Excerpt for Husband Trade: The Ivory DILF at the Baseball Game by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

Husband Trade: The Ivory DILF at the Baseball Game


Gavin Rockhard

Copyright 2017


All characters depicted in sexual situations in this publication are eighteen years of age or older.


These stories are about fictional consenting adults engaging in taboo and controversial sexual acts. Nobody involved in the creation of this ebook, including authors, editors and models, support immoral or illegal acts in real life. Cover models are not intended to illustrate specific people and the content does not refer to models' actual acts, identity, history, beliefs or behavior. No characters depicted in this ebook are intended to represent real people.

Abed was at the baseball game, but not to watch the baseball, or the kids, or even the parents in the bleachers. The sexiest dads were always the team coach, Abed had learned that a long time ago.

The pattern held true today too. All four of the coaches on the field were varying degrees of hot, but Abed had one in mind. He was Ralph, mid-forties, rustic, bearded, thick-bodied and flat-bellied but not skinny, he bulged all over, like his body didn't realize how muscular he was. He was good with kids, which Abed had always thought was sexy. Judging from the callused fingers and the scuffed workboots in place of athletic shoes, he was some kind of blue-collar worker, but Abed didn't know what he actually did for a living.

The impatience was clear on Ralph's face. The third-graders were not capable of playing baseball to any significant degree. Not a single real hit had been had all night. Ralph shouted encouragement when they got close, and he futzed with the pitch-machine every few minutes, growing increasingly exasperated with it. He seemed to hold out hope that they would play some real baseball at some point, but that hope was eternally dashed.

"Okay, Jakey, run! Jakey, take your base! Jakey, we're counting that as a hit! You have to run! Jakey! Jakey! Jakey!"

"Austin! You can't sit down in the outfield, bud! Stand up!"

"Watch the game! Where is right-field, bud?"

"Throw it to second-base! Rashad! Second-base! That's not second-base! Rashad! Rashad! You have to pay attention -- Rashad, I'm sorry, I'm not yelling at you. Just... It's hard to get your attention sometimes. Please watch the game... No, don't throw the ball to me!" Ralph hung his head and took a deep breath. "Okay, Rashad. That was a good throw. But it also matters that you throw it at the right place."

"No, I've told you a million times, no smartphones in the outfield! You're supposed to be watching the game! Playing! You're supposed to be playing the game! Watch for the ball! You might have to catch it!"

"Tommy! Tommy! Tommy! Tommy! The ball, Tommy! Look at the ball! Tommy! Don't close your eyes! Tommy!"

It didn't help that it was a hot, humid night. It didn't even cool down once the sun set. Even in the darkness, the humidity was like a swollen woolen blanket that filled the air and refused to let any heat dissipate. Abed handed Ralph a bottle of water from the vending machine between innings. Ralph took a long swig from it, some of the water slipping out onto his scruffy cheeks.

"Thanks, man," Ralph said with a nod. His voice was croaky and crass, hoarse like he chain-smoked, or used to. There was a southern twinge to his voice, though Abed didn't think he was from the south -- he had a blue-collar look, so he had probably picked up the accent from his coworkers. He sighed.

"Good game, boys, you're doin' great." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "You're doin' real great."

Abed thought Ralph was sexy; the way he milled about dumpily in his ill-fitting clothes (which occasionally bared a flash of his hairy belly or well-muscled back); his uncaring swagger and focus on the game, the work-built muscles -- you could tell he didn't go to a gym, at least not regularly enough to matter, but he must have worked his muscles all day every day. The one thing that annoyed him was that Ralph's wife was there in the bleachers too. She was a shrill harridan with dark hair and thin lips. She looked drunk too, Abed could tell. She sipped from a thermos in a way that seemed more suggestive of wine than water.

Ralph was so hot, and Abed thought it was adorable how good he was with the kids. He was patient and supportive and he always remained positive even when the kids made error after error after error. He kept that wan, well-practiced smile on his face no matter what.

"Okay, Donny, that was... Remember throwing? We practiced throwing. You can't run the ball back to first, you have to throw it. Good hustle, Roth!"

It wasn't until the next inning switch that the wife went to Ralph with a look of fury on her face. She ignored her own son, and she murmured intensely with Ralph. Ralph looked hurt, his square jaw quivering. She wagged her finger at him.

Abed felt instinctively protective of Ralph. He wanted to help. But Ralph didn't say anything at all, at least not that Abed could tell. This was a one-sided argument.

"Well, fuck you, Ralph! I don't need you, and I don't need this shit!" she shouted. The kids and parents all stopped talking. Everyone looked over there as Ralph blushed. His wife was drunkenly bold though, and seemed uncaring of being the center of attention. The parents looked away, but not the kids, who were halfway on the field and halfway off it.


Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-3 show above.)