I was once told someone would only read my stories ‘if your next book centres on a big hairy front row lust triangle 😉 #bellypower #niche.’ I wrote this a while ago, but intended on publishing it for Christmas. Events intervened and I’m going to rewrite it for another competition. In the meantime, enjoy the draft.
Since battling through the unseasonably early snow to arrive at the local GUM Clinic, George had buried his head in his phone. Turning up his rugby shirt collar wasn’t just to keep warm, he wanted anonymity too. He hadn’t even glanced at the other occupants; no way did he want to catch the eye or acknowledge anyone in there. There was always something that felt rather seedy and dirty about it all. Even the bright snow-reflected light shining in the windows couldn’t relieve the sordidness. So, he had jammed his bulk onto a chair and hoped the wait wasn’t too long while ignoring everyone around him.
However, the unusual name the stuttering nurse was trying to pronounce was vaguely familiar, and he had jumped slightly. Without lifting his head, and heart leaping, he attempted to peek out of the corners of his eyes at who responded.
A hulking figure squeezed out of a chair on the other side of the waiting room and sauntered towards the nurse. George swallowed at seeing the chunky rear he had been coveting for the last six weeks lovingly cupped by blue denim. His groin warmed and he shifted restlessly. His chair was just as tight around him.
‘George? George?’ Another nurse had appeared.
The figure paused and looked around at the nurse. ‘He’s over there. The other big, bearded guy.’ A thumb was jerked in his direction.
Fuck! It definitely was him.
A thrill went through George’s body. Aonghuss knew who he was! Then his heart dropped – he also knew he was at the clap clinic.
FFS! Get a grip, mate.
He gave himself a verbal talking-to as he followed the nurse down the corridor. Seconds behind the ambling opposition prop he’d last seen mud-covered, sweaty and cock-hardeningly gorgeous. As the Scot turned into a room, he glanced back at George, who quickly looked away.
The nurse chuckled as they entered the room next door. ‘You two know each other?’
‘Yeah…no. Not really.’
She smirked. ‘I’ll tell you the same thing my colleague will be saying – your visit here is confidential, we rely on our patients’ discretion. Is there going to be a problem?’
‘I hope not.’ He shrugged.
‘Now, what’s the reason for your visit today?’
‘The condom broke and the bloke didn’t stop.’
‘You were bottoming?’
‘Yeah. One-night-stand. He said he was clean but…’ George shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m here anyway.’
‘Any objection to making this quick? The hospital are threatening to close the walk-in clinics due to the weather, but we don’t want to turn anyone away.’
‘Go for it. It’s not the kind of place I like hanging around.’
The nurse flashed another grin. They ran through his form, and she did a brief exam. George was glad his chubby had gone down – that would have been awkward. He was also glad he had a pragmatic, semi-friendly female nurse. One time, the nurse had been a silver fox with a wicked gleam in his eyes. George spent the whole time thinking about the evil, diseased parts he must touch every day, to keep from embarrassing himself.
The nurse handed him a handful of condoms and a small plastic pot. ‘Go pee in this. The nearest men’s loo is across the hall. Place it in the cabinet, and then you can leave. The results will be texted to you, anonymously. Hope not to see you again soon.’
George tucked the pot into a pocket and left the room. Keeping his head low, he yanked open the door marked with a male stick figure and barrelled inside.
And barged into the rear of an increasingly familiar body.
‘Sorry!’ George tried to step back, but the door had shut behind, trapping him in. With Aonghuss. Two in an increasingly small room. He turned and fumbled with the door handle.
‘Let me finish fucking pissing in this pot. And washing the piss off my fucking hands. I know the NHS is skint but is a fucking decent door lock too much to ask?’
Just the rumbling of his voice was hastening the return of George’s semi. ‘Ummm, shall I lock us in?’
‘Yeah, if you can get the bugger working.’
With a bit more fiddling, the metal tab slid over. George leaned his forehead against the door while he tried to calm himself. He could smell urine and cleaning chemicals, but there was also the scent of raw man. Leather. He surreptitiously rearranged his swelling cock.
A tap running, rustling of paper towels, and the click of a cupboard closing.
‘It’s safe to face me now.’ The bemusement was clear in his burry brogue.
George slowly turned to face his doom. ‘Hey.’
He briefly met the other guy’s intense eyes, then focussed on the hair escaping the top of his shirt.
‘So…do you come here often?’
I wish. George hardened further at the double entendre. The room was so small, he’d no idea how the both of them had fitted in there.
‘I bet you do.’
Had he spoken out loud? George thought he was too old to blush, but he could feel his cheeks reddening. ‘Condom broke,’ he blurted.
‘Annual checks f’me. Anyway, I want tae pick yer brain. Meet me in the pub around the corner when yer leave.’
‘Don’t let me down.’
The rumbling threat went straight to George’s groin. His dick was pressing so hard against the placket of his jeans, he prayed the buttons would hold. He swallowed.
‘Now, you gonna let me past, or are we going tae do it in here?’
Do what? George flattened himself against the wall as Aonghuss tried to slide past. Their bellies rubbed, plus…
Was that a belt buckle? George’s knees went weak at the feel of something coming up against his cock.
‘You OK, mate?’ Aonghuss stopped halfway past as he used one hand to unlock.
George couldn’t even focus on his face. His throat was dry. He tried to swallow. ‘I-I-I’m fine.’
‘Good. Make sure you bolt the door after, I wouldn’t want anyone else joining you in here.’
Oh fuck! George couldn’t stop his hips jolting towards that tantalising hardness as it slipped away. He thought he heard a chuckle, before Aonghuss disappeared out of the door.
He spun and slammed the lock into place before wrenching open his jeans. It only took a couple of passes for the orgasm to boil up his spine, to be contained in a hastily grabbed wad of toilet roll.
As he caught his breath, and fumbled around for the discarded pot, he wondered again why the other man wanted to speak with him, and why he hadn’t even thought of refusing.
Aonghuss – Angus to anyone knowledgeable of Scottish pronunciation – was a bear of a man. Piercing blue eyes and a close-cropped beard slightly darker than the sandy-brown hair on his head. His body matched George’s bulk, though he was marginally taller. The extra inch hadn’t given him much of an advantage on the pitch, and their battle the previous month had ended in a draw, even if Aonghuss’ North London team had lost to Harford on the scoreboard. The rugby saying, ‘forwards win games, backs decide by how much’ was only partly true in that instance.
George hadn’t been sure if he’d imagined the extra attention he’d received. A couple more lingering arse pats, his opponent watching him carefully at each scrum as they’d packed down opposite each other. Their binding skirmishes, and combating each other’s moves to dominate, to drive the other back and up or down. Loosehead against tighthead. Grappling. Hot breath panting in his ear. The pungent scents of liniment, wet earth, fresh sweat. He’d managed to get a shoulder in to split Aonghuss and his hooker one scrum. The next, a cunning sidestep had threatened George’s own bind with his hooker.
They had shaken hands at the end of the match, and when the Scots’ palm had lingered against his own. George’s gaydar had beeped promisingly. Then, there was no sign of him in the showers or bar, and George had tried to forget.
Tried to forget? Stalked him online, beaten himself raw at some match pictures he’d found. Shit, he so wished he’d been able to see Aonghuss showering, to see if that barrel chest was a hairy as promised. To glimpse what he carried between the powerfully broad thighs.
George had never been a fan of the twink; the slender male did nothing for him. He liked a fellow bear, a man who was similar to or bigger than him. He wasn’t exactly fat, but solid. Very solid. However, he was frequently labelled overweight and his doctor lectured him on his bodyfat. He was a fucking rugby player, for fuck’s sake. A prop. And he was a fucking good tighthead prop.
He didn’t care that people assumed he was fat, or he had more body hair than was fashionable. He kept some areas trimmed for convenience – his back, pubes, his beard, and anywhere it caught on his kit. Everywhere else he left au naturel. He wasn’t a fucking poncey back.
Ponce? He frowned as he tried to remember if that word was politically correct or not. Probably not. He was such a dinosaur, in more ways than one. A nervous titter escaped as he entered the pub and knocked icy sludge off his shoes.
Tugging himself off in the loo had helped, but a jolt of awareness still went through him as he saw those bright blue eyes tracking his movements.
The purred compliment pulsed through him. ‘Good?’
‘Thought you would say you were in training.’
‘I am, well, I have been today. Before the snow started. Pitch is too slushy for training so we’ve got tomorrow morning off.’
‘Really? So have I.’
George had a visual of them together in bed, enjoying a snowbound lie-in. ‘Aonghuss-‘
‘Call me Gus. Please.’
‘Gus. I dunno how I can help you.’
‘Local knowledge. I moved here a couple of days ago. Got a release from my club. I’m starting at Harford Park on Monday. Thought you could give me the inside word on the squad.’
Ringing in George’s ears nearly deafened him. Then he pulled himself together, shut down his strengthening infatuation, and ruthlessly compartmentalised his libido. Gus would be his colleague, his teammate, and George had a strict no-teammate-fucking policy. No shitting in his own backyard.
No chance of anything happening with the sandy-haired hunk in front of him.
No more using him in the wankbank.
‘That’s great.’ He injected enthusiasm into his voice. ‘We need a decent loosehead to take the pressure off Rob, as Sean is out long-term. You were fucking good last month in that friendly.’
‘Speaking of which, how gay-friendly is your team?’
George shrugged. ‘I haven’t had any problems. Just try not to get too many stiffies in the shower,’ he chortled, grimacing inside at the trite comment and false laugh.
‘Y’know why I didn’t stick around after the game?’
George shook his head.
‘’Cos I was so hard for you, I would never have heard the end of it.’
George gasped, inhaling his beer. The next minute he spent coughing and frantically trying to think of a response. Then he shut down again. ‘Hehe, no more talk like that otherwise I’ll have to report you to Tom and Chris for sexual harassment.’
For a moment, George thought he’d gone too far. Then Gus leant forward. ‘I would never, ever harass an unwilling man.’ His husky voice didn’t carry, but was deadly serious.
‘Sorry, I was joking.’
‘Thought you were going out with that blond hooker. He was possessive of you.’
‘Frank? Frank’s straight.’
‘Is he really?’ A crooked smile.
George thought. He’d never seen Frank with a woman, but he’d never thought about him being gay. The blond was marginally smaller, as was normal for hooking, and was naturally less hirsute than George. Added to that, he usually kept his body hair well waxed and clipped, and his face clean shaven. When he arrived at the club at the start of that season, George had dismissed him as metrosexual, not gay. Frank had asked if he wanted to go for a drink a couple of times, but George assumed he meant as a mate. ‘Good point. He’s not my type so I’ve never really thought about it.’
‘Who is your type then?’
You. ‘A man who’ll pick me up, fuck me into the ground, then piss off the next morning.’
‘You feel OK after that condom broke?’
Off-balance again, George buried his head in his pint for a moment. A deep swallow. ‘Yeah, he didn’t stop.’
‘Yeah. Shoulda known better with a one-night stand – they’re often a bit shifty.’
‘You fuck around much?’
A light laugh. ‘As needed. Got no time or inclination for a relationship.’
‘You must have to visit here often?’
‘Far too often. I like it rough, and rough is hell on condoms. I’ve been lucky so far.’
‘Luck can only last so long.’
Gus had moved to Harford Park for one reason. Well, he liked the fact that there were a few fellow Scots at the club already, and it was a step up from his previous club. However, the big, shy, brown bear with the heart-melting eyes and cock-hardening body was his main motivation.
He couldn’t believe it when the object of his fantasies shuffled into the waiting area of the clinic. He’d considered approaching him while they waited, but thought that might freak him out. If Gus hadn’t been staring at the guy, he would have missed the stiffening as his own name was called. His pure delight had been hard to hide. That George already knew his name boded well.
He had decided, there and then, that he would ambush George – he couldn’t wait to speak to him. Christ, when the man had burst into the loo, he was glad the cup had already been filled, as his resultant stiffy would have made it impossible to piss for some time.
Leaving that room, knowing from the embarrassed flush on George’s face that he would have been easy to seduce, had been the hardest thing he’d ever done. Gus couldn’t risk frightening him off.
He didn’t expect the shutdown when he’d revealed that they would become teammates. From shy and blushing and endearingly monosyllabic, his brown bear had withdrawn. He didn’t like the chatty, faux-matey George. Nor the George who’d mentioned sexual harassment. Gus knew then that George had been talking from experience. Someone in his past had hurt him. Badly.
Shocking him hadn’t shifted the false front for more than a couple of seconds. Purposely digging into the condom story had alarmed and infuriated him. He didn’t want his brown bear taken advantage of!
Such risky behaviour. He wondered if his teammates knew. Or his coach. Slowly, a plan occurred to him, and Gus began to smile.
‘I’ve come to talk to you about George, I’m worried about him.’
‘What’s up? He’s playing and training well.’ A hand gestured for him to take a seat.
The office door had been open, but Gus had carefully closed it before turning and sitting before the imposing male behind the desk. In the past week, he’d got to know the squad and settled in. They were a good bunch, willing to accept an interloper dropped in at short notice, and the setup was impressive. Chris, the head coach, concentrated on the overall picture, but his shrewd assistant, Tom, dealt with players’ problems.
‘It’s his personal life. It’s come to my attention…he’s been shagging around, taking risks. He’s been lucky so far, but sooner or later…’
Tom frowned. ‘What do you propose?’
‘One of us moves in with him. We can look after him, bring him around.’
‘Go on.’ The assistant coach relaxed back in his chair.
At that moment, Gus knew he had an ally in the fellow Scot. One of his reasons for accepting the approach from Harford was the reputation of the man still known as the most intelligent player Scotland had ever lost. Older teammates had raved about him, about his ability to foresee and exploit what others barely discerned. Tall, dark and powerful, Tom Murray was easy on the eye too – he’d been the subject of a few of Gus’ adolescent fantasies. However, he was blatantly straight, and obviously besotted with his wife and family.
Very few people intimidated Gus, but Murray’s eyes seemed to catch everything. When he spoke with Frank, the lustsick hooker confirmed Murray had already asked some pointed questions regarding George’s slutty behaviour. Apparently, it hadn’t been the first time he’d had to disappear to the drop-in clinic, discreet as he was.
As the week had passed, Gus got to know George too. Self-effacing, with a wickedly dry sense of humour, he worked incredibly hard on the field and in the gym. Apart from the odd pint, he stuck rigidly to his diet plan. The youngest of the front row players at Harford in his mid-twenties, he was also the most powerfully built. Thick, dark hair shrouded massive slabs of muscle on his torso, and his arms were as wide as the legs of a couple of backs. Not to mention the gorgeous chunk of smoothly shifting muscle that was his arse. Even thinking about his body sent a flash of warmth into his groin. He had bigger problems in the shower, literally, which was a time George always withdrew into himself.
‘I…we promise not to hurt him. We want to help him.’
‘What if he chooses Frank?’
Gus swallowed. ‘That’d be his decision, and I’d respect it. I…I want him to be happy.’ His eyes stung.
Tom nodded. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I would ensure your player registration is transferred as smoothly as possible back to your old club.’
There it was. Succeed, or be sent packing.
‘Gus here needs somewhere more permanent to stay. He’ll be moving in with you tomorrow.’
‘But, Tom!’ George had to bite his tongue – he couldn’t object as everyone in the changing room would wonder why he kicked up a fuss. His former flatmate, Matt, had moved in with his girlfriend the previous week, and the club needed to fill the empty room.
George shook his head. ‘No, Tom.’ Apart from having to fight the attraction day and night, instead of just at the club.
How the fuck was he going to cope?
A fortnight later, George was climbing the walls with sexual frustration. Every morning he would wake up rock-hard. And a quick, strangled wank was all he could manage.
Somehow, his attempts at hitting the local gay pubs and bars repeatedly came to naught. Frank and Gus stuck to him like glue and intimidated any prospective partners. Every time he managed to escape, soon after he arrived, one or the other, or both, would saunter in.
He couldn’t even wank properly – the walls were paper thin and he couldn’t stand Gus’ knowing smirk afterwards. Besides, every time he got into it, there was a knock at the door, a phone call, or an alarm going off. And his anal toys had gone missing.
His façade was cracking. Slowly but surely, he felt like he was losing control. Every time they trained, Gus and Frank would find some way to torment him. Scrum practice, something he usually loved, had become torturous. Instead of hands efficiently binding on, they slid suggestively. More than one hand had cupped and patted his buttocks.
The banter was even more arousing. All talk of technique versus size and being dominated. Face down, arse up as they scrummed. Power. Thrusting. Squeezing. Driving. Every iffy rugby expression and suggestive phrase felt like he was being targeted ruthlessly.
Nothing was concrete enough to complain about, and George had a feeling he’d get short shrift if he did. Tom had dictated extra scrummaging drills, with Gus and Frank opposing him on occasion. They were both excellent tacticians, along with Rob, one of the other props.
Yes, he had the focus for matches, and he was hitting more rucks than usual. But his normal placidity was AWOL and he’d come too close to being red carded. His compartmental abilities were failing, he had to turn his back on the rest of the showers to hide his near-constant stiffy. And he was sure it was no coincidence that Frank and Gus were constantly brushing against him.
Regardless of the onset of winter, Gus had taken to wandering around the flat with only a tiny towel over his groin. His whole body was a sexual powerhouse, covered in a dusting of sandy fur that thickened promisingly towards the towel. Not even covering, he could see the bulge underneath, and he could swear that cock was a good size, and thick with it. It made his mouth water, and buttocks clench.
Gus’ comments about Frank had opened his eyes to him, to realise he was as sexy as the prop, in his own way. Even before Frank stopped shaving and manscaping, and was on his way to having a full beard, saying it kept his face warmer.
And Frank had taken to dropping in, staying to watch films or sports. George would always commandeer the armchair instead of squeezing on the three-seater sofa, and try to concentrate on the flickering screen without popping a tell-tale erection. They both smelled so good, he’d space out, his imagination running riot.
That’s how he’d ended up in a snoozing front row sandwich. It was tradition that on returning home, they take a post-match nap, but Gus had insisted they plant their battle-weary bodies on the sofa to watch Christmas films. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and the few decorations they’d put up didn’t exactly generate Christmas spirit.
One of the worst things for most rugby players was not having time off over the holiday period. Training continued and matches were commonly scheduled for Boxing Day, no matter what day it fell on. That year, Christmas Eve was a match day instead. George didn’t mind – it wasn’t as if he had anyone to miss him. His father was out of the picture, had been his whole life, and his mother was fond of joining relatives abroad.
Anyone without family or friends living locally was due to attend the club’s Christmas dinner. That included the three of them. So Frank was staying over instead of driving hours home. Where he was sleeping, George didn’t know. He quelled a bolt of jealousy at the thought that Gus and Frank had a thing going on. His eyes darted to them, but he couldn’t tell.
Despite the cold outside, the flat was toasty warm. George couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong with the thermostat recently, but T-shirts and shorts had become de rigueur.
Well, George had on combat shorts and a Tee. Frank had on the latest compression gear, the Lycra obscenely outlining every generous bulge. In the club, he wore jeans or baggy shorts on his lower half. In the privacy of the flat, he’d shucked them off.
George’s mouth had gone dry. Even though months of showering together meant he knew precisely what was under there, the blatant sexuality added to the hum of anticipation already present in the room.
Gus was even worse. He always complained about trousers and shorts being too tight, so had stripped down to his boxers. Fur and flesh dominated – George just wanted to rub himself up against him. And more besides.
The armchair he preferred had been casualty of a leaking water bottle, so they had to squash up on the sofa. As much as the film was a classic, it didn’t take long for them to start dozing, and for their bodies to snuggle closer.
George was the first to waken, his insistent cock happy to have fingers clasping it. And someone else’s thick pipe pressed against his side. Hot breath in his ear. And another hard cock in his palm.
His eyes cautiously cracked open. Gus had twisted towards him, slinging a bulky arm across them both. In his sleep, George had lifted one hip up, allowing Gus access and turning him slightly. His was the meat pressing, no, rubbing against him.
Frank had also turned towards him, nestling his face into his neck and bringing his groin close enough for George’s subconsciously travelling hand to reach, and be secured by Frank’s own.
And the fingers on his crotch were two hands, one from each of the men.
Fuck, he was hard. But he had to get out of there – it couldn’t happen!
George tried to slide free, with no success. Frank was threading his fingers through his, and pressing it tighter to his cock. He tried to turn, but this just meant bringing his face closer to Frank, and Gus took that opportunity to fit his cock between his buttocks.
‘Oh!’ he panted. His head dropped onto Frank’s shoulder, and his entire body clenched. Including the hand around the blond’s cock.
Frank arched. ‘Please, please, please keep touching me,’ he begged and moaned, dotting kisses down George’s neck. ‘At last.’
George’s muddled mind couldn’t process his comment. Gus was also awake, as his hand had delved into the combats, pulling them down and stripping them away.
‘So gorgeous,’ came a mutter from behind.
Hands on his balls, then his cheeks were parted, and hot breath blew on his pucker. Followed by the bristling of beard, and a hot, wet tongue.
It licked at him, thrust inside. His balls were massaged, his aching cock grasped, but most of his attention was focussed on the delicious invasion of his arse.
George hadn’t been rimmed in years, and never by as strong and insistent a tongue as Gus had. Time disappeared. He was naked, the body behind him was naked, the body under him was naked. A hard cock entered his mouth, a gentle hand holding it there. He sucked as he was licked and eaten out by the insistent muscle.
The world spun, carpet replaced sofa under his knees. The cock in his mouth changed angle and he deep throated it. The tongue lifted from his buttocks to be replaced by slippery fingers. George lifted his head to gasp for breath, just as the fingers scissored him open .
‘Oh please!’ The need was eating away at him. He writhed.
‘Are you sure?’
George barely registered the question, and the crinkling of cellophane. ‘Please. Fuck me.’ He felt an interminable itch inside, and knew a hard cock was the only answer.
‘This first time is going to be hard and quick, and I don’t want to hurt you.’
A wideness starting pressing at him, into him. He bore down, and relaxed. The head popped in. George breathed through a pinch of pain. The cock was wide, bigger than anything he’d taken in a while. It paused, letting him adjust. He was aware of being stroked, hands soothing him, helping him accept the invasion.
He needed more. He leant back, and the cock pushed further in. And in, filling him up, until he felt the bulky body behind surrounding him from knees to neck. A kiss on his shoulder. Fingers tweaking his nipples.
Instead of slamming into him, the hips flexed slowly, as if learning him. Minute movements, in and out, around, hands caressing his weeping cock and balls.
George shook. His lungs sucked for air. ‘I thought you said hard and quick?’ The ring of muscle was still tight, although he knew Gus’ considerate pace at easing into him would reduce future discomfort.
Gus continued his slow movements. ‘Patience you must have, my young padawan.’
The Yoda quote in Gus’ gruff voice made George chuckle, and the involuntary clenching of certain muscles loosened the Scot’s control. He thrust hard, again and again, deeper every time.
Instinct took over, and they rutted. Two bodies, slapping together as hard as they could. Gus’ cock taking him, hitting all the sweet spots.
George’s body seized and the orgasm boiled up his spine. With a roar, he came, spurting endlessly. Gus bellowed as he shot into George.
His arms shook, and they dissolved in a sweaty heap.
Bare minutes passed before Gus eased out of him. George rolled over to find Gus’ eyes on him.
‘Can you take another?’ He asked, watching George’s face. ‘I want you to take more. You need more.’
The third in the orgy hadn’t come yet – George’s blow job had faded when Gus had entered his arse and Frank was sitting on the sofa, reddened cock in hands.
George licked his lips and clenched his buttocks at the sight of another cock. After such a strong orgasm, he was surprised that he recovered so quickly, that he wanted more. It just showed how frustrated he had been for weeks, even years, of unsatisfactory sexual congress. ‘Yeah. More cock please.’
Frank was marginally narrower than Gus, but slightly longer. His head was tapered, not the blunt weapon of Gus. The blond stood and made his way around, behind the splayed bodies.
‘Condom and lube?’
A finger was pushed inside, and George keened. ‘Like that.’
‘You’ve stretched him out well, I think I can fit.’
Again, the burning as a cock pushed past the ring of muscle, but Frank was right. He smoothly slid all the way in.
‘George, you will not come.’
His dazed eyes met piercing blue. ‘What?’
‘Frank will fuck you, but you are not to come. I will help you.’
A feeling washed over George that he’d never felt before. Comfort. Security. Trust. Along with a spine-tingling jolt of electrical lust.
While he tried to deal with this new sensation, voices continued to talk. ‘You were right, he’s totally submissive. He’s squeezing me to fuck now.’
‘Yeah, despite his size, he needs to be dominated. Don’t you, my brown bear?’
George grunted, his eyes unable to shift from the blue.
‘Fuck, it’s sexy when he’s like this.’
‘He’s only halfway there though. How long will you take to recover?’
‘Not long if I’m given a hand. Or a tongue.’
‘Oh yeah.’ A series of thrusts. ‘Do it. I want to see that.’
‘Spit roast? You could had your cock in his mouth when I was banging him.’
‘I was saving myself for this, I’m not as young as you. Plus, I didn’t want him chomping down when you were splitting him open.’
‘Good point. Move him so I can get under there, I want to face-fuck him.’
George was manhandled again, and presented with a half-erect cock, still wet with come. He sniffed, burying his head between the hairy thighs, then began licking.
‘Welcome to the party, pal. Fucking hell, that’s hot.’
The cock in his arse took up a regular rhythm, and George began to harden also. Gus’ balls hung low. George sucked the furry sacks into his mouth, one by one, enjoying the salty male taste.
Frank’s style of a series of long and short strokes was slightly different. It plainly worked for him, and for the others. His groans were echoed by Gus as he was swallowed down. The deep throating and deep dicking sent their victim into a gasping trance as he slobbered and gasped for air. It seemed to last forever, as he was drilled into submission.
‘I need to come, are you ready?’ puffed Frank.
‘Not yet, but come anyway. I’ll take over.’
Hips were ground against him, and Frank grunted, his strokes softening. Then the cock was withdrawn from his throat and George was turned over again.
Gus whispered, ‘I wanna see those big, chocolate-brown eyes widening when I hammer into you.’ He wrestled hairy calves over his shoulders and tunnelled inside the prepared channel, with little resistance.
The change in angle was just what George needed. He could see Gus’ face, see the piercing blue eyes of the man taking him, felt mastered by him. And felt protected by him.
Then, the thick cock hit a spot which detonated an implosion. And another hand wormed its way between them, grabbed his cock, and milked it. He felt Gus come, then kiss him softly as he released his legs and they subsided, Gus’ arms around all three.
George blinked as he came around from his stupor. Somehow, they had ended up in his bed, a man either side of him. Gus’ hirsute bands were wrapped tightly around him from behind, and Frank had an arm and legs tangled up with them.
His bladder ached. His arse ached. One was bad, one was good.
He whispered, ‘Loo,’ hoping that was enough to be released. It worked, with grumbles from the two other men.
Naked, he answered the call of nature and returned to the darkened bedroom. He refused to think further about what had happened, knowing that there was going to be hell to pay when he dealt with it.
Gus sleepily patted the mattress, budging over for him to settle back down. ‘Good boy. We’ll talk in the morning.’
‘OK.’ He sighed.
‘Wanna BJ to settle those nerves?’
He twitched slightly. ‘You’d really…’
‘I bet Frank would be willing for another round too, if he was awake.’
Frank let out a deep rattling snore. They choked guffaws of laughter, then George stifled a yawn.
‘Or how about we just doze, my brown bear?’ Gus secured an arm around him, and George relaxed back into sleep.
He woke between two snoring men. A glance at an alarm clock informed him that it wasn’t even midnight. A time when he’d usually be hitting the bars and looking for a someone to relieve the itch.
He separated himself from the pungent heap on the bed, and headed for the shower. He didn’t think what he was doing as he quietly yanked on a pair of jeans and T-shirt. Then, he searched for his wallet and phone in the living room.
He didn’t even know where he was going. Maybe for some fresh air. Maybe a drink. Something to stem the terror growing inside of him. The fear of something he wasn’t able or willing to confront.
He was pulling the front door open when a hand slapped it closed. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know!’ He fought rising panic, pulling at the door. ‘I can’t do this right now. Let me go!’
‘Let me tell you, you’re not going to get fucked by an anonymous stranger. I won’t allow it.’
‘It’s not up to you.’ He gave up with the door, and turned to scowl at a naked Gus. He stared, then had to look away from those blue eyes. Frank was leaning against the bedroom doorway, rubbing his eyes and sporting a chubby. He couldn’t look there either.
Gus cupped his chin, forcing him into confrontation. ‘Oh yes it is. How many more visits to the clap clinic will it take? Are you really trying to kill yourself?’
‘I’m not-I’m…’ Was he? Had his shame caused his behaviour?
‘We’re your mates. We’ll look after you.’
‘And we’re gonna fuck this attitude out of you.’ Frank.
‘Both of us. I don’t care if you can’t fucking think after.’
‘Every night if needed. We won’t hurt you.’
‘Unless that’s what you want.’
‘George, remember no man is a failure who has friends.’
Two wicked smiles were in agreement. His watering eyes leapt wildly from one man to the other. Both of whom had looked after him. And the kindness and determination there was enough to destroy what was left of his composure. He cracked.
He didn’t know how long he sobbed for, with two sets of arms around him, keeping him safe. Until he was finally able to speak. Frank brought a glass of water and a cold flannel to wipe his face, while George took several deep breaths.
The sofa seemed as good a place as any to make his revelation. Frank cracked open a few beers before he joined them. George drank half in one go, before Gus laid a hand on his and gave a warning glare. ‘You ready?’ Gus’ inquiry received a tremulous nod. ‘Tell us what happened?’
George took a smaller sip of his beer. ‘I was young, it was my first club. There was an older prop, married, with kids. He…had some other friends. All big guys but not players. I had no dad, and they were like father figures. But, I was attracted to them.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve always liked big guys, not twinks.’
‘They came on to you?’
‘Not obviously, most of them were married. Then one night, after a few beers, they passed me around.’
‘They forced you?’ Gus’ knuckles flashed white on his bottle of beer.
‘I didn’t say no, not at first. Once it started, I couldn’t…I mean, it sounds like a gay man’s fantasy, to be shared.’
‘But, it was horrible. I was over eighteen, nothing illegal had happened, but I felt filthy. I didn’t turn up for training the next week, and the coach came looking for me. I couldn’t hide it – I could hardly walk.’
Frank swore, got up and started to pace.
George picked at the label on his bottle. ‘Jim had a quiet word with a few of my teammates, and they put the shitters up the guy, forced him out of the club. There had been rumours before, but this was the first time they could do something. One of his copper friends helped me with an anonymous report. A few months later, the gang tried the same trick, but the lad they picked up was underage.’
‘No fresh meat from the club any more.’
‘Yeah. Was their downfall.’ George smiled wryly. ‘Jim was great. He was supportive of me being gay but gave me some advice – to keep away from fellow teammates. Taught me some mental techniques so it wouldn’t be a problem. He wanted me to get counselling, but I never did.’
‘I really think you should’ve,’ rumbled Gus. ‘You’ve left the job half done, closed yourself off from others.’
‘It’s been working for me.’
‘No. It really hasn’t. How many proper relationships have you had? Longer than a one-night-stand, I mean.’
‘I’ve seen men for a few weeks.’
‘You mean you’ve fucked them more than once?’ Gus’ smile was sad. ‘My poor brown bear.’
It wasn’t the first time Gus had called him that. George tested his feelings. The urgency to escape had diminished, along with the panic which had threatened to overwhelm.
The three sat in silence for a while, until George had calmed down.
And he felt comforted.
As light began to chase away the dark, George wiggled away again to visit the bathroom. He was sore, but not bleeding every time he wiped his arse. That was a relief. His usual one-night stands never took as much care as Gus and Frank did to open him up. His neck was littered with love bites from Gus, and his nipples pleasantly sensitive from when Frank had used them to hold on as his hips hammered.
Frank hadn’t gone home, and they had all slept together. Nice as that was for shagging, the wet patches were fucking uncomfortable and Frank was a duvet hog. The latter didn’t matter as Gus radiated heat, but the former was a distinctive nuisance in a double bed not made for three.
‘Think the club would fork out for a super-king?’ Gus must have had similar thoughts. The sun was peaking out as George returned from the bathroom, lending enough light for him to watch. Gus idly scratched his belly and cupped his for-once flaccid cock.
George shook his head. ‘Tom’ll probably suggest we just put the two beds together.’
Gus rolled over to study the headboard. ‘Fuck me, I didn’t realise the beds were identical. That’s a bloody good idea.’ He laughed and his furry love handles shook.
‘I wasn’t totally serious.’
‘I am. We’ll do it later today, and put the wardrobes and other clothes shit in my room. Between shags, of course.’ Gus rolled back over, and George watched as the Scot’s cock began filling. ‘If you’re not sore.’
‘I could definitely take you again.’
‘And me?’ Frank ran a hand down his snail trail. He was totally hard, standing proud of the nest of blond curls. ‘
George’s eyes darted between the two cocks. His cock throbbed and he realised he was clenching his buttocks. His mouth watered. ‘Who’s on top this time?’
‘Don’t you mean in the middle? And that’s you.’
‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.’
George didn’t know how he made it to the bed before his knees gave way. Furry bellies rubbed front and back, but within moments, a mouth enclosed his cock. Another cock was fed into his mouth, and he sixty-nined with Frank as Gus stretched him. He writhed and sobbed, slobbering over Frank as he was roasted again.
He came in a spine-breaking rush, clenched his buttocks and felt Gus go. As he collapsed, Frank’s come filled his mouth. Hands rubbed his own come all over his body and a deep chuckle came from behind. ‘Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.’
Christmas morning. As brighter light shone through the windows and broke over the three of them, painting skin in shades of gold, George realised he was happier than he’d ever been before. Whatever happened, at that moment he felt safe, secure, and loved. A much richer man.
The richest man in town.
Merry…ummm, Boxing Day.