When Saturday Cums

Everyone knows that professional footballers refrain from having sex before a big match - and nobody was more insistent on that rule being adhered to than the City manager, Steve Rooney. He was short, spindly fellow in his early fifties, whose physical attractiveness had possibly always been questionable, but his record as a coach was more than reasonable and there was every hope that the team would meet with some success that season. True, City were hardly about to rival the dominance of teams like Rovers, United and Town, but Rooney was an ambitious character, who given time (and money) would surely raise his side to the sort of glories that had once been seen at Brandon Park. He was hard-working, persistent and, possibly above all things, a stickler for tactics - one of which, as has been said, was that players should not have sex before games. To some, such a philosophy might seen a tad Draconian, but the City manager was adamant that sex slighted the young footballer's resolve for the game and that abstinence was the best way to ensure that a player started a game feeling keen, energised and ready to perform to his utmost ability. As such, sex could wait until after the final whistle was blown.

What most people don't realise, however, is the ultimate significance of that final whistle - especially at the end of an important game like a Cup match. The tension and drama of the occasion affects no-one more than the stars themselves and it is little wonder that they should wish to relieve their anxieties as soon as they step back into the changing-rooms and showers. For some, this might involve little more than a sleep or a massage, but for many footballers, sex is the only firm outlet after the hard rough and tumble of their sport. As such, it is therefore little surprise that many a game - particularly Cup games - should end in the sort of hot, spunky action between the players that we possibly all dream about, but never once think possible.

As it happened, Gareth Hicks always had a degree of difficulty with the no-sex before games rule, and he was no-where near being alone. Todd Rankin - possibly one of the most highly-sexed players in the team, if not the league - would blatantly digress the order, unable as he was to control the basic urges of his lustful cock. If he wasn't fucking his wife, he was playing away from home with one of his team-mates, and with eight inches of delectable man-meat to offer, you could rest assured that he had no shortage of offers. Gareth, on the other hand, expressed a certain restraint in his libido - eager as he perhaps was to find more meaningful sex than his captain. All the same, there was simply no way that he was ever to going to skip a good old reconnoitre with Madame Palm, should the mood grab him on the eve of a match. He might be a star in the footballing firmament, but that didn't mean that he was no longer a young, horny stud of a lad who needed to shoot some cum from time to time ... well, almost every day, actually! A wank was a wank was a wank - and if Gareth required one then that was that. His cock would be stiff, his hand would be ready and (match or no match) the Kleenex would soon be required.

It was the first Saturday on the year - and City were playing away to a lower-league team of no-hopers in the third round of the Cup. Or at least that was the theory. Truth is, these sort of games are much easier won on paper than on the pitch - and that was indeed how matters progressed that day. To make matters worse, it was a bitterly cold January afternoon, with the occasional burst of snow flurries to accompany the bitter easterly wind. As such, the occasion was hard-fought and narrowly won, and it was with more than a smile or two of relief that the City players came off after ninety minutes with a 3-2 margin in their favour. Things could've so very easily been different ...

But their relief was perhaps a little more deeply rooted than might first have appeared. Yes, they were through to the next round of the competition - a fact worthy of great cheer in itself. But victory also meant that they wouldn't have to provide the bottoms in the post-match orgy - that, by tradition, always took place at the conclusion of a Cup game. Instead, they would most definitely be topping the celebrations, and Gareth Hicks had already picked out several of the opponents during the game to whom he had taken a definite shine and with whom he wouldn't mind getting a little more better acquainted.

Actually, the young man was feeling more than a little frisky by the time he reached the changing-rooms - and this despite the time spent playing amidst the afternoon's freeze. Consequently, he had more than an insignificant bulge in his shorts as he reached his bench, and it was with a certain modesty that he tried his best to disguise such a state of arousal as the manager stood congratulating them all for their performance.

The performance on the field, however, was nothing compared to what was to follow in terms of post-match entertainment, and as soon as the coach disappeared, there were several knowing glances from various parties (Gareth and Todd included). Moments later and a flow of naked, muscled, well-hung hunks were heading straight for the showers.

Gareth Hicks, for one, was very much the gorgeous, solid stud that he ever was - who by now was doing precious little to disguise the raging hard-on that was flaring between his beefy legs. He threw himself under the stream of water, so that it rippled across his manly frame, then turned to see that Matt Foster, a defender who played on City's left-wing, had sidled up to him and was glancing rather greedily at Gareth's undeniably tempting offering, licking his lips as he did so.

Matt was another of those wonderfully fuckable young players that seem to litter the world of Premiership football - whose short, auburn hair seemed only to add to his appeal, rather than detract from it. He was a year or two older than Gareth and half an inch taller (if that), and he had an angular, distinctly masculine face that was in total contrast to the youngster's soft, comely features. He had a slightly hairy chest and a sturdy six-pack of a stomach, but his most appealing feature was his fabulous cock. Thick, uncut and measuring in at almost ten inches, his fellow players didn't call Matt 'Donkey' for nothing!

Not that Gareth had much opportunity to tend to its carnal demands at that particular point, for the defender was already trailing his tongue down the young man's torso - doubling his knees in the process and heading straight for the site of greatest sporting interest. This was one fellow who had clearly not had sex for several days, and whilst he would hold back from giving his all until the defeated opponents arrived, he was more than determined to pass the intervening time savouring the delectable hardness that was presently springing up from Gareth's pleasing young groin.

It was at this point - as Matt grasped the cock before him by the base and slowly began to lick the very tip of its crown - that Gareth himself glanced round to see that several of the other players were now falling into pairs and threesomes and were savouring the physical delights that each guy had to offer. It was a more than satisfying sight - with the erotic lap of water only fuelling the mood of sexual tension. Not that Gareth had much opportunity to regard the fine, manly display around him. Matt was more than an adequate cock-sucker and his hungry tongue was already driving the youngster's head to distraction.

After all that hard play out on the pitch, it was good to now see hard play continuing - albeit in a very different manner (one which the fans would surely never have imagined possible). Muscular legs, which only minutes before had been running after the ball, were now bending in worship of their team-mates' stiff, unyielding cocks, whilst the kisses of jubilation that had followed each goal in the course of play were now replaced by much more intimate signs of affection, as open mouths and searching tongues succeeded in brushing away whatever social restraints had previously guarded their behaviour.

Matt was lapping steadily on Gareth's shaft - pulling back the skin that covered the neat, engorged helmet beneath and slipping his lips across the piss-hole in the process. As he did so, however, he could hardly refrain himself from sliding his hand up to his own enormous member, which by this point in proceedings was purple and swollen and pounding away like something that might explode at any given second. Its size was such, however, that it could hardly fail to go unnoticed for long, and it was little surprise when Todd Rankin appeared to come out of nowhere, crouching down on the white tiles beneath so as to take charge of the situation in Matt's over-sized box.

So there they were, the three of them: Todd, with his bottle-blond hair, impaling his face on Matt's fine organ and Donkey himself labouring over Gareth's meaty shaft, which by now was drooling with pre-cum. The skipper, however, was determined to take matters a little further, and, grasping hold of some soap, now reached underneath Matt Foster's low-hanging balls so as he could start lathering the tight, hairy crack beyond. It was a move that the well-hung defender appeared to delight in - his cheeks parting like the Red Sea, as Todd's searching fingers explored the folds of flesh surrounding his ring. Round and round they etched, slowly drawing in on that magic spot of pleasure, until finally the first of the captain's manly fingers poked their eager way inside, eased by the abundance of soap and water. As it did so, Matt writhed in the indulgence - sucking even harder on Gareth's sweet cock in the process - whilst his butt appeared only to open up even further in anticipation of more. The air was filled with moans and groans from all directions as Todd slipped a further two fingers into Donkey's man-cunt - his mouth refusing to let go of that monster shaft as he did so. But the scene was still nothing compared to what was about to happen, as the defeated players stormed into the room in expectation of their ultimate submission. After all, they had played the game - and had lost. Now their fine young shit-holes were about to pay the price for that failure.

To begin with, however, the City players merely encouraged their hosts to join them in the showers - an invitation that the hunky selection of studs were not about to refuse. Slipping from their soiled clothes, the lads poured into the showers, which by now were becoming somewhat understandably cramped. As a result, naked flesh touched naked flesh from one end of the cubicles to the other - with hard, rampant cocks appearing to be aimed in all directions. Not that anybody was about to complain. The resulting claustrophobia merely added to the surge of desire within their respective balls, as a variety of hungry, open mouths now slipped wantonly over the parade of juicy pricks on display. If there was a cock then there was a orifice to satisfy it, and as such it was pretty clear that no-one would be leaving the room without first depositing a thick, sticky load of spunk - testimony to the sheer pleasure and enjoyment that each one to a man was presently experiencing.

Gareth, Todd and Matt had now been joined by one of those handsome opponents who had caught the young City striker's attention during the course of the game - a tall, muscular fellow, with a sweet face, dark hair, denim-blue eyes and a neat, goatee-beard. They were never to find out his name - probably because neither of the three players were particularly interested. All they cared about was that he was good-looking, smartly endowed and boasting the sort of erection that simply screamed out for the keenest attention. Indeed, as Gareth and the stranger embarked on sucking each others' faces away, the lucky Matt Foster was presented with two shafts to feed off - and believe me, he was determined not to let go of either of them! Consequently, as Todd continued fingering the Donkey's guts, Matt found himself with a rod in either hand - neither of which were in any way inferior weaponry. Indeed, his only problem appeared to be deciding which one to gobble first - the sort of dilemma that possibly all of us secretly wish could be ours on a more regular basis.

Todd was nigh on fisting Matt's butt-hole as the young, red-haired defender nibbled both the shafts before him - but it was not the City player who was set to make the ultimate sacrifice. After all, he had been on the winning side that afternoon, and although his rear was thoroughly enjoying the moment's attention, he was fully aware that it was the players from the losing side who, by tradition, must bend over, open their powerful thighs and submit to their gainful victors. In dressing-rooms up and down the country, away from the glare of cameras and the media-spotlight, the custom would be being religiously observed - a sporting celebration that ran to the very depths of man's private desire to bond with other men.

Guys were tripping their way out of the showers by now - towelling themselves off, before looking for places on the benches where they continue their exploration of each others' outstanding bodies. Gareth, for one, was feeling really fucking horny by this stage and found drying himself to be a near impossible task. For one thing there was the mere matter of concentrating on the task when man-sex was on the agenda, for another, he had a raging seven-and-a-half inch cock to deal with, which seemed to get in the way of everything that he was trying to do. Still, he was not alone in his condition. The room, after all, was almost sweating in testosterone and surely only a eunuch would've failed to have been raised to the occasion. Fortunately for the City striker - and everyone else there for that matter - there weren't any of those in the room that late afternoon. No, there were only real men here - solid, muscle-bound, bulging examples of manhood, whose only desire was to fight each other for the spoils now on offer. As such, butts would soon be plugged and cocks would shortly be spewing in their direction - the sort of post-match amusement that neither Gary Lineker or Alan Hansen strangely ever make reference to.

Gareth glanced over at the player from the other team, who was duly casting himself over one of the benches with his butt pointing high into the air - then noted that Todd and Matt were squabbling for the privilege of possession.

'I wanna fuck him first!' demanded Donkey, aware that their prey was perhaps a little disconcerted at the prospect of a ten-incher sliding up his rear (though he was clearly looking forward to it all the same).

'No,' retorted the skipper, reminding him of the captaincy. 'No, you wait your fucking turn like everyone else ...'

They were like spoilt schoolchildren - but hey, what's the big surprise? Premiership footballers are, by the very nature of their occupation, the products of a privileged culture, where want only has to speak its name to get. To the young man from the other team, whose experience was less select, the squabble seemed more than a tad bemusing, however ...

'Come on, one of you - for fucking God's sake!' he stormed. 'I don't wanna hear you two go on like a couple of fish-wives! I wanna feel hard dick up my arse - or has that escaped your fucking notice?!'

At which point, Gareth cheekily took matters into his own hands by quickly slipping a rubber over his pulsing shaft and stepping forward so as to push it straight up the young man's soapy arse - a little to everyone's surprise, it had to be said (not least of all the guy that he was fucking, who grimaced and bit his lip momentarily as his guts accustomed themselves to their sudden, unexpected occupant). Mind, surely the fellow should've counted himself lucky (or unlucky, depending upon your preference). Had Matt Foster had his way, the guy would've found ten inches of unrelenting man-meat whizzing up his rectum!

Gareth gripped hold of the young man's smooth rump with his size ten hands and started to squeeze his cock even deeper into the crack before him - noting as he did that the guy appeared to be somewhat overcome by the realisation that he was now being fucked by a veritable celebrity. It was a sentiment only further enhanced when Todd Rankin and Matt Foster made up their differences by taking it in turns to fuck the poor chap's mouth. After all, how often is a player from the lower ranks of the football league spit-roasted by three of the leading stars in the profession? Only in the third round of the Cup, perhaps - and only then when a team draws a prize side like City. No wonder then that he regarded his supposed dishonour as something of a major achievement, and the look in his clear, blue eyes suggested that this was one particular occasion he would remember with great affection for a very, very long time to come.

With ever more decisive, probing thrusts, the young forward penetrated the dark recess before him - until he could finally feel the slap of his fuzzy balls against the fellow's soft and tender flesh. It was a sensation that served only to delight even more, and seeing Matt driving his huge salami into the young man's open mouth added to the frenzy. To make matters worse, the hot, humid air was now filled with the sighs and grunts of two dozen over-sexed footballers - all of them fucking and sucking and rimming and licking ... and generally fulfilling the most primal fantasies of their debauched imaginations.

Yet Gareth was determined not to shoot his load quite yet, and pulling himself back from the brink, slipped out of the handsome fellow's crack in favour of his boundless skipper, who had been almost chapping at the bit to secure the favoured position. Despite being married with a couple of kids, Todd Rankin was never far from hot-man action when it arose - indeed, he was probably more incorrigible than most of the lads like Gareth Hicks, who were officially free and single. As such, he didn't appear to show the slightest degree of shame or guilt as he began to pound the stranger's pucker with his heavy, protected armoury - sliding in and out with soapy ease. Indeed, the look on his grin-filled face suggested that he was enjoying himself perhaps even more than he really should, and whilst Gareth slid down to suck on the opponent's firm, aching shaft, the ferocity of Todd's battering indicated that some sort of frothy outburst would result sooner rather than later.

Not that that was going to distract the young striker from his intent, as he pushed his way in through the stranger's straddled legs so as to mouth the tasty, oozing organ that lay throbbing in between. It was by no means the biggest shaft that he'd ever encountered - possibly Donkey would claim that mighty honour - but it was still a good seven inches and had a distinct girth to it that filled Gareth's cheeks up very nicely. What was more, it didn't seem to taste quite as tart as other knob-heads he had sucked, but rather had a certain sweetness about it that actually resulted in him sucking even more keenly than usual.

He slipped further and further along the bulging pole, until at last he could feel the swollen head bashing against the back of his mouth - whilst the fellow's balls slapped neatly against his chin, resulting in something of a deep-felt, satisfied groan on the part of the City forward. After all, what greater pleasure can a fellow have than to find his lips lapping around another man's tackle? - feeling the pulsating hardness swill across his searching tongue, probing the intimate hollows of his cheeks. Certainly Gareth would have found it difficult to argue otherwise on that matter - especially right now, stuffed as he was with seven inches of prime man-meat, which he could not help but note was providing him with quite a healthy drink of pre-cum.

The room was heaving now - filled with the hustle and bustle of a group of well-groomed studs, all of whom were nearing the culmination of their excitement. Indeed, several declarations of 'Oh, my God ...' and 'Fuck, I'm gonna shoot ...' appeared to indicate the pitch to which the scene had finally turned. True, no-one there really yearned to conclude their antics, but human-nature was overcoming their desire to continue - and the fact of the matter is that young cocks that get rubbed and sucked have a tendency to eventually spew copious amounts of man-juice given half the chance. Indeed, it really came as no great wonder when Todd pulled away from the butt-hole he was fucking and proceeded to display his appreciation by ejaculating a grand quantity of jizz from his pretty, shaved balls, across the opponent's back. Bolt after bolt of cum splattered through the air - leaving Matt with little inspiration other than to don a rubber so as he could at last fuck the miserable bastard himself. As he did so, however, the skipper merely added to the fury by proceeding to lick away the trails of his own spunk from the apportioned rear - noting, as he did so, that Donkey's overwhelming monster appeared to be pushing deeper into that butt than any other cock had possibly ever been.

Foster's ride was short but extremely pleasurable - culminating in another fine eruption (the umpteenth in that changing room those past five minutes). Moments on and the blue-eyed bottom was himself blowing forth - this time over Gareth's sleek, hairless chest beneath. Spunk, it seemed, was the order of the moment - gushing in every direction as though it were going out of fashion and filling the air with its rich, exquisite smell - but City's new striker had yet to empty his balls. Needless to say, that was not going to continue to be the case for much longer, and jumping onto the bench, he began to wank his shaft in the direction of the opponent's face, unable to disguise the audacious look within his light brown eyes.

'Come on,' he urged, sperm trickling down his front - noting the guy's reluctance as he spoke - 'open up ...'

The fellow meekly did as he was told, as Gareth slapped his skin harder and harder - the surge of spunk beginning to swell at the base of his shaft as he did so.

'Say when!' he laughed - aware now that he was the centre of almost the entire room's attention.

Not that the lad ever had chance to reply. Before he knew it, the first splash of cum had shot directly down his throat - followed by a veritable shower of goodness that raised a manly cheer from everyone around them. To his credit, the guy from the other team barely spilt a drop - but then he was perhaps not unused to such attention. His team had gone out to Wanderers in exactly the same round last season and no doubt much the same sort of celebrations had taken place back then.

And who said that the sparkle had gone out of the Cup ...?