Opinion Western Bulldog Erotic Fiction (Why Not?)

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BrisDog

BrisDog

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Dec 13, 2012
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As Shiggsy ran into a strong South Westerly at Kardinia Park, ball under his left arm, deftly avoiding the swinging handbags of yet another failed Geelong tackle he looked into the horizon and saw a man, a man with a head of hair thicker than the ‘J’ in Nam. No words needed to be said, with the contraction of his left nipple Shiggsy knew the play: Toyd darted to his left, his slight hands pointing directly into the air....

(Next poster please continue, somehow we need to get to an erotic scene and the Mods said ‘no Stringer’ - go on).
 
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BrisDog said:
As Shiggsy ran into a strong South Westerly at Kardinia Park, ball under his left arm, deftly avoiding the swinging handbags of yet another failed Geelong tackle he looked into the horizon and saw a man, a man with a head of hair thicker than the ‘J’ in Nam. No words needed to be said, with the contraction of his left nipple Shiggsy knew the play: Toyd darted to his left, his slight hands pointing directly into the air....

(Next poster please continue, somehow we need to get to an erotic scene and the Mods said ‘no Stringer’ -go on).
Click to expand...
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Toyd darted to his left, his slight hands pointing directly into the air....Shiggsy sensually drops the ball onto his trusty right leg and caresses the ball straight into Toyd's firm grasp, the defender valiantly trying to spoil left on the ground drenched in sweat under the glow of the Etihad floodlights...


Someone take over, I'm logging out
 
ossie_21 said:
Toyd darted to his left, his slight hands pointing directly into the air....Shiggsy sensually drops the ball onto his trusty right leg and caresses the ball straight into Toyd's firm grasp, the defender valiantly trying to spoil left on the ground drenched in sweat under the glow of the Etihad floodlights...


Someone take over, I'm logging out
Click to expand...
Dude, I like it but we are at Geelong, a historic away scalp to be claimed (don’t think about it Jake) and if Toyd took that in one grab this is Sci-Fi.

....As Toyd looked into the direction of the ‘Reg Hickey’ stand, considering the options of putting the Sherrin 12 rows down the throat of the Geelong Cheer Squad, a flash appeared to his left.....
 
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The first forward thrust in the GF was almost an erotic dream with the Bont spearing it onto Toyd's chest ......... sadly it bounced off instead of him grabbing it and goaling.
Happy ending anyway :rainbow:
 
Fossie 32 said:
The first forward thrust in the GF was almost an erotic dream with the Bont spearing it onto Toyd's chest ......... sadly it bounced off instead of him grabbing it and goaling.
Happy ending anyway :rainbow:
Click to expand...
No money shot yet Foz, this Geelong novel has wings yet (waiting for Scrag)...
 
...It was Shiggsy coming hard from behind and looking to get on the end of Toyds hard work and penetrate deep. The sight of the oiled up and glistening adonis blonde hair flowing behind, gearnsey torn to the waist, drew a questioning quiver to Toyds lips and a fatal lapse in concentration to his confused mind. The ball slips from his vice like grip of his large and unusually well oiled hands and onto a moist but firm Kardinia Park surface that was glistening like a diamond in a goats arse....

Back in a minute.
 
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...despite Toyd’s predictable f*ck up as the ball rolled away from his tiny hands it was no surprise for the Bulldogs famous number 24, Shane Biggs to pump the blood for a third time and clean the mess left behind by his team mates premature release. Shiggsy is a third effort specialist, he picked up the leather in one hand but was immediately inundated by feline pressure. With one eye impeded he caught a glimpse of Libber in a pair of XS sized Royal Blue shorts....
 
Shane Biggs was the last to leave the change rooms, as always. There was some mild suspicion from other players and staff about why, but most just brushed it off as him being shy. The truth was that Shane experienced sensory overload during the post-game showering and changing that was so overwhelming that not even the ice baths could dissuade his erection. The sight of glistening, taut young men in peak physical condition and the inebriating aroma of man-sweat was enough to send him into a haze. As he removed his towel and began to dress he noticed something on the floor across from him. It was a pair of shorts, presumably belonging to Liam Picken as they were in front of his locker. He picked them up and noticed they were still sweat-damp. He clenched the shorts in his fist, pressed them to his nose and inhaled deeply. Curiously, it smelled as if the shorts had been worn back-to-front briefly.

"What are you doing?" asked Toby as he came back into the locker-room to grab something he'd forgotten. As he turned the corner he was met with the sight of Shiggsy, wearing only a t-shirt, holding a pair of shorts to his face, with a fully erect and throbbing "Easton". Shane quickly used the shorts to try and cover his manhood. Toby found himself staring at those thick muscular legs and was thinking about the "package" concealed behind the shorts but collected himself and pushed the thought aside. "It's not what it looks like Tobes, these are my shorts...I was just checking if they were clean or dirty as I got them mixed up."
"But those are playing shorts, Shiggs." replied Toby, with a questioning look.
"Oh yeah, of course. I wasn't gonna wear them. Hey why are you back here anyway? Shouldn't you be out with the boys? We're having drinks to send off Moyd and Bob right?"
The deflection was obvious and Toby found Shane's vulnerability arousing. He felt a twitch in his pants. "Since when do we call him Moyd?" he asked.
"It was just a thing I read on this stupid forum. Forget about it."
At that moment they heard the showers start up and a man's voice singing. Bizarrely, it was to the melody of Bob Marley's classic No Woman, No Cry but the lyrics were that of Three Little Birds.

To be continued...
 
BrisDog said:
...despite Toyd’s predictable f*ck up as the ball rolled away from his tiny hands it was no surprise for the Bulldogs famous number 24, Shane Biggs to pump the blood for a third time and clean the mess left behind by his team mates premature release. Shiggsy is a third effort specialist, he picked up the leather in one hand but was immediately inundated by feline pressure. With one eye impeded he caught a glimpse of Libber in a pair of XS sized Royal Blue shorts....
Click to expand...
...he fires out a handball, Libba takes it in his stride. He evades one, he evades another, when suddenly he finds himself in a paddock of space. He stops... "what are ya doing lib?!" Screams Caleb Daniel. Tom drops his pants and takes a s**t, right in the middle of Simmonds Stadium. The stadium erupts...
 
I knocked on the door, nervously. End of year performance reviews were no-one’s idea of a good time.

“Come!” barked his familiar hoarse voice.

I pushed the door open. He sat behind his desk, hair glistening, powerful shoulders hunched over. All care. All muscle. He looked at me and then down at his running sheet. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Afternoon Danny. Your punctuality is as sharp as your facial grooming.”

I glowed inside. He’d noticed. All that time I’d just spent in the bathroom hadn’t gone to waste. “Afternoon Bevo.” He looked at me sharply. “I mean, Mr Beveridge.”

He grunted his approval. “Exit interview, eh?”

“Yes please, Mr Beveridge.”

He sighed heavily. “Well it was a bit of a s**t show, Danny. We went from a premiership midfield to a bottom four midfield in one season. Doesn’t sound great for the midfield coach.”

I swallowed. “No, Mr Beveridge.”

“Anyway, there’s a massive thread on it on bigfooty. If you need any more performance feedback, it’s all in there.”

I nodded. I knew the thread well, it was full of little gems of constructive criticism, and I was constantly grateful to the thread contributors. “Is that all then, Mr Beveridge?”

“No Danny.” He stood up suddenly and was across the room in a flash. Fast, sure movements. He pulled the blinds down before fixing me with his gaze. “It’s not all just about football is it, Danny?”

His eyes lasered into me. I was melting like an ant under a microscope. My mouth was suddenly dry. “No Mr Beveridge.” I had to clear my throat. “Have you got your regular tennis game this afternoon?”

He looked down at the tight, white, cotton shorts he had on. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’ll need to warm up first.”

He hesitated as he spoke, showing the first hint of vulnerability. I could sense his inner power straining towards me, just as his thighs strained against the thin cotton material. Without taking my eyes off him I grabbed a pen, and slowly, deliberately, dropped it under his desk. “Oops Mr Beveridge, I’ve dropped my pen.”

His tongue ran impulsively around his lips. He strode over in front of me and bent over, searching under the desk. “I can’t see it.”

Every contour of his backside, every ripened muscle, shone through the shorts. A rim encircled it – he still wore jockey undies, tighty whiteys, ironed like navy pants, no doubt. The thought of him running that iron up and down, nosing into the crease made my heart pound. I reached into my backpack, unclipped my sistema lunchbox, and pulled out an egg.

“Keep looking, Mr Beveridge,” I muttered. I ran the egg around his trembling glutes, over, under, around, then stroking up and down. A sheen of sweat darkened his shorts, like exhalation on a mirror. I pressed the egg between his heaving cheeks. “Squeeze, Mr Beveridge.”

“I can’t.” It came out as a strangled whisper. “These shorts… not colour-safe…”

“It’s hard boiled, Mr Beveridge. Shut up and squeeze.”
 
Snake Livermore said:
I knocked on the door, nervously. End of year performance reviews were no-one’s idea of a good time.

“Come!” barked his familiar hoarse voice.

I pushed the door open. He sat behind his desk, hair glistening, powerful shoulders hunched over. All care. All muscle. He looked at me and then down at his running sheet. The corners of his mouth twitched. “Afternoon Danny. Your punctuality is as sharp as your facial grooming.”

I glowed inside. He’d noticed. All that time I’d just spent in the bathroom hadn’t gone to waste. “Afternoon Bevo.” He looked at me sharply. “I mean, Mr Beveridge.”

He grunted his approval. “Exit interview, eh?”

“Yes please, Mr Beveridge.”

He sighed heavily. “Well it was a bit of a s**t show, Danny. We went from a premiership midfield to a bottom four midfield in one season. Doesn’t sound great for the midfield coach.”

I swallowed. “No, Mr Beveridge.”

“Anyway, there’s a massive thread on it on bigfooty. If you need any more performance feedback, it’s all in there.”

I nodded. I knew the thread well, it was full of little gems of constructive criticism, and I was constantly grateful to the thread contributors. “Is that all then, Mr Beveridge?”

“No Danny.” He stood up suddenly and was across the room in a flash. Fast, sure movements. He pulled the blinds down before fixing me with his gaze. “It’s not all just about football is it, Danny?”

His eyes lasered into me. I was melting like an ant under a microscope. My mouth was suddenly dry. “No Mr Beveridge.” I had to clear my throat. “Have you got your regular tennis game this afternoon?”

He looked down at the tight, white, cotton shorts he had on. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’ll need to warm up first.”

He hesitated as he spoke, showing the first hint of vulnerability. I could sense his inner power straining towards me, just as his thighs strained against the thin cotton material. Without taking my eyes off him I grabbed a pen, and slowly, deliberately, dropped it under his desk. “Oops Mr Beveridge, I’ve dropped my pen.”

His tongue ran impulsively around his lips. He strode over in front of me and bent over, searching under the desk. “I can’t see it.”

Every contour of his backside, every ripened muscle, shone through the shorts. A rim encircled it – he still wore jockey undies, tighty whiteys, ironed like navy pants, no doubt. The thought of him running that iron up and down, nosing into the crease made my heart pound. I reached into my backpack, unclipped my sistema lunchbox, and pulled out an egg.

“Keep looking, Mr Beveridge,” I muttered. I ran the egg around his trembling glutes, over, under, around, then stroking up and down. A sheen of sweat darkened his shorts, like exhalation on a mirror. I pressed the egg between his heaving cheeks. “Squeeze, Mr Beveridge.”

“I can’t.” It came out as a strangled whisper. “These shorts… not colour-safe…”

“It’s hard boiled, Mr Beveridge. Shut up and squeeze.”
Click to expand...

 
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