Chapter 2: First Taste
Tom finished the tour in the showers, a cavernous tiled space that echoed with dripping water and the ghost of a hundred victorious shouts. “Right,” he said, clapping his hands together. The sound bounced off the walls. “Enough of the behind-the-scenes bollocks. Let’s go see the point of all this.”
He led Jimmy back outside, the evening air a cool slap after the clubhouse’s humid funk. The pitch lay before them, a vast rectangle of emerald green striped white under the towering floodlights. The lights hummed, casting long, dramatic shadows. Men in two different coloured shirts moved across the grass like pieces on a chaotic chessboard. The sound was a collage of impacts: the wet smack of bodies colliding, the sharp pop of the ball being passed, and a constant, low growl of effort.
Tom found two plastic chairs on a bit of raised concrete. “Friendly match,” he said, handing Jimmy a can of lukewarm beer from a cooler by his feet. “But you wouldn’t know it.”
Jimmy took the can, his eyes already scanning. It took him less than ten seconds to find him. Gaz wore a crimson shirt, the number 3 stretched tight across his back. He was in the thick of it, a focal point of grunting, shoving force. Jimmy watched, mesmerized, as a scrum formed. Eight men from each side hunched together, heads interlocked, a single, heaving monster. Gaz was at the front, his neck a taut column of muscle, his face a mask of grim concentration. The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and the monster convulsed, pushing forward with a collective roar. Gaz’s legs drove like pistons, the muscles in his thighs and arse defined even through his shorts. Jimmy felt a hot, low pull in his own groin.
The game flowed on. Jimmy understood little of the rules, but he understood the physics of it. The brutal beauty of a tackle that lifted a man off his feet and drove him into the turf. The surprising grace of a looping pass. But his attention always snapped back to the crimson number 3. Gaz never seemed to stop moving. He’d rise from a mud-splattered pile, clap a teammate on the head, his chest heaving, and plunge back into the fray. Once, after a particularly punishing drive, he stood with his hands on his hips, head thrown back, gulping air. The floodlights lit the sweat sheening his throat, the dark patches under his arms and across his broad chest. He spat on the grass, wiped his mouth with the back of a massive hand, and grinned at something a teammate said.
That grin. It was feral, alive. Jimmy’s beer sat forgotten in his hand.
“See that?” Tom elbowed him, pointing as Gaz executed a perfect tackle, wrapping his arms around the ball carrier and driving him backwards five yards before they crashed down. “That’s pure power. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy breathed, the word tasting like a secret.
When the final whistle blew, Gaz was muddy, bleeding from a small cut above his eyebrow, and laughing. He pulled his shirt off over his head, using it to wipe his face as he trudged towards the clubhouse, revealing the sculpted, tattooed landscape of his torso. Jimmy’s mouth went dry.
“Come on,” Tom said, standing. “Time to earn your keep. They’ll be bringing the kit in. Just be a grey man. Take it, note it, stack it. Don’t try to chat.”
Back in the kit room, the silence felt heavy after the roar of the pitch. Tom left him with a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be about. Shout if anyone gives you grief.”
Jimmy stood behind the scarred counter, arranging clipboards, feeling like an imposter. The door banged open less than five minutes later.
Gaz filled the doorway, a heap of filthy kit bundled in his arms. He’d pulled on a clean, tight grey t-shirt that clung to his damp torso, and a pair of track pants slung low on his hips. The smell hit Jimmy first: hot skin, fresh sweat, grass, and deep, animal musk.
“Kit man,” Gaz said, his voice a rough, post-match rasp. He walked forward and dumped the pile unceremoniously onto the counter between them. He could see the mud-smeared crimson game shirt. Beneath it, Jimmy could see shorts, socks. And right on the very top, placed almost ceremonially, was a white jockstrap. It wasn’t just sweaty. A large, central patch was stiffened, crusted with a distinct, pearlescent substance that caught the fluorescent light.
Gaz leaned on the counter, bringing his face closer. He smelled of soap now too, and something minty, but underneath it, the raw scent of him was overpowering. His blue eyes, bright with exertion and something else, locked onto Jimmy’s. “There you go, librarian. All yours.” He glanced down at the jockstrap, then back up. A slow, deliberate wink. “Enjoy.”
He pushed off the counter and left, the door swinging shut behind him.
Jimmy stood frozen, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. Enjoy? The word echoed in the silent room. He stared at the pile. The jockstrap seemed to pulse with its own obscene energy. He reached out, his fingers trembling, and lifted the game shirt, placing it in the ‘to be washed’ bin. Then the shorts. Finally, only the jockstrap remained on the counter.
He picked it up. The elastic was damp with sweat. But the centre… he brought it closer. The evidence was unmistakable. A substantial, drying load of cum was plastered into the fabric’s pouch. It was flaky at the edges, still slightly gelatinous in the middle. Gaz had come in it. Recently. After the game. And then he’d placed it right on top.
A shockwave of revulsion hit him first, a reflexive tightening in his gut. Then, unfurling from beneath it, a surge of pure, electric thrill. It was intentional. It had to be. That wink. The way he’d said it.
His breath came in short gasps. He wanted to press the fabric to his face, to inhale Gaz’s essence, to taste the salty, bitter proof of his orgasm. He could almost feel the ghost of Gaz’s thick cock, emptying itself into this very cloth.
The door handle rattled.
Panic seized him. He couldn’t be caught holding it, smelling it. In one frantic motion, he bunched the jockstrap into a ball and shoved it deep into his canvas satchel hanging on the back of the chair. He just had time to smooth his t-shirt down as two other players walked in, chatting absently, dumping their kit without even looking at him.
The rest of the shift passed in a blur. He processed kits mechanically, his mind screaming, his groin throbbing with a persistent, aching heat. Every time the door opened, he expected it to be Gaz again, coming to check, to demand a review. But he didn’t return.
An hour later, Tom reappeared. He looked flushed, his hair slightly mussed. There was a relaxed, sated energy about him that hadn’t been there before. “All sorted? Survive the horde?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, his voice strangely high. He shouldered his bag, the weight of the secret inside feeling colossal.
“Good lad. Let’s get you home.”
As they walked through the car park, Jimmy saw him. Gaz was leaning against his own car, a beat-up Volvo estate. He was talking on his phone, but his eyes tracked them. As Jimmy passed, about ten feet away, Gaz’s gaze locked onto his. He didn’t smile. Just stared, a long, penetrating look that stripped Jimmy bare. Then, slowly, he winked again. A deliberate, knowing confirmation.
Jimmy felt his face ignite. He hurried after Tom to the van.
The drive started in silence. Tom fiddled with the radio, settling on static-filled classic rock. “So,” he said after a few minutes. “Not too overwhelming, was it? All that… masculinity in one place.”
Jimmy’s hand rested on his satchel in his lap. He could feel the crumpled shape of the jockstrap through the fabric. “No. It was… good. I think I’ll enjoy it.”
His mind was a riot. The image of the dried cum. Gaz’s wink. The sheer, thrilling audacity of it. His eyes drifted, glazing over, and settled on Tom’s lap. Tom was driving, one hand on the wheel. His jeans were stretched tight across his thighs. And there, unmistakable, was a pronounced bulge. A thick, hard line pressing against the denim. Tom shifted in his seat, adjusting himself absently, and the shape became even more defined.
Tom caught Jimmy's attentive stare. He looked down, then at Jimmy, and a broad, dirty grin spread across his face. He laughed, a low, comfortable sound. “See something you like? Fucking hell, Jimmy. Been a while for you, has it?” He adjusted himself again, making no attempt to hide his erection. “I’m keen for a good session when I get in, I can tell you. Bet yours is too, after all that.”
Jimmy laughed, a nervous, breathy sound. He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. His own cock was rigid, trapped against the seam of his jeans, echoing the state of Tom’s just inches away.
They pulled up outside Jimmy's parent's house. The engine idled. Tom unbuckled his seatbelt and turned, his expression turning speculative, the earlier hunger back in his eyes. “You know,” he said, his voice casual but edged. “Two horny guys like us. We should have a proper bate session some time. No fuss. Just… see who cums first.”
He said it like a joke, but his eyes were serious, his gaze dropping to Jimmy’s lap before flicking back up. The outline of his own erection was a blatant, proud curve against his thigh.
Jimmy’s laugh was tighter this time. “Yeah. Maybe.” He couldn’t look away from the shape in Tom’s jeans.
“Think about it,” Tom said, winking—a wink that was altogether different from Gaz’s, but just as loaded. Jimmy got out. “See you next week, kit man.”
Jimmy waited until Tom’s van had faded from view, his mind a fractured montage. The crusted white proof in Gaz’s jockstrap. The predatory, promising wink in the car park. Tom’s hard-on, the shameless, joking proposition. His bedroom, his jar, his own hand.
He practically ran up the path, fumbled with his key. He called a vague greeting to his parents, not waiting for a response, and took the stairs two at a time. He locked his bedroom door behind him, his chest heaving.
He dropped his satchel on the bed as if it were on fire. His hands shook as he unzipped it. He pushed past his library notebook, his pens, his wallet. His fingers closed on the damp, crumpled cotton.
He pulled Gaz’s jockstrap out into the dim, golden light of his bedside lamp. It lay in his palm, a sacred, filthy relic. He stared at the stained pouch, his cock straining painfully against his zipper. He brought it slowly to his face, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
The scent was a complex, devastating symphony: harsh soap, fresh sweat, the green tang of grass, and beneath it all, the deep, pungent, unmistakably salty aroma of another man’s spend. It was the smell of the pitch, of competition, of sheer physical power. It was the smell of Gaz.
He inhaled again, deeper, letting Gaz’s scent flood his brain and short-circuit his thoughts. His fingers ached with the need to touch himself, to chase the image of Gaz on the pitch, sweaty and triumphant, of that deliberate, stained offering. With trembling urgency, he peeled off his own clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a forgotten heap. He stood naked in the centre of his room, the jockstrap held like a sacrament.
He stepped into it, pulling the damp, crusted pouch up over his own hardening cock. The rough, stiff mesh scraped against his sensitive head, a shock of texture that was foreign and deeply thrilling. Gaz’s dried spend, flaky and cool at first, began to warm against Jimmy’s own heat. He adjusted the straps, the elastic digging into his hips, a constant, undeniable pressure. He looked down. His cock, now fully erect, tented the soiled fabric, creating a distinct, obscene bulge. The remnants of another man’s orgasm were pressed directly against his own skin.
He groaned, a low, helpless sound. He didn’t even need his jar. He placed a palm over the bulge, over the crusted patch, and pressed. A shudder racked his soft body. He began to rub himself through the rough mesh, the friction delicious and strange. The imagery was too potent, too immediate—Gaz’s wink, the brashness of his masculinity, the sheer physical power of him. Jimmy’s hips stuttered. His breath hitched. It was too much. A raw, sharp pleasure coiled tight in his groin and snapped.
“Fuck, Gaz,” he choked out, his eyes squeezed shut.
His orgasm erupted violently, a sharp, overwhelming convulsion. Cum soaked through the jockstrap’s mesh, mixing with Gaz’s old spend, creating a warm, wet patch against his skin. He gasped, leaning against the bedpost for support, riding out the pulses until he was spent. He panted, looking down at the mess he’d added. The feeling was profoundly dirty. It was perfect.
He pulled the soaked jockstrap off slowly, a sticky, peeling sound breaking the silence. He carried it to his sagging armchair and sank down into its familiar embrace. He brought the fabric to his face again, now layered with both of their scents, and covered his nose and mouth with it. He closed his eyes.
This time, he let the fantasy unfold slowly, luxuriously. He was back in the kit room, but it was empty. Gaz walked in, still in his muddy gear. He didn’t speak. He just looked at Jimmy, his blue eyes dark, and unzipped his shorts. He pushed them down, along with the jockstrap beneath, letting his thick, heavy cock spring free. It was fully hard. He fisted it, gave it two slow strokes, and then gestured with his head. A command.
Jimmy, in his chair, his own softening cock still wet, began to stroke himself slowly back to life. In his mind, he slid off the counter and onto his knees. The fantasy was granular, vivid. The taste of clean skin and salt. The feeling of weight on his tongue. The sounds. He worked himself with a languid, possessive rhythm, milking a second, thicker load from his sensitive flesh. It spilled over his fingers, warm and copious. He sighed, contented, into the fabric.
He was going to enjoy his time at the club.
The week that followed was an exercise in exquisite torture. Every ordinary moment—sorting books, eating dinner with his parents, washing dishes—was layered with the memory of Gaz’s jockstrap, the phantom scent of it in his nose, the illicit thrill of that wink. He replayed the encounter constantly, each mental repetition polishing it brighter. Wednesday morning found him in the library staff room, staring blankly at a cold cup of tea, when his phone buzzed.
It was a text from Tom. Want to come over for some beers? Hang out?
Jimmy’s heart tripped. The memory of Tom’s erection in the van, his joking-but-not-joking proposition, surfaced instantly. He remembered the offer of a ‘proper bate session.’ His mouth went dry. He typed back, cautious. Sure, can I head over after the library? Would be with you about 6. He had the afternoon shift that day.
Tom’s reply was almost immediate. Absolutely. And don’t worry I’ve got plenty of grease for the both of us. A laughing emoji followed.
Jimmy stared at the screen. The word ‘grease’ felt intentional, loaded. He hated to assume. Assuming led to disappointment, to awkwardness. It was probably just banter. Tom had had a few beers that night in the van, maybe he was just being cheeky. He typed back, playing along but keeping it light. That depends on what we’re greasing.
A minute later, Tom’s reply: a laughing emoji and an eggplant emoji.
Jimmy’s breath caught. The eggplant. It was blunt, undeniable. His cock stirred against his trousers. He decided it was just banter, heavy-handed banter, and left it alone. He put his phone away, but the thought hummed under his skin for the rest of his shift.
At just after six, he stood outside Tom’s building, a modern brick block of flats. His stomach was a tight knot of nerves and anticipation. He pushed the buzzer for Flat 49. There was no verbal response, just a long buzz unlocking the main door. He pushed it open and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The door to Flat 49 was slightly ajar. A sliver of warm, electric light cut across the dim hallway carpet. Jimmy’s pulse quickened. He pushed the door open slowly. “Hello?”
“In here, mate!” Tom’s voice called from the direction of the kitchen.
Jimmy stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The flat smelled of fried food and faintly of lemon cleaner. The living room was tidy but masculine; a large TV, a black leather sofa, a few rugby magazines on the side. His eyes scanned the room and landed on the coffee table. Next to a TV remote sat a large, white tub of Albolene. The sight was like a physical touch. His assumption in the van hadn’t been wrong.
“Get in here and grab a beer,” Tom called, his tone cheerful, normal.
Jimmy walked into the small kitchen. Tom stood by the open fridge, his back to him. He was only wearing a pair of grey boxer shorts. The sight was profoundly casual and intensely intimate. Tom’s back was broad, covered in a light sprinkling of hair, his shoulders rounded with the muscle of his former trade. He turned, two bottles of lager in his hand, and grinned.
“There he is.”
Before Jimmy could even process a greeting, Tom stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. It was a crushing, full-bodied embrace. Tom was bare-chested, warm, solid. Jimmy’s face was pressed into the firm muscle of Tom’s shoulder. He could smell his uncle’s deodorant, his shower gel, the underlying scent of his skin. Tom held the hug a beat too long, one hand clapping Jimmy firmly on the back before releasing him, his other hand lingering on Jimmy’s bicep.
“Good to see you, lad.” Tom’s eyes were bright, searching Jimmy’s face for a reaction. He was standing very close. “Get that down you.” He handed Jimmy a beer.
Jimmy took it, his fingers brushing Tom’s. The touch sizzled. “Thanks.” His voice sounded faint.
“Living room. Make yourself comfortable.” Tom led the way, his boxer shorts clinging to the powerful curve of his arse with each step.
Jimmy followed, his eyes darting again to the tub of Albolene. Tom saw him looking. He didn’t comment. He just sank onto one end of the leather sofa with a sigh, took a long swig of his beer, and gestured for Jimmy to sit beside him.
“So,” Tom said, stretching an arm along the back of the sofa behind Jimmy. “Good week? Managed to get Gaz’s stink out of your nostrils?”
Jimmy almost choked on his beer. “Something like that.”
They made stilted small talk for a few minutes, the elephant in the room being the tub on the table. Tom finished his beer, set it down with a decisive clunk, and turned his body slightly towards Jimmy.
“Listen,” he said, his voice dropping its casual tone. “About the other night. In the van. I wasn’t just pissing about.”
Jimmy’s throat tightened. He nodded, unable to speak.
“It’s just something blokes do sometimes, you know? No big deal.” Tom’s eyes were steady, earnest. “My missus is at her sister’s for the night. No interruptions. Just… two guys having a wank. It’s not new to me. But I get it if it is for you.”
Jimmy found his voice. “It… is. New, I mean.”
“That’s alright.” Tom’s hand came down from the sofa back and rested on Jimmy’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We go slow. We just watch a bit of telly, have a few beers. See what happens. No pressure.” His thumb rubbed a small circle on Jimmy’s shoulder. “But fuck, I’m keen. Let’s rub them raw, eh?” He let out a low, eager whoop, his face breaking into a grin that was both friendly and fiercely hungry.
Jimmy looked at the Albolene, then at Tom’s bare chest, the trail of hair leading into his boxer shorts. Fuck it, he thought. If Tom was interested, he definitely was. Time to start having sex with someone other than himself. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Good lad.” Tom picked up the TV remote. “Let’s set the mood, shall we?” He navigated to a streaming service, searched for a moment, and selected a video. The TV screen filled with a professional, well-lit scene of two muscular men sitting on a similar couch. They were talking, laughing casually, before slowly unzipping their jeans.
Tom settled back, shifting to get more comfortable. He glanced at Jimmy, then deliberately hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer shorts. “Might as well get comfortable,” he said, his voice a low rumble. In one smooth motion, he pushed them down over his hips and off, kicking them to the floor.
His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already half-hard against his thigh. It was a solid, veined piece of meat, uncut, with a thatch of dark hair at its base. Tom took himself in hand, giving a slow, introductory stroke. “Your turn, Jimmy. No one’s watching but me.”
Jimmy’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, his hands shaking. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tom’s cock, from the confident, easy way he handled it. He got his trousers and pants off, pooling them at his ankles. He sat back, exposed, his own cock standing stiffly upright. The cool air of the room was a shock against his heated skin.
“There we go,” Tom said, his voice approving. He reached for the tub of Albolene, unscrewed the lid, and scooped out a large, clear dollop. He warmed it between his palms, the sound slick and obscene in the quiet room, then spread it over his erection, coating himself thoroughly. The gloss caught the light from the TV. He offered the tub to Jimmy.
Jimmy mimicked him, scooping out a smaller amount. The Albolene was cool, slicker than his petroleum jelly. He smoothed it over his cock, the sensation familiar yet profoundly different with another man watching.
On the TV, the two men were now stroking themselves in unison, their eyes locked. Tom picked up a small brown bottle from the table. “Ever tried poppers?”
Jimmy shook his head, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of Tom’s fist.
“Open your mouth, breathe out, then take a short, sharp sniff from the bottle when I say,” Tom instructed, his voice husky. He held the bottle under his own nose, inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering closed for a second. A low groan escaped his lips. His cock visibly swelled, the head darkening. He handed the bottle to Jimmy. “Your turn. On three. One… two… three.”
Jimmy put the bottle to his nostril, exhaled, and inhaled. A chemical, pungent blast shot through his sinuses and straight to the base of his skull. His head swam, a wave of dizziness and intense, immediate heat rushed to his groin. His vision tunneled for a second, then returned, hyper-focused on Tom’s gleaming cock, on the TV, on the sheer unbelievable reality of the moment. His own cock twitched violently in his hand, aching with a new, desperate urgency.
“Fuck, yeah,” Tom breathed, watching Jimmy’s reaction. “Good, innit? Now just… relax. Watch the telly. Or don’t.” He resumed stroking himself, his pace measured, powerful.
Jimmy tried to copy the rhythm, but his eyes kept flicking from the screen to Tom. Tom wasn’t watching the porn. He was watching Jimmy. His gaze was fixed on Jimmy’s hand, on the slide of his fist over his own greased cock. The mutual voyeurism was more intoxicating than the poppers. The air grew thick with the sound of slick skin, ragged breathing, and the muted groans from the television.
“You’re doing good,” Tom murmured, his own strokes speeding up slightly. “Fuck, look at you. Bet you’re thinking about that rugby player, aren’t you? Gaz?”
Jimmy moaned, a desperate, affirmative sound. He was. He was thinking of Gaz’s wink, his stained jockstrap, the sheer power of him. He was thinking of Tom in the van, hard and unashamed. It all blurred together into a feverish fantasy.
Tom’s breath hitched. “Yeah, think about him. Think about his big, dirty cock. Think about him watching you right now, just like I am.” Tom’s voice was guttural, coaching, driving him on. “Gonna cum, Jimmy? Gonna show me how you do it all alone in your room?”
The permission, the crude encouragement, shattered the last of Jimmy’s control. The coil in his belly snapped. “Oh, God… Tom… I’m gonna…”
“Do it,” Tom growled, his own fist a blur now. “Cum for us. Cum for Gaz.”
With a choked cry, Jimmy’s back arched off the sofa. His orgasm tore through him, a white-hot rush that spilled over his fingers and stomach in thick, pulsing ropes. He shuddered violently, gasping, his eyes squeezed shut.
When he opened them, panting, Tom was still watching him, still stroking his own cock with a fierce, focused intensity. “Beautiful,” Tom rasped. “Fucking beautiful.” He was close, his balls tightening, his face a mask of concentration. “Watch me now. Go on, watch.”
Jimmy, spent and hypersensitive, obeyed. He watched as Tom’s rhythm became frantic, his hips pumping up into his own fist. A deep groan rumbled from Tom’s chest as he came, his own release jetting out in powerful arcs, adding to the mess on his stomach and the leather sofa.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the porn still playing on the TV. Tom finally let go of his cock, which lay spent and shiny against his thigh. He reached over and clapped a heavy, sticky hand on Jimmy’s knee.
“See?” he said, his voice rough but warm. “No big deal. Just two mates.” He grinned, a tired, sated grin. “Beer’s gone warm. Fancy a fresh one?”
Jimmy looked at the cooling splatter on his own soft belly, then at Tom’s. He looked at the shared, greasy tub on the table. The world hadn’t ended. It had, in fact, cracked wide open. He nodded, a slow, dazed smile spreading across his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”