Date: Sun, 28 Aug 2016 18:25:49 +0100
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 10

Matt `Donkey' Foster was off with a groin strain by the day of the fourth
round Cup clash with Albion at the end of January – bad news, of course,
for all those horny studs like Gareth Hicks and Todd Rankin, who always
savoured every one of the fellow's ten inches and even worse news for those
Albion players who had perhaps been looking forward to meeting the man
face-to-face, so to speak. Whether it was City or Albion who provided the
`bottoms' for the post-match celebrations in the changing rooms, however,
depended very much upon the outcome of the match in hand – a game that,
given Foster's absence in defence, Gareth's good form of late and Albion's
recent run of three consecutive wins, was probably evenly balanced. It all
depended upon who had the luck on the day and who had the guts and stamina
to ensure that they weren't the ones bending over to `accommodate' the
victors after the final whistle had been blown.
    As it happened, however, the game at Albion's home, Narwood Lane,
proved indecisive. A goal courtesy of Gareth mid-way through the second
half appeared at one stage to have secured victory to the visitors, but a
late equaliser by Manuel Ebros, the Portuguese international, meant that a
replay at Brandon Park would now have to be played. The disappointment on
the part of the City players was self-evident as they stumbled down the
tunnel after the game – not least of all on  the part of Gareth, who not
only thought at one stage that he had scored the winning goal, but who had
been secretly relishing the prospect of fucking the Albion goalkeeper,
Michael Christiansson. He was a tall, muscular, handsome Norwegian, whose
English was notoriously bad, but who allegedly had the sort of equipment
between the legs that transcended any language barrier.
    Not that his disappointment could last for long, of course. He had a
certain Dutch lad waiting for him back at home, after all and Will was
always more than happy to service Gareth's sometimes over-eager cock
whenever and wherever he gained opportunity. Indeed, by the time the team
had got back on the coach, the handsome striker was appearing decidedly
self-satisfied – a point that his captain, who was seated next to him for
the journey, was unable to ignore.
    `You seem to have perked up soon enough ...' he quipped – clearly wishing
to delve into the reasons for such apparently unwarranted good humour. `For
fuck's sake, anyone would think we'd won from your sweet, little smile ...'
    `We got a draw, didn't we?' Gareth retorted.
    `Judging from your face, I reckon you've got more than a draw to
consider when you get back home ...'
    The young striker looked bemused. `Who's been talking to you?' he
quizzed, somewhat defensively.
    Todd realised at that point that his suspicions about his key forward
were correct and that the player had apparently chosen to ignore his
previous warnings about relationships outside the footballing inner-circle.
`You wanna tell me about him?' he replied, trying hard not to be angry with
a young man who had clearly encountered personal happiness and who was
playing all the better on the pitch as a result.
    `His name's Will. He works in the team shop. And he's fucking gorgeous!'
    Todd paused for a moment, pursing his lips as he did so. `I thought I
told you to drop him ...?' he finally replied.
    `I know ...'
    `Still, now I know his name I can soon pull a few strings to get him
sacked!'
    Gareth didn't know whether the chap was joking or not, but he assumed
that he was not. `You wouldn't dare ...'
    The captain smiled. `You're right – I wouldn't dare! But mate, you're
gonna have to give him the elbow!'
    `I trust him.'
    `Do you really?'
    `He loves me!'
    `He loves you because you're a famous footballer, you idiot! When are
you gonna fucking wake up to reality?!'
    `I don't think that's the case at all!'
    Todd's dark eyes blazed with anger and he began to wag his finger –
though his voice remained coldly discrete. `There are people in the media
who would love to get to know all about your little lover-boy – people who
would pay him handsomely for all the grubby details about your private
life. You think he won't shop you –'
    `– He won't!'
    `He will, mate. Or at the very least, someone he knows will ...'
    `For God's sake, Rankin,' Gareth insisted, `I've got it all under
control!' He didn't tell the skipper of his doubts concerning one Drew
Michaels, though – that would only have added fuel to Todd's present wrath,
after all.
    `I'm telling you again, mate – get rid of him! Get rid of him now,
before he ruins your career – indeed, before he ruins all our fucking
careers!'
    Gareth saw no reason to continue the argument – his captain's mind was
firmly resolved on the issue and no amount of bickering was going to change
matters. And yet he was determined to hang onto Will – no matter what! For
all the danger (real as it was) appeared to pale into insignificance
against the sheer joy that the relationship had brought him these past few
weeks, and even the prospect of Todd's continued fury gave Gareth little
cause for worry in contrast to the upset that might be wagered upon
relinquishing his boyfriend. If anything, the captain's tirade simply made
the striker all the more adamant in his purpose – and, what's more, all the
more resolved to play the sort of football that would make his flagrant
abuse of the game's secret rules appear all the more forgivable.
    As if to prove the point, he scored two goals the following Saturday –
in a game that served only to raise his own personal price-tag even further
and to boost Steve Rooney's assertion that he now had a team capable of
winning the Premiership (if not this year, then certainly in due course).
As such, by the time Albion travelled to Brandon Park for the Cup replay
several days later (by which point Matt Foster was again fit), the papers
were full of talk about City being the up-and-coming team that the likes of
United were going to have to watch. Whether or not the Albion players had
read such columns prior to the match is a debatable point. What was evident
that evening, however, was that they produced the sort of lack-lustre,
unimaginative performance that simply guaranteed victory to the home side,
and even the heroic efforts of Michael Christiansson (who at times looked
liked the only one on the Albion team-card who was playing) could do little
to prevent a 4-0 romp.
    Getting through to the last sixteen of the Cup was cause for
celebration in itself, naturally, but the fact that Albion would be
providing the rump in the shower-room was more than enough to get most of
the City players racing for the tunnel immediately afterwards, though
custom dictated a certain acknowledgement of the crowd in their moment of
triumph. The supporters, of course, had no comprehension of why it was that
their heroes were quite so eager to abandon the field of play – unaware, as
they were, of the hardening cocks within those silky, white shorts.
Naively, they considered these sporting masters to be yearning merely for a
hot shower and a cold drink after ninety minutes of unrelenting exercise on
what had been a bitter winter's night – ignorant, as they were, of the true
intent of the young guys, whose sap was now definitely rising and whose
only ambition at present was to get stripped off and lathered down with
their fellow stars.
    It was usual custom on these occasions for each team to return to their
own dressing room immediately after the game, with the defeated side
eventually making their way to their opponent's quarters for their ultimate
submission. Not so on this occasion, however. Having taken two games to
achieve their objective, the City players were far too horny  to idle their
time away patiently in their own room. No, they wanted fresh butt and they
wanted it now, and laughing and cheering, they barged their way eagerly
into the Albion changing rooms, where most of the visitors were already in
a state of undress.
    For Gareth Hicks, there was only one objective that he had in mind as
he followed his team-mates into the room – namely to locate and hunt down
that fucking gorgeous goalkeeper of theirs, whose fantastic physique was
already well-etched into his young, impressionable mind and whose
notoriously desirable manhood was apparently more than worth the effort.
What was more, as his team's current key-player, he felt he had every right
to assert his desire, and seeing that several of his mates had already
staked a claim on Christiansson, he quickly interrupted to assume his own
particular ownership. The sexy Norwegian was his – and whether his fellow
players liked it or not, he was now going to relish some Scandinavian
salami as his due reward.
    Unsurprisingly for a man of his ancestry, the Albion goalkeeper was
fair-headed – a well-proportioned, big-handed guy with deep, blue eyes, who
would surely have caught the attention of a eunuch (which Gareth clearly
wasn't!) Indeed, the City striker was now as frisky as it was possible for
a man to be without shooting his load prematurely, and pressing his solid
frame against the thirty year old goalie, exchanged a somewhat mouthy kiss
that seemed only to encourage him all the more.
    `They tell me that men with big hands usually have big cocks ...' he
whispered mischievously – unsure as to whether the foreigner actually
comprehended what he was saying.
    Christiansson grinned – showing a full set of fine teeth in the process
– but he said nothing. All the same, the bulge in the chap's sexy shorts
seemed to indicate that he knew exactly what Gareth had just said, and
without further ado the City player slipped slowly down the fellow's frame
so as he could find out the stud's proportions directly for himself.
    There was a distinct air of sweat about the man – unsurprisingly given
that he had yet to shower – but this appeared only to turn Gareth on all
the more, as he rubbed his open palm against the distinct tent before him.
`I've a feeling I'm gonna enjoy this ...' he remarked, glancing up at the
Norwegian's knowing eyes and yanking the guy's shorts down as he did so.
    Up until this moment he had perhaps always questioned the rumours
concerning Christiansson's cock – but the second it sprang manfully from
its musky home, Gareth realised that this was a shaft that matched (if not
excelled) the monster that his team-mate, Matt Foster, stored in his
jockstrap (which at that moment was being serviced by one of the Albion
defenders in another corner of the room). As such, he could not help but
lick his lips in anticipation – holding the huge rod in his hand and
pulling back the plenteous fold of skin at its end in the process. Dinner
was served, so to speak – and Gareth, who was feeling more than a tad
peckish, was determined to ensure that his mouth gained more than its fill
of man-meat.
    He opened his eager lips and pushed himself over the purple crown,
which `til now had shown nothing in the manner of oozing excitement. Such a
situation would not last long, however. Gareth, whose disposition for cock
was almost in-bred, started to use his tongue to full effect to raise the
fellow's spirits, and fondling Christiansson's balls with his one hand, it
was not at all long before the Norwegian was dribbling the first flow of
pre-cum. It trickled gainfully to the back of his throat, coating his
taste-buds with salty goodness – and causing his own shaft to harden
notably in his shorts. After all, if there was one thing that Gareth Hicks
liked more than anything it was the flavour of a man's passion in his
mouth, and judging from the size of the goalie's equipment, it looked as
though he was set to be more than satisfied in this instance.
    The whole room was a mass of naked and semi-naked bodies now – all of
them writhing and gyrating in a frenzy of sexual frustration and seemingly
totally forgetful of the fact that just a few minutes before they were
vying for a ball on a soccer pitch. Balls of a very different nature had
now engaged their attention, it would seem, and from one end of the
changing room to the other, orifices of every size and nature were being
filled. Gareth, it seemed, was far from being alone in his desire to
satisfy his carnal lusts, and the situation was unlikely to change until
all those said balls had spewed their rich, sticky, virile contents.
Christiansson's shaft continued to ride the young forward's mouth, hitting
the back of his open throat time and time again in the process, but
eventually the strain of his own cock led Gareth to pull himself up and
demand that the blond-haired stallion return the complement. Not that the
Norwegian needed much in the means of encouragement, for before the striker
appeared to know what was happening, his strip was being pulled away from
him and his knob-end (which by this point was throbbing in delightful
expectation) was being wantonly engulfed by those thick, carnivorous lips.
    The older guy appeared to be as much in rapture over having Hicks pump
his mouth with cock, as the City player himself had been pleasured by
giving head just moments before – or at least the smile on his lips and the
twinkle in his denim eyes appeared to suggest as much. Not only that, but
there was a deep, animalistic groan emanating from his thirsty larynx – the
sort that seemed only to indicate his clear love of hard, pounding
man-flesh. Indeed, there was little evidence here that the fellow was a
novice to the art – instead, every indication pointed to his gainful
experience (obtained, no doubt, in post-Cup match orgies such as this). Not
that his fans would've ever have believed the man's present sport. Like
City's skipper, he was married with a couple of kids – a not-too-unfamiliar
scenario in an environment that was so publicly homophobic.
    What the fans would've thought if they could've seen him – joined as he
now was Manuel Ebros, Albion's Portuguese midfielder, who began to fight
over Gareth's aching cock like a lion might tussle over carrion. His
team-mate was as dark and sultry as the Scandinavian was fair, and the
sight of the two players lapping at his crimson manhood was undeniably
erotic to the handsome striker. After all, to have one frisky soccer-ace
feeding on his blood-gorged rod was almost fantasy enough, but to have two
greedy bastards on their knees before him was quite unbelievable. It was,
it would appear, a dream come true for any young man and perhaps only the
thought of what Will would've said if he'd been there to see it dampened
Gareth's ardour.
    Yet the Dutch lad had no choice but to accept that this was what went
on between the players after games – that was part of the deal in their
relationship. The soccer-star could not refrain from such debauchery, for
to do so now would be to bring attention from his fellow players to his
private life, not least of all Todd Rankin, whose wrath Gareth keenly
wished to avoid at all costs. Given the circumstances, therefore, it seemed
only right and proper that the footballer should try to embrace his present
situation as passionately as he was able – though judging from the look of
ecstasy that gripped his face just at that moment, it didn't appear
altogether too demanding a task.
    Christiansson was now slurping on Gareth's shaft – wanking on his own
monster cock as he did so – whilst Ebros worked his way down to feed on the
youngster's hairy sac (his dark, swollen knob also visibly protruding from
his groin). Glancing down, the City striker could revel in the fruits of
their moral abandonment, but gazing across at his fellow stars, it would
seem that he was not alone in such indulgence. No cock, it would appear,
was left unattended, and groans and whimpers filled the heavy, clammy air
as mouths began to give way to eager, greasy butt-holes. Todd Rankin, for
one, was screwing the living daylights out of some lucky Albion starlet
over the padded benches, whilst Matt Foster was just beginning to bury his
huge bayonet into the same defender who had been sucking him off just
minutes before. The moment had come, it would seem, when the vanquished
were beginning to realise the full consequence of their defeat – although,
as was usually the case, their gasps of delight as their arses were
manfully plugged clearly proved that failure to progress in the Cup was not
always such bad news! Their fans might disagree – but they, of course,
never got to savour the full-throttle shafting that these Albion boys were
now delighting in. Their ignorance of the true nature of the post-match
shower was almost breathtaking – and hopefully (for the sake of all the
careers represented in this room) that was just the way things would
continue.
    The sight of sweet little puckers being rammed was getting too much for
Gareth at this point, as he began to consider which of the two continental
favourites before him he preferred. He was spoilt for choice, he realised –
he would love to have fucked both of them, if he was honest – but which of
the two truly deserved to be slammed? Ah, that was now his dilemma – though
not the sort that most of us more ordinary mortals would complain about.
Would he opt for the tall, muscular, fair-headed Scandinavian? Or maybe
instead the tanned, dark-eyed, somewhat hairier Latin? Oh, decisions,
decisions ...
    He slipped a rubber over his pounding flesh, then demanded that
Christiansson bend over before him, with one of his legs raised up onto the
nearby bench. The Norwegian was about to have his guts well and truly
filled – but first that tender, crimson hole needed lubing and what better
to do the job than a long, probing tongue. Not his own, of course. No,
Manuel Ebros could provide that vital piece of equipment, and it was with
something of a wry smile that Gareth now looked on, as the Portuguese
international aimed his mouth-muscle into the juicy slit that he himself
would shortly be beating almost mercilessly.
    To the victors, the spoils, and just as Ebros was perhaps starting to
enjoy flicking his team-mate's furrow, he found himself being pushed aside
in favour of Gareth's pulsing knob-end, which by this point was drooling
with pre-cum and barely able to contain its fervour as it started to force
its way through heaven's door. The Albion goalie squealed in delight at the
sensation in his freshly-greased arse, as the striker rubbed against his
prostrate (forcing the Viking's beast of a shaft into a state of rigidity
that almost had to be seen to be believed). From that point on, it was
pleasure every inch of the way – with the Portuguese defender taking the
opportunity to jump up onto the bench, in order to stuff Christiansson's
gaping mouth with the meaty morsel that pulsated within his fuzzy groin.
    So it was that the three of them bobbed backwards and forwards – Gareth
pumping his cock into the Norwegian's rear and Ebros forcing his manhood
towards the back of Christiansson's throat. Sweat oozed from their every
pour, though the respective sound of balls slapping against rump and chin
was somewhat overshadowed by the boom of noise that surrounded them. After
all, the cries and groans of all those men in ecstasy were gaining in
intensity with every passing second, and it was becoming increasingly
apparent that such sordid madness could not continue for very much longer.
Spunk would very shortly be flying in all directions – and it was anyone's
guess as to who would provide the first show of succulent man-juice.
    As it happened, it was a couple of the City players in the showers who
fired the initial eruptions, but it was an act that appeared to have
something of a domino effect on the rest of the room. Before you would have
been able to say `premature ejaculation,' the heaving and grunting gained a
disparate tone, as throbbing cock after throbbing cock began to unburden
themselves of their loads. A primal air descended upon each one present –
as benches, floor tiles and walls (not to mention faces, shoulders and
backs) were generously whitewashed with the tasty produce of their
over-active groins. No doubt about it, the cleaners at City Football Club
were going to have their work cut out in the morning!
    Manuel Ebros could not hold back any longer and suggested as much as he
whipped his tackle from the confines of Christiansson's mouth and prepared
to unburden his balls of their nectar. His whole body – which was possibly
one of the hairiest in the room – shook with anticipation, before the first
bold of grease lightning sprang almost effortless from the end of his uncut
todger, crossed the Norwegian's broad shoulder and splattered directly in
front of Gareth (who at this point was still fucking the goalie's butt like
there was no tomorrow). It was a display that could hardly fail to
encourage anyone – least of all the City forward, who continued to marvel
as a second and then a third bolt of Iberian spooge performed much the same
feat as the first. No surprise, then, that Hicks should now sense a
tightening of his own tubes, and pulling his meat from its cherished den,
the lad grasped his love-shaft and began to toss himself off like a tom-cat
that hadn't had a good spray in weeks.
    The fountain of Gareth's youth was about to blow – and the grin on his
face (like the cat who'd got the cream) indicated as such. Moments on and
the first blast emerged from that gaping pee-hole, covering Christiansson's
back with a further layer of cum. Thereafter, a veritable torrent of spunk
issued forth – a geyser-like flourish that the folks at the sperm-bank
would've paid money hand over fist for. Wad after luxuriant wad scoured the
goalkeeper's flesh, whilst the Norwegian himself pulled his own pudding up
and down with an outburst of energy that one might have thought
near-impossible for a man who had just completed a professional football
match. Nevertheless, if there was anything that appeared to get
soccer-stars as horny as fuck, it was spending ninety minutes on the soccer
pitch with their team-mates – and the present scene only proved the fact.
    By the time the Scandinavian stud bubbled away (his jizz dashing
against the tiles below with almost venomous fury), the cloakroom was
a-stench with brine – at which point the City players began to dash for the
home showers. Spent and content, they left their opponents to wallow in
defeat – though in truth the likes of Christiansson and Ebros had
thoroughly enjoyed the sport and would surely fondly remember it for a
long, long time to come.
    Only then, perhaps, did Gareth at last feel the first genuine pangs of
guilt concerning Will – guilt for enjoying himself without his boyfriend,
guilt for having a boyfriend outside the team at all. For all the fun he
had just delighted in, he sensed (perhaps for the very first time) that
something was going to have to give.
    And that something was either his love-affair with Will Brandt, or the
career to which he had given almost all his young life. Choices, it had to
be said, don't ever come any harder than this ...