As Mackie seeks to earn his place on his dad's rugby team, it's not just enough to wear the right socks, shorts and jockstrap. Mackie will need to prove himself at the rugby team's hardcore initiation. His rugged would-be teammates—and his dad's best friends—meet at the pub to put Mackie through his paces. Whether it's serving them drinks on all fours, or finding himself chained up in the pub toilets while the team keeps on drinking. Will Mackie pass the rugby team's brutal hazing?
The Rugby Team's Urinal is an 11,000 word short story.
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Excerpt
“Wait there, boy,” Phil said in his gruff Scottish accent. No hint of the kindness he’d shown me last week. I could smell the cigarettes many of the players were smoking, but didn’t realize Phil was smoking, too. Except it wasn’t a cigarette, but a big fat cigar. I waited on the floor, on my hands and knees, as his lit cigar ash flittered right before my eyes. The smoke stung and I shook slightly in fear he might burn me. Instead, he tapped the ash off onto the tray sticking out of my mouth. “Good boy. Now don’t go anywhere.”
I didn’t move. Soaked to the skin with beer, I stared at the feet of two men as they drank and laughed and smoked. I was their drinks tray. I was their ash tray. If I wanted on the team, I would have to be their bitch.
My God did I want to be on the team. More than that, I wanted to be their bitch. Maybe everyone else who had been initiated hated this part. I could tell from the snippets of chatter. Mackie’s doing well. Boy’s a natural. We should have him serve us all the time. He’s a runt, he needs to know his place.
Reality and imagination combined in my twisting head. Last week I had literally stepped into Phil’s shorts. Tonight, I was his beta. I wanted nothing more than for him look down on me again, smile and say, “good boy.”
I watched Phil from the waist down. Looking any more up would turn the ashtray into a metal slide straight into my mouth. His dark jeans were tight, almost skintight over his beefy leg muscles. His stomach twitched when he chuckled, belly jumping in a jolly laugh. Probably at my expense. A hand lay casually on his thigh. I stared at it, wondering if by force of thought I could make him touch exactly where I had been dreaming about for a week. A thumb and forefinger adjusted the invisible underwear. I imagined those hefty balls trapped inside dancing from thigh to thigh, almost getting a whiff.
Oh no, I thought. I was getting too excited. Too turned on. These men couldn’t know my secret. Yes, my dad knew I was gay, but no one else on the team did. We’d both agreed it was better this way. What would they think if they knew my swollen cockhead was aching against the inside of the jockstrap’s cup?
I tried to keep an order in my mind, but it was like fighting against a waterfall. The edge approached. Of its own accord, my cock slid against its reinforced enclosure. I ached to scratch, to touch. It vibrated with the energy, the stench, unlocked by the secret kink I never knew I had—to be treated like a slave among men. To them this was a normal initiation. A male teammate crawling on his hands and knees to bring them beers. To be a human ashtray. It was all a laugh. One big joke. They didn’t know how I really felt. The awakening that I had sensed, which had drawn me to this team, now roaring through my body like a thousand fires raging at once.
Phil’s hand—the very same which had flicked his bunched-up underwear—swung across to me. He was going to take a drink, but stopped. His finger lingered close to my cheek.
“Hey Phil, pass me a cider from the bitch boy, and give him a slap for me.”
Phil took a bottle from the platform on top of my head. His hand swung back down, I couldn’t see further up, then grazed my cheek. Intentionally. He touched it, stroked the soft skin—I shaved once a fortnight—to let me know he was there. Big strong Phil, here to look out for me. He took the second bottle from the back of my head. All that was left were the three pints down my back. Drool spilled from my sore lips; I had been biting on this gag for a while now. Phil sensed my discomfort. Almost as an aside, while the others continued to talk and laugh and joke, Phil turned to me, like petting a dog. Cigar between his fingers, he reached around to the back of my head and loosened the strap that held the ashtray in my mouth. With kindness, with love, he eased the gag from between my lips. I stretched and yawned.
“You done good, son,” Phil said with a wide smile, leaning down to practically pet me behind the ears. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely heard over the noisy team. “But there’s one more thing I want from you. Head back, mouth open just a touch. That’s it, head back.” Phil lifted my chin. It was a stressful position. My hands and knees remained unmoved, stuck to the ground to avoid being soaked by the three full pints on my back. But he strained my head back, nonetheless. I had no choice but to open my mouth. Cigar in hands, Phil took a long puff, the smoke swirling around his ginger beard, then he tapped the ash off, right into my mouth.
Black and gray dabbed onto my tongue. Bitter and sweet, much like Joey’s boot. It wasn’t the taste itself, nor the material, nor the hot ash dissolving in my mouth, but the sheer audacity of the act itself. I was marked as Phil’s slave. His bitch. And I came.