POP! One finger slid in. POP! The second finger slid in. While the trainer was fingering my ass, his other hand found my cock and started milking me like a cow.
My left hand was at the edge of the table. I swept it outward until it contacted Doc’s pants. I could feel the heat from his hidden groin. I rubbed his cock through his trainer’s shorts. He responded by shoving the two fingers deeper into my ass. I was so horny and ready to fuck or be fucked; I rolled off the table and down to my knees. As I dropped, I pulled Doc’s shorts down, freeing his dick to be licked. I put my mouth on it and got it nice and wet. Then, without a word, I stood up, turned around, bent over the table and braced myself. Doc knew what he was doing. This time he didn’t ask if it was alright with me. I had made it perfectly clear what my preference was. He guided his cock to my ass and plunged it in, past my token resistance. He was so wound up, he came in less than two minutes. It was just beginning to feel really good. He collapsed onto my back, his now semi-hard cock slipping out of my fresh fucked ass.
Doc Trelease didn’t object when I pushed him off and made him bend over the table, assuming the position I had just vacated. I took the goo from my ass, rubbed in on my cock and his ass, and lined up for penetration. My cock is a little bigger than Doc’s and he wasn’t begging for it like I was. My initial penetration caught him a little off guard. He tensed, erasing his post coital stupor. I waited for him to become accustomed to my cock in his ass, and when I felt him relax, dropping his chest back onto the table, I started to slowly thrust in and out. In a few minutes, Doc gripped the edge of the training table and started to press back. I pistoned in and out of his ass. I kept myself on the edge of cumming for several minutes. I started to sweat, getting a good workout from pounding him. Doc grabbed a towel and shoved it in his mouth. I could hear him moaning and yelling into the wadded towel. Then I felt his ass clench and realized he was cumming. I let it loose, filling his bowels with my own juices. My cum instantly made his ass easier to fuck. I kept pounding until I felt a second wave of pleasure and let that one go too. Then I sat down, getting a good luck at my cum seeping out of the athletic trainers ass.
“Even if I lose my job over that Paul, it will be worth it,” he said with a grin as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “We need showers. Let’s go.”
We both left dripping trails of cum as we walked the dozens of feet to the showers. I took my time this time, turning the water cooler by a few degrees every several minutes until it was full cold. I left the trainer in the shower, headed for the varsity locker room, got dressed and waited outside for my ride. Twenty minutes later my family arrived with a sack full of burgers and a root beer float. We headed out to the house and I sat around on the porch until bedtime.
Becka and I spent the night together, but I was too tired to do anything, so we just snuggled. It was warm out, so we left the windows open and kept the covers off so we could sleep more comfortably. Becka never complained when we slept together and didn’t have sex. She was content just to be there in bed with me.
We were up 7-0 on Emerald in the top of the seventh. Like coach predicted, my fastball, sinker-fastball was enough to stymie the big bats of the Ems. They had managed to get enough of the ball to hit it into fair territory five times, but each time my team backed me up. I hadn’t been behind in the count all afternoon. I felt like I was the master of the universe. Joe Baldwin wasn’t even throwing down real signs any more. Most of the time he would just flip me the bird and I would rock and fire from the stretch. I had twelve strikeouts and five put outs. I was in the middle of a no-hitter. My teammates stopped talking to me between innings after the fourth. No one wanted to jinx my ju-ju.
The third hitter for the Ems in the top of the seventh was Bobby Wilson. Yep, THAT Bobby Wilson. Three time American League MVP and the first Oregonian to sign a contract worth a million dollars out of high school. Pro scouts followed his every move. There were even several at that game. When his last high school game was over, Bobby Wilson was going to the major leagues. He might spend the summer moving up from A ball to AA and then AAA before getting called to The Show in the fall, but he was the best baseball player from Oregon in several generations, maybe ever. Bobby Wilson was 0-2 with no contact with the ball at all when he strode to the plate. It didn’t seem to faze him at all. He was all business.
My first pitch was a fastball on the inside, just below his groin. It was supposed to jam him up and keep him from pulling the ball. Wrong. Bobby Wilson slapped the piss out of that ball and he sent it up the left field line on a leave-the-atmosphere trajectory. It arced foul and the Emerald fans let out a collective groan. Bobby Wilson was ready for my fastball.
I kept the next two pitches low and away, not eager to let him adjust his swing any more. Behind now 2-1, Coach Harris called time. He strode out to the mound, and Joe and Jack Baldwin joined us.
“Wassamatta kid? Afraid of a monster like Bobby Wilson?” he asked. I didn’t want to answer, so I said nothing. “I’ve seen his kind a thousand times. Now that you got him thinking you are rattled, it’s time to send him a little chin scratcher.” Joe Baldwin grinned. “Go get ‘im, kid.” He patted me on the butt and walked off. Jack Baldwin returned to first base.
“Throw the ball shoulder high, way inside. Then the next two pitches come at knee height over the inside half. We’ll catch him watching.”
I had never thrown a brush-back pitch before. But at this point, it would make Bobby Wilson think I was wild and losing control. He might not feel as comfortable at the plate. I rocked and fired, the ball rose toward his chin and whistled by, close enough for him to hear it hiss. He reacted way too late. Had I not missed him, I might have broken his jaw or worse. Still, when he reacted, he ended up spinning around and falling to the dirt.
“Oh crap!” shouted Joe Baldwin has he reached for the ball. “You OK David?” he yelled at me.
“It just kind of slipped. I don’t know what happened. I’m good. I think.”
It was not acting worthy of an Academy Award, but it was enough to get Bobby Wilson thinking. He had a lot to lose and his team was already down seven runs late in the game. He got up and reloaded the batter’s box.
Joe was right; the next two pitches went right by him. He didn’t even get a swing around.
The next six outs went by the numbers. No other batter put the ball into play. I finished with twenty-two strikeouts. There was a lot of jubilation on the field, and my teammates hoisted me on their shoulders. We hadn’t won anything, but it was the first no-hitter in state history pitched by a freshman. I also tied the record for most strikeouts in a nine-inning game. It would take me a long time to realize how special of an afternoon that was. I did get to meet some major league scouts who had a tough time believing my dad that I was only fifteen. They promised to keep an eye on me for the next three years. I thought about explaining to them that I was going to college after high school, but I don’t really think they wanted to hear my opinion about anything, so I just smiled and nodded. I felt two familiar arms circling my waist.