1. Gay Interracial


    Date: 10/9/2016, Categories: Dark Fantasy, Author: RBBL91, Rating: 50, Source: sexstories.com

    March he arranged a scrimmage for us. "The real way to learn is game situations." His firehouse was in East Harlem, and one of the firemen there had a team as well. So early Saturday morning my father and I walked to Central Park for our game. They were already on the field. They were all black or Latino - Mr. Puglisi hadn't said anything about that. I guess there was no reason to. But he should have told us how good they were. We were champions last year, but we were completely unprepared for a team like this. They gobbled up hard liner on one bounce, and flung the ball around the infield like it was a small pebble. They laughed, and had fun, trashing each other as they played. Their second baseman was unbelievable. I'd picked up his name from the kidding: Kyle. He had skin the color of rich, fertile earth. He was a few inches taller than me, and he wore a white T-shirt that clung tightly to his muscles. He was only a bit bigger than me, but I could see from across the diamond that he was much, much harder. I think his coach was showing off. He ended the practice by hitting three liners down to third as hard as he could: Screaming shots that brought blades of grass up where they skipped. Each one was picked, and rifled over to Kyle, who turned and threw so fast, and so quickly that it seemed like a ricochet, except that the ball gained speed in his hands; it flew into the first baseman's mitt with more sound, and more speed than the original line drive to third. A handful of ...
    parents accompanied each team. We won the toss, so they batted first. My father liked to stand behind the backstop and watch, where he could study my mechanics and second guess the umpire. While I was warming up he said a few words of encouragement. A very tall, lanky black man with dreadlocks walked over and stood beside him. "Your son?" When my father told him he said, "He's got a pretty good arm." Thus encouraged, the game started. I was a little off the first batter, I was too nervous so I was holding back a bit, and a few pitches kicked up some dust, falling short. I got it on the third pitch, I got my back and legs into it and it came in low and sailed up over the plate on the outside corner with a satisfying pop in the glove. "That's it!" my father said, and I was pumped. "Woooohh!" I heard from the other bench. They were laughing, kidding around. I did the same on the next pitch, but the batter, a little kid named Luis, was quick enough to pull it between short and first for a single. The second batter was a short, stocky black kid that they called "Chops." I gave him some heat on the first pitch, busting him up and in, but the pitch turned into him and he backed off the plate and glared at me. "Hey!!" I looked over at the bench, and heard "fucker's throwing at us!" I had a bad feeling about this. I was used to supervised play, sportsmanship enforced by watchful parents, but this felt different. The next few pitches I eased off, trying to spot the ball carefully, and ...
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