Текст книги "Ravages"

Автор книги: R.A. Padmos

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R. A. Padmos

Ravages

Manifold Press

Published by Manifold Press

Text: © R A Padmos 2011

Cover image: © Fesus Robert | iStockphoto.com

E-book format © Manifold Press 2011

For further details of titles both in print and forthcoming see:

manifoldpress.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-908312-00-6

Proof-reading and line editing:

Thalia Communications

thaliacomm.net

Editor: Fiona Pickles

Characters and situations described in this book are fictional and not intended to portray real persons

or situations whatsoever; any resemblances to living individuals are entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

To my wife, but she’s probably going to say something like: “I didn’t do anything.”

So many individuals deserve to be thanked for their encouragement, their willingness to put up

with my doubt if I was the right person to write this story and their patience in what was at times a

very slow process. I don’t want to hurt anyone by accidentally forgetting a name, so: you know who

you are.

A very special thank you goes out to Joanne Morris for her generous sharing of her knowledge

of all things football, her red pen before I even dared to present the manuscript to a publisher, and for

giving me the Steve Gavan song.

And thank you, people at Manifold Press for taking a chance with this story.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Author's notes

About R. A. Padmos

Chapter 1

Steve knows he looks like an idiot. A very, very happy idiot, with a smile that stretches from

one ear to the other and eyes that probably shine much too brightly. There’s a spring in his step like he

won a competition he doesn’t remember having entered. He thinks he even smells differently, like

he’s two men at the same time. He wears the heady richness of Daniël’s scent like an exclusive

fragrance.

People stare at him while he’s walking from the pub where he had shared a pint with a couple

of mates, and that’s not because they recognise him from the matches on TV or because he’s one of

the faces on the poster above the bed of their ten-year-old-son. No, the reason is that silly smile on his

face. He’s absolutely certain of it.

To be past his thirtieth birthday and for the first time having felt a man inside him makes his

head reel. There had been no rational reason for him to make such a fuss about it, more so because

Daniël has been enjoying the experience several times a week for the past six months and it’s not like

Steve has to beg for it, either. But what can you do?

Daniël hadn’t pressured him for it, reassuring him time and again that sex was great between

them. And it is great, every aspect of it. Of course, they have to be careful when they’re in the public’s

eye, the world of professional football and its fans not being known for its open and generous outlook

towards gay men, but as soon as they’re alone, they shake off all restraint. On occasion they allow

themselves a sleep-over and there’s no better way to start the day than having a sexy Dutchman to take

care of Steve’s morning erection by using that talented mouth of his. Or to be invited to Dan’s

apartment and have a quickie while dinner is keeping warm in the oven. Best of all are the long hours

that seem so fleetingly short, they spend in bed doing just about anything that’s physically possible

and wanted by the both of them. The sheer beauty of looking into Daniël’s eyes while fucking him

with such intensity – it feels like he’s losing his self wholly, only to come back even more complete.

This one thing however he had never allowed, even when Daniël asked it in such a seductive

voice he had felt his heart turn and all he could have said was a clear yes. But he hadn’t said yes. Not

until last night.

A certain someone got really lucky last night, he thinks, and it’s our little secret. He’s not even

sure why he changed his mind, what gave him the courage to turn on his stomach, his legs wide and

inviting, to say: “Please, Danny.”

Daniël, being the tall boy that he is, and being in proportion in all aspects, had been somewhat

intimidating even though Steve had taken that beautiful monster more times in his hand and mouth

than he’s able to count. Despite Daniël’s endearing care and patience, there had been pain, but not

nearly as much as he had anticipated, and all of it had been due to his inability to surrender to his own

need. The eight-year age difference was not just a number in some aspects of their relationship.

It made him admire his lover even more for being so free and open with his desire to be taken

by his man. The easy honesty of it all. Trusting Daniël had come naturally to him. Trusting himself to

just let it all happen and see what comes next was a different story. He had been overwhelmed by the

force his own emotions, still never doubting he was safe. Daniël had, with no words spoken about it

during or after, guided him through the storm, to finally let him rest at the welcoming shore of his

body.

It will take time before he can enjoy being fucked even remotely as much as Daniël does, who

begs for Steve’s fingers when his dick is too exhausted to be coaxed into action yet again, but he is

looking forward to the next time. Most importantly, it hasn’t changed how he thinks about himself.

He’s able to look in the mirror and be happy with the man he has become.

It’s theirs, the excitement and the sweetness of it all, the short looks during the match and the

shared smiles during training. They’re still learning to find a way to deal with the reality of playing

for a Premier League club while being lovers, six months being such a short time. Their relationship

has no public face, it doesn’t know about romantic dinners at that nice little Italian place and it

doesn’t flirt in the dressing room. They always arrive at Three Graces Park for training in separate

cars. They never isolate themselves from the others during parties and celebrations. No one needs to

know. And no one’s going to know.

It hadn’t been love, or even lust at first sight, nearly a year ago. Before that, there was

appreciation for the young talent, the newly acquired fellow defender. The boy, for what Steve saw

was a boy and all the word implies, had simply been one of the items on manager Arnaud Degaré’s

shopping list. Daniël Borghart, Francesco Moreschi, Dag Jensen, Ray Portland and Neil Miller: the

young dogs had found each other instinctively. Impatient, eager, loud, and with a surplus of energy.

Fast friends, but also learning there is the starting Eleven, there’s the bench and there’s everyone else.

Steve had noticed pretty soon that Daniël was ready to fight for his spot. He wanted to play matches

and right from the first minute too, whenever possible. He hadn’t come over all the way from his

Dutch town to this city in the North of England to watch the game from the side line.

Soon Steve also saw intelligence, a feeling for the game that couldn’t yet compensate for

obvious lack of experience that comes with playing dozens of matches at a certain level, but it made

him pay attention when the boy got into action. It had pleased him when Daniël started to ask

questions. Why Steve had done what he had done during the most recent match. How he managed to

see things seconds before they actually happened. How he, not being a fast player, ended up at the

right place at the right moment more often than could be explained by statistical chances. The gaffer

gave him a place with the starting Eleven in a majority of the games, which must mean he was doing

something right. He wanted to learn that too. And although Steve had never been one to use three

words if two were enough, Daniël got him talking all right; about the skills of their trade and about

keeping the long hours on the training pitch and in the gym. About how defenders learn a different

language than those whose whole job it is to recognise that one defining chance to score. “We not only

have to see them, we also have to anticipate what they’re going to see.” And at Dan’s thoughtful

frown: “When in doubt: go full in and hope for the best.”

During the friendly against Sparta Rotterdam, two weeks before the start of the season, Steve

had been directed to the bench halfway the second half because of potential problems with his left

hamstring and for Daniël, it meant his first chance to prove himself during a match. That’s when it

happened. And it happened so calmly, so gently he was surprised he even recognised it for what it was.

But it also prevented panic. It was simply an emotion among so many others. He could deal with it and

still do his job to the full.

He recognised and ignored it, concentrating on the team’s performance on the pitch. Or at least

he made a brave effort not to give Daniël more attention than the others. With limited success, but

who is strong enough to go against his own, all too human heart?

He’s grateful for what is happening to him, although he is the first to admit he doesn’t

understand it to the full. He knows he’s a good team-mate, proud to know his work for Kinbridge

Town hasn’t gone unnoticed during the past five years. He’s thankful for his matches with the Irish

national team. It all proves he’s not without some talent. He tries to be a decent human being,

blemishes on his soul and all, knowing that he has to share some of his prosperity, time and modest

fame for other reasons than because it looks good in the local media. But why this tall, good-looking,

freckled, eight-years-younger guy from Holland insists on specifically having him, will remain a

riddle for the time being.

Steve knows he isn’t one to turn heads. He doesn’t have the appeal of youth, not even when he

was young. But then, he was never really young to begin with. Just a regular guy who happens to be

fairly good at a certain game; more of a hard worker than anything else, is how he assesses himself.

‘Dependable’ is the main word they use in the Kinbridge Chronicle when they mention him in reviews

about the match, and perhaps not without reason. But he doesn’t think there are a lot of teenage girls

writing their undying devotion to him in whatever teenage girls are writing in nowadays. That gushing

of affection is reserved for the cute ones, like Francesco Moreschi and Daniël Borghart.

He saw them once, Moreschi and Borghart, sitting on a bench in the changing room, heads

close together, listening to some, without a doubt, awful heavy metal band on Daniël’s iPod. So young

and heart-wrenchingly beautiful they had looked. He had already been attracted to Daniël at that time.

Who was he fooling … He was so much in lust with the boy he used him as inspiration to his daily

jerk-off session, no matter how embarrassed it made him feel, and so much in love it broke his heart

to realise that if Daniël would go for another man, it would likely be Francesco. Their striker, who

scores simply because he sees no reason not to. The boy, who makes family men on the stands blush

by simply waving at them, and who looks like he could easily break, but still returned from his

vacation in Spain with a tattooed angel that covers most of his back. Youth for youth. Beauty for

beauty.

It didn’t prevent him from having one of the most intense orgasms of his life that same night,

while fantasizing in great detail about Danny fucking ‘Cesco. Sliding his long, fat cock in and out of

the tight arse, while grasping the girlish pretty hair. Sweat-slick, perfect bodies. Freckles and ink.

One day, he’ll tell Daniël about that fantasy. Even being absolutely sure he doesn’t want it to

happen in reality, it could make for some nice inspiration.

Only two days later, Daniël kissed him for the first time. He tasted like boy turning into man,

like sweets and beer. It was a good kiss, one he eagerly received and happily returned. But it did leave

one question.

“What about Moreschi?”

“Francesco?”

“That one, yes. Unless there are other members of the Moreschi family contracted to play for

Kinbridge Town when I wasn’t paying attention.” The uncertainty about where he stood with Daniël

made him using far too many words to ask a simple question.

“I’m trying to get into your pants. Why should we talk about Francesco Moreschi?” Suddenly a

realisation seemed to dawn upon the boy, and it made him look lost and vulnerable. “I wish he

wouldn’t keep that hair so long. It makes people want him.” He sighed in defeat. “It makes you want

him.”

“I don’t want Francesco Moreschi. I want you, Daniël Borghart.” Steve still remembers how he

began to smile at that moment, because it had become so blindingly clear then. “And you want me.”

Thinking about their first time is like remembering the dozen goals he has scored in his nearly

thirteen years as a professional player. Or, better even, it makes him feel like when he prevents an

opposing player from finishing an attack in a spectacular manner and without being booked, the crowd

singing his praise in a thundering song of affection and admiration. He can’t imagine he will ever get

tired of the feeling of Daniël stretching out on top of him, covering him with inches and inches of

perfect skin, holding him with strong arms, being heavy with muscle and bone, but he can easily take

it. And there’s just as much chance of him not wanting Danny to kneel before him, opening the jeans

to get Steve’s cock out and take it between those sinful lips, as him not wanting to be part of the

starting Eleven against one of the big clubs.

He’s good company too, more so than Steve perhaps had expected. His taste in music leaves a

lot to be desired and still Steve easily spends hours watching him dance to a tune that really isn’t

danceable at all. Just as easily he sits quietly, pretending not to watch how Daniël reads, his face

betraying a deep concentration, then, suddenly, there’s a smile, because he becomes aware of Steve

observing him. Food tastes so much better if eaten in the company of someone who digs in with such

enthusiasm it makes Steve laugh out loud. He even likes it when Daniël goes out to a nightclub or a

rock concert with the other young guys, because when the boy returns, he’s always, literally always,

greeted by him with a smile that tells Steve everything he could possibly want to know.

Daniël doesn’t expect him to talk when he doesn’t feel up to it; he never asks what Steve is

thinking when he’s quiet and withdrawn. Like he understands that sometimes it’s easier to pull Daniël

close and kiss him in a way that, for the moment at least, expresses more about what he wants to say

than any number of words. Sometimes they watch football on TV, Daniël’s head on his lap, his fingers

playing with the boy’s hair, as happy as...

If there’s anything happier than him and Daniël watching a footy match, he’d like to hear about

it, so they could try it too. It’s a quiet sort of happiness, but it makes him think beyond the moment.

He’s not ready yet to dismiss himself as ultimately irrelevant, a nice experience at best, in comparison

with the much more important career that lies ahead for a player as talented and dedicated to the sport

as Daniël Borghart. He thinks he can still manage a couple of good years with those legs of his.

Although when it comes to staying with Kinbridge Town, he acknowledges some of it is likely wishful

thinking on his part. By the end of the season, he’ll be thirty-two, with young guys like Miller and

Borghart breathing down his neck. And there’s more on the way, with the owners allowing manager

Degaré a very healthy budget. Still, every club, no matter how much in love they are with their new

stars, need the dependable players; the older guys who can be overlooked all too easily and still make

the difference between a team and eleven high earning guys who just happen to be on the same pitch at

the same time. But it’s becoming less the alpha and omega of his existence. He wouldn’t go as far as

saying it’s just a game, and things like privacy and what the papers would write or the songs the

Kinbridge Kings would sing don’t matter, but something is shifting.

And whatever that something is, it makes him smile and swagger a bit like he’s drunk,

although he’s almost never drunk, and think about his future in a way that’s new to him. He’s no

longer young enough to have any grand illusions; the world is what it is and people are what they are,

but that doesn’t mean nothing’s ever going to change. If one day Daniël looks him in the eye and tells

him it’s all over, that he’s no longer as important as the beautiful game, he will bow his head and try

to keep his dignity while walking away. Until that day, he will keep on searching for a solution to

reconcile the irreconcilables. He’s not the one to start the revolution, but he’s willing to try and jump

over his own shadow to prevent Daniël from being unhappy.

He walks and walks to get rid of the abundance of energy. Dan is getting his parents from the

airport and as much as he understands that Mr and Mrs Borghart want to spend some time with their

son, he almost wishes they could welcome them in their home together. But no matter how many

hours of the day they’re spending with each other, there is no their home. Daniël had shown him

pictures of his parents and his younger sister Naomi, and Steve in return had shown pictures of his

mother and grandmother, or nan, as he would always remember her. He guesses Daniël’s parents

wouldn’t be too bad about it, but something shared between a few is likely to become something

shared between many. And they are not ready yet to share this with others.

So he keeps on walking, Daniël in his head, with a smile and a swagger and the knowledge that

within a few days he’ll have his arms full of one sexy Dutchman starving for attention of the nonparental

kind. He’s almost certain that by that time, he’ll be ready to invite Daniël to top him again. If

not out of curiosity, he wants to know if the second time will be easier, then because much of the

pleasure he had felt the first time came from the absolute joy Danny had radiated. He has to see that

look in his lover’s eyes again. Perhaps they could try out another position and see how that works out

for both of them. He loves it when Daniël straddles him, showing him that having a cock up your arse

doesn’t mean you can’t be dominant, even aggressively so. Once or twice, things like that should be

savoured like exclusive delicacies, he had been ordered to grip the headboard of his bed and let them

stay there unless ordered otherwise. It had been an extremely educational way of learning that yes, you

could be milked dry and still beg for more of the same.

The city is quiet and at rest, the streets all but deserted. Not that he’s paying much attention,

being happy with the thoughts in his head. He doesn’t think he’s ever been in this particular part of the

city before, but he’s sure he’ll see something recognisable when he turns the next corner, and there’s

always a taxi if not.

A taxi to bring him to the nearest place where he can pee with some dignity would be nice, but

after waiting a few more minutes he’s ready to admit defeat: he’s lost. It’s obvious he’s in one of the

city parks and while he’s not unfamiliar with many parts of Kinbridge’s greener areas, this is

definitely a place he has never visited before. It can’t be helped: a tree is getting watered one extra

time. He opens the zipper of his jeans and for a few seconds stares, oh sweet release, into nothingness.

But no, the eyes that stare right back at him, and then at his penis, couldn’t be called

nothingness. They have that is that, no it couldn’t be, yes it is him, look. The look changes into a

blatant stare, and the stare into sexual invitation.

Steve feels uncertain of how he’s supposed to react. It’s not that he’s even remotely interested

in the man, who must be somewhere in his forties, with an attractive face and, from what Steve can

see, an acceptable enough body, he just doesn’t know how to end this awkward situation without

looking the spoiled and overpaid football star who can’t be bothered to exchange a few friendly words

with a fan.

Perhaps he should start with putting his penis back again. It feels a lot less silly now Daniël’s

favourite toy is safely tucked away, even though he can appreciate the great story it will make on the

next birthday party the man visits. Not that they’re going to believe he saw Steve Gavan, yes, the

Kinbridge Town right-back, I’m not pulling your leg, with his you-know-what in his hand.

The man smiles reassuringly while he stretches his hand out to touch Steve’s crotch; his

fingers starting to stroke. For a few seconds Steve’s too flabbergasted to slap the hand away.

“Your secret is safe with me.” The voice is soft and reassuring, like the man tries to calm a

frightened animal.

Steve knows how to react to the tricks of a striker during a match. He can handle just about any

kind of prank in the dressing room. Losing an important game is just as much part of his trade as the

ecstatic feeling of having assisted in a brilliant goal. The sadness of knowing that hard work will not

be enough to prevent him from being sent away from the place where he wants to stay until his bones

become brittle. He simply deals with it. But this leaves him with his mouth open and his brain

working overtime. It should be simple, really: no one touches this part of his body unless he’s called

Daniël Borghart, central defender at KTFC.

But it’s not that straightforward. It’s easy enough to slap the hand away, tell the man he’s not

interested, and none of it would be a lie. That man takes too many liberties, but he’s also the first

human being who sees Steve in a different light. He wants to say: “Hey, you look a nice enough bloke.

I’m not keen on having sex with a stranger in a park, but if things were different we could perhaps

grab a pint and see what happens. But you know, there’s this wonderful, funny, talented, kind hearted,

sexy guy and I love him so much I sometimes feel like I’m going to burst if I can’t say it loud enough

for the whole world to hear. But I can’t say it, because it would destroy his career, and that’s so much

more than having money and being famous.”

He’s more than willing to subscribe to the idea of whatever I do in bed is private. He certainly

has no intention of sharing the intimate details of his sexual relationship with Daniël with others, but

why does that mean he has to hide everything that exists between them, unless it’s called being good

mates or having taken the young talent under his wing? Even the most tight-lipped players in any

professional football competition in any part of the world don’t actively hide the fact that they are

with a woman. However exciting and, as he knows from wonderful experience, beautiful secret love

can be, marriage has limited meaning without being witnessed by other people.

And now there's this insolent bloke who assumes, not incorrectly, that Steve isn’t blind to the

sexual appeal of men and he can’t decide between telling half a lie and taking all of a risk.

“I understand you completely. Okay, almost completely.” The man is tenacious; Steve has to

give him that. “If I go public on you, I stand the chance of losing my wife, my family even. Please,

you don’t have to do anything. Just let me touch you. I’ll make it really good for you.”

There’s movement around them, the shuffling of feet coming closer. There are excited

whispers he can’t understand but can guess the meaning of easily enough.

He refrains from vanity searches on the internet, even if it’s about Daniël, with the exception

of the articles from a handful of sharp and to the point football analysts. But he’s aware of the

speculations: which player is one of us? Which player is doing it with which player? Most if it will be

motivated by wishful thinking. He can imagine they almost all have their fantasies about the pretty

boys, preferably the ones who play in the first teams of one of the major clubs, being one of them, but

from the surprised sounds he hears around him he doesn’t think his own name has been mentioned

very often. That, however, doesn’t prevent the rustling of clothes and the collective breathing from

going faster; the men trying their best for a fantasy to last them a lifetime. No one will believe them

when they post their messages on the online communities, no matter how much they’ll stick to what

they claim to have seen. Even if their eyes deceived them in a way that’s too ridiculous to be true, and

saw the truth in a way they would never have come up with. Quiet, nearly invisible Gavan with that fit

hot number from Holland? Yeah, right.

His life hasn’t prepared him for this. Why don’t they ask for autographs for their eight year old

nephews? What is this place? Why is this? He doesn’t feel the need to be in someone else’s dream,

when he’s already perfectly happy with the one he and Daniël are dreaming. He will never blame

people for what happens in the privacy of their own minds, because whoever has real control over

that? He can just about live with the idea that some of them share those thoughts on the internet about

his Daniël doing it with who knows which pretty player (they’ll never guess the truth), but he doesn’t

want to be confronted with it just because he happens to take a nice long stroll and can’t find a loo.

Why doesn’t he just open his mouth to tell them, in a nice way, to get lost? He can already hear

Dan’s laughter when he’s going to tell him about it. It can’t be that difficult to speak one’s mind. He

appreciates his behaviour in public reflects on the club, but that doesn’t mean he has to accept this

kind of...he isn’t even sure how to call this. Don’t these people have homes to go to? Lovers?

Families? He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the right tone: friendly, but firm.

Before he can even say the first words, they’re scattered like a flock of frightened birds. The

rustling of clothes has been replaced by the stamping and scraping of nailed boots, and the excited

whispers by harsh curses.

The man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself is gone with the rest. He must be pretty

proficient in the vanishing act because Steve doesn’t see it happening. Probably back to wife and kids,

saving the story of his big adventure for when he’s alone with his computer and the friends whose real

names he’ll never know.

Chapter 2

“Fucking hell, tell me you’re not him.”

“Okay, I’m not him.” Steve smiles because the look on the face of the man is genuinely funny.

If this night is going to stay oddly surreal, he might just as well accept it with a smile and a joke. He

guesses the autograph moment will be just about now, together with the more recent standing next to

the famous person and ask your mate to make a photo with his mobile phone.

Only then he sees the absolute horror on the face of the man, and on the faces of the others

around him. The shattered admiration. He doesn’t count them; guesses there might be half a dozen

pairs of staring eyes and gaping mouths. No, definitely none of them is thinking: I can’t believe my

luck today.

“My little boy has his poster above his bed. Plays the same position with his school team. Has

his number on his kit. The nipper worships this fucking, bloody... can’t even say it...”

“If you can’t even trust the boys of your own club...”

“Just now we’re finally getting somewhere, with a gaffer who knows what he’s doing and

owners who give a shit and some new boys with real talent ...”

“It wasn’t easy to get airtime for his bleedin’ song ...”

“Away games are going to be hell if they ever find out ...”

“In a park, where there’s families and all ...”

“Good thing we’re here to put things right, because the police have gone all politically correct.

Protecting the queers instead of the decent people.”

“He didn’t even try to get away, like they always do. Saw them running? Won’t see them any

more tonight. Thinks he’s something better. Thinks he’s one of us.”

What’s he supposed to say? That what the men thought they saw was a misunderstanding? That

he simply needed to take a leak? That his private life is exactly that, private? That he would never risk

the last years of his career as a professional player at this level to seek some cheap thrill in a park,

when he has the genuine article in his own bed? That love is love? That no father should teach his

child to hate?

Something tells him the men gaping at him are not of the polite conversation kind. And most

likely a statement, however truthful, that he just happened to walk in the park, with no greater crime

than having his fly open to take a pee, unaware of the kind of place this seemed to be for some, will

prove to be useless. They saw what they saw and whatever comes from his mouth cannot be the truth.

Above all, he doesn’t want any more of this kind of attention, if only because of Daniël’s position at

Kinbridge Town. Thus far no one has made the connection, but what does that guarantee? Guilt by

association can be just as devastating.

“Nice meeting you too. Now boys, it’s getting late, so if you’d be so kind as to let me pass ...”

They howl with laughter.

“Now boys, it’s getting late, so if you’d be so kind as to let me pass ...”

“Makes you wonder why we didn’t see it sooner.”

“They can pretend whatever they want but in the end, it always shows.”

Since when is it unmanly to ask a polite question in a civilized manner? No one can accuse him

justifiably of having a posh accent. He doesn’t sound all that different from them, he knows that all

too well. He might have been born in Ireland, but talking he learned in the housing estate in north-west

England where he grew up. What’s he supposed to say? Get out of my face, mother-fucking sons of