Date: Fri, 03 Jul 1998 17:06:35 PDT
From: Austin Fan <fan_austin@hotmail.com>
Subject: Batigol

Obligatory warning: This story is intended for a mature audience. It 
contains descriptions of homosexual activity and spanking. If you are 
underage or if you live in an area where it is illegal to read about 
such matters, don't read this story or immigrate to Holland.

This story is pure fiction. Any similarity between the characters and
real people is purely coincidental.

Furthermore, English is not my first language, so please pardon any 
mistakes I may have made.

BATIGOL

Daniel Passarella sat in his tiny office. It was a hot afternoon in 
Buenos Aires. And that means really hot! But he was a stern 
disciplinarian, always expecting total commitment from his players and 
from himself. So despite of the intense heat he kept his jacket and tie 
on. He was now forty-five, a bit fatter than he once was, but his dark 
features showed he had once been a ruggedly handsome young man.

He had been the manager of the Argentine soccer-team for four years now. 
And now he faced his greatest challenge since becoming a coach: The 
World Cup in France. He knew the whole nation expected only one thing of 
him: Argentina's third world-title. Anything less would mean mourning 
for the nation and the sack for him.

Passarella had tasted success himself. When he was just twenty-five, he 
had been the captain of the side that won the '78 title. And so many 
years later, he could still feel the ecstasy it had caused. In fact, 
thinking of that hot summer night always gave him a hard-on. And he 
frequently thought of it. He would love to join that selective club of 
people who had won the World Cup both as a player and as a manager. It 
would make him a legend in his country, perhaps even greater than that 
coke-sniffing Maradona!

When he became manager, he immediately started to drill his players with 
military precision. He dictated the way his stars played, how they 
behaved and even how they looked. Out went the earrings and the long 
hair. Out went the junkies. And, according to the press, even the 
homosexuals were thrown out of the selection. But it was never reported 
how many or who.

Up to now Passarella had been reasonably successful.  Out of fifty-one 
matches his team had won thirty-one. And the main reason for this 
success was the new star of Argentine football: Gabriel Omar Batistuta. 
Still only twenty-nine he had already scored forty-three times. He was 
the coach's biggest hope and biggest problem. If any player could win 
him the World Cup, it was Batigol. But he was also the wildest player of 
the lot. And ever since he had gone to Italy, his behavior had gone from 
bad to worse. He would stay up far too late with his friends after 
matches. He would arrive late for training. And worst of all, his hair 
was too long.

Passarella knew he could not dump the golden boy. And deep in his heart 
he did not want to. But he had to do something. So he had ordered the 
player to come to his office after the match. He did not know exactly 
what he was going to do. But he sure as hell was going to do something.

Things started as wrongly as they could have. Instead of knocking, 
Batistuta, dressed only in his football-shorts and a T-shirt, just 
walked into the room. 
"Hey coach, here I am. What's up?"

Coach could hardly hide his anger. Today all the major soccer-players 
were millionaires. But this was his office and he was boss. He looked at 
his star.
"Get out and knock!"

Batigol gave him a blank. He thought the situation was ridiculous. The 
door had been open anyway. But he knew his manager well enough to know 
he meant it. So he did as he was told. He left the room and knocked. No 
answer. He knocked again. No answer. Finally, the coach ordered him in.

He let Batistuta stand in front of his desk, like a schoolboy waiting 
for impositions. Passarella took a good look at him. He could see why 
the young man was so popular. Not only was he a tremendous athlete, but 
he was also very attractive. Blonder than most of his compatriots, well 
built and with a handsome face, it was no surprise that Batistuta had 
done some modelling. And he had beautiful legs, as the coach could see 
only to well.

"Batistuta, what am I supposed to do about you?"

The star smiled nervously at his coach. "What do you mean, coach?"

"You're always late and your hair is a mess! You're not a faggot, are 
you?"
This was the first time anyone had asked that of the player. He replied 
with an even wryer smile.

"You know I hate this kind of behavior." the coach barked. "Where do you 
think you are? This is my team and you will do as I please!"

Batistuta started to feel a bit angry too. Here he was, a star, a 
multi-millionaire, the idol of millions, and he was being spoken to as 
if he was a minor.

"Let me tell you something." Passarella continued. "You may think you're 
quite a big-shot, but if I don't put you into the side, you're nothing!"
"And if I don't play, you'll end up with nothing!"

This was the last thing the young stud should have said. His coach, 
already a man who would easily lose his temper, now shook with anger. 
"Come here!" he shouted.

Such was the fury in Passarella's voice, that the player instinctively 
obeyed. He slowly walked behind the desk and to his astonishment, the 
coach grabbed him around the waist. Then he felt a kick on his ankles, 
lost his equilibrium and fell, right across his coach's lap. 

Almost simultaneously he felt the first blow on his ass. It hurt as 
hell. And the thin fabric of his shorts did very little to ease it. 
Before he could scream, he felt the second blow and the third. He tried 
to stand up, but the coach grabbed his long hair.

"You little shit!" yelled Passarella. "You faggot! Who do you think you 
are!"

"No! Stop!"

The blows followed at a frantic pace. All Batistuta could do was fight, 
but it was a fight he could not win. Whenever he tried to free himself, 
the coach would pull his hair. The pain would be too much. And when he 
just rested on his coach's lap, the blows would return. 

 "No! Don't hurt me!" begged the player. He could feel his ass catching 
fire.
The coach kept slapping Gabriel's ass for minutes. The pain became worse 
and worse. Batistuta considered himself a strong man, but this was more 
than he had ever experienced. Every blow would be just as devastating as 
the last. 

Frantically Passarella continued beating. He looked down at the player 
with intense pleasure. It was clear who was the boss now. The gasps, 
screams and sighs were like music to his ears. He had never intended to 
do something like this, but the sight of the helpless star in his lap 
gave him an ever growing appetite. 

Suddenly, he pulled Batistuta's shorts down. The young man's butt had 
already turned red. And what a beautiful butt it was. Firm, with nice 
round cheeks and a smooth virgin-like crack. Hungrily the coach slammed 
the ass again and again. But the young jock did not beg anymore and the 
screams turned into groans. He knew he could only put up with his fate 
and take what was coming. Take it like the grown man he was.

Passarella must have felt this too, because his beating became less 
frequent and less hard. He really enjoyed having Batistuta in his power. 
He loved it! He loved beating some discipline into the impertinent hunk.

"You little brat, promise you'll never be late anymore!" he groaned. The 
helpless player could only whisper in reply. "I won't. Honest."

Wham! Another strike hit the raw ass. And to the coach's surprise the 
warm flesh felt really good. Without realising it at first, he let his 
hand rest longer on it.

"No more wild parties till the World Cup is over, you little fag!" Wham!

"No sir!"

And as the young stud lay helplessly in the lap of the older man, the 
coach felt a new feeling coming over him. Lust. He wanted this ass! This 
beautiful strong virgin-butt was going to be his. Passarella slammed 
once more and stopped. He slowly caressed the blistered ass. Slowly but 
strongly. He grabbed the flesh, moulding it. It felt terrific.

"Coach?" 

Wham! Another blow.

"You take what you deserve, you faggot! You're mine!"

Batistuta could not believe what was happening to him. First the manager 
had humiliated him like a small child. And now he was stroking his ass! 
And he called HIM a faggot! Yet this was a lot better than taking a 
beating. 

The strong hands of the coach felt great on his tight butt. He knew it 
was a sensitive part of his body. Whenever he had sex with his 
girlfriend, or someone else's girlfriend for that matter, he wanted her 
to feel his ass. Grip it as he fucked the hell out of her. But this was 
something else. Here was a grown man playing with his butt. It made his 
head spin. He knew it was wrong, immoral even, but he really enjoyed it.

He enjoyed it so much, that he could feel his big dick stiffen. He 
couldn't believe it. With every caress, with every stroke, his cock got 
harder. His coach was giving him a hard-on!

Batigol was not the only one who noticed it. Daniel Passarella could 
feel it too. The cock started pressing against his right leg. It 
startled him. This was supposed to be punishment, but the player seemed 
to like it. And the cock was huge! It was at least ten inches.

"You faggot! What's this then?"

Batistuta could not speak. He was too embarrassed. All he could do was 
groan in pleasure and shame.

Passarella for one moment did not know what to do. He could stop now and 
kick the bugger out of his office. That was probably the wise thing to 
do. But he didn't want to stop. He wanted this ass and he was going to 
have it. With his right hand he continued to feel it. With the other he 
reached under the helpless hunk and grabbed the stiff cock.

"You really like it, don't you?"

The footballer was bewildered. His coach held his dick and started to 
jerk!

"You like it, don't you faggot?"

"No!"

Wham! 

"Yes! I like it!"

There, he had said it. And it was true. He loved the feeling of a strong 
hand, a man's hand, on his rockhard cock. 

The coach also liked it, although he would never admit it. It had been a 
long time since he last had another man's penis in his hand. Once it had 
been part of growing up, playing with other boys. But this was very 
different: jerking off a grownup. He tried not to think and continued to 
grab the player's meat, his hand moving faster and faster.

"Oh yeah!" Batistuta panted. "That's it man!" 

Passarella now jerked frantically. He could feel the jock was close to 
coming.

"Oh man! It feels so good!"

The star started to shake. The tension in his balls became too much. He 
pushed himself away from the coach, drew himself up and grabbed his huge 
cock. Two short jerks did it.

"OH YEAH!"

He closed his eyes. A stream of sperm squirted from his big dick. 

"OOOOHHHH!" More semen. 

"OH YEAH!" 

He was exhausted. But he felt terrific. Gabriel opened his eyes, smiling 
shyly. 

He stared into the furious eyes of his manager. There was Passarella, 
one of the sharpest dressers in Buenos Aires, his Versace-jacket covered 
in cum! Batistuta could not help it: he burst into laughter.

Mistake number two! The coach had no difficulty submitting the tired 
player once more. He grabbed him by the hair again and pushed him over 
the desk. 
"You think that's funny, faggot? Wait till I'm through with you!"

Passarella started to beat Batistuta's ass again. Harder than he had 
done before. 

"Oh no! Please, coach! Don't!"

But the coach was in such a rage he continued beating so long and so 
hard that the young man could hardly take it. Blow after blow would hit 
his sore butt until he fell flat on the desk in surrender.

"Please coach, stop! I'll do anything you want!"

That was enough for the moment. The manager paused. With a hoarse voice 
he said: "First you'll have a haircut tomorrow. I don't want you to look 
like a sissy!"

"Alright."

"And second, I want your ass!"

With that he felt the raw butt again. With his middle finger he touched 
the tight crack.

"No," Gabriel whispered.

The coach continued playing with the stud's ass. He reached into a desk 
drawer and got out a tube of grease. He put a blob on his finger and 
shoved it up the crack.

Batistuta now realised what awaited him. He desperately struggled to get 
up, but the coach had kept himself in great shape. Without much 
difficulty he restrained the exhausted young man. 

Passarella shoved his finger up the ass again.

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes! You're gonna love this, faggot!"

The ass was tight. But after some more fingering and a lot of slapping 
it looked good enough. The coach grabbed his star player by the hair 
with one hand and with the other removed his trousers. He could hardly 
believe what he saw. His cock was larger than ever. Not quite as big as 
the monster he had jerked earlier, but not by much now. And it was so 
stiff!

He shoved another glob of grease up Batistuta's ass and with one wild 
thrust he rammed his fat cock up the virgin crack.

"AAAHHHHH!!!"

Gabriel had never felt such a pain in his life. The pain was intense. 
For a while there was nothing but excruciating pain.

The coach on the other hand had never felt anything so good! This tight 
hole felt better on his cock than all the wet pussy he had ever fucked. 
He kept his dick rest in the ass for a minute or so until he was ready. 
Then he started. He slowly moved his fat cock out, in, out, in the ass.

"Aaah!" 

Batistuta's ass was still on fire. With every pump came more pain. And 
the thought of being fucked drove him mad. 

"Oh no!"

Faster and faster the coach rammed his cock up the asshole. He was 
enjoying himself. And he loved hearing the desperate cries of his 
victim. It made his hard-on even stiffer.

But the cries lessened. Batistuta's ass started to get used to the big 
dick inside. And a new sensation came over the star. A feeling he had 
never had before. Whenever it hit the inside of his ass, his own cock 
would stiffen. It was incredible, but he started to like it! He thought 
he was losing his mind: another man was screwing him, like he was a 
girl, and he loved it! He loved it up his tight chute. He groaned.

"Oh yeah! Fuck me!"

Passarella slapped him on the cheeks.

"I SAID you would love it, you slut!"

"Yes, I love it! Give it to me!"

The coach drove himself deeper into Gabriel's rectum. His groin and his 
head felt close to exploding. He could hardly believe he loved fucking 
another man so much.

"Take it all, man!"

"Oh yes! Fuck me hard! Harder!"

"Oh yeah! I'm gonna come!"

"Shoot it man!"

Then Passarella's body started to shiver. He rammed his cock all the way 
into the player's ass. Then he pulled it out and wave after wave of cum 
shot out.

"AAAHHHH! Fucking hell!"

The sperm squirted all over Batistuta's gorgeous body. It seemed it 
would never end.

"OH YEAH!"

They were silent for a moment. Both felt exhausted now.

Passarella spoke first.

"Gabriel, I hope you've learned your lesson. I'm your coach and I want 
you to do as I tell you. That's the only way we can achieve anything. 
Together."

Batistuta smiled.

"Yes Daniel"

He leaned forward. Their lips met. They kissed.


THE END