Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, mt/Fa, Fa/Fa, ft/ft, Teenagers, Romantic, Incest, .
Desc: Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The story of Barbara Taylor and her son Bobby. Watch as they build a new life together. Will Bobby's first love endure, or be pulled apart by the temptations and evil schemes of others? Will Barbara find a love that will fulfill all her needs? And will Bobby ever play baseball again? (3rd Place, Golden Clitorides 2006 Best Story by a New Author.)
Forty-six feet. Sometimes it didn't seem fair.
In another month, he would turn thirteen. After that, he'd be throwing 60 feet 6 inches from the pitchers mound to home plate. Then the batters might stand a chance of hitting his fastball.
A shrill voice rang out across the field: "Bend your back and follow through Bobby! That'll bring that heater back down!"
Bobby Taylor had always been big for his age. At that time most adults, on first inspection, assumed he was in high school. At 5'6", 145 pounds, he had the size for the high school junior varsity.
"And stop holding it so tight. You know you lose control if you squeeze it too tight! Let it go, let it flow!"
He looked over to the dugout to where his father was leaning out the doorway, fixing him with an intense stare and shouting instructions.
As in most Little League fields in this part of Columbia, South Carolina, it was a dugout in name only. John Taylor stood in the door width gap in the fence that gave access to a plank bench. Bobby's teammates that were not arrayed behind him in their defensive positions were standing in front of the bench, their small fingers clinging to the chain link as if that would get them closer to playing themselves.
"Coach John" was older than most of the other parent coaches in the league, in his mid fifties. A stockbroker, he specialized in supporting a frenetic set of customers - day traders and arbitrage investors. Buy and hold to his customers meant keeping a stock or maintaining a short position until the day after tomorrow. A true "type A," John liked to brag that he ate stress for breakfast.
"First strike now, first strike, makes life a lot easier out there!" he called to his son.
John applied that "type A" energy to coaching his son's Little League team as well. He believed that success was made on the margins of every transaction, in stocks and in baseball. He encouraged his players, and especially his son, to seek out every edge possible to win. It sometimes drove Bobby away from the game he loved, towards karate, cars, and guitars. Those were places where the discipline was self imposed, and the rewards could be enjoyed when, where, and how he chose.
Bobby took a deep breath, and turned to glance at the bleachers where the player's families sat.
This climactic game of the championship tournament was an "away" game to a poorer neighborhood in Columbia, and the field had only one set of bleachers for the fans of both teams to share.
It took him a moment to spot her - Barbara Taylor gave her son a subtle wave to catch his eye. It was the kind of wave where the hand is held close to the ear - fingers extended straight up, with the only movement a couple quick nervous finger curls.
Barbara was much younger than her husband. She had fallen in love with John Taylor while interning at the brokerage during the summer before her last year at the University of South Carolina. Barb was still the 5'6" 120 pound beauty today that she had been then — 13 years ago. Her soft brown eyes looking out under raven black hair conveyed an athlete's confidence, and a keen intelligence. A former 3-year high school letterman in swimming and soccer, she understood competitive sport pressures.
Sensing the added pressure her son was feeling from her husband's yelling while he pitched in the championship game, her eyes were now straining to beam strength, reassurance — and love across the dusty diamond to Bobby.
"God he's tighter than a drum out there," she breathed to the people next to her.
Barbara was bracketed in the stands by Raul Ramirez on one side, and Patty Robertson on the other, all flapping fans to ward off the Carolina summer heat.
Raul was Bobby's sensei at the dojo where he studied karate. He was also the father of one of the players on the opposing team, 12-year-old Sam Ramirez. Sam, as in Samantha, was standing on 3rd base with her hair stuffed up tightly under her baseball cap, hoping to score.
Raul was a former Marine and single dad, having lost his wife to breast cancer three years before. He owned an auto maintenance shop in this part of town, and also taught Karate on weekends.
"Yeah he could probably break through 6 two by fours instead of 3 right now!" said Raul with a chuckle.
Raul generally discouraged Bobby from "show off" stuff like breaking boards as part of his training. But occasionally he indulged his young student with a chance to impress other students at the dojo, both younger and older, with a little power display.
"Leave him alone, he's fine," said Patty fiercely. Raul and Barbara exchanged amused glances.
Red headed Patricia Louise Robertson was Bobby's closest and oldest friend. She was a little over a year older than him at 14, and a year ahead at school, but because of Bobby's size they looked the same age. Ten years ago the Robertson family had moved into the house across the cul de sac from the Taylor's, in the upscale neighborhood across town from this playing field.
They had shared baby sitters, skinned knees, teachers, friends, secrets, and confidences their entire lives. Patty had a natural instinct to protect her younger buddy from the world's injustices. When Bobby wanted to avoid doing baseball drills in the back yard with his dad, he would grab his guitar and hide out with Patty. She'd play along on her Yamaha keyboard, as they figured out how to reproduce everything from early Beatles to The Allman Brothers to Nirvana.
She too was doing her best to channel strength to Bobby across the diamond, through tightly clenched fists, teeth, and butt cheeks.
Over the weekend Bobby's Loyal Reality team had won two nail biting contests against Columbia Sporting Goods and the Elks. Now on "Championship Monday," a blustery day with rainstorms threatening, they were up against the Lions, a team that had beaten them during the regular season. Sam Ramirez had hit for the cycle in that game, using her quick bat and speed around the bases to lead her team to victory.
But that had been a game where Bobby had already used up his six innings of weekly pitching eligibility. To protect young arms against over zealous coaches or parents, Little League Baseball imposed a set number of innings a player could pitch during a seven day period.
Remembering that regular season experience, Coach John had held Bobby out of the starting role altogether in the post season tournament, having him finish off the prior two playoff games. In both those games, Bobby had struck out the side to preserve one run victories.
That scenario wasn't quite playing out again on Championship Monday. Here in the bottom of the 6th (the last inning of a regulation Little League game), in the last game of the season, the score was tied. Bobby was trying to hold on to force extra innings. Normally, that would be a foregone conclusion.
However, the pressure of the final game was turning Bobby's catcher, David Simpson, into a quivering mass of nerves. Dave's nervous state was why Sam was now standing on 3rd base.
Sam had led off the inning by dropping a bunt down in front of Dave. Though he fielded the ball in plenty of time, his excitement prevented him from setting his feet properly for the throw, which pulled the 1st baseman off the bag. Sam had made it to 2nd and then 3rd base by advancing on passed balls by the rattled Dave while Bobby was striking out the next two batters.
Typical Little League fields differ from full sized diamonds in ways that make passed balls "interesting." The base paths are 60 versus 90 feet, making a base runner's dash while the ball is loose more likely to be successful. Even more of a factor is that the backstop is usually quite close behind home plate. If the playing field is an older one, the planks that make up the backstop can be warped, or have ill fitting seams. The uneven surface can send the ball off in unexpected directions. That had happened on the two prior passed balls, allowing Sammy to scoot around the bases.
Coach John wanted to kill Dave. Well, maybe just maim him. He had invested so much of himself in being The Coach! It was causing him physical distress to think they could lose the championship now! After all their hard work! He had studied other team's tendencies like a big league scout. He'd put in extra time to work with players individually on their weaknesses. And above all, he had constantly worked with Bobby to achieve his full potential! He'd gladly paid the tuition to expensive baseball camps, off-season training programs - the works. He couldn't lose now, at the culmination of his son's Little League career!
It was so completely unacceptable; he started to see spots in front of his eyes. He blinked several times to drive them away. "Come on Bobby, Bobby, Bobby," he called.
Bobby looked into Dave for the sign. It was pretty much for show. He didn't intend to throw anything but fastballs. He had to eliminate the chance that Dave would be fooled by a breaking ball, and miss catching it. With Sammy's speed, that would mean game, and season, over.
Bobby let out a deep breath, took his windup, and let it fly. He was so pumped up; the ball crossed the plate like a rocket. Neither the batter nor the umpire showed any reaction. After a stunned moment, the umpire (another volunteer dad, though not of any player in this game) stammered out, "B-ball!"
Bobby stared in with disbelief. It had clearly been a strike, and the umpire had called a good game to that point. But he hadn't seen Bobby's full out adrenaline-fueled heater before.
In the dugout door, John Taylor thought he would explode. His face felt hot, his arms were tingling. How could the umpire take a strike away from him now? Not now!
"WHAT!?" he screamed.
The umpire gave John a warning look. The league gave umpires absolute authority on the field, including sending parents in the stands to the parking lot if they could not control themselves. There was even less tolerance for coaches setting bad examples for their players.
Seeing the look, John made a concerted effort to control himself. His body visibly shuddered as he choked back any more words escaping his mouth, while his face took on an even darker shade of red.
In Little League the base runners cannot leave the base until the ball crosses the plate on the pitch. Conversely, the distance between bases is so short that it is occasionally possible for a runner to take a lead off after the pitch, and steal the base on the catcher's throw back to the pitcher.
Even though Bobby was distracted by the umpire's bad call, he still noticed Sammy creeping down the line toward home while Dave held the ball in his stinging left hand. Not wanting to risk any mishaps, Bobby walked halfway to home plate to take the toss back from Dave, and walked back to the mound with the ball, effectively preventing Sammy from having any chance to steal home.
She gave Bobby an evil grin as she trotted back to the bag, to which Bobby responded with a wink.
Over the last few years, Bobby spent a lot of time with Sammy, first at the dojo, and then at Raul's auto repair shop. Sammy shared Bobby's interest in how things physically worked. While Sammy did not share the closeness he felt towards Patty, Bobby considered her a good friend.
"What is she doing? She has to stay on the base," said Patty loudly. Her protective instincts for Bobby were in full flame.
"Shhhhh," said Barbara. "She can leave the base between pitches — it's allowed," she explained.
Bobby did his best to forget the last pitch. That pitch was gone. He repeated the lessons from his dad: the next pitch matters, the last one doesn't. Again he looked into Dave for the sign. This time he shook off enough signs to cycle back to the fastball, hoping to make the batter think something else might be coming.
The umpire was ready this time. The batter wasn't. Strike one.
The batter did notice that both blurs had gone by right down the middle of the plate. Bobby in fact was reluctant to go for corners, with Dave freaking out and the umpire having missed a call before.
Realizing he had no chance to react and swing with Bobby throwing as fast as he was from 46 feet away, the batter decided to start his swing over the middle of the plate as Bobby released the ball. Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every now and then, right?
As Bobby let go of the next pitch, the batter started a smooth swing where he hoped the ball might be in the next eye blink's time.
He made a good guess on location, but not the timing. Starting his swing just a moment too early, the bat made contact out in front of the plate at the very end of the bat, fouling it off over the right fence near the plate. Parents and other fans instinctively ducked as it hissed by at high speed, speeding over their heads with tennis ball like topspin.
Bobby was both impressed and disconcerted that the batter had even touched the ball. Considering his next pitch, he asked for time and called Dave out to the mound to talk about it.
"What the hell was that?" said Dave, also amazed that contact had occurred.
"He's guessing it's coming down the middle at the same speed every time. I'd do the same thing if I were him," said Bobby.
"So what do we do?"
"I don't want to throw anything fancy." He didn't want to shake Dave's confidence further by saying why. "How about I throw the same pitch, but take a little off to throw off his timing?"
"Okay. That should work."
"So it may come in a little lower than the last couple. Be sure to get down to it."
"Sure thing BT, no problem." Dave liked to call people by their initials, he thought it sounded cool.
Dave returned to his position. The batter dug in, his mind churning furiously. What were they going to throw? If he started to swing before the release again, and it was a change up, he'd look like the biggest fool in the world. If he waited to swing to read the pitch and it was a fastball, he'd never catch up to it. He didn't even want to think about a curve ball.
Bobby went into his windup. The batter's brain overloaded on all the possibilities, and effectively shut down his body. He couldn't move, and stood looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
Bobby tried to take a lot off the heater, still aiming it down the middle. The ball crossed the plate on a slightly downward trajectory at the batter's knees, just at the bottom of the strike zone. Strike three. Then Bobby's worst fears were realized.
The umpire, having adjusted to expect the adrenaline heater, read the lower ball as dropping out of the strike zone, and called it a ball. Dave, the tension wracking his body slowing his big muscle's reactions, let the descending ball bounce off the bottom edge of his glove, through his legs and the legs of the umpire, to bounce off the backstop close behind them.
The ball caught a seam between two boards, and flew upwards in a high arc towards Bobby, like a toss up that would land half way between the mound and home plate.
As the ball climbed into the air, it seemed like everything stood still for a moment. No one moved. Birds stopped chirping. Bobby felt like he was standing beside himself, watching himself not move.
Then things exploded into motion. Sammy broke for home in a full out sprint. Bobby broke for the ball as it floated towards the ground. Dave scrambled around the umpire's feet, desperately looking for the ball. John screamed at the top of his lungs to tell Dave where the ball was. He was completely drowned out by the parents, half of them screaming at Sammy to run, the other half screaming at Dave to turn around, resulting in a high pitched, unintelligible roar.
John took a few steps towards home, trying to yell even louder. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs to do so.
Bobby nearly reached the ball to catch it on the fly, but still managed to short hop it, and stagger towards the plate. He couldn't throw it to Dave — he was still on his hands and knees looking the wrong way, and Bobby couldn't trust him to catch it anyway. His only hope was to beat his friend Sammy, the fastest player in the league, to the plate.
John saw what it was coming down to as well. For some reason, a great feeling of serenity came over him. He dropped to his knees as if to begin praying that Bobby, his beautiful son that he had nurtured and trained with so long and hard, would win the race to the plate, and save their season. He was surprised that the ground seemed to rush up to catch the side of his head, as he continued to stare at the play unfolding.
About 10 feet from the plate, both Bobby and Sammy left the ground, in full out face first dives, trying to be first to reach the 17" wide dirty surface of home plate. Just as Sammy appeared to be sliding in ahead of Bobby's glove, he slid it onto the plate under her hand. The umpire, with Dave behind him still, had a clear view of the play. He waited for Bobby to roll to a stop, and hold up the ball still firmly held in his glove.
"OUT!" he screamed.
The crowd exploded into cries of joy and dismay at the call. Bobby slowly got to his feet, and reached down to help Sammy up. She knew she was out, and didn't contest the call, giving Bobby a wry grin.
"I've never seen somebody so big move so fast before. Nice play." she said with a rueful smile.
"Thanks. When you took off, I didn't think you were ever going to come down!"
Then Sammy froze. She was looking over Bobby's shoulder.
Bobby turned around. The crowd was slowly becoming hushed, as people began to notice John Taylor lying on the field in front of the dugout on his side, facing home plate.
Barbara jumped to her feet. "John? John!"
She began fighting her way through the crowd to reach the field, Raul and Patty close behind. Bobby and the umpire got there first.
John felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest, though he didn't feel any pain. He breathed in short puffs whenever the elephant shifted its weight.
"Great play, Bobby. I knew you could do it," he said softly. His son's face filled his vision, with the edges starting to blur.
"I love you son. Please tell your mother that I loved her with all my heart, and that I'm sorry. There's a little money hidden in the file cabinet in my office at home. Tell her I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what Dad? Hang on Dad; you're going to be okay."
Barbara then reached her husband, sliding to a stop on her knees next to his fallen form.
"John? Hang on honey, help is on the way baby. Look at me John. John, I need you to hang on, do you hear me? Look at me John!"
John looked up at his beautiful wife. His eyes softened. He gave her a gentle smile. He closed his eyes. His heart stopped.
Raul stepped forward and began CPR. Sammy and Patty reached out to hold each other's hands.
As John's wife and child held each other and stared at him unbelieving, the storm that had been building all day finally released a gentle rain onto the field.