SOCCER—CHAPTER THREE

This is subject to all the usual provisos:
Graphic sex follows.
I'm not responsible for you reading this if you are underage.
The contents are purely fiction and all characters are figments of my imagination.
This story is copyrighted and any reproduction requires the explicit consent of the author; i.e. me.
AIDS/HIV and other STD do not exist in my fiction but do in reality-if you attempt to live the lifestyle depicted please take precautions.

"If you lack the maturity to grasp this disclaimer, then under no circumstances read this story without guidance of someone more mature (to quote Deirdre)."

© 2007: This work may not be reproduced in any format or medium without the permission of the author.

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It was midsummer when the Kickers got back home. Everyone was proud of us and we rode on a float on the Fourth of July parade through downtown. I tried to mend bridges with Robin but the whole locker room thing with the cheerleader and the rumors she heard about our night on the town in Copenhagen made her avoid me and be sullen when she couldn’t. The team had sworn a blood-pact that none of us would disclose who’d actually gone with the prostitutes but it was pretty well known that a couple of us had been that lucky.

While I tried mending bridges with Robin things started happening that would change my life. I’d never thought of myself as a great soccer player. Both my parents and my coaches had always stressed it was a team game, and I played the non-glamorous positions in defense or the holding position at the back of midfield. I was never a goal-scoring striker or a creative winger likely to be labeled a star. But at the tournament in Denmark there’d been more than a few scouts looking for talent and my dad dropped my name among his contacts in England.

At the end of July a professional team in the UK offered me a youth contract. They weren’t one of the top teams: in the English system they were in the third tier of professional soccer which would be like a AA team in baseball. Dad, who had a lot to do with the offer, was enthusiastic. Mom was pretty wary but surprisingly gave in; that she started dating this guy who’d eventually marry her probably had something to do with it. She did have a lot of stipulations involving my continuing my education and prepping for the ACT, but eventually an arrangement was agreed on.

So in early August I moved to northwest England and joined the ‘academy’ of this small professional club. Dad lived three hours away so I was sixteen going on seventeen, newly de-virgined, pretty independent, and with a two year contract as a paid footballer. For the first couple of months I lived in the club dorms and played on the youth team. When I turned 17, given that I was a little older than the others in the academy, I moved out of the dormitory facilities and had a room in town paid for by the club. Mrs. Evans, my landlady, ran the cafeteria at the club and I shared my room with another player graduating from the youth scheme. Henry didn’t make the grade and the club released him after Christmas so I had my own space. By that time I stopped playing for the youth team, started for the reserve team with the older players, on got on the bench for the first team.

Moving out of the academy accommodations didn’t make a whole lot of difference initially. Mrs. Evans’ house was only a half-mile from the training ground and I continued to eat meals and take afternoon classes there. Instead of bunking with one or two other lads I had my own room, at the top of the house on the third floor in the eaves. On the floor below were the bathroom and two bedrooms for Mrs. Evans and her younger daughter Zarah, who was twelve or thirteen, and on the ground floor the ‘parlor’, a small dining room, kitchen and w.c. It was all pretty cramped and draughty.

It wasn’t until I got injured that I got a taste of my home away from home, just after New Years. I’d only started my second game for the first team but clashed heads on a corner kick and ended up unconscious with a concussion. The doctor’s prescription, after an overnight stay at the hospital, was a week off training and to relax as much as possible. Given the previous year—winning the regionals with the Kickers, our run in the Copenhagen tournament, and then playing myself onto the verge of the first team—a period of rest was appreciated. I could get my batteries recharged.

The first night after I got back from the hospital I cocooned myself in bed. My landlady, June Evans, borrowed a portable black-and-white television from one of the neighbors, and put out some extra blankets so I’d be warm. June was a short stocky woman, in her late thirties, with dirty blonde hair and seemed very matronly to the boys in the youth academy. We knew a little about her history.

June’s dad had been head of the supporters club twenty years earlier and she’d volunteered doing odd jobs on game days. At sixteen she’d gotten pregnant with one of the players, married him and produced a child. A couple of years later he moved on to greater things and left his wife and infant daughter behind. When her father died the club felt obligated, given all, to give June a job in hospitality. Her divorce settlement gave her enough money to buy the house I lived in and the club job income security. She’d gotten pregnant again with Zarah, rumor had it to another young player, but this time maintained her independence and there wasn’t anything salacious about her for the last decade.

I was still kind of groggy after being released that morning from the hospital. Mrs. Evans came upstairs around nine thirty with a cup of cocoa and sat on the bed. We just kind of chattered about how I was feeling and whether the injury would hinder my chances on the first team while I sipped my hot drink. She pattered down my blankets, turned off the TV and lights, and took down my mug.

The next day I was still under doctor’s orders for bed rest. Zarah brought up a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of hot tea, turned on the telly for me, and then left for school. I could hear the bustle in the house as the Evanses made ready for work but napped once they left and things got quiet. Around two I woke up. June Evans had come home, heated up some soup and buttered a couple of slices of bread, and sat on my bed while I ate lunch. I had woken hungry and with a throbbing erection.

While I ate lunch Mrs. Evans chattered about going-ons at the club. There was a bit of an injury crisis for the night game. I responded nervously, spooning the soup, munching on the bread, and not being able to relax my woody. When I finished the meal June took my bowl and plate, placed them on the floor, and smoothed down the covers. Her hand ran over my groin and rested on my hard-on.

“You seem a little tense,” she observed while still holding me through the blankets. “You must be getting bored after a couple of days stuck in bed.”

She said that while looking directly at my face. I could feel my cheeks glow rosy in embarrassment. Awkwardly I nodded. Her hand still lay on my erection.

“Let’s see what the problem is.”

She pulled back the covers. I was wearing pajamas that were tented over my pole. Her hand reached into the fly and pulled out my stiff member. It stuck up pointing toward my chin.

“It’s really nice,” she judged and started inspecting it. June leaned down close to my chest and examined my twitching member. After a few second she reached a hand to its base and pulled down on it so the foreskin uncovered the glans. Her head moved closed and studied the purple head and eye on the tip. Tentatively she moved her hand upward so the loose skin enveloped the pulsing mushroom.

She released the base but instantaneously gripped me at mid-girth. And started pumping vigorously.

“Is this alright?” she asked. Her hand blurred as she jacked me off. I nodded and closed my eyes. I lay back and just enjoyed the sensation. When I began to feel a rise I opened my eyes and June was staring at me. Her lower lipped drooped and I could see her small teeth and her tongue pressing between her jaws. It glistened and flexed. She looked at me, oblivious to her fast hand stroking my dick.

The ring of her thumb and forefinger clenched the corona of my prick and rubbed the foreskin over and over against that sensitive flesh. I felt myself beginning to come. Intuitively June reached down and picked up my lunch napkin and covered the crown of cock as I came. The thick white fluid oozed onto the paper towel.

When I was finished she wrapped the napkin into a ball, put it on the plate with the bowl and went downstairs. And I just drifted off. I’d been so intense since moving to England that I don’t think I’d masturbated more than four or five times in the last six months. Plus my head hurt.

* * *

Zarah brought me up dinner, some curry take-out. I was getting stir crazy but was still under orders to spend another day in bed and had a headache that could kill. I watched TV on the small set, waking at 3 am to the test screen and then turning it off.

Next morning skinny Zarah brought up tea and warm oatmeal. After she and her mother had left I started pottering around the house. Not intrusively, just went to the parlor and watched some TV in color, made another cup of tea, walked around the tiny back garden. I got hungry and was grilling a ham-and-cheese when June came home.

“You doing alright?” she asked, surprising me in the kitchen. I nodded and apologized for using her kitchen without permission.

“That’s alright. I’ll make some tea.” She hovered next to me and put the kettle on. I felt awkward, still in pajamas waiting for the toast on my sandwich to brown.

We sat at the card table while I ate. I told her I was going a little crazy being locked up and was planning on going for a walk that afternoon. Mrs. Evans admonished me for moving too fast and at the same time sympathized with my boredom. The phone rang as I finished my lunch; it was my dad calling to see how I was doing. June left to go back to the club and prepare dinner for the youth team.

After talking with dad I did take a walk. It was cold and snow had fallen a couple of days previously and hardly melted since then. I got back around four, when it was almost dark. Zarah was home from school and we watched some television together. Zarah was a scraggily girl, taller than her mom but all skin and bones. She was in that adolescent stage of being half adult and playing with teddy bears.

June Evans got home early. There was a reserve game that night and the other teams had traveled for away fixtures so she wasn’t needed to cook dinner at the club. Zarah was spending the next couple of nights at a friend’s house and once she was packed and away June suggested we go to the stadium to watch the reserves. We got there around eight for the second half. There were only a couple of hundred spectators, which was pretty typical for those low level types of games. The ground was frosty and muddy, the quality of the game poor, and the atmosphere vacant in a ground that held twelve thousand.

I was shivering by the time the game ended, and June suggested we stop in the local pub to warm up as we trekked home. We each had a brandy and then went on our way. Her house was cold and damp when we got home. June suggested I have a bath to warm up. Normally I’d just shower given there was only one full bath in the house, but with Zarah away I could wallow. I drew a bath and settled in, enjoying the immersion in hot water. After a while, topping up the bath with warm water, June knocked on the door and let herself in. She gave me a tumbler of scotch and sat on the toilet seat. I could smell the alcohol on her breath. The suds were pretty vacant and I was conscious she could see my whole waterlogged torso though the bathroom was steamy. I really didn’t care that much—I was tired, a little buzzed and the woman had whacked me off just the day before.

June talked about the game we just saw and the prospects of the club and the players at various levels. She was wearing a dowdy dressing gown, smoked a cigarette, and sipped her drink. I lay back in the tub and watched the smoke curl into the bath steam and nipped at the whisky she’d brought. I was starting to wrinkle from being saturated when June announced she was going to bed. She stood up from the commode, fought to find her balance, and opened the bathroom door.

Before closing it behind it she leant coyishly back into the room. Even low in the bathtub I could see the skin of her ample breast exposed from beneath her dressing gown.

“You don’t have to go back upstairs Holden,” she said quietly, “there’s room enough for you in my bed.”

The bathroom door closed. I pulled the stopper out with my toes and drained the tub. Standing up and rubbing myself with a worn towel I contemplated the invitation. As I dried myself I didn’t know what I was going to do. I bundled my dirty clothes up but left them sitting on the tiled floor, and put on my robe.

Opening the bathroom door I looked around the landing. To my right were Zarah’s dark bedroom and the staircase leading down to the dark parlor and up to the light on the third floor. On the left was a faint glow emanating under June’s door. I tapped on the door and waited. There was no response. I racked my knuckles again, a little louder.

“Come in,” came a soft reply. I opened the door and closed it behind me.