DISCLAIMER - This is a work of pure fiction and fantasy. David Beckham would probably not do what I have them do as described below. He is not gay.
Thanks for the comments and suggestions, please keep em coming.
Here is Part 9, let me know what you think: lidon.dyte@gmail.com
"Dr. Prew will see you now, Mr Beckham."
It was a little after 2 on a sunny Friday afternoon. Soccer hunk David Beckham found himself in the plush surrounds of the executive waiting room at the exclusive Harley Street practice of Dr. Julius Prew - the man who had solved a lot of problems for famous but closeted sportsmen and, Beckham hoped, could do the same for him.
Almost six months had passed since the handsome stud had first agreed to give up his gorgeous, tanned married body for the enjoyment of a gay man. Thinking that it would be a one-off event that he could easily dismiss, the shamed star was badly mistaken. His experiences had awakened a primal, animal urge to have that big beefy ass of his roughly taken. To make matters worse, he was still mentally a straight man and so his newfound addiction was utterly humiliating to his hetero psyche. But it didn't stop there. The disgraced toned hunk came to realise that it was not merely the physical stimulation of a good anal pounding (although his chunky bubble butt certaily loved being well-stuffed) but also the mental aspect: the more humiliating and degrading the situation, the more erotic the sensations, and the harder his fat nine inch hetero cock would get.
Leaving Miami had not helped. The plane had not been in the air for an hour before the hunky millionaire had been taken by the nobody gay flight attendant, first with a highly risky make-out session as the two men passionately frenched right next to Beckham's sleeping wife, the married hunk's aching cock released from the tightly strethced denim of his designer jeans, leaking and pulsating treacherously as the delighted queen played with it. Then, ushered into the restroom for a good fucking. The camp queer had then revealed that his ordeal was not over - four rich businessmen also travelling on the plane had paid for a piece of Beckham's heavenly ass. The sheer shame and humiliation of knowing that his perfectly tanned and toned body, sharly chilsed facial features, and glorious bubble butt ass were now property of these queers, traded like cheap whore, only had the effect of getting the helpless stud even harder and hornier!
And so the star allowed his amazing body to be used and abused by four ugly, overweight, middle aged businessmen, burying those beautiful defined facial features into the flabby flesh of their smelly butts, blowing their stubby, sweaty cocks with that perfect mouth, and taking that same cock between the hard muscular spheres of that incredible ass, his manly Brit voice spurring his fucker on.
When he finally retured to his seat, well-fucked and sheen with sweat, his wife was awake and eyeing him suspiciously.
"You were in the toilet a long time," she intoned, arching an eyebrow.
"I, er, was feeling a bit queezy," stammered Beckham. "I'm OK now."
Victoria narrowed her eyes - her handsome husband had played away before and stewardesses were always flirting with the star, but she had been careful to arrange the private cabin with male staff only, so he must be telling the truth. If only she knew!
As the Beckhams disembarked the plane, the cabin crew were lined up in the usual way to thank the passengers for travelling with them. Beckham dropped his gaze and flushed slightly as Ben flashed him a broad grin, taking delight in the look of pure shame that crossed those handsome chisled features that he had taken a few hours ago.
"Hope to see you again soon, Mr Beckham!" he trilled.
"Um ... yeah, thanks," Beckham mumbled, nervously shaking Ben's outstretched hand.
Victoria had turned away and was heading down the gangway - the other cabin crew had moved off. Seizing the moment, Ben leaned in towards the hunk.
"Your ass was fucking awesome," he whispered, treating himself to a cheeky lick along Beckham's perfect jawline as he moved out, just to reinforce the fact that the big stud's heavenly body had been his personal property for a few moments at least. Beckham said nothing, staring furiously at the floor as his beautifully chisled face flushed red with shame. As he turned to leave, Ben completed the humiliation with a quick but firm grope of that immense muscle butt. To his horror, Beckham's fat cock plumped slightly at the intrusion.
That was just two weeks ago - two weeks since that chunky bubble butt had last been plundered. Now the handsome star found himself sitting in the office of Dr. Julius Prew. The expert. The man who had helped many confused young soccer hopefuls to deal with their gay feelings and ultimately supress them. Such a valuable service, and a successful one - so far, there was only one openly gay professional footballer in the world, in the lowly Scandanavian leagues - and if he had had enough money, and the right connections, then Prew could have "helped" him too.
"Mr. Beckham," Prew smiled pleasantly. "I must say, I am surprised that you asked to see me. How can I help?"
"It's, um, a bit personal," Beckham said. "I need your help to, you know ... sort my head out..." he looked up hopefully, praying that Prew would take the hint.
"Erm ... do you mean ... inappropriate urges?" Prew raised an eyebrow.
Beckham just nodded.
"Well, this is quite unusual," said Prew. "Most young gentlemen who come to me with this problem are, well, young. Eighteen, nineteen, maybe twenty. You are what ... nearly forty? And, I mean, married with four children ..."
Beckham could only stare at the floor and mumble, "yeah .. I know."
"So, when did these urges begin?" Prew asked, taking out his pen.
"About six months ago," said Beckham.
"Go on," Prew said. "Tell me what happened."
Beckham sighed. "This guy," he said. "It was a business thing. My stadium project in Miami ... he had some land we needed. He was driving a real hard bargin and wouldn't sell unless ..."
"Unless what?" Prew prompted as the tanned hunk fell silent.
"I had to agree to do stuff," Beckham whined. "You know ... gay shit. He wanted to make out with me and, um, lick my ass. And stuff. I thought it would be over in a few minutes ... it seemed so easy..."
"But ... you enjoyed it?" Prew asked, raising an eyebrow. "You went further?"
"He tricked me!" Beckham exclaimed, suddenly indignant. "He used some ... weird chemical on me. To, you know ... turn me on and shit. It wasn't me."
"He drugged you?" Prew's voice was raised in concern.
"Yeah!" Beckham said. "Well ... kind of ... at first..."
"Look, Mr Beckham," Prew sighed. "You can speak in absolute confidence in this office. Just tell me what happened. And please, be completely honest - it's the only way that I can help you."
Beckham's confidence subsided. "My ass," he croaked. "He ... he fucked my ass. First with like ... a small dildo or something. The shit he used on me ... it had me totally turned on, like nothing before. I had to ... I mean, I needed him to ... and he did. He fucked my ass."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"No!"
"So you did not have an erection?"
"Well ... yeah, I did, but..."
"And did you come?" Prew was being blunt now. "Did he make you shoot?"
Beckham nodded.
"This is very important," Prew said. "Did he stimulate your penis at all? Or did you shoot just from being fucked?"
Beckham's voice was trembling as he admitted the truth: "Just .... from the fuck..."
"Look Mr Beckham," said Prew. "Many men find anal stimulation pleasurable. A single encounter like this, especially with chemical assistance, is not unusual. You should not worry. Is that all?"
Beckham shook his head.
"You ... did it more than once?"
A nod.
"With ... more than one other man?"
Another nod.
Prew's concern grew. "How many?" he asked.
"I ... I don't ... I don't know..."
Prew put down his pen and paper. "Mr Beckham, I am the best at what I do. I can help you as I have helped others. But please, I cannot help unless you are completely honest and open. Tell me everything, and do not omit a single detail."
The shamed stud raised his handsome face to meet the doctor's gaze - and he began talking.
Over the next half hour, Prew listened with increasing incredulity and shock and the famous David Beckham, millionaire hetero superstud, recalled the events of the past six months: the brutal fucking from a "fellow professional" (he did not name Ronaldo), the filthy group sex, the blow jobs, the rimmings, the double penetration ... everything. By the end, Prew could barely speak himself.
"Is that it?" the stunned doctor asked after Beckham had finished.
The shamed married hunk nodded slowly.
"Well," said Prew. "This is a most unusual case. I have not seen anything like this."
"Can you help me?" Beckham pleaded.
Prew hesitated slightly. "Mr Beckham ... I think I can. But there is one issue we must address first. Please ... look down to your crotch area."
Having been completely absorbed in telling his humiliating and shameful story, Beckham had been completely oblivious to his current state. Jolted from his haze by Prew's comment, the stud suddenly realised what had attracted the doctor's attention. To his utter horror, his colossal nine inch fuckpole had risen to its full impressive plumpness, and was straining HARD against the tight denim of his expensive Armani jeans. But that was not all. His treacherous tool had leaked ... badly. The denim was heavily stained with the bronzed god's fuckjuice, hot sticky precum that had seeped copiously from that magnificent organ, through the Calvins and the jeans.
"Oh .. er... shit," Beckham mumbled, turning beet red. "I'm , uh, sorry doctor ..."
"I'm afraid this is a problem," Prew said. "The young men who come to see me sit there and tell their story to get out their shame. To talk out their feelings. When they hear themselves talking about their lust for other men, their penises shrink in shame ... the mental humiliaiton attacks the urge. With you, I am sorry, it seems to have had the opposite effect."
Beckham listened in silence, not moving except for the involuntary twitching of his monster cock.
"You have just recounted to me how your proud body has been used and abused by multiple gay men," Prew continued. "And just telling that story has driven you to a state of extreme sexual excitement."
"But you said you could help me!" Beckham protested. "You have to!"
"I cure gay men, Mr Beckham, but the problem is that you are not a gay man. You have a fetish for extreme humiliation, combined with a strong addiction to anal play. I can help you here and now ... but not by curing you."
Beckham's handsome features contorted into a frown as he realised the doctor's meaning. "No fucking way!" he spat. "Not again!"
Prew said nothing as he opened a draw in his desk and took out a large black rubber dildo. He placed it on the desk in silence as Beckham stared, wide-eyed.
"All that I can do now is help you with release," Prew said cooly. "It's a simple choice, Mr Beckham. You can get up and leave now, and I will refund your consultation fee as I cannot cure your problem. Or I can use this," he tapped the menacing looking dildo, "on you here and now. But if you want that, I will increase your fee. You will write me a check now for twenty thousand pounds, you will remove your clothes and you will lie face down on my desk. What is it to be?"
Within ten seconds, the fucked up hunk had furiously pulled out his check book and scrawled out a check for £20,000 - ten times the original consultation fee. Within thirty seconds, in a beautifully erotic flurry of toned, tanned musclature, tattoos and sweat, he had stripped naked. Within a minute, the hunky married soccer hero was straddled over Prew's large desk, his chunkky bubble butt ass hoised upwards as it hungrily absorbed the sizeable dildo.
"Your friends in Miami called me in advance," whispered Prew as he ruthlessly drilled the handsome stud's arse with the obscene sex toy. "They thought you might come here."
"Aaaaaaahhhh! YEAH FUCK MY ASS!" the helpless stud moaned loudly, his beautiful chisled facial features contorted in a mixture of shame and pure pleasure as his big, beefy ass received the filling and pounding it so sorely needed.
"Oh, I will," smiled Prew. "And so will many others. Your body ... all of it ... it's now property of gay men. Do you understand?"
"YES!" bellowed the dangerously horny hunk. "PLEASE! HARDER!"
Prew chuckled. "So, do you still want to be cured?!"
"FUCK NO!" howled the sex crazed god. "I need to be FUCKED!"
"Oh, you don't need to worry about that," Prew said slyly. "Mr. Beckham, you have spent your career cultivating a gay following and teasing them with those homoerotic photoshoots, with your cruel flirtations. You have built your success on your perfect body, your strikingly handsome face and your extremely muscular behind. All of those things no longer belong to you ... they are the property of an elite group of gay men now, to enjoy at their pleasure. Do you understand? Do you agree?"
"YES!" cried Beckham. "FUCK YES! Use my fucking body ... every fucking day, FUCK ME YES!"
Prew smiled. Not gay himself, but appreciating the sheer power trip of having one of the world's most famous and powerful icons at his mercy, he was more than happy to help out his influential gay friends. Part of him almost felt sorry for Beckham ... despite being relatiely old at almost forty, the guy was in incredible shape with a fantastic body and of course that famous, perfectly chisled face ... not a single gay man on the planet would turn down the chance to enjoy it. And to pay for it. With his position and connections, Prew had secured 5% of the proceeds of whoring out Beckham's big slutty ass. It would more than pay for his retirement, he mused, as the married hunk's seed spewed messily over his desk.