by J. M. Snyder
The cottage door opens. Greg rolls his head to one side and grins as Trey enters. “Did you catch up with them?”
“Barely.” Trey tugs off his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow with his arm. When the door shuts behind him, he locks it without comment. Picking at the front of his shirt in an effort to cool down, he pulls the fabric free from his pants as he looks around the cottage. “They’re great guys, really. They like the driving range but anything longer than a round of mini-golf and they’re bored. When they’re bored, they drink. I don’t think they’ve yet figured out we’re not in college anymore.”
“Do you really think they’ll be back to finish the game?” Greg asks. He watches Trey assess the room, his gaze restless. What’s he looking for?
Trey’s response is a noncommittal, “Hmm.” Then he steps out of his shoes, and starts to unbuckle his belt. “Speaking of finishing things…”
Greg watches him approach. By the time he stands behind the sofa, his pants are undone, the belt unstrapped, the zipper down, the fly open. With lithe moves, he shrugs his shirt off over his head and drops it to the floor. His chest is smooth and bare, just as Greg remembers it. Trey stops right behind Greg; the caddy has to lean back to keep his golfer in view. Lightly, Trey touches the underside of Greg’s chin with his fingertips. They tickle down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, to caress the hollow of his throat. “You still think of me as an annoying little kid?” Trey murmurs.
Greg shakes his head and swallows thickly, which feels like a gulp the way he’s sitting. Leaning down, Trey kisses the point of Greg’s chin, then his lower lip. He tastes warm and fresh, like a summer day, and Greg can feel the heat radiating from his bare stomach as he bends over him. Another kiss lands on both lips, upside-down. When Trey licks into his mouth, the odd sensation of his tongue lying flat on Greg’s is exhilarating.
Trey’s hands massage his neck and throat, rub along his jaw line, under his chin. Trey’s mouth is insistent, his kisses heady and hot. When he breaks away to trail tiny pecks over Greg’s cheek, his hands delve down farther, smoothing over Greg’s shirt, heading for the ache at his crotch. Greg manages one quick kiss on Trey’s chest before the guy leans down over the back of the sofa, arms stretched over Greg’s shoulders, hands grasping Greg’s cock through the front of his pants. Into Greg’s ear, Trey breathes, “I still want you.”
“Please,” is all Greg manages to say in reply.
Nimble fingers work loose his belt and zipper as Trey suckles Greg’s earlobe. The feel of his teeth nibbling Greg’s sensitive skin is welcome, and Greg fists his hands into the cushions on either side of him as if to hold himself in place. Every touch of Trey’s, every kiss, every squeeze, threatens to send Greg soaring with desire and lust. He knows now what he wants, and it’s this, this.
When Trey has Greg’s pants unzipped, he spreads the material wide and begins to fondle Greg’s stiffening cock through his briefs. “Yes,” Greg sighs, turning to catch Trey’s next kiss on his lips. His mouth brushes over warm, dry hair before finding the supple skin of Trey’s cheek. “Oh, God. Please, Trey. I want you, I do.”
Rubbing his nose against Greg’s, he sighs. “I’ve waited a lifetime to hear you say that.”
“I’ll say it again,” Greg promises. “I need you. Now. I want you—”
Trey silences him with a kiss.
Greg’s eyes slip shut as Trey kneads his dick through his briefs. The golfer has a tender touch, almost reverent—he cups Greg’s balls, massaging them in his palm, while his other hand traces the outline of Greg’s hard shaft. After a minute or two, when Greg’s dick strains the thin white material which has begun to dampen at the first beads of pre-cum, Trey eases his hands into the briefs, pushing them down below Greg’s balls. Now his hands encircle Greg’s length, the rasp of skin on skin loud between them, muffled only by Greg’s desirous moans. Pleasure shivers through him, cycling up from his groin to kindle in his lower belly. He feels safe here, with Trey’s arms hemming him in, Trey’s shoulder a firm pillow on which he rests his head. “Yes,” he sighs. Finally, yes.
With a gentle kiss on Greg’s cheek, Trey stands.
“What…?” Greg asks the moment his touch disappears.
Another kiss quiets him. As Trey rounds the sofa, his hand trails over Greg’s shoulder, along the back of Greg’s neck. Then Trey stands in front of him, Greg’s feet trapped between his own. He plucks something small and square from the back pocket of his khakis and flicks it into Greg’s lap; a condom packet lands on the exposed skin of Greg’s lower belly. “Only if you’re sure this time,” Trey purrs. “I don’t want to waste it.”
Greg scrambles to open the condom. “Oh, God, I am. I’m so sorry—”
Trey is bent at the waist, stripping out of his pants, but he places a hand to Greg’s lips. “It’s over with. We’re cool. Let’s just stop talking already, okay? Make it up to me now.”
With a nod, Greg rolls the condom onto his erect cock. When he sits back, Trey stands naked before him, his skin an even, golden hue that reminds Greg of summertime. A thin line of brown-blond hair trails from his navel to kink into curls at his crotch, where a long, thin cock stands at half-mast. But Greg’s attention is drawn to the heavy sac hanging below that dick, hidden in shadow and hair. When he hefts Trey’s balls in his hand, the younger man moans, a lusty sound that ignites Greg’s blood to hear it.
“God,” he sighs, spreading his legs wider to allow Greg more access. As one finger explores the soft skin behind his balls, Trey grasps Greg’s shoulders and thrusts at him. That finger slips a little farther back, tickling over hidden flesh and the first hint of muscle. “Fuck me, Greg.”
The words fuel Greg’s lust. Leaning forward, he licks out to take the tip of Trey’s dick into his mouth. His tongue rims the flared head, then runs along the underside of the slim shaft, guiding it into him. One hand fists the length at its base, and a gentle squeeze makes Trey sob with want. Greg’s other hand is between Trey’s legs now, his middle finger stretched to rub over Trey’s velvety hole.
“Yes,” Trey cries—he fists his hands in Greg’s shirt, tugging him closer as his hips buck forward to thrust his cock farther in. “God, Greg. Please. Now, now!”
He pushes against Greg, who lies back. As he settles onto the sofa, Trey climbs into his lap, one knee on either side of Greg’s legs. His dick points at Greg as if wanting to be caught again and Greg obliges, ducking a little to taste the tip that rises to meet him. With both hands he cups Trey’s ass, kneading the firm cheeks before spreading them wide. “Yes,” Trey gasps, wriggling when Greg’s fingers strum over his taut hole. “God, Greg. That feels amazing.”
Encouraged, Greg rims and stretches Trey’s tight muscles. They flex, drawing him in, as Trey rocks above him. At one point, he cradles Greg’s face in both hands and turns it up toward his for a soulful kiss. His tongue is demanding, filling Greg. Greg feels the tip of Trey’s cock brush over his chest, leaving a wet streak across the front of his shirt. Then Trey sits, legs sliding farther apart while Greg eases into him.
Trey bites Greg’s lower lip as they lock together. He sets a fast pace, grinding his hips into Greg’s groin as they fuck, his warm weight welcome in Greg’s lap. With his eyes closed, Greg gives into Trey’s kisses and the movement of Trey’s body above his. Trey’s tight ass encircles Greg’s dick, muscles tightening around his shaft, working him to release. He trembles on the edge of fervor, his lust building to a frenzy within him. Each thrust anchors Trey in his mind, replacing his memories with the man he holds so tight. There is no Junior, no Mr. Johns, no half-assed night, no game with three restless friends—nothing before Trey in his arms, moving against him, loving him.
They come in a rush that takes Greg’s breath away. Trey’s kisses leave his lips swollen, numb. Without pulling out, Greg rolls onto his side, guiding Trey down beside him. Trey drapes his legs over Greg’s, one arm trapped between Greg and the sofa’s cushion, the other tugging the front of Greg’s shirt, st
icky and wet with Trey’s cum. “Get this off,” he commands.
Greg complies, allowing Trey to peel the shirt off over his head. It falls forgotten to the floor as Trey snuggles closer to Greg, his hand straying to pluck at one pert nipple that peeks through the thick hair on Greg’s chest. Smoothing the mussed hair back from Trey’s brow, Greg kisses his temple. “Well?” he asks, only half joking. “Was it worth the wait?”
“God, yes,” Trey gushes. He presses his mouth into the hollow of Greg’s throat. His breath is ticklish along Greg’s neck, and his lips leave a damp imprint when he trails tiny kisses over Greg’s collarbone. “You just don’t know. After last night…”
“Did I make it up all right?” Greg grins into Trey’s hair. “Or do you need more convincing I’m definitely interested in you?”
Trey curls his hand into a fist and thumps Greg’s chest. “You have all weekend to finish making it up, mister. Don’t think this lets you off the hook so easily.”
Before Greg can answer, the cottage door shakes as something hard hits it. They hear muffled laughter, then the knob rattles noisily. “Trey-vor!” a deep male voice yells as knocks hammer the door. “Open up, man! You in here?”
It’s Trey’s friends, drunker by the sound of it. Greg groans. “So much for the afterglow.”
Trey covers Greg’s mouth with his hand. “Shh,” he says, snickering. “They don’t know we’re in here for sure. If we don’t answer—”
“There goes your game,” Greg points out. He kisses Trey’s fingertips, then catches Trey’s pinkie finger between his lips in a playful bite. “If you don’t finish the course, you won’t place in the tournament.”
There’s a smirk on Trey’s face that’s hard for Greg to read. “I saw your name in the brochure,” Trey says, speaking slowly so Greg will get his meaning. “That’s the only reason I came here in the first place.”
“You spent how much in registration?” Greg asks, incredulous. “Just to get with me?”
Trey’s shrug settles him closer to Greg. “It was worth it, don’t you think? See? They’re already going away.”
True enough, the sounds from outside their cottage fade as Trey’s friends lose interest. Then Trey’s mouth is on Greg’s again, a pleasant distraction that promises so much more before the day is through.
THE END
Batter Up
The minor league baseball stadium in downtown Richmond known only as the Diamond seats 9,000 fans during a game, but on this cloudless July Sunday, Rob Ritchie is the only person in the stands. He sits on the lower level immediately behind home plate, where he can watch each player take a turn at the bat. This isn’t game day—it’s practice, and the team on the field is one he isn’t familiar with, the Wildwood Waves. Visiting from New Jersey, the Waves take on Richmond’s own Rebels in a week-long series beginning Tuesday.
Rob wears a Rebels polo shirt, the team’s signature R logo embroidered on a pocket above his left breast. Paired with his khaki shorts, the shirt makes him look like just another stadium employee, which is the impression he wants to give. So far no one from the visiting team has looked at him twice.
Good.
Sunglasses hide his eyes, so no one sees how closely he follows every swing of the bat. He holds a battered baseball glove idly in one hand, as if hoping for a foul ball to come his way. In his other hand is a cone-shaped cup full of shelled peanuts. Every time the player at bat swings and misses, Rob tips the cup into his mouth for a snack.
Most of the team has batted already. Rob’s made a mental note of each player’s number and what their swing is like. Number 12, left-handed, likes to bunt. Number 55 swings both ways, but tends to foul. Number 23, right-handed, chokes up on the bat.
The only players who haven’t been up yet are the pitcher, the umpire, and a man in a windbreaker and jeans leaning against the cage behind home plate. Rob can’t figure out who he might be. Too fit to be the coach—that position is held by the gum-chewing fat ass spitting over the railing in front of the dugout. Assistant coach, perhaps, but Rob suspects that fellow’s the bastard yelling obscenities beside third base. Glorified bat boy, perhaps? Too old, for starters, and two teenage kids already run after the foul balls and corral the bats in the warm-up area.
This guy’s on the team, no doubt about it—the jacket he wears sports the number 3—but why he doesn’t swing, Rob can’t quite figure out.
Number 10 is at bat. Swings, misses. Rob treats himself to another swig of peanuts. If the team plays this poorly in practice, he can’t wait to see how well they do in two days’ time. The Rebels are middle of their league at the moment; a few wins would boost them into position to maybe make it into their division’s Championship Series this year. He could hope, anyway. The Waves don’t look all that hot.
The pitcher runs through another couple players, then trades off with another for his own time at bat. Rob only half-watches—most of his attention is on the guy against the cage. All Rob sees is a profile, but it’s enough to suggest the man’s not hard on the eyes. Tall, Rob likes that. Lithe, definitely a ball player, with those long arms and lean legs. Aquiline nose, square jaw, chiseled cheekbones, high brow. A crop of dusty blond hair curls behind his ears and under the brim of the baseball cap he wears.
Rob isn’t aware he’s staring until the crack of a bat sends a ball whizzing into the air and the other guy looks up, up, up, turns, following the ball, and sees Rob looking at him.
Quickly Rob leans back and downs the rest of the peanuts. He sees the ball—a pop foul—fly over the cage and into the upper level of stands above him, where it bounces off one of the concrete seats, arcs into the air again, and heads down.
Straight for Rob.
He scrambles out of his seat, glove ready. The ball lands a few rows behind him, so he drops the empty cup and hurries after it. Supposed to be invisible, remember? he reminds himself as he chases after the ball. Watching the team practice while you’re on break. That’s your story. Stick to it.
Behind him, from the direction of the field, he hears the squeal of hinges and groans. Someone’s coming after the ball, which means someone will speak to him, ask him what he’s doing here, who he is, what he wants…Rob ducks between the seats and snags the ball as it rolls along the concrete floor. If he’s lucky, maybe he can head back up to the concourse and leave without incident.
He isn’t lucky.
“Hey,” a voice calls out. Rob turns—it’s the guy from the cage. He used the door in the fencing to leave the field, in pursuit of the ball, and now stands a few steps down from Rob, hands on his hips.
This close Rob notices he’s kind of cute, even though the brim of his cap shades his eyes. Nice lips, wide mouth, even teeth. Am I staring again?
He thinks he might be.
“Hey yourself. Looking for this?” Rob tosses him the ball, which the guy catches in both hands. “I should get back.”
He doesn’t say to work, but it’s implied. But when he takes a step towards the exit, the guy comes closer. “Wait. You work here?”
Rob sort of shrugs. It isn’t no, exactly, but it really isn’t yes either. “I should go.”
The guy advances, ball held out like an offering. When Rob reaches for it, he finds his hand caught up in a hearty shake instead. “I’m Mike. Mike Hennessey, shortstop. Come on, sit down a minute. You like the game?”
That’s an understatement, but Rob lets himself be led into the nearest row, where he sinks down onto the concrete bench. Mike scoots in next to him and hands over the ball. “This is yours, man. You went after it, fair and square. If this was a game—”
“It’s just practice.” Rob takes the ball anyway, and as he does, he notices an elastic support bandage wrapped around Mike’s wrist. Pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead, he asks, “What’s wrong with your arm?”
Mike flexes his fingers. They’re long and thin like a pianist’s, with short, blunt nails and part of a star tattoo on the back of his hand, half-hidden by the bandage.
“Ganglion cyst,” he explains. “I had it cut out earlier in the season and missed most of our games. You probably noticed I didn’t bat.”
Rob nods. Because they’re looking at the bandage, he thinks it won’t appear too bad if he takes Mike’s arm in hand and kneads it a little. Strong, muscled. When he accidentally brushes over the thumb, Mike’s skin feels electric beneath his. “Will you be able to play this week?”
For a long moment, Mike doesn’t answer. Rob glances up and sees the baseball cap Mike wears is pushed back, exposing his eyes. Hazel, an odd shade somewhere between blue and brown, the laugh lines etched in his skin giving him the look of a permanent squint. He stares at Rob’s hand where it holds his, and bites one corner of his lower lip between his teeth. Watching, as if mesmerized. Lost in thought.
Rob suspects he isn’t the only one who felt the jolt when they touched.
With a gentle squeeze on Mike’s hand, Rob brings him back to the present. “How long are you in town?”
A slow grin spreads across Mike’s face. This close Rob realizes what he thought were shadows on Mike’s cheeks is the hint of stubble. When Mike’s eyes meet his, Rob sees his own thoughts mirrored in their bright depths. “A week or so,” he admits. “You from around here?”
“Born and raised,” Rob says. He still holds Mike’s hand. The bandage has grown warm beneath his touch.
“What’d you say to showing a new guy around tonight?” Mike asks. It sounds casual, but there’s an undercurrent to his words Rob hears loud and clear. “Maybe there’s a place we can grab a bite to eat, get to know each other a bit better. Somewhere quiet, where we can be alone…”