At the outset I must make the disclaimer that this story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of these rugby union players or any personal knowledge about their private lives. I hope it gives some sustenance to readers during the World Cup. Look forward to your comments.
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`What the fuck?'
Ben Curry had just opened his Whatsapp to find a message from Marcus Smith of what appeared to be a selfie of Marcus, his twin brother Tom, and Danny Care all lying together in bed topless with what, frankly, could only be described as cum spattered across his brother's face. The message read simply, `Your brother's been a very naughty boy xxx'
It frankly looked like they'd just had a threesome or some kind of ritual humiliation that occasionally accompanies tournaments like this -- but that was usually more of a group thing, not just three men in a bed. Ben couldn't stop staring at the photo. Maybe it was the sight of seeing essentially his own face covered in cum, or was it the sight of that pretty-boy Marcus looking lustfully at the camera? Either way, Ben couldn't help but being transfixed by it nor indeed could he avoid his swelling cock in the tight jeans he was currently wearing, having just got showered after training.
His hand absent-mindedly wandered to his crotch, rubbing his length as he imagined what it would be like to end up in bed with Smithy and Care. The energy between them had always appeared beyond that of a normal rugby bromance, to be honest. Had Tom got with them after the Ireland match? He was kind of envious, if he admitted it. He'd had girlfriends, sure, but he retained the fantasy of sex with a man ever since he'd mucked about with Tom as teenagers: he'd on various occasions jacked off to the thought of the muscled gods who made up the backs jizzing all over him, a particular fantasy of had been sucking off Owen Farrell while his brother fed him his cock.
That had always felt kind of wrong but maybe it was the fact his first sexual experience with a man had been with him or the bond that they naturally shared, but Tom was often involved in these fantasies. He imagined Tom slapping the pretty face of Smithy with his thick cock, humiliating that cocky shit, as Danny ate Tom out. His cock now rock hard, Ben undid his flies, and began to stroke, gently and then pretty furiously as he stared at the photo of Tom's face smeared with jizz -- still in a state of disbelief but now also fucking turned on. He'd love to lick that off. Fuck, where were these thoughts coming from? What had even happened here? Ben whipped off his t-shirt, not easy since training in the summer when, like his brother, his arms had become jacked through intensive bicep curls. With his left hand he stroked his tit, propping up the phone to keep looking at the three of them. `Fuck', he groaned, now massively turned on as he built up a furious rhythm, feeling himself leaning in as the power of his hard-on seemed to magnetically draw him in.
`Fuck, fuck, fuck', he muttered, as he reached an orgasm that seemed to consume him entirely. His mouth open in a kind of silent scream, his body curled, his jeans wrapped tightly around his massive legs as he pulled back in an ejaculation of considerable vigour, the first two shots hitting his mouth directly, some going in, the following six spattering his face and then his broad chest and handsome six pack. Tasting his own seed hitting the back of his throat, its warm, chalkiness tasting, frankly, fucking fantastic, he felt on fire. He threw back his head and gave a deep, primal sigh -- feeling satisfied and enormous relief and yet somehow a new hunger in him having opened up.
Doing something he'd never considered before, he scooped up the cum that lay in the chiselled crevices of his abdomen with two fingers and took them to his mouth, his eyes closed as he tasted his fluid, imagining his brother having taken the loads of Danny and Marcus- his cock remaining hard. In a decision of what he'd later reflect would be a significant turning-point in his life, he picked up the phone, turned on the camera, and took a selfie of his ivory-streamed face, still glowing in the reflected light, his cheeks red, a broad grin. Typing rapidly beneath it, `Two can play at that game', he quickly sent by way of reply to Marcus.
`Fuck me,' he thought. That was intense and fucking mad, as his head fall back on the pillow. He immediately panicked and, moving to open the WhatsApp conversation to delete it, saw the double-tick. Sent and seen. He could feel the adrenaline rising in him now. Where would that photo go? Would Tom see it? He'd never live this down. Before he had time to think any further about it, Marcus sent back a reply:
"[devil face] Your brother says you should join us in France for more of where that comes from. xxx"
Ben's head fell back across onto the pillow, his hand across his eyes in disbelief. What the fuck had they just initiated...?
[Two weeks later at the Le Touquet, the base for the England Team, after their win over the Argentina team]
George Ford swung open his hotel-room door. A day which had begun with mild despair among the England team, fed by the negativity of the press and social media about their dismal performances running up to the tournament, had ended with Fordy being proclaimed as the team's saviour. A whole series of magnificent drop-kicks had propelled the thirty-year old into the public consciousness with incredible vigour. He had redefined the team's kicking game. A new Jonny Wilkinson. A captain long awaited. Far better than Farrell at 10. All of it had fallen, as if from the sky, upon the shoulders of Ford in the space of the past few hours.
George strode up to the mirror, having flung his jacket on the bed, and looked at himself: weariness from intensive training, sunburn and the game all making their mark as his eyes drifted into double-vision (how many pints had he had?). Borthwick had told them not to get bladdered but too many had wanted to buy the man-of-the-match a drink.
His phone pinged. Another message from Atdhetare, checking if he was alright. As his fingers managed to type a message of reassurance, a knock on the door. `Fuck's sake', muttered Fordy. He was ready for bed - not for more drunken teammates. His shirt undone, revealing his smooth bronzed chest, he moved slowly towards the door, in an abashed way stroking his hair. Another knock.
`Yeah, fuck's sake, I'm coming aren't I?', he growled in his Mancunian accent.
He opened the door.
`Alright, mate?'
It was Owen, fresh from what looked like the gym, his delts and arms glowing with sweat around a vest that clung to his frame, his physical presence dominating the space in more ways than one.
Mate, you okay?', said Fordy. You look, erm, stressed.'
`Can I come in?', said Farrell, looking at him with a side eye that suggested he needed to talk.
Fordy had never seen him quite like this.
`Yeah, yeah. Come in.'
Farrell walked in, the smell of his sweat mingling with Ford's beer and cologne, the taller man sitting down on the bed and looking straight ahead into the middle-distance, clearly perturbed. The two of them had known each other from school, their careers entwined in club and for country, both of them constantly exchanged for the coveted fly-half position, yet both of them shaped irrevocably by this friendship.
Owen just sat staring, his hands on his thighs, tightly straining out of gym shorts that frankly looked like he'd taken them from Care's kitbag rather than his own.
George sat down next to him.
`You okay, mate?', he said.
A long pause.
`I don't know how to cope. I thought I was managing.'
George paused. He'd never known Owen express vulnerability like this.
`What do you mean?', asked Fordy.
`What the fuck do you think I mean?', said Owen, his temper rising suddenly, as he turned to face George directly.
`Denied playing for my country because of that fucking tackle. And how can I come back now? I've read the comments', he said, as he grabbed his forehead, his face now down to the ground.
`What comments?', George gently asked, not trying to inflame the situation and putting a hand on his back. The attempt at pacification didn't work.
`What fucking comments? Are you fucking naïve, George?', he exclaimed, pulling back to look at him with what looked like rage. "Your fucking superiority to me after today. I might as well pack my bags now."
George wasn't having this. He snapped back, `Shut the fuck up, Owen. Is that all you can say to me after the match? For fuck's sake. I fucking played my arse off out there and all you can come in and say is how some fucking twats on Instagram are slagging you off. You should fucking know better." George got up, pacing the room now:
`Is this because you're not the fucking centre-of-attention, for once? That someone else has made their mark?', he snapped.
Owen glowered, his face down.
`Cos I can fucking tell you, Owen. Have you ever thought what it's like to be in your shadow all the time? Or when I want to break through that fucking rock-hard exterior of yours to find some semblance of basic humanity? Hey? Cos I can tell you, mate, it's not a fucking bed of roses.'
Owen was breathing heavily, clearly overheating emotionally and George's shouty tirade not exactly helping.
`Fucking look at me, Owen', said George, now standing directly in front of him, his own face redder, a nerve clearly struck. Owen slowly looked up, his hands restless, scratching his knees, unsure how to deal with the rising flood of emotions with him.
`Why don't you fucking congratulate me, you dick? Is this really the best you can do? Nothing since the match. You clear off to go and work out while the rest of us celebrate. You're the fucking captain of this team, Owen. Where the fuck were you?'
That was it. Now inflamed, his face puce-red, Owen got up and violently pushed George against the wall, his larger bulk pushing them both into a corner, George pinned and hardly able to resist given his tiredness and state of inebriation. He didn't even try.
`Ah okay, so this is where this ends up is it, Owen? You fucking losing your shit with me for having made a name for myself. Is that fucking it, bro?'
Both of them were breathing heavily, Owen clearly struggling to get his words out, and they looked intently into each other's eyes.
George continued. `Come on then. Show me what you've got. Is this where our years together ends up? Punching the fucking daylights out of each other to cope with the fact you've been denied your moment in glory for once.'
Owen continued to breathe like he was about to lose his fucking top. Silence between them, their eyes locked in fury and yet, after all these years, a depth of bond that was unlike any other in each of their lives.
Finally, Owen broke the silence.
`You were fucking incredible.'
The moment defused somehow, but also changed, George looking at his oldest friend staring at him with an intensity he'd never known before.
You, you, have never played better. I was so fucking proud of you.' A pause. I AM so fucking proud of you.'
George was slack-jawed. As though manoeuvring his way through an opposition defence, Farrell had floored him.
`I -- I- you must never fucking doubt me, George', Owen now said, clearly struggling to get the words out.
While still held forcibly against the wall, George felt himself become less defensive, looking intently into Owen's eyes to make sense of what the hell was going on.
Fuck', said Owen, his head now moving into, his forehead now pressed against George's, who felt Owen's hot breath against his face. I -- I -- am here for you. Always. You know that.'
`Yeah, I know that', George quietly said.
`We're more than teammates. You know that.'
A pause. Where was this going? George was beginning to feel overwhelmed. He hadn't been ready for this level of emotional outpouring.
`Owen, I, I don't know --
`Shut the fuck up, George. I love you. That's what I'm trying to say. I fucking love you.'
The air between them held a depth of silence that, as they looked at each other, expressed the bond that defined the pair in a way that words could not.
`I love you too.' The words just slipped out, summoned from deep within him yet utterly true. Silence again, the sound and heat of their breath again filling the slim void between them. George couldn't really say what was going on but he wasn't sure he'd ever felt so close to someone, not even his wife.
`But you know that, don't you?' said Fordy.
In a moment that would define them for years to come and yet what seemed the most natural of manoeuvres given their history, Farrell's head now dipped down to kiss George on the lips, the heat of his mouth feeling fucking electric to them both. The kiss itself was fairly short, slow, but incredibly tantalising.
Owen pulled back slightly, allowing them to look into each other's eyes, Owen clearly anxious.
Mate,' George said breathily, I- I --
`Fuck, I don't know what came over me, I --
Shut the fuck up', said George. Do it again'.
For the first time that evening, a small smile came across the ever-serious face of Owen. This time he moved on with greater force, his tongue now pushing into George as the two old friends began to explore each other's mouths, George groaning with pleasure as Owen began to roam his hands down his back. Neither of them had ever known anything so intense. George took Owen's face in his hands and held it back for a second.
`I know I'm drunk but is this really happening?', George said.
`Don't you want it, bro? Haven't we wanted this for ages?', Owen asked.
`Um, fuck. I don't know. Yeah, no. There's no one else like you in my life, Farrell. You know that.'
George pulled him back in, as they shared deeply in each other's tongues as Owen now took his hands to George's pert arse to bring him closer into him, both of them realising that their cocks was rock hard through the fabric of suit trousers and Owen's tight gym shorts. They groaned as they felt the pressure and heat of their groins against each other.
Oh, fuck', said Owen, that feels fucking good'.
George closed his eyes, the feeling of his best mate's cock pressed hard against his own an unbelievable experience that he hadn't realised would feel such a fucking turn on.
`Oh mate. Mate. That's so good'. Owen pushed up against rubbing his thick girth against him, George taking short intakes of breath, the feeling was so intense.
Another, now more rabid, kiss between them. Now George's hands began to try to take in Owen's bulk pressing hard against him, his hands moving down across the enormous back and the thick torso to his shorts.
Where the fuck did you get these from', he muttered under his breath. You look and feel fucking amazing in them'.
`They're yours. I nicked them a few weeks ago when I couldn't find mine.'
George laughed. `You're not fucking serious. Just get another fucking pair, you cunt'.
`The thought of that little pert arse in these has kept me going, my friend,' said Owen as his cock, tightly pressed into the shorts now began to rub more forcefully and rhythmically against George's cock, still in his suit trousers, though now with a damp patch quickly emerging as the two of them continued to kiss maniacally. Owen pulled open George's shirt with violence, buttons flying, as George gave a guttural cry.
`Fuck, Owen, fuck this is fucking hot', his owns hands now moving around his sweat-drenched shoulders, exposed by his gym-shirt as Owen rode up against him in a way that neither of them could sustain for much longer. Though slightly smaller than Owen, the feeling of his cock, pressing up against and rubbing his tip was sensational, their heat blending with the smell of Owen's used gym kit and George's body to create a fucking electric erotic bond between them.
`Oh fuck, Owen, oh fuck, this is fucking amazing'.
`Take it little bro, oh yeah', he muttered under his hot breath as they continued to frot madly, George's backside hitting the bedside table as Owen built up a fervent rhythm, George steadying himself with a hand against the wardrobe as Owen now moved to kiss around his neck, sending never-felt sensations throughout George's body.
`Owen, fuck, this is -- fuck, Owen, don't stop. Fuck, this is --
Owen kept going, his shorts sopping with precum which itself was clearly foaming up against George's own, seeping through his trousers.
`Fuck, Owen, fuck, I'm close.'
Yes. yes,' Owen breathily uttered. Yeah, you want this, yeah you do', he said, as he grinded hard against George, whose own hand flung out, knocking the lamp to the floor as he cried out:
Fuuuuuuuck!', as he shot multiple loads into his boxer-briefs, Owen still furiously grinding up against him until, only seconds later, he let out a cry from deep within him, his hands grasping George tight against him, his fingers pressed tight against his cunt as he too now exploded. Fuuuuuck me. Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuck.' What must have been something like ten shots of jizz now left his shorts soaking, with cum now running down his leg (Owen not having bothered with underwear). They stared into each other's eyes, breathing heavily, before returning to a kiss of such depth and intensity that George felt he was kissing someone properly for the first time.
They pulled back, Owen smiling like he'd just won the fucking tournament, George returning the gaze with a look of wonder and disbelief.
Silence had returned, yet the look of love they now shared mirrored the bond expressed in the shared fluids that embraced their respective groins.
`I think we might need a shower', said George, as his hand pressed against Owen's face, their eyes trying to take in each other's faces afresh, before they both returned to a deep kiss.
As they continued in their sweaty embrace, Owen drenched in his training kit and George, topless and his trousers essentially ruined by the cum that was smeared across his right thigh where Owen's massive schlong had brought him to an explosive climax, a voice was suddenly heard.
Both George and Owen suddenly looked across the room, the light disorientating them after the lamp had fallen from the table, to see Marcus Smith and Tom Curry standing there. Marcus's hand was in his trousers, clearly rubbing his cock at the sight of these two utter legends in the most erotic embrace of their lives, Tom with one hand on Marcus's arse and rubbing his own groin.
`Boys, boys, what have we got here?', said Marcus repeated.
`Look at that cock hard,' said Tom, admiring Owen now standing apart and seeing what looked like eight inches of hard cock straining across the left thigh.
`How the fuck did you get in?' said George, annoyed and yet clearly fascinated by the fact both of them seemed utterly game.
The door was ajar', said Marcus. I had come to jokingly suggest that Tom ought to pay for his red card today by sucking the dick of England's hero or just a nightcap, but it looks like someone else is eager for that responsibility.'
Owen grinned and threw back his head to look at the ceiling, unable to believe what had just happened nor that he now had the wunderkind of the team appeared to be wanking himself off looking at them.
Well, George,' said Marcus. It appears we have two bad boys in our company. I think you should decide how they pay for their red cards, but my suggestion is you fuck them both hard up their tight little cunts', his grin utterly captivating.
George glanced at Owen, who now looked suddenly less comfortable.
Before George could interject, however, Owen replied, `Our hero of the moment here was suggesting I needed a shower. How about you shut that door properly and we get ourselves washed, eh Curry?', said Owen, looking hungrily at Tom's bulge that seemed to be practically bursting out of his suit trousers.
It was going to be a long night.
**
To be continued.