This story is copyrighted (c) 2003 to rugbystud@hotmail.com and first posted on the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive website. It may not be copied or posted or transmitted in any way except in its entirety and with this disclaimer.
Don't read this if you are a minor, or live in an area were this is illegal, find male/male sex offensive, or aren't in to rugby and rugby players. It also, unfortunately, contains a bit of violence, which I'm still a little ashamed of over three years later. Read on before you judge and find out the whole story.
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Gay or straight, I wouldn't mind betting that the changing rooms are one of the favourite places for rugby players (or maybe for all sportsmen). Ever since school, I've felt relaxed in a changing room. Not just for the sight of so many naked male bodies but because of the bonding that goes on. It had changed for the better for me after my team-mate Paul had fucked me in the local sports centre's changing rooms, him bollock naked and me in my jockstrap (read rugby-player-sex for the full account). His admission of seeing me give a mate a blow-job the previous weekend (yeah - you need to read another story for that - rugby-weekend-tour) had led to him giving me one helluva fuck. But I couldn't help feeling that I'd let Paul get away with a bit of blackmail.
Paul had given me the impression that he wanted to meet up again the Friday after, but between one thing and another, even though we had a few rugby games together and saw each other in the clubhouse, it was about three weeks before we ended up at the sports centre again on the Friday night.
This time, he came jogging with me, which wasn't his normal routine. I'd done about 3 laps when he appeared and kept pace. I still don't know if he'd done it on purpose, but he was wearing the kind of sports shorts that always make me go weak at the knees. High cut shorts with the triangular cut on the thigh, showing off so much of his thick muscular legs. He couldn't have known about my shorts preferences, maybe he just made a good guess that amongst other things, I'm a leg man.
He chatted about general stuff all the way around the track, then began making not-so-subtle hints about us "better getting back to the changing rooms before the rush". Oh boy was he obvious - inside I was laughing that this guy was totally under the control of his dick. Having been on the receiving end of the surprise last time though, I wasn't going to be controlled again. So I kept jogging and upped the pace a little, making him work to keep pace with me.
As this was November, it was dark and had been for a while. The track around the centre wasn't fully lit but the far end was a kind of murky grey as it picked up some light from the floodlit car park at the front. So here I stopped. In the twilight zone.
"Look mate, I'm not fucking daft OK? I know why you want to go and change before the rush. What do you think I am? An easy fuck like the slags you get off with behind Amy's back?"
Paul actually stepped back from me. I'd never actually seen anyone do that, I always thought it was confined to works of dramatic fiction. But he actually took a step back from me.
"Dave, I just thought you'd be up for some of my cock again, y'know. Queers are always gaggin' for cock aren't they? And you didn't fuckin' complain last time, you loved it. Come on, I really need a fuck, not more of Lady Pam."
Silence. Then . . . .
"No."
"What?"
"No mate, I'm not gonna just bend over, drop my shorts and let you fuck me. You think so fuckin' much of yourself don't you? God's fucking gift to the world, Paul and his amazing big cock. You need a fuckin' reality check, mate."
"Dave, mate, don't be like that, come on man, you know you want it."
"You are such a fuckin' prick mate. Get over yourself."
"Dave, c'mon please?"
He was almost desperate. I hadn't really got a plan worked out, but I knew I had the control this time. He'd made the mistake of admitting he wanted this, despite his arrogance. And I wasn't going to let this opportunity pass.
"If you want to empty the sacs mate, we do it my way this time, or you can go on wanking till your kid arrives and Amy's ready for you."
"But that's months and I've gotta be careful coz Amy's family would fucking kill me if they saw me shagging around any more."
"So, what exactly? You fuck me so they don't catch you with another girl. You're a bastard, do you realise that?"
Paul smiled. Bastard indeed. He rubbed his crotch. And smiled again. But I wasn't going to lose control, not this time.
"No fuck, sorry mate." His face fell. "But if you want to see why Baz was so happy on the fire escape, get your dick out and I'll show you."
"What, out here???" he asked.
"Yeah, don't tell me a little cold air bothers you?"
"No it's just that anyone could walk past us."
"Like anyone could have walked in on us in the changing rooms last time?" I asked.
He paused. I'd got him. Besides, he obviously didn't want to miss out on a blow job. So he looked around then slowly pulled his shorts down to just above his knees. Even in the dark and in the cold air, he was a sight. Not hard, he was hanging longer in the cold than most guys do with a full boner.
Without any fuss, I took the whole lot into my mouth. I ran my tongue all around his thick shaft, I bobbed my head so that my lips squeezed his dick from root to tip, each motion taking longer as he lengthened and thickened. He held my head, running his fingers through my hair and I could tell he was getting in to the rhythm, his knees bent slowly as he thrust into my face. But all the while, I was in control.
I reached up and around and caressed his arse, making him shiver even more in the cold breeze. I was moaning and making sure the vibration transferred to his rock-hard shaft and smoothing his arse as if my hands would keep them warm because his shorts were elsewhere.
My own shorts were painfully tight as my own dick had sprung out like a jack-in-the-box as soon as I'd made tongue contact with Paul's horse cock. But I left mine alone as I slurped and swallowed all the salty-sweet pre-cum that was pouring from Paul. His foreskin was sliding over his gobstopper cockhead like there was no friction there at all. A well-oiled cock-machine, slowly fucking my throat. But I didn't want it slow any more.
Oh no.
I changed pace and wrapped my left arm around his waist and splayed out my hand across both arse-cheeks. With my right, I pushed between his legs and up, till my thumb was rubbing his left crotch. The side of my index finger was pressing the root of his dick behind his balls and the tip was gently brushing against his pucker. A tried and tested technique. And it worked, of course.
Paul began grunting, literally shoving his monster dick in to my mouth, wanting me to deep throat his pulsing-hard rod. He was also heavily in to my probing finger as he was very obviously rubbing his arsehole on it, like it was the best sensation ever (as some of us already know).
Before long he was spraying thick warm salty streams of cum into my mouth. I was gulping and swallowing as fast as I could and still he came. There was so much of it that I began to think he'd lost control and was pissing but my taste buds told me that it was just an incredible load I was getting.
His knees buckled slightly and he slumped in to me, grabbing my head and holding on to me to steady himself in the cold and almost-complete darkness.
So I held him, his breathing was hoarse in the cold air but I was keeping him warm. But I needed to get off too, so still holding him with my left arm, I reached down, dug my rock-hard dick out and began pounding my cock.
He felt what I was doing and tried to pull away, but I held him.
"Uh-uh mate, you got yours now it's my turn."
I began to kiss his stomach, grinding my stubble in to his pelvis, licking his crotch and sticky cockhead. Despite the strength of his orgasm only a few minutes earlier, he began to swell and stiffen again. But before he could get back in to it, I was the one who started grunting and with a massive thrust, I shot my load over the track, the grass and for good measure across his muscular calves too.
I stood up, holding my dick, looking him in the eye. I wiped the drops of cum from my dick and licked my fingers clean. Since cumming, he hadn't said a word but he watched my every move. I put my dick away, then half knelt down and pulled his shorts up over his still semi-hard cock. He just stood there as I moved behind him, reached my arms around his waist and began to arrange and adjust his dick and balls, making sure his shorts were on him comfortably, ready to run back to the centre. All the while, he stood quietly and placidly as if I were an adult helping a child get dressed.
"Wanna hit the showers then mate?" I asked. He nodded, gave me an oddly endearing grin and we jogged back to the sports centre.
I wasn't expecting anything else to happen. I'd shown him I could take control and not be blackmailed into being a convenient hole for him to fuck.
But a few weeks later it all went to hell.
It was now early December and the rugby clubhouse was always full every second it was open. So many Christmas gatherings, all held in the clubhouse that doubled as a village hall to most people. I hadn't seen Paul for a while, but I'd heard that he and some of his mates (not all of whom were on the team) had began dabbling with things other than alcohol in the run up to the festive season.
One Saturday evening, the clubhouse was pretty packed with rugby players, partners, locals, almost everyone I could think of and name. I was sitting with Geraint, Simon and Gareth Jones the player and we'd been there since early afternoon, watched Sky Sports all afternoon over a number of pints and we were very, very happy.
Paul and his mates weren't happy - they were off their faces and not just on drink. They were loud, obnoxious and despite him having a dick like a donkey, I remembered why I always ended up being pissed off by him. But this was just the start, the beginning of one hell of a night.
Paul is well known for being a boastful bastard, but he made a fucking huge mistake that night. He began telling his mates at the top of his voice how many girls he'd shagged over the last couple of months. Most of us knew this anyway, but the news that Paul had been fucking every female within a ten mile radius came as a shock to Amy's family who were sitting about 3 tables away. Amy was his pregnant girlfriend. Now I know that I'm in the same category as these girls are for shagging and sucking off a spoken-for rugby player, but Paul wasn't talking about me. Yet.
"That blonde bitch I was shagging last week from Neath was as tight as fuck, I really stretched her more than once!" Paul can also be incredibly crude when he's pissed. "But after a few fucks, she said she was sore and could she blow me instead. Well I wasn't gonna turn down an offer like that, so she sucked me off a coupla times as well. Fuck, my balls were drained. She was a fuckin amazing cocksucker. Oi Dave, you're a cocksucker, did you give her any tips on how to suck a man's dick or did you just demonstrate on Baz in front of her." He banged the table and howled with laughter.
For a minute, I just sat there, wide-eyed, stunned and gulping my pint of lager. Geraint, Simon and Gareth Jones the player just looked back and forth between Paul and me as if they were at Wimbledon. Slowly I noticed that the place had gone very quiet. Then I noticed that Amy's two brothers, uncle and her blood-red faced father were storming towards Paul's table.
Simon turned to me, almost comically shocked. "Are you gonna fuckin' let him get away with that, the fuckin' bastard?"
I'm sorry to say that despite being gay and possibly more enlightened than many in the South Wales Valleys, I'm still Valleys-bred with some social conditioning that I can't overcome. No I fuckin' wasn't gonna let him get away with that. Not only for the reasons of male honour that my team-mates supposed, but because the two-faced bastard was willing to fuck me when his dick took over but could also humiliate me in front of almost everyone I knew for a laugh.
Paul's mates had stepped in front of the table, one or two to try and calm things down, but some who were as far gone as Paul and wanted to start things going. One guy called Brian, not really a local boy and supposedly the purveyor of whatever they were on, stepped up to Amy's brothers and pushed them both backwards. Bad move. Very bad move. They both went for him and in seconds the whole place was in uproar.
Then I made my move. I'm normally a laid back kinda guy, but I was boiling with rage and humiliation and no one was going to get between me and Paul. Amy's father was toe-to-toe with Paul's elder brother Peter, trying to get at Paul, so all attention was on them for now. A friend of Brian's turned and saw me coming but as he got up to intercept me I pulled him on rather than stopping him. Unbalanced, he went sailing past me onto the chairs next to Simon and Gareth Jones the player, who both apparently held him there by sitting on him as I found out later.
Paul must have sensed me coming or heard what happened as he turned just in time. Just in time for my fist to connect with his nose. The force of my punch must have come from the rage so many people feel when they're humiliated like that for being different. Paul was sent backwards over their table, drinks spilling, pint glasses breaking and his broken nose (yes I hit him that hard) leaving a trail of blood like a red rainbow in the air.
Peter, his brother, launched himself at me, catching his shoulder into my stomach and doubling me over, the force sending us both backwards where, apparently, we knocked over Brian's friend who'd only just got free of Simon and Gareth Jones the player. Simon came to my defence and pushed Peter off me, only to get a smack in the jaw for his trouble. Gareth Jones the player and Geraint were both on their feet behind me struggling with Brian's friend and a badly timed scuffle knocked me forwards, just as Peter was about to smack Simon again. Lucky for Simon, but not so lucky for me, my left eye intercepted Peter's elbow and my world became stars and fireworks. Peter turned in surprise but his smile of triumph was short-lived as Simon took the chance to smack back and belted him around the right ear with a force to be proud of.
There wasn't much time for anything else, though later I heard that about 23 people had injuries of some sort. The trouble with living in a small village is that the police don't have far to come when responding to calls about a riot. Especially as there's only one place for a riot to be anyway.
The boys in blue, some of whom we play rugby against of course, arrived and in a respectably short time had the place back in order. This was done by manhandling the culprits outside, including me, something I'd normally have enjoyed being done to me by a beefy copper.
No one was arrested or charged, the local coppers knew the score and who to blame. Brian and his mate were arrested the following day however, for possession and intent to supply so there was some justice served. As for Paul and me, we just stopped speaking to each other or even acknowledging that the other existed.
You may be asking yourself where the revenge-fuck comes in. Well there's a final part to this tale, one that took me totally by surprise.
6 months later and things have settled down in to a new routine. Gareth Jones the coach had by now had enough of Paul and despite needing all the good players he could get for the team, after many meetings with relevant parties, Paul was suspended until he sorted himself out. The fact that Amy's uncle is on the committee may well have helped push that little outcome forwards as well. Club politics, anyone?
Early June 2000, I'm home from work, showered and sitting outside the back door with a bottle of lager. Music playing in the living room, typical summer sounds outside, kids, lawnmowers, an ice-cream van. My moment of peace was interrupted when the doorbell rang.
It was Paul.
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I love getting comments about any of my rugby tales (the hornier the better as usual), so please e-mail me at rugbystud@hotmail.com.