Crotch sweat fills my nostrils from the two jockstraps wrapped around my head to secure the three stuffed in my mouth. My burning cheeks are hidden from view by the other used undies draped over my face, shoulders, and lap where they fell — at least those that hadn’t fallen in the surrounding mud. Two more have been repurposed as restraints, binding my wrists and elbows together. Adding to my humiliation is the fact that none had landed on my cock, so the rigid evidence of my arousal stands out for all to see, the drizzle chipping away at the dirt coating it as droplets coalesce and then run down its length, leaving a streak of pale flesh in their wake.

I shiver, but not from the icy needles of November rain pricking my bare skin — although my toes are starting to go numb in the frigid mud. No, I’m trembling with anticipation for what I know is coming next — the realisation of my darkest and deepest fantasies.

All arranged by Sir.

I can’t see him — I can only see white cotton jockstrap — but I know he’s there, watching over me. He has teased these desires out of me over these past months through breathless, horny conversations when he was edging me and the intimate post-orgasmic ones as we snuggled after.

And to think when I was at school, he was my least favourite teacher…

🌧️ 🌧️🌧️

Thirty minutes earlier

“Are you ready, Will?”

I stare out through the rain spattered windscreen at the game still in progress, the sight triggering conflicting memories of loathing in my stomach.

“You don’t have to, you know. We can leave.”

The keys rattle as he goes to restart the car.

“No.”

He stops. Waits.

I draw a breath, eyes still fixed on the tall goal posts.

“I want— I need this.”

“I’ll be there the whole time. I won’t let it go further than you can take.”

I finally turn to face him.

Adam. Or rather, for today, Mr Hudson or Sir, the gruff PE teacher, exactly as I remember from my first terrified lesson with him over a decade ago, right down to the crewcut, even though he must have aged in reality over those intervening years. How I had loathed him back then! Always making us play rugby, whatever the weather. Rain, hail, snow — nothing was allowed to stop us playing that idiotic game whose rules I still don’t understand. To me, it just meant being used for tackling practice by the boys who actually enjoyed slamming into each other.

But that memory is overlayed with the trust and love built up since our chance meeting five months ago. It was only meant to be an anonymous hook-up — a diversion from the boredom of living at home with my parents after finishing University for me, a post-break-up anger-fuck for him. I certainly never expected to end up falling for the sports teacher I had hated all through high school, or for my admission that I hated his favourite sport to bring me here, to his rugby club.

“You will let it happen though, won’t you?”

What I want him to allow to happen I leave unspoken. He knows my limits better than me — we discovered that early on. Though he’s taught me to use traffic light words — green for go, amber for slow down, and red for stop — I’ve never said “red” yet.

“I know what you need, Will,” he says simply. “Let’s go, otherwise the game will be over before you've even changed.”

A quarter of an hour later, I shift nervously from foot to foot under one of the goals. My boots are even more uncomfortable than I remember — five years of neglect at the back of the wardrobe have stiffened the leather and weakened the glue, and damp from the mud is already seeping through. They, along with the socks and my old school rugby shirt with the frayed sleeves I can’t stop fiddling with, are a rare exception to Sir’s rule of no reminders that I was a former student. He likes men, not boys — if I wasn’t so hairy, I would probably be too much of a twink for him to even consider.

Popping my collar to keep the November chill from blowing down my neck, I watch him trudge across the sodden, churned-up pitch to the other players gathering at the centre of the field. How many on a rugby team? Fifteen, wasn’t it? There’s another team here for the friendly joint training session, but it looks like more than thirty to me. I guess they have a few subs, too, plus the coach of the visiting team — a silver fox, if foxes were built like brick shithouses before gaining their silver coats.

When the scrum of burly men breaks up, spreading out and walking towards me, my heart skips a beat. Although the group mostly tends towards width rather than height, the average is still taller than my five foot eight. A few of them conform to my anti-rugby prejudices, displaying evidence of multiple broken noses and necks so thick that they merge with their shoulders, but I have to admit that, on the whole, they are a delicious if intimidatingly well-muscled bunch. Some I recognise from the only time Sir agreed to meet me at the pub, but had learnt no names before he dragged me home to fuck the stresses of his week away.

They stop, the nearest maybe ten metres away, and all strike a pose with feet wide apart and begin a low guttural chant. Electricity runs down my spine at the sight of the coordinated hand movements and stomps that follow.

A haka!

Sir had told me that the four Kiwis on the team had been teaching them something special, but my mind had only just connected that morsel of information with today. The New Zealanders are easy to identify, being the four closest to me doing the dance with the most conviction, but I take the opportunity to admire all the players. I have always thought of rugby as quite a monochrome sport, but it seems that the gay league at least is more ethnically diverse than the county as a whole. Who knew there even was a gay rugby league? Confusingly, they play rugby union, too, not that I would know the difference between league and union.

Just as I complete my survey, they give a final unified yell and stomp, then fall silent, staring at me. They remain in their wide-legged stance but begin leaning forwards, ready.

I look over at Mr Hudson. He raises his eyebrows — a question. Nodding, I turn back to the crowd, pulse racing as I try to work out a route. My only advantage is that I am probably quicker on my feet than they are. Maybe if I went to the left first—

Silver Fox blows his whistle, and they surge forward. I panic and run to the right, ducking under the first set of arms that tries to grab me. The burst of adrenaline that gives me focuses my mind and I manage to avoid the next two, finding myself in open space. It’s so easy, I think as I prepare to spring for the far goal, when a sack of bricks slams into my side. That’s what it feels like, anyway, as I crash into the ground, momentarily stunned.

My sudden limpness throws my tackler, and he doesn’t maintain the grip of his trunk-like arms when my senses return, so I slither out and dive between the legs of the next player closing in, digging my fingers into the wet dirt to propel myself forward. I accelerate too fast, and can’t turn in time to completely escape a lunging hand that succeeds in grabbing my shirt. However, my momentum spins me around on the slippery ground and pulls the jersey over my head. I thrash desperately, cursing my idiotic decision to do up the buttons, until they pop off and I fall back into the mud, topless but free.

Sitting in the cold and seeing them closing in gives me flashbacks. For me, a game of rugby had consisted of an hour of total bafflement, pretending to make an effort but always just a little bit too slow to join in the action. On the rare occasion some sadistic classmate passed me the ball, I would throw it haphazardly over my shoulder before anyone could tackle me. This current game is just as confusing and has all the terror of the nightmares those experiences induced — nightmares that have returned since dating Adam, only transformed and suffused with confusing desire.

Scrambling to my feet, I dash for the widest gap between these predators, then spot a blur to my left so make a hard turn, losing a boot to the mud and running headlong into a solid wall of flesh. I kick and struggle, but the blur has caught up with me, and I recognise him as one of the massive Maori players. He grabs my ankles and yanks my shorts down. They catch on my remaining boot, and the two men pull in opposite directions until the shorts slip off, taking the boot with it and causing the one pinning me to his chest to lose his balance and fall back.

Once again, I am running free, though now wearing nothing but my socks and the jockstrap Mr Hudson had insisted on. The air burns my lungs as I near the posts, the drumming of my heart masking the approaching footsteps so the first I know of my pursuer is his shoulder connecting with my hips, and then the world tips sideways. We thud into the grass, knocking the oxygen from my lungs.

When I draw breath, I struggle, but my assailant has my arms pinned, and I can’t move. By the time the rest of the men gather around, I have given up my futile escape attempts and just wait, helpless under his weight. Only once they form an impenetrable circle around me does he release me.

“Adam tells us you don’t like rugby, is that right, bro?” the Kiwi who removed my shorts says. I nod, still too out of breath to speak, and push myself onto hands and knees.

“Why? What do you have against our game, skinny boy?” That came from a blond guy with a Mancunian accent.

“I don’t like mud,” I say, smears of it on my limbs, back, and face from my earlier falls on the pitch.

That had been true, after all. But sometime between adolescence and now, that childhood aversion to mud has turned into a sexual fascination. Sir knows that, and, from the dirty, derisive sniggers my remark triggers, I don’t think he’s kept it a secret. A knot forms in my stomach as I look up at them, all men much more physically powerful than me, fresh from playing a game that, as far as I understand, involves randomly slamming your body into the opposition.

But when I see Mr Hudson, watching over it all, I push through, knowing what I had to say.

“Also, it’s a stupid game played by brainless, upper-class thugs with no point to it. Fuck rugby!”

Sir tries to hide his laughter at the exaggerated cries of offense and indignation that rise from the group while I stand up, trembling but excited.

“What do say, boys?” Silver Fox calls out in his thick Belfast accent. “Are we going to let him get away with calling us a bunch of brainless posh twats who play a pointless game?”

“No!” they chorus.

“He sounds like a little whiney boy-bitch,” someone behind me says, and I spin to see who the speaker is.

“Yeah, you’re right,” someone else calls making me turn before I can identify the first speaker. I find this one — almost the exact picture of the rugby thug out to get me from my nightmares, complete with a military-style haircut and no neck. “I think we give the little bitch something real to whine about.”

There is a rumble of dirty laughter. My heart pounds harder and I turn, looking for a gap through which to run, but there is none. I don’t know what they are waiting for, but every second they remain still causes my nerves to mount. Looking to Mr Hudson for reassurance, his brown eyes remind me that I do want this.

Without warning, I throw myself at the two players to my left, hoping to squeeze through them, but they just laugh and push me back. The circle closes, changing from a single row to each man having someone behind them. I try ducking between their legs, but they just scoop me up and dump me on my back. On my third and final attempt, I simply end up being shoved from one side of the circle to the other like a rag doll, until I trip and fall. Rather than let me get up again, two of them come forwards and pin my wrists to the turf, one of them rubbing my face into the ground.

“You don’t like mud, eh, bitch?” he growls in my ear.

More hands grip my kicking feet, pulling off my socks. Then fingers tuck into the waistband of my jockstrap.

“I’m not sure I believe he doesn’t like rugby,” a voice says behind me. “He’s pretty hard for it.”

His words make my growing erection strain against the dirt in defiance of the cold.

“Really?” That was the man still holding my head down. “Maybe he’s a needy little boy-bitch. Is that right? Are you hoping for a bit of rough with the rugby team? “

“No,” I whimper, spitting out some grass from my mouth. A lie, of course.

“I think you’re lying. I don’t like anything coming out of your mouth, actually. Here, pass me that.”

The next thing I know, he stuffs my own mud-spattered jockstrap between my lips.

“Yeah, that’s better, no more whining.”

“You know, since this little bitch loves mud so much, we should take him to the centre. There’s too much grass here.”

“Good point!”

They release my wrists and drag me face-first across the waterlogged field. By the time my legs flop into the churned-up mud of the centre circle, my arms, chest, and face are painted brown from the journey. The moment they release me, I try to run again, but they push me straight back onto my arse, accompanied by jeers and laughter. I push myself up on my elbows, spitting out my underwear.

“I think he wants something else in there,” the tallest says, stepping forward and grabbing my hair to pull me up to a sitting position. “Is that it, bitch? You want a nice hard cock in your mouth?”

“Yes, please, Sir,” I say looking up at him. It is exactly what I want. He looks at me, turning my head from side to side, but then releases me to slump back into the mud.

“Nah,” he says turning away. “You’re far too filthy. You need a shower before I put my dick anywhere near that. Besides, I always need a slash after a game. What about the rest of you?”

For a moment, I am confused, until one of them makes a remark that gives away their plan all along.

“How about we give him a golden shower?”

So that is how I came to be tied up, gagged, and draped with the sweaty underwear of two rugby teams. And why the cold drizzle isn’t all that's making me shiver.

Mud squelches as the first few step closer — I can’t tell how many. I breathe harder, filling my lungs with their combined scent, and then jump as the first warm stream hits my face, soaking straight through the cotton. Two more join it a few seconds later from behind, all aimed at my head. I moan as the stench of ammonia begins replacing that of groin. A disgusted part of me silently screams, Make it stop! but a deeper part stops me from uttering the three staccato grunts that would make Sir end this.

That part loves it.

The last few spurts from the man in front land on my chest, and I hear him flick the droplet off just as someone next to him takes over. Soon, the piss saturates the gag. I bite down involuntarily, wringing an acrid gush down my throat so that I wretch and cough, leaning forwards so the three currently peeing on me from behind spray my neck and back. My movements cause the loose jockstraps to slide off into the growing pool around me and I can see again.

As soon as I recover from my coughing fit, I lift my chin and receive two streams of piss right to the face, making me flinch. It feels perversely pleasant, the streams of hot liquid running over my cold skin, banishing the goose pimples that had begun to rise from exposure, and I feel another blush of humiliation at how much I am enjoying being their urinal. I bow my head, looking at my erection getting rained on by the yellow drips from my fringe.

Another punter steps up and pulls my head back by the hair — it’s one of the trans guys Sir had mentioned were on the team, his bonus hole thrust out inches from my nose. I only have time to note his swollen labia and prominent clit-cock before his bladder lets loose right over my mouth. When he is done, he wipes the drips off on my gag as toilet paper before stepping aside for the next. I gasp as this one decides to aim for my throbbing cock, the jet pouring over my sensitive glans so I almost cum. It’s not quite enough for that and leaves me frustrated, even when the next two continue that game.

I lose track of how many men relieve themselves on me. Most of the mud has washed off, and I’m sitting in a puddle of piss when it’s Mr Hudson's turn. He stands in front of me and lifts my face with a finger under my chin, stroking my cheek and making me blush again.

Gently, he removes my gag, drops the sodden jockstrap to the side, and rubs his thumb over my lips, teasing them apart, and then places his flaccid penis on my tongue. I go to lick it, but he shakes his head, takes a breath, and as he exhales, his hot pee floods my mouth. Never once breaking eye contact, I drink every last drop.

When the stream runs dry, I lick all around the source and it begins to grow. He shifts his feet, moving his right between my legs towards my crotch. His toes, coated in brown slime, creep over my scrotum and up my shaft. Mud squishes obscenely between our skin as he pinches my dick between his big toe and the one beside it, massaging slowly up to the tip and down again.

As his cock hardens and presses against the entrance to my throat, he grabs my piss-soaked hair and pulls me onto him. Extending my tongue towards his balls, I open wide and relax. I’m normally good at taking him deep there, but his edging me with his toes makes it harder to concentrate, and I gag when he pushes in.

My eyes water as he holds me just a little longer, then pulls out to let me cough. Spit spills over my chin, the thick viscous strands keeping me connected to his cock. He lets me take one breath before feeding his length back between my lips. The first entry into my throat is slow to make sure I’m okay, and then he begins to thrust mercilessly.

“Yeah, that’s right,” one of his teammates calls. “Use that bitch-mouth for a fuckhole! That’s all it's good for.”

On the edge of my field of vision, the others move closer, stroking themselves hard. I love their attention on me, seeing me debased in the muddy puddle of their pee. Tears stream down my face as Mr Hudson ravages my throat like an old Fleshlight being used one final time before getting tossed in the bin. Suddenly, he pulls back again, a mouthful of saliva falling with a splat! onto my cock, the latter streaked with mud once more thanks to his slow footjob.

His manhood bobs before me, thick and veiny, with that curve that hits me in just the right spot when he fucks me missionary. Bubbles of spit festoon its length, sliding off slowly to dangle like obscene streamers. Ducking down to catch them with my tongue, I lovingly lick his shaft while the saliva strands I missed pool on my cheeks. I want all the team to know what he has before the inevitable.

He allows me my moment of cock-worship, then pulls me off and starts slapping his wet flesh on my face.

“Do you want this to stop?”

I shake my head.

“Words, boy. Use them.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks again. Adam knows how hard it is for me to say what I want when we’re alone in the intimacy of his bed. Now, as Sir, he wants me to say it in front of thirty strangers? He dick-slaps me again.

“No, Sir. I don’t want this to stop.”

“Tell them what you want. Nice and loud.”

 I turn to the leering crowd around me and swallow.

“I-I want you all to use me.”

“More.”

“Use me! Use me as your worthless, cum-dump boy-whore.”

I thought they would laugh, but they don’t.

“Cum on me. Cum in me. Anything goes!”

“Me first.”

Mr Hudson presses his cock to my open mouth again, but he doesn’t put it in, instead stroking it in long firm strokes. I lick his glans whenever his knuckles aren’t in the way as he twists his fist around them. His jaw goes slack, that little crack in his veneer of control that I love to see as he reaches the edge and pushes over.

Ropes of cum shoot out across my face, hot and sticky on skin that is starting to get cold now that the piss has cooled. He unloads a lot — he must have been edging all day for me. Once he squeezes the last drop out on my tongue, he allows me one more slow, light suck to clean his salty-sweet nectar, pats my cheek, and steps back.

Three of his friends take his place.

“Tell us again what you think of rugby players.”

My lips tremble, jizz dangling from them as I answer, “Morons. Thugs. Tw-mmff!”

“Suck, don’t talk, cum-dump!”

He facefucks me until I have to pull away, only for him to pass me to his mate. I’m too busy trying not to choke to pay attention to what he does next, so the spray of spunk to my cheek comes as a surprise, and I close my eyes just in time to avoid getting it in them. The dick in my mouth withdraws abruptly, scoops up some of the semen on my face, and feeds it to me, letting me suck more normally for a minute before resuming the use of my throat as a fuckhole.

I completely forget about the third man until more slimy warmth splatters across my left cheek. Apparently, this is such a debauched sight that my facefucker can’t stop himself and starts ejaculating in my throat, then pulls out to fill my mouth, and still has a couple of spurts left for my lips. Before I can swallow, he shoves it back in, then yanks it out with a pop, spraying cum and spit onto my crotch.

Both eyelids already glued shut, I can’t see who or how many are lined up to use me next, but they are relentless and unforgiving, barely letting me breathe as they pass my head roughly between each other. Gooey droplets flick onto my body which is growing cold again, even though the drizzle has eased off to almost nothing, whilst my face becomes coated in a gel mask.

Someone kneels behind me and gropes my bottom, lifting me off my heels. I’m so needy from having my lungs filled with the aroma of semen that I push back and earn a swift slap on the bum, jerking forwards onto the dick I’m sucking, sending it so deep I leave a cummy faceprint under the guy’s navel. A finger slides down my crack and pushes at my tight ring. Relaxing my muscles, I suck it in, moaning when it twists and whimpering when it disappears, leaving me empty. Whoever it belongs to stands up, and, under the layers of jizz, my disappointment shows.

“Bitch-boy wants his other fuckhole used, is that it?” The speaker has a North London accent. “You want me to just fuck you dry?”

I shake my head. No, that was one of my hard limits, Sir knew that. He laughed.

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of lube right here.”

He rams his length right to the back of my throat and then pulls out to scrape it up and down each of my cheeks. I risk opening my eyes just a crack, and, through the webbing of spunk on my lashes, see a dark-coloured cock smeared in a gelatinous, off-white gloop. So delicious-looking, I move to lick it clean, but he laughs and knocks me forward. My arms still bound, I have no way to stop myself from toppling face-first into the puddle of piss-mud, the filth sticking to my jizz facemask when the next man in the queue kneels, lifts me up, and drops my mouth onto his dick.

Hands tug at my hips, getting me into position, then that spunk-slicked cock slides between my buttocks and starts pressing at my star. I open to it, saliva and semen proving to be an adequate lube, and groan as it slides up my tunnel, stretching me to that delicious point of just-bearable pain from that minimal preparation. Hot thighs press against the backs of mine as he reaches his limit, fully inside me. Then he starts pounding me — no gentle loving strokes here, just raw fucking, and I love it, losing myself in it so my throat goes slack for its current occupant to abuse as he sees fit.

I barely notice when more warm liquid squirts down my throat, and my hair being released catches me completely off guard so my face slaps into the mud once more. The ammonia of all the urine momentarily overrides my other senses, until my bonds are loosened and removed just as hot spunk blasts inside me. My arms flop down, limp and full of pins and needles from disuse, but at least allowing me to lift my nose from the ground to breathe while the dick exits my anus, bringing with it a trickle of cum to tickle my balls. Still blind from mud and jizz caking my eyelids, and individual sounds impossible to distinguish from the general noise of shifting feet, preparatory fapping, and mocking insults, the only reason I know that the shaft entering my mouth is the one that was just in my arse is from the layer of frothed-up cum that coats it.

Before I finish cleaning it, someone else fills the void in my rear. With muddy fingers, I clear my eyes enough that I can open them and try to gauge how many are still to get off. With his cock cleaned, the man in my mouth steps aside as the next takes his place, pushing dirt and urine from my lips in with him, but he at least lets me steady myself on his hips. I look past him and see Mr Hudson watching, stroking himself. He’s already getting hard again.

FUCK! What if they all want two goes? Can I take that?

While I’m counting how many rugby players are lined up for their first turn with me, more spunk shoots into my arse. The occupant keeps thrusting, just making wetter sounds, until he softens too much and withdraws, wiping himself on my buttocks. As he stands up, one of the big Kiwi guys decides he wants my butt, and several others break from the line to get a better view. His dick is in proportion to his body, which is to say, huge.

Thank fuck for the last two cumming in there to lubricate and loosen me.

His cockhead presses against my entrance, and he pushed in, more tenderly than the previous two, but then he’s both thicker and longer. When he slides past my prostate and then deep and deeper, I look down, half-expecting to see him bulging from my belly, but he bottoms out. I go back to sucking the guy in front of me, bracing for my fucker to start drilling me like the last two, but instead, he wraps his arm around my waist, lies back on the ground, and drags me on top of him, reverse cowgirl-style — well, cowboy, in my case.

My feet slip in the filth as I adjust myself, squatting over him, and begin to lift myself off. As I pick up the pace, bouncing up and down, he thrusts up to meet me, my cock flicking mud and precum with each impact. Two guys step up to either side of me, and I need no prompting to stuff one of them between my lips whilst rubbing my filthy hand over the full length of the other. I didn’t think that through — when he decides it’s his turn, I get a mouthful of pee-flavoured dirt. Regardless, I do exactly the same to the dick I was just sucking, knowing full well that I’m going to have it down my throat again in a minute.

Another two men step forwards, and I assume it’s so they can jump in as soon as these two finish so pay little attention to what they’re doing until — splat! A handful of cold mud hits the side of my head, shocking me into releasing the guy in my mouth. I look up just as another load of thick mud hits my chest and another gets me full in the face. It has just finished sliding off when I’m pulled back to the left to finish sucking cock. A few more join in the mud hurling, and after a few spectators are hit by stray mud balls, it turns into a full mud fight, with me in the middle getting the brunt of it. Each impact stings like a slap, firing off endorphins in my brain.

At some point in the chaos, I receive a mouth- and faceful of cum, but instead of filling my vacated hole straightaway, the next pair to push their way to me crouch down and rub wads of mud over my skin. It feels amazing, sliding and squishing over nerves that normally receive no attention during sex. My old revulsion for mud only heightens the electricity having filth smeared over my body generates, and, as the mud throwing peters out, I reach for my dick, getting in a couple of mud-lubricated strokes before someone seizes my wrist.

I look up and meet the eyes of the trans guy from earlier as he wipes my lips vaguely clean with a bundle of jockstraps. The guy in my arse supports my hips and thrusts up more vigorously as the newcomer runs his hands through my hair then tightens his fist in to pull my head back.

“Suck my pussy, boy-bitch,” he growls and mashes his netherlips to my mouth. I suck his clit-cock when he allows me, but otherwise just extend my tongue and let him use my face, coating it with his musk. As he gets close, he pulls my hair painfully, and I suck hard on him again until a spray of liquid hits my chin. He keeps me held to him as he squirts and then relaxes a little, dragging his lips over mine as he slows down.

“You are such a whore,” he tells me. “A cum-whore, a piss-whore, and a mud-whore. I bet you’d like us to use you like this every weekend, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” I murmur into his pussy.

“Yes?” They all laugh. “Prove what a whore you are and open wide, I need another piss.”

I obey readily, and, after a pause, a steady stream splashes in and around my mouth. It’s only when that liquid flows over my tongue and I gulp it down that I realise how thirsty I am or how much I’m starting to enjoy the taste and smell of pee now that I associate it with my current fucked-up, edged-out state.

“Thank you, Sir,” I say as he steps away.

Our intimate eye contact is broken by a guy close to my age grabbing my filthy face. He has positioned himself between my legs and wants me to look at him as he directs his dick to my already stretched sphincter. I’m not sure it will fit, but he presses his thumb to his helmet and drives it forwards, watching as I grimace in pain. It hurts, but, after the first burn, I know it’s not friction — the combination of spit, spunk, and not a little mud is enough to ease it through. The pain almost makes me call out “red”, but I bite my lip and wait, letting him get in as far as he can. Tears roll down my cheeks again, but when he stops, I take a few deep breaths, and the pain subsides to a bearable level. Pleasurable, even.

“Fuck!” is all I gasp out in the end.

“Fuck? Yeah, I’ll fuck you alright, fuck-toy!”

With that, he starts thrusting like a jackhammer. It sucks all the strength from my limbs until I’m nothing but a limp doll for them to use. A red fog fills my head and everything starts to jumble together, so I no longer know who is fucking me or where. I think he must cum inside me, and maybe another two squeeze in after him, one after the other. Once no one else wants to have a go at my already occupied back passage, the big guy underneath me lifts my hips and starts ramming upwards more vigorously, hitting my prostate each time. I think I might finally reach a climax, but no; he groans and pulls me down to bury himself deep and unloads before I can.

What brings me out of this dreamlike trance is the shock of the cold mud when he unceremoniously rolls me off into it. I gasp and splutter, trying to get up, but I’m too weak, and the ground is too slippery. The jeers have died down, and some of the murmurs sound a little concerned.

“Is he alright?” someone asks. “This is getting pretty brutal.”

I don’t have much in the way of thought, as my entire body is burning, desperate to cum, but so shaky I don’t even have the strength to hump the soft ground my cock is poking into.

“What do you say, boy-bitch?” a gravelly voice asks. “Had enough?”

I manage to drag my gaze from the feet before me up to the face speaking to me. It’s Silver Fox. Later, when I see him again, I guess he’s in his early sixties — decent shape for his age, and clearly well built in his heyday, but inevitably gravity and age have started to make his body sag, and any six-pack he had is now a small, hairy keg. In my current state, I don’t notice any of that. All I see is thick, hard man-meat.

I try to speak.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that, bitch-boy,” he sneers.

I can see Mr Hudson behind him, and I meet his eyes, then turn back to the icy blue ones staring down at me.

“More,” I say, louder this time.

“Fucking hell, you’re crazy!” someone at the back says.

The atmosphere has changed now that most of them have cum. That predatory pack energy is gone, and they look uncomfortable with what they’ve done to me.

I don’t care.

No, actually, I do.

I like that they feel as depraved as I do. I want them to share in my debasement. Propping myself up on my elbows, I look down and see the imprint of my face. Strands of jizz are stuck in it like overcooked spaghetti, turned opaque the way semen does when it encounters water, and I wonder if my whole body looks like that.

“What’s the matter, grandad?” I turn back to taunt him, my voice shaky. “Going soft in your old age? Can’t fuck the boy-whore as hard as the younger men?”

The “oooh” from the onlookers is uncertain now — I guess the coach has a reputation. I hope so.

He grins.

“I’ll show them how to treat a fuck-toy boy-whore, don’t you worry.”

While I’m still revelling in the sensual sound of the word “whore” said in an Irish accent, he comes down to my level, one knee in the muck, scoops a handful of the spunk-laced filth I was contemplating, and rubs it over his length. Not just a few streaks — he coats it in a thick layer, like some obscene, lumpy chocolate batter, and then grips my hair.

“Ready?” he asks.

I prepare to answer, but muddy cock gags me as he rams it in and begins mercilessly throatfucking me. My eyes remain locked on his, tears washing tracks through the filth on my face as I struggle to withstand his assault, instinctively coughing and trying to push the soil from my mouth. The way my excess drool is mixing with it until it is mobile enough to ooze out over my chin and neck simultaneously disgusts me and turns me on. At one point I think he’s going to cum, but at the last moment, he pushes me away roughly and slams my face into the mud.

While I spit out filth, he straddles my thighs and forces his girth through the mess of mud and jizz that fills my crack. Only when he plunges into me does the soreness from the earlier double-penetration hit me, causing my muscles to tense up around him, so despite the previous stretching he feels thick.

He leans over me as he starts long, deep thrusts, one hand holding my face down in the filth, submerging it until I blow bubbles through my nose. For a terrifying moment, I fear he might actually try to drown me, but the instant I try to jerk my head free, he yanks it up by the hair. By allowing me a few seconds to snort the mud from my nostrils and fill my lungs before shoving me down again, he lets me know he really is just playing, but I can’t believe how much the fear that he might not be is turning me on.

The force of his thrusts presses my cock into the mud beneath. Though cold and squishy rather than tight around it, it’s enough, and, finally, I cum, almost blacking out from the power of it as it wracks my body. I clench around him, but he doesn’t alter his technique at all, ramming through it. My climax starts to fade, bringing with it first the hypersensitivity, and then that familiar drop into reality.

Humiliation washes over me as I picture what I must look like, coated in mud mixed with piss and spunk, having my arse pounded by a man almost three times my age. His furry belly rubs against my buttocks every time he slams into me with a squelch. I can feel the stares of the two teams on me, no longer that turned on now that they emptied their balls in or on me. My fists clench against the mounting pain and self-disgust, and the mud that oozes out between my fingers adds to it rather than triggering horny thoughts as before.

But then I see Mr Hudson. Sir. Adam.

He meets my eyes, and, once more, rekindles my insatiable appetite for corruption.

Silver Fox starts to speed up, grunting louder, and then suddenly pulls out and rolls me onto my back.

“You’re a cum-whore, I see that. I always pay whores well.”

He pushes himself between my lips, an unknown number of other men’s semen pulled from my arse coating it, and I suck while he strokes the shaft with the hand not holding my hair. Fresh spunk explodes into my mouth, the angle preventing me from swallowing so it dribbles out of the corner and down my neck. Since he holds me there, I continue swirling my tongue around the end until he starts to soften. With a few light pats on my cheek, he withdraws.

“Good boy. Adam is lucky to have such a filthy whore for his bed.”

He stands up, still straddling my chest.

“And also for his toilet, am I right?”

Before his words sink in, a stream of piss hits me in the face. It tips me over the edge, the final humiliation to overwhelm me, and I burst into tears. Even though his teammates tell him it’s enough, it keeps coming, splashing over my head as I curl into a foetal position. The last drops fall in the dirt beside me and he walks away.

“Shower time, boys,” he says, and the rather subdued group retreat to the changing rooms.

Strong arms lift me as Sir gathers me into a hug. He doesn’t need to ask if this was what I wanted. He doesn’t say, “Don’t cry.” He understands these are not bad tears. Once I stop sobbing, he kisses me, softly, without bothering to wipe the mess that coats my lips. I feel his hardness against my stomach, and I wrap my fingers around it, stroking gently, and ask him wordlessly.

“Maybe later,” he says, smiling. “At home. First, we need to get you cleaned up. And warm — if you stay out here much longer, you’ll get hypothermia.”

I nod, and he helps me stand up. I’m sore all over, and can barely walk on my jelly legs, but I feel so alive. Even with his help, it takes much longer to get to the changing rooms than it should, given the distance.

“So, Will, are you going to join our club?”

“Seriously? This was life-changing, but still, fuck rugby!”

“You realise that’s what we just played, right?”

“Huh?”

“Fuck-rugby.”

“Oh, ha, ha. It doesn’t matter how many dad jokes you make, I’m still never calling you ‘Daddy’, Sir.”

“Fair enough.” As he opens the door, he says, “Best drink some water before round two.”

I stop dead. “Round two?”

“Of course! What did you think happens in the showers?”