Sexy Gay Stories - Volume Four - three m/m short stories

hot young chauffeur was here to lick up every drop ...

    I kept my fantasies to myself, but I decided I ought to try and build bridges with Callum. When he turned up the next day, I said, ‘Sorry about yesterday. Maybe I was a bit of a dick.’
    ‘Well, it’s no more than I expected,’ Callum replied. ‘I’ve driven your sort around before.’
    My first reaction was to ask him what he meant by that, but I thought better of it. His cap was sitting on the dashboard, an unspoken threat that he could humiliate me in front of the lads any time he wanted. Something was wrong with this picture. I was supposed to be the one in control – I was paying his wages, for God’s sake – but somehow Callum seemed to have the upper hand. His attitude unnerved me but, more than that, it turned me on.
    Luckily, he didn’t pull any more stunts, just drove me to the training ground, waited for the session to finish, then drove me home again. If I’d wanted to go anywhere in the afternoon, he’d have driven me there, too, but the thought of playing a round of golf with Jonesy or going for a spot of retail therapy in the city centre didn’t appeal the way it had a few days ago. I was happier staying in the apartment, slumped in front of my 50-inch plasma TV, working my way through the box set of Only Fools And Horses.
    On the Sunday, we played City in front of the Sky cameras. It was our worst performance of the season. I had a complete stinker, and by the time I was substituted, with an hour of the game gone, we were three-nil down and half our fans were already heading for the exit. The gaffer was so angry I really thought he was going to burst a blood vessel as he ranted his way through the post-match interview. He did his nut in the changing room afterwards and cancelled our day off. He wanted us all in for training in the morning, bright and early, and anyone who was late would be fined a week’s wages. We had been warned.
    When Callum arrived the next day, I was still stewing over the match. Unable to sleep, I’d made the mistake of reading a couple of Internet message boards, curious to find out what the fans were saying. The fact they’d booed the team off at the end should have been all the information I needed. The politest thing I could find about myself was that I was “a complete fucking waste of fifteen million quid”, and should be put on the transfer list immediately. “If Barcelona still want him”, some wag added, referring to a story that had been doing the rounds of the tabloids in the last transfer window, “let’s all club together and pay that chauffeur of his to drive him there.”
    So it was no surprise that, tired, pissed off and with absolutely no enthusiasm for a couple of hours’ graft on the training pitch getting yelled at by the gaffer, I didn’t greet Callum with a smile. I just grabbed my kit bag and followed him out to the car.
    ‘Thought you didn’t have your best game yesterday,’ he said, reversing out of my parking space.
    I said nothing; couldn’t even be arsed to thank him for stating the bleeding obvious. I just stared out of the window at the steadily falling rain.
    We hit queuing traffic on the bypass. ‘I saw this as I was driving towards yours,’ Callum said. ‘They’re repairing a gas main. The traffic’s backed up for about a mile.’
    I glanced at my watch. This was the last thing I needed, with the threat of a fine hanging over me if I turned up late. ‘Well, thank you so fucking much, Callum. You could have found some other route to get us into the training ground, but no. You’re just going to let the gaffer hang me out to dry again.’ Even though I was ranting like a spoiled toddler, I just couldn’t stop myself. All my frustration over the City game and the driving ban was spilling out, and Callum was taking the brunt of my tantrum.
    ‘Jordan, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, but if you really want me to go a different way, then I will.’ Checking his mirrors, Callum executed a hasty and highly illegal U-turn, then took the first right at the roundabout, followed by a series of turns that eventually led us down a narrow country lane. There was no passing traffic as the sky above us darkened, the overhanging branches, heavy with autumn leaves, weighed down further by raindrops.
    I didn’t have a clue where we were, but I was sure he was taking me in completely the wrong direction. ‘OK, fair enough, you’ve made your point,’ I