Too Black for Baseball

First Game

It wasn't just black pride that made Greg keep his dick out in public, but a hatred of baseball--hand and cock, the fuck-you metaphor for the sport. Besides all of that, it was a beautiful day--sunny and too hot, one joyful setup anywhere else outside of the stadium. But inside, America's favorite pastime made the air feel as boiling as much as it was boring.

The heat felt worse in the dark, so Greg opened his eyes and squinted in the sunlight and everything else it touched. He peeked at his long, thick, coal-black penis that was proudly erect and aimed at the sky. The cock was glistening from tip to shaft, sweaty as the rest of his body--that tall, slobby, overweight frame of his that could leak gallons even in cold weather. But Greg smiled, thinking about his reflection. He'd been called fat, black and nasty so many times, but women could only fall in love with the nasty, black thing between his legs.

The stadium was mostly empty, just a few on-off patrons close by, the more dedicated followers of the sport way down in the "you're not a scumbag seats". Greg's dick had privacy. And he really did hate the sport, but had to go to the game, due to being raised in frugality, where nothing, especially gifts should ever be wasted. This mentality was the reason he kept a healthy bank account . . . and way too many pounds on his bones.

One of Greg's buddies had passed the tickets along, a guy that he knew hated the sport just as much. He accepted them because that was the decent thing to do, then quickly tested his morals by trying to sell them off to his other friends, marking the price down from dollars to cents. But it seemed that all Blacks were averse to baseball, none of them interested in watching hours of guys tipping their hats, chewing gum, spitting tobacco, standing, sitting, running every now and then, the rare swing and contact, sending a tiny ball up and away, leaving humans far below, scattering like rats for its attention.

In all truth, Greg felt some excitement upon entering the stadium--the first time. Delicious odors, beautiful colors, sexy girls and their boobs everywhere. But oh the terror of being the only black person in sight, the biggest, fattest person at the game. Nobody seemed to care as much as Greg, an angry glare directed his way was probably aimed more towards his shadow.

And they were better things, standards, like giggling kids, their laughing parents, the smiles lingering even as they failed to keep ice cream and ketchup off of the expensive attire their children wore, the messy faces of their favorite players, the soiled team insignia, both proof of a possible joy in failure.

People just looked happy. Greg told himself that it might be jealousy that irked him to annoyance, never seeing a crowd of his own in such comfortable glee. So he stayed cool, and moved to the rear seats of the stadium to make sure his fears and prejudices wouldn't spoil the mood for anyone else.

And he was back in that same area again, this day, his second visit to baseball. The announcer's loud, grating voice was a serious assault to Greg's serenity, causing his heart to flow into a gallop pushed by random cheers from the crowd. It seemed like happiness was bad for the heart.

Stroking his dick helped calm the nerves a bit. Closing his eyes helped him to fly. Thinking of sex gave him a journey.

"FOUL!!" the announcer screamed, yet again, forcing Greg back to down to earth.

He shook his head and decided that he might as well stay awake for his final baseball game. And for someone who didn't give a shit about the sport, the rear section of the stadium was the best place to be. It's where the worst of the bored would sit, so as not to be forced into any of the America-dipped, screaming pride requirements of the front rows.

But there were others who stayed in the same area for different reasons. They were more worst of the worst, of the perverse, horny, sick and twisted. And Greg met a few of them on his first trip to the stadium.

There were a lot more people in the stands back then, to the left, right, and circling. It was a good thing he had arrived so early, because the few holes left in the growing crowd would've probably closed real quick upon sight of his fat and scary black ass approaching. Greg found a section with enough room for him, his popcorn and pizza, and sat down, gorging on his food like any proud slob would.

And when he heard the sucking sounds coming from his left, his stomach rumbled for whatever drink was being siphoned through a straw. He glanced over and saw something else: some young couple that had seemingly appeared right next to him, the woman on the far side, bent over and sucking her boyfriend's cock like it was made of candy and there was nothing else left to eat.

Greg was shocked and quite concerned, thinking that the attention would bring more eyes on him, eyes that missed the couple's guilt to focus on the black guy, searching for his role in any deviancy. And he was shocked again by the mass of white folks that had now dwarfed him into their middle. The third shock came from their obliviousness to the perversions going on so close to them.

Couldn't they hear the girl's dick-gags? Weren't they sickened by the youths lust filled rage against standard? The young rebel was now going quite deep on her boyfriend, and he wasn't that small in the pants, the last inch of his gleaming shaft still showed while she struggled to make her lips contact the shaved pool of skin below. Greg guessed that it might just be a thing to the people--sex at a game, in public, in broad daylight, so many fans a fingering distance away from the girl's bobbing little ass. Just a thing.

But obviously, not something so meaningless to him, as his intrusive stares must've stood out quite loudly to the girl, since her eyes opened and immediately snapped onto his. And she held him in intensity while her mouth stayed wrapped over the dick lodged down her throat, spit streaming out the corners of her mouth. Then those glaring eyes shifted downward and narrowed in analysis. Greg followed them and saw his own dick trying its best to bust a hole through his jean shorts.

"Just let them have fun," someone said.

Greg turned to the voice, saw an older woman sitting to his right, smiling, her sunglasses focused on the game ahead. She was one of those middle-aged types that seemed to only improve with years, prettier, softer where fuller, her possible post-birth heaviness adding layers of luscious maturity. And she looked real cool and easy in a black tank top, no bra, with her fat, happily sagging tits plumped so awesomely beneath--the damned nipples prominent without even being hard. A decent woman with upper assets that forced such an indecent display.

The rest of Miss Fattie--that was the name Greg gave her--was just as fascinating. She wore a lily-white skirt that seemed about sheer enough to imply that there were no panties beneath. If that was true, she was definitely shaved down there, clean as her heavy, shaven legs. And way down lower, Greg saw the hugest feet he'd ever seen on a woman. The toes looked fat and delicious, the nails were without color, but glossy and cut with precision.

Miss Fattie crossed a leg leaving the sandal on the floor. The fat palm of her foot was paler than her sun-bronzed skin and maybe as moist as Greg's sweaty, stifled dick. He could slap that black shaft over her foot for days, checking for any calluses, then rub the aching penis between both of her soles till he splattered them with a better lotion. Greg was so horny--hornier than he wanted to be in a white crowd, sitting right next to a white woman that seemed unaware of how close she was to getting him killed.

"Oh . . . I wasn't . . ." Greg said, trying to defend himself.

"It's okay bud," she replied. "Enjoy the game."

She reached over and patted him on the leg a few times, the last couple of pats, right over the sensitive mushroom tip that had worked its way out of his boxers to rub painfully against the rough fabric of his shorts. His dick was screaming EMERGENCY!!! Miss Fattie needed cum all over some part of her body. Greg hoped it was that fat foot of hers that had now begun rubbing against his knee. The wrinkling sole seemed massive enough for several loads.

It had been a long time since Greg cummed, taking his urologist's advice to abstain from jerking off for a while. His erections had been too soft for his libido and he couldn't imagine what he'd do without the only true positive he had on his body. Even pussy-less, the hard touch of his shaft could bring the most vivid images to his mind, leading to dreams full of the kind of bitches that would never give his dick a chance in reality.

So Greg stopped fapping cold-turkey. Sometimes his balls ached so much, he'd scream into his pillow for hours. He wanted to call his doctor, but lately, that motherfucker had been watching his dick in a much less professional way. Greg wanted to call the wife he saw in the pictures hanging in the man's office, accuse her husband, draw the woman close and let her tears drip off his cock as he busted a gallon of goo down her throat--revenge for her husband's misinterpretation of job when he put his hand on another man's penis. But after a few months, it seemed Greg had gotten his money's worth as his erections came back with a petrified vengeance.

And he was that hard while sitting next to Miss Fattie. Greg wanted to toss her onto his lap and match the up-down movements of the young girl next to him, fucking in contest, where win, lose or draw, he would give the boyfriend a break, point his lover's soggy mouth in his direction and splash her tonsils with some black-cum, laughing at the lies she'd tell her boyfriend about his nut tasting so much better. But it all seemed more suicide than sexy.

Greg was trembling in pain, his erection was now pushing the thin-skinned head of his penis into the metallic trail of his zipper. He tried to stealthily hook a thumb into his belt to pull his shorts up and make enough room for his dick to slap back against his stomach and stay there for the rest of the game. But the damned belt was too tight. Greg cussed himself for the years he dedicated to trying his best not to be that stereotypical fat guy with his ass-crack showing. He gave up the struggle with his shorts and resigned himself to a penile torture through however many fucking hours of baseball were left.

Miss Fattie was watching him. Greg could see her intense gaze from the corner of his eye. Was she pissed, grossed out by his tending to the tent in his pants? She had already, kinda touched his dick. Plus, the woman seemed far too liberal to be offended by a veiled erection.

But her focus reminded Greg of southern white women of old, screaming rape if a black man even had a bulge. He begged his dick to go back to sleep, now regretting his early victory over impotence. But the only person his penis seemed to be listening to was the cocksucker next to him, who must've decided that the current point of her existence was to keep blowing her man till he came. And Greg hated that every time he looked at the chocking bitch, their eyes met in the middle.

"Relax, baby. It's just baseball," Miss Fattie said.

Her voice was calming, but his heart raged as he saw her hand moving towards him. Greg focused on the game, then squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Miss Fattie grab his belt buckle. He silently begged her not to touch anything that the men around them might want to keep as a souvenir. But she kept on, undid his buckle, popped the button over his fly, pulled his zipper down about halfway, reached in and put a hand on his dick.

Miss Fattie's palm felt like fire on Greg's skin. He thought he could feel his heart beating through every one of the gorged veins lining his cock. But . . . she was actually just trying to help, coming to the aide of his imprisoned penis, to free it with both hands. It wasn't going so well for her--Greg's dick was so full of sweat that her hand repeatedly slipped over its greasy surface. To anyone watching, it damn sure looked like she was pumping for oil.

Greg was gonna ask Miss Fattie to stop, but he paused upon noticing the older, grayed man sitting on her right. He figured him to be the husband as they both wore the same type of sunglasses. But what kind of husband kept a smile on his face while watching his wife rub her hand over some other guy's cock--some black guy? Maybe they were swingers, or just too old and bored to be racist . . . possibly sadist as both seemed to be enjoying Greg's predicament.

"Whoa, finally got it in stud. You'll be okay," Miss Fattie said. Greg looked down and smiled as she finished looping up his belt buckle.

"Thanks," he said, feeling more relieved than ever, in his now, not as short existence.

Miss Fattie gave his balls a little squeeze and went back to the game, her leg crossed again, her huge, naked foot now basically resting on his knee, rubbing hand-like over the cap. But it was okay because Greg's dick had room to rest, and he could tolerate the maddening erection for the rest of the game. And what a game it was--the team with the red hats were beating the blues and . . . he didn't give a fuck. He was just as safe as he had been when he entered the stadium.

Miss Fattie was sniffing her palms as if they had a very strange, very, very addicting scent. She was such a woman--damned heterosexual, so into men that dick-sweat fixed her like ecstasy. Greg now felt comfortable beside her, lazily chewed some popcorn, and took an easy glance to his left, hoping the kids had calmed in their play.

They most certainly did not. The girl was still sucking her boyfriend's cock as violently as she had been ages ago. The boyfriend was still rock hard, still with an ugly face, aching for release.

Greg wondered what Miss Fattie would do to the young guy's dick. How many times would he have cum by now had her lips been opponent? Greg almost asked her to help the girl out as the boyfriend seemed to be far past the rush of a public blowjob. There was pain on his face. With the amount of cum that was probably boiling inside, it could be a much less sexual type of explosion that was on the way.

Greg decided that he wasn't gonna be around when it came. The next time the crowd made enough noise, he'd slip out of the stadium, his fat ass hopefully forgotten within the celebration. But he did want to leave his phone number with Miss Fattie. Her and her husband were the rare, real life swingers. It'd be a trip to just jerk off while watching them fuck each other or a hundred people. And maybe Greg could be last in line, everybody kind enough to make room for the black guy who just wanted to blow one load over a bruised, exhausted, but still smiling Miss Fattie.

Her husband was currently fingering her from behind with an arm wrapped over her ass as she moved forward, his hand under her skirt. And Miss Fattie moved like an expert, slightly pushing her fatness up and down, watching the game with a slight but quivering smile, letting her husband finger-fuck what was hopefully her pussy. Greg looked down, fearing a less pleasant mess, but saw a pool of clear liquid covering the woman's seat. She pushed up kinda high a few times and he could see the fingers of her husband's hand clamped together like an arrow as she rode them, somehow managing not to let her weight snap her lover's wrist in the process.

Miss Fattie seemed to be getting hotter, her smile fading as she bounced. At one point, she stood full up and Greg could see that she was indeed wearing panties, a thong which she struggled to pull out of the crack of her ass, to leave in a soaked, crumpled mess on the floor. Her husband's flexed hand stayed rigid below, seemingly floating in the sunshine juice on the seat.

A rush of wind blew Miss Fattie's skirt up, revealing one bald, fat, swollen pussy. Streams of fluid ran down her thighs in sweet rivers. The wind also brought her scent to Greg's nostrils and he wished to rub a sample off of her big, wet ass as she lowered it back down to her husband's sticky fingers.

The crowd cheered again--the two oversexed couples next to Greg didn't notice. Miss Fattie was really moving now, fucking her husband's hand like it was the weirdest dick that only she knew how to use. Her asshole was fully visible, open, with pink and swollen ridges. The husband watched Greg watching her ass, giggled and went back to watching the game, sipping a beer while his wife steadily fucked his fingers--both of them in a dissimilar, but level dynamism that could've only come from many years of experience.

Miss Fattie's hand was creeping back up Greg's leg with new intent. He doubted it would be a helping hand if it reached his dick again. She was about to press Greg's button. And in the on-state, he saw himself stand up, shove his dick way down her talented throat, grab the younger, less talented bitch to his left and mash her face between his ass cheeks, allowing her boyfriend to finally cum in peace. The crazy white people were just asking for trouble.

But the stadium erupted in cheers and Greg saw his chance to get away. He stood, letting popcorn and uneaten pizza fall all over the cummy panties on the floor. When Greg looked around, he couldn't believe the amount of fucking that was going on in the rear rows. Even the less active people only seemed to be waiting their turn.

Failing to make her boyfriend cum, the girl on the left was now on his lap, riding hard. Greg saw love and dedication in the couple, but he doubted a marriage between them would make it past the first incident of adultery. He moved their way to exit as Miss Fattie's now fully exposed and flapping tits seemed too much of a barrier to squeeze by.

The girl grabbed a chunk of Greg's jeans, and not being as untalented of an idiot as he thought, she quickly got her hand past his belt and boxers and was exploring the area between his ass cheeks with hungry fingers. The sweat down there gave him a chance to wiggle left, right, keeping her far away from his asshole. The boyfriend--unbelievably--looked ready to cum. Greg pulled the girl's hand out of his shorts and tossed it back to her . . . where her hand unfortunately landed on her man's face, her fingers wiggling into his his mouth as he sucked them with aggression. Sorry bro.

Greg made it to the aisle, pushed through the crowd and out of the stadium, passing a couple of guards that were getting head from a couple of girls on the ground. He moved as fast as he could, only looking back when he reached his car. The stadium looked like a massive prison to Greg, one that people were still lined up to enter, eagerly awaiting their incarceration.

But he, himself was free. And like any black person in history who spent time in chains, the newfound freedom was like cool water on every inch of his skin. That water quickly boiled as Greg woke up and felt the hot sun screaming realization into his skull. He was on his second trip to baseball. He was back in the stadium.

Last Game

It hadn't been a dream--it was an incident that continued to haunt Greg days after he made it home. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Miss Fattie's pussy, when he tried to sleep, he heard a sucking sound in his left ear. He couldn't imagine suffering through such mental trauma for his entire life, so he decided to man-up and take his ass to the last baseball game he'd ever go to.

It was guaranteed to be Greg's final game as he sold one of the three tickets he'd been given. He saw some guy with a baseball cap walking down the street, approached the man with an offer, and accepted a generous five dollars in turn. The man refused to buy the third ticket, saying: "I'm not as young as I look. It's gonna take while for me to have a reason to go back to another game."