Playing with the Big Boys

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No Man is an Island, especially at Christmas time.
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This is an entry to the 2017 Winter Holidays Contest.

A while back, I was asked to write a story centring on "a big hairy front row lust triangle 😉 #bellypower #niche." If you don't follow rugby, the front row are the loosehead prop (with "1" on his shirt), the hooker ("2", between the props) and the tighthead prop ("3"), and are known for being the powerhouses of the scrum. Big guys, usually the wildest and widest rather than the tallest. Bears.

If this is your thing, read on & (hopefully) enjoy.

Self-edited so apologies for any errors. Please vote and comment if you are able.

P.S. GUM stands for GenitoUrinary Medicine. Yep, because we've all been there. *wink*



Since battling through the unseasonably early snow to reach the local GUM Clinic, George had buried his head in his phone. Turning up his rugby shirt collar wasn't just to keep warm, he wanted anonymity too. He hadn't even glanced at the other occupants. No way did he want to catch the eye or acknowledge anyone in there. There was always something that felt rather seedy and dirty about it all. Even the bright snow-reflected light shining in the windows couldn't relieve the sordidness. So, he had jammed his bulk onto a chair and ignored everyone around him, while hoping the wait wasn't too long.

However, the unusual name the stuttering nurse was attempting to pronounce was vaguely familiar, and he had stiffened slightly in his seat. Without lifting his head, and heart leaping, he peeked through his lashes to see who responded.

A hulking figure squeezed out of a chair on the other side of the waiting room and sauntered towards the nurse. George swallowed at seeing the chunky rear he had been coveting for the last six weeks lovingly cupped by blue denim. His groin warmed and he shifted restlessly. His chair was just as tight around him.

'George? George?' Another nurse had appeared.

The figure paused and looked around at the nurse. 'He's over there. The other big, bearded guy.' A thumb was jerked in his direction.

Fuck! It definitely was him.

A thrill went through George's body. Aonghuss knew who he was! Then his heart dropped -- he also knew he was at the clap clinic.

FFS! Get a grip, mate.

He gave himself a verbal talking-to as he followed the nurse down the corridor. Seconds behind the ambling opposition prop he'd last seen mud-covered, sweaty and cock-teasingly gorgeous. As the Scot turned into a room, he glanced back at George, who quickly looked away.

The nurse chuckled as they entered the room next door. 'You two know each other?'

' Not really.'

She smirked. 'I'll tell you the same thing my colleague will be saying -- your visit here is confidential, we rely on our patients' discretion. Is there going to be a problem?'

'I hope not.' He shrugged.

'Now, what's the reason for your visit today?'

'The condom broke and the bloke didn't stop.'

'You were bottoming?'

'Yeah. One-night-stand. He said he was clean but...' George shrugged again. 'I'm here anyway.'

'Any objection to making this quick? Hospital management are threatening to close the walk-in clinics due to the weather, but we don't want to turn anyone away.'

'Go for it. It's not the kind of place I like hanging around.'

The nurse flashed another grin. They ran through his form, and she did a brief exam. George was glad his chubby had gone down -- that would have been awkward. He was also glad he had a pragmatic, semi-friendly female nurse. One time, the nurse had been a silver fox with a wicked gleam in his eyes. George spent the whole time thinking about the evil, diseased parts he must touch every day, to keep from embarrassing himself.

The nurse handed him a handful of condoms and a small plastic pot. 'Go pee in this. The nearest men's loo is across the hall. Place it in the cabinet, and then you can leave. The results will be texted to you, anonymously. Hope not to see you again soon.'

Muttering thanks, George tucked the pot into a pocket and left the room. Keeping his head low, he yanked open the door marked with a male stick figure and barrelled inside.

And barged into the rear of an increasingly familiar body.


'Sorry!' George tried to step back, but the door had shut behind, trapping him in. With Aonghuss. Both of them in an increasingly small room. He shuffled around and fumbled with the door handle.



'Let me finish fucking pissing in this pot. And washing the fucking piss off my hands. I know the NHS is skint but is a fucking decent door lock too much to ask?'

Just the rumbling of his voice was hastening the return of George's semi. 'Ummm, shall I lock us in?'

'Yeah, if you can get the bugger to work.'

With a bit more fiddling, the metal tab slid over. George leaned his forehead against the door while he tried to calm himself. He could smell urine and cleaning chemicals, but there was also the scent of raw man. Leather. He surreptitiously rearranged his swelling cock.

A tap running, rustling of paper towels, and the click of a cupboard closing.

'It's safe tae face me now.' Amusement tinged the Scotsman's burry brogue.

George slowly turned to face his doom. 'Hey.'


He briefly met the other guy's intense eyes, then focussed on the hair escaping the top of his shirt.

' you come here often?'

I wish. George hardened further at the double entendre. The room was so small, he'd no idea how the both of them had fitted in there.

'I bet you do.'

Had he spoken out loud? George thought he was too old to blush, but he could feel his cheeks reddening. 'Condom broke,' he blurted.

'Annual checks f'me. Anyway, I want tae pick yer brain. Meet me in the pub around the corner when yer leave.'


'Dinnae let me down.'

The rumbling threat went straight to George's groin. His dick was pressing so hard against the placket of his jeans, he prayed the buttons would hold. He swallowed.

'Now, you gonna let me past, or are we going tae do it in here?'

Do what? George flattened himself against the wall as Aonghuss tried to slide past. Their bellies rubbed, plus...

Was that a belt buckle? George's knees went weak at the feel of something coming up against his cock.

'You OK, mate?' Aonghuss stopped halfway past as he used one hand to unlock.

George couldn't even focus on his face. His throat was parched. He tried to swallow. 'I-I-I'm fine.'

'Good. Make sure you bolt the door after, I dinnae want anyone else joining you in here.'

Oh, fuck! George couldn't stop his hips jolting towards that tantalising hardness as it slipped away. He thought he heard a chuckle before Aonghuss disappeared out of the door.


He spun and slammed the lock into place before wrenching open his jeans. It only took a couple of passes for the orgasm to boil up his spine, to be contained in a hastily grabbed wad of toilet roll.

As he caught his breath and fumbled around for the discarded pot, he wondered again why the other man wanted to speak with him, and why he hadn't even thought of refusing.


Aonghuss -- Angus to anyone knowledgeable of Scottish pronunciation -- was a bear of a man. Bright blue eyes gleamed above a close-cropped beard slightly darker than the sandy-brown hair on his head. His body matched George's bulk, though he was marginally taller. The extra inch hadn't given him much of an advantage on the pitch, and their battle the previous month had ended in a draw, even if Aonghuss' North London team had lost to Harford on the scoreboard. The rugby saying, 'forwards win games, backs decide by how much' was only partly true in that instance.

George hadn't been sure if he'd imagined the extra attention he'd received. A couple more lingering arse pats, his opponent watching him carefully at each scrum as they'd packed down opposite each other. Their binding skirmishes, and combating each other's moves to dominate, to drive the other back and up or down. Loosehead against tighthead. Forceful grappling. Hot breath panting in his ear. The pungent scents of liniment, wet earth, fresh sweat. He'd managed to get a shoulder in to split Aonghuss and his hooker one scrum. The next, a cunning sidestep had threatened George's own bind with his hooker.

They had shaken hands at the end of the match, and when the Scots' palm had lingered against his own. George's gaydar had beeped promisingly. Their eyes had met, and some wordless agreement had been made.

I like you, wanna fuck?

Yeah, good plan.



However, there was no sign of him in the showers or bar, and George had tried to forget the encounter.

Tried to forget? Stalked him online, beaten himself raw at some match pictures he'd found. Shit, he so wished he'd been able to see Aonghuss showering, to see if that barrel chest was as hairy as promised. To glimpse what he carried between the powerfully broad thighs.

George had never been a fan of the twink -- the slender male did nothing for him. He liked a fellow bear, a man who was similar to or bigger than him. He wasn't exactly fat, but solid. Very solid. However, he was frequently labelled overweight and his doctor lectured him on his body fat. He was a fucking rugby player, for fuck's sake. A prop. And he was a fucking good tighthead prop.

He didn't care that people assumed he was fat, or he had more body hair than was fashionable. He kept some areas trimmed for convenience -- his back, pubes, his beard, and anywhere it caught on his kit. Everywhere else he left au naturel. He wasn't a fucking poncey back.

Ponce? George frowned as he tried to remember if that word was politically correct or not. Probably not. He was such a dinosaur, in more ways than one. A nervous titter escaped as he entered the pub and knocked icy sludge off his shoes.

Tugging himself off in the loo had helped, but a jolt of awareness still went through him as he saw those bright blue eyes tracking his movements.


'Dark please.'

'Good boy.'

The purred compliment pulsed through him. 'Good?'

'Thought you would say you were in training.'

'I am, well, gym today. Pitch is too slushy for drills so we've got tomorrow morning off.'

'Really? So have I.'

George had a visual of them together in bed, enjoying a snowbound lie-in. Their gazes sizzled, and George's swelling cock pressed against the placket of his jeans. 'Aonghuss-'

'Call me Gus. Please.'

Gus, come back to mine and fuck me into the ground. He took a mouthful of ale as he tried to calm his body. 'Gus. I dunno how I can help you.'

'Local knowledge.'

'Huh?' George vaguely registered Gus' brogue had lightened, though his voice was still giving him shivers.

'I moved here a couple of days ago. Got a release from my old club. I'm starting at Harford Park on Monday. Thought you could give me the inside word on the squad.'

Ringing in George's ears nearly deafened him. Then he pulled himself together, shut down his strengthening infatuation, and ruthlessly compartmentalised his libido. Gus would be his colleague, his teammate, and George had a strict no-teammate-fucking policy. No shitting in his own backyard.

No chance of anything happening with the sandy-haired hunk in front of him.

No more using him in the wank bank.

'That's great.' He injected enthusiasm into his voice. 'We need a decent loosehead to take the pressure off Rob, as Sean is out long-term. You were fucking good last month in that friendly.'

'Speaking of which, how gay-friendly is your team?'

George shrugged. 'I haven't had any problems. Just try not to get too many stiffies in the shower.' He chortled, grimacing inside at the trite comment and false laugh.

'Y'know why I didn't stick around after the game?'

George shook his head.

''Cos I was so hard for you, I would never have heard the end of it.'

George gasped, inhaling his beer. The next minute he spent coughing and frantically trying to think of a response. Then he shut down again. 'Hehe, no more talk like that otherwise I'll have to report you to Tom and Chris for sexual harassment.'

For a moment, George thought he'd gone too far. Then Gus leant forward. 'I would never, ever harass an unwilling man.' His husky voice didn't carry but was deadly serious.

'Sorry, I was joking.'

'Thought you were going out with that blond hooker. He was possessive of you.'

'Frank? Frank's straight.'

'Is he really?' A crooked smile.

George creased his brow. He'd never seen Frank with a woman, but he'd never thought about him being gay. The blond was marginally smaller, as was normal for hooking, and was naturally less hirsute than George. Added to that, he usually kept his body hair well waxed and clipped, and his face clean-shaven. When he arrived at the club at the start of that season, George had dismissed him as metrosexual, not gay. Frank had asked if he wanted to go for a drink a couple of times, but George assumed he meant as a mate. 'Good point. He's not my type so I've never really thought about it.'

'Who is your type then?'

You. 'A man who'll pick me up, fuck me into the ground, then piss off the next morning.'

'You feel OK after that condom broke?'

Off-balance again, George buried his head in his pint for a moment. A deep swallow. 'Yeah, he didn't stop.'


'Yeah. Shoulda known better with a one-night stand -- they're often a bit shifty.'

'You fuck around much?'

A light laugh. 'As needed. Got no time or inclination for a relationship.'

'You must have to visit here often?'

'Far too often. I like it rough, and rough is hell on condoms. I've been lucky so far.'

'Luck can only last so long.'


Gus had moved to Harford Park for one reason. Well, he liked the fact that there were a few fellow Scots at the club already, and it was a step up from his previous club. However, the big, shy, brown bear with the heart-melting eyes and cock-hardening body was his main motivation.

He couldn't believe it when the object of his fantasies shuffled into the waiting area of the clinic. He'd considered approaching him while they waited, but thought that might freak him out. If Gus hadn't already been staring at the guy, he would have missed the stiffening as his own name was called. His pure delight had been hard to hide. That George remembered his name boded well.

He had decided, there and then, that he would ambush George -- he couldn't wait to speak to him. Christ, when the man had burst into the loo, he was glad the cup had already been filled, as his resulting stiffy would have made it impossible to piss for some time.

Leaving that room, knowing from the embarrassed flush on George's face that he would have been easy to seduce, had been the hardest thing he'd ever done. Gus couldn't risk frightening him off. Not before he'd got to know him, if ever.

He didn't expect the shutdown when he'd revealed that they would become teammates. From shy and blushing and endearingly monosyllabic, his brown bear had withdrawn. He didn't like the chatty, faux-matey George. Nor the George who'd mentioned sexual harassment. Gus knew then that George had been talking from experience. Someone in his past had hurt him. Badly.

Shocking him hadn't shifted the false front for more than a couple of seconds. Purposely digging into the condom story had alarmed and infuriated Gus. He didn't want his brown bear taken advantage of!

Such risky behaviour. He wondered if his teammates knew. Or his coach. Slowly, a plan occurred to him, and Gus began to smile.


'I've come to talk to you about George, I'm worried about him.'

'What's up? He's playing and training well.' A hand gestured for him to take a seat.

The office door had stood open, but Gus carefully closed it before turning and sitting before the imposing male behind the desk. In the past week, he'd got to know the squad and settled in. They were a good bunch, willing to accept an interloper dropped in at short notice, and the setup was impressive. Chris, the head coach, concentrated on the overall picture, but his shrewd assistant, Tom, dealt with players' problems.

'It's his personal life. It's come to my attention...he's been shagging around, taking risks. He's been lucky so far, but sooner or later...'

Tom frowned. 'What do you propose?'

'One of us moves in with him. We can look after him, bring him around.'


'Frank agrees.'

'Go on.' The assistant coach relaxed back in his chair.

At that moment, Gus knew he had an ally in the fellow Scot. One of his reasons for accepting the approach from Harford was the reputation of the man still known as the most intelligent player Scotland had ever lost. Older teammates had raved about him, about his ability to foresee and exploit what others barely discerned. Tall, dark and powerful, Tom Murray was easy on the eye too -- he'd been the subject of a few of Gus' adolescent fantasies. However, he was blatantly straight, and obviously besotted with his wife and family.

Very few people intimidated Gus, but Murray's piercing blue eyes seemed to catch everything. When he spoke with Frank, the lustsick hooker confirmed Murray had already asked some pointed questions regarding George's slutty behaviour. Apparently, it hadn't been the first time he'd had to disappear to the drop-in clinic, discreet as he was.

As the week had passed, Gus got to know George too. Self-effacing, with a wickedly dry sense of humour, he worked incredibly hard on the field and in the gym. Apart from the odd pint, he stuck rigidly to his diet plan. The youngest of the front row players at Harford in his mid-twenties, he was also the most powerfully built. Thick, dark hair shrouded massive slabs of muscle on his torso, and his arms were as broad as the legs of a couple of backs. Not to mention the gorgeous chunk of smoothly shifting muscle that was his arse. Even thinking about his body sent a flash of warmth into his groin. He had bigger problems in the shower, literally, which was a time George always withdrew into himself.

'I...we promise not to hurt him. Nothing will happen if he's not willing. We want to help him.'

'What if he chooses Frank? Or neither of you?'

Gus swallowed. 'That'd be his decision, and I'd respect it. I...I want him to be happy.' His eyes stung.

Tom nodded. 'We'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I would ensure your player registration is transferred as smoothly as possible back to your old club.'

There it was. Succeed, or be sent packing.



'Yes, boss?'

'Gus here needs somewhere more permanent to stay. He'll be moving in with you tomorrow.'

'But, Tom!' George had to bite his tongue -- he couldn't object as everyone in the changing room would wonder why he kicked up a fuss. His former flatmate, Matt, had moved in with his girlfriend the previous week, and the club needed to fill the empty room.


George shook his head. 'No, Tom.' Apart from having to fight the attraction day and night, instead of just at the club.

How the fuck was he going to cope?


Badly was the answer.

A fortnight later, George was climbing the walls with sexual frustration. Every morning he would wake up rock-hard. And a quick, strangled wank was all he could manage.

Somehow, his attempts at hitting the local gay pubs and bars repeatedly came to naught. Frank and Gus stuck to him like glue and intimidated any prospective partners. Every time he managed to escape, soon after he arrived, one or the other, or both, would saunter in.

He couldn't even wank properly -- the walls were paper thin and he couldn't stand Gus' knowing smirk afterwards. Besides, every time he got into it, there was a knock at the door, a phone call, or an alarm going off. In addition, his anal toys had gone missing.