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The Orioles were still in contention for a wild card spot in the post-season when, finally, we got to Atlanta for the mid-September three-game series with the Braves. I knew I was unlikely to get much of a shot at being a factor in that series, and that we needed some wins – most preferably a sweep – to stay in contention.
But despite all that frustration, the main thought I had flying down to Atlanta was that at long last – after more than a month – I’d be seeing Peggy again.
She was going to be taking time off from work for the first two nights of my stay in town! Anytime I wasn’t sitting in the dugout during the series, Peggy and I would be enjoying each other’s company. Thoughts of her long, lean woman’s body seldom strayed far from my consciousness.
But not tonight.
After tonight’s game, we’d be flying into Atlanta in the wee hours. The team would be lucky to be checked into a downtown hotel and bedded down by 2:30 a.m. I would be with the others. I had no permission to leave the club until noon the next day, and we’d all report for game one at 4:30 in the afternoon.
My roomie was already asleep when I went into the hotel room’s bathroom, closed the door, and called Peggy at 3:15 a.m.
“I’m here!” I said. “Just got in.”
“Me, too,” she said. “I’m still in the car, outside the house.”
“I thought you were off on Mondays”
“I am – usually. But I offered to work because I was taking the next two nights off, like we planned.”
“It’s like I thought – they wouldn’t let me go tonight. Only after the game tomorrow.”
“It’s a night game, right?”
“Yeah. But I gotta be at the park at 4:30.”
“You don’t have any free time until after the game?”
“Well. Noon tomorrow – well, noon today, I mean -- until 4:30.”
“I could come down.”
“Our hotel isn’t very convenient to the ballpark.”
“I could come down, meet you for lunch downtown. No hotel room, but we could see each other. Or maybe use your hotel room?”
“No. I share the room, and no telling how late my roomie will want to sleep. But, lunch? That would be great.”
“Okay!” she said.
“You want to come to the game?”
“If I did come, you wouldn’t have to rent a car. I could drive us back to the hotel, after.”
“That would be great,” I said.
Peggy met me for lunch at a downtown restaurant she had chosen. As always, she looked absolutely amazing. The woman was no clothes horse, but she had dressed up for the occasion and, for me, it was a perverse treat, seeing her turned out so fashionably. Our relationship had involved a great deal of late-night nudity, and God knows Peggy never looked better than when she was Jaybird naked. But she was a real vision with her clothes on, too! Not since we’d met in church had I seen her quite so beautifully dressed. On that earlier occasion, she’d been conservatively attired for Sunday morning. This time, her outfit was colorful, clinging, and, although far from flamboyant, it was strikingly sexy.
Every man in the restaurant, and most of the women, were sneaking glances at her as she approached our table, where I had been waiting for her arrival. She didn’t give them any attention. She was accustomed to being looked at, and she damn well knew she was a knockout.
“God, Peg! I wish my buddy, Rollie Perkins, could see you! Would I love to show you off to him!”
“Maybe I’ll meet him tonight at the game,” she said.
“No, no. Rollie’s still with Gwinnett. He’s the guy you met the first time I came to the Club.”
“Don’t you have any new friends on the Orioles yet?”
“Sure. And I’d like to show you off to them, too. But Rollie is special, because he’s the one who caused me to meet you.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you all about it later.”
The Braves were out of contention and although they were well-coached and still hustled on the field, you could kind-of tell they were just playing out the string on a long, long season. We hammered them, 9-3 that first night.
I didn’t play. At least, not until the game was over.
Afterward, Paul stopped by my locker and said, “Be back here four-thirty tomorrow -- and drink lots of water.”
Peggy had called ahead, confirmed our reservation, and drove us into Atlanta’s northern suburbs to our hotel. She’d spent the afternoon in the city. Shopping, she said.
We were in a suite on the eighth floor. The drapes were open on the big picture window in our bedroom, but there were no nearby tall buildings from which anyone could see inside. If a passing hot air balloon should happen by, its passengers would get a true eyeful, because all the lights were on and Peggy and I were naked and uncovered in the king-sized bed.
I didn’t care. Let ‘em look. Hell, let ‘em take pictures.
“I never knew you were a ‘keep-the-lights-on’ kind of guy,” she said, lying back on three of our four fluffy pillows.
“That’s because having all the lights on would have seemed kind of excessive, there in your little ol’ country guest bedroom, with the whole house asleep.”
I was lying on my stomach, low on the bed between Peg’s outstretched legs. I was examining and appreciating her brazenly bald, bare-as-a-baby pussy. Only the dense-but-severely shortened blond, crew-cut landing strip just above her clitoris disturbed the smooth, tight, lightly tanned skin.
But this wasn’t one of those tight-as-a-clamshell pussies. No, the inner lips of Peggy’s vagina protruded delightfully, forming an inviting little vertical mouth, only inches from my own mouth – my mouth which was straining to kiss her there. But my eager tongue was being restrained, at least momentarily, by my adoring eyes, which voted (two-to-one) to hold back a little longer and just gaze at this inspiring sight.
“You have a gorgeous pussy!” I told her.
“You like my little trim?”
“The crewcut? I can take it or leave it. I mean – what’s not to like? But it’s not the hair, or lack of it, that I like the most. It’s – the labia minora. They’re so ... succulent.”
“Listen to him! ‘Labia minora.’ It’s Doctor Coggins, the gynecologist.”
I scooted forward, moistened my tongue, and at last allowed myself a gentle, but deep-and-wet lap over the full length of that marvelous little hairless opening.
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