Don’t Screw With the Wing. Get Huddle for Free.

e5saNlBnIYKVCMfVcKj9wTJQpbYU2w4EUYByW8KGl04The new school year has dawned, and to celebrate everyone’s return to wholesome academia, Huddle: Sex With Sporty Queers is available as a free download at godeeperpress.com until Monday, September 16. Our party doesn’t stop there, however. Hell, we’re practically daring you to download Huddle with what follows: a teaser from Tamsin Flower’s “Lucky Mascot,” which, of course, is in the anthology, and you’re going to love it—the story, the collection, the whole shebang. I mean, how could you not? It’s free.

So, here’s what you missed from “Lucky Mascot,” up to this point: Our good narrator, Jed Marshall, has spotted a shadowy figure drifting its way across the baseball field at St. Ignacious and dipping into the locker rooms. Curious, of course, Jed follows, wondering who’s up so late, especially since St. I’s baseball team has a huge game against their biggest rivals the next day. Enter Jed. Enter Dick. Enter a scorching blowjob that may inspire your weekend activities.

Enjoy.

***

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“Who’s that?” It was the sharp response of someone who didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Jed Marshall,” I said, tentatively pushing open the door to the locker room and leaning against the jamb.

On one of the benches inside, with his back resting against a row of lockers, sat a picture-perfect jock, with a blond brush cut and wide-set blue eyes. Square jaw, wide neck, broad shoulders. He also had the biggest boner I’d ever seen pushing out against his sweat pants. I felt a kick in my own pants and lost a breath.

“Hey, I know you,” he said, looking me up and down with an expression more predatory than friendly.

I shrugged. I didn’t recognize him.

“You’re that kid, aren’t you? Used to come to all the matches and is in all the team pictures—Dean Marshall’s kid?”

I nodded. I could never play anonymous. The hall was lined with Founders’ Team photos going back years and, as the lucky mascot, I was in every single one of them in my miniature team uniform.

“The team lucky mascot,” he said, cracking a wide smile. He didn’t seem the least embarrassed or concerned about the bulge in his pants.

“I can’t deny it.”

He held out his hand for me to shake, which I did. He had an incredibly strong grip.

“Dick Gunnison.”

I sat down on the bench opposite him.

“You in the game tomorrow?” I said.

He nodded. “Pitcher.”

I whistled. That was some pressure. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”

“Can’t sleep.” He glanced down at his groin.

“It’s pretty impressive,” I said, and I meant it. What I wouldn’t have given to get my mouth around his piece. “Why don’t you just…?”

“Jack off?”

I nodded enviously.

Gunnison held up the hand I’d shaken a moment before and looked at it with an expression of awed wonder. “Can’t do it, man. It’s my lucky pitching hand.”

“It’s not gonna break off from just beating your meat,” I said.

He laughed and massaged his knuckles with his other hand. “Listen, I jack off every night to get to sleep. But whenever I jack off the night before a game, the arm spectacularly fails at the critical moment. Like last year, when we played the Bishops. I needed a curveball to see off their star in the final innings. My arm goes soft, and I throw a meatball. I can’t do it again. I gotta do great tomorrow. There are scouts in town.”

Our little Founders’ Weekend match didn’t often attract scouts from any of the major league teams. They’d only come all the way out here if they’d heard there was someone worth seeing. And if they were in town, chances were, as pitcher, Gunnison would be in their crosshairs. So he was right. He couldn’t afford to fuck up.

“But you gotta sleep. You can’t play if you haven’t slept,” I said.

He put his head in his hands. “I’m so fucking tired,” he said. “But I can’t screw with the wing.”

It was too obvious to come in a blinding flash. I didn’t really give it any thought at all. I simply knelt down in front of him and rested my hands on the waistband of his pants. I glanced up to check he was okay with this. You never know with some jocks: Touch ‘em and it can be like you’ve shocked them with a Taser. But Dick Gunnison was fine with it. The tension had gone out of his eyes, and he shifted his hips forward on the seat so he could lean back.

I slid his sweatpants down his thighs, gently disentangling his cock from the elastic waistband. He wasn’t wearing any shorts underneath, and his giant namesake swung up into my face like it was spring-loaded.

***

Thanks for supporting Go Deeper Press. If you’d like to browse our erotic, sex-positive e-books for brain and brawn, you can find our website here.

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