Masturbation on Location - Baseball Bat

Baseball Bat

                The last time I did the naughty with a baseball bat, it was in the equipment room at my college and I can honestly say that the equipment guy, with whom I had seduced into loaning me school equipment, had certainly gotten past third base.  Back then, I hadn’t been schooled enough to know the ins and outs of screwing a Louisville Slugger and had done this weird sorta dance as I attempted to impale myself, rather than slide it into home.  Of course eventually I managed, and then the equipment guy got himself a rather spectacular blowjob while I hit a home run.

                Is that enough baseball puns?  I certainly hope so.  I know only a little about the game and I think I’ve pretty much exhausted my knowledge without resorting to the internet.  Can we move on now?

                Last time I wasn’t fiscally stable enough to afford a baseball bat.  This time I was too much of a cheapskate.  There was no way I was paying thirty bucks for something that I’d probably only use once, would never fit into my toy box, and wasn’t much use to a twenty-something nympho humiliation pain slut beyond the obvious.  Okay, sure. I could have bought it for Rachel.  But something in my mind just thought that plainly wrong.  Here honey.  Here is a new toy.  Don’t mind the strange scent or the streaks on it.  Mommy played with it first. 

                See what I mean?

                Since the other part of the day’s requirement specified a location, it wasn’t like I could go back to my alma mater and make another deal with whatever equipment guy was there.  Besides, I’ve heard stories that there is a minor legend in the kinesiology department about some redheaded girl fucking every vaguely dildo shaped piece of sports equipment and screwing the equipment clerk too boot, and I’d hate to have to live up to that slightly inflated expectation. 

                So I struck out for a sports store.  Perfect combination of supplies and location, and since Kari, who had set these assignments for both Sarah and I, had said “baseball bat – in a public restroom” I needed a place where I could find both.

                I won’t tell you what store, or where, because that would be cheating.  Suffice it to say they had a large selection and once again I was presented with too many options.  Do I go metal?  Wood?  All of them were roughly the same shape, and since the last time I had used a baseball bat on myself, this time I decided to go all modern and try something metallic.  I plucked one that had the word “assault” emblazoned across the business end and then made my way through the store toward the restrooms.  Since it was pretty early in the morning there weren’t many people there and while a number of employees eyed me, no one really paid me any attention.  I looked confident, positive, and since I was wearing shorts, a tee shirt, and some flip flops, it wasn’t like I was a shoplifting risk. 

                I DID have to sneak into the women’s restroom though.  Generally stores don’t like it when you take merchandise in with you.  The bathroom was empty and I went straight to the handicap stall, the extra-large one in the back, and leaned the bat against the wall while I got myself ready to play ball.  First, I stripped.  And when I say I stripped, I mean everything.  I know – there was no reason to take off my shirt, but I wanted too. I was horny. I was wet. I wanted to FUCK.  There is a mental component to these things and frankly there are times that you just want to be naked.  I was bucking at the bit so to speak and tired of sitting on the bench.

                Naked and willing, wearing only my flip flops, with my shorts and shirt bundled up and shoved into the metal rail meant to help handicapped people up and out of their wheelchair, I fished a condom out of my shorts pocket and tore it open.  Flipping the handle of the bat up, I quickly applied the prophylactic over the end of the bat.  It fit easily thanks to the narrow width and then I sat down on the toilet with my legs stretched out, the large end of the bat on the floor, and gently but thoroughly, worked the thinner end of the bat into my hole.

                I’ve had any number of strange objects inside me and frankly, the Louisville Slugger wasn’t anything special.  It might be able to knock a ball out of the park, but at least from the handle end, it wasn’t exactly a phenomenal dildo.  But I don’t blame Louisville Slugger.  Not in the least.  They make baseball bats.  Not dildos.  So getting a mediocre review from me is like getting a baseball player to review a new football. 

                I worked the handle in and out and despite having fucked more ergonomic items before, the handle still felt very nice.  The rounded end rubbed me in the right spots and after four or five minutes of concerted screwing I put my thumb against my clit, rubbed a little bit, and slid into home base with a sigh.  Fluids had streamed down the bat, way past the condom, and left pretty little streaks along the shaft.  I didn’t exactly care.  Instead I tugged the bat out, flipped it around, and put a second condom on the thing, this time stretching it out over the massive, business end of the bat. 

                Last time I had tried to do this standing and learned something very important.  Trying to screw yourself with the business end of a baseball bat while standing up is very difficult.  First of all, just getting it in, especially if you are by yourself, is difficult.  You can actually stand up and do the thrusting if you want, but still – most women prefer a horizontal position for baseball bat sex.  So I laid down.  Yes, I was in total view of anyone coming into the bathroom, but it wasn’t like I had a choice.  If I was going to do this, it needed to be done.  I at least was smart about it and put my head down at the door end, so that even if someone did see me, they would only get a glimpse of my face, shoulders, breasts, and a bit of my ribcage.  But still, it was a risk.

                The floor was fucking cold, but I ignored it.  I had bigger fish to fry and I’m into discomfort.  The knowledge that I could get caught any second, along with the thick end of the bat, my soaked and very open slit, all worked in my favor and slowly I began pushing the bat into myself, groaning lightly as my sex was stretched wide.  Don’t get me wrong. I’m used to big things.  My Core Driller dildo is three inches wide at the base and a relatively decent match for the width of a baseball bat.  But it’s tapered.  A bat is not.  And yes, I’ve screwed soda bottles and wine bottles and beer bottles, but usually I do it from the narrow end, not the bottom. So you can understand why I took it slow and gentle. 

                When I got about four inches in I began twisting it, which felt incredible, and with each thrust I added a bit of a half-turn, the word “assault,” emblazoned across the side, mostly buried in soft, pink flesh.  I pushed deeper, filling myself and getting another two or three inches in.  It felt amazing and a few choice thoughts went through my head, like “I think I MAY buy this bat.” 

                Minutes ticked by and I continued my little masturbation session, gently working myself higher and faster up the hill toward the final inning.  The bases were loaded and I was at the plate, tight and ready to slam the ball into the stands.  My chest was heaving, one hand on the bat, the other rubbing my clit frantically.  The pitcher wound up, eyes narrowed, and threw the ball.  I saw it coming.  But it was a curve ball.

                The door opened and I snapped my head to the side to see tennis shoes, blue jeans, a red polo shirt, blue eyes, and blond hair.  She stood there, not moving, the door to the bathroom wide open, frozen in the spot.  For what seemed like an hour we stayed like that.  Then my brain got the better of me and I rolled to my left, toward the wall, yanked the baseball bat out of my pussy with a squelching groan, and stood up.

                I heard the door shut and I quickly put the bat against the wall and scrambled for my clothes.  I figured I had about thirty or forty seconds before I was explaining myself to a manager.  I had one foot in my shorts when I heard a small voice say, “are you okay? What were you doing?”

                The voice I heard had a peculiar tone to it and I stopped, one foot literally half in my shorts.  First, the girl was young, barely into her twenties, if that, and she sounded worried, or curious, or both.  I bit my lip. 

                “I’m fine, thank you.  I was – uh – just checking on something.”  I finished sticking my foot through the shorts.

                “Naked? On the floor?” She asked.

                You should have seen my expression.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

                There was a long pause.  “Were you masturbating?”

                Her tone was accusatory.  It was awestruck.  I paused, my shorts now half way up my legs.  I made a snap decision.

                “Yes.  Caught me with my panties down.  Sorry. I’ll leave.  I don’t want any trouble,” I said simply.

                The girl was silent.  I finished drawing my shorts up.  So much for baseball bat fucking.  I was supposed to ORGASM and I hadn’t even finished.  Damn.  I grabbed my shirt and began to pull it down over my head.

                “You don’t have to leave,” I heard whispered.

                I took two steps to the door of the stall and opened it.  It didn’t even matter that my shirt wasn’t covering my breasts.  I opened it and looked at the girl.

                My initial impressions were right on.  She was about nineteen, cute rather than pretty, with a very round face, big blue eyes, and full lips.  Her breasts were small and she was very thin, too thin actually, which made her look slightly childlike.  Her eye went to my breasts and to my shock she actually lifted a hand as if she were going to touch me.  I didn’t move.  But then, right before her fingertips grazed my right nipple, the pierced one with the padlock hanging from it, she blushed crimson and took a step back.

                I caught her hand and pulled her into the stall. 

                Her resistance was only marginal and when the door shut I took both her hands and put them on my breasts.  She let out a soft moan, her fingers tightening, squeezing me.  I yanked my shirt from around my neck and tossed it away.  Then I smiled, reached out, put my hand on the back of her neck, and pulled her face to my chest.  In seconds she was licking and sucking the tips of my breasts and I was giving her little encouraging gasps.  This went on for a few minutes and then she slipped downward, her fingers sliding along my sides, working their way into my shorts. 

                I’m not sure when she saw the baseball bat and worked out what I was doing, but it happened and I heard her gasp. 

                “Were you using THIS?” she asked incredulously. 

                Well, it was rather obvious.  There were condoms still stuck to both ends.  I nodded guiltily, still reeling from the feeling of her fingers gliding along my petals. 

                “What does it feel like?” she asked.

                “Full,” I replied.  “But amazing.”

                She blinked.  “Could I – would you – please – can.”  The words made no sense, but I understood.  I looked at her.  

“You’re pretty tiny.  Are you sure?” I asked.

Her response was her hands flying to the snap of her jeans and in seconds she was kicking off her shoes and tugging her pants down.  I glanced toward the door of the bathroom.

“We won’t be interrupted?” I asked.

                “I’m the only girl on staff this morning,” she said simply, pushing down a pair of white panties.  Then she peeled off her shirt.  She wasn’t much to look at actually.  Her breasts were tiny, barely pubescent bumps.  Her hips were bony and not wide, and you could see her ribs.  She definitely needed to eat more.  I told her so.

                “You are so thin. You should eat more.”

                Her eyes widened but she didn’t say anything thing.

                “Are you a virgin?” I asked.

                She shook her head.  Okay.  Good.

                “Have you ever had – um – an inanimate object in your pussy?” I asked.

                She gave me a guilty smile.

                “Okay, right.  Well, lay down on your clothes and I’ll help you.”

                She did, opening her legs.  She was trimmed, with a tiny triangle above the bare petals of her sex.  Her legs were long and opening them seemed uniquely erotic.  I stripped off the condom on the handle of the bat, and since I had one more in my shorts pocket, got out a fresh condom and began applying it.  The girl’s eyes were closed and she didn’t open them until I put the rounded end of the handle against her slit.  Moisture glistened on her petals.

                “No!” she protested, half sitting up.  “The other end!”

                I blinked. There was no way a girl her size could take the business end.  She wasn’t BIG enough.   Now don’t get me wrong.  With maybe a few months of practice and a more tapered end, sure I could get something this thick in her.  But a baseball bat is blunt, and three inches wide at the TIP.  You don’t just shove something like that in someone.  Not even me.  Not without hurting them.

                I bent down. “Look – what’s your name?” I asked.

                “Becky,” she said softly.

                “Becky.  Fucking a baseball bat isn’t exactly the easiest thing to do, especially if you aren’t used to it.  Trust me, I know.  This will hurt if you if we try and you haven’t been doing stuff like this before.”

                “Can’t you, you know, just go slow?” Becky pleaded.

                God save me from amateurs.  I know that the next generation is a little more liberal when it comes to sex, but come on – this is ridiculous!

                I sighed and flipped the bat around.  This was dumb.  No condom, inexperienced girl, huge phallus.  I rubbed the edge of the blunt end of the bat against her petals, watching Becky’s juices coat the tip.  I’ll grant her this – at least she was turned on.  I spun the bat, slowly but surely opening her up.  Despite her boniness and her tiny breasts, seeing her legs spread wide, knees turned outward, was actually a turn on and I was starting to envy the bat.  I knelt down to get a better angle, not to mention to get close enough to touch, and I reached out with my left hand and gently put my thumb on her clit.  She stiffened with a gasp and arched her hips and a portion of the bat actually slipped into her. 

                But I had been right.  She wasn’t used to taking something three inches thick and as I tried to work the rest of the bat into her sex, she began grimacing, the pain of having her sex opened that wide starting to make its mark. I know exactly what she was feeling.  I’ve been in that position.  It takes years to get comfortable to screw items that large, and while physically possible, you have to work yourself up to it.  She hadn’t.  And I told her so.

                Evidently trying to have a baseball bat shoved up your pussy is sufficient argument because she nodded, looked disappointed, and asked me for the handle end.  This I could do.  I’d left the condom on the handle, flipped the bat around, and slid it into her with little to no resistance.  She let out a wild moan and I knew I had her.  She didn’t last five minutes of me working the bat through her sex, my thumb on her clit making circles.  She let out a cry that alarmed me, since I thought it loud enough to draw attention, but no one came into the bathroom.

                Finally she propped herself up on her stick like elbows, her knobby knees still splayed wide, her innocent face flushed.  The bat stuck out from between her legs and she twisted, reaching down with one hand to gently tug it free.  She handed the bat back up to me and slowly climbed to her feet.  She was wobbly and had to put a hand on the stall wall in order to keep from falling.  Her chest was heaving but it seemed like she wasn’t getting enough air.

                “Are you okay?” I asked worriedly.

                She nodded. “Yeah.  Just – a little breathless.”  She bent down to her fallen pants which were lying in a heap nearby and extracted an inhaler – the kind that gives medication to asthmatics.  Geeze.  Or should I say wheeze?  

                Sorry.  That was not nice. 

                She took a deep breath and then smiled.  “I’m fine.”

                For a moment we just stood there.  I was fully dressed.  She was naked.  Then she just picked up her clothes and dressed.  Not a word.  It took less than thirty seconds.  Then she was opening the stall door.  She paused for half a second, looked back at me and smiled.  She ran her fingers through her hair, then walked out, leaving me alone.

                I sat down just a little stunned and looked at the bat.  I stripped off the condom on the handle and tossed it in the corner of the stall.  I looked at the business end of the bat, still coated with her cream, and tentatively, I stuck out my tongue and tasted her.  A flood of sensation hit me and I couldn’t help it.  I brought the bat down between my legs.  The hell with condoms.  I slipped the metal “assault” labeled bat into my swollen and incredibly wet pussy, sliding down the wall steadily and slowly until I was lying flat.  I twisted the bat with one hand, wishing Becky had stayed to help.

                But I came, the image of her fresh in my mind, all long legs and long arms and white skin and then sucking on that inhaler.  Oh damn, I SO wanted her!  I wanted her alone with me, tied to a bed, with me working bigger and bigger dildos into her sex, making her cum each time.  I wanted her out in public with me, wearing vibroballs while I held the controller.  I wanted her tangled up in soft bliss with me, my mouth on her tiny breasts, then slipping downward until I could run my lips over her petals. And with that I exploded, wetly, with a soft cry, the business end of that baseball bat shoved a good six or seven inches deep.

                Home run.

                When I emerged from the stall I went looking for her.  Hell, I even had to ask where she was.  Finally I found her in women’s sports clothing, restocking a rack.  Her eyes widened when I approached and she blushed crimson all the way down her neck.  I loved it.  I handed her the bat.

                “Do you play baseball?” I asked her with a wicked grin.

                Her eyes widened. “Sometimes.”

                “I’d love to play with you sometime,” I said softly.  “Can I have your number?”

                I could see the wheels turning.  But then she nodded and said…

                Wait.  I am NOT giving you the number.

                I know baseball is supposed to be a team sport, but sometimes – well – sometimes some games are better played with just two.

                Safe.