truant
sexy football fetishist
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2015
- Messages
- 2,333
- Reaction score
- 114
- Fav. Players
- Maldini, Gullit, Van Basten, Rijkaard, Baggio, Nesta, Rui Costa, Kaka, R9, Dinho, TS33, Theo
Scenes at half-time in a locker room somewhere in Verona:
“Have I made a mistake?” the words echoed in his head.
“Siiii!!!” his own voice seemed to reply. He shook his head, Suavecito pomade keeping his each of his perfect individual strands of hair in it's perfect place. He never made mistakes. He was always, for lack of a better word, perfect.
The annoying Brazilians were trying to get his attention, chattering in Portuguese, banging on their samba drums. He ignored them and reached to strip off his shirt to reveal his pristine torso, forgetting that he had already taken off the ugly carbon-coloured jersey on the field at half-time so that the peasants could catch a glimpse of yes, perfection.
Ah, perfection, he repeated softly in his head as he glanced in the mirror placed in the locker room specifically as per his instructions. It was in his contract. He preened at his reflection and flexed his muscles blanking out the drone of the gaffer yelling “dai, dai, dai” like an drowning oriental trader negotiating his last sale before his boat capsizes.
But those ugly carbon-coloured shorts. Even that weird pink jersey of his previous team was prettier. Pretty in pink. No, perfect in pink. That's what he was. But what if even he couldn't make the ugly carbon colour work? And the first colours reminded him of the Hamburgler from that fast food place the fat people like to go to. He laughed as he thought of the fat people and the Hamburgler. But these were his colours now. He frowned again and flexed to get rid of the bad thoughts.
No, he was Alpha with a capital "A" and he'd teach all these beta cucks how to win. Even that beta cuck who couldn't wait to come back after leaving last season just because an Alpha, no, The Alpha had joined the team.
But what if this was the beginning of a downward spiral? He could not shake this thought off that easily. He flexed again and again, muscles taut, every sinew straining to squeeze the bad thought out as if it was a stubbornly hard piece of fecal nugget blocking the path of some nasty curry one may have had the previous night. Except he never had curry. Only salad and steamed chicken breast. His bowels were always perfect. Perfect.
“Dai, dai, dai” yelled the allenatore, going blue in the face.
“SIIII!!!” he yelled back, startling the team and his gaffer into silence. This wretched place would not be his downfall he vowed, even though he could not quell the doubt which was rooting in his psyche.
“Have I made a mistake?” the words echoed in his head.
“Siiii!!!” his own voice seemed to reply. He shook his head, Suavecito pomade keeping his each of his perfect individual strands of hair in it's perfect place. He never made mistakes. He was always, for lack of a better word, perfect.
The annoying Brazilians were trying to get his attention, chattering in Portuguese, banging on their samba drums. He ignored them and reached to strip off his shirt to reveal his pristine torso, forgetting that he had already taken off the ugly carbon-coloured jersey on the field at half-time so that the peasants could catch a glimpse of yes, perfection.
Ah, perfection, he repeated softly in his head as he glanced in the mirror placed in the locker room specifically as per his instructions. It was in his contract. He preened at his reflection and flexed his muscles blanking out the drone of the gaffer yelling “dai, dai, dai” like an drowning oriental trader negotiating his last sale before his boat capsizes.
But those ugly carbon-coloured shorts. Even that weird pink jersey of his previous team was prettier. Pretty in pink. No, perfect in pink. That's what he was. But what if even he couldn't make the ugly carbon colour work? And the first colours reminded him of the Hamburgler from that fast food place the fat people like to go to. He laughed as he thought of the fat people and the Hamburgler. But these were his colours now. He frowned again and flexed to get rid of the bad thoughts.
No, he was Alpha with a capital "A" and he'd teach all these beta cucks how to win. Even that beta cuck who couldn't wait to come back after leaving last season just because an Alpha, no, The Alpha had joined the team.
But what if this was the beginning of a downward spiral? He could not shake this thought off that easily. He flexed again and again, muscles taut, every sinew straining to squeeze the bad thought out as if it was a stubbornly hard piece of fecal nugget blocking the path of some nasty curry one may have had the previous night. Except he never had curry. Only salad and steamed chicken breast. His bowels were always perfect. Perfect.
“Dai, dai, dai” yelled the allenatore, going blue in the face.
“SIIII!!!” he yelled back, startling the team and his gaffer into silence. This wretched place would not be his downfall he vowed, even though he could not quell the doubt which was rooting in his psyche.
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