Today I’m sharing with you an excerpt from my story Lucky Mascot. You’ll find the rest of it in Go Deeper Press‘ anthology, Huddle: Sex With Sporty Queers.

When I got there, the hallway was dark, but I could see light bleeding out from under the door of one of the changing rooms at the far end. I didn’t think the element of surprise would be appreciated in a situation like this, so I walked with heavy footsteps and called out as I got close to the door.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“Who’s that?” It was the sharp response of someone who didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Jed Marshall,” I said, tentatively pushing open the door to the locker room and leaning against the jamb.

On one of the benches inside, with his back resting against a row of lockers, sat a picture-perfect jock, with a blond brush cut and wide-set blue eyes. Square jaw, wide neck, broad shoulders. He also had the biggest boner I’d ever seen pushing out against his sweat pants. I felt a kick in my own pants and lost a breath.

“Hey, I know you,” he said, looking me up and down with an expression more predatory than friendly.

I shrugged. I didn’t recognize him.

“You’re that kid, aren’t you? Used to come to all the matches and is in all the team pictures—Dean Marshall’s kid?”

I nodded. I could never play anonymous. The hall was lined with Founders’ Team photos going back years and, as the lucky mascot, I was in every single one of them in my miniature team uniform.

“The team lucky mascot,” he said, cracking a wide smile. He didn’t seem the least embarrassed or concerned about the bulge in his pants.

“I can’t deny it.”

He held out his hand for me to shake, which I did. He had an incredibly strong grip.

“Dick Gunnison.”

I sat down on the bench opposite him.

“You in the game tomorrow?” I said.

He nodded. “Pitcher.”

I whistled. That was some pressure. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

“Can’t sleep.” He glanced down at his groin.

“It’s pretty impressive,” I said, and I meant it. What I wouldn’t have given to get my mouth around his piece. “Why don’t you just…?”

“Jack off?”

I nodded enviously.

Gunnison held up the hand I’d shaken a moment before and looked at it with an expression of awed wonder. “Can’t do it, man. It’s my lucky pitching hand.”

“It’s not gonna break off from just beating your meat,” I said.

He laughed and massaged his knuckles with his other hand. “Listen, I jack off every night to get to sleep. But whenever I jack off the night before a game, the arm spectacularly fails at the critical moment. Like last year, when we played the Bishops. I needed a curveball to see off their star in the final innings. My arm goes soft, and I throw a meatball. I can’t do it again. I gotta do great tomorrow. There are scouts in town.”

Our little Founders’ Weekend match didn’t often attract scouts from any of the major league teams. They’d only come all the way out here if they’d heard there was someone worth seeing. And if they were in town, chances were, as pitcher, Gunnison would be in their crosshairs. So he was right. He couldn’t afford to fuck up.

“But you gotta sleep. You can’t play if you haven’t slept,” I said.

He put his head in his hands. “I’m so fucking tired,” he said. “But I can’t screw with the wing.”

It was too obvious to come in a blinding flash. I didn’t really give it any thought at all. I simply knelt down in front of him and rested my hands on the waistband of his pants. I glanced up to check he was okay with this. You never know with some jocks: Touch ‘em and it can be like you’ve shocked them with a Taser. But Dick Gunnison was fine with it. The tension had gone out of his eyes, and he shifted his hips forward on the seat so he could lean back.

I slid his sweatpants down his thighs, gently disentangling his cock from the elastic waistband. He wasn’t wearing any shorts underneath, and his giant namesake swung up into my face like it was spring-loaded.

“Oh, man,” was all I could say, as I pushed his pants down around his ankles.

“Sure is a beauty, isn’t it?” he said with a wide grin.

I took hold of it with my hand and moved it a little from side to side. I wanted to admire it for a few seconds before it went out of sight. I’ve sucked a lot of cock in my life—some for money, though more for pleasure, now that I don’t do drugs—and Gunnison wasn’t bragging when he called it a beauty. It was long, with a just-perceptible curve upward, and the girth wasn’t too thick to take away any elegance. I hate cocks like tree trunks, and not just because they’re hard to get in my mouth. But Dick’s dick was in perfect proportion, and the bulbous head at the top had the purplish hue of a cock in need of attention.

Breathtaking. I mean, actually breathtaking. I looked at it and I could hardly breathe. The soft grunt from above told me that Gunnison was impatient for the action to begin, so I bent forward with the tip of my tongue stuck out until I made contact. His cock twitched in my hand, and I had to hold it steady to plant my lips on the end of it. Gunnison’s hips jerked up as I opened my mouth to let the top of his cock inside. He rewarded me with a low grunt and by planting his lucky pitching hand in my hair. Close up, he had the musky, sweaty jock smell I love, and he tasted a little salty from sweat already. I moaned my appreciation and took him deeper into my mouth, letting my teeth graze up and down his shaft, and pulling in my cheeks to create suction.

“Sweet Jesus, just what I needed,” he said, tightening his grip in my hair with one hand, and running his other hand up and down my back.

My forearms were resting on the tops of his thighs, so I used my elbows to gently push them further apart. Holding his dick at a convenient angle, I ran my tongue up and down his shaft, slowly swirling around the top and twisting my way down to the base in a slow procession of nips, bites, and fluttering kisses. His hips writhed beneath me, and the hand that had been on my back now gripped the edge of the bench with white knuckles.

I brought my mouth back to the head and licked around it to make sure it was good and wet. As I blew on it, he let out a long, low moan of torture. The hand gripping my hair pushed my head down until he was fucking my mouth again. I grabbed a handful of his balls and really got to work as he thrust his cock against the back of my throat.

The bench he sat on creaked and groaned, and the lockers above him rattled. My knees grew sore on the concrete floor, and his hand gripping my hair felt like a vice. But it all paled in comparison to the thrill of having such a fucking gorgeous cock in my mouth. My own was screaming for escape, constricted in tight jeans that added a burning friction to every twitch and jerk. Finally, I had to act on it. I took my hand off his leg to reach down and pop the buttons of my fly.

I slowed right down and sucked hard. Gunnison’s hips pushed forward and his grunting became louder. I squeezed his balls, making him roar out his appreciation. It’s just one of things I love about jocks: how noisy they are when you suck ’em off. But I was hardly being quiet myself, slurping up and down his cock and groaning with pleasure, slapping my own rod with my free hand.

Gunnison came first. The feeling of his come hitting the back of my throat pushed me over the edge. I’ve long since learned the art of taking it down without retching, but I pushed a little of it forward to get a good taste of it—sweet and delicious, the fresh-made jizz of a guy who milks it regularly. I swallowed it back, savoring the last drops on my tongue as I let his cock slide back a little in my mouth.

My own orgasm billowed through me like a giant wave, tumbling me in its barrel and turning me inside out. My come spurted onto the floor under the bench in a wide arc, pearly and glistening. My grip on Gunnison’s balls tightened until he had to touch my hand to make me realize what I was doing. So, instead, I bit down on his big, meaty cock until my orgasm subsided, and he seemed quite happy with that.

“Fuck!” he said when I finally took my mouth off his dick and wiped my swollen lips with the back of my hand. “Masterful.”

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