You seemed quite enthused by the notion of joining the Foundation’s rugby team. You were surprised that an American-based company would go through the trouble of forming a team for the express enjoyment for those across the pond, but you certainly didn’t complain as it fit your needs perfectly. You had been playing on your own local team for years, and though you had certainly shown decent growth in talent and strength over that time, you still wanted to be better, maybe even to the point of being able to contend at a professional level. You had come with the intention of throwing in for one of those dime-a-dozen muscle transformation you’d seen advertised in our commercials, but with the option of being on a nearly professional team like this, you jumped at the chance.
The first couple of days were rough though. Every day you come through my lobby to attend your daily practice session, and when you stopped to chat, you often had something new you were concerned about pertaining to the team. At first it was the standoffish nature of your teammates. From the first time you had met them, they shook your hand with a glazed, faraway look in their eyes. They rarely listened to what you said the first time, often snapping to reality and asking you to repeat yourself when you even bothered to prompt them from their daydreaming. It also occured to you how often you were separated from the rest of the team. The coach often sent you for runs or private sets in the gym alone for hours before your teammates would rejoin you sweatier, out of breath, and more dazed than they had been before, which was an achievement given their previous condition.
Next it was the way the team cared for the locker room, which was to say, they didn’t. Per what you told me, it wasn’t unusual for you to arrive at the locker room to find it completely covered in sweat drenched belongings and underwear. Undershirts with copious pit stains were left in discarded piles on the benches. Jockstraps with the undeniable stench of groin sweat wafting from them could be found hanging from locker doors left recklessly open. Humoring you, I suggested that perhaps the team was in the process of cleaning out their lockers, yet you denied the notion, stating that you hadn’t seen a single player wear a different piece of gear since you first joined. Worst of all, the locker room was starting to smell of it as well, and you claimed that your clothes had begun to retain the stench by proxy.
I argued that it was all worth it, that you’d been improving since you first arrived, and you did concede to that point, citing the notable growth of your body mass since you’d joined. You were certainly impressive when you first joined, but now you had a body of peak physical strength, a physique to be envied. Your work on the field had grown to a degree just short of mastery, and you were confident that you could pass for a professional player if you were compared to one. Yet you were still only half as sufficient as the other players on the team. You were often astonished by the sheer level of perfection they were able to achieve, and their physicality was awe inspiring to say the least. Their pectorals were the size of pumpkins. Their biceps could easily measure to be twice the size of your fist. The ground seemed to thunder whenever one of them took a step. Every one of their collection of abs could be used as a washing board, though you shuddered to think of cleaning such grimy clothes on a surface that was possibly even less clean.
After awhile, I decided to step in on one of your training sessions. The coach and other players all welcomed my supervision graciously, as I had been the first face that each of them had seen when walking through the front door of their athletic success. The matters that you had pointed out beforehand quickly became apparent from the moment I entered the locker room. The entirely place smelled like a wet gym sock being boiled in an old pot, and every athlete had the same glazed expression of a stoner in a dealer’s den. Contrary to the scenario that you had depicted though, your teammates weren’t the only ones. You yourself were drooling, dumbly slack-jawed as you dressed into your own sweat stained clothes. An odiferous scent emanated from you that would have sent me reeling had I not had the foresight to stand a fair distance away. It was clear from your stench and grungy sheen that you hadn’t bathed in over a week, and I knew you stood to become much worse.
The coach rallied all of the team’s attention to the center of the locker room as I knew he did every day. Coach Snelding had a unique practice that he submitted all of his athletes to before they trained for the day. The coach would have them gather around in a circle and begin what he’d call “focus training.” As he explained it, the technique was a pinch of psycho babble from his old days as a shrink. He’d have the men relax and listen to his voice as he slowly spoke about how much he’d help them focus, how relaxed they felt, and how much they trusted their coach. His voice had a way of ensnaring the ear and calming the mind, so when he lapsed into how great a man’s musk was and how good jocks are dumb jocks, nobody seemed to mind. The team remained still, half dressed, half erect, and with their chins sleepily resting on their grimy chests while they listened to their coach.
As I observed, the coach informed me that you were nearly done in your hypnotic conditioning to him. All that remained in the process was your participation in the daily group trust-building exercise. The entire team would gather around each other with their noses up the closest foreign pit, crotch, or ass. They’d all bask in one another’s masculine perfection, fully erect as they worshipped the musk of every man present, even going so far as to lap away the filthy remnants of several days sweat until the athlete receive climax from the task alone. Coach Snelding told me that you had yet been spared since he wasn’t sure as to whether you were ready as of yet, but today he planned to have none other than the team captain worship your sweaty jock hole himself.
You were on the bench, splaying your legs out for the process to begin, when I left to return to the front desk. I’d seen enough. I knew you weren’t leaving any time soon, and there would certainly be no more complaints.
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