Star Player

John Rivers had worshipped Champ Griffin for years, ever since John had begun devoting every waking moment to soccer—on the field, in his discussions with his friends, and in the décor he picked for his bedroom walls. Champ Griffin, the star player for the Big Chiefs professional soccer team, figured prominently in every single poster John had on his bedroom wall. Champ Griffin's cocky smile and his magnificently developed body had been the last thing John had seen when he turned out his light at night and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes in the morning. John would have given anything to be like Champ Griffin—almost to be Champ Griffin himself. In his dreams, John became Champ Griffin.

So John worked his butt off on the soccer field to morph into Champ Griffin—and he did his preparation well. He made the all-state soccer team in high school, and when he went off to the university, it was on an athletic scholarship—to play soccer.

And here he was, on the Big Chiefs' practice field, during training camp, fighting with three other guys for a chance to sit on the Big Chiefs' bench for a season and maybe to work his way into the starting team. Alongside his ideal, Champ Griffin.

Champ Griffin's status on the team was no more obvious than that he was standing out there on the field, between the club's coach and owner and three steps in front of its recruiting team and assessing all of the new prospects as they did their "stuff" in search of a nod to become a Big Chief.

John looked in fear and trepidation as those men put their heads together. He certainly didn't miss that they never looked back on the field until Champ Griffin had had his say.

There wasn't a doubt in John River's mind when the call to training camp for "the team" dropped into his mailbox that Champ Griffin had seen and approved of and chosen him to be on the team. At that moment, John would have done anything Champ Griffin wanted him to do. Champ Griffin was a god to John.

The first practice field workout of what was going to constitute this year's team, John was nearly overwhelmed that Champ seemed to take him under his wing and was giving him pointers and encouragement all through their first practice session. No one even batted an eye when Champ put an arm around John's shoulder and announced that he and John would be going back to the showers early and then going over some team rules and special plays back at the locker room before the rest of the team came in.

If there were sniggers among the rest of the team gathered around Champ at that moment, John didn't notice them. He was still starry eyed at being in the mere presence of his idol.

Back in the clubhouse, Champ sent John off to the locker room showers and said they'd meet up after they'd both cleaned up. Champ had his own shower; in fact he had his own private room with his own bathroom and shower and massage table. He was that much of a star player for the Big Chiefs. Nothing was too good for Champ; Champ got whatever he wanted.

When John padded out of the shower, with just a towel around his waist, Champ was sitting there on the locker room bench in front of John's locker, showered but nude—and holding a supersized cock in his hand and slowly working it up.

John froze in place. Shocked. He'd never thought of his idol this way. Sure, he'd gone to sleep and awakened to the power of Champ's bare chest on one of the posters in his bedroom—but he'd never thought of Champ in the altogether. Not even in his dreams.

"Come over and suck this," Champ said in a low, growly voice. He was smiling at John. The same smile he used when he was giving the rookie pointers out on the playing field.

"What? I don't understand." John wasn't at his most glib when he was caught by surprise.

"I'm tense. The rookies always give me head when I'm tense. That's what they're here for."

"I don't . . . I'm not . . ." John stammered, not yet finding whatever words might make all of this go away.

"Come on, come over here. Suck me," Champ repeated. And he said it as if it was an everyday conversation, as if it was the most natural thing for them to be discussing.

"Hey, you were just one of four guys who could play. You were just the one I wanted the most. Do you want to go home and for me to pick the next-best guy?"

"No." John said it but he took his time agonizing before he said it. This was the life he'd been building to; his had been tunnel vision. He had no idea what he'd do in life if not play professional soccer. And the Big Chiefs. They were the best. And Champ Griffin. He was the best of the best.

John slowly moved to the bench. As he came down, straddling the bench, facing Griffin, who also was straddling the bench, Griffin reached for John's towel and pulled it off him. Now John was naked too.

"Nice. Very nice," Griffin mumbled in a hoarse voice. Then he put a big mitt behind John's neck and pulled John's mouth into his.

John had never kissed a man before. And he'd always played lead. This was a strange sensation, but he let Griffin's lips open his and he let Griffin's tongue invade his mouth cavity. He was kissing another man. But not just another man. Champ Griffin. His idol, Champ Griffin. The man that for years John had said he'd do anything for. And now Champ Griffin was showing John what he wanted from him.

Griffin gently pushed John's head down toward his crotch when they came out of the kiss, and John felt Griffin's cock head slip into his mouth and John was suddenly giving Griffin inexperienced, but sufficient, under Griffin's direction, head. Meanwhile, Griffin was leaning over John's bent torso with those long arms of his and feeling up John's butt cheeks and playing "find and open the rosebud" with John's ass rim.

When the rest of the team came in from practice to take their showers, John and Champ were in full fuck. John was lying on his back on the bench now, one leg hooked around Champ's hip and the other one being held up and out with Champ's fist wrapped around John's ankle. John's hips were rolled up and Champ's pelvis was hovering just an inch or two off the bench surface, giving his thick cock a good angle as it stroked hard and deep inside John's ass canal.

They were well past the painful moments as Champ worked his cock into the virginal canal and John writhed and mildly objected and begged—which went unheeded—and panted and groaned—and cried out at the first breaching. Then, having made his decision to let nothing stand in his way of becoming a Big Chief—and having already been deflowered now in a maneuver that could never be reversed—John lay back and arched his torso to give them both the most comfortable ride, and just moaned and sighed his way through the fuck. The groans and moans slowly drifted into sighs and murmurs of pleasure and letting Champ know what stroking he was liking the best. This was Champ Griffin, John's idol. And Champ Griffin was enjoying his body and telling him how nice it was and what a sweet ass he had, what a good lay he was. He was pleasing his idol.

At the height of the pain, when Champ's cock was pushing in and digging deep and stretching him to the point where he knew he'd be split in two, John kept playing Champ Griffin's statement over in his head. This was his one shot to make the team. If it wasn't him, it would be one of the other three guys he'd gone up against to get the nod. It was all Champ Griffin's call. Champ Griffin, his idol. The guy John had said he would do anything for.

John was writhing and moaning under the pick up in Champ's cocking rhythm as the rest of the team members flowed into the room, looking at them and muttering dirty words and flashing sneery smiles at Champ as they passed by. But they were just going about their business as if this was an everyday occurrence in the locker room. And maybe, John thought, as Champ dropped his leg and wrapped both hands around John's waist and pulled him in harder to his pelvis and onto his stroking cock with each thrust—maybe this was business as usual.

With a cry of release, aroused and coming quickly because of the surprise and newness of it all, John ejaculated up his torso. A few guys turned and gave a little laugh as they were stripping off their gear. But other than that, they gave the coupling in the middle of their activity scant attention.

One of the veterans did toss a "See you in the showers," over his shoulder and wiggled his buns as he and the others padded off toward the communal shower room.

John lay there, spent and putty in Champ's hands, as the Big Chief's star player grunted and thrust to his own release.

Then Champ rose from the bench and pulled John up and slapped him affectionately on the butt. He then half frog marched John to the shower room. The rest of the team was standing there, in a row, under the water jets, in seniority order, working up their cocks in their fists, big smiles on their faces.

As the veteran who had said "See you in the showers," bent John over at the waist and positioned himself at the head of the line and close in between John's thighs and butt crack, Champ Griffin, star player of the Big Chiefs turned to go back to his own room.

Before he left, though, and as John's eyes went wild at what was invading his ass channel, Champ Griffin leaned down and whispered in John's ear. "Buck up, sport. You give good fuck and there will be a new set of recruits in at midseason." Then he went on. "When you're done here, come on over to my room, and I'll show you why I have my own digs. You'll love the special massage table I've got—and, oh yes, the sling."