Andrew had never played rugby since he was twelve, when he hated it, with all that mud and violent contact. Due to the physical and mental changes he had undergone, as Bruce he loved it. It was more exciting in its way that shagging Rosie. He experienced unbelievable energy running to the touchline, pursued by muscular members of the opposite team, and when they tackled him, he crashed in the mud with delight at his dexterity in passing the ball to a comrade.
Bruce was excited by the scrums, when he was one of fifteen pairs of muscular, hairy legs pushing against the others, to show their dominance of the field, gripping each other tightly round the waist. To think he had ever thought he was gay! This was what being a male was about: at ease with his mates experiencing power.
After the showers the others stood around for Bruce’s initiation. And as Mike had threatened it was embarrassing. He blushed to the roots of his hair being made to wear a pink tutu with his pubes shaved, but his blush and his boyish smile made it clear to the others he was a totally straight bloke.
After the initiation was finished came a little ritual that was common in the changing room. All the lads stood naked around a bowl and wanked themselves, discharging into the bowl. If after ten minutes any had failed to come, they would drink all the spunk collected in the bowl. If they had all come, then the one who had climaxed first did so. It was a bit like one of those card games where the object is to lose tricks.
The idea that the sight of naked beefy young men with whom you had been in close physical proximity for an afternoon could be the least incitement to ejaculation was of course unthinkable.
In the event, Mike was so excited that he had created such the perfect lad, as though Bruce’s virility was an expression of his own, Mike came in seconds. The other lads laughed, but knew they had a limited time to climax with sufficient insouciance to avoid accusations of being serious about all this. As the time limit came near only Bruce and Paul had not come. Bruce was working himself with a steady action, not too weak, not too fast, and grinning broadly. Paul was an unimaginative guy, to put it mildly, although not surprisingly given his obsession with games. At last he managed to visualise a big pair of breasts of a girl he was desperate to make it with, and came. Once he had finished. Bruce threw back his head, and as though doing it on demand, ejected ropes of steaming semen in the bucket.
The ten minute bell rang.
To matey jeers, Mike lifted up the bowl of cum to knock it back. He had never done this before but judged rightly that if cold tea was nasty, cold spunk would be worse. Andrew could have told him it was rather nice, particularly if you like salty foods, if swallowed at source, but Mike did not have the benefit of the experience.
Mike grimaced as he tipped back the bowl, but caught the eye of Bruce standing opposite in the circle, bullock naked, with his fair body hair glinting on his perfect musculature. He was giving Mike a wry smile of sympathy and winked one of his deep blue eyes.
Mike felt what he had never known before…