Chapter 3: Chapter 4
Tom fetched two cold bottles from the fridge, the condensation beading on the glass. He handed one to Jimmy, then sank back onto the leather sofa with a contented groan, making no move to cover himself. The porn still played on the television, the sound low but insistent—a backdrop of grunts and slick friction.
They clicked bottles. “To new hobbies,” Tom said, a glint in his eye.
Jimmy took a long drink. The beer was cold and sharp, grounding him in the moment. The earlier tension had burst, leaving a strange, easy calm. They sat in silence for a minute, both staring at the screen without really seeing it. Jimmy became acutely aware of the cooling mess on his stomach, the tacky feel of drying Albolene on his cock.
“Fuck it,” Tom muttered, more to himself than to Jimmy. He reached for the tub again, scooped another dollop, and lazily smoothed it over his softening length. The motion was casual, almost absent-minded, like scratching an itch. He looked over at Jimmy, who was still staring. “Might as well keep it lubed. Never know.”
A low laugh escaped Jimmy. He mimicked the action, scooping a fresh smear of cool grease, working it into his own skin. The touch reignited a faint, throbbing interest. He leaned back, one hand resting on his thigh, the other loosely curled around his own shaft, not stroking, just holding.
They started talking more easily then, turned towards each other on the sofa. Tom asked about the library, about his sister—Jimmy’s mum—and the conversation meandered through safe, ordinary topics. But their hands didn’t stay still. As they talked, their fingers began to move with a lazy, exploratory rhythm. Tom’s thick fist pumped slowly, his cock responding, thickening and darkening under his practiced touch. Jimmy watched, mesmerized, and found his own hand matching the pace, his own body answering the unspoken call.
Soon, they were both fully hard again, stroking with purpose, their conversation dying away. The only sounds were the porn, their breathing, and the wet, slick sounds of their hands on their own cocks. They were just looking at each other now. Tom’s eyes, usually crinkled with laughter, were dark and heavy-lidded. Jimmy felt a bolt of pure, electric tension—a question hanging in the air, thick as the scent of sex and menthol. How far did this go? What was the line? He saw the same question reflected in Tom’s gaze, along with a raw, simple hunger.
Tom’s smile was a slow, tentative thing. He let go of his cock, letting it stand proud against his belly, and scratched his chest. He looked at Jimmy, then down at Jimmy’s working hand, then back up. He chewed his lip. The silence stretched, charged and palpable.
“Fancy a snog?”
Tom blurted it out, the words followed by a small, nervous chuckle. His expression was hopeful, open, instantly adding, “No worries if not. Just… seemed like it might fit.”
Jimmy’s heart stuttered. He had given up on the idea of kissing someone years ago. The logistics of it, the intimacy, the chance of rejection—it had all seemed like a distant country he’d never visit. No one had ever shown interest. He’d stopped chasing the possibility.
But here, now, with his cum drying on his stomach and his own cock hard in his hand, the idea didn’t seem foreign. It seemed like the next logical, terrifying, perfect step.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, his voice a little rough. “Go on then.”
A wider, relieved grin split Tom’s face. He leaned forward, then paused. “Hang on. For the full effect.” He grabbed the small brown bottle of poppers from the table. “Deep breath out, then a good, long pull. On three again.”
Jimmy nodded, his pulse drumming in his ears. He exhaled, put the bottle to his nostril, and at Tom’s signal, inhaled. The chemical rush was instantaneous and overwhelming this time, a dizzying explosion of light behind his eyes that raced straight to his groin, amplifying every sensation a hundredfold. Tom took his own hit, his eyes rolling back for a second.
Then Tom moved. He crushed their mouths together.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, and wet, and tasted of beer and sweat. Tom’s tongue pushed past Jimmy’s lips, exploring, claiming. Jimmy met it with his own, a clumsy, eager mimicry. The kiss was messy and deep, and the poppers made the room tilt, welding their bodies together in a singular, frantic purpose.
Jimmy moaned into Tom’s mouth, his hand still frantically working his own cock. Then he felt Tom’s big, greasy hand wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand away from himself. A second later, Tom’s own hand replaced it, his grip firm and knowing, his thumb swiping over Jimmy’s slick head. At the same time, Tom grabbed the wrist of Jimmy’s slicked hand and guided it down, wrapping Jimmy’s fingers around his own thick, hot shaft.
The dual sensation was blinding. To have his pleasure taken over, and to be given the control of another man’s pleasure in return. Jimmy’s brain short-circuited. He let Tom set a brutal, perfect rhythm on his cock, while he, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, began to fist Tom’s. The feel of it—the hard heat, the pulsing vein, the sheer weight of it in his hand—was better than any fantasy.
They broke the kiss, foreheads resting together, their breath coming in ragged, shared gasps. Their eyes were locked, watching each other’s faces contort with building pleasure. Tom’s hand was a piston on Jimmy’s cock, his other hand coming up to grip Jimmy’s shoulder, holding him in place.
“Gonna make you cum, you little fucker,” Tom grunted, his voice shattered. “Gonna make you spill it all over my hand.”
“You too,” Jimmy gasped back, surprised at his own boldness, twisting his wrist on Tom’s upstroke the way he liked it on himself. Tom’s eyes screwed shut, a deep groan tearing from his chest.
It was too much, too good. The voyeuristic thrill, the mutual frenzy, the chemical haze—it all coalesced into a white-hot point of no return. Jimmy’s orgasm slammed into him first, a convulsive, whole-body eruption that had him crying out wordlessly, his seed pulsing over Tom’s knuckles in thick, hot stripes. The sight of his own climax seemed to trigger Tom’s. With a final, guttural shout, Tom came, his cock jerking in Jimmy’s fist, his release shooting up onto his own chest and stomach in powerful, diminishing spurts.
They collapsed backward onto the sofa in a heap, spent, their limbs tangled. The leather was cold and sticky beneath them. The porn had ended, leaving the television on a silent menu screen. Their eyes drooped, their mouths curved into identical, sated grins.
“Fucking magic, fella,” Tom said in a hazy drawl, his chest still heaving.
“Yeah… magic,” Jimmy panted, his breath coming in small, happy gasps.
And he wasn’t lying. This was ten times better than wanking alone in his room. A hundred times. The warmth of another body, the shared filth, the mutual surrender. What the hell had he been missing out on?
After a while, Tom shifted, wincing at the mess. “You’re welcome to crash on the couch if you want? It’s a state, but it’s horizontal.”
Jimmy considered it. The pull of his own bed, his own space, to process the night, was stronger. “I think I should get back,” he said, then added, quickly, “But maybe next time?” He held his breath.
Tom chuckled, a warm, tired sound. “So I haven’t scared you off then?”
“Quite the opposite, I think,” Jimmy giggled, the sound giddy and unfamiliar in his own ears.
“Then let me order you a taxi. I’m paying.” Tom insisted, already reaching for his phone.
Jimmy didn’t argue. He cleaned himself up with the towel Tom provided, dressed slowly, his body humming with a deep, liquid fatigue. The taxi arrived quickly. At the door, Tom pulled him into a bear hug, clapping him on the back. On impulse, Jimmy tilted his head up and kissed him again, briefly, softly. Tom was keen to lean into it, returning the kiss with a gentle pressure.
“You better go,” Tom said kindly, his hand cupping Jimmy’s cheek, “before I drag you into my bedroom.” He finished with a salacious grin that promised endless, delicious corruption.
“Maybe next time,” Jimmy said playfully, feeling a power in the words he’d never known.
He went down the stairwell, his footsteps echoing in the concrete silence. The taxi waited below, its engine purring. As he slid into the back seat, he looked up at Tom’s lighted window. A figure was there, silhouetted against the glow, watching him leave. Jimmy raised a hand. The figure raised one back.
The streets slipped by, dark and quiet. Jimmy leaned his head against the cool glass, a slow, unstoppable smile spreading across his face. He replayed every second—the crush of Tom’s mouth, the feel of another cock in his hand, the delirious, mutual release. His body ached in the best way. He thought of Gaz’s wink, of the crusted jockstrap still hidden in his room, of the promise of Friday at the Rugby Club. The world, which had once felt so small and dimly lit, now seemed vast, pulsing with possibility, drenched in colour and hunger. He couldn’t wait to get home. He couldn’t wait to dream. He couldn’t wait for Friday.
He couldn’t wait for Friday.
Friday arrived faster than he’d expected. The space between Wednesday night and Friday evening, which once would have been an empty, yawning stretch, had been filled with a buzzing electricity that made time elastic. He’d replayed every detail from Tom’s flat so many times the memories felt worn and sacred, like favourite pages in a book. That shared exploration had changed something in him; it had lubricated the mechanics of his own confidence, making the wait feel not like an endurance test, but like a thrilling, ticking countdown.
Tom’s horn sounded at 6.45pm, sharp and insistent in the quiet suburban street. Jimmy grabbed his jacket, his heart already thumping a quick, eager rhythm against his ribs. He slid into the passenger seat of the van. The interior smelled of pine air freshener and old leather, familiar now.
For a moment, they just sat there, both grinning like fools. Tom’s eyes, crinkled at the corners, held Jimmy’s. Neither seemed to know what to do with their hands, the memory of Wednesday’s touch a palpable third presence in the vehicle. The silence was thick, but it was a good thickness, ripe with shared secrets.
Tom ended up patting Jimmy’s knee, a firm, warm clap. He left his big hand there, resting heavy on the denim, as he pulled away from the curb. The contact sent a jolt straight up Jimmy’s thigh. In response, almost without thinking, Jimmy placed his own hand on Tom’s solid leg, feeling the hard muscle beneath the worn fabric of his jeans.
They drove like that for a minute, a silent, smiling exchange of warmth. The streetlights began to blur past.
“So,” Tom said finally, his voice rich with amusement. “You been wanking non-stop since Wednesday, or what?”
Jimmy barked a laugh, the tension shattering.“Maybe. You?”
“Constantly,” Tom confessed cheerfully. “I mean, the wife’s back, so it’s been a bit stealthier. In the shower, you know? Thinking about it.” He squeezed Jimmy’s knee. “Fuck, it was good, though. Proper good.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy agreed, the word feeling inadequate. “It was.”
They chatted easily after that, the conversation flowing over the hum of the engine. Tom asked about his library shift. Jimmy asked about Tom’s work. They skirted around the specifics of ‘it’, but their shared understanding gave every ordinary word a delicious, double meaning. The hand on the knee never moved.
When they pulled into the rugby club car park, the hand finally lifted. Tom gave Jimmy’s leg a final, proprietary pat. “Right. Duty calls. Have fun in the dungeon. Don’t let the animals give you too much grief.”
Jimmy nodded, a flutter of excitement in his stomach. He went straight to the kit room alone, Tom wandering off towards the pitch with a wave. Pushing the heavy door open, he was surprised to see the stark fluorescent light already blazing. The room was supposed to be empty this early.
Gaz stood at the counter, his back to him, rummaging through a pile of clean, folded jockstraps. His broad shoulders filled out a tight navy t-shirt. He turned at the sound of the door, and a slow, crooked grin spread across his face. It was less predatory than last time. Softer, almost.
“Kit man,” Gaz said, his voice a friendly rumble. “Just the fella I was hoping to see.”
“Everything okay?” Jimmy asked, moving behind the counter, trying to sound professional.
“Can’t find my lucky one,” Gaz said, turning back to the pile, feigning deep concentration. He held up a plain white jock. “This isn’t it. This one’s shit. The elastic’s fucked.” He tossed it aside, picked up another. “Nope. My favourite one’s gone missing. Had it last week. You sure you didn’t… misplace it?” He looked over his shoulder, his blue eyes glinting with playful accusation.
Jimmy felt a hot blush creep up his neck. “I just log what comes in,” he said, his voice tightening. “I’m sure it’s in the wash cycle somewhere. I don’t know where it’s gone.” He kept repeating variations of it as Gaz made a show of searching, his movements exaggerated.
Gaz just grinned at him, a silent, knowing thing that made Jimmy’s palms sweat.
Finally, Gaz sighed dramatically, turning fully to face Jimmy but looking past him at the shelves. “Well,” Gaz said, with Jimmy’s back to him as he pretended to look for inventory sheets, “do you have anything I can keep this in?”
Jimmy turned around.
Gaz had pushed his grey sweatpants and boxers down in one rough motion. His cock and balls hung there, heavy and full, in the humid air of the kit room. It was thick and uncut, flushed a deep pink, resting against a thatch of dark curls. A huge, triumphant grin was plastered across Gaz’s face, his eyes daring Jimmy to look, to react.
Jimmy’s brain emptied. All the blood in his body seemed to rush south, leaving him lightheaded. “I… you…,” he stammered, unable to look away from the naked, casual display of Gaz’s raw equipment. The sheer, brazen size of him.
Gaz laughed, a booming, joyful sound, and yanked his sweats back up. “Just messing with you, kit man. Any jock is fine. Here.” He grabbed a random one from the pile and tossed it onto his kit bag.
Then he lingered, his bravado seeming to deflate slightly. He leaned against the counter, the playful glint replaced by something more tentative. “So. Library, eh? Must be quiet.”
“Yeah, usually,” Jimmy managed, his voice still unsteady.
“What do you… read, then?” Gaz asked, the question clearly an effort. “Books and that?”
“Yeah, books,” Jimmy said, nodding like an idiot. “Mostly fiction. Some history.”
“Right. History.” Gaz nodded back, his fingers drumming on the counter. “Cool.” A long, awkward silence descended, utterly different from the charged silence in Tom’s van. This was barren, strained. Gaz looked at the floor, then at the door, then back at Jimmy, seeming to search for another topic and finding nothing.
“Well,” Gaz finally blurted, hoisting his bag. “Cheers, then.” He turned and left, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, an air of palpable embarrassment following him out the door.
Jimmy tried to call out, “Good luck with the training” but it was a mumble, lost in the hum of the lights and the slamming door.
He processed the rest of the team’s kit mechanically, his mind reeling. That grin, that shocking flash of flesh, followed by that painfully clumsy attempt at conversation. It didn’t fit together. Once everything was logged and sorted, he wandered out to the edge of the pitch to watch the evening training session.
The men drilled under the floodlights, their shouts and collisions echoing in the cooling air. Jimmy’s eyes found Gaz instantly. He was a vortex of focused energy, hitting tackle bags with a force that made the chains rattle, driving through scrums with a low, guttural roar. Then, about ten minutes in, Gaz glanced towards the side-line. His eyes met Jimmy’s. Something shifted. Gaz’s next hit was harder, more theatrical. He took a pass and exploded through a gap with a sudden burst of speed that left a would-be tackler clutching air, a move flashier than necessary for a simple drill. When they ran laps, Gaz pushed to the front, his powerful legs pumping, the fabric of his shorts stretching taut across his arse with each stride. He was showing off. For him.
Jimmy was mesmerized. The raw power was still there, the intimidating physique. But layered on top now was this new, bewildering context: the shy, almost sweet embarrassment in the kit room, and this current, blatant performance. It created a confusing, irresistible friction in Jimmy’s chest.
He thought about Tom. The easy, filthy comfort of their mutual exploration. The way it had felt natural, right. He thought about the furious, secret beats of his own heart when he’d watched Gaz last week. He’d tried dating women in the past, a handful of awkward, fumbling encounters arranged by friends. There had been no interest, from either party, honestly. He’d just thought he was bad at it, that he was intimidated by the world of dating, of bodies. He’d never allowed the simple, obvious truth to form: that he was intimidated by men because he was attracted to them. The sheer physicality of them. The smell, the power, the different shapes of them. Tom. Gaz. The revelation didn't feel like an earthquake, but like a slow, correct settling. A label sliding neatly into place. Gay. He’d have to talk to Tom about it. The idea didn’t scare him; it felt like a next step.
The practice ended with a collective groan of exhaustion. Jimmy headed back to the kit room, his mind spinning. He’d barely gotten the light on and cleared a space when the door flew open.
Gaz barrelled in, a cloud of steam and cheap body wash trailing him. He must have showered in record time. His grey t-shirt was damp and clung to every ridge of his torso, the nipples clearly outlined. His sweatpants were not the loose ones from earlier; these were fitted, dark grey, and they showcased the formidable curve of his arse and the heavy swell of his cock and balls beneath the thin fabric.
“Hey,” Gaz said, bounding up to the counter with a surplus of energy. He seemed to stumble a little over his own feet, catching himself on the counter’s edge. He dumped his kit bag. The jockstrap sitting on top looked relatively clean, just damp with sweat. Definitely no pearlescent crust, no ‘present’.
Jimmy couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of disappointment. The boldness he’d found with Tom rose up to fill the awkward silence.
“What,” Jimmy said, leaning on the counter, meeting Gaz’s eye. “No present this time, big lad?”
Gaz flushed, a deep, beautiful crimson spreading from his neck to his cheeks. He broke into a wide, sheepish grin. “I wasn’t sure if…”
Jimmy grinned back, holding his gaze. “I love presents,” he said simply, his voice lower than he intended.
They heard it then: the rumble of deep voices and laughter, the clump of boots on concrete coming down the corridor. The other players were heading back.
Gaz’s eyes widened. He looked from the door to Jimmy, a sudden, wild idea sparking in his blue eyes. “Fuck it,” he muttered. In one swift motion, he moved behind the counter, ducking into a crouch beside Jimmy sliding into the space underneath. It was narrow, cluttered with boxes, and suddenly, intimately, filled with the heat and scent of Gaz’s freshly scrubbed body.