Daddies Brat

Leslie

Anal sex was one of those things I expected to be better on paper than in reality. Sure, it looked hot when pornstars did it, but they were professionals. They were used to it. They were acting. It probably wasn’t all that great.

And sure, it hurt just a little bit at first. That was because I was tense, waiting for the pain. Expecting it. When I relaxed and trusted Riley, the pain quickly faded, leaving only an intense pleasure that I had never experienced before. And that was with only half his cock inside me.

The moral of the story: anticipation of the thing was always worse than the thing itself. It built up in your head until the idea of it was so much worse than it could ever actually be.

It was that realization that made me think of Riley’s own fear. How he remained constantly tense on the mound, waiting for the pain.

“Get dressed,” I told him as I hopped out of bed. “In regular clothes, not sweatpants.”

“For what?” he asked.

“You’ll see. Do you have access to your baseball facilities?”Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Facilities?”

“Like, the workout room and stuff,” I replied. “And all the equipment.”

“I have the code to the workout center, yeah.”

“Perfect.” I gave him a brief kiss. “Hurry up and change!”

When he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, we got in my car and drove over to the baseball workout building. We could have walked, but I was too excited about my idea to wait. When we arrived, Riley punched the fourdigit code into the lock on the door. Inside was a room like a giant gymnasium. The left half of the room was covered in artificial turf, with baskets holding baseballs and racks full of aluminum bats. Up against one wall were a series of long nets, indicating the batting catch.

It was in that direction that I led Riley. I found a basket full of used catcher gear-a helmet with a mask guard, and lots of padding. “Put all of this on,” I said, tossing him a helmet.

He frowned at it. “I don’t want to mansplain baseball to you, but I’m a pitcher. Not a catcher. I don’t wear these pads.”

“Tonight, you’re wearing them.” I ignored him and went over to the batting cage, where an automated pitching machine was positioned. I examined the knob that controlled pitch speed. The machine could go from 25 miles per hour all the way up to 105. Perfect.

“Now what?” Riley asked as he fastened his catcher’s pads over his chest.

I pointed toward the plate at the other end of the batting cage. “Stand down there.”

When he had walked down to the plate, I turned the pitching machine on. It hummed to life, with two wheels spinning. When the ball passed between those two wheels, it would shoot forward toward the plate. I turned the knob down to 40 miles per hour and fed a ball into the slot. It shot away with a high arc, passing through the air next to Riley.

“That’s too slow,” Riley said. “The slowest pitch anyone throws at this level is around 65.”

“I’m starting this low on purpose. Now, stand on the plate.” “On the plate?” he asked.

“You heard me.”

Riley looked skeptical behind his mask, but he did as instructed. I fed another baseball into the machine. It launched toward him, a long rainbow that ended by hitting him in the chest with a dull thud.

“I see what you’re doing,” Riley suddenly said. “It’s not going to work. Getting hit in the batting cage is nothing compared to-” I fed another ball. This one hit him in the facemask.

“Ow!” he yelped.

“Don’t be a baby,” I said. “I’m turning the speed up.”

“I’m not a baby,” he said stubbornly. “I appreciate the idea, Leslie. I really do. But…”

I ignored him and kept feeding balls into the machine, this time at 50 mph. One glanced off his arm. Another hit him on the flap of armor that protected his crotch.

“Careful,” he said.

Over and over I sent baseballs shooting toward my lover. After chiding him for being a baby a few more times, he stopped complaining and readied himself for each ball, determined to prove me wrong. I cranked the speed up to 60, then 70. Then 80. Now the ball trajectory was more of a straight line than a rainbow.

And they still bounced off the armor he wore.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” I said after ten minutes of bombardment.

“You didn’t even crank them up all the way,” he said, joining me at my end of the cage.

“We’ve got to ease you into it,” I said, patting his cheek after he removed his catcher’s mask. “You can’t shove the whole cock into someone’s ass on the first try.”

He furrowed his brow at that analogy, then burst out laughing. “You’re really something,” he said as I helped him out of the rest of his pads.

“We’re going to do this every night until your next start,” I insisted. “You just need to see that getting hit isn’t as bad as thinking about getting hit.”

“I can assure you that getting hit sucks,” he replied. “But okay. I’ll come back and do this again tomorrow night.”

“Because you think it might work,” I asked, “or because you want to humor me?”

He shrugged. “Both?”

“I’ll take it.” My phone chimed in my pocket, and I pulled it out. When I saw the notification, I quickly scrambled to click on the included link.

“What is it?” Riley asked, brushing back his short-cropped blond hair.

“My test grade!” I said. “It’s been posted!”

He came around to the side of me to look. “Well? How’d you do?”

“The website won’t load! Why do I have only one bar?”

“Yeah, the signal sucks here.”

We put away the gear and hurried outside. As soon as we were in the open air, the online portal loaded. I scrolled down until I saw the result.

“Ninety-five,” I said with a sigh of relief. “I got an A!”