“Wanna go see the Yankees play the Orioles?” the spouse asked. I looked up from my screen, mind working a mile a minute, and asked for the details, but it was just a formality. Once I heard the game was being played locally, I was in.
As soon as the tickets were purchased, I was obsessed with how to run into you, casually as you please, at the ballpark. I just couldn’t imagine being there without seeing you, and I couldn’t imagine seeing you without having you. Ever since you told me about reading my porn at work, I’ve been wet and ready for you.
Once we arrived at the ballpark, it took 45 minutes to get through the front gates. It was a sell-out crowd, which would work to my advantage. We found our seats, about halfway between the field and the nosebleed section, but significantly very close to an exit.
I volunteered to get everything there was to get: souvenir program, hot dogs, soft pretzels and sodas. I figured if I hadn’t had any luck yet, I’d escape a little later for a beer.
On my first scouting trip (program only), I struck out. I scanned every face walking towards me, each person in every line, but none of them was you. It dawned on me that you might not be there, but I quickly put that thought out of my mind. [This just wasn’t acceptable.] I returned to the seats as quickly as possible, so I would have more time on the next trip without creating suspicion.
Back in my seat, I scanned the crowd systematically, row by row. The spouse was busy explaining things to the kid, so I was able to peruse the attendees with our trusty binoculars. Given the sheer volume of people there, I settled in for a long ordeal…but as luck would have it, I spotted you clear across the park in section 77, almost directly opposite our seats. Thankfully, you appeared to be with a friend and not anyone female and part of your immediate family.
I sat and waited, not so patiently, until I saw you get up from your seat and head toward the nearest exit. When this happened I bolted, determined to intercept you as you headed, most likely, to fetch another beer.
I fought the throngs of people milling around the concession stands, desperate to find you before you returned to your seat. I paused slightly as I went by the men’s room, but decided to keep going. In all likelihood you weren’t there.
I continued on my quest, and was discouraged to find the beer stand without you. I kept going, though. Just a little setback.
I couldn’t believe the luck (and the irony) when I glimpsed you waiting near the end of the hot dog line. I stopped at the front of the counter, off to the left where I was hoping you’d glance my way. When you did, you didn’t even seem surprised but immediately left your place in line, took my hand and ran with me I didn’t know where, but I trusted you.
When we stopped running I looked around. It appeared we were in a passageway which went under the field, the quickest way from one side of the park to the other. Judging by the lack of company, not many people knew of its existence.
Without a word you reached under my skirt, pushed my panties aside and entered me swiftly, causing me to gasp as you pushed me against the wall. You held my right leg up and stared into my eyes as your steel rod pounded into me again and again. God, what an amazing place to find myself on a Sunday afternoon in springtime!
As you came ever closer to climax, our eyes locked, and I just smiled. I wanted to fully experience everything — the sounds of our breathing and the feel of our bodies together — and I wanted them imprinted on my brain for playback later.
Fifteen minutes after leaving my seat I returned, missing one pair of white thong underwear, complaining about the monster line in the ladies room. I’m not sure they even noticed I was gone.
In the sixth inning, I spied you getting up, tellingly carrying your seat cushion with you. You silently beckoned me to join you (like I was somehow going to miss such an opportunity).
We met in the passageway and immediately began kissing. As we embraced I felt you hard against me and broke away, gently taking the cushion from you and placing it at your feet. I kneeled on it and began to open your pants. You moaned your approval and stroked my hair.
Although we had only limited time, I sensed I could tease you a little without much trouble. I commenced the old, familiar dance, the one where I stroke, kiss, squeeze and lick your cock (and balls) without actually putting it in my mouth. We both wanted it there, but you know how I love to torture you.
It seemed like a very long time, I’m sure, but you were well behaved and didn’t make any demands. You knew that although I knelt before you, and you could have had me any way you wanted, and I wanted to pleasure you more than anything, that I was really the boss here, and you loved it.
Once I’d done my work on your dick alone, I started the routine again, this time including the balls. I squeezed them and ran sharp fingernails over their surface with my left hand as my right grasped your shaft and my tongue flicked back and forth, up and down your length. I was amazed that, with all this activity, you weren’t closer to coming…but I suspect you’d had a head start on a buzz on the way to the park. I smelled beer on your breath during act one and was silently grateful for the opportunity of a longer tease.
As soon as I saw a drop emerge from your tip, I knew it was time. I had to have you in my mouth and, without warning, engulfed you inside its warmth. You gasped at the suddenness of it, and responded with a most emphatic “fuck me!” [Apparently you weren’t present a few innings earlier when I’d done just that.]
You thrust in and out of my mouth, and I stroked your balls, and I moaned. I wanted to remind you, as you always seem to forget, how much I enjoy getting you off. [I also was surprised to taste myself lingering on you from before.]
You let me know when you were about to come, and I braced myself for a flood. I swallowed and swallowed, barely able to keep up.
As much as I wanted nothing more than to be in your arms for days, the real world began to intrude. It was time to return to my seat and, shortly, back home. All I knew was, I would never hear “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” the same way again.