"I think he likes you a little bit," Emily says. "I mean, I don't blame him. After all, I know exactly where he's coming from. So I told him how we could all have some fun together, and because you threw a no-hitter, you know, he wants to do something special. Such a good little teammate, don't you think?" She stops there, as though waiting for Justin to reply, but his mouth has gone dry. He can't stop staring at Porcello, who is kneeling almost demurely, eyes averted, blushing a little but breathing calm and steady.
When it apparently becomes clear that Justin has nothing to say, Emily snickers in his ear. "Oh, baby. You still dressed? I think you should take those wet pants off. Make it easier for him, you know?"
Everything is starting to feel unreal, like he's wading through a dream. The near-perfect game, the final out, the mob on the mound, the slow burn in his belly from around the fifth inning on, leading him weirdly to this moment, in the Toronto visitors' laundry room, cellphone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can lift his hips and ease off his beer-soaked gray uniform pants while Rick fucking Porcello, fellow starter and still just barely legal in Justin's mind-- when they first became teammates, Porcello was too young to go out with them to bars and clubs-- sits and watches. Justin hesitates over his spandex shorts, but skims them off too, then his jockstrap. His dick twitches as it's exposed to the air. He holds it lightly around the base with one hand, puts the other back to the phone, fingers numb and thick-feeling.
"You just let him take care of you," Emily says; purrs, really, her voice low and pleased. "I told him what to do. You know, I give really good instructions." Justin closes his eyes briefly and shudders, squeezes the base of his dick once to calm himself down. He opens his eyes at a light pressure on his legs; Porcello has inched forward and has a hand on either one of Justin's thighs.
Justin stares. Porcello's hands are big, scaled to swallow up a baseball with ease. His fingers are broad-tipped with the nails cut blunt and short and neat; the backs of his hands are starting to darken with the sun exposure of a season spent mostly outside. They're powerful hands, pitcher's hands, with hard calluses on the inside parts, the same parts that are so delicate on Emily's fingers. And they're sitting, right now, on Justin's hairy thighs. It's kind of blowing his mind.
In fact he is so distracted by the incongruity of Porcello's hands on his legs that he's badly startled by the first tentative flick of Porcello's tongue against the head of his dick, having missed Porcello leaning in towards him. "Fuck, Rick," he stutters. Porcello doesn't lift his eyes, just tilts his head so he can nuzzle along the shaft. Justin has to try twice to draw in a good breath of air, and lets it out all staccato and shocked.
"Is he sucking you?" Emily asks. She sounds eager. A little too eager, Justin thinks, but he's having trouble thinking why he should care.
"N-no," he manages. "Not yet. He's... he's just..." He's rubbing Justin's dick on his face, is what he's doing, like he wants to feel it with his nose and cheeks and chin. Justin is spared trying to explain this, though, because soon enough Porcello opens his mouth and fits it over the tip of Justin's dick. "Oh god," Justin breathes, letting his head fall back. "Now... now he is."
Emily sighs happily. "Just like I told him. Oh, I wish I could see this, baby, I wish I was there with you guys, I'd get on my knees right next to him and we could suck your cock together-- would you like that, mmm? Maybe he kisses up one side while I lick down the other?"
When it apparently becomes clear that Justin has nothing to say, Emily snickers in his ear. "Oh, baby. You still dressed? I think you should take those wet pants off. Make it easier for him, you know?"
Everything is starting to feel unreal, like he's wading through a dream. The near-perfect game, the final out, the mob on the mound, the slow burn in his belly from around the fifth inning on, leading him weirdly to this moment, in the Toronto visitors' laundry room, cellphone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he can lift his hips and ease off his beer-soaked gray uniform pants while Rick fucking Porcello, fellow starter and still just barely legal in Justin's mind-- when they first became teammates, Porcello was too young to go out with them to bars and clubs-- sits and watches. Justin hesitates over his spandex shorts, but skims them off too, then his jockstrap. His dick twitches as it's exposed to the air. He holds it lightly around the base with one hand, puts the other back to the phone, fingers numb and thick-feeling.
"You just let him take care of you," Emily says; purrs, really, her voice low and pleased. "I told him what to do. You know, I give really good instructions." Justin closes his eyes briefly and shudders, squeezes the base of his dick once to calm himself down. He opens his eyes at a light pressure on his legs; Porcello has inched forward and has a hand on either one of Justin's thighs.
Justin stares. Porcello's hands are big, scaled to swallow up a baseball with ease. His fingers are broad-tipped with the nails cut blunt and short and neat; the backs of his hands are starting to darken with the sun exposure of a season spent mostly outside. They're powerful hands, pitcher's hands, with hard calluses on the inside parts, the same parts that are so delicate on Emily's fingers. And they're sitting, right now, on Justin's hairy thighs. It's kind of blowing his mind.
In fact he is so distracted by the incongruity of Porcello's hands on his legs that he's badly startled by the first tentative flick of Porcello's tongue against the head of his dick, having missed Porcello leaning in towards him. "Fuck, Rick," he stutters. Porcello doesn't lift his eyes, just tilts his head so he can nuzzle along the shaft. Justin has to try twice to draw in a good breath of air, and lets it out all staccato and shocked.
"Is he sucking you?" Emily asks. She sounds eager. A little too eager, Justin thinks, but he's having trouble thinking why he should care.
"N-no," he manages. "Not yet. He's... he's just..." He's rubbing Justin's dick on his face, is what he's doing, like he wants to feel it with his nose and cheeks and chin. Justin is spared trying to explain this, though, because soon enough Porcello opens his mouth and fits it over the tip of Justin's dick. "Oh god," Justin breathes, letting his head fall back. "Now... now he is."
Emily sighs happily. "Just like I told him. Oh, I wish I could see this, baby, I wish I was there with you guys, I'd get on my knees right next to him and we could suck your cock together-- would you like that, mmm? Maybe he kisses up one side while I lick down the other?"
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