(Starring Michael Owen)
A television screen provided a pitchy light in the otherwise dark office of Diomedes Hunter. His dark eyes stared intensely at the ongoing football match before him. Three red-clad players charged forward in a spearhead towards the opposition's goal.
"Owens with the ball!" cried the commentator, growing more and more excited. Hunter didn't realise it, but he too was breathing quickly.
"Owens crosses to Harris. Harris back to Owens! Will this bright youngster beat the full time whistle? He shoots! Goal!"
Hunter watched the stadium erupt with a collective roar. All the while, the commentator was reeling off facts about Michael Owens, the young striker with a set of goal-scoring legs that could have been compared to Pele.
Hunter clicked off the television by remote and left his desk. He knew the facts off by heart. Nor did he need to see a close-up of Owens. A handsome youth of twenty-one with dark-green eyes, dark hair and a beautifully athletic body.
Diomedes left the office through a side door that led into his bedroom. Not an ugly man himself, he stood at an even six feet with unkempt brown hair and matching eyes. At the age of thirty-three, he had made a staggering fortune in the business of chemical research, which had bought this Leeds mansion and enough information on Michael Owens to write an encyclopedia.
Of course, that wasn't his intention. He opened a large pine cabinet and was confronted by the thousands of faces he had patiently clipped out of magazines and newspapers. This was his Owens collection, as he called it. On the shelves were an assortment of items - everything from a jersey to an old red football sock. All these things had belonged to Owens at one point, and it had taken years of searching, bargaining or straight-up theft to acquire them.
Looking at Owen's face was a pleasure and a torment for Hunter. It was so pure and full of innocence. He really did look like a child trapped in a man's body. Diomedes desperately wanted to take away that innocence and ruin the purity. That had been his way since childhood.
The time had come, he thought, to break Michael.
* * * * *
Gerrard Dupret sat impatiently in the head of Medea Chemicals' office. The fifty-five year old Frenchman was uncharacteristically sullen today, despite last night's last-minute victory. As the ball had shot into the net he had thanked God for Michael's feet. The boy would go far in the team.
At least, that was what he hoped. Managers these days were more dispensible than good players, and this thought aggravated him. If the team started to fail, he would be the first to go. He couldn't afford that. Ever since the enormous financial loss he had suffered thanks to a bad stock tip, this salary was the only thing that kept the creditors off his back.
His thoughts were broken off as a tall, dark haired man entered the room. Dupret got to his feet and shook the hand that was offered to him.
"Monsieur Dupret," he said in French. "I am Diomedes Hunter, head of the company. Do sit down."
Both men took their seats. Dupret was still puzzled as to why a chemical company would want to sponsor a football team. He supposed this Mr Hunter was a hardcore supporter, who wanted a bit of publicity for his company as well.
Hunter reverted to English when he spoke again. "As you know, I am now a sponsor of your team. May I say what a excellent job you're doing."
Dupret nodded gratefully. At least someone appreciated him. "Thank you. Please know that if there is anything I can do for you..."
"Actually, there is something. My company has just completed its first version of a vitamin supplement targeted specifically at athletes." Hunter produced a unmarked dropper bottle from his desk and passed it over to Dupret. "That's a month's supply. I would like you to administer it to the team as a sort of test run."
Dupret couldn't believe what he was hearing. There was no telling what was in that bottle. What Diomede was suggesting was not only quite illegal, but also dangerous. If this was experimental, it could have any number of harmful effects on his players. Dupret took his role as manager very seriously - no one interfered with his boys, otherwise they would have him to deal with.
"I don't think I can do that, Mr Hunter," he replied, pushing the bottle away. "For one thing, the lads may not want to take part."
Hunter smiled a chilling smile. "Of course. However, before I accept your answer as final, let me tell you how much I'd be willing to pay you."
Five minutes later, Gerrard Dupret left the office with the bottle in his pocket and a look of shock on his face.
* * * * *
Johnathon Woodman popped his head round the door to Michael's bedroom and peered inside. He saw Michael's sleeping form under the covers. There was a bottle of prescription sleeping pills on the nightstand. Johnny knew Michael would've taken some tonight. He suffered from the occasional bout of insomnia, which made the early morning training sessions hell if he wasn't properly rested.
Johnny sat on the bed and drew the covers back far enough to reveal Michael's sleep-rumpled face and bare shoulders. He slid his hand underneath and caressed Michael's smooth chest, feeling his nipples harden slowly.
Already, his own cock was hard in his shorts. Johnny wasn't worried about Michael waking up. That would take a hard slap round the face or something similar, thanks to those pills. The only thing that made him stop was guilt. This was wrong, wasn't it, taking advantage of a sleeping mate?
Johnny had fancied Michael for almost four years now, since they had been 17. He wasn't sure what had brought it on, whether it was watching Michael rinse the mud off his smooth, sweat-soaked body after a game or just because he was an all-round nice bloke. In any case, Johnny was thinking with his hardon now, not his conscience.
He pulled the covers away and ran his hands down Michael's chest and belly to the sides of Michael's thin cotton shorts and pulled them around his muscled thighs. His three inches of soft meat lay in a bed of dark crinkly hair. Johnny knew that with the right stimulation it would swell to twice its size.
He shuffled back to the end of the bed and lifted Michael's right foot by the ankle. He popped the big toe in his mouth and began suckling on it gently as his other hand worked on his erection. It had occured to Johnny a long time ago that he was sucking on the most expensive foot in the Britain, worth millions and insured for just as much.
He had also noticed that this sort of attention got Michael's cock as stiff as a blowjob would have. Did he get off on this when he was awake? Johnny kept sucking, feeling a climax building up. At the last second, he brought Michael's foot down to his cock and watched two large wads of jism splash onto his toes. For a moment, he was lost in a post-orgasmic trance. All he could do was run his cockhead up and down Michael's foot.
One day, thought Johnny as he started to wipe up with the front of his t-shirt, I'll do that while you watch.
* * * * *
Two Weeks Later
Gerrard Dupret marched into the club locker room holding a portable stereo in his left hand. Most of the team were already dressed for training. Jamie Callaghan was just pulling on his jersey. As usual, all of them looked sleepy, but then who wouldn't at five-thirty in the morning?
"Alright, lads," he said, setting the player down on the bench in front of him. "Before we get out there, I want you all to listen to this."
Everyone stood still as Dupret pressed the play button. They were all accustomed by now to his superstitious, and often unconventional, side. Dupret was just as curious to hear what was on the tape. It had been sent to him by Hunter the evening before along with the promise of a massive amount of money for so menial a task.
There was a beep to indicate the beginning of the recording. What followed took Dupret by surprise. All he heard was an unintelligible cacophony of electric hums and and tones, almost like a modem. It brought a few sniggers from certain players. Dupret was tempted to laugh himself. Thirty-thousand pounds just to play a tape which didn't even have anything on it? The noise stopped and a second beep signified the end of the recording.
Dupret looked up. All the players, even the ones who had previously been laughing, now stood as straight and still as storm-troopers. He didn't know what to make of it. "Come on!" he snapped. "Get a bloody move on! Four laps round the pitch now!"
That seemed to snap them out of whatever trance they had been under and, with a brief clack of studs, the training room was empty. Dupret took one last look at the player then, snorting, went to join the lads on the field.
After three intense hours of gruelling training, the locker room came alive as the twenty-four exhausted players filed in and headed straight for the showers. Dupret was used to the strong aroma of sweat that hung in the steamy air.
While the boys were showering, he headed to the refreshments table and poured them each a cup of mineral water, to which he added a drop of Hunter's vitamin tonic every time. This had been his routine for two weeks now. He had decided it would be easier if the lads didn't know about it - after all, what harm could a few extra vitamins do?
If anything, it was making Dupret's life easier. He had paid off almost a fifth of his debts now. And today, coaching had been a walk in the park. Like any young men in the early hours of the morning, the boys weren't always the easiest people to deal with. Today though, even the most mouthy player Redmond had worked without a single complaint. In some ways, it was eerie - there had hardly been a word spoken by any of the team unless he asked them a question.
Dupret finished mixing the drinks. Hunter had promised him that it was odourless and tasteless - they would never know a thing was wrong. Dupret slipped the bottle back into his pocket. That reminded him of the tape. He went over to the bench where he had left the player and opened it up. The tape was gone.
* * * * *
Diomedes Hunter opened the doors to his collection and placed the tape on the third shelf up. He knew it wasn't strictly something belonging to Michael, but it had been a linchpin in his inevitable degredation. Hunter smirked.
Dupret was a greedy fool. All it took was the right number of zeros to change his mind. If he had known that the "vitamin" tonic he had been slipping to his players for the past two weeks was actually related to truth serum, and the tape had contained an encoded message that would make whoever took it obey Hunter, maybe he wouldn't have been so helpful.
The tonic was the base chemical that stayed in the bloodstream like a Trojan horse. All it required was the introduction of the trigger, and the subject would fall into a deep trance, the perfect slave.
Hunter held up a dropper bottle and swirled the clear, colourless contents inside. He smiled to himself. The plan was working perfectly.
* * * * *
Dupret found Johnny, as arranged, sitting on a barstool in the local pub, looking into his beer miserably.
"Now then, boy," he said, clapping Johnny on the shoulder as he took up a stool next to him. "Why the long face?"
"Alright, Dad," murmured Johnny."
Dupret ordered himself a beer then gazed at his son. He had been born out of wedlock, but that hadn't stopped Dupret loving him just as much as his other kids. They shared the same dark eyes and fiery temperament, not to mention a love for football.
Sadly, it had been Johnny's temperament that had kept him out of the professional league. To this day, Dupret hoped having Michael as a friend would calm Johnny down so that maybe one day he'd get a good break too.
"No luck at the Jobcenter?" he asked.
Johnny shook his head and took a long sip of his pint.
"Then it must be a lover causing that frown," ventured Dupret. He had known his son long enough to realise when something was the matter.
"Something like that," muttered Johnny.
"Come on, tell me all about it, son. Who better to give you advice on l'amour than me?" Dupret swigged his Stella and waited.
"There's someone I really like," replied Johnny. "I mean really, but they don't know, and I don't know how to tell them how I feel."
Dupret smiled. "Do it over dinner. Tell Michael to make himself scarce for the night, invite her over and woo her with food, flowers and lots and lots of red wine."
He fished forty pounds out of his wallet and handed it to Johnny. "Go on. You finish your pint then go shopping for some decent food. No fish and chips, ok?"
Johnny took the money and downed his beer. "Cheers, Dad. I'll see you around."
Dupret smiled to himself and took another sip of his drink. For once, things seemed to be coming together. His cellphone began ringing and he answered it.
"Are you ready to make some more money, Mr Dupret?" he heard Hunter's smooth voice say.
Dupret moved into a corner of the pub and asked quietly, "What will it be this time, Mr Hunter?"
"There's a second tonic I want you to start using along with the first," he replied curtly. "This time, you will only give it the players I tell you to. Understood?"
"Yes, Mr Hunter." Dupret knew there was something else going on here, but he didn't dare protest. This man could pay him enough money to wipe out his entire debt. "When do you want me to start?"
"Tonight. Stay where you are. My messenger will deliver the package shortly. I want you to administer two drops to Michael Owens."
Dupret blinked. Was Hunter having him followed? He said, "Tonight? But I won't be seeing Michael until tomorrow...
"You know how this works by now, Mr Dupret," came Hunter's chilling voice. "You do what I tell you, I cancel another chunk of yor debts. Give Owens that tonic tonight."
The phone went dead. In almost the same instant, Dupret felt a tap on his shoulder and spun round. A heavily-built suited man handed him an envelope then walked away. Dupret could feel the bottle inside. He sighed. How the hell was he going to pull this one off?
* * * * *
Johnny had taken his father's advice and cooked dinner - chicken, pasta and a green salad. Michael was next door watching the TV. Johnny felt the nerves in the pit of his stomach. So many conflicting thoughts tossed against each other in his mind.
Michael had never had a steady girlfriend and, to Johnny's knowledge, might not even have had sex at all yet. In the same instant he thought, So what? I don't brag about my sex life either, but that doesn't mean it's non-existant.
The cons far outweighed the pros. If Michael took this badly, Johnny wouldn't only lose a good friend, he'd lose his home too. He was painfully aware of that as he retreived the chicken from the oven.
He was just dishing up as there was a knock at the front door. Johnny listened as Michael answered it. He heard his father's voice. That's all I bloody need, he thought with a a scowl. He straightened his face as Michael showed Dupret into the kitchen and left.
"What's going on?" his father asked in a hushed whisper. "I thought you'd be cooking for your girlfriend tonight."
Johnny didn't know what to do except lie. "I am. Michael's going when she gets here."
Dupret seemed to accept that. His eyes seemed to rove around the kitchen, from the plates of food to the two glasses of red wine. Johnny didn't know why, but he looked tense. "So what did you come round for, Dad?"
"Just to wish you luck," Dupret replied quickly. He pointed to the bottle of wine. "Aren't you going to offer me some?"
"Help yourself," said Johnny, turning to the hob, more to hide his annoyed expression. "Go give Michael a glass while you're at it."
He didn't see his father extract a small pipette from his pocket and squeeze two drops of colourless liquid into a glass of wine before taking it to Michael. Johnny heard him call from the other room, "Forget the wine, son. I'll leave you to it. Goodnight."
"Night, Dad," he called back and smiled with relief.
Johnny peeped round the doorway. Michael was still lying on the couch watching the TV, sipping his wine. He looked so ordinary in some faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt, not some international football star. Johnny's eyes drifted down to the healthy bulge in Michael's jeans.
The sight set his own cock growing, barely restrained by the waistband of his briefs. How he could feel so horny and so nervous at the same time bewildered him. Johnny knocked back a glass of wine then went over to the couch.
"Shift up," he said to Michael, who gave a sleepy murmur and smiled angelically. He wasn't going to budge. Johnny just shrugged and sat on his belly. He took a deep breath then said, "I have to tell you something, Mick, and you might not like it."
Michael finished off his wine then said, "Out with it then, Woody."
Woody was his nickname among his friends. It had never seemed more appropriate than tonight. Johnny wanted to laugh. This was so crazy. He was about to tell his best mate..."I fancy you, Mick."
Michael's mouth dropped open in an expression of pure shock. Johnny blinked himself, amazed at how the words had just slipped out. He watched helplessy as Michael's shocked face turned to a disgusted one.
"You what?" he gasped. He didn't give Johnny time to reply and pushed him off.
Johnny landed on the floor. He wanted to say something, maybe even take back what he'd said, but Michael had already stormed off to his bedroom. Johnny punched the side of the couch hard. He'd blown everything now.
* * * * *
Later that night, Johnny was passing the bathroom door on his way to bed when he herd the shower running. Michael had come out of his bedroom earlier on and silently taken his dinner back there. Johnny hadn't been able to tell whether he was angry or disgusted or shocked.
He would've kept walking unless he hadn't hurt a strange noise from inside the bathroom. He stood still and listened closely. It came again, a rough grunt. At first, it sounded like Michael was vomiting. Johnny pressed his ear against the door and listened.
Mixed with the sound of running water, he could hear Michael's light gasps and heavy groans accompanied by a regular slapping noise.
Oh my god, thought Johnny with a gasp. He sat down with his ear against the door and listened to his best mate pleasuring his six inches of hard cockmeat. He imagined Michael's hand wrapped around the thick stalk, pushing the loose flesh right up, then pulling back down again to pull the skin tight around the bulbous head.
Johnny should've felt embarrassed, guilty even, to be doing this, but once again his hardon was thinking for him. The head poked above the waist of his shorts now, sensitive and red. He slid them round his thighs and took his stiff seven inches in one hand, cupping his heavy balls in the other.
He listened closely and tried to copy Michael's rhythm. His hand worked steadily up and down his shaft. Johnny closed his eyes and strained to hear what was going on inside. Michael's moans sounded strange, like he was trying to hold them in so no one would hear. Maybe he just didn't want himself to hear how much he liked what he was doing.
Johnny wondered what else Michael was doing in there. Was his free hand pinching his soft brown nipples, or maybe tugging down on his balls. Maybe he had his middle finger up his tight pink asshole, deflowering it with slow thrusts.
Fuck. Bone. Pork. Ream. All those forbidden words that Johnny had tried not to think of around Michael swirled around in his head now as he imagined sliding his tool between the two firm globes of Michael's ass.
Johnny uttered a groan as his load shot forth, splattering on the opposite doorpost. On the other side of the door, the hum of the shower stopped. He swore in alarm and quickly wiped the post clean as he pulled up his shorts. It was a matter of seconds before he was safetly inside his bedroom.
* * * * *
Inside the shower, Michael gazed in amazement at the three wads of his hot spunk that oozed down the tiles. And that was only one load, he reminded himself. Never before had he come in such a quantity, nor with such frequency.
He couldn't explain the urge that had made him start rubbing a soapy hand over his cock, nor how he had managed to chieve four orgasms in twenty minutes. All of a sudden, his body seemed alive with sexual energy, radiating from places he had never imagined.
Michael stepped out of the shower and studied his smooth hard body, still slick and shiny with water, in the misted mirror. His nipples felt so sensitive. Lower down, his sore exhausted cock pointed outwards like the National Lottery finger. Despite the discomfort, he found his hand stroking up and down the raw flesh
As he jerked off in front of his own reflection, he wondered, What the fuck is happening to me?
| Part 2 | |