Major League Shutout

Chapter 1 The Thunderbolts had just won both games of their doubleheader. It was kind of a big deal as the Bolts were currently in last place, not only in their league but in all of major league baseball. They had just beaten the Yankees—the previous year’s World Series champions and the team with the best record overall—twice in the same day. From the way most of the players were acting, anyone would think they’d won the Series instead of just a couple of mid-season games. Obadiah Benson, the Bolts catcher, made his way to the showers through the crowd of players and reporters in the locker room. His parents had chosen to name him Obadiah—which they’d always told him meant “Servant of God”—because they had insisted he would one day follow in his father’s footsteps and become a preacher. But Obadiah, as soon as he was old enough to protest, at about age three, had tossed out the moniker and hung the nickname of O.B. on himself, declaring he was going to be a baseball player and that no self-respecting ballplayer would be called Obadiah. O.B.’s parents had lamented over his choice of nickname and career. That is, until O.B.’s high-powered salary in the major leagues started providing lucrative supplements to his father’s meager income as a Southern Baptist minister. Suddenly God’s will for their son had been revealed: Baseball was his true calling. Even though his mother still refused to call him O.B. None of the reporters paid much attention to O.B. as he walked by. The throng from the media was clamoring for interviews with the two pitchers who had played that day, as well as Jake Robinson and Neil Carter, the right fielder who’d hit back-to-back solo home runs in the ninth inning. Robinson and Carter had been pivotal in winning the second game, which had gone to the bottom of the ninth with the Bolts behind by a run with two outs on the board. The physical and mental strain of being involved in every defensive play wore O.B. down over a long season. It had a negative effect on his offensive output as well. He knew he wasn’t a great hitter or a fast base runner; catchers rarely were. The power hitters and pitchers got most of the attention. That didn’t bother him. His low-profile position was just fine. He’d let the other guys grab all the publicity and glory. He didn’t want his name and face all over the news. He dropped his towel on the bench outside the shower room, walked in, turned the knobs, and let hot water run over him. His legs ached. He was only twenty-six, but playing nine innings in that crouched position was hard for a man his size, and eighteen innings was pure torture. After his shower he’d head for the training room and the whirlpool. He was well aware that if he wanted a long career in the majors, he had to take care of his body. Maybe he’d ask one of the trainers for a massage—that was, if he could make sure it wasn’t Haskel. Haskel was just too hot. The man had all the characteristics that pressed O.B.’s buttons: tall, blond, blue eyes, smooth muscled body, and only a hint of body hair. When Haskel worked on him, O.B. had to lie on the table an extra fifteen minutes before he could get up without embarrassing himself. And there’d been one time when he’d been so horny he’d actually c*m on the fuckin’ massage bench while Haskel was working on him. No, he’d make sure it was Jenkins or Albertson. They did nothing for his overactive libido. He’d be safe with them. Unfortunately, his thoughts of the upcoming massage and Haskel had caused his c**k to start to tingle and come to attention. Fuck! You horny bastard. You gotta get yourself laid tonight! As he exited the shower and grabbed his towel to cover his tumescence, O.B. noticed one of the media guys, a young reporter, smiling at him. He turned his back on the nosy prick and made his way to the training room. Once there, he dropped the towel and stepped into the swirling waters of the hot tub. He sat, leaned back, and let out a huge sigh; the hot eddies caressed his tired muscles and helped him relax. However, he was still having trouble convincing his c**k that this was neither the time nor place to get stiff and demand attention. Remembering the time he’d been in the training room alone and had stuck his d**k into one of the tub’s jets, letting it get him off, didn’t help one bit. But it was like trying not to think of a white elephant on the coffee table once someone in the room said that there was one there. Fuck, he thought, no one’s gonna think I’m horny because of some trainer workin’ on me. Every one of the guys on the team will have s*x on their minds after wins like these. Their testosterone is gonna be pumpin’ through their veins and makin’ them just as hot to trot as me. The married guys are gonna f**k the brains outta their wives and the single guys are gonna be on the prowl for some willing groupie-cunt. So what the f**k. I got a woody. I’m just on the make like any straight guy. Only what I really want is my hard c**k in some hot dude’s ass, not some b***h’s p***y. But no one’s gonna know that but me. After twenty minutes of soaking, O.B. got out of the tub, dried off and, wrapping a towel around himself, walked out into the training room. There were about a half-dozen players being worked on for various post-game aches and pains. Haskel was working on the right elbow of one of the pitchers. Perfect, he’s busy, O.B. thought. He looked around for Jenkins and Albertson. But they, too, were occupied, working on players. O.B. briefly considered skipping the massage, but his hamstrings hurt badly enough that he knew he’d have to have it if he was going to be able to play tomorrow. He headed for the far end of the room, away from Haskel, hoping Jenkins or Albertson would be free soon. But just as O.B. passed the table where Haskel was working on the pitcher, the handsome blond called out, “O.B., I’ll be done here in a jiff. Hop up next door and I’ll be with you in a minute.” “Oh, crap,” O.B. muttered. “What’s that?” Haskel asked over his shoulder as he continued to massage the pitcher’s arm. “Ow! Cramp,” O.B. said, covering his verbal ejaculation and limping to add to the subterfuge. Aware that ignoring or refusing Haskel’s offer to work on him would seem strange, even rude, O.B. climbed up on the adjacent training table, lay down with his hands behind his head, and crossed his legs at the ankle. He tried to think of something that would distract him enough so the embarrassment of the time he’d shot his load while Haskel had worked on him wouldn’t be repeated. O.B. closed his eyes and began to doze off. He’d successfully gotten his mind off the sexy trainer by thinking of the next day’s game—mentally reviewing the relative strengths and weaknesses of the starting pitcher with whom he’d be working. He was brought back to full wakefulness when he felt a firm hand clasp his left quad just above the knee and give it a squeeze. “God, you catchers,” Haskel said. “You got the legs, man. So, tell me, Mr. Benson, where does it hurt?” Haskel continued to lightly massage O.B.’s thigh as he waited for a response. Feeling his c**k starting to get in on the action, O.B. quickly turned on his stomach and said, “Tendons. Really tight today.” The trainer ran his practiced hands the length of each of O.B.’s hamstrings from the knee to just below the swell of his bubble butt. “Yeah,” Haskel said matter-of-factly. “I can feel those tendons wantin’ to knot up and that’s putting a lot of pull on all three hammies. I’m gonna get the vibrator. Be right back.” The trainer gave O.B.’s butt a playful smack and walked off, snickering. “f**k! The vibrator,” O.B. mumbled into his arms as he lay facedown on the table. He didn’t know what the technical name of the instrument was, but they all joked about the vibrator and how it could get a guy off in thirty seconds flat if he wanted to use it on his c**k. It stimulated blood flow to muscles and tendons by using ultrasound vibrations, and it produced a very pleasant sensation as it did so. Feels too damn good! O.B. thought. s**t, might just as well give up and enjoy it. I’m half hard already. Haskel returned. “All set?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a response before lifting the towel, laying it across O.B.’s ass, and slathering his legs with a cold gel. That was followed by the application of the vibrator, up one leg and down the other. “Spread ’em a little, O.B.,” Haskel requested. O.B. obliged. But the spreading exposed his nuts, which got a good dose of the pulsations from the machine when Haskel brought the vibrator up to and around the base of his ass and between his legs. “Holy s**t!” the catcher exclaimed. Haskel laughed. “Feels good, don’t it?” He purposely put the device in contact with O.B.’s balls and laughed again. “Cut it the f**k out!” O.B. said, squirming to get away from the pleasurable sensations that were running from his good-sized balls to the tip of his d**k. “I’m gonna fuckin’ c*m!” “You wouldn’t be the first,” Haskel chuckled as he moved the vibrator away from the sensitive area and back down O.B.’s leg. For twenty minutes the tantalizing torture continued. Each time the machine was brought up to his nads, O.B. was sure he was going to shoot. But in the end he held his load. The vibrator was followed by a massage. O.B. didn’t know which was worse in terms of the turn-on it produced. Haskel warmed sweet-smelling lotion in his hands and, with firm, even strokes, kneaded and manipulated O.B.’s well-developed hamstrings. Once again he was sure he was going to c*m as his body was rocked back and forth from the rhythm of Haskel’s massage. His steel-hard c**k was pushed against the leather of the training table as he thought of the stud massaging his legs. How he managed to avoid blowing his load he didn’t know. Now, as he sat leaning against the wall, his legs draped over bags of ice, he wondered if Haskel might not be getting an extra bonus from the job he did with the hunky ballplayers. He watched the man as he worked on another of his teammates, but couldn’t decide whether or not the guy was getting a charge out of the intimate contact he had with the athlete’s sexy body or not. Don’t matter. Even if he is gay, I’m not gonna take a chance on screwing around with anyone who knows me and knows I’m a ballplayer. There’s no way you can be out and still be in the major leagues. No way at all.