Mutual thanks
Title: Mutual thanks
Pairing: Mark Wagner/Clay Buchholz
Rating: NC-17
Time: September 2008
Summary: Clay's new roommate is busted. Or is it the other way around?
Author's note: The danged plot bunnies won't cease hopping around my head. FYI: Mark Wagner is the catcher for the Portland SeaDogs, Boston's AA team. Here's a pic (hopefully) courtesy once again of the marvelous sittingstill.net: http://www.sittingstill.net/photos/08March9/030908_0866.jpg
Disclaimer: A totally fictional story, for entertainment purposes only.
The SeaDogs locker room was a mess of personal bags and equipment bags as the team prepared to depart for its first playoff series. "Clay!" pitching coach Mike Cather shouted, "C'mere a sec!" Buchholz hastily hefted his overnight bag onto the rapidly growing pile for the bus, not noticing when a small pouch slipped out of an unzipped side pocket and onto the floor.
Like all good catchers, Mark Wagner had eagle eyes. He snatched the pouch up off the floor and quickly stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans.
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Clay was one of the first on the bus, claiming a good spot near the back, settling in the window seat, putting on his iPod and planting his feet on the seat next to his own. Mine. Veteran's perogative. God knows he'd folded up his long frame enough on plenty of fuckin' road trips to have earned his own seat now that he was back in the minors. Unfortunately, it seemed Wagner had other ideas.
The catcher stood over him in the aisle, waiting, as the rest of their teammates scattered themselves into various patterns according to the odd and age-old pecking order of the minors. Finally, Buchholz cracked open his eyes, acknowledging his teammate. "You wanna sit here?"
"Thought I might," Wagner replied. "By the way, you dropped this." He tossed the small bag onto Clay's chest. Buchholz sat up abruptly, grabbing at it. "Shit!"
Wagner grinned and slid into the suddenly empty seat. "Are those what I think they are?" he asked, sotto voce.
"What do you think they are?" said Buchholz, flustered.
The catcher leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Anal beads?"
Trapped, Clay nodded. Wagner grinned again. "They work?"
"Huh?" Buchholz replied, his mind racing.
"They work?" Wagner repeated, still whispering. "They make you come harder? That's what I heard."
"Oh, um, yeah," the pitcher said, shoving the bag in his pocket.
"Where'd you get 'em?" his teammate pressed.
"Er... a present," Buchholz said, looking for an escape route. There was none. Wagner's 6-1, 200-pound frame almost overflowed the aisle seat. He chuckled. "Your Penthouse Pet?" he asked.
Who? Oh yeah. Clay grunted. Wagner took it as a yes. He patted Clay on the leg, then shoved his seat back and closed his eyes. Buchholz sighed in relief.
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Two nights later, Buchholz awoke with a raging thirst. Damn dry hotel rooms. He groped for the water bottle on the bedstand. Shit. Forgot. Sighing, he crawled out of bed and groped his way to the bathroom, grumbling at the absolute darkness. Thought I told Mark to leave the bathroom door open so we could see our way around. Damn fucking brainless catcher. He fumbled for the doorknob, shoved the door open, and saw Wagner in the dim light of the bathroom nightlight, sitting on the toilet lid, feet up on the sink. "Shit!" Mark cried. "Don't you fuckin' KNOCK?"
Buchholz leaped in shock. "Dammit, Wags!" he cried in return. "I didn't know you were in here! What the fuck you doing?" He reached for the light over the mirror and turned it on to reveal the SeaDogs catcher with one hand on his swollen cock, the other holding a string of anal beads, five of the ten buried in his ass.
The pitcher stared, openmouthed. Wagner was coated with a thin sheen of sweat, the ends of his dark hair starting to curl. He was breathing heavily, in shock or arousal, Clay wasn't sure which. Maybe both. His thigh muscles stood out tautly, his six-pack abdomen in perfect relief. A red flush darkened his shoulders, chest, neck and face. His eyes, briefly shocked by the brighter light, started to dialate as he looked at Clay. He grinned. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
Busted. Fuck. His throbbing erection was practically springing out of his boxers. Jesus, how could anyone not be aroused by that sight? Wagner licked his lips in response, clearly amused. "So you gonna give me a hand?"
"You seem to be doing OK on your own," Buchholz said. Keeping his eyes on the pitcher, Wagner groped with one finger, found the next bead, and shoved it in, grunting softly as he did so. Clay's cocked twitched. Wagner raised an eyebrow. "I'm thinking you wanna help."
"You're thinking wron - aw fuck, who am I kidding?" Clay said, exasperated. He paused. "Mark, you ever gotten a blow job from a guy?"
"Sorta. Kinda."
"Sorta kinda? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, once. I was drunk. So was he."
Oh, great. You are so not ready for this. "Look, Mark, I can do this for you. But I don't want you freaking out on me, OK?"
Wagner looked offended. "I'm sitting here with a hard-on and beads up my ass and a hard dick staring me in the face, and you're telling me not to freak out? Shit, Buchholz."
"OK, OK. Stand up."
Wagner stood, letting the beads dangle. Buchholz reached for a towel, dropped it on the floor, and knelt in front of his catcher. He ran his large hands over Wagner's hips, pressed his face to his teammate's stomach, breathed in his earthy scent. "Damn, that's sweet," he sighed. He flicked his tongue out, drawing it along Mark's hipbone. Wagner shuddered. Clay groped around his ass, found the beads, and shoved the seventh one in, followed by the eighth and the ninth in methodical succession. He paused before the last and looked up. Mark was looking down at him, his chest heaving.
"Let me know when you're going to bust your load, OK?" Clay asked. Wagner nodded. Buchholz worked the last bead in, slid one finger through the ring, clenched his fist, and set to work on Mark's cock.
He licked the underside, marveling at Wagner's solid hardness. This isn't going to take long. He was leaking already, twitching, his breath ragged. Clay took Mark into his mouth, moving his head down deliberately, dropping his jaw open until he felt the cockhead slide into the back of his throat. Mark's hands were on his head, trembling, fingers twining around his curls, trying, Clay knew, to resist pulling him closer. He moved his head rapidly, listening intently, as Mark's body started to shake. Suddenly Wagner stiffened, his cock leaped, and he cried out. "Coming... coming... NOW!" Clay shoved his head down, pressing his nose into Mark's stomach, and yanked hard at the beads, pulling them out with one powerful movement. Wagner shrieked, then shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down, hard.
Buchholz held on tight as Wagner shuddered and bucked, then collapsed forward over Clay's shoulders, holding on for dear life. "OhmyfuckingGOD. Omigodmigod...." Clay released Mark's cock, then eased him back onto the toilet seat, holding tight until Wagner seemed to be able to keep his balance. Mutual panting finally calmed into regular breathing. Clay pulled Mark's right arm off his shoulder, turned his palm upward, and dropped the beads into his hand. Then he stood up and, at last, got himself that drink of water.
"Be sure to clean those good," he told the young catcher before going back into the bedroom.
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A splash of moonlight peeking through the curtains caught his eye as he started to ease himself back down onto the bed. Clay got up and pulled the curtains open. Moonlight filled the room, puddled on the bed, filled his heart with aching and unexpected melancholy. He laid down on the bed, looking up at the moon, and ran his hand over his throbbing cock.
"Clay?" the voice was hesitant. Buchholz turned his head. Wagner was standing by the bed, rubbing his hands on a towel, looking down at him. "Go to bed, Mark," he said. "I'll be OK."
Instead, Wagner dropped the towel and crawled onto the bed beside him, sliding his body next to Clay's and slipping his left arm under the pitcher's shoulders. He reached down and deliberately placed his right hand over Buchholz's, then pushed his fingers away. "Let me."
"Mark, you don't..." Buchholz started to protest.
"Hush," Wagner said, nuzzling at Clay's neck, pressing himself against the pitcher's side. His hand began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed as Buchholz began to pant in response. Mark was... different, unlike anyone he'd ever felt before. But he was warm and strong and solid and concerned, and his calloused palm and strong fingers felt oh so good, and before he knew it Clay was clutching at Mark's shoulders and crying don'tstopdon'tstop and ohpleaseohplease and he was coming in great spurts, puddling on his chest and dripping over Mark's hand. And then, even more astounding, Mark was leaning over him and gently kissing his lips as Clay held him tight, then kissing him harder as Clay responded, kissing and kissing like he couldn't get enough. It was better than his orgasm. It was better than almost anything.
Finally Mark lifted his head and gulped in air, then smiled and rubbed Clay's nose with his own. "Toldja," he said. "I didn't freak out."
Buchholz laughed, and Wagner leaned down for one final kiss. "Thanks," they both said, practically together, before dissolving into more laughter and then into dreams as they fell asleep, still wrapped in each other's arms.
Pairing: Mark Wagner/Clay Buchholz
Rating: NC-17
Time: September 2008
Summary: Clay's new roommate is busted. Or is it the other way around?
Author's note: The danged plot bunnies won't cease hopping around my head. FYI: Mark Wagner is the catcher for the Portland SeaDogs, Boston's AA team. Here's a pic (hopefully) courtesy once again of the marvelous sittingstill.net: http://www.sittingstill.net/photos/08March9/030908_0866.jpg
Disclaimer: A totally fictional story, for entertainment purposes only.
The SeaDogs locker room was a mess of personal bags and equipment bags as the team prepared to depart for its first playoff series. "Clay!" pitching coach Mike Cather shouted, "C'mere a sec!" Buchholz hastily hefted his overnight bag onto the rapidly growing pile for the bus, not noticing when a small pouch slipped out of an unzipped side pocket and onto the floor.
Like all good catchers, Mark Wagner had eagle eyes. He snatched the pouch up off the floor and quickly stuffed it in the front pocket of his jeans.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Clay was one of the first on the bus, claiming a good spot near the back, settling in the window seat, putting on his iPod and planting his feet on the seat next to his own. Mine. Veteran's perogative. God knows he'd folded up his long frame enough on plenty of fuckin' road trips to have earned his own seat now that he was back in the minors. Unfortunately, it seemed Wagner had other ideas.
The catcher stood over him in the aisle, waiting, as the rest of their teammates scattered themselves into various patterns according to the odd and age-old pecking order of the minors. Finally, Buchholz cracked open his eyes, acknowledging his teammate. "You wanna sit here?"
"Thought I might," Wagner replied. "By the way, you dropped this." He tossed the small bag onto Clay's chest. Buchholz sat up abruptly, grabbing at it. "Shit!"
Wagner grinned and slid into the suddenly empty seat. "Are those what I think they are?" he asked, sotto voce.
"What do you think they are?" said Buchholz, flustered.
The catcher leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Anal beads?"
Trapped, Clay nodded. Wagner grinned again. "They work?"
"Huh?" Buchholz replied, his mind racing.
"They work?" Wagner repeated, still whispering. "They make you come harder? That's what I heard."
"Oh, um, yeah," the pitcher said, shoving the bag in his pocket.
"Where'd you get 'em?" his teammate pressed.
"Er... a present," Buchholz said, looking for an escape route. There was none. Wagner's 6-1, 200-pound frame almost overflowed the aisle seat. He chuckled. "Your Penthouse Pet?" he asked.
Who? Oh yeah. Clay grunted. Wagner took it as a yes. He patted Clay on the leg, then shoved his seat back and closed his eyes. Buchholz sighed in relief.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two nights later, Buchholz awoke with a raging thirst. Damn dry hotel rooms. He groped for the water bottle on the bedstand. Shit. Forgot. Sighing, he crawled out of bed and groped his way to the bathroom, grumbling at the absolute darkness. Thought I told Mark to leave the bathroom door open so we could see our way around. Damn fucking brainless catcher. He fumbled for the doorknob, shoved the door open, and saw Wagner in the dim light of the bathroom nightlight, sitting on the toilet lid, feet up on the sink. "Shit!" Mark cried. "Don't you fuckin' KNOCK?"
Buchholz leaped in shock. "Dammit, Wags!" he cried in return. "I didn't know you were in here! What the fuck you doing?" He reached for the light over the mirror and turned it on to reveal the SeaDogs catcher with one hand on his swollen cock, the other holding a string of anal beads, five of the ten buried in his ass.
The pitcher stared, openmouthed. Wagner was coated with a thin sheen of sweat, the ends of his dark hair starting to curl. He was breathing heavily, in shock or arousal, Clay wasn't sure which. Maybe both. His thigh muscles stood out tautly, his six-pack abdomen in perfect relief. A red flush darkened his shoulders, chest, neck and face. His eyes, briefly shocked by the brighter light, started to dialate as he looked at Clay. He grinned. "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
Busted. Fuck. His throbbing erection was practically springing out of his boxers. Jesus, how could anyone not be aroused by that sight? Wagner licked his lips in response, clearly amused. "So you gonna give me a hand?"
"You seem to be doing OK on your own," Buchholz said. Keeping his eyes on the pitcher, Wagner groped with one finger, found the next bead, and shoved it in, grunting softly as he did so. Clay's cocked twitched. Wagner raised an eyebrow. "I'm thinking you wanna help."
"You're thinking wron - aw fuck, who am I kidding?" Clay said, exasperated. He paused. "Mark, you ever gotten a blow job from a guy?"
"Sorta. Kinda."
"Sorta kinda? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, once. I was drunk. So was he."
Oh, great. You are so not ready for this. "Look, Mark, I can do this for you. But I don't want you freaking out on me, OK?"
Wagner looked offended. "I'm sitting here with a hard-on and beads up my ass and a hard dick staring me in the face, and you're telling me not to freak out? Shit, Buchholz."
"OK, OK. Stand up."
Wagner stood, letting the beads dangle. Buchholz reached for a towel, dropped it on the floor, and knelt in front of his catcher. He ran his large hands over Wagner's hips, pressed his face to his teammate's stomach, breathed in his earthy scent. "Damn, that's sweet," he sighed. He flicked his tongue out, drawing it along Mark's hipbone. Wagner shuddered. Clay groped around his ass, found the beads, and shoved the seventh one in, followed by the eighth and the ninth in methodical succession. He paused before the last and looked up. Mark was looking down at him, his chest heaving.
"Let me know when you're going to bust your load, OK?" Clay asked. Wagner nodded. Buchholz worked the last bead in, slid one finger through the ring, clenched his fist, and set to work on Mark's cock.
He licked the underside, marveling at Wagner's solid hardness. This isn't going to take long. He was leaking already, twitching, his breath ragged. Clay took Mark into his mouth, moving his head down deliberately, dropping his jaw open until he felt the cockhead slide into the back of his throat. Mark's hands were on his head, trembling, fingers twining around his curls, trying, Clay knew, to resist pulling him closer. He moved his head rapidly, listening intently, as Mark's body started to shake. Suddenly Wagner stiffened, his cock leaped, and he cried out. "Coming... coming... NOW!" Clay shoved his head down, pressing his nose into Mark's stomach, and yanked hard at the beads, pulling them out with one powerful movement. Wagner shrieked, then shoved his fist into his mouth and bit down, hard.
Buchholz held on tight as Wagner shuddered and bucked, then collapsed forward over Clay's shoulders, holding on for dear life. "OhmyfuckingGOD. Omigodmigod...." Clay released Mark's cock, then eased him back onto the toilet seat, holding tight until Wagner seemed to be able to keep his balance. Mutual panting finally calmed into regular breathing. Clay pulled Mark's right arm off his shoulder, turned his palm upward, and dropped the beads into his hand. Then he stood up and, at last, got himself that drink of water.
"Be sure to clean those good," he told the young catcher before going back into the bedroom.
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A splash of moonlight peeking through the curtains caught his eye as he started to ease himself back down onto the bed. Clay got up and pulled the curtains open. Moonlight filled the room, puddled on the bed, filled his heart with aching and unexpected melancholy. He laid down on the bed, looking up at the moon, and ran his hand over his throbbing cock.
"Clay?" the voice was hesitant. Buchholz turned his head. Wagner was standing by the bed, rubbing his hands on a towel, looking down at him. "Go to bed, Mark," he said. "I'll be OK."
Instead, Wagner dropped the towel and crawled onto the bed beside him, sliding his body next to Clay's and slipping his left arm under the pitcher's shoulders. He reached down and deliberately placed his right hand over Buchholz's, then pushed his fingers away. "Let me."
"Mark, you don't..." Buchholz started to protest.
"Hush," Wagner said, nuzzling at Clay's neck, pressing himself against the pitcher's side. His hand began to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed as Buchholz began to pant in response. Mark was... different, unlike anyone he'd ever felt before. But he was warm and strong and solid and concerned, and his calloused palm and strong fingers felt oh so good, and before he knew it Clay was clutching at Mark's shoulders and crying don'tstopdon'tstop and ohpleaseohplease and he was coming in great spurts, puddling on his chest and dripping over Mark's hand. And then, even more astounding, Mark was leaning over him and gently kissing his lips as Clay held him tight, then kissing him harder as Clay responded, kissing and kissing like he couldn't get enough. It was better than his orgasm. It was better than almost anything.
Finally Mark lifted his head and gulped in air, then smiled and rubbed Clay's nose with his own. "Toldja," he said. "I didn't freak out."
Buchholz laughed, and Wagner leaned down for one final kiss. "Thanks," they both said, practically together, before dissolving into more laughter and then into dreams as they fell asleep, still wrapped in each other's arms.