The Cricketer

Rob is in England when he spies an amateur cricketer who needs some quid. He is Ranuga, and he’s desperate for dosh. That just happens to be a situation Rob can help with!

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Rob had one day to kill in Britain before he returned to Asia. He had a first-class plane ticket to Indonesia, and he eagerly awaited the departure. He’d had enough of the dreary monotony of England. Everything here was gray and bland: the food, the weather, the flowers somehow, it was all a vast wash of nothing.
The fields in the park near his hotel had been empty since Rob got here. It looked like a place they’d hold sporting events sometimes, but he saw no signs of that on previous days aside from lots of garbage. He hadn’t spent much time at the hotel, so it was possible something was going on there earlier. He was in Britain just to see a concert by his favorite band, the Monkeysmashers, so he hadn’t paid much attention to anything else.
When he left his hotel to find something to do on his last day in Britain, however, he saw people in the field. The little parking lot attached to it was full of cars.
Is that a park? Rob walked over there. He was trying to walk more, so this was a good plan, he thought. He’d go to the park. You never knew, he thought, he might meet someone.
It turned out to be an amateur cricket game. Or maybe just semi-amateur, maybe league play? Or was it a practice? Rob did not understand cricket enough to know. There was only a small audience, so maybe practice. Or a very unsuccessful league.
That strip of dirt down the middle was the cricket pitch. Rob was fascinated by it — he had never watched cricket, and as he approached, he overheard people express shock that a batsman had hit the ball to “cow’s corner”, which Rob thought was hilarious. It turned out to be a portion of the field that rarely received hits (so cows were free to graze there unmolested).
Rob had only stood there for a moment before he heard a loud engine roaring behind him. He — and the other fans, who appeared to be one small group of loud men shouting “oi!” at everything, and a bunch of women who were presumably the players’ girlfriends — turned to look at the car park.
It was a tow-truck, or a “recovery vehicle” as they called it here. It was a rusty brutalist conglomeration of winches and wheels, and a burly scally in a reflective vest hopped out to get it moving right away. In seconds, he had hooked up a ramshackle old Skoda, which was green like a depressed lime.
“Ranuga! Ranuga! They’re towing your car, mate!”
This was a repo man, Rob thought, or whatever the British word for that was. The tow-truck driver was in a hurry because he wanted to repossess the car before he was seen. Rob stepped aside. This seemed like a potential fight in the making. Or a scrap in the offing, however, they say that here.
A player from the team on the far side of the field sprinted through the game, which stopped as everyone turned to gawk. He shouted in what Rob first thought was a South Asian language — because the coach was either Indian or, Rob suspected as he got closer, Sri Lankan. But it was English, it turned out, just garbled and containing so many jumbled up obscenities and insults — even some rhyming slang — that Rob couldn’t decipher it.
He was Ranuga, and he had a rugged face with a dashing black beard peppered with salt. Rob stopped listening or paying much attention to anything except Ranuga. He was short but broad-shouldered and powerfully built, muscles rippling through the cricket whites he wore. His beard was a scruffy, curly explosion of pure jet hair, matted to his head with sweat. His skin was almost as dark, so the gray dapples in his beard stood out like a sun in the night.
“Hmmm…” Rob moaned to himself. He didn’t mean to do it out loud, but the women near him gave him an odd look. He smiled at them and headed out to the car park.
“You bloody wankeh! I told someone — Marianne, I think, her name was Marianne, in you’h bloody office! She said I could send a payment by the end of the week!”
“You still can, mate,” said the recovery-vehicle driver with a bored look on his face.
“No, no, you can’t take my car. I need that. I have to go to work, I have to drive — I need to drive, I have to, I have to-“
“You can take it up with your financing company,” the recovery-vehicle driver said. He was one of those jaw-heavy Brits who constantly chews on his lower lip. His jaw was working mad as he talked and then even moreso when he was quiet. “But I’m taking the vehicle.”
“I will fight you, I will-” the cricketer Ranuga said. His handsome face flashed and twinkled, and you could see in the solid sterling of his mug that he would have dropped to his knees to beg if he thought that would work. But he wasn’t gonna debase himself in front of the other cricketers unless he was sure he’d get something out of it.
And the recovery-vehicle driver was stone-facing. No mercy forthcame, and the two faced off. Ranuga had nothing more to say, and the driver couldn’t leave without turning his back on Ranuga. So they squared off with hostile mugs neither could come down from.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” Rob said. He came between them and faced Ranuga. He was suddenly stricken with desire. He paused, mouth agape.
“Uh… Yes? Mate?” Ranuga scowled. Then he shoved Rob out of the way.
His firm hands gripped Rob’s arm and pushed. Rob blushed. Ranuga took off his sweatshirt, making the assembled team laugh — Ranuga wore a sleeveless tee (or “vest”, as they would call it here) and flexed his biceps. His team laughed because he was “old” — at forty-two, he was hardly ancient, but he had a prematurely graying beard and the players were about nineteen on average, so he might as well have been Methuselah from their perspective.
Ranuga didn’t care. He was pissed. He had delicately arranged his finances so he could pay all his bills this month. But that wasn’t going to be possible until Friday. Marianne had told him that he could wait until then.
This, he thought, was ridiculous.
So a part of him thought taking off his kit and intimidating the tow-truck driver might have worked. Ranuga was in great shape, with a thick chest and arms like a stevedore. Rob licked his lips at the sight. His chest was covered in a mat of black hair except for a silver streak running down the center, over his sternum. Ranuga’s biceps bulged and ran with sweat despite the bleak chill of the London afternoon.
But the tow-truck driver was not so easily intimidated. He ignored Ranuga’s flexing and sputtering.
Ranuga’s hair was marvelously dense. Rob loved a hairy man. He blushed even though no one was looking at him. The teams were even going home. Ranuga’s red-faced rage concealed his embarrassment. He didn’t want his team to know he had money trouble.
“Uh, sorry, excuse me-“
“You yankee bell-end, wo the fuck do you want?” Ranuga said as he watched his car roll up the back of the tow-truck. He had his hands on the sides of his head, scratching his temple. His voice had a dense London accent, and he spoke like his mouth was full of sandpaper.
Rob came closer. “I can help.”
Ranuga blinked a few times. “Wot?”
“I can help you. With money. I don’t want you to be without a car. I’m sure-“
“Wot?”
“Can you come with me to my hotel room? I want to ask you something,” Rob said. He got closer, so Ranuga could hear him without the others listening in. The onlookers and players had mostly dispersed, but some still milled about, holding bats and balls — Ranuga was supposed to take all that kit home with him to store for the next game.
He was supposed to take that kit home in his car.
So no one knew what to do with it now. They watched Ranuga talk with the young American man — Rob — with a flamboyant lilt to his step. The recovery-vehicle driver glared as though Rob was doing something wrong by helping Ranuga with his bills.
“How much will you need?”
“For what? The car? To get current with payments…? Like six hundred pounds,” Ranuga said. He groaned and closed his eyes. He hadn’t said that out loud before. He was madly in debt. He slapped his hands over his cheeks and stroked that dense beard.
“I can do that. I’ll give you the cash,” Rob said. “If you take me back to my hotel and ram me senseless.”
There was a long pause. Rob blushed, and Ranuga did too, though his was hidden by his beard, which he scratched. He shifted his weight between his feet. It took a few seconds before he raised his eyebrows like he was just now processing what Rob said.
“Aaaaah… Aaah. Oh.”
“I promise I won’t make you do anything you don’t wanna do. I wanna jerk you off and-“
“Fine. Deal. Fine.” Ranuga crossed his arms over his chest. Now he felt self-conscious in his vest. He wished he hadn’t taken off the shirt. He glowered, but inside he was exulting — getting current on his car payments would be amazing. That would put him ahead of the game. Ranuga looked to another player, Zaran, and yelled for him. “Oi! Put that stuff in your car and take it to your garage-“
“You do it-!” Zaran yelled back.
They both instantly erupted in shouting. Zaran was handsome too. He was lankier than Ranuga, and he had a charming set of dimples. He was like a zippy little hedgehog, running around the parking lot and playing some kind of prank — taking the piss out of — the other cricketers. It seemed they had all forgotten about Ranuga going off with the stranger. Ranuga obviously liked it that, and he didn’t mention it to anyone as he got work picking up after the match.
Zaran was cute, but he wasn’t as handsome as Ranuga. Ranuga had handsomeness in spades. He’d probably do better with women if he tempered his handsomeness with some cuteness, Rob thought, he was a little too handsome, like his only possible role in a movie would be ‘arrogant prince’. He was stressed due to the debt situation, as he hustled and bustled with Zaran, his muscular shoulders worked hard and stretched the fabric of his shirt. Eventually Zaran agreed, and he loaded up the gear in his car.
By then the other cricketers had all gone too. Ranuga swaggered away from the field and the car park. He didn’t wait to see if Rob followed. He was sure he would face lots of questions next week when he had a car and no American weirdo following him around.
Maybe, he thought, I should tell everyone he’s my bookie. It’s just embarrassing enough to be believable. I could say I won a couple quid on a bet and got my car back on Friday. Nobody can prove that didn’t happen.
“Is you into Sri Lankan blokes, mate?” Ranuga asked as they got near the seedy hotel. He had only just realized how odd this situation was — he had been so focused on getting paid that he didn’t think about this: Why had an American stranger come after him?
Rob opened the door to his room and let Ranuga in. He smiled. “I just admire the male physique.”
“Not Sri Lankans?”
Rob shook his head. “I didn’t know you were Sri Lankan. I would have guessed like Malaysian or something.”
“Malaysian?! Wot!” He scowled and wagged his finger at Rob. “Don’tyoo even say that.” He glared at Rob, who nodded and looked down. Ranuga stroked the beard. “You’re weird as.”
“I know…” Rob blushed. He shut the door, and Ranuga flopped onto the bed.
He wore a pair of track pants which he was about to rip off unceremoniously. Ranuga had never done anything like this before, so he felt a need to hide that fact — he wanted to look like an old hat at it. But he also didn’t want to look like some kinda trashy rentboy.
“Wait,” Rob said. “Let me take your pants off.” He crawled up on the bed, mounting Ranuga’s legs. He had on filthy old dark-blue track pants with a white stripe up the side. They smelled strongly of manhood and grass, and a bit of leather. Rob inhaled the intense scent as he massaged Ranuga’s legs.
Ranuga bristled. He had never been treated like this — most women wanted him to shower and wear nice clothes only to take them off. Rob seemed to want to worship his sweaty track pants, and he even nuzzled his nose within the salt-stained crotch. He inhaled loudly and passionately, full-throatedly savoring the scent and the moisture he flicked up with his tongue.
His forehead bumped against the pouch within Ranuga’s tight boxers, which cradled his heavy cock and balls. He was about to take off that sleeveless vest too, to bare his chest, but Rob stopped him.
He wanted to do it. Rob dove beneath the sleeveless shirt — an A-shirt, rather like what Americans called a “wifebeater” — and inhaled the stale sweat that had collected there. That tee shirt was utterly disgusting, Rob thought with a desirous giggle. It smelled like it hadn’t been washed in weeks.
More like months. Ranuga never washed the shirt because it was good luck. It had seemed like good luck ever since he wore it a couple times in a row when he won a game.
When he came to Britain, his teammates thought it was funny; they intimated it was a Buddhist tradition, that he had had the shirt blessed in a temple and now didn’t wash it in order to keep the blessing. That wasn’t true, but Ranuga had stopped disputing it.
He just didn’t wash it because he had worried it would interrupt his win streak back some twenty years ago, he thought as Rob squirmed and licked all of his unwashed flesh beneath the shirt. He eventually lost a game, so the win streak was interrupted anyway, but he couldn’t help but feel the shirt was good luck anyway. He washed it once then, again a bit later, and a girlfriend had washed it unknowingly once, and then he had washed it again somewhat more recently.
But still, it reeked of his manhood because it became utterly soaked, sopping wet with his spicy sweat every weekend, and he hadn’t washed it in two years. He felt right putting it on.
Now he was embarrassed. Was his stink what had attracted Rob to him?
While Rob appreciated a natural man’s musk, what he really loved — besides the adorable beard — was that chest. Ranuga had a dense mat of black hair over his powerful muscles, which were as black as night. He had darker skin than Rob even thought possible.
Rob’s tongue flickered through the hair that covered Ranuga’s broad chest, and his hands slowly worked the shirt up. His pecs were firm, his abs rippling when he sneered at Rob. His shirt raised slowly, and Ranuga’s frustration drained away while Rob slurped up the filth clinging to his chest hair, then his armpit hair. When the shirt was close enough to Ranuga’s nose to make it impossible for him to ignore the scent, Ranuga snarled in frustration and took the shirt off completely. He tossed it on the floor.
“You take forever, mate,” Ranuga said with a grunt. He was starting to get hard and wanted to finish this off quickly. Plus he didn’t want it to be obvious he had gotten hard before Rob touched his cock directly — it would look too freaky to get hard now. But Ranuga loved nippleplay.
So he lifted his ass and again removed his own trackpants. Rob took them from him and did it instead. He pulled them and his boxers down in one smooth motion, revealing a big brown uncut cock, already throbbing and stiffly floppy, just beginning to get hard. It was uncut, thick as a bottle of cider.
“Hmmmm…” Rob smiled and got down to business. He put the entire thing in his mouth at once, since it was obvious Ranuga didn’t want to dilly-dally. He tasted spicy with a peppery, grassy taste, like licking a lawnmower covered in salt, Rob thought. It made his lips pucker and his throat clench around Ranuga’s shaft.
A jolt of pleasure visibly wracked Ranuga’s cock, which twitched. Ranuga sucked in his breath. “Damn! Blood ‘ell, mate…” he murmured. He lifted his ass as though to stand, but he only leaned forward, pushing his meat deeper into Rob’s throat. That triggered a potent gag that exploded from deep within Rob, who choked out a wad of saliva that ran down Ranuga’s shaft and wetted his silky bush.
But he kept on it. That cock quickly firmed up until it was as hard as his thighs, which were like tree-trunks. Rob gripped them and produced as much spit on Ranuga’s cock as he could. He slurped his spit right back up and spat it out to run down Ranuga’s shaft to his balls.
“Ah, bloody ‘ell, oh fuck…” Ranuga’s voice became deeper as Rob’s mouth moved down his shaft, and then to his sac.
Just like the rest of his body, Ranuga’s crotch was very hairy, and his balls initially looked disappointingly small. But that was only because they were buried in his unkempt nest of pubic hair, and when Rob started slurping and slathering spit all over them, his hair became matted and those full, luscious balls filled Rob’s mouth.
“You wanna ram me?” Rob asked with a sultry giggle when Ranuga’s eyes opened wide.
Ranuga nodded and blushed again, his face now a blackish-red beneath his beard. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.
So Rob mounted his body, using his hairy chest for support — which made his muscles ripple beneath Rob’s fingers — as he sat his ass down on Ranuga’s cock. There was a brief burst of pain before Rob’s ass loosened up enough to accommodate every inch of Ranuga’s throbbing member. The pain was replaced with a wave of pleasure when Ranuga’s knob hit his prostate. Rob threw his head back and begged for more.
His eyes opened when his dick slid in. Ranuga had never done it up behind, not even with a woman, so he was astonished at how easily it happened. This was all going down so quickly, he thought. He kept his hands behind his head because he didn’t want to accidentally touch Rob’s cock — and he felt sure if he didn’t move his hands out of the way, he would instinctively reach for Rob’s breasts, which of course he didn’t have.
Ranuga did piston his hips up and down once he got started, and he groaned loudly. He tried to muffle the sound out of concern someone would hear what was going on in here, but he couldn’t help himself. Shivers of pleasure ran up his spine and made it hard to think about anything else.
“Oh holy shit, mate,” Ranuga said, his voice soft but so loud and baritone for the moment that it resonated in Rob’s ears. Ranuga found his hands moving of their own accord, away from his head and to Rob’s ass.
He gripped Rob’s bare cheeks with a sense of wonder — he couldn’t believe he was doing it, touching a man’s bare ass as his cock slid into it.
And he was enjoying it! He had thought, before this began, that he would just lay here and let Rob service him. He pictured himself thinking about other things, maybe even getting drunk first. But that hadn’t happened, and he couldn’t think about other things because this felt too good. A wave of pleasure fell over him, making Ranuga gurgle and murmur, hands turning into fists that clawed at the air in front of him.
It felt better than any woman. He held onto Rob’s ass and lifted himself up. His angle was awkward, and he only used his elbows, not his hands, so it took every muscle in his great hairy body.
But soon he was crouched on the bed, Rob bent way over in front of him with his ass high. That was the perfect angle to ram in and out with all his might, sending waves of pleasure through him and also stimulating Rob’s prostate — not that Ranuga knew that.
So Rob reached his orgasm even before Ranuga. “Oh bloody ‘ell, stick it in me, Ranuga! Stick it in me!” He cried out into the blanket on top of the bed, and his hands gripped the cloth tightly. When he finally touched his cock, a jolt of unspeakable bliss wracked his body so hard it hurt, and his ass clenched.
Cum sprayed over his hand and onto the blanket, covering the bed with his spooge. It was good that Ranuga was about to cum, because within a few seconds it smelled so strongly of semen in here that Ranuga would have had trouble staying hard — he very strongly disliked that smell.
His white beard hairs quivered as Ranuga moaned and pressed down on Rob’s back. He grunted. His hot breath condensed on the back of Rob’s neck.
Then, at last, cum flowed into him. There was a great river of it, more and more continuing to flow, while Ranuga threw his head back and howled. He no longer cared about getting caught or about his teammates thinking he was poor.
There was nothing he could do about that stuff. This asshole, he thought, was something he could handle.
He grimaced, veins throbbing against the skin of his neck. He couldn’t believe how good that had been or how long it had taken — and he even got paid for it! He licked his lips.
Then Ranuga withdrew, his limpening dick sliding out and making Rob shudder with remnants of his climax.
Ranuga took a deep breath. “You better pay me. Six hundred pounds.”
“I will,” Rob said. He reached for the trousers he had dropped on the floor. But he was too tired, his legs and ass sore, to get down and pick up the wallet in the pocket. “You can get all the cash out of there. It’s like six hundred and ten pounds.”
Ranuga didn’t want to look desperate, so he nonchalantly picked up the trousers and found the wallet. His sticky cock was stuck to his thigh. Rob watched the moisture sparkle and evaporate on it.
He was glad to see the money was there. It was actually six hundred and thirteen pounds. A bonus, Ranuga thought as he pocketed it. “If anyone asks, you’re my bookie.”
Rob shrugged. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone anything though. I practice discretion, and I’m going to Indonesia tomorrow.”
Ranuga was relieved. He felt Rob’s eyes peering over him as he put his clothes back on. He was sweaty — and of course that tee shirt was even sweatier — which made him self-conscious. But he couldn’t hardly deny doing the same thing when his girlfriends dressed in front of him. He wondered if they felt the same way about it.
He did turn and wave his dick at Rob’s face before tucking it away. He smirked and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed that.”
“Me too,” Rob said as Ranuga walked out the door, trying to be unobtrusive in case any of his players were around. Rob just leaned back and sprawled out on the bed, which still had the spicy Sri Lankan flavor of Ranuga’s mansweat.
He was beginning to appreciate the sport of cricket.