Dolly Swims Bikes Runs and Plays Baseball Dads

It is not true that I took up running to scope out all the guys with great asses.  And toned thighs.  And tight abs.  Those were all just side benefits of exercise.  Now that I think of it, I wish I had asked every sexy runner I’ve ever slipped between the sheets with how many marathons, half marathons, Triathlons, and especially Ironmans he (or she) had completed.  How hot would it be to know that, for example, I’d played hide-the-sausage with guys with a total of 47 marathons, 85 halves, 36 triathlons, and 24 Ironmans or some other cool numbers like that?  Just to be able to quantify how much total fitness I’ve been intimate with would be so cool.  Or is this just my inner nerd merging with my inner slut?  OMG, the possibilities are endless: “Uhhh, let’s see, Dollygirl, one more marathoner and you’re at 3,000 miles …” or, even worse, “My research indicates that marathoners are, on average, able to give me 1.73 times more orgasms per tryst than Triathletes .…”  Hmmm, probably a bit too much nerd ….

 

Along those lines, sports-related sex stories are fun, and I’ve got lots of ‘em.  For example, one side benefit of a city with a shiny new baseball stadium and a very crummy team is that attendance wanes and the suites go unused.  Since I’ve got so many friends around Miami, I have a couple of well-placed Marlins Stadium employees who will let me into unused suites and not disturb me and my guy.  An empty suite is the most comfortable place in a major league stadium to have sex, with their big, comfy sofas and shaded windows.  And those counters at the front of the suite where you can sit on a high bar stool and watch the game are easily adapted for use in a standing K-9 position. It was sooo hot when my ass was being filled and pumped and I was using my power vibe toy on my clitty while watching the Marlins rally from two runs down to take the lead.

I’m going to skip Olympic sexy body watching just now.  Clearly, there are plenty of the most athletic bodies in the world at an Olympics, particularly a summer games.  But don’t sell the winter games short—ever check out the booties and quads on those speed skaters in tights?  I’m going to save an Olympic tribute for an Olympic year, and I was too busy providing men with orgasms this past February to do so.  But let me leave you with this thought—Lolo Jones, both summer games and winter games, I’d take her to bed in a fucking heartbeat, and, since she’s advertising that she’s a virgin, I’ve got a better shot at her than you guys do.

 

Oh, a quick side note:  those who know me well know I’m not hung up on looks.  Most of my dates aren’t in world-class athlete shape but still can fuck me into next week.  Sure, a hot body is fun, or at least that’s what you boys tell me about mine, but, Guys, you know it is not a prerequisite for you to be an amazing sex partner for me. 

 

But what really has me thinking about the intersection of sex and sports this week was the traditional Memorial Day start of the summer travel baseball season for boys.  Most baseball moms hate me.  They think just because I work tirelessly on keeping my body this hot, and, because I love the attention I get from their husbands, that I’m out trolling.  Now, I’ll admit that I’ve done a couple of husbands—very, VERY discreetly—but they are never the targets.  The real targets are the scouts over at the big fields checking out the high school players, not the dads of the younger boys.  Those scouts include college coaches, who are former players, and are guys who are often available, not encumbered by having their whole family at the field.  So, my son was playing in Fort Myers, Florida, not terribly far north of Naples, and I made my way over to where the high schoolers were getting scouted by the colleges.  I was wearing strappy 3-inch sandals and a short spaghetti strap summer dress showing plenty of cleavage with my hair in a ponytail to keep it out of my eyes.  I looked pretty hot, thank you very much.  Sometimes fate lends a hand.  Foul ball in my direction.  A handful of guys who hadn’t moved for any other foul balls all day suddenly decide to be helpful and trot over toward me to retrieve the ball—just to get it and return it to be used in the game—yeah, right!  It’s Dolly-time!!  And Coach Cal was the lucky winner.  Radar gun still in hand, he wore a Tulane hat and had a luscious Louisiana accent.  And his ass was so fine that I wished I had a dick so I could fuck it.

 

As it turns out, THAT is now my best-ever pick-up line at a baseball field.  I usually prefer to save the dirty talk for private, consenting sexual playtime, but he was just so yummy that, after an exchange of smiles and eyeing each other, I tossed him the ball and said, “Fun as you are to look at, I should let you get this ball back to the field.” 

 

“Well, thank you, and it’s mutual.  I’ll probably come chase the next ball that flies this way,” he responded, not the least bit intimidated by the curve of my breasts or the length of my legs.  So, the mutual flirting was  official when he turned around and I saw that fabulous baseball butt.  I was really looking forward to that possibility.  Sure enough, about an inning later, a foul pop-up lands practically in my lap.  This time, I handed the ball to Coach Cal and said, “Ummmm, Coach, your ass is so hot it makes me wish I had a dick so I could fuck it.”  While I still blush occasionally, I was so damned serious I didn’t blush when he looked a little stunned … and a little turned on.  I nodded my head and said, “So, get the ball back to the ump and come sit with me … unless that radar gun is more interesting than I am.”

 

That was the beginning of a beautiful evening, and I guess I turned it around by having him in my ass, first in a standing missionary position, then anal doggie.  Really, all I got of his ass was a playful bite as I kissed down his tanned body (unlike us professional girls with all-over tans, this guy had tan lines to match the shorts and shirts he typically wore to ball fields every day) before I gently took his balls into my mouth, one at a time, to lick each one slowly until his cock begged to be sucked.  “Since I don’t have a dick, but you have such a nice one, I’m not going to fuck your ass like I said before, but you can have mine, Coach.”  I didn’t want to possibly find out he couldn’t get hard enough for a good second go if he’d already cum, so I stopped short of BBBJCIM, wrapped his cock, and smeared my back target with the lube that Dolly always has.  I then asked him if he liked my ass as much as I liked his and would he please not waste any more time with that delicious cock I’d just been sucking.  Diplomacy works wonders—that was a really hot evening, and, btw, he did get rock hard a second time.

 

But back to baseball … I did combine three of my passions one November weekend when I was in Panama City Beach for the Florida Ironman.  Nice flat course, and it turned out that the big youth baseball park in that town, Frank Brown Park, was hosting its last tournament of the season that weekend.  Now, most of the triathletes won’t play with me on a race weekend.  I know, right?  What’s up with that?  I did find a friend the night before for some cowgirl sex, with me riding him to a climax, then a combination of his mouth and my fingers getting me off.  I thanked him for the fun pre-race sex with a Dolly-on-her-knees deep throat, slow, sensual, and befitting a “night-before” bj.  I must confess that this was not my first time with him; we had hooked up at four different triathlons and actually planned it in advance a couple of times.  Though I love swallowing my lover’s cum, I did tease him and push some back into his mouth with a goodnight kiss when he headed out really quickly after the blow job.  The damn clock was sitting right beside the bed, and he realized how late it was, as we had to be at the beach dropping off our bikes and running gear really early.

 

I had a pretty good race, not a personal best, but it did qualify me for an event I wanted to attend in the spring and got me enough points to maintain the ranking I had at the time.  Post-race, I didn’t expect to get any loving (there are a lot of exhausted, drained, even sore triathletes after an Ironman), so I resigned myself to just dinner.  I went to the fanciest seafood restaurant in town and watched the boats come in to the dock, unloading the fresh Gulf fish that had just been swimming a couple hours earlier.  I listed my name for a table and treated myself to a glass of wine at their bar.  There was a huge party of 20 or so—loud, fun, boisterous, and a few more men than ladies in the group.  It turned out they were baseball parents of a team of 10-year-olds from Alabama, and some of the moms were missing because they were home with other children who couldn’t make the trip.  A couple of the dads spotted me and pulled me into the conversation.  One was a fun guy, but the other was a single dad.  Unfortunately, the single dad seemed to lack a critical ingredient for a fun sexual encounter—a personality.  The fun guy was an on-his-own married dad, whose wife and two other kids were back home.  He seemed interested in getting to know me, asked about the Ironman, and told me about watching the big one in Kona that NBC televises each year.  His eyes spent most of the time focused on my eyes and my smile, except for just a little bit of checking out my body.

 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Handsome,” I told him when I caught his eyes wandering. 

 

“Sorry … well, no, not sorry.  I’ve just never seen anyone like you in person, only on TV or in a magazine or a movie.  I’m just trying to convince myself this is really happening,” he stammered.

 

“That what is happening?” I asked him. 

 

“That you’re real, I’m not hallucinating, and I’m getting to chat with you over a drink while I’m with my friends.” 

 

Now, that was a sweet answer.  The only thing I didn’t know was whether this guy was going to let a little detail like his wedding ring get in the way of Dolly having a really nice guy to celebrate her latest Ironman with that night.

 

And that was my pick up line.  These folks were so cool, Mr. On-His-Own Dad didn’t monopolize me.  I chatted with a bunch of them, despite a bit of tension from the ladies, but I ended up having dinner at their huge table.  Much better than a table for one!  I sat next to the nice married guy, and I whispered that I loved celebrating an Ironman with hot sex, but here I was all alone, and did he have any ideas of how I could solve my problem?  He said he would love to personally help out. I meant to squeeze his thigh to indicate my approval.  I didn’t realize he was sitting so far forward on his chair that, yes, I ended up squeezing his cock.  It was three-quarters stiff already.  I told him that I didn’t want to get him in trouble with his friends by leaving with me, since they might report that to his family.  Over the course of the dinner, I was able to discreetly give him my hotel room number and location and let him know that I’d look for him an hour after we left.

 

A little while later, I kissed him as he walked in, and he returned the kiss without hesitation.  It was no surprise—the way he accepted my offer I could tell he had enjoyed some extramarital pleasure in the past.  I started unbuttoning him, but by then, I was down to a thong and a sexy bra that I’d worn behind the door when I opened it for him.  He kissed me deeply, with his hands on my hips.  I loved when he kissed my neck and didn’t need to be invited to grab my boobs while I took his cock out. His knees almost buckled when he felt how damn wet I was.  Dolly keeps herself well hydrated during a race, I guess.

 

My married lover wasn’t the most limber, he told me, so I asked him if he would like to start out in doggie.  His eyes lit up, and he said he’d been fantasizing about fucking me doggie style since he saw my ass step up onto the bar stool in the restaurant.  I looked back over my shoulder and saw he was tall enough that, when he leaned forward, we could deep French kiss while he slammed his cock into me and held my ass.  I convinced him that reverse cowgirl was really just the same position as doggie but turned around with the guy seated, so I got to enjoy him that way, and that’s where he lost it.  I, of course, lose it in every position, and, after I had him lay back and I brought him back to hardness with my mouth, he asked if we could do it missionary.  That was a lovely intimate way to wrap up my Florida Ironman adventure in Panama City Beach, again with lots of kissing.  He thanked me for a dream come true when he floated out of my room.

 

Here’s to hoping I can add to my baseball list of hot memories this season.  I’ve made some friends in Minneapolis this year.  I wonder if any of them will invite me back for the Major League All-Star Game in July.  Boys, who’s going to step up?  Even if that doesn’t happen, there’s always a suite at Marlins Park.  Batter up!

THE END 

Enjoy! Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure! 

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