CHAPTER ELEVEN

SOCCER—CHAPTER ELEVEN

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)."

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Moving to Germany was a culture shock. The club I signed with was located in the industrial belt of the Ruhr. It was considered to be one of the top four or five traditional powers in German football, but had rested on its laurels, imploded, and collapsed into the lower division of the national competition. That was a wake-up call: coaching staff were fired, old stars of the past let go, and major investments were made to purchase new players, improve the stadium, and develop the youth system.

The whole set-up was very professional. All the club’s teams, from the under-12s to the first team, played the same tactical system. The coaching focused on understanding that, how your teammates moved around you, and on technical skills. Bi-weekly physicals, massages, a controlled diet also reflected a professionalism that I hadn’t encountered in England. There training consisted of long runs, kick-abouts, and practicing set-pieces like corner kicks; once we were through practice we were on our own.

It was difficult at first. I had to deal with a new language. I alternated training with the under-18s and the reserves. The club doctors set a series of physical standards for me to meet that required weight training and building up endurance. They housed me and a few other players in Spartan garden apartments at the training grounds. Most of the other younger foreign players lived in the small complex—a couple of lads from Cameroon, twice that many from Eastern Europe. I was the only American and got a lot of stick for that, plus I didn’t initially have a roommate.

Over the summer we trained six days a week. I was disappointed that most of my training was with the youth teams. I was only a couple of months shy of nineteenth birthday. I could also my game improving and resented playing with the youngsters. The professionalism was great, the youth coaches were mainly Dutch who are famed for developing talent and the overall attitude of the club brimmed with optimism. The foreign players took German classes in the evenings; though this focused on soccer terminology.

I got a couple of letters from Zarah. In the first one she was pining and wrote about running away to see me. I didn’t reply—her mother would probably intercept it anyways—and threw the second one away unread. I knew she was a resilient kid and would get over it.

Competitive games started in late August. I didn’t make the first team squad and seemed to be bouncing around between the second-string and the oldest youth team. I did get a flat-mate. Frank was signed at the end of the summer and was a promising defender who regularly played for the German Under-21s and immediately slotted into the first-team. He bunked with me because he was both an Ossie (from the East) and spoke some English. He seemed like a fun guy though we had trouble communicating at first.

* * *

I guess I should say something about team initiation. There had been a couple of pranks (shaving cream and tied laces stuff) over summer. It was clear that there was resentment between the Germans and the foreigners. After all, we were competing for the same places and generally we were better players than the locals.

After the first competitive game—a youth fixture against one of the teams from the top division that we won 2-1—a couple of the African lads and I were the last into the dressing room. Our German teammates ambushed us and covered our heads. Blinded I was shoved in a corner and could hear the screams of one of my teammates. At first it was in fun but then it started sounding more painful. Then there was a piercing yelp. After a moment of silence the victim started sobbing.

“Wer ist an der Reihe?”

I tried to translate… Who is … next…

Suddenly I was pulled to my feet. Hands ripped down my shorts and jock-strap and then pulled off my shirt. It also tore the kit bag from my head. I was disoriented in the sudden burst of light and easily shoved to the ground. Peering around I saw Dioup, a Cameroonian lad, with his hands shackled to a clothes peg, naked except for a gunny bag covering his head, with a broom handle sticking out of his ass.

The bullies’ ring leader, a big blonde Teutonic boy named Karsten, shoved me onto the pine decking between the benches of the dressing room. A group of six of the German players started beating my back and buttocks with soccer cleats, and broom and mop handles. They hit pretty hard. Someone pulled my apart my ass cheeks and the terrifying feeling of hard wood pushed against my anus.

“Nein! Spar die das für die Schwarze.”

Save it for the blacks, I translated my reprieve.

The gang turned the attention to their third victim. Wednesday Akoki was a slight boy from Benin, only sixteen, and they easily stripped and bundled him to the floor where he was pummeled. They seemed to be hitting him a lot harder than they had me, and Wednesday started crying which only seemed to encourage the gang more. He still had a sack over his head and started screaming when Karsten pulled him up by the boot laces tied around his wrists, dragged him to wall and hung on the clothes hook next to Dioup. The poor kid could barely reach the ground and stood on his toes.

Karsten held his hand open and someone else gave him a toilet plunger. Pulling aside a black cheek Karsten positioned the handle against Wednesday’s anus and shoved it in. There was some resistance and the knob penetrated an inch. Karsten twisted it and another inch, then another, got absorbed into the black lad’s ass.

“Mehr!” urged the audience.

Karsten rotated the wooden handle. Wednesday was screaming in pain and his body was shaking.

“Das wird genügen,” Karsten finally judge. That’s enough, I translated.

The half-dozen young men ran into the shower leaving the three of us bound around the lockers. I struggled around on the pallet and was able to free my hands. I found my shorts and put them on.

Dioup and Wednesday were still hanging from the wall. I untied the Cameroonian’s hands and he ripped the sack off his head.

“Get… it… out,” he plead still in agony. I pulled the handle gently and Dioup started wailing; so I just ripped the pole suddenly from his ass.

“Oh thank you Jesus!”

I got under Wednesday and lifted him off the hook. He was still wailing and screamed when Dioup pulled the alien device from his backside.

Not wanting to go through any more of this I suggested we just dress and get out of the dressing rooms before the rest of the boys finished their showers. We packed up are stuff quickly and left.

Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, I’d seen the same kind of thing happen back in Ohio and in England. It wasn’t just a German thing though this was the most extreme, racial and the homosexual connotations were pretty blatant. As you’ll see Frank became a great mate of mine. Karsten was a little warped and was dismissed from the club a few months later for a couple of other racists incidents that occurred in front of some of the coaches. Unfortunately there are people like him in every society.

* * *

The was one other different thing that went on in Germany. If we picked up a bad knock in training or in a game we could be sent to the masseurs. Back in England there were a couple of physios who would stretch us out and check mobility. It was a lot different in Germany.

The first time I didn’t know what to expect. The club employed a number of masseurs who were located in the p.t. (physiotherapy) complex in a large room with a number of partitioned booths. I was instructed to lie down on one of the padded tables and the masseuse, a muscular man with black hair, worked over my muscles and ligaments for about half an hour. I was a little self-conscious at first, but the guy was pretty skilled and I was soon relaxing.

The second time, a couple of weeks later, the masseuse was a woman. She was from somewhere to the east and her German was almost as bad as mine. Again I was pretty uncomfortable at first but her touch was even better than the man, and I almost nodded off from her deft finger-work.

I got a physical massage once a week or so after than. The club employed eight or ten masseuses on a part-time basis, about a third or so men. They were professional and I soon got to relax from the get-go and look forward to the experience. Later I would find that the p.t. could lead to more relief that I’d initially expected.

About a month into the season, around the end of September, I was scheduled for a work out. I ended up in a booth with the Eastern European woman I had before. She was a tall thin woman, I guess in her late twenties or early thirties. Like all the masseurs she wore a prim white smock with a couple of pens in her pocket and her name tag attached to it. Milena Szabo.

As usual I lay on my front and Milena worked my shoulders and then my neck. I kept looking over my shoulder, afraid that she’d massage this large bruise I’d taken in the ribs earlier during training.

“Entspannen Sie;” she told me to relax. The second time I looked she dropped a towel over my head. Milena worked down my back, bypassing the bruised area on my back and buttocks, and went to work on my thighs. She stretched them out, pulling the muscles downward and then did the same to my shins. Then Milena ‘knuckled’ the soles of my feet and cricked the toes of both feet.

She pushed my hip and I rolled over onto my stomach. Milena worked my neck and shoulders from the front.

“Seit wann has die lebt heir?”

I worked out the time it had been since I moved to German. It had been three months.

“Drie Monate.”

Milena’s hands twisted my ankles stretching the ligaments and her fingers pulsed up my shins. She worked her magic on my knees. It felt like she was aligning the caps to the rightful place. I felt her touch my thighs.

“Hast du eine feste Freundin?”

“Nien.” I’m not sure if I could call Zarah or anyone else a steady girlfriend, and anyways that was in the past. Milena was working the adductors in side my leg. She had a lilting voice that feminized the language. As she leaned over I could detect a faint scent through the towel that draped over my face.

“Ich kann Erleichterung bringen… “ she whispered. I can bring…? I tried to translate in my head.

I felt her fingertips touch my balls. My shorts were still on but Milena’s long fingers reached through the leg holes of my shorts and caressed my sac and the eggs they held. Blood surged into my groin.

In the past three months I’d been so busy with the new and foreign regimen I’d hardly had time to jerk-off. My newly sprouted erection pushed against the fabric of my shorts.

Cupping my scrotum with one hand I felt Milena tug at the waistband. I lifted my hips so she could pull down my shorts.

“So ein groß schwanz,” she sighed. Something big was impressing Milena.

I felt her hand grasp the middle of my dick. I was still in the dark but imagined from the way if felt that the ‘ring’ formed by her thumb and ring finger wrapped around the circumference just under the dome head. She lifted my prick so it pointed to the ceiling and with a firm grip pulled the foreskin slowly downward. Cold air brushed over my glans. The palm of Milena’s hand palpated the length until its heel rested on my pubic bone.

Equally slowly she raised her hand and pulled the foreskin over the helmet of my dick, stretching the skin of cock. Each stroke—up and down—lasted two or three seconds. With her other hand Milena jangled my gonads faster and more randomly.

Her touch was exquisite. My balls were being bounced in the palm of one of Milena’s hands while the other held my hardness stiffly. I tried to urge to be faster with the stroking by bucking my hips, but expertly she adjusted her hand rhythm to counter my movement and keep the slow pace she dictated. I stopped trying to speed her up, but I wanted to watch.

I shook my head gently until I could see through a slit. Looking down my chin I could see the slow movement of Milena’s hand stroking my prick and the wrist of her other arm leading to the other one that was now grinding my balls. I twitched with slight pain that was producing.

She released my ball sac. Still stroking me slowly with one hand Milena delicately played with the purple head of my cock. Her ball of her thumb rubbed over my cock-eye spreading the pre-come over the dome. Milena’s finger traced the sensitive edge of the helmet on the down-strokes. Her touch was scintillating.

I guess my balls were constricting in anticipation or something. Whatever it was Milena could tell I was getting closer. For the first time her stroking my cock stopped being excruciatingly slow.

“I’m coming,” I mumbled in English. I don’t know if she understood what I said but she did read my body. Her thumb pressed on my blow-hole blocking the first pump of semen so it gushed over the head of my cock.

Pulling the towel from my face she spread it over my stomach. The second gush splattered over it as she stopped trying to plug it up. It was thick and creamy. A third, fourth and fifth spurt flew from my prick.

“Kurwa!” exclaimed Milena, “das heißt viel Samenflüssigkeit.”

There was a lot of come—gobs of it were sticking to the towel. Milena was still stroking my erection and milking the last vestiges of my climax which dribbled from my cockhead. When I was finally spent Milena dabbed the towel and cleaned up the globs of spunk on my glans and chest.

“Haben sie sich bessern?”

“Ja… danke.” I did feel better.

* * *

My new roommate, as I mentioned, was this German guy Frank. The garden apartment we shared had a living area downstairs with a walk-in kitchen, a dining area and some sparse furnishing. Upstairs, and equally barren, were two small bedrooms and a shared bathroom. Frank was on a different schedule from me as he trained with the first-team. He was a year or two older than me and I did kind of resent his success while I was still struggling in the developmental system. He seemed a friendly enough guy. We’d play video games and stuff, but whenever he went out he didn’t invite me along.

I was getting pretty frustrated playing for the second-teams and lonely from a social perspective. The hand-job from the masseuse Milena helped but also pointed out what a solitary existence I had. I guess that’s what got me into the fans, though Frank had a hand in that too.