Tom In The Long Bath
by Paul Penn

 

This is (almost) completely true. The main events of the story took place just over two years ago. I have changed a number of the details to protect the identities of “Tom” and the team.

I am a great fan of the local rugby team in West Yorkshire, spending many Saturday morning, hands thrust in big coat, watching them thrash it out from the sidelines. The maroon shirts with white emblem are a source of pride to myself and many local people, family members and neighbours of the ground alike. The team consists of lads and men from 16 to 40-odd year olds, from schoolboys to accountants from young bloods to welders recreating their sporting youth through the training regime and bruising battles in the local league.

The facilities have not always been that great and, in my position as managing director of a successful advertising company, I have been able to sponsor some improvements to the clubhouse and changing rooms. My company’s name, logo and contact details appear, of course, stretched across the back of the maroon shirts.

Improving the bar area was not a controversial move, nor was my funding of a small covered stand on one side of the pitch for the older members of the crowd. But there was a lot of heated discussion among the players when the committee had to discuss my offers to improve the showers and toilets — should they keep the communal showers and long bath, or go for a more discrete and contemporary arrangement with individual cubicles with doors or screens? On the whole the older men wanted to keep the group facilities and the younger lads wanted the more private arrangements.

Apart from young Tom.

Although only 17 and Head Boy with one year to go at a local independent school, he sided with the older men and cited tradition and team spirit as the reason for keeping the shared showering arrangements. He was popular and influential amongst the younger crowd, so his argument won the day.

The improvements were planned for the tiling, pipe work and water pressure, but the structural arrangements were largely the same — a long bath for about twelve big bodies in the anteroom of a larger communal shower area with eight shower heads — six on a long wall and one on each of two shorter sides. The habit, as I understood it, was for the men to wash off the mud and sweat in the showers and then pack into the bath for a soak. I had never been in these changing rooms at the same time as the players, being a fan only, but heard about these routines in the committee discussions about the new facilities.

A significant surprise were the discussions when it was proposed to make the long bath bigger, to try and accommodate all 15 players and a couple of subs. One senior player said – “the little’uns just sit in the middle on our feet or squash in on our legs, it’ll be fine — we don’t always fill it anyway — leave it as it is.” The thought of 17 or 18 blokes squashing into a hot bath built for 12 seemed faintly mad, but totally horny to me.

My interests in rugby were not only, of course, sporting. I had always enjoyed erotic fantasies about the hard, physical contact between the players and at school had played second row myself, until an excruciating knee injury stopped my active career in most team sports. I was a big, shy lad, not much of a socialiser, and threw myself into GNVQ Business in the Sixth Form, gaining a distinction easily and graduating three years later with a Business and Marketing degree.

I had a few close friends who, one-by-one, started pairing off with girls. Gradually I developed a pretty independent and work-related life, arriving early and staying late, with the result that, by the age of 42, I was managing director of a local firm with a strong reputation locally for creative design and shrewd advertising decisions. I recruited instinctively but it always paid off and my busy firm had a healthy annual turnover of 500K. I moved property frequently and now had a swish city apartment overlooking the canal area of Leeds from the 10th storey, perfect for national transport links and ideal for escaping from the bustle of the streets to my bachelor pad. My social life was made up of family gatherings with my parents and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, work events and a few get-togethers with old school friends to hear moans about wives, kids and girlfriends.

“Who are you going to leave your fortune to?” and “When are you going to get hitched?” and “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you?” were typical of the questions I faced regularly but with humour, knowing winks and a modicum of bluff I managed to sail through my 20s and 30s unscathed by relationships. “Footloose and fancy free, that’s me.”

Impossible to believe, I expect, in the 21st century, but by the age of 42 I had only had a very few sexual partners, apart from my own trusty fingers and hand: one member of my own family, four men, four women and one group event at university. Maybe I’ll write about them all eventually, but the truth of the situation when this particular event took place was that I had not had a partner for 15 years.

So did I know I was gay? I suppose I did, but, despite my work success, I was a pretty unsociable guy. I have never been drawn to gay clubs or porn, though I did order a couple of bi and gay DVDs to play and wank to. I find the bi films arousing and like seeing the manly bodies of the models and watching the poles slide in and out of the hairless fannies, but it is when the men start to kiss that I feel my sap rising and start slapping my salami to its happy end. Of the two gay DVDs I have, one is naff and old, but the other is a German film about a sporting event and there are some truly arousing duos (and a foursome) in that. A couple of the lads in that film have jockstraps too, and that does something for me. What I have always really wanted to see, though, were shower scenes — and preferably lads coming off a muddy pitch and then having fun in the showers.

Which brings me to my story.

It was late August and the season was about to kick off again. The contractors had been in over summer improving the shower, bath and toilet facilities at the club and the first opportunity to use them would be the first game of the season against another local side, a Halifax team. The crowds were out and I turned up to the game and had lots of club members and the coach congratulating me and thanking me for my latest investment in the conditions at the club.

“Come on in after the game,” called Len, the coach. “You should see the lads using the new facilities. You paid for it after all.”

“I’ll see,” I said, secretly thinking that would be my fantasy come true, but fearing to show too much interest in naked rugby players.

The lads charged out for the game — the usual shapes and sizes of men and lads — mostly familiar, but a couple of new faces. My eyes, though, were drawn to Tom who had grown since last May when I had last seen him. He was now 6 foot 2 and was packing a column of a body into his shorts and shirt, his legs trunk-like and covered with soft blonde hairs. His big feet were encased in their studded boots and he grinned at me from ear to ear.

“Hey, Paul, you’ve done us proud inside. I’m glad I won about keeping the long bath. Come in at the end and have a look.”

Another offer to look! And a reminder that he had been one of the voices to keep the bath and showers a communal arrangement.

“Just win, that’s all I ask, Tom” I shouted back. “Get us off to a good start.”

He stopped and bounded over, brimming with energy and muscle. I could hardly breathe. He had mussy blonde hair and quite dark eyebrows, even features, bright brown eyes, a cute nose and full sensuous lips — a bigger, beefier Jude Law. And he was looking at me like a mate, rather than as someone who could conceivably be old enough to be his father.

“It makes a difference, though,” he said. “After a game is important – whether you win or lose. I mean it about coming in after — the lads won’t mind. Anyway I bet loads of people will want to buy you a pint. I’ve been wanting to talk to you anyway.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I was thinking about Business at uni and I’ve got to fill my UCAS form in. I wonder if you’d check it out for me and see what you think about my choices.”

“Course I would,” I said, and meaning it. (Fatherly advice, I thought, willing my balls to stop churning with desire.) “If you want to spend a day before you start school again, you could come over to Leeds and spend a day in the office.”

“That’d be excellent,” grinned Tom. “See you later, Paul. Hope you don’t get too wet today.” He nodded at the sky and bounded off again. I looked up and saw the approaching cloud, black and ominous, heavy and bulging.

It is fair to say that the game got off to a rousing start. We received the kick off and made massive ground with fast legwork and skilful passing. Some switches of possession were soon replaced by our dominance of the game with superior handling skills. As we pushed towards their end, the crunching tackles began. Our backs were waiting for minutes and more minutes, a bit frustrated but shouting and egging on their mates as the forwards shoved inch by inch to make ground, and Halifax’s unflinching defence aggressively kept a wall between us and the try line.

Then the heavens opened with a dramatic crack of thunder. It was the kind of rain that builds steadily to a deluge and the already moist ground started churning and throwing up black mud onto the backs of the hairy legs of players on both sides. Tom was playing at the back of the pack and was part of a manoeuvre that helped shove Big Bill over the line for our first try. There was a cry of male anguish from Halifax and whoops of triumph from our side. The lads thundered back to their half, planting smackers on Big Bill and smirking at the early lead.

The local rivals turned nasty from that point. Tackles were high and boots were flicked into shins. The scrum met with a crunching thud and grunts and growls were heard all over the pitch. The referee could tell things were hotting up and started to run swiftly towards every play, increasing the sharpness of his instructions. The rain by now had stopped, but all the players were caked in mud and many of the spectators, me included, were drenched. Tempers were frayed.

Then it happened — it was on the far side of the pitch and the next few minutes are a blur. “Grab this, Paul,” shouted Arnie, the first aid man and “physio” to the team. In reality he was a local milkman who had been with the team as a player when he was younger. “This” was a bucket with sponges inside and I followed Arnie across the pitch, sliding and slipping a few times as we made our way over to a heap of bodies, Arnie carrying his first aid boxes and shoulder bags.

It had been in an intense lineout and from what I understood on the spot and later, several heads had crashed together and someone had stamped on Tom’s ankle.

As Arnie attended to the injured, I felt faint with the surrounding aromas and the physical mass of testosterone. I remember very clearly the heat of the massive bodies crowding round, and the smell of the wet mud, the sweat and the wintergreen embrocation smeared on the legs of some of the lads. I could hear promises to the ref being made by both teams that they would all cool it and the game should go on. I then heard Arnie saying to me “I need to stay out here, Paul, cos of the head-banging. I need to keep my eyes on the lads who’ve collided — can you get Tom into the changing rooms and help him get dressed? He’s not going back on today. Could you run him up to Casualty, just to be sure?”

“Sure,” I said, my head confused with what seemed like an impossible task. But I hitched Tom onto my shoulder and heard the applause for the injured lad, as I hobbled him over to the changing rooms.

“Thanks, Paul, thanks a lot,” said Tom, as I lowered him onto one of the benches. “Can you start running the bath — normally they don’t run it till later, but I just want to lower myself in there.”

My brain was racing as I realised it was highly likely I was about to see the stud Head Boy in the buff. I plugged the drainage hole and turned the huge taps so the water started roaring into the new shiny bath.

“Do you put any bubbles in?” I asked in all innocence.

Tom grinned, his wide mouth dimpling his cheeks and his eyes laughing at me. “The lads would have a fit if it was full of bubbles,” he said. “Are you serious about letting me come and see you at work, Paul?”

“Any time, Tom. Glad to be of help.”

“I don’t want to get in the way,” he said and started pulling his rugby jersey off. He had a stacked chest and built arms, large areola and studly nipples jutting out from his great pecs. There was a little blonde hair in between his man-boobs and a darker snail trail trickling into his shorts. Tufts of black hair peeped out from his pits.

“You won’t be in the way,” was all I could think of to say. “You’ll always be welcome with me, I mean, at work, or wherever….” I had started burbling and I think his mischievous eyes were enjoying my awkwardness.

“Are you going to get in with me?” he asked, staring at me intently.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “I’ll make sure you’re all right, but I don’t think it’s right for me to get in.”

“What do you mean?” he challenged.

“Well, I’m, er, not in the team.”

“Fuck off, Paul, you paid for these showers and baths. They’re yours if anybody’s. Anyway I think I’ll need your help getting in and out. And you’re soaking anyway. Come on, Paul. Nobody’ll think anything.”

“Let’s get you sorted first,” I said, by way of compromise. I swear my heart was thumping in my chest and the familiar feelings of sexual arousal were beginning inside my jeans. I started to get the feeling that Tom knew exactly what he was doing, but I didn’t know if it was because he had a thing for older men in general, for me in particular, or it was a typical ruggerbugger male bonding thing.

“Can you reach down and untie my boots, Paul?” Without a word, I did just that, crouching in front of the hunk and covering my hands and jeans with the mud from his studs as I did so. I also pulled off his socks, sliding the rough well-washed material over his thick calves, and in the case of the injured ankle, I very gently and carefully took time so as not to jar the bony joint. I cradled the ankle with one hand and held his muscley calf with the other and pretended to assess the damage; as I did this he had shucked his shorts under his backside and now started pushing them down his thighs.

“Let me,” I said quietly, predictably, and hooked the waistband down his legs and off. He was wearing a stained jockstrap, pretty old and a bit tatty and the outline of his meat and two veg was clear, a curved tube of rugbyboy flesh, hanging over large plum-like mounds. The front of his jock, I swear, had piss and cum stains on, and there was a definite patch of new wetness near the end of his dick. The whiff of boy groin invaded my senses.

“Your ankle isn’t swelling up,” I said, a line that for some reason made another part of my anatomy swell uncomfortably inside my jeans. The more I got a hard on, the more I thought it would be impossible to get undressed and in the long bath with him. I felt sure he could see my love-tube packing up the front of me.

“I think it’ll be ok,” he said. “It doesn’t feel bad at all, just sore. It’s probably just bruised.” He indicated that he wanted to stand up and I helped him lever himself onto one foot. His huge nude frame was now pressed against me, my arm round his manly back and holding his side. I felt like I was in the presence of a Michelangelo model. I put my arm on his abdomen to steady him, an action that meant I was spraying my pants with pre-cum. His tummy was soft on the outside with obvious muscles inside — not a six-pack, but a trim middle with some softness.

I helped him lurch over to the edge of the baths and he held onto the tiled wall as I turned the taps off. What a fucking sight he was as I moved back over to help him — a rugby player in his prime, legs, hands, face and hair smeared in mud, dressed only in a stinky jockstrap. I expected him to get in with the jockstrap, but as I supported him again he started to push it down his leg.

“Can you get that for us?” he asked quietly, almost like a whisper. Suddenly he seemed incredibly vulnerable, standing on one leg and relying on me for balance — my heart went out to him.

I knelt and he steadied himself with one hand on the wall and the other on my shoulder. I gripped the strap at the back and peeled the waist band off his backside and then tried to tug the whole thing down quickly but his legs were together, so I got my hand into the front, gripping the material and pulled the thing over his tackle, the back of my hand brushing his pubes and a couple of my knuckles making contact with his cock. I think I gasped, if not out loud, then certainly inside my head.

His cock became possessed, the second it swung free from his jockstrap. The tube swelled out at the end filling his foreskin like a giant saggy fruit and swung loosely from side to side over enormous balls, fuzzy with blonde pubes and hanging proudly beneath his salami. The tube thickened and reared away from his body and moved from side to side, almost hypnotising me.

“Dang,” Tom twanged in a fake American accent. “It just won’t behave!” I was tongue- tied and couldn’t say a word, but looked up into his eyes, which were still mischievous, but now a little wary. Did I detect some uncertainty at this point?

I stood up and supported his weight as he hopped onto the ledge under the water. As he tried to lower himself I moved my hands wherever I thought would help, at one point right onto his arse before it made contact with the tiles. He was in, wallowing in the steaming water.

“Come in,” said Tom, quietly. “You’ll warm up.”

“I don’t have a towel,” I said.

“You can share mine, but there’s extras anyway in the stock cupboard.” He used his good foot to rear up, stretching the muscles of his gorgeous body, the water swirling round his thick thighs, turning muddy as the black stuff slid off his legs and hands.

“Come in, Paul,” he said again. “I want you to come in.”

Years of avoiding the subject suddenly caved in. “I’m gay,” I said. “I can’t come in.”

“Just fucking come in,” he said, quietly and forcefully. There was a pause, me at the side of the long bath, him in the water with his injured ankle. I could see his cock, now rigid, veiny and stretched, bouncing above the muddy water, the foreskin peeling back to reveal the pink moist dome with its teasing hole. Could I see a different sort of liquid, other than water, oozing from the slit on Tom’s bell-end?

I’m fairly sure that he said one more time “come in” before I threw off my trainers and socks, pulled down my jeans and pulled off my sweatshirt, shirt and T-shirt. I stood in white pants with my own dick full of blood and wetting the end. For some reason I kept my pants on as I moved towards the long bath. He reached out his large mitt. I grabbed his hand and stepped over the edge into the hot water.

“Attaboy,” said Tom. “Do you think you could grab that soap and wash my ankles?” Mesmerised, I knew by now that this young rugger stud was completely in charge and no amount of logic would cause me to ask why on earth I had to wash his ankles. In a story it seems weird, in real life it was even weirder. I’d heard of feet fetishists, but not ankle fetishists.

I took the soap and worked up a lather in my hand. It was strong-smelling soap, pretty industrial. He then lifted his leg and I started washing up and down the fabulous limb, massaging his muscles as I went.

“That feels good,” said Tom. “You ought to be our physio.”

“You’ve got very muscly legs,” was the only thing I could think to say. Pathetic, I know. The last of the mud came off the first leg and I remember the feel of his rough hairs and a few scabs and cuts as I made a good job of cleaning him.

After the other leg, he asked me to do his back, so I did, working across his shoulders and up and down the solid surface.

“That’s great, Paul. You’ve got the touch. You can go where you like, you know. The lads help each other get washed every week. Part of team bonding.”

“More like a gay fantasy,” I said.

“Well, you know what they say about rugby, don’t you?” I swear he was acting like the mature one and I was the kid. “You should see what happens on tour. It opened my eyes I can tell you.”

After a couple of back washes I felt encouraged to start sliding my hands round his front and moving closer in to him, resting my own head on his back and soapily sliding my hands across his chest, nipples and abdomen. I pushed as much of my body as I could against him and enjoyed the feel of our soapy torsos mashing together. My dick in my pants was of course like a ramrod about to explode.

“Wash my arse,” he said and knelt on the sitting shelf of the bath with his mighty backside mooning me. I lathered up again and spread my hands over those hairy cheeks, letting my fingers linger on the puckered hole and sliding the side of my hand up and down the crack.

His cock and balls hung tantalisingly, so I pushed my hands between his legs and started fondling his uncut cock and big soft balls, wanking his dick-tube in a soapy, sloppy fashion and reaching my other hand through to soap up his pubes. My thumb came regularly into contact with his hole and he was clearly into it, grinding his hips slowly and quietly moaning.

Tom then turned round and flung his arms round me and shoved his tongue down my throat. This was completely unexpected but I got straight into it, grabbing him and desperately taking his tongue without gagging. We snogged for the best part of three minutes, our hands stroking and caressing every part of the other one, hair, faces, backs, sides, groins. I was just as soapy as Tom by now.

At some point the lad pulled off my pants and we were both mutually stroking our cocks. We both had to stop the other’s wanking actions at one point because we were getting too close to cumming.

“Let’s get over to the showers,” he then said. We made it pretty quickly and I started having suspicions about how injured his ankle actually was. “Turn round and bend over,” he said.

I did as I was told and felt Tom grabbing my buttocks and spreading them. I knew I was tight but still I felt Tom’s cockhead pressing against it, rubbing round it, pushing and trying to invade. He turned the water on so it was cascading over him and across my back. Still he tried to push his knob into my unyielding orifice.

“I’m not ready for that,” I said and dropped to my knees in front of his raging pole.

“Go for it, Paul,” he rasped.

His cock veins were standing out and the bell-end was purple with blood. A blob of cum hung on his frenulum. Tom shuddered with pleasure as I placed my lips over his dick’s end and swallowed his cum. I spent a few seconds adjusting my mind to what I was about to do, then closed my mouth over a quarter of the length and started to suck and slide my lips up and down. I tugged and fondled his danglers and after a few minutes he pulled me up again for another snogging session, my tongue now tasting of his spunk.

Next Tom closed his hand around my dick and I almost shot my load there and then. I trembled and had to steady myself on the shower wall. He knelt in front of me and slurped up my full dick-length before diving underneath to nuzzle, lick and suck on my nads. I nearly fell over with pleasure. Tom was moving his mouth up and down my genitals, sometimes licking my balls, sometimes at the side of my cock, sometimes diving down the whole length so his forehead touched my pubes. I found myself starting to move my hips and fuck his face, gripping the side of his head and feeling the build-up of jizz as I thrust almost uncontrollably into Tom’s head.

He encouraged me down onto the tiled floor and pushed my legs up so he could gain better access to my churning balls. He moved them gently in and out of his mouth and then tongued his way back to my dark crack with its sweaty hairs. I then felt him pushing his tongue and nose as far as he could into my hole. It was an incredible feeling, especially when I felt the tongue accompanied by a prodding finger. The little stud was fingering my virgin hole! As I relaxed I felt Tom’s tongue go slithering past the puckering gateway and deep into the chute beyond. Almost instantly a finger followed and I was skewered on the floor of the changing room. How wonderful that I was one of the first to use the new facilities!

We were both on our feet next and used shower gel to soap each other all over, then kissed again with our nude bodies sliding against each other. Both our dicks were bouncing now, lurching, even when not touched, with pulsing beats that showed us to be on the edge of explosions.

Tom reached under my legs and punched his soapy right thumb right into my hole again and spread his fingers across my buttocks so I was virtually impaled on his hand. In a mighty show of strength, born of all his upper body training, he almost lifted me off the ground and I cried out in ecstasy — “fuck! fuck!”

“Up you go, Paul,” Tom laughed and supported me on his hand so my feet were bouncing on the floor, his thumb jabbed well into my sizzling bumhole.

I fell to the ground again and down to my knees to once again swallow and slurp up and down on the young man’s love-stalk. Tom seemed to grow even bigger than ever and the glans was raging for release.

It was an astonishing turn-on, having this 17-year old rugby player squirming out-of- control. I switched back from slurping to licking the length of his rod, flicking it with my tongue, massaging it with my lips, watching it vibrate and pulsate as the spunk filled the tubes ready to shoot.

‘Fuck me,” he whispered.

“Condom?” I asked.

“You’re the second — the other one was a virgin like me” and, given my own meagre sexual history, I took the risk. Stupid, I know, and I’ve been way more careful since this occasion. But it was so fast moving and horny.

On the edge of the long bath, Tom threw his knees next to his ears and I positioned my burgeoning cockhead on his open hole. I spat into my hand, slicked up the end, spat on his opening and looked in his eyes for confirmation.

He grinned cheekily and reached down to cup and tickle my balls. “Go for it,” he grunted and I squeezed with some effort into his welcoming but tight fuck-tube. “Go, Paul. Further. Get in there. Go on, pal.”

I rested for a few seconds with my dick pulsing like a mad thing, throbbing in the body of the beautiful boy who had been an object of lust and fantasy for a few years. I started to push further in and Tom groaned.

I withdrew and he moaned.

I slid back into the lad’s channel. Out, in. Out, in. Out, in.

Throbbing and pulsing, advancing and retreating, forwards and back. We developed an easy rhythm and started openly grunting and moaning.

I was vaguely aware that there were about fifty other people just outside watching a game. It was pretty near the half-time whistle, I thought, and someone may well come in to use the bogs.

I could see that Tom was building to cumming, as he slapped his own salami in rhythm to my own thrusting. Pressure built on both our parts, balls jumping with joy and spunk- tubes filling to the brim.

Tom reached his left hand round for my arsehole to plunge a finger into the end as he gasped, “I’m coming.” He let go of his dick. Globs of semen shot out from his fat sausage, spewing spectacularly up his body. He opened his mouth in a silent cry. Then groaned “Fuuuuuck!”

I reared backwards, picked up speed, sweat sprang out of me and I let rip my own load. It felt as if my cock had tripled in size and was permanently stuffed up Tom forever. Four massive spurts shot out of me that day, before the dozen or so mini-spews that finished me off.

The ropes and squirts of love-cream that had flown from Tom were spattered as far as his shoulders, one drop on his neck. His torso was smeared and one thick surge lay across his right nipple. There was a blob in his belly button. I collapsed onto him, my still pulsing dick slithering out of his chute and our chests squelching Tom’s jizz.

He started giggling and wrapped his arms and legs round me, squeezing tightly. “What do you mean, you’re gay?” he said. “You could have fooled me.”

 

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