Ball Game


Tonight, for a change, he thinks he'll try Charlie's Kitchen.  On
Eliot Street just off Harvard Square, Charlie's Kitchen is one of
those venerable Cambridge holes-in-the-wall that seem to survive
mostly because they remain safely beneath notice.  They inspire
loyalty--one waitress at Charlie's has been there 30 years--and a core
of regulars sets the tone while the waves of four-year transients keep
them going; the occasional drop-in does not disturb the equilibrium. 
An adequate menu of simple fare, an adequate bar, and a friendly if
nondescript atmosphere put you at ease without pressuring you to live
up to any particular style or tone.  You can sit down in a booth at
Charlie's to an unpretentious meal and a beer and leave again without
having to class yourself as either a friend or stranger.

He stops in at Charlie's now and then.  It's not his favorite, a
little too close to the blur of trendy shops and restaurants on JFK
Street that cater to the university crowd.  But tonight he's parked
his red, white, and blue service van in the tiny dark alley off Eliot
Street, and it's convenient.  A fall chill is in the air, and he picks
up his blue Red Sox jacket.  Might need the cover in a little while,
he thinks.  If I'm lucky.

Charlie's is about half full, the noisy neon lights adding a sense of
activity to a low-key clientele of ordinary character:  a handful of
students, a few locals, a table of self-conscious parents with a
hapless student or two trapped between them.  It's an easy night at
Charlie's.
 
As he slides onto a barstool under the jumble of beverage signs, he
glances to his right and sees immediately that luck is with him. 
She's sitting alone in a booth near the entrance; he's just walked
past her, and she's already had a chance to survey his rear view. 
She's middle-aged, maybe 15 years his senior, a bit used but not
unattractive, a trifle stout.  Glasses, hair short and well cut but
not overstyled, nice color work:  honest-looking light brown,
impossible lack of gray.  Dressed a bit warmly for the season, a
heather-gray wool jacket over a slightly scoop-necked black
sweater--maybe from out of town.  Full-busted, just the barest hint of
cleavage at the neck.  Wedding ring, very important.  Glass of white
wine in front of her, distance in her eyes.  His balls tingle at the
thought of the special attention she may pay him shortly.

He feels her glance as he orders a beer.  He knows his dark Italian
good looks always catch their eye, the sporty mustache, the still-firm
build, not too bad at 35.  At 35 he still looks young to them.  And
they are old enough to be hungry.  He waits a moment, lets her look,
then turns to her with a smile that catches her off guard.  Startled,
she smiles back.  First base.

He nods, a reassuringly gentlemanly nod of acknowledgment, watching
her over the rim of his beerglass.  She glances away, feeling a
moment's awkwardness.  Did she blush?  He feels the familiar warmth
rising in his groin, anticipating his conquest.  This one is going to
be easy.

She concentrates on her wineglass, draws a long sip, drops her gaze to
conceal her involuntary response to him.  He looks away, gives her
time.  Howdies the bartender, a squarish young dyke with black hair
and tattooed arms.  "Hey, Brenda.  Catch the Sox last night?" 
"Bummer."  Waits.  Lets her think about what she sees, fantasize about
the near-connection that passed between them, experience a tiny pang
when his attention passes on.  Out of the corner of his eye he
registers the stir of a woman rummaging in her purse.  She is going to
pay the tab and leave.

He finishes his beer, lays down a five.  Rises, turns her way.  Half a
hard-on now.  He is wearing trim black slacks, not tight-fitting,
restraining jeans, so his contours will show.  She looks.  Can't help
herself.  They never can.  He loves the little throb he feels when
they do, the light rub of his garments at his crotch, the memory of
his hand.

Now the full smile.  "So, can I buy you one?  Hey, Brenda?  Another
Bud and...a chardonnay," he guesses, and she smiles half helplessly,
nodding.  Her hand trembles as she fumbles with her empty glass, and
she withdraws it to her lap.  He stands a moment longer, knowing she
has to look again, and she does.  He feels his cock lurch as her gaze
grows hot.  He knows she has just clenched on her own wet warmth.  She
clears her throat, about to tell him no, thanks, about to decline.  He
slips into the booth opposite her.  Second base.

"I'm Mike," he says.  "I'm just having a couple of beers before I go
home.  You looked like somebody interesting to talk to, sitting here
by yourself.  Do you mind?"  He gives her the look that always tells
them he's thinking about something more.

"I see you're married," he say.  "Don't worry, I'm not going to hustle
you."

She relaxes a little, laughs.  "I wasn't worried," she says.  She's
flattered that he didn't assume she was beyond such concerns. 
Unconsciously she draws a breath and straightens her back, causing her
breasts to swell.  With the hand hidden in her lap, she adjusts
something, a downward tug of the sweater perhaps, because now there is
a generous show of cleavage.  His cock hardens, and he places his
jacket over his lap.  Just a little squeeze as he does so.  She looks
up at him, apprehension warring with want, and offers a teasing
glimpse of her tongue.  He gives her a slight backward tilt of the
head and an instant's half-closure of eyelids to tell her he got it.

"I was just sitting over there thinking," he says, "that a little
conversation would be nice, and you look like a nice lady."

"Thank you."  She smiles.  "I was feeling a little lonesome myself.  I
usually don't travel alone."

"Here on business?" he asks.  Brenda brings their refills, and he
raises his beer in a quasi-toast.  She answers with a nod of her
wineglass and draws a swallow.

"No," she says.  "My mother is in Mass. General, just had some
surgery.  She's going to be fine, but I came for a few days just to
help her out.  She goes home to Lexington tomorrow."

"Where you from?" he asks.

"I live in Chicago," she says. Something about the way she says it
makes him think she is lying.  She has an absurd idea that she ought
to protect her identity.  That's all the better for him.  She thinks
she might do or say something and ought to take this modest
precaution.

He gives another little squeeze with the hand under the jacket.

"Ever notice," he says, "how sometimes people tell things to strangers
that they don't tell their own friends?"

A quick, wary glance.  "Yes," she says tentatively.

"Something about you," he says, "I don't know, maybe you remind me . .
. I'm thinking about . . ."

He leans forward, whispers:  "You want to know a secret?"

"Sure," she whispers back.  He has locked her gaze with his eyes.

"I'm really hard right now."

As he says it, he feels that first sweet overflow of juices, that
pulsing readiness that means it's only a matter of time.  He clamps
down a little bit on his desire, puts both his hands on the table.

"Oh, my," she says faintly.  And then she adds, "I know."

"Are you grossed out?" he asks.

"No," she whispers.

"You know what I would like," he says, "you know what is turning me on
right this minute is the thought of you looking at me . . ."

A tiny sound escapes her throat, something between a sigh and a small
cry.  She takes a large swallow of wine.  Draws in a breath.  Her
breasts swell again, and he stares at them frankly, makes a small
cupping movement with his hands, cups them around his glass, draws on
his beer.

"Would you like to watch me?" he asks, so low that she has to read his
lips.

"Yes," she breathes.

He grasps his blue jacket, holds it in front of him, stands.  Drops a
ten and a five on the table.  "Good-night, Brenda."  The bartender
waves and winks.

She stands, he takes her elbow, guides her to the exit onto Eliot
Street.  As he holds the door open with his arm above her head, he
leans against her.  His erection presses against her buttocks, the
swell urgent even through the thickness of his jacket.  Third base.

He takes her around to the alley, helps her up into the passenger seat
of the van.  His jacket is over his shoulder.  She looks down, gapes
at the bulging presence in his black pants, draws in her breath
sharply.  His face is close to hers.  "I'm gonna cum for you," he
murmurs.

"Yes," she says.

"I got a gallon of cum for you," he says.

"Yes," she says, and it is like a gasp.

She leans back, closes her eyes.  The van is shiny and solid in the
dark alley.  The rear lights of two or three nearby businesses are
just enough to see by.  He opens the driver's side door, tosses his
jacket in, reaches behind the seat for a limp green towel.  Gets in. 
He and his hard-on get in.  He and his huge, throbbing, pressing bulk
of a hard-on.  Get in.  The thought of coming almost makes him come. 
God, this is going to be great.

She opens her eyes.  She has pulled her black sweater down in front
and is caressing her overflowing breasts.  Her gaze is now riveted on
his crotch.  She can hardly speak.

"Show me!" she demands.  Her voice is hoarse and urgent.

In a moment he has it out.  His cock, shiny, hard.  Hard as a pole,
hard as an oaken staff.  His hand, his lover, the eager friend of his
aching sex.  He runs it over his balls and grips the shaft.  She
stares, her eyes half closed, mesmerized.

Now he begins to move.  Watching her watch him, he brings his hand up
to the tip, down, gripping, squeezing, stroking.  Stroking faster now,
faster, feeling the roar of cum, feeling the rolling thunder of
delirium, the madness of his appetite, the perfect pleasure of his own
speeding palm wanting, urging, needing, blurring her face is gone
invisible now and all there is is his cum cum cumming cum in his own
hand masturbating masturbating masturbating oh this is what he wanted
in front of this woman possessed by the sight of him she LOVES seeing
him jackoff jackoff watch me see me fuck my own cock cumming NOW!! he
explodes dripping moaning gasping the green towel somehow was there he
has done this AGAIN he has done . . . this . . . before . . . so many
times . . . and always so DELICIOUS . . . and never better, never
better, never better than this one right now.

Score.