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    That night, as I lay in bed, I started thinking about Callum again, but this time my musings ran along a very different track. In my mind, I saw him wearing that stupid peaked chauffeur’s cap – and absolutely nothing else. His body was fit and lightly tanned, a big, hard cock rising from the sandy curls at his groin. He was on his knees, mouthing my dick while he wanked himself off. It was such an appealing image I reached for the bottle of baby oil I kept on my bedside table, squeezing a dollop into my palm. Stroking along my length, tugging at my balls with my other hand, I pictured Callum obediently turning his attention to my arsehole, pushing his hot tongue up inside it. It didn’t matter that in real life our relationship was currently frosty, to say the least; in my fantasy he was only too happy to do whatever would please me, knowing that when I’d had my fun it would be his turn to be on the receiving end.
    My spunk oozed out over my pumping fist, and I groaned, wishing my 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,