Manhandled (4 page)

Mitchell quickly unbuttoned his perspiration-drenched baseball shirt and yanked it off his back along with the sleeveless
black T underneath. He kicked off his cleats, peeled down his uniform pants and smelly white stirrup socks, then his jockstrap
and cup, leaving everything in a nasty pile on the floor. He grabbed a towel, shampoo, and soap and stepped into his slides.
A minute later, he stuck his head under the water in the shower, knowing full well how screwed his life was going to be after
today.

Fuck ’em all,
he thought as he washed away the grime of his bad performance.
I’m Mike Mitchell, one of the aces on this team, and I make more money in one day than most men do in ten years. Nobody fucks
with me!

He ran the bar of soap over his nuts and found them heavy and swollen. He tugged and scratched at the loose sac, proud of
their size.

That’s right, fuckers. I’m the one with the balls and the contract—and you better not forget it!

He dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist before crossing back into the locker room. By this point, the rest of
the team had begun to shuffle in from the dugout, and he could tell by their scowls that the news wasn’t good. He tried to
ignore their stares on the way to his locker, but there was no getting past the sudden rumble of Coach Riggs’s voice once
he got there.

“Mitchell!”
bellowed Riggs across the now-filled locker room. He turned to see the team’s top guy standing at the door to his office,
red-faced and ready to explode. “Get your ass in here!”

Mitchell shook his head. “I’m getting dressed.” He turned back in the direction of his open locker. The clubhouse suddenly
fell deathly silent.

“You don’t hotfoot it in here this fuckin’ second, Mitchell, I’m gonna drag you in here by your nuts.
Now!
” Coach Riggs shouted before slamming the office door.

In his three months with the team, Mitchell had never seen the coach so pissed, not even when arguing over shitty umpiring
got him ejected or cost the team a game. He knew Coach Riggs meant business.

Taking a heavy swallow and cinching the towel tighter around his waist, Mitchell headed toward Coach Riggs’s office. He figured
he was about to be ripped a new asshole for his behavior both on and off the field that afternoon, but it didn’t matter. He
had agents and a contract and the union to protect him. He could be the biggest dick in all of pro sports and nobody could
touch him, no matter what he did or who he did it to. What did he have to worry about from the coach—or from the whole fuckin’
team for that matter? Still, he was happy that the drawn blinds in the coach’s office would prevent the rest of the guys from
seeing his humiliation.

He entered the office and closed the door behind him. “Yeah?” he said flatly.

Coach Riggs stood at the open drawer of his old, paper-stuffed filing cabinet. “You’re looking real pretty and clean now,
considering how ugly you were out there an hour ago,” he said sarcastically. He pulled out a document and then slammed the
drawer shut, loudly and with enough power to make the toned biceps of the thirty-eight-year-old’s former pitching arm flex.
He slammed the document down on his desk, which Mitchell noticed was curiously void of any other objects, even the blotter
that was usually there. “Know what this is?”

Mitchell glanced at the papers. “A contract.”

“It’s
your
contract,” Coach Riggs said.

“No shit,” answered Mitchell. “I figured that.”

Coach Riggs rounded the desk and got right in his face. “Don’t get cocky with me, ’cause I don’t have to put up with your
shit. And I won’t.”

“Because you’ve got the owner behind you, that it, Coach?” Mitchell defied.

“Even better than that, tough guy. I got your contract to back me up. You fuck with the fans, that’s your own choice and problem.
They’ve got long memories, and you’ll pay for it every time you enter a ballpark for the rest of your career,” countered Coach
Riggs. “You don’t want the media at your locker, that’s fine with me, too. The reporters already hate you. Gives them something
to write about. But you start taking cheap shots at your battery mate, I got every right to bust your ass.”

Mitchell folded his arms, which pumped up impressively. “Cordero made bad calls.”

“And you’ve made bad pitches. A lot of them. You’ve dropped the last four games you’ve started. And you don’t have one friend
on this team.”

Mitchell laughed. “I don’t need their friendship.”

“Like it or not, this is a team,” Coach Riggs growled menacingly. “And you’re going to start acting like a team player.” He
aimed the rough thumb of his former pitching hand at a paragraph of the contract’s minutiae. “You signed this, knowing your
contract calls for good sportsmanship. I got a case against you that will cost you plenty of cash if you don’t turn your season
around—right now— by marching out there and apologizing to your teammates for being such a fuckin’ asshole.”

“Apologize?” Mitchell said calmly. “How’s this for an apology, Riggs.
Go fuck yourself.
”

Mitchell shot his middle finger at Riggs before reaching for the door. He fully intended to leave the office and finish dressing.
But waiting just outside and blocking his escape stood a trio of imposing bodies: twenty-six-year-old Spencer, who’d turned
his ball cap backward to expose his blond crew cut; the team’s lanky rookie shortstop, Derek Peters; and his catcher, Jorge
Cordero.

“What the fuck?” asked Mitchell.

“You’re the one that’s fucked, dude,” he heard Coach Riggs chuckle over his shoulder. Then Riggs growled,
“Do it!”

Cordero and Spencer rushed him, pushing him back into the office and forcing him against the desk with incredible strength.

“Get the fuck off me!” Mitchell howled, but the two men ignored his demand. He watched the fresh-faced rookie close and lock
the door. Peters then grabbed hold of his legs, and the three men hauled him onto the desk, pinning him down at several points,
by the arms and shoulders and both ankles. With the guys at such close range, Mitchell’s next angry breath filled with the
raw, manly stink emanating from their bodies.

“I told you that one way or another, you weren’t leaving this office till you adjusted your attitude,” said Coach Riggs. Struggling
on the desk, Mitchell could only look on as Coach Riggs moved in close to tower over him. “We’ve had enough of your shit,
fucker. It’s time for you to learn some respect!”

To his shock, Mitchell felt a hand take hold of the meaty bulge of his crotch and squeeze it suggestively.

“Hold the fucker down,” Spencer shouted at his ear. The hand was his, and his comment was directed to Peters, who had him
by the ankles. The square-jawed center fielder grabbed Mitchell’s towel and ripped it open, exposing his freshly showered
cock and balls. Mitchell put all his strength into fighting against his teammates, but to no avail. He’d believed his humiliation
would end after he faced down Coach Riggs in his office, but the truth was, it had only begun!

What was about to happen still hadn’t sunk in. The sound of a zipper opening near his face and the fumble of Cordero’s fingers
between his naked legs soon woke him up to the reality of his situation. The fuckers were going to do him! Worse, he remembered
the blank top of Riggs’s desk, and now knew they’d planned this. Mitchell turned his head to face the coach, only to have
Riggs’s half-hard, hairy cock slap his face. The musty smell of man sweat filled his nose, and a trickle of gummy salt stained
his lips. He coughed and sputtered. Riggs gripped his cock by the root and batted Mitchell’s cheek, an action that pushed
the coach’s tool to its full stiffness. Mitchell howled out his disgust as Coach Riggs wiped his hard cock and meaty nuts
all over his face.

“Yeah, Coach,” Spencer urged. “Show him we ain’t gonna put up with his crap no more!” Right after he said this, Spencer planted
a knee on his shoulder to pin him and covered part of Mitchell’s body with his own, an action that put the other man at face
level with his cock. To Mitchell’s shock, he felt a warm set of lips envelop the head of his limp dick. Spencer gave his cock
several hard sucks, enough to make it start swelling.

Mitchell turned away from the coach’s boner and screamed out a loud, desperate
“Help! Somebody fuckin’ help me!”

Spencer spit out his dick. “Shut up!” he ordered. But Mitchell didn’t. He heard a shuffle and tipped his head back to see
Spencer kick off one of his size-12 cleats and yank down the stirrup sock. Spencer balled up the smelly sweat sock and jammed
it into Mitchell’s mouth in mid-shout. The musty, foul taste of foot-soaked cotton ignited on the pitcher’s tongue.

Cordero exclaimed a loud, cocky “Woo-hoo!”

Mitchell focused on the Latino catcher’s rugged, clean-shaven face, close-cut dark hair, and mean good looks. Farther down
between his big, bare feet hovered Derek Peters. The rookie, five years his junior, was no less in control than Spencer or
Cordero. With his buzzed hair, lanky frame of ropy muscles, and a boyish smile that was now feral and lusty, Mitchell never
would have figured Peters would have conspired to humiliate him. It was all so hard to believe!

But the young rookie was playing with his feet and his solid, hairy legs while holding him immobile, breaking every rule of
conduct and maleness in a pro baseball team’s locker room. And then there was Spencer, the no-bullshit, tough-as-nails team
captain. In his short time with the team, Mitchell had heard dozens of stories of Spencer’s reputation as a pussy hound. The
supposed legend was now sucking on his prick! Spencer’s manly stink from nine innings of hard-played baseball filled Mitchell’s
nostrils, along with the nasty taste of his big jock feet.

Another hand fondled his pride and joy. Mitchell struggled to see it was the rookie, and that—even worse— somehow, in his
rage, he’d started to throw wood. The big piece of baseball player dick hanging over his nuts was responding to Peters’s strokes.

“That’s right, dude,” Spencer growled to the rookie. “Have some fun with the fucker’s dick.”

Mitchell shifted and jerked, trying to escape Cordero’s weight. He did his best to expel the ripe stirrup sock lodged in his
mouth, but was unsuccessful.

“You mind holding him, Coach?” Spencer asked.

Riggs grabbed Mitchell’s arm and pinned it beneath him. “Not at all, Spence.”

Mitchell again panicked. Thus freed from restraining him, the center fielder tugged off his shirt and T-shirt, kicked off
his remaining baseball cleat, and hauled off the sock. His uniform pants went next. The male stink in the air seemed to double.
Spencer now stood only in his jock and cup over a pair of onionskin compression shorts.

Mitchell had seen the other man naked in the showers a hundred times. He knew Spencer was a mass of solid, blond-haired muscle,
from his strong guns to his ripped chest and abs down to his legs. He remembered what was hidden in Spencer’s cup: a fat,
long cock and two egg-shaped low-hangers covered in dirty blond fur.

But he’d never seen Spencer hard. That all changed when the team’s captain peeled off his wet, rank jock and shorts to stand
naked and stiff mere inches away from Mitchell’s sock-filled face. Spencer leaned in. The warm, sweaty underside of his cock
glided over Mitchell’s cheek. Spencer fished the stirrup sock out of Mitchell’s mouth, replacing it with the head of his dick.

“Don’t even think of biting me, fucker,” he threatened. “I swear I’ll rip your fuckin’ nuts off.”

Reluctantly, Mitchell took the other man’s helmet between his lips. He’d sucked dick before—in college, not that he would
have admitted it to anybody—and he’d tasted his own precum enough times to understand it wasn’t entirely disgusting, so he
knew what to expect from Spencer’s invasion. The center fielder leaned over him, shoving the head and a good five inches to
the back of his throat. He also delivered good on his warning by taking hold of Mitchell’s balls. Spencer gave his sac a rough
tweak. Mitchell sucked harder and deeper. The other jock’s musty-smelling bush scraped his chin while his sweaty balls draped
his nose, filling his lungs with their fumes.

One of his attackers—the rookie, he figured—forced his legs apart and arched them up. Mitchell thought about kicking as hard
as he could, but with a mouth on his dick and a chokehold on his nuts, he reluctantly decided against it and tensed in anticipation.

With a deep sigh, Cordero urged, “Yeah, eat that pussy.”

Mitchell moaned around the cock in his mouth when first a tongue and then a finger invaded his most private place, his asshole.
A rush of heat surged through his guts as the finger pushed deeper, forcing its way in all the way. It probed his hole, and
eventually located his prostate. Mitchell seized in place and nearly blew his wad into the mouth humming on his tool.

Spencer rolled off him and yanked out suddenly, leaving the gamy taste of nut-juice on his lips. Before he could protest,
Jorge Cordero replaced the bone in Mitchell’s mouth with his fat, uncut piece of meat. The bitter heaviness of foreskin trapped
and sweating in a cup lit his taste buds, and the smell of the other jock’s ripe nuts filled his nose.

“Suck it,” Cordero demanded, his voice breathless and tinged with a Spanish accent. “Suck my dick, asshole!”

Mitchell worked on the catcher’s Latino meat as the finger up his ass pulled out. A warm breath teased his hole, along with
a tongue, wet and hungry. A shuffle sounded as Peters climbed onto the desk and on top of him.

And then the unthinkable happened.

He’d been so focused on the cocks in his face, he hadn’t realized the young shortstop wasn’t only interested in fingering
or rimming his shitter. The rookie’s face swam over his, handsome and intense as the head of his dick pushed against Mitchell’s
hole.

“No!”
Mitchell tried to argue. But opening his mouth allowed the catcher to stuff more of his manhood down his throat. Cordero’s
crisp, dark carpet of hair brushed Mitchell’s chin, while his cum-packed nuts dragged across his nostrils. Mitchell clenched
his asshole in an attempt to expel the rookie, but Peters’s long, skinny dick penetrated him anyway. The entire world temporarily
turned red before Mitchell’s watery eyes.