(Starring Michael Owen)
Dupret paced the locker room impatiently as Jamie Redmond and Michael looked on from the bench. Hunter had told him to hold the two players back after the day's last training session. For what, Dupret didn't know, but he intended to find out. Whatever Hunter was testing, it sounded more and more illicit.
"Come on, boss," groaned Redmond. "I'm meant to be meeting a bird in an hour."
Jamie and his birds, thought Dupret with a grimace. The man was a sex- addled maniac. The entire team was well aware of that, as were the tabloids. "Just a while longer, Jamie."
"Well could I at least take a shower? I fuckin' reek."
Before Dupret could answer, Michael leaned over and sniffed the side of Redmond's neck, saying, "Smells alright to me."
"Give over, you queer," sniggered Redmond, giving him a little shove.
Dupret sighed. Both of them stank to high heaven, but Hunter had forbidden him to let them shower. It had been a gruelling day, but the FA Cup qualifiers were coming up. The team couldn't afford to lose, for his sake.
The doors suddenly swung open and in marched Hunter, followed by two ominous-looking men in dark suits. The one on the right carried a black kitbag.
"Your instructions were not to stay here, Mr Dupret," Hunter said coldly.
"I want to know what you're doing to my lads," replied Dupret stubbornly.
Hunter flashed a humourless smile and pulled out a dropper bottle. "Why, I only came to give them their vitamins."
He turned to the man with the bag. "Set up."
Dupret watched him pull a camcorder out of the bag. A the same time, Hunter swished the bottle and said to Redmond and Michael, "Vitamin time."
Both men dropped to their knees before him, their tongues hanging out. Hunter dribbled a couple of drops into their mouths then turned to Dupret. "You may go now."
He wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Michael and Jamie. They had started nuzzling each other's necks with their noses like a pair of dogs. Then Michael's hand had slid down and cupped the front of Redmond's shorts.
Dupret lunged at Hunter, only to be siezed by his bodyguard.
"Bad move, Mr Dupret," smirked Hunter without taking his eyes off Michael and Redmond, who were pulling off their T-shirts.
"Pilon!" spat the Frenchman. Such an insult was likely to be replied with a stabbing in his home town of Montpellier. He shouted to Michael and Jamie, "Stop that now!"
This time Hunter whirled round and grabbed him by the collar.
"Listen to me, you stupid peasant!" he snarled in French. "You knew full well from the start that you were doing something wrong, but you accepted my money. I could simply blackmail you, but instead I give you the offer of a lifetime. Your debts paid, and more than enough left over for you to retire to that hacienda in Andalucia."
Dupret nodded to the cameraman, who was already filming. "Why the tape?"
"Just a momento for my own personal use. Their reputations won't be harmed. As soon as that tape is full, all this will be like a faded memory, I guarantee it."
"Very well. I will go." Dupret shook off Hunter's hands and left the locker-room, feeling disgusted with himself. But at the end of the day, his welfare came first. And like Hunter had said, his offer was more beneficial than blackmail.
* * * * *
Back in the locker room, the intensity was building up. Michael lay on the floor with his legs spread apart, with Redmond next to him. They rubbed vigourously at each other's crotch, grunting loudly.
"Stand up, Jamie," barked Hunter. "Michael has something he'd like to do for you."
Redmond obeyed instantly. Michael got up on his kness and pulled Redmond's shorts and underwear down in one go. He looked Jamie's proud seven inches up and down then began to paint it with his tongue.
Big drops of precum squirted occasionally from the swollen cockhead onto Michael's cheeks. He licked them off happily, all the while staring up at Jamie. After a few moments, Jamie pulled his head up and jammed his engorged prick down his throat.
Michael gagged for a moment then began moving his head back and forth, feeling the thick meat missile pulsing against his cheeks and gullet. Jamie ran a sweaty hand through his hair, forcing his head further back. That felt better, Michael thought as Jamie's warm, downy balls pressed into his chin.
"Show Jamie what else you know," he heard the master say. What else did he know? A thought struck him. He released Jamie's cock and turned him around.
A low moan escaped from somewhere deep in Redmond's throat as Micheal's tongue snaked it's way into his ass. Michael tried to copy what Woody had done the night before, licking around the rim and then plunging deep into his team-mate's warm back passage.
Redmond bent over to help Michael get in deeper, supporting himself on the bench with his left hand while the right busied itself on his hard cock. Michael was lost in some kind of feeding frenzy, licking and sucking all over Jamie's ass as if his life depended on it. The other man's sweat was like a drug, and he needed his fix.
Then he climbed onto the bench, on his hands and knees, facing the master. Jamie could work on him now - after all, he had needs too.
"Don't fuckin' stop now!" yelled Jamie.
"It's your turn!" cried Michael, looking at the master for approval.
"Fuck that," growled Redmond, straddling the bench.
Michael yelped as his shorts were yanked down roughly and a wide hole torn in the back of his red briefs. But all he could think about was how nice it felt to have his anus exposed to cool air and the view of another man. He started stroking his dick through the front of his tattered briefs, waiting for a wet tongue to enter him.
It never came. He screamed out as the fat head of Jamie's prick stretched his bumhole like a burning spear. Something still made him reach back and pull his asscheeks wider so Jamie could cram some more of that hot, juicy cock into his horny ass...
What the hell was happening here? He'd never ever thought of things like this in his entire life. And now, in just one week, he'd been beating off almost every day, let his best mate play with his ass and now this? Was it some sort of awakening? All he knew was that it had something to do with his new master, whose dark eyes now glinted with pleasure.
Jamie started to move inside him now, jamming that seven inches all the way then drawing it back for another hard thrust. Each time, Jamie's dickhead pressed against something - he didn't know what - but it brought a twinge right through his cock that almost brought tears to his eyes.
Michael tore off what was left of his underwear and started milking his stiff manhood. A powerful orgasm was building in his groin, like dozens of tributaries of sexual energy all flowing into one great river.
Jamie had started to utter the odd word or sentence as he plowed into his soft pink target with his prick, now shiny from a mixture of sweat and other body fluids.
"Tight as a fuckin' virgin," Michael managed to make out, followed by, "Rather fuck your sweet ass than a bird's cunt any day."
Michael didn't mind the trashy talk - that was just Jamie's way. He had to be getting close now, the way he'd thrust right in and hold it for a second before drawing back. Michael helped him, pushing back to meet him, and then grinding his ass up and down Jamie's belly. And then, he felt the most amazing sensation.
At first it felt wet. Then the heat started to spread through the walls of his ass. It took him a moment to realise that Jamie had come inside him. In the same instant, his own orgasm ripped through his body and send one great wad of cum onto the wooden bench.
Michael leaned further forward so that his head almost touched the bench. He felt Jamie's still-erect cock stretch him even wider in that position, but before he could take advantage of it, Jamie started to withdraw his thick tool.
The cameraman, who had been hovering around throughout the whole encounter now shot Redmond's bright red seven inches leaving Michael's deflowered asshole, bringing out with it a thin trail of fresh spunk.
"Well done, both of you," said Hunter, clapping his hands briefly. "Now shower, then go home."
With that, he turned on his heel and left, followed by his henchmen.
Home, thought Michael. Just the place to get some more action.
Even as that idea was passing through his mind, his eyes were on Jamie's semi-stiff cock.
* * * * *
Johnny kept his eyes fixed on the television when he heard the front door open and close. He hadn't expected Michael to behave the way he had last night. In fact, it didn't seem like Michael at all.
He walked into the living room and tossed his kit bag in the corner. Johnny didn't say a word. Suddenly, Michael was sitting on his lap, wearing his cutest smile. Johnny flinched as he wrapped his arms round his neck and said, "Ewwo."
"Good day?" murmured Johnny, for the sake of being civil. He blinked as Michael started kissing the sides of his neck.
"Great day," replied Michael between kisses. "I could do with going to bed."
Johnny gasped as Michael's hands fluttered up his T-shirt and found his nipples. His fingers squeezed and pulled at them lustily. Now the kisses had become playful bites.
"Why don't we go snuggle up in my bed?" he asked.
"And do what?" retorted Johnny. Use me as a sextoy? he wanted to add.
"Well...I was thinking of letting you put this..." Michael gave Johnny's hardening dick an exemplary squeeze. "In any hole you want."
"You can forget it," said Johnny, pulling his hand away.
Michael wouldn't quit. He lowered his head and gave Johnny's erect nipple a suck through his T-shirt then moved his hand back to his crotch. "Why not, Woody? Isn't this what you wanted it to be like?"
"What I wanted was you!" Johnny shouted. He pushed Michael off him and got up. "Not some queer nympho."
From the couch, Michael opened his legs invitingly and ran a hand up his crotch. "Are you sure, Woody? If you don't want to shag, I can think of plenty of people who would, like Jamie Redmond. Four times I let him stick his todger up my arse this afternoon."
Johnny couldn't believe what he was hearing. Or what he was seeing. Michael was touching himself all over as he spoke. For whose benefit, Johnny didn't know, but it was worrying him.
"Just go to bed," he murmured, heading for the door.
* * * * *
Johnny found his father sitting in the dim corner of the pub, nursing a brandy alone.
"What's up with you?" he asked as he slid into the booth with his pint.
Dupret looked up sullenly. The bleariness in his eyes told Johnny this hadn't been his first drink of the evening.
"Cheer up, it might never happen," he said, slapping the older man on the shoulder.
"Sorry, son. Bad day."
Johnny sipped his beer. "Qualifiers coming up soon?"
"Well there's that," nodded Dupret. "Some other things as well."
"Okay," said Johnny. He knew his old man wasn't going to tell him. "So what's new?"
"Not much. I've been asked to appear on the half-time show for tommorow's qualifier. Leeds against Newcastle."
"Why the long face? I thought you loved getting your ugly mug on the telly," said Johnny with a grin.
Dupret gave a slight smile. "They want Michael to appear too. That's the problem. I don't want too much media attention on him just now."
Johnny was intrigued. Maybe his dad had noticed a change in Michael too. "Why not?"
"Well, you know how it is. I don't want him to feel pressured at such a critical time."
"Have you noticed anything different about him lately, Dad?"
He saw Dupret's body tense up and sit straight. "What do you mean, different?"
Johnny couldn't decide if his father was concerned or nervous. And he didn't know how mch he should say - if word got out that Michael was sleeping with men, it could tarnish his immaculate career. "I don't know. He just seems a bit...sex crazy right now."
"It's just a phase," Dupret snapped. Then he relaxed a little. "I mean, I'm sure it'll pass. Young lads and their hormones, no? You make sure he doesn't tire himself out with women."
Johnny just grinned. He doubted Dupret knew about Michael and Redmond. But that was another thing - Jamie Redmond was as straight as they came, he wouldn't even think of screwing Michael. The bloke liked his women, big titted and blonde, as the tabloids were always at pains to point out. Maybe Michael had just been trying to make him jealous. He took another sip of his pint. Things just seemed to get weirder and weirder.
* * * * *
The studio was hot and stuffy. Dupret wiped the sweat off his forehead with a hankerchief then took his seat behind the long semi-circular desk, where another half-dozen people including Michael were sitting.
This was a ritual at most matches - a couple of sports commentators, maybe a manager and some players would gather during half time to discuss the match so far. If anything, it was good exposure of the players, for them to show thier off-field talents.
Dupret hoped to god Michael didn't reveal too many of his. Michael was sitting about half a metre away from him, at the end of the desk. He was tempted to lean over and warn him, but that wouldn't look good in front of the other people.
In any case, he hadn't given him any of Hunter's drug today, so there wouldn't be any repeat of yesterday's behaviour. Michael seemed his normal quiet self, dressed sensibly in black jeans and a tan shirt.
The director signalled that they were about to go on air. Dupret took a deep breath and fixed a smile to his face.
* Fifteen minutes into the discussion, things seemed to be going well. Dupret thought so anyway. Michael had offered some incisive comments on Newcastle's striker pairing. Ten more minutes and he could relax.
And then he saw something in the corner of his eye. Dupret cocked his head. Michael's right hand had slipped under the desk. His arm started to move up and down rythymically, just subtle motions for the time being.
Dupret wanted to do so many things. The first was to die of embarrassment, but not before he had throttled Michael with his own hands. What the hell was wrong with the boy? Drug or no drug, a little self control wasn't a bad thing.
There was nothing he could do but watch as Michael's movements grew faster and more noticeable. He was sure Charlie Shaw had seen what was happening from the other end of the desk, as well as the stage manager, whose eyes were wide with shock.
And it was shocking. Michael Owens, the most talented goal-scorer Britain had seen in years, a lad who embodied good sportsmanship and values was tossing off on live TV. A few other heads glnced in Michael's direction as they tried to keep the conversation going.
But then the noises started. Just heavy breathing at first, then gasps, then groans, growing louder and louder in some sort of sexual crescendo until suddenly Michael threw his head back and uttered a throaty moan.
The other commentators sat in shocked silence, Dupret included. But what could he say? It was too late. Michael looked around at them with a silly post-orgasmic grin on his face. And then he stood up and said, "Excuse me, gents. I need to go and mop up. Sorry about the desk."
He walked off the set, zipping up his fly as he went. Dupret burst out laughing. This was it. His whole fucking career was over.
* * * * *
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