled, helping me slide the stiff blue jeans to his knees, where he could draw each leg free of both jeans and underwear. I held my breath, momentarily stunned by the beauty we were uncovering. Stretched out before me was the classic vision of early adolescence; lean flowing lines of slender strength, smooth with the tenderness of childhood, yet showing developing hardness beneath. Casey was too lovely for words. I thought of a picture: a dark-haired Trojan horse boy, riding naked, spear in hand, eager for battle. Sliding a palm on the silken swell of his calf, I brushed fingertips over the delicate bones of his knee, then stroked the firm muscle of thigh. "Your legs are plenty big," I told him in a voice husky with emotion. "See how long they're getting. You're growing just the way you should." "Yeah, but..." Casey lifted onto his elbows, the movement bringing out lines of definition in the hard sheath of his tummy. Reaching down with one hand he touched the quivering boner jutting from his groin. "I ain't big here, Coach..." "Who says you're not?" Pushing Casey's hand aside I took hold of him, stroking the slick stretched skin of his rigid shaft. The boy was so hard I could feel the pounding of his heartbeats beneath my fingertips. "I like seen other kids. Like when we change in the locker room." My fingers moved on him, pumping steadily. "Been checkin' 'em out, huh?" Casey giggled. He stretched out again, arms extended behind his head as I rubbed him faster, and with a soft moan he arched a little, squeezing his butt. A throb pulsed in his rigid hardness. The sudden contraction jerked the boy and it was followed immediately by another... then another... then a train of pulsing contractions brought Casey's hips into a series of quick thrusts. Casey lay panting in the aftermath, eyes closed, hard slender body limp. Droplets of milky wetness dribbled from the slit of his quivering boy stick. I lowered my head to take the four inch length into my mouth. Gently licking, careful to avoid his sensitive tip, I enjoyed the flavor of boyhood, the first sweet offerings of coming change. "Ahhhhh..." Casey squirmed, stretching as he squeezed his lovely butt. Filled with the unquenchable ardor of a young boy not yet capable of full release, he remained rock hard. He stretched, squirming again as I slid my mouth off his rigid boy pole to begin licking around its silky, hairless base. Working up from the vee of his groin, I lapped across a hard sheath of tummy. My tongue flicked lines of definition that stood out as Casey lifted his head to watch. He reached down to tug at my shirt and I pulled it off for him, flexing an arm muscle so he could feel it. Then I went back to tasting his flawless young body. With Casey's hands stroking on my shoulders, I licked the notch of his ribs, his chest and then each tiny nipple, my tongue brushing over the hard little points. "Uhhhhhh... More... Do it more, Coach..." Groaning with desire, Casey writhed, pushing at me, guiding my head and shoulders back toward his groin. I lapped downward and the boy pulled a knee up, opening his thighs. Then he was arching, moaning, as I slid the rigid four inches awaiting me there through my lips. "Oh! Oooooo... Coooaaaachhhh..." The first throbs were already pulsing as I began to bob, curling my tongue around the slick little pole. "Uh!" Casey jerked, hips bucking. Then he was squeezing his butt, body in tension, every muscle in his hard lean form standing out like sculpture. "More... More..." He pleaded, "Ahhhhhhhhhhh..." Moving my palms over his silky waist and sides, licking with my tongue, sliding his throbbing little spike in my mouth, I took the boy to another, and then another of his immature dry climaxes. At last I had to stop to rest. "More... Do it more..." Casey panted, staring upward, eyes unfocused. "Feels good, huh?" I stroked him and the boy nodded, gradually coming down off his high. When he turned his head to look at me, I touched his stiff boner that was still jutting upward, quivering with Casey's pounding heartbeats. "I'd say you're pretty big down there." "But nothin' comes out, Coach!" The unmistakable desperation in the way he said this made me take the boy in my arms and kiss his eyes, his nose, his lips... "You're doin' fine, Hot Shot. You'll see. Besides..." I stretched Casey back out on the bed, leaning over him, smiling as I caressed his lovely silkiness. "Besides, somethin' did come out that first time." Casey shook his head. "Not like Cody does." "Oh?" I raised my eyebrows. "What did he do? Show you?" "Uh-huh." No surprise there, I thought. Showing off to the younger brother. Maintaining dominance. That was Cody all over. "Made you jerk him off, huh?" "Yeah." Casey looked up anxiously. "Don't tell no one, Coach!" I smiled, stroking the boy with gentle circling movements of my palm. "I'd never do that. Don't worry. And don't you say anything about what we do together, either!" "I won't." Casey nodded solemnly. Letting my palm drift around the smooth curve of the boy's shoulder I stroked his upper arm. "Make a muscle for me." Casey flexed and I brushed fingertips over the swell of his bicep. "Look how strong you're getting. You keep getting bigger every day! Don't you worry about stuff comin' out. Pretty soon there's gonna be so much this thing down here's gonna' be like a fire hose!" I reached down to squeeze his hard boner, making Casey squeak with laughter. "Coach!" "You'll see." Picking up the boy's hand I rubbed a fingertip on his new wrist bands. "I really like the way these look on you. And this too..." I touched the bead necklace. I could tell this pleased him. Casey wiggled a little, gazing up at me, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth. "Do me again, Coach," he begged. "Ha!" I tickled him, digging fingers into his hard stomach, making the boy double up, squirming and laughing. "When do you ever get enough? Never, I suppose, huh? So I never get a break? Give me a chance to rest up!" My hands went all over him, tickling ribs, the hollow of his taut little waist, around to his sides and back, the velvety softness of his armpits... Casey wriggled, squealing with laughter, trying to double up when he was unable to escape. At last I had him gasping for breath, spread eagled on the bed. As I leaned over him the boy gazed up at me, eyes filled with love. "You're the best, kid," I whispered, leaning down to kiss him. "The very best. Don't you ever forget it." Later on, in the kitchen, as I was pouring out two glasses of soda for us, Casey slid an arm around my waist, pressing his naked body to my side. "You really like me a lot, don't you, Coach." It was a confident statement, not a question. I took him into my arms. "Better believe it, Hot Shot." Casey lifted his face to mine and when I kissed him, the boy opened his mouth, admitting my tongue. We clung together, his smooth warmth sliding against my bare chest, arms around each other, locked together for what seemed an endless time. "But I'm not good like Cody," Casey whispered after we took a moment to breathe. "You're better then he'll ever be," I whispered back, caressing and stroking. "You're my centerfielder. My champion. That's more than enough for me. I'm so proud of you..." When it came time to drive him home, Casey touched the plastic rings on his wrist. "I can't like let my mom or Cody see these." "Keep them here with me," I told him, helping to take them off. "This too." Carefully we unfastened his bead necklace. "I'll keep them ready for whenever you come." "I wanna' come a lot, Coach." "Sure. We'll fix it." Grabbing one of the silky squares of cloth we had bought, Casey leaned back against the wall. He was still naked. After drawing the light cloth across his chest, back and forth over his hard little nipples, he let go and the filmy satin slid down the glassy smoothness of his tummy to be caught by the rigid boner still jutting from his groin. The boy giggled, arranging the gauze as a loose twist around his hips. Then he posed for me, arched back on the wall, hands above his head. "Hold it," I told him, "Don't move. It's perfect!" From a cabinet I pulled out my digital camera, hastily checked settings, crouched, and took a series of pictures, moving around to different angles. Casey held the pose, mouth slightly parted, eyes looking off into infinity. Then, as soon as I straightened up, he hurried to my side, holding my arm, while we reviewed the pictures in the back of the camera. "Cool..." The boy breathed, staring at his images. The warmth of his firm young body pressing on my side had me so hard again it was painful. "Check this out, Hot Shot..." My voice was a husky whisper as I watched the pictures follow each other one by one in the viewer. "Next time you come, we'll do more of these. I'll set some lighting up. You can do it however you want." Casey turned to hug me, the scarf around his hips slipping to the floor as he squirmed to rub his four inch hardness on my thigh. "I don't wanna go home yet, Coach." My hands were all over him, caressing the perfection of sturdy shoulders, tapering back, firm mounded butt... "I know, kid. But we gotta'. We don't want your mom or Cody getting any ideas. Don't worry. I'll keep everything ready here for whatever you come." The boy offered his lips to me for a long deep kiss, then reluctantly we parted so Casey could collect his scattered clothes and put them on. In my SUV going to his house he leaned against me, blue jeans unzipped, my fingers sliding over the hard glossy surfaces of warm tummy, groin and hard boner. [ To Be Continued In Parts D through I ] *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- Hope you enjoyed it! This baseball series has a 'long' short story for every position. Look for a new chapter or two each month. Thanks for taking the time to read my story and if you'd like to comment, my e-mail address is: hunterjoe45@yahoo.com I will try to answer all serious mailings. My on-line access is very limited. Rants and ravings will not get consideration. To all you readers who enjoy these stories, please support Nifty with contributions and keep the Archive online. Check the Nifty home page for ways to make contributions. Without this Archive those of us who write for you will lose a wonderful resource to get our stories out. You can find links to all my other stories on Nifty under my name, Joe Hunter, listed under the J's (for Joe) in the prolific authors list. To get that list click the Authors tab at the top of the Nifty home page and then select 'Prolific Authors'. I hope you will read and enjoy! All the Best. Joe