The team was ready to play ball. The long-legged beauties stood at attention in the field waiting for the opportunity to demonstrate their abilities.
One was more exquisite than the next-yet they all possessed a certain amount of sexual magnetism.
How long could a healthy man remain a spectator? It was one thing to be the coach and to guide them to victory, but his heart was full of desire- about to explode with lust!
WARM-UP TIME
The score was tied. It was the bottom of the ninth, and the Oklahoma City Cougars had a rally going. Tim Fisher, sore-armed lefthander for the Tulsa Terrors, had held the score at two-all for four innings and hadn't given up a loud foul since the third; but now, fading in the hellish heat, he'd put men on first and third with nobody out.
Any other day of the year it'd have been the most important moment of Wally Burger's life. After four years with the Terrors, his name had almost come to be synonymous with the club; three of those years had brought him pennants and no worse than moderate-sized raises.
Now he didn't give a good Goddamn if the Cougars' cleanup hitter came up to the plate with an ironing board, and Fisher threw him a medicine ball. Today Wally Burger, sitting in sport shirt and Bermuda shorts before the open window of his comfortable motel room, was enjoying himself.
The hell with the bad game, he thought. Today I'm going to sit here on my lazy ass and watch this chick play with herself.
She was wearing only a sheer, see-through shortie nightgown; a pink and luscious skin showed through it on all sides. Wally could see the rosy tips of pink and lovely melon-sized breasts peeping delightfully through the half-opened front of her nightie, and a delicious little muff of light brown pussy hair showing just below her hem whenever she stretched a little.
"... Now it looks like... yes... it looks like they're going to put Arbogast on to get Cooper. Yes, folks, that's it. The Terrors want a play at any base. They..."
Across from him, framed in the wide window of the next motel unit, the girl lifted her nightgown's hem to stare at herself in the full-length mirror before her. She turned prettily this way and that, posing for herself (and for him, too), giving him a pink and rosy, deliriously rounded rear view that was every bit as nice as the side and front views had been.
"Now there's a pop fly behind second... Carter's going back, back... Elwood's coming in from center... Carter's calling for it... he has it... the runners hold."
Shit, said Wally to himself. Why don't you all run, you dumb bastards? Carter's arm is so lousy he couldn't wing that damn ball to home plate on three bounces. Miracle he caught it anyhow. Jesus Christ, they expected a man to win ball games with a cross-eyed shortstop and a second baseman who walked like a guy with one foot in a hole.
Now... now the girl reached to the front of her nightie and pulled it open to bare those gorgeous bulbs of hers. Wally swallowed hard, watching.
Oh, my, my, my, he thought. That's rights girlie. Lift 'em up and heft 'em in your hands. Hmmmm. Nice, nice. Now kiss 'em both, right on the tip of the old titty. Yeah. Yeahhhhh...
"... Now there's ball one to Franklin, with one down in the bottom of the ninth, and let me tell you, folks, that one was way down in the dirt Haines stopped it with his chest protector, and a good thing too, 'cause if he'd let it get past him that would have been all she wrote... Now there's ball two, way the heck outside, and, looking out to the Tulsa bullpen we can see some action again... Yes, it's a lefty... Miller it is, Dave Miller... "
Fuck Miller, Wally thought to himself. That dumb son of a bitch will put it up there looking like a watermelon with a handle on it, and it wouldn't matter if they sent up an old lady in a wheelchair to pinch hit right now, with Dave Miller pitching. Deaf, dumb, blind and spastic, she'd sock it out of the infield, boy, and that's all the Okies needed right now...
Now the girl pulled the nightie over her head and stood, rosy-pink and naked, in front of the mirror. Jesus H. Christ, Wally said to himself. Burger old boy, that's eatin' stuff. I'd lick that up like a cat with a saucer of fresh milk. No, shit, make that half-and-half. That ain't no tourist stuff there, son.
Now she reached down to what seemed to be a suitcase on the ground, below his range of vision, and extracted a pink plastic box, some eleven or twelve inches square. When she opened the hinged lid of it he could see what appeared to be plastic hair curlers, standing on end in their little receptacles on their little pegs... until she took one of them out and he could see what it was.
"... Miller takes the last of his warm-up tosses and Franklin steps in with the count two and nothing... " What the girl had was a nine- or ten-inch plastic cock, with a big-bulbed head and thick plastic veins sticking out on all sides of it. As he watched, she wound the thing up with a key on the other end from the business end and it started vibrating crazily in her red-nailed little hand. And, with no further ado, she bent her knees and slowly-deliriously-shoved the thick thing into her wet and squishy vagina until almost nothing but the last inch of the plastic shaft stuck out The little key went round and round; a glazed-over smile passed slowly over her pretty face.
"Now Miller hasn't seen much action in the past month, and there's been a lot of speculation as to why... there's a fast ball up the middle for strike one, called... Miller blames former manager Wally Burger's prejudice for the benching... well, after the Tulsa version of the Midnight Massacre last night, when Burger was fired by the Terrors' owner Mark Watson, the ban seems to be off... there's ball three, outside, just missed the corner... anyhow, Miller sure picked a time to make his comeback, didn't he, fans? There's one more... that's it... No! No! Umpire Bill McVey is calling him back, he says Miller got it across, and it's a full count instead of a walked-in run and a winning ballgame... oh, boy, Franklin sure doesn't like that call... he's really hot..." The hell with Franklin, Wally Burger said to himself. I'm hotter than he is already. He looked down and saw the front of his Bermudas bulging powerfully. Can she see anything? he wondered. He could see her, now, because she had all the damn lights on, but in his own room the TV screen was the only light. He reached down and opened his fly to liberate his rock-hard, painfully erect rod. He held it in his hand for a second or two before beginning to massage it in a slow, rhythmic motion.
"... Now McVey's had it... oh, boy, is he mad... and there he goes... he's kicking Franklin out of the game... and here comes Cougar manager Ike Mattox out of the dugout to talk to McVey..."
Now the girl withdrew a second dildo from the box, this one also shaped like a hard cock, but a long and skinny one. And she faced her pink ass to the window, bent over, and by God, he could see the other dildo between her legs, outlined by brown pussy hair, still vibrating away... and she shoved the skinny stick slowly and sensually up her rosy pink anus. When it was all the way in-then and no sooner-she reached her red-nailed little hand back, still bent over like that, and daintily, delicately, twirled the little key to wind the thing up...
"... Now Mattox is taking it to the third-base umpire Ed Harris, asking for a call " And, of course, she patted her pretty pink popo on each luscious bun before straightening up.
Now there was no damned doubt in his mind for whom the floor-show was intended. And if there had been any doubt remaining, it was quickly dispelled when she reached in the pink box, pulled out a plastic cock painted to look exactly like a real one, and, turning to face the open window, began slowly to lick it like a lollypop as her free hand toyed absently with her long, hard and delicious-looking nipple. As she approached the window she slipped the thick head of the plastic cock into her month and made a round O of her lips around it. The red-tipped hand slipped it in and out of her mouth; the other hand waved at him in friendly fashion.
Wally's hand was going like forty in his lap, jacking wildly. The girl let the plastic dick out of her mouth to lick it again... he was getting hotter and hotter. So, it appeared, was she...
"... Now here's Poster Harris stepping in to pinch-hit for Franklin against lefty Dave Miller, and what a situation it is, fans... if ever there was a down-and-dirty pitch, boy, this is it... we've got a full count, with the bases full and one out, and the score tied two-all in the bottom of the ninth, and pinch-hitter Foster Harris... " Now she stepped up on top of something... another suitcase, maybe... and climbed up into the motel window. The lush breasts pointed their hard little nipples at him enticingly... the vibrating head of the biggest of the three plastic cocks sticking crazily out of the pretty brown hair of her delightfully visible cunt as she lifted one gorgeous leg, curled her red-nailed toes over the edge of the sill, and bared the pink lips of her snatch for him, so she could reach up and turn the key again, slowly, tantalizingly...
Wally's hand was a blur in his lap... he'd shifted into overdrive, boys, and gangway, Wally Burger was haulin' ass...
And now the girl started to slip the plastic dick slowly in and out of her mouth, sucking wildly at it, as the little key twirled in her snatch. Her eyes were glassy... she was getting every bit as hot as he was...
"... And there it goes... over the center-field fence at the 400-foot marker, fans... going... going... GONE!"
Oof, Wally told the announcer a minute or two later when he could catch his breath. That sure as hell was some last inning, all right. He'd sure whacked the hell out of that one.
Across from him in the open window, the naked girl smiled at him prettily, waved goodbye, and pulled the shades. His last sight of her was a quick glimpse of lush brown pussy hair, with the little key still twirling crazily about inside the pink lips of her quim...
It wasn't the first time it had happened either, Wally was thinking as he dressed for dinner. It was just the first time he'd had the chance to really enjoy it. How the hell could anyone enjoy that-enjoy anything-with some damn fool of a club owner getting all over his ass all the time about winning ball games? And with what? Nine old goats from the Old Soldiers Home. Walking wounded. One-legged base runners and one-eyed hitters. Pitchers who couldn't get the ball over the plate if they had it delivered personally by Western Union. Goddamn psycho bastards you had to tuck in their wee beds every night with their goddamn teddy bears. Borderline faggots who swung at the ball like a drag queen hitting you with his purse...
Hmmm, thought Wally, looking at his unshaven chin and reaching for the Norelco, that was a bad subject. Now the chick next door... that was something else again. Tha-a-at was something else again...
She'd been following him for two weeks now-the whole of the Terrors' last home stand and the present road trip-and she'd only really caught him today. She'd dangled the same damn bait-and oh, boy, it was dollar-a-pound stuff, USDA Prime meat-in front of his eyes, one way or another, for the whole damn road trip. At first it'd been bikinis so small you could see hair peeping around the edges. Then she'd graduated to the string bikini and showed him as much belly and tit as the law allowed. Then it had been the Thong, and she'd wiggled that incredible ass, round, firm, fully packed, past his window fifty times to every one she actually needed to. First it was slip past his window to go indoors and get a magazine. Then it was slip the hell back again to take it back. And then it was slip the hell back to get a pack of smokes. And then of course she'd need a match. Once, as he'd gone out the door, heading for the golf course, she'd stopped and asked him for a light. Lighting up, she'd let one creamy tit spill enchantingly out of her... what the fuck would you call it? Thong top? It looked more like the sort of string bag French housewives carry when they go shopping, and it showed him more boob than Elsie the Borden Cow.
Eureka, he had told himself brightly at last. I do believe the little darling is trying to get my attention.
She'd done some goddamn hopping to get the room next to him all the way, at all three motels, by God. Obviously she was going to that kind of trouble, that kind of expense, for some reason. Whatever on earth could it be? She just didn't seem to be the damn baseball groupie type. Maybe she was, after all, no more than a roundheels floozie, but if she were, it was a decidedly classy kind of roundheels floozie. Definitely out of the class of the Double-A Panhandle League, even for winning managers-much less for bums who'd just been fired for not winning (and with hardly more than half the season gone at that).
Yeah, he told himself now, watching his lean-jawed, long-nosed face in the mirror as he shaved. What the hell does a broad like that want with the likes of a bum like you, Burger?
Well, that's a hell of a fucking loser attitude to take about things, he told himself. I'll have you know that I, Wallace Burger, am a superb manager, one of the best in the minors, and if there were in fact a just God in heaven I would be managing some seary fucking major league franchise like Oakland or Cincinnati, instead of just having been fired from a bunch of retarded paraplegics like those lousy, spastic, butterfingered...
Come on now, his reflection sneered back at him. Leave us not shit one another, old boy. You are a stumblebum that can't win ball games, and you've had two wives and both of them have walked out on you because you're such a goddamn pain in the ass every time you lose.
Bah, he said right back. Stupid cunts. Little they knew. Fat fucking lot they knew, by motherfucking God. And how can I win if every time I get a second-base combination that can catch a goddamn basketball if you roll it at them real soft... every time I get me a cleanup hitter who might conceivably manage, one time out of forty, to hit a full-grown bull in the ass with a bass fiddle... any time I can put together one magical combination of one sore-armed starter and six relievers who couldn't put a crack in a crystal chandelier, and the seven of them can, between them, manage to get through a nine-inning game... every time I can get any fucking thing at all going, by God, every man jack gets called up to the majors? Or gets traded off to the Yippahoopy Dipshits of the Class Z Geriatric League? Or gets busted for molesting dogs in the park? Or gets the clap? Or gets run over by a train? Or gets...
By God.
He knew what he was going to do with his evening.
First off, he was going to order the biggest, best goddamn thick fat catcher's mitt of a steak the motel could come up with.
And then he was going to get stinking.... puking... falling-down-in-the-gutter... disgraceful... wall-eyed and helpless... farting and giggling... drooling-down-his-shirt-front... crawling-down-the-street... blind, ugly, shit-faced drunk.
And if he were by some miracle not arrested, or rolled and dumped in the shitpile by assorted footpads and road agents, he would account the evening wasted; and he would go back, as soon as the broken bones were healed, and make sure that this time he was not cheated of the full sum of degradation that he had coming, that he deserved so richly, that a stern and even-minded deity had ordained for him.
This he vowed now, shaking the razor at himself in the mirror. He hadn't been drunk in a month of Sundays and he was looking forward to the sort of toot that a man could remember with awe and admiration-the sort of thing you could tell the young fry about in later years ("Drunk? You call that drunk? Why, sonny, when I was goin' on thirty-five... ") just to remind them that yes, indeed, there were giants in those days, beside whom the pale achievements of the toppers of today... And so on. And so on.
Boy, he told his reflection in the mirror. You was somebody once...
Imagine, however, his surprise, when just as he sat down to order dinner in the motel restaurant, in a dark and cosy corner, the chick from next door slipped into the seat next to him, smiled that dazzling smile of hers, and said, "Hello, Mr. Burger. Would you mind if I joined you?"
"Tell you what," he said, looking her up and down but not rising, "let me order myself a triple scotch on the rocks, about the size of an umbrella stand, with about a carboy of booze in it, and guzzle that down. I'll even order you one of whatever it is that you're drinkin'. And then, once I'm washed in the blood of the lamb and can no longer feel such pain, I will tell you whether I mind anything. In the meantime, welcome to my table, dear lady, and who the hell are you, anyhow?"
"I'm Brenda Wilkins," she said in a friendly tone. "And you... you did say I could have one of whatever I want?"
"Yeah," he said. "What the hell. And what do you do for a living, Brenda Wilkins?"
"Oh, you'd never believe me if I told you," she said. "I'll just wait until you've had that GI can full of scotch you were talking about, and then... "
"Well, Mysterious Guest, what is it that you'd like me to order?" He looked at her, then at the waitress who had materialized at his elbow. "I'll have a scotch on the rocks, and let's make that big scotch and small rocks, and if you can serve it in a 55-gallon oil drum, filled right up to the top, with a straw in it, that would be best of all. Then I'll have the prime ribs, so rare it'll moo at you. The lady will tell you what it is she wants. I presume you're eating as well as drinking?" he asked the girl.
"Eating? Hmmm. Yes. Drinking? Oh, of course." She all but rolled her eyes, saying both things. She said to the waitress: "Filet, medium. Scotch mist, please, twist of lemon, not squeezed."
The waitress went away. "Fine," he said. "Now we're old pals. Now you can tell me what it is that you want from me, my dear. The autograph of a washed-up baseball bum? A free meal? The pleasure of my charming company? Tips on the stock market?"
"You've discovered that I've been following you around."
"Yes, that did come through to my dim bulb. Why? What, if I may be so blunt, Is it that you want?"
She smiled-and it was the sweetest, most charming, most delicately sensitive smile in the whole world-and said: "Well... "
"Yes? Go on. Please don't be bashful." The waitress brought the drinks. His wasn't anywhere near so big and mean as he'd have liked, he reflected... but all in good time. He tipped the glass up. "Here's lookin' up your... uh... I mean cheers."
"Cheers," she said. "Here's to... to a better future for... for the best darn manager in baseball." She drank to that. Jeez, her eyes were brimming with tears as she did. Sincere.
Sincere, by God.
"Best manager?" he said. "Who the hell is that? Sparky Anderson? Walt Alston?"
"Why, you, Mr. Burger. That... that's why I'm here."
"Ah," he said, and took another stiff one. When it hit bottom it crashed. Ah, that wasn't bad scotch. "That's why you're here. But you were going to tell me why you're here. I mean, what it was that you wanted from me."
"Oh, yes," she said. She settled her stockinged foot warmly atop his instep, and took his hand in both of hers. She pressed it to her soft bosom. "I... I want to go down on you."
He couldn't believe he'd heard what he'd heard. "You want... huh?" he said.
"Oh... you know." Her voice was soft and feminine and as warm as toast. "I... I want to suck your cock. I want you to fuck me in the mouth. I want to swallow your come, and I want to lick your dick dry when I'm done." Her smile was positively angelic. "Now... can I still have one of whatever it is that I want?"
"B-but... " He took another stiff one before trying to ask if he'd heard her right. Then, stumbling over every word, he asked her if he'd heard her right.
"Of course you heard me right," she said, the seraphic smile intact. She was so lovely he'd have gladly settled for a picture of her to jack off by. Black and white, even. And here she was, live. Luscious. Zaftig. Bursting with life. "I said I was here," she went on, "because you're the best manager in baseball. And you are, you know. Whether or not you happen to be recognized as such at the moment is hardly relevant."
"Not that," he croaked. "The... the other thing." He took another drink. This one was even better; it made his head spin. "The one about... "
"Oh?" she said warmly, and leaned over to give him the most delicate of kisses right on the end of his long and hawklike nose. "That." And as she leaned forward her free hand-the one that wasn't holding her drink-slipped under the tablecloth, down in the general area of their closely juxtaposed laps, and unzipped his fly with a skill born of long practice. Eager practice. The soft fingers didn't stop there; they grabbed him gently by the joint, which sprang instantly to a quite impressive length and a rocklike hardness. "Oh, that's nice," she said. "You're circumcised. I always like sucking off a circumcised man just a weeny bit more... they're... oh, somehow neater. I like to run my tongue around the head... and the foreskin gets in the way. I like... oh," she said, feeling him up. "Oh, how nice and hard it is. It feels simply lovely. I can't wait to get it between my lips. I can't wait to lick the little drop of wet off the end of it... and... oh, Just pop it into my mouth and suck away as if it were some delicious sort of popsicle. And... oh, your balls are all shrunk up, with the skin so nice and tight around them. That means they're feeling more sensitive, doesn't it? Oh, yes, I can feel that, tickling them like that. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, you're very sensitive, aren't you? Some men are, more than others. I always like it more when I know the man is very, very sensitive. I don't even mind if he... well, if he has to, you know, shoot off quickly in my mouth, even before I've had a real chance to work on him some. People do that when they haven't had a woman in a little while. Gee, all it means is that I get an even bigger, more delicious mouthful of luscious, juicy, salty come. Goodness: I can't get enough of it. Particularly with people I... love and respect, you know." She smiled that incredible smile and looked him in the eye; her expression just then was absolutely enchanting. Wally took an even bigger drink and blinked at her through the rising fog.
"Of course," she said, "that's just the first time. The second time I do it I usually expect a little more... and I usually get it."
"I bet you do," he said hoarsely.
That was about the dividing point of the evening. The next drink of scotch Wally took, breathing such heady air, socked him one, and nicely too. It was a little like that idiotic punch Randolph Turpin used to be able to deliver, at full strength, while falling down, passing out, or otherwise demonstrating his incompetence in the ring. While you're sneering at him, up comes this stupid punch and kills you. From that moment the evening either went rapidly downhill, if you judged on the basis of coherence, or rapidly uphill, if the criterion was a progressively more indecorous cycle of tumescence and detumescence.
One thing he knew afterward, and damn well too. There were gaps in the evening-large ones. He never recovered so much as a moment of dinner. The only way he could prove that he'd had it afterward was the shaky signature he'd given the credit-card statement. The next thing he knew...
... The next thing he knew he was standing in front of the full-length mirror in her by-now-quite-familiar room, looking down at the wonderful sight of her stark naked, creamy, firm, and full figure kneeling before him and taking the whole of his engorged rod between those ruby lips, an ecstatic smile on her pretty face. As she did, he distinctly heard her slurp. She licked him, inside there, all around the head of his dick. She hummed: Mmmmmmmmmmm... And the feel of that was enough to drive him batty. Her soft fingers came up and started caressing his balls, gently, softly. She sucked, harder, harder. He watched the thick head of his cock pushing out the sides of her pretty cheeks, and as she withdrew on the off stroke he could see the stains from her luscious red lipstick around the shaft of his cock. She pulled out for a moment and looked happily down at it. There was a little blob of wet on the very tip, oozing softly out of the wide-open hole in the end of his weapon. She licked it off delightedly, licking her lips afterward. Then she looked up at him in the mirror and hugged him to her joyfully. "Oh, darling Mr. Burger... please, my dear, dear man... please fuck me... fuck me in the lips... fuck me hard... I want to have you ram that beautiful thing right down my throat... please, dear Mr. Burger... please fuck me now... "
His head was reeling. "God damn," he said. "You bet your ass, honey." He grabbed her by the hair and jammed that bulging prick between the red lips. Then, getting his ass into it, he started pumping. Harder. Harder. He'd never seen anything at all like the sight of her down there before him on her knees, blowing his wazoo. She was so nice he ought to be ashamed to even talk to her, raunchy old fart that he was. And here she was so young and soft and sweet, and all he could think of to do to her was stick his damn dick down her throat and, holding her by the ears now, bang back and forth, shoving the hard length of it farther and farther down her throat each time... it was too good to be true... too good... Jeez, he was getting ready to blow his wad... more and more ready... it was coming... he watched fascinated as his own brutal body jammed that big thick dick farther and farther down her sweet and yielding throat each time... and by God, she was loving it... loving every damn minute of it... and so was he... and now he was shooting... shooting... it was like live coals passing through his urethra... the sensation was almost too much to take... "God!" he cried out. And he was ready to stop, to faint, to fall down...
... And all she wanted was to keep licking and sucking in great ecstatic slurps until it was all down, and she wouldn't let him go until she was good and ready herself...
FIRST INNING
And that was pretty much it for the evening, there was more; he was absolutely sure there was more; she wasn't the type to stop, or even to slow down, when things were clicking along nicely like that. You name it, and she wanted to do some of it, lots of it, too much of it. Positions? All of them, including some he'd read about in the Tijuana Bibles when he'd been a kid but had always been too bashful to bring up with either of his wives. Exotic orifices to explore? She'd been as enthusiastic as he, and had coaxed his raw rod up her rear amid many a delighted squeal and shudder; he was sure of that afterward. But the trouble was that with a batch of beautiful memories like those to sustain him, he couldn't remember a damn thing afterward. Well, not much. Snapshots. Vignettes. But the living memory, in living color, in all its exotic beauty? Nothing. Nothing.
So it was that when he awoke the next morning, alone in her bed, feeling as though he'd been hit by a train and knocked into an open sewer with his jaws wired wide open, it was all goddam misery. All of it, every last bloody bit. Hangover? Oh, Christ, oh God. Sick stomach? Oh, merciful heaven. Sore dick?
Sore dick?
He pulled the covers down and looked at his limp and indifferent tool. It felt as if it had tried to rape a disc harrow, and his balls felt as though they ought to look flat as a pancake.
A little gingerly exploration, however, established that he was still in working condition - or at least that the damn thing was still there, and it looked as though it might still work if it had to.
He looked around him now. It had taken him some time to get up the courage to open his eyes in the first place; now, pushing the covers back, he tried sitting up. It was a mistake. A kamikaze airplane crashed noisily into his temple, and his head smashed into a million pieces like fine china in an earthquake. He settled weakly back onto the pillow.
It was some time before he worked up the gumption to open his eyes again and peek around the place. He half expected it to look the way his room would if they had gone there last night. No way. This was one unusual young lady in many ways. Not only was she a shark, a terror, a mankiller in the hay; she could drink enough liquor to drown a rhinoceros in and still get up the next morning and clean up the joint, leaving it spotless and shiny all the way around. Even his clothes were neatly folded - the right way, not the way most women folded pants - and his shoes were set neatly in a line below them.
The question that now occurred to his addled mind was why. Why get up and clean everything up? Why leave him there, the only ghastly, filthy blot on an otherwise spotless room? Why...
Ah then, but why set him up like this in the first place? Him, a washed-up, over-the-hill baseball bum? When she - with that build and that personality and that talent for, uh, sexual propinquity - could have had anybody she wanted to, anywhere in the country? Why settle for Skid Row when you could have Park Avenue?
Thus pondering, he managed after several tries to get his eyes more or less in focus. And now that the light poked its way unsteadily between his caked-up eyelids and burned its evil way into his tortured brain, Wally could see the little dresser beside the bed.
There was a note scotch-taped to the mirror.
Below it was a kraft-paper envelope, thick, bulging with something or other.
He sat up. Slowly, infinitely slowly, letting the strange assortment of little steel balls that rolled from one side to the other of the corridors inside his brain balance each other out a little at a time. His stomach gave three separate seismic heaves on the way...
... And the next thing he knew he had staggered somehow into the crapper and got his head over the bowl just in time and was heaving up his guts.
It was an epic feat. He barfed up last night's dinner. Then he got rid of yesterday's breakfast and lunch. Then he chucked the dinners, lunches and suppers of half the local phone book. He was working on tomorrow's lunch and next week's between-meals snacks when he finally gave out and went over to a nice therapeutic session of the dry heaves. Finally he sat down on the edge of the tub and, gasping, tried to catch his breath.
Oh, well, he thought, you asked for it.
Oh, Burger. You shit-faced son of a bitch. You lopsided, one-eyed, one-foot-in-the-gutter polecat-fucker. You really tied one on. And it's amazing you didn't fuck and drink yourself into an early grave last night. Maybe you did, 'matter of fact.
He got up and, still naked and reeking, had a single horrible look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Then he turned his eyes away. The sight, he decided, was enough to frighten kids with. Or crows. How in the hell had he ever managed to get a luscious little piece of pink pussy like that into bed? Much less have her seduce him, rather than the other way around? It was amazing. Nothing short of amazing. Scratching the magnificent Burger behind, he waddled unsteadily into the other room, and then it was that he chanced to espy the note on the mirror once again. He made his unsteady way to the bureau and peeled the tape off the envelope and opened it. The note inside was on mauve paper, scented delicately (Jesus Christ, he thought, it smelled just like that marvelous little quim of hers. But that was impossible, impossible... and then he remembered: she liked to perfume that, too.). He started to read it; then, piqued by a not unfamiliar sensation, he looked down to see his tool standing mightily to attention, like the yardarm on some classic schooner. He did a take, then a double-take. He hadn't been sure that the damn thing would stand up any more. Who would have believed it? Erect? The note read:
Darling Mr. Burger-I'm so thrilled !!!! Really !!!! I never though I'd EVER have such an HONOR in my whole life...
He stopped there and looked down at his jib. Well, he decided, he supposed she'd seen worse. It was a real Harmon Killebrew model, after all, made for socking that thing out of the park. Let the other guys place-hit like Wee Willie Keeler. Wally Burger was in business to drive in some runs. As he looked at his tool the end of the damn thing started to throb. He reached one hand down and gave it a comforting pat. He read on now:
... I mean, welcome to the team...
Team?
What fucking team? The Terrors? Nonsense. He was through with that bunch of stumblebums and misfits. He couldn't go back to them now if his life depended on it anyhow. He'd told all of them exactly what he thought of them.
He closed his eyes, remembering. It was virtually the only nice thing he had to remember. "Fisher," he'd said, "you throw like a nance swatting a fly. I could catch that alleged fast ball of yours in my mouth like a seal... Now you, Miller. The day hasn't dawned when you could get through a three-inning exhibition game without walking forty guys. You couldn't throw strikes to the Jolly Green Giant. You couldn't find the strike zone if it was the size of a blimp hangar. You, Elwood. The only reason I ever put you in center field was I thought if I put you any closer to the batter he'd kill you. I could lock you in a closet with all the whores in Saigon and you couldn't catch the clap. Carter, you couldn't catch a bear in a telephone booth. Haines..."
He read on, still puzzled:
... I'll bring you some nice lunch, dear Mr. Burger, and then I can go over the lineup with you...
Lineup? What was this shit about lineups? What would... what was the girl's name now? Brenda? What would she have to do with... with a goddamn ball club? And why was she acting this way, as if-God forbid-she could count on him to go along with whatever the hell sort of charade she was talking about?
... Sincerely yours, your admiring friend Brenda
Wally had a sinking feeling. He knew something terrible was about to happen.
Moreover, he had the even worse feeling that it had already happened, whatever it was. Already.
Worst of all, he had the strong feeling that it all had something or other to do with that kraft-paper envelope down there below the mirror.
He breathed a heartfelt sigh. He knew he shouldn't. But he also knew he had to reach down and pick up the envelope and open it and read whatever the hell that was inside it.
And when he did, all he had to do was see the word "AGREEMENT" in big capital letters across the top to know that the worst had happened. He pulled the contract out and skipped six pages to the end. Sure enough, there was his damned signature. Sloppy... but unmistakably genuine. It'd stand up in any court of law. He threw the offending paper on the floor. Then he bent over and checked the envelope again. There was only one copy of the instrument. Brenda had obviously picked up the company copy and taken it in to... to whom? The owners? He shuddered.
And what fucking team? The Cougars? He was still in Oklahoma, after all. Oh, boy, he hoped not. He'd had all he had ever hoped to see of the damn Panhandle League, with its stupid, vicious fans, its crooked umpires, its blinding, incredible heat, its...
He couldn't take it any more. He sat down.
Then, since his pain was so great, he lay back on the soft bed. As he did so, his yardarm pointed majestically to the ceiling. He laced his fingers behind his aching head, closed his eyes, and sighed.
And passed out again.
A curious sensation woke him up.
It was as if a hard, callused, horny hand not unlike his own was slowly and purposefully jacking him off.
Could he be doing it himself? No way. Both his hands were behind his head. Could he then... Jesus Christ! Fags! He was being attacked!
He opened his eyes and grabbed for his tool. But the hand on it may have been hard and tough, all right, but it had polished red fingernails.
He looked up, still trying to pry the strong fingers off his cock.
And looked into a pair of bright blue eyes in a pleasant, not at all unpretty Slavic face with broad cheekbones, tanned skin, red lips... and, as he looked closer, apparently a bright gold tooth right in the middle of a dazzling smile. The hair above the face was bleached a stark Las Vegas white.
"Hi, Bud," the girl said, her hand still going up and down on his root "I'm Bubbles Belaski. Please to meetcha."
"Hey," he said weakly. "What the fuck... "
"Aw, jeez," the blonde said. "You don't mind, do ya? I mean, I like it. I couldn't resist. That's a nice bat you got there. I sure do hope we get to know one another. I'd hate to miss out on somethin' like that."
He grabbed at his rod, but her firm pressure didn't relax in the slightest. She obviously had no intention whatsoever of letting him loose. And the worst part about it was that he was beginning to enjoy it. His rod was really getting to like that feeling. The head of it was getting bigger, harder.
"Hey," she said. "It's gettin' bigger. And I thought I had me a real slugger already. Jeez. Look at that, will you? I can get both my hands on it. Like choosin' up sides in a sandlot game."
She suited her actions to her words. She was sitting on the bed beside him, and now both of her hands were at work jacking away at him. He stole a glimpse down her blouse front It was quite obvious that there was a reason for calling her Bubbles. She had the biggest, firmest tits he'd ever seen on a broad. Any bigger and they'd have flopped all over her chest. Hell, her belly. But on her-with those powerful pectorals beneath them, on a body at least as strong and chunky as his own-they were as firm as a couple of honeydew melons. And she wasn't wearing a bra, either. What bra could handle them? And the nipples stuck out at him like pistol barrels.
"Hey, jeez," she said now. "You like 'em, huh? They are nice, ain't they?" And, releasing one hand from his rod while continuing her actions with the other, she quickly yanked her blouse out of the belt at her waist and, not bothering with buttons, hiked it up over those marvelous things to bare them to his gaze. "Look," she said. "I can wiggle 'em in different directions. Rotate 'em, you know." She did. It was amazing, simply amazing. Their areolas were the size of tennis balls, and perfectly round. "I used to be on stage. I used to work the Gayety in Baltimore. Blaze Starr had nothin' on me."
She sure the hell didn't. Wally was salivating at the sight of them.
"Hey, honey," she said. "You want some? You want some o' that nice stuff? Here." And, not giving him a chance to say yes or no, she shoved one of the gigantic things right into his mouth..
It was enough to choke him; he tried to pull away; he managed to get free enough for a second to redistribute things a bit...
And then, what the hell, he started finding it easier, somehow, to go along with the gag and not fight things anymore. He could just sort of coast along... and suck away like a kid at his ma's breast...
Only there were those two red-nailed hands again, jacking mightily away at his thoroughly aroused putz. And, yes, he was getting hot. Hotter than a pistol, in point of fact Hot as bloody blue blazes. And... hey, now... if she didn't stop that, damn it, he was going to blow... he was going to... he...
"Jeeeeeeeezzzzzzzzz!" he said in one long sigh.
And passed out again.
When he woke up next time she'd dressed him some damn how or another. Dressed him, like a little kid. Him that weighed in at one-eighty if he were an ounce. She was just putting his shoes on him when he tried to sit up again.
"Whathefug?" he said in a grisly voice.
"Oh, hi," the blonde said with that dazzling golden smile. "Just gettin' you ready. Time for practice. I wanta interduce you all around."
"Practice?" he said. His mouth had a raunchy taste like an old YMCA footbath. "Need coffee. Black coffee."
"Comin' right up," the blonde said, tying his shoelaces. "Brenda's bringin' you some nice lunch. Coffee and Colonel Sanders."
"Fried chicken?" he said. The thought was too awful to imagine. Fried...
"Spare ribs," the girl said. "Only we got our own special sauce for on top. Lupe the Mex makes it, outa three different kinds of chiles. Guaranteed to unfuck your head up even if you been drinkin' battery acid."
"How did you guess?" he said. "Well, Christ, it couldn't make me feel any worse than I already feel? Hey, where are you taking me?" She'd grabbed him by the arm, none too gently-she wasn't the kind to do anything gently-and was heading for the door.
"Come on," she said. "Ain't no time to waste."
Outdoors at least the air was clear-hot and clear. Wally's guts were cold, however, and his head was murky in the extreme. Thinking about anything-anything at all-took more energy and application than he had in him. He allowed himself to be shoved into the blonde's ten-year-old convertible; she closed the door firmly after him and went to the bother of locking the door so he couldn't fall out. Then she got behind the wheel and drove carefully away, going easy on the bumps.
That was nice of her, he decided. Real nice. She was taking some pains to avoid displacing those little stainless-steel balls rolling around in the corridors inside his head. A good thing too. If even so much as one of them were to roll all the way to the end and crash against the inside of his skull right now he'd just die. That's all. He'd just die.
The route they were taking only seldom impinged on his thoroughly addled consciousness. He recognized a shopping center here, an intersection there. Nothing he could put a name to, though. It was all very strange. All of these complete strangers were being so nice to him, and they...
"Oh, Lord Jesus," he said suddenly. He sat up. "Hey, Blondie... "
"Bubbles," she said. "My real close friends call me Boobs."
"Okay, okay. But where the hell are we going?"
"Why, you mean you don't know?"
"Not on your little no-no pills, honey." He was beginning to get his head together, and it was bringing on a cold sweat.
"Why, sugar, to the ball park."
"Ball park? But I don't work for those bastards anymore. I..."
"I know you don't, darlin'." Her voice had a pleasant citybilly drawl to it: Ah knaaaaw yew daaaawnt, dawlin. "You work for us now."
"Us? Who the fuck is us?" Oh, Jesus, he thought. Here it comes. I have signed me a goddamn contract to manage some crazy, fucking semi-pro team down here in hicksville and work for a couple of crazy women. They'll drive me crazy, with their damn fool women's ideas about run a baseball team. They...
She answered... but around them, at just that moment, came a big semi, belching farty black diesel smoke, and the big blarey horn of the truck blew her words away. He picked back up on her just as she was saying: "... won two straight champeenships honey, honest to God. But last year... well, things started goin' wrong, little by little, y'know? Y'know how that is sometimes?"
"You bet your ass I do, honey," he said. "You ask me a question like that? With the Terrors kicking balls around like a bunch of soccer buffs? With every damn one of those weak-eyed fuckers coming up to the plate carrying a bat with a hole in it just big enough to let a baseball through?" He snorted. "Hah."
"Yeah, I reckon. That sure is one piss-poor ball team. I'm not surprised you couldn't do nothing with them."
"Hmmm," he said. He wished he had some sunglasses, with this glare. "And... and I take it I'm managing a new club, huh?"
"You sure are, honey."
"It's not as bad as the Terrors, is it? Because if it is, for God's sake don't tell me. I don't want to know. I'll jump a freight for the border and ship out shoveling shit on a pigboat bound for Guatemala first. So help me Christ I will."
"Aw, no, honey," she said, smiling. She took a sharp corner deftly, with practiced ease. "No way. This here's a good ball club. Just got them a discipline problem, you might say. Big strong feller like you runnin' things, I reckon all our troubles are over."
"Our?" he said. "You're... uh... one of the owners?"
"Yes sir," she said. "Well, that is, uh, me and Brenda got us a little chunk. We... uh... kind of bought in. The club's owned by a syndicate. We got equal shares in fifteen percent of the club."
Fine, he thought. That tells me a little more about what I gotta know. That's why they... they did this number on me. They've got a problem ball club and they need a strong disciplinarian at the top to get 'em through the season. They all talked it over, the girls and the rest of the owners, and decided that the best way to ensure that I signed the contract was for the girls to get turned loose on me. Well, he thought, it's just that, well, hell. I've had worse jobs than hard-nosing a bunch of semi-pro prima donnas through an unfinished season. It ought at worst to allow me to keep my hand in, and who knows, it might even take the damn taste of the Panhandle League out of my mouth...
She pulled into the big parking lot of Whitfield Stadium. There were already a number of cars there... but they were few and scattered. Players, he guessed, not audience. It'd be... oh, hell, Brenda had already told him. Practice. Probably closed practice, with a new manager coming in to watch them. Everyone minding his P's and Q's. Everybody watching his step.
She took him up into the stands, though. "I reckon you'd want to watch from here," she said. "Where you can watch everything and look over everybody's strengths and weaknesses."
He sat down, looking up at her standing there. "And you?"
"Oh, I gotta go downstairs. It's an intersquad game. Shirts and Skins. You watch. And you give us a real strong critique, you hear? Don't spare anybody's feelings."
"Sure," he said. What the hell did he have to lose? "Okay. You run along." He watched her trip down the stairs. She was one hell of a big gal, he thought. Five eleven at least. Maybe one-sixty. But stacked? Oh, me oh my. He watched that rock-hard, deliciously firm ass bounce around in her brief shorts. Nice legs too. And boobs... He closed his eyes and remembered. His hangover just sort of drifted away.
There was a bit of hubbub from the dugout, and the Shirts took the field, running - running, for God's sake - out to their positions. He sat up very straight. He sat up even straighter when the pitcher - a compact righthander, somebody with something familiar about them - whipped off the curve ball and the catcher heaved it like a shot to second and the infield, hollering it up like crazy, whipped the ball around like the Harlem Globetrotters, flashy and confident. He couldn't believe his eyes. He had an even harder time believing them when the first of the Skins' batters stepped out of the on-deck circle, dropped the leaded practice bat, and stepped slickly up to the plate, looking sharp, looking-God damn it-terrific. No, that wasn't the word. They all looked terrific. The word was devastating. The Shirts were dressed in regulation uniforms, after the Oakland model: baggy pants, tee shirts, hats, spiked shoes. The Skins were... they were wearing... Well, skin.
And baseball shoes. And hats. And nothing else.
And what he was about to watch was a Shirts and Skins practice game between eighteen of the most gorgeous females he'd ever seen in his whole life. And nine of them were going to be clothed, and the other nine naked as jaybirds.
God damn.
He settled back and wished he had a pair of binoculars. My God, he thought, look at the ass on that leadoff hitter. My God. You could eat that with a spoon. My God!
The pitcher-she looked familiar somehow; good heavens, was that little Brenda?-slipped two strikes past the batter before missing a corner. On the one-two pitch the leadoff hitter lined a solid one to dead center. It was all he could do to take his eyes off that luscious, round little ass as she took off for first like a bat out of hell. When he did look away it was to see the Shirts' center fielder make the goddamndest showboat catch-behind her back, for God's sake-he'd ever seen. It looked like an Al Schacht setup, or one of the old Johnny Jones stunts. She did a double flip and lined the ball back to the pitcher with an arm like spring steel. He was so dumbfounded at the razzle-dazzle of it all that he almost forgot to watch the leadoff hitter's delicious little tits and lovely bushy-haired cunt as she hustled nakedly back to the dugout. Almost. By the time she'd stepped out of sight he had a hard-on again.
Brenda got the next Skin-a smashing redhead Wally couldn't wait to meet, with cunt hair as red as fire (he couldn't wait to get his mouth on that)-on strikes. Then she lost a stunning brunette, hanging a curve on the wrong side of the outside corner, and put a runner on. The next Skin batter stepped up to the plate.
Wally's eyes almost fell out of his head.
It was Boobs Belaski, and she wasn't wearing a damn thing between hatband and socks. And she was... God... spectacular. She was the Grand Canyon, the Mt. Everest of cunt. Her naked ass bulged out with muscle. Her lush pussy hair jutted out from a pubic mound you could drive a golf ball off of, God damn it... no, no! You could pitch from it!
Wally Burger had never seen anything so damn sexy in all his life. Never. He had never been so fucking horny in all his life. Never.
Looking at Boob's lush - and totally un-blonde - snatch hair, poking out from between those strong ball-buster thighs, he was thinking, God in heaven, and to think that was jacking me off not an hour ago. My God, I've got to poke it in that. So help me, I've got to fuck that. I've got to... no, Jesus. I want to go down on that damn stuff so bad I can taste it...
Brenda threw. Boobs swung.
Bye-bye, baseball.
He'd never seen even Willie Stargell hit one harder. Not even the time Willie pounded one over the left field bleachers in L.A. Stadium. Boobs went trotting around the base paths, holding those amazing tits in her big strong hands, flaunting them at him up there in the stands; nearing home plate she grinned broadly, her mouth full of shiny gold, and stopped dead. Then she grabbed herself by the snatch (she must have had all four fingers up there; God, he'd give fifty bucks just to smell her hand) and, in a comic pantomime gesture, lifted herself up in the air and onto home plate.
Score, two-nothing. Brenda got the fifth Skin on a sharply hit ball into the hole between short and third; the Shirt shortstop made a spectacular stop and an even more spectacular throw. Side retired, two runs, one hit, no errors.
Wally sat back, his eyes wide open. He couldn't wait to see the Skins take the field. He knew he'd have a hell of a time watching baseball when they were in the field, when all he wanted to watch was the pretty women. He was sure of one thing, however.
This was going to be one hell of an interesting season.
SECOND INNING
By the fifth inning Brenda's side had caught up at two-all, which pissed Wally off enormously (like any normal, red-blooded American male, he'd been rooting for the Skins the whole time, and only his sense of professionalism kept him from cheering and clapping whenever they came into the field). It wasn't that he wished Brenda harm-not cute, delicious, sex-mad little Brenda-but that... well, goddamn it...
My, oh, my, he told himself. It sure was hard to keep your mind on baseball around here.
Which was a shame. Actually, they were a hell of a club-powerful, flashy, deep in every position (why did his mind keep going over to these smutty turns of speech?), sharp and alert. He was sure they'd whip holy hell out of the Terrors on the worst day of their lives. They'd make hash out of the whole goddamn Panhandle League, for that matter. He wasn't even sure they wouldn't give hamburger teams like Anaheim or Atlanta a bad time.
So what was their problem? Jesus, most of his managing life he'd have given his right arm, his left leg, and two inches of his dick to have even nine players of such quality to put on the field, male or female. And here they were deep enough in every position to play an equal game between squads. Squads? The only way you'd ever get two squads out of the Terrors would be to make half the team the execution squad and the other half the firing squad and turn the bastards loose on each other.
Oh, look at that cunt an that girl on first.
He uncrossed his legs. His dick was hard and sore. The redhead he'd noticed earlier had a nice lead off first, and was standing in a nice, spread-legged position, her eye on Brenda, looking for a chance to steal second. That juicy, luscious patch of bright red cunt hair was spread out for his eager gaze; her snatch was so wide open she could have sat down like that on a bar stool and taken the whole damn seat in. Jeez, he could almost see the damn thing dripping.
Wally forgot the ball game again. He closed his eyes and fantasized having a quim like that spread out before him on a set of satin sheets, smelling delightfully of perfume and nice funky pussy, her dainty little fingers spreading it wide open for him so he could see miles and miles up into that lush expanse of juicy pink-cunt flesh, surrounded by gorgeous curling red hair the color of a Florida orange.
Jeez.
First he'd kneel there before that flaming bush and just smell it. Just let his nostrils feast on that wonderful forest of sweetly curling pussy hair. Looking at it. Digging on it. Feasting his eyes on it.
Then...
Then, by God, he'd reach down and kiss it... give it a big juicy luscious kiss right on the fucking middle of that gaping hole. And then he'd maybe lick all around the wide-open inside of her, lapping up the wonderful juices inside that magnificent pink snatch and sticking his tongue way the hell up it as far as it would go. And then maybe he'd start nibbling on the outer lips as she held them open for him ... taking little nips of flesh, sucking them into his mouth and chewing on them softly as she wriggled and screamed for him to stop.
And then he'd back off and grab a mouthful of cunt hair and taste it, and lick the warm juice off it, and kiss her all around that marvelous mound of hers, and then he'd start paying some attention to that sweet little pink clit, poking its dainty head up out of her bush with such fetching shyness, and he'd reach down and give it a luscious lick, and he'd take it softly between his lips and suck on it, loudly, slurpingly...
And she'd wiggle and scream and writhe... And he'd get hotter and hotter...
He looked down now and saw his rod poking its way up, bulging out his pants mightily.
"Ay de mi" said a soft, husky voice at his elbow. "Look at that, Babee."
He looked up.
There, standing to one side of him and watching his huge erection with more than casual interest, were two uniformed members of the team. One was wearing the standard team pants and jersey-but wore an ankle bandage on one bare foot. The other was, like the rest of the Skins, stark naked.
The one who had spoken was one of your real Tijuana cuties, boys: round Indian face, lovely olive skin, bright red lipstick and nail polish on the olive skin, dangly earrings, just oozing sex all over her. She was looking down at his rod with some amusement... and much respect "Oh, Senor" she said now. "That is so lovely I could not fail to notice. I... I am Lupe. This is Barbie. We brought your lunch. They were so late delivering..."
He looked, dumbfounded, at the other girl, the naked one. She was your thin, petite type of naked girl, and, giving her the royal Burger once-over, he had to admit that yes indeedy, boys, he liked that kind too. Her titties were the cute little bite-size kind. Her belly was flat, with a cute little bellybutton he was aching to stick his tongue in. Her pussy was shaved clean as a whistle, and he could see sweet pink inside pussy flesh through the gap in her half-opened quim lips, and the sight was enough to make him hungry as hell, all right-but not for any goddamned old Kentucky Fried Colonel.
"Uh... " he said. "Uh, sit down, sit down, please." Barbie, the girl with the shaved pussy, handed him the fried chicken box and sat down close to him, nuzzling her warm naked thigh up next to his clothed one. She smiled with a fetchingly phony shyness, took his big hand in her two little ones, and put all three in her warm and soft-fleshed lap.
Lupe, the Mexican girl, just stood looking down at his rampant rod.
"Oh," she said with a sigh. "Senor... might I possibly sit on your lap?"
She didn't wait around for an answer, though. Where had anyone ever got the idea that Mexicans were slow? Bashful? That was evidently a lot of horseshit. Without getting his opinions on the matter, she turned around and promptly proceeded to sit on Wally's lap.
It wasn't that that got him. It was the way she did it.
One hand went behind her to unzip his fly and pull out his raging tool, giving it an affectionate squeeze as she did.
The other hand hiked down her uniform trousers and bared a lovely, olive-fleshed behind of lush proportions.
And she slowly and deftly settled down on his big rod, slipping it easily into her wet and squishy quim from the backside.
When it was all the way inside, she gave a delighted little squeal and went to work.
Wally would have sworn the whole damn thing was impossible. Im-goddamn-possible.
You just couldn't do that. Sitting like that, you couldn't control your pussy muscles and milk a guy like that. You couldn't give it the Magic Fingers treatment. You couldn't...
But by God she was doing it.
He looked around at Barbie, who was smiling sweetly up at him. Barbie had actually been in the game; she smelled slightly of dirt and sweat... but now that he thought about it a bit, damn it, it only enhanced her naked attractiveness to be that way. (He could also, through the other natural body odors, smell the thoroughly pleasant odor of cunt. How nice. How goddamn delightful.) She smiled all the broader, as if reading his thoroughly dirty mind, and opened her legs a little more so he could slip a hand over inside her pretty thighs and get a finger or so inside. She was even wetter and squishier inside than Lupe was.
He pulled his hand out, sniffed it, licked the delicious juice off them, and put it back. Three fingers this time. She reached over and kissed him warmly... and shoved a tongue down his throat that must have protruded three inches out of her mouth. It was unbelievable.
He gasped out loud when she released him.
Lope, still milking away at his dick with her educated insides, turned around slightly, looking over her shoulder. "Ah," she said. "Barbie. You are playing games with Senor Burger."
"You bet I am," said the naked girl "You bet she is," said Wally Burger.
"Don't tell me," Lupe said, giving him a squeeze inside. "She stick that tongue down your throat No?"
"Yes," Wally said. He had all four fingers inside her now. Luscious. Luscious.
"She like to have a man play with her poosy," Lupe said. "Make her stand up, where you can fool aroun' with her. She can get a surfboard up that thing of hers. Try running your hand up it. Your arm. I bet all the way to the elbow."
"Uh... " Wally started to say. But Barbie was way ahead of him. She stood up, facing him with that amazing little body of hers, and-just as Lupe had said-took his whole hand inside her. Then his wrist. Then he found out that, deep down inside that cavernous cleft of hers, he could even open up his hand and wiggle his fingers. As he did Barbie squealed delightedly and-being unable to reach Wally from where she was-promptly bent down, her legs spread invitingly, and kissed Lupe sexily on the mouth.
Lupe's hands immediately went to Barbie's naked tits. They twiddled the little nipples until they stood up hard as pencil-ends. Barbie wriggled happily and went "Mmmmmmm"- her tongue deep in Lupe's throat. Now Lupe, her own body thoroughly stimulated by all this, grabbed one of Barbie's hands and guided it to her own unseen snatch, where Wally could feel it against his own pubis. He could feel Barbie's hand, close to his own cock, massaging Lupe's clit. Barbie kissed Lupe all the harder now, and opened her cunt even wider for Wally's inspection and exploration. God, he could do card tricks in there. He could do yo-yo tricks with that hand, stuck up inside her coozy like that. Suddenly he had an inspiration: finger-fucking her with a hand puppet on there. He could just see Cookie Monster or Ollie the Dragon biting her on the cunt. He couldn't wait to do it. They could work up a burly-cue act and take it to Vegas, having the chick get balled by a Muppet. And, safe down there below the level of the puppet-show stage, he could be sucking off that redhead or something, and having little Brenda deep-throating him in her inimitable fashion. Ah, for the life of luxury...
Now, however, Lupe's ineffably learned snatch began working on him in earnest. God, it was like being jacked off by a centipede, or fingered by one of Edgar Rice Burroughs's four-armed Martians. It was like some mad electronic robot with rubbed-padded fingers, milking his dick for its load of thick creamy come...
... And all this time, of course, the sounds of baseball continued before them, not that Wally could see a fucking thing, not that he gave a goddamn, and all this time the Colonel Sanders spare ribs got colder and colder on the seat beside him, and a fat lot he cared about any of it all...
Barbie was the first to come. Once, twice, three times, kissing Lupe sloppily with loud wet slurps as she did, moaning, squirming and screaming, impaled on Wally's questing hand. Then, her voice growing hoarse and husky, Lupe shuddered into a delicious orgasm of her own, and he could actually fed his lap getting gooshy and wet from tibia. It didn't relax her at all, though. Suddenly her cunt gripped his tool with a grip of steel, and it was like being jacked off by a weight-lifting champion. It almost hurt. But it was a nice kind of hurt, he had to admit. A nice... a nice... oh, Jeez, oh, boy... it was too goddam good, it was... too...
"Oooooooowwwww!" he said.
Afterward he wondered what had ever happened to his hangover. Even the cold coffee they fed him tasted good, and he even ate some of the spare ribs. The "Lupe the Mex" sauce turned out to be delicious, hot as fucking blue blazes and bearing an extra little dab of flavor which was so good he had to comment on it, although he could not recognize it.
"You don't recognize this?" she said. "Close your eyes. Now lick my finger." She said leek my feenger. He did. And yes, that was the missing ingredient, the magical mystery spoor. Pussy juice. Plain old Mexican pussy juice, sweet as sugar, mellow as Korbel's brandy. He wondered if he ought to send in a message to Craig Claiborne or somebody. This was a indispensable an ingredient in Mexican cooking as cilantro...
They watched the rest of the game sitting in a tight threesome, one by the side of the other. He had a hand in Barbie's lap and the other jammed down the front of Lupe's uniform pants. His dick was hard again almost immediately-it got that way the moment he looked down on the field and beheld that stark-naked double-play combo at second base whipping the ball around the infield and had another glimpse of that wonderful big ball-buster ass of Boobs Belaski squatting behind the plate, encircled in the straps of a catcher's chest protector that had had to be redesigned completely around those amazing knockers; with all that leather around her she looked like Big Mama in an S and M cathouse. And so help him, he wouldn't even mind having her dish out some discipline on him. There was a big badass baby a body could really get into the fantasies with. The girls, noticing his renewed hard-on, each grabbed a handful of dick (Barbie's hand above Lupe's, the way you'd grab a bat if you were choosing up sides) and sat happily watching the game with him.
Come the seven-inning stretch, he stood up and Lupe kneeled. She blew him like Gabriel blowing his horn. Barbie held his hand happily and commented on the game.
The Skins, despite Wally's unashamed rooting, blew it in the ninth, as little Brenda (who had turned out to be a most amazing ballplayer) laid down a perfect squeeze bunt to bring in a fleet runner from third. As Barbie explained, the Skins were the second team, most of the time, and the Shirts were the starters. To make up for the disparity the skins usually got Boobs Belaski as catcher... and they got the advantage, of playing naked, without any chafing, blinding uniforms to get in the way.
An advantage, Wally decided, which they most delightfully passed on to the audience. Well, one thing he knew: While he was manager there was going to be one hell of a lot of instersquad games. There wasn't any sense at all in letting these chicks get rusty through lack of practice.
"Say," he said at last, watching the girls straggle in nudely from their position in the field (and thinking, My, my, that sure is an adorable little third baseman. Basewoman? Baseperson?). "What's the name of this team, anyhow?"
"The Women," Lupe said, smiling.
"Don't listen to her," Barbie said. "It's the Los Angeles Broads. We're playing here tonight against the Oklahoma City Okies."
"And this is a... a professional team?"
"Why... gee, don't we took professional?"
"Honey, you look better than the Cleveland club did in the seventy-five Series. In your britches or out of 'em. They look so damn good I'm wondering what's to manage. What the hell you need an old goat like me for is beyond me. But since somebody did sign me to a contract last night, and since somebody is gonna be paying me for working here, by God, I better start finding out what I'm up against."
"Okay," said Lupe. "Okay. You don't hear about us before?"
"Naw, I'm surprised to hear anybody but those damn worthless Terrors and Cougars play here."
"That's because the girls only play ball when you guys are on the road," Barbie said. "We have a league, and it goes from coast to coast. It... "
"Jeez," he said. "And they all play as well as you chicks do?"
"No," Barbie said. "The spread... it's about the same as it is in the majors. Miami is pretty good. Atlanta maybe not so hot. The Okies are okay: good pitch, not so good hit... but they can give you a lot of trouble. San Diego and Phoenix are kind of sleepers this year; they have a lot of young kids coming up and a lot of older players retiring. Dallas-Fort Worth and San Antone are question marks. San Antone just lost the best pitcher the league ever had: didn't take her little pill every day. Jeez, what a fast ball, though."
"You ought to know, Barbie," Lupe said, a mischievous grin on her face. "You sure balled her fast enough."
"Oh, you hush. Now maybe it's time to take Mr. Burger down to the dressing room and introduce him to everyone and all." She squeezed Wally's hand as she got up. Lupe, left with nothing else to squeeze, reached inside his still-open fly and squeezed there. It got hard as a brick again. She smiled with lewd delight, hugging him with the other hand as he watched Barbie's naked little body scamper down the stairs ahead of them.
The shower room...
The shower room was absolutely incredible.
Wally gulped once, twice, and finally stood there in the open door, unable to move, until someone complained about the draft. Then Boobs Belaski, turning, noticed him. She stood there, cheat protector still inadequately covering those luscious melons, its front hiked up to show the incongruous, patch of bushy, sensual black fur at her crotch; a broad golden grin spread over her broad slavic face.
"Hey! Girls!" she shouted. "You shut the heck up and look over here!"
Everybody turned.
Nobody was wearing anything.
There was steam in the air. There was a pleasant stench of female body odors, including perfume-which was very strong. Even a couple of faces poked out of the shower room; then the showers went off and the wet and lovely ladies joined their equally naked sisters in the big room.
"Hey, you floozies," Boobs went on, untying her chest protector and kicking off her spiked shoes, "this here is Mister Burger, our new manager."
There was a brief silence, then a resounding cheer. Then there was minor pandemonium. Then everyone pressed forward to shake his hand, give him a hug, kiss him warmly (and nakedly)... and, while no one was looking, sneak an occasional hand inside his pants (damn! he'd forgotten to zip up) and test the Burger tool for size, length, thickness... and, in no time at all, hardness. No problem on any count, it appeared. The girls were all smiles. They all had nice things to say. They were all, every girl Jill of them, ready to serve him, happy to have him aboard, and a whole list of other double-entendres. He could have sworn, too, that the same hand came back to give his tool a squeeze more than once. God, his dick was getting so sensitive he could almost tell them by their fingerprints.
And the next thing Wally Burger knew he was being undressed and led into the shower and bathed, lovingly, all over by so many hands he couldn't identify them all, and everywhere his hand reached there was nothing at all but warm, wet, slick, firm, delicious female flesh to touch and fondle and feel... and by God, there under the warm water, with his body all slick with sweet-smelling soap, there was little naked Lupe down on her knees in front of him again sucking him off... and in a moment she had been pushed away by Barbie, who said "Go away, you mean thing; you've already had your turn" and went to work on him with that amazing tongue, licking his cock like a popsicle and getting it delightfully tingly all over before settling down to an expert and thoroughly wonderful head job that was made all the more wonderful by the fact that all those sweet soft female fingers were feeling him up all over on all sides, from his bald spot right down to his feet, every moment of the time. He wasn't sure he could blow anymore, but she coaxed one more come out of him. After that nobody tried to make him; it seemed to be understood that this was Lupe's and Barbie's turn today, and everyone else had to stand by and watch, and maybe help along a little at a time. But as he squinted through the foggy steam he could see the ladies making do with each other's services. They were fondling each other's crotches, rubbing tits in the shower, even-off in one corner, there-muffing each other on the dressing benches.
It was turning into an orgy.
It was turning into a lot of fun.
They took him out into the dressing area and toweled him off deftly, giving especial attention to drying off his big cock and balls. They powdered him down and Boobs Belaski came over to inspect the situation. She handed him a can of beer and, taking a mighty gulp of her own beer, looked him up and down. "Jeez," she said in her husky drawl, "I bet you can do better than that. Look." And she pointed down at his rod-once again, ready for action.
That meant having the girls lay him down on the dressing bench, hold his legs up in the air at a sharp angle, and let Barbie, with that amazing tongue of hers, wash out his already thoroughly clean asshole for him. It was amazing-long, thick, expressive. It jammed up his crack all the way to the sphincter, and got him so hot his balls tightened up like baseballs. His dick was killing him.
Seeing this, Lupe leaned over him and took the straining head of his cock between her thick Mexican lips and let her little sharp teeth play gently around the glans. Then, in one giant slurp, she took all nine inches of him deep into her mouth, and went to work giving him the kind of blow job you only read about in smutty books, but never dream of getting.
This meant really getting theatrical about it. She braced her hands on the side of the bench and let her head start bobbing up and down, up and down. His dick slipped all the way down her throat each time, burying her broad little nose right in his cock hair. Then she'd pull out to let the whole length of his prick feel the cool air on it, and when she did this she'd kiss all around it and lick the head of his rod... only to ram the enormous length of it back down her eager throat. He could even feel her uvula at the bottom as her throat opened all the way for him. And as her head withdrew again to allow her to catch her breath he could see, down there between his upthrust thighs, Barbie's pretty head going up and down itself, as her fiery tongue darted in and out of his asshole, digging deeper, then rimming him expertly until he could almost stand no more of the intense pleasure-pain she was giving him.
And, as Lupe's head once again dipped to receive his thick cock between those delightfully sensuous puffy lips of hers, he could see her brown cheeks billow out with the thick head of his rod, which filled her mouth completely. He could, as she paused, even see her cheeks bulge with the thin line of the edge of his glans, showing him exactly where his cock was. It was amazing.
It was luscious.
This time, he knew, despite the ecstasy of it, he was going to take a hell of a long time to come. Knowing this, and wanting to give as much pleasure as he was getting, he suddenly bellowed, "Hey, goddammit, I've got to fuck somebody! Let me up! Let me up..."
They did. And when they looked around at the two girls, they decided Lupe was the hottest, and needed immediate attention the most. So they picked Lupe up by the arms and legs, and, holding her suspended like that, advanced her ass, with its marvelous bush of funky black hair, already gleaming from her juices, and let him, standing, bang her from the front. He did so until she screamed in mock agony from the sheer pleasure of it, coming six... eight times before he made them let her go and catch her breath. Then he grabbed little Barbie and bent her over before him at the waist. Shoving his cock brutally into her cunt from behind, he fucked the poor girl, bent over grasping her own ankles like that, until she grew dizzy from the combination ten orgasms and standing upside down like that and had to be stretched out on the bench again (whereupon, Wally noticed as Lupe grabbed him by the dick again, the little second baseman of the Skins promptly sat on her face and coaxed that amazing tongue into action. Amazing. He'd have to just get her to let him watch that some time. Maybe he could pick up some pointers, even if his tongue wasn't as long as hers).
Lupe, now, meant business. And the first order of business for her was to put up that lush, olive-skinned ass for him again and get him to fuck her up the poop-chute. And Jeez, was it ever tight! It took half a jar of vaseline to get even the head inside. And every additional quarter of an inch cost him the sweat of his brow and the internal fortitude of an Olympic long-distance runner. But when he finally popped her sphincter, it turned out to have been worth it. That grip on his dick was worth any torture he'd ever have to undergo to get it up there. And he held it there for a minute, shoved up her ass to the hair, and caught his own breath for a moment; and as he did the girls around him all crowded up to hug and kiss him again, pressing their softly firm naked bodies against his with an insistent abandon that surprised him some. The funny damn thing about all of it was how innocent it all was. How uncomplicated. How unforced and easy it was to make it this way with all these wonderful girls looking on, watching him stick his rock-hard dick up Lupe's ass, running its two-inch thickness slowly up her crack until now his belly lay tightly jammed against her bare and delightfully smooth ass...
"Well," he said, smiling around at them, "I guess it's time to start to work and stop all this preliminary fucking around, isn't it?"
The room shook with their cheers.
He grabbed Lupe by the butt and started fucking. His hips went back and forth, slowly at first, then picking up speed, the way a freight train used to do when he was a boy watching them chug-chug their way out to the outskirts of town before turning on the steam and highballing it out onto the main road. He could almost hear that high-pitched steam whistle now as he chugged his own massive piston back and forth into her compression chamber, picking up speed, heading for the open road. Lupe started wriggling; then she started screaming; then she started cursing him in Spanish; but all to no avail. He simply held her firm hips all the tighter as he rammed his rod into her crack, faster, faster... God, wasn't he ever going to blow? When he did, by God, it'd be the wreck of the old ninety-seven for sure... and sure enough, here it came... look out, Casey Jones... look out ahead...
THIRD INNING
Okay. That was the afternoon. Came the evening: the girls took him to dinner (everybody was eating the Weight Watchers plate, he noted with a certain approval) and filled the time with chatter and the sort of girl talk that, dividing his time between being an old married coot and a cook-your-own-meals bachelor the way he had, he'd missed totally in the last ten or twelve years. He thoroughly enjoyed himself; then he allowed himself to be chauffeured royally to the baseball park.
At the gate-the customers were already starting to come in to watch the home team's warm-ups-he suggested that maybe this first time he'd really do better to watch from the stands. Brenda, who wasn't pitching, agreed, and took him in hand up to the top of the stadium, where a narrow catwalk led up to the press box. Newspapers and TV stations didn't cover girls' games, she explained, and they'd have the place to themselves. Fine, he thought, remembering the last time he'd tried to watch a ball game from the stands. Even after the revivifying effects of a good meal and a couple of hairs of the dog that had bit him the night before, he still wasn't sure he had it in him to handle more than one of the Los Angeles Cun... uh... Broads at a time this evening. He smiled gratefully at her as she switched on the pressbox lights and snuggled up close to him.
The Okies were still on the field. "Uh... this team," he said. "They're supposed to be... uh... good pitch, not so good hit?"
Brenda dug out the lineup for the night and filled in her score card. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'd say that was pretty fair. I mean they don't have anybody like Bubbles. They've got a couple of fair average hitters, nothing special, maybe .320 top. They can spray the ball around and hit with the play. But nobody can knock it out of the park. Still, I wouldn't count them out. They can be real tough now and then. They've got a little leadoff hitter, Susie McMurphy, that I can never get out. That's her out there on second. She's a terror on the base paths, too. She can steal on any righthander on the league. The only reason I can ever hold her at all is she's afraid of Bubbles's arm."
"How often are you in rotation?" he asked.
"Me? Personally? Oh, every four days, except when I've got the curse. That's calendar days, not game days. We have the short season, 154 games." She looked up at him now with those innocent blue eyes. "How did I look today, Mr. Burger?"
"You? Oh, great. But... "
"But?" Her face fell.
"But you're telegraphing your change-up. You can see it coming a mile away."
"Really?" she said. She looked crushed. "I... but what am I doing?"
"Look," he said. He turned his chair around and pantomimed pitching. "It's when you've got a... uh... girl on base, and you can't do the full windup. You... you've got this hitch in your shoulder, like this. You do it every time. Every time you did that I could see the slow curve coming. That's why that cute little bimbo could steal on you like that. And she ain't fast. She's just got you pegged."
"W-why... why, the dirty rat. And she didn't tell me. And... I could have lost a real game with that..."
"Hold on, hold on," he said. "You don't know for sure how long she's known it. She may just have picked it up today, like I did. Jeez, I don't even know how long you've had it. It may have just started."
"No, I've been having trouble for this series and the last home stand. And... and that's how Susan can steal on me... why..."
"Easy, easy," he said. "These things happen. You just gotta watch out for them and get rid of 'em once they've been pointed out to you. Your teammate might have pointed it out to you before the next real game. Matter of fact, I'll bet she would have. But the main thing is that now you know it, you can clean it up. Otherwise I can't see anything you're doing wrong. Hey, look," he said. "That first baseman. She can't go to her right, can she?"
"Gee," Brenda said. "No, she can't. And... and I don't think I ever noticed that before. We..."
"Easy now, honey. We don't know for sure that they won't be compensating for that by moving the second base chick over a few steps. No, look, though. Look how sloppy she covers the bag. She sure ain't no Carl Yastrzemski." And a good thing too, he said to himself. A nicer-looking piece of tail never graced first base, and who the hell needs Yastrzemski anyhow? All he can do is hit and field and run bases like crazy.
"Gee," Brenda said. "Wow. What an education I'm getting sitting up here with you. You're wonderful." And one lovely hand went to his thigh and stayed there. "Oh, look, here come our girls."
"Yeah," he said. "You gotta fill me in on who's who."
"All right," she said, squeezing his thigh. "That's Bubbles, you know her. And the girl on the mound is Maggie Lorimer. She's my best friend in all the world, and I guess you'd say we're the one-two punch on the Broads' pitching staff. She's lefty, I'm right. She's got the fast ball, I've got the breaking stuff. We both won twenty-two games last year."
He did a double-take. He was traveling classy. Any ball club with two twenty-game winners was one that automatically attracted his attention. The lefty looked fast and wild... but you didn't win twenty-two games a year by walking in runners. He reminded himself to have a look at the earned-run averages.
"That sure is one nice pair out there at second base," he said, watching the double-play team throw the ball around.
"Yes," Brenda said. "But I think she uses silicone. I told her it's unhealthy but she wouldn't believe me. I have to say, though, she's a good fielder. And she hits fairly well, only not as well as Lupe. She's out with a sprained ankle. She tends to do everything the hard way."
You bet your ass she does, Wally thought. But sometimes the hard way is the right way. He was thinking of the little sessions this afternoon with her. She was some kind of pistol, all right "Read me off the infield."
"All right," Brenda said brightly. "That's Winnie Bagley at third, and Rita Randazzo at short, and Faye Fielding at second, she's the one with the pair... And that's Annie Tompkins at first."
"Okay," he said. "The outfield."
"All right. That's Marcia Harris in left, and 'Show Boat' Hubbard in center, and Willie Mae Fisher in right." His eye followed her finger. Yeah, he remembered "Show Boat." The darky in right hadn't been in the daytime game, but she looked pretty promising anyway you looked at her. Which, he hoped fervently, included looking at her upside down as soon as it could possibly be managed. The higher the mountain, the greener the grass; the blacker the nigger, the better the ass. It was an axiom he'd relied on for all his bachelor years, and it'd never failed him, coarse and chauvinistic though it sounded. After all, black was beautiful, wasn't it?
The umpire was a woman too; but unlike the luscious girls on the field, she was one of those thick-bodied, truck-driver types. She bent over the plate, brushing it off; then the crowd cheered-surprisingly loudly; from his present position he couldn't see any too well, but sales seemed to be doing pretty well down there-as the dyke yelled "Play ball." Susie McMurphy took the mound for the Okies. She was a cutie-pie in more ways than one; lovely and piquant personally, and one of your smartass pitchers on the mound. She had a funny kick like Luis Tiant, out of which could come virtually any kind of pitch. Her secret was her surprisingly full bosom, behind which the pitch hid until the very last possible second. Rita Randazzo, the Broads' shortstop, stepped into the batter's box. Susie wheeled and dealed... and Rita smacked the first pitch neatly into right field for a single.
Brenda went wild! She reached over, grabbed Wally by the dick-bringing it instantly to a rock-hard consistency-and hollered happily. She slipped her little bare feet out of her shoes and wriggled them up against his ankles, and rubbed her unbra'd nipples ecstatically against his sport-shirted arm.
Jesus fucking Christ, Wally said to himself. Here we go again. He looked down at his dick; it was huge, hard, and harassed. Her pretty little fingers were running up and down it, squeezing here and there.
"Show Boat" Hubbard stepped in, and took two giant aimed-at-the-fences swings for two strikes before working the count to full. Then she drew a walk, and the Broads had, all of a sudden, a rally going.
Brenda just wasn't equipped to take this sort of thing calmly. She had her eyes on the field, all right; but her heart was all too obviously right up there in the press box, right where her sexuality was, all 700 zillion volts of it. Now she had his rod out of his pants, and was running those heavenly fingers up and down it.
All of a sudden Wally wished he had a nice thick black cigar.
He'd quit smoking a year before, after many years at it. It had been the source of much wry comment with him that the minute he quit, his wife, who had been bugging him about quitting for years, all of a sudden decided to leave him. Stupid fucking females. What the hell did they know about what they wanted?
Now he wanted a goddamn cigar, and the funkier the better. Tonight, the minute this game was over, he was going to the corner and buy a box of the stinkiest, funkiest, black, evil El Ropos they had in the store, and he was going to celebrate his new job by jumping as far off the wagon as he could possibly get.
Annie Tompkins, the first baseman, then flied to left and the runners held. Boobs Belaski stepped in.
Susie McMurphy played it cute, slipping Boobs an assortment of lame pitches that flirted with the corners of the strike zone. Down in Wally's lap Brenda's fingers worked away feverishly on his rampant weapon. Boobs fouled off two pitches, then tripled to right center, driving in two runs. She came into third standing up as the pitcher cut off the relay.
"Oh!" said Brenda breathlessly. "We're ahead. We're ahead, Mr. Burger! We've got two runs, and a runner on third with one out, and..." She couldn't take it any more. She reached over and kissed him on the cock.
And the next thing he knew, that wasn't enough for her either. And the next thing after that she was copping his joint, sucking away with lusty strokes. Her own hand was up her dress, and busy as hell with her own dainty little genitalia. He was remembering those damn vibrators and dildoes again... twirling around in her ass and nookie like that... with her smiling all the while...
Somebody smacked a high fly to center and Boobs came home easily on the tag. "Hey," he said. "We got another run." But now she was on her knees on the dirty floor of the pressbox, sucking his cock, and he couldn't have pried her away if his life had depended on it.
In the middle of all this, though, she pulled out and looked up at him. "Oh, Mr. Burger... give me the play-by-play while I... you know... it makes me so hot when you talk baseball to me... I can't help myself... " And her head went back to his rod and took him inside, all the way to the hair. And, grabbing him by the ass, she began violently sucking him in and out, holding a round O of her mouth for him, encouraging him to ease his ass off the chair and start actively fucking her in the mouth. She rolled her eyes at the window for him, nodding her pretty head. The play-by-play...
"Oh," he said. "Uh... Fisher just laid down a nice bunt single. No play. Now Bagley's up, and she hits one right behind the runner... oh, that's nice... Fisher's around second and heading for third... there's the relay... they're gonna hold Fisher to a long single. But there's a runner on third."
"Mmm ," she said. "Mmmmmm. Mmmmfff. Mmmm."
His cock felt like it had tried to make love to an electric grater. It felt awful. It felt wonderful.
"N-now," he said, "Bagley's up. Uh... they're gonna walk her to fill the bases and get at... uh... I guess that's Fielding, isn't it? Okay. There's the last pitch. Fielding steps in."
"MMMMM!" she said. "Mmmmbbbbmmm- mmppppffff..." That had evidently been a very nice one. She was shivering all the way through it. God, it really did make her hot. She wasn't fooling...
Now she grabbed him by the trousers and pulled him forward; stood him up; and pulled herself erect on her knees. She grabbed his buttocks in her hands and shoved them forward at him. "Mmmmmmm" she said insistently.
Wally was having the very devil of a time trying to keep his mind on baseball. This was one strange trip she was on, he was thinking. Almost as goofy as the Widow Barker back in Omaha, who couldn't get it off unless she imagined Wally had a wooden leg like her late husband. "Uh... there goes the... uh... Okie manager out to talk to Susie McMurphy. He's... yeah... I think he's gonna yank her. She's been having a hell of a night... who's this he's bringing on? Some blonde in a ponytail... "
"Ethel Englemann," Brenda said quickly. Then she popped it right back into her kisser again and started playing All Day Lollypop with it. "Mmmmmmmm."
"Uh... okay... oh, hey, that's nice... oh, boy... oh, Jesus, kid... uh... she's taking the warm-up throws... okay... Fielding steps in... there's one on the high outside corner. The umpire calls it a strike but I'd bitch about it if I was down there... "
"Mmmmmm. Mmmmfffff. Mmm." She shivered deliriously.
"Uh... okay... okay, she socks it down to third... but the third baseman's there... she steps on the bag... side retired. You got two runs on four hits, no errors, two left. You... oh, boy... Ggggggg... Fffffff... OhhhKkr hhhhh!"
She licked him bone-dry before getting up and giving him a nice kiss and sitting down beside him again. As she did, the door opened behind them; Wally wheeled and saw Lupe, her scarlet-painted toenails still sticking out of the mountain of stretch bandage, and Barbie coming in the door. They both looked as cute as ladybugs in their quite dissimilar ways. He realized with a start that this was the first time he'd seen Barbie wearing anything more than cap and shoes.
Then it was a hug-and-kiss-Wally-hello time again, and of course Lupe had to grab him by the putz and get it hard again. He crossed his legs, hoping she'd forget it and nobody else would notice it. They watched, chattering pleasantly, as Maggie Lorimer expertly set the Okies down three at a time for four innings. After that first-inning outburst the Broads settled down a bit and scored no more for quite some time. Wally was wondering, watching them, if something were going... oh, say just a little off. They weren't hustling the way they had earlier. To be sure, two games in a day was a lot of baseball. But there was a certain lackadaisical quality there that couldn't be explained away so easily as all that. Nobody was waving at fly balls yet, or failing to run out infield grounders; if they had he'd have come down out of the press box personally to yell like hell at them. But the Okies landed a couple of runners at first that shouldn't have made it, due to poky starts on balls hit into the hole.
In the sixth an Okie slammed a long single to left center, and both fielders got slow starts on it, and what should have been the simple one-baser turned out to be a triple. First "Show Boat" misplayed the fly, then she threw behind the runner. Wally groaned.
"Uh, oh," Barbie said, looking first at him, then at Brenda.
"Uh, yes," Brenda said. "I'm afraid Mr. Burger is finding out why we need him."
"What the fuck is the matter?" Wally said. "She coulda caught that apple with one hand. She's doggin' it."
"Not really," Barbie said. "She... they... "
"They all fock themselves seely," Lupe said. She was angry; her accent got stronger on those occasions, it seemed. "They ain't got no poop left."
Wally watched with horror at the proceedings. Maggie Lorimer was tiring, too. That long drive had been off a nickel curve that hung, nice and fat. Her stuff was going. She... and sure enough, she put a handle on another one and the Okie hitter drilled it nicely to right, bringing the runner home. She then took second on a dumb throw and a dumb play by the Broads' infield in not cutting it off to hold the runner.
"Son of a beetch," Lupe said. Maggie then uncorked a wild pitch that brought the runner to scoring position. That set things up nicely for a perfect dead bunt which nobody-not Maggie, not Winnie Bagley at third, not Boobs Belaski behind the plate-charged properly. The runner slid in in a cloud of dust. The game was tied up, with a runner on first and only one out.
"Oh, drat," Brenda said.
"Sheet," said Lupe.
"I think Mr. Burger has his work cut out for him," Barbie said. All four of them watched silently as Maggie got the side out-too late-on a liner to first. Annie Tompkins took it, stepped on the bag to double the runner, and trotted back to the dugout.
They held it there for another inning. In the eighth Boobs Belaski bashed another tape-measure home run to right with nobody on base, giving the Broads a slim one-run lead. Wally and the girls relaxed.
And, in the darkened room, he again became conscious of hands on his thighs. And fingers on his fly. And... and...
... And, moments later, there was Wally Burger flat on his back on the floor of the pressbox, with little Brenda riding him, naked as a jaybird. His dick was jammed so far up inside her that he expected her to have a hard time swallowing, and she was moaning and cooing as she rubbed her cute little clit up against his pubic bone, posting like a championship gymkhana rider.
Wally had both hands free for a moment... but that was about as long as it lasted. The other girls wanted a chunk of the action, and each of them walked forward on their knees until their pussies made contact with Wally's hands. Grabbing them by the snatch-Lupe's black and bushy, Barbie's fleshy and naked-he expertly twiddled their little buttons until they moaned and sighed. Lupe bared her bosom to play with her titties while all this was going on; Barbie was content with fondling Brenda's naked little body with a growing interest. Finally she reached up and kissed Brenda passionately, reaching over to massage her thoroughly aroused nipples with one hand. Brenda moaned; her face took on a look of intense pleasure-pain; she shuddered delightfully into a massive orgasm, then another.
Wally had a funny abstracted sort of feeling during all this. It was, of course, far too good to be true. But on the other hand, damn it, who needed it to be real? Why not coast with the unreality of it? Why not just take it as it came? His dick seemed to have taken over anyhow: it had exhausted its need-perhaps, for the time being, its capacity-for ejaculation. It limply responded to tactile stimuli dutifully, the better to serve the girls as they needed it.
Why, with such a bonanza before him, should he react problematically? Why should he care how things went? Whether it was the right thing to do? Whether it...
Downstairs there was a monstrous roar from the crowd.
Hmmm, that was one thing to consider. The job. Obviously these chicks had to be brought around to some kind of discipline-at least before important games. They had to be made to care about something besides getting their ashes hauled. They... oh, my, my, that felt good... one nice little bare-assed cutie pie up top like that fucking away to her little heart's content... his hands full of pussy on either side... all three of the gals coming, staggered like, as if they were the separate strokes of some crazy three-cycle engine, working on some goofy kind of cam shaft...
There was, down below, the crack of bat against ball. Nice and solid too: somebody had whacked the living bejesus out of the ball. The crowd was hollering to beat all hell. Whistling. Applauding, finally. He wished there were an announcer handy, with a loudspeaker.
Lupe and Barbie caught each other's eyes now across his body. They took each other's hands and stood up. Each, by some unspoken signal, readied for her skirt and hiked up her hem to tuck it into her belt, leaving the two little bottoms-one spare and pink, the other chunky and olive-skinned, both of them luscious indeed to look upon-bare. He looked from Lupe's funky-looking, black-bushed cunt to Barbie's clean, hairless little clit. Strange sight, he thought. Nice, though. That weird pantomime they were doing, though... he knew that they were up to in a second. Good old sixty-nine, the nicest number God ever invented. (He wondered what the hell they called it in the age of the Roman numeral. He was sure those resourceful Romans would have figured out a way, though.) There was another crack of the bat, and the audience went crazy as hell down there this time. This time the hubbub didn't let up for a full two minutes. He checked it out with his watch. Dumb sight. Here he is lying on his back, boys, getting fucked royally by this buck-nekkid cutie, and watching these two cunts prepare to eat each other out by the muff, and what does he do? He reaches for his watch.
Now the two eased down into the classic reciprocal position, Barbie on top. He'd be able, from where he was, to see Barbie's mouth and Lupe's snatch better than the other ends of both girls, and he kind of wished he could see that bare little muff of Barbie's getting licked out, but then... then again, he'd always had a nice funky taste for bushy, hairy-pussied girls with funky crotches, particularly for the four-course dinner part of the evening. He dearly loved to go down on a gash surrounded with dark funky hair thick enough that you almost couldn't see pussy through it-and here he'd been married twice to broads with sparse-haired snatches who were dumb enough to think that munching the muff was Dirty and a Profanation of God's Sacred Temple of Flesh, Horse shit. If there were any nicer way to show your appreciation of the nether end of a nice lady you had to come to admire than biting her on the bush until she screamed bloody murder and begged him (not meaning a damn word of it) to stop, he couldn't think of what it could be. The only thing nicer would be to write her a large check... and what the hell, a man could only give what he had to give. Wally had never had a damn dime, but he'd always had a special enjoyment of things oral, both from the giver's side and from the receiver's. Either way you looked at it, it was the greatest invention since booze, and made such paltry kickshaws as the wheel, the alphabet, the inclined plane, and the lever look like trivia cooked up for the amusement of the newborn and the credulous. His happiest hours had been spent either slurping up nookie soup or putting his dick down some girl's pretty little throat, and it was difficult to say, now he gave some serious thought to it, which of the two he preferred. Probably both. The nicest thing he could think of was to munch some cookie's little muff into the day's final orgasm just as you yourself managed to paint her tonsils with hot Hollandaise sauce from your patented beaker. Oh, how he envied them. They were going to eat each other's bottoms, and how pleasant that'd be. Well, the next best thing to doing it was watching it... particularly if you happened to be getting the daylight fucked out of you at the same time, as was happily the present case. How nice.
Downstairs somebody socked the tar out of the ball again, and the crowd put up the usual hell of a yell. Wally wasn't paying much attention. He gave Brenda a look-she had her eyes shut now and was off into some sort of crazy trip of her own, playing with her tits, muttering some sort of strange something (probably batting averages she'd memorized from The Sporting News, if he knew her) to herself as she rode back and forth, back and forth, on his seemingly tireless tool.
Then he gave the other ladies the bulk of his attention. Just in time, too: there went little nose way down that wide-open, gaping, juicy black pussy of Lupe's, sticking her pretty little nose way down that wide-open, gaping, juicy hole and licking up the juice with delighted slurps. Lupe responded by grabbing a mouthful of Barbie's bare little bottom and worrying it like a bulldog on a Brahman steer.
Downstairs the crowd was going nutty again.
And, miraculously, Wally Burger found himself getting horny again.
With difficulty he tore his eyes away from the scene of the two girls eating each other out-it wasn't easy at all-and looked up at Brenda, still posting away, lost in some never-never land of her own. Her pretty mouth lolled open like a drunkard's; her head seemed only tenuously connected to the rest of her, wobbling crazily from side to side. Her hands rested now on his hipbones, supporting her little body as she rode ceaselessly back and forth atop him.
"Okay," he said, "here comes Wally Burger." And he gave a big upward heave with his pelvis that was calculated to open those pretty little green eyes of hers. Bam!
It did the job, all right. She sat bolt upright, shocked. "I... uh, Mr. Burger... " It wasn't he decided with a sigh, likely that Brenda would ever wind up calling him Wally. It'd be Mr. Burger twenty years, and twenty thousand casual couplings, and she'd still be calling him Mister Burger like some eighteen-year-old. He knew she didn't mean anything by it... but damn it, it made him feel so old.
Well, he wasn't old. Not by a damn long shot. And he was determined to show her something, now or never. He got his back under him and started heaving. First slowly, then picking up the speed.
"Oh, Mr. Burger," she said. "Oh. Oh, my God. Oh, heavens. Oh, I'm on fire. I... I've never felt anything like this before... oh, God... oh, Mr. Burger, dear Mr. Burger... oh, that again... oh, yes, like that... oh, it feels so good... so wonderful... oh, it's so long and thick down there inside me... it feels so big... so... oh, God, it's growing... it's growing longer and longer and longer... oh, heavens .. I'm all full up inside... oh, my button is so sensitive... I can't... oh, no don't do that, don't please. I can't take that... Please, oh, please, dear Mr. Burger... please, don't... I... oh, no... no, no, no... Ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodmigodmigodmigod... Ohhhhhhhh!!!"
Brenda's deep moan of orgasmic pleasure set off both the other girls. Their pleasure was just as keen; they moaned and groaned through three or four orgasms each before subsiding on the floor. And Wally didn't stop heaving his ass up at her when Brenda collapsed on his chest; he was hot as a pistol himself, and he was going to blow his nuts if it killed him...
And yes, he did blow his nuts, and no, it didn't kill him.
But when he and the girls got up the strength and the nerve to look over the counter down onto the playing field and, cautiously, let their eyes steal over to the fatal scoreboard, all their worst fears were confirmed.
The Broads had blown the ball game.
FOUTH INNING
Brenda looked at Wally... then looked away. Wally sighed. He couldn't think of anything at all to say. There it was on the scoreboard: Okies ten runs, eleven hits, no errors; Broads three runs, six hits, six errors...
Six errors?
"Ay, Jesus," Lupe said softly in her husky voice. "Those domb beetches. They done it again."
"I don't understand," Wally said. "This is a terrific ball club. Most of my managing career I'd have given my goddamn shirt to get hold of such natural talent for baseball. Man for... uh... woman for woman, they're as good as anyone I've ever worked with. But this? How could they blow anything this badly? Six errors? Jesus, everybody boots one now and then. But six times? Jeez, I've gotta find out what the hell happened. This is insane. Just goddamn insane."
"Oh, we know what happened," Barbie said.
"Only too well."
"Huh? Oh, you don't mean... all the screwing around?"
"I'm afraid I do," she said, with a big sigh. "The last manager we had... Mr. Armbruster... he was a very smart man, with a college degree and all. He said the experts say that women are re... reviv... "
"Revivified?"
"Yeah, that sounds like the word. Anyhow, they're generally made less tired by lots of sex, rather than more tired the way men are. So theoretically, he said, girls ought to be able to go out and tear 'em up after a lot of horsing around."
"Yeah, you'd think so, but... "
"But there seems to be another side. It... it kind of loosens them up... and relaxes the parts of their heads that ought to be tensed up, and alert, and ready for everything... "
"Like marijuana," Lupe said. "Eet make you loose as a goose."
"I see," Wally said. "And the Broads... they're like this all the time?"
"A lot of the time," Barbie said ruefully. "And gee, Mr. Burger, I'm no better than anyone else. I mean, look at the three of us, up here horsing around with you when we should have been filling you in on the ball game."
"That's true," Brenda said sadly. "I'm afraid we're all equally to blame. Our only excuse is that tonight we weren't supposed to play ball. I mean, I pitched the practice game this afternoon, and I'm not due for rotation until the set in Phoenix. Lupe has a bad ankle. Barbie's new, and we've used her mainly so far in relief and as a pinch runner, but I'd given her the day off. But look at this afternoon. Everybody-absolutely everybody-was getting into it. And everybody knew we had this important game. I just don't know what to do with them. Bubbles Belaski and I have been holding things together-we have a little piece of the team, I think you knew that-between managers, but I can't control them. Goodness knows, I'm guilty enough myself from time to time."
"Stupid women," Lupe said. "Mexican men have the right idea. Treat us like cattle. Keep us barefoot and pregnant There's not a one of us can be trusted."
"Jeez," Wally laid. "And here I've been adding to the problem today." He grinned. "Not that I hadn't been having a hell of a good time."
"Oh... us too, dear Mr. Burger," Brenda said, smiling with that deceptive shyness of hers. Oh, she was one cutie pie, all right. You'd look at her, with all the long-eyelashes-and-bashful-smile stuff, and just know she'd turn out to be a junk pitcher, full of deceptive motions and pooped-out curves that barely cut the outside corner just inside the strike zone, full of crazy knuckleball stuff that you couldn't hit with a goddamn ironing board. She looked at him now, though, with concern in those big eyes. "What can we do? The club is losing ball games, the owners are losing money... it can't go on like this."
"Well," Wally said decisively, "I'm sure I'll come up with something."
"Oh, I'll bet you will," Barbie said, smiling broadly at him. "You know, Mr. Burger, you're quite a fella."
"Keep them barefoot and pregnant," said Lupe in a surly voice.
Well, Wally thought as he let Boobs and the girls drive him back to the motel in her old convertible, you're not gonna be able to follow Lupe's suggestion. No way. Although it was a comical idea, one which made him chuckle as they drove silently, disconsolately, through the dark streets. Imagine nine seventh-month chicks out there waddling uncomfortably about on the base paths or trying vainly to get the bat around in front of those big bellies...
But no, it'd take some real thought. And it'd be a real challenge, more than he would ever have expected if someone had (God forbid) told him a week before or so that what he'd wind up doing the rest of the year was managing a baseball team full of crazy sex-mad cunts who, if you could ever get them to stop thinking about their pussies and start thinking about baseball, would very likely put a serious dent in one of the better major-league men's clubs. He was kind of looking forward to the professional challenge of trying to see if he could get this bunch of dick-happy crazies pulled together into a real honest-to-God ball club that worked together, and won games... even the pennant. As it was, they were playing around .500 ball. There had, Brenda had told him, been a time when "Mr. Armbruster," as she called him, had put his foot down and enforced his edicts, and they'd torn the league up then. But Armbruster, for all his solid baseball know-how and strong personality, had eventually tired and let the Broads' continual assault on him get to him. And he had seen them blow a league lead the way Wally had seen them blow a game lead tonight. Now... well, it was possible for them to wind up on top by September. Just barely possible. But it'd take a combination of first-rate, heads-up baseball on their parts, and somebody else in the league falling apart in the homestretch, for them to do it.
Suddenly, riding along like that, not looking at anything in particularly, Wally had a thought. He wanted that goddamn pennant. He wanted to win that damn league championship so bad he could taste it. And he particularly wanted to be able to list that on his resume the next time he went looking for work. He wanted it known that Wally Burger, unjustly-he wanted that word in there in particular-unjustly fired by the Tulsa Terrors at mid season, had taken a broken-down girls' baseball team that had foiled the efforts of a good round half-dozen managers (some of them guys with good names in the racket) and had won a league championship by year's end, against terrific odds.
Besides, damn it, he liked getting his ashes hauled. There had to be some way for him, Wally Burger, to take advantage of the easy availability, technical expertise, and enthusiasm of these sex-happy babes and have himself a ball while winning ball games.
Let's see, he told himself. First we'll make a few rules... a curfew... no fucking before the game... everybody up early every day... a light workout in the morning and another, equally light, in the afternoon, about the times for elevenses and high tea the way it'd been when he was managing up in Canada. That'd allow for a little rest before the game. Then, at warm-up time, he'd get out and work their asses off, socking them tough ground balls and making them hustle around, and getting them all keyed up for the game. And he'd manage, too, from that goddamn bench. He'd make 'em move around. And if a pitcher started drooping, he'd yank her and put in somebody new. He'd let everyone on the whole damn team know, right off, that nobody's job was secure. Not even Boobs Belaski. If she didn't charge bunts, if she let the base runners out there start taking chances with her arm, if she started swinging at dumb pitches and letting her average go to hell, he'd bench her as fast as anybody. They had, after all, two solid catchers. The smart thing was to play them off one against the other, and make them really start competing for their jobs for a change.
And everybody would run out the crummiest grounder to third as if it had been a line shot to the corner, and everyone would hustle on and off the field when they changed sides, and everyone would run the bases in a heads-up fashion. And if they hadn't started out the season with a lot of spirit, they'd by God sure finish it with some.
He let them off tonight, though, with one word of comment: there would be no party tonight. There would be no party, by God, until the Broads had won at least three straight. And he wanted everybody in bed by midnight and up tomorrow at nine, out on the practice field, ready to work out. That, by God, was an order. And just this once they were too down to argue or finagle. The voices that said "Goodnight" at him were subdued ones.
And he'd just curled up in the big comfortable motel bed and begun slipping off to sleep when he saw, out of the corner of his almost-closed eye, the motel door open and close and heard the soft whisper of bare feet on the rug. Then a soft, firm body, naked as Eve's, snuggled up close to him under the covers.
Wally came just enough awake to ask who it was.
"Lupe, Senor Burger. I ain't going to practice tomorrow nohow. Theese leg is steel not so good. But," she said with a roguish edge on her husky voice, "the rest of me is working okay. I thought you might be getting lonely if you had to sleep alone tonight"
"Mmmmm," said Wally, and grabbed a handful of tit. This seemed to be just what she wanted him to do; she arched her back and shoved those firm little globes up at his hands, wriggling joyously. "Ahh," she said. "Nice, nice. Mmmmmm."
Then both of those tough, firm little hands grabbed him by the cock-and by God if it didn't get hard as a broomstick again, hard and eager and twitching with anticipation. "Hey, nice," he said in a sleepy voice. "Nice, nice. Don't stop what you're doin'. I... "
"Hey," she said. "Pock me up the ass again, hey? I liked that. That was nice. You so beeg and hard and theek. Here." And she turned around in bed with him to rub up against him, temptingly and tantalizingly, that amazing, silky-skinned, adorably firm ass that he had buggered before. It felt absolutely heavenly rubbing up against him like that... so soft and yummy and luscious...
Wally, playing the lazy man's game, scuttled around until the two of them were ass-to-front in a double-L shape, nested like spoons. Then he reached down and guided his straining putz to the soft hole in her bottom. Dry, he'd better do something about that. He rubbed a gob of spit on the head of his dick and tried again. Then, amazingly, he felt her asshole begin to part, little by little, to let him in.
He knew the first part of it would be a little painful on both sides. Wally's rod was thickheaded enough to make the initial entry a bit on the difficult side. And she was tight down there: nice and tight. Well, all the better... once he'd got inside. He pushed again, working her open with his fingers, slipping the flesh of her anus around his pushing cock. Working it in a millimeter at a time. Keeping up the pressure.
When the head was inside, he paused and took a deep breath; this was hard work. Then, gathering his stuff together, he made the final assault on her sphincter, working his cock through the iron grip it had on her insides. When he finally popped inside, she let out a muffled scream; her mouth was full of coverlet, and she was easing the pain and her natural tendency to yell with an indio stoicism. But once it was inside she was almost insane with joy. He felt her shudder once, twice... then go off into a little orgasm which picked right up again when it was supposed to be coming to an end, and she shuddered and shivered her way through three of them, her hands clawing at her crotch, before subsiding.
"Ay de mi" she said then. "I hope that is as good for you as it is for me. Nobody ever fuck me up the ass before and make me come. It is... it is very beautiful. I am so sensitive inside... so hot... I am on fire... I cannot control myself any more... I can feel every inch of your deek inside me, every vein, ever bump... and I feel so filled up in there. It is so big and thick and hard... ah, Senor... fuck me some more. Make it go in and out. I make you happy when you do... hit me hard... make me feel it... oh, your nice hard belly feel so good against my ass... it so good... "
Well, it wasn't so bad on his end of the deal either, Wally was thinking. Not so bad at all. That amazing ass of hers was gripping him with the firmest grip he'd ever felt; he wasn't sure that Babe Ruth had ever gripped a bat harder than that talented asshole of hers was gripping his tube. And as he began, slowly and gently, to shove it in and pull it out in a rhythmic cycle, he felt her- respond: those little "fingers" inside her-whatever the hell they were-began a rippling motion up and down his hypersensitive dick, stroking it, clutching it, jacking it off with a gentleness that seemed incongruous, given the firm grip with which her asshole was holding him in there.
Wally had been an old married coot for so many years, and had had to deliver so many times when he was only marginally in the mood, that he'd fallen into the habit of fantasizing about other things, other girls, other ways of doing it while screwing a woman. With his last wife, one of these goddamn types that undress under the covers, he'd had exhibitionistic fantasies while banging her. Lying there screwing her with the lights out, wanting but not getting the pleasure of looking at her nice little body and watching her face change as she approached orgasm, he'd had fantasies about goofy things. Like for instance the two of them being stark naked on a platform in the middle of Times Square on a nice balmy day, with thousands of people looking on, standing up there with his hands on her hips and her ass to his front, fucking her from the rear-not up the ass, just from the backside-and smiling to the crowd as they hollered encouragement. In his fantasy it has been nice and pleasant standing up there in your bare ass with the nice sun and wind on you like that, with all the people looking on like that, and it had given it a little extra added fillip of sexual enjoyment at knowing everyone was looking on-maybe even on TV, for all the hell he knew.
Now, at the end of a long day, with his mind wanting even in the middle of sex to drift off into a pleasant sexual dreamland, he found his thoughts wandering the same way as Lupe, her ass gripping his cock, her fingers buried deep in her own black muff and clawing at her clit with a mindless abandon, squirmed in the bed with him, impaled from behind by his big thick rod.
In his fantasy he was on television, and there he was standing there again, ass to front with a woman as naked as he was, with the cameras and lights pointed at them and the studio audience looking on with interest as the moderator (who looked a little like Johnny Carson, only he had a Limey accent like David Frost) cheered them on. And he had-in the dream as in life-his dick shoved squarely up Lupe's ripe and luscious ass. The dream went something like this:
JOHNNY FROST:... And will you welcome now Wally Burger and Lupe the Mex? (Cheers.)
WALLY: Good evening. Johnny.
FROST: It sure is good to have you with us, Wally. What are you going to perform for us tonight?
WALLY: Well, Johnny, I think I'll play 'Fucking a Greaser Up the Ass in Oklahoma City'. It's always been one of my favorites, and I want to tell you, it's the greatest honor of my life to do it on the David Carson Show...
FROST: That's Johnny Frost.
WALLY: No fucking diff, Jack. The main thing is, I'm gonna dip it in a little hot sauce, and boy, is that old asshole ever tight down there. I want to tell you fans out there that when I dip that old taquito in that yummy little bowl of nice creamy salsa ranchera, ol' Wally feels ready to rip there. I...
FROST: We'll be back in a moment after these announcements...
Wally felt her shudder again into another orgasm. Well, even if he blew the pennant working for the goddamn Broads, he knew one thing: he wouldn't be having to whack it anymore. Not until the end of the season anyhow. He'd always have himself a nice rich variety of yummy holes to stick it into...
But what if he won?
What if he figured out a way to win... and stuck around the rest of the season... and maybe even stuck around for the Hot Stove League, banging these babes silly all winter long to keep them (ahem!) in trim...
Better, what if he figured a way to win and fuck himself silly all season?
Oh, the thought was heavenly. And... oops, here was the announcer again: Heeeeeeeeere's Johnny...
FROST: Thank you, now we're talking to Wally Burger, who is... well, Wally, what is it you're doing there? Would you care to tell us?
WALLY: Why, yes, Johnny, I'm banging this little chile relleno up the poop-chute, and having a goddamn good time at it, mind you...
FROST: And you, young lady, what are your thoughts on the matter?
LUPE: Lupe hot as a focking peestol. You would too, you borderline maricon, if you had thees beeg greengo deek up your asshole. Ay de mi, when he finally shoot that theeng off eet's gonna come shooting out of my ears.
FROST: Thank you, Lupe. And now... Wally Burger has his little enchilada in position... he's stepping up the pace a little... more, now... there you are, friends, Wally Burger and Lupe the Mex in 'Banging a Spic Up the Butt on Television'... let's hear it for Walleee Bur-gerrrr...
LUPE: Oh, ow, oh God, that's so good...
WALLY: Take that and that, Ceesco Keed, you tamale-eating motherfucker, you... take that and that...
LUPE: Ay Chihuahua...
It was a nice fantasy. But somehow she kept coming and Wally's dick just stayed hard, and didn't want to go no matter how expertly her insides clutched at him and milked him. And after a while she caught her breath for a moment, looked around over her shoulder, and said, "Hey, Senor. You want to take a break for a minute?"
"Sure," he said, and pulled out.
She turned around to meet him, and kissed him warmly, and said, "Hey, you one hell of a lot of man."
He hugged here. He was getting sleepy again. "Hey," he said, "I know this is all very nice, but what do you think of getting to sleep? After all, I gotta get up next morning and ride herd on these dames."
"Hokay," she said. "But look: the deek is steel hard. What I do about that? I sock heem off?"
"Let's just cool it for a while," he said. "I'm so sleepy I could doze off at the plate."
"Hokay," she said, and gave his dick a squeeze; but when she snuggled accommodatingly up against him like that, fat chance did it have of going back down in a hurry.
Not that it mattered...
He kept having these goofy dreams, though.
For instance, in one of them here it was the World Series, and 75,000 people in the stands, and millions of people watching the damn thing on television and God alone knew how many else listening in on radio, and here he was behind the plate, catching, and the funny thing about it was his team was the Skins, and there he was bare-assed, and his dick was hanging down as he crouched down the way catchers do, and damned if there wasn't Lupe the Mex down there, her head just behind home plate, sucking him off.
UMPIRE: Steerike one!
WALLY: Hey, Lupe, God damn it, you cut that out, I've got work to do.
LUPE: MMMMMmmmmmmmmffffff...
And then the goddamn thing changed, and now it was Boobs Belaski crouched over the plate, and it was Wally himself lying down there with her sitting on his face, practically, and here was that marvelous funky gash wide open right before his eyes, covered with bushy kinky hair and positively dripping luscious funky goo right down his eager throat, and he could look up at it and see her little clit poking its nose up out of her snatch, just begging to be sucked on and licked until she bellowed like a moo-cow.
Ah, Boobs Belaski. There was a real goddamn woman for you.
Wally had always liked 'em big. Big and gross and funky and full of spirit. Loud goddamn women who loved to fuck, and who would bellow when you got it in them so it could be heard in the next county or so. Women with big firm asses and big round firm tits, and cunts that smelled like cunt, and clits that stuck out so far you never had any trouble finding them when you wanted a nice little man in the boat to suck on from time to time. And here was Boobs Belaski, perfectly proportioned (if a little heavy in the shoulders), with a pair of knobs like bowling balls and an ass like terra firma and a pair of thighs that could bust a horse's ribs and a cunt you could drive a truck into. And here, in his dream (for some strange damn reason he knew it was a dream, but it didn't seem to matter all that much), she was squatting over him as if his face was a bidet, that luscious funky cunt all spread out for his delectation and amusement like a patient etherized upon a table, just begging him to bury his nose in her fragrant and accessible muff.
What else could he do under the circumstances?
Wally leaned forward and started licking.
And by God, was it ever yummy. Finger-lickin' good. Juicy and creamy and coming on like butter and syrup on a stack of flapjacks. The skin inside as soft as a baby's ass, only with that magnificent bush of cunt hair curling around it on all sides. He reached his hands up and spread her even wider so he could get in there and lick wherever he chose. So he could...
Wally woke up all of a sudden.
And there he was, muffing Lupe, and she was sound asleep, but groaning with pleasure... now, however, she turned over and started snoring lightly, as Wally sat up and thought about the weird things a body's mind did on him while he was off there in dreamyland. Wow... but it had all been so real... and so damn delightful, and so damn desirable... he wanted to muff big old, funky old Boobs Belaski so bad he could taste it... Well, no, damn it, he said, rubbing the pussy juice off his chin and licking his finger thoughtfully, that was Mexican stuff that time, not Polack juice... but he wanted a piece of Boobs, and most particularly he wanted to go down on her and eat her out like she'd never been eaten out before. He didn't give a good damn whether she got it every night by Barbie, with that amazing tongue of hers. If he, Wally Burger, couldn't give a callow kid like her lessons in muff diving, he didn't have a hair on his ass. Jeez, he could just feel the big bush of black hair in his mouth, in his teeth... he could just smell the funky odor of her crotch... those rock-hard thighs up around his ears, clamping his mouth to her quim so he couldn't get away even if he wanted to... and who the hell would be so dumb as to want to get away? Hell, he could be happy reserving the damn thing for a week, single occupancy, and spending his fucking vacation there...
So thinking, he slipped off to sleep again, happy thoughts wandering lightly through his receptive mind...
And the next thing you knew, there he was up at the plate again, bare-assed again, and he had a bat in his hand, and here came the first pitch, and he tried to swing from the heels and whale the hell out of that horsehide, only he couldn't because here was this luscious little broad-it was Barbie, the cute little chickie with the shaved snatch-down on her knees with her mouth full of his dick again. He settled for a washerwoman swing that missed the ball a country mile.
"Hey," he said. "I gotta get some work done."
"Mmmmmmmmffff," she said. She choked up on that big bat of his and started sucking for fair. Every three sucks she'd pop it out of her kisser and lick it from one end to another like a damn lollypop, using that absolutely amazing little tongue of hers. Then she'd grab it back and suck it in with a terrific suction power and stared gobbling away like crazy.
The next pitch came in big and fat; he ought to have whammed the tar out of it.
That, however, was the time she picked to bite him gently, teasingly, on the knob.
Wally winced... and woke up.
There was Lupe curled up in the bed beside him. She had her head between his legs, his thighs cuddled up warmly around her neck. She was sucking away at his cock as hard as he could.
She was sound asleep.
"Jeez," he said. And the strangeness of it-getting your cock sucked off, expertly, sensitively, enthusiastically, by someone who was sound asleep-all of a sudden got him hot as hell, and he felt the juice boiling up inside his overworked balls, and his cock getting more sensitive with each moment, each loudly slurping suck she gave it... and now, there it was he was coming... coming... and she was still asleep... and she was swallowing, licking and sucking, and swallowing again and again...
FIFTH INNING
After that he fully expected to wake up the next morning and find her there in the sack with him; instead, when the clock went off at seven-thirty (When had he set it? He couldn't remember even digging the damn thing out of his suitcase) all sign of her had vanished.
He kind of liked it that way. Maybe, for one thing, it meant that she had taken him seriously when he had told the lot of them to expect him to come down on any L.A. player who showed up late to practice like the shit storm to end all shit storms. Maybe if Lupe took him seriously-as little used to taking anyone seriously as she was-the others would too. He certainly hoped so. He was going to have a tough enough row to hoe without having to establish his authority again and again.
He grabbed a quick breakfast-toast and coffee-at the motel beanery, checking out the newspapers as he did so. The dodgers weren't doing badly so far; he knew, as sure as shooting, that whatever they were doing right now would have precious little to do with what they'd be doing by September; they had a way of folding up in the clutch and playing like a bunch of stumblebums and old women whenever the pressure was on. Prima donnas. Typical goddamn Wally Burger ballplayers, only they paid them more. He didn't envy Walter Alston, having to deal with a bunch of flakes like that.
Well, he certainly hoped he was through with that kind of ball club himself. He'd had enough of that kind of crap. Maybe this time... maybe this time it'd be better.
Matter of fact... damn it, he found himself sitting there now staring at the wall and letting his coffee get cold in the cup as an interesting thought wormed its way into his mind. Yes, yes. This thing had its own set of advantages... and it lacked some of the disadvantages you usually ran across in what the sports writers still laughingly referred to as "organized" ball.
For instance, it wouldn't really appear on his record unless he wanted it to. Nobody, but nobody, inside organized baseball, with its insular little world of who-shot-who gossip, had ever heard of girls' baseball, or would ever hear of girls' baseball. It was as total a nonentity as you could possibly get in their eyes. Thus, if he did lousy here, nobody need ever hear about it... and if he did well, he could quote it as an interesting sideline, a diverting change of air on his track record. Oh, that year I decided to take it easy for a while before getting back to serious work. I had nothing to do for six months of the year, so, just for laughs, I took over this crazy girls' baseball team and showed 'em how to take a bunch of dippy hamburgers and win a pennant with 'em. It sounded like more fun than moving directly to some other franchise-double-A or something like that, say-and trying to get through the rest of the season policing up some other guy's mistakes and cleaning up after him. No, this was more fun. Who, me? Play around, with all that gorgeous tail there? Hey, man, you know me. Live a nice quiet life like a monk. Keep it zipped up. Har har har...
Yeah, the more he pondered on it the more nice sides it had... and the less he tended to mind the obvious disadvantages.
Besides, there was that business of playing around. He had, perhaps, a little crick in his back from all the unaccustomed exercise of the day before... but otherwise he felt not just fine, but terrific. There was nothing in the world like getting lots and lots of sex to make a guy feel great, and build up his self-confidence, and make him feel like rassling a bear. Or running for the Senate. Or even trying to impose some badly needed discipline on a bunch of damn flakey lady ball players. Or...
He finished his coffee and hailed a cab out in front of the motel. He'd brought a change of clothes along in a little overnight bag: uniform pants, cleats, socks, a sweat shirt There'd be time enough to order a full uniform back in Los Angeles. For now this would do. At the stadium he changed clothes in the empty dressing room, then ambled unhurriedly out onto the field to watch the practice session.
Boobs Belaski was over on the grass socking long flies to the outfield with a fungo bat. She gave him a nice big golden grin as he came up. "Want to smack 'em a few, coach?"
"Naw," he said. "You're doin' okay. But make 'em run for the stuff. Make 'em charge the sinking Texas League junk when you've got 'em backed up; then, when they're all drawn in, whale one over their heads. I wanta see some hustle out of that goddamn outfield. Okay?"
Boobs grinned even more broadly. "Yes sir!" she said in that big hearty voice. When he saw her throw the ball up and expertly chip it exactly where he'd have done if it had been him up there, making "Show Boat" run frantically to grab it at her shoe tops, he was so pleased with her he started getting a hard-on again. He was intensely thankful, just then, for the baggy pants baseball players-and managers-wore.
"That more like it?" she said.
"Yeah," he growled. "But you tell 'em, the first one of 'em that I-or you-catch dogging it or not chasing them damn fly balls as fast as she can will get five laps around the field. Okay?"
"Okay," she said, and gave him a big horse wink. "Hey, you broads," she said. "You better by God start hustlin', or else." Three of the starters, including Brenda, were working out down on the sidelines. He walked over to her, watching her pitch.
She finally noticed him and stopped. "Oh, hello, Mr. Burger. Uh... could you watch me and see if I'm still doing that... that little hitch you said you'd seen in my motion?"
"Sure," said Wally. "Go ahead."
She pitched from the full windup for about ten pitches; then she took the men-on-base pose, stretched, and delivered. Wally was fascinated with what the stretch did for her T-shirt; Brenda favored the soft kind of bra that made chicks look like they weren't wearing any, and it was a coolish morning, and her little nipples stuck out like thumbs.
"Hey," he said. "You're still doin' it. Look." And he took his place on the rubber. "Now when you come down from the stretch... look here... you're doin' it just like this."
"Hey, Bren," the chick catcher down the way-he hadn't met her before this-was saying. "Hey, he's right You can tell. It's the changeup comin'."
"Well, darn," Brenda said. "And to think... well, why didn't anyone tell me?"
"We didn't catch it," the catcher said. "It took a real pro to do that for us." She smiled. He gave her his fatherly look. Nice stuff... but sexy thoughts were for later. He waved good-bye at both of them and went over to the batting cage.
Willie Mae Fisher, the black girl, was taking her cuts; she looked over at him and nodded, without smiling. She was a medium-sized, short-necked little Jimmy Wynn kind of ballplayer... albeit with a foxy little ass that looked like it would just ooze red hot barbecue sauce. She was swinging for the fences.
"Hey," he said. "You ever try chokin' up on that bat?"
"Choke up?" she said. "Aw, man, that stuffs for candy asses."
"The hell it is. I had a look at your average last night. You oughta be hittin' twenty points higher. You would too if you'd only choke up on that thing maybe an inch, an inch and a half. Try it."
"Awwww..."
"Aw, horseshit. Hey, gimme the ball. I'll pitch you some goddamn battin' practice until you start to get it." He went out to the mound and threw her a few. Her swing was awkward at first. "No, look," he said. "Just meet the goddamn ball. You kind of chop at it. Look." He threw her a cheapo curve. She went at it like cutting wood. "Yeah, that's a little more like it. Now... I'm gonna throw it outside. Step over into it and just meet it, you can just sort of spank the damn thing to right field. Yeah. Yeah, that was pretty good. Now it's comin' in inside... just meet it head-on and you can dump it right over third base..."
He continued working with her until she'd begun to get the hang of it. Then he spanked her on that hard little black behind and moved on; in the meantime she had orders to choke up every fucking time she stepped up to the plate, and if he ever caught her swinging from the end and going for the fences he'd burn her ass to the ground. Stick to the new way of doing things. He didn't give a goddamn how many times she screwed up as long as she didn't change that new style. It'd start working for her in a day or two, and when it did it'd be worth the one or two lame outs and easy double-play balls she'd be responsible for in the meantime.
Then he went to work on the infield, taking the fungo bat and making them sweat, slapping crazy grounders to their weak spots, balls with goofy English on them that took lousy bounces. He worked them particularly hard on the double-play ball, and gave Annie Tompkins particular hell about covering the bag.
When they broke for lunch he handed out another other couple of rules: everybody was strictly on Weight Watchers from now until the end of September... and there'd be no, repeat absolutely no, screwing around before the last goddamn out that evening. Then or any other game day. They did double-takes and looked at him incredulously; but they didn't give him any backtalk by now. They were looking at him with new eyes after that workout.
They broke for lunch, with another, lighter workout set for later that afternoon. Wally hadn't even worked up a sweat; he considered going back to the motel without even changing. As he was standing by the dugout steps, still thinking about that, Boobs Belaski (who'd headed for the showers early, and had already dressed) came up behind him.
"Hey, Mr. Burger," she said in that friendly voice, "can I give you a lift back?"
"Uh... yeah, sure," Wally said. He looked around at her as she stood there. She was one hell of a sight, in that damn white playsuit, with her nice tan and those big-gal muscles bulging out all around. Pair of thighs to bust the balls on a stud horse. Yes indeed, there was something about the broad. She was a dish. A big double-helping size one, but a dish. No two ways about it.
He let her in on the passenger's side; she hand him the keys. My, my, Wally thought, ain't we getting ladylike. La de da. But he kind of liked it, actually. Wally Burger had a gallant side, and liked to indulge it while he could. He had a private image of himself as a defender of the old-fashioned virtues.
He put the car in gear and pulled out of the big parking lot, driving at moderate speed. "Pretty good workout," he said. "I guess."
"Oh, yeah," she said enthusiastically. "You betcha. When Brenda got what you told her down, and's gone and worked it into her system, it's gonna save us five, maybe six ball games by end the of the season."
"Good," he said. He paused at a cross street, then eased out onto a big two-lane boulevard.
"An' Willie Mae... you done blew her mind. I bet she can't buy a base hit for a week."
"That's okay," Wally said. "I want her to have a little trouble. She'll be the better for it in a week or two. When she starts getting the new rhythm, swinging small with that short bat, shell do just fine. She's got the eye and the coordination to put the ball just where she wants it."
"Gee," Boobs Beaski said. "Like Willie Keeler."
"Yeah. I was thinking more like Harry Walker. He hurt his back one year and couldn't swing hard. Started chokin' up like that and came back to lead the league with .367 or so. At the time he couldn't even bend over to pick up a ground ball right. Real cutie-pie baseball. My kind of game."
"You reckon she's gonna do somethin' like that?"
"Well... I'd settle for busting .300. But she's got the potential to do thirty-five points more'n that. Maybe better. Just a matter of learning to get the most out of what she's got."
"Yeah," said Boobs reflectively. Wally wondered now if she'd be asking him about herself: What'm I doing wrong Mr. Burger? But she didn't. Not yet. "I reckon you're right. She sure is a little bitty old gal. Much too little to be grabbin' the bat out at the end like that. Now me, that's different... "
And she damn near wrecked the car for them right then and there. She reached over and grabbed Wally Burger by the bat. Right at the end, too, with those big tan red-nailed hands. The car swerved, barely missing the center stanchion. Wally fought the wheel for control, braking, ignoring the blaring horns behind him. When he got things back under control he breathed a little sigh of relief that there hadn't been any cops around. He'd have wound up doing some tall explaining. "Hey," he said. "Don't do that, damn it."
"Awww," she said. "Can't a girl have a little fun?"
And damned if she didn't unzip him, and unship him, and get him hard as a brick in a matter of seconds.
"Hey, god damn it," he said. "I'm drivin'. You want to wreck this thing? What's the insurance company gonna say?"
"Ain't got no insurance," she said. She giggled. And, oblivious of all known facts-the one about their being right there in the middle of traffic, the one about the top being down on that damn convertible-she bent over, covered his lap with her dyed-blonde hair, and copped his joint.
"Jeez," said Wally. He was getting a little alarmed. No, he was getting a lot alarmed. He looked in the rear-view mirror; then he switched lanes, headed for the right-hand turn lane, and slowed down as drastically as he could under the circumstances without causing a ten-car pile-up. At the first opportunity he turned right, up a residential-zoned street, and, holding his breath, brought the car to a gingerly stop half a block past the last house.
God damn, she was really getting into it there. And... and damn it, you could tell a gold tooth from the other kind by feel. It was cold.
Up and down went that blonde head, taking his cock deeper and deeper into her throat each time. Her lips were fitted tightly around his rod, and gave his glans a special little suck every time it passed her mouth. Suddenly she looked up at him with that big devilish grin. "Hey," she said. "This here's nice stuff. Real nice stuff. God damn, I love suckin' cock. Only thing I like better's gettin' fucked. Or sucked. Or whatever. But suckin' cock... boy, that's where it's at. Hope you don't mind none." She winked broadly.
She didn't give him time to answer, though. Down went that blonde head, and her mouth took his sensitive, rock-hard dick back inside it, At the same time those big hands started jacking him off. Only the head of his cock stayed in that pretty kisser of hers; she was licking away inside there, and giving the head of it little nips with those sharp little teeth. Below that, her hands were jacking him off expertly, with an exquisite sensitiveness to his own sensation, knowing somehow-maybe she was reading his mind, damn it-that the combination of hands and mouth were giving him the most exquisite pleasure.
"Son of a bitch," Wally said. He looked around. There was a secluded turn-around, ringed by trees whose leaves hung down low, at the end of the dead-end street up ahead. He turned on the key with a trembling hand and eased the car slowly up the street into the shade of those big trees. Then he shut the motor off.
"Get the hell off of there," he said roughly, shoving her head away from his lap. He opened the door, dragging her out of the door with him and onto the sidewalk. When she had both feet on the ground he turned her around-catching, along the way, one glimpse of the startled expression on her face-and bent her over the fender of the car. One hand hiked her skirt up to her waist; the other yanked her panties down by her knees, baring that firm, luscious ass to the world's gaze. He looked furtively around once and, satisfied that nobody could see them, jammed his dick suddenly between the cheeks of that marvelous behind and into the already creamy lips of that wonderful quim.
"Oh, God," she said. "Oh, God. Oh, Mr. Burger, that feels so good, honey... Oh, God, sock it to me, baby, please... " It was so surprising, this new, little-girl voice of hers, that Wally almost lost his hard-on from the sheer shock value of it. But there was that luscious butt before him, and that juicy snatch gripping his big, thick rod... and the very thought of these got him, if anything, a little harder.
"Oh, Jesus," she moaned. "Oh, God, it's gettin' bigger in there. It's gettin' bigger..."
Was this Boobs Belaski? he was thinking. Was this whimpering, dick-happy little kid still the same big two-fisted broad he'd been having all the fantasies about? Boy, just when he was beginning to think he knew a thing or two about the ladies, something like this happened.
Not that he had any intention of knocking it, or, worse, of stopping. No way. And boy, did that capacious and saucy, yet somehow tight and luscious, coozy of hers ever fit nicely around his dick. It simply made his mouth water. Fucking her was a delight, a joy, but he couldn't wait, one of these nights, to get his mouth on that muff of hers. He'd lick her dry as a bone. He'd make a special project out of making her come so damn many times she'd beg him to stop.
That was then, though. This was now. And his dick was getting that heavenly-glow feeling-the kind that spreads, in concentric circles of warmth, from the very head of your rod down to the base and then all around to your balls and belly-and a feeling of peace was coming over him little by little, all over. He wished they could just stay there under the trees, on that little quiet street, and fuck for hours and hours. Get buck nekkid and roll in the grass, and suck each other off until the cows came home. But he did have a deadline, he reflected. Both of 'em had to be back to the playing field by time for the afternoon practice session.
So, with that in mind, he backed his ass another inch or so and started lamming it to her. As he did she began to groan... slow, low, strangely sad-sounding groans that made it seem as though he were hurting her rather than doing something nice to her that she liked (which was manifestly the case). He could see her face over her shoulder. The moans sounded sad, but her face was the face of a girl in ecstasy. She was happy, no two ways about it.
Well, hell. So was he. And damn, did that ever feel good down there. The thing about ol' Boobs was that nice hard firm flesh down there, as hard as a boy's ass, but with that nice yielding feel under the muscles that no boy would ever have... and down there between those luscious cheeks, something else boys couldn't provide: a quim so velvety, so juicy, so luscious inside (and, he remembered, closing his eyes for a moment, so thickly bushed around with funky black cunt-hair outside. Mmmmm, nice.) that it was like sticking it into a jar of honey.
She was back to whimpering again... and, as he stepped up the pace again, she started coming: quick nervous little tremors that shook her body, lightly at first, then strongly. Then they were shaking the car, and those moans were beginning to sound like Elsie the Borden Cow, mooing down the hillside.
For some reason he found this getting him even hotter. God damn, he'd never really had a woman like her: that combination of a big strong bruiser of a broad with this helpless submission to his every desire... it was enough to drive him hog-wild. He grabbed her hips now and started banging away at her hard, harder... the car started rocking... she was bellowing like a steer now... my God, the cops would hear her... he'd get busted for exhibitionism, for lewd conduct, for mopery and dopery and fuckery and suckery and God alone knew whatever else. He'd wind up managing this damn ball club from the pokey. He'd...
But just then the urge hit him, and he knew he was going to come like a fire hose. He was going to blow until it came out of her nose and ears. He was going to jam that thing up her until it messed up her hairdo. And yes, she wanted that, she was moaning beneath him and begging for it, begging for it in a little-girl voice he couldn't even recognize. Well, by God, he'd give it to her, with all he had... here it came... here it came...
Afterward they sat on the grass for a few moments, catching their breath. She was looking him not with that amused gold-toothed smile she'd used on him before, but with the eyes of a young, almost virginal girl. Something had happened to her today. Something that hadn't happened to her recently, if at all. There were... damn it all... there were tears in the corners of her eyes. Her smile was shy and maidenly.
He grinned at her. "Hey, it's still lunch time. Want to go get the diet plate at the coffee shop?"
Her face was subdued, somber. "I... I ain't hungry. I... "
But a different look came into her eyes, and she may have said she wasn't hungry, but you couldn't prove it by what she did next. With that same stricken, bashful look on her face, she bent over and cupped his limp dick and spread-out balls, in those big red-nailed hands and kissed him tenderly on the cock. Not once, but perhaps a dozen times, with an aching softness and sweetness that surprised him. She rubbed his cock, still slightly wet from her own interior juices and from the enormous bolt of come he'd shot off inside her there, against her soft cheek and looked up at him with big warm eyes. Her voice was gentle and pleading as she said, "Please, Mr. Burger. I want to. Really. I have to. I... I wanted to finish in there before. I wanted to suck you off and show off what a good cocksucker I was, so you'd like me. But now... now I want to do it because I... because I l-like you... I want to have it inside my mouth. I want to suck you until you shoot off inside my mouth, where I can taste it and feel it and swallow it all down so not so much as a drop gets away. I... I... please, Mr. Burger. Can I?"
Jeez, Wally was thinking. It was like a little kid asking the teacher if she could clean the blackboard erasers. He couldn't think of anything to say. He reached over and tousled her hair. "Suit yourself, kid," he said. "But look at it. It don't look promising." He pointed at his limp little putz down there.
"Oh," she said in a soft voice. "It'll be okay. Just you watch... "
And once again she bent over and gently kissed him on the cock. And the one kiss became a thousand, as she peeled back his uniform pants and went to work on him, laying kisses on his cock hair and his bare belly, kissing his nuts and licking them wetly until the evaporating moisture on them made them tingle. And again and again her lips went to his rod, and little by little it began to grow again, and when it did she licked it and covered it with spit so the cool morning air could make the wetness evaporate and cool his cock. The sensation was nothing short of terrific. The skin on his dick grew more and more sensitive; his cock leapt to attention. As it did she took it in her mouth and began sucking. And this time it wasn't smartass stuff, mean and pushy. It was sweet, sensuous fellation, as gentle and as kind as a mother's kiss on her baby's cheek. It got him incredibly hot, and when he moved it was to stand and, with Boobs on her knees before him and his hands gently caressing her face and her cheeks, softly and easily fuck her in the mouth, as she bent over before him in a posture of complete and selfless submission, taking his cock sweetly in her mouth all the way to the hair, big as it was, her eyes streaming with happy tears. When he blew he didn't bang her in the face with his pubis, either; he held her face lightly but firmly and blew his wad down her throat, watching her gulp hungrily as the salt fluid gushed forth into her mouth; she licked him dry as a bone afterward and, not content with that, covered his crotch once again with grateful kisses...
After that it was too late for lunch. And somehow they didn't have much to say, driving back to the field. She shyly let her bare thigh touch Wally's as he drove, but she made no attempt even to hold his hand. She was that shy, it appeared, of seeming to be pushy or aggressive. He found her new personality adorable... and not totally believable, despite the witness of his own eyes.
At the stadium he waited until all the girls were gathered there before laying down the law. Most of them stood, silent, still in their street clothes, waiting for him to speak. At the rear of the room, though, the cute redhead he'd noticed earlier was taking off her blouse. Damn, she was cute, he thought; and before he knew what he was doing he let her get her bra off and flash him a pair of the cutest little tits he'd seen in years, with, those bright red nipples real redheads have now and then. Then he gulped and bit on the bullet.
"Hey," he said. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The girl blushed-and, suddenly, with all eyes on her, pulled the blouse against her bosom. "I... I was getting undressed for the practice game. I'm second string. We're always the Skins. I was only... "
Wally's jaw firmed up. "There ain't gonna be no Shirts and Skins games around here. You chicks are gonna warm up in road uniforms and home uniforms. We're gonna win some ball games around here, and that means no sex at all before that last goddamn out every night. And the best way to enforce the rule about no sex is gonna be to make sure nothin' reminds you of anything but baseball around here. You go around in your bare ass and you're gonna get somebody horny. Maybe me, maybe one of the other chicks. No sir. From now on we're buttoned up to the neck, kiddies, and that's how we're gonna stay until I have that fucking pennant in my pocket." He let that sink in, amid some shocked gasps. "Hey, you," he said to a chunky-looking, pleasant-faced girl standing beside Brenda. "You're second string catcher, ain't you?"
"Why, yes," she said. "I'm Milly Carlson. I... ?"
"As of today you're first string catcher." Now there was a real gasp.
"First?" the girl said. "But I don't... I mean Bubbles Belaski... "
"Benched." he said. He didn't look around at Boobs's face. He had this horrible feeling he knew how she'd look right now. "Benched for a week. When I say no sex before the day's game is over, I mean it. No exceptions."
They all stared at him, speechless. Nobody moved. Clamping his jaw down, he turned on his heel and strode out onto the field.
SIXTH INNING
Wally called a warm-up game for four innings. Nobody threw hard; the game was played with a listless competence on both sides, with nobody dogging it but nobody giving it the old college try that breaks ankles and dislocates shoulders. He sent them to the showers after a couple of laps around the field, and didn't follow them into the dressing room. He didn't have to. Brenda had instructions to shoo everyone out in thirty minutes, and that didn't leave much time for fooling around.
Having given the instructions, he took off. He'd given them a pitcher for the evening: a long, freckly drink of water named Harriet Stover. Harriet was even taller than Boobs Belaski, but about twenty-five pounds lighter. She was virtually the only girl in the league with a hand big enough to throw the knuckler and control it, and Wally had paid her some serious attention during the afternoon and morning drills. She'd been relieving; now he thought she ought to try her hand at starting. With assignments in the bag, and discipline, iron discipline, established to his satisfaction, Wally headed downtown in the cab and went to a movie. It was a thoroughly bad, thoroughly delightful Clint Eastwood western, about ten years old. He watched, fascinated, as Eastwood shot forty times from a six-shot revolver without reloading, plugging vaguely Sicilian-looking villains a half a mile away with a shot thrown from hip height.
Halfway through the movie something started hitting him. By God, how could he have missed it before this? Eastwood was talking English; all the rest of these guys were talking Italian. He'd learned quite a bit of Italian growing up in a spaghetti neighborhood thirty years before. Now, holding his hands over his ears, he could look up and see, reading everyone's lips, what they were really saying before the dubbed English dialogue was spliced in:
MAN WITH NO NAME: That Wanted poster up there on the wall... I take it that's still current.
SHERIFF: (smiling) Uppa you ass, you stupida sonamabitch.
NO NAME: (rips the poster down): Reckon I'll take this with me. (He jams it in a pocket under his poncho and lights a stub of a cigarillo.)
SHERIFF: Va fa un' cul', you faggota sonamabitch. Stickuma uppa you ass.
NO NAME: (tips his hat microscopically) : Reckon I'll be seein' you later. You might have the money ready in small bills.
SHERIFF: Stickuma uppa you ass.
It increased greatly his appreciation of the film. When the last reel ran out and good old Clint had shot everybody and was piling up the bodies on the back of a railroad boxcar, five or six deep, and was wandering back and forth with an abacus, counting up the $105,000 in reward money he would get for killing everyone, male and female, adult and child, in the whole movie, somebody in the projection booth screwed up gloriously and let the film break on him. Random letters and numbers flashed on the screen; then the screen went white.
Wally looked around. Nobody was yelling or stomping his feet or whistling. Nobody, as a matter of fact, was paying the screen the slightest bit of attention. There were two little black kids, about ten, zeroing in on a sleeping drunk: they were cutting the whole front of his coat away with a straight razor, getting at his wallet pocket. As he watched they removed the man's billfold and pulled out a thick wad of bills. The man slept on, a huge, jagged hole cut in his coat.
Down the way a well-dressed young guy in a cashmere sweater was on his knees, blowing a Mexican kid who was eagerly feeding his dick into the other guy's kisser with both hands. The Mexican was crooning softly to the other guy, who seemed to be too busy to talk. Just behind him he sensed some motion; as Wally turned to see what it was a girl's sandaled foot hit him on the neck. He looked back; she had both legs up on opposite sides of her chair and she was being banged in the missionary position by a kid with a straggly beard. As Wally watched the kid gave him a dirty look. "Hey, man, go find your own. You're screwing up my rhythm."
Balls, Wally thought. All of a sudden, just then, the lights changed. He turned around. The show had gone back on again, only this time it was a raunchy porno movie of the 1940s, he guessed. Maybe earlier: the film was grainy and cracked, and the lighting was primitive indeed. The leading actress-he guessed he could call her that-was wearing a kind of hairdo that had gone out of style definitively just before the Korean War had broken out.
She certainly wasn't wearing much else. A lot of leather goodies, but nothing whose purpose could possibly have been to conceal any part of her body. Her hands were tied behind her back with leather thongs; there were leather bonds on her upper arms, too, and a strange-looking kind of chastity belt that encircled her loins and barely barred entrance at all to her bushy-haired box. She had a great bod, Wally concluded. He figured it out on his fingers. She'd maybe be social security age by now. Jeez. The thought was a real bringdown.
Now, as the blaring, thoroughly dumb-sounding mambo music-Perez Prado?-came up behind them, the girl was joined on screen by this gigantic, stringily built black guy, wearing nothing at all but his socks and shoes. (Why did they always do that in the smut movies? Wally wondered. He'd been thirty years old before he'd got around to seeing a skin flick in which the guy took his socks off. He wondered idly, now, how many adolescents the custom had turned on to weird ideas about the proper way to screw somebody. He could just see an add in one of the skin mags now: Black Socks Club. Weekly swinging parties. No fatties, please... )
The spade, now... Jeez, Wally had seldom, even in the highly democratic Army where you showered with thousands of guys, with pricks of all sizes, seen anything even remotely like the putz on this character. Limp, it hung down to his knees. True, as the old derrick chugged slowly upward at the sight of the gagged and bound girl, thongs on her arms, chains on her neck and ankles, her kneeling form simply oozing submissiveness and a silent pleading for pity and compassion, that big putz didn't seem to be getting much longer than it had been when it was soft. But then he'd had a hell of a head start to start with...
Now the spade yanked the girl's gag out of her mouth, and her silent screams and pleadings now told Wally for the first time that this was a silent film, with added sound (Mambo Jambo, the quintessential Fifties burlesque number; he'd seen more broads undress to that tune than anything). The black slapped the girl once, twice: not hard, just enough to snap her head back and forth on her chained neck. And now-an evil grin on his face-he guided her white face to that gigantic, rampant, gleaming black rod.
Her silent screams grew presumably louder. She wept: she pleaded: she rolled her eyes. This was probably shot in some crummy tank town in Alabama somewhere, and the standards of acting weren't much. Not that it mattered a damn to the producers of the flick; their idea had been to get her screwed, get the lot of it on film, and get the hell out of town before some cracker cop forgot he'd been bought off and decided to bust the whole goddamn mess.
None of it was to any avail. She was going to get had, and in the face, by that gigantic tool, and she had better get used to the idea. The spade pried her mouth open. Another Southern touch: she had bad teeth. Well, they were gonna get painted, along with her tonsils. Better relax and enjoy it, girlie. Wally settled back, rather enjoying it all on the whole. So far it hadn't affected him erotically at all.
That changed. Next thing he knew the big boy was jamming that thing into the girl's mouth. And she wasn't one of your big-mouthed types: it was plainly all she could do to get it in there at all. Her cheeks bulged: God, was he going to try to get anything but the head of that amazing rod in there? It would be impossible. Her eyes bulged out; she was choking...
Then, somehow, that changed too. Wally, who'd began noticing a certain warm feeling in his lap, looked on with growing interest (that wasn't the only thing that was growing, he noticed; his pants were bulging mightily now) as the spade jammed it farther in. She pushed her head forward some; her throat straightened out a little more. He grinned and jammed it farther in. She straightened out a little more. God, it was impossible. It was totally impossible. He was going to get that whole goddamn pole inside her like that. He was gonna jam it inside her mouth all the way until his black belly nestled against her white face.
The thought of it was getting Wally all hot and bothered. He reached down, covertly, quietly, and massaged his overheated rod...
Something was bugging him. He was trying to put it out of his mind.
Up on the screen the spook slowly and insistently worked his monstrous tool farther and farther down the gradually more extended throat of the white girl. Her rouged lips closed tightly around his thick shaft. She gagged once; her eyes were streaming with tears...
Goddamn it, why did he keep thinking about big old, peroxided old, bemuscled old Boobs Belaski?
Not that she was old. She had to be... oh, perhaps twenty-eight. And she was obviously in the prime of life, the pink of health... and only just now beginning to approach her sexual prime. Her belly was flat and muscular; her thighs were ballbusters; those amazing tits were as firm as they'd ever been, and as pretty as a pair of big tits could be. She had a healthy appetite for sex... and, more to the point, a very healthy appetite for Wally Burger's own putz, and had given him the most sweetly loving blow-job he'd ever had in his life only a couple of hours earlier. It had been, unlike this thing they were doing on the screen, your warm and sensuous kind of head job. One where the chick really wants that thing in there, and really wants you to shoot off inside her like that, and happily drinks your juice down like it was some sort of delicious mixed drink, the kind of $4.50 monstrosity chicks liked, with a pineapple, three Maraschino cherries, and something goofy like a guava or a papaya in it.
How the hell could he have hurt her like that? Jeez, she was stuck on him.
Up on the screen the spook started screwing her now; his big tool was all the way in, but there was a little play there to work with-she was one of your real sword swallowers-and he let his ass move slowly back and forth, moving an inch at a time in and out of her kisser; now he was getting hot; now he grabbed her roughly by the hair and rammed it home; now, still spasming, he pulled it out and shot the rest of his greasy off-white wad (Jeez, spades's stuff was the same color as white guys') all over her face, rubbing it into her lips and eyes and cheeks with the end of his rod...
Wally grabbed dinner at a pool hall, shot a couple of lame games with himself, oblivious of the open sneers of the rack boy (rack boys always shoot much better than you do), and, at dusk, wandered out onto the street. After a certain amount of aimless lollygagging around he hailed a cab and headed out for the ball park.
As he arrived the crowd was already coming in. He went to the bathroom and changed, separate from the girls. This time he put on the full road uniform, with the grey pants, the cleats, and everything. And, adjusting his cap at a rakish angle, he walked slowly out onto the field. Several of the girls passed and gave him shyly subdued smiles: he nodded back, not cracking that deliberate stone face of his.
The Broads stepped up first. The Okie pitcher, Selma Whitmire, was a skinny chick with a high kick and a load of stuff on the fast ball-she had varieties that sank and jumped and even showed a slight tendency to slide but no control to speak of. Wally laid down orders to everyone not to hit the first pitch unless he gave specific signals; then he settled down on the dugout bench and watched Rita Randazzo step up to the plate.
Rita had paid attention to Wally's instructions, it seemed; she, like most of the rest, had given him a hurt smile as she'd passed him and had even said "Yes, sir" when she'd been told to try to work the Whitmire chick for a walk. Now she took two pitches, watching them closely, for balls and then took a short choppy swing to deliberately foul the ball back into the stands. Jeez, Wally thought, I didn't know she could do that. "Fisher," he said.
"Yes sir?" Willie Mae said, at his elbow.
"Look how she's cutting at the ball."
"Mmmm... I think I see."
"That's more or less what I want you to do. Not exactly like that... oh, there she goes again. Hey, damn it, that's good baseball. Look what she's doing. I told her to work the babe for a walk, and she's taking me seriously. She knows that walking the first batter is gonna put the pitcher off her feed since she's sensitive about her lack of control. So instead of taking a big cut she's deliberately fouling off everything that looks like a strike. Look, that's what I don't want you to do: swinging down on the ball like that. Now it's okay for her to do that out there. She's trying to foul the ball back up in the air. See? Now you, I want you to swing straight, just meet the ball. But that little choppy swing... that's what I want. Okay?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Burger."
Rita worked the count to full, then fouled off three straight strikes before getting her walk. Just like old Luke Appling, Wally thought. Good girl, Rita.
With Rita on first. Wally watched the Whitmire girl's stretch, and decided Rita could take a chance. He flashed the steal signal... and was delighted to see Rita feint on the first pitch, then, on the second, get the jump on second even before the ball had left Selma Whitmire's hand. "Show Boat," at the plate, helped things along by swinging lamely at the pitch, missing a mile but delaying the catcher's throw. Rita went in standing up.
"Show Boat" lined to short on the next pitch and Rita, seeing the ball shoot on a direct line to the Okie fielder, held up. But on the next pitch she stole third, pretty as a picture, and the Broads had a runner in scoring position.
"Good stuff," Wally said in a gruff voice. "Now let's play some fucking baseball." He flashed a signal down to Boobs Belaski, coaching at third, and Boobs gave Annie Tompkins the hit-and-run sign. Annie took a high fastball, then stepped prettily into an outside pitch and lined it neatly to short right; Rita came in easily, Annie held at first, and the Broads pulled ahead 1-0.
"Duck soup," Wally said to himself...
Well, it wasn't. They shelled the fastballer out of the box with a rally in the sixth, taking a 4-1 lead. But Wally's big skinny knuckleballer lost control an inning later and walked in a run after filling the bases on a couple of infield singles and a hit batter. He went out and talked to her, but she wasn't ready to start yet; she'd tired considerably, and Wally yanked her. The reliever, a lefty named Alice Traynor, was a striking high-yellow girl who had exactly one pitch-blinding smoke-but Wally figured that had got Ryne Duren through a lot of ball games, it might just as well work here.
It worked here. Traynor blew 'em down and retired the rest of the Okies one at a time, finishing strong with a pair of ninth-inning strikeouts-and the Broads had themselves a ball game, 4-2.
Wally gathered them all together after their showers. They looked at him, silent, obviously happy about the game but unwilling to say anything that might in any way incur his wrath or even, for that matter, attract his individual attention.
"Okay," he said. "That was good baseball. You babes can play damn good ball. That ain't the point. Can do and do do ain't always the same thing, as we saw last night. Well, that statement pretty much wraps up everything I got to say. We ain't gonna be a can-do ball club. We're gonna be a ball club that wins the hell out of the game, and wins the hell out of the pennant, and wins the hell out of the playoffs, and day and night, drunk or sober, dressed or buck nekkid, we're gonna act like winners a hundred percent of the time. That means all those damn mean rules I laid down before... they're still in effect, and they're gonna stay that way. And if any one of you steps outa line, I'm gonna come down on her like a shit storm. And if there's any one of you that's in trouble, or needs any help, come tell me about it: I ain't gonna let anybody stay stuck long if I can help it. That's it. The main thing is we're gonna win. Okay?"
"Yes, sir!" they said, as if with one breath.
On the way out the door Wally spotted Boobs Belaski and gave her a tight smile. She gulped, smiled nervously, and looked away, her face reddening. Wally felt like absolute shit. Then he shrugged and turned to the next group of girls-second-stringers, all, including the pretty redhead he'd admired so in the Shirts and Skins game. "Hey," he said, "anybody like to give me a ride home?"
"Sure," said the young catcher, Milly Carlson, stepping out from behind the group. She smiled happily up at him; she'd performed well behind the plate and had even drilled a nice single in the second inning to move a runner to third. "We're all going in my van. You don't mind a truck seat?"
"Hell, no," Wally said. He climbed in; the rest of the girls got in back of Milly's Econoline van, and crowded up behind the two front seats as Milly eased her way onto the driver's seat.
There was still a little traffic backed up at the gate; they pulled up behind a Buick and waited. "You done good," Wally said to Milly Carlson.
"Gee," she said. "Thanks. It's so seldom I get a chance to work except in doubleheaders. I was beginning to think I'd never start a single ball game around here."
"Gee," one of the girls in back said. "I still don't think I'm gonna get a chance. Not with everybody playing like that."
"Aw, come on, now," somebody else said.
"No, look. You're backing up Willie Mae. You have a chance. She's having a little trouble with the new stance and grip. You might very well break in while she's working at it. But me? With Rita playing like that? Stealing three bases in one night? No way."
"Well," Wally said, "nobody's got his job sewed up. Everybody better snap shit out here, or she gets bumped down by the competition. This ain't any sentimental-valentine type of ball club any more. You outplay the first-stringer, kid, and you get to be first string. That's what them damn warm-up games are for, to sort out the potatoes."
"Gee."
"Well, look," somebody said (Wally thought it might have been the redhead). "Look at Milly."
"Oh, that's not because I did great," Milly said.
"Nope," Wally said, "It's because Boobs did bad. But you deliver like that every night and Boobs is gonna have to work for that damn job of hers one week from now; she ain't gonna get it back just by applying. Nobody gets anything around here just by showing up."
"Gee," that same voice said from the back. Wally was sure it was the redhead. It had to be. She had a nice voice, too: soft and gentle. Add that to that nice bod and those beautiful red nipples and that luscious patch of bright red cunt hair (it gave him a twinge in his rod every time he thought of her out there running the bases bare-assed, with that pretty pussy gaping down there between her legs); oh, yes, you had a real number all right. Wally wondered if he'd ever get around to dicking that. Possibly, if he didn't alienate them all first, playing Mr. Toughass Manager. "Gee," the girl said again. "That's encouraging. That's going to make us really get out there and hustle for you, Mr. Burger."
"I hope you do," Wally said, and his heart was in it. There were two meanings to the word hustle. "I sincerely hope you do."
He was dreaming of the redhead. In his dream she'd sneaked into the sack with him and was snuggling up to him and rubbing those pretty tits up against his chest as she kissed him-oh, so softly, oh, so sweetly-and grabbing his thigh between hers to rub his hairy leg up against that glorious red bush of hers, an action that made her wriggle with delighted pleasure. "Oh, Mr. Burger," she said. "Oh, you feel so nice. You feel so good." And her little hand snaked down there and grabbed him by the dong and squeezed, just gently enough, just strong enough, and her hand with its soft skin was like velvet on him, and his dick leapt to immediate attention, and... Hey, damn it. This was real. This was all real. He wasn't dreaming; he was awake.
Who the hell was it there in the bed with him?
He reached over and turned on the soft little Tensor lamp he always carried in his suitcase on trips. It was pointed down toward the ground, the better to keep glare out of his eyes. There was enough light there, though, to make out who it was. It was the redhead, all right, and-he peeled the covers off their naked bodies to see better-she was, as he'd remembered, even more luscious in life than in his dream. His eyes went, bang, right to those three wonderful patches of gorgeous red on her smooth body. Delightful. The nipples were so red you'd almost think they'd been rouged. The pussy hair was incredibly lovely.
Her face fell, looking him in the eye. "Oh," she said. "I... I hope I'm not in trouble."
"Why should you be in trouble?" Wally said. "You heard the rule just like everybody else did. The rule was no playing around before the game every day. What somebody wants to do after the game's over is none of my damn business. Unless," he said, putting a proprietary hand on her snatch and slipping a finger inside, "unless someone wants to make it my business."
"Oh, Mr. Burger," she said, wriggling a little around his questing finger.
"And what the hell. If we've won the goddamn ball game... well, anything goes. Almost anything."
"Almost?" she said in a small voice. Her hand stole to his cock again and squeezed; then, finding it already hard and rampant, it stroked him deliriously, up and down. "I mean... am I... well, you know... being too pushy?"
"Hmmm," he said. He kissed her, slowly, with plenty of tongue in it. "You know, damn it, I've been itchin' to do something ever since I first laid eyes on you."
"What?" she said shyly. Her legs were clamped tightly around his hand.
"Eat that nice little red muff of yours," he said. She gasped. Her quim quivered around his hand; she shuddered, right then and there, into an orgasm; she was wet and sticky around his hand. "I... Mr. Burger... oh, my God... I can't help it... I... "
That did it. Wally threw the covers off. Then he stepped down to the floor, holding one of her pretty ankles in one hand. Then, grabbing her by her delicate little feet, he pulled her forward toward him until only her upper torso and ass were on the bed. He pointed her naked little legs at the ceiling and spread them wide, a hand on each thigh.
What he saw when he did this, and looked down, and knelt between her legs at the foot of the bed to bring his face down to meet that lovely confluence of her silky thighs, was a culinary delight fit for Brillat-Savarin or Scoffier. Her delicate little cunt, with its soft, wet pink flesh, was spread open before him like the insides of a precious and sweetly molded flower. Around it curled the tight red coils of that heavenly red pussy hair, like copper in the sunshine, polished, gleaming.
He buried his face in it and hungrily sucked her long, thin, protruding clit to his heart's content, as she pressed the pillow to her pretty mouth to stifle her own piercing screams of pleasure. When she could take no more of this he turned up her ass where her snatch had been-kneeling on all fours before him in the motel bed-and fucked her behind for a good quarter of an hour until she could come no further. She sucked him dry, and finally fell asleep with his cock in her mouth, exhausted...
SEVENTH INNING
The chicks took the plane to Phoenix. Wally took another flight.
He had a reason for this. He wanted to keep a certain distance from them as much as he could. It made sense under the circumstances. If the girls-like Mary Vane, the redhead- wanted to sneak in for a little canoodling after the game was over each night, that was okay. Hell, it was okay if they wanted to screw the groundskeeper or throw lezzie parties, so long as they waited until the day's game was in the bag. He didn't give a damn as long as they obeyed the rules he laid down. Rules were important. Procedure was important. A team ought always, every minute you've got 'em, to know where it stands with you, he was thinking. This was true whether you ran a loose sort of outfit the way Sparky Anderson did at Cincinnati or a real chickenshit Ralph Honk kind of operation. Either way would work, so long as the rules were obeyed and they didn't change to suit the wind or the personalities. People appreciated discipline. No, that wasn't the way to put it. They appreciated knowing where everything was at.
That was the way Wally was going to run things, he had decided. That was the only way it was going to be. There was going to be one chief and one only. Everybody else, regardless of whoever they were, were going to be Indians and no mistake about it. And if this entailed, at the early stages of things, staying a little aloof from everyone, well, that was the way it was going to be.
Wally's plane let him off too late for him to make the afternoon workouts, so he went in to town and had a nice Mexican meal, with savory pork cooked in chiles, tomatillos, and coriander. It was so nice he allowed himself a couple of rich, funky Mex beers with it, despite his usual rule with himself never to drink before a game. He'd eat a little Sen-sen and just not get too damn close to anybody.
The evening papers were in-Jesus, Phoenix had a damn big newspaper; it was the size of the L.A. Times. He picked one up at the counter and ate it with his coffee and flan-the sweet custard Mexicans liked. He looked in vain for notice of the Women's League. For all the notice the papers took of it, it might just as well not exist. How the hell did they draw, then? For God's sake, the crowds so far had been better than the damn Tulsa Terrors had been drawing for the last couple of months. And both men and women seemed to be turning out, too, and they seemed to be going home happy with the buck or two they'd spent on tickets. Particularly, damn it, when the chicks gave them a good ball game, with good pitching, smart hitting and base running, and lots of hustle.
Suddenly Wally stopped reading and stared at his coffee cup, his eyes going out of focus.
He was thinking.
Let's see. The Broads had a 154-game season, plus playoffs. Tickets... oh, average 'em out at two bucks a head; they'd probably run more than that but it'd give him a guesswork figure. They'd been drawing around six thousand a night. Make that five, now, to keep on the conservative side. Now, keeping in mind that you had overhead to think of... and that couldn't be all that bloody much, since his own contract had to be the best one on the club, and there were only twenty-five fairly low-income chick ballplayers to consider other than that...
Jeez. The gross came to over two million.
The Broads' salaries would come to an absolute maximum of half a million.
Rentals, charters, all that jazz wouldn't eat up a hell of a lot more, flying on DC-3s and playing hind-tit schedules in other people's ball parks. Maybe half a million.
That left a million bucks' clear profit. Of which Boobs and Brenda had fifteen percent between them.
And what the hell would this goofy league do if it ever got some decent promotional talent behind it? Somebody forceful, dynamic, brilliant.
Somebody like himself.
Boy, what he wouldn't give to be able to do something with this crowd? Jeez, he'd have 'em playing in halters-brief ones-and short shorts. He'd have the best looking ones on each team do Playboy spreads. He'd have Women's Lib do interviews with 'em. He'd ballyhoo every series until the press could no longer ignore 'em. He'd have 'em up for discrimination if they did. Federal court orders, the whole shtick. And he'd give the audiences the most flamboyant damn baseball you ever saw-and all of it being played by beautiful dames in skimpy outfits. He'd have to have uniforms designed specially, to show off as much as you could and still be supportive and protective. He'd...
Oh, boy.
First he'd have to make his mark here. He'd have to make the Broads simply blow down the competition and sweep into the finals, and mow 'em down there too. He'd have to make Wally Burger the best-known name in the racket. He'd have to have 'em so interested in anything Wally Burger had to say that when he took his proposal to the owners, they'd be listening open-mouthed, ready to roll over and write checks.
This was a goddamn gold mine.
First off, they'd have to stop acting like this was the minors or something. Goddamn it, it was the majors for women. And that meant you'd promote it that way. It'd cost some advertising dough to change their image, but not as much as you'd think. You'd have the women's movement on your side, and while they'd be bitching about the skimpy uniforms on the one hand they'd be lobbying for more promotional copy about the girls on the other. It'd be a two-edged sword, to be sure... but it'd work in their favor, he was sure of that. No way in the world he could lose by it.
Of course, for these and other favors he'd have to be voted a piece of the action. And a drawing account. And a nice visible position near the top of the league hierarchy. And...
Jeez, it was a nice dream.
But not an impossible one. And it could all come true. He could wind up with the whole thing in his hands if he played his cards right.
First he'd have to win the pennant...
But that night wasn't their night. It wasn't that the Broads played badly; they played just fine. The Phoenix chicks just played better. The Broads went down 2-0, having failed to shove the runners across against a tight Phoenix defense and some fine pitching. Several times during the evening Wally, sitting on the bench, stole a covert glance down the way to see Boobs Belaski sitting disconsolately, chin on her hands, looking out onto the field. Wally looked at those bulging biceps and thought of the punch their batting order was missing. But damn it, it was a matter of principle.
The next night it was Brenda's turn again, and Brenda was magnificent. She shut out the Phoenix babes on four hits, only one of 'era out of the infield. She didn't walk anyone, and nobody made any errors. That hitch in her stretch, the flashing of the signal for the changeup, was gone altogether. The Broads edged in a run in the eighth to ice the game, 1-0.
The next night it was Maggie Lorimer, the lefty, and she blew Phoenix down with fast stuff the way Brenda had done on curves. And this was memorable as the night Willie Mae Fisher started hitting. Swinging with that short choppy stroke on the choked-up bat, she popped two delightful Texas Leaguers back behind second for hits, expertly managed the hit-and-run by slicing the ball to short right the next time up, sending the runner down to third, and, in the ninth, crossed everyone up with a perfect squeeze bunt that bounced and spun like a pool ball after a masse shot and just lay there, squirming out of the fingers of the Phoenix third baseman. No play anywhere. Wally was tickled as hell.
And once again, during the night, he looked down the bench to see Boobs Belaski sitting, looking like she was ready to cry...
Next night he started the tall knuckle-baller, Harriet Stover, again, and this time he got a complete game out of her. Her control was superb, they couldn't get a loud foul off that fluttering pitch of hers for four innings, and in the meantime the Broads had done all the damage they needed for the night with a mighty six-run rally in the third and a couple of added runs in the next inning. After the big rally Wally put in, cautiously, a few second-stringers to give them a shot at the real thing. One of these was Mary Vane, the redhead, and she did his old heart good by two sparkling plays at second and a clean double down the right-field line before he yanked her for a pinch-runner. The Broads were rolling.
The series stood at two games to one, Broads' favor, when Wally decided to start Kitty Culhane, a cute, dark-eyed Black Irish righthander with a pert little pair of boobs that jutted out like door-knobs from the Broads' tight-fitting uniforms. He hadn't seen Kitty work before this except in practice games, and he wanted a better look at her. Well, baseball-wise, anyhow. The rest could wait a bit... although, damn it, he'd been taking to sleeping alone again, and he was beginning to get horny again, and those cute little knockers of hers were a real temptation...
Kitty started strong and had herself a 1-all tie by the seventh, when she started to tire. Wally let her put two runners on, then yanked her and put in Alice Traynor with her smoke. That was it. And in the top of the ninth Willie Mae placed a nice double down the left-field line, right where she wanted it, and Winnie Bagley singled her home, and that was it as Alice Traynor set 'em down one-two-three in the home half of the inning.
They left Phoenix for the home stand looking pretty damned good.
On his own, separate, plane, Wally amused himself working the kinks out of his bankbook. His first check had caught up with him in Phoenix, as well as his separation dough from the Tulsa club. He'd mailed off both checks to the bank and, the way he figured it, had a cool eleven thou in the kitty to last him a while. Fine. If he were going to be working out of L.A., he'd need some reliable wheels. He'd want to work out the best compromise he could on where to live, too. Get all the dumb details out of the way, then get down to the nitty gritty.
They had a day off in L.A. He called a practice session in Dodger Stadium, put Brenda in charge of it with very specific instructions to work them hard and enforce all the rules (Somehow he trusted Brenda a little more now that he knew she had a piece of... what was it? She had a cool $75,000 a year just from owning a chunk of the company), and took a day's grace to get himself settled.
He found a reasonable pad in Glendale, in the middle of the smog and within maybe twenty minutes of the ball park, and, renting a Hertz Pinto, went shopping for wheels. He wasn't choosy. In a matter of hours he'd settled for a neat little Volvo wagon and, checking the Hertz car in, drove it home.
He'd called in and given Brenda his address, so it wasn't much of a surprise to find out that someone knew where to find him.
The surprise was that the person who'd managed to find him was Boobs Belaski.
"Hey," he said. "Ain't there a practice today?"
"Uh... yes sir," she said in a subdued voice as unlike the booming hearty voice he was used to as it was possible to imagine. "B-but Brenda... she gave me the day off. I..."
"Well, okay," Wally said. "It ain't a game day anyhow. Come on in. If I left Brenda in charge and she said something, it's on her back, ain't it? I mean, if she screwed up and told you something that wasn't okay, that's her neck, isn't it?"
"Gee," she said. "I didn't think about it. I could go on back. Maybe I better do that. I... "
"Naw, hell," Wally said. "Don't mind me. I'm just in a cranky mood. Look, I bought a six-pack of beer. I'm gonna have one. You wanta fall off the wagon? It's Lite beer anyhow, less calories. It's okay."
"N-no," she said, her voice timid and tentative. "But lemme open yours. I'll get a glass, these places is furnished just like the one I used to have. Here." And she took the matter out of his hands. In a moment they were sitting on the couch, looking out the window up at Eagle Rock, only from there it sure didn't look like any eagle.
"Well," he said, tipping his glass at her. "Here's to the rest of the season." He drank. She smiled. "Look," he said. "I know you know that I didn't mean nothin', benching you like that. I figured that if... well, if I laid down the rules and showed everybody right off that I wasn't screwing around when I said something, well, they'd get in line. And look. They did."
"Well... yes sir."
"But you realize it didn't have anything to do with you. I mean no hard feelings and all."
"No sir." But her eyes were large and cowlike and hurt, and it wouldn't take very much at all to shove her over the edge into tears.
"And... and in a couple of days the suspension will be all over, and you'll be back bustin' the fences for the Broads, and everything'll be just like it was before, only... look, Belaski. I got plans for this club. I got plans for this league. Plans that are gonna make you a rich cookie one of these years, if I have anything to say about it."
"Yessir?" Something was doing it. Her eyes were brimming with great big tears. He hoped she wouldn't cry. He couldn't stand to see a woman cry. Something like that was always so goddam demoralizing.
"Yeah," he said. "This league is a potential fucking gold mine. It's already gotta be makin' money hand over fist. If it ever got some decent promotion behind it, if somebody was to come in and reorganize things, and start gettin' the league into the papers and TV news, and... well, hell. It'd blow everybody's mind. You wouldn't believe how attendance would pick up."
"Y-yessir," she said, biting her lip.
"And that's just the beginning. Attendance figures, I mean. After that... appearances on the tube, spreads in the men's magazines, you name it. All kinds of spinoffs, stuff that you'll be makin' money off of both as a player and participant, and as a part owner of the club. How does that sound?" He had a sip of beer.
"I... that sounds just fine, Mr. B-burger. I... I reckon that's just fine."
"Hey," he said. "Cheer up. Everything's gonna be back to normal. Sure it is. Just a day or two. If it wasn't for the fact of makin' sure nobody thinks I'm gonna fudge on a penalty once I've laid it down... hell, kid, you'd be back in the lineup tomorrow night. As it is you'll be in the day after."
And the next thing he knew there she was on her knees on the rug before him, weeping buckets of tears into his lap, hugging his legs. And she sounded as though her heart was fit to bust. These were not the sniffly kind of tears: her weeping came in deep, racking sobs. Wally patted her on the head ineffectually; he wasn't quite sure what to do.
Then somehow it came to him. Sure he knew what to do. Sure he did.
Gently he picked her head off his lap and made her look up at him. Then he kissed her very softly on the forehead. "Hey," he said. "Hey, it's all right."
Her eyes didn't seem to think so, from the look of them. They were big and red and wet. Her mouth was down in the corners. She looked up at him; blinked; then looked down at his lap.
Then she was unbuttoning his pants and pulling them back from his lap; working the cloth out from under his behind; standing him up to get his pants and shorts all the way off. Then, with her kneeling, him standing, she took off every stitch of clothes he had on. Kissing him softly and gently and lovingly all over while she did this.
When she had him stark naked she bent before him, still fully clothed, and took his now strong and stiff cock softly between her lips, opening her wide mouth all the way to receive it. And her soft-touching fingers reached down to caress his balls, gently, until the skin on them got all crinkly and parchmenty, and they shriveled up into a tight little ball just below the giant stiff cock she had in her mouth.
Then she took it out of her mouth, kissed the little drop of wet off the gleaming end of it, and held it gently to her soft cheek. Holding it that way, she looked up at him with eyes as soft as a doe's. "Oh... Mr. Burger... I... can I? Please?" Wally swallowed. God, she was so damn sweet about it he was almost ready to cry himself. He nodded, unable to speak.
"Oh, good... it's so beautiful... so pretty... look how nice and hard and big it is... I never had anybody in my mouth who had one like this. It's so nice and thick and long... the head is so big and round..."
She was getting him so hot he wondered if he could hold it for long once she had him in there, particularly after he'd hit the hay by himself a few nights running. He didn't have much chance to bring up the subject, though; before he had the chance she took his rod in her face and began a passionate and lusty sucking motion that surprised him, ready as he was to get blown. She went at it with a savage attack that... oh, that reminded him of a wild animal tearing into a piece of lean red meat. It was amazing. It was... jeez, it was exciting.
And there they were right in front of the open window, which gave out onto a walkway that ran the whole length of the second floor of the apartment house, and the light on inside so that every motion they made would be visible to someone standing just outside the window. And there he was stark naked-she'd even taken off his watch-and here was this absolutely beautiful great big muscular dame down on her knees before him like she was his damn slave or something, lustily sucking him off with loud slurping sounds and a back and forth motion like a cross-cut saw, both her big strong red-nailed hands feeding that big red dick of his into her bulging cheeks and red-lipped mouth, and she was acting as though it was the greatest damn honor in the whole goddamn world to be there in that subservient position, doing this subservient sort of thing to him, eating that big thick dong of his like a Polish hot dog, with the fat head of it filling her mouth up like too much to eat.
And what should happen just at that very moment but his new next-door neighbor should come up with her arms full of grocery bags, and the key to her apartment in her mouth, and she should pause before his window and try to maneuver her hand up to her mouth so she could get the key in the door and let herself into the room next to his...
Wally gulped.
And the girl fumbled, and braced the groceries on the wall, and reached.
She was tall and slim and chic-looking, with dark hair and eyes and an aristocratic, Audrey Hepburn kind of face. She wore a light sweater thrown over her shoulders, over a little halter top. Neither item of clothing did much to hide the delicately flawless lines of her upper torso, with its perfect arms and shoulders and high, firm bosom (in one of those soft, "natural" bras that Wally was coming to admire so: they showed hard nipples through just like the chick was naked, but didn't let the boobs droop.) Her eyes were on the door; her mouth was delicately open; there was a sweet, mildly annoyed expression on her face...
... And then she happened to look up, and into Wally's room.
And see, be it noted, the same fully clothed, gorgeously voluptuous, exquisitely submissive big old girl on her knees before stark-naked Wally Burger (Hell, he wasn't even wearing black socks), sucking his cock to beat the band and loving every minute of it. (Coming, too, dammit! Visibly and audibly! There! Again!) The key fell out of the girl's mouth. The groceries slipped, half supported between her body and the wall, down her body to her knees, then to the floor. Her hand went to her mouth. She looked like she was going to faint... but her gaze stayed right there, riveted to that big thick cock Wally was feeding into Boobs Belaski's big friendly solicitous mouth.
Boobs looked around, out of the corner of one eye. She took his cock out of her mouth and knelt before him, looking out. Then she kissed him on the end of that straining putz and smiled at the girl. She waved: hi there. Then she motioned the girl to come inside.
The girl didn't move. Boobs got up. She went to the door and opened it. Smiling warmly, she pulled the dark-haired girl inside, hugging her gently all the while. "Look... it's all right, honey... the more the merrier. .. this here's Mr. Burger... I'm Boobs Belaski... you come over here and get comfortable... "
The girl seemed to be in some sort of catatonic state, unable to talk, unable to respond except passively as Boobs slipped off first her sweater, then her little halter to bare a sweet, delicate, soft-skinned pair of pretty breasts to the air. Then Boobs slipped the girl's skirt to the ground, leaving her there in her high slingback pumps. These Boobs took them off her, gently, one at a time, kissing the girl's instep each time.
"I... I've never... " the girl started to say. But Boobs Belaski cut off the stranger's words with a gentle and insistent kiss on her thin-lipped mouth. She then moved the girl back to the big double bed that beckoned in the next room. Wally followed, getting hotter by the moment...
Now, in the bedroom, Boobs laid Wally back on the bed, his big dick standing up nice and tall. She leaned over and kissed it. Then she moved the passive girl onto the bed, astraddle Wally's legs, facing him. She pushed the girl forward. The girl's eyes opened wide; she couldn't seem to defend herself from Boobs' aggressive actions. And now, at last, she began to struggle as Boobs shoved her delicate dark-haired snatch in position to sit down on that rampant spear of his.
"Oh, God," she said. "No. I... I can't. It's too big, it's "
"No it ain't, honey," Boobs said. "It just looks like it's too much to take. You'll take it all. And how you're gonna love it once it's in there. You betcha. That's gonna make you feel like nothin' you ever felt before. Like you're all full up inside. Make a real woman out of you, it will. Just you watch. Here." And without further warning she fitted Wally's big dick to those lovely, dainty little quim lips and eased the girl forward onto Wally's dick, first an inch at a time, then-the girl shuddered and cried out at this-shoving her behind forward so that her whole weight rested on Wally's pelvis and the giant tool slipped all the way inside.
"Oh, God!" the girl said. "I... I can't stand it... " She could stand it all right. That first sensation of feeling herself impaled by that huge, thick stick of his was enough to shove her over the edge into a shuddery orgasm in which she whined and moaned and, finally, screamed in pleasure and pain.
Boobs, looking on, clapped her big hands in joy. She was just about to move out of the way when Wally grabbed her by that big thigh of hers. "Hey," he said. "Where the hell are you going?"
"I... I'm going out... "
"The hell you are," he said in a hoarse voice. 'Take off that dress."
She stared. Up on top of his belly, the dark-haired girl, her eyes closed, was in some far-out world of her own, rocking slowly back and forth on him, grinding her crotch into his, moaning softly, whimpering as another orgasm approached.
"Goddamn it," Wally said. "Get nekkid, Belaski. That's an order."
Her hands went tremulously to her belt. She said "You really think...
"You bet your ass I think," he said. "Take 'em off. I want to see some cunt in one minute, cunt and tits and bare ass, or I'm gonna whale you black and blue."
"O-okay." She began undressing, her eyes on him. There was that strange, wide-eyed, almost virginal, little-girl look on her face as she almost shyly took off every last stitch of clothing with dainty moves, hesitating demurely at every item. When she stepped out of her panties at last the contrast between that sweet-little virgin act (if indeed that was what it was) and the grossness of her naked body, with its coarse bush of dark pussy hair down there, was downright amazing. It got him so hot he started flexing his behind, pumping his dick upward to meet the strokes of the dark-eyed girl riding him amidships. "Come here, Belaski," he said roughly, grabbing her by the wrist.
"But... Mr. Burger... I... "
"Come the fuck here, woman," he said. "Sit on my face. I been wanting to eat that ass of yours out ever since I met you."
"Oh, God," Boobs Belaski said, her eyes full of tears again. "Oh, God... "
When she moved up on top of him, though, Wally stopped listening to her for a while. He was wholly absorbed in the business of licking out that amazing, big, gross, hairy, aromatic snatch before him. It was marvelous; he buried his nose in it, licking juices up from deep inside her big and lusty body. And when he finally grabbed her surprisingly dainty and petite little clit between his lips and started sucking it and licking it, she went wild.
"Oh, Mr. B-b-b... Oh, Wally darlin'. Oh, God, that feels so nice, honey... oh, it's so good U. OH! OH, GOD! OH! OH, OH, OH, OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD... " The hoarse cries coming from Boobs Belaski triggered the dark girl again. Wally sucked all the harder. And now the fire was in his own loins, and he was not only licking and sucking on Boobs, he was shoving his hips strongly up at the slim girl's crotch, and all three were coming... coming...
Game time found Wally busy with strategy matters, though, and he was out on the field working the girls out, trying out a new infield shift, right up to the time the umpire came out to dust off the plate and tell them to get to work at the serious business of playing ball.
He didn't notice anything wrong until Brenda had set the Atlanta girls down one-two-three in the visitors' half of the first. Then, as Rita stepped up to lead off the home half, he saw what was missing. No third base coach. "Boobs!" he hollered. "Hey, Belaski!" But there was no answer.
They had to call time. But when they did, and when they went back to her locker to see what had happened, all they found was a note taped to the locker door.
Boobs Belaski had left the team.
EIGHTH INNING
The season shifted into high gear right about then, and Wally didn't have much time for recriminations. The Broads swept the hard-fought series with Atlanta, but Miami suddenly got hot too. And while the Broads managed no better than a two-all split on their first trip to the Florida city, the two teams started burning up the league. The Broads murdered Dallas-Fort Worth and allowed San Antone only a single win. Meanwhile, Miami was tearing up Oklahoma City, Phoenix, and San Diego. And all of a sudden there were these two tough teams-as tough, Wally concluded after giving the matter some thought, as some World Series matchings he'd seen in recent years-and then there was the rest of the league, grubbing around far behind.
Not that the season was going to be duck soup for anybody. No way. There were still eight teams in the league, and all eight could cross you up at any time (as they discovered when they hit the Okies again and learned the Panhandle girls still had a lot of life left in them. The Broads lost that stand, 8-1).
But there you were: as the season wore on into mid-August, with Wally pushing them and enforcing his no-sex rules, the Broads were playing terrific baseball. Willie Mae Fisher was hitting a cool .340-she, who'd never beat .280 in her life-and running the bases like a frightened deer. The tall knuckle-baller was straightening out and had finished three straight games, and Brenda was definitely going to win twenty, maybe even twenty-five, games before season's end if she kept up her present rate. Rita Randazzo was going to pass 200 hits easy, and was keeping the pitchers in a constant state of agitation (and the fans pleased no end) by her crazy stunt of fouling off all the pitches she needed before she either got a pitch she could hit where she wanted it or could draw a walk. "I don't really care which," she said to Wally. "S'long as it gets me to first and moves the runner down."
The fans were getting out, too-maybe a bit more than usual. Maybe the word-of-mouth business that was effectively all they had to draw on was getting the word out that there was a terrific battle going on in the Women's League for first place, and that anybody who missed it would be really missing something of value. Wally started totting up figures as they announced attendance figures night after night. By mid-August they were averaging nine thousand fans a game. Wally wore a secret smile the rest of the evening he figured that one out.
There came the day, too, when the L.A. Times sent one of its feisty, women's-libby little girl sports writers down to have a look at the Broads, and she did a piece on how they were all being exploited by nasty old men who made them do sit-ups and run around the field all afternoon, and all that jazz. It would have been a sort of no-contest item - win a few fans among the lezzie crowd and the college cunt, lose a few among the male fans - except that the chick brought a male photographer with her, and the guy was pretty straight, and the Broads bowled him over. He got a series of pix that looked like pin-ups, and Wally, when the libber wasn't looking, even slipped him into the clubhouse after the game for a couple of fetching shots of daintily exposed female flesh-Mary Vane sitting in the whirlpool bath, her red hair piled prettily on top of her head, her shoulders nudely peeking out of the hot water; Brenda almost flashing him some tit from behind a towel. The shots looked terrific. The Times even let him run a couple of them.
That was just the beginning. The word started getting around. Playboy sent a man down. They did a spread on the club-lots of shower pix, which the Broads had a lot of fun doing, and a centerfold spread on Brenda. Wally knew damn well the spread wouldn't get into the magazine until the Hot Stove League session that winter, or even until next year. But that was okay. Next year was when he planned his big move anyhow. He chuckled to himself and started counting the dollars flowing in. His contract would be up for renegotiation first of next season, and Brenda'd already told him she planned to put him up for some stock in the club and a big raise (how big would depend, she said, on how they finished, first or second). He was so pleased at that that when the guy from Hustler magazine came by he even let the little second-string shortstop (an adorable little piece of jailbait) pose for some split-beaver shots as long as she told everyone it was her idea. Penthouse, eager for a spread that would compete with the one Playboy had put together (it was already famous in the magazine field even before it appeared), asked for something strong; Wally gave them two innings of Shirts and Skins in living color, and once again Mary Vane was a big star. They also took quite nicely to Barbie, with her shaved snatch, and Lupe, who-on film as in life-exuded a funky south-of-the-border charm that had the photography crew wiping its brows during the brief game.
And all this time the girls were chaste as virgins-right up to game time. Then, with the game on ice, Wally let them do as they chose.
And the fans started really coming in. One night in the third week of August they played in Los Angeles for fourteen thousand.
Those were fair to middling figures for male baseball. Wally decided. The stands actually didn't have that half-empty look anymore. And now he took to going out just before the Broads took the field on home games and doing his own rough count of the crowd every night. The practice proved more and more satisfying.
And less and less did he find himself, at odd times in the game, with the Broads out in the field and nothing for the manager and the benchwarmers to do, reaching into his pocket and pulling out that tattered, much-handled little scrap of paper:
...Mr. Burger and all my friends- I reckon you folks will do just as well without me. I seem to be a bad influence. Best of luck, gals, and tear 'em up. Love, Boobs...
Every time he did pull it out and look it over, though, it made him feel lousy, just lousy. Damn it. Women. Why did they have to do these things? For Pete's sake, nobody wanted her to leave. Nobody wanted her to take off like that. She would have been back in the lineup in a day or so anyhow. He'd look at it again, and sigh (remembering other things about Boobs Belaski, be it known, than her prowess behind the plate or at bat). But then other matters would attract his attention and he would wind up shelving the matter until later. And later. And later...
By September the two clubs were neck and neck, with Miami having a percentage-point advantage due mainly to playing less games. They had a lot of rain down there in Florida.
By September 8 they were still even, more or less. Wally's girls were a half game behind, but would make that up in a day or so; they had a set with Atlanta coming up, and Atlanta had fallen off badly. And with the Broads playing five games this series (including one makeup game) and the Miami chicks playing only four, the Broads stood to at least pull even this week if they could sweep the series-which seemed entirely within the realm of possibility.
Then the cork popped out.
Atlanta threw a tricky little righthander with a crazy sidearm motion at them; she set down the right-hand side of the Broads' lineup without so much as a loud foul. Ordinarily Wally would have had enough left-handed hitters to make up the difference, but he'd had a couple of minor injuries to contend with.
And, of course, Boobs Belaski was gone-Boobs Belaski, who would have made mincemeat of this chick.
Spilt milk, Wally Burger. Atlanta two, Los Angeles one.
The second game was the one where Wally lost Brenda for the rest of the season. She uncorked a sharp-breaking curve and the shoulder joint just went. So did Brenda. The doc gave her a rest until spring. She cried and cried; Wally's sympathy included taking her to bed after the game, but it didn't seem to cheer her up the way it usually did. The Broads kicked that one too, 4-8. Brenda stayed stranded at nineteen wins for the year... and Wally? Had he lost his pennant? He started bringing a pocketful of cigars to each game and chewing them to a frazzle. He caught himself snapping at the Broads' questions. He suspended Mary Vane, who was giving Faye Fielding a run for her money at second, when he caught her eating a brownie in the dressing room. No matter that she was five pounds underweight at the time, or that he could see that easily (she was naked as a jay when he caught her); discipline, as the Broads had come to know, was everything around the Los Angeles clubhouse.
Not that it did a bloody damn bit of good. The Broads blew the series four games to one. The Miami girls split their set. You may have blown it, Wally told himself sourly in the cab one night. He'd invited Brenda to come by that evening; after all, she could break training now, being out for the season. She'd given him a nice, if noncommittal, smile at the time, but now, as he poured himself a drink, turned on the late news, and started to wait for her, he knew-suddenly, for no reason-that she wasn't going to come. She wasn't going to make it.
He was right. An hour passed.
And after the second drink Wally faced up to the fact that he really didn't give a damn. What he needed right now wasn't Brenda, as nice as she was. What did he need?
Maybe it was time to bring it up and think about it, nice and long and hard.
What he needed was... well, success for one thing. He needed to win that goddamn pennant. What he needed was... well, dammit a job in one town, he didn't care where but Los Angeles would do just fine if you came right down to it. He needed an office to go to every day and do his goddamn work and come home at the end of the day. He was so goddamn tired of traveling that he could taste it. He was so tired of airplanes, and taxis, and motels...
Yes, and maybe of baseball every day. That was a real possibility. He'd been traveling since he was sixteen, playing with crummy clubs down in Georgia that got from place to place on a beat-up old school bus, then breaking into the high minors, then ten years in the majors, then a gradual decline managing crummy clubs again, and now this... and now he had a big chance to get out of uniform and to management-executive business management-and damn if it didn't look like he'd blown it. Him and his goddamn disciplinary measures. What a stupid son of a bitch. And that wasn't all that he had needed, either, or all that he had blown. He'd blown his chances for...
There was a knock on the door.
He poured himself another snort before going to answer. When he did there was Joleen, the pretty dark-eyed, dark-haired young divorcee from next door. "Hi, kid," he said.
"Come on in."
Her eyes had a downer sort of look in them.
"I... Wally... I was lonely. I've been crying. Could... could I come over? And talk? Anything... anything but sitting at home alone to think about the mess I've made of things..."
"Oh, sure, kid," Wally said. "Come on in. Have a scotch. I got the same damn kind of mood brewing, myself. Maybe we can punch each other's cards." He gave her a warm hug, and a fatherly kiss on the forehead. "Come on over here to the bar. I been feeling like the champion dumb son of a bitch of the world just now. Maybe you can talk me out of the feeling. I'd sure appreciate hearing you try."
That turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. She blinked back her tears and smiled up at him gratefully as he handed her a nice stiff scotch on the rocks. "How did you...?" she said. "Oh, Wally. You're a dear. You know that, don't you? You knew that the one thing in the world I wanted tonight was to be needed somehow... even if it's to cheer up somebody who's feeling as sad as I am."
"Sure," he said, sitting down. "But I got selfish reasons. I got my head all screwed up. I don't know what the hell I'm up to or where the hell I'm at. I tell you, kid, I never felt so goddamn confused in my life."
She slipped her pumps off and curled her bare toes into the rug. He could actually see that scotch doing its thing inside her; the wave of something like peace passing over her face as the booze hit home. "You know, Wally," she said, "You're a wonderful man, and a sweet and masterful lover, and I'm going to be glad I've known you. But you know there's no way the two of us could get to be more than friends, is there?"
"No, hell," he said, smiling, and tipped his glass to her in a heartfelt salute. "You're too much like my first wife. Sexier. Prettier. But you're too much like her. All we did was fight. Reason you an' me don't fight is we got too much sense to be anything other than neighbors. Maybe a little heavy breathing now and then. You're a hell of a girl that way."
"Right on the nose," she said. "And you remind me of Herb. And it... it broke my heart when we had to decide that it wasn't working. I was ruining him. Where I should have built him up all I did was tear him down. Something kept making me snipe away at him. It was just... oh, programmed into the relationship is the way he would have put it. He ran a computer firm and he always used these damn machine phrases. It had nothing to do with Herb. Or with me. It was chemistry."
"Yeah, I understand. That's why, after a month or so, all we are is pals, cutie pie that you are. Give me a week of sharin' the sheets with you, cookie, and I'd be bouncin' coffee cups off your head. Yeah, and comin' home an hour later every night."
"That's why we can talk to each other. Oh, Wally. I'm so glad I came over." She finished her drink in one big gulp and went over to pour both of them another. "You... you said you were feeling confused?"
"Yeah, cookie. Look, Joleen. What do you I think of Boobs? The big chick?"
"Oh, I love her, Wally. She's folks. She's like a big sister of mine. Why? Is she your problem?"
"Yeah, God damn it. I think... I think she's in love with me. And I think that's why she's disappeared."
"Disappeared? But I don't under... "
"I used her for an example. I benched her for disciplinary reasons. And she was hurt by that, all the more since what she'd been doing that was bad was screwing me. Wally the manager. You see, I had this rule about no sex before the game was over every night, and..."
"Oh, Wally. And now she's hurt, and she's run away. She must feel awful, the poor thing."
"Me, too, kid. In a way I feel worse than she's gonna feel. It... it's me that's to blame, dammit. And I hurt her. Like a big goddamn sap... "
"Oh, Wally," she said. She sat on the other end of the couch from him, her feet tucked up under her. Now she reached over and put a comforting hand on his thigh. "Don't blame yourself so. She's a big girl. She can take care of herself. She... "
"Joleen. dammit, it ain't that I think... I think I'm stuck on the broad."
"You mean...?" She squeezed his thigh. "Wally. You're sure?"
"The whole thing, kid. It's that goddamn chemistry again. I mean. I've had two wives. They were both built like you: slim and fashion-modelly and with nice pretty delicate features like yours. I never had a big tough gal as strong as I was. I never had a big gross coarse-grained mama like Boobs, with big ball-busting thighs and muscles in her arms and legs that showed. I woulda thought that would turn me off. Instead... well, for Christ sake, kid, here I am on this crazy girls' ball club, surrounded by twenty-four gorgeous cunts paradin' their bare asses at me around the clubhouse and every damn one of 'em wantin' to get me in the sack any time I got a spare fifteen minutes to kill... and all I can do is sit around dreamin' of that big dumb happy-go-lucky Polack with her big wide-open kisser and her easy-to-please ways."
"Wally. I think you're hooked. But can it just be that... well, you want that championship, right? And you know you stand a better chance with... uh... Boobs playing for you..."
"I thought about that. And no, I don't think so. I got visions of the broad behind a stove, wearin' an apron, for Chrissake. The whole schmier. If she was suddenly to materialize wearin' a damn little housewifey dress over there in front of the stove, flippin' pancakes or somethin', I wouldn't be able to control myself. I'd run over an' flip up her dress, standin' right here where she was, and fuck her up the ass until it came out of her ears. And I wouldn't let her out that door again even if it was to break Henry Aaron's home-run record."
"Oh, Wally,". she said, smiling at him. "You're a nice guy. I hope you get her back... but Wally, damn it, you're making me... " She caught herself. "Go on."
"Joleen," he said, taking another snort, "I could even tell you the moment I knew I hadda have her around. It wasn't even the day I met you, nice as it was. It was earlier. We were out drivin', see, and we stopped by the side of the road, and... aw, damn it, she gave me this marvelous head job, and I swear, kid, I never had anything like it. It was so sweet it was enough to break your goddamn heart. I mean, she... aw, hell, I'm boring you."
"No, you're not" And, indeed, there was this interested gleam in her dark eyes. She leaned forward, breathing deeply.
"Well, damn it, I'm used to your-run-of-the-mill head job, you know? Nice an' mechanical. You can get it just as good at any massage parlor on the block. Or, maybe, at best, somethin' where... oh, the chick has fantasies, S and M stuff, you know, and she's workin' out her fantasies on you and you're workin' out yours on her and it's all very sexy and nice, only, you know, there ain't no soul in it, it's a couple of people kind of disinterestedly jackin' each other off. I mean, I'm dreamin' of rapin' this mean bitch in the kisser and really degradin' and humiliatin' her, you know..."
"Yesss... "
"And all the time she's havin' this Behind the Green Door fantasy, you know, being violated, forced, by this mean guy, only he's doin' it kind of nice, you know, not hurtin' her..."
"Yes-s-s, Wally, honey, go on, baby..."
"Only what it really is is you're a couple of nice guys, maybe, but you're just gettin' it off on each other, you know? And there ain't no sentiment, you know... "
"Sentiment, yes, Wally... "
"And this wasn't like that, Joleen. She was... oh, there down before me like I was some kind of god she was adoring, and like it was the greatest honor I could possibly do for her to let her take my dick in her mouth and kiss it and lick it and suck it, and finally to let it come off in her mouth, and she took it like it was something sweet and precious, like drops of gold, and she didn't want to miss a goddamn one of them..."
"Oh, Wally, you're making me so hot... "
"Joleen. Oh, sure, baby, why didn't you say so?"
"Wally, the first time I looked into that window and saw her doing that to you I... I envied her so. She was so obviously... enjoying it... getting turned on by it... "
"Here, here. There's a nice girl. Down on your knees, like so... "
"Oh, Wally... talk to me while I do it... tell me how to do it to please you the most... talk to me, Wally. Oh, I'm so hot..."
"Okay, hon. Now... reach up and take my cock in both your hands, very gently... see... it's all soft and limp now... what you want is that nice feelin' you get when you put it in your mouth limp and small, and you know that it's what you're doin' with your lips and tongue that's makin' it get hard in there for you... yeah, like that... slip it between your lips... don't be afraid..."
"Oh, Wally, I've never done this with a man... help me please you, Wally... oh, it's so big and thick even when it's soft. And it's going to get even bigger, isn't it?"
"Sure is... "
"And... and I've got to be able to take it in me when it does? Oh, Wally, I don't know if I can do it. I'll try... and I'll do everything I can to please you, honey... here... mmmmm... "
"Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, baby, that's good, that's so good... hum, like that, I can feel it all the way into my balls and up my ass when you hum on my dick like that... yeah... now... now, you see... it's gettin' thick and hard in there... and it's you that did it, because you wanted it to... look, you can see and feel and measure the results you're havin', the effect you're havin' on me, no way in the world that that can be faked, kid, it's real and you did it... okay, now, it's nice and large in there now. You can run your tongue around it in there.. okay, slip it out then and lick it like a lollypop, all around that big round hard head on it... you want to get to know all the really sensitive places... now there's one... feel me twitch whenever you do that? Yeah... and down there, underneath. The whole underside is very sensitive... yeah, kiss it a little, real soft, all around the ridge... Now Joleen, put your hands up there and... oh, kind of caress my balls all over... you'll be able to tell when you're having some effect there, too... you'll know because my balls will shrink up... it's just a tight little ball there... a tight little... the balls get smaller. Or seem to anyhow... the skin on 'em contracts up until there's just a tight little ball there... a tight little ball with crinkly skin... see? See how it is? Yeah. Oh, that feels so nice, so nice, cookie. Now, you want to reach up and stick just the head of my cock between our lips... yeah... and maybe let your teeth touch it, right at the ridge, all way around... yeah, gentle like that... oh, that's nice honey... that's so very nice... yeah, that's great... now reach your hands down and grab my cock by the handle... yeah, like that... both of those pretty little hands of yours... oh, baby, you just don't have any idea what a sexy sight that is now, you want to jack me off into your month... back and forth... yeah, baby .. I just like that... oh, man, does that ever feel nice... now you want to start suckin'... yeah, that get you hot, don't it?... yeah, yeah... suck harder and harder... now let your head bob back and forth on it... take more of it inside... more... oh, baby, I'm gettin' so hot I can't stand it... I can't just take this passively anymore... I gotta do somethin'... tell me whether you mind.. I just shake your head no, nod it yes... okay, yes... did I get you hot talkin' about fantasies?... yeah, I did, didn't I?... You're havin' fantasies, nice Marilyn Chambers dreams of your own, is that it? Yeah, I thought so... okay... okay, cookie, I'm gonna fuck you... just the way you want it... I'm gonna fuck you in the mouth... I'm gonna... oh, you're comin', are you?... well, I ain't gonna stop just for that... I'm gonna fuck you nice and hard... right in those pretty little lips of yours... just the way you want me to... and you're gonna love me for it... because it's somethin' you always wanted a guy to do... only they'd never do it the way you wanted them to... well, we will now... you're my helpless goddamn slave, aren't you?... And I'm your lord and master... and I'm gonna fuck you until I've had my own pleasure, and I'm not even gonna ask if you like it... it don't matter a damn to me if you like it... I'm just gonna get my own pleasure... and shoot off in there... and you're not gonna spill a drop of it... you're gonna swallow all of it, and you're gonna like that hot salty stuff so much it's gonna make you come just to eat it... you're gonna come to love it... you're gonna like sucking a guy off as much as you like havin' a guy in your box... and you're never gonna look on the whole business with loathin' anymore, are you... because it's so beautiful... and so nice... and it makes your muff so hot... and you can think of the fuck I'm gonna throw you if you do this right... the way I want you to... and you can think of the marvelous job I'm gonna do eatin' your box right after, now that it's all juicy and wet and runny and soft and tingly... oh, I'm gonna suck you off... I'm gonna lick your quim so hard... so long... and you ain't gonna be able to stand it. But right now that's the least of your worries. You're thinkin' of that big thick hard cock pistoning into that nice little virgin mouth of yours, back and forth, in and out... it's the first time... when I shoot off into your mouth you won't be a virgin there anymore... you'll be had, baby... you'll be had and used and fucked in the mouth, yeah... and you'll love it... and now... and now I'm gonna... throw it to you hard... and you gotta open up your throat... 'cause I'm gonna fuck right down the back of your throat... and you're barely gonna hold it... and maybe you'll gag for a second... but then you'll open up all the way... and then it'll be easy... and I'll fuck you all the way and shoot off down there and you'll be a woman, a woman all the way, cookie... here we come... I'm gonna open you up... I'm gonna ram my cock home inside you... I'm gonna shoot off... here I come... "
But he had his eyes shut as he came. And the face his mind's eye saw, down there on her knees sucking him off like that, was not Joleen's but Boobs Belaski's.
NINTH INNING
It was corny. It was a little too neat to be true. If you'd been editing Thrilling Sports Stories, vintage 1936, and somebody had sent in a story that read like that, you'd bounce it back to him with a sarcastic letter.
Because here it came right down to the wire in the Women's League that year, with Miami and Los Angeles, at the two opposite ends of the continent, still neck and neck, and damned if the deciding series wasn't the one that matched the two teams up in the last five games of the season.
It was five because of another one of those rainy days down Miami way a month or so back. That made it a concluding, deciding series in which you won three games, you had yourself a season. And Wally, thank heaven, had a home stand to head Miami off in.
Duck soup? He'd stopped using that phrase again. It might... it just might have been easy enough with some power in the middle of the lineup. But Wally didn't have a No. 4 hitter, and he'd lost his star righthander for the season. It was going to be a toughie, because that damn Miami team was hot this year.
The real trouble with Miami, for Wally, was the same trouble that Boston encountered with Cincinnati in '75; there was somebody at nearly every position that could lick you. Not only did they have terrific pitching, with a deep staff led by a big Diesel-dyke bruiser named Stuff Starbuck (the kind of pitcher that left her catcher's hands bruised and raw after every game). They also had a .345 hitter named Sugarbush Smith, three points above Willie Mae Fisher and her only rival for the batting title. They had a wiry little left fielder named Mamie Marcus at leadoff, and Marcus was pure damn hell on the base paths. She had forty steals already-a record in the Women's League-and had publicly announced before the series that she was going to swipe everything Los Angeles didn't have nailed down.
Worst of all, they had a cleanup hitter named Jo Naismith who reminded him of Boobs Belaski. At the plate (she had 30 home runs so far, and a hundred runs batted in) and elsewhere. Well, almost everywhere...
Watching the two teams warm up before the crucial series, Wally thought long and hard about the direction things had taken. He'd had his effect on the league; the owners had already announced their pleasure in the showy, flashy new manager with the smart promotional ideas, and had asked him to a special meeting set for a week after season's end.
Thus, well, he'd really have to fuck up now-get arrested for child molesting, stick up a bank-to lose out this season. Even if the Broads blew the championship he'd be ahead of the game.
But damn it, he wanted to win.
He wanted to be able to walk into that meeting with the whole schmier in his pocket with everything wrapped up. It'd give his negotiations with them a little added something. You always deal slightly differently with a success than you do with an also-ran.
The trouble was, he didn't see how the hell he was going to manage that. He had three good starters and a bunch of not-quite-readies; he had a good reliever and an on-and-off knuckle-baller to throw at them. Maybe he might make it on pitching. Maybe. If he got some heads-up baseball out of every chick on the squad. If every damn last one of 'em hit her present average... maybe. But it was a damn long shot.
Jeez, how he was going to miss Brenda.
He even missed her physical presence there on the bench. She was, after all, one of your real honest to God cutie-pies, as sweet and lovable a little girl as anyone would ever want to meet... and a heavenly tussle in the hay to boot. Her cheerful personality would have kept his spirits up enormously. But she was back in the East seeing an orthopedic specialist about that shoulder. There was a good chance she'd never pitch again.
Wally envied the lucky fella she'd meet on the bounce right then. He'd reassure her, and there-there-little-girl her, and he'd never have the slightest idea that she was on to him, was, in fact, miles ahead of him... and he'd spend the next fifty years getting led around by the nose so pleasantly that he'd never notice he wasn't wearing the pants around the house. Hadn't he, Wally Burger, been one of her more spectacular conquests, for Pete's sake? With that little show in the window every night, and finally seducing him into signing that contract with the Broads? Oh, she'd be a real little jewel all right.
But she wouldn't be his. There was that damn chemistry again. There was a button inside him that Brenda, with all her undoubted attraction, did not push. There was a switch that simply did not get thrown. Not by her. Not by anybody else on the team.
Damn it to hell, he wanted that big Polack.
He wanted Boobs Belaski so bad he could taste it. He thought about her night and day.
After his little session with Joleen she had come over every night for the rest of his home stand. She was, after all, a lonely young divorcee and had physical needs that weren't being met-not, she said, by the sort of asshole you meet in bars, or in folk-dance clubs, or in singles clubs (where, as she put it, all you had to do was meet somebody once to figure out why he was still single). They were all pooper-outers, every man jack of them. Die-on-the doorstep types, or mama's boys sent to do a man's job.
Well, it wasn't any problem for Wally to get the old boy up, night or day, with somebody as cute as Joleen. But she'd been dead right about the bad chemistry between them, and it didn't take long for her to start bitching at him again, or for him to call a screeching halt to that part of the deal. They slept apart next time he came into town, and stayed pals that way. She even fixed dinner for him once, and she'd call him to ask him his opinion of some creep she was going out with (it was always negative).
Meanwhile, Wally was being kept busy as hell.
The big series opened with Maggie Lorimer against Stuff Starbuck-the two teams throwing their best at each other. Maggie made a hell of a try at it, setting the Miami girls down on one run and four hits. Starbuck was unbeatable that day, though, and the Broads couldn't buy a run all day. Miami, 1-0.
Harriet Stover stepped in next game and evened the series. It was the best game Wally'd ever got out of the stringy knuckleballer, and he gave her a big hug afterward. She shut the Miamians out on six hits, all of them piddling little weasly stuff. Willie Mae Fisher pulled slightly ahead of Sugarbush Smith in batting with a three-hit afternoon, knocking in the winning runs in the fourth with a sliced double right where the other team couldn't catch it in a purse seine. 3-0, Los Angeles.
The third game was a hitting contest, and Wally's girls lost it decisively, with no punch in the middle of the lineup. Miami, 7-5.
The next day Miami, with the chance to ice the series and the championship, blew it under pressure. Willie Mae Fisher squeezed home the tying run in the eleventh, as Rita Randazzo dazzled the sixteen thousand fans present with her base-running. She pulled to within two steals of Mamie Marcus, who had so far been a big washout. Los Angeles, 6-4, as redheaded Mary Vane walked to force in the winning run.
Then it was time for the big one. The big son of a bitch. And it was Starbuck against Lorimer again, and although Maggie was throwing her heart out, Wally was beginning to miss Brenda again. Brenda was smarter. She'd stay about two moves ahead of the Miami manager all the way. She'd...
Aw, damn it. Wilkins to Belaski. Here he was, down to the big game, and if he'd had a pair of bimbos like those two in those crucial spots up the middle he wouldn't have a worry in the world. He'd manage from the nearest bar, and phone in instructions every three innings or so. But now? With Mamie Marcus primed to steal on Milly Carlson's weaker arm. With no Boobs Belaski to sock the shit out of the ball there on the No. 4 spot? With no smartass little righthander to junk-pitch Miami into a snit? He wasn't so sure...
Just before game time on the big day Wally called the Broads into the dressing room for a little chat. "Look," he said, "I ain't gonna give you no Knute Rockne talk. I mean, you babes live out here. You've already heard Ronald Reagan." That got a laugh. "But I do wanna say that whatever happens, if you chicks play tonight anything like the way you've played the rest of the season, I'll be happy. On that level... well, don't get me wrong. I wanta win. I wanta win so bad I can taste it. We'll all be a damn sight richer if we do. But God damn it all, even if we lose I'm gonna look back on this season as one of the best I ever had. I've managed men's teams I wouldn't even let on the same field with you." That drew a lewd giggle. "No, dammit, I mean for baseball. Hell, I've played on one team in the majors that you broads ought to spot three runs if you ever played 'em. There ain't a goddamn one of you I'm mad at. There ain't a goddamn one of you I ain't proud of. We've had some tough losses... Boobs and Brenda, for instance... but that's the breaks, kids. I think you can win anyhow. Milly, Maggie's motion is gonna give Marcus some advantages on the base path she shouldn't ought to have. You gotta make up for that. Throw on the bitch. Make her stay close to the bag. Keep it low and outside to Naismith and pitch that Sugarbush ginch in close on the wrists. And if anyone wants to take out that goddamn second baseman with a spike in the leg you won't find me bitchin' at you afterward. Now get out there and tear 'em up... "
And when they trooped out on the field, he all of a sudden felt lonesome as hell. He looked down the bench. There was nobody there but Faye Fielding, who'd lost out to Mary Vane at second. He had kept her on as a pinch hitter and pinch runner. He smiled at her. "Faye," he said, "think of that goddamn championship bonus." She gave him a sad smile. After a while she went back into the dressing room. He was sure she'd be having a little cry. He wanted to go comfort her... but he knew she wanted more than anything to be alone right now.
Miami opened strong. Marcus singled, stole second and third. Then it looked as though she were going to die there as Maggie got the next two on strikes, pitching Sugarbush Smith exactly right, exactly the way he'd told her to do. Jo Naismith, though, found a piece of a low, outside pitch and drilled it to right, bringing the runner home. Then Maggie, still looking sharp, picked her off first to retire the side.
Los Angeles evened things up in the second as Milly Carlson-how well she was doing, subbing for the missing Belaski!-started a rally with a double and got singled home by Maggie Lorimer herself-Maggie, who hadn't had a solid hit in her last six games! Wally smiled and settled back on the bench. That was the last of the rally, though, and things stayed where they were for another two innings.
Then, as Los Angeles took the field in the fifth, Wally looked around and saw Faye Fielding at his elbow. "Mr. Burger," she said. "There's someone to see you, back at the dressing room door."
"Uh?" he said. "Well, okay. Take over. And... uh, Faye. Get Willie Mae to shift more on Naismith. Make sure she gets the message. Okay?"
"Okay."
He got up and walked back through the dressing room. When he turned the corner, facing the door, there was... he didn't believe it...
"Belaski," he said.
She was mostly bare-assed. She had one leg into her uniform pants, but her torso-with those magnificent knockers-was gloriously naked. He looked her over, open-mouthed, as she dressed. "Howdy, Mr. Burger. Brenda wired me that you'd need me. For this game, anyway. I couldn't not come when she said that. Not even knowin' how you feel about me."
"How I feel...?" Wally leaned back against the lockers, catching his breath. "Look, I "
"I'll just play this one game an' go," she said. "You fellers will do better without me."
"Who the fuck says anybody wants you to go?" Wally said now.
"Why, I thought... " the brow slowly unwrinkled. She gave him a wan smile as she zipped up the uniform pants. "Okay. I'm sure you all can use a big bat in there, anyhow." She pulled on her tight jersey over her braless, magnificent knockers.
Wally gulped. It was down-and-dirty time. It was time to make up his mind, once and for all. "Take off that uniform, Belaski," he said.
She stopped dressing. Her face fell. Tears rose again in those big eyes. Her hands went to her belt. "You... you don't want me to play?" she said, her lip trembling, her eyes full.
"God damn it, I want you to plop that big Polack ass of yours bare-assed down on that bench and get ready to get fucked so hard you can't stand it. I've had nothing but one continuous hard-on since you left, and it don't matter how many chicks I screw I can't really get it off with nobody else. I can go through the motions with all of 'em, damn it, but the only person I can really get to push my goddamn button is you."
Her mouth was wide. She let the pants fall. There she was in jersey (her nipples poking out like pistol barrels) and uniform socks and hat and nothing else, with that big juicy black bush jutting out down there like crazy. Wally was so horny he couldn't stand it. "Damn it, Belaski, do like I tell you."
"Uh, yes sir," she said, the puzzled expression on her face changing little by little to pleasure.
And the next thing he knew there they were on the bench, going at it like crazy. Her big bare legs were up over his shoulders, pumping away; it was the first time in his life he could remember getting screwed by someone wearing a baseball cap and high-stirrup socks. It was funny; it didn't seem to be a terribly odd feeling, now that he thought of it.
Matter of fact, he felt just fine. Just fine. Inside, she was like velvet... like a velvet glove that gripped his cock with a tight and elastic grip. Her ass underneath them was firm and round. He started getting his back into it now. She was moaning and groaning.
After a while Faye looked back down into the dressing room. She took a long look and licked her lips. Then she smiled, silently, to herself.
When the Broads came in off the field somebody asked, "Where's Mr. Burger?"
"Busy," said Faye. "Annie, get up there and get a hit. We're gonna win us a ball game."
In the sixth Miami pulled ahead. Faye went back and took a look inside the dressing room. It was cuddle and talk time, it appeared, and she was just about to ask advice when Wally looked up, lying there bare-assed in Boobs Belaski's tender embrace, and said, "Everything's okay, Faye. Get the fuck out there and win us a ball game."
Faye did a double-take. Win? Without Boobs? She gulped... but she went back out onto the field. When she did, she thought about things for the moment. Damn it, he had left her in charge... She pulled her hat farther down and strode purposefully out to the mound. Maggie looked down at her, apprehensively. "Maggie," Faye said. "Think you can make it?"
"I think so," the lefty said "Where's Mr. Burger?"
Faye gulped. "He's back in the dressing room fucking hell out of Boobs Belaski."
"Boobs? And... and she's not coming into the game? I..."
"Look, kid," Faye said. "I think he's tryin' to tell us something. I think he's tellin' us we won't need no goddamn manager. We don't need no goddamn Boobs Belaski. We can win this fucking game all by ourselves. And you know what?" Faye shot the lefthander a sharp look. "I think he knows exactly what the fuck he's doin'." She gave Maggie a hard, pointed glare. 'Don't you?"
Now it was Maggie's turn to gulp and stare and think for a minute.
"Hey," the umpire said. "You're holdin' up the game. Sing barbershop on your own time."
"Up yours, Shirley," Faye said. She turned back to Maggie. "You get my message, Lorimer?"
Maggie bit her lip. Then a hard glint came into her eye. She grinned a tough grin back at Faye. "You bet your ass I do, Fielding. You get your ass back there and manage. I'll throw the baseball. You kick those cunts in the ass and make 'em get me some runs."
"Right on," Faye said. "Glad we understand each other."
Twenty minutes later Faye poked her head back into the dressing room. Boobs, still naked, was down on her knees giving Wally the head job to end all head jobs. Bam, bam, bam. She could hear the slurps all the way to the door. "Mr. Burger," she said. "They got a run, we got a run. Sixth inning. We're down by one run. I wanta yank Maggie Lorimer for Alice Traynor."
"Thanks, Faye," Wally said. From the sound of his voice he was a million miles away. "Do whatever you think is smart. You're a big girl now."
"Okay." That was it for sticking her head in the door until the eighth, when, with Traynor blowing the Miami chicks down, Los Angeles came up and tied the score with one out and the bases full. Faye came in and gave him a quick recital of what had happened. He was down on his knees, his big cock buried in Boobs Belaski's asshole. Faye started salivating at the sight. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the game, telling him about it. All he said was, "Thanks, Faye. Could you close the door behind you?"
The rally died right there with the score tied, though, and Faye sweated out the visitors' ninth as Traynor pitched herself into a hole, then back out again. Milly Carlson, making up in guile for what she lacked in strength, threw Marcus out stealing third and got a big hand. Then it was the Broads' last chance before extra innings to put the game on ice.
Faye looked at the lineup. Fisher. Harris and Carlson. Boy, if there was ever a time when they'd miss Boobs Belaski in the catcher's position this was it. Milly was a good catcher and a sharp girl, but she sure wasn't any fence-buster. Faye wondered if Wally had gone crazy. Then she thought back to the last sight she'd had of him, with that blissful look on his kisser and that big round ass up ahead of him, all bent over for his attack, and Boobs underneath him groaning with pleasure. Yeah, she decided, he knew what he was doing. And that meant he trusted her, too, didn't it? He trusted her to do the smart thing, and win the goddamn ball game. "Willie Mae," she said suddenly. "You and Marcia both bunt. You for the hit, Marcia to move you down. That goddamn Starbuck can't charge a bunt. And I want 'em to pull that infield in so we can jam the ball down their throats. We're gonna win this one right here and now."
"Okay, Faye," Willie Mae grinned. Win or lose, she had that batting championship in her pocket... unless they let this thing go into extra innings and let Sugarbush Smith get a couple more times at bat. She went out to the plate with a stylish strut.
... And back in the dressing room Wally and Boobs were talking about crap like curtains and drapery. Wally would much rather have talked about cunts and rapery, but he was so happy he let her run on. She hadn't taken her little pill today, so they went back to nature's way of birth control, as she called it, smiling shyly, and she sucked his cock until he could come no more. They dressed, unhurriedly.
Just as Wally was getting into his sport coat there was one hell of a yell up front. The crowd went wild. Wally continued with what he was doing, tying his tie at a leisurely pace. Boobs listened, stepping into her shoes.
"What was that?" he said.
"I think Milly hit a home run," she said. "Anyhow, the rest of the chicks are hollering her name. And they wouldn't none of them yell like that for nothing less."
"Well, that's nice," Wally said. "What's for dinner?"
"But Wally, honey, don't you want to hear... "
"We'll hear about it on the six o'clock news, cookie. Meanwhile, what's for dinner?"
"Uh... what about stuffed cabbage?"
"Great. I'll get a jug of sneaky pete at the liquor store."
"Okay. And Wally, could we stop at the drapery store...?"
"You're sure you don't wanta hire some fag to do it?"
"Oh, Wally, if I don't pin them drapes down on my own hands and knees my mother up in Polish heaven will haunt me until I'm old and gray."
"Well, now, we don't want that. Get your purse."
"You eat Brussels sprouts?"
"Fresh or frozen. Fuck that canned stuff."
"Yeah," she said. "I bet you're a big eater. I bet you'll eat just about anything."
'"Yeah," Wally said with a covert leer. "Just wait until we got dinner out of the way and show you..."
TIME OUT
The Volvo had bucket seats. "God damn." Wally said, standing by the open door of the car, looking down. "Why did I buy such a dumb ass car? There ain't room for a pair of pigeons to fuck in. Look at that, Belaski."
"Wally, honey," she said. "Let's take my old car. I... I kind of got sentimental feelings about it I mean, you know, sugar?"
Wally hesitated. He looked at her, standing there, all happy and radiant, with the overhead lights from the stadium parking lot picking up highlights in that blonde hair. Well, hell, this was no time to play male chauvinist pig all over the place. Let the gal drive, Burger. "Okay, baby," he said. He locked up the Volvo and turned back to the big convertible, all ready to be chauffeured. But she had the keys out and ready to hand to him. The look on that big open face was exactly and evenly divided between innocence and lechery. He took the keys with a sigh.
Sure enough, they hadn't been on the freeway more than a couple of minutes before she had his fly open and his cock out in her big capable hand. "Oh, gee, darlin'," she said. "I never saw a man for gettin' hard-ons like you. It just don't want to go down."
With a sigh Wally iced the car down to well below the speed limit. "Hey, cookie," he said. "This is L.A. now, not some Crawdad City down on the Gulf. The cops around here eat up drivers like me like I was Christmas cookies. Take it easy, now. You get to messin' around with, ooops... " The car shot up to sixty-five. Wally fought the wheel back to the middle of the lane. "Hey, honey, now stop that... "
"But Wally, honey. It's so nice and thick and hard I just can't help myself. See?" the car shot back up to seventy; it changed lanes once, twice, neatly sideswiping a Corvair. Then it changed back again. "Why, Wally. I didn't know you was so sensitive... "
"Belaski," Wally said with a groan. "Not now."
But it was as if she hadn't heard a word. And now that blonde head was in his lap, and she was expertly copping his joint just the way she had before. On the freeway! With the top down on that damn ridiculous car of hers! With cars whizzing past! With him doing sixty! No, by God, seventy!
"Please," he said in a weak voice. "I mean... I... I ain't got the control over things that I..." But she got off a delicious slurp just then, audible even with the top down and the damn wind blowing. "Christ Jesus, Belaski... I mean, baby, any other time but this, and I... no, cookie... I mean, there's a time and place... there's... Jeez, Belaski, for Pete's sake... " They passed a big semi rig. The driver looked down at them and let out a hoot. Then he gave a couple of blasts on his steam horn that would have waked the dead if they'd been maybe two off-ramps closer to Forest Lawn. And, God damn his truck-driving soul, he stepped on the gas and pulled up alongside Wally. Wally was still weaving weakly to and fro. The car was doing seventy-five now. His hands were shaking on the wheel.
"Hooooo boy!" the trucker yelled. Wally, looking up with a miserable expression on his face, saw the driver and his swamper giving him big, gold-toothed, shit-eating grins to beat the band. "Sock it to 'im, honey!" the driver bellowed. He honked twice more on that atrocious horn.
"Goddammit," Wally said, "go away." But his words were carried away by the wind, carrying neither conviction nor authority with them. "Hey, damn it, you guys go mind your own business, huh?"
"By God, looky there, Grover," the driver said. "Just like she was eatin' a Popsicle. Oh, my lord, wouldn't I give a purty to trade places right now. Look at her chomp on that old dick there. Chow down, honey..."
Wally took a firm grip on the wheel and the car stopped weaving. But his legs were stiff as boards and there was no way in the world he was going to regain control of that goddamned gas pedal while all this was going on. The needle edged up closer to eighty. And of all times in the world for Belaski to start bobbing that blonde head of hers up and down like a sandhill crane looking for minnows, this had to be the worst.
The truckers whooped. "God damn!" the driver said. They passed a pair of Volkswagens and a family of Mexicans in an old Pontiac, the steam horn honking like crazy. "Hooooo boy!" the driver said. "Let 'er rip, lady!"
Belaski looked up just then and gave them both a big happy grin. "Hi, fellas," she said, her hand still cradling Wally's tool. "Don't mind us. We're just havin' us a little fun." Wally took the occasion to back the car down to the speed limit. The truck stayed with him.
"You damn right you are," the driver said. "An' we're just havin' us a little fun watchin'. Hope you don't mind, Lady."
"Lord, no," she said happily. "Why ain't you boys got you some nice beaver on board? Are you chokin' the chicken this week? With the wives back home and all?"
"God a'mighty, Grover," the driver said. "She don't talk like no four-wheeler."
"Ten-four," Boobs Belaski said. "Right on, good buddy. My daddy owns him a Peterbilt" She squeezed Wally's rod affectionately, without the smallest trace of guile. He felt stupid as hell sitting there driving the car, with his dick out and in her hand, with her talking to these dumbass truckers. "I can drive a truck like any man. I can outhaul you."
"Lord God," the driver said. "Don't tempt me. I need some haulin' right now, honey."
"Oh, I didn't mean that way," she said. "Garbage mouth."
"I'm sorry, lady," the trucker said. "That wasn't nice. It was just that... well... " Wally snuck a glance at him. He was staring pointedly at Wally's lap, where her rednailed, suntanned hand gripped his putz like it was a Louisville Slugger.
"Hey, God dammit," Wally said. "You guys a pair of fairies or somethin'? Go find some of your own."
"Go fuck yourself," the trucker said. "Half a mind to run you off the road and continue the conversation with the lady like you wasn't there or somethin'."
"Why, that isn't nice," said Boobs Belaski. Her voice was mildly offended. "That isn't nice hardly at all." A slow anger crept into her words. "You boys ought to apologize. This here's my fiance, and... " Just as the words started taking on a sharp edge she gave his rod a squeeze, and that ended the conversation. The damn convertible leaped forward like a damn Continental with a passing gear, and the truck was soon far behind. "Gee," she said, "I'm sorry, Wally. I didn't have any idea they was going to act that way."
"That's all right, honey," he said in a tight little voice. "But if you'd only... "
"I'll make it up to you, honey," she said. And just as Wally was beginning to slack off on the gas pedal, down she went on him all over again. The needle shot up past seventy-five. The blonde head went up and down.
They passed a cop.
As luck would have it, he was pulled over behind a little Triumph Spitfire, writing a ticket. He looked up, did a double-take, and stared hard after their car. "Oh, boy," Wally said. "Cops. Just what I need." He put one hand on the back of her head, intending to push her away. But somehow it wound up caressing the back of her blonde hairdo instead. "And me with my damn license out of date. Honey... honey lamb... that was a cop. And you can bet he's gonna radio ahead... "
"Mmmm mmmm," she said.
"Oh, my God," Wally said.
They passed a motor home, a motorcycle, and an old gentleman in a 1964 Dodge. They passed an Edsel, and a pear-gray Bentley bangass full of rock and roll types: the license plate, one of the California specials you paid extra for to get the number you wanted, said PUCYOU. Jesus Christ, he thought, Lucius Beebe would roll over in his coffin. Or maybe not. Old Lucius wouldn't bother to notice a goddamn Bentley, "MMMMM," she said.
"Oh, wow," Wally said.
There was another goddamn freak with one of those phony white-kid Afro hairdos, all puffed out to beach-ball size, driving a damn classic Bugatti that must have cost twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars. Jeez, the kind of people that got rich these days. Well, he and Belaski were gonna be pretty damn well-to-do one of these days, just watch.
If they lived that long... "Mmm MMMMMMMMM mmm," she said.
"Christ almighty," Wally said.
The car was doing something like eighty-five now, and while he had the wheel under control, he was sincerely hoping they didn't run into any tie-ups ahead. He didn't have any idea how he was going to get his feet off the Go pedals and onto the Stop ones. Things would do okay as long as nobody got in front of them and the road didn't curve. All it would take, though, to bring a complete disaster would be for the road to stop acting like rails under a choo-choo train. Then it'd be all she wrote, buster. That'd paint them all over the goddamn countryside like so much goddamn whitewash, and there'd be an end to a promising career as a baseball financier and semi-retired cocksman. And damn it, he was too young to die. So was beautiful blonde Boobs Belaski, and he had to do something about keeping the two of them alive right now. But what?
"M-m-m-m mmmmmm mmm mmm MMMMMM." she said. "Mmmmmm."
"Holy fucking Moses" Wally said, half miserably, half sinking into that suicidal horny reverie. They passed a Greyhound bus, the driver weaving crazily as he stared into the open convertible. They passed an Econoline van.
They passed...
Wally didn't believe it. He craned his head around and stared. Was it? Really? With that funny chunky forties body and those... those three headlights, one of them in the middle and able to turn with the car? By God, it was! A 1948 Tucker! The rarest car in the world! The car his father had lost his life savings on, dumping the Burger family into ten years of grubby poverty after it failed and Mr. Tucker went into the slammer... and there it was, a production model of the car that never got into production, for the love of Mike... the car that had ruined him... it was his goddamn birthright... surely if he'd had to lose all that dough and go from rich to poor for all those years, the goddamn car would make some nice compensation... If only he could slow down, and follow it... If only he could slow down and...
He looked around again. And there went the goddamn car off the ramp behind him, and he couldn't even see its license number, and it was lost to him forever... forever...
"MMMMMMMMMMI" said Boobs Belaski in his lap.
And suddenly the last thing in his mind was cars.
And gradually the convertible slowed down... sixty... fifty-five... fifty... forty-five... forty...
The cop busted him at thirty, straddling the yellow line. Thirty was too slow to be going on the freeway.
Happily, Boobs Belaski had everything all tidied up in the car by the time the cop came up beside the parked convertible on the shoulder and asked for his license. He confessed, feeling actually a little relieved. It'd be a nice fat bust and would cost him a wad, but what the hell, he didn't like to drive anyhow. He could have her drive him to work. For God's sake, it would keep her out of trouble if she had both hands full with the wheel. Maybe they could actually get someplace without getting into one of these scrapes again. That was the important thing, getting home safely without getting wiped all over the goddamn road. Jeez, he wanted to live to be an old goat. Here he was, dammit, successful all of a sudden, with a bright new future ahead of him, and a nice lovable big broad to take care of him and feed him and fuck him and everything, and he wanted to live to enjoy it all. He'd show those sons of bitches who'd said he was washed up, too, by God. He'd cry all the way to the bank. He'd wind up showing them what could be done with a damned improbable, unpromising sort of idea like girls' baseball. He'd put the damn thing on the map the way Billie Jean King and the Women's Lib cunts had put tennis on the map. And he'd make so much goddamn dough... well, hell, Boobs had an interest in the team already, and when the two of them got hitched...
Wow, he said to himself, watching abstractedly as she put the car in gear and edged back out into the traffic, Burger, you've come a long way in a few weeks, kid. Here you're talking about the goddamn altar again. You who weren't ever going to get stuck in the damn flypaper anymore.
He sighed. And he looked over at Boobs Belaski again, and suddenly remembered something he'd been meaning to ask her.
"Honey," he said, "What the hell's your name?"
She smiled her big gold-toothed smile at him before turning her eyes back to the road. "Why, Ethel, baby," she said. "I thought you wasn't never going to ask."
They stopped at the Safeway on the way home and all of a sudden Wally, following her through the store, pushing the damn cart full of the damn fresh vegetables and hamburger and eggs and kielbasa (for breakfast), found himself warmed and touched by the spectacle she presented: big tough two-fisted Ethel Belaski, her eyes soft with love, running around happy as a kid, shopping for groceries for her man, all of a sudden the big Polish citybilly girl all over again. She'd be back in frilly dresses again before you knew it, and full of blushes when he knocked her up and filled her full of little Krautheads and Polacks, and goddammit, she'd be just another housewife... Correction. Make that another rich housewife. But no matter. It'd all be as normal as blueberry pie, and they'd have their little secret about Mama having been a hot-stuff baseball player, and nobody'd ever know. Until she went out to help the kids with their goddamn Little League team, and showed them how to hit fly balls 400 feet with a fungo bat...
And then there was dinner.
She wasn't inside Wally's place ten minutes before she'd taken the place over completely: she tied a towel around her middle as an apron and went bustling around the kitchen putting things away, cleaning up the mess he'd made, putting things on to cook, and, in the middle of it all, managing to check out the new drapes for color. "Oh, darn, Wally," she said. "That ain't the right shade. I'll have to paint"
"That's okay, cookie," he said. "You do whatever feels good. Maybe we won't stay in this place. Maybe we'll want someplace new, that fits two people a little better."
"Yrrr," she said, her mouth full of pins. "Thrrtfs grrd." She took the pins out. "But while we're here I wants make it pretty for us. Wally, I'm gonna be the best little homemaker you ever saw. We're gonna..." She gave him a shy smile. "Well, it's all gonna work out real nice. Just you watch."
"You bet it is," he said. "We'll work out the rules as we go along."
"Okay," she said. Her smile was crinkly-eyed, happy as hell.
Wally got up and made drinks. "Rule one," ha said. "Unless we got company you don't ever get to wear any britches around here."
"Huh?" she said. "But... " Then the idea caught on. "Yeah. Yeah, I get ya." She put the drapes down carefully and skinned out of her panties, giving him another glorious view of that nice hairy quim of hers. She handed them over with a grin. "My lord and master. I won't even buy any more of 'em."
"That's a great idea." He handed her a high-ball. "Damn, Belaski " He stopped. "Hey, I gotta start callin' you Ethel, don't I? Well, that's okay, I... come here."
"Okay," she said. She stepped forward into his arms. He didn't fool around. His hand went right to that big black bush of luscious curly pussy hair.
"Oh, my," she said. "That feels nice." She opened up to let some fingers in. Then she closed her strong thighs gently around his questing hand. She was wet and squishy inside... ready and loaded for bear... and her clit was sticking out like a sore thumb. She rubbed those amazing boobs against him now; the nipples were hard and aroused. "Oh, Wally... "
"God damn," he said. He put his drink down; then he took hers from her and put it aside carefully. "Bend over, Ethel. Here. Turn around. I want to bang you like that. There... ohhh... oh, boy, that feels terrific"
"It sure does," she said. She was bent over at the waist before him, her skirt hiked up in back to bare that big muscular firm ass of hers, and as he slipped inside her snatch from the rear her bare behind nestled up against his crotch with such a cosy feel that he had to unbuckle his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. She felt simply marvelous against him like that. Who would have imagined that a big coarse strong chick like this would have such nice tender creamy skin-particularly on that big muscular ass? He rolled his dick around in there, happy as he could be. And sure enough, the old itch was starting to get to him again. She was going to get him hot again, and get him to come again, just as if he were goddamn twenty years old again or something.
"Jeez, Ethel," he said, moving his rod back and forth slowly. "You sure are some piece of ass."
"Yeah, ain't I though?" she said from down there. She was supple as hell; she had her hands around her ankles now, and seemed as comfortable in this position as any. "Hey, darlin'. That feels wonderful. Fuck me nice and hard. Will you, baby? Get your back into it?"
"Won't I just." He grabbed that big lovable behind with both hands and started pouring it to her. She spread her legs a little more, moving her feet apart so he could get his legs between hers and start socking it up at her from below, giving her good hard wallops in the fanny each time. He kicked one leg free from his pants and dug his feet into the pile rug. Jeez, why did people ever wear clothes anyhow? They always got in the way. You just had to take them off again when you wanted to fuck. And that was a highly over-rated experience anyhow. After all. nobody ever gave a good goddamn about the tease part of a striptease. You went there looking for snatch. If the tease were any good at all it would be okay by itself and the chick could keep her damn silly little pussy-warmer on, and those stupid pasties, and you'd still enjoy it. But you didn't. If she stopped there you'd get so pissed off you'd want to throw things at the stage, and sometimes, if the comics were bad enough, you did. No. What you came there to see was that magic moment when the lady flashed you some goddamn beaver, and how much more you would enjoy the act if she just came out naked in the first place and spent the time figuring out nice yummy-looking ways to display the stuff for you. All that farting around beforehand was just so much crap.
Well, now he had himself some terrific beaver around the house, and he intended to take every available opportunity to look at it, and feel it, and fondle it, and fuck it, and he was going to make sure she stayed permanently flattered by him so that she always wanted to show him what he wanted to see. He'd work on her and train her. And he'd get her to going bare-assed around the house whenever they were home. Even at the stove a broad didn't need much more than an apron to keep hot grease from splashing all over her. And how much nicer it'd look if she could cook for him in her skin like that, and all he'd have to do for some entertainment would be to look at her. He couldn't ever get enough of looking at naked broads, particularly if they looked like Ethel Belaski.
The thought got him a little hotter. He felt, just now, as if he could bang her forever. That snatch of hers gripped him so nicely in there. It felt so marvelous to nestle his cock, at the end of a nice hard plunge into that wet quim of hers, up inside her and rub his belly against her butt. It was almost just as nice to feel the basic feel of her this way as it was to shoot off in there. It was...
Hey, that was nice. She was moaning now, moaning low. She was really liking it. She was really getting into it. She was rotating her behind at him, rocking back and forth on those low-heeled shoes of hers, shoving her fanny back at him. And, miraculously, it was as if he could feel his rod growing even bigger and harder in there, and more sensitive, all up and down the length of it. Jeez, she was juicy and yummy in there. What a marvelous piece of tail. What a delicious creamy quim. What a...
"Oh, God, Wally. Fuck me, baby. Won't you? Please fuck me hard, sweetheart. Fuck me good and hard... " Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he just?
Wally arched his back now. He gripped her hips hard in his broad hammy hands and humped her harder, ramming his crotch up against her broad behind. Inside, the Magic Fingers gripped his rod firmly and let go, gripped and let go. A warm glow started to spread all over him. Yeah, yeah. This was the life. A good job where you were winning instead of losing for a change. A nice little household with cozy surroundings and somebody to cook nice hearty food for you, somebody to come home to every night. And, most of all, somebody to fuck every time you had the urge, and maybe even sometimes when you didn't. It was good for the ego, for one thing. Fucking took lots of practice. There'd been a frog painter he had read about once who had said he had to draw something every day-an apple or whatever-or he'd lose his goddamn fist. It was like taking your licks in the batting cage, or working out every day. If you didn't do it regularly you tended to lose proficiency. And if there was one thing on the face of the earth that Wally Burger wanted to maintain his proficiency in, by God, it was fucking. Good old garden-variety canoodling of the plain-and-fancy kind. Diddling. Banging. Humping. Screwing. Hauling his ashes. Hauling hers, while he was at it; it wasn't much fun if the chick didn't go crazy with it.
And this one? She was having a fine old time, crazy position and all. The blood was rushing to her head; she would get dizzy if he kept this up too long. But that was all the more reason to make a damned good job of it while it lasted. If she were getting a little dizzy and dippy with all this upside-down banging away, by God, all the better; she'd freak out when she started getting her gun. Grinning, he banged her all the harder.
Down there the moaning was beginning to resolve itself into some sort of language. She was talking to herself. Ah, nice, nice. Wally always liked a lot of chatter, whether it was on the baseball diamond or on the fartsack. Hang on, Wally, and bang it to her. And listen to this stuff she's giving you.
"... Oh, Lord, oh, Wally, that's so nice... I'm gettin' so hot... it's so good... I can feel your balls banging up against my snatch up front when you do it that way from down under... oh, that's so good... it's so sexy... oh, yes... mmmmmm... do it that way some more, honey, oh, that's right, darlin', oh, yes... oh, yes, yes... please, baby doll, bang me... yeah, like that... like that... do it some more... oh, don't stop... keep doin' it, honey lamb... please baby... don't stop... oh, Lord, my cunt's on fire... it's like hot lava inside me... I'm just so hot and all... and I can feel that nice big thick cock way up inside me... oh, yes, Wally... please... yes, like that, honey... oh, yes... and it's jammin' up inside me so far... and it's so fat and thick it fills me all up inside... and I can feel it all over... I can feel that nice fat head of it poundin' away at me... and it's so luscious an' yummy I can't stand it... oh, Wally you fuck me so good... you fuck me so nice an' hard... and I'm to hot I can't stand it... eh, God... ohgodohgodohgod... oh, yes, honey... yes, don't stop... don't stop, keep it up, please... baby... please, darlin', do it like that and don't stop... don't stop, keep it up, please... please, honey lamb... oh, yes... OHGODOHGOD... oh, yes, oh, heavens... oh, Wally, yes, baby, that's the way... yes, honey lamb... oh, Wally darlin'... please, now, baby, NOW, BABY NOWNOWNOWNOOOOOWWW... "
That was all for Wally, too. She'd got him so hot talking it up like that that he couldn't hold it anymore. He let off another load in there, and it was like hot coffee coming through his urethra... it almost hurt... but nice... and as it happened he found his knees jerking uncontrollably and it was all he could do to ease her down to the floor gently and, exhausted, flop down beside her, trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding. He was sure - as sure as he'd ever been of anything - that he'd never in a million years be able to fuck again. That had left him speechless and breathless and everythingless. It was all over. They could put him out to pasture now. He was ready to go. They could turn him out like a wornout old bull and let him gnaw at the flowers...
And, of course, five minutes later they were at it again as if nothing had happened...
Dinner was lovely. Ethel had a nifty style with the stove and skillet, and the stuffed cabbage was indeed something to write home about. In Polish, if you knew the lingo, and of course he didn't. But, he figured, he could probably think up some damn way or other to register his approval. Especially since, as she bustled about the kitchen cleaning up afterward, that improvised apron she'd tied around her in front tended to hike up her dress in back and give him tantalizing glimpses of those big strong luscious buttocks of hers...
After dessert he turned on the telly, and picked up the goofy Metro News show, where the straight guy and the freaky guy ignored all the straight news and concentrated on whatever was a little off-center in Southern California. The fat one was saying, "... And for you sports fans... and you male chauvinists... and you women's libbers... here's another item. Remember the Los Angeles Broads? The crazy baseball team that's been kicking up such a fuss lately? Well, they blew one tonight... "
"Hey," Ethel said. "What was that?"
He turned it up. "... So it's the playoffs after all, and the two teams move to Miami tomorrow night for the first game of a best-two-out-of-three series. Sorry, ladies..."
Wally and Ethel looked at each other, speechless. He reached over and cut off the tube. "I'll be goddamned," he said finally. "Well, I'll just be goddamned."
EXTRA INNINGS
Apparently the upset had taken a lot of people by surprise. One result was that Brenda hadn't made reservations for the flight to Miami. Another was that they wouldn't be able to get the Stadium, and would have to play on the University campus, in Coral Gables. No matter, Wally thought, looking out the window of the big jet as it settled into the glide path for Miami International. It didn't matter a good goddamn where they played. If he could keep these gals on the ball they could lick Miami two straight and ice the series and bring home the bacon.
Funny, though. He'd really thought he had psyched them up for that last game in L.A.
He'd thought he had got them so well set up for winning that they wouldn't even need having him around. He'd been dead sure he could just set up the basic situation and waltz away from it, whistling Dixie or whatever. But apparently he was something they just couldn't do without so far. Not on the basis of what he'd seen.
Well, okay. So they needed a big tough daddy to give them hell when they screwed up, and to tell them what to do. No surprise. Most teams, male or female, were just a bunch of guys named Joe-or Josephine-until some smart cookie got hold of them and whipped them into shape. And... well, it was obvious that Women's lib wasn't going to alter the damn situation any. The minute the chicks stopped competing with the men they started competing with each other, and the next damn thing you knew they were blowing ball games. Jeez, look at the way they acted at that international whoozis down in Mexico. There wasn't a damn one of them at the Congress that would give up a jot or a tittle in the way of her sacred autonomy to any other chick, and they spent the whole goddamn time cutting each other's throats. Bah. Need a man's hand at the helm, he thought.
The safety light was on, and he buckled himself in and finished his highball as the stewardess came down the isle checking everyone out. There weren't any of the chicks in his section; on such a short deadline they hadn't been able to book seats in a bloc, and virtually nobody was sitting together. There were even two chicks-second-teamers-on a separate flight.
He'd given the matter a little hard thought before deciding to leave Ethel home. Damn it, he wanted her around the house, doing housewifey things. Not out there strutting up to the plate like a damn bull dyke, swinging two bats and smelling like a horse. And. strange thing, that seemed to be the way she saw it too. She wanted to paint the apartment while he was gone; it was a lovely opportunity, she said, and she wasn't going to miss out on it if she could possibly have any choice in the matter. Well, what the hell. He could justify it. Milly was doing just fine in there. And they could win ball games by some other means than the long ball, even with little Brenda gone. (Ah, but that did hurt, damn it.) All it would take would be for him to be in there running things. No, no, it'd be okay. Particularly now that Willie Mae had started hitting. Remarkable how well that had worked out; if she came back next year he'd give her a good chance of leading the league in average, Sugarbush damn Smith or no.
The big plane touched down; it didn't even jiggle the ice in his drink.
Wally didn't futz around. The girls needed a good warm-up session right away, particularly with three hours of their lives lost to the damn time-zones. He rented a limo for the whole group and shooed them all into it, each one with a bit of encouragement and recognition. And he left Faye with instructions to work them out but not tire them out, and to make damn sure Milly had both Harriet Stover and Alice Traynor working out in the bullpen; Kitty Culhane was starting and might need help. He gave her a nice pat on the fanny and put her in the big car next to the driver; then he took a cab downtown and went to lunch.
When he saw what downtown restaurants were like in Miami these days-the area had deteriorated a lot-he wished he'd taken the cab all the way over to the Beach: at least he'd have been able to find a nice plonky Jewish deli where he could get a good funky brisket sandwich on Kaiser roll. Still, the chicken-fried steak they brought him wasn't too bad, all in all, and the vegetables, while frozen, were edible. He even had a beer with his meal and, pushing back the chair, smoked a cigar afterward while leafing unhurriedly through the Daily News.
He almost dropped the cigar when he had a look at the sports section. There they were, by God! There were three damn paragraphs about the Women's League playoffs taking place there that evening. Three whole paragraphs! They were actually covering the goddamn thing! When they hadn't even paid the smallest attention-in common with most of the papers in League towns-to the regular season!
Wally was absolutely flabbergasted. And in the back of his mind there began, once again, forming a beautiful pastoral picture composed almost entirely of dollar signs of all colors and typefaces. Money, money, money. He'd actually managed to put the damn league on the map a little by his goofy antics with the men's magazines and all. And now they were actually covering his playoff games. Wow. There'd be a whole new ball game next season, in more ways than one. And he, Wally Burger, was going to be a goddamn big cheese, and rich as J. Paul Getty or somebody. Because, damn it, he wouldn't sign until he had a piece of the action and was allowed to buy in with part of his bonus on next year's salary. And add that to Ethel's chunk of the team, and they'd be raking in the dough next season...
The thought made him feel so good he tipped the waitress a buck in spite of the lousy service, and he strolled out into the city streets in warm sunshine, feeling happy as a pig in shit Money, he thought Moneymoneymoney. He'd roll in it, bathe in it... he'd have whole suits of underwear sewed together out of goddamn five-dollar bills-no, make that ten-and everywhere he'd go he'd have dough next to his skin. He'd hire a fucking chauffeur, and buy him a goddamn convertible a block long, and a limo that had a bed in the back so he and Ethel could make it as they drove around the city, looking out at the world through one-way glass. He'd get them a goddamn mansion in Bel Air and he'd snub all the goddamn movie stars and producers and the rest of those termites.
Movie. He stopped. Well, why not? He had some time to kill, and here was this theater right in front of him. Without even thinking about it, without glancing up at the marquee, he stepped forward and shelled out five bucks to get in.
When he sat down the first feature was just ending. It was a skin flick-damn near everything that showed at any downtown theatres in any big cities these days was a skin flick, and he wondered idly just what the hell people with kids did when they wanted to go out on the town. Go bowling? Well, what the hell...
Then there was some trailers. The first seemed to be for some sort of swish movie, and everybody looked like a bunch of fauns, only they all had bad complexions. Jeez, the queers sure kept in terrific condition these days. He hadn't had a flat belly like that in years and years. Thinking about it he sucked in his gut a little; then he said the hell with it and relaxed. The fruity trailer went away and was replaced by... well, what the devil was it? It was upside down and backwards, for one thing. He craned his neck as the rest of the sparse crowd started clapping and shuffling their feet. Throwing his neck out of joint, he could make out was happening, more or less. Somebody had spliced the reel in without rewinding first. All the action was backwards.
Damn, it was kind of fascinating, even if it did make his neck hurt. As he picked it up there was this fairly ordinary-looking chick on her knees in front of this guy, blowing his wazzle. Or... well, anyhow, he had just pulled out and splashed her in the kisser, as it appeared. He had a wang on him like a fire hose; all of these bastards did. Jeez, if a guy believed that sort of a tube was normal and all he knew about sex was what he learned from watching raunchy movies, he'd go out and cut the damn thing off and join a monastery. There was no way in the world the average guy could compete for size with these professional fuckers. Of course, a true cosmopolite like himself, who knew his way around, could of course bank on superior technique to make up for the difference. And even if he, Wally Burger, weren't already pretty damn well hung in the first place he knew good and well that even a guy with a trial-size willie could do pretty damn well in the pussy department if he learned himself a few nice little trickies with the old tongue. The coldest fish in the world would warm up if you et that old muff properly, he told himself with some satisfaction.
Hey, now, this was sort of interesting. Now, as she knelt there, gasping, with all that pecker juice dripping down her cheeks, all of a sudden his putz, which had started off limp and exhausted looking, suddenly fattened up on him and jumped back to attention, and a lot faster than it customarily happened in real life. And all that gooey come on her cheeks and chin suddenly jumped off her face and leapt across several inches of space to land back inside the hole in the end of his willie, which sucked it all up like a super vacuum cleaner. And the next thing you know, all revitalized like that, he was back to shoving that big schmuck between her eager lips and fucking the daylights out of her face. Which took on a rather grotesque look, now, with her cheeks all puffed out with whangdoodle like that God almighty, that was sure some wazoo he had on him. Hmm, Jewish too. Well, they didn't ask you who you were when they handed these things out. Wally suddenly wondered if Superman were still alive. He'd been the greasy-looking Cuban who'd done those amazing sex flicks back in the thirties or forties; Wally remembered one flick in which ol' Supe had got his gun twice in one long fixed-camera shot, and hadn't lost an inch of hard-on in the process. Naw, he'd have to be a zillion years old by now. He'd been way into his thirties or forties back then... and that'd make him... what? Seventy-five? Eighty? Something like that...
The film broke just then, and there was a brief flash of the plastic leader they had on film, with the letters and numbers jumping crazily about: 35... 57... 83...
"Hike," somebody said down in front. And the stomping got louder. But whoever had gone to sleep up there, or was back in the John pulling his tool, had finally come to life and he quickly got something-anything-rolling on the sprockets. He seemed to have come in on the second reel of something, but that was okay; the first reel of virtually everything in the porno-film world these days was a bunch of crap, with the chick calling up her boyfriend and wasting a lot of time piddling around which would have been much better invested in showing the boys a little snatch. This would get things down to the nitty-gritty right off the bat, good...
Okay. Fine. There she was, a nice-looking dyed blonde, and the little darling had already skinned out of her bra and was flashing the nicest little set of bit-size titties a man could lay his eyes on, with nice hard little nipples and cute little dark areolas, and she was getting ready to shuck down those cute little bikini panties... no, those had reinforcements in the crotch, they must have been stripper's panties: they hadn't cut underpants quite that way back then...
Jeez, when was this film made? It was in black and white, and when the chicks were naked it was, admittedly, sometimes hard to tell just what period it was from since there were no clothes to date her by, and since tail didn't change appreciably from one decade to the next. But the hairdoo... that was strictly forties stuff... and there was something very familiar about the girl, somehow... Ah, there was the old muff. Nice cute stuff, shaved on the sides; she must have had a job in show biz where she had to wear brief undies and didn't want any snatch hair to show out of the sides. Ah, a legit show biz job. Yeah, yeah... oh, now she was rubbing it with those cute little fingers; go to it, girlie, that was the ticket...
He looked up at her face now and got a distinct shock.
God Almighty, it was Nancy Naylor! The big soap-opera movie star of the fifties! The chick who had won a damn Oscar nomination for her role in one of those tempestuous-heroine movies: he couldn't remember the name of the flick-it was named after the heroine-but it sounded something like Pudenda Underslung. Yeah, there were those famous big nostrils flaring... gee, somebody'd missed out there, she'd have done just fine in a flick called Deep Nose...
Damn, damn, damn. She'd been one of the wet dreams of his youth. He'd remembered pulling his pud more than once with the magazine before him in the crapper... the one in which she'd-daringly for 1950-posed nude in a towel, showing most of one tit and an amazing amount of fanny. And here she was flashing the whole skin on him, and, even better, finger-fucking herself happily as she talked on the phone, presumably to her boyfriend (the film was silent, but had had a musical soundtrack added; the dumb bastards were playing Mambo Jambo again). Now she had one foot up on the bed where she was sitting, and she was flashing that spread-open little nookie at him, and dipping her cute little finger in there to dip out some snatch juice so she could lick it off with a sweetly lusty smile on that soon-to-be-famous little face. Ah, to change fingers with her! Ah, to be the person who would shortly get to lap up that yummy stuff from that juicy little brown-haired honeypot! Ah, to be the person who would, in another reel maybe, get to shove his pipe up that delicious-looking little hole...
Wow, what a nostalgia trip... he'd been fixated on this little cutie through most of his youth... going out with thoroughly boring chicks just because they kind of looked like her... collecting clips of her from the girlie books... indulging in racy kid fantasies in which he strapped her to a table and banged her up the asshole until she screamed for mercy, or lay back and had her lick his dick like a lollypop... damn, he still wondered what it'd be like. Reality, that is. Not movies...
Well, he'd sure know about the look of things in a minute, anyhow, even if he'd have to wait for the feel of it all. Here came the boyfriend in the door-a dapper-looking kind of dude, kind of Italian, with a little pencil mustache like Don Ameche's... but no, no, it couldn't be... it sure looked like Don Ameche from the side, but when he turned his head the shape of his skull was all wrong. Still, he was a handsome son of a bitch. Well, okay. Nobody but handsome, superior-type sons of bitches should be allowed to bang Wally Burger's dream girl. They had to be, after all, since they were-whether they knew it or not-only surrogates for The Great Burger himself...
Then, wonder of wonders, the guy got out of his pants, and there on his belly was Wally Burger's own thick, fat dick, with his same curly dick and heavy balls... it was too good to be true... if d be like watching his own wazzle getting blown... and sure enough, there she came, waltzing around the bed, ass atwitch (God almighty, what an adorable behind! He ached to sink his teeth in it), to swoop down on the dago, who lay back with his hands behind his head, a pleased smirk on his good-looking kisser, and let her cop his joint with a true actress's flair and panache.
Hey, now, that was acting! That was the true thespian's art, now! Wally didn't give a damn how a chick spoke her lines or decorated her part with significant and aptly chosen facial expressions or waves of the hand. His own test of acting ability in a woman was how skillfully she could fake up the look of absorption and enjoyment when she copped some guy's joint. It was, for him the final, ultimate, supreme test of acting ability to make the male watcher believe that she was getting the same kind of pleasure out of eating a man's cock as she would be getting out of having her own ass licked, or getting a big dong shoved in her up to the eyes.
Because, after all, most of them didn't really enjoy sucking cock. They would at best do it to please you, and usually pretty damn badly at that, with bad grace. They would scrape your rod raw, using their teeth in the most uncomfortable, least sexy way possible, and would figure out how to poop out on you just as you were ready to come-and deliberately, too, he knew that: they didn't, most of them, want to get a mouthful of juice. And even less than that did they want to do the guy the ultimate favor, swallowing his load for him. They'd poop out on this every damn time, most of them, and no matter how assiduous you had been about licking their cracks and sucking off the little man in the boat until they howled, sighed, and swooned with pleasure, you knew that when it came your turn to get your rocks off the damn chick would poop out on you, and at the most exquisitely sensitive time, too. There was such an ingrained unkindness, such a brutish insensitivity in this, that it took his breath away every time it happened. Both of his goddamn wives... both of whom he'd picked out, as a matter of fact, because they kind of looked like Nancy Naylor... both of them had disappointed him time and time again by expressing distaste for his dick juice. And finally, in both cases, he'd just given up on trying to get them to go along with his desires. Finally, he'd decided to save that particular pleasure for the kind of bimbo you met in the motel bar when your team was on the road. And Lord knew they weren't any prize, most of them, with their goddamn beehive hairdos and crummy skin and dumb foxy little faces and their chewing gum, which he was always afraid they were going to forget to take out before they blew him. It had actually happened once, and he'd had to take out the fingernail scissors and cut the gum out of his cock hair, and it'd been just dandy trying to explain that to his wife a couple days later during the home stand. Where'd you get that, honey? How did that happen? Oh, I... uh... dropped a match in my lap and set my cock hair on... Jeez, how lame.
Now, now after all these years, after so many wet dreams, after so many fantasies of fucking the great, the dazzling, the beautiful Nancy Naylor in the face, he was going to find out what she did it like. Well, sort of. He could at least have a ringside seat. Yeah, yeah... look at that...
Her pretty head bobbed up and down on the guy's root, ramming that big doodlewhacker deep into her throat each time. Now, with a worshipful look, she pulled it out of her face and held it up to look at it and adore it. And she kissed it. And she licked it, up and down, and, skillfully, all around the circumcised head of it (huh? Don Amecheberg?), and her expression was one of intense rapture. Damn, what an actress. What an actress...
Hey, now he was getting hot. This was pretty good... this was a real extra bonus... maybe it was some kind of omen... some kind of good-luck symbol that had appeared to him to tell him something... his good fairy godmother, telling him the auguries were all okay and it was going to go well with him from now on...
But a funny thing was happening. He was beginning to turn off on the spectacle. On Nancy Naylor! On his dream girl, up there on the silver screen, doing to a guy who looked a lot like himself (well, dammit, his dick did, anyhow) precisely what he'd dreamed of having her do to him all the years of his adolescence, and way up into his twenties and thirties! Was he going nuts or something? Here was one of his oldest and most cherished dreams coming true... well, almost... and he was getting less and less out of it as it progressed... and getting less and less interested. Why?
Well, maybe because it was acting. Because once you saw through the phoniness of it all, damn it, it just wasn't enough to have the chick fake it that way. Not after you'd met somebody who really liked it... who made you feel like you were the greatest piece of ass in the world, and like sucking you off was not only the greatest honor she could possibly have, but the greatest turn-on too. And damn it... that's precisely what he had found.
What a strange experience! All of a sudden his dream was fading. He'd had it happen before. He'd been screwing some chickie, and she'd been-all of a sudden, for no reason he could divine-a very boring lay... and just to keep his level of pleasure up, he'd kind of half-close his eyelids, and throw his eyes just the teeniest bit out of focus, and imagine that instead of this little chickie it was actually Nancy Naylor he was popping it to. Nancy Naylor, with her cute little cupid's-bow mouth and her shy smile and that passionate flare of her nostrils when a man finally broke down her resistance and turned her on... And now he was turning off on her, the girl of his dreams.
Sure. He knew what to do. He half-closed his eyes, now, just as he'd done so many times, and let the picture before him sort of get fuzzy... and let the face grow dim... and, next thing he knew, he'd pulled the old trick again.
Only this time instead of Nancy Naylor up there on the screen with the surrogate for Wally Burger, it was wonderful Ethel Belaski, with her infinitely superior set of knockers and her big firm ass and those ballbuster thighs. And she wasn't acting. And when she sucked her man off she really meant it, and put her whole damn heart and soul into it. And now, as she blew the surrogate Wally, Ethel didn't do like the dumbass Hollywood cunt did and pull the thing out of her mouth to let it spew all over the guy's thoroughly disappointed chest. She sucked all the harder, and when he blew he almost sat up sharply to savor the pleasure better; she sucked hard, harder, and didn't let a drop of that hot come get away, swallowing it down with incredible relish and a look of the sweetest ecstasy on her big happy face. And there wasn't any goddamned acting about it at all. It was real, real. And oh, Jeez, was it ever good! Super good! As good as a head job ever got in this world... just like it had been in real life, the last time they'd been together. Damn! How marvelous! And to hell with this movie crap, anyhow! He had the real stuff at home, and it was better than any movie could ever be! Or any damn movie tail, either.
He had a look at his watch: an hour to game time. He got up and left, taking a cab to the park. And the first pay phone he found on the way, he made a beeline for it. He just couldn't wait. The operator got the two of them together pretty quickly, and, of course, the connection was much better than it would have been if he'd been calling somebody in the next phone booth. "Hello?" the familiar voice said.
"Hello, honey, this is Wally."
"Sugar!" The joy in her voice was genuine, unfakable. "I was hopin' you'd call..."
"Well, I couldn't not do it, baby. I miss the hell out of you already."
"Oh, boy, honey, and how do I ever miss you. Are you sure you don't want me to come back East? I could hop on the plane and... "
"Oh, no, baby, I want you home, really, but... "
"But?"
"Jesus Christ almighty, am I lonely."
"Me too. Ain't it wonderful?"
"It sure the hell is. Hey, you know what, cookie?"
"No, what?"
"You're the girl of my dreams."
"You, too, baby."
"No, goddammit, I mean it."
"Well, yeah, sugar, and..."
"I'll explain it later. I just wanted you to know. I..."
"Oh, Wally. I just love you so much. Are you sure the team don't need me?"
"No, the team don't need you. I do, but the team don't. They'll do all right..."
The conversation went on in that vein for another $4.66 or so. And when Wally hung up he was happy as hell.
But he was wrong. The team sure as hell did need her that evening. Miami threw a fast lefty named Nancy Short at them that night and the Broads couldn't buy a hit for the first five innings. In the meantime Miami shelled Kitty Culhane out of the box in the third and iced the game, 6-0, to pull ahead in the playoffs.
THE HOT STOVE LEAGUE
Wally called an early afternoon workout.
When he showed up at the park Willie Mae Fisher was taking her cuts in the batting cage. Wally stopped by the screen and watched her swing. There was something wrong there, damn it, and he wasn't quite sure what it was. He signaled to the batting practice pitcher to throw her the curve ball.
Willie Mae turned to him, a puzzled look on her friendly face. "Hello, Mr. Burger," she said. "I'm kind of off my feed."
"Yeah, you are," he said. "Ordinarily there wouldn't have been any way in the world that broad could have got you four times running. I want to watch you a bit, and particularly with the curve. Just meet the ball, like I said."
She stepped back into the box again. The pitcher grooved one. On any other day-well, except last night-Willie would have picked the precise hole she wanted in the infield and spanked a neat little single right there, and nobody would have been able to do a damn thing with it. This time she popped it up weakly to the pitcher.
"Ow," she said.."Sorry about that" She choked up a little more on the bat and stood in. The next pitch was belt-high and a trifle outside. The usual thing would have been to chop it to the opposite field. Her stride... there was something wrong with her stride... She banged it ineffectually with the end of the bat and hit a dinky dribbler down the first base line. Well, okay. She might have beat that one out for an infield single. But it would have been the dumbest sort of fluke. He didn't want flukes. He wanted nice cute little line drives off her, damn it. Stuff that sliced and took wrong bounces; stuff the damn infielders couldn't get a glove on. This kid ought to be hitting .365 or so. And if he had anything to say about it, she would, too, next year.
"Willie," he said. "Get up in the front of the box."
"Huh?" she said. "I mean, pardon me?"
"Try swinging from up front on the box."
"But... I always got way back in the box to get more of a look at it when it came in."
"Well, that's one theory. Let's try another. There's an old Wee Willie Keeler notion that if you're way the hell up there in the box you get to swing at it before the curve hits."
"Hey, I hadn't thought about that"
"Well, let's see if it works."
"Okay." She dug in and took a few practice swings. The pitcher telegraphed the curve ball and gave her a nice jughandle pitch that broke right across the plate. She chopped away at it and banged it into the hole between short and third. "Hey," she said. "Throw me some tough stuff. I like this."
The pitcher served up an assortment of breaking junk: curves, sliders, screwballs... Willie joyfully whacked away. Everything she hit fell safe. Two of them would have gone for extra bases, maybe three. They hit the ground on the base lines, about Texas League distance, and spun agonizingly away from the fielders' fingers. "Hey," she said. "Thank you, Mr. Manager." She stepped out to let "Show Boat" Hubbard take her swings, and waved to Wally as she headed out to do her one lap around the outfield.
"Hey, looky here, 'Boat," Wally said. "I figured out what the hell it is that's got you popping up."
"Yeah?" she said, an interested frown on her face.
"You're dropping that rear shoulder as you swing. You're swingin' up on the ball."
"No shit?" She stepped into the box and took a first swing at the medium fast ball thrown her. And popped up to first- "Huh. Dropping my shoulder, huh?"
"You are," Wally said "Look." He stepped into the box behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She promptly thrust her firm rump out and nibbed it against his lap. "Hey," he said. "None of that."
"You better watch the hell out," somebody said behind them. "You don't want to get Boobs Belaski all pissed off at you, now."
"Show Boat" did a double-take; then her face settled into a more thoughtful expression. "Jesus Christ, I sure don't," she said, "She like to of took my arm off last year when I swiped her hairbrush. Okay," she said to Wally. "What'm I doin' wrong?"
"Watch," he said. "Now swing... slow... the way you would at a pitch. There. There, now. See? This shoulder did a dip. You ain't making contact. Jeez, no wonder you couldn't buy a hit off that damn lefty last night"
"I was wondering about that," she said. "It didn't seem like she had a lot of stuff. I've tore up much better pitchers."
"Sure you have. Who's throwin' tonight? Not Starbuck again?"
"No, they're givin' her a day's rest. They're startin' JoJo Miller."
"The little junk pitcher with all the Luis Tiant numbers? Throws from behind her back? Side-arms it?"
"Yeah. She's pretty tough sometimes."
"The hell she is. You get that swing ironed out and you'll go three for four" He stepped out of the way.
She grinned at him and took another swing, this time in earnest. The swing was grooved this time; the ball whistled down the first base line like a shot out of a gun. "Make that four for five. God damn it, we're gonna bat around a little. Just you watch...
The workout went very well. Everybody went home for a nap and some relaxation. And he called Ethel again. She wasn't in. Well, he'd try again later...
He threw Harriet Stover at them that night. And she had the stuff. That damn knuckleball jumped and jiggled and did the boogaloo all the way up to the plate, and for the first three innings they were swinging and missing, or getting little chips of the damn ball and popping it up, or connecting badly and dropping dumb little grounders all over the infield where Wally's girls gobbled them up easily.
In the meantime, the Broads had opened strong. Rita Randazzo worked the Miller chick for a walk in the first, stole second, and came home on Show Boat's neat single, drilled powerfully to right. Annie Tompkins flied out; the runner held. Milly Carlson, on the hit-and-run, singled Hubbard to third and Willie Mae brought the second run home with a looping double down the left-field line. With runners on second and third, Winnie Bagley crossed him up and socked a wrong-field home run that barely fell over the wall. Broads, 6-0, by the time the side had been retired.
The Broads took an even more commanding lead in the fifth, after Miami had put together one piddly run on the combination of two walks and a fluke double. Faye Fielding started the rally with a tremendous triple to right center that Wally thought would have gone for an inside-the-park homer if Fay had been any faster on the base paths. After that they had a fine time of it, with the whole damn team batting around-even Harriet Stover, who wasn't any great shakes with the bat, singled and knocked in a run-and by the time the inning was over they had a 12-1 lead.
During Miami's half of the inning, Wally went back into the dugout for a drink of water. "Hey," he said to nobody in particular. "Where the hell's Lupe the Mex"
"She's back inside. I think she's in the John."
"Okay," Wally said. "I'll go get her. I think I'm gonna put her in left, with a lead like this."
"Hey, she'll like that, I bet." Wally strolled down the stairs into the locker room. He spotted her coming out of the ladies'. It sure was odd seeing chicks buttoning up their damn fly like a man. "Hey, sugar," he said. "You want to go in at left next inning?"
Her brown face brightened. "Really? Hey, you bet, Meester Burger. We got a nice big lead, huh?"
"Yeah," he said. "I gotta get you some damn experience. You might have to take over next year. Marcia's thinkin' about gettin' married. And her damn boyfriend has a job in damn Hawaii."
"Hey," she said. "Great. I go out there and tear these beetches up. I... " But her face fell a little; the gold-toothed smile closed up a little. "But hey. Why you look sad? You should be happy. Twelve to one, no?"
"Yeah, but... "
"Oh, I get it You are in love, no? You miss the Belaski with the beeg teets."
"You got it, honey."
"Ay de mi." She sighed. "And look at you. You got a hard-on thinking about your gorl."
"There you go."
"Well, Baby. I can't do nothing about love. Not if you are stock on somebody else. I sure as hell can do sometheeng about a hard-on." But her face grew crafty. "But not if you are going to bench me for breaking training."
"I ain't going to bench you," he said with a sigh. "For God's sake, do it, cookie."
"Okay," she said. "I ain't got no time for getting undressed. "Hay que chuparte la penga. Okay? Here..."
And the next thing you knew there was Wally Burger in his sport coat and check pants and his straw hat, standing there getting blown by this beautiful Mex broad on her knees in a baseball uniform. Jeez, it was a strange world he was moving around these days.
But a nice one.
Lupe had one lovely trick. She liked to hum and croon to it as she sucked on it. It got him, instantly, even bigger and harder, and he looked down with some interest as she munched tantalizingly away with those sharp little teeth at his dong. The sensation was incredibly luscious, all the more as each time she bit him, she would immediately lick with her, rough, raspy cat's tongue on the place she'd bitten. In a moment or two he was exquisitely sensitive down there.
"Oh, boy," he said. "Hey, that's nice. That's great. Wow, Lupe. Hey, you're something else, baby. Mmmm, yeah... right there, cookie. Oh, yeah. With your tongue, now. All around the head of it... oh, wow... oh, yeah, honey... oh, boy..."
He took off her goddamned baseball cap and dug his fingers into her dark hair. Her thick-lipped, pretty, wide and expressive mouth was totally wrapped around his thick rod now, and inside there her tongue and teeth were working away like crazy. She really had the technique down. Anything that technique could do for you, Lupe could do for you. She really understood the ins and outs of this stuff.
(But why did he keep thinking of Ethel all the damn time? Couldn't he just stand back and enjoy something, for Christ's sake? For its own sake? On its own merits?)
And now her red-nailed hands were going around behind his back and grabbing him by the buttocks. That was a damn sexy feeling. She had one hell of a sensuous touch about her, by God. Her fingers had the... oh, personal touch. She was really involved in everything she did, even if it was a kind of surface sort of involvement. It was a sort of master craftsman's approach...
(And why did he miss the one and only thing that was missing? Why did he keep missing the one ingredient she couldn't supply? Love?)
Now she was deep-throating him, and stretching her pretty brown neck out to receive the whole of that big thick rod of his. Jeez, how did the chicks do it? It was like swallowing, not a sword, but a baseball bat. His tool was nearly as thick as her damn pretty little brown arm. And there she was, taking the whole damn thing in there. All the way up to the hair. He fancied he could even feel her damn little uvula against the head of his terribly sensitive tool. And it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. Not even making her nose drip or her eyes bug out the way Linda Lovelace's did in the movies. She had class, did Lupe the Mex.
(Then why the hell was he taking this damn analytical approach? Why wasn't he just sitting back and digging on it, and letting her expertly suck him off all the way to orgasm? What a dumb bastard he must be.)
Okay, now she was getting down to the nitty-gritty. Not content to wait for him to start fucking, she was grabbing his buttocks with those strong little fingers and shoving him into her mouth. Bam, bam, bam... and how goddamned avidly she did it! As if it were the most desirable thing in the world to get fucked in the face like that... as if it were getting her hot...
Hey, she was. She was quivering. She was moaning. She sounded like a woman in great pain as she clutched him and pulled his cock into her open lips and sucked wildly away. She moaned... she came... she came again... she sucked all the harder...
(And all he could think was Ethel, Ethel...)
And now he, too, was getting hotter, and now he was helping her along, digging his shoes in and fucking away into her wet and receiving mouth, shoving it in there hard, harder... and his balls were aching with it... and he could feel his load come boiling up inside there and the pleasure-pain coming upon him... And now he was shooting his hot come into her mouth, and she was gulping and swallowing and swallowing some more, and licking him all over until he was dry, and finally kissing his shrinking tool tenderly, and looking up and smiling at him happily before she buttoned him up and stood up to give a nice sisterly-sisterly!-kiss on the cheek and one last squeeze of the hand before she went out there to take over in left field.
(And all he could think was Ethel, Ethel... )
The rest of the game was no contest at all. Harriet tired a little and let three runs in in the eighth, and with the kind of lead she had he didn't even bother pulling her. And the Broads added insult to injury the next inning by adding three more runs. Lupe dug her cleats in and drove in two of them with a line-drive homer into the left field seats. Hey, he hadn't known she had that kind of power. Or did she, normally? Did it have anything to do with getting her ashes hauled-and getting a new load of vitamins or whatever else there was in that stuff she'd gobbled down so happily-and if that were the case, was he all full of crap about that no-sex rule? He'd have to reconsider. In some people's cases, anyhow... Broads, 16-4. Series tied...
But for some reason, when he called home, Ethel wasn't in. It puzzled him. It worried him. He went home and went to bed, alone. He couldn't sleep. He got up every hour on the hour to call her. And she didn't answer.
It bothered the hell out of him. He went down to the girls' motel for breakfast next morning and found Maggie Lorimer and Faye Fielding sitting there eating eggs, no bacon. His mind filed that away: Weight Watchers breakfasts, even on the last day of the damn season. He had'em trained all right.
"Hey," Faye said as he sat down across from her, next to Maggie. "Mr. Burger, you look like pure hell. You feelin' okay?"
"I'm feeling like hell," Wally said. "You wouldn't believe how bad I feel."
"I mean, like you want to see a doctor?"
"No," Maggie said "Look at him. It ain't physical. The poor so-and-so is in love. Ain't that it?"
"Yeah," he said miserably. "And God damn it, I'm so jealous I can't stand it."
"Jealous? What for?"
"Ethel wasn't home all last night."
"Hell," Faye said. "Maybe she went over to her girl friends'."
"Naw," Maggie said. "You know Boobs. She ain't got no damn girl friends. Brenda, maybe. But Brenda's off to one of them spas, getting hydrotherapy treatment."
"That's right," Faye said. "Boobs really don't like anybody but men much for socializin'."
"Jeez, that was the wrong thing to say," Maggie said. "Look at him. He's turnin' all sorts of colors in the face."
"If she's out with some other son of a bitch," Wally said in a strangled voice, "I'll kill him. I'll cut his ears and nose off. Ill chop off his pecker and balls with a machete. I'll... "
"Well, in be damned," Faye said. "I guess we're all vulnerable after all. Christ almighty, Mag, you remember the last time I was in love?"
"That was with Sonny Peterson, wasn't it? That big damn linebacker, the one that got kicked out of football for that narcotics rap?"
"Oh, he didn't have no dope. He wasn't even holding grass. The cops planted it on him. They just didn't like the statements he'd been making to the press."
"Ill kill the bastard," Wally said. "I'll murder the motherfucker."
"Wally, now don't, honey," Maggie said. She patted him on the back solicitiously. "Don't get your guts all churned up. There's sure to be some kind of a logical explanation. Maybe she was scared. And went to stay with her mother."
"Boobs scared?" Faye said with a snort "Hell, she could pick a rapist up under each arm and carry 'em both down to the police station before they knew what hit 'em."
"Her mother's dead," Wally said. "She ain't got any relatives in Los Angeles."
"So maybe she's out of town," Maggie said.
"She woulda told me," Wally said. "She shoulda told me. She... " His voice was hoarse and tight with emotion.
"Ah, me," Faye said, giving Maggie a significant look. "Have some breakfast, Wally. It ain't going to do you good to break your damn heart worrying on an empty stomach... "
It wasn't much good, though. Breakfast tasted like hell and his damn stomach was upset and he was sure he was getting an ulcer. He went to a movie at noon and walked out of it ten minutes later, and he cussed out the little chick at the refreshment counter for selling him popcorn with rancid butter, and he snarled at a couple of people who got in his way as he went out the door. He snarled at the waitress in the restaurant. He mouthed off at the taxi driver who took him to the ballpark, and this must have cost him another dollar or so in fees since he was good and sure the driver took him around the same block three times on the way there with the meter running. It almost cost him a fat lip when he complained; the cop in the parking lot broke up the loud argument that ensued.
And the first thing he did was call Ethel. No answer.
The afternoon workout was a light one. They were, he decided with the rational half of his mind, "up" enough to win themselves a ball game, and it'd be Maggie's turn on the mound, and she'd been pitching good baseball lately even if she had lost a couple of games. That part of him-the baseball part-wasn't worrying much. The rest of him was in a hell of a state. Everyone was walking on Grade AA eggs around him as game time approached.
The Miami team threw Stuff Starbuck at them. No surprise there. Starbuck was big and strong-a real Diesel-dyke type who looked like she ought to be moving furniture for a living- and two days' rest was all she needed usually. And she looked sharp as hell working out before the game. That dipping, zipping fast ball of hers made the little reserve catcher's mitt pop like hell as she whipped that leathery arm of hers around and fired the baseball.
That pitch had a definite hop in it. It went down and then back up again. Wally, watching, remembered major league pitchers he'd seen, or even batted against, who had that kind of steam, and he didn't envy his girls having to stand in against her. He himself had hit against Bobby Feller once as a kid, in an exhibition game in Vero Beach, and even at the end of his career, when that blinding speed was mostly gone and Feller had turned into a pitcher rather than a thrower, Bobby had had that old zip on every third fast ball. Koufax and Ryne Duren had had it too. Standing in there against those guys, you might just as well make up your mind to take the first pitch and wave your bat at the second regardless of where they were. You couldn't see them anyhow.
He didn't tell the girls this, of course. He patted each one of them encouragingly (and a little affectionately) on the ass as she went out there to face that female howitzer... and a fat lot of good it did. They were three up, three down for three innings, and in all that time nobody had hit the ball solid once. Wally groaned. And every inning when the side changed he headed down to the pay phone to call Ethel. And each time he knew before he dialed that she wouldn't be there, and each time he turned out to be right...
In the fourth the Miami shortstop, Legs Lefkowitz, singled off Maggie to open the inning. Then Maggie let her steal second, getting a big jump on Wally's rattled lefty. He signaled her to hand Sugarbush Smith an intentional walk to give them a play at all bases, and the plan, while sound, backfired as Jo Naismith drilled a solid double to left center, bringing Lefkowitz home and landing Smith on third. Maggie tightened things up after that and retired the side on a strikeout and two easy fly balls, but the Miami chicks had their one-to-nothing lead.
Around the sixth Wally got the picture. By God, they were going to lose! This goddamn Starbuck chick just couldn't be beaten today. She had the stuff and the control, and they weren't getting the fat part of the bat on the ball at all. They couldn't buy a hit, much less a run. God damn it, the chick had a no-hitter going! She'd walked two people, and hit one batter-Faye, who might well be out with a busted rib from it; he shoved redheaded Mary Vane into the lineup and sent Faye to the showers- and that was it.
At the seventh-inning stretch he went down to the shower room again to make another hopeless, desperate phone call.
And ran into Faye, changing into civvies.
And ran into Ethel Belaski, changing out of civvies.
She looked up and gave him a shy grin. "I... Wally, honey, I just couldn't stay to home... I couldn't let you guys out there face that old Starbuck dyke without me. She's too tough when she's up. And I knew good and well she'd be loaded for bear for this last game. I... I couldn't help it, I had to go get on the plane... I hope you ain't mad..."
Mad? Wally mad? He grabbed her, standing there with one leg in her baseball pants, and hugged her until-strong chick that she was, by God-he thought he heard her ribs cracking. And he hustled her into that uniform toot sweet, and when the two of them came out into the dugout and the rest of the team saw them, hugging away like that, you could feel the whole atmosphere change. And the whole damn ball game turn around...
Annie Tompkins had just worked Starbuck for a walk when Wally put Ethel in for Milly Carlson. Starbuck, out on the mound, made a face. Contemptuous-like.
Ethel stepped in and dug her cleats in, taking two vicious practice swings. "Better walk me, muff diver," she said. "Better walk me on four pitchouts. Because if you put that damn thing anywhere I can get this bat on it, I'm gonna hit it up your ass."
"Big fucking talk," the dyke said from the mound. "Just for that I'm gonna groove it. But you ain't gonna see it." She took the full stretch, kicked high. The runners took off. Ethel Belaski tensed up at the plate, her sharp eyes on the ball...
... And made up for mighty Casey. That first pitch came in fast as hell. It went back out fast as hell, too. Wally had never seen anybody-not Hank Aaron, or Ted Williams or anybody-hit a baseball harder. It cleared the fence in left-center at 422 feet and landed maybe another 100 feet beyond that in the street. And Ethel was skipping merrily like a teen-ager as she rounded the base paths. There went that no-hitter. There went Stuff Starbuck; with her whammy off, she was just another fastballer, and they blew her out of the box. And there went the ball game, and the series, and the season. And out came the champagne, and when the toast came around to Ethel she grinned and blushed and said, "Gee, I was just protectin' my investment..."
On the plane back they were cuddling like a couple of teen-agers in their plane seats. Holding hands, whispering sweet nothings, playing kneesies. And damned if they didn't pick that time-looking like a couple of sillyass schoolkids, to run into a guy Wally'd known a couple years earlier in the Panhandle League, coming down the aisle of the L-1011 with a drink in one hand.
"Wally Burger," the guy said. He held his hand out. Wally did the introductions. He didn't mention anything about Ethel playing ball. "Say, Wally," the guy said. "That was too bad about your gettin' out of baseball. I hope you landed on your feet."
"Out of baseball?" Wally said. "I... " But there was the pressure of Ethel's foot underneath the little drink table spread out over their laps. "Yeah. Well, I'm in business now. The money's better. And I was gettin' tired of travelin'."
"Yair," the guy said, obviously not understanding. "Now it's the Hot Stove League for you, huh?" He nodded politely to Ethel and took his leave of them.
Wally and Ethel looked at each other with a secret smile. "Hot Stove League, huh?" she said. "We'll see about that."
"You're damn right we will," Wally said, squeezing her arm. "Meanwhile, what's for dinner tonight?"
