Glove Man, part 2
by Jack Straw
The game:  Some guys never learn ....


[Author's note:  I realize that if you've never played baseball
or softball, parts of this story will not have any meaning, but
so what?]


Part 2 -- The Game  

After that I didn't hear anything about Linda for a while.  Our
catcher, "Curly," was out longer than I expected, almost a month. 
Phil never returned at all.  Stan and the other leviathan who had
been at the party moved gingerly for couple of weeks, but they
played.  Otherwise, we'd have been really shorthanded.  At the
games they refused to come near me, which was fine with me.  As
long as I got to play shortstop, that's all I wanted from them. 
And with the men on our team dropping like flies -- merely from
the efforts of one female -- there was no danger I would be
replaced.

But after a month or so, when our season was winding down, it
emerged that Stan had challenged Linda and her women's team to a
softball game to disprove her disparaging views regarding slow-
pitch "athletes."  Clearly, she had gotten under his macho skin. 
It was to be six innings at a very isolated field, first three
innings fast pitch and then three slow pitch.  In order to get

our guys to do it, Stan had brought a small keg of beer, but only
for our "victory celebration."  If the girls lost, Linda had to
pay for it.  In order to get the girls to show up, the
stipulation was that, if the girls won, Stan had to agree to pay
the entrance fee for a tournament they wanted to enter.  

Stan didn't bother to ask any of us to contribute, knowing that,
except for the catcher and right fielder, the guys on our team
had no great interest in being there, other than the expectation
of some young bodies that would be easy to look at.  Of course, I
gladly would have shared in the stakes just for the chance to see
Linda in action again -- or just see her, period.  Stan was so
confident that, in addition to what was already a considerable
wager, he had made a side bet with Linda.  It must be nice to be
a bachelor, I thought.

The ball field was way out in the sticks, a place that Linda had
suggested, according to Stan.  I had trouble finding it but still
showed up at my normal time before the game, time enough for
warming up and some extended ogling but not so soon that my
eagerness was too obvious.

Both teams were dressed in casual shorts, the girls shorts being
much tighter and the cloth thinner, stretched by some very sexy
hips and baring most of the expanse of their shapely (and
muscular) legs.  The men wore T-shirts, or after a while no
shirt, most of them seemingly eager to expose their bellies. 
Some girls had on their normal loose game tops, rather
disappointing to the men in not revealing much on top, but
others, including Linda, had on stretchy halter tops, deliciously
revealing enticing cleavages and trim, flat abdomens (or corded
ones like Linda's).  

The difference in ages was surreal and embarrassing.  It was
definitely the dirty old men versus the young babes.  For the
most part, they were high-spirited, good-looking, and physically
fit young females.  We could feast our eyes on these delectable
examples of young womanhood without the watchful eyes of society
(our wives) to scold us; not a soul was there to root for (or
inhibit the wandering eyes of) our team.  The girls seemed to
enjoy and even laugh at the attention.  The times, they have a
changed:  In my youth it would have been unthinkable to have this
unnatural meeting of the sexes (and generations), with its
possibility of regretful consequences, especially given the
coquettish air of these girls.  However, some of the girls had
brought their boyfriends or a girlfriend.   Besides Linda by
herself had handled the three biggest guys on the team.  Why
worry?  

For my part, I had eyes only for Linda, and she occasionally
would glance my way and smile, as if at a private joke.  Our new
third baseman noticed where my gaze was fixed and said, "What a
set of muscles!  Do you know her?"

"Just saw her at a party once," I replied in vague
understatement.

There was a coin toss to decide who batted last, and the girls
lost; they would bat first.  Linda had devised an elaborate
system of umpiring that used players from both teams, and, to my
surprise, it worked.  There were no prolonged arguments about the
umpiring. 

Stan had found a ringer to pitch the first three innings for us. 
Linda had suspected as much and asked him wryly, "Where did you
find the ringer, Stan?  It won't help; you'll still lose."  

The first girl struck out, but the second one beat out a bunt. 
Then Linda stepped up, a mountain of strength, although a speck
shorter than the average man.  Her forearms and biceps bulged. 
Her legs bunched in colossal ridges covered with ultrafeminine
smooth bronze skin.  Her abs resembled the corrugated bed of a
pickup truck, bunching in different groups as she swung the bat
in lazy practice swings.  And her halter-clad breasts jutted out
and swung ever so slightly as she pivoted back and forth.  I was
in lust -- a ridiculously infatuated old man! 

"Hey, man!"  our new third baseman broke me out of my mesmerized
stupor.  "Move back a little, she looks like she can hit."  I
almost chuckled at the understatement; she looked like she could
single-handedly mow us all down with a sweep of one mighty arm. 
For the umpteenth time since I had started stealing looks at her
that day, I had a painfully constrained erection straining at my
jockstrap.  (This time I'd worn a new heavy-duty one.)  Oh, for
youth, and a second chance in life, I daydreamed.

After starting her off with a pitch off the plate and then just
missing with one high and tight, our ringer felt like he had to
throw a strike.  A foolish move, but one I was anxiously
awaiting.  I desperately wanted to see what she could do with the
bat, and show us she did!  CRACK!  It was a line drive that hit
in front of the left and center fielders and skidded like a shot
between them.  By the time the left fielder caught up to it, she
was rounding third and coasting home.  I didn't bother throwing
home with the relay when he finally got the ball to me.  The
girls were delirious and already congratulating their heroine.  
2-0, the men were down, and there was only one out in the game so
far!  But we managed to get out of the inning without further
scoring.

Linda was the pitcher for the girls, much as I had suspected.  It
became clear that if the game had been only fast-pitch, the men's
team would have been sunk for sure.  We could do nothing against
her.  Most of the guys struck out, disgustedly kicking up the
dirt as they headed back to the bench, muttering  with the
reasonable excuse that it wasn't fair -- WE never practiced
against fast pitching -- forgetting momentarily that Stan had
arranged for us to do that just that a week earlier.  However,
practice was one thing and facing Linda's pitching was another.  

I had faced many a good pitcher in my younger days, and she was
as good as any I'd ever seen.  She was knocking the macho out of
these macho men.  Stan, especially, had a hard time dealing with
the arrogant way she blew three straight pitches by him, putting
them right down the middle and challenging him to catch up to
their speed.  After the weeks of macho posturing about the game,
it was too much for him to swallow.  I almost felt sorry for him,
but, to her credit, Linda merely smiled triumphantly, as he
brooded darkly all the way back to the bench after missing the
third strike.  

I DID feel sorry for the girls' catcher, or maybe impressed is a
better word.  Batting against Linda's supersonic missiles was
merely humiliating; catching them, especially after fruitless
wild swings by our team, was risking serious injury.  But she was
gritty, the catcher was, and solid.  She managed to hold onto
almost every third strike and easily threw out the batters the
couple of times when she didn't.  Linda wasn't the only amazon on
the field.

I had the only hit off Linda.  As the ninth batter, I came up
after two outs (both strike outs) had been made in the third
inning.  I so wanted not to be embarrassed, my knees were wobbly
and my hands shook.  There was a look on her face that I couldn't
interpret or perhaps wanted not to -- amusement? compassion?,
passion? lust? or just plain battle lust?  I felt like the next
victim for the hangman, but, unlike my teammates, fast-pitch had
always been my passion.  Experience gave me an advantage.  I
swung late on her first pitch and fouled it weakly wide of first
base.  

Linda looked at me with what I think was a bit of respect.  After
all, it was the first time any of us had batted one of her
pitches forward.  As she was milling her arm with the next pitch,
I noticed her smile and I hit the deck as her pitch sailed inside
and nearly took my head off.  Her smile was even broader, but now
I too was smiling -- grimly.  Her brushback did me a favor; my
bout of nerves was gone and I was all concentration.  Perhaps, if
she hadn't knocked me on my keister, her next pitch would have
fooled me.  It was a change-up that, if I had been as nervous as
at first, I would have swung at too early and looked foolish --
probably her intention.  But instead I timed it perfectly and
with my pent-up rage, I hit it cleanly and as hard as I have ever
hit a ball.  Their shortstop hardly had time to start her glove
upward to reflexively protect her face before the ball whizzed by
her left ear.

Hands on hips, Linda grinned over at me when the ball came back
in from left field and I was standing on first base.  "Hey, Glove
Man, take it easy on our infielders," she laughed, clearly not
rattled in the least. The guy coaching first base for us was
clapping and whooping it up, foolishly thinking that the tide was
turning in our favor, but I knew I'd been lucky that Linda fed me
a change-up rather than her heat.  To add to my glory, I managed
to steal second base on the next pitch and proceeded on to third
base as the throw from the catcher sailed into center field.  I
felt really cocky, but my hamstring grabbed a little as I neared
third base and I knew I'd have to take it easy the rest of the
game.  The next batter struck out and that was the end of the
only threat we made while Linda was pitching.  

Clearly, our hope was to hang on during the fast-pitch innings
and then put them away during the slow pitch.  "Just wait," was
the word on our bench. It was a tacit realization that these
girls were better at their game than we were, but we had no doubt
that the tide would change once slow pitch started.  Being better
at slow pitch meant a lot more scoring than being better at fast
pitch; the advantages were all on our side.  Secretly, I wanted
the girls to prove better, but I didn't give them much chance.

In their half of the third inning, the girls had added to their
score with more bunts that our roly-poly third baseman couldn't
handle, a couple of walks, an error, and a booming triple from
Linda that our center fielder managed to catch up to because he
was playing so deep.  After Linda struck out the side in our half
of the third, sandwiched around my hit, it was 7-zip in favor of
the women.  Now it was the men's turn -- "beer belly" slow pitch.

At that point fate intervened.  The wind kicked up and started
gusting crazily in different directions.  Our normally dependable
pitcher (no longer our ringer, but our regular slow pitch
specialist) could not find the plate.  And the girls took
advantage.  Walk after walk ensued.  Soon he had walked in one
run and the bases were loaded.  At this point the wind died down
and the next girl popped out.  One down, not much damage yet, and
up to bat was Linda again.  She had been hitting ball-pulverizing
line drives during the fast-pitch part of the game, but slow
pitch is another matter.  Our guys still weren't concerned;
assuming that she never played slow pitch, they thought she'd
probably overswing and either miss the ball or pop up like the
batter before.  "Just make sure you pitch strikes," Stan directed
the pitcher. "We don't want any more walks."  

Linda was swinging a new bat this time -- the biggest, longest
softball bat I had ever seen.  Our catcher grumbled because he
had to back up for fear of getting hit in the head when Linda
swung.  I was wondering just how heavy that thing must be and
thinking I wanted to check it out after the game, when the
pitcher lofted his pitch.  As Stan had directed, it was a strike,
with a nice high arc, the type of pitch that is often popped up
or beaten in the ground.  But this pitch had a much different
fate.  When Linda hit it, it exploded off her bat.  I never moved
except to turn and watch its flight in amazement.  The left
fielder also merely turned.  It soared way over his head and
eventually landed on the fly in the grove of trees far behind
him.  It was easily the longest hit I had ever seen in softball. 
In turning around, I had moved close enough to second base that
Linda pinched my butt as she rounded the base.  

"Having fun, Glove Man?"  she called out, grinning seductively.

"Uh-huh.  The time of my life," I choked out, grinning back at
her.  She looked back again as she was rounding third.  Our eyes
locked.  There was definitely a bond between us.  It worried me. 
I thought about my teenage daughter; except for the awesome
physical differences, Linda could be her older sister.  I was
definitely old enough to be her father.  I looked down and then
out to left field where the outfielders had finally decided to go
retrieve the ball.  They never found it.  The game was held up
for ten minutes while they looked, but then one of the girls on
Linda's team threw out one of their new balls.  The girls were
still jabbering and hooting.  I don't think even they had thought
they would dominate the game like this.

It was embarrassing to say the least.  My team stood stock still
in complete shock.  Even if we ended the inning now, it was 12-0. 
Even assuming we could revive our spirits somehow, it was going
to be no cake walk.

"Come on guys, let's get this inning over with," Stan bawled out
darkly.  I looked at his face; it said someone was going to pay
for this.  I hoped things wouldn't get ugly.  I didn't worry
about Linda getting hurt but someone might.

We managed to get out of the inning, without further damage.  In
fact, it was probably my crowning moment of the day that ended
it.  I dove flat out to reach a short flare just behind second
base and flipped the ball to the second baseman to complete a
double play.  He was so surprised, he almost bobbled it too long
before tagging the base.  Again I was aware of Linda's eyes
devouring me as she trotted out and I trotted in.  I kept my eyes
down.

In our half of the inning, guys were clapping and yelling and
trying to regain some of their lost morale.  "This is our game
now.  Come on, let's get it going!"

It seemed to work for a while.  The first two guys up got on
base, but then their gal at third knocked down a hot smash and
almost made a double play out of it.  That seemed to give the
girls back their confidence, and the shortstop made a nice stab
of a line drive.  Two down and still no runs!  But the next
batter managed a squibber that spun crazily back and forth on the
ground and he beat out the late throw after it first squirted out
of the catcher's hands as she tried to pounce on it.  Well, not
too masterful, but the bases were loaded and Stan, our best home-
run hitter was up.  

Linda was now playing left field, a good strategic move I
thought, but she was playing too far in for someone as strong as
Stan.  The other guys on the bench whispered the same thing,
hoping that the girls wouldn't notice until Stan got hold of one. 
Stan glanced out that way and smiled, probably for two reasons,
one that it should be easy to get it well over her head and the
foolish fielder was Linda, his nemesis.  Now he had a chance for
some pay back.  I secretly hoped he got too excited and muffed
it.  Little did I realize she was hustling him; she wanted to
make sure he hit her way.

Far from muffing it, Stan patiently waited for his pitch and then
crushed it.  The guys were on their feet, whooping it up, seeing
the imminent prospect of four quick runs and momentum shifting to
our side.  What they hadn't seen, but I had, was Linda sprinting
backward even before Stan connected.  At the crack of the bat,
she was already sprinting with her back to the infield.  As we
followed the long arc of Stan's drive, it was an amazing sight to
see her long powerful legs speeding her faster than the flight of
the ball.  In baseball parlance she "outran" it and then slowed
down to catch it over her shoulder gracefully, almost
nonchalantly, with her back to the infield.


I doffed my cap to her as she trotted back to the bench, her
teammates waiting to cheer and congratulate her.  "Glove Man
salutes Glove Woman -- make that Superwoman," I exclaimed with a
short bow.  

She actually blushed.

Inwardly I gloated at Stan's humiliation, but outwardly I gave no
indication other than to glance in his direction.  He struggled
to compose his face, but he could not hide an involuntary tremor
of his upper lip nor quell the glint in the eyes of one who feels
betrayed by the fates.

The rout continued as the girls batted in the top of the fifth. 
More walks ensued as our normally dependable pitcher lost his
composure and a couple of solid line drive hits brought them
three more runs.  Linda wasn't their only good player; we were
definitely being outclassed.  Stan took over the pitching and
managed to get the first girl he faced to pop up.  Still, the
bases were loaded and the next batter was Linda.  

The infielders huddled with Stan at the mound and debated whether
to walk her, even though it would put us one more run behind. 
The consensus was to try to make her chase a really bad pitch and
if she didn't, well, a walk was only one more run, not four.  I
could tell though that Stan didn't like it.  It was tacitly
admitting that she was too good for us.  I said nothing, because
I wanted to see her launch another satellite; I just loved
watching the supple interplay of her muscles and breathtaking
feminine curves when she swung the bat.  But while we talked she
came up with a taunting surprise for us.  It made the score and
the game secondary.

She swayed up to the plate wearing a bright, tight miniskirt and
sexy pumps -- red high heels on a ball field!  Whatever faults
she might have, shyness was not one of them.  All of us,
including her teammates, did a double take.  Our second baseman
swallowed his gum and had a coughing fit.  Guys and girls were
rolling their eyes at her audacity, once the eyes had popped back
into place.  She noticed what I'm sure was a mixed expression on
my face of incredulity at her sophomoric behavior and
ineffectually suppressed fascination with her overpowering female
sexuality, and she winked at me.

She had foreseen this type of strategy on our part well before
the game even started.  Once we found out that she was a one-
woman wrecking crew, we would just walk her to prevent home runs. 
Her counter-strategy was to challenge our egos, especially the
mountain of testosterone now holding the ball.  By walking her,
he would emasculate himself, admitting that a woman in clothes
meant for a cocktail party could still outperform a big macho
stud like him.

"Don't let her get to you, Stan," our catcher said, soothingly. 
"Stick to the plan."  But he was wasting his breath.  Stan had
been irritated that we had huddled in the first place; he didn't
want any acknowledgement of Linda's superiority.  Now that she
was emphatically mocking us, he was beyond reason.  Clearly, she
must have had this in the back of her mind well before the game. 
Otherwise, why would she have even brought these clothes?  And
what was so fascinating that I had missed seeing her put them on? 


As she salaciously wiggled her hips at him, Stan was so enraged
(and I'm sure sexually aroused) that he could barely breath. 
When his first pitch went way outside, she taunted him, "Are you
admitting that you can't get me out, fat man?  You notice that we
don't bother to walk you guys.  We're not worried about YOUR
little swats, pantywaist."  

She knew how to push his buttons and the next pitch, to my
surprise, was a classic slow pitch strike -- I didn't know Stan
had it in him -- steeply it rose and then dropped straight down
like a hawk toward a mouse.  Linda tottered clumsily on her high
heels and appeared almost to lose her balance as she started to
wade into the pitch, but at the last moment pulled her bat back
and almost fell down.  It was all part of her act, but I was
nearly as taken in as everyone else, her teammates included. 
They couldn't conceive of hitting a ball wearing high heels
either and clearly disapproved of her showboating.

The guys had not had much to cheer about so far, so Stan's
perfect pitch and Linda's clumsiness seemed like the comeuppance
she so richly deserved.  An inordinate round of "attaboy"s rang
out from my teammates, and the catcher, whose ribs were nearly
healed from the Linda's crunching at the party the month before,
yelled out, "Pretty, very pretty, Stan! One more like that one,
Stan the Man!"  Linda's strategy seemed to have backfired -- her
opponents spirits were rising.  But she looked utterly
unconcerned and then -- well, I've already emphasized that she
had absolutely no shyness about exposing her assets.  A bump-and-
grind stripper couldn't have captured the moment any more
brazenly than what she did next.

Calling time, she sauntered sexily over to the bench, slowly
peeled off her top to reveal the skimpiest string bikini
imaginable, then slowly dropped her skirt, stepped out of it,
revealing a thong bikini bottom stretched to the bursting point,
and bent over sexily as she placed her cocktail skirt on the
bench and smoothed it out in girlish fashion.  This motion caused
her delicious glutes to swell out against the stretchy thong and
I swore I saw pubic hairs winking at me through her parted legs. 
It also swelled her hamstrings into mountainous ridges of
feminine steel, matching the awesomely bulbous calf muscles that
were flexed by the arching of her feet in her high heels.  I
moaned involuntarily and thought I heard other moans.  I was as
hard as a rock and seeping into my painfully constricting
jockstrap.  

Then she turned around and my knees gave out completely.  It was
a couple of minutes before I realized my parched mouth was wide
open.  We had seen most of her body all day, but, now nearly
naked, it was still more incredible.  I had seen this body
completely revealed before but the memory didn't match the
reality, and I have to believe that she had actually added some
weight and dimension since I had last seen her.  Her breasts
stood out easily half a foot from her chest, which already was
deep and thick itself, laced with the striated pectoral muscles
of the consummate bodybuilder that she was.  The shelf they made
over her slender, corded abdomen was impossibly spectacular.  

I marveled anew at the breadth of her shoulders and the jagged
boulders of her powerful deltoid muscles.  Having captured the
moment and all onlookers in an utterly unassailable spell, she
swaggered sexily back to the batter's box, her breasts jouncing
ever so slightly with each step.  She lifted the long, heavy bat
and ground it exaggeratedly with her strong hands, making her
jagged triceps jut out in intimidating dimensions that rivalled
her breasts.  As she stepped toward the box, she paused, looked
at me and winked.  I was conscious of a trail of drool at the
side of my mouth, which I wiped dreamily.  

She threw back her shoulders, which thrust out her fantastically
imposing bust, and swung the bat for a couple of practice swings. 
Each swing caused her biceps to bulge outrageously and her chest
and breasts to swell against the flimsy bikini top.  It had to be
emasculating to Stan and the other big guys to see a woman with
such exaggerated hourglass curves but with muscles that were
bigger, much better defined, and obviously far harder than
theirs.  In short, someone who looked like she could take them
all on and clean their clocks without working up a sweat, but at
the same time had the curves of the sexiest stripper imaginable. 
She had a way of turning any encounter with males into sexual
contest in which she utterly pulverized the male sex, all the
while keeping it aroused at a fever pitch.

My jockstrap was a sticky mess and I knew that soon a wet stain
would appear on my shorts.  A furtive look around showed that I
was not alone by any means.  Our poor second baseman kept moving
his mouth spastically gulping to get some moisture back into it. 
Stan was clearly aroused as well, despite his anger.  

I was glad that none of our wives were present.  I glanced at the
girls' bench.  Some were hooting in giggly, high-pitched tones
and encouraging Linda on, but some were decidedly not doing so,
probably annoyed at Linda's showing off, and rightfully so I
thought.  She was not only showing up the men but also the other
women.  Even the girls who were cheering her were obviously
embarrassed.

"Ready to go, SLUT, or are you going to make us wait all day?" 
Stan asked sarcastically.  

Linda wiggled her jutting ass sexily and grinned, "What did you
have in mind, fat man?  I know you can't see it over your big
belly, old man, but you're making a spectacle of yourself," she
taunted laughingly.

Stan's face went beet red, with embarrassment and anger, and he
bellowed, "It's going to be fun watching you fall on your ass
when you swing at this one, slut."

Linda again wiggled her ass and then swung her prodigious upper
assets as well.  I knew that Stan was being hustled, but he fell

for it hook, line, and sinker.  He knew that he had one pitch to
waste and that she couldn't take another called strike.  He
figured she wouldn't take a chance if it was anywhere close to
the plate.  He lofted another perfect pitch, perfect in the sense
that it had terrific arc and looked close to being a strike, but
was really short and outside, so that she would have to reach for
it if she swung.  And swing she did.  

With any other hitter, Stan's strategy would have worked; it
either would have been grounded harmlessly if hit at all, or, if
the batter stretched and hit in the air, a harmless lazy fly
ball.  Stan underestimated her strength and forgot what a long
bat she had.  

This time her swing was almost completely with the upper body.
Because of her high heels, she could not put as much pressure as
normal on her legs, but mainly bent them (such a sexy sight!) to
help level her swing.  Yes, her power would have to come from the
upper body, but what an upper body!  This time, with the ball in
front of the plate and falling outside, she chose right field. 
With all the coordination of her awesome physique, she timed the
swing perfectly and I watched the second longest flight of a
softball that I had ever seen.  The right fielder was caught
completely by surprise, never expecting such a blow from a right-
handed hitter.  It didn't matter -- even Linda could never have
caught up to it from where he was standing.  It fell far behind
him as he emerged from his shock and waddled after it.  After
several long bounces, the ball disappeared into another grove of
trees.  Another ball was lost.

Linda took her time rounding the bases, and I never took my eyes
off her.  It was breathtaking watching those mighty breasts swing
and jounce within her overstrained top, their motion damped by
the supple firmness of her youth and conditioning.  This time she
grabbed lightly at my tented crotch as she went by and giggled as
I leaped backward.

"Still having fun, Glove Man?" she jived.

"Isn't it obvious?" I replied dreamily and grinned
appreciatively.  

"Well, now that you mention it ..." she laughed, fixing her gaze
at my crotch area and twisting her head to keep me in view as she
approached third base.

As she jumped on home plate she pirouetted so that she faced a
dark-faced Stan.  "You know, Stan, girls -- SLUTS -- probably
have an advantage at hitting because of extra weight up here." 
She cupped her heavy breasts.  "Now if you could just shift that
big gut upwards, you'd be awesome."  She was barely able to get
out the words through her laughter and puffed out her bust in all
its superior glory.  I thought I saw a strand of her top giving
way.  She turned and lifted two of her congratulating teammates
in the air -- way up in the air -- one on each prodigiously
bulging arm.  I was sure now that her top had burst because one
boob and its large nipple was completely bared.

As the right fielder tramped around in the woods searching for
the ball, one of the guys softly suggested that we quit -- just
call it a day.  "It's getting late, man.  I have better things to
do."  ("Is he gay?" I wondered.)

Stan would not hear of it.  He knew that Linda would never let
him forget this day; it would make two crushing days of utter
defeat for him and complete triumph for her in this battle of the
sexes and generations between them.  I could see that if he
didn't have some satisfaction on the diamond, he was going to do
something else, and that might be disastrous.  Besides, we had
completed only one of the three innings in the slow-pitch part of
the game, where he had been convinced that we would triumph. 
Linda and her cohorts had put that premise into serious doubt but
Stan was adamant.

I proposed a compromise.  "Look, they are 19 runs ahead.  In our
league a game is called if the other team is 15 runs ahead at the
end of an inning.  They have two more outs coming, but if they
are willing we'll bat now.  If we score more than four runs, then
they get their last five outs and we finish the game.  If we
can't score that many, the game is over."  The others thought
that was okay if the girls agreed.  Stan was unhappy; he wanted
to beat them without any concessions or anything irregular, but
he went along.


I proposed it to the girls and they assented.  They were so
ecstatic about playing this much better than a bunch of
experienced older males, that, the sooner they got to
celebrating, the better.

"Can't take it any more, Glove Man?" Linda teased softly, gazing
up at me from where she lounged casually on the bench with her
jagged shoulders and arms splayed out on top of the backrest,
still all but naked.

My tongue caught in my throat as I gaped at her.  Being this
close to her turned me to mush.  "I wouldn't mind going on
forever," I croaked out, my honesty surprising me.

"Oh, games can't last forever.  Neither does life -- you've got
to seize the day," she said, stringing together enigmatic
cliches.

As I returned to our bench and told the guys that the girls
agreed to my idea, some of the girls were giggling and
whispering, and saying, "Okay, let's do it!"  I turned around
because I thought it had already been decided, but realized they
were talking about another "it," not my idea.  A few of them were
shedding their halter tops and shorts to reveal bikinis almost as
skimpy as the one Linda was almost wearing at the moment.  

"Hot damn!  I don't believe this!" our third baseman exclaimed. 
Neither did I, but, really, it was not much more enticing than
the skin bared by the clothes they had shed.  No, it was stark
psychological warfare.  They were ridiculing us.  Flaunting
themselves in this way was psychologically akin to grinding our
cocks under their collective heels.  Our lust was tinged with the
anger of being so lightly regarded.

Linda was still the only one audacious enough to play in high
heels (or presumably to have brought them at all).   She

continued to wear them as she trotted out to left field like a
supremely developed exotic dancer.  I noticed that she seemed to
have made a temporary repair of the bikini strap that had broken,
but the way it strained under the pressure of her normal
breathing I did not see how it could long stay intact.

Our last inning started out well.  The first two hitters got on
and I brought one in with a solid line drive single to left
field.  It was fun watching Linda gracefully move that delectable
bare bod over to cut off the ball and throw the ball on a frozen
rope to third base, despite the awkwardness of running and
throwing in the high heels she so arrogantly had decided to keep
on.  I could have watched that symphony of muscle groups and
female curves all day.  

I had driven in our first run.  Against all conventions of our
normal play, I was the hitting star for our team, two hits and an
RBI.  Some quick mental math told me that I was only twelve
behind Linda's RBI output for the day and I smiled to myself.

Whether it was anger at being mocked by the way Linda and some of
her teammates were attired, or just the inevitable tide of a ball
game, our team continued getting hits.  We were, after all,
playing a game that was second nature to us.  The runner ahead of
me scored on another line-drive single, and I scored when the
girls' center fielder dropped a high pop up.  We had three runs
in and nobody out.  But then their amazon at third base made
another great stop on a hard grounder and stepped on third for a
force out.  Another single brought in our fourth run, but then
their short stop kicked a grounder toward second base and stepped
on the bag for a force out.  Two outs, but all we needed was one
more run to prolong the game.  Stan was whooping it up and even
some of my other teammates were half-heartedly cheering.  Our
next batter worked a walk out of their pitcher, and up to the
plate strode Stan, grimly set on getting some revenge and
restoring lost pride.

With all the possibilities in a baseball or softball game, it
amazes me that games so often hinge on one or two individuals,
with their strengths and weaknesses exposed for all to see.  As
in a Greek tragedy, the protagonists can't help themselves; they
are doomed to follow the script that their flaws have written.

Dwarfing their catcher, Stan swung his bat in intimidating
fashion a couple of times before stepping to the plate.  As he
swung, he peeked out to left field.  Linda stood nonchalantly
with her weight on one elegantly arched foot, seemingly bored
with the proceedings.  I wondered if she was hoping for the
chance to bat again.  She was a bit deeper than the last time
Stan had batted but still not nearly deep enough to catch one of
his normal power blasts.  All we needed was a little hit from
Stan, or a walk, and the game continued, with momentum perhaps
switching to us.  But Stan was after a larger prize and Linda was
inviting it.  I could hear him think and so could she:  "She's
baiting me again but this time there's no way she'll catch it,
dressed as she is."  I could almost hear that Greek chorus.

With all the effort he could muster, Stan waded into the first
pitch and sent it flying deep to left once again.  In his
eagerness he had gotten under it a little too much, causing it to
loft higher than his last one but it also was deeper.  Again,
Linda had retreated with the pitch, but instead of kicking off
her sexy shoes as I expected, she was running choppily at top
speed with those pumps making a bright red blur behind her.  The
athleticism required to run that fast in that way was astounding. 
Again, I was seeping in my pants.  But I also knew that her head
had to be bobbing from the choppiness of her stride, due to the
shoes.  And with the extraordinary height of the ball's flight,
while it helped her get under it, it must have looked like twenty
blurred balls appearing and disappearing in different locations. 
Yes, I heard the chorus, but of whose doom did it narrate?  As
Stan approached first base exultantly and his other teammates
cheered, I watched somberly.  I hate hot dogs, and usually, I'm
ecstatic about a hot dog falling on his or her face.  But I was
infatuated with this one, and I was disgusted that she was
inviting her teammates' contempt in this way.

And then it occurred to me.  She was doing this because otherwise
the game was too easy.  Merely beating a man at his own game was
old news to her.  She was so much better than the rest of us,
that she needed a handicap to make it interesting.  As the ball
finished its long arc downward, she leaped gracefully to her left
and speared it.  The stretching of her phenomenal body exploded
her overwrought bikini top at the peak of her leap, so that, as
the ball stuck in her glove, her top descended toward the ground. 

She teetered as she landed, jouncing large-nippled taut breasts
that were bared for all to admire.

Simultaneously pumping one mighty arm in the air and using the
other to retrieve her torn bikini top, she high-stepped back to
toward the infield, a magnificent sight no matter what your
perspective.  Meanwhile, her teammates congratulated each other
with giggles, hugs, and high fives.  

19-4!  Youth and the female sex had won in a rout.


Part 3  Aftermath

(to be continued)
--