Intro

This is a piece of fiction inspired and sometimes drawn directly from my real life experiences. As with all my writing, however, it is a work of my imagination, and all similarities to living people, whether intentional or not remain fictive.

The Hockey Player (Part 1 - Introduction)

In Japan, ice hockey is not one of our major sports. The athletes who are popular play baseball and soccer and perhaps basketball, and star male athletes often marry the prettiest J-idols and the sexiest gravure models. So when I moved to Canada in my 20s I had never even met a hockey player before. Canadians seemed to me altogether obsessed with hockey, and when I went to watch my first hockey game, I noticed all of the young women clustering at ice level dressed in skimpy outfits who seemed to be trying to meet the ice hockey players. My Canadian friend who took me to the game called these girls "puck bunnies" and said that they just wanted to have sex with a hockey player, any hockey player, and if they were lucky perhaps they could even become regular "fuck bunnies" for one or more of the players.

She had heard tales of some of the women having sex with a whole team at the same time, and that these "puck bunnies" who were happy to be gang banged by everyone on a hockey team would even proudly brag about it afterward. I asked her how many hockey players were usually on a team, and I gasped when she said over 20. Did these women really have sex with the whole team at the same time, I asked. She said yes, and one of her male friends who had been a very good hockey player had told her that sharing one of these "fuck bunnies" together in a "sex train" was sometimes used a team-bonding experience. They took turns one after another, explaining the term "train" when I looked puzzled, although they would also gang up 2 or 3 at a time. I was shocked by what she was telling me, and it was clear that she looked down on these women, calling them "puck sluts" and sneering as she explained how she knew many of them in her home town (she was from a small Prairie town), and that they were pathetic women who lacked self-respect and self-esteem because they were actually proud to be used as sex objects.

One woman she knew would even brag about how many times she was made "air tight"—with a man in every opening—and sometimes yet another man's penis in each hand—and rather than being fucked one at a time in a train, she had taken the team line by line. My friend had to explain that there were three forwards and two defensemen skating on the ice at each moment, with four sets of these "lines" taking turns on the ice one after another during a game, and that this was what the girl had done with the ice hockey team, taking five of them at a time over and over again with many of the players more than once.

As I watched the hockey game—not really understanding what was going on other than it seemed to be very chaotic and masculine, filled with a lot of hitting and fighting and anger—my mind wandered to trying to picture what this woman must have done with a whole team. I kept imagining what it would have been like to have sex with 20 of them, three or five at a time, and then taking another five all at once, and then another five, only being finished after at least four rounds of this! After noticing that there were in actuality more than five players on the ice at the same time for each team, I asked her, what about the goalies? She laughed and shrugged, joking that maybe she had used her feet too. I wasn't sure she was really joking, and the image came unbidden into my mind of muscular men rubbing their hard cocks to orgasm on each of my feet. The thought made me shiver, maybe with hotel but perhaps also excitement.

I didn't want to seem too interested and so tried not to ask her too many more questions, but I must admit that I kept thinking throughout the game about what it must be like to be a "puck bunny." Did she have sex with the team in the dressing room after games or practices, I wondered. Or did she meet them later at a hotel, or at one of their houses?

My friend explained that we were at what she called a "minor league" game, and that there tended to be more of these kinds of "puck sluts" than at professional hockey games because the players we were watching were young and not yet established—many were still as young as 18 and still trying to prove themselves. They were much more likely to have sex with these women—some of whom she called "cougars" because they were middle aged and even married women who liked having sex with younger men. She explained that "cougars" referred to local mountain lions in the wilderness nearby, and that they were predators who stalked and preyed on local wildlife as well as the occasional household pet, just as these older women preyed on younger men.

These younger minor league players were more often the target of puck bunnies than the professional athletes who were more established and did not have the time to indulge in this kind of raunchy recreational sex, since they were constantly travelling and most of them had families. The professional players also were being paid hundreds of thousands or even millions of dollars a year, and so they would not take risks in the way that these less established players would. Many of those we were watching were being paid only a few thousand dollars a season to play, and so the free sex that they could easily get with these puck bunnies constantly throwing their bodies at them was one of the few perks of being a minor league hockey player.

I went home that night fascinated, and even searched the terms "puck bunny" and "puck slut" on the internet. I had noticed that many of the girls who had been at the game earlier that night wore the hockey uniforms of the teams who were playing, usually oversized on their bodies so that the hems reached down to their thighs and that they mostly wore tights underneath. A few, I had noticed, seemed to be bare-legged, and I wondered whether they were wearing skimpy shorts or mini-skirts underneath like those girls who weren't wearing hockey jerseys, or perhaps they were wearing just their underwear or even gone without panties. Some of the girls had even worn actual bunny ears on their heads, and most of the photos I saw online showed girls wearing this kind of standard uniform of oversized hockey jerseys and tights, as well as sexy high heel shoes like the kind you would wear to a nightclub or bar, with many of those on the internet also wearing the bunny ears. I was impressed that even wearing these oversized hockey jerseys they managed to accentuate their chests, with the loose jerseys having from the prominent busts in way that accentuated their large breasts rather than hiding them.

So many of the girls were both busty and blond, and I noted that I had not seen a single Asian girl either at the rink earlier that night or in the photos online.

Hockey seemed to be a very white Canadian sport, both in terms of the players on the ice and the puck sluts who clamoured for their attention as they entered and left the rink. I noted with curiosity that even though so few Asian girls were puck bunnies, which of course made sense in Japan where ice hockey was not a popular sport, it made less sense in Canada. I had been in Canada long enough now to know that there were quite a few Asians in the major cities, especially in Vancouver where I was living. Why did so few of the Asian men become ice hockey players, I wondered, and was it the same reason why so few Asian girls became puck bunnies?

I couldn't find any answers to my curiousity online, but I did find a number of porn clips while searching for the term "puck bunnies" (!) and I spent several fascinated hours watching these clips, idly masturbating as I clicked through them one at a time. There were many that imagined the same scenarios that I had earlier fantasized about while watching the game—threesomes or foursomes with one girl and multiple men, with many gang bangs and even one clip I liked the most showing a train of many men fucking a girl one at a time in a locker room. The clips were all staged, of course, in the way that porn clips based on sexual fantasies used minimal props to establish the setting before everyone became naked and just had sex. As I became horny enough to want to cum, I stopped watching the clips and closed my eyes to imagine what it would be like to be in a locker room with stalls full of the players I had seen earlier that night, still wearing their skates, and imagining how their bodies must smell of sweat as they pulled their bulky pants down to their knees and fucked me one at a time, and then two or three at a time. I sucked on the fingers of one hand while finger fucking myself with the other hand, finally slipping my middle finger in my ass and my index finger in my cunt and rubbing my swollen clit with my thumb as I thrust the fingers faster and faster in and out of all of my openings, imagining being made "air tight" by three cocks and gang banged harder and harder until I had an overwhelming convulsive orgasm that left me gasping for air.

I didn't think much again about puck bunnies or hockey players for several months after that, and I wouldn't have ever thought about it again I don't think, until I happened to meet at an afterwork social gathering, of course, a real live Canadian hockey player. At first, I had just noticed this incredibly handsome and very fit-looking man at the dinner reception. He was a tall white Canadian, with sandy blond hair cut short and obviously muscular even with his loose white shirt. Although his arms were thick and bulging compared to all of the other men at the reception, it was the size of his thighs on his legs that made me take notice. His thigh muscles rippled like waves through his tight slacks each time he shifted weight, and I thought at first he must be a body builder in training. I am not that interested in muscular men, although I do find a hard muscular body very sexy, but he didn't seem too out of proportion or bulging out in odd ways like professional body builders did, which I why I thought he must just be beginning to train. He was still well proportioned and normal looking, even if so much more athletic and fit-looking than every other man in the room.

I actually didn't do anything to seek him out at the reception, since I wasn't particularly interested in meeting him. But he ended up near me at the tail end of the party, just as I was getting ready to leave. He was tall, at least a foot taller than me (I'm only 5'2, so he must have been at least 6'2 or 6'3), and he began to loom larger and larger over me as he took a few steps towards me, asking politely if I was Japanese. His body was even more muscular and masculine up close than it seemed from afar. I also caught a subtle scent, maybe his cologne or perhaps his pheromones and sweat, a pungent smell that immediately awoke my attention and sharpened my senses. It was as if his body being near mine made my own body begin to gently vibrate, like the shivering from fear or cold, an uncontrolled trembling that suddenly coursed through my muscles. He was so big. Not just tall, but big and thick, physically overwhelming me with his presence. Even a meter (3 feet) away, his body felt massive and dense, as if he weighed twice as much as any other man his height. I weigh 45 kg (just under 100lbs) and my petite body was not only tiny compared to his in overall size, but it felt like his heavy density also dwarfed me—I was a tiny feather next to a crushing boulder. I suddenly understood what romance novels in English meant by the phrase "swooning"—I felt for the first time in my life that a sexy man standing next to me was causing me to swoon.

I answered yes, and asked how he had known I was Japanese. He replied that he had heard me speaking to someone earlier, and recognized that I was speaking Japanese because he had spent a year in Japan teaching at a hockey school. I admitted that I didn't know there were hockey schools in Japan, and we began a conversation as he explained that there were actually quite a few Canadians who both coached and played in Japan, particularly in Hokkaido and towards the north of Japan, and that hockey was getting quite popular there. The Japanese men's national team, he said, was actually fairly good, with many fast and skilled players, and perhaps some day would be good enough to qualify to play against some of the hockey powers in Europe and North America at world championships and the Olympics.

I was surprised by all of this, and told him so, and also surprised that before I knew it, we were the last people at the reception because we had been engrossed in conversation for so long that everyone else had left except for the service staff, who were looking at us resentfully as they waited for us to also leave and allow them to clean up and go home. He asked me if I would mind grabbing a drink to continue our conversation and I agreed, so we went to the hotel bar downstairs from the reception and continued our conversation all the way until the bar's last call at 1am. We talked about everything and nothing, it felt like. He was more intelligent than I would have guessed after finding out he was a hockey player, and certainly much more intelligent than I thought he would be when I first saw how muscular and athletic his body was. We talked about his experiences in Japan, and how hockey had allowed him to travel and see so much of the world--all over Europe and Russia and the United States as well as China and Japan—and although he had been looked at with so much potential when he was youth hockey star, and he had managed to play in Europe for several years in a professional league, he had never been able to make it to the "show"—to the National Hockey League. He was still playing now, but it was for recreation, and he no longer clung to his childhood dream of becoming a hockey star. I opened up to him in turn about childhood hopes and dreams unrealized, and as the intimacy of the conversation increased, my awareness of the time and of the presence of the rest of the bar, and of everything else except his words and his blue green eyes, all fell away.

As the bartender interrupted our conversation to tell us it was Last Call, I realized that we must have been talking for over five hours by then, and that I had utterly lost track of the number of drinks that we had each had. I wasn't too drunk, I thought to myself, but as I stood up to go to the washroom, my legs were unsteady and I realized that I must be much less sober than I judged myself to be. I also realized that I was incredibly horny. My whole body was tingling with sexual excitement and anticipation, and I could feel a familiar tension in my stomach and a swollen heavy feeling between my legs.

As I pulled my panties and pantyhose down and squatted to pee, I also felt just how wet and swollen my pussy had become. The cool air on my lower lips and thighs, which were covered in my leaking secretions, and the throbbing intensity of my hard clit rubbing against the folds of my slick labia, gave me shivers as the long stream of urine splashed into the toilet. I hadn't gone to pee all night, despite the number of drinks I must have had, and I was bursting by then, with a loud powerful stream of pent-up piss jetting and splashing into the toilet as I kept peeing and peeing. I was so relieved by the time the stream finally ended that a shiver washed through my whole body like the last convulsions of a waning orgasm, and I loudly moaned as I touched my clit and decided that I would have sex with him as soon as we left the bar.

As I grabbed my jacket—he had paid the tab while I was in the bathroom—we left the bar together and walked into the lobby of the hotel. He asked if he could call me a taxi, and I realized from his body language that he must actually be staying at the hotel. My horny body wanted to find a way to let him know that I would spend the night with him and that he should take me upstairs to his room, but my inebriated brain couldn't find the right words. I sputtered, and strangely said something in Japanese rather than English. He looked at me puzzled, and I looked down in embarrassment, unable to find the same words in English that I had just said in Japanese. I had wanted to make a joke that I didn't think I could make it home because I had drunk so much that I had forgotten where I lived, but now I felt foolish and ashamed.

He saved me by asking if I could go out with him tomorrow night. He said he had a game tomorrow, but would I meet him at the rink afterward and we could go grab dinner and continue our conversation. I looked up at him and joked that I would prefer continuing the conversation now rather than wait for tomorrow, but as I saw his reaction—what looked like uncertainty and even panic—I quickly backtracked and said "of course" I would have dinner with him tomorrow. There was a look of relief on his face, and I felt devastated. Every cell in my body wanted to mate with this man, and years of experience told me that he was feeling—must be feeling—the same lust and desire that I was. I have been with enough men, and had sex with enough of them, to know when a man wants to have sex with me. He definitely wanted to have sex with me. So why was he hesitating? Why was he turning down my overture to immediately go upstairs to his room and have sex...?

I began to doubt myself, to doubt that he wanted me sexually. Why else would he be turning down sex in that moment? He must not want to have sex with me at all. I was confused enough, or perhaps drunk enough, that I couldn't understand what was going on, and so I gave him my phone number and email address and went outside to take a cab. He came with me, and as I climbed into a taxi, he motioned for the next one waiting. So he wasn't staying at the hotel. Why had I thought he was? This hockey player was confusing me. Something mysterious that I couldn't quite pin, something about what had seemed inevitable, that we were about to have sex, turned into nothing—me going home horny and unsatisfied, wondering what I had missed. Had I read all of the signs wrongly? Was I that drunk and horny that I had projected my desire for him onto him too, mistakenly misreading the level of his desire for me? Self-doubt overwhelmed my sexual excitement and I couldn't even gather myself enough at home to masturbate and relieve the lust and sexual desire that burned in me. I just collapsed in bed and sobbed and shook in frustration and rejection.

The mystery wasn't actually solved the next day. He called in the morning to apologize and say that he couldn't make it for dinner and asked for a rain check. I decided that the only explanation that made sense was that he wasn't interested in me, and that I would never hear from him again. I was polite but curt, still stunned that what had seemed an inevitability of us getting together was now gone with no explanation. I was dejected.

It wasn't until weeks later that the mystery was resolved. He was actually married.

But I didn't actually find that out until I had already had sex with him.

And that sex was incredible enough to keep me—and him--coming back for more, again and again, despite his being married.

The sex was astonishing—raw and animalistic, fierce and filthy and filled with anger and jealousy and pain. It turned from my fantasy of what it might feel like to be a white Canadian hockey player's little Japanese "puck bunny," and devolved and debased into hardcore, nasty, rough sex with not just him but multiple men, far beyond any description of what the worst "puck slut" would ever proudly share.

But first I have to explain how I ended up actually having sex with him, and why I dressed up in bunny ears and an oversized hockey jersey in order to make that happen...