Baseball Games – Chapter 1: Athletes For Sale – Page 1

A young baseball fan fantasizes about stripping the players at a baseball game he is attending with his father before being offered the opportunity to make that fantasy come true as an adult in this new series from Luther5 with art by Amalaric!

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Baseball Games – Chapter 1: Athletes For Sale – Page 1
by Luther5
Art by Amalaric
Series: Baseball Games

Part 1: Boyhood Memory

baseball-2Even as a pre-teen youth, when my father would take me to baseball games at the historic old ball park on Chicago’s south side, I took a special interest in the toned physiques of the players, especially the younger ones. Perhaps my father mistook my intense fascination in the players as a budding interest in the game itself. I was never quite sure what he thought. But if he had only known what I was thinking in my very private world, he would not have been pleased.

I secretly fantasized what each player would look like in the nude, desiring, perhaps, some kind of magical power enabling me to make various parts of their uniforms disappear. After selecting a particularly buff young player who caught my eye, I would begin the slow process of stripping him. The first item to go would be the jersey. Nothing too dramatic here yet, as he would probably be wearing some kind of t-shirt underneath, but zapping away the jersey was a good start. The young player might be mildly annoyed at losing this piece of clothing, but its loss would not cripple his ability to continue playing. I would then continue the process of de-uniforming him. Zap! The undershirt would be the next item to go. Now that my victim was bare-chested, I could examine his body more carefully. I could now clearly see his underarm hair, shiny droplets of sweat rolling down the sides of his torso, droplets which trickled down to his belt line. I could also clearly see his nipples. They became deliciously erect as the light breeze on the playing field toyed with them, as if the air somehow duplicated what my fingers would have done had I been standing next to the young man, gently pulling at his nips with my invisible hands, pulling, then releasing, then pulling again, back and forth. The nipples became rock hard under my relentless attention. Clearly annoyed now at what was happening to him, the half-dressed player began to display the beginnings of a mild panic. “What the shit’s going on?” his expression would imply.

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Ok, time to get down to some serious business here, my devious mind would think. I wonder what he’d do if I made his pants fall off, perhaps shredding them, so he couldn’t put them back on again? Before the player knew what hit him, I had made seven or eight slits in his pants. With one single movement, and with a ripping sound loud enough for all the other players to hear, the material of his uniform pants came apart, flying off his body in all directions, a piece of cloth here, another piece there, pieces of material everywhere, just scraps of cloth lying on the ballpark grass, no longer resembling anything except the ragged remnants that they now were.

Completely embarrassed, and shocked at what was happening, the professional athlete now stood on the field wearing only his cap, belt (a few pieces of cloth of what used to be his uniform pants still remaining in the black leather loops), sliding shorts, jock and cup, stockings, and cleats.

I think I’ll allow him to keep the stocking and cleats and cap, I thought to myself. After all, I still want him to look like a ballplayer, not some kind of lunatic streaker. So, what needs to go next? Let’s see what happens when I shred his sliding shorts! And very similar to the fate of his uniform pants, the kid’s sliding shorts would fly off from his muscled body, pieces of material going north, south, east and west. Wearing only his jock and cup, I now had a virtually unobstructed view of the humiliated kid’s bare butt, the straps of the jock cupping his marble-like rear end, accentuating his butt’s perfect form, a rear end I could get lost in, a true “baseball butt,” the exact kind which almost every player possessed. What is it about players’ butts, I thought to myself. Having a firm, bubble-like butt seemed to be almost a required piece of equipment for being a successful player.

By now the crowd was hysterical with laughter as they witnessed the player’s predicament. For all that was happening to him, however, he couldn’t leave the field. His feet were being held on the green field by some invisible force. Rather than running to the dugout for cover, this force kept him glued on the turf, forcing him to be on display before his teammates, the opposing team, and the thousands of spectators in the stadium. Not to mention the television viewing audience!

Now for the final step in making the young man my total object of attention. The jockstrap had to go. Sorry, I would softly say to him as I whispered in his ear. Your jock is coming off now, ready or not. And, like a slingshot gone suddenly into action, the two straps over his butt cheeks would be cut with invisible scissors, as well as the band around his waist. My muscular, buff player was now, for all practical purposes, nude. His thick pubic bush framed a penis both noteworthy for its length and girth. It moved noticeably back and forth as the ball player adjusted his feet and body on the field. And somehow (and this really annoyed the kid), he couldn’t move his hands to cover his exposed crotch: his pubes, balls, and dangling penis were “open for inspection” by everyone in the stadium. Little kids and grandmothers, old men and young, housewives and teen girls, anyone who just happened to be at the game on that particular day, all witnessed and observed the forced disrobing which had just occurred before their very eyes. The cameras of all three networks filming the game were probably getting closeups of the kid’s private anatomy, clips that would haunt him for years to come as they were replayed over and over on the evening news: “Rookie ballplayer has uniform removed by invisible force,” the headlines would say.

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Finally, after being reduced to a ball player only a nightmare could conjure up, the panic-driven athlete suddenly had the ability to exit the field, but not before being uncontrollably forced to run all the bases, his fellow players gasping in shock (and his rival players rolling in laughter) as he rounded the bases, his penis wildly bouncing back and forth like an unleashed fire hose, his balls slapping against his muscled thighs, his bare butt muscles bouncing with each long stride he took, until, at last, he ran into the dugout. The game had come to a screeching halt with the nude “show” everyone had just witnessed. But the umpire could now be clearly heard as he yelled, “Play ball.” And that was that. I had successfully, and without detection, brought another young athlete to his knees with my superhuman powers.

But my euphoria did not last long. It was almost as if I had to begin finding another victim as soon as possible to satisfy my insatiable need to strip young athletes. But that would have to wait for another day. Whom would I chose next time? I’d have to study up on which young player would be suitable to fit my special needs.

My father began to nudge me toward the aisle. The game had ended. The real game. Our team had won by two runs, both of which had been made in the ninth inning. A truly exciting finish to an otherwise lackluster game. But I had not witnessed the victory. I had had other business to attend to. It had been a busy day for me, and I was tired.

We both left the stadium satisfied, but for alarmingly different reasons. After finding our car in the vast parking lot, we left the park to return perhaps some other day. We began the ninety-minute ride home in silence. Finally, as we drove through bumper-to-bumper traffic, he would say, “Did you enjoy the game?”

“Yes, sir,” I would reply, truly meaning it. But not for reasons I could discuss with him. I wondered how he would react if he only knew I was responsible for what happened to that poor kid who lost his uniform before God and all humanity. I drew a sigh of relief, however, when I realized all that excitement had happened in my world, not his. I was safe. My private life would not be revealed unless I myself revealed it. Case closed.

My father, pleased with my “Yes sir” answer, continued to drive through the traffic with ease. He turned on the radio to break the silence. I gazed out the open window, allowing the warm breeze to mess with my thick brown hair. The air felt good. It relieved some of the hot guilt I felt at stripping the baseball player I had selected on that particular day. But twenty-something jocks were tough, I rationalized. They could take it. A kid like that needed a little humility. I probably had made him a better player, to be quite honest. Young guys like him need a good “stripping” every now and then. And then the guilt would gradually leave me as our car headed farther and farther away from the ballpark, the scene of my latest crime.

The traffic gradually thinned as we approached the outskirts of our small city, a town really, not a city. The business district close to the ballpark had slowly changed into residential areas with lawns and driveways, these eventually morphing into fields and farms and wooded areas. And then the sign which indicated we were entering our town, a town which was light years away from naked baseball players.

My Mom had dinner just about ready as we entered the house, a father and son now getting washed up before eating, a father and son home after a day at a ball game. “It’s ready,” my Mom would say from the dining room next to the kitchen. My Dad and I sat next to each other at the table, only a foot or two apart, and yet I knew even at that young age that I would never cross over into his world, nor he into mine.

Part 2: Promotion

My boyhood preoccupation with forcing professional baseball players to get naked for my private inspections gradually subsided as I entered high school, and they almost entirely disappeared by the time I entered the frenetic world of college academics as I earned my undergraduate degree in business. The university I attended was a local one, and, while not having a football team, did have one for baseball. But the playing field was located on a remote section of the campus, an area I seldom visited. I was more concerned with completing projects, reading what seemed like endless chapters from textbooks, and passing exams.

Upon graduation and the earning of my B.S. degree, I immediately began work on my masters. Soon I could add “M.B.A.” to “B.S.” after my name. How important I was becoming! All my efforts on this second degree, however, paid off when I was hired for a job in the accounting department for a company named PROLEX, Inc. PROLEX dabbled in a number of sideline businesses, but its main focus remained on investment for corporate entities. Private investors rarely had the kind of capital necessary to play with “the big boys” at PROLEX.

My parents had both gone on to their eternal reward shortly before I had been hired for my new job. Being an only child, I had inherited everything: the house, all funds in savings and checking, CDs, and a sizeable stock portfolio. Even though I still needed to work and earn a paycheck, my recent inheritance allowed me to relax in my new position. If I succeeded, great. If I didn’t, I had a large enough nest egg to allow me ample time to find another position.

As I look back on things now, my being relaxed at my new job made me appear much more capable than I actually was. One of my co-workers had said to me early on, “You may not know what you’re doing, but you look like you know what you’re doing!”

But my efforts truly paid off, and I did, in fact, work hard at what I did. After only four years with the company, I received a message one day to see Mr. Clifford Henley, CEO and President of PROLEX. I had only seen him at company dinners and other events up to that time, certainly not on a one-to-one basis, so I was naturally a bit uneasy as to the reason for this meeting. My boyhood guilt complex was returning; “What had I done wrong?” I thought.

My meeting with Henley that Wednesday morning was brief but substantive. In essence, he told me he and my department supervisors had noted my solid work ethic, my loyalty to the company in both large and small matters, my willingness to take on added responsibilities not always covered in my contract, my youthful energy, and so on. I relaxed a bit upon hearing these accolades, but I still wanted to know why he needed to see me.

In essence, he wanted to know if I were interested in taking on an entirely new role within the larger world of PROLEX. Something which would probably take me out of my small accounting cubicle on the third floor, away from claustrophobic and windowless offices, away from brown bag lunches, away from chatty office women who seemed to populate every inch around my microscopic world in accounting.

I guess the look of sincere interest on my face encouraged Henley to continue his pitch. “I’m buying a baseball team,” he said nonchalantly, as if he had said, “I’m buying two dozen pencils.” Yes, I had heard correctly, a baseball team. “Not a professional baseball team. Just a farm team, really. But it would supply players for the pros. A kind of stable for the major leagues.” Stable. It made me think of cattle. But I had heard through various sources that the athletic world operated as a kind of meat market, players being bought and sold at auction, much like livestock were. Except what was being sold were young athletic men, guys in their early or mid twenties, prime “beef” to be sure, but in quite a different way. I suddenly went back in time to the days when I would strip these young studs right on the field, days when my “magical powers” were at their peak. But Mr. Henley’s next words brought me back to his office. Real time. Opening an oversized cardboard folder on his desk, he showed me artist’s drawings on what had been happening on a secluded parcel of land on PROLEX’s 900-acre campus. Nearing almost immediate completion was a gleaming new facility devoted to the new baseball venture: offices, gymnasium, field house, locker rooms, weight-workout rooms, media presentation auditoriums, a corporate dining room with state-of-the-art kitchen, a field house for special events, all surrounded by a sodded baseball field….regulation size….with bleachers, an automatic irrigation system, and the latest electronic scoreboard that technology had to offer. The complex was almost a world unto itself, one that I had not even realized was being constructed. But there it was, right before me, the drawings precise in every detail. Even cars in parking lots and people on sidewalks had been included in the renderings. I was impressed.

The farm team would be known as the PROLEX PANTHERS, Mr. Henley explained. Young men, primarily former college-level players, would be recruited, twenty or thirty at a time. A few prodigies from a high school here or there would be invited for tryouts, but the coaching staff (seven in all) would focus on the twenty to twenty-five year old athlete. Selling these boys to the pro leagues would be the special mission of the PANTHER franchise. Which is where I came in. I would oversee the financial security of the overall operation by communicating with the Board of Directors, a panel of nine people (five men, four women), a panel already selected and in place. Henley quietly admitted that his wife Cathy was one of the four women, a fact with which I was not entirely sure pleased or displeased him, but a reality none the same. In addition to my being liaison with the board, I would, as “Chief Director of Operations” oversee the day-to-day running of things: player contracts, plant supervision, corporate fundraising, public relations with news outlets, advertising, and finally, charitable giving. Of course, I would report directly to him, President and CEO, regarding these and all other matters. But I was the man directing the front lines. And I liked the idea of being in charge of things, especially the idea of overseeing the lives of the twenty-seven new recruits.

My head was spinning at this tall order, but, the fact that I would be connected to the world of baseball made my decision easy. Yes, I was very interested, I managed to say between Henley’s machine-gun recitation of my responsibilities. My concerns were a bit alleviated when Mr. Henley then mentioned that I would have a staff of five to assist me: a private secretary, three additonal staff members to fill in the gaps, as well as a “special assistant” who would do whatever I did not want to do or have the time to do. And when Henley scribbled on a sheet of paper what my new salary would be, the deal was sealed. I would start being “chief director” in three weeks. “Take two weeks off to relax, one week to return to reality, and then report for work,” Henley concluded. And that was the end of our “chat.”

I did not use my unexpected three-week vacation entirely for pleasure. Almost daily, I did extensive online research with keyword entries such as “farm team,” “minor league franchise,” “player contracts,” “corporate sponsors for baseball,” all done with the hope that I’d learn something valuable. But uppermost in my mind were the players, young players, players with well-developed arms and legs….and behinds, players not directly under my supervision (the coaches would do that), but players, nonetheless, under my ultimate authority. I reminded myself that one of my prime responsibilities, in fact, the first one Mr. Henley had mentioned in his long list when describing my job description, was player contracts. Each young player would need to see me personally to sign his name on the dotted line, a process which would enable me to get an up-close look at the young athlete. One by one, they would file into my office, each hoping to make a good impression, each wearing his best suit and tie.

My first day on the “chief director” job was eventful. None of the new furniture for my office had arrived. While the office itself was stunningly constructed, it was, except for a card table and two folding chairs, empty. Bookcases were bare. Walls were bare. The drapes and carpeting had not yet been installed. But then a light went on. Time to call my special assistant. I gave her an extensive list of things to oversee concerning the types of items I wanted for the room, and, after that, I didn’t give the matter a second thought. I was in charge, I reminded myself. Time to start acting like it.

In my briefcase was a thick manilla envelope containing a twenty-seven page document. As I perused the contents of each page, I quickly realized that I was reading profiles for each of the twenty-seven athletes whom the coaches had deemed worthy candidates for the PROLEX PANTHERS. Each page had a head shot photo of the player, a brief bio sketch, as well as the basic stats of each candidate: age, height, weight, scholastic achievements, last team played for, the basics. As I carefully looked at each photo before me, I returned to the far-away times when I would strip good-looking baseball players. Would any of these fine-looking specimens be potential material for on-field forced nudity? Would any of these boys need to be brought down a peg or two, I wondered? Perhaps. Perhaps. I then returned the pages in the envelope. Time to do a few other things, I thought. Tour the plant. Talk to my staff. Give an official greeting to the coaches. Write a memo to Mr. Henley concerning the landscaping problem which had been brought to my attention as I had walked across the parking lot. Problems before I had even entered the building on my first day! Welcome to the world of administration, I had thought.

About two weeks later, one of the assistant coaches stopped by my office and asked if I had a minute or two. He explained that all twenty-seven potential players had accepted the invitation to attend what the head coaches had described as a “performance combine,” an intense nine-hour day in which each athlete would be tested, drilled, inspected, and evaluated. Every inch of the player, from head to toe, would be exposed, nothing hidden, all cards on the table, so to speak. The thought of such an event piqued my interest. Asked if I wanted to attend the combine (to be held in exactly one week), I replied in the affirmative. I would set aside the entire day to be present, I explained. It was important, I further clarified, that I see “what we were getting for our money.”

After the young coach left my office, I immediately opened my laptop and begin to research terms such as “scouting combine,” “athletic invitationals, “draft prospects” and the like. I was surprised to see, in my results list, such terms as “meat market” and “auction block,” terms which graphically described the darker and humiliating sides to the entire process, the whole “buying athletes” concept which symbolized the objectification of young men climbing the ladder to athletic success. On the other hand, such terms sparked erotic notions, especially in my mind, what the process might involve on a sexual level. I had enjoyed for years the fantasy that it was pleasurable (at least for me) to see athletes, their young bodies in perfect condition, on display in ways which might cause them discomfort or embarrassment. I eagerly anticipated, therefore, the arrival of our pioneer class of the PROLEX PANTHERS. They would come by chartered bus at exactly 8:30 am next Monday. They would have eaten an early breakfast at the airport hotel, then board the bus for the one-hour and fifteen minute ride to the PROLEX campus. At precisely 9:00 am, they would be our personal property for the next nine hours. After being given a catered dinner in our corporate dining room, they would be driven, again by bus, back to the airport. In two to three weeks, the coaches would send letters of either acceptance or rejection to the candidates’ homes. Those on the “yes list” would report back to the PROLEX training facility in three weeks, August 2. The dorm rooms would be finished by then, thus enabling the coaches to begin work with these novice players the next day.

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I took a deep breath at just the thought of the chartered bus arriving for the performance combine. Twenty-seven young men in their twenties, fresh-faced lads wanting to do their best, their bodies all in peak condition. I luxuriated in the thought that I’d have a front-row seat to all that would occur during the combine. These “athletes for sale” would be on the block for inspection and evaluation, truly a fantasy for me, but a stark reality for them.

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