Date: Fri, 9 Sep 2016 17:01:45 +0100
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 12

It would have taken a psychologist of countless years' standing to have
fully understood the mental state of Gareth Hicks during this period. He
was a complex individual at the best of times, constantly torn between his
gay and straight personas, but separation from Will Brandt appeared only to
have increased the tension that existed within him. Satisfied the one
moment (particularly with his greatly improved performance on the football
pitch), frustrated and angry the next, the young man hovered dangerously
between his own personal heaven and hell, with only his sport to take the
edge off the swirl of emotions that consumed him. How long he could
continue in such a manner, however, remained to be seen. Perhaps, given
time, the grief that he felt concerning his loss of Will would ebb, then
again, maybe it would simply grow even more intense, until it reached a
point where it threatened to genuinely destroy him. Only the coming days
and weeks, it seemed, would eventually tell.
    In the meantime, the young man awaited the revelation of his affair
with the Dutchman, which he felt sure would hit the front pages any day.
Not that he had anyone else to blame but himself – Todd Rankin, after all,
had warned him of the consequence of his foolishness – but it was all too
naturally human to search for some scapegoat for his misdemeanours. Will,
for tempting him, his skipper, for not being persistent enough, the fans,
for their flagrant homophobia. Anyone, in fact, save himself – though he
knew, deep down in that frightened soul of his, that his fury with others
was little more than a pointless diversion.
    Editions came and went, and Gareth's emotions turned once again to
devastation, as he realised that Will had not betrayed him, after all and
that he had lost the one most precious soul in life that he would probably
ever encounter. Yet just as he was burgeoning on despair, something
suddenly along came out of the blue to ease his troubles (if albeit
temporarily). And that something was a `phone-call from Keith Farmer, the
coach of the England Under-23 squad.
    To say that the young fellow was surprised to receive a call-up for a
forthcoming international friendly was something of an understatement –
even for a man of such precocious talent as himself – and for a short while
he marvelled at the prospect. After all, this was an acknowledgement that
he was going somewhere, making something of his life, and with hard work
and determination he realised that this might be but the first step to
further greatness. Today, the Under 23's, tomorrow ... well, who could tell?
But there was every hope that he might be following in the steps of Moore
and Keegan and Beckham and all those other former greats who had donned
their country's colours. That, at least, was Gareth's dream – and one that
he could not help but kick around in his mind as the day of the said game
drew ever closer.
    Then it appeared to dawn on him as to who the game was going to be
against and as to where it was being played. In all his initial excitement,
the significance that it would be against Holland and played in Amsterdam
was completely lost on him, but having now realised the coincidence (Will,
after all, being Dutch), it was difficult for him to regain his initial
enthusiasm. Instead, he actually began to ponder the possibility of
encouraging City to prevent his release for the fixture (which, given the
proximity of the team's fifth round Cup tie, was not quite as unrealistic
as it sounded). It was, however, a notion quickly dismissed by City's
captain when Gareth finally confessed his sentiments after training one
morning. Pleased that his star striker had finally seen sense over his
dalliance with Will, Todd was determined to prevent the lad's past from
tarnishing his future. Gareth had got to play that game for the Under-23's,
whether it was played in Amsterdam or Timbuktu – it was as simple as that!
    `You know who you need to see ...?' helpfully suggested Todd, as they
showered together side-by-side – their toned, muscular bodies brimming with
the glories of male youthfulness and virility.
    The younger lad shook his head, noting that Todd's half-erect eight
inches looked manfully tempting and wondering whether it was to himself
that he was referring.
    `The physio ...' Todd replied, with a glint in his eye.
    `Brian?!' Gareth balked – aware that the fellow in question was sixty
if a day and one of the most physically repulsive individuals he'd ever
encountered. `No way!'
    The skipper laughed, lathering his crotch with soap as he did so. `No,
not Brian! The new physio – Carl.'
    Gareth seemed to recall there being mention of a new chap called Carl,
now that Todd had mentioned it and he nodded his head in apparent approval.
`What's he like?' he queried.
    The older guy smiled, soaping his bottle-blond hair. `Oh, he's okay ...'
he drooled – in a manner that suggested serious understatement.
    `Anyway, why on earth should I want to go and see the physio? I'm not
injured!'
    `Believe me, Gaz – Carl's one physio you'll wanna see. He'll soon get
you over that boyfriend of yours!'
    Gareth Hicks was both intrigued and excited and could not help but
express his desire to meet the fellow as soon as possible – especially when
Todd explained how good Carl was at rubbing `stiff and enflamed muscles,'
(as he described them). `He certainly relieved me when I was hot and
bothered about things the other day ...'
    The skipper's suggestiveness was certainly not lost on the youngster,
whose cock was now raging with a violent flow of blood – much to the lad's
embarrassment. `Fucking hell,' he exclaimed – glancing round to check that
they were now the only ones in the changing rooms, before thrusting out his
hand to stroke the engorged member – `it looks as if you're in even more
need of the new physio's attention than I thought ...'
    Actually, Todd Rankin wasn't too far short of the mark with such a
statement – a week or more without Will's attentions had left Gareth
feeling decidedly horny and having clearly now been reawakened to the joys
of human carnality, he found himself feeling (quite bluntly) as frisky as
fuck! No doubt about it, all this talk about gorgeous new physio at the
club was having a decidedly lecherous effect, and the lad felt almost ready
to shoot his pent-up load when the captain stepped out of the shower and
suggested that the two of them should see if Carl was around.
    Barely a few seconds later and the striker was out of the shower as
well – drying his clean, smooth skin and slipping into a fresh pair of
white jocks (not the easiest of tasks given that his cock was fuller than
usual). There was no denying the haste to his actions, which was only
underlined when he almost forgot his hold-all upon leaving the room – after
all, he wanted to meet this new physio and his shaft was straining beneath
his trackers to prove the point. He only hoped that was not going to be
disappointed – although given Todd's taste for handsome, spunky young
studs, that was very unlikely to be the case.
    They found the fellow in question tidying up in one of the physio rooms
– having just treated one of City's academy boys for a suspected groin
injury (no doubt Carl's favourite!) – and almost at once Gareth realised
that he was in for a rather enjoyable time ahead. For one thing, the guy
was certainly a marked improvement on old Brian, with a sleek but clearly
muscular frame and dark, smooth features that had a somewhat Mediterranean
nature to them. He was a year or two older than the striker perhaps, and
his clean, white smile instantly forced Gareth's crotch into overdrive.
Already over-stimulated, his cock strained even further, so that a notable
bulge started to emerge in his trackers – which he desperately tried to
conceal by holding his bag in front of him. Not that the physio was at all
fooled. He'd clearly seen more than enough young soccer stars even in his
short life to realise that most of them were constantly horny as fuck and
as such needed firm, manful handling to help them concentrate on their real
purpose at the club, namely their sport. And that, of course, was where he
came in – so to speak ...
    `Hi, Carl,' Todd began in knowing fashion, `I wonder if you would be so
kind as to have a look at this fine fellow ...?' (referring, of course, to
Gareth – but in a manner that almost suggested that the physio didn't
recognise the guy).
    Carl smiled once again (God, how Gareth loved that smile!), then patted
the leather couch. `No probs!' he exclaimed, as the striker dropped his bag
and jumped up onto the bench. `What seems to be the matter, Mr. Hicks?' he
quizzed.
    `Well, nothing exactly ...' the youngster explained. `I'm just stressed
about things, I suppose ...'
    `You worried about your England debut?' Carl queried.
    `A bit, I guess ...'
    The physio told him to lie down, then slipped a pair of disposable
gloves over his hands, pulling the rubber carefully over each long, probing
finger. `You look tense ...' he observed, eyeing the young man's body before
him and clearly noting the mound of hardened flesh in his trackers. `In
fact, I'd say you're in good need of a long, hard massage ...'
    Gareth gulped – his dry throat making it almost impossible for him to
swallow. `Right ...' he muttered.
    `Okay, then – well I'll be off ...' Todd sighed reluctantly, making for
the door. `I'd love to stay and watch,' he continued (which was pretty much
evident from his own bulge), `but I get the impression that Carl works
better one-to-one ...'
    He closed the door behind him – at which point the physio explained to
his patient that he would probably be able to work better if the striker
stripped down to his underwear. It was a suggestion that could hardly fail
to excite Gareth yet further (if that was possible), and leaping from the
couch, he pulled away his tee-shirt and trousers and cast them to one side.
    The player was now laid out at Carl's dear mercy – his breathing rather
stilted, but the aching lump in his jocks bearing testimony to the fact
that there was nothing really wrong with him. `Right,' the physio appeared
to tease, `are any of your muscles feeling particularly stiff at the moment
...?'
    `I sort of feel tense all over ...' Gareth replied rather quickly,
glancing up into Carl's dark eyes and finding that his confidence appeared
to return as a result. `But most especially around my groin ...'
    Carl smiled (fucking hell, what a smile!), then trailed his hand up
Gareth's thigh. `Yes,' he sighed, `I can tell. Do you find that that
particular area troubles you a lot?'
    `All the time ...'
    `I think most footballers are the same, Gareth. I reckon it's all that
close bodily contact on the pitch and then also in the showers afterwards.
What do you reckon?'
    `Could be ...'
    Carl drove his hand, palm down, across the young guy's growth – but
never once made an effort to grasp what lay beneath. Instead, he began to
massage Gareth's torso – reaching for some oil and then smearing it across
the fellow's six-pack.
    `You wouldn't believe how jealous my boyfriend gets when I tell him
about all the players I get to see,' the trainer remarked, as he continued
to stroke and press the smooth young skin before him – speaking in such a
casual manner that the City striker was for once completely lost for a
reply.
    `He gets off on it really – you know, when I tell him about the size of
their cocks and how big their balls are ...'
    Gareth's shaft was almost bursting through his briefs at this point, as
a patch of sticky wetness stained the material, but his pleasure was only
destined to get all the more intense.
    `Not that he knows the real truth, mind,' Carl smiled. `He thinks I
make it all up when I tell him about how I get to see their hard, aching
organs, and he certainly doesn't believe it when I tell him that I
sometimes have to beat them off to help relieve all that tension and
stiffness they seem to get ...'
    `A hard job, eh?' Gareth joked.
    The physio's fingers traced their way down to the very top of the
striker's jock-strap, then brushed along the elasticated band. `Yes,' he
sighed. `But I can't tell you how much I enjoy it ...'
    Just at that moment, the soccer-star really did think that the hunk was
about to slip his hand beneath the silky material, but then quite suddenly
the fellow urged him to turn over onto his front, saying that he wished to
massage his spine and calves. As he flipped over, however – which in itself
was not the easiest of tasks, given that he had seven-and-a-half inches of
unadulterated hardness buried within his pants – the physio suggested that
he might find the treatment easier if he was to strip off altogether,
handing him a rather skimpy towel as he did so.
    Gareth was hardly about to refuse such an offer. For one thing, his
manhood was more than a tad uncomfortable in its present confinement and
the fact that his jocks were now sodden with pre-cum was simply adding to
his unease. For another thing, he rather liked the idea of treating Carl to
a full show of his throbbing man-rod. What embarrassment he had initially
felt towards him had eased with the revelation that the lad was gay like
himself, and given Todd's remarks, he felt sure that the physio's
suggestiveness was shortly to be followed by action of a much more
substantial kind.
    `Nice cock!' Carl observed with a cheeky smile (which, once again, sent
butterflies racing around in Gareth's belly).
    `You like it, then?' the footballer grinned in return – though
teasingly wrapping the towel around his waist as best he could (given that
it was about three sizes too small!)
    `I like all cocks!' the older lad laughed. `Though somehow soccer stars
always seem to have the nicest ones ...
    `Funnily enough,' he continued, once Gareth was laid out on the couch
once more, `my boyfriend was looking at some pictures of you the other
night ...'
    The striker appeared to take exception to the comment and turned right
over again to face the man. `What pictures?!' he demanded – his mind
clearly working overtime at this precise moment.
    `Hey, man – Todd was right. You are stressed out!'
    `What pictures were they?' he demanded – thinking that Will Brandt was
somehow involved (though to his knowledge the lad had never taken any
photos of him).
    `It was a web-site, that's all. You know, one for men who like
footballers ...'
    `I see ...' Gareth sighed, perhaps sensing that he had made a fool of
himself. Truth was, he was still totally paranoid about the world finding
out about his liaison with the Dutchman and anything that suggested
disclosure was enough to send him into fits of apprehension – even innocent
`photos on the internet.
    Carl encouraged him to lie down again, gripping him by both shoulders
and massaging his neck in an attempt to relax him. `Come on, mate,' he
soothed. `I'll soon get all that tension out of you – believe me ...'
    Indeed, there was no denying that the spunky physio proved true to his
word. Having rubbed Gareth's neck and shoulders, he began to turn his
attention to the fellow's back – pouring a trail of oil along his spine and
then stroking the sweet-smelling liquid across his bronzed skin. This, of
course, led inexorably down towards the footballer's butt, as Carl stripped
away the towel and massaged the ointment into that fine, pert rump laid out
before him.
    `That nice?' the physio quizzed – knowing full well that Gareth's cock
was straining beneath him. `Or is this better?' he continued, moving his
latex grasp down towards the inside of the lad's thighs – just inches from
his tight, hairy balls.
    The soccer-ace groaned contentedly, opening his legs a little as if to
encourage Carl still further. `Yes,' he sighed, `very ...' – though he
doubted whether the physio's attention was actually relaxing him. Rather it
seemed to be having much the opposite effect entirely, in particular with
respect to his knob, which was pounding away like fury and oozing copious
amounts of pre-cum over the leather couch below in the process.
    Slowly, but surely, Carl's expert touch eased its way further and
further up Gareth's beefy, muscular leg, until it was but a hair's breadth
from his fuzzy sac – at which point the physio grinned like the Cheshire
cat. `I think ...' he noted thoughtfully, bending down to gaze on those
churning balls, `... I think you have something of a swelling in your groin ...'
    `You think so?' smiled the footballer, glancing behind him.
    `Yes ...' the fellow confirmed, finally cupping the cum-bag. `In fact, it
looks badly in need of attention ...'
    Gareth could not help but laugh at the hackneyed nature of his comment,
but Carl didn't appear to mind at all. `That's as maybe,' he sighed, `but
something tells me you're not going to ask me to stop ...'
    No, indeed, and when the physio then suggested that the lad might turn
himself over so as he could `examine the swelling' in greater detail, the
striker was only too eager to oblige.
    By this point, of course, the blood was gushing through Gareth's shaft
like crazy, engorging the organ to near-bursting point and making him
little more than putty in Carl's gloved hands. As a result, he posed no
resistance at all when the physio finally laid his manful grasp at the base
of that aching member – instead sighing with apparent relief that the
gorgeous hunk had at last ended his teasing and easing himself back down on
the leather underneath him in the process.
    Carl ran his clenched fist up the full length of the sportsman's
love-rod, drawing the full extent of foreskin over the purple helmet and
forcing a large pool of excitement into the swollen eye. `I think I've
located the source of all that stiffness,' he remarked suggestively, `all
that frustration ...
    `Mind,' he then continued, `I'm told that you soccer players perform
better on the pitch when you're feeling horny. Apparently, unburdening your
creamy, sticky wads takes the edge off your skill ...'
    `Don't you worry,' Gareth assured, `I'll be stiff again in no time – no
time at all ...'
    `Good,' the older guy concluded – before leaping up on the bench and
positioning himself between his patient's strapping thighs. `Then you'll
have no problem with me doing this –' he remarked, and with that he fell
face-downwards onto the crimson length before him.
    Carl's apparent reticence up until this point appeared to be almost
instantly forgotten, as he sank the juicy meat deeper into his mouth with
each and every thrust. At first only the head (which was covered in a tasty
coating of pre-cum) slipped between his hungry lips, but it was a state of
affairs that lasted only momentarily. For the physio proved himself an
avaricious cock-sucker and he was quickly determined to force as much
man-meat down his throat as possible. What was more, his short time at the
club had already provided him plenty of opportunity to practice his art,
with the likes of Todd Rankin, Matt Foster and Philippe Bourg having
previously found his so-called massaging skills second-to-none. No fucking
wonder that City's injury list was growing longer with every passing day!
    He was lapping on that salami now with almost an unnerving menace,
savouring every inch  that Gareth Hicks could offer him – whilst fondling
those hairy balls between his fingers, which of course were still sporting
those rather sexy rubber gloves. Indeed, the texture of the disposable
gloves on the footballer's most intimate parts was strangely erotic and the
youngster could not resist levering himself up a fraction so that he might
observe the sight for himself. It was a move that Carl could not fail to
note, naturally, and realising that his patient was becoming highly charged
at the display, he now clutched the gasping cock with both hands and began
to rub the solid flesh with an almost devilish delight.
    `I've a feeling this will come to ease the tension you've been
suffering from just lately,' the physio exclaimed, flashing his Latin
looks. `What do you say ...?'
    `Maybe,' gasped Gareth, `though I'd prefer it if you could find a bit
of rubber for my dick instead. That way you'll be able to massage my cock
with your tight little butt-hole!'
    `You'd like that?'
    `Sure I would ...'
    Carl jumped from the bench, ripped away the disposable gloves, grabbed
a condom from one of his drawers and then pulled the item over Gareth's
joy-stick. Moments later (and having also discarded his joggers to reveal a
cute, seven inch uncut rod of his own) and he was back on the couch –
lubing his shit-hole with a little grease, before straddling the star's
body so as he could ease himself straight down on the heavenly member.
    The ease with which the physio impaled himself was almost breathtaking
– though given that he had been royally fucked by Donkey just the other
day, it really should've come as little surprise. Carl's slit had quickly
become one of the most experienced in the business and the way he skilfully
rode Gareth's trouser-snake served as testimony to the fact. The bottom
line was that he knew how to handle cock – how to make the most of every
inch that any man had to offer and how to bring a fellow off by the agile
use of ever inch of his own. As such, it was no great wonder that the
soccer-star should soon be reaching the brink of a very fruitful orgasm –
urging his rider to dismount so that he could fire his jizz high into the
air. But Carl had no intention of letting Gareth get away quite so easily.
He wanted the star to spurt deep inside him, so that he might feel the
flush of spunk as it filled that protective rubber – and in the end it was
he who got his way. Gareth's half-hearted struggle was nothing to the
physio's determination, and before the lad knew it he was emptying his
balls into the other guy's butt, moaning and gasping every thrust of the
way, whilst Carl himself started to wank his own knob-head (now pulsing out
ahead of him).
    For the physio, of course, it was very much a case of applying his own
massage techniques to himself at this point – running his naked,
hard-clenched fist up and down the extent of his manhood. Not that he
needed much encouragement. The bubble of Gareth's own climax had been
enough to take him to the edge of his own sticky exclamation, and levering
himself off the footballer's spent knob-end, he began to fire the first
bolt in a rich, generous salvo. Cum erupted from his piss-hole like water
spurting from Old Faithful – splattering across Gareth's glossy chest and
reaching up to the young man's chin – whilst the deep look of satisfaction
on his face seemed only to reflect the more-than-adequate display that he
had produced from within his loins.
    `Well,' sighed Carl breathlessly at length, `let's just hope that
that's done the trick for you ...'
    Gareth smiled, nodding his head as he did so. `Yes,' he agreed. `Though
at least I know where you are if I have the same problem again ...'
    `That's what I'm here for!' the physio laughed.
    And yet for all the contentment with which they parted, the footballer
could not help but sense that what he had just experienced had not quite
made up for what he had recently sacrificed for the sake of his career ...
    Spunk as much as he liked, Gareth Hicks simply couldn't get Will Brandt
out of his head!