The Soccer Players (by Mafisto)
[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: « …kick run where is it got it left he’s coming right how did he do that never be able to… » « …good move be careful not teach him too much left? amateur he’ll go right yes ah got it run run kick… » I wrapped a thought («You are expecting tonight the owner of the pub where Wes works. He knows mental techniques to improve your performance.») 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: « …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… » 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: «You’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. » 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.”