Date: Thu, 4 Aug 2016 19:24:29 +0100
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 01

Football's a funny old game.

                As a Premiership football star, you can do almost anything
you want. You can push the referee over if you disagree with his decision.
You can jump into the crowd and kick the shit out of a fan who you perhaps
take a dislike to. You can get involved in slashing someone with a bottle
at a city night-club. You can make a calculatedly cynical tackle to end the
career of a fellow player. You can even rape a girl and later claim it was
consensual. But one thing, it seems, you can't do. One thing that will end
your chosen career quicker than anything. One thing that will make you a
sporting pariah and send legions of often-times hypocritical supporters
rushing for the exits.

                Which in itself might appear to be something of a problem
for Gareth Hicks – City's newly-signed £5 million striker – given that he
was engaged in this supposedly illicit activity at that very moment. Had
his supporters known that he was gay and that he was currently sucking the
hard, dripping cock of another man, they would undoubtedly have come to
very different conclusions about a fellow they had simply all assumed was a
typical lad-about-town. As it stood, however, they clearly had no idea as
to what sort of young man the dashing fellow really was – and with any luck
that was the way things would remain.

                Gareth was just a fraction short of six feet and a shade
short of twenty-four years of age. He was sturdy and muscular (as one would
expect for a professional athlete), with short, dark brown hair and hazel
eyes. His face was much more than just plain handsome and he boasted a
fine, angular chin with a cute little dimple that made him appear almost
angelic. As for his body – it was tanned, firm, smooth and utterly
desirable. Little wonder, then, that he was considered a golden-boy, whose
healthy looks were paralleled only by his talent on the pitch, where he
mastered the ball with an aptitude that even his rivals could do little but
marvel at.

                Yet for all his skill in the game, it was balls of a
distinctly different nature that would always gain Gareth's most devout
attention. Which brings us to this present moment, as he lay gorging on the
rather enviously-endowed cock of one Todd Rankin, slipping it's hard, regal
length between his lips and over his searching tongue. That he was giving a
blow-job at all would've confounded the sports critics had they known. That
he was giving a blow-job to City's twenty-eight year old first-team captain
would've outraged them even more. But that was exactly what Gareth Hicks
was doing at that moment: cast on a lily-white bed, stark-bollock naked and
chewing on the eight inch manhood of a supposedly happily married man with
two kids.

                Actually, Gareth's shaft was pretty impressive itself –
slightly shorter than Todd's maybe, but a tad thicker and possessing more
in the way of thick, throbbing veins down it's meaty span. Having lost his
cherished virginity amidst the boot-studs and shin-pads of the local
football team's changing-rooms at seventeen (to an older player), the young
man had spent much of the time since engaged in similar hot-ball action
with a selection of young footballers, all of whom were as randy and
highly-sexed as he was. So much, it seems, for the theory that there is no
such thing as gay men in the beautiful game, for some of the hardest men in
it would often turn out to only *really* hard when it was time for the
showers after the match.

                Todd Rankin was one such individual. Shorter than Gareth,
with short, bottle-blond hair (of which he was fiercely proud) and dark
brown eyes, Todd was a forthright, manly sort of guy, with a brushing of
stubble, whose fierce-some reputation on the pitch disguised the blunt
reality of a man who enjoyed being porked on any bright occasion. Not that
Gareth had been aware of his real character when he had first arrived at
City's ground, Brandon Park, several weeks back. He regarded the team
captain as utterly desirable and yet totally unattainable, though he hadn't
been attending the training ground many days before the first suspicions
crossed Gareth's young mind. A knowing glance here, a friendly touch there,
but nothing exactly definite until –

                The end of a training session four days previous, on the
eve of a match with lowly-placed Rovers, when Gareth had been called back
by the manager, Steve Rooney. The coach had wanted to inform the lad of his
decision to pick him for the game – his debut for City following his
signing from United – but the conversation had proved a little more
prolonged than perhaps anticipated. As such, the changing rooms were empty
by the time Gareth stepped through the door – pulling off his soiled jersey
and revealing his fine pecs in the process. So it was a case of showering
alone and stripping away the rest of his clothes, he now crossed the room
in the buff – his splendid frame a living example of the glory that is
youthful manliness.

                Like a Greek god, he stepped into the showers – which at
first were somewhat on the cool side and which resulted in a mass of
goose-bumps crowning his muscular body. It was, however, but a momentary
slight. Seconds later and the water was warm and inviting, as Gareth took
hold of the soap and began to lather his smooth chest, his muscular arms,
his hairy legs and finally his sweaty, fuzzy groin, which up until this
point had been closeted by a tight-fitting jock-strap.

                He was alone, of course, so it perhaps didn't matter that
his long, probing fingers were a little keener in exploring his body than
might otherwise have been the case. As it happened, the thought of all his
fellow-players having showered there just minutes before was enough to
excite his feverish psyche and it was little surprise that his balls should
begin to churn and his cock begin to harden. Indeed, it was a reaction that
seemed only to gain in intensity as Gareth gradually soaped his crotch,
working the bubbles into his skin until his knob was as stiff and heaving
as any young lad's cock can be. In engaging in such carnality, however, the
footballer lost a certain keenness in his external senses and as his eyes
started to roll to the back of his head, he failed to notice the return of
one of his colleagues, who had apparently left something behind in his
locker.

                That someone was Todd Rankin, who could not help but stand
for a moment to watch the playful lad in action – his own well-blessed
shaft straining in his trackers at the vision before him. Officially, of
course – as with everyone else associated with the game – he was a
red-blooded male, whose lust for cunt was testimony to his being straight.
In truth, however, it was very much man-cunt that interested him and seeing
his colleague playing with his firm, uncut joy-stick, he quickly began to
crave the feel of that juicy pole between his all-too-empty cheeks. Just
the thought of it pounding away in his guts was enough to make his own
cock-head moist and tingly and it was with something of a bitter reluctance
that he found himself compelled to interrupt the clearly uncompromising
display before him.

                `So,' he smiled – a single word that threw Gareth into a
sudden fit of embarrassment. `What the fuck do you think you're doing then,
young man? Didn't Rooney tell you that you shouldn't have sex before a
match?'

                The youngster burned bright like a beetroot, as he fumbled
and dropped the soap. `Oh my God,' he exclaimed, feeling very much like a
young lad who had been caught by his Dad having a wank, `you're not gonna
say anything to the others, are you?' he pleaded. `I was just – well, I was
just washing myself ... and I kind of got carried away, that's all ...'

                `Well,' teased Todd – his dark eyes flashing as he spoke.
`That really depends, I suppose ...'

                Gareth's colour started to drain from him – though his rosy
cock was still awkwardly refusing to subdue. `On what?' he asked, fearing
the worst of the captain's response. After all, Gareth Hicks was a talented
soccer-player and there was no saying what sort of jealousies were
currently playing around in Todd's dark mind.

                `On whether or not you're prepared to clean my boots,' the
skipper replied.

                It seemed something of a strange request to the younger lad
– after all, there were plenty of trainees at the club to do that sort of
thing. All the same, it would be worth it if it would spare his tender ego.
`Okay,' he finally spluttered.

                `With your tongue!' Rankin swiftly added.

                Gareth's chiselled jaw dropped. `My tongue?'

                `Your tongue!'

                `Never!'

                Todd stepped towards the door – at which point the
youngster panicked. `Wait a minute – I'll do it!' he agreed.

                For a horrible moment, Gareth thought that Todd might mean
for him to lick his dirty training boots, which were hanging up on one of
the nearby pegs, but for all his mastery of the situation, City's captain
wasn't quite as abusive as that. Instead, he threw his leg forward so as to
fully expose the expensive leather trainers he was wearing – diamond white
in colour and smooth in texture. It was therefore with something of a grand
relief that the lad stepped forward – still supporting the hardest of
erections – before falling naked to his knees so as to perform the
requested ritual.

                With an understandably hesitancy, the younger fellow eased
himself down to within a breath of the shoe, before Todd raised his other
foot and placed it calmly on Gareth's shoulder. `Come on then, boy!' he
demanded. `I want you to lick!'

                The striker knew better than to ignore such a request and
began to lap earnestly away – trying desperately to hide his hard, oozing
cock as he did so. After all, this apparent humiliation was turning Gareth
on tremendously and there was part of him that was actually enjoying his
present role-play. But of even greater encouragement was the thought that
Todd's own cock was but a few inches above his head – which, had he been
able to look up, he would've seen bulging away in the captain's groin.

                `Right,' the skipper smiled, `now I want you to work slowly
up. When I tell you to stop, you can start licking again!'

                Gareth could hardly believe his ears. Todd Rankin, the
captain of City, was inviting him to move towards his most intimate organs
– and it was an summons he could hardly refuse. For days now he had
wondered about the man – as to whether or not his furtive glances and
posturing were an indication of physical attraction. Here, it seemed, he
had his answer and grazing every upwards, the young man at last dared to
position himself more favourably with what stirred in Rankin's briefs.

                `Now,' Todd explained, realising that his colleague had
noted the mound in his joggers, `I want you to pull down my trousers and
start sucking my big, fat dick. You think you can do that?'

                Strangely enough, Gareth felt a little more in control
again now, knowing as he did that he would shortly have the fellow's rod
between his teeth and he glanced up with those steamy hazel eyes of his. `I
should think so,' he noted coolly. `After all, it won't be the first I've
ever had to deal with ...'

                The captain grinned – a warm, affectionate smile that
testified to them both being equals in their sport once again – whilst
pulling away his top and revealing a slight band of hair across his broad,
beefy chest. `Actually,' he remarked, noting that the showers were still
running, `why don't we slip back into somewhere warm and wet ...?'


                Gareth rose to his feet, so that he was again an inch or so
taller than the older player. `Tell me, mate,' he quizzed, `aren't you
supposed to be married?'

                Todd laughed. `What the hell's that got to do with me
wanting you to stick that nice-looking cock of yours up my fucking
arse-hole? What my wife doesn't know will never hurt her – a bit like the
fans, I suppose ...'

                The younger lad was perhaps less certain of the validity of
his argument, but his cock was pounding away again by this stage and the
thought of being able to fuck the team captain in the showers was sending
him into overdrive. As such, he pulled away Todd's trousers, before locking
the changing-room's door (which the captain protested was unnecessary) and
then leading him back into the humid flow of water nearby.

                They were both totally naked now – groping and kissing as
the showers pumped down from above. Their lips touched (gingerly at first,
but soon with added passion), as their pelvises gyrated together in
sensual, rhythmic motion. Both men were excited and very, very hard and as
the water kissed their glorious, bronzed skin, their cocks rubbed each
other with ever-increasing fervour. The whole thing seemed oh, so immoral –
and yet so wantonly natural.

                Gareth looked down at Todd's offering, which was drooling
with lashings of tasty pre-cum – although he could hardly tell given their
wet surroundings. It was the first moment that he had regarded it with any
great seriousness, but noting that it was a thick, eight inches, found
himself almost mesmerised by its potency. So it was that his knees slowly
buckled, as he trailed his searching tongue over Todd's firm, erect nipples
– lashing them into a frenzy, before continuing on down his six-pack
stomach. From there, the skipper's knob was but a breath away and reaching
up with his one hand to cup his well-hung (but evidently shaved) balls, the
youngster swallowed hard in almost agonising anticipation of the pleasures
that were yet to be his.

                He was back on his knees now – only this time there was
water pouring across his handsome face, as Todd's throbbing hard-on pulsed
before his very eyes. It was a near-heavenly organ – long, quite thick,
smooth, uncut and with a full head peeping bravely from beneath its skin.
It was also surrounded by a grove of neatly-trimmed hair, which gave the
fellow almost a boyish appearance. For all his outward signs of rough,
unadulterated manliness, Gareth was beginning to get the distinct
impression that Todd Rankin was really nothing more than a big softy, who
longed desperately for the loving touch.

                The captain's shaft slipped so easily into Gareth's mouth
that one might almost have thought that the organs had a deep affinity to
each other. Before many moments had passed, the cock-head was pumping away
with primitive gusto – knocking the back of the striker's throat and
lubricating his palate with a thick coating of salty excitement. Not that
Todd would be totally content with oral satisfaction, given that it was
something that even his wife could give. No, the fellow wanted something
hard and strong (and hopefully very, very long) winging its way up his
aching rear and it seemed altogether possible that the young and eager
Gareth Hicks might well be able to appease his carnal urges in that manner.

                They slipped from out of the shower again and towelled
themselves down – their monstrous erections still refusing to abate –
before Todd threw himself over one of the nearby benches in readiness for
the roasting to come. Gareth, meantime, reached for a rubber and some lube
out of his team-mate's bag, before bending down to examine his skipper's
crack with deeper interest. It was a surprisingly hairless clit, given the
fact that Todd was a bulky, fully-developed male, although by now the
younger lad was clearly aware of the fellow's desire for smoothness. Not
that Gareth seemed in the slightest bit intimidated by such an inclination,
having fucked his way through a variety of men these past few years and it
was with something of a searching tongue that he began to flick that rosy
ring, etching his delightful way in preparation for his more substantial
offering.

                But it was hard cock that Todd wanted more than anything at
that moment and he urged the lad to stake his manhood there and then. As
such, Gareth found himself pulling on the rubber and oiling the skipper's
butt in readiness. A second or two later and the youngster was pressing
down on his mate, forcing his way inside that sweet, tight butt-hole,
whilst Todd groaned and whimpered in almost joyous appreciation of the
move, calling out to his friend to fuck him harder and deeper.

                That, of course, was like inviting Michael Owen to score in
front of an open goal. For fucking and being fucked were such natural and
in-built activities for a lad like Gareth Hicks that he was able to screw
like an animal without so much as a conscious thought. Indeed, by the time
his cock was firmly embedded in arse and his balls were slapping merrily
against Todd's rump, he was not so much the up-and-coming footballer that
the sporting world would've recognised, but more the private, carnal
monster, who was already up and who would very soon be coming! As for Todd
Rankin – he was now very much the tamed master, whose well-disposed
position in the game was somewhat juxtaposed to the way he was sprawled
helplessly across the hard, wooden bench, crying out from the sheer,
unadulterated pleasure that Gareth was presently providing.

                Cum, it seemed, would soon be showing its white, sticky
nature and it wasn't too long before the younger lad found himself quite
unable to hold back any longer. The urge to spunk the contents of his taut,
hairy bollocks was starting to override every other fundamental desire in
his body and pulling his cock from the warm, homely comfort of Todd's
shit-hole, he ripped the rubber aside in expectation of the shower to come.
As it happened, mind, perhaps deluge would've been somewhat of a more
accurate description, for after an initial bolt of thick, creamy sperm
(which blasted its way across the captain's firm, manly back), there
followed a full cascade of man-juice from the engorged end of his scarlet
knob, which even managed to reach the nape of Todd's shaved neck. It was
the show of a lifetime – except that this was the manner with which the
fellow usually exploded. He was, after all, a young, keen lad with only
football and sex on his mind (and not necessarily in that order). His balls
were full of man-milk, his cock was almost always hard and with a constant
bevy of handsome studs surrounding him in his professional life, it seemed
a sure-fire bet that this was the way things would continue for the
foreseeable future. Gareth Hicks, it seemed, was truly blessed –
well-endowed, rich and with the world (and often a comely stud) at his
feet. Who could ask for anything more?

                Much the same, of course, could be said of Todd Rankin, who
concluded the scene by lifting himself up just in time to spurt the ample
contents of his groin across the terracotta tiles beneath them. Like his
new colleague, he had more than a passing interest in his fellow team-mates
and possessed more than enough talent between the sheets to ensure that he
would continue to score in that department. What was remarkable about
City's captain, however, was his apparent ability to meet the purest
expectations of both wife and society, whilst at the same time displaying
an almost unparalleled hunger for manly cock. To Gareth, who was
unquestionably gay (and happy with it), such conflicts of interest seemed
puzzling – though he had long since grown used to it in the game. For the
world of football, which was so blatantly homophobic, was teeming with such
individuals – all of them unable to express their true feelings for each
other beyond the changing rooms and snared by the seeming demands of a
society that failed to understand the need of these stars to love their
fellow players in every spiritual and physical sense.

                They kissed – almost with a touch of fondness – before
returning to the showers to clean themselves of the gooey results of their
passion. Ten minutes on and they were dried and dressed – ready, it seemed,
to return back to the desired normality of society outside, where Todd
Rankin and Gareth Hicks were team-mates in only the most platonic of
manners.

                Since this lusty encounter, however, there had been little
stopping these two luminaries of the sporting arena – who, some four days
on, were still sucking, rimming and fucking like the near-desperate animals
that they were. True, the surroundings (on this occasion Gareth's house,
which he was renting prior to finding somewhere permanent following his
move) were now a little more comfortable than the changing rooms at the
training ground, but precious little else had changed at all and Gareth was
still gobbling his skipper's cock like it was going out of fashion,
slipping his rough tongue over its swollen shaft and running his lips
across the bulging arch at its hard, pounding head. There was no lasting
commitment on the part of either of the two handsome chaps, but for the
moment there appeared to be no let-up in their lust for each other – which,
ultimately, would result in yet another sticky blow-out from both their
respective cocks. After that, they might talk and laugh – with Todd
undoubtedly repeating his assertion that he should return to his wife –
before their carnal instincts once again take hold and the two of them lap
at each other's cocks and fuck each other's butts with seemingly unending
appetites.

                Football training in the Premiership, it seemed, had never
been so good ...