Trent
I looked out the bus window. Normally the lights of the city would have had me excited, I’m a wanderer by heart, I fucking love traveling, the intensity, never having much but the clothes on my back. But this time it was different. We’d finished a game in Baltimore, and fuck, it’d been a blow-out, my performance stand-out.
“You got a check with your name on it comin’,” drawled Sandy, our first base coach, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Nice work man,” grunted Marquise, our pitcher, and I nodded in return. Must have meant something, that mofo never compliments anyone, he’s a surly motherfucker.
But coming off a career-defining game, I don’t know, I just felt moody and pissed. I should have been hyped, excited as all get-out, ready to go to the strip club with my buddies, but instead I was headed up to my room to sulk.
“You sure dude?” asked Leon, our left outfielder. I don’t have many friends, it’s too tough given that we’re all in competition with one another, that any of us could be cut at any hour of any day. But Leon was okay, he was an easygoing guy despite the grind, and I chatted with him sometimes.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I grunted. “You guys go, I’m gonna have some drinks in my room.” More like I was going to masturbate like crazy thinking about Marie, sniffing the lace panties I’d stolen from her laundry hamper, wrapping them around my dick as I blasted off. Oh fuck, even the thought of the silk nothing, its crotch aromatic with her cream made my cock hard, weeping, lusting for the beautiful woman.
But Leon cocked an eyebrow at me, nodding knowingly.
“Shit buddy, don’t drink on your own, there ain’t that much in the mini-bar anyways,” he drawled. “Use the hotel bar, that’s what it’s there for.”
And I grunted, silent and dour, taking the elevator up to my room. But yeah, Leon was right. Upon opening the mini-bar, there were only tiny bottles of liquor, like what you got on the plane, probably three shots total in this fucking fridge. It’d take shit ton to knock me out, to take my mind off the woman, so I stomped my way down to the hotel bar, seating myself like a fucking angry bull, huge, looming on the bar stool.
And a couple drinks made things better, high-end bourbon will do that to you, that shit’s potent. The lights started dimming, the atmosphere hazy as I looked around. Hmm, very nice. Huge portraits of ancient guys in suits hung on the wall with eyes that watched you, plus a giant sculpture of a cow in one corner. This place was modern and trendy, with a touch of old school elegance, the chairs purple velvet, the bar a huge piece of lumber, varnished until it was a glossy black.
And sure enough, a woman appeared out of the woodwork, sliding onto the bar stool next to mine. Knowing I was watching, she leaned forwards and ordered a drink, her big boobies pressing against the wood, like two huge sacks of cream, sitting there begging to be touched. I felt my dick twitch slightly. The resemblance to Marie was astonishing, her hair a curly brown, the small mouth, the curvy figure.
But when she turned to me, it was all wrong. Because instead of wide, innocent brown, this woman’s eyes were filled with calculating greed, gleaming with hunger for money. Shit, even her eyes were green, the color of money.
“Hey big guy,” she purred. “I hear a team’s in town, you part of that?”
I snorted. Another groupie. Another woman who’d give her body for the opportunity to say she slept with a ballplayer. Shit, what was it with these hos? Did they really think I was a notch of their bedpost, bragging to their friends, saying, “Oh, I got Number Nineteen’s dick in me last night, it was so good because he hit a triple?”
So I shook my head, disgusted at myself more than anything else. Because yeah, I’ve indulged in the past, I love good pussy, I love feeling hot cunt wrapped around my dick, shooting my sperm into strange multiple times, but it’d lost its appeal. Because how good could it be? For the first time, it repulsed me. Meaningless sex, I didn’t care about the ho and they sure as hell didn’t care about me. All these women cared about was the uniform, it could have been any dick inside, any random male cock ready to ream.
So I smiled back coldly.
“Yeah, I’m here with the team,” I said, clipping my words. “You looking for action?”
And the woman’s eyes gleamed brighter then, narrowing like a cat. How had I ever thought she looked like Marie? I could see now that the tits were fake, the huge monsters rubbery and perfectly circular, like overblown water balloons. And shit, as the light glanced over her face, her skin looked cakey and powdery at once, loaded with layer after layer make-up, none of the glowing freshness that I associated with my best girl.
But she pressed on, her tits almost falling out of her dress.
“I am looking for action,” she purred, trailing a long red fingernail up my arm, almost to my elbow. My skin crawled although I remained perfectly still, letting her do her thing. “Where you staying?”
And I snorted then. Shit, groupies really weren’t in it for the banter, for the foreplay, for everything that made loving loving. They were in it for the sex, pure, hard, and cold, and what the hell, they’d find it, there were plenty of guys who’d eat that shit up. Just not me. Not tonight. I couldn’t stomach the thought, wasn’t even sure I’d be able to finish with a woman like this, her cunt was wet for all the wrong reasons, dripping with some rancid liquid, nasty and fishy, totally unlike the brunette I’d just left. So I shook my head curtly.
“Sorry, no go,” I drawled. “Not tonight honey.”
And the woman pouted, still caressing my arm with that red fingernail, her other hand now dropping to my thigh.
“Mister,” she breathed, the hot gust of her breath like spoiled garbage on my face. “I can do things no other woman can, just try me,” she purred again, winking. “Just try it and see.”
And now, despite the fact that we were in public, a bar with plenty of other people, her hand literally slid up my thigh until she was cupping my crotch, running a nail over the curve of my dick, lightly tickling the bottom through the canvas fabric of my pants. The old me would have been on it. The old me would have groped a breast right there, maybe even twisted a nipple, reaching into her dress to feel that rubbery hardness. But fuck, it wasn’t the old Trent anymore. I didn’t want it, the thought of another woman was fucking disgusting, like I’d be bathing myself in a cesspool, some decayed shit that I’d never get clean from.
So instead, I stood up abruptly.
“Sorry, married,” I ground out, pulling some bills from my wallet and tossing them on the bar. Never mind that I didn’t have a wedding band on my finger. “No can do.”
The hoochie wasn’t deterred at all.
“So what?” she whined plaintively, reaching to grab me with those long fingernails again, her hands like claws. “I’ve done plenty of married men before, it’s never made a difference. My cunt likes married cock,” she added slyly, “The sex feels even better when he’s married,” she winked coyly.
And I was beyond disgusted now. I’m not passing judgment on anyone, other peoples’ relationships aren’t my business. But this tramp took the cake. Shit, throwing it out there that was she was a ho, that she craved married men, that she specialized in married cock? Shit, that was fucking disgusting. Even if you like it, even if that’s your thing, don’t put it out there. It’s not like Michael Jackson’s nose, you don’t have to wear it on your face for the whole world to see.
But I’d already spent enough time with this woman, her presence was totally toxic, making me nauseous with its lust for married ballplayers. What the hell, this fucking sucked, and I’d already gotten enough alcohol in me, and what the fuck, Marie’s panties were still waiting. In fact, I had them in my pocket, the wisp of nothing my memento of her, my link to the gorgeous girl, everything that this tramp wasn’t.
So I shot the no-name hooker an disgusted look and took off, striding to the elevator, my long legs eating up the distance before the doors slid shut. And once I was alone, my hand reached for the slip of silk, lightly caressing the fabric as if it really were her cunt, that wet, engorged sweetness ready for me all the time, whenever I wanted it, her heaving form at my knees, on the bed, on her back, available throughout the night, so intense, so willing.
But as I let myself into the room, a thought caught in my mind. I’ve been approached a million times on the road, at bars, right outside the stadium, shit anywhere women were. And I’ve turned a lot of them down, hey, even I’ve got to sleep sometimes, you can’t be fucking every single minute of the night, every night, a ballplayer’s got to be rested for games. But this time, I’d done something different. I’d played the married card, like I really was a married man, like I had a honey at home, a sweet, willing woman waiting for me, arms warm, breasts soft, cunt wet.
And it shook me, for sure. Because that sweet willing woman had Marie’s face, it was her breasts I stroked, her soft, wet pussy I touched, her tiny asshole that I kissed. I’d pretended that Marie was my wife to the other woman, and the crazy part? It didn’t feel wrong. It felt amazingly right, like I wanted the brunette to wait for me, I wanted her to keep her pussy safe, I wanted to be the only man plumbing those sweet depths, the only man allowed to shoot my sperm inside.
But that was the irony of all this. At this very moment, the woman of my dreams was probably at a sperm bank, picking out some anonymous donor and getting ready to take his semen into herself in the hopes of having a child. The thought made my body go cold, literally chills running down my spine, my chest beating with pain. Because fuck, I didn’t want some other guy’s sperm in her … I only wanted mine. Marie was mine, and even though I had no right to tell her, of speaking my hopes, dreams, my desire to her, the brunette was mine, absolutely, completely mine.
But what did I have to offer a woman? I was a journeyman athlete at the beginning of my career, making practically nothing with no stable home, no home base even, just a man with a suitcase pursuing my dream of playing pro sports. And Marie was a woman worth far more than that. She deserved more, she was catnip to billionaires, I’d witnessed Vincent hitting on her with my own eyes. I had nothing to offer in comparison except a hard body, a devoted heart, my absolute passion for her sweetness, her willingness, that curvy form. And unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Marie deserved more, she deserved better … and I’d come up short.