Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2017 07:36:55 +0000 From: Christopher Hudson Subject: WHEN SATURDAY CUMS 17 City's clash with Athletic in the quarter-finals of the Cup was an unexpectedly ill-tempered affair -- a scrappy, vulgar fixture, which betrayed the park-ball roots of too many of the players. A heady mix of adrenaline and testosterone smeared the pitch, as the teams battled for a place in the last four of the competition, and by mid-way through the first half the studs were distinctly flying. Little marvel then that the game was littered with a succession of bookings -- Todd Rankin and Matt Foster included -- as the contest threatened to ultimately descend into anarchy. As such, it was somewhat fortunate that the goal that eventually separated the two sides came late in the game -- a half-flunked volley from Gareth Hicks himself, which somehow ricocheted off one of the Athletic defenders, fooling the keeper in the process. Indeed, it was with almost as much surprise to the striker as to anyone else that the ball managed to end up in the back of the net at all, and for what seemed like a second or two the whole of Brandon Park appeared bedazzled by the whole episode, with no-one entirely convinced that what they had seen had really happened. It was, it would seem, a complete fluke -- the sort of lucky strike that's needed if a team is to win a trophy. Eighty-nine minutes hung almost crazily on the ground's clock, but with at least five minute's injury-time to play, the game was not yet over -- as Athletic (who had entered the contest fired to the hilt) were determined to demonstrate. A veritable onslaught began, as the tackles became heavier and the jostling for the ball turned even rougher, and it was with some eventual relief that the referee finally called time on the whole proceedings. An ugly game had at last been concluded, though City's victory (courtesy of Gareth's fortunate goal) was perhaps tarnished by the whole atmosphere of the encounter. Still, as Rooney pointed out in the dressing-room immediately afterwards, the team's objective had been achieved. They were Cup semi-finalists for the first time in God-knows how many years -- just ninety brave minutes from the final and within spitting distance of getting their hands on some much-needed silverware to decorate Brandon Park's recently famished trophy cabinet. It would've been usual at this point, of course, for the two opposing sides to come together for a bit of carnal fun amidst the soap and steam of the showers, but given the brutal nature of the game, such tradition seemed unlikely. Not that the City players were feeling ill-disposed to man-sex, of course -- truth was, the majority of them were feeling even hornier than usual as a result of the intensity of the game. It was simply that the thought of fucking guys who only minutes before had displayed such a potent lack of sportsmanship was a blatant anathema, and stripping away their soiled shirts and shorts, the team seemed almost content to refrain from any post-match celebrations if it was a choice between that and poking the opposition. That said, there was no denying the near over-excited state of City's skipper at this particular juncture -- a condition made all the more obvious when he finally pulled away his sweaty jock-strap to reveal eight inches of the most delectable flesh that any fellow could hope to offer. It was a sight that vanquished any uncertainties in the minds of the doubters, that was for sure, and within seconds what seemed like the whole team were cramming their way into the sultry mouth of the showers. Gareth, for one, was feeling decidedly engaged with his own physicality by this point -- and was proving the point with the manful length in his groin, that was now beginning to pound away with a marked passion. Try as he might have to prevent it, the beautiful organ was brimming with blood -- swelling and bulging amidst the sea of masculinity that was brushing against him. Not that there was anything unusual about such a reaction, of course. He was young, he was frisky, and whilst he now had Will back at home, his profession was such that it would've looked a tad unnatural not to indulge himself in the pleasures of the moment. True, it was not quite the orgy with the opponents that he had possibly anticipated -- which was something of a pity given that Athletic had a couple of rather fit players -- but it was sex all the same, and given the manner with which several of his team-mates had now undertook the task in hand (or, perhaps more precisely, in mouth), it was pretty obvious that a good deal of pleasure was to be enjoyed by anyone who, like Gareth, had an aching cock and was willing to put it to use. By this point, the striker's tackle had been spotted by one of the youngest members of City's squad -- eighteen year old Ryan Dolan, who at present was technically a trainee and earning no more than eighty pounds a week for the privilege. He was a tall, rather lanky, full-lipped dark-haired lad, who possessed a certain winsome charm about his youthful features. Not that Gareth had taken much note of him until this point -- his heart belonging very much to a certain Will Brandt, after all -- but glancing down as the starlet fell to his knees before him, he could not help but consider the charm of this fresh-faced novice, whose lessons in the exquisite art of man-to-man love-making were perhaps only just beginning. Gareth had no idea whether the boy had ever sucked cock before, but judging from the hesitant look on his face it was hard not to consider that this was something of a new experience for the lad. Then again, maybe it was just the prospect of trying to master Gareth's drooling cock-head that unnerved him -- a natural response, clearly, from a youngster who was undoubtedly in awe of the footballing genius. All the same, there were plenty of guys willing to take his place if Dolan didn't consider himself man enough for the job -- a point that no doubt echoed in his mind as he knelt transfixed with the beast raging before him. The lad reached out to grasp the base of the striker's shaft, running his long, probing fingers through Gareth's dark fuzz as he did so -- but still he seemed to hold back from consummation, languishing behind those more confident guys who were now busily feeding off each others' cocks all around him. Eventually, however, the older lad's impatience won the day, and thrusting his groin forward, Gareth pushed his seven-and-a-half inches against the youngster's lips (at which point the trainee had little choice but to open his mouth so as to accommodate the star's very noble offering). It was a move that the young fellow would surely never regret -- after all, how many other boys his age would later be able to say that they gave head to the great Gareth Hicks? All the same, it was with a somewhat gingerly move that he gradually slipped his lips further and further down the length of his hero's cock, easing himself onto the hard, throbbing rod and lapping on the moist, sticky head that nestled beneath the foreskin. And all the time, the warm, cleansing water from the showers poured on down from above -- lubricating the axle before him and calming the nerves that up until this point had held him back from giving his all to the task. There was a certain ease about the fellow's movement now that suggested that he was getting more into his stride, that he was finally overcoming the nervous hesitancy that had held him back until this point. Indeed, the coy smile on those juicy, youthful lips of his surely only testified to this fact, and running his fingers through the guy's dark bob of hair, Gareth could not help but feel a certain satisfaction in having helped the lad ease into this particular aspect of a professional footballer's life. After all, the transition from youth to manhood is sometimes a hard and nerve-jangling experience -- as Gareth himself remembered -- and it was with some strange pride that City's star striker realised the part he had played in bringing Dolan through this, perhaps his greatest rite of passage. The whole length of the showers was now a mass of masculine indulgence -- the humid air engulfed with the sound of very basic grunts and groans from the throats of almost every fellow there. Not that Gareth was too concerned at this point as to what was going on around him. Young Dolan was beginning to prove that he had a worth far beyond that which would normally be levelled against an up-and-coming football player, as his mouth dived further along the length of Gareth's cock with every passing thrust. Yes, here was a star of the future for sure -- though it was very doubtful whether pundits like Gary Lineker and Des Lynam would ever pass comment on the sort of skills that he was presently displaying. Minutes before, it would've been difficult for anyone to have imagined that this youngster would've been able to encompass the entire length of Gareth's badly swollen dick in his mouth, but given the passion that was now manifesting itself with every pulse of his eager, lean body, it had become quickly apparent that he was a very fast learner. As a result, the older lad's above-average manhood seemed to present little obstacle to his affection, and having engulfed the organ to its limit, the trainee soon discovered that he was keen to go even further in his journey of discovery. Consequently, he began to turn his attention to Gareth's balls -- which at present were hanging firm and low and churning in anticipation of their eventual role. So it was that he deftly slid his way to the underside of the forward's knob, rolling his tongue along the guy's urethra as he did so, before burying his head into the older lad's groin so that he could worship those hairy, cum-filled chestnuts. Whether it was in fact Ryan's first time or not did not seem to matter at this point, for he was clearly demonstrating the sort of natural aptitude for sex that distinguishes the men from the boys (nowhere more so, indeed, than a soccer club's dressing-room). Yet his palpable lust for his team-mate's nads disguised a certain innocence, as he swirled first the left, then the right bollock into his greedy mouth. Truth was, he was grossly enthused at having Gareth's spunky sac grace his lips and was himself now sporting the sort of hard-on that would have made old men weep for their lost youth. Not that the doe-eyed striker bore much notice of such an erection just at that moment -- he was far too busy riding the resultant wave of ecstasy from having his balls sucked to think of anything other than his own self-gratification, as he sank back against the tiles behind him and emitted the sort of whimper that might almost have been offensive were it not for the fact that his energies were genuinely too consumed by pleasure to warrant anything more effectual. Dolan was savaging that happy jizz-sac like the animal most men really are if they are honest -- but it wasn't long before such antics had gained the attention of his skipper, who, having first encouraged his team into their present frenzy, had now sidled up to the pair of youngsters, dangling his wedding-tackle in his wake. Not that he had any intention of presently fulfilling his straight persona, mind. No, he was much too interested in what the trainee could do to placate his fiercesome libido to worry about the wife and kids that he had waiting for him at home -- but then, of course, he was far from being alone in that predicament! If someone had told the trainee at this point that he had died and gone to heaven, then he may well have taken them at their word. After all, he now found himself in the almost unbelievable position of having two hard, aching cocks to savour -- cocks that were not only well-proportioned, but which belonged to a couple of the most desirable men in the game. Trouble was, which to satisfy first? True, Gareth had been there first, but Todd Rankin was, if anything, the bigger and the more demanding. What's more, the older chap was also the team captain -- and, as everyone knows, it pays to keep the boss happy ... It was with a degree of disappointment for Gareth, therefore, that he suddenly realised that Todd had half-replaced him and that it was his skipper's long, meaty shaft that was now knocking the back of Ryan's throat instead, lubricating the youngster's tonsils in the process no doubt. Given the sheer intensity of the moment, however, it was an emotion that could not hope to last long, and before the striker had chance to pug he had already found himself pushing against Philippe Bourg, the long-haired, French midfielder, who for one reason or another Gareth had never seemed to have encountered on a post-match capacity before. Philippe's physique was unquestionably tanned and muscular -- but it was neither of those qualities that immediately caught the striker's attention. For the thirty-one year old was boasting a good eight inches of Gallic condiment from his loins, which at present appeared to be going sadly to waste. Not for long, though. Having his own head blown by the City new-boy had left Gareth feeling decidedly hungry for hard cock himself and the sight of the World Cup hero thrusting a red-hot baguette in his direction was more than enough to leave him craving the salty taste of excited manhood directly for himself. God, he was thirsty -- though judging from the wanton nature of the midfielder's knob-head, he wouldn't have to wait too long for a long and satisfying drink. He fell to his knees -- grabbing hold of Philippe's hairy legs so as to pull him closer, before reaching out to grab a bar of soap that he had spotted close by. Then he began to form a lather between his fingers -- glancing up into the older fellow's dark eyes as he did so and tweaking a grin that forewarned the Frenchman of the serious pleasure that was destined to come his way. For Gareth was nothing if not adventurous and there was a distinct air about his youthful play that suggested that he was now going to enjoy working the soap into regions that might otherwise perhaps have been forgotten. The striker edged his colleagues legs apart, so that the furry crack to Philippe's rear was somewhat easier to reach, but his initial attention appeared to be towards that raging hard-on that pulsed out towards his face. And why not? The foreigner boasted a fine specimen of manhood, which had an appealing upward curve towards its end and whose head was poking valiantly from the tight confines of its purple skin. Not that its crown remained hidden for long. Gareth was eager to pull it out into the open, and using his frothy, lathered fingers, he pulled the prepuce back to reveal the aching, crimson knob beneath. It was a move that clearly pleased the wanton Frenchman, as he gasped and groaned -- then arched his muscular back, throwing his mass of dark brown hair back in the process. He was, it seemed, putty in the young striker's hands -- and all the more so as Gareth started to run his probing, dextrous fingers up and down the solid, engorged length of his comely cock. But the younger fellow would not be content with stroking the shaft for long. His hands were hungry for further exploration and within minutes he was using his other hand to cocoon the noble pair of balls that nestled at the base of Philippe's man-rod. Unlike Todd, who shaved his cum-sac and who boasted a smooth, refined quality to his groin as a result, the Parisian revelled in his natural, basic state, and Gareth could hardly refrain from matting and twisting the hairs in almost childish fashion. Not that there was anything innocent about him as he then edged his fingers to the back of the guy's scrotum, working his way inexorably towards the gaping arse-hole that he now knew was barely inches from his grasp. No, he was very much a man at this point -- a forceful, determined being, who yearned to poke his digits deep into the empty chasm that lay between his colleague's butt-cheeks. As if to add to his resolve, Philippe himself was writhing up and down in anticipation of the finger-fucking to come -- fervently exclaiming his desire to feel something hard inside his guts. Ultimately, of course, that would mean a good pounding courtesy of Gareth's dick (which right now was itself more than capable of delivering such action), but just for the moment it was the young man's hand that would provide the fun -- whilst the match-winner's mouth provided glad relief to the Frenchman's fuck-tool, freshly cleansed of its previous cover of soap and bubbles. As such, Gareth found himself plugging Bourg back and front, simultaneously -- an act that seemed only to encourage the French star even more with every passing second. Eventually, however, the momentum of events drew them from the showers, back towards the leather-padded benches, as the desire to fully consummate their love-making slowly overtook them. By now, of course, a variety of pairings had emerged around the room -- most notably (for Gareth, at least) that of Todd Rankin and Ryan Dolan, who were busily engrossed in preparation of the sort of no-holds-barred buggery that the City captain was privately renowned for. The young trainee had simply stood little chance once his skipper had made a bee-line for him, and it was with something of a wry smile that Gareth watched the youngster as he fell forwards, his butt high in the air, ready for the buffing to come. Like a lamb to the slaughter, the novice grabbed the edge of the bench ahead of him, then held his breath as Todd slipped the head of that mighty butt-picker deep into the freshly-lubed slit opening up before him. From then on, the shaft simply pushed deeper and deeper into its new-found warren -- with a merciless edge that seemed deaf to the sharp gasps of apparent torment and anguish that emanated from the young man's throat. Not that Dolan would've seriously wanted his skipper to withdraw had he been given the option. No, his cries were underlined with too much indulgence to suggest any real aversion to his position and before many more minutes had passed there was the richly satisfying sound of Rankin's smooth balls slapping firmly against the trainee's sweet, tender flesh. The boy was mastered -- and a real pleasure it was to watch, too! All the same, Gareth was keen to engage in some hard fornication of his own by this stage -- and indeed all the more so when he realised that his French counterpart had found a somewhat opportune space and had now laid himself down on one of the benches with his feet held expectantly in the air. It was his way, it seemed, of saying `Come here and fuck me!' -- and it was the sort of high-spirited invitation that a horny bastard like Gareth Hicks could not ignore. Little wonder, then, that he should don a condom over his purple member, before greasing the midfielder's love-tube with several mindful fingers. Not that Philippe Bourg needed much easing in that department. He was far from being a tight, untouched virgin like Ryan Dolan, having played the beautiful game now for more years than he perhaps cared to remember, and his mature pucker opened up with the sort of natural ease that one would expect from his experience. Nor was Gareth -- though some years younger -- unskilled in the knack of filling someone's guts. Indeed, it was with characteristic gusto that he now fanatically thrust his love-pick into his team-mate's rear, holding tight onto Bourg's firm, bulky calves as he did so. Butts were being happily fucked all over the shop, but nowhere more whole-heartedly than the corner where Hicks and Rankin were ramming their respective partners. Masters of their art, they ravaged those poor, defenceless rings with hard strokes of carnal depravity, and it was blatantly obvious that neither would be truly content until they had thoroughly drained their balls of all the sticky juices that were stored inside. A good, unadulterated blow-out was what they needed, to rid themselves of all the tensions and frustrations of a hard-won game, and given their gaining momentum, it would not be long before their objective was achieved. No doubt about it, cum was gonna be the order of the hour -- with the sort of display that would make Old Faithful envious. As it happened, neither the star striker or his captain were the first to spume forth. That honour being taken by none other than Cary Jacobs, the first-choice goalie, who (like too many lower-division forwards) always had a bit of a reputation for shooting too quickly -- in this case down the throat of one of the reserve defenders! Nevertheless, Todd Rankin was not too far behind him, as he finally pulled his member from Dolan's now-satisfied rump and -- ripping away his sheath -- continued with the sort of explosion with which he had long since been famed. Bolt after bolt of manly nectar emerged from his piss-hole, dousing the trainee's back in the process -- and leaving the youngster desperate to grab hold of his own cock so that he might wank himself off. And, of course, it was a vision of rampant masculinity that didn't fail to have its effect on Gareth either. He was still working his rod in and out of Bourg's hungry cavern at this point, but seeing Dolan being baptised with man-cream was more than enough to push his own libido over the edge and before he knew it he was performing much the same feat as his captain. Only in this case it was Philippe's face that got the cream -- a series of wads that blasted their way across the Frenchman's chin, cheeks and forehead, before drooling their way down into the foreigner's hair. No wonder Bourg trailed his tongue around his lips, as he continued to jerk himself off -- covering his stomach and chest with his own jizz in the process. For Hicks had been an unfulfilled fantasy of his for some considerable time -- and may well have continued to be so had it not been for Athletic's unsporting conduct. As it was, however, the man had achieved two private dreams that afternoon: a place in the semi-finals of the Cup and a fucking at the hands of one of the sexiest young men in the game. Not bad for a man who, at thirty-one, was perhaps nearing the extreme of his Premiership playing days. As for the trainee -- who, in total contrast, was only just beginning his grand footballing adventure -- the whole occasion had clearly whipped him up into the sort of frenzy that might be expected from someone who had only recently turned eighteen. As a result, he found himself providing something of a spectacle to the three other guys as a neared his own tight climax -- throwing himself onto his back and twisting and writhing on the bench as the first ball of spunk gathered at the base of his hard, teen-cock. By the time he squirted his first exquisite shot, Rankin, Bourg and Hicks were all urging him on -- cheering the youngster on in a manner that possibly took him by surprise. Not that it stopped his bollocks from producing a healthy spray of ball-juice, mind. No, his spurts were plentiful in the extreme -- possibly all the more so for the very fact that he was now the centre of the others' attention. What was more, he was actually able to provide a second, albeit less demonstrative orgasm almost immediately after the first -- a sign, if ever one was needed, that Ryan Dolan was the sort of player who was destined to fit into City's ranks as a distinct natural. A second shower -- to wash off the copious quantities of spunk that had emerged from all their beefy bodies -- concluded the afternoon, before Gareth (who by this point was yearning for the touch and taste of real, meaningful affection, in the shape of Will) made his farewells to his team-mates and drove the four or five miles that separated him from his lover. And as he did so, he could not help but wallow in his own sweet good fortune: for his success, his prosperity, his happiness -- things that were denied so many other people in this life, but which he counted as almost his by rights. Fate, it seemed, had truly been kind to him. But for how much longer such blessings would continue was another matter entirely ...