Date: Tue, 28 Feb 2017 19:00:56 +0000
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 18
For the next few weeks life was good for Gareth Hicks. Very good, in fact --
both on and off the pitch. Goals came thick and fast during the latter part
of March and into early April, and by the time the Easter weekend arrived
City were fourth in the league and looking increasingly assured of the
reward of European football next season. Meantime, the striker's
achievements were being increasingly noted by the press, and an enquiry
through his agent by *OK* magazine for a `photo shoot at his home appeared
only to stress his growing fame. What was more, with the prospect of other
teams attempting to snoop his favour, City themselves were soon suggesting
a new contract (with an even more fantastic salary) to tie him to the club.
Fate, it seemed, was being overly generous to the fellow, and it was
perhaps unsurprising that the twenty-four year old should perhaps begin to
believe in his own myth (a dangerous transformation for any burgeoning
celebrity).
What Gareth didn't realise in the midst of all this frothy
notoriety, however, was a very subtle transformation in Will Brandt. To the
young footballer -- engrossed in his own professional concerns -- their
relationship was indicative of his success, and the fact that they fucked
and sucked each other senseless on an almost daily basis served only to
nourish this concept of mutual satisfaction. Gareth's professional success
spelt Will's happiness -- or so the footballer thought. They wanted for
nothing, relied on no-one, and the fact that they each loved the other more
than they had ever perhaps considered possible made such a notion of
self-reliance all the more acute. But amidst all this apparent wonderment,
Will wasn't being entirely truthful with his lover. For something had
happened that threatened to change their relationship for ever -- although
the Dutch lad (who struggled with his own notion of self-worth at the best
of times) had refrained from saying anything, even to the point of allowing
Gareth to play City's Cup semi-final with Rangers in blissful ignorance of
the dangers that were slowly overshadowing them both.
The letters had started several days after Drew had
encountered them together at Will's flat -- short anonymous notes that gave
coded warnings as to what the Dutchman could expect if he continued in his
relationship with the striker. Will, of course, was no fool. He knew
exactly who was sending them, and he also knew why. For Drew was a fervent
opportunist and, having realised the identity of Will's lover, was certain
to make the most of the situation (as the Dutch lad had feared at the time
of their encounter). Indeed, Will now feared that it was but a matter of
time before his ex-lover went public -- unless, of course, he did as Drew
insisted and leave Gareth in favour of his former boyfriend. Such a totally
undesirable prospect (an act of almost barbaric self-sacrifice) appeared to
be the only way of saving the soccer-star's reputation -- a point only
underlined by a rather unpleasant (and ultimately disastrous) encounter
with Mr. Michaels on the very eve of the City -- Rangers match.
It was a Saturday afternoon -- the tie in question being
played the following lunchtime at a neutral venue in London -- and Will
(already weighed down with private anguish, made all the worse by Gareth's
departure that morning with the rest of team) was working in *Red Heaven*.
The shop was unsurprisingly busy, but the youngster could do little to
concentrate on his job. He was far too busy thinking about Drew and about
when he would break the news to Gareth that he was leaving him, to give the
customers anything other than quiet nonchalance, and it was perhaps little
surprise that he didn't even notice who had actually stepped up to the
counter until it was too late. Way too late, in fact.
`I'd like to buy this, if that's okay,' drooled the
all-too-recognisable voice, as Will glanced back in horror just in time to
see Drew toss a replica home shirt onto the counter. `That is okay, I take
it ...?' he then sighed -- as the lad stuttered for words.
The Dutchman finally found the courage to edge himself
forward, glancing around him to ensure that no-one was near enough to hear
what he was about to say. `What do you want, Drew?' he whispered angrily.
`What the fuck do you want?!'
Drew smirked -- that suave, sophisticated fashion of his
seemingly all the more obnoxious for it. `Well, actually,' he replied,
pushing the shirt a tad nearer to Will as he did so, `I'd like the name
Hicks printed on the back ...'
Will blushed. `... Hicks?' he gasped.
The older fellow leant forward. `I thought you'd probably be
the man to ask,' he quietly remarked. `Given that you like to have Hicks on
*your* back every night! Or maybe you prefer him on your front. Or maybe --'
The youngster could contain his anger no longer and (without
thinking what he was doing) grabbed out at the fellow, grasping his collar
and tie in the process -- an act that could do little but attract the
attention of everyone else around.
`I'd think very carefully before you do anything, Will
Brandt,' Drew muttered -- a warning that immediately brought about the lad's
withdrawal. `After all,' he continued, straightening his shirt, `we don't
want anyone's reputations getting damaged now, do we? I mean, what would
the newspapers say if they knew that a certain someone was attracted to --
well, how can I put it? -- to a way of life that doesn't whole-heartedly fit
with his profession's red-blooded image ...?'
By now, however, the manager of the shop had entered the
affray and the conversation came to an abrupt end. Drew glanced knowingly
at the youngster, then disappeared without purchasing the shirt (which he'd
never intended to buy anyway), leaving Will with the task of trying to
provide some sort of explanation to his boss -- not the easiest of tasks
when you've just been observed threatening to clobber a customer with an
all-too-eager fist.
The manager -- a tall, moustached fellow in his early forties
by the name of Derek Sands -- cared little for the lad's excuses, however
and it quickly became apparent that Will's unexpected outburst of temper
had proved his undoing at the shop. As such, it was almost with some relief
that the Dutchman finally received his marching orders, and stepping back
out of Sands' office, he grabbed his jacket and orange holdall before
racing out of the building as fast as his young legs could carry him.
To say that he spent the next couple of hours crying his
dark brown eyes out would be something of a major understatement. He
managed to hail a taxi (which took him back to Gareth's place), but spent
most of the subsequent journey desperately trying to hide his emotions from
the driver. Not that he showed any such reticence once alone in the house.
Instead, he collapsed into a dithering bundle of tears, unable to fully
comprehend that he had lost his dream job -- and that (as if to add insult
to injury) he would no doubt shortly be losing his dream lover (thanks to
the same bastard of an individual!)
For all his tangled, twisted passions, however, Will knew
that he had to pull himself together. True, *his* life might be falling
apart at the seams, but his love for Gareth was such that he did not wish
to betray an ounce of uncertainty when speaking to his lover on the `phone
that evening. After all, the striker had perhaps the most important game of
his career ahead of him and he didn't need Will to offset his psychological
preparation with unnecessary worry. As such, the Dutch lad answered the
call as if absolutely nothing had happened that day -- as if everything was
a-okay in their lives and that their love would last forever.
`Good day?' quipped the footballer -- laid out on his hotel
bed, with a chirp in his voice that betrayed his horny disposition. Truth
was, he shouldn't have been `phoning home that evening (Rooney being dead
against any pre-match contact with wives and lovers), but Gareth's cock had
always been on to prevent him following such instructions and thankfully he
had remembered his mobile to get round the block that the manager had
placed on the hotel lines.
`Yeah,' sighed Will, lying back on the sofa (on which he and
Gareth had fucked only the night before). `Yeah, it has been a great day,'
he blatantly lied. `But I have missed you ...'
`Missed you, too. I can't wait to see you again ...'
For the next few minutes the conversation rumbled on as one
might expect -- about what the hotel was like, about what they'd had for
tea, about the match tomorrow, about anything in fact (save what had
happened in *Red Heaven* that afternoon). Eventually, however, the
discussion turned increasingly personal, and there was perhaps little
surprise on Will's part when his boyfriend finally informed him that he was
actually wearing his football strip (which he knew always got his lover
stiffer than anything). `Not the one I'll be wearing tomorrow, mind,' he
added. `I mean, I don't want the cameras picking up on any spunk stains I
might get ...'
`I hope no-one walks in,' the youngster remarked -- trying to
picture the scene in his mind.
`Oh, I hope they do,' Gareth teased. `There was this rather
dishy young guy waiting on the tables tonight -- fucking hell, he was almost
as gorgeous as you, Will ...'
The Dutchman laughed -- but it had a somewhat hollow ring to
it, knowing as he did the reality of their situation. After all, how long
would it take for the footballer to find a replacement for him once the
truth was finally out?
`So,' the older fellow sighed, `what are you wearing ...?'
Will didn't like to say that he was still in his *Red Heaven*
uniform. He usually changed when he got home and to have told the truth may
have aroused Gareth's suspicions that something was amiss. So he pretended
instead that he was in his slacks, before quickly turning the conversation
back towards his lover's attire, by enquiring which strip he was wearing.
`The home one,' the footballer replied, running his fingers
across the smooth, red fabric.
Even under the present circumstances, the younger fellow
could not contain the erection that began to form in his briefs at this
point, as he imagined the thought of the player in all his professional
glory. There was just something about the thought of seeing Gareth regaled
in his `works clothes' (as Will jokingly referred to them) that excited the
youngster beyond anything else that he had ever encountered in his short
life, and his imagination was already working overtime on the vision that
was now forming of his mind -- that of his boyfriend running his hands down
towards those silky white shorts, which he just knew from experience would
be bulging at the seams from the well-proportioned package held within.
`Are you hard?' the younger lad gulped, running his own hand
across the tent in his groin.
`What do you think ...?'
Will appeared to gasp for breath -- knowing perfectly well
that the guy was rock-hard and that the first juices were possibly already
starting to ooze out from that gaping piss-hole. `... I think you probably
are ...' he sighed at last.
`And what about you? Is that cock of yours aching to be
released?'
The Dutchman rubbed his crotch even harder now and was
pondering the prospect of unzipping and reaching in for the thick,
throbbing shaft inside. `You bet ...' he muttered.
`You wanna hear me wank?' Gareth enquired. It was the sort
of question that only had one answer, but given recent events Will suddenly
found himself shrinking back from temptation. After all, what if someone
was overhearing this conversation? What if the call was being bugged
somehow? What if he was about to get Gareth into even more trouble than he
was possibly already in?
Nevertheless, the soccer-ace had not waited for a reply to
his question and before Will knew what was happening he suddenly realised
that his lover had removed his shorts and had placed his `phone next to his
cock and that he was now wanking himself off to the mouthpiece. The slap of
skin was unmistakable, and was enough to send the younger lad diving for
his own knob-end. Dangers aside, he was now seriously enjoying this
undeniably very sexy game -- as the gaining strain in his pants testified.
`That good?' Gareth quipped at length -- a winsome grin
clearly on his lips (though Will was unable to see).
The youngster yanked away his trousers and briefs, then
caught hold of his drooling member with an almost desperate reflex. `Yeah,'
he sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, `real good ...'
`I'm imagining you wanking that dick of yours ...' Gareth
groaned.
`I *am* wanking that dick of mine!' Will confirmed.
`Can I hear?'
The young man had never, ever done anything like this before
-- indeed, up until this moment it had possibly never occurred to him that
you could even have `phone-sex. But there was little doubting his
disposition for it -- especially when he abruptly lowered the receiver down
to his fuzzy, musky groin with his one hand and then began to rub his
swollen, ruby knob-head with the other. Pulling the skin back from the
crown, he noted the sticky trail of pre-cum that was welling up in the eye
of his organ, licking his lips as he did so. No sooner done, however and
his fist was pushing back up the length of the rod, pushing the tight fold
of foreskin right over his helmet and smearing the gooey produce of his
love-tubes over his fingers in the process. Then the whole process was
repeated -- a little quicker this time and with something of a groan from
Will as he did so (which only excited the eavesdropper all the more -- if
indeed that was possible). And so the lad continued, with a little more
haste each time and a bit more goo to add to the effect of slapping skin,
before ultimately the urge to speak to his lover again became so great that
he found himself bringing the `phone back to his ear (though he continued
to wank unashamedly).
Both lads were jerking off vigorously at this point, but
Gareth still found enough composure to speak, demanding that his dewy-eyed
boyfriend talk dirty to him in that accented voice of his.
`... Tell me what you'd like me to do with this big, thick
cock of mine ...' he murmured, looking down across his sweet, smooth torso
towards that fine swelling in his groin that he was manipulating with his
probing, inquisitive fingers.
`I would love you to fuck me,' Will sighed -- imagining the
prospect of Gareth mounting him with that firm, muscular body of his. `I
would love you to spread my legs apart and stick that cock of yours inside
me ...'
`You would? You'd like me to do that to you?'
`You know I would ... you know that ...'
`You love to feel my cock break that tight little cunt of
yours ...?'
`Oh yes ... yes, I love to feel that ...'
`... Pushing into your guts and filling you up with my
hardness ...?'
Will almost squeaked with excitement -- his shaft oozing with
delicious pre-cum as his hand continued to pace up and down the straining
flesh. `You know I love that,' he groaned. `You know I love to feel you
inside me ...'
`You like to feel me inside you all night long ...?'
`Oh God, yes -- all night and all day also. I love you to
fuck me all the time ...'
`I love you to fuck me, too, Will,' the footballer now added
almost breathlessly, `I love it when you slip that big knob of yours deep
inside me -- Jesus, it feels so fucking good ...'
Their conversation appeared to break for a moment, but it
was simply a case of both lads being too engrossed in their own acts of
masturbation to speak. Then Gareth seemed to find the strength to continue
-- reiterating his desire to have the youngster fuck his butt and confessing
in the process of how he loved to feel of slap of Will's firm balls against
his own rump.
`You are seriously sexy,' the Dutchman quipped. `You know
that?'
`You think so? You like to feel your dick pounding my ass ...?'
`Of course! Pounding your firm little hole, as you wank
yourself off ...'
`And my cum?' questioned Gareth. `You like to see me shoot
my cum?'
Will almost laughed at the near-preposterous nature of the
question. `Yes,' he drooled. `Of course I love to see you spurt your load --
it shows that you want me, that you need me ...'
`You think I need you?' the soccer-star teased.
The younger lad seemed to pause temporarily for a reply --
perhaps remembering the reality of their circumstance. `I think you do,' he
confirmed finally. `I think you need my big, hard cock to keep you warm at
night ...'
Gareth groaned at the assertion. `God, I wish you were here
with me right now ...' he cried, wanking himself to the very brink of ecstasy.
`I wish I was there with you, too. In that bed -- kissing,
touching, feeling, sucking --'
`Fucking!' exclaimed the older of the two. `Fucking each
other all night! Staining the sheets with our spunk!
`Jesus,' he now added, almost without a breath. `Jesus, I'm
gonna cum ...'
`Let me hear you cum,' Will insisted (himself reaching the
point of no return). `Let me hear you empty those balls of yours! Come on,
boy -- let it all out. Let it all out over your belly!'
Not that Gareth was about to just white-wash his stomach, of
course. The sperm in his nads was feeling so pent-up by this stage that
there was no questioning the fact that it was about to be squirted much
further than that, and it was with acute relief that the first ball of
prime man-juice primed the end of his gun and waged its way through the
sweaty air -- landing heavily on his City shirt (which he had not bothered
to remove).
He exclaimed a guttural cry and as such did not fully
comprehend that Will was reaching the same sticky conclusion as himself.
Too much horny banter and the rub of his tight fist on his most sensitive
seven inches, had left him more than ready to blow, and, as Gareth ruptured
his cum-sac across his beefy frame, he himself was providing almost exactly
the same display over his now-worthless *Red Heaven* shirt. Glob after
heavy glob fired up to his chest -- scenting the air with his manly aroma
and staining his crimson top with cream in the process.
Their eruptions finally subsided -- after what almost seemed
like forever -- leaving them tired and spent, but (most of all) utterly
satisfied. Then catching their breath, they expressed their undying
affection for each other -- though by this point Will was already beginning
to dwell on his problems again and Gareth could not help but note his
stilted manner. `You alright?' he quizzed. `You sound a bit distant ...'
The younger lad felt he could not betray his emotions at
this late stage -- not having sustained a show of almost unbelievable
confidence up until this point. After all, the footballer had to be
protected (on today of all days), and Will simply could not allow his own
discomposure to threaten the lad's performance any more than was possible.
As a result, he stifled the tears that were now beginning to pour down his
flushed cheeks and excused himself by saying he was ready for bed.
It was something of a miracle that Gareth did not pick up on
his boyfriend's charged emotional state, but somehow the conversation ended
with the footballer still totally ignorant of the torment that Will was
enduring. As a consequence, he stepped out onto the pitch the following
afternoon with an innocence that might almost have seemed galling to his
lover had the Dutchman not adored him so much -- the dream of Cup success
still unaffected by the gathering storm of which he was unaware.
Will was unsure whether City's subsequent 3-2 victory over
Rangers was for good or ill -- and remained uncertain until the very moment
that his hero walked back into the house that evening. For the youngster
would've perhaps felt little obligation to maintain his silence had they
have lost, knowing as would've done that Gareth's undivided attention on
final victory was no longer required. As it was, however, he seemed
destined to hold his tongue that little bit longer -- irrationally thinking
that his lover wouldn't notice the fact that he no longer had a job and
ignoring the possibility that Drew might just blow the lid on their story
before the Cup Final in early May anyway.
It came as no surprise that Gareth should be as excited as
he was on his arrival -- nigh on six feet of sleek, hunky manhood punching
into the air, before pouncing on Will in a manner not too dissimilar from
the bravado he had displayed when scoring one of the three goals earlier
that day. `We won!' he screamed. `Can you believe it, Will? We're in the
Final!'
`I know,' the younger fellow replied, desperately trying to
look as enthused -- but this time failing utterly.
`What's up?' Gareth questioned, realising something was
wrong.
`Nothing!' barked Will, eager to hide the truth. `I am
really pleased for you -- honest!'
The star screwed his light brown eyes up in puzzlement for a
moment, then suddenly seemed to remember something and instead fished a
small box out of his holdall. `I've got something for you,' he grinned. `I
hope you like it ...'
His lover took the present in his hand, then slowly opened
the lid -- to reveal a rather expensive looking diamond-studded white gold
ring -- but he appeared unable to make any response to the gesture.
`I wanted to show how much I love you,' Gareth explained --
perhaps taken back a little by Will's almost nonchalant behaviour. `I just
hope it fits ...'
Will gazed back at this man whom he loved so very, very much
-- his eyes filling up with tears as he realised that he could no longer
keep the truth from the player. `I am sorry,' he blurted out at last. `I am
just *so* sorry, Gareth!'
Hicks's distress was suddenly obvious. `What's the matter?
Don't you like it or something ...?'
`It is truly lovely,' Will exclaimed, closing the box and
thrusting it back into his lover's hands. `But it is over between us. I am
so sorry, but it has to be over. It has to be over between us, Gareth ...'
`I don't understand --'
`I am being blackmailed!' the young man sobbed.
`Blackmailed?!'
`By Drew. He recognised you. He recognised you when he saw
us together at my flat!'
And so the whole sorry story was disclosed -- of how Drew had
threatened to go to the press if Will didn't go back to him, of how he
himself had tried desperately to keep the matter from Gareth and of how he
now felt that he had little choice but to adhere to his ex's demands so as
to secure the greater good (which was, after all, the security of one of
the greatest footballing talents of the day). `But you have to believe me
when I tell you that I love you,' he concluded, with an honest that was
apparent with every tear he shed. `What I am doing is for you, Gareth --
because you have a God-given talent and that *must* come first. You are
going to win that Cup in a few weeks' time and you are going to go on to
win so many, many other things -- but you will only be able to do that
without me, Gareth. That is how it is and we must both accept that!'
`I'm gonna kill that bastard, Will!' the star finally
exclaimed. `I'm gonna rip his balls from his body!'
`No!' begged the youngster. `That would only make things ten
times worse. Please, promise me you won't do anything, Gareth. Please, if
you love me, you'll at least promise me that!'
But just at that moment, the soccer-star wasn't in a fit
state to promise anyone anything. Confused, angry, terrified -- a whole
myriad of emotions swam through his veins, leaving him able only to hold on
to Will as though his life depended on it.
For if he was certain of only one thing at that moment, it
was that he was never going to give up on Will -- blackmail or not! No, he
was determined to fight for his man. No matter what the dangers involved.
No matter what the consequences!