Page 24 of Brat on the Ball

He led me over to the sofa and sat me down, and sat far enough away that we weren’t touching. “My name is George Reynolds, and I’m a Welsh rugby player who was outed well before I was ready. I’ve made my peace with it now, but I wouldn’t expect anyone to go through the same.”

“Right.” I was still shaking from his revelation, and took a sip of wine to steel myself. There would be bloody murder if any of the coaching staff found out I was drinking on the night before training. But I needed reassurance and confidence only alcohol could provide. “I…I want to come out at some point. I just…it’s hard. I don’t want to be the first.”

“I get that. Another player on the Welsh squad, Rhys, he’s always been out. But his partner didn’t come out until he was thirty-five, and Finn Roberts got outed last year in some pretty nasty circumstances. So I’m by no means the first openly gay rugby player, not even in Wales. Though judging by how few there are elsewhere, there must be something in the water.” He chuckled.

“There are more of us, I’m sure,” I said. “I bet if someone came out, there would be more of us to follow.”

“And you’ve never hooked up with another footballer?” George asked. He sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “I know of at least six international rugby players who aren’t out. And I know how each of them sounds when they come.”

Somewhere, underneath all the panic and weirdness, jealousy bubbled up. For some reason, I hated the thought of George and anyone else. “No one,” I finally answered. “The last sexual experience with a man before you, I was seventeen. He was in the Cardiff football academy, but as far as I know, he never made it professional.”

“Damn,” George whistled. “And you’re…how old, now?”

“Twenty four. You?”

“Twenty nine. Just wanted to check you weren’t like eighteen. You’ve got an ageless face.”

I could feel my cheeks heating, and took another sip of the cold wine to calm it down. “Football doesn’t make us as rough and gruff as rugby players,” I said.

“Pussies, the lot of you.” George took another sip of his wine, and for the tiniest second, it pissed me off. And then I saw the smirk on his face and realised exactly what he was doing.Pulling pigtails. Playground flirting.

“Well, at least I’ll look eighteen at thirty. Whilst you’ll hit sixty at fifty,” I challenged.

“Well, with all those moisturisers sponsoring you, how could you ever have this rough manly skin?” George rubbed his cheek as if to prove a point.

“Guess you’ll just have to rub that rough and manly skin up against mine,” I said, almost automatically. I felt ridiculous the second I’d said it, but the tension between us changed. I looked at George, and he looked at me.

I don’t know which of us dropped our wine glass onto his carpet first, but George was on top of me in seconds. His hands pinned mine back to the arm of his sofa, and his tongue plundered my mouth like he was searching for hidden treasure.

He pulled back for a second, and I immediately tried to regain the connection, but his feel grip on my wrists stopped me from kissing him. “Remember, no means no,” he said. “I like a little control over the situation. So your consent is implied. If I ask you to do something, if I try to do something, I’ll be waiting for you to tell me you don’t want it. And if your mouth is full…well, just tap my thigh.”

“So if I struggle?” I asked, feeling suddenly more bold than I ever had in my life.

“Then you struggle.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then it all stops.”

“What if I say…make me?”

“Then you better be feeling brave,” said George before he was kissing me again. His grip on my hands was giving me pins and needles, but I didn’t mind. I wanted it. I wanted more of it. What we’d done in the club had felt dirty, but here, in private, it felt like I needed more to get that same feeling. So I bit down on his bottom lip. Hard.

He pulled away. “Problem?” he grunted.

“No. Just wanted to remind you I was here. And waiting.”

“Little brat, huh?” George smirked. “Reckon you’ll be so smug with your mouth full of dick?”

“Make me,” I replied.

George smiled, but said nothing more. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, then released his cock from their confines. He shuffled his way up my body and then pressed the head to my lips. I breathed in the heady scent of him. The musk. George’s hands returned to my wrists, but only one was in a vice-like grip. The other was gentler, lighter. I knew what it was for. So I could break free and tap his thigh if things got too much.

Then George pushed insistently against my lips and I had no choice but to let him in. He pushed in so hard, so fast, giving me no chance to adjust. He wanted me to take it, and I did. I gagged around his length and thickness, but I was used to it a little more than I had been, and I let him in as he sank to the hilt. I gagged again, tears springing to my eyes, but he held me there for just a second. I looked up at him, still fully suited, and he smirked.

“Bratty, but you can take it,” he said, pulling out before pushing to the back of my throat again. Every time I gagged, my cock twitched inside my trousers. I was so desperate for release, but knowing that George controlled that release was even more of a turn on. So as he gently used my mouth, pulling out and pushing back in, I refused to tap out. I didn’t want to tap out. I wanted to thank him.

For minutes, George pushed in and pulled out slowly. Every push in made me gag and made my cock twitch. Every smirk he gave me made me want to submit more, and every moan made me glad I was doing what he wanted. After a few minutes, he withdrew slowly and looked down at me. I was sure I looked a mess, with tears in my eyes and spit on my chin.

---