Sergeant Bull : Part 7

Author: Goblin

“By the Hitman”

One taste of pitcher Derek Conway’s asshole was all it took for Sergeant Thomas John Bullen to realize there was nothing better than eating baseball player butt.

“That’s it, Sarge – chow on his asshole!” the jock with the backwards-turned ball cap and the four-alarm grin urged. Bull looked up briefly to see the hunger in thirty-seven-year-old Jeff Brunson’s eyes for another view of Conway’s twenty-year-old ass. “Eat him good, Bull!”

Bull’s tongue tingled with the funky, sweaty musk of the nine innings of Army sandlot hardball they’d all just played.

“Yeah,” growled the fourth man in the living room. “Starting pitcher’s got a bad ass.” Finley, the Army jock with the cast on his leg, struggled for a look, too. His ruggedly-handsome face was frozen in a game scowl reminiscent of many Bull had seen out on the playing field that night. “Gimme a go at that fucker’s shithole!”

Bull ran his tongue over Derek’s musty pucker for another taste before the younger jock complied with Sarge Finley’s request, planting his pitcher’s butt on the injured man’s unshaven face. Bull sucked in a deep hit of the male-smelling air and licked his lips. The stink and sweat of baseball and baseball players infused the living room of Jeff Brunson’s home on the outskirts of Phoenix.

So far, Derek was the only one who’d shed his baseball uniform. Size Thirteen cleats, white uniform pants and shirt with black pinstripes and the plastic nut cup pulled off in haste lay in a swampy pile on the floor. Stripped down to his socks, stirrups, and the dirty gray jockstrap that framed his ass showcased the perfection of Derek’s body – his chest, smooth except for a happy trail of dark blond pelt, his strong, hairy legs, and that incredible square butt.

As Bull watched, Finley lapped and chewed on the young pitcher’s sweaty asshole, stopping between tastes for a swig from the half-open bottle of beer in his free hand. At one point, Finley tipped the bottle’s neck between Derek’s fuzz-covered butt cheeks. The jolt of cold beer over his hot asshole made the young pitcher seize in place, but Finley held him close enough to drink the amber rivulet that cut the twenty-year-old from his crack down to his jock-covered nuts.

“Damn, dude,” Jeff huffed. “Why’d you go and ruin the taste of a perfectly-good jock butt with cheap beer like that?”

Finley chuckled and flashed their host a middle finger. The sergeant’s pumped arms – one bearing a tattoo of his Army unit’s name in dark green numbers – relaxed. He tugged at the moist fabric of Derek’s nut-holder, pulling it aside. Then Finley extended a high-five toward Jeff as two hairy, come-packed low-hangers fell into view between the pitcher’s spread legs.

“Fuck,” Jeff sighed, a surly grin on his handsome face. Leaning down and putting his head beside Finley’s, the older Army jock who’d covered left field for the baseball team took a tentative lick of Derek’s fat balls. For the next few minutes, Finley and Jeff alternated between the pitcher’s hole and sac, stopping only to exchange kisses heavy with the taste of the young ball jock’s musk.

Bull reached down and unzipped the uniform pants he’d borrowed from Finley. The other man’s cup, also on loan, barely fit Bull’s cock soft, and with his bone stiffened, it felt more like a bottle cap on his dick than protective gear. A quick flip and his cup joined Derek’s on the floor. His tool thus freed, Bull pumped the meaty lump in his jock and returned his focus to the action. The company – and view – couldn’t have been better.

While Jeff sucked on Derek’s horse nuts, Finley cored the young pitcher’s asshole with his tongue. The bulge in Bull’s borrowed jockstrap quickly filled to its potential, a fact not lost on Jeff. The handsome veteran, three years junior to both Bull and Finley, spit out Derek’s nuts and grinned over his shoulder.

“You just gonna stand there, Sarge, or you gonna get a piece of this hot young fuck?”

Bull felt up his package one more time, flashed a smile back just as sexy, and rounded the wall of bodies to stand in front of the twenty-year-old Army jock who’d incited them all into such frenzy. Derek Conway’s face was as cute as they came – lazy blue eyes, a dumb smile peppered with one day’s growth of scuzz, and a pouty mouth that just begged to be donged.

He’s Jason’s age, Bull thought, hesitating a moment longer. My son’s probably as beautiful, as manly as this dude. If he’s got my genes in him, he likes baseball, too. Fuck, Derek could be my son. But he’s not:

Derek licked his lips and reached the big southpaw he’d been hurling fastballs with toward the sweaty tent in Bull’s jock. The electric sensation at contact pushed Bull to the tops of his toes in a borrowed pair of baseball cleats.

“That’s it, boy,” Bull growled. “Get out that cock and show it some respect!”

Derek moaned, “Yes, sir!” and complied. A quick fumble yanked the soiled jock down. Bull’s fat eight incher and his own set of juiced balls popped out of cover and into the young Army jock’s face. Derek wasted no time choking up on the shaft of Bull’s cock, handling it like a bat. One at a time, the Sarge’s perspiration-drenched nuts vanished into the young pitcher’s mouth.

“Aw, shit-!” Bull grunted. He knocked the ball cap off Derek’s head and pulled him closer, running the fingers of one hand through his hair. “Yeah, swallow my fuckin’ nuts!”

Eyes half-shut, Bull studied the handsome face making love to his sac. It was easy to see why Jeff and Finley had been eyeballing the new recruit for months. Both veterans had gotten more than they’d imagined – the wet slurping noises from between Derek’s legs made it clear all would leave the post-game celebration satisfied.

And to think six hours earlier, reaching San Diego had been the only thing on Bull’s mind:

A visit with a cousin he hadn’t seen in twenty years took him through Nevada. The heat in this part of the country made day travel impossible, so for a week, he’d only hopped on the Harley in the late afternoon. Nights were made for riding the highway. Daytime meant catching up on sleep and plotting his next course to the West Coast. One bonus about this kind of travel he hadn’t figured upon was getting the best tan he’d ever seen. These late afternoons riding through the Southwest dressed in shorts, no socks, boots and his helmet had bronzed his body to perfection.

The stadium lights off Highway Three-Eleven alerted him to the presence of something he’d missed since the arrival of good weather – a baseball game. Like the dictates of his own travels, he knew it was way too hot to play baseball here during daylight hours. Bull loved the sport more than any other, and if a game was just starting, he couldn’t pass up the chance to take it in. He figured he had to be pretty close to the Army base, but didn’t equate the two as having any connection until he pulled over and saw the home team’s players shagging balls in the outfield. Each was buzzcut and ripped – pumped arms, taught stomachs, and high, service-toughened asses. This was no team of softball beer guts.

By the time Bull arrived, the sparse crowd was just filtering in. He figured most of the baseball faithful gathered in the bleachers were wives or girlfriends of the team. A handful of jarheads dressed in T-shirts and camouflage pants reinforced his guess about the team’s origins.

This was Army sandlot baseball at its best.

He made his way down through the stands until he reached the empty seats in front of the home team’s dugout. Most of the players looked like seasoned vets, ranging in age, he guessed, from their late twenties to thirties. All were outfitted in fresh white pinstriped home uniforms that hugged their hard bodies. Some old-school players wore their black stirrups on the outside of their socks.

Bull felt his heart quicken pace. There was nothing like sitting back on a lazy summer day and taking in a game of hardball, even an amateur outing. The only things missing were hot dogs and cold beer.

Black shades in place, Bull kicked his booted feet onto the dugout roof and leaned back to ponder the events that had led him so far from home. It had been a long, slow journey, but that was the plan – to see old friends and what little family he had scattered from one coast to the other, and to see the country while catching up on twenty lost years. Finding Jason, his son, that was what mattered most. Still, nine innings of baseball would be a nice break from the road.

Trapped in these thoughts, Bull didn’t realize he was being watched until a flash of pinstriped white caught the corner of his eyes.

“Hey, you-!” a handsome-faced jock grinned from beneath a pair of similar black sunglasses. Bull quickly pegged the ball jock at somewhere in his mid to late thirties, with buzzed brown hair silvered slightly above the ears and a Cheshire cat’s smile. At first he couldn’t be sure whom the man was talking to, but a quick glance to both sides revealed Bull was alone in this section of the bleachers. “Yeah, you!”

Bull pulled down his feet. “Me?”

“Yup. Hustle your butt down here. Need to ask you a favor.”

Bull noticed a black Captain’s C stitched on the arms of the ball jock’s uniform. Shrugging, he trudged to the bottom of the stairs and onto the dusty ground beside the dugout. “Whassup?”

“You service?”

Bull nodded. “Sergeant Thomas Bullen. Army Ranger, out of North Carolina.”

“I knew it!” the ball jock exclaimed excitedly. He extended a big bear paw of a hand. Bull accepted. They shook. “You play?”

“Hardball?” Bull grunted, tipping his gaze into the dugout. An assortment of buff bodies in pinstriped baseball uniforms met his eyes. Among them sat a man dressed in a pair of workout shorts, a tank top that showed off the perfection of two bulging, tattooed arms and furry pits, a white sock and sneaker on one leg, a cast from the knee down on the other. “Hell yeah. Bit rusty, though.”

“I don’t care if you’re rustier than a bunch of nails, dude. I need a body out there. We ain’t got a centerfielder. Finley over there-” He aimed a hand toward the one man out of uniform on the bench. “Busted up his leg. We’re down a man and could use somebody like you to fill in.”

The offer kept Bull’s smile in place. “Me? Don’t you got any utility players for backup?”

“Sarge, this is a pickup baseball league, not the major leagues. Come on – I’m begging you.”

Bull studied the chiseled face on level with his own, then stole another view of the dugout, where a tall, young jock was bent over and stretching, showing one of the best-looking butts Bull had ever seen. When he glanced back, he caught Jeff staring at the young jock, too. Despite the wedding ring on his finger, Bull realized Jeff was checking out the other man’s can!

That sealed it.

“Sure I’ll play, but I don’t have a uniform.”

“That ain’t a problem,” Jeff said with a spirited hoot, obviously happy with Bull’s decision. “What are you, thirty-four waist?”

“Yeah.”

Jeff focused on Bull’s feet. “Cleat size?”

“Twelve.”

Whistling out a cool puff of relief, Jeff said, “This is almost too good to believe. Finley’s uniform and cleats should fit you.”

With that decided upon, the team’s captain walked Bull over. His first introduction came to the young ball jock they’d both been sizing up a moment earlier. “This is Private Derek Conway, our starting pitcher.”

Bull extended his glove hand in a fist, knuckle’s out. The startlingly handsome young pitcher tapped his to Bull’s in a respectful gesture. “Good to have you onboard, Sir.”

“Back at you,” Bull growled.

Jeff next pulled him over to the dude with the broken leg. “Sergeant Bullen, meet our usual Centerfielder, Sergeant Deke Finley.”

“Call me Bull,” he said. The two jocks and soldiers shook with enough strength to shatter the hands of lesser men.

“You’re gonna need a glove,” Finley said, his voice a deep baritone. “My spare’s over there with the uniform, and my bats are marked with my number.”

Bull peeled off his shades. As fast as things were moving, he felt exhilarated by the offer to play a good, nut-busting nine innings of baseball surrounded by these men. “I promise not to get it too stinky or dirty,” he chuckled.

Finley shook his head and snarled, “Better really stink it up, dude. If you’re playing in my place, you best return it looking like you made something happen out there.”

Bull nodded and tipped his chin respectively. “Let’s do it, then.”