One of the PROLEX Panthers' hunky new players finds himself in serious debt to a casino and must pay for it one way or another in second part of the series.


Baseball Games - Chapter 2: Payment Due - Page 1
by Luther5
Art by Amalaric
Series: Baseball Games

Ty Reynolds tried to remember how it had all begun.  Then it became clear.  It was that hot August day when he and three teammates had decided to drive the twenty or so miles to the new casino which had recently opened in the next town over.  Yes, it had definitely begun with the casino. The four baseball players, all rookie players for the PROLEX Panthers, dressed almost identically in jeans and t-shirts, had walked across the scorching asphalt of the parking lot into the glistening new gaming complex.  As they entered the main entrance, they immediately felt the blast of ice-cold air hit their bodies. The a/c must be set on 50 degrees, Ty thought to himself.  He immediately felt the effects of the arctic indoor air as it hit his chest.  Cold air always made his nipples hard and erect, so much so that it was embarrassing.  They poked out obscenely through the thin material of his t-shirt.  Even the other guys had noticed. "Hey, Ty, your titties look happy to see me!" one of them had said, noticing two fleshy points tenting Ty's tight t-shirt. "You want to suck on them, you faggot!" Ty retorted without losing a beat. "Maybe later," his friend had replied, laughing. And with his nipples on full display, Ty and his buddies entered the casino, ready for action.

At first they observed the almost endless rows of slots.  The machines seemed to inhabit almost every nook and cranny of the place.  They witnessed patrons of all shapes and sizes and ages, some with drinks and lighted cigarettes in one hand, their free hand feeding the voracious one-armed bandits with their nickels and dimes and quarters.  They all somehow believed that the next pull on the lever would be the big one, sending them immediately into celebratory bliss.  Or perhaps not. More quarters.  More dimes.  More hopes dashed until the next trip to the casino.  Hope always seemed to spring eternal at casinos. Ty quickly found out, however, that the slot machines were not the intended focus of his teammates.  No sir.  None of this nickel and dime stuff for them.  It was Texas hold'em poker and black jack where the real money resided.  Both games had been taught to one of the guys by an addicted gambling uncle.  And soon Ty was learning the tricks of the trade, especially in playing black jack.  In fact, Ty was becoming so proficient at it that, only a week or two later, he exited the casino with nine, freshly-minted $100 bills in his wallet. Black jack.  That's were the action was.  So much so that, in the weeks ahead, Ty began to visit the casino on his own, without his buddies, taking every chance he could he try his luck at the black jack tables.  He won a few.  Lost a few.  But the thought of those nine $100 dollar bills seemed embedded in his brain.  Next time will be it, Ty thought.  I'm getting closer and closer to winning "the big one."  And then I'll be set.  I'll be one of the wealthiest rookie second base men in PROLEX Panther history!


Ty's visits to the casino, in the weeks and months ahead, became so frequent, in fact, that the cocktail hostesses began to take notice.  The cute, boyish muscle kid, his blond hair closely shorn into a kind of buzz cut, attracted their attention.  They also noticed Ty's well endowed muscle butt, the strong legs on full display through his tight jeans, and yes, his nipples, their pointed tips clearly visible beneath his t-shirt.  They noticed everything about him.  His smile when he won.  His clenched fists and frown when he lost.  And they noticed the increasing amounts of money he spent at the black jack tables.  As the days and weeks went by, they also learned more and more about their loyal, young and oh-so-good looking patron.  His age.  His interests in cars and computers.  His rookie status with the Panthers.  Even his salary.  Ty was an open book where pretty girls were concerned.  But the girls were not the only ones interested in the second base man. Little to Ty's knowledge, a fifty-something year old man named Mel Conti was taking a growing interest in him as well.  Mel just happened to be the manager/owner of the casino.  And the legions of cocktail waitresses who worked for him were regularly sharing with him, at his request, each and every bit of information they gathered about this new kid named Ty Reynolds. Mel also watched the tapes of the ubiquitous surveillance cameras which inhabited his casino, especially the ones by the black jack tables.  The kid looked delicious in his tight jeans and t-shirt.  Boyish yet in a manly way.  Yes, a boy-man, to be sure.  And Mel specialized in these kinds of males throughout his long career in seducing straight boys.  Ty Reynolds would definitely be his next project.

And then the day came, the day Mel Conti decided to initialize the trap he wanted to set for the sandy haired, muscular baseball player.  A drink, spilled "accidentally on purpose" would set the plan in motion. Mel apologized profusely for soaking the kid's t-shirt with his drink.  The wet cloth, combined with the a/c, made Ty's nipples even more pronounced as the cool liquid coated his chest.  Mel instantly led Ty into one of the casino's gift shops, giving him his choice of t-shirts.  Ty chose one of the black shirts, mainly because the casino's logo on the front of the shirt was quite small, almost unnoticeable; he didn't wish to be a walking billboard advertising gambling joints, so the shirt with the small logo design would suffice until he got home. In addition to the shirt, Mel offered Ty a special comp to the most expensive of the casino's three restaurants, "The Embers."  Ty explained that the dinner comp was not necessary, but Mel insisted. "No, no.  This was my fault.  You be my guest tonight.  Dinner's on the house." Ty accepted the gift graciously, shook hands with the apologetic owner, and made his way back to the black jack tables.

Later that evening, Mel Conti walked slowly by "The Embers," hoping to catch sight of his newly-found baseball boy.  And, sure enough, he immediately spotted Ty at one of the corner tables, intently reading one of the menus. Mel walked over to the table, standing there quietly until Ty looked up. "I see you found our 5-star eatery.  May I join you for a few minutes?" "Be my guest," Ty responded. "No, you're my guest," the casino owner cleverly answered. The waiter saw Mr. Conti and asked if he would like something from the bar, which he did.  Ty also ordered his drink.  Soon, both men, with drinks in hand, were having a relaxed conversation, Ty delighting in his chance meeting with Mel Conti, and Mel Conti secretly luxuriating in his growing acquaintance with the kid seated next to him. The chase was on.

The weeks and months to follow more or less blended themselves into Ty's memory.  He wasn't doing very well at the black jack tables.  In fact, his losses far outran his winnings, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Mel Conti,  The dealers at all the black jack tables had been asked to report to him whenever Ty entered their areas, each dealer loyally reporting to their boss, as requested. Whenever Ty lost a particularly large amount of money, Mel was immediately notified of it through a secret signal button located below the table, a button immediately in front of the dealer but completely out of sight by the players. In response to one of these signals, Mel immediately appeared, said hello to Ty, and, after finding out about Ty's loss, asked to see him out in the corridor.  It was there that he handed Ty the first of many personal notes, signed with his name on casino letterhead, a small box near the bottom of the sheet filled in with a dollar amount, in the case of the first note, for $1000 dollars. Ty was stunned as he received the note from Mr. Conti, not fully comprehending what it really meant. "Is this for me?"  Ty had said, much as a small boy might say to Santa Claus, "Is this new bicycle really mine?" Mel simply explained that it was his way of allowing a novice gambler like Ty to enjoy himself, with the hopes that he'd become a loyal customer.  And when Ty made it to the major leagues, he wanted him to return and spend some really "big bucks" at the place.  Ty smiled at this statement, thinking to himself, "Yeah, when I make it to the majors.  Then I'll really test my luck with the old black jack tables." And so it went.  Ty Reynolds, Mel Conti, and the notes on casino letterhead.  The amounts, however, began to increase, from $1000 to $3500 to $7500.  Always below the $10,000 dollar mark, but close to it. This routine was fast becoming so frequent that Ty began to regard Mel Conti not just as a friend, but his personal banker as well, his guardian angel, his protector, the wealthy father he had never had. All was well, well, that is, until that fateful Thursday evening.

Ty was having one of his usual dinners at "The Embers" when he noticed Mr. Conti enter the restaurant.  Mel walked over to Ty's table, but instead of sitting down and having a drink, he remained standing, not his usual behavior when meeting Ty at the table. Ty stood, asking the older man to join him, but was a bit perplexed when the offer was quickly refused. "Sorry, Ty, but I have some business to attend to.  But I do have a small request.  Could you stop by my office before you leave?  It's on the top floor.  Just take my private elevator, number MC-12.  It an express elevator, going only to the 12th floor.  Here's the code to the keypad allowing you access." Mel handed Ty a printed card containing the code. "My evening secretary's desk is visible as soon as you exit on the 12th floor.  She's on duty to midnight tonight.  See you later, ok?" "Yes, sure Mr. Conti.  I'll be there."


Later that evening, Ty Reynolds found elevator MC-12, punched in the code, and away he went, upward and upward until it automatically stopped at the 12th floor.  He exited unto a small corridor with plush green carpeting, at the end of which was a large oak desk occupied by a very attractive young woman.  She was wearing a headset, typing incredibly fast on a computer keyboard, obviously transposing a document being dictated to her through the wireless head gear. "Yes," she said as she noticed Ty standing before her, "May I help you?" "Yes, my name is Ty Reynolds.  I have an appointment with Mr. Conti." She immediately punched a one-digit number into an incredibly complex-looking phone system, silently speaking to whoever had answered. "Yes, Mr. Conti, right away."  She replaced the phone into its cradle, stood, and asked Ty to follow her. Waking further down the corridor, they came to a set of locked double doors.  Punching several numbers into the electronic keypad, the secretary opened the doors, waiting for Ty to follow her through them.  They were now in a waiting room of sorts, several plush chairs lining the walls of the room, brass lamps everywhere, expensive artwork on the walls, a huge aquarium on yet another wall.  The room was incredible, really.  Something right out of another world.  An expensive world. The secretary entered through the second set of doors, asking Ty to take a set.  But before he really even had a chance to get comfortable, the secretary had returned, once again asking Ty to follow her. Ty was now in the inner sanctum of Mel Conti, the room being part library, part drawing room, part lounge, and part office, the entire space populated with exquisite leather chairs, oak bookcases, a bar, two fireplaces, several doors leading to additional rooms, a palace, really.  At any moment he expected Henry VIII to enter through one of the doorways. "Ty, thanks for stopping in.  I realize I didn't give you much of a heads up concerning this meting.  My apologies." "No problem, Mr. Conti.  So, what's up?  What can I do for you?" Mel looked down at his uncluttered, immaculately polished desk, hands clasped together, his eyes looking at nothing in particular.  He then exited his temporary world of thought, looking directly into Ty's eyes.

"Ty, we need to discuss a few business matters, namely the way in which you would like to handle repayment for the various 'floater notes' I've been giving you over the past months.  Not that I'm in any rush here, but, business is business, you know.  Always good to discuss these things openly rather than allowing them to linger and fester." Linger and fester, Ty thought to himself.  Not good words.  Words usually associated with a disease of some kind. "Yes, Mr. Conti, I've been wondering myself where all this was headed, so I'm glad we're speaking." Mel smiled when he heard the slight quiver in Ty's voice.  The kid was scared.  A very good omen. "Well, Ty, glad to know we're on the same page.  Let's see.  My records show our casino has loaned to you a considerable amount, $197,000 to be exact." Ty knew that it was a lot of money, but when Mr. Conti gave the actual dollar amount, it seemed much, much larger. "I need to know, Ty, if you have some definite plans on how to begin repaying the loans." Shit, thought Ty.  These loans were not gifts after all.  The guy wants his money back! "Yes, well Mr. Conti, you see I'm a little short on funds at the moment.  My salary as a rookie second base man is not actually that large.  I have car payments I'm trying to take care of.  I recently bought a new laptop and printer.  And several guys owe me some money for various things but haven't yet paid me back.  So, you see, I'm in a bit of a tight place right now when it comes to cash flow." Cash flow.  Sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. Mel calmly smiled as Ty tried to explain things.  He could see the web that he had spun gradually descending over Ty's delicious athletic body.  Mel Conti, the Master Spider weaver, had done his job well. "Yes, yes, Ty.  I completely understand.  But, let's remember.  It's a man's world out here, right?  You're a talented boy.  Resourceful.  Gifted athletically, but realities, painful as they may sometimes be, have to be faced, right?" "Right, sir.  Yes.  You're absolutely right." "So, Ty, the reality here is, how can you begin to repay $197,000."

Ty reflected on what Mel Conti had just said.  How in God's name will I repay $197,000?  Not in my lifetime, that's for sure. Ty now began to wonder if the stories he had heard about mafia bosses and underworld crime syndicate bosses were true, stories which detailed how small fish much like himself suffered cruel and unusual fates at the hands of "the big boys."  Would he end up in thirty feet of concrete under a skyscraper or something?  Mel looked at Ty with feigned sympathy. “How old are you, Ty?” "Twenty-three, sir." "And your stats?  You know, weight, height, that sort of thing." "I'm six-two, 185 pounds.  Been playing ball since high school.  All through college.  And now with the Panthers." "Any girlfriends?  Fiancé?  Family?" "I had a number of girlfriends in college.  But nothing serious.  No fiancé, obviously.  But someday, I hope to get engaged and married.  Family's back home in Ohio.  Mom.  Dad.  Two kid brothers.  That's about it.  My Dad's a welder with a construction company.  Makes good money during some of the year.  But his work is off and on.  Some times he makes good salaries.  Other times not so much.  Welders have a kind of 'feast or famine" when it comes to job security." "I see," Mel responded with feigned empathy.

Mel continued. "What we need to do is to come to some sort of agreement on how you could make some big money quick.  Something which wouldn't interfere with your training with the Panthers.  Something not too time consuming.  Something low profile.  Something which pays well." "Yes, sir," Ty nodded.  About all he could think to say at this point was "Yes, sir."  A broken record again! "Ty, I think you'd agree that it would be a bad idea if I went to your family, or to your coaches with the Panthers' organization, right?" "Oh, yes sir.  I completely agree with that.  I wouldn't want my family to know about this, especially my Dad.  He'd kill me.  And the coaches, no way.  I'd probably be kicked off the team, right on the spot." "No, Ty.  We wouldn't want that to happen."  Mel smiled again as he said those words. "Ty, I'll be honest with you.  A guy like you, with your build and good looks, a healthy athletic kind of guy, especially when wearing a full baseball uniform, turns a lot of heads.  Have you ever realized that?"

Ty blushed and reddened at what he had just heard.  He knew his body was in good shape, but he felt uncomfortable talking about it. "Ah, I guess so.  I've never had trouble getting girlfriends, if that's what you mean, Mr. Conti." "Well, sort of.  I'll be more precise, Ty.  Have you ever thought that other men might also be attracted to you?  Not just girls?" Ty had a difficult time believing what he had just heard.  Other men?  What men? "Mr. Conti, I'm straight.  I've never been with a man, not in a sexual way, that is.  I'm single.  I like girls.  I like baseball.  And, unfortunately, I like casinos." "Yes, casinos.  And that's why we're having this little talk, right?" "Yes, sir.  That's right." "Ty, what would you say if I told you that you could pay off your debt to me in one evening.  Just with four hours worth of work, and that's all.  Plus make a few dollars to boot.  What would you say about that?" "I'd say I'd have to know more about what you mean by 'work,' work doing what?" "Ty, you have a magnificent body.  You're in perfect shape.  You're young.  And you're straight, all qualities which men of a certain persuasion would pay good money to see....and touch." "You mean gay men, Mr. Conti?" "Yes, precisely.  Gay men.  Especially wealthy gay men.  Men who value confidentiality, men who are discreet, men who keep secrets, yet men who would do almost anything to spend a few hours with you, with your body, with you as the focal point of an evening of entertainment.  Men who like to watch, men who like to touch." "I'm not quite sure I understand completely what you mean by 'entertainment,' Mr. Conti."

"Let me be more precise, Ty.  I run another club in addition to this casino.  It's a very exclusive club.  Thirty-four members only.  Each member pays an entrance fee of $500,000 just to become a member.  We meet every so often at one of my country homes to enjoy the benefits of membership, so to speak." "Doing what, Mr. Conti?  Sexual stuff?" "Well, yes, definitely sexual, but in a very controlled, stylized way. Nothing barbaric.  No orgies or that kind of thing." "Then what happens, Mr. Conti, at your meetings?" "All the men in my private club enjoy watching straight guys like you take off all their clothes.  Every stitch.  You simply appear at one of our meetings, introduce yourself, explain what it is you do, give your stats, that sort of thing.  You then mount a wooden platform positioned in the center of the room, and then begin to lose your clothes." "Lose my clothes?  I don't understand." "Well, I guess I did leave out a few details, Ty.  You see, the men actually bid on each piece of your clothing.  In your case, I'd require that you appear in your full baseball uniform.  Then, as each piece of your clothing is pointed out by the designated auctioneer, the bidding would begin.  For example, your jersey might be first on the list for the bidding.  Or your batting gloves.  Or your team hat.  Whatever.  When the final bid is in on whatever is being sold at the moment, the auctioneer would say, 'Going once, going twice, sold to bidder #23 for $750.'  And then bidder #23 (no members of my club uses their real names, only assigned numbers) would come forward and remove that particular item from your body as you stood facing the crowd.  You get the idea?" "You mean each item I'm wearing would have to go, even my shorts and cup and jock?" "Yes, that's the idea, Ty.  Even your shorts and cup and jock. Every piece of clothing would have to come off, until, eventually,  you'd be standing in front of us, completely nude.  And club members would certainly enjoy observing a buff, young, in-shape baseball player like yourself lose his gear, piece by piece. The men in the audience would only be inches from you as they watched your every move, as they witnessed more and more of your buff body come into view as you removed your uniform and gear, piece by piece." "I can't believe that there would be that many men around who'd pay that kind of money to see me strip." "Oh, believe me, Ty, there are, there are." "What happens when all my clothes are gone?  I just leave?  The night's over?" "Not quite, Ty.  Then the real money starts coming in, fast and furious.  Some bidders might put forth thousands to play with your nipples for three minutes. Perhaps they might want to pull on them or lick them or run ice cubes over them.  Anything that turns them on when it comes to a guy's nipples.  Others might pay even more to  play with your butt for a few seconds. Touch it. Gently knead it or perhaps give it a few good hard smacks!  Or put oil all over your body, from head to toe.  But for the final act of the evening, thousands and thousands of dollars would be bid to play with your penis, stroking it to full erection, and eventually orgasm.  That would be the final high point....quite literally....of the night.  After you ejaculated before the assembled crowd, you'd be given a standing ovation, a check from me for your performance, and a note, signed by me, that your gambling debt was paid in full."

"I don't know, Mr. Conti.  This seems really pretty strange.  I'm not at all comfortable with other men watching me undress, or allowing them to feel my body, especially my private areas." "But are you more comfortable owing me $197,000?  Losing your spot with the Panthers?  Having family and friends ask you why you're no longer playing ball?" Ty thought long and hard about Mr. Conti's last remark. "Ty, let's do this.  You think about my offer.  What it might mean for your future with the Panthers and all that.  Think about it for several days or so, and then get back in touch with me.  Remember, we're talking just four short hours of time here.  Four hours. After that, you'd be debt free. Here's my cell number.  Just give me a call when you're ready, either yes or no.  And we'll go from there, ok?" Ty nodded silently, agreeing at least to think about the offer Mr. Conti had just made. "Try to get in touch before the end of this week, Ty.  Agreed?" "Yes, sir.  I'll get in touch with you by the end of the week." "Good, Ty.  This offer's valid for only so long.  I'd have to move forward in another direction if you decide to decline my very generous proposition." "Yes, sir.  I understand." Mel Conti smiled.  But Ty did not smile.  They shook hands followed by Ty's quick exit from the office.



  1. Ron6677 - December 19, 2019, 11:36 pm

    hey amalaric, how about another chapter or 2 of baseball games after the strip show, what happens next?

  2. Amalaric - December 20, 2019, 4:37 am

    It’s Luther5’s call, my friend…I am only the lowly illustrator.

    ps- I wrote to Kronmire4 re Stepson’s Doom and he made some vague noises. Is patience a virtue? How about nagging?

  3. Ron6677 - December 24, 2019, 11:00 am

    there is nothing lowly about your illustrations, tell these guys its christmas, season for giving us more, please!

  4. Amalaric - December 25, 2019, 7:00 am

    Well, I have heard back from Kronmire4 in a big way. He is cranking out a new story based (believe it or not) on the old Hardy Boys detective/mystery novels- and it is steaming hot! I think that I will succumb to temptation and illustrate and post…

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