KISMET

BY

HUGH COX

 

T

his story contains scenes of a sexual nature involving adult males and boys under the age of eighteen. The characters and events portrayed are totally fictional and any similarities to genuine people or events are entirely coincidental.

Note for Americans: in this story football refers to the sport you call soccer.

 


 

PART ONE - ME

 

I

suppose I first knew that I was gay seven years ago when, at the age of ten, my choirmaster raped me and I actually enjoyed it. Perhaps `enjoy' is going too far; it was an uncomfortable, not to say painful, experience but the pleasure that I derived from it certainly outweighed those minor inconveniences. Most of this tale occurred over the last year or so, since shortly after my sixteenth birthday but I thought that opening sentence might grab the reader's attention before I start on the backstory.

I was born in March 2000, in a non-descript town in the Midlands of England; my mother is a local but my father was Welsh, which explains how I came by the name of Rhys Jones. He was an engineer, working in the oil industry and was often away from home for weeks and sometimes months at a time. My happiest early memories are of me, sitting on his knee being kissed and cuddled after he had returned home from one of those regular absences. Before you start jumping to conclusions, this is an adult-youth story, not an incest one and he never touched me in any way that could be considered inappropriate let alone sexual.

Just after I turned seven, my world fell apart when he was killed in an accident in some desert hellhole in the Middle East. Kids are remarkably resilient, however and I was used to not having him around, so I recovered from my grief fairly quickly but his loss left a gap in my life that needed to be filled; I just didn't realise it at the time. My mother seemed to be harder hit than I was and became a bit `weird'; turning to religion to help her come to terms with widowhood. Naturally that meant that I was dragged along to church as well and it was there that my singing voice was discovered and, at eight years old, I found myself in the church choir.

The choirmaster, Mr McIvor, took an instant liking to me and once again I found myself sitting on a man's knee being kissed and cuddled on a regular basis. His touches were somewhat different from my father's and gradually his hands worked their way inside my clothing, caressing my bare chest and thighs before eventually he began fondling my genitals; once he'd given me my first dry orgasm I was hooked. Looking back at photographs of me at that time, I see an extremely pretty, blond, blue-eyed boy and I can imagine that, to a pederast like Mr McIvor, I was irresistible. After warnings to not tell anyone about what we did and dire threats as to what retribution I would receive should I do so, he moved on to oral and then introduced me to his cock. By the time I was ten, I was an experienced and competent cock sucker who couldn't get enough of a man's penis.

I don't believe that you can make someone gay; it's too easy to go from there to turning a gay person straight and that's a very dangerous idea. I do, however, believe that our early experiences can influence our preferences within whatever sexuality nature has given us. My happiest memories are of my father, when I was between the ages of four and six and he was between twenty nine and thirty one. To this day I'm attracted to masculine men in their late twenties and early thirties and I'm sure that, subconsciously, I'm seeking a surrogate dad to replace the one that I lost. Mr McIvor was at the upper end of my age of attraction and, although he wasn't especially good looking, he filled that role in my life and I thoroughly enjoyed what we did together.

In the autumn after I was ten, the church held its annual harvest service and afterwards Mr McIvor asked me to stay behind and help him to tidy up the choir room. This was a regular occurrence and my innocent mother, totally ignorant of what the choirmaster was doing to her son, was always happy to let me help him; on this occasion, however, things were about to move to another level. Once the room was tidy, I sat on his knee and we went through our normal ritual; kissing, caressing, fondling and then sucking. This time he stopped before either of us had climaxed, bent me over his desk, parted my buttocks and began to rim me. I thought licking someone's bum hole was gross but it felt incredible and, if he was prepared to do it, I wasn't about to complain. He licked and sucked for a while before he managed to push his tongue inside me and I wriggled with pleasure throughout. I sighed with disappointment when he pulled out but that was just the start; a wet finger replaced his tongue and, after a moment's discomfort, I felt really good again. Then he curled his finger and began to rub the front wall of my rectum at the base of my rock hard, three inch cocklet; when he hit my prostate I nearly jumped out of my skin.

He hadn't given me any warning of what to expect and I had no idea what a prostate gland was let alone the effects that massaging it could cause. When he started to withdraw his digit I naturally pushed back, trying to re-establish contact, which made him chuckle and call me `a natural born bottom'. Two fingers followed the first, which were uncomfortable and then three which were painful but there was much worse to come. He stood up, took something out of the desk drawer and then I felt a coldness as he applied lube to my anus. Then his cockhead pressed against my hole and I finally realised what he was about to do; I began to struggle and say `no' but he held me down and carried on regardless.

Strange as it may seem, I had never considered what we did up to that time to be gay; it was just a man and boy having fun. This was totally different, I knew that `bum-fucking' was what queers did and I wasn't queer; or at least I didn't think that I was. I continued to struggle and clenched my cheeks to prevent him from gaining entry but he leaned over and growled in my ear, "Stop struggling, you're just making things worse for yourself. I'm going to do this whether you like it or not and it's going to hurt. If you relax it'll only hurt a bit but if you continue like this it'll hurt a lot; it's your choice."

I've always been a practical boy and realised that he was right, there was no point in fighting the inevitable. I relaxed as best I could in the circumstances and he lined up again and began to push his cock into my hole. Later I realised that, at six inches and fairly slim, he wasn't particularly large but at that moment it seemed to be enormous. It was also incredibly painful; if this was `only hurting a bit'; God only knew what `hurting a lot' would be like. Once his glans was inside he stopped pushing, stroked my flanks and whispered encouraging words in my ear; at least I presume that's what they were, I was too busy sobbing to listen to him.

After several minutes the pain subsided a little and I stopped crying. He asked how I was and I told him that it felt better; then he began to push forward again, moving slowly but steadily inwards until he bottomed out. For a second time he paused to allow me to get used to having my rectum filled with man cock before he began to fuck me; moving in and out with long, slow strokes. I realised that he was using lubricant but he might as well have wrapped his cock in sandpaper considering how much my arse burned as he fucked me. Once more I started crying, shouting for him to stop and complaining about the pain; I was wasting my breath and he continued without further pause.

If things had continued in that vein, I don't know what the final outcome would've been but after several minutes of fucking me in this manner he pulled out abruptly, turned me around and lifted me onto the desk, laying me down on my back, raising my legs and pushing them back until my knees were by my shoulders. He told me to hold them there and then re-entered after applying more lube. There was no immediately perceptible relief as far as I was concerned but he adjusted our position a couple of times and suddenly things changed for the better when his cock hit my prostate. The look on my face must've told him that he'd achieved his goal, because he grinned and started to fuck me faster; each stroke causing his cockhead to rub over my sensitive gland, sending waves of pleasure coursing through my young body and overcoming the pain that had not yet dissipated.

It was at this point that I began to enjoy the experience and my life would never be the same again. My cocklet had been soft from the time that he'd first attempted penetration but now it woke up and my full, glorious three inches lay hard on my belly. Somewhere deep inside, strange feelings began to build and I realised that, if he kept fucking me, I was going to climax without touching myself. He speeded up, his breathing became ragged and he gripped my legs more tightly as his own orgasm approached. I closed my eyes and let the sensations overpower me; my climax hit like an avalanche, my first anal orgasm being far more intense than any previous one had been and I passed out for a few seconds. When I came to Mr McIvor was leaning over and kissing me, having cum just after I had. When he broke the kiss he smiled and asked, "Did my little gay boy enjoy that?"

I opened my mouth to protest that I wasn't gay but, before I spoke, my brain processed the information and I realised that he was right; I was gay and, despite the pain, I had indeed enjoyed the experience. I closed my mouth and simply nodded my head in the affirmative, words were unnecessary. He moved down and began licking and sucking my hole; when he came back up and kissed me again I could taste his cum together with another tangy flavour that I realised must be my rectal juices. It should've grossed me out but it didn't, I loved the taste and from that moment I became a confirmed man-loving gay boy.

For the next two and a half years he fucked me as often as we could be alone together and my mother never suspected a thing. Then, in the spring of 2013, things seemed to cool off. At first I thought I'd done something to upset him but eventually he explained that I'd started puberty and, as he liked pre-pubescent boys, our relationship was at an end. I quit the choir, telling my mother that my voice was starting to break and I didn't want it to go completely in the middle of a hymn.

After the years of man-boy sex it seemed odd to be reliant on my right hand for relief but I had no interest in lads my own age and didn't have a clue how to find another man who liked boys. The main object of my teenage desire was a large poster of Chelsea and England striker Steve Lewis, which hung on the wall at the foot of my bed; the poster was based on an advertisement for aftershave and he was wearing only a pair of shorts. He was six feet one and a hundred and ninety pounds of athletic masculinity; an incredibly handsome, eclectic mix of European, West Indian and Asian ancestry and I wanked myself stupid fantasising that I was being fucked by this man-god. Unfortunately he was straight and married to Tracy Holland, one of the Salsa Girls. They were a girl band trio that, for obvious reasons I'd never been into and she was the best looking but least talented of the three; now I hated her with a passion.

Another two and a half years passed, my voice had settled down and I'd started singing again; no longer a boy soprano but now a rather pleasant tenor. For some time people had been trying to persuade me to audition for a TV talent show called Star Quality and finally I got up enough courage to do just that. I was nervous as hell at the audition but gave it my best shot and sang well, even if I say so myself. The judges were complimentary but said that I lacked the extra something they were looking for and suggested that I try again when I was a bit older. Although I'd failed, the experience had aided my self-confidence considerably and it was boosted again a few days later when one of the show's producers rang and made me a proposition.

"Do you know how One Direction got started?" he asked.

"Yeah, they won The X Factor," I replied, puzzled as to where this was going.

"Actually they came third," he corrected me. "The point is, they auditioned separately as solo acts and failed to progress, then they were put together as a group and the rest is history. We want to try something similar and we'd like you to try out for the group which is going to be called The Principals. We've got three other guys, aged seventeen and eighteen, lined up and we like the idea of three hunks and a cute, younger boy. Are you interested?"

Was I interested? A chance to be in a group with three hunks; of course I was interested. My second audition was even better than the first and they told me immediately that the position was mine if I wanted it; I didn't need a second invitation.

The producers got us together in London and we each made a little introductory presentation about ourselves. I decided that honesty was the best policy and told them that I was gay; I didn't think it would be a problem but I'd have hated for it to become one later if no-one knew. Everyone was fine with my sexuality but I was strongly advised not to come out publicly while I was still only fifteen. "We don't want any adverse publicity along the lines that we're advocating underage sex," one of the producers told me. "Once you're sixteen, it's entirely up to you whether you come out or not." Unfortunately, the others were all straight and, although the target audience of teenage girls would undoubtedly consider them to be hunks, they were too young for my taste. My job, it seemed, was to appeal to pre-teen girls and also to be a reassuring presence for those parents who might consider some of the group's dance routines to be too raunchy for their delicate daughters.

At the start there was some rivalry between the other three, all of them trying to be top dog but our mentor soon put a stop to that; she had very definite ideas as to how she wanted us lined up on stage. Tommy Ross, the eldest and tallest was placed centre stage with Calum Johnson and Grant Adams flanking him and, although everyone had a turn with lead vocals, they were predominately backing singers and dancers while I stood in front as lead singer as I had the best voice in the group. We sailed through the auditions; not surprising really, they'd hardly have set us up just to kick us out at the first stage. Once the televised stage began, it was obvious that we were going to be one of the most popular acts and were consistently amongst the top three. By the time of the final, just before Christmas, I was convinced that we were going to win but we came up agonisingly short, finishing a close second. It didn't stop us getting a recording deal, however and, although we were on contracts that saw a large proportion of the money we earned going to the show's main producer, we were still set to be extremely wealthy young men.

Our first single was the song we performed in the final and it went straight into the charts at number one, although it only stayed there for one week and had fallen to number three by Christmas. The winner of the show didn't even make the top ten; not for the first time a talent show runner-up would go on to greater success than the act which had beaten them. We recorded an album in January and a concert tour was arranged for the spring where we were joined by the act which had finished third. The tour ended in May and, since I was now sixteen, I took advice from our publicist, Mark Thomas, as to how best to come out. We decided that an upcoming BBC radio interview with a music journalist called Sue Baines would provide the perfect opportunity.

I was very nervous but the other guys kept up a constant barrage of mickey taking banter and that helped me to relax. Sue had been told what I wanted to say and led me through it very skilfully. The only sticky moment came after I'd said that I didn't have a partner at present and she asked if there was someone in particular that I liked. I couldn't think of anyone off the cuff and froze for a couple of seconds. Then one of the other guys, Calum, chipped in with, "Tell her about your fantasy man, Rhys."

"Oh, who's this fantasy figure then?" she asked, smiling with encouragement.

"Steve Lewis, the football player," I replied blushing; it made me sound like a kid with a schoolboy crush.

She laughed, "At least you've got good taste. There are about twenty million women in this country who have the same fantasy."

The response to the interview was universally positive; we didn't seem to lose any popularity amongst the young girls but gained a fair few gay men. Our publicist, Mark, suggested that I might not want to read some of the fan mail that came in but I insisted on seeing it all and some of it was hilarious. I read the best bits out to the other guys and we all rolled about laughing at the things that men wanted to do to me; it was certainly more interesting than the soppy stuff they received from teenage girls.

In June we were back in the studio; for a group like ours fame can be very fleeting and we couldn't afford to rest on our laurels. Despite the generic term `boyband', we were very much a group, not a band; we sang and danced but professional session musicians provided the music and one of those was Matt Newton, our drummer. He'd been around whenever we'd been in the studio, without the two of us ever really having a proper conversation; this time he sought me out when we were having a break and started to chat me up. He was around twenty five and reasonably attractive; I'd been celibate for three years so I didn't take much persuading to go out with him.

The standard pubs and clubs were obviously off limits since I was only sixteen but he was a member of a private club and took me there. They had an over eighteen rule but, as I was now a bona fide celebrity and Matt's guest, they were happy to make an exception in my case. He had a couple of beers but I stuck to soft drinks, not that they'd have served me alcohol if I'd asked and then we danced when the music slowed. For the first time in my life I was able to dance with another guy in public, my arms around his waist and head on his shoulder while his hands caressed my arse cheeks.

Afterwards we went to his place; I was now living with my mother in a two bedroom flat in west London and, although she had no problems with me being gay, I didn't like the idea of bringing a twenty five year old man home for sex. We started on the couch in his living room, a kiss turning into a tongue battle, hands on one another's swelling groin, cocks freed and then I was going down on him; I might have been out of practice but it's one of those `once learned, never forgotten' skills. Then he reciprocated and I was deep throated for the first time; my pre-pubescent cocklet had never been long enough to make it into Mr McIvor's throat but Matt was able to take the six inches that I sported now.

We retired to the bedroom, clothes off, me on my back, feet on his shoulders; then his cock was pressing against my anus demanding to be allowed in, I relaxed as best I could and acquiesced. Now my lack of practice really told, I was tight like a virgin again after three years of celibacy and it hurt; not like the first time perhaps but painful nevertheless. Matt was patient and gentle, allowing me to become accustomed to his seven inches before he began to fuck me slowly. The pain soon dissipated and the well-remembered pleasure took over. I heard myself saying "faster, harder" and he complied eagerly, pounding my arse, the sucking sound of his pistoning cock competing with the slapping of skin against skin and my own incoherent vocalisations. Then the old, familiar feelings began inside as my climax approached; I came, spunk spouting and splattering across my chest and belly, my sphincter contracting and then Matt's orgasm hit and he filled my hole with hot man juice. When it was over we lay together and agreed that it had been fun but not the start of a long term relationship. We both got what we wanted from the night and now we'd go our separate ways and maybe one day we'd do it again.

So far, coming out had been positive but now I discovered the negative side. One of the biggest, richest recording artists in the world held a summer party every August at his mansion in the Chiltern Hills, The Principals were the latest `big thing' and we rated an invitation that year. We were excited at the opportunity to rub shoulders with the great and the good of the British music business and, to begin with anyway, I had a lot of fun. After a while I noticed that each of my mates had an attractive young lady with him, whereas I had an old, obese movie producer drooling all over me; one of the guys said that his name was Harry Wankstain but I'm pretty sure that was a joke. There we were, a sixteen year old, blond, blue-eyed, five feet seven inch, one hundred and forty pound boy and a sixty something, grey haired but balding, five feet eight inch, two hundred and forty pound tub of lard; the other guys obviously thought it was comic but to me it was tragic. If he'd just chatted me up I could've talked politely to him but he was all over me like a cheap suit and, no matter how much I tried, I couldn't seem to keep his hands off my arse. Eventually the sounds of a couple arguing in another room distracted his attention for a few moments, long enough for me to make my escape and head out into the garden.

The grounds were extensive although it was dark and therefore there wasn't much to see. Low powered lighting allowed me to see the paths but everything else was invisible. I wandered along, head down, hands in pockets, considering the state of my life. Professionally things couldn't be any better, the group was doing spectacularly well and we'd even started to make inroads in America, with a tour there being mooted for the following year. It was my personal life that was the problem; one night stands with guys like Matt were all very well but I wanted something more. I wanted to come to parties like this with a partner; an older, masculine guy who'd stand with a protective arm around me and keep fat, lecherous arseholes away; then take me home and pound me mercilessly into the mattress.

I reached the bottom of the garden, turned around and headed back towards the house, still deep in thought and oblivious to what was going on around me. As I reached a turn in the path, I became aware of a large figure hurrying towards me. There was no time to take avoiding action or call out before we collided; it was like walking into a brick wall. The other person's hip slammed into my solar plexus, knocking the wind out of me and I flew backwards, hands still in pockets, landing heavily on the path and striking my head on the stones. I was vaguely aware of a voice saying, "Shit, I'm sorry. Are you OK?" before I blacked out.

 


 

PART TWO - HIM

 

S

amuel Lewis arrived in Britain in 1949, the eight year old accompanying his parents when they emigrated from Jamaica. The family settled in a Lancashire mill town and, like many West Indian immigrants of the time, his father found work with British Railways, the recently nationalised transportation company. Sam grew up dealing with the same casual racism that all his compatriots had to face; in 1963 he married Judy and two years later their son, Michael was born. Nothing special about that you might think, except that Judy was white and suddenly the racism became more personal and far more vicious. Her parents bitterly opposed the relationship and, when she refused to give it up, cut her off completely. Michael too faced taunts about his ancestry, words like mongrel and half-breed being added to the standard coon and nigger; he rose above them, his father's Jamaican, laid back, cool and his mother's Lancastrian pragmatism combining to create a boy who became popular with all but a few bigoted idiots.

Jim Roberts was thirty four when the company he worked for sent him to manage their Hong Kong office in 1962. No-one, least of all Jim, expected that he and Lok Yee, a twenty year old secretary, would fall in love with one another. The company strongly disapproved of the relationship and gave Jim an ultimatum, the girl or the job. To everybody's amazement Jim chose the girl and told the company where they could stick the job. The pair married and, after several months of Home Office red tape, he brought his young wife home to Lancashire. In 1966 their first child was born, a daughter they named Sapphire.

Mike Lewis and Saffy Roberts met at school in 1980; the strapping fifteen year old mulatto boy and the petite fourteen year old Eurasian girl fell in love at first sight. They didn't have to worry about disapproving parents as both came from mixed race families but, while Britain in the 1980s had improved significantly from the 1960s as far as attitudes to race went, racism hadn't gone away and they still suffered more than their fair share of abuse from outsiders. Most people, including both sets of parents, assumed that the affair would peter out as did the majority of such relationships but the young couple proved them all wrong. In 1986 they married, a daughter arriving a year later and a son, Stephen, two years after that.

Nature loves genetic mix and one way in which that manifests itself is the tendency for people of mixed race to be physically attractive; Steve Lewis was walking, talking proof of that. The half Caucasian, quarter Afro-Caribbean and quarter Asian combination produced a boy with above average intelligence, prodigious athletic ability and extraordinary good looks. He excelled at any sport he tried but football was his first love and, by the time he was eight years old, his local club had signed him up to its youth programme. The club wasn't in the Premier League but was nationally recognised as having one of the finest youth development systems in the country and many of its former members went on to play at the highest level.

At twelve Steve came under the tutelage of Tim Kelly; the man was an excellent coach who had often been asked why he didn't work at the higher level that his talents merited. His standard reply, that he got more satisfaction from seeing young kids develop into top players than from making small improvements to those who had already made it, merely hid the truth; the man was a predatory paedophile who used his position to abuse young boys. A boy as good looking as Steve could hardly fail to attract the attentions of such a man, so it didn't take long for Kelly to invent an excuse to call the lad into his office.

"You've got talent son," he told Steve, "but that's not enough on its own. You've got to have desire and dedication if you want to get to the top. Are you willing to do whatever it takes to become a professional football player?"

"Oh yes," the unsuspecting boy replied.

"Will you do whatever I tell you, without question?"

"Of course I will."

Kelly moved his chair away from his desk, told Steve to kneel down in front of him, pulled out his cock and instructed the startled boy to start sucking it. He and his best friend had been playing with one another's dicks for a while and had recently begun sucking them, so the principle wasn't entirely alien to him but the idea of doing it to an adult cock was daunting. He paused doubtfully for a few moments, so Kelly leaned over, took hold of the boy's head and pulled it towards its intended target. Steve grasped the man's cock, lowered his head and began licking and sucking as if it had been his friend rather than his coach. His friend's cock wasn't seven and a half inches though while this one soon was and he had to rapidly adjust his technique accordingly. He soon got the hang of it and the man allowed him to concentrate on the first few inches and didn't try to force it into the lad's throat, there'd be plenty of opportunity for that in the months ahead. After several minutes the man warned him that he was about to cum and told him to swallow it all; a couple of seconds later Steve felt the hot jizz pump into his mouth and, as he swallowed it and sucked out the residue, he enjoyed the taste of semen for the first time.

Sucking Kelly's cock became a regular occurrence over the next few months, the boy's technique improved quickly and before long he was deep throating as if he'd been doing it all his life. To begin with Steve convinced himself that he was only doing what he had to in order to keep his dream of becoming a professional football player alive; he didn't enjoy it and he definitely wasn't gay. As time passed that conviction lessened and he realised that, even though he didn't find Kelly attractive, he looked forward to and even started to enjoy sucking the man's cock. He did draw the line at fucking, however; when the man tried that on, Steve refused point blank and Kelly didn't force the issue. Steve was a good enough player to take such a stand, the man was fully aware of the boy's talent and couldn't afford to release him; another club would sign him and make Kelly look stupid. Not all the boys were so fortunate and many of them had to choose between giving up on their dreams and allowing themselves to be fucked. Kelly took what pleasure he could from Steve's mouth and took out his frustrations on the arses of the others.

When he was fourteen the development of Steve's sexuality took another twist. His age group were using a changing room which shared toilets and a communal shower with the one next door, which was being used by a group of twelve year olds. While they were showering he caught one of the younger boys watching him and, although the lad looked away as soon as Steve's gaze fell upon him, the elder boy hadn't failed to notice the pure lust in the younger one's eyes. For some reason that he didn't understand, the idea that the boy fancied him excited Steve and he decided to get to know him better.

The boy's name was Phillip Caldwell and he attended the same school as Steve although, being two years apart in age, the pair had never spoken. The following day Steve approached the boy at break time and, under the pretence of wanting to discuss football club matters, took him to one side for a chat.

"Do you want to hang out after school?" he asked, having decided that a bold approach was best.

"Y . . . Yeah, that would be great," the boy replied, amazed that this older stud, whom he hero worshipped from afar, would deign to speak to him let alone spend time with him.

They went to Steve's house, his parents were at work and his sister passed them on her way out as well, seemingly uninterested in why her brother was with an obviously younger boy. He took Phil to his bedroom where they talked football for a while before he asked, "Do you do stuff with Kelly?"

The lad blushed and stammered, "Y . . . Yeah, sometimes."

"Me too," Steve replied reassuringly.

"Really?" the boy looked up in surprise.

"Yeah, I think most of us do. What do you do, suck? Fuck?" When the boy nodded in the affirmative he continued, "Do you like being fucked?"

"It's OK I guess but I'd rather it was with someone else."

"Who?"

"I . . . I pretend I'm with you when he fucks me," the boy admitted, blushing a deeper red than before.

"Would you like me to fuck you?" Again the reply was a nod of the head.

Steve drew the boy down onto the bed, slipped an arm around his slim shoulders and brought their heads close together. He paused briefly to ensure that Phil was comfortable with what he was doing and then pressed his slightly parted lips to those of the younger boy; his tongue pressed forward and the lad's lips also parted to allow it in. They broke the kiss and undressed one another, each kissing and stroking the other's body as they did so. Steve placed a hand on Phil's chest, pushed him gently back onto the bed and went down on him, licking and sucking the lad's four inch rod and hairless balls before taking his cock in his mouth and bobbing up and down on it, stopping just before the boy climaxed. Then they switched, Phil doing for Steve what the elder boy had just done for him, before moving into a sixty nine and sucking one another to orgasm, one wet and one dry.

Phil moved onto all fours in the centre of the bed while Steve grabbed his wank lube from the bedside cabinet, applied a generous coating to his five inch teen cock and some to the younger boy's anus; then he lined up and pressed forward, sliding easily into a hole that was accustomed to accepting a man's penis. He began slowly, speeding up as he gained confidence and finally pounding Phil's arse when the lad encouraged him to go faster, harder and deeper. While Steve was fucking him, Phil's right hand was a blur as he jerked himself off and it was the younger boy who came first, his tightening sphincter triggering his partner's climax immediately afterwards. They slumped onto the bed; Steve spooned behind Phil with his arm across the boy's chest and they basked in their post coital afterglow. As he lay there, Steve finally came to terms with his sexuality; he was gay after all but he was a top not a bottom and he preferred guys younger than himself; older guys like Tim Kelly didn't interest him and he certainly had no intention of allowing himself to be fucked.

The two boys continued to see one another and have sex on and off for the next few months but, at the end of the football season, Phil was cut from the club's development programme and shortly after he and his family moved away from the area. Steve was disappointed to have lost his sex buddy but his own football career continued to go from strength to strength.

He turned sixteen in January 2005 and almost immediately found himself playing for the club's reserve team, scoring several goals in the process. On the last day of the season he was named as a substitute for the first team, coming off the bench with ten minutes to go, becoming the club's youngest ever player and almost immediately their youngest ever scorer. He started the following season back in the reserves but had several more first team opportunities and, during the second half of the season, became a regular. The next season he was top scorer with twenty six goals and topped that a year later with thirty three. Throughout this period he'd also played for the England under 18 and then the under 21 teams and, by the summer of 2008, several Premier League sides were showing a strong interest in signing the nineteen year old sensation.

A few of the top clubs made enquiries but Steve didn't want to play in the reserves or sit on the bench for one of those teams. Instead he signed a five year contract with another Lancashire side, one which had just been promoted to the top division for the third time in recent years. On each of the previous two occasions they'd been relegated after one season but a twenty goal striker might make all the difference. As it happened, Steve scored twenty one times and they secured their Premier League status with a game to spare, thus avoiding the nerve shredding experience of the final day scramble for survival.

Over the following three seasons the club consolidated its position, albeit as a solid if unspectacular mid-table side rather than as title challengers and Steve was capped as a full international. When he scored on his debut, Sam and Mike Lewis, two men who had suffered significant racist abuse over the years, sat proudly in the stands and listened as eighty thousand Englishmen hailed their son and grandson as a national hero. He was the complete striker; at six feet one and a hundred and ninety pounds he had the strength to play with his back to goal, hold off defenders and link with his midfield team mates. He also had blistering pace, could run into the channels and, being two-footed could finish on either side. He was also a great header of the ball, having the ability to get above defenders with the sort of timing that created the illusion that he was hanging in the air.

As a Premier League and England football player there were numerous commercial opportunities, particularly for someone with his looks and physical appearance and it was one of these that changed his life. His agent had signed a deal for Steve to advertise aftershave and he attended a photo-shoot that began with him wearing his England kit and ended with him wearing only a rather skimpy pair of shorts. The picture became iconic and a poster of it soon adorned the bedroom walls of thousands of teenage girls, not to mention a good few boys as well. The CEO of the company that made it joked that sales of the poster made more money than sales of the aftershave did. It was during this photo-shoot that Steve met Tracy Holland.

During his late teens he'd had a few relationships with younger guys but as he became well known and then famous he'd stopped, there had never been an openly gay player in the Premier League and the idea of being the first scared him shitless. Instead he'd dated a number of attractive young women, ending the relationships before they became sexual; but despite the care he took there was an internet rumour about his sexuality and he suspected that a former lover hadn't been totally discreet. Tracy was one of The Salsa Girls, a bland pop group that had had some success over the preceding few years but had now reached the end of its shelf life and was about to split up. She was well aware of the limitations to her talent and saw a liaison with the golden boy of English football as the perfect way to keep her in the limelight and extend her career.

After a couple of dates Steve was about to end the relationship when she abruptly asked, "Are you gay?" He tried to deny it but she persisted, "I'm pretty sure you are. I've got a proposal for you that'll give us both what we need, let's get married."

"What?"

"Let's get married. We'll live together but with separate bedrooms, you can have boyfriends or not as you wish. If you're married no-one is going to ask why you don't have a girlfriend and you won't have to pretend. All I ask in return is that you accompany me to parties, fashion shows, movie premiers and the like; we'll put on a show as the perfect couple which will help me with my career and keep the scandalmongers off your back.

Steve was sceptical of Tracy's proposal to say the least but the more he considered the matter the more sense it seemed to make and eventually he agreed. It was more like a business deal than a marriage; they signed a pre-nuptial agreement that recognised the marriage as being one of convenience, allowed them each to have other lovers and for either to initiate `no fault' divorce proceedings at any time which the other would accept.

His wedding was not the only major change in his life that summer. He only had a year remaining on his contract and obviously wasn't going to stay where he was when it ended; rather than lose him for nothing as a free agent, his club looked to get as large a transfer fee as they could for him. His own preference was to stay in the North West, Liverpool and both Manchester clubs were interested but Tracy was insistent that they live near London and so, even though Manchester City offered the most money, Steve became a Chelsea player. He and Tracy bought a large house in Surrey, not far from the club's training ground and settled down to their odd married life.

Professionally things couldn't have gone any better; Steve's team won the Premier League and he played in the Champions' League and World Cup. The rumours about his sexuality seemed to have disappeared, although there was a fair bit of mickey taking at training when some kid from a boyband came out as gay on national radio and said that Steve was his fantasy figure. Steve wasn't interested in that type of music and didn't know who the boy was but, when he was shown a photograph, had to admit that the lad was cute. Personally things were deteriorating steadily; despite Steve sticking to their agreement and accompanying his wife to all sorts of public events, Tracy's career stagnated and she began making more and more demands on his time. As a professional football player there were limits as to how many events he could attend; going to a party the night before a match for example, was a complete non-starter but, as she became more desperate, Tracy became less understanding of his position.

Things came to a head in August 2016 when Tracy demanded that he accompany her to a party on the evening before the opening game of the season. Steve refused and they had a huge row during which she scared him by saying, "Don't forget, you're relying on me to keep your sordid little secret." He took that to be a threat to reveal his sexuality if he didn't comply with her demands but, even worse, was the idea that she might one day decide that he was expendable, that the potential scandal was worth more to her than the marriage and sell the story anyway. Fortunately Sky Sports picked Chelsea's match to be televised and it was put back a day to Sunday, so he was able to go with her after all, even though he insisted that he could only remain for a short time. That caused another, lesser, argument but eventually she agreed; it was their arrival that mattered most, being seen entering arm in arm and being photographed by any paparazzi that happened to be outside.

They often hired a limo on nights like this but this time Steve decided to drive them in order to make his early departure easier, the limo company they generally used would supply a car and driver to bring Tracy home later. They travelled in silence until they reached the motorway but once they were on the M25 Tracy turned to Steve and stunned him by saying, "I think we should have a baby."

He looked at her in amazement, "Are you nuts? Do you really think that a closeted gay footballer and a career obsessed ex-pop star in a sham marriage are the right people to bring up a child?"

"Think of the opportunities it'll create, the magazines love mother and baby features. We can employ a nanny to actually raise the kid."

"For fuck sake Tracy, you're talking about a child, a human being as if it's a marketing tool. There's no way I could agree to that."

"I don't see your problem, you're just being selfish."

They were still arguing when they arrived at the party and, although they put up a front when they entered the house, it soon started again inside. Other people stood back, gave them space and enjoyed the fun; although the host didn't seem too impressed. "Maybe we would have a son," Tracy sneered eventually, "I'm sure you'd like to have a little boy in the house to play with." It was the closest he'd ever come to hitting a woman; he clenched his fist but instead of striking her he turned and stormed off, a taunting "Go find yourself a bum boy," ringing in his ears as he went.

He walked rapidly along the dimly lit garden path wondering where the marriage went from here. He was certain by now that Tracy was unhinged and probably needed psychological help but he was also convinced that if he tried to divorce her she would sell her story to some tabloid and ruin his life. As he turned a corner he was suddenly aware of a smaller figure coming in the opposite direction but he was moving too fast to avoid them and the pair collided, a whooshing sound emanating from the other person as the air was driven out of their lungs. As the slightly built victim flew back and landed heavily on the path, Steve leaned over the prostrate figure of what appeared to be a teenage boy and said, "Shit, I'm sorry. Are you OK?" but there was no reply.

 


 

PART THREE - US

 

I

was only out for a few moments and was still fighting for breath when I came to; a large, hulking figure kneeling by my side asking if I was OK. After ten or fifteen seconds I was able to breathe again, sit up and reassure the concerned Samaritan that I was fine. It was then that I got my first decent view of the guy in the dim light; oh my god it was Steve Lewis, if he recognised me it would be very embarrassing.

"You were unconscious for a bit, I think you should see a doctor. You might have concussion or something."

"No, I'm fine," I demurred. "It was only a little bump, getting the wind knocked out of me was the worst part."

"Come on then," he said, helping me to my feet, "let's get you back inside."

"Actually I don't really want to go back, I think I'll call for a taxi and go home." The sooner I got away the less chance there was of things becoming awkward with Steve and I really didn't want to see the fat producer again.

"Where do you live?" he asked. When I told him he said, "I don't want to go back in there either; I've got my car out front, I'll drop you off on my way home."

I tried to turn him down politely but how do you convince someone that you'd rather take a taxi when there's a free ride on offer without looking foolish? I reluctantly accepted and followed him round to the front of the house where numerous cars were parked. I was worried that there would still be paparazzi around to photograph us together but it seemed that the host had an agreement to allow them onto his property to take pictures of the guests arriving but not to stay to catch them staggering out afterwards. Steve's car was amazing, an Aston Martin Vanquish convertible and I got a thrill from the growl of the engine and the rapid acceleration as we set off south east towards London.

I pulled out my phone and texted the other guys to let them know that I was OK and heading for home, `Fat Bastard's out of luck tonight' I added. `You pulled?' one of them replied. `I wish' I responded before putting my phone away.

I noticed Steve looking at me rather oddly and steeled myself for what was to come. "This is a bit embarrassing," he said, "I think I recognise you but I can't put a name to the face."

`Things are about to get a lot more embarrassing' I thought to myself. I considered giving a false name but I was brought up to tell the truth and there was always the chance that we might bump into one another again in the future, no pun intended. So I bit the bullet, took a deep breath and said, "Rhys Jones."

I saw recognition dawn slowly in his eyes as he realised who I was. "You're the kid who went on the radio and told the entire country that you fancy me," he said.

"Yeah, that's me," I replied, smiling wryly.

I wondered what his reaction would be, half expecting him to pull over and chuck me out. I certainly wasn't expecting the response I got; he burst out laughing, looked at me closely and said, "You're much cuter in the flesh than in the pictures I've seen of you." I stared at him in astonishment, had Steve Lewis really just described me as cute? He had but he was concentrating on his driving again and I couldn't tell from his expression whether he was being serious or just teasing me. Once we were on the M40 he asked me about myself and before I knew it I was practically telling him my entire life story; I even told him about Mr McIvor and was shocked when he said that he'd had a coach like that when he was a youth player.

"Did you actually do sex stuff with him?" I asked.

"I sucked his cock," was the unexpected reply. "He fucked some of the boys but I refused to do that."

The idea that he'd sucked another guy off excited me and I wanted to find out more about these experiences of his but at that moment the car slowed and we pulled off the road onto a gravel drive. I looked out in surprise and said, "This isn't where I live, I thought you were taking me home."

"I guess we were talking so much I just forgot and automatically drove to my home," he replied. He had a rather enigmatic smile and there was a gleam in his eye as he spoke, so I suspected that he hadn't forgotten at all, he'd brought me here deliberately. "Do you want me to take you back to yours now or would you like to come in for a while?"

It was still fairly early, I hadn't really expected to leave the party until much later and the opportunity to spend some time alone with Steve was too good to miss. "I'd love to come in for a bit," I replied, giving him what I hoped was my cutest smile.

The house, or perhaps mansion would be a better description, was incredible; we entered a large living room where Steve indicated that I should sit wherever I wanted and offered me a drink. I'd drunk a glass of wine at the party and, not being much of a drinker, I opted for a Coke; Steve did likewise, commenting that he rarely drank alcohol as he believed it was detrimental to a professional sportsman. There were three large, comfortable looking couches and I sat on one, fully expecting Steve to sit on one of the others; instead he handed me my drink, sat down next to me with his arm along the back of the couch behind me and said, "What you said on the radio, did you mean it?"

With my mind racing I took a sip of Coke while I tried to marshal my thoughts. Why had he asked that? Was he hoping I'd say it had been a joke or was he flattered by the idea that a teenage boy fancied him? He'd told me that he'd sucked a guy's cock when he was younger; could he actually be bisexual and why had he brought me here at all? Not knowing the answer to any of these questions I opted for honesty again and told him that I did indeed find him attractive; then, thinking in for a penny, in for a pound, I even told him about his poster being my wank fantasy when I was younger.

His arm moved from the back of the couch onto my shoulders, he leaned closer and asked, "Would you like to turn that fantasy into reality?"

What I wanted to say was `yes please, take me to bed and make mad, passionate love to me' but the words wouldn't come and all I managed to do was nod my head and mumble, "Uh huh."

It might not have been the most coherent reply but it must've succeeded in getting the message across, because Steve's lips were immediately pressed against mine and his tongue was soon in my mouth, battling with mine for supremacy. Meanwhile his right hand moved to my chest, unbuttoned my shirt, slipped inside and began to play with my nipples, something that always turns me on. After a bit he broke the kiss, switched his mouth to my chest, dropped his hand lower down, unfastened my trousers and freed my hard, pre-cum leaking six inches. As he rubbed the slippery fluid around my glans with his thumb, I was worried that I might cum there and then but, almost as if he sensed my problem, he returned to kissing me on the lips, released my cock and started to fondle my balls instead. Then he turned his attention back to my clothing and, before I knew it, I was lying back on the couch, completely naked, with Steve kneeling between my legs and licking my shaft.

It was an amazing experience, Steve was an excellent cocksucker but the fact of who he was and how I felt about him raised it to a whole new level. To give him credit, he managed to prevent me cumming for several minutes but there was no way I was going to last for very long and, far too soon for my liking, I was spurting my load into his throat; he sucked out the final remnants and then moved up and kissed me again, sharing his reward. Then it was my turn; I helped him out of his clothes, trying to take my time but rushing despite my best intentions. He sat on the couch with his legs spread, while I knelt submissively between them on the floor and gazed in awe at his seemingly perfect, eight and a half inch, thick, uncut monster; I was in no doubt that this was one part of his anatomy that he'd inherited from his Jamaican grandfather.

I licked a drop of pre-cum from his slit, ran my tongue around his glans and then, to gratifying moans of pleasure from Steve, took him into my mouth. His was the largest cock I'd ever sucked but the principle is the same whatever the size, so I took my time and gradually worked more and more of it into my throat until eventually my nose hit his pubes and I could go no further. When I came up for air I could sense that he was close so, just like he had with me, I switched to licking his shaft and sucking his balls until the crisis had passed and I could take him back into my throat. I repeated that on another two occasions but finally Steve took over, held the back of my head and began to face fuck me. It only took half a dozen thrusts before he came, the first couple of spurts going straight down my gullet before he pulled back and the remainder went into my mouth; I swallowed most of it but kept enough in there to share with him when we kissed.

"Are you ready to be fucked?" he asked, when we eventually broke apart.

"I'll always be ready to get fucked by you," I replied with a grin, finally able to speak to him coherently.

We stood up and, before I realised what was happening, he had an arm round my shoulders, the other at the back of my knees, picked me up as if I weighed nothing and carried me upstairs like the heroine in a romance novel. I giggled like a schoolgirl the whole way up; the situation seemed to be ridiculous but at the same time it was extremely erotic, my fantasies coming true as I was carried off to bed by my hero.

His bedroom, like everything else in the house, was huge with an enormous bed taking centre stage. He laid me face down on it and pushed my legs up and out until I was lying like a frog with my arse sticking up, begging for attention. He lay behind me and immediately began sucking my balls and licking my perineum before tonguing my crack and anus. He worked on my hole relentlessly until his oral muscle overcame my anal one and wormed its way into my rectum while I moaned and writhed in ecstasy. I groaned in disappointment when he pulled his tongue out but my loss was only temporary as it was quickly replaced by a lubed finger, followed soon after by a second and then a third. When they were removed I knew that my fantasy was finally going to turn into reality and I turned onto my back so that I could see him as he fucked me.

I raised my bent legs and held them clear while he lubed his cock, lined up with my hole and pushed in. I relaxed as best I could in the circumstances and pushed back; his glans spread my anus and then popped through giving me a sharp stab of pain that brought a gasp from my lips. "Are you OK?" he asked concernedly but, when I smiled and nodded, he continued to press forward, driving his eight and a half inches further into my hole. It felt like I was losing my virginity for the third time as his was the largest cock I'd ever taken and hurt like hell but I gritted my teeth, remained as relaxed as possible and avoided making too much noise. He bottomed out before his entire length was in me but he appeared to be satisfied with that and began to fuck me; long slow strokes to begin with and then mixing them with shorter faster ones that jabbed his glans into my prostate. Steve leaned forward to kiss me and I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist; locking my feet together behind his back in an attempt to hold him inside me forever. He fucked me gently in that position for several minutes and as he did so my cock, which had softened while he penetrated me, recovered its erection.

The combination of his cock in my arse and mine trapped between our moving bodies was bringing me towards a climax and the little whimpering sounds that I began making alerted Steve to my condition. He sat up and pulled out briefly, turned me around onto my front and then pushed firmly back in again. He lay down on my back, gripped my shoulders and started to pick up the pace; thrusting in and out, faster and faster, pounding me mercilessly in just the way I'd always dreamed of. I felt my orgasm build from deep inside my rectum, the feelings spreading to my prostate, my balls and finally my cock before it hit like a volcano and I erupted between the bed and my belly. My climax must've triggered Steve's too, as even in my ecstasy I could hear him yelling in his and felt him give one last thrust and collapse on top of me.

It took me several minutes to fully recover and, when I did, I felt Steve's cock slide out of my hole before he rolled off me and onto his back. I was determined not to end on that note, however and climbed on top of him in a sixty nine position and began to clean his glistening cock while he licked and sucked on my dribbling anus; then I turned around and we kissed again, sharing the exquisite nectar that is the cocktail of cum and rectal juices. Finally I moved to his side and we spooned, with Steve holding me in his strong arms and drifted into blissful slumber.

I'm not sure how long I slept but I was woken by the sound of a car door closing outside, a female voice saying, "Goodnight," and then the vehicle driving away.

A sudden panic gripped me and I started to get up but Steve held onto me and asked, "What's wrong?"

"I think your wife's just arrived home," I replied. "I better disappear before she sees me."

"Don't worry about her, we've got an understanding."

"Huh?" My incoherence seemed to have returned.

"She knows that I'm gay. We have a marriage of convenience, it's a sham."

"Huh?" Maybe I should take elocution lessons. Then he slowly and carefully explained exactly what he was and what his marriage was in reality.

"Why don't you just come out?" I asked. "This is the twenty first century you know."

"It's not as simple as that," he replied. "You work in show business, where there are lots of gay people and no-one cares whether you're straight, gay, bi or anything else. There's never been an openly gay player in the Premier League and the first one will have to face all sorts of shit. I want to be remembered as Steve Lewis the striker not Steve Lewis the gay football player; my sexuality is an important part of me but it doesn't define me, if I'm the first player to come out it's all I'll be remembered for."

"So if someone else came out first, you'd come out too?"

"Probably, in fact there would likely be several who'd come out if that happened."

"One brave person is all that's needed."

"Yeah but it won't be me, not if I can help it."

The house had returned to silence and I was shattered by the evening's events so sleep soon overtook me and I drifted back into unconsciousness.

When I woke it was morning and I was all alone in the huge bed. I sat up and heard the shower running in the en suite bathroom; Steve had got up without waking me and it suddenly occurred to me that this might be the end of our liaison, that there wasn't going to be any relationship. I listened as the shower stopped and waited while Steve dried himself and eventually came back into the bedroom, naked and looking magnificent. To my relief he sat next to me on the bed, kissed my lips and said, "I wish we could spend the day together but I've got training this morning. Grab a shower and come down to the kitchen, I'll make us some breakfast and take you home before I go."

I showered as quickly as I could, dried myself with one of the huge, fluffy towels that were on the rack and returned to the bedroom to dress, only to remember that my clothes were still in the living room where they'd been dumped the night before. The best I could manage was a bathrobe that was several sizes too big but would have to suffice until I could recover my clothing. I headed downstairs but couldn't remember to way to the living room, instead I followed the sound of voices and found myself at the entrance to the kitchen, where Steve was talking to his wife. Their kitchen was about twice the size of the living room in the flat I shared with Mum, with a large, rustic looking, wooden table in the middle of it. Tracy was sitting with her back to me, while Steve was standing opposite her drinking coffee; when he saw me and grinned she turned around and smiled, although only with her mouth; it didn't extend to her eyes which gazed at me coldly.

"Hello Rhys," she said, more pleasantly than I expected, "I wondered how long it would take you two to get together."

We made awkward small talk for several minutes before Steve directed me to the living room and I was able to recover my clothes and dress. The three of us had breakfast together, which I found weird but didn't seem to faze them at all; I suppose they were used to the idea of their marriage being a sham and lovers entering and leaving their lives from time to time. As Steve drove me home I asked about Tracy's mood; she appeared to be very calm, totally different from the night before. He agreed and said that her mood swings had become more noticeable recently and he was concerned that she might flip out one time and spill the beans on their relationship.

September saw The Principals back on tour, around the UK again but also into Europe this time. With the football season now in full swing as well, Steve and I didn't see much of one another but made up for it when we did with some pretty amazing sex. The group recorded a cheesy Christmas song which somehow got us the coveted festive number one and Chelsea were going strong in the Premier League.

Mum and I spent Christmas Day with her parents in the Midlands and then travelled down to South Wales to spend Boxing Day with my other set of grandparents. Much as I love them, I'm never comfortable in their company; Dad was an only child and they've never really come to terms with his death. His memory hangs over them like a shadow, whenever I visit them the conversation always returns to him and they become maudlin which means my time with them is never enjoyable. We returned to London and I attended a New Year's Eve party with the rest of the group; Steve and Tracy were also there and I found it odd being in the same room as him, pretending that we didn't know one another. Tommy spotted me gazing wistfully at Steve and told me to forget him, he was unobtainable; I wanted to tell him that he was far from that but I couldn't and I was actually glad when he left early. Tracy came up and spoke to me after he'd gone; she acted as if it was the first time we'd met and teased me in front of the others about my feelings for Steve.

With nothing much to do the following day, I had another long, hard think about the direction in which my life was heading. Once again I had no professional problems; that side of things was going wonderfully; it was my personal life that was still the issue. I really liked Steve, maybe even loved him and the sex was great; it just didn't happen often enough. I didn't feel that we were partners or that we even had a real relationship and reluctantly came to the conclusion that we had no future.

Early in the new year, the group recorded our third album in just over twelve months and plans were in place for our biggest tour yet; starting in the UK, over to Europe, then down to Australia and New Zealand before crossing the Pacific for the long awaited North American concerts. I decided to tell Steve that we were finished before the tour started but, coward that I am, I bottled it and just let things drift. Our messages to one another lessened and after I sent one in May, congratulating him on winning the league, we pretty much ceased to have any contact.

People think that the life of a pop star is a bed of roses, as encapsulated by the Dire Straits' song Money For Nothing but tours can be a long, hard slog. Between travelling, giving interviews to print and broadcast media, rehearsals and of course the shows themselves, we were putting in twelve to fifteen hour days, six days a week and by the end we were exhausted.

The tour finished in New York City at the end of July, with four nights at the iconic Radio City Music Hall and I was looking forward to completing them and going home for a rest. After the first of them I was surprised when our UK publicist, Mark Thomas, asked to have a private talk with me in my hotel room; our management company had been using US publicists for this stage of the tour and I hadn't expected to see Mark until we got home.

"Do you know what my job is?" he asked.

"Yeah, you make sure that our records, concerts and other appearances are publicised and arrange interviews and stuff."

"That's the main part but it's also my job to mitigate the effects of any negative publicity that my clients might attract. There are others in my line of work who do the opposite; they look for dirt on celebrities and sell the stories to the tabloids. One of the best, or worst, of those is Laura Patterson; she used to work in our company and was a protégé of mine before she turned to the dark side. I met her last week and she was celebrating signing a deal for what she described as `a huge story.' After a few glasses of champagne her tongue loosened up and she told me that this story, which will come out next month, involved you in some way, although you weren't the main focus of it. I want to know what it's all about so that I can deal with any fallout."

I felt the blood drain from my face; the only explanation was that Tracy had finally decided to cash in on Steve's sexuality and had sold her story. "I can't tell anyone about it," I told him, "it's a secret."

"Not for much longer. Think of me like a doctor or a lawyer; you're my client and anything you tell me is in the strictest confidence. If you don't tell me what this is all about I won't be able to help you when it becomes public next month."

I considered my options for a few moments and then told Mark about my relationship with Steve. He hardly reacted to the news at all, remaining totally professional, which was very reassuring.

"Laura was publicist for the Salsa Girls when she worked for us," he said. "It makes sense that Tracy would take the story to her. Now we have to work out how we prevent this getting messy for you."

"What about Steve? Can't we stop this from getting out?"

"Steve will have to look out for himself, he's not my client, you are. As for the story, there's nothing we can do to stop it from becoming public, that's between Steve and his wife."

"Steve's still my friend even if we're not involved anymore and I want to help him in any way that I can. The problem is, I need to talk to him face to face about this and I've got no idea where he is at the moment."

"It's a hell of a coincidence but Chelsea are playing a pre-season game against Real Madrid at MetLife Stadium on the same day as your final concert; the team will be staying in this hotel, they're arriving tomorrow night. In fact, while I'm here I'm going try to get some of the players to come to your end of tour party."

"That's great," I replied. "I'll talk to Steve tomorrow after he arrives. I know he's not your client but will you meet him with me and answer any questions he might have?"

"Sure, I'll do that for you."

The following night after the second concert I called Steve and told him that I needed to speak to him urgently. He wasn't too keen on us meeting in the hotel but when I stressed the importance he agreed to come to my room. He was surprised when he entered and found that Mark was with me and asked what was going on; I gave him a quick rundown and Mark filled in the details. His first reaction was the same as mine had been, how to stop the story but Mark reaffirmed that it wasn't possible for him to do it; the only way that could happen, would be for Steve to appeal directly to Tracy.

"Even that might not work," he added. "Laura's very clever; she's probably bought the story and arranged the contract so that she can go ahead with it even if Tracy were to change her mind."

"What would you advise me to do?" a despondent Steve asked.

"Laura will try to make Tracy look like the wronged wife and paint you as the bad guy who's cheated on her. The best thing you can do is come out before the story breaks; explain that your marriage is a sham and that she knows all about your gay lovers."

Mark left Steve and me to talk things over. He sat on the bed with his head in hands so I sat next to him and put my arm around his shoulder; the complete opposite scenario from that of my fantasies. "What am I going to do?" he asked despairingly.

"That's the wrong question," I replied, eliciting a querying look from Steve. "What you should've asked is `what are we going to do?'" We spoke for a while longer, discussing the pros and cons of the various options; when Steve returned to his room, I called Mark and he came back and we talked some more.

I didn't see Steve the following day, he was training in the morning while I had publicity stuff to do in the afternoon and then the concert in the evening. With a game the next day, he was already in bed by the time I returned to the hotel that night, so it wasn't until the next morning that we were able to meet again. Steve came to my room after breakfast where we talked for over two hours with Mark and a fourth person with whom I was familiar but who was a stranger to Steve. Afterwards he went off to his game and I got ready for the final concert of what had been an exhausting tour.

With a fan base of teenage girls our concerts are never late affairs; we generally go on stage at 7pm do a one and a half hour set plus encores and come off stage about 8.45. This being the last night we did an extra couple of encores and so it was closer to nine by the time we got back to the dressing rooms. We were whisked back to the hotel where we got ready for the party, having been told to arrive at the function room around 10pm. I deliberately dawdled to ensure that I was last and received an irate call at ten past demanding to know where I was. I assured the others that I was on my way and headed up to the party. Standing outside the door I felt nervous, even though it shouldn't have been me that felt that way; a reassuring arm went around my shoulder and I looked up to see Steve's encouraging smile. I slipped my arm around his waist, took a deep breath and we walked in together.

There was a fair bit of noise inside, background music was playing plus the usual party hubbub from numerous conversations. Those nearest the door stopped talking when they saw us but that hardly lessened the din; a waiter approached with a drinks tray and Steve took a Coke while I selected a glass of white wine; to hell with age restrictions, anyway this was a private party. By the time we'd got our drinks, toasted one another and taken a sip, the room had fallen into silence apart from the background music. Grant walked over and exclaimed, "Rhys, you sly dog. How long has this been going on?" That broke the spell and suddenly the noise was louder than ever as everyone began talking at once, about us no doubt. Calum and Tommy joined us and we all chatted for several minutes which helped reduce my nerves somewhat. Then it was the turn of Steve's teammates and I was suddenly nervous again. Fortunately they were all fine with things; their main concern being for Steve and how he would be treated by the fans. It was just after eleven when we finally got a few moments by ourselves and were able to take stock.

"Well, it's done now," Steve said, "No doubt it'll be all over the internet pretty soon."

"It's just gone 4am back home," I replied. "Sue said she'd post the interview on her website at six." Sue Baines had been the fourth person in my room that morning and she'd recorded our conversation. As well as posting it online she'd also sold the story to a Sunday newspaper which would be advertising it all that day and printing it the next. Sue planned to edit her tapes over the weekend and broadcast the results on her radio show on Monday. "I wonder how Tracy will react when she hears."

"I don't give a fuck what she thinks," Steve exclaimed. "She was willing to ruin my life for some cash and a bit of publicity, she can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. We'll be getting divorced as soon as it can be arranged, I'd like you to move in with me"

"Really?" I was amazed that he wanted that.

"Yeah, I've missed you the past few months. I thought I'd lost you and now that I've got you back I've got no intention of letting you go again. I love you, Rhys." That was totally unexpected and completely took my breath away. When I finally recovered I just about managed to accept his invitation and assure him that I loved him as well. Then he took me in his arms and kissed me, neither of us caring that we were in full view of a roomful of people.

I was surprised to find that, for all their money, football players share a room with a teammate when they're on the road, so after the party we went to my room, put out the `do not disturb' sign, locked the door and retired to bed. Perhaps the word `retire' gives the wrong impression; we moved to it rather quickly, discarding our clothes as we went until I found myself kneeling in the centre of it with Steve behind me, his left arm over my shoulder and across my chest, playing with my nipples while his right hand fondled my aching cock and balls. Neither of us had been with anyone else during our time apart and we shared the same strong desire for a good, hard fuck; this was going to be raw sex rather than lovemaking. Steve was ready to use spit for lube but fortunately I always carry a tube `just in case' so my arse was spared that indignity at least. He pushed me forward onto my hands and knees, lubed us both up quickly and plunged in without any hesitation; I gasped in shock as the burning pain hit me but it soon passed and I started to enjoy having my hole ravaged by the man that I could finally call my lover. I gripped the sheets and buried my face in the pillow in order to muffle my ecstatic cries while Steve gripped my hips to hold me steady as he pounded into me, accompanied by the slapping of skin against skin which, given the speed he was going at, sounded remarkably like applause. It didn't last long but we didn't care; I was getting close when he said he was about to cum, so I started jerking off and, when he gave one final thrust and began to fill my rectum with his semen, I only needed a couple more jerks to climax as well.

Afterwards we lay in each other's arms for a while, in order to recover and then went for round two. This time we made love; a long, slow affair with kissing, caressing, licking, sucking and fucking that eventually brought us each to a second orgasm. We fell asleep after that but woke early enough in the morning to repeat the experience before we had to get up and go our separate ways.

Steve and his team went to Chicago for their next pre-season game, while I returned home to face the rabid pack that is the British tabloid press. Fortunately we'd signed an exclusive deal with Sue Baines and Mark was with me at Heathrow Airport and able to protect me from the worst of it. Tracy's story went ahead but, with the truth about their marriage already a matter of public record, she couldn't portray herself as the wronged wife and, as everyone knew about our relationship, there wasn't really anything new in the story.

When Steve returned home the three of us got together to work out what we were going to do now. They were going to get divorced, sell the house and buy separate homes; in the meantime they were going to carry on as before living separately in the same house, except that Steve insisted that I join them. I found the whole thing surreal but it didn't seem to bother the other two at all; years of living a lie had allowed them to think of their marriage as nothing more than a business deal and so the split up was remarkably amicable. The pair didn't talk much but Tracy started to talk to me much more than she had before and actually became quite friendly towards me. I got the distinct impression that she was relieved that things had worked out as they had and her story hadn't been the bombshell that it might've been; after all she'd been paid anyway and, in a way, I actually began to feel sorry for her. The only time I saw a flash of her temper was when one of the judges left Star Quality and one of her old Salsa Girls group mates was mentioned as favourite to take over.

"That cow wouldn't recognise star quality if it bit her on the backside," she bitched and I couldn't help laughing.

We were nervous about how Steve would be treated by the fans once the season started but everything went remarkably smoothly. The Chelsea fans were great, Steve was their hero and, as long as he kept scoring goals, his coming out wasn't going to change that. He was jeered a fair bit by opposition supporters but the FA fine clubs whose fans chant racist or homophobic abuse, so his reception wasn't much worse than an opposing star player would normally receive. Two other players followed his example and came out soon after, which reduced the attention on him and after a couple of months his sexuality had ceased to be an issue.

The Principals' world tour had been a huge success and, even with our manager taking such a large slice of the money, my bank account was becoming extremely healthy; even if we didn't last much longer I would be set for life. After a couple of weeks to recover, we met with our management team to plan our next moves. When the meeting was over I asked to speak privately with the main man and made a suggestion; he wasn't too keen on my idea but I can be quite persuasive when I want to be and he eventually agreed to think about it.

Finally the day came when Steve and I were to move into our own home; it was much smaller than the one he and Tracy had shared but was still palatial by my standards; as we were going to be living together properly, we needed far less room than they had for their separate existence. He and I were standing by his car, having made a final check of the empty house, when a Porsche 911 raced into the drive and braked to a halt in a cloud of gravel. Tracy jumped out and strode towards us in a determined manner, prompting Steve to say, "Oh oh, something's got her going."

She walked right past Steve and stopped in front of me with a large smile, a real one for once that lit up her entire face and reminded even a gay boy like me that she was a beautiful woman. Then, to my amazement, she wrapped her arms around me, kissed me on the cheek, then held my shoulders at arms-length and said, "Thank you Rhys. You're a wonderful young man and I don't think I really deserve what you've done for me."

The look on Steve's face was a picture and he asked, "What the hell's going on?"

"I've just been made the new judge on Star Quality," she replied, " and it's only because of Rhys that I got the job. He recommended me very strongly, so I was told."

I felt my cheeks get hot as I blushed; when I'd suggested Tracy for the position I hadn't expected her to find out about it. "That's OK," I responded, "I just thought you'd be good at it."

We parted, promising to keep in touch, Steve and I getting into his car and heading for our new home. "Do you really think she'll be a good judge?" he asked when we were on our way.

"Sure, all she has to do is sit on her arse, look pretty and criticise other people," I replied. "She'll be perfect for it."

The first thing we had to do in our new home was sort out our stuff, the second was to christen our new bed. The old one was too large for our bedroom so we'd bought a new one, still a king size but smaller than the monstrosity that Steve had had in his old place. We stood at the end of it and undressed one another, kissing and caressing exposed flesh as we progressed. When we were naked, I decided to take charge for a change and ordered Steve to lay on his back on the bed, "Yes sir," he replied, with a grin.

I climbed on top, facing in the opposite direction and we sixty nined, each of us taking our time and ensuring that the other didn't cum too soon. Once we were both ready I lubed us up, crouched above his tumescent cock and lowered myself down onto it. As usual it bottomed out with about two inches still protruding from my anus; this time I allowed gravity to aid me and, relaxing as best I could, sank further down until his glans had burrowed into my colon and his entire eight and a half inches were ensconced within my body. I was in some discomfort again but sat still for a few minutes while Steve gently massaged my legs and the pain soon passed. Once it had, I began to raise and lower myself, slowly at first, then gradually quicker until I had established a good rhythm that I could maintain for several minutes. Eventually I started to tire and Steve took over; I lay on top of him and he began to fuck me while I kissed my beautiful man.

We switched positions again, me on my left side in the crook of Steve's arm, him behind and below me, my right leg over his legs, opening my hole for his cock. In this position he could kiss me and play with my sensitive nipples while he slowly fucked my arse. My own cock was hard again and leaking pre-cum which Steve rubbed around my glans every few minutes, bringing me close to orgasm but stopping each time just before I came. Time and the rest of the world ceased to exist for us; there was just me and him, us and eternity. All good things must come to an end, however and this wonderful lovemaking was no exception; Steve began to speed up and I recognised that as the sign that his orgasm was approaching. I started to reach for my cock but then realised that the increased pace was having an effect on my prostate and my own climax was nearing as well. When he speeded up even more I even started to worry that I'd cum too soon but my fears were groundless; just as he gave his final thrust and started to fill me with his man juice, I climaxed as well, my spunk spurting out over my chest and belly.

Afterwards we lay in one another's arms, Steve on his back, me half on top of him, my head on his shoulder, arm across his chest, both of his wrapped around me. They say opposites attract and we epitomise that idea; a slender, pale skinned, blond, seventeen year old boy and an athletic, brown skinned, dark haired, twenty eight year old man. Fate, kismet, whatever you want to call it, brought us together – not once but twice; the first time when we literally bumped into one another and the second when our very different schedules put us in the same hotel, in a foreign city, at the most vital time in our seemingly failed relationship. I raised my head at the same moment that Steve turned his and we kissed; we broke the kiss and simultaneously said, "I love you."


 

THE END

 

© Hugh Cox 2017

 

If you enjoyed this story, then please show your appreciation by making a donation to Nifty at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.

If you didn't like the story then why not donate anyway? Who knows, if your contribution is large enough, you might persuade the Nifty Archivist not to post any more of this rubbish.

 

My previous Nifty stories are listed below with links.

 

Twisted Oliver 

Gay celebrity.

Six parts, last post Feb 1, 2014.

A Dish Best Served Cold 

Gay adult-youth.

Posted Feb 22, 2014.

Poetic Justice 

Gay adult-youth.

Posted Jun 15, 2014.

Danny's Discovery 

Gay adult-youth.

Six parts, last post Aug 17, 2014.

He's a Very Naughty Boy 

Gay historical.

Posted Sep 1, 2014.

The Earl's Catamite

Gay adult-youth.

Posted Jan 4, 2017

The Witness

Gay adult-youth.

Posted Feb 2, 2017

For Lust or Love

Gay adult-youth.

Posted Aug 14, 2017

The Sheikh and His Boys

Gay adult-youth

Posted Oct 3, 2017