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The Red-Headed League

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: admin Posted on: 26 Oct 2003 1 comments
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by Andrew The Rugby World Cup fastened the image of rugby-players on people's minds throughout the world in 2003 : fearless specimens of fit manhood who hurl themselves ferociously into scrums and tackles, making bruising contact with each other. It reminded me of the time I played rugby at University thirty years ago. In my second season there were several changes to the College team. To my great regret Thierry had gone and the new captain lacked his mischievous, sexy charm. Morale suffered a bit but was compensated for by the emergence of a new star player with whom - on the surface at least - I had much in common. We were both red-heads, we were both left-handed; we'd been to the same school; we were both reading Engineering; and we both played rugby. They called us 'The Red-Headed League' and nick-named my friend 'Sherlock' and myself "Watson.". His real name was Wallace, but he was called 'Wally' when it wasn't Sherlock. He had been injured during our first season and had therefore played little for the team in our first year. Now he was fully recovered - and playing better than ever. The differences between us were greater than the similarities. He was extraordinarily talented, and not least as an impromptu artist. He could apparently be listening closely to a lecture and yet all the time his pen was doodling and at the end there would be a perfect likeness of the lecturer - or whatever else caught his fancy in the lecture room. I remember that in one of his doodles he caricatured the lecturer. He was a comparatively young man - about 28, I'd say - and the girls in our class were keen to attract his attention because he was so handsome. One girl in particular, big-boned and rather masculine in appearance, had a crush on him and was always the first to arrive at his lectures, sitting right in front of him in the first row, staring up into his face. Sherlock's doodle was merciless. It showed her with her tongue hanging out, avidly watching the lecturer as he sat on his desk, legs splayed, toying with a giant dick sticking out of his trousers. If his sketch had been confiscated he would have been expelled from the course, but after showing it to me with a lewd grin he put it into his pocket and I never saw it again. His lecture notes were full of doodles and yet he never had any difficulty passing any of the exams. In physique he was less than average in height but he had remarkable hand-and-eye co-ordination and a sense of balance that made him, at fly half, the lynch pin of our side. He was also very fast off the mark, which made it difficult for the opposing wing-forward to tackle him. There was a certain arrogance about him because he knew he was vital to the team's fortunes. He was not very sympathetic. I remember that at school he had run out of time to write an important essay researching the functions of the spleen and pancreas. Knowing he had to get his essay in on time he asked an older student if he could see what he had written the year before, since it was well known that the teacher set the same essays every year. This was a particularly brilliant student who always got top marks and he lent Sherlock the essay he had written on the understanding that he could use it as reading material. Sherlock simply copied it out, added drawings in his own inimitable hand and handed it in. I spent hours on my effort and the result was I got a mediocre mark and Sherlock got the best in the class. On another occasion, during our first year in the engineering school, he had booked a squash court for an hour which clashed with an important lecture, so he asked me to take notes for him. When I copied them out and handed them to him he glanced at them and said "I don't seem to have missed much" and forgot even to thank me. We were both red-headed, but Sherlock had the reddest hair I've ever seen in my life. Believe me, if you have red hair, you notice other people's. It was red through and through, whereas mine was a shade less fiery. We both had freckles, but Sherlock even had freckles on his dick. I saw it once when he was examining it in the shower. He was quite unselfconscious about it and held it out for me to see. "Look," he said "I've got freckles on my dick. Have you ?" And he looked to see if I had. I noticed that he had one of those dicks that don�t get any bigger when they get stiff, if you see what I mean. It was firm and fat even when in repose, whereas mine - without any freckles - is wrinkly when it's limp and fills up to a much bigger size when it's erect. Also he was circumcised whereas I'm not, and his knob looked a kind-of greenish colour in the fluorescent light of the changing rooms. Whatever our differences, we were friends, though more acquaintances than good friends. His lack of sensitivity sometimes appalled me and he could be very self-centred. I was six feet tall and played at full back. I didn't have the same talent as him but I didn't lack for courage either. When we travelled to away matches we usually sat together on the coach and discussed the game afterwards. He was more excitable than me, with a short fuse for a temper, and if we disagreed over anything he rarely listened to what I had to say. I didn't mind too much. I put it down to his temperament and to the fact that his parents had lived overseas for many years and that he hadn't seen much of them. Though he was gifted in so many ways, he was not exactly loveable. One Saturday in the Autumn term we had to play an important Cup match away from home against another College in the north of England; and because there was an international game in the afternoon that everyone wanted to watch, the game was scheduled for eleven o'clock in the morning. That meant taking a coach up north the evening before and staying in a hotel for the night. The organisers, without much thought, gave 'The Red-Headed League' a room to share, with twin single beds in it. I've already said that he was unselfconscious about appearing nude, and indeed he was always pretty direct about things. When we were both in bed with the light out he suddenly said, � propos of nothing, "Do you still shag yourself ?" I was taken aback and said somewhat evasively "Sometimes." Then - "Do you ?" "Yes," he said, "When I'm bored. When was the last time you did it ?" I hesitated. "I think it was about two days ago. What about you ?" "A week ago." "Does that mean you're bored now ?" "Yes." "What about the game tomorrow ? If you do it now, won't it affect your performance ?" "No - it never does." "You mean, you often do it before a match ?" "Yes." There was a pause, and then, almost out of character because it sounded like a kind of confession, he said "You know, I used to think my dick was enormous. When I was twelve it was bigger than anyone else's. But when I stopped growing at sixteen, everyone caught me up. Now I realise it�s not as big as all that. If you put the light on, I'll show you." This seemed to me a softer mood than I usually encountered with him and not daring to disoblige him I switched the light on. To be honest, after my previous experiences with Phil, Steve and Thierry, I was very interested in dicks and knew what fun they could be for guys who weren't so inhibited that they could allow themselves to enjoy what others had to offer ! And I was right - Sherlock threw back the bed covers and his dick, stiffly erect, was just the same size as I had seen it limp in the showers when he was showing me his freckles. It was fully circumcised, deeply cut, about six inches long and without any loose skin to play with. He had a tightly packed scrotum and the pubic hair that circled the base of his shaft was as red as his hair. As a package it looked good. "What do you think ?" he said. "Looks good to me. Are you going to show me how it performs ?" "Sure. But if I do it, will you do it too ?" I thought of the rugby match in the morning and the way I often felt tired after I had had an orgasm, but I had a raging hard-on and things had gone too far to stop now. "Yes," I said. "OK. Watch !" And with that he moved his fist so fast up and down his shaft that his hand was a blur of movement. I wanked much slower than that, taking my time and enjoying the sensation of each movement, but maybe he needed really fast stimulation. Whatever, it took him less than a minute to cum. In fact he was so quick I was not expecting it and the first spurt of his spunk took me by surprise. Perhaps it was the speed or the angle of his body at the moment of ejaculation, but it didn't land on his belly but went over his side onto the sheet. His hand remained a blur while he pumped himself dry, then he relaxed, took a deep breath and said "There you are then. You next." I had no choice in the matter, so I rolled back the bed clothes, took my dick in my hand and slowly wanked it. He was interested, not having one of his own, in my foreskin and asked how it felt to have one. A question I had no way of answering ! But I showed him how I could take my time and at one point he said "Aren't you ever going to cum ?" to which I replied "Wait and see. I'm enjoying this." I did, of course (cum, that is) and he watched and commented on my load, noticing that where it landed on my stomach it seemed runnier than his had been. Then he said to turn the light out and we both went to sleep. In the morning I felt tired and regretted I'd had a wank the night before, but Sherlock seemed just the same, very wound-up before a match and giving no hint of recognition of what had happened the night before. In the match itself he played his usual fearless game and in the last minute scored a brilliant solo try. I missed the kick, but we had already won. He was everyone's hero after the match was over and took the team's congratulations standing nude in the shower, the water streaming off his sodden red hair and dripping off the end of his dick. I knew him better now ! After lunch with the opposing team we watched the rugby international on the tele and then, after some beers, it was time to get on our coach and head back to London. It was dark by the time we started and we sped down the motorway with little to see or do. Most of our colleagues, after discussing our own match and the one we had seen on tele, went to sleep and the coach lights were turned down. I was sitting next to the window with Sherlock by my side, fairly near to the front. The only people who could see us were the pair on the two seats opposite ours - and they were both asleep. Sherlock seemed fidgety, so I leaned across and said archly "Are you bored again so soon ?" He gave me a glimmer of a smile. "You bet," he said. And he reached down under his seat, where he had stowed his raincoat, drew it out and placed it carefully over his knees. Glancing across to make sure that both guys on the seat opposite were sleeping, he raised the raincoat over his lap with his right hand so that I could see and they couldn't; then he unzipped and drew out his dick with his left and let me have a good look at it. I put my hand out to fondle it, but he shook his head teasingly and covered it with his fist as if to say "No - I do it, not you !" But I was permitted to watch. This time he used a different technique. He used the tips of his fingers to stimulate the glans and when he had done this delicately for a minute he put his fingers to his lips and wet them with spit. Then he spun them round and round his engorged cockhead with a quick circular motion. It was very exciting to watch and - had he but known it - he could have had as much pre-cum as he wanted off my own, rock-hard dick to help him lubricate. When he felt the tightening at the base of his dick that announces the onset of orgasm he stopped suddenly, fished in his raincoat pocket for a handkerchief he kept there and spread it out on his lap as a cum-catcher. Then he went back to work, this time wanking the shaft rapidly as he had done in the hotel bedroom. My eyes were quickly rewarded by several juicy spurts of sperm landing on the handkerchief. When he had finished pumping he lay back in his seat, dropped his right hand so that the raincoat lay flat over his lap, winked at me and said "I was bored. Now I'm shagged out. I'm going to sleep now." I noticed that his face was almost as red as his hair from the exertion under the coat. And with that he shut his eyes and fell asleep. I wanted to do it too, but I had no raincoat and no handkerchief handy. Watching him cum without doing it myself, however, was pretty frustrating, so I carefully detached his raincoat and hanky from his lap and whacked off while he dozed. There followed several other coach trips when I sat next to him and discovered, not much to my surprise, that he was often "bored" after a match. After we both graduated he continued to play club rugby at fly half for a number of years, was known as "Wally" again but never made it to international level. He was a University lecturer when I last heard of him and I wonder how he would have reacted if he had discovered one of his students drawing lewd pictures of him at one of his lectures. What I failed to add when writing about what happened in that hotel bedroom was that the morning after, intrigued to see where his first jet of sperm had landed, I inspected his bed and found the mark. And do you know, it even had a faint red ring round the stain on the sheet ! He certainly was red, through and through !