Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2017 07:36:55 +0000
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 17

City's clash with Athletic in the quarter-finals of the Cup was an
unexpectedly ill-tempered affair -- a scrappy, vulgar fixture, which
betrayed the park-ball roots of too many of the players. A heady mix of
adrenaline and testosterone smeared the pitch, as the teams battled for a
place in the last four of the competition, and by mid-way through the first
half the studs were distinctly flying. Little marvel then that the game was
littered with a succession of bookings -- Todd Rankin and Matt Foster
included -- as the contest threatened to ultimately descend into anarchy. As
such, it was somewhat fortunate that the goal that eventually separated the
two sides came late in the game -- a half-flunked volley from Gareth Hicks
himself, which somehow ricocheted off one of the Athletic defenders,
fooling the keeper in the process. Indeed, it was with almost as much
surprise to the striker as  to anyone else that the ball managed to end up
in the back of the net at all, and for what seemed like a second or two the
whole of Brandon Park appeared bedazzled by the whole episode, with no-one
entirely convinced that what they had seen had really happened. It was, it
would seem, a complete fluke -- the sort of lucky strike that's needed if a
team is to win a trophy.

               Eighty-nine minutes hung almost crazily on the ground's
clock, but with at least five minute's injury-time to play, the game was
not yet over -- as Athletic (who had entered the contest fired to the hilt)
were determined to demonstrate. A veritable onslaught began, as the tackles
became heavier and the jostling for the ball turned even rougher, and it
was with some eventual relief that the referee finally called time on the
whole proceedings. An ugly game had at last been concluded, though City's
victory (courtesy of Gareth's fortunate goal) was perhaps tarnished by the
whole atmosphere of the encounter. Still, as Rooney pointed out in the
dressing-room immediately afterwards, the team's objective had been
achieved. They were Cup semi-finalists for the first time in God-knows how
many years -- just ninety brave minutes from the final and within spitting
distance of getting their hands on some much-needed silverware to decorate
Brandon Park's recently famished trophy cabinet.

               It would've been usual at this point, of course, for the two
opposing sides to come together for a bit of carnal fun amidst the soap and
steam of the showers, but given the brutal nature of the game, such
tradition seemed unlikely. Not that the City players were feeling
ill-disposed to man-sex, of course -- truth was, the majority of them were
feeling even hornier than usual as a result of the intensity of the game.
It was simply that the thought of fucking guys who only minutes before had
displayed such a potent lack of sportsmanship was a blatant anathema, and
stripping away their soiled shirts and shorts, the team seemed almost
content to refrain from any post-match celebrations if it was a choice
between that and poking the opposition.

               That said, there was no denying the near over-excited state
of City's skipper at this particular juncture -- a condition made all the
more obvious when he finally pulled away his sweaty jock-strap to reveal
eight inches of the most delectable flesh that any fellow could hope to
offer. It was a sight that vanquished any uncertainties in the minds of the
doubters, that was for sure, and within seconds what seemed like the whole
team were cramming their way into the sultry mouth of the showers.

               Gareth, for one, was feeling decidedly engaged with his own
physicality by this point -- and was proving the point with the manful
length in his groin, that was now beginning to pound away with a marked
passion. Try as he might have to prevent it, the beautiful organ was
brimming with blood -- swelling and bulging amidst the sea of masculinity
that was brushing against him. Not that there was anything unusual about
such a reaction, of course. He was young, he was frisky, and whilst he now
had Will back at home, his profession was such that it would've looked a
tad unnatural not to indulge himself in the pleasures of the moment. True,
it was not quite the orgy with the opponents that he had possibly
anticipated -- which was something of a pity given that Athletic had a
couple of rather fit players -- but it was sex all the same, and given the
manner with which several of his team-mates had now undertook the task in
hand (or, perhaps more precisely, in mouth), it was pretty obvious that a
good deal of pleasure was to be enjoyed by anyone who, like Gareth, had an
aching cock and was willing to put it to use.

               By this point, the striker's tackle had been spotted by one
of the youngest members of City's squad -- eighteen year old Ryan Dolan, who
at present was technically a trainee and earning no more than eighty pounds
a week for the privilege. He was a tall, rather lanky, full-lipped
dark-haired lad, who possessed a certain winsome charm about his youthful
features. Not that Gareth had taken much note of him until this point -- his
heart belonging very much to a certain Will Brandt, after all -- but
glancing down as the starlet fell to his knees before him, he could not
help but consider the charm of this fresh-faced novice, whose lessons in
the exquisite art of man-to-man love-making were perhaps only just
beginning.

               Gareth had no idea whether the boy had ever sucked cock
before, but judging from the hesitant look on his face it was hard not to
consider that this was something of a new experience for the lad. Then
again, maybe it was just the prospect of trying to master Gareth's drooling
cock-head that unnerved him -- a natural response, clearly, from a youngster
who was undoubtedly in awe of the footballing genius. All the same, there
were plenty of guys willing to take his place if Dolan didn't consider
himself man enough for the job -- a point that no doubt echoed in his mind
as he knelt transfixed with the beast raging before him.

                              The lad reached out to grasp the base of the
striker's shaft, running his long, probing fingers through Gareth's dark
fuzz as he did so -- but still he seemed to hold back from consummation,
languishing behind those more confident guys who were now busily feeding
off each others' cocks all around him. Eventually, however, the older lad's
impatience won the day, and thrusting his groin forward, Gareth pushed his
seven-and-a-half inches against the youngster's lips (at which point the
trainee had little choice but to open his mouth so as to accommodate the
star's very noble offering).

It was a move that the young fellow would surely never regret -- after all,
how many other boys his age would later be able to say that they gave head
to the great Gareth Hicks? All the same, it was with a somewhat gingerly
move that he gradually slipped his lips further and further down the length
of his hero's cock, easing himself onto the hard, throbbing rod and lapping
on the moist, sticky head that nestled beneath the foreskin. And all the
time, the warm, cleansing water from the showers poured on down from above
-- lubricating the axle before him and calming the nerves that up until this
point had held him back from giving his all to the task.

There was a certain ease about the fellow's movement now that suggested
that he was getting more into his stride, that he was finally overcoming
the nervous hesitancy that had held him back until this point. Indeed, the
coy smile on those juicy, youthful lips of his surely only testified to
this fact, and running his fingers through the guy's dark bob of hair,
Gareth could not help but feel a certain satisfaction in having helped the
lad ease into this particular aspect of a professional footballer's life.
After all, the transition from youth to manhood is sometimes a hard and
nerve-jangling experience -- as Gareth himself remembered -- and it was with
some strange pride that City's star striker realised the part he had played
in bringing Dolan through this, perhaps his greatest rite of passage.

               The whole length of the showers was now a mass of masculine
indulgence -- the humid air engulfed with the sound of very basic grunts and
groans from the throats of almost every fellow there. Not that Gareth was
too concerned at this point as to what was going on around him. Young Dolan
was beginning to prove that he had a worth far beyond that which would
normally be levelled against an up-and-coming football player, as his mouth
dived further along the length of Gareth's cock with every passing thrust.
Yes, here was a star of the future for sure -- though it was very doubtful
whether pundits like Gary Lineker and Des Lynam would ever pass comment on
the sort of skills that he was presently displaying.

               Minutes before, it would've been difficult for anyone to
have imagined that this youngster would've been able to encompass the
entire length of Gareth's badly swollen dick in his mouth, but given the
passion that was now manifesting itself with every pulse of his eager, lean
body, it had become quickly apparent that he was a very fast learner. As a
result, the older lad's above-average manhood seemed to present little
obstacle to his affection, and having engulfed the organ to its limit, the
trainee soon discovered that he was keen to go even further in his journey
of discovery. Consequently, he began to turn his attention to Gareth's
balls -- which at present were hanging firm and low and churning in
anticipation of their eventual role. So it was that he deftly slid his way
to the underside of the forward's knob, rolling his tongue along the guy's
urethra as he did so, before burying his head into the older lad's groin so
that he could worship those hairy, cum-filled chestnuts.

               Whether it was in fact Ryan's first time or not did not seem
to matter at this point, for he was clearly demonstrating the sort of
natural aptitude for sex that distinguishes the men from the boys (nowhere
more so, indeed, than a soccer club's dressing-room). Yet his palpable lust
for his team-mate's nads disguised a certain innocence, as he swirled first
the left, then the right bollock into his greedy mouth. Truth was, he was
grossly enthused at having Gareth's spunky sac grace his lips and was
himself now sporting the sort of hard-on that would have made old men weep
for their lost youth. Not that the doe-eyed striker bore much notice of
such an erection just at that moment -- he was far too busy riding the
resultant wave of ecstasy from having his balls sucked to think of anything
other than his own self-gratification, as he sank back against the tiles
behind him and emitted the sort of whimper that might almost have been
offensive were it not for the fact that his energies were genuinely too
consumed by pleasure to warrant anything more effectual.

               Dolan was savaging that happy jizz-sac like the animal most
men really are if they are honest -- but it wasn't long before such antics
had gained the attention of his skipper, who, having first encouraged his
team into their present frenzy, had now sidled up to the pair of
youngsters, dangling his wedding-tackle in his wake. Not that he had any
intention of presently fulfilling his straight persona, mind. No, he was
much too interested in what the trainee could do to placate his fiercesome
libido to worry about the wife and kids that he had waiting for him at home
-- but then, of course, he was far from being alone in that predicament!

               If someone had told the trainee at this point that he had
died and gone to heaven, then he may well have taken them at their word.
After all, he now found himself in the almost unbelievable position of
having two hard, aching cocks to savour -- cocks that were not only
well-proportioned, but which belonged to a couple of the most desirable men
in the game. Trouble was, which to satisfy first? True, Gareth had been
there first, but Todd Rankin was, if anything, the bigger and the more
demanding. What's more, the older chap was also the team captain -- and, as
everyone knows, it pays to keep the boss happy ...

               It was with a degree of disappointment for Gareth,
therefore, that he suddenly realised that Todd had half-replaced him and
that it was his skipper's long, meaty shaft that was now knocking the back
of Ryan's throat instead, lubricating the youngster's tonsils in the
process no doubt. Given the sheer intensity of the moment, however, it was
an emotion that could not hope to last long, and before the striker had
chance to pug he had already found himself pushing against Philippe Bourg,
the long-haired, French midfielder, who for one reason or another Gareth
had never seemed to have encountered on a post-match capacity before.

               Philippe's physique was unquestionably tanned and muscular --
but it was neither of those qualities that immediately caught the striker's
attention. For the thirty-one year old was boasting a good eight inches of
Gallic condiment from his loins, which at present appeared to be going
sadly to waste. Not for long, though. Having his own head blown by the City
new-boy had left Gareth feeling decidedly hungry for hard cock himself and
the sight of the World Cup hero thrusting a red-hot baguette in his
direction was more than enough to leave him craving the salty taste of
excited manhood directly for himself. God, he was thirsty -- though judging
from the wanton nature of the midfielder's knob-head, he wouldn't have to
wait too long for a long and satisfying drink.

               He fell to his knees -- grabbing hold of Philippe's hairy
legs so as to pull him closer, before reaching out to grab a bar of soap
that he had spotted close by. Then he began to form a lather between his
fingers -- glancing up into the older fellow's dark eyes as he did so and
tweaking a grin that forewarned the Frenchman of the serious pleasure that
was destined to come his way. For Gareth was nothing if not adventurous and
there was a distinct air about his youthful play that suggested that he was
now going to enjoy working the soap into regions that might otherwise
perhaps have been forgotten.

               The striker edged his colleagues legs apart, so that the
furry crack to Philippe's rear was somewhat easier to reach, but his
initial attention appeared to be towards that raging hard-on that pulsed
out towards his face. And why not? The foreigner boasted a fine specimen of
manhood, which had an appealing upward curve towards its end and whose head
was poking valiantly from the tight confines of its purple skin. Not that
its crown remained hidden for long. Gareth was eager to pull it out into
the open, and using his frothy, lathered fingers, he pulled the prepuce
back to reveal the aching, crimson knob beneath. It was a move that clearly
pleased the wanton Frenchman, as he gasped and groaned -- then arched his
muscular back, throwing his mass of dark brown hair back in the process. He
was, it seemed, putty in the young striker's hands -- and all the more so as
Gareth started to run his probing, dextrous fingers up and down the solid,
engorged length of his comely cock.

               But the younger fellow would not be content with stroking
the shaft for long. His hands were hungry for further exploration and
within minutes he was using his other hand to cocoon the noble pair of
balls that nestled at the base of Philippe's man-rod. Unlike Todd, who
shaved his cum-sac and who boasted a smooth, refined quality to his groin
as a result, the Parisian revelled in his natural, basic state, and Gareth
could hardly refrain from matting and twisting the hairs in almost childish
fashion. Not that there was anything innocent about him as he then edged
his fingers to the back of the guy's scrotum, working his way inexorably
towards the gaping arse-hole that he now knew was barely inches from his
grasp. No, he was very much a man at this point -- a forceful, determined
being, who yearned to poke his digits deep into the empty chasm that lay
between his colleague's butt-cheeks.

               As if to add to his resolve, Philippe himself was writhing
up and down in anticipation of the finger-fucking to come -- fervently
exclaiming his desire to feel something hard inside his guts. Ultimately,
of course, that would mean a good pounding courtesy of Gareth's dick (which
right now was itself more than capable of delivering such action), but just
for the moment it was the young man's hand that would provide the fun --
whilst the match-winner's mouth provided glad relief to the Frenchman's
fuck-tool, freshly cleansed of its previous cover of soap and bubbles. As
such, Gareth found himself plugging Bourg back and front, simultaneously --
an act that seemed only to encourage the French star even more with every
passing second.

               Eventually, however, the momentum of events drew them from
the showers, back towards the leather-padded benches, as the desire to
fully consummate their love-making slowly overtook them. By now, of course,
a variety of pairings had emerged around the room -- most notably (for
Gareth, at least) that of Todd Rankin and Ryan Dolan, who were busily
engrossed in preparation of the sort of no-holds-barred buggery that the
City captain was privately renowned for. The young trainee had simply stood
little chance once his skipper had made a bee-line for him, and it was with
something of a wry smile that Gareth watched the youngster as he fell
forwards, his butt high in the air, ready for the buffing to come. Like a
lamb to the slaughter, the novice grabbed the edge of the bench ahead of
him, then held his breath as Todd slipped the head of that mighty
butt-picker deep into the freshly-lubed slit opening up before him. From
then on, the shaft simply pushed deeper and deeper into its new-found
warren -- with a merciless edge that seemed deaf to the sharp gasps of
apparent torment and anguish that emanated from the young man's throat. Not
that Dolan would've seriously wanted his skipper to withdraw had he been
given the option. No, his cries were underlined with too much indulgence to
suggest any real aversion to his position and before many more minutes had
passed there was the richly satisfying sound of Rankin's smooth balls
slapping firmly against the trainee's sweet, tender flesh. The boy was
mastered -- and a real pleasure it was to watch, too!

               All the same, Gareth was keen to engage in some hard
fornication of his own by this stage -- and indeed all the more so when he
realised that his French counterpart had found a somewhat opportune space
and had now laid himself down on one of the benches with his feet held
expectantly in the air. It was his way, it seemed, of saying `Come here and
fuck me!' -- and it was the sort of high-spirited invitation that a horny
bastard like Gareth Hicks could not ignore. Little wonder, then, that he
should don a condom over his purple member, before greasing the
midfielder's love-tube with several mindful fingers. Not that Philippe
Bourg needed much easing in that department. He was far from being a tight,
untouched virgin like Ryan Dolan, having played the beautiful game now for
more years than he perhaps cared to remember, and his mature pucker opened
up with the sort of natural ease that one would expect from his experience.
Nor was Gareth -- though some years younger -- unskilled in the knack of
filling someone's guts. Indeed, it was with characteristic gusto that he
now fanatically thrust his love-pick into his team-mate's rear, holding
tight onto Bourg's firm, bulky calves as he did so.

               Butts were being happily fucked all over the shop, but
nowhere more whole-heartedly than the corner where Hicks and Rankin were
ramming their respective partners. Masters of their art, they ravaged those
poor, defenceless rings with hard strokes of carnal depravity, and it was
blatantly obvious that neither would be truly content until they had
thoroughly drained their balls of all the sticky juices that were stored
inside. A good, unadulterated blow-out was what they needed, to rid
themselves of all the tensions and frustrations of a hard-won game, and
given their gaining momentum, it would not be long before their objective
was achieved. No doubt about it, cum was gonna be the order of the hour --
with the sort of display that would make Old Faithful envious.

               As it happened, neither the star striker or his captain were
the first to spume forth. That honour being taken by none other than Cary
Jacobs, the first-choice goalie, who (like too many lower-division
forwards) always had a bit of a reputation for shooting too quickly -- in
this case down the throat of one of the reserve defenders! Nevertheless,
Todd Rankin was not too far behind him, as he finally pulled his member
from Dolan's  now-satisfied rump and -- ripping away his sheath -- continued
with the sort of explosion with which he had long since been famed. Bolt
after bolt of manly nectar emerged from his piss-hole, dousing the
trainee's back in the process -- and leaving the youngster desperate to grab
hold of his own cock so that he might wank himself off. And, of course, it
was a vision of rampant masculinity that didn't fail to have its effect on
Gareth either. He was still working his rod in and out of Bourg's hungry
cavern at this point, but seeing Dolan being baptised with man-cream was
more than enough to push his own libido over the edge and before he knew it
he was performing much the same feat as his captain. Only in this case it
was Philippe's face that got the cream -- a series of wads that blasted
their way across the Frenchman's chin, cheeks and forehead, before drooling
their way down into the foreigner's hair. No wonder Bourg trailed his
tongue around his lips, as he continued to jerk himself off -- covering his
stomach and chest with his own jizz in the process. For Hicks had been an
unfulfilled fantasy of his for some considerable time -- and may well have
continued to be so had it not been for Athletic's unsporting conduct. As it
was, however, the man had achieved two private dreams that afternoon: a
place in the semi-finals of the Cup and a fucking at the hands of one of
the sexiest young men in the game. Not bad for a man who, at thirty-one,
was perhaps nearing the extreme of his Premiership playing days.

               As for the trainee -- who, in total contrast, was only just
beginning his grand footballing adventure -- the whole occasion had clearly
whipped him up into the sort of frenzy that might be expected from someone
who had only recently turned eighteen. As a result, he found himself
providing something of a spectacle to the three other guys as a neared his
own tight climax -- throwing himself onto his back and twisting and writhing
on the bench as the first ball of spunk gathered at the base of his hard,
teen-cock. By the time he squirted his first exquisite shot, Rankin, Bourg
and Hicks were all urging him on -- cheering the youngster on in a manner
that possibly took him by surprise. Not that it stopped his bollocks from
producing a healthy spray of ball-juice, mind. No, his spurts were
plentiful in the extreme -- possibly all the more so for the very fact that
he was now the centre of the others' attention. What was more, he was
actually able to provide a second, albeit less demonstrative orgasm almost
immediately after the first -- a sign, if ever one was needed, that Ryan
Dolan was the sort of player who was destined to fit into City's ranks as a
distinct natural.

               A second shower -- to wash off the copious quantities of
spunk that had emerged from all their beefy bodies -- concluded the
afternoon, before Gareth (who by this point was yearning for the touch and
taste of real, meaningful affection, in the shape of Will) made his
farewells to his team-mates and drove the four or five miles that separated
him from his lover. And as he did so, he could not help but wallow in his
own sweet good fortune: for his success, his prosperity, his happiness --
things that were denied so many other people in this life, but which he
counted as almost his by rights. Fate, it seemed, had truly been kind to
him.

               But for how much longer such blessings would continue was
another matter entirely ...