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