Date: Thu, 11 Aug 2016 12:22:51 +0100
From: Christopher Hudson <christopherhudson1970@gmail.com>
Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 05

Everyone knows that professional footballers refrain from having sex before
a big match – and nobody was more insistent on that rule being adhered to
than the City manager, Steve Rooney. He was short, spindly fellow in his
early fifties, whose physical attractiveness had possibly always been
questionable, but his record as a coach was more than reasonable and there
was every hope that the team would meet with some success that season.
True, City were hardly about to rival the dominance of teams like Rovers,
United and Town, but Rooney was an ambitious character, who given time (and
money) would surely raise his side to the sort of glories that had once
been seen at Brandon Park. He was hard-working, persistent and, possibly
above all things, a stickler for tactics – one of which, as has been said,
was that players should not have sex before games. To some, such a
philosophy might seen a tad Draconian, but the City manager was adamant
that sex slighted the young footballer's resolve for the game and that
abstinence was the best way to ensure that a player started a game feeling
keen, energised and ready to perform to his utmost ability. As such, sex
could wait until after the final whistle was blown.

                What most people don't realise, however, is the ultimate
significance of that final whistle – especially at the end of an important
game like a Cup match. The tension and drama of the occasion affects no-one
more than the stars themselves and it is little wonder that they should
wish to relieve their anxieties as soon as they step back into the
changing-rooms and showers. For some, this might involve little more than a
sleep or a massage, but for many footballers, sex is the only firm outlet
after the hard rough and tumble of their sport. As such, it is therefore
little surprise that many a game – particularly Cup games – should end in
the sort of hot, spunky action between the players that we possibly all
dream about, but never once think possible.

                As it happened, Gareth Hicks always had a degree of
difficulty with the no-sex before games rule, and he was no-where near
being alone. Todd Rankin – possibly one of the most highly-sexed players in
the team, if not the league – would blatantly digress the order, unable as
he was to control the basic urges of his lustful cock. If he wasn't fucking
his wife, he was playing away from home with one of his team-mates, and
with eight inches of delectable man-meat to offer, you could rest assured
that he had no shortage of offers. Gareth, on the other hand, expressed a
certain restraint in his libido – eager as he perhaps was to find more
meaningful sex than his captain. All the same, there was simply no way that
he was ever to going to skip a good old reconnoitre with Madame Palm,
should the mood grab him on the eve of a match. He might be a star in the
footballing firmament, but that didn't mean that he was no longer a young,
horny stud of a lad who needed to shoot some cum from time to time ... well,
almost every day, actually! A wank was a wank was a wank – and if Gareth
required one then that was that. His cock would be stiff, his hand would be
ready and (match or no match) the Kleenex would soon be required.

                It was the first Saturday on the year – and City were
playing away to a lower-league team of no-hopers in the third round of the
Cup. Or at least that was the theory. Truth is, these sort of games are
much easier won on paper than on the pitch – and that was indeed how
matters progressed that day. To make matters worse, it was a bitterly cold
January afternoon, with the occasional burst of snow flurries to accompany
the bitter easterly wind. As such, the occasion was hard-fought and
narrowly won, and it was with more than a smile or two of relief that the
City players came off after ninety minutes with a 3-2 margin in their
favour. Things could've so very easily been different ...

                But their relief was perhaps a little more deeply rooted
than might first have appeared. Yes, they were through to the next round of
the competition – a fact worthy of great cheer in itself. But victory also
meant that they wouldn't have to provide the bottoms in the post-match orgy
– that, by tradition, always took place at the conclusion of a Cup game.
Instead, they would most definitely be topping the celebrations, and Gareth
Hicks had already picked out several of the opponents during the game to
whom he had taken a definite shine and with whom he wouldn't mind getting a
little more better acquainted.

                Actually, the young man was feeling more than a little
frisky by the time he reached the changing-rooms – and this despite the
time spent playing amidst the afternoon's freeze. Consequently, he had more
than an insignificant bulge in his shorts as he reached his bench, and it
was with a certain modesty that he tried his best to disguise such a state
of arousal as the manager stood congratulating them all for their
performance.

                The performance on the field, however, was nothing compared
to what was to follow in terms of post-match entertainment, and as soon as
the coach disappeared, there were several knowing glances from various
parties (Gareth and Todd included). Moments later and a flow of naked,
muscled, well-hung hunks were heading straight for the showers.

                Gareth Hicks, for one, was very much the gorgeous, solid
stud that he ever was – who by now was doing precious little to disguise
the raging hard-on that was flaring between his beefy legs. He threw
himself under the stream of water, so that it rippled across his manly
frame, then turned to see that Matt Foster, a defender who played on City's
left-wing, had sidled up to him and was glancing rather greedily at
Gareth's undeniably tempting offering, licking his lips as he did so.

                Matt was another of those wonderfully fuckable young
players that seem to litter the world of Premiership football – whose
short, auburn hair seemed only to add to his appeal, rather than detract
from it. He was a year or two older than Gareth and half an inch taller (if
that), and he had an angular, distinctly masculine face that was in total
contrast to the youngster's soft, comely features. He had a slightly hairy
chest and a sturdy six-pack of a stomach, but his most appealing feature
was his fabulous cock. Thick, uncut and measuring in at almost ten inches,
his fellow players didn't call Matt `Donkey' for nothing!

                Not that Gareth had much opportunity to tend to its carnal
demands at that particular point, for the defender was already trailing his
tongue down the young man's torso – doubling his knees in the process and
heading straight for the site of greatest sporting interest. This was one
fellow who had clearly not had sex for several days, and whilst he would
hold back from giving his all until the defeated opponents arrived, he was
more than determined to pass the intervening time savouring the delectable
hardness that was presently springing up from Gareth's pleasing young groin.

                It was at this point – as Matt grasped the cock before him
by the base and slowly began to lick the very tip of its crown – that
Gareth himself glanced round to see that several of the other players were
now falling into pairs and threesomes and were savouring the physical
delights that each guy had to offer. It was a more than satisfying sight –
with the erotic lap of water only fuelling the mood of sexual tension. Not
that Gareth had much opportunity to regard the fine, manly display around
him. Matt was more than an adequate cock-sucker and his hungry tongue was
already driving the youngster's head to distraction.

                After all that hard play out on the pitch, it was good to
now see hard play continuing – albeit in a very different manner (one which
the fans would surely never have imagined possible). Muscular legs, which
only minutes before had been running after the ball, were now bending in
worship of their team-mates' stiff, unyielding cocks, whilst the kisses of
jubilation that had followed each goal in the course of play were now
replaced by much more intimate signs of affection, as open mouths and
searching tongues succeeded in brushing away whatever social restraints had
previously guarded their behaviour.

                Matt was lapping steadily on Gareth's shaft – pulling back
the skin that covered the neat, engorged helmet beneath and slipping his
lips across the piss-hole in the process. As he did so, however, he could
hardly refrain himself from sliding his hand up to his own enormous member,
which by this point in proceedings was purple and swollen and pounding away
like something that might explode at any given second. Its size was such,
however, that it could hardly fail to go unnoticed for long, and it was
little surprise when Todd Rankin appeared to come out of nowhere, crouching
down on the white tiles beneath so as to take charge of the situation in
Matt's over-sized box.

                So there they were, the three of them: Todd, with his
bottle-blond hair, impaling his face on Matt's fine organ and Donkey
himself labouring over Gareth's meaty shaft, which by now was drooling with
pre-cum. The skipper, however, was determined to take matters a little
further, and, grasping hold of some soap, now reached underneath Matt
Foster's low-hanging balls so as he could start lathering the tight, hairy
crack beyond. It was a move that the well-hung defender appeared to delight
in – his cheeks parting like the Red Sea, as Todd's searching fingers
explored the folds of flesh surrounding his ring. Round and round they
etched, slowly drawing in on that magic spot of pleasure, until finally the
first of the captain's manly fingers poked their eager way inside, eased by
the abundance of soap and water. As it did so, Matt writhed in the
indulgence – sucking even harder on Gareth's sweet cock in the process –
whilst his butt appeared only to open up even further in anticipation of
more.         The air was filled with moans and groans from all directions
as Todd slipped a further two fingers into Donkey's man-cunt – his mouth
refusing to let go of that monster shaft as he did so. But the scene was
still nothing compared to what was about to happen, as the defeated players
stormed into the room in expectation of their ultimate submission. After
all, they had played the game – and had lost. Now their fine young
shit-holes were about to pay the price for that failure.

                To begin with, however, the City players merely encouraged
their hosts to join them in the showers – an invitation that the hunky
selection of studs were not about to refuse. Slipping from their soiled
clothes, the lads poured into the showers, which by now were becoming
somewhat understandably cramped. As a result, naked flesh touched naked
flesh from one end of the cubicles to the other – with hard, rampant cocks
appearing to be aimed in all directions. Not that anybody was about to
complain. The resulting claustrophobia merely added to the surge of desire
within their respective balls, as a variety of hungry, open mouths now
slipped wantonly over the parade of juicy pricks on display. If there was a
cock then there was a orifice to satisfy it, and as such it was pretty
clear that no-one would be leaving the room without first depositing a
thick, sticky load of spunk – testimony to the sheer pleasure and enjoyment
that each one to a man was presently experiencing.

                Gareth, Todd and Matt had now been joined by one of those
handsome opponents who had caught the young City striker's attention during
the course of the game – a tall, muscular fellow, with a sweet face, dark
hair, denim-blue eyes and a neat, goatee-beard. They were never to find out
his name – probably because neither of the three players were particularly
interested. All they cared about was that he was good-looking, smartly
endowed and boasting the sort of erection that simply screamed out for the
keenest attention. Indeed, as Gareth and the stranger embarked on sucking
each others' faces away, the lucky Matt Foster was presented with two
shafts to feed off – and believe me, he was determined not to let go of
either of them! Consequently, as Todd continued fingering the Donkey's
guts, Matt found himself with a rod in either hand – neither of which were
in any way inferior weaponry. Indeed, his only problem appeared to be
deciding which one to gobble first – the sort of dilemma that possibly all
of us secretly wish could be ours on a more regular basis.

                Todd was nigh on fisting Matt's butt-hole as the young,
red-haired defender nibbled both the shafts before him – but it was not the
City player who was set to make the ultimate sacrifice. After all, he had
been on the winning side that afternoon, and although his rear was
thoroughly enjoying the moment's attention, he was fully aware that it was
the players from the losing side who, by tradition, must bend over, open
their powerful thighs and submit to their gainful victors. In
dressing-rooms up and down the country, away from the glare of cameras and
the media-spotlight, the custom would be being religiously observed – a
sporting celebration that ran to the very depths of man's private desire to
bond with other men.

                Guys were tripping their way out of the showers by now –
towelling themselves off, before looking for places on the benches where
they continue their exploration of each others' outstanding bodies. Gareth,
for one, was feeling really fucking horny by this stage and found drying
himself to be a near impossible task. For one thing there was the mere
matter of concentrating on the task when man-sex was on the agenda, for
another, he had a raging seven-and-a-half inch cock to deal with, which
seemed to get in the way of everything that he was trying to do. Still, he
was not alone in his condition. The room, after all, was almost sweating in
testosterone and surely only a eunuch would've failed to have been raised
to the occasion. Fortunately for the City striker – and everyone else there
for that matter – there weren't any of those in the room that late
afternoon. No, there were only real men here – solid, muscle-bound, bulging
examples of manhood, whose only desire was to fight each other for the
spoils now on offer. As such, butts would soon be plugged and cocks would
shortly be spewing in their direction – the sort of post-match amusement
that neither Gary Lineker or Alan Hansen strangely ever make reference to.

                Gareth glanced over at the player from the other team, who
was duly casting himself over one of the benches with his butt pointing
high into the air – then noted that Todd and Matt were squabbling for the
privilege of possession.

                `I wanna fuck him first!' demanded Donkey, aware that their
prey was perhaps a little disconcerted at the prospect of a ten-incher
sliding up his rear (though he was clearly looking forward to it all the
same).

                `No,' retorted the skipper, reminding him of the captaincy.
`No, you wait your fucking turn like everyone else ...'

                They were like spoilt schoolchildren – but hey, what's the
big surprise? Premiership footballers are, by the very nature of their
occupation, the products of a privileged culture, where want only has to
speak its name to get. To the young man from the other team, whose
experience was less select, the squabble seemed more than a tad bemusing,
however ...

                `Come on, one of you – for fucking God's sake!' he stormed.
`I don't wanna hear you two go on like a couple of fish-wives! I wanna feel
hard dick up my arse – or has that escaped your fucking notice?!'

                At which point, Gareth cheekily took matters into his own
hands by quickly slipping a rubber over his pulsing shaft and stepping
forward so as to push it straight up the young man's soapy arse – a little
to everyone's surprise, it had to be said (not least of all the guy that he
was fucking, who grimaced and bit his lip momentarily as his guts
accustomed themselves to their sudden, unexpected occupant). Mind, surely
the fellow should've counted himself lucky (or unlucky, depending upon your
preference). Had Matt Foster had his way, the guy would've found ten inches
of unrelenting man-meat whizzing up his rectum!

                Gareth gripped hold of the young man's smooth rump with his
size ten hands and started to squeeze his cock even deeper into the crack
before him – noting as he did that the guy appeared to be somewhat overcome
by the realisation that he was now being fucked by a veritable celebrity.
It was a sentiment only further enhanced when Todd Rankin and Matt Foster
made up their differences by taking it in turns to fuck the poor chap's
mouth. After all, how often is a player from the lower ranks of the
football league spit-roasted by three of the leading stars in the
profession? Only in the third round of the Cup, perhaps – and only then
when a team draws a prize side like City. No wonder then that he regarded
his supposed dishonour as something of a major achievement, and the look in
his clear, blue eyes suggested that this was one particular occasion he
would remember with great affection for a very, very long time to come.

                With ever more decisive, probing thrusts, the young forward
penetrated the dark recess before him – until he could finally feel the
slap of his fuzzy balls against the fellow's soft and tender flesh. It was
a sensation that served only to delight even more, and seeing Matt driving
his huge salami into the young man's open mouth added to the frenzy. To
make matters worse, the hot, humid air was now filled with the sighs and
grunts of two dozen over-sexed footballers – all of them fucking and
sucking and rimming and licking ... and generally fulfilling the most primal
fantasies of their debauched imaginations.

                Yet Gareth was determined not to shoot his load quite yet,
and pulling himself back from the brink, slipped out of the handsome
fellow's crack in favour of his boundless skipper, who had been almost
chapping at the bit to secure the favoured position. Despite being married
with a couple of kids, Todd Rankin was never far from hot-man action when
it arose – indeed, he was probably more incorrigible than most of the lads
like Gareth Hicks, who were officially free and single. As such, he didn't
appear to show the slightest degree of shame or guilt as he began to pound
the stranger's pucker with his heavy, protected armoury – sliding in and
out with soapy ease. Indeed, the look on his grin-filled face suggested
that he was enjoying himself perhaps even more than he really should, and
whilst Gareth slid down to suck on the opponent's firm, aching shaft, the
ferocity of Todd's battering indicated that some sort of frothy outburst
would result sooner rather than later.

                Not that that was going to distract the young striker from
his intent, as he pushed his way in through the stranger's straddled legs
so as to mouth the tasty, oozing organ that lay throbbing in between. It
was by no means the biggest shaft that he'd ever encountered – possibly
Donkey would claim that mighty honour – but it was still a good seven
inches and had a distinct girth to it that filled Gareth's cheeks up very
nicely. What was more, it didn't seem to taste quite as tart as other
knob-heads he had sucked, but rather had a certain sweetness about it that
actually resulted in him sucking even more keenly than usual.

                He slipped further and further along the bulging pole,
until at last he could feel the swollen head bashing against the back of
his mouth – whilst the fellow's balls slapped neatly against his chin,
resulting in something of a deep-felt, satisfied groan on the part of the
City forward. After all, what greater pleasure can a fellow have than to
find his lips lapping around another man's tackle? – feeling the pulsating
hardness swill across his searching tongue, probing the intimate hollows of
his cheeks. Certainly Gareth would have found it difficult to argue
otherwise on that matter – especially right now, stuffed as he was with
seven inches of prime man-meat, which he could not help but note was
providing him with quite a healthy drink of pre-cum.

                The room was heaving now – filled with the hustle and
bustle of a group of well-groomed studs, all of whom were nearing the
culmination of their excitement. Indeed, several declarations of `Oh, my
God ...' and `Fuck, I'm gonna shoot ...' appeared to indicate the pitch to
which the scene had finally turned. True, no-one there really yearned to
conclude their antics, but human-nature was overcoming their desire to
continue – and the fact of the matter is that young cocks that get rubbed
and sucked have a tendency to eventually spew copious amounts of man-juice
given half the chance. Indeed, it really came as no great wonder when Todd
pulled away from the butt-hole he was fucking and proceeded to display his
appreciation by ejaculating a grand quantity of jizz from his pretty,
shaved balls, across the opponent's back. Bolt after bolt of cum splattered
through the air – leaving Matt with little inspiration other than to don a
rubber so as he could at last fuck the miserable bastard himself. As he did
so, however, the skipper merely added to the fury by proceeding to lick
away the trails of his own spunk from the apportioned rear – noting, as he
did so, that Donkey's overwhelming monster appeared to be pushing deeper
into that butt than any other cock had possibly ever been.

                Foster's ride was short but extremely pleasurable –
culminating in another fine eruption (the umpteenth in that changing room
those past five minutes). Moments on and the blue-eyed bottom was himself
blowing forth – this time over Gareth's sleek, hairless chest beneath.
Spunk, it seemed, was the order of the moment – gushing in every direction
as though it were going out of fashion and filling the air with its rich,
exquisite smell – but City's new striker had yet to empty his balls.
Needless to say, that was not going to continue to be the case for much
longer, and jumping onto the bench, he began to wank his shaft in the
direction of the opponent's face, unable to disguise the audacious look
within his light brown eyes.

                `Come on,' he urged, sperm trickling down his front –
noting the guy's reluctance as he spoke – `open up ...'

                The fellow meekly did as he was told, as Gareth slapped his
skin harder and harder – the surge of spunk beginning to swell at the base
of his shaft as he did so.

                `Say when!' he laughed – aware now that he was the centre
of almost the entire room's attention.

                Not that the lad ever had chance to reply. Before he knew
it, the first splash of cum had shot directly down his throat – followed by
a veritable shower of goodness that raised a manly cheer from everyone
around them. To his credit, the guy from the other team barely spilt a drop
– but then he was perhaps not unused to such attention. His team had gone
out to Wanderers in exactly the same round last season and no doubt much
the same sort of celebrations had taken place back then.

                And who said that the sparkle had gone out of the Cup ...?