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From: tariat@aol.com (TariaT)
Subject: {ASS} Valentine's Repost to M1ke: "Soft Ball" #1/2
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This story is about heterosexual adults over 18 doing stuff they're allowed to.

If you're under 18, you wouldn't get it anyway.  It's about old people doing
old people shit.

You know, old.  Like your parents.  Do you wanna imagine your parents having
hot, sweaty, nasty, horny intercourse?

Yes, your REAL parents.  Mom and Dad.  Sweaty.  Horny.  Naked.  Nice image. 
Still wanna read this?

Didn't think so.

_____________________________

SOFT BALL or MY BEST POSITION
by TAR1A
_____________________________

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

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

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

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

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

"Nope," he responded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So were the next six batters in a row.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly," he answered. 

I didn't get it.  I said so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, what about me?" I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Might What?" I purred.

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

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

He swallowed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_________________________

Concluded in #2/2

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