Apartment Eight Makes A Golden Challenge - Sex Stories

Apartment Eight Makes A Golden Challenge

... kind of feeble name for a sport was that? Fielding was awkward for him, standing out there in centerfield, waiting for a ball to come near him maybe three or four times per game. He usually did his business accounts in his head for most of the time. Batting was significantly more interesting and he was good at it --he had been dubbed “The Ball Buster” by game three-- but it happened too infrequently during a game. It was a slow sport, period. If he had his way, the pitchers would just have a tub of balls beside them and they would simply lob them in non-stop with batters standing in a line taking swings in succession. They would also get to keep their bats with them when they ran the bases. That wouldn’t be a problem for the fielders, though; they would also have bats. The field would be replaced with ice and home plate would be a net. Full-contact softball. It would sweep the country. “Hey, Boris ,” Carie shouted at him, “stop day-dreaming and get your butt up to the plate already! Don’t worry, you’ll be sitting back down in a couple of seconds, anyway!” Vasily grimaced as he stepped into the box and planted his feet. It was because of that woman that he even joined the league, yet she had insisted he be on another team. Perhaps it was because her team was comprised of all her Chinese and Asian friends. More likely, it was because she got off by facing him on the field. Carie took off her cap and dropped it in her glove, allowing the sunlight to brighten up her shiny, ...

... smooth face accented by a teasing grin. Tucking her glove under her arm, she reached back and undid her ponytail, shaking out her hair which, in spite of the dust and dampness, still looked enticingly dark and shiny. As she took her time to tie it back up, she stretched her back, flattening her tummy forward and exposing her belly button sneaking out from under her cut-off jersey. At the same time, she stretched out her long, toned leg, toeing the grass in front of her nonchalantly. Not only did softball bring out her competitive side, it drew out her flirtatious, teasing nymph tendencies as well. “Throw ball,” Vasily grunted impatiently as she went through her extended preening ritual. “Say please!” She beamed him a smile. She could see the little puffs of smoke come out of his ears. “Throw ball!” “Ooh, I love it when you’re grammatically incorrect!” “Will the pitcher throw the damn ball already?” the ump called to her, exasperated. “Please?” Carie giggled, winded up, then threw the ball. Woosh! Thwup! “Strike one!” Woosh! Thwup! “Strike two!” TUNG! “Ooh,” the players chimed. “Foul ball!” “Ohh…” Woosh! Thwup! “Strike three! Yer out!” The ump called the game. “Final score: The Dim Sum Warriors 4 and The Vodka Violators 1. Game over. Thank God.” He shook his head and sighed. Why the organizers of the league had not only allowed the teams to form along ethnic lines, but also allowed them to choose their own names, was way beyond him. Between these two jokers and other teams like Los ...