The Soccer Players
By Mafisto [mafistov@hotmail.com]

Chapter 5 [Fantasy casting: Casper Van Dien as Casper Weisen,
David Beckham as Dave Berg, Wesley Cotton as Wes Collins, Michael
Owen as Mike Howe, Antonio Sabato Jr. as Coach Anthony Sabban.
Collage at http://www.egroups.com/group/GayCelebMCStories in file
section. Comments welcome and appreciated.]

The coach's silence didn't last. He shouted at his two
assistants, both as tenderized as the players: "Are you gonna
help me or are you gonna lose your jobs?" The first (Gene Taylor,
pixyish, chestnut hair) looked away; the other (Trent Norman,
lanky, long wavy blond hair) said: "They have a point..." It
infuriated the coach; he grabbed me by the T-shirt and yelled:
"What the fuck did you do to them, you pervert?" I did not like
to be assaulted. Ç He's lost his mind, È I bubbled to all. Ç Grab
him and take him away. È The players swarmed around us and pulled
him off me. "Coach, come on, be reasonable," said Mike, who
ironically was naked and sporting a huge hard-on. Gene brought
the coach the last of the tenderizer water, half a foam cup,
which he drank, his mad eyes focused on me. His anger throbbed
faintly in my head; I calmed him with some bubbled resignation.
He left quietly with his assistants. How could someone with so
little self-control be a coach? No wonder the Crimson was losing.
I'd never fall prey to my emotions like that.

Now alone with the team, I asked the players to line up before
me, and the three nude ones to put their clothes back on. I had
hated young gods such as these for a long time, yet now that I
was on their own turf and that they had, with a little assistance
from the drug, accepted me as a better coach than their own, I
was hoping I could help them win tomorrow. Why? To take pleasure
in the power I had over them? To get back at Wes for rejecting me
as a mentor? I wasn't sure. I slowly walked from one end of the
line to the other, taking a good look at the Crimson soccer team;
as my eyes went from one player to another, I focused on that
player's thoughts. I grew disappointed, then irritated. These
strong, athletic young men were all mental weaklings! None of
them had any discipline, nor any valid motivation for victory.
They wanted to win, yes, but for petty reasons; they all saw my
method as a get-good-quick scheme. I'd been kidding myself. It
wasn't reasonable to expect that I'd be able to turn this team
around in 24 hours, drug or no drug. Sure, I'd gotten results
with Dave and Mike the day before, but they were already
excellent players. But this bunch of undisciplined losers? Fuck!
A team with such unfocused thoughts was doomed to lose, period.
They were all looking at me expectantly, reminding me that I had
a show to put on, that the dilator clock was ticking...

The actual training could wait. First, I'd put them in the right
frame of mind. Why not have some fun while I was at it? Make
*them* put on the show? "We'll exorcise from your minds," I said,
"all the things that keep you from focusing on the game." They
were tenderized enough for overacting on their own impulses. Ç Do
not judge what the others are doing: it's all part of the
process. È Then I broke them into groups of two.

Jason Perkins (#4, midfield) the Jason-Priestley lookalike with
sideburns, was thinking of how his ex-girlfriend Gina had scoffed
at his way of kissing; Frank Evers (#5, midfield) the tall thin
redhead, was thinking of how to get rid of his shyness. With the
right bubbled thoughts, Frank boldly offered Jason to help him
practice his kissing. Jason climbed on the first step of the
benches to be level with Frank, and moved his head towards him so
fast that they knocked their teeth together. On the second try,
Frank gently guided Jason and soon they were into each other's
mouths with their tongues intertwisting and sixtynining.

Matadan (#14, midfield) the vain dark Mediterranean, was thinking
of ways to show off; Trevor Hume, (#13, back) the short nerd with
mesmerizing sky-blue eyes, was thinking of Matadan naked in the
shower. Plop. Matadan told Trevor: "Your eyes... They hypnotize
me... I can't resist... I'm falling under your control..." Plop.
Trevor said "I want you to strip-dance for me" in an excited,
shaky voice, and Matadan started to shake his hips and sway from
side to side. He pulled up his jersey, inch by inch, gradually
exposing a fantastic tanned chest. The jersey, then the shoes and
socks, finally came off. He rubbed Trevor's legs with his bare
feet, which made the bulge in Trevor's shorts swell pathetically.
Matadan turned his back to Trevor, and slid his shorts down just
a bit, exposing his jock waistband and the tip of his crack; then
he turned around and exposed some pubic hair; then, always
shaking to imaginary music, he turned around again, and lowered
his shorts to just below his ass, which nicely framed the thick
tanned buns; turning around again, he brought his jocked package
over his short's waistband. Finally, he discarded the shorts
altogether.

Shioyo Koneka (#21, midfield) the Asiatic with strikingly refined
features, was thinking of his biology paper due on Monday; Casper
(#11, forward) was thinking of what excuse to use to explain his
masturbation episode in the shower. With the proper mental
nudges, Shioyo's decided that his paper would be one on male
masturbation, and accepted to tell everyone that Casper's shower
episode had been an experiment he had performed to help him with
his paper. Casper, in exchange, agreed to participate in an
improvised experiment on mutual masturbation between straights.
They both stripped from their shorts and jocks; Shioyo's lower
body was sleek and smooth, with neatly trimmed pubic hair.
Standing awkwardly, they grabbed each other's cock, the only
point of contact between the two, and started to jerk each other
off.

Terry Rork (#8, back) the pimpled rookie, was thinking of an itch
in his jock; Jack Rogers (#10, midfield) the smiling blonde with
the crew cut, was thinking of enlisting in the army. With my
help, Terry role-played Jack's superior officer to help him
prepare. He gave him shit, then forced him to strip down to his
jockstrap and stand at attention. Terry examined Jack's body
thoroughly, from the shapely shoulders to the tight dimpled ass,
and then commanded him to take care of his itch. Jack fell to his
knees, pulled down Terry's shorts, and dutifully licked Terry's
inner thighs and the genitalia in his jock, drenching them with
drool.

Mike (#18, forward) was thinking of how hopeful he was that, with
my help, they'd win tomorrow; Dave (#2, forward) was thinking of
how doubtful he was, despite my help, that they'd win tomorrow. I
drove them to argue. Dave pointed out that we had not yet started
to practice any technique; Mike argued that we were trying to go
beyond technique. As they continued to debate the point, they
became angry, shouted names at each other, pushed each other back
and forth, and then started to wrestle. Dave tore Mike's jersey
in two; Mike did the same to Dave's shorts. Since they were more
tenderized than the others were, I could push them further. They
fought for a while, their clothes quickly became rags, and it
aroused them uncontrollably. They stripped from their tattered
clothing, exposed their stiff and purple dicks, then lay on the
ground and kissed, rolling their entwined nude bodies on the
grass, still arguing between kisses.

Marko Kochalsky (#12, goalkeeper) the muscular Russian, was
thinking that it was so cold today that his ass was freezing; Roy
Grant (#9, midfield) the brown-eyed future accountant, was
thinking of how his dad wanted him to score tomorrow. I was so
fucking horny and impatient by now that I rudely bombarded their
minds with commands: Marko instantly lowered his shorts and
dropped on all fours, allowing Roy to finger his protruding ass
with his wet left hand fingers while jerking himself off to a
hard-on with his other hand. Soon, his dick became a lengthy,
rigid rod. Marko bit his lip when Roy entered his virgin ass;
imagining his dad's cheers, Roy scored and scored inside this
meaty goal, heating it up until it was burning red.

"Get it out of your systems," I said to all. "Your raw urges can
only stop you from winning. Think of how much you will lose if
you don't win tomorrow, then of how little all these petty
substitutes can satisfy you."

I could have ended all this right then, and gone on to the actual
training, making sure they could execute any technique precisely
and mechanically, but instead I concentrated on each group to
increase the intensity of whatever they were doing. Jason and
Frank pulled off their jerseys and kissed each other's neck,
shoulders, arms, fingers, nipples, and belly button. Matadan
snapped off his jockstrap, freeing his long thin cut dick to whip
around as he danced faster and faster for Trevor. Shioyo and
Casper lay on the grass in the 69 position, jerking each other
off feverishly. Shioyo slapped Casper's ass, and Casper reacted
by invading Shioyo's ass with his fingers. Jack deep throated
Terry's hard dick, sucking on it with all the meticulousness a
good soldier must show. Roy pumped Marko's ass like crazy; both
their bodies were dripping with sweat.

Fuck did I need to get in the action now. My best chance was with
Dave and Mike, who were the most tenderized. At my mental
bidding, they came to me, Dave rubbing his chest and Mike still
stroking his hard dick. "Help me get my clothes off," I asked. I
offered my feet to Mike, one after the other, and he removed my
shoes and socks. Dave helped me take off my shirt. Sensing the
heat of their bodies so close to me turned me on even more. They
kneeled, Dave before Mike and me behind me; Dave pulled down my
jeans, and Mike my boxers. I was standing nude with two young
gods at my feet, and with a single thought, Dave started to suck
my dick while Mike started rimming my ass. While I was enjoying
the double stimulation, the irony of what I was doing struck me.
Here I was, trying to free them from a way of life based on
satisfying short-term impulses, while I'd been acting on impulse
myself ever since I'd found these fucking drugs. My solution was
to show them that their primitive impulses would lead nowhere, in
the hope of making them concentrate on their true desires
instead. Should I do the same? What was it that I really wanted
out of this? My train of thought was broken when Dave and Mike,
through some stroke of luck, simultaneously found fabulous ways
to stimulate both my prostate and my dick, making me lose all
sense of where and when. I remember seeing Shioyo and Casper come
on each other; then Terry spraying Jack's face; then Roy
exploding over Marko's backside; each of these orgasms
reverberated in my mind until I felt the most luscious, the most
intense of orgasms I had ever felt. It rose from my balls to my
head in one gushing wave of pleasure, and my brain dilated so
much I fainted.

I smiled as I woke up. The previous delights had surged so
intensely that even their faint echo could tease a smile out of
me. Reality, though, kicked in as soon as my eyes were open: I
was lying alone, naked and cold in the center of Ohiri Field. I
staggered up to my feet, overwhelmed with the sense that
something was wrong. Where was everybody? Someone had moved my
clothes near the benches. Why? While I dressed carelessly, my
vague feelings of uneasiness swiftly sharpened to a poignant
dread when I discovered that the flasks were missing. Fuck!
Whoever had taken them had, if not determined their exact
purpose, at least reckoned them to be important. While walking
back to the pub, the implications of the theft became clearer to
me. Tasting the tenderizer would not create a problem, but a
single sip of dilator would open the thief's mind for invasion by
the voices of all the Crimson Soccer Team players. How long would
it take the thief to realize he could control their thoughts as
well? Everyone would know my secret -- the players probably knew
about it by now. They'd reject me, perhaps even sue me for...
what? Indecency? Rape? Mind-control? That's what I'd get from
challenging the young gods. When I reached the pub I found
another weird fact: the sign on the door said: "WE'RE OPEN". I
tried the door; it was unlocked. Although I could have made a
mistake about the sign, I knew I had locked the door. I entered
the pub cautiously -- had the thief broken in?

"Bloody hell!" Wes' voice made me jump. "You look like you're
totally cabbaged there. What happened to you?" He was serving
Roger -- a regular on Saturday afternoons since his divorce --
who sat on a stool at the bar. "I decided I might as well open
the pub," he explained. "It seems I won't be bloody needed
elsewhere."

"Thanks," I mumbled sincerely. The innocence in his face and the
gentleness of his mood were somehow lightening the weight of my
worries. I sat next to Roger, determined to well spend whatever
time remained before my fall. The three of us chatted and
laughed. Wes did impressions of his parents and friends, complete
with Cockney rhyming slang. Roger left after eating his dinner, a
hastily prepared ham on rye.

"Somethin' on your mind, eh?" Wes asked me. "Is it because the
coach didn't want you to use that brilliant method of yours? I
fought for you, you know... I guess that's one of the reasons I'm
not playin' tomorrow."

I looked up at him, and saw the candid concern in his misty green
eyes; tears briefly surged in my own eyes. He came around the bar
and sat on the stool next to mine, eager to help, but ignorant as
to how. After this afternoon's events, I felt alone in the world,
alone with the world against me. His presence strengthened me,
but I tried not to enjoy it too much: his support and my relief
were insubstantial, and would fade the minute he learned about
what I had done. How could I have let myself lose control like
that? Now, I would pay for it by losing Wes, wouldn't I? And so,
because I needed to know now if I *had* lost him or not, I told
him the whole story. I wanted him to hear it from me -- he was
bound to learn about it from his friends anyway. I told him what
I had found in the basement, what it did, how I used it, what
happened the night before at Dave's, and today at his school. I
stayed vague about the erotic stuff: I was too ashamed of being
attracted to him and his friends. Fuck, he hadn't even known I
was gay! At first, he thought I was joking, then there was no
obvious emotion on his face, no anger, no surprise. I missed the
power to read his thoughts. Would he reconsider our relation now
that he knew? Would he lose all the respect I had earned from
him?

"Did you use that... potion... to take advantage of me?" he
asked, in a way that was too calm to be natural.

"No. I read a few surface thoughts, made you daydream a bit,
acted on a fetish of mine. But I never touched you or even saw
you in an indecent way." I was surprised that it was so, by the
very truth of my words.

"Good," he said. I knew he believed me and he appeared quite
relieved. "Thanks." His face was under a lot of pressure, as if
he could only barely contain his emotions. I had crushed his
reality, and he was trying to make sense of his world again, not
knowing how to feel. Once again, I longed to be able to read his
thoughts -- I would have probably perceived a deeper layer of him
than I had ever perceived before. He darted out for a walk, said
he had to think this through, and left me more alone than I had
ever felt before. When he came back, he did not lose any time. He
stood before me like a firmly rooted tree, and grabbed my
shoulder with his warm, sturdy hand. He was taking the lead; he
was the mentor now, the strongest of the two.

"I'll help you find out where the flasks are, and repair the
damage that was done. I have a plan, and I'll need the night off.
But you'll bloody owe me one, you understand that? I have a few
needs of my own that you can help me take care of. Do you agree?"

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