08
RYAN
His cocky smirk and the cute dimples that happen when he twists his full, plump lips.
The way he struts around like he knows he’s got everyone’s attention no matter where he goes—and it’s all on his ass.
That beautiful, filled-out, muscular double-bubble ass that my eyes, hands, and face could fall into for a week.
How my poor red polo is being stretched to the max by Stefan Baker’s thick shoulders, big wide pecs, and baseball biceps …
Fuck. That’s it. I can’t stand another minute of this torture. All day, I’ve been obsessed with him. I’m almost in tears with how much of a vacuum his departure has left in my house, at my dining table, through my core.
I need to do something about it.
And it’s going to get weird.
Just a normal jerk-off session isn’t enough. I could sit in front of my computer, google hot baseball players for the rest of the afternoon, and still feel empty inside after I come. Nothing will fill the chasm inside of me.
Which is why I need to transport myself.
To a time when everything was new, scary, and exciting. To a place when I lost something I didn’t even know I had.
Stefan Baker. Baseball. My first team. My first companion.
Yes. Prepare yourself. I’m about to “go there”.
After ditching my laptop and all the hours of work I still have to complete before Monday—and the TV which still hums with the white noise of some afternoon game show—I plunge into the closet in my hallway and pull down a large plastic lidded bin of old clothes and miscellaneous memorabilia that I have literally not touched or opened in so many years, including my graduation caps from both college and high school.
As well as a few … other things.
I see the uniform the moment I pop open the lid. It’s right at the top. All of it. I even remember placing the pieces there when I packed this bin so long ago and shoved it into the back of the closet underneath all the winter wear.
My heart flutters excitedly. Whenever I see the blue and white colors, I see him.
I pull them out—and I mean every single piece—and shove away the bin like I’ve already forgotten about it, then bring the uniform to my bed and lay it out.
Yes, it’s going to happen.
Listen. I live home alone. No one’s here to judge me. I’m in a very vulnerable state of mind right now, especially after Stefan’s impromptu visit and sleepover. I don’t know what to do with my feelings or where to put them or how to get them—and him—out of my system. An army of zombie emotions have awakened from the dead, and they all look like sexy-zombie versions of Stefan. I’m also sexually overcharged, since it’s been at least three (maybe four) days since I’ve had any time to hunker down and give my chicken a proper choking.
I need to do something. And I need to do it now before I lose my nerve. I have Stefan to thank for the weird shit I’m about to do.
I peel off my clothes—shirt, pants, and underwear—then ditch them in the chair by my bed. I swipe the jockstrap from the bed and pull it on. It’s both impressive and disheartening that I’m the same size I was in high school.
Not the case with my baseball uniform. The white top fits me a bit tightly at the shoulders, but I commit to getting it on anyway. Same with the baseball pants—white with blue piping down the side—which I grunt to get over my ass. I leave the front open because, well, restricting access to a certain throbbing something would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?
I pull on the baseball socks all the way up to the knee followed by my blue stirrups, after which I pull on my cleats.
The blue cap is last. I give it a long, wistful look. Sitting here in my high school baseball uniform—which does carry a certain stale smell about it, as it’s been living untouched in a bin for many, many years—I feel my mind transporting. I feel Stefan at my side in the dugout while we’re cheering on whoever’s up to bat. I look his way. He looks my way. We chuckle about nothing in particular.
It was all the things we didn’t say that built this unspeakably potent glue between us. Like a language only Stefan Baker and I knew. It made me feel special, like we were on an elite crew. With just a look over the two stripes of eye black on his cheeks, I knew what was on his mind, and he knew what was on mine.
I don’t even realize I’m rubbing myself through the jockstrap. Standing in the middle of my room, I close my eyes and keep rubbing myself. Each time I rub, I feel myself sitting next to Stefan in that dugout. I feel his warmth by my side.
I’m already hard within seconds.
That’s how badly I need this.
In my mind, when I turn my head, it isn’t high school Stefan sitting there. It’s adult Stefan, the one who just crashed on my bed last night. He’s buffed up, sparkly-eyed, and garbed in full baseball gear, too. Side by side, teammates, we look at each other while I continue to rub away.
Good thing I left out the hard cup inside the jock.
No need to literally cock block myself.
I feel our shoulders and arms touching—meat against meat—as our sides press against one another in this tiny dugout. No one else is around, or else literally no one on the whole team is paying attention to us. They all know there’s some deep, underlying connection between us since the day we met and all I saw him as was a cocky, good-for-nothing show-off. They let us have our space while we stare heatedly into each other’s eyes.
Even in the shade under the curved bill of his cap, his blue eyes glow, the whites of his eyes made all the more glorious by the black stripes dabbed beneath them.
His dick is out.
I breathe hard, imagining all of this.
“Bro,” he whispers—the dream Stefan, imaginary Stefan, the Stefan who would never in a million years do this. “I’m so hard.”
“I’m so hard, too,” I echo, rubbing my raging boner trapped and flexing against the confines of my jock.
He doesn’t smile or smirk or anything. His lips are parted and his eyes bleed with urgency. “We gotta do something about it.”
“I can help you out, bro,” I promise him.
“Really?”
“Let me help you out.”
He grips his dick and points it my way.
I’m on my knees in front of him, planted right between his thighs which are tightly wrapped by his white baseball knickers with the blue piping. On either side of me are his sturdy calves dressed up to the top in his baseball socks, cleats planted on the floor. I look up the tower of muscle that is Stefan Baker, and his dominant eyes stare down upon me, waiting, expectant, hungry.
The tip of his huge, hard dick is inches from my lips.
My tongue comes out to touch the tip.
Stefan gasps, squints at me as if in pain, then waits for my next bold move.
I run my tongue over every millimeter of his fat dickhead. It drives him crazy. I feel the tension in his thighs as they flex tightly with anticipation, desperate for me to wrap my lips around his girth. I know he wants it badly. I can see it in his squinted eyes.
“C’mon …” he breathes, in agony.
I love having this much control over Stefan, even if it’s all just a fantasy in my head. Outside of the dream, I drop onto my bed, take out my cock, and stroke it hard and fast. The feeling of my uniform on my body is intensifying the mood exponentially.
“C’mon …”
I open my mouth—maybe in fantasy and in real life—and take the first inch of his cock past my wet, needy lips. Stefan groans, his mouth wide and his heart pumping. I take another inch. He throws his head back with a moan, his legs still firmly planted on either side of me.
Positioned right here between Stefan Baker’s two legendary, massive, muscular thighs, I realize full well that one wrong step, and he can crush me between them like a pancake.
I almost want him to.
“Don’t stop, bro,” he begs me.
I’ve barely begun.
I descend farther down his veiny, thick, throbbing dick. I’ve barely taken half of it and he’s filling my whole mouth.
This detail, I happen to know, isn’t fantasy. I’ve been in many a locker room with Stefan Baker, and though I didn’t know why, I couldn’t help but sneak peeks all the time whenever he changed. I wrote it off as classic admiration. I admired him, I liked him, and I wanted to model myself after him.
Not that there was much I could do in the he-totally-fills-his-jockstrap-to-bursting-proportions department short of stuffing a sock in my jock.
He’s big. Bigger than mine. Bigger than anyone else I saw on the team. But honestly, it wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t. The way Stefan carried himself alone—the confidence he exuded—was the real reason I found him so attractive. I wished I could stand up as straight as him, boast proudly like he did, and smile so strikingly.
“Fuck, don’t stop,” dream Stefan keeps begging.
And dream Ryan keeps sucking, twisting his mouth, up and down, in and out, working his lips and tongue on Stefan’s meat.
Knock, knock.
My eyes flap open. I stop jerking. The fantasy is gone in an instant, despite my hard cock still flinching with my every heavy heartbeat. I thought I heard knocking. Surely I didn’t imagine it.
It comes again: Knock, knock.
There’s a small click followed by my front door creaking open, and then I hear a voice: “Hello? Ryan?”
Stefan Baker’s voice—his real voice.