Baseball Annie 1

I touched up my lipstick and considered my image in the ladies' room mirror. Acceptable, I thought. I guess I was pretty. I just thought my face was rather... not plain, but non-descript. I knew that everyone, including my stylist, thought that I had great hair -- lots of rich, dark-chocolate waves, which I normally wore at just-past-shoulder length, but tonight was wearing up off my neck in a loose French twist. I knew my friends expressed envy at my body, still slender at age 29; small breasts, and just enough hips and rear end to make a short cocktail dress look as good as it did in the ad.

I figured it was the hair and the little black dress that was getting me whatever attention I was receiving tonight. And that was fine. I had a job to do. I was here to work the room, to mingle with as many donors as possible during the cocktail hour and the hour when everyone had been seated and served, before the main program began. I would never use sexual suggestion to ask for money for my non-profit organization; but I had to admit, the occasional appreciative second glance did wonders for my self-confidence.

And then the lights were dimming over the main banquet hall, and the emcee was stepping up to the dais and starting the program. I had been standing beside the table of one of our major corporate sponsors, chatting with the entire table. There was an open seat there, with a plate of untouched food, between the CEO's wife, and the large man that I knew as their sales manager, Walter Roberts. I realized Walt was looking at me, trying to make eye contact, pulling the chair back to invite me to sit.

Well, why not, I thought? The program was starting; I couldn't work the room any longer anyway, and I was in fact famished. I glanced over at the CEO to make sure I had his approval, and, upon seeing his nod, I took the seat.

"Hey, glad you could join us, Christina," Walt said, leaning over toward me, just close enough to speak quietly and still be heard; not enough to feel invasive. But Walt could certainly have made himself seem invasive if he had so chosen. He was just a massive human being, a former professional baseball player, a "journeyman pinch hitter," he would say, self-effacingly. Six foot three and now, thirty years removed from his playing days, easily 375 pounds. I had met him several times now. He was gregarious and self-assured, useful traits in his line of work. And he was very black.

"Well, thanks for the invitation," I replied. "I wasn't sure I was going to get dinner tonight."

"Girl's gotta eat," he smiled.

I smiled back at him and suppressed an eye-roll.

Girl.

I was 29 years old. But then, it was 2002. I was still moving in a world where all the decision-makers were men, men born in the 1940s and '50s. I was used to patronizing language. I could tell when there was genuine predatory intent behind it, and when it was just the way these guys talked. I didn't sense any intentional condescension in Walt's voice.

I took a couple of bites, but then swiveled in my seat, away from Walter, so I could appear to be polite to the speaker, even though the lights were dimmed. Every couple of minutes I would turn to spear another mouthful of food, and I would be aware of Walt's eyes on my bare shoulders, on the zipper down the back of my suddenly too-small dress. The third time, I looked up into his broad dark face, and he smiled, completely non-plussed at having been caught ogling me.

"Here," he whispered. "Trade you places. So you can see the speakers, and actually eat."

I looked back at him and smiled gratefully. Quite gallant of him, actually. I took him up on his offer. This way, I could actually feign attention to the program, and manage to get some dinner. I felt a little guilty about having been slightly offended by his wandering eyes.

I could eat and watch the program over his enormous shoulder.

After a while, he turned in his seat, so he could pivot his head between the action at the head table, and also look back at me and grin or laugh after every joke from the dais. Which he did, a lot.

My God, I thought. Is he hitting on me? I found myself startled by the notion. He had to be thirty years older than me. And me... well, I just never thought of myself as the tasty little morsel that made lecherous old men salivate. In our previous meetings, I had never noticed him being anything but appropriate. And I had certainly not been attracted to him.

Had I just been oblivious?

Maybe it was the three cocktails I had nursed through the past two hours. But I realized that I was... curious. Intrigued, even.

Titillated.

I had never done anything like this. Although I had thought about it a lot, especially recently, especially since...

What was I thinking, I asked myself, after the time he winked at me... and I winked back.

I had never fantasized about older men.

I had never fantasized about heavy-set men.

I had... well, okay, yes, I had fantasized about black men. Just not old fat ones.

And yet here I was, sitting at a dinner beside someone who was all of those things, who had casually placed one hand on the back of my chair (which, because his arms were so long, he could do without scooting inappropriately close to me). Looking at me with heavily lidded eyes and just a trace of a smile on his thick, dark lips, as if to tell me... "It's okay. You can admit it. You want some of this."

Seriously? I thought. You're twice my age. Easily old enough to be my father. You're way past big -- you're downright corpulent. The audacity it must take to make a move like this!

The audacity. Yeah, that was it. That was what explained the inexplicable wetness I was feeling between my legs.

He was right, damn it. I did want some of that. Jesus, I thought. Talk about diving into the deep end, shattering every taboo at once. Maybe that's the only way I could do this.

Because I

had

been thinking about doing this for a while now. Just not with... someone like him.

The servers came around with coffee. Walter reached forward and picked up the little carafe of cream and offered me some. I don't take cream in my coffee, but I simply nodded, accepting the chivalric gesture. Watched the little stream of thick white liquid pour into my cup of rich dark java, noting the contrast.

Bit my lip.

I ceased paying attention to the award presentation. My mind was going places it shouldn't go. Places I couldn't believe.

A couple of minutes later, he leaned over to me and whispered, "This is getting boring."

I smiled and nodded my agreement.

He looked back over his shoulder. "You think the bar is still open?"

Oh, what was I doing? "I'm sure it is," I replied.

He got up and pulled my chair out for me as I stood up as well. I glanced back at the table. The CEO's wife lifted an eyebrow and smiled at us. Knowingly?

Regardless, I followed him out of the banquet hall, and we crossed the lobby to the sparsely populated lounge. We found a corner table and ordered a couple more drinks. Red wine for me, Courvoisier for him.

For the first time I felt like I could study his face without being self-conscious about it. I had the sudden realization that he had certainly had once been a very striking man, and still was, if a woman took a moment to look past his girth. His tightly cropped hair, more gray than black now, had receded halfway back over his forehead. His features were broad and exaggerated, a stereotype, even, but symmetrical and flawless. A very wide nose, thick lips that were a shade darker than his already-quite-dark face, but that transitioned to pink when he smiled widely. The irises of his eyes were deep brown but not black. The surrounding whites of his eyes, like his teeth, were not quite alabaster; but the contrast was stunning, and beautiful.

And then there was his body. It was hard to believe he was a former professional athlete, but then, he was a classic mesomorph. And he had played back in the days before personal trainers and nutritionists, when drinking and eating and... fucking... to excess were perks of the game. And probably hard to give up.

"So you were a baseball player," I ventured.

"You a baseball fan?" he asked.

"A little bit," I replied, honestly. "My dad taught me how to keep score. But I don't, um, know that much about baseball history..."

I stopped and blushed, realizing that I was reminding him of his age, reminding him that he had been retired for ten years by the time I was a little girl watching my first game. But he was smiling at me with amusement. Maybe he didn't mind being reminded that I was so much younger than him. That he still had it.

"What position did you play?" I asked, redirecting the subject.

"I played first base, mostly. Some outfield."

"Not catcher?" I asked.

"Oh, hell no," he chortled. "You gotta be

crazy

to be a catcher." I laughed, too.

"I'll bet you hit a lot of home runs," I suggested, glancing at his biceps.

"I did," he agreed. "Enough to keep me in the league for a while.

"I struck out a lot, too."

"I guess it goes with the territory," I offered.

"Yeah, it does," he agreed.

"Can't be afraid to strike out," I said, slightly amazed at my own double-entendre.

"Gotta swing for the fences," he nodded, lowering his lids a bit over those dark, suddenly intense eyes. "Sometimes they just serve one up over the plate, and that little white ball suddenly looks like a beach ball, and you just gotta try to knock it into the cheap seats."

Jesus, I thought. Did he really just say that? And... how many times had he used that line before? I quivered with arousal. I was deciding that Big Walt wasn't going to strike out tonight. What was that line the announcers used? He was going to get the barrel of the bat on this one. I was going to be his little white ball, laid out tantalizingly over the plate of his bed for him to drive deep. I was headed for the cheap seats.

Twenty minutes later, as things were winding down and the banquet guests were starting to stream in, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two sets of room keys, each attached to one of those green oval plastic key rings with the room number stamped into them in blazing white lettering which must surely be attracting the attention of every eye in the room.

He manipulated them between his fat fingers and extended one toward me, on my lap, beneath the table but not under the tablecloth.

"You want to follow me up in a few minutes?" he asked, quietly.

"No," I replied. Then I swallowed hard and looked directly into his dark brown eyes. "We can leave together."

He grinned, widely. What the hell was I doing, I thought? Well, I knew what I was doing. If I waited, I would chicken out. If the two of us walked out of bar at the same time, no one would necessarily add two and two together.

If the same person watched us walk toward the elevators? Well, that was part of what had me so indescribably excited.

***

I stepped into the room and heard him close and lock the door behind me. When I turned around again, Walter was Right There. Not menacingly so, but he was just so big I couldn't help but feel intimidated. I am 5'6"; probably 5'9" in these heels, but he still seemed to tower over me.

He reached out one hand and placed it on my waist. It was so large I could feel his palm on my hip and the tips of his fingers on my spine. I found myself reaching up to place my hand on his chest, on his white dress shirt, my fingers slipping under the lapel of his suit jacket. I could feel the seams of his tank-style undershirt through the fabric; and beneath that, the surprisingly firm feel of his warm flesh.

He was leaning down now, and I was craning my neck upwards. To receive his kiss. An unsolicited kiss, taken without offer or acceptance, but I felt my lips parting to meet his. Just before I closed my eyes, I caught an image of his thick lips separating, revealing his pleasingly white teeth and a fat pink tongue already moving toward me.

And then those lips were pressed against mine and that tongue was in my mouth, flicking at my teeth, probing beyond them. And I felt myself collapsing forward, over his rotund belly, up against his broad chest. I felt the hand that had been on my waist move down to cup my bottom; I felt the other one on the back of my head, gently but insistently guiding my face to his.

When he broke off our kiss, I found myself breathless.

"I oughtta take a shower," he said.

My stomach did a little flip-flop. It was another thoughtful gesture; but he couldn't be much more clear, or confident, about what he expected to happen in this room.

"Umm, okay," I responded, noting that what I was saying "okay" to was him getting naked and fresh before taking me to bed. "But ... how about a drink first?" I nodded toward the bottle of Crown Royal that I had noticed on the dresser.

"Good idea." Walt ambled across the room toward the liquor, but called out, "Got no ice."

"That's okay. Neat is fine," I responded, feeling slightly sophisticated for having remembered to say "neat" instead of "straight."

He came back across the room, carrying two glasses of whiskey. Actual glasses, not plastic cups. This was a nice hotel, which I had chosen, or which had been chosen for me, for my debauchery.

We clinked glasses and I sipped at the warm, too-sweet liquor. Walter slipped off his tent-like suit jacket and took a seat on the small sofa, and spread his arm out across its back, after patting the cushion beside him to offer me a seat.

I had to smile. He took up so much of the sofa that all I could really do was sit half-sideways on what was left, on one hip. Leaning into him. Which I did.

He leaned over and parted his lips for another open-mouthed kiss. I gave it to him. His arm dropped off the back of the sofa and wrapped around my back, drawing me closer. Sitting on my left hip, the most comfortable thing for me to do was slide my thigh up over his.

"You seem nervous, Christina," he said.

"Mmm," I acknowledged. I decided to be honest. At least, partially. "I've never ... done anything like this."

"Like what?" he asked. "Been with a man in a hotel room?"

"No, not that," I laughed, slightly.

"Kissed a man?"

I laughed out loud at that.

"You've never made love to a black man?"

So that's what he was curious about. Not some other thing. I felt myself blushing a bit. "No. I haven't."

But I kind of liked the way he had phrased it. "Made love." It seemed a bit presumptuous; but considering my nerves, it sounded better than "Got the shit fucked out of you." Which I had no doubt he could do.

He kissed me again, this time just lips, no tongue.

"It's all right. You made a good call. Ol' Walt is gonna treat you right."

Something told me I could believe he was telling the truth.

I swung my leg up over him and seated myself on his lap. Literally. His body was so thick that when I straddled him, my knees couldn't reach the sofa cushions. For the first time, I could feel him, through his slacks and the gusset of my panties and my pantyhose. His cock. It was fat, and not really even completely rigid, but I could sense it pulsing, thickening as I ground myself onto him.

I felt wanton. I suddenly wished I had worn a garter belt and stockings, instead of pantyhose. For him, for his pleasure. But why would I have? I certainly hadn't planned this.

I felt his hands reaching around behind me, finding the zipper on the back of my dress, and drawing it down, exquisitely slowly. I shoved my tongue back into his mouth.

He pushed me back; reached up and drew my dress down over my shoulders, revealing my lacy black bra. He cupped my breasts through the fabric, teasing my responsive nipples between his huge thumbs and forefingers.

"Ohhhhh," I heard myself gasp, probably loud enough for the guests in the adjoining rooms to hear.

I slithered down off of his lap and got on my knees between his massive thighs. Wantonly. I'm really doing this, I thought. My hands went to his belt and unbuckled it. He lifted himself up off the sofa so I could draw his suit pants and his boxers down, over his enormous thighs, all the way down to his ankles.

And there it was. His cock, thick and dark, and uncut, resting only partially erect to one side, emerging from a thick tangle of graying pubic hair.

I leaned forward and placed my tongue at the base of his shaft, right above his dangling, wrinkled scrotum, and wrapped my fingers around his thickening shaft. His musk was rich and earthy, but not unpleasant. I drew my tongue up the fleshy underside, flicking from right to left and back again, and by the time I reached the tip he was noticeably harder.

"Yeah," he muttered, appreciatively. "That's it, babygirl."

I closed my hand around him and drew his foreskin back, gingerly. I had never held an uncircumcised penis before, and I wasn't sure how to handle it. But I seemed to be getting it right. His glans emerged, engorged and purple and moist, a drop of pre-ejaculate already forming at the eye. I licked it up. It was slippery and savory, like every other man I had ever tasted. But his seemed a little thicker, more viscous.

With my right hand cupped around Walter's dick, lifting it off his belly so I could lick at it, I was struck by its heft. I was used to the penises of young men, once hard, defying gravity, arching upwards on their own accord. Walter's tool, while it had grown somewhat longer and thicker since I had begun playing with it, was still not entirely rigid. But it was pulsing. Or rather, I thought, pul

sating.

Not just throbbing with the beat of his heart, but slowly growing and then receding in hardness, as if it had a mind, and musculature, of its own.

I brought my left hand up between his heavy thighs and cupped his scrotum with my fingertips, giggling as he caught his breath. His testicles tensed and drew up against his body, then relaxed back down into my grasp. I toyed with them, each in turn, between my thumb in front and my fingers on the soft, wrinkled, moist warm flesh behind, my nails scratching at his taint; his dark side of the moon.

I felt his hand on the top of my head, gentle, but working its way into the knot of my French twist. I felt strands of my hair falling around my cheeks. I looked up at his pleasant beaming face and smiled.

"I take it you

have

done this before," I said, daring to tease him a bit.

He chuckled. "Done

what

before, princess?"

"Hmmm," I remained coy, rolling his testicles, letting him fill in the blanks, choose which way to take this. He had asked me if I had ever been with a black man. I could ask him if he had ever been with a white woman. But I figured I knew the answer to that.

"You really want to know?" His voice had just dropped an octave. I hadn't even asked a question, but I knew the answer would make me quiver.

I shouldn't, but I felt so decadent, so submissive. Of course he had done this before. Near-anonymous sex in hotel rooms with curious, eager, willing females. Barely legal white girls. Married women. MIlfs, or cougars, or whatever they called them back then. He was a former major league baseball player. I had heard the stories. I had seen

Bull Durham.

He had been treating me like a lady. But he could read the lust in my face as I nodded up at him.

"Baby, I played in the big leagues. I did this every night."

I could hear the confidence in his voice.

"Mmmm," I murmured, quivering with arousal and sudden jealousy. Jealous of women from 40 years ago, who had been here between his thighs, who had experienced him when he was in his magnificent physical prime.

"Lucky girls," I cooed.

Downstairs, during dinner, I had marveled at the notion that this old, massively overweight man had the temerity to imagine getting me into bed -- me, a reasonably attractive, immaculately dressed, impeccably proper young professional woman.