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Copyright GSC 2005
Football’s a funny old game.
As a Premiership football star, you can do almost anything you want. You can push the referee over if you disagree with his decision. You can jump into the crowd and kick the shit out of a fan who you perhaps take a dislike to. You can get involved in slashing someone with a bottle at a city night-club. You can make a calculatedly cynical tackle to end the career of a fellow player. You can even rape a girl and later claim it was consensual. But one thing, it seems, you can’t do. One thing that will end your chosen career quicker than anything. One thing that will make you a sporting pariah and send legions of often-times hypocritical supporters rushing for the exits.
Which in itself might appear to be something of a problem for Gareth Hicks – City’s newly-signed £5 million striker – given that he was engaged in this supposedly illicit activity at that very moment. Had his supporters known that he was gay and that he was currently sucking the hard, dripping cock of another man, they would undoubtedly have come to very different conclusions about a fellow they had simply all assumed was a typical lad-about-town. As it stood, however, they clearly had no idea as to what sort of young man the dashing fellow really was – and with any luck that was the way things would remain.
Gareth was a fraction short of six feet and a shade short of twenty-four years of age. He was sturdy and muscular (as one would expect for a professional athlete), with short, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. His face was much more than just plain handsome and he boasted a fine, angular chin with a cute little dimple that made him appear almost angelic. As for his body – it was tanned, firm, smooth and utterly desirable. Little wonder, then, that he was considered a golden-boy, whose healthy looks were paralleled only by his talent on the pitch, where he mastered the ball with an aptitude that even his rivals could do little but marvel at.
Yet for all his skill in the game, it was balls of a distinctly different nature that would always gain Gareth’s most devout attention. Which brings us to this present moment, as he lay gorging on the rather enviously-endowed cock of one Todd Rankin; slipping its hard, regal length between his lips and over his searching tongue. That he was giving a blow-job at all would’ve confounded the sports critics had they known. That he was giving a blow-job to City’s twenty-eight year old first-team captain would’ve outraged them even more. But that was exactly what Gareth Hicks was doing at that moment: cast on a lily-white bed, stark-bollock naked and chewing on the eight inch manhood of a supposedly happily married man with two kids.
Actually, Gareth’s shaft was pretty impressive itself – slightly shorter than Todd’s maybe, but a tad thicker and possessing more in the way of thick, throbbing veins down it’s meaty span. Having lost his cherished virginity amidst the boot-studs and shin-pads of the local football team’s changing-rooms at seventeen (to an older player), the young man had spent much of the time since engaged in similar hot-ball action with a selection of young footballers, all of whom were as randy and highly-sexed as he was. So much, it seems, for the theory that there is no such thing as gay men in the beautiful game, for some of the hardest men in it would often turn out to only really hard when it was time for the showers after the match.
Todd Rankin was one such individual. Shorter than Gareth, with short, bottle-blond hair (of which he was fiercely proud) and dark brown eyes, Todd was a forthright, manly sort of guy, with a brushing of stubble, whose fierce-some reputation on the pitch disguised the blunt reality of a man who enjoyed being porked on any bright occasion. Not that Gareth had been aware of his real character when he had first arrived at City’s ground, Brandon Park, several weeks back. He regarded the team captain as utterly desirable and yet totally unattainable, though he hadn’t been attending the training ground many days before the first suspicions crossed Gareth’s young mind. A knowing glance here, a friendly touch there, but nothing exactly definite until –
The end of a training session four days previous, on the eve of a match with lowly-placed Rovers, when Gareth had been called back by the manager, Steve Rooney. The coach had wanted to inform the lad of his decision to pick him for the game – his debut for City following his signing from United – but the conversation had proved a little more prolonged than perhaps anticipated. As such, the changing rooms were empty by the time Gareth stepped through the door – pulling off his soiled jersey and revealing his fine pecs in the process. So it was a case of showering alone and stripping away the rest of his clothes, he now crossed the room in the buff – his splendid frame a living example of the glory that is youthful manliness.
Like a Greek god, he stepped into the showers – which at first were somewhat on the cool side and which resulted in a mass of goose-bumps crowning his muscular body. It was, however, but a momentary slight. Seconds later and the water was warm and inviting, as Gareth took hold of the soap and began to lather his smooth chest, his muscular arms, his hairy legs and finally his sweaty, fuzzy groin, which up until this point had been closeted by a tight-fitting jock-strap.
He was alone, of course, so it perhaps didn’t matter that his long, probing fingers were a little keener in exploring his body than might otherwise have been the case. As it happened, the thought of all his fellow-players having showered there just minutes before was enough to excite his feverish psyche and it was little surprise that his balls should begin to churn and his cock begin to harden. Indeed, it was a reaction that seemed only to gain in intensity as Gareth gradually soaped his crotch, working the bubbles into his skin until his knob was as stiff and heaving as any young lad’s cock can be. In engaging in such carnality, however, the footballer lost a certain keenness in his external senses and as his eyes started to roll to the back of his head, he failed to notice the return of one of his colleagues, who had apparently left something behind in his locker.
That someone was Todd Rankin, who could not help but stand for a moment to watch the playful lad in action – his own well-blessed shaft straining in his trackers at the vision before him. Officially, of course – as with everyone else associated with the game – he was a red-blooded male, whose lust for cunt was testimony to his being straight. In truth, however, it was very much man-cunt that interested him and seeing his colleague playing with his firm, uncut joy-stick, he quickly began to crave the feel of that juicy pole between his all-too-empty cheeks. Just the thought of it pounding away in his guts was enough to make his own cock-head moist and tingly and it was with something of a bitter reluctance that he found himself compelled to interrupt the clearly uncompromising display before him.
‘So,’ he smiled – a single word that threw Gareth into a sudden fit of embarrassment. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing then, young man? Didn’t Rooney tell you that you shouldn’t have sex before a match?’
The youngster burned bright like a beetroot, as he fumbled and dropped the soap. ‘Oh my God,’ he exclaimed, feeling very much like a young lad who had been caught by his Dad having a wank, ‘you’re not gonna say anything to the others, are you?’ he pleaded. ‘I was just – well, I was just washing myself … and I kind of got carried away, that’s all …’
‘Well,’ teased Todd – his dark eyes flashing as he spoke. ‘That really depends, I suppose …’
Gareth’s colour started to drain from him – though his rosy cock was still awkwardly refusing to subdue. ‘On what?’ he asked, fearing the worst of the captain’s response. After all, Gareth Hicks was a talented soccer-player and there was no saying what sort of jealousies were currently playing around in Todd’s dark mind.
‘On whether or not you’re prepared to clean my boots,’ the skipper replied.
It seemed something of a strange request to the younger lad – after all, there were plenty of trainees at the club to do that sort of thing. All the same, it would be worth it if it would spare his tender ego. ‘Okay,’ he finally spluttered.
‘With your tongue!’ Rankin swiftly added.
Gareth’s chiselled jaw dropped. ‘My tongue?’ he ejaculated.
‘Your tongue!’
‘Never!’
Todd stepped towards the door – at which point the youngster panicked. ‘Wait a minute – I’ll do it!’ he agreed.
For a horrible moment, Gareth thought that Todd might mean for him to lick his dirty training boots, which were hanging up on one of the nearby pegs, but for all his mastery of the situation, City’s captain wasn’t quite as abusive as that. Instead, he threw his leg forward so as to fully expose the expensive leather trainers he was wearing – diamond white in colour and smooth in texture. It was therefore with something of a grand relief that the lad stepped forward – still supporting the hardest of erections – before falling naked to his knees so as to perform the requested ritual.
With an understandably hesitancy, the younger fellow eased himself down to within a breath of the shoe, before Todd raised his other foot and placed it calmly on Gareth’s shoulder. ‘Come on then, boy!’ he demanded. ‘I want you to lick!’
The striker knew better than to ignore such a request and began to lap earnestly away – trying desperately to hide his hard, oozing cock as he did so. After all, this apparent humiliation was turning Gareth on tremendously and there was part of him that was actually enjoying his present role-play. But of even greater encouragement was the thought that Todd’s own cock was but a few inches above his head – which, had he been able to look up, he would’ve seen bulging away in the captain’s groin.
‘Right,’ the skipper smiled, ‘now I want you to work slowly up. When I tell you to stop, you can start licking again!’
Gareth could hardly believe his ears. Todd Rankin, the captain of City, was inviting him to move towards his most intimate organs – and it was an summons he could hardly refuse. For days now he had wondered about the man – as to whether or not his furtive glances and posturing were an indication of physical attraction. Here, it seemed, he had his answer and grazing every upwards, the young man at last dared to position himself more favourably with what stirred in Rankin’s briefs.
‘Now,’ Todd explained, realising that his colleague had noted the mound in his joggers, ‘I want you to pull down my trousers and start sucking my big, fat dick. You think you can do that?’
Strangely enough, Gareth felt a little more in control again now, knowing as he did that he would shortly have the fellow’s rod between his teeth and he glanced up with those steamy hazel eyes of his. ‘I should think so,’ he noted coolly. ‘After all, it won’t be the first I’ve ever had to deal with …’
The captain grinned – a warm, affectionate smile that testified to them both being equals in their sport once again – whilst pulling away his top and revealing a slight band of hair across his broad, beefy chest. ‘Actually,’ he remarked, noting that the showers were still running, ‘why don’t we slip back into somewhere warm and wet …?’
Gareth rose to his feet, so that he was again an inch or so taller than the older player. ‘Tell me, mate,’ he quizzed, ‘aren’t you supposed to be married?’
Todd laughed. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with me wanting you to stick that nice-looking cock of yours up my fucking arse-hole? What my wife doesn’t know will never hurt her – a bit like the fans, I suppose …’
Story to be continued tomorrow...
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