Matt 'Donkey' Foster was off with a groin strain by the day of the fourth round Cup clash with Albion at the end of January - bad news, of course, for all those horny studs like Gareth Hicks and Todd Rankin, who always savoured every one of the fellow's ten inches and even worse news for those Albion players who had perhaps been looking forward to meeting the man face-to-face, so to speak. Whether it was City or Albion who provided the 'bottoms' for the post-match celebrations in the changing rooms, however, depended very much upon the outcome of the match in hand - a game that, given Foster's absence in defence, Gareth's good form of late and Albion's recent run of three consecutive wins, was probably evenly balanced. It all depended upon who had the luck on the day and who had the guts and stamina to ensure that they weren't the ones bending over to 'accommodate' the victors after the final whistle had been blown.

As it happened, however, the game at Albion's home, Narwood Lane, proved indecisive. A goal courtesy of Gareth mid-way through the second half appeared at one stage to have secured victory to the visitors, but a late equaliser by Manuel Ebros, the Portuguese international, meant that a replay at Brandon Park would now have to be played. The disappointment on the part of the City players was self-evident as they stumbled down the tunnel after the game - not least of all on the part of Gareth, who not only thought at one stage that he had scored the winning goal, but who had been secretly relishing the prospect of fucking the Albion goalkeeper, Michael Christiansson. He was a tall, muscular, handsome Norwegian, whose English was notoriously bad, but who allegedly had the sort of equipment between the legs that transcended any language barrier.

Not that his disappointment could last for long, of course. He had a certain Dutch lad waiting for him back at home, after all and Will was always more than happy to service Gareth's sometimes over-eager cock whenever and wherever he gained opportunity. Indeed, by the time the team had got back on the coach, the handsome striker was appearing decidedly self-satisfied - a point that his captain, who was seated next to him for the journey, was unable to ignore.

'You seem to have perked up soon enough ...' he quipped - clearly wishing to delve into the reasons for such apparently unwarranted good humour. 'For fuck's sake, anyone would think we'd won from your sweet, little smile ...'

'We got a draw, didn't we?' Gareth retorted.

'Judging from your face, I reckon you've got more than a draw to consider when you get back home ...'

The young striker looked bemused. 'Who's been talking to you?' he quizzed, somewhat defensively.

Todd realised at that point that his suspicions about his key forward were correct and that the player had apparently chosen to ignore his previous warnings about relationships outside the footballing inner-circle. 'You wanna tell me about him?' he replied, trying hard not to be angry with a young man who had clearly encountered personal happiness and who was playing all the better on the pitch as a result.

'His name's Will. He works in the team shop. And he's fucking gorgeous!'

Todd paused for a moment, pursing his lips as he did so. 'I thought I told you to drop him ...?' he finally replied.

'I know ...'

'Still, now I know his name I can soon pull a few strings to get him sacked!'

Gareth didn't know whether the chap was joking or not, but he assumed that he was not. 'You wouldn't dare ...'

The captain smiled. 'You're right - I wouldn't dare! But mate, you're gonna have to give him the elbow!'

'I trust him.'

'Do you really?'

'He loves me!'

'He loves you because you're a famous footballer, you idiot! When are you gonna fucking wake up to reality?!'

'I don't think that's the case at all!'

Todd's dark eyes blazed with anger and he began to wag his finger - though his voice remained coldly discrete. 'There are people in the media who would love to get to know all about your little lover-boy - people who would pay him handsomely for all the grubby details about your private life. You think he won't shop you -'

'- He won't!'

'He will, mate. Or at the very least, someone he knows will ...'

'For God's sake, Rankin,' Gareth insisted, 'I've got it all under control!' He didn't tell the skipper of his doubts concerning one Drew Michaels, though - that would only have added fuel to Todd's present wrath, after all.

'I'm telling you again, mate - get rid of him! Get rid of him now, before he ruins your career - indeed, before he ruins all our fucking careers!'

Gareth saw no reason to continue the argument - his captain's mind was firmly resolved on the issue and no amount of bickering was going to change matters. And yet he was determined to hang onto Will - no matter what! For all the danger (real as it was) appeared to pale into insignificance against the sheer joy that the relationship had brought him these past few weeks, and even the prospect of Todd's continued fury gave Gareth little cause for worry in contrast to the upset that might be wagered upon relinquishing his boyfriend. If anything, the captain's tirade simply made the striker all the more adamant in his purpose - and, what's more, all the more resolved to play the sort of football that would make his flagrant abuse of the game's secret rules appear all the more forgivable.

As if to prove the point, he scored two goals the following Saturday - in a game that served only to raise his own personal price-tag even further and to boost Steve Rooney's assertion that he now had a team capable of winning the Premiership (if not this year, then certainly in due course). As such, by the time Albion travelled to Brandon Park for the Cup replay several days later (by which point Matt Foster was again fit), the papers were full of talk about City being the up-and-coming team that the likes of United were going to have to watch. Whether or not the Albion players had read such columns prior to the match is a debatable point. What was evident that evening, however, was that they produced the sort of lack-lustre, unimaginative performance that simply guaranteed victory to the home side, and even the heroic efforts of Michael Christiansson (who at times looked liked the only one on the Albion team-card who was playing) could do little to prevent a 4-0 romp.

Getting through to the last sixteen of the Cup was cause for celebration in itself, naturally, but the fact that Albion would be providing the rump in the shower-room was more than enough to get most of the City players racing for the tunnel immediately afterwards, though custom dictated a certain acknowledgement of the crowd in their moment of triumph. The supporters, of course, had no comprehension of why it was that their heroes were quite so eager to abandon the field of play - unaware, as they were, of the hardening cocks within those silky, white shorts. Naively, they considered these sporting masters to be yearning merely for a hot shower and a cold drink after ninety minutes of unrelenting exercise on what had been a bitter winter's night - ignorant, as they were, of the true intent of the young guys, whose sap was now definitely rising and whose only ambition at present was to get stripped off and lathered down with their fellow stars.

It was usual custom on these occasions for each team to return to their own dressing room immediately after the game, with the defeated side eventually making their way to their opponent's quarters for their ultimate submission. Not so on this occasion, however. Having taken two games to achieve their objective, the City players were far too horny to idle their time away patiently in their own room. No, they wanted fresh butt and they wanted it now, and laughing and cheering, they barged their way eagerly into the Albion changing rooms, where most of the visitors were already in a state of undress.

For Gareth Hicks, there was only one objective that he had in mind as he followed his team-mates into the room - namely to locate and hunt down that fucking gorgeous goalkeeper of theirs, whose fantastic physique was already well-etched into his young, impressionable mind and whose notoriously desirable manhood was apparently more than worth the effort. What was more, as his team's current key-player, he felt he had every right to assert his desire, and seeing that several of his mates had already staked a claim on Christiansson, he quickly interrupted to assume his own particular ownership. The sexy Norwegian was his - and whether his fellow players liked it or not, he was now going to relish some Scandinavian salami as his due reward.

Unsurprisingly for a man of his ancestry, the Albion goalkeeper was fair-headed - a well-proportioned, big-handed guy with deep, blue eyes, who would surely have caught the attention of a eunuch (which Gareth clearly wasn't!) Indeed, the City striker was now as frisky as it was possible for a man to be without shooting his load prematurely, and pressing his solid frame against the thirty year old goalie, exchanged a somewhat mouthy kiss that seemed only to encourage him all the more.

'They tell me that men with big hands usually have big cocks ...' he whispered mischievously - unsure as to whether the foreigner actually comprehended what he was saying.

Christiansson grinned - showing a full set of fine teeth in the process - but he said nothing. All the same, the bulge in the chap's sexy shorts seemed to indicate that he knew exactly what Gareth had just said, and without further ado the City player slipped slowly down the fellow's frame so as he could find out the stud's proportions directly for himself.

There was a distinct air of sweat about the man - unsurprisingly given that he had yet to shower - but this appeared only to turn Gareth on all the more, as he rubbed his open palm against the distinct tent before him. 'I've a feeling I'm gonna enjoy this ...' he remarked, glancing up at the Norwegian's knowing eyes and yanking the guy's shorts down as he did so.

Up until this moment he had perhaps always questioned the rumours concerning Christiansson's cock - but the second it sprang manfully from its musky home, Gareth realised that this was a shaft that matched (if not excelled) the monster that his team-mate, Matt Foster, stored in his jockstrap (which at that moment was being serviced by one of the Albion defenders in another corner of the room). As such, he could not help but lick his lips in anticipation - holding the huge rod in his hand and pulling back the plenteous fold of skin at its end in the process. Dinner was served, so to speak - and Gareth, who was feeling more than a tad peckish, was determined to ensure that his mouth gained more than its fill of man-meat.

He opened his eager lips and pushed himself over the purple crown, which 'til now had shown nothing in the manner of oozing excitement. Such a situation would not last long, however. Gareth, whose disposition for cock was almost in-bred, started to use his tongue to full effect to raise the fellow's spirits, and fondling Christiansson's balls with his one hand, it was not at all long before the Norwegian was dribbling the first flow of pre-cum. It trickled gainfully to the back of his throat, coating his taste-buds with salty goodness - and causing his own shaft to harden notably in his shorts. After all, if there was one thing that Gareth Hicks liked more than anything it was the flavour of a man's passion in his mouth, and judging from the size of the goalie's equipment, it looked as though he was set to be more than satisfied in this instance.

The whole room was a mass of naked and semi-naked bodies now - all of them writhing and gyrating in a frenzy of sexual frustration and seemingly totally forgetful of the fact that just a few minutes before they were vying for a ball on a soccer pitch. Balls of a very different nature had now engaged their attention, it would seem, and from one end of the changing room to the other, orifices of every size and nature were being filled. Gareth, it seemed, was far from being alone in his desire to satisfy his carnal lusts, and the situation was unlikely to change until all those said balls had spewed their rich, sticky, virile contents.

Christiansson's shaft continued to ride the young forward's mouth, hitting the back of his open throat time and time again in the process, but eventually the strain of his own cock led Gareth to pull himself up and demand that the blond-haired stallion return the complement. Not that the Norwegian needed much in the means of encouragement, for before the striker appeared to know what was happening, his strip was being pulled away from him and his knob-end (which by this point was throbbing in delightful expectation) was being wantonly engulfed by those thick, carnivorous lips.

The older guy appeared to be as much in rapture over having Hicks pump his mouth with cock, as the City player himself had been pleasured by giving head just moments before - or at least the smile on his lips and the twinkle in his denim eyes appeared to suggest as much. Not only that, but there was a deep, animalistic groan emanating from his thirsty larynx - the sort that seemed only to indicate his clear love of hard, pounding man-flesh. Indeed, there was little evidence here that the fellow was a novice to the art - instead, every indication pointed to his gainful experience (obtained, no doubt, in post-Cup match orgies such as this). Not that his fans would've ever have believed the man's present sport. Like City's skipper, he was married with a couple of kids - a not-too-unfamiliar scenario in an environment that was so publicly homophobic.

What the fans would've thought if they could've seen him - joined as he now was Manuel Ebros, Albion's Portuguese midfielder, who began to fight over Gareth's aching cock like a lion might tussle over carrion. His team-mate was as dark and sultry as the Scandinavian was fair, and the sight of the two players lapping at his crimson manhood was undeniably erotic to the handsome striker. After all, to have one frisky soccer-ace feeding on his blood-gorged rod was almost fantasy enough, but to have two greedy bastards on their knees before him was quite unbelievable. It was, it would appear, a dream come true for any young man and perhaps only the thought of what Will would've said if he'd been there to see it dampened Gareth's ardour.

Yet the Dutch lad had no choice but to accept that this was what went on between the players after games - that was part of the deal in their relationship. The soccer-star could not refrain from such debauchery, for to do so now would be to bring attention from his fellow players to his private life, not least of all Todd Rankin, whose wrath Gareth keenly wished to avoid at all costs. Given the circumstances, therefore, it seemed only right and proper that the footballer should try to embrace his present situation as passionately as he was able - though judging from the look of ecstasy that gripped his face just at that moment, it didn't appear altogether too demanding a task.

Christiansson was now slurping on Gareth's shaft - wanking on his own monster cock as he did so - whilst Ebros worked his way down to feed on the youngster's hairy sac (his dark, swollen knob also visibly protruding from his groin). Glancing down, the City striker could revel in the fruits of their moral abandonment, but gazing across at his fellow stars, it would seem that he was not alone in such indulgence. No cock, it would appear, was left unattended, and groans and whimpers filled the heavy, clammy air as mouths began to give way to eager, greasy butt-holes. Todd Rankin, for one, was screwing the living daylights out of some lucky Albion starlet over the padded benches, whilst Matt Foster was just beginning to bury his huge bayonet into the same defender who had been sucking him off just minutes before. The moment had come, it would seem, when the vanquished were beginning to realise the full consequence of their defeat - although, as was usually the case, their gasps of delight as their arses were manfully plugged clearly proved that failure to progress in the Cup was not always such bad news! Their fans might disagree - but they, of course, never got to savour the full-throttle shafting that these Albion boys were now delighting in. Their ignorance of the true nature of the post-match shower was almost breathtaking - and hopefully (for the sake of all the careers represented in this room) that was just the way things would continue.

The sight of sweet little puckers being rammed was getting too much for Gareth at this point, as he began to consider which of the two continental favourites before him he preferred. He was spoilt for choice, he realised - he would love to have fucked both of them, if he was honest - but which of the two truly deserved to be slammed? Ah, that was now his dilemma - though not the sort that most of us more ordinary mortals would complain about. Would he opt for the tall, muscular, fair-headed Scandinavian? Or maybe instead the tanned, dark-eyed, somewhat hairier Latin? Oh, decisions, decisions ...

He slipped a rubber over his pounding flesh, then demanded that Christiansson bend over before him, with one of his legs raised up onto the nearby bench. The Norwegian was about to have his guts well and truly filled - but first that tender, crimson hole needed lubing and what better to do the job than a long, probing tongue. Not his own, of course. No, Manuel Ebros could provide that vital piece of equipment, and it was with something of a wry smile that Gareth now looked on, as the Portuguese international aimed his mouth-muscle into the juicy slit that he himself would shortly be beating almost mercilessly.

To the victors, the spoils, and just as Ebros was perhaps starting to enjoy flicking his team-mate's furrow, he found himself being pushed aside in favour of Gareth's pulsing knob-end, which by this point was drooling with pre-cum and barely able to contain its fervour as it started to force its way through heaven's door. The Albion goalie squealed in delight at the sensation in his freshly-greased arse, as the striker rubbed against his prostrate (forcing the Viking's beast of a shaft into a state of rigidity that almost had to be seen to be believed). From that point on, it was pleasure every inch of the way - with the Portuguese defender taking the opportunity to jump up onto the bench, in order to stuff Christiansson's gaping mouth with the meaty morsel that pulsated within his fuzzy groin.

So it was that the three of them bobbed backwards and forwards - Gareth pumping his cock into the Norwegian's rear and Ebros forcing his manhood towards the back of Christiansson's throat. Sweat oozed from their every pour, though the respective sound of balls slapping against rump and chin was somewhat overshadowed by the boom of noise that surrounded them. After all, the cries and groans of all those men in ecstasy were gaining in intensity with every passing second, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that such sordid madness could not continue for very much longer. Spunk would very shortly be flying in all directions - and it was anyone's guess as to who would provide the first show of succulent man-juice.

As it happened, it was a couple of the City players in the showers who fired the initial eruptions, but it was an act that appeared to have something of a domino effect on the rest of the room. Before you would have been able to say 'premature ejaculation,' the heaving and grunting gained a disparate tone, as throbbing cock after throbbing cock began to unburden themselves of their loads. A primal air descended upon each one present - as benches, floor tiles and walls (not to mention faces, shoulders and backs) were generously whitewashed with the tasty produce of their over-active groins. No doubt about it, the cleaners at City Football Club were going to have their work cut out in the morning!

Manuel Ebros could not hold back any longer and suggested as much as he whipped his tackle from the confines of Christiansson's mouth and prepared to unburden his balls of their nectar. His whole body - which was possibly one of the hairiest in the room - shook with anticipation, before the first bold of grease lightning sprang almost effortless from the end of his uncut todger, crossed the Norwegian's broad shoulder and splattered directly in front of Gareth (who at this point was still fucking the goalie's butt like there was no tomorrow). It was a display that could hardly fail to encourage anyone - least of all the City forward, who continued to marvel as a second and then a third bolt of Iberian spooge performed much the same feat as the first. No surprise, then, that Hicks should now sense a tightening of his own tubes, and pulling his meat from its cherished den, the lad grasped his love-shaft and began to toss himself off like a tom-cat that hadn't had a good spray in weeks.

The fountain of Gareth's youth was about to blow - and the grin on his face (like the cat who'd got the cream) indicated as such. Moments on and the first blast emerged from that gaping pee-hole, covering Christiansson's back with a further layer of cum. Thereafter, a veritable torrent of spunk issued forth - a geyser-like flourish that the folks at the sperm-bank would've paid money hand over fist for. Wad after luxuriant wad scoured the goalkeeper's flesh, whilst the Norwegian himself pulled his own pudding up and down with an outburst of energy that one might have thought near-impossible for a man who had just completed a professional football match. Nevertheless, if there was anything that appeared to get soccer-stars as horny as fuck, it was spending ninety minutes on the soccer pitch with their team-mates - and the present scene only proved the fact.

By the time the Scandinavian stud bubbled away (his jizz dashing against the tiles below with almost venomous fury), the cloakroom was a-stench with brine - at which point the City players began to dash for the home showers. Spent and content, they left their opponents to wallow in defeat - though in truth the likes of Christiansson and Ebros had thoroughly enjoyed the sport and would surely fondly remember it for a long, long time to come.

Only then, perhaps, did Gareth at last feel the first genuine pangs of guilt concerning Will - guilt for enjoying himself without his boyfriend, guilt for having a boyfriend outside the team at all. For all the fun he had just delighted in, he sensed (perhaps for the very first time) that something was going to have to give.

And that something was either his love-affair with Will Brandt, or the career to which he had given almost all his young life. Choices, it had to be said, don't ever come any harder than this ...


Marc Oranje

[email protected]


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