Jumping Doesn't Pay

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

"Are you certain you're not making a mistake?"

Addie was packing his bags, back turned to his - former - teammate. He didn't remember the boy's name, and didn't much care to learn. After all, he never had to get to know him.

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

"But you already signed a contract. You can't sign two."

The teammate - whatever his name was - was right. Well, mostly. Addie could sign two, and he had.

Not at once, of course. After years of sandlot ball, Addie had finally begun being scouted (and it took long enough, too - he was 19, going on 20, and not getting any younger), and had eagerly signed with the first team that offered him a contract. He was eager to play in the minor leagues, and playing with Milwaukee would be nice, he figured, since he'd get to stay in Wisconsin and easily return home when he wanted to. But then another offer came in, from Toledo, a full 100 dollars more a year, with a near-guarantee he'd be in the majors the next year. So, happy to forget about his old commitment (and deciding he didn't really care about going home all that much), he signed that one too, and was packing up to leave Milwaukee. He'd been there for all of a day, hadn't pitched as much as an inning, and he was fine to leave it at that.

"Yes, I can. They offered me much better terms in Ohio."

"But you already made a commitment. You should at least tell Manager Strickland about it and give him back what he paid. You already took money up front."

"He's cheap, is what he is. By the time he knows I'm gone, I'll be with a new team. He'll have to go through management to get to me." He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to the door of the hotel room, staring down what's-his-name as he did. His brown eyes narrowed a little. "And you'd better not tell him."

"I suppose I won't. But you're going to regret this. He's not somebody you want to cross, you know. They say he's crazy. They say he'll hex you."

"Well, let him, then. I don't care."

"Come on - you've got to think this through. Don't you have limits to what you'll do to get paid?"

"No need for limits. When I'm offered money, I'll take it. Oh - and I mean it - don't you tell."

What's-his-name sighed. "I won't."

"Peachy. See you." And with that, the door shut, and Addie was gone. He had a train to catch.

-----------------------------

Later that week, Addie was being hoisted on the shoulders of fans and desperately scrambling to get down. He'd pitched a 16-inning gem, held the other team scoreless, and had been the man crossing the plate with the winning run. The Ohio fans were happy to have the teenage pitcher signed, and they showed it. But he had no interest in being lifted up. He kept feeling like they'd drop him.

If he knew that his ex-teammate had, immediately after their conversation, told Strickland he'd knowingly jumped the team, he wouldn't have been bothered. After all, he was in a new city, in a new state, playing for a new team. He didn't care what the old manager had to say. And if he knew that the manager had "cursed" him earlier that day, he would have laughed. He wasn't stupid, and he hadn't believed in curses since he was a child.

It was the last thing on his mind, and once the exuberant fans let him down - he had no luck getting down himself - he was happy to bask in the job he'd done. With a feeling of great self-satisfaction, he went back to the clubhouse and packed up for the day. He briefly admired himself in the clubhouse mirror, adjusting his always-lopsided cap atop his curly brown hair, before happily stepping out into the twilight to head home.

As he stepped out, he saw the streetcar stopped by the park, and hurried to catch it before it moved away. He was hardly a few steps in before a young fan, maybe ten or eleven, ran up to him, eagerly brandishing an empty pack of cigarettes and a pencil. He tore the cigarette pack open, so the blank cardboard was exposed, and thrust the pencil out at Addie. He smiled a gap-toothed smile and looked up at the pitcher with hope in his eyes. "You were amazing, mister. Best I ever saw. Will you sign?"

Addie felt a little bad, but he wanted to catch the car, so he shook his head and kept going.

Before he could reach the car, though, he heard the kid yell out from behind him. "I got a nickel if you sign!" And suddenly, like someone had flipped a switch, Addie stopped, turned around, and hurried back towards the kid. He signed his name on the cardboard, the nickel was dropped into his hand, and the kid ran off with his prize.

As soon as the kid was out of sight - maybe even sooner - Addie was struck by a wave of confusion. He heard the streetcar begin moving, taking off without him, and looked down at the little nickel in his hand. The nickel was nice - it was good for a beer - but he hardly needed it. He saw no need for it. He would have rather caught that car. But as soon as the kid had yelled out that he had money, it was all Addie could think about - it was the only thing his mind could comprehend. He was offered money, and he needed to get it. He didn't know why - he just did.

He felt unsteady, but shook it off, and quietly waited for the next streetcar.

-----------------------------

Several days and another pitching start later, Addie watched the game from the dugout and chatted with his teammates. He was the youngest player on the team, and he could tell that some of the older players were a bit unhappy with his impressive first game. Nobody likes being shown up by a 19 year old. But there were several men who were quite friendly, and Addie enjoyed getting to know them as their team clobbered the visiting nine.

Addie couldn't help but feel a little nervous, knowing that the Milwaukee team - the same one he'd jumped - was visiting next. He didn't want to have to stare across the field at the teammates he'd abandoned, and facing Manager Strickland again gave him the chills. He didn't really feel bad about jumping. He was glad he got his money, and didn't exactly think Strickland was owed his money back - it didn't really matter, did it? But it was embarrassing to see them nonetheless, and he just hoped his new manager would let him skip his pitching start for that series.

There was one other thing on his mind, but he was sure he was just overthinking things. It seemed like he was getting an awful lot of offers for odd jobs, to a frequency that was becoming a little bizarre. A complete stranger had stopped him on the street and offered for him to help move furniture for a nickel. A little boy on a bicycle had asked him to deliver the last five papers on his route for a penny. He'd been asked to hold a ladder steady while a construction worker climbed to the roof of a building. A "doctor" - or, really, snake oil salesman - had even offered him a dime if he'd take a swig of the "medicine" and write in a good review to the paper.

The strangest thing was that he always accepted every single offer, no matter what. Even when he had no particular interest in doing the job, he'd mechanically carry it out, incapable of thinking it through until afterwards. Everything ceased to exist but the money he was offered, and the driving, overpowering goal to earn it.

Thankfully, nothing had turned out badly. The furniture wasn't hard to carry, though he bumped his head on the short doorframes a few times - the modern world wasn't built for people over six foot. The paper route was short, he'd held the ladder steady, and he actually appreciated the free snake oil. (Like most miracle cures, it was just whiskey.) But he was a little concerned, he had to admit. He was wondering where his self control had gone - it was practically nonexistent.

As he sat there in thought, he was jostled by a teammate, shaking him. "Quit daydreaming, kid," the player said, sitting down on the bench next to him. "You look like you're out to lunch."

"Oh. Sorry." Addie hardly knew the other player, but he knew he was another pitcher, nearing 30 and still in the minors. The exact sort of person who would resent an up-and-coming kid like him. He really didn't want any trouble.

"Listen. You see that lady over there?" The pitcher pointed unsubtly to a young woman sitting behind the plate, dressed to draw attention to herself, with a large feathered hat and a ruffled dress. "She's been at every game since you joined the team. Never much came before, though."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that that's a young lady who likes you, or at least young phenoms like you. And I -" he poked Addie - "will give you a cigar if you go to her after the game and tell her to her face that she's a blister."

Addie furrowed his eyebrows, taken aback. "Why would I do that?"

"Because if you've got any guts you would. It takes guts to be a ballplayer. Have you got any?"

"But she's not a blister - she's quite pretty," he protested. "No, I won't. I don't even smoke cigars."

"Fine, then the cost of one. Fifteen cents. All equal to me. If you were a man, you would."

The offer of the cigar had done nothing to him, but as soon as he put it in more concrete terms of payment, the same familiar feeling began. Addie wanted to protest, or at least say something. "Don't say that," or "Not again." But he couldn't get anything to come out.

The pitcher got up and walked off, leaving Addie sitting there on the bench, feeling his limbs start to go sort of numb. He had a strange, mechanical feeling - like he wasn't in control of his body or his mind, like he was a machine being operated by something outside of himself. There was just enough awareness in his mind to register his heart sinking, fear creeping in. He knew he was going to do it. He didn't want to. He really didn't want to. But after a moment, his mental protestations were swept away, and replaced by a desperation he'd felt over and over the past few days.

He needed to do whatever he was told to do. He was getting paid. He would do anything, he realized, to get paid.

An hour later, after the game had ended and Addie had fulfilled his end of the bargain, the other pitcher ran up to him and slapped him on the back. "You do have guts," he said, grinning. For a guy like him, whose glory days in the sport were rapidly fading, being able to pick on the new kid was probably the highlight of his whole week. "Here." He tossed a dime and a nickel at Addie, which he caught.

The teenager looked ashamed of himself, and pocketed the money quickly like it was burning his hands to hold it. "I shouldn't have done that. She almost cried," he said, looking a bit like he was going to cry himself.

"Yeah, like it matters to you," the other pitcher laughed. "Not as much as a few coins, I guess." He smugly turned and walked away.

Addie was left there, confused and scared, trembling a bit. Something had happened - something must have happened. He would never have acted like that if he was in his right mind. He would never have insulted a lady, not even for a dollar, not even for ten. He had principles. He had limits. Or - he used to. Something had changed.

Suddenly, it came back to him. Manager Strickland. His ex-teammate's words - "He's crazy. He'll hex you." It couldn't be true, could it? Hexes aren't real. There was no way that he was under some sort of curse... but... but how else could he explain it? It made sense - Strickland would do something like that. God, he screwed up so badly. He should have just stayed with his old team. God, what was he going to do?

He'd apologize. When his old team came to town, he'd find Strickland and apologize. He'd undo it then. Everything would be okay.

The fifteen cents were burning a hole in his pocket, and he knew how he wanted to spend them. He needed a drink.

-----------------------------

It was nearly five o clock, and the bar was fairly crowded. A few people recognized the pitcher, congratulating him on his recent success, but Addie was too mentally exhausted to hear them. He placed the nickel down on the counter, and got a beer in return.

He wanted to enjoy it, but he couldn't. He was too nervous. He ended up just chugging it, appreciating, at least, the small amount of dullness he got from it. It helped calm his panic. He debated whether or not he should put down the dime and get another two, but he decided against it. It wasn't going to help any to just drink and drink. He should just head home. At least at home, he'd be safe.

As Addie was leaving the bar, a drunk man stopped him, grabbing his arm. Addie whirled around, startled. The man was middle aged, graying, and looked wasted out of his mind. He looked like he could be a businessman, or some other professional - he didn't look unkempt - but Addie always found people who get extremely drunk distasteful, and tried to yank himself from the man's grasp. The man, though, was persistent. Even though he was probably more than half a foot shorter, he was stronger. His breath smelled like alcohol as he spoke.

"Lisssen," he slurred, pulling the ballplayer a little closer. "I don' usually do this. But you're a pretty boy. An' I can make it worth it. I got s'mmoney for you if you'll go out back w'me and turn a trick."

Addie almost had a heart attack. He felt existential terror begin to creep in, felt the color leave his face, before he felt that familiar mechanical sensation take over him. He felt himself stop resisting the man, felt himself nod. His conscious thoughts were suddenly flooded with desperation. Money. Anything for the money. He'd go out back for the money.

The drunk man staggered his way across the bar, and snuck out the back, Addie following quickly behind him. When they were standing in the frigid night, now out in an alley, the man moved to unbutton his pants, but then seemed to decide against it. "No. S'too cold. You and me - goin' home."

Addie felt the desperation rising. Getting paid - he had to get paid. He had to get all he could. "Will you -"

"Yeah, sssaid I'll pay already. Plennny. Now c'mon. We got to walk."

The drunk man walked in front, and Addie followed close behind him, still feeling robotic, stiff, out of control. He was well-dressed, put-together, nearly sober, and making more money than most people in the city, and yet he followed - knowing he was going to have to - he couldn't think about it. He almost couldn't think about it at all. His brain couldn't focus on anything but his single-minded goal. It was frightening. It felt artificial, like it shouldn't have been possible to think so hard about only one thing. He felt like throwing up.

He was led to a building, and then to an apartment on the ground floor. The man let him sit down on the couch, but again stopped before undoing his pants. "You're pretty. I got friends who'lllooove you. Y'get double if you're good f'rthem."

More. Addie nodded. His mind was a sickening pool of desperation and fear as he desperately tried to force himself to be afraid, to run, to leave. But he still wasn't. He only cared about being paid. He was going to make more.

A few minutes later, the man returned, with two others. They looked to be similar ages, probably similar vocations, but neither seemed as drunk as him. Addie was terrified. Or - he wanted to be. He could still feel the stirrings of terror, could feel his body and mind fighting to become so, but he couldn't, he couldn't.

"C'mon," one of them said, "It's been a long time since we got a nice boy like you. No need to be all wrapped up. Get those clothes off."

Addie slowly, mechanically, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, exposing a thin, mostly hairless torso. He wanted to cover up, already feeling exposed, but he couldn't. He took off his belt, then his shoes, then his socks, then his pants, all while the three men stood there, watching and leering. When he was left in just his undershorts, he paused for a second. But only a second. One of the men motioned for him to take them off, and he took them off, just as woodenly as he took off everything else.

After a moment, one of the men grabbed him and sat down, putting Addie on his lap. He was still leering, his eyes gleaming. Addie wanted to cry. "Kiss me, pretty boy," the man demanded, and the pitcher did. There was no passion in it, no emotion. He simply did as he was told, even as he felt the man take his soft cock in his hand - the first person who had ever done that, other than himself.

He didn't notice that the other men were half-undressed until one of their cocks was in his face. He'd been too busy looking, glassy-eyed, at the man whose lap he was sitting on, kissing him as he was asked too. But now it was going to be more than kissing - Addie knew that much. He waited to be told to suck it, and as soon as he was, that was what he did.

The man didn't really let Addie do much - he grabbed him by his curly hair and moved his head back and forth with his hand, doing most of the work himself. Addie's lips were stretched wide, tears springing up in his eyes at the foreign intrusion. He wasn't used to this. He had never done this in his life, and even despite his dulled emotions, despite his automaton responses to every command he was given, it hurt. He started choking, but when the man barked at him to stop, he somehow managed to. Doing what he was told overrode everything else. He had to do what he was told to get paid.

The third man - the drunk one from the bar - was kissing Addie's shoulders and neck, hard enough he was sure bruises would bloom. Now and then, he'd bite a little, and Addie would yelp - or, try to. It was hard to get anything out when there was a cock in his mouth. His hand was gently stroking the teenage pitcher's cock, but it remained soft despite the touches.

The man whose lap he was sitting on was pulling down his pants, now, and freeing his own member. Addie only vaguely registered the feeling of it against his back, the feeling of something being used to lube it up. But he was forced to notice when his thin body was lifted up a few inches, and then slowly placed back down again, the man's cock entering him, hurting him more than anything had ever hurt in his life. It was worse than wrenching his kneecap in spring training, worse than being hit with a pitched ball. He groaned and yelped in pain, but it was still muffled - the man in his mouth wasn't finished yet. Tears began streaming down his face. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he was lowered down, until he was sitting directly on the man's lap again, totally impaled.

He felt like a rag doll. He had no control over his own body, and he wasn't even really allowed to move. There was a man under him, now fucking him, lifting him up and down. There was a man with his hand in his hair forcing his head down on his cock. And there was another man on his side, hands wandering over his body. He was cornered. He was trapped. His brain was fried. His teary eyes were unfocused. He couldn't comprehend what was happening, and couldn't even try to.

He suddenly tasted something salty and bitter, and was told to swallow. He did. The man pulled his cock out of his mouth, leaving him choking and gasping, face covered in tears and nose running. He didn't get a break, though. The drunk man from the bar took his turn next, wasting no time shoving his own cock in Addie's mouth, as he was still being bounced on someone's lap, still getting fucked. Everything hurt. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. After a few more minutes, he completely shut off.

Addie was only vaguely aware of the man fucking him finally coming in his ass. He remained impaled on his cock for a few more seconds as the drunk man came in his mouth - the second time that had happened that night, the second time in his life - and then they all pulled off him. He was gently allowed to sit back on the couch, gasping and crying, wiping his nose with his arm and trembling everywhere.