Rugby League

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.