All Star Break- Baseball, Hot Dogs and Dolly
Some of the lovely men I’ve had the pleasure of knowing in the biblical sense have posted online reviews of me, and I confess, I do read these. First, I love sex, and I love reading about sex, so reading about my own sex is a special thrill. Second, I do really take pride in sharing the pleasure, so I want to know whether the gents had as much of a blast as I had. If they have any particular things they mention that they thought were special, or what they liked best. And third, I like the comments on what fantasy I fulfilled for them. Guys, you make me blush sometimes. And when you consider the things I do naked with you studly, pussy-eating, power fucking, ass-ramming bedroom all-stars, it takes a lot to make me blush. But you guys do it to me.
I also get a kick out of the occasional mention of my accent. (Fluttering my eye-lashes) Why, it must be a southern accent, after all I live in the South, isn’t that right?
Okay, so I don’t exactly sound like Scarlett O’Hara. Well Fiddle-dee-dee. But let me tell you boys, I love the United States and I’m proud and blessed to live here. And not just because of all the great sex I’ve had in Washington D.C. (You did read about my three way in the airport Hilton when my flight got delayed by snow, didn’t you?). I’ve taken many a nude photo with the American flag, but perhaps my most patriotic gesture came a few years ago. I’ve got a little time to put this story down, since the wonderful major league baseball player I’ve spent the day in bed fucking just settled in to watch the baseball All Star game. We discussed in advance that he wanted to watch, he has a couple teammates in the game. I’ll never snitch which player is spending his All Star break fucking me wonderfully. But it was so interesting to hear him tell me some behind the scenes things about what goes on at the All Star game, as he recalled from the time—or was it times – that he has made the All Star team. Yeah, I’ve been getting doggie style fucked by an All Star baseball player, and he’s got awesome staying power, and I’ve got a really generous envelope and we’ve got an awesome suite…indeed, tonight is the Midsummer Classic indeed. But since Derek Jeter just doubled to lead off the game, you know I haven’t been sharing hot sweaty orgasms with him all day. At least, not today I haven’t.
But enough about major league baseball. Let’s talk about minor league baseball. Do you know that even though New York City is one of the largest cities in the United States, you can find minor league baseball there? Its true—I even took the subway. I rode the “Q” train from Manhattan out to Coney Island. You see, I was a birthday present for one of the coaches. You read that right. I was a birthday present. The coach was a former major leaguer who was at that time going around to all the farm teams of one of the big league clubs (can’t tell you which one, except that the team name ends in an “s”) to help the hitters, and one of his best friends, who was handsome, wealthy, and still playing, felt bad that the guy was out on the road for his birthday. Now this still-playing ballplayer is one of my clients, and we’ve enjoyed some spectacular Dolly dates. He asked me if I would arrange a trip to New York to coincide with his friend’s evening in Brooklyn. He paid me enough to basically make the entire trip worth it, even if I didn’t see any other guys, although I did have lots of fun and inspire quite a few smiles, grunts, moans, curled toes and orgasm during the rest of the three days. But that night was Coach Birthday Boy’s night.
So I wore a fitted major league cap for the birthday boy’s team. And one of those cute ladies’ tailored jerseys. Open far enough down to show a lot of my “girls” and a hint of a team-colored bra. (Irrepressible slut!) A pair of running shorts to show off my legs. I’d been provided a ticket down near home plate, right next to the birthday boy. So every bottled water I bought had to be passed right across this man’s lap, and he and I got into some chatting as he passed me the bottled water and I passed my money through him back to the vendor. And sure enough, he allowed me to strike up a conversation. “Oh, are you with the team? Oh, are you a coach? Oh, you were in the major leagues?” If I may brag a little, Dolly was on her game that evening. His eyes got very big when I leaned just right to give him some eye-candy. Seeing the chubby in his pants let me know the plan was working.
And then the scoreboard showed a young boy’s happy birthday wish from his mom and dad. Which I’d been told would happen (there was no such young boy; that was a stunt my big-cocked generous major leaguer client dreamed up to give me an excuse to get birthday boy to mention it was his birthday.) “It’s your birthday!” I exclaimed, and I put my hand on his thigh, right next to that pleasant, life-affirming bulge in his trousers. I felt how hot he was , asked why he was wearing long pants on such a hot night, mentioned how I was sweating, took his hand, placed it on my thigh, moved it around so he could feel my skin, which actually did have a little sheen of perspiration. So here we were, feeling up each other’s thighs, and I told him his hand felt good on me, that he should leave his hand there. He smiled, leaned in, and whispered into my ear, “are you trying to give me a birthday present? ‘Cuz if you are, its working.” I whispered back, “You are definitely getting a birthday present from me when this game is over.” I felt his cock twitch, since I’d let my hand drift over until it was right next to his bulge. This was working like a charm.
So the rest of the game was me touching him in way that were not offensive to any other fans who might have seen, just affectionate. How did they know I wasn’t his girlfriend? He made notes through the eighth inning to the extent that he wasn’t too distracted, and then uploaded a bunch of notes and results to his team from an iPad he’d been trying not to ignore while I came alarmingly close to his nice joystick. When we filed out, he had a car service waiting outside and he told me that was how he was getting back to Manahattan. I told him what hotel we should go to instead, so that I could share my suite with him. Birthday boy was no dummy, so he told the driver, “we’re still going to the City, but new address, the lady will give it to you.” We made out in the back seat of the car the entire way into the city from Coney Island, which is a really long, far ride. He was a nice kisser. I felt his chest and arms through his clothes. I asked how long he’d been retired, he said five years, that he was forty, and that he played thirteen years and was married and divorced in his early playing days, and wasn’t looking to settle down. “I hope you understand I’m not trying to jeopardize that tonight – I’ll be a big girl and let you go in the morning and not stalk you. You just have to let me fuck you until your eyes spin tonight.” Then we went back to kissing, and I slid his hand inside my shorts so he could feel that I was wearing a thong and I slid the strip of fabric to the side and he felt how wet I was. “That’s not sweat, big boy. Taste.” He withdrew his finger, licked it. Smiled. Reached down again, twiddled my clit a bit and rotated two fingers into me as I spread my legs wide and pulled him close to me, inside my legs. I reached down too, and while kissing we both twiddled my clit outside and my g-spot inside and I had two orgasms, including one gusher, right there in the back seat. Our driver had a big shit eating grin on his face that I saw in the rear-view mirror, so I added dirty talk to my moans and groans.
Know what else Dolly likes? Walking into a hotel fresh from cumming, looking forward to some hot dick upstairs, and having the concierge give me the little finger on the side of the nose signal, from “The Sting” with Redford & Newman, to let me know that the plan is all set. I love that concierge, that’s why I always stay there in Manhattan. My wonderful lovers aren’t the only ones who are good tippers – I take very good care of my Manhattan concierge. No, I’m not telling you what hotel. My New York lovers know, and they’re not talking.
And upstairs the suite was perfect. We had a chilled ice bucket with a half dozen of Birthday Boy’s favorite beers (remember, I had the inside story from my ballplayer friend who arranged all this), my preferred bottled waters (concierge boy knew my brand from memory. Bless his heart, I fuck him all night when his shift ended if he was into women. And I never miss the chance to ask him if he just wants to try, just once, to see if he can find some hidden inner trace of bi, but he just winks and tells me he content to get his thrills by helping me with my Dolly dates.) We peeled our sweaty clothes off and dropped them onto a big arm chair, and I dragged him into the bathroom which had a nice walk-in shower for two. I’d also pulled a couple bottles from the ice so he we had cold drinks to sip just before we got into the shower together.
Is there a more tender, sweet intimate moment than getting your lover all sudsy clean, washing his back that he can’t reach, telling him to close his eyes when you rinse his hair.
Okay, this country and western fella singing God Bless America in the seventh inning of the All Star game is kind of cute, with that long dark hair, and he looked good in that long sleeve t-shirt, but his singing, not so much. I’ve been stroking my ball player’s cock for two inning’s now in between typing. I’m going to taste his cum tonight, there just no two ways about it.
So after birthday boy and I got good and clean, then we got dirty and nasty, figuratively speaking. I slowly sucked his balls into my mouth, one at a time, raking his inner thighs with my nails, and when he was good and hard I pulled a condom from my little goody bag and suited him up. Asian Cowgirl, I thought it would be more athletic, and he was much more aggressive with his hands all over me than a lot of my older clients who are sometimes just quiet and reverential in taking in the scene of what I do for them when they’re in my bed (even if its just my hotel bed). He then leaned forward and sucked my nipples making them hard, making me even more wet. I’d cum during the drive from Brooklyn but I was wondering why I hadn’t fucked him in the shower. Maybe because after a hot sweaty grimy night in Brooklyn, I really did want to focus on getting clean. But I sure did like the way he thrust upward into me while I pounded down onto his tool. He grunted with each thrust, and it reminded me of Wimbledon with all the grunting on all the ground strokes. “Are you feeling like you want to cum, so I can suck your load out of you and feel you in my mouth?” I asked him. “Not yet,” he told me, and then he told me that he wanted to fuck me from behind, “Birthday boy’s wish is my slutty command” I replied. I dismounted, and felt so empty when his cock wasn’t in me anymore. I’d waited all night for that cock! I was in the process of getting onto the bed to get on all fours when he said, “no, just stand, maybe brace yourself against something, Let’s do it standing.”
Kinky little fucker! So he’s hammering away from behind, holding onto my hips, I’m braced against the marble bar that had the ice buckets of drinks on it, and since there was a mirror about the bar, I could see both my “getting fucked hard” face and his “fucking this hot babe I just met” face. We both looked pretty happy. He reached under my arms and forward and kept feeling up my tits. His knees were bent to get down to my height. I realized that since I’d gone to the ballpark in running shoes (heels would have looked stupid with running shorts and a jersey), he’d never seen my legs in heels. Turns out I needn’t have worried. His eyes moved south from my eyes in the mirror, and I saw him slowly taking in all of my body. “Are you some kind of fitness competitor? You’re so fucking ripped and toned. You’re the hottest babe I’ve ever been with.” I wished he would have just cum. My ego was starting to get nervous.
No worries. I went full Dolly on him, told him I wanted him to fuck me in the bed again, missionary, so he could kiss me while I felt him cum. I left the part about “and while I slide a lubed finger up your ass and put pressure on your prostate so you finally cum, and cum hard and intensely because of that finger. I felt relieved, as I was ahead of him on the cum score 4-0 by the time he had a birthday pop—that standing K-9 also allowed me to reach down and twiddle myself while he diddled me, and being twiddled and diddled at the same time put me over the edge a couple times while we in front of the mirror.
After I brought him a warm wash cloth and cleaned him up, along with another cold one, I climbed back into the bed and enjoyed a post screw embrace. After Birthday boy finished his second beer, he looked over, kissed me sweetly on the lips, and asked me, “Are you going to tell me who put you up to this?”
Cue the Southern Bell eyelash flutter. “Why whatever do you mean?” I said in a poor attempt to sound sincerely clueless about the fact that he’d figured out I was not a random baseball Annie. He threw two names out, one of which was correct, and said I was too sexy to have been at the ballpark in Brooklyn. I just wasn’t going to lie. I smiled and kissed him. I was in the show for thirteen years. I’ve had fun nights before, and picked up pretty girls. Never someone so mind-blowing as you, but then again, you just randomly sat next to me on my birthday and had a bucket of my favorite beer waiting in your hotel suite? C’mon! I just smiled again and wished him a happy birthday again and kissed him. We were tired. He spent the night. We had an intense pre-dawn cowgirl screw, the kind with me hunched over so we could kiss, and both of us gripping the other’s body to make it very close, intimate, intense.
I know what you’re thinking –so what’s so Patriotic about that? Well I was going to tell you, but the All Star game just ended, and my Dolly date ballplayer has a flight tomorrow to get to where his team will start the second half of the season, but for the rest of tonight he’s all mine, and I feel rude typing up the last bit of this story while his tongue is so far up inside my sweetness that he could probably take my temperature from the heat on his tastebuds. Oh shit, he’s going to make me cum…okay, I’ll tell you, it was a July 4th game that day in Brooklyn and I got to meet that fella who ate all the hot dogs down the block at Nathan’s earlier in the day. Baseball, Hot Dogs and Sex With Dolly.
Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure!