The Dodgers Game

Gus & Gary hit the Dodgers game to enjoy the American pastime

The afternoon sun beat down on Dodger Stadium with unrelenting intensity, turning the stands into a kiln of concrete and plastic that seemed to trap and magnify every degree. Gus shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his Dodgers jersey—blue and white, his father's old one from college—sticking to his back with a film of sweat that made the fabric cling to his skin. It was the bottom of the fifth inning, the score tied at two-all, and the game had slowed to a crawl that felt like punishment. The pitcher stood on the mound, adjusting his gloves for what seemed like the hundredth time, while the batter stepped out of the box to practice invisible swings, the rhythm of professional baseball stretching minutes into eternities that tested Gus's patience and his ability to sit still.

He glanced sideways at his father. Gary sat beside him in seat 24, row 15, section 112, his massive forearms resting on his knees, his vintage jersey from the '88 championship pulled tight across a chest that was still thick with muscle from decades of construction work. At forty-three, he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had built his body through hard labor—six-foot-two of solid mass, his skin tanned and weathered, dark hair peppered with gray at the temples, his jaw dusted with stubble that caught the afternoon light. He caught Gus's eye and smiled, a private smile that held promises only they understood, that spoke of secrets kept and desires fulfilled.

"Bored?" Gary mouthed, barely audible over the stadium noise, the roar of forty thousand fans blending into a dull ocean sound that covered their conversation.

Gus nodded, his face flushing despite the heat, his cock already stirring in his jeans, pressing against the zipper with a familiar ache. He knew that look. He'd learned to read it over the past year, since that first morning in the kitchen when everything had changed, since their arrangement had evolved into something constant and necessary and consuming. It was a look that meant his father wanted him, meant they would find somewhere private, meant Gus would be used and filled and claimed in ways that still made his knees weak.

Gary stood, stretching his arms above his head, his shirt riding up to show a strip of tanned stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband. His hand found Gus's shoulder as he passed, squeezing once, twice, a signal that traveled straight to Gus's groin. "Bathroom," he murmured, his lips brushing his son's ear, his breath hot and smelling of the beer they'd been sharing. "Handicap stall. Near section 112. Two minutes. Don't follow too close. Walk casual."

He walked off, unhurried, a man heading to relieve himself during a boring inning, nothing more, nothing suspicious. Gus watched him go, his heart hammering against his ribs, his palms sweating inside his pockets. He counted to one hundred twenty, watching the pitcher finally throw a ball that the batter fouled off, the crowd groaning in unison. Then he stood, muttering "excuse me" to the people in his row, and followed.

The concourse was packed with fans seeking relief from the sun—lines at the concession stands snaking around corners, children crying, the smell of hot dogs and beer and sunscreen thick in the air. Gus walked past the regular restrooms, the ones with their lines stretching out the doors, and continued toward the far end where the family restrooms and handicap facilities stood. His father's head was visible above the crowd, dark and distinctive, disappearing around a corner near the first aid station.

The restroom was tucked away, a single-occupancy space with a heavy door and a wheelchair symbol. Gus approached it casually, his hands in his pockets, his cock hard and aching against his zipper, tenting his jeans in a way that he hoped his shirt covered. He knocked twice, soft, a rhythm they'd established over months of stolen moments.

The door opened immediately, Gary's hand shooting out to pull him inside with surprising speed and strength. The space was larger than a standard stall but still intimate—white tile walls, a toilet against one wall, a sink, and most importantly, a grab bar mounted horizontally on the wall opposite. Gary had already wedged his wallet against the doorjamb to keep the automatic latch from engaging, and a small "Out of Order" sign hung from the handle on the inside, a barrier against interruption.

"Quiet," Gary whispered immediately, his hand on Gus's chest, pushing him back against the wall with a force that was gentle but absolute. "These walls are thin. Sound carries. You be good, you be quiet, and Daddy will take care of you. You make noise, and I stop. And you don't want me to stop, do you?"

Gus shook his head frantically, his breath already coming short, his cock straining against his jeans. The risk of it—the public space, the thousands of people just outside, the chance of being caught, of being discovered—made everything sharper, hotter, more urgent. His father towered over him, six-foot-two of muscle and dominance, and Gus felt small and wanted and perfectly helpless.

Gary stepped back, his hands going to his own belt, his eyes never leaving his son's face. He unbuckled it slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation build, letting Gus watch. He pulled his cock free—thick and heavy, already fully erect, the head dark purple and leaking precum that glistened in the harsh fluorescent light. It was nine inches of solid flesh, veined and pulsing, the shaft ridged with thick vessels that promised power and destruction. The smell hit Gus immediately—musky and male and clean sweat, the scent of his father that made his mouth water with hunger.

"On your knees," Gary commanded softly, his voice rough with arousal, his hand stroking his own shaft slowly, presenting it to his son. "Suck your father's cock. Show me what that pretty mouth can do. Show me how much you want to be Daddy's good little cocksucker."

Gus sank to the tile without hesitation, his knees hitting the floor with a soft thud that he prayed wasn't audible outside. His hands trembled as he reached for his father's shaft, his pale fingers wrapping around the base, feeling the heat that radiated from it, the pulse of blood, the velvet skin over iron hardness that made his fingers ache with the need to please. He took the head into his mouth, his lips sealing around it with wet suction, his tongue swirling tentatively, tasting the bitter salt of precum that leaked steadily onto his taste buds.

"That's it," Gary encouraged, his hand finding Gus's hair, gripping tight, his fingers tangling in the strands and pulling slightly. "Take more. Relax your throat. Let Daddy in. Let me use that mouth the way it was meant to be used."

He began to move, his hips rolling forward, feeding his cock deeper into Gus's mouth. Gus gagged as the head hit his throat, his eyes watering immediately, thick saliva spilling from his lips and dripping onto his jersey. But he didn't pull back. He relaxed his jaw, forced himself to breathe through his nose, and let his father push deeper, his nose pressing against Gary's pelvis, his throat working around the intrusion, the muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythm that massaged the sensitive shaft.

"Fuck, yes," Gary groaned, his voice barely above a whisper, his thrusts becoming more demanding, losing the gentle rhythm in favor of raw need. "Choke on it. Choke on Daddy's dick. That's it, bitch. Take it. Take it all. Gag for me. Show me how much you can take."

He set a brutal pace, fucking Gus's face with deep, punishing strokes that made wet, obscene sounds echo through the small space. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, of suction and saliva and desperate need, filled the restroom, but the noise of the stadium—the roar of the crowd, the crack of a bat somewhere distant, the announcer's voice over the speakers—covered it, swallowed it, kept their secret safe. Gary's hand tightened in Gus's hair, holding him in place, using him like a sleeve, a hole, a thing designed for his pleasure.

Gus's hands flew to his father's thighs, his nails digging into the muscle, his whole body shaking as he was used, as his mouth was claimed and possessed and destroyed. He was drooling uncontrollably now, thick ropes of saliva spilling from the corners of his mouth, coating Gary's shaft, dripping onto his own Dodgers jersey, making the blue fabric dark and wet where it clung to his chest. The taste of his father filled his senses—musky and male and powerful, the essence of the man who owned him completely.

"Look at you," Gary panted, his thrusts becoming erratic, his body tensing, his eyes fixed on his son's face with something like madness. "Fucking look at you. My son, choking on my cock. Made for this. Made to be my bitch. You love it, don't you? You love being used like a whore. Like the cock sleeve you are. Like Daddy's personal cum dump."

Gus couldn't answer, could only take it, his throat convulsing around the intrusion, tears streaming down his face and mixing with the drool that coated his chin. But he found himself relaxing into it, accepting the use, his hands moving from Gary's thighs to grip his ass, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing to be filled completely, to be owned in this most degrading and perfect way.

Gary pulled back suddenly, his hand stroking his wet shaft furiously, the head swollen and angry and demanding. "Open wide," he commanded, his voice a growl that seemed to shake the walls. "Stick out your tongue. Show me you want it. Beg for it."

Gus obeyed, his mouth open, his tongue extended, his eyes meeting his father's with desperate adoration. "Please," he whispered, the word barely audible. "Please, Dad. Feed me. Let me taste you. Let me swallow—"

Gary erupted with a grunt that he buried in his own shoulder, his teeth sinking into his jersey to muffle the sound. Thick ropes of cum shot across Gus's tongue, filling his mouth, splattering his face, coating his lips and chin in white heat. It was copious, endless, spurt after spurt of bitter cream that Gus swallowed eagerly, his throat working, his hands gripping Gary's thighs to hold him steady through the aftershocks. He took it all, drained his father completely, his face a mess of saliva and cum and devotion.

When Gary finally finished, his cock still twitching, still leaking the last drops of essence, he pulled Gus to his feet and kissed him fiercely—tasting himself on his son's tongue, their mouths mingling, the kiss wet and messy and full of possession. Then he turned Gus around, pressing him against the wall, his hands rough on his son's hips.

"Hands on the bar," Gary growled, his voice rough with renewed hunger, his cock already hardening again against Gus's ass. "Spread your legs. Bend over. Daddy's not done with you. Not even close."

Gus obeyed, his movements jerky with arousal, his hands finding the metal grab bar and gripping it tight, his knuckles white with the effort. He spread his legs as wide as his jeans—still around his ankles—would allow, presenting himself, his pale ass exposed and vulnerable, his hole hidden between his smooth cheeks. He heard Gary spit into his hand, felt the wet fingers pressing against his entrance, circling, teasing, then pushing inside with a force that made him gasp.

"Fuck," Gary breathed, his finger working inside Gus, stretching him, preparing him for what was coming. "So tight. So perfect. I'm gonna tear this up, son. Gonna make you scream. Gonna make you mine in every way possible."

He added a second finger, scissoring them, opening Gus cruelly, making him ready for the invasion. Then he positioned himself, the head of his massive shaft—still slick with cum and saliva—pressed against Gus's entrance, hot and heavy and demanding.

"Take it," Gary whispered, his lips against Gus's ear, his breath hot and foul and perfect. "Take your father's cock. Take it like a good little bitch. Scream for me. Let me hear you break."

He pushed forward, and Gus had to bury his face in his own arm to muffle his cry. His father was big, thick, filling him completely, the stretch burning in that perfect way that meant he was being claimed, being owned, being used exactly how he needed. Gary didn't wait for him to adjust—he began to move immediately, his hips snapping forward, his thrusts deep and powerful and relentless, a piston of muscle and dominance that drove the air from Gus's lungs.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small space, wet and filthy and obscene, but the noise of the stadium covered it, kept their secret. Gary's hand came over Gus's mouth, pressing hard, his fingers smelling of his son's own arousal, his other hand gripping Gus's hip, holding him in place as he pounded into him with mechanical ferocity.

"Quiet," Gary growled, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent, his body tensing. "Take it. Take Daddy's cock. Be my good little boy. My quiet little fuck toy. My personal hole to use whenever I want, wherever I want. You're mine, Gus. Mine completely."

He shifted angle, hitting a spot inside Gus that made his vision spot, that made his knees buckle, that made him push back for more, needing the fullness, needing the destruction. Gary laughed, a low, cruel sound, and pounded harder, his hips a blur, his body convulsing with the effort of restraint.

"Going to fill you up," Gary panted, his voice breaking, his thrusts savage, animalistic. "Going to breed you right here. Right where anyone could hear. Anyone could know you're my bitch. My son and my whore. My personal cum dump."

He roared, the sound muffled by his own shoulder, and buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside Gus, flooding his guts with another load of hot, thick cum. It was endless, spurt after spurt that filled Gus completely, that leaked out around his father's shaft and ran down his thighs, marking him, claiming him, owning him in the most primal way.

Gus came simultaneously, untouched, his slender cock shooting against the wall in thick ropes that splattered the tile, his body convulsing around Gary's invading shaft, milking him for every drop, his silent scream vibrating against his father's palm.

They stayed like that for long moments, panting, sweating, Gary's weight pressing Gus into the wall, his hand still over his son's mouth, his cock still pulsing with aftershocks. Then he pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from Gus's gaping, ruined hole, watching his son shudder with the loss, with the emptiness.

"Turn around," Gary commanded softly, his voice rough with spent pleasure.

Gus turned, sinking to his knees again without being asked, his mouth opening, his tongue lapping at Gary's shaft, tasting the mixture of cum and his own ass, cleaning his father with worshipful strokes, his eyes meeting Gary's with total submission and love.

When he was finished, Gary pulled him to his feet and kissed him deeply, tasting everything, sealing the claim. "Good boy," he murmured. "My perfect little bitch. Now clean up. We have a game to finish."

They dressed in silence, restored order to their appearance, and slipped out separately. They found their seats, Gus settling beside his father, his body still full, still leaking, still owned.

The Dodgers won in the ninth, a walk-off home run. Gus cheered with the crowd, his voice hoarse, his heart full, his father's seed wet inside him, a secret warmth that only they shared.

Just another Saturday afternoon. Just another perfect day.