The Soccer Players
By Mafisto

Chapter 3
[Fantasy casting: David Beckham as Dave Berg, Wesley Cotton as
Wes Collins, Michael Owen as Mike Howe]

When I came out of the bathroom, the silence struck me. It was almost 6
PM but no customer had wandered in yet, even for a quick sandwich. Wes
was making himself busy, sweeping the floor and wiping the tables --he
avoided talking to or looking at me. The noise whose absence I noticed
the most was the mix of inner voices from tenderized brains. It had
taken only an hour for me to get completely hooked on that buzz; now
that it wasn't there anymore I was feeling kinda blue. During the next
half hour, we only got a handful of customers: a student with her chatty
parents, two nerds from Harvard scoffing MIT, and an ancient teacher of
modern history with a loose rug. There was a lull after we served them,
and Wes seemed to consider whether or not to take advantage of it. He
finally sighed and said: "Say, I didn't mean to hurt you earlier."

"I was only trying to help, Wes," I said, looking sincerely into his
misty green eyes.

"I know, I know," he said. He passed his fingers through his tousled
hair. It was his thoughts that I missed the most. "It's just this bloody
game... this bloody situation with the coach. I'm usually great at
anything sports-related, and it's starting to worry me more than a wee
bit, you know, me future as an athlete and all."

I sat down on a stool before him, and said: "Why is this game so
important to you anyway, Wes?"

"At first it wasn't. It's not even my bloody sport, this soccer: I'm a
rugby player. I didn't want to get into American football, there's just
too much gear -- I bloody hate helmets. So I got into soccer, and when I
start something I finish it. But with the studies, and the job here, I
didn't have time to practice. Now, all the blokes in my team think I'm a
dud, and I just know I could get fantastic at it if I just practiced
enough."

"I just don't understand why you say you haven't had any time. You had
all weeknights off this week."

"Right uh..." He suddenly headed towards the nerds' table. "So, mates,
can I serve you another beer, then?"

"Not really. Too bad you don't have any Guinness. Hey, you're in the
Crimson soccer team, aren't you? The English guy. You must be training
like hell since that fiasco last Saturday."

Wes frowned. "Not as much as I should." He picked up their glasses and
walked back towards me. "Like I needed to be reminded of that day. I'm
starting to bloody panic here; I haven't made the slightest bit of
progress since then. I uh... I had to study for my midterms. They're
next week." I gave him a 'don't give me bullshit' look, and he looked
down, embarrassed. "Alright. I might have spent a few nights at parties,
and Tuesday I spent the evening with this cute American gal. Ah, bloody
hell! I just hope I won't get kicked off."

"I keep telling you it's discipline you need, Wes." I couldn't help
thinking he was going commando in his jeans right now. How nice it'd be
to spank his bare ass! "Or else, quit soccer. You've a choice to make.
Anyway, I have to leave to run some errands. I'll be back around nine
thirty, when it starts getting busy..."

Before I left, I went down to the cellar and slipped the dilator flask
in my jacket. When I came back up, Wes was sitting on the bar, pensive.
"I guess you're right," he said mysteriously. "I've a choice to make."

I drove to Alfonso's and waited outside in my car for Dave and Mike to
come out of the restaurant. They walked up to Dave's illegally parked
Porsche further along the street, and drove off. I followed. We got out
of the city and arrived at a huge property, sprinkled with majestic
oaks. I parked my car on a cross street and walked up to the gate. It
was closed and locked, and there seemed to be some sort of security
device. I saw them come out of the mansion, which was a few hundred
yards away from the gate. They were dressed in soccer uniforms and both
carried a soccer ball; then they were out of sight, but I could hear
them talk and practice. Fuck did that scene represent everything I hated
about the world! Young gods praised for their brawn instead of their
brains, enjoying their unfair share of the world's riches. Well, I was
there to improve the world, wasn't I? Now I had the power to do what was
best for them. First, I had to make them realize it, then they would beg
me to help them with their little game, help them with their little
attitudes. Wes would hear them talk about me and would logically, of his
own free will, realize I was someone to be revered, and choose me as a
mentor. So what if his friends' loyalty needed to be fake for his to be
real? Trembling with anticipation, I took a sip from the dilator flask,
my second one today. Instantly my mind puffed up and became lighter,
less dense. Even though Dave and Mike were far, I could instantly pick
up their thoughts: Ç ...kick run where is it got it left he's coming
right how did he do that never be able to... È Ç ...good move be careful
not teach him too much left? amateur he'll go right yes ah got it run
run kick... È I wrapped a thought (ÇYou are expecting tonight the owner
of the pub where Wes works. He knows mental techniques to improve your
performance.È) inside two bubbles, and pushed one towards each of them.
They crashed against their minds; after some initial resistance, they
seeped in. I buzzed the gate doorbell.

They walked up to the gate instead of using the intercom. "Yes?" asked
Dave, catching his breath. Then he recognized me, and said: "Oh, you're
Wes' boss from the pub? We were expecting you. Come on in."

He opened the gate for me, and we walked up to the field where they'd
been practicing. My head was humming with their thoughts --
anticipation, worry, disbelief, and eagerness to improve. They stood
before me, both holding a soccer ball, gorgeous in their white soccer
uniforms with blue stripes, a bit out of breath.

"I don't remember exactly what we said when we agreed to meet tonight,"
said Dave, unsmiling as usual. "As you know, the game on Sunday is our
only chance to be in the finals. We need all the help we can get. But I
really don't believe in all this mental techniques crap, so you'd better
give us some proof they work..."

"Come on, Dave," said Mike. "They won't work if you don't believe. You
have to give them a chance."

"I'll give you your proof," I said with confidence. "In just five
minutes, if you follow my instructions carefully, I will make you
hypersensitive to my touch, beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"That would be proof enough," said Mike, looking at Dave for
confirmation. Dave did a 'whatever!' nod.

"Okay, now put the balls on the ground, close your eyes and imagine a
soccer ball in your mind..." I had them do a few bogus relaxation
techniques, then sent them a bubbled thought that their shirts were
itching so much that they'd have to take them off. It was absorbed
without problem, and they immediately began to scratch under their
shirts. Mike stripped off his shirt first; Dave opened his eyes,
fidgeted a bit, then removed his. Their naked chests shone with sweat;
they were not too muscular, but smooth and healthy.

"Wow!" said Mike. "This thing really works. I just couldn't keep my
shirt on any longer."

"Now," I said. "I will touch your upper body. Tell me what you feel when
I do so." I palpated their upper bodies from spot to spot, squeezed
their breasts, massaged their shoulders, fingered their flaccid nipples.

"I feel nothing unusual," Dave said, smirking. "This thing doesn't work.
It doesn't make sense anyway."

"It's not supposed to," I said. "I just want you to be able to compare.
Now, close your eyes and contemplate what would happen if you lost the
game, how your future as athletes would be affected... Focus on your
inner soccer ball... Now I will repeat exactly what I just did. Feel the
difference." This time I made them absorb a bubbled thought that my
touch would send powerful waves of sexual pleasure in their bodies.

The minute I came in contact with Dave's chest, he started to shift
uncomfortably. "Hmm," he said, biting his lips. "What?" said Mike.
"Nothing." As I rubbed my hand on his firm pecs, I could see a bulge
quickly swell in his shorts. "You seem to enjoy that..." laughed Mike.
Dave was flushed. "It's just an instinctive reaction," he said. When it
was Mike's turn, he shifted, took a long deep breath, and moaned loudly.
"Sorry," he said. Dave was looking at him, smiling. "You seem to enjoy
it too." When I moved to Mike's shoulders, he was not only getting a
hard on: he started to shake violently. Dave looked at him with disdain.
I hurried to start on Dave's shoulders. He was taken aback with the
surging sensation, and threw his head backwards. "Hmmm, this feels so
good..." he said. Then I squeezed and squeezed his shoulders and he lost
it. His hips started to gyrate, and he moaned loud and clear. I slowly
moved a finger down his spine, and he squirmed and moaned, under Mike's
surprised stare, until he pleaded, with a broken voice: "Stop please, I
don't know why, but you're gonna make me cum. I believe you now. It
works. I want to learn. Stop."

I stopped for now, and moved in front of them, staring at their sweaty
shirtless bodies and the hard-ons in their shorts. Their faces were a
mix of embarrassment and anger. Then the doorbell buzzed and startled
me. "Casper changed his mind," said Dave. "Would you open the gate while
we uh... control our excitement?"

As I walked to the gate, I picked up a trail of thoughts: Ç ...hope
they're here I've only an hour and a half what if chris comes back why
aren't they here did casper give me the right address... È It was Wes,
the little fucker! So this was his big decision: close the pub to get a
chance to practice. How fucking irresponsible! I had to block all my
feelings to control my rage inside. I became cold. When Wes saw me, his
face blanched.

"What... Why... How... I just thought..." Then he gave up on trying to
find the right words to say.

"So we're both surprised to see each other here. Come in, I'm showing
your friends some of my techniques."

I opened the gate. He was still too much in shock to say a word. Dave
and Mike had put their shirts back on, and their excitement had...
softened up. "Hey Wes!" said Mike. "Your boss' techniques are
excellent."

Wes didn't answer. Dave added with a smirk: "We still have to see if
they work for soccer."

"Let's do that right now," I said. "For this you must line up in front
of me. You'll need to close your eyes..."

Dave and Mike hurried to follow my instructions. "Let me watch first,"
Wes said, "I owe it to you to at least think about it." I nodded coldly.
He took off his wool sweater; he had a black T-shirt underneath. I
figured my suggestions would work like hypnotic suggestions and affect
their performance for real, so after the usual meditation mumbo-jumbo, I
sent Dave and Mike the bubbled thought: ÇYou'll now perform beyond your
normal abilities, although you'll find that your clothes are heavy and
constraining. Each time you strip from a piece of clothing, you'll
perform even better. È It easily seeped into their minds.

The minute the three of them were on the field, Dave and Mike danced
with the ball with amazing grace and control. Wes managed a few nice
moves -- it was clear he was a natural athlete -- but next to his
friends, he looked clumsy as hell. Mike stripped from his shirt and it
immediately boosted his play. The ball became an extension of himself:
it rolled around his feet with complete coordination. "Try it without
your shirt on!" yelled Mike to Dave. "Better freedom of movement." Dave
only sneered. But when Mike stole the ball from him as if he wasn't
there, it convinced him to discreetly peel off his shirt. They both
outclassed Wes, who was growing more and more frustrated. Fuck, I think
I even saw red in his eyes. Dave and Mike were now so equally matched
that they got stuck in a rhythmic pattern of control of the ball. It
drove Dave to take his shorts off, desperate to get an edge. Now wearing
only a jockstrap, his tight white ass flashing me regularly, not only
was he able to break the pattern, but from then on no one was able to
steal control of the ball from him. It convinced Mike to discard his
shorts too. By exposing his well-rounded, slightly hairy butt, he was
once again on a par with Dave. When Wes, in a pathetic attempt to
imitate his friends, took off his shirt to bare his shiny smooth
muscular chest, I stared at him without blinking for the next three
minutes: boy, did he look sexy in those jeans, especially now that he
wore nothing but them. Of course, it did nothing to improve his game,
and he just ran randomly on the field, his friends always three steps
ahead of him.

Eventually, he ran to me, panting and teary-eyed. "Why did you need to
bloody interfere with me life?" he asked me in anger. "You've made me
friends act crazy: would you just look at them? Playing in their bloody
jockstraps? The worst part is that your bloody techniques work. What do
you want from me?"

I gazed at the two almost-naked jocks on the field; I looked back at the
shirtless humiliated Wes. Something snapped inside me; a sudden urge to
wallow in my power made me lose control and blast his mind with my
desire. He dropped down on all fours, thinking he was a dog. I patted
his bare back; I squeezed his warm tight shoulders. "Good dog!" I said.
I could see the furry top of his butt crack. No underwear. I rubbed his
ass through his jeans. He barked twice, then darted towards Dave, rubbed
his face over Dave's jockstrap, sniffed the sweat. He wiggled his ass as
if he had a tail. The young god was now a puppy under my command. But
the dilator effects were almost gone, so I made everyone forget about
this little indulgence.

"I want to help you with your performance," I then answered Wes, "to
guide your life, to become your mentor. I want to help your team win.
I'll close the pub tomorrow afternoon, and we'll work on making you the
best soccer player, and your team the best soccer team, in the whole Ivy
League. Do you agree?"

He nodded, faintly at first, then more and more strongly as he
considered my proposal. "Alright, I agree."