FOOBAW

Chapter 1.

Stumbling into the changing rooms, Damon grabbed his watch from the crusty sport's bag he'd discarded on the side earlier that day. 17:03. Three minutes past five in the afternoon. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, he slumped down on the bench, supporting his upper body with a hand firmly planted on each kneecap.

"Thank fuck that's done." he whispered to himself. The room was empty and he was glad of it. Red carded on the pitch but thinking about it now, Damon was more than content with that result. The day had been a haze of skinny Britpop ankles on foul London grass with the odd flirtatious remark thrown in every now and again from Peter Buck. He was still out there, cheering on the rest of the hopeless amateur footballers, including Jarvis.

Jarvis. Good lord, that fucking man. Damon felt a small yet unforgiving twinge in his shorts and decided that was a good time to get a move on.

His shirt went off first. Looking into the filthy mirror next to the showers, he'd never looked worse. His hair clung to his forehead, drenched with sweat. His lanky torso stood, slightly hunched in a tired fashion that perfectly matched the bags under his eyes and two day old stubble. Right now he was the epitome of groggy.

Sighing, Damon slouched in the direction of the showers, throwing his completely saturated shirt over the door of a cubicle as he went in. He crouched down and unlaced his shoes, taking them off along with his socks and finally the baggy shorts he'd been wearing now for the past 7 hours.

"Agh", he winced as he turned the knob on the shower, sending ice cold water flowing down his front. He let it warm up as he finally removed his underwear, revealing a cock still half hard over the thought of his friend a few minutes earlier. "For fuck's sake", Damon thought, looking at it. "You'd better go down before I get out of here."

He stumbled into the shower, now comfortably warm. Running his fingers through his hair, he breathed a sigh of relief as the sweat and exhaustion from the day washed away below him. Again, he thought about Jarvis Cocker, his lanky figure appearing on the dirty tiles in front, clouded in a vision of desire. He could feel the blood rushing to his cock and painfully resisted the ridiculous urge to wank off to an imaginary picture of his best friend out on the football pitch earlier.

"Y'alright, Damon?"

He stood upright, suddenly becoming aware of how heavily he'd been breathing and his current position within the shower cubicle. And the door that had creaked open at the far end of the changing rooms.