Monday, December 14, 2009

Dirty Words excerpt by M. Christian

In this story, Casey, the Bat from the collection Dirty Words, M. Christian displays his gift of erotica. With more than 300 stories in such anthologies as Best American Erotica, Best Gay Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Bisexual Erotica, Best Fetish Erotica, and many, many other anthologies, magazines, and Web sites, he is also the editor of 20 anthologies including the Best S/M Erotica series, The Burning Pen, Guilty Pleasures, and others. He is the author of the collections Dirty Words, Speaking Parts, The Bachelor Machine, Licks & Promises, Filthy, Love Without Gun Control, and Rude Mechanicals; and the novels Running Dry, The Very Bloody Marys, Me2, Brushes, and Painted Doll.

Dirty Words
Publisher: Lethe Press (Reprint edition January 3, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1590211243
ISBN-13: 978-1590211243


Casey, the Bat

The ballpark was a riot of sensoria. Nothing would stay fixed, would stick in the mind--there was just too much. Overload. A picture a thousand words? Try a thousand pictures, a hundred thousand pictures. Not enough words, anywhere, ever written, to describe the park that day.

Till, that is, Barrows was tagged at first. Then, just one word would suffice--a singular word that hovered, heavy and absolute ... at least in the confines of the park: Like the sweet stink of lemonade, the buttery crispness of popcorn, the meaty tang of hot dogs, the bitter mists of fresh beers hissing open on that afternoon, failure was in the air.

A scattered few, having lost the faith, bowed their heads and slipped away, as if sneaking out of church when the Vicar started reading hellfire--not wanting to see Mudville’s shame roared from the stands.

The crowd roared its disappointment as Flynn let drive a single, then Blake tore the cover off the ball and they ran down the white lines. But when the dust had settled, and everyone saw what had occurred, there was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Cataclysm! A bellowing roar from the beast of hope, a throaty call from 5,000--an echoing rumble that bounced up the hilltops and down into the dells. The sound broke, forming sounds the ear could hear, the mind comprehend, a chanting cry: “Casey! Casey! Casey! Casey!”

But then the sound died down, fading into the dying afternoon. The batter’s box lay empty, the team looked confused: Casey, where was Casey? Now that it was almost his turn at the plate--

The sound bounced and warped and turned and flew--but down it couldn’t quite reach, down it couldn’t quite go. Casey ... see Casey, he was otherwise detained. Down in the Mudville locker room, the sound couldn’t reach--but even if it had, even if it could, it was doubtful whether Casey, the Mighty Casey, would have heard those voices.

For Casey, Mighty Casey, was down there--and at bat.

Rogers was at second, his great member enflamed and hard--stroking it slow and steady in and out of Casey’s mouth; and Martin was at home, tremendous dick pumping hard, pumping fast in Casey’s so-tight ass.

Fernandez was on first, cock pulsing in Casey’s mighty fist; and Jones was at third--his own long, thin member wrapped tight in Casey’s mitt.

Casey, Mighty Casey, the pride of the Mudville nine, moaned a fright train’s dirge as if lumbering up some insane hill--a bellowing of pleasure, a bull’s roar of staining pleasure as cocks slid in and out, pistons hammering from fleshy engines, from his mouth, his ass. In accompaniment, in perfect balancing performance, two great members were also in his sweaty palms, and he stroked them--did Mighty Casey--as he was fucked from in front, and behind.

Fans, yes, they would have been stricken--shocked and ashamed--but this side of their Mighty Casey, uniform around his ankles, asshole all inflamed. But not for his activity would they be so disappointed, not for his mouth-sucking, asshole-fucking, would they be outraged. No, their curses, their anger, their fear wouldn’t be for the man-love of their Mighty Casey--for many such things were simple Saturday nights, ways of passing the country hours, something to do that was as much a pastime as sitting in the stands watching their beloved Mudville nine--but rather they would be displeased not in the activity taking place that summer day, but because Casey--yes, Mighty Casey--was doing so with the other team.

“CASEY, CASEY, CASEY --” their cheers increased, now echoing down the concrete tunnels, making a perfect music for the sucking and fucking there. “CASEY!” As dick slid down Casey’s throat, hairy balls smacking into his drool-slick chin, fat cock-head tickling the back of his throat, whispering “gag” to him, but ignored in the joy of dick-in-mouth. “CASEY” As cock hammered back and forth, in and out, to and fro in his puckered asshole, nether lips wrapped around long muscle, milking come from a so-hard member. “CASEY” as the mighty pulled, stroked, twisted, pulled, yanked, at the cock in his right hand. “CASEY” as he did the same to the other in his left, feeling it jump and throb in his hand with each motion, each action.

“CASEY” The Coach, the dear Coach, of the Mudville nine was wont to say, that a team is not just men, together, but men, together, acting as one man. Casey, the star of the team, the man to whom the other Mudville players looked up to with respect and awe, would have agreed--a team working well is one man, and that day, in that room, Casey and those men were one man: a man with a great throbbing dick; a man with a pulsing, gripping asshole; a man with lips straining around cockflesh, swallowing meat; a man with his cock in his hand; a man with his hands on many cocks. They were a squirming, fucking, sucking unit down there in the Mudville locker room that day--the coach would have been proud of their unity, their grace of movement, their passion for the game ... though he, too would have been distressed over Casey’s choice in playmates.

In and out, in and out, the machine of men worked--fluids of pleasure dropping with heavy weight to the tough concrete floor. Come and sweat, spit and other stuff slicked the floor, made it gleam as their perspiration made their tight, hard bodies gleam. A well-oiled machine, at that, a slick and salty engine of pumping and being pumped, an athletic performance of the highest caliber.


As a single mechanism they moved, they worked, they played. As a single unit they plunged, stroked, sucked, licked, and all of that, together, combined. To the pounding chorus of a stadium demanding, hammering, and cheering for their mighty hero, the gleaming Casey and his rivals churned and rocked, moved and moaned. Cocks in hand, cocks in mouth, cock in ass--fucking, getting fucked, the locker room rang with the meaty slap of flesh in, and on, flesh. To that thunderous cheer of hope and praise, Casey--the Mighty Casey--got reamed and sucked, fucked and done by the dreaded, and very hard, bats of the other team.

Then, there, with his name on all those lips and his cock in a single set, the coming came. Jets, splurts and sprays. Quakes, quivers and gushers. Geysers, splashes, and earthquakes. Sweet, sticky ejaculate erupted from a half-dozen iron dicks, cascading onto Casey’s--Mighty Casey’s--perfectly honed muscles, shaking as his own brilliant orgasm blasted fireworks, and rang loud gongs in his ears.

Coming, coming, coming, they came--jizz and sweat, salt and sweet, mixed in their valleys and creases. It leaked from firm lips, trickled from puckered assholes, dropped from between shivering fingers.


The thunder above mixed with their thunder below--a booming applause to the power of man juice, the blasting eruption of orgasm.

Sleep reached up and grabbed hold of Casey--a heavy, soft weight, promising rest, promising dreams. But something intruded, and despite his aching muscles, his draining strength, the great man pushed--ah, but gently--his playmates aside, listening with half an ear to the exhausted, meaty impacts of their tired bodies hitting the too-hard floor.


Into his garments he struggled, arms into sleeves, legs into legs. As the other team slipped, collapsed down into a Goya tableau of exhaustion, their trained muscles sprung by the rapid release of joy, the legend climbed a small, personal mountain--by climbing into his uniform.

“CASEY! CASEY!” came their prayer, their chant, their worship--a thousand feet stamping, a thousand hands clapping, a thousand Mudvillians screaming for their baseball savior, their batting messiah to appear.

Then, emerging after what seemed like three days--and certainly felt like resurrection--he came: a smile, broad and true, on his lips, a swagger in his mighty hips, a great bat resting on his shoulder, up from the darkness and into the light.

A riot before, revival after. The crowd rose in salute to Casey, Mighty Casey, stepped out onto the field. True, the bases were against them, the game looked lost, but their hope was magic, their love for Casey all. Their cheer at his arrival to the plate was the joyous noise of hope.

Casey allowed their adoration to drum around him, humbly doffing his cap in a return salute, turning to see them all and allow them to see, before raising a great hand, to bring the sound down, down, down to the softness of sounds: the subtle whispers of confidence.

Confidence, yes, because while the bases were against them and the game all but lost, Casey, Mighty Casey had stepped up to the plate.

Swinging his bat--no, gentle reader not the one just minutes before had been serviced by the other team--he glanced cool intent at the pitcher on the mound, as if daring him to throw anything his way, let alone the ball.

“Strike!” came the umpire’s call as the catcher caught the throw. The crowd was stunned, aghast, but Casey was still strong. They saw this in their hero, the legend of their town, and still they cheered him, rooted him on.

“Strike two!” was the second cry as the ball smacked into the catcher’s mitt. What is this, the fans seemed to say, what could this mean? Was Casey, their Mighty Casey, going to let them down?

Ah, but faith is a powerful thing, and their hope only wavered, but did not fall. As the pitcher spun his arm, took deadly aim, the crowd bellowed out the crack, the screaming hit, long before their great Casey swung his bat. They saw the ball go flying, they saw it sail away. They knew their hero, the Great and Noble Casey, had saved the day--and the game--again.

“Strike three!” What was this--their aghast and denial a thunderous cry--Casey had missed again. Slowly, so very slowly, they realized this for truth, that their Mighty Casey had fallen to the pitcher’s throw.

For the Mudville fans that day, the game was over--a winners joy not theirs. Slowly they walked with sorrowful steps into the chilly night, sadness anchoring them down to the harsh, cruel world. No smiles on their lips, no cheer from their throats, for Casey--their once-Mighty Casey, had let them down at the plate.

But what of their once-hero, the legend of the bat? He, you see dear reader, was no where to be found. Not in the club, not on the street, not in the bars, and not at his home.

Their Casey had gone, vanished without a trace--and his absence, with the loss of the game, weighed heavily on Mudville that day.

Sadness, though, was not completely the order of the day. For Casey, their Mighty Casey, was back in that locker room--smiling broad and wide, at bat once again: taking and delivering in asshole, mouth and hand. One game over, maybe a defeat, but another just starting--where everyone would win.

For there was--at least for the Mighty Casey--some joy in Mudville that day.
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