Author: Richard Saw
Categories: Adult Friends, Athletics
I've been a long-time reader of Nifty, adoring fan of so many writers. This story: The Tale of an Aussie Rugby Bottom was a book that I published via Amazon. I no longer sell it, but I decided that people here might like to read it, and the sequel that I never published.
Characters in these stories do feature in my Holmes & Watson mystery novels (available on Amazon, search Richard Saw), so if you like a little mystery novel (with lots of sex and humour), please do look them up. But I promise that all of the good stuff will be in these stories.
And yes, do send me fan mail..
The Tale of An Aussie Rugby Bottom, who also liked to Top - Chapter 1
I met Max at the gym. He was an Irish lad a few years older than me but a good couple of inches smaller than me in height and weighing a good 20kg less. The second fact wasn't surprising as I had just signed up with a new rugby team and as a result I'd been training as hard as I could to ensure that I'd not humiliate myself. This worry of course, was mainly in my head. The standard of the team was high that's for sure, but I hadn't been on a team where I didn't feel the need to prove I was more dedicated than anyone else. Comes with the competitive family past I guess. Anyway, I'd taken on super-heavy training, lots of power exercises, big squat thrusts and deadlifts, short reps, and heavy weights. Max and I met when I staggered back from one set and nearly bumped into him.
"Sorry dude," I apologised, touching him lightly on the shoulder, the sort of action and words my big brother had instilled in me as good gym etiquette when we were kids.
"Christ lad, that's ok," he replied, not at all flustered as my sweaty body collided with his. "Big weights ya got going there," he pointed at them.
"Yeah, strength training," I explained between breaths. "Just joined a new rugby team and tryin' to make a good impression."
"Yeah?" he sounded interested. "Mate that's my sport," he said, punching me on the shoulder, "Love it. You watching the Test match tomorrow?"
"Probably," I shrugged my shoulders, suddenly finding myself a little flustered and not knowing why. "Me and some of my mates from back home in Oz are planning to go down to a pub in Clapham to watch it. But I dunno..."
"You could always come over to my place," he suggested, his assertive behaviour unusual in my short experience of sober Irishmen... or almost anyone in London to be fair. "Got some feckin Guinness that needs to be drunk."
"Y'know I might take you up on that offer," I admitted, surprising even myself. My `mates' whom I had been playing touch rugby with over here -- prior to me finding a real team -- were in fact mostly my older brother's friends and while they were all friendly, I had to admit that I found them a bit loud and obnoxious. Exactly like things had been back home, I guess.
I was 22, I'd come over to London to `...get a better job,' as I kept telling everyone. But it was honestly so I could have an excuse to break up with my girlfriend Amanda. She'd met me when she was supposed to be set-up with my older brother (luckily they never dated -- as if things weren't weird enough) but she was a friend of my older sister and we'd been dating since we'd been at high school. Our families knew each other, and everyone presumed that we'd be getting married any day now. But I'd lived in fear of her getting pregnant and me being forced into a horridly dull suburban life. I must have been the only guy I knew who insisted on a condom every single time I had sex. When I told everyone back home that I was going to London by myself, they thought I was crazy. Even though my older sister had met her boyfriend over there the previous year before coming back. However, once I made it clear the decision was made, everyone in my family seemed determined to help in their typically overpowering way. My sister organised a room I could rent with some of her friends she had met over there. My brother's mates who had come over to be lawyers and bankers and whatever insisted I play on their TNT touch rugby team. And even though I had been very successfully managing restaurants in Australia while I had been studying for my degree, everyone felt that if I was going to turn my life upside down by moving to London I should have a proper job. So they put my uni degree to good use and found me an accounting role in a finance firm...
How could I tell all these people, who honestly loved me, that it was them I wanted to get away from? Of course I couldn't complain. They got me on feet faster than most new arrivals could dream of and within a couple of months I got the break I was hoping for. The finance firm I was working for created a new division and I applied, getting a role which paid more money which meant I moved into a new office where no one knew me, and I was able to afford to rent a flat all by myself near Old St. I even quit the touch rugby team and managed to talk myself into a more serious league team in North London, far away from the usual Aussie haunts of Southwest London. And this of course, was why I could be found spending my Saturday afternoon in the gym. Oh and also that I didn't seem to have made too many friends, so I had plenty of time to myself.
"So fella, who's gunna win?" Max teased, bringing me back to the present. "Reckon you Aussies can avenge your loss last time in Dublin?"
"I guess I'm supposed to say that, right?" I replied. I'd never been that patriotic when it came to sport, I'd never felt the need to support Australia and Australian's regardless. "Naww," I said. "I think you guys are playing better at the moment. And the Aussies are so messed up, I'd even go so far and say they're too arrogant." I was chatting with this stranger, glad that someone wanted to talk to me. I didn't realise how easy it was for me to be lonely.
"Yeah, they need to be shown who's boss," Max replied.
"Probably," I agreed, though I was a bit confused by Max's cheeky grin that followed my reply. We exchanged numbers and I texted him a couple of days to say that if the offer still stood, I liked the idea of coming over. He gave me his address and teased me about not supporting the Aussies more, convincing me that I had to wear my Wallabies jersey. And on the day, rather than catch the Tube I decided to run the couple of miles to Max's flat.
I arrived there sweaty but happy, having covered the distance quicker than I thought. I was looking forward to getting a couple of beers in me as a reward and spending time with someone who wasn't tenuously connected to my family. Max met me at the door, wearing just a pair of tracksuit pants and a grey t-shirt. "Ha boy, ya made it," he said, handing me a beer as I walked in. "Christ, you're looking a little fecking sweaty there," he laughed.
"I'm ok, nothing a beer won't fix," I replied. We walked into the lounge, and we sat down on the sofa, the TV muted but showing the pre-game discussions. It was then that I realised how sweaty I really was. "Damn," I muttered.
"Fuck fella, what's the problem now hey?"
"Ahh," I blushed. I blushed a lot. I'd been doing it since I was a teenager. I never knew why. "My fuckin' shorts are soaking. Sorry mate. You got a towel or something I can sit on?"
"Just take your shorts off lad. Oi don't mind ya sitting around in your pants," Max replied, taking another swig of his beer. "Just do it like you do in the locker-room."
"Umm, I ..."
"Seriously fella," he shook his head. "No one else is coming don't be a bellend."
"No," I stammered, trying to think how to explain my predicament. "It's just I'm only wearing a jock underneath. A jock strap."
Max looked at me with a cheeky grin spreading across his face. "You fecking Aussies. You think no one notices, dotcha? But you're all like little boys, all that changing behind a towel in the gym. Fecking scared of showin' anyone you've got chubbed up. This is why you're going to lose this match ain't ya? You and ya poofter Aussie Wallabies. Ya know ya gunna get fucked good and proper by us Irish so why don't you just be open about what you want?"
I looked at Max nervously, wondering how it was that he'd read my inner-most fears so quickly. I'd played rugby since I was at high school, I'd always been big, always hanging out with the team and with a girl on my side to protect me from anyone suspecting I might be gay. But I'd come to London because in the back of my head I really wasn't sure. Well I probably was sure, but I'd been in denial this long that I had gone out clubbing in London and managed to `accidentally' go home with some guys. Skinny blonde boys who would suck my cock and wanted more but it didn't feel right. I'd been too drunk, and I couldn't get hard and by the time I got home I'd lost confidence. So I went out again and picked up girls and that was easy, so maybe I wasn't. But for the longest time, I'd been in awe of guys who knew who they were and could take control of the situation. Even though he was smaller than me and my biceps were the size of his thighs there was something about Max that made me feel compelled to obey him. He was so powerful, so manly. Such a real man.
"I know what you want lad," he ordered. "I knew what you wanted the first time I saw you in the gym. Now stand up and take off yer shorts."
All I could think of was my first real rugby coach. I'd been 12, always in the shadow of my brother and my dad and my uncles and playing rugby only because I had to. His name was Mr Harrigan. He had biceps that to this day I would die for. He pushed us hard, but he smiled, patted me on the head and was the first person who said I could be good at rugby. I adored him. All I could hear was his voice as Max spoke, so I did as I was ordered. "Yes boss," I replied, saying exactly that I would have said to Mr Harrigan.
"Give me a set of squats," he ordered. "I wanna see those big legs work." So I squatted for him, blushing as the jock strap left my arse exposed. I had never shown my arse like this to anyone. Well there had been this one guy but... "Now come kneel on the sofa," Max ordered, interrupted my thoughts.
I obeyed without question and found myself staring into a mirror above the sofa. "Get those legs apart," Max ordered, and I felt his hand on my arse. "Good lad," he smirked as I obeyed immediately. "Yeah you Aussies think you're so fecking good don't you? But I know what you really want. You just want a nice piece of Irish meat to kick your back door down. You wanna get done, good and proper. You wanna get your hole hammered. You wanna swallow my load don't ya?"
It felt like a light bulb had gone off above my head. I was completely sober and yet I wanted to do something more outrageous than anything I'd ever dreamed of before. So this was what I wanted, this was what turned me on, I knew it immediately. Those boys I'd met in clubs after I'd snuck away from my mates, some of them had wanted me to dominate them. But here I was, giving it up to this smaller, weaker Irish lad. And I wanted him to fuck me. Yes that was it, I had played with my arse before, and it had felt good, but I never really knew what it was all about. Now I knew. I could hear him spitting onto his hand and then those fingers started to play with my hole. "Fuckin tight arse ya got here mate. All that gym work must be good for something hey?"
He slid a finger inside me, I moaned with pleasure and lifted my head, realising just how much I wished his statement about the million cocks had been true. Max grabbed my head with his other hand and snarled, "Answer me ya Aussie cocksucker? You're a real fuckin' cock whore ain't ya?"
"Yes, yes," I gasped out.
Max released my head and clipped me across the ear. "Yes what?"
"Yes boss," I quickly replied.
"Good lad," he smirked. "But don't ya worry. Yer Irish boss is gunna fuck ya good. I'm gunna give you what you want and in return I'm gunna have a nice warm Aussie hole to dump my load in any time I please, isn't that right?"
"Yeah boss please," I moaned, trying to fuck myself on his fingers. "Fuck me please. I want you inside me."
"You'll swallow my cum?" He demanded. "You'll wipe your arse on your pretty little Aussie jersey?"
"Yes boss I will," I begged. "Just fuck me!"
"Oh fuck yeah!" Max sighed. A condom appeared in between his fingers. "Put this one me boyo," he said.
My hands trembled as I tore the packet open, trying to get it right. All those condoms I'd put on myself, I'd never thought I'd be putting one on another guy. Max couldn't stop himself from grinning as he stood there, hands on hips and let me roll it on him.
Once I was done to his satisfaction he then pulled out a little pack of lube. He grinned as he poured it over and jacked himself a little more before nodding for me to get back into position. And then it was only seconds before that condom covered cock forced its way into me. All my obsessively trained glute muscles kicked into action and my arse opened first and then tightening around his cock as if it was meant to be filled. I don't know why -- maybe it was the beer -- but I felt ready for it. It wasn't tight at all. He must have had magic fingers. Later on my tight friggin' arsehole would cause me all sorts of pain, but on that day I let him in without a fight.
He started to power in and out of my arse like I was target practice. And I started to groan like a whore, panting and fucking myself on him.
"Yeah, you like that Aussie boy? Like your Irish stud ploughing your arse hey? Your back doors just begging for it. Yeah I can see you now, in a scrum just hoping that someone slides something up there by `accident'. Bet you're just hoping you fuck up aren't you? You'll go out with your mates, get drunk, drop your pants, and offer up that arse of yours to a real man. An' not even another player. Naww lad. You'll take it from some Irish man out on the lash who needs to get one out."
This was so hot, this was so what I needed that I would have agreed to anything he said. Max was my boss, and I was lovin' it. Who knew that a fantasy about my old rugby coach would be what would open me up to my destiny. "Yes boss," I groaned. "Fuck me Max, fuckin' take my arse." My cock was still encased in my jock strap, bouncing up and down and was as hard-as. Max's hands slipped roughly underneath my jersey and squeezed my pecs as he leant over to fuck me harder. "Oh! Ohhh..." I moaned again, no longer having any control over myself.
"Yeah?" Max laughed. "Hitting the fecking g-spot am I? Is ma Aussie boy's hole all wet eh?"
"Aaahh ..." The pitch of my voice suddenly rose, and I squealed with pleasure. There was no doubt about it, I was Max's plaything.
He slid out of me and roughly ordered. "Take that fuckin shirt off." I did as he commanded and he started to jerk off, cumming in big jets across it. "Here," he then threw it to me where I sat in my jock strap. "Lick it all up." I desperately tried to devour all the cum, licking it off the shirt before it dried, knowing that I would have to run home in a cum smeared jersey otherwise. "And lick the rest of it off the floor," he ordered, pointing to a large puddle on the floor. I obediently bent over and licked it all up. "Good lad," he smiled as I did.
He took the jersey from me, scrunched it up and threw it in the corner of the room. "Now don't worry there lad, I ain't forgotten about you." He sat down in the sofa and switched on the TV volume to watch the match that I had almost forgotten about. "Com'ere," he ordered, and I crawled across the floor before sitting on my haunches where he indicated.
"You keep sucking my cock and playing with yourself. And when the Irish score a try -- like you know they will -- you can cum ok?" I nodded my understanding and struggled to remove my jockstrap. I handed it to Max, and he hung it over my head as a symbol of my willing surrender. Max then leant over and cracked open a beer. When he noticed my forlorn expression he smirked, "Sorry lad I forgot." He then leant over and poured some beer on his still-hard cock. "I know what turns you fuckin' little Aussie cock sucker on don't I?"
Man it was hot. I kept sucking that cock and every so often Max would dose it with a bit more beer to keep me hard at it. My own dick was hard too, almost painful to touch and my balls were heavy with cum. I've never wished so much for the Irish to score a try in my life. Max kept up a horny commentary going the whole time, laughing at the Australian fuckups, and pumping his cock into my mouth harder as the Irish attack pushed forward. Eventually they slipped through the Australian defence and scored. Max leapt to his feet, knocking me back onto the floor and pumping his fist in celebration.
"Com'n ya knob jockey," he jeered. "Fuckin show yer boss how fuckin' happy you Aussie boys are to get fucked!"
I lay on the ground with Max leering over me and wanked until I came, spraying cum all over my muscled chest. "Fuckin' hot Aussie boy," Max laughed. "Now go get yourself cleaned up. By the time the match finishes I'm gunna have another load for you and I wanna make sure my cock is up yer arse when the cameras go into the changing rooms!"
When I returned from the bathroom having wiped his cum off me as best I could, Max was sitting on the sofa with my rugger shorts in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. "I was thinking," he laughed. "I think you need a reminder of today."
"What are you gunna do?" I ask nervously.
He just laughed and with one cut he slit the back of my shorts. "Now put em on," he ordered.
I trembled when he passed them back over to me. He didn't say anything though I swear I knew exactly what he was thinking. "Turn around and bend over," he ordered, and I did, feeling a cold breeze as the gap opened up. He gave a leering whistle, "That's a fuckin' right nice snatch," he snapped. "Now piss off."
"But, but ..." I protested.
"Fuckin hell bitch," he snarled. "I watch rugby with men not poofters. Now run off home and I'll call you when I want to see you again."
I tried to argue that all I had to wear underneath was my jockstrap, but Max clearly didn't give a shit and when I asked for my Wallabies jersey back, I was told that it was his cum rag from now on. Half-scared and half more-turned-on than I'd ever known, I ran home shirtless, blushing furiously every time as the tear in my shorts opened up, flashing my arse. I even heard a couple of woof-whistles, but I ran on, only feeling my cock getting harder, trapped inside my jockstrap.