7 comments/ 57017 views/ 21 favorites Rugby League By: ruggerrigger WARNING! ( Please Read Carefully ) The following short story is not for the feint hearted. It is intended for adults only with an interest in gay sex and rugby league and it contains plenty of visceral and extremely graphic male on male group sex. The rugby league match at the heart of the story gets pretty rough. The sex that follows it is even rougher. There is a lot of strong dialogue, but all sexual participants are adults and in a fully consensual mindset to what occurs. Please note that there are some urination, rimming and other fetish scenes and similar strong elements throughout. If this isn't of interest, best to leave this story alone. For those readers who give it a look, in knowledge of the above, I hope that you enjoy it. Please be aware that the characters' names used, except for professional rugby league players, aren't real names. Note on Dialect: For non British, or for that matter, non Yorkshire readers, I'll give a few hints on the dialogue. I prefer stories where the characters sound like I do, but for the uninitiated, 'Tha' 'Thy' & 'Thine' are basically 'You' 'Your' and 'Yours'. 'Summat', 'Owt' 'Ee' 'Wi' and 'Bray' are 'Something', 'Anything', 'He', 'With' and 'Thump'... 'Thesen' and 'Mesen' are 'Yourself' and 'Myself' respectively & c.!... and they say English is all the same language! E-mail comments and criticisms are welcome. Warming Up. I never imagined my passion for rugby league would be turn out to be a great boost for my sex life, but I don't look back with any regrets. I first started playing rugby league at school: My family had a fair few players so I had plenty of encouragement and I developed a reasonable amount of skill in the game. This was back in the old days before the glamour of the Super League and as a strapping broad shouldered lad for my age at the time, though I'd admit not the brightest, performed far better on the field than the classroom. Being a West Yorkshire lad, born and bred, there was no chance of playing rugby union. League tradition goes deep round here. I haven't played for a few years now, but after my school days, I kept up the sporting life with a local Amateur Rugby League Football Club. I never had any delusions of going professional and didn't waste too much time fantasising about playing for the likes of Bradford Northern or Leeds R.L.F.C., though I will admit that I did once harbour a secret aspiration to play for Featherstone Rovers! I was reaching my peak at 25, back in the early 90's when I was playing second row for the amateur team of the mining village I grew up in. As I progressed over the years I eventually made my way onto our small club's "Over 21's" squad. I'm a tall lad, 6'0" in my bare feet and well built, but I can run as well, so it wasn't surprising I had my skills developed for the second row, a position in which I eventually made a very good name for myself as a serious amateur player, despite originally wanting to play fullback after my Uncle. I wasn't quite Dennis Betts, but I put plenty of effort in on the field, and saw a fair amount of success from it, and in better years was close on for a four points per game average. I kept myself up to the standard of the sport with plenty of effort at the local gym with the rest of the meat heads. Many hours of grunting, sweating and bench press calluses packed a good, solid 14 stone of hard muscle onto to my frame to add to the teams' pack weight. In addition to a decent body, I was lucky enough to be blessed with a face considered appealing to some, chestnut brown hair and my best feature, deep blue eyes, favoured by many, which usually enabled me to get plenty of exercise for my greedy cock. The gym owner used to keep a parrot as a pet, and the gym hounds, me included, managed to teach that parrot an unbelievable vocabulary. That bird could out curse a Price of Wales pit miner, and we once mooted adopting it as a mascot of some sort for the rugby club. The men on my rugby league team were a good bunch, nearly all local blokes like me, working in a fair variety of trades round the area, which was a great contact network for when you needed anything done. We had couple of coppers, who kept up their commitment to the rugby despite sometimes struggling to fit things around their shifts. We had one lad, our nifty right centre, Chris, who was training as an architect, and a real boffin, Danny, who worked with computers and was always talking about something totally fucking unintelligible named Windows 3.11. The big nerd predictably got nicknamed "Brains." Nonetheless, Danny made good use of them on the field, as a fairly sharp, fleet footed right wing. With 18 regular players we'd a full regular squad of 13 and 4 utility players as subs, most of whom were reasonably reliable, dependent on their jobs, in regard to turning up for training. Training in year and pre season was pretty intense, but we were certainly a much better team for it. Tuesday night's training was compulsory, with our stalwart coach, Dave Briggs', vehement wrath to face if you didn't show. Thursdays were optional, and Saturday mornings set in stone, with Dave likely to skin you alive if you missed it. Sundays normally saw a well fought game, as part of the local amateur league in year. I was actually one of the younger players on the squad: Most of the men were in their thirties with a fair few over 40, like Andy, our eccentric loose forward. The daft bugger used to tuck a rabbit's foot down his sock for a bit of extra luck before any really challenging games. Truth be told, we weren't the most competitive team around. There had been quite a few players come and go, and this was only the second year we'd been playing together as much the same squad and were only just starting to gel and come together as one with the newer men. Up until then we were eternally languishing at a pretty low division in the Pennine League, perpetually around the lower middle of the table, though we did made a semi final once. We had the occasional promotion up the divisions, but we were never a much more than year or two away from being relegated back down. Our main shortcoming was likely the fact our play was based on brawn rather than brain, not an uncommon fault: strong forwards like me to open up the field, but without the sharpest or fastest backs to score the tries from the opportunities we opened, and we often lacked the strategic team thinking for a good cohesive defence. Still, we always put up a fair fight: we played with a passion that sometimes compensated for our shortcomings of skill, and for a few of the lads, if you couldn't win, there was always the satisfaction of trying to bite your opponents fucking ears off in the tackles. The club itself was opposite a grimy, run down industrial estate where, conveniently, I'd found employment as an overworked and underpaid HGV fitter. That was after my mechanical apprenticeship, which had started, predictably, with British Coal and ended up with working on buses for the local council. I was dealing mainly with ERF's, Leyland DAF's, and the odd, forever overheating, Series 3 Scania for various local hauliers. I was also half heartedly attending a technical college in town for an engineering qualification, which was boring, but at least I got some of my taxes back through the educational grant I was given towards it. I was grateful for the job, as all the financial news at the time was focussed on the recession, the last one before the credit crunch chaos of current times. The rugby club itself had originally started in the 1950's as colliery team, and the available facilities reflected its vintage: There wasn't much to see; a single, rectangular, crude brick building, housing changing rooms and shower blocks, segregated for home and away. There was an outside cubby hole crammed full spiders and all the usual rugby club paraphernalia; flags, poles and assorted training equipment, a vast collection of well chewed rugby balls, paint for the posts and a temperamental marking machine for the pitch, that I'd had to fetch my tools from the workshop to mend on more than on occasion. All the cleaning stuff was in there as well, mop, bucket and Flash liquid for cleaning the changing rooms, a pain in the arse job that we had to do ourselves on a skilfully evaded rota system. There was just a single playing field for matches and training, surrounded with a perimeter wire fence and a permanent pitch drainage problem. The drainage troubles resulted in winter games with the field frozen rock hard, which bruised you to fuck in the tackles and the slightest bit of rain in the autumn was all you needed to turn it into a right fucking quagmire. It left you covered in mud all over after an energetic game, and I mean all over: Up the crack of your arse, under your foreskin, in your ears, fucking everywhere. I used to need a bath at the club and then a shower at home afterwards to get anywhere near clean. Usefully, there was a pub just over the road from the rugby club grounds where they could pull a good pint of Tetley Bitter and I'll confess to having a taste for a fair bit of the Yorkshire nectar. The tap room served us well for post match piss ups, of which I can groggily recall a fair few. The landlord had thoughtfully installed a TV hooked up to Sky in one corner, which was saw some great booze ups watching Challenge Cup games and I vaguely recall ending up being carried home between Stuart our squat lump of a hooker and Steve, our lanky left wing after watching 1992's Wigan v. Castleford final at Wembley. I occasionally used to pull pints at the pub on an evening, when I wasn't training, for a bit of cash in hand when I was skint, which was often on my dire fitter's wages. It used to take a strong arm and a modicum of skill to pull a proper pint then, when you still had the 'auto-vac' system, before 'health and safety' led to the push button pint of nowadays. I could put a perfect head on a pint of Tetley's, not a single large bubble every time. The pub also had a back room which, apart from our piss ups, also functioned for club committee meetings, which generally involved moaning about the waterlogged field, and a resolution to do fuck all about it for want of any reasonable sort of funds. The club's income was limited to a bit of local authority funding and the generosity of a handful of local business sponsors, procured by the earnest Dave Briggs, who also functioned as our treasurer as well as coach. The pub's back room also served its purpose for the initiation of new players. The landlord didn't object as he made plenty of brass from selling ale to the squad, and as an ex rugby player himself, he could sympathise with our antics. There was a battered pool table in there and conveniently wipe clean vinyl bench seats, which was handy when the room functioned as a 'pigs bar' for the initiations during an after hours lock in. Contrary to all fantasy the initiation rites at our club were pretty mild, and didn't involve a great deal more than getting the new lad mortal fucking drunk, maybe having him down a pint of piss, supplied warm, wet, pungent and steaming, fresh from the prick, by us squad mates, then stripping him off, dragging him over the road, liberally coating his balls with Deep Heat and running him round the field bollock naked a couple of times. Or at least as far as his state of inebriation would allow. They never got anything shoved up their arses or had to do anything overtly sexual. It would have been a waste of time anyway, even if there was an inclination, as the squad, especially me, would always be pissed way beyond the ability to get a useable erection on initiation nights. I had heard of a few clubs, probably with players of younger average age than ours, who reportedly had more involved initiation rituals with a more sexual element, including Mars Bars up backsides, masturbation games with a rugby sock and the like, but there was unfortunately none of it at the club I played for then. I had a worse initiation during my first week at the garage, when Smithy, the workshop foreman, had supervised the lads opening my overalls, fetching my wanking tackle out and liberally coating my bollocks with thick, black lithium carbide grease. That was before bending me over a workbench and slipping the handle of an over sized spanner, fortunately well lubricated with WD40, right up my arse. I forgave them eventually, especially after the boss set on a new apprentice and I had the malicious pleasure of helping my workmates carry out the same dubious ritual on the new lad. It was a real shame that the initiations at the rugby club were mild, because some of the men on the team were horny looking lads, like Sam, the other second row and team captain. He was a great player, as hard working a second row as myself, and incredibly good looking. So much so we used call him "Hollywood". He had reddish blond hair, a shapely, firm, fuckable arse and a gorgeous cheeky grin. I spent more than a few hours consoling myself with wanking off, guiltily thinking about one or two of my teammates, imagining what they'd be like in the sack. Not to say that nothing ever happened though, and all began to get very interesting one typically miserable British winter during February at the start of the 1992 rugby year. We were preparing for an early year game against another village A.R.L.F.C. team, in fact the next village up the road, and a long standing favourite rival of ours. Their village had a long rugby league heritage, and had produced some seriously good players, with more than one of them ending up as a professional. I suppose it was some sort of compensation for the fact the place had fuck all else going for it beyond Rugby League, except the pubs, since British Coal shut down the last pit that had been the main employer there. Our upcoming game against them was an important match for us. It would be the first locking of horns with our traditional rivals that year, and could easily set the pattern for who was going dominate and win the promotions in the year's league. Dave Briggs, the coach was determined to see a good outcome for us from the game and gave us no shortage of advice from his years of experience as both coach and player. Dave was a big, hefty bloke, pushing forty five, going grey and balding, and not entirely unattractive in a raw testosterone, chewed about the corners way, despite his spreading gut and cauliflower ears from twenty five years of rugby. He'd even played professionally once, usually as fullback, until a recurrent knee problem that blossomed into a couple of cartilage operations ended that, though he wasn't short of work as an electrician for a fairly well to do maintenance contractor afterward. He'd also played for his Royal Signals regiment in his much younger days in the army, and we'd given him a fair bit of stick over having thus played under Rugby Union rules but at least he'd returned to his roots from the dark side of rugby. Dave, in his time honoured fashion, shared his pearls of wisdom following Thursday evening's training session, before joining us for a wash, while standing by the bath in nothing but his socks and jockstrap, with his hairy belly straining the waistband. "Right then lads!" He quickly grabbed our attention with his stern parade ground bark. "You all know who were playing tomorrow." That brought a lot of ribald commentary as we sat listening on the benches. "Aye, aye, now shut up and listen girls, It's my fuckin' turn to do the talking!" "I want see a good result tomorrow, no stupid cock ups and some sharp play. Tha knows who were up against and should know their strengths and weaknesses by now. They've been working hard, and tha'll have heard that they absolutely fucking flattened their opposition last week." We retorted with loud booing and more disparaging remarks. It was all standard pep talk stuff really, but I felt Dave was saving the real news for last. I was right. He was scratching his stomach which was always a sign he had something ominous to impart. "If tha dunt already know, they've changed the line up a bit this year and they'll be a tough team to beat for it. They've taken on a new winger. He's a young lad but he's a blinder, so tha'd better be on the look out for him!" There was more to come. "Oh, aye, and they've also got a couple of new prop forwards on their squad this year, and a right pair of bastards they are n'all. Fancy themsens as proper fucking hard nuts, and they've long reputations for every trick in the book. So take the cunts down hard in the tackles and fucking lame them for the year if they want to play dirty!" Saturday morning's training before the game was a hard one. It was fucking cold, proper brass monkey February weather, but we were warmed up thoroughly soon enough. Dave, like myself was determined to see us finish the year a division higher than where we'd started, and I was well prepared to put in the effort to get us there. The squad had been in a pretty jovial mood before we kitted up in our training gear, but Dave soon had us focussed on the game we had coming on Sunday. The moment we got onto the field for practise, Dave worked the bollocks off us. Passing, passing and more passing, getting us to work as a team. Few men, barring Pete, our fullback, could really pass well on both sides, but Dave was there, harrying us and pushing our skills on, never letting us rest for a minute, keeping us moving, running, ducking and diving, building up our stamina, making us feel for the position of every man around us, know where the ball was and where it was going next for every minute of play. Dave's years in the army were easy to spot, and he badgered us like a gang of fresh squaddies, pushing us to keep our fitness up, but always advising, trying to make us think beyond the immediate pass and charge, keeping our focus on setting up the try scoring opportunities and getting us to work better as a team, moving us up a level from hearty but unsophisticated one man at a time rugby, to the sort of cohesive team rugby that won the games. In all honesty it was a lack of team work that was my own greatest weakness and I became a bit of a blinkered horse the moment I got my hands on the ball, but Dave's patient effort and experience was really starting to bring the squad together. He was a good coach, and I oftentimes wondered why he bothered coaching our team for fuck all, when he could easily have got paid for it working for a professional club. Must have been for the challenge! The rugby training was all good stuff, but I was fucking knackered by the time we headed back in for a shower. I'd put in a lot of work at the gym before the start of the season, and I was confident my strength was up, but the training was revealing to me that I could improve my stamina. I mentally made a note to start doing a bit less weight training and bit more cardiovascular, even contemplating a bit of running when I got chance, and thought about asking one or two of the lads if they wanted to join me for a bit of moral support! Sensibly, I left the pub alone for once on the Saturday night before the game and made sure my rugby gear was sorted out and packed into my kit bag for the morning when the 'phone rang. Unfortunately it wasn't a talent scout wanting to sign me to play for Great Britain, but Smithy, the workshop foreman. He wasn't a bad bloke really, bit overweight, ginger, with a vicious ex wife and 3 horrible kids, but he was always pushing you to do overtime for shite rates. He gave me a long whining tale over the 'phone, wanting me down the workshops to do a couple of hours graft on the Sunday morning at short notice. He needed some unlucky bastard to help sort out a fucked lorry that had apparently been recovered to the workshops that morning, and had decided my talents were needed to help steam clean the remains of friction material off the bell housing and refit the clutch on an 1844 Mercedes tractor unit. They were desperate as the wagon belonged to a favoured client, a local haulage company with a modest fleet that gave us a lot of business. It would be a heavy, dirty job: The Mercs were built like tanks compared to the Leyland DAF's I normally worked on, but the semi auto gearbox which they had was quite a novelty compared to the Eaton twin splitters that used to be around at the time. The Actros that came later was a fine wagon, but those old Merc's were real panzerwagons. Rugby League "Go on mate, I'm fucking desperate here!" I heard Smithy whine over the receiver. I was making 'wanker' gestures as he spoke and silently cursing. "It wont take you long. I wouldn't ask, only there's no bugger else what can do it" "For fuck's sake Smithy, tha knows I'm playing on Sunday afternoon. I don't need this before a game!" "Go on mate. You'll be finished in plenty of time for it and the fucking grounds are only round the corner!" "I did enough overtime this week Smithy! I'm not a mechanic every minute of the day tha knows!" "Look mate, I'll make sure its worth yer while. You can do late shift Monday." "Fuck off. That dunt make it 'worth me while' mate." "You'll get treble time for it..." That was the clincher really. I couldn't say no to that. My rent was overdue, my credit card statement was appalling, and my ageing and temperamental Golf GTi's incredible insurance premium was due. At least my trade saved me a bit as I did all my own servicing and got parts at trade prices through the workshop. There wasn't much I couldn't do myself and she only saw a garage for new tyres. That did have some compensations though, as I occasionally used to play about with one of the Kwik Fit lads, who didn't mind a bit of cock once in a while. He was a bit younger than me, around 20, but willing enough as long as he thought no one was going to find out about it. He loved getting down on his knees and sucking me off, and he'd let me fuck him up the arse once in a while. He had a great arse for fucking, milk bottle white, pert, smooth and tight as a Mallard duck. Smithy was still bleating at me on the 'phone: "Go on mate, please..." "All right then I'll do it, if it'll get thee off me back." I told him, with exaggerated reluctance. "I'll see that the morrow, but I wont be late for the game. I'll be gone by 2:00 o' clock whatever happens." I hung up, well pissed off. I really didn't want to do it, but I couldn't ignore the cold, hard, bailiff evading fact that I needed the brass, and few hours at treble time would be a big help. I could take my rugby kit with me and get round to the changing rooms in time, straight from the workshops. Unlike some employers, they weren't particularly accommodating around my rugby. That was probably because most of my workmates, Smithy included, were a sad bunch football fanatics, mainly Barnsley FC supporters and a more devout gathering of Tykes you could not imagine. 9:00 am on Sunday morning, I was parked up outside the workshop, thinking of the money, sulking, and headed in. I changed into my overalls, and with a sharp tug of the pull up loops, had my grease blackened rigger boots firmly on. I got stuck in up to the eyeballs with Smithy, sorting out the Merc. It had seen a hard life, getting used for bulk aggregate tipper runs, and some agency driver had evidently been a bit lax with his left boot and made a good job of finishing off the clutch. On some wagons you could inspect the clutch for friction material life, but there was no was you could check with those old Mercs. You didn't know it was fucked until it was fucked. Keeping busy with my spanners that morning was in some ways a good thing as, brass aside, it occupied my mind before the game, rather then spending the morning brooding tensely and endlessly rolling rugby strategy around in my head. The job was as filthy and complicated as I expected it to be and my once navy blue overalls were even blacker with grease than they usually were, before I was half way through. As the morning progressed, even working wasn't taking my mind off the game, and I was constantly mentally psyching myself up for it, not paying attention to the job and trying to tighten up bolts the wrong way round and getting more aluminium slip on my hands than the threads. Smithy stopped for a quick smoke around 11:30, and I decided I needed a break as well, so I went off to the bog for a piss, having downed about 3 mugs of coffee already. I've never known whether this is just me or not, but tension always makes me feel horny and I fancied having a bit of a wank to ease some of my pre match tension. I went into the bleak, cold outhouse that functioned as the workshop privy, and knowing I was alone, gave my itchy bollocks a good rub through the coarse material of my overalls, my hand leaving a greasy smear. I was only wearing my underpants and an old vest under my overalls, as the weather wasn't that cold. Still having a good feel around between my legs, I felt the familiar, automatic increase of blood flow into my cock and the stirring of arousal that soon started me off on a good start toward getting a proper fucking hard on. I watched the increasing bulge under my overalls, and slowly began popping open the studs down the front, working slowly down to my groin. Overalls open, I reached in and cupped my balls, felling their weight and warmth in my skiddies, and the thick tube of my cock. I fished out my dick and had a quick piss, watching my erection grow as the urine flow ended. I had a glance over my shoulder and a quick listen to make sure I was still alone. Half hard already, I couldn't resist having a little rub. Slowly, gently, I let my fist form around my prick and started to stroke my shaft as my erection rapidly grew. I'm not a donkey by any means, but I'd found out from my experiences with other blokes that I was a bit above average in the cock department, a good 7 inches worth, pretty thick and ruler straight, with a nicely formed, bullet shaped head, just right for slipping into a willing bloke's holes. I gently peeled my foreskin back, and looked down on the tip, smooth and shiny under the bare bulb light in the bog. I started probing the tip, my oily finger dipping into the slit at the end, and I found the slickness of my precum starting to ooze. I used my finger to draw a string of it from the end of my prick, like spun sugar, before smearing it around the glans, and rubbing it into the rim, gently circling my finger round the firm fleshy ridge. I was fully erect now, my cock twitching gently in my hand in pace with my heartbeat. I wanted to go for it, wank off and come, relieving my tension, but I knew I couldn't before a game, I had to keep up my testosterone level way up for my performance on the field that afternoon. I reasoned there was no harm in enjoying myself a bit more though, and suddenly worried I might be discovered by Smithy, standing there with my cock sticking out of my greased up overalls with a full hard on, so I stepped into the single grim cubicle. The lock on the door was fucked, so I sat on the bog seat, lid down, and braced the door shut with my riggers. I could enjoy myself at my own pace now. I lifted up my arse and shuffled my underpants down around the tops of my thighs under my overalls and my left hand reached inside the opened stud front, and under my vest as I continued gently teasing my cock. I felt around, slowly stroking my body. All the work in the gym had done me good and I enjoyed the feeling of my firm torso and the hard muscle of my pectorals, and I gently ruffled through the light dusting of chestnut hair coating them. I continued, tweaking my nipples gently and stroking down over my flat stomach, tracing the furry trail that thickened out toward my cock hairs. Looking at my prick, I saw another bead of precum was forming like a dewdrop at the tip, which I smeared down the shaft, my left hand reaching further to cup my hairy balls. I delved a little further, my bicep straining to pull my arm deeper, until I could just reach the crack of my arse. I wanted to go deeper, and rub my arsehole, maybe push in a finger, even see if I get a couple up as I kept up the slow stoke of my aching shaft, but the position I was sat in with my legs bracing the door and the restriction of my overalls stopped me. I concentrated on my cock instead, enjoying the comforting sexual pleasure I was bringing to myself with my right hand. My prick was rock hard and twitching, and I was thinking about the feeling of burying my length into some bloke's tight arse, or into his wet, sucking mouth. I circled my cock with thumb and forefinger, gently stroking up and down, trying to simulate the feeling of a bloke's lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me off, getting me well fucking horny and making me spunk in his gob, a thick wad of cock snot right into the greedy fucker's mouth. 'Whoa boy! Whoa! Stop'! I told myself. I knew if I went on any longer I'd get too far into it, so far that I'd have to come. 'Not before a game', I reminded myself, 'not before a game'. With a touch of amusement, I recalled Dave's strict orders, the old tradition of no leg over before a match and his stern counsel: 'No fucking yer lass the night before the game lads, even if she looks like Sharon Stone and she's got a cunt wetter than an otters pocket.' Dave had also made it clear that wanking off , for the single lads, wasn't advisable either. With the thought of the coach having come into my head, the reality of the difficult rugby game I would shortly be playing came back to the front of my mind, and with a firm resolve, I let go of my cock. The quick play about with myself had at least worked to ease my tension a little. I tucked my prick back into my overalls, still hard, and buttoned them up. I spent five minutes stamping around the cubicle, thinking about rugby, thinking about anything but sex, until my hard on had finally faded enough to risk going back into the workshop. The rest of the morning and early afternoon went smoothly, and with plenty of reference to the workshop manuals, the Merc's stubborn clutch eventually got sorted out. Smithy and myself stood back, pleased with a job well done, and a customer who owed the firm a big favour. They'd get one hefty fucking invoice for Sunday working that was for sure, and I had the satisfaction of knowing I'd 5 hours treble time to come in my wages on the Friday. It was useful that we still got paid in cash then, a little envelope with your name on, a few coins, a wage slip and lots of notes for the rent, petrol and the pub. I finishing cranking the cab of the Merc back down and found a piece of rag to start getting the muck out of my hands, thinking about the rugby ball they would soon be holding. I'd look a right fucking prat if I dropped it on the field because my hands were still black with grease. Work done and taking it easy, Smithy was busy flicking through a grubby copy of 'Razzle' from the pile in the corner of the workshop. I'd had a flick through myself once or twice to see how the other half lives, and I suppose, to keep up appearances. Straight porn never did a thing for me though, all smooth skin, enormous tits and little pink cunts. I'd fucked a few lasses when I was younger, the first one when I was about 17 in the Co-op car park round about 1:00 am on the passenger seat of my first car, which was a prison cell grey Vauxhall Nova. The car was a dog and so was the lass, but it wasn't the Nova's dipstick that got oily that night. It was alright I suppose, I got myself off up her, but it was all a bit dull, fumbling in the dark, and a quick feel of her tits before struggling to get a condom rolled down the length of my cock, and get it up her cunt for a dozen shoves and a grunt. The rubber I was wearing had blunted the sensation, but I was glad my spunk was going to end up in a Durex Featherlite's rubber teat, rather than materialising into one of the pregnancies I'd seen lumbering some of my mates. I was definitely too young for shotgun weddings or C.S.A. attachments to my wages. I came pretty quickly and all said and done, it wasn't any better than a good wank and at it made me feel dishonest. I'd always had an interest in men's bodies that never really occurred to me with females. First time I got frisky with a bloke was a totally different matter than with a bird. It just had the electricity that I didn't get with a lass, and playing with a man's hard cock and hairy bollocks was far more appealing than a fanny. Running my hand up the insides of a bloke's hairy thighs gave me a electric tingle no woman could ever deliver. Fucking a bloke was infinitely better; hotter and tighter, just raw sex and good fun. Fucking men just seemed to be what came to me naturally, and the first time I got fucked myself, after I'd learned to take it without out it hurting like, well, like buggery, I found a whole new area of pleasure to enjoy and never looked back since. Except once I suppose. There was one time on a rugby tour after we'd been played a friendly away game in Lancashire and we'd stopped overnight at a Travel Lodge and went out on the piss in Warrington. I got fairly drunk as usual, and somehow me, Stuart the winger and Pete the fullback had ended talking to this flirty, fairly pretty, blonde lass. Stuart and Pete were both practically drooling over her like a couple of bulls in heat, and she was certainly returning their attentions. Somehow, accepting what was either a booze fuelled dare or invitation, the three of ended up in round the back of the club with the accommodating blond, and we'd all taken it turns to screw her up against the wall, behind a stack of empty bottle crates. She made it pretty clear she fancied the look of us and was prepared to take us all on. Somehow, I had to go along with the flow, not really wanting to advertise the fact I preferred blokes. Pete went first, and the horniest thing about it had been watching Pete perform, with his jeans round his ankles and his arse bobbing between her legs. I got the odd glimpse of his cock, and though he was about average in the erection department, he could fuck for Yorkshire. The blonde certainly seemed to enjoy herself. At least watching a man in action, fucking away, had given me a hard on. The best thing about my own turn was the thought that I was sliding into her fanny on Pete's spunk. I had a huge pair of breasts in my face and couldn't do much but drop my pants, lift up her legs, slip in my prick and hump away, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible and ignore all the shrill tittering and horrible perfume she was wearing. Even though we were fucking her bareback, with me hopefully assuming she was on the pill, I couldn't feel that much, not even Pete's spunk on my dick, either because or cunt was slack, or because of the alcohol, or probably both. Somehow I managed to shoot my bolt within a couple of minutes, but only because I'd made myself think about fucking the big bruiser of a bouncer I'd been surreptitiously eyeing up earlier. Stuart was up her straight after me, and we drunkenly cheered him on for half a minute before he came. The blonde was a classy lass though. When we were done, zipping up our jeans, she calmly put her knickers back on, carefully smoothed down her mini skirt, put her tits away, gave each of us a dainty kiss and sassed her way back into the club to catch up her with her mates, with a 'see you boys!' look over her artificially tanned shoulder. I had to admire her for knowing what she wanted and being prepared and bold enough to get it. We got appallingly drunk that night, and ended up drinking until about 4 am in another dubious club. I think it was called 'The Fish Tank' or something similar. We were in there until 4:00 am, drinking ourselves daft on Carlsberg, slapping each other on the back, with Pete and Stuart gleefully recounting the experience with exaggerated finesse as to their performances. It took two days to recover from my hang over. Pete and Stuart never stopped boasting about the incident to anyone who cared to listen for weeks afterward. I felt uncomfortable about it, and something about that lass's attitude and endearing, if brazen, honesty made me reflect on myself. She made me realise that you may as well be honest about what you want, and that if you don't ask you don't get. You may as well take your chances and grasp the moment instead of building up a long list of the ones that got away. I was honest to myself thereafter, and stuck happily to cocks and arseholes and made a private oath to tell the truth if I was ever asked about my inclinations. Unlike myself, there were no doubts which way Smithy was inclined from the lecherous leer he was evidencing, as he held Razzle out vertically in front of him at arms length in his oily grip to gawp at the centrefold. "Cor! Would you look at that! Look at the fuckin' tits on her! I'd give her one all right!" "Well I'll leave you to then mate!" I told him. I couldn't really have a go at him for it, after having just had a quick tug myself that morning. Smithy finally put miss August 1989 back away in the corner and started tidying up the workshop. "Thanks mate, I really needed your help today" Smithy told me, with genuine sincerity. "No worries brother." I replied. "Aye, and yer done on time for the rugby. You must be bloody mad you lot. Can't say I fancy spending my Sundays braying lumps out of each other on that muddy field with you all you head cases. Any road, good luck mate, I hope you win." Smithy had suddenly reminded me. I'd completely forgotten the time. I had a quick look at my watch. 14:04. Shite! I was supposed to be at the ground already. Dave usually insisted we got there at least an hour before kick off and I knew he'd give me absolute hell if I was late, especially for today's game. I ran around like a headless chicken, all clumsy boots and panic, tripping over my own bollocks to get scrubbed up at the sinks, getting as much black grease off my hands and out from under my fingernails as I could, with several hearty dollops of industrial cleanser. I didn't have time to change out of my work clothes, so decide to grab my kit out of my Golf, and leg it out and round the corner to the grounds as I was. Rummaging in the boot, I hauled out my hefty sports holdall, crammed with my clean rugby gear and a change for the pub afterwards. With my kit bag straining over my shoulder, I jogged round the corner and through the sports ground gate, still in Arco's finest. With the name of my employer's garage plastered all over the back of my overalls I always felt like a walking free advert if I had to wear them outside the workshop. It took less then ten minutes to arrive on the crumbling square of tarmac that passed for a car park behind the club house, Mercedes Benz commercial vehicle's clutches were nearly forgotten and my mind was clearly focussed back on the rugby and the work that me and the team had to do that afternoon. I was still tense, despite my quick wank, but that wasn't a bad thing: I knew it would keep me sharp and hungry for winning. I was looking forward to playing this game, knowing it would be a hard fought match and a good test of my own progress and our team's skills, aware we were going to have to work for very hard for every point and maintain a defence stronger than a Scania chassis. I was inevitably a bit late, my watch showing 14:36 with kick off set for 3:00 pm. Dave's insistence on everyone present and correct an hour before kick off, and the lack of players hanging around the car park told me most of our team and our opponents had already arrived, and were busy preparing for the oncoming battle in the changing rooms. There were a few cars in our small car park, most of which would belonged to our opponents. Nearly everyone on the team was local, and to save drink driving troubles after getting to the pub after the game, most of the men got to the ground on foot or bus. A bus trip with a heavy kit bag was a definitely a fair price to pay to be able to completely fucking rat arsed after the rugby. Dave was standing in the car park, undoubtedly waiting me for me, puffing away on an Embassy number one, leaning against the wall in his old grey sweatpants, rugby club sweater and a tatty fleece. I knew he would have been watching the opposing squad as they arrived, undoubtedly looking for any players with signs of a limp to reveal an injury he could advise us to exploit. He saw me, made a mock frown at the fact I was still in my grimy overalls and clapped a meaty hand down on my shoulder. Rugby League "'Bout fuckin' time lad! Dave bellowed over the car park, making an exaggerated scrutiny of his stop watch. "Thy should've been here half hour since, instead of greeding for overtime. I thought tha weren't coming!'" "Well I don't come here for the rugby, just thy pretty face!" I threw back at him. I grinned, yielding a deep chuckle from the coach. I'd always got on well with Dave, mainly as I was, allegedly, one of his most promising players and probably because he'd once been a staff sergeant in the same Signals regiment as my uncle. I'd certainly cheered him with a good start to the year, with a try the last weekend and two the week before, and I was I set on maintaining my four point average as a personal goal for the year. Dave had another look at his stopwatch and made an emphasised sigh and looked my overalls up and down with a comical shake of his head in mock despair, which made me smile. You could always have a bit of a laugh and a carry on with Dave, but when it came to the rugby, he was completely serious, and had an admirable, determined manner of coaxing the best out of us, developing our skills, and getting the team working together. If he couldn't push us to victory, he'd still make damned sure that we still made a bloody good attempt. There was definitely no room for slackers on his squad. Dave used his elbows to push himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, the movement creating an interesting shifting of his large bollocks in his grey sweat pants. Dave was pretty well hung, which I knew from subtle observations in the changing rooms and showers, and I loved watching the way his hefty crotch shifted about at the front of his sweat pants, the loose fit emphasising the bulge between his legs as his big pair of balls and thick cock shifted about in the jockstrap I knew he'd be wearing underneath. I idly wondered what he'd look like with a hard on. I gave Dave a grin, and took my eyes away from his crotch before he noticed. He fixed me with a mockingly stern stare: "Well don't be pissin' about out here you great fuckin' grease monkey, get thysen in, get kitted up, and we'll go over how we'll play this one. They're still waiting for their new props to get here, so we've a bit of time yet, mister come fuckin' lately!" Dave seemed less full of perky enthusiasm than usual before a game, which almost chewed at my confidence slightly. I hoped the rest of the team hadn't picked up on it. I stayed where I was when I saw Dave looking funny over to the car park entrance. "Ay up." muttered Dave solemnly, nodding his head in a stern address to our opponents coach, George Williams, who'd just arrived, in his flash as fuck, white Vauxhall Carlton GSi 3000. It was a "J" plate, brand new at the time and I disliked him already. Great motor. 3 litre six, and fast as fuck. Nothing as sad as envy. Williams climbed out. He always looked the same, a right little beady eyed weasel harrying his team about like a fucking ferret on acid, and was supposedly rather matey with more than one referee, which had seen a fair few penalties go in his team's favour in the past. I felt a sharp nudge in my ribs from the coach, and Dave nodded causally in the direction of one of the last of the other teams to head in to change, who I clocked as the new winger. I recognised him from a few match shots in the sports pages at the back of the local paper. John Edwards I recalled. First made a name for himself in our opponents under 21's squad and by all accounts would shape up into a good adult player in his first year with the big boys. He'd knocked up 5 tries over their first three games, and still only 22. I had some serious competition to face this year. Fast like a fox and with unbelievable stamina and reserves he was going to give us plenty of focus for the defensive play. "We'll be watchin' him, the little cunt, and I hope 'e fuckin' knows it." Dave grumbled. "He's nearly as a good as thee lad!" Dave warned me. "Fuck off Dave! There's no cunt as good me!" I told him, joking of course. I'm not that immodest. Dave paused to grind out his cigarette under his trainer, the movement of his leg creating another set of interesting bouncing about of the bulge at his groin. Smoke finished, Dave gave me an open handed slap on my arse that nearly knocked me over, followed with a firm friendly squeeze of the right cheek of my backside. "Right, fuck off in and I'll see you in there." Dave ordered, and stomped off into the changing rooms to prepare his troops for battle. I was just about to do as told and follow him in, when the last of our opponents finally turned up. With a belch of smoky exhaust and the loud rattle of a poorly tuned 2.5 litre diesel engine, the clattering of which told me a tale of bad valve clearances, a filthy, rust dappled and cement spattered flatbed Transit van lurched into the car park. It halted smack in the middle of the Tarmac, with a scrape of loose shovels and unsecured masonry in the flatbed shifting about, nearly grazing the wing of Dave's red Ford Sierra estate. The Transit's dashboard was pretty typical for a builder's van, littered with tatty copies of the Daily Star, a dog eared Penthouse, Lambert and Butler cartons, Bic biros, duct tape, a couple of well battered dirty yellow hard hats and a chipped coffee mug. It was a miracle anyone could see out of the windscreen. I noticed the tax disc was out of date. I saw a hastily scribbled semi literate note covered in grubby fingerprints announcing 'In the Post' underneath. I recognised the name of the general builders & roofers on the side of the Transit's door: A small local construction firm of the variety you need spurs on your boots to work for. The cogs in my head had a quick when I recognised the firms' name, and I racked my brain cells to work out why it was so familiar. Then I groaned inwardly when I put two and two together, from a bit of local and historical knowledge and instantly realised that this would be our opponents' new prop forwards. I groaned doubly because I'd suddenly realised exactly who they were: Darren and Trevor, otherwise known unimaginatively as Daz and Trev, a couple of semi local general builders in their thirties, though with mental ages still in the teens. Daz and Trev came with long reputations for being hot heads on the field and even longer reputations and petty criminal records off the field. You could always guarantee where there was trouble in the town, they would probably be involved, and where you found one, you would always find the other. The two partners in crime were probably responsible for a good part of the fly tipping in every country lane within 20 miles, and it wasn't their only indiscrimination in tipping their loads. A couple of weeks before, Daz had got himself barred from yet another local pub after the landlord allegedly found him getting a blow job off some young lass in the tap room, presumably while Trev waited his turn. At least it had ended without a fight kicking off, the police getting called out and yet another assault conviction for the motley pair. Daz and Trev were notorious for kicking off, on the field and off it, fist first and brain later and just about every pub brawl locally would see one of those two involved if not directly responsible. If it wasn't for the amount of ale I'd seen them consume every Friday and Saturday night, they'd be have been the bane of every land lord within a twenty mile radius. The last time I'd seen Trev off the field had been on a Saturday night in Wakefield, after a few of my squad mates had been out for a good nights drinking up Westgate and I'd seen him around midnight, after his evening's drinking and fighting, kicking off outside Rooftop Gardens and getting manhandled into the back of a black maria, handcuffed and struggling. It had taken 4 coppers to achieve it and the police were getting a proper lamping. Although it would be fair to say Daz and Trev were a couple of big, thick, rough as fuck, drunken louts, they had the one redeeming feature of being fucking good rugby league players. They were a good 10 years older than me, with one hell of a lot more experience on the field. They were going to be formidable in the opposition pack. They were both incredibly big, strong, well built blokes, and they predictably excelled as prop forwards, with plenty of power and weight to push into the opposition, and if they worked as pair, had the combined size and stamina to smash a path through just about any likely opposition for the best of the backs and try scorers to surge through. They'd played for a few teams, including ours, though before my time. Apparently, they had never been the most reliable players, usually with one or the other of them being unable to play due to a few weeks in prison or a hangover. I'd noticed that both had been absent from the rugby scene the last year, and I could imagine a fair few dubious reasons why, but, unlucky for everyone, the two big bastards were back, and back with a vengeance. With their frequent on field brawling, high tackling, ear biting and sly knees in the bollocks, they were often regarded as too much of a penalty liability for a team, and I was a little surprised that the ultra conservative George Williams had seen fit to try them out on his prized squad. Dave Briggs had always thought them talented, but I don't think he'd regretted their defection a couple of years back, as he could never rely on them, either to turn up, or to stay out of the sin bin for more than twenty minutes play. I knew them from experience, as I'd crunched shoulders on the field with these bastards before and had once been blood binned off due to a streaming nose as the result of one of Daz's reckless high tackles. They'd absolutely flattened me a fair few times. Pair of bastards. Calling them dirty players didn't even begin to cover it, and you really had to watch them in the rucks, being more than likely to give you kick in the balls, or stamp on your face with a studded boot if the referee or the linesmen weren't looking. Daz was the first to noisily make his presence felt, banging open the door of the battered Transit. He shifted round in the driver's seat, lifted his broad arse up, eased his muscular legs apart and farted loudly. He had a good sniff, wiped his nose on the back of his dirty, shovel like mitt, then wiped his snotted hand on the sleeve of a grimy yellow, ripped hi-viz coat hung over the back of the driver's seat of the Transit. "All reet lads! The fuckin' cavalry's here!" he bellowed, before squeezing his enormous scruffy frame out of the door. Trev eased his even bigger body out of the passenger seat. I was pretty fit and well built myself, but these two gorillas were absolutely enormous, truly huge men. Physically, they were from the same mould, both built like brick shite houses, hairy, 6 foot plus, 16 odd stone apiece and one hell of a lot more of it muscle than fat, thick slabs of muscle wrapping their arms and shoulders, developed by many hard hours in the local gym and their daily labouring lark. Trev had a slight beer belly straining his thick leather belt, but was even more massive in the shoulders than Daz, with thighs that could have supported an aqueduct. He had to be one of the biggest men in local rugby league, a man mountain who put the likes of Brendan Hill to mind. Both of them had heads shaved down to the bone, Trev's a sandy brownish dirty blond, to Daz's dark blackish brown and each boasted a fair collection of scars from rugby and other 'social' events. Daz had a couple of teeth missing and a deep scar through his eyebrow, and Trev a nose that said it had been broken more than once, with a pair of nicely blooming cauliflower ears. It wasn't as if they had faces entirely like a welder's bench though. I hated to admit it, but in a rough way they certainly weren't bad looking lads. Trev's hazel eyes almost looked sensitive in contrast to the bull like build of the rest of him, and Daz showed off a gorgeous pair of brown eyes under his brow, which has always been a weakness of mine. Neither of them looked like they'd shaved for a about a week, with Daz's jaw dark with a six o clock shadow and Trev was about two days growth short of what looked like a thick, sandy, round the gob beard, that I suppose you'd call a goatee these days. "Wahey! You bunch of wankers! 'Ope yer ready to get proper fuckin' slaughtered" goaded Daz, as unsportsmanlike and immature as possible and grinning stupidly in my direction. He vaguely recognised me from previous encounters on the rugby field, and he'd seen me at the gym occasionally. Fortunately, with my shifts, he was usually leaving as I arrived, but he'd sussed me out and given me the odd nod as a fellow rugger and a player for his old team. He was scratching at one of his well pumped up pectorals, the action pulling his dirty T shirt down to show a thick patch of glossy black hair curling over his chest. Still looking at me, his brain at last having placed me, he decided to have a dig. "You ready for a proper game o' rugby then grease monkey? 'Bout time I bloodied yer nose again for ya!" Daz snickered, scratching his well packed crotch. I wasn't the only one who'd been working that morning by the looks of things. Daz and Trev looked like they had come to the game straight from their latest building site, still in their work clothes, filthy cement smeared jeans and brick dust powdered T shirts full of holes, showing off their thick, muscular, liberally tattooed arms. They'd probably spent the morning making an overpriced bodged job of bricklaying some poor bastards new garage. Daz spat out a big slimy gob of saliva onto the tarmac, landing with a splat, inches from the toe cap of his muddy size twelve rigger boot, the toe cap worn right through to the steel under the tan leather. He gave his substantially bulging crotch another good scratch, his filthy jeans tight over his thick tree trunk thighs, and farted again. I could distinctly see the shape of his big plum sized bollocks between his legs, the gusset of his jeans neatly separating his hefty gonads into twin bulges. I'd steeled myself to ignore their predictable petty jibes, but true to their Neanderthal form, they were having none of it, and kept up with their goading. "Yer might as well give up now and go home lad, 'cos were gonna fuckin flatten yer!" Trev continued, followed up cheerfully with Daz: "Aye, you'll be a right sorry lookin' bunch a cunts in a couple of hours mate!" Daz pushed. I rose to the bait. "I don't need to wait a couple of hours to look at sorry cunts mate," I responded, "I'm looking at pair of 'em now!" Daz stopped stock still, then bristled up in hopefully feigned, exaggerated outrage and anger. "Whaaaat!" roared Daz in mock indignation, "I'll fuckin' flatten thee now you little fucker!" "Come on! Let's have the cunt!" chipped in Trev, and both of them lurched from the Transit toward me, thundering like a pair of stampeding bison, a two man mountain of muscle and malevolent intent, rumbling over the car park towards me. Before I could even blink, Daz had shouldered me painfully, spinning me round, and grabbed my left wrist with his large hand, and twisted it up behind my back, as he simultaneously hooked his big, thick, hairy forearm around my neck. I could feel the heat of his body and the firm tense muscle of his torso against me as I struggled and wriggled, but strong as I was, I couldn't break out from his incredible grip, or pull his JCB piston like arm from round my neck with my one free hand. We stood there struggling and grunting for a few moments as I inhaled the warm musky smell of his sweaty, hairy body from his morning's labouring, sharpened with a stronger, sharper odour from his damp sweaty armpits wafting up my nostrils. Even through my overalls, I could feel his belly and the underlying muscle, firm against the small of my back, and the dangerous bulge of his crotch rubbing against my arse as the coarse dark hair on his forearms tickled my chin. "Got you now you little fucker." he grunted, his breath warm and damp in my left ear and his three day stubble scrubbing the side of my neck, as I continued wrestling with him, trying to get him off my back and slip out of the arm lock. His arm was deliberately restricting my air supply, and I was beginning to gasp for oxygen as he squeezed tighter, my vision beginning to blur as I struggled to focus on the straining muscle in his arm and the Yorkshire white rose tattooed below his elbow. Trev had caught us up and grabbed the front of my overalls. His sturdy, muscular forearms were covered in dense curly sandy hair with a thick spread of it over the back of his dirty hands, down to his impressively scarred knuckles. Trev yanked the front of my overalls upward sharply, producing the intended result of digging the gusset sharply into my testicles, which brought a sharp grunt of pain from me. I was absolutely fucking mental with outrage, still struggling against Daz's grip, desperate to get out of it and give the pair of them a good, hard, well deserved kick in the balls. "What do we do with thee then, grease monkey?" enquired Trev, grinning evilly, as Daz kept me pinioned. He leaned close to share his unpleasant thoughts. "I reckon we should cut yer bollocks off, stuff 'em in yer gob an make yer fuckin eat 'em before Daz rips yer fuckin' head off yer shoulders!" Trev suggested. His hazel eyes twinkled with a spark of evil intent instead of their usual glazed stupidity at his brilliant idea. "Nah mate, I reckon we should string this cunt up by the balls, hang him off his own goal posts for a couple hours an let him fuckin' squeal." Daz offered in his deep rumble, full of evil delight at bullying someone slightly smaller than himself. "Great idea! String him up slowly! He'll be fuckin' beggin' by time we've got 'im up on his toes" Trev added, evidently relishing the thought, his massive hairy mitts still holding me firmly by the front of my overalls. I kept struggling, getting nowhere, still struggling to breathe in Daz's arm lock, clamped round me like a fucking vice. "There's some rope in't back of the wagon, that'd be perfect for stringing the cunt up!" I could still feel Daz's wet, slimy spit hitting the side of my neck as he talked. I decided I'd had enough and tried to reach back and poke the big fucking ape in the eye. Daz pulled back when he saw my finger going for his eyeballs, and tripped up, pulling me down onto the tarmac with his massive, throttling arm still round my neck, and Trev, still gripping my overalls, ended up pulled along, falling on top of us, flattening me under his huge bulk. We landed in heap, a great, grunting, wrestling pile of straining muscles, stamping rigger boots, smelly, sweaty flesh, flailing arms, kicking feet, swearing and struggling. Winded by the colossal weight of Trev's huge body falling on me, I tried to wriggle out from between them. "What in the name of fuck's goin on 'ere!!!!" bellowed Dave Briggs voice, peaked with rage. He'd stealthily come back outside, unobserved, to see what was holding me up and what all the noise was about and found the three of us in a messy heap in the middle of the car park. "Save it for the fucking field girls!" he roared, livid with outrage and disgust at our unsportsmanlike behaviour. "Now sort yourselves out, you big bunch of fucking poofs, stop mucking about and get the fuck on with yourselves!" he roared, before storming back into the home changing rooms and slamming the door. We untangled ourselves, me fuming with rage, humiliation and a desire for revenge, which at least I could look forward to venting on the field, but Trev and Daz were creased with mirth, laughing heartily which only incensed me even more.