CAGED RIVALRY - Chapter 1
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Rival star rookies Nicholas Costas and Bobby Ortiz spent the last year hating each other, but after tonight's season opener, a locker-room encounter takes their rivalry off the field and into the showers.
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There’s just something about a stadium full of people cheering that makes me feel alive!
Stepping onto the field to the sound of thousands screaming my name, stomping their feet until the stadium’s metal supports groan. I wave to the crowd. They cheer even louder as my face appears on the Jumbotron. I smile widely, acting as if I hadn’t seen the cameras twisting toward me as I approached the pitcher’s mound. My deep olive skin is tanned from the summer training. My face clean-shaven—as my publicist preferred. I remove my cap and run my hands through my hair; the thick curls are already sweaty from the hot summer night. The added wetness defines them, making them curl tightly around my ears and the nape of my neck. My cap goes back on, and I take up the baseball, tossing it into the air.
Announcer 1: Annnnnnnd welcome to the first game of the season. I am your host, Bret Barker, and I’m here with my lovely assistant--
Announcer 2: Co-host, we talked about this, Bret.
They both laugh, and the crowd laughs along.
Announcer 1: But if you’re my co-host, Andy, then who’s getting my coffee?
Laughter travels around the stadium as the announcers banter. I force a chuckle. They’re funny, but I’d heard them workshop every joke earlier in the day while they were working out the sound system. I laughed the first time they made that same joke. By the fifteenth time, I could mouth every syllable coming out of the speakers and was ready to take a bat to the head. But it was all a part of the showmanship of sports.
Announcer 2: Moving on to the team, Bret, how are the Nashville Roosters looking this season? I’m seeing a lot of new faces, one in particular the crowd seems extremely excited about!
Announcer 1: Oh, you mean our new pitcher, Nicholas Costas?
The announcer pauses, expecting the crowd to go wild at the sound of my name. He is right. And my smile becomes genuine. My heart races in my chest as I take it all in.
This is what I’ve spent the last few years of my life training for. The late nights. The early mornings. The strict diets. The even stricter training regimen. It all paid off when I finally signed with my team of choice in January of this year. It was like a dream. I knew it would happen, like every other college athlete “knew” they would be signed. Looking back, everything happened so quickly. The meetings. The offer. The signing. The publicity. I blinked, and the next few years of my life were planned. My entire life changed in thirty days, and now I’m standing on the mound with forty thousand people screaming my name.
My team’s catcher walks to home plate, crouches, slaps his mitt, and signals for me to throw.
Announcer 1: And here we go. The first pitch of the season! Let’s see what this kid can do.
The baseball rolls around in my hand. I snap it twice into my glove. I reposition my body, stepping to the side. My eyes level and focus on the catcher’s glove.
My left knee lifts toward my glove, and as it falls, my entire body rocks forward, and when my foot touches the dirt, the ball rockets from my hand like a bullet, flying so quickly it crashes into the catcher’s mitt before he realizes. And the crowd goes wild. I throw four more balls; each one flies with the same deadly accuracy. After my final practice pitch, I nod to the catcher, who then signals to the umpire that our session is over.
Announcer 2: If that is any indication of what this season is going to look like, then we are shoo-ins for the World Series Championship.
Announcer 1: Don’t get ahead of yourself. Costas isn’t the only new face we have to talk about tonight.
Announcer 2: That’s right! Mikey, let’s swing that camera around and take a look at the Orlando Otters and one of their new players, Bobby Ortiz!
The large screen sitting at the back takes an aerial view of the field as it moves off me. Teammates wave and jump at the camera as it passes over them; the cameraman searches for the one face I would rather not see today. I try not to appear obvious, but I watch from the corner of my eye as I stretch and rotate my shoulder. The camera stops on the opposing team and zooms in.
Bobby Ortiz, his indifferent, “too-cool-for-school” expression fills the screen, and the crowd cheers for him. His teammates knock into him, and his full lips pull into a grimace as he gives a two-finger wave to the camera. His dark brown eyes focus on the field, ignoring the camera as it remains on him. I twist and finally see him in the dugout. He notices and steps from the railing, hiding from the camera. He settles at the end of the bench and watches me as I stretch.
Announcer 2: Now, I don’t know about you, but we are in for a treat tonight—the two highest-ranked rookies facing off in the first game of the season.
Announcer 1: And we will be seeing them a lot this season. Looking at the schedule, these two guys will be seeing each other a lot this season. Thirteen games in total! Five here. Five in Orlando. And then we have three in neutral stadiums: San Antonio, Austin, and Chicago. Not to mention the World Series. Get your tickets now; they are going hot!!! And I’d like to take a moment to thank our sponsors. Oscar Mayer…
The announcer’s voice fades as I return Ortiz’s stare. Emotions boil in my stomach. Anger. Annoyance. And something else. Something else grows as I stare at his large, round, brown eyes. His overly confident smirk sets my stomach on fire. It’s the same look he had every day during Draft League. I prayed we wouldn’t end up on the same team, and my prayers were answered. But fate was not on my side when it instead paired us on rival teams. So now I’ll be seeing him at least once a month, before the game, after the game, and during the press leading up to the game.
Ortiz strolls out of the dugout and begins to practice swinging. He is first up to bat. Even at this distance, I can see him raise his brows, taunting me, hoping to get a rise.
“This isn’t the summer league anymore,” I say, squeezing the baseball. I wasn’t going to let him win tonight. I’d imagined striking him out with three throws, each one so fast he doesn’t have time to swing the bat. I’d imagined my team crushing his with a shutout at every game and winning the World Series. And I’d imagined holding him down, spitting in his mouth, and fucking his big, fat bubble butt until he came hands-free. The last one, more often than the others.
The umpire stood over home plate, cupped his hands, and hollered, “Play ball!”
I pitch a total of 87 balls. I ice my shoulder in the fifth and seventh innings and come back in the final two. I nearly cream my pants when I strike Ortiz out the second time he comes up to bat. He gets on base on the third and fourth times he comes up to bat, even getting a home run with my reliever. When his smug grin fills the screen, I force Coach to put me in one inning earlier and pitch the final two. I would rather get run over by the team’s bus than let that smartass win the first game.
“Great game, everyone. First game is always a great representation of the season, and I have to say, I am liking what I see! Now, good news and bad news. Good news, we don’t need to see those Orlando assholes for another two weeks. So we have time to work the kinks out of some of our plays.” The team snickers at the word kink. Yes, we are a team of adult men ranging from 24 years old—me—up to 46, but we still laugh at the dumbest shit. Fart jokes are, unfortunately, a team favorite.
“What’s the bad news?” A teammate asks.
“Bad news, we are sharing the locker room tonight. The water heater for the away team busted, so we are going to be sharing the showers with the Otters.” The team boos him. “Quiet down. It’s just the showers. Their coach promised they would be in and out. So we gotta move a little quicker tonight. So hit the showers, and then pack up. We have an early-morning practice tomorrow, then another game on Wednesday. Costas, we got some reporters outside that have a few questions, so don’t change just yet.”
“You got it.” I put my hat back on, button up my uniform, and head out into the hallway. Instantly, cameras blind me with flashing lights, and reporters shout. I slip on my approved smile. Wide but not too wide. Showing teeth, but not too many. Apparently, there is an approachable and off-putting way to smile. Go figure. I need to look marketable, not deranged. As my agent said, “You’re playing baseball. You didn’t win the lottery.”
“Costas. Costas, a quick word about the game!” A male reporter shoves himself in front of another reporter’s cameras and turns me towards his crew. “How do you think your first game in the major leagues went?”
I answer his question and every question that follows from each reporter. They all ask variations of the same questions. How do I think we did? How did the team play? How do I see the season going? Do I think we have a chance at winning the World Series? Nothing is beyond the scope of preparation, and I have practiced all questions with my agent, my mother, and the mirror to a nauseating perfection. Each reporter is content with my soundbites. By the time the last reporter leaves, I’ve been answering questions for over two hours, and the janitors start emptying the trash cans.
It is almost 1 AM when I finally return to the locker room. My entire team is gone. From the tower of used towels overflowing from the laundry basket, the other team has already come and gone as well. So I undress, toss my dirty uniform into its designated bag, grab a towel, and walk to the shower area. Usually, I’d walk with a towel around my waist, but since it is empty, I didn’t have to worry. The team offers private shower areas, but using them would earn me more ridicule than just being a little modest.
While the locker room has recently been renovated, the showers are still original, looking like something from a corny 80s high school movie. Floor-to-ceiling white tile. Sixteen showerheads with small compartments beneath for toiletries. It isn’t glamorous, but the water is hot, and apparently, that’s asking a lot.
I pick the shower behind the entry and turn on the water. Steam quickly fills the space, and I step beneath the stream. It is momentarily scalding but quickly becomes soothing. Dried sweat washes over my eyes, and my hair hangs over my face. My thoughts drift back to the game. Every hit, ball, and foul is stamped into my memory, and I analyze what I can do better. Was my hip rotation off? Was my foot placement off? My grip? I know there is no way I can pitch a no-hitter, but my percentages can always be better. Thoughts drift onto the other team. What were they doing? Were there any cues on how they were planning to hit the ball?
“Ughhh.” I press my forehead into the tiled walls. The cool ceramic is an enjoyable contrast to the heat of the water. After enjoying the warmth for several moments, I step away, squeeze a dollop of body wash into my palm, and lather up, needing to be rid of the sweat and dirt that have been matting my body hair.
Thanks to my Greek heritage, a dark, curly forest of hair covers most of my body, my quads, my chest, my arms, my ass, and my cock. I trim it, but it’s still a thick pelt of fur regardless. But my Greek blood also gave me a round, firm pair of butt cheeks and a cock that was constantly at half-mast. My hands work over my lower body, between my ass cheeks and my cock. One hand stays at my dick, gently tugging, while my other hand washes my stomach and moves to my chest. I grab onto my pectoral and squeeze tightly. I grunt softly and move my hand to my nipple, flicking it. Each strike inflates my cock like a pump inflating a balloon. My thoughts return to my pitches, and I focus on one hitter. “Ortiz,” I whisper his name, and my cock thickens. I picture him standing at home plate in his jockstrap, his fat cock filling the pouch, and his round ass jiggling as he wiggles it back and forth. “Ortiz,” I moan a little louder, stroking my cock faster as I picture him.
The sudden loud noise shatters my fantasy and opens my eyes. For a moment, I think I am in my fantasy. That my eyes are still closed and I am imagining a naked Ortiz in front of me. His shorter, muscular, hairless body is on full display. I blink a few times, expecting him to vanish the next time I open my eyes, but he doesn’t. Because he’s real. Ortiz’s here. Naked. Standing in the showers. I’m shocked. Confused. His hands cover his crotch, but I can see something between his fingers. I’ve imagined his cock in my nightly jerk-offs at least a hundred times. I imagined his hefty bulge led to an even heftier cock. Something thick, uncut, with a dark curly bush similar to the hair on his head and a pair of heavy cum-filled balls. But instead of a fat, low-hanging cock, I see a chastity cage.
“Hi,” he says, and a predictable awkwardness settles. I look at his hands. And my cock unexpectedly thickens further. His eyes lower, taking notice of my erect dick. His hidden mound jumps, pulsing as if he enjoys what he is seeing. Silently, we stare at each other, neither of us confident enough to speak. From the way his face is frozen, he wasn’t expecting someone to be here.
Hesitantly, my hand returns to my cock, and I start to stroke myself while we stare. Slow and firm. I go back to massaging my pectoral and pinching my nipple. I moan. The sound makes him move. He releases his caged cock, crosses the room, and gets on his knees.
I step out of the water and bring my cock to his face. He grips my shaft and directs my dick into his mouth.
“Ughh, fuck,” I cry out as he swallows my 7 inches. Ortiz’s full lips wrap around my base, and his tongue works underneath my cock, licking and flicking. He inhales deeply and moans, loving the sweaty stench of my crotch. He pulls back and teases the extra-sensitive spot beneath the head. I grab handfuls of his hair and pull back. Ortiz growls, enjoying the pain, and dives back to the base. My toes curl, and my body tenses as his head bobs back and forth. Aggressive slurping sounds echo in the empty showers. Our moans accompany them. Ortiz grabs my balls and massages them, and then inches toward my backside, grabbing onto my firm cheeks, two fingers digging deep in search of my hole. He pauses and looks up at me, eyes seeking permission. I nod, gasping heavy breaths.
One finger pushes inside. My cock jolts inside Ortiz’s mouth. Precum coats his throat and his tongue, and Ortiz moans at the taste. “You like that, huh?” I ask, a slight tease in my voice.
Ortiz pulls from my dick and looks up, wearing his usual smug expression. He shoves a second finger in my hole, and I go to the tips of my toes. Another glob of precum drips from my cock. “You like that?” He teases, mocking my question. “I’m sucking your cock; what do you think?”
“Asshole,” I curse, taking handfuls of his hair and shoving my dick back into his mouth before he can taunt me. Ortiz grumbles; it’s an angry but playful sound, but he doesn’t fight my cock as it plunges into the back of his throat. I tighten my hold and rock my hips back and forth, fucking his mouth. His fingers move deeper inside my hole, searching until they find that button hidden inside. He presses it, and my balls draw up to my cock as if they were dunked in cold water. Ortiz works his fingers in and out of me, pressing further until his knuckles graze the outside. Each time I’m filled, my thrusts become shorter and harsher. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Ortiz pulls my dick from his mouth. “Shoot on my face,” Ortiz orders as he jerks me to completion. I hold his shoulders for stability as my body goes rigid with pleasure. He forces a third finger into my hole, and with all three, he presses on my prostate, and I explode. Thick streams of cum shoot onto his face. Ortiz opens his mouth. Cum quickly covers his tongue. He swallows it and opens his mouth for more. Ortiz’s fingers wiggle inside me, and he tightens his fist, milking both my ass and cock until my balls are dry and Ortiz’s face is painted with my heaviest load ever. When my cock stops, Ortiz presses his lips to the tip and sucks the last remaining droplets from my cock and pulls away.
Ortiz stands, wipes the cum from his lips and cheeks, and sucks his fingers clean. A steady stream of precum leaks from the tip of his caged cock. He sees me looking, and I reach.
“Do you want me to do you next?”
Ortiz rolls his eyes and already starts to pull away. “That defeats the purpose of being locked up.” He looks me up and down. “Guessing you’ve never worn one before?” I shake my head. “Figures. You seem a little too vanilla.” Ortiz leaves the shower space and walks into the locker room. I turn off the shower and rush after him.
“I’m not vanilla!” I shout. We go into the changing area, and Ortiz is already starting to dress. He snaps his jockstrap onto his lower half. His firm bubble butt jiggles as he adjusts the straps beneath it. Staring, my cock jumps again. Wish I could have gotten a taste of that. “You just blew me in the showers. Would someone who is vanilla do that?”
“Trick question. I blew you. I’m an exhibitionist. You were a participant in my kink.”
He had a point. But I wasn’t going to admit it. “I can be kinky.”
Ortiz chuckles. His amusement turns into a full-blown laugh attack, and he holds his side when it starts to hurt. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but…” He motions at me. “You just don’t give off the kinky vibe. When I look at you, I think, ‘Sex with the lights off or missionary every anniversary and Valentine’s Day.’”
His jokes are starting to annoy me. “You don’t know the first thing about me. I can be kinky.”
Ortiz stops and thinks for a moment. “Wanna prove it?”
I’ve stepped into a trap. I know I have, but it’s too late to back down. What’s the worst that he can say? “What do you have in mind?”
Ortiz digs around his bag, pulls out a small key, and unlocks his cage. His cock springs out like a jack-in-the-box and swells to a full erection. My mouth waters. Why would he lock up such a beautiful cock? “Put this on. Looks like we are about the same size.” I take it, the small black cage. It is a few inches long, about ¾ of the size of my cock when it’s soft. The ring at the base is small, but it looks big enough to fit everything in. Apparently, I stare too long, and Ortiz finally says, “Do you know how to put one on?”
“Ummmmm,” I twist it around, and the cage disconnects from the base ring. “I think so.”
Ortiz rolls his eyes again and takes back the cage. “It’s pretty simple.” He grabs onto my balls and pushes both into the base ring, one at a time. “Balls through here.” He spits on his hand and strokes my softening cock. “Lube works better, but spit works too.” He positions my cock at the entrance to the cage. “And then you just shove it inside.” He pushes, and my cock painlessly glides into the cage. He pulls the two pieces together, and I wince.
“It’s a little tight,” I say as he locks the cage together. Ortiz steps back and watches as my cock swells within its new prison. His cock bounces, and more precum drips from his tip. The urge to drop to my knees fills me, but I hold it back.
I go over to the mirrors and look at myself.
“Wow,” I say, shocked at the sight. Next to my muscular legs, the cage looks even smaller. Pair that with my heavy curly bush, my dick looks like it’s three inches long. The thought makes my cock jump. The tightness of the cage is an unexpected pleasure and an expected pain. I continue to harden until my cock fills the cage and lifts it away from my body. It is incredibly tight, but there is something enjoyable about the discomfort. I adjust the cage, and my cock throbs inside. Touching myself while caged seems intensified. The constant pressuring surrounding it, like I have a firm grasp on it. The small gaps in the cage allow my fingers to still touch my cock, but there was no way I would be stroking myself.
The door to the locker room opens and slams shut, breaking the spell cast by the chastity cage. Instantly, my hands go to my cock, desperate to hide the cage from whoever entered. “Ortiz, we need... Ortiz?” I look around, and it takes about… oh… ten seconds for me to realize.
The locker room is empty.
And he left with the key.
If I weren’t naked, I’d be chasing after him.
I rush to my locker and pull out my phone, thankful I saved everyone’s number from the summer league.
Me: Where the fuck did you go? Get your ass back here and unlock me.
He has read receipts on, and I see him typing. He types for what seems like an eternity.
Ortiz: Win the next game, and I’ll unlock you.
Me: What do you mean, next game? Our next game is in two weeks!
Ortiz: Well, then, it looks like you have time to practice. Don’t want another repeat of tonight, or you’re never going to get unlocked. Enjoy the cage. ;)
Me: Ortiz, it’s not funny!
Me: Ortiz, get back here, or I’m going to kill you!”
He reads every message but doesn’t respond, no matter how many times I threaten him. After I send a dozen unanswered messages, I stop. I’m acting crazy. I look at the cage, my cock is softening, and the cage is beginning to loosen. The tightness is still there, but faint, like a buzzing in the background of my mind. I only notice if I think about it.
“You can do this. It’s only two weeks. You haven’t jerked off for longer periods of time,” I tell myself as I dress, gather my belongings, and leave the locker room. “People wear these things for a lot longer than two weeks. How hard could it be?”
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