Specialist adult fiction by Rod Cayenne
“Now, they are my type of men,” said Karen to her friend Ally as they eyed wistfully the team bus carrying the local Under-21s rugby team.
“Don’t be so sure. There’s some truth in the ‘rugger bugger’ nickname, you know,” replied Alison. “Still and all, male on male sex is so hot. I love it, darling!”
“Never! You’re one dark horse. Although the idea has some appeal, I suppose. Those manly thighs, hairy legs and balls. Mmmmm. And just think, there’s a whole bus full of them. What fun a girl could have!”
If only they knew! The local team was indeed a hotbed of homosexuality. That very afternoon, there had been a lot of horseplay in the changing room. A game of forfeits had been a highlight, with ‘Sniff the jockstrap’ and ‘Lick the butt’ rounds. In fact, things had gone way past innocent fun and towards pure raunch.
Coach McTavish had been appalled as he stumbled across the scene. In a lot of ways, he was an old-fashioned, god-fearing man. He had been forced to introduce the punishment plimsoll to tame the team. It hadn’t been enough, though. He’d had to purchase a whippy cane to beat some sense into the lads. He was conflicted about this. It was what the lads needed, but he found that punishing the team was an unexpected turn-on for him. Every time he thrashed them, his cock rose, stiffened and ached for release. The foreskin would slip back, as if ready for action. Pre-cum would glisten on the purple glans. He had become corrupted!
To his great surprise, McTavish was even dating one of the team. Well, not so much dating as co-habiting. The lucky lad was Gus Dunnock, whose tender arse was regularly smacked, slippered, caned and fucked by Coach McTavish. Indeed, the twenty-year-old lad’s tight arsehole provided the nearest thing to heaven that the older man had ever experienced.
Stumbling on the horseplay in the changing room, the coach was less than amused. It was one of those days when he’d have rather avoided the male camaraderie and chosen a quiet practice session. He knew something was up when he heard the noise as he stood outside the door. The enticing smell of sweaty BO wafted under his nose. He shouted at the team, “Disgraceful! Disgusting! Good lord! Well, it seems like I’ve got fifteen arses to whip into shape! With my whippy cane! Gus, go and get the rod from the car!” He tossed the car keys at his young lover. The two had tried to hide their relationship for a while, but truth will out! And outed they had been. And it had all been so avoidable! It was the tell-tale criss-cross markings of the cane that had alerted the team to the fact that Dunnock’s arse was receiving extra out of hours attention from McTavish.
The coach had mixed feelings about the beatings he was about to dispense. It was a hot day and six of the best to all fifteen players, plus the two reserves, was going to make big demands of his caning arm. On the other hand, it would be delightful to whip those buttocks, encased in the shiny black shorts the coach had introduced as part of an image makeover. His mind strayed to the possibility of caning them bare arse. There would be gains – the manly meaty buttocks, the hairy cracks, the arseholes and tackle on display. On the other hand, it could be a bit gross dealing with so many bare, stinking and sweaty arses on such a hot, sticky day. Whatever happened, his arm would be tired tonight. Yes, Gus would have to go on top tonight; not something McTavish would entertain normally!
McTavish decided to treat the lads on a case by case basis. The captain and the ringleaders would be thrashed bare arse but the more innocent participants could retain their silky shorts, some modesty and a gossamer veneer of protection.
Soon, the beatings were underway. The large 1950s changing room echoed to the sounds of the heavy thrashing and the cries and the yelps of the less stoic team members. The team captain received a particularly harsh caning. He remained quiet throughout his ordeal, however, perhaps to set an example to his team.
The two reserves were the penultimate ones to be caned. Both were new to the team, and to the coach’s olde tyme disciplinary methods! Peter Rowan took his caning particularly badly, writhing and squealing like a young pig. Or maybe even a piglet. McTavish was having none of it! After three strokes had elicited this disobedience, he ordered the novice to remove his shiny shorts and jockstrap, so that the cane could slice into the boy flesh unhindered and with the extra bonus of abject humiliation. The lad ended up crying, much to his embarrassment and yet to the universal glee of his team colleagues.
Last up for a beating was McTavish’s young boyfriend, Gus Dunnock. The lad was no stranger to his lover’s cane. Sometimes it was wielded with love, sometimes with lust, but rarely in anger. The cane lashed down on the lad’s shiny shorts with a resounding crack! As the lad recovered from the initial onslaught, he was alarmed to find his shorts being slid down, followed by his jockstrap. This time it was the turn of the team to gasp. For Dunnock’s arse bore the marks of a recent and fairly severe caning as well as the stripe just landed on it. “Well, I do have to keep him from straying,” explained McTavish, a little red-faced. But was his face red from embarrassment, exertion or lust? Or maybe all three? Well, whichever it was, it didn’t stop him landing another five lividly hot stripes on the naked arse before him. Later that day, the coach would plunge his rampant cock into the lad’s hot submissive hole as an extra reward to finish off a glorious day.
Out on the hired playing field, the sore lads enjoyed their practice session, with the scrums proving particularly memorable with freshly caned arses slapped and pinched as play and horseplay commenced. McTavish sighed. They’d learnt nothing from his cane. He couldn’t cane them again. Not today, anyway. There would be another chance soon, he told himself. A chance to really make the team scream!
Just then, the caretaker, old Mr Pearson appeared. He’d been caretaker for decades, and loved his work. He was pushing a trolley of refreshments. He smiled at the coach, “Sounds like you had to tenderise the lads’ arses today, Sir. How empty the school buildings have sounded since the cane was abolished. Good to hear it back in use!” McTavish nodded enthusiastically. Next time he would invite old Pearson along to watch the rumps being tenderised! And perhaps Jim the team bus driver, too? After all, rugby is famed as a great spectator sport!
Story © 2013 by Rod Cayenne, all rights reserved
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