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Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2023 06:42:01 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa <fanboi214@yahoo.com> Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 1 Hello! This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. And I do intend to have Dean in turn sleep with every member of the team. As I'm a gay man who writes m/m fiction his encounters with the MUC ladies will mostly be occurring off page. It's an ambitious fic and I have chapters in mind already for the entire original lineup and a few of the later additions. So wish me luck and stamina. Any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. ~~~~~ Spring 2012 ~~~~~ It was an unremarkable day in May, when the first domino fell. The Winchesters were between cases, on a routine fishing expedition for abnormal behavior. Sam tapping away at his phone, as Dean guided the Impala down some backroad in Nebraska. Neither brother was paying particular attention at the key moment. Between the routine monotony of the morning and the endless cornfields whipping by both sides of the vehicle, the boys were on autopilot. Then suddenly Sam let out a high pitched yelp. "What the hell, man? I could've crashed," Dean scowled over at his brother. "My fault, Deano." A familiar voice rang from the backseat. "I think he was a little surprised by my sudden appearance." Dean glanced up at his rearview mirror to see Gabriel reclining gleefully in his backseat. The elder Winchester had a notably subdued reaction, weariness and annoyance settling on his face. "I thought you were dead?" Dean grumbled. "Only because I wanted you to think I was dead," Gabriel retorted. "Don't you think showing up ruins that plan?" Sam asked turning to face the archangel. "Wanted, Sam, past tense. At the moment I'm hoping to get a little bit of help." "You're practically omnipotent, what could you possibly need us for?" Sam asked incredulously. "Well, you boys have established a reputation as being pretty good at creative problem solving." "And the problem?" Dean growled. "Well there are some people who are pretty keen on getting their hands on me." Gabriel replied coyly. Less than a second after those syllables were left his lips, a streak of yellow and red blew past the window fast enough to make your head spin. Slack jawed Sam muttered "Was that just-" "Iron Man! Why the hell is Iron Man chasing you!?" Dean shouted in exasperation as the red and yellow streak pulled a U-turn and landed quite dramatically in the middle of the road. There was still something deeply surreal to Dean about the Avengers. When he first saw the Battle of New York on television, Dean assumed it was some sort of spell or hallucination. You'd think a man who been dealing with ghosts, gods, and demons since childhood would have an open mind. However a lifetime spent on the outskirts of the possible only made Dean more incredulous of the things he still hadn't encountered. Aliens? Superheroes? Those were the things of storybooks and fantasy. Yet The Avengers were real and at least one of them was now on a collision course with the Impala. Dean slammed his brake lest the car go hurtling into the superhero. "Remember how I spent several hundred years pretending to be Loki?" Gabriel grinned sheepishly "You mean the maniac who tried to destroy Earth a couple weeks ago," Sam starred back at him with disdain. "That would be the one. It would seem that this Iron Guy and his friends jumbled a couple facts and are convinced that this Loki fella is masquerading as me and that I looking like me am presently him." Gabriel explained. "Oh, fuck." Dean groaned Outside the car, Tony Stark, superhero billionaire extraordinaire, sauntered up to the driver's side window like some sort of egotistical traffic cop. When he reached his destination he wrapped his knuckles against the window, and Dean brought it down. Tony popped off his helmet, casually tucked it under his arm, and let his other arm land against the roof. Dean's main concern at the moment was whether this was going to scratch up his car, but that was a fact he kept to himself for now. Dean also remained mum about the fact he was pretty psyched to see Iron Man. At least from what he's seen so far, Dean dug the dude's vibe. He was as close to a real life Batman as you could get. And if they were meeting under different circumstances Dean may have slipped into one of his classic `fangirl' moments. But this was the path life had taken so Dean silently stared out the window with his classic smartass smirk. Not that Tony noticed. He was pretty much absorbed in himself. "Yes, it is in fact me, Tony Stark. Please hold your applause, pick up lines, and copious thanks. I'm no hero just your run of the mill world-saving billionaire." Tony rattled in his showboating way. "What do you want?" Dean asked flatly. "I'm here to pick up crazy fascist alien." Tony replied. Dean tossed a quick glance back at Gabriel before returning his attention to Tony. "Afraid we don't have one of those." Tony lets out a huff. He began, "Look, kid. I'm sure you have your reasons and all. But you're in over your head. And one way or another I'm taking that jerk into custody. So how about you be reasonable and do the smart thing." Dean Winchester always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. And the minute the word "kid" past through Tony's mouth every instinct in his rebellious soul was set a flame. Real life Batman or not, Dean was not going to tolerate some rich douchey college boy condescending to him. He might not win. But he was in for the fight. "I will." Dean said with a nod. Tony took a step back, waiting for the door to open. But instead the Impala's pedal hit the floor. The muscle car peeled out of there in no time, shooting off down the road. "What the hell, Dean!?!?!" An alarmed Sam shouted, craning back over seat to watch Stark calmly suit back up. "Knew I could count on you idiots." Gabriel laughed. "You shut up." Dean barked. "Dean, this is insane. There's no way we can outrun him." "We don't need to worry about that." Dean replied. "Why not?" As Sam twisted back into his seat, the answer became clear. An entire army of black SUVs was coming at them head on. "Forgive me, Baby." Dean muttered as he pulled the wheel hard to the left, sending the Impala off road. As the car barreled through the cornfield, Sam braced himself and Gabriel cheered giddily. Their pursuers were undeterred; the sea of ominous government cars poured into the pathway the Impala had blazed. Still more vehicles were mowing through the rows on either side of the Winchesters. The sky above turned dark as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s massive helicarrier uncloaked. Two spotlight shone down from the ship directly onto the Impala, which came to a sudden stop. Baffled and infuriate Dean pounded on the wheel. "Oh, come on!" He shouted. The cars radio cut out and the engine fell silent. Dean twisted the key in the ignition but the Impala didn't so much as try and turn over. Iron man zipped overhead. Not bothering to land this time, Tony hovered in front of the car. He called out, "I'm giving you one last chance to hand over the psychopath." The car door flew open and Dean stormed out. Completely irate, and bearing no actual mind to the situation at hand, Dean glared up at the superhero. "You better not have done something to my car!" It was like the man was completely unimpressed by the weight of the full force of the US government was inches away from bearing down on him. Sam was less oblivious to this reality and came scurrying out the passenger's side, hands in the air. "Wait, wait. We don't want a fight. There's been a huge misunderstanding. If we could just talk." Luckily, cooler heads prevailed and Dean, Sam, and Gabriel were apprehended without any bloodshed. The group was immediately separated *** Dean was no stranger to interrogations. Nor was the woman who sat across the table from him. Melinda May was a legend around S.H.I.E.L.D. for many reasons, but first and foremost she was known for her attitude. She took no prisoners and she tolerated no shit. This five foot four inch woman weighed maybe a hundred pounds but with the arch of one eyebrow should could have the burliest biggest S.H.I.E.L.D. operative quaking in their boots. Dean was not aware of May's reputation, but he could've guessed. She had an aura about her. May hadn't shown a single emotion since she entered the room. Nor had she uttered a word. She neither stared Dean down nor directly ignored him. She simply sat in a chair, arms crossed over her chest, pokerface locked in. Dean was familiar with the technique, quiet makes people uncomfortable. So an interrogator need only wait for the already nervous subject to grow more agitated and start volunteering information they shouldn't. Dean wasn't falling for it. So they sat in absolute silence. It was hard for the hunter. With each second that passed his urge to release some wry quip mounted. He even tried some eye flirting, but his warden was impervious. Over an hour in the door opened and a goofy looking dude in a suit loped through. Smiling ear to ear Phil Coulson announced, "We're done." "Good." May said standing and heading out the door. Dean wasn't about to trust this. He leaned back in his chair and stared down the new guy, who was giving a far too friendly smile. "Just like that? You're letting me go?" "We never have anything against you, Dean. This was only about getting Loki sequestered." Coulson responded. It didn't escape Dean's notice that Coulson called him by name. It was information the agent had which Dean certainly never provided him. Coulson slipped it in there so casually, so Dean decided not to react to it. Instead he let focus fall on the later part of the sentence. "You don't have Loki sequestered." Dean replied. "We definitely do. You shouldn't feel bad about falling for his little games. He's a tricky one. Fooled me real good once. I'll tell you all about it on the way." Coulson gestured for Dean to follow and turned towards the door. A highly skeptical Dean remained planted in his seat. "Really, we're doing the good cop/ bad cop thing?" Coulson laughs, "This isn't an interrogation. We know all about you and your brother. We know you're on our side." "I don't know what you think you know-" "You're Dean Winchester, eldest son of Mary and John Winchester. After a demon from your mother's past resurfaced, your father set out on a revenge quest. He trained you and your brother to hunt ghosts, demons and things that go bump in the night. Yada, yada, yada, you're the chosen vessel for the archangel Michael-" "Am I supposed to be impressed? Intimidated? Because you know a handful of basic things?" Dean replied flatly. "I wouldn't call what happened between you and Rhonda Hurley basic information." "Whoa! Whoa!" Dean shot up out of his seat. That got him rattled. Dean had very few deep secrets in his life. But that was something he'd never discussed outlaid with anyone... anyone other than himself. "I'm an avid reader" Coulson replied. Then it clicked, "Damnit, Chuck!" Dean glowered. This was the problem with having a prophet of the Lord recording your life in pulp novels. Coulson was done waiting around; he turned headed into the hallway. Dean, finally agitated enough to stop thinking about this encounter as a chess game, tromped out after him. "You think you know everything about me because you read through a few books?" "It's not just `a few books,' Dean. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been watching you and your family for quite some time." Coulson replied moving swiftly down the metallic corridor. "You expect me to believe that?" Dean said rolling his eyes. "You saved the world three times now. You think the nation's biggest intelligence agency didn't notice something like that?" "I don't know. I guess I figured if you knew the apocalypse was coming you woulda tried to help prevent it." "You boys seemed like you had it under control." "God Himself had to intervene... multiple times." Dean shouted back. "And He did. And the Earth is still here so it's all good." Coulson spoke as the two men passed by a huge bay door. Beyond the door was a sprawling garage buzzing with mechanics. Gleaming among the sea of government SUVs a pristine 1976 Chevy Impala caught Dean's eye. He took a hard and sudden turn into the garage. At the moment some wispy nerd in a lab coat had his head under the hood of Baby. "Hey!" Dean's boomed across the room, the rasp in his voice rising with his anger. "Hands off my car!" Leo Fitz let out a yelp of pain as he hit his head on the Impala's open hood. Startled and in a hurry he scurried backward as Dean came marching towards him. He threw his hands up defensively. "I was simply checking to see if there was lasting damage from the EMP we released." Dean's eyes narrow. "You're the one who attacked my car?" "I... not personally. I mean I designed the EMP but..." Fitz stuttered, falling all over himself and making his deep discomfort evident. "It's okay we can replace your engine with an upgrade cutting edge. I could even make the car fly if you want-" "Are you insane? This is a classic. You can't improve it." Dean abruptly cut in. "And cars are not supposed to fly. Hell, people shouldn't fly." He grumbled. By now Coulson was perched over Dean's shoulder, silently giving Fitz a reassuring look. "I apologize for touching your car," Fitz took a step back. "I promise it won't happen again." "Mr. Winchester," Coulson said, "If you'd continue with me. I assume you want to meet back up with your brother." Dean glowered back at Coulson. Any novelty that existed in this situation had long since dissipated. At this point he was thoroughly annoyed by all these people. He wanted to grab Sam, save Gabriel, and get out of here ASAP. With a grunt Dean followed after Coulson leaving a befuddled Fitz behind. Fitz looked to Simmons nearby, "Does he not know we're in the air?" She merely shrugged. The remains of the walk was unremarkable; Dean was sour and Coulson was chipper. Their destination, as it turned out, was not an interrogation room but a conference room. Seated at the table were: a black man with an eye patch, the most generic G.I. Joe looking guy imaginable, a young asian woman who didn't seem to want to be there, and Sam. There was an air of congeniality around the table and Sam waved to Dean as he entered. "Dean, this is director Fury and Agents Ward and Johnson." "Oh delightful," Dean replied sarcastically. "Ready to blow this place?" "They need our help." Sam insisted. "I don't care." Dean said flatly, annoyed but not surprised that Sam had been making friends. "Dean, these people. They work with the Avengers. They're heroes." "They're cops." Dean countered. Fury had been silent since Dean joined them. Watching. Listening. Evaluating. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think we brought you aboard this ship because we enjoy your company?" "We're on a ship?" Dean asked confused. Fury continued plowing ahead, "I need to know whether the man you were transporting was Loki or, and I can't believe I'm saying this, the archangel Gabriel." Dean smirked. Finally someone who was willing to give him the fight he'd been prepping for. "It's Gabriel. There. Solved it for you." "Really because according to your brother here, Gabriel died." Fury remarked. "Yeah, he does that sometimes." Dean shrugged. "Dean, you have to at least consider that it was Loki who popped into our car. He's a trickster and Gabriel is plenty unpredictable." Sam said shooting a hard look to Dean. If Dean was approaching this in a clearheaded, logical manner, he'd have to admit that Sam was right. But Dean didn't think logically. He trusted his gut. So he merely clenched his jaw when he was unable to retort. Fury nodded at Ward, who produced John Winchesters journal and set it on the table. Dean rankled seeing that these people had taken it from the Impala. Ward opened the book and leafed through the pages. It was Fury who spoke though, "Your brother said he doesn't recognize this passage. Do you?" Dean moved to the table and gave the page a once over. The top of the page read "To Reveal A God." Below was a spell and a brief description, explaining the incantation when spoken in the presence of a divine being would force them to reveal their true form. It was in John's handwriting but it absolutely wasn't something he'd have written. And it sure as hell wasn't in that book three hours ago. "Of course I recognize it." Dean lied to Fury. "Dean," Sam said with a huff. "Do not lie about this. You know as well as I do that Gabriel or Loki or whoever manifested that page to trick us into using it." Sam was absolutely right. Dean knew this. Sam knew Dean knew this. But Dean was also willing to bank on this being a play by Gabriel to help them all. So he continued his bluff. "Dad add this to the journal in 1994 after he found a town outside of Green Bay that was sacrificing people to a Pagan god. But now that you bring it up, why don't you take me to Gabriel. I'll say the mumbo jumbo and we can all go." "Works for me." Fury said getting to his feet. "What?" Ward exclaimed, taken too off guard to contain himself. But he quickly quieted down sinking down into his seat. "We have no idea what this spell could even do," Sam insisted. "Let me do some research, see if I can find the spells origins and at least translate it to English." "I don't have time for that." Fury replied to Dean's delight. Sam continued on, "This plan won't even work without some sort of control group. I mean if Gabriel doesn't react to the spell we can't rule out that it's a dud. Unless we have an actual god to compare the reaction to." "Luckily we have one of those." Fury said flatly. *** "You will rue your incursion into Midgard once you return home, brother." Thor sneered angrily at the man in the cell before him. Gabriel was being held in a large plexiglass cell, reminiscent of the Hulk's specialized containment unit. However, this new cell was `enchanted' to prevent anyone from using their powers. The cell itself was smack in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Rows of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood around the perimeter of the room, ready to draw on `Loki' at the first sign of trouble. The entire room was under intense surveillance for additional security. Gabriel rolled his eyes dramatically "For the last time I am not your brother you big lug!" There was exactly one doorway in or out of the room and it was highly secured. It slid open just long enough for Dean, Fury, Coulson, and Ward to enter. (Sam insisted on staying back and tracing the provenance of the spell.) Gabriel lit up as he saw Dean, "Deano! Tell these guys you know me." "Already tried." Dean said with a shrug as they approached the cell. The security in this place was utterly insane. There had to be at least a hundred surly looking agents all staring down one man who was already imprisoned. He of course also noted Thor's presence. The man was everything a person would imagine from the television. Huge in every sense of the word. Tall, bulging with muscle, his demeanor was demanding. For most people this would be quite a big deal, but being in the presence of a god actually made Dean feel like he was getting back to his normal beat. In fact the strangest thing to him was how divine Thor appeared. Most the deities Dean encountered were intentionally underwhelming. If anything Thor's intimidating appearance almost made Dean wonder if he was puffing up his chest to make up for something. "Fury," Thor barked his patience waning, "Will you allow me to bring my brother to justice now?" It was clear the god had no sense of curiosity about Dean. Presumably he was just another of the many human cogs in Fury's system. "We're gonna run a test first." Fury replied. Dean cracked open the book and located the page. Clearing his throat he began to read. The words seemed like nonsense to Dean. Sammy said they were in some form of ancient Greek. But Dean was relatively sure he was pronouncing this right. He'd find out soon enough. When Dean finished the incantation the room fell silent in a moment of anticipation. Thor felt as if his entire body had passed through some sort of invisible mist and a gentle sheen of light emanated from his skin, "By Odin's beard," the God muttered. "He's glowing." Coulson said in awe, as he stated the obvious. "He's not the only one." Fury remarked. Dean's eyes flit over to `Gabriel' who had become enveloped in his own divine glow. Not only that but before everyone's eyes he transformed into the man who had coordinated the Battle on New York. "Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed when he realized that he'd been wholly had. He didn't expect to be as hurt by the betrayal, but then he also hadn't expected to double down so hard. And it didn't help that instead of Gabriel he was now staring at a smug stranger. Despite still very much being imprisoned Loki was looking extremely proud of himself. "Well would you look at that." He chuckled. "Lock it down." Fury commanded and that army of agents flew into motion. Guns were drawn, clangs echoed as some unseen mechanical locks clicked into place. "I'd not look so pleased. Your ticket to the dungeons of Asgard has just been signed." Thor growled. "He's not going anywhere." Fury replied. "You promised we'd be allowed to deal with him," Thor snapped. "Except that this all part of Loki's plan. And we're not doing Loki's plan." While Fury's words were for Thor his gaze was aimed pointedly at Loki whose grin only widened as he tried not to look rattled. Fury moved closer to the plexiglass. "You want to cut to the chase and tell me why you'd give us a spell that unmasks you." "You knew I was lying?" Dean realized allowed. "I am the highest rank spy in the US government. Of course I knew you were lying." "Then why'd you let me say the spell." "So I could see what'd happened." Fury replied incredulously "And seein' as the results haven't explained this maniac's plan. We're gonna stay here until he cracks." "I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about." Loki replied. "Dean! Don't say the spell. Dean!" Sam's voice came in from above over a speaker system. Dean glanced to the sky to see Sam and Fitz standing in some sort of operating theater. "Little late, Sammy." Dean replied. "If only someone had warned you to wait," Sam responded dryly. Dean rolled his eyes despite the fact his younger brother was clearly correct. "What did you find, Mr. Winchester?" Fury called out. "This isn't a spell to identify a deity. It's an Ancient Greek rite of spring. It's a... prayer for virility." Sam chokes out. "What?" Dean asks confused. "It's a sex spell." Fitz piped in to clarify. Thor and Dean react in unison, each hit with utter shock. A quick glance towards each other and then panicked and pointed attempt to avoid eye contact. Loki just let out a long laugh. "Sammy, explain." Dean growled. "The incantation is a request for the gods and goddesses to bestow the gifts of spring unto a mortal. If it's read in the presence of any deity, then the reader and the deity will be.... Drawn towards each other with increasing desire until they... well until they fuck." Sam blurted out. "Oh, hell no." Dean said sharply. He turned to glare at Loki for the first time observing the god's true form. His hair was not as lustrous as Thor's but it was long and framed a face that was almost androgynous in its soft angles... and fuck. Dean cut away hard but his eyes landed on Thor. Who had apparently been staring at him with a ravenous look Dean knew all too well. The man's size was somehow even more pronounced by the glow. Hard to imagine he was Loki's brother, Thor radiated a raw masculinity... and fuck. "Oopsie." Loki said with an eager grin. Whatever his plan was it seemed things were still very much on track.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2023 06:42:01 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa &lt;fanboi214@yahoo.com&gt; Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 1 Hello! This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. And I do intend to have Dean in turn sleep with every member of the team. As I'm a gay man who writes m/m fiction his encounters with the MUC ladies will mostly be occurring off page. It's an ambitious fic and I have chapters in mind already for the entire original lineup and a few of the later additions. So wish me luck and stamina. Any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. ~~~~~ Spring 2012 ~~~~~ It was an unremarkable day in May, when the first domino fell. The Winchesters were between cases, on a routine fishing expedition for abnormal behavior. Sam tapping away at his phone, as Dean guided the Impala down some backroad in Nebraska. Neither brother was paying particular attention at the key moment. Between the routine monotony of the morning and the endless cornfields whipping by both sides of the vehicle, the boys were on autopilot. Then suddenly Sam let out a high pitched yelp. "What the hell, man? I could've crashed," Dean scowled over at his brother. "My fault, Deano." A familiar voice rang from the backseat. "I think he was a little surprised by my sudden appearance." Dean glanced up at his rearview mirror to see Gabriel reclining gleefully in his backseat. The elder Winchester had a notably subdued reaction, weariness and annoyance settling on his face. "I thought you were dead?" Dean grumbled. "Only because I wanted you to think I was dead," Gabriel retorted. "Don't you think showing up ruins that plan?" Sam asked turning to face the archangel. "Wanted, Sam, past tense. At the moment I'm hoping to get a little bit of help." "You're practically omnipotent, what could you possibly need us for?" Sam asked incredulously. "Well, you boys have established a reputation as being pretty good at creative problem solving." "And the problem?" Dean growled. "Well there are some people who are pretty keen on getting their hands on me." Gabriel replied coyly. Less than a second after those syllables were left his lips, a streak of yellow and red blew past the window fast enough to make your head spin. Slack jawed Sam muttered "Was that just-" "Iron Man! Why the hell is Iron Man chasing you!?" Dean shouted in exasperation as the red and yellow streak pulled a U-turn and landed quite dramatically in the middle of the road. There was still something deeply surreal to Dean about the Avengers. When he first saw the Battle of New York on television, Dean assumed it was some sort of spell or hallucination. You'd think a man who been dealing with ghosts, gods, and demons since childhood would have an open mind. However a lifetime spent on the outskirts of the possible only made Dean more incredulous of the things he still hadn't encountered. Aliens? Superheroes? Those were the things of storybooks and fantasy. Yet The Avengers were real and at least one of them was now on a collision course with the Impala. Dean slammed his brake lest the car go hurtling into the superhero. "Remember how I spent several hundred years pretending to be Loki?" Gabriel grinned sheepishly "You mean the maniac who tried to destroy Earth a couple weeks ago," Sam starred back at him with disdain. "That would be the one. It would seem that this Iron Guy and his friends jumbled a couple facts and are convinced that this Loki fella is masquerading as me and that I looking like me am presently him." Gabriel explained. "Oh, fuck." Dean groaned Outside the car, Tony Stark, superhero billionaire extraordinaire, sauntered up to the driver's side window like some sort of egotistical traffic cop. When he reached his destination he wrapped his knuckles against the window, and Dean brought it down. Tony popped off his helmet, casually tucked it under his arm, and let his other arm land against the roof. Dean's main concern at the moment was whether this was going to scratch up his car, but that was a fact he kept to himself for now. Dean also remained mum about the fact he was pretty psyched to see Iron Man. At least from what he's seen so far, Dean dug the dude's vibe. He was as close to a real life Batman as you could get. And if they were meeting under different circumstances Dean may have slipped into one of his classic `fangirl' moments. But this was the path life had taken so Dean silently stared out the window with his classic smartass smirk. Not that Tony noticed. He was pretty much absorbed in himself. "Yes, it is in fact me, Tony Stark. Please hold your applause, pick up lines, and copious thanks. I'm no hero just your run of the mill world-saving billionaire." Tony rattled in his showboating way. "What do you want?" Dean asked flatly. "I'm here to pick up crazy fascist alien." Tony replied. Dean tossed a quick glance back at Gabriel before returning his attention to Tony. "Afraid we don't have one of those." Tony lets out a huff. He began, "Look, kid. I'm sure you have your reasons and all. But you're in over your head. And one way or another I'm taking that jerk into custody. So how about you be reasonable and do the smart thing." Dean Winchester always had a bit of a chip on his shoulder. And the minute the word "kid" past through Tony's mouth every instinct in his rebellious soul was set a flame. Real life Batman or not, Dean was not going to tolerate some rich douchey college boy condescending to him. He might not win. But he was in for the fight. "I will." Dean said with a nod. Tony took a step back, waiting for the door to open. But instead the Impala's pedal hit the floor. The muscle car peeled out of there in no time, shooting off down the road. "What the hell, Dean!?!?!" An alarmed Sam shouted, craning back over seat to watch Stark calmly suit back up. "Knew I could count on you idiots." Gabriel laughed. "You shut up." Dean barked. "Dean, this is insane. There's no way we can outrun him." "We don't need to worry about that." Dean replied. "Why not?" As Sam twisted back into his seat, the answer became clear. An entire army of black SUVs was coming at them head on. "Forgive me, Baby." Dean muttered as he pulled the wheel hard to the left, sending the Impala off road. As the car barreled through the cornfield, Sam braced himself and Gabriel cheered giddily. Their pursuers were undeterred; the sea of ominous government cars poured into the pathway the Impala had blazed. Still more vehicles were mowing through the rows on either side of the Winchesters. The sky above turned dark as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s massive helicarrier uncloaked. Two spotlight shone down from the ship directly onto the Impala, which came to a sudden stop. Baffled and infuriate Dean pounded on the wheel. "Oh, come on!" He shouted. The cars radio cut out and the engine fell silent. Dean twisted the key in the ignition but the Impala didn't so much as try and turn over. Iron man zipped overhead. Not bothering to land this time, Tony hovered in front of the car. He called out, "I'm giving you one last chance to hand over the psychopath." The car door flew open and Dean stormed out. Completely irate, and bearing no actual mind to the situation at hand, Dean glared up at the superhero. "You better not have done something to my car!" It was like the man was completely unimpressed by the weight of the full force of the US government was inches away from bearing down on him. Sam was less oblivious to this reality and came scurrying out the passenger's side, hands in the air. "Wait, wait. We don't want a fight. There's been a huge misunderstanding. If we could just talk." Luckily, cooler heads prevailed and Dean, Sam, and Gabriel were apprehended without any bloodshed. The group was immediately separated *** Dean was no stranger to interrogations. Nor was the woman who sat across the table from him. Melinda May was a legend around S.H.I.E.L.D. for many reasons, but first and foremost she was known for her attitude. She took no prisoners and she tolerated no shit. This five foot four inch woman weighed maybe a hundred pounds but with the arch of one eyebrow should could have the burliest biggest S.H.I.E.L.D. operative quaking in their boots. Dean was not aware of May's reputation, but he could've guessed. She had an aura about her. May hadn't shown a single emotion since she entered the room. Nor had she uttered a word. She neither stared Dean down nor directly ignored him. She simply sat in a chair, arms crossed over her chest, pokerface locked in. Dean was familiar with the technique, quiet makes people uncomfortable. So an interrogator need only wait for the already nervous subject to grow more agitated and start volunteering information they shouldn't. Dean wasn't falling for it. So they sat in absolute silence. It was hard for the hunter. With each second that passed his urge to release some wry quip mounted. He even tried some eye flirting, but his warden was impervious. Over an hour in the door opened and a goofy looking dude in a suit loped through. Smiling ear to ear Phil Coulson announced, "We're done." "Good." May said standing and heading out the door. Dean wasn't about to trust this. He leaned back in his chair and stared down the new guy, who was giving a far too friendly smile. "Just like that? You're letting me go?" "We never have anything against you, Dean. This was only about getting Loki sequestered." Coulson responded. It didn't escape Dean's notice that Coulson called him by name. It was information the agent had which Dean certainly never provided him. Coulson slipped it in there so casually, so Dean decided not to react to it. Instead he let focus fall on the later part of the sentence. "You don't have Loki sequestered." Dean replied. "We definitely do. You shouldn't feel bad about falling for his little games. He's a tricky one. Fooled me real good once. I'll tell you all about it on the way." Coulson gestured for Dean to follow and turned towards the door. A highly skeptical Dean remained planted in his seat. "Really, we're doing the good cop/ bad cop thing?" Coulson laughs, "This isn't an interrogation. We know all about you and your brother. We know you're on our side." "I don't know what you think you know-" "You're Dean Winchester, eldest son of Mary and John Winchester. After a demon from your mother's past resurfaced, your father set out on a revenge quest. He trained you and your brother to hunt ghosts, demons and things that go bump in the night. Yada, yada, yada, you're the chosen vessel for the archangel Michael-" "Am I supposed to be impressed? Intimidated? Because you know a handful of basic things?" Dean replied flatly. "I wouldn't call what happened between you and Rhonda Hurley basic information." "Whoa! Whoa!" Dean shot up out of his seat. That got him rattled. Dean had very few deep secrets in his life. But that was something he'd never discussed outlaid with anyone... anyone other than himself. "I'm an avid reader" Coulson replied. Then it clicked, "Damnit, Chuck!" Dean glowered. This was the problem with having a prophet of the Lord recording your life in pulp novels. Coulson was done waiting around; he turned headed into the hallway. Dean, finally agitated enough to stop thinking about this encounter as a chess game, tromped out after him. "You think you know everything about me because you read through a few books?" "It's not just `a few books,' Dean. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been watching you and your family for quite some time." Coulson replied moving swiftly down the metallic corridor. "You expect me to believe that?" Dean said rolling his eyes. "You saved the world three times now. You think the nation's biggest intelligence agency didn't notice something like that?" "I don't know. I guess I figured if you knew the apocalypse was coming you woulda tried to help prevent it." "You boys seemed like you had it under control." "God Himself had to intervene... multiple times." Dean shouted back. "And He did. And the Earth is still here so it's all good." Coulson spoke as the two men passed by a huge bay door. Beyond the door was a sprawling garage buzzing with mechanics. Gleaming among the sea of government SUVs a pristine 1976 Chevy Impala caught Dean's eye. He took a hard and sudden turn into the garage. At the moment some wispy nerd in a lab coat had his head under the hood of Baby. "Hey!" Dean's boomed across the room, the rasp in his voice rising with his anger. "Hands off my car!" Leo Fitz let out a yelp of pain as he hit his head on the Impala's open hood. Startled and in a hurry he scurried backward as Dean came marching towards him. He threw his hands up defensively. "I was simply checking to see if there was lasting damage from the EMP we released." Dean's eyes narrow. "You're the one who attacked my car?" "I... not personally. I mean I designed the EMP but..." Fitz stuttered, falling all over himself and making his deep discomfort evident. "It's okay we can replace your engine with an upgrade cutting edge. I could even make the car fly if you want-" "Are you insane? This is a classic. You can't improve it." Dean abruptly cut in. "And cars are not supposed to fly. Hell, people shouldn't fly." He grumbled. By now Coulson was perched over Dean's shoulder, silently giving Fitz a reassuring look. "I apologize for touching your car," Fitz took a step back. "I promise it won't happen again." "Mr. Winchester," Coulson said, "If you'd continue with me. I assume you want to meet back up with your brother." Dean glowered back at Coulson. Any novelty that existed in this situation had long since dissipated. At this point he was thoroughly annoyed by all these people. He wanted to grab Sam, save Gabriel, and get out of here ASAP. With a grunt Dean followed after Coulson leaving a befuddled Fitz behind. Fitz looked to Simmons nearby, "Does he not know we're in the air?" She merely shrugged. The remains of the walk was unremarkable; Dean was sour and Coulson was chipper. Their destination, as it turned out, was not an interrogation room but a conference room. Seated at the table were: a black man with an eye patch, the most generic G.I. Joe looking guy imaginable, a young asian woman who didn't seem to want to be there, and Sam. There was an air of congeniality around the table and Sam waved to Dean as he entered. "Dean, this is director Fury and Agents Ward and Johnson." "Oh delightful," Dean replied sarcastically. "Ready to blow this place?" "They need our help." Sam insisted. "I don't care." Dean said flatly, annoyed but not surprised that Sam had been making friends. "Dean, these people. They work with the Avengers. They're heroes." "They're cops." Dean countered. Fury had been silent since Dean joined them. Watching. Listening. Evaluating. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think we brought you aboard this ship because we enjoy your company?" "We're on a ship?" Dean asked confused. Fury continued plowing ahead, "I need to know whether the man you were transporting was Loki or, and I can't believe I'm saying this, the archangel Gabriel." Dean smirked. Finally someone who was willing to give him the fight he'd been prepping for. "It's Gabriel. There. Solved it for you." "Really because according to your brother here, Gabriel died." Fury remarked. "Yeah, he does that sometimes." Dean shrugged. "Dean, you have to at least consider that it was Loki who popped into our car. He's a trickster and Gabriel is plenty unpredictable." Sam said shooting a hard look to Dean. If Dean was approaching this in a clearheaded, logical manner, he'd have to admit that Sam was right. But Dean didn't think logically. He trusted his gut. So he merely clenched his jaw when he was unable to retort. Fury nodded at Ward, who produced John Winchesters journal and set it on the table. Dean rankled seeing that these people had taken it from the Impala. Ward opened the book and leafed through the pages. It was Fury who spoke though, "Your brother said he doesn't recognize this passage. Do you?" Dean moved to the table and gave the page a once over. The top of the page read "To Reveal A God." Below was a spell and a brief description, explaining the incantation when spoken in the presence of a divine being would force them to reveal their true form. It was in John's handwriting but it absolutely wasn't something he'd have written. And it sure as hell wasn't in that book three hours ago. "Of course I recognize it." Dean lied to Fury. "Dean," Sam said with a huff. "Do not lie about this. You know as well as I do that Gabriel or Loki or whoever manifested that page to trick us into using it." Sam was absolutely right. Dean knew this. Sam knew Dean knew this. But Dean was also willing to bank on this being a play by Gabriel to help them all. So he continued his bluff. "Dad add this to the journal in 1994 after he found a town outside of Green Bay that was sacrificing people to a Pagan god. But now that you bring it up, why don't you take me to Gabriel. I'll say the mumbo jumbo and we can all go." "Works for me." Fury said getting to his feet. "What?" Ward exclaimed, taken too off guard to contain himself. But he quickly quieted down sinking down into his seat. "We have no idea what this spell could even do," Sam insisted. "Let me do some research, see if I can find the spells origins and at least translate it to English." "I don't have time for that." Fury replied to Dean's delight. Sam continued on, "This plan won't even work without some sort of control group. I mean if Gabriel doesn't react to the spell we can't rule out that it's a dud. Unless we have an actual god to compare the reaction to." "Luckily we have one of those." Fury said flatly. *** "You will rue your incursion into Midgard once you return home, brother." Thor sneered angrily at the man in the cell before him. Gabriel was being held in a large plexiglass cell, reminiscent of the Hulk's specialized containment unit. However, this new cell was `enchanted' to prevent anyone from using their powers. The cell itself was smack in the middle of an otherwise empty room. Rows of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stood around the perimeter of the room, ready to draw on `Loki' at the first sign of trouble. The entire room was under intense surveillance for additional security. Gabriel rolled his eyes dramatically "For the last time I am not your brother you big lug!" There was exactly one doorway in or out of the room and it was highly secured. It slid open just long enough for Dean, Fury, Coulson, and Ward to enter. (Sam insisted on staying back and tracing the provenance of the spell.) Gabriel lit up as he saw Dean, "Deano! Tell these guys you know me." "Already tried." Dean said with a shrug as they approached the cell. The security in this place was utterly insane. There had to be at least a hundred surly looking agents all staring down one man who was already imprisoned. He of course also noted Thor's presence. The man was everything a person would imagine from the television. Huge in every sense of the word. Tall, bulging with muscle, his demeanor was demanding. For most people this would be quite a big deal, but being in the presence of a god actually made Dean feel like he was getting back to his normal beat. In fact the strangest thing to him was how divine Thor appeared. Most the deities Dean encountered were intentionally underwhelming. If anything Thor's intimidating appearance almost made Dean wonder if he was puffing up his chest to make up for something. "Fury," Thor barked his patience waning, "Will you allow me to bring my brother to justice now?" It was clear the god had no sense of curiosity about Dean. Presumably he was just another of the many human cogs in Fury's system. "We're gonna run a test first." Fury replied. Dean cracked open the book and located the page. Clearing his throat he began to read. The words seemed like nonsense to Dean. Sammy said they were in some form of ancient Greek. But Dean was relatively sure he was pronouncing this right. He'd find out soon enough. When Dean finished the incantation the room fell silent in a moment of anticipation. Thor felt as if his entire body had passed through some sort of invisible mist and a gentle sheen of light emanated from his skin, "By Odin's beard," the God muttered. "He's glowing." Coulson said in awe, as he stated the obvious. "He's not the only one." Fury remarked. Dean's eyes flit over to `Gabriel' who had become enveloped in his own divine glow. Not only that but before everyone's eyes he transformed into the man who had coordinated the Battle on New York. "Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed when he realized that he'd been wholly had. He didn't expect to be as hurt by the betrayal, but then he also hadn't expected to double down so hard. And it didn't help that instead of Gabriel he was now staring at a smug stranger. Despite still very much being imprisoned Loki was looking extremely proud of himself. "Well would you look at that." He chuckled. "Lock it down." Fury commanded and that army of agents flew into motion. Guns were drawn, clangs echoed as some unseen mechanical locks clicked into place. "I'd not look so pleased. Your ticket to the dungeons of Asgard has just been signed." Thor growled. "He's not going anywhere." Fury replied. "You promised we'd be allowed to deal with him," Thor snapped. "Except that this all part of Loki's plan. And we're not doing Loki's plan." While Fury's words were for Thor his gaze was aimed pointedly at Loki whose grin only widened as he tried not to look rattled. Fury moved closer to the plexiglass. "You want to cut to the chase and tell me why you'd give us a spell that unmasks you." "You knew I was lying?" Dean realized allowed. "I am the highest rank spy in the US government. Of course I knew you were lying." "Then why'd you let me say the spell." "So I could see what'd happened." Fury replied incredulously "And seein' as the results haven't explained this maniac's plan. We're gonna stay here until he cracks." "I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about." Loki replied. "Dean! Don't say the spell. Dean!" Sam's voice came in from above over a speaker system. Dean glanced to the sky to see Sam and Fitz standing in some sort of operating theater. "Little late, Sammy." Dean replied. "If only someone had warned you to wait," Sam responded dryly. Dean rolled his eyes despite the fact his younger brother was clearly correct. "What did you find, Mr. Winchester?" Fury called out. "This isn't a spell to identify a deity. It's an Ancient Greek rite of spring. It's a... prayer for virility." Sam chokes out. "What?" Dean asks confused. "It's a sex spell." Fitz piped in to clarify. Thor and Dean react in unison, each hit with utter shock. A quick glance towards each other and then panicked and pointed attempt to avoid eye contact. Loki just let out a long laugh. "Sammy, explain." Dean growled. "The incantation is a request for the gods and goddesses to bestow the gifts of spring unto a mortal. If it's read in the presence of any deity, then the reader and the deity will be.... Drawn towards each other with increasing desire until they... well until they fuck." Sam blurted out. "Oh, hell no." Dean said sharply. He turned to glare at Loki for the first time observing the god's true form. His hair was not as lustrous as Thor's but it was long and framed a face that was almost androgynous in its soft angles... and fuck. Dean cut away hard but his eyes landed on Thor. Who had apparently been staring at him with a ravenous look Dean knew all too well. The man's size was somehow even more pronounced by the glow. Hard to imagine he was Loki's brother, Thor radiated a raw masculinity... and fuck. "Oopsie." Loki said with an eager grin. Whatever his plan was it seemed things were still very much on track. </pre> </div></div>

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Date: Sat, 27 Jan 2024 00:01:07 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa <fanboi214@yahoo.com> Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 4 My plan is for this story to have a series of time jumps. This is the first one. As such this is more of a setup for this section and we don't quite get to any smut. But there is plenty more smut on the way. Chapter 4 "Paint It Black" ~~~~~ Summer 2013 ~~~~ The past year had proven to be an adjustment for the brothers Winchester. Apparently, the federal government had a strict policy against allowing people with "no training whatsoever" into their premier spy agency. You'd think a letter from the guy at the top of the chain would grant them a special dispensation but `the best' Fury could do was shorten their training time. Though the boys (accurately) suspected Fury could push them through if he wanted to. Regardless, Sam and Dean wound up enrolled at the SHEILD Academy, some sort of SHIELD Quantico. Dean was predictably insufferable about this development, at least initially. He threatened to back out several times, but Sam never wavered and they both knew that Dean wouldn't abandon his younger brother. So Dean showed up at the SHEILD Academy griping, reminding Sammy this was his idea for when things inevitably went wrong. Over the intervening days Sam had, on several occasions, attempted to talk to Dean about what had transpired on the Helicarrier. Dean insisted that he was fine, deflecting the conversation at every turn. Dean was not `fine.' His dalliances with Thor and Loki had left him deeply confused. It wasn't simply the fact Dean had never had gay sex before (though that was a large part of his uncertainty). Dean's encounters with the Asgardians were the best sexual experiences of his life. They were probably the most enjoyable moments of his life period. It was certainly the most carnal and raw he'd ever been. During sex Dean had taken charge before but he had never so thoroughly dominated anyone. He found it impossible to distinguish whether the spell had created those impulses in him or had simply gotten him horny enough that he fully embraced some buried desires of his own. Either way, he knew he had enjoyed it, and now that he was free of magical influence those memories weren't any less arousing. Dean typically excelled at ignoring his unwanted thoughts and just being Dean Winchester. But his brain kept returning to that day with Thor and Loki and what it might mean. Maybe it was because so much was changing at once for him. Maybe it was because of the way he'd been received at the SHIELD Academy. The rank-and-file SHIELD grunts all whispered and stared as he walked by. They looked at him like he was some sort of dangerous and tempting sex god. Dean swaggered around, winking, quipping, and peacocking like he was `supposed to.' To Dean's surprise, the male cadets seemed as likely to flirt with him as the female cadets, and Dean surprised himself by flirting back in every instance. The guys' forwardness made a lot more sense when Dean heard the rumor that surveillance video of his time with Thor was circulating through the ranks at SHIELD. The general sexual fluidity at The Academy was also likely aided by the fact every prospective field agent was required to go through at least cursory level `sexpionage' courses. Dean mistakenly believed that like him Sam was exempt from that course and Sam let him delude himself. Dean found a bar far, far away from The Academy. And he spent almost every night for a month trawling the place for a lay. He tried everything with everyone. He learned what he liked, what he really liked, and in time he came to remember that he was Dean fucking Winchester. He was confident, charismatic, clever, powerful, intuitive, and apparently bisexual. As the weeks ticked on Dean felt more himself than he'd ever been. Outwardly his actions didn't change all that much, but there was a lot less angst and a lot more fun. As much as he'd dreaded coming to The Academy, Dean was kicking all kinds of ass. It was the kind of place that valued good aim and quick thinking above physics. And it didn't hurt that he was surrounded by very fit twenty-somethings who looked at him like a sex god. It was the final week in June and Sam and Dean's final week at The Academy. While every other member of their graduating class was gathered in a lecture hall preparing for a `surprise guest' lecturer, Sam found himself waiting outside Dean's door. With his back planted against the wall and his arms firmly folded across his chest, Sam broadcast every bit of his irritation. After the unmistakable sounds of a woman orgasming, Sam had assumed Dean would emerge but it had become clear that he was going for a second (or maybe third) round with his mystery woman. The younger Winchester contemplated abandoning Dean when he heard a familiar voice call, "Why if it isn't Samuel Winchester." Sam turned to see Agent Fitz making his way down the hall, Simmons a few steps behind. A smile sprung to Sam's face, "What are you guys doing here?" "It's graduation week. We're repping the science and tech division and scouting the best recruits." Fitz explained. "We'd make an offer to you, but you're already spoken for." Simmons continued as she trailed behind. "Aren't the graduates supposed to be in lecture hall C right now?" Fitz asked. "Yeah," Sam said with a sheepish nod. "I'm waiting for-" Sam was cut off mid-sentence by another euphoric moan from behind the door. Fitz smirked, "Dean's getting along well then?" "A little too well, maybe." Sam laughed. "Little piece of advice... I wouldn't drag my heels if I were you. If Dean's late that's on him." "Damn, Fitz. What I ever do to you?" Dean sauntered out of his room wearing a conspicuously unbuttoned henley and skin-tight jeans. He had a post-coital glow and a particularly wide grin. "Uh, I... Umm," Fitz stumbled on his words for a moment, immediately disarmed by Dean. He recovered quickly enough though, he'd seen the man in far more provocative ways. "It wasn't about you. I simply feel you wouldn't want to miss the guest speaker." "Don't worry. The speaker is running late." Dean winked at Fitz. Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow herself, emerged from the doorway behind Dean. Natasha casually brushed a hand through her messy tresses. Fitz, Simmons, and Sam all reacted with silent shock, much to Dean's chagrin. Unlike the proud hunter, the redheaded bombshell wore no expression on her face. It was clear what had occurred and she had absolutely no shame. In fact, as her eyes fell on the others they were the ones unable to make eye contact. In a calm monotone, she said, "You think that I'm your guest speaker?" "Aren't you?" Dean asked. "I mean, you're a freaking Avenger." She blinked flatly at him, "What about me would suggest to you that I do inspirational speeches?" "Then what are you doing here?" Dean responded. "That's on a need-to-know basis." Natasha grabbed Dean's arm and scrawled a phone number on it. "If you try to contact me for any reason other than sex I will kill you." With that, she turned and walked away, Fitz and Simmons parted to allow her passage. "What just happened?" Sam said dumbfounded. "I'll tell you when you get older." Dean waggled his eyebrows. Simmons cleared her throat, "I'm not sure what things here are like now, but when we went here the final lecture was quite mandatory." "You're right." Sam started, "We should get-" Before Sam could finish his sentence a phone trilled from the far end of the hall. Black Widow slipped a cell from her pocket. She glanced down and slowed to a stop. Turning around Natasha shot daggers at the elder Winchester. Although Dean was the subject of this scowl, he only flashed a cheeky grin as he pulled his open phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. Natasha's voice poured from the phone icy and sharp, "I wasn't kidding when I said I'd kill you." "Then I guess it's a good thing this is a booty call." Dean purred into the phone. Simmons and Fitz went wide-eyed. Considering the last time they saw Dean he was spanking a literal god, the hunter's gall shouldn't be a surprise. But the SHIELD agents had chalked up that arrogance to the effects of Loki's spell. It seemed he'd grown quite comfortable wearing that personality in everyday life. Though judging from Sam's visible embarrassment, Fitz assumed Dean's current flex was a bit much by any standard. In any case, Natasha hung up her phone, waited for a beat, and looped back around towards the group. Her eye honed in on Dean as she approached, her moves quiet and purposeful. Tension permeated the hallway, the onlookers on pins and needles as to what would happen when the former Soviet spy reached the preening Winchester. Natasha walked right past Dean, slinking back into his room, and the group let out a collective breath they'd been holding. Dean merely winked at Sam, "You're going to have to attend that lecture yourself, Sammy." Dean disappeared into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. *** Few men in history commanded as much universal respect as Steve Rogers. Steve was strong but kind, wise yet humble, harsh but just, and painfully handsome to boot. He was an impossibly perfect human whose gentle demeanor and open mind helped him to meet the unreasonably high expectations everyone had for him. So it was no surprise that when Captain America was announced as the senior class's special guest speaker a palpable excitement filled the room. Upon entering the lecture hall, Steve was greeted with voracious cheers from a throng of starry-eyed cadets, Sam Winchester included. Rogers had made his best attempt to dress for the setting, in a formal button-up and crisply pressed pants. Given how taut it was around the biceps and chest, Sam guessed that they didn't make dress shirts for men with Cap's shape. Whether it was his reputation or his physique, he had the crowd's undivided attention. They watched on baited breath desperately hoping the man before them would live up to the legend in their minds and to a person they decided he did. Perhaps Dean would've been equally enthralled if he had been present but nearly an hour into the lecture, Dean was nowhere to be found. "I know graduation feels like an ending, after all, it is the culmination of years of hard work. But in the grand scheme, it is only the beginning of your journey. " Steve intoned as he stood before the crowd. The hushed silence was shattered when a door in the back swung open. Experienced orator that he was, Cap didn't let the distraction throw off the rhythm of his speech. However, he drew his gaze slide past the crowd and to the source of the intrusion, making no effort to hide his displeasure. The moment Dean set foot in the room he recognized the man at the podium. With his square jaw, dazzling blue eyes, Herculean musculature, and calming aura there was no mistaking the Avenger's identity. Dean was admittedly taken aback to find the Captain America was here in the flesh. He was also keenly aware that the superhero was giving him the stink eye, but Dean, impudent as he was, refused to wilt under it. Steve made silent note of the response and returned his attention to the crowd. Dean made his way toward Sam, employing zero subtly in the process. "I miss anything interesting, Sammy?" Sam swiveled back to face his brother. He whispered, "It's Captain America. What do you think?" "I think Thor has some competition for best tits on the Avengers." Dean quipped. Given the size of the room, it would be hard for Steve not to notice the chatter. He shot one last silent warning and Sam felt utterly mortified. Dean grinned an overconfident smirk and locked eyes with the hero. At that moment, Steve knew exactly who he was dealing with. Determined to press his luck to its breaking point, Dean continued "I mean the rumors about his hotness are not exaggerated." Steve found the right moment to pause in his speech. He let out a heavy sigh and arched an eyebrow, "Gentlemen, I believe we're all old enough to know how you're supposed to behave in a classroom setting." All the color drained from Sam's face as he was once admonished directly. Defiantly Dean shot back, "You certainly are." "Dean!" Sam shouted. His head snapped over to address Rogers, "We're so sorry, sir." Dean rolled his eyes, "Speaker for yourself." Steve remained stonefaced through the entire interaction, making a mental note of the behavior. He could tell that Dean was fishing for a reaction and was not willing to give him one. Of course, that also meant he couldn't simply back down. "There are people who came here to listen. Be respectful of them." "Oh please," Dean grumbled "You stopped your speech to go on this little power trip. Which is a much bigger distraction than anything I was doing." "Listen, son-" "I ain't your son. But play your cards right and you might get to call me Daddy." Dean winked flirtatiously at Steve. Steve continued to glower at the hunter. "You done?" "I'm just beginning." Dean grinned. A look of annoyance flickered across Steve's face, and in Dean's book, any reaction was a victory. After all, he liked the game almost as much as he liked sex. "Talk again and I'm kicking you out." The Avenger said flatly and returned his attention to the crowd. "Sorry about that, folks. Now I believe I was talking about responsibility..." Dean played with the idea of piping up again to see what Cap would do. He didn't doubt the Captain would call him out again, but he found it hard to imagine he'd start a fistfight in the middle of this classroom. To everyone's relief, the elder Winchester remained silent. Steve finished his speech, received a crushing round of applause, and left the room. One of the professors rambled on for a few more moments and excused the class. Dean's outburst quickly became a matter of discussion and gossip. Reception was mixed. It seemed like the majority of those present felt Dean had been unnecessarily obnoxious. But there was particular interest in Dean's unabashed attempt to hit on Steve Rogers. The senior class was pretty much unanimous in their verdict that they would be hot together. Sam spent a solid two hours spinning out over his brother's actions and then continued this at seemingly random intervals for the rest of the evening. He ranted and raved at Dean for his immature and unprofessional behavior. He reminded Dean that they were the oldest students here and insisted they should be mature. Dean remind Sam he never wanted to come here in the first place, and argued he thought the entire concept was stupid. Unlike Dean's new groupies, Sam knew him his whole life. And he realized how much his hardass brother would cheese out over the concept of superheroes. He refused to believe Dean wasn't having the time of his life and it drove him insane that he'd act out like this when they were at the finish line. Over the next few days, Dean kept an eye out for Steve. But Captain America didn't show his face at any other graduation week activities. This was of course a massive disappointment. Dean took a further blow to his ego when he attempted to call Natasha for another booty call, and she allowed it to go voicemail. Dean kept that occurrence to himself. However, somehow the vast majority of the student body came to learn that Dean had bedded a second Avenger. *** Senior week was drawing to a close and only one event remained before the cadets received offers: the Fourth of July barbecue. It was a relatively modest affair hosted on The Academy's private beach. As the Winchesters arrived, the party was already in full swing. Sam was apparelled in a modest pair of swim trunks and a baggy T-shirt. Dean had hopped on the opportunity to slip into a bright red Speedo, which left nothing to the imagination. He coupled this with an unbuttoned Hawaiin shirt. It was hard to believe that a year ago he'd likely have been more covered up than even Sam. As the boys approached, Dean's face lit up. He should've known that Steve would be at a Fourth of July celebration. The Avenger was manning the grill and drinking a beer, in what was perhaps the purest example of Americana imaginable. Steve's beachwear, however, was a letdown. He wore a white tank top that clung to his amazing chest and a pair of... jeans? Even so, Dean was literally licking his lips, "Time to cross another Avenger off my bucket list." It took a minute for Sam to put the pieces together but when he did his body was gripped by terror. "Dean! Do not embarrass us any more than you have." "Lighten up, Sammy. The man beat back an alien invasion in New York. He can handle some light flirting." "You weren't flirting. You were being a jackass." Sam grunted. "Sometimes flirting is about being a jackass," Dean said smugly. At the edge of the beach, a small folding table was set up and manned by Academy staff. Fitz and Simmons were among them. The very second Dean's foot hit the sand the Scottsman's voice called out, "Afternoon, guys." The hunters gave a pilot nod and waved at Fitz and meant to continue on their way. But the agent chased after them. "Dean, Dean" Fitz chirped. "I can't let you on the beach." The Winchesters paused and looked to Fitz. Dean looked particularly confused "Why the hell not." Fitz swallowed "This event is exclusively for graduating cadets." "And..." Dean asked. Fitz sighed. "No one has reached out to you yet?" A peel of laughter escaped Sam's mouth. "You had to go and piss off Captain America. Didn't you!?" Dean's face twisted in outrage. "You're fucking kidding me? You're telling me that he got them to pull me from the program." Dean's head snapped to the side and he realized that Steve was staring directly at him. Dean's blood boiled, and he could swear the other man was smirking. Sam balled his fist in rage and looked at Fitz. "You know Dean thought he was flirting. Flirting!" "With Captain America." Fitz mumbled "The man's made of granite. Hot granite but... granite." Dean wasn't listening to the exchange. He was too busy fuming. "He can't do this. I was hand-picked by Nick Fury. I was recruited to help lead a new division of SHIELD." Cap set down his tongs and relinquished the grill. He slowly mosied over to the group silently enjoying the elder Winchester's meltdown. Fitz shrugged. "I don't make the calls. But he's Captain America." Dean gestured to the approaching Avenger. "He's wearing jeans on a beach! You're going to trust the word of a man who wears jeans on a beach before me?!" Cap slowed to a stop before the trio. Dean locked on and charged towards him. "You got me kicked out of The Academy because I talked in one lecture?! You petty, insecure asshole." 
 Cap took the insults, as any expected he would, with a calm dignified air. He was a marked counterpoint to Dean's frenetic energy. "You're not ready to graduate." "Not ready?" Dean spat back at him. "I have been fighting since I was four years old. I outshot half of my instructors on the range. I have survived situations that these kids couldn't dream of. And have mentioned of the two of us here only one of us successfully killed Hitler." Steve nodded in agreement. Then said, "You don't follow orders, Dean." Dean let out a warm breath, his frenzied outrage becoming usurped by cold anger. He straightened his spine and looked the other man dead in the eye. "No. I don't." "SHIELD is a military organization. You need to follow orders." Steve said simply. Dean shook his head, "You know what? Fuck it. We don't need you. You asked us to be here. We're doing fine on our own." Dean turned to leave, but Sam shot a pleading look at Steve. "There must be some way to work this out. We could do so much good here." "No one is pulling your offer, Sam," Cap replied. That really got under Dean's skin. The idea that this man would try to play Sam against him. He whipped around and glared at Cap. "Fuck you." "Dean, calm down." An exhausted Sam said. Hurt flashed on Dean's face as he realized that Sam intended to stay, with or without him. Of course, he did. Sam gave Cap a wide-eyed look. "Sir, is there some way for Dean to convince you?" "Well, he could apologize for his outburst." Steve shrugged. Dean gritted his teeth together. There would be no apology. "Or he could follow me." Steve continued. With those words, Steve Rogers began jogging off down the beach. Dean looked back over at Sam who mouthed a simple "please." He hesitated a moment, then he took off after Steve. *** "Let me be clear about this," Steve said as he jogged along the beach. "You can apologize at any point and we'll turn around." "Save it." Dean snarled as he sprinted after the superhero. He may not have government-funded steroids like Steve, but he was burning through a deep well of pure rage. Rage at Steve for trying to pull this shit. Rage at Sam for not immediately walking away with him. Rage at himself for letting Sam pull him back. Dean's feet crashed into the sand as he closed the distance between Steve and himself, gaining ground until he was running beside the Avenger. Steve, casually flew along the shore in his jeans. Without the slightest sign of struggle to him, he let his eyes drift to the side now and then to check on Dean. "You don't have to keep up with me you know. This is going to take a while." Dean remained silent. It was a matter of pride not one of reason. He would not let this man get the better of him. He would not break. To his credit, Dean did a very impressive job of keeping pace with Steve for about a mile. But eventually, his thighs started to burn. There wasn't a single bead of sweat on Cap's forehead. He hadn't broken his stride once and Dean was forced to acknowledge some of the physical realities he was up against. Dean glanced back over his shoulder. They were far enough from the rest of the campus to ensure no one would see them. That would at least help Dean coddle his pride a bit as he started to slow. Steve kept his gaze ahead and called out simply, "Ready to apologize." "Nothing to apologize for." Dean bit back with all the smarm he could force into his voice. Steve returned to his silence and Dean ran at his heels. He'd be lying if he didn't admit to admiring the view. As infuriating as Cap had turned out to be he had a set of cakes like none other. Those two fat juicy globes of muscle rose and fell with each step he took. And watching that could easily have been enough reward to motivate Dean alone. "When I was a kid, I never thought I'd be anyone special," Steve spoke up, neither slowing nor turning to face Dean. "I was scared and I was weak and that didn't bother me. It felt right." Dean clenched his jaw, trying to ignore whatever Steve was saying and focus on the crashing of the waves. But Cap's voice was deep and alluring. "I didn't care about myself but that didn't mean I didn't care. I cared a hell of a lot about the world around me. I figured if I was so unimportant I'd put my life towards helping people who matter. Then something strange happened... someone decided I was going to be important." Cap slowed to a halt and turned to face Dean. The hunter had fallen more than a few paces behind and was starting to breathe a bit heavier. He dropped his arms to his side and let his sprint slow to a meander. Steve watched him with a kind of knowing expression, his eyes big and blue and sympathetic as they found Dean's. Steve continued, "You live your life content to be rank and file, and then outta the blue, you learn you have a destiny... that kinda whiplash can really mess with a guy." "I know what you're doing..." Dean panted. "Of course you do." Steve nodded "You're smart Dean. You're compassionate. You're loyal. You're brave. And you got grit, the real fight until you your dying breath kinda grit." Steve's eyes flit over Dean analytically. "We got a lot in common you and I." Having finally, caught up to Steve, Dean planted his feet in the sand. "So you read my file." Steve nodded. "I looked at it all. Pscyhe eval, history. Hell, I even thumbed through that book series God wrote about you." "Seems a bit overkill for a guy who talked during class." Dean grinned. He knew that he'd gotten to the guy but it seems Steve had been thinking about him A LOT. Steve just laughed. "This isn't because of the speech. It was because you fucked my boyfriend." Dean was so shocked by hearing Captain America say `fuck' that he didn't even register the intent of the statement. He wobbled back on his heels. "Did you just curse?" Steve's knowing smirk grew wider, "You're really surprised that an army man knows a few four-letter words? I take being a role model seriously. But we're all alone and I get the sense you can handle some honesty." Dean's mind finally started unpacking the rest of that statement. "And you said boyfriend? As in a guy? As in-" "I'm bisexual." Steve said firmly, "Glad people got hip to that since my day. Though the barracks were plenty busy even in the sixties." Dean shook his head. "But... I fucked your boyfriend? When did I..." "I can't blame you, Dean. After all, you couldn't be expected to ` turn down a slutty blonde with a huge rack'." Dean's eyes went wide. "Thor!?" Steve answered with a solemn nod. "Thor and you are?" Steve nodded again. "You and Thor?" "Like bunnies," Steve said, quietly enjoying the few as Dean's bratty know-it-all exterior dissolved before his very eyes. Dean tried to wrap his head around the thought of Steve and Thor getting hot and heavy together. "But he said he'd never had gay sex before." "He'd never been fucked before." Steve corrected. He watched Dean's eyes light up with hope. "So does that mean you're a bottom?" Dean asked chewing his lower lip. Steve let out a deep laugh. "I bottom for Thor for the same reason I wear jeans on the beach." As Steve spoke his hands moved to the base of his shirt. He peeled the tank off his body to reveal his chiseled torso. Slack-jawed Dean watched, managing only to drool on himself a little. He didn't figure out why Steve was disrobing until Cap tossed his shirt on the sand. It landed next to a sign that declared they were now entering a nude beach. Dean stammered out "What?" "My cock is too big," Steve said bluntly. The zipper of his jeans and out flopped Steve Rogers' penis. Even completely soft the super soldier's manhood rivaled that of the gods'. Steve was about a foot long and thick as a beer can. And as he shimmied out of those jeans he revealed a set of balls that were roughly the size of kiwis. For all his charm and witty banter, all Dean could do was stand and stare. Steve savored the silence and enjoyed the look on the other man's face. "You see the problem? It takes someone very skilled with an absurdly large ego to handle something like this." Steve grabbed his massive manhood and squeezed it. "I'm talking about a person who thinks they're stronger than a god." There was a hunger in Dean's eyes as he stared at Steve's package. He had never seen a dick that big in his life. Steve may be the most hung man in history. Dean couldn't imagine how that would feel... but he also suspected he may not have to wonder. "I knew you were flirting with me." Steve sighed heavily. "Oh, Dean. You have so much to learn still. Lose the clothes and get moving." Steve took off running once more, but now he was moving backward so he was still facing Dean. Steve's obnoxiously long cock slapped against his legs and his heaven-sent pecs bounced with each step. Dean frantically clawed his clothes off and took off after him. Hope you enjoyed it! I always welcome any feedback, suggestions, or questions at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Hopefully, it won't take me as long to write the next installment.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sat, 27 Jan 2024 00:01:07 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa &lt;fanboi214@yahoo.com&gt; Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 4 My plan is for this story to have a series of time jumps. This is the first one. As such this is more of a setup for this section and we don't quite get to any smut. But there is plenty more smut on the way. Chapter 4 "Paint It Black" ~~~~~ Summer 2013 ~~~~ The past year had proven to be an adjustment for the brothers Winchester. Apparently, the federal government had a strict policy against allowing people with "no training whatsoever" into their premier spy agency. You'd think a letter from the guy at the top of the chain would grant them a special dispensation but `the best' Fury could do was shorten their training time. Though the boys (accurately) suspected Fury could push them through if he wanted to. Regardless, Sam and Dean wound up enrolled at the SHEILD Academy, some sort of SHIELD Quantico. Dean was predictably insufferable about this development, at least initially. He threatened to back out several times, but Sam never wavered and they both knew that Dean wouldn't abandon his younger brother. So Dean showed up at the SHEILD Academy griping, reminding Sammy this was his idea for when things inevitably went wrong. Over the intervening days Sam had, on several occasions, attempted to talk to Dean about what had transpired on the Helicarrier. Dean insisted that he was fine, deflecting the conversation at every turn. Dean was not `fine.' His dalliances with Thor and Loki had left him deeply confused. It wasn't simply the fact Dean had never had gay sex before (though that was a large part of his uncertainty). Dean's encounters with the Asgardians were the best sexual experiences of his life. They were probably the most enjoyable moments of his life period. It was certainly the most carnal and raw he'd ever been. During sex Dean had taken charge before but he had never so thoroughly dominated anyone. He found it impossible to distinguish whether the spell had created those impulses in him or had simply gotten him horny enough that he fully embraced some buried desires of his own. Either way, he knew he had enjoyed it, and now that he was free of magical influence those memories weren't any less arousing. Dean typically excelled at ignoring his unwanted thoughts and just being Dean Winchester. But his brain kept returning to that day with Thor and Loki and what it might mean. Maybe it was because so much was changing at once for him. Maybe it was because of the way he'd been received at the SHIELD Academy. The rank-and-file SHIELD grunts all whispered and stared as he walked by. They looked at him like he was some sort of dangerous and tempting sex god. Dean swaggered around, winking, quipping, and peacocking like he was `supposed to.' To Dean's surprise, the male cadets seemed as likely to flirt with him as the female cadets, and Dean surprised himself by flirting back in every instance. The guys' forwardness made a lot more sense when Dean heard the rumor that surveillance video of his time with Thor was circulating through the ranks at SHIELD. The general sexual fluidity at The Academy was also likely aided by the fact every prospective field agent was required to go through at least cursory level `sexpionage' courses. Dean mistakenly believed that like him Sam was exempt from that course and Sam let him delude himself. Dean found a bar far, far away from The Academy. And he spent almost every night for a month trawling the place for a lay. He tried everything with everyone. He learned what he liked, what he really liked, and in time he came to remember that he was Dean fucking Winchester. He was confident, charismatic, clever, powerful, intuitive, and apparently bisexual. As the weeks ticked on Dean felt more himself than he'd ever been. Outwardly his actions didn't change all that much, but there was a lot less angst and a lot more fun. As much as he'd dreaded coming to The Academy, Dean was kicking all kinds of ass. It was the kind of place that valued good aim and quick thinking above physics. And it didn't hurt that he was surrounded by very fit twenty-somethings who looked at him like a sex god. It was the final week in June and Sam and Dean's final week at The Academy. While every other member of their graduating class was gathered in a lecture hall preparing for a `surprise guest' lecturer, Sam found himself waiting outside Dean's door. With his back planted against the wall and his arms firmly folded across his chest, Sam broadcast every bit of his irritation. After the unmistakable sounds of a woman orgasming, Sam had assumed Dean would emerge but it had become clear that he was going for a second (or maybe third) round with his mystery woman. The younger Winchester contemplated abandoning Dean when he heard a familiar voice call, "Why if it isn't Samuel Winchester." Sam turned to see Agent Fitz making his way down the hall, Simmons a few steps behind. A smile sprung to Sam's face, "What are you guys doing here?" "It's graduation week. We're repping the science and tech division and scouting the best recruits." Fitz explained. "We'd make an offer to you, but you're already spoken for." Simmons continued as she trailed behind. "Aren't the graduates supposed to be in lecture hall C right now?" Fitz asked. "Yeah," Sam said with a sheepish nod. "I'm waiting for-" Sam was cut off mid-sentence by another euphoric moan from behind the door. Fitz smirked, "Dean's getting along well then?" "A little too well, maybe." Sam laughed. "Little piece of advice... I wouldn't drag my heels if I were you. If Dean's late that's on him." "Damn, Fitz. What I ever do to you?" Dean sauntered out of his room wearing a conspicuously unbuttoned henley and skin-tight jeans. He had a post-coital glow and a particularly wide grin. "Uh, I... Umm," Fitz stumbled on his words for a moment, immediately disarmed by Dean. He recovered quickly enough though, he'd seen the man in far more provocative ways. "It wasn't about you. I simply feel you wouldn't want to miss the guest speaker." "Don't worry. The speaker is running late." Dean winked at Fitz. Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow herself, emerged from the doorway behind Dean. Natasha casually brushed a hand through her messy tresses. Fitz, Simmons, and Sam all reacted with silent shock, much to Dean's chagrin. Unlike the proud hunter, the redheaded bombshell wore no expression on her face. It was clear what had occurred and she had absolutely no shame. In fact, as her eyes fell on the others they were the ones unable to make eye contact. In a calm monotone, she said, "You think that I'm your guest speaker?" "Aren't you?" Dean asked. "I mean, you're a freaking Avenger." She blinked flatly at him, "What about me would suggest to you that I do inspirational speeches?" "Then what are you doing here?" Dean responded. "That's on a need-to-know basis." Natasha grabbed Dean's arm and scrawled a phone number on it. "If you try to contact me for any reason other than sex I will kill you." With that, she turned and walked away, Fitz and Simmons parted to allow her passage. "What just happened?" Sam said dumbfounded. "I'll tell you when you get older." Dean waggled his eyebrows. Simmons cleared her throat, "I'm not sure what things here are like now, but when we went here the final lecture was quite mandatory." "You're right." Sam started, "We should get-" Before Sam could finish his sentence a phone trilled from the far end of the hall. Black Widow slipped a cell from her pocket. She glanced down and slowed to a stop. Turning around Natasha shot daggers at the elder Winchester. Although Dean was the subject of this scowl, he only flashed a cheeky grin as he pulled his open phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. Natasha's voice poured from the phone icy and sharp, "I wasn't kidding when I said I'd kill you." "Then I guess it's a good thing this is a booty call." Dean purred into the phone. Simmons and Fitz went wide-eyed. Considering the last time they saw Dean he was spanking a literal god, the hunter's gall shouldn't be a surprise. But the SHIELD agents had chalked up that arrogance to the effects of Loki's spell. It seemed he'd grown quite comfortable wearing that personality in everyday life. Though judging from Sam's visible embarrassment, Fitz assumed Dean's current flex was a bit much by any standard. In any case, Natasha hung up her phone, waited for a beat, and looped back around towards the group. Her eye honed in on Dean as she approached, her moves quiet and purposeful. Tension permeated the hallway, the onlookers on pins and needles as to what would happen when the former Soviet spy reached the preening Winchester. Natasha walked right past Dean, slinking back into his room, and the group let out a collective breath they'd been holding. Dean merely winked at Sam, "You're going to have to attend that lecture yourself, Sammy." Dean disappeared into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. *** Few men in history commanded as much universal respect as Steve Rogers. Steve was strong but kind, wise yet humble, harsh but just, and painfully handsome to boot. He was an impossibly perfect human whose gentle demeanor and open mind helped him to meet the unreasonably high expectations everyone had for him. So it was no surprise that when Captain America was announced as the senior class's special guest speaker a palpable excitement filled the room. Upon entering the lecture hall, Steve was greeted with voracious cheers from a throng of starry-eyed cadets, Sam Winchester included. Rogers had made his best attempt to dress for the setting, in a formal button-up and crisply pressed pants. Given how taut it was around the biceps and chest, Sam guessed that they didn't make dress shirts for men with Cap's shape. Whether it was his reputation or his physique, he had the crowd's undivided attention. They watched on baited breath desperately hoping the man before them would live up to the legend in their minds and to a person they decided he did. Perhaps Dean would've been equally enthralled if he had been present but nearly an hour into the lecture, Dean was nowhere to be found. "I know graduation feels like an ending, after all, it is the culmination of years of hard work. But in the grand scheme, it is only the beginning of your journey. " Steve intoned as he stood before the crowd. The hushed silence was shattered when a door in the back swung open. Experienced orator that he was, Cap didn't let the distraction throw off the rhythm of his speech. However, he drew his gaze slide past the crowd and to the source of the intrusion, making no effort to hide his displeasure. The moment Dean set foot in the room he recognized the man at the podium. With his square jaw, dazzling blue eyes, Herculean musculature, and calming aura there was no mistaking the Avenger's identity. Dean was admittedly taken aback to find the Captain America was here in the flesh. He was also keenly aware that the superhero was giving him the stink eye, but Dean, impudent as he was, refused to wilt under it. Steve made silent note of the response and returned his attention to the crowd. Dean made his way toward Sam, employing zero subtly in the process. "I miss anything interesting, Sammy?" Sam swiveled back to face his brother. He whispered, "It's Captain America. What do you think?" "I think Thor has some competition for best tits on the Avengers." Dean quipped. Given the size of the room, it would be hard for Steve not to notice the chatter. He shot one last silent warning and Sam felt utterly mortified. Dean grinned an overconfident smirk and locked eyes with the hero. At that moment, Steve knew exactly who he was dealing with. Determined to press his luck to its breaking point, Dean continued "I mean the rumors about his hotness are not exaggerated." Steve found the right moment to pause in his speech. He let out a heavy sigh and arched an eyebrow, "Gentlemen, I believe we're all old enough to know how you're supposed to behave in a classroom setting." All the color drained from Sam's face as he was once admonished directly. Defiantly Dean shot back, "You certainly are." "Dean!" Sam shouted. His head snapped over to address Rogers, "We're so sorry, sir." Dean rolled his eyes, "Speaker for yourself." Steve remained stonefaced through the entire interaction, making a mental note of the behavior. He could tell that Dean was fishing for a reaction and was not willing to give him one. Of course, that also meant he couldn't simply back down. "There are people who came here to listen. Be respectful of them." "Oh please," Dean grumbled "You stopped your speech to go on this little power trip. Which is a much bigger distraction than anything I was doing." "Listen, son-" "I ain't your son. But play your cards right and you might get to call me Daddy." Dean winked flirtatiously at Steve. Steve continued to glower at the hunter. "You done?" "I'm just beginning." Dean grinned. A look of annoyance flickered across Steve's face, and in Dean's book, any reaction was a victory. After all, he liked the game almost as much as he liked sex. "Talk again and I'm kicking you out." The Avenger said flatly and returned his attention to the crowd. "Sorry about that, folks. Now I believe I was talking about responsibility..." Dean played with the idea of piping up again to see what Cap would do. He didn't doubt the Captain would call him out again, but he found it hard to imagine he'd start a fistfight in the middle of this classroom. To everyone's relief, the elder Winchester remained silent. Steve finished his speech, received a crushing round of applause, and left the room. One of the professors rambled on for a few more moments and excused the class. Dean's outburst quickly became a matter of discussion and gossip. Reception was mixed. It seemed like the majority of those present felt Dean had been unnecessarily obnoxious. But there was particular interest in Dean's unabashed attempt to hit on Steve Rogers. The senior class was pretty much unanimous in their verdict that they would be hot together. Sam spent a solid two hours spinning out over his brother's actions and then continued this at seemingly random intervals for the rest of the evening. He ranted and raved at Dean for his immature and unprofessional behavior. He reminded Dean that they were the oldest students here and insisted they should be mature. Dean remind Sam he never wanted to come here in the first place, and argued he thought the entire concept was stupid. Unlike Dean's new groupies, Sam knew him his whole life. And he realized how much his hardass brother would cheese out over the concept of superheroes. He refused to believe Dean wasn't having the time of his life and it drove him insane that he'd act out like this when they were at the finish line. Over the next few days, Dean kept an eye out for Steve. But Captain America didn't show his face at any other graduation week activities. This was of course a massive disappointment. Dean took a further blow to his ego when he attempted to call Natasha for another booty call, and she allowed it to go voicemail. Dean kept that occurrence to himself. However, somehow the vast majority of the student body came to learn that Dean had bedded a second Avenger. *** Senior week was drawing to a close and only one event remained before the cadets received offers: the Fourth of July barbecue. It was a relatively modest affair hosted on The Academy's private beach. As the Winchesters arrived, the party was already in full swing. Sam was apparelled in a modest pair of swim trunks and a baggy T-shirt. Dean had hopped on the opportunity to slip into a bright red Speedo, which left nothing to the imagination. He coupled this with an unbuttoned Hawaiin shirt. It was hard to believe that a year ago he'd likely have been more covered up than even Sam. As the boys approached, Dean's face lit up. He should've known that Steve would be at a Fourth of July celebration. The Avenger was manning the grill and drinking a beer, in what was perhaps the purest example of Americana imaginable. Steve's beachwear, however, was a letdown. He wore a white tank top that clung to his amazing chest and a pair of... jeans? Even so, Dean was literally licking his lips, "Time to cross another Avenger off my bucket list." It took a minute for Sam to put the pieces together but when he did his body was gripped by terror. "Dean! Do not embarrass us any more than you have." "Lighten up, Sammy. The man beat back an alien invasion in New York. He can handle some light flirting." "You weren't flirting. You were being a jackass." Sam grunted. "Sometimes flirting is about being a jackass," Dean said smugly. At the edge of the beach, a small folding table was set up and manned by Academy staff. Fitz and Simmons were among them. The very second Dean's foot hit the sand the Scottsman's voice called out, "Afternoon, guys." The hunters gave a pilot nod and waved at Fitz and meant to continue on their way. But the agent chased after them. "Dean, Dean" Fitz chirped. "I can't let you on the beach." The Winchesters paused and looked to Fitz. Dean looked particularly confused "Why the hell not." Fitz swallowed "This event is exclusively for graduating cadets." "And..." Dean asked. Fitz sighed. "No one has reached out to you yet?" A peel of laughter escaped Sam's mouth. "You had to go and piss off Captain America. Didn't you!?" Dean's face twisted in outrage. "You're fucking kidding me? You're telling me that he got them to pull me from the program." Dean's head snapped to the side and he realized that Steve was staring directly at him. Dean's blood boiled, and he could swear the other man was smirking. Sam balled his fist in rage and looked at Fitz. "You know Dean thought he was flirting. Flirting!" "With Captain America." Fitz mumbled "The man's made of granite. Hot granite but... granite." Dean wasn't listening to the exchange. He was too busy fuming. "He can't do this. I was hand-picked by Nick Fury. I was recruited to help lead a new division of SHIELD." Cap set down his tongs and relinquished the grill. He slowly mosied over to the group silently enjoying the elder Winchester's meltdown. Fitz shrugged. "I don't make the calls. But he's Captain America." Dean gestured to the approaching Avenger. "He's wearing jeans on a beach! You're going to trust the word of a man who wears jeans on a beach before me?!" Cap slowed to a stop before the trio. Dean locked on and charged towards him. "You got me kicked out of The Academy because I talked in one lecture?! You petty, insecure asshole." 
 Cap took the insults, as any expected he would, with a calm dignified air. He was a marked counterpoint to Dean's frenetic energy. "You're not ready to graduate." "Not ready?" Dean spat back at him. "I have been fighting since I was four years old. I outshot half of my instructors on the range. I have survived situations that these kids couldn't dream of. And have mentioned of the two of us here only one of us successfully killed Hitler." Steve nodded in agreement. Then said, "You don't follow orders, Dean." Dean let out a warm breath, his frenzied outrage becoming usurped by cold anger. He straightened his spine and looked the other man dead in the eye. "No. I don't." "SHIELD is a military organization. You need to follow orders." Steve said simply. Dean shook his head, "You know what? Fuck it. We don't need you. You asked us to be here. We're doing fine on our own." Dean turned to leave, but Sam shot a pleading look at Steve. "There must be some way to work this out. We could do so much good here." "No one is pulling your offer, Sam," Cap replied. That really got under Dean's skin. The idea that this man would try to play Sam against him. He whipped around and glared at Cap. "Fuck you." "Dean, calm down." An exhausted Sam said. Hurt flashed on Dean's face as he realized that Sam intended to stay, with or without him. Of course, he did. Sam gave Cap a wide-eyed look. "Sir, is there some way for Dean to convince you?" "Well, he could apologize for his outburst." Steve shrugged. Dean gritted his teeth together. There would be no apology. "Or he could follow me." Steve continued. With those words, Steve Rogers began jogging off down the beach. Dean looked back over at Sam who mouthed a simple "please." He hesitated a moment, then he took off after Steve. *** "Let me be clear about this," Steve said as he jogged along the beach. "You can apologize at any point and we'll turn around." "Save it." Dean snarled as he sprinted after the superhero. He may not have government-funded steroids like Steve, but he was burning through a deep well of pure rage. Rage at Steve for trying to pull this shit. Rage at Sam for not immediately walking away with him. Rage at himself for letting Sam pull him back. Dean's feet crashed into the sand as he closed the distance between Steve and himself, gaining ground until he was running beside the Avenger. Steve, casually flew along the shore in his jeans. Without the slightest sign of struggle to him, he let his eyes drift to the side now and then to check on Dean. "You don't have to keep up with me you know. This is going to take a while." Dean remained silent. It was a matter of pride not one of reason. He would not let this man get the better of him. He would not break. To his credit, Dean did a very impressive job of keeping pace with Steve for about a mile. But eventually, his thighs started to burn. There wasn't a single bead of sweat on Cap's forehead. He hadn't broken his stride once and Dean was forced to acknowledge some of the physical realities he was up against. Dean glanced back over his shoulder. They were far enough from the rest of the campus to ensure no one would see them. That would at least help Dean coddle his pride a bit as he started to slow. Steve kept his gaze ahead and called out simply, "Ready to apologize." "Nothing to apologize for." Dean bit back with all the smarm he could force into his voice. Steve returned to his silence and Dean ran at his heels. He'd be lying if he didn't admit to admiring the view. As infuriating as Cap had turned out to be he had a set of cakes like none other. Those two fat juicy globes of muscle rose and fell with each step he took. And watching that could easily have been enough reward to motivate Dean alone. "When I was a kid, I never thought I'd be anyone special," Steve spoke up, neither slowing nor turning to face Dean. "I was scared and I was weak and that didn't bother me. It felt right." Dean clenched his jaw, trying to ignore whatever Steve was saying and focus on the crashing of the waves. But Cap's voice was deep and alluring. "I didn't care about myself but that didn't mean I didn't care. I cared a hell of a lot about the world around me. I figured if I was so unimportant I'd put my life towards helping people who matter. Then something strange happened... someone decided I was going to be important." Cap slowed to a halt and turned to face Dean. The hunter had fallen more than a few paces behind and was starting to breathe a bit heavier. He dropped his arms to his side and let his sprint slow to a meander. Steve watched him with a kind of knowing expression, his eyes big and blue and sympathetic as they found Dean's. Steve continued, "You live your life content to be rank and file, and then outta the blue, you learn you have a destiny... that kinda whiplash can really mess with a guy." "I know what you're doing..." Dean panted. "Of course you do." Steve nodded "You're smart Dean. You're compassionate. You're loyal. You're brave. And you got grit, the real fight until you your dying breath kinda grit." Steve's eyes flit over Dean analytically. "We got a lot in common you and I." Having finally, caught up to Steve, Dean planted his feet in the sand. "So you read my file." Steve nodded. "I looked at it all. Pscyhe eval, history. Hell, I even thumbed through that book series God wrote about you." "Seems a bit overkill for a guy who talked during class." Dean grinned. He knew that he'd gotten to the guy but it seems Steve had been thinking about him A LOT. Steve just laughed. "This isn't because of the speech. It was because you fucked my boyfriend." Dean was so shocked by hearing Captain America say `fuck' that he didn't even register the intent of the statement. He wobbled back on his heels. "Did you just curse?" Steve's knowing smirk grew wider, "You're really surprised that an army man knows a few four-letter words? I take being a role model seriously. But we're all alone and I get the sense you can handle some honesty." Dean's mind finally started unpacking the rest of that statement. "And you said boyfriend? As in a guy? As in-" "I'm bisexual." Steve said firmly, "Glad people got hip to that since my day. Though the barracks were plenty busy even in the sixties." Dean shook his head. "But... I fucked your boyfriend? When did I..." "I can't blame you, Dean. After all, you couldn't be expected to ` turn down a slutty blonde with a huge rack'." Dean's eyes went wide. "Thor!?" Steve answered with a solemn nod. "Thor and you are?" Steve nodded again. "You and Thor?" "Like bunnies," Steve said, quietly enjoying the few as Dean's bratty know-it-all exterior dissolved before his very eyes. Dean tried to wrap his head around the thought of Steve and Thor getting hot and heavy together. "But he said he'd never had gay sex before." "He'd never been fucked before." Steve corrected. He watched Dean's eyes light up with hope. "So does that mean you're a bottom?" Dean asked chewing his lower lip. Steve let out a deep laugh. "I bottom for Thor for the same reason I wear jeans on the beach." As Steve spoke his hands moved to the base of his shirt. He peeled the tank off his body to reveal his chiseled torso. Slack-jawed Dean watched, managing only to drool on himself a little. He didn't figure out why Steve was disrobing until Cap tossed his shirt on the sand. It landed next to a sign that declared they were now entering a nude beach. Dean stammered out "What?" "My cock is too big," Steve said bluntly. The zipper of his jeans and out flopped Steve Rogers' penis. Even completely soft the super soldier's manhood rivaled that of the gods'. Steve was about a foot long and thick as a beer can. And as he shimmied out of those jeans he revealed a set of balls that were roughly the size of kiwis. For all his charm and witty banter, all Dean could do was stand and stare. Steve savored the silence and enjoyed the look on the other man's face. "You see the problem? It takes someone very skilled with an absurdly large ego to handle something like this." Steve grabbed his massive manhood and squeezed it. "I'm talking about a person who thinks they're stronger than a god." There was a hunger in Dean's eyes as he stared at Steve's package. He had never seen a dick that big in his life. Steve may be the most hung man in history. Dean couldn't imagine how that would feel... but he also suspected he may not have to wonder. "I knew you were flirting with me." Steve sighed heavily. "Oh, Dean. You have so much to learn still. Lose the clothes and get moving." Steve took off running once more, but now he was moving backward so he was still facing Dean. Steve's obnoxiously long cock slapped against his legs and his heaven-sent pecs bounced with each step. Dean frantically clawed his clothes off and took off after him. Hope you enjoyed it! I always welcome any feedback, suggestions, or questions at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Hopefully, it won't take me as long to write the next installment. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/dean-does-the-avengers/dean-does-the-avengers-3

Date: Wed, 12 Jul 2023 02:04:24 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa <fanboi214@yahoo.com> Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 3 This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. As always any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Chapter 3 "Trouble is a Man" Pandemonium would be too harsh a word for what unfolded in the wake of Thor's thunderous orgasm. The SHIELD agents were highly trained and moving with purpose. At the very least Fury was commanding where they went. Most were being directed towards the door, either to seal it off or as to act as some sort of makeshift human barrier. Dean wasn't tuned into their shouting but he was able to pick up bits of the exchange here and there. From what he gleaned the exterior door refused to engage its lock, something about the fancy schmancy security system needing time to fully reboot after a hard reset. Fury was not happy about this and it seemed, at least for now, to be monopolizing his attention. Thor lay spread out on the ground, oblivious in the afterglow of his fucking. Dean stood over his body, naked, hard and struggling to evaluate his current situation. "Dean," Castiel's gravely voice cut through the noise, laden with concern. The angel rushed forward, clapping a hand down on Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay? What happened was very... peculiar." Dean's eyes flitted over his friend, who wore his rumpled trench coat and some very sodden slacks. An embarrassingly large stain spread out from Cas's crouch and down his left leg. "Cas, bud. Please tell me this wasn't your first time." Castiel continued to stare at Dean, bewilderment on his face. "Dean your question doesn't make sense. Time can't be `mine.' A being can't posses it." Dean sighed. He was even more convince that this was first time Castiel even orgasmed since possessing his vessel years ago. Dean unknowingly nibbled his bottom lips, noticing that Cas's eyes were somehow shimmering a more crystal blue than ever before. "Mr. Winchester, we should get you to a secure area." Coulson mumbled emerging from the scrum of SHIELD agents. The twist of a smile played on Dean's lips as he noticed he'd somehow graduated from `Dean' to `Mr. Winchester.' Dean pivoted away from both men. He shouted towards the sky, "Sammy! Why am I still horny?" "I'm still researching, Dean!" An annoyed and exhausted Sam responded. "Shouldn't that have broken the spell?" "Did you lay with all the gods who were present when you read the spell." "I have to fuck both of them?" "If you want it to run its course." Sam snapped "Or you can leave me alone and I can get back to my books." Fury emerged from the group of agents in the back left of the room. "Alright listen up, people! In his... excitement, Thor fried the power inhibitor that was keeping Loki in check. And it looks like it's down for the count." An identical version of Fury marched forward from the front right wall, " Look alive people, Loki's power inhibitor is down and it's going to take at least and hour to get it back on..." Fury's final syllables petered out he laid eyes on his mirror self. "Oh, you think you're clever." Fury barked, "Don't just stand there. Guns up." He ordered pointing at his doppelgänger. "Honestly?" Fury grumbled "That's clearly Loki, you idiots." Many of the SHIELD agents shifted their focus, though just as many remained pointed at this second Fury. "Unless of course, I'm Loki." A third Fury stepped out of the shadows in the far right corner and that is when the real nerves seemed to set in. Before the crowd even had time to think about how they should react a fourth "Fury" emerged continuing, "The point is I need all you fine agents to be on guard because nothing you see can be trusted. No one can be trusted." The commotion proved to be enough to distract from Dean, something that moments ago seemed impossible. But now no one noticed as the hunter's body bristled as he felt pressure skittering along his shoulders. A knowing smile on his face. "The safe word is `Impala.'" Dean whispered. "What?" Cas asked. "I'm not talking to you, bud." Dean commented offhandedly. He turned and calmly walked back into Loki's empty cell. Once Dean reached the center of the space he spun to face the room and snapped his finger. "Loki. Here. Now." The god of mischief appeared on command, grinning from ear to ear. He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he sized up Dean. "Well someone is eager to fuck." Loki was in all his naked glory, his form long and lithe. His body much more modest than his brother's but still quite enticing. His musculature was pronounced and the sharp angles of his pretty face managed to make him look cagey. His cock jutted out, unmistakable and conspicuously about a half inch longer than Thor's. A `fact' that made Dean roll his eyes. "Yeah, you." Dean said cooly as Loki swept around him in a long slow circle. "But you're going to have to wait until the door locks again." By this point a handful of agents noticed what was happening in the cage, their attention gradually pulling away from the multiple Furies arguing. "Dean, Dean, Dean, there's no reason we can't both pop away and have our fun once we're out of this place." Loki cooed. "You're going to stay here because I said so." Dean gritted coldly as Loki landed in front of him. Dean's face was hard, his eyes unforgiving. His rigid posture retaining all the power and influence he had while fucking Thor. There was nary a trace of the levity and camaraderie the hunter had when initially connecting to the other god. "You're gonna stand in your cell like the pathetic cock hungry bitch you are. Then once Fury has this place back on line I'm going to fuck that scrawny ass of yours into the ground, leave you wet and broken on the floor, so your cum drenched body can be thrown into an Asgardian prison for all eternity." Dean watched Loki's cock jump as his mind wrapped around the full depth and harshness of the hunter's words. Dean knew he was on the right track. Three of the four Furies evaporated and the agents began to gravitate towards the show in Loki's cell. The god of mischief let out a laugh in a bit of force showmanship. "Listen here, mortal. Do not think simply because my brother was so easily cowed that I will-" "Kneel." Dean cut in. Loki dropped to his knees, whatever remained of his sentence swallowed by the air. It had not been Loki's intention to obey. It was as if the hunters words had nailed him in his shins and took Loki's legs out from beneath him. His eyes widened as his face was overtaken by a deep shock and the slightest hint of fear. He felt the eyes of the human staring down at him, and Loki and felt hollow to his core. Dean was smirking. Loki knew that look. Loki wore that look. It was pompous and victorious; unforgiving and loud. It was a look of victory and ownership. Worst and best yet... it was earned. The agents had now fully encircled Loki's pen and he had no chance to hide himself. Dean watched that realization dawn on him as the god's eyes managed to slide off the hunter and onto the crowd of snickering agents. He's certain they were all internally laughing at him while secretly wishing to switch spots with him. Loki silently cursed the onlookers he was spellbound what excuse did the humans have? "Fury! How long do you need?" Dean shouted without lifting his eyes from Loki, who was by now hobbling back to his feet. "Twenty minutes for the exterior door." Fury barked. Loki's legs unsteady as a newborn deer, he attempted to steel himself. Mustering up some puff of menace he glared at Dean with a snarl. "Don't act as if you are not yearning for me, human." "Of course I do because of your little spell." Dean said smoothly. "Which is sad by the way. Thor and I, we got caught up in this. But you engineered a situation where you'd be desperate and horny in front of all of these people." "You know this didn't go according to plan," Loki gritted. Dean chuckled smugly taking a step towards the god. "Funny how that keeps happening. You're a smart guy, Loki." Dean mused, moving even closer. "Yet time after time your schemes blow up in the most public way. And I know why." Dean was just inches from the villain at this point. Their eyes met for a beat and then the hunter leaned in, "You get off on being humiliated." Loki's entire body ached, his mind reeled. He didn't know why he was standing still, why his body wanted so sorely to melt. It wasn't fair, Dean had got off moments ago. But Loki had been in the mounting throes of lust for hours now with no relief or outlet in sight. Dean's beauty was so immense, so awe inspiring that Loki could barely focus on the words spilling from his mouth. A voice in the back of the god's head prodded him to simply let go, surrender and agree. And as Dean neared him, Loki had been ready to hand himself over, to become putty in the mortals hands. His muscles tightened his lips puckered in anticipation of the epic kiss that had humbled his brother. But Dean didn't kiss him, didn't even touch him, he just let his cruel whisper fall hot on Loki's skin. The words slow to solidify in Loki's mind as Dean pulled back laughing. The fucker was laughing. "You didn't realize, did you?" Dean continued. Loki had never considered that his many failures in life had been by his own design. The suggestion seemed absurd but the only way to argue against it was to preach his ineptitude. He felt an annoyance boiling up in him as he stared at Dean's precious face. Sure Loki's yen for mischief was driven by the thrill it brought him. And sure the more grand, the more public, the riskier the endeavor, the greater the thrill he got. But Loki didn't enjoy the punishment. He courted it but it was a side effect not the goal. Right? Even now knowing that all these eyes were upon him in this confused, pliant, state he could disappear. He could make them see anything but he was letting them see this. Dean had kept his gaze on Loki but managed to put more than a few paces back between them. The supervillain was a tricky one and Dean was ready for any reaction, but his gut told him he was playing this one right. And there was a deep satisfaction to it. Loki is after all was the one that did this to him. So to see him helpless and scrambling that made Dean's chest swell. "It's okay. You don't have to admit it. I know pretending is part of the kink." "Human you are out of your depths." Loki snarled, an anger flashing in his eyes. "You know not the power with which you trifle you up-jumped maggot. You are no more than a dust mote in the span of my eternal glory." "Gonna have to disagree with you. See you don't seem to realize the man you chose to play your little game with." Dean bit back, still unruffled. "I've seen more in my `puny mortal life' than you could comprehend. I've traveled through time. I've survived heaven, hell, purgatory and everything in between. I've visited alternate universe. I've withstood the fury of archangels. I've gone toe to toe with Lucifer and ganked the mother of all monster. Hell, I had deep dish with Death himself... and then I killed him. I am Dean fucking Winchester and you little boy should bow at my feet for the mayhem and mischief I've caused is something you could only dream of." "The fuck?" Fury whispered somewhere outside the cage. "It's all true." Coulson whispered back. "Where did we find these people?" He opined. Back in the cage, Loki lunged forward with a finger pointing accusatorially. "You are nothing, a mortal who got pulled into a game of fate by chance. There is nothing special of you, Dean. You were meant to be nothing more than Michael's vessel. You are simply-" "A body." Dean cut in. "My body. This body." He gestured to his magnificent form, "Is the sword of the archangel Michael. My body is a weapon, a weapon crafted to tear the very Earth asunder. The heavens themself spent millennia, nudging fate and manipulating the strands of reality all so that I might exist." Dean thundered in a voice quiet yet commanding. Loki had stopped his forward advances, his hand falling limp at his side. Dean continued his speech, "And you, Loki, revved me up. Because somewhere in the corner of that sorry beta brain of yours you wanted to feel the full force of that cosmic might fall upon you. And trust me you're going to." Loki swallowed, a quiver in his voice, "My unquenchable desire for you is merely the spell--" Dean let a hand lazily swing down in front of Loki and the tip of the god's straining cocked glitched as Dean's fingers slipped clear through it. "All that power and you're using it to pretend your cock is bigger than your bro's. Pathetic." Dean tisked. "Drop the act." Suddenly Loki's foot long raging erection dropped down to a still quite respectable ten inches. "Loki." Dean said sternly and like that his cock was suddenly only seven inches long. Loki let his eyes drift from Dean. He could see people in the crowd suppressing their giggles, mocking him for his vanity. "Keep going." Dean commanded. Loki's eyes flew back towards Dean. A panic in his tone as he cawed "But this one is real." "I don't care." Dean smiled. Loki summoned up his strengthen and said icily "And if I just ignore your orders?" "Then we never fuck." Dean replied. "You are in this just as much as I am. The spell-" Loki began But Dean again cut it. "Will be broken. There's alway a way and I can hold my own until Sammy finds it. Then you will live the rest of your eternal life knowing your one chance at this is gone." Loki sneers, cheating out almost more to the crowd than to Dean "I loathe you. And I will indulge you simply because the prayer is irrevocable and I wish to waste no more time on this madness." "Sure." Dean said sarcastically. He let his hand fall on Loki's shoulder and leaned in. "You remember the safe word, right?" Dean pulled back, his eyes glimmering with delightful mischief still. Loki didn't know what to make of the exchange, it felt somehow intimate and private. And the god did indeed remember the word Dean uttered before they began this little dance. Would he honor it? Would saying it be some sort of surrender. Loki rolled it over in his mind for a long beat. Then the god's penis shrunk another inch. "Smaller." Dean pushed on ruthlessly. Loki complied immediately this time, his penis shrunk drastically to only about three inches. "Good boy. Now turn and show all these nice people what a sad, tiny dicked excuse for a man you are." Loki opened his mouth to offer up some biting retort but the words dried up in his throat. It was useless. Anything he hurled at Dean would be sent right back at him. There was exactly one thing he could say, one word to stop this derision dead in its track. One word he refused to say. Loki was sorely feeling his new diminished capacity. Loki knew his powers lay in illusion, yet somehow after that humiliation he truly felt smaller. "Do we really need to do this?" Loki huffed. "No. But we're gonna. So get to stepping." Dean said sharply. Loki turned outward to face the massive crowd of agents, and watched as they guffawed at his subservience. Any fear he had instill in them had long since died. He went from being the greatest threat this planet had known to a joke. And Dean continued to prattle away beside him, "You know I gotta say I'm pretty disappointed. After all heard about the battle of New York I was expecting you to be a formidable foe. I mean how could it take seven heroes to stop such a weak boy? I've got you completely whipped in hours and all it took was my cock." Strangled laughs were escaping from the crowd and Loki felt a blush come to his face. He's almost certain the twig between his legs hopped in excitement and his stomach churned at the realization. Several SHIELD agents were now openly laughing. Loki watched the tension escape from their bodies, their fear evaporating. Fury noticed too. "Stay on guard, people! For all you know Loki's still lurking around and this whole perverted show is an illusion." "Oh I can prove that he's flesh and blood, Nicky." Dean "Nicky?" Fury groused. But Dean plowed on through. "Hands against the glass. Ass out." Loki's heart skipped a beat. Dean's request, Dean's order, could me only one thing. But not even the Winchester would be so bold. Loki felt himself complying, his body moving on autopilot. He pressed his hands to the plexiglass, lowered his forehead to the barrier, and stuck his butt out. In this position Loki had lost sight of the hunter, and he suddenly felt very alone. Here he was pressed to the glass with no choice but watch the armed guards who giddily awaiting his downfall. He could feel their eyes crawling on his skin. Loki's instinct was to cover himself, to lift the illusion on his genitals to simply disappear. But he knew Dean would never allow that. Wait, Dean would never allow that.... Loki was the god here. He was- "Don't even think about it." Dean's voice gruffed behind him and Loki's soul almost leapt from his body. Who was this man!? Was he truly that in Loki's head now? Had he owned him so completely? And why did Loki find succor in that. Dean's eyes swept the crowd easily picking out the giant Norse Avenger. Thor was back on his feet and clothed. He seemed to be mostly recovered from his encounter with Dean and was back to his more regal state, even if luminous hair was a bit matted. The god's eyes were squarely on the hunter. "Thor," Dean called out "Remember what we said about brothers watching brothers?" "I will guard the door." Thor volunteered dutifully. He turned his back to the display and centered his focus on the doorway. "Thanks, big guy. Sammy?!" Dean called out. "Ummm, he took a bunch of book and left a while ago," Fitz's voice came over the loudspeaker. Dean shrugged "Probably for the best." The whole time Loki felt his anxiety building. Here he was waiting to be punished, silently, patiently. Dean was chatting up randos, moving people and pieces around to his whim. The way they all listened and Dean relied on nothing more than his word. Loki would be baffled if he didn't understand so intimately. Obeying Dean was pleasure. It was an ease, an unburdening of the mind. Somehow he felt that he could trust this mortal, this man who saw through him so easily. He need only surrender himself and Dean would steer Loki where he needed to be. Loki knew he could escape. Even if he was still subject to this miserable curse he placed on himself. He could double back, find Dean later. But it'd be useless. Dean would wait for him here. And Loki would return to find him like the desperate whore he was. A bitterness grew in him at being neglected even in his own degradation, "Savor these moments, child. I'm only going along with this nonsense because of the spell that afflicts me." Dean's hand landed hard on Loki's ass, the crack of the blow echoing in the room. The force of the swing propelled Loki's body forward, his torso brushing up against the glass momentarily because settling back to its starting spot. In that one blow Loki felt his entire body go numb, well his whole body save his right ass cheek. The sweet sting of Dean's palm lingered against Loki's skin. It wasn't the force of the blow but the audacity of it, the authority of it. Loki could almost feel the blood in his body pulsing stronger, faster, eagerly rushing to the area grazed by the Winchester's touch, to illuminate the target and beg for further repercussions. "Lie to me and you get it again, bitch." Dean's voice boomed in Loki's ear. He couldn't see the hunter but in his mind he'd grown six feet and was looming above him with a sexy menace about him. "I am not a bitch-" THWACK! Dean's hand landed on his left cheek, mirroring the first blow. Loki was taken off guard by that hit. But it thrilled him. "And I wasn't lying." WHAM! A third blow landed squarely on Loki's ass and it became undeniable. Dean was spanking a god. Literally. Each slap seemed to muster just a little more force than its predecessor, as if the hunter was finding his groove in all this. But he felt so natural to Loki. The whole absurd tableaux felt correct to him. "You'll regret this, Dean!" WHACK! "Once this is done I will make sure you pay" WHACK! "I will destroy you" WHACK! Loki had this nightmare many times, or some version of it. For years he was haunted by the image of him standing in the biggest meeting hall in Valhalla naked before everyone who had known him. The hand that punished him wasn't a constant. And it certainly had never been Dean Winchester. Though it would be now. In every wet dream and fantasy to come it would be Dean's hand. It only made sense that a random mortal would the one who exposed Loki for the broken, whiny, restless child he was. "I wish I'd never planted that damned spell," Loki whimpered, the bite long gone from his voice. Dean landed the slap that followed with an extra bit of oomph. The hunter had to admit this was harder for him to slip into this role, than his encounter with Thor. That fucking had been driven by an almost carnal lust, a need for Thor. This dance was ironically lead by Loki. It had been about corralling him, controlling him. And that had proved incredibly easy as it became very apparent to Dean that Loki craved control. The hunter had been a little hesitant, especially with the god's dishonest protestations. But the more he understood Loki's actual desires, his actual requests the more natural it became. In fact, Loki's denials even began to grate on Dean. His futile lies and refusals to just admit who he was, what he wanted plucked at a cord fanned a flame of frustration deep in the mortal. Why couldn't he just admit it? Who he was, that he had wanted all this for so long? Why make Dean play these games. Dean's jaw set, he's teeth grinding into each other. His own body began to reflect the physical toll of bringing the God to task. A crest of sweat formed along Dean's forehead. And the swing of his arm sent one droplet after the next gliding down high cheeks, over his chiseled jaw. Flecks of water falling onto his flexed chest only to be urged on by the way his pectorals bulged with each swing. Dean's biceps burned and bulged, veins all over his body pushing their way to the surface. A fire burned in his eyes. With every passing second Loki became more and more alluring. Each time Dean's hand collided with Norseman's butt the god let out an adorable gasp. Unlike Thor's mewling, Loki's whines were a mix of pain and shame gliding on the heels of pleasure. Each squeal was a plea for more. And how those pleas tickled Dean, the sounds skimming on his skin. Dean was swimming in Loki's resplendent agony. After Dean landed the next blow he grunted, "You like that, huh?" "No." Loki moaned knowing it would bring him another savage blow and it did. The god could feel the hunter's frustration in his hand. "Don't lie to me, bitch." Dean snarled. For someone who was relatively rail thin, Loki did have a pert ass. The lily white flesh had begun show signs of wear so early. Loki's royal skin was so thin. Loki had endured so little in his life. He was nothing but a spoiled brat spending eons in search of a true alpha and never finding it. Never until now. "This is hell." Loki grumbled. WHACK! "Your teeny-tiny cock is leaking." Dean said. "No. It's not." Loki said breathless. WHACK! "Yes it is." Dean insisted. And boy was Loki's cock leaking. The nub between Loki's thighs was dripping strings of precum onto the floor below. Each slap sending little beads onto the glass. Dean let out an amused sigh and said, "You're going to come." "No, I'm not." WHACK! "I don't even need to fuck you." "I'm not getting off on this." WHACK! "I'm gonna slap the cum right out of you." Dean mused. "No!" Loki screamed. Yet as he did he felt, his body rocked by the orgasm and he coated the front of the case with semen. "Hey, Fitz! Does the curse end if the god in question is such a sorry useless whore that he finishes before the fucking even starts." Dean shouted. "Umm... no." Fitz's voice again rang out from above. "How much longer for the door?" Dean asked. "Only a few minutes." The other man answered. Loki's body was trembling, his ass was red and raw. He muttered, "I didn't cum. I didn't-" Dean hand fell on him and he let out a yelp, loud and sharp unlike any that had come before. Dean's hand fell on the small of his back, not as a paddle but out of precaution. "Loki, is there anything you want to say?" Dean's voice was a hushed whisper. He was close now, Loki felt Dean's body against him. Dean was asking for the safe word. He was trying to figure if he'd pushed too far, if Loki wanted this to stop. But Loki never wanted this to stop. "I didn't come." There was another heavy THWACK on Loki's ass. "You are an insatiable little slut." Dean said amused. "No. I'm a tyrant!" THWACK! "I'm strong." THWACK! "I'm intimidating." THWACK! "I'm a supervillain." THWACK! "I will conquering this realm." THWACK! "I will rule with an iron fist." THWACK! The rhythm was so soothing, almost hypnotic. Loki's need only utter some new hollow threat to be rewarded with Dean's strict reprimand. He felt his manhood harden anew as the brute manhandled him with his calloused hands. Dean greedily used Loki as a canvass, a willing and eager victim to channel all his hard earned rage at the world. And he had so much of it, suppressed and bottled away for a lifetime. "You will bow before me one day!" THWACK! Dean was so tired of hearing this same speech. "There is a darkness in me you can't imagine!" THWACK! They were all the same. Every would be ruler and demon. Brittle men too easily rattled. Wounded little children throwing temper tantrums because they were naive enough to think theirs scars made them special. THWACK! They puffed their chests and tore through the world around them carving gashes in real men like Dean. THWACK! Little men, common men who absorbed it all and had the strength to push it down. To keep themselves from insipid monologues and ploys of world domination. THWACK! These villains were a dime a dozen. Each the same, not only as each other but as those they hurt. THWACK! Stupid, THWACK! Selfish, THWACK! Injured, THWACK! Waiting for a wake up call. THWACK! And one way or another Dean loved to be their wake up call. THWACK! Dean had been so lulled by the call and response of it all that he hadn't even heard Loki's last few lies. But for some reason the next one struck him cold, "I deserve better than this." Loki braced himself for the next electric spank on his behind. There was a long pregnant pause, Dean had stopped? Or Dean had decided that wasn't a lie. Dean stayed his hand. He wasn't even entirely sure why. He was enjoying making the god writhe and Loki was lavishing his abuse. Yet somehow validating that sentence felt too far. "You hear me," Loki said his voice rising, "I don't deserve this humiliation." There was still no swat. And Loki was surprised to feel a lump in his throat. He didn't deserve this. Is that what was being said here. What did it even mean? "But do you want this?" Dean's voice crept into Loki's ear. "Of course I don't want this." Dean's hand once again found its mark on Loki's ass. A relieved, breathless whimper escaped from the god of mischief. Perhaps because he was so unprepared for it. Perhaps because he was grateful to be pulled back into the raw sexuality of the moment. But Loki's entire body lurched forward flattening against the plexiglass. Loki spun on his heels so he was now facing Dean. Fuck that man was absolutely gorgeous. He had all the menace and masculinity that Loki so keenly lacked. Dean took a step towards him, close enough for Loki to feel his breath. Loki let out a small dismissive laugh, he was slightly taller than Dean. This was the first he noticed. Dean's lips floated inches from Loki's own. Dean was silent. He was studying Loki. Was he trying to figure Loki's next move? Or did he already know? Dean seemed to keep getting there before him. And now Dean's lips were right there, waiting for him. Loki let his lips drift forward to meet Dean's only for the hunter to pull his head back. Dean's lips curled up in delight. He released a condescending chuckle that was a balm to Loki. "You think you deserve me?" Dean laughed. "No." Loki answered in full earnest. "But I want you. I want to worship you. I want you to make me feel puny and insignificant, slutty and ruined. And I may not deserve to feel those things but I want them. I want to be humiliated and I want you to do it." Loki's eyes were wide and pleading, his backside still fresh with Dean's handprints. Dean had that smug smile which had enraged Loki earlier. The waifish supervillain looked so vulnerable, and Dean knew he held his very soul in his fingers. He could snap him in two, pull him in, leave him shattered and hobbled or turn him into a loyal soldier. Dean's eyes flashed and he growled, "Took you long enough, you micro-dicked slut." Dean's eyes flit downward and Loki crumbled to his knees before him. Loki stared at the fucking log resting between Dean's legs. His balls massive balls swung low and an intoxicating musk wafted out towards the god's nose. He wondered if this was part of the spell or if Dean always smelled so masculine. Loki could feel himself beginning to salivate, he was literally drooling over this man. He pushed forward, greedy and hungry but Dean let his hips sway backwards depriving him of the taste. Instead Dean's dick, slick with his own eagerness slapped Loki along the side of face. Loki let the force of it send his head twisting to the left. The god lazily sloppily attempted to once more take Dean into his mouth but Dean landed against his cheek wet and hard. Dean stared down at the god, he looked almost strung out. Which begged the question how addicted he'd be when the real fun began. Droplets of wet were splattered all around Loki's lips, his eyes unable to focus, and his heart unwilling to stop. Dean allowed his cock to bat around his pathetic disciple absentmindedly. He shouted out towards the crowd, who looked even more scandalized (and dare Dean say turned on) by this dalliance than Dean's previous one. "Fury, am I good to start in on this whiny slut?" Dean asked. "Oh that door sealed like ten minutes ago," Fury replied. With the news, Dean let his right hand crest over the top of Loki's head and through his hair. With the just the slightest bit of pressure Dean rolled Loki's head backward, his mouth bobbing open like a Pez dispenser. Dean's cock landed on Loki's tongue and he sprung to life. He consumed Dean voraciously, immediately. His hands reaching out and grappling onto Dean's hips so he could force that glorious cock down his gagging throat. Dean didn't look down. "Were you gonna tell me?" Dean scoffed out at Fury. "I wasn't gonna try and interrupt whatever the fuck you people are doing. He's in his cage, that's all I give a shit about." Fury replied tersely. Dean redirected his attention to Loki, who was deliriously happy with the scraps he had been allowed. "What do you say we fuck you, so you can spend the rest of your life locked away in prison mentally reliving your domination." Dean grunted. Then something very unexpected happened. It started with Loki's eyes, the pale blue shifted under the light. At first they were almost aquamarine but in no time they were full vibrant green. Inside those eyes a spark of mischief and authority danced. They beckoned up to Dean, challenging him and supplicating to him all at once. They were his eyes. Loki's thin lips began to plump around Dean's aching dick and the hunter realized what was about to happen. Part of him knew he should be concerned that Loki was suddenly acting outside of his own plan. He should be concerned by what it meant. But honestly he was excited by how fucking hot it was to look down and see his face bobbing on his cock. Loki had transformed into a copy of Dean. In simply taking Dean's form Loki's presence had a noticeable shift. Loki slid his head back in one long slow stroke, his tongue dancing across the length of Dean's cock. Once Dean's member popped from his lips, Loki rose up slow and seductive until Dean was level with his clone. "Please," Loki cooed in Dean's own voice "Fuck me hard." Loki leaned forward and this time Dean did not pull away. The two men slid together like perfect puzzle piece. While Loki initiated the kiss it was Dean who was in the driver's seat. The Winchester dove forward, pushing Loki back against the plexiglass and smashing their bodies together. As Dean's tongue ever so skillfully slipped into Loki's mouth the god of mischief realized why this kiss had short circuited his brother. In fact if he wasn't leaning against a wall he may have been on the floor by now. Dean cruelly ended the kiss and whispered, "What's with the makeover? You think I'm some sort of narcissist? I won't degrade you if you wear my face?" "No." Loki said cooly. He let the silence hang for a beat, Dean wondering what Loki meant by that. Luckily this was not the time for introspection or any deep dissection. Loki continued, "I still want you to treat me like the slut that I am." "Like I need your permission, you worthless whore." Dean snarled before stealing another intense kiss. Outside the cage, the shift had reenergized the agents. Most were overwhelmed and confused but all were being very attentive. It was Fury who realized it first "It's a shell game." He muttered "Every one of you keep an eye on the real Dean Winchester. Don't let them get mixed up." He ordered. "Not for nothing but he's going to be the one on top." Coulson said dismissively. As if on cue Dean and Loki rolled along the wall to their left... only there was a new set of double Dean's standing where they had been initially. A trick by Loki clearly, but which pair was the genuine article was almost impossible to discern. Let alone which Dean was. This was quickly complicated when yet a third pair rolled along the wall their right. There were now a lot of very naked, very horny Deans slamming into a lot of very naked, very horny Deans. The real Dean, at least for the moment, was too caught up to take note of the shenanigans. He brought his kisses down his doppelgänger's neck, as his left arm slinked around behind him. Loki let out a sharp gasp as Dean's fingers ghosted over his hip. No matter what illusion he cast, Loki's ass was still raw and extremely sensitive to the touch. "You think that's bad wait till I drive my cock into it." Dean growled. "I long for the sting." Loki replied. "Spread your legs, slut. It is what you're good for." Dean instructed and Loki widened his stance as best he could, wincing in the process. Dean was unforgiving of the god's pain, his right hand hurried up Loki's inner thigh. He jabbed two fingers straight into Loki and watched the pain flick over Loki's face, his face. Loki let out an adorable whine, his face scrunching up. "You know the safe word still works," Dean reminded him. "I want this." Loki rasped "You taught me that." For all his physical fragility Loki's powers were in full force. The very impressive glamour over himself was a drop in the bucket. At this point the number of "Deans" in the cage had ballooned. There were two Deans sixty-nining in one corner, two Deans double penetrating another Dean behind them, and pairs and pairs of Deans comprising every sex pose imaginable. By now the true Dean had noticed the illusions, "Not that I don't enjoy the show. Kinda insulted you're not focusing on me." "Sorry, part of an escape plan." Loki let out a sharp yowl as Dean's finger dug into him. "You can't think it's going to work." Dean replied. "Probably not, but it's fun to try." Loki weighed Dean over for a beat, "You are nicer to me now that I'm in your face. I was kinda expecting the opposite." Dean's eyes narrowed and he pulled his hand from Loki. "Turn around." Dean ordered and Loki complied. A little swagger was just beginning to find its way into Loki's presence when his face was smashed up against the glass. Dean drove into him fiercely. Loki let out a scream so loud that it drew the attention of every last agent in the room, at least for an instant his decoys became pointless. Luckily for him, the outburst didn't necessarily prove he was corporeal. The scream only excited Dean who thrust harder, faster. The pain rose in Loki, acute. For half a moment he thought he might be at his limit. The magic word was on his tongue, but when tears formed in the corner of his eyes the word dissolved. There was an unexpected, unspeakable invigoration to the warm wetness creeping down his cheeks. "Don't just stand there, men. I wanna see cocks in your hand this instant!" Dean's voice boomed from the crowd. Before Agent Grant Ward even processed what was happening his hand was in his pants, fishing around for his dick. He wasn't alone either. The men on either side of him were doing the same. Though while they followed through with the order Ward craned around to see another one of Loki's projections. This one out in the crowd. "Are you defying a direct order, soldier." This Dean barked at Ward. Ward surveyed the room... it was happening everywhere. Loki was creating Deans throughout the crowd to shameless seduce everyone in sight. "He is trying to distract you!" Fury's voice rang out. "Fuck me harder, Dean! You sexy, sexy, sexy man. It's a privilege to survey you and Lord Loki." Fury's voice came from the doorway. Fury knew what he was about to see, but he had to check. Sure enough a projection of him was being Eiffel towered by Dean and Loki. Okay, that wasn't exactly what he expected but it was in the ballpark. The true Fury soldiered on with his orders, "Whatever Loki is throwing at you, ignore it." Coulson moved to his boss's side lending his support. "We're professionals here people. Eyes on the cell. Eyes on the real Loki." A version of Dean in a full Captain America outfit appeared between Coulson and the cage. "Oh but, Phil, it can be oh so fun to be distracted." Coulson took one step forward walking right throw the rather fetching illusion. "You're hurting my feelings, Phil." Cap/Dean pouted. Dean had to admit he was... amused by the chaos. But he hadn't lost track of what was supposed to be happening here. "Loki," Dean growled in Loki's ear. The way they were fucking gave Dean a full view of the room "What's this?" "I want to see them at their most base. I want to snicker and laugh at their depravity like they laughed at me." Loki cooed. "You silly little slut, you wanted to be humiliated." Dean replied. "They want it to. I've seen the way they've watched you, it's far more than duty." Loki moaned as Dean drove into him. "Don't lie to me. This is part of some play." Dean place his hand atop Loki's, their fingers interlacing. After his next thrust he held close to Loki, grinding up against the man's battered flesh, sending the most glorious pain radiating out through Loki's body. There was a soft squish as Loki's leg slid over a gooey stain on the cell wall. Dean scoffed, "You already came didn't you." Loki let his head roll back onto Dean's shoulder as best he could. "Almost as soon as you entered me." Loki whimpered "God, you are pathetic," Dean laughed. "You're amazing." Loki moaned, "I mean look what you're doing to all men and women out there, and they're not even spellbound." "I'm not the one doing that." Dean growled. "You could be," Loki retorted. It threw Dean. His flashy disciplinary persona faltering as he studied the trickster. What was this. "You helped me see myself, who I was, what I want, Dean. It only felt fair I do the same." Loki tried to plant a kiss on Dean but wound up smooching his jawline. Something deep in Dean's gut told him whatever game Loki was playing there was something genuinely sweet in this moment. But all moments are fleeting. The room sure was a sight to behold. Dean was out there in so many different ways and the agents, men and women, were almost to a person eating it up. The strongest remained stone face but the majority were visibly struggling to ignore their tempters. Still a small handful were fully embracing the illusion. Thor had out and out dropped to his knees and was kissing the ground before a particularly bulked up version of Dean. The hunter had to admit there was something exhilarating about this. This day had surely awoken some sense of power in him that had always tread below the surface. Then Dean noticed one of his clones strolling over to Castiel. "Get rid of them." Dean ordered Loki. "Don't try to tell me this isn't fun-" "Get. Rid. Of. Them." Dean's voice rose with anger. Dean punctuated each word with a thrust. And with each thrust the `Deans' started to flicker. But on the final word the projections all shattered to oblivion as Loki lost all focus. Dean was in his final rut and the god of mischief was riding the high. "You worthless, brat." Dean snarled "You designed another plan to fail? Still?" "Uh huh." Loki mumbled. "No one was ever going to think someone as pathetic as you was me." Dean continued. And Loki's one remaining trick began to fade until all was as it appeared. Loki's form, battered and frail, pressed against the glass. Dean eyes blazed with determination. His fingers tightened on the other man's wrists and Dean unleashed shot after shot of cum into Loki. The god's body trembled, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as Dean filled him. Dean took a step back, allowing his cock to slide from Loki. Without the force of Dean's body on his back Loki simply collapsed onto the ground below him. He lay there in his glorious humiliation, bare and leaking Dean's cum. He was too weak to even stand and lacked the will to do so. "And what did I tell you about your cock?" Dean threw in a passing admonishment, and Loki worked up enough illusion magic to shrink his dick down to a nub. Dean, finally free of the prayer, strode clear out of Loki's cell while the god remained a puddle on the floor. "Well," Dean said looking out among the agents who were a collective array of embarrassed, relieved, and disappointed. "That was fucking weird." "Hold it right there," Fury said with his gun trained on Dean. "You're kidding me." Dean said more put out than anything. Undeterred by Fury's pistol, Dean continued towards the commander. "For all we know you're Loki disguised as Dean and the real Dean is crumpled up in that celll." Dean raised an eyebrow, "Well that's insulting." "He is the real Dean." Castiel cut in. "I kept track of him the entire time." The angel continue, "It was actually quite easy. He was the only one with the Enochian carvings on his ribs." "Oh well if a complete stranger says so." Fury threw off sarcastic. Dean reached out and pulled Nick him down into a shockingly aggressive make out session. Dean's arm snaked around Fury's hips keeping him upright when the Director began to wobble on his feet. When the kiss ended, Fury's expression was genuine surprise. "Damn," Fury responded "He's the real one." Fury turned from Dean and began barking orderers about how and where to ship Loki. Thor rejoined them from his `timeout.' And Dean felt very ready to get out of this damned room. *** The matter with Loki had been settled and Dean had managed to pick up a shower and a few hours of rest. Now full clothed and reunited with Sam, Dean found himself in Fury's office. Fury was seated at his desk and the two Winchesters were opposite of him. Castiel loomed behind them looking all dour and protective. Meanwhile Fury was flanked by Mei, her pokerface not at all affected by the events of the day, and Thor, whose eyes followed Dean like a smitten schoolboy. "So now that the whole Loki issue has been resolved we're free to go, right?" Sam asked, the younger Winchester holding the reins for this conversation. Fury placed the keys to the Impala on the desk before them, and Dean quickly snatched them up. "You can be on your way as soon as we touch down." Fury said with a nod. "Touch down?" Dean said springing to his feet, "Are you saying this whole place is a plane?!" Cas's hand landed on Dean's shoulder and he remembered to suck it up and play it cool far too late. "I'd also like you to have this." Fury said sliding a piece of paper across the table. Sam picked it up, "A phone number?" "I was impressed." Fury said. "Appreciate it, but I don't really swing that way when I'm not under a magical enchantment." Dean snarked. Sam rolled his eyes and let his head fell into his hands. "Really, Dean?" "I'll be happy to take her number though." Dean nodded at Mei, as his showboating intensified. "You're not getting my number." Mei said flatly. "But I will fuck you in the broom closet when we're done here." That last addition seemed to surprised everyone present. But Mei maintained her same stoic posture and expression. Whether it was a joke or an offer remained unclear. "Anyway," Fury said clearing his throat, "Dean I was impressed with how you handled such an unusual situation. You thought on your feet, adapted, and kept control. Since our first encounter with Thor, I've been organizing a branch of SHIELD specifically to deal with mystical threats. Now I'd love to have some specialists on staff-." Dean saw where this was going and he didn't like it, "I'm gonna stop you right there. Me and Sammy like to work on our own terms." "At least hear the man out, Dean." Sam chimed in and Dean's face dropped. Sam was on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed and bushy tailed. He wanted this. "SHIELD has proven to be a valuable ally to the Avengers, our pass cross quite often." Thor chimed in. Dean blinked. Thor also wanted this and for a reason the hunter couldn't quite pin down that made him squirm. In fact just looking at Thor too long made him realize spell or no spell, Thor seemed to be very fucking handsome. "I'm just... not a corporate kinda person." Dean turned and headed for the door. "You gonna be okay with the world ending because you're not corporate." Fury called after him but Dean continued out. Then the thing Dean feared and maybe secretly wished for occurred. Sam came hustling out of the door on his brother's heels. "Dean, I'm joining them." Dean winced, of course Sam was enlisting. This was everything Sammy had ever wished for. This was something respectable, something solid, something as normal as their lives could ever be. And hey `the man' may be uncool but being a spy, maybe even a superhero, that was awesome. Dean turned to face his brother and muttered, "Fuck." They both knew what that meant. Dean Winchester just became part of SHIELD.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Wed, 12 Jul 2023 02:04:24 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa &lt;fanboi214@yahoo.com&gt; Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 3 This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. As always any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Chapter 3 "Trouble is a Man" Pandemonium would be too harsh a word for what unfolded in the wake of Thor's thunderous orgasm. The SHIELD agents were highly trained and moving with purpose. At the very least Fury was commanding where they went. Most were being directed towards the door, either to seal it off or as to act as some sort of makeshift human barrier. Dean wasn't tuned into their shouting but he was able to pick up bits of the exchange here and there. From what he gleaned the exterior door refused to engage its lock, something about the fancy schmancy security system needing time to fully reboot after a hard reset. Fury was not happy about this and it seemed, at least for now, to be monopolizing his attention. Thor lay spread out on the ground, oblivious in the afterglow of his fucking. Dean stood over his body, naked, hard and struggling to evaluate his current situation. "Dean," Castiel's gravely voice cut through the noise, laden with concern. The angel rushed forward, clapping a hand down on Dean's shoulder. "Are you okay? What happened was very... peculiar." Dean's eyes flitted over his friend, who wore his rumpled trench coat and some very sodden slacks. An embarrassingly large stain spread out from Cas's crouch and down his left leg. "Cas, bud. Please tell me this wasn't your first time." Castiel continued to stare at Dean, bewilderment on his face. "Dean your question doesn't make sense. Time can't be `mine.' A being can't posses it." Dean sighed. He was even more convince that this was first time Castiel even orgasmed since possessing his vessel years ago. Dean unknowingly nibbled his bottom lips, noticing that Cas's eyes were somehow shimmering a more crystal blue than ever before. "Mr. Winchester, we should get you to a secure area." Coulson mumbled emerging from the scrum of SHIELD agents. The twist of a smile played on Dean's lips as he noticed he'd somehow graduated from `Dean' to `Mr. Winchester.' Dean pivoted away from both men. He shouted towards the sky, "Sammy! Why am I still horny?" "I'm still researching, Dean!" An annoyed and exhausted Sam responded. "Shouldn't that have broken the spell?" "Did you lay with all the gods who were present when you read the spell." "I have to fuck both of them?" "If you want it to run its course." Sam snapped "Or you can leave me alone and I can get back to my books." Fury emerged from the group of agents in the back left of the room. "Alright listen up, people! In his... excitement, Thor fried the power inhibitor that was keeping Loki in check. And it looks like it's down for the count." An identical version of Fury marched forward from the front right wall, " Look alive people, Loki's power inhibitor is down and it's going to take at least and hour to get it back on..." Fury's final syllables petered out he laid eyes on his mirror self. "Oh, you think you're clever." Fury barked, "Don't just stand there. Guns up." He ordered pointing at his doppelgänger. "Honestly?" Fury grumbled "That's clearly Loki, you idiots." Many of the SHIELD agents shifted their focus, though just as many remained pointed at this second Fury. "Unless of course, I'm Loki." A third Fury stepped out of the shadows in the far right corner and that is when the real nerves seemed to set in. Before the crowd even had time to think about how they should react a fourth "Fury" emerged continuing, "The point is I need all you fine agents to be on guard because nothing you see can be trusted. No one can be trusted." The commotion proved to be enough to distract from Dean, something that moments ago seemed impossible. But now no one noticed as the hunter's body bristled as he felt pressure skittering along his shoulders. A knowing smile on his face. "The safe word is `Impala.'" Dean whispered. "What?" Cas asked. "I'm not talking to you, bud." Dean commented offhandedly. He turned and calmly walked back into Loki's empty cell. Once Dean reached the center of the space he spun to face the room and snapped his finger. "Loki. Here. Now." The god of mischief appeared on command, grinning from ear to ear. He had a conspiratorial glint in his eye as he sized up Dean. "Well someone is eager to fuck." Loki was in all his naked glory, his form long and lithe. His body much more modest than his brother's but still quite enticing. His musculature was pronounced and the sharp angles of his pretty face managed to make him look cagey. His cock jutted out, unmistakable and conspicuously about a half inch longer than Thor's. A `fact' that made Dean roll his eyes. "Yeah, you." Dean said cooly as Loki swept around him in a long slow circle. "But you're going to have to wait until the door locks again." By this point a handful of agents noticed what was happening in the cage, their attention gradually pulling away from the multiple Furies arguing. "Dean, Dean, Dean, there's no reason we can't both pop away and have our fun once we're out of this place." Loki cooed. "You're going to stay here because I said so." Dean gritted coldly as Loki landed in front of him. Dean's face was hard, his eyes unforgiving. His rigid posture retaining all the power and influence he had while fucking Thor. There was nary a trace of the levity and camaraderie the hunter had when initially connecting to the other god. "You're gonna stand in your cell like the pathetic cock hungry bitch you are. Then once Fury has this place back on line I'm going to fuck that scrawny ass of yours into the ground, leave you wet and broken on the floor, so your cum drenched body can be thrown into an Asgardian prison for all eternity." Dean watched Loki's cock jump as his mind wrapped around the full depth and harshness of the hunter's words. Dean knew he was on the right track. Three of the four Furies evaporated and the agents began to gravitate towards the show in Loki's cell. The god of mischief let out a laugh in a bit of force showmanship. "Listen here, mortal. Do not think simply because my brother was so easily cowed that I will-" "Kneel." Dean cut in. Loki dropped to his knees, whatever remained of his sentence swallowed by the air. It had not been Loki's intention to obey. It was as if the hunters words had nailed him in his shins and took Loki's legs out from beneath him. His eyes widened as his face was overtaken by a deep shock and the slightest hint of fear. He felt the eyes of the human staring down at him, and Loki and felt hollow to his core. Dean was smirking. Loki knew that look. Loki wore that look. It was pompous and victorious; unforgiving and loud. It was a look of victory and ownership. Worst and best yet... it was earned. The agents had now fully encircled Loki's pen and he had no chance to hide himself. Dean watched that realization dawn on him as the god's eyes managed to slide off the hunter and onto the crowd of snickering agents. He's certain they were all internally laughing at him while secretly wishing to switch spots with him. Loki silently cursed the onlookers he was spellbound what excuse did the humans have? "Fury! How long do you need?" Dean shouted without lifting his eyes from Loki, who was by now hobbling back to his feet. "Twenty minutes for the exterior door." Fury barked. Loki's legs unsteady as a newborn deer, he attempted to steel himself. Mustering up some puff of menace he glared at Dean with a snarl. "Don't act as if you are not yearning for me, human." "Of course I do because of your little spell." Dean said smoothly. "Which is sad by the way. Thor and I, we got caught up in this. But you engineered a situation where you'd be desperate and horny in front of all of these people." "You know this didn't go according to plan," Loki gritted. Dean chuckled smugly taking a step towards the god. "Funny how that keeps happening. You're a smart guy, Loki." Dean mused, moving even closer. "Yet time after time your schemes blow up in the most public way. And I know why." Dean was just inches from the villain at this point. Their eyes met for a beat and then the hunter leaned in, "You get off on being humiliated." Loki's entire body ached, his mind reeled. He didn't know why he was standing still, why his body wanted so sorely to melt. It wasn't fair, Dean had got off moments ago. But Loki had been in the mounting throes of lust for hours now with no relief or outlet in sight. Dean's beauty was so immense, so awe inspiring that Loki could barely focus on the words spilling from his mouth. A voice in the back of the god's head prodded him to simply let go, surrender and agree. And as Dean neared him, Loki had been ready to hand himself over, to become putty in the mortals hands. His muscles tightened his lips puckered in anticipation of the epic kiss that had humbled his brother. But Dean didn't kiss him, didn't even touch him, he just let his cruel whisper fall hot on Loki's skin. The words slow to solidify in Loki's mind as Dean pulled back laughing. The fucker was laughing. "You didn't realize, did you?" Dean continued. Loki had never considered that his many failures in life had been by his own design. The suggestion seemed absurd but the only way to argue against it was to preach his ineptitude. He felt an annoyance boiling up in him as he stared at Dean's precious face. Sure Loki's yen for mischief was driven by the thrill it brought him. And sure the more grand, the more public, the riskier the endeavor, the greater the thrill he got. But Loki didn't enjoy the punishment. He courted it but it was a side effect not the goal. Right? Even now knowing that all these eyes were upon him in this confused, pliant, state he could disappear. He could make them see anything but he was letting them see this. Dean had kept his gaze on Loki but managed to put more than a few paces back between them. The supervillain was a tricky one and Dean was ready for any reaction, but his gut told him he was playing this one right. And there was a deep satisfaction to it. Loki is after all was the one that did this to him. So to see him helpless and scrambling that made Dean's chest swell. "It's okay. You don't have to admit it. I know pretending is part of the kink." "Human you are out of your depths." Loki snarled, an anger flashing in his eyes. "You know not the power with which you trifle you up-jumped maggot. You are no more than a dust mote in the span of my eternal glory." "Gonna have to disagree with you. See you don't seem to realize the man you chose to play your little game with." Dean bit back, still unruffled. "I've seen more in my `puny mortal life' than you could comprehend. I've traveled through time. I've survived heaven, hell, purgatory and everything in between. I've visited alternate universe. I've withstood the fury of archangels. I've gone toe to toe with Lucifer and ganked the mother of all monster. Hell, I had deep dish with Death himself... and then I killed him. I am Dean fucking Winchester and you little boy should bow at my feet for the mayhem and mischief I've caused is something you could only dream of." "The fuck?" Fury whispered somewhere outside the cage. "It's all true." Coulson whispered back. "Where did we find these people?" He opined. Back in the cage, Loki lunged forward with a finger pointing accusatorially. "You are nothing, a mortal who got pulled into a game of fate by chance. There is nothing special of you, Dean. You were meant to be nothing more than Michael's vessel. You are simply-" "A body." Dean cut in. "My body. This body." He gestured to his magnificent form, "Is the sword of the archangel Michael. My body is a weapon, a weapon crafted to tear the very Earth asunder. The heavens themself spent millennia, nudging fate and manipulating the strands of reality all so that I might exist." Dean thundered in a voice quiet yet commanding. Loki had stopped his forward advances, his hand falling limp at his side. Dean continued his speech, "And you, Loki, revved me up. Because somewhere in the corner of that sorry beta brain of yours you wanted to feel the full force of that cosmic might fall upon you. And trust me you're going to." Loki swallowed, a quiver in his voice, "My unquenchable desire for you is merely the spell--" Dean let a hand lazily swing down in front of Loki and the tip of the god's straining cocked glitched as Dean's fingers slipped clear through it. "All that power and you're using it to pretend your cock is bigger than your bro's. Pathetic." Dean tisked. "Drop the act." Suddenly Loki's foot long raging erection dropped down to a still quite respectable ten inches. "Loki." Dean said sternly and like that his cock was suddenly only seven inches long. Loki let his eyes drift from Dean. He could see people in the crowd suppressing their giggles, mocking him for his vanity. "Keep going." Dean commanded. Loki's eyes flew back towards Dean. A panic in his tone as he cawed "But this one is real." "I don't care." Dean smiled. Loki summoned up his strengthen and said icily "And if I just ignore your orders?" "Then we never fuck." Dean replied. "You are in this just as much as I am. The spell-" Loki began But Dean again cut it. "Will be broken. There's alway a way and I can hold my own until Sammy finds it. Then you will live the rest of your eternal life knowing your one chance at this is gone." Loki sneers, cheating out almost more to the crowd than to Dean "I loathe you. And I will indulge you simply because the prayer is irrevocable and I wish to waste no more time on this madness." "Sure." Dean said sarcastically. He let his hand fall on Loki's shoulder and leaned in. "You remember the safe word, right?" Dean pulled back, his eyes glimmering with delightful mischief still. Loki didn't know what to make of the exchange, it felt somehow intimate and private. And the god did indeed remember the word Dean uttered before they began this little dance. Would he honor it? Would saying it be some sort of surrender. Loki rolled it over in his mind for a long beat. Then the god's penis shrunk another inch. "Smaller." Dean pushed on ruthlessly. Loki complied immediately this time, his penis shrunk drastically to only about three inches. "Good boy. Now turn and show all these nice people what a sad, tiny dicked excuse for a man you are." Loki opened his mouth to offer up some biting retort but the words dried up in his throat. It was useless. Anything he hurled at Dean would be sent right back at him. There was exactly one thing he could say, one word to stop this derision dead in its track. One word he refused to say. Loki was sorely feeling his new diminished capacity. Loki knew his powers lay in illusion, yet somehow after that humiliation he truly felt smaller. "Do we really need to do this?" Loki huffed. "No. But we're gonna. So get to stepping." Dean said sharply. Loki turned outward to face the massive crowd of agents, and watched as they guffawed at his subservience. Any fear he had instill in them had long since died. He went from being the greatest threat this planet had known to a joke. And Dean continued to prattle away beside him, "You know I gotta say I'm pretty disappointed. After all heard about the battle of New York I was expecting you to be a formidable foe. I mean how could it take seven heroes to stop such a weak boy? I've got you completely whipped in hours and all it took was my cock." Strangled laughs were escaping from the crowd and Loki felt a blush come to his face. He's almost certain the twig between his legs hopped in excitement and his stomach churned at the realization. Several SHIELD agents were now openly laughing. Loki watched the tension escape from their bodies, their fear evaporating. Fury noticed too. "Stay on guard, people! For all you know Loki's still lurking around and this whole perverted show is an illusion." "Oh I can prove that he's flesh and blood, Nicky." Dean "Nicky?" Fury groused. But Dean plowed on through. "Hands against the glass. Ass out." Loki's heart skipped a beat. Dean's request, Dean's order, could me only one thing. But not even the Winchester would be so bold. Loki felt himself complying, his body moving on autopilot. He pressed his hands to the plexiglass, lowered his forehead to the barrier, and stuck his butt out. In this position Loki had lost sight of the hunter, and he suddenly felt very alone. Here he was pressed to the glass with no choice but watch the armed guards who giddily awaiting his downfall. He could feel their eyes crawling on his skin. Loki's instinct was to cover himself, to lift the illusion on his genitals to simply disappear. But he knew Dean would never allow that. Wait, Dean would never allow that.... Loki was the god here. He was- "Don't even think about it." Dean's voice gruffed behind him and Loki's soul almost leapt from his body. Who was this man!? Was he truly that in Loki's head now? Had he owned him so completely? And why did Loki find succor in that. Dean's eyes swept the crowd easily picking out the giant Norse Avenger. Thor was back on his feet and clothed. He seemed to be mostly recovered from his encounter with Dean and was back to his more regal state, even if luminous hair was a bit matted. The god's eyes were squarely on the hunter. "Thor," Dean called out "Remember what we said about brothers watching brothers?" "I will guard the door." Thor volunteered dutifully. He turned his back to the display and centered his focus on the doorway. "Thanks, big guy. Sammy?!" Dean called out. "Ummm, he took a bunch of book and left a while ago," Fitz's voice came over the loudspeaker. Dean shrugged "Probably for the best." The whole time Loki felt his anxiety building. Here he was waiting to be punished, silently, patiently. Dean was chatting up randos, moving people and pieces around to his whim. The way they all listened and Dean relied on nothing more than his word. Loki would be baffled if he didn't understand so intimately. Obeying Dean was pleasure. It was an ease, an unburdening of the mind. Somehow he felt that he could trust this mortal, this man who saw through him so easily. He need only surrender himself and Dean would steer Loki where he needed to be. Loki knew he could escape. Even if he was still subject to this miserable curse he placed on himself. He could double back, find Dean later. But it'd be useless. Dean would wait for him here. And Loki would return to find him like the desperate whore he was. A bitterness grew in him at being neglected even in his own degradation, "Savor these moments, child. I'm only going along with this nonsense because of the spell that afflicts me." Dean's hand landed hard on Loki's ass, the crack of the blow echoing in the room. The force of the swing propelled Loki's body forward, his torso brushing up against the glass momentarily because settling back to its starting spot. In that one blow Loki felt his entire body go numb, well his whole body save his right ass cheek. The sweet sting of Dean's palm lingered against Loki's skin. It wasn't the force of the blow but the audacity of it, the authority of it. Loki could almost feel the blood in his body pulsing stronger, faster, eagerly rushing to the area grazed by the Winchester's touch, to illuminate the target and beg for further repercussions. "Lie to me and you get it again, bitch." Dean's voice boomed in Loki's ear. He couldn't see the hunter but in his mind he'd grown six feet and was looming above him with a sexy menace about him. "I am not a bitch-" THWACK! Dean's hand landed on his left cheek, mirroring the first blow. Loki was taken off guard by that hit. But it thrilled him. "And I wasn't lying." WHAM! A third blow landed squarely on Loki's ass and it became undeniable. Dean was spanking a god. Literally. Each slap seemed to muster just a little more force than its predecessor, as if the hunter was finding his groove in all this. But he felt so natural to Loki. The whole absurd tableaux felt correct to him. "You'll regret this, Dean!" WHACK! "Once this is done I will make sure you pay" WHACK! "I will destroy you" WHACK! Loki had this nightmare many times, or some version of it. For years he was haunted by the image of him standing in the biggest meeting hall in Valhalla naked before everyone who had known him. The hand that punished him wasn't a constant. And it certainly had never been Dean Winchester. Though it would be now. In every wet dream and fantasy to come it would be Dean's hand. It only made sense that a random mortal would the one who exposed Loki for the broken, whiny, restless child he was. "I wish I'd never planted that damned spell," Loki whimpered, the bite long gone from his voice. Dean landed the slap that followed with an extra bit of oomph. The hunter had to admit this was harder for him to slip into this role, than his encounter with Thor. That fucking had been driven by an almost carnal lust, a need for Thor. This dance was ironically lead by Loki. It had been about corralling him, controlling him. And that had proved incredibly easy as it became very apparent to Dean that Loki craved control. The hunter had been a little hesitant, especially with the god's dishonest protestations. But the more he understood Loki's actual desires, his actual requests the more natural it became. In fact, Loki's denials even began to grate on Dean. His futile lies and refusals to just admit who he was, what he wanted plucked at a cord fanned a flame of frustration deep in the mortal. Why couldn't he just admit it? Who he was, that he had wanted all this for so long? Why make Dean play these games. Dean's jaw set, he's teeth grinding into each other. His own body began to reflect the physical toll of bringing the God to task. A crest of sweat formed along Dean's forehead. And the swing of his arm sent one droplet after the next gliding down high cheeks, over his chiseled jaw. Flecks of water falling onto his flexed chest only to be urged on by the way his pectorals bulged with each swing. Dean's biceps burned and bulged, veins all over his body pushing their way to the surface. A fire burned in his eyes. With every passing second Loki became more and more alluring. Each time Dean's hand collided with Norseman's butt the god let out an adorable gasp. Unlike Thor's mewling, Loki's whines were a mix of pain and shame gliding on the heels of pleasure. Each squeal was a plea for more. And how those pleas tickled Dean, the sounds skimming on his skin. Dean was swimming in Loki's resplendent agony. After Dean landed the next blow he grunted, "You like that, huh?" "No." Loki moaned knowing it would bring him another savage blow and it did. The god could feel the hunter's frustration in his hand. "Don't lie to me, bitch." Dean snarled. For someone who was relatively rail thin, Loki did have a pert ass. The lily white flesh had begun show signs of wear so early. Loki's royal skin was so thin. Loki had endured so little in his life. He was nothing but a spoiled brat spending eons in search of a true alpha and never finding it. Never until now. "This is hell." Loki grumbled. WHACK! "Your teeny-tiny cock is leaking." Dean said. "No. It's not." Loki said breathless. WHACK! "Yes it is." Dean insisted. And boy was Loki's cock leaking. The nub between Loki's thighs was dripping strings of precum onto the floor below. Each slap sending little beads onto the glass. Dean let out an amused sigh and said, "You're going to come." "No, I'm not." WHACK! "I don't even need to fuck you." "I'm not getting off on this." WHACK! "I'm gonna slap the cum right out of you." Dean mused. "No!" Loki screamed. Yet as he did he felt, his body rocked by the orgasm and he coated the front of the case with semen. "Hey, Fitz! Does the curse end if the god in question is such a sorry useless whore that he finishes before the fucking even starts." Dean shouted. "Umm... no." Fitz's voice again rang out from above. "How much longer for the door?" Dean asked. "Only a few minutes." The other man answered. Loki's body was trembling, his ass was red and raw. He muttered, "I didn't cum. I didn't-" Dean hand fell on him and he let out a yelp, loud and sharp unlike any that had come before. Dean's hand fell on the small of his back, not as a paddle but out of precaution. "Loki, is there anything you want to say?" Dean's voice was a hushed whisper. He was close now, Loki felt Dean's body against him. Dean was asking for the safe word. He was trying to figure if he'd pushed too far, if Loki wanted this to stop. But Loki never wanted this to stop. "I didn't come." There was another heavy THWACK on Loki's ass. "You are an insatiable little slut." Dean said amused. "No. I'm a tyrant!" THWACK! "I'm strong." THWACK! "I'm intimidating." THWACK! "I'm a supervillain." THWACK! "I will conquering this realm." THWACK! "I will rule with an iron fist." THWACK! The rhythm was so soothing, almost hypnotic. Loki's need only utter some new hollow threat to be rewarded with Dean's strict reprimand. He felt his manhood harden anew as the brute manhandled him with his calloused hands. Dean greedily used Loki as a canvass, a willing and eager victim to channel all his hard earned rage at the world. And he had so much of it, suppressed and bottled away for a lifetime. "You will bow before me one day!" THWACK! Dean was so tired of hearing this same speech. "There is a darkness in me you can't imagine!" THWACK! They were all the same. Every would be ruler and demon. Brittle men too easily rattled. Wounded little children throwing temper tantrums because they were naive enough to think theirs scars made them special. THWACK! They puffed their chests and tore through the world around them carving gashes in real men like Dean. THWACK! Little men, common men who absorbed it all and had the strength to push it down. To keep themselves from insipid monologues and ploys of world domination. THWACK! These villains were a dime a dozen. Each the same, not only as each other but as those they hurt. THWACK! Stupid, THWACK! Selfish, THWACK! Injured, THWACK! Waiting for a wake up call. THWACK! And one way or another Dean loved to be their wake up call. THWACK! Dean had been so lulled by the call and response of it all that he hadn't even heard Loki's last few lies. But for some reason the next one struck him cold, "I deserve better than this." Loki braced himself for the next electric spank on his behind. There was a long pregnant pause, Dean had stopped? Or Dean had decided that wasn't a lie. Dean stayed his hand. He wasn't even entirely sure why. He was enjoying making the god writhe and Loki was lavishing his abuse. Yet somehow validating that sentence felt too far. "You hear me," Loki said his voice rising, "I don't deserve this humiliation." There was still no swat. And Loki was surprised to feel a lump in his throat. He didn't deserve this. Is that what was being said here. What did it even mean? "But do you want this?" Dean's voice crept into Loki's ear. "Of course I don't want this." Dean's hand once again found its mark on Loki's ass. A relieved, breathless whimper escaped from the god of mischief. Perhaps because he was so unprepared for it. Perhaps because he was grateful to be pulled back into the raw sexuality of the moment. But Loki's entire body lurched forward flattening against the plexiglass. Loki spun on his heels so he was now facing Dean. Fuck that man was absolutely gorgeous. He had all the menace and masculinity that Loki so keenly lacked. Dean took a step towards him, close enough for Loki to feel his breath. Loki let out a small dismissive laugh, he was slightly taller than Dean. This was the first he noticed. Dean's lips floated inches from Loki's own. Dean was silent. He was studying Loki. Was he trying to figure Loki's next move? Or did he already know? Dean seemed to keep getting there before him. And now Dean's lips were right there, waiting for him. Loki let his lips drift forward to meet Dean's only for the hunter to pull his head back. Dean's lips curled up in delight. He released a condescending chuckle that was a balm to Loki. "You think you deserve me?" Dean laughed. "No." Loki answered in full earnest. "But I want you. I want to worship you. I want you to make me feel puny and insignificant, slutty and ruined. And I may not deserve to feel those things but I want them. I want to be humiliated and I want you to do it." Loki's eyes were wide and pleading, his backside still fresh with Dean's handprints. Dean had that smug smile which had enraged Loki earlier. The waifish supervillain looked so vulnerable, and Dean knew he held his very soul in his fingers. He could snap him in two, pull him in, leave him shattered and hobbled or turn him into a loyal soldier. Dean's eyes flashed and he growled, "Took you long enough, you micro-dicked slut." Dean's eyes flit downward and Loki crumbled to his knees before him. Loki stared at the fucking log resting between Dean's legs. His balls massive balls swung low and an intoxicating musk wafted out towards the god's nose. He wondered if this was part of the spell or if Dean always smelled so masculine. Loki could feel himself beginning to salivate, he was literally drooling over this man. He pushed forward, greedy and hungry but Dean let his hips sway backwards depriving him of the taste. Instead Dean's dick, slick with his own eagerness slapped Loki along the side of face. Loki let the force of it send his head twisting to the left. The god lazily sloppily attempted to once more take Dean into his mouth but Dean landed against his cheek wet and hard. Dean stared down at the god, he looked almost strung out. Which begged the question how addicted he'd be when the real fun began. Droplets of wet were splattered all around Loki's lips, his eyes unable to focus, and his heart unwilling to stop. Dean allowed his cock to bat around his pathetic disciple absentmindedly. He shouted out towards the crowd, who looked even more scandalized (and dare Dean say turned on) by this dalliance than Dean's previous one. "Fury, am I good to start in on this whiny slut?" Dean asked. "Oh that door sealed like ten minutes ago," Fury replied. With the news, Dean let his right hand crest over the top of Loki's head and through his hair. With the just the slightest bit of pressure Dean rolled Loki's head backward, his mouth bobbing open like a Pez dispenser. Dean's cock landed on Loki's tongue and he sprung to life. He consumed Dean voraciously, immediately. His hands reaching out and grappling onto Dean's hips so he could force that glorious cock down his gagging throat. Dean didn't look down. "Were you gonna tell me?" Dean scoffed out at Fury. "I wasn't gonna try and interrupt whatever the fuck you people are doing. He's in his cage, that's all I give a shit about." Fury replied tersely. Dean redirected his attention to Loki, who was deliriously happy with the scraps he had been allowed. "What do you say we fuck you, so you can spend the rest of your life locked away in prison mentally reliving your domination." Dean grunted. Then something very unexpected happened. It started with Loki's eyes, the pale blue shifted under the light. At first they were almost aquamarine but in no time they were full vibrant green. Inside those eyes a spark of mischief and authority danced. They beckoned up to Dean, challenging him and supplicating to him all at once. They were his eyes. Loki's thin lips began to plump around Dean's aching dick and the hunter realized what was about to happen. Part of him knew he should be concerned that Loki was suddenly acting outside of his own plan. He should be concerned by what it meant. But honestly he was excited by how fucking hot it was to look down and see his face bobbing on his cock. Loki had transformed into a copy of Dean. In simply taking Dean's form Loki's presence had a noticeable shift. Loki slid his head back in one long slow stroke, his tongue dancing across the length of Dean's cock. Once Dean's member popped from his lips, Loki rose up slow and seductive until Dean was level with his clone. "Please," Loki cooed in Dean's own voice "Fuck me hard." Loki leaned forward and this time Dean did not pull away. The two men slid together like perfect puzzle piece. While Loki initiated the kiss it was Dean who was in the driver's seat. The Winchester dove forward, pushing Loki back against the plexiglass and smashing their bodies together. As Dean's tongue ever so skillfully slipped into Loki's mouth the god of mischief realized why this kiss had short circuited his brother. In fact if he wasn't leaning against a wall he may have been on the floor by now. Dean cruelly ended the kiss and whispered, "What's with the makeover? You think I'm some sort of narcissist? I won't degrade you if you wear my face?" "No." Loki said cooly. He let the silence hang for a beat, Dean wondering what Loki meant by that. Luckily this was not the time for introspection or any deep dissection. Loki continued, "I still want you to treat me like the slut that I am." "Like I need your permission, you worthless whore." Dean snarled before stealing another intense kiss. Outside the cage, the shift had reenergized the agents. Most were overwhelmed and confused but all were being very attentive. It was Fury who realized it first "It's a shell game." He muttered "Every one of you keep an eye on the real Dean Winchester. Don't let them get mixed up." He ordered. "Not for nothing but he's going to be the one on top." Coulson said dismissively. As if on cue Dean and Loki rolled along the wall to their left... only there was a new set of double Dean's standing where they had been initially. A trick by Loki clearly, but which pair was the genuine article was almost impossible to discern. Let alone which Dean was. This was quickly complicated when yet a third pair rolled along the wall their right. There were now a lot of very naked, very horny Deans slamming into a lot of very naked, very horny Deans. The real Dean, at least for the moment, was too caught up to take note of the shenanigans. He brought his kisses down his doppelgänger's neck, as his left arm slinked around behind him. Loki let out a sharp gasp as Dean's fingers ghosted over his hip. No matter what illusion he cast, Loki's ass was still raw and extremely sensitive to the touch. "You think that's bad wait till I drive my cock into it." Dean growled. "I long for the sting." Loki replied. "Spread your legs, slut. It is what you're good for." Dean instructed and Loki widened his stance as best he could, wincing in the process. Dean was unforgiving of the god's pain, his right hand hurried up Loki's inner thigh. He jabbed two fingers straight into Loki and watched the pain flick over Loki's face, his face. Loki let out an adorable whine, his face scrunching up. "You know the safe word still works," Dean reminded him. "I want this." Loki rasped "You taught me that." For all his physical fragility Loki's powers were in full force. The very impressive glamour over himself was a drop in the bucket. At this point the number of "Deans" in the cage had ballooned. There were two Deans sixty-nining in one corner, two Deans double penetrating another Dean behind them, and pairs and pairs of Deans comprising every sex pose imaginable. By now the true Dean had noticed the illusions, "Not that I don't enjoy the show. Kinda insulted you're not focusing on me." "Sorry, part of an escape plan." Loki let out a sharp yowl as Dean's finger dug into him. "You can't think it's going to work." Dean replied. "Probably not, but it's fun to try." Loki weighed Dean over for a beat, "You are nicer to me now that I'm in your face. I was kinda expecting the opposite." Dean's eyes narrowed and he pulled his hand from Loki. "Turn around." Dean ordered and Loki complied. A little swagger was just beginning to find its way into Loki's presence when his face was smashed up against the glass. Dean drove into him fiercely. Loki let out a scream so loud that it drew the attention of every last agent in the room, at least for an instant his decoys became pointless. Luckily for him, the outburst didn't necessarily prove he was corporeal. The scream only excited Dean who thrust harder, faster. The pain rose in Loki, acute. For half a moment he thought he might be at his limit. The magic word was on his tongue, but when tears formed in the corner of his eyes the word dissolved. There was an unexpected, unspeakable invigoration to the warm wetness creeping down his cheeks. "Don't just stand there, men. I wanna see cocks in your hand this instant!" Dean's voice boomed from the crowd. Before Agent Grant Ward even processed what was happening his hand was in his pants, fishing around for his dick. He wasn't alone either. The men on either side of him were doing the same. Though while they followed through with the order Ward craned around to see another one of Loki's projections. This one out in the crowd. "Are you defying a direct order, soldier." This Dean barked at Ward. Ward surveyed the room... it was happening everywhere. Loki was creating Deans throughout the crowd to shameless seduce everyone in sight. "He is trying to distract you!" Fury's voice rang out. "Fuck me harder, Dean! You sexy, sexy, sexy man. It's a privilege to survey you and Lord Loki." Fury's voice came from the doorway. Fury knew what he was about to see, but he had to check. Sure enough a projection of him was being Eiffel towered by Dean and Loki. Okay, that wasn't exactly what he expected but it was in the ballpark. The true Fury soldiered on with his orders, "Whatever Loki is throwing at you, ignore it." Coulson moved to his boss's side lending his support. "We're professionals here people. Eyes on the cell. Eyes on the real Loki." A version of Dean in a full Captain America outfit appeared between Coulson and the cage. "Oh but, Phil, it can be oh so fun to be distracted." Coulson took one step forward walking right throw the rather fetching illusion. "You're hurting my feelings, Phil." Cap/Dean pouted. Dean had to admit he was... amused by the chaos. But he hadn't lost track of what was supposed to be happening here. "Loki," Dean growled in Loki's ear. The way they were fucking gave Dean a full view of the room "What's this?" "I want to see them at their most base. I want to snicker and laugh at their depravity like they laughed at me." Loki cooed. "You silly little slut, you wanted to be humiliated." Dean replied. "They want it to. I've seen the way they've watched you, it's far more than duty." Loki moaned as Dean drove into him. "Don't lie to me. This is part of some play." Dean place his hand atop Loki's, their fingers interlacing. After his next thrust he held close to Loki, grinding up against the man's battered flesh, sending the most glorious pain radiating out through Loki's body. There was a soft squish as Loki's leg slid over a gooey stain on the cell wall. Dean scoffed, "You already came didn't you." Loki let his head roll back onto Dean's shoulder as best he could. "Almost as soon as you entered me." Loki whimpered "God, you are pathetic," Dean laughed. "You're amazing." Loki moaned, "I mean look what you're doing to all men and women out there, and they're not even spellbound." "I'm not the one doing that." Dean growled. "You could be," Loki retorted. It threw Dean. His flashy disciplinary persona faltering as he studied the trickster. What was this. "You helped me see myself, who I was, what I want, Dean. It only felt fair I do the same." Loki tried to plant a kiss on Dean but wound up smooching his jawline. Something deep in Dean's gut told him whatever game Loki was playing there was something genuinely sweet in this moment. But all moments are fleeting. The room sure was a sight to behold. Dean was out there in so many different ways and the agents, men and women, were almost to a person eating it up. The strongest remained stone face but the majority were visibly struggling to ignore their tempters. Still a small handful were fully embracing the illusion. Thor had out and out dropped to his knees and was kissing the ground before a particularly bulked up version of Dean. The hunter had to admit there was something exhilarating about this. This day had surely awoken some sense of power in him that had always tread below the surface. Then Dean noticed one of his clones strolling over to Castiel. "Get rid of them." Dean ordered Loki. "Don't try to tell me this isn't fun-" "Get. Rid. Of. Them." Dean's voice rose with anger. Dean punctuated each word with a thrust. And with each thrust the `Deans' started to flicker. But on the final word the projections all shattered to oblivion as Loki lost all focus. Dean was in his final rut and the god of mischief was riding the high. "You worthless, brat." Dean snarled "You designed another plan to fail? Still?" "Uh huh." Loki mumbled. "No one was ever going to think someone as pathetic as you was me." Dean continued. And Loki's one remaining trick began to fade until all was as it appeared. Loki's form, battered and frail, pressed against the glass. Dean eyes blazed with determination. His fingers tightened on the other man's wrists and Dean unleashed shot after shot of cum into Loki. The god's body trembled, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy as Dean filled him. Dean took a step back, allowing his cock to slide from Loki. Without the force of Dean's body on his back Loki simply collapsed onto the ground below him. He lay there in his glorious humiliation, bare and leaking Dean's cum. He was too weak to even stand and lacked the will to do so. "And what did I tell you about your cock?" Dean threw in a passing admonishment, and Loki worked up enough illusion magic to shrink his dick down to a nub. Dean, finally free of the prayer, strode clear out of Loki's cell while the god remained a puddle on the floor. "Well," Dean said looking out among the agents who were a collective array of embarrassed, relieved, and disappointed. "That was fucking weird." "Hold it right there," Fury said with his gun trained on Dean. "You're kidding me." Dean said more put out than anything. Undeterred by Fury's pistol, Dean continued towards the commander. "For all we know you're Loki disguised as Dean and the real Dean is crumpled up in that celll." Dean raised an eyebrow, "Well that's insulting." "He is the real Dean." Castiel cut in. "I kept track of him the entire time." The angel continue, "It was actually quite easy. He was the only one with the Enochian carvings on his ribs." "Oh well if a complete stranger says so." Fury threw off sarcastic. Dean reached out and pulled Nick him down into a shockingly aggressive make out session. Dean's arm snaked around Fury's hips keeping him upright when the Director began to wobble on his feet. When the kiss ended, Fury's expression was genuine surprise. "Damn," Fury responded "He's the real one." Fury turned from Dean and began barking orderers about how and where to ship Loki. Thor rejoined them from his `timeout.' And Dean felt very ready to get out of this damned room. *** The matter with Loki had been settled and Dean had managed to pick up a shower and a few hours of rest. Now full clothed and reunited with Sam, Dean found himself in Fury's office. Fury was seated at his desk and the two Winchesters were opposite of him. Castiel loomed behind them looking all dour and protective. Meanwhile Fury was flanked by Mei, her pokerface not at all affected by the events of the day, and Thor, whose eyes followed Dean like a smitten schoolboy. "So now that the whole Loki issue has been resolved we're free to go, right?" Sam asked, the younger Winchester holding the reins for this conversation. Fury placed the keys to the Impala on the desk before them, and Dean quickly snatched them up. "You can be on your way as soon as we touch down." Fury said with a nod. "Touch down?" Dean said springing to his feet, "Are you saying this whole place is a plane?!" Cas's hand landed on Dean's shoulder and he remembered to suck it up and play it cool far too late. "I'd also like you to have this." Fury said sliding a piece of paper across the table. Sam picked it up, "A phone number?" "I was impressed." Fury said. "Appreciate it, but I don't really swing that way when I'm not under a magical enchantment." Dean snarked. Sam rolled his eyes and let his head fell into his hands. "Really, Dean?" "I'll be happy to take her number though." Dean nodded at Mei, as his showboating intensified. "You're not getting my number." Mei said flatly. "But I will fuck you in the broom closet when we're done here." That last addition seemed to surprised everyone present. But Mei maintained her same stoic posture and expression. Whether it was a joke or an offer remained unclear. "Anyway," Fury said clearing his throat, "Dean I was impressed with how you handled such an unusual situation. You thought on your feet, adapted, and kept control. Since our first encounter with Thor, I've been organizing a branch of SHIELD specifically to deal with mystical threats. Now I'd love to have some specialists on staff-." Dean saw where this was going and he didn't like it, "I'm gonna stop you right there. Me and Sammy like to work on our own terms." "At least hear the man out, Dean." Sam chimed in and Dean's face dropped. Sam was on the edge of his seat, wide-eyed and bushy tailed. He wanted this. "SHIELD has proven to be a valuable ally to the Avengers, our pass cross quite often." Thor chimed in. Dean blinked. Thor also wanted this and for a reason the hunter couldn't quite pin down that made him squirm. In fact just looking at Thor too long made him realize spell or no spell, Thor seemed to be very fucking handsome. "I'm just... not a corporate kinda person." Dean turned and headed for the door. "You gonna be okay with the world ending because you're not corporate." Fury called after him but Dean continued out. Then the thing Dean feared and maybe secretly wished for occurred. Sam came hustling out of the door on his brother's heels. "Dean, I'm joining them." Dean winced, of course Sam was enlisting. This was everything Sammy had ever wished for. This was something respectable, something solid, something as normal as their lives could ever be. And hey `the man' may be uncool but being a spy, maybe even a superhero, that was awesome. Dean turned to face his brother and muttered, "Fuck." They both knew what that meant. Dean Winchester just became part of SHIELD. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/dean-does-the-avengers/dean-does-the-avengers-2

Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2023 06:48:21 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa <fanboi214@yahoo.com> Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 2 This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. And I do intend to have Dean in turn sleep with every member of the team. As I'm a gay man who writes m/m fiction his encounters with the MUC ladies will mostly be occurring off page. It's an ambitious fic and I have chapters in mind already for the entire original lineup and a few of the later additions. So wish me luck and stamina. Any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Chapter 2 "Thunder Road" There was no one word to describe the energy in the room after Sam's revelation. The atmosphere was a potent mix of tension, self-consciousness, horniness, and curiosity. There was a room full of highly trained agents who had their guns pointed at the caged god of mischief, yet Dean couldn't help but feel he was the focus of their attention. He certainly was far more interested in the spell than Loki's imprisonment. Maybe that was the point. Loki was alternating between giddy mustache twirling and come hither winks. Thor had fallen completely silent and parked himself in front of his brother's cell. Dean wondered if the spell had changed them physically because five minutes ago he certainly didn't notice how Thor's bosom were struggling mightily to escape the confines of his shirt. Maybe that was merely perception. Maybe Thor's chest only seemed to be heaving out because Dean was into guys now. Was he into guys now? To say he was attracted to Loki and Thor would be a gross understatement. But that meant what? He was bi? Gay? Temporarily ensorcelled? And if Dean really was seeing the world differently did that mean he was straight beforehand? In some deep unacknowledged corner of Dean Winchester's mind he'd wondered; over the years so many people had so freely told Dean that they simply assumed he was queer. It'd be easy for him to simply write it off as an aspect of his raw sexual vibe. But the truth was Dean knew how to be sexy because he knew what made other men sexy. Was that was normal for a heterosexual dude? Surely if he was... you know... by this point in his life something would've compelled him to test the waters. And he never had. So in Dean's mind all signs pointed to him being straight. He simply couldn't tell if this experience was strengthening or weakening that perception. He never been drawn to a woman quite like this. Some primal instinct in his brain was screaming at him to mash his body into that of the gods. He wanted to touch each of them everywhere and in every way. He didn't even know fully what he wanted of them only that he craved them. Dean didn't like this feeling. He didn't like asking himself these questions. Turns out he didn't have time to mull the implications anyway. Thor was heading over towards him and Dean subconsciously buttoned up his flannel overshirt. With an outstretched arm Thor approached Dean Winchester, a man to whom he'd barely noticed. "I'm sorry my brother has involved you in his treachery." Thor apologized. Dean met Thor's hand and a jolt of static electricity past between them. That was a hazard of being the god of thunder, an occurrence so common it was almost cliche. Dean didn't flinch, didn't even loosen his grip. That was uncommon, exceptionally uncommon for a mere human. It was small, stupid even, but Thor's interest was piqued. He wondered if this was Dean's natural state or if he'd been emboldened by Loki's foolish gambit. "No problem. He's not the first god to get obsessed with me." Thor arched an eyebrow, "You've met gods before?" "Just the ones I killed." Dean replied instantly. A laugh escaped from Thor, the god so taken off guard by the comment his body reacted before his mind could process it. He lurched forward clapping one hand on Dean's back in revelry. The ever so slight upturn at the cusp of Dean's mouth silently reassured Thor the hunter's comment was in good spirit. But it wasn't a joke. His glimmering emerald eyes met Thor's. This mortal was willing, eager to stare down a god. It was galling and intriguing. The hunter was half his size, but seemed completely unafraid, unawed by him. Thor somehow knew in his gut that this man's behavior wasn't molded by any spell. This is simply who Dean Winchester was, unflinching. "I like you." Thor said flatly. "I don't care." Dean retorted, still the tinsiest bit annoyed that the Avenger hadn't initially acknowledged his presence. Practiced as Dean was at showboating, there was an ever so brief hiccup as the energy shifted. Thor needn't guess why. He felt his own penis grow erect only seconds after Dean uttered the words of the spell. Thor knew there was a rather prominent bulge in his pants. Many of the SHIELD agents had been less than discreetly stealing glances. And as his eyes cut down at Dean's groin he observed a similar straining. Thor gathered that Dean was thrown by his own body. Thor perhaps feeling a bit of a blush come on himself broke hard away from the Dean and headed towards Nick Fury. The Director had been interrogating Loki to no avail. The trickster kept insisting he was as surprised as anyone by the spell and its effects. Thor tossed a glance towards them. "Fury, send for me when Loki is ready for transit." "Where do you think you're going?" Fury asked flatly. Thor could tell that was not meant as a question but he treated it as one regardless, "My chambers." "Lockdown means no one leaves." Fury said simply. "I cannot remain here." Thor hissed. "I am... being affected." "Come now brother, there are worse effects one could be under." Loki cackled. "Thor's right," Dean said butting in "We need to be separated." "Stand on opposite sides of the room." Fury replied bluntly. "You don't understand-" Thor started. "What I understand is that you two are going to need to have some self control and stop getting in my way." Fury growled. "Now come here." He lead the two men away from Loki's cell, figuring they best stop arguing in front of the prisoner. "I let anyone out of this room it creates a point of egress. For all we know Loki's plan might hinge on that." "For all we know it hinges on you forcing us to stay here." Dean shot back. "It doesn't." Fury asserted confidently. "You can't be sure of that." Thor insisted. "He's stalling. That means next step in his plan depends on someone else. Now I don't know if he's waiting for you two to get hot and heavy, me to open the door and let you out, or any of a million other things I haven't thought of. But until we know exactly what he's up to. Nothing changes. So get comfortable." Fury was not looking for input. He turned his back on Dean and Thor and returned to Loki's cage. The next few hours passed SLOWLY. Loki continued to stonewall Fury at his every turn. Thor and Dean stood on opposite sides of the room. Thor passed he time glaring at his half brother, interrupting Fury's methodical interrogation, and not so subtly stealing glances over at Dean. Loki too kept lustily peering over at the elder Winchester, though he was much more covert. Loki hated it. Here he was in a battle of wits with Fury and his mind kept being pulled to how plump and inviting Dean's lips were. Dean was bouncing with nervous energy, pacing back and forth by the door. He was incessantly pestering Sam for some sort of breakthrough. Unfortunately, Sam's research was turning up no way to reverse the spell before it met its... natural conclusion. No one was making any progress. And the lust was mounting by the second in Dean, Loki, and Thor. It wasn't much fun for them, but Fury figured it had to be helping his case. With each passing second Loki became less focused, less calculated, more likely to break. Then suddenly there was uproar behind him. A chorus of SHIELD agents shouted "Hold it right there!" And "Don't move!" When Fury glanced back he was shocked to find that they'd somehow been joined by a stranger, a confused looking man in a rumpled trench coat. Coulson frantically dove between this new man, and the agent's guns. "It's okay. Keep the focus on Loki." Coulson insisted. Fury was pissed and making no attempt to hide it. "Who the hell is this!?" He roared as he stormed towards the new arrival. "I'm pretty sure he's Dean's guardian angel," Coulson explained. Fury arched an eyebrow and shot a disbelieving look towards the hunter. "Cas is not my `guardian angel' just my friend who happens to be an angel." Dean sniped. "Although Dean and I do share a profound bound." Castiel said flatly. "Whoever he is, lockdown means no one in or out." The angel, who had shown little to no emotion up to this point turned his attention towards the hunter. "Dean, what is happening? Why did you call me?" "I need you to heal me." Dean grumbled. Cas gave him a quick once-over, not any more enlightened by his observation. "You're not injured." "It's a spell or a curse or something." "You know I can't cure that." "Just try!" Dean snapped clearly losing his patience. Cas placed a hand on Dean's temple closing his eyes for a moment. "Did that... help?" Dean took one lustful look at Thor and huffed, "Damnit." Fury was not amused by... whatever this was. "How did he get in here? I ordered all the doors secured." "I don't use doors." Castiel said completely. "What do you mean you don't use doors? How do you get places." Fury asked baffled. "I think about being somewhere and I am." Castiel said very plainly. The bantering reduced to indiscernible chatter as Dean's attention was again viciously pulled toward Loki's alluringly waifish form. Loki was delighted but to Dean's surprise the god of mischief wasn't focused on him. He was staring at Castiel. That's when it clicked. Dean pulled his left arm through his sleeve and close to his body. "What are you doing?" Coulson chimed in. "I'm taking over the interrogation," Dean declared as his right arm also disappeared into his shirt. "Interrogation is an art form." Fury replied. "Yeah, well I spent forty years in hell learning that art from demons. So I'm not exactly a novice." In one fluid motion Dean rid himself of his undershirt without disturbing the button-up above it. The tee slid over Dean's head and hit the floor. Fury looked to Coulson who nodded, "It's true. He did." "Where did we find these people?" Fury asked no one in particular. As Dean approached Loki his arms snaked back into his sleeves. Then he slid his finger down the front of his shirt, popping free the top two buttons. "You know if you'd just tell him your plan we could fuck already." The air was sucked from the room, Dean's straightforwardness pulling all eyes towards him. They'd stopped dancing around the elephant. Loki took a step forward, his mask slipping to reveal his astonishment. Though he quickly pulled it back into a smug smirk, a poor attempt to maintain the illusion of control. "As much as I'd love to fuck you, I've had no part in this horniness you unleashed upon us." Loki responded. Dean fastened the button second from the top of his flannel and watched the disappointment bloom in Loki's eyes. The trickster was superb at the art of misdirection but Winchester was onto him. The same coy, controlling, smirk that Loki tried to project, Dean wore in earnest across his achingly pretty face. His emerald eyes danced with hunger and curiosity and victory. Loki was lost not just in the sight of him but the energy radiating off Dean. The man had been the personification of sex moments ago but now he was owning it. Even just the hint of his chest peaking out the top of his shirt was enough to make Loki feel feral. He didn't know why, it wasn't the most sculpted male form he'd ever seen. But it was Dean's. It was the man he'd been seeing when he closed his eyes. It was the man he'd been yearning for from inside his cage. And Loki felt such massive relief at the idea that things were moving towards their inevitable conclusion. To see it reversed, to lose that button literally pained him. Dean spoke in a stern voice "You tell me the truth and I undo one of these buttons. You lie to me and we go the opposite way. Understand?" "I understand the concept." Loki sneered haughtily. Then he paused a beat, staring at the buttons in anticipation. "That was the truth. According to your rules you must undress further." "No. That didn't count." Dean said with a self-satisfied defiance that made Loki's blood boil and his cock surge in its confines. Who was this mortal that he dare to speak to a god with such recklessness? What a foolish thing Loki had done to tie himself to the whims of this gorgeous creature. He'd enslaved himself to be so easily wounded by glance of flesh. It was absurd. He knew he couldn't stand for it, as he subconsciously chewed his bottom lip and prayed that shirt simply disintegrate on its own. "Here's your first shot," Dean began, "When did you first meet me?" "In the back of your car earlier today." Loki replied quickly. A pitiful gasp escaped the mischief god's lips as Dean buttoned the top button on his shirt. The tantalizing hunter was now fully covered up. Dean didn't know the exact truth. But he knew the other man was lying. He could read it in him and he'd primed Loki to lie to him. It was important to establish stakes in this situation. Dean had to show a willingness to follow through. For in truth he wanted nothing more than to rip off his clothes and hurl himself at Loki or Thor, to explore every square inch of their bodies. His initial weirdness and gay panic had been burned away by the sheer strength of his unebbing arousal. And as he swaggered before the prisoner playing the tempter... he liked it. God did he like it. He kept his voice still and simply repeated "When did you first meet me?" "Back in March. You were investigating a case outside of Denver. I posed as part of the local sheriff's department." Loki admitted. And the top button became undone once more. "See. Easy." Dean replied with a Cheshire grin. He thought back to the case, they had been investigating angel deaths. Turned out to be a turf war between some fallen angels and demons. Dean's theories were growing stronger. "That was months before your invasion, why we were you spying on us." "I was considering my escape options in the case of an emergency." Loki admitted. Dean flicked the second button open and took a step towards the cage with ravenous excitement. "And why that case?" Loki paused, mulling his response. Dean's fingers were already on the third button, twisting back and forth in anticipation of releasing it. It'd be the closest to shirtless Dean had come yet, and most importantly Loki wouldn't lose ground. He was making a calculation in his mind and Dean whispers "If it helps, I already know the answer." Loki's eyes flit up towards the hunter, measuring his excitement ,his own crushing arousal. Dean knew. He knew it all. "Because that case involved angels." Loki gritted out. "Good boy," Dean whispered as the next button on his shirt fell. Those words sent a shiver up Loki's spine. The way they were whispered like they were for him only, not their assembled audience. They seemed mocking but the tone was actually affectionate. Dean must want to fuck as much as he does by this point, possibly more if he was getting these feelings at double strength. "So you didn't just stumble across us when running?" Dean asked. "Of course not," Loki answered without even thinking. "It was a carefully orchestrated plot to put me in your midst." Dean unfastened the next button and his shift drifted open further. The top of his abs now peering out at the sides of his flannel spread away from each other. "I know. I just wanted to give you another button." "Oh, so you're good cop now? I thought I was dealing with the mean old bad guy." Loki mocked. "I'm horny cop." Dean growled in a baritone. "I want exactly what you do. Because of you. Because the thing you did. But you are the one preventing us from getting it. I see it all Loki. I see what you were planning. I see where it went wrong. And most importantly I see how there is absolutely no danger you'll get out if we fuck. But until you come clean we can't do that. Admit why you're stalling." Dean was practically against the glass of the cell. His body vibrating with anger and eagerness. "I am stalling because my backup plan has already failed! And buying I am buying time as I desperately try to think of some way out of this. But I can't because of you! You are in my head and screaming in my bloodstream, Dean Winchester. No matter how I attempt to plot or plan my mind is full of thoughts of you, you and your pillowy lips, your tempting cock, your pert ass, your tantalizing walk, your beguiling smile, your condescending empathy, your very gait, they flood my mind." Dean looked so immensely pleased with himself, which made Loki want to wipe him from existence. With a pop the penultimate button on Dean's shirt fell. Loki hated how anxious he was for the last button to give way. "What went wrong with your plan?" Dean pressed. "Him," Loki hissed, his eyes cutting bitterly towards Thor, who now had a hand fully down his pants, "He was not supposed to be here when the prayer was read." "Of course not." Dean said with a knowing nod. "You set up the plan before the Avengers kicked your ass. You had no idea that Thor would even be a factor." Dean's nimble fingers unfastened the final button and that the shirt drifted open. The overshirt hung on either side of his chest, framing his torso. His body was surprisingly muscular but still lean and lithe. Dean wasn't a beefcake, yet somehow he radiated a sexual energy that was off the charts. The truth is it was all in his attitude and he had plenty of it. "One button left," Dean taunted and cooed all at once. He let his index finger slide down between his pecs, through his six pack, and stopping on the snap at the top of his jeans. "So the million dollar question, what was the plan?" Loki's breath caught in the back of his throat. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the bulge in Dean's crotch. He could feel himself salivating in anticipation. He need only say the right words and Dean would be released. Loki was confident that Dean had put the pieces together by now. And he'd already laid himself so bare before these people. He had all to win by coming clean yet the final confession couldn't be forced past his lips. It felt too much like a loss. He was hopelessly torn and dragging his heels for any sort of reply. Then Thor bellowed, "For all that is good tell him already!" The god of thunder's interruption managed to break the vice grip Dean had on Loki's attention. He snapped his head to the side to sneer at his brother. Then he broke back towards Dean and said with a smirk, "I never had a plan." Dean, for his part, had been so drawn into the tête-à-tête that he'd practically forgotten that he and Loki weren't the only two people in the room. But now that the bubble had burst he realized that the vast majority of SHIELD agents were pointing more than just guns in this direction (The male ones at least). The energy of the room crackled with unadulterated filth and horniness. And Thor, his massive body heaving as he was nearly consumed with lust, was a sight to behold. But Dean had come too far to relinquish the drivers' seat now. He had gotten Loki to the precipice. The expectation was that Dean would resort to rebuttoning his shirt to punish Loki for the `lie'. But that's not what happened. In fact Dean's hands went nowhere near the fabric, for Dean had a realization of his own. Loki's lie had been so deliberate, so obvious it meant only one thing. Loki was trying to punish Thor. Dean's head cocked to the side. "You hate him more than you want me." Dean stated, intrigue in his voice. "That is no surprise." Thor growled. "He's been nothing but jealous since we were but small children." "That so?" Dean asked before sending a pointed look to Loki. "No. You wouldn't dare." Loki's face dropped as he saw Dean's scheme. "Big guy, wanna lose the shirt and get over here." Dean nodded to Thor, who didn't need to be told twice. The cape hit the ground first. Then came the clanging of armor and gauntlet until Thor was wearing nothing more than some thinly stretched pants and his boots. Now it was Dean's turn to salivate at the sight of this chiseled figure coming towards him like an overeager puppy. Each step caused his magnificent tits to bounce. His hair blew in the breeze like the cover of a romance novel. The sheer size of him, the pound for pound muscle. Dean was, admittedly somewhat in awe. And for a brief moment he remember how terrified he was hours ago. He remembered that he'd never actually done anything sexual with another man. He wondered if that man's ravenous gaze would give way to disappointment when panic set in. But those tits... god those tits. Dean Winchester would always know how to handle tits. Whatever had brought him this far, spell or instinct or ungodly urges, he need only lean into them. For Now Thor was inches away from him, his giant frame consuming Dean's entire frame of vision. Dean's hands were pulled magnetically to Thor's breast each spreading out across one massive pectoral. "Fuuuuuuuuuck," Dean found himself muttering. "You like?" Thor beamed proudly. "Not as much as you're going to." Dean let one of his thumb run over Thor's nipple, eliciting a brief moan from the god. "You take this...this debauchery one step further and I will never confess a thing. We will all be stuck in this room until we die." Loki spat out. "Then tell me now." Dean said willing himself to tear his eyes off Thor and back to Loki. Loki held his gaze a beat, but unable to bring himself to admit checkmate he turned away. "Good. I was hoping you'd hold out a little longer." That jab stuck in Loki's craw. It was a poor negotiating tactic, but Dean was genuinely terrified his fun would be cut short before he'd had any. His eyes rose to meet Thor's. "I know that our judgement is... influenced. If you're not comfortable. If I push too far just say the word." "That will not be a problem." Thor said quite positive. Dean wound around Thor, admiring his body as a whole. Dean had never really noticed how sexy a man's back could be before. But standing behind Thor it became apparent just how much muscle there was. From behind he somehow seemed more broad all the way across. And there was, of course, the fact that Dean had never in his life seen a fatter ass. He took a step closer, pressing his body to Thor from behind. Dean was about a head smaller than Thor, yet somehow they fit together perfectly. Dean's eager bulge notched just under Thor's bubble butt, making its presence very known. Dean head rested on Thor's right shoulder, and the hunter playfully nipped at the god's earlobe. Dean's hands snaked around Thor's flanks returning to their now familiar homes on his bosom. "You are spectacular." Dean cooed in Thor's ear. As he spoke, Dean let his fingers ever so delicately trace the outline of Thor's areola. Thor took in a sharp breath as his body felt the jolt of the other man's touch. "You are quite skilled with your hands." "You like that; wait til you feel what I can do with my tongue." Dean said seductively. "You think this crassness will force cooperation out of me?" Loki squawked in dismay. "Actually at this point I'm really hoping it won't." Dean replied without so much as redirecting his attention towards the cell. Thor laughed gleefully at that response. He shot his brother a victorious grin and said, "Truly I must thank you for the inspiration, brother. For however good you suspect this feels know that the pleasure of it is at least ten times greater." Dean planted butterfly kisses along the nape of Thor's neck as he slithered around the hunk's body. Dean peered over Thor's left shoulder,"You can tell Fury your plan whenever you want." "Don't you dare." Thor scolded Loki. Loki of course considered that this was reverse psychology. Even Thor was capable of such. And it would be a wise play, but Thor seemed so genuine in his enjoyment. The mischief god once more found himself conflicted because of his stubborn desire to withhold the win from his captors. By now Dean's rotation had brought him to the front of Thor. The hunter peppered kisses down Thor's neck, slinking down to Thor's blastedly prominent pectorals. Dean took Thor's nipple into his mouth and the god of thunder's head flew back words. His eyes glazed over and he grunted "Yes." Loki snapped, "You weren't even the one who was supposed to read the damned prayer." "Shut up, Loki!" Thor boomed, thunder echoing in the distance. "I had figured Samuel would read it," Loki grumbled. Dean pulled back from Thor's chest, and the god let out a not so subtle whimper. But to his relief the other man at least turned around and nestled up against him. Thor's arms slipped around Dean's waist pulling him close. "You wanted to fuck my brother?" Dean asked icily. "That was part of the plan, yes. But it was more practical than that. He is the more magical of the two and he certainly would't be able to weaponize sexuality in the manner you are." It was at this point Fury stepped forward. "Focus. Give me the plan." "If my oaf of my brother wasn't here, you wouldn't have realized anything was amiss when the spell revealed my true form. I thought you'd cart me off into some holding cell expediently and later once the Winchesters realized what was happening Dean would send his pet angel to bring me to cure Samuel." Loki sneered. "And what reassurance do I have Dean here won't spring you for his own satisfaction?" Fury asked. He bought the explanation but wasn't sure that changed the situation. Fury was silent a beat. Dean disentangled himself from the Avenger, "I can show you an angel ward. Added it to the cell and we couldn't spring him if we wanted to." "But as long as this spell is still active you'll be motivated to help him escape in some manner. And your motivation will only grow stronger." "Then let us do what we must to lift the spell." Thor said returning from his haze of pleasure Dean spun to face him, "You mean that I should fuck you two?" "Well, me at least." Thor replied, his voice less dreamy and more serious. "SHIELD should keep searching for a solution so you never have to set foot in my brothers cage, but Dean... how long am I to endure this feeling? I can't abide it any longer". There was a ravenous look in Thor's eye, the light dancing off his muscles as he lurched forward towards Dean. "You promised to stop if I came clean." Loki fumed. "You tried to conquer the Earth a month ago. No one cares what you want." Some SHIELD agent barked from the crowd. The fact that run of the mill, non-bewitched, men were actively rooting for the thunder god to rail him would fluster Dean a day ago. It brought a smile to his face today. Dean's eyes drank Thor in. The stubble of a beard, accentuated his square jaw. As he moved closer, every goddamned muscle in his body flexed. "You want to keep going... right here? In front of SHIELD?" "As do you." Thor stated confidently "I felt it in your touch, Dean Winchester. My body burns for this and ever passing second is an agony. I may not have the words of my brother but the need he expressed... you can't tell me you don't feel it just as much for me." Dean didn't realize he was moving backward until his back touched against Loki's cell. "This is not supposed to happen!" Loki stomped the ground Dean let his head loll to the side as Loki devolved into a hissy fit over his shoulder. "You can't expect me to turn down a slutty blonde with a huge rack." Thor's meaty hand landed on Dean's hip, "So you'll let me take you?" Thor's eyes gleamed with excitement. "No. I'll be the one taking you." Dean replied his hand falling on Thor's hip to mirror the god's movements. An amused laugh rose from Thor's gut, "Dean, I am much larger than you." "And that'll be part of the fun." Dean countered, feeling the weight of Thor's body looming over him. The taller man looked down at him with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Dean simply smoldered back. Thor's body sank down against Dean's. His lips hovered inches away from the hunter's mouth. "Are you truly going to let this happen!?" Loki squawked at Fury. "You could always tell them how to reverse their prayer." Fury said with a shrug. "It can't be reversed" Loki whined. "Then you only have yourself to thank." Fury replied. "Dean, I have never been... penetrated before." Thor said, his voice suddenly dropping to a poor attempt at a whisper. "And you think I have?" Dean countered "I'll be gentle." Thor promised, nuzzling the other man. "I won't." Dean responded without hesitation and Thor's heart skipped a beat. Their lips brushing against one another at this point. Dean could certainly understand the appeal of being consumed by Thor's presence, by feeling this blanket of power and muscle around him, in him. And maybe had they talked just a little longer he'd have been the one to compromise. But Dean's lips met Thor's. The god's body became one raw nerve. He felt that kiss in the tips of his toes to the core of his soul. He couldn't tell you what exactly Dean was doing. He felt on hand on his hip, the other on his neck. Dean's tongue was invading his mouth, claiming him. And Thor's knees felt weak, literally. The god was so lightheaded, lost in the sensations of Dean's passion that he felt his legs give way beneath him. He landed on his knees, eye level with the bulge in Dean's jeans. He could see the outline of Dean's dick so clearly begging for relief. And he felt drawn to worship it. The god's eyes drifted up, an adorable look of genuine surprise and hope played on Thor's face. For he wasn't sure how he got here, but now it felt like it was where he should be. "Go ahead," Dean said reassuringly. He let his thumb run over the clasp in his jeans. The force of Dean's erection made quick work of his zipper. The pants nearly split at the seams to reveal the very clear outline of a rather impressive cock. Thor ran his tongue along the length of the outline savoring the hint of taste that had made it through the fabric. And when Dean let out a low growly moan, Thor felt his enormous chest swell with pride. Dean smiled down, letting a hand glide through Thor's long golden tresses. With a natural smile he asked, "You like that?" "You are divine, Dean Winchester." Thor responded in absolute awe. The air in the room crackled with an astonished silence. The day had been so thoroughly bizarre that two formerly straight men fucking in the midst of a heavily monitored room full of SHIELD agents wouldn't even have been that shocking. And Dean had managed to enthrall pretty much everyone with his magnetic confidence and puckish sexual energy. Yet it felt a whole different thing to see a very god on his knees before Dean, buzzing with an insatiable hunger and bottomless reverence for the hunter. Thor was publicly, openly prostrating himself at the altar of Dean, lost amongst his most craven impulses. Dean's cock sprang from its prison, as the last scraps of Dean's clothes were spread across the floor. To no one's surprise Dean had a remarkably impressive cocks, ten inches long and thick. To Thor the taste of Dean was more addictive, more intoxicating than the strongest mead. The god lacked in technique but his enthusiasm more than made up for it. And in truth there was nothing quite as exhilarating as looking down and seeing such a hulking figure of a man gagging on your cock. Dean felt like there was no force in the universe strong than him at this moment. "Slow down," He said gently. Thor forced himself to take a breath, his heavy lust laden eyelids fluttered up at Dean. "I'm sorry. I..." Dean could see whispers in confusion in the god. Like if he thought too much he may wonder how he'd gotten here. "The spell..." "You're doing amazing," Dean reassured, "Just pace yourself." Thor nodded and went back to savoring Dean's cock. "You certainly have him cowed." Loki said in amusement. Dean glanced over his shoulder. "I'll get to you later. For now turn around." "You torture me with his gratification but deny me the pleasure of his humiliation." Loki objected. "First of all, you feeling humiliated Thor?" "Gods no.... Mmmmm.... I don't know what you are, Dean.... Mmmm, but it is more than mortal." Thor answered between laps. "Relax your throat," Dean said reveling in the compliment. Thor followed the command and Dean slowly eased his way into Thor's mouth. For all the man's protestations of `inexperience' he was swallowing a rather big cock fairly easily. As the length fully disappeared and his nose rested in Dean's crotch, Dean put a gentle hand to the back of his head to hold him in place. Then he returned his attention to the man responsible for all this, "Secondly, I'm about to fuck your brother. No one should have to watch their brother having sex." Dean said and then shouted up to the rafters, "Understand that Sammy?" "You don't have to worry. He hasn't lifted his eyes from the books in the past two hours." A voice came over the loudspeaker, Fitz if Dean remembered correctly. "And I'd gladly give up my ability to hear." Sam's voice came on. Followed by a muttered, "I hate my life." With the stars finally all aligned Dean slid his hips back until his cock escaped from Thor's lisp with a loud pop. Thor let out a gasp, both for air and for his new toy to be returned. "You're a fucking natural," Dean smiled down. He beckoned the god to his feet. Thor sprung back up, pouncing forward and scooping Dean into another roiling lip lock. A few moments in the bodybuilder once more began to swoon, only this time Dean's arms kept him from going off kilter. When their mouths broke, Thor was simply radiating lust. "What are you doing during our kisses?" Thor wondered breathlessly. "My secret." Dean winked. "So what do you think, big guy. We taking this to the next level?" "That question seems unnecessary." Thor responded. "You seemed pretty insistent that you should be on top..." "I was wrong, Dean. I want you to shove your glorious cock into me." "I just want to make sure it's not the spell talking or anything..." "Dean I need you to fuck me," Thor spat, "And I'm relatively certain you just wanted to hear me say that." Dean grinned, "It was pretty hot." "I imagine." "Alright, pants off and on all fours please." Dean couldn't tell if Thor was truly into the curtness or just into him, so he decided to dial it back a smidge. As Thor disrobed, Dean surveyed his adoring audience. "If any of you want to start masturbating I wouldn't object." He groused. "I would." Fury interject. "Eyes on the prisoner. Hands on your weapons." "If I'm too much of a distraction we could take this elsewhere." Dean retorted. "We remain on lockdown." Fury said pointedly. Dean not so subtly let his eyes sink down to the bulge in Fury's own pants before muttering, "Whatever you need to tell yourself." "Boy, I could slap you." Fury snapped back. "Director, I only started sleeping with guys today. How many men can I be expected to flirt with at once?" Dean jibed. Fury narrowed his eyes, "Watch yourself." "If only I could." Dean grinned. Thor had managed to get wholly nude by now. His foot long cock twitching and leaking as it jutted out aggressively. Dean had, in his heart of hearts been hoping his dick was bigger than a god's. That would be cool. But given the situation he could settle for this. Thor got down on the ground, arching his back something fierce and sticking his ass up to be mounted. Dean licked his lips as he walked over. Dean positioned himself behind the eager god and placed one hand on the side of his ass. "I'm gonna get you ready, first" he explained. He slid one slicked finger into the Thor's virgin ass, gauging how he would take any intrusion. The braced for entry but let out a moan nonetheless. "You good?" Dean asked. "More." Thor begged. Dean was impressed at how quickly the other man made the request and happy to oblige. He added a second finger to Thor's hungry hole and watched as his cock twitched. Dean plunged his fingers in and out of Thor, making slight adjustments to pace and position. All the while noting every noise of pleasure and pain, every tense of the muscle the Avenger displayed. "Last one." Dean stated. Thor answered with only a grunt. Yet Dean knew it was a grunt in the affirmative. It truly was the first time Thor had ever `bottomed.' It was an odd feeling, not without some discomfort but also full of new and exciting sensations. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest in wicked anticipation. Dean's fingers slid out of him and he knew the moment was here. Thor felt the head of Dean's cock rest against his hole, preparing to enter. One hand fell on Thor's shoulder to secure him, while the other steadied his waist. The moan escaped Thor's lips before he even registered what was causing it. Dean had begun to ease into him and it was tripping some sort of reflexive behavior. His mind divorced further and further from his body. He could not focus or put more than a few second of concentration on anything when his brain simply screamed "More! More! More!" Once the entirety of Dean's dick was buried in Thor's magnificent ass, the hunter leaned forward. He draped his body over the other man's broad frame to lay a kiss upon his shoulder. "You're so tight. You're doing amazing." "You are fucking amazing." Thor panted. Objectively Dean was fucking amazing. And most importantly amazing at fucking. He may have never been with a man before, but he'd done anal. And more to the point he knew how to give his partner an experience they'd never forget. Dean knew how to work a slow steady pace to build up his lover's need. He knew how to rotate his hips and adapt his strokes to how the bottom responded. A clap of thunder rang outside and Dean knew he'd found the prostate. "You like that." Dean snarled. Mercilessly replicating the stroke two more time to nothing but the sputtering of Thor. Dean gave Thor's `magic button' a rest. The hand that had been placed on Thor's shoulder to reassure lifted ever so slightly, the tips of Dean's fingers just brushing at Thor's skin. Static electricity sparked like crazy between their bodies and the tingling thrilled Dean. This man of strength and size had been reduced to the quivering, cooeing mass of muscle beneath him. While neither man could see it from their angle, Dean's own chest swelled. His eyes burned with dominance. As his cock slowly tantalized Thor with its in and outs, Dean's finger made their way down the other man's spine. "Harder," Thor managed to eek out. "When I'm ready." Dean answered deliberately slowing his pace and getting a whine from Thor. "You said you wouldn't be gentle." Thor managed to say. Dean's eyes shined, a hint of darkness in his smile. He scooped up Thor's long locks and pulled his head back by the mane. Thor's mouth hung agape, drooling. His eyes vacant. Dean had broken him so completely, his muscles pulsed as the smaller man yanked his head backward and drove his monstrous cock into him. "You want rough." "Yes. Please. Dean. Please." Thor sputtered. Then suddenly Thor was empty. "Dean? Dean!?" "On your back. Leg's in the air." Dean's instructions landed coldly. Thor was all too eager to follow them. His body was trembling and glistening with sweat. His vision literally blurry outside of Dean's presence above him. Thor had never seen a more beautiful or wicked sight in his life. The smaller man grabbed Thor's ankles and happily manhandled the god. With a firm yank Thor found his massive thighs on either side of Dean's waist. "Lock your ankles." Dean ordered. As Thor's legs wrapped round the hunter's back, Thor felt Dean's cock easing back into him. "The stronger you hold the more hands free I can be." Dean said and instantaneously Thor's legs became a vice. Dean drove down straight into Thor's prostate with a hungry grin. His hand reached out and wrapped around the god's aching shaft. It was already sticky from the buckets of precum he'd been leaking. "You really are a slutty one, huh?" "Yes." Thor panted. "Say it." "I'm a slut." Thor moaned, the pressure from Dean's cock mounting as the hunter let his hips remain still. His nimble figures dancing along Thor's dick. "Whose slut?" "Your slut. I'm your slut Dean." The god's toes curled, his finger uselessly clawing at the floor for something to hold. Those word seemed to make Dean quite happy, and that in itself pleased Thor. Dean never felt like this before. For a fleeting instant he wondered the exact influence of the spell. Had he ever been this dominant with any woman? Could he be? Was all gay sex this raw? Was Thor always this submissive at his core? Was Dean merely responding in kind to what the god wanted? Because Thor so sorely wanted it. His face was flush, his eyes dripping in lust. The long blonde hair matted with sweat, a few errant strands sticking to his shaking muscles. Dean's firm grip on that log of a cock was keeping the cum at bay, but he would burst soon. The God's hip bent ever so slightly upward, to allow Dean access to him. And so his abs were perfectly positioned to show off his divine eight pack. With each downward thrust of Dean's hips, Thor's massive tits jiggled and that seemed to fill Dean with glee. His stroked became harder, faster, a game the elder Winchester was paying to see how fast he could make those pecs jump. Then there was the thunder. A dull roar from somewhere outside at first, the booming grew. Louder. Closer. Again and again. The closer Dean drove the god to climax the more it felt like a hurricane was just beyond their door. Thor's very body was radiating electricity as Dean let his remaining hand glide across the man's obscene abs. Dean wasn't sure what Thor felt but the sting was pleasant to him, a gentle tingle. That's why Dean let his hand makes its way all the way up to Thor's pec. Lingering over Thor's nipple he created a constant stream between the two surfaces. Thor felt something and he enjoyed it. Dean could tell by the way he squirmed under his touch. Dean locked eyes with the god, as he felt the pressure mounting within in. "We're gonna cum now." "Uh, huh." Thor managed to moan out. His eyes being overtaken by lightening "Do it. Fill me, Dean." The lights of the room flickered and Dean vaguely recognized some protest from Fury in the background but it was far far too late for that. Dean let himself go. His dick erupted sending shot after shot of warm cum into the hungry god. Thor's own climax came in unison and his seed poured down onto himself, splattering against his chest and face. His final cries of pleasure drown out by a mighty thunder clap. The room lit up, lightning flying in all directions. Agents ducked and fled from the errant bolts. The rooms electronics shorted from overload and everything when dark. Things were pitch black for a long beat and by the time the back up generators kicked back in the god of thunder lay splayed out on the floor marinating in semen and sweat, as Dean's essence oozed from him. He was in euphoric afterglow, unable to move a muscle. Dean stood above him, struggling for breath as his mind tried to find solid ground and whatever sexual mania overtook him faded. His angry, carnal face melting back into its pretty angelic features. His muscles sore from use, but his cock straightening back to life as unlike Thor his journey with this spell hadn't yet reached it's conclusion. There was panic around him but he was mostly oblivious to it. The soldiers seemed less focused on the men in the center of the room. They were scampering about in bustle and confusion. Dean noticed the exterior door had been shorted out by Thor's climax. Then he cast a weary eye towards the cause of this mischief. Only Loki's cell was empty. "Shit." Dean muttered.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Fri, 23 Jun 2023 06:48:21 +0000 (UTC) From: loste Lasfa &lt;fanboi214@yahoo.com&gt; Subject: Dean Does The Avengers Chapter 2 This series is a work of fiction about a characters from the TV show Supernatural and character that belong to Marvel. I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I don't know anything about the actors who portray them and I don't mean to imply anything about that. I intend for this to be a series checking into an alternate universe where Supernatural and the MCU overlap. And I do intend to have Dean in turn sleep with every member of the team. As I'm a gay man who writes m/m fiction his encounters with the MUC ladies will mostly be occurring off page. It's an ambitious fic and I have chapters in mind already for the entire original lineup and a few of the later additions. So wish me luck and stamina. Any comments or questions welcome at fanboi214@yahoo.com. Chapter 2 "Thunder Road" There was no one word to describe the energy in the room after Sam's revelation. The atmosphere was a potent mix of tension, self-consciousness, horniness, and curiosity. There was a room full of highly trained agents who had their guns pointed at the caged god of mischief, yet Dean couldn't help but feel he was the focus of their attention. He certainly was far more interested in the spell than Loki's imprisonment. Maybe that was the point. Loki was alternating between giddy mustache twirling and come hither winks. Thor had fallen completely silent and parked himself in front of his brother's cell. Dean wondered if the spell had changed them physically because five minutes ago he certainly didn't notice how Thor's bosom were struggling mightily to escape the confines of his shirt. Maybe that was merely perception. Maybe Thor's chest only seemed to be heaving out because Dean was into guys now. Was he into guys now? To say he was attracted to Loki and Thor would be a gross understatement. But that meant what? He was bi? Gay? Temporarily ensorcelled? And if Dean really was seeing the world differently did that mean he was straight beforehand? In some deep unacknowledged corner of Dean Winchester's mind he'd wondered; over the years so many people had so freely told Dean that they simply assumed he was queer. It'd be easy for him to simply write it off as an aspect of his raw sexual vibe. But the truth was Dean knew how to be sexy because he knew what made other men sexy. Was that was normal for a heterosexual dude? Surely if he was... you know... by this point in his life something would've compelled him to test the waters. And he never had. So in Dean's mind all signs pointed to him being straight. He simply couldn't tell if this experience was strengthening or weakening that perception. He never been drawn to a woman quite like this. Some primal instinct in his brain was screaming at him to mash his body into that of the gods. He wanted to touch each of them everywhere and in every way. He didn't even know fully what he wanted of them only that he craved them. Dean didn't like this feeling. He didn't like asking himself these questions. Turns out he didn't have time to mull the implications anyway. Thor was heading over towards him and Dean subconsciously buttoned up his flannel overshirt. With an outstretched arm Thor approached Dean Winchester, a man to whom he'd barely noticed. "I'm sorry my brother has involved you in his treachery." Thor apologized. Dean met Thor's hand and a jolt of static electricity past between them. That was a hazard of being the god of thunder, an occurrence so common it was almost cliche. Dean didn't flinch, didn't even loosen his grip. That was uncommon, exceptionally uncommon for a mere human. It was small, stupid even, but Thor's interest was piqued. He wondered if this was Dean's natural state or if he'd been emboldened by Loki's foolish gambit. "No problem. He's not the first god to get obsessed with me." Thor arched an eyebrow, "You've met gods before?" "Just the ones I killed." Dean replied instantly. A laugh escaped from Thor, the god so taken off guard by the comment his body reacted before his mind could process it. He lurched forward clapping one hand on Dean's back in revelry. The ever so slight upturn at the cusp of Dean's mouth silently reassured Thor the hunter's comment was in good spirit. But it wasn't a joke. His glimmering emerald eyes met Thor's. This mortal was willing, eager to stare down a god. It was galling and intriguing. The hunter was half his size, but seemed completely unafraid, unawed by him. Thor somehow knew in his gut that this man's behavior wasn't molded by any spell. This is simply who Dean Winchester was, unflinching. "I like you." Thor said flatly. "I don't care." Dean retorted, still the tinsiest bit annoyed that the Avenger hadn't initially acknowledged his presence. Practiced as Dean was at showboating, there was an ever so brief hiccup as the energy shifted. Thor needn't guess why. He felt his own penis grow erect only seconds after Dean uttered the words of the spell. Thor knew there was a rather prominent bulge in his pants. Many of the SHIELD agents had been less than discreetly stealing glances. And as his eyes cut down at Dean's groin he observed a similar straining. Thor gathered that Dean was thrown by his own body. Thor perhaps feeling a bit of a blush come on himself broke hard away from the Dean and headed towards Nick Fury. The Director had been interrogating Loki to no avail. The trickster kept insisting he was as surprised as anyone by the spell and its effects. Thor tossed a glance towards them. "Fury, send for me when Loki is ready for transit." "Where do you think you're going?" Fury asked flatly. Thor could tell that was not meant as a question but he treated it as one regardless, "My chambers." "Lockdown means no one leaves." Fury said simply. "I cannot remain here." Thor hissed. "I am... being affected." "Come now brother, there are worse effects one could be under." Loki cackled. "Thor's right," Dean said butting in "We need to be separated." "Stand on opposite sides of the room." Fury replied bluntly. "You don't understand-" Thor started. "What I understand is that you two are going to need to have some self control and stop getting in my way." Fury growled. "Now come here." He lead the two men away from Loki's cell, figuring they best stop arguing in front of the prisoner. "I let anyone out of this room it creates a point of egress. For all we know Loki's plan might hinge on that." "For all we know it hinges on you forcing us to stay here." Dean shot back. "It doesn't." Fury asserted confidently. "You can't be sure of that." Thor insisted. "He's stalling. That means next step in his plan depends on someone else. Now I don't know if he's waiting for you two to get hot and heavy, me to open the door and let you out, or any of a million other things I haven't thought of. But until we know exactly what he's up to. Nothing changes. So get comfortable." Fury was not looking for input. He turned his back on Dean and Thor and returned to Loki's cage. The next few hours passed SLOWLY. Loki continued to stonewall Fury at his every turn. Thor and Dean stood on opposite sides of the room. Thor passed he time glaring at his half brother, interrupting Fury's methodical interrogation, and not so subtly stealing glances over at Dean. Loki too kept lustily peering over at the elder Winchester, though he was much more covert. Loki hated it. Here he was in a battle of wits with Fury and his mind kept being pulled to how plump and inviting Dean's lips were. Dean was bouncing with nervous energy, pacing back and forth by the door. He was incessantly pestering Sam for some sort of breakthrough. Unfortunately, Sam's research was turning up no way to reverse the spell before it met its... natural conclusion. No one was making any progress. And the lust was mounting by the second in Dean, Loki, and Thor. It wasn't much fun for them, but Fury figured it had to be helping his case. With each passing second Loki became less focused, less calculated, more likely to break. Then suddenly there was uproar behind him. A chorus of SHIELD agents shouted "Hold it right there!" And "Don't move!" When Fury glanced back he was shocked to find that they'd somehow been joined by a stranger, a confused looking man in a rumpled trench coat. Coulson frantically dove between this new man, and the agent's guns. "It's okay. Keep the focus on Loki." Coulson insisted. Fury was pissed and making no attempt to hide it. "Who the hell is this!?" He roared as he stormed towards the new arrival. "I'm pretty sure he's Dean's guardian angel," Coulson explained. Fury arched an eyebrow and shot a disbelieving look towards the hunter. "Cas is not my `guardian angel' just my friend who happens to be an angel." Dean sniped. "Although Dean and I do share a profound bound." Castiel said flatly. "Whoever he is, lockdown means no one in or out." The angel, who had shown little to no emotion up to this point turned his attention towards the hunter. "Dean, what is happening? Why did you call me?" "I need you to heal me." Dean grumbled. Cas gave him a quick once-over, not any more enlightened by his observation. "You're not injured." "It's a spell or a curse or something." "You know I can't cure that." "Just try!" Dean snapped clearly losing his patience. Cas placed a hand on Dean's temple closing his eyes for a moment. "Did that... help?" Dean took one lustful look at Thor and huffed, "Damnit." Fury was not amused by... whatever this was. "How did he get in here? I ordered all the doors secured." "I don't use doors." Castiel said completely. "What do you mean you don't use doors? How do you get places." Fury asked baffled. "I think about being somewhere and I am." Castiel said very plainly. The bantering reduced to indiscernible chatter as Dean's attention was again viciously pulled toward Loki's alluringly waifish form. Loki was delighted but to Dean's surprise the god of mischief wasn't focused on him. He was staring at Castiel. That's when it clicked. Dean pulled his left arm through his sleeve and close to his body. "What are you doing?" Coulson chimed in. "I'm taking over the interrogation," Dean declared as his right arm also disappeared into his shirt. "Interrogation is an art form." Fury replied. "Yeah, well I spent forty years in hell learning that art from demons. So I'm not exactly a novice." In one fluid motion Dean rid himself of his undershirt without disturbing the button-up above it. The tee slid over Dean's head and hit the floor. Fury looked to Coulson who nodded, "It's true. He did." "Where did we find these people?" Fury asked no one in particular. As Dean approached Loki his arms snaked back into his sleeves. Then he slid his finger down the front of his shirt, popping free the top two buttons. "You know if you'd just tell him your plan we could fuck already." The air was sucked from the room, Dean's straightforwardness pulling all eyes towards him. They'd stopped dancing around the elephant. Loki took a step forward, his mask slipping to reveal his astonishment. Though he quickly pulled it back into a smug smirk, a poor attempt to maintain the illusion of control. "As much as I'd love to fuck you, I've had no part in this horniness you unleashed upon us." Loki responded. Dean fastened the button second from the top of his flannel and watched the disappointment bloom in Loki's eyes. The trickster was superb at the art of misdirection but Winchester was onto him. The same coy, controlling, smirk that Loki tried to project, Dean wore in earnest across his achingly pretty face. His emerald eyes danced with hunger and curiosity and victory. Loki was lost not just in the sight of him but the energy radiating off Dean. The man had been the personification of sex moments ago but now he was owning it. Even just the hint of his chest peaking out the top of his shirt was enough to make Loki feel feral. He didn't know why, it wasn't the most sculpted male form he'd ever seen. But it was Dean's. It was the man he'd been seeing when he closed his eyes. It was the man he'd been yearning for from inside his cage. And Loki felt such massive relief at the idea that things were moving towards their inevitable conclusion. To see it reversed, to lose that button literally pained him. Dean spoke in a stern voice "You tell me the truth and I undo one of these buttons. You lie to me and we go the opposite way. Understand?" "I understand the concept." Loki sneered haughtily. Then he paused a beat, staring at the buttons in anticipation. "That was the truth. According to your rules you must undress further." "No. That didn't count." Dean said with a self-satisfied defiance that made Loki's blood boil and his cock surge in its confines. Who was this mortal that he dare to speak to a god with such recklessness? What a foolish thing Loki had done to tie himself to the whims of this gorgeous creature. He'd enslaved himself to be so easily wounded by glance of flesh. It was absurd. He knew he couldn't stand for it, as he subconsciously chewed his bottom lip and prayed that shirt simply disintegrate on its own. "Here's your first shot," Dean began, "When did you first meet me?" "In the back of your car earlier today." Loki replied quickly. A pitiful gasp escaped the mischief god's lips as Dean buttoned the top button on his shirt. The tantalizing hunter was now fully covered up. Dean didn't know the exact truth. But he knew the other man was lying. He could read it in him and he'd primed Loki to lie to him. It was important to establish stakes in this situation. Dean had to show a willingness to follow through. For in truth he wanted nothing more than to rip off his clothes and hurl himself at Loki or Thor, to explore every square inch of their bodies. His initial weirdness and gay panic had been burned away by the sheer strength of his unebbing arousal. And as he swaggered before the prisoner playing the tempter... he liked it. God did he like it. He kept his voice still and simply repeated "When did you first meet me?" "Back in March. You were investigating a case outside of Denver. I posed as part of the local sheriff's department." Loki admitted. And the top button became undone once more. "See. Easy." Dean replied with a Cheshire grin. He thought back to the case, they had been investigating angel deaths. Turned out to be a turf war between some fallen angels and demons. Dean's theories were growing stronger. "That was months before your invasion, why we were you spying on us." "I was considering my escape options in the case of an emergency." Loki admitted. Dean flicked the second button open and took a step towards the cage with ravenous excitement. "And why that case?" Loki paused, mulling his response. Dean's fingers were already on the third button, twisting back and forth in anticipation of releasing it. It'd be the closest to shirtless Dean had come yet, and most importantly Loki wouldn't lose ground. He was making a calculation in his mind and Dean whispers "If it helps, I already know the answer." Loki's eyes flit up towards the hunter, measuring his excitement ,his own crushing arousal. Dean knew. He knew it all. "Because that case involved angels." Loki gritted out. "Good boy," Dean whispered as the next button on his shirt fell. Those words sent a shiver up Loki's spine. The way they were whispered like they were for him only, not their assembled audience. They seemed mocking but the tone was actually affectionate. Dean must want to fuck as much as he does by this point, possibly more if he was getting these feelings at double strength. "So you didn't just stumble across us when running?" Dean asked. "Of course not," Loki answered without even thinking. "It was a carefully orchestrated plot to put me in your midst." Dean unfastened the next button and his shift drifted open further. The top of his abs now peering out at the sides of his flannel spread away from each other. "I know. I just wanted to give you another button." "Oh, so you're good cop now? I thought I was dealing with the mean old bad guy." Loki mocked. "I'm horny cop." Dean growled in a baritone. "I want exactly what you do. Because of you. Because the thing you did. But you are the one preventing us from getting it. I see it all Loki. I see what you were planning. I see where it went wrong. And most importantly I see how there is absolutely no danger you'll get out if we fuck. But until you come clean we can't do that. Admit why you're stalling." Dean was practically against the glass of the cell. His body vibrating with anger and eagerness. "I am stalling because my backup plan has already failed! And buying I am buying time as I desperately try to think of some way out of this. But I can't because of you! You are in my head and screaming in my bloodstream, Dean Winchester. No matter how I attempt to plot or plan my mind is full of thoughts of you, you and your pillowy lips, your tempting cock, your pert ass, your tantalizing walk, your beguiling smile, your condescending empathy, your very gait, they flood my mind." Dean looked so immensely pleased with himself, which made Loki want to wipe him from existence. With a pop the penultimate button on Dean's shirt fell. Loki hated how anxious he was for the last button to give way. "What went wrong with your plan?" Dean pressed. "Him," Loki hissed, his eyes cutting bitterly towards Thor, who now had a hand fully down his pants, "He was not supposed to be here when the prayer was read." "Of course not." Dean said with a knowing nod. "You set up the plan before the Avengers kicked your ass. You had no idea that Thor would even be a factor." Dean's nimble fingers unfastened the final button and that the shirt drifted open. The overshirt hung on either side of his chest, framing his torso. His body was surprisingly muscular but still lean and lithe. Dean wasn't a beefcake, yet somehow he radiated a sexual energy that was off the charts. The truth is it was all in his attitude and he had plenty of it. "One button left," Dean taunted and cooed all at once. He let his index finger slide down between his pecs, through his six pack, and stopping on the snap at the top of his jeans. "So the million dollar question, what was the plan?" Loki's breath caught in the back of his throat. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the bulge in Dean's crotch. He could feel himself salivating in anticipation. He need only say the right words and Dean would be released. Loki was confident that Dean had put the pieces together by now. And he'd already laid himself so bare before these people. He had all to win by coming clean yet the final confession couldn't be forced past his lips. It felt too much like a loss. He was hopelessly torn and dragging his heels for any sort of reply. Then Thor bellowed, "For all that is good tell him already!" The god of thunder's interruption managed to break the vice grip Dean had on Loki's attention. He snapped his head to the side to sneer at his brother. Then he broke back towards Dean and said with a smirk, "I never had a plan." Dean, for his part, had been so drawn into the tête-Ã&nbsp;-tête that he'd practically forgotten that he and Loki weren't the only two people in the room. But now that the bubble had burst he realized that the vast majority of SHIELD agents were pointing more than just guns in this direction (The male ones at least). The energy of the room crackled with unadulterated filth and horniness. And Thor, his massive body heaving as he was nearly consumed with lust, was a sight to behold. But Dean had come too far to relinquish the drivers' seat now. He had gotten Loki to the precipice. The expectation was that Dean would resort to rebuttoning his shirt to punish Loki for the `lie'. But that's not what happened. In fact Dean's hands went nowhere near the fabric, for Dean had a realization of his own. Loki's lie had been so deliberate, so obvious it meant only one thing. Loki was trying to punish Thor. Dean's head cocked to the side. "You hate him more than you want me." Dean stated, intrigue in his voice. "That is no surprise." Thor growled. "He's been nothing but jealous since we were but small children." "That so?" Dean asked before sending a pointed look to Loki. "No. You wouldn't dare." Loki's face dropped as he saw Dean's scheme. "Big guy, wanna lose the shirt and get over here." Dean nodded to Thor, who didn't need to be told twice. The cape hit the ground first. Then came the clanging of armor and gauntlet until Thor was wearing nothing more than some thinly stretched pants and his boots. Now it was Dean's turn to salivate at the sight of this chiseled figure coming towards him like an overeager puppy. Each step caused his magnificent tits to bounce. His hair blew in the breeze like the cover of a romance novel. The sheer size of him, the pound for pound muscle. Dean was, admittedly somewhat in awe. And for a brief moment he remember how terrified he was hours ago. He remembered that he'd never actually done anything sexual with another man. He wondered if that man's ravenous gaze would give way to disappointment when panic set in. But those tits... god those tits. Dean Winchester would always know how to handle tits. Whatever had brought him this far, spell or instinct or ungodly urges, he need only lean into them. For Now Thor was inches away from him, his giant frame consuming Dean's entire frame of vision. Dean's hands were pulled magnetically to Thor's breast each spreading out across one massive pectoral. "Fuuuuuuuuuck," Dean found himself muttering. "You like?" Thor beamed proudly. "Not as much as you're going to." Dean let one of his thumb run over Thor's nipple, eliciting a brief moan from the god. "You take this...this debauchery one step further and I will never confess a thing. We will all be stuck in this room until we die." Loki spat out. "Then tell me now." Dean said willing himself to tear his eyes off Thor and back to Loki. Loki held his gaze a beat, but unable to bring himself to admit checkmate he turned away. "Good. I was hoping you'd hold out a little longer." That jab stuck in Loki's craw. It was a poor negotiating tactic, but Dean was genuinely terrified his fun would be cut short before he'd had any. His eyes rose to meet Thor's. "I know that our judgement is... influenced. If you're not comfortable. If I push too far just say the word." "That will not be a problem." Thor said quite positive. Dean wound around Thor, admiring his body as a whole. Dean had never really noticed how sexy a man's back could be before. But standing behind Thor it became apparent just how much muscle there was. From behind he somehow seemed more broad all the way across. And there was, of course, the fact that Dean had never in his life seen a fatter ass. He took a step closer, pressing his body to Thor from behind. Dean was about a head smaller than Thor, yet somehow they fit together perfectly. Dean's eager bulge notched just under Thor's bubble butt, making its presence very known. Dean head rested on Thor's right shoulder, and the hunter playfully nipped at the god's earlobe. Dean's hands snaked around Thor's flanks returning to their now familiar homes on his bosom. "You are spectacular." Dean cooed in Thor's ear. As he spoke, Dean let his fingers ever so delicately trace the outline of Thor's areola. Thor took in a sharp breath as his body felt the jolt of the other man's touch. "You are quite skilled with your hands." "You like that; wait til you feel what I can do with my tongue." Dean said seductively. "You think this crassness will force cooperation out of me?" Loki squawked in dismay. "Actually at this point I'm really hoping it won't." Dean replied without so much as redirecting his attention towards the cell. Thor laughed gleefully at that response. He shot his brother a victorious grin and said, "Truly I must thank you for the inspiration, brother. For however good you suspect this feels know that the pleasure of it is at least ten times greater." Dean planted butterfly kisses along the nape of Thor's neck as he slithered around the hunk's body. Dean peered over Thor's left shoulder,"You can tell Fury your plan whenever you want." "Don't you dare." Thor scolded Loki. Loki of course considered that this was reverse psychology. Even Thor was capable of such. And it would be a wise play, but Thor seemed so genuine in his enjoyment. The mischief god once more found himself conflicted because of his stubborn desire to withhold the win from his captors. By now Dean's rotation had brought him to the front of Thor. The hunter peppered kisses down Thor's neck, slinking down to Thor's blastedly prominent pectorals. Dean took Thor's nipple into his mouth and the god of thunder's head flew back words. His eyes glazed over and he grunted "Yes." Loki snapped, "You weren't even the one who was supposed to read the damned prayer." "Shut up, Loki!" Thor boomed, thunder echoing in the distance. "I had figured Samuel would read it," Loki grumbled. Dean pulled back from Thor's chest, and the god let out a not so subtle whimper. But to his relief the other man at least turned around and nestled up against him. Thor's arms slipped around Dean's waist pulling him close. "You wanted to fuck my brother?" Dean asked icily. "That was part of the plan, yes. But it was more practical than that. He is the more magical of the two and he certainly would't be able to weaponize sexuality in the manner you are." It was at this point Fury stepped forward. "Focus. Give me the plan." "If my oaf of my brother wasn't here, you wouldn't have realized anything was amiss when the spell revealed my true form. I thought you'd cart me off into some holding cell expediently and later once the Winchesters realized what was happening Dean would send his pet angel to bring me to cure Samuel." Loki sneered. "And what reassurance do I have Dean here won't spring you for his own satisfaction?" Fury asked. He bought the explanation but wasn't sure that changed the situation. Fury was silent a beat. Dean disentangled himself from the Avenger, "I can show you an angel ward. Added it to the cell and we couldn't spring him if we wanted to." "But as long as this spell is still active you'll be motivated to help him escape in some manner. And your motivation will only grow stronger." "Then let us do what we must to lift the spell." Thor said returning from his haze of pleasure Dean spun to face him, "You mean that I should fuck you two?" "Well, me at least." Thor replied, his voice less dreamy and more serious. "SHIELD should keep searching for a solution so you never have to set foot in my brothers cage, but Dean... how long am I to endure this feeling? I can't abide it any longer". There was a ravenous look in Thor's eye, the light dancing off his muscles as he lurched forward towards Dean. "You promised to stop if I came clean." Loki fumed. "You tried to conquer the Earth a month ago. No one cares what you want." Some SHIELD agent barked from the crowd. The fact that run of the mill, non-bewitched, men were actively rooting for the thunder god to rail him would fluster Dean a day ago. It brought a smile to his face today. Dean's eyes drank Thor in. The stubble of a beard, accentuated his square jaw. As he moved closer, every goddamned muscle in his body flexed. "You want to keep going... right here? In front of SHIELD?" "As do you." Thor stated confidently "I felt it in your touch, Dean Winchester. My body burns for this and ever passing second is an agony. I may not have the words of my brother but the need he expressed... you can't tell me you don't feel it just as much for me." Dean didn't realize he was moving backward until his back touched against Loki's cell. "This is not supposed to happen!" Loki stomped the ground Dean let his head loll to the side as Loki devolved into a hissy fit over his shoulder. "You can't expect me to turn down a slutty blonde with a huge rack." Thor's meaty hand landed on Dean's hip, "So you'll let me take you?" Thor's eyes gleamed with excitement. "No. I'll be the one taking you." Dean replied his hand falling on Thor's hip to mirror the god's movements. An amused laugh rose from Thor's gut, "Dean, I am much larger than you." "And that'll be part of the fun." Dean countered, feeling the weight of Thor's body looming over him. The taller man looked down at him with a mix of admiration and disbelief. Dean simply smoldered back. Thor's body sank down against Dean's. His lips hovered inches away from the hunter's mouth. "Are you truly going to let this happen!?" Loki squawked at Fury. "You could always tell them how to reverse their prayer." Fury said with a shrug. "It can't be reversed" Loki whined. "Then you only have yourself to thank." Fury replied. "Dean, I have never been... penetrated before." Thor said, his voice suddenly dropping to a poor attempt at a whisper. "And you think I have?" Dean countered "I'll be gentle." Thor promised, nuzzling the other man. "I won't." Dean responded without hesitation and Thor's heart skipped a beat. Their lips brushing against one another at this point. Dean could certainly understand the appeal of being consumed by Thor's presence, by feeling this blanket of power and muscle around him, in him. And maybe had they talked just a little longer he'd have been the one to compromise. But Dean's lips met Thor's. The god's body became one raw nerve. He felt that kiss in the tips of his toes to the core of his soul. He couldn't tell you what exactly Dean was doing. He felt on hand on his hip, the other on his neck. Dean's tongue was invading his mouth, claiming him. And Thor's knees felt weak, literally. The god was so lightheaded, lost in the sensations of Dean's passion that he felt his legs give way beneath him. He landed on his knees, eye level with the bulge in Dean's jeans. He could see the outline of Dean's dick so clearly begging for relief. And he felt drawn to worship it. The god's eyes drifted up, an adorable look of genuine surprise and hope played on Thor's face. For he wasn't sure how he got here, but now it felt like it was where he should be. "Go ahead," Dean said reassuringly. He let his thumb run over the clasp in his jeans. The force of Dean's erection made quick work of his zipper. The pants nearly split at the seams to reveal the very clear outline of a rather impressive cock. Thor ran his tongue along the length of the outline savoring the hint of taste that had made it through the fabric. And when Dean let out a low growly moan, Thor felt his enormous chest swell with pride. Dean smiled down, letting a hand glide through Thor's long golden tresses. With a natural smile he asked, "You like that?" "You are divine, Dean Winchester." Thor responded in absolute awe. The air in the room crackled with an astonished silence. The day had been so thoroughly bizarre that two formerly straight men fucking in the midst of a heavily monitored room full of SHIELD agents wouldn't even have been that shocking. And Dean had managed to enthrall pretty much everyone with his magnetic confidence and puckish sexual energy. Yet it felt a whole different thing to see a very god on his knees before Dean, buzzing with an insatiable hunger and bottomless reverence for the hunter. Thor was publicly, openly prostrating himself at the altar of Dean, lost amongst his most craven impulses. Dean's cock sprang from its prison, as the last scraps of Dean's clothes were spread across the floor. To no one's surprise Dean had a remarkably impressive cocks, ten inches long and thick. To Thor the taste of Dean was more addictive, more intoxicating than the strongest mead. The god lacked in technique but his enthusiasm more than made up for it. And in truth there was nothing quite as exhilarating as looking down and seeing such a hulking figure of a man gagging on your cock. Dean felt like there was no force in the universe strong than him at this moment. "Slow down," He said gently. Thor forced himself to take a breath, his heavy lust laden eyelids fluttered up at Dean. "I'm sorry. I..." Dean could see whispers in confusion in the god. Like if he thought too much he may wonder how he'd gotten here. "The spell..." "You're doing amazing," Dean reassured, "Just pace yourself." Thor nodded and went back to savoring Dean's cock. "You certainly have him cowed." Loki said in amusement. Dean glanced over his shoulder. "I'll get to you later. For now turn around." "You torture me with his gratification but deny me the pleasure of his humiliation." Loki objected. "First of all, you feeling humiliated Thor?" "Gods no.... Mmmmm.... I don't know what you are, Dean.... Mmmm, but it is more than mortal." Thor answered between laps. "Relax your throat," Dean said reveling in the compliment. Thor followed the command and Dean slowly eased his way into Thor's mouth. For all the man's protestations of `inexperience' he was swallowing a rather big cock fairly easily. As the length fully disappeared and his nose rested in Dean's crotch, Dean put a gentle hand to the back of his head to hold him in place. Then he returned his attention to the man responsible for all this, "Secondly, I'm about to fuck your brother. No one should have to watch their brother having sex." Dean said and then shouted up to the rafters, "Understand that Sammy?" "You don't have to worry. He hasn't lifted his eyes from the books in the past two hours." A voice came over the loudspeaker, Fitz if Dean remembered correctly. "And I'd gladly give up my ability to hear." Sam's voice came on. Followed by a muttered, "I hate my life." With the stars finally all aligned Dean slid his hips back until his cock escaped from Thor's lisp with a loud pop. Thor let out a gasp, both for air and for his new toy to be returned. "You're a fucking natural," Dean smiled down. He beckoned the god to his feet. Thor sprung back up, pouncing forward and scooping Dean into another roiling lip lock. A few moments in the bodybuilder once more began to swoon, only this time Dean's arms kept him from going off kilter. When their mouths broke, Thor was simply radiating lust. "What are you doing during our kisses?" Thor wondered breathlessly. "My secret." Dean winked. "So what do you think, big guy. We taking this to the next level?" "That question seems unnecessary." Thor responded. "You seemed pretty insistent that you should be on top..." "I was wrong, Dean. I want you to shove your glorious cock into me." "I just want to make sure it's not the spell talking or anything..." "Dean I need you to fuck me," Thor spat, "And I'm relatively certain you just wanted to hear me say that." Dean grinned, "It was pretty hot." "I imagine." "Alright, pants off and on all fours please." Dean couldn't tell if Thor was truly into the curtness or just into him, so he decided to dial it back a smidge. As Thor disrobed, Dean surveyed his adoring audience. "If any of you want to start masturbating I wouldn't object." He groused. "I would." Fury interject. "Eyes on the prisoner. Hands on your weapons." "If I'm too much of a distraction we could take this elsewhere." Dean retorted. "We remain on lockdown." Fury said pointedly. Dean not so subtly let his eyes sink down to the bulge in Fury's own pants before muttering, "Whatever you need to tell yourself." "Boy, I could slap you." Fury snapped back. "Director, I only started sleeping with guys today. How many men can I be expected to flirt with at once?" Dean jibed. Fury narrowed his eyes, "Watch yourself." "If only I could." Dean grinned. Thor had managed to get wholly nude by now. His foot long cock twitching and leaking as it jutted out aggressively. Dean had, in his heart of hearts been hoping his dick was bigger than a god's. That would be cool. But given the situation he could settle for this. Thor got down on the ground, arching his back something fierce and sticking his ass up to be mounted. Dean licked his lips as he walked over. Dean positioned himself behind the eager god and placed one hand on the side of his ass. "I'm gonna get you ready, first" he explained. He slid one slicked finger into the Thor's virgin ass, gauging how he would take any intrusion. The braced for entry but let out a moan nonetheless. "You good?" Dean asked. "More." Thor begged. Dean was impressed at how quickly the other man made the request and happy to oblige. He added a second finger to Thor's hungry hole and watched as his cock twitched. Dean plunged his fingers in and out of Thor, making slight adjustments to pace and position. All the while noting every noise of pleasure and pain, every tense of the muscle the Avenger displayed. "Last one." Dean stated. Thor answered with only a grunt. Yet Dean knew it was a grunt in the affirmative. It truly was the first time Thor had ever `bottomed.' It was an odd feeling, not without some discomfort but also full of new and exciting sensations. He could feel his heart thrumming in his chest in wicked anticipation. Dean's fingers slid out of him and he knew the moment was here. Thor felt the head of Dean's cock rest against his hole, preparing to enter. One hand fell on Thor's shoulder to secure him, while the other steadied his waist. The moan escaped Thor's lips before he even registered what was causing it. Dean had begun to ease into him and it was tripping some sort of reflexive behavior. His mind divorced further and further from his body. He could not focus or put more than a few second of concentration on anything when his brain simply screamed "More! More! More!" Once the entirety of Dean's dick was buried in Thor's magnificent ass, the hunter leaned forward. He draped his body over the other man's broad frame to lay a kiss upon his shoulder. "You're so tight. You're doing amazing." "You are fucking amazing." Thor panted. Objectively Dean was fucking amazing. And most importantly amazing at fucking. He may have never been with a man before, but he'd done anal. And more to the point he knew how to give his partner an experience they'd never forget. Dean knew how to work a slow steady pace to build up his lover's need. He knew how to rotate his hips and adapt his strokes to how the bottom responded. A clap of thunder rang outside and Dean knew he'd found the prostate. "You like that." Dean snarled. Mercilessly replicating the stroke two more time to nothing but the sputtering of Thor. Dean gave Thor's `magic button' a rest. The hand that had been placed on Thor's shoulder to reassure lifted ever so slightly, the tips of Dean's fingers just brushing at Thor's skin. Static electricity sparked like crazy between their bodies and the tingling thrilled Dean. This man of strength and size had been reduced to the quivering, cooeing mass of muscle beneath him. While neither man could see it from their angle, Dean's own chest swelled. His eyes burned with dominance. As his cock slowly tantalized Thor with its in and outs, Dean's finger made their way down the other man's spine. "Harder," Thor managed to eek out. "When I'm ready." Dean answered deliberately slowing his pace and getting a whine from Thor. "You said you wouldn't be gentle." Thor managed to say. Dean's eyes shined, a hint of darkness in his smile. He scooped up Thor's long locks and pulled his head back by the mane. Thor's mouth hung agape, drooling. His eyes vacant. Dean had broken him so completely, his muscles pulsed as the smaller man yanked his head backward and drove his monstrous cock into him. "You want rough." "Yes. Please. Dean. Please." Thor sputtered. Then suddenly Thor was empty. "Dean? Dean!?" "On your back. Leg's in the air." Dean's instructions landed coldly. Thor was all too eager to follow them. His body was trembling and glistening with sweat. His vision literally blurry outside of Dean's presence above him. Thor had never seen a more beautiful or wicked sight in his life. The smaller man grabbed Thor's ankles and happily manhandled the god. With a firm yank Thor found his massive thighs on either side of Dean's waist. "Lock your ankles." Dean ordered. As Thor's legs wrapped round the hunter's back, Thor felt Dean's cock easing back into him. "The stronger you hold the more hands free I can be." Dean said and instantaneously Thor's legs became a vice. Dean drove down straight into Thor's prostate with a hungry grin. His hand reached out and wrapped around the god's aching shaft. It was already sticky from the buckets of precum he'd been leaking. "You really are a slutty one, huh?" "Yes." Thor panted. "Say it." "I'm a slut." Thor moaned, the pressure from Dean's cock mounting as the hunter let his hips remain still. His nimble figures dancing along Thor's dick. "Whose slut?" "Your slut. I'm your slut Dean." The god's toes curled, his finger uselessly clawing at the floor for something to hold. Those word seemed to make Dean quite happy, and that in itself pleased Thor. Dean never felt like this before. For a fleeting instant he wondered the exact influence of the spell. Had he ever been this dominant with any woman? Could he be? Was all gay sex this raw? Was Thor always this submissive at his core? Was Dean merely responding in kind to what the god wanted? Because Thor so sorely wanted it. His face was flush, his eyes dripping in lust. The long blonde hair matted with sweat, a few errant strands sticking to his shaking muscles. Dean's firm grip on that log of a cock was keeping the cum at bay, but he would burst soon. The God's hip bent ever so slightly upward, to allow Dean access to him. And so his abs were perfectly positioned to show off his divine eight pack. With each downward thrust of Dean's hips, Thor's massive tits jiggled and that seemed to fill Dean with glee. His stroked became harder, faster, a game the elder Winchester was paying to see how fast he could make those pecs jump. Then there was the thunder. A dull roar from somewhere outside at first, the booming grew. Louder. Closer. Again and again. The closer Dean drove the god to climax the more it felt like a hurricane was just beyond their door. Thor's very body was radiating electricity as Dean let his remaining hand glide across the man's obscene abs. Dean wasn't sure what Thor felt but the sting was pleasant to him, a gentle tingle. That's why Dean let his hand makes its way all the way up to Thor's pec. Lingering over Thor's nipple he created a constant stream between the two surfaces. Thor felt something and he enjoyed it. Dean could tell by the way he squirmed under his touch. Dean locked eyes with the god, as he felt the pressure mounting within in. "We're gonna cum now." "Uh, huh." Thor managed to moan out. His eyes being overtaken by lightening "Do it. Fill me, Dean." The lights of the room flickered and Dean vaguely recognized some protest from Fury in the background but it was far far too late for that. Dean let himself go. His dick erupted sending shot after shot of warm cum into the hungry god. Thor's own climax came in unison and his seed poured down onto himself, splattering against his chest and face. His final cries of pleasure drown out by a mighty thunder clap. The room lit up, lightning flying in all directions. Agents ducked and fled from the errant bolts. The rooms electronics shorted from overload and everything when dark. Things were pitch black for a long beat and by the time the back up generators kicked back in the god of thunder lay splayed out on the floor marinating in semen and sweat, as Dean's essence oozed from him. He was in euphoric afterglow, unable to move a muscle. Dean stood above him, struggling for breath as his mind tried to find solid ground and whatever sexual mania overtook him faded. His angry, carnal face melting back into its pretty angelic features. His muscles sore from use, but his cock straightening back to life as unlike Thor his journey with this spell hadn't yet reached it's conclusion. There was panic around him but he was mostly oblivious to it. The soldiers seemed less focused on the men in the center of the room. They were scampering about in bustle and confusion. Dean noticed the exterior door had been shorted out by Thor's climax. Then he cast a weary eye towards the cause of this mischief. Only Loki's cell was empty. "Shit." Dean muttered. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/brady-gets-fucked

Date: Sun, 15 Sep 2024 21:08:06 +0000 From: Sven Benters <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Brady Gets Fucked Like A Piggy This is a fanfiction story with the characters Brady Black (Eric Martsolf) and Xander Cook Kiriakis (Paul Telfer). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © PEACOCKE DAYS OF OUR LIVES ********************************* Brady Black is lying in bed, empty bottles of booze on the ground and nightstand. Again Brady has let himself go and ended in a stranger's bed. As it seems again with Fiona Cook but she's not around this time. The door of the room gets open and a figure walks inside. The person walks over to the bed, seeing Brady waisted and naked in the bed. The person pulls the covers away, revealing Brady's big masculine body and that sweet peachy formed ass. Brady just moves a little, still in a deep coma of the booze. The person spreads Brady's asscheeks. Massaging those globes and holding them apart to spit at Brady's hold. Brady gives a little grunt to be spit at his rosebutt. The saliva of the strangers drips over the rosebutt and gets massaged by the person's finger. A finger gets pushed inside and Brady grunts, too much waisted to even come quickly out of his boozed coma. Brady grunts while he gets fingered up by the stranger. A second finger gets added and Brady starts to grunt more, slowly opening his watery eyes, not understanding what's going on at first. The person starts to feel Brady up and continues to finger fuck him roughly. "Wha-what's going on?" Brady stutters, finally realizing something is being done to his ass. "So you think you could have shacked up with my mom and gotten away with it huh!" Xander in his Scottish accent whispers in Brady's ear. "Xander, how, what's going on?" Brady asks. "Shut up you bitch, you don't sleep with my mom and get away with it!" Xander angrily says and adds a third finger up inside Brady's ass. "Oh fuck! Stop it Xander!" Brady says. "I'm going to teach you a lesson!" Xander threatens. "Please stop, don't do this Xander." Brady begs. Xander pushes Brady down on the bed whenever Brady tries to get up. "You will take this and much more that I will give you so you will learn to stop meeting up with my mother." "You were at odds with your mother." Brady points out. "That's still no excuse for you bedding her. I'm going to make you my fuck bitch, let's see if you like that!" "Please no, don't!" Brady begs. Xander takes his fingers out of Brady's hole and Brady sighs of relief. Xander stands up and starts to strip himself down. Brady looks over his shoulder and notices Xander getting undressed. "Oh fuck no!" Brady says trying to get up but Xander grabs Brady by his legs to pull him back. "I'm gonna fuck you and you will like it!" Xander half dressed turns Brady on his back and pins him down on the bed. "You will be fucked!" Brady is scared. "Please Xander, don't do this. Think about Sarah, your family, what you are doing is not what I want." "Did you care for me when you were sleeping with my mother?" Xander points out. Brady is quiet. "Didn't think so!" Xander says and grabs Brady's tie from the nightstand and ties Brady's wrists together to the headboard. "Stop this Xander!" Brady says again. Xander grabs one of Brady's socks. "Put a sock in it!" Xander says to Brady and puts the sock in Brady's mouth to make the man shut up. Xander stands up and looks at Brady. Seeing like a prey he's going to hunt. Brady looks at Xander, watching how the big hairy Scottish man gets completely naked by revealing his monster sized dick. Seeing Xander's dick makes Brady widen his eyes and he starts to scream through the sock. "It's good I put a sock in that mouth of yours." Xander points out and holds his monster cock in his hand, stroking that big hard baton where he's going to fuck Brady with. While getting between Brady's legs Brady tries to struggle to get free before Xander starts to fuck him but it has no use. Xander tied him up very tight. Xander grabs hold of Brady's legs sitting between them. "Time to get fucked!" He says and gets his dick to Brady's rosebutt. Brady shakes his head to Xander and screams through the sock. "It's no use Brady, this is going to happen if you like it or not!" Xander starts to push his dick inside. Brady screams loudly, muffled by the sock and his eyes stand with tears, Xander's monster cock starts to stretch that tight hole open. Xander goes slowly inside, wanting Brady to feel every inch of his cock coming inside. It's like there is no end coming so long and thick it is. At the base Xander is so thick that Brady's hole is completely stretched as if a big piece of chopped wood is lodged up inside Brady. Xander looks down, seeing tears falling over Brady's cheeks. "You are not worthy to be with my mom or to be my stepfather." Xander taunts. "If only Tate would know how weak and pathetic his dad is!" Xander starts to immediately fuck Brady, making the big smooth muscle hunk scream in agony to handle Xander's monster sized dick. As Brady lays there, all sweaty and being fucked hard by Xander, he suddenly feels Xander's big hand on his throat who starts to squeeze the air out of him. "Fucking take my dick you bitch. You want to whore around and sleep with so many women fine, but my mom is off limits and I will teach you some boundaries!" Xander says while choking the air out of Brady. Brady freaks out, tied up, fucked and now being choked. Xander hangs over Brady. "Be afraid, be very afraid because now that I know I am Victor's son and I have all the power I can do whatever I want!" Brady realizes he's really screwed! Xander lets go of Brady's throat and it's all red from his wrapped up hand around it. Brady looks up, seeing the anger in Xander's eyes. "You better have some respect for me as being your uncle from now on!" Xander warns Brady. Brady realizes he's now even fucked by his uncle as well, realizing this is next to rape also incest that Xander is having with him. Deep hard thrusts Xander gives to make Brady's body shake. "You're being a fucking bitch now, my bitch!" Xander taunts. Brady can't believe this is really happening. The pain of that monster cock is excruciating but the more thrusts are being given the weirder it gets for Brady that he can see his dick starting to rize out of pleasure. "I think my nephew likes to get some dicking." Xander teases and winks at Brady. Brady can't believe it, his dick is actually getting hard from his new uncle's thrusts inside him. Xander doesn't realize it but hits Brady's prostate and suddenly instead of a grunt of pain Brady gives a loud sound of pleasure through the sock. "Oh, is my nephew enjoying it?" Xander says and pulls the sock out of Brady's mouth. "You fucking bastard!" is the first Brady says. Xander gives the same deep hard thrusts and Brady moans out of pleasure. "Oh yeah, that's fucking hot, you really like a big cock up inside you huh!" "No, I don't, you piece of shit!" Brady replies. Xander gets angry and starts to pummel Brady's ass really hard. "Fuck, oh fuck FUUUUCCCKKKK!!" Brady suddenly screams. Xander now knows exactly what he needs to hit inside Brady and can taunt Brady by it. "Now just let uncle Xander take good care of you." Xander says and grabs hold of Brady's dick while he keeps fucking Brady. Waves of pleasure run through Brady's body, he suddenly doesn't want Xander to stop anymore. `Why does he like this, how can he enjoy incest and a fuck he never thought about?' Brady thinks to himself. "Do you think my mother still wants you after she knows you have been fucked by her own son?" Xander says. Brady has his eyes closed, feeling Xander's tight grip on his dick and Xander's monster sized dick hitting his prostate in repeat. "You're a fucking wooze Brady." Xander says and grabs Brady by his chin, causing Brady to open his eyes and look at Xander. "Did you hear me, slut!" Brady is quiet, having no control over himself anymore, being delivered at Xander's mercy. Xander lets go of Brady's dick and grabs hold of Brady's pecs. "Not bad, only mine are firmer." He keeps taunting Brady. Brady looks at Xander's pecs, it's no denying they are firmer. Suddenly he shakes his head. `What's wrong with me, why am I suddenly looking at Xander, my uncle like that?" He questions himself. Xander gets Brady's nipples at his fingers and twists those pointy nipples of Brady. Brady yelps to the pain he feels. "You're a real muscle bitch Brady Black and you are all mine now!" Then to Brady's surprise Xander unties his arms. `Should I push him off?' Brady says to himself. Then Xander takes his dick out, rolls Brady over and brings that monster sized cock back deep inside that fucked up ass. "Like I said, you are all mine now you slut!" Brady gets pushed up to his hands and knees and Xander starts to thrust deep and hard again. A mixture of grunts and moans escape Brady's mouth while he handles that big monster cock of Xander. "That's it, slut out on this big dick, you're my whore now!" Xander says and pulls at Brady's hair. "Push that ass back and show me you want this!" "How can I fucking relax and let you take me!" Brady angry says. "I also didn't say you need to relax and don't be worried, I will take you, if you like it or not!" Xander slaps Brady's ass. "Come on piggy, move back and forth!" "I fucking hate you!" Brady says looking over his shoulder. "I know, that makes this even hotter you pig!" Xander replies. Brady gets angry at Xander calling him a pig, refusing to do what Xander wants. "Piggy doesn't want to do what uncle says!" Xander says and grabs hold of Brady's shoulders to pound Brady's ass. "Aaaarrrgghhhh" Brady growls. Xander leads his hands to Brady's neck and wraps them both around it. "I gave you a chance piggy, now I need to do this!" Xander says and chokes Brady out while roughly fucking that ass. Brady starts to turn red, getting no air while he feels the rough thrusting. "If you want me to stop I want to hear you oink like a pig!" Brady feels humiliated, left with no other choice as to oink like a pig. "Oh yeah and now fucking squeel like one!" Brady starts to squeel like a pig. Xander laughs and removes his hands from Brady, letting Brady cough and catch his breath. "Now thrusts yourself back as I first told you." Brady has no other choice as to move himself back and forth, fucking himself on Xander's dick. "Yeah, whore yourself out on my dick slut!" Brady continues the movement of going back and forth until Xander grabs him and rolls them over with Xander on his back and Brady laying on top of him. Hooking Brady's legs and arms Xander keeps thrusting up, fucking Brady wildly. Loud moans of Brady fill the entire room. Brady's dick dancing around, being stiff and hard from the thrusts he's getting, leaking precum. "So to see my nephew like to be abused like this." Xander whispers in Brady's ear. Shivers run over Brady's spine to hear Xander's voice whispering in his ear. The thrusts against his prostate eventually make Brady's dick erupt, shooting six spurts of cum all over the place, practically raining down on Brady. "Oh fuck!" Brady says out of shock. "Damn, you really liked that huh!" Xander taunts while giving several more thrusts until he tenses up and fills Brady's ass up. "FUCK YEAH!" Xander loudly screams, filling Brady's inside. Xander finally lets go of his grip and he gets from underneath Brady. "Let that be a warning to stay away from my mom!" Xander threatens while getting his clothes together. Brady is dazed and confused at what just happened. When Xander is dressed he leaves the room without saying anything to Brady. Covered in his own sweat and sperm Brady gets up, feeling pain at his butt when he stands. "That fucking Xander!" He says angry and walks to the bathroom. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sun, 15 Sep 2024 21:08:06 +0000 From: Sven Benters &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Subject: Brady Gets Fucked Like A Piggy This is a fanfiction story with the characters Brady Black (Eric Martsolf) and Xander Cook Kiriakis (Paul Telfer). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © PEACOCKE DAYS OF OUR LIVES ********************************* Brady Black is lying in bed, empty bottles of booze on the ground and nightstand. Again Brady has let himself go and ended in a stranger's bed. As it seems again with Fiona Cook but she's not around this time. The door of the room gets open and a figure walks inside. The person walks over to the bed, seeing Brady waisted and naked in the bed. The person pulls the covers away, revealing Brady's big masculine body and that sweet peachy formed ass. Brady just moves a little, still in a deep coma of the booze. The person spreads Brady's asscheeks. Massaging those globes and holding them apart to spit at Brady's hold. Brady gives a little grunt to be spit at his rosebutt. The saliva of the strangers drips over the rosebutt and gets massaged by the person's finger. A finger gets pushed inside and Brady grunts, too much waisted to even come quickly out of his boozed coma. Brady grunts while he gets fingered up by the stranger. A second finger gets added and Brady starts to grunt more, slowly opening his watery eyes, not understanding what's going on at first. The person starts to feel Brady up and continues to finger fuck him roughly. "Wha-what's going on?" Brady stutters, finally realizing something is being done to his ass. "So you think you could have shacked up with my mom and gotten away with it huh!" Xander in his Scottish accent whispers in Brady's ear. "Xander, how, what's going on?" Brady asks. "Shut up you bitch, you don't sleep with my mom and get away with it!" Xander angrily says and adds a third finger up inside Brady's ass. "Oh fuck! Stop it Xander!" Brady says. "I'm going to teach you a lesson!" Xander threatens. "Please stop, don't do this Xander." Brady begs. Xander pushes Brady down on the bed whenever Brady tries to get up. "You will take this and much more that I will give you so you will learn to stop meeting up with my mother." "You were at odds with your mother." Brady points out. "That's still no excuse for you bedding her. I'm going to make you my fuck bitch, let's see if you like that!" "Please no, don't!" Brady begs. Xander takes his fingers out of Brady's hole and Brady sighs of relief. Xander stands up and starts to strip himself down. Brady looks over his shoulder and notices Xander getting undressed. "Oh fuck no!" Brady says trying to get up but Xander grabs Brady by his legs to pull him back. "I'm gonna fuck you and you will like it!" Xander half dressed turns Brady on his back and pins him down on the bed. "You will be fucked!" Brady is scared. "Please Xander, don't do this. Think about Sarah, your family, what you are doing is not what I want." "Did you care for me when you were sleeping with my mother?" Xander points out. Brady is quiet. "Didn't think so!" Xander says and grabs Brady's tie from the nightstand and ties Brady's wrists together to the headboard. "Stop this Xander!" Brady says again. Xander grabs one of Brady's socks. "Put a sock in it!" Xander says to Brady and puts the sock in Brady's mouth to make the man shut up. Xander stands up and looks at Brady. Seeing like a prey he's going to hunt. Brady looks at Xander, watching how the big hairy Scottish man gets completely naked by revealing his monster sized dick. Seeing Xander's dick makes Brady widen his eyes and he starts to scream through the sock. "It's good I put a sock in that mouth of yours." Xander points out and holds his monster cock in his hand, stroking that big hard baton where he's going to fuck Brady with. While getting between Brady's legs Brady tries to struggle to get free before Xander starts to fuck him but it has no use. Xander tied him up very tight. Xander grabs hold of Brady's legs sitting between them. "Time to get fucked!" He says and gets his dick to Brady's rosebutt. Brady shakes his head to Xander and screams through the sock. "It's no use Brady, this is going to happen if you like it or not!" Xander starts to push his dick inside. Brady screams loudly, muffled by the sock and his eyes stand with tears, Xander's monster cock starts to stretch that tight hole open. Xander goes slowly inside, wanting Brady to feel every inch of his cock coming inside. It's like there is no end coming so long and thick it is. At the base Xander is so thick that Brady's hole is completely stretched as if a big piece of chopped wood is lodged up inside Brady. Xander looks down, seeing tears falling over Brady's cheeks. "You are not worthy to be with my mom or to be my stepfather." Xander taunts. "If only Tate would know how weak and pathetic his dad is!" Xander starts to immediately fuck Brady, making the big smooth muscle hunk scream in agony to handle Xander's monster sized dick. As Brady lays there, all sweaty and being fucked hard by Xander, he suddenly feels Xander's big hand on his throat who starts to squeeze the air out of him. "Fucking take my dick you bitch. You want to whore around and sleep with so many women fine, but my mom is off limits and I will teach you some boundaries!" Xander says while choking the air out of Brady. Brady freaks out, tied up, fucked and now being choked. Xander hangs over Brady. "Be afraid, be very afraid because now that I know I am Victor's son and I have all the power I can do whatever I want!" Brady realizes he's really screwed! Xander lets go of Brady's throat and it's all red from his wrapped up hand around it. Brady looks up, seeing the anger in Xander's eyes. "You better have some respect for me as being your uncle from now on!" Xander warns Brady. Brady realizes he's now even fucked by his uncle as well, realizing this is next to rape also incest that Xander is having with him. Deep hard thrusts Xander gives to make Brady's body shake. "You're being a fucking bitch now, my bitch!" Xander taunts. Brady can't believe this is really happening. The pain of that monster cock is excruciating but the more thrusts are being given the weirder it gets for Brady that he can see his dick starting to rize out of pleasure. "I think my nephew likes to get some dicking." Xander teases and winks at Brady. Brady can't believe it, his dick is actually getting hard from his new uncle's thrusts inside him. Xander doesn't realize it but hits Brady's prostate and suddenly instead of a grunt of pain Brady gives a loud sound of pleasure through the sock. "Oh, is my nephew enjoying it?" Xander says and pulls the sock out of Brady's mouth. "You fucking bastard!" is the first Brady says. Xander gives the same deep hard thrusts and Brady moans out of pleasure. "Oh yeah, that's fucking hot, you really like a big cock up inside you huh!" "No, I don't, you piece of shit!" Brady replies. Xander gets angry and starts to pummel Brady's ass really hard. "Fuck, oh fuck FUUUUCCCKKKK!!" Brady suddenly screams. Xander now knows exactly what he needs to hit inside Brady and can taunt Brady by it. "Now just let uncle Xander take good care of you." Xander says and grabs hold of Brady's dick while he keeps fucking Brady. Waves of pleasure run through Brady's body, he suddenly doesn't want Xander to stop anymore. `Why does he like this, how can he enjoy incest and a fuck he never thought about?' Brady thinks to himself. "Do you think my mother still wants you after she knows you have been fucked by her own son?" Xander says. Brady has his eyes closed, feeling Xander's tight grip on his dick and Xander's monster sized dick hitting his prostate in repeat. "You're a fucking wooze Brady." Xander says and grabs Brady by his chin, causing Brady to open his eyes and look at Xander. "Did you hear me, slut!" Brady is quiet, having no control over himself anymore, being delivered at Xander's mercy. Xander lets go of Brady's dick and grabs hold of Brady's pecs. "Not bad, only mine are firmer." He keeps taunting Brady. Brady looks at Xander's pecs, it's no denying they are firmer. Suddenly he shakes his head. `What's wrong with me, why am I suddenly looking at Xander, my uncle like that?" He questions himself. Xander gets Brady's nipples at his fingers and twists those pointy nipples of Brady. Brady yelps to the pain he feels. "You're a real muscle bitch Brady Black and you are all mine now!" Then to Brady's surprise Xander unties his arms. `Should I push him off?' Brady says to himself. Then Xander takes his dick out, rolls Brady over and brings that monster sized cock back deep inside that fucked up ass. "Like I said, you are all mine now you slut!" Brady gets pushed up to his hands and knees and Xander starts to thrust deep and hard again. A mixture of grunts and moans escape Brady's mouth while he handles that big monster cock of Xander. "That's it, slut out on this big dick, you're my whore now!" Xander says and pulls at Brady's hair. "Push that ass back and show me you want this!" "How can I fucking relax and let you take me!" Brady angry says. "I also didn't say you need to relax and don't be worried, I will take you, if you like it or not!" Xander slaps Brady's ass. "Come on piggy, move back and forth!" "I fucking hate you!" Brady says looking over his shoulder. "I know, that makes this even hotter you pig!" Xander replies. Brady gets angry at Xander calling him a pig, refusing to do what Xander wants. "Piggy doesn't want to do what uncle says!" Xander says and grabs hold of Brady's shoulders to pound Brady's ass. "Aaaarrrgghhhh" Brady growls. Xander leads his hands to Brady's neck and wraps them both around it. "I gave you a chance piggy, now I need to do this!" Xander says and chokes Brady out while roughly fucking that ass. Brady starts to turn red, getting no air while he feels the rough thrusting. "If you want me to stop I want to hear you oink like a pig!" Brady feels humiliated, left with no other choice as to oink like a pig. "Oh yeah and now fucking squeel like one!" Brady starts to squeel like a pig. Xander laughs and removes his hands from Brady, letting Brady cough and catch his breath. "Now thrusts yourself back as I first told you." Brady has no other choice as to move himself back and forth, fucking himself on Xander's dick. "Yeah, whore yourself out on my dick slut!" Brady continues the movement of going back and forth until Xander grabs him and rolls them over with Xander on his back and Brady laying on top of him. Hooking Brady's legs and arms Xander keeps thrusting up, fucking Brady wildly. Loud moans of Brady fill the entire room. Brady's dick dancing around, being stiff and hard from the thrusts he's getting, leaking precum. "So to see my nephew like to be abused like this." Xander whispers in Brady's ear. Shivers run over Brady's spine to hear Xander's voice whispering in his ear. The thrusts against his prostate eventually make Brady's dick erupt, shooting six spurts of cum all over the place, practically raining down on Brady. "Oh fuck!" Brady says out of shock. "Damn, you really liked that huh!" Xander taunts while giving several more thrusts until he tenses up and fills Brady's ass up. "FUCK YEAH!" Xander loudly screams, filling Brady's inside. Xander finally lets go of his grip and he gets from underneath Brady. "Let that be a warning to stay away from my mom!" Xander threatens while getting his clothes together. Brady is dazed and confused at what just happened. When Xander is dressed he leaves the room without saying anything to Brady. Covered in his own sweat and sperm Brady gets up, feeling pain at his butt when he stands. "That fucking Xander!" He says angry and walks to the bathroom. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.</pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/getting-wild-in-the-barn

Date: Sun, 5 May 2024 21:25:56 +0000 From: Sven Benters <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Getting Wild In The Barn This is a fanfiction story with the characters Harrison Chase (Josh Swickard) and Cody Bell (Josh Kelly). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ABC GENERAL HOSPITAL ********************************* Harrison Chase is at the stables searching for his girlfriend Brookelynn but it seems she isn't around. But he does hear some noise and goes into the barn to search where it's coming from. While following the sound he's hearing he's suddenly surprised to see a naked Cody Bell on a bale of hay stroking his dick and moaning loudly. Chase wants to walk away but by his rush he stumbles against a cradle and Cody gets out of his horny trance, noticing Chase. "Cody, I-I'm so-sorry, I...." Chase stutters while coming out of his words and wants to rush off. Cody stands up and runs over to Chase to grab his arm to stop him. "Hold on buddy!" Chase freezes and doesn't dare to look at naked Cody with his hard dick standing straight forward. "Perhaps you can help me." Cody suggests with a cheeky smile on his face. Chase turns to Cody's face and notices the smile. "Wha-what!" He says shocked. Cody pulls at Chase's arm bringing the hot cop to the bale of hay. While Chase struggles a little bit but half frozen to the sudden situation, Cody strips the hot copper down. Making Chase's fit cop body revealing and a hairy chest to booth where Cody runs his fingers through. "Damn Chase, what a hot body." Cody says while admiring it with his hands. Making Chase only more nervous for what's to come. Chase doesn't understand what's happening to him. Why isn't he resisting Cody more? Cody has Chase bend over the bale of hay, completely naked, feeling Chase's muscle back up and then to that ass, spreading those ass cheeks apart. Chase looks shocked over his shoulders, feeling his cheeks being spread apart and sees Cody spitting at his hole. With his mouth standing open out of shock, Chase let his hole be spit at by the sexy stable boy. "Please Cody..." Chase starts but Cody reacts to hush him "Ssssh... just let it happen sexy!" Suddenly Cody dives at Chase's rosebutt and starts to lick at it. "Oh FUCK!" Chase shouts out, feeling his hole being rimmed for the first time. Chase is a loud moaner. Feeling that intense pleasure at his hole. A feeling he never thought would feel. Cody stops and gives a little slap at Chase's ass. "That's a sweet tasty ass you got." He says and dives right back to it. Chase hangs his head back and moans to the new pleasure he's feeling. To the experience of all this new pleasure Chase doesn't even resist anymore and lets it all happen. Cody keeps on rimming Chase and then sucks at one of his fingers to press it inside Chase's ass. Chase feels suddenly the pain of getting something up his ass, he looks over his shoulder at Cody. "Fuck man, that hurts, get it out of there." "Calm down detective. Just let it happen, eventually you will feel that pleasure again." Cody explains. Chase feels his knees shacking to getting finger fucked for the first time. "Oh please Cody, stop," Chase cries out, feeling his ass being finger fucked for the first time. "Come on detective, just go through this." Cody responds and adds a second finger. Chase whimpers, feeling those two fingers up his hole going back and forth, fucking him. Cody keeps on pressuring Chase. The sound of Chase's whimpering turns Cody on and with his free hand he gives several strokes at his dick before he adds a third finger up there. "OH FUCK!" Chase shouts out and with that loudly moans, feeling his hole getting finger fucked. Through the process Chase starts to move with the thrusts and Cody stops moving with his fingers, feeling Chase now going back and forth with his ass, fucking himself to his fingers. Cody smiles and knows he has Chase now all where he wants the hot detective. Cody pulls his fingers out and Chase looks over his shoulder, crying about his empty hole. Chase notices the grin on Cody's face. "I can add more up that hole if you want. I only want to have you say it." Cody explains. "Say what?" Chase asks. "Tell me what you want detective and I will give it to you." Cody says and looks down at his twitching dick. Chase looks at Cody's dick as well. He has gotten so turned on by that finger fucking, his own dick got hard as well and twitching to while he watches at Cody's dick, thinking how it will feel when that is up inside his ass. "I can tell you want more but I want to hear it out of your mouth detective." Cody insists. Chase takes a deep breath. "FUCK ME." He practically screams. Cody smiles. "With pleasure." He says and gets close to Chase to turn him towards him and starts kissing with him while he grabs hold of both their dicks to stroke them. Chase feels so much pleasure and emotions by being kissed, pressed against the barn wall while his dick is against Cody's dick being stroked together. Cody stops stroking them and looks at Chase. "Get down on your knees and suck me." Chase for a moment hesitates, not used to this sexual activity but drops to his knees in front of Cody. Looking up at the hunk and opening his mouth to suck on it. Cody moans when Chase's lips are around his dick and he feels his dick inside that wet warm mouth of Chase's. "Fuck yeah detetctive, that's so good." He says while he places one hand on Chase's head to make the detective deepthroat his dick. Chase's first reaction is to gag but then his cops instincts take over and he shows Cody he can handle it without gagging. Cody is impressed and continues to deepthroat the sexy detective, not getting enough of that wet warm mouth around his dick. Getting ready to fuck Chase soon. While Chase continues to suck Cody's dick, he feels some kind of movement from Cody and looks up to see Cody grabbed a cowboy head that was laying in the hay and put it on. "Ready to get fucked cowboy style?" Cody says with a big smile on his face. Chase gets off of Cody's dick that is standing straight forward, ready to fuck Chase. Cody grabs Chase up by pulling the sexy stud up from underneath his arms. He starts to kiss Chase passionately while he presses the detective to the barn wall again. Suddenly Chase feels Cody lifting him up and before he knows it he feels his ass lowering down on Cody's big hard dick. "OH FUCK!" Chase screams out feeling that big hard `cowboy' dick entering inside him. "Damn, you're tight detective." Cody says while they both stare in each other's eyes. Chase wraps his arms and legs around Cody to hold on tight while that big dick is fully lodged up inside his tight, not so virgin hole now. Chase gasps from the big intrusion of Cody's big dick. Cody pulls Chase in a kiss, pushing him hard against the wall to start fucking him. Their bodies pressed against each other while Cody thrusts up and down inside that sweet ass. Their bodies getting all sweaty and Chase's dick experiences the friction of being pressed between their hard abs. "How's that detective to get fucked by a cowboy." "Oh fuck Cody, you're dick is so big." Chase confesses. "Uh uh uh... call me cowboy." Cody says and pulls at the hair of Chase's head. "Fuck me, cowboy." Chase grunts. "What did you say?" Cody asks and thrusts even harder and deeper. "FUCK ME COWBOY!" Chase screams. Cody feels so turned on to hear that sexy hairy detective screaming to get fucked more and he turns Chase away from the wall to hold Chase up with all his strength. Chase holds his arms and legs tight around Cody, with his head over Cody's left shoulder, moaning loudly. Not getting enough of Cody's big dick, Chase humps with Cody's thrusts to get more of that big dick deeper inside. "Damn you really must love this." Cody says being aware of what Chase is doing. Chase stares at Cody, laying his hands on Cody's cowboy head from behind. "I fucking love it." He admits. Cody walks to the hay bale and lowers himself to sit down with Chase sitting on his lap with that dick buried deep inside Chase's hole. "Ride me cowboy style." Cody suggests and lays himself down. Chase starts to ride Cody's dick, lowering himself up and down by having his hands on Cody's pecs, squeezing them while he rides that dick he can't get enough of. Both Cody and Chase moans, enjoying the new found pleasure they have found. The barn is filled with both men their loud moans. They can't control the loudness of their moans, so good it feels for them. Cody reaches his hands out to rub over Chase's hairy ripped body while Chase keeps on thrusting himself on that dick. Cody gets to sit up and kisses Chase. Chase feels Cody grabbing hold of his dick during the kiss, he breaks the kiss off and looks down at his dick and stares at Cody. Cody grins at Chase. "I want to fuck you hard in doggy style, are you good with that?" Chase smiles at Cody "Yes cowboy." He replies. Both men smile and gets quickly in position for Cody to ramming his dick up inside Chase while he fucks the sexy detective who's on his hands and knees on the hay bale. Cody is on his knees, thrusting hard and deep inside Chase. Chase moans loudly while he gets fucked, he has to hold his hands and knees steady, not able to stroke his own dick that is leaking precum. "I'm close!" Cody says. "Oh fuck, I think I'm cumming." Chase realizes, not believing he is actually cumming handsfree. Volume after volume gets shot out of Chase's his dick on to the hay bale Chase is on. "FUCK YEAH! That's so hot man." Cody says, seeing how Chase is cumming handsfree and hearing the detective moan out of pleasure. While Chase catches his breath he feels Cody starts to continue to thrust inside his ass again. "I'm cumming too." Cody says while giving 5 more thrusts until he blows his load inside Chase, breeding the sexy detective and eventually collapsing on top of Chase's back which causes both to drop on the hay bale laying next to each other. "That was so amazing." Cody says while catching his breath. Chase looks on his watch and suddenly realizes he has an appointment. Cody lays on his side, in all of his glory. "What's the rush sexy?" Chase fastly gets dressed. "I have to go man." "I hope you have no regrets?" Cody questions. Chase stops for a moment, standing in his underwear and the shirt he has just put on hanging open. "Never." He replies and winks at Cody before getting pulled in by Cody who grabs his shirt to get him close. Cody and Chase share a passionate kiss before Chase breaks it off. "I really have to go now." "You know where to find me when you want another go." Cody says and winks at Chase. "I sure do now." Chase replies with a smile on his face and runs off when being dressed. "He will be back." Cody says proudly laying on the bale of hay with his hands behind his head, knowing he fucked that sexy detective good. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sun, 5 May 2024 21:25:56 +0000 From: Sven Benters &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Subject: Getting Wild In The Barn This is a fanfiction story with the characters Harrison Chase (Josh Swickard) and Cody Bell (Josh Kelly). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ABC GENERAL HOSPITAL ********************************* Harrison Chase is at the stables searching for his girlfriend Brookelynn but it seems she isn't around. But he does hear some noise and goes into the barn to search where it's coming from. While following the sound he's hearing he's suddenly surprised to see a naked Cody Bell on a bale of hay stroking his dick and moaning loudly. Chase wants to walk away but by his rush he stumbles against a cradle and Cody gets out of his horny trance, noticing Chase. "Cody, I-I'm so-sorry, I...." Chase stutters while coming out of his words and wants to rush off. Cody stands up and runs over to Chase to grab his arm to stop him. "Hold on buddy!" Chase freezes and doesn't dare to look at naked Cody with his hard dick standing straight forward. "Perhaps you can help me." Cody suggests with a cheeky smile on his face. Chase turns to Cody's face and notices the smile. "Wha-what!" He says shocked. Cody pulls at Chase's arm bringing the hot cop to the bale of hay. While Chase struggles a little bit but half frozen to the sudden situation, Cody strips the hot copper down. Making Chase's fit cop body revealing and a hairy chest to booth where Cody runs his fingers through. "Damn Chase, what a hot body." Cody says while admiring it with his hands. Making Chase only more nervous for what's to come. Chase doesn't understand what's happening to him. Why isn't he resisting Cody more? Cody has Chase bend over the bale of hay, completely naked, feeling Chase's muscle back up and then to that ass, spreading those ass cheeks apart. Chase looks shocked over his shoulders, feeling his cheeks being spread apart and sees Cody spitting at his hole. With his mouth standing open out of shock, Chase let his hole be spit at by the sexy stable boy. "Please Cody..." Chase starts but Cody reacts to hush him "Ssssh... just let it happen sexy!" Suddenly Cody dives at Chase's rosebutt and starts to lick at it. "Oh FUCK!" Chase shouts out, feeling his hole being rimmed for the first time. Chase is a loud moaner. Feeling that intense pleasure at his hole. A feeling he never thought would feel. Cody stops and gives a little slap at Chase's ass. "That's a sweet tasty ass you got." He says and dives right back to it. Chase hangs his head back and moans to the new pleasure he's feeling. To the experience of all this new pleasure Chase doesn't even resist anymore and lets it all happen. Cody keeps on rimming Chase and then sucks at one of his fingers to press it inside Chase's ass. Chase feels suddenly the pain of getting something up his ass, he looks over his shoulder at Cody. "Fuck man, that hurts, get it out of there." "Calm down detective. Just let it happen, eventually you will feel that pleasure again." Cody explains. Chase feels his knees shacking to getting finger fucked for the first time. "Oh please Cody, stop," Chase cries out, feeling his ass being finger fucked for the first time. "Come on detective, just go through this." Cody responds and adds a second finger. Chase whimpers, feeling those two fingers up his hole going back and forth, fucking him. Cody keeps on pressuring Chase. The sound of Chase's whimpering turns Cody on and with his free hand he gives several strokes at his dick before he adds a third finger up there. "OH FUCK!" Chase shouts out and with that loudly moans, feeling his hole getting finger fucked. Through the process Chase starts to move with the thrusts and Cody stops moving with his fingers, feeling Chase now going back and forth with his ass, fucking himself to his fingers. Cody smiles and knows he has Chase now all where he wants the hot detective. Cody pulls his fingers out and Chase looks over his shoulder, crying about his empty hole. Chase notices the grin on Cody's face. "I can add more up that hole if you want. I only want to have you say it." Cody explains. "Say what?" Chase asks. "Tell me what you want detective and I will give it to you." Cody says and looks down at his twitching dick. Chase looks at Cody's dick as well. He has gotten so turned on by that finger fucking, his own dick got hard as well and twitching to while he watches at Cody's dick, thinking how it will feel when that is up inside his ass. "I can tell you want more but I want to hear it out of your mouth detective." Cody insists. Chase takes a deep breath. "FUCK ME." He practically screams. Cody smiles. "With pleasure." He says and gets close to Chase to turn him towards him and starts kissing with him while he grabs hold of both their dicks to stroke them. Chase feels so much pleasure and emotions by being kissed, pressed against the barn wall while his dick is against Cody's dick being stroked together. Cody stops stroking them and looks at Chase. "Get down on your knees and suck me." Chase for a moment hesitates, not used to this sexual activity but drops to his knees in front of Cody. Looking up at the hunk and opening his mouth to suck on it. Cody moans when Chase's lips are around his dick and he feels his dick inside that wet warm mouth of Chase's. "Fuck yeah detetctive, that's so good." He says while he places one hand on Chase's head to make the detective deepthroat his dick. Chase's first reaction is to gag but then his cops instincts take over and he shows Cody he can handle it without gagging. Cody is impressed and continues to deepthroat the sexy detective, not getting enough of that wet warm mouth around his dick. Getting ready to fuck Chase soon. While Chase continues to suck Cody's dick, he feels some kind of movement from Cody and looks up to see Cody grabbed a cowboy head that was laying in the hay and put it on. "Ready to get fucked cowboy style?" Cody says with a big smile on his face. Chase gets off of Cody's dick that is standing straight forward, ready to fuck Chase. Cody grabs Chase up by pulling the sexy stud up from underneath his arms. He starts to kiss Chase passionately while he presses the detective to the barn wall again. Suddenly Chase feels Cody lifting him up and before he knows it he feels his ass lowering down on Cody's big hard dick. "OH FUCK!" Chase screams out feeling that big hard `cowboy' dick entering inside him. "Damn, you're tight detective." Cody says while they both stare in each other's eyes. Chase wraps his arms and legs around Cody to hold on tight while that big dick is fully lodged up inside his tight, not so virgin hole now. Chase gasps from the big intrusion of Cody's big dick. Cody pulls Chase in a kiss, pushing him hard against the wall to start fucking him. Their bodies pressed against each other while Cody thrusts up and down inside that sweet ass. Their bodies getting all sweaty and Chase's dick experiences the friction of being pressed between their hard abs. "How's that detective to get fucked by a cowboy." "Oh fuck Cody, you're dick is so big." Chase confesses. "Uh uh uh... call me cowboy." Cody says and pulls at the hair of Chase's head. "Fuck me, cowboy." Chase grunts. "What did you say?" Cody asks and thrusts even harder and deeper. "FUCK ME COWBOY!" Chase screams. Cody feels so turned on to hear that sexy hairy detective screaming to get fucked more and he turns Chase away from the wall to hold Chase up with all his strength. Chase holds his arms and legs tight around Cody, with his head over Cody's left shoulder, moaning loudly. Not getting enough of Cody's big dick, Chase humps with Cody's thrusts to get more of that big dick deeper inside. "Damn you really must love this." Cody says being aware of what Chase is doing. Chase stares at Cody, laying his hands on Cody's cowboy head from behind. "I fucking love it." He admits. Cody walks to the hay bale and lowers himself to sit down with Chase sitting on his lap with that dick buried deep inside Chase's hole. "Ride me cowboy style." Cody suggests and lays himself down. Chase starts to ride Cody's dick, lowering himself up and down by having his hands on Cody's pecs, squeezing them while he rides that dick he can't get enough of. Both Cody and Chase moans, enjoying the new found pleasure they have found. The barn is filled with both men their loud moans. They can't control the loudness of their moans, so good it feels for them. Cody reaches his hands out to rub over Chase's hairy ripped body while Chase keeps on thrusting himself on that dick. Cody gets to sit up and kisses Chase. Chase feels Cody grabbing hold of his dick during the kiss, he breaks the kiss off and looks down at his dick and stares at Cody. Cody grins at Chase. "I want to fuck you hard in doggy style, are you good with that?" Chase smiles at Cody "Yes cowboy." He replies. Both men smile and gets quickly in position for Cody to ramming his dick up inside Chase while he fucks the sexy detective who's on his hands and knees on the hay bale. Cody is on his knees, thrusting hard and deep inside Chase. Chase moans loudly while he gets fucked, he has to hold his hands and knees steady, not able to stroke his own dick that is leaking precum. "I'm close!" Cody says. "Oh fuck, I think I'm cumming." Chase realizes, not believing he is actually cumming handsfree. Volume after volume gets shot out of Chase's his dick on to the hay bale Chase is on. "FUCK YEAH! That's so hot man." Cody says, seeing how Chase is cumming handsfree and hearing the detective moan out of pleasure. While Chase catches his breath he feels Cody starts to continue to thrust inside his ass again. "I'm cumming too." Cody says while giving 5 more thrusts until he blows his load inside Chase, breeding the sexy detective and eventually collapsing on top of Chase's back which causes both to drop on the hay bale laying next to each other. "That was so amazing." Cody says while catching his breath. Chase looks on his watch and suddenly realizes he has an appointment. Cody lays on his side, in all of his glory. "What's the rush sexy?" Chase fastly gets dressed. "I have to go man." "I hope you have no regrets?" Cody questions. Chase stops for a moment, standing in his underwear and the shirt he has just put on hanging open. "Never." He replies and winks at Cody before getting pulled in by Cody who grabs his shirt to get him close. Cody and Chase share a passionate kiss before Chase breaks it off. "I really have to go now." "You know where to find me when you want another go." Cody says and winks at Chase. "I sure do now." Chase replies with a smile on his face and runs off when being dressed. "He will be back." Cody says proudly laying on the bale of hay with his hands behind his head, knowing he fucked that sexy detective good. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/

Nifty Archive: bushnells-bush ™ Have a Nifty Day nifty gay celebrity bushnells-bush SizeDateFilename 14K Sep 15 10:49 bushnells-bush-5 12K Sep 6 21:49 bushnells-bush-4 13K Aug 27 20:08 bushnells-bush-3 18K Jul 17 19:40 bushnells-bush-2 15K May 25 15:57 bushnells-bush-1

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: bushnells-bush</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <div> <div> <p><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/"><img src="https://static.nifty.org/nifty/images/N_132x86.png" width="132" height="86" alt="Nifty Archive logo"></a>™ <br><span>Have a Nifty Day</span></p> </div> <!-- col-md-3 --> <div> <div> <h2><small> <ul> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/">nifty</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/">gay</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/">celebrity</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/">bushnells-bush</a></li> </ul> </small></h2> </div> <div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Sep 15 10:49</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/bushnells-bush-5">bushnells-bush-5</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 6 21:49</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/bushnells-bush-4">bushnells-bush-4</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Aug 27 20:08</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/bushnells-bush-3">bushnells-bush-3</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Jul 17 19:40</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/bushnells-bush-2">bushnells-bush-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>May 25 15:57</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bushnells-bush/bushnells-bush-1">bushnells-bush-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div> </div> </div> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/

Nifty Archive: jack-and-callum ™ Have a Nifty Day nifty gay celebrity jack-and-callum SizeDateFilename 7K Sep 13 17:05 jack-and-callum-4 7K Sep 1 10:53 jack-and-callum-3 7K Aug 17 19:51 jack-and-callum-2 11K Aug 15 21:55 jack-and-callum-1

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: jack-and-callum</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <div> <div> <p><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/"><img src="https://static.nifty.org/nifty/images/N_132x86.png" width="132" height="86" alt="Nifty Archive logo"></a>™ <br><span>Have a Nifty Day</span></p> </div> <!-- col-md-3 --> <div> <div> <h2><small> <ul> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/">nifty</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/">gay</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/">celebrity</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/">jack-and-callum</a></li> </ul> </small></h2> </div> <div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Sep 13 17:05</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/jack-and-callum-4">jack-and-callum-4</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Sep 1 10:53</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/jack-and-callum-3">jack-and-callum-3</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 17 19:51</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/jack-and-callum-2">jack-and-callum-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Aug 15 21:55</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/jack-and-callum/jack-and-callum-1">jack-and-callum-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div> </div> </div> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/horny-hunks-of-emmerdale/horny-hunks-of-emmerdale-10

Date: Sat, 25 Feb 2023 22:43:50 +0000 From: Anon Bucket <Anonbucket1995@outlook.com> Subject: Horny hunks of Emmerdale part 10, (Gay, celebrity) Horny hunks of Emmerdale Part 10 This is a fictional story that involves consensual sex between people over the age of consent and does not imply the sexuality of the characters or those who play them. Please donate anything possible to the Nifty Archive http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Part - Boy or real man. It was early morning in the Dales, Bob was opening the shop, David was opening his store and the village was beginning to wake up. People were leaving their houses to go to work and the village was ready to start a new day. All was still in Mulberry Cottage apart from in the bedroom of Young Arthur Thomas, sighs filled the room as the boy led on his bed naked as the day he was born. His underwear pulled down to his ankles and his face flushed red as he was completely focused on the task in hand. The main task being wanking......and wanking hard you see Arthur was now a man. The night before he had fucked Samson in his tight little arse, and it felt fucking incredible. The images of the boy's hole wrapped around his cock, The thrusts of Arthur's cock into the hole filled his mind and then the moment of bliss when he had busted a load inside Samson's tight hole. "UHHHHH COME ON.....COME ON YES......YES.....YEEEESSSSSSSS" Arthur moaned as he bit his bottom lip as his cock erupted firing 5 shots of slightly watery 16-year-old boy spunk up his smooth chest his mouth open wide as his legs shook as the salty goo fired from his pink head. After the last spurt he sighed loudly and led back on the bed breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling fast as the cum began to drip down the side of his body. As the teen regained his composure he looked down, "Wow....that's a big load....real man cum" he chuckled as he grabbed a pair of used underwear and wiped his sperm off his chest and stomach. Arthur looked over at the clock, 7.00am. "Not bad....lasted nearly 30 minutes". He usually timed his wanks to see if he lasted any longer. He had really edged himself this time, but he had no doubt that his balls would ache before long, he was a horny teen boy after all. He stood up and his cock flopped between his legs. Although not the biggest cock standing hard at 5.5 inches he was proud of his cock, it had made Samson squeal after all. As it was quiet in the house Arthur decided to go for a shower, he contemplated putting on a pair of PJ bottoms, "AHH It's not far to the shower" he thought deciding to just go naked. As he stepped out his door he heard, "ARTHUR ARE YOU AWAKE" and footsteps coming up the stairs. "Shit....shit" Arthur muttered as he ran across the landing butt naked, his cock swinging with each step he took and his smooth cheeks wobbling up and down. He had no idea how he would explain being naked on the landing. "Just having a shower" he stuttered as he ran into the bathroom and shut the door. "Ok son don't use all the hot water and make sure you clean your bits" Laurel shouted up the stairs. Arthur's face burned as he cringed in the bathroom, "Just call it a cock" he muttered into his hands as he walked over to the shower and turned it on. He moaned as he got into the shower feeling the warm water on his body, as he showered he suddenly realised something, "Really.......you've just blown" he smirked looking down at his hard cock again...."Looks like the shower door's getting painted" he chuckled wrapping his hand around his cock once more. Arthur showered and got dressed choosing to go commando this time, he was a man now, he wasn't a virgin any more and underwear would just get in the way. He put on a shirt and chinos looking like a respectable young man......who was wearing no underwear. As he sat on the bed his phone buzzed. He grinned as he realised it was from Samson, it was a picture message. "WOW" Was all Arthur could say as the image of Samson Lying in bed with his huge boner in his hand filled the screen with the message." Wanna have some fun later?????" Arthur didn't even have to think, he wanted inside that hole once more. "Hell yeah....that cock is insane" he replied as Samson replied with a thumbs up. Arthur sat on his bed and was interrupted by Laurel shouting, "Come on Arthur....it might be the weekend, but you said you'd help me at the church." Arthur sighed into his hands, why did he say he'd help. But he had no choice now. He stood up and went off with Laurel to the church. Arthur worked hard all day his boner was a frequent problem and he considered just going for a wank when Laurel was busy but something about Jerking off in a church was wrong and he really couldn't bring himself to do it so when he left at 6pm he was pretty Damn horny. As he left he received another message from Samson, "Might have to Cancel tonight sorry.....got nowhere we can go" Arthur sighed loudly, he really needed to cum, and he really wanted to taste Samson's fat cock once more. As he walked an idea came into his head, "I have a place.....come to my house at 11pm.....don't knock just wait....I'll be there" Samson replied with another thumbs up and Arthur went home to nap, he would need all the strength if he was gonna pound Samson tonight. Arthur awoke at 7.30 and had to wait for 3.30 hours until his meet which was fucking painful not only mentally but also because his solid boner was hard as a rock. At 10 Laurel said goodnight and Arthur pretended to be in bed wearing a football shirt, but under the bed he was completely nude rubbing his ever so hard boner teasing himself. At 10.55 he got out of bed and put some PJ bottoms on, he crept downstairs, his boner tenting the thin fabric. He quietly opened the door and closed it behind him. He tiptoed into the garden and saw a figure, as he got closer he realised it was Samson. The boys both grinned as Samson chuckled, "Thought you'd never come" he pulled Arthur in for a long passionate kiss, the boy's lips slamming together as Samson squeezed Arthur's bulge making the teen grunt into his mouth. As they pulled away Samson whispered, "So where we going then?" Arthur winked and took Samson's hands, "Follow me" he whispered as Samson followed him excited about what was to cum. Arthur and Samson crept into the back gate of Mulberry cottage with Arthur putting his finger to his lips, "Shhh" he whispered as the boys walked in and Arthur shut the gate. As they walked up the garden Samson's eyes lit up as Arthur pointed, "Ta-da." Samson couldn't believe it. "Arthur this is fucking perfect" Samson chuckled as Arthur pointed to his Pirate ship. The boys walked closer towards the ship, "Its perfect......and we can go inside and mess around just cant be too loud" Arthur chuckled letting Samson in. As Samson went inside he quickly got his phone out and sent a message without Arthur knowing. As Arthur turned around Samson pushed him against the door and slammed his tongue into the boy's mouth, Arthur smiled, "Someone's horny" he chuckled as Samson replied, "Yeah I fucking am....and you are too by the feel of it" he squeezed Arthur's bulge making the boy moan once more as they furiously made out. As they kissed Samson reached down and pulled at Arthur's shirt. Arthur lifted his arms and Samson pulled is top off kissing down Arthurs's smooth chest kissing down his chest and licking his nipples quickly making Arthur groan. Samson kissed up and resumed his make out session undoing his own shirt and pulling it off. "Wow you look so fit" Arthur chuckled as Samson grabbed the boy's chino's and pulled them down, "WOW commando....Arthur Thomas you naughty boy" he smirked undoing his own button on his trousers and pulled them down. Arthur's mouth fell open, "Commando too Mr Dingle....great minds think alike.....fuck that cock is gorgeous." They continued making out and wanking each other's cock making the boys grunt into their mouths. Their hands quickly became slick with Pre-Cum as Arthur whispered, "I cant wait to fuck you again." Samson smiled and pulled away....."Yeah about that...." Arthur looked confused, "What Samson" he asked sounding a little mad. "Well.....you've already fucked me sooooooo I think it's time for you to bottom" Arthur took a step back, "I....i....I've never taken a cock before....you're too big." Samson smiled, "Mate.....I'd tear your ass to pieces....but don't worry because If you want too someone else will ease your hole in" Arthur looked shocked, "You told someone else about us?" Samson smirked, "Mate it's ok our secret is safe, its only us and 1 other person" Arthur sighed, "Well I suppose that's ok then" he smirked sitting down on the bench in the Ship. "Who is it then?" he asked. As he said this a small knock was heard on the door, Samson stood up, "Wait here" he chuckled walking outside. Arthur hoped he wouldn't be long; he couldn't explain to Lauren why Samson and another man were naked in his garden. Samson walked inside quickly followed by the other man, "No Way.....you" Arthur stuttered before smirking, his cock throbbing in his hand. The 3rd person closed the door behind them, Arthur couldn't believe who was gonna fuck him and he was actually quite excited about it. "Sooooooo.....how did you and Samson start.....you know doing things Heath." Sat there was young 16-year-old villager Heath Hope who since he had gotten his hair cut again looked pretty damn hot. Heath smirked, "It were on me birthday....Samson Joked about a birthday blowjob and I jokingly said yes....before I knew it he was slobbering over me cock" Samson smirked, "Yeah it's true, he shot right in my mouth." Arthur grinned, "And you are gonna fuck me i bum then" Heath nodded, "If you want me too" Arthur nodded and put his hand on Heath's bulge. Heath looked down and smirked, "Think it's time I lost me clothes too" he chuckled pulling off his shirt revealing a slightly toned smooth chest. He pulled down his trousers, "He's wearing underwear" Arthur chuckled as Heath stood there in his tight black boxers. He tented the boxers with his boner, "Lets see the cock" Samson smirked as Heath put his fingers under the waistband and quickly pulled his pants down kicking them across the room. Arthur's eyes widened, "Quite the pretty cock aint it" Samson smirked as Heath gripped his boner and wanked it a few times pre-cum dripping from the head. His cock stood at around 7 inches long and curved upwards only slightly. His shaft was average thickness, and his foreskin was rolled back under the head, his cock looked so delicious and somehow it looked so freaking clean as pre-cum dripped from the head. He had a patch of brown pubes a bit bushier than Arthurs. His balls has a few sparse hairs on them and looked full of cum. Heath stood there wanking with a devilish smile on his face, "Shall we get started then boys" he chuckled as The boys all nodded in response and stood up, "What should we all do?" Arthur asked looking confused. He had only lost his virginity last night and no he was gonna lose his anal virginity and have a threesome, he was still very new to sexual stuff as well. Samson thought, "I think Heath deserves a treat for agreeing to this so Arthur I think you should give him a nice wet sloppy blowie whilst he services my cock. Arthur smiled and nodded, "Fuck yeah cant wait to suck that monster" Heath chuckled waving his cock at Arthur, "Come on then Thomas let's see how good you really are. Arthur smirked and knelt to his knees between Heath's smooth legs, "Make it wet and sloppy" Heath grinned waving his cock back and forth. Arthur smiled and took hold of the cock grunting as he realised it was hard as a rock. Arthur pulled the cock closer and opened wide before pushing forward and putting the cock head into his mouth, Arthur close his mouth and began to suck on the dripping wet head, "Mphhhh yessss" Heath moaned as Arthurs warm wet mouth enveloped his head. Arthur began to lick around the sensitive head collecting all of the pre-cum on his tongue before letting the juices run over his tastebuds. "Mmmmmmm" Arthur moaned on the cock as Heath began to pump his hips up and down sending more of the cock into his mouth, "Feeling good?" Samson chuckled as Heath looked over with a massive smile, "Oh fuck yes.....so good mate" Samson waved his monster back and forth, "Well I'd have more fun with your mouth around this." Heath stretched his mouth wide, "Gotta stretch me jaw.....that monster will hurt my jaw otherwise." Samson put his hand on the back of Heath's head and pulled him onto his wet cock pushing it between his lips and pushing him down firing inch after inch into the boy's mouth. Arthur looked up in shock as Heath took inch after inch without gagging and before he knew it Samson's pubes were pressed up against Heath's nose. Arthur pulled Heath out of his mouth and muttered in absolute astonishment, "What the hell.....like how did he take that all?" Samson grinned and slapped Heath gently on the cheek, "Boy has no gag reflex....it's a great skill" He chuckled before raising his head and moaning, "FUUUUUUCK" As Heat's tongue began to lick his hairy balls. Arthur was in awe at the sight but was brought out of his trance by, "Ummmm Arthur.....ARTHUR.......suck his cock." He felt a hand on his head as Samson pushed him down hard on the cock making him cough and wretch as he hit the 6-inch mark. Heath moaned aloud, "AHHH YEAH THAT FEELS SO GOOD UGHHHH" Samson frowned, "Did I say fucking stop sucking" and shoved Heath back down slamming him down so hard his throat bulged, and his balls squished against Heath's chin. As he was being throat fucked, between his tear-filled eyes Heath watched in awe as Arthur swallowed all 7 inches of his thick cock. Arthur was becoming very brave, he just thought, "I have to just take it and take it hard" Heath grunted as his bush of pubes tickled the boy's nose. Arthur sucked hard with gusto slamming the cock into his mouth and making his vocal cords vibrate on Heath's cock head making the boy moan loudly and spit pre-cum into his stomach. Heath bucked his hips up and down sending his cock deeper and deeper making Arthur choke, but as tears filled his eyes Arthur was focused on just taking it as hard as he could without retching. Arthur reached down and gave his own cock a few tugs making himself drip pre-cum onto the wooden floor. Over with Samson he had Heath's face buried in his hairy cum filled balls, "OHHHH FUCKING SUCK IT" He groaned pushing Heath into his balls as the boy tongued around each bollock tasting the musk of the teenage boy. He then popped a bollock into his mouth and sucked feverishly, Samson was in fucking heaven he had 2 hot teenage boys in a steamy threesome this truly was the life. Heath reached down and began to bob Arthur up and down pulling him up and down by his hair making the boy squeal as he pulled him up. Suddenly Heath slammed his hips up and pushed Arthur down immediately making the boy cough and wretch as his throat was plugged by the thick cock. He spluttered and wretched as tears filled his eyes and his cheeks flushed red. Heath slammed his cock in and out of the boy's throat his balls slapping against Arthurs chin until like a train Samson slammed his cock into Heath's throat so hard he finally wretched making Heath slam Arthur down as the feeling in his cock and the cock in his throat was nearly cum inducing. Samson threw his head back and Heath screamed in pleasure on his cock as Samson pulled him off his thick monster, a string of saliva connecting the cock to his mouth. Heath grabbed Arthur by the hair and pulled him off the cock, Arthur looked up with saliva pouring from his mouth and an innocent smile, "Did I do a good job?" Heath looked at Samson and together they said, "FUCK YES." Samson pulled Arthur to his feet and slammed his face against the boy's feeling his smooth skin as it slid against his, Samson reached out and gripped Arthur's cock rolling the foreskin over the wet head making him high pitched squeal into Samson's mouth. Their tongues wrapped around each-others as it became more passionate. Samson pulled away and as Arthur turned around to look at Heath the other boy slammed his face against Arthur's pulling him in for an equally passionate kiss, their faces masked together as wet slurping sounds filled the room, "Fuck that's hot" Samson chuckled sitting back and wanking his cock to the hot sight in front of him. The boys put on a show for Samson as when they pulled away Heath whispered, "Get over my lap." Arthur nodded a little confused, but he lead over Heath's lap feeling his cock stabbing at his smooth stomach. Heath squeezed the smooth mounds of flesh that Arthur called his ass and wobbled the cheeks before raising his hand and, "SLAP....SLAP....SLAP" He slapped the boy hard once on each cheek and then in the middle, "AAHHHH.....AHHHHHH.AHHHHH" Arthur grunted as his cheeks turned red and a tear filled his eye. "That fucking hurt" Arthur whispered as Heath grinned, "Yeah....well you must have liked it yer cock is solid" Arthur did a cheeky grin and looked back at the floor as Heath slapped his cheeks again and again turning the cheeks bright red. Heath then whispered to Samson, "You like this ass?" Samson nodded and Heath put a hand on each cheek and spread the cheeks making Arthur grunt as his smooth pink asshole was revealed. "Mmmmm looks like a good arsehole.....you wanna fuck this Samson....you wanna break little Arthur's hole" Samson nodded, and his cock dripped pre-cum down the shaft. Heath grinned, "Well you can't....that's my job....but first" he muttered before plunging his face between Arthur's cheeks and slamming his tongue against the hole, "OHHHHHH GODDD" Arthur grunted as electric as sensations shot up his body as he wiggled his ass on Heath's face. Heath was loving the taste of this tight teen virgin hole and he couldn't get enough of the hole, slobbering all over the wrinkled ring before pushing is tongue in hard feeling Arthur's cock throb against his legs before he pushed hard feeling the tight hole open. As he did this he felt a hand on the back of his head, "Fucking eat that shitter" Samson moaned as he rubbed Heath's face up and down and around the hole covering him in saliva and Arthur's ass Juices. He pushed harder and harder before he wanked a little too hard and a jolt shot through his body, he had to sit back or he would cum. Heath continued to slam and suck harder and harder, Arthur's eyes closed tight in absolute pleasure as his cock throbbed and he could feel pre-cum shoot out of his cock. Heath pulled out of Arthur's hole and whispered, "Right I think it's time I loosen this hole up a little before I fuck the hell out of it." Arthur looked up a little nervous, but he didn't have time to think as Samson interjected, "Yeah and while you do that I will be sinking my ass on Arthur's face.....he's really good at eating hole" Arthur grinned, he loved eating ass. Arthur turned so he was led on the bench and raised his legs. Samson strode over his cock bobbing up and down. He stood at Arthur's face and all Arthur could see was a hairy crack and wobbly cheeks before everything went dark. Samson's head threw back as he felt Arthur's tongue begin to lick around his entrance circling the hole before plunging his tongue hard and deep against the hole, "OHHHH FUCK YES......he's tonguing my hole" he smirked at Heath as he began to bounce up and down on the boy's face grinding the tight teen hole against Arthur's mouth and nose while jerking his monster cock rolling the foreskin back and forth over the wet shiny head. Arthur groaned into the hole as his tongue was rammed up the hole. Arthur loved the taste of Samson's hole and it was one of his favourite things to do, he closed his eyes and just went crazy in the hole ramming his tongue as hard as he could squeezing the cheeks around his face and sucking the hole hard. He pulled out briefly licking his lips all he could taste was tight teenage hole and he fucking loved it. He quickly crashed his tongue hard against the hole making Samson sigh above him his eyes rolling back in his head as he pushed the man between his cheeks rubbing his arse back and forth on the boy smearing his ass juices all over the man, "Oh god....your good at this", Samson moaned as Arthur opened his hole with his tongue exploring deeper than ever before making his eyes roll back and his head be thrown back. Suddenly Arthur wailed into Samson's hole and his legs began to shake, Samson looked over and saw Heath grinning from ear to ear with 2 fingers rammed up Arthur's ass. Arthur's face flushed red and his breathing intensified which made it even hornier for Samson as the tingling of the boy's breath made his cock throb. "Fuck he's so tight" Heath grinned sliding his fingers deeper and deeper into the impossibly tight bottom of the horny teen. "AHHHHH FUCK" Arthur moaned into Samson's cheeks as Heath slapped his cheeks a few times turning the pale smooth cheeks red and a warmth spread across his bum. Heath twisted his fingers inside the boy making him wail once more before pulling them out, "Fuck....that's a tight shitter you got boy......its tightened already" He licked the juices off his fingers savouring the taste of the teen boy-hole. Heath then decided to make the boy moan so he crawled between his legs leant down and shoved the whole 5 inches into his mouth quickly bottoming out at Arthur's small patch of pubes. "UGHHHHHH GODDDDD YESSSS" Arthur moaned into Samson's hole as his hand shot out and he began to thrust into Heath's throat his bum wobbling with each thrust as Heath sucked with gusto, the boy's pre-cum splashing over his tongue as he wrapped sucked hard. The boy had a tasty cock and he wanted to worship him before he slammed his hole. He sucked long and hard taking it as hard as Arthur could offer choking as gagging which seemed to turn Arthur on even more. Samson loved it as well as Arthur groaned into Samson's hole making the boy grind his face round and round coating him in ass Juice. Samson winked at Heath it was like they read each other's minds, in unison Heath throated all of Arthur's cock and Samson sat down with force, the suction that heath was doing to him making Arthur scream into Samson hole and the boy throw his head back in pleasure. They held their positions for a minute before Arthur slapped at Samson's cheeks. Heath pulled off And Samson stood up on wobbly legs, "Fuck.....fuck.....fuck...." was all Arthur could grunt through breaths as his face was flushed red and his face coated in ass juice. He looked down at Heath, "That blowie was amazing" he chuckled sighing as Heath kissed up his body stopping at his pink nipples before sucking each one making Arthur's cock throb, before moving up and whispering, "Glad you enjoyed....now wanna take my cock in that virgin hole?" Arthur's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, "Good boy" Heath smirked winking at Samson who winked back. The boy was in for a hell of a night. "Right Artie.....you're gonna get on yer back and put your legs in the air" Heath whispered as Arthur nervously grinned and led on the bench. He raised his legs and held them up putting his hands on the back of his knees and pulling his ass up into the air. "OOOOOH" Arthur groaned as a breeze tickled his hole, "Fuck that hole looks so good" Samson chuckled as Arthur raised a brow, "Samson....when Heath is inside me what are you gonna do". Samson shrugged his shoulders, "Dunno yet mate......might get you to suck me cock.......might slide in Heath's hole not sure yet" Arthur nodded as Heath moved between his legs and put the boy's smooth legs on his shoulders. Heath reached down and slapped his cock on the tight pink pucker making Arthur wince. "Is this gonna hurt?" Arthur whispered to Samson looking nervous, his hole twitched with anticipation. Samson smirked and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Honestly mate......yeah at first" Arthurs eyes widened as Samson slapped his shoulder, "But then it'll feel so good mate" Arthur nodded again still looking so scared. "I'll go slow mate" Heath smirked as he spat onto his cock rubbing it back and forth before rubbing it on the hole, he pressed his cock head against the tight...tight hole. Heath didn't want to tease the boy he wanted to get him used to his cock as quickly as possible, so he pressed his cock head against the boy's tight hole. He shifted his bodyweight up and his cock head penetrated the virgin hole and began to slide slowly inside the boy's hole. As the cock head popped in, he slapped Arthur on the shoulder, "Hey mate you're not a anal virgin anymore...I just took your ass virginity". Arthur smiled feeling proud he was no longer a virgin. He began to push inch after inch into the boy, Arthur was doing so well, and Heath was......" STOP." He looked down and Arthur had his eyes closed and he was shaking, his face flushed red once more. "It hurts now.....damn it....my hole fucking stings so much" Arthur grunted as Samson stood up and tapped him on the shoulder, "Oi mate suck on this it'll take your mind off it" Arthur opened wide, and Samson slid his cock head into the boy's mouth moaning as Arthur instantly began to suck on the head sighing and moaning on the head as Heath stayed deadly still inside him. Suddenly Heath moaned, "Mate your hole just relaxed I felt it loosen on me cock.....can I slide in more now" Arthur spat Samson's cock out and moaned, "Yeah just go careful ok" Heath nodded and pushed ever so gently, watching as inch after inch of his 7 inches disappeared inside the impossibly tight hole, Heath grunted and groaned as his cock was gripped tightly, Arthur screwed his eyes shut and screamed onto Samson's cock, "Just focus on my cock" Samson chuckled sliding his cock into the boy's throat making him cough and splutter. "Fuck he's so tight" Heath grinned as Samson chuckled, "Well duh.....he is an anal virgin". Heath let out a grunt as his pubes brushed up against Arthur's cheeks. "Well Mr Thomas....it's all in" Arthur spat out the cock once more, "And I can feel every fucking inch inside me.....my hole is on fire." Heath chuckled, "Yeah I know I can feel it clamping down on my cock.....makes me wanna ruin this hole" Arthur grinned and continued to suck on Samson inhaling the cock all the way to the base. "UGHHHHH wow boy taking it all now are we" Samson moaned slapping Arthur on the cheek and began to thrust his cock hard into the boy's mouth his hairy bollocks slapping against Arthur's chin as he felt warm wetness envelop his cock all the way to the root. Heath had built up a steady motion on Arthur's hole, It was beginning to loosen, and Heath could now thrust albeit slowly back and forth in and out of the hole, his cock slick with ass juice. Heath began to pick up a bit of speed and before the boys knew it the sound of Heath's smooth balls began to slap against Arthur's hole. As Heath sped up Arthur moaned and wailed loudly pulling the cock out of his mouth and groaning, "FUUUUUCK.....FUCK ME Heath." The cock that had once felt like a pole shoved up his arse now felt pretty damn good, Arthur looked down and his own cock was rock solid, "Let me take care of that" Samson smirked as he reached down and began to jerk the teenager off making Arthur purr. Heath heard Arthur tell him to fuck him and smirked, he wanted to pound this hole and the boy was surely gonna get it. I'm going to fuck you harder now." Arthur smirked and winked at Heath before whispering, "Do it I wanna feel it all Heath pulled back so his head was left inside before mercilessly smashing his cock inside the hole with brutal force, Arthur's eyes shot open and he wailed loudly as his own cock spat pre-cum onto his smooth stomach". Heath slammed into the boy hard over and over slap after slap of his balls were all that could be heard, Arthur was in heaven, as he put his arm behind his head revealing his smooth armpit that was dotted with a few hairs. Samson stood up and walked behind Heath. He knelt down and pulled the boy's smooth cheeks apart revealing his tight lightly haired pucker. Samson leant in and took a deep inhale taking the pure scent of the young stud in. Heath felt naughty as he thrusted into Arthur, and he quickly reached out and rammed Samson's head up into his cheeks. "FUCKING LICK IT", He ordered as Samson fought for breath, He managed to get a breath and rammed his tongue in as hard as he could with all his might making Heath's eyes shoot open and as he threw his head back, he screamed, "FUUUUUUUCK YES". As his cock spat pre-cum into Arthur's guts as the boy was pushed up and down the bench by Heath's brutal thrusts. Arthur was in absolute heaven; he couldn't believe his life was like this now. Not 48 hours ago he was an innocent 16 year old and now he was naked in his pirate ship with a cock shoved up his tight hole. "UGHHHHH YES....YES HARDER.....HARDER" He moaned as Heath mercilessly thrust inside him, his ass felt so full yet it felt so right, he was truly a natural born cock whore and for a first timer he was taking it like a champ. Arthur squeezed his hole on Heath's pole making the boy sigh in pleasure as he continued to thrust deeper and harder grinding his cock around inside the boy. Heath reached out and began to pinch Arthur's pink nipples as he pounded, the sensations sending shock's up Arthur's 5.5 inches and he gripped it beginning to wank slowly his hand quickly becoming wet with his own juices as he let go of his cock and brought his hand up to his face. He opened his mouth and began to suck the pre-cum off his fingers tasting his own juices for the first time and it wasted so freaking good, a little salty but a taste he could savour forever. Heath pulled Samson from his cheeks and slid out of Arthur's hole. "Fuck....you're gaping" he chuckled as Arthur grinned. "Lets change position" Heath chuckled pulling Arthur to his feet. "Where do you want me?" Arthur asked as Heath sat on the bench and slapped his legs, "Come ride me boy" he muttered as Arthur straddled him and lowered himself down wincing as the head penetrated his hole once more. Arthur slid himself down the pole until the boy was deep inside him. "Bounce on it" Heath ordered as Arthur began to slowly bounce up and down on the pole grunting and sighing as his hole was stretched once more. Quickly Heath's balls slapped against the boy as Heath put his hands on Arthur's smooth cheeks and pulled him up and down his cock. Heath suddenly pulled Arthur down hard making Arthur wail as he began to grind around and around getting the cock as deep as it could possibly go inside him. Samson sat in the corner just enjoying the view as he wanked his hard cock fast and hard pre-cum flying across the room as it poured from his piss slit." Arthur had his eyes closed and his head upwards as he was pounded by Heath over and over. He opened his eyes and Heath slammed his tongue into the boy's mouth taking him by surprise as they kissed hungrily, Heath's tongue exploring Arthur's mouth tasting the pure essence of the boy as he softly grunted into his mouth. Arthur's smooth chest was now glistening with sweat and the room smelled of teen boy sweat and cum, 2 of Heath's favourite smells. He was fucking the boy at astonishing speed now he had a look of sheer dominance on his face, he truly wanted to give the boy a fucking of a lifetime. His cock thrusting inside at lightening speed and the tightness of Arthur's hole still the same as when he first penetrated it. "FUCK....FUCK.....FUCK.....FUUUUUUUCK" Heath shouted as he ripped Arthur from his cock and ordered, "SUCK IT" Arthur shoved the cock into his mouth and immediately tasted his own hole, it felt so wrong, but it felt so fucking right. He throated the cock all the way to the base coughing and choking as Heath reached out and held him in place continuing to thrust fast his balls slapping hard against Arthur's chin. Saliva poured from the boy's throat and tears filled his eyes as Heath slammed in hard and held him there his balls squished against Arthur's throat as he pinched the boy's nose shut" Arthur immediately began to choke, spluttering hard as he heaved and looked up at Heath pleadingly. "ONE....MORE.....SECOND...." He wailed before pushing the boy off sending his flying onto the floor coughing and spluttering. Arthur's face was red now and tears fell from his cheek. "wow that was intense" Arthur coughed as Heath sat there smirking, "Yeah I got a bit carried away there sorry" "Don't apologise it was fucking hot" Samson smirked helping Arthur to his feet. "So what's next Artie" Samson muttered and he rubbed Arthur's sensitive cock head feeling the juices make his hand wet. Arthur grinned, he was loving this and he took the cock pretty damn well his hole loved it and he was sure that he would have many more cock's shoved up his hole in the future there were many studs in the village that he wanted inside him. But now he had to take the chance whilst it was there, it was a decision he wasn't sure he wouldn't regret but he had to do it. Arthur reached out and grabbed Samson by the cock rubbing his foreskin over the wet head. He looked up at Samson and kissed him passionately just as Samson had done the first time they kissed, he wrapped his tongue around Samson's and reached out to pinch the boy's nipple making Samson moan into his mouth, the kiss was passionate and hot as the boys swapped copious amounts of saliva as Arthur slurped and sucked the boy's tongue before pulling away grinning from ear to ear and saying the 3 words that Samson didn't expect to hear tonight. Words he thought he wouldn't hear for a while, "Fuck me Samson" Arthur chuckled looking straight at Samson who's mouth fell open. "Mate I'm not sure.....he is 7 inches and I'm near 11 inches and my cock is so much fatter than his" Arthur looked over at Heath, "he can take your cock cant he?" Samson replied, "yeah barely....and I've fucked him like 5 times" Arthur's hole twitched with anticipation, "Well.....Until tonight I was an anal virgin and he just pounded the fuck out of me and I took it like a man and anyway I fucked you last night now its my turn to return the favour". Samson grinned, "You sure you can take it big boy" Arthur bent over the bench and spread his cheeks, his hole had returned to size and looked tight as fuck. "Samson Dingle put that monster inside me" he chuckled winking at Samson who's cock was leaking copious amounts of pre-cum on to the floor. Arthur was brave, Arthur was fearless as he led there with his legs raised up to his shoulders his hole twitched with anticipation. Samson lined his cock up with the smooth nearly virgin hole and braced his legs on the floor and began to push...hard. The sheer pressure on his hole made Arthur wince as his shitter gave tremendous resistance to the invasion. Sadly, for his hole it was no match for the 16-year-old stud and with one breath in and a hard thrust his cock pulled the hole apart and his cock head pushed its way inside the boy. Arthur' eyes widened and shot open, "SHIT.....UHHHHH WOWWWW," was all that came out of his mouth as he screwed his face up as Samson whistled, "Fuck....this is a tight hole...you ready for me to slide", Arthur just nodded, "Do it....please". Samson began to push letting out a loud sigh as Arthur' legs shook and he brought his hand to his face and screamed into it, tears ran down his face as his ass was wrenched open by the large cock, Arthur's hole had immediately began to spasm trying to clamp shut but it was to no avail. Sat in the corner Heath jerked his cock slowly to the sight before him, his pre-cum dripping down his shaft as Samson chuckled, "Sorry Mate....you'll get involved in a minute" Heath smirked and replied, "Nah mate its cool.....I'm enjoying watching this.....for now". Samson pushed a few inches at a time letting Arthur get used to it, the tightness on his cock was nearly overwhelming for the boy. With tears running down his face and through gritted teeth Arthur managed to mutter, "How.... much....is.... in." Samson smirked, "You're doing well mate that's nearly 9 inches inside you...only 2 more to go". Arthur sighed, he leaned in and whispered, "It hurts....it's so much bigger than Heath's fuuuuuck but it feels good". Samson grinned and grunted before a loud slapping sound filled the room and I heard Samson exclaim, "Oh shit." Arthur' eyes shot open, and he let out a small whine and he screamed into his hand, "Well good news is that it's all in.... but I did just fire the last 2 inches up you in one go" Samson exclaimed looking guilty, "Stay fuckin still or It'll hurt even more." Samson ordered as Arthur's face burned red and tears flowed down his face, his ass felt like it was on fire, his hole was spasming around Samson's cock and his body heaved. Arthur looked at me and whispered, "Fuck....me arse will never be the same again." Samson chuckled and replied, "Mate after this it'll be just as tight.... listen to me now ok, I'm is gonna pull back a little it will fucking hurt but be a brave boy yeah" Arthur nodded and He slowly slid 3 inches out of the School boy Arthur quietly sighed into his hand. Samson stayed still letting Arthur push back onto his cock. After 5 minutes Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Hey Sams this isn't actually as bad as I thought it'd be, it still hurts but it's actually beginning to feel ok". Samson smirked, "Good, the sight down there looks fucking amazing and my cock.....like wow you feel so freaking tight" Samson was ready to fuck the boy now, to give it his all, he had taken it easy on the boy up until now but he needed to feel the warm wetness of the teenagers hole on his cock, he needed to feel his balls slapping against him and listen to the boy's gasps and moans. But first he looked over to Heath and ordered, "When I really and I mean REALLY begin to fuck him I want your tongue up me arse ok?" Heath grinned, "It'd be my pleasure Mr Dingle." Heath looked down at Arthur, "You ready to take it.....hard" Arthur was nervous, just taking the huge cock felt like his ass was being torn apart but he had to be brave, "Do it" he muttered as Samson just grinned at him. Samson slid out so the head of his cock was inside before slamming it hard groaning as his bollocks bounced of Arthur's ass, Arthur's mouth opened wide but no sound came out and tears began to fill his eyes. Samson groaned before pulling back and repeated the motion groaning as Arthur's tight hole twitched and clamped down on his monster sending shockwaves up his cock, his balls slapping against Arthur as Arthur started to moan in a mixture of pleasure and pain but at the moment more pain. Arthur stayed still, his cheeks flushed red and sweat dripped from his forehead as Samson went to town on his arse, ramming it in hard before ripping it out and repeating the motion over and over every now and then slapping the schoolboy's ass turning the cheeks bright red. Samson was now grunting and groaning as his cock was smashing inside harder and deeper than ever before. Samson pulled out and held just the head in Arthur' ass, "Like my fat cock do you?, like my big young, muscled cock," he chuckled as Arthur struggled to answer as his body was being flung around like a rag doll, "I....love...your....big....cock" he managed to reply as Samson pushed back and forth in the now gaping hole. Samson leaned down and shoved his tongue into Arthur's mouth kissing him passionately swapping saliva and ramming his tongue deep into Arthur's mouth. Samson pulled away and carried on thrusting hard and fast before shouting, "HEATH GET THAT TONGUE IN MY HOLE". Heath grinned and walked over crouching down and pulling Samson's lightly haired cheeks apart and as Samson pulled back he dove his face between the cheeks slobbering over the hole eating it like it was his last meal, "OH SHIIIIIIIT" Samson grunted reaching back and pushing Heath hard against his hole. Heath's tongue slammed into his hole lapping and sucking at the tight hole squeezing the cheeks around his face and slapping them making Samson grunt and groan. Over on the bench Arthur was in a mixture of pleasure and pain, Samson's cock felt like a baseball bat up his arse but Arthur's cock was rock solid, he looked down and he was subconsciously rubbing his steel hard shaft rolling his foreskin over the very wet head. His hole had loosened a little and Samson's thrusts were hitting all the right spots, he grunted and groaned matching Samson's as Samson leaned in and kissed the boy once more groaning as when he bent over his hole opened and Heath pushed his tongue hard pushing his tongue into the hole a little. Their sweaty teenage bodies were connected as Samson grunted and thrust into Arthur's ass hard making the boy wail in pleasure, they breathed heavily into each other's mouths before Samson stared at Arthur looking at his face, his boyish babyface looking so sexy even more sexier when he grunted and grinned as the pleasure took over him. "What you staring at?" Arthur groaned grinding his ass on Samson's cock making it do circles inside his hole coating it in pre-cum, "Oh Nothing.....just a fucking hot sexy boy" Samson grunted as Arthur squeezed his hole around his cock making it shoot pre-cum inside him. Arthur led there grinning as Samson looked down at him, "Fucking hell Thomas that arse is made for my cock". Arthur moaned as Samson thrust in and wailed, "OHHHH FUCKKKK YES....I LOVE YOUR FAT COCK INSIDE ME". Samson slid out of the boy making Arthur wince, "FUCK.......that hole is gaping" Samson chuckled, "Lie on yer side, let me spoon you" Samson ordered as Arthur nodded and led down on the bench. Samson scooted behind him and led behind the boy lifting his leg onto his side, He put his hand over Arthur's mouth as he slid his cock inside the boy in one swift motion, Arthur screamed into Samson's hand but in a pleasurable way as Samson ordered, "Suck off Heath". Heath stepped forward and Arthur grabbed him by the cock shovelling his 7 inch dick right into his mouth and sucking it hard and fast. He grunted and groaned as Arthur's throat constricted around his cock, his vocal cords vibrated around Heath's sensitive cock head sending Pre-Cum shooting out of his cock and straight into Arthur's stomach. Heath was fucking back and forth his cock getting slicker and slicker grunting caveman groans with each suck and thrust his balls were slapping against Arthur's chin. As behind him Samson was absolutely railing the boy, he had his hands on Arthur's hips slamming inside the boy with rough brutal thrusts his hairy teenage bollocks slapped against Arthur's arse and Arthur's cock shot pre-cum with each thrust dribbling down the bench and pooling onto the floor. Samson leaned in and kissed Arthur's neck before kissing a little too hard making Arthur squeal, "Shit sorry....that's gonna leave a mark" Samson chuckled before slapping Arthur on the ass and resuming his powerful hard fuck his cock pistoning in and out of his hole making him moan on Heath's cock. Samson felt a familiar feeling, a feeling he had felt many times before, his balls began to tingle and his cock throbbed inside Arthur. It was like Arthur knew what was going to happen as he squeezed hard on the shaft as Samson slid in making Samson's mouth widen, "AHHHH SHIT.....I'M GONNA CUM". Arthur spat Heath's cock out and muttered, "Cum inside me....i wanna feel it" Samson was shocked, this time last week Arthur was the innocent son of a now deceased vicar and now he was begging for Samson's hot load in his ass, Samson moaned through bated breath as his face flushed red, "Fuuuuck......Heath.....cum on....his face". Heath nodded and pulled his cock from the boy's mouth and began to jerk it hard and fast grunting faster and faster. Samson felt jolts shoot through his cock as his balls tightened and he slammed in moaning, "UGHHH IM CUMMINGGGGG", He pushed in as hard as he possibly could making Arthur wail as his cock began to explode inside the boy's hole. Samson's legs shook and his own hole clenched as his fat cock painted the insides of Arthur's hole, his head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. He grunted and thrust again before sighing heavily and collapsing on the bench, a mammoth 12 ropes of cum had shot from his cock and now resided inside young Arthur Thomas. Heath jerked his cock faster and faster as he felt the tingling in his balls intensify. He looked down at Arthur looking at his fresh baby face, now flushed a little red but still sexy as fuck, he grunted and moaned, "Fuck" as his cock erupted over the boy's face, He let out small grunts as his cock painted the boy's sexy lips nose cheeks and mouth. 7 ropes of cum coated the boy's face and as his orgasm subsided Heath sighed loudly and stumbled back sitting on the bench. "Wow" was all he could say as Samson turned Samson and kissed him, "So How was it....taking my monster up yer shitter" Arthur smiled that sexy smile, "It hurt so much at first but after a while it felt so good....and my bum felt so warm when you cummed I felt it squirting out" Samson chuckled, he loved the innocence of the boy. They looked down and noticed Arthur was still rock solid, "Let us service you now" he grinned as Heath went to the boy's legs and pulled them upwards taking Arthur by surprise, Samson went down to the boy's cock and pushed it between his lips, "Ohhhhh wow" Arthur groaned as Samson began to suck his steel hard boner, taking it all the way down to his small patch of pubes, Arthur's eyes were shut and he was just enjoying the boner, "WHHHHATTTT....OH WOW" He shouted as he looked down and Heath was licking his now tightened dripping hole, "Yeah that's it Heath lick his cum filled hole....Art push the cum onto his tongue". Samson chuckled before slamming back down on the teenage boy. Arthur was feeling a wave of different feelings, his cock felt warm and wet and so did his hole, he pushed down slightly feeling the cum leak out of his hole as Heath lapped and sucked on it saving it all in his mouth. After a minute Heath pulled out of his hole and Samson nodded as Heath strode over to Arthur, "Open wide" He ordered as Heath opened his mouth and let the cum drip from his mouth into Arthur's, the boys then locked lips and the kiss was passionate to say the least, Arthur loved the taste of Samson's cum and he could taste his ass on the cum as well but that made it even hotter, they swallowed Samson's cum and before Arthur knew it his balls tightened and he wailed, "IM GONNA BLOOWWWW" he moaned as his cock spat out 5 ropes of teenage boy cum into Samson's mouth. Samson stood up and kissed the boy, shoving Arthur's cum into his own mouth, The boys kissed passionately before pulling away. "Wow....my cum does taste good....so does yours" he winked at Samson who smirked, "Your cum tastes so good and I wanna eat loads more of it in the future....but now we need to go....it's nearly 3am" Arthur's mouth fell open, they had been fucking for hours" the Samson and Heath got dressed and Samson kissed Arthur as he left. Arthur sat there completely naked, his cock hanging off the bench seat. He looked around, "Cheeky bastards" he muttered as he realised they had taken his clothes. He was left with no other option. He slowly opened the door and stepped out. The village was quiet as the naked 16-year-old ran across his garden, his willy swinging from side to side with each step his nipples as hard as bullets in the cold. He ran inside and quietly closed the door. He crept up the stairs, as he was heading into his room he heard, "Arthur is that you", he poked his head around the corner as Laurel looked out of her bedroom door, "I...errr yeah sorry mum I went to get a drink". She scoffed, "Well next time be a bit quieter ok....now come on let's get you tucked in" Arthur's eyes widened, he was butt naked behind the door, "Ummm no mum it's alright I can get myself to bed". He stuttered as she stopped, "Aww ok then...and put on a t-shirt its freezing in here" Arthur smirked, and closed his door, "A T-shirt is the least of me worries....me ass is dripping cum" he chuckled as he led on his bed completely stark naked. "Well Arthur Thomas....you are a real man" he chuckled as he drifted off to sleep. This was a hot story to write and one part of it was suggested by a lovely reader, send any feedback or future pairings to Anonbucket1995@outlook.com

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sat, 25 Feb 2023 22:43:50 +0000 From: Anon Bucket &lt;Anonbucket1995@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Horny hunks of Emmerdale part 10, (Gay, celebrity) Horny hunks of Emmerdale Part 10 This is a fictional story that involves consensual sex between people over the age of consent and does not imply the sexuality of the characters or those who play them. Please donate anything possible to the Nifty Archive http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Part - Boy or real man. It was early morning in the Dales, Bob was opening the shop, David was opening his store and the village was beginning to wake up. People were leaving their houses to go to work and the village was ready to start a new day. All was still in Mulberry Cottage apart from in the bedroom of Young Arthur Thomas, sighs filled the room as the boy led on his bed naked as the day he was born. His underwear pulled down to his ankles and his face flushed red as he was completely focused on the task in hand. The main task being wanking......and wanking hard you see Arthur was now a man. The night before he had fucked Samson in his tight little arse, and it felt fucking incredible. The images of the boy's hole wrapped around his cock, The thrusts of Arthur's cock into the hole filled his mind and then the moment of bliss when he had busted a load inside Samson's tight hole. "UHHHHH COME ON.....COME ON YES......YES.....YEEEESSSSSSSS" Arthur moaned as he bit his bottom lip as his cock erupted firing 5 shots of slightly watery 16-year-old boy spunk up his smooth chest his mouth open wide as his legs shook as the salty goo fired from his pink head. After the last spurt he sighed loudly and led back on the bed breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling fast as the cum began to drip down the side of his body. As the teen regained his composure he looked down, "Wow....that's a big load....real man cum" he chuckled as he grabbed a pair of used underwear and wiped his sperm off his chest and stomach. Arthur looked over at the clock, 7.00am. "Not bad....lasted nearly 30 minutes". He usually timed his wanks to see if he lasted any longer. He had really edged himself this time, but he had no doubt that his balls would ache before long, he was a horny teen boy after all. He stood up and his cock flopped between his legs. Although not the biggest cock standing hard at 5.5 inches he was proud of his cock, it had made Samson squeal after all. As it was quiet in the house Arthur decided to go for a shower, he contemplated putting on a pair of PJ bottoms, "AHH It's not far to the shower" he thought deciding to just go naked. As he stepped out his door he heard, "ARTHUR ARE YOU AWAKE" and footsteps coming up the stairs. "Shit....shit" Arthur muttered as he ran across the landing butt naked, his cock swinging with each step he took and his smooth cheeks wobbling up and down. He had no idea how he would explain being naked on the landing. "Just having a shower" he stuttered as he ran into the bathroom and shut the door. "Ok son don't use all the hot water and make sure you clean your bits" Laurel shouted up the stairs. Arthur's face burned as he cringed in the bathroom, "Just call it a cock" he muttered into his hands as he walked over to the shower and turned it on. He moaned as he got into the shower feeling the warm water on his body, as he showered he suddenly realised something, "Really.......you've just blown" he smirked looking down at his hard cock again...."Looks like the shower door's getting painted" he chuckled wrapping his hand around his cock once more. Arthur showered and got dressed choosing to go commando this time, he was a man now, he wasn't a virgin any more and underwear would just get in the way. He put on a shirt and chinos looking like a respectable young man......who was wearing no underwear. As he sat on the bed his phone buzzed. He grinned as he realised it was from Samson, it was a picture message. "WOW" Was all Arthur could say as the image of Samson Lying in bed with his huge boner in his hand filled the screen with the message." Wanna have some fun later?????" Arthur didn't even have to think, he wanted inside that hole once more. "Hell yeah....that cock is insane" he replied as Samson replied with a thumbs up. Arthur sat on his bed and was interrupted by Laurel shouting, "Come on Arthur....it might be the weekend, but you said you'd help me at the church." Arthur sighed into his hands, why did he say he'd help. But he had no choice now. He stood up and went off with Laurel to the church. Arthur worked hard all day his boner was a frequent problem and he considered just going for a wank when Laurel was busy but something about Jerking off in a church was wrong and he really couldn't bring himself to do it so when he left at 6pm he was pretty Damn horny. As he left he received another message from Samson, "Might have to Cancel tonight sorry.....got nowhere we can go" Arthur sighed loudly, he really needed to cum, and he really wanted to taste Samson's fat cock once more. As he walked an idea came into his head, "I have a place.....come to my house at 11pm.....don't knock just wait....I'll be there" Samson replied with another thumbs up and Arthur went home to nap, he would need all the strength if he was gonna pound Samson tonight. Arthur awoke at 7.30 and had to wait for 3.30 hours until his meet which was fucking painful not only mentally but also because his solid boner was hard as a rock. At 10 Laurel said goodnight and Arthur pretended to be in bed wearing a football shirt, but under the bed he was completely nude rubbing his ever so hard boner teasing himself. At 10.55 he got out of bed and put some PJ bottoms on, he crept downstairs, his boner tenting the thin fabric. He quietly opened the door and closed it behind him. He tiptoed into the garden and saw a figure, as he got closer he realised it was Samson. The boys both grinned as Samson chuckled, "Thought you'd never come" he pulled Arthur in for a long passionate kiss, the boy's lips slamming together as Samson squeezed Arthur's bulge making the teen grunt into his mouth. As they pulled away Samson whispered, "So where we going then?" Arthur winked and took Samson's hands, "Follow me" he whispered as Samson followed him excited about what was to cum. Arthur and Samson crept into the back gate of Mulberry cottage with Arthur putting his finger to his lips, "Shhh" he whispered as the boys walked in and Arthur shut the gate. As they walked up the garden Samson's eyes lit up as Arthur pointed, "Ta-da." Samson couldn't believe it. "Arthur this is fucking perfect" Samson chuckled as Arthur pointed to his Pirate ship. The boys walked closer towards the ship, "Its perfect......and we can go inside and mess around just cant be too loud" Arthur chuckled letting Samson in. As Samson went inside he quickly got his phone out and sent a message without Arthur knowing. As Arthur turned around Samson pushed him against the door and slammed his tongue into the boy's mouth, Arthur smiled, "Someone's horny" he chuckled as Samson replied, "Yeah I fucking am....and you are too by the feel of it" he squeezed Arthur's bulge making the boy moan once more as they furiously made out. As they kissed Samson reached down and pulled at Arthur's shirt. Arthur lifted his arms and Samson pulled is top off kissing down Arthurs's smooth chest kissing down his chest and licking his nipples quickly making Arthur groan. Samson kissed up and resumed his make out session undoing his own shirt and pulling it off. "Wow you look so fit" Arthur chuckled as Samson grabbed the boy's chino's and pulled them down, "WOW commando....Arthur Thomas you naughty boy" he smirked undoing his own button on his trousers and pulled them down. Arthur's mouth fell open, "Commando too Mr Dingle....great minds think alike.....fuck that cock is gorgeous." They continued making out and wanking each other's cock making the boys grunt into their mouths. Their hands quickly became slick with Pre-Cum as Arthur whispered, "I cant wait to fuck you again." Samson smiled and pulled away....."Yeah about that...." Arthur looked confused, "What Samson" he asked sounding a little mad. "Well.....you've already fucked me sooooooo I think it's time for you to bottom" Arthur took a step back, "I....i....I've never taken a cock before....you're too big." Samson smiled, "Mate.....I'd tear your ass to pieces....but don't worry because If you want too someone else will ease your hole in" Arthur looked shocked, "You told someone else about us?" Samson smirked, "Mate it's ok our secret is safe, its only us and 1 other person" Arthur sighed, "Well I suppose that's ok then" he smirked sitting down on the bench in the Ship. "Who is it then?" he asked. As he said this a small knock was heard on the door, Samson stood up, "Wait here" he chuckled walking outside. Arthur hoped he wouldn't be long; he couldn't explain to Lauren why Samson and another man were naked in his garden. Samson walked inside quickly followed by the other man, "No Way.....you" Arthur stuttered before smirking, his cock throbbing in his hand. The 3rd person closed the door behind them, Arthur couldn't believe who was gonna fuck him and he was actually quite excited about it. "Sooooooo.....how did you and Samson start.....you know doing things Heath." Sat there was young 16-year-old villager Heath Hope who since he had gotten his hair cut again looked pretty damn hot. Heath smirked, "It were on me birthday....Samson Joked about a birthday blowjob and I jokingly said yes....before I knew it he was slobbering over me cock" Samson smirked, "Yeah it's true, he shot right in my mouth." Arthur grinned, "And you are gonna fuck me i bum then" Heath nodded, "If you want me too" Arthur nodded and put his hand on Heath's bulge. Heath looked down and smirked, "Think it's time I lost me clothes too" he chuckled pulling off his shirt revealing a slightly toned smooth chest. He pulled down his trousers, "He's wearing underwear" Arthur chuckled as Heath stood there in his tight black boxers. He tented the boxers with his boner, "Lets see the cock" Samson smirked as Heath put his fingers under the waistband and quickly pulled his pants down kicking them across the room. Arthur's eyes widened, "Quite the pretty cock aint it" Samson smirked as Heath gripped his boner and wanked it a few times pre-cum dripping from the head. His cock stood at around 7 inches long and curved upwards only slightly. His shaft was average thickness, and his foreskin was rolled back under the head, his cock looked so delicious and somehow it looked so freaking clean as pre-cum dripped from the head. He had a patch of brown pubes a bit bushier than Arthurs. His balls has a few sparse hairs on them and looked full of cum. Heath stood there wanking with a devilish smile on his face, "Shall we get started then boys" he chuckled as The boys all nodded in response and stood up, "What should we all do?" Arthur asked looking confused. He had only lost his virginity last night and no he was gonna lose his anal virginity and have a threesome, he was still very new to sexual stuff as well. Samson thought, "I think Heath deserves a treat for agreeing to this so Arthur I think you should give him a nice wet sloppy blowie whilst he services my cock. Arthur smiled and nodded, "Fuck yeah cant wait to suck that monster" Heath chuckled waving his cock at Arthur, "Come on then Thomas let's see how good you really are. Arthur smirked and knelt to his knees between Heath's smooth legs, "Make it wet and sloppy" Heath grinned waving his cock back and forth. Arthur smiled and took hold of the cock grunting as he realised it was hard as a rock. Arthur pulled the cock closer and opened wide before pushing forward and putting the cock head into his mouth, Arthur close his mouth and began to suck on the dripping wet head, "Mphhhh yessss" Heath moaned as Arthurs warm wet mouth enveloped his head. Arthur began to lick around the sensitive head collecting all of the pre-cum on his tongue before letting the juices run over his tastebuds. "Mmmmmmm" Arthur moaned on the cock as Heath began to pump his hips up and down sending more of the cock into his mouth, "Feeling good?" Samson chuckled as Heath looked over with a massive smile, "Oh fuck yes.....so good mate" Samson waved his monster back and forth, "Well I'd have more fun with your mouth around this." Heath stretched his mouth wide, "Gotta stretch me jaw.....that monster will hurt my jaw otherwise." Samson put his hand on the back of Heath's head and pulled him onto his wet cock pushing it between his lips and pushing him down firing inch after inch into the boy's mouth. Arthur looked up in shock as Heath took inch after inch without gagging and before he knew it Samson's pubes were pressed up against Heath's nose. Arthur pulled Heath out of his mouth and muttered in absolute astonishment, "What the hell.....like how did he take that all?" Samson grinned and slapped Heath gently on the cheek, "Boy has no gag reflex....it's a great skill" He chuckled before raising his head and moaning, "FUUUUUUCK" As Heat's tongue began to lick his hairy balls. Arthur was in awe at the sight but was brought out of his trance by, "Ummmm Arthur.....ARTHUR.......suck his cock." He felt a hand on his head as Samson pushed him down hard on the cock making him cough and wretch as he hit the 6-inch mark. Heath moaned aloud, "AHHH YEAH THAT FEELS SO GOOD UGHHHH" Samson frowned, "Did I say fucking stop sucking" and shoved Heath back down slamming him down so hard his throat bulged, and his balls squished against Heath's chin. As he was being throat fucked, between his tear-filled eyes Heath watched in awe as Arthur swallowed all 7 inches of his thick cock. Arthur was becoming very brave, he just thought, "I have to just take it and take it hard" Heath grunted as his bush of pubes tickled the boy's nose. Arthur sucked hard with gusto slamming the cock into his mouth and making his vocal cords vibrate on Heath's cock head making the boy moan loudly and spit pre-cum into his stomach. Heath bucked his hips up and down sending his cock deeper and deeper making Arthur choke, but as tears filled his eyes Arthur was focused on just taking it as hard as he could without retching. Arthur reached down and gave his own cock a few tugs making himself drip pre-cum onto the wooden floor. Over with Samson he had Heath's face buried in his hairy cum filled balls, "OHHHH FUCKING SUCK IT" He groaned pushing Heath into his balls as the boy tongued around each bollock tasting the musk of the teenage boy. He then popped a bollock into his mouth and sucked feverishly, Samson was in fucking heaven he had 2 hot teenage boys in a steamy threesome this truly was the life. Heath reached down and began to bob Arthur up and down pulling him up and down by his hair making the boy squeal as he pulled him up. Suddenly Heath slammed his hips up and pushed Arthur down immediately making the boy cough and wretch as his throat was plugged by the thick cock. He spluttered and wretched as tears filled his eyes and his cheeks flushed red. Heath slammed his cock in and out of the boy's throat his balls slapping against Arthurs chin until like a train Samson slammed his cock into Heath's throat so hard he finally wretched making Heath slam Arthur down as the feeling in his cock and the cock in his throat was nearly cum inducing. Samson threw his head back and Heath screamed in pleasure on his cock as Samson pulled him off his thick monster, a string of saliva connecting the cock to his mouth. Heath grabbed Arthur by the hair and pulled him off the cock, Arthur looked up with saliva pouring from his mouth and an innocent smile, "Did I do a good job?" Heath looked at Samson and together they said, "FUCK YES." Samson pulled Arthur to his feet and slammed his face against the boy's feeling his smooth skin as it slid against his, Samson reached out and gripped Arthur's cock rolling the foreskin over the wet head making him high pitched squeal into Samson's mouth. Their tongues wrapped around each-others as it became more passionate. Samson pulled away and as Arthur turned around to look at Heath the other boy slammed his face against Arthur's pulling him in for an equally passionate kiss, their faces masked together as wet slurping sounds filled the room, "Fuck that's hot" Samson chuckled sitting back and wanking his cock to the hot sight in front of him. The boys put on a show for Samson as when they pulled away Heath whispered, "Get over my lap." Arthur nodded a little confused, but he lead over Heath's lap feeling his cock stabbing at his smooth stomach. Heath squeezed the smooth mounds of flesh that Arthur called his ass and wobbled the cheeks before raising his hand and, "SLAP....SLAP....SLAP" He slapped the boy hard once on each cheek and then in the middle, "AAHHHH.....AHHHHHH.AHHHHH" Arthur grunted as his cheeks turned red and a tear filled his eye. "That fucking hurt" Arthur whispered as Heath grinned, "Yeah....well you must have liked it yer cock is solid" Arthur did a cheeky grin and looked back at the floor as Heath slapped his cheeks again and again turning the cheeks bright red. Heath then whispered to Samson, "You like this ass?" Samson nodded and Heath put a hand on each cheek and spread the cheeks making Arthur grunt as his smooth pink asshole was revealed. "Mmmmm looks like a good arsehole.....you wanna fuck this Samson....you wanna break little Arthur's hole" Samson nodded, and his cock dripped pre-cum down the shaft. Heath grinned, "Well you can't....that's my job....but first" he muttered before plunging his face between Arthur's cheeks and slamming his tongue against the hole, "OHHHHHH GODDD" Arthur grunted as electric as sensations shot up his body as he wiggled his ass on Heath's face. Heath was loving the taste of this tight teen virgin hole and he couldn't get enough of the hole, slobbering all over the wrinkled ring before pushing is tongue in hard feeling Arthur's cock throb against his legs before he pushed hard feeling the tight hole open. As he did this he felt a hand on the back of his head, "Fucking eat that shitter" Samson moaned as he rubbed Heath's face up and down and around the hole covering him in saliva and Arthur's ass Juices. He pushed harder and harder before he wanked a little too hard and a jolt shot through his body, he had to sit back or he would cum. Heath continued to slam and suck harder and harder, Arthur's eyes closed tight in absolute pleasure as his cock throbbed and he could feel pre-cum shoot out of his cock. Heath pulled out of Arthur's hole and whispered, "Right I think it's time I loosen this hole up a little before I fuck the hell out of it." Arthur looked up a little nervous, but he didn't have time to think as Samson interjected, "Yeah and while you do that I will be sinking my ass on Arthur's face.....he's really good at eating hole" Arthur grinned, he loved eating ass. Arthur turned so he was led on the bench and raised his legs. Samson strode over his cock bobbing up and down. He stood at Arthur's face and all Arthur could see was a hairy crack and wobbly cheeks before everything went dark. Samson's head threw back as he felt Arthur's tongue begin to lick around his entrance circling the hole before plunging his tongue hard and deep against the hole, "OHHHH FUCK YES......he's tonguing my hole" he smirked at Heath as he began to bounce up and down on the boy's face grinding the tight teen hole against Arthur's mouth and nose while jerking his monster cock rolling the foreskin back and forth over the wet shiny head. Arthur groaned into the hole as his tongue was rammed up the hole. Arthur loved the taste of Samson's hole and it was one of his favourite things to do, he closed his eyes and just went crazy in the hole ramming his tongue as hard as he could squeezing the cheeks around his face and sucking the hole hard. He pulled out briefly licking his lips all he could taste was tight teenage hole and he fucking loved it. He quickly crashed his tongue hard against the hole making Samson sigh above him his eyes rolling back in his head as he pushed the man between his cheeks rubbing his arse back and forth on the boy smearing his ass juices all over the man, "Oh god....your good at this", Samson moaned as Arthur opened his hole with his tongue exploring deeper than ever before making his eyes roll back and his head be thrown back. Suddenly Arthur wailed into Samson's hole and his legs began to shake, Samson looked over and saw Heath grinning from ear to ear with 2 fingers rammed up Arthur's ass. Arthur's face flushed red and his breathing intensified which made it even hornier for Samson as the tingling of the boy's breath made his cock throb. "Fuck he's so tight" Heath grinned sliding his fingers deeper and deeper into the impossibly tight bottom of the horny teen. "AHHHHH FUCK" Arthur moaned into Samson's cheeks as Heath slapped his cheeks a few times turning the pale smooth cheeks red and a warmth spread across his bum. Heath twisted his fingers inside the boy making him wail once more before pulling them out, "Fuck....that's a tight shitter you got boy......its tightened already" He licked the juices off his fingers savouring the taste of the teen boy-hole. Heath then decided to make the boy moan so he crawled between his legs leant down and shoved the whole 5 inches into his mouth quickly bottoming out at Arthur's small patch of pubes. "UGHHHHHH GODDDDD YESSSS" Arthur moaned into Samson's hole as his hand shot out and he began to thrust into Heath's throat his bum wobbling with each thrust as Heath sucked with gusto, the boy's pre-cum splashing over his tongue as he wrapped sucked hard. The boy had a tasty cock and he wanted to worship him before he slammed his hole. He sucked long and hard taking it as hard as Arthur could offer choking as gagging which seemed to turn Arthur on even more. Samson loved it as well as Arthur groaned into Samson's hole making the boy grind his face round and round coating him in ass Juice. Samson winked at Heath it was like they read each other's minds, in unison Heath throated all of Arthur's cock and Samson sat down with force, the suction that heath was doing to him making Arthur scream into Samson hole and the boy throw his head back in pleasure. They held their positions for a minute before Arthur slapped at Samson's cheeks. Heath pulled off And Samson stood up on wobbly legs, "Fuck.....fuck.....fuck...." was all Arthur could grunt through breaths as his face was flushed red and his face coated in ass juice. He looked down at Heath, "That blowie was amazing" he chuckled sighing as Heath kissed up his body stopping at his pink nipples before sucking each one making Arthur's cock throb, before moving up and whispering, "Glad you enjoyed....now wanna take my cock in that virgin hole?" Arthur's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, "Good boy" Heath smirked winking at Samson who winked back. The boy was in for a hell of a night. "Right Artie.....you're gonna get on yer back and put your legs in the air" Heath whispered as Arthur nervously grinned and led on the bench. He raised his legs and held them up putting his hands on the back of his knees and pulling his ass up into the air. "OOOOOH" Arthur groaned as a breeze tickled his hole, "Fuck that hole looks so good" Samson chuckled as Arthur raised a brow, "Samson....when Heath is inside me what are you gonna do". Samson shrugged his shoulders, "Dunno yet mate......might get you to suck me cock.......might slide in Heath's hole not sure yet" Arthur nodded as Heath moved between his legs and put the boy's smooth legs on his shoulders. Heath reached down and slapped his cock on the tight pink pucker making Arthur wince. "Is this gonna hurt?" Arthur whispered to Samson looking nervous, his hole twitched with anticipation. Samson smirked and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Honestly mate......yeah at first" Arthurs eyes widened as Samson slapped his shoulder, "But then it'll feel so good mate" Arthur nodded again still looking so scared. "I'll go slow mate" Heath smirked as he spat onto his cock rubbing it back and forth before rubbing it on the hole, he pressed his cock head against the tight...tight hole. Heath didn't want to tease the boy he wanted to get him used to his cock as quickly as possible, so he pressed his cock head against the boy's tight hole. He shifted his bodyweight up and his cock head penetrated the virgin hole and began to slide slowly inside the boy's hole. As the cock head popped in, he slapped Arthur on the shoulder, "Hey mate you're not a anal virgin anymore...I just took your ass virginity". Arthur smiled feeling proud he was no longer a virgin. He began to push inch after inch into the boy, Arthur was doing so well, and Heath was......" STOP." He looked down and Arthur had his eyes closed and he was shaking, his face flushed red once more. "It hurts now.....damn it....my hole fucking stings so much" Arthur grunted as Samson stood up and tapped him on the shoulder, "Oi mate suck on this it'll take your mind off it" Arthur opened wide, and Samson slid his cock head into the boy's mouth moaning as Arthur instantly began to suck on the head sighing and moaning on the head as Heath stayed deadly still inside him. Suddenly Heath moaned, "Mate your hole just relaxed I felt it loosen on me cock.....can I slide in more now" Arthur spat Samson's cock out and moaned, "Yeah just go careful ok" Heath nodded and pushed ever so gently, watching as inch after inch of his 7 inches disappeared inside the impossibly tight hole, Heath grunted and groaned as his cock was gripped tightly, Arthur screwed his eyes shut and screamed onto Samson's cock, "Just focus on my cock" Samson chuckled sliding his cock into the boy's throat making him cough and splutter. "Fuck he's so tight" Heath grinned as Samson chuckled, "Well duh.....he is an anal virgin". Heath let out a grunt as his pubes brushed up against Arthur's cheeks. "Well Mr Thomas....it's all in" Arthur spat out the cock once more, "And I can feel every fucking inch inside me.....my hole is on fire." Heath chuckled, "Yeah I know I can feel it clamping down on my cock.....makes me wanna ruin this hole" Arthur grinned and continued to suck on Samson inhaling the cock all the way to the base. "UGHHHHH wow boy taking it all now are we" Samson moaned slapping Arthur on the cheek and began to thrust his cock hard into the boy's mouth his hairy bollocks slapping against Arthur's chin as he felt warm wetness envelop his cock all the way to the root. Heath had built up a steady motion on Arthur's hole, It was beginning to loosen, and Heath could now thrust albeit slowly back and forth in and out of the hole, his cock slick with ass juice. Heath began to pick up a bit of speed and before the boys knew it the sound of Heath's smooth balls began to slap against Arthur's hole. As Heath sped up Arthur moaned and wailed loudly pulling the cock out of his mouth and groaning, "FUUUUUCK.....FUCK ME Heath." The cock that had once felt like a pole shoved up his arse now felt pretty damn good, Arthur looked down and his own cock was rock solid, "Let me take care of that" Samson smirked as he reached down and began to jerk the teenager off making Arthur purr. Heath heard Arthur tell him to fuck him and smirked, he wanted to pound this hole and the boy was surely gonna get it. I'm going to fuck you harder now." Arthur smirked and winked at Heath before whispering, "Do it I wanna feel it all Heath pulled back so his head was left inside before mercilessly smashing his cock inside the hole with brutal force, Arthur's eyes shot open and he wailed loudly as his own cock spat pre-cum onto his smooth stomach". Heath slammed into the boy hard over and over slap after slap of his balls were all that could be heard, Arthur was in heaven, as he put his arm behind his head revealing his smooth armpit that was dotted with a few hairs. Samson stood up and walked behind Heath. He knelt down and pulled the boy's smooth cheeks apart revealing his tight lightly haired pucker. Samson leant in and took a deep inhale taking the pure scent of the young stud in. Heath felt naughty as he thrusted into Arthur, and he quickly reached out and rammed Samson's head up into his cheeks. "FUCKING LICK IT", He ordered as Samson fought for breath, He managed to get a breath and rammed his tongue in as hard as he could with all his might making Heath's eyes shoot open and as he threw his head back, he screamed, "FUUUUUUUCK YES". As his cock spat pre-cum into Arthur's guts as the boy was pushed up and down the bench by Heath's brutal thrusts. Arthur was in absolute heaven; he couldn't believe his life was like this now. Not 48 hours ago he was an innocent 16 year old and now he was naked in his pirate ship with a cock shoved up his tight hole. "UGHHHHH YES....YES HARDER.....HARDER" He moaned as Heath mercilessly thrust inside him, his ass felt so full yet it felt so right, he was truly a natural born cock whore and for a first timer he was taking it like a champ. Arthur squeezed his hole on Heath's pole making the boy sigh in pleasure as he continued to thrust deeper and harder grinding his cock around inside the boy. Heath reached out and began to pinch Arthur's pink nipples as he pounded, the sensations sending shock's up Arthur's 5.5 inches and he gripped it beginning to wank slowly his hand quickly becoming wet with his own juices as he let go of his cock and brought his hand up to his face. He opened his mouth and began to suck the pre-cum off his fingers tasting his own juices for the first time and it wasted so freaking good, a little salty but a taste he could savour forever. Heath pulled Samson from his cheeks and slid out of Arthur's hole. "Fuck....you're gaping" he chuckled as Arthur grinned. "Lets change position" Heath chuckled pulling Arthur to his feet. "Where do you want me?" Arthur asked as Heath sat on the bench and slapped his legs, "Come ride me boy" he muttered as Arthur straddled him and lowered himself down wincing as the head penetrated his hole once more. Arthur slid himself down the pole until the boy was deep inside him. "Bounce on it" Heath ordered as Arthur began to slowly bounce up and down on the pole grunting and sighing as his hole was stretched once more. Quickly Heath's balls slapped against the boy as Heath put his hands on Arthur's smooth cheeks and pulled him up and down his cock. Heath suddenly pulled Arthur down hard making Arthur wail as he began to grind around and around getting the cock as deep as it could possibly go inside him. Samson sat in the corner just enjoying the view as he wanked his hard cock fast and hard pre-cum flying across the room as it poured from his piss slit." Arthur had his eyes closed and his head upwards as he was pounded by Heath over and over. He opened his eyes and Heath slammed his tongue into the boy's mouth taking him by surprise as they kissed hungrily, Heath's tongue exploring Arthur's mouth tasting the pure essence of the boy as he softly grunted into his mouth. Arthur's smooth chest was now glistening with sweat and the room smelled of teen boy sweat and cum, 2 of Heath's favourite smells. He was fucking the boy at astonishing speed now he had a look of sheer dominance on his face, he truly wanted to give the boy a fucking of a lifetime. His cock thrusting inside at lightening speed and the tightness of Arthur's hole still the same as when he first penetrated it. "FUCK....FUCK.....FUCK.....FUUUUUUUCK" Heath shouted as he ripped Arthur from his cock and ordered, "SUCK IT" Arthur shoved the cock into his mouth and immediately tasted his own hole, it felt so wrong, but it felt so fucking right. He throated the cock all the way to the base coughing and choking as Heath reached out and held him in place continuing to thrust fast his balls slapping hard against Arthur's chin. Saliva poured from the boy's throat and tears filled his eyes as Heath slammed in hard and held him there his balls squished against Arthur's throat as he pinched the boy's nose shut" Arthur immediately began to choke, spluttering hard as he heaved and looked up at Heath pleadingly. "ONE....MORE.....SECOND...." He wailed before pushing the boy off sending his flying onto the floor coughing and spluttering. Arthur's face was red now and tears fell from his cheek. "wow that was intense" Arthur coughed as Heath sat there smirking, "Yeah I got a bit carried away there sorry" "Don't apologise it was fucking hot" Samson smirked helping Arthur to his feet. "So what's next Artie" Samson muttered and he rubbed Arthur's sensitive cock head feeling the juices make his hand wet. Arthur grinned, he was loving this and he took the cock pretty damn well his hole loved it and he was sure that he would have many more cock's shoved up his hole in the future there were many studs in the village that he wanted inside him. But now he had to take the chance whilst it was there, it was a decision he wasn't sure he wouldn't regret but he had to do it. Arthur reached out and grabbed Samson by the cock rubbing his foreskin over the wet head. He looked up at Samson and kissed him passionately just as Samson had done the first time they kissed, he wrapped his tongue around Samson's and reached out to pinch the boy's nipple making Samson moan into his mouth, the kiss was passionate and hot as the boys swapped copious amounts of saliva as Arthur slurped and sucked the boy's tongue before pulling away grinning from ear to ear and saying the 3 words that Samson didn't expect to hear tonight. Words he thought he wouldn't hear for a while, "Fuck me Samson" Arthur chuckled looking straight at Samson who's mouth fell open. "Mate I'm not sure.....he is 7 inches and I'm near 11 inches and my cock is so much fatter than his" Arthur looked over at Heath, "he can take your cock cant he?" Samson replied, "yeah barely....and I've fucked him like 5 times" Arthur's hole twitched with anticipation, "Well.....Until tonight I was an anal virgin and he just pounded the fuck out of me and I took it like a man and anyway I fucked you last night now its my turn to return the favour". Samson grinned, "You sure you can take it big boy" Arthur bent over the bench and spread his cheeks, his hole had returned to size and looked tight as fuck. "Samson Dingle put that monster inside me" he chuckled winking at Samson who's cock was leaking copious amounts of pre-cum on to the floor. Arthur was brave, Arthur was fearless as he led there with his legs raised up to his shoulders his hole twitched with anticipation. Samson lined his cock up with the smooth nearly virgin hole and braced his legs on the floor and began to push...hard. The sheer pressure on his hole made Arthur wince as his shitter gave tremendous resistance to the invasion. Sadly, for his hole it was no match for the 16-year-old stud and with one breath in and a hard thrust his cock pulled the hole apart and his cock head pushed its way inside the boy. Arthur' eyes widened and shot open, "SHIT.....UHHHHH WOWWWW," was all that came out of his mouth as he screwed his face up as Samson whistled, "Fuck....this is a tight hole...you ready for me to slide", Arthur just nodded, "Do it....please". Samson began to push letting out a loud sigh as Arthur' legs shook and he brought his hand to his face and screamed into it, tears ran down his face as his ass was wrenched open by the large cock, Arthur's hole had immediately began to spasm trying to clamp shut but it was to no avail. Sat in the corner Heath jerked his cock slowly to the sight before him, his pre-cum dripping down his shaft as Samson chuckled, "Sorry Mate....you'll get involved in a minute" Heath smirked and replied, "Nah mate its cool.....I'm enjoying watching this.....for now". Samson pushed a few inches at a time letting Arthur get used to it, the tightness on his cock was nearly overwhelming for the boy. With tears running down his face and through gritted teeth Arthur managed to mutter, "How.... much....is.... in." Samson smirked, "You're doing well mate that's nearly 9 inches inside you...only 2 more to go". Arthur sighed, he leaned in and whispered, "It hurts....it's so much bigger than Heath's fuuuuuck but it feels good". Samson grinned and grunted before a loud slapping sound filled the room and I heard Samson exclaim, "Oh shit." Arthur' eyes shot open, and he let out a small whine and he screamed into his hand, "Well good news is that it's all in.... but I did just fire the last 2 inches up you in one go" Samson exclaimed looking guilty, "Stay fuckin still or It'll hurt even more." Samson ordered as Arthur's face burned red and tears flowed down his face, his ass felt like it was on fire, his hole was spasming around Samson's cock and his body heaved. Arthur looked at me and whispered, "Fuck....me arse will never be the same again." Samson chuckled and replied, "Mate after this it'll be just as tight.... listen to me now ok, I'm is gonna pull back a little it will fucking hurt but be a brave boy yeah" Arthur nodded and He slowly slid 3 inches out of the School boy Arthur quietly sighed into his hand. Samson stayed still letting Arthur push back onto his cock. After 5 minutes Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Hey Sams this isn't actually as bad as I thought it'd be, it still hurts but it's actually beginning to feel ok". Samson smirked, "Good, the sight down there looks fucking amazing and my cock.....like wow you feel so freaking tight" Samson was ready to fuck the boy now, to give it his all, he had taken it easy on the boy up until now but he needed to feel the warm wetness of the teenagers hole on his cock, he needed to feel his balls slapping against him and listen to the boy's gasps and moans. But first he looked over to Heath and ordered, "When I really and I mean REALLY begin to fuck him I want your tongue up me arse ok?" Heath grinned, "It'd be my pleasure Mr Dingle." Heath looked down at Arthur, "You ready to take it.....hard" Arthur was nervous, just taking the huge cock felt like his ass was being torn apart but he had to be brave, "Do it" he muttered as Samson just grinned at him. Samson slid out so the head of his cock was inside before slamming it hard groaning as his bollocks bounced of Arthur's ass, Arthur's mouth opened wide but no sound came out and tears began to fill his eyes. Samson groaned before pulling back and repeated the motion groaning as Arthur's tight hole twitched and clamped down on his monster sending shockwaves up his cock, his balls slapping against Arthur as Arthur started to moan in a mixture of pleasure and pain but at the moment more pain. Arthur stayed still, his cheeks flushed red and sweat dripped from his forehead as Samson went to town on his arse, ramming it in hard before ripping it out and repeating the motion over and over every now and then slapping the schoolboy's ass turning the cheeks bright red. Samson was now grunting and groaning as his cock was smashing inside harder and deeper than ever before. Samson pulled out and held just the head in Arthur' ass, "Like my fat cock do you?, like my big young, muscled cock," he chuckled as Arthur struggled to answer as his body was being flung around like a rag doll, "I....love...your....big....cock" he managed to reply as Samson pushed back and forth in the now gaping hole. Samson leaned down and shoved his tongue into Arthur's mouth kissing him passionately swapping saliva and ramming his tongue deep into Arthur's mouth. Samson pulled away and carried on thrusting hard and fast before shouting, "HEATH GET THAT TONGUE IN MY HOLE". Heath grinned and walked over crouching down and pulling Samson's lightly haired cheeks apart and as Samson pulled back he dove his face between the cheeks slobbering over the hole eating it like it was his last meal, "OH SHIIIIIIIT" Samson grunted reaching back and pushing Heath hard against his hole. Heath's tongue slammed into his hole lapping and sucking at the tight hole squeezing the cheeks around his face and slapping them making Samson grunt and groan. Over on the bench Arthur was in a mixture of pleasure and pain, Samson's cock felt like a baseball bat up his arse but Arthur's cock was rock solid, he looked down and he was subconsciously rubbing his steel hard shaft rolling his foreskin over the very wet head. His hole had loosened a little and Samson's thrusts were hitting all the right spots, he grunted and groaned matching Samson's as Samson leaned in and kissed the boy once more groaning as when he bent over his hole opened and Heath pushed his tongue hard pushing his tongue into the hole a little. Their sweaty teenage bodies were connected as Samson grunted and thrust into Arthur's ass hard making the boy wail in pleasure, they breathed heavily into each other's mouths before Samson stared at Arthur looking at his face, his boyish babyface looking so sexy even more sexier when he grunted and grinned as the pleasure took over him. "What you staring at?" Arthur groaned grinding his ass on Samson's cock making it do circles inside his hole coating it in pre-cum, "Oh Nothing.....just a fucking hot sexy boy" Samson grunted as Arthur squeezed his hole around his cock making it shoot pre-cum inside him. Arthur led there grinning as Samson looked down at him, "Fucking hell Thomas that arse is made for my cock". Arthur moaned as Samson thrust in and wailed, "OHHHH FUCKKKK YES....I LOVE YOUR FAT COCK INSIDE ME". Samson slid out of the boy making Arthur wince, "FUCK.......that hole is gaping" Samson chuckled, "Lie on yer side, let me spoon you" Samson ordered as Arthur nodded and led down on the bench. Samson scooted behind him and led behind the boy lifting his leg onto his side, He put his hand over Arthur's mouth as he slid his cock inside the boy in one swift motion, Arthur screamed into Samson's hand but in a pleasurable way as Samson ordered, "Suck off Heath". Heath stepped forward and Arthur grabbed him by the cock shovelling his 7 inch dick right into his mouth and sucking it hard and fast. He grunted and groaned as Arthur's throat constricted around his cock, his vocal cords vibrated around Heath's sensitive cock head sending Pre-Cum shooting out of his cock and straight into Arthur's stomach. Heath was fucking back and forth his cock getting slicker and slicker grunting caveman groans with each suck and thrust his balls were slapping against Arthur's chin. As behind him Samson was absolutely railing the boy, he had his hands on Arthur's hips slamming inside the boy with rough brutal thrusts his hairy teenage bollocks slapped against Arthur's arse and Arthur's cock shot pre-cum with each thrust dribbling down the bench and pooling onto the floor. Samson leaned in and kissed Arthur's neck before kissing a little too hard making Arthur squeal, "Shit sorry....that's gonna leave a mark" Samson chuckled before slapping Arthur on the ass and resuming his powerful hard fuck his cock pistoning in and out of his hole making him moan on Heath's cock. Samson felt a familiar feeling, a feeling he had felt many times before, his balls began to tingle and his cock throbbed inside Arthur. It was like Arthur knew what was going to happen as he squeezed hard on the shaft as Samson slid in making Samson's mouth widen, "AHHHH SHIT.....I'M GONNA CUM". Arthur spat Heath's cock out and muttered, "Cum inside me....i wanna feel it" Samson was shocked, this time last week Arthur was the innocent son of a now deceased vicar and now he was begging for Samson's hot load in his ass, Samson moaned through bated breath as his face flushed red, "Fuuuuck......Heath.....cum on....his face". Heath nodded and pulled his cock from the boy's mouth and began to jerk it hard and fast grunting faster and faster. Samson felt jolts shoot through his cock as his balls tightened and he slammed in moaning, "UGHHH IM CUMMINGGGGG", He pushed in as hard as he possibly could making Arthur wail as his cock began to explode inside the boy's hole. Samson's legs shook and his own hole clenched as his fat cock painted the insides of Arthur's hole, his head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. He grunted and thrust again before sighing heavily and collapsing on the bench, a mammoth 12 ropes of cum had shot from his cock and now resided inside young Arthur Thomas. Heath jerked his cock faster and faster as he felt the tingling in his balls intensify. He looked down at Arthur looking at his fresh baby face, now flushed a little red but still sexy as fuck, he grunted and moaned, "Fuck" as his cock erupted over the boy's face, He let out small grunts as his cock painted the boy's sexy lips nose cheeks and mouth. 7 ropes of cum coated the boy's face and as his orgasm subsided Heath sighed loudly and stumbled back sitting on the bench. "Wow" was all he could say as Samson turned Samson and kissed him, "So How was it....taking my monster up yer shitter" Arthur smiled that sexy smile, "It hurt so much at first but after a while it felt so good....and my bum felt so warm when you cummed I felt it squirting out" Samson chuckled, he loved the innocence of the boy. They looked down and noticed Arthur was still rock solid, "Let us service you now" he grinned as Heath went to the boy's legs and pulled them upwards taking Arthur by surprise, Samson went down to the boy's cock and pushed it between his lips, "Ohhhhh wow" Arthur groaned as Samson began to suck his steel hard boner, taking it all the way down to his small patch of pubes, Arthur's eyes were shut and he was just enjoying the boner, "WHHHHATTTT....OH WOW" He shouted as he looked down and Heath was licking his now tightened dripping hole, "Yeah that's it Heath lick his cum filled hole....Art push the cum onto his tongue". Samson chuckled before slamming back down on the teenage boy. Arthur was feeling a wave of different feelings, his cock felt warm and wet and so did his hole, he pushed down slightly feeling the cum leak out of his hole as Heath lapped and sucked on it saving it all in his mouth. After a minute Heath pulled out of his hole and Samson nodded as Heath strode over to Arthur, "Open wide" He ordered as Heath opened his mouth and let the cum drip from his mouth into Arthur's, the boys then locked lips and the kiss was passionate to say the least, Arthur loved the taste of Samson's cum and he could taste his ass on the cum as well but that made it even hotter, they swallowed Samson's cum and before Arthur knew it his balls tightened and he wailed, "IM GONNA BLOOWWWW" he moaned as his cock spat out 5 ropes of teenage boy cum into Samson's mouth. Samson stood up and kissed the boy, shoving Arthur's cum into his own mouth, The boys kissed passionately before pulling away. "Wow....my cum does taste good....so does yours" he winked at Samson who smirked, "Your cum tastes so good and I wanna eat loads more of it in the future....but now we need to go....it's nearly 3am" Arthur's mouth fell open, they had been fucking for hours" the Samson and Heath got dressed and Samson kissed Arthur as he left. Arthur sat there completely naked, his cock hanging off the bench seat. He looked around, "Cheeky bastards" he muttered as he realised they had taken his clothes. He was left with no other option. He slowly opened the door and stepped out. The village was quiet as the naked 16-year-old ran across his garden, his willy swinging from side to side with each step his nipples as hard as bullets in the cold. He ran inside and quietly closed the door. He crept up the stairs, as he was heading into his room he heard, "Arthur is that you", he poked his head around the corner as Laurel looked out of her bedroom door, "I...errr yeah sorry mum I went to get a drink". She scoffed, "Well next time be a bit quieter ok....now come on let's get you tucked in" Arthur's eyes widened, he was butt naked behind the door, "Ummm no mum it's alright I can get myself to bed". He stuttered as she stopped, "Aww ok then...and put on a t-shirt its freezing in here" Arthur smirked, and closed his door, "A T-shirt is the least of me worries....me ass is dripping cum" he chuckled as he led on his bed completely stark naked. "Well Arthur Thomas....you are a real man" he chuckled as he drifted off to sleep. This was a hot story to write and one part of it was suggested by a lovely reader, send any feedback or future pairings to Anonbucket1995@outlook.com </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/late-night-beef

Date: Wed, 11 Sep 2024 00:24:09 +0800 From: kol zodd <zoddikenn@gmail.com> Subject: Late Night Beef Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. And while the characters of the story are not canon characters, they are still based off of copyrighted media. I do not own the rights to Teen Wolf and this work is not a reflection and/or a representation of the show's thoughts and viewpoints. This also applies to the actors/celebrities mentioned as they are merely for reference purposes only. This body of work is not representative of their thoughts and viewpoints and sexuality. Author's notes: Dominic Hale (Joe Manganiello) and Aidan Smith (Kellan Lutz) are non-canon characters and their respective fan casting is just for fantasy purposes only. Feel free to continue reading with them in mind, or just think of anyone else who fits your fancy! -------------------- Late Night Beef -- To be fair, Derek had been getting himself into all sorts of trouble lately--just like his old man and his stubborn uncle, if Dominic Hale was being honest. That while there was a foreign tinge to the scent that seeped into the air the moment the muscle-bound alpha patriarch walked out of the bathroom, what flex of a meaty hitch that the beefy alpha wolf commanded onto the glistening swell of the twin mounds of his smooth juicy pec-breasts easily confirmed the familiar aspect of that same scent. And with his ruggedly handsome features wincing even more for a deeper sniff, the already juicy bulk of those fleshy muscle tits only rolled into a slower and more abundant swell and spill before he nodded on and turned towards the stairs. The soft clink of the keys was not lost on him either--though the same could not be said to how the simple motion of sauntering along the hallway was more than enough to urge that shy drop of water to trickle along the proud roundness of his smooth muscle breast... and down to the edge of his large areola. Then again, maybe it was because it was yet to reach the equally proud pertness of his vulnerable gum-drop nipple that only hardened more against the draft of the cold night air. Derek dropping by was enough of a moment to focus on, after all--that and whatever made his pup decide to come down to their family home in the middle of the night instead of being cooped up in his loft downtown. And with Dom's mind primed to deal with one of the usual suspects in his house, he certainly put dignity by the wayside as it had been his normal way of things in his home--even when they're around. The Hale patriarch valued the comfort in his own home, after all--and their true nature as mighty beasts was an even more convenient excuse. And might sure did come easy. With a soft grunt, his already impressive bicep easily showed itself off into a swell the size of a massive boulder... even just from the slight curl and flex of his arm--all because Dominic needed his large hand to clasp at the corners of the towel that was clearly a little bit too small on him that it couldn't even fully wrap around his mighty hips and thighs. A little bit too low either. That as a small drop of water trickled down the hard cobbles of his tight abs from how he made his way down the stairs, the clear bead of moisture ended up disappearing into the small teasing peak of the slight tuft of his pubes before it could even reach the edge of the towel. And with how the near-skimpy fabric just hung on so lowly and so flimsily, it even flapped with every step that he took--so much so that the mighty tree-trunk mass of one of his thighs and half the fat cheek of his big beefy alpha muscle ass just flexed and bounced out to the open. The poor excuse of a towel was just simply a slave to his master's movement so to speak--and a miserable failure at that. Really--with the way the Hale muscle-alpha's massive brawn just seemed to sway heavily with his stride, it was enough to goad the meaty girth of his still flaccid cock to follow suit and bounce with him as well. The fat heavy length of his cock even bounced against the meaty heft of his thighs that it was more than enough to push the flap of the towel aside--and more than enough that most of that thick cockmeat just had to reveal itself underneath with a rather shameless, yet unassuming, peek all before keeping on with the firm yet vigorous sways as Dom marched on. "Don't tell me you got a girl pregnant or something--" the big beefy Hale patriarch was quick to tease as he finally made it to the landing. But with how his eyes were just as quick to find the form within the fire-lit glow of the living room, the foreign and familiar scent finally made itself known for all the wrong reasons. It wasn't Derek. "Oh--sh-shit! Mr. H--ale!?" It was one thing to watch someone jump from Dom's mere presence, but to see that beefy buxom bull practically have his whole body jostle from the sheer size of his swells and curves, it was quite a different treat despite how quickly it came about. It was easy to commit to memory, at least--big juicy tits like that... bouncing inside the tight confines of that white shirt that they had already thinned against all that bulging brawn... thin enough that the Hale muscle-alpha could almost discern that flustered flesh underneath it all... right up to those nubs that practically poked through the fabric that it almost hypnotized him within that sliver of a moment of shock. It wasn't Derek... but this friend of his had always been a sight for sore eyes. Always a welcome sight. And that night was no different. "Aidan." Dom's brows furrowed at the sudden turn of events--of the sudden realization that the new company in his home was more of a guest than the family that he had been so shamelessly comfortable to be around with. And with how they were both taken by surprise, the bigger and beefier Hale alpha, in turn, could only manage to curl his fingers for a tighter grip at those corners as it really was the only way to keep his dignity intact for the moment. There was no way to really tug the damn thing even more around his form more than how it was already all stretched in the first place. Even if he let his own body rise and grow taut from the slight rush of panic--even if his hard abs tightened up into that tiny cinch of his waist--there was no way for him to tug it that high too. There was no way for Dom to fit the damn thing around him and not let the fat knob of his cockhead poke out from underneath the towel. It was either the base of the meat or the knob of the head at this point. And the Hale muscle-alpha would honestly throw in the towel first before jumping through hoops in the name of properness. Literally. Sure enough, Dom just offered a nod then as he looked on to the man once more--especially with how Aidan's own panic at such an awkward situation had him scratching the back of his head. The beefy muscle-alpha had a first row seat to seeing just how impressive that bicep is when it bulged in a way that threatened that damn sleeve of his shirt--as if it wasn't already being tortured with how the blond stud's muscle tits just forced the whole thing to strain... and even more as he let out another sigh as if he was trying to breathe out the fluster that had now washed all over that ripe muscle brawn of his. But, whether or not that adorable flush came from embarrassment or from how Dom caught Aidan's gaze lingering a little longer past his navel... and along his peeking pubes, the Hale muscle-alpha wasn't all too sure. It was yet another question altogether. He just tried to hide a smirk then, just in time to meet the other's gaze as he began to talk. "Derek told me to meet him up here--told me where the keys are..." the bullish blond bombshell began to explain. Dom was just as quick to offer a nod in reply as if to acknowledge the other's words and his attempt to clarify before his free arm took its turn to flex this time around as Dom waved his hand to let it all go. It was alright. Sure, Hale patriarch didn't really cross paths with the young man on the regular, but he knew Aidan enough to extend their welcome to him... especially since that size was sure to leave quite the impression. Even that nervous chuckle got those fat muscle tits of his jostling like they were trying to bounce over the other--and even more as Aidan tried to temper himself with another sigh that only had the amber glow of the fireplace dance along and let the shadows kiss that impression of his large nipples that just won't quit. "Nah--any friend of my boy is family to me," Dom smiled as he took a step closer and had the fireplace and the sparse hall lights carve the dripping form of his beefy brawn in even greater definition--especially so as he was just as smooth and supple. In all fairness to him, his words and the grin that followed, were sincere. Of course, Dom loved the idea of Derek having friends of his own--friends of his own size, to boot. People that he can call his own. A pack. Though as Dom reached out to let his large paw affectionately squeeze that massive boulder of the other's shoulder, he'd argue that Aidan might even be a tad bigger than his son. And Derek's already quite the impressive Hale muscle stud himself. If that's not reason enough to have the beefy blond hunk before him be a perfect fit for their pack, then Dom didn't know what is. Though Aidan's size against Dominic or Peter? Well shit. The Hale muscle-alpha just kept on with his welcoming smirk. Both him and Derek could try--but that's just about it. "--he'll just have to explain himself later about leaving you alone," Dom then continued as his hand clasped tighter--enough to nudge that body as their closer proximity served as proof to his claim with how the mighty patriarch's naked form practically imposed itself onto the other even when Aidan was already built like a bonafide muscle-god. And the two of them against the living room? The space was immediately dwarfed to say the least--and even more as Dom let his hand slide up to the man's traps and even further too so he could clap his large hand against that strong back while he felt Aidan tense up and let his broad busty tits rise up a bit more. Needless to say, the sheer size of both of their beefy muscle pec-breasts were enough to close the gap between them as they grazed just slightly--only for them to nudge firmer even more against each other as Aidan let out another nervous chuckle that they shared just between the two of them. "A-ah it's no worries, s-sir--I was the one who suggested meeting him here since Derek tried to sniff down a lead. He was the one who told me where the keys were and told me we can spend the night here to mull things over. Said you got books here," Aidan assured. And the way he turned towards Dom was all the more reason for their meaty muscle breasts to continue on with the contact--so much so that that stray droplet that clung on to Dom's breast finally trickled down onto his large nipple, before disappearing into the thinning fabric of the younger man's shirt. Dom could only keep his groan somewhere within his throat--unsure if that slight tickle on his juicy sensitive nipple was from the water or from how the tip grazed over the coarse fabric. Either way, Aidan probably took it as some kind of disapproval that he just had to stumble out more of his defense--looking all adorable being all flustered like that. " He assumed that--" "--I wouldn't be home?" Dom raised a brow. But his face was quick to soften more into curiosity since Derek wasn't exactly wrong--and a smirk still enough to tease as the poor stud just looked cute and cuddly being all tense like that. "Fair enough--my business outside town wrapped up earlier than expected. So here I am. Here we are." With a chuckle, it was Dom's turn to force his beefy muscle pecs into a hitch before his wide shoulders rolled out into a shrug. "You good with my company in the meantime?" Dom's smirk grew bigger as he continued to keep his eyes on his son's beefy friend. "--I mean, this is your house, sir..." "And you're my guest... and I've already spooked you enough with me walking into the scene all naked as day--" Dom let out a deeper and heartier chuckle as he eased away from the other with another clap at Aidan's shoulder and had the growing distance be enough for the juicy slabs of his beefy muscle breasts to heave on for a swell and a bounce while he laxly held out his free arm in some attempt to jokingly show himself off--especially in the tempting glisten of his wet, naked, glory. "Least that I could do is to get myself a pair of underwear, at least..." he continued on to chuckle as his eyes were quick to dart beyond Aidan and right onto one of the couches where he spotted the balled-up clump of white fabric. Once more, Dominic grazed against the tight-packed swell of those bombshell muscle pec-tits with the side of his massive arm as he walked past the other to make a bee-line for his attempt at salvation. "Like I said, sir. It's your home--" Aidan chuckled. Dom was quick to spy how those beefy twins hitched once more as he looked over his shoulder before finally swiping the damn thing from the corner of the couch. "--besides, I've had my fair share of sweaty gym locker rooms with other guys. " Well, he's not wrong. The Hale muscle-alpha kept that smirk to himself as he turned around to face the other guy once again with a more amused nod--and once again just in time to watch that massive bicep swell up with how Aidan rubbed the back of his thick nape while he showed of his boyish dimples through his smile. Sweet little thing, he is--and even sweeter with how the motion pulled at his shirt just a bit to rise up and show a bit of that skin above the waistband of his jeans. And with their conversation being an easy enough excuse to keep the weight of his gaze on the young stud, Dom surely did take the opportunity to further tease his darling guest. "Well, you've got a point there son--" Dominic nodded. And without missing a beat, he tossed the towel onto the couch as he needed both hands to tug and stretch his damn underwear so he could properly squeeze himself in it. Sure enough, that fat meaty alpha cock of his swung heavily from the way he leaned down to hold the underwear low enough to put one foot in then the other--just like how his own beefy muscle tits rolled into their round fullness from how they swelled down. And with the way the girthy heft of his juicy fuck meat and the equally weighty hang of his balls practically jostled from one thunderous muscle thigh to the other as the weight shifted aside, Dom practically exonerated himself from any kind of guilt wrought from mischief. It was simply inevitable--just like how his cock plopped on forwards with how he began to pull his underwear up before the mountainous brawn of the mighty alpha finally heaved for that upwards pull. His big beefy pec-breasts just bloated on more from the way his massive arms flexed and twisted--and even more as he reached down between his legs to cup his goods while his other hand just had to keep that waistband at bay to keep enough space to pack it all in. Of course that was a problem. His large hand could barely grab his cock and balls in full and even that fat knob of his cockhead practically peeked out of his grasp like a slippery eel all throughout the endeavor. What more could a skimpy pouch do, really? Dom even bucked just so he can scoop his crotch into the thing. And with whatever attempt he could still do, the big bad muscle wolf finally let it go and grabbed at the pouch of his jockstrap for that last minute adjustment to make them settle inside the already strained cup of cotton that was just as much of a failure as his meaty paw. If it wasn't for the low lighting, anyone could easily spy the hint of Dom's heavy balls peeking out the sides just a bit. It was one of those fashionable jocks too. Dom reached behind to tuck his fingers under the ass straps to straighten them out along the sides of his beach-ball ass globes--and all the more, the obscene heft of his cock just simply pushed against the stretch of the material that tried to cup his bits for dear life. Even in the shadows--especially the shadows--the skimpy jock was sculpted by the soft lights in such a way that the curled length of that thick flesh and that ridge along the edge of the juicy knob of a cockhead was just so obvious. And with how the proud juicy bulge practically pulled against the waistband, that cheekily designed cutout on top edge of the pouch stretched just a bit more along that girth--enough to let the meaty root of his cock to just peek out so shamelessly like the edge of his heavy balls. "And since we're both just dudes here, why not a couple of beers, right?" Dom continued on with another chuckle and let his large paw nudge his meat-packed pouch almost absent-mindedly as he walked past Aidan. He didn't give him a chance to refuse, but he did give Aidan a chance to see the rest of him too as he let the guy watch him walk away towards the kitchen. From the massive expanse of that wide back, and down to the tight cinch of his waist, and the way the smooth globes of his big fat gigantic muscle ass just spilled out so obscenely from the straps that tried their best to hold on for dear life just as much, all of the Hale patriarch was just downright sinful. Dom was just all beef and curves--a body that just practically oozed sensual might. Juicy. Ripe. The beefy Hale muscle-alpha had always been proud to show himself off to those who deserved it--and even more as he opened the fridge and looked over his shoulder. "You like em' ice cold?" Dom called out. Again, he didn't really wait for Aidan to speak to him--and even still, it wasn't at all malicious. Salacious? More like. Dominic was more focused on making sure that Aidan's eyes were on him. So when he saw that hint of his sweet blond hair peeking around the edge of the doorway, the heavyweight muscle wolf was already reaching inside the fridge. Bent over. Ass out. And with Dom reaching deeper and all the way back for the coldest bottle, he just had to push them beefy globes out even more--enough that he could feel them part just a little and feel that creeping tickle of vulnerability even from such a little flash of his smooth tight muscle-alpha pucker. Fuck. Dom licked his lips as he waited for that reply. "Can't have it any other way," the buxom jock replied promptly. His voice, a little less tense. Dom straightened back up to his imposing height and breadth and sauntered on towards the island counter with an easy bounce to his beefy brawn before he set their bottles down with a soft clink. He took an opener out from one of the drawers and once again, just from merely holding everything in place and that minimal effort needed to pop that cap out, his powerful arms were quick to flex once more into massive boulders that were even enough to further urge his bloated muscle tits to rise--almost to a spill. No wonder that bottle cap popped off with a clink and a hiss and hit him squarely on his juicy gumdrop nipple: an icy graze enough to jolt him into a slight jerk--all before he gave the pert nub a firm graze of his thumb as if to quickly rub the sensation off of him. Even a damn bottle cap was trying to cop a feel--and it's easy to blame the fact that the fat nubs that crowned his juicy muscle tits were already hard from the cold air that they had turned into such easy targets. Fuck. Dom just played it off cool and proceeded to uncap that other bottle before walking back up to his guest and held it up to him as an offering. "No shit. You like it cold in the throat too--" Dominic just couldn't help but tease the guy--though he quickly continued to poke on with a little more playfulness with that easy smirk under that beard and another encouraging nod. "See? We're already bonding. I ain't that bad--and you're being a good boy." Another nod came as he raised his own bottle slightly as acknowledgement before walking back into the comfort of the living room. That pause wasn't lost on him. And with how the night seemed to be rolling on, the Hale patriarch was just a little more eager and curious to how everything could continue to unfold. Aidan being appreciative was a start. Dom kept his eye on him as the younger muscle bull took a swig of his beer with an even more appreciative and welcoming swell of his beefy pec-breasts. Dom, in turn, plopped down onto the couch with yet another firm bounce from his bulging tits as he purely expected the other to follow suit. He even nodded to the side of the couch for good measure too. And sure enough, with those cute dimples flashing once more with the smile that had now come a little easier, Aidan let out a soft grunt as his own heaving mass sank down onto the cushions with a slow eke. The way his beefy muscle breasts jiggled just as easily too was yet another welcome sight for Dom to drink in--even more as that tight shirt had been straining so hard against those slabs that the shirt practically kept them hoisted up. Heat began to tease Dom further from the edges of his mind. And as he took another swig from his own bottle to welcome the cloy of comfort, he settled back even more and even let his meaty thighs splay open like he literally owned the place--that and to offer the vision of himself to his guest even more since he did admit he was all fine and dandy with it. "I guess if Derek's gonna take a while, might as well..." Aidan replied as he finally relented and helped himself with a heartier swig as well, much to Dom's delight--all while he let his eyes rake onto all that heaving brawn with a welcome warmth in his gaze as that gulp led into another swell. After all, the more the beefy muscle-alpha watched the pretty young stud, the more that the loneliness in him reached out to that heat that was already blazing trails deep with the rise of his own bloated muscle tits that glowed all the more under the dancing light of the fire--even enough to put a little shine on to the rich sun-kissed puffiness of his areolas that seemed to stretch with the swell as if his gum-drop nipples weren't already demanding attention from how they pushed out more too. Fuck. Dom licked his lips to welcome another sip. And it certainly didn't help that the heat fought against the cold air that seemed to prickle so gently along every smooth and perfectly hewn inch of his big beefy body that was already rendered naked and exposed--and with how he was practically just squeezed into that skimpy jockstrap, that subtle sensation was just simply crawling all over his ripe heaving brawn. Dom's proud broad chest rose on once more--even more from another tilt of the bottle that had him gulping in more than half of his beer. Besides, it was all the more a goad for Aidan to just keep on with his drink too and let himself sink further into the comfort of Dom's home. "That's right. You should relax. I already got you to drink--so I can't, in good conscience, let you drive through the night." The Hale patriarch teased as he held both of his hands up in surrender to the little predicament that just simply sprung up the moment he saw Aidan finally drink just as much of his beer if not more. And with Dom's eyes already raking on all that beef before him, he couldn't help but feel his lip tug for a smirk as he watched Aidan take an adorable pause upon the realization that he walked into Dom's cheeky trap--that and the boyish smile that followed when he knew he just got got. "Aw--shit, sir." Aidan's beefy tits jerked into a jiggle from his own chuckle. Where Derek got his friend from, Dom surely wanted to know--and if there's more of them. "Hey, this place ain't shit, at least. And I insist you stay--and feel right at home. Just kick back and relax, son." Dom gestured towards the guy's feet with his own encouragement--which Aidan was open to follow. And while Aidan heaved on another grunt as he leaned forward to reach down and undo his laces with his meaty muscle tits practically getting squeezed against his thighs from such a simple act, Dom let the ripe sight taunt at him even more as he let his large hands move up along his own nape and squeeze at the thick bands of muscles right there. Get rid of that tightness, to say the least. And with his proud brawn easily outsizing the younger bull, his arms just ballooned into ridiculous proportions as the cords and bulges hardened and swelled and continued the display of their sheer power with how they led down onto the alpha's hairy pits and the mighty spread of his lats. He let his spine tighten then. He arched out. All at once his smooth muscle-bound physique grew taut while his proud meaty chest pushed out. It became easier for the breeze to crawl along those enormous slabs of pec meat then--and it was Dom's cue to bring his hands back down towards the hefty swell of his big beefy muscle-alpha tits. That contact was enough to have him tighten up more and have his hard abs ripple--and to have him push his tits out more and have them spill out obscenely. And with his warm touch taming that cool tingle that kept their soft kisses along the smooth supple fullness of his big beefy alpha muscle breasts, Dom's lips parted for a soundless sigh that he couldn't help but indulge into--especially with how he let his thumbs finally graze along the edge of his large puffy areolas that he just had to trace around in circles. Shit. The mighty Hale patriarch felt that shudder come in and had him surrender into a buck of his hips as the awakened nerves of his dangerously sensitive nipples were quick to punish him for trying to steal a little moment for himself. Fuck. Yeah. Dom couldn't fucking help it. His eyes darted aside to see Aidan was still kicking at his shoes. And right then, the heaving muscle-alpha just needed to let his fingers pinch the pert prize of his juicy nubs and feel that pleasure just creep in a soft jolt straight towards his fat jock-clad dad cock. His jaws clenched. But at least he had managed to keep that moan in. Though in his defense, while loneliness and that heat was easy to blame, Dom wasn't really scrounging the bottom of the barrel in the name of intimate release--nor did they come too far in between. Sometimes, sure--and sure enough it was fucking frustrating. But for the most part, the Hale patriarch was just too damn horny all the time. Maybe it was in his nature of being an alpha. Always in heat. Always ready to rut. Just too damn virile for his own good. It even got him into trouble more times that he'd care to admit. That as Dom tried to risk another tease as he tugged at his large gumdrop nipples and forced that moan to quickly rise up, the beefy alpha just had to bite down his lip to keep it in once more--that and the memory that came with it. He couldn't count the times he had been reckless--out there snooping around... saving the world. Helping the pack. Peter. His darling pup. But all the while he didn't mind his state of dress--or lack thereof. They were shifters, after all. Mighty beasts. If not fully naked, something was bound to rip. Something was bound to spill. Burst. Dom couldn't count the moments where he'd been out and about and completely clueless about how his juicy nipples had slipped out of his tank top. Dominic would only realize his naughty vulnerability when some fucking pervert had taken the opportunity to exploit the moment--and it would've been too late for the proud wolf. His beefy muscle-alpha body would've been enslaved then as it had always been so damn easy to tame him by his sensitive nipples. Shit. Dom forced his low growl back down his throat in a thick swallow. And right before Aidan could catch him feeling himself up for feeling so damn horny, the wolf was already keeping the heat in check with a gulp from his beer and a slight labor of his sigh through it all. Guilt remained, albeit kept within his smirk. And to think that he wasn't the only one cursed with it. Peter could be quite the slut too when his own big beefy tits gets perved on. It's just too bad his sweet juicy brother wasn't around for fucking playtime. Aidan is though. Dom let his smirk hold as he watched the other plop back with another swig of his own beer. Bare feet on the coffee table. All comfy. "There's fucking plenty of room too--" Dom continued with a nod--and a nod towards the rooms above them. "It's not like you're new to the place either. All this house and just the two of us--" Dom let those words hang a little bit longer as he tried to ease everything into it--even more as he watched Aidan lick his lips after his finishing swig. Plump lips. All red. Sweet. Dom swirled his own bottle to scoop the remnants of that last gulp for himself, but the excitement that he was trying to keep in must've gotten the best of him as he tilted the bottle enough to have half of it dribble out his lip and down his chin. And sure enough, as the old wolf's big beefy pec-breasts just shamelessly pushed out in their obscene swell, that spill just had to trickle down onto his chest in a line that so obviously traced the contour of that busty fullness--and even more as iit glistened under the light of the fire. Dom just had to act quick and set his bottle down to reach up his heaving pec to wipe off that naughty rebel droplet--though not quick enough that it seemed to have known how sensitive Dom's nipple was that it just had to race there and almost force a soft hiss out of him. And with his towel draped on the other seat and with not even a box of tissues nearby, the Hale muscle-alpha just had to swipe his thumb over his already tingling gumdrop nub, practically causing it to be pressed upwards then around and against the nudge of that pad as if Dom's thumb was challenging his nipple's pert firmness. "You good, sir?" "Ah--y-eah--" Dom managed to let his words spill out of his chuckle and effectively kept that moan tamed inside his chest--even more as he pressed his thumb against his lips to suckle the remnants of his last beer. In some other circumstance, in some lecherous twist of events with some creep who might have managed to take advantage of Dom's juicy alpha nipples with a naughty sting and a nasty dose of some suspiciously perverted venom, Dom just knew that he would've been all huffy from the taste of milk and utter humiliation. Good thing it wasn't the case--and the alpha was all the more keen on such a kind of pleasure that he was willing to chase it within the growing warmth that only the two of them had been sharing. "Maybe I really should stick around--old folks shouldn't be left alone. Especially with accidents." Aidan whipped out his own tease--though it was one that came easy with yet another dimpled smirk of his. And sure enough, while Dom felt his brow quirk from the sudden audacity, he was quick to play along with a roll of his eyes and a scoff to boot. Little shit. No wonder he and Derek are friends. "Yeah--all fun and games until I ground you and send you up to my boy's room--" Dom threw it back with a heartier chuckle as he let himself sink against the corner of the couch to have himself turn even more towards the young bull--and that included his jock-clad bulge that looked a little fatter too... no thanks to that fleeting moment of a nipple play that he just couldn't resist indulging in. Though with how Dom's eyes were already raking onto that form, his quirked brow furrowed into curiosity as he finally found a way through the fog in between them--a way that he could finally strike his flint with. Besides, it was always the sweetest things that can lure easily. "Though I must say--" Dom's eyes narrowed at Aidan and with a soft grunt, he pushed himself off of his corner to lean closer towards the blond bull. With it, the heft of his brawn rolled with his movement: muscles swelled and heaved just as his beefy muscle tits swayed in their fulsome heft before his massive arm stretched out to reach for Aidan's own. What slight movement that Aidan did, either to ease away or adjust, Dom quickly smothered down with his wooing. "--see your arm here?" Dom let his large paw press against the impressive bicep of the young bull before giving it a slight squeeze. "I'd reckon you're bigger than my son. I don't think you'd fit all cozy in his room--" the Hale alpha offered a soft chuckle and an encouraging nod. It was easy when there was sincerity involved, after all--and a firmer squeeze when Aidan was the one who welcomed the advance with how he tried to curl his arm and practically had it swell up like a damn basketball. A bit bigger even. Shit. Dom breathed out another appreciative chuckle before he scooted on closer. "You think so, sir?" Aidan's boyish smirk was quick to come back--and Dom surely loved seeing those pretty blue eyes of his brighten against the fire. And he loved it more that Aidan was seeking validation from him. No wonder he caught what the old wolf was throwing. Then again, why won't he? Dom is the Hale alpha for a reason. "Derek likes to say he's got me beat--" "Nah--" a wolf in a hunt would see it through. And Dom let that instinct come to him easily as he let his large hand move up from that bicep to give that massive deltoid the squeeze it needed. He even let his fingers push up the hem of that poor sleeve--and Aidan seemed to be just as encouraging as his own tits smushed together under his shirt as he reached for the sleeve with his other hand to pull it up and help Dom out. And there it was, with how much the sleeve was willing to show without ripping, Aidan's shoulder was just as impressive. Sincerity continued to slip through Dom's smirk while he gave another nod and kept his palm pressed for another squeeze to feel that hard ball of muscle that just reeked of pure power. "Derek looks great--he's got his old man's genes, after all. But he's still on his way there..." the old wolf hummed low as the distance began to shrink between them, though his emphasis remained just as firm. Derek surely wasn't slacking, and he'd still leave some run of the mill musclehead eating dust if pitted against him. They're just simply a cut above the rest--Aidan included. And if Derek and Aidan's little investigation could bring the blond bull's true nature into the light sooner or later, then that might explain things. But as far as the Hale alpha was concerned, he'd rather investigate all of Derek's beefcake stud of a friend instead. And all that Dom needed to do was to continue on to prod at that sweet center. "Bet you worked your ass off to get these guns on you too, didn't you?" Dom mused. Aidan tensed. Blushed. Damn right. "Muscles like this? They just don't come from trees, I'd tell you that much..." The old wolf just let his words fade into his soft chuckle while his large hand slid back down and around as an attempt to urge Aidan to flex his arm properly this time by trying to nudge at his thick tricep in an upwards manner. Sure, they both know that that's right--the usual fluff of hard work and determination. But Dom knew that Aidan sure did appreciate being praised for being on the right track--especially from the likes of him. He easily proved it too, after all. "Yes sir--" Aidan hissed through his smirk, almost labored--all because he indulged Dom with a classic single bicep pose and really made sure that the damn beast popped. The old wolf, in turn, rewarded him with a nod while he smirked at that one special word this time too as it was all the more a proof of Aidan's sweet eagerness that was a goad to Dom's own sweet core. Sir. Fuck yeah. Damn right. And with that massive ball of muscle swelling once more as vein and sinew pushed themselves out into detail while that sleeve just had to relent with how it slid back and showed off more of Aidan's arm, Dom let out another approving hum as his large hand found itself pressing onto that pure hard beef once more. "--I get my pumps all day of the week, sir!" "Well shit. I could tell--" Dom continued to strike at the iron while it's hot as he scooted closer. Take up the space. Make sure that Aidan knows who's the man of the house. Though with how Dom's other hand reached out to Aidan, it seemed like the young bull knew that already as he was quick to lift his other arm as well and went straight into a double bicep pose. Damn right. See? Aidan already knew what to do. And sure enough, Dom helped himself with those twin peaks as he gave them a squeeze. Harder. Firmer. The old wolf challenged them--he wanted Aidan to feel that he was being tested because he knew damn well that Aidan would try and prove himself to him. And he did. The young bull flexed harder. Dom let more of his approval slip out through his low sigh as he squeezed back against it and let that smirk curl up from underneath his beard. "Yeah... definitely bigger than my boy's--" Dom's strong hands moved back up to the thick bulk of those shoulders--his traps. And it was at that moment that the old wolf struck gold once more. Aidan tensed. Aidan sighed. And with how Dom let his fingers curl into the hard flesh of those traps once more, it was easy to take note how the Hale muscle-alpha almost squeezed a moan out of the young man. All tight. Damn right. Aidan might've even felt that all over his beefy body--but before Dom could even give Aidan the satisfaction that he could've gotten from another squeeze against his tight knots, the old wolf just taunted him more with how he let his hands slide down instead and finally rubbed against the proud swell of Aidan's big juicy muscle tits. "Look at the tits on you, boy--damn..." Dom hummed as he leaned closer--close enough that he easily caught how Aidan's sigh came with a shaky warmth that Dom certainly took note of... especially that part where he had seemed to have gotten away with a little naughty word. Dom was right, anyway. That with how the old wolf continued on with a squeeze as he dug his fingers into the juicy slabs that swelled back up as if in reply to the pressing sensations, Dom kept his smirk all to himself. Damn right. Soft yet firm. Juicy yet strong. Dom could feel a little squish but it was all power just the same. And with how the old wolf kneaded on and tried to push against that obscene fullness that he could feel spill out between his fingers in all of their bloated swell, how Aidan's eyes fluttered as the sound remained caught in his throat wasn't lost on the keened muscle-alpha. Sensitive. A little twinge of guilt teased within the heat at the edge of Dom's mind as he did busy himself with playing with his own nipple not too long ago. Fucking ripe muscle pec-tits. Dom smirked. It takes one to fucking know one apparently. "Y--yes sir..." Aidan's voice was low. Almost a whisper between the two of them. Hot. Dom took note of that too. And with how easy it was to pretend that feeling up the young bull's busty milkers was part of his appraisal, he continued to lure Aidan even deeper into the same warmth that had been bothering Dom by letting his hands roll out to the outer sides of those big beefy pec-breasts and squeezed them together. Shit. For a moment, certain thoughts raced through the old wolf's mind especially when he saw just how deep Aidan's cleavage had appeared to become that his tits practically munched his tight shirt in between each heavy pec slab. Dom's cock seemed to have read his mind as he felt himself throb in the mere idea of slotting himself into the young bull's beefy muscle tits. Yeah. Damn right. He knew Aidan was a tit bitch indeed. It was all the more the reason that Dom found the man worthy of his indulgence. Aidan truly was a good fit in their pack. --and it was time for Dom to go in for the kill. "I gotta say though--" the old wolf continued on and kept that buzz creeping on through the big beefy buck of a stud with how his meaty palms remained in contact with those juicy muscle tits of his. And with how Dom could feel them swell up from what rise that came from the sigh that slowly eased through Aidan's plump lips, he knew that he's on the right track. Dom assumed right that they're sensitive--but it did help that the Hale muscle-alpha got his hands on a young fine bull who's got all that raging testosterone in him. "You sure got Derek beat, but not by a big margin. He's being cocky about his shit now, but he works just as much as you, yeah?" Dom's words settled low still. Just between the two of them--just like how that soft gasp was just meant for the two of them when Dom let his thumbs graze over those pink nubs that kept poking out of that tight shirt that strained to the point of thinning. "Y--yes sir..." The corner of Dom's lips tugged for another smirk. Damn right. "But hey. Like I said, you're welcome to stick around. Who knows..." Dom's fist curled into a ball. And just like before, Aidan seemed to know what to do--and knew better to actually do it for him. Dom could feel the weight of one of Aidan's heavy tits to roll, and swell, and bounce onto the cupping of his other hand that was still squeezing at it--all from the young bull's attempt to flex his pec-breasts to harden and accept that firm clap of a punch that Dom pressed right onto that heaving slab of tit muscle. Dom chuckled then. And with his own approving hum, he set his brown eyes to meet those blues that danced with the fire. "--maybe old folks like me could teach you a thing or two..." The old wolf eased back--though not before he took note of how those meaty breasts seemed to rise towards him like Aidan was trying to chase the feeling. Big beefy muscle tit bitch. Just like Derek. Like Peter. Like him. Well, in secret at least--the Hales still preferred to hold a great sense of pride in them. Dom most of all. And it was in that same line of reasoning that Dom was tempted to assume that Aidan was just like him--that such a surrender might have been because the young bull had deemed Dom as someone who deserves to handle someone like him. Maybe. At the very least, Dom had already arrived at such a conclusion as far as he's concerned. Aidan deserved to see more of him--and feel more of him. Just like the good boy that he is. "See?" Dom eased further, but only to finally give that tease of a sight to Aidan as he stood back up once more to his impressive height and breadth that the fires that danced and sculpted Aidan's beefy body became shrouded in shadow of the old wolf's mountainous and muscular looming--and even more as it was his turn to show off his guns with his own double bicep pose. Even from the rise of his arms alone, the proud Hale alpha has already won cleanly with how each of his massive biceps peaked way beyond basketballs--and even bigger still as he let that push rise up from the hard flex of his abs that tightened before his heave rose up to the twin mounds of his gigantic muscle pec-breasts. It was more than enough to have his shadows creep on more across the walls and the ceiling and unto his rapt audience. Though with what minimal effort that Dom breathed out as a soft grunt as he turned to one of his arms to watch its proud swell, irony still teased him from the unwelcome memories that seemed to creep on through with his already thrumming heat. To think Dom has had his fair share of perverts who managed to get their hands on him and then some--those fair share of moments where they had him caught. Pinned. Roped. Chained. Even cursed with magical bonds. Even then, his mighty arms swelled with pure power. Right back in reality, Dom did just the same with a harder curl as he turned his attention to his other arm--and all the more it was so easy to imagine how he used to pull at his restraints. Flexing. Grunting. And with how the memory sunk further into his struggle, into how he bucked and pulled with his body into the freedom he demanded in growls and his fiery threats, Dom couldn't help but let it seep out into reality. Slight, at the very least. The mighty muscle-alpha bucked at the air with his proud, meaty, jock-clad bulge pushing out slowly with the roll of his tight body--almost like a stripper. Another story for another day. The sensual sway of his wide hips and his crotch was at least an easy excuse to lead it up to another roll of his abs. Each cobble flexed. Tightened. And once more, as the tension boiled up to his huge pecs, the enormously swollen mounds of his beefy muscle breasts just pushed out into a bouncing spill--especially with how he rolled his shoulders to reload the flex of his arms and easily goaded his obscenely juicy pec-tits once more to jostle about. And they got their hands on them too. Fucking perverts. Feeling up his proud off-limits beef with him being so helpless against it. And even then, as the memory of their wily and unwelcome touches--their flicks and pinches--tainted the steely focus in the alpha's mind, his meaty cock surrendered itself into another tease with another throb while he himself breathed out a rough scrape of a growl. "Damn sir..." It was Aidan's turn to breathe out his own gruff whisper. At the very least, Dom wasn't too lost in his naughty reminiscence as he turned to the young bull with a smirk--and another scoff--that was once more kept in between the two of them. As if their proximity was their little secret. As if their open permission to touch each other was their little secret. And as Aidan's own strong hand reached up to finally feel Dom's swollen bicep, the old wolf let out a soft scoff as he welcomed the mere sensation of someone else's skin against his own--and all in the name of reverence too. Damn right. Dom let those strong fingers dig into the firm boulder of his arm as he knew fully that he could easily fight back against it with a harder flex that only seemed to goad more of those feeling touches. "Damn right, son..." The Hale muscle-alpha teased as he let the weight of that mirrored word slip low from the gentler woo of his voice. And as they inched even closer--enough that both of their full and heavy muscle pec-breasts were once more tempted to close that very slight gap that grew even smaller with how they heaved from the way they practically breathed in that same warm air--Dom still pushed to tilt his arm towards Aidan so he can encourage the young muscle-bull to just feel more of it. To which he did. Firmer. Harder. Dom smirked as he raised his arm higher to get that thing level with Aidan's face--enough to even show off the fanning hairs of his armpit. Even then, maybe all thanks to his primal lycan senses, that testosterone-laden man musk still emanated from him. Dom could even whiff off more of that ripe scent while he leaned towards Aidan with that flexed arm--as if to urge the blond stud to set those pretty blue eyes of his on what the alpha was looking at. "You see that? All power. Right there." Dom hummed. He tilted his head towards Aidan and felt the heat inside of him just grow more--and even more as they continued to share the breaths that they could both hear at that point. Close. Closer. Only when Aidan eased back a little that the space between them widened--but it was only for some wiggle room for the young bull to reach up to Dom's bicep with both hands this time. Of course Dom was quick to indulge as he flexed his arm tighter to push against the press that now came from both sides. And all the more, that touch easily seeped into his core as every squeeze felt deliberate in its adoration--and Dom just continued to goad Aidan with how he then stretched his arm out so those hands could feel how the flex of his muscles shift from the swell of his bicep into the swell of his tricep. His forearm. And to feel Aidan's hands slide up there had him twisting his arm into his wrist so he could tighten those cords for him as well. Damn right. The lull was easy to sink into. The dance. Dom could already see it in Aidan's eyes as he shifted his attention to Dom's other arm--one that the old wolf duly flexed for his rapt audience as the juicy fullness of his alpha muscle pec-tits rose up from that rolling warmth of intoxicating pride. Right there. Yeah. Those strong hands found their way through the map that was offered by the beef-clad alpha's fully bared torso. Through the dips and the bulges--through the swell from how they heaved from the mere contact--those careful yet eager touches goaded more of that hunger from deep with the beast even more... so much so that Dom could only let himself groan through the ease of his hum to keep himself in check. The prior adoration from his other arm had already been sparking that certain need after all--to be rubbed... to be felt up. Good thing Aidan was quick to follow--and Dom's lips curled up for another smirk as he watched those blue eyes flash through what little light of the fire that managed to glow over Dom's ridiculously broad shoulder. And as he watched that gaze fall back onto his arm, Dom held his flex up once more--and even closer to Aidan's face that he could almost feel the warm tease of that sigh. Fuck. "Don't think you'll ever see arms this massive, son..." "N-no, sir..." Fuck. Aidan breathed in. Aidan breathed on. And as the muscle-bound wolf watched that gaze shift further--melt further--he let his lips part for another sigh as the slow heaves of their seemingly rugged breaths continued to fill that warm thrumming silence that they shared. Literally too. Their big beefy bodies stood close. Closer. They felt close enough that Dom could sense the warmth of the other's body--even more as the cold night continued to wrap around them in the closeness that they had settled in. Together. They felt close enough that Aidan let his one hand move down onto Dom's side and all that the old wolf could offer in return was another soft hum--and even more as Aidan squeezed and watched Dom's bicep swell up once more while his thick fingers traced along the proud lines of his veins. Closer. He could feel more of Aidan's warm sigh against his skin this time. Damn right. The young muscle-bull was losing himself in the allure of pure muscle. Dom couldn't help but have his free hand reach up to clasp the other's massive shoulder and helped himself with his own squeeze at that hard boulder of muscle as well. It was a tease of mutual adoration--a goad of the same tingling sensations wrought from the secret intentions of a groping touch. A secret between the two of them. That with Aidan's hand sliding up to the edge of Dom's wide lateral to keep himself in place while his claim on that bicep eased back down along the thick bulge of Dom's tricep, the old wolf just had to let his hand move further up like it was some heated game of cat and mouse. Dom's large hand clasped Aidan's nape. His thumb grazed along the slight scruff along the edge of the young bull's jaw and took in the sound of that sigh that came from the rise of those beefy muscle tits that finally nudged Dom's own heaving breasts in a slight graze. "How about you give it a kiss, son?" Dom finally went for it as his voice grew lower. Firmer. The old wolf knew that there still was some semblance of a risk to it, after all--such a prod could make or break their little game. It was all the more the reason for Dom to hold his flex harder and raise his massively swollen bicep a little bit more closer to the young bull's face... practically some kind of attempt to smother onto any chance for him to think--especially when Aidan was already deep into it with how he was literally breathing down onto the peaked boulder of his arm. Fortunately for him, Aidan's a good boy. All that the young bull needed to do was to bridge that warm sliver of a gap with an easy press of his soft lips against hard muscle. And all at once, from sensation and satisfaction both, Dom's beefy muscle tits rose to push out that low growl as the sparks from that special kind of contact were quick to crawl through the entirety of his mighty beastly body. And that was exactly what it was, a spark. Dom didn't even need to tease with words to goad Aidan on with it--the press of the lips and the sigh against his skin was quick to turn into another kiss. Right on the vein. Dom could feel that certain contact map along the impression of it--both lips and by breath--and it was all the more a spur to the rolling warmth along Dom's skin that all he could do was bite down on a growl. Damn right. Fuck. "All y-yours, son--" Dom hummed through his smirk, all thanks to Aidan replying with his hand holding firm along the old wolf's tight waist instead--just so he could keep himself close to that bulging bicep. And Aidan sure did help himself with it. Dom felt those lips part slightly against the peak of his bicep, almost as if Aidan was sucking slightly at the skin as if he's really savoring the warmth and power that the beef-packed Hale muscle-alpha was giving him--and he helped himself more with how his lips moved to do the same along the thick base of Dom's forearm. All the while, Dom's grasp on Aidan's nape was getting a little more impatient from the mere sensation of a mouth against his skin. It was almost a curse, really--even more as his fair share of his more lecherous troubles was just as quick to slither along the heat that had been haunting him from the edge of his mind. Those perverts tried to savor him too. Taste him. Suckle. And with how the memory of their wretched touch--of their mouths--continued to trickle into his growing heat like a damn taint that he couldn't help but be vulnerable to, it didn't take much for him to let go of Aidan... especially when the young bull continued to feel around and along his bicep with the press of his parted lips all spurred within his own initiative--and all within Aidan's own need to worship the muscle-bound alpha. Fuck. Dom growled. Growled on. With Aidan's mouth moving along the hard swell of his massive shoulder, Dom couldn't help but let himself feel the tease of his own free hand as well. Right there. Dom let his large hand press just underneath his collarbone as the beefy fullness of his juicy pec-breasts rose once more for that slow yet rugged ease of a sigh. Already, the need for purchase taunted the old wolf. He let his flexed arm curl just a little more so his fingers can grasp at the back of Aidan's head as if trapping him into a head lock that the young bull so willingly welcomed anyway. If it wasn't for his senses, Dom would've missed the way that growl heaved against his bicep--no thanks to the sin of the old wolf's own touch as he let the creeping sparks of his lust continued to lead his hand along the obscene swell of his beefy pec-breast. Fuck. Right there. "C--come on, boy..." Dom urged with the words that he forced out through the ease of his chuckle--all before the rising heat in his chest had him biting down on his lip. His secret indulgence came swiftly under the command of his own body, after all. With his thumb finally finding its way back onto the edge of his wide puffy areola, Dom let his head loll back to free that knot of a sigh that demanded to rise up into a deep groan--all from that sensation that easily melted into the heave of his juicy pec-breasts as he began to trace around the succulent pinkness. Fuck. Dom was no stranger to a slew of teases that made sure he remained helpless. Tamed. The teasing waves were unstoppable after all. Because even in the safety and privacy of Dom's own lonesome, he succumbed to the same guilt when it came to the weaknesses of his own damn muscle brawn. "Fuck--" Dom groaned. And with his fingers finally teasing that large gumdrop nub of his nipple with a naughty little pinch once again, the alpha's overdeveloped muscle breasts were quick to swell once more for yet another push of a groan that he just had to breathe out. That was the song that they shared, after all. Groans. Low. Deep. They began to heave like the big beefy muscle beasts in heat that they are--and even more as Dom continued to tease himself with his firm and deliberate thumbing all over and across the puffy softness of his large and dangerously sensitive areola... and against his equally dangerously sensitive nipple. At this point, his tingling nub was already anxiously hard. Swollen. And all the more, the mighty muscle-alpha felt himself buck against the air as the piling sensations that trickled and crawled all over his torso just needed somewhere to pool into while he further lost himself in the growing fog of his lust. Dom was beginning to go on auto-pilot almost. That with Aidan sinking further into his own mission as he let his lips move lower along his bicep, Dom breathed out a low growl as he raised his arm in full and reached to the back of his head. Sure enough, Aidan leaned more and higher and smothered his face against the underside of Dom's arm. His lips found their way along the massive bulge of the old wolf's tricep as it swelled even more with how Dom twisted his arm just a bit--and even more as Aidan used his free hand to reach up as well to squeeze Dom's thickly flexed forearm. Fuck. Yes. Dom breathed through a snort. With the two of them succumbing deeper into their heat and with how they had been keeping close, it was beginning to feel a little sticky. Stuffy. Musky. It wasn't just Dom's now, but Aidan's too. Damn right. They're just two big beefy muscle beasts, yeah? Two fucking big beefy musky muscle beasts. Though with how the beefier alpha gave his juicy nipple a little twist as he just gave in to his own self-pleasure, that sharp intake of air that forced his heavy muscle tits to hitch was more than enough for him to whiff off that other scent too. Him. Aidan's. The old alpha gave a low growl as he felt the young bull's nose press against the hairs of his armpit while the hand that Aidan pressed against his wide lateral began to goad more of those creeping sensations right along there too with such simple rubs. And all at once, Dom's body bucked on. His tight, tapered, torso twisted just a bit as the areas where he was being teased and touched were getting him all buzzed with the rush. Fuck. Dom growled. Aidan too. And with another snort, Dom kneaded his heaving muscle breast as he breathed in more of that certain scent. Heat. Dom groaned once more. Aidan too. And in that warm air that they were both taking in, the old wolf was getting drunk in this swelling weight that was mingling with his. Heat. His heat. Dom was starting to smell Aidan's own heat. And with such a cloying sweetness growing in between them, Dom pressed the side of his face against the impressive boulder of his bicep and had their faces come too close once again. The old wolf's eyes fluttered--and with another groan, he set his sights upon Aidan's stupor through his half-lidded gaze while his lips parted a bit more for a groan that he felt melt against his skin just like Aidan's kisses. Fuck. He tugged at his juicy nipple--and this time, it was more than enough to pull at it all taut that his areola stretched just a bit off of the obscene swell of his beefy muscle breast. It was more than enough to just instantly further the rush of need that was already churning within the old wolf and had him buck his hips once more with the obscene swell of his meaty cock that pushed even more and pressed a bit more of its bursting threat against the poor stretch of his meat-packed jock pouch. Fuck. Need melted on--and Dom felt it spread even more along his body as he let their shared movements have him surrender into throwing his head back as those sweet soft lips moved along his collar bone instead. Then higher. Aidan nuzzled Dom right there at the edge of this thickly grizzled jaw and all at once, the dizzying cloy just flooded straight into the fulsome heave of his chest and swelled against the same busty resistance from the other's own rack of juicy pec-breasts as their bodies further aligned back together. Fuck. Dom's arm eased back down as Aidan's lips moved along his own thick neck--and he quickly found his purchase along the young bull's massive arm as he just couldn't help himself but take a handful of that pure hard beef as well. Or tried to, at least. But as the sensations just bloomed from such a tender spot of his as Aidan breathed low against the crook of his neck from a smothering of a mouthed kiss, the old wolf couldn't help but yearn for the same thrumming sweetness that they both knew had now burned between them--and blurred between them. No pretenses--not when Dom continued to chase that nagging caress of desire with a greater boldness now that he knew that everything was right where he wanted it. And the same could be said with Aidan too as Dom felt that strong hand on his waist pull him even closer against his own brawny form. Damn right. The Hale muscle-alpha tilted his head against Aidan's that he could hear the both of them growl as they breathed in the same air they breathed out once more--and even deeper within the symphony of their groans while the heaving swells of their bodies began to knead onto each other. Fleshy juicy muscle pec-breasts against fleshy juicy muscle pec-breasts. Dom even have to give up the pleasure he was rubbing into the tingling need of his hard nipple as his thumb circled at his juicy areola one last time before he let his hand reach down to clasp the thick cords of the forearm that he could feel on that side of his body. Sure, the intoxicating woo of their heat was more than enough to pull them into that exhilarating embrace--to have their eyes flutter shut as the blur of those settled shadows and the soft dancing amber light of the fireplace almost melded together with how the cloy thickened even more within the two of them. Still, they found their way within their mapping lips. Higher. Closer. Sweeter. Aidan let his lips press against Dom's beard and groaned against that rough warmth--all while the old wolf found himself receptive to the gentle claim that he finally tilted his head towards where he could feel that warm breath. Those lips. His lips. Theirs. The moment their kiss finally found each other in the darkness, the big beefy muscle beasts whimpered out their moans in a messy unison of spilling heaves and soft suckles. Damn right. Sweeter and sweeter, still. And as Dom snarled against the kiss that he welcomed with his own claim, his fingers followed with how they dug into the cords of the mighty muscles that he could feel. It was easy for their bodies to slot together from how they chased that sweet rush together with the seeking contact of their lips. That with how their kiss deepened, the both of them shared the taste of their soft sensual moans as their attempt to breathe through that hungry indulgence had their massive muscle breasts thump against each other even more--each juicy slab just tried to stake a claim onto the ones they pushed against in a soft and yet firm swell and jiggle. Dom's blood boiled--all the more in passion and never in rage. That with how the Hale muscle-alpha felt that hand on his waist tighten into the pressing of their bodies, his own hand moved from Aidan's bulging bicep and straight back up the thickness of the young bull's nape and kept him in place with the claim of that gentle yet firm clasp of his large paw. Dom's tongue advanced. Slithered. He demanded more of that taste too as the sinfully slippery sensations of their slithering tongues only smothered at the rising moan within the old wolf's throat--and even more as he was practically swallowing gulps of pure lust. Fuck. Once more the broad and beefy swell of the Hale muscle-alpha's huge muscle pec-breasts rose for that need. Once more, they rolled against the bounce of the broad and beefy fullness of Aidan's own jock-grade muscle tits--that, and then some. With both of their tits stuck in the juicy stalemate of their voluptuous jostling as they continued to sink into the cloy of their shared groans, it was easy for their bodies to betray them with nothing but a mere brush. A mere graze. That with how their juicy muscle breasts tried to fight for their freedom to spill out and burst all over and against each other and declare themselves the beefier and meatier victor of all tits, it made the jolting contact of their large plump nipples as a mere matter of when than a mere matter of if. "--o--ough!" --or maybe the if had come too quickly that it was barely a matter of when. Dom's moan so easily flooded into Aidan's sweet lips as their kiss did nothing to suppress the shudder-inducing sparks wrought from the swollen nubs of their dangerously sensitive nipples nudging at each other in their firm pertness. And it seemed like it was enough of a command to spur Aidan into action as his body bucked and shifted--enough that Dom let out another deep and sensual groan into the kiss that they shared as his cock-packed pouch pressed and rolled against that denim-clad jock bulge of his beefy young bull of a lover. And before Dom could even try and recover from it, as the heat and the sinful sparks of their shared pleasure just bloomed all over and deep within the old wolf's heaving muscle tits, Aidan was already moving. Dom wasn't at all bullish with his grasp when Aidan eased away from the clasp at his nape, after all--especially not when the blond bombshell never planned to fully part himself from his muscle-alpha in the first place. He only needed some room to let his hands move. Dom felt it too. That with Aidan's rubbing touch that was planted along his waist, and the one that pressed along his arm, sunk together into the hard cobbles of that tight abdomen, Dom felt himself flex as his core goaded at immediate rise as if to move in sync with the hands that finally slid up to try and cup the old wolf's big, juicy, beefy, and heavy, man-mammaries. "F--fuck--" Already toyed and teased, the creeping tingles so easily laid claim all over and deep within the obscene fullness of Dom's big juicy muscle breasts--and even more as the young bull's attempt to grab onto them more only jolted sweet torture right into the anxious bloat of the patriach's sensitive slabs of obscenely juicy tit flesh. That alone easily warranted another surge of a lustful groan that slipped out of Dom's parted lips--and all while, within that sighing swell, the digging fingers were already more than enough to urge the hefty mounds to try and spill on over his cupping hold. But still, as pretense had now been shed and their shared need only burned brighter as their respite from their kiss only made them more aware of their heated thirst and heated hunger--even despite how such a groping touch that was out of old wolf's control flooded his rugged features with a paint of flustered red--Dom offered an inward roll of his shoulder just so he can offer and present more of his juicy muscle breasts to continue to spill on over the strong hands that still challenged their obscene roundness and even more obscene fullness. Damn fucking right. In any other circumstance, Dom would've struggled--Dom would've been red with shame and even more shameful lust from how those fucking lucky creeps would've just had their way with such blessed swollen tit-mounds of juicy fulsome ripeness. And maybe it was that dark indulgence that more of this damn heat was coming to fore as his large hands began to rub along Aidan's forearms in some attempt for purchase--or for mere contact. Or for mere encouragement. "Fucking like these pecs, boy?--you like your big daddy's big beefy fucking muscle pecs?" Dom growled his words deep and slow as he leaned forward, just enough for their foreheads to press together and once more share the same sweet air of heat and lust that they were practically breathing in and out with every rise of their cloying groans. And with those fingers squeezing firmer into a knead that commanded the old wolf's beefy pec-breasts to jostle aside in an outwards swell of their juicy fullness, he could only let himself feel the rush of sensations that goaded more of his rugged breathing that admitted to the pleasure that he was partaking in. And Aidan did too. Through what half-lidded gaze that they both shared as they continued to let themselves be drunk in the slough of the heated worship that they just nursed slowly but surely--and nursed carefully--the proud Hale muscle-alpha could still see how Aidan's blue eyes was practically transfixed onto the supple smoothness of his proud beefy muscle breasts as young bull breathed out his own low sigh. Dom could still feel how those fingers pressed. Squeezed. And all the more, Dom was just spurred by the need to tease and taunt as he breathed out another low growl just to flex his might-pumped muscle breasts to bounce into a heavy roll and jostle. "You like daddy's fucking man-tits all big and full for you, don't you?" Dom let his words come in that low roll of his soft growl once more. Thick with lust. Heavy in the sin of the naughty heat they shared. And with him nudging his head forward, it was enough to push Aidan's head back to align with his--and then close that gap once more with their deep moans rising onto each other's lips from yet another surrender of their kiss. Yes sir. The words barely got out of Aidan's mouth that they almost sounded like the same hot groan that he breathed out before their tongues rolled and slithered through the deepening cloy of their grunts. But Dom heard it. Dom even felt it too. How those strong hands came up once more into an upwards knead and forced the mass of his huge pec-breasts to push up and spill out over the firm hoist was all the more a goad for that heat to rise from deep within the beefy muscle-alpha--and all the more a push for that deep groan to just spill and turn all sweet within the soft wet sounds of their fervent kiss. Fuck. "--h--hmgh--" Dom even felt himself push against those hands--felt himself push his heavy muscle breasts outwards even more as if to chase those claiming sensations. All at once, the darker recesses continued on to tease. Right there. His huge alpha muscle tits. Groped. Man-handled. And with another groan that tried to rise, Dom fought through this swell of tightness that he thought was familiar until the peak pushed out--and it was easy to feel then that it was simply just the heat that was trying to find its way out in the name of release against the growing frustrations. Or so he thought. Too bad Dom was so easily lost--easily tamed--with the pleasures wrought from his own ripe and beefy body. Another knead was another rise of a groan from the obscene fullness of his round and engorged muscle milkers. That when Aidan finally pushed on with his own brand of teasing, Dom just couldn't help but surrender once more to the waves of pure pleasure that coaxed out that special moan from deep within him. "--hn--o-oh!" The ragged gasp was just as much as a naughty jolt that slithered right into the muscle-alpha's large juicy nipple--all before the other dangerously pert gumdrop nub received the same tease from that other thumb that further stoked the raging fires within the heaving muscle-alpha. And it was just the start. To feel those pads circle over Dom's areolas once more was more than enough to smother his groan into more of a breathless gasp while his strong hands took their turn to squeeze the young bull's hands--for some attempt for purchase. Encouragement. Both. Aidan didn't need it though. His thumbs were already resolved to tease Dom's dangerously sensitive and dangerously vulnerable nipples anyway as their tracing motions finally spiraled right into the prize. Prizes. Aidan let his thumbs brush and circle over the very tips of Dom's already tingling nubs, and all at once, commanded the mighty muscle-alpha to give into the shudder and buck of his own body that his huge muscle pec-breasts could only jiggle out with such obscene gusto. Fuck. Damn--right fucking there. "--a--ahn..." Dom couldn't help but moan softly but also moan like a damn slut and breathe it out once more into Aidan's lips. Though how the young bull pulled away in turn was barely a mercy paid in kind--not when Aidan's lips came down to the other side of Dom's jaw before tracing down along his thick neck. Dom was just made to take it, really--and even more as what moan that he tried to breathe out still fanned that familiar ember of tightness that he could still feel inside the swell of his obscenely engorged muscle breasts. Aidan moved lower. And with his fingers closing into a pinch to pull at Dom's juicy milk nubs, the mighty alpha could only let his head roll back in a low groan while his own strong hand reached at the back of Aidan's head once more. He knew what was coming next. He even felt it down to his knees as he felt himself buckle. " --u-uhn--" It was in that anxious cloy of nerves that respite came easy with how Dom's beefy brawn sank back onto the couch while the other had perfected the ebb and flow of their bodies' movements to follow on through so very closely--so much so that their bodies barely separated completely. Aidan continued to kiss along Dom's chest--even managing to continue the trail as Dom stretched himself out backwards that he practically pushed his huge pec-breasts out for the other until the old wolf felt the press of the couch's armrest just above the small of his back and anchored his ease to settle down into that corner. He let himself be splayed once more into his side of the couch, half-reclined. Aidan in turn found his place between the old wolf's legs as he pressed his knee against the cushion, just a little shy from that jock-imprisoned muscle-alpha fuck meat that was just fully throbbing at this point. And with the rest of the young bull's brawn free enough to loom on over and lean on towards the heaving Hale muscle-alpha, the more open sight of the older man's juicy muscle breasts was an immediate cue for the young stud to part his lips and just let himself clamp down for that firm latch. "--a-aw f-fuck--" Dom cried out softly as his head lolled back once more from the immediate pulse of pure hot pleasure that burst from his already bloated pec-breasts. That from such a simple act of a mouth latching onto his fat nipple and that immediate ease into a suckle, that helplessness wrought from the sparks that just seized Dom's massive muscle brawn forced him to push his beefy and heavy tits out even more before the sensations subsided into a rush that had him rolling his hips once again into a display erotic thrust that further lended the lecherous sight that he was made to offer. Fuck. Once more memories taunted--finally taunted. That with Aidan's mouth tightening a bit more for that gentle but firm pull to urge the muscle-alpha's fat nipple to push deeper into that naughty suction, the old wolf could only heave on and grasp the back of the young bull's head with his large paw. Fuck--fucking right there. From where Aidan's lips mapped along his body, Dom was almost waiting for it too as the sensations had always been quick to tease him where his most dangerously erotic weak spots are--almost like they were demanding to be teased so Dom could stumble into the throes of his own sin. Aidan wasn't the first, after all--willing or otherwise. That with how those lips continued to suckle on gently and further urge the little jolts of pleasure right into that captured gumdrop nub that was his juicy nipple, Dom let out another deep groan as his eyes rolled back into the blur of the cloy that just weighed itself onto them like a warm blanket. And within that same blur, Dom's mind waded through those memories of his entrapment where such wily fucking perverts were able to do the same. Their vile mouths. Right there. Suckling. Licking. Dom even winced as Aidan seemed to mirror the lecherous haunting with how his tongue flicked over the sensitive tip of Dom's engorged nipple and forced that familiar feeling of helplessness to rise up from within him. "--f-fuck..." Even Dom's gasp sounded weak. Almost defeated. His nipples were ones of his most obvious weak spots--and his most vulnerable ones too. With how they always pushed through his shirt, or with how they always so easily slipped out and peeked out of his tank tops whenever he was out and about, it would only take a sly moment of an exploit to fully take advantage of them--and in turn, take advantage of the big beefy and proud muscle-alpha. Even the wimpiest of perverts had managed to have their way with him just because they knew that they only needed to keep the pleasure slithering into Dom's juicy nipples. Sometimes even literally. That with how Aidan's suction pushed another jolt of blinding lust straight into Dom's huge muscle-breasts, that familiar rise of tightness that urged his beefy tits to flex and bounce in their heavy fullness was more than enough to jog the old wolf's memories to further sink into the indulgent rush of those secret moments where he was perverted upon and molested. "H--huhn oh--n--" Dom moaned as he bucked once more against Aidan's looming brawn--even more as his free hand found the old wolf's other nipple and had quickly decided to punish him for not learning his lesson when it came to keeping his precious weak spots all vulnerable and exposed. And all at once, Dom was so easily reminded of how he has had his fair share of nasty surprises. Nasty stingers. Fuck. He always fell for it, didn't he? His juicy nipple peeking out had always been enough for it to be an easy target for a quick and deep sting. And it would be too late then. Even if he managed to pluck out that barb or that dart that had pricked him right into his nipple duct, their perverted venom would already be making quick work deep within his huge and heaving muscle pec-breasts. Warm. Tight. Dom would've found himself weak and sore as the unwelcome pleasure--and pressure--would come from how his big juicy muscle tits would be rendered even more sensitive. More swollen. Dom winced on through a rush of warm fluster that teased him with a twinge of shame. He could still remember that time where his pec-breasts were forced to lactate from a concoction that was specially made just for his big beefy alpha muscle-tits--and how the successful injection brought on that perverse glee of having to see a proud mighty alpha wolf like him to surrender himself into the most perverse imagery of his bloated breasts bursting out into a shameless spill and swell of pure milky fullness like he was some cheap busty porn star in the making. "--n-no--oh god..." Dom sighed, finally turning his attention back to his young buck of a stud that continued to nurse his tingling nipple... like he was pulling milk from him. And all the more that familiar tightness forced themselves through the waves of pleasure that Dom just had to bite down to keep his moan in while his free hand reached up to gentle nudge at Aidan's jaw with his knuckle. "D-damn boy..." Dom could only bite down on his lip once more as pleasure so easily tickled his nipple and right into his heaving breast. Of course, he wouldn't admit to his troubles. He's a fucking Hale. The mightest Hale at that. Their fucking muscle-alpha. And with how his thumb began to graze over where he knew Aidan's dimple was, the blond stud finally looked up at him with those half-lidded blue eyes that still gleamed with their shared heat and hunger. Fuck yeah. Just like that. Dom tried to extract the pleasure from it, at least--even if he was having a hard time chasing away the shame and the danger that came with such an indulgence. His body. Fuck. His fucking body just needed it. And all the more, his huge juicy pec-breasts pushed up to their swell--so much so that even if Aidan tried to pause for some air as he released Dom' swollen nipple with a wet pop, the mighty muscle-alpha still kept on with the push as if to offer that juicy nub right back into those sweet lips. "You fucking love sucking big daddy's sweet nipple, don't you? You like it when daddy moans?" The Hale alpha mused through his breathless pants as his grasp against those blond locks eased more into a gentle claw of his fingers so he could scratch Aidan along his tender scalp instead. Yeah. Dom teased that tiny sliver of power--and his own powerlessness--as he knew very well that he was safe to indulge in the privacy of his own home. And sure enough, as Aidan quickly latched back, Dom tried to breathe out that hoarse chuckle of playful encouragement through the fulsome rise of his beefy muscle breasts--all from how he felt the young buck moan softly around his sweetly tortured nipple. "Fuck yeah, son--trying to teach me a damn lesson, aren't you? Big bad daddy being a tease with his nipples...with his big juicy muscle tits..." Dom groaned as that firm rhythm began once more and quickly awakened the sparks of pleasure that had so easily pulled him into their enslaving lull. Maybe Dominic fucking deserved it. The handsome muscle-alpha found himself wincing once more as his eyes fluttered open just a bit to watch Aidan keep on with it. Sucking. Flicking. Swirling. That soundless moan just couldn't help but spill out of Dom's lips--even more as a jolt of pleasure pricking him right into his nipple was enough to force his mouth slack before the wave of pleasure forced him once again to buck and grind. Yeah. So much for his recklessness. So much for his pride. And with Aidan's free hand coming back up once more to cup and knead the muscle-alpha's other pec-breast, Dom could only use his free hand to grasp that wrist while the lull further goaded his body to just sink into it. Fuck. That thumb continued to circle at his wide puffy areola once more--and once again, Dom felt himself pulled back into that time where that withered creep tortured his poor nipples with the same massage while they were even puffier with the obscene fullness of his muscle-alpha breast milk that practically spurred his sensitivity to mind-swirling heights. They just tingled so fucking bad--and even more as Dom tried to breathe through it as every rise of air felt like a cue for his compromised and envenomed breasts to just keep on with the swell. More milk. More fucking muscle-alpha tit milk .And all the while, Dom was just forced to surrender into euphoric delirium as the slimy pervert just knew how to tease and tame him from just perving on his very sensitive nipples with flicks and those tracing rubs along where he was most sensitive. Shame was even quicker to weigh on him too as he could still remember how the teasing had grown slick because his nipples were primed to the point of leaking. Oh god. The way the tips of nipples tingled so bad from the shameful beads of milk that he just couldn't stop. How it fucking made him look even riper too--too fucking ripe for his own damn good. And right then, as Aidan suckled harder, Dom felt his mouth tremble from the same moment of how those bony fingers gently gave his obscenely engorged and achingly swollen pec-breasts a little squeeze--a damn little squeeze around his soft pillowy areolas that that was more than enough to make that electric pleasure fizzle all over his sensitive nubs. It was a damn little squeeze that was quick to urge those sweet beads of milk to betray the muscle-alpha with how easily they surrendered. And with how those thin fingers were quick to scoop them up and smear them, Dom couldn't even remember how he managed to stumble out of that perverted trouble. Reckless. Dom tried to resist the memory of how it turned out to be in the first place. Dom was the one who let his guard down when he thought that that wimpy demon was so weak that the cocky alpha had given into offering the fiend a poor consolation prize for his pathetic attempt at a fight. Dom let him taste his juicy alpha nipple with that tongue that he didn't know was capable of cursing his muscle tits the moment that serpentine tip pricked the very tip of the nub--that very same nub that the alpha himself had foolishly kept exposed for him. Dom could even hear his own arrogant chuckle as he watched the shivering fiend so reverently kissed the nipple that he offered onto him after it slipped out through his strap from how the imp's pathetic struggle had him grasping at Dom's tank top until he had that nipple looking all vulnerable. Dom was all cocky still. All it took was one foolish second of his own damn making. "Fuck--" Dom winced through his erotic self-punishment as his grasp on Aidan's wrist moved up to clasped that large hand instead. Though instead of stopping Aidan, his grasp was an urge for that hand to knead on. Squeeze. Right there. And back to reality, he knew that Aidan was a good enough man for the job as Dom kept on with his need to indulge--especially when he could feel that tightness just bloom out with how his huge and swollen pec-breasts were forced to rise with the deep sighs that came from the bursts of pure pleasure from deep within Dom's heaves and from deep within his anxious core. And even then the lecherous flashes of his nightmares just continued on--especially as this stubborn tightness kept on growing within him. Dom could practically feel his breasts just jiggle with the fullness that felt like it was at the very precipice. Tight. Sore. His damn muscle tits. How many times had he been unable to fight back? Fuck. Through the haunting haze of it all, Dom managed to breathe out a moan as Aidan released that nipple once more with a wet pop--but just like the might and brawn that the young bull's lips had come to worship from earlier on, he made sure to never part with Dom's heaving beefy muscle breasts as his eager lips just simply ghosted over the twin swells of the alpha's obscenely ripe and overdeveloped pec-tits until he reached that other nipple for that quick latch. Dom could only breathe out another moan through a dragging grunt while his body swapped in kind as it was his other hand's turn to keep the bastard in place with the same scratching grasp of his thick fingers against the back of Aidan's head. And sure enough, as Aidan's hot mouth began to tease and pull Dom's nipple once more into the dizzying pleasure of that sinful suckle, the mighty muscle-alpha could only feel the tightening heave of his big beefy body as the sparks that were quick to rush so easily seized him like chains that were meant to keep him in place. And from deep within the recesses of Dom's mind--and even more as Aidan continued the swap of their lecherous teasing with how his other hand moved up to knead the muscle-alpha's other huge and juicy pec-breast that was yet to recover from the prior nipple sucking session that it had been so naughtily subject to, the pulling weight of that helplessness only goaded that creeping nag at the back of Dom's head--and all the more, it kept on with the perverted haunting. "--h--hn--oh..." Dom's ruggedly handsome features kept the wince as Aidan's firm suction was yet another easy jolt to his system that all he could do was shudder as he blindly tried to grab that hand that was kneading his swollen breast flesh like he was some cheap back alley muscle slut. The alternative was worse, after all. Thumb swiped over that drool coated nipple of his and all at once, the muscle-alpha found himself in the futile struggle against the phantom of his lecherous memory. Chained. Hoisted. Dom's huge pec-breasts were fully bared and even more obscenely presented with how the chains were so deliberately strapped around his body that they practically forced the heaving swell of his juicy muscle tits to just spill out so openly before them. Cultists. And with how Dom tried to struggle--to flex against such cursed restraints--the show that he had offered to them was just simply inevitable.That with how Aidan caused his massive muscle breasts to rise with yet another heave of his moan before the rolling swell just simply forced them to jiggle on to settle, the muscle-alpha remembered back then how his full and heavy pec-breasts jostled and swayed with his attempt for freedom. It didn't help that the Hale alpha's huge beefy muscle tits were just so fully exposed. So fully vulnerable. So fully ripe for their fucking lechery. That with how the damn cultists just simply had to reach for his protruding gumdrop nipples to woo his sensitive nubs with the vile sensations of that salve being generously applied to each, Dom was once more blinded in the haze of lust as he pushed his heaving breast firmer against Aidan's willing suckle. The blessed salve. The very drool of their old god. Dom didn't fucking know shit about damn old gods--fucking perverts or otherwise. All he knew was how he couldn't stop those fingers from slathering that slimy and suspicious substance all over his vulnerable nipples... all over his soft large and very sensitive areolas. Fuck. Another slippery circling from Aidan's thumbs, and Dom could easily remember that priest with his perverse glee on making Dom's nipples just glisten so sinfully with gobs after disgusting gobs of that sickeningly slimy saliva that he couldn't keep off of him since they so expertly pinned him for that salacious treatment. All he could do was groan--just like how the young bull's suckling had him throwing his head back once more for a helpless moan--all while he was forced to relive the sensations of that sinful tingle as the cursed slimy salve began to seep into his very nipples. Dom could only hiss. Buck. His hard cock that was just as exposed for their leering pleasure bobbed and belched that juicy dollop of precum as his alpha might just simply faltered against such unwelcome pleasures. He couldn't stop them from completing their vile ritual into preparing his large succulent nipples and the rest of his ridiculously huge muscle pec-breasts into becoming the very obscene vessels of their cult's blessed breast milk. And through it all, that tight and teetering sensation rose above the fantasy as Dom was quick to bite down on that moan before it managed to spill out and further pull the muscle-alpha deeper into indignity. But as Aidan remained adamant with how he began to pull at Dom's hard nipple with his teeth, the big beefy wolf was forced to yet another rush of white hot pleasure that thundered through him enough that he felt that firm throb straight down his already aching cock. No. Right there. All at once, Dom was confronted with the overwhelming wave of pleasure as he felt his moan melt somewhere within his chest and prodded at that pulse of sweet dull ache that jolted his dread to the fore. No. Fuck. Fucking-- "--g--nuh w-wait!" Dom gasped. But all at once, he felt his juicy pec-breasts pulse warmly from within as more of that swell began to push against the piling waves of pleasure that were already thrumming within the hefty fullness of each swollen tit-mound. Dom's free hand was quick to hold on. His claws dug into the edge of the couch's backrest as he himself felt the crippling wave of pleasure to which he could only squirm helplessly against as he continued to feel the aching swell. No. It can't be. Fuck. His fucking muscle tits. Fucking tight. Why does it feel like he's gonna fucking burst!? "Aidan!" Dom moaned. "--a--awhn--hg--!" But all that came for him was a growl that practically bit down on his sensitive nipple, and altogether, that white hot jolt of ecstasy just tore through him so relentlessly that his next moan barely made it out of the full and heavy swell of it all--even more as that certain electrifying pressure rushed right at the swollen crowning peaks of his big juicy man-mammaries. Fuck. No. Fuck. Aidan suckled still--and that alone sent Dom crashing into the sudden waves of pleasure that he didn't expect to still take hold. "Hnh--ah--" The crimson red of shame and lust burst through the muscle-alpha's rugged and already flustered features. Though with it, as his heavy beefy pec-breasts bloated upwards with how pleasure forced their obscene fullness to just jostle and bounce, Dom found himself grabbing at Aidan's wrist once more for a desperate hold that just came in a little too late. That suckle was enough. That pinch was enough. With the anxious pressure already thrumming at the old wolf's very nubs, each of his succulent and dangerously sensitive nipples gushed out a fat squirt of pure sweet muscle tit milk from that one singular need for release. Aidan felt it too. That gush practically burst inside his mouth after all. And sure enough, the reward came swift with how greed fueled his need to just suck harder that his mouth almost clamped fully around that puffy areola that further jolted the shock of pure pleasure straight down to the alpha's core. Please--somewhere in his heaving muscle breasts, Dom wanted to cry out as pleasure flooded through every fiber of his being that he almost thought he was losing his mind within the heady rush of its fiery wake. And through it, as the grip of his perverse memories laid its claim through his big beefy body, Dom felt that same paralyzing convulsion--that very seize where the entirety of his proud burgeoning heat was merely subject to utter surrender that even his feral might could not resist. Tentacles. A damn pump. A mouth. Even a mere squeeze. The vile familiarity of the sensations flooded through him as the pure rush of heat and humiliation burst within the same moment that his huge and milk-heavy pec-breasts exploded with that warm gush of milky sweetness that they have corrupted him with--the same milky release that fully turned his proud beefy alpha muscle pecs into bonafide juicy muscle bitch tits that were all plumped up for their perverted pleasure. Dom's eyes rolled before he found that sliver of control to keep his eyes shut--all while he weathered through the crippling pleasure that just claimed the obscene swell of his big beefy pec-tits. He bucked. Jiggled. And even then, Aidan remained unslaked as he just continued to drink so deep that his huge arms practically put Dom in a bear hug just to keep him in place. "F--fuck, s-son! G--gotta fucking stop!" the big beefy old wolf finally managed to growl as he clasped the back of Aidan's head tighter. But only for a second. That while the young bull suckled him still, mercy came from the dastardly milk that still remained in his juicy pec-breasts as they finally weakened in their spurts. And for a moment, while Dom's fingers splayed and scratched Aidan's hair gently as his other hand squeezed that massive shoulder quite affectionately, that fluster remained as the heaving Hale muscle-alpha pushed on to grab onto that erogenous relief that followed soon after and even permitted him to finally fucking breathe. Fuck. "G--gotta slow down f--r your old man, b-boy..." Dom sighed through his slackened mouth as his arm flexed into its proud boulder-sized mass from how his hand went from squeezing Aidan's shoulder to combing through his own damp hair as they both reeked of that sweet musky hint of sex-wrought sweat. Fucking--hell. At the very least Aidan grew gentler in his tease as he began to mouth around the old wolf's swollen nipple while he himself pushed the labored heaves of his warm and shallow breaths against Dom's own heaving muscle breasts. The muscle-bound alpha released him then as he still tried to catch his breath--and it was all the more of a chance for him to further take control as he squeezed his large hand between the two of them so he could press his own knead against the beefy swell of his juicy pec-breast. The tightness was gone, at least. Though with how the heel of his palm grazed against his engorged nipple, Dom was quick to breathe out a shaky sigh while Aidan remained careful with his kisses across the rise of the old wolf's proud muscle tits. "Was--was I good, sir?" Fuck. Dom's brown eyes met those blues once again. And with the rolling fire still dancing over their heaving forms, the proud alpha felt his own power come back with another deep breath before it tempted his lips into curling for a smile as he couldn't help but growl out a damn chuckle. Damn muscle bull. Aidan's eyes were leaded with lust and yet they still sparkled all sweet for him just like how his plump lips glistened with how he licked for the milk that clung to the scruff on his upper lip. Damn muscle bull indeed. All fucking big and beefy, but damn adorable all the same. Derek should really tell him where he got him. Fuck. And with another chuckle, Dom still tried to blink through it--still tried to catch his breath. And all the more, his proud beefy muscle pec-breasts shuddered in their obscene swell as the hoarse groans came easier now that the sensations were demanding less of him. But as the both of them tried to take that breather, most of that heat still remained--and still remained between them too. And with the Hale muscle-alpha snarling on for another labored heave for air, he easily caught how that scent of warm sweet musk and passion still remained thick in the air around them as well. Fuck. That damn word was the only thing flashing in his head right then as the blur was just making it hard to fucking think. And with another heave, Dom turned his gaze back down onto Aidan and let his hands move along the broad boulders of his shoulders. At least it was enough to get the man's attention--though it wasn't like Aidan had relented from his need and mission to be validated anyway. Dom would never fault him for that either--damn muscle bull. His damn muscle bull. And with how he tried to squeeze those massive delts in some attempt to woo the young stud, Dom felt his brows furrow through his slack-mouthed smirk as the fading sparks continued their coursing tease through him and had him feel that frustrated ache that still remained right in him as well. That frustrated throb. Hard. Angry. "--h--hmmgh--" the old wolf was quick to lick his lips as his big beefy body succumbed once more into a rolling shudder that had him bucking once more into the sensual flow of his heaving brawn. There. Dom chuckled softly as he let his hand stroke Aidan's cheek before giving it a light slap. "No--" Dom watched how his sweet beefy muscle bull frowned--and all the more, that twinge that crept past his core just went straight into that firm heat that the old wolf was still packing. Damn right. Damn muscle bull. And Dom ain't done with him just fucking yet. "--not yet..." Dom continued with a smirk that melted into a soft grunt as his clasp onto the young bull's shoulder turned into something more of a nudge to have him ease up--even just for a bit. And while the old wolf continued to breathe on and groan through the remnants of his lust that remained shy from the full heat that he needed quelled, Aidan seemed like he shared the same sentiment as he was quick to heed and even quicker to act--and with a thick low groan that he breathed out of his own beefy muscle-jock pec-tits, the young bull's massive arm threatened the strain of his of shirt's sleeve once more as he grabbed onto the edge of the couch's backrest to finally push himself off of Dom's imposing brawn. And sure enough, as the cold breeze mingled with the slight parting of their heated and heaving forms, Dom's deeper sigh quickly confronted him with this stronger coil of need within his core that further made its demands be heard from yet another throb that Dom just had to breathe through. "I mean... you just had to see what you've done, son..." Once more, the old wolf's voice grew low and steady--all before he let out another hum of a sigh while he also took his turn to ease back up against the armrest where he could properly present himself once again. It wasn't like it was some secret--especially not when Dom had been almost naked all throughout their little muscle-bound tryst. Right there. "--see?" The Hale muscle-alpha bucked. And with it, he had the young bull confront the hard and throbbing reality of Dom's situation. "Look at what you've done to daddy's fucking cock, son..." Dom continued as he let his beefy muscle breasts rise for another proud heave and swell meant to chase the teasing tension down into the slow ripple of his hard abdomen before he practically wagged his bulging crotch for Aidan to see. Damn right. "--you got daddy all aching and throbbing right here..." The old wolf's tease melted into a soft deep chuckle while his jock-clad cock finally came into a better--and more vulgar--view with how his fully swollen fuck meat just stretched the poor thing to the point of thinning as well. Even that fashionable cutout above the pouch had been stretched forward with how his engorged cock just demanded whatever space that it could stretch out into as it pulsed and throbbed in the wiles of the pure and heated need to fuck and rut. At that point the designed hole was practically pushing the reddened meat of the wolf's fat and firm shaft out of it--even more as the peephole was just simply stretched over the girth that was already peeking out that its once half circle shape was looking more like a long hole. And in that small naughty window of the jock pouch that exposed some of that juicy cock meat, anyone would've noticed how a vein ran across the length of it before disappearing under that poor stretch of cotton. Or tried to. Even then, a trained eye would've still discerned how the vein made an impression against the fabric--just like how that fat knob of a cockhead remained easily detected as its engorged state practically forced the pouch to cling to it like a second skin. On a brighter day anyone might have noticed the flesh tone of the fabric too from how much of Dom's cock was peeking through the weave of the material. Though then again, as Dom felt himself throb on from the most minute act of trying to readjust himself into that inviting splay of his legs, the fireplace light had easily shown how the fabric seemed to thin itself more with how the half the pouch was almost wet and see through. After all, it had already soaked up much, if not all, of the old wolf's potent muscle-alpha precum. That wet spot was truly obscene, really--even more when one could stop and think about how the pouch had been soiled wet from the copious amount of virile cock juice that it clung tighter and stickier around that fat juicy muscle-alpha cockhead. The entirety of it had become fully discernible at that point despite the pathetic coverage. And with how that ramrod fuck meat remained stubborn in its full mast frustration, what throb that still came as Dom settled back on the couch only made his cock push against that skimpy pouch even more that it practically looked like a straight stretch of fabric that only covered his cockhead at that point--or tried to. The sides of his shaft were already fully peeking out, veins and all--and the exposed flesh all red and glistening too with the angry pulsation that only made it fatter. And with how Dom splayed his legs apart even more, the heavy plumpness of his juicy balls just rolled to the side as a little more of that nagging throb furthered the threat with how the edge of the fabric began to ease over the impression of that cockhead's ridge. Fuck. Damn fuck. Dom sighed at the sight of his own obscene display before teasing out almost a coy yet goading chuckle. The damn thing's practically hanging on by a thread. And the funnier part was, just like how it was with Dom's damn beefy muscle tits, the old wolf's cock was just so dangerously and deliciously close to exposing itself to the open simply because it was just so big, fat, and meaty--and all of which was just as much of a regular occurrence to him... just like how all it took was another throb for a bead of precum to finally form over the very peak of that pitched tent of a jock pouch as the poor thing just couldn't absorb it anymore. The big beefy Hale alpha really was just too damn ripe and virile for his own damn good. "Shit--fucking got me on the verge of bursting..." Dom hummed through another chuckle and yet another throb came with it--and with how the heaving wolf bucked on with a slight roll of his hips, his already angry cock pushed on with more of its demanding throb and began to lift the waistband of his jockstrap just enough to let the small tuft of his coarse pubes peek out just a bit more. "...fuck..." Aidan cursed under the heave of his own breath as he eased backwards and downwards to try and level himself with it--and the mere sight of a big beefy stud sinking down to pay reverence to that big fat muscle-alpha cock was all the more a goad in Dom's lust that he couldn't help but tease Aidan with another throb that practically had it sway and bob in its heavy hardness. "Told you to slow down..." Dom's voice lowered while his tone became playful in its teasing pointedness. And with how that stray sparks of lust still swarmed from within him all because the main core of his need was yet to be tended to, Dom just had to feel some kind of temper onto his own self as he began to knead his own beefy pec-tits. Of course, there was some hidden relief there--not only from the actual relief from the pressure, but also relief that the remnants had been milked out of him and kept the pride within his big beefy muscle breasts all the same and just in time... and within the privacy that he enjoyed. What was too late was how his nagging heat had fully settled into the warm heft of his balls and into the proud throb of his meaty ramrod cock that even a slight twitch was enough to spark a vulgar pulse and an even more vulgar drool of yet another gooey bead of pre. "--but you just had to lap up all of daddy's muscle tit milk, didn't you? And now you got daddy's cock all angry..." Dom teased on with a slight buck. And all the more, as that pouch remained under constant threat from how it was forced to stretch, what little movement was enough for the hem to finally slide off of the crown of his swollen knob and fully expose the red firmness of it from the sides. "O--oh..." Fuck. Dom cooed, low and playful, before he let the round heaving peaks of his juicy pec-breasts to roll for another husky sigh. He couldn't see much of his meaty cock from how he couldn't really see past the huge swell of his beefy muscle tits--but he was at least endowed enough that he could see his halfway and all the way up to the juicy knob of his drooling cockhead... which was enough for him to see how the jockstrap pouch was only merely protecting his piss slit at this point from how the poor thing decided to succumb to such a treacherous malfunction. "I think you should take care of it, yeah?" Dom bucked once more as Aidan settled onto his spot on all fours--and even higher still as Aidan let his hand rub along the thick meaty mass of the muscle-alpha's bare thigh. Of course, it warranted another throb--and another as Aidan used his other hand to tease along the side of the old wolf's girthy and veiny shaft with how he let his knuckles graze along like Dom's cock was some tender lover. It warranted precum too. From how Dom had just endured having his big juicy muscle breasts nursed to the point of his rather flustered surrender, the rest of his body was just dangerously primed and anxious for that bigger and creamier release. Dom didn't even want to admit it yet, but he knew that there might be a looming challenge for him to get a grip on himself--especially since the gentle tease that he was getting was already conjuring up some of that perverted haunting once again. Damn fucker. He could easily think about some creep who was just caressing his big meaty muscle-alpha cock like that... like a savored treasure--and the damn bastard taking their time knowing that Dom is all helpless and hard. Powerless from the threat of some perverted milking. The memory was an easy tense--and the easy tense was an easy throb that pushed another fat drop of pre right at that barely protected tip of his throbbing fuck meat. Fuck. Dom blinked through another heave of his swollen pec-breasts as he pushed them together like he was trying to push that air inside his chest so he could breathe. "--this is your mess now, son... and I like it when my boys clean up after themselves..." Once more, as Dom let the wooing sensation cause his eyes to flutter shut for a moment, he let that crawling wave course through him and goad him to labor a heave to rise--all before his gaze settled back on his young bull with the same heated and half-lidded regard while he breathed out that gripping tension through his parted lips. Fuck. The anticipation was just teetering right along the edge--and even more as Aidan, in turn, let out a shaky sigh right over his pulsing meat. Dom could feel that warm air almost wrap around his cock like it was yet another tease of a looming mouth. Of course he just had to buck to it and ultimately meet the sensation of those thick fingers sliding underneath the soaked and sticky stretch of the pathetic fabric to take its claim on Dom's cock with its grasp--or tried to. Though even still, it was more than enough of a sensation to spur those familiar sparks through the heaving muscle-alpha--welcomed or otherwise. That with how Aidan's fingers tried to tighten around it and urged Dom's cock to continue on with its burgeoning betrayal that it just had to throb against the touch and shamelessly admit to the dangerously ripe fullness of its potent virility, the old wolf just had to bite down on his snarl once more before he lost himself to first of the many teases that he would have to endure for the night. "F-fuck... son..." Dom felt Aidan plant a mouthed kiss over the slit that was only protected by that thin fabric, and all at once, that small twinge of shame trickled into that throbbing need that kept the mighty muscle-alpha hostage--and even more as the gentle yet pointed spark of pleasure easily coaxed a small spurt of his equally potent precum that Aidan had hummed his lips against in appreciation. "...awh--f f--hn..." the old wolf tried to force his words through the already labored push of his sigh before he felt himself sink back and rear his head upwards to further push that deeper sigh to spill out. Damn right. Fuck. There's no fucking going back. And the thought only pushed itself further into realization as that grip tightened a bit more for the mere purpose of keeping Dom's fat throbbing ramrod cock steady while his primed nerves jolted through him from the simple feeling of that tiny piece of fabric sliding aside his already sensitive cock head. The damn thing even clung against the firm spongy flesh of his swollen cockhead just firmly enough that it tugged at the very edge of his piss slit for a moment and forced it to part just a bit--but the bit was enough to urge more of Dom's preciously potent precum to drool out in obscene globs as if they had been yearning to seep out and free themselves from the old wolf's already throbbing and cum-overloaded fuck meat. And it was all the more a goad to Aidan's greed as he gave that last pull at the pouch. "H--ah..." Just like that, Dom's big fat muscle-alpha cock finally bobbed out into its own freedom with how it shamelessly throbbed against the open air--shamelessly and blindly throbbed. Blindly bucked. Blindly drooled. The Hale alpha's meaty ramrod cock wouldn't really know friend from foe, really. All it knew was that it was achingly hard and even more achingly full and ready to fucking blow that load in equal blindness--whoever was trying to make Dom surrender his very essence, all creamy and potent, was of no consequence as far as the demands of his menacing arousal goes. Sensual satisfaction? Haunting humiliation? The rush of conquering triumph? The sinful despair of defeat? That was Dom's problem. And the way his cock so easily surrendered more of his sweet alpha precum in even greater bubbling gushes was all the more an encouragement for the eager young bull to keep on despite the obvious failure of his grip--and all the while, the heaving muscle-bound patriarch had found himself wrestling with his perverted phantoms once more. "H-oly--shit, sir..." Dom had at least some low chuckle to tease Aidan with as the young bull continued to pump his cock and let the naughty trickle of his copious and juicy precum just drip along those thick fingers that failed to completely take hold of that stubborn girth. And it didn't fucking take long for those slick wet sounds to fill their quiet groans and hums too as the young stud was just as eager to spread that sinful nectar all over Dom's length with how he slowly let his grip slide up and down along the entirety of it--not that it was some hard task after all. Dom's cock blindly throbbed. Blindly drooled. The big beefy muscle-alpha was just as guilty to the mess that they were making from how his cock so easily surrendered to the sensations and the growing heat from within him--so much so that it had now come into a constant leak... just like how the constant wave of pleasure goaded the woos of heat that coursed through the old wolf. Dom was just too damn horny for his own good that the prior game they played was already way too much stimulation for him. Now his cock was practically pushed past the point of no return as another throb was easily another gooey belch of his generously slimy precum. Fuck. Dom moaned. Tried too. And once more, the swollen roundness of his huge pec-breasts rose for another labored push for a sigh--and even more as Dom was compelled to squeeze and feel up his own muscle tits as if it was the only way he could try and expel the taunting lust like they were some kind of massive stress balls. Though even then, his body so easily succumbed to the demands of its own betrayal--and his own greedy need--as he just couldn't help himself for another helping of that pleasant sparks wrought from another slow rut from how he fucked his fat alpha cock right into Aidan's reverent grip. His precum practically spurted this time. Shameless. Obscene. Dom could only bite down on a moan once more as he felt the tingling fluster of his own guilt paint his cheeks with the same red. "Damn--your big cock's leaking so fucking much, sir..." Fuck. Damn right--damn ripe for his own good. And with how Aidan began to twist his grip and finally pressed his thumb against that sensitive stretch of skin just under Dom's piss slit, the mighty Hale muscle-alpha felt the sudden wave of pleasure flood through him that it effectively drowned out what moan had tried to spill out with his cry. Fuck. And so did his cock. Dom gave a thrust into that grip--and all the more, the dangerously sensitive underside of his swollen cockhead was further subject to the tease as Aidan's thumb circled against that very spot. And still, the old wolf piled onto his own demise by giving up another juicy squirt of precum and effectively doubled the pleasure with how the thumb felt even slicker against his nerves. Slicker in his ear too. Wet. Vulgar. Slimy. His cock had fully turned into the fat, pulsing, font of lechery with how it continued on to indulge into the pleasure it so blindly sought. At that point all that Dom needed to hear was some disgusting chuckle--of some creep taunting the big beefy muscle-alpha with his triumph as Dom's virile lust would've fully betrayed him and kept him deep in the clutches of those vile fiends. In his memories, he was once more a captive--and once more, he'd be on the damn losing end as he would've been unable to protect his meaty cock from their disgustingly perverted desires. They would've ensnared him with their schemes. Magic? Drugs? Fuck. Even their plain touches would've done Dom in as he had always been so dangerously ripe for his own good. His fucking tits? Easy targets. And right then, as Dom bucked against Aidan's hand, he even felt himself clench and twitch deep within the flex of his big fat muscle ass as they would've found their way in there too. All of his secret sweet spots. Dom would feel their disgusting teasing right where he was weak and just like that his cock would've shamelessly throbbed into its full and proud firmness. Eager. Ready. Fucking horny muscle-alpha that he is--fucking horny muscle beast with his cock that blindly throbbed. Blindly bucked. Blindly drooled. And that special guilt he had for himself taunted him too. His arrogance. His recklessness. Aidan squeezed. Dom couldn't help but throw his head back for another moan pushed out from the equally obscene heave of his big beefy pec-breasts as the sensations further goaded the darker taunts of his fantasies. It was so fucking easy to remember how many times Dom snooped around such suspect places in the full nudity post-shift--so fucking easy to remember how he just proudly sauntered about and let the fires of his feral nature just course through him and indulge through that somewhat desolate lonesome. Fuck. Yeah. Damn right. Dom was partly at fault too for the times that he had tried to investigate or pursue their quarry with his cock fully out. Fully hard. Fully leaking. It was simply just nature--and his arrogance. And it made him such an easy target one or a couple of times. All they needed was to reach for it just like how their vile groping reached for his tits. His cock wouldn't have cared beyond the potential for release. It would easily surrender--and the mighty Hale muscle-alpha right along with it. "And it's all your fault, son--being such a tease for daddy..." Dom pushed through the haze to keep the goad on the young bull, at least. Right there, despite the haunting that teased him and compounded his ever growing heat, he still had power--even enough to spark that arrogance even more as he tried to mold the shame into the indulgence that he so fucking needed. "...now you got daddy making such a big mess with his cock..." he hummed--then finally moaned as Aidan finally let his mouth clamp over the plump knob of Dom's cockhead. Fuck. The sensuous moan was quick to smother out into yet another breathless cry as Dom practically convulsed into pushing more of himself into that greedy maw. And all at once, more of that white hot pleasure easily surged through the mighty muscle-alpha as Aidan so duly accepted the claim in the hot wet tightness of his sweet mouth--and even more in his needy suction. Fuck. Aidan sure did love that muscle-alpha cock--just like those damn creeps that so eagerly preyed on to Dom's self-incriminating virility. And with another slow push that had Aidan's hot breath crawl down past that swollen cockhead and along the edge of that thick meaty shaft, it was just as easy for Dom to remember someone else's mouth engulfing the same mighty and menacing girth that the Hale muscle-alpha so proudly possessed. That no matter how much he struggled--how much he tried to flex his big beefy muscles to further claim the power that he needed to free himself from such vile clutches--taking advantage of his ripe brawn seemed to come second nature to them. Even the way their tongue slithered as if to seek the very source from his piss slit was enough to make the muscle-alpha growl as he felt Aidan do the same with a playful swirl of his soft wet tongue that immediately had Dom spurting his pre right onto those awaiting taste buds. And all the more, weakness came with the unwelcome pleasure as those fiends continued to have their merry perverted way through him. Yeah. Those alternatives weren't all the better--almost as if the Hale muscle-alpha's pure might was also his curse as the testosterone-laden and raw beastly power that coursed through him reflected itself into the very essence within the gooey and potent seed of his very being. Aidan finally clamped. Dom grunted. Pushed. All the more those cultists came into the fore of his taunting memories. Chained. Trapped. Dom could easily remember how he was confronted by the demise of his own humiliation as those fucking bastards so expertly teased and toyed with his thick and throbbing muscle-alpha cock. All slick with his precum. All slippery with their concoctions. Dom tried his hardest to resist, to not give into that perverse surrender. Of course, failure came with a moan that he tried to keep and a pride marred from having to succumb to their lecherous wiles. They had him give unto them what they so badly wanted from him and his big beefy muscle-alpha brawn as the same pleasure that crawled through him in his slow and firm bucks into Aidan's mouth was the same pleasure that milked every drop of his thick and creamy alpha seed that he so shamefully surrendered onto their readied vessels. He couldn't help it... how they fucking pleasured him into unwanted completion. Dom fucking filled heir cups to brim too as his ripe juicy alpha balls was just ready to burst. Too fucking ripe. Too fucking virile. And with how Aidan took more of him through his own gusto and Dom's own push for that release that he was trying to chase, Dom just knew he needed to do the same to his young muscle bull too. Dom has had his fair share of admirers too, after all. Bitches. Fucking Peter. The muscle-alpha even had his fair share of even more pathetic creeps whose only power was to throw any price at him just so they could taste him for a night--and they'd be so lucky to have Dom in such a bullishly horny state... enough for them to leave him with more than what they had promised. Damn right. And with how Aidan so eagerly worshiped his body--and even more so now that Dom could only growl as the young bull had him close to halfway--that newer drive within him just began to blaze along the rush and rise of his big beefy muscle breasts. He pushed. Aidan moaned through whatever sloppy sound that just burst around Dom's meaty alpha cock. And with the tight wet heat that Dom could feel all over his throbbing girth, that need--that demand--just further stoked whatever rush that came through him. Fuck. "F--fucking get it, son!" Dom finally snarled as he grabbed Aidan's locks once more in a firm curl of his fingers--and with the young bull in place, there really was no way for Dom's fat muscle-alpha cock to push but fucking in. Firmer. Harder. All the more the wet sloppy sounds and sensations of that eager mouth fanned the flames that goaded Dom to roll his hips into the rhythm that his body--his cock--was completely ensnared into. Ah--yeah? Those strong brows furrowed with the old wolf's sterner and hungrier wince. "Y--you fucking want it? Yeah--fucking get it, y-you greedy bitch!" The alpha's snarl roiled louder with an equally rough jostle of his huge pec-breasts as if he was trying to rise above the cloy of those haunted perversions--of his shame. Damn right. Aidan moaned. Coughed. But even still, Dom thrust deeper into Aidan's mouth and into the rhythm of that face-fucking as he knew--they knew--damn well who calls the fucking shots. And deeper still, the Hale muscle-alpha crammed his big fat cock right in that mouth like the true fucking ramrod that it is and felt that moaning and tightening reward meet him in the middle of the sinful and secret heat that they fucking shared. And with Aidan's hand tightening around the fat base--all while his other hand tried to paw at Dom's bouncing breast--the old wolf was all the more pumped for that push as they both knew then that there was nothing more important than his pleasure. Daddy's pleasure. The alpha's fucking pleasure. Fuck. Fuck yeah-- "H--hngaah! Ah--aw fuck, son! H--hnaah--aw yea--!" Dom could just feel those lips tighten into a sweet juicy lock. He could just fucking feel those cheeks hollow out. And with how the mighty muscle-alpha tried to force more of his juicy cock right into the blond stud's gullet, that slither of that tongue dancing underneath the sensitive underside of his throbbing cock was all the more a jolt to his system that urged him to shudder into a heave of a lust-filled cry. Fuck. "Ghn--na--aw sh--t!" Dom's moan broke into a howl as he threw his head back from the dizzying high of that rolling pleasure. Fucking hell--Aidan's hot mouth felt so damn fucking good. And through that fiery haze of the old wolf's own demanding hedonism, that spark of temptation came so damn easy as he let his hand move back down to squeeze at the young bull's massive shoulder. Fuck. Derek. Dom wondered if this beefy bitch and his equally juicy bitch of a son fooled around like this. Though through that choking tightness, and that wet sloppy fucking heat, that clenched around Dom's ramrod fuck meat that had him belching out a juicy burst of pure muscle-alpha precum, the old wolf's darker desires took its turn to roll through him--just as how he rolled his hips firm and tight to pound his throbbing meaty rod into the eager bull's hungry throat. Nah. Derek is as much of a muscle bitch as his sweet fucking bull stud of a friend. And with another wave of burning surrender that had him slamming his head back for a cry as sweat and swell painted that glistening sheen all over his big beefy muscle-alpha tits as they heaved on to push out another deep and melodious moan, Dom succumbed to his indulgence even more as he let himself conjure up that image of Aidan and Derek both worshiping the cock that owned and ruled over them. Damn right--right there. Dom's cock throbbed. It lurched against the wet tight heat. And when that sudden rush of wet pop had his cock plopping upwards within Aidan's still squeezing grip, Dom swore that he was about to see stars flash behind the back of his head as the sudden change of sensations had him reeling just enough to surrender into another squirt of sweet pre while he tried to chase that hot mouth with a hard buck. "B-boy!" Dom's growl practically rolled out through his snarl. Though with that harsh groan that enveloped his teetering and throbbing cock as Aidan tried to catch his breath, the old wolf forced himself to blink through it and keep a firm grasp onto himself too. Dom could fucking offer mercy--but he sure as well won't cum until he's plugged inside something. Besides, Aidan's tongue still managed to woo his desperately pulsing heat as the young bull licked a fat yet trembling stripe along the menacing length of his fat cock. "I lied, sir--" Aidan began as he began to mouth along that shaft once more as he tried to suckle the dripping precum that his lips could catch. How Dom heard those words, he didn't know--and how his face looked with his brows furrowed in confusion? He didn't fucking know either. "Beer's good, sir--but I like it hot on my throat." Fucking bitch. "Goddammit, boy--" Dom's massive muscle pec-breasts rose in an erratic swell to push out that equally erratic chuckle--and even more as Aidan's sweet all-American face softened into that dimpled smirk of his, and all while he's all sweaty and flustered with that same damn lust that Dom had been trying to ride. His young bull was trying to be all cute and charming--fucking shit. Dom licked his lips as that warmer amusement rolled with the swell of burning lust deep within the bulging masses of his huge alpha muscle tits. Seriously. Where the fuck did Derek snag this damn stud? "Good thing you're getting daddy so fucking damn close--" Dom growled as his ruggedly handsome face winced through his determined lust. He bucked his hips then--he tried to fucking wag his angry-red and veiny ramrod cock as it glistened so obscenely with spittle and precum. And sure enough, Dom was right up there in heaven once again as Aidan put his mouth to work and sheathed that cock back into his damn throat. How Dom tried to splay himself wider to accommodate the more vigorous and eager bobs of that mouth onto and around his cock was almost a blur at that point--especially so as the sudden change of pace only made him more desperate for that damn release. But at the very least, Aidan was a little more earnest with it. Slow but deep. Fuck. "O--ooh yeah..." Dom easily felt himself sink into that lull as the steady descent to take most of him was already enough to make that sweet sweet cloy of pleasure crawl through him once more--and even more than enough for him to roll his hips into another slow yet firm buck to meet it. Damn right. Right there. Dom pushed and felt that deeper warmth welcome his cock with a clench as the slither of that tongue came back to torment him with its own wiles too. Fuck. Damn fucking hell he was close. "All for you, s--son..." Dom urged through a growl as he found himself tilting back once more to breathe out what his big beefy pec-breasts were swelling into--all while his hips continued to ride that thrusting rhythm into that mouth as the sensual rolls of his heaving body took to form once again. Fuck. The mighty Hale muscle-alpha groaned into another wet push as he felt the muscles of that throat tighten into that gulp--yet another cue for his cock to throb and spurt right into that willing goal. And with Aidan readjusted, Dom's thrusts felt smoother this time--even if the young bull still had to try to accommodate the girth of it all with his eager moans and even sloppier coughs. Fuck. Even Aidan's mouth felt greedier then. And who the fuck was Dom to deny his pretty stud the gift of a cock to choke on to? If anything, the old wolf was sure to match the pace--especially since it was the very fuel to the heat that they shared. That with Aidan bobbing down to take more of the cock that he was hungry for and even pausing to just feel that throbbing girth inside his mouth while he continued the praise with his tongue, the old wolf just had to give back--throb back. Fuck yeah. Damn fucking right. Dom's big beefy muscle tits rose once more for another groan as he too flexed hard to keep that cock inside that hot wet tightness all before he gave another buck that was sure to goad a drooling cough from the young bull from how he pressed against the back of that throat. And with it, with that clenching wetness welcoming him still, the mighty muscle-alpha felt his eyes roll back while precum and dribble began to pool at the base of his cock. All over his balls. Along the sensitive sides of his crotch. Even lower too. Dom just fucking pushed. And in turn, he felt himself clench. And it was in that shudder that he felt rush through him that further goaded at that anxious pressure that had been keeping him in its grip. Fuck--fuck it. Dom's hand blindly reached for the backrest--and once more, his bicep swelled into the gigantic boulder of its proud flex and hardened just enough for him to bury his face against as he tried to reach the back of his head instead. God. Right there. That tightening feeling wasn't just Aidan's throat anymore. That with how he pushed back into that sucking wetness, Dom could feel his cock just throb right to the edge with that familiar rise that bubbled towards the tip. Fuck. Right fucking there. More. So fucking close. Aidan sucked him harder in turn. Longer. And all the more, that pleasure and pressure pulsed right there within Dom's cock that he could just feel his toes fucking curl before he felt finally that jolt that sparked his core to convulse. The rest of him just followed suit then. Even the obscene swell of the old wolf's big beefy pec-breasts tightened before they rolled into their heavy jiggle. Even his big fat beach-ball muscle ass clenched and let the sensations sink right there in between as that tightly kept alpha pucker twitched just as much--and even more as spit and precum that had already trickled past his balls and taint had managed to reach that secret sweet spot of quivering heat. But all the while, Dom was practically blinded with that fucking burning need and burning lust. Blindly thrusting. Blindly throbbing. All for that most singular need to fucking cum. And with Aidan coming down on him for one last time, Dom felt every bit of him fucking rush right into the very core of his being and finally pushed for that equally blinding release--all before another push forced every nerve within him to explode in violent delight. For a moment, everything within the mighty Hale alpha just turned white. Dom's balls fucking tightened. His cock lurched. And as Aidan managed to push his thick finger past the old wolf's tight defense--no thanks to the slick of spit and precum that had trickled right into the target--Dom was once more pulled into the familiar maelstrom of torturous pleasure and complete surrender. That without a lungful of air to cry out that sound of utter ecstasy, and with every bit of him all flexed hard and tight for that one thunderous moment, the way the mighty muscle-alpha just felt himself explode inside Aidan's mouth was more than enough for him to get even more lost in the whirlwind of euphoria. Fuck. "G--gh--n awh--!" That moan came broken as jagged bolts of pleasure forced Dom to convulse even more as the flood of release was a flood of pleasure that washed away all his hold on control--that with how his smooth tight muscle pucker twitched and clenched around the sudden invasion of that damn finger, Dom was trapped in the moment that only permitted that same worming digit to push in deeper. Harder. Dom felt it ease--fucking felt it thrust. But as white hot pleasure wracked through his very mind and soul, the old wolf only had another soundless moan to cry out as he was merely forced to surrender another gooey burst of his creamy alpha jizz right into his bull's gullet. And all the more, Aidan gulped--and all the more his finger pushed and sought Dom deeper and even had him feel that buzzing pleasure from the way he twisted and stroked against the fluttering clenches of the alpha's incriminating tightness. Dom in turn just continued to ride through the quaking sensations as his hands blindly sought purchase. Something to grab onto. Something to hold onto. Something to fucking anchor him as wave after wave of pleasure battered through him and forced this cock to just simply throb and burst before he finally managed to somewhat break through the damn surface of the exhilirating storm. "F--fuck--h haah!" Dom finally cried out in low bellow--almost a sob--as ecstasy remained paramount and in control of his entire brawn. Everything was just right there in his unabashedly hard and uncontrollably impatient cock as another thrust of that finger milked out another thrust from his hips and urged another creamy burst of his potent seed to just come forth and have the rush pummel right back into him with a hammering bout of white hot pleasure in its wake. Fuck. Fucking--hell. "H--hnughn--" Another jostling swell of Dom's big beefy breasts was yet another spill of a moan. And with his hand finally finding purchase against that heaving form that continued to bounce on his gushing firehose of a cock, Dom could only grab onto Aidan's hair and his massive shoulder before he finally gave into the sinful rhythm of that sly gambit. An even deeper push and Dom was just completely consumed. That little bundle of nerves right within the very seat of his thrumming pleasure was more than enough to just fully drown him in the spinning rush of it all. All he could do was clench. All he could do was grind against that finger that fucked his tight little muscle hole and taunt his very prostate. All he could do was grab onto Aidan to the point of crumpling the stretch of his shirt almost to a rip as he just fucked that sweet fucking mouth of his for all it's worth. Cum. And there was just more and more of it. All thick. All hot. Fucking gooey. Fucking potent. It was almost a thick concentrate of the muscle-alpha's testosteron-laden essence as it just blindly flooded Aidan's mouth with the generous ropes of its messy slimy bursts like his mouth was some tight pussy that was meant to be inseminated. Over and over. Every thrust was another spurt. Every nudge of that finger was another spurt. Even when Aidan finally began to choke as his greedy gulps failed to keep up with how Dom just fucked that warm creamy jizz right into his tight gullet, his thick ramrod cock even pulsed into needy impatience--so much so that it felt like it was already trying to fill that throat with another rope of hot gooey cum right when that same throbbing cock was still fucking spewing. Dom could only groan on as cum began to dribble in a messy spill from Aidan's mouth while he still tried to suck him. Milk him. That even when that white hot globs of creamy surrender trickled along the same path between his legs--even right past his balls--the heaving muscle-alpha only had a deeper moan to offer as that finger practically fucked his own cum right back into him. That sticky and slick nudge It was all the more a jolt that rode along the waves of pleasure that seized the mighty muscle-alpha--and all the more a jolt that had him feel that other rush burst through the helpless wince of his beautiful and rugged features as he tried to push out another soundless cry. Weaker, sure, but sparks still surged through his still throbbing cock just as much, all for another gooey spurt enough to quake through his already writhing brawn--just like how he felt himself quiver around that slow yet deep nudge of that naughty invader that still pushed into the very clench of his tight, hot, muscle-alpha heat. Fuck. "--h--hnuh--" Dom's huge beefy pec-breasts jiggled on with the curl of his fingers--and all the more, as pleasure still taunted and coiled, that flustered bloom all over his face only deepened just because he couldn't help but roll his hips once more for a thrust and a creamy spurt of yet another rope of cum into Aidan's throat... that, and because he couldn't help but fuck himself a little bit more against that damn finger and feel how the jolts deep within seemed to reach those hidden knots of heat and goad them into exploding into their euphoric purge. Fucking--hell. The mighty old wolf hissed. Growled. With another rolling heave of his big beefy muscle breasts into the round juicy swells, Dom just knew that he had to will his gigantic and godly brawn into a buck and yet another thrust--and once more succumb to that pad pushing against the anxious firmness of his little secret bitch button to further quell the betrayal of his own long-held frustrations. Even Aidan had to come up eventually and wipe the mess all over his mouth and have his massive arm flex for that swipe and his own heave, all while he finally managed to take all of Dom's slimy climax within him with a firm swallow and an ecstatic groan through another labored sigh. Though mercy was still yet to find the old wolf as that wet pop of release had Dom crying out a deep yet helplessly sultry moan from how the suction that was keeping his nerves held together just released them all once all over the obscene and menacing hardness of the still throbbing and obscene thickness of his veiny fuckmeat of a cock--so much so that the onset of that post-orgasmic sensitivity forced him upwards for another thrust into the empty air and felt those delicious pulses of firm and resolved release just--just fucking spurt out of him. And somewhere in the blur that Dom was fighting through, Aidan groaned as the Hale muscle-alpha's attempt to chase that mouth had him busting those generous bursts of his creamy jizz all over the young bull's pretty face before he himself cried out a soft groan from how that strong hand grasped his cock once more to rear its ride through the steadily dissipating wave of utter pleasure. Though even still, with that finger still inside the alpha's hot, virgin-tight muscle hole, Dom still had a little more left in him. That with how that little nudge compelled him to thrust, it became his body's turn to take the blow as sinful heat after damn sinful heat began to splatter across the beefy swells of his huge juicy pec-breasts---all from how the gooey streaks of his potent muscle-alpha cum just fucking painted his deliciously full and heavy tits. One even easily splattered right on his large gumdrop nipple. An easy fucking target--and even more as his succulent nipples had remained so pert. And with how Dom just had to force his massive muscle milkers to roll through another labored need to breathe, the thick gooey clump so easily slid down to coat that fat nipple nub before melting along the wide puffiness of his equally sensitive areola. "F--fuck--hhna..." the word just simply spilled out of Dom's slackened mouth as his tongue practically lolled out from the mere exhaustion that almost kept him in the dark from the sheer impact of blinding ecstasy--and it didn't help that their only light was from the dancing blaze of the fireplace and whatever moonlight managed to spill from their windows. And right then, a perverted phantom so easily reached from the darkness as Dom rode through a couple of those even weaker spurts that he felt pool all over the hard cobbles of his rippling abdomen. Fuck. Breathe. One of the old wolf's large hands grabbed the top of the couch's backrest once more while the other pressed against his wincing face as if he needed to finally wipe both fluster and euphoria--and sweat--off of his face to get his stern pride right on back. Once again, his arms just fucking bulged into giant boulders while the mountainous heave of his big juicy muscle breasts just had to keep on with the roll as he continued to breathe through his damn mouth with the even ebbs of his hoarse groans. Fuck. Breathe. Finally, at least, Aidan pulled out. "O--oh--" Fuck. Somewhere in there, Dom let out a soft moan. But even still, that last haunt remained as the old wolf just felt himself work through another deep groan while the rest of him still thrummed. The rest of him still shuddered. Bucked. How fucking lucky would some creep be to see him like that. A big beefy mighty muscle-alpha all splayed in his ripe and naked glory. Heaving. Groaning. His big beefy sweat-slicked body all completely covered in the creamy mess of his own making--of his own surrender. And partly because he was forced to cum so hard from how that damn sly finger exploited his moment of weakness and fucking milked him by his damn secret sweet spot. Right then, Dom felt himself twitch once more. Clench. Was it from the need to defend himself and his pride, or was it from the need to feel more of it deep in him? Dom doesn't fucking know. He couldn't even think. All he knew was he needed to breathe while he could finally feel the aftermath of it all crawl through his skin. Slick. Sweaty. Sticky. The consequences of the sinful indulgence they shared still cloyed all over their heaving bodies. Damn fucking right. Dom winced. With a deeper breath, the mighty muscle-alpha could even smell the same cloy that was all still thick in the damn air--and even more as he snorted through a low snarl. The scent of sensual rigors. The scent of claiming musk. The scent of fucking cum. Fuck. Breathe. "You--you okay, sir?" Aidan. Fucking bastard. The heady blur had grown bearable, at least--just as the wisping sparks of pleasure that still coursed through the mighty muscle-alpha here and there. And through the pleasant weakness that gently weighed onto him with how he had completely given into the ebbs and flows of his steady recovery from it all, Dom could at least get a grip on himself and finally get that spur within him to move. Once more, the huge swells of his big beefy pec-breasts rolled into the movement--and even more as the rise of within his chest was the one that had him pushing out that low groan from how he just felt the heaviness of his own body work against him. At least he had that backrest to grab onto for that easier push of his own self off from that damn couch so he could sit back up--or tried to. Breathe. Dom blinked and winced through a gentle snort while he curled his fist for a flex as he just had to lean onto the press of his own thickly muscled forearm against said backrest to lead into that semblance of an ease that he so needed. And with another fulsome rise within the round mounds of his juicy muscle-alpha tits that rolled into a heavy bounce, Dom let himself swell up into yet another labor of a slow roll of a firm sigh--one that had him finally be aware of the sticky bits that had clung and had begun to dry against the great heave and the tight ripple of his big beefy brawn. Right there. As Dom looked down onto the mess that he had splattered onto himself, it was easy to notice--easy to feel--how that cooled glob of his creamy jizz still clung to the still juicy firmness of his large nipple... like it was some kind of a naughty tease of sweet white glazing. Damn. There should've been a chuckle in there somewhere. But of course, Dom just had to let his free hand press on under the thick shelf of his obscenely bloated pec-breasts and let his own touch urge those stray sparks to crawl all throughout each juicy slab as he still tried to breathe it all out. Though still, as his thumb finally made that firm swipe to scoop up the still gooey clump and inevitably goad that more deliberate spark all over his chest, all that the mighty muscle-alpha could do was breathe out another firm snort while his eyes fluttered for just a damn bit. Fuck. Even beyond sexual gratification, the Hale alpha's juicy gumdrop nipples had always been so dangerously sensitive--so what more during it such an indulgence? Or after it all too? Dom even felt his big fat meaty muscle-alpha cock twitch--especially in its half-flaccid state where its splay along his thunderous muscle thigh only made it look even more obscene... as if that fat bead of cum that still oozed out wasn't already doing the damn job. Dom growled then--against his thumb too as he suckled at the rich and potent taste of his creamy seed. "Damn little shithead--to think I let you play with my big beefy muscle tits..." Dom chuckled low as he shook his head--and with those juicy swells of his pec-breasts rolling on for another sigh, the old wolf just had to come back for seconds as he let his index finger swipe around his puffy areola and right back into the very nub that crowed the heaving mounds of his full and round breasts--all to rub more of those stray clumps right into his finger. And with how those equally stray sparks easily burst in their tease as pleasure was just inevitable at that point, Dom felt that slight twinge of tightness that urged yet another small drop of his sweet breastmilk to bead out of his nipple. Fuck. Dom suckled on his index finger this time as he shook his head once more. "Got your damn greedy mouth nursing my big beefy alpha muscle-pecs too until you got me giving up my fucking secret muscle tit milk--" Dom's words rolled in a low hum as he let himself breathe in once more for a heave--a little more deliberate like he was fucking squaring up. He couldn't help it--not when he could see how Aidan's own beefy brawn swelled up for that slow tense while his pretty blue eyes began to falter in their fire just a little. "--s-sir, I..." Dom continued to keep his gaze weighed onto the other as he watched that young bull shift back more into that meekness--even if he had to steal a gentle swipe of his tongue to lick the cum off of his lips. And the way that bottom lip looked even more sweet and plump when he bit down on it as if he tried to keep to himself even more was all the more a spark of a tease from within the mighty Hale muscle-alpha's returning authority. Damn right. The same fucking guy who had been bold enough to pull it off--but now he's getting all shy with his pretty face wrought in his own brand of adorable fluster. All the more, that nagging taunt from within the alpha's pride was easier to push against--though it wasn't like Dom was really taking it seriously, after all. It was a fucking need. It was fucking indulgence. There could even be a case that can be built around the fact that Dom was the one who started it by parading his big fat beefy muscle ass as the best thing that he could do for dignity was a damn jockstrap--not to mention that he was the also one who tried to flash that tight hot muscle pucker of his when he was getting the young bull his damn beer. Aidan was just the lucky bastard that Dom thought was worthy enough to play with him and the creeping haunt of secret desires, really--worthy enough to savor and explore all of his big beefy mighty muscle-alpha body. And to that end, he did. Dom just loved how he looked as he continued to mess with him. "Shit. I even got you guzzling down on my fucking creamy jizz..." Dom's words came as an even yet low hum that was punctuated with a groan as he pushed himself off of the couch to get back on his damn feet. To stand back up. His words even served as a cue from how his big beefy pec-breasts swayed before they swell as Dom straightened back up to his glorious height and even more glorious breadth. And with his fat meaty muscle-alpha cock still out of its cotton prison, of course the girthy and thick length of the old wolf's proud juicy fuck meat just had to sway and bounce between his massive thighs like the heavy equipment that it is--so much so that even in its flaccid state, it still looked and felt like it was just fucking packed. And that juicy dollop of cum that had beaded out of Dom's piss slit finally drooled out in a long string of its slimy creaminess before the next weighty sway of that fat cock meat had it splatter down onto the hardwood floor--the same floor that creaked under the press of his large feet. "But you just had to take advantage of me right when I was all ripe for it, didn't you? Fucking bastard--" Dom tilted his head while he held gestured at Aidan slightly with his finger as if a command for the young bull to stand back up. At least, as Aidan's sweet all-American features softened into almost an attempt to plead, Dom didn't even have to repeat himself--even more as the floors continued to creak from how he took a step forward onto the other. Of course, the huge juicy mounds of Dom's big beefy pec-breasts just had to jiggle for that too before they jostled into a tight bounce from how he breathed out another chuckle. Aidan stood up. Aidan tensed up. Still, he got his arms flexed on his sides as he clenched his fists--though all the same, Dom couldn't really see the young bull rearing for a brawl. Damn right. It was true, anyway. The sweet young muscle bull truly was only guilty of getting a little carried away in their secret naughty playtime. "--you just had to stick that naughty finger of yours right inside where they don't belong..." "I--I just wanted to make you f-feel good, s-sir--I liked how it felt when Derek--" Oh. Dom raised his brow at the drop of the name--all while he remained adamant in the playful loom of his threat as Aidan balked from it even more as he took a slight step back. And just like before, the obscene and swollen bounty of their full and heavy muscle pec-breasts had come under the threat of collision once again--especially when Dom let the thrill of this last minute game goad his beefy muscle tits to rise once more into a push for his low sigh. Fucking hell. So they did fool around. Now the imposing muscle-alpha just couldn't help but wonder if his darling son got the darling young bull's sweet little muscle cherry. He wondered if he made Aidan moan like a damn bitch. Aidan wasn't wrong, after all. With another step that Dom took, what sparks still crawled down along his heaving brawn still managed to find that little spot between the flex and bounce of his beach-ball sized muscle ass--and all the more, the muscle-alpha's tight little muscle pucker twitched. Tingled. For a moment Dom thought about his secret toy hidden deep within one of his dressers. One of Peter's gifts. Fuck--Dom breathed in. His tight knot of a hole tightened. His cock twitched. Then came a snarl. Then a moan just spilled out along with a hard crash against the wall right by the door frame. "S--sir!" Aidan cried out--but all at once, the sound was cut off into a sharp gasp with how Dom forced another firm shove against the young bull to keep him pressed face-first against the wall as it was more than enough to practically have those big juicy pec-breasts of his to smash and squish against the hard surface and smother whatever sound that still tried to spill out. And with how Aidan tried to push himself off, it was just inevitable that he offered such a damn sweet sight of him pushing his big fat denim-clad muscle ass out first like he was some cheap blond bimbo trying to peddle himself to the johns with a nice wag of his juicy goods. It didn't fucking help that those pants looked like they were poured onto him as well--especially with how the young bull's back was even fucking arched for it. Those beach-ball sized cheeks were just fully emphasized and practically showed themselves off in their own individual juiciness with how that middle seam just ran cleanly and clearly very deep in between each ridiculously juicy globe. No fucking wonder why Derek would've easily munched and fucked the hell out of that big fat treasure box. Fuck. And sure enough, before Aidan could even fully ease away, Dom's own gigantic brawn was already pressed against him as his own huge beefy muscle breasts heaved against that wide back with how he breathed low against his young bull's ear. His large paws were just as quick to work too--just as quick to grope. Both of them did share the same curse of having such big juicy bodies anyway. Big beefy muscle bitches. Really. Grabbing one of Aidan's round and heavy muscle tits was merely a simple reach around--just like how Dom's other hand made a quick grab for the young bull's obscenely packed and throbbing bulge between those big meaty thunder thighs of his. And right then, as Dom goaded out a soft groan from the struggling muscle mountain of a bull stud that bucked against him--and no thanks to how he had so easily slotted his still proudly hauled out muscle-alpha cock right in between the juicy squeeze of those ass cheeks--the old wolf just easily accepted what rush that coursed through him. Fuck. Another snarl. Damn right. "Now it's my fucking turn to make you fucking feel good." Dom growled as his strong hands began to knead the bulging goods that they had tried to grab onto as much as they could. At the very least, as Dom had expected from how Aidan's juicy pec-breast just felt so deliciously soft and firm and beefy all at the same time--and even more against the firm groping of his hand--it didn't take much for Aidan to finally breathe out that sweet studly moan of his while the rest of his mighty brawn squirmed underneath the looming weight that crowded onto him. "S--sir p--please!" No. Dom just offered a low growl of a chuckle as he continued to feel how Aidan's juicy muscle breast swelled and pushed its beefy fullness against the cup of his splayed hand--one that he so easily replied with a firm knead to make sure that the young bull could feel that he was truly being felt up. Teased. Molested. With how it surely goaded the sensations to burst from within Aidan's heaving muscle tit, Dom was all the more intent to meet his juicy muscle jock of a lover halfway with how he just pressed his burgeoning brawn firmly against the other and made sure that he could feel all those squirming muscles just rub against his own heaving body. Dom was all the more intent that there was no escape for the fire that was still burning within his young bull--even more as he finally gave that denim-clad bulge that firm gliding squeeze to stimulate some semblance of a pump. "W--wait h--hah!" Aidan moaned as he threw his head back. Dom just chuckled as he reveled at the moment that the young bull's body shuddered hard against him. Damn right. And with Aidan's neck stretched as he tilted his head aside to find a spot to break free and breathe, the old wolf was just as quick to return the favor that Aidan had once given him by burying his face against that thick neck and further goad the rushing sparks within him with yet another tease to make sure he was fucking drowning under the rush of it all. "A--ah h--ah!" There it was. A sure moan. A sure buck. Dom merely growled against the tender skin while he made sure he found the pace that Aidan was trying to sink into. That where his chest swelled as he tried to rise above, Dom was quick to pinch that large nipple that he could feel push against the tight fabric. And from where he tried to roll and buck, Dom was just as quick to grind the menacing thickness of his alpha cock right in between those cheeks and force Aidan's crotch to meet the firm knead of his cupping grasp. "H--h--oh g-god!" Aidan was left with no other choice but to cry out--though Dom was just as quick to catch that too as he continued to let his lips ravish the smooth flesh of Aidan's neck before he nipped along his jaw to make sure that that damn moan fizzled out into a hapless whimper. And all the more, Aidan heaved. Dom just dug his fingers hard into the fleshy swell of the young bull's big juicy pec-breast before that expected buck was met with an equal squeeze that it had easily throbbed against--throbbed more against. Dom could only let his warm chuckle melt against Aidan's neck as every moment that the young bull had come under the torture of his touch was a moment closer to that peak that Dom was intent to milk out. Inevitable. Inescapable. All of it was still there, after all. The scent of their sensual rigors--the scent of their claiming musk... --the young bull's still thrumming need. His still coiling heat. "Maybe if you asked daddy if he wanted his tight little muscle pucker to be finger fucked, maybe I would've asked for your permission right now--" Dom practically growled the words through Aidan's ear before he let his teeth graze along the crook of it while he took to the thrill of hearing the poor stud's attempt for words just melt into his sweeter brays. Fucking young bull indeed. The old wolf just felt his beefy muscle breast swell against the flex of Aidan's back as he chuckled. Or a cow. Dom squeezed that big beefy muscle breast once more. Close enough. Either way, the mighty Hale alpha just knew that Aidan just needed to be milked. And with his hand clamping down on that heavy bulge that throbbed harder against his touch, the old wolf's lips just hummed in delight against that flustered skin from the mere sensation of that betrayal that came from the more eager buck of Aidan's hips. Somewhere in there was a damn plea. Or just a fucking moan. But as those sweet sounds came from how Aidan's own juicy muscle breasts rose and heaved as he tried to push through the sensations that kept on drowning him, Dom was right there with him to make sure that his big beefy muscle bitch of a body was properly corralled into the peak that Dom was driving the both them on to. Inevitable. Inescapable. "F--fuck s-sir I'm--" I'm close? I'm gonna cum? I'm gonna fucking burst? Dom didn't even need those words to complete themselves--not when he was fucking calling the shots anyway. And all the more, the mighty muscle-alpha growled against Aidan's neck as he succumbed to the pleasures that he was feeling just as much as their bodies practically writhed and heaved against each others' encumbering beefiness--as if they had found themselves slotted perfectly onto each other just like they had before. Dom could at least speak for himself on that end as he felt the throb of his cock slide firmer against the seam that he could almost feel the very heat of that tight muscle hole that was just merely one layer away from his burgeoning claim. Fuck. It wasn't even the damn first time--but it certainly won't be the last. Soon enough. Dom just growled then as his hands squeezed Aidan's juicy pec-breast and his equally juicy cock in greater tightness as if to preemptively claim the promise of such pleasure that would be all for him to claim for later on. That was the point anyway. That through the dizzying lust that both of them had began to sink further into through their ragged heaves and even more impatient bucks, Dom just continued this first claim that he could get as he rolled his hips back a little farther--enough to goad a soft hiss from him as they both pushed their asses back just enough that Dom's own beach-ball muscle ass parted just enough that such naughty tickling breeze found its way back into the shy twitch of the muscle-alpha's tight hot balloon-knot of a pucker. Any creep would be so lucky--and all the more they could try and sneak that same exploit that Aidan just pulled out not too long ago. Dom just growled as his need barged through that sliver of a haunt. And all at once, the mighty muscle-alpha slammed his cock right back into the squeeze of those denim-clad cheeks and even strengthened his claim with how his easing ramrod cock began to leave small streaks and spots of his generous precum in its wake. Right there. Once more, Aidan moaned--once more, he bucked. And Dom was just compelled to taste more of Aidan when he felt that young beefy muscle bull just grow taut against his own body in the name of any semblance of release that he could cry out to. That with how Aidan's huge beefy pec-breasts bounced and swelled as another moan finally spilled past his pretty lips, Dom leaned into the stretch of that thick neck as his own lips found their way higher along that scruffy jaw. Higher still. Dom felt that warm breath so close to him--and all he could do was stake his claim right in there too with a firm kiss that he finally met halfway. Somewhere in there was a moan. Somewhere in Dom was a moan as the old wolf let it spill into his mouth in full as Aidan just lost himself in the storm. And just as the sweet sparks of it easily sunk into the swells of Dom's own massive muscle breasts, his hunger just struck him with their own demand as he palmed and squeezed that bulge like it was his own. Right there. They moaned. They bucked. And with one last thrust of his cock deep in between Aidan's big fat ass, it drove the young bull's hips to thrust forward firmly enough against that strong grab to finally meet that final jolt of pressure that he needed to just fucking blow. Somewhere in there was a moan. And another. Over and over. That with how Aidan's own body finally seized into that flood of release. Dom just held him tight and held him close as felt that mountainous brawn of his just convulse against his hard body. It really didn't take long--especially so as Aidan had been keeping that tight ball of his need for far too long. And with how Dom gave that pulsing bulge a firm squeeze, he easily milked out a spill of a shaky gasp from the heaving bull as his own creamy burst quickly soaked into his pants in their obscene and potent generosity. Dom could even feel it. Every hard pulse was an equally hard spurt of slimy gooey cum that just splattered inside the confines of the tight jeans that Aidan wore. He was practically making a huge mess of himself--and Dom made sure that it remained so with how he began to knead that crotch and have Aidan surrender more of it as he remained all too helpless within the mighty muscle-alpha's mighty embrace. "S--sir! G--gn--oh god--" Aidan groaned. His voice was clearly thick with the cloy of shame. "I know--I know..." Dom teased the way he feigned the low growl of that fatherly assurance as he kept his hold firm around Aidan--and even more his grasp against his bulge as he knew damn well the young bull isn't out of the damn woods just yet. He still pulsed. Throbbed. And with how Dom could almost taste that shame roll through another heave of a helpless moan that spilled out of Aidan's lips, the Hale muscle-alpha just kept a tighter squeeze to make sure that he milked every last bit of that damn climax--even to the point of forcing the young bull's creamy surrender to actually completely seep through the fabric and trickle along his fingers like he was putting a pressure on a drenched sponge. Fuck yeah. The heaving muscle-alpha continued the tease with another chuckle--especially with how easily he could feel the other continue on to buck into the grasp of Dom's now cum-drenched hand despite how mercy finally came with the ebb of that cursed rush. "See? This is why you don't mess with daddy..." the old wolf finally hummed as he savored the sounds of Aidan's own labored groans while his big beefy body continued to heave and shudder through the sparks that still remained--and the spurts that kept on with their last. "I--hnuuh... f--fuck... s-sir..." Aidan could barely form his words as his body just felt slack and heavy from the all-consuming peak of his pleasure. And as he continued to try and catch his breath, Dom still gave that crotch a squeeze to milk out those weak and shy whimpers this time around. Shame. Dom could even feel how Aidan tried to shift his hips away as if he meant to try and keep the sticky and slimy cling of his soiled pants from trying to soak more of what creamy aftermath that still tried to dribble out of his softening cock. "Now look at you--making such a big mess..." Dom hummed before he let his lips curl for a smile while pressed against Aidan's neck. And with how Aidan continued to breathe through it in the rise of his ragged sighs, the old wolf could easily feel that pulse just throb in the rush of the fading high. At the very least, the muscle-alpha wasn't as forcible as before even if his embrace still remained--not that there was reason for Aidan to fear anyway as Dom was just as quick to reassure his gentler claim with an even softer kiss along the young bull's neck--all while he let his hand press flat against the swell of the juicy muscle breast that he had been kneading hard and firm not too long ago. "--and I can't, in good conscience, have you walking around out there with a damn mess like this..." Another squeeze against Aidan's crotch. More of that warm thick cum soaked through the fabric--even enough for some to ooze between Dom's fingers. Of course Aidan whimpered. He was so easily reminded of such a naughty mess, after all. And that was the point. "But hey... at least we sized each other up now, didn't we?" Dom words melted along Aidan's neck and once more, the old wolf felt how Aidan's neck tensed and gave way for another raspy groan that continued to roll with how the old wolf continued to slowly and gently massage the young bull's trembling pec-breasts. And with Dom feeling some new kind of easy warmth grow within the swell of his own beefy muscle tits, his own heave of a sigh grew just as gentle too while he tried to hold Aidan closer against him and even feel the younger bull lean back against the mountainous breadth of his beefy body. "--and I'd reckon that you'd end up real cramped up there in Derek's room..." Dom shifted a little bit this time as he groaned once more and let his lips move a little further on until he nuzzled the back of Aidan's head and let his kiss settle right there at the peak of his nape. And with how it goaded Aidan to shudder and gasp rather predictably from how easily those sparks melted straight down along his spine, the mighty Hale muscle-alpha just continued to drag his kiss along the other side of Aidan's neck to once more pull his fine young bull into the lull of their bodies that were all pressed and kept tight. "But my room, however--that's big enough for the two of us..." Dom welcomed the feeling of their shifting weights--especially with how Aidan swayed to lean against his other side and had his big beefy muscle tits just spill and jostle within the cupping grasp of the old wolf's hand. And sure enough, that juicy and sinful sensation was enough for Dom to steal a squeeze--to let his thumb circle over that nipple once more as if he didn't already torment it with his prior tugs and pinches. And it was easy for Dom to feel Aidan shudder then as he was instantly reminded of the nerves that reawakened themselves through such a touch as his thumb continued to circle over that sensitive nipple underneath that shirt that was all soaked in sweat and cum. Shit. Dom smirked. The scent of sensual rigors. The scent of claiming musk. The scent of fucking cum. All right there. A fucking cloy that still remained--and will remain as Dom was already thinking about the other things that they could do now that they had broken the ice in the best way possible. "After all, this old man still got a lot to teach you--especially if we're gonna have you in our little family here, yeah?" Dom could only hum on then. And with his hands being a little merciful, he just tried to stake his claim further onto his young bull as he kneaded Aidan's swollen pec-tits together--with his other hand practically slathering Aidan's own cum right onto his heaving breast that offered a heavy swell in turn. "You like that, son?" Once more, their voices were low. Once more they sounded like they were sharing secrets just like they shared the heat of their heaving bodies. "Y-yes... yes sir." That word. Dom hummed softly before his fingers both stalked Aidan's still hard nipples even if they were under the thin stretch of his damn shirt. And with how they so shamelessly pushed through, Dom doesn't even need to look down. His fingers found those juicy nubs just fine and gave them a little tug enough to make the heaving muscle bull groan in thrumming delight. Fuck yeah. Big beefy muscle tit bitch--Dom's big beefy muscle tit bitch. And that was just the damn tip of the iceberg. "I've been meaning to ask you to call me Dom from now on... you being my son's friend and all--though I must say I do love it when you call me sir..." Dom hummed. Then he throbbed as both of their bodies heaved in tune of their own breathing. Winded? Spent? It was easily debatable as Dom was just too damn horny for his own good. The fire still crackled, after all. The night had just begun. "--makes you sound like a real good boy for me..." Fuck. Fuck yeah. "--are you gonna be my good boy, Aidan?" Dom gave those big juicy tits another squeeze--and he let his fat cock throb in between the squeeze of his muscle-bull's big fat muscle ass. "Y--yes! Yes, I--I'll be good!" Aidan moaned almost breathlessly as he found himself leaning back--all while he tried to tilt his head to turn to Dom and convince him of it. "And I'll be good, what?" Dom hummed. His lips pressed onto the corner of Aidan's parted lips and savored the feeling of how that gasp so gently escaped. "Yes I--I'll be g-good, sir..." Dom chuckled. "Damn right."

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Wed, 11 Sep 2024 00:24:09 +0800 From: kol zodd &lt;zoddikenn@gmail.com&gt; Subject: Late Night Beef Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. And while the characters of the story are not canon characters, they are still based off of copyrighted media. I do not own the rights to Teen Wolf and this work is not a reflection and/or a representation of the show's thoughts and viewpoints. This also applies to the actors/celebrities mentioned as they are merely for reference purposes only. This body of work is not representative of their thoughts and viewpoints and sexuality. Author's notes: Dominic Hale (Joe Manganiello) and Aidan Smith (Kellan Lutz) are non-canon characters and their respective fan casting is just for fantasy purposes only. Feel free to continue reading with them in mind, or just think of anyone else who fits your fancy! -------------------- Late Night Beef -- To be fair, Derek had been getting himself into all sorts of trouble lately--just like his old man and his stubborn uncle, if Dominic Hale was being honest. That while there was a foreign tinge to the scent that seeped into the air the moment the muscle-bound alpha patriarch walked out of the bathroom, what flex of a meaty hitch that the beefy alpha wolf commanded onto the glistening swell of the twin mounds of his smooth juicy pec-breasts easily confirmed the familiar aspect of that same scent. And with his ruggedly handsome features wincing even more for a deeper sniff, the already juicy bulk of those fleshy muscle tits only rolled into a slower and more abundant swell and spill before he nodded on and turned towards the stairs. The soft clink of the keys was not lost on him either--though the same could not be said to how the simple motion of sauntering along the hallway was more than enough to urge that shy drop of water to trickle along the proud roundness of his smooth muscle breast... and down to the edge of his large areola. Then again, maybe it was because it was yet to reach the equally proud pertness of his vulnerable gum-drop nipple that only hardened more against the draft of the cold night air. Derek dropping by was enough of a moment to focus on, after all--that and whatever made his pup decide to come down to their family home in the middle of the night instead of being cooped up in his loft downtown. And with Dom's mind primed to deal with one of the usual suspects in his house, he certainly put dignity by the wayside as it had been his normal way of things in his home--even when they're around. The Hale patriarch valued the comfort in his own home, after all--and their true nature as mighty beasts was an even more convenient excuse. And might sure did come easy. With a soft grunt, his already impressive bicep easily showed itself off into a swell the size of a massive boulder... even just from the slight curl and flex of his arm--all because Dominic needed his large hand to clasp at the corners of the towel that was clearly a little bit too small on him that it couldn't even fully wrap around his mighty hips and thighs. A little bit too low either. That as a small drop of water trickled down the hard cobbles of his tight abs from how he made his way down the stairs, the clear bead of moisture ended up disappearing into the small teasing peak of the slight tuft of his pubes before it could even reach the edge of the towel. And with how the near-skimpy fabric just hung on so lowly and so flimsily, it even flapped with every step that he took--so much so that the mighty tree-trunk mass of one of his thighs and half the fat cheek of his big beefy alpha muscle ass just flexed and bounced out to the open. The poor excuse of a towel was just simply a slave to his master's movement so to speak--and a miserable failure at that. Really--with the way the Hale muscle-alpha's massive brawn just seemed to sway heavily with his stride, it was enough to goad the meaty girth of his still flaccid cock to follow suit and bounce with him as well. The fat heavy length of his cock even bounced against the meaty heft of his thighs that it was more than enough to push the flap of the towel aside--and more than enough that most of that thick cockmeat just had to reveal itself underneath with a rather shameless, yet unassuming, peek all before keeping on with the firm yet vigorous sways as Dom marched on. "Don't tell me you got a girl pregnant or something--" the big beefy Hale patriarch was quick to tease as he finally made it to the landing. But with how his eyes were just as quick to find the form within the fire-lit glow of the living room, the foreign and familiar scent finally made itself known for all the wrong reasons. It wasn't Derek. "Oh--sh-shit! Mr. H--ale!?" It was one thing to watch someone jump from Dom's mere presence, but to see that beefy buxom bull practically have his whole body jostle from the sheer size of his swells and curves, it was quite a different treat despite how quickly it came about. It was easy to commit to memory, at least--big juicy tits like that... bouncing inside the tight confines of that white shirt that they had already thinned against all that bulging brawn... thin enough that the Hale muscle-alpha could almost discern that flustered flesh underneath it all... right up to those nubs that practically poked through the fabric that it almost hypnotized him within that sliver of a moment of shock. It wasn't Derek... but this friend of his had always been a sight for sore eyes. Always a welcome sight. And that night was no different. "Aidan." Dom's brows furrowed at the sudden turn of events--of the sudden realization that the new company in his home was more of a guest than the family that he had been so shamelessly comfortable to be around with. And with how they were both taken by surprise, the bigger and beefier Hale alpha, in turn, could only manage to curl his fingers for a tighter grip at those corners as it really was the only way to keep his dignity intact for the moment. There was no way to really tug the damn thing even more around his form more than how it was already all stretched in the first place. Even if he let his own body rise and grow taut from the slight rush of panic--even if his hard abs tightened up into that tiny cinch of his waist--there was no way for him to tug it that high too. There was no way for Dom to fit the damn thing around him and not let the fat knob of his cockhead poke out from underneath the towel. It was either the base of the meat or the knob of the head at this point. And the Hale muscle-alpha would honestly throw in the towel first before jumping through hoops in the name of properness. Literally. Sure enough, Dom just offered a nod then as he looked on to the man once more--especially with how Aidan's own panic at such an awkward situation had him scratching the back of his head. The beefy muscle-alpha had a first row seat to seeing just how impressive that bicep is when it bulged in a way that threatened that damn sleeve of his shirt--as if it wasn't already being tortured with how the blond stud's muscle tits just forced the whole thing to strain... and even more as he let out another sigh as if he was trying to breathe out the fluster that had now washed all over that ripe muscle brawn of his. But, whether or not that adorable flush came from embarrassment or from how Dom caught Aidan's gaze lingering a little longer past his navel... and along his peeking pubes, the Hale muscle-alpha wasn't all too sure. It was yet another question altogether. He just tried to hide a smirk then, just in time to meet the other's gaze as he began to talk. "Derek told me to meet him up here--told me where the keys are..." the bullish blond bombshell began to explain. Dom was just as quick to offer a nod in reply as if to acknowledge the other's words and his attempt to clarify before his free arm took its turn to flex this time around as Dom waved his hand to let it all go. It was alright. Sure, Hale patriarch didn't really cross paths with the young man on the regular, but he knew Aidan enough to extend their welcome to him... especially since that size was sure to leave quite the impression. Even that nervous chuckle got those fat muscle tits of his jostling like they were trying to bounce over the other--and even more as Aidan tried to temper himself with another sigh that only had the amber glow of the fireplace dance along and let the shadows kiss that impression of his large nipples that just won't quit. "Nah--any friend of my boy is family to me," Dom smiled as he took a step closer and had the fireplace and the sparse hall lights carve the dripping form of his beefy brawn in even greater definition--especially so as he was just as smooth and supple. In all fairness to him, his words and the grin that followed, were sincere. Of course, Dom loved the idea of Derek having friends of his own--friends of his own size, to boot. People that he can call his own. A pack. Though as Dom reached out to let his large paw affectionately squeeze that massive boulder of the other's shoulder, he'd argue that Aidan might even be a tad bigger than his son. And Derek's already quite the impressive Hale muscle stud himself. If that's not reason enough to have the beefy blond hunk before him be a perfect fit for their pack, then Dom didn't know what is. Though Aidan's size against Dominic or Peter? Well shit. The Hale muscle-alpha just kept on with his welcoming smirk. Both him and Derek could try--but that's just about it. "--he'll just have to explain himself later about leaving you alone," Dom then continued as his hand clasped tighter--enough to nudge that body as their closer proximity served as proof to his claim with how the mighty patriarch's naked form practically imposed itself onto the other even when Aidan was already built like a bonafide muscle-god. And the two of them against the living room? The space was immediately dwarfed to say the least--and even more as Dom let his hand slide up to the man's traps and even further too so he could clap his large hand against that strong back while he felt Aidan tense up and let his broad busty tits rise up a bit more. Needless to say, the sheer size of both of their beefy muscle pec-breasts were enough to close the gap between them as they grazed just slightly--only for them to nudge firmer even more against each other as Aidan let out another nervous chuckle that they shared just between the two of them. "A-ah it's no worries, s-sir--I was the one who suggested meeting him here since Derek tried to sniff down a lead. He was the one who told me where the keys were and told me we can spend the night here to mull things over. Said you got books here," Aidan assured. And the way he turned towards Dom was all the more reason for their meaty muscle breasts to continue on with the contact--so much so that that stray droplet that clung on to Dom's breast finally trickled down onto his large nipple, before disappearing into the thinning fabric of the younger man's shirt. Dom could only keep his groan somewhere within his throat--unsure if that slight tickle on his juicy sensitive nipple was from the water or from how the tip grazed over the coarse fabric. Either way, Aidan probably took it as some kind of disapproval that he just had to stumble out more of his defense--looking all adorable being all flustered like that. " He assumed that--" "--I wouldn't be home?" Dom raised a brow. But his face was quick to soften more into curiosity since Derek wasn't exactly wrong--and a smirk still enough to tease as the poor stud just looked cute and cuddly being all tense like that. "Fair enough--my business outside town wrapped up earlier than expected. So here I am. Here we are." With a chuckle, it was Dom's turn to force his beefy muscle pecs into a hitch before his wide shoulders rolled out into a shrug. "You good with my company in the meantime?" Dom's smirk grew bigger as he continued to keep his eyes on his son's beefy friend. "--I mean, this is your house, sir..." "And you're my guest... and I've already spooked you enough with me walking into the scene all naked as day--" Dom let out a deeper and heartier chuckle as he eased away from the other with another clap at Aidan's shoulder and had the growing distance be enough for the juicy slabs of his beefy muscle breasts to heave on for a swell and a bounce while he laxly held out his free arm in some attempt to jokingly show himself off--especially in the tempting glisten of his wet, naked, glory. "Least that I could do is to get myself a pair of underwear, at least..." he continued on to chuckle as his eyes were quick to dart beyond Aidan and right onto one of the couches where he spotted the balled-up clump of white fabric. Once more, Dominic grazed against the tight-packed swell of those bombshell muscle pec-tits with the side of his massive arm as he walked past the other to make a bee-line for his attempt at salvation. "Like I said, sir. It's your home--" Aidan chuckled. Dom was quick to spy how those beefy twins hitched once more as he looked over his shoulder before finally swiping the damn thing from the corner of the couch. "--besides, I've had my fair share of sweaty gym locker rooms with other guys. " Well, he's not wrong. The Hale muscle-alpha kept that smirk to himself as he turned around to face the other guy once again with a more amused nod--and once again just in time to watch that massive bicep swell up with how Aidan rubbed the back of his thick nape while he showed of his boyish dimples through his smile. Sweet little thing, he is--and even sweeter with how the motion pulled at his shirt just a bit to rise up and show a bit of that skin above the waistband of his jeans. And with their conversation being an easy enough excuse to keep the weight of his gaze on the young stud, Dom surely did take the opportunity to further tease his darling guest. "Well, you've got a point there son--" Dominic nodded. And without missing a beat, he tossed the towel onto the couch as he needed both hands to tug and stretch his damn underwear so he could properly squeeze himself in it. Sure enough, that fat meaty alpha cock of his swung heavily from the way he leaned down to hold the underwear low enough to put one foot in then the other--just like how his own beefy muscle tits rolled into their round fullness from how they swelled down. And with the way the girthy heft of his juicy fuck meat and the equally weighty hang of his balls practically jostled from one thunderous muscle thigh to the other as the weight shifted aside, Dom practically exonerated himself from any kind of guilt wrought from mischief. It was simply inevitable--just like how his cock plopped on forwards with how he began to pull his underwear up before the mountainous brawn of the mighty alpha finally heaved for that upwards pull. His big beefy pec-breasts just bloated on more from the way his massive arms flexed and twisted--and even more as he reached down between his legs to cup his goods while his other hand just had to keep that waistband at bay to keep enough space to pack it all in. Of course that was a problem. His large hand could barely grab his cock and balls in full and even that fat knob of his cockhead practically peeked out of his grasp like a slippery eel all throughout the endeavor. What more could a skimpy pouch do, really? Dom even bucked just so he can scoop his crotch into the thing. And with whatever attempt he could still do, the big bad muscle wolf finally let it go and grabbed at the pouch of his jockstrap for that last minute adjustment to make them settle inside the already strained cup of cotton that was just as much of a failure as his meaty paw. If it wasn't for the low lighting, anyone could easily spy the hint of Dom's heavy balls peeking out the sides just a bit. It was one of those fashionable jocks too. Dom reached behind to tuck his fingers under the ass straps to straighten them out along the sides of his beach-ball ass globes--and all the more, the obscene heft of his cock just simply pushed against the stretch of the material that tried to cup his bits for dear life. Even in the shadows--especially the shadows--the skimpy jock was sculpted by the soft lights in such a way that the curled length of that thick flesh and that ridge along the edge of the juicy knob of a cockhead was just so obvious. And with how the proud juicy bulge practically pulled against the waistband, that cheekily designed cutout on top edge of the pouch stretched just a bit more along that girth--enough to let the meaty root of his cock to just peek out so shamelessly like the edge of his heavy balls. "And since we're both just dudes here, why not a couple of beers, right?" Dom continued on with another chuckle and let his large paw nudge his meat-packed pouch almost absent-mindedly as he walked past Aidan. He didn't give him a chance to refuse, but he did give Aidan a chance to see the rest of him too as he let the guy watch him walk away towards the kitchen. From the massive expanse of that wide back, and down to the tight cinch of his waist, and the way the smooth globes of his big fat gigantic muscle ass just spilled out so obscenely from the straps that tried their best to hold on for dear life just as much, all of the Hale patriarch was just downright sinful. Dom was just all beef and curves--a body that just practically oozed sensual might. Juicy. Ripe. The beefy Hale muscle-alpha had always been proud to show himself off to those who deserved it--and even more as he opened the fridge and looked over his shoulder. "You like em' ice cold?" Dom called out. Again, he didn't really wait for Aidan to speak to him--and even still, it wasn't at all malicious. Salacious? More like. Dominic was more focused on making sure that Aidan's eyes were on him. So when he saw that hint of his sweet blond hair peeking around the edge of the doorway, the heavyweight muscle wolf was already reaching inside the fridge. Bent over. Ass out. And with Dom reaching deeper and all the way back for the coldest bottle, he just had to push them beefy globes out even more--enough that he could feel them part just a little and feel that creeping tickle of vulnerability even from such a little flash of his smooth tight muscle-alpha pucker. Fuck. Dom licked his lips as he waited for that reply. "Can't have it any other way," the buxom jock replied promptly. His voice, a little less tense. Dom straightened back up to his imposing height and breadth and sauntered on towards the island counter with an easy bounce to his beefy brawn before he set their bottles down with a soft clink. He took an opener out from one of the drawers and once again, just from merely holding everything in place and that minimal effort needed to pop that cap out, his powerful arms were quick to flex once more into massive boulders that were even enough to further urge his bloated muscle tits to rise--almost to a spill. No wonder that bottle cap popped off with a clink and a hiss and hit him squarely on his juicy gumdrop nipple: an icy graze enough to jolt him into a slight jerk--all before he gave the pert nub a firm graze of his thumb as if to quickly rub the sensation off of him. Even a damn bottle cap was trying to cop a feel--and it's easy to blame the fact that the fat nubs that crowned his juicy muscle tits were already hard from the cold air that they had turned into such easy targets. Fuck. Dom just played it off cool and proceeded to uncap that other bottle before walking back up to his guest and held it up to him as an offering. "No shit. You like it cold in the throat too--" Dominic just couldn't help but tease the guy--though he quickly continued to poke on with a little more playfulness with that easy smirk under that beard and another encouraging nod. "See? We're already bonding. I ain't that bad--and you're being a good boy." Another nod came as he raised his own bottle slightly as acknowledgement before walking back into the comfort of the living room. That pause wasn't lost on him. And with how the night seemed to be rolling on, the Hale patriarch was just a little more eager and curious to how everything could continue to unfold. Aidan being appreciative was a start. Dom kept his eye on him as the younger muscle bull took a swig of his beer with an even more appreciative and welcoming swell of his beefy pec-breasts. Dom, in turn, plopped down onto the couch with yet another firm bounce from his bulging tits as he purely expected the other to follow suit. He even nodded to the side of the couch for good measure too. And sure enough, with those cute dimples flashing once more with the smile that had now come a little easier, Aidan let out a soft grunt as his own heaving mass sank down onto the cushions with a slow eke. The way his beefy muscle breasts jiggled just as easily too was yet another welcome sight for Dom to drink in--even more as that tight shirt had been straining so hard against those slabs that the shirt practically kept them hoisted up. Heat began to tease Dom further from the edges of his mind. And as he took another swig from his own bottle to welcome the cloy of comfort, he settled back even more and even let his meaty thighs splay open like he literally owned the place--that and to offer the vision of himself to his guest even more since he did admit he was all fine and dandy with it. "I guess if Derek's gonna take a while, might as well..." Aidan replied as he finally relented and helped himself with a heartier swig as well, much to Dom's delight--all while he let his eyes rake onto all that heaving brawn with a welcome warmth in his gaze as that gulp led into another swell. After all, the more the beefy muscle-alpha watched the pretty young stud, the more that the loneliness in him reached out to that heat that was already blazing trails deep with the rise of his own bloated muscle tits that glowed all the more under the dancing light of the fire--even enough to put a little shine on to the rich sun-kissed puffiness of his areolas that seemed to stretch with the swell as if his gum-drop nipples weren't already demanding attention from how they pushed out more too. Fuck. Dom licked his lips to welcome another sip. And it certainly didn't help that the heat fought against the cold air that seemed to prickle so gently along every smooth and perfectly hewn inch of his big beefy body that was already rendered naked and exposed--and with how he was practically just squeezed into that skimpy jockstrap, that subtle sensation was just simply crawling all over his ripe heaving brawn. Dom's proud broad chest rose on once more--even more from another tilt of the bottle that had him gulping in more than half of his beer. Besides, it was all the more a goad for Aidan to just keep on with his drink too and let himself sink further into the comfort of Dom's home. "That's right. You should relax. I already got you to drink--so I can't, in good conscience, let you drive through the night." The Hale patriarch teased as he held both of his hands up in surrender to the little predicament that just simply sprung up the moment he saw Aidan finally drink just as much of his beer if not more. And with Dom's eyes already raking on all that beef before him, he couldn't help but feel his lip tug for a smirk as he watched Aidan take an adorable pause upon the realization that he walked into Dom's cheeky trap--that and the boyish smile that followed when he knew he just got got. "Aw--shit, sir." Aidan's beefy tits jerked into a jiggle from his own chuckle. Where Derek got his friend from, Dom surely wanted to know--and if there's more of them. "Hey, this place ain't shit, at least. And I insist you stay--and feel right at home. Just kick back and relax, son." Dom gestured towards the guy's feet with his own encouragement--which Aidan was open to follow. And while Aidan heaved on another grunt as he leaned forward to reach down and undo his laces with his meaty muscle tits practically getting squeezed against his thighs from such a simple act, Dom let the ripe sight taunt at him even more as he let his large hands move up along his own nape and squeeze at the thick bands of muscles right there. Get rid of that tightness, to say the least. And with his proud brawn easily outsizing the younger bull, his arms just ballooned into ridiculous proportions as the cords and bulges hardened and swelled and continued the display of their sheer power with how they led down onto the alpha's hairy pits and the mighty spread of his lats. He let his spine tighten then. He arched out. All at once his smooth muscle-bound physique grew taut while his proud meaty chest pushed out. It became easier for the breeze to crawl along those enormous slabs of pec meat then--and it was Dom's cue to bring his hands back down towards the hefty swell of his big beefy muscle-alpha tits. That contact was enough to have him tighten up more and have his hard abs ripple--and to have him push his tits out more and have them spill out obscenely. And with his warm touch taming that cool tingle that kept their soft kisses along the smooth supple fullness of his big beefy alpha muscle breasts, Dom's lips parted for a soundless sigh that he couldn't help but indulge into--especially with how he let his thumbs finally graze along the edge of his large puffy areolas that he just had to trace around in circles. Shit. The mighty Hale patriarch felt that shudder come in and had him surrender into a buck of his hips as the awakened nerves of his dangerously sensitive nipples were quick to punish him for trying to steal a little moment for himself. Fuck. Yeah. Dom couldn't fucking help it. His eyes darted aside to see Aidan was still kicking at his shoes. And right then, the heaving muscle-alpha just needed to let his fingers pinch the pert prize of his juicy nubs and feel that pleasure just creep in a soft jolt straight towards his fat jock-clad dad cock. His jaws clenched. But at least he had managed to keep that moan in. Though in his defense, while loneliness and that heat was easy to blame, Dom wasn't really scrounging the bottom of the barrel in the name of intimate release--nor did they come too far in between. Sometimes, sure--and sure enough it was fucking frustrating. But for the most part, the Hale patriarch was just too damn horny all the time. Maybe it was in his nature of being an alpha. Always in heat. Always ready to rut. Just too damn virile for his own good. It even got him into trouble more times that he'd care to admit. That as Dom tried to risk another tease as he tugged at his large gumdrop nipples and forced that moan to quickly rise up, the beefy alpha just had to bite down his lip to keep it in once more--that and the memory that came with it. He couldn't count the times he had been reckless--out there snooping around... saving the world. Helping the pack. Peter. His darling pup. But all the while he didn't mind his state of dress--or lack thereof. They were shifters, after all. Mighty beasts. If not fully naked, something was bound to rip. Something was bound to spill. Burst. Dom couldn't count the moments where he'd been out and about and completely clueless about how his juicy nipples had slipped out of his tank top. Dominic would only realize his naughty vulnerability when some fucking pervert had taken the opportunity to exploit the moment--and it would've been too late for the proud wolf. His beefy muscle-alpha body would've been enslaved then as it had always been so damn easy to tame him by his sensitive nipples. Shit. Dom forced his low growl back down his throat in a thick swallow. And right before Aidan could catch him feeling himself up for feeling so damn horny, the wolf was already keeping the heat in check with a gulp from his beer and a slight labor of his sigh through it all. Guilt remained, albeit kept within his smirk. And to think that he wasn't the only one cursed with it. Peter could be quite the slut too when his own big beefy tits gets perved on. It's just too bad his sweet juicy brother wasn't around for fucking playtime. Aidan is though. Dom let his smirk hold as he watched the other plop back with another swig of his own beer. Bare feet on the coffee table. All comfy. "There's fucking plenty of room too--" Dom continued with a nod--and a nod towards the rooms above them. "It's not like you're new to the place either. All this house and just the two of us--" Dom let those words hang a little bit longer as he tried to ease everything into it--even more as he watched Aidan lick his lips after his finishing swig. Plump lips. All red. Sweet. Dom swirled his own bottle to scoop the remnants of that last gulp for himself, but the excitement that he was trying to keep in must've gotten the best of him as he tilted the bottle enough to have half of it dribble out his lip and down his chin. And sure enough, as the old wolf's big beefy pec-breasts just shamelessly pushed out in their obscene swell, that spill just had to trickle down onto his chest in a line that so obviously traced the contour of that busty fullness--and even more as iit glistened under the light of the fire. Dom just had to act quick and set his bottle down to reach up his heaving pec to wipe off that naughty rebel droplet--though not quick enough that it seemed to have known how sensitive Dom's nipple was that it just had to race there and almost force a soft hiss out of him. And with his towel draped on the other seat and with not even a box of tissues nearby, the Hale muscle-alpha just had to swipe his thumb over his already tingling gumdrop nub, practically causing it to be pressed upwards then around and against the nudge of that pad as if Dom's thumb was challenging his nipple's pert firmness. "You good, sir?" "Ah--y-eah--" Dom managed to let his words spill out of his chuckle and effectively kept that moan tamed inside his chest--even more as he pressed his thumb against his lips to suckle the remnants of his last beer. In some other circumstance, in some lecherous twist of events with some creep who might have managed to take advantage of Dom's juicy alpha nipples with a naughty sting and a nasty dose of some suspiciously perverted venom, Dom just knew that he would've been all huffy from the taste of milk and utter humiliation. Good thing it wasn't the case--and the alpha was all the more keen on such a kind of pleasure that he was willing to chase it within the growing warmth that only the two of them had been sharing. "Maybe I really should stick around--old folks shouldn't be left alone. Especially with accidents." Aidan whipped out his own tease--though it was one that came easy with yet another dimpled smirk of his. And sure enough, while Dom felt his brow quirk from the sudden audacity, he was quick to play along with a roll of his eyes and a scoff to boot. Little shit. No wonder he and Derek are friends. "Yeah--all fun and games until I ground you and send you up to my boy's room--" Dom threw it back with a heartier chuckle as he let himself sink against the corner of the couch to have himself turn even more towards the young bull--and that included his jock-clad bulge that looked a little fatter too... no thanks to that fleeting moment of a nipple play that he just couldn't resist indulging in. Though with how Dom's eyes were already raking onto that form, his quirked brow furrowed into curiosity as he finally found a way through the fog in between them--a way that he could finally strike his flint with. Besides, it was always the sweetest things that can lure easily. "Though I must say--" Dom's eyes narrowed at Aidan and with a soft grunt, he pushed himself off of his corner to lean closer towards the blond bull. With it, the heft of his brawn rolled with his movement: muscles swelled and heaved just as his beefy muscle tits swayed in their fulsome heft before his massive arm stretched out to reach for Aidan's own. What slight movement that Aidan did, either to ease away or adjust, Dom quickly smothered down with his wooing. "--see your arm here?" Dom let his large paw press against the impressive bicep of the young bull before giving it a slight squeeze. "I'd reckon you're bigger than my son. I don't think you'd fit all cozy in his room--" the Hale alpha offered a soft chuckle and an encouraging nod. It was easy when there was sincerity involved, after all--and a firmer squeeze when Aidan was the one who welcomed the advance with how he tried to curl his arm and practically had it swell up like a damn basketball. A bit bigger even. Shit. Dom breathed out another appreciative chuckle before he scooted on closer. "You think so, sir?" Aidan's boyish smirk was quick to come back--and Dom surely loved seeing those pretty blue eyes of his brighten against the fire. And he loved it more that Aidan was seeking validation from him. No wonder he caught what the old wolf was throwing. Then again, why won't he? Dom is the Hale alpha for a reason. "Derek likes to say he's got me beat--" "Nah--" a wolf in a hunt would see it through. And Dom let that instinct come to him easily as he let his large hand move up from that bicep to give that massive deltoid the squeeze it needed. He even let his fingers push up the hem of that poor sleeve--and Aidan seemed to be just as encouraging as his own tits smushed together under his shirt as he reached for the sleeve with his other hand to pull it up and help Dom out. And there it was, with how much the sleeve was willing to show without ripping, Aidan's shoulder was just as impressive. Sincerity continued to slip through Dom's smirk while he gave another nod and kept his palm pressed for another squeeze to feel that hard ball of muscle that just reeked of pure power. "Derek looks great--he's got his old man's genes, after all. But he's still on his way there..." the old wolf hummed low as the distance began to shrink between them, though his emphasis remained just as firm. Derek surely wasn't slacking, and he'd still leave some run of the mill musclehead eating dust if pitted against him. They're just simply a cut above the rest--Aidan included. And if Derek and Aidan's little investigation could bring the blond bull's true nature into the light sooner or later, then that might explain things. But as far as the Hale alpha was concerned, he'd rather investigate all of Derek's beefcake stud of a friend instead. And all that Dom needed to do was to continue on to prod at that sweet center. "Bet you worked your ass off to get these guns on you too, didn't you?" Dom mused. Aidan tensed. Blushed. Damn right. "Muscles like this? They just don't come from trees, I'd tell you that much..." The old wolf just let his words fade into his soft chuckle while his large hand slid back down and around as an attempt to urge Aidan to flex his arm properly this time by trying to nudge at his thick tricep in an upwards manner. Sure, they both know that that's right--the usual fluff of hard work and determination. But Dom knew that Aidan sure did appreciate being praised for being on the right track--especially from the likes of him. He easily proved it too, after all. "Yes sir--" Aidan hissed through his smirk, almost labored--all because he indulged Dom with a classic single bicep pose and really made sure that the damn beast popped. The old wolf, in turn, rewarded him with a nod while he smirked at that one special word this time too as it was all the more a proof of Aidan's sweet eagerness that was a goad to Dom's own sweet core. Sir. Fuck yeah. Damn right. And with that massive ball of muscle swelling once more as vein and sinew pushed themselves out into detail while that sleeve just had to relent with how it slid back and showed off more of Aidan's arm, Dom let out another approving hum as his large hand found itself pressing onto that pure hard beef once more. "--I get my pumps all day of the week, sir!" "Well shit. I could tell--" Dom continued to strike at the iron while it's hot as he scooted closer. Take up the space. Make sure that Aidan knows who's the man of the house. Though with how Dom's other hand reached out to Aidan, it seemed like the young bull knew that already as he was quick to lift his other arm as well and went straight into a double bicep pose. Damn right. See? Aidan already knew what to do. And sure enough, Dom helped himself with those twin peaks as he gave them a squeeze. Harder. Firmer. The old wolf challenged them--he wanted Aidan to feel that he was being tested because he knew damn well that Aidan would try and prove himself to him. And he did. The young bull flexed harder. Dom let more of his approval slip out through his low sigh as he squeezed back against it and let that smirk curl up from underneath his beard. "Yeah... definitely bigger than my boy's--" Dom's strong hands moved back up to the thick bulk of those shoulders--his traps. And it was at that moment that the old wolf struck gold once more. Aidan tensed. Aidan sighed. And with how Dom let his fingers curl into the hard flesh of those traps once more, it was easy to take note how the Hale muscle-alpha almost squeezed a moan out of the young man. All tight. Damn right. Aidan might've even felt that all over his beefy body--but before Dom could even give Aidan the satisfaction that he could've gotten from another squeeze against his tight knots, the old wolf just taunted him more with how he let his hands slide down instead and finally rubbed against the proud swell of Aidan's big juicy muscle tits. "Look at the tits on you, boy--damn..." Dom hummed as he leaned closer--close enough that he easily caught how Aidan's sigh came with a shaky warmth that Dom certainly took note of... especially that part where he had seemed to have gotten away with a little naughty word. Dom was right, anyway. That with how the old wolf continued on with a squeeze as he dug his fingers into the juicy slabs that swelled back up as if in reply to the pressing sensations, Dom kept his smirk all to himself. Damn right. Soft yet firm. Juicy yet strong. Dom could feel a little squish but it was all power just the same. And with how the old wolf kneaded on and tried to push against that obscene fullness that he could feel spill out between his fingers in all of their bloated swell, how Aidan's eyes fluttered as the sound remained caught in his throat wasn't lost on the keened muscle-alpha. Sensitive. A little twinge of guilt teased within the heat at the edge of Dom's mind as he did busy himself with playing with his own nipple not too long ago. Fucking ripe muscle pec-tits. Dom smirked. It takes one to fucking know one apparently. "Y--yes sir..." Aidan's voice was low. Almost a whisper between the two of them. Hot. Dom took note of that too. And with how easy it was to pretend that feeling up the young bull's busty milkers was part of his appraisal, he continued to lure Aidan even deeper into the same warmth that had been bothering Dom by letting his hands roll out to the outer sides of those big beefy pec-breasts and squeezed them together. Shit. For a moment, certain thoughts raced through the old wolf's mind especially when he saw just how deep Aidan's cleavage had appeared to become that his tits practically munched his tight shirt in between each heavy pec slab. Dom's cock seemed to have read his mind as he felt himself throb in the mere idea of slotting himself into the young bull's beefy muscle tits. Yeah. Damn right. He knew Aidan was a tit bitch indeed. It was all the more the reason that Dom found the man worthy of his indulgence. Aidan truly was a good fit in their pack. --and it was time for Dom to go in for the kill. "I gotta say though--" the old wolf continued on and kept that buzz creeping on through the big beefy buck of a stud with how his meaty palms remained in contact with those juicy muscle tits of his. And with how Dom could feel them swell up from what rise that came from the sigh that slowly eased through Aidan's plump lips, he knew that he's on the right track. Dom assumed right that they're sensitive--but it did help that the Hale muscle-alpha got his hands on a young fine bull who's got all that raging testosterone in him. "You sure got Derek beat, but not by a big margin. He's being cocky about his shit now, but he works just as much as you, yeah?" Dom's words settled low still. Just between the two of them--just like how that soft gasp was just meant for the two of them when Dom let his thumbs graze over those pink nubs that kept poking out of that tight shirt that strained to the point of thinning. "Y--yes sir..." The corner of Dom's lips tugged for another smirk. Damn right. "But hey. Like I said, you're welcome to stick around. Who knows..." Dom's fist curled into a ball. And just like before, Aidan seemed to know what to do--and knew better to actually do it for him. Dom could feel the weight of one of Aidan's heavy tits to roll, and swell, and bounce onto the cupping of his other hand that was still squeezing at it--all from the young bull's attempt to flex his pec-breasts to harden and accept that firm clap of a punch that Dom pressed right onto that heaving slab of tit muscle. Dom chuckled then. And with his own approving hum, he set his brown eyes to meet those blues that danced with the fire. "--maybe old folks like me could teach you a thing or two..." The old wolf eased back--though not before he took note of how those meaty breasts seemed to rise towards him like Aidan was trying to chase the feeling. Big beefy muscle tit bitch. Just like Derek. Like Peter. Like him. Well, in secret at least--the Hales still preferred to hold a great sense of pride in them. Dom most of all. And it was in that same line of reasoning that Dom was tempted to assume that Aidan was just like him--that such a surrender might have been because the young bull had deemed Dom as someone who deserves to handle someone like him. Maybe. At the very least, Dom had already arrived at such a conclusion as far as he's concerned. Aidan deserved to see more of him--and feel more of him. Just like the good boy that he is. "See?" Dom eased further, but only to finally give that tease of a sight to Aidan as he stood back up once more to his impressive height and breadth that the fires that danced and sculpted Aidan's beefy body became shrouded in shadow of the old wolf's mountainous and muscular looming--and even more as it was his turn to show off his guns with his own double bicep pose. Even from the rise of his arms alone, the proud Hale alpha has already won cleanly with how each of his massive biceps peaked way beyond basketballs--and even bigger still as he let that push rise up from the hard flex of his abs that tightened before his heave rose up to the twin mounds of his gigantic muscle pec-breasts. It was more than enough to have his shadows creep on more across the walls and the ceiling and unto his rapt audience. Though with what minimal effort that Dom breathed out as a soft grunt as he turned to one of his arms to watch its proud swell, irony still teased him from the unwelcome memories that seemed to creep on through with his already thrumming heat. To think Dom has had his fair share of perverts who managed to get their hands on him and then some--those fair share of moments where they had him caught. Pinned. Roped. Chained. Even cursed with magical bonds. Even then, his mighty arms swelled with pure power. Right back in reality, Dom did just the same with a harder curl as he turned his attention to his other arm--and all the more it was so easy to imagine how he used to pull at his restraints. Flexing. Grunting. And with how the memory sunk further into his struggle, into how he bucked and pulled with his body into the freedom he demanded in growls and his fiery threats, Dom couldn't help but let it seep out into reality. Slight, at the very least. The mighty muscle-alpha bucked at the air with his proud, meaty, jock-clad bulge pushing out slowly with the roll of his tight body--almost like a stripper. Another story for another day. The sensual sway of his wide hips and his crotch was at least an easy excuse to lead it up to another roll of his abs. Each cobble flexed. Tightened. And once more, as the tension boiled up to his huge pecs, the enormously swollen mounds of his beefy muscle breasts just pushed out into a bouncing spill--especially with how he rolled his shoulders to reload the flex of his arms and easily goaded his obscenely juicy pec-tits once more to jostle about. And they got their hands on them too. Fucking perverts. Feeling up his proud off-limits beef with him being so helpless against it. And even then, as the memory of their wily and unwelcome touches--their flicks and pinches--tainted the steely focus in the alpha's mind, his meaty cock surrendered itself into another tease with another throb while he himself breathed out a rough scrape of a growl. "Damn sir..." It was Aidan's turn to breathe out his own gruff whisper. At the very least, Dom wasn't too lost in his naughty reminiscence as he turned to the young bull with a smirk--and another scoff--that was once more kept in between the two of them. As if their proximity was their little secret. As if their open permission to touch each other was their little secret. And as Aidan's own strong hand reached up to finally feel Dom's swollen bicep, the old wolf let out a soft scoff as he welcomed the mere sensation of someone else's skin against his own--and all in the name of reverence too. Damn right. Dom let those strong fingers dig into the firm boulder of his arm as he knew fully that he could easily fight back against it with a harder flex that only seemed to goad more of those feeling touches. "Damn right, son..." The Hale muscle-alpha teased as he let the weight of that mirrored word slip low from the gentler woo of his voice. And as they inched even closer--enough that both of their full and heavy muscle pec-breasts were once more tempted to close that very slight gap that grew even smaller with how they heaved from the way they practically breathed in that same warm air--Dom still pushed to tilt his arm towards Aidan so he can encourage the young muscle-bull to just feel more of it. To which he did. Firmer. Harder. Dom smirked as he raised his arm higher to get that thing level with Aidan's face--enough to even show off the fanning hairs of his armpit. Even then, maybe all thanks to his primal lycan senses, that testosterone-laden man musk still emanated from him. Dom could even whiff off more of that ripe scent while he leaned towards Aidan with that flexed arm--as if to urge the blond stud to set those pretty blue eyes of his on what the alpha was looking at. "You see that? All power. Right there." Dom hummed. He tilted his head towards Aidan and felt the heat inside of him just grow more--and even more as they continued to share the breaths that they could both hear at that point. Close. Closer. Only when Aidan eased back a little that the space between them widened--but it was only for some wiggle room for the young bull to reach up to Dom's bicep with both hands this time. Of course Dom was quick to indulge as he flexed his arm tighter to push against the press that now came from both sides. And all the more, that touch easily seeped into his core as every squeeze felt deliberate in its adoration--and Dom just continued to goad Aidan with how he then stretched his arm out so those hands could feel how the flex of his muscles shift from the swell of his bicep into the swell of his tricep. His forearm. And to feel Aidan's hands slide up there had him twisting his arm into his wrist so he could tighten those cords for him as well. Damn right. The lull was easy to sink into. The dance. Dom could already see it in Aidan's eyes as he shifted his attention to Dom's other arm--one that the old wolf duly flexed for his rapt audience as the juicy fullness of his alpha muscle pec-tits rose up from that rolling warmth of intoxicating pride. Right there. Yeah. Those strong hands found their way through the map that was offered by the beef-clad alpha's fully bared torso. Through the dips and the bulges--through the swell from how they heaved from the mere contact--those careful yet eager touches goaded more of that hunger from deep with the beast even more... so much so that Dom could only let himself groan through the ease of his hum to keep himself in check. The prior adoration from his other arm had already been sparking that certain need after all--to be rubbed... to be felt up. Good thing Aidan was quick to follow--and Dom's lips curled up for another smirk as he watched those blue eyes flash through what little light of the fire that managed to glow over Dom's ridiculously broad shoulder. And as he watched that gaze fall back onto his arm, Dom held his flex up once more--and even closer to Aidan's face that he could almost feel the warm tease of that sigh. Fuck. "Don't think you'll ever see arms this massive, son..." "N-no, sir..." Fuck. Aidan breathed in. Aidan breathed on. And as the muscle-bound wolf watched that gaze shift further--melt further--he let his lips part for another sigh as the slow heaves of their seemingly rugged breaths continued to fill that warm thrumming silence that they shared. Literally too. Their big beefy bodies stood close. Closer. They felt close enough that Dom could sense the warmth of the other's body--even more as the cold night continued to wrap around them in the closeness that they had settled in. Together. They felt close enough that Aidan let his one hand move down onto Dom's side and all that the old wolf could offer in return was another soft hum--and even more as Aidan squeezed and watched Dom's bicep swell up once more while his thick fingers traced along the proud lines of his veins. Closer. He could feel more of Aidan's warm sigh against his skin this time. Damn right. The young muscle-bull was losing himself in the allure of pure muscle. Dom couldn't help but have his free hand reach up to clasp the other's massive shoulder and helped himself with his own squeeze at that hard boulder of muscle as well. It was a tease of mutual adoration--a goad of the same tingling sensations wrought from the secret intentions of a groping touch. A secret between the two of them. That with Aidan's hand sliding up to the edge of Dom's wide lateral to keep himself in place while his claim on that bicep eased back down along the thick bulge of Dom's tricep, the old wolf just had to let his hand move further up like it was some heated game of cat and mouse. Dom's large hand clasped Aidan's nape. His thumb grazed along the slight scruff along the edge of the young bull's jaw and took in the sound of that sigh that came from the rise of those beefy muscle tits that finally nudged Dom's own heaving breasts in a slight graze. "How about you give it a kiss, son?" Dom finally went for it as his voice grew lower. Firmer. The old wolf knew that there still was some semblance of a risk to it, after all--such a prod could make or break their little game. It was all the more the reason for Dom to hold his flex harder and raise his massively swollen bicep a little bit more closer to the young bull's face... practically some kind of attempt to smother onto any chance for him to think--especially when Aidan was already deep into it with how he was literally breathing down onto the peaked boulder of his arm. Fortunately for him, Aidan's a good boy. All that the young bull needed to do was to bridge that warm sliver of a gap with an easy press of his soft lips against hard muscle. And all at once, from sensation and satisfaction both, Dom's beefy muscle tits rose to push out that low growl as the sparks from that special kind of contact were quick to crawl through the entirety of his mighty beastly body. And that was exactly what it was, a spark. Dom didn't even need to tease with words to goad Aidan on with it--the press of the lips and the sigh against his skin was quick to turn into another kiss. Right on the vein. Dom could feel that certain contact map along the impression of it--both lips and by breath--and it was all the more a spur to the rolling warmth along Dom's skin that all he could do was bite down on a growl. Damn right. Fuck. "All y-yours, son--" Dom hummed through his smirk, all thanks to Aidan replying with his hand holding firm along the old wolf's tight waist instead--just so he could keep himself close to that bulging bicep. And Aidan sure did help himself with it. Dom felt those lips part slightly against the peak of his bicep, almost as if Aidan was sucking slightly at the skin as if he's really savoring the warmth and power that the beef-packed Hale muscle-alpha was giving him--and he helped himself more with how his lips moved to do the same along the thick base of Dom's forearm. All the while, Dom's grasp on Aidan's nape was getting a little more impatient from the mere sensation of a mouth against his skin. It was almost a curse, really--even more as his fair share of his more lecherous troubles was just as quick to slither along the heat that had been haunting him from the edge of his mind. Those perverts tried to savor him too. Taste him. Suckle. And with how the memory of their wretched touch--of their mouths--continued to trickle into his growing heat like a damn taint that he couldn't help but be vulnerable to, it didn't take much for him to let go of Aidan... especially when the young bull continued to feel around and along his bicep with the press of his parted lips all spurred within his own initiative--and all within Aidan's own need to worship the muscle-bound alpha. Fuck. Dom growled. Growled on. With Aidan's mouth moving along the hard swell of his massive shoulder, Dom couldn't help but let himself feel the tease of his own free hand as well. Right there. Dom let his large hand press just underneath his collarbone as the beefy fullness of his juicy pec-breasts rose once more for that slow yet rugged ease of a sigh. Already, the need for purchase taunted the old wolf. He let his flexed arm curl just a little more so his fingers can grasp at the back of Aidan's head as if trapping him into a head lock that the young bull so willingly welcomed anyway. If it wasn't for his senses, Dom would've missed the way that growl heaved against his bicep--no thanks to the sin of the old wolf's own touch as he let the creeping sparks of his lust continued to lead his hand along the obscene swell of his beefy pec-breast. Fuck. Right there. "C--come on, boy..." Dom urged with the words that he forced out through the ease of his chuckle--all before the rising heat in his chest had him biting down on his lip. His secret indulgence came swiftly under the command of his own body, after all. With his thumb finally finding its way back onto the edge of his wide puffy areola, Dom let his head loll back to free that knot of a sigh that demanded to rise up into a deep groan--all from that sensation that easily melted into the heave of his juicy pec-breasts as he began to trace around the succulent pinkness. Fuck. Dom was no stranger to a slew of teases that made sure he remained helpless. Tamed. The teasing waves were unstoppable after all. Because even in the safety and privacy of Dom's own lonesome, he succumbed to the same guilt when it came to the weaknesses of his own damn muscle brawn. "Fuck--" Dom groaned. And with his fingers finally teasing that large gumdrop nub of his nipple with a naughty little pinch once again, the alpha's overdeveloped muscle breasts were quick to swell once more for yet another push of a groan that he just had to breathe out. That was the song that they shared, after all. Groans. Low. Deep. They began to heave like the big beefy muscle beasts in heat that they are--and even more as Dom continued to tease himself with his firm and deliberate thumbing all over and across the puffy softness of his large and dangerously sensitive areola... and against his equally dangerously sensitive nipple. At this point, his tingling nub was already anxiously hard. Swollen. And all the more, the mighty muscle-alpha felt himself buck against the air as the piling sensations that trickled and crawled all over his torso just needed somewhere to pool into while he further lost himself in the growing fog of his lust. Dom was beginning to go on auto-pilot almost. That with Aidan sinking further into his own mission as he let his lips move lower along his bicep, Dom breathed out a low growl as he raised his arm in full and reached to the back of his head. Sure enough, Aidan leaned more and higher and smothered his face against the underside of Dom's arm. His lips found their way along the massive bulge of the old wolf's tricep as it swelled even more with how Dom twisted his arm just a bit--and even more as Aidan used his free hand to reach up as well to squeeze Dom's thickly flexed forearm. Fuck. Yes. Dom breathed through a snort. With the two of them succumbing deeper into their heat and with how they had been keeping close, it was beginning to feel a little sticky. Stuffy. Musky. It wasn't just Dom's now, but Aidan's too. Damn right. They're just two big beefy muscle beasts, yeah? Two fucking big beefy musky muscle beasts. Though with how the beefier alpha gave his juicy nipple a little twist as he just gave in to his own self-pleasure, that sharp intake of air that forced his heavy muscle tits to hitch was more than enough for him to whiff off that other scent too. Him. Aidan's. The old alpha gave a low growl as he felt the young bull's nose press against the hairs of his armpit while the hand that Aidan pressed against his wide lateral began to goad more of those creeping sensations right along there too with such simple rubs. And all at once, Dom's body bucked on. His tight, tapered, torso twisted just a bit as the areas where he was being teased and touched were getting him all buzzed with the rush. Fuck. Dom growled. Aidan too. And with another snort, Dom kneaded his heaving muscle breast as he breathed in more of that certain scent. Heat. Dom groaned once more. Aidan too. And in that warm air that they were both taking in, the old wolf was getting drunk in this swelling weight that was mingling with his. Heat. His heat. Dom was starting to smell Aidan's own heat. And with such a cloying sweetness growing in between them, Dom pressed the side of his face against the impressive boulder of his bicep and had their faces come too close once again. The old wolf's eyes fluttered--and with another groan, he set his sights upon Aidan's stupor through his half-lidded gaze while his lips parted a bit more for a groan that he felt melt against his skin just like Aidan's kisses. Fuck. He tugged at his juicy nipple--and this time, it was more than enough to pull at it all taut that his areola stretched just a bit off of the obscene swell of his beefy muscle breast. It was more than enough to just instantly further the rush of need that was already churning within the old wolf and had him buck his hips once more with the obscene swell of his meaty cock that pushed even more and pressed a bit more of its bursting threat against the poor stretch of his meat-packed jock pouch. Fuck. Need melted on--and Dom felt it spread even more along his body as he let their shared movements have him surrender into throwing his head back as those sweet soft lips moved along his collar bone instead. Then higher. Aidan nuzzled Dom right there at the edge of this thickly grizzled jaw and all at once, the dizzying cloy just flooded straight into the fulsome heave of his chest and swelled against the same busty resistance from the other's own rack of juicy pec-breasts as their bodies further aligned back together. Fuck. Dom's arm eased back down as Aidan's lips moved along his own thick neck--and he quickly found his purchase along the young bull's massive arm as he just couldn't help himself but take a handful of that pure hard beef as well. Or tried to, at least. But as the sensations just bloomed from such a tender spot of his as Aidan breathed low against the crook of his neck from a smothering of a mouthed kiss, the old wolf couldn't help but yearn for the same thrumming sweetness that they both knew had now burned between them--and blurred between them. No pretenses--not when Dom continued to chase that nagging caress of desire with a greater boldness now that he knew that everything was right where he wanted it. And the same could be said with Aidan too as Dom felt that strong hand on his waist pull him even closer against his own brawny form. Damn right. The Hale muscle-alpha tilted his head against Aidan's that he could hear the both of them growl as they breathed in the same air they breathed out once more--and even deeper within the symphony of their groans while the heaving swells of their bodies began to knead onto each other. Fleshy juicy muscle pec-breasts against fleshy juicy muscle pec-breasts. Dom even have to give up the pleasure he was rubbing into the tingling need of his hard nipple as his thumb circled at his juicy areola one last time before he let his hand reach down to clasp the thick cords of the forearm that he could feel on that side of his body. Sure, the intoxicating woo of their heat was more than enough to pull them into that exhilarating embrace--to have their eyes flutter shut as the blur of those settled shadows and the soft dancing amber light of the fireplace almost melded together with how the cloy thickened even more within the two of them. Still, they found their way within their mapping lips. Higher. Closer. Sweeter. Aidan let his lips press against Dom's beard and groaned against that rough warmth--all while the old wolf found himself receptive to the gentle claim that he finally tilted his head towards where he could feel that warm breath. Those lips. His lips. Theirs. The moment their kiss finally found each other in the darkness, the big beefy muscle beasts whimpered out their moans in a messy unison of spilling heaves and soft suckles. Damn right. Sweeter and sweeter, still. And as Dom snarled against the kiss that he welcomed with his own claim, his fingers followed with how they dug into the cords of the mighty muscles that he could feel. It was easy for their bodies to slot together from how they chased that sweet rush together with the seeking contact of their lips. That with how their kiss deepened, the both of them shared the taste of their soft sensual moans as their attempt to breathe through that hungry indulgence had their massive muscle breasts thump against each other even more--each juicy slab just tried to stake a claim onto the ones they pushed against in a soft and yet firm swell and jiggle. Dom's blood boiled--all the more in passion and never in rage. That with how the Hale muscle-alpha felt that hand on his waist tighten into the pressing of their bodies, his own hand moved from Aidan's bulging bicep and straight back up the thickness of the young bull's nape and kept him in place with the claim of that gentle yet firm clasp of his large paw. Dom's tongue advanced. Slithered. He demanded more of that taste too as the sinfully slippery sensations of their slithering tongues only smothered at the rising moan within the old wolf's throat--and even more as he was practically swallowing gulps of pure lust. Fuck. Once more the broad and beefy swell of the Hale muscle-alpha's huge muscle pec-breasts rose for that need. Once more, they rolled against the bounce of the broad and beefy fullness of Aidan's own jock-grade muscle tits--that, and then some. With both of their tits stuck in the juicy stalemate of their voluptuous jostling as they continued to sink into the cloy of their shared groans, it was easy for their bodies to betray them with nothing but a mere brush. A mere graze. That with how their juicy muscle breasts tried to fight for their freedom to spill out and burst all over and against each other and declare themselves the beefier and meatier victor of all tits, it made the jolting contact of their large plump nipples as a mere matter of when than a mere matter of if. "--o--ough!" --or maybe the if had come too quickly that it was barely a matter of when. Dom's moan so easily flooded into Aidan's sweet lips as their kiss did nothing to suppress the shudder-inducing sparks wrought from the swollen nubs of their dangerously sensitive nipples nudging at each other in their firm pertness. And it seemed like it was enough of a command to spur Aidan into action as his body bucked and shifted--enough that Dom let out another deep and sensual groan into the kiss that they shared as his cock-packed pouch pressed and rolled against that denim-clad jock bulge of his beefy young bull of a lover. And before Dom could even try and recover from it, as the heat and the sinful sparks of their shared pleasure just bloomed all over and deep within the old wolf's heaving muscle tits, Aidan was already moving. Dom wasn't at all bullish with his grasp when Aidan eased away from the clasp at his nape, after all--especially not when the blond bombshell never planned to fully part himself from his muscle-alpha in the first place. He only needed some room to let his hands move. Dom felt it too. That with Aidan's rubbing touch that was planted along his waist, and the one that pressed along his arm, sunk together into the hard cobbles of that tight abdomen, Dom felt himself flex as his core goaded at immediate rise as if to move in sync with the hands that finally slid up to try and cup the old wolf's big, juicy, beefy, and heavy, man-mammaries. "F--fuck--" Already toyed and teased, the creeping tingles so easily laid claim all over and deep within the obscene fullness of Dom's big juicy muscle breasts--and even more as the young bull's attempt to grab onto them more only jolted sweet torture right into the anxious bloat of the patriach's sensitive slabs of obscenely juicy tit flesh. That alone easily warranted another surge of a lustful groan that slipped out of Dom's parted lips--and all while, within that sighing swell, the digging fingers were already more than enough to urge the hefty mounds to try and spill on over his cupping hold. But still, as pretense had now been shed and their shared need only burned brighter as their respite from their kiss only made them more aware of their heated thirst and heated hunger--even despite how such a groping touch that was out of old wolf's control flooded his rugged features with a paint of flustered red--Dom offered an inward roll of his shoulder just so he can offer and present more of his juicy muscle breasts to continue to spill on over the strong hands that still challenged their obscene roundness and even more obscene fullness. Damn fucking right. In any other circumstance, Dom would've struggled--Dom would've been red with shame and even more shameful lust from how those fucking lucky creeps would've just had their way with such blessed swollen tit-mounds of juicy fulsome ripeness. And maybe it was that dark indulgence that more of this damn heat was coming to fore as his large hands began to rub along Aidan's forearms in some attempt for purchase--or for mere contact. Or for mere encouragement. "Fucking like these pecs, boy?--you like your big daddy's big beefy fucking muscle pecs?" Dom growled his words deep and slow as he leaned forward, just enough for their foreheads to press together and once more share the same sweet air of heat and lust that they were practically breathing in and out with every rise of their cloying groans. And with those fingers squeezing firmer into a knead that commanded the old wolf's beefy pec-breasts to jostle aside in an outwards swell of their juicy fullness, he could only let himself feel the rush of sensations that goaded more of his rugged breathing that admitted to the pleasure that he was partaking in. And Aidan did too. Through what half-lidded gaze that they both shared as they continued to let themselves be drunk in the slough of the heated worship that they just nursed slowly but surely--and nursed carefully--the proud Hale muscle-alpha could still see how Aidan's blue eyes was practically transfixed onto the supple smoothness of his proud beefy muscle breasts as young bull breathed out his own low sigh. Dom could still feel how those fingers pressed. Squeezed. And all the more, Dom was just spurred by the need to tease and taunt as he breathed out another low growl just to flex his might-pumped muscle breasts to bounce into a heavy roll and jostle. "You like daddy's fucking man-tits all big and full for you, don't you?" Dom let his words come in that low roll of his soft growl once more. Thick with lust. Heavy in the sin of the naughty heat they shared. And with him nudging his head forward, it was enough to push Aidan's head back to align with his--and then close that gap once more with their deep moans rising onto each other's lips from yet another surrender of their kiss. Yes sir. The words barely got out of Aidan's mouth that they almost sounded like the same hot groan that he breathed out before their tongues rolled and slithered through the deepening cloy of their grunts. But Dom heard it. Dom even felt it too. How those strong hands came up once more into an upwards knead and forced the mass of his huge pec-breasts to push up and spill out over the firm hoist was all the more a goad for that heat to rise from deep within the beefy muscle-alpha--and all the more a push for that deep groan to just spill and turn all sweet within the soft wet sounds of their fervent kiss. Fuck. "--h--hmgh--" Dom even felt himself push against those hands--felt himself push his heavy muscle breasts outwards even more as if to chase those claiming sensations. All at once, the darker recesses continued on to tease. Right there. His huge alpha muscle tits. Groped. Man-handled. And with another groan that tried to rise, Dom fought through this swell of tightness that he thought was familiar until the peak pushed out--and it was easy to feel then that it was simply just the heat that was trying to find its way out in the name of release against the growing frustrations. Or so he thought. Too bad Dom was so easily lost--easily tamed--with the pleasures wrought from his own ripe and beefy body. Another knead was another rise of a groan from the obscene fullness of his round and engorged muscle milkers. That when Aidan finally pushed on with his own brand of teasing, Dom just couldn't help but surrender once more to the waves of pure pleasure that coaxed out that special moan from deep within him. "--hn--o-oh!" The ragged gasp was just as much as a naughty jolt that slithered right into the muscle-alpha's large juicy nipple--all before the other dangerously pert gumdrop nub received the same tease from that other thumb that further stoked the raging fires within the heaving muscle-alpha. And it was just the start. To feel those pads circle over Dom's areolas once more was more than enough to smother his groan into more of a breathless gasp while his strong hands took their turn to squeeze the young bull's hands--for some attempt for purchase. Encouragement. Both. Aidan didn't need it though. His thumbs were already resolved to tease Dom's dangerously sensitive and dangerously vulnerable nipples anyway as their tracing motions finally spiraled right into the prize. Prizes. Aidan let his thumbs brush and circle over the very tips of Dom's already tingling nubs, and all at once, commanded the mighty muscle-alpha to give into the shudder and buck of his own body that his huge muscle pec-breasts could only jiggle out with such obscene gusto. Fuck. Damn--right fucking there. "--a--ahn..." Dom couldn't help but moan softly but also moan like a damn slut and breathe it out once more into Aidan's lips. Though how the young bull pulled away in turn was barely a mercy paid in kind--not when Aidan's lips came down to the other side of Dom's jaw before tracing down along his thick neck. Dom was just made to take it, really--and even more as what moan that he tried to breathe out still fanned that familiar ember of tightness that he could still feel inside the swell of his obscenely engorged muscle breasts. Aidan moved lower. And with his fingers closing into a pinch to pull at Dom's juicy milk nubs, the mighty alpha could only let his head roll back in a low groan while his own strong hand reached at the back of Aidan's head once more. He knew what was coming next. He even felt it down to his knees as he felt himself buckle. " --u-uhn--" It was in that anxious cloy of nerves that respite came easy with how Dom's beefy brawn sank back onto the couch while the other had perfected the ebb and flow of their bodies' movements to follow on through so very closely--so much so that their bodies barely separated completely. Aidan continued to kiss along Dom's chest--even managing to continue the trail as Dom stretched himself out backwards that he practically pushed his huge pec-breasts out for the other until the old wolf felt the press of the couch's armrest just above the small of his back and anchored his ease to settle down into that corner. He let himself be splayed once more into his side of the couch, half-reclined. Aidan in turn found his place between the old wolf's legs as he pressed his knee against the cushion, just a little shy from that jock-imprisoned muscle-alpha fuck meat that was just fully throbbing at this point. And with the rest of the young bull's brawn free enough to loom on over and lean on towards the heaving Hale muscle-alpha, the more open sight of the older man's juicy muscle breasts was an immediate cue for the young stud to part his lips and just let himself clamp down for that firm latch. "--a-aw f-fuck--" Dom cried out softly as his head lolled back once more from the immediate pulse of pure hot pleasure that burst from his already bloated pec-breasts. That from such a simple act of a mouth latching onto his fat nipple and that immediate ease into a suckle, that helplessness wrought from the sparks that just seized Dom's massive muscle brawn forced him to push his beefy and heavy tits out even more before the sensations subsided into a rush that had him rolling his hips once again into a display erotic thrust that further lended the lecherous sight that he was made to offer. Fuck. Once more memories taunted--finally taunted. That with Aidan's mouth tightening a bit more for that gentle but firm pull to urge the muscle-alpha's fat nipple to push deeper into that naughty suction, the old wolf could only heave on and grasp the back of the young bull's head with his large paw. Fuck--fucking right there. From where Aidan's lips mapped along his body, Dom was almost waiting for it too as the sensations had always been quick to tease him where his most dangerously erotic weak spots are--almost like they were demanding to be teased so Dom could stumble into the throes of his own sin. Aidan wasn't the first, after all--willing or otherwise. That with how those lips continued to suckle on gently and further urge the little jolts of pleasure right into that captured gumdrop nub that was his juicy nipple, Dom let out another deep groan as his eyes rolled back into the blur of the cloy that just weighed itself onto them like a warm blanket. And within that same blur, Dom's mind waded through those memories of his entrapment where such wily fucking perverts were able to do the same. Their vile mouths. Right there. Suckling. Licking. Dom even winced as Aidan seemed to mirror the lecherous haunting with how his tongue flicked over the sensitive tip of Dom's engorged nipple and forced that familiar feeling of helplessness to rise up from within him. "--f-fuck..." Even Dom's gasp sounded weak. Almost defeated. His nipples were ones of his most obvious weak spots--and his most vulnerable ones too. With how they always pushed through his shirt, or with how they always so easily slipped out and peeked out of his tank tops whenever he was out and about, it would only take a sly moment of an exploit to fully take advantage of them--and in turn, take advantage of the big beefy and proud muscle-alpha. Even the wimpiest of perverts had managed to have their way with him just because they knew that they only needed to keep the pleasure slithering into Dom's juicy nipples. Sometimes even literally. That with how Aidan's suction pushed another jolt of blinding lust straight into Dom's huge muscle-breasts, that familiar rise of tightness that urged his beefy tits to flex and bounce in their heavy fullness was more than enough to jog the old wolf's memories to further sink into the indulgent rush of those secret moments where he was perverted upon and molested. "H--huhn oh--n--" Dom moaned as he bucked once more against Aidan's looming brawn--even more as his free hand found the old wolf's other nipple and had quickly decided to punish him for not learning his lesson when it came to keeping his precious weak spots all vulnerable and exposed. And all at once, Dom was so easily reminded of how he has had his fair share of nasty surprises. Nasty stingers. Fuck. He always fell for it, didn't he? His juicy nipple peeking out had always been enough for it to be an easy target for a quick and deep sting. And it would be too late then. Even if he managed to pluck out that barb or that dart that had pricked him right into his nipple duct, their perverted venom would already be making quick work deep within his huge and heaving muscle pec-breasts. Warm. Tight. Dom would've found himself weak and sore as the unwelcome pleasure--and pressure--would come from how his big juicy muscle tits would be rendered even more sensitive. More swollen. Dom winced on through a rush of warm fluster that teased him with a twinge of shame. He could still remember that time where his pec-breasts were forced to lactate from a concoction that was specially made just for his big beefy alpha muscle-tits--and how the successful injection brought on that perverse glee of having to see a proud mighty alpha wolf like him to surrender himself into the most perverse imagery of his bloated breasts bursting out into a shameless spill and swell of pure milky fullness like he was some cheap busty porn star in the making. "--n-no--oh god..." Dom sighed, finally turning his attention back to his young buck of a stud that continued to nurse his tingling nipple... like he was pulling milk from him. And all the more that familiar tightness forced themselves through the waves of pleasure that Dom just had to bite down to keep his moan in while his free hand reached up to gentle nudge at Aidan's jaw with his knuckle. "D-damn boy..." Dom could only bite down on his lip once more as pleasure so easily tickled his nipple and right into his heaving breast. Of course, he wouldn't admit to his troubles. He's a fucking Hale. The mightest Hale at that. Their fucking muscle-alpha. And with how his thumb began to graze over where he knew Aidan's dimple was, the blond stud finally looked up at him with those half-lidded blue eyes that still gleamed with their shared heat and hunger. Fuck yeah. Just like that. Dom tried to extract the pleasure from it, at least--even if he was having a hard time chasing away the shame and the danger that came with such an indulgence. His body. Fuck. His fucking body just needed it. And all the more, his huge juicy pec-breasts pushed up to their swell--so much so that even if Aidan tried to pause for some air as he released Dom' swollen nipple with a wet pop, the mighty muscle-alpha still kept on with the push as if to offer that juicy nub right back into those sweet lips. "You fucking love sucking big daddy's sweet nipple, don't you? You like it when daddy moans?" The Hale alpha mused through his breathless pants as his grasp against those blond locks eased more into a gentle claw of his fingers so he could scratch Aidan along his tender scalp instead. Yeah. Dom teased that tiny sliver of power--and his own powerlessness--as he knew very well that he was safe to indulge in the privacy of his own home. And sure enough, as Aidan quickly latched back, Dom tried to breathe out that hoarse chuckle of playful encouragement through the fulsome rise of his beefy muscle breasts--all from how he felt the young buck moan softly around his sweetly tortured nipple. "Fuck yeah, son--trying to teach me a damn lesson, aren't you? Big bad daddy being a tease with his nipples...with his big juicy muscle tits..." Dom groaned as that firm rhythm began once more and quickly awakened the sparks of pleasure that had so easily pulled him into their enslaving lull. Maybe Dominic fucking deserved it. The handsome muscle-alpha found himself wincing once more as his eyes fluttered open just a bit to watch Aidan keep on with it. Sucking. Flicking. Swirling. That soundless moan just couldn't help but spill out of Dom's lips--even more as a jolt of pleasure pricking him right into his nipple was enough to force his mouth slack before the wave of pleasure forced him once again to buck and grind. Yeah. So much for his recklessness. So much for his pride. And with Aidan's free hand coming back up once more to cup and knead the muscle-alpha's other pec-breast, Dom could only use his free hand to grasp that wrist while the lull further goaded his body to just sink into it. Fuck. That thumb continued to circle at his wide puffy areola once more--and once again, Dom felt himself pulled back into that time where that withered creep tortured his poor nipples with the same massage while they were even puffier with the obscene fullness of his muscle-alpha breast milk that practically spurred his sensitivity to mind-swirling heights. They just tingled so fucking bad--and even more as Dom tried to breathe through it as every rise of air felt like a cue for his compromised and envenomed breasts to just keep on with the swell. More milk. More fucking muscle-alpha tit milk .And all the while, Dom was just forced to surrender into euphoric delirium as the slimy pervert just knew how to tease and tame him from just perving on his very sensitive nipples with flicks and those tracing rubs along where he was most sensitive. Shame was even quicker to weigh on him too as he could still remember how the teasing had grown slick because his nipples were primed to the point of leaking. Oh god. The way the tips of nipples tingled so bad from the shameful beads of milk that he just couldn't stop. How it fucking made him look even riper too--too fucking ripe for his own damn good. And right then, as Aidan suckled harder, Dom felt his mouth tremble from the same moment of how those bony fingers gently gave his obscenely engorged and achingly swollen pec-breasts a little squeeze--a damn little squeeze around his soft pillowy areolas that that was more than enough to make that electric pleasure fizzle all over his sensitive nubs. It was a damn little squeeze that was quick to urge those sweet beads of milk to betray the muscle-alpha with how easily they surrendered. And with how those thin fingers were quick to scoop them up and smear them, Dom couldn't even remember how he managed to stumble out of that perverted trouble. Reckless. Dom tried to resist the memory of how it turned out to be in the first place. Dom was the one who let his guard down when he thought that that wimpy demon was so weak that the cocky alpha had given into offering the fiend a poor consolation prize for his pathetic attempt at a fight. Dom let him taste his juicy alpha nipple with that tongue that he didn't know was capable of cursing his muscle tits the moment that serpentine tip pricked the very tip of the nub--that very same nub that the alpha himself had foolishly kept exposed for him. Dom could even hear his own arrogant chuckle as he watched the shivering fiend so reverently kissed the nipple that he offered onto him after it slipped out through his strap from how the imp's pathetic struggle had him grasping at Dom's tank top until he had that nipple looking all vulnerable. Dom was all cocky still. All it took was one foolish second of his own damn making. "Fuck--" Dom winced through his erotic self-punishment as his grasp on Aidan's wrist moved up to clasped that large hand instead. Though instead of stopping Aidan, his grasp was an urge for that hand to knead on. Squeeze. Right there. And back to reality, he knew that Aidan was a good enough man for the job as Dom kept on with his need to indulge--especially when he could feel that tightness just bloom out with how his huge and swollen pec-breasts were forced to rise with the deep sighs that came from the bursts of pure pleasure from deep within Dom's heaves and from deep within his anxious core. And even then the lecherous flashes of his nightmares just continued on--especially as this stubborn tightness kept on growing within him. Dom could practically feel his breasts just jiggle with the fullness that felt like it was at the very precipice. Tight. Sore. His damn muscle tits. How many times had he been unable to fight back? Fuck. Through the haunting haze of it all, Dom managed to breathe out a moan as Aidan released that nipple once more with a wet pop--but just like the might and brawn that the young bull's lips had come to worship from earlier on, he made sure to never part with Dom's heaving beefy muscle breasts as his eager lips just simply ghosted over the twin swells of the alpha's obscenely ripe and overdeveloped pec-tits until he reached that other nipple for that quick latch. Dom could only breathe out another moan through a dragging grunt while his body swapped in kind as it was his other hand's turn to keep the bastard in place with the same scratching grasp of his thick fingers against the back of Aidan's head. And sure enough, as Aidan's hot mouth began to tease and pull Dom's nipple once more into the dizzying pleasure of that sinful suckle, the mighty muscle-alpha could only feel the tightening heave of his big beefy body as the sparks that were quick to rush so easily seized him like chains that were meant to keep him in place. And from deep within the recesses of Dom's mind--and even more as Aidan continued the swap of their lecherous teasing with how his other hand moved up to knead the muscle-alpha's other huge and juicy pec-breast that was yet to recover from the prior nipple sucking session that it had been so naughtily subject to, the pulling weight of that helplessness only goaded that creeping nag at the back of Dom's head--and all the more, it kept on with the perverted haunting. "--h--hn--oh..." Dom's ruggedly handsome features kept the wince as Aidan's firm suction was yet another easy jolt to his system that all he could do was shudder as he blindly tried to grab that hand that was kneading his swollen breast flesh like he was some cheap back alley muscle slut. The alternative was worse, after all. Thumb swiped over that drool coated nipple of his and all at once, the muscle-alpha found himself in the futile struggle against the phantom of his lecherous memory. Chained. Hoisted. Dom's huge pec-breasts were fully bared and even more obscenely presented with how the chains were so deliberately strapped around his body that they practically forced the heaving swell of his juicy muscle tits to just spill out so openly before them. Cultists. And with how Dom tried to struggle--to flex against such cursed restraints--the show that he had offered to them was just simply inevitable.That with how Aidan caused his massive muscle breasts to rise with yet another heave of his moan before the rolling swell just simply forced them to jiggle on to settle, the muscle-alpha remembered back then how his full and heavy pec-breasts jostled and swayed with his attempt for freedom. It didn't help that the Hale alpha's huge beefy muscle tits were just so fully exposed. So fully vulnerable. So fully ripe for their fucking lechery. That with how the damn cultists just simply had to reach for his protruding gumdrop nipples to woo his sensitive nubs with the vile sensations of that salve being generously applied to each, Dom was once more blinded in the haze of lust as he pushed his heaving breast firmer against Aidan's willing suckle. The blessed salve. The very drool of their old god. Dom didn't fucking know shit about damn old gods--fucking perverts or otherwise. All he knew was how he couldn't stop those fingers from slathering that slimy and suspicious substance all over his vulnerable nipples... all over his soft large and very sensitive areolas. Fuck. Another slippery circling from Aidan's thumbs, and Dom could easily remember that priest with his perverse glee on making Dom's nipples just glisten so sinfully with gobs after disgusting gobs of that sickeningly slimy saliva that he couldn't keep off of him since they so expertly pinned him for that salacious treatment. All he could do was groan--just like how the young bull's suckling had him throwing his head back once more for a helpless moan--all while he was forced to relive the sensations of that sinful tingle as the cursed slimy salve began to seep into his very nipples. Dom could only hiss. Buck. His hard cock that was just as exposed for their leering pleasure bobbed and belched that juicy dollop of precum as his alpha might just simply faltered against such unwelcome pleasures. He couldn't stop them from completing their vile ritual into preparing his large succulent nipples and the rest of his ridiculously huge muscle pec-breasts into becoming the very obscene vessels of their cult's blessed breast milk. And through it all, that tight and teetering sensation rose above the fantasy as Dom was quick to bite down on that moan before it managed to spill out and further pull the muscle-alpha deeper into indignity. But as Aidan remained adamant with how he began to pull at Dom's hard nipple with his teeth, the big beefy wolf was forced to yet another rush of white hot pleasure that thundered through him enough that he felt that firm throb straight down his already aching cock. No. Right there. All at once, Dom was confronted with the overwhelming wave of pleasure as he felt his moan melt somewhere within his chest and prodded at that pulse of sweet dull ache that jolted his dread to the fore. No. Fuck. Fucking-- "--g--nuh w-wait!" Dom gasped. But all at once, he felt his juicy pec-breasts pulse warmly from within as more of that swell began to push against the piling waves of pleasure that were already thrumming within the hefty fullness of each swollen tit-mound. Dom's free hand was quick to hold on. His claws dug into the edge of the couch's backrest as he himself felt the crippling wave of pleasure to which he could only squirm helplessly against as he continued to feel the aching swell. No. It can't be. Fuck. His fucking muscle tits. Fucking tight. Why does it feel like he's gonna fucking burst!? "Aidan!" Dom moaned. "--a--awhn--hg--!" But all that came for him was a growl that practically bit down on his sensitive nipple, and altogether, that white hot jolt of ecstasy just tore through him so relentlessly that his next moan barely made it out of the full and heavy swell of it all--even more as that certain electrifying pressure rushed right at the swollen crowning peaks of his big juicy man-mammaries. Fuck. No. Fuck. Aidan suckled still--and that alone sent Dom crashing into the sudden waves of pleasure that he didn't expect to still take hold. "Hnh--ah--" The crimson red of shame and lust burst through the muscle-alpha's rugged and already flustered features. Though with it, as his heavy beefy pec-breasts bloated upwards with how pleasure forced their obscene fullness to just jostle and bounce, Dom found himself grabbing at Aidan's wrist once more for a desperate hold that just came in a little too late. That suckle was enough. That pinch was enough. With the anxious pressure already thrumming at the old wolf's very nubs, each of his succulent and dangerously sensitive nipples gushed out a fat squirt of pure sweet muscle tit milk from that one singular need for release. Aidan felt it too. That gush practically burst inside his mouth after all. And sure enough, the reward came swift with how greed fueled his need to just suck harder that his mouth almost clamped fully around that puffy areola that further jolted the shock of pure pleasure straight down to the alpha's core. Please--somewhere in his heaving muscle breasts, Dom wanted to cry out as pleasure flooded through every fiber of his being that he almost thought he was losing his mind within the heady rush of its fiery wake. And through it, as the grip of his perverse memories laid its claim through his big beefy body, Dom felt that same paralyzing convulsion--that very seize where the entirety of his proud burgeoning heat was merely subject to utter surrender that even his feral might could not resist. Tentacles. A damn pump. A mouth. Even a mere squeeze. The vile familiarity of the sensations flooded through him as the pure rush of heat and humiliation burst within the same moment that his huge and milk-heavy pec-breasts exploded with that warm gush of milky sweetness that they have corrupted him with--the same milky release that fully turned his proud beefy alpha muscle pecs into bonafide juicy muscle bitch tits that were all plumped up for their perverted pleasure. Dom's eyes rolled before he found that sliver of control to keep his eyes shut--all while he weathered through the crippling pleasure that just claimed the obscene swell of his big beefy pec-tits. He bucked. Jiggled. And even then, Aidan remained unslaked as he just continued to drink so deep that his huge arms practically put Dom in a bear hug just to keep him in place. "F--fuck, s-son! G--gotta fucking stop!" the big beefy old wolf finally managed to growl as he clasped the back of Aidan's head tighter. But only for a second. That while the young bull suckled him still, mercy came from the dastardly milk that still remained in his juicy pec-breasts as they finally weakened in their spurts. And for a moment, while Dom's fingers splayed and scratched Aidan's hair gently as his other hand squeezed that massive shoulder quite affectionately, that fluster remained as the heaving Hale muscle-alpha pushed on to grab onto that erogenous relief that followed soon after and even permitted him to finally fucking breathe. Fuck. "G--gotta slow down f--r your old man, b-boy..." Dom sighed through his slackened mouth as his arm flexed into its proud boulder-sized mass from how his hand went from squeezing Aidan's shoulder to combing through his own damp hair as they both reeked of that sweet musky hint of sex-wrought sweat. Fucking--hell. At the very least Aidan grew gentler in his tease as he began to mouth around the old wolf's swollen nipple while he himself pushed the labored heaves of his warm and shallow breaths against Dom's own heaving muscle breasts. The muscle-bound alpha released him then as he still tried to catch his breath--and it was all the more of a chance for him to further take control as he squeezed his large hand between the two of them so he could press his own knead against the beefy swell of his juicy pec-breast. The tightness was gone, at least. Though with how the heel of his palm grazed against his engorged nipple, Dom was quick to breathe out a shaky sigh while Aidan remained careful with his kisses across the rise of the old wolf's proud muscle tits. "Was--was I good, sir?" Fuck. Dom's brown eyes met those blues once again. And with the rolling fire still dancing over their heaving forms, the proud alpha felt his own power come back with another deep breath before it tempted his lips into curling for a smile as he couldn't help but growl out a damn chuckle. Damn muscle bull. Aidan's eyes were leaded with lust and yet they still sparkled all sweet for him just like how his plump lips glistened with how he licked for the milk that clung to the scruff on his upper lip. Damn muscle bull indeed. All fucking big and beefy, but damn adorable all the same. Derek should really tell him where he got him. Fuck. And with another chuckle, Dom still tried to blink through it--still tried to catch his breath. And all the more, his proud beefy muscle pec-breasts shuddered in their obscene swell as the hoarse groans came easier now that the sensations were demanding less of him. But as the both of them tried to take that breather, most of that heat still remained--and still remained between them too. And with the Hale muscle-alpha snarling on for another labored heave for air, he easily caught how that scent of warm sweet musk and passion still remained thick in the air around them as well. Fuck. That damn word was the only thing flashing in his head right then as the blur was just making it hard to fucking think. And with another heave, Dom turned his gaze back down onto Aidan and let his hands move along the broad boulders of his shoulders. At least it was enough to get the man's attention--though it wasn't like Aidan had relented from his need and mission to be validated anyway. Dom would never fault him for that either--damn muscle bull. His damn muscle bull. And with how he tried to squeeze those massive delts in some attempt to woo the young stud, Dom felt his brows furrow through his slack-mouthed smirk as the fading sparks continued their coursing tease through him and had him feel that frustrated ache that still remained right in him as well. That frustrated throb. Hard. Angry. "--h--hmmgh--" the old wolf was quick to lick his lips as his big beefy body succumbed once more into a rolling shudder that had him bucking once more into the sensual flow of his heaving brawn. There. Dom chuckled softly as he let his hand stroke Aidan's cheek before giving it a light slap. "No--" Dom watched how his sweet beefy muscle bull frowned--and all the more, that twinge that crept past his core just went straight into that firm heat that the old wolf was still packing. Damn right. Damn muscle bull. And Dom ain't done with him just fucking yet. "--not yet..." Dom continued with a smirk that melted into a soft grunt as his clasp onto the young bull's shoulder turned into something more of a nudge to have him ease up--even just for a bit. And while the old wolf continued to breathe on and groan through the remnants of his lust that remained shy from the full heat that he needed quelled, Aidan seemed like he shared the same sentiment as he was quick to heed and even quicker to act--and with a thick low groan that he breathed out of his own beefy muscle-jock pec-tits, the young bull's massive arm threatened the strain of his of shirt's sleeve once more as he grabbed onto the edge of the couch's backrest to finally push himself off of Dom's imposing brawn. And sure enough, as the cold breeze mingled with the slight parting of their heated and heaving forms, Dom's deeper sigh quickly confronted him with this stronger coil of need within his core that further made its demands be heard from yet another throb that Dom just had to breathe through. "I mean... you just had to see what you've done, son..." Once more, the old wolf's voice grew low and steady--all before he let out another hum of a sigh while he also took his turn to ease back up against the armrest where he could properly present himself once again. It wasn't like it was some secret--especially not when Dom had been almost naked all throughout their little muscle-bound tryst. Right there. "--see?" The Hale muscle-alpha bucked. And with it, he had the young bull confront the hard and throbbing reality of Dom's situation. "Look at what you've done to daddy's fucking cock, son..." Dom continued as he let his beefy muscle breasts rise for another proud heave and swell meant to chase the teasing tension down into the slow ripple of his hard abdomen before he practically wagged his bulging crotch for Aidan to see. Damn right. "--you got daddy all aching and throbbing right here..." The old wolf's tease melted into a soft deep chuckle while his jock-clad cock finally came into a better--and more vulgar--view with how his fully swollen fuck meat just stretched the poor thing to the point of thinning as well. Even that fashionable cutout above the pouch had been stretched forward with how his engorged cock just demanded whatever space that it could stretch out into as it pulsed and throbbed in the wiles of the pure and heated need to fuck and rut. At that point the designed hole was practically pushing the reddened meat of the wolf's fat and firm shaft out of it--even more as the peephole was just simply stretched over the girth that was already peeking out that its once half circle shape was looking more like a long hole. And in that small naughty window of the jock pouch that exposed some of that juicy cock meat, anyone would've noticed how a vein ran across the length of it before disappearing under that poor stretch of cotton. Or tried to. Even then, a trained eye would've still discerned how the vein made an impression against the fabric--just like how that fat knob of a cockhead remained easily detected as its engorged state practically forced the pouch to cling to it like a second skin. On a brighter day anyone might have noticed the flesh tone of the fabric too from how much of Dom's cock was peeking through the weave of the material. Though then again, as Dom felt himself throb on from the most minute act of trying to readjust himself into that inviting splay of his legs, the fireplace light had easily shown how the fabric seemed to thin itself more with how the half the pouch was almost wet and see through. After all, it had already soaked up much, if not all, of the old wolf's potent muscle-alpha precum. That wet spot was truly obscene, really--even more when one could stop and think about how the pouch had been soiled wet from the copious amount of virile cock juice that it clung tighter and stickier around that fat juicy muscle-alpha cockhead. The entirety of it had become fully discernible at that point despite the pathetic coverage. And with how that ramrod fuck meat remained stubborn in its full mast frustration, what throb that still came as Dom settled back on the couch only made his cock push against that skimpy pouch even more that it practically looked like a straight stretch of fabric that only covered his cockhead at that point--or tried to. The sides of his shaft were already fully peeking out, veins and all--and the exposed flesh all red and glistening too with the angry pulsation that only made it fatter. And with how Dom splayed his legs apart even more, the heavy plumpness of his juicy balls just rolled to the side as a little more of that nagging throb furthered the threat with how the edge of the fabric began to ease over the impression of that cockhead's ridge. Fuck. Damn fuck. Dom sighed at the sight of his own obscene display before teasing out almost a coy yet goading chuckle. The damn thing's practically hanging on by a thread. And the funnier part was, just like how it was with Dom's damn beefy muscle tits, the old wolf's cock was just so dangerously and deliciously close to exposing itself to the open simply because it was just so big, fat, and meaty--and all of which was just as much of a regular occurrence to him... just like how all it took was another throb for a bead of precum to finally form over the very peak of that pitched tent of a jock pouch as the poor thing just couldn't absorb it anymore. The big beefy Hale alpha really was just too damn ripe and virile for his own damn good. "Shit--fucking got me on the verge of bursting..." Dom hummed through another chuckle and yet another throb came with it--and with how the heaving wolf bucked on with a slight roll of his hips, his already angry cock pushed on with more of its demanding throb and began to lift the waistband of his jockstrap just enough to let the small tuft of his coarse pubes peek out just a bit more. "...fuck..." Aidan cursed under the heave of his own breath as he eased backwards and downwards to try and level himself with it--and the mere sight of a big beefy stud sinking down to pay reverence to that big fat muscle-alpha cock was all the more a goad in Dom's lust that he couldn't help but tease Aidan with another throb that practically had it sway and bob in its heavy hardness. "Told you to slow down..." Dom's voice lowered while his tone became playful in its teasing pointedness. And with how that stray sparks of lust still swarmed from within him all because the main core of his need was yet to be tended to, Dom just had to feel some kind of temper onto his own self as he began to knead his own beefy pec-tits. Of course, there was some hidden relief there--not only from the actual relief from the pressure, but also relief that the remnants had been milked out of him and kept the pride within his big beefy muscle breasts all the same and just in time... and within the privacy that he enjoyed. What was too late was how his nagging heat had fully settled into the warm heft of his balls and into the proud throb of his meaty ramrod cock that even a slight twitch was enough to spark a vulgar pulse and an even more vulgar drool of yet another gooey bead of pre. "--but you just had to lap up all of daddy's muscle tit milk, didn't you? And now you got daddy's cock all angry..." Dom teased on with a slight buck. And all the more, as that pouch remained under constant threat from how it was forced to stretch, what little movement was enough for the hem to finally slide off of the crown of his swollen knob and fully expose the red firmness of it from the sides. "O--oh..." Fuck. Dom cooed, low and playful, before he let the round heaving peaks of his juicy pec-breasts to roll for another husky sigh. He couldn't see much of his meaty cock from how he couldn't really see past the huge swell of his beefy muscle tits--but he was at least endowed enough that he could see his halfway and all the way up to the juicy knob of his drooling cockhead... which was enough for him to see how the jockstrap pouch was only merely protecting his piss slit at this point from how the poor thing decided to succumb to such a treacherous malfunction. "I think you should take care of it, yeah?" Dom bucked once more as Aidan settled onto his spot on all fours--and even higher still as Aidan let his hand rub along the thick meaty mass of the muscle-alpha's bare thigh. Of course, it warranted another throb--and another as Aidan used his other hand to tease along the side of the old wolf's girthy and veiny shaft with how he let his knuckles graze along like Dom's cock was some tender lover. It warranted precum too. From how Dom had just endured having his big juicy muscle breasts nursed to the point of his rather flustered surrender, the rest of his body was just dangerously primed and anxious for that bigger and creamier release. Dom didn't even want to admit it yet, but he knew that there might be a looming challenge for him to get a grip on himself--especially since the gentle tease that he was getting was already conjuring up some of that perverted haunting once again. Damn fucker. He could easily think about some creep who was just caressing his big meaty muscle-alpha cock like that... like a savored treasure--and the damn bastard taking their time knowing that Dom is all helpless and hard. Powerless from the threat of some perverted milking. The memory was an easy tense--and the easy tense was an easy throb that pushed another fat drop of pre right at that barely protected tip of his throbbing fuck meat. Fuck. Dom blinked through another heave of his swollen pec-breasts as he pushed them together like he was trying to push that air inside his chest so he could breathe. "--this is your mess now, son... and I like it when my boys clean up after themselves..." Once more, as Dom let the wooing sensation cause his eyes to flutter shut for a moment, he let that crawling wave course through him and goad him to labor a heave to rise--all before his gaze settled back on his young bull with the same heated and half-lidded regard while he breathed out that gripping tension through his parted lips. Fuck. The anticipation was just teetering right along the edge--and even more as Aidan, in turn, let out a shaky sigh right over his pulsing meat. Dom could feel that warm air almost wrap around his cock like it was yet another tease of a looming mouth. Of course he just had to buck to it and ultimately meet the sensation of those thick fingers sliding underneath the soaked and sticky stretch of the pathetic fabric to take its claim on Dom's cock with its grasp--or tried to. Though even still, it was more than enough of a sensation to spur those familiar sparks through the heaving muscle-alpha--welcomed or otherwise. That with how Aidan's fingers tried to tighten around it and urged Dom's cock to continue on with its burgeoning betrayal that it just had to throb against the touch and shamelessly admit to the dangerously ripe fullness of its potent virility, the old wolf just had to bite down on his snarl once more before he lost himself to first of the many teases that he would have to endure for the night. "F-fuck... son..." Dom felt Aidan plant a mouthed kiss over the slit that was only protected by that thin fabric, and all at once, that small twinge of shame trickled into that throbbing need that kept the mighty muscle-alpha hostage--and even more as the gentle yet pointed spark of pleasure easily coaxed a small spurt of his equally potent precum that Aidan had hummed his lips against in appreciation. "...awh--f f--hn..." the old wolf tried to force his words through the already labored push of his sigh before he felt himself sink back and rear his head upwards to further push that deeper sigh to spill out. Damn right. Fuck. There's no fucking going back. And the thought only pushed itself further into realization as that grip tightened a bit more for the mere purpose of keeping Dom's fat throbbing ramrod cock steady while his primed nerves jolted through him from the simple feeling of that tiny piece of fabric sliding aside his already sensitive cock head. The damn thing even clung against the firm spongy flesh of his swollen cockhead just firmly enough that it tugged at the very edge of his piss slit for a moment and forced it to part just a bit--but the bit was enough to urge more of Dom's preciously potent precum to drool out in obscene globs as if they had been yearning to seep out and free themselves from the old wolf's already throbbing and cum-overloaded fuck meat. And it was all the more a goad to Aidan's greed as he gave that last pull at the pouch. "H--ah..." Just like that, Dom's big fat muscle-alpha cock finally bobbed out into its own freedom with how it shamelessly throbbed against the open air--shamelessly and blindly throbbed. Blindly bucked. Blindly drooled. The Hale alpha's meaty ramrod cock wouldn't really know friend from foe, really. All it knew was that it was achingly hard and even more achingly full and ready to fucking blow that load in equal blindness--whoever was trying to make Dom surrender his very essence, all creamy and potent, was of no consequence as far as the demands of his menacing arousal goes. Sensual satisfaction? Haunting humiliation? The rush of conquering triumph? The sinful despair of defeat? That was Dom's problem. And the way his cock so easily surrendered more of his sweet alpha precum in even greater bubbling gushes was all the more an encouragement for the eager young bull to keep on despite the obvious failure of his grip--and all the while, the heaving muscle-bound patriarch had found himself wrestling with his perverted phantoms once more. "H-oly--shit, sir..." Dom had at least some low chuckle to tease Aidan with as the young bull continued to pump his cock and let the naughty trickle of his copious and juicy precum just drip along those thick fingers that failed to completely take hold of that stubborn girth. And it didn't fucking take long for those slick wet sounds to fill their quiet groans and hums too as the young stud was just as eager to spread that sinful nectar all over Dom's length with how he slowly let his grip slide up and down along the entirety of it--not that it was some hard task after all. Dom's cock blindly throbbed. Blindly drooled. The big beefy muscle-alpha was just as guilty to the mess that they were making from how his cock so easily surrendered to the sensations and the growing heat from within him--so much so that it had now come into a constant leak... just like how the constant wave of pleasure goaded the woos of heat that coursed through the old wolf. Dom was just too damn horny for his own good that the prior game they played was already way too much stimulation for him. Now his cock was practically pushed past the point of no return as another throb was easily another gooey belch of his generously slimy precum. Fuck. Dom moaned. Tried too. And once more, the swollen roundness of his huge pec-breasts rose for another labored push for a sigh--and even more as Dom was compelled to squeeze and feel up his own muscle tits as if it was the only way he could try and expel the taunting lust like they were some kind of massive stress balls. Though even then, his body so easily succumbed to the demands of its own betrayal--and his own greedy need--as he just couldn't help himself for another helping of that pleasant sparks wrought from another slow rut from how he fucked his fat alpha cock right into Aidan's reverent grip. His precum practically spurted this time. Shameless. Obscene. Dom could only bite down on a moan once more as he felt the tingling fluster of his own guilt paint his cheeks with the same red. "Damn--your big cock's leaking so fucking much, sir..." Fuck. Damn right--damn ripe for his own good. And with how Aidan began to twist his grip and finally pressed his thumb against that sensitive stretch of skin just under Dom's piss slit, the mighty Hale muscle-alpha felt the sudden wave of pleasure flood through him that it effectively drowned out what moan had tried to spill out with his cry. Fuck. And so did his cock. Dom gave a thrust into that grip--and all the more, the dangerously sensitive underside of his swollen cockhead was further subject to the tease as Aidan's thumb circled against that very spot. And still, the old wolf piled onto his own demise by giving up another juicy squirt of precum and effectively doubled the pleasure with how the thumb felt even slicker against his nerves. Slicker in his ear too. Wet. Vulgar. Slimy. His cock had fully turned into the fat, pulsing, font of lechery with how it continued on to indulge into the pleasure it so blindly sought. At that point all that Dom needed to hear was some disgusting chuckle--of some creep taunting the big beefy muscle-alpha with his triumph as Dom's virile lust would've fully betrayed him and kept him deep in the clutches of those vile fiends. In his memories, he was once more a captive--and once more, he'd be on the damn losing end as he would've been unable to protect his meaty cock from their disgustingly perverted desires. They would've ensnared him with their schemes. Magic? Drugs? Fuck. Even their plain touches would've done Dom in as he had always been so dangerously ripe for his own good. His fucking tits? Easy targets. And right then, as Dom bucked against Aidan's hand, he even felt himself clench and twitch deep within the flex of his big fat muscle ass as they would've found their way in there too. All of his secret sweet spots. Dom would feel their disgusting teasing right where he was weak and just like that his cock would've shamelessly throbbed into its full and proud firmness. Eager. Ready. Fucking horny muscle-alpha that he is--fucking horny muscle beast with his cock that blindly throbbed. Blindly bucked. Blindly drooled. And that special guilt he had for himself taunted him too. His arrogance. His recklessness. Aidan squeezed. Dom couldn't help but throw his head back for another moan pushed out from the equally obscene heave of his big beefy pec-breasts as the sensations further goaded the darker taunts of his fantasies. It was so fucking easy to remember how many times Dom snooped around such suspect places in the full nudity post-shift--so fucking easy to remember how he just proudly sauntered about and let the fires of his feral nature just course through him and indulge through that somewhat desolate lonesome. Fuck. Yeah. Damn right. Dom was partly at fault too for the times that he had tried to investigate or pursue their quarry with his cock fully out. Fully hard. Fully leaking. It was simply just nature--and his arrogance. And it made him such an easy target one or a couple of times. All they needed was to reach for it just like how their vile groping reached for his tits. His cock wouldn't have cared beyond the potential for release. It would easily surrender--and the mighty Hale muscle-alpha right along with it. "And it's all your fault, son--being such a tease for daddy..." Dom pushed through the haze to keep the goad on the young bull, at least. Right there, despite the haunting that teased him and compounded his ever growing heat, he still had power--even enough to spark that arrogance even more as he tried to mold the shame into the indulgence that he so fucking needed. "...now you got daddy making such a big mess with his cock..." he hummed--then finally moaned as Aidan finally let his mouth clamp over the plump knob of Dom's cockhead. Fuck. The sensuous moan was quick to smother out into yet another breathless cry as Dom practically convulsed into pushing more of himself into that greedy maw. And all at once, more of that white hot pleasure easily surged through the mighty muscle-alpha as Aidan so duly accepted the claim in the hot wet tightness of his sweet mouth--and even more in his needy suction. Fuck. Aidan sure did love that muscle-alpha cock--just like those damn creeps that so eagerly preyed on to Dom's self-incriminating virility. And with another slow push that had Aidan's hot breath crawl down past that swollen cockhead and along the edge of that thick meaty shaft, it was just as easy for Dom to remember someone else's mouth engulfing the same mighty and menacing girth that the Hale muscle-alpha so proudly possessed. That no matter how much he struggled--how much he tried to flex his big beefy muscles to further claim the power that he needed to free himself from such vile clutches--taking advantage of his ripe brawn seemed to come second nature to them. Even the way their tongue slithered as if to seek the very source from his piss slit was enough to make the muscle-alpha growl as he felt Aidan do the same with a playful swirl of his soft wet tongue that immediately had Dom spurting his pre right onto those awaiting taste buds. And all the more, weakness came with the unwelcome pleasure as those fiends continued to have their merry perverted way through him. Yeah. Those alternatives weren't all the better--almost as if the Hale muscle-alpha's pure might was also his curse as the testosterone-laden and raw beastly power that coursed through him reflected itself into the very essence within the gooey and potent seed of his very being. Aidan finally clamped. Dom grunted. Pushed. All the more those cultists came into the fore of his taunting memories. Chained. Trapped. Dom could easily remember how he was confronted by the demise of his own humiliation as those fucking bastards so expertly teased and toyed with his thick and throbbing muscle-alpha cock. All slick with his precum. All slippery with their concoctions. Dom tried his hardest to resist, to not give into that perverse surrender. Of course, failure came with a moan that he tried to keep and a pride marred from having to succumb to their lecherous wiles. They had him give unto them what they so badly wanted from him and his big beefy muscle-alpha brawn as the same pleasure that crawled through him in his slow and firm bucks into Aidan's mouth was the same pleasure that milked every drop of his thick and creamy alpha seed that he so shamefully surrendered onto their readied vessels. He couldn't help it... how they fucking pleasured him into unwanted completion. Dom fucking filled heir cups to brim too as his ripe juicy alpha balls was just ready to burst. Too fucking ripe. Too fucking virile. And with how Aidan took more of him through his own gusto and Dom's own push for that release that he was trying to chase, Dom just knew he needed to do the same to his young muscle bull too. Dom has had his fair share of admirers too, after all. Bitches. Fucking Peter. The muscle-alpha even had his fair share of even more pathetic creeps whose only power was to throw any price at him just so they could taste him for a night--and they'd be so lucky to have Dom in such a bullishly horny state... enough for them to leave him with more than what they had promised. Damn right. And with how Aidan so eagerly worshiped his body--and even more so now that Dom could only growl as the young bull had him close to halfway--that newer drive within him just began to blaze along the rush and rise of his big beefy muscle breasts. He pushed. Aidan moaned through whatever sloppy sound that just burst around Dom's meaty alpha cock. And with the tight wet heat that Dom could feel all over his throbbing girth, that need--that demand--just further stoked whatever rush that came through him. Fuck. "F--fucking get it, son!" Dom finally snarled as he grabbed Aidan's locks once more in a firm curl of his fingers--and with the young bull in place, there really was no way for Dom's fat muscle-alpha cock to push but fucking in. Firmer. Harder. All the more the wet sloppy sounds and sensations of that eager mouth fanned the flames that goaded Dom to roll his hips into the rhythm that his body--his cock--was completely ensnared into. Ah--yeah? Those strong brows furrowed with the old wolf's sterner and hungrier wince. "Y--you fucking want it? Yeah--fucking get it, y-you greedy bitch!" The alpha's snarl roiled louder with an equally rough jostle of his huge pec-breasts as if he was trying to rise above the cloy of those haunted perversions--of his shame. Damn right. Aidan moaned. Coughed. But even still, Dom thrust deeper into Aidan's mouth and into the rhythm of that face-fucking as he knew--they knew--damn well who calls the fucking shots. And deeper still, the Hale muscle-alpha crammed his big fat cock right in that mouth like the true fucking ramrod that it is and felt that moaning and tightening reward meet him in the middle of the sinful and secret heat that they fucking shared. And with Aidan's hand tightening around the fat base--all while his other hand tried to paw at Dom's bouncing breast--the old wolf was all the more pumped for that push as they both knew then that there was nothing more important than his pleasure. Daddy's pleasure. The alpha's fucking pleasure. Fuck. Fuck yeah-- "H--hngaah! Ah--aw fuck, son! H--hnaah--aw yea--!" Dom could just feel those lips tighten into a sweet juicy lock. He could just fucking feel those cheeks hollow out. And with how the mighty muscle-alpha tried to force more of his juicy cock right into the blond stud's gullet, that slither of that tongue dancing underneath the sensitive underside of his throbbing cock was all the more a jolt to his system that urged him to shudder into a heave of a lust-filled cry. Fuck. "Ghn--na--aw sh--t!" Dom's moan broke into a howl as he threw his head back from the dizzying high of that rolling pleasure. Fucking hell--Aidan's hot mouth felt so damn fucking good. And through that fiery haze of the old wolf's own demanding hedonism, that spark of temptation came so damn easy as he let his hand move back down to squeeze at the young bull's massive shoulder. Fuck. Derek. Dom wondered if this beefy bitch and his equally juicy bitch of a son fooled around like this. Though through that choking tightness, and that wet sloppy fucking heat, that clenched around Dom's ramrod fuck meat that had him belching out a juicy burst of pure muscle-alpha precum, the old wolf's darker desires took its turn to roll through him--just as how he rolled his hips firm and tight to pound his throbbing meaty rod into the eager bull's hungry throat. Nah. Derek is as much of a muscle bitch as his sweet fucking bull stud of a friend. And with another wave of burning surrender that had him slamming his head back for a cry as sweat and swell painted that glistening sheen all over his big beefy muscle-alpha tits as they heaved on to push out another deep and melodious moan, Dom succumbed to his indulgence even more as he let himself conjure up that image of Aidan and Derek both worshiping the cock that owned and ruled over them. Damn right--right there. Dom's cock throbbed. It lurched against the wet tight heat. And when that sudden rush of wet pop had his cock plopping upwards within Aidan's still squeezing grip, Dom swore that he was about to see stars flash behind the back of his head as the sudden change of sensations had him reeling just enough to surrender into another squirt of sweet pre while he tried to chase that hot mouth with a hard buck. "B-boy!" Dom's growl practically rolled out through his snarl. Though with that harsh groan that enveloped his teetering and throbbing cock as Aidan tried to catch his breath, the old wolf forced himself to blink through it and keep a firm grasp onto himself too. Dom could fucking offer mercy--but he sure as well won't cum until he's plugged inside something. Besides, Aidan's tongue still managed to woo his desperately pulsing heat as the young bull licked a fat yet trembling stripe along the menacing length of his fat cock. "I lied, sir--" Aidan began as he began to mouth along that shaft once more as he tried to suckle the dripping precum that his lips could catch. How Dom heard those words, he didn't know--and how his face looked with his brows furrowed in confusion? He didn't fucking know either. "Beer's good, sir--but I like it hot on my throat." Fucking bitch. "Goddammit, boy--" Dom's massive muscle pec-breasts rose in an erratic swell to push out that equally erratic chuckle--and even more as Aidan's sweet all-American face softened into that dimpled smirk of his, and all while he's all sweaty and flustered with that same damn lust that Dom had been trying to ride. His young bull was trying to be all cute and charming--fucking shit. Dom licked his lips as that warmer amusement rolled with the swell of burning lust deep within the bulging masses of his huge alpha muscle tits. Seriously. Where the fuck did Derek snag this damn stud? "Good thing you're getting daddy so fucking damn close--" Dom growled as his ruggedly handsome face winced through his determined lust. He bucked his hips then--he tried to fucking wag his angry-red and veiny ramrod cock as it glistened so obscenely with spittle and precum. And sure enough, Dom was right up there in heaven once again as Aidan put his mouth to work and sheathed that cock back into his damn throat. How Dom tried to splay himself wider to accommodate the more vigorous and eager bobs of that mouth onto and around his cock was almost a blur at that point--especially so as the sudden change of pace only made him more desperate for that damn release. But at the very least, Aidan was a little more earnest with it. Slow but deep. Fuck. "O--ooh yeah..." Dom easily felt himself sink into that lull as the steady descent to take most of him was already enough to make that sweet sweet cloy of pleasure crawl through him once more--and even more than enough for him to roll his hips into another slow yet firm buck to meet it. Damn right. Right there. Dom pushed and felt that deeper warmth welcome his cock with a clench as the slither of that tongue came back to torment him with its own wiles too. Fuck. Damn fucking hell he was close. "All for you, s--son..." Dom urged through a growl as he found himself tilting back once more to breathe out what his big beefy pec-breasts were swelling into--all while his hips continued to ride that thrusting rhythm into that mouth as the sensual rolls of his heaving body took to form once again. Fuck. The mighty Hale muscle-alpha groaned into another wet push as he felt the muscles of that throat tighten into that gulp--yet another cue for his cock to throb and spurt right into that willing goal. And with Aidan readjusted, Dom's thrusts felt smoother this time--even if the young bull still had to try to accommodate the girth of it all with his eager moans and even sloppier coughs. Fuck. Even Aidan's mouth felt greedier then. And who the fuck was Dom to deny his pretty stud the gift of a cock to choke on to? If anything, the old wolf was sure to match the pace--especially since it was the very fuel to the heat that they shared. That with Aidan bobbing down to take more of the cock that he was hungry for and even pausing to just feel that throbbing girth inside his mouth while he continued the praise with his tongue, the old wolf just had to give back--throb back. Fuck yeah. Damn fucking right. Dom's big beefy muscle tits rose once more for another groan as he too flexed hard to keep that cock inside that hot wet tightness all before he gave another buck that was sure to goad a drooling cough from the young bull from how he pressed against the back of that throat. And with it, with that clenching wetness welcoming him still, the mighty muscle-alpha felt his eyes roll back while precum and dribble began to pool at the base of his cock. All over his balls. Along the sensitive sides of his crotch. Even lower too. Dom just fucking pushed. And in turn, he felt himself clench. And it was in that shudder that he felt rush through him that further goaded at that anxious pressure that had been keeping him in its grip. Fuck--fuck it. Dom's hand blindly reached for the backrest--and once more, his bicep swelled into the gigantic boulder of its proud flex and hardened just enough for him to bury his face against as he tried to reach the back of his head instead. God. Right there. That tightening feeling wasn't just Aidan's throat anymore. That with how he pushed back into that sucking wetness, Dom could feel his cock just throb right to the edge with that familiar rise that bubbled towards the tip. Fuck. Right fucking there. More. So fucking close. Aidan sucked him harder in turn. Longer. And all the more, that pleasure and pressure pulsed right there within Dom's cock that he could just feel his toes fucking curl before he felt finally that jolt that sparked his core to convulse. The rest of him just followed suit then. Even the obscene swell of the old wolf's big beefy pec-breasts tightened before they rolled into their heavy jiggle. Even his big fat beach-ball muscle ass clenched and let the sensations sink right there in between as that tightly kept alpha pucker twitched just as much--and even more as spit and precum that had already trickled past his balls and taint had managed to reach that secret sweet spot of quivering heat. But all the while, Dom was practically blinded with that fucking burning need and burning lust. Blindly thrusting. Blindly throbbing. All for that most singular need to fucking cum. And with Aidan coming down on him for one last time, Dom felt every bit of him fucking rush right into the very core of his being and finally pushed for that equally blinding release--all before another push forced every nerve within him to explode in violent delight. For a moment, everything within the mighty Hale alpha just turned white. Dom's balls fucking tightened. His cock lurched. And as Aidan managed to push his thick finger past the old wolf's tight defense--no thanks to the slick of spit and precum that had trickled right into the target--Dom was once more pulled into the familiar maelstrom of torturous pleasure and complete surrender. That without a lungful of air to cry out that sound of utter ecstasy, and with every bit of him all flexed hard and tight for that one thunderous moment, the way the mighty muscle-alpha just felt himself explode inside Aidan's mouth was more than enough for him to get even more lost in the whirlwind of euphoria. Fuck. "G--gh--n awh--!" That moan came broken as jagged bolts of pleasure forced Dom to convulse even more as the flood of release was a flood of pleasure that washed away all his hold on control--that with how his smooth tight muscle pucker twitched and clenched around the sudden invasion of that damn finger, Dom was trapped in the moment that only permitted that same worming digit to push in deeper. Harder. Dom felt it ease--fucking felt it thrust. But as white hot pleasure wracked through his very mind and soul, the old wolf only had another soundless moan to cry out as he was merely forced to surrender another gooey burst of his creamy alpha jizz right into his bull's gullet. And all the more, Aidan gulped--and all the more his finger pushed and sought Dom deeper and even had him feel that buzzing pleasure from the way he twisted and stroked against the fluttering clenches of the alpha's incriminating tightness. Dom in turn just continued to ride through the quaking sensations as his hands blindly sought purchase. Something to grab onto. Something to hold onto. Something to fucking anchor him as wave after wave of pleasure battered through him and forced this cock to just simply throb and burst before he finally managed to somewhat break through the damn surface of the exhilirating storm. "F--fuck--h haah!" Dom finally cried out in low bellow--almost a sob--as ecstasy remained paramount and in control of his entire brawn. Everything was just right there in his unabashedly hard and uncontrollably impatient cock as another thrust of that finger milked out another thrust from his hips and urged another creamy burst of his potent seed to just come forth and have the rush pummel right back into him with a hammering bout of white hot pleasure in its wake. Fuck. Fucking--hell. "H--hnughn--" Another jostling swell of Dom's big beefy breasts was yet another spill of a moan. And with his hand finally finding purchase against that heaving form that continued to bounce on his gushing firehose of a cock, Dom could only grab onto Aidan's hair and his massive shoulder before he finally gave into the sinful rhythm of that sly gambit. An even deeper push and Dom was just completely consumed. That little bundle of nerves right within the very seat of his thrumming pleasure was more than enough to just fully drown him in the spinning rush of it all. All he could do was clench. All he could do was grind against that finger that fucked his tight little muscle hole and taunt his very prostate. All he could do was grab onto Aidan to the point of crumpling the stretch of his shirt almost to a rip as he just fucked that sweet fucking mouth of his for all it's worth. Cum. And there was just more and more of it. All thick. All hot. Fucking gooey. Fucking potent. It was almost a thick concentrate of the muscle-alpha's testosteron-laden essence as it just blindly flooded Aidan's mouth with the generous ropes of its messy slimy bursts like his mouth was some tight pussy that was meant to be inseminated. Over and over. Every thrust was another spurt. Every nudge of that finger was another spurt. Even when Aidan finally began to choke as his greedy gulps failed to keep up with how Dom just fucked that warm creamy jizz right into his tight gullet, his thick ramrod cock even pulsed into needy impatience--so much so that it felt like it was already trying to fill that throat with another rope of hot gooey cum right when that same throbbing cock was still fucking spewing. Dom could only groan on as cum began to dribble in a messy spill from Aidan's mouth while he still tried to suck him. Milk him. That even when that white hot globs of creamy surrender trickled along the same path between his legs--even right past his balls--the heaving muscle-alpha only had a deeper moan to offer as that finger practically fucked his own cum right back into him. That sticky and slick nudge It was all the more a jolt that rode along the waves of pleasure that seized the mighty muscle-alpha--and all the more a jolt that had him feel that other rush burst through the helpless wince of his beautiful and rugged features as he tried to push out another soundless cry. Weaker, sure, but sparks still surged through his still throbbing cock just as much, all for another gooey spurt enough to quake through his already writhing brawn--just like how he felt himself quiver around that slow yet deep nudge of that naughty invader that still pushed into the very clench of his tight, hot, muscle-alpha heat. Fuck. "--h--hnuh--" Dom's huge beefy pec-breasts jiggled on with the curl of his fingers--and all the more, as pleasure still taunted and coiled, that flustered bloom all over his face only deepened just because he couldn't help but roll his hips once more for a thrust and a creamy spurt of yet another rope of cum into Aidan's throat... that, and because he couldn't help but fuck himself a little bit more against that damn finger and feel how the jolts deep within seemed to reach those hidden knots of heat and goad them into exploding into their euphoric purge. Fucking--hell. The mighty old wolf hissed. Growled. With another rolling heave of his big beefy muscle breasts into the round juicy swells, Dom just knew that he had to will his gigantic and godly brawn into a buck and yet another thrust--and once more succumb to that pad pushing against the anxious firmness of his little secret bitch button to further quell the betrayal of his own long-held frustrations. Even Aidan had to come up eventually and wipe the mess all over his mouth and have his massive arm flex for that swipe and his own heave, all while he finally managed to take all of Dom's slimy climax within him with a firm swallow and an ecstatic groan through another labored sigh. Though mercy was still yet to find the old wolf as that wet pop of release had Dom crying out a deep yet helplessly sultry moan from how the suction that was keeping his nerves held together just released them all once all over the obscene and menacing hardness of the still throbbing and obscene thickness of his veiny fuckmeat of a cock--so much so that the onset of that post-orgasmic sensitivity forced him upwards for another thrust into the empty air and felt those delicious pulses of firm and resolved release just--just fucking spurt out of him. And somewhere in the blur that Dom was fighting through, Aidan groaned as the Hale muscle-alpha's attempt to chase that mouth had him busting those generous bursts of his creamy jizz all over the young bull's pretty face before he himself cried out a soft groan from how that strong hand grasped his cock once more to rear its ride through the steadily dissipating wave of utter pleasure. Though even still, with that finger still inside the alpha's hot, virgin-tight muscle hole, Dom still had a little more left in him. That with how that little nudge compelled him to thrust, it became his body's turn to take the blow as sinful heat after damn sinful heat began to splatter across the beefy swells of his huge juicy pec-breasts---all from how the gooey streaks of his potent muscle-alpha cum just fucking painted his deliciously full and heavy tits. One even easily splattered right on his large gumdrop nipple. An easy fucking target--and even more as his succulent nipples had remained so pert. And with how Dom just had to force his massive muscle milkers to roll through another labored need to breathe, the thick gooey clump so easily slid down to coat that fat nipple nub before melting along the wide puffiness of his equally sensitive areola. "F--fuck--hhna..." the word just simply spilled out of Dom's slackened mouth as his tongue practically lolled out from the mere exhaustion that almost kept him in the dark from the sheer impact of blinding ecstasy--and it didn't help that their only light was from the dancing blaze of the fireplace and whatever moonlight managed to spill from their windows. And right then, a perverted phantom so easily reached from the darkness as Dom rode through a couple of those even weaker spurts that he felt pool all over the hard cobbles of his rippling abdomen. Fuck. Breathe. One of the old wolf's large hands grabbed the top of the couch's backrest once more while the other pressed against his wincing face as if he needed to finally wipe both fluster and euphoria--and sweat--off of his face to get his stern pride right on back. Once again, his arms just fucking bulged into giant boulders while the mountainous heave of his big juicy muscle breasts just had to keep on with the roll as he continued to breathe through his damn mouth with the even ebbs of his hoarse groans. Fuck. Breathe. Finally, at least, Aidan pulled out. "O--oh--" Fuck. Somewhere in there, Dom let out a soft moan. But even still, that last haunt remained as the old wolf just felt himself work through another deep groan while the rest of him still thrummed. The rest of him still shuddered. Bucked. How fucking lucky would some creep be to see him like that. A big beefy mighty muscle-alpha all splayed in his ripe and naked glory. Heaving. Groaning. His big beefy sweat-slicked body all completely covered in the creamy mess of his own making--of his own surrender. And partly because he was forced to cum so hard from how that damn sly finger exploited his moment of weakness and fucking milked him by his damn secret sweet spot. Right then, Dom felt himself twitch once more. Clench. Was it from the need to defend himself and his pride, or was it from the need to feel more of it deep in him? Dom doesn't fucking know. He couldn't even think. All he knew was he needed to breathe while he could finally feel the aftermath of it all crawl through his skin. Slick. Sweaty. Sticky. The consequences of the sinful indulgence they shared still cloyed all over their heaving bodies. Damn fucking right. Dom winced. With a deeper breath, the mighty muscle-alpha could even smell the same cloy that was all still thick in the damn air--and even more as he snorted through a low snarl. The scent of sensual rigors. The scent of claiming musk. The scent of fucking cum. Fuck. Breathe. "You--you okay, sir?" Aidan. Fucking bastard. The heady blur had grown bearable, at least--just as the wisping sparks of pleasure that still coursed through the mighty muscle-alpha here and there. And through the pleasant weakness that gently weighed onto him with how he had completely given into the ebbs and flows of his steady recovery from it all, Dom could at least get a grip on himself and finally get that spur within him to move. Once more, the huge swells of his big beefy pec-breasts rolled into the movement--and even more as the rise of within his chest was the one that had him pushing out that low groan from how he just felt the heaviness of his own body work against him. At least he had that backrest to grab onto for that easier push of his own self off from that damn couch so he could sit back up--or tried to. Breathe. Dom blinked and winced through a gentle snort while he curled his fist for a flex as he just had to lean onto the press of his own thickly muscled forearm against said backrest to lead into that semblance of an ease that he so needed. And with another fulsome rise within the round mounds of his juicy muscle-alpha tits that rolled into a heavy bounce, Dom let himself swell up into yet another labor of a slow roll of a firm sigh--one that had him finally be aware of the sticky bits that had clung and had begun to dry against the great heave and the tight ripple of his big beefy brawn. Right there. As Dom looked down onto the mess that he had splattered onto himself, it was easy to notice--easy to feel--how that cooled glob of his creamy jizz still clung to the still juicy firmness of his large nipple... like it was some kind of a naughty tease of sweet white glazing. Damn. There should've been a chuckle in there somewhere. But of course, Dom just had to let his free hand press on under the thick shelf of his obscenely bloated pec-breasts and let his own touch urge those stray sparks to crawl all throughout each juicy slab as he still tried to breathe it all out. Though still, as his thumb finally made that firm swipe to scoop up the still gooey clump and inevitably goad that more deliberate spark all over his chest, all that the mighty muscle-alpha could do was breathe out another firm snort while his eyes fluttered for just a damn bit. Fuck. Even beyond sexual gratification, the Hale alpha's juicy gumdrop nipples had always been so dangerously sensitive--so what more during it such an indulgence? Or after it all too? Dom even felt his big fat meaty muscle-alpha cock twitch--especially in its half-flaccid state where its splay along his thunderous muscle thigh only made it look even more obscene... as if that fat bead of cum that still oozed out wasn't already doing the damn job. Dom growled then--against his thumb too as he suckled at the rich and potent taste of his creamy seed. "Damn little shithead--to think I let you play with my big beefy muscle tits..." Dom chuckled low as he shook his head--and with those juicy swells of his pec-breasts rolling on for another sigh, the old wolf just had to come back for seconds as he let his index finger swipe around his puffy areola and right back into the very nub that crowed the heaving mounds of his full and round breasts--all to rub more of those stray clumps right into his finger. And with how those equally stray sparks easily burst in their tease as pleasure was just inevitable at that point, Dom felt that slight twinge of tightness that urged yet another small drop of his sweet breastmilk to bead out of his nipple. Fuck. Dom suckled on his index finger this time as he shook his head once more. "Got your damn greedy mouth nursing my big beefy alpha muscle-pecs too until you got me giving up my fucking secret muscle tit milk--" Dom's words rolled in a low hum as he let himself breathe in once more for a heave--a little more deliberate like he was fucking squaring up. He couldn't help it--not when he could see how Aidan's own beefy brawn swelled up for that slow tense while his pretty blue eyes began to falter in their fire just a little. "--s-sir, I..." Dom continued to keep his gaze weighed onto the other as he watched that young bull shift back more into that meekness--even if he had to steal a gentle swipe of his tongue to lick the cum off of his lips. And the way that bottom lip looked even more sweet and plump when he bit down on it as if he tried to keep to himself even more was all the more a spark of a tease from within the mighty Hale muscle-alpha's returning authority. Damn right. The same fucking guy who had been bold enough to pull it off--but now he's getting all shy with his pretty face wrought in his own brand of adorable fluster. All the more, that nagging taunt from within the alpha's pride was easier to push against--though it wasn't like Dom was really taking it seriously, after all. It was a fucking need. It was fucking indulgence. There could even be a case that can be built around the fact that Dom was the one who started it by parading his big fat beefy muscle ass as the best thing that he could do for dignity was a damn jockstrap--not to mention that he was the also one who tried to flash that tight hot muscle pucker of his when he was getting the young bull his damn beer. Aidan was just the lucky bastard that Dom thought was worthy enough to play with him and the creeping haunt of secret desires, really--worthy enough to savor and explore all of his big beefy mighty muscle-alpha body. And to that end, he did. Dom just loved how he looked as he continued to mess with him. "Shit. I even got you guzzling down on my fucking creamy jizz..." Dom's words came as an even yet low hum that was punctuated with a groan as he pushed himself off of the couch to get back on his damn feet. To stand back up. His words even served as a cue from how his big beefy pec-breasts swayed before they swell as Dom straightened back up to his glorious height and even more glorious breadth. And with his fat meaty muscle-alpha cock still out of its cotton prison, of course the girthy and thick length of the old wolf's proud juicy fuck meat just had to sway and bounce between his massive thighs like the heavy equipment that it is--so much so that even in its flaccid state, it still looked and felt like it was just fucking packed. And that juicy dollop of cum that had beaded out of Dom's piss slit finally drooled out in a long string of its slimy creaminess before the next weighty sway of that fat cock meat had it splatter down onto the hardwood floor--the same floor that creaked under the press of his large feet. "But you just had to take advantage of me right when I was all ripe for it, didn't you? Fucking bastard--" Dom tilted his head while he held gestured at Aidan slightly with his finger as if a command for the young bull to stand back up. At least, as Aidan's sweet all-American features softened into almost an attempt to plead, Dom didn't even have to repeat himself--even more as the floors continued to creak from how he took a step forward onto the other. Of course, the huge juicy mounds of Dom's big beefy pec-breasts just had to jiggle for that too before they jostled into a tight bounce from how he breathed out another chuckle. Aidan stood up. Aidan tensed up. Still, he got his arms flexed on his sides as he clenched his fists--though all the same, Dom couldn't really see the young bull rearing for a brawl. Damn right. It was true, anyway. The sweet young muscle bull truly was only guilty of getting a little carried away in their secret naughty playtime. "--you just had to stick that naughty finger of yours right inside where they don't belong..." "I--I just wanted to make you f-feel good, s-sir--I liked how it felt when Derek--" Oh. Dom raised his brow at the drop of the name--all while he remained adamant in the playful loom of his threat as Aidan balked from it even more as he took a slight step back. And just like before, the obscene and swollen bounty of their full and heavy muscle pec-breasts had come under the threat of collision once again--especially when Dom let the thrill of this last minute game goad his beefy muscle tits to rise once more into a push for his low sigh. Fucking hell. So they did fool around. Now the imposing muscle-alpha just couldn't help but wonder if his darling son got the darling young bull's sweet little muscle cherry. He wondered if he made Aidan moan like a damn bitch. Aidan wasn't wrong, after all. With another step that Dom took, what sparks still crawled down along his heaving brawn still managed to find that little spot between the flex and bounce of his beach-ball sized muscle ass--and all the more, the muscle-alpha's tight little muscle pucker twitched. Tingled. For a moment Dom thought about his secret toy hidden deep within one of his dressers. One of Peter's gifts. Fuck--Dom breathed in. His tight knot of a hole tightened. His cock twitched. Then came a snarl. Then a moan just spilled out along with a hard crash against the wall right by the door frame. "S--sir!" Aidan cried out--but all at once, the sound was cut off into a sharp gasp with how Dom forced another firm shove against the young bull to keep him pressed face-first against the wall as it was more than enough to practically have those big juicy pec-breasts of his to smash and squish against the hard surface and smother whatever sound that still tried to spill out. And with how Aidan tried to push himself off, it was just inevitable that he offered such a damn sweet sight of him pushing his big fat denim-clad muscle ass out first like he was some cheap blond bimbo trying to peddle himself to the johns with a nice wag of his juicy goods. It didn't fucking help that those pants looked like they were poured onto him as well--especially with how the young bull's back was even fucking arched for it. Those beach-ball sized cheeks were just fully emphasized and practically showed themselves off in their own individual juiciness with how that middle seam just ran cleanly and clearly very deep in between each ridiculously juicy globe. No fucking wonder why Derek would've easily munched and fucked the hell out of that big fat treasure box. Fuck. And sure enough, before Aidan could even fully ease away, Dom's own gigantic brawn was already pressed against him as his own huge beefy muscle breasts heaved against that wide back with how he breathed low against his young bull's ear. His large paws were just as quick to work too--just as quick to grope. Both of them did share the same curse of having such big juicy bodies anyway. Big beefy muscle bitches. Really. Grabbing one of Aidan's round and heavy muscle tits was merely a simple reach around--just like how Dom's other hand made a quick grab for the young bull's obscenely packed and throbbing bulge between those big meaty thunder thighs of his. And right then, as Dom goaded out a soft groan from the struggling muscle mountain of a bull stud that bucked against him--and no thanks to how he had so easily slotted his still proudly hauled out muscle-alpha cock right in between the juicy squeeze of those ass cheeks--the old wolf just easily accepted what rush that coursed through him. Fuck. Another snarl. Damn right. "Now it's my fucking turn to make you fucking feel good." Dom growled as his strong hands began to knead the bulging goods that they had tried to grab onto as much as they could. At the very least, as Dom had expected from how Aidan's juicy pec-breast just felt so deliciously soft and firm and beefy all at the same time--and even more against the firm groping of his hand--it didn't take much for Aidan to finally breathe out that sweet studly moan of his while the rest of his mighty brawn squirmed underneath the looming weight that crowded onto him. "S--sir p--please!" No. Dom just offered a low growl of a chuckle as he continued to feel how Aidan's juicy muscle breast swelled and pushed its beefy fullness against the cup of his splayed hand--one that he so easily replied with a firm knead to make sure that the young bull could feel that he was truly being felt up. Teased. Molested. With how it surely goaded the sensations to burst from within Aidan's heaving muscle tit, Dom was all the more intent to meet his juicy muscle jock of a lover halfway with how he just pressed his burgeoning brawn firmly against the other and made sure that he could feel all those squirming muscles just rub against his own heaving body. Dom was all the more intent that there was no escape for the fire that was still burning within his young bull--even more as he finally gave that denim-clad bulge that firm gliding squeeze to stimulate some semblance of a pump. "W--wait h--hah!" Aidan moaned as he threw his head back. Dom just chuckled as he reveled at the moment that the young bull's body shuddered hard against him. Damn right. And with Aidan's neck stretched as he tilted his head aside to find a spot to break free and breathe, the old wolf was just as quick to return the favor that Aidan had once given him by burying his face against that thick neck and further goad the rushing sparks within him with yet another tease to make sure he was fucking drowning under the rush of it all. "A--ah h--ah!" There it was. A sure moan. A sure buck. Dom merely growled against the tender skin while he made sure he found the pace that Aidan was trying to sink into. That where his chest swelled as he tried to rise above, Dom was quick to pinch that large nipple that he could feel push against the tight fabric. And from where he tried to roll and buck, Dom was just as quick to grind the menacing thickness of his alpha cock right in between those cheeks and force Aidan's crotch to meet the firm knead of his cupping grasp. "H--h--oh g-god!" Aidan was left with no other choice but to cry out--though Dom was just as quick to catch that too as he continued to let his lips ravish the smooth flesh of Aidan's neck before he nipped along his jaw to make sure that that damn moan fizzled out into a hapless whimper. And all the more, Aidan heaved. Dom just dug his fingers hard into the fleshy swell of the young bull's big juicy pec-breast before that expected buck was met with an equal squeeze that it had easily throbbed against--throbbed more against. Dom could only let his warm chuckle melt against Aidan's neck as every moment that the young bull had come under the torture of his touch was a moment closer to that peak that Dom was intent to milk out. Inevitable. Inescapable. All of it was still there, after all. The scent of their sensual rigors--the scent of their claiming musk... --the young bull's still thrumming need. His still coiling heat. "Maybe if you asked daddy if he wanted his tight little muscle pucker to be finger fucked, maybe I would've asked for your permission right now--" Dom practically growled the words through Aidan's ear before he let his teeth graze along the crook of it while he took to the thrill of hearing the poor stud's attempt for words just melt into his sweeter brays. Fucking young bull indeed. The old wolf just felt his beefy muscle breast swell against the flex of Aidan's back as he chuckled. Or a cow. Dom squeezed that big beefy muscle breast once more. Close enough. Either way, the mighty Hale alpha just knew that Aidan just needed to be milked. And with his hand clamping down on that heavy bulge that throbbed harder against his touch, the old wolf's lips just hummed in delight against that flustered skin from the mere sensation of that betrayal that came from the more eager buck of Aidan's hips. Somewhere in there was a damn plea. Or just a fucking moan. But as those sweet sounds came from how Aidan's own juicy muscle breasts rose and heaved as he tried to push through the sensations that kept on drowning him, Dom was right there with him to make sure that his big beefy muscle bitch of a body was properly corralled into the peak that Dom was driving the both them on to. Inevitable. Inescapable. "F--fuck s-sir I'm--" I'm close? I'm gonna cum? I'm gonna fucking burst? Dom didn't even need those words to complete themselves--not when he was fucking calling the shots anyway. And all the more, the mighty muscle-alpha growled against Aidan's neck as he succumbed to the pleasures that he was feeling just as much as their bodies practically writhed and heaved against each others' encumbering beefiness--as if they had found themselves slotted perfectly onto each other just like they had before. Dom could at least speak for himself on that end as he felt the throb of his cock slide firmer against the seam that he could almost feel the very heat of that tight muscle hole that was just merely one layer away from his burgeoning claim. Fuck. It wasn't even the damn first time--but it certainly won't be the last. Soon enough. Dom just growled then as his hands squeezed Aidan's juicy pec-breast and his equally juicy cock in greater tightness as if to preemptively claim the promise of such pleasure that would be all for him to claim for later on. That was the point anyway. That through the dizzying lust that both of them had began to sink further into through their ragged heaves and even more impatient bucks, Dom just continued this first claim that he could get as he rolled his hips back a little farther--enough to goad a soft hiss from him as they both pushed their asses back just enough that Dom's own beach-ball muscle ass parted just enough that such naughty tickling breeze found its way back into the shy twitch of the muscle-alpha's tight hot balloon-knot of a pucker. Any creep would be so lucky--and all the more they could try and sneak that same exploit that Aidan just pulled out not too long ago. Dom just growled as his need barged through that sliver of a haunt. And all at once, the mighty muscle-alpha slammed his cock right back into the squeeze of those denim-clad cheeks and even strengthened his claim with how his easing ramrod cock began to leave small streaks and spots of his generous precum in its wake. Right there. Once more, Aidan moaned--once more, he bucked. And Dom was just compelled to taste more of Aidan when he felt that young beefy muscle bull just grow taut against his own body in the name of any semblance of release that he could cry out to. That with how Aidan's huge beefy pec-breasts bounced and swelled as another moan finally spilled past his pretty lips, Dom leaned into the stretch of that thick neck as his own lips found their way higher along that scruffy jaw. Higher still. Dom felt that warm breath so close to him--and all he could do was stake his claim right in there too with a firm kiss that he finally met halfway. Somewhere in there was a moan. Somewhere in Dom was a moan as the old wolf let it spill into his mouth in full as Aidan just lost himself in the storm. And just as the sweet sparks of it easily sunk into the swells of Dom's own massive muscle breasts, his hunger just struck him with their own demand as he palmed and squeezed that bulge like it was his own. Right there. They moaned. They bucked. And with one last thrust of his cock deep in between Aidan's big fat ass, it drove the young bull's hips to thrust forward firmly enough against that strong grab to finally meet that final jolt of pressure that he needed to just fucking blow. Somewhere in there was a moan. And another. Over and over. That with how Aidan's own body finally seized into that flood of release. Dom just held him tight and held him close as felt that mountainous brawn of his just convulse against his hard body. It really didn't take long--especially so as Aidan had been keeping that tight ball of his need for far too long. And with how Dom gave that pulsing bulge a firm squeeze, he easily milked out a spill of a shaky gasp from the heaving bull as his own creamy burst quickly soaked into his pants in their obscene and potent generosity. Dom could even feel it. Every hard pulse was an equally hard spurt of slimy gooey cum that just splattered inside the confines of the tight jeans that Aidan wore. He was practically making a huge mess of himself--and Dom made sure that it remained so with how he began to knead that crotch and have Aidan surrender more of it as he remained all too helpless within the mighty muscle-alpha's mighty embrace. "S--sir! G--gn--oh god--" Aidan groaned. His voice was clearly thick with the cloy of shame. "I know--I know..." Dom teased the way he feigned the low growl of that fatherly assurance as he kept his hold firm around Aidan--and even more his grasp against his bulge as he knew damn well the young bull isn't out of the damn woods just yet. He still pulsed. Throbbed. And with how Dom could almost taste that shame roll through another heave of a helpless moan that spilled out of Aidan's lips, the Hale muscle-alpha just kept a tighter squeeze to make sure that he milked every last bit of that damn climax--even to the point of forcing the young bull's creamy surrender to actually completely seep through the fabric and trickle along his fingers like he was putting a pressure on a drenched sponge. Fuck yeah. The heaving muscle-alpha continued the tease with another chuckle--especially with how easily he could feel the other continue on to buck into the grasp of Dom's now cum-drenched hand despite how mercy finally came with the ebb of that cursed rush. "See? This is why you don't mess with daddy..." the old wolf finally hummed as he savored the sounds of Aidan's own labored groans while his big beefy body continued to heave and shudder through the sparks that still remained--and the spurts that kept on with their last. "I--hnuuh... f--fuck... s-sir..." Aidan could barely form his words as his body just felt slack and heavy from the all-consuming peak of his pleasure. And as he continued to try and catch his breath, Dom still gave that crotch a squeeze to milk out those weak and shy whimpers this time around. Shame. Dom could even feel how Aidan tried to shift his hips away as if he meant to try and keep the sticky and slimy cling of his soiled pants from trying to soak more of what creamy aftermath that still tried to dribble out of his softening cock. "Now look at you--making such a big mess..." Dom hummed before he let his lips curl for a smile while pressed against Aidan's neck. And with how Aidan continued to breathe through it in the rise of his ragged sighs, the old wolf could easily feel that pulse just throb in the rush of the fading high. At the very least, the muscle-alpha wasn't as forcible as before even if his embrace still remained--not that there was reason for Aidan to fear anyway as Dom was just as quick to reassure his gentler claim with an even softer kiss along the young bull's neck--all while he let his hand press flat against the swell of the juicy muscle breast that he had been kneading hard and firm not too long ago. "--and I can't, in good conscience, have you walking around out there with a damn mess like this..." Another squeeze against Aidan's crotch. More of that warm thick cum soaked through the fabric--even enough for some to ooze between Dom's fingers. Of course Aidan whimpered. He was so easily reminded of such a naughty mess, after all. And that was the point. "But hey... at least we sized each other up now, didn't we?" Dom words melted along Aidan's neck and once more, the old wolf felt how Aidan's neck tensed and gave way for another raspy groan that continued to roll with how the old wolf continued to slowly and gently massage the young bull's trembling pec-breasts. And with Dom feeling some new kind of easy warmth grow within the swell of his own beefy muscle tits, his own heave of a sigh grew just as gentle too while he tried to hold Aidan closer against him and even feel the younger bull lean back against the mountainous breadth of his beefy body. "--and I'd reckon that you'd end up real cramped up there in Derek's room..." Dom shifted a little bit this time as he groaned once more and let his lips move a little further on until he nuzzled the back of Aidan's head and let his kiss settle right there at the peak of his nape. And with how it goaded Aidan to shudder and gasp rather predictably from how easily those sparks melted straight down along his spine, the mighty Hale muscle-alpha just continued to drag his kiss along the other side of Aidan's neck to once more pull his fine young bull into the lull of their bodies that were all pressed and kept tight. "But my room, however--that's big enough for the two of us..." Dom welcomed the feeling of their shifting weights--especially with how Aidan swayed to lean against his other side and had his big beefy muscle tits just spill and jostle within the cupping grasp of the old wolf's hand. And sure enough, that juicy and sinful sensation was enough for Dom to steal a squeeze--to let his thumb circle over that nipple once more as if he didn't already torment it with his prior tugs and pinches. And it was easy for Dom to feel Aidan shudder then as he was instantly reminded of the nerves that reawakened themselves through such a touch as his thumb continued to circle over that sensitive nipple underneath that shirt that was all soaked in sweat and cum. Shit. Dom smirked. The scent of sensual rigors. The scent of claiming musk. The scent of fucking cum. All right there. A fucking cloy that still remained--and will remain as Dom was already thinking about the other things that they could do now that they had broken the ice in the best way possible. "After all, this old man still got a lot to teach you--especially if we're gonna have you in our little family here, yeah?" Dom could only hum on then. And with his hands being a little merciful, he just tried to stake his claim further onto his young bull as he kneaded Aidan's swollen pec-tits together--with his other hand practically slathering Aidan's own cum right onto his heaving breast that offered a heavy swell in turn. "You like that, son?" Once more, their voices were low. Once more they sounded like they were sharing secrets just like they shared the heat of their heaving bodies. "Y-yes... yes sir." That word. Dom hummed softly before his fingers both stalked Aidan's still hard nipples even if they were under the thin stretch of his damn shirt. And with how they so shamelessly pushed through, Dom doesn't even need to look down. His fingers found those juicy nubs just fine and gave them a little tug enough to make the heaving muscle bull groan in thrumming delight. Fuck yeah. Big beefy muscle tit bitch--Dom's big beefy muscle tit bitch. And that was just the damn tip of the iceberg. "I've been meaning to ask you to call me Dom from now on... you being my son's friend and all--though I must say I do love it when you call me sir..." Dom hummed. Then he throbbed as both of their bodies heaved in tune of their own breathing. Winded? Spent? It was easily debatable as Dom was just too damn horny for his own good. The fire still crackled, after all. The night had just begun. "--makes you sound like a real good boy for me..." Fuck. Fuck yeah. "--are you gonna be my good boy, Aidan?" Dom gave those big juicy tits another squeeze--and he let his fat cock throb in between the squeeze of his muscle-bull's big fat muscle ass. "Y--yes! Yes, I--I'll be good!" Aidan moaned almost breathlessly as he found himself leaning back--all while he tried to tilt his head to turn to Dom and convince him of it. "And I'll be good, what?" Dom hummed. His lips pressed onto the corner of Aidan's parted lips and savored the feeling of how that gasp so gently escaped. "Yes I--I'll be g-good, sir..." Dom chuckled. "Damn right." </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan/

Nifty Archive: dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan SizeDateFilename 24K May 4 15:28 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-7 37K Nov 1 2022 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-6 16K Nov 16 2020 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-5 16K Nov 14 2020 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-4 16K Nov 11 2020 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-3 20K Nov 10 2020 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-2 14K Nov 9 2020 dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-1

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https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan/dirty-doctors-of-grey-sloan-7

Date: Sat, 4 May 2024 13:37:36 +0000 From: Anon Bucket <Anonbucket1995@outlook.com> Subject: Dirty Doctors of Grey Sloan part 7, (Gay, Celebrity) Dirty Doctors of Grey Sloan Chapter 7- Lets skip a few years. This is a fictional story that involves consensual sex between people over the age of 18 and does not imply the sexuality of the characters or those who play them. Please donate anything possible to the Nifty Archive http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Wow... just wow, it was hard to believe that I had been at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital for 7 years now. The time had just flown by, and my life was so different from a few years ago. I don't even know where to start, well sadly Mark Sloan, the sexy Daddy who rearranged my insides regularly went and fucking died, God I miss that cock pumping me deep and hard, I literally think we fucked in every room in the hospital. And Alex... Well, me and Dr Karev had continued fucking on and off him using my hole whenever he was stressed or not getting any at home. That was until one day I was told he had left the hospital and moved to God knows where. Apparently he found out he had kids or something and just left to be with them, that sucked the most as he was so fucking hot with a nice fat cock that he knew how to use not to mention his juicy arse, fuck I loved it when he was sat on my face grinding his hole across it. But sadly, now my love life is pretty much non-existent bar a few cheeky blowjobs given to Dr Avery every now and then. Whilst my love life is pretty shit my career has gone from strength to strength and I have been working as an Attending Neurosurgeon for the past couple years or so and I'm fucking good at it Dr Elm is truly one of the best surgeons the hospital has to offer and I've been impressing everyone there has been talk of me becoming the Chief of Neuro when the job ever becomes available. Yes my career has blown up in a good way but there but my hole hasn't been blown up in a long while and it's really frustrating, its making me a little short tempered which luckily for me I have managed to keep it at low levels at the moment only on occasion losing my temper with the interns and not losing it with any senior staff which is Hella lucky for me. Now I might not be getting my ass slammed by anyone it didn't mean that there wasn't any eye candy, there was this Doctor the head of Orthopaedic Surgery Dr Atticus Lincoln or Link as he liked to be called and whoa, he was one smoking hot motherfucker, from the chiselled body and the perkiest bum I had ever seen I couldn't stop staring at him whenever we were in surgery together which wasn't usually often, Neuro and Ortho don't usually link together but on the rare occasion they did just watching the man effortlessly operate made me harder than a rock and usually left me having to jerk off in the toilets after. Now as I arrived at the hospital there was an incoming, "CAR INCIDENT HEAD LACERATIONS AND BRAIN INJURY, BOTH BROKEN FEMURS AND A DISLOCATED RIGHT SHOULDER" I heard the EMT shout and as quick as a flash I was on it, trying to stabilize the patient and after a while we managed it. I assessed his head and determined that he had swelling was at dangerous levels, We need an emergency Craniotomy NOW" I shouted as I heard a voice, "We also have no pulse in both legs we need to do a revascularisation...Elm want to double team him" I heard looking down and straight into the eyes of the hunk of Ortho. "Always Dr Lincoln," I chuckled as we ran down the corridor and into the operating room. Cut to 20 minutes later and I have the man's head open and Link is operating on his legs and its going so well, apart from this idiot of a resident Schmitt I think is his name, he is becoming more and more frustrating being so slow and just panicking when this really isn't the time to panic, all this added up and when he dropped the suction tube my short temperedness came out in full force, "JESUS SCHMITT GET OUT OF MY FUCKING ER NOW" I screamed at the man watching as his face turned red and tears filled his eyes as he ran out of the room. The room was silent until I heard, "Wow Dr Elm... you really need to get laid" I looked down and Link was chuckling, "What?" I questioned as he smirked, "I can sense it... you're mad because you haven't got laid but shouting at the resident's won't help" he smirked looking down getting back to work. We continued to work and luckily the man survived. As we de-scrubbed Link put his hand on my shoulder, "Hey man... don't worry about earlier... we all get mad when we've got blue balls," I was confused, how did he know I had blue balls, "How...is it that obvious?" I asked as he burst out laughing, "Man I've seen you rushing to the bathroom after surgeries and heard it all" I blushed as he turned around, "Don't worry...our secret...I'm gonna go see if Schmitt is alright", I nodded "Tell him I'm sorry" I added as he nodded and walked out. I felt like suck a jerk, the guy was here to learn and here I was screaming at him I needed to apologise for it and as I sat at the cafeteria sipping a coffee my phone buzzed, it was from Link. "Dr Schmitt accepts your apology and wants to speak to you... come to the on-call room." I sighed; it was time to face the music but why in the on-call room? I walked through the corridors and heard a strange noise coming from the on-call room, I decided not to knock as I might catch someone in the act, well I certainly did catch something as when I walked inside my eyes flung open not believing wat I was seeing. Link was sat on the door facing bed led back a little... he was completely naked... with Schmitt between his legs sucking his cock. He looked at me straight in the eyes and moaned, "Fuckk Yeahhhhh come in Dr Elm." Schmitt immediately pulled off the man's cock making him grunt as it slapped his toned stomach. All I could do was stare, mouth wide open at the man's massive cock. The man was seriously hung, it stood at a mammoth 10 inches long, larger than Karev's it was slick with saliva and his head was pink and oozing pre-cum, his shaft was rather thick and has small veins running down it. His pubes were brown and trimmed and his balls hung slightly low and were dusted in fine black hair. "Shit... sorry... I'll Ummm go" Schmitt muttered as Link held his shoulders, "Now...now... let's not get panicked that's what got you here to begin with...I was thinking that Dr Elm could join us?" "WHAT" I shouted quickly running in and closing the door as Link put his muscled arm behind his head and pushed Schmitt back down onto his cock, "Good boy...Yeah Look I've seen you staring and you like what you see...I get it I'm hot, and you need to apologise to Dr Schmitt and he needs to do the same to you so why not just apologise in the best way", I was shocked but as I saw his fat cock going in the man's mouth my own cock stiffened, "You mind Schmitt?" I asked as he shook his head, "No it's ok" he muttered with a mouth of cock, "Ummm ok... but you're straight you have a baby on the way?" Link grinned, "Yeah I do...but I ain't getting any at home and honestly monogamy is dead am I right" I smirked and began stripping, "Good boy...Now I think Dr Schmitt will accept your apology is you...if you... eat his ass" he grinned as I now noticed the man was also naked, and fucking hell he had a nice ass, fat lightly haired cheeks with a hairier crack and hole, "Wow...nice ass", Schmitt pulled the cock out, "Thanks...now eat my hole", I grinned walking over and getting on my knees giving the fat cheeks a slap, I spread the cheeks staring at the tightest pinkest hole I had ever seen, I looked up at Link who was smirking and slammed my face between the man's cheeks against his hole making him sigh as my tongue lapped and sucked at the hole, his arse tasted so good, I ate his ass hard and fast squeezing the cheeks around my face and motorboating his hole as Link continued his assault on the man's throat holding him in place as he thrusted up hard and fast his face gasping and sighing as he growled pushing his cock in and out of the man's throat at an impressive speed, saliva dripped down is shaft and his balls slapped against the man's chin as his face flushed red and tears filled his eyes. I was plunging my tongue against the quivering hole before burying my face in and letting the man rub his hole back and forth over my face coating it in his ass juices as I grabbed a handful of his fat cheeks feeling them shake back and forth as he grunted and choked at the same time. "Fuck this is too good" Link grinned pushing Schmitt down and holding him in place wrapping his strong legs around the man's back trapping him as he looked up at the hunk who pushed him down and thrusted upwards feeling the throat tighten and constrict around his shaft, as the man gagged and choked his hole began to spasm around my tongue, "OHHH FUCK YES" Link shouted really bouncing the man up and down as saliva poured down his balls before groaning as he unwrapped his legs and Schmitt flew off him landing on the floor and not meaning to he literally sat on my face, "Ohhh wow...FUCK YES" He moaned as he bounced up and down his own 7 inch cock bouncing up and down as Link wanked his cock to the sight, "Good boy's" he grinned as my tongue was crammed into his ass for a couple of minutes before I was unable to breathe and pushed the man off. Link raised a brow, "Wow...pretty damn hot...Now Dr Elm I know you've wanted my cock for a while so come suck it" he grinned looking over to Schmitt, "And you...lie on the bed next to me...legs up...I'm gonna finger that pretty hole until you scream". I crawled over to the god realising his body was insanely hot, muscled pecs a tight stomach and a nice amount of hair dusting his chest, I just wanted to lick and suck all his body especially those muscled lightly haired armpits but there was plenty of time for that later. As I got to his cock he gripped it, "Tongue out" he ordered and as I did, he slapped it on my tongue rubbing the head all over my taste buds letting his pre-cum splatter all over my tongue and face. He did this a couple more times before grabbing my head and shoving his cock into my mouth, "Fuuuuuck yeahhhh" he groaned as began to suck hard on his head circling the wet spongy head begore flicking at his piss slit making the man shiver as he reached down running his hand over his hairy pec before using his thumb and forefinger to pull on his dark pink nipple grinning and watching as I sunk inch after inch into my throat feeling it slide down until my nose hit his wiry pubes, Link looked over at Schmitt who was raising his legs into the air, "Now that's how you deepthroat" he grinned reaching out and licking his finger before pushing it between the man's cheeks and straight into his hole watching Schmitt gasp as he pushed his finger deep inside wiggling it around increasing his speed until wet squelching sounds filled the room and Schmitt was a mumbling mess, his legs shaking and his breathing hard as Link slammed his ass hard and fast fingering it like it was a pussy adding another finger making the man wail as he pulled his fingers up and down reaching out with his other hand and pulled me up and down his hard shaft. His cock tasted so fucking good so clean yet manly, as I slurped up and down tasting nothing but his pre-cum, I wondered how many holes he had slid this cock into and now I hoped he would be slamming inside me tonight. Link was fingering the man's hole at lightening speed now feeling the hole grip onto his fingers as Schmitt bounced up and down his cock jumping round and round as Link pushed in hard and ripped his fingers out slapping the hole and making the man squeal as he collapsed onto the seat, hairy chest rising and falling fast, "I'll let you recover Dr Schmitt...I wanna use Dr Elm here for a while. His hand reached around to the back of my head and quickly he thrusted as he pulled me down slamming his whole cock down my throat, "OHHHH FUCK YESSSSS SUCK MY FUCKING COCK" He moaned pulling and pushing it down, I felt it stab at the back of my mouth before sliding down my throat locking his hands around my head and fucking his hips harder and harder as he reached up and began to pinch his left nipple with his other hand behind his head. "Yeahhhhh suck my cockkkkk" He whispered, his eyes closed and his head looking upwards. I could tell he was feeling so much pleasure from this, his cock was steel hard, and I could feel the pre-cum oozing down my throat. Link looked down and grinned before pushing his cock harder and harder into my throat lodging it in my windpipe and pinched my nose shut. He held me there for a few seconds grinning, as I slapped his tanned hairy legs trying to bet myself free. "AWWW FUCK YEAHHH OH MY GOD" he grinned holding me down for nearly a minute. Finally, he pulled me off his cock and slapped me on the shoulder, "Good boy" He smirked as I sat there coughing and spluttering. "What... What now?" I asked as Link smirked. "Well, I know you really want to feel this in your hole Dr Elm...but first to really tease you... you get to watch me fuck Schmitt here." I sighed as Schmitt grinned, "Fuck yeah" I heard him mutter as He pulled Schmitt's legs up onto his strong shoulders and slapped his cock against the hole, Link spat down onto his cock and lined up winking at me and he grabbed the man's hips and thrusted hard grunting as his head shot inside the man. A cry filled the room followed by a deep gasp and a moan as Link held his cock inside, Link smirked and looked over at me, "Just watch...you're gonna get it twice as hard" he winked as I stared, not at his cock but at his peachy ass, the fat muscled tanned cheeks that were smooth as silk but his crack was lined with hair and as he bent over to kiss the man I saw his tight pink hole wink, I just had to taste it. As Link pushed his cock deeper and deeper into the gasping bottom, I crawled behind him and reached out grabbing his fat cheeks and pulling them apart. "Oh... want a bit of my ass, do you?" Link grinned turning around looking down at me, "Well... what are you waiting for... get that face in there... but just your tongue, that hole don't take cocks." He winked at me as I licked my lips and slammed my face against his hole making him gasp, "OHHH WOW...FUCK" He moaned pulling back pushing his ass into my face as I began to lick the tight pink hole, the man's hole tasted amazing and as he began to thrust slowly his ass smothered my face. "Oh, fuck that's fucking goooooooood" he moaned throwing his head up and reaching back and grabbing my head rubbing it back and forth over his hole before pushing me into it hard. As he was doing this Link began to thrust harder and faster into Schmitt his balls beginning to slap against the man's ass making him squeal and grunt in pleasure his own cock flailing up and down with each thrust leaking pre-cum onto his hairy stomach. His ass felt so fucking full and Link was his favourite cock to have inside him, it fitted his hole perfectly and ever since he first slid inside his hole he knew that the man would keep coming back again and again, "UHHHH FUCK...FUCK MEEEEEEEEE" He muttered repeatedly as Link slammed his cock in and out feeling the tightness of the man's hole grip his cock with each thrust squeezing the pre-cum out of his cock helping it act as lube which was much appreciated. Back at Link's ass I licked up and down the hole feeling his balls slap against my chin as he thrusted back. I licked down the hole before opening my mouth and shoving his balls into my mouth immediately sucking them and lapping my tongue around them, "OH WOW...FUCK" Link moaned as I tasted the saltiness of his bollocks tracing a figure of 8 around them making them wet with my saliva, I could see Link's hairy legs shaking with each thrust and my sucking was involuntarily making him thrust harder and harder fucking deeper and deeper until he slammed inside and pushed hard pulling Schmitt onto his cock making the man wail in pain and pleasure, he then ripped his cock from the hole grinning at his handywork as the man's hole gaped open, "Fucking nice pussy" he grinned thumbing the hole, "Wow Dr Lincoln...that...wow" Schmitt moaned as I spat out his balls and he pulled me upwards into a deep kiss sliding his tongue inside my mouth kissing me passionately before pulling away biting my lip as he grinned, "Fancy letting me fuck you senseless?" I nodded and he pushed me onto the bed my legs flying into the air being caught by the muscled god and resting them on his shoulders, "Hey Schmitt come lube it up some more." Link grabbed Schmitt by the hair and rammed his cock down the man's throat a couple of times, All Schmitt could taste was his own ass but he really didn't care he just looked up at the hunk above him eyes staring down at him and teeth bared as he slammed it down the man's throat before pulling him away and slapping his cock at my hole, "Ready for the best fuck you've ever had?" I nodded and immediately I felt his head press against my hole. My ass gave resistance to his cock...It had been a while since I was last fucked but Link pushed harder and harder until his cock head disappeared into my hole making us both moan, "FUUUUUCK YESSSSSSS". Link moaned as he gave me some time to get used to it. Not too long as a second later I felt him pushing inside, my hole gripping his cock hard as I felt the full thickness of it. My ass was on fire, "Take it boy...take it...take it", Link moaned as his pubes hit the base of my ass. His whole ten inches was deep inside my hole, at first it hurt but after a few slow thrusts it began to feel quite good. Link grunted as his cock sank in and out of my hole. "Ready baby". He breathed before smirking at me and beginning to pull out. When only four inches was in my hole, he pushed hard firing the rest of his cock deep in my ass, he began to repeat this over and over, slamming his cock deep into my hole. His hands on my hips so he could pull me harder onto his fat monster. As the thrust got faster and faster his huge balls began to slam against me making a loud slapping sound, "Oh yes...that's it...good boy...take it". His chest glistened with sweat which made his muscles look even more ripped, this turned me on even more. His pounding was relentless pounding and pounding over and over, Schmitt sat there rubbing his own cock back and forth as Link looked over, "Come suck off Dr Elm here," He grunted as my cock flailed around. I suddenly saw stars as I felt the wet warmth of Schmitt's mouth over my cock as I thrusted my own seven incher into his mouth, I could see why Link loved his throat so much as it slid down with ease. "Wow that's so hot" Link grunted thrusting harder and faster as I squeezed my hole around his cock making him throw his head up in pleasure as the pre-cum flowed out of his cock, the sound of his cock slamming into me filled the room. Suddenly Link reached out and grabbed Schmitt's head slamming him down on my cock pushing all 7 inches into his throat, this made me throw myself upwards and grab hold of Link's tanned broad shoulders, "Yes...yes...yes...yesssss" I moaned staring straight into his eyes as he just focused on pounding me as hard as he could grunting occasionally. After a short while the let go of Schmitt who flung himself upwards pushing me back onto the bed as I howled as Link ripped his cock from my hole and grinned at his handiwork. He strode over to the bed and sat down, "Come ride me baby" he grinned slapping his legs as I stood up and straddled the hunk. I lowered myself down wincing as the head pushed inside groaning as inch after inch slid back inside me before grunting as he bottomed out. "Bounce" he ordered as I lifted myself up and began to bounce up and down our soft grunts filling the room as I felt the full thickness of his cock stretching me open. Link leant back and grinned as I bounced up and down as he slowly began to thrust upwards becoming faster and faster until he had his hands on my shoulder pushing me down as he thrusted upwards as my hands roamed the man's lightly haired pecs squeezing his pink nipples as he raised a hand putting it behind his head, before I knew it I saw Schmitt rush forward and shove his face in the man's muscled hairy pit taking a deep inhale as Link grinned, "Go on...lick it...you fucking love my pits don't you?" Schmitt stuck out his tongue and lapped at the sweat coated hair tasting the sweat of a real man as he curled the hair around his tongue and let it drop to the back of his mouth inhaling hard. This had an effect on Link as he began to fuck me violently hard pulling me down onto the other side of his body grabbing my ass and sank his cock hard and fast gasping at the pleasure he was feeling. My hole was on fire, and it hurt like a motherfucker, but I just wanted to pleasure the hunk it the hope that I would get the cock deep inside me again. Link fucked me harder and harder and harder pushing a finger inside my hole feeling his cock thrusting inside. I decided to give this man my all, so I leant up and led back squeezing my hole down as hard as I could nearly wailing as it hurt so much making Link gasp, "OH WOW...OH JESUS HOLY SHHHITTTTT" He screamed as I slammed his cock inside me over and over bouncing faster and faster until Link's balls tightened up, He wailed and leant upwards pushing Schmitt off, He grabbed hold of me and flung me onto the bed without even pulling his cock out. "Fuck... Gonna cum baby...gonna cum deep inside you" he grunted as he fucked faster and faster, his pert bum shaking in the air as he fucked to cum. His cock throbbed inside me as with one last loud gasp, his muscles began to strain as he moaned, "Fuck... CUMMINGGGGGG," His face screwed up and he gasped incoherently as his cock began to erupt. His legs shaking as I felt the cum blast out coating my insides in his fresh salty spunk. He shallows thrusted a couple of times before sliding in slowly and groaning as the last shot fired out before falling on top of me breathing heavily. After a little he looked up and smirked, "Fuck...that ass was... fuck so good" he muttered pulling himself up and slowly sliding his cock from my hole watching as the cum leaked out of my hole. "Wow... wow" I moaned at the sight of his glistening chest as he looked over at Schmitt, "You still want my cum?" Schmitt nodded his head, "Yes please Dr Lincoln" Link then moved over, "Eat it out of his hole then." Schmitt crawled over and raised my legs, I grinned as I felt his wet tongue swipe against my hole and I pushed the cum onto his tongue, he licked ass so fucking good pushing hard to go as deep as he could to get as much cum out as he could. He leant up, me cum dripping from his beard as I leant closer and slid my tongue into his mouth sensually scooping out some cum and tasting the salty spunk as we swapped the cum between our mouths. Fuck Link's cum tasted so good and as we made out Schmitt suddenly went wide eyed and he stuttered, "Oh...OH FUCKKKKK" I was confused until I looked back and saw Link hanging out of the back of the young Doctor, "I can cum twice" Link grinned as he began to fuck Schmitt hard, the man's hairy ass jiggling as he tried to talk but the pleasure made him mumble incoherently as Link pulled him back wrapping his strong arm around the man's hairy stomach. I decided that the man deserved a treat, so I knelt forward and lifted his cock pushing it between my lips and sucking hard, "Oh... OHHHH AHHH FUCK" Schmitt moaned feeling a lots of sensations both in his ass and on his cock. I groaned at the taste of his 7.5 inch cock, it tasted pretty damn good and the pre-cum just flowed out of him, I sucked down the shaft burying my face in his bush of pubes letting Link's thrusts push it deep into my throat, the man's balls squished against my face as I felt his hand on the back of my head. I sucked harder and harder pulling up and down his shaft massaging his hairy low hanging balls until he moaned, "Oh fuck...I'm gonna cum...UGHHHHH FUCKKKK" And almost immediately his cock pulsed and erupted inside my mouth coating my tongue in his salty spunk, This orgasm made his hole spasm and tighten immensely hard on Link's cock and he threw his head back and growled not saying a word as his cock erupted for the second time, firing 6 ropes of thick cum deep inside the man's guts. Link went wide eyed at all the sensations and as his last spurt of cum fired out his legs went like Jelly, and he collapsed back Link having to hold the man up as he finished blasting inside. I swallowed all his cum as Link pulled his cock out of the man's battered hole and put him down on the bed next to me. We both led there breathing heavily as a beeping sound filled the room. Link looked over at his pager, "Sorry boys I got to split... got broken bones to heal" he grinned using Schmitt's shirt to wipe the sweat from his chest. As he walked out of the door, he winked at us both making us giggle, "So apology accepted?" I asked Schmitt who burst into laughter, "Ummm yes... apology accepted." Thank you for reading, want more of this series let me know, Anonbucket1995@outlook.com

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sat, 4 May 2024 13:37:36 +0000 From: Anon Bucket &lt;Anonbucket1995@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Dirty Doctors of Grey Sloan part 7, (Gay, Celebrity) Dirty Doctors of Grey Sloan Chapter 7- Lets skip a few years. This is a fictional story that involves consensual sex between people over the age of 18 and does not imply the sexuality of the characters or those who play them. Please donate anything possible to the Nifty Archive http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html. Wow... just wow, it was hard to believe that I had been at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital for 7 years now. The time had just flown by, and my life was so different from a few years ago. I don't even know where to start, well sadly Mark Sloan, the sexy Daddy who rearranged my insides regularly went and fucking died, God I miss that cock pumping me deep and hard, I literally think we fucked in every room in the hospital. And Alex... Well, me and Dr Karev had continued fucking on and off him using my hole whenever he was stressed or not getting any at home. That was until one day I was told he had left the hospital and moved to God knows where. Apparently he found out he had kids or something and just left to be with them, that sucked the most as he was so fucking hot with a nice fat cock that he knew how to use not to mention his juicy arse, fuck I loved it when he was sat on my face grinding his hole across it. But sadly, now my love life is pretty much non-existent bar a few cheeky blowjobs given to Dr Avery every now and then. Whilst my love life is pretty shit my career has gone from strength to strength and I have been working as an Attending Neurosurgeon for the past couple years or so and I'm fucking good at it Dr Elm is truly one of the best surgeons the hospital has to offer and I've been impressing everyone there has been talk of me becoming the Chief of Neuro when the job ever becomes available. Yes my career has blown up in a good way but there but my hole hasn't been blown up in a long while and it's really frustrating, its making me a little short tempered which luckily for me I have managed to keep it at low levels at the moment only on occasion losing my temper with the interns and not losing it with any senior staff which is Hella lucky for me. Now I might not be getting my ass slammed by anyone it didn't mean that there wasn't any eye candy, there was this Doctor the head of Orthopaedic Surgery Dr Atticus Lincoln or Link as he liked to be called and whoa, he was one smoking hot motherfucker, from the chiselled body and the perkiest bum I had ever seen I couldn't stop staring at him whenever we were in surgery together which wasn't usually often, Neuro and Ortho don't usually link together but on the rare occasion they did just watching the man effortlessly operate made me harder than a rock and usually left me having to jerk off in the toilets after. Now as I arrived at the hospital there was an incoming, "CAR INCIDENT HEAD LACERATIONS AND BRAIN INJURY, BOTH BROKEN FEMURS AND A DISLOCATED RIGHT SHOULDER" I heard the EMT shout and as quick as a flash I was on it, trying to stabilize the patient and after a while we managed it. I assessed his head and determined that he had swelling was at dangerous levels, We need an emergency Craniotomy NOW" I shouted as I heard a voice, "We also have no pulse in both legs we need to do a revascularisation...Elm want to double team him" I heard looking down and straight into the eyes of the hunk of Ortho. "Always Dr Lincoln," I chuckled as we ran down the corridor and into the operating room. Cut to 20 minutes later and I have the man's head open and Link is operating on his legs and its going so well, apart from this idiot of a resident Schmitt I think is his name, he is becoming more and more frustrating being so slow and just panicking when this really isn't the time to panic, all this added up and when he dropped the suction tube my short temperedness came out in full force, "JESUS SCHMITT GET OUT OF MY FUCKING ER NOW" I screamed at the man watching as his face turned red and tears filled his eyes as he ran out of the room. The room was silent until I heard, "Wow Dr Elm... you really need to get laid" I looked down and Link was chuckling, "What?" I questioned as he smirked, "I can sense it... you're mad because you haven't got laid but shouting at the resident's won't help" he smirked looking down getting back to work. We continued to work and luckily the man survived. As we de-scrubbed Link put his hand on my shoulder, "Hey man... don't worry about earlier... we all get mad when we've got blue balls," I was confused, how did he know I had blue balls, "How...is it that obvious?" I asked as he burst out laughing, "Man I've seen you rushing to the bathroom after surgeries and heard it all" I blushed as he turned around, "Don't worry...our secret...I'm gonna go see if Schmitt is alright", I nodded "Tell him I'm sorry" I added as he nodded and walked out. I felt like suck a jerk, the guy was here to learn and here I was screaming at him I needed to apologise for it and as I sat at the cafeteria sipping a coffee my phone buzzed, it was from Link. "Dr Schmitt accepts your apology and wants to speak to you... come to the on-call room." I sighed; it was time to face the music but why in the on-call room? I walked through the corridors and heard a strange noise coming from the on-call room, I decided not to knock as I might catch someone in the act, well I certainly did catch something as when I walked inside my eyes flung open not believing wat I was seeing. Link was sat on the door facing bed led back a little... he was completely naked... with Schmitt between his legs sucking his cock. He looked at me straight in the eyes and moaned, "Fuckk Yeahhhhh come in Dr Elm." Schmitt immediately pulled off the man's cock making him grunt as it slapped his toned stomach. All I could do was stare, mouth wide open at the man's massive cock. The man was seriously hung, it stood at a mammoth 10 inches long, larger than Karev's it was slick with saliva and his head was pink and oozing pre-cum, his shaft was rather thick and has small veins running down it. His pubes were brown and trimmed and his balls hung slightly low and were dusted in fine black hair. "Shit... sorry... I'll Ummm go" Schmitt muttered as Link held his shoulders, "Now...now... let's not get panicked that's what got you here to begin with...I was thinking that Dr Elm could join us?" "WHAT" I shouted quickly running in and closing the door as Link put his muscled arm behind his head and pushed Schmitt back down onto his cock, "Good boy...Yeah Look I've seen you staring and you like what you see...I get it I'm hot, and you need to apologise to Dr Schmitt and he needs to do the same to you so why not just apologise in the best way", I was shocked but as I saw his fat cock going in the man's mouth my own cock stiffened, "You mind Schmitt?" I asked as he shook his head, "No it's ok" he muttered with a mouth of cock, "Ummm ok... but you're straight you have a baby on the way?" Link grinned, "Yeah I do...but I ain't getting any at home and honestly monogamy is dead am I right" I smirked and began stripping, "Good boy...Now I think Dr Schmitt will accept your apology is you...if you... eat his ass" he grinned as I now noticed the man was also naked, and fucking hell he had a nice ass, fat lightly haired cheeks with a hairier crack and hole, "Wow...nice ass", Schmitt pulled the cock out, "Thanks...now eat my hole", I grinned walking over and getting on my knees giving the fat cheeks a slap, I spread the cheeks staring at the tightest pinkest hole I had ever seen, I looked up at Link who was smirking and slammed my face between the man's cheeks against his hole making him sigh as my tongue lapped and sucked at the hole, his arse tasted so good, I ate his ass hard and fast squeezing the cheeks around my face and motorboating his hole as Link continued his assault on the man's throat holding him in place as he thrusted up hard and fast his face gasping and sighing as he growled pushing his cock in and out of the man's throat at an impressive speed, saliva dripped down is shaft and his balls slapped against the man's chin as his face flushed red and tears filled his eyes. I was plunging my tongue against the quivering hole before burying my face in and letting the man rub his hole back and forth over my face coating it in his ass juices as I grabbed a handful of his fat cheeks feeling them shake back and forth as he grunted and choked at the same time. "Fuck this is too good" Link grinned pushing Schmitt down and holding him in place wrapping his strong legs around the man's back trapping him as he looked up at the hunk who pushed him down and thrusted upwards feeling the throat tighten and constrict around his shaft, as the man gagged and choked his hole began to spasm around my tongue, "OHHH FUCK YES" Link shouted really bouncing the man up and down as saliva poured down his balls before groaning as he unwrapped his legs and Schmitt flew off him landing on the floor and not meaning to he literally sat on my face, "Ohhh wow...FUCK YES" He moaned as he bounced up and down his own 7 inch cock bouncing up and down as Link wanked his cock to the sight, "Good boy's" he grinned as my tongue was crammed into his ass for a couple of minutes before I was unable to breathe and pushed the man off. Link raised a brow, "Wow...pretty damn hot...Now Dr Elm I know you've wanted my cock for a while so come suck it" he grinned looking over to Schmitt, "And you...lie on the bed next to me...legs up...I'm gonna finger that pretty hole until you scream". I crawled over to the god realising his body was insanely hot, muscled pecs a tight stomach and a nice amount of hair dusting his chest, I just wanted to lick and suck all his body especially those muscled lightly haired armpits but there was plenty of time for that later. As I got to his cock he gripped it, "Tongue out" he ordered and as I did, he slapped it on my tongue rubbing the head all over my taste buds letting his pre-cum splatter all over my tongue and face. He did this a couple more times before grabbing my head and shoving his cock into my mouth, "Fuuuuuck yeahhhh" he groaned as began to suck hard on his head circling the wet spongy head begore flicking at his piss slit making the man shiver as he reached down running his hand over his hairy pec before using his thumb and forefinger to pull on his dark pink nipple grinning and watching as I sunk inch after inch into my throat feeling it slide down until my nose hit his wiry pubes, Link looked over at Schmitt who was raising his legs into the air, "Now that's how you deepthroat" he grinned reaching out and licking his finger before pushing it between the man's cheeks and straight into his hole watching Schmitt gasp as he pushed his finger deep inside wiggling it around increasing his speed until wet squelching sounds filled the room and Schmitt was a mumbling mess, his legs shaking and his breathing hard as Link slammed his ass hard and fast fingering it like it was a pussy adding another finger making the man wail as he pulled his fingers up and down reaching out with his other hand and pulled me up and down his hard shaft. His cock tasted so fucking good so clean yet manly, as I slurped up and down tasting nothing but his pre-cum, I wondered how many holes he had slid this cock into and now I hoped he would be slamming inside me tonight. Link was fingering the man's hole at lightening speed now feeling the hole grip onto his fingers as Schmitt bounced up and down his cock jumping round and round as Link pushed in hard and ripped his fingers out slapping the hole and making the man squeal as he collapsed onto the seat, hairy chest rising and falling fast, "I'll let you recover Dr Schmitt...I wanna use Dr Elm here for a while. His hand reached around to the back of my head and quickly he thrusted as he pulled me down slamming his whole cock down my throat, "OHHHH FUCK YESSSSS SUCK MY FUCKING COCK" He moaned pulling and pushing it down, I felt it stab at the back of my mouth before sliding down my throat locking his hands around my head and fucking his hips harder and harder as he reached up and began to pinch his left nipple with his other hand behind his head. "Yeahhhhh suck my cockkkkk" He whispered, his eyes closed and his head looking upwards. I could tell he was feeling so much pleasure from this, his cock was steel hard, and I could feel the pre-cum oozing down my throat. Link looked down and grinned before pushing his cock harder and harder into my throat lodging it in my windpipe and pinched my nose shut. He held me there for a few seconds grinning, as I slapped his tanned hairy legs trying to bet myself free. "AWWW FUCK YEAHHH OH MY GOD" he grinned holding me down for nearly a minute. Finally, he pulled me off his cock and slapped me on the shoulder, "Good boy" He smirked as I sat there coughing and spluttering. "What... What now?" I asked as Link smirked. "Well, I know you really want to feel this in your hole Dr Elm...but first to really tease you... you get to watch me fuck Schmitt here." I sighed as Schmitt grinned, "Fuck yeah" I heard him mutter as He pulled Schmitt's legs up onto his strong shoulders and slapped his cock against the hole, Link spat down onto his cock and lined up winking at me and he grabbed the man's hips and thrusted hard grunting as his head shot inside the man. A cry filled the room followed by a deep gasp and a moan as Link held his cock inside, Link smirked and looked over at me, "Just watch...you're gonna get it twice as hard" he winked as I stared, not at his cock but at his peachy ass, the fat muscled tanned cheeks that were smooth as silk but his crack was lined with hair and as he bent over to kiss the man I saw his tight pink hole wink, I just had to taste it. As Link pushed his cock deeper and deeper into the gasping bottom, I crawled behind him and reached out grabbing his fat cheeks and pulling them apart. "Oh... want a bit of my ass, do you?" Link grinned turning around looking down at me, "Well... what are you waiting for... get that face in there... but just your tongue, that hole don't take cocks." He winked at me as I licked my lips and slammed my face against his hole making him gasp, "OHHH WOW...FUCK" He moaned pulling back pushing his ass into my face as I began to lick the tight pink hole, the man's hole tasted amazing and as he began to thrust slowly his ass smothered my face. "Oh, fuck that's fucking goooooooood" he moaned throwing his head up and reaching back and grabbing my head rubbing it back and forth over his hole before pushing me into it hard. As he was doing this Link began to thrust harder and faster into Schmitt his balls beginning to slap against the man's ass making him squeal and grunt in pleasure his own cock flailing up and down with each thrust leaking pre-cum onto his hairy stomach. His ass felt so fucking full and Link was his favourite cock to have inside him, it fitted his hole perfectly and ever since he first slid inside his hole he knew that the man would keep coming back again and again, "UHHHH FUCK...FUCK MEEEEEEEEE" He muttered repeatedly as Link slammed his cock in and out feeling the tightness of the man's hole grip his cock with each thrust squeezing the pre-cum out of his cock helping it act as lube which was much appreciated. Back at Link's ass I licked up and down the hole feeling his balls slap against my chin as he thrusted back. I licked down the hole before opening my mouth and shoving his balls into my mouth immediately sucking them and lapping my tongue around them, "OH WOW...FUCK" Link moaned as I tasted the saltiness of his bollocks tracing a figure of 8 around them making them wet with my saliva, I could see Link's hairy legs shaking with each thrust and my sucking was involuntarily making him thrust harder and harder fucking deeper and deeper until he slammed inside and pushed hard pulling Schmitt onto his cock making the man wail in pain and pleasure, he then ripped his cock from the hole grinning at his handywork as the man's hole gaped open, "Fucking nice pussy" he grinned thumbing the hole, "Wow Dr Lincoln...that...wow" Schmitt moaned as I spat out his balls and he pulled me upwards into a deep kiss sliding his tongue inside my mouth kissing me passionately before pulling away biting my lip as he grinned, "Fancy letting me fuck you senseless?" I nodded and he pushed me onto the bed my legs flying into the air being caught by the muscled god and resting them on his shoulders, "Hey Schmitt come lube it up some more." Link grabbed Schmitt by the hair and rammed his cock down the man's throat a couple of times, All Schmitt could taste was his own ass but he really didn't care he just looked up at the hunk above him eyes staring down at him and teeth bared as he slammed it down the man's throat before pulling him away and slapping his cock at my hole, "Ready for the best fuck you've ever had?" I nodded and immediately I felt his head press against my hole. My ass gave resistance to his cock...It had been a while since I was last fucked but Link pushed harder and harder until his cock head disappeared into my hole making us both moan, "FUUUUUCK YESSSSSSS". Link moaned as he gave me some time to get used to it. Not too long as a second later I felt him pushing inside, my hole gripping his cock hard as I felt the full thickness of it. My ass was on fire, "Take it boy...take it...take it", Link moaned as his pubes hit the base of my ass. His whole ten inches was deep inside my hole, at first it hurt but after a few slow thrusts it began to feel quite good. Link grunted as his cock sank in and out of my hole. "Ready baby". He breathed before smirking at me and beginning to pull out. When only four inches was in my hole, he pushed hard firing the rest of his cock deep in my ass, he began to repeat this over and over, slamming his cock deep into my hole. His hands on my hips so he could pull me harder onto his fat monster. As the thrust got faster and faster his huge balls began to slam against me making a loud slapping sound, "Oh yes...that's it...good boy...take it". His chest glistened with sweat which made his muscles look even more ripped, this turned me on even more. His pounding was relentless pounding and pounding over and over, Schmitt sat there rubbing his own cock back and forth as Link looked over, "Come suck off Dr Elm here," He grunted as my cock flailed around. I suddenly saw stars as I felt the wet warmth of Schmitt's mouth over my cock as I thrusted my own seven incher into his mouth, I could see why Link loved his throat so much as it slid down with ease. "Wow that's so hot" Link grunted thrusting harder and faster as I squeezed my hole around his cock making him throw his head up in pleasure as the pre-cum flowed out of his cock, the sound of his cock slamming into me filled the room. Suddenly Link reached out and grabbed Schmitt's head slamming him down on my cock pushing all 7 inches into his throat, this made me throw myself upwards and grab hold of Link's tanned broad shoulders, "Yes...yes...yes...yesssss" I moaned staring straight into his eyes as he just focused on pounding me as hard as he could grunting occasionally. After a short while the let go of Schmitt who flung himself upwards pushing me back onto the bed as I howled as Link ripped his cock from my hole and grinned at his handiwork. He strode over to the bed and sat down, "Come ride me baby" he grinned slapping his legs as I stood up and straddled the hunk. I lowered myself down wincing as the head pushed inside groaning as inch after inch slid back inside me before grunting as he bottomed out. "Bounce" he ordered as I lifted myself up and began to bounce up and down our soft grunts filling the room as I felt the full thickness of his cock stretching me open. Link leant back and grinned as I bounced up and down as he slowly began to thrust upwards becoming faster and faster until he had his hands on my shoulder pushing me down as he thrusted upwards as my hands roamed the man's lightly haired pecs squeezing his pink nipples as he raised a hand putting it behind his head, before I knew it I saw Schmitt rush forward and shove his face in the man's muscled hairy pit taking a deep inhale as Link grinned, "Go on...lick it...you fucking love my pits don't you?" Schmitt stuck out his tongue and lapped at the sweat coated hair tasting the sweat of a real man as he curled the hair around his tongue and let it drop to the back of his mouth inhaling hard. This had an effect on Link as he began to fuck me violently hard pulling me down onto the other side of his body grabbing my ass and sank his cock hard and fast gasping at the pleasure he was feeling. My hole was on fire, and it hurt like a motherfucker, but I just wanted to pleasure the hunk it the hope that I would get the cock deep inside me again. Link fucked me harder and harder and harder pushing a finger inside my hole feeling his cock thrusting inside. I decided to give this man my all, so I leant up and led back squeezing my hole down as hard as I could nearly wailing as it hurt so much making Link gasp, "OH WOW...OH JESUS HOLY SHHHITTTTT" He screamed as I slammed his cock inside me over and over bouncing faster and faster until Link's balls tightened up, He wailed and leant upwards pushing Schmitt off, He grabbed hold of me and flung me onto the bed without even pulling his cock out. "Fuck... Gonna cum baby...gonna cum deep inside you" he grunted as he fucked faster and faster, his pert bum shaking in the air as he fucked to cum. His cock throbbed inside me as with one last loud gasp, his muscles began to strain as he moaned, "Fuck... CUMMINGGGGGG," His face screwed up and he gasped incoherently as his cock began to erupt. His legs shaking as I felt the cum blast out coating my insides in his fresh salty spunk. He shallows thrusted a couple of times before sliding in slowly and groaning as the last shot fired out before falling on top of me breathing heavily. After a little he looked up and smirked, "Fuck...that ass was... fuck so good" he muttered pulling himself up and slowly sliding his cock from my hole watching as the cum leaked out of my hole. "Wow... wow" I moaned at the sight of his glistening chest as he looked over at Schmitt, "You still want my cum?" Schmitt nodded his head, "Yes please Dr Lincoln" Link then moved over, "Eat it out of his hole then." Schmitt crawled over and raised my legs, I grinned as I felt his wet tongue swipe against my hole and I pushed the cum onto his tongue, he licked ass so fucking good pushing hard to go as deep as he could to get as much cum out as he could. He leant up, me cum dripping from his beard as I leant closer and slid my tongue into his mouth sensually scooping out some cum and tasting the salty spunk as we swapped the cum between our mouths. Fuck Link's cum tasted so good and as we made out Schmitt suddenly went wide eyed and he stuttered, "Oh...OH FUCKKKKK" I was confused until I looked back and saw Link hanging out of the back of the young Doctor, "I can cum twice" Link grinned as he began to fuck Schmitt hard, the man's hairy ass jiggling as he tried to talk but the pleasure made him mumble incoherently as Link pulled him back wrapping his strong arm around the man's hairy stomach. I decided that the man deserved a treat, so I knelt forward and lifted his cock pushing it between my lips and sucking hard, "Oh... OHHHH AHHH FUCK" Schmitt moaned feeling a lots of sensations both in his ass and on his cock. I groaned at the taste of his 7.5 inch cock, it tasted pretty damn good and the pre-cum just flowed out of him, I sucked down the shaft burying my face in his bush of pubes letting Link's thrusts push it deep into my throat, the man's balls squished against my face as I felt his hand on the back of my head. I sucked harder and harder pulling up and down his shaft massaging his hairy low hanging balls until he moaned, "Oh fuck...I'm gonna cum...UGHHHHH FUCKKKK" And almost immediately his cock pulsed and erupted inside my mouth coating my tongue in his salty spunk, This orgasm made his hole spasm and tighten immensely hard on Link's cock and he threw his head back and growled not saying a word as his cock erupted for the second time, firing 6 ropes of thick cum deep inside the man's guts. Link went wide eyed at all the sensations and as his last spurt of cum fired out his legs went like Jelly, and he collapsed back Link having to hold the man up as he finished blasting inside. I swallowed all his cum as Link pulled his cock out of the man's battered hole and put him down on the bed next to me. We both led there breathing heavily as a beeping sound filled the room. Link looked over at his pager, "Sorry boys I got to split... got broken bones to heal" he grinned using Schmitt's shirt to wipe the sweat from his chest. As he walked out of the door, he winked at us both making us giggle, "So apology accepted?" I asked Schmitt who burst into laughter, "Ummm yes... apology accepted." Thank you for reading, want more of this series let me know, Anonbucket1995@outlook.com </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/mystery-at-the-caves-of-mirinoi

Date: Tue, 19 Mar 2024 21:40:22 +0000 From: Sven Benters <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Mystery At The Caves Of Mirinoi This is a fanfiction story with the character Leo Corbett (Danny Slavin). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © SABAN POWER RANGERS ********************************* Leo Corbett is in his Red Ranger form searching for a mystery he heard about the caves in Mirinoi. He enters the cave to search what could be there. A shadow moves in the caves and Leo notices there must be a lifeform in the cave by the torches that are at each side of the cave while he walks through it. Leo sees a shadow moving and runs after it till he is close by and stops. "Deviot!?" Leo says, shocked. "Red ranger, we finally meet again." Deviot replies being back in his full form. "How is this possible? You were merged with Trakeena and we destroyed her." Leo says. "I was able to save myself from her when she entered that cocoon again. I have been waiting for many years to return." Deviot explains. "There won't be any reign of terror from you, I will defeat you!" Leo says holding his Quasar saber towards Deviot. Deviot shoots with the gun attached to his arm. He hits Leo and makes Leo drop to the ground. The 2 get in a big fight. They throw each other to the wall, kicking and hitting each other till Deviot smashes Leo on the ground and Leo gets unmorphed. "Pathetic human. You're no match for me!" Deviot says with an evil laugh while he walks over to Leo. Leo tries to get up, but Deviot kicks him down. Deviot hangs above Leo and grabs him by his shirt that shreds open. Leo's masculine chest is exposed. Deviot looks at the human and gets an idea. He suddenly shreds the whole shirt off of Leo, exposing that masculine upper body of the Red Ranger. "What the hell are you doing?" Leo asks, looking at his upper body being exposed to the alien robot. Deviot grabs Leo up who is weak to fight back and throws the Ranger on some wooden cradle. To Leo's horror, Deviot starts to undo his pants and removes it in a quick motion together with Leo's underwear. Deviot gets an eye full of the Red Ranger and his masculine naked physique. "Let me go, Deviot!" Leo says while trying to get up, but Deviot pushes him down and chains his wrists. "You're not going anywhere." Deviot says and rubs over Leo's masculine chest, feeling those pecs up by squeezing them. Leo is scared of what this crazy robot wants to do with him. While he tries to get the chains free, he sees Deviot stepping away and preparing himself for something. Leo can't see what but doesn't want to wait to find out. Deviot suddenly turns around and Leo's eyes widen. A big robotic dick is between Deviot's legs. "No way!" Leo says, shocked at the sight of it. "Yes, Red Ranger. Let's try this out and see if it pleasure's you." Deviot explains while coming closer to Leo between the Ranger's legs. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Leo screams seeing how Deviot's robotic dick is getting up close between his legs at his hole. "You know that form I had when I spoke out of that Galactic book." Deviot says and transforms himself in that mutant version. Leo sees Deviot's slimy body and realizes the robotic dick has transformed into a mutant version that is part of Deviot. "You're going to get a thrill out of this red ranger." Deviot says and grabs Leo to push his dick inside. The slime of Deviot's body is also on his dick, making it easier to use it as lube to go inside Leo's ass. Leo feels every inch of Deviot's dick coming inside him. "FUUUCK!!" He screams while his entire muscle body is flexed to taking that big dick. "That feels so amazing to come in that tight hole of yours." Deviot admits. Leo took that entire dick and his hole is in burning pain now. "Let's see what more you can handle." Deviot says and starts to fuck Leo. Leo all chained up lies on the cradle, taken by the mutant version of Deviot. Deviot picks up a rhythm to fuck the masculine red ranger. Sweat covers Leo's muscle body while he takes the mutant's dick. Eventually Leo feels the pleasure of Deviot's dick hitting his prostate and he moans loudly. Deviot evil laughs. "I knew you would like it!" Deviot's big claws lay on top of Leo's pecs and abs, keeping him down while fucking up that ass of Leo. The thrusts eventually bring Leo's dick to a stiffed version. "So pleased to see you really enjoyed it up that ass." Deviot mocks looking down at Leo's hard dick. "I hate you, Deviot!" Leo says out loud. "Hate me all you like. Your body acts differently." Deviot points out and grabs hold of Leo's dick. "NO, STOP!" Leo doesn't want to submit to the mutant. "Cum for me human. Show me how much you liked to be fucked up that ass of yours." Deviot teases while he continues to fuck Leo's ass and stroke his dick. Leo can't believe he feels pleasure running through his body while being fucked by this creepy mutant. Deviot knows exactly what he does and keeps on stroking Leo's dick. Leo feels the pleasure at his dick. Deviot notices how much Leo likes it, seeing Leo's eyes closed and hanging back, enjoying all the pleasure and giving in to it all. Suddenly, Deviot stops stroking the ranger. "What the-" Leo says surprised looking up at Deviot. "If you like it so much, why don't you stroke it." Deviot says and loosens 1 chain at Leo's wrist. Leo stares at the mutant. For a moment they only look at each other, no movement, not word until Leo wraps his hand around it and makes a fist to stroke it. "YES! Red ranger, stroke that dick. Enjoy being fucked up!" Deviot says and laughs. Leo beats his dick like there is no tomorrow. He wants to cum so badly now. Deviot grabs Leo by his waist and continues fucking up that ass, every time a little harder till he's completely pounding that ass. Both are in the heat of the moment. Leo's body is drenched wet from the sweat of taking a pounding and stroking his dick. A few more strokes are given to his dick and then Leo cums all over his and Deviot's body. "FUUUUCKK!!!" Leo screams. "Yes, Red Ranger, cum all over yourself." Deviot thrusts a few more times and then cums inside Leo as well. Leo feels that mutant's fluid filling him up. "This is fucked up!" Leo says. "Yes, you really got fucked up!" Deviot mocks. "LEO?" It loudly screamed through the cave by a familiar voice. Leo looks around and then realizes Deviot isn't there anymore. "Untie me Deviot. Don't let one of them see me like this!" Leo says freaking out, hearing his name being shout, realizing it's one of the other Rangers coming closer, who can see he has been clearly fucked and still chained up with 1 arm. "Deviot!" Leo says in a commanding voice. "LEO?" The familiar voice says again. Leo realizes it's Damon. "Damon, no, don't come any closer." Leo says, freaking out but already it is too late to see Damon in his Ranger suit seeing him all naked and chained up. "Damn did you got fucked?" Damon says, shocked at what he's seeing. "He has been and you will be next!" The mutant version of Deviot says that reappeared again and slams Damon against the wall. To be continued... ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Tue, 19 Mar 2024 21:40:22 +0000 From: Sven Benters &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Subject: Mystery At The Caves Of Mirinoi This is a fanfiction story with the character Leo Corbett (Danny Slavin). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © SABAN POWER RANGERS ********************************* Leo Corbett is in his Red Ranger form searching for a mystery he heard about the caves in Mirinoi. He enters the cave to search what could be there. A shadow moves in the caves and Leo notices there must be a lifeform in the cave by the torches that are at each side of the cave while he walks through it. Leo sees a shadow moving and runs after it till he is close by and stops. "Deviot!?" Leo says, shocked. "Red ranger, we finally meet again." Deviot replies being back in his full form. "How is this possible? You were merged with Trakeena and we destroyed her." Leo says. "I was able to save myself from her when she entered that cocoon again. I have been waiting for many years to return." Deviot explains. "There won't be any reign of terror from you, I will defeat you!" Leo says holding his Quasar saber towards Deviot. Deviot shoots with the gun attached to his arm. He hits Leo and makes Leo drop to the ground. The 2 get in a big fight. They throw each other to the wall, kicking and hitting each other till Deviot smashes Leo on the ground and Leo gets unmorphed. "Pathetic human. You're no match for me!" Deviot says with an evil laugh while he walks over to Leo. Leo tries to get up, but Deviot kicks him down. Deviot hangs above Leo and grabs him by his shirt that shreds open. Leo's masculine chest is exposed. Deviot looks at the human and gets an idea. He suddenly shreds the whole shirt off of Leo, exposing that masculine upper body of the Red Ranger. "What the hell are you doing?" Leo asks, looking at his upper body being exposed to the alien robot. Deviot grabs Leo up who is weak to fight back and throws the Ranger on some wooden cradle. To Leo's horror, Deviot starts to undo his pants and removes it in a quick motion together with Leo's underwear. Deviot gets an eye full of the Red Ranger and his masculine naked physique. "Let me go, Deviot!" Leo says while trying to get up, but Deviot pushes him down and chains his wrists. "You're not going anywhere." Deviot says and rubs over Leo's masculine chest, feeling those pecs up by squeezing them. Leo is scared of what this crazy robot wants to do with him. While he tries to get the chains free, he sees Deviot stepping away and preparing himself for something. Leo can't see what but doesn't want to wait to find out. Deviot suddenly turns around and Leo's eyes widen. A big robotic dick is between Deviot's legs. "No way!" Leo says, shocked at the sight of it. "Yes, Red Ranger. Let's try this out and see if it pleasure's you." Deviot explains while coming closer to Leo between the Ranger's legs. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!" Leo screams seeing how Deviot's robotic dick is getting up close between his legs at his hole. "You know that form I had when I spoke out of that Galactic book." Deviot says and transforms himself in that mutant version. Leo sees Deviot's slimy body and realizes the robotic dick has transformed into a mutant version that is part of Deviot. "You're going to get a thrill out of this red ranger." Deviot says and grabs Leo to push his dick inside. The slime of Deviot's body is also on his dick, making it easier to use it as lube to go inside Leo's ass. Leo feels every inch of Deviot's dick coming inside him. "FUUUCK!!" He screams while his entire muscle body is flexed to taking that big dick. "That feels so amazing to come in that tight hole of yours." Deviot admits. Leo took that entire dick and his hole is in burning pain now. "Let's see what more you can handle." Deviot says and starts to fuck Leo. Leo all chained up lies on the cradle, taken by the mutant version of Deviot. Deviot picks up a rhythm to fuck the masculine red ranger. Sweat covers Leo's muscle body while he takes the mutant's dick. Eventually Leo feels the pleasure of Deviot's dick hitting his prostate and he moans loudly. Deviot evil laughs. "I knew you would like it!" Deviot's big claws lay on top of Leo's pecs and abs, keeping him down while fucking up that ass of Leo. The thrusts eventually bring Leo's dick to a stiffed version. "So pleased to see you really enjoyed it up that ass." Deviot mocks looking down at Leo's hard dick. "I hate you, Deviot!" Leo says out loud. "Hate me all you like. Your body acts differently." Deviot points out and grabs hold of Leo's dick. "NO, STOP!" Leo doesn't want to submit to the mutant. "Cum for me human. Show me how much you liked to be fucked up that ass of yours." Deviot teases while he continues to fuck Leo's ass and stroke his dick. Leo can't believe he feels pleasure running through his body while being fucked by this creepy mutant. Deviot knows exactly what he does and keeps on stroking Leo's dick. Leo feels the pleasure at his dick. Deviot notices how much Leo likes it, seeing Leo's eyes closed and hanging back, enjoying all the pleasure and giving in to it all. Suddenly, Deviot stops stroking the ranger. "What the-" Leo says surprised looking up at Deviot. "If you like it so much, why don't you stroke it." Deviot says and loosens 1 chain at Leo's wrist. Leo stares at the mutant. For a moment they only look at each other, no movement, not word until Leo wraps his hand around it and makes a fist to stroke it. "YES! Red ranger, stroke that dick. Enjoy being fucked up!" Deviot says and laughs. Leo beats his dick like there is no tomorrow. He wants to cum so badly now. Deviot grabs Leo by his waist and continues fucking up that ass, every time a little harder till he's completely pounding that ass. Both are in the heat of the moment. Leo's body is drenched wet from the sweat of taking a pounding and stroking his dick. A few more strokes are given to his dick and then Leo cums all over his and Deviot's body. "FUUUUCKK!!!" Leo screams. "Yes, Red Ranger, cum all over yourself." Deviot thrusts a few more times and then cums inside Leo as well. Leo feels that mutant's fluid filling him up. "This is fucked up!" Leo says. "Yes, you really got fucked up!" Deviot mocks. "LEO?" It loudly screamed through the cave by a familiar voice. Leo looks around and then realizes Deviot isn't there anymore. "Untie me Deviot. Don't let one of them see me like this!" Leo says freaking out, hearing his name being shout, realizing it's one of the other Rangers coming closer, who can see he has been clearly fucked and still chained up with 1 arm. "Deviot!" Leo says in a commanding voice. "LEO?" The familiar voice says again. Leo realizes it's Damon. "Damon, no, don't come any closer." Leo says, freaking out but already it is too late to see Damon in his Ranger suit seeing him all naked and chained up. "Damn did you got fucked?" Damon says, shocked at what he's seeing. "He has been and you will be next!" The mutant version of Deviot says that reappeared again and slams Damon against the wall. To be continued... ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/billy-gets-what-he-wants

Date: Mon, 9 Sep 2024 21:11:44 +0000 From: Sven Benters <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Billy Gets What He Wants This is a fanfiction story with the characters Jason Lee Scott (Austin Saint-John) and Zack Taylor (Walter Jones). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © SABAN MIGHTY MORPHIN POWER RANGERS ********************************* King Mondo has set a wave of attacks to Angel Grove and the Zeo rangers get in action to fight Mondo's army and robotic monsters that are sent to earth. Jason as the Gold Zeo rangers comes to help the team, fighting against the cogs and the monsters. The rangers finally manage to defeat the monsters but Jason gets hit badly by the monster. Back at the comment center Jason gets a checkup by Billy while the other rangers leave. "I think we need to have a better exam in one of the private parts of the chamber." Billy suggests to Jason. Jason trusts Billy and his intelligence he always helped them out with. Following the former blue ranger into the private parts of the chamber. "I need to have you undress yourself Jason." Billy explains. Jason looks at Billy and starts to undress. Billy can't get his eyes off of Jason's body. It's clear that Billy has been fantasizing of Jason in the past when Billy starts to have flashbacks of the moment when Jason was the red ranger and used to fight shirtless during tournaments. "Is everything okay Billy?" Jason asks. Billy shakes his head and suddenly notices Jason standing only in his underwear in front of him. Billy licks his lips and would love to see Jason completely naked, but as a professional Billy controls himself. "Please lay down on the exam table." Billy says. Jason lays himself down and is completely delivered to what Billy is going to do to him. "Please be careful." Jason jokes and winks at Billy. "I'm always careful." Billy replies and winks back while he feels Jason's body up. "So what do you think the problem is?' Jason asks. Billy stares at Jason's masculine physique. Those firm round pecs and that abs showing. While Billy feels those big broad shoulders up and leads his hands to those biceps and triceps. "My guess is since you are human it's difficult to control the Gold powers and you need to have a boost." Billy explains. "A boost with what?" Jason asks. "I need to fuck you." BIlly says out of the blue. "WHAT!" Jason shouts. Billy realizes what he said but since he already said it he can better go along with it and his mind starts to think how to explain. "A human on human fuck would give your body the boost you can need. I am willing to help you or I ask one of the other rangers, but it needs to be a male ranger." Billy explains. Billy's nerdy explanation and the trust Jason has for his long time friend makes him believe he can trust Billy. "No you can do it. Please don't let the others find out about this. "Don't you worry, this will stay between us." Billy says winking at Jason and starts to strip himself down. Jason sits up on the table and watches Billy strip himself down. He realizes how masculine Billy has gotten and doesn't have that nerdy body anymore like in the past. "Wow Billy!" Jason says. "What?" Billy asks. "Oh nothing." Jason is ashamed to admit that he's impressed by Billy's physique. "She'll help you with your underwear?" Billy asks. "Wha- what." Jason says stuttering. Billy walks over in his underwear towards Jason and gets his hands at the waistband of Jason's underwear, his mouth close to Jason's mouth. "I'll have to admit, I'm happy you picked me to help you out with this." Billy says. Jason smiles at Billy and looks nervously down to see Billy pulling his underwear further down until it's Jason's time to arch his ass up and Billy can pull the underwear further down to reveal Jason's big dick. "I always thought you were well endowed with a big dick." Billy says. "It's not for nothing Zordon asked you to be the first leader of the team." He adds. Jason feels proud of the size he had and slowly gets into the sensation. "How about you?" Billy smiles and steps back, he slowly pulls down his underwear and reveals his size who comes very close to Jason's size of dick. "Wow Billy, you are well endowed as well." Jason points out staring at Billy's size of dick. "I'm not just a smart geek." Billy taunts, knowing Jason must have thought of that in the past. Billy walks closer to Jason and grabs hold of Jason's dick and starts to stroke it. "Whoah" Jason says out of shock. "Sorry Jason." Billy starts. "I figured the best way to do this was to just get right down to it." Jason sits back, still Billy's hand wrapper around his dick. Billy gives Jason a moment and looks at the hunk. `God Jason, if you only knew how long I've wanted to do this, how many times I've fantasized about doing this.' Jason tries to get up but Billy lays his hand on Jason's shoulder and runs it to Jason's chest. "Where do you think you are going?" Billy questions. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea Billy." Billy rubs his hands over Jason's chest. Billy's dick starts to get hard while feeling Jason up. "No Billy, I really think..." Billy cits Jason off with a kiss. Billy pushes his tongue inside Jason's mouth. For a moment Jason resists but then starts to give in. After a while kissing passionately and having his hands running over Jason's broad shoulders Billy breaks the kiss off. Billy can see Jason's lips being swollen from the kiss and smiles, he runs his fingers over those lips. "Maybe we shouldn't do this and see what happens to my powers." Jason explains. "Your powers?" Billy questions. "Yes, my powers why you and I are now naked." Billy shakes his head. "Oh yes your powers, we really need to get you prepared." He explains and looks down at Jason's dick and opens his mouth. Jason looks down and sees Billy diving at his dick and starts to suck it. "Oh good God." Jason saus full of shock. "Oh damn!" he moans. Billy continues to suck and deep throats that dick. Jason can't believe Billy is such a great cocksucker. Billy stops sucking and pulls Jason's arms up to have him lay on the exam table and Billy starts licking Jason's chest that he brings to Billy's armpit and starts to lick it. "I think you're taking this too far Billy." Jason says. "You ain't seen nothing yet, Jase." Billy replies. Billy licks his fingers and reach them to Jason's ass to shove two up inside Jason's ass and starts to finger fuck him. "Billy what the fuck!" Jason says. "This isn't what we agreed to do for my powers!" "Shut up and take it!" With a stern voice. "You always thought I was a geeky little nerd. Now you're gonna find out what I'm capable of." Jason gets a little scared of Billy, freezing up. Billy feels Jason's ass tightening up. "You better relax that hole for what I'm gonna do to it!" Billy says. "Billy what has gone into you. I thought we were friends?" Jason questions. "Oh, we are friends, Jase." Billy says. "Friends that help each other out and you are going to help me do something to you I always wanted to do." Billy smiles at the thought of what he's about to do to Jason. "What's gotten into you man?" Jason says. "Don't you worry what's gotten into me, you better worry what's going into you." Billy teases. Jason has a worried look with his eyebrow raised up. "That's right Jase, I'm going to fuck you, I'm gonna fuck you and you will like it!" Billy says. Billy uses his fingers up inside Jason to reach deeper and suddenly Jason feels a pleasure spot and yelps ending with a moan. "My dick will hit that pleasure spot and so many more." Billy explains. Jason realizes Billy was just telling him they need to do this as a way to get him to cooperate. "We don't have to do this to save my powers do we?" Billy looks at Jason and keeps finger fucking him, making Jason grunt a few times to handle those fingers. "You lied to me!" Jason says. "Sorry Jase, I had to get you to go along with it. That was the only way I knew." Billy shoves his fingers a little further and Jason Lets out a moan of pleasure. "Ooooh God!" Jason moans. "That's it Jason, let yourself enjoy it, let me make you feel good." Billy says. Jason moans again. Billy notices how Jason loved what he just did with his fingers and does the same motion over and over again. "Ow God, ow God, Ow God..." Jason keeps repeating while he moans and then Jason shouts. "Fuck, Billy Fuck!" Billy's dick twitches from hearing Jason yelp his name during the moaning. "You want me to fuck that hole Jase?" Billy asks. Jason looks at Billy. He's clearly thinking about it. "I can make you feel even more if you let me." Billy says and then twitches his fingers inside Jason. "Oh fuck it, yes, fuck me, give it to me Billy." Jason replies. Billy pulls his fingers out of Jason's ass and rubs both his hands across Jason's chest which is now covered in beads of sweat. Jason watches as Billy gets himself in position between Jason's legs. Jason sits up, looking down between his legs. Billy looks at Jason's hole and then at Jason. "I wanna taste that sweet ass first." He sticks his tongue out and starts to take a lap at Jason's pink hole. Shivers run over Jason's spine while he feels his rosebutt being licked at. A sweet sensation of pleasure runs through Jason's body. While Billy starts to continue rimming Jason's sweet pink rosebutt Jason moans to the pleasure he's receiving from it. "Oh fuck yeah!" Jason moans out and hangs his head back. While Billy rims Billy, Jason's ass arches up from the table and the room is filled with Jason's moaning. Billy can tell Jason is ready and stops rimming his friend. He kisses Jason's thighs and looks at Jason. "It's time for you to experience my dick, that will probable cause you to howl from pleasure as you already enjoyed the finger fucking and rimming. Jason looks down as Billy positions himself between his legs, pulling his ass further down from the table, bringing his big hard dick to Jason's ass. Nervously Jason awaits the fucking that is going to happen. As he already enjoyed what happened he doesn't resist, he now is curious how it feels to have a dick up his ass. Billy grabs a bottle of lube and lubes his dick. "You don't mind if I won't use a condom, after all we are buddies right." Billy says winking at Jason. Jason is so nervous he cannot speak. Billy also puts some lube on his fingers and pushes it at Jason's hole, sticking those fingers inside, making Jason yelp from the sudden intrusion he didn't expect. "Oh sorry Jase, I should have warned you but I'm also so excited to get my dick up inside you." Jason feels his ass being fingered some more, it turns Jason on so he grabs hold of his dick and starts to stroke it. BIlly smiles, seeing his friend enjoying himself while his fingers are inside. "If you think you are enjoying this, just wait till you have my dick inside you. Billy stops fingering Jason and brings his dick to Jason's rosebutt. "Time to take my dick!" Jason is still stroking his dick, sitting up and looking at Billy. Billy leans in to kiss Jason and at the same time brings his dick inside his friend. Jason wants to scream but Billy's kissing prevents him to, giving Billy vibrations through the mouth. Billy brings his entire dick inside and then breaks off the kiss. Jason catches his breath and looks up at Billy. Billy smiles while his dick is fully lodged up inside Jason. He rubs his hands over Jason's chest and pushes his friend down to the table. Jason lays down and looks at Billy, still holding his dick and gives it little strokes to feel pleasure while he feels like his ass is on fire from the whole intrusion. Billy leans forward and lays his hands beside Jason. "Time to fuck that ass of yours." Billy starts to move his hips and shots of pain and pleasure run through Jason's body. "OH FUCK!" Jason shouts. Billy looks down, watching his hunky friend. "What do you think of your geeky friend now?" He taunts. "Oh I'm sorry man-" "I-I never- wanted-" moans keep interfering with Jason's words. "To- gi- give you tha- that impression." Billy smiles while looking down at Jason, seeing his friend feeling the pleasure of his dick inside him. "Let's see what you can handle." Billy says while standing more up and grabbing hold of Jason's legs to really fucking him. "FUCK, OH FUCK." Jason moans out. Billy starts to really pound that ass. "OH YEAH BILLY!" FUCK ME BILLY, DON'T STOP!" Jason shouts feeling now only pleasure by every thrust Billy is giving him. Jason beats his dick with his fist, pumping it fast and hard. Now both men are covered in sweat. The room is filled with Jason's moans and the sound of Billy's hips slapping against Jason's ass. Billy rubs his hands over Jason's body. "Oh God I have dreamed of this for so long to feel you up and fuck you hard." Billy admits. "Oh man this feels fucking good." Jason admits at his turn. Billy leans forward and kisses Jason while he keeps thrusting inside. Jason keeps stroking his dick, feeling he's close to cum. Billy breaks off the kiss and smiles, seeing Jason breathing heavily, wanting to cum. "Cum for me Jase, show me how much you love to get fucked by me." "Oh yeah man, keep fucking me and I cum!" Jason says. Billy can't believe how much he has turned Jason into enjoying being fucked, he's so happy. Then Jason erupts and volume after volume comes out of Jason's dick, landing on Jason's fist and stomach. "That's so fucking hot!" Billy says and erupts inside Jason. "FUUUUCCCKKKK!!" Billy shouts while tensing up and filling Jason up. Both Jason and Billy catch their breaths and BIlly lets his dick deflate inside Jason. "That was different." Jason says, who cannot believe he enjoyed a fucking so much. "You really took it well." Billy says and winks at Jason. "What do we tell Zordon, Alpha and the others?" Jason asks. "Don't you worry about that, I will think of something." Billy says and pulls Jason in a kiss. Jason kisses Billy back and when Billy wants to break off Jason pulls him back. "Not so fast you stud." Billy smiles and loves how Jason sees him as a stud now, he climbs further on the table and lays himself next to Jason, in his arms while they continue to kiss and feel each other up before returning to the main chamber of the command center. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Mon, 9 Sep 2024 21:11:44 +0000 From: Sven Benters &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Subject: Billy Gets What He Wants This is a fanfiction story with the characters Jason Lee Scott (Austin Saint-John) and Zack Taylor (Walter Jones). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © SABAN MIGHTY MORPHIN POWER RANGERS ********************************* King Mondo has set a wave of attacks to Angel Grove and the Zeo rangers get in action to fight Mondo's army and robotic monsters that are sent to earth. Jason as the Gold Zeo rangers comes to help the team, fighting against the cogs and the monsters. The rangers finally manage to defeat the monsters but Jason gets hit badly by the monster. Back at the comment center Jason gets a checkup by Billy while the other rangers leave. "I think we need to have a better exam in one of the private parts of the chamber." Billy suggests to Jason. Jason trusts Billy and his intelligence he always helped them out with. Following the former blue ranger into the private parts of the chamber. "I need to have you undress yourself Jason." Billy explains. Jason looks at Billy and starts to undress. Billy can't get his eyes off of Jason's body. It's clear that Billy has been fantasizing of Jason in the past when Billy starts to have flashbacks of the moment when Jason was the red ranger and used to fight shirtless during tournaments. "Is everything okay Billy?" Jason asks. Billy shakes his head and suddenly notices Jason standing only in his underwear in front of him. Billy licks his lips and would love to see Jason completely naked, but as a professional Billy controls himself. "Please lay down on the exam table." Billy says. Jason lays himself down and is completely delivered to what Billy is going to do to him. "Please be careful." Jason jokes and winks at Billy. "I'm always careful." Billy replies and winks back while he feels Jason's body up. "So what do you think the problem is?' Jason asks. Billy stares at Jason's masculine physique. Those firm round pecs and that abs showing. While Billy feels those big broad shoulders up and leads his hands to those biceps and triceps. "My guess is since you are human it's difficult to control the Gold powers and you need to have a boost." Billy explains. "A boost with what?" Jason asks. "I need to fuck you." BIlly says out of the blue. "WHAT!" Jason shouts. Billy realizes what he said but since he already said it he can better go along with it and his mind starts to think how to explain. "A human on human fuck would give your body the boost you can need. I am willing to help you or I ask one of the other rangers, but it needs to be a male ranger." Billy explains. Billy's nerdy explanation and the trust Jason has for his long time friend makes him believe he can trust Billy. "No you can do it. Please don't let the others find out about this. "Don't you worry, this will stay between us." Billy says winking at Jason and starts to strip himself down. Jason sits up on the table and watches Billy strip himself down. He realizes how masculine Billy has gotten and doesn't have that nerdy body anymore like in the past. "Wow Billy!" Jason says. "What?" Billy asks. "Oh nothing." Jason is ashamed to admit that he's impressed by Billy's physique. "She'll help you with your underwear?" Billy asks. "Wha- what." Jason says stuttering. Billy walks over in his underwear towards Jason and gets his hands at the waistband of Jason's underwear, his mouth close to Jason's mouth. "I'll have to admit, I'm happy you picked me to help you out with this." Billy says. Jason smiles at Billy and looks nervously down to see Billy pulling his underwear further down until it's Jason's time to arch his ass up and Billy can pull the underwear further down to reveal Jason's big dick. "I always thought you were well endowed with a big dick." Billy says. "It's not for nothing Zordon asked you to be the first leader of the team." He adds. Jason feels proud of the size he had and slowly gets into the sensation. "How about you?" Billy smiles and steps back, he slowly pulls down his underwear and reveals his size who comes very close to Jason's size of dick. "Wow Billy, you are well endowed as well." Jason points out staring at Billy's size of dick. "I'm not just a smart geek." Billy taunts, knowing Jason must have thought of that in the past. Billy walks closer to Jason and grabs hold of Jason's dick and starts to stroke it. "Whoah" Jason says out of shock. "Sorry Jason." Billy starts. "I figured the best way to do this was to just get right down to it." Jason sits back, still Billy's hand wrapper around his dick. Billy gives Jason a moment and looks at the hunk. `God Jason, if you only knew how long I've wanted to do this, how many times I've fantasized about doing this.' Jason tries to get up but Billy lays his hand on Jason's shoulder and runs it to Jason's chest. "Where do you think you are going?" Billy questions. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea Billy." Billy rubs his hands over Jason's chest. Billy's dick starts to get hard while feeling Jason up. "No Billy, I really think..." Billy cits Jason off with a kiss. Billy pushes his tongue inside Jason's mouth. For a moment Jason resists but then starts to give in. After a while kissing passionately and having his hands running over Jason's broad shoulders Billy breaks the kiss off. Billy can see Jason's lips being swollen from the kiss and smiles, he runs his fingers over those lips. "Maybe we shouldn't do this and see what happens to my powers." Jason explains. "Your powers?" Billy questions. "Yes, my powers why you and I are now naked." Billy shakes his head. "Oh yes your powers, we really need to get you prepared." He explains and looks down at Jason's dick and opens his mouth. Jason looks down and sees Billy diving at his dick and starts to suck it. "Oh good God." Jason saus full of shock. "Oh damn!" he moans. Billy continues to suck and deep throats that dick. Jason can't believe Billy is such a great cocksucker. Billy stops sucking and pulls Jason's arms up to have him lay on the exam table and Billy starts licking Jason's chest that he brings to Billy's armpit and starts to lick it. "I think you're taking this too far Billy." Jason says. "You ain't seen nothing yet, Jase." Billy replies. Billy licks his fingers and reach them to Jason's ass to shove two up inside Jason's ass and starts to finger fuck him. "Billy what the fuck!" Jason says. "This isn't what we agreed to do for my powers!" "Shut up and take it!" With a stern voice. "You always thought I was a geeky little nerd. Now you're gonna find out what I'm capable of." Jason gets a little scared of Billy, freezing up. Billy feels Jason's ass tightening up. "You better relax that hole for what I'm gonna do to it!" Billy says. "Billy what has gone into you. I thought we were friends?" Jason questions. "Oh, we are friends, Jase." Billy says. "Friends that help each other out and you are going to help me do something to you I always wanted to do." Billy smiles at the thought of what he's about to do to Jason. "What's gotten into you man?" Jason says. "Don't you worry what's gotten into me, you better worry what's going into you." Billy teases. Jason has a worried look with his eyebrow raised up. "That's right Jase, I'm going to fuck you, I'm gonna fuck you and you will like it!" Billy says. Billy uses his fingers up inside Jason to reach deeper and suddenly Jason feels a pleasure spot and yelps ending with a moan. "My dick will hit that pleasure spot and so many more." Billy explains. Jason realizes Billy was just telling him they need to do this as a way to get him to cooperate. "We don't have to do this to save my powers do we?" Billy looks at Jason and keeps finger fucking him, making Jason grunt a few times to handle those fingers. "You lied to me!" Jason says. "Sorry Jase, I had to get you to go along with it. That was the only way I knew." Billy shoves his fingers a little further and Jason Lets out a moan of pleasure. "Ooooh God!" Jason moans. "That's it Jason, let yourself enjoy it, let me make you feel good." Billy says. Jason moans again. Billy notices how Jason loved what he just did with his fingers and does the same motion over and over again. "Ow God, ow God, Ow God..." Jason keeps repeating while he moans and then Jason shouts. "Fuck, Billy Fuck!" Billy's dick twitches from hearing Jason yelp his name during the moaning. "You want me to fuck that hole Jase?" Billy asks. Jason looks at Billy. He's clearly thinking about it. "I can make you feel even more if you let me." Billy says and then twitches his fingers inside Jason. "Oh fuck it, yes, fuck me, give it to me Billy." Jason replies. Billy pulls his fingers out of Jason's ass and rubs both his hands across Jason's chest which is now covered in beads of sweat. Jason watches as Billy gets himself in position between Jason's legs. Jason sits up, looking down between his legs. Billy looks at Jason's hole and then at Jason. "I wanna taste that sweet ass first." He sticks his tongue out and starts to take a lap at Jason's pink hole. Shivers run over Jason's spine while he feels his rosebutt being licked at. A sweet sensation of pleasure runs through Jason's body. While Billy starts to continue rimming Jason's sweet pink rosebutt Jason moans to the pleasure he's receiving from it. "Oh fuck yeah!" Jason moans out and hangs his head back. While Billy rims Billy, Jason's ass arches up from the table and the room is filled with Jason's moaning. Billy can tell Jason is ready and stops rimming his friend. He kisses Jason's thighs and looks at Jason. "It's time for you to experience my dick, that will probable cause you to howl from pleasure as you already enjoyed the finger fucking and rimming. Jason looks down as Billy positions himself between his legs, pulling his ass further down from the table, bringing his big hard dick to Jason's ass. Nervously Jason awaits the fucking that is going to happen. As he already enjoyed what happened he doesn't resist, he now is curious how it feels to have a dick up his ass. Billy grabs a bottle of lube and lubes his dick. "You don't mind if I won't use a condom, after all we are buddies right." Billy says winking at Jason. Jason is so nervous he cannot speak. Billy also puts some lube on his fingers and pushes it at Jason's hole, sticking those fingers inside, making Jason yelp from the sudden intrusion he didn't expect. "Oh sorry Jase, I should have warned you but I'm also so excited to get my dick up inside you." Jason feels his ass being fingered some more, it turns Jason on so he grabs hold of his dick and starts to stroke it. BIlly smiles, seeing his friend enjoying himself while his fingers are inside. "If you think you are enjoying this, just wait till you have my dick inside you. Billy stops fingering Jason and brings his dick to Jason's rosebutt. "Time to take my dick!" Jason is still stroking his dick, sitting up and looking at Billy. Billy leans in to kiss Jason and at the same time brings his dick inside his friend. Jason wants to scream but Billy's kissing prevents him to, giving Billy vibrations through the mouth. Billy brings his entire dick inside and then breaks off the kiss. Jason catches his breath and looks up at Billy. Billy smiles while his dick is fully lodged up inside Jason. He rubs his hands over Jason's chest and pushes his friend down to the table. Jason lays down and looks at Billy, still holding his dick and gives it little strokes to feel pleasure while he feels like his ass is on fire from the whole intrusion. Billy leans forward and lays his hands beside Jason. "Time to fuck that ass of yours." Billy starts to move his hips and shots of pain and pleasure run through Jason's body. "OH FUCK!" Jason shouts. Billy looks down, watching his hunky friend. "What do you think of your geeky friend now?" He taunts. "Oh I'm sorry man-" "I-I never- wanted-" moans keep interfering with Jason's words. "To- gi- give you tha- that impression." Billy smiles while looking down at Jason, seeing his friend feeling the pleasure of his dick inside him. "Let's see what you can handle." Billy says while standing more up and grabbing hold of Jason's legs to really fucking him. "FUCK, OH FUCK." Jason moans out. Billy starts to really pound that ass. "OH YEAH BILLY!" FUCK ME BILLY, DON'T STOP!" Jason shouts feeling now only pleasure by every thrust Billy is giving him. Jason beats his dick with his fist, pumping it fast and hard. Now both men are covered in sweat. The room is filled with Jason's moans and the sound of Billy's hips slapping against Jason's ass. Billy rubs his hands over Jason's body. "Oh God I have dreamed of this for so long to feel you up and fuck you hard." Billy admits. "Oh man this feels fucking good." Jason admits at his turn. Billy leans forward and kisses Jason while he keeps thrusting inside. Jason keeps stroking his dick, feeling he's close to cum. Billy breaks off the kiss and smiles, seeing Jason breathing heavily, wanting to cum. "Cum for me Jase, show me how much you love to get fucked by me." "Oh yeah man, keep fucking me and I cum!" Jason says. Billy can't believe how much he has turned Jason into enjoying being fucked, he's so happy. Then Jason erupts and volume after volume comes out of Jason's dick, landing on Jason's fist and stomach. "That's so fucking hot!" Billy says and erupts inside Jason. "FUUUUCCCKKKK!!" Billy shouts while tensing up and filling Jason up. Both Jason and Billy catch their breaths and BIlly lets his dick deflate inside Jason. "That was different." Jason says, who cannot believe he enjoyed a fucking so much. "You really took it well." Billy says and winks at Jason. "What do we tell Zordon, Alpha and the others?" Jason asks. "Don't you worry about that, I will think of something." Billy says and pulls Jason in a kiss. Jason kisses Billy back and when Billy wants to break off Jason pulls him back. "Not so fast you stud." Billy smiles and loves how Jason sees him as a stud now, he climbs further on the table and lays himself next to Jason, in his arms while they continue to kiss and feel each other up before returning to the main chamber of the command center. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message &lt;Daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com&gt; Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/learning-the-romantic-ways

Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2024 20:48:01 +0000 From: Sven Benters Subject: Learning The Romantic Ways This is a fanfiction story with the characters Finn Finnigan (Tanner Novlan) and RJ Forrester (Joshua Hoffman). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © CBS BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL ********************************* Finn and RJ are heading out to the beach in the evening to take a swim while Steffy and Luna stay behind at the house to chat. At the beach, the two guys drop their towels and run into the water. After a while they come out of the water. The moonlight shining on their wet bodies. Finn catches his breath from the swim they had. "Damn you're fit!" Finn says to RJ. "You are in good shape yourself to keep up for an older dude." RJ teases while smiling. "Watch yourself buddy!" Finn says with a stern look at RJ. Both guys dry themselves off and, when Finn is about to head to the house, RJ grabs his arm. "Wait up. I wanted to ask you something." Finn looks questionable at RJ. "What's wrong?" "Well I hear you are a romantic guy and all. Do you know how I can make a special night with Luna extra special?" RJ questions. "Oh that kind of night." Finn says and winks at RJ. RJ blushes. "Yeah." He replies. "But why are you asking? I heard you had girlfriends before. Did you never do it with them?" Finn asks. "Sure I have but, well..." RJ stops. "What's up?" Finn asks. "I heard from previous girlfriends that I am sometimes too rough." RJ explains. Finn is surprised by RJ's confessions. "Do you have any advice?" RJ asks. Finn is thinking. He wants to help his brother-in-law out but wonders for a moment how. "Well maybe we should, uhm... do it, you know." Finn explains. "It's to check it out and I can help you better." He adds quickly. RJ is surprised by Finn's suggestion. "Okay but how will I know when I bottom?" "I will bottom for you." Finn explains. RJ's mouth drops open. He's stunned by Finn's suggestion to bottom for him. "Are you sure?" RJ asks. "Do you want to learn to be more tender or not?" Finn asks. "Yeah I want to learn that." "Well then. Let's start this so the women won't wonder where we stayed that long." Finn explains. Finn drops his swim shorts in front of RJ, revealing his dick to the younger stud. "Before you fuck me I want you to suck my dick." Finn says while holding his dick in his hand. RJ is frozen for a moment, but he steps forward and drops to his knees in front of Finn. He grabs Finn's dick in his hand and opens his mouth to suck it. Finn moans when he feels that warm mouth around his dick starting to suck. To RJ's surprise, it isn't as bad as he thought it would be to suck a man's dick. Finn hangs his head back while RJ sucks at his dick. RJ starts to get the hang of it and keeps sucking on Finn's dick that got brick hard to it. "Fuck yeah, you make me so horny." Finn admits and runs his fingers through RJ's hair. RJ out of his own starts to attack Finn's smooth balls as well. "Gawd yeah, that feels so good." Finn says feeling even his knees shaking a little bit. Finn lets himself lay down on a towel in the sand while RJ continues attacking those balls. RJ motions himself better to get between Finn's legs and eventually lifts Finn's legs up to get full access to Finn's hole. Finn gets excited to have RJ getting there. RJ finally starts to attack Finn's hole, rimming it. RJ realizes just like the sucking, the rimming of a man's hole isn't that bad either and really dives in at it. Finn lays back, holding himself up by hanging on his elbows. He moans to the satisfaction he's having by his hole being rimmed. "Fuck that feels good." Hearing Finn enjoying it makes RJ have a boost of confidence. He's good at making the other being pleased. Finn's dick is leaking precum while RJ keeps rimming Finn's rosebutt, letting his tongue slide against it and making Finn moan loudly. RJ gets horny by the sound of it that he has started stroking his dick while he continues rimming his brother-in-law. RJ stops and looks at Finn catching his breath from all the pleasure he just has been feeling from him. "Did you like it?" RJ questions. Finn is still in the bliss of pleasure and looks at his young brother-in-law. "Fuck yeah, just fuck me now." RJ starts to smile, realizing he really did it good to have brought the husband of his sister begging him to be fucked. He stares at the side of Finn laying there ready with his legs spread and dick being hard. Finn is so excited that he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it. RJ spits in his hand to lube his dick up. Finn spits in his hand to bring some more lube to his hole. RJ is surprised by how well Finn knows what to do. Finn just lets his body speak and he acts to what he thinks he wants and now he wants that dick of his hunky brother-in-law up inside him. RJ looks at Finn, seeing his brother-in-law in a different way, he now notices how sexy Finn actually is. He wonders why he thinks that but is so horny now, ready to fuck Finn that he just doesn't think much about it but brings his dick at Finn's hole. Both hunky men are excited for what is about to happen. RJ brings himself in position and leads his dick inside Finn. Finn braces himself by getting that thick dick of RJ inside of him. His sphincter starts to stretch to the very first intrusion he's getting at his hole. "Oh fuck, you're big!" Finn says. "Do you want me to stop?" RJ questions. "No no, don't stop, just go a little slower." Finn explains. RJ is impressed by how Finn is taking it and he realizes how much he can really learn from this to give the other the satisfaction. Just like he hoped he would get as advice, only never dreamed about learning it by fucking his sexy brother in law. Finn's whole body is flexing and Finn strokes his dick while RJ brings his entire dick slowly inside him. Finn moans and gasps to the whole taking of that thick dick of RJ's. Finally, RJ has his entire thick dick lodged all the way inside Finn's stretched out hole. "Fuck boy, you're thick!" Finn says out loud and catches his breath. RJ being now close in Finn's face now feels a little bit awkward. Finn, realizing the expression of awkwardness on RJ's face, tries to assure RJ by a sudden kiss they share. RJ is taken by surprise but kisses back with Finn and both forget their surroundings, what they are from each other, but just enjoys the sex they are now about to have with Finn grabbing RJ's ass to motion him to start slowly going back and forth. While RJ starts to move, Finn lets some moans and grunts escape his mouth during the kissing. Their hands start to rub their bodies. RJ felt the electricity through his body by feeling Finn's ripped body. Finn feels that same by touching RJ's big hairy pecs. RJ starts to fuck Finn harder and Finn just loves it. He can't get enough of this new found pleasure. He keeps stroking his dick, finding the rhythm to RJ's fucking. Both moan during their kissing. Eventually, Finn shoots his load all over his and RJ's abs. Feeling Finn tensing up and breaking off the kiss to moan loudly, RJ cannot get enough of it but feels he's close. He gives several thrusts until he shoots his load up inside Finn. Finn wraps his arms around RJ, holding him tight in his arms with RJ's hairy chest pressed against his smooth chest. RJ moans loudly and then looks at Finn. Both staring in each other's eyes before Finn locks his lips again with RJ. While both hunky men catch their breathes and kiss with each other, RJ pulls his dick out of Finn's recently fucked up ass. After their kissing they get up and pull their swim shorts back on. "We should go back inside to Steffy and Luna but first a quick dive in the ocean before they notice what we have done." Finn suggests. "Right. And thank you for helping me." RJ replies. "My pleasure." Finn says and winks at RJ before they run into the ocean. "And hey, maybe you could show me the rough fucks you had given to your previous girlfriends." He added, which brought a wide grin on RJ. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2024 20:48:01 +0000 From: Sven Benters <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Learning The Romantic Ways This is a fanfiction story with the characters Finn Finnigan (Tanner Novlan) and RJ Forrester (Joshua Hoffman). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © CBS BOLD AND THE BEAUTIFUL ********************************* Finn and RJ are heading out to the beach in the evening to take a swim while Steffy and Luna stay behind at the house to chat. At the beach, the two guys drop their towels and run into the water. After a while they come out of the water. The moonlight shining on their wet bodies. Finn catches his breath from the swim they had. "Damn you're fit!" Finn says to RJ. "You are in good shape yourself to keep up for an older dude." RJ teases while smiling. "Watch yourself buddy!" Finn says with a stern look at RJ. Both guys dry themselves off and, when Finn is about to head to the house, RJ grabs his arm. "Wait up. I wanted to ask you something." Finn looks questionable at RJ. "What's wrong?" "Well I hear you are a romantic guy and all. Do you know how I can make a special night with Luna extra special?" RJ questions. "Oh that kind of night." Finn says and winks at RJ. RJ blushes. "Yeah." He replies. "But why are you asking? I heard you had girlfriends before. Did you never do it with them?" Finn asks. "Sure I have but, well..." RJ stops. "What's up?" Finn asks. "I heard from previous girlfriends that I am sometimes too rough." RJ explains. Finn is surprised by RJ's confessions. "Do you have any advice?" RJ asks. Finn is thinking. He wants to help his brother-in-law out but wonders for a moment how. "Well maybe we should, uhm... do it, you know." Finn explains. "It's to check it out and I can help you better." He adds quickly. RJ is surprised by Finn's suggestion. "Okay but how will I know when I bottom?" "I will bottom for you." Finn explains. RJ's mouth drops open. He's stunned by Finn's suggestion to bottom for him. "Are you sure?" RJ asks. "Do you want to learn to be more tender or not?" Finn asks. "Yeah I want to learn that." "Well then. Let's start this so the women won't wonder where we stayed that long." Finn explains. Finn drops his swim shorts in front of RJ, revealing his dick to the younger stud. "Before you fuck me I want you to suck my dick." Finn says while holding his dick in his hand. RJ is frozen for a moment, but he steps forward and drops to his knees in front of Finn. He grabs Finn's dick in his hand and opens his mouth to suck it. Finn moans when he feels that warm mouth around his dick starting to suck. To RJ's surprise, it isn't as bad as he thought it would be to suck a man's dick. Finn hangs his head back while RJ sucks at his dick. RJ starts to get the hang of it and keeps sucking on Finn's dick that got brick hard to it. "Fuck yeah, you make me so horny." Finn admits and runs his fingers through RJ's hair. RJ out of his own starts to attack Finn's smooth balls as well. "Gawd yeah, that feels so good." Finn says feeling even his knees shaking a little bit. Finn lets himself lay down on a towel in the sand while RJ continues attacking those balls. RJ motions himself better to get between Finn's legs and eventually lifts Finn's legs up to get full access to Finn's hole. Finn gets excited to have RJ getting there. RJ finally starts to attack Finn's hole, rimming it. RJ realizes just like the sucking, the rimming of a man's hole isn't that bad either and really dives in at it. Finn lays back, holding himself up by hanging on his elbows. He moans to the satisfaction he's having by his hole being rimmed. "Fuck that feels good." Hearing Finn enjoying it makes RJ have a boost of confidence. He's good at making the other being pleased. Finn's dick is leaking precum while RJ keeps rimming Finn's rosebutt, letting his tongue slide against it and making Finn moan loudly. RJ gets horny by the sound of it that he has started stroking his dick while he continues rimming his brother-in-law. RJ stops and looks at Finn catching his breath from all the pleasure he just has been feeling from him. "Did you like it?" RJ questions. Finn is still in the bliss of pleasure and looks at his young brother-in-law. "Fuck yeah, just fuck me now." RJ starts to smile, realizing he really did it good to have brought the husband of his sister begging him to be fucked. He stares at the side of Finn laying there ready with his legs spread and dick being hard. Finn is so excited that he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it. RJ spits in his hand to lube his dick up. Finn spits in his hand to bring some more lube to his hole. RJ is surprised by how well Finn knows what to do. Finn just lets his body speak and he acts to what he thinks he wants and now he wants that dick of his hunky brother-in-law up inside him. RJ looks at Finn, seeing his brother-in-law in a different way, he now notices how sexy Finn actually is. He wonders why he thinks that but is so horny now, ready to fuck Finn that he just doesn't think much about it but brings his dick at Finn's hole. Both hunky men are excited for what is about to happen. RJ brings himself in position and leads his dick inside Finn. Finn braces himself by getting that thick dick of RJ inside of him. His sphincter starts to stretch to the very first intrusion he's getting at his hole. "Oh fuck, you're big!" Finn says. "Do you want me to stop?" RJ questions. "No no, don't stop, just go a little slower." Finn explains. RJ is impressed by how Finn is taking it and he realizes how much he can really learn from this to give the other the satisfaction. Just like he hoped he would get as advice, only never dreamed about learning it by fucking his sexy brother in law. Finn's whole body is flexing and Finn strokes his dick while RJ brings his entire dick slowly inside him. Finn moans and gasps to the whole taking of that thick dick of RJ's. Finally, RJ has his entire thick dick lodged all the way inside Finn's stretched out hole. "Fuck boy, you're thick!" Finn says out loud and catches his breath. RJ being now close in Finn's face now feels a little bit awkward. Finn, realizing the expression of awkwardness on RJ's face, tries to assure RJ by a sudden kiss they share. RJ is taken by surprise but kisses back with Finn and both forget their surroundings, what they are from each other, but just enjoys the sex they are now about to have with Finn grabbing RJ's ass to motion him to start slowly going back and forth. While RJ starts to move, Finn lets some moans and grunts escape his mouth during the kissing. Their hands start to rub their bodies. RJ felt the electricity through his body by feeling Finn's ripped body. Finn feels that same by touching RJ's big hairy pecs. RJ starts to fuck Finn harder and Finn just loves it. He can't get enough of this new found pleasure. He keeps stroking his dick, finding the rhythm to RJ's fucking. Both moan during their kissing. Eventually, Finn shoots his load all over his and RJ's abs. Feeling Finn tensing up and breaking off the kiss to moan loudly, RJ cannot get enough of it but feels he's close. He gives several thrusts until he shoots his load up inside Finn. Finn wraps his arms around RJ, holding him tight in his arms with RJ's hairy chest pressed against his smooth chest. RJ moans loudly and then looks at Finn. Both staring in each other's eyes before Finn locks his lips again with RJ. While both hunky men catch their breathes and kiss with each other, RJ pulls his dick out of Finn's recently fucked up ass. After their kissing they get up and pull their swim shorts back on. "We should go back inside to Steffy and Luna but first a quick dive in the ocean before they notice what we have done." Finn suggests. "Right. And thank you for helping me." RJ replies. "My pleasure." Finn says and winks at RJ before they run into the ocean. "And hey, maybe you could show me the rough fucks you had given to your previous girlfriends." He added, which brought a wide grin on RJ. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free. </daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com></daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-holiday-weekend/the-holiday-weekend-1

Date: Sun, 17 Dec 2023 21:24:30 +0000 From: Sven Benters Subject: The Holiday Weekend This is a fanfiction story with the actors Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering. This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ********************************* Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering are in Chicago to meet with their fans. It's close to Christmas and everything in the hotel where they are staying is all decorated with Christmas decorations. It gives the two men the Christmas joy while they drink some whiskey and play pool after their long day with meeting with the fans. From where they are staying they can see the city lights and it even starts to snow. "Hey Rob, just look at all those lights." Galen says. "Yeah it's beautiful." Rob replies standing next to Galen looking from the window down at the city. Suddenly Galen grabs Rob's hand and they stare at each other. "What are you doing?" Rob asks, while turning towards his colleague and friend. Galen keeps holding Rob his hand and grabs the other hand as well. Rob feels shivers over his spine how his friend is suddenly acting and sees Galen his head coming closer towards him. All frozen up he stands there while Galen locks his lips with Rob's mouth. Galen takes the lead in kissing with Rob. Surprised by the whole situation Rob stands frozen while he feels Galen's tongue in his mouth, wrestling with his tongue. Galen wraps his arms around the muscle hunk who he's kissing with, feeling the hunky man up. Rob gives in to the kissing and automatically wraps his arms around Galen and they make out together. While they kiss passionately they move over to the bedroom where the men start to undress each other. Shirts ripped open from each other and their chests touched each other, giving some kind of electricity through the two men's bodies. Galen starts to kiss Rob's neck and Rob moans, feeling shivers by the spot Galen is kissing, giving him all pleasure. When Galen stops they share in each other's eyes. "I want to fuck you." Rob suddenly admits. Galen smiles. "That's good because I want to fuck you too." Rob suddenly feels a lump in his throat. The thought of his friend going to fuck him makes him a little scared but also excited. "You know what. You can fuck me first to come in the mood." Galen says winking at Rob. Rob decides to not think too much about it and suddenly pulls Galen in a kiss. Galen pressed against Rob's chest makes them tumble on the bed with only their underwear still on. Both men their dicks start to stir up to become harder. While they get more in the mood they feel each other's bodies up with letting their hands explore their pecs, abs and big strong arms. Galen starts to kiss Rob's pecs and suck on those nipples. Making Rob let some moans escape his mouth. While Galen sucks on those nipples, licking around those pointy nipples he squeezes Rob's nice round pecs while doing so. Never did anyone give his pecs such explicit attention as Galen is giving him. It excites Rob a lot. Galen slowly moves further down on Rob's abs and starts to kiss them with sweet tender kisses. Rob starts to feel more excited to the anticipation till Galen goes further down and suddenly feels Galen getting his fingers underneath the waistband of his underwear. With one move Galen pulls the underwear down and gets the muscle stud completely naked. Looking down from the point Galen is, on his knees on the bed, looking down at the ripped muscle hunk that is his colleague and friend, it turns him on to see him lying naked like that. Rob and Galen stare at each other and smile, while Galen reaches his hand out to take hold of Rob's half hard dick. Both men keep looking at each other while Galen strokes Rob's dick to hardon. More moans escape Rob's mouth while he feels his friend's big hand around his dick stroking him. Galen then leans forward and starts to suck at Robert's dick. "Jesus!" Rob says out loud, feeling his dick being sucked. Never thought he could be that excited to have someone sucking him. Galen slobbers at that dick like it's a lollipop. More moans keep escaping Robert's mouth while he's feeling the pleasure of having his dick for the first time sucked by a man. Galen moves over to sucking at Rob's balls and more shots of pleasure run through Robert's body. "Oh fuck me!" Robert suddenly says without thinking. Galen sees that as a sign and suddenly surprises Robert by lifting his friend's legs and starts to attack that butthole. The strangest feeling goes through Robert's body. A sensation he never thought he could have by his ass being attacked by a tongue. "FUUUUCCKKKK!" Rob shouts, feeling that pleasure. Galen keeps licking at his friend's rosebutt, making it wet and ready to be getting fucked. While making that ass ready, Galen gets his dick out of his underwear and starts to stroke it. Robert looks down between his legs, seeing how his dick is standing straight up and his friend's head between his legs attacking his butthole. After a good while Galen stops and Rob looks down, suddenly seeing Galen holding his own hard dick in his hand, pointing at his hole. "I don't think I can handle that!" Robert confesses. "Sure you can." Galen winks at him and looks down and spits on his dick. "Oh Jesus, please use lube at least!" Rob says. Galen looks at Rob and hangs over him. "Of course I will do, buddy." He says and reaches to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of lube. Robert is relieved but still scared. He watches how his friend lubes his big dick up. Galen notices the fear in his friend's eyes. He leans over Robert and starts to kiss him. Robert is taken by surprise but kisses back this time. Both men share a hot passionate session of kissing while Galen grabs hold of their both dicks and strokes them together. Pleasure runs through their bodies. When Galen breaks the kiss off he stares in his friend's eyes. "Are you ready?" Robert is quiet and looks down at his and his friend's dick in his friend's hand. "I think so." Galen lays his other hand on his friend's cheek. "I will be gentle." Something in Galen's words suits Robert and lets his friend lift his legs up again and sees that big Latin lovestick coming at his hole and feels the mushroom head presses at his butthole. Galen starts to slowly push his dick inside his buddy's tight virgin ass. "OH GAWD!" Rob shouts out loudly, feeling that dick coming inch by inch inside him. Galen stops halfway and looks at his friend. "Are you okay?" Robert notices how easy he gets adjusted to it, even though it hurts at first. He looks at Galen and nods yes. Galen smiles at his friend and leans in to kiss him. Robert kisses back and feels Galen starting to press his dick further inside while they kiss. To hold on Robert gets his arms around Galen to hold on tighter while the last few inches get inside till Galen hits base. Galen's entire dick is lodged inside his friend's virgin ass. Both men are now lost in the sensation and they kiss passionately while Galen slowly starts to move back and fourth to fuck Robert. Each thrust from Galen gets more intense until the Latin hunk is fully fucking that ass. Robert moans escape the kissing between them until Galen stops kissing Robert and really starts to fuck his friend more intenser. "Fuck yeah man. "Give it to me!" Robert suddenly says out loud. Getting not enough of that Latin lovestick of his friend. Galen loves it how much Robert now wants it and he wraps his arms around the ripped stud to have them roll over on the bed, letting Robert end on top to ride his dick now. Robert feels at first a little awkward in it but then forgets about it and starts to ride his friend's dick. Galen loves the view of his ripped friend riding his dick. He reaches his hands out and feels Rob's hard abs and pecs until he starts to pinch those nipples. More sensation runs through Robert's body and he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it while riding Galen's dick. Both men cannot hold it any longer and they cum. Robert shoots his load all over Galen's stomach, while Galen shoots his load deep inside Robert's ass. After cumming Robert falls on top of Galen and they catch their breath. "Damn that was amazing." Robert confesses." It sure was. "Galen replies." Suddenly Robert jumps up. "Now it's my turn right?" Galen smiles. "It sure is, buddy. But you can have a moment before we start." Robert smiles. "Okay, maybe we should." He admits and lays down in his friend's arms. Both are so tired that they fall asleep in each other's arms. To be continued... ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay for free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 17 Dec 2023 21:24:30 +0000 From: Sven Benters <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: The Holiday Weekend This is a fanfiction story with the actors Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering. This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ********************************* Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering are in Chicago to meet with their fans. It's close to Christmas and everything in the hotel where they are staying is all decorated with Christmas decorations. It gives the two men the Christmas joy while they drink some whiskey and play pool after their long day with meeting with the fans. From where they are staying they can see the city lights and it even starts to snow. "Hey Rob, just look at all those lights." Galen says. "Yeah it's beautiful." Rob replies standing next to Galen looking from the window down at the city. Suddenly Galen grabs Rob's hand and they stare at each other. "What are you doing?" Rob asks, while turning towards his colleague and friend. Galen keeps holding Rob his hand and grabs the other hand as well. Rob feels shivers over his spine how his friend is suddenly acting and sees Galen his head coming closer towards him. All frozen up he stands there while Galen locks his lips with Rob's mouth. Galen takes the lead in kissing with Rob. Surprised by the whole situation Rob stands frozen while he feels Galen's tongue in his mouth, wrestling with his tongue. Galen wraps his arms around the muscle hunk who he's kissing with, feeling the hunky man up. Rob gives in to the kissing and automatically wraps his arms around Galen and they make out together. While they kiss passionately they move over to the bedroom where the men start to undress each other. Shirts ripped open from each other and their chests touched each other, giving some kind of electricity through the two men's bodies. Galen starts to kiss Rob's neck and Rob moans, feeling shivers by the spot Galen is kissing, giving him all pleasure. When Galen stops they share in each other's eyes. "I want to fuck you." Rob suddenly admits. Galen smiles. "That's good because I want to fuck you too." Rob suddenly feels a lump in his throat. The thought of his friend going to fuck him makes him a little scared but also excited. "You know what. You can fuck me first to come in the mood." Galen says winking at Rob. Rob decides to not think too much about it and suddenly pulls Galen in a kiss. Galen pressed against Rob's chest makes them tumble on the bed with only their underwear still on. Both men their dicks start to stir up to become harder. While they get more in the mood they feel each other's bodies up with letting their hands explore their pecs, abs and big strong arms. Galen starts to kiss Rob's pecs and suck on those nipples. Making Rob let some moans escape his mouth. While Galen sucks on those nipples, licking around those pointy nipples he squeezes Rob's nice round pecs while doing so. Never did anyone give his pecs such explicit attention as Galen is giving him. It excites Rob a lot. Galen slowly moves further down on Rob's abs and starts to kiss them with sweet tender kisses. Rob starts to feel more excited to the anticipation till Galen goes further down and suddenly feels Galen getting his fingers underneath the waistband of his underwear. With one move Galen pulls the underwear down and gets the muscle stud completely naked. Looking down from the point Galen is, on his knees on the bed, looking down at the ripped muscle hunk that is his colleague and friend, it turns him on to see him lying naked like that. Rob and Galen stare at each other and smile, while Galen reaches his hand out to take hold of Rob's half hard dick. Both men keep looking at each other while Galen strokes Rob's dick to hardon. More moans escape Rob's mouth while he feels his friend's big hand around his dick stroking him. Galen then leans forward and starts to suck at Robert's dick. "Jesus!" Rob says out loud, feeling his dick being sucked. Never thought he could be that excited to have someone sucking him. Galen slobbers at that dick like it's a lollipop. More moans keep escaping Robert's mouth while he's feeling the pleasure of having his dick for the first time sucked by a man. Galen moves over to sucking at Rob's balls and more shots of pleasure run through Robert's body. "Oh fuck me!" Robert suddenly says without thinking. Galen sees that as a sign and suddenly surprises Robert by lifting his friend's legs and starts to attack that butthole. The strangest feeling goes through Robert's body. A sensation he never thought he could have by his ass being attacked by a tongue. "FUUUUCCKKKK!" Rob shouts, feeling that pleasure. Galen keeps licking at his friend's rosebutt, making it wet and ready to be getting fucked. While making that ass ready, Galen gets his dick out of his underwear and starts to stroke it. Robert looks down between his legs, seeing how his dick is standing straight up and his friend's head between his legs attacking his butthole. After a good while Galen stops and Rob looks down, suddenly seeing Galen holding his own hard dick in his hand, pointing at his hole. "I don't think I can handle that!" Robert confesses. "Sure you can." Galen winks at him and looks down and spits on his dick. "Oh Jesus, please use lube at least!" Rob says. Galen looks at Rob and hangs over him. "Of course I will do, buddy." He says and reaches to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of lube. Robert is relieved but still scared. He watches how his friend lubes his big dick up. Galen notices the fear in his friend's eyes. He leans over Robert and starts to kiss him. Robert is taken by surprise but kisses back this time. Both men share a hot passionate session of kissing while Galen grabs hold of their both dicks and strokes them together. Pleasure runs through their bodies. When Galen breaks the kiss off he stares in his friend's eyes. "Are you ready?" Robert is quiet and looks down at his and his friend's dick in his friend's hand. "I think so." Galen lays his other hand on his friend's cheek. "I will be gentle." Something in Galen's words suits Robert and lets his friend lift his legs up again and sees that big Latin lovestick coming at his hole and feels the mushroom head presses at his butthole. Galen starts to slowly push his dick inside his buddy's tight virgin ass. "OH GAWD!" Rob shouts out loudly, feeling that dick coming inch by inch inside him. Galen stops halfway and looks at his friend. "Are you okay?" Robert notices how easy he gets adjusted to it, even though it hurts at first. He looks at Galen and nods yes. Galen smiles at his friend and leans in to kiss him. Robert kisses back and feels Galen starting to press his dick further inside while they kiss. To hold on Robert gets his arms around Galen to hold on tighter while the last few inches get inside till Galen hits base. Galen's entire dick is lodged inside his friend's virgin ass. Both men are now lost in the sensation and they kiss passionately while Galen slowly starts to move back and fourth to fuck Robert. Each thrust from Galen gets more intense until the Latin hunk is fully fucking that ass. Robert moans escape the kissing between them until Galen stops kissing Robert and really starts to fuck his friend more intenser. "Fuck yeah man. "Give it to me!" Robert suddenly says out loud. Getting not enough of that Latin lovestick of his friend. Galen loves it how much Robert now wants it and he wraps his arms around the ripped stud to have them roll over on the bed, letting Robert end on top to ride his dick now. Robert feels at first a little awkward in it but then forgets about it and starts to ride his friend's dick. Galen loves the view of his ripped friend riding his dick. He reaches his hands out and feels Rob's hard abs and pecs until he starts to pinch those nipples. More sensation runs through Robert's body and he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it while riding Galen's dick. Both men cannot hold it any longer and they cum. Robert shoots his load all over Galen's stomach, while Galen shoots his load deep inside Robert's ass. After cumming Robert falls on top of Galen and they catch their breath. "Damn that was amazing." Robert confesses." It sure was. "Galen replies." Suddenly Robert jumps up. "Now it's my turn right?" Galen smiles. "It sure is, buddy. But you can have a moment before we start." Robert smiles. "Okay, maybe we should." He admits and lays down in his friend's arms. Both are so tired that they fall asleep in each other's arms. To be continued... ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay for free. </daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com></daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> </div></div>

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Date: Tue, 19 Dec 2023 22:33:24 +0000 From: Sven Benters Subject: The Holiday Weekend 2 This is a fanfiction story with the actors Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering. This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ********************************* After a evening of fucking Galen and Robert fell asleep in each other's arms. Robert is the first to wake up and looks at his friend who is still asleep. He remembers the night before. How Galen fucked him. But he also remembers Galen's promise of him being allowed to fuck Galen. His dick stirs up by the thought of it and realizes he's ready to fuck his friend now. Slowly Robert removes the covers that Galen took over him during the night. He realizes Galen is still naked and looks at his friend's soft dick. He thinks back at how Galen sucked him and decides to return the favor. He leans into it, grabbing Galen's dick while opening his mouth and starts to suck at it. Feeling a mix of Galen's juices and a little salty drop of piss doesn't back Robert down. It's like Galen woke his inner slut out and Robert starts to really suck at that dick while Galen is still in a deep sleep. Galen's dick starts to get harder while Robert sucks at it. While still being in a deep sleep Galen does start to moan from the pleasure of getting hard. Robert starts to also attack Galen's balls. While thinking his buddy would be hairy at those balls it's clear Galen keeps them smooth, only having a nice bush above his dick. Galen only gets more on his back but stays in a deep sleep. Having no idea of the sucking he's getting from his friend. Rob is so horny that he strokes his dick while slobbering at his friend's big Latin cock. All the thoughts come back at how he took that dick and he rode it. Now he will make his friend get his dick. He's so horny about it. He gets on his knees between Galen's legs and gets their dicks together to stroke them. All the excitement makes Galen waking slowly up, looking a little hazy as he sees Rob in front of him and feeling his hard dick being worked. He looks down and notices his dick pressed at Robert's dick in one hand being stroked at the same time. "Oh fuck, you're really doing it." Galen says. "I sure am. I will make you go through with your promise." Rob says while winking at Galen. "Can't we do it later?" Galen asks. "No way, I had to wait a whole night!" Robert replies excited while playing with both their dicks. "I took your dick, now it's my turn to let you enjoy mine." Galen starts to feel a little nervous now. "You're going to be tender right?" Robert lets go of their dicks and rubs one hand over Galen's abs, over his pecs and then to the back of Galen's neck to lift Galen's head a little up to kiss with him. Galen kisses back and they let their tongues wrestle, swapping their saliva to taste it. When Robert breaks off the kiss he stares in Galen's eyes. "I will make you feel good." Robert slowly runs one hand over Galen's thigh to feel his friend's hairy leg up. He moves it to Galen his knee and then back up to Galen his balls to thug them. "Oh fuck!" Galen says, excitedly. "Fucked you will be." Robert teases and strokes Galen's dick again while moving over between Galen's hairy legs. Galen looks excitedly down to his friend between his legs and sees Robert starting to suck on his dick again. "Mmmmm fuck yeah." Galen says out loud while making loud moaning sounds. Galen sees Robert's head bopping down on his dick. "Fuck mean, that's an amazing hidden talent you got!" Galen confesses, enjoying Robert's professional sucking. Robert slowly moves over to Galen's balls, teasing them with his tongue first before he starts sucking at them. Galen moans loudly, enjoying how his balls are getting teased. Robert at one point takes both backs in his mouth and sucks hard at them until he first lets one ball pop out and then the other. The teasing at his balls makes Galen crazy. Robert slowly moves with his tongue between Galen's thighs who he teases until he goes to Galen's pink hole that is covered with some hair around it. "FUUUUCK!!" Galen shouts, feeling his asshole being attacked by Robert's tongue. Robert realizes that his friend is just as a virgin as he was last night. He stops and looks at Galen. "Are you a virgin too?" Ashamed Galen looks away at first and then back at Robert. "Yes, I wanted to try this out with you." Robert feels first a little anger that Galen made him believe he was a pro and then finds it actually sweet that they can explore this feeling now together. "That's why you were holding back at being fucked right?" "Yes." Galen admits, ashamed. "That's okay." Rob replies and gets on top of Galen to kiss him. Their bodies against each other while Robert grinds his body on Galen's while they kiss. Both men wrap their arms around each other while they are kissing passionately together. Galen feels Rob's hard dick between his legs while he's in ecstasy, feeling that younger ripped hunk all over him, wanting him so badly. Robert starts to kiss himself further down over Galen his body. Galen's pecs are felt up and kissed before Robert lets himself go over Galen's abs towards his dick and starts to suck on it. "Oh fuck man, that feels so good." Galen admits. Rob then grabs Galen's legs to get them up and make Galen's asshole be revealed. He looks at that rosebutt and dives at it to start to rim it. "FUCK!" Galen shouts and starts to moan of the pleasure he's feeling at his rosebutt being rimmed. Robert gets that tongue deep at Galen's ass, rimming the Latin hunk. Galen keeps moaning from the pleasure and sensation he's feeling. Robert gets so horny hearing his friend moan that loudly that he grabs hold of his own dick and starts to stroke it while keeping his hunky friend moan loudly. Galen feels so horny that he grabs hold of his dick and starts to stroke it too. Robert notices his friend stroking his own dick and realizes Galen is ready. He stops rimming him, grabs a bottle of lube to lube his dick and then gets between Rafe's legs, getting the mushroomhead of his dick against Galen's rosebutt. Galen feels that mushroomhead against his hole, shivers and excitement runs through his body, realizing he's about to get his very first dick up his ass. Robert starts to press his dick inside his friend's tight virgin ass. "FUUUUCK!!" Galen screams while feeling Robert' dick getting further inside his tight ass. Galen's sphincter stretches out by getting his buddy's big dick up inside his ass. Robert hangs over Galen, pushing the last few inches inside, making Galen grinche from the pain he just got from taking dick for the first time. Rob leans in to Galen and kisses him on the mouth while he slowly starts to fuck that ass. Moans escape Galen's mouth during the kissing. Feeling his friend's dick starting to fuck him by every thrust harder till Rob is pounding him hard. The kiss gets broken off and Galen moans loudly. "Fuck yeah, so hot to hear you moan like that." Robert confesses and continues his pounding at that ass. Galen keeps stroking his dick while being fucked. Suddenly Robert takes his dick out. Turns Galen over on his hands and knees and gets his dick back up, ramming it in this time. "FUUUUCCKKK!" Galen screams, feeling that dick that rough rammed up inside him. While being on his hands and knees Robert starts to fuck Galen. "Take it man." Robert says and gives Galen's ass a slap while he keeps thrusting up inside that ass. Galen grabs hold of his dick again and starts to stroke it. Both men fill the room with their moans and the sound of skin against skin of their fucking. Galen feels the pleasure of Robert's dick brushing up against his prostate, making him feel so good. Robert pulls Galen's upper body up, bringing that muscle back against his front. Galen hangs back against Rob's ripped body, feeling those big pecs pressed against his back. Robert hangs his head over Galen's shoulder and the two men kiss while Galen keeps stroking his big dick. Rob rubs his hands over the front of Galen's masculine body, making his friend feel good while his dick is buried deep inside Galen's ass. Galen can't hold it any longer and shoots his load all over the bed. While cumming Galen clenches his ass muscles together, making Rob able to give a few more thrusts till he cums too. Cumming so deep inside Galen makes Rob break off the kiss and moan loudly. Both men drop on the bed and laugh at how much fun it was. "Damn we need to have more weekends like this." Rob says. "I'm game." Galen replies while they hold each other in their arms and kiss. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay for free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 19 Dec 2023 22:33:24 +0000 From: Sven Benters <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: The Holiday Weekend 2 This is a fanfiction story with the actors Robert Scott Wilson and Galen Gering. This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ********************************* After a evening of fucking Galen and Robert fell asleep in each other's arms. Robert is the first to wake up and looks at his friend who is still asleep. He remembers the night before. How Galen fucked him. But he also remembers Galen's promise of him being allowed to fuck Galen. His dick stirs up by the thought of it and realizes he's ready to fuck his friend now. Slowly Robert removes the covers that Galen took over him during the night. He realizes Galen is still naked and looks at his friend's soft dick. He thinks back at how Galen sucked him and decides to return the favor. He leans into it, grabbing Galen's dick while opening his mouth and starts to suck at it. Feeling a mix of Galen's juices and a little salty drop of piss doesn't back Robert down. It's like Galen woke his inner slut out and Robert starts to really suck at that dick while Galen is still in a deep sleep. Galen's dick starts to get harder while Robert sucks at it. While still being in a deep sleep Galen does start to moan from the pleasure of getting hard. Robert starts to also attack Galen's balls. While thinking his buddy would be hairy at those balls it's clear Galen keeps them smooth, only having a nice bush above his dick. Galen only gets more on his back but stays in a deep sleep. Having no idea of the sucking he's getting from his friend. Rob is so horny that he strokes his dick while slobbering at his friend's big Latin cock. All the thoughts come back at how he took that dick and he rode it. Now he will make his friend get his dick. He's so horny about it. He gets on his knees between Galen's legs and gets their dicks together to stroke them. All the excitement makes Galen waking slowly up, looking a little hazy as he sees Rob in front of him and feeling his hard dick being worked. He looks down and notices his dick pressed at Robert's dick in one hand being stroked at the same time. "Oh fuck, you're really doing it." Galen says. "I sure am. I will make you go through with your promise." Rob says while winking at Galen. "Can't we do it later?" Galen asks. "No way, I had to wait a whole night!" Robert replies excited while playing with both their dicks. "I took your dick, now it's my turn to let you enjoy mine." Galen starts to feel a little nervous now. "You're going to be tender right?" Robert lets go of their dicks and rubs one hand over Galen's abs, over his pecs and then to the back of Galen's neck to lift Galen's head a little up to kiss with him. Galen kisses back and they let their tongues wrestle, swapping their saliva to taste it. When Robert breaks off the kiss he stares in Galen's eyes. "I will make you feel good." Robert slowly runs one hand over Galen's thigh to feel his friend's hairy leg up. He moves it to Galen his knee and then back up to Galen his balls to thug them. "Oh fuck!" Galen says, excitedly. "Fucked you will be." Robert teases and strokes Galen's dick again while moving over between Galen's hairy legs. Galen looks excitedly down to his friend between his legs and sees Robert starting to suck on his dick again. "Mmmmm fuck yeah." Galen says out loud while making loud moaning sounds. Galen sees Robert's head bopping down on his dick. "Fuck mean, that's an amazing hidden talent you got!" Galen confesses, enjoying Robert's professional sucking. Robert slowly moves over to Galen's balls, teasing them with his tongue first before he starts sucking at them. Galen moans loudly, enjoying how his balls are getting teased. Robert at one point takes both backs in his mouth and sucks hard at them until he first lets one ball pop out and then the other. The teasing at his balls makes Galen crazy. Robert slowly moves with his tongue between Galen's thighs who he teases until he goes to Galen's pink hole that is covered with some hair around it. "FUUUUCK!!" Galen shouts, feeling his asshole being attacked by Robert's tongue. Robert realizes that his friend is just as a virgin as he was last night. He stops and looks at Galen. "Are you a virgin too?" Ashamed Galen looks away at first and then back at Robert. "Yes, I wanted to try this out with you." Robert feels first a little anger that Galen made him believe he was a pro and then finds it actually sweet that they can explore this feeling now together. "That's why you were holding back at being fucked right?" "Yes." Galen admits, ashamed. "That's okay." Rob replies and gets on top of Galen to kiss him. Their bodies against each other while Robert grinds his body on Galen's while they kiss. Both men wrap their arms around each other while they are kissing passionately together. Galen feels Rob's hard dick between his legs while he's in ecstasy, feeling that younger ripped hunk all over him, wanting him so badly. Robert starts to kiss himself further down over Galen his body. Galen's pecs are felt up and kissed before Robert lets himself go over Galen's abs towards his dick and starts to suck on it. "Oh fuck man, that feels so good." Galen admits. Rob then grabs Galen's legs to get them up and make Galen's asshole be revealed. He looks at that rosebutt and dives at it to start to rim it. "FUCK!" Galen shouts and starts to moan of the pleasure he's feeling at his rosebutt being rimmed. Robert gets that tongue deep at Galen's ass, rimming the Latin hunk. Galen keeps moaning from the pleasure and sensation he's feeling. Robert gets so horny hearing his friend moan that loudly that he grabs hold of his own dick and starts to stroke it while keeping his hunky friend moan loudly. Galen feels so horny that he grabs hold of his dick and starts to stroke it too. Robert notices his friend stroking his own dick and realizes Galen is ready. He stops rimming him, grabs a bottle of lube to lube his dick and then gets between Rafe's legs, getting the mushroomhead of his dick against Galen's rosebutt. Galen feels that mushroomhead against his hole, shivers and excitement runs through his body, realizing he's about to get his very first dick up his ass. Robert starts to press his dick inside his friend's tight virgin ass. "FUUUUCK!!" Galen screams while feeling Robert' dick getting further inside his tight ass. Galen's sphincter stretches out by getting his buddy's big dick up inside his ass. Robert hangs over Galen, pushing the last few inches inside, making Galen grinche from the pain he just got from taking dick for the first time. Rob leans in to Galen and kisses him on the mouth while he slowly starts to fuck that ass. Moans escape Galen's mouth during the kissing. Feeling his friend's dick starting to fuck him by every thrust harder till Rob is pounding him hard. The kiss gets broken off and Galen moans loudly. "Fuck yeah, so hot to hear you moan like that." Robert confesses and continues his pounding at that ass. Galen keeps stroking his dick while being fucked. Suddenly Robert takes his dick out. Turns Galen over on his hands and knees and gets his dick back up, ramming it in this time. "FUUUUCCKKK!" Galen screams, feeling that dick that rough rammed up inside him. While being on his hands and knees Robert starts to fuck Galen. "Take it man." Robert says and gives Galen's ass a slap while he keeps thrusting up inside that ass. Galen grabs hold of his dick again and starts to stroke it. Both men fill the room with their moans and the sound of skin against skin of their fucking. Galen feels the pleasure of Robert's dick brushing up against his prostate, making him feel so good. Robert pulls Galen's upper body up, bringing that muscle back against his front. Galen hangs back against Rob's ripped body, feeling those big pecs pressed against his back. Robert hangs his head over Galen's shoulder and the two men kiss while Galen keeps stroking his big dick. Rob rubs his hands over the front of Galen's masculine body, making his friend feel good while his dick is buried deep inside Galen's ass. Galen can't hold it any longer and shoots his load all over the bed. While cumming Galen clenches his ass muscles together, making Rob able to give a few more thrusts till he cums too. Cumming so deep inside Galen makes Rob break off the kiss and moan loudly. Both men drop on the bed and laugh at how much fun it was. "Damn we need to have more weekends like this." Rob says. "I'm game." Galen replies while they hold each other in their arms and kiss. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> For more stories from me, visit https://www.facebook.com/groups/480903845719867 Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay for free. </daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com></daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/garys-gift-from-the-professor

Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 22:36:46 +0000 From: Shane Lowe <montrealcottages@icloud.com> Subject: Gary's Gift From The Professor Disclaimer: this story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives. All characters are completely fictional and in no way are representative of real people. Please note that this story contains incest between a man and his grandson. If that is illegal in your country or if you don't like that please don't read the story. If you are ok with that, then please read on. Categorization recommendation: gay celebrity + incest Language: British English Copyright owned by Shane Lowe. I am 33 years old, not a minor. All characters participate willingly. All characters are over the age of 18. Obviously if you read this story and want to imagine them as how they appear on tv, then that's up to you. Also, nifty.org relies on kind donations from its readers. If you can please donate at https://donate.nifty.org/ Any donations will be gratefully received. If you can't donate at this time, thanks anyway. Also, this is my second solo published story, so if you would like to give feedback, my email will be at the top. Any feedback will be appreciated. Enjoy!! Professor Oak was busy in his laboratory doing some vital research on various Pokémon. He hadn't stopped all morning as was so engrossed in his work, he had lost track of time. Meanwhile around 11am Gary woke up and smiled. Today was his birthday, and his grandfather Professor Oak had asked him to come to the laboratory at noon. Gary smiled because usually his grandfather was so busy and didn't have time to see him. It had been six months since he had seen him. Gary got up and dressed in his khaki trousers and his favourite purple shirt and walked out of the door into the glorious spring day. Around noon Gary walked into the laboratory and made himself at home on the sofa in the corner. The professor was so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice the young man at first. Eventually Gary decided to make his presence known, so he coughed lightly. Oak: looking up "Oh Gary. Sorry, I didn't see you there. Happy Birthday!!" Gary: "Thanks Gramps. What are you working on?" Oak: "oh just some research on some new moves for water Pokémon." Gary: "Whatever. So long as it helps me beat that dweeb Ashy-boy. I can't wait to beat him again" Oak: "I don't know why you and him have such a rivalry. Anyway, I can do the research later. I called you over to give you your birthday present" handing Gary a small box with a purple bow on top Gary: "thanks Gramps" opens the box and inside finds a key. "What's this?" Oak: "that is a key to the storage unit here at the laboratory. Anytime you need more supplies like Pokeballs or indeed Pokémon they are yours to use" Gary: "thanks so much Gramps. So thoughtful" hugs his grandfather Whilst hugging his grandson, Professor Oak managed to get a whiff of the perfume that Gary was wearing, along with a fruity smell of Gary's shampoo and conditioner. Professor Oak suddenly felt some tension in his lower stomach and could feel a slight hardening of his cock in between his legs. All of a sudden a devious plan and idea formed in his mind. Oak: "you know that was only the first part of your present Gary. I need to give you the other part now. Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the sofa" Oak then proceeds to press a button on his desk, which locked the doors of the laboratory with a click. Oak then turned to Gary on the sofa, smiling seductively at the young man. Oak: "it's been a while since I last saw you. May I say, you have turned into a nice young man" Gary: smiling nervously "hmm thanks Gramps I guess" Oak: "tell me grandson, are you dating yet? Have you got a girlfriend?" Gary: "not yet. No-one seems to like Pokémon trainers any more" Oak: "well I'm sure you will find someone eventually. And when you do, I'm sure you know what will happen eventually??" Gary: feeling slightly embarrassed and starting to blush "yeah I do, however I don't know how that feels" Oak: "let me show you" he suddenly lunges at Gary and plants his lips firmly against Gary's, so quickly that Gary didn't have time to react Gary: pulling away in shock "what do you think you are doing Gramps?" Oak: "just treating you like the special grandson you are" winks seductively at Gary Gary sits there quietly, his mind processing what has just happened. As he is thinking he happens to look up at his grandfather and suddenly a strange thought entered his mind. He noticed that his grandfather was also very good looking, albeit an older sort of handsome. Gary also realised that he and his grandfather were alone right now, and therefore no-one could possibly know what happened here. Gary then decided to see where this was going, so quickly closed the gap and pressed his lips back against the professor's. The professor was surprised at this, but still enjoyed the contact with Gary. As he was kissing Gary, his hands seemed to move all on the own and soon found their way under Gary's shirt caressing his chest. Gary moaned into the kiss and opened his lips slightly allowing Oak's tongue to enter his mouth and starting wrestling with his own tongue. At the same time he felt Oak's hands rubbing his own chest before settling on his nipples. Gary continued to kiss Oak, but at the same time was aware of a growing tension in his lower stomach. Oak was enjoying the kiss and tongue wrestling Gary, when all of a sudden he felt a growing hardness poking into his stomach. Oak smiled because he realised Gary was starting to become hard. Oak: "looks like someone is getting excited. Do you need some help?" Placing a hand on Gary's crotch on top of his pants Gary: "yes please Gramps. I don't know what to do with this, and it hurts. Please help, I love you" Gary moans again before kissing Oak Oak: "hold on, put this on. I don't want you to see" hands Gary a blindfold Gary: "hmm a fun mystery" proceeds to put the blindfold on Oak, seeing that Gary is now blindfolded approaches the young man and decides to begin right away. He slowly unzips Gary's fly and unclasps the button before proceeding to pull Gary's trousers off his young slender frame. Looking in between Gary's legs he could see Gary's purple boxer shorts with a slight wet spot of pre-cum on it, all covering a large bulge. Oak smiles with approval before starting to kiss over Gary's torso. Eventually Oak moved his head lower before kissing Gary's bulge directly. Deciding he can wait no longer, Oak proceeds to bite the waistband of Gary's boxers and pulling it down, releasing Gary's 9 inch hard python to the fresh air. It bounces up and rests against his stomach. Oak casts an approving eye before grabbing Gary's cock with one hand. Oak: "ok grandson I am now going to give you your other birthday present. Enjoy!!" whilst giving Gary's cock a few pumps Gary was not able to see but felt immense pleasure whilst Oak pumped him. All of a sudden Gary could feel something warm and moist surround his cock, and moaned with pleasure when he realised it was his grandfather's mouth. Oak had taken half of Gary's length into his mouth and smiled as he liked the subtle strawberry taste of Gary's soap that he had used earlier. Oak continued to bob up and down on Gary's length, enjoying the feeling before taking a deep breath. He proceeded to take all of Gary's 9 inches into his throat until his nose was buried in Gary's brown pubes. Oak hummed in approval, causing the air to vibrate around Gary's cock, which in turn caused Gary to experience waves of pleasure. Oak then withdrew most of Gary's length before going back down on his grandson. He continued to Bob up and down, even using his tongue to tease Gary's cock. This continued for around 10 minutes. Then all of a sudden Oak felt the length of meat in his mouth and throat start to tense up as he heard a moan escape Gary's mouth. Gary then began to place his hands on Oak's head, before proceeding to guide Oak's head up and down his length. Oak continued to Bob up and down on the hardened meat. All of a sudden he heard a loud moan from Gary and felt Gary's cock start to spasm in his mouth. He felt a warm salty liquid flood his mouth and throat as Gary's cum came shooting out. Gary held Oak's head tightly to his stomach as he let out a loud groan and felt his cum being sucked out by Oak's throat. After a few minutes Oak pulled off Gary's softening length before crawling up and placing a kiss on Gary's lips once more. Gary kissed him back, enjoying the taste of his own cum on his lips. Gary continued to lie on the sofa, coming down from his intense pleasure high, before suddenly feeling sleepy and eventually he could fight no more and drifted off into a lovely slumber. Oak seeing that his grandson was asleep on the sofa, smiled and gave Gary's cock a kiss before kissing the sleeping Gary on the forehead. Oak: "happy birthday grandson. Thanks for making it special" before he returned to his research. Kind Regards Wanksy (Shane Lowe)

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 22:36:46 +0000 From: Shane Lowe &lt;montrealcottages@icloud.com&gt; Subject: Gary's Gift From The Professor Disclaimer: this story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives. All characters are completely fictional and in no way are representative of real people. Please note that this story contains incest between a man and his grandson. If that is illegal in your country or if you don't like that please don't read the story. If you are ok with that, then please read on. Categorization recommendation: gay celebrity + incest Language: British English Copyright owned by Shane Lowe. I am 33 years old, not a minor. All characters participate willingly. All characters are over the age of 18. Obviously if you read this story and want to imagine them as how they appear on tv, then that's up to you. Also, nifty.org relies on kind donations from its readers. If you can please donate at https://donate.nifty.org/ Any donations will be gratefully received. If you can't donate at this time, thanks anyway. Also, this is my second solo published story, so if you would like to give feedback, my email will be at the top. Any feedback will be appreciated. Enjoy!! Professor Oak was busy in his laboratory doing some vital research on various Pokémon. He hadn't stopped all morning as was so engrossed in his work, he had lost track of time. Meanwhile around 11am Gary woke up and smiled. Today was his birthday, and his grandfather Professor Oak had asked him to come to the laboratory at noon. Gary smiled because usually his grandfather was so busy and didn't have time to see him. It had been six months since he had seen him. Gary got up and dressed in his khaki trousers and his favourite purple shirt and walked out of the door into the glorious spring day. Around noon Gary walked into the laboratory and made himself at home on the sofa in the corner. The professor was so engrossed in his work that he didn't notice the young man at first. Eventually Gary decided to make his presence known, so he coughed lightly. Oak: looking up "Oh Gary. Sorry, I didn't see you there. Happy Birthday!!" Gary: "Thanks Gramps. What are you working on?" Oak: "oh just some research on some new moves for water Pokémon." Gary: "Whatever. So long as it helps me beat that dweeb Ashy-boy. I can't wait to beat him again" Oak: "I don't know why you and him have such a rivalry. Anyway, I can do the research later. I called you over to give you your birthday present" handing Gary a small box with a purple bow on top Gary: "thanks Gramps" opens the box and inside finds a key. "What's this?" Oak: "that is a key to the storage unit here at the laboratory. Anytime you need more supplies like Pokeballs or indeed Pokémon they are yours to use" Gary: "thanks so much Gramps. So thoughtful" hugs his grandfather Whilst hugging his grandson, Professor Oak managed to get a whiff of the perfume that Gary was wearing, along with a fruity smell of Gary's shampoo and conditioner. Professor Oak suddenly felt some tension in his lower stomach and could feel a slight hardening of his cock in between his legs. All of a sudden a devious plan and idea formed in his mind. Oak: "you know that was only the first part of your present Gary. I need to give you the other part now. Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the sofa" Oak then proceeds to press a button on his desk, which locked the doors of the laboratory with a click. Oak then turned to Gary on the sofa, smiling seductively at the young man. Oak: "it's been a while since I last saw you. May I say, you have turned into a nice young man" Gary: smiling nervously "hmm thanks Gramps I guess" Oak: "tell me grandson, are you dating yet? Have you got a girlfriend?" Gary: "not yet. No-one seems to like Pokémon trainers any more" Oak: "well I'm sure you will find someone eventually. And when you do, I'm sure you know what will happen eventually??" Gary: feeling slightly embarrassed and starting to blush "yeah I do, however I don't know how that feels" Oak: "let me show you" he suddenly lunges at Gary and plants his lips firmly against Gary's, so quickly that Gary didn't have time to react Gary: pulling away in shock "what do you think you are doing Gramps?" Oak: "just treating you like the special grandson you are" winks seductively at Gary Gary sits there quietly, his mind processing what has just happened. As he is thinking he happens to look up at his grandfather and suddenly a strange thought entered his mind. He noticed that his grandfather was also very good looking, albeit an older sort of handsome. Gary also realised that he and his grandfather were alone right now, and therefore no-one could possibly know what happened here. Gary then decided to see where this was going, so quickly closed the gap and pressed his lips back against the professor's. The professor was surprised at this, but still enjoyed the contact with Gary. As he was kissing Gary, his hands seemed to move all on the own and soon found their way under Gary's shirt caressing his chest. Gary moaned into the kiss and opened his lips slightly allowing Oak's tongue to enter his mouth and starting wrestling with his own tongue. At the same time he felt Oak's hands rubbing his own chest before settling on his nipples. Gary continued to kiss Oak, but at the same time was aware of a growing tension in his lower stomach. Oak was enjoying the kiss and tongue wrestling Gary, when all of a sudden he felt a growing hardness poking into his stomach. Oak smiled because he realised Gary was starting to become hard. Oak: "looks like someone is getting excited. Do you need some help?" Placing a hand on Gary's crotch on top of his pants Gary: "yes please Gramps. I don't know what to do with this, and it hurts. Please help, I love you" Gary moans again before kissing Oak Oak: "hold on, put this on. I don't want you to see" hands Gary a blindfold Gary: "hmm a fun mystery" proceeds to put the blindfold on Oak, seeing that Gary is now blindfolded approaches the young man and decides to begin right away. He slowly unzips Gary's fly and unclasps the button before proceeding to pull Gary's trousers off his young slender frame. Looking in between Gary's legs he could see Gary's purple boxer shorts with a slight wet spot of pre-cum on it, all covering a large bulge. Oak smiles with approval before starting to kiss over Gary's torso. Eventually Oak moved his head lower before kissing Gary's bulge directly. Deciding he can wait no longer, Oak proceeds to bite the waistband of Gary's boxers and pulling it down, releasing Gary's 9 inch hard python to the fresh air. It bounces up and rests against his stomach. Oak casts an approving eye before grabbing Gary's cock with one hand. Oak: "ok grandson I am now going to give you your other birthday present. Enjoy!!" whilst giving Gary's cock a few pumps Gary was not able to see but felt immense pleasure whilst Oak pumped him. All of a sudden Gary could feel something warm and moist surround his cock, and moaned with pleasure when he realised it was his grandfather's mouth. Oak had taken half of Gary's length into his mouth and smiled as he liked the subtle strawberry taste of Gary's soap that he had used earlier. Oak continued to bob up and down on Gary's length, enjoying the feeling before taking a deep breath. He proceeded to take all of Gary's 9 inches into his throat until his nose was buried in Gary's brown pubes. Oak hummed in approval, causing the air to vibrate around Gary's cock, which in turn caused Gary to experience waves of pleasure. Oak then withdrew most of Gary's length before going back down on his grandson. He continued to Bob up and down, even using his tongue to tease Gary's cock. This continued for around 10 minutes. Then all of a sudden Oak felt the length of meat in his mouth and throat start to tense up as he heard a moan escape Gary's mouth. Gary then began to place his hands on Oak's head, before proceeding to guide Oak's head up and down his length. Oak continued to Bob up and down on the hardened meat. All of a sudden he heard a loud moan from Gary and felt Gary's cock start to spasm in his mouth. He felt a warm salty liquid flood his mouth and throat as Gary's cum came shooting out. Gary held Oak's head tightly to his stomach as he let out a loud groan and felt his cum being sucked out by Oak's throat. After a few minutes Oak pulled off Gary's softening length before crawling up and placing a kiss on Gary's lips once more. Gary kissed him back, enjoying the taste of his own cum on his lips. Gary continued to lie on the sofa, coming down from his intense pleasure high, before suddenly feeling sleepy and eventually he could fight no more and drifted off into a lovely slumber. Oak seeing that his grandson was asleep on the sofa, smiled and gave Gary's cock a kiss before kissing the sleeping Gary on the forehead. Oak: "happy birthday grandson. Thanks for making it special" before he returned to his research. Kind Regards Wanksy (Shane Lowe) </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/taking-some-loan-advice

Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 08:00:00 +0000 From: PCW Tosh Subject: Taking Some Loan Advice Disclaimer: Hey folks, this story is just a fantasy and I have no evidence that this actually happened, but we can all dream. Stay healthy and practice safe sex! Happy reading. Football World 10: Taking Some Loan Advice It was a cold Tuesday night in Stoke and Harry Wilson's Cardiff City had arrived to take on the Potters. Harry felt like he was in the shop window once more, another loan from Premier League champions Liverpool had taken the Welsh boy back to the Championship with the bluebirds of Cardiff City. After 60 minutes, Harry's night took a disappointing turn. 1-0 down the 4th official raised the electronic noticeboard and there in red shone Harry's number. The Welsh lad hung his head in shame as he walked towards the touchline and gave his replacement Robert Glatzel a pat on the back. "Good luck." He offered spiritedly before shaking the manager's hand and grabbing a jacket to sit down on the substitutes bench. 6 minutes later Harry's nightmare became a reality as his replacement beat the Stoke goalie Josef Bursik to equalise, 1-1. Harry made a show of celebrating with his teammates whilst feeling sick inside and after the celebrations died down, the Welsh international excused himself for a toilet break. Walking through the tunnel at the Bet365 Stadium, Harry noticed a couple of lads chatting to one side. As the Welshman passed them, he saw one of the lads look over towards him whilst continuing their conversation. "Fucking cunt." Harry muttered to himself, chastising his own performance. The Wrexham lad so badly wanted to make it in the Premier League but too many nights like tonight and Harry knew he would be spending the rest of his career in or around The Championship. "Hey man." Jack Clarke beamed at Harry as the Cardiff winger left the bathroom. Harry glanced around to see if he was about to get jumped or something weird. "You alright?" Jack continued. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry, you just caught me by surprise." Harry replied after a brief moment to analyse the situation. "Ahhhman, sorry. I just wanted to say hi again." Jack blushed. "Yeah, yeah, no biggie mate. How are you finding things here?" Harry asked. "Yeah, it's been pretty good. Are you guys staying in Stoke tonight or travelling straight back?" Jack smiled. "Travelling straight back mate, even though we have the day off tomorrow." Harry huffed, rolling his eyes. "Ahh shame, I was gonna invite you round for a beer." Jack giggled. "Ahh, were you now? I can come back tomorrow I guess." Harry grinned, stroking his smooth chin thoughtfully. "...or you can follow us back and come to mine?" Harry continued reading Jack's expression. "Wicked. I need some advice on being a loan player but I wanna talk face to face." Jack explained. "Yeah, sounds about right." Harry nodded. The final whistle sounded, and the teams left the field. The Stoke players trudged dejectedly off the pitch while the Cardiff players shared high-fives and hugs to celebrate their 76th minute winning goal. Harry took a moderate part in the celebrations before hurrying off to get showered. First out of the showers, the Welshman sent Jack his home address while he got changed and ready for the coach to leave. Following a rousing speech from manager Neil Harris the team headed for the coach and the 3-hourjourney home. Harry felt knackered after travelling and football, so the journey home was the perfect time to catch a bit of shut eye. } Jack sat in his car patiently listening to music when out of the darkness, a pair of headlights illuminated the car park. The car came to a stop and Harry stepped out in his Cardiff City training gear. Jack opened his car door and hopped out. "You made it." Jack beamed, "Ahh man, how long were you waiting?" Harry replied, water vapour colouring the air between them as they moved towards each other. "About an hour." Jack smiled. "Ahh dude, I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it." Jack cut in happily. Harry led them into his living room, the spacious room had laminate floor throughout and comfy leather black couches facing a massive TV. "Take a seat." Harry gestured towards the couch before dropping his bag against the wall and heading into the kitchen. Returning with a pair of beers and protein bars the Welshman laid them down on the table. "Can you multitask? We can chat while playing FIFA if you like?" Harry asked. "Yeah, let's do it." Jack chirped with his impishly cute smile. Dropping down into his couch alongside Jack, Harry landed a little closer than the Yorkshire lad had expected. The games commenced with Jack's competitive side showing through, battering Harry 5-0. The second match wasn't much different, Jack beat Harry 4-2, this time the Welshman took the lead at least before Jack came flying back. Another victory for Jack, followed by another and the 20-year-old looked at Harry somewhat bemused. "You're letting me win, aren't you?" Jack frowned. "Ha am I fuck. I'm just not that good." Harry chuckled. The claim wasn't completely untrue, even playing his very bestHarry seldom got the best of his buddy Ben Woodburn though the punishment (or reward) for losing meant Harry never really gave it his all. "How are you always so successful when you go out on loan? I mean you were awesome at Derby and Bournemouth." Jack beamed. "Yunno what mate, I'd never really thought about it till you mentioned it earlier, but there's no real secret other than getting into the team spirit and being willing to work for the manager." Harry replied. "Sounds obvious I know, but if you can convince the boss you're fitting in well, they'll give you game time and that's all you'll need to show them how good you are." Harry continued. Jack watched every word fall from Harry's beautiful lips, [fuck me this guy is so kissable] Jack thought to himself. "Which was your favourite loan so far?" Jack replied. "Ahh, I'm not sure, probably Bournemouth because I got to play with my boy Davey a lot. But Derby was good fun as well with Frank Lampard." Harry pondered aloud. "You and Davey are close then?" Jack replied, very interested by Harry mentioning him in particular. "Yeah, we've known each other a while now, he's a good lad." Harry explained. "I hear that." Jack nodded, "And at Derby, did you have a good relationship with Mase?" Jack continued. "Oh, hell yeah, Mase is the best isn't he." Harry agreed enthusiastically. "Ha, yeah he is." Jack replied dreamily. "Wait, how do you know Mase?" Harry asked, his face clearly trying to work out where Jack and Mason had played together. "Ahh, just from a friendly match, we swapped shirts." Jack replied innocently. "He fucked you after that didn't he?" Harry grinned, knowing the answer to his question before he'd even finished asking it. "So, are you here to get fucked by me too?" Harry continued spreading his legs a little wider as he spoke. "Never said he did fuck me though, did I?" Jack replied coolly. Harry dropped his controller aside and without a word, swinging his leg around Jack's body the Welshman sat on Jack's lap. Two young footballers were now face to face, breathing in each other's essence. The rich smell of expensive aftershave tickled the lad's noses and slowly their lips moved together. Harry reached under Jack's arms while the Yorkshire lad reached over Harry's shoulders to pull the Welsh lad towards him. Now they were initiated, they could fully engage in their embrace and pulling each other closer, their kiss became stronger and more passionate. Harry pulled Jack in closer making the Yorkshire lad slide closer as their tongues explored each other's throats. Harry's thigh rested on top of Jack's leg, the added body contact sent a spark through the pair of them, but this was only the beginning. The Welsh lad quickly reached under the hem of Jack's shirt and pulled it up, leaving his lips only to allow the Yorkshire lad's tight t-shirt to slide over his straight brown hair. Again, their faces connected with a bump, locking their lips together aggressively allowing their tongues to tour each other's throats again while Harry unfurled his own shirt hem. Breaking apart to allow Harry's shirt over his quiffed hair, Jack and Harry took a quick moment to study their smooth, toned bodies before jumping into each other's arms once more. Everything was directed by horny desire as the two lads were instantly tongue deep inside each other's mouths while pressing their naked chests together. Smooth skin slid across smooth skin; their toned muscles were evident by their aroused tensing. Harry pushed forward into Jack, forcing the Yorkshire lad onto his back against the cool black leather of the couch. Jack allowed Harry to press him down against the couch by holding his smooth chest against Jack's. The Yorkshire lad responded by throwing his legs around Harry's waist. Their tongues forced themselves deeper, the horny beast growing inside the pair of them grew stronger and angrier, personified by Harry beginning to thrust his crotch into Jack's scally body. The Yorkshire lad's fingers found the back of Harry's joggers and pulled them down suggestively. Harry moved his lower body away from Jack's to facilitate their liberation and while the lads remained locked in a lip wrestling contest, Harry used his toes to accomplish the rest of the task. Once Harry had freed himself from his own joggers, the Welshman then used his fingers to liberate Jack's crotch. He couldn't leave the Yorkshire lad's irresistible lips, but Harry managed to move Jack's waist into a position where his fingers could slide the Yorkshireman's joggers down to his hips waiting a second while Jack lifted is mid-section then sliding them the rest of the way down to the 20-year-old's ankles. Finally, there was something interesting enough to pull the two lads apart and that was the sight of the other lad's bulge. They were both delighted to see the other lad wearing a nice tight pair of cotton boxes, Jack wore a nice pair of light grey Calvin Klein boxers while Harry wore the same brand in a dark blue colour. Footballers seemed to have the same problem with their undies misshapen by their throbbing bulges. "Jesus Christ, how big are you?!" Harry exclaimed, studying the size of Jack's boner. "I dunno, like 8 inches I think." Jack shrugged. "How about yours?" He smiled looking at Harry's package. "Er, not as big as you, maybe 6 or 7." Harry blushed. "Wicked, you wanna stick it in me?" Jack giggled. "Yeah, of course!" Harry nodded enthusiastically. Before their next move there was a brief moment where the two lads looked into each other's eyes, appreciating their stunning aesthetics. If their careers as footballers were to hit a roadblock, their smooth, handsome faces would make either of them perfect models. After drinking in the sight of Jack's cheeky, dimpled smile it was Harry who was first to give into his needs, lowering his face towards Jack's enticing bulge and watching the Yorkshire lad's crotch begin to throb with anticipation. Harry landed his lips softly on the bulge of the light grey cotton and rolled his eyes all the way up Jack's athletic body into the Yorkshire lad's dreamy eyes which shone straight back down at him, then maintaining eye contact the entire time, the Welshman drew his lips a long Jack's boner teasing the youngster as he did so. Jack responded to Harry's servicing by reaching up to place his hands behind his head and watch the Welshman at work. Harry's blue eyes looked straight into the beautiful fluffiness that was Jack's armpits. The 20-year-olds pits looked so enticing, beginning with his creamy pale skin which looked so smooth and suckable then leading into a semi dense bush of long, light brown hairs. Harry studied them enviously thinking to himself that there was only one place right now that could be better than sticking his nose into those fluffy bushes, fortunately that place was even nearer, separated by just a thin, light grey piece of cotton. The Welshman threw his lips along Jack's pole one more time, teasing another throb of anticipation from the youngster before he gave in and reached under the Yorkshire lad's waistband. Jack raised his hips allowing Harry the full access he was requesting and watched proudly as his uncut, 8-inch cock sprang free and stood at full mast. Their eyes remained connected as Harry closed his fingers around the base of Jack's cock and wasting no time the Welshman swallowed Jack's entire shaft in one go, burying his nose in the 20-year-old's fresh, neat pubes. "Fookin 'ell." Jack hissed encouragingly as his cock suddenly felt warm, wet and wonderful. Harry felt as though he had returned to his happy place. A long, thick scally cock probing his brain was the Welsh footballer's idea of heaven and with Jack's cute face to adore as he sucked, Harry could think of nothing else he would rather be doing right now. Drawing his lips slowly and deliberately a long Jack's shaft Harry savoured the moment studying every movement and reaction Jack made to his oral exhibition. The Welsh footballer's eyes kept shooting back to Jack's skinny left arm, covered in a sleeve tattoo and with his bicep tensing each time Harry swiped tongue across Jack's exposed head. A coo of pleasure confirmed Jack was incredibly satisfied with Harry's blowjob and yet the lad always wanted a little more. Reaching out with his right hand the Yorkshire lad took hold of Harry's free and guided it towards his hole. To ensure Harry got the message, Jack then guided Harry's finger specifically over his opening and then brought them back to rest upon his entrance. Harry got the message, and the Cardiff winger allowed an increased amount of saliva to leave his mouth which slid down Jack's hard shaft and over Harry's fingers which he had placed back in the line of fire. Placing his fingers at Jack's entrance, Harry gave the Yorkshire lad a moment to prepare himself before pushing against Jack's entrance. Fully prepared and closing his eyes Jack relaxed, granting Harry's finger an easy entrance. "Mmmmm." Jack purred as Harry's middle finger slipped between his tight pink walls. Harry moved slowly at first, concentrating hard on simultaneously fingering and giving head. The Welshman loved the taste of Jack's fleshy head, the cute Englishman unwittingly fed him pearls of precum every few dozen seconds as his mouth and fingers pleasured the Yorkshire lad's skinny body. Harry could feel the prickles from the hairs which lined Jack's tight, young arsehole as his middle finger edged its way up Jack's narrow chute. The Cardiff City winger loved the feeling of Jack's ring sucking on his finger trying to pull them back inside his slim body every time Harry pulled it out. Releasing his grip of the Englishman's shaft Harry used his spare hand to jerk himself. With a full mouth Harry couldn'tverbalise his enjoyment so the Welshman just grunted as he sucked, telling Jack his cock was delicious. Jack felt like his head was about to explode, both of them. On the one hand he had Harry's finger worming its way into his body and tickling his sensitive insides. As Harry's fingers worked their way into his tunnel, Jack could feel his cock swelling under the spell of Harry's excellent oral work. The cheeky young footballer struggled to contain himself, cursing intermittently as his balls began to work overtime. "Mate, you won't be able to fuck me if you keep doing that, I'm not going to last much longer." Jack groaned helplessly. "Or I could make you cum twice." Harry winked, dropping Jack's cock from his lips for just a second before swallowing the shaft whole again. "Ahhh you fucking cunt." Jack squealed as Harry's finger dug deeper into his hole. "Want something bigger in there then?" Harry grinned. "Fuck yeah." Jack smiled. An excited Harry leapt into position, fitting comfortably between Jack's long skinny legs. The Welshman took a brief moment to scan the tattoo on the 20-year-old's lower leg before looking up into Jack's adorable face. The bottom gave Harry his full compliance as the Welshman threw his legs upon his shoulders and shuffled closer to Jack's arse. A quick drop of lube from under the coffee table to make the initial contact a bit more comfortable and Harry's head was pressed up against the Yorkshire lad's entrance. "Hmmmm." Jack cooed as his ring slowly conceded to Harry's hard cock. The bottom just relaxed, allowing Harry to do all the work as the sexy Welshman pushed his head into Jack's smooth belly. It didn't take a rocket scientist for Harry to work out Jack had done this plenty of times before, the way the sexy bottom opened for him without a fuss was all the evidence Harry needed and the perfect justification for his decision that once he was in, he was going for it! Allowing the pleasurable pain of his arse hole stretching to accommodate a throbbing boner, Jack closed his eyes and took hold of his shaft stroking it slowly as the top pressed deeper inside him. The Yorkshire lad's 8-inch cock stood high and hard, ready for all the attention it could get as Harry's meat stretched his ring wider still. Jack felt incredible and although he could see Harry's face right there and then, the image of the handsome Welshman had been painted in the inside of Jack's eyelids since the first time he'd seen him. "Yeah, deeper." Jack whispered, opening his chute to swallow Harry's advancing shaft gratefully. Harry too felt himself sliding into another realm of pleasure as he penetrated Jack's stunning body. The top also closed his eyes, taking away the sight of his penetration but enhancing the feeling of his bare tip as it sank deeper into Jack's arousingly hot flesh. Gripping the Yorkshire lad's skinny thigh tightly, Harry no longer needed to hold his shaft steady with more than 4.5 inches inside the bottom with just two left to go. Jack held his cock at the tip, slowly massaging his head as Harry worked his way deeper inside the skinny youngster. The Yorkshire lad felt the rumble of Harry's hard cock sliding along the inside of his tight tunnel, the friction causing his shaft to throb with pleasure. The deeper Harry sank, the wider Jack's eyes shone with happiness. The weight of the Welsh lad finally rested on Jack's hole impaling 6.5 inches of hard meat inside the cute bottom. The tightening grip of Jack's legs allowed Harry to throw his hips back and forth with steadily increasing venom. The skinny Yorkshire lad felt twice as good as he looked, his chute remaining perfectly tight all the way up to the deepest point Harry could reach, 6.5 inches inside his sexy little arse. The confident top in Harry's mind was extremely happy with everything about the sexy young lad below him. Jack's arse worked as the perfect cushion for his hips which seemed to ricochet back higher the harder he thudded into the bottom. Jack just lay there smiling, beaming up into Harry's face while a look of pure satisfaction consumed his handsome features. Harry's cock felt perfect as it curved up inside his belly, slicing 6.5 bare inches deep into the Yorkshire lad's sensitive hole. The bottom's ring clung tight to Harry's shaft, enjoying the friction of his hole pulling on the hard meat sliding back and forth arousinglyas it defiled his horny body. The Yorkshire lad could've wanked himself empty right there and then it felt so good, but the only thing more interesting than cumming with Harry's cock in his arse, was to cum with Harry's arse around his dripping cock. Stroking his bare cock into Jack's sexy body, Harry felt his body tingle. The Welshman scanned Jack's skinny body again, lingering on his cheeky tattoos. "You bad boy." Harry beamed continuously sliding his dick into the Yorkshire lad's perfect cunt. The response from the bottom was a smile, a wide unreserved smile that told of his pure pleasure. Harry's hard meat pressed its way into the Yorkshire lad's hole, squeezing the top's neat crotch against Jack's sweet arse with every firm shot. Harry pulled back to the head then pressed up to the hilt, feeding the bottom with every inch his raging, Welsh cock. Planting a kiss on Jack's tattooed bicep, Harry groaned as he slid himself into the bottom's tight warm pocket. Harry kept his lips locked on Jack's arm for half a dozen seconds then into that bushy pit he had scouted earlier. Taking a long, hard draught of the air Harry sucked in the bottom's sweet musk, he was relatively clean and fresh with the natural musk of a few hours driving giving the Yorkshire lad a natural odour. The smell wasn't the filth Harry associated with Jack's cheeky personality, but he could imagine how dirty the Yorkshire lad could be by inhaling these delicious, warm notes. After a couple of frozen seconds in Jack's pit, Harry moved up to the bottom's neck then finally back up to Jack's face continuing to stroke relentlessly planting a firm kiss against the Yorkshire lad's ruby, red lips. With their lips connected, Harry continued to fill Jack with his cock, but his strokes began to slow. Delivering direct, straight strokes Harry filled then empty Jack's chute repeatedly for a dozen seconds while their lips remained locked. The Welsh lad pressed one more thrust into the bottom's sexy body then slowly but surely, he removed his hard cock. "Ahhhh." Jack groaned as his ring relieved itself of Harry's cock. "Your turn." The Welsh boy replied. Jack pushed himself up and took hold of his hard 8-inch cock, stroking the foreskin gently to tease a throb for show. Harry's blues eyes watched with hard anticipation as Jack moved to stand on his skinny legs and stroked his hard shaft. "How do you want me?" Harry asked. Every position under the sun flashed through Jack's mind, there wasn't a position Harry wouldn't look good in, but Jack was a driving top, if he had his dick inside a lad, he wanted to be able to force it in as hard and deep as he could. Pressing a palm flat against Harry's chest, Jack laid the bottom down so that his head was against the armrest and then taking Harry by his slim, left calf, he turned the Welshman onto his side and climbed in between Harry's leg. Locating Harry's hole, the Yorkshire lad placed himself at the entrance and after setting his knees so that he felt comfortable, Jack dropped a pearl of lube over the Welshan's hole and began to push forward. "Fuck yeahhhh." Harry cooed, his beautiful, pink lips falling open to sigh his delight at being filled by Jack's long cock. The young top was a kind, reactive top watching Harry's every move and increasing or reducing his pressure accordingly but to Jack's surprise the Welshman's arse, like his mouth, was more than capable of swallowing the whole thing in one go. Gradually the inches disappeared inside Harry's bare hole and resting his neat crotch against the Welshman's smooth, peachy arse, Jack readjusted so that he could give the bottom the punishment his sexy body deserved. Harry looked up at Jack, watching the Yorkshire lad's movements as he raised Harry's bottom off the couch. The top's skinny, tattooed arm was tense as it held Harry in the perfect position and a beautifully malevolent smile crept across the top's as his hips began to move. "Grrrrr, yeahhhhhh." Harry growled, the Yorkshire lad's bare 8-inch sword slid inside him, filling his cavity with one of the best pieces of meat he'd had in his life. Driving his crotch straight and hard into Harry's arse, Jack soothed himself with the smack of his skin against the Welsh bottom's. The pitch descended as the glancing smack turned into full on follow throughs, but the volume increased as the top made sure to give Harry his very best moves. Even though Jack's lower legs were skinny, his thigh muscles were thick and meaty, echoing with the power of his desires as he speared Harry nice and deep. The Welshman's crystal blue eyes looked up lovingly, begging Jack for every inch of his long, hard cock as it thudded against the underside of his soft sphincter. The only way Harry liked to bottom was deep and hard and with 8 inches of Yorkshire meat to feed him, Jack could certainly reach nice and deep within Harry's hole. The Welsh winger rapped his own uncut 6.5-inch cock as fast as he could, watching the way Jack's face scrunched as it delivered each blow. Every time the Welshman's slick foreskin travelled across his head the bottom felt his body tingle with pleasure, maximising the efforts of the Yorkshire lad pounding his insides. The cute top, with his adorable face, growing a faint coat of fuzz around his jaw had such sex appeal, Harry felt his body burning with the desire to explode. Had Harry not topped first, he might have taken Jack's irresistible cock all through the night, however the Yorkshire lad's incredible arse had done such an amazing job at bottoming that Harry was now right on the brink. In the same boat, Jack only had a limited range of pleasure left in him before he too would achieve his climax and with every thrust into Harry's stunning body that cliff edge rapidly approached. "Yeah, boiii, fuckkk, meeeeeeeeeee." Harry stammered between thrusts. "You sexy bastard." Jack grinned, throwing everything he could into the smooth, bronze bottom. "Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh." Harry wailed as Jack's bare cock forced its way into Harry's belly pushing the bottom over the edge. Harry's mouth opened as though he was about to scream the house down but all he could muster was a feeble whine as his heavy nuts erupted, showering his athletic abdomen with a layer of thick spunk. The Welshman's stomach rose and fell with increasing speed as he panted through the insane pleasure of his tightened balls decorating his tense torso in thick, shiny ropes of cum. Jack had been hanging on by a thread and with Harry's ring tightening around his shaft combined with the sight of his beautiful bottom ejaculating thick strands of white jizz, there was more than enough stimulation to finish Jack off. Slamming himself to the hilt one last time then withdrawing quickly the Yorkshire lad took hold of his solid shaft and managed one final stroke before exploding across Harry's sexy body. Harry felt his ring seal itself, liberated from the penetration of Jack's long cock, then from beyond his legs a flash of white hurtled towards his face, landing across his tattooed pec. This was just the beginning, following the first shot Jack proceeded to cover Harry's entire upper body into his fresh seed, firing powerful shots of cum all the way up the Welshman's body to land across his smooth neck and pecs. The noise began to escalate as Harry reached the peak of his orgasm while Jack was on the ascent. Both of them were jerking hard, allowing their foreskin to cover as much of their heads as possible without covering their slits as they simultaneously showered Harry's gorgeous body and hot spunk. Following 8 shots of creamy white cum Harry was the first to finish and offered another long groan as he threw his softening cock to the side. Straightening his long skinny legs, Jack rose so that Harry had a better view as he tugged the rest of his produce out across the sexy Welshman. With his cock pointing down towards Harry's body, Jack's right fist strummed hard and fast, squirting more ropes of his cum down over the Welshman's already drenched crotch. Drinking in the mesmerising sight of Harry's perfect body one more time, Jack allowed himself to fully appreciate the Welshman's perfect figure as his orgasm began to weaken. In particular, Jack's eyes appreciated the depth of Harry's tan thinking to himself, ["this sexy lad likes a bit of sun too."] Beaming inside at the thought of a sordid holiday rendezvous. The Yorkshire lad's furry nuts hopped excitedly as the last of his load shot up his pole. with a couple of final strokes, Jack sighed gently as the final pearl of his cum appeared from his head and dribbled down onto Harry's messy body. "Fucking hell boyo, look at me." Harry grinned looking from his cum soaked body up to Jack's proud face. "Don't blame me lad, that's your doing too." Jack beamed. "True, but still. Thank fuck it's a recovery day tomorrow." Harry huffed. "Yeah, lucky you, I gotta go in." Jack sighed, looking glum. "Don't spend all day thinking about me though will you." Harry winked, stroking his sides as the cum started to trickle down towards the couch. "I better clean myself up." He continued while Jack watched on. Offering a helping hand, Jack grabbed a handful of tissues and began to mop up the sticky Welshman. "Cheers mate." Harry beamed. Taking a couple of sheets Jack had handed to him, Harry worked at the other side of his torso. Truth was, the couch was already covered in enough dried cum a detective would need a double decker bus to take all of the owners in for questioning, but still they cleaned so they could relax for the rest of the night. "So, what were we talking about before you interrupted me with that insanely hot body of yours? Ahhhyes, dude, you've got character and an A* personality, just staying focused, work hard and take all the game time you can get." Harry smiled, wiping as much cum as he could off his smooth body. "Yeah, I hear ya mate. Think you'll graduate to the Liverpool first team?" Jack replied, leaning back after deciding he couldn't help Harry any more than he already had. "I hope so lad, but if it doesn't work out then it won't be for lack of trying, and hopefully if I don't get to play for Liverpool, one of my other clubs with take me." Harry explained coolly. "Well secretly I'm gonna hope you don't, and we end up on opposite wings in the same colours." Jack smirked. "Ha, or you could hope I graduate, and Liverpool decide to buy you too, bellend!" Harry laughed with a light hint of indignation. "That too, you fucking hotty." Jack beaming, launching himself forward to kiss Harry again, pressing his slender torso against Harry's cum stained mess of a torso. END Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story. If you like what you've read, please let me know by emailing me on pcwtosh@gmail.com and/or for updates: Instagram - pcwtoshx Twitter - @pcwtosh Here is the rest of my collection: Sticky Blinders, After party at the OSCARs, Cole Me By Your Name, Happy 18th Bro, Coffee for John, An Audition to Remember, Breakfast Boot, The Queen's English, Brooklyn Learns a Lesson, Bad Panther, Bad to the Bones, The Twins Nextdoor, 13 Goo-uld Reasons Why, Gallaghers' Indian Takeaway, Now You See Cole & Big Apple Aussies. Gymnastics Fantastics 1, 2, Celtic Bond & Coach Crammer Ripped Roses, Jack's Web, Naughty Neigbours & Devils and Dragons. Raging Scott, Swim Team, HRVY PTY, Swimnasium & Laugher of the Ice King. Vamp-ing, Vamp-ing 2, Strictly Come Vamp-ing, One Direction to Dunkirk & Deep Dipping in Dunkirk. 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<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 08:00:00 +0000 From: PCW Tosh <pcwtosh@gmail.com> Subject: Taking Some Loan Advice Disclaimer: Hey folks, this story is just a fantasy and I have no evidence that this actually happened, but we can all dream. Stay healthy and practice safe sex! Happy reading. Football World 10: Taking Some Loan Advice It was a cold Tuesday night in Stoke and Harry Wilson's Cardiff City had arrived to take on the Potters. Harry felt like he was in the shop window once more, another loan from Premier League champions Liverpool had taken the Welsh boy back to the Championship with the bluebirds of Cardiff City. After 60 minutes, Harry's night took a disappointing turn. 1-0 down the 4th official raised the electronic noticeboard and there in red shone Harry's number. The Welsh lad hung his head in shame as he walked towards the touchline and gave his replacement Robert Glatzel a pat on the back. "Good luck." He offered spiritedly before shaking the manager's hand and grabbing a jacket to sit down on the substitutes bench. 6 minutes later Harry's nightmare became a reality as his replacement beat the Stoke goalie Josef Bursik to equalise, 1-1. Harry made a show of celebrating with his teammates whilst feeling sick inside and after the celebrations died down, the Welsh international excused himself for a toilet break. Walking through the tunnel at the Bet365 Stadium, Harry noticed a couple of lads chatting to one side. As the Welshman passed them, he saw one of the lads look over towards him whilst continuing their conversation. "Fucking cunt." Harry muttered to himself, chastising his own performance. The Wrexham lad so badly wanted to make it in the Premier League but too many nights like tonight and Harry knew he would be spending the rest of his career in or around The Championship. "Hey man." Jack Clarke beamed at Harry as the Cardiff winger left the bathroom. Harry glanced around to see if he was about to get jumped or something weird. "You alright?" Jack continued. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry, you just caught me by surprise." Harry replied after a brief moment to analyse the situation. "Ahhhman, sorry. I just wanted to say hi again." Jack blushed. "Yeah, yeah, no biggie mate. How are you finding things here?" Harry asked. "Yeah, it's been pretty good. Are you guys staying in Stoke tonight or travelling straight back?" Jack smiled. "Travelling straight back mate, even though we have the day off tomorrow." Harry huffed, rolling his eyes. "Ahh shame, I was gonna invite you round for a beer." Jack giggled. "Ahh, were you now? I can come back tomorrow I guess." Harry grinned, stroking his smooth chin thoughtfully. "...or you can follow us back and come to mine?" Harry continued reading Jack's expression. "Wicked. I need some advice on being a loan player but I wanna talk face to face." Jack explained. "Yeah, sounds about right." Harry nodded. The final whistle sounded, and the teams left the field. The Stoke players trudged dejectedly off the pitch while the Cardiff players shared high-fives and hugs to celebrate their 76th minute winning goal. Harry took a moderate part in the celebrations before hurrying off to get showered. First out of the showers, the Welshman sent Jack his home address while he got changed and ready for the coach to leave. Following a rousing speech from manager Neil Harris the team headed for the coach and the 3-hourjourney home. Harry felt knackered after travelling and football, so the journey home was the perfect time to catch a bit of shut eye. } Jack sat in his car patiently listening to music when out of the darkness, a pair of headlights illuminated the car park. The car came to a stop and Harry stepped out in his Cardiff City training gear. Jack opened his car door and hopped out. "You made it." Jack beamed, "Ahh man, how long were you waiting?" Harry replied, water vapour colouring the air between them as they moved towards each other. "About an hour." Jack smiled. "Ahh dude, I'm sorry." "Don't worry about it." Jack cut in happily. Harry led them into his living room, the spacious room had laminate floor throughout and comfy leather black couches facing a massive TV. "Take a seat." Harry gestured towards the couch before dropping his bag against the wall and heading into the kitchen. Returning with a pair of beers and protein bars the Welshman laid them down on the table. "Can you multitask? We can chat while playing FIFA if you like?" Harry asked. "Yeah, let's do it." Jack chirped with his impishly cute smile. Dropping down into his couch alongside Jack, Harry landed a little closer than the Yorkshire lad had expected. The games commenced with Jack's competitive side showing through, battering Harry 5-0. The second match wasn't much different, Jack beat Harry 4-2, this time the Welshman took the lead at least before Jack came flying back. Another victory for Jack, followed by another and the 20-year-old looked at Harry somewhat bemused. "You're letting me win, aren't you?" Jack frowned. "Ha am I fuck. I'm just not that good." Harry chuckled. The claim wasn't completely untrue, even playing his very bestHarry seldom got the best of his buddy Ben Woodburn though the punishment (or reward) for losing meant Harry never really gave it his all. "How are you always so successful when you go out on loan? I mean you were awesome at Derby and Bournemouth." Jack beamed. "Yunno what mate, I'd never really thought about it till you mentioned it earlier, but there's no real secret other than getting into the team spirit and being willing to work for the manager." Harry replied. "Sounds obvious I know, but if you can convince the boss you're fitting in well, they'll give you game time and that's all you'll need to show them how good you are." Harry continued. Jack watched every word fall from Harry's beautiful lips, [fuck me this guy is so kissable] Jack thought to himself. "Which was your favourite loan so far?" Jack replied. "Ahh, I'm not sure, probably Bournemouth because I got to play with my boy Davey a lot. But Derby was good fun as well with Frank Lampard." Harry pondered aloud. "You and Davey are close then?" Jack replied, very interested by Harry mentioning him in particular. "Yeah, we've known each other a while now, he's a good lad." Harry explained. "I hear that." Jack nodded, "And at Derby, did you have a good relationship with Mase?" Jack continued. "Oh, hell yeah, Mase is the best isn't he." Harry agreed enthusiastically. "Ha, yeah he is." Jack replied dreamily. "Wait, how do you know Mase?" Harry asked, his face clearly trying to work out where Jack and Mason had played together. "Ahh, just from a friendly match, we swapped shirts." Jack replied innocently. "He fucked you after that didn't he?" Harry grinned, knowing the answer to his question before he'd even finished asking it. "So, are you here to get fucked by me too?" Harry continued spreading his legs a little wider as he spoke. "Never said he did fuck me though, did I?" Jack replied coolly. Harry dropped his controller aside and without a word, swinging his leg around Jack's body the Welshman sat on Jack's lap. Two young footballers were now face to face, breathing in each other's essence. The rich smell of expensive aftershave tickled the lad's noses and slowly their lips moved together. Harry reached under Jack's arms while the Yorkshire lad reached over Harry's shoulders to pull the Welsh lad towards him. Now they were initiated, they could fully engage in their embrace and pulling each other closer, their kiss became stronger and more passionate. Harry pulled Jack in closer making the Yorkshire lad slide closer as their tongues explored each other's throats. Harry's thigh rested on top of Jack's leg, the added body contact sent a spark through the pair of them, but this was only the beginning. The Welsh lad quickly reached under the hem of Jack's shirt and pulled it up, leaving his lips only to allow the Yorkshire lad's tight t-shirt to slide over his straight brown hair. Again, their faces connected with a bump, locking their lips together aggressively allowing their tongues to tour each other's throats again while Harry unfurled his own shirt hem. Breaking apart to allow Harry's shirt over his quiffed hair, Jack and Harry took a quick moment to study their smooth, toned bodies before jumping into each other's arms once more. Everything was directed by horny desire as the two lads were instantly tongue deep inside each other's mouths while pressing their naked chests together. Smooth skin slid across smooth skin; their toned muscles were evident by their aroused tensing. Harry pushed forward into Jack, forcing the Yorkshire lad onto his back against the cool black leather of the couch. Jack allowed Harry to press him down against the couch by holding his smooth chest against Jack's. The Yorkshire lad responded by throwing his legs around Harry's waist. Their tongues forced themselves deeper, the horny beast growing inside the pair of them grew stronger and angrier, personified by Harry beginning to thrust his crotch into Jack's scally body. The Yorkshire lad's fingers found the back of Harry's joggers and pulled them down suggestively. Harry moved his lower body away from Jack's to facilitate their liberation and while the lads remained locked in a lip wrestling contest, Harry used his toes to accomplish the rest of the task. Once Harry had freed himself from his own joggers, the Welshman then used his fingers to liberate Jack's crotch. He couldn't leave the Yorkshire lad's irresistible lips, but Harry managed to move Jack's waist into a position where his fingers could slide the Yorkshireman's joggers down to his hips waiting a second while Jack lifted is mid-section then sliding them the rest of the way down to the 20-year-old's ankles. Finally, there was something interesting enough to pull the two lads apart and that was the sight of the other lad's bulge. They were both delighted to see the other lad wearing a nice tight pair of cotton boxes, Jack wore a nice pair of light grey Calvin Klein boxers while Harry wore the same brand in a dark blue colour. Footballers seemed to have the same problem with their undies misshapen by their throbbing bulges. "Jesus Christ, how big are you?!" Harry exclaimed, studying the size of Jack's boner. "I dunno, like 8 inches I think." Jack shrugged. "How about yours?" He smiled looking at Harry's package. "Er, not as big as you, maybe 6 or 7." Harry blushed. "Wicked, you wanna stick it in me?" Jack giggled. "Yeah, of course!" Harry nodded enthusiastically. Before their next move there was a brief moment where the two lads looked into each other's eyes, appreciating their stunning aesthetics. If their careers as footballers were to hit a roadblock, their smooth, handsome faces would make either of them perfect models. After drinking in the sight of Jack's cheeky, dimpled smile it was Harry who was first to give into his needs, lowering his face towards Jack's enticing bulge and watching the Yorkshire lad's crotch begin to throb with anticipation. Harry landed his lips softly on the bulge of the light grey cotton and rolled his eyes all the way up Jack's athletic body into the Yorkshire lad's dreamy eyes which shone straight back down at him, then maintaining eye contact the entire time, the Welshman drew his lips a long Jack's boner teasing the youngster as he did so. Jack responded to Harry's servicing by reaching up to place his hands behind his head and watch the Welshman at work. Harry's blue eyes looked straight into the beautiful fluffiness that was Jack's armpits. The 20-year-olds pits looked so enticing, beginning with his creamy pale skin which looked so smooth and suckable then leading into a semi dense bush of long, light brown hairs. Harry studied them enviously thinking to himself that there was only one place right now that could be better than sticking his nose into those fluffy bushes, fortunately that place was even nearer, separated by just a thin, light grey piece of cotton. The Welshman threw his lips along Jack's pole one more time, teasing another throb of anticipation from the youngster before he gave in and reached under the Yorkshire lad's waistband. Jack raised his hips allowing Harry the full access he was requesting and watched proudly as his uncut, 8-inch cock sprang free and stood at full mast. Their eyes remained connected as Harry closed his fingers around the base of Jack's cock and wasting no time the Welshman swallowed Jack's entire shaft in one go, burying his nose in the 20-year-old's fresh, neat pubes. "Fookin 'ell." Jack hissed encouragingly as his cock suddenly felt warm, wet and wonderful. Harry felt as though he had returned to his happy place. A long, thick scally cock probing his brain was the Welsh footballer's idea of heaven and with Jack's cute face to adore as he sucked, Harry could think of nothing else he would rather be doing right now. Drawing his lips slowly and deliberately a long Jack's shaft Harry savoured the moment studying every movement and reaction Jack made to his oral exhibition. The Welsh footballer's eyes kept shooting back to Jack's skinny left arm, covered in a sleeve tattoo and with his bicep tensing each time Harry swiped tongue across Jack's exposed head. A coo of pleasure confirmed Jack was incredibly satisfied with Harry's blowjob and yet the lad always wanted a little more. Reaching out with his right hand the Yorkshire lad took hold of Harry's free and guided it towards his hole. To ensure Harry got the message, Jack then guided Harry's finger specifically over his opening and then brought them back to rest upon his entrance. Harry got the message, and the Cardiff winger allowed an increased amount of saliva to leave his mouth which slid down Jack's hard shaft and over Harry's fingers which he had placed back in the line of fire. Placing his fingers at Jack's entrance, Harry gave the Yorkshire lad a moment to prepare himself before pushing against Jack's entrance. Fully prepared and closing his eyes Jack relaxed, granting Harry's finger an easy entrance. "Mmmmm." Jack purred as Harry's middle finger slipped between his tight pink walls. Harry moved slowly at first, concentrating hard on simultaneously fingering and giving head. The Welshman loved the taste of Jack's fleshy head, the cute Englishman unwittingly fed him pearls of precum every few dozen seconds as his mouth and fingers pleasured the Yorkshire lad's skinny body. Harry could feel the prickles from the hairs which lined Jack's tight, young arsehole as his middle finger edged its way up Jack's narrow chute. The Cardiff City winger loved the feeling of Jack's ring sucking on his finger trying to pull them back inside his slim body every time Harry pulled it out. Releasing his grip of the Englishman's shaft Harry used his spare hand to jerk himself. With a full mouth Harry couldn'tverbalise his enjoyment so the Welshman just grunted as he sucked, telling Jack his cock was delicious. Jack felt like his head was about to explode, both of them. On the one hand he had Harry's finger worming its way into his body and tickling his sensitive insides. As Harry's fingers worked their way into his tunnel, Jack could feel his cock swelling under the spell of Harry's excellent oral work. The cheeky young footballer struggled to contain himself, cursing intermittently as his balls began to work overtime. "Mate, you won't be able to fuck me if you keep doing that, I'm not going to last much longer." Jack groaned helplessly. "Or I could make you cum twice." Harry winked, dropping Jack's cock from his lips for just a second before swallowing the shaft whole again. "Ahhh you fucking cunt." Jack squealed as Harry's finger dug deeper into his hole. "Want something bigger in there then?" Harry grinned. "Fuck yeah." Jack smiled. An excited Harry leapt into position, fitting comfortably between Jack's long skinny legs. The Welshman took a brief moment to scan the tattoo on the 20-year-old's lower leg before looking up into Jack's adorable face. The bottom gave Harry his full compliance as the Welshman threw his legs upon his shoulders and shuffled closer to Jack's arse. A quick drop of lube from under the coffee table to make the initial contact a bit more comfortable and Harry's head was pressed up against the Yorkshire lad's entrance. "Hmmmm." Jack cooed as his ring slowly conceded to Harry's hard cock. The bottom just relaxed, allowing Harry to do all the work as the sexy Welshman pushed his head into Jack's smooth belly. It didn't take a rocket scientist for Harry to work out Jack had done this plenty of times before, the way the sexy bottom opened for him without a fuss was all the evidence Harry needed and the perfect justification for his decision that once he was in, he was going for it! Allowing the pleasurable pain of his arse hole stretching to accommodate a throbbing boner, Jack closed his eyes and took hold of his shaft stroking it slowly as the top pressed deeper inside him. The Yorkshire lad's 8-inch cock stood high and hard, ready for all the attention it could get as Harry's meat stretched his ring wider still. Jack felt incredible and although he could see Harry's face right there and then, the image of the handsome Welshman had been painted in the inside of Jack's eyelids since the first time he'd seen him. "Yeah, deeper." Jack whispered, opening his chute to swallow Harry's advancing shaft gratefully. Harry too felt himself sliding into another realm of pleasure as he penetrated Jack's stunning body. The top also closed his eyes, taking away the sight of his penetration but enhancing the feeling of his bare tip as it sank deeper into Jack's arousingly hot flesh. Gripping the Yorkshire lad's skinny thigh tightly, Harry no longer needed to hold his shaft steady with more than 4.5 inches inside the bottom with just two left to go. Jack held his cock at the tip, slowly massaging his head as Harry worked his way deeper inside the skinny youngster. The Yorkshire lad felt the rumble of Harry's hard cock sliding along the inside of his tight tunnel, the friction causing his shaft to throb with pleasure. The deeper Harry sank, the wider Jack's eyes shone with happiness. The weight of the Welsh lad finally rested on Jack's hole impaling 6.5 inches of hard meat inside the cute bottom. The tightening grip of Jack's legs allowed Harry to throw his hips back and forth with steadily increasing venom. The skinny Yorkshire lad felt twice as good as he looked, his chute remaining perfectly tight all the way up to the deepest point Harry could reach, 6.5 inches inside his sexy little arse. The confident top in Harry's mind was extremely happy with everything about the sexy young lad below him. Jack's arse worked as the perfect cushion for his hips which seemed to ricochet back higher the harder he thudded into the bottom. Jack just lay there smiling, beaming up into Harry's face while a look of pure satisfaction consumed his handsome features. Harry's cock felt perfect as it curved up inside his belly, slicing 6.5 bare inches deep into the Yorkshire lad's sensitive hole. The bottom's ring clung tight to Harry's shaft, enjoying the friction of his hole pulling on the hard meat sliding back and forth arousinglyas it defiled his horny body. The Yorkshire lad could've wanked himself empty right there and then it felt so good, but the only thing more interesting than cumming with Harry's cock in his arse, was to cum with Harry's arse around his dripping cock. Stroking his bare cock into Jack's sexy body, Harry felt his body tingle. The Welshman scanned Jack's skinny body again, lingering on his cheeky tattoos. "You bad boy." Harry beamed continuously sliding his dick into the Yorkshire lad's perfect cunt. The response from the bottom was a smile, a wide unreserved smile that told of his pure pleasure. Harry's hard meat pressed its way into the Yorkshire lad's hole, squeezing the top's neat crotch against Jack's sweet arse with every firm shot. Harry pulled back to the head then pressed up to the hilt, feeding the bottom with every inch his raging, Welsh cock. Planting a kiss on Jack's tattooed bicep, Harry groaned as he slid himself into the bottom's tight warm pocket. Harry kept his lips locked on Jack's arm for half a dozen seconds then into that bushy pit he had scouted earlier. Taking a long, hard draught of the air Harry sucked in the bottom's sweet musk, he was relatively clean and fresh with the natural musk of a few hours driving giving the Yorkshire lad a natural odour. The smell wasn't the filth Harry associated with Jack's cheeky personality, but he could imagine how dirty the Yorkshire lad could be by inhaling these delicious, warm notes. After a couple of frozen seconds in Jack's pit, Harry moved up to the bottom's neck then finally back up to Jack's face continuing to stroke relentlessly planting a firm kiss against the Yorkshire lad's ruby, red lips. With their lips connected, Harry continued to fill Jack with his cock, but his strokes began to slow. Delivering direct, straight strokes Harry filled then empty Jack's chute repeatedly for a dozen seconds while their lips remained locked. The Welsh lad pressed one more thrust into the bottom's sexy body then slowly but surely, he removed his hard cock. "Ahhhh." Jack groaned as his ring relieved itself of Harry's cock. "Your turn." The Welsh boy replied. Jack pushed himself up and took hold of his hard 8-inch cock, stroking the foreskin gently to tease a throb for show. Harry's blues eyes watched with hard anticipation as Jack moved to stand on his skinny legs and stroked his hard shaft. "How do you want me?" Harry asked. Every position under the sun flashed through Jack's mind, there wasn't a position Harry wouldn't look good in, but Jack was a driving top, if he had his dick inside a lad, he wanted to be able to force it in as hard and deep as he could. Pressing a palm flat against Harry's chest, Jack laid the bottom down so that his head was against the armrest and then taking Harry by his slim, left calf, he turned the Welshman onto his side and climbed in between Harry's leg. Locating Harry's hole, the Yorkshire lad placed himself at the entrance and after setting his knees so that he felt comfortable, Jack dropped a pearl of lube over the Welshan's hole and began to push forward. "Fuck yeahhhh." Harry cooed, his beautiful, pink lips falling open to sigh his delight at being filled by Jack's long cock. The young top was a kind, reactive top watching Harry's every move and increasing or reducing his pressure accordingly but to Jack's surprise the Welshman's arse, like his mouth, was more than capable of swallowing the whole thing in one go. Gradually the inches disappeared inside Harry's bare hole and resting his neat crotch against the Welshman's smooth, peachy arse, Jack readjusted so that he could give the bottom the punishment his sexy body deserved. Harry looked up at Jack, watching the Yorkshire lad's movements as he raised Harry's bottom off the couch. The top's skinny, tattooed arm was tense as it held Harry in the perfect position and a beautifully malevolent smile crept across the top's as his hips began to move. "Grrrrr, yeahhhhhh." Harry growled, the Yorkshire lad's bare 8-inch sword slid inside him, filling his cavity with one of the best pieces of meat he'd had in his life. Driving his crotch straight and hard into Harry's arse, Jack soothed himself with the smack of his skin against the Welsh bottom's. The pitch descended as the glancing smack turned into full on follow throughs, but the volume increased as the top made sure to give Harry his very best moves. Even though Jack's lower legs were skinny, his thigh muscles were thick and meaty, echoing with the power of his desires as he speared Harry nice and deep. The Welshman's crystal blue eyes looked up lovingly, begging Jack for every inch of his long, hard cock as it thudded against the underside of his soft sphincter. The only way Harry liked to bottom was deep and hard and with 8 inches of Yorkshire meat to feed him, Jack could certainly reach nice and deep within Harry's hole. The Welsh winger rapped his own uncut 6.5-inch cock as fast as he could, watching the way Jack's face scrunched as it delivered each blow. Every time the Welshman's slick foreskin travelled across his head the bottom felt his body tingle with pleasure, maximising the efforts of the Yorkshire lad pounding his insides. The cute top, with his adorable face, growing a faint coat of fuzz around his jaw had such sex appeal, Harry felt his body burning with the desire to explode. Had Harry not topped first, he might have taken Jack's irresistible cock all through the night, however the Yorkshire lad's incredible arse had done such an amazing job at bottoming that Harry was now right on the brink. In the same boat, Jack only had a limited range of pleasure left in him before he too would achieve his climax and with every thrust into Harry's stunning body that cliff edge rapidly approached. "Yeah, boiii, fuckkk, meeeeeeeeeee." Harry stammered between thrusts. "You sexy bastard." Jack grinned, throwing everything he could into the smooth, bronze bottom. "Oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh." Harry wailed as Jack's bare cock forced its way into Harry's belly pushing the bottom over the edge. Harry's mouth opened as though he was about to scream the house down but all he could muster was a feeble whine as his heavy nuts erupted, showering his athletic abdomen with a layer of thick spunk. The Welshman's stomach rose and fell with increasing speed as he panted through the insane pleasure of his tightened balls decorating his tense torso in thick, shiny ropes of cum. Jack had been hanging on by a thread and with Harry's ring tightening around his shaft combined with the sight of his beautiful bottom ejaculating thick strands of white jizz, there was more than enough stimulation to finish Jack off. Slamming himself to the hilt one last time then withdrawing quickly the Yorkshire lad took hold of his solid shaft and managed one final stroke before exploding across Harry's sexy body. Harry felt his ring seal itself, liberated from the penetration of Jack's long cock, then from beyond his legs a flash of white hurtled towards his face, landing across his tattooed pec. This was just the beginning, following the first shot Jack proceeded to cover Harry's entire upper body into his fresh seed, firing powerful shots of cum all the way up the Welshman's body to land across his smooth neck and pecs. The noise began to escalate as Harry reached the peak of his orgasm while Jack was on the ascent. Both of them were jerking hard, allowing their foreskin to cover as much of their heads as possible without covering their slits as they simultaneously showered Harry's gorgeous body and hot spunk. Following 8 shots of creamy white cum Harry was the first to finish and offered another long groan as he threw his softening cock to the side. Straightening his long skinny legs, Jack rose so that Harry had a better view as he tugged the rest of his produce out across the sexy Welshman. With his cock pointing down towards Harry's body, Jack's right fist strummed hard and fast, squirting more ropes of his cum down over the Welshman's already drenched crotch. Drinking in the mesmerising sight of Harry's perfect body one more time, Jack allowed himself to fully appreciate the Welshman's perfect figure as his orgasm began to weaken. In particular, Jack's eyes appreciated the depth of Harry's tan thinking to himself, ["this sexy lad likes a bit of sun too."] Beaming inside at the thought of a sordid holiday rendezvous. The Yorkshire lad's furry nuts hopped excitedly as the last of his load shot up his pole. with a couple of final strokes, Jack sighed gently as the final pearl of his cum appeared from his head and dribbled down onto Harry's messy body. "Fucking hell boyo, look at me." Harry grinned looking from his cum soaked body up to Jack's proud face. "Don't blame me lad, that's your doing too." Jack beamed. "True, but still. Thank fuck it's a recovery day tomorrow." Harry huffed. "Yeah, lucky you, I gotta go in." Jack sighed, looking glum. "Don't spend all day thinking about me though will you." Harry winked, stroking his sides as the cum started to trickle down towards the couch. "I better clean myself up." He continued while Jack watched on. Offering a helping hand, Jack grabbed a handful of tissues and began to mop up the sticky Welshman. "Cheers mate." Harry beamed. Taking a couple of sheets Jack had handed to him, Harry worked at the other side of his torso. Truth was, the couch was already covered in enough dried cum a detective would need a double decker bus to take all of the owners in for questioning, but still they cleaned so they could relax for the rest of the night. "So, what were we talking about before you interrupted me with that insanely hot body of yours? Ahhhyes, dude, you've got character and an A* personality, just staying focused, work hard and take all the game time you can get." Harry smiled, wiping as much cum as he could off his smooth body. "Yeah, I hear ya mate. Think you'll graduate to the Liverpool first team?" Jack replied, leaning back after deciding he couldn't help Harry any more than he already had. "I hope so lad, but if it doesn't work out then it won't be for lack of trying, and hopefully if I don't get to play for Liverpool, one of my other clubs with take me." Harry explained coolly. "Well secretly I'm gonna hope you don't, and we end up on opposite wings in the same colours." Jack smirked. "Ha, or you could hope I graduate, and Liverpool decide to buy you too, bellend!" Harry laughed with a light hint of indignation. "That too, you fucking hotty." Jack beaming, launching himself forward to kiss Harry again, pressing his slender torso against Harry's cum stained mess of a torso. END Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story. If you like what you've read, please let me know by emailing me on pcwtosh@gmail.com and/or for updates: Instagram - pcwtoshx Twitter - @pcwtosh Here is the rest of my collection: Sticky Blinders, After party at the OSCARs, Cole Me By Your Name, Happy 18th Bro, Coffee for John, An Audition to Remember, Breakfast Boot, The Queen's English, Brooklyn Learns a Lesson, Bad Panther, Bad to the Bones, The Twins Nextdoor, 13 Goo-uld Reasons Why, Gallaghers' Indian Takeaway, Now You See Cole &amp; Big Apple Aussies. Gymnastics Fantastics 1, 2, Celtic Bond &amp; Coach Crammer Ripped Roses, Jack's Web, Naughty Neigbours &amp; Devils and Dragons. Raging Scott, Swim Team, HRVY PTY, Swimnasium &amp; Laugher of the Ice King. Vamp-ing, Vamp-ing 2, Strictly Come Vamp-ing, One Direction to Dunkirk &amp; Deep Dipping in Dunkirk. Reese Wilkerson the Heartstopper Stranger Boys: Stranger Mendes, Oral Things, Someone Stranger in the Fuller House, A Stranger Series of Events &amp; Anal Things. Welcome to Beckingham Palace &amp; HRVY-RM-TRLGY No Dunes in Miami, Just Devil 86 &amp; Riviera Rendezvouz North American Swedes, Fly Eagles Fly &amp; Maple Mashup Tennis series: Touring with the Next-Gen, Double Fault, A Break in the Bahamas, Bulging Bulgarian, Winner Takes All, Tennis' Masochistic Maple Leafs, Made in Russia, Revenge is Sweet, Austria v Germany in Chelsea, Sleeping Meadows, Team Building in Melbourne Park, Dominic and the Minaur &amp; Rey of the Acropolis. Football series: Lilywhite Hoops, From Paris with Love, The Hero and the Zero, Austria v Germany in Chelsea, Return to the Wolfpack, The Tails of Two Nike Stars, Bayern Boys &amp; Barca Buddies. Premier League Football Series F1 World Series Scrum Down - Rugby Series On Ice - Hockey Series England Cricket Boys Series Diving Squad Series Formula Football Series BoysPlay Mansion Series You can show your appreciation for all the guys at Nifty by donating here, https://donate.nifty.org/ </pcwtosh@gmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wills-and-harry/

Nifty Archive: wills-and-harry ™ Have a Nifty Day nifty gay celebrity wills-and-harry SizeDateFilename 13K Aug 29 17:20 wills-and-harry-2 10K Aug 28 19:12 wills-and-harry-1

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: wills-and-harry</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <div> <div> <p><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/"><img src="https://static.nifty.org/nifty/images/N_132x86.png" width="132" height="86" alt="Nifty Archive logo"></a>™ <br><span>Have a Nifty Day</span></p> </div> <!-- col-md-3 --> <div> <div> <h2><small> <ul> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/">nifty</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/">gay</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/">celebrity</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wills-and-harry/">wills-and-harry</a></li> </ul> </small></h2> </div> <div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Aug 29 17:20</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wills-and-harry/wills-and-harry-2">wills-and-harry-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Aug 28 19:12</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wills-and-harry/wills-and-harry-1">wills-and-harry-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div> </div> </div> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/oak-congratulates-ash

Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 20:47:52 +0000 From: Shane Lowe Subject: Oak Congratulates Ash Disclaimer: this story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives. All characters are completely fictional and in no way are representative of real people. Categorization recommendation: gay celebrity Language: British English Copyright owned by Shane Lowe. I am 33 years old, not a minor. All characters participate willingly. All characters are over the age of 18. Obviously if you read this story and want to imagine them as how they appear on tv, then that's up to you. Also, this is my first solo published story, so if you would like to give feedback, my email will be at the top. Any feedback will be appreciated. Enjoy!! Ash had finally done it!! He'd managed to reach the Pokémon League in Kanto!! He and his friends celebrated as the crowd roared their approval. After they all left the stadium and went to the local restaurant for a celebratory dinner. That evening as Ash lay in bed his Rotom Phone began to ring. Ash picked it up and looked at the screen seeing that it was Professor Oak that was calling him. Answering the call Ash said "Nice to see you Professor, it's been a long time" Oak: "I know, my boy. Listen I heard that you finally reached the Kanto League. Congratulations!! I have something for you in order to celebrate. I also need to talk to you as I have some tips that will help you when the League starts. Would you be able to come over to the laboratory tomorrow around noon?" Ash: "Sure thing Professor. I'll see you there" Oak: "See you tomorrow, my sweet boy" Oak hung up the phone, with a big smile on his face, for he knew what tomorrow would really bring The next morning Ash woke bright and early the next morning wondering what the day would bring. He got up, dressed in his blue jacket and his favourite hat and walked out the door. Ash walked around Pallet Town and hung out with his friends for a few hours. When it got late in the morning he said goodbye to his friends and headed to Oak's laboratory. Buzzing the doorbell, Oak soon let him in. When Ash reached the lab, there was an enormous cake sat there waiting for him and Oak was sat in a chair. Ash: "Hello Professor, did you make this?" Oak: "I sure did boy. Help yourself to a slice." Ash: "thanks" proceeds to take a slice of cake "hmm delicious. So what tips did you want to give me for the league?" Oak: "We can discuss that later, right now there is something else we need to do" All of a sudden Ash was starting to feel a little funny. Ash was looking at Oak and had never realised how good looking Oak was. Ash felt a rising butterfly feeling in his stomach. Ash suddenly got an urge to jump at Oak and in doing so knocked Oak onto the floor as he locked lips with the Professor. The Professor kissed Ash back with equal force, slowly forcing Ash's lips open until their tongues were wrestling with each other. This continued for a minute until Ash had to come up for air, but in doing so Oak could feel something hard poking into his stomach. Smiling at Ash, Oak then proceeded to give Ash a lovebite as Oak placed his hand on the front of Ash's jeans. Oak: "someone's a little excited" (giving Ash's package a squeeze) "need a hand with that?" Ash: "yes please. Teach me well Professor" he replied before bending down to give Oak another kiss on the lips Oak: "Let's get somewhere more comfortable first" taking Ash's hand and leading him to the sofa Sitting down on the sofa with Ash, Professor Oak could feel the sexual tension in the air. Oak: "Here let me help you to feel more comfortable." Oak then proceeds to undress Ash until he was just left in his blue boxer shorts Oak: "hmm Ash. What a nice young fit body you have. All the girls will be chasing after you soon, when you win the league. But they have to wait for me to finish with you first" Oak grins before diving down to give Ash's right nipple a lick. Ash: "oh professor that feels so good keep doing that" Ash moans loudly which only serves to spur Oak on Professor Oak continues to lick and suck Ash's nipple before switching to Ash's left nipple. Whilst sucking on Ash's left nipple Oak uses his hand to manipulate Ash's other nipple. Ash continues to moan loudly and begins to hump into Oak's chest. Oak feels the ripples of pleasure coursing through Ash's young body. Ash: "oh my god professor. If you keep that up I'm not going to last long. You need to help me now" whilst putting his hands on Oak's head and pushing down Oak grins and gives a chuckle "your wish is my command. Get ready Ash" Oak proceeds to pull down Ash's boxers, releasing Ash's hard 7 inches which swings out and stands proud at attention. Oak: gripping Ash's cock with both hands "are you ready Ash? I'm going to make you feel really good!!" Giving Ash's rod a few pumps Ash: "help me now Professor. I need it!!" Practically screaming Oak then proceeded to lick up Ash's length before taking the tip into his mouth. Oak used his tongue to lick Ash's slit before taking the whole length down his throat. Oak then proceeds to bob up and down on Ash's length, making the young man moan with pleasure. Oak, spurred on by Ash's moaning, sucked even harder on Ash's length. All of a sudden Oak pulled off Ash's cock, eliciting a disappointed moan from Ash. Ash: "Hey what gives? Why did you stop?" Oak: "I want to try a new position. One that gives you control" Oak then proceeds to lie down on the couch and instructs Ash to climb on top. Ash does so, looking down at his cock hovering just above Oak's lips. Oak: "This will let you control the pace, my sweet boy" before placing Ash's cock back into his mouth Ash moans again in contentment before moving his cock in and out of Oak's mouth. Ash continues this movement, feeling really good. Before long Ash is pistoning his length in and out of Oak's throat with renewed vigour. Soon Ash begins to feel a tension rising in his lower stomach. Ash realises he is close to orgasm. Ash: "I'm close Professor. Here it comes!!" Oak lets out a contented hmm, which vibrates the air around Ash's cock causing Ash intense pleasure, sending him over the edge. With a loud shout, Ash climaxes sending his sweet cum deep down Oak's throat. Oak swallows with pleasure, giving Ash's head a lick of thanks before pulling off. Oak: "what a massive amount of delicious cum you gave me Ash. You'll have to give me more soon" Ash: "I would love to. You deserve it for everything you have done for me" Ash continues to lie on the couch, slowly coming down from the waves of intense pleasure soaring through his young body. Eventually Ash recovers and proceeds to get dressed. Ash then walks over to Professor Oak, giving him a kiss on the lips. Ash smiles, tasting a bit of his own cum on Oak's list Ash: "see you later Professor. Thanks for asking me to come over" Oak: "no worries, my boy. There's more where that came from. Especially after each match, if you happen to win!!" Oak winks at Ash Ash winks back at Oak before heading out the door to join his friends, who had no idea what Ash had just got up to, or why he was smiling.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 20:47:52 +0000 From: Shane Lowe <sdl1@live.co.uk> Subject: Oak Congratulates Ash Disclaimer: this story is fiction and is not intended to imply anything about the true sexuality of the celebrities mentioned or any personal knowledge about their private lives. All characters are completely fictional and in no way are representative of real people. Categorization recommendation: gay celebrity Language: British English Copyright owned by Shane Lowe. I am 33 years old, not a minor. All characters participate willingly. All characters are over the age of 18. Obviously if you read this story and want to imagine them as how they appear on tv, then that's up to you. Also, this is my first solo published story, so if you would like to give feedback, my email will be at the top. Any feedback will be appreciated. Enjoy!! Ash had finally done it!! He'd managed to reach the Pokémon League in Kanto!! He and his friends celebrated as the crowd roared their approval. After they all left the stadium and went to the local restaurant for a celebratory dinner. That evening as Ash lay in bed his Rotom Phone began to ring. Ash picked it up and looked at the screen seeing that it was Professor Oak that was calling him. Answering the call Ash said "Nice to see you Professor, it's been a long time" Oak: "I know, my boy. Listen I heard that you finally reached the Kanto League. Congratulations!! I have something for you in order to celebrate. I also need to talk to you as I have some tips that will help you when the League starts. Would you be able to come over to the laboratory tomorrow around noon?" Ash: "Sure thing Professor. I'll see you there" Oak: "See you tomorrow, my sweet boy" Oak hung up the phone, with a big smile on his face, for he knew what tomorrow would really bring The next morning Ash woke bright and early the next morning wondering what the day would bring. He got up, dressed in his blue jacket and his favourite hat and walked out the door. Ash walked around Pallet Town and hung out with his friends for a few hours. When it got late in the morning he said goodbye to his friends and headed to Oak's laboratory. Buzzing the doorbell, Oak soon let him in. When Ash reached the lab, there was an enormous cake sat there waiting for him and Oak was sat in a chair. Ash: "Hello Professor, did you make this?" Oak: "I sure did boy. Help yourself to a slice." Ash: "thanks" proceeds to take a slice of cake "hmm delicious. So what tips did you want to give me for the league?" Oak: "We can discuss that later, right now there is something else we need to do" All of a sudden Ash was starting to feel a little funny. Ash was looking at Oak and had never realised how good looking Oak was. Ash felt a rising butterfly feeling in his stomach. Ash suddenly got an urge to jump at Oak and in doing so knocked Oak onto the floor as he locked lips with the Professor. The Professor kissed Ash back with equal force, slowly forcing Ash's lips open until their tongues were wrestling with each other. This continued for a minute until Ash had to come up for air, but in doing so Oak could feel something hard poking into his stomach. Smiling at Ash, Oak then proceeded to give Ash a lovebite as Oak placed his hand on the front of Ash's jeans. Oak: "someone's a little excited" (giving Ash's package a squeeze) "need a hand with that?" Ash: "yes please. Teach me well Professor" he replied before bending down to give Oak another kiss on the lips Oak: "Let's get somewhere more comfortable first" taking Ash's hand and leading him to the sofa Sitting down on the sofa with Ash, Professor Oak could feel the sexual tension in the air. Oak: "Here let me help you to feel more comfortable." Oak then proceeds to undress Ash until he was just left in his blue boxer shorts Oak: "hmm Ash. What a nice young fit body you have. All the girls will be chasing after you soon, when you win the league. But they have to wait for me to finish with you first" Oak grins before diving down to give Ash's right nipple a lick. Ash: "oh professor that feels so good keep doing that" Ash moans loudly which only serves to spur Oak on Professor Oak continues to lick and suck Ash's nipple before switching to Ash's left nipple. Whilst sucking on Ash's left nipple Oak uses his hand to manipulate Ash's other nipple. Ash continues to moan loudly and begins to hump into Oak's chest. Oak feels the ripples of pleasure coursing through Ash's young body. Ash: "oh my god professor. If you keep that up I'm not going to last long. You need to help me now" whilst putting his hands on Oak's head and pushing down Oak grins and gives a chuckle "your wish is my command. Get ready Ash" Oak proceeds to pull down Ash's boxers, releasing Ash's hard 7 inches which swings out and stands proud at attention. Oak: gripping Ash's cock with both hands "are you ready Ash? I'm going to make you feel really good!!" Giving Ash's rod a few pumps Ash: "help me now Professor. I need it!!" Practically screaming Oak then proceeded to lick up Ash's length before taking the tip into his mouth. Oak used his tongue to lick Ash's slit before taking the whole length down his throat. Oak then proceeds to bob up and down on Ash's length, making the young man moan with pleasure. Oak, spurred on by Ash's moaning, sucked even harder on Ash's length. All of a sudden Oak pulled off Ash's cock, eliciting a disappointed moan from Ash. Ash: "Hey what gives? Why did you stop?" Oak: "I want to try a new position. One that gives you control" Oak then proceeds to lie down on the couch and instructs Ash to climb on top. Ash does so, looking down at his cock hovering just above Oak's lips. Oak: "This will let you control the pace, my sweet boy" before placing Ash's cock back into his mouth Ash moans again in contentment before moving his cock in and out of Oak's mouth. Ash continues this movement, feeling really good. Before long Ash is pistoning his length in and out of Oak's throat with renewed vigour. Soon Ash begins to feel a tension rising in his lower stomach. Ash realises he is close to orgasm. Ash: "I'm close Professor. Here it comes!!" Oak lets out a contented hmm, which vibrates the air around Ash's cock causing Ash intense pleasure, sending him over the edge. With a loud shout, Ash climaxes sending his sweet cum deep down Oak's throat. Oak swallows with pleasure, giving Ash's head a lick of thanks before pulling off. Oak: "what a massive amount of delicious cum you gave me Ash. You'll have to give me more soon" Ash: "I would love to. You deserve it for everything you have done for me" Ash continues to lie on the couch, slowly coming down from the waves of intense pleasure soaring through his young body. Eventually Ash recovers and proceeds to get dressed. Ash then walks over to Professor Oak, giving him a kiss on the lips. Ash smiles, tasting a bit of his own cum on Oak's list Ash: "see you later Professor. Thanks for asking me to come over" Oak: "no worries, my boy. There's more where that came from. Especially after each match, if you happen to win!!" Oak winks at Ash Ash winks back at Oak before heading out the door to join his friends, who had no idea what Ash had just got up to, or why he was smiling. </sdl1@live.co.uk> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/flash-harry

Date: Sat, 31 Aug 2024 13:31:51 +0000 (UTC) From: Harry Broom <harry.broom@yahoo.com> Subject: Flash Harry (Gay/ Celebrity) Remember this is fiction and for adults. Don't read it if it is illegal to read it where you live. Please donate generously to Nifty to keep the stories coming. Flash Harry's Summer Project It all started one summer holiday, and now I am an online celebrity. I have learned to navigate the world of social media and tap into the desires of desperate people around the globe. I have learned quickly how to use different platforms to direct people to my pay fan site and I spend a fair bit of time creating short compelling teasers. Playing with puns and surreptitiously with my dick, I know now which camera angles work best and usually position the camera to get my legs going up to my face, I wear tight shorts which show off my bulge - but never too obvious. The questions followers want answers to are basic: "When did you get into porn?" Why do you do it?", "How does your family feel about it?" It's a bit like a gossip column of sorts. The trick I have learned is to watch the comments and see what triggers the most interest. I needn't tell you that I am young and a hell of a good-looking guy. I am fair skinned, not too buffed, and have compelling blue eyes. My light brown hair is always neatly cut, and my wide smile is disarming. I am the next-door guy you have been dying to see naked for years. I got into this game because of my monster dick. It's uncut, has good girth, and is around 8 inches, and I love showing it off. That's what I tell people anyway. The truth is that it is a way to make an income and to fund my studies in philosophy. Just so that you know, you don't make money instantly on these fan sites, I have had to build a following over time. I originally started as a porn actor in a small outfit. I got some experience, built a bit of a profile, and then decided to move on. I was involved in scenes like this: " `Oh yes,' Will moans as my crotch meets his backside, all 7" inches of me buried inside him. The feeling is incredible. He is so tight, and my dick is being squeezed on all sides and his insides are hot. I begin a slow thrusting motion, the lube making it easy to glide in and out. Will's head falls back, and his mouth is open, enjoying the pleasure. Every time I thrust; he lets out a moan. `This is better than your finger Harry,' Will moans as we find a rhythm. He shifts his arse trying to get even more of me inside him. I start fucking him faster, my dick meeting his cheeks. `Fuck me hard,' he grunts. Not wanting to be heard by our teacher or classmates in the classroom scene, I cover his mouth as I shoot my load." I starred in a few of these kinds of videos, before I stepped out on my own, setting out to create my content under my terms. I would set the agenda and decide how to film it and how to market it. Creating content for my fans page has been fun. Last week I posted about having sex with different kinds of fruits and vegetables. I made a teaser that took fans to a video of me with my erect dick having sex with watermelon and other homemade sex toy fruits. I also tried the legendary peach in the video. The fans love it, and I got a lot of feedback I enjoyed making the content, even though it's relentless. A recent episode was called Red Hot Summer. I got a red-haired friend involved with me, and we set the scene up in a hotel room. Picture this: James is lying on the bed just wearing boxers. He is tired but he plays along. His nipples are nicely rounded, with fine red hairs around them. Tufts of red hair peeking out from each underarm. He smiles and raises his arms over his head exposing both armpits. He has a reddish-black trail that starts at his belly button and runs down to thick dark red pubes. His dick is vertical and stands parallel to his body, rock hard. It must be at least 3 inches around and 7 inches long. His foreskin is completely retracted, and he has a very nice, rounded helmet. My dick is rock hard too. I'm wearing a white T-shirt, and my dick bounces around as I suck his nipple. I make sure that this happens in camera view. I move my mouth to his dick and lick off some pre-cum that had been oozing out of his slit, and I savour it before swallowing. I am very randy even though this is just a setup, but James is hot. I lick his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and his mouth, and then pull out and lick his lips again. I lick down to his right nipple. My left hand is in his armpits, and I play with his underarm hair lightly stroking the skin of his inner arm. James moves his hand and plays with his left nipple as I continue to suck on the right nipple. I take his dick into my mouth and suck him. His red pubes made for a good video. I take his entire shaft into my mouth and James groans. I make sure that my bubble arse cheeks are in the frame. It isn't long before James is shooting ropes of cum, some lands in my face. I stand next to James while he swallows my huge dick into his mouth. He plays with my loose foreskin and toys with my glans. The camera zooms in, and it doesn't take long before I ejaculate on his face. I adjust the camera and focus on us lying alongside each other talking about what had happened - the kind of debriefing fans love. When I look at the analytics, I see that Red Hot Summer has done very well. The comments are all very positive and everyone loved James. But James tells me it was a once-off thing, and adds that he'd gladly blow me again, but not in front of the camera. A lot of fans ask for more James and others want me to fuck him. My next episode is set in a school bathroom. I'm a schoolboy wearing grey shorts and a white school shirt. In the scene, I close the toilet door and pull down my grey shorts and underwear. I grab my already hard shaft and start to wank, my eyes closed thinking of someone. It takes a while before I feel my balls contract and shoot strings of cum into the toilet bowl and onto the toilet wall. I stop and wipe my dick off using toilet paper and taste a little of my cum. I pull my shorts up and say: "Now I'm ready for Maths." In my Tube discussion, I speak about masturbation and the thinking around post-nut clarity. I also talk about sexual tension and relaxation and raise issues around teen masturbation. This simple little video garnered hundreds of views soon after I uploaded it. Younger fans bombard me with questions, and I feel a bit like a sex therapist when I answer them. The latest summer video involves me massaging Tim on his bed after him being sunburned. In the scene, I have a towel around my waist, and he lies face down on the bed. The afternoon sun is streaming through the window providing beautiful light for the shot. I asked Tim if I could massage him using the after-sun cream. I start with his feet. I suck his toes before I apply the cream, and I slowly work my way from his calf muscles to his thighs then I explore his butt area and run my tongue in his butt crack. I squeeze his buttocks, and he groans as I move up to concentrate on his lower back. I spend time massaging his back and shoulders and releasing the built-up tension. My dick is hard, and the towel falls off. It stands parallel to my stomach, and I needn't tell you that I am very aroused. When Tim rolls over, he is hard too and I wipe the remaining cream on a towel and then go down to work on Tim's dick, first wanking him gently and then taking his dick into my mouth. I lick his mushroom head and then get my mouth over it. Just then Tim says he is coming, and my mouth is filled with his cum. I move closer to him, very aroused and he sucks me off. I post two videos a week and generate more interest by making TikTok posts and new YouTube posts. I get hundreds of emails and messages and respond as best I can, but I struggle to keep up and I am considering getting someone to manage this. One fan stands out, a quiet and reserved guy, who began sending Flash Harry cryptic messages and poems, professing his undying love. His words are laced with a possessiveness that is worrying. I begin to realise that my heartthrob status is great, but there's a dark side too. At first, I was thrilled to connect with my enthusiastic fan base. Their support and admiration are important. But soon, I notice a disturbing trend. A group of fans, mostly young men, start to show up at every public event, waiting outside my apartment building. One fan, Allen, stands out. Allen, a quiet and reserved guy begins sending cryptic messages and poems, professing his undying love. His words were laced with a possessiveness that unnerves me. The stalker's admiration morphs into an unsettling obsession. He follows me everywhere, showering me with gifts and declarations of love. I feel suffocated, my personal space invaded. As the stalking escalates, I feel like I'm constantly watched, and I can't shake off the feeling of being watched. I start to doubt my sanity and wonder if I am overreacting. One night, I see him in the lobby, and his eyes betray a deep fixation. I know I need to set boundaries and call the police. I learn an important lesson about discretion and know that I must prioritise safety and security. I emerge stronger, my voice amplified by the experience. This fan platform is full of ambiguity. I begin to understand the dangers of toxic fandom and the importance of respecting boundaries. Though the spotlight shines bright, I must ensure my light is not diminished by the shadow of obsession.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sat, 31 Aug 2024 13:31:51 +0000 (UTC) From: Harry Broom &lt;harry.broom@yahoo.com&gt; Subject: Flash Harry (Gay/ Celebrity) Remember this is fiction and for adults. Don't read it if it is illegal to read it where you live. Please donate generously to Nifty to keep the stories coming. Flash Harry's Summer Project It all started one summer holiday, and now I am an online celebrity. I have learned to navigate the world of social media and tap into the desires of desperate people around the globe. I have learned quickly how to use different platforms to direct people to my pay fan site and I spend a fair bit of time creating short compelling teasers. Playing with puns and surreptitiously with my dick, I know now which camera angles work best and usually position the camera to get my legs going up to my face, I wear tight shorts which show off my bulge - but never too obvious. The questions followers want answers to are basic: "When did you get into porn?" Why do you do it?", "How does your family feel about it?" It's a bit like a gossip column of sorts. The trick I have learned is to watch the comments and see what triggers the most interest. I needn't tell you that I am young and a hell of a good-looking guy. I am fair skinned, not too buffed, and have compelling blue eyes. My light brown hair is always neatly cut, and my wide smile is disarming. I am the next-door guy you have been dying to see naked for years. I got into this game because of my monster dick. It's uncut, has good girth, and is around 8 inches, and I love showing it off. That's what I tell people anyway. The truth is that it is a way to make an income and to fund my studies in philosophy. Just so that you know, you don't make money instantly on these fan sites, I have had to build a following over time. I originally started as a porn actor in a small outfit. I got some experience, built a bit of a profile, and then decided to move on. I was involved in scenes like this: " `Oh yes,' Will moans as my crotch meets his backside, all 7" inches of me buried inside him. The feeling is incredible. He is so tight, and my dick is being squeezed on all sides and his insides are hot. I begin a slow thrusting motion, the lube making it easy to glide in and out. Will's head falls back, and his mouth is open, enjoying the pleasure. Every time I thrust; he lets out a moan. `This is better than your finger Harry,' Will moans as we find a rhythm. He shifts his arse trying to get even more of me inside him. I start fucking him faster, my dick meeting his cheeks. `Fuck me hard,' he grunts. Not wanting to be heard by our teacher or classmates in the classroom scene, I cover his mouth as I shoot my load." I starred in a few of these kinds of videos, before I stepped out on my own, setting out to create my content under my terms. I would set the agenda and decide how to film it and how to market it. Creating content for my fans page has been fun. Last week I posted about having sex with different kinds of fruits and vegetables. I made a teaser that took fans to a video of me with my erect dick having sex with watermelon and other homemade sex toy fruits. I also tried the legendary peach in the video. The fans love it, and I got a lot of feedback I enjoyed making the content, even though it's relentless. A recent episode was called Red Hot Summer. I got a red-haired friend involved with me, and we set the scene up in a hotel room. Picture this: James is lying on the bed just wearing boxers. He is tired but he plays along. His nipples are nicely rounded, with fine red hairs around them. Tufts of red hair peeking out from each underarm. He smiles and raises his arms over his head exposing both armpits. He has a reddish-black trail that starts at his belly button and runs down to thick dark red pubes. His dick is vertical and stands parallel to his body, rock hard. It must be at least 3 inches around and 7 inches long. His foreskin is completely retracted, and he has a very nice, rounded helmet. My dick is rock hard too. I'm wearing a white T-shirt, and my dick bounces around as I suck his nipple. I make sure that this happens in camera view. I move my mouth to his dick and lick off some pre-cum that had been oozing out of his slit, and I savour it before swallowing. I am very randy even though this is just a setup, but James is hot. I lick his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and his mouth, and then pull out and lick his lips again. I lick down to his right nipple. My left hand is in his armpits, and I play with his underarm hair lightly stroking the skin of his inner arm. James moves his hand and plays with his left nipple as I continue to suck on the right nipple. I take his dick into my mouth and suck him. His red pubes made for a good video. I take his entire shaft into my mouth and James groans. I make sure that my bubble arse cheeks are in the frame. It isn't long before James is shooting ropes of cum, some lands in my face. I stand next to James while he swallows my huge dick into his mouth. He plays with my loose foreskin and toys with my glans. The camera zooms in, and it doesn't take long before I ejaculate on his face. I adjust the camera and focus on us lying alongside each other talking about what had happened - the kind of debriefing fans love. When I look at the analytics, I see that Red Hot Summer has done very well. The comments are all very positive and everyone loved James. But James tells me it was a once-off thing, and adds that he'd gladly blow me again, but not in front of the camera. A lot of fans ask for more James and others want me to fuck him. My next episode is set in a school bathroom. I'm a schoolboy wearing grey shorts and a white school shirt. In the scene, I close the toilet door and pull down my grey shorts and underwear. I grab my already hard shaft and start to wank, my eyes closed thinking of someone. It takes a while before I feel my balls contract and shoot strings of cum into the toilet bowl and onto the toilet wall. I stop and wipe my dick off using toilet paper and taste a little of my cum. I pull my shorts up and say: "Now I'm ready for Maths." In my Tube discussion, I speak about masturbation and the thinking around post-nut clarity. I also talk about sexual tension and relaxation and raise issues around teen masturbation. This simple little video garnered hundreds of views soon after I uploaded it. Younger fans bombard me with questions, and I feel a bit like a sex therapist when I answer them. The latest summer video involves me massaging Tim on his bed after him being sunburned. In the scene, I have a towel around my waist, and he lies face down on the bed. The afternoon sun is streaming through the window providing beautiful light for the shot. I asked Tim if I could massage him using the after-sun cream. I start with his feet. I suck his toes before I apply the cream, and I slowly work my way from his calf muscles to his thighs then I explore his butt area and run my tongue in his butt crack. I squeeze his buttocks, and he groans as I move up to concentrate on his lower back. I spend time massaging his back and shoulders and releasing the built-up tension. My dick is hard, and the towel falls off. It stands parallel to my stomach, and I needn't tell you that I am very aroused. When Tim rolls over, he is hard too and I wipe the remaining cream on a towel and then go down to work on Tim's dick, first wanking him gently and then taking his dick into my mouth. I lick his mushroom head and then get my mouth over it. Just then Tim says he is coming, and my mouth is filled with his cum. I move closer to him, very aroused and he sucks me off. I post two videos a week and generate more interest by making TikTok posts and new YouTube posts. I get hundreds of emails and messages and respond as best I can, but I struggle to keep up and I am considering getting someone to manage this. One fan stands out, a quiet and reserved guy, who began sending Flash Harry cryptic messages and poems, professing his undying love. His words are laced with a possessiveness that is worrying. I begin to realise that my heartthrob status is great, but there's a dark side too. At first, I was thrilled to connect with my enthusiastic fan base. Their support and admiration are important. But soon, I notice a disturbing trend. A group of fans, mostly young men, start to show up at every public event, waiting outside my apartment building. One fan, Allen, stands out. Allen, a quiet and reserved guy begins sending cryptic messages and poems, professing his undying love. His words were laced with a possessiveness that unnerves me. The stalker's admiration morphs into an unsettling obsession. He follows me everywhere, showering me with gifts and declarations of love. I feel suffocated, my personal space invaded. As the stalking escalates, I feel like I'm constantly watched, and I can't shake off the feeling of being watched. I start to doubt my sanity and wonder if I am overreacting. One night, I see him in the lobby, and his eyes betray a deep fixation. I know I need to set boundaries and call the police. I learn an important lesson about discretion and know that I must prioritise safety and security. I emerge stronger, my voice amplified by the experience. This fan platform is full of ambiguity. I begin to understand the dangers of toxic fandom and the importance of respecting boundaries. Though the spotlight shines bright, I must ensure my light is not diminished by the shadow of obsession. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/fc-uk

Date: Thu, 29 Aug 2024 01:00:00 +0100 From: PCW Tosh Subject: FC-UK Disclaimer: Hey folks, this story is just a fantasy and I have no evidence that this actually happened, but we can all dream. Stay healthy and practice safe sex! Happy reading. Total Tennis 13: FC-UK Following their match at Flushing Meadows, Jack Draper and Felix Auger-Aliassime returned to the locker room together. The big Brit had just beaten one of the outside bets for the US Open title in his biggest Grand slam win to date. Jack was absolutely buzzing with excitement but accompanying him on the walk, Felix was a direct contrast to the Brit and that was a feeling Jack knew only too well. "Great job bro." Felix smiled patting Jack on his shoulder. "Thanks again man." Jack beamed returning the pat. "Hope you get through to next week and further." Felix added pleasantly. "That's sweet, thanks." Jack smiled looking at Felix for a little longer than usual. "What are you going to do for the rest of this week?" Jack continued breaking the tension. "Ha, watching you I guess, you douche." Felix chuckled, throwing his bag down and heading to his locker to grab the rest of his things. "Ha, I'm sorry, you know what I meant." Jack blushed. "Yeah bro, I'll still be around for the doubles." Felix grinned, zipping up his jacket and grabbing his things to head towards the exit. "Holla if you want some advice or to hang out." He finished offering the young Brit a fist bump. "Great, I will." Jack beamed, his heart fluttering happily. The big Brit returned to his hotel room throwing his things aside and treating himself to a nice hot shower. As he climbed into bed Jack's mind was still racing as it re-lived that incredible match. Jack hadn't felt a drop of pressure in his demolition of the Canadian, something he could really be proud of. Keeping him awake was Felix's offer to hang out, there was something about the way they said goodbye that was different to other opponents, there was a little heat, Jack was sure of it. Alas, it wasn't meant to be for Jack who retired during his following match with injury. The court felt so cold and lonely as he stood there unable to fight for his career. A resigned applause of pity came from the watching crowd and whilst it felt nice to receive the warm sentiment, Jack remained cold inside from his broken heart. 4 long months until the next slam and more importantly would he be fit enough to play it? Only time would tell. "How's your recovery going bro?" Jack picked up his phone and looked at the sender, it was Felix. "Alright mate?! Yeah, I'm almost there. Gutted I missed the end of the season though but hopefully I'll be back to kick your arse in Oz!" Jack teased. "Bring it bro, I'm ready to bust that other hamstring too!!!" Felix replied. [Damn, ruthless!] Jack laughed to himself, but he had to admit he deserved it. "Can't wait black boy!!!" Jack replied. "I was thinking about that, it would be cool to hang out after Milan if you have some free time?" Felix asked boldly. "Yeah, I'm still doing rehab to strengthen the muscles." Jack explained. "That's cool, bring a couple of racquets and we will have a chilled knock up?" Felix suggested. "I'll see what the physio says, but that sounds great to me!" Jack replied. After getting clearance from his physio and his coaching team, Jack headed off to Milan to watch the ATP Tour Finals. Unfortunately for Felix, the young Canadian didn't make it beyond the group stages but after a long season, making it to the top tournament was an achievement in itself. "You were awesome bro." Jack beamed as Felix joined him in the hotel bar after his last game in the round robin stage of the tournament. "Thanks dude." Felix smiled, settling into a chair next to him. "How do you think you'll do next season, especially with Federer gone and Rafa looking a little bit past it?" Jack asked. "You can never count out Rafa, I bet he will be winning the French still 10 years from now!" Felix joked, causing them both to chuckle. "Yeah, that guy is something else. I think you and Shapo have the game though." Jack replied honestly. "Yours isn't bad either, I can see you in the quarters and semis on the fast courts." Felix beamed. "I hope you're right." Jack grinned. The feelings Jack had noticed before were happening again. The little jokes and laughs, the prolonged eye contact and Jack was giving it as much as he was getting it. There was definitely an energy between the young studs, Jack was convinced of it, but how could he act upon it. "Do you miss your girl back home; I haven't seen her much out on the tour?" Jack asked, trying to take the conversation down the right path. Felix beamed as though he had clocked Jack's plan. "I was going to ask you the same." Felix confirmed. "No, no, I'm happy and free right now, I've been able to really focus on my game." He continued. "That's cool, same for me." "It shows." Felix nodded referring to Jack's rise up the rankings. "And is that why you wanted to hit up with me?" Jack asked, playing on the ambiguity of the question. "Yep, for both reasons." Felix grinned proudly. "Oh cool, sounds like a plan." Jack beamed in return. "Shall we go up to my room?" Felix replied, a contented look on his face. "Absolutely." Jack nodded, throwing back the rest of his drink and shooting to his feet. Jack stalked his prey like a cat watching Felix's slender figure as the Canadian led the way back to his room. The tall youngster's mind grew filthier with every step, watching the black boy's arse wiggle gently, Jack could think of so many things he wanted to do to Felix's cute brown arse, would he be up for it though? Slipping through the door to Felix's hotel room, Jack turned to close it and upon turning back towards the rest of the room he found Felix inches from him beaming with anticipation. "Are you excited?" Felix asked adorably, clearly unable to contain his emotions. "I really am." Jack smiled, stepping forward and leaning down to plant a kiss on the Canadian's lips. Felix caught the Brit in his arms and after initially allowing Jack to push him back a little, Felix fought back with his lips, kissing Jack firmly. The two young tennis stars kissed for half a dozen seconds, processing the recipient of their kiss and felt their hearts pounding. The question in Jack's mind was still how far did Felix want to take this? Would the Brit be able to fulfil his dream of filling that black arse, he was about to get his answer. Their lips broke and sweet Felix looked into Jack's masculine face. The young stud was rapidly growing into his features and how! Jack's jaw had broadened nicely which in Felix's mind made him more like a Raonic in looks and hopefully in the sack! "How far do you want to go, just mess around a bit, or do you want to fuck?" Felix asked. "I'm not sure, it depends on what you're thinking." Jack replied, throwing control back at the Canadian. "Hmm, Denis always wants me to be on top, I'd like a change." Felix thought aloud. Jack didn't respond to the Canadian but the look in his eyes gave the answer Felix wanted. Colliding in a kiss with a little more commitment, the two young studs re-engaged in a passionate clinch accented by Felix hooking his arm around the back of Jack's head. Their position was perfect for the Canadian to apply a little weight against Jack's upper body and use gravity to bring them both to the mattress. Now that Jack was pressing into Felix the young Brit could utilise his frame to exert a little more dominance on the lanky, black boy. Felix groaned through his nose under the pressure of Jack's body as the passionate Brit kissed hard up against him. The Canadian star was instantly reminded of Milos who was similarly imposing in stature. Allowing Jack control meant that Felix could use his hands to stroke the young Brit's broad, muscular back which was nice and tense as it pushed Jack's body down onto Felix. If there were doubts before about the pair's flirtatious behaviour, now it was clear to see and feel that they were both up for the challenge and very excited to do so. The way Jack pressed his body down onto Felix meant that their boners were practically touching each other if not for their stretched and strained clothing. The stroking of boner on boner wasn't by chance. Jack had wiggled his body from left to right to locate Felix's hidden mast and once he had located the Canadian's boner he deliberately edged back and forth to tease pulses of excitement as they lay kissed hungrily. Felix gave a deep growl of happiness through their mouths to communicate his arousal. The Brit had obviously planned his attack and Felix was more than happy to be the victim of Jack's desire, marvelling once again in the way it felt to have a sexy young stud pressed up against him. The slender Canadian could feel Jack's weight squeezing the air from his lungs and gave him all the air Jack wanted through their dancing lips. Felix's fingers took the opportunity to wander, starting at the Brit's ribs and creeping down his muscular frame. The Canadian's hands moved down past Jack's waist and came to rest on two incredibly juicy globes. The Canadian rubbed his hands in opposing circular motions, feeling the manly firmness of Jack's meaty arse cheeks, on another day Felix wouldn't mind getting his face inside the cute young Brit's arse, licking him out and fucking the brute out of him, but not today. Reinforced by the feeling of Jack's firm arse, Felix felt compelled to escalate. The sexy black French-Canadian stroked Jack's arse for a moment longer and then moving his hands up the hem of Jack's shirt, he drew the fabric up along the Brit's broad back until he reached Jack's head. Reluctantly Jack's hungry lips released Felix's and the big Brit moved back a little, turning his head to help it slide through the neck of his shirt. Before Jack reconnected with Felix's face there was just enough time to scan the Brit's body and my goodness, what a sight. The model in Jack was very clear to see, his skin perfectly smooth from his hips and his arms leading in until you reached the centre of his body. There, growing up and down from his belly button and from the gap between his broad pectoral muscles were modest but noticeable patches of light brown hair. Felix stroked Jack's broad, muscular arms and felt himself quiver. The Canadian's hands moved onto Jack's torso and explored their way down that beefy frame as Jack's lips pressed against his head again but this time, Jack's hands were no longer pressing Felix down, just his head. Since Felix had liberated Jack of his top the Brit felt as though the wheels were in motion to speed things up a touch. Pinning Felix's head to the bed with his lips, Jack used his hands to wander down to Felix's bottoms. Instantly locking his fingers under the waistband of Felix's joggers, Jack lifted his own crotch to create a gap between their bulges and in one quick but careful motion, the Brit pull Felix's joggers and boxers down to his knees allowing the French-Canadian to shuffle them down to his ankles. Next Felix reached for Jack's waistband tugging down the Brit's joggers and boxers without the difficulty of a mattress blocking his progress. Once Felix had tugged Jack's bottoms down past the Brit's spheric cheeks they fell down to his knees. Jack took this opportunity to break their kiss and fully appreciate what he had managed to achieve. The handsome French-Canadian was beautifully toned in two different ways and Jack loved them both. Firstly, Felix's slim torso had a modest yet noticeable muscle tone which made his body incredibly lean. Wherever there was flesh to be found the French-Canadian had a little muscle above it which became more noticeable as he unwillingly tensed to crane his neck up. Felix's largely smooth torso had an enticing of dark hairs leading from his belly button down to a very neat crotch and continuing up to Felix's pecs, between them grew a thin patch of black hairs which only served to make Felix look younger than his 23 years. Secondly the delicious tone of his light brown skin, right now Felix looked good enough to eat. In contrast to Felix, Jack was a bulky pale boy and the Canadian loved it. On many occasions in the past Milos had, had his way with Felix's arse and today Jack looked as though he could easily alternate for the big Canadian. At 6'4" (1.93cm) Jack was the same height as Felix as an inch shorter than Milos but that didn't matter. The Brit looked strong and physical enough to excite Felix and treat the horny bottom to the firm pounding he yearned for. The big server had nice thick, muscular arms extending from his pale, bulky torso. Flicking his eyes down, the Brit's legs looked big and thick, covered in a nice dense forest of dark hairs which would add extra manliness to the hunk when he got to work. Finally, there was a beautiful piece of uncut meat hanging between Jack's legs which Felix guessed was about 9 inches. From the moment Jack stopped in position above Felix's waist, the big Brit decided that he would remain there for the foreseeable future. Taking hold of the French-Canadian's cut, dark, semi-hard shaft, Jack gave the soft outer skin a few gentle strokes causing a gentle coo of pleasure from the sexy black boy. Jack's eyes watched with fascination at how clearly he could see the thin skin sliding over the thickening muscle beneath it. "It looks so good." Jack smiled up at Felix who returned the smile before Jack's upper body dropped towards the mattress. "Holy fuckkk." Felix gasped as the descending Brit's lips swallowed the top half of his cut shaft and began to gorge at Felix's tip. Jack's large right hand held the middle of Felix's 7.5-inch shaft while his left hand gripped the French-Canadian's side, squeezing firmly to feel Felix's lean abs. This was exactly how Felix had imagined Jack, a nice firm grip with a manly domination about him and so far, he wasn't disappointing. The Brit's tongue flicked at Felix's head for half a minute before the big server began to bob, sliding his lips up and down that hard, black pole with increasing length. There was something about the lack of mass in Felix's slim, black body that really turned Jack on today. The feeling of Felix's tight abs fighting back as he squeezed them reassured Jack that the Canadian was in great shape and ready for everything he had to offer. The Brit gradually increased the length of his mouth's journey along Felix's cock, eventually running from head to tip to the delight of the gasping Canadian. Adjusting his head position so that it pointed down a little more, Jack could no longer look all the way up Felix's body, but the trade-off was that now he could skull every inch of Felix's delicious black meat until the tip touched the back of his throat. Unlike Jack, Felix could look wherever he wanted and right now that was down at Jack as the beefy Brit drank his solid cock. The Brit was majestic in his movements, moving to the tip of Felix's shaft and using his lips to pleasure the black boy's sensitive head before sliding straight back down to the base of his dark shaft, making sure to push his lips into the neatly trimmed black pubes of his crotch. Studying the bulk of the young Brit's shoulders, Felix felt his hole quiver, ready for the big man to take him hard and deep like the powerful brute Felix knew he was. Flashing a long, lingering look up at Felix, Jack gave the Canadian a show as his lips rolled up and down Felix's throbbing black shaft. Those handsome, model features were on full display as Jack moved very deliberately, rolling his thin, pink lips hard down to the base of Felix's dark shaft then reversing back to the summit, decelerating as he rose and looking directly into the French-Canadian's eyes. The tone had changed, suddenly Jack was making a conscious effort to please Felix and the Brit was succeeding. Not since his cock had been between Denis' sweet lips had Felix felt this level of happiness but today there was an extra x factor. With Denis everything was safe and comfortable, a guy he'd slept with since they were horny teenagers on tour. Today he was with Jack, a hunky young stud who would bring something new to the table and that excited him no end. It wasn't Jack's first time on another man's cock and from the way Felix was breathing Jack knew he was doing a good job. The big Brit watched the slender French-Canadian's lovely chocolate tones quivering at his touch and it made Jack feel very good indeed. Felix tasted wonderful, a nice, clean flavour to his long, dark cock and after a minute or so sucking that taste was added to by a light stringy strand of precum. Jack resisted the urge of his mouth to curl into a proud smile but the taste of precum was a step in the right direction and a signal that it was nearly time to move onto the next stage. Felix had begun to emit soft moans of pleasure to appreciate Jack's oral work. Every time the Brit dropped to the base of his shaft, squeezing his exposed, precumming head against Jack's tonsils the French-Canadian couldn't resist vocalising his support while his hands reached down to stroke Jack's big broad shoulders. "So fucking good." Felix gasped, as goosebumps formed all over his smooth back. Felix couldn't get much more charming until he said, "Fuck yes, fuck me, Jack!" Pulling back with a delighted look on his face, Jack looked down at Felix's adorable face. "You're ready?" Jack asked. Felix nodded emphatically. "Ok, how about you warm me up first?" Jack beamed. Again, Felix nodded with a quiet confidence. Stepping off the bed, Jack stood up then stepped out of his boxers with his uncut 9-inch mast rocking out in front of him. No sooner had the Brit straightened up, Felix already had Jack's impressive tool in his hands and proceeded to rub it submissively across his cheeks a couple of times smearing a long strand of precum across them. After a few seconds of self-indulgence, Felix swallowed Jack's thick, meaty head and carefully controlled, the sexy French-Canadian descended Jack's shaft until he encountered resistance. If Jack was wondering how much experience Felix had acquired on a large cock, his question was answered within seconds. The black boy's throat paused as Jack's head hit the back of his mouth and widening his beautiful face while relaxing his tonsils, Felix devoured the rest of Jack's meat until his nose found itself buried in a brown patch of musky pubes. "Mother fucker!" Jack complained, his body tingling with the same pleasure that nearly disabled Felix before. Fortunately, Jack had a drive for progress and with Felix focussing on his cock, the French-Canadian's beautiful black arse cheeks were exposed and begging for attention. Arching his large torso around, Jack bent his face around Felix's back and while the black boy began to bob into his crotch, Jack spread Felix's arse cheeks nice and wide then slid his tongue south across the most beautiful looking slit he'd ever seen. The instant Jack's tongue made contact with his body; Felix felt his muscles relax in an overwhelming vote of confidence. The French-Canadian was right where he wanted to be at the mercy of the hunky Brit. Forcing his strong jaw into the gap Jack ate hungrily, pressing Felix's brown cheeks apart with his own pale cheeks to drag his tongue back and forth across Felix's hole. The slit of the sexy black boy was particularly tasty, the bit that his dick would soon be doing untold damage to, just the thought of the naughty plans he had for Felix's sexy butt made Jack's head swell. The anticipation in his nuts was growing but they could last a little longer, it wasn't often a sexy black boy let Jack snack on his arse and although the Brit guessed this wouldn't be the last time either, part of him wanted to take as much enjoyment from this first interracial meal as he could. Swirling around the entrance for a couple of minutes longer, Jack used his cheeks to calculate Felix's reaction to his tongue work, feeling them tense a little more each time he got close to the weak point of the black boy's hole. There was an element of teasing in Jack, using his physical presence to silently intimidate in a way that was so damn sexy. The way Felix was presenting his willing hole for Jack, the French-Canadian wanted Jack's big white cock inside him but the tease inside Jack made him wait. The Brit's tongue circled Felix's once more, checking the landscape for hairs and blemishes as he enjoyed the black boy's sweet taste. The next play in the book was to straighten his tongue in order for Jack to force into between the tight dark lips of Felix's sexy hole. As expected, Felix opened the gate allowing Jack to stretch his long tongue deep inside the cute black boy. The richness of Felix's flavour could only be described as heavenly for Jack whose own cock thickened in appreciation. Drawing his tongue along Felix's smooth opening then re-inserting his tongue, Jack had a little fun as he explored the French-Canadian's insides. The welcoming nature of the black boy's tight opening boded well for what Jack had planned, allowing the big Brit to use his tongue to scope out how he wanted to approach sodomising Felix's sexy body. The best part of Felix's compliance was that in no way was it implicit. The cute Canadian knew what he wanted as he backed his relaxed hole onto Jack's handsome hungry face. With another fingertip whitening squeeze of Felix's arse, Jack wriggled his tongue within Felix's cavity before the Brit's cock decided enough was enough, [fuck him, he's begging for it!!!] "Should we...yunno?" Jack asked. "Yes please!" Felix beamed, finding his heart warmed by Jack's continued shyness. "How should we do it?" Jack replied. "However you like it, you should fuck me hard from behind maybe?" Felix suggested. "Holy fuck yes!" Jack sighed, relieved that Felix had suggested `hard.' The Brit wasn't sure why, but Felix's lanky frame made the cute black boy look so vulnerable. The verbal green light however changed all that, Jack knew in full flight his physicality might make him tough to handle, but if Felix wasn't worried then Jack had one thing less to worry about. Moving into position on all fours with his legs nicely spread apart, Felix presented his sexy brown arse to Jack. The big Brit climbed into the gap, stroking his hard, white log with intent. Jack's free hand reached for a bottle of lube Felix had snuck onto the bed and after popping the cap the Brit squeezed out a nice coat for his boner and then another one for Felix's crack. The bottle thudded as it hit the bed and glancing back with a prepared look in his eyes, Felix smiled at Jack. The tip of Jack's head gently explored Felix's entrance for a moment then with a nod for confirmation, Jack began to push forward. Any doubt Felix had done this before disappeared the second Jack's head disappeared inside the sexy black bottom along with the first inches of his shaft with surprisingly little effort. The Canadian's body was fully compliant with Jack, the dark lips of Felix's enticing hole slithering around his head to devour the top's thick shaft. Jack witnessed the throb of a thick blue vein slide within the bottom's bare hole as he applied more pressure. "Oui Jacky." Felix sighed, pushing his ring out to give the top maximum compliance. "Fuck yeah boy." Jack purred in response as his bare cock sank deeper into Felix's delicious warmth. Only once Jack had reached the 5-inch mark did things start to become a little tougher, but by no means difficult. With a nice deep base camp already set Jack felt confident that from here he could stroke his way into Felix, and he was right. Keeping his hand on his shaft for the first few strokes, Jack pulled his bare cock back an inch then rolled forward again by one and a quarter inches. "Hmmmm." Felix cooed softly as Jack's meat advanced within him. The Brit's meaty crotch stroked its way closer and closer until with a glancing kiss, Jack's body made contact with Felix. "How are you doing?" Jack asked generously as he reached the checkpoint of Felix's perfect, brown globes. "I'm perfect, you?" Felix beamed broadly. "Yeah?" Jack asked again, double-checking, "I'm about to go hard and fast on that sexy black ass!" Jack continued. "Bring it, I'm sure it's nothing Denis or Milos haven't done to me before." Felix shrugged. "Fuckkkk, you're a bad little bottom aren't you." Jack smirked. "Only if you treat me like one." Felix replied coolly. And with that the time for talk was over, Jack's brown eyes narrowed, his hands gripped Felix's meaty quads tighter and pulling himself 8 inches back Jack steadied himself then threw his entire body forward only stopping after it had crashed into Felix's arse and pushed the bottom forward another half a foot. The gentle giant inside Jack forced the top down to kiss Felix's lovable lips, bringing them belly to back whilst he piled his cock into the black boy's sexy cunt. Felix's grunts grew louder with every shot of Jack's beefy body, the shockwaves reverberating through the skinny bottom's sexy body. Each time Jack's pale skin collided with Felix's beautiful black tones the smacking sound of skin on skin echoed with increasing volume to drown out his groans. Inevitably, the heat began to increase as the closeness and physicality of their embrace reached its peak with Jack's body leaving nothing in reserve as his hard, bare shaft slammed deep into Felix's seductive hole. Through his sensitive chest, Jack could feel Felix's back tense after every thrust, doing everything he could to manage the power and pleasure of Jack's impressive body. Every sigh from Felix's full lips had a hint of yearning in the note which hadn't gone unnoticed by Jack. The top was certain Felix's reference to Milos meant that the bar was even higher than Jack was currently aiming for, the question was, did he want to reach the bar? The answer was no. But even though Jack didn't want to match whatever physicality Milos had inflicted on his Canadian teammate, the Brit still had his own physical desires to match and that could easily be remedied before he blew his churning load. Sucking the taste out of Felix's throat, Jack pumped his sexy bottom with a few more passionate thrusts then pushed the Canadian forward whilst continuing to slide his bare white cock into the delicious tightness of Felix's black body. Once Felix had rested his hands on the mattress Jack could escalate. The tall Brit took hold of Felix's skinny thighs and lifting the Canadian's bottom half off the mattress, Jack pressed those sexy black legs up against his meaty thighs and accelerated once more. "AHHH YEAHHHH!" Felix groaned in jubilation, delighted by the feel of his big British top ploughing his suspended arse hole with his thick, white, throbbing cock. Jack's beefy body felt incredible as it rammed shock waves throughout Felixs horny body. "Yes please, faster!" Felix moaned. Digging deep down in his reserves Jack found the speed Felix craved and coupling it with the long, deep strokes he had already committed to, Jack found himself pistoning Felix's cute, black butt at the rate of three thumps a second. "Ouiiii, fucking yessss!" Felix hissed again. The Canadian's body ached all over and he loved it. Sure, his arms and legs were aching from the unnatural positions his body found itself in while Felix's back had begun to ache for the same reason his battered arse hole suffered from. The deep hard driving of Jack's bare, white cock slammed the top's 9-inch sword deep inside Felix's rectum until it compacted the bottom's spine to the verbal delight of the horny Canadian. "Oui Jackyyy." Felix continued to moan. That thick, white slab slamming deep inside him felt irresistible, the resistance of his bare, brown insides ruthlessly forced apart by Jack's raw, hard meat. Felix's own 7.5-inch wand hung loose, waving freely as Jack smashed Felix back and forth causing the Canadian's swollen head to ache for some attention. "I won't last much longer like this!" Jack huffed as the heat and friction of Felix's chute felt even better and tighter with his head ramming against the Canadian's tender sphincter. "Me too, do what you like but cum inside me!" Felix replied happily, allowing Jack the freedom to decide how they should finish. The Brit did exactly as Felix suggested, dropping the skinny black boy to mattress then with a rough grip of Felix's left leg, Jack raised Felix's smooth, leg up on his shoulder so that the bottom was half on his back and half on his side then resumed drilling his cock into Felix's bare chute twice a second, making sure he removed at least 6 inches every time but also making sure every return trip ended in contact between his crotch and the bottom's tailbone. The race had begun, and Jack stated his intent by placing one hand on Felix's smooth chest and the other on the bottom's back for leverage as he threw his horny cock deep and hard inside the Canadian's irresistible arse. The power of Jack's body ramming into Felix's arse sent the bottom's cock waving around, half from the top's velocity, half from the strength of Felix's sexual desire to be fucked. A few quick tugs of his hard, cut boner took Felix to the very brink and from here the Canadian knew that Jack's meaty cock would finish him off. The Brit's eyes bulged excitedly the moment Felix released his cock, watching intently as the bottom's big, black boner waved freely while pulsing constantly to the beat of his own deep thrusts. Jack reached for Felix's cock as he slammed his cock deep into the Canadian's slender body only to be batted away by the moaning bottom. "No need!" Felix gasped helplessly. It only took a few more thrusts to prove Felix right as the bottom erupted. The moment Jack saw the bottom's head flash white he realised they hadn't thought this all the way through, and their short-sightedness was about to create an almighty mess. After the first half shot had splattered across Felix's belly button the second missed his dark, sweaty torso completely and blasted a couple of metres away landing on the hotel room carpet and that was only the beginning. "Oh fuckkk." Jack whined as he slammed his hard cock into Felix's bare, convulsing hole. The sight of Felix cumming coupled with the feel of Felix cumming was already too much for the Brit who set about punishing his bottom for being so fucking sexy. "Yeah...I'm gonna shoot." "In me, IN ME!" Felix roared in response before Jack could even contemplate pulling out. Everything about this sexy North American made Jack want to breed him and with another deep, hard punch of his fat, white cock Jack began to unload within Felix's irresistible body. The look in Felix's eyes looked deranged as the bottom entered a realm where pleasure was even better than the Canadian could ever imagine. Jack felt hypnotised, drawn in by Felix's orgasmic madness to ply him with all the thick, white, British cock Jack had to offer him. A brutish pound of his meaty white mast sent a current of ecstasy up Jack's spine that made his unloading nuts expand. The top was addicted to this feeling and that addiction drove him on to thud relentlessly into Felix's incredible body. "YEAH, YEAH, YEAHHH!!!" Felix squealed as his orgasm ended with another jet of his silky semen landing across his tensed torso while Jack's sexy body continued to destroy his horny hole. The cute Canadian would never look the same to Jack now that he'd had seen those delicious, dark pecs covered in Felix's hot spunk. The big Brit slammed his exploding cock deep inside Felix's hole as the bottom's groaning changed note to signal the end of his euphoria. Felix was in no rush to get away however and although his beautiful, black boner began to soften right there against his sticky abs, Felix still celebrated every hard jab of Jack's cock as the horny top stuffed him with all the hot spunk he could produce. Jack's thick, white cock looked perfectly at home cutting into Felix's beautiful brown skin that the top felt his head swell with extra pride inside the bottom. Shooting more ropes into the lanky Canadian, Jack loved everything about the beautiful bottom's incredible body. The powerful top's appetite to destroy seemed insatiable as he threw more deep thrusts into Felix's beautiful body to inject him with more hot cum. Each shot echoed loud as Jack's thighs made contact with Felix's hamstrings to stuff his cock deep inside the cute Canadian. The barrage felt like it had lasted a lifetime, but the moment Jack began to slow Felix knew the score. The Brit's thick, white cock expanded to glaze his insides with another helping of sexy spunk which Felix's belly devoured with the appetite of a horny bottom. "Oui boy." Felix murmured as he felt Jack's latest release surround his tender prostate. Jack was almost at a standstill and to finish himself off, the burly top removed 6 inches of his shaft then guided it straight up into Felix's beautiful, black arse cheeks one last time whilst staring straight into the bottom's warm eyes. An air of passion still surrounded the pair which Jack lived up to by leaning forward to kiss Felix with his cock still buried deep inside the sexy black boy. Their lips sucked at each other while the radiating heat of their athletic bodies only made them sweat even more. Jack's tongue searched Felix's cute mouth and the Canadian sucked on the Brit's thin lips as the weight of the big man made his 9-inch mast feel amazing still buried deep inside Felix's cum filled belly. Another 15 seconds passed, and Jack pulled his hips back while maintaining the kiss a little longer. The Brit could feel the rigidity of his cock diminishing and decided now was the time to exit. Slowly and carefully, Jack pulled his long cock out of Felix's belly then broke their kiss to beam down on the beautiful bottom. "Hey." Felix grinned up at Jack happily. "Hey." Jack repeated. Like a sexy white gorilla, Jack remained above Felix holding himself up with his fists and knees. The Canadian patted the mattress next to him for Jack to fall onto. A broad smile stretched across Jack's face and with a rotating tumble, the Brit hit the mattress alongside Felix who immediately hooked an arm around the big top's neck and held him close. The funk of fresh sweat on top of sexual body odour filled their nostrils. Jack smiled as he inhaled the alluring odour of Felix's sexy black body. And with a tender kiss on top of Jack's crown, Felix inhaled the beefy white boy's sexy scent. There was nothing left to do now but enjoy this feeling which they achieved by intertwining their legs just listening to each other breathe. END Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story. If you like what you've read, please let me know by emailing me on pcwtosh@gmail.com and/or for updates: Instagram - pcwtoshx Twitter - @pcwtosh Here is the rest of my collection: Sticky Blinders, After party at the OSCARs, Cole Me By Your Name, Happy 18th Bro, Coffee for John, An Audition to Remember, Breakfast Boot, The Queen's English, Brooklyn Learns a Lesson, Bad Panther, Bad to the Bones, 13 Goo-uld Reasons Why, Gallaghers' Indian Takeaway, Now You See Cole, Big Apple Aussies, Cole el Elite & The Power of My Name. Gymnastics Fantastics 1, 2, Celtic Bond & Coach Crammer. Ripped Roses, Jack's Web, Naughty Neigbours & Devils and Dragons. Raging Scott, Swim Team, HRVY PTY, Swimnasium & Laugher of the Ice King. Vamp-ing, Vamp-ing 2, Strictly Come Vamp-ing, One Direction to Dunkirk & Deep Dipping in Dunkirk. Reese Wilkerson the Heartstopper. 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<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 29 Aug 2024 01:00:00 +0100 From: PCW Tosh <pcwtosh@gmail.com> Subject: FC-UK Disclaimer: Hey folks, this story is just a fantasy and I have no evidence that this actually happened, but we can all dream. Stay healthy and practice safe sex! Happy reading. Total Tennis 13: FC-UK Following their match at Flushing Meadows, Jack Draper and Felix Auger-Aliassime returned to the locker room together. The big Brit had just beaten one of the outside bets for the US Open title in his biggest Grand slam win to date. Jack was absolutely buzzing with excitement but accompanying him on the walk, Felix was a direct contrast to the Brit and that was a feeling Jack knew only too well. "Great job bro." Felix smiled patting Jack on his shoulder. "Thanks again man." Jack beamed returning the pat. "Hope you get through to next week and further." Felix added pleasantly. "That's sweet, thanks." Jack smiled looking at Felix for a little longer than usual. "What are you going to do for the rest of this week?" Jack continued breaking the tension. "Ha, watching you I guess, you douche." Felix chuckled, throwing his bag down and heading to his locker to grab the rest of his things. "Ha, I'm sorry, you know what I meant." Jack blushed. "Yeah bro, I'll still be around for the doubles." Felix grinned, zipping up his jacket and grabbing his things to head towards the exit. "Holla if you want some advice or to hang out." He finished offering the young Brit a fist bump. "Great, I will." Jack beamed, his heart fluttering happily. The big Brit returned to his hotel room throwing his things aside and treating himself to a nice hot shower. As he climbed into bed Jack's mind was still racing as it re-lived that incredible match. Jack hadn't felt a drop of pressure in his demolition of the Canadian, something he could really be proud of. Keeping him awake was Felix's offer to hang out, there was something about the way they said goodbye that was different to other opponents, there was a little heat, Jack was sure of it. Alas, it wasn't meant to be for Jack who retired during his following match with injury. The court felt so cold and lonely as he stood there unable to fight for his career. A resigned applause of pity came from the watching crowd and whilst it felt nice to receive the warm sentiment, Jack remained cold inside from his broken heart. 4 long months until the next slam and more importantly would he be fit enough to play it? Only time would tell. "How's your recovery going bro?" Jack picked up his phone and looked at the sender, it was Felix. "Alright mate?! Yeah, I'm almost there. Gutted I missed the end of the season though but hopefully I'll be back to kick your arse in Oz!" Jack teased. "Bring it bro, I'm ready to bust that other hamstring too!!!" Felix replied. [Damn, ruthless!] Jack laughed to himself, but he had to admit he deserved it. "Can't wait black boy!!!" Jack replied. "I was thinking about that, it would be cool to hang out after Milan if you have some free time?" Felix asked boldly. "Yeah, I'm still doing rehab to strengthen the muscles." Jack explained. "That's cool, bring a couple of racquets and we will have a chilled knock up?" Felix suggested. "I'll see what the physio says, but that sounds great to me!" Jack replied. After getting clearance from his physio and his coaching team, Jack headed off to Milan to watch the ATP Tour Finals. Unfortunately for Felix, the young Canadian didn't make it beyond the group stages but after a long season, making it to the top tournament was an achievement in itself. "You were awesome bro." Jack beamed as Felix joined him in the hotel bar after his last game in the round robin stage of the tournament. "Thanks dude." Felix smiled, settling into a chair next to him. "How do you think you'll do next season, especially with Federer gone and Rafa looking a little bit past it?" Jack asked. "You can never count out Rafa, I bet he will be winning the French still 10 years from now!" Felix joked, causing them both to chuckle. "Yeah, that guy is something else. I think you and Shapo have the game though." Jack replied honestly. "Yours isn't bad either, I can see you in the quarters and semis on the fast courts." Felix beamed. "I hope you're right." Jack grinned. The feelings Jack had noticed before were happening again. The little jokes and laughs, the prolonged eye contact and Jack was giving it as much as he was getting it. There was definitely an energy between the young studs, Jack was convinced of it, but how could he act upon it. "Do you miss your girl back home; I haven't seen her much out on the tour?" Jack asked, trying to take the conversation down the right path. Felix beamed as though he had clocked Jack's plan. "I was going to ask you the same." Felix confirmed. "No, no, I'm happy and free right now, I've been able to really focus on my game." He continued. "That's cool, same for me." "It shows." Felix nodded referring to Jack's rise up the rankings. "And is that why you wanted to hit up with me?" Jack asked, playing on the ambiguity of the question. "Yep, for both reasons." Felix grinned proudly. "Oh cool, sounds like a plan." Jack beamed in return. "Shall we go up to my room?" Felix replied, a contented look on his face. "Absolutely." Jack nodded, throwing back the rest of his drink and shooting to his feet. Jack stalked his prey like a cat watching Felix's slender figure as the Canadian led the way back to his room. The tall youngster's mind grew filthier with every step, watching the black boy's arse wiggle gently, Jack could think of so many things he wanted to do to Felix's cute brown arse, would he be up for it though? Slipping through the door to Felix's hotel room, Jack turned to close it and upon turning back towards the rest of the room he found Felix inches from him beaming with anticipation. "Are you excited?" Felix asked adorably, clearly unable to contain his emotions. "I really am." Jack smiled, stepping forward and leaning down to plant a kiss on the Canadian's lips. Felix caught the Brit in his arms and after initially allowing Jack to push him back a little, Felix fought back with his lips, kissing Jack firmly. The two young tennis stars kissed for half a dozen seconds, processing the recipient of their kiss and felt their hearts pounding. The question in Jack's mind was still how far did Felix want to take this? Would the Brit be able to fulfil his dream of filling that black arse, he was about to get his answer. Their lips broke and sweet Felix looked into Jack's masculine face. The young stud was rapidly growing into his features and how! Jack's jaw had broadened nicely which in Felix's mind made him more like a Raonic in looks and hopefully in the sack! "How far do you want to go, just mess around a bit, or do you want to fuck?" Felix asked. "I'm not sure, it depends on what you're thinking." Jack replied, throwing control back at the Canadian. "Hmm, Denis always wants me to be on top, I'd like a change." Felix thought aloud. Jack didn't respond to the Canadian but the look in his eyes gave the answer Felix wanted. Colliding in a kiss with a little more commitment, the two young studs re-engaged in a passionate clinch accented by Felix hooking his arm around the back of Jack's head. Their position was perfect for the Canadian to apply a little weight against Jack's upper body and use gravity to bring them both to the mattress. Now that Jack was pressing into Felix the young Brit could utilise his frame to exert a little more dominance on the lanky, black boy. Felix groaned through his nose under the pressure of Jack's body as the passionate Brit kissed hard up against him. The Canadian star was instantly reminded of Milos who was similarly imposing in stature. Allowing Jack control meant that Felix could use his hands to stroke the young Brit's broad, muscular back which was nice and tense as it pushed Jack's body down onto Felix. If there were doubts before about the pair's flirtatious behaviour, now it was clear to see and feel that they were both up for the challenge and very excited to do so. The way Jack pressed his body down onto Felix meant that their boners were practically touching each other if not for their stretched and strained clothing. The stroking of boner on boner wasn't by chance. Jack had wiggled his body from left to right to locate Felix's hidden mast and once he had located the Canadian's boner he deliberately edged back and forth to tease pulses of excitement as they lay kissed hungrily. Felix gave a deep growl of happiness through their mouths to communicate his arousal. The Brit had obviously planned his attack and Felix was more than happy to be the victim of Jack's desire, marvelling once again in the way it felt to have a sexy young stud pressed up against him. The slender Canadian could feel Jack's weight squeezing the air from his lungs and gave him all the air Jack wanted through their dancing lips. Felix's fingers took the opportunity to wander, starting at the Brit's ribs and creeping down his muscular frame. The Canadian's hands moved down past Jack's waist and came to rest on two incredibly juicy globes. The Canadian rubbed his hands in opposing circular motions, feeling the manly firmness of Jack's meaty arse cheeks, on another day Felix wouldn't mind getting his face inside the cute young Brit's arse, licking him out and fucking the brute out of him, but not today. Reinforced by the feeling of Jack's firm arse, Felix felt compelled to escalate. The sexy black French-Canadian stroked Jack's arse for a moment longer and then moving his hands up the hem of Jack's shirt, he drew the fabric up along the Brit's broad back until he reached Jack's head. Reluctantly Jack's hungry lips released Felix's and the big Brit moved back a little, turning his head to help it slide through the neck of his shirt. Before Jack reconnected with Felix's face there was just enough time to scan the Brit's body and my goodness, what a sight. The model in Jack was very clear to see, his skin perfectly smooth from his hips and his arms leading in until you reached the centre of his body. There, growing up and down from his belly button and from the gap between his broad pectoral muscles were modest but noticeable patches of light brown hair. Felix stroked Jack's broad, muscular arms and felt himself quiver. The Canadian's hands moved onto Jack's torso and explored their way down that beefy frame as Jack's lips pressed against his head again but this time, Jack's hands were no longer pressing Felix down, just his head. Since Felix had liberated Jack of his top the Brit felt as though the wheels were in motion to speed things up a touch. Pinning Felix's head to the bed with his lips, Jack used his hands to wander down to Felix's bottoms. Instantly locking his fingers under the waistband of Felix's joggers, Jack lifted his own crotch to create a gap between their bulges and in one quick but careful motion, the Brit pull Felix's joggers and boxers down to his knees allowing the French-Canadian to shuffle them down to his ankles. Next Felix reached for Jack's waistband tugging down the Brit's joggers and boxers without the difficulty of a mattress blocking his progress. Once Felix had tugged Jack's bottoms down past the Brit's spheric cheeks they fell down to his knees. Jack took this opportunity to break their kiss and fully appreciate what he had managed to achieve. The handsome French-Canadian was beautifully toned in two different ways and Jack loved them both. Firstly, Felix's slim torso had a modest yet noticeable muscle tone which made his body incredibly lean. Wherever there was flesh to be found the French-Canadian had a little muscle above it which became more noticeable as he unwillingly tensed to crane his neck up. Felix's largely smooth torso had an enticing of dark hairs leading from his belly button down to a very neat crotch and continuing up to Felix's pecs, between them grew a thin patch of black hairs which only served to make Felix look younger than his 23 years. Secondly the delicious tone of his light brown skin, right now Felix looked good enough to eat. In contrast to Felix, Jack was a bulky pale boy and the Canadian loved it. On many occasions in the past Milos had, had his way with Felix's arse and today Jack looked as though he could easily alternate for the big Canadian. At 6'4" (1.93cm) Jack was the same height as Felix as an inch shorter than Milos but that didn't matter. The Brit looked strong and physical enough to excite Felix and treat the horny bottom to the firm pounding he yearned for. The big server had nice thick, muscular arms extending from his pale, bulky torso. Flicking his eyes down, the Brit's legs looked big and thick, covered in a nice dense forest of dark hairs which would add extra manliness to the hunk when he got to work. Finally, there was a beautiful piece of uncut meat hanging between Jack's legs which Felix guessed was about 9 inches. From the moment Jack stopped in position above Felix's waist, the big Brit decided that he would remain there for the foreseeable future. Taking hold of the French-Canadian's cut, dark, semi-hard shaft, Jack gave the soft outer skin a few gentle strokes causing a gentle coo of pleasure from the sexy black boy. Jack's eyes watched with fascination at how clearly he could see the thin skin sliding over the thickening muscle beneath it. "It looks so good." Jack smiled up at Felix who returned the smile before Jack's upper body dropped towards the mattress. "Holy fuckkk." Felix gasped as the descending Brit's lips swallowed the top half of his cut shaft and began to gorge at Felix's tip. Jack's large right hand held the middle of Felix's 7.5-inch shaft while his left hand gripped the French-Canadian's side, squeezing firmly to feel Felix's lean abs. This was exactly how Felix had imagined Jack, a nice firm grip with a manly domination about him and so far, he wasn't disappointing. The Brit's tongue flicked at Felix's head for half a minute before the big server began to bob, sliding his lips up and down that hard, black pole with increasing length. There was something about the lack of mass in Felix's slim, black body that really turned Jack on today. The feeling of Felix's tight abs fighting back as he squeezed them reassured Jack that the Canadian was in great shape and ready for everything he had to offer. The Brit gradually increased the length of his mouth's journey along Felix's cock, eventually running from head to tip to the delight of the gasping Canadian. Adjusting his head position so that it pointed down a little more, Jack could no longer look all the way up Felix's body, but the trade-off was that now he could skull every inch of Felix's delicious black meat until the tip touched the back of his throat. Unlike Jack, Felix could look wherever he wanted and right now that was down at Jack as the beefy Brit drank his solid cock. The Brit was majestic in his movements, moving to the tip of Felix's shaft and using his lips to pleasure the black boy's sensitive head before sliding straight back down to the base of his dark shaft, making sure to push his lips into the neatly trimmed black pubes of his crotch. Studying the bulk of the young Brit's shoulders, Felix felt his hole quiver, ready for the big man to take him hard and deep like the powerful brute Felix knew he was. Flashing a long, lingering look up at Felix, Jack gave the Canadian a show as his lips rolled up and down Felix's throbbing black shaft. Those handsome, model features were on full display as Jack moved very deliberately, rolling his thin, pink lips hard down to the base of Felix's dark shaft then reversing back to the summit, decelerating as he rose and looking directly into the French-Canadian's eyes. The tone had changed, suddenly Jack was making a conscious effort to please Felix and the Brit was succeeding. Not since his cock had been between Denis' sweet lips had Felix felt this level of happiness but today there was an extra x factor. With Denis everything was safe and comfortable, a guy he'd slept with since they were horny teenagers on tour. Today he was with Jack, a hunky young stud who would bring something new to the table and that excited him no end. It wasn't Jack's first time on another man's cock and from the way Felix was breathing Jack knew he was doing a good job. The big Brit watched the slender French-Canadian's lovely chocolate tones quivering at his touch and it made Jack feel very good indeed. Felix tasted wonderful, a nice, clean flavour to his long, dark cock and after a minute or so sucking that taste was added to by a light stringy strand of precum. Jack resisted the urge of his mouth to curl into a proud smile but the taste of precum was a step in the right direction and a signal that it was nearly time to move onto the next stage. Felix had begun to emit soft moans of pleasure to appreciate Jack's oral work. Every time the Brit dropped to the base of his shaft, squeezing his exposed, precumming head against Jack's tonsils the French-Canadian couldn't resist vocalising his support while his hands reached down to stroke Jack's big broad shoulders. "So fucking good." Felix gasped, as goosebumps formed all over his smooth back. Felix couldn't get much more charming until he said, "Fuck yes, fuck me, Jack!" Pulling back with a delighted look on his face, Jack looked down at Felix's adorable face. "You're ready?" Jack asked. Felix nodded emphatically. "Ok, how about you warm me up first?" Jack beamed. Again, Felix nodded with a quiet confidence. Stepping off the bed, Jack stood up then stepped out of his boxers with his uncut 9-inch mast rocking out in front of him. No sooner had the Brit straightened up, Felix already had Jack's impressive tool in his hands and proceeded to rub it submissively across his cheeks a couple of times smearing a long strand of precum across them. After a few seconds of self-indulgence, Felix swallowed Jack's thick, meaty head and carefully controlled, the sexy French-Canadian descended Jack's shaft until he encountered resistance. If Jack was wondering how much experience Felix had acquired on a large cock, his question was answered within seconds. The black boy's throat paused as Jack's head hit the back of his mouth and widening his beautiful face while relaxing his tonsils, Felix devoured the rest of Jack's meat until his nose found itself buried in a brown patch of musky pubes. "Mother fucker!" Jack complained, his body tingling with the same pleasure that nearly disabled Felix before. Fortunately, Jack had a drive for progress and with Felix focussing on his cock, the French-Canadian's beautiful black arse cheeks were exposed and begging for attention. Arching his large torso around, Jack bent his face around Felix's back and while the black boy began to bob into his crotch, Jack spread Felix's arse cheeks nice and wide then slid his tongue south across the most beautiful looking slit he'd ever seen. The instant Jack's tongue made contact with his body; Felix felt his muscles relax in an overwhelming vote of confidence. The French-Canadian was right where he wanted to be at the mercy of the hunky Brit. Forcing his strong jaw into the gap Jack ate hungrily, pressing Felix's brown cheeks apart with his own pale cheeks to drag his tongue back and forth across Felix's hole. The slit of the sexy black boy was particularly tasty, the bit that his dick would soon be doing untold damage to, just the thought of the naughty plans he had for Felix's sexy butt made Jack's head swell. The anticipation in his nuts was growing but they could last a little longer, it wasn't often a sexy black boy let Jack snack on his arse and although the Brit guessed this wouldn't be the last time either, part of him wanted to take as much enjoyment from this first interracial meal as he could. Swirling around the entrance for a couple of minutes longer, Jack used his cheeks to calculate Felix's reaction to his tongue work, feeling them tense a little more each time he got close to the weak point of the black boy's hole. There was an element of teasing in Jack, using his physical presence to silently intimidate in a way that was so damn sexy. The way Felix was presenting his willing hole for Jack, the French-Canadian wanted Jack's big white cock inside him but the tease inside Jack made him wait. The Brit's tongue circled Felix's once more, checking the landscape for hairs and blemishes as he enjoyed the black boy's sweet taste. The next play in the book was to straighten his tongue in order for Jack to force into between the tight dark lips of Felix's sexy hole. As expected, Felix opened the gate allowing Jack to stretch his long tongue deep inside the cute black boy. The richness of Felix's flavour could only be described as heavenly for Jack whose own cock thickened in appreciation. Drawing his tongue along Felix's smooth opening then re-inserting his tongue, Jack had a little fun as he explored the French-Canadian's insides. The welcoming nature of the black boy's tight opening boded well for what Jack had planned, allowing the big Brit to use his tongue to scope out how he wanted to approach sodomising Felix's sexy body. The best part of Felix's compliance was that in no way was it implicit. The cute Canadian knew what he wanted as he backed his relaxed hole onto Jack's handsome hungry face. With another fingertip whitening squeeze of Felix's arse, Jack wriggled his tongue within Felix's cavity before the Brit's cock decided enough was enough, [fuck him, he's begging for it!!!] "Should we...yunno?" Jack asked. "Yes please!" Felix beamed, finding his heart warmed by Jack's continued shyness. "How should we do it?" Jack replied. "However you like it, you should fuck me hard from behind maybe?" Felix suggested. "Holy fuck yes!" Jack sighed, relieved that Felix had suggested `hard.' The Brit wasn't sure why, but Felix's lanky frame made the cute black boy look so vulnerable. The verbal green light however changed all that, Jack knew in full flight his physicality might make him tough to handle, but if Felix wasn't worried then Jack had one thing less to worry about. Moving into position on all fours with his legs nicely spread apart, Felix presented his sexy brown arse to Jack. The big Brit climbed into the gap, stroking his hard, white log with intent. Jack's free hand reached for a bottle of lube Felix had snuck onto the bed and after popping the cap the Brit squeezed out a nice coat for his boner and then another one for Felix's crack. The bottle thudded as it hit the bed and glancing back with a prepared look in his eyes, Felix smiled at Jack. The tip of Jack's head gently explored Felix's entrance for a moment then with a nod for confirmation, Jack began to push forward. Any doubt Felix had done this before disappeared the second Jack's head disappeared inside the sexy black bottom along with the first inches of his shaft with surprisingly little effort. The Canadian's body was fully compliant with Jack, the dark lips of Felix's enticing hole slithering around his head to devour the top's thick shaft. Jack witnessed the throb of a thick blue vein slide within the bottom's bare hole as he applied more pressure. "Oui Jacky." Felix sighed, pushing his ring out to give the top maximum compliance. "Fuck yeah boy." Jack purred in response as his bare cock sank deeper into Felix's delicious warmth. Only once Jack had reached the 5-inch mark did things start to become a little tougher, but by no means difficult. With a nice deep base camp already set Jack felt confident that from here he could stroke his way into Felix, and he was right. Keeping his hand on his shaft for the first few strokes, Jack pulled his bare cock back an inch then rolled forward again by one and a quarter inches. "Hmmmm." Felix cooed softly as Jack's meat advanced within him. The Brit's meaty crotch stroked its way closer and closer until with a glancing kiss, Jack's body made contact with Felix. "How are you doing?" Jack asked generously as he reached the checkpoint of Felix's perfect, brown globes. "I'm perfect, you?" Felix beamed broadly. "Yeah?" Jack asked again, double-checking, "I'm about to go hard and fast on that sexy black ass!" Jack continued. "Bring it, I'm sure it's nothing Denis or Milos haven't done to me before." Felix shrugged. "Fuckkkk, you're a bad little bottom aren't you." Jack smirked. "Only if you treat me like one." Felix replied coolly. And with that the time for talk was over, Jack's brown eyes narrowed, his hands gripped Felix's meaty quads tighter and pulling himself 8 inches back Jack steadied himself then threw his entire body forward only stopping after it had crashed into Felix's arse and pushed the bottom forward another half a foot. The gentle giant inside Jack forced the top down to kiss Felix's lovable lips, bringing them belly to back whilst he piled his cock into the black boy's sexy cunt. Felix's grunts grew louder with every shot of Jack's beefy body, the shockwaves reverberating through the skinny bottom's sexy body. Each time Jack's pale skin collided with Felix's beautiful black tones the smacking sound of skin on skin echoed with increasing volume to drown out his groans. Inevitably, the heat began to increase as the closeness and physicality of their embrace reached its peak with Jack's body leaving nothing in reserve as his hard, bare shaft slammed deep into Felix's seductive hole. Through his sensitive chest, Jack could feel Felix's back tense after every thrust, doing everything he could to manage the power and pleasure of Jack's impressive body. Every sigh from Felix's full lips had a hint of yearning in the note which hadn't gone unnoticed by Jack. The top was certain Felix's reference to Milos meant that the bar was even higher than Jack was currently aiming for, the question was, did he want to reach the bar? The answer was no. But even though Jack didn't want to match whatever physicality Milos had inflicted on his Canadian teammate, the Brit still had his own physical desires to match and that could easily be remedied before he blew his churning load. Sucking the taste out of Felix's throat, Jack pumped his sexy bottom with a few more passionate thrusts then pushed the Canadian forward whilst continuing to slide his bare white cock into the delicious tightness of Felix's black body. Once Felix had rested his hands on the mattress Jack could escalate. The tall Brit took hold of Felix's skinny thighs and lifting the Canadian's bottom half off the mattress, Jack pressed those sexy black legs up against his meaty thighs and accelerated once more. "AHHH YEAHHHH!" Felix groaned in jubilation, delighted by the feel of his big British top ploughing his suspended arse hole with his thick, white, throbbing cock. Jack's beefy body felt incredible as it rammed shock waves throughout Felixs horny body. "Yes please, faster!" Felix moaned. Digging deep down in his reserves Jack found the speed Felix craved and coupling it with the long, deep strokes he had already committed to, Jack found himself pistoning Felix's cute, black butt at the rate of three thumps a second. "Ouiiii, fucking yessss!" Felix hissed again. The Canadian's body ached all over and he loved it. Sure, his arms and legs were aching from the unnatural positions his body found itself in while Felix's back had begun to ache for the same reason his battered arse hole suffered from. The deep hard driving of Jack's bare, white cock slammed the top's 9-inch sword deep inside Felix's rectum until it compacted the bottom's spine to the verbal delight of the horny Canadian. "Oui Jackyyy." Felix continued to moan. That thick, white slab slamming deep inside him felt irresistible, the resistance of his bare, brown insides ruthlessly forced apart by Jack's raw, hard meat. Felix's own 7.5-inch wand hung loose, waving freely as Jack smashed Felix back and forth causing the Canadian's swollen head to ache for some attention. "I won't last much longer like this!" Jack huffed as the heat and friction of Felix's chute felt even better and tighter with his head ramming against the Canadian's tender sphincter. "Me too, do what you like but cum inside me!" Felix replied happily, allowing Jack the freedom to decide how they should finish. The Brit did exactly as Felix suggested, dropping the skinny black boy to mattress then with a rough grip of Felix's left leg, Jack raised Felix's smooth, leg up on his shoulder so that the bottom was half on his back and half on his side then resumed drilling his cock into Felix's bare chute twice a second, making sure he removed at least 6 inches every time but also making sure every return trip ended in contact between his crotch and the bottom's tailbone. The race had begun, and Jack stated his intent by placing one hand on Felix's smooth chest and the other on the bottom's back for leverage as he threw his horny cock deep and hard inside the Canadian's irresistible arse. The power of Jack's body ramming into Felix's arse sent the bottom's cock waving around, half from the top's velocity, half from the strength of Felix's sexual desire to be fucked. A few quick tugs of his hard, cut boner took Felix to the very brink and from here the Canadian knew that Jack's meaty cock would finish him off. The Brit's eyes bulged excitedly the moment Felix released his cock, watching intently as the bottom's big, black boner waved freely while pulsing constantly to the beat of his own deep thrusts. Jack reached for Felix's cock as he slammed his cock deep into the Canadian's slender body only to be batted away by the moaning bottom. "No need!" Felix gasped helplessly. It only took a few more thrusts to prove Felix right as the bottom erupted. The moment Jack saw the bottom's head flash white he realised they hadn't thought this all the way through, and their short-sightedness was about to create an almighty mess. After the first half shot had splattered across Felix's belly button the second missed his dark, sweaty torso completely and blasted a couple of metres away landing on the hotel room carpet and that was only the beginning. "Oh fuckkk." Jack whined as he slammed his hard cock into Felix's bare, convulsing hole. The sight of Felix cumming coupled with the feel of Felix cumming was already too much for the Brit who set about punishing his bottom for being so fucking sexy. "Yeah...I'm gonna shoot." "In me, IN ME!" Felix roared in response before Jack could even contemplate pulling out. Everything about this sexy North American made Jack want to breed him and with another deep, hard punch of his fat, white cock Jack began to unload within Felix's irresistible body. The look in Felix's eyes looked deranged as the bottom entered a realm where pleasure was even better than the Canadian could ever imagine. Jack felt hypnotised, drawn in by Felix's orgasmic madness to ply him with all the thick, white, British cock Jack had to offer him. A brutish pound of his meaty white mast sent a current of ecstasy up Jack's spine that made his unloading nuts expand. The top was addicted to this feeling and that addiction drove him on to thud relentlessly into Felix's incredible body. "YEAH, YEAH, YEAHHH!!!" Felix squealed as his orgasm ended with another jet of his silky semen landing across his tensed torso while Jack's sexy body continued to destroy his horny hole. The cute Canadian would never look the same to Jack now that he'd had seen those delicious, dark pecs covered in Felix's hot spunk. The big Brit slammed his exploding cock deep inside Felix's hole as the bottom's groaning changed note to signal the end of his euphoria. Felix was in no rush to get away however and although his beautiful, black boner began to soften right there against his sticky abs, Felix still celebrated every hard jab of Jack's cock as the horny top stuffed him with all the hot spunk he could produce. Jack's thick, white cock looked perfectly at home cutting into Felix's beautiful brown skin that the top felt his head swell with extra pride inside the bottom. Shooting more ropes into the lanky Canadian, Jack loved everything about the beautiful bottom's incredible body. The powerful top's appetite to destroy seemed insatiable as he threw more deep thrusts into Felix's beautiful body to inject him with more hot cum. Each shot echoed loud as Jack's thighs made contact with Felix's hamstrings to stuff his cock deep inside the cute Canadian. The barrage felt like it had lasted a lifetime, but the moment Jack began to slow Felix knew the score. The Brit's thick, white cock expanded to glaze his insides with another helping of sexy spunk which Felix's belly devoured with the appetite of a horny bottom. "Oui boy." Felix murmured as he felt Jack's latest release surround his tender prostate. Jack was almost at a standstill and to finish himself off, the burly top removed 6 inches of his shaft then guided it straight up into Felix's beautiful, black arse cheeks one last time whilst staring straight into the bottom's warm eyes. An air of passion still surrounded the pair which Jack lived up to by leaning forward to kiss Felix with his cock still buried deep inside the sexy black boy. Their lips sucked at each other while the radiating heat of their athletic bodies only made them sweat even more. Jack's tongue searched Felix's cute mouth and the Canadian sucked on the Brit's thin lips as the weight of the big man made his 9-inch mast feel amazing still buried deep inside Felix's cum filled belly. Another 15 seconds passed, and Jack pulled his hips back while maintaining the kiss a little longer. The Brit could feel the rigidity of his cock diminishing and decided now was the time to exit. Slowly and carefully, Jack pulled his long cock out of Felix's belly then broke their kiss to beam down on the beautiful bottom. "Hey." Felix grinned up at Jack happily. "Hey." Jack repeated. Like a sexy white gorilla, Jack remained above Felix holding himself up with his fists and knees. The Canadian patted the mattress next to him for Jack to fall onto. A broad smile stretched across Jack's face and with a rotating tumble, the Brit hit the mattress alongside Felix who immediately hooked an arm around the big top's neck and held him close. The funk of fresh sweat on top of sexual body odour filled their nostrils. Jack smiled as he inhaled the alluring odour of Felix's sexy black body. And with a tender kiss on top of Jack's crown, Felix inhaled the beefy white boy's sexy scent. There was nothing left to do now but enjoy this feeling which they achieved by intertwining their legs just listening to each other breathe. END Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed the story. If you like what you've read, please let me know by emailing me on pcwtosh@gmail.com and/or for updates: Instagram - pcwtoshx Twitter - @pcwtosh Here is the rest of my collection: Sticky Blinders, After party at the OSCARs, Cole Me By Your Name, Happy 18th Bro, Coffee for John, An Audition to Remember, Breakfast Boot, The Queen's English, Brooklyn Learns a Lesson, Bad Panther, Bad to the Bones, 13 Goo-uld Reasons Why, Gallaghers' Indian Takeaway, Now You See Cole, Big Apple Aussies, Cole el Elite &amp; The Power of My Name. Gymnastics Fantastics 1, 2, Celtic Bond &amp; Coach Crammer. Ripped Roses, Jack's Web, Naughty Neigbours &amp; Devils and Dragons. Raging Scott, Swim Team, HRVY PTY, Swimnasium &amp; Laugher of the Ice King. Vamp-ing, Vamp-ing 2, Strictly Come Vamp-ing, One Direction to Dunkirk &amp; Deep Dipping in Dunkirk. Reese Wilkerson the Heartstopper. 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https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-356

Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2023 23:19:12 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 356 Part 356: The Lion Cub On the banks of the Thames, a whistle blew and marked the end of the friendly game; the Croatian visitors were victorious 2-1, in spite of the English team's last-minute resurgence, and the white-clad young players could do nothing but grimace respectfully and lift their hands in vague applause to the opposition players and the thin crowd of spectators inside Craven Cottage, the riverside Fulham ground that was hosting this fixture. This was not the full Three Lions force that had dominated its two qualifier games in the last week, but the next generation who might carry that mantle: a bold and ambitious Under-21s side who had been representing the country at their own level over a handful of games. He raised his hands and clapped with as much quiet honour as any of his teammates, moving through the centre of the youth squad's slow retreat, leaving the Croatians to enjoy themselves - a bit excessively, in his opinion, for a fucking friendly on a damp Tuesday night - and making way for the tunnel. It was a stadium he knew fairly well, and the 5ft7 winger could certainly claim to play more first-team minutes than most young lads on this squad, even as one of their younger members at 19. He strutted to the tunnel mouth and took the hugs and handshakes of the U21 management crew, a slightly less celebrated cluster of coaches than Southgate or his entourage - and indoors the young footballer went, his mane of curly hair bouncing a little as he shucked off one boot at a time and then swung them at his side, following the loose line of future England hopefuls towards the home changing rooms that they'd been assigned. In this locker-room was an uneasy positivity as the boys collectively shrugged away the defeat, keen to dismiss it as unimportant, but disappointed nonetheless by their lacklustre stats against the visitors - and Harvey Elliott was a little less quick to dismiss or laugh away the result, perhaps a bit more proud and ambitious than some of the `small club' players who formed his comrades on this short tour. The 19-year-old stripped away sweaty white kit from his compact muscular body, thinking eagerly about the prospect of replacing it with proper senior kit come the next big tournament - could he really be out there in the 2024 Euros, kicking it with the big boys and replacing his own captain Jordan Henderson in the starting line-up of Southgate's Lions...? Harvey liked to think so, charting his own trajectory from 16-year-old upstart to successful Championship loanee and now regular starter for a club as prestigious as his beloved LFC. He scrunched up the England shirt in his clammy hands and stared thoughtfully at his name and number on the back, more than ready to fight for that first senior cap - after all, he'd sighted a fellow 19-year-old upstart across the more communal areas of St George's Park last week, and watched enviously as lanky Jude Bellingham jostled and bantered with the likes of Hendo, Walker and Stones, clearly an established part of the Three Lions already. Huh. A natural competitiveness in Elliott riled at this fact, and at the strong rumours that still suggested the Birmingham sensation might sign for Liverpool and join him at Anfield - did Harvey really want another teen prodigy in the midfield to take the fans' adoration away from his plucky fight...? An ambiguous no, because he wasn't blind, and he could see what a rising force the other lad was. Shorts off, Harvey lingered at his spot in the square room, still staring ruminatively at his discarded white kit, and wanting this to be the last time he donned the U21 version of the real thing - if Jude could prove himself in a World Cup campaign, then it was surely time for Liverpool's current `Star Boy' to make his claim too. Still... this past week had been fun. The curly-headed lad stood there in his tight-fitting Puma compression shorts, unable to contain a knowing little smirk, glancing about him at the stripping players who were disappearing into the showers one by one. Oh yeah, he thought with a silent chuckle, quite the week of fun. Some of it, he supposed, was barely more than a gentle tease of possibility: early last week, at the end of the first day's full training together, and a brief thrilling episode in the shower block of their changing facilities. An ego boost, he admitted to himself, given that he'd been training only one pitch away from the sight of the senior England squad warming up and beginning to bond ahead of their Italian jaunt - he'd heard it said that the proximity and occasionally intermingling of the squad levels was meant to be motivational and inspiring, but he was just starting to find it fucking annoying. At 19, he was no longer thrilled by the novelty of youth positions, just as he'd been at the top of the Liverpool Academy - he wanted the real thing, not some childish warm-up. He couldn't help but cringe scornfully at the fact so many of his teammates here were 22 or 23, ageing past the name of the team, and still not cutting their teeth under Southgate. Hot showers that day, steaming almost painfully against cold skin, because it had been constant drizzle and mist through the afternoon. Harvey was as glad as anyone to soak himself beneath the heat and to scrub flecks of mud and turf away from his shins and calves, to soap up lightly aching muscles, and to shake his shaggy young lion's mane under the blast of his shower. It was just as he rinsed the lather of shampoo from his curls, running fingers vigorously through the styled mop, that he noticed it. He was showering at the end of a central line of positions, where the wall cut off and there was a steamy tiled space before the adjacent wall and the next row of showerheads. At the nearest of those, he caught sight of a slim figure about as pale as his own, but noticeable in turning around to look this way - there were others there, fixedly facing the wall as they washed themselves and disappeared in a fair hurry, loud masculine voices echoing against the gushing sounds of plumbing. Elliott was a natural exhibitionist, it turned out, because he immediately loved the suggestion that this other lad was specifically looking his way - his position at the end of this wall put him in perfect view, essentially at the centre of the rectangular room, half-exposed to the view form that corner. Without flinching, the 19-year-old winger turned his stubby goateed face and grinned across the haze, acknowledging the lingering look... It was that skinny twink, Luke Thomas, half-turned this way with an almost stricken look on his lean face. Definitely looking this way, that was for sure, and seemingly not at head height, but looking downwards - the Liverpool player couldn't stop himself, he took one shampoo-slicked paw and rubbed it down the centre of his tummy, along the faint trail of hair that was sprouting there, and then ran it teasingly against the droop of his soft cock and chubby balls, watching the shifting gaze of the lad's thin face. And then the Leicestershire 21-year-old seemed to collect himself, blink and start, and look sharply back upwards - for just a moment their eyes met, though Harvey supposed Luke's view must be as steam-obscured as his own, and he could see the faint pantomime of horror and shame on the LFC left-back's long face. And then the dark-haired taller lad turned sharply away, back to the wall, and the passing physique of two U21 goalkeepers blocked Harvey's view... he could just turn back to finishing the rinse down of his crotch and gently sniggering to himself, loving the idea that some curious young Fox had been eyeing him up. However... it led to nothing. He tried very hard to catch Luke's eye back in the humid warmth of the locker-room, or over the team meal that they were taken for at a local Thai restaurant for bonding, and yet he found that Thomas evaded him at every opportunity for the rest of the camp. If the 21-year-old left-back WAS curious, or whatever, then he'd been so freaked out to be caught looking that he'd retreated into his shell like a frightened tortoise - no real fun there for young Elliott, just a momentary ego boost and a lingering semi. And there were the moments in his hotel room too, though these were not so novel: after all, it was hardly the first time he'd shared a room with the slightly older Academu graduate and genuine Scouser, Curtis Jones. That being said, it WAS the first time he'd roomed with the lanky dope for such a number of days, across multiple hotels, and noticed how fucking careless his stuttering buddy was... Careless in a lot of ways, from leaving towels on the floor to using the wrong toothpaste, to realising he'd forgotten to bring deodorant - all that kinda shit. But also careless with his kit, and his bedding, so that one morning when a full bladder dragged Harvey out of bed at 5am, he had to stop himself in the exuded glow of the en suite, looking at the magnificent sight on the neighbouring bed - the 6ft1 young man was stretched out in a typically awkward pose on his bedding, with his duvet quite disturbed and misplaced, so much so that it was crossing his midriff and knees, but pulled away around the crotch area, so that Harvey could see the lad's impressively long python coiled against a hairy thigh. It was obvious from the way that the lanky fuck's long legs jutted out at the foot of the bed that he didn't typically sleep in the nude, but had pushed his pants down for one reason or another - there was only one reason though, surely - and they now dwelt about his ankles, so that Harvey could stroll back across the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, and pause between their beds, looking at a perfect confirmation of just how well-hung the dopey Scouse bugger was. There was a deliciously tempting moment in this pre-dawn fug when Elliott hovered next to Jones' bed and was well tempted to just steal a little grab or stroke of the monster that he always had to watch bouncing about like a ferret in his pal's shorts or tracksuits - but he thought better of such naughtiness and played kind bro instead, pulling the duvet back into place and giving Curtis some dignity that was rather undermined by his chainsaw snoring. With a chuckle and zero chance of getting back to sleep, Harvey climbed back into bed and tugged himself off, enjoying both the dormant serpent that he'd seen at close range, and the growing mental certainty that the Leicester player had a crush on him. And there'd been some more successful shared looks of naughtiness in locker rooms, towards the end of the training week, but before the France fixture on the Saturday. Harvey thought he was the initiator of what happened, but it was hard to tell, perhaps the others had already been mustering the idea or intimating the mood to one another - but he was certainly the one who sat there under the rack of kit-hooks with his top off and his shorts tight about his thick fluffy hands, popping a hand over his bulge and loudly declaring that he wasn't used to a whole week with no girls to look after his needs. It wasn't a lewd comment out of nowhere - he'd noticed the way that the other lads kept grabbing at themselves, a simmering undercurrent of frustration which he understood but which also got him really excited. No sooner had Elliott made this bold claim about his usual sex life when the most senior of this small post-gym gathering started trolling him in a deep voice, stripping off just a few feet to his left. But one Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder was down to his black briefs, he took the bulge in the front of them in one hand and muttered his conclusion: `But I know what you mean, bruv, I got some FULL balls, you get me?' Stood there with a hand over his big thick package, Morgan Gibbs-White turned and flashed a toothy smile at him, and then shot thoughtful looks at the others. `TMI?' suggested one of the others, 6ft2 centre-back Levi Colwell - a Chelsea youth who was currently moonlight at Bright & Hove Albion. `What, you don't feel the same?' chuckled another lofty centre-back in his deep Lancashire accent - this was another loanee, Leeds' Charlie Cresswell, currently at Millwall or some shithole like that - Harvey could hardly keep up with these lads' yo-yo fledgling careers, adding to his frustration for a senior call-up. And so Harvey moved things along, staying sat on the bench where he was, but pushing a blatant hand into the front of his tight training shorts, and grinning from lad to lad before flashing a meaningful wink back at Gibbs-White. `I'm just gonna have to tug one off now before dinner,' he announced coolly, ready to turn his sultry expression into hysterical laughter if the notion didn't meet with grunting approval - there was definitely a long quiet pause where it might have been met with jeers and insults, but Morgan's ensuing laugh was lusty and frustrated, and it was Leeds export Charlie who loudly called it - `Yeah, time for a circle-jerk, haha?' Maybe the 20-year-old giant from Preston was joking, but Harvey just got up and pushed his shorts down his thighs and off, his bare young body a little glossy with sweat from the workout, and his cock already semi in his trunks. Minutes later, he had his dick out and in his hand, seated back down and the others occupying positions about this same corner of the room, parallel pairs at a perpen-dick-ular angle. The grunts were interspersed with bursts of rough laddish laughter, mingled with self-conscious efforts to suppress the natural moans of self-pleasure. Harvey exaggerated his own confidence and certainty - as experienced as he was becoming around other horny men, he still knew this was risky and pushing boundaries, and he was conscious of only half-knowing any of these other lads. He was also a little stuck with the dilemma of enjoying the sordid little scene and not being a Luke Thomas and staring too overtly at any of his pal's members, giving away too much of his own... tastes. This wasn't as hardcore as some games he'd been embroiled in, to put it lightly, this was just four horny footy lads jerking off after a tough workout, letting off a bit of steam before showering down and being called to a fairly formal dinner where they would be meeting a bunch of FA representatives who wanted to drill them about professionalism in the France fixture. Professionalism could wait - these were four testosterone-drunk youths with heavy balls and rabid appetites, wanking themselves silly and stinking of gym-sweat. Harvey was so excited by it all that he had to slow down very deliberately and hold onto his orgasm, and he was glad he did - long enough at least to see that big 6ft3 defender on loan from Leeds cum first, spewing spunk up his tummy and cackling as he did so; and then Brighton's Levi too, the 20-year-old who had been the most marginally hesitant of them, but was now groaning quite heavily as he spunked into a handful of tissue, none of Charlie's confident mirth. But Harvey himself came after this, unable to stop himself, and spurting white streaks over the downy hair of his thighs; thus he watched Morgan, the 23-year-old Forest stud, nut all over the floor in a messy puddle whilst in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss, almost losing his self-discipline and rushing forward to lick up the drops of jizz that lingered on the stout 5ft7 lad's chunky tool. The group wank was over almost as soon as it had started, ending in a chorus of brash laughter and a few self-conscious groans of `Did we just do that?' - and Harvey just thought idly how it was a shame that his buddy Curtis had left the gym early, and not had a chance to show off his brute to these other lads, haha. But things had gotten more intense just the next day, during an afternoon rest period before they had to travel from hotel to stadium to face the young Frenchmen. This one seemed to happen just as rapidly and convenient, and Harvey was hardly sure how he went from chatting to a casual mate in the foyer to being knuckle-deep in tight pink hole about forty-five minutes later. `That's it,' he gasped, digging his single digit in deeper, feeling the strong muscles grip his finger, and jabbing it in and out in a rapid and purposeful fashion, almost drooling with excitement. The other body lay naked beneath him on the bed - the lad had stripped naked almost within seconds of them getting into the room and slamming the door shut behind them. How had it gone from a bit of banter about the France team being a bunch of daft slags to this handsome redhead asking Harvey what he liked doing to slags, to Harvey daring him to take him back to his room and find out? The conversation had moved quickly and fluidly, and opportunity had thrown itself in the 19-year-old lion cub's lap. He dug his finger in deeper, poised over him on the gently squeaking bed. `Take my finger, you slag,' he giggled, twisting and pushing it, really taking over the tight little hole that lay between the pale smooth cheeks. He grinned eagerly to himself, unwilling to remove his finger from the hot tightness, but poising over him so he could appreciate the slim strong beauty of the pale freckled body beneath him on the bedding. With his other hand, he reached for the soft gingery hair and pushed the lad's face down into the covers, whilst finally withdrawing his finger so he could land a light spank on one white week and leave a faint red print where he did. Then back at it, but not one finger, two - a bit more spit for lube should help. On the bed, his teammate squealed. Harvey was less naked, only his jumper and vest discarded by the door, but shorts still tenting around his erection, and socks and trainers leaving dirty marks on the pale blue bedding. He'd been in such a rush to follow this earnest-looking 21-year-old in here and across to the room, and he was so excited at the prospect of topping again - he'd been desperate for it since that second time of being allowed between Milner's adamantium glutes. This afternoon's slut was different though, slim but a little softer at the edges, and his bottom so doughy and jiggly, great - Harvey pushed too fingers into his hole and gasped eagerly, gripping his thick strong erection through his shorts, hovering over him and muttering out more dirty talk - `You taking those two fingers, wanna try three?' he rasped. `God you're a good slag after all, ain't you, Tommy fella!' Under him, Manchester City's ginger-haired local lad groaned and yelped, turning his face a little but unable to fully look at him - those blue eyes were wide and needy, his cheeks flushed scarlet, god he was quite cute like this, though he'd never caught Harvey's eye before. He dug his two fingers deep into Tommy Doyle, frigging the loaned midfielder and prodding at his intimate hole, readying it to try and thrust his cock into any moment now. He was leaking pre-cum against his undies and his shorts, and he couldn't believe that he'd discovered a willing bottom in this Sheffield United midfield player! Any moment, Harvey would have pushed down the shorts and tried to replace the two sphincter-grippy fingers with the real deal, except the beep of a keycard and the click of a lock marked the beginning of the interruption - Harvey only half-heard it through his own pants, and pinned between him and the bed, Thomas was perhaps entirely deaf to it, still gasping and telling him `Yes, try three!' But then they were both of them looking up and across, the hotel room door shutting with a louder thump than its opening. Harvey knelt there, hard and leaking, and still pressing two digits into the doughy bottom of the Man City lad. But Doyle was instantly wriggling and rising up, exclaiming `James!' at the top of his voice. With some reluctance, Harvey pulled away his greasy fingers and slid aside, holding hands up innocently like a bystander at a bank robbery - whilst the 5ft8 naked youth scampered and stumbled from the bed into the centre of the room, and their interrupter froze at the doorway, head to toe in England training gear, and his face a picture of outrage. `Whoa, how did my fingers get in there?' was all Elliott could find to joke, leaping awkwardly off the bed himself and reaching down to grab up his bundle of clothes with his clean hand, forcing out a cocky laugh and wavering between the obstacle of the other two - one naked and red-faced, the other practically shaking in shock. `James,' Tommy insisted in a rushing voice, `it ain't what it looks like!' The Manc lad had a real panic and fear in his voice, one that Harvey himself refused to give in to - fuck it, he'd been caught frigging a lad's arse, but who was James fucking McAtee to judge him? He was, like Doyle, another Pep Guardiola reject who'd been indefinitely loaned out to lame old Sheffield United, for fuck's sake - what could either of them say to a regular Liverpool starter like himself? Pricks. The 19-year-old was, of course, ready for a fight. But he'd misunderstood the dynamic slightly. `Tommy,' gasped 20-year-old James, his eyes suddenly shiny. `What the fuck?' `It ain't like that,' the first Manc lad called at him, rushing forward, but instantly held back by McAtee's hands on his shoulders and biceps; Harvey blinked slowly at them in comprehension, registering the intense emotion on the Salford lad's tanned features, and the rough and tumble of the other two players. `How could you?' James was shouting accusingly, whilst Tommy just kept repeating his name. Elliott stared at them for a moment and then wiped his two dirty fingers across his tummy and pulled his vest and jumper over his head, dashing past them for the door. `Er, sorry about this fellas,' the winger told them, before wrenching open the door and skipping out in the corridor, leaving their little domestic behind - okay, okay, two City loan players stuck in Sheffield, apparently a bit more than just buddies. As he walked quickly away from the room, he couldn't help but swell with selfish pride - so ginger had a boyfriend to room with, and he STILL wanted a ride on the Star-Boy? Hehe. Harvey didn't have to wait long to get his cock in a peachy bum, though he didn't risk enquiring about relationship status in the room of McAtee and Doyle; this later interaction was one fuelled a bit more by hotel bar beer, the win over France allowing for such a party. A 4-0 win, for fuck's sake - allez that, Frogs. Although he was a tiny bit pissed off not to add his name to that score-sheet, the teenager was fucking chuffed to have been part of the gaffer's starting line-up, and he was keen to enjoy himself at the squad party - he was smart and tactful enough to see that many of these lads might join him when he ascended to the senior Three Lions team, and he needed to make good buddies here who would support him when he was winning the 2026 World Cup. The energy of the celebration drinks gravitated inevitably around the team's four goal-scorers, and Harvey begrudgingly went with that flow, a little envious and resentful to hear repeated and embellished accounts of each goal from the lot of them. From his own Liverpool colleague Curtis Jones, he could take it more comfortably, and he was happy to slap the big fella on the back and cheer him on, just glad to hear the 22-year-old brave some semi-public speaking and get through his account without stumbling too much on his words; for his lanky big-dicked pal, he felt a more genuine and warm pride, though smug Arsenal prick Emile Smith-Rowe was a bit more challenging. ESR had been full of himself all week, in Harvey's opinion, which didn't make sense since the Arsenal winger had made a full England debut with the big boys and yet fallen back here to Under-21. With Madueke and Ramsey, Elliott found he really had to feign interest, wanting a bit of limelight and glory for himself, but without much to show for his performance in the game. He wasn't sure how he ended up seated on barstools with Norwich City's Max Aarons, but they had been substituted at similarly annoying moments in the game, both sure that they could have stayed on the pitch and contributed more, even if the 4-0 score somewhat justified their bosses' decisions. The disgruntled pair hardly sat there on the barstools and turned into a pair of old grouches, but they did find themselves in a kind of mutually subdued mode compared to the loud drunken enjoyment of the other lads. Harvey wasn't even openly flirting with the 23-year-old Londoner - just stretching out his sweatpants-clad legs and leaning casually back on the bar with his arms at his sides. But the other U21 player kept giving him what can only be described as The Look. Checking him out? Without a few beers in him, Harvey might have paused to check himself - it was possible that Max was just admiring his cool hair or his neatly styled goatee or his designer gear. But the way the week was going, Harvey's ego was swelling like his bulge. `What you say we go have a drink up in my room?' Elliott said with just enough brazenness, stroking the shoulder of Aarons' loose-fitting top quite discreetly. And that was that: about fifteen minutes later, twenty at most, the 19-year-old Liverpool starlet was ploughing the Canary in the en suite bathroom of his suite - he didn't want to make a mess of his bedding and have to explain it to a gormlessly believing Jones. With his sweatpants and his undies about his ankle, he held the other lad forward against the sink unit, gripping him just above the hips, and shoving his crotch rapidly and eagerly into the big bouncy cheeks of Max's perfect brown rump; in response, the 23-year-old Londoner gasped and moaned for him, his screwed-up face of ecstasy reflected beautifully in the mirror over the sink. His big cheeks jiggled and shook with each powered-up thrust of Harvey's tight muscular middle, and he was loving the mirror reflection that added to it - as well as seeing the groaning delight on the defender's face, he could see his own shimmering mask of dominant energy, and the bounce and flick of his messy hair. He fucked him with all of the enthusiasm that he might have topped Doyle, and a few spoonfuls more, the additional testosterone and attack that had built up in the course of the France game and his restricted involvement there. He fucked him like he wanted to fuck the France goal and add a 5th goal to that tally, and really earn the attention of the senior squad reps who always followed Under-21 action, ready to report back to the top gaffer. `That's it,' whined the Norwich player, who had sucked and wanked him very eagerly after the beers from the mini-bar were opened, but now sitting untouched back in the main bedroom. As soon as Max's willingness was obvious, both of them hard in their sweats, Harvey had been hurrying him in here and tearing down his bottoms, slapping and grabbing at one of the roundest bubble butts in the English leagues. In and out of it he pumped, thrusting hard against the sexy 23-year-old, really making him moan for it, asking him illogically who his daddy was, despite being four years his junior. `You are,' Max confirmed in a shaky gasp, staring eye-to-eye with him in the mirror. `You are, Harv!' Fuck yes, he thought, this bitch knows the truth! Shooting his load up the perfect brown skin of Max's back was one special climax, but the camp held one even more satisfying orgasm for the 19-year-old, and this was really the one that lingered with him as he showered and changed in the Craven Cottage home locker-room, tossing dirty England kit into his bag to keep as souvenirs, and saying his goodbyes to the lads as they went their separate ways. This one had happened on Sunday, checked in to the same North London hotel complex as their senior parallels - like the main squad, the Under-21s were making use of the Tottenham Hotspur ground as a training base for the day, and the younger team were to have VIP tickets for England-Ukraine at Wembley that night. Again, motivation and inspiration ahead of their Croatia game... but for Elliott, a dazzling view into what he saw as his own inevitable destiny. Lunchtime, and the quarter of the large Spurs training rectory where Harvey's youth team had been placed for their buffet of healthy salads: echoes of cheerful chatter from the tables around him, and the more muted voices of senior players from the other side of the room. There was a good mood among the U21s, still riding on last night's 4-0 win, and a sense that visiting Wembley to watch their counterparts was a symbol of transition, a readying for some of them to make their leap at the next call-up - Harvey thought this was largely bollocks, and that some of these loan-meisters had already peaked. He wasn't mean, just realistic. Cynicism, hangover, exhaustion from an hour-long fuck session in Max Aarons' hole; there were a few reasons why the 19-year-old felt jaded and faded at his lunch table, sitting between an unusually chatty Curtis, and City's Cole Palmer. Whichever reason was top of the list, he wasn't paying attention to the talk of his neighbours, but watching the room in a vague yet observant way - observant enough to spot one other team member get up and slip away from the next table without actually saying anything to anyone. This in itself was not that odd, they weren't at school or military camp, but there was something quite furtive and discreet about the way that Arsenal's Emile Smith-Rowe detached himself from the table of his friends and teammates, and made for one of the exits; furtive and discreet enough to arouse Harvey's natural curiosity. Not observant enough to spot who had got up and slipped away form the other end of the dining hall, mind. After a moment's pause, the Liverpool player murmured a half-formed excuse to Curtis and Cole, and he too left his table in a manner designed to attract minimal attention; hopefully nobody was as bored and curious in his direction as he'd been in Emile's. Scratching a little at the front of his shorts, the 5ft7 stud exited the refectory in a quick but casual strut, trying to somehow project the need for a piss to explain his departure - out through the same exit that he'd spied the Arsenal player dip through, out of the dining hall and down a long narrow corridor. It broke off into multiple routes through the expensive-looking training complex of the North London losers, but he saw a door narrowly close and knew which way he needed to go... he held back, careful not to alert or panic the other lad, but pausing before that and the next door, and listening ahead to the steps, and then... the voices. He was at the door to one of the physio rooms, and he could hear Emile for sure: `This needs to be quick', it sounded like. Another voice: muffled, or inarticulate, and less immediately recognisable to him. Older? Having followed his teammate this far, Harvey paused before pushing further in his nosiness... what was he actually doing? What did he suspect? Why did he care? Was this just some specific hangover of his mild resentment at Emile last night, just because his rival winger had secured an important goal, the first of the night? Yep, definitely a dollop of that last one. But also... he was a nosy bastard. He leaned in close to the door, straining to hear the voices more clearly. `You said you needed a gobful of me,' came Smith-Rowe's almost sneering voice. Again, the other voice was less clear, but in the muffle was a `Yes' and a `Please', and now Harvey was really intrigued - fuck, this was getting dirty. He grabbed himself loosely in his shorts and pushed closer to the door, pressing his ear against it, fingering the handle and wondering if he could risk opening it a crack or so. `Well get going,' he heard the Arsenal midfielder say in a voice that was all challenge and confrontation - there was something sexy about the demanding confidence in it, something that had never quite struck him about the 6ft fellow Surrey lad; yeah, they'd fooled about slightly when they were younger, that time in the toilets at the Emirates, but Harvey wasn't that lad any more, some cock-sucking bitch... he was the stud who'd topped James fucking Milner, LFC daddy supreme, and who'd forced Mo Salah into his first tiny taste of salty cock, even just for a few seconds. Without meaning to, he leaned forward a bit too heavily, and his sweaty hand pulled tighter about the door-handle, until it jerked down. The door swung inwards a little and Harvey pushed forward through it, right into the room beyond, and treated to quite a view: Emile standing by the physio bed with his back this way, a framed view of his sturdy pale tan arse on show beneath the hem of his training top, his shorts halfway down thick blond thighs... and hands clutching at them, belonging to the tall man on his knees for him, whose long face was leaning to one side to stare this way in abject horror. A distinctively bearded face with small eyes and a neat sweep of honey-brown hair. A man who'd already been an England icon before his new goal record on Thursday night. Fucking hell. `Come in,' hissed Emile, bossy but also calm, nodding in a beckoning way. `Fuck,' mouthed Harry Kane, married dad, very quietly. `Fuck,' echoed Harvey Elliott, eyes lighting up with excitement. In he went, tugging the door after him, and flicking the latch that his Arsenal counterpart had failed to. He grabbed at his crotch in case the semi there wasn't obvious enough, and he stepped forward until he was side-by-side with the 6ft Croydon lad. Emile towered over him, but 6ft2 striker Harry was down on his knees before them, dwarfed by two U21s. In a rush, Harvey looked from Harry's worried long face to Emile's confident grin, then back down at the cock in his mate's hand, and to his own fist, curled about the outline of his. `Hungry enough for two?' Smith-Rowe purred at Kane, whose worry seemed to recede. England's all-time top goal-scorer didn't look frightened any more, he looked... greedy. And without much ceremony, Emile fed him. Harvey watched, wide-eyed, and wasted no time in reaching into his shorts and pulling out his sweaty erection, the same one that had fucked Aarons until he squealed. It turned out that Emile, far less smug than last night, was pretty good at sharing, and the two up-and-coming studs shared the greedy mouth equally, neither taking much more than a minute with their cock in it, smearing their heads and foreskins against his lips and facial hair. His eyes still looked panicked, because Harvey was clearly not something he'd planned or begged for - Harvey's mind was spiralling with questions about the arrangement between these two, and the sense that this wasn't even a one-off or a new thing, but some ongoing affair between the Spurs talisman and the Arsenal youth. But those were questions that would hit him more fully later, when he was in the VIP stands of Wembley, suited up like the rest of the squad, cheering on Harry Kane as the big masculine England captain, the most prolific striker in their history... and a fucking great cock-sucker, it turned out, slobbering all over Harvey's prick in blissful moments before returning to the thick meat that Emile was thrusting into his face. More shocking, and more exciting: `Fuck me,' Kane begged at one point, twisting his neck to stare obediently up at Smith-Rowe. `No,' the Arsenal player was growling at the kneeling striker, and Harvey had to stop himself interjecting and putting up a hand: `I volunteer as tribute!' No fucking, or at least not of the tall older man's broad arse - just of his eager mouth, and cocks slapped against his cheeks and rubbed against the tip of his nose or the lines of his chin. Yeah, it had been fun for Harvey to wank and cum in that four-way jerk after the gym, or to finger Tommy's ginger-flecked arse, or to smash Max in his en suite and watch it in the mirror; it had been fun to see Curtis' big member and wonder if he should try and lead his buddy astray, and even more fun to think that a skinny Leicester twink was watching him wash his balls in the shower... but this was the moment that really inflated Harvey's ego and made him smirk to himself as he exited Craven Cottage for a late train back to Liverpool, sure that his international future was bright. Breathless, rosy-cheeked, balls pulsing; he emptied his watery load over the face of the 29-year-old, smearing cum across Harry's long nose, over his tufty facial hair and open lips, his poking tongue. Harvey's cum mingled with Emile's in painting the features of the striker hero, their future captain, and claiming some kind of dominance over the senior player. Harvey gasped and moaned in both sexual and ambitious climax. If he'd been a bit more rational and less drunk on arousal, he might have paused to note that feeding cum to Harry Kane hadn't stopped his friend-rival from languishing here in the Under-21s, but that was a complex thought for a 19-year-old who was in the process of dumping his cum over the face of a world-famous national captain. Harvey groaned dizzily and leaned on Emile for support, who grabbed him about the shoulders and laughed, pushing both of their dirty nobs into Harry's mouth to get licked clean, and growling down at him: `Eat it up, slut, taste that manly juice... yeah, that's it... haha... lovely...' And Harvey blinked and stared in disbelief, and carried that image with him for days and weeks to come, sure now that his senior call-up was around the corner. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2023 23:19:12 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 356 Part 356: The Lion Cub On the banks of the Thames, a whistle blew and marked the end of the friendly game; the Croatian visitors were victorious 2-1, in spite of the English team's last-minute resurgence, and the white-clad young players could do nothing but grimace respectfully and lift their hands in vague applause to the opposition players and the thin crowd of spectators inside Craven Cottage, the riverside Fulham ground that was hosting this fixture. This was not the full Three Lions force that had dominated its two qualifier games in the last week, but the next generation who might carry that mantle: a bold and ambitious Under-21s side who had been representing the country at their own level over a handful of games. He raised his hands and clapped with as much quiet honour as any of his teammates, moving through the centre of the youth squad's slow retreat, leaving the Croatians to enjoy themselves - a bit excessively, in his opinion, for a fucking friendly on a damp Tuesday night - and making way for the tunnel. It was a stadium he knew fairly well, and the 5ft7 winger could certainly claim to play more first-team minutes than most young lads on this squad, even as one of their younger members at 19. He strutted to the tunnel mouth and took the hugs and handshakes of the U21 management crew, a slightly less celebrated cluster of coaches than Southgate or his entourage - and indoors the young footballer went, his mane of curly hair bouncing a little as he shucked off one boot at a time and then swung them at his side, following the loose line of future England hopefuls towards the home changing rooms that they'd been assigned. In this locker-room was an uneasy positivity as the boys collectively shrugged away the defeat, keen to dismiss it as unimportant, but disappointed nonetheless by their lacklustre stats against the visitors - and Harvey Elliott was a little less quick to dismiss or laugh away the result, perhaps a bit more proud and ambitious than some of the `small club' players who formed his comrades on this short tour. The 19-year-old stripped away sweaty white kit from his compact muscular body, thinking eagerly about the prospect of replacing it with proper senior kit come the next big tournament - could he really be out there in the 2024 Euros, kicking it with the big boys and replacing his own captain Jordan Henderson in the starting line-up of Southgate's Lions...? Harvey liked to think so, charting his own trajectory from 16-year-old upstart to successful Championship loanee and now regular starter for a club as prestigious as his beloved LFC. He scrunched up the England shirt in his clammy hands and stared thoughtfully at his name and number on the back, more than ready to fight for that first senior cap - after all, he'd sighted a fellow 19-year-old upstart across the more communal areas of St George's Park last week, and watched enviously as lanky Jude Bellingham jostled and bantered with the likes of Hendo, Walker and Stones, clearly an established part of the Three Lions already. Huh. A natural competitiveness in Elliott riled at this fact, and at the strong rumours that still suggested the Birmingham sensation might sign for Liverpool and join him at Anfield - did Harvey really want another teen prodigy in the midfield to take the fans' adoration away from his plucky fight...? An ambiguous no, because he wasn't blind, and he could see what a rising force the other lad was. Shorts off, Harvey lingered at his spot in the square room, still staring ruminatively at his discarded white kit, and wanting this to be the last time he donned the U21 version of the real thing - if Jude could prove himself in a World Cup campaign, then it was surely time for Liverpool's current `Star Boy' to make his claim too. Still... this past week had been fun. The curly-headed lad stood there in his tight-fitting Puma compression shorts, unable to contain a knowing little smirk, glancing about him at the stripping players who were disappearing into the showers one by one. Oh yeah, he thought with a silent chuckle, quite the week of fun. Some of it, he supposed, was barely more than a gentle tease of possibility: early last week, at the end of the first day's full training together, and a brief thrilling episode in the shower block of their changing facilities. An ego boost, he admitted to himself, given that he'd been training only one pitch away from the sight of the senior England squad warming up and beginning to bond ahead of their Italian jaunt - he'd heard it said that the proximity and occasionally intermingling of the squad levels was meant to be motivational and inspiring, but he was just starting to find it fucking annoying. At 19, he was no longer thrilled by the novelty of youth positions, just as he'd been at the top of the Liverpool Academy - he wanted the real thing, not some childish warm-up. He couldn't help but cringe scornfully at the fact so many of his teammates here were 22 or 23, ageing past the name of the team, and still not cutting their teeth under Southgate. Hot showers that day, steaming almost painfully against cold skin, because it had been constant drizzle and mist through the afternoon. Harvey was as glad as anyone to soak himself beneath the heat and to scrub flecks of mud and turf away from his shins and calves, to soap up lightly aching muscles, and to shake his shaggy young lion's mane under the blast of his shower. It was just as he rinsed the lather of shampoo from his curls, running fingers vigorously through the styled mop, that he noticed it. He was showering at the end of a central line of positions, where the wall cut off and there was a steamy tiled space before the adjacent wall and the next row of showerheads. At the nearest of those, he caught sight of a slim figure about as pale as his own, but noticeable in turning around to look this way - there were others there, fixedly facing the wall as they washed themselves and disappeared in a fair hurry, loud masculine voices echoing against the gushing sounds of plumbing. Elliott was a natural exhibitionist, it turned out, because he immediately loved the suggestion that this other lad was specifically looking his way - his position at the end of this wall put him in perfect view, essentially at the centre of the rectangular room, half-exposed to the view form that corner. Without flinching, the 19-year-old winger turned his stubby goateed face and grinned across the haze, acknowledging the lingering look... It was that skinny twink, Luke Thomas, half-turned this way with an almost stricken look on his lean face. Definitely looking this way, that was for sure, and seemingly not at head height, but looking downwards - the Liverpool player couldn't stop himself, he took one shampoo-slicked paw and rubbed it down the centre of his tummy, along the faint trail of hair that was sprouting there, and then ran it teasingly against the droop of his soft cock and chubby balls, watching the shifting gaze of the lad's thin face. And then the Leicestershire 21-year-old seemed to collect himself, blink and start, and look sharply back upwards - for just a moment their eyes met, though Harvey supposed Luke's view must be as steam-obscured as his own, and he could see the faint pantomime of horror and shame on the LFC left-back's long face. And then the dark-haired taller lad turned sharply away, back to the wall, and the passing physique of two U21 goalkeepers blocked Harvey's view... he could just turn back to finishing the rinse down of his crotch and gently sniggering to himself, loving the idea that some curious young Fox had been eyeing him up. However... it led to nothing. He tried very hard to catch Luke's eye back in the humid warmth of the locker-room, or over the team meal that they were taken for at a local Thai restaurant for bonding, and yet he found that Thomas evaded him at every opportunity for the rest of the camp. If the 21-year-old left-back WAS curious, or whatever, then he'd been so freaked out to be caught looking that he'd retreated into his shell like a frightened tortoise - no real fun there for young Elliott, just a momentary ego boost and a lingering semi. And there were the moments in his hotel room too, though these were not so novel: after all, it was hardly the first time he'd shared a room with the slightly older Academu graduate and genuine Scouser, Curtis Jones. That being said, it WAS the first time he'd roomed with the lanky dope for such a number of days, across multiple hotels, and noticed how fucking careless his stuttering buddy was... Careless in a lot of ways, from leaving towels on the floor to using the wrong toothpaste, to realising he'd forgotten to bring deodorant - all that kinda shit. But also careless with his kit, and his bedding, so that one morning when a full bladder dragged Harvey out of bed at 5am, he had to stop himself in the exuded glow of the en suite, looking at the magnificent sight on the neighbouring bed - the 6ft1 young man was stretched out in a typically awkward pose on his bedding, with his duvet quite disturbed and misplaced, so much so that it was crossing his midriff and knees, but pulled away around the crotch area, so that Harvey could see the lad's impressively long python coiled against a hairy thigh. It was obvious from the way that the lanky fuck's long legs jutted out at the foot of the bed that he didn't typically sleep in the nude, but had pushed his pants down for one reason or another - there was only one reason though, surely - and they now dwelt about his ankles, so that Harvey could stroll back across the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, and pause between their beds, looking at a perfect confirmation of just how well-hung the dopey Scouse bugger was. There was a deliciously tempting moment in this pre-dawn fug when Elliott hovered next to Jones' bed and was well tempted to just steal a little grab or stroke of the monster that he always had to watch bouncing about like a ferret in his pal's shorts or tracksuits - but he thought better of such naughtiness and played kind bro instead, pulling the duvet back into place and giving Curtis some dignity that was rather undermined by his chainsaw snoring. With a chuckle and zero chance of getting back to sleep, Harvey climbed back into bed and tugged himself off, enjoying both the dormant serpent that he'd seen at close range, and the growing mental certainty that the Leicester player had a crush on him. And there'd been some more successful shared looks of naughtiness in locker rooms, towards the end of the training week, but before the France fixture on the Saturday. Harvey thought he was the initiator of what happened, but it was hard to tell, perhaps the others had already been mustering the idea or intimating the mood to one another - but he was certainly the one who sat there under the rack of kit-hooks with his top off and his shorts tight about his thick fluffy hands, popping a hand over his bulge and loudly declaring that he wasn't used to a whole week with no girls to look after his needs. It wasn't a lewd comment out of nowhere - he'd noticed the way that the other lads kept grabbing at themselves, a simmering undercurrent of frustration which he understood but which also got him really excited. No sooner had Elliott made this bold claim about his usual sex life when the most senior of this small post-gym gathering started trolling him in a deep voice, stripping off just a few feet to his left. But one Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder was down to his black briefs, he took the bulge in the front of them in one hand and muttered his conclusion: `But I know what you mean, bruv, I got some FULL balls, you get me?' Stood there with a hand over his big thick package, Morgan Gibbs-White turned and flashed a toothy smile at him, and then shot thoughtful looks at the others. `TMI?' suggested one of the others, 6ft2 centre-back Levi Colwell - a Chelsea youth who was currently moonlight at Bright &amp; Hove Albion. `What, you don't feel the same?' chuckled another lofty centre-back in his deep Lancashire accent - this was another loanee, Leeds' Charlie Cresswell, currently at Millwall or some shithole like that - Harvey could hardly keep up with these lads' yo-yo fledgling careers, adding to his frustration for a senior call-up. And so Harvey moved things along, staying sat on the bench where he was, but pushing a blatant hand into the front of his tight training shorts, and grinning from lad to lad before flashing a meaningful wink back at Gibbs-White. `I'm just gonna have to tug one off now before dinner,' he announced coolly, ready to turn his sultry expression into hysterical laughter if the notion didn't meet with grunting approval - there was definitely a long quiet pause where it might have been met with jeers and insults, but Morgan's ensuing laugh was lusty and frustrated, and it was Leeds export Charlie who loudly called it - `Yeah, time for a circle-jerk, haha?' Maybe the 20-year-old giant from Preston was joking, but Harvey just got up and pushed his shorts down his thighs and off, his bare young body a little glossy with sweat from the workout, and his cock already semi in his trunks. Minutes later, he had his dick out and in his hand, seated back down and the others occupying positions about this same corner of the room, parallel pairs at a perpen-dick-ular angle. The grunts were interspersed with bursts of rough laddish laughter, mingled with self-conscious efforts to suppress the natural moans of self-pleasure. Harvey exaggerated his own confidence and certainty - as experienced as he was becoming around other horny men, he still knew this was risky and pushing boundaries, and he was conscious of only half-knowing any of these other lads. He was also a little stuck with the dilemma of enjoying the sordid little scene and not being a Luke Thomas and staring too overtly at any of his pal's members, giving away too much of his own... tastes. This wasn't as hardcore as some games he'd been embroiled in, to put it lightly, this was just four horny footy lads jerking off after a tough workout, letting off a bit of steam before showering down and being called to a fairly formal dinner where they would be meeting a bunch of FA representatives who wanted to drill them about professionalism in the France fixture. Professionalism could wait - these were four testosterone-drunk youths with heavy balls and rabid appetites, wanking themselves silly and stinking of gym-sweat. Harvey was so excited by it all that he had to slow down very deliberately and hold onto his orgasm, and he was glad he did - long enough at least to see that big 6ft3 defender on loan from Leeds cum first, spewing spunk up his tummy and cackling as he did so; and then Brighton's Levi too, the 20-year-old who had been the most marginally hesitant of them, but was now groaning quite heavily as he spunked into a handful of tissue, none of Charlie's confident mirth. But Harvey himself came after this, unable to stop himself, and spurting white streaks over the downy hair of his thighs; thus he watched Morgan, the 23-year-old Forest stud, nut all over the floor in a messy puddle whilst in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss, almost losing his self-discipline and rushing forward to lick up the drops of jizz that lingered on the stout 5ft7 lad's chunky tool. The group wank was over almost as soon as it had started, ending in a chorus of brash laughter and a few self-conscious groans of `Did we just do that?' - and Harvey just thought idly how it was a shame that his buddy Curtis had left the gym early, and not had a chance to show off his brute to these other lads, haha. But things had gotten more intense just the next day, during an afternoon rest period before they had to travel from hotel to stadium to face the young Frenchmen. This one seemed to happen just as rapidly and convenient, and Harvey was hardly sure how he went from chatting to a casual mate in the foyer to being knuckle-deep in tight pink hole about forty-five minutes later. `That's it,' he gasped, digging his single digit in deeper, feeling the strong muscles grip his finger, and jabbing it in and out in a rapid and purposeful fashion, almost drooling with excitement. The other body lay naked beneath him on the bed - the lad had stripped naked almost within seconds of them getting into the room and slamming the door shut behind them. How had it gone from a bit of banter about the France team being a bunch of daft slags to this handsome redhead asking Harvey what he liked doing to slags, to Harvey daring him to take him back to his room and find out? The conversation had moved quickly and fluidly, and opportunity had thrown itself in the 19-year-old lion cub's lap. He dug his finger in deeper, poised over him on the gently squeaking bed. `Take my finger, you slag,' he giggled, twisting and pushing it, really taking over the tight little hole that lay between the pale smooth cheeks. He grinned eagerly to himself, unwilling to remove his finger from the hot tightness, but poising over him so he could appreciate the slim strong beauty of the pale freckled body beneath him on the bedding. With his other hand, he reached for the soft gingery hair and pushed the lad's face down into the covers, whilst finally withdrawing his finger so he could land a light spank on one white week and leave a faint red print where he did. Then back at it, but not one finger, two - a bit more spit for lube should help. On the bed, his teammate squealed. Harvey was less naked, only his jumper and vest discarded by the door, but shorts still tenting around his erection, and socks and trainers leaving dirty marks on the pale blue bedding. He'd been in such a rush to follow this earnest-looking 21-year-old in here and across to the room, and he was so excited at the prospect of topping again - he'd been desperate for it since that second time of being allowed between Milner's adamantium glutes. This afternoon's slut was different though, slim but a little softer at the edges, and his bottom so doughy and jiggly, great - Harvey pushed too fingers into his hole and gasped eagerly, gripping his thick strong erection through his shorts, hovering over him and muttering out more dirty talk - `You taking those two fingers, wanna try three?' he rasped. `God you're a good slag after all, ain't you, Tommy fella!' Under him, Manchester City's ginger-haired local lad groaned and yelped, turning his face a little but unable to fully look at him - those blue eyes were wide and needy, his cheeks flushed scarlet, god he was quite cute like this, though he'd never caught Harvey's eye before. He dug his two fingers deep into Tommy Doyle, frigging the loaned midfielder and prodding at his intimate hole, readying it to try and thrust his cock into any moment now. He was leaking pre-cum against his undies and his shorts, and he couldn't believe that he'd discovered a willing bottom in this Sheffield United midfield player! Any moment, Harvey would have pushed down the shorts and tried to replace the two sphincter-grippy fingers with the real deal, except the beep of a keycard and the click of a lock marked the beginning of the interruption - Harvey only half-heard it through his own pants, and pinned between him and the bed, Thomas was perhaps entirely deaf to it, still gasping and telling him `Yes, try three!' But then they were both of them looking up and across, the hotel room door shutting with a louder thump than its opening. Harvey knelt there, hard and leaking, and still pressing two digits into the doughy bottom of the Man City lad. But Doyle was instantly wriggling and rising up, exclaiming `James!' at the top of his voice. With some reluctance, Harvey pulled away his greasy fingers and slid aside, holding hands up innocently like a bystander at a bank robbery - whilst the 5ft8 naked youth scampered and stumbled from the bed into the centre of the room, and their interrupter froze at the doorway, head to toe in England training gear, and his face a picture of outrage. `Whoa, how did my fingers get in there?' was all Elliott could find to joke, leaping awkwardly off the bed himself and reaching down to grab up his bundle of clothes with his clean hand, forcing out a cocky laugh and wavering between the obstacle of the other two - one naked and red-faced, the other practically shaking in shock. `James,' Tommy insisted in a rushing voice, `it ain't what it looks like!' The Manc lad had a real panic and fear in his voice, one that Harvey himself refused to give in to - fuck it, he'd been caught frigging a lad's arse, but who was James fucking McAtee to judge him? He was, like Doyle, another Pep Guardiola reject who'd been indefinitely loaned out to lame old Sheffield United, for fuck's sake - what could either of them say to a regular Liverpool starter like himself? Pricks. The 19-year-old was, of course, ready for a fight. But he'd misunderstood the dynamic slightly. `Tommy,' gasped 20-year-old James, his eyes suddenly shiny. `What the fuck?' `It ain't like that,' the first Manc lad called at him, rushing forward, but instantly held back by McAtee's hands on his shoulders and biceps; Harvey blinked slowly at them in comprehension, registering the intense emotion on the Salford lad's tanned features, and the rough and tumble of the other two players. `How could you?' James was shouting accusingly, whilst Tommy just kept repeating his name. Elliott stared at them for a moment and then wiped his two dirty fingers across his tummy and pulled his vest and jumper over his head, dashing past them for the door. `Er, sorry about this fellas,' the winger told them, before wrenching open the door and skipping out in the corridor, leaving their little domestic behind - okay, okay, two City loan players stuck in Sheffield, apparently a bit more than just buddies. As he walked quickly away from the room, he couldn't help but swell with selfish pride - so ginger had a boyfriend to room with, and he STILL wanted a ride on the Star-Boy? Hehe. Harvey didn't have to wait long to get his cock in a peachy bum, though he didn't risk enquiring about relationship status in the room of McAtee and Doyle; this later interaction was one fuelled a bit more by hotel bar beer, the win over France allowing for such a party. A 4-0 win, for fuck's sake - allez that, Frogs. Although he was a tiny bit pissed off not to add his name to that score-sheet, the teenager was fucking chuffed to have been part of the gaffer's starting line-up, and he was keen to enjoy himself at the squad party - he was smart and tactful enough to see that many of these lads might join him when he ascended to the senior Three Lions team, and he needed to make good buddies here who would support him when he was winning the 2026 World Cup. The energy of the celebration drinks gravitated inevitably around the team's four goal-scorers, and Harvey begrudgingly went with that flow, a little envious and resentful to hear repeated and embellished accounts of each goal from the lot of them. From his own Liverpool colleague Curtis Jones, he could take it more comfortably, and he was happy to slap the big fella on the back and cheer him on, just glad to hear the 22-year-old brave some semi-public speaking and get through his account without stumbling too much on his words; for his lanky big-dicked pal, he felt a more genuine and warm pride, though smug Arsenal prick Emile Smith-Rowe was a bit more challenging. ESR had been full of himself all week, in Harvey's opinion, which didn't make sense since the Arsenal winger had made a full England debut with the big boys and yet fallen back here to Under-21. With Madueke and Ramsey, Elliott found he really had to feign interest, wanting a bit of limelight and glory for himself, but without much to show for his performance in the game. He wasn't sure how he ended up seated on barstools with Norwich City's Max Aarons, but they had been substituted at similarly annoying moments in the game, both sure that they could have stayed on the pitch and contributed more, even if the 4-0 score somewhat justified their bosses' decisions. The disgruntled pair hardly sat there on the barstools and turned into a pair of old grouches, but they did find themselves in a kind of mutually subdued mode compared to the loud drunken enjoyment of the other lads. Harvey wasn't even openly flirting with the 23-year-old Londoner - just stretching out his sweatpants-clad legs and leaning casually back on the bar with his arms at his sides. But the other U21 player kept giving him what can only be described as The Look. Checking him out? Without a few beers in him, Harvey might have paused to check himself - it was possible that Max was just admiring his cool hair or his neatly styled goatee or his designer gear. But the way the week was going, Harvey's ego was swelling like his bulge. `What you say we go have a drink up in my room?' Elliott said with just enough brazenness, stroking the shoulder of Aarons' loose-fitting top quite discreetly. And that was that: about fifteen minutes later, twenty at most, the 19-year-old Liverpool starlet was ploughing the Canary in the en suite bathroom of his suite - he didn't want to make a mess of his bedding and have to explain it to a gormlessly believing Jones. With his sweatpants and his undies about his ankle, he held the other lad forward against the sink unit, gripping him just above the hips, and shoving his crotch rapidly and eagerly into the big bouncy cheeks of Max's perfect brown rump; in response, the 23-year-old Londoner gasped and moaned for him, his screwed-up face of ecstasy reflected beautifully in the mirror over the sink. His big cheeks jiggled and shook with each powered-up thrust of Harvey's tight muscular middle, and he was loving the mirror reflection that added to it - as well as seeing the groaning delight on the defender's face, he could see his own shimmering mask of dominant energy, and the bounce and flick of his messy hair. He fucked him with all of the enthusiasm that he might have topped Doyle, and a few spoonfuls more, the additional testosterone and attack that had built up in the course of the France game and his restricted involvement there. He fucked him like he wanted to fuck the France goal and add a 5th goal to that tally, and really earn the attention of the senior squad reps who always followed Under-21 action, ready to report back to the top gaffer. `That's it,' whined the Norwich player, who had sucked and wanked him very eagerly after the beers from the mini-bar were opened, but now sitting untouched back in the main bedroom. As soon as Max's willingness was obvious, both of them hard in their sweats, Harvey had been hurrying him in here and tearing down his bottoms, slapping and grabbing at one of the roundest bubble butts in the English leagues. In and out of it he pumped, thrusting hard against the sexy 23-year-old, really making him moan for it, asking him illogically who his daddy was, despite being four years his junior. `You are,' Max confirmed in a shaky gasp, staring eye-to-eye with him in the mirror. `You are, Harv!' Fuck yes, he thought, this bitch knows the truth! Shooting his load up the perfect brown skin of Max's back was one special climax, but the camp held one even more satisfying orgasm for the 19-year-old, and this was really the one that lingered with him as he showered and changed in the Craven Cottage home locker-room, tossing dirty England kit into his bag to keep as souvenirs, and saying his goodbyes to the lads as they went their separate ways. This one had happened on Sunday, checked in to the same North London hotel complex as their senior parallels - like the main squad, the Under-21s were making use of the Tottenham Hotspur ground as a training base for the day, and the younger team were to have VIP tickets for England-Ukraine at Wembley that night. Again, motivation and inspiration ahead of their Croatia game... but for Elliott, a dazzling view into what he saw as his own inevitable destiny. Lunchtime, and the quarter of the large Spurs training rectory where Harvey's youth team had been placed for their buffet of healthy salads: echoes of cheerful chatter from the tables around him, and the more muted voices of senior players from the other side of the room. There was a good mood among the U21s, still riding on last night's 4-0 win, and a sense that visiting Wembley to watch their counterparts was a symbol of transition, a readying for some of them to make their leap at the next call-up - Harvey thought this was largely bollocks, and that some of these loan-meisters had already peaked. He wasn't mean, just realistic. Cynicism, hangover, exhaustion from an hour-long fuck session in Max Aarons' hole; there were a few reasons why the 19-year-old felt jaded and faded at his lunch table, sitting between an unusually chatty Curtis, and City's Cole Palmer. Whichever reason was top of the list, he wasn't paying attention to the talk of his neighbours, but watching the room in a vague yet observant way - observant enough to spot one other team member get up and slip away from the next table without actually saying anything to anyone. This in itself was not that odd, they weren't at school or military camp, but there was something quite furtive and discreet about the way that Arsenal's Emile Smith-Rowe detached himself from the table of his friends and teammates, and made for one of the exits; furtive and discreet enough to arouse Harvey's natural curiosity. Not observant enough to spot who had got up and slipped away form the other end of the dining hall, mind. After a moment's pause, the Liverpool player murmured a half-formed excuse to Curtis and Cole, and he too left his table in a manner designed to attract minimal attention; hopefully nobody was as bored and curious in his direction as he'd been in Emile's. Scratching a little at the front of his shorts, the 5ft7 stud exited the refectory in a quick but casual strut, trying to somehow project the need for a piss to explain his departure - out through the same exit that he'd spied the Arsenal player dip through, out of the dining hall and down a long narrow corridor. It broke off into multiple routes through the expensive-looking training complex of the North London losers, but he saw a door narrowly close and knew which way he needed to go... he held back, careful not to alert or panic the other lad, but pausing before that and the next door, and listening ahead to the steps, and then... the voices. He was at the door to one of the physio rooms, and he could hear Emile for sure: `This needs to be quick', it sounded like. Another voice: muffled, or inarticulate, and less immediately recognisable to him. Older? Having followed his teammate this far, Harvey paused before pushing further in his nosiness... what was he actually doing? What did he suspect? Why did he care? Was this just some specific hangover of his mild resentment at Emile last night, just because his rival winger had secured an important goal, the first of the night? Yep, definitely a dollop of that last one. But also... he was a nosy bastard. He leaned in close to the door, straining to hear the voices more clearly. `You said you needed a gobful of me,' came Smith-Rowe's almost sneering voice. Again, the other voice was less clear, but in the muffle was a `Yes' and a `Please', and now Harvey was really intrigued - fuck, this was getting dirty. He grabbed himself loosely in his shorts and pushed closer to the door, pressing his ear against it, fingering the handle and wondering if he could risk opening it a crack or so. `Well get going,' he heard the Arsenal midfielder say in a voice that was all challenge and confrontation - there was something sexy about the demanding confidence in it, something that had never quite struck him about the 6ft fellow Surrey lad; yeah, they'd fooled about slightly when they were younger, that time in the toilets at the Emirates, but Harvey wasn't that lad any more, some cock-sucking bitch... he was the stud who'd topped James fucking Milner, LFC daddy supreme, and who'd forced Mo Salah into his first tiny taste of salty cock, even just for a few seconds. Without meaning to, he leaned forward a bit too heavily, and his sweaty hand pulled tighter about the door-handle, until it jerked down. The door swung inwards a little and Harvey pushed forward through it, right into the room beyond, and treated to quite a view: Emile standing by the physio bed with his back this way, a framed view of his sturdy pale tan arse on show beneath the hem of his training top, his shorts halfway down thick blond thighs... and hands clutching at them, belonging to the tall man on his knees for him, whose long face was leaning to one side to stare this way in abject horror. A distinctively bearded face with small eyes and a neat sweep of honey-brown hair. A man who'd already been an England icon before his new goal record on Thursday night. Fucking hell. `Come in,' hissed Emile, bossy but also calm, nodding in a beckoning way. `Fuck,' mouthed Harry Kane, married dad, very quietly. `Fuck,' echoed Harvey Elliott, eyes lighting up with excitement. In he went, tugging the door after him, and flicking the latch that his Arsenal counterpart had failed to. He grabbed at his crotch in case the semi there wasn't obvious enough, and he stepped forward until he was side-by-side with the 6ft Croydon lad. Emile towered over him, but 6ft2 striker Harry was down on his knees before them, dwarfed by two U21s. In a rush, Harvey looked from Harry's worried long face to Emile's confident grin, then back down at the cock in his mate's hand, and to his own fist, curled about the outline of his. `Hungry enough for two?' Smith-Rowe purred at Kane, whose worry seemed to recede. England's all-time top goal-scorer didn't look frightened any more, he looked... greedy. And without much ceremony, Emile fed him. Harvey watched, wide-eyed, and wasted no time in reaching into his shorts and pulling out his sweaty erection, the same one that had fucked Aarons until he squealed. It turned out that Emile, far less smug than last night, was pretty good at sharing, and the two up-and-coming studs shared the greedy mouth equally, neither taking much more than a minute with their cock in it, smearing their heads and foreskins against his lips and facial hair. His eyes still looked panicked, because Harvey was clearly not something he'd planned or begged for - Harvey's mind was spiralling with questions about the arrangement between these two, and the sense that this wasn't even a one-off or a new thing, but some ongoing affair between the Spurs talisman and the Arsenal youth. But those were questions that would hit him more fully later, when he was in the VIP stands of Wembley, suited up like the rest of the squad, cheering on Harry Kane as the big masculine England captain, the most prolific striker in their history... and a fucking great cock-sucker, it turned out, slobbering all over Harvey's prick in blissful moments before returning to the thick meat that Emile was thrusting into his face. More shocking, and more exciting: `Fuck me,' Kane begged at one point, twisting his neck to stare obediently up at Smith-Rowe. `No,' the Arsenal player was growling at the kneeling striker, and Harvey had to stop himself interjecting and putting up a hand: `I volunteer as tribute!' No fucking, or at least not of the tall older man's broad arse - just of his eager mouth, and cocks slapped against his cheeks and rubbed against the tip of his nose or the lines of his chin. Yeah, it had been fun for Harvey to wank and cum in that four-way jerk after the gym, or to finger Tommy's ginger-flecked arse, or to smash Max in his en suite and watch it in the mirror; it had been fun to see Curtis' big member and wonder if he should try and lead his buddy astray, and even more fun to think that a skinny Leicester twink was watching him wash his balls in the shower... but this was the moment that really inflated Harvey's ego and made him smirk to himself as he exited Craven Cottage for a late train back to Liverpool, sure that his international future was bright. Breathless, rosy-cheeked, balls pulsing; he emptied his watery load over the face of the 29-year-old, smearing cum across Harry's long nose, over his tufty facial hair and open lips, his poking tongue. Harvey's cum mingled with Emile's in painting the features of the striker hero, their future captain, and claiming some kind of dominance over the senior player. Harvey gasped and moaned in both sexual and ambitious climax. If he'd been a bit more rational and less drunk on arousal, he might have paused to note that feeding cum to Harry Kane hadn't stopped his friend-rival from languishing here in the Under-21s, but that was a complex thought for a 19-year-old who was in the process of dumping his cum over the face of a world-famous national captain. Harvey groaned dizzily and leaned on Emile for support, who grabbed him about the shoulders and laughed, pushing both of their dirty nobs into Harry's mouth to get licked clean, and growling down at him: `Eat it up, slut, taste that manly juice... yeah, that's it... haha... lovely...' And Harvey blinked and stared in disbelief, and carried that image with him for days and weeks to come, sure now that his senior call-up was around the corner. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-345

Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2023 19:18:29 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 345 Part 345: Warming Up In Mainz He lugged his bag at his side and tossed it forward so that it landed with a satisfying thud on the covers of the bed, the one at the further side of the slightly cramped room, nearest to the large old-fashioned radiator that seemed to service their suite on its own. Outside, the Rhineland was blanketed under frost and sub-zero temperatures, and so far the interior of the team's hotel was simply not as cosy or plush as any of the men might have anticipated. There was nothing dodgy as such about the Mainz accommodation that they had checked into tonight, but it wasn't quite at the usual slick corporate standard of hotel that their Bundesliga football club would ordinarily arrange across the major cities of Germany - if anything, it took the tall teenager back to his early playing days back home in Birmingham, life before he became a top-flight player and an international sensation. But right now all he could think about was the disappointingly lukewarm temperature, and journey past the bed to stand over the radiator and its ominous groans, testing to see just how much heat it might offer them through the chilly January night. `Huh,' Jude Bellingham remarked grimly. `It'll do.' He turned away from the heater but kept close to it, mirroring the behaviour of the other lad in beginning to strip off the outer layers that they'd retained in the draughty reception below whilst the bosses got them checked in and organised. Off came the Nike snood and the thin gloves, designer coats shucked and dumped on the backs of chairs, but Jude was slow to unzip the fleece top over his other layers, and he noticed that his Borussia Dortmund teammate wasn't rushing either. They shared a grim look and then both laughed, Bellingham shaking his head. `It isn't so bad,' he muttered, and then leant back, pressing the arse of his skinny-fit trackies against the heated metal, and rubbing the palms of his hands over the top of it, before pushing away and doing a small lap of the room, inspecting its chintzy decor and wondering what had gone wrong with logistics for them to drop a couple of stars in accommodation on this midweek away trip. `Have we stayed in worse?' the other player commented challengingly, but he didn't seem too worried, smirking behind the red-tinged fur of his beard, and opening up his small travel case to start removing a few personal things at the side of his bed. Salih Ozcan was a generally upbeat bloke and Jude supposed that was why he'd befriended the Cologne-born Turk more closely than many of his Dortmund colleagues this season; he enjoyed the 25-year-old's mindset and outlook, and the two had become regular roommates in the last few months, after Jude had spent a period feeling a bit lost when his former big bros Jadon Sancho and then Erling Haaland made the move to Manchester. And now that Jude's own Premiership return seemed so inevitable and obvious, he couldn't help but feel that certain Dortmund players had actually began to snub and ignore him, even though there seemed little chance that a transfer deal would be struck before this month closed. Yes, he was almost certainly on his way out in the summer, but Bellingham saw himself contributing a lot more to Dortmund before that rolled around, and it pissed him off that some of the native German players had begun to distance themselves from him since the World Cup. The 6ft1 teen went through into their bathroom, amused that it was almost the same size as the main bedroom, and pissed noisily on the seat of their shared toilet, a standard youth who'd spent too long away from the rules and stewardship of his parents. He nervously tested that the sink could spurt out some hot water before skipping back through into the main suite, and yanking off his bright fresh trainers to throw his body onto Ozcan's bed, where he lounged imperiously next to the slightly older man sorting out his stuff. `Oi,' Salih chuckled warmly, `you've got your own.' Jude smiled but ignored the comment, too lazy to cross between them, and reaching to the small wooden table between the beds to retrieve a TV remote. Whilst Salih fished through his limited belongings for a phone charger and other things, the British teenager switched on the disappointingly small wall-mounted TV and flicked aimlessly through a small selection of channels. His German was progressing, but still fairly rudimentary, and he roved through the channels with the same faint irritation that had shrouded his cultural experience of Dortmund life since moving to the continent. But then he found a sports channel, where he found that language barriers tended to melt, because the stats and emotions spoke for themselves, and he settled comfortably against the pillows of the wrong bed, almost defiant in his relaxed posture and waiting for the other midfielder to complain. Ozcan, though, just shook his head and got on with his routines, disappearing into the bathroom himself and swearing in German at his teenage friend for soiling their toilet seat yet again. Bellingham ignored him casually and watched the mixed sports coverage on the screen, whilst tapping the tip of the remote repeatedly on his sharp chin. `You savage,' his teammate grumbled amicably on his way back in, an electric toothbrush buzzing in his mouth. Jude didn't respond to this ambivalent accusation. Something on the sports round-up had caught his attention and lifted him out of the chilly German hotel room. A still image of the English striker dominated the screen, celebrating a goal in the recent London derby, and the sight of the Three Lions captain transported the teen immediately back to the oppressive warmth of Qatar... to the sun-warmed relaxation of the hotel camp, to the air-conditioned football stadiums and the banter with other English lads, and... to fucking Harry Kane in the face by the pool and in the sauna, claiming his own national captain as the first man to suck on his meaty teenage cock. `Come on,' muttered the Turkish national player, waving a hand at him whilst still brushing his teeth and drooling a little toothpaste into his beard. `Get off my bed, you pissy prick.' Jude paused, his attention divided, and Ozcan had to shout a bit more firmly at him before he would drag himself off the comfort and lunge across onto his own, getting out of his roomie's way. And then he turned his attention sharply back to the screen, where a couple of German pundits were discussing fresh claims that Man Utd and others were circling for the prominent striker, but that Kane was being inexplicably loyal to perennial losers Tottenham Hotspurs in North London. Jude found himself uninterested in the transfer talk, even though every big Premiership move this January seemed to factor interestingly into his own undecided future; he just found himself staring quite nostalgically at the striker on the screen, and thinking back to the winter heat of the World Cup, and all of its revelations. Nostalgia. That's what he felt, mainly, even though it was less than two months since the English team bowed out of the huge tournament and watched Messi's Argentina rise to the top. It was obvious enough that a rising player like Jude would find league football a bit dull and domestic after that epic experience, but... he knew well that the sight of Kane on-screen there was rousing more specific sensations and longings than the glory and excitement of representing his country on that stage. Huh. Lots of big memories made in Qatar `22, but who'd have thought the main ones might be so... freaky? The thoughts frustrated him and made him shift for a more comfortable position on the bed and its cool soft sheets, starting to adjust to the disappointingly low temperature of their suite. He unzipped his chunky fleece and fiddled with the neckline of the muscle-fit training top below, pushing himself up to seated rather than lounging, and then staring distractedly over at Salih who was returning from the bathroom again. `What news?' the more experienced midfielder demanded. Jude found the question a bit ridiculous, given that his German-speaking friend knew well enough how little he could follow TV here, and yet he supposed the headlines would be obvious if there were any. He just shrugged and tossed the remote irritably over to the other bed, hugging his long lean arms about his knees and resting back against the old-fashioned wooden headboard. The TV show had moved away from Premiership news and back to local German concerns, highlighting a couple of key rumours including men in their own 6th-place team. He let out a long huffy breath, suddenly restless where he had been relaxed. It had been a good day's training back at their base, and the late evening journey here had all been very smooth and chill. With the game scheduled for early evening, they even had a pretty slow start ahead of them tomorrow, and their hosts were a pretty unthreatening prospect. All was good, and yet the 19-year-old now felt agitated and out of place, and he didn't want to address how much he wanted to be back in the Middle East and kitted out in the kit of his country, Three Lions on his broad young chest. `What?' demanded Salih, interrupting his thoughts. The 25-year-old was down on his bed now, finally done fussing around with his belongings, and he was thumbing back through the TV channels in search of some entertainment, but he'd obviously noticed Jude's frown, or his big grumpy sigh. He smiled vaguely, a look of mild concern in his eyes. `Are you that bothered about the room?' the other lad demanded in his crisp slow English. `Uh - no, no, it's cool. I'm just- Uh, never mind.' He pouted sulkily and shrugged his shoulders and shivered slightly, pulling the fleece closed again over his body. He stared accusingly at the radiator, annoyed to feel cold in the German night but also a bit hot under the collar because of his wondering imagination. `Pftt, it's not so cold - and I have Turkish blood, you pussy!' At that, Ozcan hopped up and proceeded to strip, tugging away his heavy jumper and down to a simple t-shirt, then shedding the sweatpants so he was just in his simple black boxers, before crawling under his bedding and getting comfortable, then resuming his mindless scroll of their limited channel options on the TV. `We will be fine,' the cheery bearded man insisted, and Jude just grunted his response, unsure why his own mood had turned quite so sour. He was annoyed at his own longings, urges that he'd been carefully suppressing from the moment he parted from the England crew. He remained sitting moodily on his bedding, hugging his knees, and saying nothing to answer the idle chatter of his friend, who slipped unconsciously from English back to German as he commented on how boring the TV options were. It was late enough, really, and the pair of them should be bedding down for sleep, as per the gaffer's instructions, but they both knew that the morning schedule was fairly relaxed, so it wasn't urgent. Jude got up to strip away the fleece and dump it on top of his bag at the foot of the bed, rubbing at his arms and sides in the slinky long-sleeved runner top below. `Oh, stop it,' chided the Turk in the other bed. `You aren't that cold.' Jude grimaced then grinned at the mocking tone, shrugged. `I am a bit - aren't you? Fucking freezing in here,' the young Brummie moaned back. He slid his hands inside the waist of his tracky pants, leaving them there against his underpants and skin, and enjoying his own body heat for the comfort it brought. `What is this shit-hole, seriously? This isn't normal.' Relaxing in bed, Ozcan shrugged. `It is not so bad.' `It's shite,' Bellingham insisted simply. `It's not the usual.' He hovered there, rocking on his heels, and staring thoughtfully at the other player, and then glancing at the TV, which was now at least occupied by a cheesy American movie where he could follow the dialogue and ignore the German subtitles. Some rom-com. `Come on,' he muttered, staring back at Salih. `Are you not freezing your bollocks off, man?' A gentle snigger from the German player. `Such lovely phrases in England.' `Fuck,' Jude mumbled, and then he just put it out there. `Come on, Sal, let me climb in with you for a bit, will ya?' He stared moodily at the mid-20s football player, pouting a little, and unsure exactly what was on his mind - the temperature of the room, or already something else? Ozcan laughed but he didn't say no. He seemed to think about it and then roll his eyes. `Are you serious?' the other Dortmund midfielder demanded. `You've got your own, fucker. What are you playing at?' `It's cold,' the Stourbridge-born ace complained simply. He was being brattish and daft, he could hear it in the almost whining tone of his own voice - and yet he was quite taken by the idea now. Whilst his friend looked at him quite critically, Jude shoved down the tracksuit pants in one go, shedding them down the firm brown muscle of his thighs, and exposing the tight black briefs he wore beneath - `Aren't you colder?!' the other player was protesting loudly - and then retrieving a pair of bed-shorts from the recess of his bag, stepping clumsily into them in two moves and closing the gap between and up the beds. `Come on,' he insisted, gently, lifting the covers and sliding in next to Salih, who just sighed and shuffled, making a bit more space and giving him an indulgent look. `Okay,' the 6ft footballer said firmly. `Now stop whinging and let me watch this movie.' He muttered something to himself in German that sounded like, `What is he like?' But really, the Cologne man seemed relatively unfazed, amused but unbothered by Jude's odd insistence to share a bed for a bit - and to his relief, it WAS warmer in here, sharing the weight of the duvet over the pair of them, closely neighbouring his friend and colleague. Warmer, and maybe kinda comforting, to be so close to someone else - life back here in the German winter had been tinged with an unexpected loneliness after the high camaraderie of his time spent in Doha and then visiting home in the Midlands. Under the covers, relaxing, Jude couldn't help but slid his hands down the front of his top and inside the waist of the shorts, resting them under the extra layer, and staring thoughtfully down the bed at the screen, trying to place the familiar American comedy and its B-list stars, but then also unconsciously, his hands pushed more firmly inside the comfort of the shorts, in against the bulge of his briefs, where he couldn't help but give his package a little squeeze and adjustment. He pulled at the elastic and the pouch the fabric formed around the weight of his privates, only idle touching, or not as conscious or deliberate as it might be. `Hey,' exclaimed Ozcan abruptly, lying close to the side of him in the bed. `What do you think you're doing now?' This time the handsomely bearded man did look a bit cross, leaning this way and gesturing across the bedding at the mound formed by the teen's gently roaming hands. `Stop playing with yourself,' his teammate told him simply, his voice blunt but tinged with amusement, as if he wasn't quite sure what was going on. `Tsk, relax,' Jude quipped quickly back at him after just a moment's embarrassment; he nestled his tall body in against the sheets more firmly and knocked elbows with the lad at his side, keeping his hands firmly at his crotch. `Just checking it's all there, big man.' Salih shook his head with a little noise of frustration, picking up the remote and turning up the volume on the TV, frowning away at the screen whilst Jude gave him a sidelong smirk - an idea was forming in his head, or at least forming clarity and shape, perhaps it had been there the moment he sidled over and lumped in with the other man. Or the moment his eyes had bulged at the screen and he'd allowed himself to speculate over Harry Kane's club future and his own - would their paths cross again soon? Bellingham let out his own little sigh, shoulders and neck relaxing further into the spare pillow that he'd occupied. But he turned his head gently towards his neighbour, rather than paying any attention to the film; he brushed his elbow against Ozcan's again, nudging him in a way so gentle that at first the 25-year-old player ignored it, shifting his arm gently but seeming to ignore or simply not notice. So he did it again, knocking his arm into the other man's, and then pushing his hands back down to grab his bulge in both - a confused expression on his face, the other Dortmund footballer looked silently at him, a question in his eyes. `One of way keeping warm, isn't it?' Jude chuckled. `What?' He sounded confused and concerned, making Bellingham hesitate, but he brushed him this time with a foot, rubbing bare calves together under the covers and laughing when the German Turk blushed and frowned and wriggled further away, shaking his head. `You're mad,' was the other midfielder's stern appraisal. The 19-year-old grinned curiously to himself, comfortable in the other man's company - comfortable enough, anyway, to press and hold at the front of his briefs inside the shorts, easing fingers over the outline of his cock, and pretending to turn his attention back to the telly, whilst still watched Sal out of the corner of his eye. The older bloke looked sharply this way and then away, and then let out another heavy sigh. `I'm just so horny,' Bellingham exclaimed simply, cupping his package properly in one hand and then running the other under his top to trace the bumps of his resting six-pack. He bit his lip a little as he turned to stare pointedly at the bed's other occupant. `Don't you get that way on nights like this, mate?' A simple huff of protest from Ozcan, but he didn't actually argue. He shrugged one shoulder and shuffled where he lay, carefully keeping their tall athletic bodies apart. He waved an annoyed hand again. `Why don't you get into your own bed, Jude?' He sounded cross and uncomfortable, and yet Jude saw one fidgety hand slide under the confines of the duvet. They were both ignoring the TV now, the American dialogue a bland soft background noise, whilst Bellingham gave himself a good feel, and Ozcan cleared his throat uncomfortably. `You know the feeling, right?' the Stourbridge teen continued, lowering his voice. `That frustration, night before the game, yeah?' He sighed lazily. `I just gotta deal with it. Must be all the hormones still, hey?' `Some of us are grown-ups,' he was informed tartly by his neighbour in the bed, but there was a curious light to Salih's eyes, and his hands had disappeared under the covers. Was he touching himself too? Perhaps. Jude turned his gaze back to the TV, where the lead actress of the film was strutting through a pool party in a bikini. `Look at that,' he murmured. `The things we'd do to her, haha.' A vague, ambivalent noise from Ozcan, but Bellingham ignored him and really squeezed and tugged at the outline of his semi, letting his ankle and calf rub against the other man again, then nudging elbows with him. `Tell me you aren't getting horny too, haha - it's not just me, is it? Pre-match tension...!' A little grunt from Sal sounded like confirmation. `Something like that.' `Seriously,' Jude said, his confidence swelling like his prick, `just feel how hard I'm getting.' And before his teammate could react, he'd taken hold of Salih's hand under the covers and pulled it over, pressing it atop the stiff stretching bulge of his shorts, and laughing quietly as he lay there, angling his prone body slightly towards the other lad. Perhaps Ozcan was just so stunned, but he left his hand there, pressed down against it, and Jude liked the feel of it, a strange hand on his privates again, and he grinned wickedly at the teammate who was six years his senior. `Jesus,' Salih muttered, `you weren't joking.' `See,' he chuckled, excitement heightening in his voice and his eyes, `just feel that - totally horned up!' He rubbed his hand atop Ozcan's, pressing and pulling the knuckles over his bulge, and licking his lower lip slowly as he enjoyed this unexpected touch - studying the angst in the older lad's eyes, the twitch of his lips between his red-brown beard. But then Salih seemed to remember himself and pull back, tutting and shaking his head, though there'd been enough of a flash of curiosity there to excite and motivate Jude. `Ridiculous,' the 25-year-old was muttering. `Can't help it,' Bellingham told him, and then he pushed his own boundaries - he reached across the warming space beneath the covers to grab at the front of the man's taut boxer briefs, finding the outline of his erection and laughing as he briefly gripped it, the most contact he'd ever taken with another lad's equipment - but the older player was pushing him away and spluttering his disapproval, commanding him in German to back off and stop it immediately; switching to English, Ozcan bluntly told him `Out!' and shoved at him from the side, a redness entering his face and making the sides of his neck scarlet. `Out!' Jude accepted defeat and slid back, rolling away and out from under, but turning round before collapsing back into his own bed, so that the mound in the front of his bed-shorts was super obvious, and peeling off his training top to expose his tightly toned upper body. Sitting up a little, Sal was frowning deeply at him and his mouth hanging open without the words of approbation. `Just messing,' Jude told the other player reproachfully, before falling into a cooler bed and dragging less body-heated covers over his scantily clad body. He'd pushed it, he'd tried it, but... nah, Ozcan was a traditional kinda lad, good Turkish family, he wouldn't be into this shit like some of those pervy lads in England, the Kanes and Fodens who'd got down on their knees to service him. For the best, a thin uncertain voice at the back of his mind told him, though his body raged with contrasting sentiments. He'd been craving that taboo for weeks, and he tossed and turned for a comfortable position in bed, listening to the heavy breathing concern of the footballer in the other bed, and the dulled volume of the television. Finally he settled on his side facing the other way, wondering if he ought to mouth a proper apology, but deciding against it - Jude's ego had yet to deflate from the thrills of becoming a World Cup sensation, even in the context of a disinterested Germany. Dimly, he was aware of the TV turning off and a lamp clicking off too, and he lay there on his side, smirking into the pillow. He didn't feel sorry that he'd teased and challenged Ozcan. There'd been something there, hadn't there? Immediately fatigued and comfortable, he rubbed his tummy and then his bulge, finding the heavy semi where he'd left it, and tempted to just whack it out and play with it properly - but he'd probably get all sorts of disapproval and dismay from the other lad for those antics, so he just lay quite calmly there, softly rubbing himself and wondering how long it would take him to fall asleep. In the dark, he relaxed onto his back, hand still on his bulge, and bare chest rising and falling slowly against the covers - it had been a long day of training and travel and his 6ft1 physique ached for sleep, even if he'd been inappropriately frisky only minutes ago. Left alone, Bellingham could easily have drifted straight into a pretty deep sleep, young and cocky enough to be untroubled by how much he'd just alarmed his roomie. Except, of course, for the gentle creaking noises of somebody trying not to make any noise at all: the rustle of bedding and the relaxation of a bedspring, the shuffle of socks on carpet, and the audibly controlled little pants of breath moving closer to him across the room. Jude half-opened his sleepy eyes and he smiled up at the vague silhouette in the dark, his vision not quite adjusting enough to make out any detail - but as his brain retreated from the sleepy shutdown it had been considering, he gained enough awareness to nod his long face once, and let out a low breathy chuckle. Then, with one hand, he lifted the edges of his duvet, and in he came: the gently trembling figure of the other man, joining him here in his bed instead, saying nothing as he settled down into a lying position next to him, and placed a trembling hand at his hip. So, Jude thought, what have I started...? He could feel the nervous shaking of the other man's body next to him, and he knew it was more than the cold. But he just lay calmly still, refusing to show any tension or excitement of his own, just smirking in the dark, and waiting for the inevitable, which swiftly came... the wandering hand brushing more firmly against his hip, and then roving over the front of the shorts, feeling what they hid. In the dark, he heard Salih's tremorous voice: `I don't do this kinda thing.' Quiet and shaky, that tenderness which made him such a likeable lad and a valued friend to Jude. In turn, Jude let out a breathy sigh and just said, `All good - give it a good feel, matey.' They lay there in the second bed in a row, not saying any more, and under the covers, the Turk stroked and prodded at his bulge in the shorts, his clumsy hand exploring the edges, and making Bellingham sigh with happy anticipation. He held back the murmured encouragement, as if saying too much might break a delicate moment, and send the bearded fucker back to his own bed, as prudish and disapproving as he'd clearly pretended to be before. But he did help him out, reaching down and pushing on the waist of the shorts, letting Salih's hand get a proper feel of his hard package, and encouraging him to grip and stroke it more fully. He could hear the deepening rattle of Ozcan's breath at just that, and he smirked more, utterly assured of his own irresistible powers - after all, why should the alpha teen doubt his power, when this latest man seemed to be falling at his feet so easily...? He pictured the Three Lions captain on his knees, those bright glossy eyes and the cum glistening in his beard. And Ozcan's bear was all the fuller. Next to him, Salih continued to tremble and fail to control his breathing, and the man's hand really explored his waistline and the insides of his thighs and the weighty stiffness within his briefs, before AT LAST, pulling them back, being bolder... and letting it loose, fingers closing about its fat shaft, taking hold of it. `Mmmm,' was all Bellingham let out, but he did bring one slow hand up to stroke across the back and shoulders of the other lad, feeling his body heat through his t-shirt, then tickling a bit at his neck. `Mmmm,' he moaned again, feeling Salih grip him a little more, and began to pull up and down, too gently. `I've never done this before,' Salih uttered again, his voice small and distant, even this intimately close; Jude wasn't sure if he did or didn't believe him, but he just moaned in response, and pushed up with his hips a little, encouraging the hand to take fuller control of his full mast black cock, a real handful for the nervous friend. `Is this okay?' came another shaky breath from the 25-year-old, but Jude didn't honour him with words, with reassurances - he felt a selfish pleasure in this, and a truly ego-boosting satisfaction in how easily he had lured Ozcan into helping him out. It hadn't taken much, had it? How long had this handsome prick been eyeing up and thinking about doing this? The prospect of his own attractiveness and sexual dominance flooded and excited Jude just as much as it had in autumn and winter, when he first propositioned Kane and then again when he finally overpowered that generous older man. He thought of the other lads in the sauna after the knockout defeat, when Dier had recruited him to `help' their disappointed skipper - Jude's mind had spun and buzzed with that sweaty memory ever since, the knowledge of those other powerful alpha males, all of them delivering their spunk to the greedy slut who led their squad. Amongst his many new fantasies, the 19-year-old saw himself one day wearing that captain's armband - and when he pictured himself leading England to victory, he did not see himself as the one down on his knees in the sauna. Back in the present, Salih's hand got firmer and more confident, and now lubed with a bit spit, pulling up and down Jude's big cock, jerking it hard and letting the tip rub sensitively against the underside of the duvet. Jude just lay there and moaned, eyes half-closed, and one hand rubbing gently at the other man's tense shoulder muscles, just enough pat and stroke to encourage him and hold him there, but not thanking him or assuring him it was good, just the low drone of `Mmmm' and the occasionally higher sound of pleasure as the pace or angle was perfected. This, part of him thought, should be enough - this surprising transgression in a lukewarm hotel room, his close Dortmund friend crossing lines for him. Perhaps it really was Ozcan's first time doing something so kinky, he really was shaking like a baby deer. Or perhaps he'd given in before and touched other men like this, other players, it was hard to say. Jude found that he didn't particularly care, and he wasn't ready to settle for this awkward handjob, tingling and exciting but a little hesitant uncomfortable. He needed more. His left hand, resting on the back of Ozcan's neck, began to push and guide, becoming firmer as it met tension and resistance. `Come on,' the teenager purred in the dark. `It's what plenty of lads have done for me.' Plenty was an exaggeration, but he believed himself as he said it, imagining that all of those burly fuckers in the sauna had bent and noshed him off like their captain: Trippier, Wilson, Grealish, the lot of them! He pushed down and lifted the covers a bit more and Salih resisted some more, but then gave in, disappearing under the duvet. His mouth was felt first on Bellingham's six pack, kissing down the ridged centre, and then - oh yes - it was on his cock, lips touching his shaft nervously, and those shaky hands roving about his thigh and tummy. Under the covers, he pressed that same imperious hand on the back of his head and pushed his face down into his crotch, making the Turk man inhale his crotch smell, and then open up for the cock, oh yessss. Jude sniggered at the tickle of the man's pretty full beard crossing his skin, but he also shuddered in pleasure, so happy to push his cock into a wet hot mouth again, and to press so firmly down on the back of Sal's head. Then he threw the covers further back, needing to see it for himself, even in the dim traces of light that remained in their suite. The sounds were enough: the gagging and gobbling, the way he was forcing that inexpert face down against his cock and balls, really filling his mouth and throat, choking him on his manhood. He pushed and pushed and then gave short breaks, letting Ozcan pull back spluttering and catching his breath, and then back down, shoving his cock between those lips and burying it in a mouth that didn't know how to handle it. And Jude groaned more loudly and fully now, the sounds of a man, really taking advantage of Salih's awkward wet gob. `That's it,' he groaned at him, `suck it good for me.' `I've never-' `Don't care, you're enjoying it now-' `Mmmph...' `Fucking choke on it, mate, mmmm, that feels so good!' At no point did Ozcan quite relax into the task, trembling and tense beside and against him, but Jude was concerned only with his own enjoyment. He thrust up with his hips even as he pressed roughly down on the back of the man's head, fucking his mouth in the darkness, and using his face like a wank-sock. Into his gob he oozed pre-cum and his hard fingers kneaded at the back of his neck, whilst he felt Ozcan's touch rove over his six-pack and up and down his sturdy thighs. Fuck, yes. No thoughts of the cold now, at least: Jude felt red hot with lust, the insides of his bed ultra-heated by two masculine forms, and fresh sweat beading on his chest and the insides of his legs, and on Salih's neck where he held it in place, thrusting so deep into the back of his mouth that the man really did splutter and choke as he pulled briefly away, gulping down air and almost whimpering until his lips were parted again by that thick veiny monster, Jude's black cock forced into his inexperienced gob. There was only so long this could last: the horny teen had been delaying his climax as best he could, but he lacked such mature willpower, and soon he was convulsing and twitching against his bedding, spilling his load on first the man's tongue, and then over the reddish fur of his beard, and then drops and slicks on his own tummy and the duvet that was falling back into place. Almost instantly, the heat and presence of Ozcan's body was pulled away from him, and he could just lie there on his sweaty back, limbs spread and lungs sucking in deep bursts of air, his pecs rising and falling even more. A long minute of dizzy gratitude, a spiralling high of orgasm, his cock wet and sensitive and the air rich with his own salty musk; and then he was rolling to the left a little and blinking into the dark to see more. Ozcan was stood between the beds, seemingly with his back to him, and his gulping breaths sounded almost like sobs in the night. `Fuck's sake,' Jude whispered to himself. Still dizzy with climax, he got out of the bed, his cock and balls still erect over the lowered waistband of his briefs and shorts, brushing cum-stains against the bum of Salih's boxers as he closed in against him and hugged him from behind. `Thanks for that,' he moaned gently, embracing and squeezing the 6ft lad. `I needed it.' He squeezed his neck more gently than he had before, giving him a slightly tighter hug. `It was good,' he reviewed, sounding dismissive, and then told him, `Get into bed, get some sleep. It's all good.' And then, selfish and lazy, the England teenager slid back into his own bed and turned away, riding the wave of his own pleasure into the depths of slumber. When Salih was quiet and withdrawn the next morning during their slow routines, Bellingham sighed disappointedly to himself and wished all sub men could be as chill and self-accepting as married striker Harry Kane. He himself remained calmly quiet and indifferent, quite happy to pretend that nothing had happened if that was what Salih Ozcan preferred... but it quickly became obvious, passing each other for their showers and ablutions, that the German footballer couldn't even look him in the eyes, and the tall handsome lad kept his head lowered and still had that sami shakiness about him as when he first climbed between their beds and went against his own spoken disapproval. Bellingham, cocksure and self-satisfied, was having none of this. Whilst Ozcan was brushing his teeth and staring mournfully into the mirror, clearly full of regret, the youngest Borussia Dortmund hero came in behind him, only half-dressed, and stepped in close. As he had last night in the shadows, he hugged his teammate from behind, slipping a single strong arm about his waist and pressing his big soft package in against his bottom as he hugged him briefly but tightly. `Thanks,' he told him quietly. `You're a good friend doing that for me. It was good.' A stony silence from the other player, their eyes meeting in the mirror. `You don't need to worry,' Jude told him quietly. `I won't tell a soul.' Ozcan spat into the sink, and as he bent down, his strong bottom rubbed a little more against Bellingham's bulge, making him smirk thoughtfully. But as the 6ft man straightened up, he hugged him more tightly from behind, holding him almost like a girl, and nuzzling the tip of his nose in against his neck for a moment. `Good boy,' he purred, even though the other midfielder was significantly older than his own teen status, and then he smirked into their reflections. `You were good at that, matey. Might let you do it again sometime.' And with that he ruffled his hair from behind and left him silently to it, slipping comfortably back into the room, and telling himself that this was all obvious and inevitable - of course Salih couldn't resist him, couldn't keep his hands off him once invited. He was Jude fucking Bellingham, wasn't he? The future of English football. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 25 Jan 2023 19:18:29 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 345 Part 345: Warming Up In Mainz He lugged his bag at his side and tossed it forward so that it landed with a satisfying thud on the covers of the bed, the one at the further side of the slightly cramped room, nearest to the large old-fashioned radiator that seemed to service their suite on its own. Outside, the Rhineland was blanketed under frost and sub-zero temperatures, and so far the interior of the team's hotel was simply not as cosy or plush as any of the men might have anticipated. There was nothing dodgy as such about the Mainz accommodation that they had checked into tonight, but it wasn't quite at the usual slick corporate standard of hotel that their Bundesliga football club would ordinarily arrange across the major cities of Germany - if anything, it took the tall teenager back to his early playing days back home in Birmingham, life before he became a top-flight player and an international sensation. But right now all he could think about was the disappointingly lukewarm temperature, and journey past the bed to stand over the radiator and its ominous groans, testing to see just how much heat it might offer them through the chilly January night. `Huh,' Jude Bellingham remarked grimly. `It'll do.' He turned away from the heater but kept close to it, mirroring the behaviour of the other lad in beginning to strip off the outer layers that they'd retained in the draughty reception below whilst the bosses got them checked in and organised. Off came the Nike snood and the thin gloves, designer coats shucked and dumped on the backs of chairs, but Jude was slow to unzip the fleece top over his other layers, and he noticed that his Borussia Dortmund teammate wasn't rushing either. They shared a grim look and then both laughed, Bellingham shaking his head. `It isn't so bad,' he muttered, and then leant back, pressing the arse of his skinny-fit trackies against the heated metal, and rubbing the palms of his hands over the top of it, before pushing away and doing a small lap of the room, inspecting its chintzy decor and wondering what had gone wrong with logistics for them to drop a couple of stars in accommodation on this midweek away trip. `Have we stayed in worse?' the other player commented challengingly, but he didn't seem too worried, smirking behind the red-tinged fur of his beard, and opening up his small travel case to start removing a few personal things at the side of his bed. Salih Ozcan was a generally upbeat bloke and Jude supposed that was why he'd befriended the Cologne-born Turk more closely than many of his Dortmund colleagues this season; he enjoyed the 25-year-old's mindset and outlook, and the two had become regular roommates in the last few months, after Jude had spent a period feeling a bit lost when his former big bros Jadon Sancho and then Erling Haaland made the move to Manchester. And now that Jude's own Premiership return seemed so inevitable and obvious, he couldn't help but feel that certain Dortmund players had actually began to snub and ignore him, even though there seemed little chance that a transfer deal would be struck before this month closed. Yes, he was almost certainly on his way out in the summer, but Bellingham saw himself contributing a lot more to Dortmund before that rolled around, and it pissed him off that some of the native German players had begun to distance themselves from him since the World Cup. The 6ft1 teen went through into their bathroom, amused that it was almost the same size as the main bedroom, and pissed noisily on the seat of their shared toilet, a standard youth who'd spent too long away from the rules and stewardship of his parents. He nervously tested that the sink could spurt out some hot water before skipping back through into the main suite, and yanking off his bright fresh trainers to throw his body onto Ozcan's bed, where he lounged imperiously next to the slightly older man sorting out his stuff. `Oi,' Salih chuckled warmly, `you've got your own.' Jude smiled but ignored the comment, too lazy to cross between them, and reaching to the small wooden table between the beds to retrieve a TV remote. Whilst Salih fished through his limited belongings for a phone charger and other things, the British teenager switched on the disappointingly small wall-mounted TV and flicked aimlessly through a small selection of channels. His German was progressing, but still fairly rudimentary, and he roved through the channels with the same faint irritation that had shrouded his cultural experience of Dortmund life since moving to the continent. But then he found a sports channel, where he found that language barriers tended to melt, because the stats and emotions spoke for themselves, and he settled comfortably against the pillows of the wrong bed, almost defiant in his relaxed posture and waiting for the other midfielder to complain. Ozcan, though, just shook his head and got on with his routines, disappearing into the bathroom himself and swearing in German at his teenage friend for soiling their toilet seat yet again. Bellingham ignored him casually and watched the mixed sports coverage on the screen, whilst tapping the tip of the remote repeatedly on his sharp chin. `You savage,' his teammate grumbled amicably on his way back in, an electric toothbrush buzzing in his mouth. Jude didn't respond to this ambivalent accusation. Something on the sports round-up had caught his attention and lifted him out of the chilly German hotel room. A still image of the English striker dominated the screen, celebrating a goal in the recent London derby, and the sight of the Three Lions captain transported the teen immediately back to the oppressive warmth of Qatar... to the sun-warmed relaxation of the hotel camp, to the air-conditioned football stadiums and the banter with other English lads, and... to fucking Harry Kane in the face by the pool and in the sauna, claiming his own national captain as the first man to suck on his meaty teenage cock. `Come on,' muttered the Turkish national player, waving a hand at him whilst still brushing his teeth and drooling a little toothpaste into his beard. `Get off my bed, you pissy prick.' Jude paused, his attention divided, and Ozcan had to shout a bit more firmly at him before he would drag himself off the comfort and lunge across onto his own, getting out of his roomie's way. And then he turned his attention sharply back to the screen, where a couple of German pundits were discussing fresh claims that Man Utd and others were circling for the prominent striker, but that Kane was being inexplicably loyal to perennial losers Tottenham Hotspurs in North London. Jude found himself uninterested in the transfer talk, even though every big Premiership move this January seemed to factor interestingly into his own undecided future; he just found himself staring quite nostalgically at the striker on the screen, and thinking back to the winter heat of the World Cup, and all of its revelations. Nostalgia. That's what he felt, mainly, even though it was less than two months since the English team bowed out of the huge tournament and watched Messi's Argentina rise to the top. It was obvious enough that a rising player like Jude would find league football a bit dull and domestic after that epic experience, but... he knew well that the sight of Kane on-screen there was rousing more specific sensations and longings than the glory and excitement of representing his country on that stage. Huh. Lots of big memories made in Qatar `22, but who'd have thought the main ones might be so... freaky? The thoughts frustrated him and made him shift for a more comfortable position on the bed and its cool soft sheets, starting to adjust to the disappointingly low temperature of their suite. He unzipped his chunky fleece and fiddled with the neckline of the muscle-fit training top below, pushing himself up to seated rather than lounging, and then staring distractedly over at Salih who was returning from the bathroom again. `What news?' the more experienced midfielder demanded. Jude found the question a bit ridiculous, given that his German-speaking friend knew well enough how little he could follow TV here, and yet he supposed the headlines would be obvious if there were any. He just shrugged and tossed the remote irritably over to the other bed, hugging his long lean arms about his knees and resting back against the old-fashioned wooden headboard. The TV show had moved away from Premiership news and back to local German concerns, highlighting a couple of key rumours including men in their own 6th-place team. He let out a long huffy breath, suddenly restless where he had been relaxed. It had been a good day's training back at their base, and the late evening journey here had all been very smooth and chill. With the game scheduled for early evening, they even had a pretty slow start ahead of them tomorrow, and their hosts were a pretty unthreatening prospect. All was good, and yet the 19-year-old now felt agitated and out of place, and he didn't want to address how much he wanted to be back in the Middle East and kitted out in the kit of his country, Three Lions on his broad young chest. `What?' demanded Salih, interrupting his thoughts. The 25-year-old was down on his bed now, finally done fussing around with his belongings, and he was thumbing back through the TV channels in search of some entertainment, but he'd obviously noticed Jude's frown, or his big grumpy sigh. He smiled vaguely, a look of mild concern in his eyes. `Are you that bothered about the room?' the other lad demanded in his crisp slow English. `Uh - no, no, it's cool. I'm just- Uh, never mind.' He pouted sulkily and shrugged his shoulders and shivered slightly, pulling the fleece closed again over his body. He stared accusingly at the radiator, annoyed to feel cold in the German night but also a bit hot under the collar because of his wondering imagination. `Pftt, it's not so cold - and I have Turkish blood, you pussy!' At that, Ozcan hopped up and proceeded to strip, tugging away his heavy jumper and down to a simple t-shirt, then shedding the sweatpants so he was just in his simple black boxers, before crawling under his bedding and getting comfortable, then resuming his mindless scroll of their limited channel options on the TV. `We will be fine,' the cheery bearded man insisted, and Jude just grunted his response, unsure why his own mood had turned quite so sour. He was annoyed at his own longings, urges that he'd been carefully suppressing from the moment he parted from the England crew. He remained sitting moodily on his bedding, hugging his knees, and saying nothing to answer the idle chatter of his friend, who slipped unconsciously from English back to German as he commented on how boring the TV options were. It was late enough, really, and the pair of them should be bedding down for sleep, as per the gaffer's instructions, but they both knew that the morning schedule was fairly relaxed, so it wasn't urgent. Jude got up to strip away the fleece and dump it on top of his bag at the foot of the bed, rubbing at his arms and sides in the slinky long-sleeved runner top below. `Oh, stop it,' chided the Turk in the other bed. `You aren't that cold.' Jude grimaced then grinned at the mocking tone, shrugged. `I am a bit - aren't you? Fucking freezing in here,' the young Brummie moaned back. He slid his hands inside the waist of his tracky pants, leaving them there against his underpants and skin, and enjoying his own body heat for the comfort it brought. `What is this shit-hole, seriously? This isn't normal.' Relaxing in bed, Ozcan shrugged. `It is not so bad.' `It's shite,' Bellingham insisted simply. `It's not the usual.' He hovered there, rocking on his heels, and staring thoughtfully at the other player, and then glancing at the TV, which was now at least occupied by a cheesy American movie where he could follow the dialogue and ignore the German subtitles. Some rom-com. `Come on,' he muttered, staring back at Salih. `Are you not freezing your bollocks off, man?' A gentle snigger from the German player. `Such lovely phrases in England.' `Fuck,' Jude mumbled, and then he just put it out there. `Come on, Sal, let me climb in with you for a bit, will ya?' He stared moodily at the mid-20s football player, pouting a little, and unsure exactly what was on his mind - the temperature of the room, or already something else? Ozcan laughed but he didn't say no. He seemed to think about it and then roll his eyes. `Are you serious?' the other Dortmund midfielder demanded. `You've got your own, fucker. What are you playing at?' `It's cold,' the Stourbridge-born ace complained simply. He was being brattish and daft, he could hear it in the almost whining tone of his own voice - and yet he was quite taken by the idea now. Whilst his friend looked at him quite critically, Jude shoved down the tracksuit pants in one go, shedding them down the firm brown muscle of his thighs, and exposing the tight black briefs he wore beneath - `Aren't you colder?!' the other player was protesting loudly - and then retrieving a pair of bed-shorts from the recess of his bag, stepping clumsily into them in two moves and closing the gap between and up the beds. `Come on,' he insisted, gently, lifting the covers and sliding in next to Salih, who just sighed and shuffled, making a bit more space and giving him an indulgent look. `Okay,' the 6ft footballer said firmly. `Now stop whinging and let me watch this movie.' He muttered something to himself in German that sounded like, `What is he like?' But really, the Cologne man seemed relatively unfazed, amused but unbothered by Jude's odd insistence to share a bed for a bit - and to his relief, it WAS warmer in here, sharing the weight of the duvet over the pair of them, closely neighbouring his friend and colleague. Warmer, and maybe kinda comforting, to be so close to someone else - life back here in the German winter had been tinged with an unexpected loneliness after the high camaraderie of his time spent in Doha and then visiting home in the Midlands. Under the covers, relaxing, Jude couldn't help but slid his hands down the front of his top and inside the waist of the shorts, resting them under the extra layer, and staring thoughtfully down the bed at the screen, trying to place the familiar American comedy and its B-list stars, but then also unconsciously, his hands pushed more firmly inside the comfort of the shorts, in against the bulge of his briefs, where he couldn't help but give his package a little squeeze and adjustment. He pulled at the elastic and the pouch the fabric formed around the weight of his privates, only idle touching, or not as conscious or deliberate as it might be. `Hey,' exclaimed Ozcan abruptly, lying close to the side of him in the bed. `What do you think you're doing now?' This time the handsomely bearded man did look a bit cross, leaning this way and gesturing across the bedding at the mound formed by the teen's gently roaming hands. `Stop playing with yourself,' his teammate told him simply, his voice blunt but tinged with amusement, as if he wasn't quite sure what was going on. `Tsk, relax,' Jude quipped quickly back at him after just a moment's embarrassment; he nestled his tall body in against the sheets more firmly and knocked elbows with the lad at his side, keeping his hands firmly at his crotch. `Just checking it's all there, big man.' Salih shook his head with a little noise of frustration, picking up the remote and turning up the volume on the TV, frowning away at the screen whilst Jude gave him a sidelong smirk - an idea was forming in his head, or at least forming clarity and shape, perhaps it had been there the moment he sidled over and lumped in with the other man. Or the moment his eyes had bulged at the screen and he'd allowed himself to speculate over Harry Kane's club future and his own - would their paths cross again soon? Bellingham let out his own little sigh, shoulders and neck relaxing further into the spare pillow that he'd occupied. But he turned his head gently towards his neighbour, rather than paying any attention to the film; he brushed his elbow against Ozcan's again, nudging him in a way so gentle that at first the 25-year-old player ignored it, shifting his arm gently but seeming to ignore or simply not notice. So he did it again, knocking his arm into the other man's, and then pushing his hands back down to grab his bulge in both - a confused expression on his face, the other Dortmund footballer looked silently at him, a question in his eyes. `One of way keeping warm, isn't it?' Jude chuckled. `What?' He sounded confused and concerned, making Bellingham hesitate, but he brushed him this time with a foot, rubbing bare calves together under the covers and laughing when the German Turk blushed and frowned and wriggled further away, shaking his head. `You're mad,' was the other midfielder's stern appraisal. The 19-year-old grinned curiously to himself, comfortable in the other man's company - comfortable enough, anyway, to press and hold at the front of his briefs inside the shorts, easing fingers over the outline of his cock, and pretending to turn his attention back to the telly, whilst still watched Sal out of the corner of his eye. The older bloke looked sharply this way and then away, and then let out another heavy sigh. `I'm just so horny,' Bellingham exclaimed simply, cupping his package properly in one hand and then running the other under his top to trace the bumps of his resting six-pack. He bit his lip a little as he turned to stare pointedly at the bed's other occupant. `Don't you get that way on nights like this, mate?' A simple huff of protest from Ozcan, but he didn't actually argue. He shrugged one shoulder and shuffled where he lay, carefully keeping their tall athletic bodies apart. He waved an annoyed hand again. `Why don't you get into your own bed, Jude?' He sounded cross and uncomfortable, and yet Jude saw one fidgety hand slide under the confines of the duvet. They were both ignoring the TV now, the American dialogue a bland soft background noise, whilst Bellingham gave himself a good feel, and Ozcan cleared his throat uncomfortably. `You know the feeling, right?' the Stourbridge teen continued, lowering his voice. `That frustration, night before the game, yeah?' He sighed lazily. `I just gotta deal with it. Must be all the hormones still, hey?' `Some of us are grown-ups,' he was informed tartly by his neighbour in the bed, but there was a curious light to Salih's eyes, and his hands had disappeared under the covers. Was he touching himself too? Perhaps. Jude turned his gaze back to the TV, where the lead actress of the film was strutting through a pool party in a bikini. `Look at that,' he murmured. `The things we'd do to her, haha.' A vague, ambivalent noise from Ozcan, but Bellingham ignored him and really squeezed and tugged at the outline of his semi, letting his ankle and calf rub against the other man again, then nudging elbows with him. `Tell me you aren't getting horny too, haha - it's not just me, is it? Pre-match tension...!' A little grunt from Sal sounded like confirmation. `Something like that.' `Seriously,' Jude said, his confidence swelling like his prick, `just feel how hard I'm getting.' And before his teammate could react, he'd taken hold of Salih's hand under the covers and pulled it over, pressing it atop the stiff stretching bulge of his shorts, and laughing quietly as he lay there, angling his prone body slightly towards the other lad. Perhaps Ozcan was just so stunned, but he left his hand there, pressed down against it, and Jude liked the feel of it, a strange hand on his privates again, and he grinned wickedly at the teammate who was six years his senior. `Jesus,' Salih muttered, `you weren't joking.' `See,' he chuckled, excitement heightening in his voice and his eyes, `just feel that - totally horned up!' He rubbed his hand atop Ozcan's, pressing and pulling the knuckles over his bulge, and licking his lower lip slowly as he enjoyed this unexpected touch - studying the angst in the older lad's eyes, the twitch of his lips between his red-brown beard. But then Salih seemed to remember himself and pull back, tutting and shaking his head, though there'd been enough of a flash of curiosity there to excite and motivate Jude. `Ridiculous,' the 25-year-old was muttering. `Can't help it,' Bellingham told him, and then he pushed his own boundaries - he reached across the warming space beneath the covers to grab at the front of the man's taut boxer briefs, finding the outline of his erection and laughing as he briefly gripped it, the most contact he'd ever taken with another lad's equipment - but the older player was pushing him away and spluttering his disapproval, commanding him in German to back off and stop it immediately; switching to English, Ozcan bluntly told him `Out!' and shoved at him from the side, a redness entering his face and making the sides of his neck scarlet. `Out!' Jude accepted defeat and slid back, rolling away and out from under, but turning round before collapsing back into his own bed, so that the mound in the front of his bed-shorts was super obvious, and peeling off his training top to expose his tightly toned upper body. Sitting up a little, Sal was frowning deeply at him and his mouth hanging open without the words of approbation. `Just messing,' Jude told the other player reproachfully, before falling into a cooler bed and dragging less body-heated covers over his scantily clad body. He'd pushed it, he'd tried it, but... nah, Ozcan was a traditional kinda lad, good Turkish family, he wouldn't be into this shit like some of those pervy lads in England, the Kanes and Fodens who'd got down on their knees to service him. For the best, a thin uncertain voice at the back of his mind told him, though his body raged with contrasting sentiments. He'd been craving that taboo for weeks, and he tossed and turned for a comfortable position in bed, listening to the heavy breathing concern of the footballer in the other bed, and the dulled volume of the television. Finally he settled on his side facing the other way, wondering if he ought to mouth a proper apology, but deciding against it - Jude's ego had yet to deflate from the thrills of becoming a World Cup sensation, even in the context of a disinterested Germany. Dimly, he was aware of the TV turning off and a lamp clicking off too, and he lay there on his side, smirking into the pillow. He didn't feel sorry that he'd teased and challenged Ozcan. There'd been something there, hadn't there? Immediately fatigued and comfortable, he rubbed his tummy and then his bulge, finding the heavy semi where he'd left it, and tempted to just whack it out and play with it properly - but he'd probably get all sorts of disapproval and dismay from the other lad for those antics, so he just lay quite calmly there, softly rubbing himself and wondering how long it would take him to fall asleep. In the dark, he relaxed onto his back, hand still on his bulge, and bare chest rising and falling slowly against the covers - it had been a long day of training and travel and his 6ft1 physique ached for sleep, even if he'd been inappropriately frisky only minutes ago. Left alone, Bellingham could easily have drifted straight into a pretty deep sleep, young and cocky enough to be untroubled by how much he'd just alarmed his roomie. Except, of course, for the gentle creaking noises of somebody trying not to make any noise at all: the rustle of bedding and the relaxation of a bedspring, the shuffle of socks on carpet, and the audibly controlled little pants of breath moving closer to him across the room. Jude half-opened his sleepy eyes and he smiled up at the vague silhouette in the dark, his vision not quite adjusting enough to make out any detail - but as his brain retreated from the sleepy shutdown it had been considering, he gained enough awareness to nod his long face once, and let out a low breathy chuckle. Then, with one hand, he lifted the edges of his duvet, and in he came: the gently trembling figure of the other man, joining him here in his bed instead, saying nothing as he settled down into a lying position next to him, and placed a trembling hand at his hip. So, Jude thought, what have I started...? He could feel the nervous shaking of the other man's body next to him, and he knew it was more than the cold. But he just lay calmly still, refusing to show any tension or excitement of his own, just smirking in the dark, and waiting for the inevitable, which swiftly came... the wandering hand brushing more firmly against his hip, and then roving over the front of the shorts, feeling what they hid. In the dark, he heard Salih's tremorous voice: `I don't do this kinda thing.' Quiet and shaky, that tenderness which made him such a likeable lad and a valued friend to Jude. In turn, Jude let out a breathy sigh and just said, `All good - give it a good feel, matey.' They lay there in the second bed in a row, not saying any more, and under the covers, the Turk stroked and prodded at his bulge in the shorts, his clumsy hand exploring the edges, and making Bellingham sigh with happy anticipation. He held back the murmured encouragement, as if saying too much might break a delicate moment, and send the bearded fucker back to his own bed, as prudish and disapproving as he'd clearly pretended to be before. But he did help him out, reaching down and pushing on the waist of the shorts, letting Salih's hand get a proper feel of his hard package, and encouraging him to grip and stroke it more fully. He could hear the deepening rattle of Ozcan's breath at just that, and he smirked more, utterly assured of his own irresistible powers - after all, why should the alpha teen doubt his power, when this latest man seemed to be falling at his feet so easily...? He pictured the Three Lions captain on his knees, those bright glossy eyes and the cum glistening in his beard. And Ozcan's bear was all the fuller. Next to him, Salih continued to tremble and fail to control his breathing, and the man's hand really explored his waistline and the insides of his thighs and the weighty stiffness within his briefs, before AT LAST, pulling them back, being bolder... and letting it loose, fingers closing about its fat shaft, taking hold of it. `Mmmm,' was all Bellingham let out, but he did bring one slow hand up to stroke across the back and shoulders of the other lad, feeling his body heat through his t-shirt, then tickling a bit at his neck. `Mmmm,' he moaned again, feeling Salih grip him a little more, and began to pull up and down, too gently. `I've never done this before,' Salih uttered again, his voice small and distant, even this intimately close; Jude wasn't sure if he did or didn't believe him, but he just moaned in response, and pushed up with his hips a little, encouraging the hand to take fuller control of his full mast black cock, a real handful for the nervous friend. `Is this okay?' came another shaky breath from the 25-year-old, but Jude didn't honour him with words, with reassurances - he felt a selfish pleasure in this, and a truly ego-boosting satisfaction in how easily he had lured Ozcan into helping him out. It hadn't taken much, had it? How long had this handsome prick been eyeing up and thinking about doing this? The prospect of his own attractiveness and sexual dominance flooded and excited Jude just as much as it had in autumn and winter, when he first propositioned Kane and then again when he finally overpowered that generous older man. He thought of the other lads in the sauna after the knockout defeat, when Dier had recruited him to `help' their disappointed skipper - Jude's mind had spun and buzzed with that sweaty memory ever since, the knowledge of those other powerful alpha males, all of them delivering their spunk to the greedy slut who led their squad. Amongst his many new fantasies, the 19-year-old saw himself one day wearing that captain's armband - and when he pictured himself leading England to victory, he did not see himself as the one down on his knees in the sauna. Back in the present, Salih's hand got firmer and more confident, and now lubed with a bit spit, pulling up and down Jude's big cock, jerking it hard and letting the tip rub sensitively against the underside of the duvet. Jude just lay there and moaned, eyes half-closed, and one hand rubbing gently at the other man's tense shoulder muscles, just enough pat and stroke to encourage him and hold him there, but not thanking him or assuring him it was good, just the low drone of `Mmmm' and the occasionally higher sound of pleasure as the pace or angle was perfected. This, part of him thought, should be enough - this surprising transgression in a lukewarm hotel room, his close Dortmund friend crossing lines for him. Perhaps it really was Ozcan's first time doing something so kinky, he really was shaking like a baby deer. Or perhaps he'd given in before and touched other men like this, other players, it was hard to say. Jude found that he didn't particularly care, and he wasn't ready to settle for this awkward handjob, tingling and exciting but a little hesitant uncomfortable. He needed more. His left hand, resting on the back of Ozcan's neck, began to push and guide, becoming firmer as it met tension and resistance. `Come on,' the teenager purred in the dark. `It's what plenty of lads have done for me.' Plenty was an exaggeration, but he believed himself as he said it, imagining that all of those burly fuckers in the sauna had bent and noshed him off like their captain: Trippier, Wilson, Grealish, the lot of them! He pushed down and lifted the covers a bit more and Salih resisted some more, but then gave in, disappearing under the duvet. His mouth was felt first on Bellingham's six pack, kissing down the ridged centre, and then - oh yes - it was on his cock, lips touching his shaft nervously, and those shaky hands roving about his thigh and tummy. Under the covers, he pressed that same imperious hand on the back of his head and pushed his face down into his crotch, making the Turk man inhale his crotch smell, and then open up for the cock, oh yessss. Jude sniggered at the tickle of the man's pretty full beard crossing his skin, but he also shuddered in pleasure, so happy to push his cock into a wet hot mouth again, and to press so firmly down on the back of Sal's head. Then he threw the covers further back, needing to see it for himself, even in the dim traces of light that remained in their suite. The sounds were enough: the gagging and gobbling, the way he was forcing that inexpert face down against his cock and balls, really filling his mouth and throat, choking him on his manhood. He pushed and pushed and then gave short breaks, letting Ozcan pull back spluttering and catching his breath, and then back down, shoving his cock between those lips and burying it in a mouth that didn't know how to handle it. And Jude groaned more loudly and fully now, the sounds of a man, really taking advantage of Salih's awkward wet gob. `That's it,' he groaned at him, `suck it good for me.' `I've never-' `Don't care, you're enjoying it now-' `Mmmph...' `Fucking choke on it, mate, mmmm, that feels so good!' At no point did Ozcan quite relax into the task, trembling and tense beside and against him, but Jude was concerned only with his own enjoyment. He thrust up with his hips even as he pressed roughly down on the back of the man's head, fucking his mouth in the darkness, and using his face like a wank-sock. Into his gob he oozed pre-cum and his hard fingers kneaded at the back of his neck, whilst he felt Ozcan's touch rove over his six-pack and up and down his sturdy thighs. Fuck, yes. No thoughts of the cold now, at least: Jude felt red hot with lust, the insides of his bed ultra-heated by two masculine forms, and fresh sweat beading on his chest and the insides of his legs, and on Salih's neck where he held it in place, thrusting so deep into the back of his mouth that the man really did splutter and choke as he pulled briefly away, gulping down air and almost whimpering until his lips were parted again by that thick veiny monster, Jude's black cock forced into his inexperienced gob. There was only so long this could last: the horny teen had been delaying his climax as best he could, but he lacked such mature willpower, and soon he was convulsing and twitching against his bedding, spilling his load on first the man's tongue, and then over the reddish fur of his beard, and then drops and slicks on his own tummy and the duvet that was falling back into place. Almost instantly, the heat and presence of Ozcan's body was pulled away from him, and he could just lie there on his sweaty back, limbs spread and lungs sucking in deep bursts of air, his pecs rising and falling even more. A long minute of dizzy gratitude, a spiralling high of orgasm, his cock wet and sensitive and the air rich with his own salty musk; and then he was rolling to the left a little and blinking into the dark to see more. Ozcan was stood between the beds, seemingly with his back to him, and his gulping breaths sounded almost like sobs in the night. `Fuck's sake,' Jude whispered to himself. Still dizzy with climax, he got out of the bed, his cock and balls still erect over the lowered waistband of his briefs and shorts, brushing cum-stains against the bum of Salih's boxers as he closed in against him and hugged him from behind. `Thanks for that,' he moaned gently, embracing and squeezing the 6ft lad. `I needed it.' He squeezed his neck more gently than he had before, giving him a slightly tighter hug. `It was good,' he reviewed, sounding dismissive, and then told him, `Get into bed, get some sleep. It's all good.' And then, selfish and lazy, the England teenager slid back into his own bed and turned away, riding the wave of his own pleasure into the depths of slumber. When Salih was quiet and withdrawn the next morning during their slow routines, Bellingham sighed disappointedly to himself and wished all sub men could be as chill and self-accepting as married striker Harry Kane. He himself remained calmly quiet and indifferent, quite happy to pretend that nothing had happened if that was what Salih Ozcan preferred... but it quickly became obvious, passing each other for their showers and ablutions, that the German footballer couldn't even look him in the eyes, and the tall handsome lad kept his head lowered and still had that sami shakiness about him as when he first climbed between their beds and went against his own spoken disapproval. Bellingham, cocksure and self-satisfied, was having none of this. Whilst Ozcan was brushing his teeth and staring mournfully into the mirror, clearly full of regret, the youngest Borussia Dortmund hero came in behind him, only half-dressed, and stepped in close. As he had last night in the shadows, he hugged his teammate from behind, slipping a single strong arm about his waist and pressing his big soft package in against his bottom as he hugged him briefly but tightly. `Thanks,' he told him quietly. `You're a good friend doing that for me. It was good.' A stony silence from the other player, their eyes meeting in the mirror. `You don't need to worry,' Jude told him quietly. `I won't tell a soul.' Ozcan spat into the sink, and as he bent down, his strong bottom rubbed a little more against Bellingham's bulge, making him smirk thoughtfully. But as the 6ft man straightened up, he hugged him more tightly from behind, holding him almost like a girl, and nuzzling the tip of his nose in against his neck for a moment. `Good boy,' he purred, even though the other midfielder was significantly older than his own teen status, and then he smirked into their reflections. `You were good at that, matey. Might let you do it again sometime.' And with that he ruffled his hair from behind and left him silently to it, slipping comfortably back into the room, and telling himself that this was all obvious and inevitable - of course Salih couldn't resist him, couldn't keep his hands off him once invited. He was Jude fucking Bellingham, wasn't he? The future of English football. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-364

Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2023 05:55:54 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 364 Part 364: England Camp, Day Three The night was only marginally cooler than the day, or so it felt: though the daytime flashed between the searing heat of the September sun and the air-conditioned confines of gyms and indoor work, the hotel accommodation was typically British, and the restaurant and bar area where the lads were allowed to unwind felt stuffy and oppressive. The wide-open glass doors onto the patio failed to bring in a non-existent breeze that might cool the showered and well-fed athletes, and all they achieved was inviting the buzz of irritating insects in to plague the flinching and chafing figures who stood or sat in their various clusters around the hotel's communal spaces this over-warm Wednesday night. Like any northerner in this weather, Kyle Walker felt hot and irritated, and the well-built Man City player couldn't stop writhing at the thin grey jogger shorts that he'd donned to come down to dinner an hour or so ago. He sat back in a fairly lightweight armchair, the pale leather almost sticking to his back muscles through the thin black t-shirt that clung to his bulky torso and made him shift irritably where he perched. A typical Englishman, Kyle couldn't help but resent these temperatures, even though if he'd been off work and in a foreign resort, he might have loved them. Nearby, an extra-large screen on the wall was showing a film, selected by Southgate-knows-who, and doing nothing to capture Walker's hazy attention - it was some dumb action movie and he didn't know who any of the young stars were, or the video game franchise it was based on. It was the kind of shit that could make a 33-year-old feel a bit old on a Wednesday night, given that the fast-lived timeframe of their career made him one of the old dogs of this particular roster. He was the oldest by a month, he thought, and Jordan Henderson had been a boring cunt and headed off to bed already - the mild-mannered Mackem had been a right moody git, in Kyle's opinion, pretty much since they all got here at different points on Monday. He could only assume it was all the shitty criticism the fella was getting for his Saudi move. The thought had played vaguely on Kyle's mind this week: his being the most senior bloke in this team nowadays. After all, his age had thrown a question mark over his head at City in the past year, and he'd come pretty close to fucking off to the Bundesliga over it, unsure if he would continue to feature heavily in Guardiola's plans... It was why the stocky Sheffield man was so intent on keeping his pace up and outrunning all of these younger fucks, it was a nice clear measure of his continued fitness, and his dominance of the England back line. He knew comfortably that he'd be Southgate's first choice right-back against both Ukraine and Scotland this camp, and he couldn't see much in the younger recruits that could threaten that certainty. It was just a shame, Kyle thought, that he was here `alone'. Not actually alone, of course, in this big mix of England's top players, nor even alone in representing his elite club, with Phillips and Foden still on the roster but Grealish sulked off home with a sore ankle. And he had plenty of friends still among the Three Lions, and a couple of fellow Yorkshiremen... The only way in which Walker was `alone' was in the one way that seemed to matter: a mildly injured John Stones had been ruled out at the time of selection, and his big lanky bestie was still working on fitness back in the northwest. The poor CGI of the action on-screen reached its peak and passed into duller snatches of dialogue. A few of the nearest lads looked genuinely enthralled by the shite, and Kyle just scowled disinterestedly. His own suggestion of some 90s classics from his childhood had been roundly ignored. Walker grabbed the empty glass on the arm of his chair and got up, giving the uncomfortable confines of his shorts a good tug and rearrange, then stomping away from the seated viewers, passing through the open archways of these interconnected communal rooms, headed for the soft drinks bar where he had failed to flirt an illicit lager out of the middle-aged barmaid. He got another apple juice from her, briefly wondering whether he would sleep with her, and sat himself on a barstool rather than returning to the movie corner where the cluster of young lads were intent on the `plot', or perhaps the hot young actress who was now conveniently undressing. He caught his sneering cynicism and almost laughed aloud at his own fussy attitude. `You are turning into a boring old prick,' he told himself internally, taking a sip of the boring apple juice and then just putting it back down on the bar behind him. This heat got you all hot and irritated, that was it - hot and irritated and also kinda horny, he added mentally. It would be unfair to say that was the main reason he missed having Stonesy around. Extra-curricular activities aside, the two Yorkshire fellas were intensely close and shared hundreds of in-jokes from years of playing and travelling together for club and country, and it was always weird for Walker to be on any away trip or international camp without the big younger lad, his dear John. He missed his banter, his habits and gestures, his chat and stories, and... okay, yeh, he missed having a roll around with the sexy fucker in the privacy of their shared room, and no wonder he was flirting with unattractive hotel employees and tugging uncomfortably at the fit of his jogger shorts. He needed some action. `Er, yeah, that's great.' His attention flickered, elbows leaning back against the bar, and he glanced sidelong at the teammate who was just being served a pint glass of faintly flavoured soda water, and smiling sweetly at the fifty-something barmaid who was dropping a thick slime of lime into it before retreating. Kyle watched disinterestedly as Conor Gallagher ran one hand through his slicked-back mane of honey-coloured hair, and lifted the fizzy pint to his lips with the other. Conor's eye moved in an almost shifty fashion, although Kyle supposed he'd accidentally been staring, and the younger England call-up gave him a faint nod. `Alright,' the Epsom lad said in his perpetually nervous sounding Surrey accent, looking as if he'd been caught doing something wrong and not just refreshing himself. Kyle blinked and nodded back, turning away. `Just fucking melting,' the City defender said simply, eyeing the uninteresting movie from a distance, and then picking up his own apple juice and proceeding to neck the thin glass in one stupidly long gulp. He looked back and found that Gallagher was watching him still, cupping his cold pint in both hands, and seeming on the verge of a question. Whatever it was, he abandoned it, looking away and shifting awkwardly as if unsure how to stand. The 23-year-old midfielder had not really registered on Kyle's radar, in all honesty; Conor was a lad who'd begun to bob in and out of the senior team after successful stints for the Young Lions, and he was marred by the fairly embarrassing state of affairs at Chelsea in recent years. He was an average-looking lad with a daft haircut, and neither as admirably self-assured as young Jude Bellingham nor as endearingly self-effacing as Bukayo Saka. He was peripheral to Kyle at best... and yet now here he was, supping his soda and lime at the bar with an absent expression and seeming to expect some attention or acknowledgement from a grizzled old timer like Kyle Walker, daddy of the 2023 England line-up. Kyle gave him an enigmatic grin, and was pleased when it made the lad's dark brows lift up and a puzzled edge come to his polite smile. `Yeah,' the Chelsea 23-year-old said after a long pause, `it's just too hot.' Dull assertions of this kind had passed between almost all of them at some point today, and Gallagher seemed to realise the pointlessness of his comment, colouring very slightly in his high cheeks. Hmm, Kyle thought. Not a bad looking kid, actually. Still, he turned away from him, unsure what to make of the Chelsea bugger, and curious in spite of himself at how the shite movie on the screen was gonna go. He sat there with his back leant to the bar and his thick thighs spread to show off several leg tattoos, and he was vaguely pleased that the midfield player made no move away from him, lingering close by in polite silence. Allowing a smidgeon of tension to grow, Walker then said, `Just gets you fucking on edge, doesn't it, this heat?' Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blond-haired Surrey lad nod. `Bit horrible really,' Gallagher said quietly, as if to himself. `I mean, unless you're on a beach, or something.' An awkward half-laugh. Kyle nodded slowly, deliberately not looking at him, but experimentally spread his thick legs a bit more and tilting back at the bar, making his chest muscles all the more prominent in his black t-shirt... and making it so that the grey jogger shorts clung even more tightly to what they could hold of his upper thighs... and what sat between them. He wanted to glance left and see if the Chelsea fuckwit was looking where he wanted him to look, but he also felt it was important to seem aloof and disinterested. It was all part of the game, and Kyle enjoyed the chase. `Just makes your bollocks super fucking sweaty, don't it?' he grunted out after another long pause, and now he did look Conor's way - and caught a flicker of movement in the boy's small hazel-blue eyes, as if they were returning upwards from a curious trip south. Kyle grinned at him, and Conor returned an uncertain smile back. `Sure,' the 6ft younger guy said, letting out an exaggerated breath and then taking several long gulps of his drink. `Right fucking sweaty,' Kyle added, lowering his voice. Conor said nothing, but gulped noisily on his soda. `It's a fucking swamp in my keks, haha.' And at that, he reached down and tugged aggressively at himself, then turned and looked at the other player, who was more obviously staring down now - aha. Kyle fell quiet, just relaxing where he was, and letting that tension build. Conor lingered near to him, leaning on the bar and quietly drinking, and then Kyle turned and fixed him with a more deliberate and purposeful stare; when the Chelsea footballer looked this way and met his eyes, he seemed to shift with immediate unease or interest, and Kyle dropped his voice even lower. `You'll need to piss when you've drunk all that, fella.' `Er...' `The way you're gulping it, it'll go straight through you.' `Er...' `Get yourself to the pisser, mate,' Kyle added in his lowest murmur, scratching at his stubble and up his sideburn, and giving the youngster a fleeting wink. `And wait for me in the furthest cubicle. Okay?' The 6ft midfielder just stared at him and Walker prepared himself to burst into throaty laughter and call banter, the easy way out of any such miscommunication. There was a long moment where he thought he'd misread things, and left Gallagher properly confused. But then the 23-year-old downed the last of his pint and nodded, and drifted away from the bar as if sleepwalking, vanishing out of the bar area and through the door into the nearest gents' facilities. Kyle took a long pause to smirk victoriously to himself, and then followed. In the toilets, he found Conor at the sinks, splashing cold water on his face, and then looking sharply this way. Kyle had his fists pushed into the pockets of his grey shorts, closing them more firmly over his crotch and big arse. He took a few swaggering steps into the bathroom, silent eye contact with the nervous-looking younger player, and then he nodded firmly to the cubicle doors. Conor nodded back and disappeared into the furthest one, and Kyle almost hooted with bullish laughter at how easy this was. And now here they were: Kyle pushing the cubicle door shut and flipping the bolt, locking them in the narrow limited space. Conor was a good couple of inches taller than him, quite a strapping young player, but still much slimmer and lighter than his own rugby-like build. The lad looked questioningly at him and Kyle just smirked, enjoying the tension of doing nothing further, loving the way he was able to hook and toy with this inexperienced teammate, and then a little surprised when the lad whispered, `Er I did actually need to piss.' `Get it out then,' Kyle told him, and whipped his own meaty cock out of his shorts to point into the toilet that separated them. He was well-endowed and already semi, and he enjoyed the way Conor's eyes bulged to see it; he then began to piss heavily, and smiled as Conor unbutton the flies of his slightly more fitted brown shorts, making a real ceremony of pulling his limp pale cock from the Armani trunks below. The two of them stood there pissing into the same bowl, eyes locked, and the hot night air suddenly feeling thicker and more humid than ever before. When he'd done, Walker shook his dick, and pressed his back muscles into the cubicle divide. His thumbs were hooked into the waist of his shorts and boxers, and he pushed them further down his inked thighs, standing there with his shaven pubes and swaying cock and balls visible below the waist of his black tee. Conor stared down at it, still holding his own dick. `Fucking sweaty bollocks, like I said,' Kyle whispered. `And now, dirty pissy cock.' Conor nodded like he was in a trance. `Needs cleaning up.' Conor's eye lifted from the display to meet his again, and he really did look nervous. `Is boy gonna clean it up for daddy?' Kyle asked, feeling kinky. There was hesitation, but the Chelsea player nodded his head once more, and then trembled. Walker properly dropped his shorts and stepped his trainer-clad feet out of them, and then he lifted one such foot up onto the toilet seat in a lunge posture, parting the big thighs and letting his cock and balls swing free. Free, open, available. Gallagher looked like he might pass out. `Get on with it, kid,' the senior-most England player commanded. Down he went, and Kyle enjoyed every second of it: the nervous tremble, the whispered `yes sir', the nervous clammy touch of Conor's hands on his thighs and shins and calves, and then the breathy uncertainty against his privates. `Give it a good lick,' he told him, and moaned softly as a nervous tongue traced the chubby line of his semi. `And the balls,' he urged him, and lifted his cock to help out, then pushed on that slicked honey hair, pushing the nervous mouth in against the weight meat of his sack. `And the pissy tip,' he insisted, slapping his hardening cock against the smooth youthful cheeks, pushing the head back a bit, helping Conor to open his mouth wide, and edging his cock in against his curious tongue. `Good boy,' he assured him, turned on by the ten-year gulf between them, and liking the vague gormlessness of this Surrey lad who he'd barely looked twice at til now. Here in the hot confines of the toilets, Kyle let himself get all the more sweaty - but the frustration and irritation were gone, the itch was scratched. He peeled his increasingly sweaty black t-shirt up but not quite off, just rolling it to his pits and baring his six-pack and most of his pecs. For moments at a time, he let Conor's face move from his crotch, guiding him to kiss these sticky hot muscles and trace the sweat between their sculpted lines, then pushing him back down. He wanked on his massive cock as Conor licked and kissed his sweaty balls, and then he pushed his thick meat into that trembling mouth, careful not to choke him - it did seem to be Gallagher's first time sucking, though you could never really be sure. Crouching in the cramped cubicle, Conor had begun to wank too, and Kyle liked the frenzied hurry of it, loved calling him `good boy', and then driven further by a kinky edge, he grabbed his jaw and tilted his face up and spat into his mouth, asking him if he liked tasting `daddy'. He knew he'd laugh at himself when he recounted this to Stonesy, but in the moment it all felt sexy as fuck. Conor's inexperience was hot, but he eventually took greater control, and focused on just wanking himself, whilst holding the lad's tongue and lips to his sack, making him lick his balls and gooch and the base of his prick, wanking heavily until he knew he was ready to dump glob after glob of silver-white cum on that smooth young skin, painting Conor's face with the evidence of his satisfaction. `Thank you,' Gallagher wheezed, when he called him `Good lad!' for the last time. Kyle moaned and smirked and relaxed into the wall, letting Conor lick at the tip of his cock while he reached his own jerky finale down below. He laughed vaguely at him and mussed up his stupid hair, then patted him on the head and slapped his softening cock against his cheeks and lips a bit. `Well well well,' was all he had to say before unlocking the door, `I bet there's some big cocks at Chelsea who would piss all over that cherub face, haha. Thanks, kid.' He didn't even pause to help Gallagher up before bundling clumsily out of the cubicle, tucking his privates away and going to wash his hands and face in the sink. In the mirror, he watched a dazed and red-faced Conor emerge from the cubicle, and he winked via their reflections, but said nothing more. He just chuckled to himself and tidied his sweaty garments, then slapped the lad on the back on the way past, and exited the mens' loos for the stuffy bar area, which now felt relatively cool and breezy compared to the intense body heat of the sordid cubicle. Kyle went straight past the doors to the bar etc and took the stairs up instead - he couldn't wait to get back to his room and ring up John-boy whilst he was alone. Fucking hell, Stonesy would enjoy hearing about this one... 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2023 05:55:54 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 364 Part 364: England Camp, Day Three The night was only marginally cooler than the day, or so it felt: though the daytime flashed between the searing heat of the September sun and the air-conditioned confines of gyms and indoor work, the hotel accommodation was typically British, and the restaurant and bar area where the lads were allowed to unwind felt stuffy and oppressive. The wide-open glass doors onto the patio failed to bring in a non-existent breeze that might cool the showered and well-fed athletes, and all they achieved was inviting the buzz of irritating insects in to plague the flinching and chafing figures who stood or sat in their various clusters around the hotel's communal spaces this over-warm Wednesday night. Like any northerner in this weather, Kyle Walker felt hot and irritated, and the well-built Man City player couldn't stop writhing at the thin grey jogger shorts that he'd donned to come down to dinner an hour or so ago. He sat back in a fairly lightweight armchair, the pale leather almost sticking to his back muscles through the thin black t-shirt that clung to his bulky torso and made him shift irritably where he perched. A typical Englishman, Kyle couldn't help but resent these temperatures, even though if he'd been off work and in a foreign resort, he might have loved them. Nearby, an extra-large screen on the wall was showing a film, selected by Southgate-knows-who, and doing nothing to capture Walker's hazy attention - it was some dumb action movie and he didn't know who any of the young stars were, or the video game franchise it was based on. It was the kind of shit that could make a 33-year-old feel a bit old on a Wednesday night, given that the fast-lived timeframe of their career made him one of the old dogs of this particular roster. He was the oldest by a month, he thought, and Jordan Henderson had been a boring cunt and headed off to bed already - the mild-mannered Mackem had been a right moody git, in Kyle's opinion, pretty much since they all got here at different points on Monday. He could only assume it was all the shitty criticism the fella was getting for his Saudi move. The thought had played vaguely on Kyle's mind this week: his being the most senior bloke in this team nowadays. After all, his age had thrown a question mark over his head at City in the past year, and he'd come pretty close to fucking off to the Bundesliga over it, unsure if he would continue to feature heavily in Guardiola's plans... It was why the stocky Sheffield man was so intent on keeping his pace up and outrunning all of these younger fucks, it was a nice clear measure of his continued fitness, and his dominance of the England back line. He knew comfortably that he'd be Southgate's first choice right-back against both Ukraine and Scotland this camp, and he couldn't see much in the younger recruits that could threaten that certainty. It was just a shame, Kyle thought, that he was here `alone'. Not actually alone, of course, in this big mix of England's top players, nor even alone in representing his elite club, with Phillips and Foden still on the roster but Grealish sulked off home with a sore ankle. And he had plenty of friends still among the Three Lions, and a couple of fellow Yorkshiremen... The only way in which Walker was `alone' was in the one way that seemed to matter: a mildly injured John Stones had been ruled out at the time of selection, and his big lanky bestie was still working on fitness back in the northwest. The poor CGI of the action on-screen reached its peak and passed into duller snatches of dialogue. A few of the nearest lads looked genuinely enthralled by the shite, and Kyle just scowled disinterestedly. His own suggestion of some 90s classics from his childhood had been roundly ignored. Walker grabbed the empty glass on the arm of his chair and got up, giving the uncomfortable confines of his shorts a good tug and rearrange, then stomping away from the seated viewers, passing through the open archways of these interconnected communal rooms, headed for the soft drinks bar where he had failed to flirt an illicit lager out of the middle-aged barmaid. He got another apple juice from her, briefly wondering whether he would sleep with her, and sat himself on a barstool rather than returning to the movie corner where the cluster of young lads were intent on the `plot', or perhaps the hot young actress who was now conveniently undressing. He caught his sneering cynicism and almost laughed aloud at his own fussy attitude. `You are turning into a boring old prick,' he told himself internally, taking a sip of the boring apple juice and then just putting it back down on the bar behind him. This heat got you all hot and irritated, that was it - hot and irritated and also kinda horny, he added mentally. It would be unfair to say that was the main reason he missed having Stonesy around. Extra-curricular activities aside, the two Yorkshire fellas were intensely close and shared hundreds of in-jokes from years of playing and travelling together for club and country, and it was always weird for Walker to be on any away trip or international camp without the big younger lad, his dear John. He missed his banter, his habits and gestures, his chat and stories, and... okay, yeh, he missed having a roll around with the sexy fucker in the privacy of their shared room, and no wonder he was flirting with unattractive hotel employees and tugging uncomfortably at the fit of his jogger shorts. He needed some action. `Er, yeah, that's great.' His attention flickered, elbows leaning back against the bar, and he glanced sidelong at the teammate who was just being served a pint glass of faintly flavoured soda water, and smiling sweetly at the fifty-something barmaid who was dropping a thick slime of lime into it before retreating. Kyle watched disinterestedly as Conor Gallagher ran one hand through his slicked-back mane of honey-coloured hair, and lifted the fizzy pint to his lips with the other. Conor's eye moved in an almost shifty fashion, although Kyle supposed he'd accidentally been staring, and the younger England call-up gave him a faint nod. `Alright,' the Epsom lad said in his perpetually nervous sounding Surrey accent, looking as if he'd been caught doing something wrong and not just refreshing himself. Kyle blinked and nodded back, turning away. `Just fucking melting,' the City defender said simply, eyeing the uninteresting movie from a distance, and then picking up his own apple juice and proceeding to neck the thin glass in one stupidly long gulp. He looked back and found that Gallagher was watching him still, cupping his cold pint in both hands, and seeming on the verge of a question. Whatever it was, he abandoned it, looking away and shifting awkwardly as if unsure how to stand. The 23-year-old midfielder had not really registered on Kyle's radar, in all honesty; Conor was a lad who'd begun to bob in and out of the senior team after successful stints for the Young Lions, and he was marred by the fairly embarrassing state of affairs at Chelsea in recent years. He was an average-looking lad with a daft haircut, and neither as admirably self-assured as young Jude Bellingham nor as endearingly self-effacing as Bukayo Saka. He was peripheral to Kyle at best... and yet now here he was, supping his soda and lime at the bar with an absent expression and seeming to expect some attention or acknowledgement from a grizzled old timer like Kyle Walker, daddy of the 2023 England line-up. Kyle gave him an enigmatic grin, and was pleased when it made the lad's dark brows lift up and a puzzled edge come to his polite smile. `Yeah,' the Chelsea 23-year-old said after a long pause, `it's just too hot.' Dull assertions of this kind had passed between almost all of them at some point today, and Gallagher seemed to realise the pointlessness of his comment, colouring very slightly in his high cheeks. Hmm, Kyle thought. Not a bad looking kid, actually. Still, he turned away from him, unsure what to make of the Chelsea bugger, and curious in spite of himself at how the shite movie on the screen was gonna go. He sat there with his back leant to the bar and his thick thighs spread to show off several leg tattoos, and he was vaguely pleased that the midfield player made no move away from him, lingering close by in polite silence. Allowing a smidgeon of tension to grow, Walker then said, `Just gets you fucking on edge, doesn't it, this heat?' Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blond-haired Surrey lad nod. `Bit horrible really,' Gallagher said quietly, as if to himself. `I mean, unless you're on a beach, or something.' An awkward half-laugh. Kyle nodded slowly, deliberately not looking at him, but experimentally spread his thick legs a bit more and tilting back at the bar, making his chest muscles all the more prominent in his black t-shirt... and making it so that the grey jogger shorts clung even more tightly to what they could hold of his upper thighs... and what sat between them. He wanted to glance left and see if the Chelsea fuckwit was looking where he wanted him to look, but he also felt it was important to seem aloof and disinterested. It was all part of the game, and Kyle enjoyed the chase. `Just makes your bollocks super fucking sweaty, don't it?' he grunted out after another long pause, and now he did look Conor's way - and caught a flicker of movement in the boy's small hazel-blue eyes, as if they were returning upwards from a curious trip south. Kyle grinned at him, and Conor returned an uncertain smile back. `Sure,' the 6ft younger guy said, letting out an exaggerated breath and then taking several long gulps of his drink. `Right fucking sweaty,' Kyle added, lowering his voice. Conor said nothing, but gulped noisily on his soda. `It's a fucking swamp in my keks, haha.' And at that, he reached down and tugged aggressively at himself, then turned and looked at the other player, who was more obviously staring down now - aha. Kyle fell quiet, just relaxing where he was, and letting that tension build. Conor lingered near to him, leaning on the bar and quietly drinking, and then Kyle turned and fixed him with a more deliberate and purposeful stare; when the Chelsea footballer looked this way and met his eyes, he seemed to shift with immediate unease or interest, and Kyle dropped his voice even lower. `You'll need to piss when you've drunk all that, fella.' `Er...' `The way you're gulping it, it'll go straight through you.' `Er...' `Get yourself to the pisser, mate,' Kyle added in his lowest murmur, scratching at his stubble and up his sideburn, and giving the youngster a fleeting wink. `And wait for me in the furthest cubicle. Okay?' The 6ft midfielder just stared at him and Walker prepared himself to burst into throaty laughter and call banter, the easy way out of any such miscommunication. There was a long moment where he thought he'd misread things, and left Gallagher properly confused. But then the 23-year-old downed the last of his pint and nodded, and drifted away from the bar as if sleepwalking, vanishing out of the bar area and through the door into the nearest gents' facilities. Kyle took a long pause to smirk victoriously to himself, and then followed. In the toilets, he found Conor at the sinks, splashing cold water on his face, and then looking sharply this way. Kyle had his fists pushed into the pockets of his grey shorts, closing them more firmly over his crotch and big arse. He took a few swaggering steps into the bathroom, silent eye contact with the nervous-looking younger player, and then he nodded firmly to the cubicle doors. Conor nodded back and disappeared into the furthest one, and Kyle almost hooted with bullish laughter at how easy this was. And now here they were: Kyle pushing the cubicle door shut and flipping the bolt, locking them in the narrow limited space. Conor was a good couple of inches taller than him, quite a strapping young player, but still much slimmer and lighter than his own rugby-like build. The lad looked questioningly at him and Kyle just smirked, enjoying the tension of doing nothing further, loving the way he was able to hook and toy with this inexperienced teammate, and then a little surprised when the lad whispered, `Er I did actually need to piss.' `Get it out then,' Kyle told him, and whipped his own meaty cock out of his shorts to point into the toilet that separated them. He was well-endowed and already semi, and he enjoyed the way Conor's eyes bulged to see it; he then began to piss heavily, and smiled as Conor unbutton the flies of his slightly more fitted brown shorts, making a real ceremony of pulling his limp pale cock from the Armani trunks below. The two of them stood there pissing into the same bowl, eyes locked, and the hot night air suddenly feeling thicker and more humid than ever before. When he'd done, Walker shook his dick, and pressed his back muscles into the cubicle divide. His thumbs were hooked into the waist of his shorts and boxers, and he pushed them further down his inked thighs, standing there with his shaven pubes and swaying cock and balls visible below the waist of his black tee. Conor stared down at it, still holding his own dick. `Fucking sweaty bollocks, like I said,' Kyle whispered. `And now, dirty pissy cock.' Conor nodded like he was in a trance. `Needs cleaning up.' Conor's eye lifted from the display to meet his again, and he really did look nervous. `Is boy gonna clean it up for daddy?' Kyle asked, feeling kinky. There was hesitation, but the Chelsea player nodded his head once more, and then trembled. Walker properly dropped his shorts and stepped his trainer-clad feet out of them, and then he lifted one such foot up onto the toilet seat in a lunge posture, parting the big thighs and letting his cock and balls swing free. Free, open, available. Gallagher looked like he might pass out. `Get on with it, kid,' the senior-most England player commanded. Down he went, and Kyle enjoyed every second of it: the nervous tremble, the whispered `yes sir', the nervous clammy touch of Conor's hands on his thighs and shins and calves, and then the breathy uncertainty against his privates. `Give it a good lick,' he told him, and moaned softly as a nervous tongue traced the chubby line of his semi. `And the balls,' he urged him, and lifted his cock to help out, then pushed on that slicked honey hair, pushing the nervous mouth in against the weight meat of his sack. `And the pissy tip,' he insisted, slapping his hardening cock against the smooth youthful cheeks, pushing the head back a bit, helping Conor to open his mouth wide, and edging his cock in against his curious tongue. `Good boy,' he assured him, turned on by the ten-year gulf between them, and liking the vague gormlessness of this Surrey lad who he'd barely looked twice at til now. Here in the hot confines of the toilets, Kyle let himself get all the more sweaty - but the frustration and irritation were gone, the itch was scratched. He peeled his increasingly sweaty black t-shirt up but not quite off, just rolling it to his pits and baring his six-pack and most of his pecs. For moments at a time, he let Conor's face move from his crotch, guiding him to kiss these sticky hot muscles and trace the sweat between their sculpted lines, then pushing him back down. He wanked on his massive cock as Conor licked and kissed his sweaty balls, and then he pushed his thick meat into that trembling mouth, careful not to choke him - it did seem to be Gallagher's first time sucking, though you could never really be sure. Crouching in the cramped cubicle, Conor had begun to wank too, and Kyle liked the frenzied hurry of it, loved calling him `good boy', and then driven further by a kinky edge, he grabbed his jaw and tilted his face up and spat into his mouth, asking him if he liked tasting `daddy'. He knew he'd laugh at himself when he recounted this to Stonesy, but in the moment it all felt sexy as fuck. Conor's inexperience was hot, but he eventually took greater control, and focused on just wanking himself, whilst holding the lad's tongue and lips to his sack, making him lick his balls and gooch and the base of his prick, wanking heavily until he knew he was ready to dump glob after glob of silver-white cum on that smooth young skin, painting Conor's face with the evidence of his satisfaction. `Thank you,' Gallagher wheezed, when he called him `Good lad!' for the last time. Kyle moaned and smirked and relaxed into the wall, letting Conor lick at the tip of his cock while he reached his own jerky finale down below. He laughed vaguely at him and mussed up his stupid hair, then patted him on the head and slapped his softening cock against his cheeks and lips a bit. `Well well well,' was all he had to say before unlocking the door, `I bet there's some big cocks at Chelsea who would piss all over that cherub face, haha. Thanks, kid.' He didn't even pause to help Gallagher up before bundling clumsily out of the cubicle, tucking his privates away and going to wash his hands and face in the sink. In the mirror, he watched a dazed and red-faced Conor emerge from the cubicle, and he winked via their reflections, but said nothing more. He just chuckled to himself and tidied his sweaty garments, then slapped the lad on the back on the way past, and exited the mens' loos for the stuffy bar area, which now felt relatively cool and breezy compared to the intense body heat of the sordid cubicle. Kyle went straight past the doors to the bar etc and took the stairs up instead - he couldn't wait to get back to his room and ring up John-boy whilst he was alone. Fucking hell, Stonesy would enjoy hearing about this one... 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-339

Date: Wed, 11 Jan 2023 22:41:52 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 339 Part 339: Getting a Semi It was strange to be here, he thought - or more accurately, to be here purely for pleasure, with a drink in hand and so many of his friends about him. A mix of former work friends in the football world who he had remained close to, and some mates who went even further back in the Gosforth hero's life, before he was Tyneside's beloved striker. It wasn't a large crew, but the dozen or so middle-aged men were certainly drinking dry the hospitality box he'd been gifted here at St James' Park, and another expensive bottle of red was being opened by one of the fellas nearby, and another bloke was receiving a tray of open beer bottles from a tight-smiled young lady at the door, not without a bit of flirty banter that hung somewhere between creepy and comical from a man nearing 60. Alan Shearer took the top-up to his wine glass gladly and clinked it with the guy who was doing the pouring, a long-time close friend whose football career had never taken off as fully as his own; and then he, and most of the others, returned his attention out across the terraces and onto the pitch, the jagged rectangle of vivid green that was so sacred to the 52-year-old man. They were well into the second half now, and a long period of goalless dominance for the Magpies had finally erupted into two well-placed goals from Burn and Joelinton - there was less than fifteen minutes left of the League Cup Quarter Final, and Alan felt the win was now inevitable. It was a perfect antidote to the Toon's embarrassing FA Cup defeat at the weekend, a thought that flashed across Shearer's mind as regularly as that of any other fan in the stadium. And here he was, just for pleasure: not commentating rabidly along with the action for TV or radio, nor dragged away to some studio for post-match analysis. He was here simply as a guest of the club, glad to share the hospitality with a random cluster of his friends. He'd drank a bit more than he'd expected, starting well before the late kick-off, and he was more than a little bit tipsy. As so often comes with that, he was more than a little bit horny, and Newcastle United were not the only ones in the stadium who could feel a semi coming on. His fat cock twitched and stirred in the front of his tight checked boxer shorts and chafing at the front of his blue-wash jeans. Instinctively, the middle-aged former footballer pulled and adjusted at the front of the denim, but that hand contact only made it worse, coaxing his wine-drunk semi and making him more irritated that his wife was away on holiday. His decision to exit the private box and take advantage of his legendary status at the club was not entirely unrelated to these stirrings, though he didn't head down the beloved corridors and stairwells with any particular plans in mind - after all, he wasn't stupid or reckless, and even after all these years, he managed to remain mostly faithful to his darling wife. Mostly. Shearer was halfway down to the inner sanctum of St James' Park when the phone in his jeans pocket buzzed sensuously against his upper thigh and he was jarringly reminded that faithful wasn't the most accurate description of his role in his marriage. `Are you there???' read the text across the touchscreen, and then when he slid it open to the messaging app, was followed by `Fckin gr8 game!!!!' and `Lol have i pissed u off?' The messages were, of course, from another notable Geordie, one now based way south on a regular commute between Essex and Reading. And before them were a string of recent contacts from the 30-something forward, his once presumed heir to be the next big champion of Newcastle, now slightly washed-up workman of the Championship: Andy Carroll. The recent ignored messages were mainly pretty innocent, random bits of communication from the younger Geordie man, though not all - a couple, around New Year's Eve, were either hinting for action (`U about at all this week when I visit...?') and sometimes pretty blunt: `miss ur cock, big al'. As usual, he pushed his thumb against that green text strip and wiped it from the chat, surprised at himself for leaving the crude text message there on his phone for so long... Sloppy, he told himself, just cos the wifey is away. There had been a lot more of the latter kind of message during November and December, and those had been particularly tough for the older Newcastle man. After all, he'd been in the rousing heat of Qatar, and surrounded by football royalty, so he'd been so easily aroused anyway if he let his laser-focus wander, and the last thing he'd needed was thirsty WhatsApp messaging from the young stud who'd become his on-and-off fuck-toy in the last couple of years, much to his own shock. It was a loose and mutually satisfying arrangement for the two blokey footballers, but in the past six months, he'd become a bit alarmed by just how keen and persistent Andy was becoming... he'd begun the slow process of cooling off and resisting the regular opportunities when his work led him to London and surrounds, and tried to put a stop to the once-regular hotel fucks that had allowed him to let off steam and keep his urges under control. Towards the end of 2022, he'd spent less and less time with his cock buried in Carroll's powerful glutes, tugging on a ponytail and making the rough-bearded Gateshead lad gasp his name - and in 2023, he'd not once even responded to a single message from the Reading FC striker. Alan paused on his way into the back of the tunnel, drunk enough to feel sentimental, and felt he could hardly ignore Andy forever. He thumbed in a perfunctory response to confirm he was having a great time at the match, knowing Andy would be watching it on TV in his Essex mansion, and then accidentally (or subconsciously?) whacking a big X on the end of the message, which earned an almost immediate smiley from his tall younger friend, and an `Andy C is typing...' message across the top. Instantly, he locked the device and shut down the potential conversation. Carroll was becoming a bit too attached, a bit too needy; this wasn't what Shearer had wanted when he first pushed his finger into the younger man's hairy hole and claimed him. Dammit. Phone in pocket, knuckles brushing the bulge of his semi. He marched down the broad well-lit corridor that led towards the dugout, passing security personnel with just a nod and a smile; Shearer had an unwritten free pass around every corner of this stadium nowadays, even when he wasn't actually an invited guest, and so it was easy enough for him to discretely make his way out into the shadows of the home side's presence at the dugout, pulling a hooded jacket on over his blue zip-neck jumper to hide his familiarly shiny bald head from the roving cameras. He wouldn't dream of strolling forward and distracting the Toon boss Howe at all, nor any nearby player in action, but he folded his arms and grinned excitedly out into the floodlit space - he was keen to be down here and be among the first to congratulate the gaffer and players on progression into a rare tournament semi-final, even if just the League Cup. But he was quickly noticed by some of the kitted men at the rear of the huddle, slumped in various poses on seating still spaced out for 2020 social distancing. Back-up goalkeeper Karl Darlow spotted him and rose to his feet to grab a handshake, quickly joined by a sweaty benched Callum Wilson; beyond them, he couldn't help but smirk to see young substitute Elliot Anderson blink in excitement and nudge the lad next to him, filled with local adulation to be visited down here by one of his idols. Shearer could laugh at his own big-headedness there, but it was a safe assumption for a North Shields talent, and he gladly shook hands and grabbed brief hugs with each of the men, gesturing at them not to make too much fuss or distract the coaches - less than ten minutes to go now, and everybody was anticipating the 2-0 lead growing fuller. Shearer kept one eye on the action whilst sidling into place alongside the mix of resting players and unused subs, always taking real pleasure from being this close to the action, instead of tucked away in commentary box or television studio, even with the many good mates he had in front of the camera, from Gary to Micah. He hadn't really thought the idea through before he said it, but the nearest couple of substitutes were making quiet excited comments to him about the club's path to Wembley for some silverware, and growing awkward when they realised they didn't have much to say to such a big figure in their city. Smiling broadly, Alan reached over and raised his voice a little, announcing the party he hadn't realised he was hosting. `A few of my pals will be back at mine after for drinks,' he called, the plan becoming a reality as soon as he vocalised - he knew at least half of the guys up in the box would be raring for a few nightcaps after the stadium emptied out and the Semi-Final was sure. `Nothing fancy, but I've got a lot of drink in and it's just up the road really - be great to have any of you lads over who are up for it, when you're out of here and free. What d'you say?' He beamed genially at the array of sweaty hot and pink-cheeked chilly faces of those who had and hadn't got minutes in the tank. There was a chorus of nods and yeses and Shearer felt a superficial thrill at being the generous host, though it was hard to say how many of the lads next to him would actually make the short journey into Gosforth to his big place - even if many of them lived a short distance away at that posh end of the North East city. `Spread the word,' he suggested lightly, patting Darlow on the shoulder and giving a meaningful friendly nod to a still-starstruck Anderson. `Invite anyone on the team or staff, it'd be an honour to have any of you Magpies in my place, aye?' A missed chance from Isak and Saint-Maximin brought attention back to the game, and Alan nodded his head slowly to himself - yep, this was a good idea, it felt like the night for a party, Tuesday or not. He'd have to head back up and make the suggestion to the blokes in their box, though he was anticipating quite a cheer of support, given how much they'd all knocked back - and besides, thought the bulge in his jeans, having a bunch of match-weary footballers in his place was an oddly exciting proposition tonight, even if he knew he shouldn't be entertaining that thought at all. For a moment, he caught the eye of dormant captain Jamaal Lascelles, languishing at the far end of the subs bench as usual, and smiled weakly... but the Derby-born defensive giant looked sharply away and scowled, and Shearer thought vaguely of the string of intimate encounters he'd once shared with the big beefcake before really experimenting properly with Andy Carroll. Huh, that had been ill-advised, and Lascelles had barely spoken a word to him since spilling several loads on the dashboard of his Jaguar. Never mind. Don't shit on your doorstep, a cautious voice at the back of his head told him, thinking of the predicament he'd found himself in with young Andy; but another voice, one located in the sweaty crotch of his blue jeans, told him to stare out over the pitch instead, and to wonder which players would accept the invite. Fucking hell, he thought, a party at Alan fucking Shearer's house. He'd already sent a picture of the driveway and glowing windows to several different group chats with his Whitley Bay and youth academy mates, and now the 20-year-old midfielder was crunching up the gravel drive in his baggy tracksuit, wiping sweaty palms down the thighs. The messages from Big Al, forwarded to him by some of the senior players who were apparently on closer terms with the icon, made it clear that there was no dress code for the impromptu party, since the footy lads were coming basically straight from the stadium - but still, the youngster felt self-conscious in his NUFC-branded gear as he waited on the doorstep with two others from his taxi, Joe Willock and Jacob Murphy. After clacking the heavy knocker on the painted door, they were greeted not by the legend himself, but by some half-recognised tubby older bloke who they'd seen at club events, and ushered into the understated sprawl of the suburban home. Open beers were thrust into their hands and the grateful young men were led through into the back half of the house, where a large beige lounge spilled open into a spacious conservatory extension, and a surprisingly busy crowd was loudly enjoying themselves. It was an odd patchwork of the smart-casual attire of Shearer's network of pals who'd been at the game, punctuated by the mix-and-match tracksuit attire of various players and club staff who had picked up on the invite and made their way here for however many drinks. Anderson took a long slug of beer as he digested the idea that he was here for a party in the home of a guy who'd been worshipped by his dad and grandad before him, and he shook himself and laughed. Mental. Here I am, I've made it. This, he thought, probably wasn't the best idea - he was exhausted from exhausted from playing a full 90 minutes in defence and keeping a clean sheet against Leicester City's best efforts, and he knew his wife would hardly be impressed when he returned home even later than planned. But he was here, beer in hand, and he ought to make the most of it. It had seemed like an invite that couldn't be ignored, really, from the big chief himself; Shearer had been very vocal and generous in his support for Trippier, the first Newcastle purchase of their embarrassing new wealth, when others were doubting him and calling it a lazy transfer for a man on his way to retirement. The 32-year-old defender respected Alan as much as most English footballers, but he was very grateful to this Newcastle royalty for having his back, and being the first to praise him as he made his mark on Tyneside. Plus, the semi-official new captain mused, this was good for the lads, and he was pleased to see so many of his teammates here, when they'd all looked a bit uncertain in the locker-room, and some might only stay for one; to be fair, a lot of them were those off the bench, who hadn't put in full shifts like himself, or not even pulled their boots on at all, and they probably had a lot more energy to drink and socialise. I'll have just this one, Kieran Trippier advised himself from his corner of the conservatory extension, a glassy smile on his blocky features, and a weary glint in his eyes - and then I'll call a taxi to get me across the suburbs to my own bed, and a likely lecture from the missus. Every muscle of his stocky form ached from the battle in the stadium, although this strong beer was helping. Hmm, he thought, maybe he'd stay for a couple, and just see how things went...? It was a good party, he was pretty sure. The older lads seemed to love having a smattering of current Newcastle faces among them, revitalising the party atmosphere of their long evening of wine and beer, and though the majority of the actual players only stayed for one or two, others were more party-spirited: big Dan Burn, whose surprise goal had really made the difference for the Magpies tonight, recreated his stupid changing room dance over and over and got so drunk he had to be carried by two others into his taxi; energetic Brazilian Bruno Guimaraes was chatty and effusive and briefly the centre of attention, before an impatient phone call summoned him home to his partner and newborn; unused subs Matt Ritchie and gigantic Chris Wood were full of beans and the first to suggest rounds of shots being downed, causing a sticky mess on the low central table of the cream-carpeted lounge area. Any less drunk, and Shearer might have panicked over the mess being made, but he just laughed along and stared dimly at specks of red wine staining the carpet. But now things were quieting down, and the party spirit was waning. Fair enough. It was late, and the gather men were either getting on in age or just knackered from the pressures of professional sport. And it was a Tuesday night...! He'd been stupid, he told himself, to start getting a bit frisky, semi bulging in his jeans and adrenaline pumping through his ageing body. Yeah, it was an exciting night of football victory and all that, but he was so well-behaved these days, and he wasn't even going to open and look at the string of follow-up messages from Carroll at the other end of the country. He'd been daft to think he might get a bit of taboo action tonight out of one of the younger lads, he told himself, as he tidied a few empties from a coffee table at one window and then grinned warmly as he helped to see out another fragment of the gathering, following the men out onto the driveway and seeing them into their waiting taxi. Alan didn't stay out long at the front of the big house, chilly now with his jumper shed and his pale blue oxford shirt unbuttoned partway down his hairy chest, though the cold Newcastle night was a brief relief after the gradual heat of inside, and the amount of wine and then whiskey he'd consumed. Inside, he tossed the bottles into the recycling and tried to figure out who was actually left in his place: not many now, he surmised, hugging goodbyes to another couple who were passing him by in the kitchen and central hallway, and then moving through back into the lounge again to find it actually empty. He blinked and laughed and rubbed a hand across his warm face, then retreated into the kitchen and wondered if he was finally alone as it actually seemed - god, he should drink some water before he crashed into the big lonely bed upstairs, or he was going to feel like death in the morning. At 52, the hangovers really brought their friends along for the scrap. He moved through the big farmhouse kitchen that had been refurbished a dozen times since he bought the place, but he always thought looked the same, and he plucked a clean pint glass from a cupboard to fill at the sink - he was just sloshing fresh water into the glass when he glanced to the right and found that he wasn't actually alone in the kitchen after all, but a tracksuit figure was slumped at the wall on one side of the big double-fridge, scrutinising his phone with a screwed-up expression on his acne-scarred face. `Oh,' the ex-footballer chuckled. `Alreet there, kid...?' The young lad blinked slowly and cleared his throat, staring this way in a dazed and glassy way for a moment, then suppressing a little groan. `Er, hiya, yeah just - er, had a few too many, haha, y'kna... er...' A lopsided grin fell across the face of the junior midfielder, apparently the last of the Toon players left in Shearer's place, though he'd kinda thought the kid had made an exit ages ago. Alan laughed and passed the pint of water that way, then began to pour another. `Here, down this, man. You look a state.' He grinned encouragingly at the tracksuit youth and supped from his own tall glass of water, looking the rugged figure of Elliot Anderson up and down, those stupid thoughts resurfacing for a moment, and the presence of Andy's unread messages burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans. `God, don't you young players party any more or what?' the 52-year-old called challengingly, as Anderson steadied himself on the kitchen worktop and moved a few steps closer to the sink, his pint already half-emptied. Anderson hid a belch behind one hand of grazed knuckles and he grinned stupidly, lolling there a few feet away. `Sure we do,' the local lad insisted. `Love being a football star,' he continued stupidly. `Straight past any queue in the Toon, man.' A big open smile spit his ruggedly handsome face and Shearer laughed at him. `Aye, I remember that, just about,' the ex-striker teased gently, reaching out to pat one warm muscular shoulder through the slim-fitting black training t-shirt, and then turning a tap to let Elliot refill his pint glass. `But seems like you can't really handle ya drink, kid, how much have you even had...?' He smiled uncertainly at the swaying figure next to him, trying to gauge just how insensible the midfield player was, and whether he was going to have to direct him to one of the guest rooms, or get him into a taxi back to the coast. `All good,' the current Newcastle footballer slurred at him, then seemed to straighten up his posture a bit and clear his throat again, trying to be presentable or mimic sobriety, which just made Shearer laugh some more, and down the rest of his own much-needed water. He was hardly anything but pissed himself, but he was upright and in control, and there was something very endearing about the 20-year-old attempting to kid them both that he wasn't four sheets to the wind. `Sure,' Alan chuckled. `You look alreet, for sure.' `Am not some lightweight,' Elliot grunted at him, still blinking slowly, and then seeming to steady himself a bit. His cheeks had gone red and he looked a little less like he might pass out on the kitchen floor. `Ugh, what was even in those shots?' They both laughed now, and Anderson let out a more honest groan. `I've been hiding in here in case someone made me down another. Where did you get that shite?' Alan shrugged and threw a hairy arm about the broad shoulders of the 5ft10 lad for a moment. `You know, you pick up that random crap on holiday and bring it home, and... haha, knocked you for six, has it...? Shit - the Magpies nights out mustn't be half as mad as they were in my day, like. Look at the state of you...' Anderson bristled vaguely at this teasing comment, whether seriously or jokingly, and shrugged his arm away with a movement of his shoulder muscles, pawing uncomfortably at his dopey face and finding his feet at last. `You'd be surprised,' the player grumbled in a deep voice. `Things can get bit crazy, now and then, like you would never think, ha-' Like when suggesting the party in the first place, Shearer spoke without thinking, his ideas expressing themselves before his usually mature senses could filter them. `What, in the showers and that?' he muttered thoughtfully at the shorter man, staring him down and patting one firm warm hand against the shoulder of his dark top - and then immediately noting the widening of those innocent eyes, the little tremor of panic on the lad's lips, and the certainty that he'd stumbled into some truth. The two of them stopped, Alan's half-joke tingling awkwardly in the air between them, and Elliot averted his eyes, seeming to shrink a little in stature, and regret saying anything. Alan's attention was quickly diverted - and the younger man jolted in nervous surprise - by the slam of a door, and steps in the hall beyond one of the kitchen doors. A loud Manc voice complained bitterly through the doorway: `Fuck's sake, I'm hardly too pissed to get in a car, am I? Do I look like I'm gonna vomit?' And Trippier came bursting through the half-open door, a scowl on his tight features, and a drunken swagger to his movement that made it easy to see why a taxi driver had been cynical about carrying him into Northumberland. Hand still resting on Anderson's shoulder, Shearer turned with an almost guilty expression towards the other player, as if something had been interrupted, and flashed a welcoming smile across the island at the de facto skipper of his precious team. `You're still here?' he barked at Kieran. `Fucking hell, I thought the party was over, but here I am with you two dodgy bastards still, haha - what are we doing drinking just water...?' At this, Elliot groaned dismally, but Kieran made his way about the kitchen and slapped a hand against Alan's upper arm. `That's the spirit,' the Mancunian fella barked. `I mean, once upon a time I was staying for just the one beer, but...' And they all laughed, even a slightly hazy looking Anderson, who slumped his rear against the worktop and folded his arms over his chest, whilst Shearer moved past him and yanked open the fridge, raiding a bottom drawer that was still stacked with cooled bottles. `Here,' he insisted, pushing one towards Elliot, then turning and grinning eagerly at Kieran. `We need to toast to the big win, lads.' `Don't jinx it, we've got a Semi to go before anything gets big,' Trippier mused, whilst Anderson just made a hesitant groaning noise and stared at the beer like it might explode in his hand. King of the dad jokes, Shearer turned a thoughtful grin at the defensive player and raised one eyebrow. `That's what she said,' he quipped, thinking of the semi that had plagued his own cock since midway through the match, and letting out a throaty laugh that must have expressed more meaning than consciously intended. Trippier smirked at him as their beer bottles clinked, and one of his long tracksuit sleeves went gripping roughly about Anderson's shoulders, whilst he let out a dirty chuckle and took his next sip of beer. `Don't talk dirty to me old man, it's that time of night!' the right-back exclaimed, giving his young teammate a shake, and not breaking gaze when Alan's thoughtful old eyes met his. `A bit of silverware at St James' is enough to give anyone at least a semi, ain't it?' the former Madrid defender exclaimed a little less cheekily, still trying to pull the youngster into a headlock, whilst Alan found his eyes automatically clocking the tight fit of Trippier's Newcastle gear, and thinking thoughts that would end his marriage. In his pocket, the silenced phone throbbed heavily with messages unsent, and the long absence since he'd last thrown Carroll down on a hotel bed. `Just a semi?' the Premiership muttered quietly at them with a dirty smile. `Full mast, then,' sniggered the right-back. `I think I came in my pants when we won, ha,' threw in Anderson, seeming to relax and smirk, and finally take a drink from the bottle he held like a grenade. `Haha,' he added awkwardly, seeming unsure if he had really got the joke. Standing in front of them, with his back to the fridge, Alan first rubbed his beer-cooled fingers across the rough silvery stubble of his chin, and then moved his hand across the open collar of his shirt, and down the line of buttons. Once it was below the waist, he grabbed loosely at the bulge of his jeans, his eyes flicking from Kieran's face to Elliot's, and his smile unchanging. `Glad it's not just me then,' he said in a low voice, and put his lips around the neck of the bottle, tipping it back and swallowing the malty nectar. Anderson's head was clearing slightly, and he was surprised that this latest beer was going down so well, since he'd felt like he was absolutely ruined after the last few shots he'd been pestered into downing about half an hour ago; he relaxed a bit as he followed the other through two, but then realised just how pissed he was when he suddenly noticed that they weren't even drinking in the same big lounge area that had held the impromptu party; nah, they were in a smaller and more moodily lit space, a kind of snug room with very deep comfy sofas, and music was playing quietly from a speaker that Shearer kept barking ineptly at and then getting annoyed when it couldn't process a Geordie accent. The 20-year-old tittered stupidly at this entertainment, relaxing back into the dark brown leather, and hugging the cool bottle against his chest; Trippier was occupying the other half of this deep couch in a very relaxed posed, his socked feet up on the leather and one arm hugged about one knee. Shearer was over on a recliner to the side of them, still frowning at the speaker system, and then breaking into wheezy self-conscious laughter as Trippier called him an `old fart' and asked him if they really needed any music on for what they were gonna do. `And what are we gonna do?' chuckled Alan's heavy mature voice, the former player leaning back into his armchair and pawing at the top few buttons of his shirt, his face all Qatari tan and his forehead gleaming with sweat. `Oh I dunno,' came Kieran's slow musing voice, `but I thought we were all a bit excited about the result tonight, nah...?' Elliot laughed vaguely at them both and sipped more beer, rubbing the back of one forearm across his sweaty brow, and then shuffling his chunky arse against the slippery brown leather of the sofa. He suppressed a burp and cast his eyes loosely from one older man to the other, feeling very cosy and relaxed in this smaller lounge, and pretty glad to have outstayed everyone else, intimate guests at his hero's house - fuck, it'd be so cool to tell his mates this, that he was up all night chatting shit with Big Al, and drinking way more than all the other fuckers who'd come to celebrate the win. `You sure he's alright?' Alan was asking, though the question struggled to register sensibly in Elliot's fuzzy thoughts. `He's alright,' muttered Kieran. `He knows what's what. He's had a bit of fun, at least.' `Huh, right,' murmured the ex-player. `He looks pretty green.' `We all were once,' was Trippier's nostalgic response. Anderson stopped staring thoughtfully at a big print of the Tyne Bridge on one wall, and looked from Kieran's tight grin and flickering tongue-tip, to Alan's broad leer and the way one of his hands kept rubbing up and down a thigh, and the drunk Geordie lad's thoughts began to find some order... Kieran wasn't sure how he'd ended up here at this hour, but it was a total lack of self-awareness that had seen him work through his first beer and inevitably give in to the fun atmosphere and the constant ego boost of the company, all of whom seemed to think he was as much the saviour of Newcastle as Eddie Howe or any Saudi investor. And now, specifically, HERE: getting as hard as a rock in his tracky bottoms, and smirking across the narrow space at Alan Shearer, whilst he rubbed gently at the outline in the black nylon, and then grinned the other way at the dopey expression on Elliot Anderson's pocked young face. With a cheeky laugh, the 32-year-old took the hand off the outline of his hardened prick, and pushed it down the front of his trackies instead, giving it a good feel under the grip of his boxer briefs, stroking the thick shaft and pulling back on the tight foreskin, and flicking his mischievous eyes from the retired legend to the gawping youngster. `Come on fellas,' Newcastle's acting captain chuckled, pulling on himself under the confines of his underpants and tracksuit bottoms, and really pushing his tired shoulders back against the leather. `We're all feeling it, but I'm the only one doing owt about it.' `Nah,' disagreed Shearer quietly, and he saw a hand on denim, really rubbing at the delightfully full mound of denim between those spread thighs, and he couldn't help but grin with gleeful interest - this had certainly not been where he thought tonight was going, and he knew there might be some dollop of regret in his hangover, but right now he was as horny as fuck and up for literally anything. It never took much to tip Trippier over the edge nowadays, as Lascelles had found out in a pub toilet, and so many of his teammates had vaguely discovered as he was ringleader of a few steamy shower wanks before the interruption of the World Cup left them all awkward and uncertain. Who'd known Ryan Fraser would be such a willing cock-slut for his teammates? Shame they were probably selling the gruff little Scot bastard... Kieran nudged his right elbow against Elliot's arm. `You horny too, kid?' `Fucking hell,' was Anderson's vague murmur of non-answer. `It's been a long night,' purred Alan's more distinguished Tyneside accent, and Kieran looked back his way, finding something profoundly sexy in the older man and his hairy knuckles rubbing back and forth over his crotch. Hmm, no Fraser here to do the honours and get spunk in his beard - Trippier could see he was gonna have to be the one getting down and dirty tonight, and he knew he was up to the challenge. He smirked at his Match of the Day supporter, and gently licked his lips. Drunk and excited, Shearer unbuckled his belt and watched as Trips slid off the sofa and moved even closer, his face taken by a dirty eagerness. He tugged open the button fly and then began to fully unbutton his shirt; the burly 5ft10 NUFC player was down on his knees on the rug, and moving between his open legs, and then pausing to peel his long-sleeved top up and off, a white vest coming with it, until he was shirtless in the lamplight, ink-decorated chest and arms on show, and thin lips glistening wet as they parted. Well well well, it had been worth singing this resilient defender's praises all along, here was the payback. Alan leaned back even more, pushing open his jeans, and feeling Kieran's hands run up past his knees... he sighed, his shirt falling open and away from his still fairly toned upper body, though without so much wine and whiskey, he might have remembered to feel self-conscious about it next to the tightly muscled peak fitness of the 32-year-old. As it was, he could think only about his urgent hard-on, and the fact that one Newcastle legend in the making was about to help him out with it. As Kieran pulled away the jeans and got his mouth in against the fabric of Alan's boxers, he looked over him and at the other sofa, where Elliot was framed in the lamplight, and staring agog over this way - just as Shearer had suspected, the youngster seemed to have no idea what was going on, and might even freak out at this. They should have cleared him off before getting down to business, he thought, but then there was something very exciting about the Whitley Bay kid, whose muscles bulged in the tight short sleeves of his top, and whose gormless interest was very cute. And.. aha, no, he wasn't totally clueless, because he was sticking a hand down the front of his pants, and maybe he had a bit more about him then, like Trips had said - but Shearer's attention swung back to the release of his cock, springing free from the elastic waistband, and gently stroked in a man's hand, with Trippier's grinning face desperately close to it. Fuck yes. He would never have put the right-back down as a cocksucker, but away he went, pulling his mouth about the head and shaft and going down on him like a pro, making him moan deeply and clutch each hand at the thick padded arms of the recliner. It felt so fucking good, and it must be the first head he'd had since that last regrettable meet-up with Andy, where Carroll had really begun to freak him out - lounging in bed with cum sticky on his cheeks, murmuring things about how he'd been thinking of confessing to his wife, and was wondering if she'd understand be okay with it. Fucking idiot! Shearer had been straight out of there, red-faced and furious, and he'd upped the stakes on his cold shoulder to the Geordie giant from then on, in early November - despite all of those frantic messages and voice-notes and missed calls from the man during the World Cup, when the heat was making Alan ultra frisky, and he was putting up with joint gym sessions with the likes of Rio and Micah, and moving from stadium to stadium looking down on the world's fittest footballers. To think, this eager cocksucker between his knees had been there in Qatar, he thought now, wondering why he hadn't made more contact with the called-up Newcastle star at the England camp: but he'd never ever have imagined that the rugged tough guy at the back of the Toon squad would be so open-minded and so... well, TALENTED, his tongue rolling across the damp head of Alan's hard cock, then his mouth enveloping more of it and taking it deep in a comfortable way that Andy had never actually managed. Fuck, yessss. `God, that's good,' the football icon groaned. `That's it,' he added, licking his upper lip and nodding over at the other sofa, where Anderson had slid closer, moving from one side to the other, hand still stuck in his trackies. `Get yer cock out, aye, and join in - fuck, did you know yer captain was a dirty slut...?' He gave a wheezing laugh, stroking fingers through the short little curls of Trippier's hair, patting him patronisingly on the head as he mocked him, trying to also show his appreciation; he could see the wild light in Elliot's eyes that suggested the young un didn't have a fucking clue that his skipper would get on his knees like this, but also that he wasn't offended by the prospect. Whatever the Whitley Bay lad had got up to in the past, Shearer thought, he certainly hadn't been noshed off by Trips... but he ought to be. He pushed on Kieran's forehead, guiding his face away. `Think it's Anderson's turn, aye?' He'd always had something of a voyeuristic streak, he supposed, and he revelled in it now, wanking one hand up and down the wet shaft of his big heavy prick, whilst Elliot's tracksuit pants rolled down his densely muscled calves, much of his powerful legs on show, and the skimpy black sports briefs coming with them. He barely got a glance at the youngster's hard cock and neatly trimmed pubes before Trippier was bobbing up and down on it with a mouthful, stroking the thick thighs and groaning through his second mouthful of Geordie cock, whilst Anderson's face was glossy with sweat and his mouth formed a wide `O' of surprised enjoyment. Alan, excited and immediately envious that he wasn't still getting blown, wanted to ask them more, to push them with questions - so, who were the dirty cocksuckers on the Toon squad? If not normally Trips, who'd had a cheeky grab or suck on Anderson's Geordie meat? Who else does dirty Trippier mess about with? Was Jamaal Lascelles still a bit curious and into having his ring tickled, or had that brief 2020 foray been enough for the big burly defender who was clearly being pushed aside now? Shearer's imagination spiralled in dirty directions that he normally tried to control, burned by the intensity of his affair with Carroll, and determined to find a way to stay faithful and well-behaved after all. But this was hardly the time for conversation, drunk and horny as they all were. This was the time for action, and touch, and enjoyment. He pulled himself up off the comfort of the armchair, one hand still wrapped at the base of his cock, and he stood next to them, tugging slowly on it, really enjoying himself, and watching as young Anderson sprawled back and felt clumsily for Trippier's neck and shoulders, eyes squeezed shut, whilst Trips devoured his unseen prick, gagging and gobbling on it, and rubbing his hands all over the younger lad's bare muscular legs. `Here,' their host growled at them, and the action shifted. Kieran reeled about on his knees and Alan grabbed him about the back of the head, and fed his big sweaty cock into that wide mouth, bigger than it looked on the strong man's tight features. In it went, his big thick meat, and again Trips took it so deep with apparent ease, and it felt SO good; god, this was good, and he knew he wanted more, but he didn't know how far to push it, tonight, as drunk as they all were. He pictured himself fucking Andy senselessly into a headboard and slapping at the sides of his face as he yanked on his ponytail, and he wondered if that full shagging was where he'd really crossed the line and stoked trouble - what if Carroll was actually stupid enough to tell his reality TV star wife about what they were up to?! Surely not? It would be a disaster. This was why Alan had always been more cautious as a younger man, as an active player - he'd dabbled now and then, and heard a lot of rumours, but he'd never gone all the way like he had with his long-haired Gateshead lad, not like that. And now... The 6ft retired ace fucked Trippier in the face and grinned down at Anderson, nodding and gesturing at him until the 20-year-old got up to join him, both of them standing over shirtless Kieran; Alan reached for it and took a couple of good tugs on the big veiny thing that jutted from above Anderson's thighs, pleased with the size and weighty feel of it, but not surprised, it looked right on him. He was a sexy rough charva, wasn't he? Again, he passed Trips from his own dick to the lad's, and immediately felt jealous as he had to settle for his own hand, wanking off and panting out a series of growling little laughs. He felt drunker now than before, more light-headed and out of control. It was the mounting excitement, the tingling of his balls and the sense of debauchery that they'd brought with them into the snug. Part of him wanted to drag both muscular young lads up to his marriage bed, to have the pair of them in there with them, and to line them up and slam his cock into their- Kieran's lips were back about his prick and he moaned heavily, knowing he was close. Good. He could empty his heavy balls and not take this too far. He didn't need another Andy Carroll in his life, pestering him all the time and making ridiculous claims about `confessing' to his partner...! Fucking hell, he'd need to do something about that fool. Instead, he pulled his cock out of Trippier's mouth and stood back, so that neither of them were being sucked; the defender had pushed down his own trackies and boxer briefs, and was wanking his own pretty thick equipment where he knelt. But it was his chest that was Shearer's target, the broad ugly tattoo that spread over his defined pecs. There was a diamond at the centre of the brash artwork, and he aimed for that, jerking furiously on his wet cock, and roughly rubbing his hand over the short tight waves of Trips' hair again, manhandling him in a way that was rough but affectionate. And then he was spilling his load, pumping streaks of thick cream onto the tattooed skin, spilling lines of cum over the daft illustration that covered the lad's muscular tits. `Ugh,' he grunted, really emptying his balls, and giving Kieran a very light slap on the cheek, before letting out another long throaty laugh. He rocked on his heels, still fumbling with his sensitive cock, and looking from Kieran's devilish eyes to the hunched awkwardness of Elliot at his side; those strong muscled arms were working like mad as the lad, barely out of his teens, wanked himself silly, hand pumping up and down the glistening veins of his long thick meat. Fuck, he was probably more well-hung than Alan himself, or kneeling Trips here, who was jerking off too, teeth gritted and jaw set, and eyes wild with transgression. `Go on,' the old Geordie growled at his young fan. `Shoot all over the bastard.' So he did - an explosion of jizz that didn't just hit Trippier in the chest, but painted his grinning face, long silvery trials down his cheeks and on his chin, making him laugh and lick his lips. Wow. He really was an easygoing slut, this one, not at all the macho bugger he'd always seemed to Shearer before - fucking hell, you never could tell. He really wanted to know what else this dirty bastard got up to, and with whom, but he couldn't bring himself to ask - post-orgasmic exhaustion was wracking his middle-aged body and his brain was popping with little fireworks of drunken fug. `Jesus,' whined Anderson's voice awkwardly, in between pants. `Good lad, good lad!' He slapped him on the back and almost knocked him over. Below, the Newcastle skipper groaned and yelped, pleasuring himself to climax on his knees, dripping with their juices, and bowing close to their swaying cocks. A long strangled yelp signalled the peak of Trippier's selfless enjoyment, and then he was hanging his head back and taking big gulps of air, and Shearer began to retreat, feeling soiled and sweaty. He wanted to be up in the comfort of his bed, and to dismiss this madness from his head until he could get some proper sleep - when his wife rang in the morning, he would curse himself for this debauchery, but it had been worth it, it had felt so fucking good. `Well done, lads,' he said ambiguously to them as he shoved his cock into his checked boxer briefs, buttoning up and buckling his belt over the strong bulge that had troubled him at the football stadium for the second half of the cup game. He smiled vaguely at the other lads, Kieran clambering up from his knees with no shirt on, and Elliot flopping back into the recliner, looking shaky - well, he'd got his fun with a couple of younger players, just liked he'd dared to fantasise, and now he was spent and shattered, and he needed bed. Anderson woke early, and he felt nauseous. His face was stuck to the leathery arm of the sofa with drool, and the once-cosy snug room felt freezing cold in the dark. He shivered and shuddered and pulled his face away from the brown leather, looking around and thinking that he had a thicker top somewhere that could be pulled over his tight-fit training t-shirt - and, oh, where had his tracksuit pants dropped, cos his big muscular legs were bare and shivering? The wasted 20-year-old had remained in the room alone and just fell asleep there on the couch, after shifting uncomfortably from furniture to furniture. His head ached violently and when he dared to sit upright, he regretted it. He sat there, socked feet planted to the rug, and head cradled in both shaky hands, waves of hangover nausea washing uncomfortably against him for many long minutes in the small dark lounge. Squinting through the shadows, the young midfielder spotted a rather cosy blanket folded over the back of the recliner that he had tried to sleep in first, and he made an awkward little lunge over the room to fetch it, then pushed himself down into the couch and threw it around him as a thin woollen quilt, glad of its relative comfort and warmth, but still feeling as sick as a dog, and a bit confused about where he actually was. Images of it came to him through the pain and discomfort of his early hangover: the big smirk on Alan Shearer's face, stood next to him, and then looking down into the impish smirk of Kieran Trippier, before feeling that mouth against his swollen hard tool. Fuuuuuck. His legendary hero, and his sort-of captain. Fuck. It was bonkers. He lay there, swaddled in blanket and pulling his strong young body into the foetal position, and just stared across the dark room, seeing it all as if it had happened to someone else. First it had been just Fraser, he thought, remembering that first time after the small Scottish player drove him home, and it had been just their secret - a few times Ryan had alluded to it or tried to get him alone, but Elliot had staunchly avoided a repeat incident. But then there'd been that chaotic morning in the training centre, and everyone had seemed so chill about it... not just Trips here, but Schar and even Joelinton, and... he could picture Bruno too, down on his knees, looking up at him, but he sometimes doubted that memory, because the Brazilian midfield ace seemed so innocent and wholesome the rest of the time, and nobody had ever mentioned what happened that day in full. And now... his captain, and his hero. His head throbbed and his stomach churned, and he pulled the blanket more tightly about himself, groaning in private misery. Trippier woke in greater comfort; unhelped by their host, he'd found his way into a guest bedroom and made himself at home. He woke early too, plagued by the same inevitable self-inflicted pains, but he downed the glass of water he'd poured on his way to bed, and got another hour of sleep, and then gotten tougher with himself when he woke for the second time. He found his phone in the heap of his clothing and scrolled through the unsurprising missed calls from Mrs Trip. Kieran chuckled to himself and shook his head as he pulled boxer shorts up his legs and over his cock and arse, and then each other item of the tracksuit until he was fully dressed. What a naughty night. He should really have had that one and gone home, but... well, you couldn't regret fun like that, could you? Life was for living, and several years ago, the Manc lad had opened his mind and decided that was pleasure was pleasure; he was going to take whatever life threw his way, spunk and all. There was no sign of Shearer himself as he moved through the cold house. He heard some loud snores from behind one door, clearly the master bedroom, and he just grinned appreciatively as he disappeared downstairs, going to the kitchen and pouring himself more water then, on second thoughts, finding and filling a second glass. Into the snug room, which took him a while to find between all the different doors, and he thrust the second water into one of the young lad's hands, and gave him a pat on the head. `Come on, I'll get us a taxi, kid,' he grumbled at the sheepish hunched figure of his teammate. Without bothering to disturb or wake their host, Trippier moved quietly through the ground floor of the big Gosforth house. In the kitchen, he leaned on the worktop by the sink, supping on cool water and thumbing at his phone until the taxi app had summoned them a driver and he'd keyed in a stop-off at the coast to deliver the kiddo to his folks before zooming away to the town further out where he'd invested in a big converted farmhouse for his own family. The oafish young midfielder came trotting into the kitchen behind him, the blanket about his shoulders and his thick legs still on show, only loaded black briefs below the hem of his tracksuit top. Kieran looked him up and down and gave him a lopsided smile. `Go find your kit, you nobhead,' he chuckled. Elliot stared dimly at him for a moment before exiting and clomping about the corridor in search of his trousers. Soon, they were letting themselves out of the house, trainers crunching over the gravel as they had on arrival. `I feel awful,' Anderson groaned dismally at him on the walk down the driveway, not for the first time this morning. At least the pale-faced youth was properly dressed now, and not stumbling around in his bulging briefs, haha. Trippier pictured that massive veiny cock and he smiled admiringly at the lad, taking him about the shoulders and giving him a squeeze. `Ask yer mum for a fry-up when you get in.' `She'll just tell me to fuck off.' `Okay, well remind her who bought the house, yup? Hah.' Into the taxi they went, and Kieran made terse conversation with the driver, an obvious Toon fan who wanted to talk about last night; Trips did his best to communicate their tender state to the Geordie bloke, intimating that they'd partied hard and just needed to get to their respective homes in one piece. The guy failed to take the hint and jabbered on in his singsong Tyneside accent, and Kieran just smiled indulgently and watched as Elliot hunched anxiously over his phone next to him. Well, at least the presence of the chatty driver meant no real chance for awkwardness between them, since the younger lad was clearly a bit conflicted about what had gone on at Shearer's behest. You didn't look so sick or worried when I was slurping on your monster cock, Trips thought idly, smiling across at the other 5ft10 footballer, and then tuning back in to answer the driver's latest eager question. In a quieter voice, he probed his teammate, whose face looked even paler and grimmer, prodding him in the arm as he asked, `What now, kid?' Anderson turned and shot him a wary look, his eyes a bit red. `It's the gaffer, and my agent. I've got a meeting this morning up at the training park, skipper.' Well, good to hear that respect still in his voice, after the daft lad had emptied his balls on his captain's face about five hours ago. Phew. `Meeting?' Trippier grunted. `Ugh. Not in this state.' `So much for the fry-up,' the lad grumbled. `It's about a loan deal.' He sounded distraught. `Ah.' Kieran reached over and gave him a little rub on the upper back. `Well, you kinda knew that was coming, matey. Where are they sending you...?' `Dunno, doesn't say. Fuck. I can't turn up like this, I must stink of booze.' The Manc right-back took and released a long breath, leaving his hand against the middle of the younger guy's broad firm back. Then he raised his voice above the discreet whisper with which he'd questioned the kid, and called to the driver, who was pretending not to listen in. `Hey, chief - can we change the journey plan, actually? Turns out we got to pop in to work for a bit - will you get us to the training ground instead, mate? I'll whack in a great tip, if you don't mind.' He shared a supportive smile with Anderson, who looked puzzled. `Home can wait - we'll get to work and shower there, and there's a cafe round the corner. We'll have you looking presentable enough to meet with Eddie and your agent, yeh? Come on kid, it'll all be grand.' He patted him on the back and enjoyed the oddly cute little smile of gratitude that the Geordie boy gave him, and then turned his attention back to the driver, who was dropping heavy hints about how much he'd like to visit the training ground with his sons, rather than receiving some massive tip. Kieran smiled awkwardly and humoured him, and hoped to god that Elliot didn't vomit before they left the car. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 11 Jan 2023 22:41:52 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 339 Part 339: Getting a Semi It was strange to be here, he thought - or more accurately, to be here purely for pleasure, with a drink in hand and so many of his friends about him. A mix of former work friends in the football world who he had remained close to, and some mates who went even further back in the Gosforth hero's life, before he was Tyneside's beloved striker. It wasn't a large crew, but the dozen or so middle-aged men were certainly drinking dry the hospitality box he'd been gifted here at St James' Park, and another expensive bottle of red was being opened by one of the fellas nearby, and another bloke was receiving a tray of open beer bottles from a tight-smiled young lady at the door, not without a bit of flirty banter that hung somewhere between creepy and comical from a man nearing 60. Alan Shearer took the top-up to his wine glass gladly and clinked it with the guy who was doing the pouring, a long-time close friend whose football career had never taken off as fully as his own; and then he, and most of the others, returned his attention out across the terraces and onto the pitch, the jagged rectangle of vivid green that was so sacred to the 52-year-old man. They were well into the second half now, and a long period of goalless dominance for the Magpies had finally erupted into two well-placed goals from Burn and Joelinton - there was less than fifteen minutes left of the League Cup Quarter Final, and Alan felt the win was now inevitable. It was a perfect antidote to the Toon's embarrassing FA Cup defeat at the weekend, a thought that flashed across Shearer's mind as regularly as that of any other fan in the stadium. And here he was, just for pleasure: not commentating rabidly along with the action for TV or radio, nor dragged away to some studio for post-match analysis. He was here simply as a guest of the club, glad to share the hospitality with a random cluster of his friends. He'd drank a bit more than he'd expected, starting well before the late kick-off, and he was more than a little bit tipsy. As so often comes with that, he was more than a little bit horny, and Newcastle United were not the only ones in the stadium who could feel a semi coming on. His fat cock twitched and stirred in the front of his tight checked boxer shorts and chafing at the front of his blue-wash jeans. Instinctively, the middle-aged former footballer pulled and adjusted at the front of the denim, but that hand contact only made it worse, coaxing his wine-drunk semi and making him more irritated that his wife was away on holiday. His decision to exit the private box and take advantage of his legendary status at the club was not entirely unrelated to these stirrings, though he didn't head down the beloved corridors and stairwells with any particular plans in mind - after all, he wasn't stupid or reckless, and even after all these years, he managed to remain mostly faithful to his darling wife. Mostly. Shearer was halfway down to the inner sanctum of St James' Park when the phone in his jeans pocket buzzed sensuously against his upper thigh and he was jarringly reminded that faithful wasn't the most accurate description of his role in his marriage. `Are you there???' read the text across the touchscreen, and then when he slid it open to the messaging app, was followed by `Fckin gr8 game!!!!' and `Lol have i pissed u off?' The messages were, of course, from another notable Geordie, one now based way south on a regular commute between Essex and Reading. And before them were a string of recent contacts from the 30-something forward, his once presumed heir to be the next big champion of Newcastle, now slightly washed-up workman of the Championship: Andy Carroll. The recent ignored messages were mainly pretty innocent, random bits of communication from the younger Geordie man, though not all - a couple, around New Year's Eve, were either hinting for action (`U about at all this week when I visit...?') and sometimes pretty blunt: `miss ur cock, big al'. As usual, he pushed his thumb against that green text strip and wiped it from the chat, surprised at himself for leaving the crude text message there on his phone for so long... Sloppy, he told himself, just cos the wifey is away. There had been a lot more of the latter kind of message during November and December, and those had been particularly tough for the older Newcastle man. After all, he'd been in the rousing heat of Qatar, and surrounded by football royalty, so he'd been so easily aroused anyway if he let his laser-focus wander, and the last thing he'd needed was thirsty WhatsApp messaging from the young stud who'd become his on-and-off fuck-toy in the last couple of years, much to his own shock. It was a loose and mutually satisfying arrangement for the two blokey footballers, but in the past six months, he'd become a bit alarmed by just how keen and persistent Andy was becoming... he'd begun the slow process of cooling off and resisting the regular opportunities when his work led him to London and surrounds, and tried to put a stop to the once-regular hotel fucks that had allowed him to let off steam and keep his urges under control. Towards the end of 2022, he'd spent less and less time with his cock buried in Carroll's powerful glutes, tugging on a ponytail and making the rough-bearded Gateshead lad gasp his name - and in 2023, he'd not once even responded to a single message from the Reading FC striker. Alan paused on his way into the back of the tunnel, drunk enough to feel sentimental, and felt he could hardly ignore Andy forever. He thumbed in a perfunctory response to confirm he was having a great time at the match, knowing Andy would be watching it on TV in his Essex mansion, and then accidentally (or subconsciously?) whacking a big X on the end of the message, which earned an almost immediate smiley from his tall younger friend, and an `Andy C is typing...' message across the top. Instantly, he locked the device and shut down the potential conversation. Carroll was becoming a bit too attached, a bit too needy; this wasn't what Shearer had wanted when he first pushed his finger into the younger man's hairy hole and claimed him. Dammit. Phone in pocket, knuckles brushing the bulge of his semi. He marched down the broad well-lit corridor that led towards the dugout, passing security personnel with just a nod and a smile; Shearer had an unwritten free pass around every corner of this stadium nowadays, even when he wasn't actually an invited guest, and so it was easy enough for him to discretely make his way out into the shadows of the home side's presence at the dugout, pulling a hooded jacket on over his blue zip-neck jumper to hide his familiarly shiny bald head from the roving cameras. He wouldn't dream of strolling forward and distracting the Toon boss Howe at all, nor any nearby player in action, but he folded his arms and grinned excitedly out into the floodlit space - he was keen to be down here and be among the first to congratulate the gaffer and players on progression into a rare tournament semi-final, even if just the League Cup. But he was quickly noticed by some of the kitted men at the rear of the huddle, slumped in various poses on seating still spaced out for 2020 social distancing. Back-up goalkeeper Karl Darlow spotted him and rose to his feet to grab a handshake, quickly joined by a sweaty benched Callum Wilson; beyond them, he couldn't help but smirk to see young substitute Elliot Anderson blink in excitement and nudge the lad next to him, filled with local adulation to be visited down here by one of his idols. Shearer could laugh at his own big-headedness there, but it was a safe assumption for a North Shields talent, and he gladly shook hands and grabbed brief hugs with each of the men, gesturing at them not to make too much fuss or distract the coaches - less than ten minutes to go now, and everybody was anticipating the 2-0 lead growing fuller. Shearer kept one eye on the action whilst sidling into place alongside the mix of resting players and unused subs, always taking real pleasure from being this close to the action, instead of tucked away in commentary box or television studio, even with the many good mates he had in front of the camera, from Gary to Micah. He hadn't really thought the idea through before he said it, but the nearest couple of substitutes were making quiet excited comments to him about the club's path to Wembley for some silverware, and growing awkward when they realised they didn't have much to say to such a big figure in their city. Smiling broadly, Alan reached over and raised his voice a little, announcing the party he hadn't realised he was hosting. `A few of my pals will be back at mine after for drinks,' he called, the plan becoming a reality as soon as he vocalised - he knew at least half of the guys up in the box would be raring for a few nightcaps after the stadium emptied out and the Semi-Final was sure. `Nothing fancy, but I've got a lot of drink in and it's just up the road really - be great to have any of you lads over who are up for it, when you're out of here and free. What d'you say?' He beamed genially at the array of sweaty hot and pink-cheeked chilly faces of those who had and hadn't got minutes in the tank. There was a chorus of nods and yeses and Shearer felt a superficial thrill at being the generous host, though it was hard to say how many of the lads next to him would actually make the short journey into Gosforth to his big place - even if many of them lived a short distance away at that posh end of the North East city. `Spread the word,' he suggested lightly, patting Darlow on the shoulder and giving a meaningful friendly nod to a still-starstruck Anderson. `Invite anyone on the team or staff, it'd be an honour to have any of you Magpies in my place, aye?' A missed chance from Isak and Saint-Maximin brought attention back to the game, and Alan nodded his head slowly to himself - yep, this was a good idea, it felt like the night for a party, Tuesday or not. He'd have to head back up and make the suggestion to the blokes in their box, though he was anticipating quite a cheer of support, given how much they'd all knocked back - and besides, thought the bulge in his jeans, having a bunch of match-weary footballers in his place was an oddly exciting proposition tonight, even if he knew he shouldn't be entertaining that thought at all. For a moment, he caught the eye of dormant captain Jamaal Lascelles, languishing at the far end of the subs bench as usual, and smiled weakly... but the Derby-born defensive giant looked sharply away and scowled, and Shearer thought vaguely of the string of intimate encounters he'd once shared with the big beefcake before really experimenting properly with Andy Carroll. Huh, that had been ill-advised, and Lascelles had barely spoken a word to him since spilling several loads on the dashboard of his Jaguar. Never mind. Don't shit on your doorstep, a cautious voice at the back of his head told him, thinking of the predicament he'd found himself in with young Andy; but another voice, one located in the sweaty crotch of his blue jeans, told him to stare out over the pitch instead, and to wonder which players would accept the invite. Fucking hell, he thought, a party at Alan fucking Shearer's house. He'd already sent a picture of the driveway and glowing windows to several different group chats with his Whitley Bay and youth academy mates, and now the 20-year-old midfielder was crunching up the gravel drive in his baggy tracksuit, wiping sweaty palms down the thighs. The messages from Big Al, forwarded to him by some of the senior players who were apparently on closer terms with the icon, made it clear that there was no dress code for the impromptu party, since the footy lads were coming basically straight from the stadium - but still, the youngster felt self-conscious in his NUFC-branded gear as he waited on the doorstep with two others from his taxi, Joe Willock and Jacob Murphy. After clacking the heavy knocker on the painted door, they were greeted not by the legend himself, but by some half-recognised tubby older bloke who they'd seen at club events, and ushered into the understated sprawl of the suburban home. Open beers were thrust into their hands and the grateful young men were led through into the back half of the house, where a large beige lounge spilled open into a spacious conservatory extension, and a surprisingly busy crowd was loudly enjoying themselves. It was an odd patchwork of the smart-casual attire of Shearer's network of pals who'd been at the game, punctuated by the mix-and-match tracksuit attire of various players and club staff who had picked up on the invite and made their way here for however many drinks. Anderson took a long slug of beer as he digested the idea that he was here for a party in the home of a guy who'd been worshipped by his dad and grandad before him, and he shook himself and laughed. Mental. Here I am, I've made it. This, he thought, probably wasn't the best idea - he was exhausted from exhausted from playing a full 90 minutes in defence and keeping a clean sheet against Leicester City's best efforts, and he knew his wife would hardly be impressed when he returned home even later than planned. But he was here, beer in hand, and he ought to make the most of it. It had seemed like an invite that couldn't be ignored, really, from the big chief himself; Shearer had been very vocal and generous in his support for Trippier, the first Newcastle purchase of their embarrassing new wealth, when others were doubting him and calling it a lazy transfer for a man on his way to retirement. The 32-year-old defender respected Alan as much as most English footballers, but he was very grateful to this Newcastle royalty for having his back, and being the first to praise him as he made his mark on Tyneside. Plus, the semi-official new captain mused, this was good for the lads, and he was pleased to see so many of his teammates here, when they'd all looked a bit uncertain in the locker-room, and some might only stay for one; to be fair, a lot of them were those off the bench, who hadn't put in full shifts like himself, or not even pulled their boots on at all, and they probably had a lot more energy to drink and socialise. I'll have just this one, Kieran Trippier advised himself from his corner of the conservatory extension, a glassy smile on his blocky features, and a weary glint in his eyes - and then I'll call a taxi to get me across the suburbs to my own bed, and a likely lecture from the missus. Every muscle of his stocky form ached from the battle in the stadium, although this strong beer was helping. Hmm, he thought, maybe he'd stay for a couple, and just see how things went...? It was a good party, he was pretty sure. The older lads seemed to love having a smattering of current Newcastle faces among them, revitalising the party atmosphere of their long evening of wine and beer, and though the majority of the actual players only stayed for one or two, others were more party-spirited: big Dan Burn, whose surprise goal had really made the difference for the Magpies tonight, recreated his stupid changing room dance over and over and got so drunk he had to be carried by two others into his taxi; energetic Brazilian Bruno Guimaraes was chatty and effusive and briefly the centre of attention, before an impatient phone call summoned him home to his partner and newborn; unused subs Matt Ritchie and gigantic Chris Wood were full of beans and the first to suggest rounds of shots being downed, causing a sticky mess on the low central table of the cream-carpeted lounge area. Any less drunk, and Shearer might have panicked over the mess being made, but he just laughed along and stared dimly at specks of red wine staining the carpet. But now things were quieting down, and the party spirit was waning. Fair enough. It was late, and the gather men were either getting on in age or just knackered from the pressures of professional sport. And it was a Tuesday night...! He'd been stupid, he told himself, to start getting a bit frisky, semi bulging in his jeans and adrenaline pumping through his ageing body. Yeah, it was an exciting night of football victory and all that, but he was so well-behaved these days, and he wasn't even going to open and look at the string of follow-up messages from Carroll at the other end of the country. He'd been daft to think he might get a bit of taboo action tonight out of one of the younger lads, he told himself, as he tidied a few empties from a coffee table at one window and then grinned warmly as he helped to see out another fragment of the gathering, following the men out onto the driveway and seeing them into their waiting taxi. Alan didn't stay out long at the front of the big house, chilly now with his jumper shed and his pale blue oxford shirt unbuttoned partway down his hairy chest, though the cold Newcastle night was a brief relief after the gradual heat of inside, and the amount of wine and then whiskey he'd consumed. Inside, he tossed the bottles into the recycling and tried to figure out who was actually left in his place: not many now, he surmised, hugging goodbyes to another couple who were passing him by in the kitchen and central hallway, and then moving through back into the lounge again to find it actually empty. He blinked and laughed and rubbed a hand across his warm face, then retreated into the kitchen and wondered if he was finally alone as it actually seemed - god, he should drink some water before he crashed into the big lonely bed upstairs, or he was going to feel like death in the morning. At 52, the hangovers really brought their friends along for the scrap. He moved through the big farmhouse kitchen that had been refurbished a dozen times since he bought the place, but he always thought looked the same, and he plucked a clean pint glass from a cupboard to fill at the sink - he was just sloshing fresh water into the glass when he glanced to the right and found that he wasn't actually alone in the kitchen after all, but a tracksuit figure was slumped at the wall on one side of the big double-fridge, scrutinising his phone with a screwed-up expression on his acne-scarred face. `Oh,' the ex-footballer chuckled. `Alreet there, kid...?' The young lad blinked slowly and cleared his throat, staring this way in a dazed and glassy way for a moment, then suppressing a little groan. `Er, hiya, yeah just - er, had a few too many, haha, y'kna... er...' A lopsided grin fell across the face of the junior midfielder, apparently the last of the Toon players left in Shearer's place, though he'd kinda thought the kid had made an exit ages ago. Alan laughed and passed the pint of water that way, then began to pour another. `Here, down this, man. You look a state.' He grinned encouragingly at the tracksuit youth and supped from his own tall glass of water, looking the rugged figure of Elliot Anderson up and down, those stupid thoughts resurfacing for a moment, and the presence of Andy's unread messages burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans. `God, don't you young players party any more or what?' the 52-year-old called challengingly, as Anderson steadied himself on the kitchen worktop and moved a few steps closer to the sink, his pint already half-emptied. Anderson hid a belch behind one hand of grazed knuckles and he grinned stupidly, lolling there a few feet away. `Sure we do,' the local lad insisted. `Love being a football star,' he continued stupidly. `Straight past any queue in the Toon, man.' A big open smile spit his ruggedly handsome face and Shearer laughed at him. `Aye, I remember that, just about,' the ex-striker teased gently, reaching out to pat one warm muscular shoulder through the slim-fitting black training t-shirt, and then turning a tap to let Elliot refill his pint glass. `But seems like you can't really handle ya drink, kid, how much have you even had...?' He smiled uncertainly at the swaying figure next to him, trying to gauge just how insensible the midfield player was, and whether he was going to have to direct him to one of the guest rooms, or get him into a taxi back to the coast. `All good,' the current Newcastle footballer slurred at him, then seemed to straighten up his posture a bit and clear his throat again, trying to be presentable or mimic sobriety, which just made Shearer laugh some more, and down the rest of his own much-needed water. He was hardly anything but pissed himself, but he was upright and in control, and there was something very endearing about the 20-year-old attempting to kid them both that he wasn't four sheets to the wind. `Sure,' Alan chuckled. `You look alreet, for sure.' `Am not some lightweight,' Elliot grunted at him, still blinking slowly, and then seeming to steady himself a bit. His cheeks had gone red and he looked a little less like he might pass out on the kitchen floor. `Ugh, what was even in those shots?' They both laughed now, and Anderson let out a more honest groan. `I've been hiding in here in case someone made me down another. Where did you get that shite?' Alan shrugged and threw a hairy arm about the broad shoulders of the 5ft10 lad for a moment. `You know, you pick up that random crap on holiday and bring it home, and... haha, knocked you for six, has it...? Shit - the Magpies nights out mustn't be half as mad as they were in my day, like. Look at the state of you...' Anderson bristled vaguely at this teasing comment, whether seriously or jokingly, and shrugged his arm away with a movement of his shoulder muscles, pawing uncomfortably at his dopey face and finding his feet at last. `You'd be surprised,' the player grumbled in a deep voice. `Things can get bit crazy, now and then, like you would never think, ha-' Like when suggesting the party in the first place, Shearer spoke without thinking, his ideas expressing themselves before his usually mature senses could filter them. `What, in the showers and that?' he muttered thoughtfully at the shorter man, staring him down and patting one firm warm hand against the shoulder of his dark top - and then immediately noting the widening of those innocent eyes, the little tremor of panic on the lad's lips, and the certainty that he'd stumbled into some truth. The two of them stopped, Alan's half-joke tingling awkwardly in the air between them, and Elliot averted his eyes, seeming to shrink a little in stature, and regret saying anything. Alan's attention was quickly diverted - and the younger man jolted in nervous surprise - by the slam of a door, and steps in the hall beyond one of the kitchen doors. A loud Manc voice complained bitterly through the doorway: `Fuck's sake, I'm hardly too pissed to get in a car, am I? Do I look like I'm gonna vomit?' And Trippier came bursting through the half-open door, a scowl on his tight features, and a drunken swagger to his movement that made it easy to see why a taxi driver had been cynical about carrying him into Northumberland. Hand still resting on Anderson's shoulder, Shearer turned with an almost guilty expression towards the other player, as if something had been interrupted, and flashed a welcoming smile across the island at the de facto skipper of his precious team. `You're still here?' he barked at Kieran. `Fucking hell, I thought the party was over, but here I am with you two dodgy bastards still, haha - what are we doing drinking just water...?' At this, Elliot groaned dismally, but Kieran made his way about the kitchen and slapped a hand against Alan's upper arm. `That's the spirit,' the Mancunian fella barked. `I mean, once upon a time I was staying for just the one beer, but...' And they all laughed, even a slightly hazy looking Anderson, who slumped his rear against the worktop and folded his arms over his chest, whilst Shearer moved past him and yanked open the fridge, raiding a bottom drawer that was still stacked with cooled bottles. `Here,' he insisted, pushing one towards Elliot, then turning and grinning eagerly at Kieran. `We need to toast to the big win, lads.' `Don't jinx it, we've got a Semi to go before anything gets big,' Trippier mused, whilst Anderson just made a hesitant groaning noise and stared at the beer like it might explode in his hand. King of the dad jokes, Shearer turned a thoughtful grin at the defensive player and raised one eyebrow. `That's what she said,' he quipped, thinking of the semi that had plagued his own cock since midway through the match, and letting out a throaty laugh that must have expressed more meaning than consciously intended. Trippier smirked at him as their beer bottles clinked, and one of his long tracksuit sleeves went gripping roughly about Anderson's shoulders, whilst he let out a dirty chuckle and took his next sip of beer. `Don't talk dirty to me old man, it's that time of night!' the right-back exclaimed, giving his young teammate a shake, and not breaking gaze when Alan's thoughtful old eyes met his. `A bit of silverware at St James' is enough to give anyone at least a semi, ain't it?' the former Madrid defender exclaimed a little less cheekily, still trying to pull the youngster into a headlock, whilst Alan found his eyes automatically clocking the tight fit of Trippier's Newcastle gear, and thinking thoughts that would end his marriage. In his pocket, the silenced phone throbbed heavily with messages unsent, and the long absence since he'd last thrown Carroll down on a hotel bed. `Just a semi?' the Premiership muttered quietly at them with a dirty smile. `Full mast, then,' sniggered the right-back. `I think I came in my pants when we won, ha,' threw in Anderson, seeming to relax and smirk, and finally take a drink from the bottle he held like a grenade. `Haha,' he added awkwardly, seeming unsure if he had really got the joke. Standing in front of them, with his back to the fridge, Alan first rubbed his beer-cooled fingers across the rough silvery stubble of his chin, and then moved his hand across the open collar of his shirt, and down the line of buttons. Once it was below the waist, he grabbed loosely at the bulge of his jeans, his eyes flicking from Kieran's face to Elliot's, and his smile unchanging. `Glad it's not just me then,' he said in a low voice, and put his lips around the neck of the bottle, tipping it back and swallowing the malty nectar. Anderson's head was clearing slightly, and he was surprised that this latest beer was going down so well, since he'd felt like he was absolutely ruined after the last few shots he'd been pestered into downing about half an hour ago; he relaxed a bit as he followed the other through two, but then realised just how pissed he was when he suddenly noticed that they weren't even drinking in the same big lounge area that had held the impromptu party; nah, they were in a smaller and more moodily lit space, a kind of snug room with very deep comfy sofas, and music was playing quietly from a speaker that Shearer kept barking ineptly at and then getting annoyed when it couldn't process a Geordie accent. The 20-year-old tittered stupidly at this entertainment, relaxing back into the dark brown leather, and hugging the cool bottle against his chest; Trippier was occupying the other half of this deep couch in a very relaxed posed, his socked feet up on the leather and one arm hugged about one knee. Shearer was over on a recliner to the side of them, still frowning at the speaker system, and then breaking into wheezy self-conscious laughter as Trippier called him an `old fart' and asked him if they really needed any music on for what they were gonna do. `And what are we gonna do?' chuckled Alan's heavy mature voice, the former player leaning back into his armchair and pawing at the top few buttons of his shirt, his face all Qatari tan and his forehead gleaming with sweat. `Oh I dunno,' came Kieran's slow musing voice, `but I thought we were all a bit excited about the result tonight, nah...?' Elliot laughed vaguely at them both and sipped more beer, rubbing the back of one forearm across his sweaty brow, and then shuffling his chunky arse against the slippery brown leather of the sofa. He suppressed a burp and cast his eyes loosely from one older man to the other, feeling very cosy and relaxed in this smaller lounge, and pretty glad to have outstayed everyone else, intimate guests at his hero's house - fuck, it'd be so cool to tell his mates this, that he was up all night chatting shit with Big Al, and drinking way more than all the other fuckers who'd come to celebrate the win. `You sure he's alright?' Alan was asking, though the question struggled to register sensibly in Elliot's fuzzy thoughts. `He's alright,' muttered Kieran. `He knows what's what. He's had a bit of fun, at least.' `Huh, right,' murmured the ex-player. `He looks pretty green.' `We all were once,' was Trippier's nostalgic response. Anderson stopped staring thoughtfully at a big print of the Tyne Bridge on one wall, and looked from Kieran's tight grin and flickering tongue-tip, to Alan's broad leer and the way one of his hands kept rubbing up and down a thigh, and the drunk Geordie lad's thoughts began to find some order... Kieran wasn't sure how he'd ended up here at this hour, but it was a total lack of self-awareness that had seen him work through his first beer and inevitably give in to the fun atmosphere and the constant ego boost of the company, all of whom seemed to think he was as much the saviour of Newcastle as Eddie Howe or any Saudi investor. And now, specifically, HERE: getting as hard as a rock in his tracky bottoms, and smirking across the narrow space at Alan Shearer, whilst he rubbed gently at the outline in the black nylon, and then grinned the other way at the dopey expression on Elliot Anderson's pocked young face. With a cheeky laugh, the 32-year-old took the hand off the outline of his hardened prick, and pushed it down the front of his trackies instead, giving it a good feel under the grip of his boxer briefs, stroking the thick shaft and pulling back on the tight foreskin, and flicking his mischievous eyes from the retired legend to the gawping youngster. `Come on fellas,' Newcastle's acting captain chuckled, pulling on himself under the confines of his underpants and tracksuit bottoms, and really pushing his tired shoulders back against the leather. `We're all feeling it, but I'm the only one doing owt about it.' `Nah,' disagreed Shearer quietly, and he saw a hand on denim, really rubbing at the delightfully full mound of denim between those spread thighs, and he couldn't help but grin with gleeful interest - this had certainly not been where he thought tonight was going, and he knew there might be some dollop of regret in his hangover, but right now he was as horny as fuck and up for literally anything. It never took much to tip Trippier over the edge nowadays, as Lascelles had found out in a pub toilet, and so many of his teammates had vaguely discovered as he was ringleader of a few steamy shower wanks before the interruption of the World Cup left them all awkward and uncertain. Who'd known Ryan Fraser would be such a willing cock-slut for his teammates? Shame they were probably selling the gruff little Scot bastard... Kieran nudged his right elbow against Elliot's arm. `You horny too, kid?' `Fucking hell,' was Anderson's vague murmur of non-answer. `It's been a long night,' purred Alan's more distinguished Tyneside accent, and Kieran looked back his way, finding something profoundly sexy in the older man and his hairy knuckles rubbing back and forth over his crotch. Hmm, no Fraser here to do the honours and get spunk in his beard - Trippier could see he was gonna have to be the one getting down and dirty tonight, and he knew he was up to the challenge. He smirked at his Match of the Day supporter, and gently licked his lips. Drunk and excited, Shearer unbuckled his belt and watched as Trips slid off the sofa and moved even closer, his face taken by a dirty eagerness. He tugged open the button fly and then began to fully unbutton his shirt; the burly 5ft10 NUFC player was down on his knees on the rug, and moving between his open legs, and then pausing to peel his long-sleeved top up and off, a white vest coming with it, until he was shirtless in the lamplight, ink-decorated chest and arms on show, and thin lips glistening wet as they parted. Well well well, it had been worth singing this resilient defender's praises all along, here was the payback. Alan leaned back even more, pushing open his jeans, and feeling Kieran's hands run up past his knees... he sighed, his shirt falling open and away from his still fairly toned upper body, though without so much wine and whiskey, he might have remembered to feel self-conscious about it next to the tightly muscled peak fitness of the 32-year-old. As it was, he could think only about his urgent hard-on, and the fact that one Newcastle legend in the making was about to help him out with it. As Kieran pulled away the jeans and got his mouth in against the fabric of Alan's boxers, he looked over him and at the other sofa, where Elliot was framed in the lamplight, and staring agog over this way - just as Shearer had suspected, the youngster seemed to have no idea what was going on, and might even freak out at this. They should have cleared him off before getting down to business, he thought, but then there was something very exciting about the Whitley Bay kid, whose muscles bulged in the tight short sleeves of his top, and whose gormless interest was very cute. And.. aha, no, he wasn't totally clueless, because he was sticking a hand down the front of his pants, and maybe he had a bit more about him then, like Trips had said - but Shearer's attention swung back to the release of his cock, springing free from the elastic waistband, and gently stroked in a man's hand, with Trippier's grinning face desperately close to it. Fuck yes. He would never have put the right-back down as a cocksucker, but away he went, pulling his mouth about the head and shaft and going down on him like a pro, making him moan deeply and clutch each hand at the thick padded arms of the recliner. It felt so fucking good, and it must be the first head he'd had since that last regrettable meet-up with Andy, where Carroll had really begun to freak him out - lounging in bed with cum sticky on his cheeks, murmuring things about how he'd been thinking of confessing to his wife, and was wondering if she'd understand be okay with it. Fucking idiot! Shearer had been straight out of there, red-faced and furious, and he'd upped the stakes on his cold shoulder to the Geordie giant from then on, in early November - despite all of those frantic messages and voice-notes and missed calls from the man during the World Cup, when the heat was making Alan ultra frisky, and he was putting up with joint gym sessions with the likes of Rio and Micah, and moving from stadium to stadium looking down on the world's fittest footballers. To think, this eager cocksucker between his knees had been there in Qatar, he thought now, wondering why he hadn't made more contact with the called-up Newcastle star at the England camp: but he'd never ever have imagined that the rugged tough guy at the back of the Toon squad would be so open-minded and so... well, TALENTED, his tongue rolling across the damp head of Alan's hard cock, then his mouth enveloping more of it and taking it deep in a comfortable way that Andy had never actually managed. Fuck, yessss. `God, that's good,' the football icon groaned. `That's it,' he added, licking his upper lip and nodding over at the other sofa, where Anderson had slid closer, moving from one side to the other, hand still stuck in his trackies. `Get yer cock out, aye, and join in - fuck, did you know yer captain was a dirty slut...?' He gave a wheezing laugh, stroking fingers through the short little curls of Trippier's hair, patting him patronisingly on the head as he mocked him, trying to also show his appreciation; he could see the wild light in Elliot's eyes that suggested the young un didn't have a fucking clue that his skipper would get on his knees like this, but also that he wasn't offended by the prospect. Whatever the Whitley Bay lad had got up to in the past, Shearer thought, he certainly hadn't been noshed off by Trips... but he ought to be. He pushed on Kieran's forehead, guiding his face away. `Think it's Anderson's turn, aye?' He'd always had something of a voyeuristic streak, he supposed, and he revelled in it now, wanking one hand up and down the wet shaft of his big heavy prick, whilst Elliot's tracksuit pants rolled down his densely muscled calves, much of his powerful legs on show, and the skimpy black sports briefs coming with them. He barely got a glance at the youngster's hard cock and neatly trimmed pubes before Trippier was bobbing up and down on it with a mouthful, stroking the thick thighs and groaning through his second mouthful of Geordie cock, whilst Anderson's face was glossy with sweat and his mouth formed a wide `O' of surprised enjoyment. Alan, excited and immediately envious that he wasn't still getting blown, wanted to ask them more, to push them with questions - so, who were the dirty cocksuckers on the Toon squad? If not normally Trips, who'd had a cheeky grab or suck on Anderson's Geordie meat? Who else does dirty Trippier mess about with? Was Jamaal Lascelles still a bit curious and into having his ring tickled, or had that brief 2020 foray been enough for the big burly defender who was clearly being pushed aside now? Shearer's imagination spiralled in dirty directions that he normally tried to control, burned by the intensity of his affair with Carroll, and determined to find a way to stay faithful and well-behaved after all. But this was hardly the time for conversation, drunk and horny as they all were. This was the time for action, and touch, and enjoyment. He pulled himself up off the comfort of the armchair, one hand still wrapped at the base of his cock, and he stood next to them, tugging slowly on it, really enjoying himself, and watching as young Anderson sprawled back and felt clumsily for Trippier's neck and shoulders, eyes squeezed shut, whilst Trips devoured his unseen prick, gagging and gobbling on it, and rubbing his hands all over the younger lad's bare muscular legs. `Here,' their host growled at them, and the action shifted. Kieran reeled about on his knees and Alan grabbed him about the back of the head, and fed his big sweaty cock into that wide mouth, bigger than it looked on the strong man's tight features. In it went, his big thick meat, and again Trips took it so deep with apparent ease, and it felt SO good; god, this was good, and he knew he wanted more, but he didn't know how far to push it, tonight, as drunk as they all were. He pictured himself fucking Andy senselessly into a headboard and slapping at the sides of his face as he yanked on his ponytail, and he wondered if that full shagging was where he'd really crossed the line and stoked trouble - what if Carroll was actually stupid enough to tell his reality TV star wife about what they were up to?! Surely not? It would be a disaster. This was why Alan had always been more cautious as a younger man, as an active player - he'd dabbled now and then, and heard a lot of rumours, but he'd never gone all the way like he had with his long-haired Gateshead lad, not like that. And now... The 6ft retired ace fucked Trippier in the face and grinned down at Anderson, nodding and gesturing at him until the 20-year-old got up to join him, both of them standing over shirtless Kieran; Alan reached for it and took a couple of good tugs on the big veiny thing that jutted from above Anderson's thighs, pleased with the size and weighty feel of it, but not surprised, it looked right on him. He was a sexy rough charva, wasn't he? Again, he passed Trips from his own dick to the lad's, and immediately felt jealous as he had to settle for his own hand, wanking off and panting out a series of growling little laughs. He felt drunker now than before, more light-headed and out of control. It was the mounting excitement, the tingling of his balls and the sense of debauchery that they'd brought with them into the snug. Part of him wanted to drag both muscular young lads up to his marriage bed, to have the pair of them in there with them, and to line them up and slam his cock into their- Kieran's lips were back about his prick and he moaned heavily, knowing he was close. Good. He could empty his heavy balls and not take this too far. He didn't need another Andy Carroll in his life, pestering him all the time and making ridiculous claims about `confessing' to his partner...! Fucking hell, he'd need to do something about that fool. Instead, he pulled his cock out of Trippier's mouth and stood back, so that neither of them were being sucked; the defender had pushed down his own trackies and boxer briefs, and was wanking his own pretty thick equipment where he knelt. But it was his chest that was Shearer's target, the broad ugly tattoo that spread over his defined pecs. There was a diamond at the centre of the brash artwork, and he aimed for that, jerking furiously on his wet cock, and roughly rubbing his hand over the short tight waves of Trips' hair again, manhandling him in a way that was rough but affectionate. And then he was spilling his load, pumping streaks of thick cream onto the tattooed skin, spilling lines of cum over the daft illustration that covered the lad's muscular tits. `Ugh,' he grunted, really emptying his balls, and giving Kieran a very light slap on the cheek, before letting out another long throaty laugh. He rocked on his heels, still fumbling with his sensitive cock, and looking from Kieran's devilish eyes to the hunched awkwardness of Elliot at his side; those strong muscled arms were working like mad as the lad, barely out of his teens, wanked himself silly, hand pumping up and down the glistening veins of his long thick meat. Fuck, he was probably more well-hung than Alan himself, or kneeling Trips here, who was jerking off too, teeth gritted and jaw set, and eyes wild with transgression. `Go on,' the old Geordie growled at his young fan. `Shoot all over the bastard.' So he did - an explosion of jizz that didn't just hit Trippier in the chest, but painted his grinning face, long silvery trials down his cheeks and on his chin, making him laugh and lick his lips. Wow. He really was an easygoing slut, this one, not at all the macho bugger he'd always seemed to Shearer before - fucking hell, you never could tell. He really wanted to know what else this dirty bastard got up to, and with whom, but he couldn't bring himself to ask - post-orgasmic exhaustion was wracking his middle-aged body and his brain was popping with little fireworks of drunken fug. `Jesus,' whined Anderson's voice awkwardly, in between pants. `Good lad, good lad!' He slapped him on the back and almost knocked him over. Below, the Newcastle skipper groaned and yelped, pleasuring himself to climax on his knees, dripping with their juices, and bowing close to their swaying cocks. A long strangled yelp signalled the peak of Trippier's selfless enjoyment, and then he was hanging his head back and taking big gulps of air, and Shearer began to retreat, feeling soiled and sweaty. He wanted to be up in the comfort of his bed, and to dismiss this madness from his head until he could get some proper sleep - when his wife rang in the morning, he would curse himself for this debauchery, but it had been worth it, it had felt so fucking good. `Well done, lads,' he said ambiguously to them as he shoved his cock into his checked boxer briefs, buttoning up and buckling his belt over the strong bulge that had troubled him at the football stadium for the second half of the cup game. He smiled vaguely at the other lads, Kieran clambering up from his knees with no shirt on, and Elliot flopping back into the recliner, looking shaky - well, he'd got his fun with a couple of younger players, just liked he'd dared to fantasise, and now he was spent and shattered, and he needed bed. Anderson woke early, and he felt nauseous. His face was stuck to the leathery arm of the sofa with drool, and the once-cosy snug room felt freezing cold in the dark. He shivered and shuddered and pulled his face away from the brown leather, looking around and thinking that he had a thicker top somewhere that could be pulled over his tight-fit training t-shirt - and, oh, where had his tracksuit pants dropped, cos his big muscular legs were bare and shivering? The wasted 20-year-old had remained in the room alone and just fell asleep there on the couch, after shifting uncomfortably from furniture to furniture. His head ached violently and when he dared to sit upright, he regretted it. He sat there, socked feet planted to the rug, and head cradled in both shaky hands, waves of hangover nausea washing uncomfortably against him for many long minutes in the small dark lounge. Squinting through the shadows, the young midfielder spotted a rather cosy blanket folded over the back of the recliner that he had tried to sleep in first, and he made an awkward little lunge over the room to fetch it, then pushed himself down into the couch and threw it around him as a thin woollen quilt, glad of its relative comfort and warmth, but still feeling as sick as a dog, and a bit confused about where he actually was. Images of it came to him through the pain and discomfort of his early hangover: the big smirk on Alan Shearer's face, stood next to him, and then looking down into the impish smirk of Kieran Trippier, before feeling that mouth against his swollen hard tool. Fuuuuuck. His legendary hero, and his sort-of captain. Fuck. It was bonkers. He lay there, swaddled in blanket and pulling his strong young body into the foetal position, and just stared across the dark room, seeing it all as if it had happened to someone else. First it had been just Fraser, he thought, remembering that first time after the small Scottish player drove him home, and it had been just their secret - a few times Ryan had alluded to it or tried to get him alone, but Elliot had staunchly avoided a repeat incident. But then there'd been that chaotic morning in the training centre, and everyone had seemed so chill about it... not just Trips here, but Schar and even Joelinton, and... he could picture Bruno too, down on his knees, looking up at him, but he sometimes doubted that memory, because the Brazilian midfield ace seemed so innocent and wholesome the rest of the time, and nobody had ever mentioned what happened that day in full. And now... his captain, and his hero. His head throbbed and his stomach churned, and he pulled the blanket more tightly about himself, groaning in private misery. Trippier woke in greater comfort; unhelped by their host, he'd found his way into a guest bedroom and made himself at home. He woke early too, plagued by the same inevitable self-inflicted pains, but he downed the glass of water he'd poured on his way to bed, and got another hour of sleep, and then gotten tougher with himself when he woke for the second time. He found his phone in the heap of his clothing and scrolled through the unsurprising missed calls from Mrs Trip. Kieran chuckled to himself and shook his head as he pulled boxer shorts up his legs and over his cock and arse, and then each other item of the tracksuit until he was fully dressed. What a naughty night. He should really have had that one and gone home, but... well, you couldn't regret fun like that, could you? Life was for living, and several years ago, the Manc lad had opened his mind and decided that was pleasure was pleasure; he was going to take whatever life threw his way, spunk and all. There was no sign of Shearer himself as he moved through the cold house. He heard some loud snores from behind one door, clearly the master bedroom, and he just grinned appreciatively as he disappeared downstairs, going to the kitchen and pouring himself more water then, on second thoughts, finding and filling a second glass. Into the snug room, which took him a while to find between all the different doors, and he thrust the second water into one of the young lad's hands, and gave him a pat on the head. `Come on, I'll get us a taxi, kid,' he grumbled at the sheepish hunched figure of his teammate. Without bothering to disturb or wake their host, Trippier moved quietly through the ground floor of the big Gosforth house. In the kitchen, he leaned on the worktop by the sink, supping on cool water and thumbing at his phone until the taxi app had summoned them a driver and he'd keyed in a stop-off at the coast to deliver the kiddo to his folks before zooming away to the town further out where he'd invested in a big converted farmhouse for his own family. The oafish young midfielder came trotting into the kitchen behind him, the blanket about his shoulders and his thick legs still on show, only loaded black briefs below the hem of his tracksuit top. Kieran looked him up and down and gave him a lopsided smile. `Go find your kit, you nobhead,' he chuckled. Elliot stared dimly at him for a moment before exiting and clomping about the corridor in search of his trousers. Soon, they were letting themselves out of the house, trainers crunching over the gravel as they had on arrival. `I feel awful,' Anderson groaned dismally at him on the walk down the driveway, not for the first time this morning. At least the pale-faced youth was properly dressed now, and not stumbling around in his bulging briefs, haha. Trippier pictured that massive veiny cock and he smiled admiringly at the lad, taking him about the shoulders and giving him a squeeze. `Ask yer mum for a fry-up when you get in.' `She'll just tell me to fuck off.' `Okay, well remind her who bought the house, yup? Hah.' Into the taxi they went, and Kieran made terse conversation with the driver, an obvious Toon fan who wanted to talk about last night; Trips did his best to communicate their tender state to the Geordie bloke, intimating that they'd partied hard and just needed to get to their respective homes in one piece. The guy failed to take the hint and jabbered on in his singsong Tyneside accent, and Kieran just smiled indulgently and watched as Elliot hunched anxiously over his phone next to him. Well, at least the presence of the chatty driver meant no real chance for awkwardness between them, since the younger lad was clearly a bit conflicted about what had gone on at Shearer's behest. You didn't look so sick or worried when I was slurping on your monster cock, Trips thought idly, smiling across at the other 5ft10 footballer, and then tuning back in to answer the driver's latest eager question. In a quieter voice, he probed his teammate, whose face looked even paler and grimmer, prodding him in the arm as he asked, `What now, kid?' Anderson turned and shot him a wary look, his eyes a bit red. `It's the gaffer, and my agent. I've got a meeting this morning up at the training park, skipper.' Well, good to hear that respect still in his voice, after the daft lad had emptied his balls on his captain's face about five hours ago. Phew. `Meeting?' Trippier grunted. `Ugh. Not in this state.' `So much for the fry-up,' the lad grumbled. `It's about a loan deal.' He sounded distraught. `Ah.' Kieran reached over and gave him a little rub on the upper back. `Well, you kinda knew that was coming, matey. Where are they sending you...?' `Dunno, doesn't say. Fuck. I can't turn up like this, I must stink of booze.' The Manc right-back took and released a long breath, leaving his hand against the middle of the younger guy's broad firm back. Then he raised his voice above the discreet whisper with which he'd questioned the kid, and called to the driver, who was pretending not to listen in. `Hey, chief - can we change the journey plan, actually? Turns out we got to pop in to work for a bit - will you get us to the training ground instead, mate? I'll whack in a great tip, if you don't mind.' He shared a supportive smile with Anderson, who looked puzzled. `Home can wait - we'll get to work and shower there, and there's a cafe round the corner. We'll have you looking presentable enough to meet with Eddie and your agent, yeh? Come on kid, it'll all be grand.' He patted him on the back and enjoyed the oddly cute little smile of gratitude that the Geordie boy gave him, and then turned his attention back to the driver, who was dropping heavy hints about how much he'd like to visit the training ground with his sons, rather than receiving some massive tip. Kieran smiled awkwardly and humoured him, and hoped to god that Elliot didn't vomit before they left the car. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-375

Date: Mon, 13 Nov 2023 15:24:58 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 375 Part 375: The Equaliser The first message came when he wasn't even yet out of his Chelsea kit: he had his smartphone clutched loosely in one mucky paw, having been dragged away from the home changing rooms almost as soon as his boots were off. The interview was over now but the 21-year-old was still a little starstruck, tottering back towards the hustle and bustle of the locker-room after mumbling his way through one of his first major Sky interviews. Cole Palmer's penalty success in the 95th minute hadn't quite won the match for his new London club, but it had brought Chelsea level with their imposing visitors, managing a 4-4 draw with Palmer's own former team - even so, the gangly youth had been somewhat surprised to be pulled away for media duty, given how many stars had contributed to the 8-goal drama on a damp Sunday evening. Cole's phone had been going crazy with notifications from family and friends as he pulled it out of his personal bag in the home locker-room, merely skimmed before being whisked into the long puffer jacket he wore over his damp grimy home kit, and here was another buzz of notification against his palm. This time, quite instinctively, the attacking midfielder brought the device up to read properly, taking slow sore steps down towards the steamy entrance to the Chelsea changing rooms. Bright on his phone-screen, more prominent now than the other messages and group chats that had already lit up in the minutes since the final whistle, was a surprising name - one of his former teammates, and therefore someone who must be only yards away in the changing facilities for visiting opponents. For a moment, the 6ft2 youngster paused at the door to join his own team, quite amused at his own conflicted loyalty when thinking about his Manchester City colleagues being assembled so close by; and Cole opened up the WhatsApp message at speed with a skim of thumb, seeing how long it had been since he'd been in contact with the older guy, and then reading with a bark of laughter the block capitals message that had arrived: `YOU DIRTY FUCKING TURNCOAT TRAITOR!' The shouty text message would feel like rather exuberant abuse if not for the trio of emojis that followed: winky face, weeping, and then a flame to represent his own talent. Palmer stopped for just a few seconds more, looking to his left and further down the stadium tunnel, seeing the half-open door that must lead to the accommodation of the thwarted visitors - and the youth laughed again, before deftly hitting a thumbs-up Like react to the message from Kyle Walker, deciding this random cross-tunnel message was typical of the old club joker. He locked his phone and strolled on into join his NEW teammates, trying his best to put the Man City wistfulness in the past where it belonged. The messages continued over the next half hour or so, though they were read by Cole only sporadically - he was welcomed with a roar by the other Chelsea players in the changing rooms, practically hoisted aloft by a few of them, including defensive captain Reece James and World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez. The draw was being celebrated like a win, given the status of the opponents, and the patchy record of the West London club this season, and penalty-taker Palmer was being feted as the weekend's big hero. With a mix of genuine modesty and a desire to ingratiate himself, Cole was sure to heap praise on the OTHER goal-scorers, applauding Thiago Silva and Nicolas Jackson, and going in for a big sweaty hug with the shirtless physique of Raheem Sterling, a winger whose defection from Blue to Blue had preceded his own by one season. The 21-year-old grinned and laughed and shrugged off great praise, undressing his Chelsea shirt and tight long-sleeved thermals below, then sitting down on the bench and pausing to check his phone again - he was mildly surprised and amused to see `3 new messages from Kyle Walker' on the screen, but then the notification was replaced by a fresh message from his Palmer family group chat, and lost in the social media overload of the device, which he put back down inside his bag and fished about for a towel. Cole had already experienced some highs and lows in this dressing room, but this dark November afternoon had to be the best moment of his Chelsea career so far. The youngster had been far from naive in his expectations when he moved down here, but he'd also focused on positivity and ambition. It was hard to keep a full secret that he would have rather kept going in his home city with his boyhood club, but Cole's counsel had been clear from inside and outside of City: he would remain an under-used spare there in that magnificent roster, and he needed to fly the nest to get his big break. So here the Manc youth was, adjusting to London life and a very different club culture, trying to fit in with new lads and to prove himself to the bigwigs at the top. The penalty against his old team felt like the first really big statement to back all that up, and he grew more comfortable and accepting of the attention, certainly more interested in that than whatever banter from Walks was waiting for him on his phone. Due to the delay of his interview, he was sweaty and behind the crowd, whilst slippery wet muscles emerged from the shower and slid by him with or without towels. Still, Cole felt no rush, and he went to open that message from his family, who he knew would be absolutely buzzing for him - instead, stood in just boxer briefs and footy socks, the 21-year-old found `4 new messages from Kyle Walker' instead, he couldn't help but feel curious. Tilting his device with a degree more privacy - it wouldn't be a great idea to give anyone reason to doubt his loyalties this weekend! - he opened them up, interested to see what other banter the 33-year-old right-back had for him. `Seriously, what a fucking traitor - or should I say, legend???' read the first message, followed by several laughing emojis; `Oi, ignorant prick!' came the 2nd, closely followed by a 3rd, `OHHH, TOO GOOD FOR US NOW, I GET IT'. The 4th, the one that had interrupted his intention to commune with his fam, was a picture message, and there was something funny and ridiculous about it coming from the parallel dressing room so close by: it was an awkwardly angled selfie with several frowning and pouting faces crushing to be in shot, babyish poses of sadness from not just Walker himself, but the tanned faces of Rodri and Silva, whilst the emotive features of Grealish were forcing their way in from the side. The caption was just a single crying emoticon, and Cole laughed to himself - dafties! He hit a laughing emoji react to the pic and locked his phone again, forgetting about the rest of his notifications, and deciding he needed to get scrubbed clean. Only removing the modesty of a draped towel as he entered the thick steam, Cole hung it to the side and enjoyed the appreciative wet slaps on the back from passing Broja and and Gusto, then the echoey chant of Mudryk and Cucurella from the far wall; an impossibly smug smile split Palmer's face as he showered in the freer space of one side, soaping up his tall slim body and washing damp mud-stains from his long legs. Jeez, imagine if his penalty success had actually scored the full 3 points, he'd be feeling like a Chelsea legend already, haha. Somehow the excitement levels at his contribution to a draw made the youth all the more conscious of how troubled this behemoth club was at the moment, but he just had to take the personal win - he was at a crucial turning point in his young career, and he had to focus on THAT. When the towel was back around his slim hips and he was strutting across the square dressing room floor, a lot of his teammates were already near fully-dressed. Somebody was shouting out about team drinks, and various venues were being called out, ranging from players' own mansions to a couple of club-connected drinking establishments - Palmer was in happy daze and he didn't get involved in this debate, though he nodded enthusiastically when he was grabbed by the wet shoulder and insistently invited to be part of the Sunday night festivities. He didn't yet feel like a big presence in this room, though today would help, and he tended to keep quiet and hold his tongue - there were a lot of egos in the overpriced squad, much odder and more complex dynamics than he was used to at City, where the cult of Guardiola tended to iron out the heroics of world-class individuals. Bit by bit, Cole thought, he could become part of a NEW dynamic here, something a bit more streamlined and cohesive, and- He caught sight of the notifications on his phone screen. Still wrapped in his towel, the naked young footballer sat his wet arse down on the bench and he picked up the device, noting how popular he was with friends he hadn't spoken to in ages, but also thumbing open the screen and finding himself back at the WhatsApp dialogue with his ex-teammate. `Ignoring us, Chelsea big shot' was the message from Kyle that had followed the sweaty-faced group selfie, and then more provocatively, `Too busy with a big Chelsea circle-jerk, eh?' He could just imagine the comical Sheffield accent of his former right-back making these gruff jokey accusations at him, and tousling his mousy blond hair, and the youngster laughed stupidly before tapping in a reply. `Looks more like a City wank-fest in that pic you sent,' he bantered back. `Wanking over how much we miss YOU' came Kyle's almost instant reply. `Jesus - I'm blocking your number lol'. `Why? Is your new Chelsea right-back sexier than ME?' Seated against the wall in the increasingly sparse home locker-room, Cole tittered stupidly to himself, feeling that Kyle's banter was a fair part of his enjoyment here, just a pleasant accompaniment to being so lauded at Chelsea - but also feeling pangs of homesickness for the life he'd grown used to in Manchester, easing his way into a senior squad of international stars, and daring to think he could follow in Foden's footsteps. With a surly need to assert that he'd moved on, he pushed in his response to Walker's stupid question: `Every Chelsea player is sexier than YOU, you ugly Yorkshire prick'. He wasn't sure if he'd gone too far there, it wasn't really his kind of banter, but it was answering bullish Kyle in kind, and he wasn't just some dweeby kid on the fringe of the City squad now, he had to start acting like the first-team Premiership man he was. No instant reply from KW though, which made him vaguely uneasy, and he put the phone aside, getting up to dry his crotch and thighs, then yanking it up to run through his glossy hair and about his broad lean shoulders. `Bro,' called Reece James, `it's the Duke's Head, okay?' `Sure, sure,' Palmer shouted back as the team's young captain, recently back from injury, headed out, and he leaned forward slightly to check for a reply from the City camp, somewhat disappointed that the strain of banter had died already. He stepped his bare feet and naked legs into a fresh pair of black boxer briefs and yanked them up about himself, then kicked his way into stiffly ironed designer jeans, almost toppling one way as he heard the buzz of notification and glanced down to see that Kyle had replied after all. It was, again, a picture notification, though this time not a selfie, nor even of the right-back himself: it was an odd picture, momentarily alarming Cole until he remembered his own joke, and it made him gawk at his own phone without picking it up. It was a side-on view of Jack Grealish, presumably next to Walker in the locker-room, but bare-arse naked! If it wasn't for the furriness of the thighs that led up to it, the big solid curve of Jack's rump might have looked like the booty on some top female pornstar, but Cole laughed heartily and sent a row of green vomit-face reacts to his former colleague. `Fucking perv!' he accused in a quick follow-up message, standing with the phone in one hand and doing up his button-fly with the other; a couple of other players were hollering at him from the door, reminding him which riverside pub the Chelsea clique would be taking over. `Aw, thought you would like that,' was Walker's next message. `Thought everybody fancied our Jack, whatever their prefs lol.' It wasn't exactly unfamiliar banter to Palmer, who had been there when the Grealish mania arrived at City, and he'd heard many a pretty-boy joke thrown Jack's way. But still, there was something about the candid photo that had soured the tone of this messaging, and sent an uncomfortable tingle across the bare skin of Cole's arms and torso and the fluffy back of his neck, standing tall and uncertain the near-deserted warmth of the Chelsea home rooms. He hesitated before replying with a couple of laughing emojis; he was just tucking the smartphone into one denim pocket when a quick buzz of reply made him pull it back out and continue to text with Kyle. `What about this?' It was a pic of a different player this time, making him both frown and laugh, whilst he replied `Fuck off lol' to the photo of a bewildered-looking Julian Alvarez stood in his tighty-whities against a backdrop of other semi-naked City men - why the hell was Walker wasting his time breaking all protocol with this backstage photography, and trying to... what, tease him into missing them? The gangly youth blinked, flustered, and chuckled awkwardly as he responded: `That room will get sexier when a Chelsea star like me pops over for a hug!' The idea developed only as he typed it, thinking that it made sense to nip over the tunnel and pay his respect to the visitors, less formally than he had in the tunnel pre-match, or after various physical clashes on the pitch. Walker's response was slow to come, and so the 21-year-old Manc lad pulled a plain black tee over his slim upper body, followed by a dressy shirt and sweater, and then a quick spray of fine fragrance against his long necks and where his wrists left the cuffs. He wanted to look and smell like a big deal as he sauntered into enemy territory and congratulated whichever City players were available, perhaps even a respectful handshake from his former manager, the legend himself; but he also wanted to be able to swagger into the Thames pub to join his new teammates and maybe propose a toast at the bar, starting to become more confident and vocal in the Chelsea ranks. The idea that enough of them were assembling in a bar after a game felt momentous enough in improving that team spirit. Now alone in the locker-room but for the member of site-staff who'd just shyly entered to begin tidying, Palmer opened up his phone and reacted with dull disappointment to the slow reply from KW: `I'm already on the coach, Chelski boi!!! But Jack might have left his dirty pants in there if you wanna go for a sniff?' and then, `Enjoy your pretendy win, Chelsea loser!' Oh. The visitors weren't hanging around then, which made sense, given their journey north - north, he thought, back to his own hometown. Right, well. It would have been weird to try and briefly catch-up with old friends now, he told himself, and it would just make it harder to feel connected to Chelsea and his future. Right? And yet, between a quick debrief meeting with Pochettino and the process of checking out of the stadium, Palmer's messaging convo with the City defender didn't stop; even as the attacking midfielder stepped into the hire car that would take him 5 minutes to the pub, he was responding with emoji laughter to Kyle's petty banter and complaints, which swung from more mockery of him as a Chelsea sell-out (`Compared to City money????' he responded) and obnoxious remarks about the vibe on the bus (`You just wish I was there lol' he suggested). Though the tone of some of the older fella's messages, and his swift disappearance from the stadium, had jibed at Palmer's excitement, he couldn't seem to ignore the messages and leave his ex-teammate on read. Stepping out of the car and walking a short distance in the rain to the looming security personnel on the pub door, Cole received the last few messages from Kyle that would really complicate his mood and make him feel weird. `Which overpaid twat is gonna give you a thank you handjob for that penalty?' the City defender texted him just before he got out of the cab. `Lol, what is wrong with you tonight???' `Nah, maybe not handjob - I bet Sterling gives blowjobs out like party favours.' `Fucking hell buddy!!!' `You telling me you haven't had one yet?' He could only reply to that with a vomit face and more laughing/crying pictographs. `Biggest slut I've ever fucked,' Kyle messaged, but it still wasn't that which really pushed Cole into new confusion and doubt, meeting that ridiculous message with just a stupid heart react, and wondering how much beer had already been consumed by the departing City players; `Show him this and see what he says' was the next message from the 33-year-old, Palmer just standing still under the downpour for a minute, right in front of the hard-faced security, and then the flickering pixels of the attached picture message, loading in 4k on his screen, its clarity disturbed only by the raindrops that splashed against the touchscreen. For a moment Cole hesitated further, gawping at it, and then the door-men were barking at him in Eastern European accents and asking for his ID, as if they had no idea he was a senior player, and Palmer's attention was dragged away from the most ridiculous message yet, the one that had him really questioning his former colleague. Drunk or excitable as he was, certified club joker and alpha male, all of that... but why the fuck was the Yorkshireman sending him a big fat dick pic from the lap of his seat on a coach out of London?!?!?! The slew of messages left the Manchester-born football player in a strange mood, one that made him impossible to get involved with the surprisingly hearty celebrations in the old-fashioned London pub. As he might have expected, his entrance was met with a roar of approval, and drinks were repeatedly pushed into Cole's hands without him even asking, by members of the coaching staff as well as his fellow players. Homesickness and what-ifs about life at Man City were, for now, far away, but that didn't leave the 21-year-old in a good position to enjoy the moment; instead, he just felt alternatingly angry and embarrassed about the dick pic on his phone, and the strange turn in Kyle Walker's banter. Sterling was, predictably, at the centre of the party atmosphere, doling out rows of shot glasses at one of the glossy mahogany bars. Palmer stared intensely at him across the pub from an elevated area by the windows, overlooking the river: 28-year-old Raheem was a man reinvigorated by his London move last summer. He'd heard it and then seen it for himself. The Jamaican England hero was one of the most reliable performers in this squad of egos and disappointments, and a leading figure in all outings, not to mention the hardest working heart of every training session; that same energy was here in the Duke's Head, marshalling the drinking of several international players who were normally far less sociable. The Londoner's long braids bobbed with the quick lithe movements from guy to guy, passing out drinks and calling others over. His baggy streetwear belied the dense rippling muscle of the dark body that Cole had hugged in congratulation an hour ago, and he cringed at that comparison - why was he even thinking of the winger's muscular little body?! God, Kyle had really put him off, really ruined his buzz. Or, he supposed glumly, maybe it was his own fault - maybe his own comebacks had been too crass and pushy, too much, provoking Kyle's stupid humour. He questioned himself starkly, was he really looking questioningly at Raheem Sterling and wondering if the national hero was some bisexual slut who had been fucked about by big Walker?! It was absolutely insane. And yet, it was a question he was asking himself, and a distraction that left him like a moody teenager on the periphery of the event, sour and quiet even when he was called over to do shots with Sterling and James, or when he was pulled aside by the injured defender Ben Chilwell for a pep talk, or stuck in the corner listening to a drunken monologue from the penalty-taking coach about how he'd delivered a masterclass in the London rain. It was a good 90 minutes on, a whole football match later, when a solution occurred to the transplanted Mancunian. The tall slim lad slipped quietly away from the noise and excitement of the wood-panelled rooms, disappearing up a flight of stairs to the mens' loos, and then past a couple of pissing silhouettes at the urinals - into a tight separate cubicle, which he locked, before opening up his photo gallery and firmly deleting the pics that had come through from Walker's phone. He did it quickly, and yet his eyes still found a moment to widen in alarm at the intimacy of the dick pic, the big fat brown shape nestled in Kyle's lap, flopped out of his clothes to be snapped, in a way so obnoxiously vivid that surely whoever he was sat next to had to be in on the joke! But then that was gone, and the dressing room snaps and selfie with it - gone was Walker's big cock, gone was the curve of Grealish, gone was the shy alarm on Alvarez's face. But somehow that deletion wasn't enough. Furious with the old git, Cole opened up the messaging app and the conversation, staring bitterly at the single unread message - `Sorry, was that an overshare??' - before clicking a few icons and blocking the right-back's number, ending the banter full stop. Only then did Palmer realise just how heavy his breathing was, how tense his tall slim body was, and how overheated the cubicle felt. Fuck, he needed to chill. Pushing the device away into his jeans pocket, he unlocked the door and emerged into the main gents, going straight to the sink to splash cold water in his hands and over his blotchy pink face. A little stooped under the low ceiling of the olde-world pub, Cole stared hotly at himself in the mirror over the sink, nostrils flaring, and he resolved to get back down those stairs and enjoy himself. A soft whistling sound from the lad next to him, who had been pissing in the urinal when he stomped through a moment ago. Cole's eyes flickered and he acknowledged the other Chelsea player via the mirrors, running his hands under the cool water again. `Hey,' he grunted dismissively, before remembering himself and asking with a warmer voice, `Don't mind me.' Stood at the next white porcelain basin, another young English member of the Chelsea line-up shifted from his whistled interest to a low, friendly voice. `Everything good, lanky?' asked Conor Gallagher pleasantly, remaining close to his right, so that Cole couldn't help but look away from his pink-faced reflection and meet the other midfielder's expression of mild curiosity and easy friendship. Here was someone who certainly DID feel at home at Chelsea, whatever turbulence the club went through, having joined it as young as Cole had been when he signed his first City contract; and the other Englishman had been a steady companion for him upon his transfer to the Big Smoke, having played together on England youth teams on several occasions. Cole blinked, still flustered. `I'm fine.' `You don't look fine.' It was a soft accusation, a slight lopsided smile on Conor's calmer features. `Just done some shots,' he muttered back. `Thought you'd been doing lines in there, or something.' A vague chuckle. `Does tequila always make you go rashy like that?' `I'm just a bit warm,' he complained defensively, but he wasn't offended or annoyed - he liked the calm and mildness of the other lad next to him, feeling brought back to earth by the casualness with which Gallagher lingered at his side. The 23-year-old patted him on the back of his sweater and leaned in. `Maybe you SHOULD do a line,' the Surrey-born footballer suggested to him quietly, linking one crystalline blue eye; Palmer was laughing weakly at this when he saw the hard edge to Gallagher's expression, the fixedness of that friendly grin. `Err,' was all the young player could manage, his friend's hand still resting on his upper back, and his own distracted thoughts fixing on some new opportunity to detox the weirdness of that dialogue with Walker. Conor was furtive now, the calm just illusive, as he glanced at the low wooden door back onto the stairwell, and then nodded back to the same blue-painted entrance into the single cubicle; he fished into the breast pocket of the smart white shirt he wore, revealing a glimpse of translucent plastic, and then was sliding past - Cole stared at his own uncomfortable face in the mirror before following, seizing the opportunity. He didn't really question what he was doing, but he needed to snap out of one mood and into another, and maybe this was the way. The cubicle that had felt small for one felt tiny for two, door yanked shut and locked behind them, and Conor just chuckling very quietly under his breath. `Thought you might be squeaky clean,' the 6ft teammate murmured. `You should see where I grew up in Manc,' Palmer muttered. `Fair.' Now the 6ft player was squatting down low so that he could dump the white powder on the wooden toilet lid, cutting it expertly with his credit card. With nervous fingers, Cole was passing him the £50 to roll and rapidly inhale one line. With some difficulty in the confined space, the 6ft2 goal-scorer stooped to copy this, his first sniff of the magic stuff since signing his first senior contract. He blinked and cleared his throat and waited for the fireworks to die down. One warm hand from his friend was rubbing his upper arm, and he heard the snorting sound of Conor taking another line. `Come on,' Gallagher told him, `let's just use it up.' Which they did - the pair of them staggering out of the bathroom with synapses on fire, giggling conspiratorially on the steep staircase back into the bar, and Cole turning to look for reassurance in the blocky features of his older friend's face - another quick wink of an icy blue eye, and then a squeeze of his shoulder. `Let's have some fun,' the 23-year-old whispered hotly to him, and he nodded eagerly - now he could really get into the celebrations! Sticking almost side-by-side with his close contemporary, Cole re-entered the drinks with a fresh dose of confidence. He happily took up several conversations that he shied away from, boasting about how he should take all of Chelsea's penalties for the rest of the season, making bold predictions about how many goals he might get over the Christmas season, even offering mindset advice to lads a decade older than him. This, he remembered, was the cocaine bravado, and one he was happy to share with winking Conor Gallagher, who he had equally assumed to be `squeaky clean', a mild-mannered professional who rarely voiced his opinions and just got on with his duties at the club. In the hyper blur of it, Palmer found himself staring again at Sterling, and laughing - of all the lads Kyle Walker could have chosen to make that joke about, their fast-paced forward was the least believable of all! At some point, the stop-start Sunday night of fun moved from the riverside pub to a less antique setting, the upstairs VIP of a West End nightclub - the Chelsea entourage thinned and morphed, tall slim glamour girls interspersing the multicultural football men. At some other point, Conor disappeared to `pick up', and then there were more lines in bathroom cubicles, security staff paid to shut up and ignore, and there was a jagged frenzy of not-quite-dancing on the floor, and Cole felt like he was at one of the raves he'd been to before he had to knuckle down and focus on impressing Guardiola. Somewhere in this fun, briefly alone, Palmer got his phone out, and really searched through the reams of positive messages from his mates and relatives, and then he opened up the grey-shaded dead end of the convo with Walker. Scoffing, Cole dismissed his earlier anxiety, and unblocked his older friend, not wanting to ruin any contacts back to the champion team that he could see himself eventually rejoining in greater prominence. Cole's confidence levels were wild with the blow and the direction of the night. He stared at the messages that popped up then, unseen during the block, but now slotting into the message thread at last, under the fuzzy space of the deleted dick pic; it was hard now for the youth to focus, but he read them with furrowed brows, turning words and sentences into meaning in spite of the fire in his brain. `Sorry,' Kyle was texting, or had been at some point tonight from his journey north; `I probs went too far lol - no offence meant, kid' - and `Hope you didn't actually show that to Raz, lmao, I think he's trying to behave himself in London town actually' and `Did you block me or something, lad?' And last of all, accompanied by some sad-face emojis, `Sorry Cole mate, just messing about - hope you're enjoying yourself somehow'. In the magnanimity of drink and drugs, Cole rushed to respond belatedly, punching in his reply: `LOL, no worries, can't offend me with that tiny chipolata, big man!!!' and then a row of aubergines and laughing emojis to consolidate his casual approval. And then, just for good measure, `City til I die, lol', which he partly knew he would regret writing tomorrow. `Tsk...!' He had been joined on the soft sinking corner couch by one of his fellow party-goers, and it was Conor again. Slow, distracted, unfocused, he notice the alertness on Gallagher's face, noticed the other lad staring over his phone and reading the screen, leaning in close and breathing against him, going tense and serious - and of course Cole entirely misread the source of his friend's intensity. After all, how could he know what had gone on in the toilet hotels on the 23-year-old's last England outing...? `I were joking,' the Manc lad began to say about his `City til I die' statement, blinking furiously and wondering why the room around them seemed to be spinning. He failed to resist as Conor seized the phone from him to read more of the conversation. Slurring dumbly, Cole pressed against the other midfielder on the comfortable seating of the VIP bar, fumbling at the phone in his hands. `You got any more blow?' he demanded greedily. `It's been such a great fuckin' night, hasn't it?' `Yeah,' the Chelsea academy graduate breathed next to him in a tone of revelation, one that passed Palmer by - `Yeh, it sure has' - and Conor was smirking fiercely now, his eyes aflame with blue light. Cole smiled dopily at him and squeezed at his firm muscular form, letting out a stupid cackle, and beginning to dimly remember the nature of the banter his friend might be seeing on the WhatsApp thread - clumsy, he made a better grab for his phone, and this time Conor relented, sliding it back to him, but staring fixedly at him. `What was that?' breathed the southerner. `You wanted some more... blow?' And the 21-year-old nodded his head very firmly - he was on top of the world right now, the great equaliser who had robbed points from City and kept Chelsea's dignity somewhat intact! He deserved this fun, even if they were pushing it, and risking some embarrassing tabloid headlines by sniffing the white stuff in a nightclub packed with Z-list celebs. He followed the firm nod of his friend's face and let himself be grabbed by the hand, led from the couch and onto his feet. He felt as lanky as Crouch or a giraffe, walking as if on stilts to traverse the bar and the edges of the dancefloor - he giggled as he saw Conor push the notes into the fist of the wary security fella, and then there was just the two of them, back in the same roomy disabled loo in which they'd shoved so much up their itchy noses. 6ft2 and slim, the young attacking midfielder was looking vaguely at himself in the large mirror, wondering if he could pile a bit more muscle on this year and start to fill out his frame; he flexed one skinny arm, bared to the plain black tee now, unsure where his shirt or jumper had been discarded in the night. He stared down and realised that actually his tight CK jeans were open at the front, perhaps had been for a while, and pulled an inch or so down to expose the waistband of his black boxer briefs; his eyes, fizzing with the effects of too much coke, also took in that Conor was down on his knees next to him, as if stooping there to prep the next few lines of magic dust. But- there was no dust, no magic, and in fact Conor was just pulling and pawing at his jeans, and looking up at him. Cole swung his chaotic eyes from the mirror and he looked down the length of his body, confused to see his own cock out, that and his heavy balls and tufty pubes flopping over the waistband of his undies. He stared uncomprehendingly at his dick, and at the sweaty sheen on Conor's face. But then the two were one, and he blinked in confusion - was he imagining this? It had been an odd night. No, this was happening. There was Conor's face, pulling in closer and pulling away, and fireworks like cocaine were running up and down his body - he could feel his foreskin pull back, could feel a wet strong rub against the sensitive tip of his dick, could feel gentle fingertips caress his bollocks - and he turned to look in the mirror as if for confirmation of reality. He could see himself standing tall and slim, and the more muscular 6ft lad crouching before him, hair greased back away from his face, which was bobbing back and forth, its rhythm matching the heavy physical sensations that both pleased and confused him. He realised that the loud gasping moans were his own. Oh. With slow dim recognition of the great blowie he was receiving, Cole Palmer rubbed a couple of things over his thin moustache, catching the dusty cocaine remnants there, and then fingering them in against his gums optimistically. He stared hazily down and nodded in approval - yep, like Kyle had suggested, this was exactly the gratitude he deserved. `I thought it was gonna be Raheem,' he slurred stupidly to the world in general. `Apparently not,' gurgled Conor, who was kissing his balls and jerking his wet cock. `As if,' Cole laughed, more to himself than the lad on his knees. `Sterling wouldn't-' `Dunno,' Conor murmured, all hot breath and wet lips. `Kyle doesn't show know shit.' `I wouldn't be so sure,' the 23-year-old muttered, but the ominous knowingness of his voice was lost on Palmer, who just rubbed a hand on his flat tummy, lifting up his t-shirt a bit, and staring approvingly down at the pouting lips that were back on his cock. The world span, but his dick and balls felt good, and he thought of Kyle's bolshy messages, thought even for a moment of his fat soft cock hanging out of his trackies; sure, sure, this was what happened when you stepped up and took charge! He thought too of that candid photo of Jack Grealish getting changed, the big curve of his muscular backside, photographed in the away changing rooms for him - reality confused for Cole Palmer, who was simultaneously picking the Love Island reject who he'd been dancing with ten minutes ago, and the alleged TV presenter who he'd been buying cocktails for at the bar. For a long minute, he thought maybe he was in here with one of them, that his pulling skills had improved massively since his awkward outings in central Manchester - sure, sure, a quick bathroom blowie in a nightclub, this was the new him, the Chelsea him! He was loud as he came, hardly conscious of the bribed bouncer on the other side of the door, who was probably asking himself some fairly major questions about how else he could make money, but was deciding that Gallagher's notes would do for now; Cole gasped and moaned really loudly, unselfconscious, as he spurted his load and emptied his balls, throwing his head back and grasping a disabled support rail by the mirror as his body trembled with drug-enhanced pleasure. And then, coming to, he stared in ambivalent wonder at the shiny mess around Conor's mouth and chin, wondering what his friend had been eating to make that mess, and then certain key facts joined up, and his brain found some order in the chemical chaos. Oh, right, sure. `Fuck,' he heard Gallagher gasp. `You taste almost as good as him.' `Who?' he asked, as if from miles away, but the other lad just laughed - he was getting up, going to the sink to wash, and Cole just swayed on his heels, staring at his own veiny cock as if it belonged to someone else. And then he saw Conor back on his knees, but at the toilet, cutting the lines - and he stumbled to join him at the same time as pushing his prick back into his jeans, confused but excited. Lying in bed with the TV presenter, and blissfully unaware of how he'd failed to get hard again after the bathroom blowjob, convinced that in fact he'd fucked this showbiz wannabe good and hard... Lying there, Cole's brain tried and failed to sort out the facts of the night, but the only things that remained clear and vivid, other than his fantasy of how virile he'd been for his 3am pull, were the slow-motion penalty against his old team, and the dick pic vividly on his phone. When his thoughts turned to Conor Gallagher, who thought vaguely about fun cocaine, and about looking down at that messy face, but he couldn't quite piece it all together, his body tingling with remembered pleasure. In bed, he groaned and reached for the girl's body, and pulled her close, his cock starting to get hard after all, even if his body was about 80% asleep. `Oh,' he heard her coo in delight, `is it finally working now? Come on, footballer, put it in me and make me your WAG!' Or something to that effect - the next day, all of it was vague and unclear, and Palmer knew only one thing for sure... he really really really liked doing cocaine with Gallagher. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 13 Nov 2023 15:24:58 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 375 Part 375: The Equaliser The first message came when he wasn't even yet out of his Chelsea kit: he had his smartphone clutched loosely in one mucky paw, having been dragged away from the home changing rooms almost as soon as his boots were off. The interview was over now but the 21-year-old was still a little starstruck, tottering back towards the hustle and bustle of the locker-room after mumbling his way through one of his first major Sky interviews. Cole Palmer's penalty success in the 95th minute hadn't quite won the match for his new London club, but it had brought Chelsea level with their imposing visitors, managing a 4-4 draw with Palmer's own former team - even so, the gangly youth had been somewhat surprised to be pulled away for media duty, given how many stars had contributed to the 8-goal drama on a damp Sunday evening. Cole's phone had been going crazy with notifications from family and friends as he pulled it out of his personal bag in the home locker-room, merely skimmed before being whisked into the long puffer jacket he wore over his damp grimy home kit, and here was another buzz of notification against his palm. This time, quite instinctively, the attacking midfielder brought the device up to read properly, taking slow sore steps down towards the steamy entrance to the Chelsea changing rooms. Bright on his phone-screen, more prominent now than the other messages and group chats that had already lit up in the minutes since the final whistle, was a surprising name - one of his former teammates, and therefore someone who must be only yards away in the changing facilities for visiting opponents. For a moment, the 6ft2 youngster paused at the door to join his own team, quite amused at his own conflicted loyalty when thinking about his Manchester City colleagues being assembled so close by; and Cole opened up the WhatsApp message at speed with a skim of thumb, seeing how long it had been since he'd been in contact with the older guy, and then reading with a bark of laughter the block capitals message that had arrived: `YOU DIRTY FUCKING TURNCOAT TRAITOR!' The shouty text message would feel like rather exuberant abuse if not for the trio of emojis that followed: winky face, weeping, and then a flame to represent his own talent. Palmer stopped for just a few seconds more, looking to his left and further down the stadium tunnel, seeing the half-open door that must lead to the accommodation of the thwarted visitors - and the youth laughed again, before deftly hitting a thumbs-up Like react to the message from Kyle Walker, deciding this random cross-tunnel message was typical of the old club joker. He locked his phone and strolled on into join his NEW teammates, trying his best to put the Man City wistfulness in the past where it belonged. The messages continued over the next half hour or so, though they were read by Cole only sporadically - he was welcomed with a roar by the other Chelsea players in the changing rooms, practically hoisted aloft by a few of them, including defensive captain Reece James and World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez. The draw was being celebrated like a win, given the status of the opponents, and the patchy record of the West London club this season, and penalty-taker Palmer was being feted as the weekend's big hero. With a mix of genuine modesty and a desire to ingratiate himself, Cole was sure to heap praise on the OTHER goal-scorers, applauding Thiago Silva and Nicolas Jackson, and going in for a big sweaty hug with the shirtless physique of Raheem Sterling, a winger whose defection from Blue to Blue had preceded his own by one season. The 21-year-old grinned and laughed and shrugged off great praise, undressing his Chelsea shirt and tight long-sleeved thermals below, then sitting down on the bench and pausing to check his phone again - he was mildly surprised and amused to see `3 new messages from Kyle Walker' on the screen, but then the notification was replaced by a fresh message from his Palmer family group chat, and lost in the social media overload of the device, which he put back down inside his bag and fished about for a towel. Cole had already experienced some highs and lows in this dressing room, but this dark November afternoon had to be the best moment of his Chelsea career so far. The youngster had been far from naive in his expectations when he moved down here, but he'd also focused on positivity and ambition. It was hard to keep a full secret that he would have rather kept going in his home city with his boyhood club, but Cole's counsel had been clear from inside and outside of City: he would remain an under-used spare there in that magnificent roster, and he needed to fly the nest to get his big break. So here the Manc youth was, adjusting to London life and a very different club culture, trying to fit in with new lads and to prove himself to the bigwigs at the top. The penalty against his old team felt like the first really big statement to back all that up, and he grew more comfortable and accepting of the attention, certainly more interested in that than whatever banter from Walks was waiting for him on his phone. Due to the delay of his interview, he was sweaty and behind the crowd, whilst slippery wet muscles emerged from the shower and slid by him with or without towels. Still, Cole felt no rush, and he went to open that message from his family, who he knew would be absolutely buzzing for him - instead, stood in just boxer briefs and footy socks, the 21-year-old found `4 new messages from Kyle Walker' instead, he couldn't help but feel curious. Tilting his device with a degree more privacy - it wouldn't be a great idea to give anyone reason to doubt his loyalties this weekend! - he opened them up, interested to see what other banter the 33-year-old right-back had for him. `Seriously, what a fucking traitor - or should I say, legend???' read the first message, followed by several laughing emojis; `Oi, ignorant prick!' came the 2nd, closely followed by a 3rd, `OHHH, TOO GOOD FOR US NOW, I GET IT'. The 4th, the one that had interrupted his intention to commune with his fam, was a picture message, and there was something funny and ridiculous about it coming from the parallel dressing room so close by: it was an awkwardly angled selfie with several frowning and pouting faces crushing to be in shot, babyish poses of sadness from not just Walker himself, but the tanned faces of Rodri and Silva, whilst the emotive features of Grealish were forcing their way in from the side. The caption was just a single crying emoticon, and Cole laughed to himself - dafties! He hit a laughing emoji react to the pic and locked his phone again, forgetting about the rest of his notifications, and deciding he needed to get scrubbed clean. Only removing the modesty of a draped towel as he entered the thick steam, Cole hung it to the side and enjoyed the appreciative wet slaps on the back from passing Broja and and Gusto, then the echoey chant of Mudryk and Cucurella from the far wall; an impossibly smug smile split Palmer's face as he showered in the freer space of one side, soaping up his tall slim body and washing damp mud-stains from his long legs. Jeez, imagine if his penalty success had actually scored the full 3 points, he'd be feeling like a Chelsea legend already, haha. Somehow the excitement levels at his contribution to a draw made the youth all the more conscious of how troubled this behemoth club was at the moment, but he just had to take the personal win - he was at a crucial turning point in his young career, and he had to focus on THAT. When the towel was back around his slim hips and he was strutting across the square dressing room floor, a lot of his teammates were already near fully-dressed. Somebody was shouting out about team drinks, and various venues were being called out, ranging from players' own mansions to a couple of club-connected drinking establishments - Palmer was in happy daze and he didn't get involved in this debate, though he nodded enthusiastically when he was grabbed by the wet shoulder and insistently invited to be part of the Sunday night festivities. He didn't yet feel like a big presence in this room, though today would help, and he tended to keep quiet and hold his tongue - there were a lot of egos in the overpriced squad, much odder and more complex dynamics than he was used to at City, where the cult of Guardiola tended to iron out the heroics of world-class individuals. Bit by bit, Cole thought, he could become part of a NEW dynamic here, something a bit more streamlined and cohesive, and- He caught sight of the notifications on his phone screen. Still wrapped in his towel, the naked young footballer sat his wet arse down on the bench and he picked up the device, noting how popular he was with friends he hadn't spoken to in ages, but also thumbing open the screen and finding himself back at the WhatsApp dialogue with his ex-teammate. `Ignoring us, Chelsea big shot' was the message from Kyle that had followed the sweaty-faced group selfie, and then more provocatively, `Too busy with a big Chelsea circle-jerk, eh?' He could just imagine the comical Sheffield accent of his former right-back making these gruff jokey accusations at him, and tousling his mousy blond hair, and the youngster laughed stupidly before tapping in a reply. `Looks more like a City wank-fest in that pic you sent,' he bantered back. `Wanking over how much we miss YOU' came Kyle's almost instant reply. `Jesus - I'm blocking your number lol'. `Why? Is your new Chelsea right-back sexier than ME?' Seated against the wall in the increasingly sparse home locker-room, Cole tittered stupidly to himself, feeling that Kyle's banter was a fair part of his enjoyment here, just a pleasant accompaniment to being so lauded at Chelsea - but also feeling pangs of homesickness for the life he'd grown used to in Manchester, easing his way into a senior squad of international stars, and daring to think he could follow in Foden's footsteps. With a surly need to assert that he'd moved on, he pushed in his response to Walker's stupid question: `Every Chelsea player is sexier than YOU, you ugly Yorkshire prick'. He wasn't sure if he'd gone too far there, it wasn't really his kind of banter, but it was answering bullish Kyle in kind, and he wasn't just some dweeby kid on the fringe of the City squad now, he had to start acting like the first-team Premiership man he was. No instant reply from KW though, which made him vaguely uneasy, and he put the phone aside, getting up to dry his crotch and thighs, then yanking it up to run through his glossy hair and about his broad lean shoulders. `Bro,' called Reece James, `it's the Duke's Head, okay?' `Sure, sure,' Palmer shouted back as the team's young captain, recently back from injury, headed out, and he leaned forward slightly to check for a reply from the City camp, somewhat disappointed that the strain of banter had died already. He stepped his bare feet and naked legs into a fresh pair of black boxer briefs and yanked them up about himself, then kicked his way into stiffly ironed designer jeans, almost toppling one way as he heard the buzz of notification and glanced down to see that Kyle had replied after all. It was, again, a picture notification, though this time not a selfie, nor even of the right-back himself: it was an odd picture, momentarily alarming Cole until he remembered his own joke, and it made him gawk at his own phone without picking it up. It was a side-on view of Jack Grealish, presumably next to Walker in the locker-room, but bare-arse naked! If it wasn't for the furriness of the thighs that led up to it, the big solid curve of Jack's rump might have looked like the booty on some top female pornstar, but Cole laughed heartily and sent a row of green vomit-face reacts to his former colleague. `Fucking perv!' he accused in a quick follow-up message, standing with the phone in one hand and doing up his button-fly with the other; a couple of other players were hollering at him from the door, reminding him which riverside pub the Chelsea clique would be taking over. `Aw, thought you would like that,' was Walker's next message. `Thought everybody fancied our Jack, whatever their prefs lol.' It wasn't exactly unfamiliar banter to Palmer, who had been there when the Grealish mania arrived at City, and he'd heard many a pretty-boy joke thrown Jack's way. But still, there was something about the candid photo that had soured the tone of this messaging, and sent an uncomfortable tingle across the bare skin of Cole's arms and torso and the fluffy back of his neck, standing tall and uncertain the near-deserted warmth of the Chelsea home rooms. He hesitated before replying with a couple of laughing emojis; he was just tucking the smartphone into one denim pocket when a quick buzz of reply made him pull it back out and continue to text with Kyle. `What about this?' It was a pic of a different player this time, making him both frown and laugh, whilst he replied `Fuck off lol' to the photo of a bewildered-looking Julian Alvarez stood in his tighty-whities against a backdrop of other semi-naked City men - why the hell was Walker wasting his time breaking all protocol with this backstage photography, and trying to... what, tease him into missing them? The gangly youth blinked, flustered, and chuckled awkwardly as he responded: `That room will get sexier when a Chelsea star like me pops over for a hug!' The idea developed only as he typed it, thinking that it made sense to nip over the tunnel and pay his respect to the visitors, less formally than he had in the tunnel pre-match, or after various physical clashes on the pitch. Walker's response was slow to come, and so the 21-year-old Manc lad pulled a plain black tee over his slim upper body, followed by a dressy shirt and sweater, and then a quick spray of fine fragrance against his long necks and where his wrists left the cuffs. He wanted to look and smell like a big deal as he sauntered into enemy territory and congratulated whichever City players were available, perhaps even a respectful handshake from his former manager, the legend himself; but he also wanted to be able to swagger into the Thames pub to join his new teammates and maybe propose a toast at the bar, starting to become more confident and vocal in the Chelsea ranks. The idea that enough of them were assembling in a bar after a game felt momentous enough in improving that team spirit. Now alone in the locker-room but for the member of site-staff who'd just shyly entered to begin tidying, Palmer opened up his phone and reacted with dull disappointment to the slow reply from KW: `I'm already on the coach, Chelski boi!!! But Jack might have left his dirty pants in there if you wanna go for a sniff?' and then, `Enjoy your pretendy win, Chelsea loser!' Oh. The visitors weren't hanging around then, which made sense, given their journey north - north, he thought, back to his own hometown. Right, well. It would have been weird to try and briefly catch-up with old friends now, he told himself, and it would just make it harder to feel connected to Chelsea and his future. Right? And yet, between a quick debrief meeting with Pochettino and the process of checking out of the stadium, Palmer's messaging convo with the City defender didn't stop; even as the attacking midfielder stepped into the hire car that would take him 5 minutes to the pub, he was responding with emoji laughter to Kyle's petty banter and complaints, which swung from more mockery of him as a Chelsea sell-out (`Compared to City money????' he responded) and obnoxious remarks about the vibe on the bus (`You just wish I was there lol' he suggested). Though the tone of some of the older fella's messages, and his swift disappearance from the stadium, had jibed at Palmer's excitement, he couldn't seem to ignore the messages and leave his ex-teammate on read. Stepping out of the car and walking a short distance in the rain to the looming security personnel on the pub door, Cole received the last few messages from Kyle that would really complicate his mood and make him feel weird. `Which overpaid twat is gonna give you a thank you handjob for that penalty?' the City defender texted him just before he got out of the cab. `Lol, what is wrong with you tonight???' `Nah, maybe not handjob - I bet Sterling gives blowjobs out like party favours.' `Fucking hell buddy!!!' `You telling me you haven't had one yet?' He could only reply to that with a vomit face and more laughing/crying pictographs. `Biggest slut I've ever fucked,' Kyle messaged, but it still wasn't that which really pushed Cole into new confusion and doubt, meeting that ridiculous message with just a stupid heart react, and wondering how much beer had already been consumed by the departing City players; `Show him this and see what he says' was the next message from the 33-year-old, Palmer just standing still under the downpour for a minute, right in front of the hard-faced security, and then the flickering pixels of the attached picture message, loading in 4k on his screen, its clarity disturbed only by the raindrops that splashed against the touchscreen. For a moment Cole hesitated further, gawping at it, and then the door-men were barking at him in Eastern European accents and asking for his ID, as if they had no idea he was a senior player, and Palmer's attention was dragged away from the most ridiculous message yet, the one that had him really questioning his former colleague. Drunk or excitable as he was, certified club joker and alpha male, all of that... but why the fuck was the Yorkshireman sending him a big fat dick pic from the lap of his seat on a coach out of London?!?!?! The slew of messages left the Manchester-born football player in a strange mood, one that made him impossible to get involved with the surprisingly hearty celebrations in the old-fashioned London pub. As he might have expected, his entrance was met with a roar of approval, and drinks were repeatedly pushed into Cole's hands without him even asking, by members of the coaching staff as well as his fellow players. Homesickness and what-ifs about life at Man City were, for now, far away, but that didn't leave the 21-year-old in a good position to enjoy the moment; instead, he just felt alternatingly angry and embarrassed about the dick pic on his phone, and the strange turn in Kyle Walker's banter. Sterling was, predictably, at the centre of the party atmosphere, doling out rows of shot glasses at one of the glossy mahogany bars. Palmer stared intensely at him across the pub from an elevated area by the windows, overlooking the river: 28-year-old Raheem was a man reinvigorated by his London move last summer. He'd heard it and then seen it for himself. The Jamaican England hero was one of the most reliable performers in this squad of egos and disappointments, and a leading figure in all outings, not to mention the hardest working heart of every training session; that same energy was here in the Duke's Head, marshalling the drinking of several international players who were normally far less sociable. The Londoner's long braids bobbed with the quick lithe movements from guy to guy, passing out drinks and calling others over. His baggy streetwear belied the dense rippling muscle of the dark body that Cole had hugged in congratulation an hour ago, and he cringed at that comparison - why was he even thinking of the winger's muscular little body?! God, Kyle had really put him off, really ruined his buzz. Or, he supposed glumly, maybe it was his own fault - maybe his own comebacks had been too crass and pushy, too much, provoking Kyle's stupid humour. He questioned himself starkly, was he really looking questioningly at Raheem Sterling and wondering if the national hero was some bisexual slut who had been fucked about by big Walker?! It was absolutely insane. And yet, it was a question he was asking himself, and a distraction that left him like a moody teenager on the periphery of the event, sour and quiet even when he was called over to do shots with Sterling and James, or when he was pulled aside by the injured defender Ben Chilwell for a pep talk, or stuck in the corner listening to a drunken monologue from the penalty-taking coach about how he'd delivered a masterclass in the London rain. It was a good 90 minutes on, a whole football match later, when a solution occurred to the transplanted Mancunian. The tall slim lad slipped quietly away from the noise and excitement of the wood-panelled rooms, disappearing up a flight of stairs to the mens' loos, and then past a couple of pissing silhouettes at the urinals - into a tight separate cubicle, which he locked, before opening up his photo gallery and firmly deleting the pics that had come through from Walker's phone. He did it quickly, and yet his eyes still found a moment to widen in alarm at the intimacy of the dick pic, the big fat brown shape nestled in Kyle's lap, flopped out of his clothes to be snapped, in a way so obnoxiously vivid that surely whoever he was sat next to had to be in on the joke! But then that was gone, and the dressing room snaps and selfie with it - gone was Walker's big cock, gone was the curve of Grealish, gone was the shy alarm on Alvarez's face. But somehow that deletion wasn't enough. Furious with the old git, Cole opened up the messaging app and the conversation, staring bitterly at the single unread message - `Sorry, was that an overshare??' - before clicking a few icons and blocking the right-back's number, ending the banter full stop. Only then did Palmer realise just how heavy his breathing was, how tense his tall slim body was, and how overheated the cubicle felt. Fuck, he needed to chill. Pushing the device away into his jeans pocket, he unlocked the door and emerged into the main gents, going straight to the sink to splash cold water in his hands and over his blotchy pink face. A little stooped under the low ceiling of the olde-world pub, Cole stared hotly at himself in the mirror over the sink, nostrils flaring, and he resolved to get back down those stairs and enjoy himself. A soft whistling sound from the lad next to him, who had been pissing in the urinal when he stomped through a moment ago. Cole's eyes flickered and he acknowledged the other Chelsea player via the mirrors, running his hands under the cool water again. `Hey,' he grunted dismissively, before remembering himself and asking with a warmer voice, `Don't mind me.' Stood at the next white porcelain basin, another young English member of the Chelsea line-up shifted from his whistled interest to a low, friendly voice. `Everything good, lanky?' asked Conor Gallagher pleasantly, remaining close to his right, so that Cole couldn't help but look away from his pink-faced reflection and meet the other midfielder's expression of mild curiosity and easy friendship. Here was someone who certainly DID feel at home at Chelsea, whatever turbulence the club went through, having joined it as young as Cole had been when he signed his first City contract; and the other Englishman had been a steady companion for him upon his transfer to the Big Smoke, having played together on England youth teams on several occasions. Cole blinked, still flustered. `I'm fine.' `You don't look fine.' It was a soft accusation, a slight lopsided smile on Conor's calmer features. `Just done some shots,' he muttered back. `Thought you'd been doing lines in there, or something.' A vague chuckle. `Does tequila always make you go rashy like that?' `I'm just a bit warm,' he complained defensively, but he wasn't offended or annoyed - he liked the calm and mildness of the other lad next to him, feeling brought back to earth by the casualness with which Gallagher lingered at his side. The 23-year-old patted him on the back of his sweater and leaned in. `Maybe you SHOULD do a line,' the Surrey-born footballer suggested to him quietly, linking one crystalline blue eye; Palmer was laughing weakly at this when he saw the hard edge to Gallagher's expression, the fixedness of that friendly grin. `Err,' was all the young player could manage, his friend's hand still resting on his upper back, and his own distracted thoughts fixing on some new opportunity to detox the weirdness of that dialogue with Walker. Conor was furtive now, the calm just illusive, as he glanced at the low wooden door back onto the stairwell, and then nodded back to the same blue-painted entrance into the single cubicle; he fished into the breast pocket of the smart white shirt he wore, revealing a glimpse of translucent plastic, and then was sliding past - Cole stared at his own uncomfortable face in the mirror before following, seizing the opportunity. He didn't really question what he was doing, but he needed to snap out of one mood and into another, and maybe this was the way. The cubicle that had felt small for one felt tiny for two, door yanked shut and locked behind them, and Conor just chuckling very quietly under his breath. `Thought you might be squeaky clean,' the 6ft teammate murmured. `You should see where I grew up in Manc,' Palmer muttered. `Fair.' Now the 6ft player was squatting down low so that he could dump the white powder on the wooden toilet lid, cutting it expertly with his credit card. With nervous fingers, Cole was passing him the £50 to roll and rapidly inhale one line. With some difficulty in the confined space, the 6ft2 goal-scorer stooped to copy this, his first sniff of the magic stuff since signing his first senior contract. He blinked and cleared his throat and waited for the fireworks to die down. One warm hand from his friend was rubbing his upper arm, and he heard the snorting sound of Conor taking another line. `Come on,' Gallagher told him, `let's just use it up.' Which they did - the pair of them staggering out of the bathroom with synapses on fire, giggling conspiratorially on the steep staircase back into the bar, and Cole turning to look for reassurance in the blocky features of his older friend's face - another quick wink of an icy blue eye, and then a squeeze of his shoulder. `Let's have some fun,' the 23-year-old whispered hotly to him, and he nodded eagerly - now he could really get into the celebrations! Sticking almost side-by-side with his close contemporary, Cole re-entered the drinks with a fresh dose of confidence. He happily took up several conversations that he shied away from, boasting about how he should take all of Chelsea's penalties for the rest of the season, making bold predictions about how many goals he might get over the Christmas season, even offering mindset advice to lads a decade older than him. This, he remembered, was the cocaine bravado, and one he was happy to share with winking Conor Gallagher, who he had equally assumed to be `squeaky clean', a mild-mannered professional who rarely voiced his opinions and just got on with his duties at the club. In the hyper blur of it, Palmer found himself staring again at Sterling, and laughing - of all the lads Kyle Walker could have chosen to make that joke about, their fast-paced forward was the least believable of all! At some point, the stop-start Sunday night of fun moved from the riverside pub to a less antique setting, the upstairs VIP of a West End nightclub - the Chelsea entourage thinned and morphed, tall slim glamour girls interspersing the multicultural football men. At some other point, Conor disappeared to `pick up', and then there were more lines in bathroom cubicles, security staff paid to shut up and ignore, and there was a jagged frenzy of not-quite-dancing on the floor, and Cole felt like he was at one of the raves he'd been to before he had to knuckle down and focus on impressing Guardiola. Somewhere in this fun, briefly alone, Palmer got his phone out, and really searched through the reams of positive messages from his mates and relatives, and then he opened up the grey-shaded dead end of the convo with Walker. Scoffing, Cole dismissed his earlier anxiety, and unblocked his older friend, not wanting to ruin any contacts back to the champion team that he could see himself eventually rejoining in greater prominence. Cole's confidence levels were wild with the blow and the direction of the night. He stared at the messages that popped up then, unseen during the block, but now slotting into the message thread at last, under the fuzzy space of the deleted dick pic; it was hard now for the youth to focus, but he read them with furrowed brows, turning words and sentences into meaning in spite of the fire in his brain. `Sorry,' Kyle was texting, or had been at some point tonight from his journey north; `I probs went too far lol - no offence meant, kid' - and `Hope you didn't actually show that to Raz, lmao, I think he's trying to behave himself in London town actually' and `Did you block me or something, lad?' And last of all, accompanied by some sad-face emojis, `Sorry Cole mate, just messing about - hope you're enjoying yourself somehow'. In the magnanimity of drink and drugs, Cole rushed to respond belatedly, punching in his reply: `LOL, no worries, can't offend me with that tiny chipolata, big man!!!' and then a row of aubergines and laughing emojis to consolidate his casual approval. And then, just for good measure, `City til I die, lol', which he partly knew he would regret writing tomorrow. `Tsk...!' He had been joined on the soft sinking corner couch by one of his fellow party-goers, and it was Conor again. Slow, distracted, unfocused, he notice the alertness on Gallagher's face, noticed the other lad staring over his phone and reading the screen, leaning in close and breathing against him, going tense and serious - and of course Cole entirely misread the source of his friend's intensity. After all, how could he know what had gone on in the toilet hotels on the 23-year-old's last England outing...? `I were joking,' the Manc lad began to say about his `City til I die' statement, blinking furiously and wondering why the room around them seemed to be spinning. He failed to resist as Conor seized the phone from him to read more of the conversation. Slurring dumbly, Cole pressed against the other midfielder on the comfortable seating of the VIP bar, fumbling at the phone in his hands. `You got any more blow?' he demanded greedily. `It's been such a great fuckin' night, hasn't it?' `Yeah,' the Chelsea academy graduate breathed next to him in a tone of revelation, one that passed Palmer by - `Yeh, it sure has' - and Conor was smirking fiercely now, his eyes aflame with blue light. Cole smiled dopily at him and squeezed at his firm muscular form, letting out a stupid cackle, and beginning to dimly remember the nature of the banter his friend might be seeing on the WhatsApp thread - clumsy, he made a better grab for his phone, and this time Conor relented, sliding it back to him, but staring fixedly at him. `What was that?' breathed the southerner. `You wanted some more... blow?' And the 21-year-old nodded his head very firmly - he was on top of the world right now, the great equaliser who had robbed points from City and kept Chelsea's dignity somewhat intact! He deserved this fun, even if they were pushing it, and risking some embarrassing tabloid headlines by sniffing the white stuff in a nightclub packed with Z-list celebs. He followed the firm nod of his friend's face and let himself be grabbed by the hand, led from the couch and onto his feet. He felt as lanky as Crouch or a giraffe, walking as if on stilts to traverse the bar and the edges of the dancefloor - he giggled as he saw Conor push the notes into the fist of the wary security fella, and then there was just the two of them, back in the same roomy disabled loo in which they'd shoved so much up their itchy noses. 6ft2 and slim, the young attacking midfielder was looking vaguely at himself in the large mirror, wondering if he could pile a bit more muscle on this year and start to fill out his frame; he flexed one skinny arm, bared to the plain black tee now, unsure where his shirt or jumper had been discarded in the night. He stared down and realised that actually his tight CK jeans were open at the front, perhaps had been for a while, and pulled an inch or so down to expose the waistband of his black boxer briefs; his eyes, fizzing with the effects of too much coke, also took in that Conor was down on his knees next to him, as if stooping there to prep the next few lines of magic dust. But- there was no dust, no magic, and in fact Conor was just pulling and pawing at his jeans, and looking up at him. Cole swung his chaotic eyes from the mirror and he looked down the length of his body, confused to see his own cock out, that and his heavy balls and tufty pubes flopping over the waistband of his undies. He stared uncomprehendingly at his dick, and at the sweaty sheen on Conor's face. But then the two were one, and he blinked in confusion - was he imagining this? It had been an odd night. No, this was happening. There was Conor's face, pulling in closer and pulling away, and fireworks like cocaine were running up and down his body - he could feel his foreskin pull back, could feel a wet strong rub against the sensitive tip of his dick, could feel gentle fingertips caress his bollocks - and he turned to look in the mirror as if for confirmation of reality. He could see himself standing tall and slim, and the more muscular 6ft lad crouching before him, hair greased back away from his face, which was bobbing back and forth, its rhythm matching the heavy physical sensations that both pleased and confused him. He realised that the loud gasping moans were his own. Oh. With slow dim recognition of the great blowie he was receiving, Cole Palmer rubbed a couple of things over his thin moustache, catching the dusty cocaine remnants there, and then fingering them in against his gums optimistically. He stared hazily down and nodded in approval - yep, like Kyle had suggested, this was exactly the gratitude he deserved. `I thought it was gonna be Raheem,' he slurred stupidly to the world in general. `Apparently not,' gurgled Conor, who was kissing his balls and jerking his wet cock. `As if,' Cole laughed, more to himself than the lad on his knees. `Sterling wouldn't-' `Dunno,' Conor murmured, all hot breath and wet lips. `Kyle doesn't show know shit.' `I wouldn't be so sure,' the 23-year-old muttered, but the ominous knowingness of his voice was lost on Palmer, who just rubbed a hand on his flat tummy, lifting up his t-shirt a bit, and staring approvingly down at the pouting lips that were back on his cock. The world span, but his dick and balls felt good, and he thought of Kyle's bolshy messages, thought even for a moment of his fat soft cock hanging out of his trackies; sure, sure, this was what happened when you stepped up and took charge! He thought too of that candid photo of Jack Grealish getting changed, the big curve of his muscular backside, photographed in the away changing rooms for him - reality confused for Cole Palmer, who was simultaneously picking the Love Island reject who he'd been dancing with ten minutes ago, and the alleged TV presenter who he'd been buying cocktails for at the bar. For a long minute, he thought maybe he was in here with one of them, that his pulling skills had improved massively since his awkward outings in central Manchester - sure, sure, a quick bathroom blowie in a nightclub, this was the new him, the Chelsea him! He was loud as he came, hardly conscious of the bribed bouncer on the other side of the door, who was probably asking himself some fairly major questions about how else he could make money, but was deciding that Gallagher's notes would do for now; Cole gasped and moaned really loudly, unselfconscious, as he spurted his load and emptied his balls, throwing his head back and grasping a disabled support rail by the mirror as his body trembled with drug-enhanced pleasure. And then, coming to, he stared in ambivalent wonder at the shiny mess around Conor's mouth and chin, wondering what his friend had been eating to make that mess, and then certain key facts joined up, and his brain found some order in the chemical chaos. Oh, right, sure. `Fuck,' he heard Gallagher gasp. `You taste almost as good as him.' `Who?' he asked, as if from miles away, but the other lad just laughed - he was getting up, going to the sink to wash, and Cole just swayed on his heels, staring at his own veiny cock as if it belonged to someone else. And then he saw Conor back on his knees, but at the toilet, cutting the lines - and he stumbled to join him at the same time as pushing his prick back into his jeans, confused but excited. Lying in bed with the TV presenter, and blissfully unaware of how he'd failed to get hard again after the bathroom blowjob, convinced that in fact he'd fucked this showbiz wannabe good and hard... Lying there, Cole's brain tried and failed to sort out the facts of the night, but the only things that remained clear and vivid, other than his fantasy of how virile he'd been for his 3am pull, were the slow-motion penalty against his old team, and the dick pic vividly on his phone. When his thoughts turned to Conor Gallagher, who thought vaguely about fun cocaine, and about looking down at that messy face, but he couldn't quite piece it all together, his body tingling with remembered pleasure. In bed, he groaned and reached for the girl's body, and pulled her close, his cock starting to get hard after all, even if his body was about 80% asleep. `Oh,' he heard her coo in delight, `is it finally working now? Come on, footballer, put it in me and make me your WAG!' Or something to that effect - the next day, all of it was vague and unclear, and Palmer knew only one thing for sure... he really really really liked doing cocaine with Gallagher. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-394

Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 21:31:04 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 394 Part 394: Back to Work, Back to Business Before beginning to pull on each item of the comfy training gear, the smiling young football player paused and pulled his thumbs in against the taut elastic waistband of his briefs - white, plain, Lonsdale, soft on his smooth skin, and most importantly not his - then twanged them momentarily against his hips, grinning at their comfy fit and glad that he'd slid into them this morning before leaving the house; with a slight private smirk, the 25-year-old returning midfielder proceeded to wriggle into close-fitting black Adidas tracksuit bottoms and stretch vest, before clambering into the racing green plush of his Man Utd long-sleeved training top and then adding a pair of club-branded gloves to his hands, readying for the chilly outdoors of their Carrington training ground this damp Tuesday morning. Mason Mount pictured himself a little over an hour ago, taking clumsy steps around the dark bedroom rather than switching on a lamp - a kind gesture that was rendered foolish as he stumbled and giggled his way about the master bedroom of his Cheshire home, inevitably waking the other young man who was still sprawled in the bed. `Babe,' moaned the sleepy voice of the other Premier League star and Mason, shedding the towel about his waist, scampered naked to the bedside and leaned over to plant a kiss on the clammy brow of his sleep-fuzzy boyfriend; `You've got another half hour yet,' he whispered insistently, and he skipped cheerily away from the bed, giving up and switching on a floor lamp as he looked about the controlled chaos of his room, deciding what gear to pull on for the drive to his full first training session in about four months of rehab. Dec, writhing slowly on the bed, spoke in a low sleepy voice to him, sounding still half-asleep - `Come back to bed...' `What time is it, mate...?' `Mase, do you have to be so NOISY...' - but then quietened and seemed to gather himself, rolling onto his side and smiling wearily this way, blinking his eyes and scratching at his messy dark hair. Mase grinned back, stood bollock naked next to the bed, posing slightly in the lamplight, and then both young lovers giggling gently under their breath. `Thanks for last night,' Mason told him quietly, pausing as if to elaborate and then leaving it unsaid - it was mad, when Declan was playing in the Champions League in North London tonight, but Rice had insisted it was worth the drive, speeding up here to spend the night together, and then refusing steadfastly to make love to him, telling him he needed to save his energy for a first full day's training - Mason had known he was right and yet he'd grinded his lithe body against Declan's all night in bed, wanting the usual treats and delights, and his young cock was semi below his neatly trimmed pubes as it bounced between his lean muscular thighs. `It's okay,' his Rice Rice Baby purred from the pillows, although a distant expression clouded his long handsome face - perhaps he was realising the long drive he had back down to the capital to ready himself for his crucial second leg fixture - and so Mase just grinned teasingly at him, and then hooked his toes playfully into the discarded undies on the carpet, rather than going for some clean trunks of his own from the wardrobe. He skilfully flicked the crumpled white briefs upwards and caught them and then, stood naked in Declan's full view, he brought them up to his face and gave them a good sniff. Declan laughed hesitantly and Mason smiled - then, quixotic and horny, he began pulling them on, one leg at a time, snuggling his chubby cock and unspent balls in their pouch. `Hey...' Declan had yawned, but he laughed and chattered over him, `It'll make me feel like you're there with me all day, babe - and you can borrow some of mine like you always do, you big thief. Now, I gotta get moving, sexy, but call me tonight before the match, okay?' And now, exiting the changing rooms with the rest of the Manchester United squad, Mason could feel the pre-worn briefs warm and comfy against his privates and his glutes, making him smug and excited, but also cosy and supported, imagining a cuddle from his loyal boyfriend who would already be on the motorway south. Long-distance had its challenges, but Mase thrilled at the way his boy had hurried up here to see him and wish him luck for his return to training, snuggling against him through the night and kissing him passionately over the pillows before he scampered off to drive here - the love between the two 25-year-olds just seemed to get stronger and stronger. It was hardly just the worn undies beneath his compression shorts and tracky pants that kept Mount with a near-permanent semi as he bounced eagerly about the training pitch that damp chilly morning and afternoon - there was also the obvious excitement of being back out here with the guys after an inconveniently long absence. Four months of sidelined rehab hadn't really been in the plan when the former Chelsea favourite made his headline-grabbing escape for Old Trafford, and it was very frustrating for Mason to be little more than a promo figure at his new club in the latter stages of his first season in red. And then, of course there were the views... The towering centre-back Harry Maguire, who pulled him in for a damp hug in a lull between the warm-up drills, insistently wearing shorts unlike almost everyone else, allowing Mason an exciting look at his hairy tree trunks as he stalked the pitch - and of course, that big beast's quiet boyfriend and Mason's close pal, handsome Luke Shaw, whose tracksuit pants seemed to be a size too small, the way they clasped his thighs and arse over there working with the other defenders. Views that could add to Mason's excitement and stolen undies to get his cock throbbing demandingly in the briefs! His wandering horny eyes took in other attractions of the busy training field, though he knew he ought to be focused and attentive to nothing but the work - he needed to prove himself here to his colleagues before he could begin to truly prove himself to the Man Utd fans next, and finally start to make his mark at his second big club. But even as he reminded himself of that fact, he found himself distracted by the sizeable bounce of another arse in front of him, 32-year-old Brazilian Casemiro bounding gamely past him with the ball - and minutes later, his eyes settling on the squad's other Brazilian talent, because the way Antony squatted down to sit on a spare football made his pants really hug his powerful legs and accentuate the weighty bulge in between them, whilst the lean striking face settled sulkily in a cup of his gloved palms. Mason was distracted from the 24-year-old Rio winger by the speedy antics of the squad's young firebrand - the stadium-filling ego of the 19-year-old had intrigued and excited Mount as soon as he met him in his first training drill here, but he still couldn't quite figure out the Madrid-born youngster who was dribbling past him and swerving the tackles of a hefty Scott McTomnay - the bg Scotsman puffed and panted as he traced Alejandro Garnacho's every move and tried repeatedly to snatch the ball from between his gifted feet. Mase was vaguely charmed to realise that the 19-year-old winger was performing for the attention of Casemiro and Antony, clearly seeking the approval of the older Latino man as he seemingly had once done from the great Cristiano Ronaldo, and sometimes the steady captain Bruno Fernandes, who also caught Mason's horny attention from time to time as the day progressed. He knew that the 29-year-old midfielder's constant interest in him today and throughout his recovery was dutiful and professional, but some vain part of him couldn't help but take it as flirty interest and more meaningful attention - all those stroking touches on the shoulder and grunted encouraging comments. So many studs, Mase reflected during their indoor lunch break, ogling idly at all the tracksuit bodies queuing ahead of him for healthy trays of salad - he thought dreamily of waking up next to Declan, not necessarily guilty at his wandering eyes, but conscious that what he REALLY wanted was to be back in the sleep-warm covers delaying the day, and peeling these borrowed briefs from their owner's body... thinking about this during hs lunch gave the Pompey midfielder a stonking erection in his pants that made him linger with his jelly pot dessert, slow to file outdoors until his hard-on had faded and wilted enough inside Rice's Lonsdale skimpies. What DID make Mason feel a bit guilty about his boyfriend, who would be meeting up right now with his Arsenal mates ahead of their Porto game, was when his horny gaze or friendly chatter wound its way to the big Dane forward, United's new not-so-secret weapon - after all, he never had quite shared that dalliance with Declan in the same playful reporting manner he would mention his other escapades, and he wasn't even sure why. Perhaps it was because sexy Rasmus Hojland had seemed so alarmed about it himself, evasively moving away from Mount every time their paths crossed since - and no different today, other than a few respectful acknowledgements of his return to fitness, a conspicuous lack of eye contact. The well-built 21-year-old should be working closely with him as members of the attacking force, but those pink acne cheeks grew red whenever they were too close, and big Hojland seemed to swagger off to find a different spot. Oh, well. Somehow, the 25-year-old managed to balance his excitement and his professionalism, and making it through the day's training without raising too many eyebrows at his distracted sluggishness or his lack of general focus - in fact, he found himself showered with compliments from lads and coaches, everyone emphatic in their gladness to have him back at full fitness and in the mix for upcoming fixtures. Mase grinned modestly at every comment, trying not to become too over-excited or over-ambitious about what he might achieve in the latter stages of the 23-24 season - he knew he really just had to focus on maintaining this fitness and see the 24-25 season as his real chance to shine in red, and to put troubled Chelsea far behind him. Inside the Carrington locker-rooms, Mason's eyes were once again alight at the physical specimens that surrounded him, from the glistening dark muscle of Marcus Rashford's torso to the thickset strength of stripping Casemiro, positioned either side of him at the lockers, and making him want to drop to his knees right there in front of the sweaty noisy crowd, everyone talking about their evening plans. Mason was plucked away from this crowd of distractions and told he needed a proper recovery massage after his first session back, and the young midfield star had never felt more reluctant to peel his gear off and get an oily rubdown - he was barely suppressing the bobbing reverence of his hard-on, and he spent the entire physio session tensed in case his briefs began to tent around another stiffness. The oily physical contact from a rugged 50-something man was one thing, and the shining bodies of several teammates on parallel beds was another - when Antony groaned half-consciously on the next bed whilst his shoulders were oiled and rubbed, Mason thought his semi was going to start leaking pre-cum in Declan's pants. Mason's massage went on for longer than that of the others, so he was on his own as he pulled a bathrobe about his near-naked physique and swayed groggily back into the main changing rooms - he daren't follow the steam into the showers because he thought he might spontaneously ejaculate just looking at the buffet of masculine bodies that he'd spent all day bounding around with in the drizzle and mist. Instead, he clutched the robe about him and went into a sauna space instead, hiding himself away in a hot dark corner and trying to keep his itching hands away from the bulge of his briefs. It was unlike Mason to even really attempt self-restraint, but he felt out of control today, and it all felt like Dec's fault, for frustrating him adoringly through the night, and kissing him off at their early-morning goodbye - his boyfriend had driven all this way and then failed to fuck him, and Mason wanted to speed down the motorway to North London to claim what he was owed! The sauna was a good and bad idea - it kept the overexcited 25-year-old away from ogling every man on the squad, but it also just got him more hot and bothered. He stayed in there until his 5ft11 body was dripping sweat, and then he staggered back through towards his locker in just sweat-drenched briefs, hanging up the robe. His timing had been good: the locker-rooms were emptying and voices echoed down every passage, so that the sweat-shiny young stud felt almost alone as he stood at his locker and steadied his horny breathing, thinking that he could either give in and steal a wank in the quiet showers, or go for a cold one to dowse his fiery loins. `All good?' growled a familiar voice, and the fiery loins burned hotter. The only apparent occupant at this end of the changing rooms, it turned out, was the towering figure of the club's former captain and Mason's own sometime England teammate - Harry Maguire's locker was the last on this row and now the 6ft4 Yorkshireman was leaned against it with one arm, leaning his long powerful physique that way, whilst he thumbed at the phone in one huge paw. He was smiling vaguely as he looked up at his messages to address Mason, who barely hid his savouring expression as he looked the mighty man up and down, drinking in every detail of his huge muscular frame; big Slabhead had a fresh white towel tied about his waist, but he seemed to be pre-shower, his body streaked with the odd scuff of mud or gleam of sweat. `All good,' Mount echoed back at him, stood shiny and wet and perhaps visibly overwhelmed by his needs. He grinned awkwardly at the bigger man, sure that his wild lust be evident on his shiny face, and he laughed at himself. `Good first day back,' he said in a singsong voice. `Back to work, back to business.' Big Maguire gave a simple nod at that. He stretched his body and placed the phone back inside his open locker, then drifted this way; one large hand reached down to clutch the knot of his towel, and the other scratched idly at the thin dark hair that spread between his defined pecs. `It's good to have you back,' the Sheffield-born centre-back droned, stopping a couple of metres from him, and leaning his weight against closed lockers. `Even better to be back,' Mason murmured back. He could smell Harry's sweat, or maybe it was just his own, but he felt drunk on pheromones. `But lots of hard work to come,' he continued in a false reedy voice, straining for bland professionalism in front of someone he couldn't help but view as skipper, even though it was really Bruno. `I need to keep my head down and work hard and...' He trailed off, studying Harry's impassive face, and then asking in a thin whine, `You've not showered yet, Slab?' Maguire shook his head slightly. `Waiting for Luke,' he said, pausing heavily, then adding by way of explanation, `he's just getting checked out for that knock earlier - they think he might be injured slightly.' A frustrated grunt. `One in, one out, huh?' `Hope he's okay,' Mase told him genuinely, though he couldn't take his eyes off a particular sweat droplet that was migrating from Harry's faint chest hair down the landscape of his abdomen. `Erm.' Harry stroked the hand from the knot across his lower six-pack, catching and rubbing at the sweat droplets as they tickled past his belly button. `Hmm.' The big sexy bastard just stood there, toweringly impressive and emanating his raw macho authority - Mason could feel his cock beginning to stiffen again in his briefs, and he wasn't sure he would be bothering to suppress it this time. He licked his parched lips and let out a thin giggle. `Just us left to shower, then?' he asked, his throat suddenly dry. He heard the rattle and thud of a door somewhere behind him, and felt a third presence entering the row of lockers behind him; he saw Harry's face light subtly up, a curl of smile on his lips and in his beady eyes. `Just the three of us,' Maguire agreed, nodding, and Mase glanced the other way - Luke Shaw was in just training jersey and tight compression shorts as he muscled up to them, a slightly grumpy look on his handsome face. `They wanna do more tests,' he muttered darkly, looking straight past to Harry, then bringing his attention this way with a weary smile - he punched Mase in the arm and said, `Great to have you back on the squad, Money Mase, hehe, we've missed you.' As Luke ambled up to him on his left, his 6ft1 bulk rather deflated with injury worry, Harry closed the gap on the other, and the 25-year-old suddenly found himself stood between the two taller broader players, one muscular defensive beast on either side of him - for a moment they were just looking at each other, Luke's face a worried frown and Harry's a concerned pout, and Mason felt like a surreal gooseberry, the third wheel to their established romance. But then Harry grinned sidelong at him, and Luke patted him on the arm again, and Mason felt deeply connected to this secret couple who had become such good pals of his over recent years... `Shall we take that shower?' Maguire growled. `Just what I need,' Shaw purred. `You gonna join us, Mase...?' As if he could even contemplate saying no, for fuck's sake. Mason only realised he was still in the briefs once he was in the echoey steam of the communal shower, instantly drenched under the hot spray; but the stolen underpants didn't stay on him for long. The two powerful bodies enclosed him, and he felt one hand - Luke's - slide into the front to take hold of his cock, whilst another - Harry's - tugged and twanged on them at the rear, and soon the sodden tighty whities were dropping about his ankles on the tiled floor of the big square wetroom. Naked like the other two, Mase let out a deep sigh of ecstasy, and felt their strong hands run across his shoulders, his chest, his backside, across his crotch - and he reached for one at a time to take the hot wet kisses that they were happy to share - snogging first at Luke, whose mouth was so knowing and responsive, and then with Harry, having to crane upwards and reach on his tiptoes, and feeling that strong tongue invade and dominate his whole mouth. He shuddered between them, relaxing into Luke and Harry's grips, and stroking back, feeling for their thick heavy muscles, their bodies bare and wet against his below the warm blast of the shower. Chuckling happily, Mason reached for the shower gel and lathered it between his hands, before slapping one each across their broad chests, rubbing a wet soapy froth against pecs and hard nipples, and sliding from one body to the other - Luke did the same, and all three of their bodies became slick and foamy, making them slide in their attempts to grab and grope, and all three of them laughed in different throaty manners, cocks brushing sensitively together or against firm muscle. The Man Utd lovers, one of the most established gay couples in the Prem, passed him between them with no jealousy or possession: whilst he cuddled in against Luke and snogged some more, he could feel Harry's huge hands massaging tenderly over his shoulders, and the monstrous weight of his cock rubbing across the small of his back as it was wanked and then slid gently across the curve of his buttocks; whilst he curled around and stooped to play his tongue against one of Harry's hard nipples, he could feel Luke kiss the top of his spine and rove both hands down his abs to find and pull on his stiff young cock, wanking it side by side with Harry's monster. And then Mason was gladly on his knees between them, a cock in each hand, delighted with just how well-hung both defenders really were, thinking about the partner-swapping fun they and Declan had once had in Doha; he wanked them both and sucked them in alternating bursts of oral attention, looking upwards to see the two kings of Old Trafford snogging deeply, but never forgetting him... they stroked his hair and his face with wandering hands whilst they tongued each other, and they groaned appreciatively as he slobbered over one or both cocks, trying and failing to get their joint girth into his hungry gob at once. And then, in a steamy blur, he was up on his feet again, and kissing Shaw, really appreciating the tickling beard of the sexy 28-year-old Londoner - but he was being lifted off his feet, so that he lurched forward into Luke's powerful arms, whilst his upper legs were being hoisted and parted, his whole strong form grasped between the two bigger players. He only understood what he was in for when he felt Harry spit against his cheeks and then bury his face between them - Mason lurched forward into Luke's hold and tensed his strong form whilst Harry hoisted him from behind and stooped forward to eat his whole, his long powerful tongue questing between bubble cheeks and teasing his ring. But Maguire really wanted to show off his strength and was soon hoisting him further aloft - now Mount was pressing his face and palms in against the upper walls, hoisted there by Harry's strength, whilst his cheeks were parted and the centre-back beast ate his hole. `We don't want any more injuries,' cooed Luke's sensitive voice at some point, and this mad positioning was swapped for greater comfort on terra firma; Mason was bent forward to suck on Harry's huge whopper whilst Luke stood behind him and gently fingered his wet hole. With a mouthful of Slabhead and his hole teased by the sexy left-back, Mount was in hs own wet paradise, breathless with manic lust - he just wished this threesome could be completed by Declan too! At one point he was choking on big Harry's member, and then he was sucking Luke again, and Harry was crouched down behind to rim him some more - the huge sexy man was so good at it, so ravenous and questing, and it was just what Mase loved to feel - Dec, he had to admit, was a nervous and reluctant rimmer, whilst Maguire slobbered between his cheeks and made a wet cunt of his man-hole. When the Yorkshire brute began to push two and then three fingers inside him, he was more than ready for it - but he knew he might still struggle to take the Maguire 12 incher, so he was glad when Luke went first to mount and pound him, pressing him up against the tiled wall and entering him tenderly before finding and maintaining a powerful grunting rhythm. Shaw fucked him and Maguire was close beside them, kissing and stroking them both, and Mount reached down with his right hand to wank him off whilst he shuddered and trembled at the sensation of a passionate tender lover deep inside him; Luke was pretty big and thick on his own, though a necessary warm-up before Mason was passed by damp hands to the dominant ex-captain, and felt himself slowly entered by that absolute weapon. Whilst he tried his best to relax and sit back on Maguire's huge tool, Luke kissed and cuddled him, so that yet again his lithe body was pinned between their mass, held and protected between these two dominant hunks of the United defence. Being fucked by Maguire was just as tough and amazing as he remembered from the World Cup, but he did his best, trying to get past the initial pain of stretching, and just appreciate the girthy monster inching into him, and the sheer power of Harry's body holding and controlling him - he was surprised actually at how tender and sensitive the 6ft4 brute could be, albeit orchestrated and guided by the more instinctively affectionate Luke Shaw. Both of them, he thought, were truly sexy and powerful men, amazing lovers, and he'd never felt so safe and wanted as he did shared between them. He was fucked a little more by Luke, going down on the floor on his back with his legs in the air, whilst Harry stood and wanked over his face, letting him lick and kiss at his inner thighs and his heavy balls; but then Harry was taking over again, trying in this new position to enter him more fully and fuck his surprisingly nervous hole, whilst Luke leaned over to kiss and suck his shining cock so well that it felt like it would explode into cum at a couple more cautious thrusts of Harry's invasive power. It was Harry though who came first, taking his cock out and fingering him instead, but jerking off furiously, resting on one knee. No sooner was the big centre-back ejaculating messily from the fat head of his footlong than both Mase and Luke were leaning desperately in to lick and eat his load, kissing messily together and tasting that salty deposit all over their lips; Harrys' two fingers were still jabbing in and out of Mason's quivering hole and he felt close himself. When Luke's dirty mouth closed back over his cock again he couldn't help it and he too was pumping out thick white goo, feeding the sexy bugger and writhing on his back, red-faced and shaky. So Luke came last, lounging down beside him, and guiding Harry's huge shaggy head down his torso - Mason lay on his side and watched as big alpha Maguire sucked off Shaw quite lovingly. Whilst Luke whined and grunted in climax, Mason cuddled and kissed him from the side, and reached further down to stroke Harry's dark hair and the back of his thick neck. He felt a surge of appreciation for these two older lads that went well beyond their sexual magnetism. Soon all three, giggling softly and still sharing little kisses, were up on their feet and soaping each other's bodies again - Harry was almost bashful after the deeds were done, almost shy of the huge wet anaconda between his legs, whilst Luke was more generous with his kisses and cuddles, and stupidly attentive as he offered to wash Mason's hair. The ex-Chelsea twink smiled and simpered between them, hosed down and sparkling clean, far more relieved and therapised by their touch than his official physio massage. By the time he was emerging from the showers and looking about for a towel, he had a big warm grin splitting his face and he could not get rid of it. And then Harry, again with that surprising big tenderness, was wrapping a fresh towel about him from the side, and chuckling affectionately as he used his big arms to rub him dry, whilst Luke sloped lazily past them and played with his soft cock on the way to his locker. `Thanks guys,' Mase said dreamily, and he half-expected to wake up still in the sauna. The Portsmouth-born football twink was still in that dreamy state when he got home to his place, a little wistful and sad to be arriving at the big empty mansion rather than following those two lovers home - but he had to remind himself that both Shaw and Maguire had partners and families, second (or first?) lives that kept them apart for much of the time. Those two had never shared the domestic bliss that had been Mason's in London when Declan moved in with him, that blissful period before his career had come first and he'd said goodbye to the capital - a decision that always threatened to yield regret, but felt safe and correct after the experiences of today. Parking the car and dragging his kit-bag up the driveway, Mason felt warm and fuzzy as he floated on the steamy memory of shower sex with the two big defenders. On the doorstep to his Cheshire home was a huge extravagant bouquet of flowers, and he stopped to stare at it for a few moments, putting his kit-bag down first before taking up the delivery in both hands and searching it for a label. It was from him, of course. `Hope today went okay, MM - love from you-know-who xx' - it could hardly irk him that Dec was too nervous to put his name to the tag, given the risk, and he just drifted dreamily inside with the bouquet in both hands. It was only as he stood in his big empty kitchen, sorting the flowers inexpertly into a vase and then glancing at the clock to see if it was nearly time for the Arsenal game on telly, that a fresh lurch of guilt began to trouble him - he'd really just wanted a fucking from Rice Cakes, hadn't he? Being shared by those two had been a great substitute, but it wasn't better than sex with his boyfriend - he instantly knew this to be true, and yet he still felt a bit awkward and guilty. He was so grateful to the big guys for their support and their attention, but it was hard to bask in the pleasure of that scene without also wishing he could superimpose Declan into their midst. As he sat there that night and watched Rice's team like a good loyal boyfriend, lounging across the couch and stroking himself in his pyjamas, Mount asked himself for the millionth time: why did I leave that man behind in London??? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 21:31:04 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 394 Part 394: Back to Work, Back to Business Before beginning to pull on each item of the comfy training gear, the smiling young football player paused and pulled his thumbs in against the taut elastic waistband of his briefs - white, plain, Lonsdale, soft on his smooth skin, and most importantly not his - then twanged them momentarily against his hips, grinning at their comfy fit and glad that he'd slid into them this morning before leaving the house; with a slight private smirk, the 25-year-old returning midfielder proceeded to wriggle into close-fitting black Adidas tracksuit bottoms and stretch vest, before clambering into the racing green plush of his Man Utd long-sleeved training top and then adding a pair of club-branded gloves to his hands, readying for the chilly outdoors of their Carrington training ground this damp Tuesday morning. Mason Mount pictured himself a little over an hour ago, taking clumsy steps around the dark bedroom rather than switching on a lamp - a kind gesture that was rendered foolish as he stumbled and giggled his way about the master bedroom of his Cheshire home, inevitably waking the other young man who was still sprawled in the bed. `Babe,' moaned the sleepy voice of the other Premier League star and Mason, shedding the towel about his waist, scampered naked to the bedside and leaned over to plant a kiss on the clammy brow of his sleep-fuzzy boyfriend; `You've got another half hour yet,' he whispered insistently, and he skipped cheerily away from the bed, giving up and switching on a floor lamp as he looked about the controlled chaos of his room, deciding what gear to pull on for the drive to his full first training session in about four months of rehab. Dec, writhing slowly on the bed, spoke in a low sleepy voice to him, sounding still half-asleep - `Come back to bed...' `What time is it, mate...?' `Mase, do you have to be so NOISY...' - but then quietened and seemed to gather himself, rolling onto his side and smiling wearily this way, blinking his eyes and scratching at his messy dark hair. Mase grinned back, stood bollock naked next to the bed, posing slightly in the lamplight, and then both young lovers giggling gently under their breath. `Thanks for last night,' Mason told him quietly, pausing as if to elaborate and then leaving it unsaid - it was mad, when Declan was playing in the Champions League in North London tonight, but Rice had insisted it was worth the drive, speeding up here to spend the night together, and then refusing steadfastly to make love to him, telling him he needed to save his energy for a first full day's training - Mason had known he was right and yet he'd grinded his lithe body against Declan's all night in bed, wanting the usual treats and delights, and his young cock was semi below his neatly trimmed pubes as it bounced between his lean muscular thighs. `It's okay,' his Rice Rice Baby purred from the pillows, although a distant expression clouded his long handsome face - perhaps he was realising the long drive he had back down to the capital to ready himself for his crucial second leg fixture - and so Mase just grinned teasingly at him, and then hooked his toes playfully into the discarded undies on the carpet, rather than going for some clean trunks of his own from the wardrobe. He skilfully flicked the crumpled white briefs upwards and caught them and then, stood naked in Declan's full view, he brought them up to his face and gave them a good sniff. Declan laughed hesitantly and Mason smiled - then, quixotic and horny, he began pulling them on, one leg at a time, snuggling his chubby cock and unspent balls in their pouch. `Hey...' Declan had yawned, but he laughed and chattered over him, `It'll make me feel like you're there with me all day, babe - and you can borrow some of mine like you always do, you big thief. Now, I gotta get moving, sexy, but call me tonight before the match, okay?' And now, exiting the changing rooms with the rest of the Manchester United squad, Mason could feel the pre-worn briefs warm and comfy against his privates and his glutes, making him smug and excited, but also cosy and supported, imagining a cuddle from his loyal boyfriend who would already be on the motorway south. Long-distance had its challenges, but Mase thrilled at the way his boy had hurried up here to see him and wish him luck for his return to training, snuggling against him through the night and kissing him passionately over the pillows before he scampered off to drive here - the love between the two 25-year-olds just seemed to get stronger and stronger. It was hardly just the worn undies beneath his compression shorts and tracky pants that kept Mount with a near-permanent semi as he bounced eagerly about the training pitch that damp chilly morning and afternoon - there was also the obvious excitement of being back out here with the guys after an inconveniently long absence. Four months of sidelined rehab hadn't really been in the plan when the former Chelsea favourite made his headline-grabbing escape for Old Trafford, and it was very frustrating for Mason to be little more than a promo figure at his new club in the latter stages of his first season in red. And then, of course there were the views... The towering centre-back Harry Maguire, who pulled him in for a damp hug in a lull between the warm-up drills, insistently wearing shorts unlike almost everyone else, allowing Mason an exciting look at his hairy tree trunks as he stalked the pitch - and of course, that big beast's quiet boyfriend and Mason's close pal, handsome Luke Shaw, whose tracksuit pants seemed to be a size too small, the way they clasped his thighs and arse over there working with the other defenders. Views that could add to Mason's excitement and stolen undies to get his cock throbbing demandingly in the briefs! His wandering horny eyes took in other attractions of the busy training field, though he knew he ought to be focused and attentive to nothing but the work - he needed to prove himself here to his colleagues before he could begin to truly prove himself to the Man Utd fans next, and finally start to make his mark at his second big club. But even as he reminded himself of that fact, he found himself distracted by the sizeable bounce of another arse in front of him, 32-year-old Brazilian Casemiro bounding gamely past him with the ball - and minutes later, his eyes settling on the squad's other Brazilian talent, because the way Antony squatted down to sit on a spare football made his pants really hug his powerful legs and accentuate the weighty bulge in between them, whilst the lean striking face settled sulkily in a cup of his gloved palms. Mason was distracted from the 24-year-old Rio winger by the speedy antics of the squad's young firebrand - the stadium-filling ego of the 19-year-old had intrigued and excited Mount as soon as he met him in his first training drill here, but he still couldn't quite figure out the Madrid-born youngster who was dribbling past him and swerving the tackles of a hefty Scott McTomnay - the bg Scotsman puffed and panted as he traced Alejandro Garnacho's every move and tried repeatedly to snatch the ball from between his gifted feet. Mase was vaguely charmed to realise that the 19-year-old winger was performing for the attention of Casemiro and Antony, clearly seeking the approval of the older Latino man as he seemingly had once done from the great Cristiano Ronaldo, and sometimes the steady captain Bruno Fernandes, who also caught Mason's horny attention from time to time as the day progressed. He knew that the 29-year-old midfielder's constant interest in him today and throughout his recovery was dutiful and professional, but some vain part of him couldn't help but take it as flirty interest and more meaningful attention - all those stroking touches on the shoulder and grunted encouraging comments. So many studs, Mase reflected during their indoor lunch break, ogling idly at all the tracksuit bodies queuing ahead of him for healthy trays of salad - he thought dreamily of waking up next to Declan, not necessarily guilty at his wandering eyes, but conscious that what he REALLY wanted was to be back in the sleep-warm covers delaying the day, and peeling these borrowed briefs from their owner's body... thinking about this during hs lunch gave the Pompey midfielder a stonking erection in his pants that made him linger with his jelly pot dessert, slow to file outdoors until his hard-on had faded and wilted enough inside Rice's Lonsdale skimpies. What DID make Mason feel a bit guilty about his boyfriend, who would be meeting up right now with his Arsenal mates ahead of their Porto game, was when his horny gaze or friendly chatter wound its way to the big Dane forward, United's new not-so-secret weapon - after all, he never had quite shared that dalliance with Declan in the same playful reporting manner he would mention his other escapades, and he wasn't even sure why. Perhaps it was because sexy Rasmus Hojland had seemed so alarmed about it himself, evasively moving away from Mount every time their paths crossed since - and no different today, other than a few respectful acknowledgements of his return to fitness, a conspicuous lack of eye contact. The well-built 21-year-old should be working closely with him as members of the attacking force, but those pink acne cheeks grew red whenever they were too close, and big Hojland seemed to swagger off to find a different spot. Oh, well. Somehow, the 25-year-old managed to balance his excitement and his professionalism, and making it through the day's training without raising too many eyebrows at his distracted sluggishness or his lack of general focus - in fact, he found himself showered with compliments from lads and coaches, everyone emphatic in their gladness to have him back at full fitness and in the mix for upcoming fixtures. Mase grinned modestly at every comment, trying not to become too over-excited or over-ambitious about what he might achieve in the latter stages of the 23-24 season - he knew he really just had to focus on maintaining this fitness and see the 24-25 season as his real chance to shine in red, and to put troubled Chelsea far behind him. Inside the Carrington locker-rooms, Mason's eyes were once again alight at the physical specimens that surrounded him, from the glistening dark muscle of Marcus Rashford's torso to the thickset strength of stripping Casemiro, positioned either side of him at the lockers, and making him want to drop to his knees right there in front of the sweaty noisy crowd, everyone talking about their evening plans. Mason was plucked away from this crowd of distractions and told he needed a proper recovery massage after his first session back, and the young midfield star had never felt more reluctant to peel his gear off and get an oily rubdown - he was barely suppressing the bobbing reverence of his hard-on, and he spent the entire physio session tensed in case his briefs began to tent around another stiffness. The oily physical contact from a rugged 50-something man was one thing, and the shining bodies of several teammates on parallel beds was another - when Antony groaned half-consciously on the next bed whilst his shoulders were oiled and rubbed, Mason thought his semi was going to start leaking pre-cum in Declan's pants. Mason's massage went on for longer than that of the others, so he was on his own as he pulled a bathrobe about his near-naked physique and swayed groggily back into the main changing rooms - he daren't follow the steam into the showers because he thought he might spontaneously ejaculate just looking at the buffet of masculine bodies that he'd spent all day bounding around with in the drizzle and mist. Instead, he clutched the robe about him and went into a sauna space instead, hiding himself away in a hot dark corner and trying to keep his itching hands away from the bulge of his briefs. It was unlike Mason to even really attempt self-restraint, but he felt out of control today, and it all felt like Dec's fault, for frustrating him adoringly through the night, and kissing him off at their early-morning goodbye - his boyfriend had driven all this way and then failed to fuck him, and Mason wanted to speed down the motorway to North London to claim what he was owed! The sauna was a good and bad idea - it kept the overexcited 25-year-old away from ogling every man on the squad, but it also just got him more hot and bothered. He stayed in there until his 5ft11 body was dripping sweat, and then he staggered back through towards his locker in just sweat-drenched briefs, hanging up the robe. His timing had been good: the locker-rooms were emptying and voices echoed down every passage, so that the sweat-shiny young stud felt almost alone as he stood at his locker and steadied his horny breathing, thinking that he could either give in and steal a wank in the quiet showers, or go for a cold one to dowse his fiery loins. `All good?' growled a familiar voice, and the fiery loins burned hotter. The only apparent occupant at this end of the changing rooms, it turned out, was the towering figure of the club's former captain and Mason's own sometime England teammate - Harry Maguire's locker was the last on this row and now the 6ft4 Yorkshireman was leaned against it with one arm, leaning his long powerful physique that way, whilst he thumbed at the phone in one huge paw. He was smiling vaguely as he looked up at his messages to address Mason, who barely hid his savouring expression as he looked the mighty man up and down, drinking in every detail of his huge muscular frame; big Slabhead had a fresh white towel tied about his waist, but he seemed to be pre-shower, his body streaked with the odd scuff of mud or gleam of sweat. `All good,' Mount echoed back at him, stood shiny and wet and perhaps visibly overwhelmed by his needs. He grinned awkwardly at the bigger man, sure that his wild lust be evident on his shiny face, and he laughed at himself. `Good first day back,' he said in a singsong voice. `Back to work, back to business.' Big Maguire gave a simple nod at that. He stretched his body and placed the phone back inside his open locker, then drifted this way; one large hand reached down to clutch the knot of his towel, and the other scratched idly at the thin dark hair that spread between his defined pecs. `It's good to have you back,' the Sheffield-born centre-back droned, stopping a couple of metres from him, and leaning his weight against closed lockers. `Even better to be back,' Mason murmured back. He could smell Harry's sweat, or maybe it was just his own, but he felt drunk on pheromones. `But lots of hard work to come,' he continued in a false reedy voice, straining for bland professionalism in front of someone he couldn't help but view as skipper, even though it was really Bruno. `I need to keep my head down and work hard and...' He trailed off, studying Harry's impassive face, and then asking in a thin whine, `You've not showered yet, Slab?' Maguire shook his head slightly. `Waiting for Luke,' he said, pausing heavily, then adding by way of explanation, `he's just getting checked out for that knock earlier - they think he might be injured slightly.' A frustrated grunt. `One in, one out, huh?' `Hope he's okay,' Mase told him genuinely, though he couldn't take his eyes off a particular sweat droplet that was migrating from Harry's faint chest hair down the landscape of his abdomen. `Erm.' Harry stroked the hand from the knot across his lower six-pack, catching and rubbing at the sweat droplets as they tickled past his belly button. `Hmm.' The big sexy bastard just stood there, toweringly impressive and emanating his raw macho authority - Mason could feel his cock beginning to stiffen again in his briefs, and he wasn't sure he would be bothering to suppress it this time. He licked his parched lips and let out a thin giggle. `Just us left to shower, then?' he asked, his throat suddenly dry. He heard the rattle and thud of a door somewhere behind him, and felt a third presence entering the row of lockers behind him; he saw Harry's face light subtly up, a curl of smile on his lips and in his beady eyes. `Just the three of us,' Maguire agreed, nodding, and Mase glanced the other way - Luke Shaw was in just training jersey and tight compression shorts as he muscled up to them, a slightly grumpy look on his handsome face. `They wanna do more tests,' he muttered darkly, looking straight past to Harry, then bringing his attention this way with a weary smile - he punched Mase in the arm and said, `Great to have you back on the squad, Money Mase, hehe, we've missed you.' As Luke ambled up to him on his left, his 6ft1 bulk rather deflated with injury worry, Harry closed the gap on the other, and the 25-year-old suddenly found himself stood between the two taller broader players, one muscular defensive beast on either side of him - for a moment they were just looking at each other, Luke's face a worried frown and Harry's a concerned pout, and Mason felt like a surreal gooseberry, the third wheel to their established romance. But then Harry grinned sidelong at him, and Luke patted him on the arm again, and Mason felt deeply connected to this secret couple who had become such good pals of his over recent years... `Shall we take that shower?' Maguire growled. `Just what I need,' Shaw purred. `You gonna join us, Mase...?' As if he could even contemplate saying no, for fuck's sake. Mason only realised he was still in the briefs once he was in the echoey steam of the communal shower, instantly drenched under the hot spray; but the stolen underpants didn't stay on him for long. The two powerful bodies enclosed him, and he felt one hand - Luke's - slide into the front to take hold of his cock, whilst another - Harry's - tugged and twanged on them at the rear, and soon the sodden tighty whities were dropping about his ankles on the tiled floor of the big square wetroom. Naked like the other two, Mase let out a deep sigh of ecstasy, and felt their strong hands run across his shoulders, his chest, his backside, across his crotch - and he reached for one at a time to take the hot wet kisses that they were happy to share - snogging first at Luke, whose mouth was so knowing and responsive, and then with Harry, having to crane upwards and reach on his tiptoes, and feeling that strong tongue invade and dominate his whole mouth. He shuddered between them, relaxing into Luke and Harry's grips, and stroking back, feeling for their thick heavy muscles, their bodies bare and wet against his below the warm blast of the shower. Chuckling happily, Mason reached for the shower gel and lathered it between his hands, before slapping one each across their broad chests, rubbing a wet soapy froth against pecs and hard nipples, and sliding from one body to the other - Luke did the same, and all three of their bodies became slick and foamy, making them slide in their attempts to grab and grope, and all three of them laughed in different throaty manners, cocks brushing sensitively together or against firm muscle. The Man Utd lovers, one of the most established gay couples in the Prem, passed him between them with no jealousy or possession: whilst he cuddled in against Luke and snogged some more, he could feel Harry's huge hands massaging tenderly over his shoulders, and the monstrous weight of his cock rubbing across the small of his back as it was wanked and then slid gently across the curve of his buttocks; whilst he curled around and stooped to play his tongue against one of Harry's hard nipples, he could feel Luke kiss the top of his spine and rove both hands down his abs to find and pull on his stiff young cock, wanking it side by side with Harry's monster. And then Mason was gladly on his knees between them, a cock in each hand, delighted with just how well-hung both defenders really were, thinking about the partner-swapping fun they and Declan had once had in Doha; he wanked them both and sucked them in alternating bursts of oral attention, looking upwards to see the two kings of Old Trafford snogging deeply, but never forgetting him... they stroked his hair and his face with wandering hands whilst they tongued each other, and they groaned appreciatively as he slobbered over one or both cocks, trying and failing to get their joint girth into his hungry gob at once. And then, in a steamy blur, he was up on his feet again, and kissing Shaw, really appreciating the tickling beard of the sexy 28-year-old Londoner - but he was being lifted off his feet, so that he lurched forward into Luke's powerful arms, whilst his upper legs were being hoisted and parted, his whole strong form grasped between the two bigger players. He only understood what he was in for when he felt Harry spit against his cheeks and then bury his face between them - Mason lurched forward into Luke's hold and tensed his strong form whilst Harry hoisted him from behind and stooped forward to eat his whole, his long powerful tongue questing between bubble cheeks and teasing his ring. But Maguire really wanted to show off his strength and was soon hoisting him further aloft - now Mount was pressing his face and palms in against the upper walls, hoisted there by Harry's strength, whilst his cheeks were parted and the centre-back beast ate his hole. `We don't want any more injuries,' cooed Luke's sensitive voice at some point, and this mad positioning was swapped for greater comfort on terra firma; Mason was bent forward to suck on Harry's huge whopper whilst Luke stood behind him and gently fingered his wet hole. With a mouthful of Slabhead and his hole teased by the sexy left-back, Mount was in hs own wet paradise, breathless with manic lust - he just wished this threesome could be completed by Declan too! At one point he was choking on big Harry's member, and then he was sucking Luke again, and Harry was crouched down behind to rim him some more - the huge sexy man was so good at it, so ravenous and questing, and it was just what Mase loved to feel - Dec, he had to admit, was a nervous and reluctant rimmer, whilst Maguire slobbered between his cheeks and made a wet cunt of his man-hole. When the Yorkshire brute began to push two and then three fingers inside him, he was more than ready for it - but he knew he might still struggle to take the Maguire 12 incher, so he was glad when Luke went first to mount and pound him, pressing him up against the tiled wall and entering him tenderly before finding and maintaining a powerful grunting rhythm. Shaw fucked him and Maguire was close beside them, kissing and stroking them both, and Mount reached down with his right hand to wank him off whilst he shuddered and trembled at the sensation of a passionate tender lover deep inside him; Luke was pretty big and thick on his own, though a necessary warm-up before Mason was passed by damp hands to the dominant ex-captain, and felt himself slowly entered by that absolute weapon. Whilst he tried his best to relax and sit back on Maguire's huge tool, Luke kissed and cuddled him, so that yet again his lithe body was pinned between their mass, held and protected between these two dominant hunks of the United defence. Being fucked by Maguire was just as tough and amazing as he remembered from the World Cup, but he did his best, trying to get past the initial pain of stretching, and just appreciate the girthy monster inching into him, and the sheer power of Harry's body holding and controlling him - he was surprised actually at how tender and sensitive the 6ft4 brute could be, albeit orchestrated and guided by the more instinctively affectionate Luke Shaw. Both of them, he thought, were truly sexy and powerful men, amazing lovers, and he'd never felt so safe and wanted as he did shared between them. He was fucked a little more by Luke, going down on the floor on his back with his legs in the air, whilst Harry stood and wanked over his face, letting him lick and kiss at his inner thighs and his heavy balls; but then Harry was taking over again, trying in this new position to enter him more fully and fuck his surprisingly nervous hole, whilst Luke leaned over to kiss and suck his shining cock so well that it felt like it would explode into cum at a couple more cautious thrusts of Harry's invasive power. It was Harry though who came first, taking his cock out and fingering him instead, but jerking off furiously, resting on one knee. No sooner was the big centre-back ejaculating messily from the fat head of his footlong than both Mase and Luke were leaning desperately in to lick and eat his load, kissing messily together and tasting that salty deposit all over their lips; Harrys' two fingers were still jabbing in and out of Mason's quivering hole and he felt close himself. When Luke's dirty mouth closed back over his cock again he couldn't help it and he too was pumping out thick white goo, feeding the sexy bugger and writhing on his back, red-faced and shaky. So Luke came last, lounging down beside him, and guiding Harry's huge shaggy head down his torso - Mason lay on his side and watched as big alpha Maguire sucked off Shaw quite lovingly. Whilst Luke whined and grunted in climax, Mason cuddled and kissed him from the side, and reached further down to stroke Harry's dark hair and the back of his thick neck. He felt a surge of appreciation for these two older lads that went well beyond their sexual magnetism. Soon all three, giggling softly and still sharing little kisses, were up on their feet and soaping each other's bodies again - Harry was almost bashful after the deeds were done, almost shy of the huge wet anaconda between his legs, whilst Luke was more generous with his kisses and cuddles, and stupidly attentive as he offered to wash Mason's hair. The ex-Chelsea twink smiled and simpered between them, hosed down and sparkling clean, far more relieved and therapised by their touch than his official physio massage. By the time he was emerging from the showers and looking about for a towel, he had a big warm grin splitting his face and he could not get rid of it. And then Harry, again with that surprising big tenderness, was wrapping a fresh towel about him from the side, and chuckling affectionately as he used his big arms to rub him dry, whilst Luke sloped lazily past them and played with his soft cock on the way to his locker. `Thanks guys,' Mase said dreamily, and he half-expected to wake up still in the sauna. The Portsmouth-born football twink was still in that dreamy state when he got home to his place, a little wistful and sad to be arriving at the big empty mansion rather than following those two lovers home - but he had to remind himself that both Shaw and Maguire had partners and families, second (or first?) lives that kept them apart for much of the time. Those two had never shared the domestic bliss that had been Mason's in London when Declan moved in with him, that blissful period before his career had come first and he'd said goodbye to the capital - a decision that always threatened to yield regret, but felt safe and correct after the experiences of today. Parking the car and dragging his kit-bag up the driveway, Mason felt warm and fuzzy as he floated on the steamy memory of shower sex with the two big defenders. On the doorstep to his Cheshire home was a huge extravagant bouquet of flowers, and he stopped to stare at it for a few moments, putting his kit-bag down first before taking up the delivery in both hands and searching it for a label. It was from him, of course. `Hope today went okay, MM - love from you-know-who xx' - it could hardly irk him that Dec was too nervous to put his name to the tag, given the risk, and he just drifted dreamily inside with the bouquet in both hands. It was only as he stood in his big empty kitchen, sorting the flowers inexpertly into a vase and then glancing at the clock to see if it was nearly time for the Arsenal game on telly, that a fresh lurch of guilt began to trouble him - he'd really just wanted a fucking from Rice Cakes, hadn't he? Being shared by those two had been a great substitute, but it wasn't better than sex with his boyfriend - he instantly knew this to be true, and yet he still felt a bit awkward and guilty. He was so grateful to the big guys for their support and their attention, but it was hard to bask in the pleasure of that scene without also wishing he could superimpose Declan into their midst. As he sat there that night and watched Rice's team like a good loyal boyfriend, lounging across the couch and stroking himself in his pyjamas, Mount asked himself for the millionth time: why did I leave that man behind in London??? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-365

Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2023 06:08:07 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 365 Part 365: England Camp, Day Four He'd been bleary and contented in the salt-skin aftermath of a late afternoon session: his head resting on the bristling stubble of a tanned chest, one finger circling the dark nub of a nipple where it rose from the soft pectoral muscle of a less athletic chest. One of his Papi's furred arms was slung about the smooth warm skin of his shoulder in a lazy fashion, and he was trying to recognise from the gentle rise and fall of the football coach's breathing whether Pep Guardiola had drifted into post-coital sleep or was thoughtfully half-awake like he was after their blissful fuck. It had been a relatively spontaneous post-training arrangement, compared to the meticulous planning that their alone time increasingly required... and all the more passionate and satisfying for it, too. Pep's inquisitive Catalan accent broke the quiet of the club-owned apartment, answering Phil's idle mental question about his consciousness: `This international break, when you go away...' The sentence trailed off in the quiet stillness of their sporadic bedroom, and naive curiosity roused the 23-year-old football prodigy further into awake. He twisted his head a little and let his circling fingertips pause and drop. Pep was staring at the ceiling in an ominously serious fashion, but their eyes met, and Phil quailed at the seriousness with which he was being regarded. `Yeah?' the Stockport lad murmured, trying not to sound as worried as he was. Guardiola just breathed out heavily and seemed to consider for a while before picking up his point. `When you're away,' he seemed to think aloud, `I would just like...' `What?' Phil asked quite sharply, hanging on his Papi's words. Another of those long huffy breaths, and then a roll of the hot body beneath his, pulling arms more firmly around him, hugging him in close but preventing their looking in one another's eyes. If young Phil had been able to see the Man City manager's grey-bearded features, he might have seen just how painfully worried the middle-aged man was about keeping hold of this beautiful young scally stud. `Don't let any of them at you,' Guardiola muttered, his voice and his body full of tension. `I know that in the past it has been... Well, I have encouraged you to... But... not this time, Filipe, not now, I ask of you...' Phil was quiet not because he had any instinctive objection to this request - over the coming days he would really warm to Pep's request and become quite excited by the implied monogamy, even if both of them continued to sleep with their female partners all the time - but just because he was so surprised by the idea and by the heaviness of the tone. `Is that okay?' he was asked. Guardiola sounded both tender and a little uncomfortable, and it made Foden answer quickly and eagerly. `Of course,' he promised quietly into the warm shoulder muscle of the older man. Of course he could go without any daft fun on the England camp - it was never something that crossed his mind particularly anyway...! He was so fixated on the affectionate power of his coach and Papi that he rarely thought ahead to the other playmates he'd picked up at City or the Three Lions, not really, and so he had absolutely no problem with the manager's wishes. `Nobody can put their cock in you,' Pep added unnecessarily, his voice deep and commanding, and Phil shivered almost excitedly at the force in it - `Yes Papi,' he whispered, kissing softly close to his neck, and feeling Pep's large hands run up and down his back, settling at the base of his spine, holding him tightly here. `Yes,' he repeated, just as Pep added, `Nobody can fuck you, not your mouth, not your bottom, okay?' and he insisted more firmly `Nobody!' before beginning to kiss his way down the chest and tummy, deciding to calm whatever stress his daddy was holding in the best way possible, his lips guiding him down past the waist. Once he was kissing the big heavy cock that had already cum inside him twenty minutes ago, Guardiola could just moan and purr, the seriousness gone with the request and agreement, and Phil gave it little more attention. Until now: Thursday, Day Four. The temperature had crunched past 30 and a whistle had blown - the gaffer was calling time on outdoor work in the sun after a patchy morning, and was giving them a few hours off before scheduling some group sessions in the air-conditioned gymnasiums. For all their blokey bravado in the past few days, not one of the blue-kitted England players made any laddish protest at the changed plans, their relief obvious on their shiny faces as they trudged off the field and in through the open double-doors into their changing suite. Foden himself was one of the first indoors, really stomping his boots for a few paces before taking hops to yank them off one at a time, and then grasping a towel to run against his face and neck, shocked at how soaked he was with perspiration, and how good it felt to be off-duty and here in the shadowy cool of this spacious locker-room. Shouts of the same sentiment echoed around him as the lads escaped the heat, and Phil found himself very glad that the changing facilities here were more open and capacious than the standard intense team space of a Premiership football stadium. It meant that he could slip through the rows and find his own space by his locker with ease, free to wriggle out of the sweat-drenched training shirt and clingy blue under-armour, dropping both damp polyester rags onto the bench below. `Fucking hell, I'm MELTING,' complained his own teammate Kalvin Phillips nearby, letting out an anguished noise to accentuate his hyperbole. `This heat is the worst,' someone else confirmed from the other direction - it was Arsenal's new talisman, Declan Rice, his top whipped off and now slapped stupidly against his locker door with a whip-crack noise for emphasis. The chorus of frustration was punctuated with humour and relief, though. `Do you think we could just spend the rest of the day in ice baths?' he could hear Newcastle's Kieran Trippier demanding loudly, and Kyle Walker was booming out `Who's up for the local Wetherspoons for a couple of hours?' Phil chuckled weakly to himself and sat down to roll down his socks and unstrap his shin-pads. He realised he was still panting as he did so, the heat making him far more tired than he should be after just a half-day of training, at the peak of his early 20s fitness. He wondered how some of the older players weren't even more distraught than him, and marvelled at the athletic fitness of the men around him. Well, `athletic fitness' was one phrase for it: sexy as fuck bodies was another. It was a daft stereotype, but not one without truth: the heat was making the Stockport man as horny as hell, and he had found himself thinking on Pep's demand more and more as each day of the week passed by. Subtle half-hints had, he thought, been passed his way from some of the usual suspects, the oversexed testosterone bombs that dominated this intimate squad... and a coyly smiling Phil Foden had refused to take any of the bait or show even the faintest flicker of interest. But today... As he sat there in his own sweat-soaked shorts, resting his wet back against the cool metal of his locker door, he was passed by the stomping gait of loud-mouthed Kyle, who was still shouting out jokey invitations to the pub. The City right-back was already down to his skimpy compression vest and a pair of tight long-legged UnderArmour trunks, and Phil's eyes were drawn to the gleaming shine of his caramel skin and tattoos, and the huge presence of his big glutes in the back of the tight black shorts. Walker stomped on past him towards where Chelsea's Conor Gallagher was at his locker, pausing to land a striking slap on the shiny bare back of the other 23-year-old - Phil watched half-interestedly at the way Conor flinched and jumped and then forced a laugh, his eyes more interested in the perfect view of Kyle's big arse as the sweaty defender marched on. But Phil's eyes were drawn inevitably back to the compact musculature of the 6ft midfielder, and he couldn't resist staring as the Chelsea player's shorts were pulled down, his body bent slightly forward... a pair of navy blue sports briefs only half-covering the pert roundness of his cheeks as he did so. Phil yanked his vision away from the undressing lad who'd once been a good buddy on the younger England squads, and scolded himself for such open perving when he was trying to be a good Golden Boy. For the first time, he couldn't help but resent the promise he'd made to Guardiola, and think back defiantly to how different the issue had been when it was the Qatari World Cup, for instance, and Pep himself was engineering hookups for him at camp Argentina, double-teamed by Messi and his `bodyguard'! Why couldn't he have a bit of that fun now, sweating and suffering here with his countrymen? But, he reminded himself, he'd readily made his promise, and he had to stick with it! Directly opposite him, the devil was at work to tempt him, because big Crystal Palace goalie Sam Johnstone was in the process of stepping out of his shorts, wearing just pale grey briefs, and the vivid sweat patches down his arse-crack and at the sides of his floppy bulge were dark and obvious enough to lock Foden's eyes on the big Lancashire bloke's downstairs assets - whilst just a couple of feet further to the right, the younger goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale was the first in this aisle to drop his pants entirely, kicking boxer briefs aside and airing his dangling cock and balls and strawberry blond pubes for a moment before the off-white towel obscured this view. Jesus, get a grip on yourself...! Phil got back up and faced the locker, conscious of the swelling in the front of his shorts, but pushing them down nonetheless, glancing cautiously down at how obvious the bulge was in his own designer briefs, then wrapping the towel about his waist in a hurry. `Cold showers!' he heard James Maddison insist loudly from the communal block, and a hearty chorus of agreement echoed as other men strode through to wash off the sweat - and Foden just paused where he was, unsure he could handle the close proximity of all those sweat-grimed bodies disappearing into the steam and lathering up with soap suds. Clutching the knot of his towel and hoping his semi wasn't beginning to tent through his pants and against the towel, he scuttled out of his aisle of lockers and caught sight of some of it: the big hairy arse of Harry Maguire as the massive Man Utd pariah marched through with a towel over one shoulder, and the swinging dick of Declan Rice as the newly super-confident defensive midfielder came marching past with his own rolled towel under one arm. Phil took a deep breath and diverted from them all. Showering alone was an odd inverted taboo in their world, to some extent, but it wasn't unheard of - every squad seemed to have the odd fella who preferred a solo wash rather than the banter and horseplay of showy communal spaces - but Phil knew that his decision might raise a hint of interest from some corners, perhaps. Still, it was for the best, and Tottenham's new hero Madders was 100% right: COLD SHOWERS. It felt good, the icy blast and the puritan quenching. The dirty thoughts could run down the plughole with the sweat and dirt, and Phil's world stunk of institutional soap, rather than the manly musk of Johnstone's undies or Rice's vest. It felt so good that he stayed in there much longer than a player might typically endure the cold blast, taking brief pauses when the cold was too much before twisting the knob and rinsing down over and over. Eventually his lithe 5ft7 figure was a mottle of summer tan and bright pink flush, and he just stood there to drip-dry, palms to the wall and head hanging a little as he resisted the vivid mental images of swaggering Maguire and stomping Walker, big daddies of the England fold. When he emerged back into the main changing room, Phil kept his head low and did his absolute best to avoid seeing the way that Fikayo Tomoro rubbed a towel across his chest and left his lower half excitingly exposed, or the aggressive manner in which Lewis Dunk dried his privates and his arse; he averted his gaze from the hurried dressing of Gallagher and Johnstone at nearby lockers, and just returned to his, cooled and refreshed, and glad that they had some free time to nap or relax before lunch and more work. He dropped his sweaty briefs down with the rest of his grimy gear, nudging it together with a bare foot, and then loosening his towel to dry his thighs and crotch and up his firm six-pack and developing chest. Around him, the space felt bigger and bigger, because the refreshed men all seemed in a hurry to move on - there were shouts of `FIFA tournament' and others loudly calling `shotgun' over physio massage appointments. Phil was happy to be ignored and left behind for a change, thinking that he would slip away from here and go back to his room for a quiet nap without Eberechi Eze's snoring. Naked and dangling his towel about his slim shoulders, Phil sat briefly down on the bench, really taking a moment to breath before rifling through the locker for his clean gear. A vague presence made him look to the left and notice a looming figure at the corner of the aisle, resting against the furthest locker - Phil was mildly surprised to see his captain there, and he raised his eyebrows in vague acknowledgement of new Bundesliga striker Harry Kane. For a moment, he thought nothing of it - they were all just fatigued and dazed and captain Kane had as much right to be slouched there with his arm to the cool metal as anyone else, with everybody else seeming to have cleared out. But then Phil blinked and looked properly at the much taller man, seeing the soft pensive expression on Harry's long face, and the almost calculated pose of his lengthy muscular torso and arms, his towel tied low about his waist, low enough to reveal an inch ring of paler skin where his tan ended. `Alright, skip,' Foden murmured, staring back at the older man. For a long moment, Kane didn't say anything, but he brought one hand up to stroke the light brown beard of his jutting chin, and Foden became self-conscious about his spread legs and naked body, grabbing at the hanging towel and beginning to slide it from his shoulders. `Leave it,' came Harry's thick Walthamstow accent, taking a step into the aisle of lockers, where they were screened and alone. Instinctively and unthinking, Phil obeyed this, and Harry Kane took two more steps towards him. Oh, fuck: it was one thing resisting the unsubtle hints of leering Kyle Walker over salad dinners, or trying not to make eye contact with a smirking Declan Rice in the shower, and forcing himself into solitary cold showers when the heat was driving him wild, but... Here was the England captain himself, a tall commanding figure with the towel practically falling from his waist, towering over him in this narrow canyon of lockers, with the last footsteps of their teammates dying away... Pep's Golden Boy was no longer fully sure that he could resist temptation and keep himself `pure' for Papi. His world stunk now of the Givenchy aftershave that poured off the 30-year-old striker's washed physique, and it clouded his attempted chasteness in an instant. `Leave it?' Phil echoed in murmured, gripping the folds of the towel where it came down about his strong young shoulders, and denying the urge to yank it down and cover up his bare cock and balls with it, nestled between his open thigh muscles. `Sure,' the captain mumbled. `I'm enjoying the view.' Wow. This was bold, blunt, exciting. Phil just stared up at him, overshadowed by the height and build of the former Hotspur. His England captain. God, how would he resist leaning forward and opening his mouth wide when that towel fell inevitably away and the sexy older bloke demanded what he'd come over here for... Who'd been chatting about him to Kane, he wondered, was it Walker or...? What happened next took him by surprise, although it made a few dirty jokes he'd overheard in the City locker-room make more sense. Harry did let loose his towel, parting it at his hip and cascading it to the floor, his stiff member and tight balls exposed beneath the crown of auburn pubes; but he also bent his knees and sunk into a tight squat, brought level and then lower than seated Phil. The captain's hands landed on his lower thighs, just above the knee, and Harry stared seriously at him before bending further, and - ohhhhhh, yes. It was only after several moments of quiet wet pleasure that Phil had enough sense to tense up and lay his hands questioningly on top of Harry's: guilt and duty were catching up with the excitement of the scenario and his quick fetishisation of Kane's mighty status as the captain and England's legendary striker. However... what had Papi actually said? Nobody could... put their cock in him? Nobody could... fuck him? Well... Down between his open legs, the mumbling giant at the head of the Three Lions was squatting low and stooped forward, bobbing up and down on Foden's sizable erection, sucking him with almost as much warm gusto as his loving and possessive club manager, and he himself was just pinned to the spot by pleasure, pressing back into his locker and holding tightly onto Kane's larger hands where they grasped his thighs. The lips and tongue worked rapidly but quite skilfully up and down his prick, pausing just long enough each time to really tickle the tip, and breaking away at intervals to spit heavily against the side of the shaft to lubricate the generous oral attention. `Holy shit,' the Stockport scally huffed. `You're so good. Hmmph. Mmm. Ohh. Shiiiit.' This had to be okay, he thought, it wasn't what Guardiola had asked him - he hadn't said anything about where HE could put his cock, had he? Nope! Doubts would soon creep into this analysis and make him question whether he was a traitor, but for the minutes that followed, he just sat there, the small but well-hung recipient of the big man's lusty gobbling. When Kane stopped and just held his hand around the wet shaft, Foden expected to be told it was his turn to get a mouthful, and he wondered what he'd say to this - but instead, the mumbling East London tones of his skipper just huffed out, `Cum for me, mate' and went straight back to work. Wow. And so he did, though it took many more minutes of this, really writhing back against the locker and moaning loudly enough to pray that nobody was left in the spacious changing rooms after all. As he got closer, he began to thrust up, tightening his pert cheeks and lifting his hips from the bench to push his meaty cock further into Harry's grateful gob. And then he was spurting on the captain's tongue and smearing his greasy load across the tache and goatee of reddish-brown hair that framed that cocksucking mouth. Phil gasped and moaned, fresh sweat and heat spreading through his wiry body, and the cold shower calling to him all over again, whilst Harry panted and spluttered, and kissed drops of cum from the stubble of his shaven pubic trail. `Oh shit,' the City boy moaned again, bewildered and dazed, but his captain had nothing to say, just deep growling breaths and a few more kisses to the cock - and then he was up, towering over him again. Phil rested, eyes half-closed, and took a minute to realise that the bigger man was wanking over him. He remained still, holding back the urge to reach out and grab Harry's dick or apply his own skilled mouth - he just sprawled there, cock trembling, and let the drops of the striker's jizz fall messily against the lightly tanned muscle of his slim torso, mixing a little with his own around his shaven crotch. After cumming, Harry remained briefly above him, one long arm shoved hard against the locker, so that one deeply hairy pit was excitingly exposed. Phil gasped and recovered in his shadow, and then couldn't suppress a bemused smirk as all Harry had to say was, `Thanks, kid', and then muscled away - towel abandoned and peachy bottom on show, his 6ft2 figure strutting away and disappearing around the corner, mouth being wiped on the back of one arm. Phil stared after him, blinking, and then looked down at his drooping cock and the pale slicks of semen that dirtied his body. The promise was intact, he told himself. Just about. Oh well. Time for another cold shower. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 8 Sep 2023 06:08:07 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 365 Part 365: England Camp, Day Four He'd been bleary and contented in the salt-skin aftermath of a late afternoon session: his head resting on the bristling stubble of a tanned chest, one finger circling the dark nub of a nipple where it rose from the soft pectoral muscle of a less athletic chest. One of his Papi's furred arms was slung about the smooth warm skin of his shoulder in a lazy fashion, and he was trying to recognise from the gentle rise and fall of the football coach's breathing whether Pep Guardiola had drifted into post-coital sleep or was thoughtfully half-awake like he was after their blissful fuck. It had been a relatively spontaneous post-training arrangement, compared to the meticulous planning that their alone time increasingly required... and all the more passionate and satisfying for it, too. Pep's inquisitive Catalan accent broke the quiet of the club-owned apartment, answering Phil's idle mental question about his consciousness: `This international break, when you go away...' The sentence trailed off in the quiet stillness of their sporadic bedroom, and naive curiosity roused the 23-year-old football prodigy further into awake. He twisted his head a little and let his circling fingertips pause and drop. Pep was staring at the ceiling in an ominously serious fashion, but their eyes met, and Phil quailed at the seriousness with which he was being regarded. `Yeah?' the Stockport lad murmured, trying not to sound as worried as he was. Guardiola just breathed out heavily and seemed to consider for a while before picking up his point. `When you're away,' he seemed to think aloud, `I would just like...' `What?' Phil asked quite sharply, hanging on his Papi's words. Another of those long huffy breaths, and then a roll of the hot body beneath his, pulling arms more firmly around him, hugging him in close but preventing their looking in one another's eyes. If young Phil had been able to see the Man City manager's grey-bearded features, he might have seen just how painfully worried the middle-aged man was about keeping hold of this beautiful young scally stud. `Don't let any of them at you,' Guardiola muttered, his voice and his body full of tension. `I know that in the past it has been... Well, I have encouraged you to... But... not this time, Filipe, not now, I ask of you...' Phil was quiet not because he had any instinctive objection to this request - over the coming days he would really warm to Pep's request and become quite excited by the implied monogamy, even if both of them continued to sleep with their female partners all the time - but just because he was so surprised by the idea and by the heaviness of the tone. `Is that okay?' he was asked. Guardiola sounded both tender and a little uncomfortable, and it made Foden answer quickly and eagerly. `Of course,' he promised quietly into the warm shoulder muscle of the older man. Of course he could go without any daft fun on the England camp - it was never something that crossed his mind particularly anyway...! He was so fixated on the affectionate power of his coach and Papi that he rarely thought ahead to the other playmates he'd picked up at City or the Three Lions, not really, and so he had absolutely no problem with the manager's wishes. `Nobody can put their cock in you,' Pep added unnecessarily, his voice deep and commanding, and Phil shivered almost excitedly at the force in it - `Yes Papi,' he whispered, kissing softly close to his neck, and feeling Pep's large hands run up and down his back, settling at the base of his spine, holding him tightly here. `Yes,' he repeated, just as Pep added, `Nobody can fuck you, not your mouth, not your bottom, okay?' and he insisted more firmly `Nobody!' before beginning to kiss his way down the chest and tummy, deciding to calm whatever stress his daddy was holding in the best way possible, his lips guiding him down past the waist. Once he was kissing the big heavy cock that had already cum inside him twenty minutes ago, Guardiola could just moan and purr, the seriousness gone with the request and agreement, and Phil gave it little more attention. Until now: Thursday, Day Four. The temperature had crunched past 30 and a whistle had blown - the gaffer was calling time on outdoor work in the sun after a patchy morning, and was giving them a few hours off before scheduling some group sessions in the air-conditioned gymnasiums. For all their blokey bravado in the past few days, not one of the blue-kitted England players made any laddish protest at the changed plans, their relief obvious on their shiny faces as they trudged off the field and in through the open double-doors into their changing suite. Foden himself was one of the first indoors, really stomping his boots for a few paces before taking hops to yank them off one at a time, and then grasping a towel to run against his face and neck, shocked at how soaked he was with perspiration, and how good it felt to be off-duty and here in the shadowy cool of this spacious locker-room. Shouts of the same sentiment echoed around him as the lads escaped the heat, and Phil found himself very glad that the changing facilities here were more open and capacious than the standard intense team space of a Premiership football stadium. It meant that he could slip through the rows and find his own space by his locker with ease, free to wriggle out of the sweat-drenched training shirt and clingy blue under-armour, dropping both damp polyester rags onto the bench below. `Fucking hell, I'm MELTING,' complained his own teammate Kalvin Phillips nearby, letting out an anguished noise to accentuate his hyperbole. `This heat is the worst,' someone else confirmed from the other direction - it was Arsenal's new talisman, Declan Rice, his top whipped off and now slapped stupidly against his locker door with a whip-crack noise for emphasis. The chorus of frustration was punctuated with humour and relief, though. `Do you think we could just spend the rest of the day in ice baths?' he could hear Newcastle's Kieran Trippier demanding loudly, and Kyle Walker was booming out `Who's up for the local Wetherspoons for a couple of hours?' Phil chuckled weakly to himself and sat down to roll down his socks and unstrap his shin-pads. He realised he was still panting as he did so, the heat making him far more tired than he should be after just a half-day of training, at the peak of his early 20s fitness. He wondered how some of the older players weren't even more distraught than him, and marvelled at the athletic fitness of the men around him. Well, `athletic fitness' was one phrase for it: sexy as fuck bodies was another. It was a daft stereotype, but not one without truth: the heat was making the Stockport man as horny as hell, and he had found himself thinking on Pep's demand more and more as each day of the week passed by. Subtle half-hints had, he thought, been passed his way from some of the usual suspects, the oversexed testosterone bombs that dominated this intimate squad... and a coyly smiling Phil Foden had refused to take any of the bait or show even the faintest flicker of interest. But today... As he sat there in his own sweat-soaked shorts, resting his wet back against the cool metal of his locker door, he was passed by the stomping gait of loud-mouthed Kyle, who was still shouting out jokey invitations to the pub. The City right-back was already down to his skimpy compression vest and a pair of tight long-legged UnderArmour trunks, and Phil's eyes were drawn to the gleaming shine of his caramel skin and tattoos, and the huge presence of his big glutes in the back of the tight black shorts. Walker stomped on past him towards where Chelsea's Conor Gallagher was at his locker, pausing to land a striking slap on the shiny bare back of the other 23-year-old - Phil watched half-interestedly at the way Conor flinched and jumped and then forced a laugh, his eyes more interested in the perfect view of Kyle's big arse as the sweaty defender marched on. But Phil's eyes were drawn inevitably back to the compact musculature of the 6ft midfielder, and he couldn't resist staring as the Chelsea player's shorts were pulled down, his body bent slightly forward... a pair of navy blue sports briefs only half-covering the pert roundness of his cheeks as he did so. Phil yanked his vision away from the undressing lad who'd once been a good buddy on the younger England squads, and scolded himself for such open perving when he was trying to be a good Golden Boy. For the first time, he couldn't help but resent the promise he'd made to Guardiola, and think back defiantly to how different the issue had been when it was the Qatari World Cup, for instance, and Pep himself was engineering hookups for him at camp Argentina, double-teamed by Messi and his `bodyguard'! Why couldn't he have a bit of that fun now, sweating and suffering here with his countrymen? But, he reminded himself, he'd readily made his promise, and he had to stick with it! Directly opposite him, the devil was at work to tempt him, because big Crystal Palace goalie Sam Johnstone was in the process of stepping out of his shorts, wearing just pale grey briefs, and the vivid sweat patches down his arse-crack and at the sides of his floppy bulge were dark and obvious enough to lock Foden's eyes on the big Lancashire bloke's downstairs assets - whilst just a couple of feet further to the right, the younger goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale was the first in this aisle to drop his pants entirely, kicking boxer briefs aside and airing his dangling cock and balls and strawberry blond pubes for a moment before the off-white towel obscured this view. Jesus, get a grip on yourself...! Phil got back up and faced the locker, conscious of the swelling in the front of his shorts, but pushing them down nonetheless, glancing cautiously down at how obvious the bulge was in his own designer briefs, then wrapping the towel about his waist in a hurry. `Cold showers!' he heard James Maddison insist loudly from the communal block, and a hearty chorus of agreement echoed as other men strode through to wash off the sweat - and Foden just paused where he was, unsure he could handle the close proximity of all those sweat-grimed bodies disappearing into the steam and lathering up with soap suds. Clutching the knot of his towel and hoping his semi wasn't beginning to tent through his pants and against the towel, he scuttled out of his aisle of lockers and caught sight of some of it: the big hairy arse of Harry Maguire as the massive Man Utd pariah marched through with a towel over one shoulder, and the swinging dick of Declan Rice as the newly super-confident defensive midfielder came marching past with his own rolled towel under one arm. Phil took a deep breath and diverted from them all. Showering alone was an odd inverted taboo in their world, to some extent, but it wasn't unheard of - every squad seemed to have the odd fella who preferred a solo wash rather than the banter and horseplay of showy communal spaces - but Phil knew that his decision might raise a hint of interest from some corners, perhaps. Still, it was for the best, and Tottenham's new hero Madders was 100% right: COLD SHOWERS. It felt good, the icy blast and the puritan quenching. The dirty thoughts could run down the plughole with the sweat and dirt, and Phil's world stunk of institutional soap, rather than the manly musk of Johnstone's undies or Rice's vest. It felt so good that he stayed in there much longer than a player might typically endure the cold blast, taking brief pauses when the cold was too much before twisting the knob and rinsing down over and over. Eventually his lithe 5ft7 figure was a mottle of summer tan and bright pink flush, and he just stood there to drip-dry, palms to the wall and head hanging a little as he resisted the vivid mental images of swaggering Maguire and stomping Walker, big daddies of the England fold. When he emerged back into the main changing room, Phil kept his head low and did his absolute best to avoid seeing the way that Fikayo Tomoro rubbed a towel across his chest and left his lower half excitingly exposed, or the aggressive manner in which Lewis Dunk dried his privates and his arse; he averted his gaze from the hurried dressing of Gallagher and Johnstone at nearby lockers, and just returned to his, cooled and refreshed, and glad that they had some free time to nap or relax before lunch and more work. He dropped his sweaty briefs down with the rest of his grimy gear, nudging it together with a bare foot, and then loosening his towel to dry his thighs and crotch and up his firm six-pack and developing chest. Around him, the space felt bigger and bigger, because the refreshed men all seemed in a hurry to move on - there were shouts of `FIFA tournament' and others loudly calling `shotgun' over physio massage appointments. Phil was happy to be ignored and left behind for a change, thinking that he would slip away from here and go back to his room for a quiet nap without Eberechi Eze's snoring. Naked and dangling his towel about his slim shoulders, Phil sat briefly down on the bench, really taking a moment to breath before rifling through the locker for his clean gear. A vague presence made him look to the left and notice a looming figure at the corner of the aisle, resting against the furthest locker - Phil was mildly surprised to see his captain there, and he raised his eyebrows in vague acknowledgement of new Bundesliga striker Harry Kane. For a moment, he thought nothing of it - they were all just fatigued and dazed and captain Kane had as much right to be slouched there with his arm to the cool metal as anyone else, with everybody else seeming to have cleared out. But then Phil blinked and looked properly at the much taller man, seeing the soft pensive expression on Harry's long face, and the almost calculated pose of his lengthy muscular torso and arms, his towel tied low about his waist, low enough to reveal an inch ring of paler skin where his tan ended. `Alright, skip,' Foden murmured, staring back at the older man. For a long moment, Kane didn't say anything, but he brought one hand up to stroke the light brown beard of his jutting chin, and Foden became self-conscious about his spread legs and naked body, grabbing at the hanging towel and beginning to slide it from his shoulders. `Leave it,' came Harry's thick Walthamstow accent, taking a step into the aisle of lockers, where they were screened and alone. Instinctively and unthinking, Phil obeyed this, and Harry Kane took two more steps towards him. Oh, fuck: it was one thing resisting the unsubtle hints of leering Kyle Walker over salad dinners, or trying not to make eye contact with a smirking Declan Rice in the shower, and forcing himself into solitary cold showers when the heat was driving him wild, but... Here was the England captain himself, a tall commanding figure with the towel practically falling from his waist, towering over him in this narrow canyon of lockers, with the last footsteps of their teammates dying away... Pep's Golden Boy was no longer fully sure that he could resist temptation and keep himself `pure' for Papi. His world stunk now of the Givenchy aftershave that poured off the 30-year-old striker's washed physique, and it clouded his attempted chasteness in an instant. `Leave it?' Phil echoed in murmured, gripping the folds of the towel where it came down about his strong young shoulders, and denying the urge to yank it down and cover up his bare cock and balls with it, nestled between his open thigh muscles. `Sure,' the captain mumbled. `I'm enjoying the view.' Wow. This was bold, blunt, exciting. Phil just stared up at him, overshadowed by the height and build of the former Hotspur. His England captain. God, how would he resist leaning forward and opening his mouth wide when that towel fell inevitably away and the sexy older bloke demanded what he'd come over here for... Who'd been chatting about him to Kane, he wondered, was it Walker or...? What happened next took him by surprise, although it made a few dirty jokes he'd overheard in the City locker-room make more sense. Harry did let loose his towel, parting it at his hip and cascading it to the floor, his stiff member and tight balls exposed beneath the crown of auburn pubes; but he also bent his knees and sunk into a tight squat, brought level and then lower than seated Phil. The captain's hands landed on his lower thighs, just above the knee, and Harry stared seriously at him before bending further, and - ohhhhhh, yes. It was only after several moments of quiet wet pleasure that Phil had enough sense to tense up and lay his hands questioningly on top of Harry's: guilt and duty were catching up with the excitement of the scenario and his quick fetishisation of Kane's mighty status as the captain and England's legendary striker. However... what had Papi actually said? Nobody could... put their cock in him? Nobody could... fuck him? Well... Down between his open legs, the mumbling giant at the head of the Three Lions was squatting low and stooped forward, bobbing up and down on Foden's sizable erection, sucking him with almost as much warm gusto as his loving and possessive club manager, and he himself was just pinned to the spot by pleasure, pressing back into his locker and holding tightly onto Kane's larger hands where they grasped his thighs. The lips and tongue worked rapidly but quite skilfully up and down his prick, pausing just long enough each time to really tickle the tip, and breaking away at intervals to spit heavily against the side of the shaft to lubricate the generous oral attention. `Holy shit,' the Stockport scally huffed. `You're so good. Hmmph. Mmm. Ohh. Shiiiit.' This had to be okay, he thought, it wasn't what Guardiola had asked him - he hadn't said anything about where HE could put his cock, had he? Nope! Doubts would soon creep into this analysis and make him question whether he was a traitor, but for the minutes that followed, he just sat there, the small but well-hung recipient of the big man's lusty gobbling. When Kane stopped and just held his hand around the wet shaft, Foden expected to be told it was his turn to get a mouthful, and he wondered what he'd say to this - but instead, the mumbling East London tones of his skipper just huffed out, `Cum for me, mate' and went straight back to work. Wow. And so he did, though it took many more minutes of this, really writhing back against the locker and moaning loudly enough to pray that nobody was left in the spacious changing rooms after all. As he got closer, he began to thrust up, tightening his pert cheeks and lifting his hips from the bench to push his meaty cock further into Harry's grateful gob. And then he was spurting on the captain's tongue and smearing his greasy load across the tache and goatee of reddish-brown hair that framed that cocksucking mouth. Phil gasped and moaned, fresh sweat and heat spreading through his wiry body, and the cold shower calling to him all over again, whilst Harry panted and spluttered, and kissed drops of cum from the stubble of his shaven pubic trail. `Oh shit,' the City boy moaned again, bewildered and dazed, but his captain had nothing to say, just deep growling breaths and a few more kisses to the cock - and then he was up, towering over him again. Phil rested, eyes half-closed, and took a minute to realise that the bigger man was wanking over him. He remained still, holding back the urge to reach out and grab Harry's dick or apply his own skilled mouth - he just sprawled there, cock trembling, and let the drops of the striker's jizz fall messily against the lightly tanned muscle of his slim torso, mixing a little with his own around his shaven crotch. After cumming, Harry remained briefly above him, one long arm shoved hard against the locker, so that one deeply hairy pit was excitingly exposed. Phil gasped and recovered in his shadow, and then couldn't suppress a bemused smirk as all Harry had to say was, `Thanks, kid', and then muscled away - towel abandoned and peachy bottom on show, his 6ft2 figure strutting away and disappearing around the corner, mouth being wiped on the back of one arm. Phil stared after him, blinking, and then looked down at his drooping cock and the pale slicks of semen that dirtied his body. The promise was intact, he told himself. Just about. Oh well. Time for another cold shower. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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2002 mr-bojangles Dir Nov 15 2002 encounter-in-the-sand/ Dir Nov 13 2002 jeff-and-justin/ Dir Nov 6 2002 yeah-its-ff/ 13K Nov 3 2002 cindrewella Dir Nov 2 2002 never-guess-who-ran-into-me-today/ 25K Nov 1 2002 boy-witch-project 9K Oct 31 2002 kiss-from-a-rose.html Dir Oct 28 2002 after-dark/ Dir Oct 26 2002 southern-couple/ Dir Oct 25 2002 on-assignment/ 8K Oct 24 2002 godspeed 14K Oct 20 2002 mirror-mirror-on-the-wall Dir Oct 10 2002 first-impression/ Dir Oct 9 2002 my-friend-and-his-little-brother/ Dir Oct 7 2002 what-i-want-is-what-ive-got/ 8K Oct 6 2002 going-deep-with-nick-carter 14K Oct 5 2002 somewhere 3K Oct 4 2002 nick-justin-ashley Dir Oct 2 2002 learning-curve/ Dir Sep 27 2002 second-toughest-in-the-infants/ Dir Sep 23 2002 i-am-here-for-you/ 4K Sep 22 2002 eyes-wide-shut Dir Sep 21 2002 thats-where-you-take-me/ Dir Sep 21 2002 two-way-conversation/ 12K Sep 17 2002 justin-and-pharell 71K Sep 17 2002 tangle Dir Sep 16 2002 pains-of-forgetfulness/ 2K Sep 11 2002 dejected Dir 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2002 jc-dreams/ 6K Jan 23 2002 night-to-remember Dir Jan 22 2002 to-be-or-not-to-be/ Dir Jan 21 2002 blinked-boyband/ 3K Jan 17 2002 dream-within Dir Jan 15 2002 dans-love/ 11K Jan 9 2002 gotta-love-milk Dir Jan 8 2002 things-dont-always-turn-out-that-way/ Dir Jan 8 2002 ten-things/ 12K Jan 8 2002 secrets-of-lothlorien Dir Jan 8 2002 halloween-party/ 14K Jan 6 2002 that-night Dir Jan 4 2002 decisions/ Dir Jan 4 2002 sexual-healing-series/ Dir Jan 3 2002 what-makes-a-man/ Dir Jan 3 2002 jackson-taylor-reporter-to-the-stars/ 29K Jan 2 2002 cheating-game Dir Jan 2 2002 justin-and-zack/ Dir Jan 2 2002 just-brian/ 14K Jan 1 2002 one-true-angel Dir Dec 30 2001 umm-whatever/ Dir Dec 28 2001 libra/ Dir Dec 25 2001 passions-of-the-young/ Dir Dec 22 2001 grand-finale/ Dir Dec 21 2001 when-its-over/ Dir Dec 21 2001 hot-and-humid/ Dir Dec 21 2001 love-and-friendship/ Dir Dec 18 2001 beginning-of-something-wonderful/ 7K Dec 18 2001 guys-who-like-nsync Dir Dec 17 2001 fates-helping-hand/ Dir Dec 16 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22 2001 full-circle/ Dir Aug 20 2001 games-of-desire/ Dir Aug 18 2001 as-yet-untitled/ Dir Aug 17 2001 every-little-thing-i-do/ Dir Aug 15 2001 forgotten-past-living-future/ Dir Aug 14 2001 forever/ Dir Aug 12 2001 heres-to-the-night/ Dir Aug 11 2001 medieval-love/ 25K Aug 10 2001 perfection.html Dir Aug 8 2001 zany-romance/ 7K Aug 8 2001 one-hot-day Dir Aug 7 2001 mine-in-private/ Dir Aug 6 2001 no-more/ Dir Aug 6 2001 d-evolution/ Dir Aug 6 2001 this-pop-life/ 7K Aug 6 2001 rimmin-robbie Dir Aug 6 2001 losing-control/ 17K Aug 6 2001 not-all-stars Dir Aug 5 2001 twist-of-fate/ Dir Aug 5 2001 power-of-six/ 19K Aug 4 2001 variation-participation 7K Aug 4 2001 industry-and-emotion Dir Aug 3 2001 revelations-series/ Dir Aug 3 2001 the-mix-up/ Dir Aug 2 2001 why/ Dir Aug 1 2001 scared/ Dir Jul 31 2001 music-to-my-ears/ Dir Jul 31 2001 nightmare-before-dawn/ 10K Jul 31 2001 let-it-rain.html Dir Jul 30 2001 shane-gets-it/ 16K Jul 29 2001 going-to-an-award-show Dir Jul 29 2001 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2001 something-special 16K Jun 15 2001 tell-me.html Dir Jun 13 2001 as-we-lay/ 5K Jun 13 2001 rough-trade 24K Jun 12 2001 coming-home-again 3K Jun 12 2001 promises-promises 14K Jun 12 2001 conquer-the-fire Dir Jun 11 2001 picking-up-the-pieces/ Dir Jun 8 2001 nick-kevin/ 19K Jun 7 2001 the-call.html Dir Jun 7 2001 meeting-carson/ 7K Jun 5 2001 just-a-kiss Dir Jun 5 2001 good-times-better-times/ Dir Jun 5 2001 devotion/ 12K Jun 4 2001 slumber-party 10K Jun 4 2001 snowy-day Dir Jun 4 2001 la-vita-e-bella/ 22K Jun 3 2001 the-lover-after-me Dir Jun 3 2001 cant-fight-the-moonlight/ Dir Jun 3 2001 through-anothers-eyes/ Dir Jun 1 2001 torn/ Dir Jun 1 2001 when-i-dream-at-night/ 25K May 29 2001 what-if.html Dir May 29 2001 sentimental-journey/ 9K May 29 2001 letters-to-my-garbage-can Dir May 27 2001 if-i-am/ Dir May 26 2001 falling/ Dir May 26 2001 where-you-are/ Dir May 26 2001 gemini/ Dir May 25 2001 dreams/ Dir May 25 2001 dangerously-in-lust/ Dir May 24 2001 a-love-so-blind/ Dir May 24 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30 2001 singer-and-an-englishman/ Dir Jan 30 2001 sometimes-dreams-come-true/ Dir Jan 28 2001 blissful-tears/ Dir Jan 27 2001 dreams-can-come-true/ Dir Jan 26 2001 endgame/ 19K Jan 25 2001 ego-ii 6K Jan 24 2001 justin-timberlakes-destiny Dir Jan 23 2001 savage-garden-picture-show/ Dir Jan 23 2001 ill-be-good-for-you/ 28K Jan 22 2001 backstage-with-brian Dir Jan 22 2001 lance-and-justin/ Dir Jan 21 2001 people-change-with-time/ 11K Jan 20 2001 ill-never-stop.html Dir Jan 20 2001 hands-of-time/ Dir Jan 20 2001 still-every-time/ Dir Jan 19 2001 affirmation/ 22K Jan 17 2001 moving-on Dir Jan 16 2001 fated-love/ Dir Jan 16 2001 nsync-saga/ Dir Jan 16 2001 my-unlove-story/ 6K Jan 15 2001 eternity 4K Jan 14 2001 cold Dir Jan 14 2001 legends-and-heroes/ 22K Jan 12 2001 truth-behind-tear-glazed-eyes.html Dir Jan 12 2001 tearing-up-my-ass/ Dir Jan 12 2001 love-you-hate-you-get-lost/ Dir Jan 12 2001 on-the-down-low/ Dir Jan 12 2001 broken/ 11K Jan 11 2001 doomed-love 44K Jan 11 2001 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gift-of-love/ 6K Dec 26 1999 brian-and-greg Dir Dec 19 1999 dream-weaver/ Dir Dec 18 1999 singing-4-wrighter/ 14K Dec 11 1999 nick-and-aj Dir Dec 6 1999 two-sides-of-a-coin/ 7K Dec 3 1999 kev-and-nick-lakeside Dir Dec 1 1999 bradleys-new-beginning/ 3K Nov 27 1999 loves-sweet-loss Dir Nov 26 1999 i-want-it-that-way-series/ Dir Nov 26 1999 friends-forever/ 7K Nov 25 1999 just-for-grins Dir Nov 24 1999 brians-savior/ Dir Nov 21 1999 finding-love/ Dir Nov 19 1999 patterns-of-fate/ 11K Nov 19 1999 justin-and-nick 8K Nov 19 1999 surprise Dir Nov 16 1999 open-road/ Dir Nov 16 1999 bliss-of-love/ 13K Nov 15 1999 dream-come-true Dir Nov 14 1999 working-for-the-boys/ 96K Nov 11 1999 week-from-hell Dir Nov 11 1999 loving-nick/ Dir Nov 9 1999 soul-mates/ 7K Nov 7 1999 policeman-and-nsync Dir Nov 4 1999 nick-and-adam/ 5K Nov 1 1999 ill-still-love-you-more Dir Oct 30 1999 discovering-myself-with-brian/ 16K Oct 29 1999 hopelessly-human 52K Oct 27 1999 da-real-world 21K Oct 24 1999 kindred-souls Dir Oct 21 1999 kevinsync/ Dir Oct 20 1999 justin-and-alex/ 27K Oct 18 1999 entropy-saga Dir Oct 17 1999 crash-with-fame/ 3K Oct 13 1999 superlatives-results Dir Oct 12 1999 backstreet-bet/ Dir Oct 12 1999 mitch-and-lance/ 13K Oct 11 1999 doin-it Dir Oct 10 1999 nick-lachey/ Dir Oct 10 1999 two-worlds-collide/ 26K Oct 8 1999 brians-lost-love Dir Oct 3 1999 love-and-friendship-with-nsync/ 5K Oct 1 1999 superlatives Dir Oct 1 1999 justin-and-aj/ 15K Sep 30 1999 nsync-alternate-dimension 10K Sep 24 1999 wish-upon-a-star-1.html Dir Sep 23 1999 boys-in-the-limelight/ Dir Sep 23 1999 nsync-and-delwyn/ Dir Sep 20 1999 nsync-new-life/ Dir Sep 19 1999 whispers-in-the-night/ Dir Sep 17 1999 hand-of-fate/ Dir Sep 17 1999 love-on-tour/ 12K Sep 15 1999 john-and-lance Dir Sep 12 1999 justins-love/ Dir Sep 11 1999 will-and-rich/ Dir Sep 11 1999 bsb-addition/ Dir Sep 10 1999 forbidden-love/ Dir Sep 3 1999 98-degrees-and-bsb-all-star-tour/ 6K Aug 31 1999 my-day-with-nsync 17K Aug 28 1999 alone-but-loved Dir Aug 27 1999 nicks-florida/ Dir Aug 27 1999 brian-and-keith/ Dir Aug 23 1999 an-angels-life/ Dir Aug 20 1999 backstreet-love-affair/ Dir Aug 17 1999 nick-and-me/ Dir Aug 17 1999 backstreet-boy-toys/ Dir Aug 16 1999 justin-and-chris-forever/ Dir Aug 15 1999 the-real-kevin/ 5K Aug 13 1999 nick-and-andrew Dir Aug 12 1999 one-chance/ Dir Aug 2 1999 love-nsync/ Dir Jul 30 1999 bsb-stays-nsync/ 10K Jul 26 1999 its-always-98-degrees-for-me Dir Jul 25 1999 backstreet-boys-magic/ Dir Jul 17 1999 significant-other/ 15K Jul 15 1999 one-night-stand Dir Jul 13 1999 brian-in-love/ Dir Jul 10 1999 touring-with-the-boys/ Dir Jul 8 1999 shaun-and-jc/ 8K Jul 8 1999 bsb-kevin Dir Jul 6 1999 my-angel-nsl/ Dir Jul 6 1999 b-roks-10000-promises/ 7K Jul 5 1999 larger-than-life Dir Jun 30 1999 nobody-but-you/ 32K Jun 29 1999 dave-and-jc 5K Jun 28 1999 sideswept-by-nsync Dir Jun 27 1999 brush-with-fame/ 4K Jun 25 1999 steps-meet-a1 20K Jun 22 1999 the-first-time 132K Jun 21 1999 for-jcs-love 24K Jun 20 1999 day-at-cheirons Dir Jun 20 1999 protection/ 7K Jun 19 1999 cumming-together Dir Jun 17 1999 lifes-little-entanglements/ 8K Jun 16 1999 i-want-it-that-way 7K May 30 1999 story-of-love Dir May 24 1999 n-s-l/ 17K May 24 1999 thats-what-he-said Dir May 15 1999 just-ryan/ 4K May 13 1999 my-night-with-nick-carter 27K May 13 1999 brian-l-my-superstar 28K Mar 31 1999 hey-lance 15K Mar 15 1999 just-for-brian Dir Mar 15 1999 brian-and-zhane/ 58K Mar 15 1999 entranced-teens Dir Mar 13 1999 backstreet-lust/ 18K Mar 3 1999 i-think-i-love-you-b-rok Dir Feb 9 1999 backstreet/ Dir Feb 8 1999 bsb-me/ 6K Feb 8 1999 98-degrees-drews-love 12K Feb 1 1999 gil-and-justin Dir Jan 20 1999 backstreet-boys-sixth-member/ 19K Dec 28 1998 bravo-all-stars Dir Sep 17 1998 banging-b-rok/ 12K Mar 13 1997 backstreet-banging-with-boys

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: boy-bands</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"><div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 2 21:55</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/yesterdays-end/">yesterdays-end/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 26 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/drowning/">drowning/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/change-of-heart/">change-of-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 17 2015</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dizzy/">dizzy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 2014</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-angel/">lances-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Sep 5 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/moon-of-darkness">moon-of-darkness</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 2 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jolans-path/">jolans-path/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 28 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-2-justin/">brian-2-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>56K</td><td>Mar 1 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/everyones-least-favorite">everyones-least-favorite</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-i-have-to-give/">all-i-have-to-give/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 4 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/looking-for-love-in-all-the-right-places/">looking-for-love-in-all-the-right-places/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 3 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-want-to-lose-you-now">dont-want-to-lose-you-now</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 19 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-another-life/">in-another-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 2 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/spade-is-a-spade/">spade-is-a-spade/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>May 24 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-self-exploration">justins-self-exploration</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 23 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-in-my-head">all-in-my-head</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 12 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/insomnia/">insomnia/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Jan 30 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/twenty-one.html">twenty-one.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 25 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/halloween-party-revised/">halloween-party-revised/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Dec 19 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-justin-put-on-a-show">nick-and-justin-put-on-a-show</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 8 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/alone-together/">alone-together/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Oct 29 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-drive-myself-crazy">i-drive-myself-crazy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 18 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/power-of-love">power-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 17 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sweet-december">sweet-december</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 17 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/head-over-heels">head-over-heels</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Oct 9 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-i-ever-wanted">all-i-ever-wanted</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Oct 8 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/between-the-worlds">between-the-worlds</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 8 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-game-is-over/">the-game-is-over/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Oct 8 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forever-yours">forever-yours</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Oct 6 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/as-the-test-tube-turns">as-the-test-tube-turns</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 5 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/god-must-have-spent-a-little-more-time-on-you/">god-must-have-spent-a-little-more-time-on-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 3 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/waiting-for-the-moon/">waiting-for-the-moon/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 16 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-drive-me-nuts">you-drive-me-nuts</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jun 25 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/unexpected">unexpected</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/long-road-home/">long-road-home/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-brought-us-together/">love-brought-us-together/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 23 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/baby.html">baby.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Feb 18 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/missing-you.html">missing-you.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 7 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-angel/">justins-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 8 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whos-that-girl/">whos-that-girl/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 28 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/switch/">switch/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>31K</td><td>Oct 22 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-one-and-only">my-one-and-only</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Oct 19 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/test-the-waters">test-the-waters</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Sep 29 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secrets-and-lies">secrets-and-lies</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 2 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-ruined-me/">you-ruined-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jun 15 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/video-gamiing-with-nsync">video-gamiing-with-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/magikal-gift/">magikal-gift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 8 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mcfly-almost-haunted/">mcfly-almost-haunted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angels-wings/">angels-wings/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 17 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/say-a-little-prayer/">say-a-little-prayer/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-jc-and-astral-fan/">lance-jc-and-astral-fan/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 14 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-dark-night/">one-dark-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 5 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-everything/">my-everything/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 22 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nj-and-justin/">nj-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 2 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-concert/">the-concert/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 27 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost-without-you/">lost-without-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Mar 9 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coming-home">coming-home</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 5 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-kinda-guy/">my-kinda-guy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 28 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/see-right-through-you/">see-right-through-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 27 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-immortal-beloved/">my-immortal-beloved/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 30 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/model-me/">model-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/soundtrack-to-your-life/">soundtrack-to-your-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Dec 18 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/public-relations">public-relations</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 18 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rivals-series/">rivals-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 13 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-harry-meets-brian/">when-harry-meets-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 18 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-new-life/">my-new-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 17 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-way-you-do/">the-way-you-do/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 6 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-nurse/">the-nurse/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 27 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-a-real-dark-knight/">tales-of-a-real-dark-knight/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/want/">want/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 19 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lovely-temptation/">lovely-temptation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 15 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/codename-phoenix/">codename-phoenix/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 27 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-glamorous-life/">the-glamorous-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jul 25 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shower-fun.html">shower-fun.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 13 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/foolish-beat/">foolish-beat/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 6 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-deep-is-your-love/">how-deep-is-your-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Jun 23 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shower-fun">shower-fun</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 23 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/runaways/">runaways/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 21 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/he-got-me/">he-got-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jun 19 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/why-oh-why">why-oh-why</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 17 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-go">dont-go</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-ordinary-love/">no-ordinary-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 1 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nifty-news/">nifty-news/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 10 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/star-encounter/">star-encounter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Apr 23 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-bloodlust">lances-bloodlust</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 16 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-you-put-your-hands-on-me/">when-you-put-your-hands-on-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 12 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-meet-a-redneck/">nsync-meet-a-redneck/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/object-of-his-affection/">object-of-his-affection/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/summer-daze/">summer-daze/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 2 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meeting-love/">meeting-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 30 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/destiny-of-an-earth/">destiny-of-an-earth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Mar 28 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/aaron-and-nick">aaron-and-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 26 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secret-love/">secret-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mcfly-and-rooster/">mcfly-and-rooster/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 10 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shut-up/">shut-up/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Feb 5 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/because-of-you">because-of-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 22 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/melancholy/">melancholy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 15 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bunking-with-jc/">bunking-with-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 14 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-only-i-could/">if-only-i-could/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 14 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/musicmaker">musicmaker</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 12 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/paranoia/">paranoia/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Dec 30 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kind-of-perfect">kind-of-perfect</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crazy-cajun/">crazy-cajun/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 19 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lottery-winner/">lottery-winner/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 17 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/safest-place-to-hide/">safest-place-to-hide/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Nov 14 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forever.html">forever.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Oct 28 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/changing-rooms">changing-rooms</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 27 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pattycake/">pattycake/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Oct 23 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreamscape">dreamscape</a></td></tr> <tr><td>29K</td><td>Oct 22 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-because-of-a-storm.html">all-because-of-a-storm.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Oct 20 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/busted.html">busted.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 15 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-family/">my-family/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Oct 14 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pizza-boy-delivers.html">pizza-boy-delivers.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 22 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-call">last-call</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 20 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/incomplete/">incomplete/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-love-for-james/">a-love-for-james/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 14 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/life-saga/">life-saga/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Sep 10 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/those-bright-green-eyes">those-bright-green-eyes</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 1 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/picking-up-the-pieces-of-my-life/">picking-up-the-pieces-of-my-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 31 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/joint-affairs/">joint-affairs/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 22 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost-and-found-series/">lost-and-found-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Jul 30 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/from-now-to-forever.html">from-now-to-forever.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blind-faith/">blind-faith/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 18 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/confessions">confessions</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/that-day/">that-day/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/big-mistake/">big-mistake/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 2 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-his-eyes/">in-his-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 1 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mcfly/">mcfly/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 27 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/slayers-legacy/">slayers-legacy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/true-love-with-justin-timberlake/">true-love-with-justin-timberlake/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mark-and-rye/">mark-and-rye/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 10 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-is-justified/">nick-is-justified/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 4 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-i-see/">what-i-see/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>May 14 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/six-feet-from-heaven">six-feet-from-heaven</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Apr 26 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/and-i-love-him">and-i-love-him</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 25 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dougies-private-fantasy/">dougies-private-fantasy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Apr 24 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fucking-you-at-3am">fucking-you-at-3am</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 20 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-i-feel-for-you/">what-i-feel-for-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/more-mcfly/">more-mcfly/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 9 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/graduation-present/">graduation-present/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Mar 15 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/surprised">surprised</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 9 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-and-the-actor/">jc-and-the-actor/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 9 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/busted-by-busted/">busted-by-busted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 6 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/everytime/">everytime/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 28 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/journal-of-the-undead/">journal-of-the-undead/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 26 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tail-of-the-tiger/">tail-of-the-tiger/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 15 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angelic-damnation/">angelic-damnation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 7 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-i-want-is-you/">all-i-want-is-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shooting-star/">shooting-star/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-chris/">justin-and-chris/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 29 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/up-and-cumming-4deep/">up-and-cumming-4deep/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 25 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-i-aint-got-you/">if-i-aint-got-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 21 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/x-sync/">x-sync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 16 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-too-much/">never-too-much/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 10 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreams-of-an-angel/">dreams-of-an-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-and-music/">love-and-music/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 8 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/yesterdays-letter/">yesterdays-letter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 26 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/degree-my-love/">degree-my-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Nov 21 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mcfly-poynter-jones">mcfly-poynter-jones</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 15 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secret-lives/">secret-lives/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Oct 30 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chris-dream-come-true">chris-dream-come-true</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Oct 26 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-star-pop-tour">all-star-pop-tour</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 24 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-the-new-phoenix/">tales-of-the-new-phoenix/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 22 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-ashley/">nick-and-ashley/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 26 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kiss-and-tell-kind-of-guy/">kiss-and-tell-kind-of-guy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-want-your-love/">i-want-your-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 11 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-a-thunder-god/">tales-of-a-thunder-god/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Sep 1 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-storm">the-storm</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/busted-love/">busted-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Jul 15 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cant-breathe-without-you">cant-breathe-without-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 30 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/it-started-in-a-locked-dressing-room/">it-started-in-a-locked-dressing-room/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 24 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-laid-plans/">best-laid-plans/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 14 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-trinity/">the-trinity/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Jun 12 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blazin-boys">blazin-boys</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/where-do-we-go/">where-do-we-go/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 7 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-night-with-howie-d/">my-night-with-howie-d/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 29 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/joeys-super-hero/">joeys-super-hero/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>May 19 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-latter-days">lances-latter-days</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Apr 26 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-first-love">brians-first-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 24 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blue-love/">blue-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 13 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-fresh-start/">a-fresh-start/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 31 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/learning-how-to-fly/">learning-how-to-fly/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-dustin/">kevin-and-dustin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Mar 24 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pretty-bet">pretty-bet</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Mar 22 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevins-new-camera.html">kevins-new-camera.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 20 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-real-man.html">a-real-man.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-cry-over-spilled-coffee/">dont-cry-over-spilled-coffee/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 28 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-soulmate/">brians-soulmate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Feb 15 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/post-valentines">post-valentines</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/danny-and-lance/">danny-and-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/celebrity/">celebrity/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Jan 10 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-an-alien-body">in-an-alien-body</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 7 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/maze-of-moments/">maze-of-moments/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 4 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-the-truth/">just-the-truth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/next-generation-boys-meet-dream-street/">next-generation-boys-meet-dream-street/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Dec 28 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bens-panty-fetish">bens-panty-fetish</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 2 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/time-stood-still/">time-stood-still/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kian-gets/">kian-gets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/DS/">DS/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-me/">brian-and-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chasing-matt/">chasing-matt/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/set-adrift/">set-adrift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 17 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/light-in-the-ashes/">light-in-the-ashes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Oct 10 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/some-things-found">some-things-found</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/s-club-ate-me/">s-club-ate-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 7 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/affairs-of-the-heart/">affairs-of-the-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 28 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-seven-seas-of-loneliness/">brians-seven-seas-of-loneliness/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Sep 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-can-make-the-story-right">you-can-make-the-story-right</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Sep 21 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/turning-the-air-blue">turning-the-air-blue</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 16 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meeting-at-the-lake/">meeting-at-the-lake/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blind-revolution/">blind-revolution/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 8 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mistaken-dreams/">mistaken-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 7 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-brian/">nick-and-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 2 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angel-boy/">angel-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 31 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevins-twink/">kevins-twink/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 29 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/french-kiss-me/">french-kiss-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/search-and-rescue/">search-and-rescue/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/music-shatters-ice/">music-shatters-ice/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 23 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-street-slave/">dream-street-slave/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/spinning-nick/">spinning-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 18 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/studio-in-the-country/">studio-in-the-country/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 15 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hearts-of-ash/">hearts-of-ash/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/needing-you/">needing-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 13 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/waiting-for-our-love/">waiting-for-our-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Aug 7 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-a-human-spider">tales-of-a-human-spider</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 3 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/moving-forward/">moving-forward/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 2 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mom-knows-best/">mom-knows-best/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 1 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sex-n-the-city/">sex-n-the-city/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 30 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-jack/">brian-and-jack/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 29 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blind-date/">blind-date/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/translator/">translator/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/light-in-the-tunnel/">light-in-the-tunnel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-little-randy/">my-little-randy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/somewhere-i-belong/">somewhere-i-belong/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jul 21 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/westlifes-true-colours">westlifes-true-colours</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 20 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-the-ways-i-love-you/">all-the-ways-i-love-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 20 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/once-in-a-lifetime-love/">once-in-a-lifetime-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/it-happened-one-summer/">it-happened-one-summer/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rebound/">rebound/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tearing-up-my-heart/">tearing-up-my-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-the-witch-and-the-bathrobe/">lance-the-witch-and-the-bathrobe/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jul 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dinner-party">dinner-party</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 3 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-solo-artists/">two-solo-artists/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/seann-and-justin/">seann-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Jun 16 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/new-voyage">new-voyage</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 15 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-lance-my-love/">my-lance-my-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mile-high-club/">mile-high-club/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jun 5 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/object-of-my-affection">object-of-my-affection</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 30 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/phone-call/">phone-call/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 28 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-his-teacher/">justin-and-his-teacher/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>May 23 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/standing-in-shadows">standing-in-shadows</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 15 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/facing-betrayal/">facing-betrayal/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-surprise-romance/">my-surprise-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 11 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-it-costs-too-much/">when-it-costs-too-much/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 11 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-alone-in-love/">all-alone-in-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-girlfriend-made-me-do-it/">my-girlfriend-made-me-do-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/josh-and-just/">josh-and-just/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>May 8 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wont-tell">wont-tell</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 1 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-shoot/">the-shoot/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/reformation/">reformation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Apr 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/master-cory">master-cory</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 24 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/right-for-me/">right-for-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Apr 23 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/baby-im-pregnant">baby-im-pregnant</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 21 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/perfect-couple/">perfect-couple/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 21 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/get-another-boyfriend/">get-another-boyfriend/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 15 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/darius-feeling-blue/">darius-feeling-blue/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/baby-story/">baby-story/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sixteen-and-famous/">sixteen-and-famous/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/being-justified/">being-justified/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-had-a-dream-come-true/">never-had-a-dream-come-true/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/securing-justins-heart/">securing-justins-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/human-all-too-human/">human-all-too-human/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bad-boy-b-rok/">bad-boy-b-rok/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Mar 26 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-last-dance">the-last-dance</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 24 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/irresponsible/">irresponsible/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 17 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-and-martin/">lance-and-martin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Mar 17 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/letters">letters</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Mar 16 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/worth-it">worth-it</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 5 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-the-streets/">on-the-streets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Feb 24 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-become-one">two-become-one</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 23 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/same-old-brand-new-you/">same-old-brand-new-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Feb 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/poor-howie">poor-howie</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-a-superhero-band/">tales-of-a-superhero-band/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Feb 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/second-time-lucky">second-time-lucky</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/where-can-we-go-from-here/">where-can-we-go-from-here/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-gift/">this-gift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/playing-with-fire/">playing-with-fire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 3 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sans-vous-je-suis-rien/">sans-vous-je-suis-rien/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 2 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/at-what-point/">at-what-point/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Feb 1 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ajs-angel">ajs-angel</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Feb 1 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/baby">baby</a></td></tr> <tr><td>41K</td><td>Jan 30 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/birthday-blues">birthday-blues</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 29 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/touring-with-nsync/">touring-with-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fool/">fool/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-want-you-back/">i-want-you-back/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whatever-it-takes/">whatever-it-takes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 14 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angelic/">angelic/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jan 11 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/offworlders">offworlders</a></td></tr> <tr><td>59K</td><td>Jan 10 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/serendipity">serendipity</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 5 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/black-eyes-blue-tears/">black-eyes-blue-tears/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Jan 5 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/short-stories.html">short-stories.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>29K</td><td>Jan 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-christmas.html">last-christmas.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/falling-for-an-old-friend/">falling-for-an-old-friend/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 1 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/night-of-no-tomorrow/">night-of-no-tomorrow/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 30 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/holding-back/">holding-back/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/double-take/">double-take/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/floating-on-cloud-98/">floating-on-cloud-98/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/playing-from-the-heart/">playing-from-the-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-who/">lance-who/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Dec 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/unsuspected-meeting">unsuspected-meeting</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/unlikely-unions/">unlikely-unions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-mikey-ethan/">lance-mikey-ethan/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rival-hearts/">rival-hearts/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Dec 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/saint-nick.html">saint-nick.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chance-and-brian/">chance-and-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 12 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tales-of-a-guardian/">tales-of-a-guardian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/like-the-rain/">like-the-rain/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>55K</td><td>Dec 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ill-make-love-to-you.html">ill-make-love-to-you.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blue-boy/">blue-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/life-is-what-you-make-of-it/">life-is-what-you-make-of-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/elaborate-lives/">elaborate-lives/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Dec 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/christmas-wish.html">christmas-wish.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heir-to-the-darkness/">heir-to-the-darkness/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Nov 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-story-of-us">the-story-of-us</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-stag-party/">justins-stag-party/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/encountering-nick/">encountering-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Nov 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/goldilocks">goldilocks</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fame-love-and-reality/">fame-love-and-reality/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Nov 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mr-bojangles">mr-bojangles</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 15 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/encounter-in-the-sand/">encounter-in-the-sand/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jeff-and-justin/">jeff-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/yeah-its-ff/">yeah-its-ff/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Nov 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cindrewella">cindrewella</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-guess-who-ran-into-me-today/">never-guess-who-ran-into-me-today/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>25K</td><td>Nov 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boy-witch-project">boy-witch-project</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Oct 31 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kiss-from-a-rose.html">kiss-from-a-rose.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/after-dark/">after-dark/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/southern-couple/">southern-couple/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-assignment/">on-assignment/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/godspeed">godspeed</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Oct 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mirror-mirror-on-the-wall">mirror-mirror-on-the-wall</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/first-impression/">first-impression/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-friend-and-his-little-brother/">my-friend-and-his-little-brother/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-i-want-is-what-ive-got/">what-i-want-is-what-ive-got/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/going-deep-with-nick-carter">going-deep-with-nick-carter</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Oct 5 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/somewhere">somewhere</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Oct 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-justin-ashley">nick-justin-ashley</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/learning-curve/">learning-curve/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/second-toughest-in-the-infants/">second-toughest-in-the-infants/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-am-here-for-you/">i-am-here-for-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Sep 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eyes-wide-shut">eyes-wide-shut</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thats-where-you-take-me/">thats-where-you-take-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-way-conversation/">two-way-conversation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-pharell">justin-and-pharell</a></td></tr> <tr><td>71K</td><td>Sep 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tangle">tangle</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 16 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pains-of-forgetfulness/">pains-of-forgetfulness/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Sep 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dejected">dejected</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coverup-girlfriend/">coverup-girlfriend/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Sep 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angels-above-the-sky">angels-above-the-sky</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-if-series/">what-if-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nights-and-days/">nights-and-days/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jcs-hitchhiker/">jcs-hitchhiker/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Aug 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-producer">the-producer</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whistle-down-the-wind/">whistle-down-the-wind/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/under-management/">under-management/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Aug 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-flight-with-nick">my-flight-with-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Aug 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heart-of-stone">heart-of-stone</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Aug 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tattoos-and-curls">tattoos-and-curls</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Aug 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-day-but-today">no-day-but-today</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-and-justins-love/">lance-and-justins-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Aug 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/help-me">help-me</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Aug 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bonds-of-power">bonds-of-power</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crossing-boundaries/">crossing-boundaries/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/winding-road-of-passion/">winding-road-of-passion/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cant-run-away/">cant-run-away/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/so-my-heart-flies/">so-my-heart-flies/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Aug 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/is-this-love">is-this-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-and-michael/">lance-and-michael/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kian-bares-all/">kian-bares-all/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/getting-it-back/">getting-it-back/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-dare-made-me-see-the-truth/">a-dare-made-me-see-the-truth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 31 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/finish-my-song/">finish-my-song/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>45K</td><td>Jul 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/drews-birthday">drews-birthday</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/studio-favor">studio-favor</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/at-what-price-love/">at-what-price-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/we-went-crazy-dude/">we-went-crazy-dude/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/inner-commitment/">inner-commitment/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/good-life/">good-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/welcome-to-paradise/">welcome-to-paradise/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-secrets/">justins-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jul 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a1-the-dream">a1-the-dream</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jul 19 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/birthday-present-for-josh">birthday-present-for-josh</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thieves/">thieves/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jul 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/august-8.html">august-8.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/double-jointed/">double-jointed/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/objection/">objection/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>56K</td><td>Jul 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wanna-be-singer">wanna-be-singer</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a1-show">a1-show</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jul 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/imperfect-boyfriend">imperfect-boyfriend</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jul 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nickys-paradise">nickys-paradise</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cheeky-monkey/">cheeky-monkey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreamstreet-love/">dreamstreet-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/2gether-truth-or-dare/">2gether-truth-or-dare/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jun 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/perfect-neighbor.html">perfect-neighbor.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-need-you-tonight/">i-need-you-tonight/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jun 19 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-if">what-if</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jun 19 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-dont-know.html">you-dont-know.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-another-day/">just-another-day/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wet-dreams/">wet-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heartstrings/">heartstrings/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/infinite-love/">infinite-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Jun 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jealousy.html">jealousy.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-dancer/">justins-dancer/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jun 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/surrender">surrender</a></td></tr> <tr><td>62K</td><td>Jun 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-summer-knows.html">the-summer-knows.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kian-and-friends/">kian-and-friends/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/down-on-dream-street/">down-on-dream-street/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/playing-doctor-with-98-degrees/">playing-doctor-with-98-degrees/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/trip-to-grammys/">trip-to-grammys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-tour-with-nsync/">on-tour-with-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-redemption/">justin-and-redemption/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>May 16 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/conversation-on-the-stairs.html">conversation-on-the-stairs.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 15 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-got-what-you-need/">i-got-what-you-need/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/top-or-bottom/">top-or-bottom/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 12 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sins-and-saviors/">sins-and-saviors/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>May 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-real">its-real</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 5 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-story/">lances-story/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/our-song/">our-song/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/westlife-romance/">westlife-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Apr 30 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coffee-tales">coffee-tales</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/though-he-only-be-mortal/">though-he-only-be-mortal/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blood-angel/">blood-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Apr 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ashley-and-josh">ashley-and-josh</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/artificial-love/">artificial-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/keeping-secrets/">keeping-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>34K</td><td>Apr 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-boy">justins-boy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Apr 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blakes-crush">blakes-crush</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Apr 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstage-life">backstage-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-the-mighty-have-fallen/">how-the-mighty-have-fallen/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Apr 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-street-two">dream-street-two</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 16 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pinball-wizard/">pinball-wizard/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-chris/">kevin-and-chris/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thank-you-for-loving-me/">thank-you-for-loving-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/incomplete-harmony/">incomplete-harmony/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/order-of-light/">order-of-light/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/three-words/">three-words/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/easter-egg-hunt/">easter-egg-hunt/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dare-to-dream/">dare-to-dream/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/begin-anew/">begin-anew/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/poor-little-rich-boy/">poor-little-rich-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/joshs-heart/">joshs-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/something-like-justin/">something-like-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/powers-that-be/">powers-that-be/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 5 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/start-of-something-great/">start-of-something-great/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/millennium-love/">millennium-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/building-dreams/">building-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/suburbia/">suburbia/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Apr 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/matt-and-mark">matt-and-mark</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-hearts-assunder/">bsb-hearts-assunder/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Mar 31 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/easter-sunday">easter-sunday</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/barcelona-7">barcelona-7</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 28 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/stuff-happens">stuff-happens</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Mar 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/true-blue">true-blue</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-complications/">nsync-complications/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shape-of-my-heart/">shape-of-my-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/koty/">koty/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Mar 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/problems-within">problems-within</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Mar 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dear-diary">dear-diary</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Mar 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/easter-bunny">easter-bunny</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-justin/">brian-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/special-someone/">special-someone/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/xtreme-nsync/">xtreme-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 15 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-with-my-premonitions/">nsync-with-my-premonitions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Mar 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/quarks-flaws-and-sleepless-nights">quarks-flaws-and-sleepless-nights</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 12 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/o-town-and-me/">o-town-and-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coming-out-of-the-dark/">coming-out-of-the-dark/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 10 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/curly-and-josh/">curly-and-josh/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whip-lash/">whip-lash/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>38K</td><td>Mar 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/from-the-inside-out">from-the-inside-out</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Mar 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ryans-life">ryans-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 5 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-love-i-always-wanted/">the-love-i-always-wanted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-between-two-friends">love-between-two-friends</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-crazy-summer/">one-crazy-summer/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chance-meeting/">chance-meeting/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blue-movie/">blue-movie/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-tommy/">brian-and-tommy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/british-beef/">british-beef/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Feb 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-and-pleasure.html">love-and-pleasure.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>36K</td><td>Feb 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/remember-when.html">remember-when.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-is-up-where-we-belong/">love-is-up-where-we-belong/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost-souls/">lost-souls/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>51K</td><td>Feb 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/come-what-may">come-what-may</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boybands-family/">boybands-family/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Feb 18 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/by-myself">by-myself</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Feb 14 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-mucho-valentine">my-mucho-valentine</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-of-wishes/">best-of-wishes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 13 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-and-dan/">lance-and-dan/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 12 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/colors-of-love/">colors-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 12 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-key/">the-key/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-do-i-say/">how-do-i-say/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/and-i-swear/">and-i-swear/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dark-skies/">dark-skies/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/phoenix-rising/">phoenix-rising/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 29 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-love-we-have/">the-love-we-have/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beautiful">beautiful</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-cant-escape-my-love/">you-cant-escape-my-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jan 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/clearview-chronicles">clearview-chronicles</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 26 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pop-magic/">pop-magic/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-jc-lance/">justin-jc-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jamies-romance/">jamies-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-dreams/">jc-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 23 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/night-to-remember">night-to-remember</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-be-or-not-to-be/">to-be-or-not-to-be/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 21 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blinked-boyband/">blinked-boyband/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jan 17 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-within">dream-within</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 15 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dans-love/">dans-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 9 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gotta-love-milk">gotta-love-milk</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/things-dont-always-turn-out-that-way/">things-dont-always-turn-out-that-way/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ten-things/">ten-things/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jan 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secrets-of-lothlorien">secrets-of-lothlorien</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/halloween-party/">halloween-party/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jan 6 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/that-night">that-night</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/decisions/">decisions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 4 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sexual-healing-series/">sexual-healing-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-makes-a-man/">what-makes-a-man/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jackson-taylor-reporter-to-the-stars/">jackson-taylor-reporter-to-the-stars/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>29K</td><td>Jan 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cheating-game">cheating-game</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-zack/">justin-and-zack/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-brian/">just-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jan 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-true-angel">one-true-angel</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/umm-whatever/">umm-whatever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/libra/">libra/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/passions-of-the-young/">passions-of-the-young/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/grand-finale/">grand-finale/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-its-over/">when-its-over/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hot-and-humid/">hot-and-humid/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-and-friendship/">love-and-friendship/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beginning-of-something-wonderful/">beginning-of-something-wonderful/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Dec 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/guys-who-like-nsync">guys-who-like-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fates-helping-hand/">fates-helping-hand/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/remains-of-being-human/">remains-of-being-human/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/seahawks-cruise/">seahawks-cruise/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-my-pretty-boy-sleeps/">when-my-pretty-boy-sleeps/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/little-white-lies/">little-white-lies/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-you-knew/">if-you-knew/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/miss-you-most-at-christmas-time.html">miss-you-most-at-christmas-time.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Dec 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lets-make-love.html">lets-make-love.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Dec 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/together-for-christmas.html">together-for-christmas.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heavy-thinking">heavy-thinking</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Dec 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/would-you-mind.html">would-you-mind.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tender-love-and-care/">tender-love-and-care/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/garden-of-songs/">garden-of-songs/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Dec 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blind-child.html">blind-child.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gifted/">gifted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boy-bands-and-the-city/">boy-bands-and-the-city/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/we-admitted-it/">we-admitted-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/vignettes/">vignettes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/selfish/">selfish/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/only-he-holds-the-key/">only-he-holds-the-key/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>36K</td><td>Nov 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-christmas-present-in-the-world.html">best-christmas-present-in-the-world.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hearts-combining/">hearts-combining/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/open-arms/">open-arms/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-meets-an-angel/">lance-meets-an-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/concertina/">concertina/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/everything-i-said/">everything-i-said/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fade-works-in-strange-ways/">fade-works-in-strange-ways/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/open-fire/">open-fire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/together-forever/">together-forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Nov 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brotherhood">brotherhood</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-thing-with-nick/">the-thing-with-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>30K</td><td>Nov 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/couldnt-tell">couldnt-tell</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/timeweave/">timeweave/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dying-eyes/">dying-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chasing-chasez/">chasing-chasez/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Nov 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-your-friends-dont-realize">what-your-friends-dont-realize</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Nov 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/times-lost">times-lost</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Nov 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/delayed-flight">delayed-flight</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-nick-lachey/">loving-nick-lachey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Nov 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sweet-december-original">sweet-december-original</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/twisted-history/">twisted-history/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-way-out/">no-way-out/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/midnight-thunder/">midnight-thunder/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Nov 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boyband-snow-white-and-the-seven-dwarves.html">boyband-snow-white-and-the-seven-dwarves.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>29K</td><td>Nov 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dancing-boys.html">dancing-boys.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/missing/">missing/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mad-season/">mad-season/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Oct 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/southern-conviction">southern-conviction</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-angel/">my-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cosmic-journey/">cosmic-journey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Oct 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-game-is-over-original">the-game-is-over-original</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Oct 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-first-day">the-first-day</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Oct 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/impressive-instant">impressive-instant</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/being-lonely/">being-lonely/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>43K</td><td>Oct 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/green-grass-of-home">green-grass-of-home</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shadows-of-the-past/">shadows-of-the-past/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-joey/">kevin-and-joey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/reach-for-it/">reach-for-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/runaway/">runaway/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/could-it-be-you/">could-it-be-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/second-time-around/">second-time-around/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-search/">lances-search/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>Oct 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-rescued-aaron">i-rescued-aaron</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-ever-die-again/">dont-ever-die-again/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/change-for-the-better/">change-for-the-better/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/real-slim-boyband/">real-slim-boyband/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lifes-discoveries/">lifes-discoveries/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/passion-in-fashion/">passion-in-fashion/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Oct 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meant-to-be-together">meant-to-be-together</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Oct 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a1-calling">a1-calling</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jimmy-needs-assistance/">jimmy-needs-assistance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Oct 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-carter-and-me">nick-carter-and-me</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Sep 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/aj-mclean-and-eminem">aj-mclean-and-eminem</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cruel-intentions/">cruel-intentions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hush-hush/">hush-hush/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-kchaera/">for-kchaera/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-jc/">my-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eternally-yours/">eternally-yours/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Sep 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hit-em-up-lance-style.html">hit-em-up-lance-style.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Sep 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsbs-toy">bsbs-toy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-joshs-love/">for-joshs-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/stephen-and-ronans-reconciliation/">stephen-and-ronans-reconciliation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-legends-meet-nsync/">the-legends-meet-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-the-vamps/">nsync-and-the-vamps/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost-innocence/">lost-innocence/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-gotta-be-you/">its-gotta-be-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Sep 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wet-n-wade">wet-n-wade</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/broken-hearted/">broken-hearted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-e-hollywood-story">justins-e-hollywood-story</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-dream/">jc-dream/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Sep 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/after-party">after-party</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-dont-know-you/">i-dont-know-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-words-and-intentions/">love-words-and-intentions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crossed-paths/">crossed-paths/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/specter/">specter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Sep 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-newspapers.html">the-newspapers.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/finding-a-belief/">finding-a-belief/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/because-i-love-you/">because-i-love-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-another-player/">just-another-player/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Sep 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ill-make-it-up-to-you">ill-make-it-up-to-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Sep 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/touching">touching</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pure/">pure/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kings-of-brit-pop/">kings-of-brit-pop/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreets/">backstreets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whispering-your-name/">whispering-your-name/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-nsync-chronicles/">bsb-nsync-chronicles/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/through-the-time-warp/">through-the-time-warp/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/breathless">breathless</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-kiss-good-night/">last-kiss-good-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/small-sacrifices/">small-sacrifices/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dance-with-me/">dance-with-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Sep 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/another-dumb-blonde">another-dumb-blonde</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/watch-the-hair/">watch-the-hair/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>35K</td><td>Aug 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/enlightenment">enlightenment</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Aug 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-was-i-to-know">how-was-i-to-know</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/strobe-light-romance">strobe-light-romance</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/2-be-3/">2-be-3/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eventually/">eventually/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-more-you-ignore-me/">the-more-you-ignore-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/full-circle/">full-circle/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/games-of-desire/">games-of-desire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/as-yet-untitled/">as-yet-untitled/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/every-little-thing-i-do/">every-little-thing-i-do/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forgotten-past-living-future/">forgotten-past-living-future/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forever/">forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heres-to-the-night/">heres-to-the-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/medieval-love/">medieval-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>25K</td><td>Aug 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/perfection.html">perfection.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/zany-romance/">zany-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-hot-day">one-hot-day</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mine-in-private/">mine-in-private/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-more/">no-more/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/d-evolution/">d-evolution/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-pop-life/">this-pop-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rimmin-robbie">rimmin-robbie</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/losing-control/">losing-control/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Aug 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-all-stars">not-all-stars</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/twist-of-fate/">twist-of-fate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/power-of-six/">power-of-six/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Aug 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/variation-participation">variation-participation</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/industry-and-emotion">industry-and-emotion</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/revelations-series/">revelations-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-mix-up/">the-mix-up/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/why/">why/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/scared/">scared/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/music-to-my-ears/">music-to-my-ears/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nightmare-before-dawn/">nightmare-before-dawn/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jul 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/let-it-rain.html">let-it-rain.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shane-gets-it/">shane-gets-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Jul 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/going-to-an-award-show">going-to-an-award-show</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mile-high-meeting/">mile-high-meeting/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-thats-what-it-takes/">if-thats-what-it-takes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-lay-my-cock-on-you/">i-lay-my-cock-on-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/king-of-sorrow/">king-of-sorrow/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/seduction-of-the-mind/">seduction-of-the-mind/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/alright">alright</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-not-just-me/">its-not-just-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lone-ranger-or-zorro/">lone-ranger-or-zorro/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/doggy-style/">doggy-style/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wooing-my-beloved/">wooing-my-beloved/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hey-mickey/">hey-mickey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/trust-me/">trust-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thank-god-i-found-you/">thank-god-i-found-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-street-secrets/">dream-street-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dead-rivalry">dead-rivalry</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cousins-payback/">cousins-payback/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/web-of-deceit/">web-of-deceit/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>50K</td><td>Jul 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angel-on-his-back">angel-on-his-back</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/intimate-stranger/">intimate-stranger/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crossed-lines/">crossed-lines/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jul 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-beautiful-anymore">not-beautiful-anymore</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/legend-of-bellancia/">legend-of-bellancia/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-broken-bonds/">bsb-broken-bonds/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-strings-attached/">no-strings-attached/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/while-you-loved-me/">while-you-loved-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sucks-to-be-you/">sucks-to-be-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Jul 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/admitting-the-truth.html">admitting-the-truth.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/moulin-rouge/">moulin-rouge/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-until-you-love-me/">not-until-you-love-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-truth/">the-truth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Jul 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/reasons.html">reasons.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/turn-around/">turn-around/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/simple-twist-of-fate/">simple-twist-of-fate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/these-reminders-of-you/">these-reminders-of-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/threes-a-charm/">threes-a-charm/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-journal/">justins-journal/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jul 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/any-dream-will-do">any-dream-will-do</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/night-in-ottawa/">night-in-ottawa/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/need-you-tonight">need-you-tonight</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-know">i-know</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/watching-you-without-me/">watching-you-without-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-debt/">the-debt/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/every-little-thing-you-do/">every-little-thing-you-do/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jul 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/stars-of-love">stars-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pop-high/">pop-high/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-to-be-with-you/">just-to-be-with-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/black-and-blue/">black-and-blue/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/unconditional-love/">unconditional-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/yellow/">yellow/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/body-switch-with-nick-carter/">body-switch-with-nick-carter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jun 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/frozen">frozen</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Jun 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kian-and-shane">kian-and-shane</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-shared-room">a-shared-room</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-the-altos/">nick-and-the-altos/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/conquering-the-straight-boy/">conquering-the-straight-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/searching-for-lost-souls/">searching-for-lost-souls/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-justins-love/">for-justins-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/work-of-art">work-of-art</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Jun 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-do-you-like-them-apples">how-do-you-like-them-apples</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/black-magic/">black-magic/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jun 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/something-special">something-special</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Jun 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tell-me.html">tell-me.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/as-we-lay/">as-we-lay/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rough-trade">rough-trade</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Jun 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coming-home-again">coming-home-again</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jun 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/promises-promises">promises-promises</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jun 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/conquer-the-fire">conquer-the-fire</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/picking-up-the-pieces/">picking-up-the-pieces/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-kevin/">nick-kevin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Jun 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-call.html">the-call.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meeting-carson/">meeting-carson/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jun 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-a-kiss">just-a-kiss</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/good-times-better-times/">good-times-better-times/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/devotion/">devotion/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jun 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/slumber-party">slumber-party</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jun 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/snowy-day">snowy-day</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/la-vita-e-bella/">la-vita-e-bella/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jun 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-lover-after-me">the-lover-after-me</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cant-fight-the-moonlight/">cant-fight-the-moonlight/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/through-anothers-eyes/">through-anothers-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/torn/">torn/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-i-dream-at-night/">when-i-dream-at-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>25K</td><td>May 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-if.html">what-if.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sentimental-journey/">sentimental-journey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>May 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/letters-to-my-garbage-can">letters-to-my-garbage-can</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-i-am/">if-i-am/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/falling/">falling/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/where-you-are/">where-you-are/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gemini/">gemini/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreams/">dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dangerously-in-lust/">dangerously-in-lust/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-love-so-blind/">a-love-so-blind/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-know-what-you-had/">never-know-what-you-had/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/open-your-heart/">open-your-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/prisoner-of-love/">prisoner-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>May 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/stephens-story">stephens-story</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>May 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/starfucker">starfucker</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>May 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/time">time</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/werewolves-and-boybands-and-tours/">werewolves-and-boybands-and-tours/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-lance-n-jc/">nsync-lance-n-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mtv-2gether/">mtv-2gether/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/darkness-world/">darkness-world/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-movie/">justins-movie/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-so-unlucky-break/">not-so-unlucky-break/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shining-star/">shining-star/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/route-66-rocks/">route-66-rocks/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mysteries-unspoken/">mysteries-unspoken/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/temptations/">temptations/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thin-line-between-love-and-hate/">thin-line-between-love-and-hate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/superman-and-mr-smooth/">superman-and-mr-smooth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/something-new/">something-new/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/through-all-the-fame/">through-all-the-fame/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brand-new-feeling/">brand-new-feeling/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-beauty/">the-beauty/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>May 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/n-trouble">n-trouble</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/together-again/">together-again/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/midsummer-nights-kiss/">midsummer-nights-kiss/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fate-will-gather-us-together/">fate-will-gather-us-together/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>May 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-only-through-heavens-eyes">if-only-through-heavens-eyes</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>May 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/happy-birthday-lance.html">happy-birthday-lance.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/how-can-you-love-me/">how-can-you-love-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/friends-and-lovers/">friends-and-lovers/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>31K</td><td>May 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/comeuppance.html">comeuppance.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>May 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/birthday-present">birthday-present</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>May 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/youre-beautiful-jayce">youre-beautiful-jayce</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/n-the-mix/">n-the-mix/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/curious-nick/">curious-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/randall-and-scott/">randall-and-scott/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>Apr 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/instant-message">instant-message</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Apr 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/smile">smile</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 29 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/be-with-me-brian/">be-with-me-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Apr 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/near-fatal-shave.html">near-fatal-shave.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-love-again/">to-love-again/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jaded/">jaded/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/liquid-dreams/">liquid-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/porcelain/">porcelain/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/till-death-do-us-part/">till-death-do-us-part/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jacob-underwood/">jacob-underwood/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-search-of-love/">in-search-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tale-of-two-boybands/">tale-of-two-boybands/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Apr 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-or-nothing">all-or-nothing</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lucky-me/">lucky-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fallen-star/">fallen-star/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shadows-riddle/">shadows-riddle/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Apr 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-your-dreams">in-your-dreams</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Apr 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-dinner-time">bsb-dinner-time</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-saved-me/">justin-saved-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-life/">my-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crimson-tears/">crimson-tears/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-wish-upon-a-star/">to-wish-upon-a-star/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Apr 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/can-i-touch-it">can-i-touch-it</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wet-desire/">wet-desire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/powers-of-the-mind/">powers-of-the-mind/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jason-and-jc/">jason-and-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-promise/">a-promise/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/flowers-never-bend-with-rainfall/">flowers-never-bend-with-rainfall/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-not-right/">its-not-right/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-letter/">love-letter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Apr 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/greatest-man-of-your-life">greatest-man-of-your-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kev-and-nick/">kev-and-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-shape-of-my-heart/">the-shape-of-my-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/king-and-country/">king-and-country/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 31 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/desperate-measures/">desperate-measures/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/reveal/">reveal/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Mar 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beach-blanket-bingo">beach-blanket-bingo</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/little-bit-of-both/">little-bit-of-both/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-the-house-of-dark-challenges/">nsync-and-the-house-of-dark-challenges/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Mar 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/goin-around-the-world">goin-around-the-world</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bloodlust/">bloodlust/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/his-inner-struggle">his-inner-struggle</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/second-chance/">second-chance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nicks-gift/">nicks-gift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-justin/">kevin-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/try-walking-in-my-shoes/">try-walking-in-my-shoes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/redemption/">redemption/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/starting-over/">starting-over/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Mar 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-shades-of-gray">98-shades-of-gray</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-thru-chat/">love-thru-chat/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shane-and-nicky/">shane-and-nicky/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-air/">lance-air/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Mar 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-raven">nsync-and-raven</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Mar 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/earth-wind-sun">earth-wind-sun</a></td></tr> <tr><td>57K</td><td>Mar 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-beyond">love-beyond</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/every-day-i-love-you-more/">every-day-i-love-you-more/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/baby-can-i-hold-you/">baby-can-i-hold-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Mar 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sunshine-after-the-rain">sunshine-after-the-rain</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Mar 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/trials-of-love">trials-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Mar 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/aarons-party">aarons-party</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Mar 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/another-day-another-guy">another-day-another-guy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/running-thoughts/">running-thoughts/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chances-are/">chances-are/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Mar 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/misleading-misconceptions">misleading-misconceptions</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sixth-backstreet-boy/">sixth-backstreet-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/scoop-big-daddy-and-mr-smooth/">scoop-big-daddy-and-mr-smooth/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/before-the-storm/">before-the-storm/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-you/">for-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pleasure-is-mine">pleasure-is-mine</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/november-guest/">november-guest/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-know-me">you-know-me</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/say-my-name/">say-my-name/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Mar 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angels">angels</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Mar 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/vendetta">vendetta</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Mar 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/walls-within">walls-within</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/any-path/">any-path/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/interludes/">interludes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>75K</td><td>Mar 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/end-game">end-game</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Mar 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/3-am">3-am</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-wanted-more/">you-wanted-more/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/always-forever-and-ever/">always-forever-and-ever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Feb 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sex-club-7">sex-club-7</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/silver-bicycle/">silver-bicycle/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/conceit">conceit</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Feb 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-green-met-green">when-green-met-green</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/scarce-heard/">scarce-heard/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Feb 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/happy-birthday">happy-birthday</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Feb 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/perfect-puzzle">perfect-puzzle</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/masks-that-we-wear/">masks-that-we-wear/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-wanna-lose/">dont-wanna-lose/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/out-here-on-my-own/">out-here-on-my-own/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/let-the-sun-fall-down/">let-the-sun-fall-down/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chatting-up-love/">chatting-up-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-call/">the-call/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 18 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/valentine.html">valentine.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>25K</td><td>Feb 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/perfect-storm">perfect-storm</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Feb 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kiss-kiss">kiss-kiss</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-sryin/">the-sryin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-knew-love-like-this-before/">never-knew-love-like-this-before/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/calming-waters/">calming-waters/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-want-you-back/">dont-want-you-back/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Feb 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sex-in-the-outback">sex-in-the-outback</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Feb 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lusty-alliance">lusty-alliance</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Feb 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/at-the-end-of-the-day.html">at-the-end-of-the-day.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-alone/">never-alone/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/epiphany/">epiphany/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hide-in-plain-sight/">hide-in-plain-sight/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/model-romance/">model-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Feb 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/s-club-owen">s-club-owen</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/les-amours-d-astre/">les-amours-d-astre/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ghost/">ghost/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/grand-central-high/">grand-central-high/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/utopia/">utopia/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-exit-to-eden/">last-exit-to-eden/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Feb 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/worth">worth</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/right-and-wrong/">right-and-wrong/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beginnings-of-something-new/">beginnings-of-something-new/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-on-vacation/">bsb-on-vacation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/singer-and-an-englishman/">singer-and-an-englishman/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 30 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sometimes-dreams-come-true/">sometimes-dreams-come-true/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blissful-tears/">blissful-tears/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreams-can-come-true/">dreams-can-come-true/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/endgame/">endgame/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Jan 25 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ego-ii">ego-ii</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 24 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-timberlakes-destiny">justin-timberlakes-destiny</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/savage-garden-picture-show/">savage-garden-picture-show/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 23 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ill-be-good-for-you/">ill-be-good-for-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>28K</td><td>Jan 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstage-with-brian">backstage-with-brian</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 22 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lance-and-justin/">lance-and-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/people-change-with-time/">people-change-with-time/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ill-never-stop.html">ill-never-stop.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hands-of-time/">hands-of-time/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 20 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/still-every-time/">still-every-time/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 19 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/affirmation/">affirmation/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jan 17 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/moving-on">moving-on</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fated-love/">fated-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-saga/">nsync-saga/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 16 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-unlove-story/">my-unlove-story/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 15 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eternity">eternity</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jan 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cold">cold</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 14 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/legends-and-heroes/">legends-and-heroes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jan 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/truth-behind-tear-glazed-eyes.html">truth-behind-tear-glazed-eyes.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tearing-up-my-ass/">tearing-up-my-ass/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-you-hate-you-get-lost/">love-you-hate-you-get-lost/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-the-down-low/">on-the-down-low/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 12 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/broken/">broken/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/doomed-love">doomed-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>44K</td><td>Jan 11 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-tour-with-bsb">on-tour-with-bsb</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Jan 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-lovers">the-lovers</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/slow-down-my-beating-heart/">slow-down-my-beating-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Jan 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sailing">sailing</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fixing-the-backstreet-boys/">fixing-the-backstreet-boys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jan 8 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heaven-without-you">heaven-without-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jan 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-knows-no-words">love-knows-no-words</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 7 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/petals-of-love">petals-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-i-let-you-go/">if-i-let-you-go/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jan 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chance-at-love">chance-at-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 6 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-you-were-to-hold-me/">if-you-were-to-hold-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jan 5 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chris-and-joeys-role-playing-rapture">chris-and-joeys-role-playing-rapture</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rain/">rain/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/is-this-the-end">is-this-the-end</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-rj/">nsync-and-rj/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jan 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/filans-new-year-resolution">filans-new-year-resolution</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cosmic-companions/">cosmic-companions/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 3 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-reunion/">the-reunion/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lonely-one/">lonely-one/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 2 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-meant-to-be/">not-meant-to-be/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jan 1 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heat">heat</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-project/">the-project/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dirty-mind-games/">dirty-mind-games/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-synchronicity/">in-synchronicity/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Dec 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/summer-night.html">summer-night.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/miles-to-go-before-i-sleep/">miles-to-go-before-i-sleep/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Dec 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-my-life">all-my-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/his-destiny/">his-destiny/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-life/">lances-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>66K</td><td>Dec 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/step-out-of-time.html">step-out-of-time.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Dec 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fates-design">fates-design</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-paths-cross/">when-paths-cross/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Dec 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/disciplined-singers">disciplined-singers</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Dec 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/babysitters.html">babysitters.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nights-of-christmas/">nights-of-christmas/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Dec 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-a-wonderful-life">its-a-wonderful-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/magnificent-journey/">magnificent-journey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>53K</td><td>Dec 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/different-christmas">different-christmas</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Dec 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/buzz">buzz</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Dec 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-snow-will-be-there">the-snow-will-be-there</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/give-me-just-this-one-chance/">give-me-just-this-one-chance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/give-me-just-one-night/">give-me-just-one-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secrets/">secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hold-the-pickle/">hold-the-pickle/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-lost/">the-lost/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Dec 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/before-they-were-rock-stars">before-they-were-rock-stars</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Dec 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pas-de-deux">pas-de-deux</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Dec 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/somewhere-over-the-rainbow.html">somewhere-over-the-rainbow.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/reminiscence-of-love">reminiscence-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loneliness-knows-me-by-name/">loneliness-knows-me-by-name/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/persistence-of-memory">persistence-of-memory</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/busta/">busta/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heaven-in-your-eyes/">heaven-in-your-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/played/">played/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/poems-words-and-sayings">poems-words-and-sayings</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreaming/">dreaming/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost">lost</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-resolution/">nsync-resolution/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Dec 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/letter-to-santa.html">letter-to-santa.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-baby-boomers/">nsync-baby-boomers/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Dec 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/waiting-for-you">waiting-for-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/who-do-you-love/">who-do-you-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nothing-is-real/">nothing-is-real/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/retreat/">retreat/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-interest/">love-interest/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shawns-gift/">shawns-gift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/can-i-keep-you/">can-i-keep-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Dec 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-love-always">my-love-always</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Dec 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/toy-soldiers">toy-soldiers</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Dec 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-the-middle-of-the-night">in-the-middle-of-the-night</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-prep-meets-the-pop-star/">the-prep-meets-the-pop-star/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Dec 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-man-in-the-picture">the-man-in-the-picture</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Dec 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/never-been-kissed">never-been-kissed</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/common-people/">common-people/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>Nov 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/time-for-christmas.html">time-for-christmas.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/endless-love/">endless-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Nov 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forgiveness.html">forgiveness.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tears-in-your-eyes/">tears-in-your-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/with-or-without-you/">with-or-without-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-need-love/">i-need-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Nov 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thanksgiving-to-remember">thanksgiving-to-remember</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/now-or-never/">now-or-never/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Nov 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-think-im-not">dont-think-im-not</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Nov 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/howie-and-fred">howie-and-fred</a></td></tr> <tr><td>68K</td><td>Nov 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/saturday-night-love.html">saturday-night-love.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/question-of-faith/">question-of-faith/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/always-you/">always-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/open-your-eyes/">open-your-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Nov 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/private-show">private-show</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-you-see-is-what-you-get/">what-you-see-is-what-you-get/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-need-you/">i-need-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Nov 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/taste-of-heaven">taste-of-heaven</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Nov 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blue-eyes-blue">blue-eyes-blue</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/grand-encounter/">grand-encounter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-justin-world-tour/">nick-justin-world-tour/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Nov 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-kiss">last-kiss</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Nov 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/first-impression.html">first-impression.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/chaperone/">chaperone/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Nov 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/you-dont-have-to-be-alone">you-dont-have-to-be-alone</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-always/">for-always/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/warmest-eyes/">warmest-eyes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mirror-mirror/">mirror-mirror/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brothers/">brothers/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/something-else/">something-else/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Nov 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/extreme-spells">extreme-spells</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-love/">lances-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-me-for-a-reason/">love-me-for-a-reason/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Nov 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-in-australia">nsync-in-australia</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/world-of-his-own/">world-of-his-own/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thou-shalt-not/">thou-shalt-not/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-chat-buddy/">my-chat-buddy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-and-longing/">love-and-longing/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/conjuring-hyde/">conjuring-hyde/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Oct 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-halloween">last-halloween</a></td></tr> <tr><td>126K</td><td>Oct 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/first-anniversary.html">first-anniversary.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Oct 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-fates-hands">in-fates-hands</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/me-and-joey/">me-and-joey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-savior/">nsync-savior/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Oct 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/halloween">halloween</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-you-only-knew/">if-you-only-knew/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/star-crossed/">star-crossed/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/humanity-lesson/">humanity-lesson/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-bsb-files/">the-bsb-files/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-friends-forever/">best-friends-forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Oct 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sound-of-your-voice">sound-of-your-voice</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/playing-for-keeps/">playing-for-keeps/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/but-i-do-love-you/">but-i-do-love-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Oct 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/almost-torn-apart">almost-torn-apart</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Oct 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/god-must-have-spent">god-must-have-spent</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Oct 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-photograph">the-photograph</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Oct 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/2gether-a-humor-tale.html">2gether-a-humor-tale.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Oct 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/big-brother">big-brother</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dragon-legend/">dragon-legend/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Oct 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/four-doors">four-doors</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-kenny-love/">justin-and-kenny-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/westlife-beginnings/">westlife-beginnings/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/flabbergasted/">flabbergasted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forever-and-always/">forever-and-always/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-dream/">justins-dream/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/westlife-story/">westlife-story/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-gonna-be-me/">its-gonna-be-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/always-sorry/">always-sorry/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/next-window-please/">next-window-please/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/alls-fair/">alls-fair/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dirty-little-secrets/">dirty-little-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Oct 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-superboy">justin-and-superboy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Oct 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/savage-garden-hunter">savage-garden-hunter</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/possession/">possession/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/darker-path/">darker-path/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thats-life/">thats-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/basso-profundo/">basso-profundo/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Oct 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/x-rated-imagination">x-rated-imagination</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Oct 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sorry-is-not-enough">sorry-is-not-enough</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Oct 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-love">backstreet-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Oct 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-real-nick">the-real-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/magical-gift/">magical-gift/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/searching-for-the-light/">searching-for-the-light/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-sync-with-justin-and-jc/">in-sync-with-justin-and-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/becoming-q/">becoming-q/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-bsb/">loving-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-will-always-love-you/">i-will-always-love-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Oct 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/not-just-anyone">not-just-anyone</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Oct 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/little-things">little-things</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/short-scenes/">short-scenes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Sep 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/going-swimming">going-swimming</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/taken-for-granted/">taken-for-granted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/being-a-backstreet-boy/">being-a-backstreet-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dreams-coming-true/">dreams-coming-true/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/animal-n-styncts/">animal-n-styncts/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-only/">if-only/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loneliness-unmasked/">loneliness-unmasked/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/uncompleted-life/">uncompleted-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/deceiving-secrets/">deceiving-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-around-the-river-bend/">just-around-the-river-bend/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>30K</td><td>Sep 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/innocent-fun">innocent-fun</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/celestial-journey/">celestial-journey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/morning-mood/">morning-mood/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Sep 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/get-away">get-away</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-is-love/">what-is-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loves-faint-echo/">loves-faint-echo/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dg-meets-the-bsb/">dg-meets-the-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pop-secrets/">pop-secrets/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Sep 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sexual-treatment">sexual-treatment</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-one-call/">just-one-call/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Sep 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/at-the-beginning-with-you">at-the-beginning-with-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Sep 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/opposites">opposites</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-hardest-thing/">98-degrees-hardest-thing/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-at-98-degrees/">love-at-98-degrees/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wishful-thinking/">wishful-thinking/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/back-to-your-heart/">back-to-your-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wanting-to-know/">wanting-to-know/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Sep 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fathers-love.html">fathers-love.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Sep 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/protector.html">protector.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/god-spent-that-time-on-me/">god-spent-that-time-on-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Sep 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-night-with-jc">my-night-with-jc</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/simply-words/">simply-words/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>25K</td><td>Sep 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gift-of-a-friend">gift-of-a-friend</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-old-friends/">nsync-old-friends/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/singing-madman/">singing-madman/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eavesdropping/">eavesdropping/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/story-of-my-love/">story-of-my-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-i-promise-you/">this-i-promise-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>65K</td><td>Sep 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/on-the-mend.html">on-the-mend.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beginning-of-the-end/">beginning-of-the-end/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Sep 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/carry-on-our-way">carry-on-our-way</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-broadway-romance/">my-broadway-romance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-little-bit-of-love/">a-little-bit-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/some-dreams/">some-dreams/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crazy/">crazy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-get-nsync/">to-get-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Aug 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-gets-dick">nick-gets-dick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-you-for-always/">love-you-for-always/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/more-than-anything/">more-than-anything/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/choices/">choices/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/escape/">escape/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-love-nsync/">to-love-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Aug 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/invincible.html">invincible.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-jason/">justin-and-jason/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-desire/">backstreet-desire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/2gether">2gether</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/last-to-know/">last-to-know/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Aug 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/late-night-snack">late-night-snack</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Aug 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secret-marriage">secret-marriage</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cant-lose-what-you-never-had/">cant-lose-what-you-never-had/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/truth-behind-it-all/">truth-behind-it-all/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Aug 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/true-love-or-something-else">true-love-or-something-else</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/another-night-at-the-club/">another-night-at-the-club/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Aug 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-gonna-be-brian">its-gonna-be-brian</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Aug 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/free">free</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-big-break/">my-big-break/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/by-your-side/">by-your-side/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/waiting-for-nick/">waiting-for-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Aug 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brandons-story">brandons-story</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsyncuence/">nsyncuence/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Aug 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-i">nsync-and-i</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-lance/">dream-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/steven-and-brian/">steven-and-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/if-only-you-knew/">if-only-you-knew/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fear-of-falling/">fear-of-falling/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-in-me/">best-in-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Aug 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sexual-healing">sexual-healing</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/angel-in-the-morning/">angel-in-the-morning/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/n-college/">n-college/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-thoughts/">lances-thoughts/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-his-arms/">in-his-arms/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Aug 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pretending-to-love">pretending-to-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Aug 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/right-where-you-belong">right-where-you-belong</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/newest-backstreet-boy/">newest-backstreet-boy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Aug 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-all-my-times">for-all-my-times</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shorties/">shorties/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/summer-2000/">summer-2000/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-heart-is-in-your-hands/">my-heart-is-in-your-hands/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/blink-meets-nsync/">blink-meets-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Aug 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/going-clubbin">going-clubbin</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tests-of-friendship/">tests-of-friendship/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wishes-of-the-heart/">wishes-of-the-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/coming-back-into-your-heart/">coming-back-into-your-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Aug 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-hate-to-love-you">i-hate-to-love-you</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Aug 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/three-kings.html">three-kings.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>69K</td><td>Aug 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/revelations">revelations</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/here-and-now/">here-and-now/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Aug 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rivals">rivals</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-price-beauty/">what-price-beauty/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Aug 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/juju-and-jojo">juju-and-jojo</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-lance-and-jc/">nick-lance-and-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Aug 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/things-change">things-change</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/destinys-decision/">destinys-decision/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Jul 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/giddy-up">giddy-up</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/westlife-saga/">westlife-saga/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-hunted/">the-hunted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-next-stage/">the-next-stage/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>40K</td><td>Jul 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loves-greater-grace">loves-greater-grace</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jul 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-and-justin4ever">jc-and-justin4ever</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-souls-in-passing/">two-souls-in-passing/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-more-try/">one-more-try/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/puppy-love-and-paper-roses/">puppy-love-and-paper-roses/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forever-in-my-heart/">forever-in-my-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ikaikas-confession/">ikaikas-confession/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ghostly-hours/">ghostly-hours/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jul 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-isnt-happening">this-isnt-happening</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/time-will-pass-you-by/">time-will-pass-you-by/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/destiny/">destiny/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/survivors/">survivors/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nostalgia">nostalgia</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/day-before-tomorrow/">day-before-tomorrow/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boy-meets-bsb/">boy-meets-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>66K</td><td>Jul 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-man">best-man</a></td></tr> <tr><td>63K</td><td>Jul 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-superman">my-superman</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/pierce-straight-to-the-heart/">pierce-straight-to-the-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 20 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/past-reflections/">past-reflections/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fitting-in/">fitting-in/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/our-life/">our-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/remembering-petticoat-lane/">remembering-petticoat-lane/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-light/">the-light/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>46K</td><td>Jul 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/heart-trouble">heart-trouble</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/best-of-friends/">best-of-friends/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/everything-i-own/">everything-i-own/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/eyes-of-stone/">eyes-of-stone/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jul 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-the-knight">nick-and-the-knight</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-dare">justins-dare</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-song/">lances-song/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/maverick/">maverick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/becoming-whole/">becoming-whole/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/always-and-forever/">always-and-forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jul 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/adventures-in-o-town">adventures-in-o-town</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/poetry">poetry</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-say-you-love-me/">dont-say-you-love-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-is-blind/">love-is-blind/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>53K</td><td>Jul 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-nick">kevin-and-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/life-saver/">life-saver/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>37K</td><td>Jul 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wilted-rose.html">wilted-rose.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/changes/">changes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/feels-so-good">feels-so-good</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/after-the-concert">after-the-concert</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lonely-lance/">lonely-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jul 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/superman">superman</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/by-my-side/">by-my-side/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hearts-out-of-sync/">hearts-out-of-sync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/swear-it-again/">swear-it-again/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shattered-life/">shattered-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rude-awakening/">rude-awakening/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tearful-dreamer/">tearful-dreamer/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>88K</td><td>Jul 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crying-like-a-church-on-monday">crying-like-a-church-on-monday</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Jul 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rain-must-fall">rain-must-fall</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mixed-up-with-jeff/">mixed-up-with-jeff/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rob-and-lance/">rob-and-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/youre-my-angel/">youre-my-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>23K</td><td>Jun 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/touched-by-love">touched-by-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-out-of-five/">two-out-of-five/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cost-of-true-love/">cost-of-true-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/n-the-new-world">n-the-new-world</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/little-earthquakes/">little-earthquakes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/searching-so-hard-to-find/">searching-so-hard-to-find/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sooner-or-later/">sooner-or-later/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-jc/">justin-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-behind-the-scenes/">kevin-behind-the-scenes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/waking-up-with-vengeance/">waking-up-with-vengeance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/going-with-the-flow/">going-with-the-flow/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tormented-soul/">tormented-soul/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/superman-cant-fly/">superman-cant-fly/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-the-lights-go-out/">when-the-lights-go-out/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kenny-and-nsync/">kenny-and-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/finally/">finally/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/home/">home/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-love-like-this/">a-love-like-this/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gene/">gene/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/colin-and-kevin/">colin-and-kevin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jun 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/after-all">after-all</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/5ive-on-one/">5ive-on-one/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-boyz-story/">this-boyz-story/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jun 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-chaser">98-degrees-chaser</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jun 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/s-club-lovers">s-club-lovers</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rock-bottom/">rock-bottom/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/joey-and-lucas/">joey-and-lucas/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-summer-with-jc/">my-summer-with-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>30K</td><td>Jun 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/beach-house">beach-house</a></td></tr> <tr><td>47K</td><td>Jun 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-of-a-stranger">love-of-a-stranger</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bring-your-own-bsb/">bring-your-own-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>35K</td><td>Jun 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-night-with-mytown">my-night-with-mytown</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-should-be-so-lucky/">i-should-be-so-lucky/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-wanna-be-with-you/">i-wanna-be-with-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-makes-jc-ill/">justin-makes-jc-ill/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-price-and-the-prize/">the-price-and-the-prize/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>May 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jus-and-jc">jus-and-jc</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-prince-named-justin/">a-prince-named-justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/what-happened/">what-happened/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/j-and-jc/">j-and-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 22 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/rescue-run/">rescue-run/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>May 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-brian">loving-brian</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/strange-interlude/">strange-interlude/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>May 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/no-time-for-love">no-time-for-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>May 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/until-now.html">until-now.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/silent-tears/">silent-tears/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>May 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-my-dreams">in-my-dreams</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ice-storm/">ice-storm/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>May 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/right-here-waiting">right-here-waiting</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-of-a-guardian-angel/">dream-of-a-guardian-angel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mtv-crossroads/">mtv-crossroads/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/some-kind-of-bliss/">some-kind-of-bliss/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-for-lb/">jc-for-lb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tell-me-that-im-dreamin/">tell-me-that-im-dreamin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Apr 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/carson-and-justin">carson-and-justin</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Apr 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/his-sweet-smile.html">his-sweet-smile.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/get-you-back/">get-you-back/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/peace-frogs/">peace-frogs/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Apr 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/those-eyes">those-eyes</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 15 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/performers-life/">performers-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sounds-of-silence/">sounds-of-silence/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/out-of-the-blue/">out-of-the-blue/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-jordan/">kevin-and-jordan/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin/">justin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>37K</td><td>Apr 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/digital-get-down">digital-get-down</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/set-you-free/">set-you-free/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/entwined/">entwined/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Apr 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/david-chokachi-and-justin-timberlake">david-chokachi-and-justin-timberlake</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/getting-reacquainted/">getting-reacquainted/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>69K</td><td>Apr 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ten-guys-one-night.html">ten-guys-one-night.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/stuck-in-the-middle/">stuck-in-the-middle/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 3 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/more-than-friends/">more-than-friends/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/henrys-short-stories/">henrys-short-stories/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/secrets-behind-the-music/">secrets-behind-the-music/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-love/">nsync-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-truth-about-lance/">the-truth-about-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-bsb-and-me/">nsync-bsb-and-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-brotherly-love/">98-degrees-brotherly-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sudsy-fantasies">sudsy-fantasies</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-perfect-life/">my-perfect-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lances-liaison/">lances-liaison/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-lance/">my-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fear-of-the-written-word/">fear-of-the-written-word/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/summer-love/">summer-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fate-stepped-in/">fate-stepped-in/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 25 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/this-means-war/">this-means-war/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Mar 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/a-simple-talk">a-simple-talk</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dealing/">dealing/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Mar 17 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-aj-and-nick">brian-aj-and-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 16 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/life-as-i-know-it/">life-as-i-know-it/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Mar 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dont-quit-playin-games">dont-quit-playin-games</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevin-and-me/">kevin-and-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/until-the-time-is-through/">until-the-time-is-through/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/collision-course-with-bsb/">collision-course-with-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thinking-of-you/">thinking-of-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 12 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/games-the-boys-play/">games-the-boys-play/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-storm-within/">the-storm-within/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/when-u-say-nothing-at-all/">when-u-say-nothing-at-all/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/incidental-meeting/">incidental-meeting/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/front-row/">front-row/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/after-nsync/">after-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ghosts-of-christmas/">ghosts-of-christmas/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ryan-and-lance/">ryan-and-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crimson-love/">crimson-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jcs-new-life/">jcs-new-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/all-grown-up/">all-grown-up/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kissing-me-softly/">kissing-me-softly/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Feb 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/learning-to-love">learning-to-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Feb 29 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/evan-farmer">evan-farmer</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/guiding-lights/">guiding-lights/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thorned-rose/">thorned-rose/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Feb 28 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-at-the-grammys">nsync-at-the-grammys</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Feb 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/d-and-scoop">d-and-scoop</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Feb 27 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-the-love-of-jt">for-the-love-of-jt</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 26 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/spending-time-with-brian/">spending-time-with-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/different-point-of-view/">different-point-of-view/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/we-meet-again/">we-meet-again/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-and-nsync/">bsb-and-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/phil-and-nick/">phil-and-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-dream-come-true/">my-dream-come-true/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/show-me-the-meaning/">show-me-the-meaning/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 18 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-stole-my-heart/">justin-stole-my-heart/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 14 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/twist-and-turns/">twist-and-turns/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 11 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/separate-lives/">separate-lives/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 10 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lost-and-found/">lost-and-found/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Feb 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kinda-get-me-go-crazy">kinda-get-me-go-crazy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/tell-me-why/">tell-me-why/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/corridor-of-time/">corridor-of-time/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-joshua/">brian-and-joshua/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 7 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-lance/">loving-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Feb 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/red-rose-on-a-snow-day">red-rose-on-a-snow-day</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Feb 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hes-beautiful">hes-beautiful</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Feb 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meaning-of-loneliness">meaning-of-loneliness</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/fates-reason/">fates-reason/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 4 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/redemption-of-a-vampire/">redemption-of-a-vampire/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 2 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-is-hot/">98-degrees-is-hot/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/some-enchanted-evening/">some-enchanted-evening/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ultimate-authority-over-no-authority">ultimate-authority-over-no-authority</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jan 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/in-sync-with-nsync">in-sync-with-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 31 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/adam-zach-and-bsb/">adam-zach-and-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Jan 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/meeting-nick-and-aaron-carter">meeting-nick-and-aaron-carter</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/to-be-loved-by-fame/">to-be-loved-by-fame/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 30 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/s-club-secret/">s-club-secret/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-justin-and-lance/">loving-justin-and-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-beach/">brians-beach/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 24 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-cody/">brian-and-cody/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 23 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/jc-and-jas/">jc-and-jas/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 21 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ronans-exploits/">ronans-exploits/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jan 9 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/j-from-5ive">j-from-5ive</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 8 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/timeout-with-bsb/">timeout-with-bsb/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-his-wil/">brian-and-his-wil/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 5 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-chris/">brian-and-chris/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Jan 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-christmas-wish">the-christmas-wish</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 1 2000</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-jc/">just-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-gang/">nsync-gang/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/69-with-jeff-timmons/">69-with-jeff-timmons/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-heartache/">nsync-heartache/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 26 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gift-of-love/">gift-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 26 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-greg">brian-and-greg</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-weaver/">dream-weaver/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 18 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/singing-4-wrighter/">singing-4-wrighter/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Dec 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-aj">nick-and-aj</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 6 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-sides-of-a-coin/">two-sides-of-a-coin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Dec 3 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kev-and-nick-lakeside">kev-and-nick-lakeside</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 1 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bradleys-new-beginning/">bradleys-new-beginning/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Nov 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loves-sweet-loss">loves-sweet-loss</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 26 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-want-it-that-way-series/">i-want-it-that-way-series/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 26 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/friends-forever/">friends-forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Nov 25 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-for-grins">just-for-grins</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 24 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-savior/">brians-savior/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 21 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/finding-love/">finding-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/patterns-of-fate/">patterns-of-fate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Nov 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-nick">justin-and-nick</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Nov 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/surprise">surprise</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/open-road/">open-road/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bliss-of-love/">bliss-of-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Nov 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dream-come-true">dream-come-true</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 14 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/working-for-the-boys/">working-for-the-boys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>96K</td><td>Nov 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/week-from-hell">week-from-hell</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/loving-nick/">loving-nick/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 9 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/soul-mates/">soul-mates/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Nov 7 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/policeman-and-nsync">policeman-and-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 4 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-adam/">nick-and-adam/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Nov 1 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/ill-still-love-you-more">ill-still-love-you-more</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/discovering-myself-with-brian/">discovering-myself-with-brian/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Oct 29 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hopelessly-human">hopelessly-human</a></td></tr> <tr><td>52K</td><td>Oct 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/da-real-world">da-real-world</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Oct 24 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kindred-souls">kindred-souls</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 21 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/kevinsync/">kevinsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-alex/">justin-and-alex/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>Oct 18 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/entropy-saga">entropy-saga</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/crash-with-fame/">crash-with-fame/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Oct 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/superlatives-results">superlatives-results</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 12 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-bet/">backstreet-bet/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 12 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/mitch-and-lance/">mitch-and-lance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Oct 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/doin-it">doin-it</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-lachey/">nick-lachey/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/two-worlds-collide/">two-worlds-collide/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>26K</td><td>Oct 8 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brians-lost-love">brians-lost-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 3 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-and-friendship-with-nsync/">love-and-friendship-with-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Oct 1 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/superlatives">superlatives</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 1 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-aj/">justin-and-aj/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Sep 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-alternate-dimension">nsync-alternate-dimension</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Sep 24 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/wish-upon-a-star-1.html">wish-upon-a-star-1.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/boys-in-the-limelight/">boys-in-the-limelight/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 23 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-and-delwyn/">nsync-and-delwyn/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nsync-new-life/">nsync-new-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/whispers-in-the-night/">whispers-in-the-night/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hand-of-fate/">hand-of-fate/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-on-tour/">love-on-tour/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Sep 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/john-and-lance">john-and-lance</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justins-love/">justins-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/will-and-rich/">will-and-rich/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 11 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-addition/">bsb-addition/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 10 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/forbidden-love/">forbidden-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 3 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-and-bsb-all-star-tour/">98-degrees-and-bsb-all-star-tour/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Aug 31 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-day-with-nsync">my-day-with-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Aug 28 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/alone-but-loved">alone-but-loved</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nicks-florida/">nicks-florida/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-keith/">brian-and-keith/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 23 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/an-angels-life/">an-angels-life/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-love-affair/">backstreet-love-affair/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-me/">nick-and-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-boy-toys/">backstreet-boy-toys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 16 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/justin-and-chris-forever/">justin-and-chris-forever/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-real-kevin/">the-real-kevin/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nick-and-andrew">nick-and-andrew</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 12 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-chance/">one-chance/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 2 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/love-nsync/">love-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-stays-nsync/">bsb-stays-nsync/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jul 26 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/its-always-98-degrees-for-me">its-always-98-degrees-for-me</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 25 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-boys-magic/">backstreet-boys-magic/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/significant-other/">significant-other/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jul 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/one-night-stand">one-night-stand</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-in-love/">brian-in-love/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 10 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/touring-with-the-boys/">touring-with-the-boys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 8 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/shaun-and-jc/">shaun-and-jc/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 8 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-kevin">bsb-kevin</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 6 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-angel-nsl/">my-angel-nsl/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 6 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/b-roks-10000-promises/">b-roks-10000-promises/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 5 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/larger-than-life">larger-than-life</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/nobody-but-you/">nobody-but-you/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>32K</td><td>Jun 29 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/dave-and-jc">dave-and-jc</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 28 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/sideswept-by-nsync">sideswept-by-nsync</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 27 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brush-with-fame/">brush-with-fame/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jun 25 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/steps-meet-a1">steps-meet-a1</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Jun 22 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/the-first-time">the-first-time</a></td></tr> <tr><td>132K</td><td>Jun 21 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/for-jcs-love">for-jcs-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Jun 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/day-at-cheirons">day-at-cheirons</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/protection/">protection/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jun 19 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/cumming-together">cumming-together</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 17 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/lifes-little-entanglements/">lifes-little-entanglements/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jun 16 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-want-it-that-way">i-want-it-that-way</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>May 30 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/story-of-love">story-of-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 24 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/n-s-l/">n-s-l/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>May 24 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/thats-what-he-said">thats-what-he-said</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-ryan/">just-ryan/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>May 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/my-night-with-nick-carter">my-night-with-nick-carter</a></td></tr> <tr><td>27K</td><td>May 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-l-my-superstar">brian-l-my-superstar</a></td></tr> <tr><td>28K</td><td>Mar 31 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/hey-lance">hey-lance</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Mar 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/just-for-brian">just-for-brian</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/brian-and-zhane/">brian-and-zhane/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>58K</td><td>Mar 15 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/entranced-teens">entranced-teens</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 13 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-lust/">backstreet-lust/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Mar 3 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/i-think-i-love-you-b-rok">i-think-i-love-you-b-rok</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 9 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet/">backstreet/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 8 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bsb-me/">bsb-me/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 8 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/98-degrees-drews-love">98-degrees-drews-love</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Feb 1 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/gil-and-justin">gil-and-justin</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 20 1999</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-boys-sixth-member/">backstreet-boys-sixth-member/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Dec 28 1998</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/bravo-all-stars">bravo-all-stars</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 17 1998</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/banging-b-rok/">banging-b-rok/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>12K</td><td>Mar 13 1997</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/boy-bands/backstreet-banging-with-boys">backstreet-banging-with-boys</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div></div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-340

Date: Thu, 12 Jan 2023 21:22:30 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 340 Part 340: That Night In December The first goal, in the 82nd minute, took him by surprise; the win over Montpelier had looked pretty certain when he was substituted in by the new manager for the final quarter of the league match, and he'd thought the team might become slow and cautious, with little attacking opportunity against their desperate opposition. But the assist from Bouanani had come his way whilst both teams were still reacting to Delort making it 4-0, and Ross Barkley now pushing that tally to 5. When he found himself booting goal number 6 in only three minutes later, the English midfielder was astonished and electrified, punching the air as he leapt off the ground and was immediately encircled by his Nice colleagues. As superfluous as his brace had actually been, the 29-year-old footballer ended the home game feeling like he'd just single-handedly won Ligue 1 for the lads, totally on fire with the adrenaline rush of scoring twice, and delighted to experience such support and appreciation from his largely French teammates - it had been a slow and laborious mission to integrate himself into the football club as their surprise free transfer, and this mild January night at the Allianz Riviera was the first time he'd really felt one of them. The close of the game and the ensuing celebrations were hyper and frenzied for the whole squad and staff, excited to have reached their highest scoreline in a significant period, and to have really blossomed under the new stewardship of Didier Digard - but for Ross himself, it was the joy and thrill of a return to the past, a sensation of confidence and victory that had eluded him since his earliest outings at Chelsea and, more honestly, his Everton youth. It had been a long time since Barkley had truly felt like a winner on a football pitch, but grabbed and hugged by player after player on the field and then coach after coach at the sidelines, he felt good. Almost every member of the Nice squad grabbed him in a big tight hug, arms about his broad shoulders and mixed French and English compliments paid to him in breathy voices; but one coat-clad player on the fringe of the celebrations just grabbed his hand for a moment in a handshake and gave him a tight-lipped nod of appreciation, and then was off to speak to someone else, and there was a short moment where his big chest felt winded and he didn't know how he should be feeling, but a chant was starting and he was being steered into the mouth of the tunnel with the other goal-scorers of the night, and that momentary snub had to be dismissed after all - the winning feeling needed to take over. And so it did: beers were cracked open as if the team had just won a tournament, and the men were slow to peel off the sweaty red-and-black shirts of the night, taking their time in the home changing rooms of the stadium, singing out their happiness and heaping lots of praise on the new boss. Despite his status as one of the night's heroes, Ross found himself quickly distanced from the main buzz of the celebrations, because his language skills weren't up to the quick and broken French slang, and his natural shyness was only intensified by the sense of alienation that came with playing in a foreign league. Happy nonetheless, the sweaty Scouser grinned and laughed and pulled his footy shirt away, the skin-tight black lycra of his under-shirt still sticking to his torso and arms. He was just about to pull this top up and away from the aching muscle of his body when he was grabbed about one arm and found the overdressed figure of the club's assistant manager leaning urgently over at him. `An interview,' the fifty-something man said smoothly, `they want you for an interview. For a moment of true horror, Barkley just stared at the man, pausing with his fingers about the hem of his lycra shirt, sweat trickling down either side of his rugged face. `In English,' the football boss said to him in a lower voice, clearly reading his expression. `It's in English. There'll be a translator. Come on.' Ross felt his entire body sag with relief as the prospect of attempting his rudimental French in front of mics and cameras ebbed away, and he nodded eagerly at the coach. `Get your shirt back on, and come with me.' By the time the Liverpudlian midfielder was back in the locker-room with everybody else, the lads had made mixed progress. Many were getting on with their showers and glistening bodies emerged from the showers at either end, towels tied about their waists, but others were still in muddy kits and dancing about on benches, spilling beer over themselves; there was talk of hitting a particular nightclub on the seafront and booking out the VIP area, and several men were quick to grab and invite Ross as he made his way back to his things, with an eagerness and friendliness that hadn't always been there in the last four months. Ross began to pull away his footy shirt and the lycra beneath it yet again, wrestling clumsily with the sleeves and getting it over his head, then bunching the sweaty sports material in both hands and tossing it down between his big socked feet, when a warm damp hand slapped against one of his shoulders. With a now-strained look of happy pride on his face, having mumbled and grinned his way through the awkwardly translated interview, Barkley turned to see which of his Nice teammates was adding to the congratulations, and started slightly at the tall broad figure steaming next to him, fresh out of the showers and running fingers through his dark blonde hair. `You coming to this party later, then?' growled the clearer English of his Danish colleague, Kasper Schmeichel smoothing down his wet beard and leaning in close where he stood, a towering 6ft3. `Oh - er, yeh - is everyone?' He smiled weakly at the other Premiership transplant, pausing with his arms hanging uselessly in front of him, hesitant to start peeling off his long socks or dropping his black shorts. `It does sound like fun.' Big and bulky and wearing only a towel, the Dane shrugged, lowering both hands to the knotted front of the white wrap. Steam still rose from his broad chest and huge shoulders, and he had a cheeky grin cracking his handsome tanned face. `Could be, could be,' he agreed, more quietly, before pushing one fist of a hand against Ross's bare sides, and letting out a low chuckle. `Though we could always have a more private party if you fancied, Scouser, haha - eh?' Barkley did his best to look unperturbed by this remark, pulling an inch or two away from the brushing contact of Schmeichel's knuckles, and scratching at his own short dense curls of hair, then clearing his throat. `I've never been to that nightclub,' he said, ignoring the idea of `a private party', and avoiding clear eye contact with the sharp blues of the handsome Dane. `And it'll be good to celebrate as a team.' He said it awkwardly and loudly, as if trying to draw some attention to their chat, and to shut up the former Leicester City captain. `Ah, yeh,' sighed Kasper, still smirking straight at him. `And we need to celebrate YOU, mate, and talk about what Chelsea lost out on, huh.' Grabbing again, his hands big warm paws, taking one of Barkley's shoulders and giving him a bit of a shake. Without saying anything, Ross pushed the hand away, but didn't stop smiling - he tried to communicate warningly with just his eyes, feeling every reason to be cold and distant from their burly goalkeeper, but uncomfortably aware of the busy room about them, and his own need to shower off. `Relax,' Schmeichel murmured through his grin, letting go of him and backing away, gripping the knot of his towel more firmly. `But don't skip the party, I owe you a few drinks, okay?' And as he turned away, he loosened the knot and Ross was, very briefly, treated to the rear view, the blotchy pink heat of his broad back sinking down to the gold-fuzzed mounds of his big arse cheeks and the tree-trunk legs below, walking away and bursting into loud French banter with another guy as he did. Barkley averted his eyes from the goalkeeper's muscles and scowled, lifting each heavy leg to strip the socks from his sore calves. Fuck that big bastard, he thought irritably, placing plenty of blame on him, and resenting the last time that Schmeichel had tried getting close to him again. Late December, London: Ross had hardly been in the best of moods when his club made their mildly surprising journey over the Channel for a slightly random friendly against a Premier League stalwart. In a way, it had been better that nobody had mentioned Tottenham Hotspur to him until almost the day before the flight, as for the week leading up to the fixture he'd only heard people refer to a `London' team, and been too embarrassed to admit that he couldn't understand the French accents that had explained the little trip to the lads one damp chilly afternoon at the training ground. A return to England... It should have been quite fun and invigorating, the pre-Christmas friendly now that the World Cup was settled, but the whole experience was fraught with significance for Ross, for obvious reasons. Even without the sudden revelation of their North London hosts, the flight back into the English capital was one that buzzed him with difficult memories, having humiliated himself on his last stay in the city; not Chelsea, although the way things had ended there was pretty shit, but more specifically his night at Joe Bryan's apartment. The other English squad member at Nice had barely spoken a word to him since that weekend, never inviting him on the beach walks or sea swims that the two friends had begun to bond over, nor the film nights at his condo. Arriving in a drizzly London and being driven towards the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium triggered embarrassing flashbacks to that moody weekend and how Ross had drunk way too much and made an ill-advised move on Joe, leading to a tense separation in the shadows of his bedroom. But really... the Joe Bryan problem was small fry. All the way up to their arrival at the stadium, Ross spun from hoping Eric Dier was still resting from England duty, to daring to think that this was the perfect opportunity to get a real conversation out of him. And by the time Kasper Schmeichel crashed across his path, he was very much set on the latter: he was strolling through the corridors of the stadium in sweatpants and a hoody, wondering who he could ask to direct him to the relaxation lounge of the host players, when Kasper's voice hollered after him and the big goalkeeper was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder and breath tickling his ear. `Oh, hey,' Barkley grumbled disinterestedly, as Schmeichel demanded to know where he was going. The team were being given some time to relax and adjust, not even kitted up for a warm-up session on the pitch yet, where they'd be doing some media work for their socials; Ross thought he'd slipped quite discreetly away from the squad gathering, but he supposed that Kasper had similar issues of isolation than him, even with multiple European languages at his disposal. `Just havin' a walk,' he told the older bloke, trying to shrug away the hand on the shoulder of his hooded top, and realising that he really had no idea where he was going; this irritating knowledge brought him to an awkward stop, made all the more awkward by the other man's gurning smile at his side, standing over him and tilting his head quizzically. `It doesn't matter,' Ross muttered, unsure what to think of Kasper's curious expression. Even back in December, he was still wary of the goalie, overly conscious of how close they'd come to an intimate fumble on that bored autumn afternoon of hangover; he'd pulled back from the married Dane's apparent bi side then, and been cautious about ending up alone with him since... until now. Schmeichel's hand landed back on his shoulder, except this time it was a lot closer to his neck, and this time he didn't have the heart to shrug it away. He scowled at his own daft optimism, thinking that he might find and talk to Dier here in the stadium - that he might get some answers out of him, or... well, yeh, in all honesty, he'd dared to entertain images of them falling into each others strong arms and making up, dismissing it all as a stupid misunderstanding. But Ross, he told himself, he got ENGAGED. `What is it?' his teammate asked, and his voice was a soft consoling purr. The hand on his shoulder was on the back of his neck, and thick strong fingertips were pressing into the skin there below the light fuzz of his fade cut, and Ross couldn't help but sigh at the touch, standing awkwardly there with the slightly taller figure leaning against his side. `What's up, matey?' murmured the Copenhagen Mancunian. `What're you lookin' for here...?' `Nothing,' Barkley mumbled evasively at him, but he couldn't find it in him to pull away from the other man, who was massaging the back of the neck and taking hold of his bicep, leaning in so close that he could feel Schemichel's breath brush his jawline. `After we smash these losers, you got any plans?' the goalkeeper was asking him. `I just got a text from a mate who's visiting London, y'see, and he might be having a bit of a party later on tonight if we can sort it, so-' `What?' Ross murmured disinterestedly at him, thinking about what the chances were that Eric was even on the team-sheet for the Spurs friendly - had England players even returned to club training yet after flying out of Qatar...? And if Eric WASN'T on the squad for the match, would he bother to attend it and support his mates? Would he... want to be here, and... see Ross, and... He grimaced, not sure he'd like the answer to this. The break-up had been so cold and sudden, even after their fiery little rows during the long-distance chapter of the relationship, and now... `I think you'll know him,' Kasper chuckled, kneading fingers against his bicep through the sleeve of his top. `I haven't mentioned your name to him, or anything, but he defo said I could bring a friend along... in fact, that I SHOULD bring a friend, haha, you see he's quite into-' `What are you on about?' Ross snapped at him, only half-hearing what he had to say, thinking that he WAS here after all, and if he could shake off this big bugger, then he could find some helpful member of staff and explain that he really needed to catch up with a couple of old pals at Tottenham that he missed from his Prem days, and- `Vardy,' grunted Schmeichel with a mysterious expression on his creased and bearded face, blue eyes sparkling with eagerness. `Vardy, mate, he's the friend, and-' `What about him?' Barkley asked, about to try and pull away when the fingers on the back of his neck hit a sweet spot that almost made him groan, and he became very aware of how tenderly he was being held by the 6ft3 goalie, how oddly tender his touch was, and- more pressing than these realisations, the fact that someone was walking towards them down the corridor, having appeared about the family. It all happened so fast, and yet also in slow-motion: Eric Dier, hands shoved into the pockets of a loose denim jacket, marching down the corridor and past them with merely a nod and a `Welcome home, lads' before stomping off on his route. The look he gave them both. Of course, big Kasper moved quickly, letting go of his arm, and sliding the hand from his neck and back to his shoulder, but Eric's eyes said it all; he'd seen, and he'd read what he wanted to read into it. Ross had opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, turning awkwardly after him and watching him walk coldly on without even stopping to chat, and ignoring the little chuckle and whispered `Oops' from Schmeichel next to him. In a moment, the Viking footballer was murmuring at him about a `Vardy party' again, and Ross just wasn't listening, he was awash with a mix of grief and anger, realising just how disinterested Eric was towards him - and if he wasn't already, now he would think that... One of the goalkeeper's hands had crept down his back and was inching onto the big swell of his mighty arse, pushing up against the soft fabric of his sweats; Ross jerked away from him and shoved an elbow sharply into his upper ribs, then glared at him. `Watch it, mate,' he barked, pulling swiftly away from him. For a second, he'd thought of hurrying down the corridor and around that corner after Dier - but what was the point? He'd seen the cool distance in that face, and he knew where things stood between them. Eric was marrying a woman, and whatever they'd had was over. That night in London, when they shared the pitch for about ten minutes between substitutions, seemed to confirm it, and neither man looked the other in the eye as they skipped past each other in the drizzle of the 1-1 draw... but Ross watched him intensely from the bench, glad that the rain hid a tear, and nobody bothered to talk to him as he mourned. Except... Ross wasn't the only one who thought back to that night in the run-up to Christmas, with mixed and painful feelings. And it was occurring to Eric too right now, standing at the sink in his kitchen, rinsing off a couple of plates before putting them down, and he wasn't even sure why it had come back to him - maybe it was the wintry rain on the windows, or something similar about how his day had played out at Tottenham training, or maybe it was the little notification his phone had provided that Nice were playing Montpelier tonight, the kind of thing that happens when you google the same football team one too many times. He hadn't checked the score yet, he couldn't face it. The 28-year-old footballer, days away from his next birthday, stared briefly at his own faint reflection in the dark window beyond the sink, thinking back to how odd it had been to find out that of all the teams in the world, France's Nice would be arriving in London for a very random friendly four days before Christmas, and that Ross Barkley, his Ross, was up front in the team line-up for the opposition. Eric had been given the option of avoiding the friendly fixture altogether, since he'd only just rejoined training after his rest days from England's unsuccessful World Cup bid... and he'd seriously considered it, since the thought of it all left him dazed and anxious. But the messages of his absence felt far too powerful and damning, and so he'd asked if he could at least sit on the bench, and there he was. It had taken a lot for him to summon up the courage to seek Ross out before the game, marching awkwardly about the stadium and trying to figure out where the visitors were being housed before the warm-up. He'd been rehearsing the conversation in his head, though he knew he'd lose composure once he got himself alone with that sexy Scouse man - and then he was walking towards them, watching the oddly possessive embrace of a very familiar former opponent, Schmeichel all over Barkley as if he was his... his... fuck knows. Eric's hands had flexed and tightened into fists and he'd had to get a tight grip of himself not to go flying at the smug face of the ex-Leicester keeper, who was grinning through his beard and eyeing him up as he passed, whilst Ross himself just gawped guiltily, and... Eric had felt sick during the whole of the match, even when he was called. ESPECIALLY when he was called on, and he was briefly playing against his ex, for the first time in forever. When it was all over, he didn't even shower with the team; he just slipped away without goodbyes and drove home, almost getting into a traffic accident because he was so distracted. Now he stared at his worried face in the reflective glass, and then turned away from the dirty dishes, trying to shake himself out of it. `Can you get me another beer, bro?' called the voice of his guest, and Dier did just that, shuffling through the large kitchen of his townhouse as if he was briefly a zombie, his mind occupied and his generally good mood ruined; back in the TV room, he passed the drink to the occupant of one of the sofas, and slumped down into the other, across from him, staring quietly across at classic 90s movie playing on the wall-mounted screen, but no longer interested in it at all. `You alright?' barked the voice of the room's other occupant, and he turned his head, scratching at his beard, to face the lounging footballer on the other furniture; they'd been chatting and bantering after training when he invited Matt Doherty over to chill at his place tonight, and it was nothing unusual for the two of them, increasingly close buddies on the Spurs defensive line. `All good,' Eric told him dully, then looked back at the screen, blinking slowly at it, and pushing away the regretful thoughts of that night in December - well, not just of that night, he supposed, but of everything he'd done leading up to it. The way he'd handled things. His martyrdom, his silence, the arguments that preceded it. He should have fought for what he wanted, shouldn't he? But instead, you put a ring on her finger, and... `This movie isn't anywhere near as good as I remembered,' muttered the strong Irish voice of the lounging right-back, and Dier nodded vaguely in his direction. `I'm not sure I can even be arsed to watch the end,' Doherty chuckled, tossing a remote control this way, and shifting position on the sofa, looking like he was debating whether to catch a tube back to his place and get out of here. Dier suddenly felt like an empty house was the last thing he could face, and he bit his lip. `Me neither,' he admitted severely, but then added, `Fancy shooting a few hoops out back?' `Mate,' Matt chuckled, `it's about 9pm and it's black as tar out there.' `I've got lighting,' Eric rebutted a bit too firmly. `I just need to blow off some steam, that's all. No worries if not - I'll hit the exercise bike, or-' `Maaate,' the Irish footballer groaned. `The gaffer works us double-hard getting ready for an Arsenal game that's four days away, and you've got energy that you need to work off? Fucking hell, Viking, what a trooper...' `Don't call me that,' Dier grumbled sharply, and he flinched at the odd concerned look that the other lad, sitting upright now, gave him. He brushed past the nickname and his overreaction, and got up to his feet. `Come on, let's see if I can keep my record alive, just a few out in the garden. Then I'll release you from the Wednesday night kidnap and you can go back to your girlfriend, haha, okay? Thanks for keeping me company while mine's away on a shoot, yeh...' He dropped the TV remote and reached over to high-five Dohery on his way past, heading for the French doors at the far end of the room, and unlocking their exit onto the paved rear of the London house. Matt skipped lazily after him, apparently not very concerned by his restlessness or his tiny outburst - a good friend, Eric reflected, and the kind who was always there for him in these difficult times. In a French nightclub, Ross was in need of that kind of friend, and he couldn't help but hate on himself for driving away the only one that had materialised in his new life on the Riviera. He didn't precisely know where Joe was tonight, but the Bristolian left-back had been left out of the squad selection for Montpelier and hadn't shown his face since the game ended; Ross thought there was some vague talk that it was to do with Joe needing to get back to London, and negotiating his return to Fulham, but again he hadn't fully understood the accented conversation and been too awkward to ask for clarification. He might curiously text Bryan to find out more, but the two English footballers weren't exactly on speaking terms so far this year. He'd come along to the VIP party because it felt like the right thing to do, and after an hour here he felt as sweaty as he had in the football stadium, way overdressed for the hot club in his layered jumper and skinny jeans, and feeling like he hadn't quite cooled down from the minute that first goal went in. Here he was at the bar, requesting a bottle of water rather than booze, and wondering if he might make a Scouse exit. He didn't feel overly surprised when Kasper Schmeichel joined him there, leaning forward and pressing elbows into the sticky bartop, grinning at him with rosy cheeks that showed he was a little drunker than Barkley had managed. Ross smiled awkwardly back at him, and waited to be handed his rather embarrassing beverage, which Kasper clocked and smirked at, then let out a slow chuckle before straightening up and nudging arm to arm with him. `I thought you were a wilder beast than that, Barks,' the Dane admitted, raising his voice over the thump of music behind them. He shrugged. `I'm too hot.' `Hah. Sure you are.' Ross sipped the icy water and stared at him, unsure of the tone of this, since their voices were largely drowned out by the speakers. He smiled warily at the other player, feeling alert and edgy around him, but not exactly unexcited. When he looked at him, he largely thought with irritation about the missed chance for reunion in Tottenham; but he also thought about strong fingers on his neck, and the muscular hold of the big goalkeeper at his side, smelling so sweetly. Everything came with contradictions. `You wanna get out of here?' he was asked pretty bluntly. He hesitated to answer. `I wasn't thinking of staying long,' he said, and he could hear the submission in his neutrality; he was smiling weakly at the 6ft3 man and doing none of the usual evasion that he had for weeks and weeks since they got close in a physio room at the training camp and began to touch each other curiously. But still he was wary. `I'll probably head home,' he said. `I'm pretty tired out, in all honesty.' Kasper leaned ever so slightly closer along the front of the bar, spreading his big hands out across its surface, then pulling them into stern fists. `Don't rush off,' he mouthed, lip-reading the only option as his voice disappeared into the background noise, and then he was leaning in much closer, a hand on Barkley's shoulder yet again, his mouth close enough for his voice to be heard: `Meet me out behind the club, mate, and I'll thank you for those two goals, yeah? Good man.' Ross gulped and nodded, and gave in. They'd been friends for a while, and he'd always kept his hands to himself. After all, how many friendships had weathered the storm of a bit of physical fun? Matt wasn't like that, Eric reckoned, was a bit more straightforward, or just... straight, anyway. He was full of brash Irish humour and they had grown very close, and Eric half-knew that Matt half-knew a few truths about his own love life, though the two men had never openly discussed it; Doherty understood enough to quietly ask him if he was sure and happy when he announced his engagement, and to ask if there was definitely nobody else on the scene that might cause complications. And Eric had just smiled away this concern and hugged his pal, glad that the two of them didn't always need to put things into words - there was a very strong brotherly understanding between he and the right-back, that made them firm friends at the club, as close in many ways as he was to his complicated striker and England skipper. But tonight... They were both of them working up a sweat, even though the January night was cold, layers stripped away and sweat patches appearing in their t-shirts. Dier wasn't sure that Doherty was even wearing underwear beneath his baggy sweats, or was it just his own pervy eyes that kept seeking out the movement and shapes in the front of the grey material, whilst the Irish footballer made agile leaps and dunked the ball in the net point-for-point with his own efforts, all toothy grins and light banter. Eric told himself that he was just restless and agitated, and he needed to calm himself down. His fiancee would be back tomorrow from her trip, for god's sake, just chill and wait until you have her back in your bed. Something had put him in this funny mood and he didn't want it to be as stupid or simple as a notification that told him Barkley's team were playing a game; that was ridiculous. He caught a pass from his visiting friend and bounced the ball idly on the spot, trying not to look too directly as Matt Doherty pushed both hands into the front of his sweatpants in the crude manner of sporty lads everywhere, edging this way with those glaring sweat pants in the pale green of his tee. `Steam blown off, mucker?' the Swords-born player demanded quite cheerily, swaggering by him and back through the open French windows in an easy manner. Eric lifted the ball and sent it hurtling back up to the wall-mounted net they had been firing into, but missed and watched it deflect out of the lighting and away into the shadows of his garden in a series of disappointing bounces. `Kinda,' he said, half to himself, turning back indoors. In the centre of this room, in front of the paused TV, the 6ft1 defender had pulled the sweaty t-shirt off and bundled it between his hands, then using it to wipe down his face. Eric paused, looking the ripped muscular torso of his friend up and down for a moment, his hands behind him on the handles of the closing French windows. `What?' Doherty demanded simply. Dier collected himself. `This a striptease for me or summat, bro?' Matt threw it this way and he caught the damp garment. `I can use your shower, yeh?' the visitor said with the simple ease of buddies who hang out at each other's every week. `I'm not going home to the woman smelling like this, Eric.' Shirtless, the Irishman strolled out of the room and Eric followed in a slow daze, for some reason still holding his friend's discarded top, until he was at the foot of the stairs, and dropping it for him. `Sure,' he murmured, `you're always at home here, Doh. Er - use the en suite in mine though, I think. Here. Let me show you.' It was Matt's fault for mentioning how much he stank, Eric thought, following him up the stairs - it was like his nostrils were full up of the other man's fresh testosterone scent, like he'd been hotboxing a joint and now it was hitting him hard. On the landing he paused and let the sweatpants stud get a few steps away from him, and Dier rested a hand on the bannister, questioning why he was being such a creep; Doherty was one of his best mates, and not like THAT, and he ought to be just cooling himself down, and... `This one?' Matt was calling, disappearing through one of the doorways, and Eric followed, clearing his throat, and pulling at the chest of his own sweaty tshirt. He overtook his friend and moved across the wooden floorboards of his minimalist bedroom, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom, and moving towards the entrance to the wetroom area - he reached in to switch on the water, laughing awkwardly at himself as he thought about how easy it was and how unnecessary it had been to accompany the other Spurs player up here. Doherty was next to him, patting both hands across his six-pack, and his dark-bearded face all thoughtful smile as he took his place next to him. `What?' he asked again, something thoughtful and uncertain in his tone and his expression, and Dier just looked silently back at him, caught between him and the door of the shower cubicle. Behind him, the water hissed and picked up heat, but there was plenty of heat here, his own pale grey t-shirt glued to his pecs and tummy with sweat. He took in and released a long slow breath, conscious of how close he was standing to his friend; too close. `I think I know how to shower,' Matt pointed out in a gentle chuckle. `Who knows, with you,' Eric said back faintly. `Your hygiene is always dubious.' `Fuck off. We shower together every day.' He had his hands tucked in at the hips of his pants, and he nodded past him. `You joining me then, haha?' And down went the grey sweats, and with them the slinky black undies beneath; in a flash of nudity, the visiting right-back was brushing past him and into the wetroom, and Eric turned slowly to stare at him, his hand on the sliding door that would give his friend privacy and force him to retreat through the house and calm the fuck down. Matt had grabbed at a hanging shower gel and was now working up a lather over his chest and shoulders, but still glancing this way; his short dark hair let a cascade of hot water gush down his lean face to his dark goatee. Without thinking, Eric stepped over the threshold into the wetroom with him, and to his surprise the defender didn't really react; nor did he do or say anything when Dier reached out one tense hand and pressed it against the long heavy softness of the other man's cock. Right, then - this was happening. It wasn't quite an alleyway. The buildings here weren't close together. It was just a space between them, with a neatly framed view of the night-time sea at one end, and the other end partly screened by a parked van. Ross walked into it with his heart beating like crazy and his cock rapidly stiffening inside the tight crotch of his dark grey skinny jeans; in front of him, Kasper Schmeichel walked with a certain confident swagger, one Barkley couldn't help but be attracted to. `We really doing this?' Barkley asked, and his voice was a strained laugh. Schmeichel led him further into the space between the buildings, and turned on him, that same filthy grin lighting up his face. His shirt was already unbuttoned halfway down his torso, loosely open beneath the jacket that layered over it. And he was feeling up his crotch in the front of his loose-fit trousers, and smirking and licking his lips. He was a big handsome bastard, Ross had realised that quickly, but now he wasn't going to try and resist - he needed this. He... deserved this. He moved closer and he reached out to get a good grab of that bulge instead, pushing Kasper's hand out of the way to let him, and pulling in very close to the 6ft3 hunk, so close that he could smell his sweat and aftershave, and he willed himself to stop shaking nervously as if this was his first time. But then Kasper was pushing hard on his shoulders and pressing him back into the breezeblock wall, with Ross still fondling his bulge, and their faces were close not kissing, both chuckling and letting out wheezing breaths of excitement, anticipating what they might do here. `Fuck, you're a sexy cunt,' growled the Dane. `You know that, Scouser?' `I've been told,' he couldn't help but murmur back, horny for this. He squeezed on the full contents of the man's pants and allowed himself to be pressed back into the cool hardness of the wall, relaxing his leg muscles to descend, letting the back of his jumper scrape and catch against the rough bricks- but stopped by Kasper's hands on his shoulders, and the man's assertive grin. `What? No - you scored the goals,' Schmeichel laughed quietly in his ear. `I barely had to do anything at my end. Here - this is gonna be your treat.' And with a darting lick of his lips, the big man pressed him into the wall and began to sink down - Ross was shocked and thrilled, not having expected this exactly. The hunky midfielder was pressed back against the wall just above the waist, and then the front of his jeans was unzipped and wrenched open, and the tight dark denim was tugged about his sides and over the sizable obstacle of his buttocks, left midway down his thighs. He propped himself back against the wall, spreading his arms, as the front of his tight white boxer briefs was yanked down and his hard-on was released - taken immediately into the soft warmth of a man's mouth. Kasper was a surprising mouth on his cock, and he didn't feel like the most experienced or confident sucker, but... his lips were amazing and the tickle of his soft blonde facial hair was so arousing, and the feel of his powerful hands pushing under Ross's jumper and t-shirt and feeling the bottom of his six-pack, wow. It felt good, and much-needed. He'd been having quite the dry spell now he was single and awkward in a foreign country. Wow, Kasper didn't quite know what he was doing, and YET... oh fuck, it felt good to have lips around his shaft and a tongue on his head, and hands roughing against his bare hips, reaching about to squeeze and hold the mighty glutes, giving them a good feel. `Turn around,' came Kasper's hoarse voice, as the hot wet attention to his erection paused. Ross was surprised by the breathy command, but in no position to resist, not with those goalkeeper's hands pushing firmly at his hips - he flipped about and pushed his hands against the wall, careful not to let his face rub on the rough brickwork. `Two goals,' chuckled Kasper's voice, a bit higher up and nuzzling the top of his spine, but his hands low down and lifting the back of Barkley's jumper, `equals two fingers, hey?' He heard the wet pop of the Danish man sucking on the advertised two digits, and then he felt them, pressing between his strong cheeks, and he let out a delighted gasp of surprise. Eric's t-shirt and combat pants were soaked, but he ignored that, standing tight against the bare body of his friend, looking down at the work of his hand, pulling furiously on the long hard erection of the Irishman's rather impressive endowment. Matt was resting gently back against the tiled wall and sighing with every movement of the hand, not saying a word since it began, just sighing his approval and rubbing vaguely at Dier's wet shoulders through his drenched t-shirt and now - excitingly - reaching that same hand up the side of his face until it was atop his head, rubbing against his short crop and pressing gently downwards. The 28-year-old Spurs player obliged. Down to his knees, kneeling down on the wet tiles, submerging himself between the hot spray of the wetroom shower, and positioning himself right in front of Doherty's reclining body, faced with the lazy rise of that long stiff member, framed between the dark hair of the Irishman's thighs. Dier pressed a hand each to these strong upper leg muscles and he leant in, parting his lips and kissing the side of the dick, his first since noshing off Conor Coady in the Qatari heat. Still, the only noise Doherty made was a gentle sighing sound, a kind of relaxed acceptance, no real worry or conflict in him at all - it was as if the Irish stud had long been contemplating something happening like this, and was just pleased and relieved to let it happen. For the hundredth time, Eric questioned what his friend understood about him - but what did it matter? He opened his mouth wide and sucked off the defender, taking that long cock into his mouth and massaging wet hands up the sides of Doherty's legs, feeling the hot spray envelop them both, and just focusing on the work of his lips and tongue, and the hot hard feel of a man's meat inside his gob. Ross couldn't stop letting out the loudest and most riotous groans, pressing his chest and arms into the wall but jutting out the rest of his body to allow Kasper more access - the other powerful man was plunging two sturdy fingers in and out of his hole at a rapid pace, frigging him assertively whilst his other hand clung to a fistful of jumper, holding him in place and pressing him forward. As he fingered him, Kasper grunted and cursed, calling him a sexy dirty cunt and a beautiful bitch, amongst other things, but most of his energy seemingly focused on just stretching and working that bumhole, thrusting the two digits deep into him with only a bit of spit for lube. Barkley released one arm from the wall and reached down his front until he was holding his cock, still wet with Schmeichel's spit. He couldn't help himself, though part of him wanted this anal pleasure to last forever. He took hold of his fat heavy prick and jerked on it in slow powerful strokes, still groaning out wordless enjoyment of this unexpected attention, his huge cheeks parted and jiggling as that one powerful hand jutted in and out and stretched him some more. `You like that, bitch?' was the goalkeeper's repeated question, husky and urgent. Ross couldn't quite form a sensible `yes' or anything to that effect, just wild moans of satisfaction, shocked at how much he needed this, though at first the wet inexpert blowjob had seemed like everything. Still he wanked his cock, pressing further back, pushing his arse against the fingering hand, wanting to feel a third of Kasper's thick digits inside his aching ring - and still he panted and gasped and whimpered, and Schemichel just wheezed and chuckled and talked dirty to him. Soon, he came, unable to stop himself - emptying his balls in several heavy spurts, his cum spilling against the concrete floor but also over the coloured suede of his casual shoes, and accompanied by the most strained guttural noises from his throat, beyond control. They turned into shallow pants and he clutched at the base of his shaft, letting the last drops of spunk be milked from the tip of his dick, Kasper's fingers still deep in his arse, and... ugh, that post-nut clarity, that strange heady sense of reality. A sexy hunky blonde man behind him, working his backside, and... who had he let himself believe it was, panting and cursing at him, and shoving their fingers inside him so roughly? It was Kasper Schmeichel, and there was something a little unlikeable about the 36-year-old's attitude and persona here in Nice - why was he getting involved with him? Kasper was pulling his fingers from him and giving one cheek a squeeze and a slap, and laughing quietly. `Fuck, have you cum already?' he grunted. Ross turned around, collapsing back on the wall, letting his round bare cheeks scratch against the bricks, his cock flopping loose and smearing a little cum on the dark grey of his jeans before he began trying to push it away. His face and neck were shiny with sweat and he let his mouth hang open as he blearily faced the other man, who towered over him until he dragged himself fully upright and squared awkwardly up to him. Schmeichel was grabbing his hard-on through his dark trousers and pressing forward, shirt hanging fully open now, and sweat gleaming in patches on his chest. `Right,' he began to say, `now my turn...' Reaching one hand up against Barkley's face, patting then stroking his cheek and pulling down his bottom lip with his thumb - but Ross jerked his head back and shook it and pulled to one side, still trying to fasten the zip fly of his jeans. `No,' he said simply, and the keeper let out a single confused bark of laughter. `What?' `I need to go,' Ross muttered, conscious of the unfairness, but feeling a horrible clammy clarity about this - it wasn't a good idea, and though the orgasm had been amazing, his arsehole stung and the alleyway felt ridiculously dangerous. This was insane. This wasn't where he wanted to be. (He pictured a chic white bedroom in a London townhouse, all bare wooden floorboards and simple decor, and Eric in the doorway, holding two cups of tea.) `Wait,' grumbled Kasper. `What? Come on - it's just a bit of fun, mate-' And he grabbed for Ross by the arm, leaning in against him, his body heat overwhelming, but Barkley pressed a hand into the centre of his bare chest and shoved him back. `And what if I don't want that?' he spat at him, shocked himself at the speed at which he'd gone from moaning participant to outraged rejector. `What if I don't want just a bit of fun?' He wasn't REALLY talking to Schmeichel as he yelled this, he was talking to half a dozen other guys in the past few years of his life, but he felt every word as he spat it. `What if I'm not after that, you fucking bell-end? What if I want more? What you gonna do, leave your wife for me and we'll buy a villa together here? You gonna propose to me or summat? Fuck off!' He barged to the side, pulling away as the goalkeeper tried again to grasp at his arm - but when he looked at Kasper's face, it wasn't full of the cheeky lust that had led them here, and had driven the sexy man's numerous attempts to initiate this. Instead, the 6ft3 beefcake looked a bit freaked out, almost frightened, and Ross knew his rash silly words had just panicked the bi-curious Viking. `Hey,' grunted Kasper, but vaguely. `I'm sorry,' Ross coughed at him, backing off. `I didn't mean to...' `It's okay, erm-' `We shouldn't have done that.' `Mate, it's just...' `I'm going. I gotta go. I'm sorry. Bye.' And he fled, arse still stinging, knowing that he'd been a little unfair on the burly Scandinavian, but totally unable to remain here and find enjoyment in this; he felt a real sadness overcome, and he wanted to be in England, in London, in one street in particular of St John's Wood. He rounded the corner and reached down to finish fastening his jeans, becoming self-conscious as his clumsy steps mingled with the crowd of smokers outside the nightclub doors; he skirted around them, ignoring an indistinct shout from some other member of the team, just hurrying on his way. Away from here, and back to his apartment - even if what he really wanted was the airport, and a flight to London. Eric ate his cum, feeling the hot salty taste in his mouth, and enjoying the pleasant gentle sigh of release from Matt above. Doherty had knocked off the shower and without the hot water, the soaked clothing on his body felt chilly and uncomfortable, but he stayed on his knees for a moment longer, licking up and down the shaft and kissing the sensitive tip, then releasing the sated cock and letting it flop against one hairy thigh. Doherty was limp against the tiled wall, letting out just a quiet chuckle, his eyes half-closed. Dier pulled himself up, back on his feet and face to face with the dreamy still posture of his teammate, who reached stroking hands for his arms, but touching him only loosely. `Lovely,' the Irishman slurred, almost sleepily. It was obvious to Eric that there would be no reciprocation here, and he couldn't bring himself to mind. In fact, his own dick wasn't even hard in his briefs, for some reason, and he just wanted to get rid of the handsome bearded bloke in his shower so he could wash down himself and then climb into bed - but Doherty looked in no hurry, naked and satisfied and still sighing complacently. Coughing awkwardly and wiping a hand across his sticky mouth, Eric turned the hot water back on and then let Matt slink casually past him and out onto the bathmat; beneath the spray, Dier peeled his t-shirt away and pushed down his pants, stripping to wash himself, and only glancing out slightly as the guest dried himself and left the bathroom. Wow, that was odd. Under the shower water, the Tottenham midfielder relaxed every muscle of his 6ft2 body and he stared down at his crotch, at the limp dangle of his meaty cock - he'd been semi just looking at Doherty before, but now he found himself oddly numb, somewhat unsatisfied by the mouthful of cum and the knowledge that he'd brought his straight Irish mate to climax in his mouth. And now, he guessed, casual dreamy Matt would be drying off and borrowing clothes and... when he walked out of his bathroom to join him, would this ever have happened? That's good, he told himself - he didn't need any more drama or difficulty, not after the blackmail threat and the collapse of another relationship. Fine, if he could play about with Matt now and then and it be PURELY physical, and not even need to be discussed, then- He just felt a bit empty and sad, and he knew what he was missing. Or who. Dry and swaddled in bathrobe, he found Matt downstairs, on his way out. `Cool evening,' Doherty told him, with just a mischievous smile on his lips, pushing his feet into his trainers at the doorway, clad entirely in clothes pilfered from Dier's wardrobe, though their style was so similar that nobody else would notice. In a daze, Eric crossed the hallway towards him and nodded, holding the robe tightly closed about his big damp muscles. `Yeah,' he agreed quietly. `Get on your way, Doh-ball, before your girlfriend gets too moody, ha. Hmm.' Matt flashed him a smile, then bumped fists with him, and that was that - the right-back strolling out onto the driveway and down the pavement, and Eric was alone in the doorway of his home. Not for long, she'd be back tomorrow. And then he'd be with his fiancee, not alone. But... he might still feel like it. Back in his flat, Barkley took a quick cold shower and then climbed naked into bed, shivering slightly. He had a strong sense of regret, but it was pretty general - did he regret going to the nightclub at all, and finding himself feeling apart from the team after all, or did he just regret the dirty fun out behind the club in particular? Did he regret giving in to Kasper's advances, or being turned around and having his arse invaded by two powerful fingers? Did he regret enjoying it and cumming all over his shoes? Did he regret being so blunt and dismissive to the other man, and giving nothing back? Huh. Or did his regrets go much further back, to the first argument with Eric once they were doing long-distance? It felt like a lot of regret, and he didn't want to follow the string. Instead, the anxious Scouser slipped towards sleep whilst actively turning his thoughts back to football, and the moments of success he'd found in the closing part of the game. Two goals, so close together, and so soon after scoring his Ligue 1 debut in a recent match; it was amazing, and he dared to hope that some Premier League boss might have caught sight of it on a sports round-up. France was lovely, but the UK was home - his entire agenda here was to regain form and make an impact and attract offers for a new Premiership club, that had been the plan when he accepted the contract. Sleep found him, and a more relaxed state than he'd been in when he dashed back into the flat, his chunky cock uncomfortable in his skinny jeans and his bumhole a bit sore. He snored into his pillow and hugged at the covers, needing a body there to hold. And unseen by him, his phone buzzed and lit up on a table by the window, and its screen reflected on the dark glass with its sea view; 1 new message, from Joe B: `hey man - hope you had fun celebrating tonight, sorry i didn't come. really great goals, both of them. speak soon'. It lay there in wait for Barkley's morning eyes, and his warm surprise. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 12 Jan 2023 21:22:30 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 340 Part 340: That Night In December The first goal, in the 82nd minute, took him by surprise; the win over Montpelier had looked pretty certain when he was substituted in by the new manager for the final quarter of the league match, and he'd thought the team might become slow and cautious, with little attacking opportunity against their desperate opposition. But the assist from Bouanani had come his way whilst both teams were still reacting to Delort making it 4-0, and Ross Barkley now pushing that tally to 5. When he found himself booting goal number 6 in only three minutes later, the English midfielder was astonished and electrified, punching the air as he leapt off the ground and was immediately encircled by his Nice colleagues. As superfluous as his brace had actually been, the 29-year-old footballer ended the home game feeling like he'd just single-handedly won Ligue 1 for the lads, totally on fire with the adrenaline rush of scoring twice, and delighted to experience such support and appreciation from his largely French teammates - it had been a slow and laborious mission to integrate himself into the football club as their surprise free transfer, and this mild January night at the Allianz Riviera was the first time he'd really felt one of them. The close of the game and the ensuing celebrations were hyper and frenzied for the whole squad and staff, excited to have reached their highest scoreline in a significant period, and to have really blossomed under the new stewardship of Didier Digard - but for Ross himself, it was the joy and thrill of a return to the past, a sensation of confidence and victory that had eluded him since his earliest outings at Chelsea and, more honestly, his Everton youth. It had been a long time since Barkley had truly felt like a winner on a football pitch, but grabbed and hugged by player after player on the field and then coach after coach at the sidelines, he felt good. Almost every member of the Nice squad grabbed him in a big tight hug, arms about his broad shoulders and mixed French and English compliments paid to him in breathy voices; but one coat-clad player on the fringe of the celebrations just grabbed his hand for a moment in a handshake and gave him a tight-lipped nod of appreciation, and then was off to speak to someone else, and there was a short moment where his big chest felt winded and he didn't know how he should be feeling, but a chant was starting and he was being steered into the mouth of the tunnel with the other goal-scorers of the night, and that momentary snub had to be dismissed after all - the winning feeling needed to take over. And so it did: beers were cracked open as if the team had just won a tournament, and the men were slow to peel off the sweaty red-and-black shirts of the night, taking their time in the home changing rooms of the stadium, singing out their happiness and heaping lots of praise on the new boss. Despite his status as one of the night's heroes, Ross found himself quickly distanced from the main buzz of the celebrations, because his language skills weren't up to the quick and broken French slang, and his natural shyness was only intensified by the sense of alienation that came with playing in a foreign league. Happy nonetheless, the sweaty Scouser grinned and laughed and pulled his footy shirt away, the skin-tight black lycra of his under-shirt still sticking to his torso and arms. He was just about to pull this top up and away from the aching muscle of his body when he was grabbed about one arm and found the overdressed figure of the club's assistant manager leaning urgently over at him. `An interview,' the fifty-something man said smoothly, `they want you for an interview. For a moment of true horror, Barkley just stared at the man, pausing with his fingers about the hem of his lycra shirt, sweat trickling down either side of his rugged face. `In English,' the football boss said to him in a lower voice, clearly reading his expression. `It's in English. There'll be a translator. Come on.' Ross felt his entire body sag with relief as the prospect of attempting his rudimental French in front of mics and cameras ebbed away, and he nodded eagerly at the coach. `Get your shirt back on, and come with me.' By the time the Liverpudlian midfielder was back in the locker-room with everybody else, the lads had made mixed progress. Many were getting on with their showers and glistening bodies emerged from the showers at either end, towels tied about their waists, but others were still in muddy kits and dancing about on benches, spilling beer over themselves; there was talk of hitting a particular nightclub on the seafront and booking out the VIP area, and several men were quick to grab and invite Ross as he made his way back to his things, with an eagerness and friendliness that hadn't always been there in the last four months. Ross began to pull away his footy shirt and the lycra beneath it yet again, wrestling clumsily with the sleeves and getting it over his head, then bunching the sweaty sports material in both hands and tossing it down between his big socked feet, when a warm damp hand slapped against one of his shoulders. With a now-strained look of happy pride on his face, having mumbled and grinned his way through the awkwardly translated interview, Barkley turned to see which of his Nice teammates was adding to the congratulations, and started slightly at the tall broad figure steaming next to him, fresh out of the showers and running fingers through his dark blonde hair. `You coming to this party later, then?' growled the clearer English of his Danish colleague, Kasper Schmeichel smoothing down his wet beard and leaning in close where he stood, a towering 6ft3. `Oh - er, yeh - is everyone?' He smiled weakly at the other Premiership transplant, pausing with his arms hanging uselessly in front of him, hesitant to start peeling off his long socks or dropping his black shorts. `It does sound like fun.' Big and bulky and wearing only a towel, the Dane shrugged, lowering both hands to the knotted front of the white wrap. Steam still rose from his broad chest and huge shoulders, and he had a cheeky grin cracking his handsome tanned face. `Could be, could be,' he agreed, more quietly, before pushing one fist of a hand against Ross's bare sides, and letting out a low chuckle. `Though we could always have a more private party if you fancied, Scouser, haha - eh?' Barkley did his best to look unperturbed by this remark, pulling an inch or two away from the brushing contact of Schmeichel's knuckles, and scratching at his own short dense curls of hair, then clearing his throat. `I've never been to that nightclub,' he said, ignoring the idea of `a private party', and avoiding clear eye contact with the sharp blues of the handsome Dane. `And it'll be good to celebrate as a team.' He said it awkwardly and loudly, as if trying to draw some attention to their chat, and to shut up the former Leicester City captain. `Ah, yeh,' sighed Kasper, still smirking straight at him. `And we need to celebrate YOU, mate, and talk about what Chelsea lost out on, huh.' Grabbing again, his hands big warm paws, taking one of Barkley's shoulders and giving him a bit of a shake. Without saying anything, Ross pushed the hand away, but didn't stop smiling - he tried to communicate warningly with just his eyes, feeling every reason to be cold and distant from their burly goalkeeper, but uncomfortably aware of the busy room about them, and his own need to shower off. `Relax,' Schmeichel murmured through his grin, letting go of him and backing away, gripping the knot of his towel more firmly. `But don't skip the party, I owe you a few drinks, okay?' And as he turned away, he loosened the knot and Ross was, very briefly, treated to the rear view, the blotchy pink heat of his broad back sinking down to the gold-fuzzed mounds of his big arse cheeks and the tree-trunk legs below, walking away and bursting into loud French banter with another guy as he did. Barkley averted his eyes from the goalkeeper's muscles and scowled, lifting each heavy leg to strip the socks from his sore calves. Fuck that big bastard, he thought irritably, placing plenty of blame on him, and resenting the last time that Schmeichel had tried getting close to him again. Late December, London: Ross had hardly been in the best of moods when his club made their mildly surprising journey over the Channel for a slightly random friendly against a Premier League stalwart. In a way, it had been better that nobody had mentioned Tottenham Hotspur to him until almost the day before the flight, as for the week leading up to the fixture he'd only heard people refer to a `London' team, and been too embarrassed to admit that he couldn't understand the French accents that had explained the little trip to the lads one damp chilly afternoon at the training ground. A return to England... It should have been quite fun and invigorating, the pre-Christmas friendly now that the World Cup was settled, but the whole experience was fraught with significance for Ross, for obvious reasons. Even without the sudden revelation of their North London hosts, the flight back into the English capital was one that buzzed him with difficult memories, having humiliated himself on his last stay in the city; not Chelsea, although the way things had ended there was pretty shit, but more specifically his night at Joe Bryan's apartment. The other English squad member at Nice had barely spoken a word to him since that weekend, never inviting him on the beach walks or sea swims that the two friends had begun to bond over, nor the film nights at his condo. Arriving in a drizzly London and being driven towards the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium triggered embarrassing flashbacks to that moody weekend and how Ross had drunk way too much and made an ill-advised move on Joe, leading to a tense separation in the shadows of his bedroom. But really... the Joe Bryan problem was small fry. All the way up to their arrival at the stadium, Ross spun from hoping Eric Dier was still resting from England duty, to daring to think that this was the perfect opportunity to get a real conversation out of him. And by the time Kasper Schmeichel crashed across his path, he was very much set on the latter: he was strolling through the corridors of the stadium in sweatpants and a hoody, wondering who he could ask to direct him to the relaxation lounge of the host players, when Kasper's voice hollered after him and the big goalkeeper was suddenly at his side, hand on his shoulder and breath tickling his ear. `Oh, hey,' Barkley grumbled disinterestedly, as Schmeichel demanded to know where he was going. The team were being given some time to relax and adjust, not even kitted up for a warm-up session on the pitch yet, where they'd be doing some media work for their socials; Ross thought he'd slipped quite discreetly away from the squad gathering, but he supposed that Kasper had similar issues of isolation than him, even with multiple European languages at his disposal. `Just havin' a walk,' he told the older bloke, trying to shrug away the hand on the shoulder of his hooded top, and realising that he really had no idea where he was going; this irritating knowledge brought him to an awkward stop, made all the more awkward by the other man's gurning smile at his side, standing over him and tilting his head quizzically. `It doesn't matter,' Ross muttered, unsure what to think of Kasper's curious expression. Even back in December, he was still wary of the goalie, overly conscious of how close they'd come to an intimate fumble on that bored autumn afternoon of hangover; he'd pulled back from the married Dane's apparent bi side then, and been cautious about ending up alone with him since... until now. Schmeichel's hand landed back on his shoulder, except this time it was a lot closer to his neck, and this time he didn't have the heart to shrug it away. He scowled at his own daft optimism, thinking that he might find and talk to Dier here in the stadium - that he might get some answers out of him, or... well, yeh, in all honesty, he'd dared to entertain images of them falling into each others strong arms and making up, dismissing it all as a stupid misunderstanding. But Ross, he told himself, he got ENGAGED. `What is it?' his teammate asked, and his voice was a soft consoling purr. The hand on his shoulder was on the back of his neck, and thick strong fingertips were pressing into the skin there below the light fuzz of his fade cut, and Ross couldn't help but sigh at the touch, standing awkwardly there with the slightly taller figure leaning against his side. `What's up, matey?' murmured the Copenhagen Mancunian. `What're you lookin' for here...?' `Nothing,' Barkley mumbled evasively at him, but he couldn't find it in him to pull away from the other man, who was massaging the back of the neck and taking hold of his bicep, leaning in so close that he could feel Schemichel's breath brush his jawline. `After we smash these losers, you got any plans?' the goalkeeper was asking him. `I just got a text from a mate who's visiting London, y'see, and he might be having a bit of a party later on tonight if we can sort it, so-' `What?' Ross murmured disinterestedly at him, thinking about what the chances were that Eric was even on the team-sheet for the Spurs friendly - had England players even returned to club training yet after flying out of Qatar...? And if Eric WASN'T on the squad for the match, would he bother to attend it and support his mates? Would he... want to be here, and... see Ross, and... He grimaced, not sure he'd like the answer to this. The break-up had been so cold and sudden, even after their fiery little rows during the long-distance chapter of the relationship, and now... `I think you'll know him,' Kasper chuckled, kneading fingers against his bicep through the sleeve of his top. `I haven't mentioned your name to him, or anything, but he defo said I could bring a friend along... in fact, that I SHOULD bring a friend, haha, you see he's quite into-' `What are you on about?' Ross snapped at him, only half-hearing what he had to say, thinking that he WAS here after all, and if he could shake off this big bugger, then he could find some helpful member of staff and explain that he really needed to catch up with a couple of old pals at Tottenham that he missed from his Prem days, and- `Vardy,' grunted Schmeichel with a mysterious expression on his creased and bearded face, blue eyes sparkling with eagerness. `Vardy, mate, he's the friend, and-' `What about him?' Barkley asked, about to try and pull away when the fingers on the back of his neck hit a sweet spot that almost made him groan, and he became very aware of how tenderly he was being held by the 6ft3 goalie, how oddly tender his touch was, and- more pressing than these realisations, the fact that someone was walking towards them down the corridor, having appeared about the family. It all happened so fast, and yet also in slow-motion: Eric Dier, hands shoved into the pockets of a loose denim jacket, marching down the corridor and past them with merely a nod and a `Welcome home, lads' before stomping off on his route. The look he gave them both. Of course, big Kasper moved quickly, letting go of his arm, and sliding the hand from his neck and back to his shoulder, but Eric's eyes said it all; he'd seen, and he'd read what he wanted to read into it. Ross had opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, turning awkwardly after him and watching him walk coldly on without even stopping to chat, and ignoring the little chuckle and whispered `Oops' from Schmeichel next to him. In a moment, the Viking footballer was murmuring at him about a `Vardy party' again, and Ross just wasn't listening, he was awash with a mix of grief and anger, realising just how disinterested Eric was towards him - and if he wasn't already, now he would think that... One of the goalkeeper's hands had crept down his back and was inching onto the big swell of his mighty arse, pushing up against the soft fabric of his sweats; Ross jerked away from him and shoved an elbow sharply into his upper ribs, then glared at him. `Watch it, mate,' he barked, pulling swiftly away from him. For a second, he'd thought of hurrying down the corridor and around that corner after Dier - but what was the point? He'd seen the cool distance in that face, and he knew where things stood between them. Eric was marrying a woman, and whatever they'd had was over. That night in London, when they shared the pitch for about ten minutes between substitutions, seemed to confirm it, and neither man looked the other in the eye as they skipped past each other in the drizzle of the 1-1 draw... but Ross watched him intensely from the bench, glad that the rain hid a tear, and nobody bothered to talk to him as he mourned. Except... Ross wasn't the only one who thought back to that night in the run-up to Christmas, with mixed and painful feelings. And it was occurring to Eric too right now, standing at the sink in his kitchen, rinsing off a couple of plates before putting them down, and he wasn't even sure why it had come back to him - maybe it was the wintry rain on the windows, or something similar about how his day had played out at Tottenham training, or maybe it was the little notification his phone had provided that Nice were playing Montpelier tonight, the kind of thing that happens when you google the same football team one too many times. He hadn't checked the score yet, he couldn't face it. The 28-year-old footballer, days away from his next birthday, stared briefly at his own faint reflection in the dark window beyond the sink, thinking back to how odd it had been to find out that of all the teams in the world, France's Nice would be arriving in London for a very random friendly four days before Christmas, and that Ross Barkley, his Ross, was up front in the team line-up for the opposition. Eric had been given the option of avoiding the friendly fixture altogether, since he'd only just rejoined training after his rest days from England's unsuccessful World Cup bid... and he'd seriously considered it, since the thought of it all left him dazed and anxious. But the messages of his absence felt far too powerful and damning, and so he'd asked if he could at least sit on the bench, and there he was. It had taken a lot for him to summon up the courage to seek Ross out before the game, marching awkwardly about the stadium and trying to figure out where the visitors were being housed before the warm-up. He'd been rehearsing the conversation in his head, though he knew he'd lose composure once he got himself alone with that sexy Scouse man - and then he was walking towards them, watching the oddly possessive embrace of a very familiar former opponent, Schmeichel all over Barkley as if he was his... his... fuck knows. Eric's hands had flexed and tightened into fists and he'd had to get a tight grip of himself not to go flying at the smug face of the ex-Leicester keeper, who was grinning through his beard and eyeing him up as he passed, whilst Ross himself just gawped guiltily, and... Eric had felt sick during the whole of the match, even when he was called. ESPECIALLY when he was called on, and he was briefly playing against his ex, for the first time in forever. When it was all over, he didn't even shower with the team; he just slipped away without goodbyes and drove home, almost getting into a traffic accident because he was so distracted. Now he stared at his worried face in the reflective glass, and then turned away from the dirty dishes, trying to shake himself out of it. `Can you get me another beer, bro?' called the voice of his guest, and Dier did just that, shuffling through the large kitchen of his townhouse as if he was briefly a zombie, his mind occupied and his generally good mood ruined; back in the TV room, he passed the drink to the occupant of one of the sofas, and slumped down into the other, across from him, staring quietly across at classic 90s movie playing on the wall-mounted screen, but no longer interested in it at all. `You alright?' barked the voice of the room's other occupant, and he turned his head, scratching at his beard, to face the lounging footballer on the other furniture; they'd been chatting and bantering after training when he invited Matt Doherty over to chill at his place tonight, and it was nothing unusual for the two of them, increasingly close buddies on the Spurs defensive line. `All good,' Eric told him dully, then looked back at the screen, blinking slowly at it, and pushing away the regretful thoughts of that night in December - well, not just of that night, he supposed, but of everything he'd done leading up to it. The way he'd handled things. His martyrdom, his silence, the arguments that preceded it. He should have fought for what he wanted, shouldn't he? But instead, you put a ring on her finger, and... `This movie isn't anywhere near as good as I remembered,' muttered the strong Irish voice of the lounging right-back, and Dier nodded vaguely in his direction. `I'm not sure I can even be arsed to watch the end,' Doherty chuckled, tossing a remote control this way, and shifting position on the sofa, looking like he was debating whether to catch a tube back to his place and get out of here. Dier suddenly felt like an empty house was the last thing he could face, and he bit his lip. `Me neither,' he admitted severely, but then added, `Fancy shooting a few hoops out back?' `Mate,' Matt chuckled, `it's about 9pm and it's black as tar out there.' `I've got lighting,' Eric rebutted a bit too firmly. `I just need to blow off some steam, that's all. No worries if not - I'll hit the exercise bike, or-' `Maaate,' the Irish footballer groaned. `The gaffer works us double-hard getting ready for an Arsenal game that's four days away, and you've got energy that you need to work off? Fucking hell, Viking, what a trooper...' `Don't call me that,' Dier grumbled sharply, and he flinched at the odd concerned look that the other lad, sitting upright now, gave him. He brushed past the nickname and his overreaction, and got up to his feet. `Come on, let's see if I can keep my record alive, just a few out in the garden. Then I'll release you from the Wednesday night kidnap and you can go back to your girlfriend, haha, okay? Thanks for keeping me company while mine's away on a shoot, yeh...' He dropped the TV remote and reached over to high-five Dohery on his way past, heading for the French doors at the far end of the room, and unlocking their exit onto the paved rear of the London house. Matt skipped lazily after him, apparently not very concerned by his restlessness or his tiny outburst - a good friend, Eric reflected, and the kind who was always there for him in these difficult times. In a French nightclub, Ross was in need of that kind of friend, and he couldn't help but hate on himself for driving away the only one that had materialised in his new life on the Riviera. He didn't precisely know where Joe was tonight, but the Bristolian left-back had been left out of the squad selection for Montpelier and hadn't shown his face since the game ended; Ross thought there was some vague talk that it was to do with Joe needing to get back to London, and negotiating his return to Fulham, but again he hadn't fully understood the accented conversation and been too awkward to ask for clarification. He might curiously text Bryan to find out more, but the two English footballers weren't exactly on speaking terms so far this year. He'd come along to the VIP party because it felt like the right thing to do, and after an hour here he felt as sweaty as he had in the football stadium, way overdressed for the hot club in his layered jumper and skinny jeans, and feeling like he hadn't quite cooled down from the minute that first goal went in. Here he was at the bar, requesting a bottle of water rather than booze, and wondering if he might make a Scouse exit. He didn't feel overly surprised when Kasper Schmeichel joined him there, leaning forward and pressing elbows into the sticky bartop, grinning at him with rosy cheeks that showed he was a little drunker than Barkley had managed. Ross smiled awkwardly back at him, and waited to be handed his rather embarrassing beverage, which Kasper clocked and smirked at, then let out a slow chuckle before straightening up and nudging arm to arm with him. `I thought you were a wilder beast than that, Barks,' the Dane admitted, raising his voice over the thump of music behind them. He shrugged. `I'm too hot.' `Hah. Sure you are.' Ross sipped the icy water and stared at him, unsure of the tone of this, since their voices were largely drowned out by the speakers. He smiled warily at the other player, feeling alert and edgy around him, but not exactly unexcited. When he looked at him, he largely thought with irritation about the missed chance for reunion in Tottenham; but he also thought about strong fingers on his neck, and the muscular hold of the big goalkeeper at his side, smelling so sweetly. Everything came with contradictions. `You wanna get out of here?' he was asked pretty bluntly. He hesitated to answer. `I wasn't thinking of staying long,' he said, and he could hear the submission in his neutrality; he was smiling weakly at the 6ft3 man and doing none of the usual evasion that he had for weeks and weeks since they got close in a physio room at the training camp and began to touch each other curiously. But still he was wary. `I'll probably head home,' he said. `I'm pretty tired out, in all honesty.' Kasper leaned ever so slightly closer along the front of the bar, spreading his big hands out across its surface, then pulling them into stern fists. `Don't rush off,' he mouthed, lip-reading the only option as his voice disappeared into the background noise, and then he was leaning in much closer, a hand on Barkley's shoulder yet again, his mouth close enough for his voice to be heard: `Meet me out behind the club, mate, and I'll thank you for those two goals, yeah? Good man.' Ross gulped and nodded, and gave in. They'd been friends for a while, and he'd always kept his hands to himself. After all, how many friendships had weathered the storm of a bit of physical fun? Matt wasn't like that, Eric reckoned, was a bit more straightforward, or just... straight, anyway. He was full of brash Irish humour and they had grown very close, and Eric half-knew that Matt half-knew a few truths about his own love life, though the two men had never openly discussed it; Doherty understood enough to quietly ask him if he was sure and happy when he announced his engagement, and to ask if there was definitely nobody else on the scene that might cause complications. And Eric had just smiled away this concern and hugged his pal, glad that the two of them didn't always need to put things into words - there was a very strong brotherly understanding between he and the right-back, that made them firm friends at the club, as close in many ways as he was to his complicated striker and England skipper. But tonight... They were both of them working up a sweat, even though the January night was cold, layers stripped away and sweat patches appearing in their t-shirts. Dier wasn't sure that Doherty was even wearing underwear beneath his baggy sweats, or was it just his own pervy eyes that kept seeking out the movement and shapes in the front of the grey material, whilst the Irish footballer made agile leaps and dunked the ball in the net point-for-point with his own efforts, all toothy grins and light banter. Eric told himself that he was just restless and agitated, and he needed to calm himself down. His fiancee would be back tomorrow from her trip, for god's sake, just chill and wait until you have her back in your bed. Something had put him in this funny mood and he didn't want it to be as stupid or simple as a notification that told him Barkley's team were playing a game; that was ridiculous. He caught a pass from his visiting friend and bounced the ball idly on the spot, trying not to look too directly as Matt Doherty pushed both hands into the front of his sweatpants in the crude manner of sporty lads everywhere, edging this way with those glaring sweat pants in the pale green of his tee. `Steam blown off, mucker?' the Swords-born player demanded quite cheerily, swaggering by him and back through the open French windows in an easy manner. Eric lifted the ball and sent it hurtling back up to the wall-mounted net they had been firing into, but missed and watched it deflect out of the lighting and away into the shadows of his garden in a series of disappointing bounces. `Kinda,' he said, half to himself, turning back indoors. In the centre of this room, in front of the paused TV, the 6ft1 defender had pulled the sweaty t-shirt off and bundled it between his hands, then using it to wipe down his face. Eric paused, looking the ripped muscular torso of his friend up and down for a moment, his hands behind him on the handles of the closing French windows. `What?' Doherty demanded simply. Dier collected himself. `This a striptease for me or summat, bro?' Matt threw it this way and he caught the damp garment. `I can use your shower, yeh?' the visitor said with the simple ease of buddies who hang out at each other's every week. `I'm not going home to the woman smelling like this, Eric.' Shirtless, the Irishman strolled out of the room and Eric followed in a slow daze, for some reason still holding his friend's discarded top, until he was at the foot of the stairs, and dropping it for him. `Sure,' he murmured, `you're always at home here, Doh. Er - use the en suite in mine though, I think. Here. Let me show you.' It was Matt's fault for mentioning how much he stank, Eric thought, following him up the stairs - it was like his nostrils were full up of the other man's fresh testosterone scent, like he'd been hotboxing a joint and now it was hitting him hard. On the landing he paused and let the sweatpants stud get a few steps away from him, and Dier rested a hand on the bannister, questioning why he was being such a creep; Doherty was one of his best mates, and not like THAT, and he ought to be just cooling himself down, and... `This one?' Matt was calling, disappearing through one of the doorways, and Eric followed, clearing his throat, and pulling at the chest of his own sweaty tshirt. He overtook his friend and moved across the wooden floorboards of his minimalist bedroom, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom, and moving towards the entrance to the wetroom area - he reached in to switch on the water, laughing awkwardly at himself as he thought about how easy it was and how unnecessary it had been to accompany the other Spurs player up here. Doherty was next to him, patting both hands across his six-pack, and his dark-bearded face all thoughtful smile as he took his place next to him. `What?' he asked again, something thoughtful and uncertain in his tone and his expression, and Dier just looked silently back at him, caught between him and the door of the shower cubicle. Behind him, the water hissed and picked up heat, but there was plenty of heat here, his own pale grey t-shirt glued to his pecs and tummy with sweat. He took in and released a long slow breath, conscious of how close he was standing to his friend; too close. `I think I know how to shower,' Matt pointed out in a gentle chuckle. `Who knows, with you,' Eric said back faintly. `Your hygiene is always dubious.' `Fuck off. We shower together every day.' He had his hands tucked in at the hips of his pants, and he nodded past him. `You joining me then, haha?' And down went the grey sweats, and with them the slinky black undies beneath; in a flash of nudity, the visiting right-back was brushing past him and into the wetroom, and Eric turned slowly to stare at him, his hand on the sliding door that would give his friend privacy and force him to retreat through the house and calm the fuck down. Matt had grabbed at a hanging shower gel and was now working up a lather over his chest and shoulders, but still glancing this way; his short dark hair let a cascade of hot water gush down his lean face to his dark goatee. Without thinking, Eric stepped over the threshold into the wetroom with him, and to his surprise the defender didn't really react; nor did he do or say anything when Dier reached out one tense hand and pressed it against the long heavy softness of the other man's cock. Right, then - this was happening. It wasn't quite an alleyway. The buildings here weren't close together. It was just a space between them, with a neatly framed view of the night-time sea at one end, and the other end partly screened by a parked van. Ross walked into it with his heart beating like crazy and his cock rapidly stiffening inside the tight crotch of his dark grey skinny jeans; in front of him, Kasper Schmeichel walked with a certain confident swagger, one Barkley couldn't help but be attracted to. `We really doing this?' Barkley asked, and his voice was a strained laugh. Schmeichel led him further into the space between the buildings, and turned on him, that same filthy grin lighting up his face. His shirt was already unbuttoned halfway down his torso, loosely open beneath the jacket that layered over it. And he was feeling up his crotch in the front of his loose-fit trousers, and smirking and licking his lips. He was a big handsome bastard, Ross had realised that quickly, but now he wasn't going to try and resist - he needed this. He... deserved this. He moved closer and he reached out to get a good grab of that bulge instead, pushing Kasper's hand out of the way to let him, and pulling in very close to the 6ft3 hunk, so close that he could smell his sweat and aftershave, and he willed himself to stop shaking nervously as if this was his first time. But then Kasper was pushing hard on his shoulders and pressing him back into the breezeblock wall, with Ross still fondling his bulge, and their faces were close not kissing, both chuckling and letting out wheezing breaths of excitement, anticipating what they might do here. `Fuck, you're a sexy cunt,' growled the Dane. `You know that, Scouser?' `I've been told,' he couldn't help but murmur back, horny for this. He squeezed on the full contents of the man's pants and allowed himself to be pressed back into the cool hardness of the wall, relaxing his leg muscles to descend, letting the back of his jumper scrape and catch against the rough bricks- but stopped by Kasper's hands on his shoulders, and the man's assertive grin. `What? No - you scored the goals,' Schmeichel laughed quietly in his ear. `I barely had to do anything at my end. Here - this is gonna be your treat.' And with a darting lick of his lips, the big man pressed him into the wall and began to sink down - Ross was shocked and thrilled, not having expected this exactly. The hunky midfielder was pressed back against the wall just above the waist, and then the front of his jeans was unzipped and wrenched open, and the tight dark denim was tugged about his sides and over the sizable obstacle of his buttocks, left midway down his thighs. He propped himself back against the wall, spreading his arms, as the front of his tight white boxer briefs was yanked down and his hard-on was released - taken immediately into the soft warmth of a man's mouth. Kasper was a surprising mouth on his cock, and he didn't feel like the most experienced or confident sucker, but... his lips were amazing and the tickle of his soft blonde facial hair was so arousing, and the feel of his powerful hands pushing under Ross's jumper and t-shirt and feeling the bottom of his six-pack, wow. It felt good, and much-needed. He'd been having quite the dry spell now he was single and awkward in a foreign country. Wow, Kasper didn't quite know what he was doing, and YET... oh fuck, it felt good to have lips around his shaft and a tongue on his head, and hands roughing against his bare hips, reaching about to squeeze and hold the mighty glutes, giving them a good feel. `Turn around,' came Kasper's hoarse voice, as the hot wet attention to his erection paused. Ross was surprised by the breathy command, but in no position to resist, not with those goalkeeper's hands pushing firmly at his hips - he flipped about and pushed his hands against the wall, careful not to let his face rub on the rough brickwork. `Two goals,' chuckled Kasper's voice, a bit higher up and nuzzling the top of his spine, but his hands low down and lifting the back of Barkley's jumper, `equals two fingers, hey?' He heard the wet pop of the Danish man sucking on the advertised two digits, and then he felt them, pressing between his strong cheeks, and he let out a delighted gasp of surprise. Eric's t-shirt and combat pants were soaked, but he ignored that, standing tight against the bare body of his friend, looking down at the work of his hand, pulling furiously on the long hard erection of the Irishman's rather impressive endowment. Matt was resting gently back against the tiled wall and sighing with every movement of the hand, not saying a word since it began, just sighing his approval and rubbing vaguely at Dier's wet shoulders through his drenched t-shirt and now - excitingly - reaching that same hand up the side of his face until it was atop his head, rubbing against his short crop and pressing gently downwards. The 28-year-old Spurs player obliged. Down to his knees, kneeling down on the wet tiles, submerging himself between the hot spray of the wetroom shower, and positioning himself right in front of Doherty's reclining body, faced with the lazy rise of that long stiff member, framed between the dark hair of the Irishman's thighs. Dier pressed a hand each to these strong upper leg muscles and he leant in, parting his lips and kissing the side of the dick, his first since noshing off Conor Coady in the Qatari heat. Still, the only noise Doherty made was a gentle sighing sound, a kind of relaxed acceptance, no real worry or conflict in him at all - it was as if the Irish stud had long been contemplating something happening like this, and was just pleased and relieved to let it happen. For the hundredth time, Eric questioned what his friend understood about him - but what did it matter? He opened his mouth wide and sucked off the defender, taking that long cock into his mouth and massaging wet hands up the sides of Doherty's legs, feeling the hot spray envelop them both, and just focusing on the work of his lips and tongue, and the hot hard feel of a man's meat inside his gob. Ross couldn't stop letting out the loudest and most riotous groans, pressing his chest and arms into the wall but jutting out the rest of his body to allow Kasper more access - the other powerful man was plunging two sturdy fingers in and out of his hole at a rapid pace, frigging him assertively whilst his other hand clung to a fistful of jumper, holding him in place and pressing him forward. As he fingered him, Kasper grunted and cursed, calling him a sexy dirty cunt and a beautiful bitch, amongst other things, but most of his energy seemingly focused on just stretching and working that bumhole, thrusting the two digits deep into him with only a bit of spit for lube. Barkley released one arm from the wall and reached down his front until he was holding his cock, still wet with Schmeichel's spit. He couldn't help himself, though part of him wanted this anal pleasure to last forever. He took hold of his fat heavy prick and jerked on it in slow powerful strokes, still groaning out wordless enjoyment of this unexpected attention, his huge cheeks parted and jiggling as that one powerful hand jutted in and out and stretched him some more. `You like that, bitch?' was the goalkeeper's repeated question, husky and urgent. Ross couldn't quite form a sensible `yes' or anything to that effect, just wild moans of satisfaction, shocked at how much he needed this, though at first the wet inexpert blowjob had seemed like everything. Still he wanked his cock, pressing further back, pushing his arse against the fingering hand, wanting to feel a third of Kasper's thick digits inside his aching ring - and still he panted and gasped and whimpered, and Schemichel just wheezed and chuckled and talked dirty to him. Soon, he came, unable to stop himself - emptying his balls in several heavy spurts, his cum spilling against the concrete floor but also over the coloured suede of his casual shoes, and accompanied by the most strained guttural noises from his throat, beyond control. They turned into shallow pants and he clutched at the base of his shaft, letting the last drops of spunk be milked from the tip of his dick, Kasper's fingers still deep in his arse, and... ugh, that post-nut clarity, that strange heady sense of reality. A sexy hunky blonde man behind him, working his backside, and... who had he let himself believe it was, panting and cursing at him, and shoving their fingers inside him so roughly? It was Kasper Schmeichel, and there was something a little unlikeable about the 36-year-old's attitude and persona here in Nice - why was he getting involved with him? Kasper was pulling his fingers from him and giving one cheek a squeeze and a slap, and laughing quietly. `Fuck, have you cum already?' he grunted. Ross turned around, collapsing back on the wall, letting his round bare cheeks scratch against the bricks, his cock flopping loose and smearing a little cum on the dark grey of his jeans before he began trying to push it away. His face and neck were shiny with sweat and he let his mouth hang open as he blearily faced the other man, who towered over him until he dragged himself fully upright and squared awkwardly up to him. Schmeichel was grabbing his hard-on through his dark trousers and pressing forward, shirt hanging fully open now, and sweat gleaming in patches on his chest. `Right,' he began to say, `now my turn...' Reaching one hand up against Barkley's face, patting then stroking his cheek and pulling down his bottom lip with his thumb - but Ross jerked his head back and shook it and pulled to one side, still trying to fasten the zip fly of his jeans. `No,' he said simply, and the keeper let out a single confused bark of laughter. `What?' `I need to go,' Ross muttered, conscious of the unfairness, but feeling a horrible clammy clarity about this - it wasn't a good idea, and though the orgasm had been amazing, his arsehole stung and the alleyway felt ridiculously dangerous. This was insane. This wasn't where he wanted to be. (He pictured a chic white bedroom in a London townhouse, all bare wooden floorboards and simple decor, and Eric in the doorway, holding two cups of tea.) `Wait,' grumbled Kasper. `What? Come on - it's just a bit of fun, mate-' And he grabbed for Ross by the arm, leaning in against him, his body heat overwhelming, but Barkley pressed a hand into the centre of his bare chest and shoved him back. `And what if I don't want that?' he spat at him, shocked himself at the speed at which he'd gone from moaning participant to outraged rejector. `What if I don't want just a bit of fun?' He wasn't REALLY talking to Schmeichel as he yelled this, he was talking to half a dozen other guys in the past few years of his life, but he felt every word as he spat it. `What if I'm not after that, you fucking bell-end? What if I want more? What you gonna do, leave your wife for me and we'll buy a villa together here? You gonna propose to me or summat? Fuck off!' He barged to the side, pulling away as the goalkeeper tried again to grasp at his arm - but when he looked at Kasper's face, it wasn't full of the cheeky lust that had led them here, and had driven the sexy man's numerous attempts to initiate this. Instead, the 6ft3 beefcake looked a bit freaked out, almost frightened, and Ross knew his rash silly words had just panicked the bi-curious Viking. `Hey,' grunted Kasper, but vaguely. `I'm sorry,' Ross coughed at him, backing off. `I didn't mean to...' `It's okay, erm-' `We shouldn't have done that.' `Mate, it's just...' `I'm going. I gotta go. I'm sorry. Bye.' And he fled, arse still stinging, knowing that he'd been a little unfair on the burly Scandinavian, but totally unable to remain here and find enjoyment in this; he felt a real sadness overcome, and he wanted to be in England, in London, in one street in particular of St John's Wood. He rounded the corner and reached down to finish fastening his jeans, becoming self-conscious as his clumsy steps mingled with the crowd of smokers outside the nightclub doors; he skirted around them, ignoring an indistinct shout from some other member of the team, just hurrying on his way. Away from here, and back to his apartment - even if what he really wanted was the airport, and a flight to London. Eric ate his cum, feeling the hot salty taste in his mouth, and enjoying the pleasant gentle sigh of release from Matt above. Doherty had knocked off the shower and without the hot water, the soaked clothing on his body felt chilly and uncomfortable, but he stayed on his knees for a moment longer, licking up and down the shaft and kissing the sensitive tip, then releasing the sated cock and letting it flop against one hairy thigh. Doherty was limp against the tiled wall, letting out just a quiet chuckle, his eyes half-closed. Dier pulled himself up, back on his feet and face to face with the dreamy still posture of his teammate, who reached stroking hands for his arms, but touching him only loosely. `Lovely,' the Irishman slurred, almost sleepily. It was obvious to Eric that there would be no reciprocation here, and he couldn't bring himself to mind. In fact, his own dick wasn't even hard in his briefs, for some reason, and he just wanted to get rid of the handsome bearded bloke in his shower so he could wash down himself and then climb into bed - but Doherty looked in no hurry, naked and satisfied and still sighing complacently. Coughing awkwardly and wiping a hand across his sticky mouth, Eric turned the hot water back on and then let Matt slink casually past him and out onto the bathmat; beneath the spray, Dier peeled his t-shirt away and pushed down his pants, stripping to wash himself, and only glancing out slightly as the guest dried himself and left the bathroom. Wow, that was odd. Under the shower water, the Tottenham midfielder relaxed every muscle of his 6ft2 body and he stared down at his crotch, at the limp dangle of his meaty cock - he'd been semi just looking at Doherty before, but now he found himself oddly numb, somewhat unsatisfied by the mouthful of cum and the knowledge that he'd brought his straight Irish mate to climax in his mouth. And now, he guessed, casual dreamy Matt would be drying off and borrowing clothes and... when he walked out of his bathroom to join him, would this ever have happened? That's good, he told himself - he didn't need any more drama or difficulty, not after the blackmail threat and the collapse of another relationship. Fine, if he could play about with Matt now and then and it be PURELY physical, and not even need to be discussed, then- He just felt a bit empty and sad, and he knew what he was missing. Or who. Dry and swaddled in bathrobe, he found Matt downstairs, on his way out. `Cool evening,' Doherty told him, with just a mischievous smile on his lips, pushing his feet into his trainers at the doorway, clad entirely in clothes pilfered from Dier's wardrobe, though their style was so similar that nobody else would notice. In a daze, Eric crossed the hallway towards him and nodded, holding the robe tightly closed about his big damp muscles. `Yeah,' he agreed quietly. `Get on your way, Doh-ball, before your girlfriend gets too moody, ha. Hmm.' Matt flashed him a smile, then bumped fists with him, and that was that - the right-back strolling out onto the driveway and down the pavement, and Eric was alone in the doorway of his home. Not for long, she'd be back tomorrow. And then he'd be with his fiancee, not alone. But... he might still feel like it. Back in his flat, Barkley took a quick cold shower and then climbed naked into bed, shivering slightly. He had a strong sense of regret, but it was pretty general - did he regret going to the nightclub at all, and finding himself feeling apart from the team after all, or did he just regret the dirty fun out behind the club in particular? Did he regret giving in to Kasper's advances, or being turned around and having his arse invaded by two powerful fingers? Did he regret enjoying it and cumming all over his shoes? Did he regret being so blunt and dismissive to the other man, and giving nothing back? Huh. Or did his regrets go much further back, to the first argument with Eric once they were doing long-distance? It felt like a lot of regret, and he didn't want to follow the string. Instead, the anxious Scouser slipped towards sleep whilst actively turning his thoughts back to football, and the moments of success he'd found in the closing part of the game. Two goals, so close together, and so soon after scoring his Ligue 1 debut in a recent match; it was amazing, and he dared to hope that some Premier League boss might have caught sight of it on a sports round-up. France was lovely, but the UK was home - his entire agenda here was to regain form and make an impact and attract offers for a new Premiership club, that had been the plan when he accepted the contract. Sleep found him, and a more relaxed state than he'd been in when he dashed back into the flat, his chunky cock uncomfortable in his skinny jeans and his bumhole a bit sore. He snored into his pillow and hugged at the covers, needing a body there to hold. And unseen by him, his phone buzzed and lit up on a table by the window, and its screen reflected on the dark glass with its sea view; 1 new message, from Joe B: `hey man - hope you had fun celebrating tonight, sorry i didn't come. really great goals, both of them. speak soon'. It lay there in wait for Barkley's morning eyes, and his warm surprise. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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Date: Sun, 10 Sep 2023 09:52:09 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 367 Part 367: England Camp, Day Six Harry Maguire was feeling low. He had been trying his best to relax into and enjoy the international break, always deeply proud to play for his country. Southgate's faith in his solid centre-back presence should, he knew, be a much-needed ego boost, and he should feel more himself in this English squad than he did in his awkward peripheral position at Old Trafford... stripped of captaincy and struggling to make the bench. But the gloom of his club career stuck to him like mud and this week had just felt awkward and artificial. Harry knew what he was going back to, and what he quietly suffered was an angry self-appointed blame - he knew his own stubbornness disguised as loyalty had kiboshed several potential moves away from United this summer, moves that might have allowed the big defender to get match time and find new self-respect in teams that wanted him. Fans that wanted him. Too loyal, he'd kept telling his agent. Too committed, he assured his manager. Too expensive, the media sneered. Too fucking in love with Luke Shaw, he could admit to himself, picturing his handsome boyfriend as he tore up the contract in the boardroom and stopped himself from moving to London and West Ham. And here he was, just as miserable, stuck in an international camp with his precious Lukey nursing an injury back in Cheshire, still a valued asset for their mutual football club. On a stool at the bar, the 6ft4 Yorkshireman nursed the dregs of a pint, and wallowed in these feelings of self-loathing and disappointment. Tonight's game against Ukraine had hardly done anything to restore his sporting status, though he'd been glad to make the starting 11; he'd made a few mistakes and missed a couple of opportunities for redemption, and he was slightly confused why the majority of the lads were celebrating tonight as a win when they'd barely scraped a draw on Polish soil. Maguire had drifted away from the pack and he must be giving off pretty strong vibes of his need for solitude, because nobody had bothered to join him here at the bar, or made any real attempt to talk to him since they left the stadium. To some extent he was glad, knowing he was shit company, but he continued to curse himself, cursing his stupid angry face and his selfish mood, cursing the boos that might meet him when he next got some minutes for a team he'd tried to lead. More mixed feelings: half of him wished deeply that Shaw was here with him, but another half was glad to be without. After all, what if he was such shit company even for the gorgeous left-back, and what if his mood infectiously ruined an England experience for Luke, a far more deserving call-up? Nah, he grimly concluded, it was for the best that Luke was in England with his family, and not here trying to put up with him, trying to console him, trying to cope with him. Harry was increasingly sure that he didn't deserve his secret partner, and he wondered what would happen when the transfer window reopened in January. Would the offers even still be on the table...? His attention, rising from the doldrums, was caught by the thud of elbows on the bartop, and the presence of another England player at this end of the bar. Hunched forward slightly, he flicked his head to the right and noted the arrival of another Manchester defender - if the England lads in the hotel bar were treating tonight's draw like a win, then this smug bastard was certainly the centre of that action. Holding court on the sofas by the open windows, the 33-year-old was delighted with himself, his debut England goal after a whopping 77 caps, and a number of players had flocked around him to toast the equaliser. Removing himself from the crowd, Harry had bitterly imagined a different scene if one of his powerful headers had sent them 2-1 up. `Slabbo!' whooped Kyle Walker, turning this way. `Shot?' The United defender stared down at his emptying pint and then shook his head, his voice a low growl of disinterest. `Not me for, fella, but you enjoy yourself.' Kyle promptly ignored him, waving over the barmaid and ordering two shots of tequila alongside his own pint, then adding a second pint with a surprised look at Harry's empty glass. As she went to work, he leaned one elbow to the bar and punched Harry lightly in the upper arm. `Come over and get a comfy seat, big fella,' the City player said forcefully. `Why you sulking over here on your own, matey? This ain't the Sheffield way.' Harry couldn't quite be as moody and rude to Kyle as he'd liked, relatively close friends with the other stalwart of Southgate's roster, but he shrugged absently and said nothing, staring unhappily at the shot glass that was placed in front of him. `Does everyone know we should have won that game?' he muttered eventually, and Walker just laughed heavily, clearly less worried about their Euro qualification. `I'm not drinking this,' Maguire added grumpily, though he took the fresh pint and sipped it slowly. `You fucking are,' the 33-year-old fellow Sheffield bloke insisted, and Harry relented with a stupid grunt, joining the right-back in picking it up and knocking it back. A sliver of lime was thrust at him and he waved it away dismissively, screwing his face up at the strong taste of the liquor. `Ugh,' he said, shaking his large body where he sat. Kyle laughed again, and clinked their pints together with a grin. `Ah, don't be a twat about it,' he said warmly. `Don't deny me my party. I waited a long time for that goal, Slabhead.' `Yeah,' Harry grunted ambivalently, then added more kindly, `and I'm as chuffed as anyone for ya, Walks.' `Yeh? Tell yer face.' Kyle chuckled, slurping his pint and leaning back against the bar, staring back across the large open plan restaurant bar, seeming to hesitate before heading back to his cronies and the happier mood. Harry wanted him to go, wanted to be left alone to his moodiness. He glanced over his big shoulder to follow Kyle's gaze, then at the thoughtful leer on Kyle's ruggedly handsome features. Their eyes met, and Walker winked. `I definitely need to get my dick wet tonight, after that goal,' he huffed, not even bothering to lower his voice with much sense of discretion. Harry grimaced at this in his bad mood, and just ignored the comment, taking more drink. But his fellow Yorkshireman went on. `Got that goal-scoring horn, y'know?' Kyle sniggered, quieter this time. `And there's defo a few sluts on this squad.' `Aye,' Harry grumbled distantly. `Dunno what's got up Philly though,' Kyle complained to him. `Been dropping weeks to the Stockport Iniesta all fucking week and he's as frigid as yer mum. Honestly, Guardiola must have the kid on a tight leash, or something, haha.' Harry met his leer with a stony expression, just not in the mood for the other guy's lusty comments. `Mind, I've still had one good blowie,' Walker boasted now. `Guess who, eh?' `I'm not up for a guessing game,' Maguire muttered, although he did find himself half-turning on the stool and following Walker's gaze across the room. Some of the lads had already called it a night, but a fair number of guys in relaxed sports gear were stood or seated in the corner by the windows. His eyes began to scan but he stopped himself, refusing to play Kyle's game. `One of the Chelsea brats,' Kyle hissed. `Good for you.' `Not Chilly, sadly - Conor G, actually. Lips like a dream, haha. Nervous thing, don't think he'd sucked a cock before - or maybe just not a big fat Yorkshire one...?' Somewhat provoked, Harry hissed back, `Aren't you really just missing your lanky boyfriend?' He tried to laugh, but he could hear the meanness of his tone, though Kyle was unflappable, and just scoffed and nudged him. `Toilet cubicle, jizzed all over his face,' he was going on, ignoring Harry's question. `Might fuck his throat again tonight, if he's recovered - or I've been thinking about our Kal Phillips for a while, back home, cos that stupid grinning mouth might be good for a go. Do you think he'd be corruptible?' Maguire ignored him, drinking in silence and turning away form the view, back to hunch over the bar; Walker followed, gripping his shoulder and leaning in close for his dirty whispers. `Just something about dominating these younger lads, ain't there?' the tipsy and excited right-back confided. `I mean, you know what I'm talking about, Slab - I've seen you in action, ha. You know how to take charge, even if you aren't captain any more. So help me pick, will ya? Which of them Twink Lions is gonna get my load and thank me for saving the match tonight, eh?' It was the `captain' reference that snapped him. Harry brought one long arm up around the back of the stooping other lad and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him in closer. `What are you gibbering on about, Walks?' he snapped fiercely. `Pretending to be big daddy just cos you're like the oldest here, or whatever - everyone can tell you're just eager for a bit of cock, and I bet you'd love a real man like me to dominate you instead.' He glared aggressively into the close face of the City lad. `You can piss about with twinks like Conor if you want, but you know I could make you squeal like a bitch and show you who really rules Manchester, you fucking massive-arsed tart.' He stopped, his breath ragged, and gripped Kyle's shoulder a bit more tightly. `I bet John Stones makes you beg on your knees like the dirty fucking slag you are, Walks.' And with that, he pushed the burly shorter guy away from him and picked up his pint instead, pleased by the startled look in the other man's eyes, and the long moments it took him to force out a chuckle and clear his throat, clearly at a loss for what to say. As he glugged on his beer, Harry stared him down, maintaining a threatening edge to his own glare and posture, and seeing the obvious intimidation that stalled the goal-scorer bravado of the cocksure stud. `You save that dirty talk for phone sex with Lukey Boy,' came Kyle's stuttering quip after the awkward moment went on too long, and he picked up his own pint, clearing his throat again. `And I'll get my dick wet in some greedy gob while you just cry wank yourself to sleep, big man. Jesus, cheer up.' A little whistle of disapproval and then a forced laugh, and the City player was marching away, shouting for attention as he approached the others; Harry didn't bother to watch him go, but just poured the rest of his beer down his throat, and slid off his stool, quietly exiting the hotel bar. Later, when the knock sounded at the door to his room, he did wonder what else Kyle had gotten up to: had Walker been any more successful in making use of sparky little Foden? Had he made a move on grinning spare Phillips, after all? Had he returned for more from Gallagher, or had that little tale just been arrogant bluster and fiction? Or, perhaps, had he got some throat action out of their dear captain, Harry submissive Kane? Perhaps all of these or none, but it didn't matter, because shortly before 1 am he was at the door to Harry Maguire's room, standing there looking sheepish in a tight-fitting white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue jogger shorts, scratching his stubbled chin and shifting from slider-clad foot to slider-clad foot. Harry loomed over him, sweaty from a couple of sleepless hours in bed, and a tough grin spread across his crooked mouth. Well, well, well. `Right,' the 6ft4 brute grunted acceptingly. He glanced back over his shoulder. In the suite's other double bed, Jordan Pickford was snoring like a chainsaw, deep asleep, and yet not deep enough. He looked back at Kyle, looking uncomfortably humbled on his doorstep. `Not here,' he muttered simply, scratching a big hand across the scattered dark hair of his broad chest, just in the relaxed black boxer trunks he'd worn to bed, the weighty bulge of his cock already expanding into a semi as he realised what was about to happen. `Mine neither,' Kyle said at him almost through gritted teeth, seeming like he didn't want to speak a word, and make his submission any realer. `I'm bunked with Tomori, I don't think he's the most open-minded fella,' he muttered begrudgingly. Harry stared him down silently, and then retreated into the room, leaving the door ajar. He enjoyed leaving Kyle waiting unanswered at the door, as he made the perfunctory steps of pulling a grey t-shirt over his head and shoulders, and a baggy pair of tracksuit bottoms up his long legs, then pushing his room key into a pocket. He swept quietly out of the room, careful not to wake Pickers on the way out, and then he just patted his mate patronisingly on the shoulder and nodded down the corridor, his breath quickening and his cock twitching indulgently. The lounge room was at the corner of the floor, just a vague communal space on the other side of the elevators, with a couple of couches and artworks and big picture windows that overlooked the city. It didn't even have a proper door to seal it, just an open archway. When Kyle hesitated in this arch, he pushed him in the small of the back, and followed him in, leaning in close and stooping to whisper in the ear of the 5ft10 bloke's ear. `Come on, City slut, you know what you came for.' In the unlit room, Kyle's eyes sparkled with honest excitement, and Harry knew how much his rant at the bar had aroused the other macho alpha - he himself had dismissed the encounter and gone away to sulk, but he now supposed that Walker had been thinking about his dominant boasts all night, distracted from his celebrating and his options. If Harry had paused to reflect on it, he would have known why he himself was so excited: he hadn't felt this dominant and powerful since he'd lost that captain's armband, and taking control of a burly man's man like Kyle was just what he needed to restore some ego. But in this dark quiet corner of the hotel, there was no thinking or analysis: just pure animal lust in the hot Polish night. He planted both hands on Kyle's bulky shoulders and pushed downwards, guiding the thickset defender into a seated position on one couch, and standing over him. Kyle knew what to do. Harry felt his tracksuit rustle down his thighs and then felt Kyle's wet mouth on the bulge of his boxer trunks. `That's it,' he growled very quietly. He reached down and flicked a light slap against the side of Kyle's face, then held the back of his head and pushed it right in against the musty undies, rubbing his increasing bulge onto his sweaty face, making the other man gasp and growl. And then the undies were coming down and Kyle was kissing greedily at his cock, seeming to gasp afresh at its size, even though they'd played about before, sharing their handsome partners. Feeding his mighty cock to Kyle's manly mouth, Harry felt big and powerful, something restored. He moaned, keeping it fairly quiet, and brought both hands up behind his head, letting Kyle's lips and tongue explore his huge hard member, a slobbering slut after all. Mmm. `That's it,' he growled down at him. `City slut.' Kyle choked on his cock, eyes rolling up to meet his. They glistened. `Suck it deep, you fucking bitch.' Kyle tried his best, but gagged badly as Harry pushed further, and he took it out and slapped it against his cheek instead, then lifted it and pushed his heavy hairy balls against the gaping mouth. `Suck on them, you dirty slut, fuck's sake.' And he did, with gusto. Harry was loving it. He could have wanked off and jizzed then and there if he wanted to, so turned on by the greedy compliance of the arrogant right-back, so aroused by his own return to dominance - but he wanted this to go much further. Peeling off his t-shirt to expose the long stern muscle of his torso in the half-light, Harry towered over the seated man, and he pushed him down further into the fold of the couch. He brought one bare foot up onto the leather in a lunge and stood right over him - Kyle went to lick and kiss his sack again but he gripped the lingering crop of Kyle's thin hair and pushed the head further over, guiding him so that his tongue rubbed his gooch instead, then further - he edged forward, leaning awkwardly onto the sofa, and pushed down so that Kyle couldn't ignore the hint. Harry felt that wet tongue questing into his hairy crack and he growled with pleasure. `That's it, good bitch,' he muttered hotly. He groaned and talked dirty, towering over the sofa and keeping Kyle's bristling face under him, between his thighs, bending his knees slightly to let his big glutes part - but the thing that ended this pleasure was his own impatience, his own excitement for rimming, and the thought of Kyle's massive arse always so perfectly framed in whatever training gear or footy shorts he wore, a fucking Sheffield landmark. He stepped aside, let Kyle suck on his cock a little, and then barked orders at him. `Up on yer knees, bent over. Quickly.' Walks didn't need telling twice. Soon Harry was unwrapping the biggest backside in the England camp like a Christmas present. He dragged down the thick waistband of Walker's sweat-shorts and the silky black briefs underneath to expose the caramel brown globes of Walker's big arse, downy with soft hair. Parting them with a tight grip on each, Harry spat into his crack, teasing him, and he enjoyed the gasp of delight. `You want my tongue in there?' he growled, loving it as Kyle begged `Yes, Slabhead, fuck yes', and he was too excited to interrupt and demand a `Sir'. He spat again and then pushed his face in, loving the feel of Kyle's beach-ball cheeks, and rubbing his tongue against the sweaty crack, finding his way to the hot pink hole. He loved the way the other football star's body trembled and juddered, and the breathless `Yes, mate!' Maguire spent ages rimming him, pausing to give the cheeks good slaps that rang out dangerously, fleshy noises that could give away their furtive fun in this public space. And each time, Harry dove back in, running his tongue against the puckered arse-hole, preparing his City rival for what would come next. His own cock was hard and aching for it, and he reached down to give it a few strokes to maintain its firm readiness, whilst still lapping between Kyle's big cheeks, really thanking him for his goal via good eating out. When he came up for air and knew it was time, he rubbed a hairy forearm against the saliva greasiness of his own mouth and big chin, and then spat heavily down on the shaft of his cock for lube. `Take deep breaths,' he warned Kyle, but he was sure that big John Stones had been in there, and he wasn't going to go easy on his slut for the night. He pressed the huge head of his 12-incher in against Kyle's ring and teased it. He loved the whine of expectation from the `City slut', and the only reason he went slow before inserting himself was to build that tension, to make Kyle really beg for him, to exercise his regained power - he felt almost as imperial as when he'd bent Cristiano Ronaldo over and fucked him in front of several fraught teammates, defeating the Portuguese icon and eventually sending him scampering to the Saudi Pro League. And now he fucked Kyle Walker with that same power, burying his big Yorkshire cock in the mixed-race hunk's mighty behind, one he'd looked at hungrily on many training days since his sexual awakening - his sexual awakening... he thought briefly of Luke, betrayed here as he pushed his cock into another man, but he so rarely got to fuck his burly boyfriend, there was so little time and opportunity, and he had NEEDS... the guilty thoughts were sidelined, and he hammered into Kyle's behind, making the small sofa creak beneath their muscular weights. Kyle's moans were a bit much, though - as bestial as he felt right now, Harry had some sense of caution. Although it was more than just discretion that made him unhook his musty pants from one ankle and reach around to push them into Kyle's mouth, gagging him with a faceful of worn keks. He held it there to stifle the man's cries as he pushed deeper and harder, really powering at him with every muscle, sweating buckets and slowing only when he thought he might cum too soon. Kyle's thick muscular body was his toy, just how he liked it, thicc and burly like his precious Luke. He toyed with the important decision: to keep going, or to pull out and paint his load across Kyle's ridiculous chest tattoos and gurning face? But sheer physical rapture denied him that decision in the end, and eventually he was unloading deep inside the older man's body, unloading into England's 33-year-old goal hero of the night, the point-winner of the lacklustre draw. For many long moments, Harry continued to pull back and thrust, really draining his balls, and keeping the scrunched-up undies held to Kyle's face, making him taste and breathe his sleepless heat, until his body felt drained and sensitive and he had to pull away, taking in long gulps of stuffy air. In the dark, he took a few clumsy steps and just loomed there, dirty cock swinging, and staring down at the hunched bulk of Kyle's body - then, recovering himself, he gave one last good spank to those meaty glutes, and then pinched one cheek more playfully. `No cunt at City can do you like that,' he muttered belligerently; no reply from Walker, who just gasped and moaned. But he did roll over, flopping sideways in limp exhaustion, an beginning to wank furiously on his own well-endowed equipment. Harry stood over him with a dismissive sneer on his face. `Cum for a real alpha,' he snarled, still enjoying his power, as the right-back dumped gooey semen up his abs, staring up at him with an embarrassed frown on his sweat-shined face. Harry smirked wickedly. `If only your twink sluts could see you now,' he purred. `See you in the morning, mate,' he added, his tone shifting to one more warm and mundane, and a weary laugh escaping his lips - he stopped short of the polite `Thank you' that he wanted to give, because Kyle's submission had rescued and restored something in him, even temporarily. Aglow with a flicker of new confidence, Maguire didn't bother to dress - the hotel was empty and silent. He snatched up his gear in one sweaty hand and swaggered on town the corridor in his birthday suit, dick swinging, and the sound of Walker's panting whimpers echoing down the hallway after his stroll. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 10 Sep 2023 09:52:09 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 367 Part 367: England Camp, Day Six Harry Maguire was feeling low. He had been trying his best to relax into and enjoy the international break, always deeply proud to play for his country. Southgate's faith in his solid centre-back presence should, he knew, be a much-needed ego boost, and he should feel more himself in this English squad than he did in his awkward peripheral position at Old Trafford... stripped of captaincy and struggling to make the bench. But the gloom of his club career stuck to him like mud and this week had just felt awkward and artificial. Harry knew what he was going back to, and what he quietly suffered was an angry self-appointed blame - he knew his own stubbornness disguised as loyalty had kiboshed several potential moves away from United this summer, moves that might have allowed the big defender to get match time and find new self-respect in teams that wanted him. Fans that wanted him. Too loyal, he'd kept telling his agent. Too committed, he assured his manager. Too expensive, the media sneered. Too fucking in love with Luke Shaw, he could admit to himself, picturing his handsome boyfriend as he tore up the contract in the boardroom and stopped himself from moving to London and West Ham. And here he was, just as miserable, stuck in an international camp with his precious Lukey nursing an injury back in Cheshire, still a valued asset for their mutual football club. On a stool at the bar, the 6ft4 Yorkshireman nursed the dregs of a pint, and wallowed in these feelings of self-loathing and disappointment. Tonight's game against Ukraine had hardly done anything to restore his sporting status, though he'd been glad to make the starting 11; he'd made a few mistakes and missed a couple of opportunities for redemption, and he was slightly confused why the majority of the lads were celebrating tonight as a win when they'd barely scraped a draw on Polish soil. Maguire had drifted away from the pack and he must be giving off pretty strong vibes of his need for solitude, because nobody had bothered to join him here at the bar, or made any real attempt to talk to him since they left the stadium. To some extent he was glad, knowing he was shit company, but he continued to curse himself, cursing his stupid angry face and his selfish mood, cursing the boos that might meet him when he next got some minutes for a team he'd tried to lead. More mixed feelings: half of him wished deeply that Shaw was here with him, but another half was glad to be without. After all, what if he was such shit company even for the gorgeous left-back, and what if his mood infectiously ruined an England experience for Luke, a far more deserving call-up? Nah, he grimly concluded, it was for the best that Luke was in England with his family, and not here trying to put up with him, trying to console him, trying to cope with him. Harry was increasingly sure that he didn't deserve his secret partner, and he wondered what would happen when the transfer window reopened in January. Would the offers even still be on the table...? His attention, rising from the doldrums, was caught by the thud of elbows on the bartop, and the presence of another England player at this end of the bar. Hunched forward slightly, he flicked his head to the right and noted the arrival of another Manchester defender - if the England lads in the hotel bar were treating tonight's draw like a win, then this smug bastard was certainly the centre of that action. Holding court on the sofas by the open windows, the 33-year-old was delighted with himself, his debut England goal after a whopping 77 caps, and a number of players had flocked around him to toast the equaliser. Removing himself from the crowd, Harry had bitterly imagined a different scene if one of his powerful headers had sent them 2-1 up. `Slabbo!' whooped Kyle Walker, turning this way. `Shot?' The United defender stared down at his emptying pint and then shook his head, his voice a low growl of disinterest. `Not me for, fella, but you enjoy yourself.' Kyle promptly ignored him, waving over the barmaid and ordering two shots of tequila alongside his own pint, then adding a second pint with a surprised look at Harry's empty glass. As she went to work, he leaned one elbow to the bar and punched Harry lightly in the upper arm. `Come over and get a comfy seat, big fella,' the City player said forcefully. `Why you sulking over here on your own, matey? This ain't the Sheffield way.' Harry couldn't quite be as moody and rude to Kyle as he'd liked, relatively close friends with the other stalwart of Southgate's roster, but he shrugged absently and said nothing, staring unhappily at the shot glass that was placed in front of him. `Does everyone know we should have won that game?' he muttered eventually, and Walker just laughed heavily, clearly less worried about their Euro qualification. `I'm not drinking this,' Maguire added grumpily, though he took the fresh pint and sipped it slowly. `You fucking are,' the 33-year-old fellow Sheffield bloke insisted, and Harry relented with a stupid grunt, joining the right-back in picking it up and knocking it back. A sliver of lime was thrust at him and he waved it away dismissively, screwing his face up at the strong taste of the liquor. `Ugh,' he said, shaking his large body where he sat. Kyle laughed again, and clinked their pints together with a grin. `Ah, don't be a twat about it,' he said warmly. `Don't deny me my party. I waited a long time for that goal, Slabhead.' `Yeah,' Harry grunted ambivalently, then added more kindly, `and I'm as chuffed as anyone for ya, Walks.' `Yeh? Tell yer face.' Kyle chuckled, slurping his pint and leaning back against the bar, staring back across the large open plan restaurant bar, seeming to hesitate before heading back to his cronies and the happier mood. Harry wanted him to go, wanted to be left alone to his moodiness. He glanced over his big shoulder to follow Kyle's gaze, then at the thoughtful leer on Kyle's ruggedly handsome features. Their eyes met, and Walker winked. `I definitely need to get my dick wet tonight, after that goal,' he huffed, not even bothering to lower his voice with much sense of discretion. Harry grimaced at this in his bad mood, and just ignored the comment, taking more drink. But his fellow Yorkshireman went on. `Got that goal-scoring horn, y'know?' Kyle sniggered, quieter this time. `And there's defo a few sluts on this squad.' `Aye,' Harry grumbled distantly. `Dunno what's got up Philly though,' Kyle complained to him. `Been dropping weeks to the Stockport Iniesta all fucking week and he's as frigid as yer mum. Honestly, Guardiola must have the kid on a tight leash, or something, haha.' Harry met his leer with a stony expression, just not in the mood for the other guy's lusty comments. `Mind, I've still had one good blowie,' Walker boasted now. `Guess who, eh?' `I'm not up for a guessing game,' Maguire muttered, although he did find himself half-turning on the stool and following Walker's gaze across the room. Some of the lads had already called it a night, but a fair number of guys in relaxed sports gear were stood or seated in the corner by the windows. His eyes began to scan but he stopped himself, refusing to play Kyle's game. `One of the Chelsea brats,' Kyle hissed. `Good for you.' `Not Chilly, sadly - Conor G, actually. Lips like a dream, haha. Nervous thing, don't think he'd sucked a cock before - or maybe just not a big fat Yorkshire one...?' Somewhat provoked, Harry hissed back, `Aren't you really just missing your lanky boyfriend?' He tried to laugh, but he could hear the meanness of his tone, though Kyle was unflappable, and just scoffed and nudged him. `Toilet cubicle, jizzed all over his face,' he was going on, ignoring Harry's question. `Might fuck his throat again tonight, if he's recovered - or I've been thinking about our Kal Phillips for a while, back home, cos that stupid grinning mouth might be good for a go. Do you think he'd be corruptible?' Maguire ignored him, drinking in silence and turning away form the view, back to hunch over the bar; Walker followed, gripping his shoulder and leaning in close for his dirty whispers. `Just something about dominating these younger lads, ain't there?' the tipsy and excited right-back confided. `I mean, you know what I'm talking about, Slab - I've seen you in action, ha. You know how to take charge, even if you aren't captain any more. So help me pick, will ya? Which of them Twink Lions is gonna get my load and thank me for saving the match tonight, eh?' It was the `captain' reference that snapped him. Harry brought one long arm up around the back of the stooping other lad and grabbed him by the shoulder, pulling him in closer. `What are you gibbering on about, Walks?' he snapped fiercely. `Pretending to be big daddy just cos you're like the oldest here, or whatever - everyone can tell you're just eager for a bit of cock, and I bet you'd love a real man like me to dominate you instead.' He glared aggressively into the close face of the City lad. `You can piss about with twinks like Conor if you want, but you know I could make you squeal like a bitch and show you who really rules Manchester, you fucking massive-arsed tart.' He stopped, his breath ragged, and gripped Kyle's shoulder a bit more tightly. `I bet John Stones makes you beg on your knees like the dirty fucking slag you are, Walks.' And with that, he pushed the burly shorter guy away from him and picked up his pint instead, pleased by the startled look in the other man's eyes, and the long moments it took him to force out a chuckle and clear his throat, clearly at a loss for what to say. As he glugged on his beer, Harry stared him down, maintaining a threatening edge to his own glare and posture, and seeing the obvious intimidation that stalled the goal-scorer bravado of the cocksure stud. `You save that dirty talk for phone sex with Lukey Boy,' came Kyle's stuttering quip after the awkward moment went on too long, and he picked up his own pint, clearing his throat again. `And I'll get my dick wet in some greedy gob while you just cry wank yourself to sleep, big man. Jesus, cheer up.' A little whistle of disapproval and then a forced laugh, and the City player was marching away, shouting for attention as he approached the others; Harry didn't bother to watch him go, but just poured the rest of his beer down his throat, and slid off his stool, quietly exiting the hotel bar. Later, when the knock sounded at the door to his room, he did wonder what else Kyle had gotten up to: had Walker been any more successful in making use of sparky little Foden? Had he made a move on grinning spare Phillips, after all? Had he returned for more from Gallagher, or had that little tale just been arrogant bluster and fiction? Or, perhaps, had he got some throat action out of their dear captain, Harry submissive Kane? Perhaps all of these or none, but it didn't matter, because shortly before 1 am he was at the door to Harry Maguire's room, standing there looking sheepish in a tight-fitting white t-shirt and a pair of dark blue jogger shorts, scratching his stubbled chin and shifting from slider-clad foot to slider-clad foot. Harry loomed over him, sweaty from a couple of sleepless hours in bed, and a tough grin spread across his crooked mouth. Well, well, well. `Right,' the 6ft4 brute grunted acceptingly. He glanced back over his shoulder. In the suite's other double bed, Jordan Pickford was snoring like a chainsaw, deep asleep, and yet not deep enough. He looked back at Kyle, looking uncomfortably humbled on his doorstep. `Not here,' he muttered simply, scratching a big hand across the scattered dark hair of his broad chest, just in the relaxed black boxer trunks he'd worn to bed, the weighty bulge of his cock already expanding into a semi as he realised what was about to happen. `Mine neither,' Kyle said at him almost through gritted teeth, seeming like he didn't want to speak a word, and make his submission any realer. `I'm bunked with Tomori, I don't think he's the most open-minded fella,' he muttered begrudgingly. Harry stared him down silently, and then retreated into the room, leaving the door ajar. He enjoyed leaving Kyle waiting unanswered at the door, as he made the perfunctory steps of pulling a grey t-shirt over his head and shoulders, and a baggy pair of tracksuit bottoms up his long legs, then pushing his room key into a pocket. He swept quietly out of the room, careful not to wake Pickers on the way out, and then he just patted his mate patronisingly on the shoulder and nodded down the corridor, his breath quickening and his cock twitching indulgently. The lounge room was at the corner of the floor, just a vague communal space on the other side of the elevators, with a couple of couches and artworks and big picture windows that overlooked the city. It didn't even have a proper door to seal it, just an open archway. When Kyle hesitated in this arch, he pushed him in the small of the back, and followed him in, leaning in close and stooping to whisper in the ear of the 5ft10 bloke's ear. `Come on, City slut, you know what you came for.' In the unlit room, Kyle's eyes sparkled with honest excitement, and Harry knew how much his rant at the bar had aroused the other macho alpha - he himself had dismissed the encounter and gone away to sulk, but he now supposed that Walker had been thinking about his dominant boasts all night, distracted from his celebrating and his options. If Harry had paused to reflect on it, he would have known why he himself was so excited: he hadn't felt this dominant and powerful since he'd lost that captain's armband, and taking control of a burly man's man like Kyle was just what he needed to restore some ego. But in this dark quiet corner of the hotel, there was no thinking or analysis: just pure animal lust in the hot Polish night. He planted both hands on Kyle's bulky shoulders and pushed downwards, guiding the thickset defender into a seated position on one couch, and standing over him. Kyle knew what to do. Harry felt his tracksuit rustle down his thighs and then felt Kyle's wet mouth on the bulge of his boxer trunks. `That's it,' he growled very quietly. He reached down and flicked a light slap against the side of Kyle's face, then held the back of his head and pushed it right in against the musty undies, rubbing his increasing bulge onto his sweaty face, making the other man gasp and growl. And then the undies were coming down and Kyle was kissing greedily at his cock, seeming to gasp afresh at its size, even though they'd played about before, sharing their handsome partners. Feeding his mighty cock to Kyle's manly mouth, Harry felt big and powerful, something restored. He moaned, keeping it fairly quiet, and brought both hands up behind his head, letting Kyle's lips and tongue explore his huge hard member, a slobbering slut after all. Mmm. `That's it,' he growled down at him. `City slut.' Kyle choked on his cock, eyes rolling up to meet his. They glistened. `Suck it deep, you fucking bitch.' Kyle tried his best, but gagged badly as Harry pushed further, and he took it out and slapped it against his cheek instead, then lifted it and pushed his heavy hairy balls against the gaping mouth. `Suck on them, you dirty slut, fuck's sake.' And he did, with gusto. Harry was loving it. He could have wanked off and jizzed then and there if he wanted to, so turned on by the greedy compliance of the arrogant right-back, so aroused by his own return to dominance - but he wanted this to go much further. Peeling off his t-shirt to expose the long stern muscle of his torso in the half-light, Harry towered over the seated man, and he pushed him down further into the fold of the couch. He brought one bare foot up onto the leather in a lunge and stood right over him - Kyle went to lick and kiss his sack again but he gripped the lingering crop of Kyle's thin hair and pushed the head further over, guiding him so that his tongue rubbed his gooch instead, then further - he edged forward, leaning awkwardly onto the sofa, and pushed down so that Kyle couldn't ignore the hint. Harry felt that wet tongue questing into his hairy crack and he growled with pleasure. `That's it, good bitch,' he muttered hotly. He groaned and talked dirty, towering over the sofa and keeping Kyle's bristling face under him, between his thighs, bending his knees slightly to let his big glutes part - but the thing that ended this pleasure was his own impatience, his own excitement for rimming, and the thought of Kyle's massive arse always so perfectly framed in whatever training gear or footy shorts he wore, a fucking Sheffield landmark. He stepped aside, let Kyle suck on his cock a little, and then barked orders at him. `Up on yer knees, bent over. Quickly.' Walks didn't need telling twice. Soon Harry was unwrapping the biggest backside in the England camp like a Christmas present. He dragged down the thick waistband of Walker's sweat-shorts and the silky black briefs underneath to expose the caramel brown globes of Walker's big arse, downy with soft hair. Parting them with a tight grip on each, Harry spat into his crack, teasing him, and he enjoyed the gasp of delight. `You want my tongue in there?' he growled, loving it as Kyle begged `Yes, Slabhead, fuck yes', and he was too excited to interrupt and demand a `Sir'. He spat again and then pushed his face in, loving the feel of Kyle's beach-ball cheeks, and rubbing his tongue against the sweaty crack, finding his way to the hot pink hole. He loved the way the other football star's body trembled and juddered, and the breathless `Yes, mate!' Maguire spent ages rimming him, pausing to give the cheeks good slaps that rang out dangerously, fleshy noises that could give away their furtive fun in this public space. And each time, Harry dove back in, running his tongue against the puckered arse-hole, preparing his City rival for what would come next. His own cock was hard and aching for it, and he reached down to give it a few strokes to maintain its firm readiness, whilst still lapping between Kyle's big cheeks, really thanking him for his goal via good eating out. When he came up for air and knew it was time, he rubbed a hairy forearm against the saliva greasiness of his own mouth and big chin, and then spat heavily down on the shaft of his cock for lube. `Take deep breaths,' he warned Kyle, but he was sure that big John Stones had been in there, and he wasn't going to go easy on his slut for the night. He pressed the huge head of his 12-incher in against Kyle's ring and teased it. He loved the whine of expectation from the `City slut', and the only reason he went slow before inserting himself was to build that tension, to make Kyle really beg for him, to exercise his regained power - he felt almost as imperial as when he'd bent Cristiano Ronaldo over and fucked him in front of several fraught teammates, defeating the Portuguese icon and eventually sending him scampering to the Saudi Pro League. And now he fucked Kyle Walker with that same power, burying his big Yorkshire cock in the mixed-race hunk's mighty behind, one he'd looked at hungrily on many training days since his sexual awakening - his sexual awakening... he thought briefly of Luke, betrayed here as he pushed his cock into another man, but he so rarely got to fuck his burly boyfriend, there was so little time and opportunity, and he had NEEDS... the guilty thoughts were sidelined, and he hammered into Kyle's behind, making the small sofa creak beneath their muscular weights. Kyle's moans were a bit much, though - as bestial as he felt right now, Harry had some sense of caution. Although it was more than just discretion that made him unhook his musty pants from one ankle and reach around to push them into Kyle's mouth, gagging him with a faceful of worn keks. He held it there to stifle the man's cries as he pushed deeper and harder, really powering at him with every muscle, sweating buckets and slowing only when he thought he might cum too soon. Kyle's thick muscular body was his toy, just how he liked it, thicc and burly like his precious Luke. He toyed with the important decision: to keep going, or to pull out and paint his load across Kyle's ridiculous chest tattoos and gurning face? But sheer physical rapture denied him that decision in the end, and eventually he was unloading deep inside the older man's body, unloading into England's 33-year-old goal hero of the night, the point-winner of the lacklustre draw. For many long moments, Harry continued to pull back and thrust, really draining his balls, and keeping the scrunched-up undies held to Kyle's face, making him taste and breathe his sleepless heat, until his body felt drained and sensitive and he had to pull away, taking in long gulps of stuffy air. In the dark, he took a few clumsy steps and just loomed there, dirty cock swinging, and staring down at the hunched bulk of Kyle's body - then, recovering himself, he gave one last good spank to those meaty glutes, and then pinched one cheek more playfully. `No cunt at City can do you like that,' he muttered belligerently; no reply from Walker, who just gasped and moaned. But he did roll over, flopping sideways in limp exhaustion, an beginning to wank furiously on his own well-endowed equipment. Harry stood over him with a dismissive sneer on his face. `Cum for a real alpha,' he snarled, still enjoying his power, as the right-back dumped gooey semen up his abs, staring up at him with an embarrassed frown on his sweat-shined face. Harry smirked wickedly. `If only your twink sluts could see you now,' he purred. `See you in the morning, mate,' he added, his tone shifting to one more warm and mundane, and a weary laugh escaping his lips - he stopped short of the polite `Thank you' that he wanted to give, because Kyle's submission had rescued and restored something in him, even temporarily. Aglow with a flicker of new confidence, Maguire didn't bother to dress - the hotel was empty and silent. He snatched up his gear in one sweaty hand and swaggered on town the corridor in his birthday suit, dick swinging, and the sound of Walker's panting whimpers echoing down the hallway after his stroll. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-368

Date: Sun, 10 Sep 2023 22:20:19 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 368 Part 368: England Camp, Day Seven `Alright, sexy lad,' drawled the familiarly rich tones of his mate's voice as he answered the call, and he couldn't help but giggle stupidly at the playful greeting from his club teammate; the jokey affection slipped quickly to the more casually abusive banter that defined such laddish friendships, but also an earnest gratitude when he got to the point of the call. `Happy birthday mate,' he said seriously, `I hope you're having a fuckin' class day, y'know? Sorry you aren't up here with us to celebrate.' Up here, right now, was the outskirts of Glasgow, the England squad's new base - following the Ukraine draw, there had been a fairly early journey back into UK airspace, touching down north of the border and settling in for a day's prep work at the Rangers FC training ground. More specifically, up here was the humid foliage of a hotel garden, where the 27-year-old Leeds lad had strolled out on his own to try and get in touch with an absent friend. `Aww, thanks pal,' droned the deep Brummie voice of his superstar pal, and Kalvin Phillips grinned with the usual face-splitting grin that was his default, sat on a bench beneath a sweaty night sky. `You're a real good pal,' he was complimented firmly by an at least tipsy Jack Grealish, who had stepped away from the noise of a family party after the first difficult minute of the call. `Thanks for taking the time to call me, I really appreciate that, I do. Top class, matey.' The two of them chatted on - it had been one of Kalvin's defining friendships of his much-criticised time at Manchester City, and he was genuinely sad that Jack had been ruled out of this England camp before it had got going. The loss of him as a roommate was a definite dent in the experience, even apart from his bubbly presence in training and on the journeys between venues. And Phillips, being the kind-hearted Yorkshire lad that he was, had vaguely worried that the absence might be even harder on Grealish than anyone here, given the Brummie lad's fierce passion for international footy - but by the sound of his merry state and the background noise of family shenanigans, he'd coped well. Now Kal was just glad that his pal was able to celebrate his 28th in a way that their Scotland fixture might not have allowed, and he almost wished he was there in outer Birmingham too, joining the Grealish clan who had been very good to him on their visits to Manchester. The defensive midfielder quickly drew the call to an end after five minutes or so, conscious that Jack should get back to his mates and family, and also feeling a big urge to crack open a beer, hearing the drunken edge to Jack's effusive cheer and affection, just a magnification of his everyday charisma. `Get back to your party,' Kalvin insisted down the line, `and stop letting me distract you. Enjoy, fella.' `Yeah, yeah,' Grealo agreed. `Say hi to all the lads for me, hope they're doing well - hope Kylie isn't being too fucking big-headed about that overdue goal, you know! And say hi to-' There was an awkward pause there, Jack's tipsy voice faltering on the line, making Kalvin only momentarily curious about who Jack was about to make special mention of, then thinking better... Lil Phil, he supposed, hyper-conscious of how much young Foden hero-worshipped their boisterous mutual pal. Couldn't really be anyone else, could it? But Jack had murmured on as if there was no awkward pause: `Smash it up in training tomorrow, sexy, and get yourself fucking picked for Tuesday, yeh?' A raucous laugh as they said their goodbyes and his mate disappeared into the ether, back to birthday cake and beer, leaving Kalvin sat in his shorts and tee in the Scottish humidity. It was cooler here than England or Poland, but the air felt thick and sticky, and a sheen of sweat glowed on his arms and legs, even just sitting her chuckling away with the birthday boy. Phillips remained where he was, hands draped between open thighs with phone in grasp, a lingering smile breaking up his boyish features, and Jack's stupid pet names hovering momentarily in his mind - `sexy lad', what a dick-head! Kalvin wasn't the one with Instagram accounts dedicated to his fucking calves, was he? Jesus, the lad was bonkers. He chuckled and shook his head, and thought... There was, he had to admit, a slightly more specific pang of regret to missing Grealish, as a teammate and a roomie. The reason made his dimpled cheeks colour and him scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, then pull at the sticky chest of his patterned t-shirt. The thing about being pals with a lad like Jack, Jack the lad, was that... stuff happened, didn't it? Jack was dynamic, always the centre of the fun. Even that was euphemistic. Kalvin was thinking about Qatar - no, further back than that, his senior England debut trips, where he and Jack had pulled and shared a couple of stunners in the hotel bar, and fucked them side-by-side several floors above. The thrill ride of friendship with Grealish had began then, long before... he cringed, and scratched his chin, and pictured them in Doha, taking turns on squealing Dan James, fucking the lad's big peachy arse like it was nothing, like the Welsh dude was just another stunning slag from the bar. It had seemed to mean little or nothing to Jack, the transgression, whilst Kal himself had been mentally beaten up by a previous blowie from DJ for months! That night in the Croydon strip club, sucked off by smiling Daniel, he'd really struggled with the shock of it; and then in Jack's electric company he'd just embraced it, fucking first Dan's mouth and then his generous backside, relishing the tightness of his hole and those big booty cheeks, a greater arse than any of his girlfriends! He cringed and blushed and got up from the bench. The path of his thoughts was telling him that he wished Jack the Lad was here on the squad so that the rakish playboy could initiate something weird and kinky of that nature, and it made the confused Leeds bloke feel ashamed and uncomfortable. He thought further back, remembering a brief handjob from a Leeds teammate in a chilly hotel, and judged his own failure to cut off these naughty encounters - he'd been allowing boundaries to slip before he could blame Jack's explosive personality for a drunken mishap, hadn't he? And here was Jack calling him `sexy' down the phone from his birthday bash, soft and jokey, but stirring more awkwardness and ambiguous yearning in Kalvin's heat-addled brain; what WOULD he have got up to this week if the winger was in attendance...? Upstairs, he let himself into his hotel room quietly, guessing correctly that his replacement roomie would be asleep. For much of the week, Kalvin had actually had a suite at their main base to himself, as he'd been scheduled to room with Jack; someone in charge had amended that as they arrived in Poland on Friday night and now here he was with the young superstar, and he had... mixed feelings. Phillips moved slowly into the room, sliding off his trainers and padding ankle socks across the carpet, but pausing midway to his own bed to glance again at the nearer double and its occupant, confirming that Jude Bellingham was indeed asleep and gently snoring. Jude was, of course, a good lad - impossible not to like. And so he made for a good roommate, with a great balance of healthy professionalism and light-hearted chat, a pretty high-quality roomie by all standards! And yet... The thing about the 20-year-old from Stourbridge was... well, he was just Mr fucking Perfect, wasn't he? Kalvin paused and looked at him with this on his mind. He knew the sad truth of it: he was just projecting his own insecurities. He couldn't be blind and deaf to the flak Southgate was getting for selecting the likes of him, Maguire, Henderson. And really he was used to it, because he got plenty of that criticism for his role at City in general, collecting the club's accolades with fairly minimal game-time contributions of his own. Kalvin still didn't know how to feel about the big money career glow-up that had taken him from club hero of his boyhood city to spare training fodder at a mega-club who were snaffling up trophies like nobody's business. He'd felt deeply uncomfortable throughout the `Treble' celebrations of the summer, carried along in the wake of Jack's beery bender, but ashamed to hoist silverware that he'd not properly earned. And here, spread out on the other double bed in front of him, was this prodigious 20-year-old, who was now the toast of La Liga - rightly, Bellingham had been welcomed to the camp as a hero and a legend, constantly praised and fawned over by players and staff alike, and... yeah, he was sweet and humble and every bit of it was well-deserved, but it was tough stuff to swallow when you were in Kalvin's position. The kid was barely out of school and he was already conquering his second European league and a sure-thing member of the England senior line-up, with some corners of the squad muttering about a captaincy when Kane's retirement starts to loom. `King Jude,' the 27-year-old muttered to himself, standing at the corner of his pal's bed, and examining the stretched height of the youngster, who had almost entirely discarded his duvet because the room was too hot; there was air-conditioning, but neither of them had quite figured out how to work it without it making a terrible racket. And so the 6ft1 fellow mixed-race youth was stretched out on his back, a thin shaft of outer light cutting past a blind and glimmering across one thigh, his taut grey underpants, and the firmly-defined muscles of his slim long torso. Kalvin was only rooming with the wunderkind because of some odd mix-up anyway, something about Trent Alexander-Arnold requesting a room swap away from Hendo right before his minor injury had him sent home - the outcome had been that Phillips and Bellingham were the two spare parts, enjoying solo rooms for the whole of last week, and now bunched together for the last few nights. Huh, boy wonder, now man of the moment... Kalvin tried hard not to resent him,and failed. He let out a quiet little sigh, his face frowning and unhappy in a way that few ever saw, and he lingered there a moment too long. This was the moment he should have fumbled onto his own bed and climbed in, probably ending up as uncovered as this lad, because the Glaswegian hotel was as stuffy as hell. That's what he should have done, but he stayed where he was a moment too long, and his thoughts... wandered. Look at the length of them legs, like the kid was designed in a football laboratory; look how bloody ripped his stomach is! Kalvin thought he probably still had a bit of puppy fat when he was turning 20, not that washboard. Jesus, he then thought, look at how he fills his fucking under-crackers too, for God's sake, he's even- He stopped himself, blanching, as he began to chastise himself for not being quite so well-endowed as the younger Englishman, and now he felt very silly and petty. And... something else, but the word escaped him. But look at it! The lad just splayed out like that with only a scrap of duvet under one arm, so that his full physique was on show to the night. The way the flimsy strip of external light fell, it really highlighted the space that lay below the resting thigh muscles and the washboard, and Kalvin found himself staring at it: the rising heap of presence in those grey trunks, with one of Jude's sleeping hands resting not far from it on his hip. The 27-year-old football player was hardly conscious of himself moving forward, but here he was, closer to the bed, and stooping forward better, as if to better take in the sight of his sleeping teammate, his younger yet superior colleague - and his eyes were adjusting to the low light in a way that made Jude's 6ft1 physique all the clearer, all the more impressive. He stared at him and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh, and... again, he stared at how well the 20-year-old filled the front of his undies, and... damn it, before he knew what he was doing, he was also staring at his own hand as it reached out and, yep, gave it the gentlest of strokes. He didn't know why he'd done it. To check that the kid didn't shove a pair of socks down there before going to bed? Fuck's sake. Kalvin froze where he was, aware that this was crazy. He'd lifted one bare knee to the edge of the bed, and was stooped forward, his hand cupped gently against the side of the large package. It was as if he'd had a blackout at the door to the room and then come to his senses in this mad position, looming over the sleeping younger lad, and staring down at the shape of a resting cock in those pants. So why now did he stroke it again, feeling the outline of it, the length and girth of it obvious through the material where it curled slightly on top of his balls. Lucky fucking lad. He kept his breath quiet and hunched there, half on the bed, rubbing gently at the shape of Jude's cock, and lifting his eyes to stare up his six-pack and his expanding chest, taking in the angelic peacefulness of his tilted face - the slightest flicker of his full lashes, the hint of movement in his lips, but still surely asleep. Kalvin's hand rested a little more firmly on his bulge, and he had no idea what he was doing. With his other hand, resting forward on his elbows, he stroked one of those thighs, feeling the dormant power of it - then he stroked further, past the hip and tracing his finger close to the navel, playing over the muscular rows of the abdomen, before trailing back and teasing at the elasticated waistband of the Hugo Boss underwear. The slight moan from Bellingham rose out of the darkness and for a moment chilled Phillips entirely, before he looked at his hand and supposed that his clumsy touch had elicited that sound of faraway pleasure. He repeated the motion, teasing fingertips across where the big head of it must be, and Jude moaned a little again. His heartbeat skipped and his mouth felt as dry as anything. Fuck - what the hell was he up to here? The 6ft1 boy stirred very gently beneath his touch, the slightest adjustment of limbs, and Kalvin gave the outline a good stroke. It was getting bigger, firmer, even more apparent. He rubbed again across the shape of the head and he felt a stirring in his own loins. His face was descending close almost of its own volition, and by the time his lips brushed the cotton with a sensitive kiss, he knew he was rock-hard inside his shorts. On cue, a sleepy moan sounded from further up the bed, and he hovered there, aware that his muscular bulk on the mattress could disturb and wake even the heat-exhausted young midfielder; but he was in deep, and he wasn't sure how he could pull away without applying more pressure and probably waking Bellingham up...! It was mad logic, but it was a confused trap that he found himself in, and he nuzzled his lips a second time against the firm shape of the hardening dick, breathing in Jude's scent. Somehow the crotch of his underpants just smelt rich and sexy like some expensive aftershave - for fuck's sake, did this smug bastard have ANY flaws? Poised there against him, stroking the sides of his thighs and reaching up to the hips and the waistband of the grey trunks, he pictured Jude's already trademark celebration at the Bernabeu, the self-assured way in which he presented himself to the Spanish crowds, a triumphant Madridista already. He thought about the young star's potency and he peeled the grey material away, revealing first the wire-wool growth and then the base of the shaft and then, inch by inch, the full majesty of it, flipped free and rising up to meet his shivering lips - long, thick, veined, pale brown shifting to pink. Kalvin hung over it with his mouth open, thinking about Dan James' eager little face - what was it like to feel a man's cock on your tongue, really? He posed the question to himself as if it was a matter of scientific experiment, and not ultimate taboo and secret scandal in the hot air of the room. He opened his lips wider and found out, closing his mouth about that pink tip, and tasting its goodness. No immediate moan from Jude, but maybe a slight stirring of his restive legs; Kalvin swirled his tongue about the head slowly, dragged his lips across it all, and then parted with it, gasping quietly, and averting his eyes to check that Jude's face remained at that peaceful angle, lids flickering as if deep in a dreamworld. He licked his lips, slowly, and thought about it. The cock tasted almost like the pants smelled. Rich, luxurious, powerful. He darted out his tongue, rolling it across the head, and this time the sleeper did moan, a bit more firmly; this scared Kalvin, but it also electrified him. He grabbed the cock about its base and licked the end like a lollipop, proceeding to run his tongue down the sides and back up, his weight now pressing very firmly onto the bed, and his other hand caressing awkwardly against a bulging thigh muscle. He took the end of it in his mouth again, sucking gently on it, and thinking that there was just so much of it - he couldn't put all of it in his mouth, could he? Again, that stupid curiosity, that sense that this was fair game, a worthwhile experiment, JUST TO SEE - a heat madness was driving him forward, and he opened wide. He took one inch and then two inches and then three, and he tried not to graze the shaft with his teeth, bowing his head deep into the richly scented crotch, until... fingers brushing his topknot and rubbing the back of his head, soft for a moment, then VERY firm. His face was pushed down and held there and his throat was gagged with cock, and for many long seconds he was terrified to try and even breath. Not a word from Jude, but a grunting sleepy moan, and a tight grip of now BOTH hands, holding Kalvin's head there, cock pushing into his throat, so that he made a horrible awkward gurgling as he, at last, pulled back, drooling from his bottom lip. But Bellingham was STILL ASLEEP - he stared at his face, the expression different but the angle the same, and he stared at the cock, shiny with his saliva, and he felt the hands on the sides of his head, pulling him in. He didn't know who the 20-year-old was dreaming of - Dua Lipa? Margot Robbie? A pornstar? - but he knew that his mouth was fulfilling the role of someone else, and he panicked at the strength and control of the lad's hands, even as his cock throbbed and leaked and he rolled his tongue on its way down the thick veiny shaft. He shifted his muscular weight forward slightly and rubbed his hands about the outsides of Jude's chunky thighs, glad when the hands softened and just toyed with the locs of his knot, perhaps mistaking it for a girl's ponytail - was he Ariana Grande or Beyonce in the youth's sex dream? - allowing him a bit more control as he played his lips and tongue about the flute of the prodigy's manhood. He didn't know what he was doing, but he did it, sucking happily on it and then gagging again when he went too far. One hand stroked down the back of his neck, keeping his face there at work, and he felt the other close over his own hand where it rested just below the hip. Jude moaned into the night and, like Jack Grealish when he was cumming inside the Welsh lad, even that abstract sound of pleasure seemed to have a soft Brummie lilt to it. If Phillips' world was already on fire with newness, then there was one further detail that he had not been in the slightest prepared for: the almost metallic tang of the youth's juices when they hit first the roof of his mouth, and then his tongue. He might have been instantly repelled if there wasn't a strong sleepy hand on his head, and he held his mouth there, eating Jude Bellingham's cum before he knew it, and adjusting to the salty bitterness, and... trembling with every muscle of his body to know that he'd brought the midfielder to climax, and tasted the fluid of this La Liga hurricane. Jude's body shook a little, and Kal felt yet more salty liquid on his tongue and dribbling over his lip. He pulled away, angling his head to escape the guiding hand, and he gasped in a few bursts of air, feeling warm goo on his chin, and struggling not to rush to the bathroom to find the Corsodyl. Instead he just hunched there, aware of the awkward throb of his own hard-on, and staring at the wet shiny head of Jude's big prick, pointing accusingly at him - it was beginning to dawn on him how wrong his actions must be. Leaving the bed was an act of willpower, of precise awkward motions, trying to minimise the shifts in pressure as this elbow and that knee left the mattress. Jude though, he thought, seemed to be a deep sleeper, totally unconscious even with his mighty cock wavering and throbbing and drooling traces of jizz. Off the bed, bare feet to the carpet, and staggering the distance to his own double. Climbing into it as softly and quietly as he could, he grabbed the corner of his duvet and rubbed it over his mouth, his chin, tasting shame on his lips. He was shaking all over and fear had killed his erection, his dick limp and fat inside his shorts and undies. He lay over the covers, trembling, and wondered what utter madness had overtaken him in the past ten minutes. And then, rising out of the dark like the moans of earlier, the soft Brummie accent - less broad and musical than Jack's Villa drawl, but still distinctively Birmingham. `I knew Southgate brought you along for a reason,' came Jude's slow breathy murmur across the room, followed by an almost arrogant sleepy chuckle. And nothing more. Kalvin lay there, horrified, shaken, head-fucked: he'd been awake all along, he must have. He stayed still and silent and listened to the long indulgent breaths that sounded from the lad in the other bed, the faint smacking of lips, the rustle of a big wet cock being pushed inside undies that couldn't contain it, and the stretching of limbs. After a while, the voice added, `Don't be weird about in the morning, mate,' with all the world-weary pragmatism of someone who had lived far more decades. And Kalvin Phillips rolled over, away from the direction of the softly yawning figure in the dark, staring up at the windows and the hanging blinds, staring out through that thin gap at the vague lights of the Scottish city. He fell into an uncomfortable sleep with the taste of cum in his mouth, and what felt like a pube on his upper lip, and dreamed things that he would never admit to anyone when he woke up on Monday. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 10 Sep 2023 22:20:19 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 368 Part 368: England Camp, Day Seven `Alright, sexy lad,' drawled the familiarly rich tones of his mate's voice as he answered the call, and he couldn't help but giggle stupidly at the playful greeting from his club teammate; the jokey affection slipped quickly to the more casually abusive banter that defined such laddish friendships, but also an earnest gratitude when he got to the point of the call. `Happy birthday mate,' he said seriously, `I hope you're having a fuckin' class day, y'know? Sorry you aren't up here with us to celebrate.' Up here, right now, was the outskirts of Glasgow, the England squad's new base - following the Ukraine draw, there had been a fairly early journey back into UK airspace, touching down north of the border and settling in for a day's prep work at the Rangers FC training ground. More specifically, up here was the humid foliage of a hotel garden, where the 27-year-old Leeds lad had strolled out on his own to try and get in touch with an absent friend. `Aww, thanks pal,' droned the deep Brummie voice of his superstar pal, and Kalvin Phillips grinned with the usual face-splitting grin that was his default, sat on a bench beneath a sweaty night sky. `You're a real good pal,' he was complimented firmly by an at least tipsy Jack Grealish, who had stepped away from the noise of a family party after the first difficult minute of the call. `Thanks for taking the time to call me, I really appreciate that, I do. Top class, matey.' The two of them chatted on - it had been one of Kalvin's defining friendships of his much-criticised time at Manchester City, and he was genuinely sad that Jack had been ruled out of this England camp before it had got going. The loss of him as a roommate was a definite dent in the experience, even apart from his bubbly presence in training and on the journeys between venues. And Phillips, being the kind-hearted Yorkshire lad that he was, had vaguely worried that the absence might be even harder on Grealish than anyone here, given the Brummie lad's fierce passion for international footy - but by the sound of his merry state and the background noise of family shenanigans, he'd coped well. Now Kal was just glad that his pal was able to celebrate his 28th in a way that their Scotland fixture might not have allowed, and he almost wished he was there in outer Birmingham too, joining the Grealish clan who had been very good to him on their visits to Manchester. The defensive midfielder quickly drew the call to an end after five minutes or so, conscious that Jack should get back to his mates and family, and also feeling a big urge to crack open a beer, hearing the drunken edge to Jack's effusive cheer and affection, just a magnification of his everyday charisma. `Get back to your party,' Kalvin insisted down the line, `and stop letting me distract you. Enjoy, fella.' `Yeah, yeah,' Grealo agreed. `Say hi to all the lads for me, hope they're doing well - hope Kylie isn't being too fucking big-headed about that overdue goal, you know! And say hi to-' There was an awkward pause there, Jack's tipsy voice faltering on the line, making Kalvin only momentarily curious about who Jack was about to make special mention of, then thinking better... Lil Phil, he supposed, hyper-conscious of how much young Foden hero-worshipped their boisterous mutual pal. Couldn't really be anyone else, could it? But Jack had murmured on as if there was no awkward pause: `Smash it up in training tomorrow, sexy, and get yourself fucking picked for Tuesday, yeh?' A raucous laugh as they said their goodbyes and his mate disappeared into the ether, back to birthday cake and beer, leaving Kalvin sat in his shorts and tee in the Scottish humidity. It was cooler here than England or Poland, but the air felt thick and sticky, and a sheen of sweat glowed on his arms and legs, even just sitting her chuckling away with the birthday boy. Phillips remained where he was, hands draped between open thighs with phone in grasp, a lingering smile breaking up his boyish features, and Jack's stupid pet names hovering momentarily in his mind - `sexy lad', what a dick-head! Kalvin wasn't the one with Instagram accounts dedicated to his fucking calves, was he? Jesus, the lad was bonkers. He chuckled and shook his head, and thought... There was, he had to admit, a slightly more specific pang of regret to missing Grealish, as a teammate and a roomie. The reason made his dimpled cheeks colour and him scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, then pull at the sticky chest of his patterned t-shirt. The thing about being pals with a lad like Jack, Jack the lad, was that... stuff happened, didn't it? Jack was dynamic, always the centre of the fun. Even that was euphemistic. Kalvin was thinking about Qatar - no, further back than that, his senior England debut trips, where he and Jack had pulled and shared a couple of stunners in the hotel bar, and fucked them side-by-side several floors above. The thrill ride of friendship with Grealish had began then, long before... he cringed, and scratched his chin, and pictured them in Doha, taking turns on squealing Dan James, fucking the lad's big peachy arse like it was nothing, like the Welsh dude was just another stunning slag from the bar. It had seemed to mean little or nothing to Jack, the transgression, whilst Kal himself had been mentally beaten up by a previous blowie from DJ for months! That night in the Croydon strip club, sucked off by smiling Daniel, he'd really struggled with the shock of it; and then in Jack's electric company he'd just embraced it, fucking first Dan's mouth and then his generous backside, relishing the tightness of his hole and those big booty cheeks, a greater arse than any of his girlfriends! He cringed and blushed and got up from the bench. The path of his thoughts was telling him that he wished Jack the Lad was here on the squad so that the rakish playboy could initiate something weird and kinky of that nature, and it made the confused Leeds bloke feel ashamed and uncomfortable. He thought further back, remembering a brief handjob from a Leeds teammate in a chilly hotel, and judged his own failure to cut off these naughty encounters - he'd been allowing boundaries to slip before he could blame Jack's explosive personality for a drunken mishap, hadn't he? And here was Jack calling him `sexy' down the phone from his birthday bash, soft and jokey, but stirring more awkwardness and ambiguous yearning in Kalvin's heat-addled brain; what WOULD he have got up to this week if the winger was in attendance...? Upstairs, he let himself into his hotel room quietly, guessing correctly that his replacement roomie would be asleep. For much of the week, Kalvin had actually had a suite at their main base to himself, as he'd been scheduled to room with Jack; someone in charge had amended that as they arrived in Poland on Friday night and now here he was with the young superstar, and he had... mixed feelings. Phillips moved slowly into the room, sliding off his trainers and padding ankle socks across the carpet, but pausing midway to his own bed to glance again at the nearer double and its occupant, confirming that Jude Bellingham was indeed asleep and gently snoring. Jude was, of course, a good lad - impossible not to like. And so he made for a good roommate, with a great balance of healthy professionalism and light-hearted chat, a pretty high-quality roomie by all standards! And yet... The thing about the 20-year-old from Stourbridge was... well, he was just Mr fucking Perfect, wasn't he? Kalvin paused and looked at him with this on his mind. He knew the sad truth of it: he was just projecting his own insecurities. He couldn't be blind and deaf to the flak Southgate was getting for selecting the likes of him, Maguire, Henderson. And really he was used to it, because he got plenty of that criticism for his role at City in general, collecting the club's accolades with fairly minimal game-time contributions of his own. Kalvin still didn't know how to feel about the big money career glow-up that had taken him from club hero of his boyhood city to spare training fodder at a mega-club who were snaffling up trophies like nobody's business. He'd felt deeply uncomfortable throughout the `Treble' celebrations of the summer, carried along in the wake of Jack's beery bender, but ashamed to hoist silverware that he'd not properly earned. And here, spread out on the other double bed in front of him, was this prodigious 20-year-old, who was now the toast of La Liga - rightly, Bellingham had been welcomed to the camp as a hero and a legend, constantly praised and fawned over by players and staff alike, and... yeah, he was sweet and humble and every bit of it was well-deserved, but it was tough stuff to swallow when you were in Kalvin's position. The kid was barely out of school and he was already conquering his second European league and a sure-thing member of the England senior line-up, with some corners of the squad muttering about a captaincy when Kane's retirement starts to loom. `King Jude,' the 27-year-old muttered to himself, standing at the corner of his pal's bed, and examining the stretched height of the youngster, who had almost entirely discarded his duvet because the room was too hot; there was air-conditioning, but neither of them had quite figured out how to work it without it making a terrible racket. And so the 6ft1 fellow mixed-race youth was stretched out on his back, a thin shaft of outer light cutting past a blind and glimmering across one thigh, his taut grey underpants, and the firmly-defined muscles of his slim long torso. Kalvin was only rooming with the wunderkind because of some odd mix-up anyway, something about Trent Alexander-Arnold requesting a room swap away from Hendo right before his minor injury had him sent home - the outcome had been that Phillips and Bellingham were the two spare parts, enjoying solo rooms for the whole of last week, and now bunched together for the last few nights. Huh, boy wonder, now man of the moment... Kalvin tried hard not to resent him,and failed. He let out a quiet little sigh, his face frowning and unhappy in a way that few ever saw, and he lingered there a moment too long. This was the moment he should have fumbled onto his own bed and climbed in, probably ending up as uncovered as this lad, because the Glaswegian hotel was as stuffy as hell. That's what he should have done, but he stayed where he was a moment too long, and his thoughts... wandered. Look at the length of them legs, like the kid was designed in a football laboratory; look how bloody ripped his stomach is! Kalvin thought he probably still had a bit of puppy fat when he was turning 20, not that washboard. Jesus, he then thought, look at how he fills his fucking under-crackers too, for God's sake, he's even- He stopped himself, blanching, as he began to chastise himself for not being quite so well-endowed as the younger Englishman, and now he felt very silly and petty. And... something else, but the word escaped him. But look at it! The lad just splayed out like that with only a scrap of duvet under one arm, so that his full physique was on show to the night. The way the flimsy strip of external light fell, it really highlighted the space that lay below the resting thigh muscles and the washboard, and Kalvin found himself staring at it: the rising heap of presence in those grey trunks, with one of Jude's sleeping hands resting not far from it on his hip. The 27-year-old football player was hardly conscious of himself moving forward, but here he was, closer to the bed, and stooping forward better, as if to better take in the sight of his sleeping teammate, his younger yet superior colleague - and his eyes were adjusting to the low light in a way that made Jude's 6ft1 physique all the clearer, all the more impressive. He stared at him and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh, and... again, he stared at how well the 20-year-old filled the front of his undies, and... damn it, before he knew what he was doing, he was also staring at his own hand as it reached out and, yep, gave it the gentlest of strokes. He didn't know why he'd done it. To check that the kid didn't shove a pair of socks down there before going to bed? Fuck's sake. Kalvin froze where he was, aware that this was crazy. He'd lifted one bare knee to the edge of the bed, and was stooped forward, his hand cupped gently against the side of the large package. It was as if he'd had a blackout at the door to the room and then come to his senses in this mad position, looming over the sleeping younger lad, and staring down at the shape of a resting cock in those pants. So why now did he stroke it again, feeling the outline of it, the length and girth of it obvious through the material where it curled slightly on top of his balls. Lucky fucking lad. He kept his breath quiet and hunched there, half on the bed, rubbing gently at the shape of Jude's cock, and lifting his eyes to stare up his six-pack and his expanding chest, taking in the angelic peacefulness of his tilted face - the slightest flicker of his full lashes, the hint of movement in his lips, but still surely asleep. Kalvin's hand rested a little more firmly on his bulge, and he had no idea what he was doing. With his other hand, resting forward on his elbows, he stroked one of those thighs, feeling the dormant power of it - then he stroked further, past the hip and tracing his finger close to the navel, playing over the muscular rows of the abdomen, before trailing back and teasing at the elasticated waistband of the Hugo Boss underwear. The slight moan from Bellingham rose out of the darkness and for a moment chilled Phillips entirely, before he looked at his hand and supposed that his clumsy touch had elicited that sound of faraway pleasure. He repeated the motion, teasing fingertips across where the big head of it must be, and Jude moaned a little again. His heartbeat skipped and his mouth felt as dry as anything. Fuck - what the hell was he up to here? The 6ft1 boy stirred very gently beneath his touch, the slightest adjustment of limbs, and Kalvin gave the outline a good stroke. It was getting bigger, firmer, even more apparent. He rubbed again across the shape of the head and he felt a stirring in his own loins. His face was descending close almost of its own volition, and by the time his lips brushed the cotton with a sensitive kiss, he knew he was rock-hard inside his shorts. On cue, a sleepy moan sounded from further up the bed, and he hovered there, aware that his muscular bulk on the mattress could disturb and wake even the heat-exhausted young midfielder; but he was in deep, and he wasn't sure how he could pull away without applying more pressure and probably waking Bellingham up...! It was mad logic, but it was a confused trap that he found himself in, and he nuzzled his lips a second time against the firm shape of the hardening dick, breathing in Jude's scent. Somehow the crotch of his underpants just smelt rich and sexy like some expensive aftershave - for fuck's sake, did this smug bastard have ANY flaws? Poised there against him, stroking the sides of his thighs and reaching up to the hips and the waistband of the grey trunks, he pictured Jude's already trademark celebration at the Bernabeu, the self-assured way in which he presented himself to the Spanish crowds, a triumphant Madridista already. He thought about the young star's potency and he peeled the grey material away, revealing first the wire-wool growth and then the base of the shaft and then, inch by inch, the full majesty of it, flipped free and rising up to meet his shivering lips - long, thick, veined, pale brown shifting to pink. Kalvin hung over it with his mouth open, thinking about Dan James' eager little face - what was it like to feel a man's cock on your tongue, really? He posed the question to himself as if it was a matter of scientific experiment, and not ultimate taboo and secret scandal in the hot air of the room. He opened his lips wider and found out, closing his mouth about that pink tip, and tasting its goodness. No immediate moan from Jude, but maybe a slight stirring of his restive legs; Kalvin swirled his tongue about the head slowly, dragged his lips across it all, and then parted with it, gasping quietly, and averting his eyes to check that Jude's face remained at that peaceful angle, lids flickering as if deep in a dreamworld. He licked his lips, slowly, and thought about it. The cock tasted almost like the pants smelled. Rich, luxurious, powerful. He darted out his tongue, rolling it across the head, and this time the sleeper did moan, a bit more firmly; this scared Kalvin, but it also electrified him. He grabbed the cock about its base and licked the end like a lollipop, proceeding to run his tongue down the sides and back up, his weight now pressing very firmly onto the bed, and his other hand caressing awkwardly against a bulging thigh muscle. He took the end of it in his mouth again, sucking gently on it, and thinking that there was just so much of it - he couldn't put all of it in his mouth, could he? Again, that stupid curiosity, that sense that this was fair game, a worthwhile experiment, JUST TO SEE - a heat madness was driving him forward, and he opened wide. He took one inch and then two inches and then three, and he tried not to graze the shaft with his teeth, bowing his head deep into the richly scented crotch, until... fingers brushing his topknot and rubbing the back of his head, soft for a moment, then VERY firm. His face was pushed down and held there and his throat was gagged with cock, and for many long seconds he was terrified to try and even breath. Not a word from Jude, but a grunting sleepy moan, and a tight grip of now BOTH hands, holding Kalvin's head there, cock pushing into his throat, so that he made a horrible awkward gurgling as he, at last, pulled back, drooling from his bottom lip. But Bellingham was STILL ASLEEP - he stared at his face, the expression different but the angle the same, and he stared at the cock, shiny with his saliva, and he felt the hands on the sides of his head, pulling him in. He didn't know who the 20-year-old was dreaming of - Dua Lipa? Margot Robbie? A pornstar? - but he knew that his mouth was fulfilling the role of someone else, and he panicked at the strength and control of the lad's hands, even as his cock throbbed and leaked and he rolled his tongue on its way down the thick veiny shaft. He shifted his muscular weight forward slightly and rubbed his hands about the outsides of Jude's chunky thighs, glad when the hands softened and just toyed with the locs of his knot, perhaps mistaking it for a girl's ponytail - was he Ariana Grande or Beyonce in the youth's sex dream? - allowing him a bit more control as he played his lips and tongue about the flute of the prodigy's manhood. He didn't know what he was doing, but he did it, sucking happily on it and then gagging again when he went too far. One hand stroked down the back of his neck, keeping his face there at work, and he felt the other close over his own hand where it rested just below the hip. Jude moaned into the night and, like Jack Grealish when he was cumming inside the Welsh lad, even that abstract sound of pleasure seemed to have a soft Brummie lilt to it. If Phillips' world was already on fire with newness, then there was one further detail that he had not been in the slightest prepared for: the almost metallic tang of the youth's juices when they hit first the roof of his mouth, and then his tongue. He might have been instantly repelled if there wasn't a strong sleepy hand on his head, and he held his mouth there, eating Jude Bellingham's cum before he knew it, and adjusting to the salty bitterness, and... trembling with every muscle of his body to know that he'd brought the midfielder to climax, and tasted the fluid of this La Liga hurricane. Jude's body shook a little, and Kal felt yet more salty liquid on his tongue and dribbling over his lip. He pulled away, angling his head to escape the guiding hand, and he gasped in a few bursts of air, feeling warm goo on his chin, and struggling not to rush to the bathroom to find the Corsodyl. Instead he just hunched there, aware of the awkward throb of his own hard-on, and staring at the wet shiny head of Jude's big prick, pointing accusingly at him - it was beginning to dawn on him how wrong his actions must be. Leaving the bed was an act of willpower, of precise awkward motions, trying to minimise the shifts in pressure as this elbow and that knee left the mattress. Jude though, he thought, seemed to be a deep sleeper, totally unconscious even with his mighty cock wavering and throbbing and drooling traces of jizz. Off the bed, bare feet to the carpet, and staggering the distance to his own double. Climbing into it as softly and quietly as he could, he grabbed the corner of his duvet and rubbed it over his mouth, his chin, tasting shame on his lips. He was shaking all over and fear had killed his erection, his dick limp and fat inside his shorts and undies. He lay over the covers, trembling, and wondered what utter madness had overtaken him in the past ten minutes. And then, rising out of the dark like the moans of earlier, the soft Brummie accent - less broad and musical than Jack's Villa drawl, but still distinctively Birmingham. `I knew Southgate brought you along for a reason,' came Jude's slow breathy murmur across the room, followed by an almost arrogant sleepy chuckle. And nothing more. Kalvin lay there, horrified, shaken, head-fucked: he'd been awake all along, he must have. He stayed still and silent and listened to the long indulgent breaths that sounded from the lad in the other bed, the faint smacking of lips, the rustle of a big wet cock being pushed inside undies that couldn't contain it, and the stretching of limbs. After a while, the voice added, `Don't be weird about in the morning, mate,' with all the world-weary pragmatism of someone who had lived far more decades. And Kalvin Phillips rolled over, away from the direction of the softly yawning figure in the dark, staring up at the windows and the hanging blinds, staring out through that thin gap at the vague lights of the Scottish city. He fell into an uncomfortable sleep with the taste of cum in his mouth, and what felt like a pube on his upper lip, and dreamed things that he would never admit to anyone when he woke up on Monday. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-359

Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2023 18:03:31 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 359 Part 359: Champions League Dreams It was a good job that an elusive smile and a quietly enjoyed cigar were trademark features of a celebrating Pep Guardiola - they were currently a mask that allowed the Manchester City manage to dwell on the terrace of the hotel bar surrounded by his colleagues and cronies, paying limited attention to them, and to stare admiringly across the the long sheltered balcony at his precious Golden Boy, and to will away the minutes until he could reasonably excuse himself. Around him, the staff and players were electric with the outcome of their second-leg match against their German hosts, toasting to UCL progress for the club, and anticipating an FA Cup weekend - many would mistake the 52-year-old Spaniard's quiet and ambiguity as the same playful reserve that he faced the sporting media, unwilling to make ambitious claims or predictions about a possible treble, superstition or (less likely) humility keeping his lips sealed as the Premier League giants returned to prior recent dominance. But nope: Pep had spent enough of this Munich trip with his mind laser-focused on football and success, as obsessive and methodical as always. Now, puffing on his cigar and sipping from the measure of whiskey, the City boss was letting his thoughts move elsewhere, and he stared across the terrace with a smoky intensity in his dark eyes. There he was, grinning excitedly in the midst of his teammates, quiet too in his own way; Foden's sharp cheeks were rosy and his small eyes sparkled with pleasure, but he didn't seem to get much chance to speak in the loud rough banter of the taller men that surrounded him, apparently content to just laugh heartily along and encourage the other burly football players in their analysis of Bayern Munchen's every failing. He looked particularly hot tonight, Pep thought, but then it was just so brilliant to have him back. The football coach had been distraught when the news came in that his prized midfielder and secret lover had been rushed away from the spring England camp with appendicitis, and then urgently operated on; as a Premiership gaffer, he was solidly delighted with the squad depth and energy of young Filipe returning to the City ranks and preparing for this Champions League outing and the domestic cup weekend ahead... but as a red-blooded Latin lover, there was a different excitement. Tender respectful visits to Phil's hospital suite and family home had been necessary and important as both manager and papi, but their every meeting during the boy's recovery had been charged with lust and urgency, and now... finally, Phil Foden was fit for more than just football. John Stones had just told an apparently hilarious joke and brash laddish laughter rippled through the cluster of players at the far end of the balcony, with Foden buckling almost sycophantically with enjoyment of the tall England player's presumably crude humour; Pep couldn't help but stare for a moment at his celebrated centre-back with a kind of vindictive jealousy, thinking of how he'd once allowed Stones to fuck his Golden Boy - but how stupid and petty, when that had been his own arrangement, his own use of his loyal Filipe, and his own dirty pleasure by proxy. Pep felt such daft and hypocritical carnal desires rip through his still body, swaddled beneath a turtleneck jumper against the cool German night; he was watching the slim petite midfielder laugh and jostle with the gaggle of City signings, and he wanted to march across the terrace and grasp possessively for him to carry away to his own luxury hotel room. These thoughts, churlish and ridiculous as they were, soared as another of the casually dressed winners draped a complacent arm about Phil's shoulders, and Guardiola fixed a conflicted glare on the silhouette of Jack Grealish - conflicted because the expensive Villa purchase was finally vindicating the investment and becoming a real weapon for Guardiola, but because he knew full well how this brash English lad had entranced and preoccupied his Filipe in those two seasons of camaraderie... again, something that Pep could blame on nobody but himself. He should have known how risky it was to encourage further closeness between Foden and the charismatic winger... but newcomer Grealish had been so volatile and precarious at first, and he knew that the bromance there had helped to settle and secure the expensive talent. He just hadn't anticipated the doting look on Phil's face as he followed Jack around like a puppy. To some extent, young Phil had admitted it all to him in snatches - but Guardiola was very intuitive and aware, and he'd seen the crush building and burning bright, just as he now knew that it had largely fizzled out, and he'd `won' an unconscious battle to keep his boy. But the way Grealish draped an arm about the 5ft7 Stockport youth and pulled him in as he swigged on his bottle of beer...! Pep could march across there and toss Jack off the balcony, his passion and need were so intense tonight! His grizzled face must have revealed the shift in mood, because one of his longest-serving assistants reached across to pat his arm and ask what was wrong - Guardiola could only dismiss the interest and throw back the remains of his drink in one throat-burning move, then take a long puff of the thick Cuban. He made his excuses, smiling and apologising to the other men, and encouraging them to stay up late and drink, regardless of the early flight back to Manchester Airport - after all, it would be helpful to keep the hotel bar busy with City men, and the floors of their accommodation a little quieter, so that Foden could find his way into his arms without any difficulty. Pep made his way through the busy terrace and slowed on his way to the open doors, staring so intensely across at Filipe that the 22-year-old must have felt the heat burn into the side of his long slender neck; drawn magnetically to his heat, the young star turned to glance this way, and their eyes met. Pep paused for only the slightest of moments, eyeing up the beautiful young man, and nodding his head ever-so-gently. It was not an immediate demand, as much as his loins burned with it, but a nod to the time - he certainly couldn't have his Golden Boy exit immediately to follow him out, not without raising too many questions in the wrong quarters. He couldn't, as he deeply wished, just grab him in both arms and yank him away from that lingering Grealish hug or the latest burst of banter courtesy of Stones or Walker or Mahrez. Instead, he had to walk coolly away, deliberately casual to avoid attention or protest at his exit, and stroll through the glossy bar interior to pull aside the manager and slip him the appropriate roll of Euros that would extend opening hours just a little and make sure the Munich win was fairly enjoyed. But there was one last thing that caught Guardiola's eye and slowed his exit from the room, ready to go upstairs and shower in anticipation of his bedroom visitor; he was pausing momentarily at the bar after slipping the bribe, accepting a final strong drink which he would carry up to his room, when his eyes slipped to the lift and he caught sight of the fresh-faced Argentine youngster awaiting service. For just one dangerous moment, Pep's eyes lingered over the perfect curves and proportions of a lithe young body on the World Cup winning 23-year-old... and then were wrenched away, refusing to travel down memory lane to the last diminutive Argentinian who had captured his heart. Stay in the present, he told himself, and appreciate what you have - what you've been burning for all night! The Catalonian ex-defender moved away from the bar, distracted briefly by a keen smile from young Julian Alvarez, but just patting the developing midfielder on the shoulder of his skintight t-shirt and slipping away from him without conversation, single-minded in his plans for the rest of tonight. A short distance down the bar from the vague smile of the young Argentine and the departing manager, another member of the squad was eyeing up the barmaid and gently adjusting the weight in the front of his black trousers, wondering what time her shift ended and if she stayed at the hotel overnight - she looked a pretty young thing who might quite happily ride an international football star into the early hours, and the merest sniff of such action had the large Portuguese man stiffening in the Nike-branded underwear that he had recently been modelling. Ruben dos Santos Gato Alves Dias looked with quiet lust at the young German girl until she was whisked away him by the busy activity of the hotel bar, summoned down to the other end to serve his teammate - with abstract jealousy, the 6ft1 centre-back leaned his elbows against the counter and stared down the bar to watch her flirt with a slightly younger footballer, the squad's acne-spotted World Cup champ. For all his chat, Alvarez just seemed to be ordering a sparkling water, and Dias scoffed to himself, amused and charmed by the innocence of the South American just as much as their barmaid seemed to be. For a moment, the 25-year-old defender allowed himself to mull on this: was young Julian quite as cute as the blue-eyed blond who was busting out of her halterneck? Grabbing up his beer and moving away from the bar, the large muscular athlete scoffed at himself and shrugged away this stupid internal question - ridiculous comparison, with that hot pussy floating about behind the bar, and that goofy scamp teammate flashing his boyish smile everywhere and now unscrewing the lid of some overpriced h2O. These were the kind of stupid thoughts that came when you were sex-starved, he told himself, longing to return to his girlfriend in their Manchester penthouse, having forced himself to stay sexless in the run-up to this big game - and intending to do the same with their next few major fixtures, with the FA Cup Semi at the weekend and their title challenge fixture with Arsenal lying in the midweek ahead. `NO SEX' seemed to have lurked between the lines of one of Guardiola's many squad speeches this week, advising lots of rest to avoid the inevitable fatigue of their loaded schedule and quest for maximum silverware. With that in mind, Ruben turned his back on both the attractive bar-girl and the nearby grin of Julian - he shouldn't be looking at guys like that, even after what went on at the rooftop bar last summer. And mentioning that... He almost stumbled right into the diminutive figure of another teammate crossing the bar, Phil Foden, who he still couldn't quite look at without picturing his bare pale butt-cheeks exposed on that rooftop, offered up to the drunken consortium of hyped-up football studs. Ruben frowned ambiguously at the younger man and muscled past him, away from him and Alvarez and the bar, and heading towards the windows to check out the view of the city; anything to cool him and to exorcise the horny thoughts that trembled in the crotch of his black trousers, so that he wanted to press his cold beer down there against his semi. The serious-faced Portuguese man melted back into the cluster of his teammates, suppressing the longings for physical satisfaction, and reminding himself of the big games ahead - he needed to hold it in and control himself, and definitely stop noting how cute little Alvaraz was, for fuck's sake! Phil Foden had only a little more difficulty in getting away from the bar than his Papi; he was surrounded by insistence that he have One More Drink, and that he should Not Be A Boring Twat. However, he couldn't stop looking at his wrist-watch, and he smiled away each rebuke from the other lads, and got away from the increasingly drunk throng of City players. Phil himself had limited his drinks, wanting to be sober enough to appreciate what awaited him upstairs; the twin joys at the end of his appendectomy recovery period, coming off the bench to participate in tonight's European win, and physical reunion with the man who had remained a tower of support in his life as he rehabilitated. The experience of the surgery and recovery had somehow sharpened and clarified Philip's feelings for his manager: seeing grave-faced Guardiola arrive at the hospital with gifts, and seeing him attend needlessly to the concerns of his family as he was moved home... If the young Englishman had ever doubted that the Man City daddy truly loved him, then he felt a fool for it, and he couldn't wait to give up his body once more to the sexy older man who was waiting for him in his suite. Chill rain and wind had killed the pleasure of the balcony, and the bar interior was all the more crowded, the air rich with beer and testosterone; Foden had to pull and squeeze through the bodies of his teammates and support staff, almost crashing straight into Ruben Dias, until he was out in the air-conditioned cool of a stairwell, climbing two flights in an eager hurry. He caught sight of himself in a mirror on the fourth-floor balcony, and realised how irrepressible the smile of pleasure was on his lean face, which made him laugh self-consciously. He paused needlessly at this mirror to fiddle with the short cut of his dark hair and the fit of his thin sweatshirt and slack chinos, wondering how Pep could single him out when the City squad was rich with well-built masculine attractions. Foden dismissed these insecurities and delays and hurried down the corridor, checking for the room number inked cautiously on the inside of his wrist so that he couldn't forget it. At the door to Papi's suite, he was forced to wait and knock two more times, fostering more nervousness that Guardiola might actually be too tired, or now too busy and disrupted - but he thought about the intensity on the older man's face before as they passed on the smoking balcony, and he knew that nothing could get in the way of this rendezvous. He was just about to knock a forth time when the locks clicked and the door opened fractionally inwards, then a little more, and he was summoned in by the joyful smile framed by salt-and-pepper beard. His coach was a luxurious sight, silky dressing gown falling open away from the rug of his chest hair, and a rich perfumed smell of his shower pouring through the door - and Phil dipped rapidly in through the doorway to meet him, almost shaking with anticipation. Below, in the sweaty crowd of the bar, John Stones couldn't help himself: at every opportunity, he brushed himself against the man nearest him, and sniggered under his breath, enjoying himself all the more when his neighbour turned slightly and shot him impotent warning glares, even as his lilting smile betrayed his enjoyment. At the slightest opportunity, big John would rub the front of his tight slim-fit jeans against the hip or prominent backside of the shorter older defender, or reach down and rub his hand lightly against the rise of those strong glutes, or against the bulging front of the sweatpants; it was easy enough for the lanky 28-year-old to be tactile with his fellow Yorkshireman, since everybody around them would fully accept it as part of their ongoing bromance and brash laddish banter. `Look,' hissed Kyle Walker, leaning in close to them, `you know I need to behave myself after what went on in that bar, okay?' Even as he muttered out this ultimatum, the thickset Sheffield bloke looked excited and bright-eyed, and Stones could only apologise with a dopey hangdog expression and a panto gesture of holding up his big innocent hands and acting like he'd done nothing to touch the other bloke, just been jostled against him by the shifting crowd of City players that still occupied the rain-lashed first-floor bar area. `Sorry bro,' John slurred, already quite drunk. `Just watch it,' Kyle scolded him quietly. `You worried someone will get jealous?' he giggled. `Fucking leave it, and let me get us another beer.' `Someone might get jealous of you getting touched by me, old man, hehe.' `Fuck off...' `Ancient Kyle,' he joked, pushing it, `getting handsy with sexy-boy Jonny Stones, yeah...' `Who the hell has ever called you Jonny, you big prick?' `Cougar, they'll call you, old man...' `Gobshite.' `Here, do you need a hand getting to the bar, oldie...' He leaned in, sniggering drunkenly, and hugged the 5ft11 brute side-on, towering over him at 6ft2, and almost planting a kiss on the side of his face in front of everyone, but stopping himself just in time. `Why are you being so grumpy, mate? What's got your knickers in a twist, chief?' Walker bristled against him and made a huffy noise before insisting `Nothing!' and then shooting him a sharp thoughtful look. `What?' John demanded, leaning against him and blinking slowly. Kyle's face, briefly grumpy and annoyed, shifted to a smirk, and John felt one of his wandering hands reach down and cup his own backside in the same suggestive way he'd kept doing to Kyle. `What do you say we skip that last beer?' the muscular right-back murmured at him, and John grinned eagerly back, the same thought having flashed back and forth over his beery brain for an hour now - he nodded instantly and downed the last of his German lager in one go, dancing awkwardly on the spot and then exaggerating a yawn. `See you upstairs in ten?' he asked with what he thought might pass as a winsome grin, making little gun gestures with both forefingers and lunging clumsily away from his boyfriend. He laughed to see Kyle cringe and roll his eyes at him, and backed away, bumping into two or three other men as he did - he was too drunk to be remotely discreet in his hurried exit from the bar, already thinking about the prospect of Walker's big strong prick. No sooner was Phil over the threshold to Pep's room than the Spanish lothario was slamming the door shut behind him over one shoulder, sealing them in safe discretion, and stooping to kiss his boy fully on the lips. As Phil's keen hands slid onto his hairy chest, he wrapped arms about him and held him close, conquering his mouth with his tongue and forgetting to breathe for several ecstatic moments. Once he had collected himself a little from this initial passion, he could step away, chuckling, and guide Phil properly into the room. `I have been waiting for that,' he said simply, licking his lips, and taking one of Foden's hands in his. Guardiola's cock swung and tickled against the fabric of his robe as he crossed the room, as plump and semi as it had been through his long shower, still towelling his tall slim body in the bathroom when he missed Foden's first knock at the door. Now he was snatching his whiskey drink from the sideboard and giving the younger man a quizzical look. `Do you want anything to drink?' he asked, surprised at himself that he hadn't already given this some thought and mixed a gin-and-tonic for the Stockport beauty. Phil seemed to give this a moment's thought, trailing after him with wide eyes and that same eager smile that he'd worn on the pitch, delighted to be back in action - but then, the innocent smile turning into more of a smirk: `No, no - you just sit back and enjoy that, and I'll enjoy you.' As naturally dominant as he always was, Pep liked the forwardness and control of his protegee saying this - and the definite pleasure that it promised him. He only smiled in agreement, and sought out the slightly grand armchair in the windows of the suit, sitting himself down imperiously with the drink in one hand and the robe parting gently from his chest and thighs as he did. Here, he could sit and relax - much-needed relaxation, after the mental exhaustion of bringing the team into this second-leg fixture knowing that nothing was to be taken for granted - whilst Phil stood coyly in front of him, stroking the front of his beige pants, and then slowly peeling away the black sweatshirt and the garish t-shirt below, pale lean muscles exposed and free, and the fresh scar of his surgery showing down low in his six-pack... a visual reminder to Guardiola that he must go gently tonight, and be particularly careful with his beautiful youth. His beautiful youth who was shirtless on his knees and grinning wickedly at him, angel to demon, rubbing his hairy thighs and parting the robe further until he had to pause and let Pep himself reach down and untie the waist-cord... revealing the heat of his crotch, the fat swollen meat that lounged from then nest of his silver-flecked pubes. Slowly, so beautifully slowly, Phil went down and opened his mouth, and as he licked the hardening shaft, Pep could only shudder and moan, and then knock back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp before tossing the cut-glass tumbler aside and shatter against a wall; his hands gripped tightly at the arms of the chair and his knuckles whitened, Phil's mouth closing about the head of his big powerful prick. The rain was still a gentle patter, but one member of the lingering City celebrations had slipped outside with his vodka-soda anyway, and leant into the damp railings to stare over Munich as he drank it. He turned his back on the city and, instead, stared back through the steamy wet windows at the blurred silhouettes of the other men indoors, unsure why he was out here in the chill wind rather than loading up another bevvy at the bar - if this was a real piss-up with his old Leeds pals, he thought, he'd be the drunkest there, and the life and soul of the party. But here at City... It was hardly any secret that Kalvin Phillips' big move to the elite club was not quite following the script, and he had seen masses of media speculation on his future already - there were bullshit rumours circulating that he might be headed straight back to Elland Road with his tail between his legs, and what he hated more than the emptiness of these stories was the fact that it would actually be his dream solution. It was so embarrassing, but all the stocky midfield player wanted was to undo this season and get back to his buddies in Leeds - that club had raised and made him, and he'd been a fool to ditch it for the baby-blue of Manchester fucking City. Apart from anything else, Kalvin thought tonight, soused with vodka, he would like to undo some of the nastiness that City life had opened him up to. Drunk and hypocritical, Phillips chose to entirely overlook the fact that his first kinky experiment had come as a Leeds player in Croydon, noshed off in that shut-down strip club by that impish Welsh bastard; instead, the mixed-race Yorkshireman chose to blame it on his charismatic buddy Jack Grealish, thinking bitterly of what had gone on in Doha, with he and Jack sharing Daniel James' body and almost breaking their hotel bed as they took it in turns to push their cocks between his pillowy cheeks. Fucking hell. Looking into the warmth and brightness of the bar, he focused on the fuzzy silhouette of Grealish himself, holding court with several others on the other side of the glass; Kalvin pictured himself lying in their last England hotel room together in Italy, exhausted and regretful, having put his dick inside Phil Foden, a lad he had to make eye contact with daily ever since - jesus christ, that was much worse than having dabbled with Dan James, who he might only bump into once in a blue moon according to the machinations of the football league. It was different having dicked a teammate, especially having shared him too with Jack, who was so effortlessly cool about this sexual adventure...! Kalvin was much more troubled by his bi-curious dabbling, and it was helping to push him back to Leeds, which he was choosing to see as a world of wholesome masculinity and heteronormative stability. He thought of solid straitlaced teammates like Paddy Bamford and Jack Harrison and how this sort of shit would never go on there, for sure! Still watching Jack through the window, Kal considered an exit and crashing in his bed upstairs, maybe being long-asleep before that Brummie lothario crawled back into their room and got any funny ideas - he'd offered Phillips a blowjob the night before, when they'd just checked in here, and been entirely unconvincing when he'd laughed it off afterwards, creeping the 27-year-old Leeds stud out, and making him wonder what was what. Ugh. Worse than that - he'd been bantering a bit with Bernardo Silva in the locker-rooms after tonight's win, and tried to wind up the slight Portuguese star by shaking and grabbing him during their team photo. Several incarnations of the big group pose had made it onto social media, but Kalvin had quickly noticed that one of them, shared by he couldn't remember who, had caught the moment where he leaned in and grasped the 28-year-old by the crotch through his shorts! Jesus, he'd been hyper and tipsy, what a twat - and now that picture was out there, ready for him to get landed with all sorts of shitty banter from his Leeds mates. Ugh. Full of sexual anxiety, the 27-year-old man stood at the window, gently showered with refreshing drops of rain, and considered the scene indoors; he was definitely not in the mood to sink any more drinks with frisky Jack, and risk his close interest. He thought back to their room at the England camp, and his short-lived exit to sulk in the cafe - how he'd returned to the suite and thrown his body into the fray, making use of Maddison's mouth and Foden's arse-hole, and... and lay there, sweating and dazed, then glanced in the wrong direction and caught sight of the most shocking thing: Jack Grealish on his back, pummelled down by the tall muscular physique of West Ham's Declan Rice. For some reason, that more than anything had freaked him out, and brought on this latest phase of frigid caution: just as he'd thought he understood the dynamic of their antics, he'd seen his dirty buddy taking it up the arse like a real bender, and felt more confused than ever. Now Foden was pinned beneath the taller body of his manager, but trapped in the happiest of positions: lying on his back on the soft bedding, fed his master's cock from above, with Guardiola in 69, returning the favour with such lavish attention. Squashed beneath the hairy heat of the older man, Phil felt lost in a cloud of his scent and a satisfying closeness that he'd thought about often in the weeks of recovery - his lust for his Papi so much hotter and stronger than it had been in a while, he could shyly admit to himself. He felt awful that his attention had been so consumed by Jack for such a long period, but then his bond to this great man had always been there, tugging him along as he sulked and pouted around Grealish's free spirit. But there was no point dwelling on the recent past, not with a mouth full of Pep's enormous cock, drooling about it and pushing up and down with his head to suck it deeply, as he had for a good twenty minutes crouched between Papi's open legs at the armchair. He strained to take as much of the length as he could into his mouth and throat, and he stroked his hands against lean furry thighs... whilst he his own cock twitched and trembled at the slow rolling sensation of lips and the clipped tickle of beard hair as it met his balls, his inner thighs, his trimmed pubes. The 22-year-old could have remained like this all night, caught in the mutual pleasure of their secret love, utterly submitted to this man - but he knew what was coming, because soon Guardiola was not attending to his cock, but inching forward a little on his knees and his elbows, his cock repositioning and becoming harder for Foden to suck... just slapping against his cheeks and chin and trailing saliva and pre-cum onto his upper chest. Phil felt his legs clutched and parted and the mouth that had pleasured his long heavy cock was moving about to kiss and snuffle at his balls then his gooch, then further... until he was being pulled into position for a good rimming, that long muscular tongue going between his smooth cheeks and tasting his hole. Mouth free of cock, Phil whined with pleasure and eagerness, and then twisted so that he could kiss and lick at Pep's shaft some more, responding to the parting of his cheeks and the tickling rub of his tight hole, last fucked on England tour by several sexy men - Jack, Declan, Kalvin - who just could not live up to the simmering presence of his 30-year senior here. Pep's fingers tapped and rubbed at his ring, rubbing spit into his hole and opening him up, and then licking him out again, making him growl and gasp, driving him as wild as it had the first time his Papi tied him to the headboard and introduced him to the taboo sensation down below - making him crave the full treatment that would be coming his way. About four rooms away, another hunky man had his tongue between the cheeks of a similarly delighted bloke: spreadeagled on his front on the bed, Stonesy couldn't stop giggling and whooping with pleasure, and Walker landed a few dominant spanks against one of his perfectly globed arse cheeks, before digging in and tonguing his delicious hole a bit more instead, getting him ready for a solid muscular fucking that his cheeky behaviour was crying out for. Kyle hadn't liked the `old man' jokes much from his beloved John, after the awkward meetings he'd had with some of the club management lately - nothing from Pep Guardiola himself, he noted, and he wondered if the gaffer was too cowardly to address it head-on, or if the directives were actually coming from above. Old Pep had been pretty good to him in recent years, after their earlier tension and the time that Kyle went down on the Spaniard in his office; he suspected that the negative murmurs were beyond the boss's influence, and right from the top of the Man City hierarchy. `Ageing' had been one of the clumsy words raised to him, and he knew that his days in this high-performing squad were numbered - this needn't be his last season, but the writing was on the wall. He was passing out of his prime, and his usefulness to the City agenda might reach its expiration. Fuck. He sure hadn't raised any of this to Stonesy, the awkward questions and speculation at the club and by his own agent, echoed by vague reports in the media - his own reckless behaviour in a Manchester bar last month had hardly helped matters. After several seasons feeling utterly integral to this squad, Walker was facing the ridiculous fate of the early-30s footballer - retirement is already on your horizon. As Kyle got up on his thick knees and positioned his throbbing erection behind John's perfect arse, there was a touch of resentment to his brutish strength - he was grudge-fucking as he buried his cock to the hilt in John's muscular bottom. Not a grudge against John himself for his daft drunken banter, but a grudge against the harsh realities of their sport - he wanted to spent the rest of his 30s here at Man City with his man, playing side-by-side and fucking wildly like this in hotels across the UK and Europe. He didn't want to be shipped off to some minor club, or to the winners of some nothing farmer league on the continent like the Bundesliga; or to already put to pasture back at his former home Sheffield United, as one tabloid was claiming, thinking ahead to City's clash with them this weekend, a presumed walkover into the FA Cup final. Moody and unsatisfied, the 5ft10 stud ploughed into his John, wishing that he could fuck him like this forever, but already knowing that he might soon have to leave the younger hunk behind, and move on to the last chapter of his defensive career. Just as Guardiola was turning over onto his knees and dragging Phil's strong slender physique into position, he caught sight again of the fresh red line of the scar, reminding him that he had to go carefully - it was a thought that slowed him down and made him stoop to kiss and hold the football stud for a few minutes, hesitating in the process of yanking up his satisfyingly meaty legs, forcing himself to approach only slowly and to slide the tip of his cock in against the rimmed-wet eagerness of the lad's hole. He held them like that in missionary, halting his horny progress, and enjoying Filipe's mouth in long slow kisses that seemed to surprise and almost confuse his midfielder. Pep's hands slotted in behind his back muscles to hold him secure, pressing gently down against him, pausing to let their breath mingle and staring into his sharp eyes, then kissing him a bit more fiercely, and then planting kisses on his cheeks, his neck, scratchy and loving. All the while, as he did this, rolling his hips and pushing his cock gently at its target, teasing him without really meaning to, making him shaky and desperate before eventually starting to press the wet tip in against Foden's entrance. `I will be gentle,' he promised in a deep purr. `You don't need to be,' Phil claimed in a wobbly voice, but Pep would ignore this - he had watched with great anxiety as his recovered player took to the pitch here tonight, and gritted his teeth at any body contact that came close to the plucky midfielder. He wanted to make sure that Phil continued to recover and reach peak fitness, and so he held him very tightly and securely as he eased himself in, gasping out loudly at the tight hold of that English ass on his meaty Spanish cock. He swore in his own language and thanked god for putting this beautiful boy in his path, so hot and willing, years after he'd been betrayed by his last Golden Boy and that scoundrel Ronaldo. His knees throbbed against the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, a sensation that dulled against the fullness of his mouth, the sour manly taste, and the taboo thrill of doing this again for the first time in many years - almost the first time since he had moved to the UK, joining Manchester City and becoming part of Guardiola's squad. He'd never thought to be in this position again, in all honesty, though the thoughts had come and gone since last summer, since that celebration party on the roof terrace - Bernardo had been surprised to find such kinky and open-minded attitudes among his teammates, especially the Brits, and he'd been greatly amused by the sordid action on that Manchester rooftop under the sunset. Had it been important for him in signing his new contract and staying put...? No, not really. But... it might have helped. Silva, 28 and ambitious, had wondered if his spell at this Premiership club was at an end, out of steam, challenges completed... but something this summer had left him curious about taking it further, and seeing what else lay ahead in his sky-blue shirt, playing under Guardiola. And if part of that curious something had been the cheeky insights of their summer party after the open-bus tour, then... So be it. The dark swarthy Lisbon man opened his mouth as wide as he could to take in the thick veiny prick and he steadied himself against the tree-trunk legs of the 6ft1 beast, his roommate and now, in this intimate moment, his secret lover - a moment that perhaps neither Portuguese man would ever refer to again, not tonight or in how many seasons more they played together - perhaps not even if they reconvened on their national side, where it was almost common knowledge that half the players had fellated Cristiano Ronaldo at one point or another. Mouth full of cock, Bernardo Silva rolled his deep brown eyes up, taking in the momentous musculature of the bigger man's torso, and staring up to his brutish frowning face, the only man in history to ever look so angry about getting a blowie - and 25-year-old Ruben Dias glared fiercely back at him, as aggressive and unpredictable as he'd seemed all night, and now feeding his mighty erection into Silva's unpractised lips, giving no real sign that he was even enjoying the oral attention. Bernardo found he didn't care - his countryman was a big sexy beast, and it had been ages since he tired this, and he was pretty determined he was going to get a naughty mouthful, consequences be damned! Phil groaned and groaned, held entirely by his manager's strength, feeling the cock slide in and out of him, opening his arse up, reaching deep into him, then pulling away, then back again; a slow rhythm, almost frustratingly so, and yet such deep satisfying pleasure that his cock felt like it might blow cum against Pep's furry tummy at any moment. He held on to the tanned brown body of the middle-aged stud, reaching for kisses with his mouth and glad when this was repeatedly reciprocated; his fingers scratched at Guardiola's bag with such ferocity, and he fantasised leaving claw marks there that could be found by his jealous wife, really marking his territory and claiming this gorgeous 52-year-old Spaniard as his! But then his Papi began to pick up rhythm and rock him a little more firmly into the bed, and Phil just cried out `Yes, yes Papi' and `Harder!', until he was silenced by more kissing, and Guardiola really began to work his body - still in this missionary possession, with Phil's legs jutting up into the air and his entire being rocked by each juddering thrust of the 5ft11 football manager. His cock and balls ached with the frozen closeness of his orgasm, feeling that Pep too was heading for such a climax - he could tell from the heavy breathing and the intensity of the hold, the increasing force with which that big cock entered him, deeper and deeper! `Yes,' he could only whimper, and Pep growled into his ear, `Filipe, my boy...!' Riyad Mahrez left the bar with few players left standing, and the 32-year-old could barely walk in a straight line as he searched the hotel for his room. Through the doors he passed, the French Algerian heard snatches of music or TV, or the occasional raised voice of a teammate, usually able to place and identify them because he knew all squad members so well - he stopped to laugh at the door of what must be Walker and Stones' suite, hearing one of those Yorkshire buggers mouthing off loudly at the other with a string of expletives. If the two weren't such massive shithouses, Mahrez might assume there was a big argument going on, so loud and raised were the voices, but he knew it would just be some ongoing joke between the two burly defenders. On he went, passing more ambiguous noises and heading for his own suite, where he knew boring Kevin de Bruyne, Mr Two-Beers himself, was likely to be fast asleep. Riyad paused when the next door burst open and an occupant of the room came puffing out into the corridor, faffing with the waist of his pants and shoving/tucking the tails of his thin short-sleeve shirt inside. The 5ft10 winger paused, eyebrows raised, and came face to face with the tall moody presence of Ruben Dias, who gave him a silent stare and then fiddled with the disturbed collar of his silky shirt, tanned face tinged with red. `What's up?' Mahrez demanded in his silky French accent, holding out both arms and greeting the big centre-back warmly. `Is there a problem with your room, buddy?' `What?' grunted the Portuguese player dismissively. `Your room,' the Algeria player repeated more slowly, staring critically at him, then nodding at the slammed door next to him. `What's got you storming out and about? Where's Bernie?' He stared curiously at the hotel room door and in front of him Dias just grunted; the bigger man was then pushing moodily past him, seeming to mutter in his own language. Mahrez paused and looked over one shoulder before dismissing this as just more drunken behaviour like the fuss downstairs - the little almost-fight that had seemed to break out between Grealish and Phillips before one of them stormed off to his room, and the other started ordering even heavier drinks at the bar. There was something very odd in the air tonight, Riyad thought, and it was more than just the relief that they were progressing through to the Semis of the UEFA Champions League. Guardiola came inside him and held him tightly beneath his hairy front, balls-deep inside the perfect pert arse, pumping his cum inside his Golden Boy, utterly breathless and ecstatic; his arms wrapped about the sweat-sticky skin and his mouth tickling kisses against the side of his neck, listening to each reedy gasp from the scally lad's mouth for moments that felt like a perfect eternity. And then he withdrew. He did so carefully, even though his resolution to go gently with his lover had been somewhat forgotten in the powerful thrusts of his climax. Pulling his cock slowly out from the release of those tight young muscles, and kissing Phil on the mouth again whilst murmuring soothing words to him in simple Spanish that he should understand. He reached down to grip and pull on Foden's cock as he lay over him, nuzzling their faces together and letting his own hairy features scratch and tickle across the smoothness of the 22-year-old's face. `You felt amazing,' he hissed earnestly. His Filipe just nodded in a shaky way. `It did,' he agreed almost limply, his face shiny with fresh sweat, a dazed look about him. He moaned as Guardiola played with his prick, rubbing the sensitive tip with his thumb and pulling the foreskin further back. `Oh god,' the footballer purred for him, eyes rolling, `ohhhh yes, Papi...' Down he went, kissing over the firmness of Phil's chest, then a daring zigzag of pecks over his abdomen until he was taking that fat erection on his tongue and sucking him again, hunched over to do it, his firm warm hands still pinning the youngster's hard body to the bed, not wanting him to move a muscle - just to let Papi do the work and finish him, lips pulling up and down his shaft and tongue swirling about the head. He stopped with his face over it, tongue extended to lick the tip, and he stared with fierce intensity up the boy's pale body, looking at his wondering and joyous face - every time was like the first time for Foden, he thought, and that in turn made him feel young and exploratory, even at 52. He smiled assertively at his Golden Boy and went back to work. In the darkness of the hotel room directly above them, a simple rectangle of light glowed in the dark, and the suite's solitary occupant was taking full advantage of an empty second bed - he wasn't sure where his roommate, Philip Foden, had gotten to, but he wasn't going to worry about it, when it meant he could attend to his erection, jerking off frantically under the covers and letting the sensitive tip of his slender prick rub repeatedly against the duvet until he was incredibly close to shooting. With nervous eyes, the 23-year-old Argentine kept glancing sharply in the direction of the empty bed, and then at the door, unsure if Foden was drunk asleep somewhere else, or due back in their shared room at any minute - Alvarez was no risk taker, and yet the uncertainty added an extra frisson to his midnight wank, ready to empty loaded balls and make a mess of his thighs. On the glowing phone screen was a cropped image of another lad's big weapon, gripped tightly and tip glistening with pre-cum. It was one of several of the dirty pics he'd been sent by his boyfriend, as Enzo Fernandez did quite regularly - it was exciting that the international teammates were both based in England at last, as planned, but the schedules of their different major clubs meant that the young pair had barely seen each other since Enzo's debut at Chelsea. And thus... the discreetly shared intimate pictures between them, all Fernandez's idea and something Alvarez was much more nervous to try. But tonight, panting to himself, the 5ft7 forward creamed against the cotton of his bedcovers, staring lustily at the naked selfies he'd been sent by Enzo, and wishing he had his beautiful Argentine boyfriend here with him in bed, as together as they'd been in Qatar on their journey to World Cup success - a togetherness which had only been heightened by the drama of judgmental Sergio Aguero! Neither Julian nor Enzo knew what their great hero, Lionel Messi, had done to shut Aguero up and make that danger go away, but they were both deeply grateful to Leo regardless. Their young love had begun several years ago now, but sharing the World Cup together had really allowed them to step up from curious playmates to an intensely devoted couple. Glad of his roommate's mystery absence, Julian groaned and yanked on his messy wet cock, spurting more of his juices under the covers, and staring hungrily at the big hefty cock of his absent partner, wondering for how much longer he could wait - if it remained quite so difficult to rendezvous with his Fernandez, would he be able to remain so fiercely loyal and faithful to the other Argentinian...? Phil unloaded a week's build-up of cum, spunking into the grateful mouth of Pep Guardiola, and trembling between the bedding and the strong hands on his hips. He cried out loudly, perhaps too loudly, until Pep was kissing back up his body and then snogging him again, wrapping arms about him, holding him tight - the young player grappled back, wanting to touch every inch of the warm body, wanting to just wrap entirely against him and interlock with this magnificent man. He was still trembling, not just with pleasure but with a sort of nervous tension of anticipation - he had been building up to the physicality of this reunion between them for so long, after all. But in Pep's embrace, he calmed and stilled, almost laughing at his own nervous disposition in the throes of passion and in the afterglow of completion, his hole throbbing and his cock sensitive, balls emptied and muscles stiffening. More kisses came rushing to his mouth and he twisted and angled his body to receive them, grinding against Pep's hairy strength even as both men were spent and emptied, as if he was already craving a round 2 that neither of them really had the energy for. As Guardiola finally let go of him, Foden was left straining into the air for a last kiss, feeling abandoned and cool as the other man's body left his - but the 52-year-old, stark naked and dick swinging, was leaping from the bed simply to get their drinks, humming to himself in a way that was jovial and relaxed, and made Phil smile deeply. Nudity and big swinging cock aside, he wished the world could see this side of his Papi, so playful and relaxed, away from the moody intensity that his job often required. He thought about how many of his City teammates perhaps felt cowed and awkward around their tactician leader, and his smile deepened: no, he didn't need anyone else to see this more relaxed side of Pep, because it was all his, this whistling and cheery figure, more soft and human, and his eyes followed him across the room. The robe was back on already, and he wondered if Pep was in some way insecure about his slender ageing physique, when it was still so firm and hot, a mature Adonis in the scally lad's eyes. Phil pawed at his own body and rolled into a more comfortable position on the bed, catching the towel that he was tossed; he rubbed its soft embrace over his sweaty face and chest, and then across his slick crotch to wipe away what was left of his messy load and Pep's drool. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his ice-heavy G&T, and wondering if there was some lie that he could use to avoid returning to his roommate and just staying overnight under these sheets with Papi instead. Guardiola stood over him, smiling silently and taking a drink. Foden grinned back at him, sheepish and satisfied, and tasted his own, starting a little at how strong the older man had made it, but just nodding his grateful approval. It was a perfect moment, safe and happy in this secret bubble with the head coach, and so he wasn't sure how he went and spoiled it, but he did - pulled back and cuddled as Pep rejoined him on the bed, pressing their backs and shoulders into a mound of ornate cushions, arm about his neck, icy glasses clinking between their hands: `I can't believe you don't ever look at any other players on the squad instead of me,' he thought aloud in an absent murmur, still pinching themself at his perfect affair with this man, singled out among all the studs of the City squad! It wasn't much of a pause, but it was there - just a second or two too long, the slightly wary look on Pep's lined face, the two of them staring closely at each other and Phil's bright smile freezing awkwardly on his sharp features. And Pep laughing then, awkwardly, and clearing his throat - `What makes you say that?' he demanded, a guilty edge to his voice and his averted eyes, and Phil felt a little lurch of horror at his own clumsy comment and the ominous truth it might have revealed. Even as he sternly told himself not to overreact and spoil things, he felt his hand reach over and grip a bit more firmly at the warm hairy muscle of one thigh, holding onto Guardiola as if he was about to lose his club daddy; who else did the iconic football manager have his eye on? `Silly boy,' Pep was chuckling, but too late - fractionally too late, but enough to make Phil worry, and sink away from the satisfied euphoria of their quick urgent fucking - he was the gaffer's special Golden Boy, but... for how much longer? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2023 18:03:31 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 359 Part 359: Champions League Dreams It was a good job that an elusive smile and a quietly enjoyed cigar were trademark features of a celebrating Pep Guardiola - they were currently a mask that allowed the Manchester City manage to dwell on the terrace of the hotel bar surrounded by his colleagues and cronies, paying limited attention to them, and to stare admiringly across the the long sheltered balcony at his precious Golden Boy, and to will away the minutes until he could reasonably excuse himself. Around him, the staff and players were electric with the outcome of their second-leg match against their German hosts, toasting to UCL progress for the club, and anticipating an FA Cup weekend - many would mistake the 52-year-old Spaniard's quiet and ambiguity as the same playful reserve that he faced the sporting media, unwilling to make ambitious claims or predictions about a possible treble, superstition or (less likely) humility keeping his lips sealed as the Premier League giants returned to prior recent dominance. But nope: Pep had spent enough of this Munich trip with his mind laser-focused on football and success, as obsessive and methodical as always. Now, puffing on his cigar and sipping from the measure of whiskey, the City boss was letting his thoughts move elsewhere, and he stared across the terrace with a smoky intensity in his dark eyes. There he was, grinning excitedly in the midst of his teammates, quiet too in his own way; Foden's sharp cheeks were rosy and his small eyes sparkled with pleasure, but he didn't seem to get much chance to speak in the loud rough banter of the taller men that surrounded him, apparently content to just laugh heartily along and encourage the other burly football players in their analysis of Bayern Munchen's every failing. He looked particularly hot tonight, Pep thought, but then it was just so brilliant to have him back. The football coach had been distraught when the news came in that his prized midfielder and secret lover had been rushed away from the spring England camp with appendicitis, and then urgently operated on; as a Premiership gaffer, he was solidly delighted with the squad depth and energy of young Filipe returning to the City ranks and preparing for this Champions League outing and the domestic cup weekend ahead... but as a red-blooded Latin lover, there was a different excitement. Tender respectful visits to Phil's hospital suite and family home had been necessary and important as both manager and papi, but their every meeting during the boy's recovery had been charged with lust and urgency, and now... finally, Phil Foden was fit for more than just football. John Stones had just told an apparently hilarious joke and brash laddish laughter rippled through the cluster of players at the far end of the balcony, with Foden buckling almost sycophantically with enjoyment of the tall England player's presumably crude humour; Pep couldn't help but stare for a moment at his celebrated centre-back with a kind of vindictive jealousy, thinking of how he'd once allowed Stones to fuck his Golden Boy - but how stupid and petty, when that had been his own arrangement, his own use of his loyal Filipe, and his own dirty pleasure by proxy. Pep felt such daft and hypocritical carnal desires rip through his still body, swaddled beneath a turtleneck jumper against the cool German night; he was watching the slim petite midfielder laugh and jostle with the gaggle of City signings, and he wanted to march across the terrace and grasp possessively for him to carry away to his own luxury hotel room. These thoughts, churlish and ridiculous as they were, soared as another of the casually dressed winners draped a complacent arm about Phil's shoulders, and Guardiola fixed a conflicted glare on the silhouette of Jack Grealish - conflicted because the expensive Villa purchase was finally vindicating the investment and becoming a real weapon for Guardiola, but because he knew full well how this brash English lad had entranced and preoccupied his Filipe in those two seasons of camaraderie... again, something that Pep could blame on nobody but himself. He should have known how risky it was to encourage further closeness between Foden and the charismatic winger... but newcomer Grealish had been so volatile and precarious at first, and he knew that the bromance there had helped to settle and secure the expensive talent. He just hadn't anticipated the doting look on Phil's face as he followed Jack around like a puppy. To some extent, young Phil had admitted it all to him in snatches - but Guardiola was very intuitive and aware, and he'd seen the crush building and burning bright, just as he now knew that it had largely fizzled out, and he'd `won' an unconscious battle to keep his boy. But the way Grealish draped an arm about the 5ft7 Stockport youth and pulled him in as he swigged on his bottle of beer...! Pep could march across there and toss Jack off the balcony, his passion and need were so intense tonight! His grizzled face must have revealed the shift in mood, because one of his longest-serving assistants reached across to pat his arm and ask what was wrong - Guardiola could only dismiss the interest and throw back the remains of his drink in one throat-burning move, then take a long puff of the thick Cuban. He made his excuses, smiling and apologising to the other men, and encouraging them to stay up late and drink, regardless of the early flight back to Manchester Airport - after all, it would be helpful to keep the hotel bar busy with City men, and the floors of their accommodation a little quieter, so that Foden could find his way into his arms without any difficulty. Pep made his way through the busy terrace and slowed on his way to the open doors, staring so intensely across at Filipe that the 22-year-old must have felt the heat burn into the side of his long slender neck; drawn magnetically to his heat, the young star turned to glance this way, and their eyes met. Pep paused for only the slightest of moments, eyeing up the beautiful young man, and nodding his head ever-so-gently. It was not an immediate demand, as much as his loins burned with it, but a nod to the time - he certainly couldn't have his Golden Boy exit immediately to follow him out, not without raising too many questions in the wrong quarters. He couldn't, as he deeply wished, just grab him in both arms and yank him away from that lingering Grealish hug or the latest burst of banter courtesy of Stones or Walker or Mahrez. Instead, he had to walk coolly away, deliberately casual to avoid attention or protest at his exit, and stroll through the glossy bar interior to pull aside the manager and slip him the appropriate roll of Euros that would extend opening hours just a little and make sure the Munich win was fairly enjoyed. But there was one last thing that caught Guardiola's eye and slowed his exit from the room, ready to go upstairs and shower in anticipation of his bedroom visitor; he was pausing momentarily at the bar after slipping the bribe, accepting a final strong drink which he would carry up to his room, when his eyes slipped to the lift and he caught sight of the fresh-faced Argentine youngster awaiting service. For just one dangerous moment, Pep's eyes lingered over the perfect curves and proportions of a lithe young body on the World Cup winning 23-year-old... and then were wrenched away, refusing to travel down memory lane to the last diminutive Argentinian who had captured his heart. Stay in the present, he told himself, and appreciate what you have - what you've been burning for all night! The Catalonian ex-defender moved away from the bar, distracted briefly by a keen smile from young Julian Alvarez, but just patting the developing midfielder on the shoulder of his skintight t-shirt and slipping away from him without conversation, single-minded in his plans for the rest of tonight. A short distance down the bar from the vague smile of the young Argentine and the departing manager, another member of the squad was eyeing up the barmaid and gently adjusting the weight in the front of his black trousers, wondering what time her shift ended and if she stayed at the hotel overnight - she looked a pretty young thing who might quite happily ride an international football star into the early hours, and the merest sniff of such action had the large Portuguese man stiffening in the Nike-branded underwear that he had recently been modelling. Ruben dos Santos Gato Alves Dias looked with quiet lust at the young German girl until she was whisked away him by the busy activity of the hotel bar, summoned down to the other end to serve his teammate - with abstract jealousy, the 6ft1 centre-back leaned his elbows against the counter and stared down the bar to watch her flirt with a slightly younger footballer, the squad's acne-spotted World Cup champ. For all his chat, Alvarez just seemed to be ordering a sparkling water, and Dias scoffed to himself, amused and charmed by the innocence of the South American just as much as their barmaid seemed to be. For a moment, the 25-year-old defender allowed himself to mull on this: was young Julian quite as cute as the blue-eyed blond who was busting out of her halterneck? Grabbing up his beer and moving away from the bar, the large muscular athlete scoffed at himself and shrugged away this stupid internal question - ridiculous comparison, with that hot pussy floating about behind the bar, and that goofy scamp teammate flashing his boyish smile everywhere and now unscrewing the lid of some overpriced h2O. These were the kind of stupid thoughts that came when you were sex-starved, he told himself, longing to return to his girlfriend in their Manchester penthouse, having forced himself to stay sexless in the run-up to this big game - and intending to do the same with their next few major fixtures, with the FA Cup Semi at the weekend and their title challenge fixture with Arsenal lying in the midweek ahead. `NO SEX' seemed to have lurked between the lines of one of Guardiola's many squad speeches this week, advising lots of rest to avoid the inevitable fatigue of their loaded schedule and quest for maximum silverware. With that in mind, Ruben turned his back on both the attractive bar-girl and the nearby grin of Julian - he shouldn't be looking at guys like that, even after what went on at the rooftop bar last summer. And mentioning that... He almost stumbled right into the diminutive figure of another teammate crossing the bar, Phil Foden, who he still couldn't quite look at without picturing his bare pale butt-cheeks exposed on that rooftop, offered up to the drunken consortium of hyped-up football studs. Ruben frowned ambiguously at the younger man and muscled past him, away from him and Alvarez and the bar, and heading towards the windows to check out the view of the city; anything to cool him and to exorcise the horny thoughts that trembled in the crotch of his black trousers, so that he wanted to press his cold beer down there against his semi. The serious-faced Portuguese man melted back into the cluster of his teammates, suppressing the longings for physical satisfaction, and reminding himself of the big games ahead - he needed to hold it in and control himself, and definitely stop noting how cute little Alvaraz was, for fuck's sake! Phil Foden had only a little more difficulty in getting away from the bar than his Papi; he was surrounded by insistence that he have One More Drink, and that he should Not Be A Boring Twat. However, he couldn't stop looking at his wrist-watch, and he smiled away each rebuke from the other lads, and got away from the increasingly drunk throng of City players. Phil himself had limited his drinks, wanting to be sober enough to appreciate what awaited him upstairs; the twin joys at the end of his appendectomy recovery period, coming off the bench to participate in tonight's European win, and physical reunion with the man who had remained a tower of support in his life as he rehabilitated. The experience of the surgery and recovery had somehow sharpened and clarified Philip's feelings for his manager: seeing grave-faced Guardiola arrive at the hospital with gifts, and seeing him attend needlessly to the concerns of his family as he was moved home... If the young Englishman had ever doubted that the Man City daddy truly loved him, then he felt a fool for it, and he couldn't wait to give up his body once more to the sexy older man who was waiting for him in his suite. Chill rain and wind had killed the pleasure of the balcony, and the bar interior was all the more crowded, the air rich with beer and testosterone; Foden had to pull and squeeze through the bodies of his teammates and support staff, almost crashing straight into Ruben Dias, until he was out in the air-conditioned cool of a stairwell, climbing two flights in an eager hurry. He caught sight of himself in a mirror on the fourth-floor balcony, and realised how irrepressible the smile of pleasure was on his lean face, which made him laugh self-consciously. He paused needlessly at this mirror to fiddle with the short cut of his dark hair and the fit of his thin sweatshirt and slack chinos, wondering how Pep could single him out when the City squad was rich with well-built masculine attractions. Foden dismissed these insecurities and delays and hurried down the corridor, checking for the room number inked cautiously on the inside of his wrist so that he couldn't forget it. At the door to Papi's suite, he was forced to wait and knock two more times, fostering more nervousness that Guardiola might actually be too tired, or now too busy and disrupted - but he thought about the intensity on the older man's face before as they passed on the smoking balcony, and he knew that nothing could get in the way of this rendezvous. He was just about to knock a forth time when the locks clicked and the door opened fractionally inwards, then a little more, and he was summoned in by the joyful smile framed by salt-and-pepper beard. His coach was a luxurious sight, silky dressing gown falling open away from the rug of his chest hair, and a rich perfumed smell of his shower pouring through the door - and Phil dipped rapidly in through the doorway to meet him, almost shaking with anticipation. Below, in the sweaty crowd of the bar, John Stones couldn't help himself: at every opportunity, he brushed himself against the man nearest him, and sniggered under his breath, enjoying himself all the more when his neighbour turned slightly and shot him impotent warning glares, even as his lilting smile betrayed his enjoyment. At the slightest opportunity, big John would rub the front of his tight slim-fit jeans against the hip or prominent backside of the shorter older defender, or reach down and rub his hand lightly against the rise of those strong glutes, or against the bulging front of the sweatpants; it was easy enough for the lanky 28-year-old to be tactile with his fellow Yorkshireman, since everybody around them would fully accept it as part of their ongoing bromance and brash laddish banter. `Look,' hissed Kyle Walker, leaning in close to them, `you know I need to behave myself after what went on in that bar, okay?' Even as he muttered out this ultimatum, the thickset Sheffield bloke looked excited and bright-eyed, and Stones could only apologise with a dopey hangdog expression and a panto gesture of holding up his big innocent hands and acting like he'd done nothing to touch the other bloke, just been jostled against him by the shifting crowd of City players that still occupied the rain-lashed first-floor bar area. `Sorry bro,' John slurred, already quite drunk. `Just watch it,' Kyle scolded him quietly. `You worried someone will get jealous?' he giggled. `Fucking leave it, and let me get us another beer.' `Someone might get jealous of you getting touched by me, old man, hehe.' `Fuck off...' `Ancient Kyle,' he joked, pushing it, `getting handsy with sexy-boy Jonny Stones, yeah...' `Who the hell has ever called you Jonny, you big prick?' `Cougar, they'll call you, old man...' `Gobshite.' `Here, do you need a hand getting to the bar, oldie...' He leaned in, sniggering drunkenly, and hugged the 5ft11 brute side-on, towering over him at 6ft2, and almost planting a kiss on the side of his face in front of everyone, but stopping himself just in time. `Why are you being so grumpy, mate? What's got your knickers in a twist, chief?' Walker bristled against him and made a huffy noise before insisting `Nothing!' and then shooting him a sharp thoughtful look. `What?' John demanded, leaning against him and blinking slowly. Kyle's face, briefly grumpy and annoyed, shifted to a smirk, and John felt one of his wandering hands reach down and cup his own backside in the same suggestive way he'd kept doing to Kyle. `What do you say we skip that last beer?' the muscular right-back murmured at him, and John grinned eagerly back, the same thought having flashed back and forth over his beery brain for an hour now - he nodded instantly and downed the last of his German lager in one go, dancing awkwardly on the spot and then exaggerating a yawn. `See you upstairs in ten?' he asked with what he thought might pass as a winsome grin, making little gun gestures with both forefingers and lunging clumsily away from his boyfriend. He laughed to see Kyle cringe and roll his eyes at him, and backed away, bumping into two or three other men as he did - he was too drunk to be remotely discreet in his hurried exit from the bar, already thinking about the prospect of Walker's big strong prick. No sooner was Phil over the threshold to Pep's room than the Spanish lothario was slamming the door shut behind him over one shoulder, sealing them in safe discretion, and stooping to kiss his boy fully on the lips. As Phil's keen hands slid onto his hairy chest, he wrapped arms about him and held him close, conquering his mouth with his tongue and forgetting to breathe for several ecstatic moments. Once he had collected himself a little from this initial passion, he could step away, chuckling, and guide Phil properly into the room. `I have been waiting for that,' he said simply, licking his lips, and taking one of Foden's hands in his. Guardiola's cock swung and tickled against the fabric of his robe as he crossed the room, as plump and semi as it had been through his long shower, still towelling his tall slim body in the bathroom when he missed Foden's first knock at the door. Now he was snatching his whiskey drink from the sideboard and giving the younger man a quizzical look. `Do you want anything to drink?' he asked, surprised at himself that he hadn't already given this some thought and mixed a gin-and-tonic for the Stockport beauty. Phil seemed to give this a moment's thought, trailing after him with wide eyes and that same eager smile that he'd worn on the pitch, delighted to be back in action - but then, the innocent smile turning into more of a smirk: `No, no - you just sit back and enjoy that, and I'll enjoy you.' As naturally dominant as he always was, Pep liked the forwardness and control of his protegee saying this - and the definite pleasure that it promised him. He only smiled in agreement, and sought out the slightly grand armchair in the windows of the suit, sitting himself down imperiously with the drink in one hand and the robe parting gently from his chest and thighs as he did. Here, he could sit and relax - much-needed relaxation, after the mental exhaustion of bringing the team into this second-leg fixture knowing that nothing was to be taken for granted - whilst Phil stood coyly in front of him, stroking the front of his beige pants, and then slowly peeling away the black sweatshirt and the garish t-shirt below, pale lean muscles exposed and free, and the fresh scar of his surgery showing down low in his six-pack... a visual reminder to Guardiola that he must go gently tonight, and be particularly careful with his beautiful youth. His beautiful youth who was shirtless on his knees and grinning wickedly at him, angel to demon, rubbing his hairy thighs and parting the robe further until he had to pause and let Pep himself reach down and untie the waist-cord... revealing the heat of his crotch, the fat swollen meat that lounged from then nest of his silver-flecked pubes. Slowly, so beautifully slowly, Phil went down and opened his mouth, and as he licked the hardening shaft, Pep could only shudder and moan, and then knock back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp before tossing the cut-glass tumbler aside and shatter against a wall; his hands gripped tightly at the arms of the chair and his knuckles whitened, Phil's mouth closing about the head of his big powerful prick. The rain was still a gentle patter, but one member of the lingering City celebrations had slipped outside with his vodka-soda anyway, and leant into the damp railings to stare over Munich as he drank it. He turned his back on the city and, instead, stared back through the steamy wet windows at the blurred silhouettes of the other men indoors, unsure why he was out here in the chill wind rather than loading up another bevvy at the bar - if this was a real piss-up with his old Leeds pals, he thought, he'd be the drunkest there, and the life and soul of the party. But here at City... It was hardly any secret that Kalvin Phillips' big move to the elite club was not quite following the script, and he had seen masses of media speculation on his future already - there were bullshit rumours circulating that he might be headed straight back to Elland Road with his tail between his legs, and what he hated more than the emptiness of these stories was the fact that it would actually be his dream solution. It was so embarrassing, but all the stocky midfield player wanted was to undo this season and get back to his buddies in Leeds - that club had raised and made him, and he'd been a fool to ditch it for the baby-blue of Manchester fucking City. Apart from anything else, Kalvin thought tonight, soused with vodka, he would like to undo some of the nastiness that City life had opened him up to. Drunk and hypocritical, Phillips chose to entirely overlook the fact that his first kinky experiment had come as a Leeds player in Croydon, noshed off in that shut-down strip club by that impish Welsh bastard; instead, the mixed-race Yorkshireman chose to blame it on his charismatic buddy Jack Grealish, thinking bitterly of what had gone on in Doha, with he and Jack sharing Daniel James' body and almost breaking their hotel bed as they took it in turns to push their cocks between his pillowy cheeks. Fucking hell. Looking into the warmth and brightness of the bar, he focused on the fuzzy silhouette of Grealish himself, holding court with several others on the other side of the glass; Kalvin pictured himself lying in their last England hotel room together in Italy, exhausted and regretful, having put his dick inside Phil Foden, a lad he had to make eye contact with daily ever since - jesus christ, that was much worse than having dabbled with Dan James, who he might only bump into once in a blue moon according to the machinations of the football league. It was different having dicked a teammate, especially having shared him too with Jack, who was so effortlessly cool about this sexual adventure...! Kalvin was much more troubled by his bi-curious dabbling, and it was helping to push him back to Leeds, which he was choosing to see as a world of wholesome masculinity and heteronormative stability. He thought of solid straitlaced teammates like Paddy Bamford and Jack Harrison and how this sort of shit would never go on there, for sure! Still watching Jack through the window, Kal considered an exit and crashing in his bed upstairs, maybe being long-asleep before that Brummie lothario crawled back into their room and got any funny ideas - he'd offered Phillips a blowjob the night before, when they'd just checked in here, and been entirely unconvincing when he'd laughed it off afterwards, creeping the 27-year-old Leeds stud out, and making him wonder what was what. Ugh. Worse than that - he'd been bantering a bit with Bernardo Silva in the locker-rooms after tonight's win, and tried to wind up the slight Portuguese star by shaking and grabbing him during their team photo. Several incarnations of the big group pose had made it onto social media, but Kalvin had quickly noticed that one of them, shared by he couldn't remember who, had caught the moment where he leaned in and grasped the 28-year-old by the crotch through his shorts! Jesus, he'd been hyper and tipsy, what a twat - and now that picture was out there, ready for him to get landed with all sorts of shitty banter from his Leeds mates. Ugh. Full of sexual anxiety, the 27-year-old man stood at the window, gently showered with refreshing drops of rain, and considered the scene indoors; he was definitely not in the mood to sink any more drinks with frisky Jack, and risk his close interest. He thought back to their room at the England camp, and his short-lived exit to sulk in the cafe - how he'd returned to the suite and thrown his body into the fray, making use of Maddison's mouth and Foden's arse-hole, and... and lay there, sweating and dazed, then glanced in the wrong direction and caught sight of the most shocking thing: Jack Grealish on his back, pummelled down by the tall muscular physique of West Ham's Declan Rice. For some reason, that more than anything had freaked him out, and brought on this latest phase of frigid caution: just as he'd thought he understood the dynamic of their antics, he'd seen his dirty buddy taking it up the arse like a real bender, and felt more confused than ever. Now Foden was pinned beneath the taller body of his manager, but trapped in the happiest of positions: lying on his back on the soft bedding, fed his master's cock from above, with Guardiola in 69, returning the favour with such lavish attention. Squashed beneath the hairy heat of the older man, Phil felt lost in a cloud of his scent and a satisfying closeness that he'd thought about often in the weeks of recovery - his lust for his Papi so much hotter and stronger than it had been in a while, he could shyly admit to himself. He felt awful that his attention had been so consumed by Jack for such a long period, but then his bond to this great man had always been there, tugging him along as he sulked and pouted around Grealish's free spirit. But there was no point dwelling on the recent past, not with a mouth full of Pep's enormous cock, drooling about it and pushing up and down with his head to suck it deeply, as he had for a good twenty minutes crouched between Papi's open legs at the armchair. He strained to take as much of the length as he could into his mouth and throat, and he stroked his hands against lean furry thighs... whilst he his own cock twitched and trembled at the slow rolling sensation of lips and the clipped tickle of beard hair as it met his balls, his inner thighs, his trimmed pubes. The 22-year-old could have remained like this all night, caught in the mutual pleasure of their secret love, utterly submitted to this man - but he knew what was coming, because soon Guardiola was not attending to his cock, but inching forward a little on his knees and his elbows, his cock repositioning and becoming harder for Foden to suck... just slapping against his cheeks and chin and trailing saliva and pre-cum onto his upper chest. Phil felt his legs clutched and parted and the mouth that had pleasured his long heavy cock was moving about to kiss and snuffle at his balls then his gooch, then further... until he was being pulled into position for a good rimming, that long muscular tongue going between his smooth cheeks and tasting his hole. Mouth free of cock, Phil whined with pleasure and eagerness, and then twisted so that he could kiss and lick at Pep's shaft some more, responding to the parting of his cheeks and the tickling rub of his tight hole, last fucked on England tour by several sexy men - Jack, Declan, Kalvin - who just could not live up to the simmering presence of his 30-year senior here. Pep's fingers tapped and rubbed at his ring, rubbing spit into his hole and opening him up, and then licking him out again, making him growl and gasp, driving him as wild as it had the first time his Papi tied him to the headboard and introduced him to the taboo sensation down below - making him crave the full treatment that would be coming his way. About four rooms away, another hunky man had his tongue between the cheeks of a similarly delighted bloke: spreadeagled on his front on the bed, Stonesy couldn't stop giggling and whooping with pleasure, and Walker landed a few dominant spanks against one of his perfectly globed arse cheeks, before digging in and tonguing his delicious hole a bit more instead, getting him ready for a solid muscular fucking that his cheeky behaviour was crying out for. Kyle hadn't liked the `old man' jokes much from his beloved John, after the awkward meetings he'd had with some of the club management lately - nothing from Pep Guardiola himself, he noted, and he wondered if the gaffer was too cowardly to address it head-on, or if the directives were actually coming from above. Old Pep had been pretty good to him in recent years, after their earlier tension and the time that Kyle went down on the Spaniard in his office; he suspected that the negative murmurs were beyond the boss's influence, and right from the top of the Man City hierarchy. `Ageing' had been one of the clumsy words raised to him, and he knew that his days in this high-performing squad were numbered - this needn't be his last season, but the writing was on the wall. He was passing out of his prime, and his usefulness to the City agenda might reach its expiration. Fuck. He sure hadn't raised any of this to Stonesy, the awkward questions and speculation at the club and by his own agent, echoed by vague reports in the media - his own reckless behaviour in a Manchester bar last month had hardly helped matters. After several seasons feeling utterly integral to this squad, Walker was facing the ridiculous fate of the early-30s footballer - retirement is already on your horizon. As Kyle got up on his thick knees and positioned his throbbing erection behind John's perfect arse, there was a touch of resentment to his brutish strength - he was grudge-fucking as he buried his cock to the hilt in John's muscular bottom. Not a grudge against John himself for his daft drunken banter, but a grudge against the harsh realities of their sport - he wanted to spent the rest of his 30s here at Man City with his man, playing side-by-side and fucking wildly like this in hotels across the UK and Europe. He didn't want to be shipped off to some minor club, or to the winners of some nothing farmer league on the continent like the Bundesliga; or to already put to pasture back at his former home Sheffield United, as one tabloid was claiming, thinking ahead to City's clash with them this weekend, a presumed walkover into the FA Cup final. Moody and unsatisfied, the 5ft10 stud ploughed into his John, wishing that he could fuck him like this forever, but already knowing that he might soon have to leave the younger hunk behind, and move on to the last chapter of his defensive career. Just as Guardiola was turning over onto his knees and dragging Phil's strong slender physique into position, he caught sight again of the fresh red line of the scar, reminding him that he had to go carefully - it was a thought that slowed him down and made him stoop to kiss and hold the football stud for a few minutes, hesitating in the process of yanking up his satisfyingly meaty legs, forcing himself to approach only slowly and to slide the tip of his cock in against the rimmed-wet eagerness of the lad's hole. He held them like that in missionary, halting his horny progress, and enjoying Filipe's mouth in long slow kisses that seemed to surprise and almost confuse his midfielder. Pep's hands slotted in behind his back muscles to hold him secure, pressing gently down against him, pausing to let their breath mingle and staring into his sharp eyes, then kissing him a bit more fiercely, and then planting kisses on his cheeks, his neck, scratchy and loving. All the while, as he did this, rolling his hips and pushing his cock gently at its target, teasing him without really meaning to, making him shaky and desperate before eventually starting to press the wet tip in against Foden's entrance. `I will be gentle,' he promised in a deep purr. `You don't need to be,' Phil claimed in a wobbly voice, but Pep would ignore this - he had watched with great anxiety as his recovered player took to the pitch here tonight, and gritted his teeth at any body contact that came close to the plucky midfielder. He wanted to make sure that Phil continued to recover and reach peak fitness, and so he held him very tightly and securely as he eased himself in, gasping out loudly at the tight hold of that English ass on his meaty Spanish cock. He swore in his own language and thanked god for putting this beautiful boy in his path, so hot and willing, years after he'd been betrayed by his last Golden Boy and that scoundrel Ronaldo. His knees throbbed against the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, a sensation that dulled against the fullness of his mouth, the sour manly taste, and the taboo thrill of doing this again for the first time in many years - almost the first time since he had moved to the UK, joining Manchester City and becoming part of Guardiola's squad. He'd never thought to be in this position again, in all honesty, though the thoughts had come and gone since last summer, since that celebration party on the roof terrace - Bernardo had been surprised to find such kinky and open-minded attitudes among his teammates, especially the Brits, and he'd been greatly amused by the sordid action on that Manchester rooftop under the sunset. Had it been important for him in signing his new contract and staying put...? No, not really. But... it might have helped. Silva, 28 and ambitious, had wondered if his spell at this Premiership club was at an end, out of steam, challenges completed... but something this summer had left him curious about taking it further, and seeing what else lay ahead in his sky-blue shirt, playing under Guardiola. And if part of that curious something had been the cheeky insights of their summer party after the open-bus tour, then... So be it. The dark swarthy Lisbon man opened his mouth as wide as he could to take in the thick veiny prick and he steadied himself against the tree-trunk legs of the 6ft1 beast, his roommate and now, in this intimate moment, his secret lover - a moment that perhaps neither Portuguese man would ever refer to again, not tonight or in how many seasons more they played together - perhaps not even if they reconvened on their national side, where it was almost common knowledge that half the players had fellated Cristiano Ronaldo at one point or another. Mouth full of cock, Bernardo Silva rolled his deep brown eyes up, taking in the momentous musculature of the bigger man's torso, and staring up to his brutish frowning face, the only man in history to ever look so angry about getting a blowie - and 25-year-old Ruben Dias glared fiercely back at him, as aggressive and unpredictable as he'd seemed all night, and now feeding his mighty erection into Silva's unpractised lips, giving no real sign that he was even enjoying the oral attention. Bernardo found he didn't care - his countryman was a big sexy beast, and it had been ages since he tired this, and he was pretty determined he was going to get a naughty mouthful, consequences be damned! Phil groaned and groaned, held entirely by his manager's strength, feeling the cock slide in and out of him, opening his arse up, reaching deep into him, then pulling away, then back again; a slow rhythm, almost frustratingly so, and yet such deep satisfying pleasure that his cock felt like it might blow cum against Pep's furry tummy at any moment. He held on to the tanned brown body of the middle-aged stud, reaching for kisses with his mouth and glad when this was repeatedly reciprocated; his fingers scratched at Guardiola's bag with such ferocity, and he fantasised leaving claw marks there that could be found by his jealous wife, really marking his territory and claiming this gorgeous 52-year-old Spaniard as his! But then his Papi began to pick up rhythm and rock him a little more firmly into the bed, and Phil just cried out `Yes, yes Papi' and `Harder!', until he was silenced by more kissing, and Guardiola really began to work his body - still in this missionary possession, with Phil's legs jutting up into the air and his entire being rocked by each juddering thrust of the 5ft11 football manager. His cock and balls ached with the frozen closeness of his orgasm, feeling that Pep too was heading for such a climax - he could tell from the heavy breathing and the intensity of the hold, the increasing force with which that big cock entered him, deeper and deeper! `Yes,' he could only whimper, and Pep growled into his ear, `Filipe, my boy...!' Riyad Mahrez left the bar with few players left standing, and the 32-year-old could barely walk in a straight line as he searched the hotel for his room. Through the doors he passed, the French Algerian heard snatches of music or TV, or the occasional raised voice of a teammate, usually able to place and identify them because he knew all squad members so well - he stopped to laugh at the door of what must be Walker and Stones' suite, hearing one of those Yorkshire buggers mouthing off loudly at the other with a string of expletives. If the two weren't such massive shithouses, Mahrez might assume there was a big argument going on, so loud and raised were the voices, but he knew it would just be some ongoing joke between the two burly defenders. On he went, passing more ambiguous noises and heading for his own suite, where he knew boring Kevin de Bruyne, Mr Two-Beers himself, was likely to be fast asleep. Riyad paused when the next door burst open and an occupant of the room came puffing out into the corridor, faffing with the waist of his pants and shoving/tucking the tails of his thin short-sleeve shirt inside. The 5ft10 winger paused, eyebrows raised, and came face to face with the tall moody presence of Ruben Dias, who gave him a silent stare and then fiddled with the disturbed collar of his silky shirt, tanned face tinged with red. `What's up?' Mahrez demanded in his silky French accent, holding out both arms and greeting the big centre-back warmly. `Is there a problem with your room, buddy?' `What?' grunted the Portuguese player dismissively. `Your room,' the Algeria player repeated more slowly, staring critically at him, then nodding at the slammed door next to him. `What's got you storming out and about? Where's Bernie?' He stared curiously at the hotel room door and in front of him Dias just grunted; the bigger man was then pushing moodily past him, seeming to mutter in his own language. Mahrez paused and looked over one shoulder before dismissing this as just more drunken behaviour like the fuss downstairs - the little almost-fight that had seemed to break out between Grealish and Phillips before one of them stormed off to his room, and the other started ordering even heavier drinks at the bar. There was something very odd in the air tonight, Riyad thought, and it was more than just the relief that they were progressing through to the Semis of the UEFA Champions League. Guardiola came inside him and held him tightly beneath his hairy front, balls-deep inside the perfect pert arse, pumping his cum inside his Golden Boy, utterly breathless and ecstatic; his arms wrapped about the sweat-sticky skin and his mouth tickling kisses against the side of his neck, listening to each reedy gasp from the scally lad's mouth for moments that felt like a perfect eternity. And then he withdrew. He did so carefully, even though his resolution to go gently with his lover had been somewhat forgotten in the powerful thrusts of his climax. Pulling his cock slowly out from the release of those tight young muscles, and kissing Phil on the mouth again whilst murmuring soothing words to him in simple Spanish that he should understand. He reached down to grip and pull on Foden's cock as he lay over him, nuzzling their faces together and letting his own hairy features scratch and tickle across the smoothness of the 22-year-old's face. `You felt amazing,' he hissed earnestly. His Filipe just nodded in a shaky way. `It did,' he agreed almost limply, his face shiny with fresh sweat, a dazed look about him. He moaned as Guardiola played with his prick, rubbing the sensitive tip with his thumb and pulling the foreskin further back. `Oh god,' the footballer purred for him, eyes rolling, `ohhhh yes, Papi...' Down he went, kissing over the firmness of Phil's chest, then a daring zigzag of pecks over his abdomen until he was taking that fat erection on his tongue and sucking him again, hunched over to do it, his firm warm hands still pinning the youngster's hard body to the bed, not wanting him to move a muscle - just to let Papi do the work and finish him, lips pulling up and down his shaft and tongue swirling about the head. He stopped with his face over it, tongue extended to lick the tip, and he stared with fierce intensity up the boy's pale body, looking at his wondering and joyous face - every time was like the first time for Foden, he thought, and that in turn made him feel young and exploratory, even at 52. He smiled assertively at his Golden Boy and went back to work. In the darkness of the hotel room directly above them, a simple rectangle of light glowed in the dark, and the suite's solitary occupant was taking full advantage of an empty second bed - he wasn't sure where his roommate, Philip Foden, had gotten to, but he wasn't going to worry about it, when it meant he could attend to his erection, jerking off frantically under the covers and letting the sensitive tip of his slender prick rub repeatedly against the duvet until he was incredibly close to shooting. With nervous eyes, the 23-year-old Argentine kept glancing sharply in the direction of the empty bed, and then at the door, unsure if Foden was drunk asleep somewhere else, or due back in their shared room at any minute - Alvarez was no risk taker, and yet the uncertainty added an extra frisson to his midnight wank, ready to empty loaded balls and make a mess of his thighs. On the glowing phone screen was a cropped image of another lad's big weapon, gripped tightly and tip glistening with pre-cum. It was one of several of the dirty pics he'd been sent by his boyfriend, as Enzo Fernandez did quite regularly - it was exciting that the international teammates were both based in England at last, as planned, but the schedules of their different major clubs meant that the young pair had barely seen each other since Enzo's debut at Chelsea. And thus... the discreetly shared intimate pictures between them, all Fernandez's idea and something Alvarez was much more nervous to try. But tonight, panting to himself, the 5ft7 forward creamed against the cotton of his bedcovers, staring lustily at the naked selfies he'd been sent by Enzo, and wishing he had his beautiful Argentine boyfriend here with him in bed, as together as they'd been in Qatar on their journey to World Cup success - a togetherness which had only been heightened by the drama of judgmental Sergio Aguero! Neither Julian nor Enzo knew what their great hero, Lionel Messi, had done to shut Aguero up and make that danger go away, but they were both deeply grateful to Leo regardless. Their young love had begun several years ago now, but sharing the World Cup together had really allowed them to step up from curious playmates to an intensely devoted couple. Glad of his roommate's mystery absence, Julian groaned and yanked on his messy wet cock, spurting more of his juices under the covers, and staring hungrily at the big hefty cock of his absent partner, wondering for how much longer he could wait - if it remained quite so difficult to rendezvous with his Fernandez, would he be able to remain so fiercely loyal and faithful to the other Argentinian...? Phil unloaded a week's build-up of cum, spunking into the grateful mouth of Pep Guardiola, and trembling between the bedding and the strong hands on his hips. He cried out loudly, perhaps too loudly, until Pep was kissing back up his body and then snogging him again, wrapping arms about him, holding him tight - the young player grappled back, wanting to touch every inch of the warm body, wanting to just wrap entirely against him and interlock with this magnificent man. He was still trembling, not just with pleasure but with a sort of nervous tension of anticipation - he had been building up to the physicality of this reunion between them for so long, after all. But in Pep's embrace, he calmed and stilled, almost laughing at his own nervous disposition in the throes of passion and in the afterglow of completion, his hole throbbing and his cock sensitive, balls emptied and muscles stiffening. More kisses came rushing to his mouth and he twisted and angled his body to receive them, grinding against Pep's hairy strength even as both men were spent and emptied, as if he was already craving a round 2 that neither of them really had the energy for. As Guardiola finally let go of him, Foden was left straining into the air for a last kiss, feeling abandoned and cool as the other man's body left his - but the 52-year-old, stark naked and dick swinging, was leaping from the bed simply to get their drinks, humming to himself in a way that was jovial and relaxed, and made Phil smile deeply. Nudity and big swinging cock aside, he wished the world could see this side of his Papi, so playful and relaxed, away from the moody intensity that his job often required. He thought about how many of his City teammates perhaps felt cowed and awkward around their tactician leader, and his smile deepened: no, he didn't need anyone else to see this more relaxed side of Pep, because it was all his, this whistling and cheery figure, more soft and human, and his eyes followed him across the room. The robe was back on already, and he wondered if Pep was in some way insecure about his slender ageing physique, when it was still so firm and hot, a mature Adonis in the scally lad's eyes. Phil pawed at his own body and rolled into a more comfortable position on the bed, catching the towel that he was tossed; he rubbed its soft embrace over his sweaty face and chest, and then across his slick crotch to wipe away what was left of his messy load and Pep's drool. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his ice-heavy G&amp;T, and wondering if there was some lie that he could use to avoid returning to his roommate and just staying overnight under these sheets with Papi instead. Guardiola stood over him, smiling silently and taking a drink. Foden grinned back at him, sheepish and satisfied, and tasted his own, starting a little at how strong the older man had made it, but just nodding his grateful approval. It was a perfect moment, safe and happy in this secret bubble with the head coach, and so he wasn't sure how he went and spoiled it, but he did - pulled back and cuddled as Pep rejoined him on the bed, pressing their backs and shoulders into a mound of ornate cushions, arm about his neck, icy glasses clinking between their hands: `I can't believe you don't ever look at any other players on the squad instead of me,' he thought aloud in an absent murmur, still pinching themself at his perfect affair with this man, singled out among all the studs of the City squad! It wasn't much of a pause, but it was there - just a second or two too long, the slightly wary look on Pep's lined face, the two of them staring closely at each other and Phil's bright smile freezing awkwardly on his sharp features. And Pep laughing then, awkwardly, and clearing his throat - `What makes you say that?' he demanded, a guilty edge to his voice and his averted eyes, and Phil felt a little lurch of horror at his own clumsy comment and the ominous truth it might have revealed. Even as he sternly told himself not to overreact and spoil things, he felt his hand reach over and grip a bit more firmly at the warm hairy muscle of one thigh, holding onto Guardiola as if he was about to lose his club daddy; who else did the iconic football manager have his eye on? `Silly boy,' Pep was chuckling, but too late - fractionally too late, but enough to make Phil worry, and sink away from the satisfied euphoria of their quick urgent fucking - he was the gaffer's special Golden Boy, but... for how much longer? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-358

Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2023 22:21:40 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 358 Part 358: Unfinished Business `And the gaffer will see you in his office when you're changed,' the player liaison officer told him, finished signing him in on the morning of their Saturday home fixture; the thirty-something team assistant flashed him a warm smile, as susceptible to his boyish charms as any other member of staff at the training campus or their brash stadium in the city. And he smiled in return, the perky polite face of English football, giving the older bloke a respectful nod and chirping his assent to this instruction before muscling away, arms full of warm-up gear that he would be changing into for the journey up to Stamford Bridge. Still smiling to himself, the 24-year-old crossed through the bright foyer of the glass-coated building in the Surrey suburbs, using a little ID card to swipe himself through into the sprawling changing rooms where he could shed his own overpriced designer gear and climb into the muscle-hugging items of Chelsea home gear. A jaunty whistle even escaped from his pink lips as the fresh-faced young football player moved through the brightly-lit locker-rooms and found a comfortable spot to unbutton his shirt and drop his baggy jeans, smirking at the faint nostalgic de ja vu of the casual remark from the handler at the desk - what was it, 2020 again...? `He'll be straight after you,' he'd been told the other week, when the sports news on TV had been brimming with the ex-player's fresh appointment to steward the struggling behemoth in the dying weeks of a disappointing (and expensive) season. Mason Mount, cutting vegetables for a homemade Thai curry at the time, laughed immediately and shook his head, so distracted by the comment that he almost chopped off a finger and complicated the ingredients that would be tossed into the pot on the hob. `What?' the Portsmouth-born midfielder exclaimed loudly over the sounds of the kitchen, looking over the counters and across the open-plan space, to where the London flat's other occupant was sprawled in a leggy heap on one sofa in front of the giant TV. `That was a long time ago,' the Chelsea player added in a slightly less exclamatory tone, turning his attention back down to the chopping board and focusing on a finger-free set of ingredients to add to the hissing and sizzling chicken chunks in the wok. He'd heard rumours, of course, they'd been circulating through the training ground for the last couple of days, and yet he was still surprised: Frank Lampard, reappointed by Chelsea FC, only two years after his sacking, and now summoned out of the blue to try and rescue things under their new American ownership. Mason had laughed off the suggestions when he heard it from teammates on the pitch, and when his own friends and family had prodded the idea in group chats... he didn't really have a strong opinion on who should or shouldn't be the new Chelsea manager after Potter and Tuchel, but he'd been pretty sure that old Lamps wouldn't want to move backwards or take on the risk. And there it was on the screen, an out-of-date clip of the midfield legend prowling the dugout at a Stamford Bridge game back in one of his brief seasons - briefly celebrated and admired, rapidly ridiculed and dismissed. It was a fast-moving game for head coaches. But of course Mason had played under Frank as a Derby loan too - and even in the privacy of his head, the young man couldn't help but colour and snigger at the choice of preposition, recalling his one-time dynamic with the married DILF. Mason looked up: Declan Rice had swung up off the couch and crossed the room and stood facing him now, a knowing look on his long ruggedly handsome face, and arms drooping at his sides. A single eyebrow raised and a crooked grin met his own charming smile, and he shrugged his shoulders evasively. `It'll be ready soon,' the amateurish home chef promised to his beau, well aware that the Thai dish was not what the other footballer's loaded expression was getting at. `It's been a while, but not THAT long,' muttered the West Ham hunk in a low voice, one that sounded a little less playful and provocative than the yelps across the room as he lounged in front of Sky Sports News in his vest and pants. `Come on,' Mason muttered. `Chelsea needs a new manager and the old fella's been conned into it, for some reason - it's probably a good idea, short term, can't see it being a proper fix for him or for us, not really...' He mumbled out this patter, the same as he had to guys at the training ground, not quite able to meet Dec's eyes without sniggering or experiencing lurid little flashbacks to the 2019 and 2020 seasons - he'd been so young and curious in those days, so eager to please, so wide-eyed in his excitement. `It's a bit weird, Mase,' the other 24-year-old said quietly and a little grumpily. `I mean, sacked like he was, and now back with his tail between his legs, ready to be kicked about again? Fuck - the way things went for him with the Toffees, and...' `It's short-term, innit?' Mount said, swiping cubed veg into the wok and blinking at the plume of steam that emerged from its saucy heat. He smiled vaguely across this heat haze at his boyfriend and flatmate, and shrugged one shoulder again. `Honestly, I can't see him being excited to work with me, after all this time - I think a lifelong Chelsea obsessive like him will have some different priorities on his mind when he comes in to try and fix our fucked-up season, y'know...' He let this trail off and dismissed images of the older man's intense lusty eyes across team talks up and down the country. `Will you do something useful and set the table, Rice-cakes? And - are you actually not gonna put some pants on, or are you gonna eat dinner like that and give me a stiffy, for fuck's sake?' Giggling absently, Mason fussed about the kitchen, making a mess, not one of the world's natural cooks, but guiltily weary of their dependence on take-away and restaurants. He didn't notice Declan move into the kitchen until the taller stud was behind him and slipping arms about his waist, kissing the side of his warm neck and tickling their currently-scruffy facial hair together for a moment. `I'm trying not to be a dick about it,' the West Ham captain said quietly in his ear, and hugged at his body a bit more tightly - it was a close and comforting feeling, just like Declan's company and spirit, but not without his streak of possessive uncertainty. `I know, baby,' the young midfielder murmured back, half-turning away form the oven and kissing his boy on the cheek. `And I'm not being a coy bell-end - I just don't think Frank Lampard is going to be rushing to get me in his office like the old days, after all the water under the Stamford Bridge.' He grinned at his own crap pun and stroked a hand up and down Dec's bare arm. `And if you are saying he's off-limits for our open fun agreement, then the old bugger will have to enjoy this twink from afar, haha - I know what we agreed, baby, and you know I hardly touch anyone else now...! Unless you're there, like in Doha...' Dec chuckled and held onto him, their bodies saying a little, but shifting carefully away from the oven and hob. `No, no,' Rice mumbled, `I don't mean anything like that... I keep telling you, I trust you entirely, and I meant everything we agreed to... I just- I was just messing, that's all, just joking around. Do you reckon I'm threatened by old Fat Frank?!' Mason gave him an indulgent smile before turning back to attend to dinner. `Fat Frank, hardly,' he played along, `but why would I be gagging for that oldey when I've got you here in those pants, you sexy prick?' As he stirred and adjusted the heat, Declan continued to fondle and hug him from behind, kissing his neck and spine again, and then reaching down to squeeze his bottom through the loose cargo pants he wore. `As long as he isn't getting inside this,' chuckled the other young hunk's false confident voice, struggling to hide his shy jealousy, `or anyone else in Blue for that matter.' Mason let out a teasing groan at the feel of his boyfriend's hand on his arse and he pushed it back, filling Dec's hand with a mound of strong cheek, then grinning at him over one shoulder. `I promised, didn't I? Nobody's fucking me but you, Deco. Speaking of which - can we just get this meal out of the way so I can sit on your cock before Succession, for fuck's sake? Go set the table!' And in a flurry of giggles and murmured `Yes, sir!', the West Ham player was off to do his bidding, leaving Mount to tackle the an of coconut milk and adjust the semi in the front of his cargo pants. He couldn't help but smirk to himself at the silly little micro-conflict of their chat: how could that big adorable geek think Mason Tony Mount would want any other man in his life but him? Okay, okay - he didn't want or need another man IN HIS LIFE, but he was a horny bastard, a 24-year-old athlete with the ridiculous sex drive to match, it was hardly his own fault. He was fiercely and devotedly loyal to his Declan and he saw the pair of them as forever - but that didn't mean he didn't get his usual urges and, following the rules of their most recent private treaty, take the odd opportunity to indulge them, on the condition that Rice Rice Baby himself was warned and could veto any individual he wanted. And, Mason thought now, pulling the warm-up shirt over his compactly muscled torso, it was so great that Dec had started to relax into it, and been so faithful to their other promise: telling each other every juicy detail when they were next in bed together. The night that Rice had returned from England camp and narrated the Grealish-Foden-Maddison-Phillips-Chilwell shindig into his ear whilst balls-deep in his hole, WOW - Mason had cum so hard that he'd been speechless for half an hour after they were done, and he'd asked Declan to tell him the whole story again two nights later, relishing every image of his boyfriend playing away. Still, Mason had meant much of what he said to Declan, and he left the changing facilities with a smirk that was half in amusement at his own whimsical fantasies: a lot of time and football had passed since Lamps was sacked the first time from this post, and it was mad to think that fun and games from 2020 might mean anything in the new short-term tenure that the ex-Blue had thrown his dignity aside to take up. As intense as things had been between player and manager for a little while back then... Frank had moved on and so had Declan himself, and surely neither was quite the same guy they'd been then! It was whimsical and self-conscious for Mason to indulge the memories and the fantasies, pausing to lace up his trainers, and making his way through the centre of the building and up a short spiral staircase towards the office suites that he knew too well. And so far, anyway, he'd been right: contact between the recovering midfielder and the acting gaffer had been fairly limited, just as he awkwardly predicted to his frowning lover over green Thai curry. For old time's sake, Mase might have allowed himself to be just a little bit offended, but he did understand - here was a struggling football manager throwing himself back into a struggling club, one hounded by embarrassing over-spends and players who just couldn't live up to their potential. And Mason was hardly blind to the fact that he himself was one of those many problems, slowly working his way back from an injury, and stalling his contract renewal on the advice of his worried agent, who was currently courting offers from at least three major rivals in the Premier League. As much as Mount was against leaving London, he was pretty sure his Chelsea days were numbered - in another passing conversation at the flat, Rice had claimed that Lamps would be trying his best to get his signature on a new contract and keep him there, and Mase had laughed it off, but then been somewhat bewildered when the anticipated one-to-one with the new boss never actually materialised. Until, he supposed, today. One idea was as vain and egotistical as the other, he told himself on the way down the managerial corridor that brought back a lot of memories; the idea that a married dad like Lampard would be rushing to strike up a little fuck buddy arrangement from a couple of years ago, and the idea that this Stamford Bridge legend would be specifically desperate to keep Mason Mount in place at his beloved club, over the many high-profile teammates who were starting week after week without him. Still, Mason had always been something of an attention-seeker and a show-off, and he could indulge the fantasy that the returning DILF would fixate on him in EITHER sense. Rice, he thought with a smile, was just paranoid and jealous, as if Mount's former relationship with the famous coach was anything more than curiosity and lust, any more than a spill-over of the manager's excitement at his potential, and earnestness to champion and develop him back in those Derby days, even before they were sitting down for meetings in this office ahead of him. And Rice had nothing to worry about - he liked to get a bit of variety in his fun, but there was only one daddy he wanted to go home to, that big gormless hunk of his at West Ham. `God, stop overthinking this,' the 24-year-old told himself, rapping his knuckles against the office door and pausing politely to wait for the boss to call him in; you're getting as bad as Declan, thinking like this! Just chill out and enjoy the moment, Mase, like you always do. Contrary to Mason's hesitant humility, Frank Lampard was staring at the screen of his laptop and the email of meeting notes that explained the recent unsuccessful contract negotiations surrounding his favourite Chelsea wonder-kid; stroking the slight growth of stubble along his jawline, the 44-year-old acting manager glanced between the dimmed screen of text and the shifty smile on the face of the lad himself, seated across the table from him and swinging back and forth slightly in his chair. Perhaps this morning wasn't the best time to be addressing this, but Frank was not choosing it by accident: he would be placing Mason on the bench for this afternoon's Brighton game, but with a clear intention to bring him on in the second half, in front of a strained home crowd who he hoped would show him a good welcome. This, Lampard's own first home game since accepting the poisoned chalice of a temporary return, could be a reminder to Mount of what Chelsea had been to him in the first chapter of his senior career - a home win today in front of that loyal crowd could be instrumental in shaping the kid's career aspirations over the next couple of months. And... if it did a little something to help with Lampard's own managerial trajectory, then... well, all the better. `They're offering you a lot,' the middle-aged bloke said after a long pause in their stilted conversation, `but you've been right to hold out.' He saw Mason's bright eyes bulge at this, and his brows raise. `You can get a lot more from Boelhy, you're right - you just need to hold strong and let the rival offers come in. But,' he continued, his voice fairly grave, `don't run this into the ground, kid. If you want to be here, you'll need to compromise eventually, and play your hand. You know the kind of hero you can become if you stay put and really commit to this project. Yeah?' Across the desk from him, the 24-year-old was as evasive and unreadable as he had seemed from the moment he walked in the office door, spinning side to side a little on the wheeled seat, seeming distracted by the most minor detail of the refurbished room. At Frank's mixed encouragement and warning, he whistled under his breath and stroked his thin strap of a beard, then tilted his head and shrugged one shoulder. `I see what you mean,' the young midfielder told him ambiguously, and left it at that. Frank let out a slow breath and stared at the laptop screen for a few moments rather than eyeing the handsome youngster in front of him, acting as if he was noticing fresh details in the notes of his colleagues - and not simply averting his attention from just how good-looking and mature the South Coast kid had become in the years since they last occupied this desk. It was a difficult state of affairs not to notice, and had become more difficult with every experience they shared on the training ground; it was the reason that Lampard had dedicated so little personal attention to one of his favoured players in this patchwork squad of egos and anxieties, and the reason it had taken him this long to sit Mason down and address the elephant in the boardroom, his dubious future at the club. If anyone could stop Mason's wandering eyes and lock him in at Chelsea, the club bigwigs openly said to him, then it was him, Frank Lampard - if only they fucking knew how `special' his connection with the lithe young footballer was, jesus christ. The prospect of such close quarters with this sexy twink had hardly escaped the Romford man's imagination as he gave his shocking `yes' to the short-term job offer, though he hoped it wasn't a major factor in his decision, compared to loyalty and ambition and the burning certainty that he'd been on the verge of big success before his previous ousting. He was here because he believed in Chelsea and he believed in what he could do for the team; he'd hate to think he was here just because a young lad looked particularly good in shorts and bounced about the training ground like a cross between Tigger and a particularly enthusiastic OnlyFans model. He was NOT here this morning to seduce the handsome bugger - nudging him along on his contract situation was pretty much part of Frank's new job here before the season closed, the board had as good as said so! And yet, to be this close to him, after all this time, and to see for himself how much the boy had become a man, well... Unfinished business. All of this talk about his own future was very ego-boosting for Mason, as it turned out, but also a little... disappointing. Did he really just want the Chelsea legend in front of him to be interested him on a purely professional level, and to offer him this encouragement and mentoring...? Hmm. The stop-start conversation between player and coach, tinged with all of the awkwardness of what had once gone on between them, and the gulf of time since, had fallen quiet again, and he checked the digital watch on one wrist. More of his teammates would be getting here now, and he ought to be hanging out with them before they assembled for the coach ride across the suburbs and into West London - and surely the boss-man here had other business to attend to before the team travel. So it was probably time to wrap this chat up, as politely as possible - he hated to be aloof or unclear with Lamps, but he knew that anything he said now would be rapidly passed back to the board who had hired the bloke, and Mount was under strict instructions from his representatives. He was to keep his lips zipped in the Chelsea bubble until the rival offers were firmer, and to leave all the talk to the agent - a positive or negative hint to Frank today before the Brighton game could be disastrous, according to his advisors, who didn't even know he was perched here in the gaffer's office, reminiscing about very different meetings. Neither of them were going to bring it up, he realised, and he was oddly surprised - he'd half-expected some gruff awkward overture from the manager that would skirt around the truth of their past, maybe pleading for his silence on it, or just testing his feelings about it, or even trying to smudge it away and deny it even happened, or... Frank was talking again, but no longer about Mason's future: the football boss was murmuring on about the game today, sharing some tactical insights that would presumably be the centre of his team talk downstairs. Mason only half-listened, looking up from his watch and smiling vaguely at the serious face and determined posture of the older guy, and thinking about how enthralled he'd once been by the midfield hero... not that he didn't feel any awe or respect for him now, but the guy was terribly human and real to him, not some poster-on-the-wall heart-throb or footballing demigod. He found he was sat here with him like an old friend, a couple of guys who'd shared a lot of memories on and off the pitch. It was weird - was it just that he'd grown up a lot in the past few years? Maybe it was being with Dec, he even wondered, always sure that his boyfriend was the more mature and grounded one. `You'll be on the bench, of course,' the 40-something coach was telling him now. `Don't be pissy about it - you're just not in full fitness and consistent form yet. But you'll subbed on, you can be sure of that, so be mentally ready from the kick-off, okay?' Mason tuned in properly, aware that something more than a vague nod was expected from him. `Thanks,' he said, aiming for a bit more brightness and enthusiasm, now that he wasn't trying to be guarded and cautious on the topic of his career. `I won't let you down, chief.' He returned Frank's serious level gaze, puffing out his chest and sitting alert in the chair, no longer swinging on it like a bored teen. And then, without wanting to sound too rude, he added, `Should I leave you to it, then?' `Hmm?' `Er - I mean, are we done here, or...?' `Oh-' Lamps was a bit annoyed by this turn in the conversation, he could tell, and he felt a bit awkward. Fuck, the guy's being as kind as he can, and maybe all this chat here is his way of alluding back to how things were, and here I am trying to rush away... Erm. He smiled awkwardly at his coach and shrugged both shoulders. `Sorry, I thought you sounded finished,' he said through a laugh. `I got it wrong?' Lampard was hesitating, and staring very thoughtfully at him. Then he too looked at his watch, and sighed, and then seemed to stare back very intently at his laptop, whatever was on it. Again, there was something dismissive in the older guy's manner, and so Mase pushed his chair back slightly and stood up, still hesitant to just wander out of the unproductive meeting, but unsure what more the manager needed from him when there was a big game for them both to turn their attention to - their parallel careers were both hanging on this home fixture in very different ways. `It's good to have you back here,' Mason said, stood in front of the desk with his hands bumping idly together in front of his tummy. And it was, he reflected, it wasn't just an empty compliment to a guy who had always placed a lot of trust in him - he'd enjoyed a return to Lampard's style in the training work, even if there had been mutinous grumbles from other corners of the bloated squad ranks. Frank looked up at him from the laptop, and Mason smiled warmly at the attractive older man, wondering for the first time just how stressed and worried the football boss must be, shifting from his Everton disasters to THIS. Not for the first time in the seasons of his fledgling senior career, Mason felt a particular desire to succeed for the sake of his mentor, hoping that his own efforts on the pitch could justify Lampard's faith and bring him much-needed success. It was, for a moment, like he was an up-and-coming teen on loan to Derby, awe-struck to be taken aside for pep talks and one-to-one coaching by the midfield icon. Frank held his gaze, and Mase felt a familiar tingle of... let's call it admiration. There had been a time, he knew now, where he'd genuinely thought that was all it was. Admiration, hero worship. Nothing lusty and physical about it... Hah. Lampard got up, and he tensed, unsure if he was about to get a stiff formal handshake from the acting manager, or... and there he was, the 6ft Chelsea legend, right in front of him, breathing a heavy sigh, and pulling him in for a hug, the kind of full-on masculine embrace that normally came after a 3-0 win, or... it took him back not to his Derby loan spell, but to this office, to 2020, and to the discoveries that had stemmed from his gaffer's close attention, orchestrated in part by the estranged Ross Barkley. The hug lasted for several long moments and when Lamps pulled away, he looked a little red in the face, and flustered, as if he didn't quite know what he'd done - and Mason himself was vaguely shaken, his cool broken by the dredged-up warmth and intensity that lived in their past. Here was a man who, like big Ross, had brought him out of himself, and helped him to see what he really wanted - guys who had, ultimately, led him to Dec. `Fuck,' grunted the slightly taller man. `You're not getting any uglier, kid.' Excited and relieved by the compliment, Mason gave a choked laugh, and licked his bottom lip, shifting foot to foot. `Is that still part of the contract negotiation, boss?' he joked quietly, trying to measure the frustrated feelings on Frank's face. A hollow chuckle at that from Lamps, who continued to stare at him, playing with the top of the zip of his coach's training jersey, just below his neck. `Something like that.' `You're not getting any less sexy, daddy,' Mason told his favourite coach bluntly, throwing himself off the cliff-edge of his list - after all, Dec hadn't pulled a veto, despite his obvious reservations. He could see the wincing uncertainty in Frank's face at his overt flirtation, and the great tension in his stance. Without moving from the spot, Mason nodded across the office. `Does that window by the door still cover up if you drop those blinds...?' `You should go,' breathed the acting Chelsea boss. `I should,' Mase agreed in a whisper, `but I seem to be staying where I am.' He grinned. The moment of de ja vu was over, though the excitement was left behind: this was, he thought now, quite different at all. The upper hand was his. Frank rushed to the panel window by the office door, twisting the little cord at the side to close the slats. He fingered roughly at the lock on the door and then turned around: the lad had already whipped off his jumper and shirt, baring the solid pale muscle of his chest and abdomen, and looking so damned sexy that Lampard could only abandon the simmering doubts in his chest. He'd sworn to himself that this meeting wouldn't end like this, even as he left the instructions at reception and splashed extra aftershave on his cheeks and neck like a nervous youngster on a first date; he'd sworn that he'd stay professional here on his second innings, and really just do the job. There had been so many moments in training this last couple of weeks that had tested him, and not only around this lad in particular - but he'd sworn he would hold back and behave himself. He was on him in seconds, grabbing him about that slim waist and feeling up his bare muscular sides, then leaning in and kissing him on the neck, tasting his soft skin, snogging up and across his jaw and on one cheek. He went in for a real kiss, mouth to mouth, unsure if they'd ever really done that so intimately, but Mason swerved it, and he just chewed on his earlobe and his neck instead, and groped his hands up and down his back, feeling very bulge of muscle in the thicker stronger body than he remembered from before. Frank was gagging for it, and it wasn't just Mason's effervescent attractiveness. He was a man recently dumped. Not by his wife, but by his dom. Things had been strained and distant in his relationship of sexual submission with John Terry for a good while, the initial novelty thrill soon burning out - their FRIENDSHIP was fine, and they still saw plenty of each other with their wives and mutual friends, but their lust for each other had not been quite so powerful and permanent as either assumed. Sex between them had gone from wild to awkward, and neither man had admitted it aloud, simply letting the dom-sub arrangement between them fizzle into nothing. And then Frank had taken a job at Chelsea again, and JT had apparently been so alarmed by this that he'd leapt into a new role at Leicester City rather than remain here in his support role - Terry presumably thought that Lamps was here to try and win him back, which was far from the truth. So Frank was a man starved of this homoerotic intimacy, and he was exploding with lust for it. He grabbed the outline of Mason's always-bigger-than-expected cock through the front of his tracksuit pants, and groaned loudly at the heat and stiffness of it, realising just how desperate he'd been for some dick. He held and squeezed it and kissed Mason on the chest, licking and sucking at his nipples, where it turned out the young hunk was incredibly sensitive and responsive. It didn't really occur to Lamps how different this was - he was less reflective and self-aware than Mase, and he couldn't accurately remember how dominant and bullyish he had been in their old arrangement, now that he had spent so much time submitting entirely to a thug like John Terry. It was only Mason's little gasps of surprise and enjoyment that invited such half-formed realisations for Frank, kissing his way about the lad's body, and pausing only to whisper at him that he had to be careful about making too much noise. The ideas churned at the back of his heated brain, pushing a hand inside the front of Mason's tracksuit and feeling his dick up close and personal, and snogging his way down his six-pack - this WAS all very different from how things had been, apart perhaps from the final time when the lads were giving him a little send-off... Down to his knees he went, ready to take a taste. Despite the gaffer's orders, Mason couldn't help but groan and gasp. He was sprawled back on the desk, the manager's laptop and paperwork almost pushed away at one side, and a lamp and executive toy facing similar fate on the other. His pants were all about his calf muscles and his legs spread, the red face of Frank Lampard bobbing up and down as the older man noshed him off with gusto, surprising him with his taste for cock - wow, this wasn't quite the hypermasculine daddy that younger Mason Mount had idolised and exhausted himself for...! In his dirty private fantasies of the past fortnight, the young stud had imagined a cheeky revisit to past scenes: down on his knees for the boss, face-fucked and choking on his thick manly meat; pushed and pulled about and the gaffer barking the orders; pinned to this desk beneath the weight of Frank's relaxed muscle, submissive to the appetites of his old mentor. But he was enjoying this reality more than he could have expected, reaching down and wrapping his hands about the back of Frank's head, fingering the thinning brown hair, and pushing up and down to feed his own aching cock between those greedy lips. The tongue up and down his shaft and swirling about the almost pointed head; then down low to lap at his fat balls, kissing him between them and taking them into his mouth one at a time, seemingly desperate to pleasure him, and earning groan after groan of delight. When his muscular legs were pushed further apart and lifted, Mason hung between fantasy and reality, between the submissive twink of 2020 who had begged and panted at the crotches of Lampard and Barkley, and the growing stud he was in 2023, his toned body worshipped by this middle-aged admirer. He felt Frank's tongue on first his gooch and then in between his cheeks, darting in there and smearing his hole; the rimming that he always longed for, with Dec a little clumsy and nervous when he tried to please him that way, always just a touch prudish about it... not like Lamps, snuffling and spitting and gasping down there, and giving his arse-hole a good polish with his questing tongue. Fuck! Mase lay back against the desk, hearing a slight bang and unsure what he'd even knocked asunder, just parting and lifting his thighs as best he could to allow the gaffer full access to his pert cheeks and the dark-haired little canyon between them, eating his arse like he'd done on a couple of occasions in the past. Fuckkkkk. This ecstatic pleasure did leave Mase to a wobbly dilemma as he writhed on the desk, cheeks prised apart and Lampard's tongue going wild on his ring: he assumed that this rim-job was a prelude to proper use of his tight strong bottom, and he was re-thinking his sincere promises to his Rice-cakes, that he would reserve his perfect arse for nobody but his Declan. But here... now... with Lamps? He groaned and tensed up and wondered how reckless he was feeling, versus his loyalty and devotion. It was with great difficulty that he pushed back on Frank's head and forced that face away from his crotch, wriggling aside slightly and panting out his dissent, `You can't have my arse.' He didn't feel any need to explain this further, but he was ready for a slight argument, remembering how demanding and imperious his old coach could be - but Frank was just kissing desperately at his inner thighs and licking the tip of his cock, and staring needily up at him. Here it comes, he thought, he's gonna go all sexy and persuasive, and my good behaviour is gonna be REALLY tested, and- Mason started, hearing what the older man was growling at him, and he was still reacting to it as Frank pulled away and stripped off in a hurry. `Fuck me, please.' Soon he had him over the desk, perfectly recreating but inverting the way it had often been, summoned up here at the end of a long day's training, or after a big win or heavy loss, or even on a day off when the site was otherwise locked up - he'd been at this man's beck and call for many months at that time, to a point where he'd felt a bit misused and fatigued, though absence had crushed those antipathies. Well, things were very different now, and he was about to show his gaffer just how different. Mason rubbed spit between the chubby cheeks, enjoying the slight thickening of the older man's body since he'd last been pinned beneath him, enjoying the feel of his bare skin and patches of body hair, getting a bit rough with his hands and indulging a different part of his horny persona. He edged his cock in and was surprised by how readily the married man took it, just grunting encouragement, shifting to greedy demands, and pushing back with his meaty rear until Mount was right up there and thrusting into him. `You're like an Energizer bunny on speed!' Dec had once yelped at him on the sporadic occasions where they swapped positions, Mase pumping chaotically into his lean backside and only slowing down once he released how uncomfortable his less-experienced boyfriend was at taking this rhythm and force. Frank, this morning, had no such complaints, just groaning for more, and telling him this was `just what he needed'. Mason humped him like crazy, pushing his body down against the neck to hold him in place, and bouncing in and out of his cushioned cheeks, loving the feel of him about his aching prick. He even, really gripped by the role reversal of this bodily reunion, landed a couple of heavy spanks on one of Frank's big cheeks, leaving red finger-marks where he slapped the hairy cheek, giddy with dominance and responding to each groaning beg of `Harder!' from the failed Everton manager. It was all too much for Mason and he came quicker than he expected, pulling out so that he could watch his load fire and pool against the muscles of the older man's back, and then slapping the tip of his heavy erection against those jiggling cheeks before backing away in a stupefied daze of pleasure. On his knees, Frank licked him clean and kissed at his shaven pubes and his inner thighs, lapping at his balls and his gooch, while Mase just groaned happily and wondered how noisy the pair of them had been in this indiscreet corner office. Below him, his boss came too, wanking himself off furiously whilst sucking on Mason's softening dick, red-faced and frenzied, as frenzied in submission as he'd once been in his dominance. And Mason just gazed happily down at his temporary gaffer, very glad that they'd both thrown caution to the wind and reunited like this - and already imagining how fun it would be to tell Declan in bed tomorrow night once both of their weekend fixtures were over. Lamps tried his best not to be too awkward or off with Mount as he helped him to dress and then hugged him goodbye. He didn't want to regret this surrender to lust, and any awkwardness or conflict with this star was the last thing he wanted to mar his next few weeks of Chelsea life; he was brimming with shaky regrets about just how submissive he'd been, and how desperate and demanding he'd been with the eager young stud, but then his body felt so good and satisfied, what was there really to regret? He sat for a while at the desk, sweating profusely under his club gear, savouring the very sensations that part of his brain was trying to regret. Heading downstairs to join the assembly of his players, and speaking to them there and on the coach, he felt a strange mix of awkward tension, having given in so easily to temptation, but also renewed confidence and ambition, daring to fantasise that this short spell could turn into a fresh contract and a full new season to prove himself as the steward of this glorious London football club... rather than just an undignified caretaker at a time of challenge and embarrassment. The eventual 2-1 outcome of the home game to Brighton didn't exactly bolster his cautious ambitions, but the physical memory of enjoying Mason's body and cock did boost his spirits and allow him to keep his head high during the later stages of the defeat, and when delivering grim condolences to the players in the home changing rooms. He delivered what he hoped was a rousing and reassuring speech about their remaining fixtures and what could still be achieved; there was no point going in too harsh on the mistakes and fumbles, he was here to drag something out of the existing shambles and give the lads something positive to aspire to. Lingering in the locker-rooms of his beloved stadium, Lampard couldn't help but watch Mason Mount, admiring the new manliness of his favourite protegee - he'd filled out in the last couple of years, seeming almost taller as well as broader and stronger, and a little less playful and silly in the way he carried himself. Lamps dared to hope that he'd had a good influence on the young hunk at some point, and that he could take some credit for what Mase might go on to achieve... here or elsewhere. But he had eyes for others too - after all, the eager fumble with his favourite had been his first action in some time, and as Terry's loyal sub, he'd been so VERY well-behaved in his Everton tenure - excluding that one time where he'd wanked in on the circle-jerk and joined a few of his lads in jizzing on Tom Davies' face. Other than that... saintly. And regularly dominated by his big John, the Chelsea bully who remained his closest friend, even if for some reason the sexual spark had been extinguished. Forever? He couldn't be sure. Before he left the sombre mood of the Chelsea locker-room, Lampard allowed himself a few appreciative glances at the sole hero of the defeat, goal-scoring Conor Gallagher, recognising another spunky youngster in the blond youth; he briefly eyed up some of the new acquisitions, noting the huge bulge in the underpants of Argentinian Enzo Fernandez, and the beautiful backside of Man City import Raheem Sterling; he stared at the broad beefy back muscles of defender Reece James and lingered most on the curves and definition of Ben Chilwell, more or less his last acquisition before he had been sacked - god, what a handsome bastard he was! But he left them to it, unsure he should be enjoying the view so much, having already shamed himself in the desperate reunion with his Mason. That, he swore to himself, had to be a delightful one-off, something for him to fantasise over and return to in his mind. He didn't have long here to make an impact, and he couldn't allow himself to be scatter-brained and distracted by all of these hot sexy young men who were flailing about in the under-performing squad of his predecessor, the mega-money playground of the club's rash new owner. Weakly consoled by a few of his colleagues, Frank Lampard swerved the media attention that was waiting for him at the tunnel mouth by heading to the mens' toilets instead, another location where he could remember having his wicked way with a younger Mason. He pissed at a urinal and took out his phone to check whilst holding his limp cock with the other hand, scrolling through a series of half-hearted consolation messages that were no more helpful than the platitudes of his fellow coaches - although topmost among them turned out to be one from a pundit who he knew would be unusually reserved when this match got chewed over on the Sky sports round-up. His own cousin, Jamie Redknapp: `Sorry to see that result, Franco - but good to see you back home and the fans supporting you x' And then there was a second message that had come in from his handsome older cousin and fellow retired football star: `Haven't seen enough of you lately, big man - let's hang out soon, ditch the wives and kids for a change?' Frank shook his cock and pushed it back into his pants, about to put the phone away, but starting as the device buzzed in his hand, and a third message slid onto the screen from the same contact, following up Jamie's kind words and matey suggestion: `Maybe I should visit you at work ha - see if I can't whip some of those wimpy players of yours into shape?' Ending in a trio of emojis: a cheeky winking face, another one laughing, and then lastly, at the end of the message, a single `eggplant'. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2023 22:21:40 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 358 Part 358: Unfinished Business `And the gaffer will see you in his office when you're changed,' the player liaison officer told him, finished signing him in on the morning of their Saturday home fixture; the thirty-something team assistant flashed him a warm smile, as susceptible to his boyish charms as any other member of staff at the training campus or their brash stadium in the city. And he smiled in return, the perky polite face of English football, giving the older bloke a respectful nod and chirping his assent to this instruction before muscling away, arms full of warm-up gear that he would be changing into for the journey up to Stamford Bridge. Still smiling to himself, the 24-year-old crossed through the bright foyer of the glass-coated building in the Surrey suburbs, using a little ID card to swipe himself through into the sprawling changing rooms where he could shed his own overpriced designer gear and climb into the muscle-hugging items of Chelsea home gear. A jaunty whistle even escaped from his pink lips as the fresh-faced young football player moved through the brightly-lit locker-rooms and found a comfortable spot to unbutton his shirt and drop his baggy jeans, smirking at the faint nostalgic de ja vu of the casual remark from the handler at the desk - what was it, 2020 again...? `He'll be straight after you,' he'd been told the other week, when the sports news on TV had been brimming with the ex-player's fresh appointment to steward the struggling behemoth in the dying weeks of a disappointing (and expensive) season. Mason Mount, cutting vegetables for a homemade Thai curry at the time, laughed immediately and shook his head, so distracted by the comment that he almost chopped off a finger and complicated the ingredients that would be tossed into the pot on the hob. `What?' the Portsmouth-born midfielder exclaimed loudly over the sounds of the kitchen, looking over the counters and across the open-plan space, to where the London flat's other occupant was sprawled in a leggy heap on one sofa in front of the giant TV. `That was a long time ago,' the Chelsea player added in a slightly less exclamatory tone, turning his attention back down to the chopping board and focusing on a finger-free set of ingredients to add to the hissing and sizzling chicken chunks in the wok. He'd heard rumours, of course, they'd been circulating through the training ground for the last couple of days, and yet he was still surprised: Frank Lampard, reappointed by Chelsea FC, only two years after his sacking, and now summoned out of the blue to try and rescue things under their new American ownership. Mason had laughed off the suggestions when he heard it from teammates on the pitch, and when his own friends and family had prodded the idea in group chats... he didn't really have a strong opinion on who should or shouldn't be the new Chelsea manager after Potter and Tuchel, but he'd been pretty sure that old Lamps wouldn't want to move backwards or take on the risk. And there it was on the screen, an out-of-date clip of the midfield legend prowling the dugout at a Stamford Bridge game back in one of his brief seasons - briefly celebrated and admired, rapidly ridiculed and dismissed. It was a fast-moving game for head coaches. But of course Mason had played under Frank as a Derby loan too - and even in the privacy of his head, the young man couldn't help but colour and snigger at the choice of preposition, recalling his one-time dynamic with the married DILF. Mason looked up: Declan Rice had swung up off the couch and crossed the room and stood facing him now, a knowing look on his long ruggedly handsome face, and arms drooping at his sides. A single eyebrow raised and a crooked grin met his own charming smile, and he shrugged his shoulders evasively. `It'll be ready soon,' the amateurish home chef promised to his beau, well aware that the Thai dish was not what the other footballer's loaded expression was getting at. `It's been a while, but not THAT long,' muttered the West Ham hunk in a low voice, one that sounded a little less playful and provocative than the yelps across the room as he lounged in front of Sky Sports News in his vest and pants. `Come on,' Mason muttered. `Chelsea needs a new manager and the old fella's been conned into it, for some reason - it's probably a good idea, short term, can't see it being a proper fix for him or for us, not really...' He mumbled out this patter, the same as he had to guys at the training ground, not quite able to meet Dec's eyes without sniggering or experiencing lurid little flashbacks to the 2019 and 2020 seasons - he'd been so young and curious in those days, so eager to please, so wide-eyed in his excitement. `It's a bit weird, Mase,' the other 24-year-old said quietly and a little grumpily. `I mean, sacked like he was, and now back with his tail between his legs, ready to be kicked about again? Fuck - the way things went for him with the Toffees, and...' `It's short-term, innit?' Mount said, swiping cubed veg into the wok and blinking at the plume of steam that emerged from its saucy heat. He smiled vaguely across this heat haze at his boyfriend and flatmate, and shrugged one shoulder again. `Honestly, I can't see him being excited to work with me, after all this time - I think a lifelong Chelsea obsessive like him will have some different priorities on his mind when he comes in to try and fix our fucked-up season, y'know...' He let this trail off and dismissed images of the older man's intense lusty eyes across team talks up and down the country. `Will you do something useful and set the table, Rice-cakes? And - are you actually not gonna put some pants on, or are you gonna eat dinner like that and give me a stiffy, for fuck's sake?' Giggling absently, Mason fussed about the kitchen, making a mess, not one of the world's natural cooks, but guiltily weary of their dependence on take-away and restaurants. He didn't notice Declan move into the kitchen until the taller stud was behind him and slipping arms about his waist, kissing the side of his warm neck and tickling their currently-scruffy facial hair together for a moment. `I'm trying not to be a dick about it,' the West Ham captain said quietly in his ear, and hugged at his body a bit more tightly - it was a close and comforting feeling, just like Declan's company and spirit, but not without his streak of possessive uncertainty. `I know, baby,' the young midfielder murmured back, half-turning away form the oven and kissing his boy on the cheek. `And I'm not being a coy bell-end - I just don't think Frank Lampard is going to be rushing to get me in his office like the old days, after all the water under the Stamford Bridge.' He grinned at his own crap pun and stroked a hand up and down Dec's bare arm. `And if you are saying he's off-limits for our open fun agreement, then the old bugger will have to enjoy this twink from afar, haha - I know what we agreed, baby, and you know I hardly touch anyone else now...! Unless you're there, like in Doha...' Dec chuckled and held onto him, their bodies saying a little, but shifting carefully away from the oven and hob. `No, no,' Rice mumbled, `I don't mean anything like that... I keep telling you, I trust you entirely, and I meant everything we agreed to... I just- I was just messing, that's all, just joking around. Do you reckon I'm threatened by old Fat Frank?!' Mason gave him an indulgent smile before turning back to attend to dinner. `Fat Frank, hardly,' he played along, `but why would I be gagging for that oldey when I've got you here in those pants, you sexy prick?' As he stirred and adjusted the heat, Declan continued to fondle and hug him from behind, kissing his neck and spine again, and then reaching down to squeeze his bottom through the loose cargo pants he wore. `As long as he isn't getting inside this,' chuckled the other young hunk's false confident voice, struggling to hide his shy jealousy, `or anyone else in Blue for that matter.' Mason let out a teasing groan at the feel of his boyfriend's hand on his arse and he pushed it back, filling Dec's hand with a mound of strong cheek, then grinning at him over one shoulder. `I promised, didn't I? Nobody's fucking me but you, Deco. Speaking of which - can we just get this meal out of the way so I can sit on your cock before Succession, for fuck's sake? Go set the table!' And in a flurry of giggles and murmured `Yes, sir!', the West Ham player was off to do his bidding, leaving Mount to tackle the an of coconut milk and adjust the semi in the front of his cargo pants. He couldn't help but smirk to himself at the silly little micro-conflict of their chat: how could that big adorable geek think Mason Tony Mount would want any other man in his life but him? Okay, okay - he didn't want or need another man IN HIS LIFE, but he was a horny bastard, a 24-year-old athlete with the ridiculous sex drive to match, it was hardly his own fault. He was fiercely and devotedly loyal to his Declan and he saw the pair of them as forever - but that didn't mean he didn't get his usual urges and, following the rules of their most recent private treaty, take the odd opportunity to indulge them, on the condition that Rice Rice Baby himself was warned and could veto any individual he wanted. And, Mason thought now, pulling the warm-up shirt over his compactly muscled torso, it was so great that Dec had started to relax into it, and been so faithful to their other promise: telling each other every juicy detail when they were next in bed together. The night that Rice had returned from England camp and narrated the Grealish-Foden-Maddison-Phillips-Chilwell shindig into his ear whilst balls-deep in his hole, WOW - Mason had cum so hard that he'd been speechless for half an hour after they were done, and he'd asked Declan to tell him the whole story again two nights later, relishing every image of his boyfriend playing away. Still, Mason had meant much of what he said to Declan, and he left the changing facilities with a smirk that was half in amusement at his own whimsical fantasies: a lot of time and football had passed since Lamps was sacked the first time from this post, and it was mad to think that fun and games from 2020 might mean anything in the new short-term tenure that the ex-Blue had thrown his dignity aside to take up. As intense as things had been between player and manager for a little while back then... Frank had moved on and so had Declan himself, and surely neither was quite the same guy they'd been then! It was whimsical and self-conscious for Mason to indulge the memories and the fantasies, pausing to lace up his trainers, and making his way through the centre of the building and up a short spiral staircase towards the office suites that he knew too well. And so far, anyway, he'd been right: contact between the recovering midfielder and the acting gaffer had been fairly limited, just as he awkwardly predicted to his frowning lover over green Thai curry. For old time's sake, Mase might have allowed himself to be just a little bit offended, but he did understand - here was a struggling football manager throwing himself back into a struggling club, one hounded by embarrassing over-spends and players who just couldn't live up to their potential. And Mason was hardly blind to the fact that he himself was one of those many problems, slowly working his way back from an injury, and stalling his contract renewal on the advice of his worried agent, who was currently courting offers from at least three major rivals in the Premier League. As much as Mount was against leaving London, he was pretty sure his Chelsea days were numbered - in another passing conversation at the flat, Rice had claimed that Lamps would be trying his best to get his signature on a new contract and keep him there, and Mase had laughed it off, but then been somewhat bewildered when the anticipated one-to-one with the new boss never actually materialised. Until, he supposed, today. One idea was as vain and egotistical as the other, he told himself on the way down the managerial corridor that brought back a lot of memories; the idea that a married dad like Lampard would be rushing to strike up a little fuck buddy arrangement from a couple of years ago, and the idea that this Stamford Bridge legend would be specifically desperate to keep Mason Mount in place at his beloved club, over the many high-profile teammates who were starting week after week without him. Still, Mason had always been something of an attention-seeker and a show-off, and he could indulge the fantasy that the returning DILF would fixate on him in EITHER sense. Rice, he thought with a smile, was just paranoid and jealous, as if Mount's former relationship with the famous coach was anything more than curiosity and lust, any more than a spill-over of the manager's excitement at his potential, and earnestness to champion and develop him back in those Derby days, even before they were sitting down for meetings in this office ahead of him. And Rice had nothing to worry about - he liked to get a bit of variety in his fun, but there was only one daddy he wanted to go home to, that big gormless hunk of his at West Ham. `God, stop overthinking this,' the 24-year-old told himself, rapping his knuckles against the office door and pausing politely to wait for the boss to call him in; you're getting as bad as Declan, thinking like this! Just chill out and enjoy the moment, Mase, like you always do. Contrary to Mason's hesitant humility, Frank Lampard was staring at the screen of his laptop and the email of meeting notes that explained the recent unsuccessful contract negotiations surrounding his favourite Chelsea wonder-kid; stroking the slight growth of stubble along his jawline, the 44-year-old acting manager glanced between the dimmed screen of text and the shifty smile on the face of the lad himself, seated across the table from him and swinging back and forth slightly in his chair. Perhaps this morning wasn't the best time to be addressing this, but Frank was not choosing it by accident: he would be placing Mason on the bench for this afternoon's Brighton game, but with a clear intention to bring him on in the second half, in front of a strained home crowd who he hoped would show him a good welcome. This, Lampard's own first home game since accepting the poisoned chalice of a temporary return, could be a reminder to Mount of what Chelsea had been to him in the first chapter of his senior career - a home win today in front of that loyal crowd could be instrumental in shaping the kid's career aspirations over the next couple of months. And... if it did a little something to help with Lampard's own managerial trajectory, then... well, all the better. `They're offering you a lot,' the middle-aged bloke said after a long pause in their stilted conversation, `but you've been right to hold out.' He saw Mason's bright eyes bulge at this, and his brows raise. `You can get a lot more from Boelhy, you're right - you just need to hold strong and let the rival offers come in. But,' he continued, his voice fairly grave, `don't run this into the ground, kid. If you want to be here, you'll need to compromise eventually, and play your hand. You know the kind of hero you can become if you stay put and really commit to this project. Yeah?' Across the desk from him, the 24-year-old was as evasive and unreadable as he had seemed from the moment he walked in the office door, spinning side to side a little on the wheeled seat, seeming distracted by the most minor detail of the refurbished room. At Frank's mixed encouragement and warning, he whistled under his breath and stroked his thin strap of a beard, then tilted his head and shrugged one shoulder. `I see what you mean,' the young midfielder told him ambiguously, and left it at that. Frank let out a slow breath and stared at the laptop screen for a few moments rather than eyeing the handsome youngster in front of him, acting as if he was noticing fresh details in the notes of his colleagues - and not simply averting his attention from just how good-looking and mature the South Coast kid had become in the years since they last occupied this desk. It was a difficult state of affairs not to notice, and had become more difficult with every experience they shared on the training ground; it was the reason that Lampard had dedicated so little personal attention to one of his favoured players in this patchwork squad of egos and anxieties, and the reason it had taken him this long to sit Mason down and address the elephant in the boardroom, his dubious future at the club. If anyone could stop Mason's wandering eyes and lock him in at Chelsea, the club bigwigs openly said to him, then it was him, Frank Lampard - if only they fucking knew how `special' his connection with the lithe young footballer was, jesus christ. The prospect of such close quarters with this sexy twink had hardly escaped the Romford man's imagination as he gave his shocking `yes' to the short-term job offer, though he hoped it wasn't a major factor in his decision, compared to loyalty and ambition and the burning certainty that he'd been on the verge of big success before his previous ousting. He was here because he believed in Chelsea and he believed in what he could do for the team; he'd hate to think he was here just because a young lad looked particularly good in shorts and bounced about the training ground like a cross between Tigger and a particularly enthusiastic OnlyFans model. He was NOT here this morning to seduce the handsome bugger - nudging him along on his contract situation was pretty much part of Frank's new job here before the season closed, the board had as good as said so! And yet, to be this close to him, after all this time, and to see for himself how much the boy had become a man, well... Unfinished business. All of this talk about his own future was very ego-boosting for Mason, as it turned out, but also a little... disappointing. Did he really just want the Chelsea legend in front of him to be interested him on a purely professional level, and to offer him this encouragement and mentoring...? Hmm. The stop-start conversation between player and coach, tinged with all of the awkwardness of what had once gone on between them, and the gulf of time since, had fallen quiet again, and he checked the digital watch on one wrist. More of his teammates would be getting here now, and he ought to be hanging out with them before they assembled for the coach ride across the suburbs and into West London - and surely the boss-man here had other business to attend to before the team travel. So it was probably time to wrap this chat up, as politely as possible - he hated to be aloof or unclear with Lamps, but he knew that anything he said now would be rapidly passed back to the board who had hired the bloke, and Mount was under strict instructions from his representatives. He was to keep his lips zipped in the Chelsea bubble until the rival offers were firmer, and to leave all the talk to the agent - a positive or negative hint to Frank today before the Brighton game could be disastrous, according to his advisors, who didn't even know he was perched here in the gaffer's office, reminiscing about very different meetings. Neither of them were going to bring it up, he realised, and he was oddly surprised - he'd half-expected some gruff awkward overture from the manager that would skirt around the truth of their past, maybe pleading for his silence on it, or just testing his feelings about it, or even trying to smudge it away and deny it even happened, or... Frank was talking again, but no longer about Mason's future: the football boss was murmuring on about the game today, sharing some tactical insights that would presumably be the centre of his team talk downstairs. Mason only half-listened, looking up from his watch and smiling vaguely at the serious face and determined posture of the older guy, and thinking about how enthralled he'd once been by the midfield hero... not that he didn't feel any awe or respect for him now, but the guy was terribly human and real to him, not some poster-on-the-wall heart-throb or footballing demigod. He found he was sat here with him like an old friend, a couple of guys who'd shared a lot of memories on and off the pitch. It was weird - was it just that he'd grown up a lot in the past few years? Maybe it was being with Dec, he even wondered, always sure that his boyfriend was the more mature and grounded one. `You'll be on the bench, of course,' the 40-something coach was telling him now. `Don't be pissy about it - you're just not in full fitness and consistent form yet. But you'll subbed on, you can be sure of that, so be mentally ready from the kick-off, okay?' Mason tuned in properly, aware that something more than a vague nod was expected from him. `Thanks,' he said, aiming for a bit more brightness and enthusiasm, now that he wasn't trying to be guarded and cautious on the topic of his career. `I won't let you down, chief.' He returned Frank's serious level gaze, puffing out his chest and sitting alert in the chair, no longer swinging on it like a bored teen. And then, without wanting to sound too rude, he added, `Should I leave you to it, then?' `Hmm?' `Er - I mean, are we done here, or...?' `Oh-' Lamps was a bit annoyed by this turn in the conversation, he could tell, and he felt a bit awkward. Fuck, the guy's being as kind as he can, and maybe all this chat here is his way of alluding back to how things were, and here I am trying to rush away... Erm. He smiled awkwardly at his coach and shrugged both shoulders. `Sorry, I thought you sounded finished,' he said through a laugh. `I got it wrong?' Lampard was hesitating, and staring very thoughtfully at him. Then he too looked at his watch, and sighed, and then seemed to stare back very intently at his laptop, whatever was on it. Again, there was something dismissive in the older guy's manner, and so Mase pushed his chair back slightly and stood up, still hesitant to just wander out of the unproductive meeting, but unsure what more the manager needed from him when there was a big game for them both to turn their attention to - their parallel careers were both hanging on this home fixture in very different ways. `It's good to have you back here,' Mason said, stood in front of the desk with his hands bumping idly together in front of his tummy. And it was, he reflected, it wasn't just an empty compliment to a guy who had always placed a lot of trust in him - he'd enjoyed a return to Lampard's style in the training work, even if there had been mutinous grumbles from other corners of the bloated squad ranks. Frank looked up at him from the laptop, and Mason smiled warmly at the attractive older man, wondering for the first time just how stressed and worried the football boss must be, shifting from his Everton disasters to THIS. Not for the first time in the seasons of his fledgling senior career, Mason felt a particular desire to succeed for the sake of his mentor, hoping that his own efforts on the pitch could justify Lampard's faith and bring him much-needed success. It was, for a moment, like he was an up-and-coming teen on loan to Derby, awe-struck to be taken aside for pep talks and one-to-one coaching by the midfield icon. Frank held his gaze, and Mase felt a familiar tingle of... let's call it admiration. There had been a time, he knew now, where he'd genuinely thought that was all it was. Admiration, hero worship. Nothing lusty and physical about it... Hah. Lampard got up, and he tensed, unsure if he was about to get a stiff formal handshake from the acting manager, or... and there he was, the 6ft Chelsea legend, right in front of him, breathing a heavy sigh, and pulling him in for a hug, the kind of full-on masculine embrace that normally came after a 3-0 win, or... it took him back not to his Derby loan spell, but to this office, to 2020, and to the discoveries that had stemmed from his gaffer's close attention, orchestrated in part by the estranged Ross Barkley. The hug lasted for several long moments and when Lamps pulled away, he looked a little red in the face, and flustered, as if he didn't quite know what he'd done - and Mason himself was vaguely shaken, his cool broken by the dredged-up warmth and intensity that lived in their past. Here was a man who, like big Ross, had brought him out of himself, and helped him to see what he really wanted - guys who had, ultimately, led him to Dec. `Fuck,' grunted the slightly taller man. `You're not getting any uglier, kid.' Excited and relieved by the compliment, Mason gave a choked laugh, and licked his bottom lip, shifting foot to foot. `Is that still part of the contract negotiation, boss?' he joked quietly, trying to measure the frustrated feelings on Frank's face. A hollow chuckle at that from Lamps, who continued to stare at him, playing with the top of the zip of his coach's training jersey, just below his neck. `Something like that.' `You're not getting any less sexy, daddy,' Mason told his favourite coach bluntly, throwing himself off the cliff-edge of his list - after all, Dec hadn't pulled a veto, despite his obvious reservations. He could see the wincing uncertainty in Frank's face at his overt flirtation, and the great tension in his stance. Without moving from the spot, Mason nodded across the office. `Does that window by the door still cover up if you drop those blinds...?' `You should go,' breathed the acting Chelsea boss. `I should,' Mase agreed in a whisper, `but I seem to be staying where I am.' He grinned. The moment of de ja vu was over, though the excitement was left behind: this was, he thought now, quite different at all. The upper hand was his. Frank rushed to the panel window by the office door, twisting the little cord at the side to close the slats. He fingered roughly at the lock on the door and then turned around: the lad had already whipped off his jumper and shirt, baring the solid pale muscle of his chest and abdomen, and looking so damned sexy that Lampard could only abandon the simmering doubts in his chest. He'd sworn to himself that this meeting wouldn't end like this, even as he left the instructions at reception and splashed extra aftershave on his cheeks and neck like a nervous youngster on a first date; he'd sworn that he'd stay professional here on his second innings, and really just do the job. There had been so many moments in training this last couple of weeks that had tested him, and not only around this lad in particular - but he'd sworn he would hold back and behave himself. He was on him in seconds, grabbing him about that slim waist and feeling up his bare muscular sides, then leaning in and kissing him on the neck, tasting his soft skin, snogging up and across his jaw and on one cheek. He went in for a real kiss, mouth to mouth, unsure if they'd ever really done that so intimately, but Mason swerved it, and he just chewed on his earlobe and his neck instead, and groped his hands up and down his back, feeling very bulge of muscle in the thicker stronger body than he remembered from before. Frank was gagging for it, and it wasn't just Mason's effervescent attractiveness. He was a man recently dumped. Not by his wife, but by his dom. Things had been strained and distant in his relationship of sexual submission with John Terry for a good while, the initial novelty thrill soon burning out - their FRIENDSHIP was fine, and they still saw plenty of each other with their wives and mutual friends, but their lust for each other had not been quite so powerful and permanent as either assumed. Sex between them had gone from wild to awkward, and neither man had admitted it aloud, simply letting the dom-sub arrangement between them fizzle into nothing. And then Frank had taken a job at Chelsea again, and JT had apparently been so alarmed by this that he'd leapt into a new role at Leicester City rather than remain here in his support role - Terry presumably thought that Lamps was here to try and win him back, which was far from the truth. So Frank was a man starved of this homoerotic intimacy, and he was exploding with lust for it. He grabbed the outline of Mason's always-bigger-than-expected cock through the front of his tracksuit pants, and groaned loudly at the heat and stiffness of it, realising just how desperate he'd been for some dick. He held and squeezed it and kissed Mason on the chest, licking and sucking at his nipples, where it turned out the young hunk was incredibly sensitive and responsive. It didn't really occur to Lamps how different this was - he was less reflective and self-aware than Mase, and he couldn't accurately remember how dominant and bullyish he had been in their old arrangement, now that he had spent so much time submitting entirely to a thug like John Terry. It was only Mason's little gasps of surprise and enjoyment that invited such half-formed realisations for Frank, kissing his way about the lad's body, and pausing only to whisper at him that he had to be careful about making too much noise. The ideas churned at the back of his heated brain, pushing a hand inside the front of Mason's tracksuit and feeling his dick up close and personal, and snogging his way down his six-pack - this WAS all very different from how things had been, apart perhaps from the final time when the lads were giving him a little send-off... Down to his knees he went, ready to take a taste. Despite the gaffer's orders, Mason couldn't help but groan and gasp. He was sprawled back on the desk, the manager's laptop and paperwork almost pushed away at one side, and a lamp and executive toy facing similar fate on the other. His pants were all about his calf muscles and his legs spread, the red face of Frank Lampard bobbing up and down as the older man noshed him off with gusto, surprising him with his taste for cock - wow, this wasn't quite the hypermasculine daddy that younger Mason Mount had idolised and exhausted himself for...! In his dirty private fantasies of the past fortnight, the young stud had imagined a cheeky revisit to past scenes: down on his knees for the boss, face-fucked and choking on his thick manly meat; pushed and pulled about and the gaffer barking the orders; pinned to this desk beneath the weight of Frank's relaxed muscle, submissive to the appetites of his old mentor. But he was enjoying this reality more than he could have expected, reaching down and wrapping his hands about the back of Frank's head, fingering the thinning brown hair, and pushing up and down to feed his own aching cock between those greedy lips. The tongue up and down his shaft and swirling about the almost pointed head; then down low to lap at his fat balls, kissing him between them and taking them into his mouth one at a time, seemingly desperate to pleasure him, and earning groan after groan of delight. When his muscular legs were pushed further apart and lifted, Mason hung between fantasy and reality, between the submissive twink of 2020 who had begged and panted at the crotches of Lampard and Barkley, and the growing stud he was in 2023, his toned body worshipped by this middle-aged admirer. He felt Frank's tongue on first his gooch and then in between his cheeks, darting in there and smearing his hole; the rimming that he always longed for, with Dec a little clumsy and nervous when he tried to please him that way, always just a touch prudish about it... not like Lamps, snuffling and spitting and gasping down there, and giving his arse-hole a good polish with his questing tongue. Fuck! Mase lay back against the desk, hearing a slight bang and unsure what he'd even knocked asunder, just parting and lifting his thighs as best he could to allow the gaffer full access to his pert cheeks and the dark-haired little canyon between them, eating his arse like he'd done on a couple of occasions in the past. Fuckkkkk. This ecstatic pleasure did leave Mase to a wobbly dilemma as he writhed on the desk, cheeks prised apart and Lampard's tongue going wild on his ring: he assumed that this rim-job was a prelude to proper use of his tight strong bottom, and he was re-thinking his sincere promises to his Rice-cakes, that he would reserve his perfect arse for nobody but his Declan. But here... now... with Lamps? He groaned and tensed up and wondered how reckless he was feeling, versus his loyalty and devotion. It was with great difficulty that he pushed back on Frank's head and forced that face away from his crotch, wriggling aside slightly and panting out his dissent, `You can't have my arse.' He didn't feel any need to explain this further, but he was ready for a slight argument, remembering how demanding and imperious his old coach could be - but Frank was just kissing desperately at his inner thighs and licking the tip of his cock, and staring needily up at him. Here it comes, he thought, he's gonna go all sexy and persuasive, and my good behaviour is gonna be REALLY tested, and- Mason started, hearing what the older man was growling at him, and he was still reacting to it as Frank pulled away and stripped off in a hurry. `Fuck me, please.' Soon he had him over the desk, perfectly recreating but inverting the way it had often been, summoned up here at the end of a long day's training, or after a big win or heavy loss, or even on a day off when the site was otherwise locked up - he'd been at this man's beck and call for many months at that time, to a point where he'd felt a bit misused and fatigued, though absence had crushed those antipathies. Well, things were very different now, and he was about to show his gaffer just how different. Mason rubbed spit between the chubby cheeks, enjoying the slight thickening of the older man's body since he'd last been pinned beneath him, enjoying the feel of his bare skin and patches of body hair, getting a bit rough with his hands and indulging a different part of his horny persona. He edged his cock in and was surprised by how readily the married man took it, just grunting encouragement, shifting to greedy demands, and pushing back with his meaty rear until Mount was right up there and thrusting into him. `You're like an Energizer bunny on speed!' Dec had once yelped at him on the sporadic occasions where they swapped positions, Mase pumping chaotically into his lean backside and only slowing down once he released how uncomfortable his less-experienced boyfriend was at taking this rhythm and force. Frank, this morning, had no such complaints, just groaning for more, and telling him this was `just what he needed'. Mason humped him like crazy, pushing his body down against the neck to hold him in place, and bouncing in and out of his cushioned cheeks, loving the feel of him about his aching prick. He even, really gripped by the role reversal of this bodily reunion, landed a couple of heavy spanks on one of Frank's big cheeks, leaving red finger-marks where he slapped the hairy cheek, giddy with dominance and responding to each groaning beg of `Harder!' from the failed Everton manager. It was all too much for Mason and he came quicker than he expected, pulling out so that he could watch his load fire and pool against the muscles of the older man's back, and then slapping the tip of his heavy erection against those jiggling cheeks before backing away in a stupefied daze of pleasure. On his knees, Frank licked him clean and kissed at his shaven pubes and his inner thighs, lapping at his balls and his gooch, while Mase just groaned happily and wondered how noisy the pair of them had been in this indiscreet corner office. Below him, his boss came too, wanking himself off furiously whilst sucking on Mason's softening dick, red-faced and frenzied, as frenzied in submission as he'd once been in his dominance. And Mason just gazed happily down at his temporary gaffer, very glad that they'd both thrown caution to the wind and reunited like this - and already imagining how fun it would be to tell Declan in bed tomorrow night once both of their weekend fixtures were over. Lamps tried his best not to be too awkward or off with Mount as he helped him to dress and then hugged him goodbye. He didn't want to regret this surrender to lust, and any awkwardness or conflict with this star was the last thing he wanted to mar his next few weeks of Chelsea life; he was brimming with shaky regrets about just how submissive he'd been, and how desperate and demanding he'd been with the eager young stud, but then his body felt so good and satisfied, what was there really to regret? He sat for a while at the desk, sweating profusely under his club gear, savouring the very sensations that part of his brain was trying to regret. Heading downstairs to join the assembly of his players, and speaking to them there and on the coach, he felt a strange mix of awkward tension, having given in so easily to temptation, but also renewed confidence and ambition, daring to fantasise that this short spell could turn into a fresh contract and a full new season to prove himself as the steward of this glorious London football club... rather than just an undignified caretaker at a time of challenge and embarrassment. The eventual 2-1 outcome of the home game to Brighton didn't exactly bolster his cautious ambitions, but the physical memory of enjoying Mason's body and cock did boost his spirits and allow him to keep his head high during the later stages of the defeat, and when delivering grim condolences to the players in the home changing rooms. He delivered what he hoped was a rousing and reassuring speech about their remaining fixtures and what could still be achieved; there was no point going in too harsh on the mistakes and fumbles, he was here to drag something out of the existing shambles and give the lads something positive to aspire to. Lingering in the locker-rooms of his beloved stadium, Lampard couldn't help but watch Mason Mount, admiring the new manliness of his favourite protegee - he'd filled out in the last couple of years, seeming almost taller as well as broader and stronger, and a little less playful and silly in the way he carried himself. Lamps dared to hope that he'd had a good influence on the young hunk at some point, and that he could take some credit for what Mase might go on to achieve... here or elsewhere. But he had eyes for others too - after all, the eager fumble with his favourite had been his first action in some time, and as Terry's loyal sub, he'd been so VERY well-behaved in his Everton tenure - excluding that one time where he'd wanked in on the circle-jerk and joined a few of his lads in jizzing on Tom Davies' face. Other than that... saintly. And regularly dominated by his big John, the Chelsea bully who remained his closest friend, even if for some reason the sexual spark had been extinguished. Forever? He couldn't be sure. Before he left the sombre mood of the Chelsea locker-room, Lampard allowed himself a few appreciative glances at the sole hero of the defeat, goal-scoring Conor Gallagher, recognising another spunky youngster in the blond youth; he briefly eyed up some of the new acquisitions, noting the huge bulge in the underpants of Argentinian Enzo Fernandez, and the beautiful backside of Man City import Raheem Sterling; he stared at the broad beefy back muscles of defender Reece James and lingered most on the curves and definition of Ben Chilwell, more or less his last acquisition before he had been sacked - god, what a handsome bastard he was! But he left them to it, unsure he should be enjoying the view so much, having already shamed himself in the desperate reunion with his Mason. That, he swore to himself, had to be a delightful one-off, something for him to fantasise over and return to in his mind. He didn't have long here to make an impact, and he couldn't allow himself to be scatter-brained and distracted by all of these hot sexy young men who were flailing about in the under-performing squad of his predecessor, the mega-money playground of the club's rash new owner. Weakly consoled by a few of his colleagues, Frank Lampard swerved the media attention that was waiting for him at the tunnel mouth by heading to the mens' toilets instead, another location where he could remember having his wicked way with a younger Mason. He pissed at a urinal and took out his phone to check whilst holding his limp cock with the other hand, scrolling through a series of half-hearted consolation messages that were no more helpful than the platitudes of his fellow coaches - although topmost among them turned out to be one from a pundit who he knew would be unusually reserved when this match got chewed over on the Sky sports round-up. His own cousin, Jamie Redknapp: `Sorry to see that result, Franco - but good to see you back home and the fans supporting you x' And then there was a second message that had come in from his handsome older cousin and fellow retired football star: `Haven't seen enough of you lately, big man - let's hang out soon, ditch the wives and kids for a change?' Frank shook his cock and pushed it back into his pants, about to put the phone away, but starting as the device buzzed in his hand, and a third message slid onto the screen from the same contact, following up Jamie's kind words and matey suggestion: `Maybe I should visit you at work ha - see if I can't whip some of those wimpy players of yours into shape?' Ending in a trio of emojis: a cheeky winking face, another one laughing, and then lastly, at the end of the message, a single `eggplant'. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-348

Date: Sun, 5 Feb 2023 12:49:49 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 348 Part 348: Rematch It was hardly the first time the two Premiership sides had faced off in the past two and a half years, but it was the first time in a while that he'd found the professional reunion quite so difficult to blink impassively away; filing past each other on the way out of the tunnel, his opponent in the crisp blue kit of Leicester City, whilst his own gear was layered under the warm-up tracksuit of the Aston Villa subs bench. As always, the Foxes winger carefully averted his eyes as the two young men passed close to each other, suddenly very busy untying and retying a drawstring on his footy shorts, and then leaning down to examine the laces of his boots, anything but glance up and share the standard nods or handshakes of acknowledgement shared between opposing players at this point. And, as always, the Villa defender himself was pretty happy to strut on by, his body language stiffening, and his mind flashing back briefly to October 2020, and the close encounters that had set the two up-and-coming players at odds with each other. A bad tackle on the pitch, and a worse one in the stadium car park. Ordinarily, it was just a moment's discomfort and hazy regret - how many times had Aston Villa come up against their Midlands rivals in the league and the cup since that October weekend between national lockdowns...? It was a memory that Matty Cash had increasingly learnt to suppress and ignore, and laugh at internally, even if bumping into Harvey Barnes through their competitive sport also gave him a jolt and a little colour in his cheeks. But ordinarily it would pass in moments and the 25-year-old could just focus on his game time, shrugging off the fact that once upon a time a scuffle between them had gone in a strange direction and given him paranoid night sweats for the rest of the month. Ordinarily. Today, taking his place in a comfortable seat at the edge of the home pitch, the Slough-born Poland national found it difficult to relax his 6ft1 body and tune back in to the quiet muttering of his fellow substitutes, and instead watched intently as the Leicester starting line-up first formed a discreet huddle of discussion and then began to take their places on one side of the Villa Park pitch. For almost 60 minutes of the Saturday afternoon game he was stuck on the sidelines like this, the inactivity allowing him to wallow in recurring images of the memory: the aggressive tackle of his own that had instigated everything, and the rough scrappy dog aggression of the Burnley lad who'd pulled him aside and squared up to him; the brief silly fisticuffs and bloodied lips between them, and then the inappropriate and totally unwanted kiss that Harvey Barnes had landed on his own shocked lips. Matty's memory always honed in on his own words, angrily spitting back at the weirdo that HE should be the one to get on his knees - it had been Harvey who made it weird and sexual or whatever, but Cash could always hear himself spitting angrily back at the short lad, and then pushing him roughly down and taking everything out on his mouth. His mouth. Swaddled in tracksuit and puffer coat, the country-swapping World Cup upstart shivered, and turned anxiously to the men on either side of him to see what they were discussing, anything to lift his mind out of a memory from over two years ago. To his left, Calum Chambers was chatting quite contentedly to John McGinn about their plans for tomorrow, attention leaving the game behind, and on his right, Phil Coutinho was speaking rapid Spanish to the newcomer Moreno, pausing and faltering when they caught Matt's eye, and immediately apologising for being rude. He tried to laugh off the language barrier and shrug casually at the Latino men, conscious yet again of his limited languages skill - he'd been assigned as a welcome buddy to Alexandre Moreno, the club's January signing from Real Betis, and tried his best to befriend the new left-back, only to find that the newcomer's English was even worse than his attempted Spanish, and to have to be replaced in the job by Coutinho here. Though Spanish was not the South American man's first language, he was clearly a lot more broadly spoken than the average Englishman. Not a big deal, but Cash had been chuffed to be asked, and seen it as a chance to start proving he was captain material. And of course, these days language barriers and feeling lost in translation were pretty regular experiences for the English 25-year-old, from every Poland training session to his promotional TV appearances in the mother country of his maternal grandparents. He was still getting regularly roasted here at Villa with impressions of the Polish TV Christmas advert he'd recorded, with various gobbledegook outbursts lampooning his handling of a complex new language. After a short mumbled exchange to include him, the Brazilian and Spanish players went back to quicker discourse in their native language, Coutinho sounding quite aggressively critical of the manager's decision to leave them on the bench - the former Liverpool icon had been fiercely loyal to the ill-fated Steven Gerrard in his tenure, and made no secrets of the fact he'd only signed for the mid-table Birmingham club to honour his retired teammate. Though he'd yet to secure a high-profile transfer out of Villa Park, he was quietly vicious about the coaches and management now, and it was a bit worrying that he might be passing such attitudes on to the newbie. This left Matty feeling out of place next to them, and reflective about how often he'd been in this position since his 2021 passport grab for his Polish roots. And this, he reflected, was probably the reason his mood was a bit off today, and why his eyes couldn't stop picking Harvey Barnes out of the football melee, and thinking back to when they'd both been just 22, and full of youthful aggression. A memory that Cash had long been able to file away as a freakish one-off had been brought back front and centre, and he was pretty sure he could blame it on the language barrier... After all, he thought, he must have misunderstood something that day, shortly before Poland were knocked out of the World Cup, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in the sauna with them. Probably Robert Lewandowski had said something a bit more clear to him, and he'd misunderstood: the international star striker had oddly become his closest ally on the team, since media exposure and league-flitting had given the experienced 34-year-old a better grasp of English than the majority of their teammates. But even big Lewy slipped casually from English to Polish, often jokingly trying to educate and encourage him by emphasising key Polish expressions to him, and laughing a bit less resentfully than others when he struggled with the pronunciation. Thinking back to that tense afternoon before their last game, Matty now suspected that the Barcelona forward must have said something to suggest what was going on, had maybe warned him or tried to sound out his readiness, and he'd missed it. On Poland duty, the Slough lad had quickly fallen into a habit of just nodding and smiling, always desperate to convey his pride and pleasure to play with them, and his determination to represent this ancestral country, even if some critics in the Polish FA wanted to sneer at his loyalty-switching in order to get into international footy. At the time, though, Cash had just thought it was another standard part of the training recovery, another way for the team members to relax and gather strength before the following day's knockout match that would end their Qatar run. And, he mused uncomfortably, in a sense, it was. Certainly for Lewandowski, he thought, it was a great way to relax and gather strength, and... maybe for him too. But for Zurkowski...? In a way, this memory from late November was dimmer than that of October 2020, the aggressive intimacy that haunted him right now at the Villa-Leicester game. This more recent memory was awash with thick steamy air and the heady euphoria of the whole World Cup debutant experience, every day of it a new adventure for the full-back. One minute he was accepting Lewandowski's invite and nodding eagerly at the other 6ft1 man, then undressing with him and a few others, who were all laughing and bantering in their shared language, Cash barely able to take hold of a key word or phrase. And then they were all sat in the wood-lined sauna in their towels, and still there was much hearty laughter and chatter, and most of it directed at midfielder Szymon Zurkowski - there seemed to be an in-joke between the blokes that he couldn't follow, and one that made the midfield player squirm and blush and do a lot less laughing than everybody else, though his apparent discomfort soon turned out to be a kind of feverish eagerness, when the first of the other blokes undid his towel and flicked it playfully at Zurkowski's sweaty chest. When Szymon then began to get down on his knees and wrap his mouth about Jan Bednarek's soft prick, Matty must have looked shocked and horrified, his mouth hanging open and the rivulets of sweat coursing down either side of his face. One large calm hand rested on his thigh, gripping him lightly through the dampening towel, and Robert had just given him a friendly expansive look. `You want to be next?' came the striker and captain's simple question, and Matty had felt entirely out of his depth, lost in the Polish chatter of these other footballers, overwhelmed by heat and sweat. He didn't know what he'd said to Lewandowski in that moment, if he'd said anything at all, but he knew what he hadn't said: `Oh, sorry old chap, I think I misunderstood what was going on - we don't do this sort of thing in England, you see, so I'll just go take a cold shower and-' Nope. None of that. A moment later he'd been gently parting his huge thighs and pressing his back fearfully into the wooden slats of the wall, looking down into Szymon's shiny face, and hearing the gruff encouraging laughter and slurred speech fo the Polish men around him, and just a couple of words of English from a beaming Lewandowski: `Relax, enjoy it, haha.' His cock was taken between the hot lips and when he'd peered nervously down his gleaming torso, it wasn't Szymon Zurkowski he pictured gobbling on his nervous semi, but a pink-cheeked redhead from Lancashire, and the distant memory had become a lot less distant. For a short while, the hosts led 2-1, a goal from his best pal Watkins being seconded by a Souttar own goal; but then Maddison's effort was joined by three more from other Foxes players, and the final result arrived at a dispiriting 4-2 defeat. Try as he might, Cash couldn't make any impact in the final third of the match, and he lost his footing a few times when midfield action brought him into awkward contact with a particular winger; the first few times he and Barnes went head-to-head, he fluffed it, far too self-conscious to play at his most aggressively defensive, but then on the fourth encounter, close to the final whistle, he went in very over-excitedly for a heavy tackle that might earn an instant red card, but was so stupidly physical and bullish that he went crashing down over the turf instead while the ginger lad sped away with the ball and almost assisted a fifth Leicester goal, while Cash was wiping mud and grass off the taut arse and thighs of his Villa home kit shorts. Moments later, Barnes stalked past him, his face blotchy red and his eyes wild, and the two 25-year-old players looked sharply at one another for the first time in over two years, rather than the awkward politeness of ignorance that they had always opted for in the tunnel for two whole seasons. And Cash himself stared back, still adjusting his shirt and shorts, sore and grazed from the way he'd slid to a fall, and his heart rate spiking excitedly as he thought back to the pugnacious intimacy they'd found against a concrete pillar in the shadows of the car park. But then the final whistle was going, and the moment was broken, Harvey shouting excitedly and running to join the huge pile-on celebrations of the other Leicester players, whilst Matty could only trudge slowly in towards the consoling hugs of the defeated hosts, waving apologetically to their fans before disappearing sadly indoors. In the sauna of their Qatari hotel, he'd gripped a rough hand over the back of Zurkowski's head, cheered by the three other men for this dominant gesture; Lewandowski had clapped him roughly on the back and shook at his shaggy wet hair, calling him a `Boss' and a `King' as he thrust up with his hips and fucked Szymon in the mouth, returning to the scrappy violence of that day two Octobers ago. He'd cum quickly, his entire body overheated and quivering, and he'd had to blink the sweat out of his eyes several times to see who it was reeling away from his crotch, lips glossy and dirty, seeing the earnest blond lad, coughing and choking, and not the angry features of the Burnley bugger. Spent and overwhelmed, Matty had poured back against the wall and clutched hands to his head, ashamed of the red mist that had descended over him, but surrounded by encouraging laughter and noise from the big men of the Poland squad, who fully approved, and even Zurkowski, dazed and still coughing, was slapping one of his big thigh muscles and saying one of the few Polish words that he could use with confidence: `Thanks.' The sauna incident had sort of vanished into the rush of new experiences. The next day they were defeated and almost immediately preparing to leave Doha. There was much pride and joy in the Poland camp even at this defeat, lots of self-congratulation for making it so far, and there was so much for Cash to enjoy - he hardly had a moment to reflect on the sauna episode until he was enjoying a few days off on his own, lingering at a nearby beach resort and soaking up a little more Middle Eastern sun before returning to bleak UK winter. But even in a deckchair with a cocktail and no football excitement to distract him, Matty found himself unable to form a proper thought about what he'd been encouraged to do; if he'd felt so inclined, it was almost as if he could have happily just written it off as an odd dream, and dismissed it as fiction. There had been no oddness between him and Zurkowski in the final game or the team goodbyes, nor with Lewy or any of the other senior players who'd also enjoyed their turn in that steamy box; no oddness or even the slightest acknowledgement. No serious thought or worry on that beach, nor on his flight to Birmingham International, nor as he returned to training with Aston Villa; not a thought over Christmas or New Year or for the entirety of January 2023, and now this. The first Saturday of February, losing 4-2 to Leicester City, and... here he was, marching down a broad windy street of different chain hotels, hood pulled up and beanie pulled low for discretion, reading the big neon signs to find the right accommodation that had been named in Harvey's message. It was the Poland experience, he told himself again, that had made today different, made it harder to ignore Barnes or the madness they'd once shared. That was why he'd sent the first DM on social media, sat shrouded in towels in the home locker-room, and ignoring the slew of positive messages from his own friends, family, and fans. `Thought you were gonna start on me again for that bad tackle - sorry bro' followed by a crying-laughing emoji, thrown hastily into Barnes' inbox before either time had even exited the Villa Park stadium; there'd been no quick reply, and he'd even wondered if his opponent had sensibly blocked him in the years that had passed. (He certainly hadn't blocked him immediately; back in the winter of 2020, Cash had received any number of vague reacts and half-formed messages from the Lancashire lad via the same app, never actually referencing what had happened, but seeming to beg for his attention, and usually sent in the small hours of the morning.) But later that evening, whilst Matty was at a big meal with his girlfriend and her family, the replies had started to come through. First, the series of ROFL images and gifs, and then the `As if you could bring me down now' and `Put on a lot of muscle since then' comments, to which he could only LOL and send back his own gifs of some braindead gym bloke flexing and posing. Distracted from being the perfect boyfriend at the Thai restaurant, Matty had found himself taking too long in the loos, stood over the urinal long after the last drop of piss, composing the next short message to the lad he'd fought with, and really unsure of where he was heading with his comments of `We've both grown up since then' and `I'd still have you whimpering in a corner, haha'. Now, in the chill winds of the central Birmingham street, he paused and shivered despite the layers he wore, and wondered if he should be in the car home with his girlfriend. She'd looked furious when he apologetically told her he had to meet the lads for a conciliatory drink after such a harsh defeat, but she'd kinda understood. And, he told himself, it wasn't even a full lie: Martinez was hosting a party of sorts at his city centre penthouse, a few blocks away, so at least he hadn't invented the occasion that he'd ditched her for, after failing to make much chat during the dinner with her folks and siblings. Sure, he wasn't actually heading there, but still... Instead, he was looking up at the logo and signage of the right upmarket hotel, the last on this block of similar buildings, and then reopening the messaging thread with the Leicester player, checking that he wasn't getting the wrong end of the stick. `U up for a rematch?' was the message from Barnes that had made him pause only a moment after using the phone to make contactless payment on the restaurant bill for everybody, and it hadn't really moved much past this euphemism and innuendo: `I'm feeling pretty cheeky - you should come put me in my place' had really got his cock semi in his ripped skinny jeans. Now, stood out on the pavement, the 25-year-old defender thumbed in a cautious last message to the winger. `Wot bout ur roomm8?' He paused, device in both hands, wrinkling his nose and biting his lip, and glancing side to side as if someone was going to catch him loitering outside the Leicester City hotel base on a Saturday night. I shouldn't be here, he reminded himself, I shouldn't be digging up this nonsense. But Qatar... `Not here,' pinged the reply on the messaging app, then `Just me'. A moment, and then, `U outside? Think I can see from window'. And, inevitably, Cash looked warily up, his eyes scanning the inscrutable rows of tinted windows that towered over the entrance, none of them showing him anything. He shivered again and hesitated. He could switch apps and summon a taxi and follow his missus home at speed, saying he'd changed his mind and felt bad; fuck, he could even just walk on a couple of streets more and be at the Martinez party, if it was even still happening...! But the memory haunted him now, the memory that he'd totally buried until today, after the initial regret and anxiety that it had caused him two winters ago. He thought of being in that sauna, grabbed and encouraged by a football icon like Lewandowski himself, his towel being pulled aside for him by somebody else, and Zurkowski's gently opening mouth... Fuck. With a long huff of breath, the Villa player bundled himself in through the automatic doors and across the foyer of the hotel, letting himself into the first of the elevators before anybody could spot or recognise him. On the swift journey up to the right floor, he felt sweaty under his clothes, and he had some instant regret; the floors he was travelling to would be full of Foxes players, and how easily would he find the room that Barnes had named for him? What was he after here? A fight, or a blow-job? For a moment, his memory focused uncomfortably on a different element of that close encounter, remembering how shuddering Harvey had grabbed and tried to snog him before being forced to his knees, and it made him queasy with internalised homophobia. There'd be none of that...! But the lift doors were opening on the sixth floor and it was too late, he thought, stepping out into the corridor and then following it quickly to the left, tracing the room numbers and triple-checking the message from Harvey before he knocked on the wrong one. But when he found it, darting his grey eyes back and forth down the endless Shining-esque corridor, the correct door was actually open by an inch or two, apparently waiting for him - he wasn't sure why this little touch gave him a shudder of transgressive excitement, but it did, and he lost some of his nervous indecision, though the sweat remained in his pits and the crotch of his Ted Baker boxer briefs. Inside the hotel suite, Cash shoved the door shut firmly behind him, and stared heatedly ahead: there he was, the ruddy features of Harvey Barnes, currently stood pouring a miniature rum into two glasses of cola, his top already off to expose the surprising muscle definition of his upper body, and baggy jogging bottoms drooping from his slim waist. He looked up, all pink cheeks and shifty eyes, and smirked a greeting. `Hey, Mr Poland,' he remarked against the icy tinkle of poured alcohol. Matty went to speak but found his mouth dry and cottony and just a dim gurgle came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for a really gruff and assertive voice. `Hey, scrappy,' he said, taking another couple of steps into the room. `Do I have to pop your lip this time, or are you just gonna get straight on your knees?' He could hear the needless violence in it, sounding a little hollow and forced, but he also felt excited by it, his cock twitching inside his trunks and denim. He grinned his wolfish grin at the other 25-year-old footballer, stood tall and bulky in his layers, and watching Harvey's gently blushing features and toned upper body muscle. And then, like a bucket of cold water over him, was the sound of a toilet being flushed, and a jaunty whistle, alarming him to the presence of another City player - the roommate he'd briefly worried about, denied and dismissed. His suggestive smirk turned into a furious glare, fixed anxiously on Harvey - what kinda stunt was this punk playing on him now? `Oh, here he is,' chimed the third voice as it entered the room, and Matty glared suspiciously that way; out of the adjoining door slid another shirtless figure with a pretty ripped upper body, loose joggers of a dark shade of grey still worn, and an open beer bottle clutched in one hand while the other adjusting the crotch of his pants. `Took your time, didn't you? Ginge here has been fuckin' buzzing all night, waiting for ya.' The Villa and Poland defender blinked and boggled and didn't know what to say to the shirtless Jamie Vardy, the Premier League legend waltzing casually over and pausing only to take his free hand and give Barnes a good spank across the rump, then coming right up to Cash and squaring up to him, somehow an imposing figure at 5ft10. The 36-year-old striker gave him a lewd grin and scratched lightly at the impressive abs that cut across his midriff, seeming to assess him with a long look up and down. Cash coughed slightly and took a short step back, then stared from Vardy's leering face over to Barnesy, who was holding the two glasses of rum and coke. `What the fuck?' was all the Aston Villa player could think to say, losing the aggressive edge to his tone, and just sounding as lost and unsure as he really felt. Harvey smiled a weak smile at him, and gestured forward with one of the drinks, as if that would make everything okay. But older Jamie was laughing. `Oh, relax,' the Sheffield-born striker chuckled. `The ginger cunt is still gonna suck you off, big lad. He's been going on about it since we checked in.' The ageing Prem player rolled his eyes and tittered like a frustrated parent or older brother. `You have to give them what they want, these young pups, otherwise they get very angsty. Like back when he was getting into scraps with nobheads like you, haha, before I... tamed him, if you get me.' Another nasty grin from Vardy, and then a fresh chuckle. `Suppose you actually thought the whole team was crashing here, did ya? You know Leicester is an hour down the road, you mug? I booked this suite for Princess Harvey here, just so he could get your cock between his lips. You must feel honoured.' Cash stared stupidly at the older man, trying to take all this in, and then looked again at the nervously grinning Barnes, who'd moved closer and was pushing the glass of rum and coke into his shaky hand. `Here,' Harvey said quietly. `Get a bit of that down you.' And then the ruddy Burnley lad giggled a bit, and moved away to sit on the one huge bed. Slowly, Matty took the glass and took one slow slip, his eyes following Harvey and then snapping back to stare challengingly at grinning Jamie. `Right,' he said slowly. `So-' He was determined to sound chilled and confident, even if he was weighing up the decision to flee the room and scamper back into the lift - `what are you doing here with him, old timer?' Some remnant of the assertive confidence he'd felt sat beside Lewandowski returned to him - he was a World Cup star! `You gonna nosh me off too, grandpa?' he quipped at the 36-year-old, taking another sip of the rum drink, and undermining his bravado as the strength of the mix made him cough and splutter a little. Vardy just laughed lightly at this and moved away, swigging from his beer and grabbing the crotch of his joggers. `Nah, not today,' the goal machine told him. `But you see, Harv here is kinda mine, if you know what I mean, so he only gets to suck other cocks if I'm watchin'. That alright with you, Polski?' Matty didn't know what to say; he didn't know what he felt. He definitely still felt worryingly horny, that same aggressive urge that he'd felt when they fought, and again when he was in the sauna and the surprise had sprung on him. But he also felt like Jamie Vardy's presence shone an ugly realistic light on what was happening, made it something he wouldn't be able to shrug off and dismiss - he was struck by a very clear and prescient thought that he wasn't going to be able to walk out of this hotel quite the same lad who'd stumbled into it, one way or another. Hmm. Lewandowski was so chill about it, he reminded himself, and Bednarek, and Bereszynski - and Zurkowski himself, grazing his knees on the sauna floor. And now, really making his head spin, here was Jamie Vardy, another married fella, as blokey as they came in the English football top-flight, and he was... his words spun about in Matty's head, the possessive way he was referring to Harvey, the casual way he'd stood there grabbing himself in his joggers, and now... his eyes bulged as he followed Vardy to the bedside, where the 5ft10 striker stood over seated Barnes, reaching down to stroke his face quite tenderly, before pushing two fingers into his mouth and allowing the young winger to suck quite hungrily on the digits, Jamie's fingers and thumbs rubbing over his tongue and lips very suggestively, then prising his mouth open to lean over and let a small drop of spit fall into it for him as a treat. Cash was horny in spite of himself, increasingly hard in his skinny jeans. `Well,' Vardy said, `are you gonna take your coat off, pal?' `Please stay,' Barnes said, more quietly and quite nervously. `You promised you were gonna teach me a lesson, Matty.' He licked his damp lips, hunched forward slightly in his shirtless pose, while his face was stroked by Vardy's wet fingers and then pushed playfully side to side. Next to him, the striker was reaching inside of his joggers and then pulling it out, his equipment - Matty just stood there and watched as the long semi was flopped out and then fed into Harvey's willing gob, making Jamie purr and chuckle. Almost unconsciously, Matty moved forward, and began to follow his hosts' suggestions: off came the designer coat, shrugged away and falling to the carpet, and he pawed next at the thick expensive hoodie, wrestling with it until it was off and on the floor too. Only a thin print t-shirt remained, clinging to his lithe muscle as he stepped in close to them at the bed, and took a grip of the hard outline in his skinny jeans. `That's it,' Vardy sighed, and it sounded like a moment as if he was just praising Barnesy, but he winked this way. `Get your kit off, Villa lad, this one is so horny for ya. Honest, he was leaking pre-cum on the bus up here, for fuck's sake - how long has it been since he sucked you off, eh?' Cash was hardly about to reminisce about the finer details with this opposition player who had been part of Leicester's afternoon win, but he was gripped by taboo desire and he was fiercely jealous of the way the other man's cock was being tended to. He reached down to undo his belt and flies, licking his lips, and making aggressive eye contact with Harvey's bright blues. Instantly, those pouting lips were slurping away from Vardy, and gaping open for him. `Fuck yes,' whined the winger. `You gonna fuck my mouth again, Matty sir?' The extra little `sir' did it for him, making Cash almost frenzied as he yanked his t-shirt up and off, joining the other two men in baring his smooth defined chest and six-pack, his skin notably more olive-tanned than their pale Celtic skin. His breathing was heavy with anticipation and he pushed his jeans down a few inches, grabbing his big hard-on through his dark grey undies, then pulling it out and free, pointing its heavy veiny shaft towards Harvey's gaping mouth and rolling tongue. Fuck, yes. In just a few moment's time, the jeans were about his ankles, and the 25-year-old defensive stud was lounged quite comfortably on the hotel bed, propped up at the shoulders by an array of cushions. He stared down the hard-earned muscles of his torso, into the shaven stubble of his crotch, and the sight of his glistening wet erection; Harvey's mouth moved up and down it, spitting on the head and shaft and then tonguing all over it, really slow and sloppy and indulgent. This wasn't the quick rough action of last time, he thought, this was something else, and he just lay there, ready to enjoy it. He still shook with nervousness that he couldn't hide, but his cock knew what it liked, and fellatio had always been top of the list; and Harvey was SO GOOD AT IT, pausing now and then to stoop lower and give his heavy balls a good suck too, the way his girlfriend never would! `Fuck,' moaned Barnes sluttishly, `you taste so good.' He was a chatty bitch, and his greedy comments did even more to turn Cash on, knowing how eager this lad was for him - it was mad to think that perhaps the ginger git had been fantasising about this ever since October `20, all the time that Matty himself was trying to forget it...! And then there was Vardy, too, whose presence... well, kinda made things more exciting, even if that shouldn't be the case. Cash had been horrified to find him here, and yet... well, the older man seemed to get so much voyeuristic pleasure out of this, and just like every slutty moaning comment from cock-hungry Barnes, the dirty grin on Vardy's face and the way he now stood wanking beside them, it just highlighted the seedy thrill of it all. So Harvey was now the striker's bitch, apparently, and yet Jamie was letting him have a turn on this hungry mouth? None of it quite made sense to horny Matty, but it was driving him wild, making his balls twitch as if he could already empty his load, and he had to brace himself not to go sliding down that path to climax already. He reached down and gripped his cock to wank it more conservatively, only letting Harvey swirl his tongue about the head and foreskin instead, his clammy hands rubbing up and down the fuzzy insides of Matty's mighty thighs. `Fuck,' growled the 36-year-old, `that's it - lick it good, Barnsey.' `Mmm,' Cash joined in awkwardly, `you've got better at this, fella!' `Fuckin' hell,' grumbled Barnes himself, `I need your load on my tongue!' For a moment, Matty thought obscurely about his girlfriend, perhaps arriving home right now and sulking at his absence, and the fact he was gonna have to lie more to her when he got home, his cock dirty with another man's saliva. He didn't care - he hadn't told her about what happened in the Qatar sauna, had he? Everything at the World Cup had been in its own bubble, and he'd barely even thought about Zurkowski's mouth as cheating...! He looked at Vardy and thought about his famous (infamous?) wife of his own, how casual he must be about having his lad-on-the-side - it must be a thing, he told himself, for proper big-time footballers like him and Lewy. Why shouldn't Cash enjoy the same luxury...? Staring at the tightly muscled physique of Jamie, he couldn't help but let his eyes slide down and note just how lengthy the older bloke's piece was, pumped furiously in one tight fist, its tip shiny wet. God, the dirty bastard was really turned on by sharing his slut, huh! Matty stared for a moment too long at the wanking, and averted his eyes, but found them connecting instead with Jamie's face, which was leering his way now instead of down at the bobbing redhead over his crotch. Matty moaned irresistibly and broke awkwardly eye contact with the horny voyeur, horrified that Vardy might have caught him looking too long at his long prick - the ageing striker was wheezing out dirty laughter, but was it at the sluttish wet motion of Harvey's mouth, or at his own wandering eyes? `It's okay,' grunted Jamie placidly in spite of the angry red of his chest and cheeks, stopping in the frantic wanking of his cock. He lifted one knee up onto the side of the bed, moving in closer to where they lay. `You can look all you like - take a pic if you want it.' He yanked slowly and teasingly on himself and Matty's eyes were briefly drawn back to it as the centre of attention, making him baulk. `Fuck off,' he said back, forcing out a matey laugh, and reaching one hand for the back of Barnsey's head, taking more control of the oral service, getting rougher with him like he had before, but not quite feeling the same mindless aggression - he was distracted and confused, and Vardy was inching closer, up on his knees on the bedding next to them, looming over at the left, pulling slowly on himself and drooling spit down onto it as lube. Barnes at least was oblivious, face-down in Matty's crotch, gobbling down on his thick Polish sausage. Vardy's eyes were seeking his, full of the authority and mischief that defined him, and Cash found it hard to look away. The striker was a charismatic guy, he really was, and there was a bit of him that thought he might be more turned on by the legend's attention than by the sensation of pushing his thick tool into Barnesy's throat; hadn't he felt something the same in the sauna, sweat dribbling down his muscular body? Lewandowski was a pretty powerful alpha, one of the top dogs in European footy, but there he'd been, grabbing at him and encouraging him, and pushing Zurkowski into his crotch- but nah, he told himself, a mouth is just a mouth, a blow-job felt good from any slut willing to offer it, that's all...! `Go on,' murmured the Leicester icon hoarsely. `Grab it.' He did, he couldn't stop himself. With his left hand, and at an awkward angle, he reached up for it, the striker leaning so close at his side. He moaned as he did, because Harvey's mouth felt SO GOOD on his cock, sending shudders all up and down his 6ft1 frame, whilst his hand closed tentatively around the warm stiffness of Vardy's long but slender tool. He gave an experimental tug on it, then looked up to meet the older fella's smirk; he chuckled awkwardly at himself and let go of it, wiping the hand instinctively on one of the strong lean thighs of the slim ripped striker, cringing at what he'd done. `Felt good for me,' sniggered Vardy, giving himself a good tug, `even if you didn't like it.' Cash moaned again, unable to stop himself: Barnes was licking and mouthing at his bollocks again, wanking a hand up and down the wet shaft as he did, and it was bringing him closer and closer, no matter how he braced himself. And at his side, Vardy was pressing closer, sniggering and smirking, and pulling slowly but firmly on himself, edging it closer, and hoisting his body up so that one thigh jutted over Matty's shoulder. Too close. `You know you want to,' sneered the Leicester ace. `Want what?' he puffed back through his moans of pleasure, but he knew. It hovered close to his face, shiny at the tip, a strong curve of muscle, and he was transfixed by it like the prey of a hypnotic cobra. Closer it came, and his eyes rolled up, meeting Jamie's. That dirty leer, the chuckle escaping his pursed lips. The compact power of his 5ft10 body, still all muscle at his age, refusing to let go of his prime - but what a fucking legend, Matty thought, a working-class hero whose career every young footy lad had enjoyed. His cock all hard and excited for him, and right there. `Suck it,' urged Vardy, and Barnes must have caught this, because the attention to Matty's cock stopped for a moment. But he couldn't fully make out the ginger lad's expression of amazement, because he was glancing up and down between the striker's lewd smile and the pressing stiffness of his cock, inches from his face. `Give it a try, mate,' urged Vardy in a tense whisper. `Just a little taste, Polski.' `Go on,' urged Harvey's thick accent. `Shut up and nosh him,' snapped Vardy powerfully. Matty ignored them. He closed his eyes and let his head lean to one side, pressing down into the bedding with one elbow. He let his lips part cautiously and he stuck his tongue out a little. He inched very carefully and he felt the hot damp tip of it reach his mouth, rolling against the tip of his tongue and his lips. It tasted salty already. He pulled back slightly, but then opened his mouth forward and edged forward, testing his tongue against it, taking some of it into his mouth, excited by the heat and stiffness, and gratified by Vardy's instant loud moan overhead. `That's it - good lad - just a taste, see what you think, good lad!' He gagged a bit at the feeling of more inches of it in his mouth, and he pulled back; but he couldn't, because one of Vardy's hands was on the back of his head, keeping him there, and then pulling him in a bit, making him choke on it, filling his mouth with it, hitting the back of his throat and making him splutter. His ears filled with Vardy's dominant laughter and the pressure released, allowing him to pull back and gasp and cough, the salty taste remaining on his tongue; his own cock was being lavishly sucked now and his balls tickled and stroked, and he knew he'd cum any moment. `Knew it would be too much for ya,' teased Jamie. `You're a total newbie, huh?' Something in the mocking tone hit the right note of challenge for him. Matty gripped a hand more securely about the base of the older man's dick and held it tightly, then pushed his lips awkwardly about the tip and took about half of the length in, rubbing it over his tongue, and hearing the instant happy moan from him. It tasted and felt weird, but he loved the heavy `Ugh mmmmm ugh mmmm!' that sounded from the king chav. But he couldn't keep up this second attempt, had to pull back, even if his hand remained about the base of the weapon. His mouth opened in a silent cry and he felt the convulsions of peaking excitement. Between his big thighs, Barnesy groaned and gurgled, getting a creamy mouthful. A cold sweat flushed across his torso and legs and Cash felt dizzy with the pleasure and wildness, staring at the cock in his hand, all glistening wet with his own spit, and then anxiously up the ripped torso towards Jamie's dirty grin. `Good lad,' he echoed softly, pushing his hand away to wank it himself, edging it forward as if Matty should open to receive it, but he pulled his face away, unable to hide the wrinkling of disgust, mad at the thought of putting it in his mouth again, but aware that it had helped to push him over the edge of his excitement. `Fuck,' Barnes groaned, `you taste good, mmm, let me lick it all...' But Cash was pulling away, wriggling over the bed with some difficulty since he couldn't properly moved his legs, jeans wrapped at the ankles. He wiped his mouth hurriedly on the hairy back of a forearm, and he glared disgustedly at Vardy, then more ambiguously at Barnes, then went skipping off the side of the bed too quickly and tripped over his own ankles and went down to the carpet, more or less naked for their enjoyment. In a second he was up again, steady himself and dragging the pants and jeans up his hairy legs, his hard-on bouncing as he did and flicking a few last drops of cum away from the angry red tip. His face was redder, and his cheeks glossy with fresh sweat. `Did my boy get a good mouthful?' Vardy cooed, and when Cash look over, he saw that Harvey already had his mouth full again, pulled over and bent down to his master's crotch; there was still something in the 25-year-old that felt thrilled and dominant, but he also felt repulsed and light-headed. Still struggling with his pants, he muscled around the bed and past them and into the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and chest, the air thick with Vardy's moans and Barnesy's slurps. `Good lad,' the Leicester striker was purring, but for a different boy - Cash thought about how much he'd like hearing those words from the older player, and cringed. He rubbed more cold water between his palms and rubbed them across his burning face, then through his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His cock still throbbed uncomfortably in his undies, and he finished buttoning up the flies of his jeans and re-buckling the belt. When he moved back through into the room, Jamie was on the bed with Harvey, cuddling and spooning him, and giving a good grab at his rounded bottom. `Where are you going?' called one of their voices, or both of them, as he made for the door, but Matty ignored them, yanking on his t-shirt and just bundling the coat and hoodie under one arm, desperate to be out in the cold February winds. All he could think as he hurried through the quiet hotel was how dumb he'd been to believe that the Leicester team were here, given the proximity of the two Premiership clubs; but then he was thinking about the implications of this, that both Barnes and Vardy had made a special effort to get at his cock like this, and that the whole suite had really just been booked to host his hard-on and let him empty his big Polish balls. The thought almost made him hard again already, ambiguously semi and sensitive in his skinny jeans, as his elevator descended through the hotel building and led him out into the cold drizzle. For a sweaty moment, he considered actually getting to the party, wondering how many of his teammates were enjoying a drink still, but a taxi passed by, and he hailed it with frantic gestures - all he wanted was to be home with his sexy girlfriend and enjoying her body, and putting his dirty mouth to a more heterosexual purpose. Half an hour later he was tonguing at her clit, thinking about anything but cock, and apologising to her when he couldn't actually get his dick hard for the main event - blushing as he made his excuses, telling her anything but that he'd shot his load in a lad's mouth. By the time the 25-year-old turned up at the Sunday training and recovery session a short journey from his suburban home, he was feeling quite chipper - like the sauna incident before it, the three-way encounter in the hotel suite felt like a fever dream, so separate from real life that it could be compartmentalised and, perhaps, forgotten. When Barnes had chowed down on his cock years ago, it had really troubled him to begin with, so much so that he'd had to turn to Ollie Watkins for advice and have the brash forward convince him that these mad things could happen, but not to worry about it - as if to confirm the wisdom, Watkins and he had jacked off side by side in the car one night, somehow confirming that neither lad needed to worry about his sexuality. And so Cash had laughed it off and buried it, and never wasted a moment worrying about it until yesterday. But this could be the same, he thought, stepping out of his car on a crisp bright zero degree morning - he'd been tricked into that nonsense with those two blokes, that's all! Plus, he told himself as he checked in at reception, if anyone had seen the way he'd selflessly pleasured his girl to orgasm after orgasm in their bed at midnight, then they'd know full well how hetero and female-oriented he was! Jesus Christ. So what if he hadn't been able to penetrate her? He'd drowned in pussy juice and let her ride his face until she was screaming, then fingered her in between fits of cunnilingus. A confident smile beamed from his goateed face, red-brown hair slicked back, and slapping at friendly high-fives with each teammate who he passed on his way into the locker-rooms to get ready for the light water-based pool therapy that would begin their day. In the locker-rooms, he pulled off his own loungewear, confident in his tall athletic body, and changed into the pair of colourful Dior swimming trunks, a towel folded neatly over one broad shoulder as he made his way into the heated space of their indoor pool. One by one, members of the Aston Villa squad were splashing their way into the water, those who hadn't played yesterday showing a little more energy and enthusiasm, whilst the bulk of the team were lolling at the edges of the pool or still seated nearby, more interested in the physio rub-downs that would be going on before lunch. Cash strutted through it, glad to get a few compliments and his contributions to the game yesterday, even if he hadn't helped anyone reach the goals that might have equalised. For some reason, the 25-year-old just felt happy and confident, and he didn't want to confront that his ego had taken a boost from the attention of two men. Rather than leaping dramatically into the waters like some - McGinn had just bombed into the centre of the pool and caused some unrest to those who were splashed - he grabbed onto a steel ladder and descended more gracefully into the showers, briefly grimacing at the cool temperature but then beginning to stretch out his limbs one at a time. `Hey,' said the voice of gigantic Tyrone Mings close by, and he returned the greeting to the 6ft5 centre-back, getting on with his own preliminary stretches, but letting his vision drift over the rippling water to check exactly how his colleague was preparing. The thing about a man of Ty's stature, he thought idly, was that this shallow end of the pool barely met his waistline, and it made the big confident lad's black speedos all the more visible, dipping over and under the surface of the water as he did some leg stretches - for a dazed moment, Matty found himself looking at the big dark bulge as it surfaced and sunk at intervals, and then he had to shake himself and look away, letting out a small private laugh - that big fucker's fault for wearing stupid skimpy speedos, he thought. But then the former Villa captain wasn't the only one to opt for the skintight smaller trunks, he noticed, his eyes wandering again: his own best pal Watkins was strutting along the poolside in a similar pair, dark taut nylon over the caramel brown of his hips and thighs, strutting confidently towards the same ladder that had led Cash into the water. Ollie paused at the top of it and waved his way, clearly glad to see him, and stupidly cutting a muscle pose for a moment before deciding to eschew the ladder and leap into the water more freely. For a moment before he leapt, Matty's eyes traced down the 27-year-old's six-pack and tried to decide whether Ollie filled the speedos as well as Ty did - the answer was no, but it was still very confident of him to swagger about wearing so little. Into the pool he crashed, and the splash of cool water made Matty check himself, mildly concerned that he'd taken any seconds at all to glance inspecting at either of the other football players nearest to him. Daft lad, he told himself severely. `Everything all right?' demanded his other buddy, Calum Chambers, patting him on one wet shoulder as he waded past. A friendly smile through the light brown beard of the 28-year-old, and Matty nodded vaguely; before the other defender had shuffled past to find space in the water, Cash couldn't help himself. No sooner had he peered under the rippling surface to clock what swimming trunks the former Arsenal man was wearing, than he was looking wildly away in any other direction, calling himself a stupid dick-head for wanting to see anything down there. Flustered and fidgety, he splashed cool water up into his face and blinked away the sting of chlorine, stretching each of his powerful legs up so that his heels touched his buttocks, and staring around the large indoor pool - but everywhere he looked, of course, were undressed athletic guys, submerged or exposed to various levels as they played about in the pool-water and awaited instruction from the recovery coach who was to lead this aqua session. It was an exercise Cash had been in many times before, a common feature of post-match recovery - god, he shared locker rooms with his teammates week after week! Just keep your eyes to yourself, dickhead! Increasingly uncomfortable, Cash manoeuvred himself to a slightly more remote position in the rear left corner of the pool, blinking his eyes furiously and trying not to think about bulging speedos. Or, he thought briefly, that odd salty taste on the tip of his tongue. `Good lad,' sighed a voice at the back of his mind, and he winced, rubbing a damp hand across his hot flushed cheeks. The slappy footsteps of flip-flops dragged his attention to one side, the two last squad members approaching his corner to join them in the water. Closest to view came the confident strut of the team's Brazilian ace; like Mings and Watkins and others, the 30-year-old attacker came strutting forth in speedos, but not the conservative black skimpies worn by Ty or Ollie. These were obnoxiously bright in Brazilian colours, and they squashed a compact but overt mound at the front between his inked thighs. In he hopped, taking a swift elegant plunge into the shallow water and darting past where Matty lingered, relieved that Coutinho's impressive compact body of Latino muscle was disappeared beneath the water and away from him. Bright red in the cheeks, Matty cursed his odd mood and wandering thoughts, and glanced awkwardly at the final entrant, who had paused just behind Philippe, and was lowering himself hesitantly down the short ladder face-first. For a moment, Matty caught eyes with the last-arriving player to the pool physio, and earned a bright warm smile from their Spanish import. He was oddly glad to be greeted so warmly by Alex Moreno, having failed to strike up any rapport with the 29-year-old left-winger. The older lad fixed this charming grin on him very briefly as he gripped the rails and lowered his body down to the water - unlike inked show-off Coutinho, this Spaniard had gone for a relatively loose-fitting pair of coloured shorts, more like Cash's own casual trunks, and yet... it apparently didn't matter what this latest Aston Villa arrival chose to wore for his pool session, because the red-and-blue striped trunks sagged heavily at the front, a huge and visible mound accentuated even further as they tautened about his thighs on the way down, bulging obscenely in a way that made Matty realise subconsciously how many times he'd noticed it in shorts or trackies before. But then Moreno's loaded shorts were gone beneath the surface like everybody else's, and the heavily-tanned defender was wading in next to him, greeting him with a heavily accented `Good morning' and then looking a little worried as he searched his vocab for another phrase. Instead of helping him out, Cash backed away a little and turned to stare away across the pool, his face burning scarlet, and his shorts straining a little around his mid-morning erection. Somewhere close by, one of the gaffer's second coaches was shouting out some initial instructions and telling them what they would be doing, but `Good lad,' growled the voice in Matty's head, and he pictured himself opening his mouth for imperious Jamie Vardy - oh, fuck. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 5 Feb 2023 12:49:49 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 348 Part 348: Rematch It was hardly the first time the two Premiership sides had faced off in the past two and a half years, but it was the first time in a while that he'd found the professional reunion quite so difficult to blink impassively away; filing past each other on the way out of the tunnel, his opponent in the crisp blue kit of Leicester City, whilst his own gear was layered under the warm-up tracksuit of the Aston Villa subs bench. As always, the Foxes winger carefully averted his eyes as the two young men passed close to each other, suddenly very busy untying and retying a drawstring on his footy shorts, and then leaning down to examine the laces of his boots, anything but glance up and share the standard nods or handshakes of acknowledgement shared between opposing players at this point. And, as always, the Villa defender himself was pretty happy to strut on by, his body language stiffening, and his mind flashing back briefly to October 2020, and the close encounters that had set the two up-and-coming players at odds with each other. A bad tackle on the pitch, and a worse one in the stadium car park. Ordinarily, it was just a moment's discomfort and hazy regret - how many times had Aston Villa come up against their Midlands rivals in the league and the cup since that October weekend between national lockdowns...? It was a memory that Matty Cash had increasingly learnt to suppress and ignore, and laugh at internally, even if bumping into Harvey Barnes through their competitive sport also gave him a jolt and a little colour in his cheeks. But ordinarily it would pass in moments and the 25-year-old could just focus on his game time, shrugging off the fact that once upon a time a scuffle between them had gone in a strange direction and given him paranoid night sweats for the rest of the month. Ordinarily. Today, taking his place in a comfortable seat at the edge of the home pitch, the Slough-born Poland national found it difficult to relax his 6ft1 body and tune back in to the quiet muttering of his fellow substitutes, and instead watched intently as the Leicester starting line-up first formed a discreet huddle of discussion and then began to take their places on one side of the Villa Park pitch. For almost 60 minutes of the Saturday afternoon game he was stuck on the sidelines like this, the inactivity allowing him to wallow in recurring images of the memory: the aggressive tackle of his own that had instigated everything, and the rough scrappy dog aggression of the Burnley lad who'd pulled him aside and squared up to him; the brief silly fisticuffs and bloodied lips between them, and then the inappropriate and totally unwanted kiss that Harvey Barnes had landed on his own shocked lips. Matty's memory always honed in on his own words, angrily spitting back at the weirdo that HE should be the one to get on his knees - it had been Harvey who made it weird and sexual or whatever, but Cash could always hear himself spitting angrily back at the short lad, and then pushing him roughly down and taking everything out on his mouth. His mouth. Swaddled in tracksuit and puffer coat, the country-swapping World Cup upstart shivered, and turned anxiously to the men on either side of him to see what they were discussing, anything to lift his mind out of a memory from over two years ago. To his left, Calum Chambers was chatting quite contentedly to John McGinn about their plans for tomorrow, attention leaving the game behind, and on his right, Phil Coutinho was speaking rapid Spanish to the newcomer Moreno, pausing and faltering when they caught Matt's eye, and immediately apologising for being rude. He tried to laugh off the language barrier and shrug casually at the Latino men, conscious yet again of his limited languages skill - he'd been assigned as a welcome buddy to Alexandre Moreno, the club's January signing from Real Betis, and tried his best to befriend the new left-back, only to find that the newcomer's English was even worse than his attempted Spanish, and to have to be replaced in the job by Coutinho here. Though Spanish was not the South American man's first language, he was clearly a lot more broadly spoken than the average Englishman. Not a big deal, but Cash had been chuffed to be asked, and seen it as a chance to start proving he was captain material. And of course, these days language barriers and feeling lost in translation were pretty regular experiences for the English 25-year-old, from every Poland training session to his promotional TV appearances in the mother country of his maternal grandparents. He was still getting regularly roasted here at Villa with impressions of the Polish TV Christmas advert he'd recorded, with various gobbledegook outbursts lampooning his handling of a complex new language. After a short mumbled exchange to include him, the Brazilian and Spanish players went back to quicker discourse in their native language, Coutinho sounding quite aggressively critical of the manager's decision to leave them on the bench - the former Liverpool icon had been fiercely loyal to the ill-fated Steven Gerrard in his tenure, and made no secrets of the fact he'd only signed for the mid-table Birmingham club to honour his retired teammate. Though he'd yet to secure a high-profile transfer out of Villa Park, he was quietly vicious about the coaches and management now, and it was a bit worrying that he might be passing such attitudes on to the newbie. This left Matty feeling out of place next to them, and reflective about how often he'd been in this position since his 2021 passport grab for his Polish roots. And this, he reflected, was probably the reason his mood was a bit off today, and why his eyes couldn't stop picking Harvey Barnes out of the football melee, and thinking back to when they'd both been just 22, and full of youthful aggression. A memory that Cash had long been able to file away as a freakish one-off had been brought back front and centre, and he was pretty sure he could blame it on the language barrier... After all, he thought, he must have misunderstood something that day, shortly before Poland were knocked out of the World Cup, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in the sauna with them. Probably Robert Lewandowski had said something a bit more clear to him, and he'd misunderstood: the international star striker had oddly become his closest ally on the team, since media exposure and league-flitting had given the experienced 34-year-old a better grasp of English than the majority of their teammates. But even big Lewy slipped casually from English to Polish, often jokingly trying to educate and encourage him by emphasising key Polish expressions to him, and laughing a bit less resentfully than others when he struggled with the pronunciation. Thinking back to that tense afternoon before their last game, Matty now suspected that the Barcelona forward must have said something to suggest what was going on, had maybe warned him or tried to sound out his readiness, and he'd missed it. On Poland duty, the Slough lad had quickly fallen into a habit of just nodding and smiling, always desperate to convey his pride and pleasure to play with them, and his determination to represent this ancestral country, even if some critics in the Polish FA wanted to sneer at his loyalty-switching in order to get into international footy. At the time, though, Cash had just thought it was another standard part of the training recovery, another way for the team members to relax and gather strength before the following day's knockout match that would end their Qatar run. And, he mused uncomfortably, in a sense, it was. Certainly for Lewandowski, he thought, it was a great way to relax and gather strength, and... maybe for him too. But for Zurkowski...? In a way, this memory from late November was dimmer than that of October 2020, the aggressive intimacy that haunted him right now at the Villa-Leicester game. This more recent memory was awash with thick steamy air and the heady euphoria of the whole World Cup debutant experience, every day of it a new adventure for the full-back. One minute he was accepting Lewandowski's invite and nodding eagerly at the other 6ft1 man, then undressing with him and a few others, who were all laughing and bantering in their shared language, Cash barely able to take hold of a key word or phrase. And then they were all sat in the wood-lined sauna in their towels, and still there was much hearty laughter and chatter, and most of it directed at midfielder Szymon Zurkowski - there seemed to be an in-joke between the blokes that he couldn't follow, and one that made the midfield player squirm and blush and do a lot less laughing than everybody else, though his apparent discomfort soon turned out to be a kind of feverish eagerness, when the first of the other blokes undid his towel and flicked it playfully at Zurkowski's sweaty chest. When Szymon then began to get down on his knees and wrap his mouth about Jan Bednarek's soft prick, Matty must have looked shocked and horrified, his mouth hanging open and the rivulets of sweat coursing down either side of his face. One large calm hand rested on his thigh, gripping him lightly through the dampening towel, and Robert had just given him a friendly expansive look. `You want to be next?' came the striker and captain's simple question, and Matty had felt entirely out of his depth, lost in the Polish chatter of these other footballers, overwhelmed by heat and sweat. He didn't know what he'd said to Lewandowski in that moment, if he'd said anything at all, but he knew what he hadn't said: `Oh, sorry old chap, I think I misunderstood what was going on - we don't do this sort of thing in England, you see, so I'll just go take a cold shower and-' Nope. None of that. A moment later he'd been gently parting his huge thighs and pressing his back fearfully into the wooden slats of the wall, looking down into Szymon's shiny face, and hearing the gruff encouraging laughter and slurred speech fo the Polish men around him, and just a couple of words of English from a beaming Lewandowski: `Relax, enjoy it, haha.' His cock was taken between the hot lips and when he'd peered nervously down his gleaming torso, it wasn't Szymon Zurkowski he pictured gobbling on his nervous semi, but a pink-cheeked redhead from Lancashire, and the distant memory had become a lot less distant. For a short while, the hosts led 2-1, a goal from his best pal Watkins being seconded by a Souttar own goal; but then Maddison's effort was joined by three more from other Foxes players, and the final result arrived at a dispiriting 4-2 defeat. Try as he might, Cash couldn't make any impact in the final third of the match, and he lost his footing a few times when midfield action brought him into awkward contact with a particular winger; the first few times he and Barnes went head-to-head, he fluffed it, far too self-conscious to play at his most aggressively defensive, but then on the fourth encounter, close to the final whistle, he went in very over-excitedly for a heavy tackle that might earn an instant red card, but was so stupidly physical and bullish that he went crashing down over the turf instead while the ginger lad sped away with the ball and almost assisted a fifth Leicester goal, while Cash was wiping mud and grass off the taut arse and thighs of his Villa home kit shorts. Moments later, Barnes stalked past him, his face blotchy red and his eyes wild, and the two 25-year-old players looked sharply at one another for the first time in over two years, rather than the awkward politeness of ignorance that they had always opted for in the tunnel for two whole seasons. And Cash himself stared back, still adjusting his shirt and shorts, sore and grazed from the way he'd slid to a fall, and his heart rate spiking excitedly as he thought back to the pugnacious intimacy they'd found against a concrete pillar in the shadows of the car park. But then the final whistle was going, and the moment was broken, Harvey shouting excitedly and running to join the huge pile-on celebrations of the other Leicester players, whilst Matty could only trudge slowly in towards the consoling hugs of the defeated hosts, waving apologetically to their fans before disappearing sadly indoors. In the sauna of their Qatari hotel, he'd gripped a rough hand over the back of Zurkowski's head, cheered by the three other men for this dominant gesture; Lewandowski had clapped him roughly on the back and shook at his shaggy wet hair, calling him a `Boss' and a `King' as he thrust up with his hips and fucked Szymon in the mouth, returning to the scrappy violence of that day two Octobers ago. He'd cum quickly, his entire body overheated and quivering, and he'd had to blink the sweat out of his eyes several times to see who it was reeling away from his crotch, lips glossy and dirty, seeing the earnest blond lad, coughing and choking, and not the angry features of the Burnley bugger. Spent and overwhelmed, Matty had poured back against the wall and clutched hands to his head, ashamed of the red mist that had descended over him, but surrounded by encouraging laughter and noise from the big men of the Poland squad, who fully approved, and even Zurkowski, dazed and still coughing, was slapping one of his big thigh muscles and saying one of the few Polish words that he could use with confidence: `Thanks.' The sauna incident had sort of vanished into the rush of new experiences. The next day they were defeated and almost immediately preparing to leave Doha. There was much pride and joy in the Poland camp even at this defeat, lots of self-congratulation for making it so far, and there was so much for Cash to enjoy - he hardly had a moment to reflect on the sauna episode until he was enjoying a few days off on his own, lingering at a nearby beach resort and soaking up a little more Middle Eastern sun before returning to bleak UK winter. But even in a deckchair with a cocktail and no football excitement to distract him, Matty found himself unable to form a proper thought about what he'd been encouraged to do; if he'd felt so inclined, it was almost as if he could have happily just written it off as an odd dream, and dismissed it as fiction. There had been no oddness between him and Zurkowski in the final game or the team goodbyes, nor with Lewy or any of the other senior players who'd also enjoyed their turn in that steamy box; no oddness or even the slightest acknowledgement. No serious thought or worry on that beach, nor on his flight to Birmingham International, nor as he returned to training with Aston Villa; not a thought over Christmas or New Year or for the entirety of January 2023, and now this. The first Saturday of February, losing 4-2 to Leicester City, and... here he was, marching down a broad windy street of different chain hotels, hood pulled up and beanie pulled low for discretion, reading the big neon signs to find the right accommodation that had been named in Harvey's message. It was the Poland experience, he told himself again, that had made today different, made it harder to ignore Barnes or the madness they'd once shared. That was why he'd sent the first DM on social media, sat shrouded in towels in the home locker-room, and ignoring the slew of positive messages from his own friends, family, and fans. `Thought you were gonna start on me again for that bad tackle - sorry bro' followed by a crying-laughing emoji, thrown hastily into Barnes' inbox before either time had even exited the Villa Park stadium; there'd been no quick reply, and he'd even wondered if his opponent had sensibly blocked him in the years that had passed. (He certainly hadn't blocked him immediately; back in the winter of 2020, Cash had received any number of vague reacts and half-formed messages from the Lancashire lad via the same app, never actually referencing what had happened, but seeming to beg for his attention, and usually sent in the small hours of the morning.) But later that evening, whilst Matty was at a big meal with his girlfriend and her family, the replies had started to come through. First, the series of ROFL images and gifs, and then the `As if you could bring me down now' and `Put on a lot of muscle since then' comments, to which he could only LOL and send back his own gifs of some braindead gym bloke flexing and posing. Distracted from being the perfect boyfriend at the Thai restaurant, Matty had found himself taking too long in the loos, stood over the urinal long after the last drop of piss, composing the next short message to the lad he'd fought with, and really unsure of where he was heading with his comments of `We've both grown up since then' and `I'd still have you whimpering in a corner, haha'. Now, in the chill winds of the central Birmingham street, he paused and shivered despite the layers he wore, and wondered if he should be in the car home with his girlfriend. She'd looked furious when he apologetically told her he had to meet the lads for a conciliatory drink after such a harsh defeat, but she'd kinda understood. And, he told himself, it wasn't even a full lie: Martinez was hosting a party of sorts at his city centre penthouse, a few blocks away, so at least he hadn't invented the occasion that he'd ditched her for, after failing to make much chat during the dinner with her folks and siblings. Sure, he wasn't actually heading there, but still... Instead, he was looking up at the logo and signage of the right upmarket hotel, the last on this block of similar buildings, and then reopening the messaging thread with the Leicester player, checking that he wasn't getting the wrong end of the stick. `U up for a rematch?' was the message from Barnes that had made him pause only a moment after using the phone to make contactless payment on the restaurant bill for everybody, and it hadn't really moved much past this euphemism and innuendo: `I'm feeling pretty cheeky - you should come put me in my place' had really got his cock semi in his ripped skinny jeans. Now, stood out on the pavement, the 25-year-old defender thumbed in a cautious last message to the winger. `Wot bout ur roomm8?' He paused, device in both hands, wrinkling his nose and biting his lip, and glancing side to side as if someone was going to catch him loitering outside the Leicester City hotel base on a Saturday night. I shouldn't be here, he reminded himself, I shouldn't be digging up this nonsense. But Qatar... `Not here,' pinged the reply on the messaging app, then `Just me'. A moment, and then, `U outside? Think I can see from window'. And, inevitably, Cash looked warily up, his eyes scanning the inscrutable rows of tinted windows that towered over the entrance, none of them showing him anything. He shivered again and hesitated. He could switch apps and summon a taxi and follow his missus home at speed, saying he'd changed his mind and felt bad; fuck, he could even just walk on a couple of streets more and be at the Martinez party, if it was even still happening...! But the memory haunted him now, the memory that he'd totally buried until today, after the initial regret and anxiety that it had caused him two winters ago. He thought of being in that sauna, grabbed and encouraged by a football icon like Lewandowski himself, his towel being pulled aside for him by somebody else, and Zurkowski's gently opening mouth... Fuck. With a long huff of breath, the Villa player bundled himself in through the automatic doors and across the foyer of the hotel, letting himself into the first of the elevators before anybody could spot or recognise him. On the swift journey up to the right floor, he felt sweaty under his clothes, and he had some instant regret; the floors he was travelling to would be full of Foxes players, and how easily would he find the room that Barnes had named for him? What was he after here? A fight, or a blow-job? For a moment, his memory focused uncomfortably on a different element of that close encounter, remembering how shuddering Harvey had grabbed and tried to snog him before being forced to his knees, and it made him queasy with internalised homophobia. There'd be none of that...! But the lift doors were opening on the sixth floor and it was too late, he thought, stepping out into the corridor and then following it quickly to the left, tracing the room numbers and triple-checking the message from Harvey before he knocked on the wrong one. But when he found it, darting his grey eyes back and forth down the endless Shining-esque corridor, the correct door was actually open by an inch or two, apparently waiting for him - he wasn't sure why this little touch gave him a shudder of transgressive excitement, but it did, and he lost some of his nervous indecision, though the sweat remained in his pits and the crotch of his Ted Baker boxer briefs. Inside the hotel suite, Cash shoved the door shut firmly behind him, and stared heatedly ahead: there he was, the ruddy features of Harvey Barnes, currently stood pouring a miniature rum into two glasses of cola, his top already off to expose the surprising muscle definition of his upper body, and baggy jogging bottoms drooping from his slim waist. He looked up, all pink cheeks and shifty eyes, and smirked a greeting. `Hey, Mr Poland,' he remarked against the icy tinkle of poured alcohol. Matty went to speak but found his mouth dry and cottony and just a dim gurgle came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for a really gruff and assertive voice. `Hey, scrappy,' he said, taking another couple of steps into the room. `Do I have to pop your lip this time, or are you just gonna get straight on your knees?' He could hear the needless violence in it, sounding a little hollow and forced, but he also felt excited by it, his cock twitching inside his trunks and denim. He grinned his wolfish grin at the other 25-year-old footballer, stood tall and bulky in his layers, and watching Harvey's gently blushing features and toned upper body muscle. And then, like a bucket of cold water over him, was the sound of a toilet being flushed, and a jaunty whistle, alarming him to the presence of another City player - the roommate he'd briefly worried about, denied and dismissed. His suggestive smirk turned into a furious glare, fixed anxiously on Harvey - what kinda stunt was this punk playing on him now? `Oh, here he is,' chimed the third voice as it entered the room, and Matty glared suspiciously that way; out of the adjoining door slid another shirtless figure with a pretty ripped upper body, loose joggers of a dark shade of grey still worn, and an open beer bottle clutched in one hand while the other adjusting the crotch of his pants. `Took your time, didn't you? Ginge here has been fuckin' buzzing all night, waiting for ya.' The Villa and Poland defender blinked and boggled and didn't know what to say to the shirtless Jamie Vardy, the Premier League legend waltzing casually over and pausing only to take his free hand and give Barnes a good spank across the rump, then coming right up to Cash and squaring up to him, somehow an imposing figure at 5ft10. The 36-year-old striker gave him a lewd grin and scratched lightly at the impressive abs that cut across his midriff, seeming to assess him with a long look up and down. Cash coughed slightly and took a short step back, then stared from Vardy's leering face over to Barnesy, who was holding the two glasses of rum and coke. `What the fuck?' was all the Aston Villa player could think to say, losing the aggressive edge to his tone, and just sounding as lost and unsure as he really felt. Harvey smiled a weak smile at him, and gestured forward with one of the drinks, as if that would make everything okay. But older Jamie was laughing. `Oh, relax,' the Sheffield-born striker chuckled. `The ginger cunt is still gonna suck you off, big lad. He's been going on about it since we checked in.' The ageing Prem player rolled his eyes and tittered like a frustrated parent or older brother. `You have to give them what they want, these young pups, otherwise they get very angsty. Like back when he was getting into scraps with nobheads like you, haha, before I... tamed him, if you get me.' Another nasty grin from Vardy, and then a fresh chuckle. `Suppose you actually thought the whole team was crashing here, did ya? You know Leicester is an hour down the road, you mug? I booked this suite for Princess Harvey here, just so he could get your cock between his lips. You must feel honoured.' Cash stared stupidly at the older man, trying to take all this in, and then looked again at the nervously grinning Barnes, who'd moved closer and was pushing the glass of rum and coke into his shaky hand. `Here,' Harvey said quietly. `Get a bit of that down you.' And then the ruddy Burnley lad giggled a bit, and moved away to sit on the one huge bed. Slowly, Matty took the glass and took one slow slip, his eyes following Harvey and then snapping back to stare challengingly at grinning Jamie. `Right,' he said slowly. `So-' He was determined to sound chilled and confident, even if he was weighing up the decision to flee the room and scamper back into the lift - `what are you doing here with him, old timer?' Some remnant of the assertive confidence he'd felt sat beside Lewandowski returned to him - he was a World Cup star! `You gonna nosh me off too, grandpa?' he quipped at the 36-year-old, taking another sip of the rum drink, and undermining his bravado as the strength of the mix made him cough and splutter a little. Vardy just laughed lightly at this and moved away, swigging from his beer and grabbing the crotch of his joggers. `Nah, not today,' the goal machine told him. `But you see, Harv here is kinda mine, if you know what I mean, so he only gets to suck other cocks if I'm watchin'. That alright with you, Polski?' Matty didn't know what to say; he didn't know what he felt. He definitely still felt worryingly horny, that same aggressive urge that he'd felt when they fought, and again when he was in the sauna and the surprise had sprung on him. But he also felt like Jamie Vardy's presence shone an ugly realistic light on what was happening, made it something he wouldn't be able to shrug off and dismiss - he was struck by a very clear and prescient thought that he wasn't going to be able to walk out of this hotel quite the same lad who'd stumbled into it, one way or another. Hmm. Lewandowski was so chill about it, he reminded himself, and Bednarek, and Bereszynski - and Zurkowski himself, grazing his knees on the sauna floor. And now, really making his head spin, here was Jamie Vardy, another married fella, as blokey as they came in the English football top-flight, and he was... his words spun about in Matty's head, the possessive way he was referring to Harvey, the casual way he'd stood there grabbing himself in his joggers, and now... his eyes bulged as he followed Vardy to the bedside, where the 5ft10 striker stood over seated Barnes, reaching down to stroke his face quite tenderly, before pushing two fingers into his mouth and allowing the young winger to suck quite hungrily on the digits, Jamie's fingers and thumbs rubbing over his tongue and lips very suggestively, then prising his mouth open to lean over and let a small drop of spit fall into it for him as a treat. Cash was horny in spite of himself, increasingly hard in his skinny jeans. `Well,' Vardy said, `are you gonna take your coat off, pal?' `Please stay,' Barnes said, more quietly and quite nervously. `You promised you were gonna teach me a lesson, Matty.' He licked his damp lips, hunched forward slightly in his shirtless pose, while his face was stroked by Vardy's wet fingers and then pushed playfully side to side. Next to him, the striker was reaching inside of his joggers and then pulling it out, his equipment - Matty just stood there and watched as the long semi was flopped out and then fed into Harvey's willing gob, making Jamie purr and chuckle. Almost unconsciously, Matty moved forward, and began to follow his hosts' suggestions: off came the designer coat, shrugged away and falling to the carpet, and he pawed next at the thick expensive hoodie, wrestling with it until it was off and on the floor too. Only a thin print t-shirt remained, clinging to his lithe muscle as he stepped in close to them at the bed, and took a grip of the hard outline in his skinny jeans. `That's it,' Vardy sighed, and it sounded like a moment as if he was just praising Barnesy, but he winked this way. `Get your kit off, Villa lad, this one is so horny for ya. Honest, he was leaking pre-cum on the bus up here, for fuck's sake - how long has it been since he sucked you off, eh?' Cash was hardly about to reminisce about the finer details with this opposition player who had been part of Leicester's afternoon win, but he was gripped by taboo desire and he was fiercely jealous of the way the other man's cock was being tended to. He reached down to undo his belt and flies, licking his lips, and making aggressive eye contact with Harvey's bright blues. Instantly, those pouting lips were slurping away from Vardy, and gaping open for him. `Fuck yes,' whined the winger. `You gonna fuck my mouth again, Matty sir?' The extra little `sir' did it for him, making Cash almost frenzied as he yanked his t-shirt up and off, joining the other two men in baring his smooth defined chest and six-pack, his skin notably more olive-tanned than their pale Celtic skin. His breathing was heavy with anticipation and he pushed his jeans down a few inches, grabbing his big hard-on through his dark grey undies, then pulling it out and free, pointing its heavy veiny shaft towards Harvey's gaping mouth and rolling tongue. Fuck, yes. In just a few moment's time, the jeans were about his ankles, and the 25-year-old defensive stud was lounged quite comfortably on the hotel bed, propped up at the shoulders by an array of cushions. He stared down the hard-earned muscles of his torso, into the shaven stubble of his crotch, and the sight of his glistening wet erection; Harvey's mouth moved up and down it, spitting on the head and shaft and then tonguing all over it, really slow and sloppy and indulgent. This wasn't the quick rough action of last time, he thought, this was something else, and he just lay there, ready to enjoy it. He still shook with nervousness that he couldn't hide, but his cock knew what it liked, and fellatio had always been top of the list; and Harvey was SO GOOD AT IT, pausing now and then to stoop lower and give his heavy balls a good suck too, the way his girlfriend never would! `Fuck,' moaned Barnes sluttishly, `you taste so good.' He was a chatty bitch, and his greedy comments did even more to turn Cash on, knowing how eager this lad was for him - it was mad to think that perhaps the ginger git had been fantasising about this ever since October `20, all the time that Matty himself was trying to forget it...! And then there was Vardy, too, whose presence... well, kinda made things more exciting, even if that shouldn't be the case. Cash had been horrified to find him here, and yet... well, the older man seemed to get so much voyeuristic pleasure out of this, and just like every slutty moaning comment from cock-hungry Barnes, the dirty grin on Vardy's face and the way he now stood wanking beside them, it just highlighted the seedy thrill of it all. So Harvey was now the striker's bitch, apparently, and yet Jamie was letting him have a turn on this hungry mouth? None of it quite made sense to horny Matty, but it was driving him wild, making his balls twitch as if he could already empty his load, and he had to brace himself not to go sliding down that path to climax already. He reached down and gripped his cock to wank it more conservatively, only letting Harvey swirl his tongue about the head and foreskin instead, his clammy hands rubbing up and down the fuzzy insides of Matty's mighty thighs. `Fuck,' growled the 36-year-old, `that's it - lick it good, Barnsey.' `Mmm,' Cash joined in awkwardly, `you've got better at this, fella!' `Fuckin' hell,' grumbled Barnes himself, `I need your load on my tongue!' For a moment, Matty thought obscurely about his girlfriend, perhaps arriving home right now and sulking at his absence, and the fact he was gonna have to lie more to her when he got home, his cock dirty with another man's saliva. He didn't care - he hadn't told her about what happened in the Qatar sauna, had he? Everything at the World Cup had been in its own bubble, and he'd barely even thought about Zurkowski's mouth as cheating...! He looked at Vardy and thought about his famous (infamous?) wife of his own, how casual he must be about having his lad-on-the-side - it must be a thing, he told himself, for proper big-time footballers like him and Lewy. Why shouldn't Cash enjoy the same luxury...? Staring at the tightly muscled physique of Jamie, he couldn't help but let his eyes slide down and note just how lengthy the older bloke's piece was, pumped furiously in one tight fist, its tip shiny wet. God, the dirty bastard was really turned on by sharing his slut, huh! Matty stared for a moment too long at the wanking, and averted his eyes, but found them connecting instead with Jamie's face, which was leering his way now instead of down at the bobbing redhead over his crotch. Matty moaned irresistibly and broke awkwardly eye contact with the horny voyeur, horrified that Vardy might have caught him looking too long at his long prick - the ageing striker was wheezing out dirty laughter, but was it at the sluttish wet motion of Harvey's mouth, or at his own wandering eyes? `It's okay,' grunted Jamie placidly in spite of the angry red of his chest and cheeks, stopping in the frantic wanking of his cock. He lifted one knee up onto the side of the bed, moving in closer to where they lay. `You can look all you like - take a pic if you want it.' He yanked slowly and teasingly on himself and Matty's eyes were briefly drawn back to it as the centre of attention, making him baulk. `Fuck off,' he said back, forcing out a matey laugh, and reaching one hand for the back of Barnsey's head, taking more control of the oral service, getting rougher with him like he had before, but not quite feeling the same mindless aggression - he was distracted and confused, and Vardy was inching closer, up on his knees on the bedding next to them, looming over at the left, pulling slowly on himself and drooling spit down onto it as lube. Barnes at least was oblivious, face-down in Matty's crotch, gobbling down on his thick Polish sausage. Vardy's eyes were seeking his, full of the authority and mischief that defined him, and Cash found it hard to look away. The striker was a charismatic guy, he really was, and there was a bit of him that thought he might be more turned on by the legend's attention than by the sensation of pushing his thick tool into Barnesy's throat; hadn't he felt something the same in the sauna, sweat dribbling down his muscular body? Lewandowski was a pretty powerful alpha, one of the top dogs in European footy, but there he'd been, grabbing at him and encouraging him, and pushing Zurkowski into his crotch- but nah, he told himself, a mouth is just a mouth, a blow-job felt good from any slut willing to offer it, that's all...! `Go on,' murmured the Leicester icon hoarsely. `Grab it.' He did, he couldn't stop himself. With his left hand, and at an awkward angle, he reached up for it, the striker leaning so close at his side. He moaned as he did, because Harvey's mouth felt SO GOOD on his cock, sending shudders all up and down his 6ft1 frame, whilst his hand closed tentatively around the warm stiffness of Vardy's long but slender tool. He gave an experimental tug on it, then looked up to meet the older fella's smirk; he chuckled awkwardly at himself and let go of it, wiping the hand instinctively on one of the strong lean thighs of the slim ripped striker, cringing at what he'd done. `Felt good for me,' sniggered Vardy, giving himself a good tug, `even if you didn't like it.' Cash moaned again, unable to stop himself: Barnes was licking and mouthing at his bollocks again, wanking a hand up and down the wet shaft as he did, and it was bringing him closer and closer, no matter how he braced himself. And at his side, Vardy was pressing closer, sniggering and smirking, and pulling slowly but firmly on himself, edging it closer, and hoisting his body up so that one thigh jutted over Matty's shoulder. Too close. `You know you want to,' sneered the Leicester ace. `Want what?' he puffed back through his moans of pleasure, but he knew. It hovered close to his face, shiny at the tip, a strong curve of muscle, and he was transfixed by it like the prey of a hypnotic cobra. Closer it came, and his eyes rolled up, meeting Jamie's. That dirty leer, the chuckle escaping his pursed lips. The compact power of his 5ft10 body, still all muscle at his age, refusing to let go of his prime - but what a fucking legend, Matty thought, a working-class hero whose career every young footy lad had enjoyed. His cock all hard and excited for him, and right there. `Suck it,' urged Vardy, and Barnes must have caught this, because the attention to Matty's cock stopped for a moment. But he couldn't fully make out the ginger lad's expression of amazement, because he was glancing up and down between the striker's lewd smile and the pressing stiffness of his cock, inches from his face. `Give it a try, mate,' urged Vardy in a tense whisper. `Just a little taste, Polski.' `Go on,' urged Harvey's thick accent. `Shut up and nosh him,' snapped Vardy powerfully. Matty ignored them. He closed his eyes and let his head lean to one side, pressing down into the bedding with one elbow. He let his lips part cautiously and he stuck his tongue out a little. He inched very carefully and he felt the hot damp tip of it reach his mouth, rolling against the tip of his tongue and his lips. It tasted salty already. He pulled back slightly, but then opened his mouth forward and edged forward, testing his tongue against it, taking some of it into his mouth, excited by the heat and stiffness, and gratified by Vardy's instant loud moan overhead. `That's it - good lad - just a taste, see what you think, good lad!' He gagged a bit at the feeling of more inches of it in his mouth, and he pulled back; but he couldn't, because one of Vardy's hands was on the back of his head, keeping him there, and then pulling him in a bit, making him choke on it, filling his mouth with it, hitting the back of his throat and making him splutter. His ears filled with Vardy's dominant laughter and the pressure released, allowing him to pull back and gasp and cough, the salty taste remaining on his tongue; his own cock was being lavishly sucked now and his balls tickled and stroked, and he knew he'd cum any moment. `Knew it would be too much for ya,' teased Jamie. `You're a total newbie, huh?' Something in the mocking tone hit the right note of challenge for him. Matty gripped a hand more securely about the base of the older man's dick and held it tightly, then pushed his lips awkwardly about the tip and took about half of the length in, rubbing it over his tongue, and hearing the instant happy moan from him. It tasted and felt weird, but he loved the heavy `Ugh mmmmm ugh mmmm!' that sounded from the king chav. But he couldn't keep up this second attempt, had to pull back, even if his hand remained about the base of the weapon. His mouth opened in a silent cry and he felt the convulsions of peaking excitement. Between his big thighs, Barnesy groaned and gurgled, getting a creamy mouthful. A cold sweat flushed across his torso and legs and Cash felt dizzy with the pleasure and wildness, staring at the cock in his hand, all glistening wet with his own spit, and then anxiously up the ripped torso towards Jamie's dirty grin. `Good lad,' he echoed softly, pushing his hand away to wank it himself, edging it forward as if Matty should open to receive it, but he pulled his face away, unable to hide the wrinkling of disgust, mad at the thought of putting it in his mouth again, but aware that it had helped to push him over the edge of his excitement. `Fuck,' Barnes groaned, `you taste good, mmm, let me lick it all...' But Cash was pulling away, wriggling over the bed with some difficulty since he couldn't properly moved his legs, jeans wrapped at the ankles. He wiped his mouth hurriedly on the hairy back of a forearm, and he glared disgustedly at Vardy, then more ambiguously at Barnes, then went skipping off the side of the bed too quickly and tripped over his own ankles and went down to the carpet, more or less naked for their enjoyment. In a second he was up again, steady himself and dragging the pants and jeans up his hairy legs, his hard-on bouncing as he did and flicking a few last drops of cum away from the angry red tip. His face was redder, and his cheeks glossy with fresh sweat. `Did my boy get a good mouthful?' Vardy cooed, and when Cash look over, he saw that Harvey already had his mouth full again, pulled over and bent down to his master's crotch; there was still something in the 25-year-old that felt thrilled and dominant, but he also felt repulsed and light-headed. Still struggling with his pants, he muscled around the bed and past them and into the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and chest, the air thick with Vardy's moans and Barnesy's slurps. `Good lad,' the Leicester striker was purring, but for a different boy - Cash thought about how much he'd like hearing those words from the older player, and cringed. He rubbed more cold water between his palms and rubbed them across his burning face, then through his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His cock still throbbed uncomfortably in his undies, and he finished buttoning up the flies of his jeans and re-buckling the belt. When he moved back through into the room, Jamie was on the bed with Harvey, cuddling and spooning him, and giving a good grab at his rounded bottom. `Where are you going?' called one of their voices, or both of them, as he made for the door, but Matty ignored them, yanking on his t-shirt and just bundling the coat and hoodie under one arm, desperate to be out in the cold February winds. All he could think as he hurried through the quiet hotel was how dumb he'd been to believe that the Leicester team were here, given the proximity of the two Premiership clubs; but then he was thinking about the implications of this, that both Barnes and Vardy had made a special effort to get at his cock like this, and that the whole suite had really just been booked to host his hard-on and let him empty his big Polish balls. The thought almost made him hard again already, ambiguously semi and sensitive in his skinny jeans, as his elevator descended through the hotel building and led him out into the cold drizzle. For a sweaty moment, he considered actually getting to the party, wondering how many of his teammates were enjoying a drink still, but a taxi passed by, and he hailed it with frantic gestures - all he wanted was to be home with his sexy girlfriend and enjoying her body, and putting his dirty mouth to a more heterosexual purpose. Half an hour later he was tonguing at her clit, thinking about anything but cock, and apologising to her when he couldn't actually get his dick hard for the main event - blushing as he made his excuses, telling her anything but that he'd shot his load in a lad's mouth. By the time the 25-year-old turned up at the Sunday training and recovery session a short journey from his suburban home, he was feeling quite chipper - like the sauna incident before it, the three-way encounter in the hotel suite felt like a fever dream, so separate from real life that it could be compartmentalised and, perhaps, forgotten. When Barnes had chowed down on his cock years ago, it had really troubled him to begin with, so much so that he'd had to turn to Ollie Watkins for advice and have the brash forward convince him that these mad things could happen, but not to worry about it - as if to confirm the wisdom, Watkins and he had jacked off side by side in the car one night, somehow confirming that neither lad needed to worry about his sexuality. And so Cash had laughed it off and buried it, and never wasted a moment worrying about it until yesterday. But this could be the same, he thought, stepping out of his car on a crisp bright zero degree morning - he'd been tricked into that nonsense with those two blokes, that's all! Plus, he told himself as he checked in at reception, if anyone had seen the way he'd selflessly pleasured his girl to orgasm after orgasm in their bed at midnight, then they'd know full well how hetero and female-oriented he was! Jesus Christ. So what if he hadn't been able to penetrate her? He'd drowned in pussy juice and let her ride his face until she was screaming, then fingered her in between fits of cunnilingus. A confident smile beamed from his goateed face, red-brown hair slicked back, and slapping at friendly high-fives with each teammate who he passed on his way into the locker-rooms to get ready for the light water-based pool therapy that would begin their day. In the locker-rooms, he pulled off his own loungewear, confident in his tall athletic body, and changed into the pair of colourful Dior swimming trunks, a towel folded neatly over one broad shoulder as he made his way into the heated space of their indoor pool. One by one, members of the Aston Villa squad were splashing their way into the water, those who hadn't played yesterday showing a little more energy and enthusiasm, whilst the bulk of the team were lolling at the edges of the pool or still seated nearby, more interested in the physio rub-downs that would be going on before lunch. Cash strutted through it, glad to get a few compliments and his contributions to the game yesterday, even if he hadn't helped anyone reach the goals that might have equalised. For some reason, the 25-year-old just felt happy and confident, and he didn't want to confront that his ego had taken a boost from the attention of two men. Rather than leaping dramatically into the waters like some - McGinn had just bombed into the centre of the pool and caused some unrest to those who were splashed - he grabbed onto a steel ladder and descended more gracefully into the showers, briefly grimacing at the cool temperature but then beginning to stretch out his limbs one at a time. `Hey,' said the voice of gigantic Tyrone Mings close by, and he returned the greeting to the 6ft5 centre-back, getting on with his own preliminary stretches, but letting his vision drift over the rippling water to check exactly how his colleague was preparing. The thing about a man of Ty's stature, he thought idly, was that this shallow end of the pool barely met his waistline, and it made the big confident lad's black speedos all the more visible, dipping over and under the surface of the water as he did some leg stretches - for a dazed moment, Matty found himself looking at the big dark bulge as it surfaced and sunk at intervals, and then he had to shake himself and look away, letting out a small private laugh - that big fucker's fault for wearing stupid skimpy speedos, he thought. But then the former Villa captain wasn't the only one to opt for the skintight smaller trunks, he noticed, his eyes wandering again: his own best pal Watkins was strutting along the poolside in a similar pair, dark taut nylon over the caramel brown of his hips and thighs, strutting confidently towards the same ladder that had led Cash into the water. Ollie paused at the top of it and waved his way, clearly glad to see him, and stupidly cutting a muscle pose for a moment before deciding to eschew the ladder and leap into the water more freely. For a moment before he leapt, Matty's eyes traced down the 27-year-old's six-pack and tried to decide whether Ollie filled the speedos as well as Ty did - the answer was no, but it was still very confident of him to swagger about wearing so little. Into the pool he crashed, and the splash of cool water made Matty check himself, mildly concerned that he'd taken any seconds at all to glance inspecting at either of the other football players nearest to him. Daft lad, he told himself severely. `Everything all right?' demanded his other buddy, Calum Chambers, patting him on one wet shoulder as he waded past. A friendly smile through the light brown beard of the 28-year-old, and Matty nodded vaguely; before the other defender had shuffled past to find space in the water, Cash couldn't help himself. No sooner had he peered under the rippling surface to clock what swimming trunks the former Arsenal man was wearing, than he was looking wildly away in any other direction, calling himself a stupid dick-head for wanting to see anything down there. Flustered and fidgety, he splashed cool water up into his face and blinked away the sting of chlorine, stretching each of his powerful legs up so that his heels touched his buttocks, and staring around the large indoor pool - but everywhere he looked, of course, were undressed athletic guys, submerged or exposed to various levels as they played about in the pool-water and awaited instruction from the recovery coach who was to lead this aqua session. It was an exercise Cash had been in many times before, a common feature of post-match recovery - god, he shared locker rooms with his teammates week after week! Just keep your eyes to yourself, dickhead! Increasingly uncomfortable, Cash manoeuvred himself to a slightly more remote position in the rear left corner of the pool, blinking his eyes furiously and trying not to think about bulging speedos. Or, he thought briefly, that odd salty taste on the tip of his tongue. `Good lad,' sighed a voice at the back of his mind, and he winced, rubbing a damp hand across his hot flushed cheeks. The slappy footsteps of flip-flops dragged his attention to one side, the two last squad members approaching his corner to join them in the water. Closest to view came the confident strut of the team's Brazilian ace; like Mings and Watkins and others, the 30-year-old attacker came strutting forth in speedos, but not the conservative black skimpies worn by Ty or Ollie. These were obnoxiously bright in Brazilian colours, and they squashed a compact but overt mound at the front between his inked thighs. In he hopped, taking a swift elegant plunge into the shallow water and darting past where Matty lingered, relieved that Coutinho's impressive compact body of Latino muscle was disappeared beneath the water and away from him. Bright red in the cheeks, Matty cursed his odd mood and wandering thoughts, and glanced awkwardly at the final entrant, who had paused just behind Philippe, and was lowering himself hesitantly down the short ladder face-first. For a moment, Matty caught eyes with the last-arriving player to the pool physio, and earned a bright warm smile from their Spanish import. He was oddly glad to be greeted so warmly by Alex Moreno, having failed to strike up any rapport with the 29-year-old left-winger. The older lad fixed this charming grin on him very briefly as he gripped the rails and lowered his body down to the water - unlike inked show-off Coutinho, this Spaniard had gone for a relatively loose-fitting pair of coloured shorts, more like Cash's own casual trunks, and yet... it apparently didn't matter what this latest Aston Villa arrival chose to wore for his pool session, because the red-and-blue striped trunks sagged heavily at the front, a huge and visible mound accentuated even further as they tautened about his thighs on the way down, bulging obscenely in a way that made Matty realise subconsciously how many times he'd noticed it in shorts or trackies before. But then Moreno's loaded shorts were gone beneath the surface like everybody else's, and the heavily-tanned defender was wading in next to him, greeting him with a heavily accented `Good morning' and then looking a little worried as he searched his vocab for another phrase. Instead of helping him out, Cash backed away a little and turned to stare away across the pool, his face burning scarlet, and his shorts straining a little around his mid-morning erection. Somewhere close by, one of the gaffer's second coaches was shouting out some initial instructions and telling them what they would be doing, but `Good lad,' growled the voice in Matty's head, and he pictured himself opening his mouth for imperious Jamie Vardy - oh, fuck. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-369

Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2023 21:38:33 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 369 Part 369: England Camp, Day Eight He wiggled his eyebrows expressively at the other bloke and then lifted a hand in a slightly limp wave, as much communication as he could manage without really taking his attention away from the laptop and recording device that were set up on the desk of their Glaswegian hotel room; from across the suite, his fellow Newcastle United player just gave him one of his tight-lipped smiles and then a vaguely camp salute, before muscling out of the door in his bright blue England training top, long sleeves clinging to muscular arms. With a touch of consideration that made him smile a little, the other player exited the room with care, refusing to let the door slam as he departed; Kieran Trippier was due elsewhere in the hotel for a different kind of media duty to his own, joining Gareth Southgate for one of today's press conferences on the eve of their `Heritage' clash with Scotland. With the door shut and Trips gone, Callum Wilson could return full attention to the screen in front of him, his broad trademark smile lighting up the panel of his own webcam, but his eyes slipping instead between the views of his co-host and their guest - another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast was underway. Left alone, Newcastle United's 31-year-old striker got on with it, joining heartily in with the chat of the other two, and swiping back at the banter of West Ham's Michail Antonio. They'd only just begun the recording when an awkwardly polite Trippier had somewhat interrupted, tiptoeing around the room to change out of his civvies and into official Three Lions gear before joining the gaffer for interviews and a quick visit to tomorrow night's stadium. The England Scottish FAs were making a big fuss of the anniversary showdown between the two British squads, and this Monday in outer Glasgow was dominated more by media sessions than training regimen. Many of the other senior England players were involved in shoots and interviews for different services, but Wilson had been glad to excuse himself and keep up with his podcast-recording plans with his London pal. By the end of the recording, Wilson had been left with any number of bets and dares from the other guys, challenging him to get on the pitch and score against the Scots, and to try out one of several audacious celebration moves. He'd been much-chided by the other guys for his lack of presence in England vs Ukraine, and for his North East club lately, but it was all in warm jest and easy enough to laugh off. Largely, the experience of chatting on-air with Michail left him on a slight high, cracking his knuckles and stepping away from the laptop with an ever bigger grin on his handsome features. Largely, but not entirely... Pausing on the desk chair and patting his thighs through his slack chino shorts, the Coventry-born footballer stared at the call software on the laptop and the open email threads with Antonio, and then pushed the screen down to close the device into standby. He leant a bare elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his fine-stubbled chin in the cup of his hand, left with the same thoughtful questions as he had been since before the summer break. His friendship with Michail was, it seemed, unchanged - the two men texted and rang with some regularity, and still collaborated on their podcast with the same honest discourse and laddish back-and-forth that they and their fans enjoyed. On the surface, all was still good, and they were just two close friends on rival teams in the Premiership. It was almost as if Callum's vivid memory of one night in East London was just a figment, except that he knew that it wasn't. And the memory of it lingered on his flesh like a strong aftershave that wouldn't fade. When he looked into his webcam and was face-to-face with the West Ham forward, he couldn't help but think back to his friend's apartment that night, hanging out with the other attacking player after a clash between their squads - and the things that had happened after a few drinks. The 31-year-old moved away from the desk and began tidying his kit away, trying and failing to dismiss the return of these thoughts. After all, Michail wasn't the FIRST bloke he'd messed about with, in fact he'd had quite regular fun with little Ryan Fraser, whom he was just glad hadn't received an international call-up this month. Callum's toying with Ryan had followed them from Bournemouth to Tyneside and lasted until he, stressed and regretful, had put a firm end to it... a `break up' that had coincided with the little Scot's drop in form and eventual exit from the Magpies. He was back down on the coast at Southampton now and Callum hadn't heard from him in many months. But... things will Ryan had been easy, if surprising, with Callum just quietly acquiescing to the hot wet blowjobs in the dark, and the gruff short lad never pushing for anything more than a sticky mess in his beard, though on a few sweaty occasions Callum had pulled the stocky smaller body against his as a warm little spoon, only to panic when his sensitive prick brushed downy arse cheeks and he contemplated what else the two buddies might be able to get up to on away trips. That was in the past. A bit of naughtiness that the striker had put behind him. He'd blamed Ryan for it, mainly, shocked at his pal's bisexuality and convincing himself that ultimately he'd just indulged it, happy to allow his own big shaft as a plaything for the experimentation of an intimate friend. Right. And then there he was in East London with his lips against Michail's huge cock, just about sober enough to know better; his mate's huge weapon in his mouth and then, for a few terrifying moments, rubbing between his arse cheeks, teasing at the cast-iron gates of his virgin's hole, deeply alarming him. Deeply thrilling him. It was that moment that really haunted him, and made him get a bit clammy on the palms and in the pits when his mate's face and voice popped into life on the laptop. Again, he felt himself get a bit sweaty and irritated at the thought of it all, and he rubbed his clammy palms against the legs of his shorts, pacing the room for a few moments. He pulled at the baggy black t-shirt over his well-defined upper body, and checked the group chats on his phone, and opened one of the windows which he'd shut to block out background noise, glad at the hint of cooler air that it ushered in. It cooled his face, but not the heat of nervous curiosity that had crept over every muscular inch of his 5ft11 body. Sitting down on his bed, he pulled some paperwork off the table and checked the times on the schedule, confirming that he had the rest of the afternoon to himself, not needed anywhere til a light fitness session before dinner. Right. A shower, he decided, a cool one, which might soothe his restlessness and the day's humidity, and kill some time - afterwards, he thought, he could head downstairs and maybe pop out for a short walk and some proper fresh air? He pulled off the t-shirt and shorts, folding both garments with some care and depositing them on top of his case, then sliding off the striped boxers on his way into the room's en suite bathroom. He reached one long thick arm into the shower cubicle to pull the water into life, and then leaned across to lower the temperature, hoping for a cool cascade that wouldn't leave him even sweatier than he went in; he flicked an ankle free of his discarded undies and let them skid into a corner, then stood checking himself out in the mirror for a few private moments. Like most athletic lads in such a moment's opportunity, the Newcastle striker couldn't help but inspect the muscular architecture of his chest, his shoulders, the arms that he now flexed at his sides - laughing judgmentally at himself and yet still indulging in self-appreciation of the bulky physique that came fairly naturally to him. And not just the muscle of his upper body: he couldn't resist taking a step back from the mirror for a fuller reflection, and nodding approvingly at the way his long soft cock swung below the trimmed fur of his bush, liking the definition in his upper leg muscles too, and laughing even more loudly at his own solitary vanity. Stop being a bell-end, he told himself. In the shower, the cool water felt as good as he'd hoped, and he couldn't help but sigh quite gladly. He grabbed the bottle and spunked a large glob of shower gel into his pinkish palms, lathering up before spreading it across his smooth pecs and then each bulging arm of tattoos. He brought both soapy hands to his cock and balls and relaxed there before stepping into the pleasantly cool blast and beginning to rinse down the pale brown curves and lines of his strong naked form. Idly, he fondled the low fall of his bollocks, and the chubby curve of his cock, thumbing lazily at the fold of foreskin, and only slightly responding to the dull thrill of this self-touch in the shower, briefly entertaining the prospect of a cheeky wank whilst he had the suite to himself. He stroked and explored the idea in his head, even as one slippery hand did the same to the weighty shape of his prick, turning slowly under the water, letting it caress his thick strong neck and cascade over the platform of his big-muscled shoulders. A wank? Another thought was pushing at him now, one that made him lean his body forward to the off-white tiles of the wall, folding an arm and pressing his face in against the muscles to relieve some stress, staying still under the water. There were places that his curiosity wanted him to explore more than his gently swelling manhood - there were memories that tickled irritatingly at him, refreshed every time he came digitally face-to-face with Michail, who had never once mentioned what occurred between them that night. Antonio's impassive silence on the matter would be galling if his friendship wasn't so warm and unfaltering, seemingly nothing damaged or tainted in their bromance. A decision was made in Callum's head, and he let his fingers play hesitantly on the dial of the shower controls, weakening the spray of water overhead and nudging up the temperature, staring blankly into the shimmering tiles. The hand on his privates stilled there, cupping his own balls and rubbing them thoughtfully, and then... dumbly, unsure what the point of this was, he reached it behind him instead, and with just his left hand, he squeezed at one and then the other of his pert chunky arse cheeks. He paused and chuckled stupidly through a faceful of water, noting the way he'd petted his own bottom as if he was giving a hinting squeeze to the booty of his missus - flirting with himself. With a conflicted sigh, the striker switched the water off fully and stood there dripping in the square cubicle of shower that took up one end of the narrow bathroom, ragging the curtain aside for an ego boost - the angle was right for a view down the bathroom to the large mirror over the sink, reminding him of the large powerful body that made him such a handsome fucker. It was the reassurance the 31-year-old needed to explore, for some reason. He leaned back into the tiled wall and stared at the mirror, and then slid his hands down his defined abdomen, playing again with his cock, stiffening and heavy, and the swing of his balls; and he reached one hand a bit further, sliding wet fingers into his gooch, feeling the rough fuzz there. Lowering his body slightly against the wall, he parted the chunk of hs thighs a bit, allowing one finger access between those buble cheeks - poking into the wiry hair of his crack, and rubbing nervously over the balloon-knot feel of his hole, his breath quickening as he remembered the hot wet pressure of a cock-head pressing briefly and threateningly there in his buddy's bed. Callum shook himself and squatted a little bit more: he cupped his cock and balls away with one hand, ignoring the stiffening, and slid his right hand further in, under himself, pushing between his cheeks, letting his index finger really prod and stroke his hole, and wondering how a cock could ever go in there. The posture felt awkward and his face grimaced, and he straightened up, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck, and then squatting down a bit to try again, but- it didn't feel right or natural, and the whole experiment seemed daft to him. He'd just gotten carried away that night, hadn't he? He and Michail had drank a bit and he'd been so smug and over-excited by the way the football game went, so... But he tried again - he pushed his broad muscular back into the wet tiles and locked his leg muscles, lowering himself enough to part his big glutes, and he reached down and under, and rubbed that same finger a bit more fiercely at the most intimate of spots, feeling how tight and impenetrable it was, feeling how hot and private... and hearing the awkward roughness of his own breathing as he remembered to exhale. He'd closed his eyes as he did so, feeling awkward and silly, and no longer wishing to see any of his musclebound reflection on the side of the bathroom - but now he opened them, his knees bent and his body tensed, his single digit rubbing where Michail's tip had. And Cal's open eyes stared into the angle of the mirror, which reflected not just the open shower entrance, but the open door into the hotel suite: and the man who now stood in that doorway, meeting his wide eyes via this crystal-clear reflection. Wilson froze. Staring back at him in the mirror, Kieran's face was almost disturbingly calm, unfazed and unflinching, that same bland smile playing across his mouth, which jerked with the motion of chewing some gum. As Callum let out a slow pained breath, Kieran's nostrils flared slightly and he let out the slightest chuckle before stepping into the mild warmth of the bathroom - standing square in the middle of its narrow rectangle and twisting this way to grin and nod at him, with naked wet Wilson still squatting down the shower wall. `Go for it, fella,' the Manc bloke said quietly, then a slight whistle of approval; Wilson just stared at him, his mouth an awkward `O', and his eyes wide with horror. This was his acting captain for most outings, after all, the semi-official leader of the up-and-coming Newcastle team. Wilson felt like his world had frozen or slowed and like he couldn't bear the scene of discovery and judgement about to follow - and yet, he realised dimly, Trips was just smirking as he shook his head, and his gruff positive words were registering in the brain: go for it, fella. Now Trips was turning away slightly, but just to the shelf under the mirror, and his own washbag of the two that settled there - from it he pulled a thin pale tube of something, which he flipped open at the cap and proffered as he approached the shower. `You might want a dab of lube though, you crazy bastard.' Wilson stared at the slightly older fella, his good St James Park pal, and at the fingertip of glistening lubricant that was now pointed towards him. Like he was in a trance, Callum reached out and let them rub fingers, taking the smear of gel onto his own finger. `Well,' grunted the 32-year-old defender, `give it a go?' Zombie-like, he drew back the finger and hand, and sent it low, remaining locked in his half-squat, and then tickling the lubricated finger behind the obstacle of his ball-sack. He paused with his cool slick finger pressed back against his resistant ring, and stared in mortification at the amiable expression on Kieran's face, the expectant posture of his stocky form. `Trips,' he breathed anxiously. `I shoulda knocked,' his right-back told him lightly, smiling but apologetic. `But this is fine.' `Mate,' he groaned awkwardly, still frozen in this most intimate of poses. `Tell ya what,' muttered the former Atletico Madrid star. `Why don't you just turn round? You'll be better then, you know, bending over a bit. Eh?' Callum blinked slowly at him, trying to control his breathing. He replayed his friend and skipper's words in his head and still couldn't make any sense of them. This had to be a nightmare, the kind you wake up from in a hot sweat, and can't get back to sleep. No way was he being discovered by his senior teammate in the act of trying to give his arse a poke in the shower, no fucking way. In front of him, the 5ft10 muscular footballer was just shrugging and grinning, and then reaching in to pat one of his wet forearms. `Turn round, big lad,' Kieran said quite gently. His voice was strangely difficult to refuse, even in the stasis of Callum's horror. Loosening the lock of his knees, he rose up a little and began to turn, glad once his face was hidden and he could push one hand up against the tiles to support his leaning figure, his broad back and broader backside exposed to the intruder. With his free hand, he reached back and felt one cheek, and Trips murmured some approval: `That's it, your cheeks will part more in that position mate, your crack will feel wide open. Go on, give it a rub.' Callum continued in breathy silence, leaning heavily forward into the wall, his face red-hot with fright, and his entire muscular body trembling damp - pulling on his own cheek, he let his fingertips creep into the canyon between his glutes, and he rubbed the lubed finger on his hole again, which did feel different in this position. For a second, interrupting Trippier felt like an apparition, perhaps he'd never been there, perhaps Wilson was safely on his own and experimenting still, but- `Beautiful fucking pussy there,' the Manc lad breathed with his quiet gruffness, and Callum felt his cock throb. Then, `You mind if I have a go?' Wilson's answer was simple and silent - his fingers retreating gently from his arse crack, but still clutching the muscular cheek, pulling it slightly open. He heard a stupid little squelch noise, the sound of the tube of lube being squeezed, and then there was an agonisingly long moment, and then - aaaah - the anticipated cool sensation and sudden presence of an alien fingertip brushing his `pussy'. His body must have jerked a bit at the sensation, because Kieran made a shushing noise like he was calming an animal, then said, `Relax, mate, and see if I can get this one in, eh?' Now Wilson was pressing both hands into the wall and leaning forward a bit more, presenting his big backside to the other man, whose fingertip circled and nudged him there, and then - fuckkkkk - nudged a bit more firmly, giving him the strangest sensation. He let out a strange-sounding breath and it was met by a gentle laugh. `That feel okay, chief?' asked Trips very quietly. He nodded stupidly and then realised he was facing away. `I think so,' he said shakily. He let out the same awkward laugh that he had at his own vain flexing, and then bit his lip, trying to check that he wasn't asleep and dreaming. In went Kieran's finger, he felt, or some of it, it was hard to tell - he could feel himself opening, but surely it couldn't be as huge and deep as it suddenly seemed... `That's just one finger,' Trippier's quiet steady voice updated him, `just relax and let it in mate...' `Fucking hell, Trips.' `Breathe properly, mate, it'll help.' `What the hell are we doing?' `Hah - a better job than you were doing on yer own. Mate, I'm going to push it in a bit deeper, okay?' `Er- erm- okay, okay - whoa.' `Relax, relax, I'm going slow. That feel okay?' `Fuck. I dunno. Er, yes.' `That's the one finger, mate, pretty much all in - you're taking it well.' `Er - thanks? Fuck. Erm.' `How's that?' `Mmmm. Mmm. Mate...' `Relax, relax. Keep breathing. Just let me... yeah, mate, you are TIGHT. Fuck, what a lovely pussy, hah. That finger feel good in you, buddy?' Callum didn't know what to say to that, or how to handle the way his cock twitched when his friend referred to his arse as a pussy. He tried his best to breathe deep and full as instructed, leaning more of his hefty weight into the slippery wetness of the tiles, bending over more fully, and feeling the in-out slipperiness of Kieran's invading digit. It felt fucking great, he thought, and not even sore at all. He liked the low breathy chuckle of his teammate's voice - he just couldn't bear the thought of turning round and seeing his softly lined face, his self-assured grin, his bright sparkling eyes. He just knelt there, his big arse pushed back, his cheeks gently parted, and Kieran's finger going in and out of his hole in slow prods, rotating or shifting a little to tease and stretch. Callum's dick was rock-hard. `I'm gonna add some more lube,' Trips told him. `You okay?' `This is insane,' was all he could reply. `Take that as a yes, big lad. Your arse feels fucking great.' `Right.' `You can probably take two fingers if you want, mate.' `Er-' `If you bend over a bit more, anyway, and actually RELAX.' `I'm trying.' `Haha. Sorry. God, you're a tight lil virgin ain't you, big Cal? Here... it'll feel cold...' `Try it,' he muttered quite fiercely. `Try two, then.' If Trippier's one finger had felt ominously full and invasive, then two felt ridiculous; he pictured his mate's manly hands and reasoned that two of Kieran's fingers simply could not amount to something as huge as what he could feel, but then this was all new and terrifying for him. His arse-hole tingled at the cool lube, and he grimaced - no way was he going to be able to take two, the fella was talking shit...! Oh. Nope. In they went, and it did kinda hurt this time, making him tense up more and let out the trace of a whimper. `I'll go slow,' came the quiet tender promise of the man behind him - Kieran felt closer now, and he felt the man's other hand stroke his lower back, then his sides. His voice when he spoke again was even more soft and coaxing, and Callum was shocked at how much comfort and encouragement he found in it: `This dirty pussy can take my two fingers, y'know, you just need to relax.' `Yes mate,' the strapping striker whimpered. `Wish I had some poppers or something,' Trippier chuckled. `Just be careful,' Callum muttered warily. `I'm going slow, promise - you feel that, matey?' `Yeah...' `That's two, right in you - haha, bet you like that, eh? You can wank yer cock if you like.' `Yeah?' `Yeah, yeah, sure - it's all good, I've got you back here. Just you have a play, Cal.' `Mate, this is so weird-' `You trust me, don't you?' `Yeah, totally, but...' `Then relax, matey - toss yourself off, fella, and let me take care of back here.' `Hey, hey - is that three fingers?' `Just teasing you, seeing what you can take...' `Not three,' he hissed. `I'll never take three.' `Relax,' came Kieran's gruff confidence, `I'm just teasing your hole, just getting a bit more lube... god, you don't know how good you feel, mate, I haven't fingered a pussy this tight since I was like 17! Haha. Damn. That okay?' `Is that three?' `Nah, that's just two... THIS is three-' `Whoa... fuck... mmph-' `Hold still, remember to breathe - yeah, just like that.' `Maaaate...' `Three fingers,' came Trippier's chuckle of triumph. `Damn.' As instructed, he pulled back and forth on his cock, his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, and his arse stuck out behind him - his hole apparently accepting Trippier's investigative touch, and responding to this newness far better than he could ever have expected. Trips was fingering him more carefully now, slow and less deep, but he could feel the girthiness of three digits in him, and pleasure fought with pain - when he whimpered again, the pressure reduced, and Kieran's voice grew softer still. `Sorry,' he murmured, `I shouldn't have pushed you. Just take this, matey, let me go deep...' `Oh god...' `You love it?' `Oh mate...' `You wanted this, didn't you?' `Fuckkkk...' `Feels much better than your own would have, Cal.' `Errr... mmm... ohhh...' `You gonna cum for your captain, big fella?' `Mmph!' `Go on, mate - you can probably feel me right on your prostate now.' `Oh shit!' `Come on, Wilson, blow that messy fucking load, eh?' Kieran's voice faded against the bloodrush in Callum's ears. All that existed for him was the sensation in his rear, and the ridiculous sensitivity of his cock in his hand. His other hand could hardly keep him up, sliding back and forth across the tiles of the wall. His knees nearly buckled and he almost ended up in a heap on the white plastic floor of the shower. But his fitness bore him through it, and the indistinct purr of Kieran's voice too - so that before he knew it, his dick was reacting properly to the feel of a deep finger in his arse, and he was looking down into the volcanic eruption of his own juices, which splattered the shower wall and then drooled over his brown knuckles. `Fuck,' he cried weakly, `fuck, fuck, fuck.' `Good man.' `Ohh....' `Now, keep breathing, keep relaxed - it might feel weird as I pull my finger out.' He whimpered and shook; somehow, it hurt more for the two fingers to slide out of his stinging ring, and then the absence of them felt worst than their presence, and his legs were like jelly. `Here,' the 32-year-old right-back was telling him, `just let me...' Suddenly the shiny lycra of Kieran's England gear was brushing his bare skin, and his mate was muscling into the shower to support him, to ease him into a seated position, and then knelt and hunched over him, hugging him about the shoulders. Kieran's hand rubbed his back and neck, and the voice was very close as it whispered into his ear. `Bet that felt weird, you sexy bastard - but god your arse felt good, mate. So good. Glad it made you cum.' `What the fuck mate?' the striker mumbled to himself. `I'm gonna leave you here a minute,' Trippier whispered. `Okay...' `Just so you can shower again, if you want. Wash the lube away, and that. I best wash my hand too, I guess, haha. Though it's gonna smell good all night.' `Mate...' `You take your time here,' Trips assured him, `and I'll see you when you're ready, and we can take a slow walk down to the gym to see everyone in a bit. It's all good, fella, nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, you handsome bastard.' Kieran planted the softest kiss on the crown of his head and squeezed his shoulders. `Glad you enjoyed that, eh.' And then his warmth and pleasantness was withdrawn, and Callum just sat there, listening to a jaunty whistle as hands were washed and the Manc guy went strolling out of the bathroom. Slowly and shakily, utterly stunned, the striker got to his feet, and knocked the water back on. More soap, more lather, more rinse - he took his time, blinking slowly and waiting for the burning sensation to fade in his rear end. As he washed, he stared down at the tiles, and watched as the deflected spray from his body rinsed away the droplets of his own cum, cleaning away that evidence, but not the knowledge - he'd just been fingered to climax by a bloke, his England and Newcastle teammate, and apparently everything was good and fine. What the hell? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Tue, 12 Sep 2023 21:38:33 +0000 From: writer guy &lt;premiershiplads@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 369 Part 369: England Camp, Day Eight He wiggled his eyebrows expressively at the other bloke and then lifted a hand in a slightly limp wave, as much communication as he could manage without really taking his attention away from the laptop and recording device that were set up on the desk of their Glaswegian hotel room; from across the suite, his fellow Newcastle United player just gave him one of his tight-lipped smiles and then a vaguely camp salute, before muscling out of the door in his bright blue England training top, long sleeves clinging to muscular arms. With a touch of consideration that made him smile a little, the other player exited the room with care, refusing to let the door slam as he departed; Kieran Trippier was due elsewhere in the hotel for a different kind of media duty to his own, joining Gareth Southgate for one of today's press conferences on the eve of their `Heritage' clash with Scotland. With the door shut and Trips gone, Callum Wilson could return full attention to the screen in front of him, his broad trademark smile lighting up the panel of his own webcam, but his eyes slipping instead between the views of his co-host and their guest - another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast was underway. Left alone, Newcastle United's 31-year-old striker got on with it, joining heartily in with the chat of the other two, and swiping back at the banter of West Ham's Michail Antonio. They'd only just begun the recording when an awkwardly polite Trippier had somewhat interrupted, tiptoeing around the room to change out of his civvies and into official Three Lions gear before joining the gaffer for interviews and a quick visit to tomorrow night's stadium. The England Scottish FAs were making a big fuss of the anniversary showdown between the two British squads, and this Monday in outer Glasgow was dominated more by media sessions than training regimen. Many of the other senior England players were involved in shoots and interviews for different services, but Wilson had been glad to excuse himself and keep up with his podcast-recording plans with his London pal. By the end of the recording, Wilson had been left with any number of bets and dares from the other guys, challenging him to get on the pitch and score against the Scots, and to try out one of several audacious celebration moves. He'd been much-chided by the other guys for his lack of presence in England vs Ukraine, and for his North East club lately, but it was all in warm jest and easy enough to laugh off. Largely, the experience of chatting on-air with Michail left him on a slight high, cracking his knuckles and stepping away from the laptop with an ever bigger grin on his handsome features. Largely, but not entirely... Pausing on the desk chair and patting his thighs through his slack chino shorts, the Coventry-born footballer stared at the call software on the laptop and the open email threads with Antonio, and then pushed the screen down to close the device into standby. He leant a bare elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his fine-stubbled chin in the cup of his hand, left with the same thoughtful questions as he had been since before the summer break. His friendship with Michail was, it seemed, unchanged - the two men texted and rang with some regularity, and still collaborated on their podcast with the same honest discourse and laddish back-and-forth that they and their fans enjoyed. On the surface, all was still good, and they were just two close friends on rival teams in the Premiership. It was almost as if Callum's vivid memory of one night in East London was just a figment, except that he knew that it wasn't. And the memory of it lingered on his flesh like a strong aftershave that wouldn't fade. When he looked into his webcam and was face-to-face with the West Ham forward, he couldn't help but think back to his friend's apartment that night, hanging out with the other attacking player after a clash between their squads - and the things that had happened after a few drinks. The 31-year-old moved away from the desk and began tidying his kit away, trying and failing to dismiss the return of these thoughts. After all, Michail wasn't the FIRST bloke he'd messed about with, in fact he'd had quite regular fun with little Ryan Fraser, whom he was just glad hadn't received an international call-up this month. Callum's toying with Ryan had followed them from Bournemouth to Tyneside and lasted until he, stressed and regretful, had put a firm end to it... a `break up' that had coincided with the little Scot's drop in form and eventual exit from the Magpies. He was back down on the coast at Southampton now and Callum hadn't heard from him in many months. But... things will Ryan had been easy, if surprising, with Callum just quietly acquiescing to the hot wet blowjobs in the dark, and the gruff short lad never pushing for anything more than a sticky mess in his beard, though on a few sweaty occasions Callum had pulled the stocky smaller body against his as a warm little spoon, only to panic when his sensitive prick brushed downy arse cheeks and he contemplated what else the two buddies might be able to get up to on away trips. That was in the past. A bit of naughtiness that the striker had put behind him. He'd blamed Ryan for it, mainly, shocked at his pal's bisexuality and convincing himself that ultimately he'd just indulged it, happy to allow his own big shaft as a plaything for the experimentation of an intimate friend. Right. And then there he was in East London with his lips against Michail's huge cock, just about sober enough to know better; his mate's huge weapon in his mouth and then, for a few terrifying moments, rubbing between his arse cheeks, teasing at the cast-iron gates of his virgin's hole, deeply alarming him. Deeply thrilling him. It was that moment that really haunted him, and made him get a bit clammy on the palms and in the pits when his mate's face and voice popped into life on the laptop. Again, he felt himself get a bit sweaty and irritated at the thought of it all, and he rubbed his clammy palms against the legs of his shorts, pacing the room for a few moments. He pulled at the baggy black t-shirt over his well-defined upper body, and checked the group chats on his phone, and opened one of the windows which he'd shut to block out background noise, glad at the hint of cooler air that it ushered in. It cooled his face, but not the heat of nervous curiosity that had crept over every muscular inch of his 5ft11 body. Sitting down on his bed, he pulled some paperwork off the table and checked the times on the schedule, confirming that he had the rest of the afternoon to himself, not needed anywhere til a light fitness session before dinner. Right. A shower, he decided, a cool one, which might soothe his restlessness and the day's humidity, and kill some time - afterwards, he thought, he could head downstairs and maybe pop out for a short walk and some proper fresh air? He pulled off the t-shirt and shorts, folding both garments with some care and depositing them on top of his case, then sliding off the striped boxers on his way into the room's en suite bathroom. He reached one long thick arm into the shower cubicle to pull the water into life, and then leaned across to lower the temperature, hoping for a cool cascade that wouldn't leave him even sweatier than he went in; he flicked an ankle free of his discarded undies and let them skid into a corner, then stood checking himself out in the mirror for a few private moments. Like most athletic lads in such a moment's opportunity, the Newcastle striker couldn't help but inspect the muscular architecture of his chest, his shoulders, the arms that he now flexed at his sides - laughing judgmentally at himself and yet still indulging in self-appreciation of the bulky physique that came fairly naturally to him. And not just the muscle of his upper body: he couldn't resist taking a step back from the mirror for a fuller reflection, and nodding approvingly at the way his long soft cock swung below the trimmed fur of his bush, liking the definition in his upper leg muscles too, and laughing even more loudly at his own solitary vanity. Stop being a bell-end, he told himself. In the shower, the cool water felt as good as he'd hoped, and he couldn't help but sigh quite gladly. He grabbed the bottle and spunked a large glob of shower gel into his pinkish palms, lathering up before spreading it across his smooth pecs and then each bulging arm of tattoos. He brought both soapy hands to his cock and balls and relaxed there before stepping into the pleasantly cool blast and beginning to rinse down the pale brown curves and lines of his strong naked form. Idly, he fondled the low fall of his bollocks, and the chubby curve of his cock, thumbing lazily at the fold of foreskin, and only slightly responding to the dull thrill of this self-touch in the shower, briefly entertaining the prospect of a cheeky wank whilst he had the suite to himself. He stroked and explored the idea in his head, even as one slippery hand did the same to the weighty shape of his prick, turning slowly under the water, letting it caress his thick strong neck and cascade over the platform of his big-muscled shoulders. A wank? Another thought was pushing at him now, one that made him lean his body forward to the off-white tiles of the wall, folding an arm and pressing his face in against the muscles to relieve some stress, staying still under the water. There were places that his curiosity wanted him to explore more than his gently swelling manhood - there were memories that tickled irritatingly at him, refreshed every time he came digitally face-to-face with Michail, who had never once mentioned what occurred between them that night. Antonio's impassive silence on the matter would be galling if his friendship wasn't so warm and unfaltering, seemingly nothing damaged or tainted in their bromance. A decision was made in Callum's head, and he let his fingers play hesitantly on the dial of the shower controls, weakening the spray of water overhead and nudging up the temperature, staring blankly into the shimmering tiles. The hand on his privates stilled there, cupping his own balls and rubbing them thoughtfully, and then... dumbly, unsure what the point of this was, he reached it behind him instead, and with just his left hand, he squeezed at one and then the other of his pert chunky arse cheeks. He paused and chuckled stupidly through a faceful of water, noting the way he'd petted his own bottom as if he was giving a hinting squeeze to the booty of his missus - flirting with himself. With a conflicted sigh, the striker switched the water off fully and stood there dripping in the square cubicle of shower that took up one end of the narrow bathroom, ragging the curtain aside for an ego boost - the angle was right for a view down the bathroom to the large mirror over the sink, reminding him of the large powerful body that made him such a handsome fucker. It was the reassurance the 31-year-old needed to explore, for some reason. He leaned back into the tiled wall and stared at the mirror, and then slid his hands down his defined abdomen, playing again with his cock, stiffening and heavy, and the swing of his balls; and he reached one hand a bit further, sliding wet fingers into his gooch, feeling the rough fuzz there. Lowering his body slightly against the wall, he parted the chunk of hs thighs a bit, allowing one finger access between those buble cheeks - poking into the wiry hair of his crack, and rubbing nervously over the balloon-knot feel of his hole, his breath quickening as he remembered the hot wet pressure of a cock-head pressing briefly and threateningly there in his buddy's bed. Callum shook himself and squatted a little bit more: he cupped his cock and balls away with one hand, ignoring the stiffening, and slid his right hand further in, under himself, pushing between his cheeks, letting his index finger really prod and stroke his hole, and wondering how a cock could ever go in there. The posture felt awkward and his face grimaced, and he straightened up, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck, and then squatting down a bit to try again, but- it didn't feel right or natural, and the whole experiment seemed daft to him. He'd just gotten carried away that night, hadn't he? He and Michail had drank a bit and he'd been so smug and over-excited by the way the football game went, so... But he tried again - he pushed his broad muscular back into the wet tiles and locked his leg muscles, lowering himself enough to part his big glutes, and he reached down and under, and rubbed that same finger a bit more fiercely at the most intimate of spots, feeling how tight and impenetrable it was, feeling how hot and private... and hearing the awkward roughness of his own breathing as he remembered to exhale. He'd closed his eyes as he did so, feeling awkward and silly, and no longer wishing to see any of his musclebound reflection on the side of the bathroom - but now he opened them, his knees bent and his body tensed, his single digit rubbing where Michail's tip had. And Cal's open eyes stared into the angle of the mirror, which reflected not just the open shower entrance, but the open door into the hotel suite: and the man who now stood in that doorway, meeting his wide eyes via this crystal-clear reflection. Wilson froze. Staring back at him in the mirror, Kieran's face was almost disturbingly calm, unfazed and unflinching, that same bland smile playing across his mouth, which jerked with the motion of chewing some gum. As Callum let out a slow pained breath, Kieran's nostrils flared slightly and he let out the slightest chuckle before stepping into the mild warmth of the bathroom - standing square in the middle of its narrow rectangle and twisting this way to grin and nod at him, with naked wet Wilson still squatting down the shower wall. `Go for it, fella,' the Manc bloke said quietly, then a slight whistle of approval; Wilson just stared at him, his mouth an awkward `O', and his eyes wide with horror. This was his acting captain for most outings, after all, the semi-official leader of the up-and-coming Newcastle team. Wilson felt like his world had frozen or slowed and like he couldn't bear the scene of discovery and judgement about to follow - and yet, he realised dimly, Trips was just smirking as he shook his head, and his gruff positive words were registering in the brain: go for it, fella. Now Trips was turning away slightly, but just to the shelf under the mirror, and his own washbag of the two that settled there - from it he pulled a thin pale tube of something, which he flipped open at the cap and proffered as he approached the shower. `You might want a dab of lube though, you crazy bastard.' Wilson stared at the slightly older fella, his good St James Park pal, and at the fingertip of glistening lubricant that was now pointed towards him. Like he was in a trance, Callum reached out and let them rub fingers, taking the smear of gel onto his own finger. `Well,' grunted the 32-year-old defender, `give it a go?' Zombie-like, he drew back the finger and hand, and sent it low, remaining locked in his half-squat, and then tickling the lubricated finger behind the obstacle of his ball-sack. He paused with his cool slick finger pressed back against his resistant ring, and stared in mortification at the amiable expression on Kieran's face, the expectant posture of his stocky form. `Trips,' he breathed anxiously. `I shoulda knocked,' his right-back told him lightly, smiling but apologetic. `But this is fine.' `Mate,' he groaned awkwardly, still frozen in this most intimate of poses. `Tell ya what,' muttered the former Atletico Madrid star. `Why don't you just turn round? You'll be better then, you know, bending over a bit. Eh?' Callum blinked slowly at him, trying to control his breathing. He replayed his friend and skipper's words in his head and still couldn't make any sense of them. This had to be a nightmare, the kind you wake up from in a hot sweat, and can't get back to sleep. No way was he being discovered by his senior teammate in the act of trying to give his arse a poke in the shower, no fucking way. In front of him, the 5ft10 muscular footballer was just shrugging and grinning, and then reaching in to pat one of his wet forearms. `Turn round, big lad,' Kieran said quite gently. His voice was strangely difficult to refuse, even in the stasis of Callum's horror. Loosening the lock of his knees, he rose up a little and began to turn, glad once his face was hidden and he could push one hand up against the tiles to support his leaning figure, his broad back and broader backside exposed to the intruder. With his free hand, he reached back and felt one cheek, and Trips murmured some approval: `That's it, your cheeks will part more in that position mate, your crack will feel wide open. Go on, give it a rub.' Callum continued in breathy silence, leaning heavily forward into the wall, his face red-hot with fright, and his entire muscular body trembling damp - pulling on his own cheek, he let his fingertips creep into the canyon between his glutes, and he rubbed the lubed finger on his hole again, which did feel different in this position. For a second, interrupting Trippier felt like an apparition, perhaps he'd never been there, perhaps Wilson was safely on his own and experimenting still, but- `Beautiful fucking pussy there,' the Manc lad breathed with his quiet gruffness, and Callum felt his cock throb. Then, `You mind if I have a go?' Wilson's answer was simple and silent - his fingers retreating gently from his arse crack, but still clutching the muscular cheek, pulling it slightly open. He heard a stupid little squelch noise, the sound of the tube of lube being squeezed, and then there was an agonisingly long moment, and then - aaaah - the anticipated cool sensation and sudden presence of an alien fingertip brushing his `pussy'. His body must have jerked a bit at the sensation, because Kieran made a shushing noise like he was calming an animal, then said, `Relax, mate, and see if I can get this one in, eh?' Now Wilson was pressing both hands into the wall and leaning forward a bit more, presenting his big backside to the other man, whose fingertip circled and nudged him there, and then - fuckkkkk - nudged a bit more firmly, giving him the strangest sensation. He let out a strange-sounding breath and it was met by a gentle laugh. `That feel okay, chief?' asked Trips very quietly. He nodded stupidly and then realised he was facing away. `I think so,' he said shakily. He let out the same awkward laugh that he had at his own vain flexing, and then bit his lip, trying to check that he wasn't asleep and dreaming. In went Kieran's finger, he felt, or some of it, it was hard to tell - he could feel himself opening, but surely it couldn't be as huge and deep as it suddenly seemed... `That's just one finger,' Trippier's quiet steady voice updated him, `just relax and let it in mate...' `Fucking hell, Trips.' `Breathe properly, mate, it'll help.' `What the hell are we doing?' `Hah - a better job than you were doing on yer own. Mate, I'm going to push it in a bit deeper, okay?' `Er- erm- okay, okay - whoa.' `Relax, relax, I'm going slow. That feel okay?' `Fuck. I dunno. Er, yes.' `That's the one finger, mate, pretty much all in - you're taking it well.' `Er - thanks? Fuck. Erm.' `How's that?' `Mmmm. Mmm. Mate...' `Relax, relax. Keep breathing. Just let me... yeah, mate, you are TIGHT. Fuck, what a lovely pussy, hah. That finger feel good in you, buddy?' Callum didn't know what to say to that, or how to handle the way his cock twitched when his friend referred to his arse as a pussy. He tried his best to breathe deep and full as instructed, leaning more of his hefty weight into the slippery wetness of the tiles, bending over more fully, and feeling the in-out slipperiness of Kieran's invading digit. It felt fucking great, he thought, and not even sore at all. He liked the low breathy chuckle of his teammate's voice - he just couldn't bear the thought of turning round and seeing his softly lined face, his self-assured grin, his bright sparkling eyes. He just knelt there, his big arse pushed back, his cheeks gently parted, and Kieran's finger going in and out of his hole in slow prods, rotating or shifting a little to tease and stretch. Callum's dick was rock-hard. `I'm gonna add some more lube,' Trips told him. `You okay?' `This is insane,' was all he could reply. `Take that as a yes, big lad. Your arse feels fucking great.' `Right.' `You can probably take two fingers if you want, mate.' `Er-' `If you bend over a bit more, anyway, and actually RELAX.' `I'm trying.' `Haha. Sorry. God, you're a tight lil virgin ain't you, big Cal? Here... it'll feel cold...' `Try it,' he muttered quite fiercely. `Try two, then.' If Trippier's one finger had felt ominously full and invasive, then two felt ridiculous; he pictured his mate's manly hands and reasoned that two of Kieran's fingers simply could not amount to something as huge as what he could feel, but then this was all new and terrifying for him. His arse-hole tingled at the cool lube, and he grimaced - no way was he going to be able to take two, the fella was talking shit...! Oh. Nope. In they went, and it did kinda hurt this time, making him tense up more and let out the trace of a whimper. `I'll go slow,' came the quiet tender promise of the man behind him - Kieran felt closer now, and he felt the man's other hand stroke his lower back, then his sides. His voice when he spoke again was even more soft and coaxing, and Callum was shocked at how much comfort and encouragement he found in it: `This dirty pussy can take my two fingers, y'know, you just need to relax.' `Yes mate,' the strapping striker whimpered. `Wish I had some poppers or something,' Trippier chuckled. `Just be careful,' Callum muttered warily. `I'm going slow, promise - you feel that, matey?' `Yeah...' `That's two, right in you - haha, bet you like that, eh? You can wank yer cock if you like.' `Yeah?' `Yeah, yeah, sure - it's all good, I've got you back here. Just you have a play, Cal.' `Mate, this is so weird-' `You trust me, don't you?' `Yeah, totally, but...' `Then relax, matey - toss yourself off, fella, and let me take care of back here.' `Hey, hey - is that three fingers?' `Just teasing you, seeing what you can take...' `Not three,' he hissed. `I'll never take three.' `Relax,' came Kieran's gruff confidence, `I'm just teasing your hole, just getting a bit more lube... god, you don't know how good you feel, mate, I haven't fingered a pussy this tight since I was like 17! Haha. Damn. That okay?' `Is that three?' `Nah, that's just two... THIS is three-' `Whoa... fuck... mmph-' `Hold still, remember to breathe - yeah, just like that.' `Maaaate...' `Three fingers,' came Trippier's chuckle of triumph. `Damn.' As instructed, he pulled back and forth on his cock, his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, and his arse stuck out behind him - his hole apparently accepting Trippier's investigative touch, and responding to this newness far better than he could ever have expected. Trips was fingering him more carefully now, slow and less deep, but he could feel the girthiness of three digits in him, and pleasure fought with pain - when he whimpered again, the pressure reduced, and Kieran's voice grew softer still. `Sorry,' he murmured, `I shouldn't have pushed you. Just take this, matey, let me go deep...' `Oh god...' `You love it?' `Oh mate...' `You wanted this, didn't you?' `Fuckkkk...' `Feels much better than your own would have, Cal.' `Errr... mmm... ohhh...' `You gonna cum for your captain, big fella?' `Mmph!' `Go on, mate - you can probably feel me right on your prostate now.' `Oh shit!' `Come on, Wilson, blow that messy fucking load, eh?' Kieran's voice faded against the bloodrush in Callum's ears. All that existed for him was the sensation in his rear, and the ridiculous sensitivity of his cock in his hand. His other hand could hardly keep him up, sliding back and forth across the tiles of the wall. His knees nearly buckled and he almost ended up in a heap on the white plastic floor of the shower. But his fitness bore him through it, and the indistinct purr of Kieran's voice too - so that before he knew it, his dick was reacting properly to the feel of a deep finger in his arse, and he was looking down into the volcanic eruption of his own juices, which splattered the shower wall and then drooled over his brown knuckles. `Fuck,' he cried weakly, `fuck, fuck, fuck.' `Good man.' `Ohh....' `Now, keep breathing, keep relaxed - it might feel weird as I pull my finger out.' He whimpered and shook; somehow, it hurt more for the two fingers to slide out of his stinging ring, and then the absence of them felt worst than their presence, and his legs were like jelly. `Here,' the 32-year-old right-back was telling him, `just let me...' Suddenly the shiny lycra of Kieran's England gear was brushing his bare skin, and his mate was muscling into the shower to support him, to ease him into a seated position, and then knelt and hunched over him, hugging him about the shoulders. Kieran's hand rubbed his back and neck, and the voice was very close as it whispered into his ear. `Bet that felt weird, you sexy bastard - but god your arse felt good, mate. So good. Glad it made you cum.' `What the fuck mate?' the striker mumbled to himself. `I'm gonna leave you here a minute,' Trippier whispered. `Okay...' `Just so you can shower again, if you want. Wash the lube away, and that. I best wash my hand too, I guess, haha. Though it's gonna smell good all night.' `Mate...' `You take your time here,' Trips assured him, `and I'll see you when you're ready, and we can take a slow walk down to the gym to see everyone in a bit. It's all good, fella, nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, you handsome bastard.' Kieran planted the softest kiss on the crown of his head and squeezed his shoulders. `Glad you enjoyed that, eh.' And then his warmth and pleasantness was withdrawn, and Callum just sat there, listening to a jaunty whistle as hands were washed and the Manc guy went strolling out of the bathroom. Slowly and shakily, utterly stunned, the striker got to his feet, and knocked the water back on. More soap, more lather, more rinse - he took his time, blinking slowly and waiting for the burning sensation to fade in his rear end. As he washed, he stared down at the tiles, and watched as the deflected spray from his body rinsed away the droplets of his own cum, cleaning away that evidence, but not the knowledge - he'd just been fingered to climax by a bloke, his England and Newcastle teammate, and apparently everything was good and fine. What the hell? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-376

Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2023 10:23:20 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 376 Part 376: Keeping Out of the Headlines One by one, he acknowledged the men who were climbing onto the coach - just a pat on the arm, a few blunt words of praise, or a fuller manly hug where the men were more tactile or expressive. It was one of those little duties as captain that nobody told him to do, but the 26-year-old brickhouse was becoming attuned to, partly from just observing other Premier League leaders on fixtures like this. He kept a look and tone of measured reserve as he greeted the other players being rushed aboard their coach, not wanting to be falsely cheerful, but needing to acknowledge a hard-fought point - Chelsea should have been an easy 3pts for his team on their current form, but he was still expressing honest pride to the men he led, given the depth and struggle of the 4-4 match. And eventually Ruben Dias himself could take heavy steps onto the vehicle, patting large hands against the edges of side-rests to either side, and finding space for himself near the centre of the large bus they were occupying to exit London - chartered jet would replace the coach at the edge of the city, with the squad needing to be deposited back in Manchester as soon as possible. Many, Ruben himself included, had journeys planned tomorrow morning to join their national squads, and the Portugal player silently questioned why he couldn't travel directly to his home country from this London trip. The tall well-built defensive player was in a state of agitation that had only small part due to the frustrating battle against their Chelsea hosts, which had come so close to a proper win; more than anything else, he was irritated at the British tabloids, and there noxious interest in his love life. A number of stupidly written headlines in the last couple of weeks had pointed attention towards his fledgling situationship with a Love Island girl; not only was the Portuguese man intensely private, but `journalistic' attention had put stupid pressure on the casual sex and glimmers of romance, and now the narcissistic reality TV contestant was turning that pressure on him to label their early-days-dating. His attention was drawn by a mild fuss of noise at the coach doors. Ruben cursed his own counting skills as one final City player was ushered hurriedly onto the departing vehicle, his head bowed apologetically; like schoolchildren, the football players on board hollered and cheered sarcastically for the arrival of Julian Alvarez, who was being scolded by Guardiola's assistant, before scampering down the central aisle. He glanced apologetically this way as he passed Dias' seats, and the captain found the attention span to glower authoritatively at the youngster. Unnecessarily, he barked moodily at the Argentine: `What took you so long?' Alvarez froze awkwardly, resting his hand on the edge of the empty seat next to him, looking briefly troubled before speaking to him in Portuguese: `I needed to pass on some news to my friend Fernandez, that's it, and just-' Dias stared cynically at the 23-year-old, noting the dishevelled nature of his club jersey over his white print t-shirt, and the red mark on the side of his neck. He rose up slightly in his seat, leaning closer into the aisle. `Passing on a message, or kissing passionately with some Chelsea bitch?' he snapped with unwarranted aggression, taking out his mood on the junior player, and switching to Argentine Spanish to prevent such sucking up. He grabbed loosely at the hem of the younger guy's jersey, drawing them closer but keeping his voice low enough to avoid further panto attention from the busload. `Don't delay our team with your love life, Alvarez.' He was taking a punt based on the red marks on the youngster's spotty face, which could easily be sore spots from physical moments in the game, but Julian's facial expression confirmed it - the handsome little fucker had definitely been having an intimate moment with someone! `It was just a moment,' the World Cup winning youth panted quickly, switching now to awkwardly pronounced English. `I had to see Enzo to-' `Enough,' Ruben snapped simply at him, waving dismissively. `To your seat.' As soon as the boyish-faced younger player had rushed on, Dias felt acutely aware of his harshness, but this just made him scowl more; heavy November rain pelted the window at his side as the bus rolled out onto London thoroughfares, and this felt representative of the centre-back's mood. The arrival of more wintry weather felt tied in with the toxic personality of the British press, and Ruben felt an almost annual pang for Iberian warmth and his Benfica past. Their coach powered them through the wet city, as wet tonight as Manchester itself, and Dias remained glowering alone with his aching legs wrapped in sweatpants and spread across a pair of seats. He looked very briefly at his phone, studying the imbalance of text messages between himself and this latest casual partner - a week or two ago, he might easily have made arrangements for her to be waiting at his apartment when he returned, where he could give her the fucking she warranted, but now it was coming with questions about `what they were' and when it could `go public' on Insta. Ugh. `Hey,' hissed a voice. With some reluctance, Ruben shifted in the seats, and looked back through the gap in the headrests: the whiskery features of Jack Grealish were there between them, poking through to meet him, a cheeky expression on his features. Ruben gave him a serious look, trying to communicate to his friend and teammate that he was not in the mood for any of his humour or games - there was an eagerness in Jack's face that prodded at his curiosity all the same, and Dias paused before telling him to back off. `He wasn't lying,' Grealish muttered in a low, conspiratorial tone. `What?' Dias demanded, that brief bit of captain's discipline already forgotten. `Lil Jules,' the Englishman hissed at him. `He WAS with Enzo Fernandez, I saw `em.' `Oh.' Ruben felt disinterested in this already, although before he could dismiss the gossip, he did picture the rub marks on the boy's throat, the blotchiness of his bright young face, the guilt in his wide eyes when he'd been accused of pausing for a cheeky kiss with someone - and there was a playful leer to Jack's expression, as was often the cause, that made such suggestive links all the more apparent. `World Cup fwends,' muttered Grealish meaningfully, his face pushing further into the gap between the headrests, becoming distorted by the ridiculous posture. `Huh,' Dias grunted back, not catching the reference; he rose up further, on one knee, and throwing an elbow over his headrest to look down on Grealish, who pulled gently back in response, relaxing back into his seat - squashed next to one of his other buddies, rather than nabbing a double-seater for his own comfort. And Ruben's eyes drifted to the window seat and the bulky presence of fellow defender Kyle Walker, which immediately gave him cause to raise his dark shapely brows - `What the fuck?' the centre-back demanded crossly, unsure why he was getting a glimpse of his colleague's big cock outside of the showers - of all things, the other English footballer was taking a photograph of his equipment hanging out of his tracksuit pants. If Jack had already been aware of this act, he still whooped with interest and amusement, and Kyle himself guffawed quite happily to be discovered. `Just sending it to Cole Palmer, the traitor,' Walker announced quite cheerily. `Great banter,' Grealish evaluated simply. Ruben Dias stared at the pair of them, thinking that the two juvenile players were again representative of this stupid wet nation and everyone in it. He wondered who was more stupid, these two yobs behind him, the newspaper editors putting his casual dating on their front page, or the young woman who was refusing to meet him for sex tonight because a headline had made her think they were getting serious. At that, the large muscular captain slid and rested back into his own seats and ignored the schoolboy cackles of the two men, both older than him, in the row behind, not wanting to know if Walker still had his meat out, or if Grealish was spreading gossip about Alvarez and his Argentina buddies. He shook his head irritably and looked out of the window, noting the way the busy West London streets were already giving way to suburbia on the route to the airfield. A short flight and he would be home to Manchester, but without a beauty awaiting him on the silk sheets of his bed; he thought briefly about trying to arrange a sex worker like he might back in Portugal, with relative ease, but he remembered the stupid newspaper reports when his reckless colleague in the seat behind had done similar. You couldn't do anything in the Premiership without getting into the headlines, he reflected angrily, furious to think he would just have to toss himself off at the end of the long night. Jack Grealish was hoarse from laughter by the time they landed in a private corner of Manchester Airport: cackling like an idiot next to Kyle Walker on the coach out of London and in the cold wet airfield, and then playing ridiculous half-spontaneous card games on the brief flight with Haaland and Foden. His giddiness was giving way to sleepiness at this point, but with a strain of restless excitement all the same. He'd enjoyed making presumptuous comments about Alvarez to other players on the journey, and he'd enjoyed making teasing remarks to the young Argentine himself from across the length of the cabin in the air. Just a wind up, he'd assured Julian a moment ago as they collected their personal luggage and dispersed into the car park, just a bit of a laugh. He only half-believed that the two Argentines were in a secret relationship, but the narrative was credible enough to give him a hefty dose of entertainment, and a far more suppressed dose of... jealousy? After all, as keen as he was to quip about Julian having some quick rendezvous on the way out of Stamford Bridge, he was vaguely aware of his own latent hope for a little meeting of his own. The lad had been there, he'd noted him in the dugout with the active substitutes, but his messages had seemed to go ignored. Whatever else Ben Chilwell was up to in his rehab schedule and ongoing support for his club, it didn't seem to involve replying to his ex or finding a way to briefly catch up whilst they were in the same city, the same footy stadium. This source of hyperactivity and restlessness was something that the 28-year-old left winger was quick to move on from as it passed through his thoughts, never the most reflective of young men. He actually felt like getting pissed, even though tomorrow he had to travel back south to assemble with his England squad-mates. He'd asked a few guys on the flight and as they disembarked, but there had been no interest, not even from Foden, who clearly no longer idolised him, or from Walker, who had dozed for most of the short flight, showing his `old' age! As a result, Grealish was swinging his luggage restlessly at one side and strutting through the wet car park area, working out whose journey would pass closest to his own apartment building so that they could car-share. This need brought him back into contact with his moody captain, though it was always a little hard to tell with Ruben Dias. The tall 26-year-old was older than his years and carried himself with an imposing seriousness that hid his good humour and warm friendship, but rarely fazed or discouraged someone as gregarious and charming as Jack himself; he dumped the weight of his bag on the bonnet of the expensive car and placed himself by the passenger door, simply grinning when the other footballer looked up in the process of unlocking the other side of the vehicle. `Taxi for Grealish?' chirped the Brummie lad. `Fine,' his Portuguese skipper agreed quickly and simply, though Jack suspected that his suggestions of hitting a bar near their apartment buildings would be less well-received. He whistled a jaunty tune as he tossed his belongings into the back with Ruben's, and slid into the passenger seat next to the other City hero, rubbing his hands together and exaggerating the chilly air whilst the driver fiddled with the heating controls. `Thanks, fella, you're a legend, a true gent, a super-captain - I couldn't be arsed leaving my own car here whilst we were in London, I knew somebody would help me out.' `Hmm. We're not far apart.' `Exactly, but still, thanks a million, Rubes.' `Are you going to shut up at any point on the drive...?' `Oh, I dunno about that, Rubes, I'm feeling HYPER. What tunes are you blasting?' `Uh. I don't care. You choose.' A long heavy sigh. `Let me get my playlists up. What was that sigh about, big man?' `Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing - just sort the music out and let's get out of here.' `Sure, sure... what mood you in? Not hyper, clearly - chill-out? Late night feelings? Er - horny sex playlist?' He sniggered happily to himself and ignored Ruben's judgmental look. `What, you have to have the right tunes ready for those special nights, y'know...' And with a further snigger, Jack activated the playlist via Bluetooth to the car's sound system, immersing the pair of them in a sleazy mid-tempo number by The Weeknd. He crooned badly to it whilst Dias drove them out of the complex airport car park and onto the highway that would get them into the city centre - once Ruben's car was whizzing them quickly down this route, and the city was unfurling before them, Jack returned to the matter of his captain's sigh, of his rather frosty mood tonight. On this he was less blunt, less thoughtless, his social skills sharpening, and he threw subtle questions at the moodily focused centre-back, about his plans for tomorrow, his expectations for the international break, his attitude to the Chelsea draw, his love life... until quite firmly landing upon the obvious source of the other player's mood. `So,' he asked after a short silence between them, `if she's not a serious partner, why is it making you so grouchy, eh?' It wasn't long before Grealish had needled some truth out of Dias, and the usually reserved team leader was ranting quietly to him in the Manc traffic jams, complaining about both the tabloids and the girl herself, despairing broadly at the need for relationship labels and publicity of any kind. The Portuguese stud monologued about his craving for simplicity and privacy and Jack just made the occasional noise of agreement or sympathy, warmly interested in his friend's problems, but also beginning to muse over his own possibly solution to the problem. There was, as far as Grealish was concerned, only one good way for hot-blooded young football studs to keep their activities out of the headlines, and he thought about how to propose that way to someone as uptight as Dias; he held that suggestion back, but as they approached the posh industrial conversions where they lived a few blocks apart, he reached over and nudged his driver in the arm. `Let's have a nightcap and toast to the international break, eh?' Grealish suggested, half-expecting to be told to piss off. `You can tell me more about this whole mess of a situation, if you like, I can be a surprisingly good listener when people let me.' He turned his most innocently charming look towards the 6ft1 powerhouse, and found Dias looking momentarily conflicted. `One drink and I'll leave you be,' the Brummie lothario promised, `and I reckon I have some ideas on how you can keep out of the headlines, if you wanna hear them, big fella. What do you say?' Ruben Dias was more surprised at himself than Jack could have been, agreeing to this and then leading the way not up to Jack's latest pad, but to his own artfully furnished penthouse only a couple of buildings apart. The 26-year-old might have blamed this willingness on Jack's trademark charms, or simply his assumed persistence, but he shared something of the English guy's restlessness and adrenaline, the ferocity of their Chelsea battle still in his blood and in his thoughts, even apart from his more personal aggro. He led Grealish through the apartment, needlessly pointing out a few details he was proud of, given that the left winger had attended half a dozen different parties here over the past couple of football seasons. He didn't ask about what Jack wanted to drink, instead pouring healthy measures of a particularly expensive scotch he'd invested in, and then leading the way into the square of sunken seating that dominated the centre of this top-floor bachelor pad extraordinaire. For a moment, Dias' mind flashed with what might have awaited him here - the Love Island beauty he'd picked up at a recent fashion event could be on that sofa in her knickers, wet and ready, like she'd been after their last away trip. But no, the papers had put ideas in her head, and she'd already asked them which magazine he would be most keen on if they did a joint photoshoot. Jack trailed past him, his trainers kicked off, and his monstrously large calves on show as if it wasn't approaching wintertime outside, the only man in the squad who'd travelled back on a wet evening in just casual shorts. In a simple manoeuvre, the lithe 28-year-old wriggled out of a baggy grey hoody and threw himself on the sofa in just t-shirt, shorts, and white gym socks, comfortably choosing to occupy the same territory as Ruben's regretful fantasy. The lounged posture of his teammate both punctured and irritated the tall centre-back's imagined end to tonight, and he took his first sip of scotch. `You were saying,' he said in a low voice, stepping down to sit at a corner to the other player, `that you had some ideas...?' Grealish seemed to ignore this question, having retrieved his phone, propped now on his chest as he lounged sideways. `Jesus,' he said, `what the fuck is Walker playing at, sending that in the group chat? Fella is mad.' His words sounded reproachful but his creased face was one of enjoyment, delight. Ruben stared expectantly at him but when the Birmingham guy said nothing more, he fished into the pockets of his sweatpants for his own device, and found that a bunch of photos had appeared in their squad group chat - the first couple were harmless enough images of casual behind-the-scenes life on the Chelsea trip, and then suddenly there was a lot of skin on show. Alvarez, whatever he had or hadn't done at Stamford Bridge, retreating shyly from the lens in just white briefs - the same kind of tighty whities he'd ran the pitch in a few months back to the surprise and laughter of all of his teammates, after donating his shorts to a fan - everyone had had plenty to say about that at the time, he remembered! But then a couple of the others, and finally a picture of Jack, which he guessed was what had roused that half-hearted outrage, and perhaps also that smug complacency on his guest's face. Dias frowned at it, but spoke ironically too. `I wonder how much Pep will fine him for that.' He wondered how he should react in the chat, given his captain's duty, looking at the oddly framed shot of his visitor in the nude, arse prominent and eyes almost seductive over shoulder, caught in the process of getting dressed hours earlier - really, Kyle Walker was the biggest kid in their team even at 33, and never seemed to drop the clown act for a minute. Ruben generally enjoyed it, but this photography seemed a bit ridiculous - what if those pics were leaked to the idiotic tabloids?! `What do you think?' drawled Jack's Brummie accent from the other sofa. `I think he's a... you might say, twat?' Grealish chuckled, presumably at that most English of words in a Portuguese rasp, and Dias laughed too. He slid his phone away on the sofa and relaxed his big body, supping more scotch, and regretting not pouring more. `A dickhead,' he added, and `a pillock', reaching for more of the British words he had learned in his Manchester career. `I didn't mean of Kyle,' the other lad chuckled, and Ruben didn't know what to say to that. He just leant back further into the press of cushioned support, staring around his sparse stylish flat, a hint of loneliness in its chic tidiness. He felt Jack looking at him but he was confused by the question, and he wanted to go back to his OWN question - what had Jack said before, in the car, about having some solution to his love life problems...? To his surprise, if not slight alarm, Grealish was back on his feet, and his glass was empty. Without needing to be served, or even offered, the summer dressed footballer was prowling out of this sunken square and fetching the extortionate bottle. He was back, sloshing a double or more measure into Ruben's unfinished glass, making him raise his dark brows. Jack stood over him grinning. `You reckon they'll put that pic on the Sun front page if I leak it?' mused the playboy forward in a joke that was a little too thoughtful to be 100% joke, making Ruben both laugh and frown. `We're supposed to be talking about keeping out of the headlines,' he said heavily, drinking form his now overloaded glass, whilst Jack dropped a single thick knee to the sofa at his side, gently sliding down into a seated position to his left, much closer now. He turned, tired but restless, and looked intensely at his guest. `What did you mean, about a solution to that? How do you manage privacy these days, with your following?' Lounging in so close that their shoulders touched, Grealish laughed. `I'm not sure that I do, skip, but... well, some things stay behind closed doors.' `Some things,' Dias found himself echoing thoughtfully, taking another long sip. `The other summer,' his teammate said, and Ruben found that he'd expected that to come up, expected THAT to be the example, from the suggestiveness of tone - he stared away into the centre of the room as he drank, nodding slowly. `We all had fun,' Jack said wistfully, `and nobody else needed to know.' Ruben kept nodding, but he also thought that it was a poor example, something very apart from the problem he was sharing - what did that drunken antic on a rooftop beer garden after the trophy parade have to do with his love life and the media's interest in it, really? `I don't know if that helps,' he said distantly. `Doesn't it?' - Jack's voice almost a yawn - `It sure helps me. Knowing I can fuck about with lads who get it and nobody's gonna go crawling to the press to sell their story, cos everyone is getting paid as much as me.' Ruben couldn't help but lift an eyebrow and nudge an elbow into Jack's warm side. `Is that true, Mr £100 million man...?' He laughed abruptly and took another sip, astonished at how quickly the nightcap went down. He turned to look thoughtfully at Jack, who was lounging right into him on the sofa, and tilting his scruffily bearded face this way - looking at him in the moment, he couldn't help but see him as that photo from Kyle Walker had presented him, and also as he'd been on that summer rooftop. How they'd all been, really: triumphant, relaxed, horny, experimental. True, Ruben hadn't pushed his deviance as far as others, he'd drawn a clear line, but... `Some things are safer,' Jack was telling him in a murmur, rubbing one of the large muscles bulging from his shoulder. `Some things don't get to the papers, y'know, and that's coming from me - I've had my share of trouble, matey.' `Hmm.' He remembered that he'd been tempted to go further, watching as Jack and others REALLY took advantage of Phil Foden's shocking willingness; but Dias himself had stopped at receiving oral, like he'd tried on Portugal camps in the past, though haunted by the one time it had gone too far. He had never intended to try sucking a cock himself, but how did one say no to an icon like Cristiano...? Grealish was stroking his shoulder, and now the back of his neck. Dias turned, and found their faces very close. Jack's breath smelled like the scotch. `What are you saying?' he asked, but he thought he already knew. `There's people you can fuck,' the expensive winger purred, `and it defo won't make the papers, y'know. Safe fun.' Ruben realised he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out in a long sigh, his lips parting gently, and then meeting the approach of Jack's, accepting the surprising kiss. In his mind's eye there was a ready slut on the silk sheets of his huge bed, ready for his physical power - and sure, this wasn't quite what he had in mind, but the fella had a point... Jack wasted no time in pulling and dragging the bigger man through the sliding doors into the flat's master bedroom - he wanted to make things happen before Ruben could change his mind. They had left their glasses of drink behind, and also the heavy sports sweatshirt that had covered up the muscular bulk of Ruben's body. On the way through that threshold, Jack set about removing the close-fitting lycra t-shirt too, and exposing what he always enjoyed seeing in the changing rooms - what he'd particularly enjoyed seeing when his friend had agreed to the Nike underwear campaign, and really brought a spotlight to his hefty physique. To his surprise and pleasure, the bigger man was strangely receptive, huge strong hands grasping at Jack's neck, at his back muscles, running through his lustrous hair. The kisses were nervous pecks, and Jack stopped trying to meet their tongues, but he dropped his lips to the exposed paradise of the other man's pecs instead, pulling on his thick arms but lavishing kisses upon chest muscles and pointed nipples, tumbling backwards until he was falling onto silk sheets and dragging the centre-back with him. There was a moment of doubt there, Jack lying on his back and wrapping his strong legs about the other man's waist; he could see Ruben staring down at him in remembered alarm, as if surprised he wasn't a woman. But Jack reached up and gave scratchy kisses to the side of his neck, whilst pushing a hand into the front of his sweatpants and finding the big Nike package to hold and rub, pleased at how quickly the 6ft1 hunk was rising to the task. Ruben growled uncertainly and Jack grasped for one of his hands, bringing it about and slapping it to his own muscular arse through the shorts. `Here,' he hissed into the 26-year-old's ear, `grab a bit of that - you wanna fuck this big ass, Rubes?' Really, this was a needy frustration that had been welling in Grealish since the last England meet, where he'd been unable to find opportunity to give his perfect peach to any of his favoured national allies, and settled for regular oral attention from Maddison. It had been a good while since Jack let himself be fucked and he wasn't sure why he was so desperately craving it this autumn, but he needed to feel it, and there were few more powerful and exciting men in his circle than this Portuguese beast. The two men rolled and writhed on the bedsheets, battling to lose more clothing. Jack rolled and tossed away one sock and then the other, doing so in darting moments so that his hands never left Ruben's muscles or hard-on for long. Ruben was kissing him quite passionately on one of his shoulders, more comfortable there than on the lips, a huge muscular bulk over him, whose sweatpants were a battle to get over his thighs. Those and Jack's shorts soon went though, wriggled and kicked away over the side of the bed, so that the two of them wore only their undies. Jack separated from him, panting, and barked a command. `Lie back and let me suck you,' he insisted eagerly, and there was zero hesitation this time - huge and well-built, he soon had his captain lounging back against the mass of cushions, hands brought up behind his head to show biceps and faintly haired pits. Down came the camo print of the stretchy Nike sports boxers, and up came the hard curved trajectory of the man's rigid cock, standing happily between smooth muscular thighs. Jack stripped and tossed away his own shiny black trunks, letting his hardening cock and low balls swing free, and then diving down between open legs so that he could take Ruben into his mouth. `Oh fuck,' growled the City captain, and Jack did his finest work, spitting noisily and sliding up and down the fat shaft, lavishing attention on the bare head. All the while, he rubbed hands up and down the thick strong legs at either side, and tickled his fingertips up onto Ruben's defined six-pack. He kept his eyes open, twinkling his lusty gaze up that mighty body and meeting the wide-eyed wonder of his captain, who he'd always known could be led further astray when the moment came. Excitingly, it was Dias himself who insisted on ending the short blowie, because the promise Grealish made had him in its grip - `Your mouth feels good, but I want that arse,' declared the Portugal centre-back authoritatively, and Jack nodded with eager delight. He rolled to one side and toyed with his cock, then brought his big-muscled legs up and apart, whilst Ruben clambered around to face him, chest heaving and face flushed. Jack spat in his fingers and rubbed it quickly under his balls, down into the darker furrow between his prominent cheeks - now he could see nervousness and indecision on Ruben's face, an urgency to try this before the idea lost potency. Jack needed to let this happen quick, but he also knew that he would be tight and unyielding after such a long gap - his days of taking Chilly were a distant memory, sadly. Dias wasn't really waiting. He was holding his big Portuguese cock at the base and bearing forward, between the hoisted legs, pointing the fat head of his cock between the open cheeks. Jack clung to the underside of his hairy thighs and braced himself, but felt the inevitable, the closed-door policy of an unpractised arse - he did his best to relax himself but all he could feel was the battering ram force of a hard cock being pushed inexpertly up and down his crack with no success. Ruben swore in what must be Portuguese, several times, and he looked shaky on his knees, as if he might suddenly pull away and end this. `I can't get it in,' the City captain announced hotly. `Slow down,' Grealish urged, `it's different to pussy, you have to work up to it.' `You promised me your arse,' his skipper told him almost angrily. `It's yours,' Jack assured him eagerly, frustrated with himself, but laughing a little to ease the tension, and pushing two fingers down to rub against his knot. `You're too tight,' the bigger younger man said warily. `It'll go in, I can take it,' he groaned back at him, jerking on his own stiff member. `How?' Ruben demanded, sounding frustrated. `How do you get a good pussy ready?' Jack snapped back, and for a moment he meant it with just sarcasm, teasing and toying with the horny impatience of this big sexy man who he'd wanted privately for ages; but as soon as he'd said it out loud, he was smirking confrontationally at the hulking figure. `How do you get a girl good and wet before you shove that beast inside her?' he practically yelled at his captain. And to make a point, he licked his lips with a showy display of tongue, and watched the consternation on his captain's chiseled features. `Yeah,' he groaned, `that's how.' Jack's magnetic charm, his own sheer desperate urgency, the power of the scotch, or something else entirely? Ruben wasn't sure, but he did it. He slid forward, lowering his big muscular form to the sheen of the sheets, and pressed his huge hands at the base of those hairy thighs, just above the big parting arse cheeks. He took a deep breath and he pushed his face in, shocked by the distinctive smell of it, far less unpleasant than he might have imagined - and as if he was going down on one of his many hot girlfriends, he pushed out his large fat tongue, and ran it against the space between those glutes. Jack seemed to shiver immediately in his grip, and there was something encouraging in that - but he didn't quite know what to do, realised this was a different task to what he'd done before, but too late, his tongue already down here, his face buried between two of England's most coveted buns. And just like that, he licked the `pussy' of his winger, driven by the urgent burning feeling of his rock-hard cock and tight full balls - he pushed his tongue up and down and around the wrinkle of muscular skin... and then pulled back, breathing into one hairy cheek, unable to voice the question `Is that okay?' but getting his answer anyway - `FUCK YES,' whined his Grealish, pulling his body into a better position, `lick me there, captain!!' And so he went on, pressing down lower, pulling his face into a better angle, and really going for it, though he wasn't quite sure what `it' might be. This was madness, this was wild and way beyond his limits, and yet it was a way to get what he needed, the satisfaction his big body demanded. He couldn't believe he was doing this to a man, tasting their arse and finding their unyielding hole with the tip of a tongue that had spent hours between the legs of beautiful women. Jack writhed and buckled and swore and begged, and he loved the sound of it - loved the urgency and appreciation in that brash English accent, this arrogant fuck whining for him on his bed like some slut! He kept stopping, unsure of himself, and staring always in shock at the hairy muscle around the goal, because it made it so clear that he was licking no cunt; but Jack's moaning voice brought him back each time, telling him he was `the best', telling him he felt like `heaven', telling him to `eat that big ass!' And Ruben spat noisily in against it and rubbed first one finger then two over, and in, the hole, and he realised that he'd forgotten his goal for a moment. He gave one last prodding lick and then pulled away, spitting uncertainly against the bedding, and then spitting down onto the shaft of his cock. `Yeah,' moaned one of the most talked-about footballers in the country, one of the most interesting lads on his team. `Fuck me now, captain! I won't tell a fucking soul, buddy.' Ruben no longer needed to hear that, no longer had a thought for stupid headlines; he was driven by his cock and its needs, and nothing else, as he angled it well and started pushing the big ahead against the wet relaxing hole, the one he'd licked and kissed and spat on, and he almost shuddered at the lines was crossing, but it felt too good to stop. Pushing Jack's legs further up and apart, he mounted him, entered him, broke him, feeling such muscular tightness around his mighty Portuguese cock; his own moans, slurring in his native tongue, joined the greedy noise of Jack Grealish himself, and Ruben began to fuck his first man, pounding him like any hot bitch who entered this bedroom. Readied as he'd been by the hot brief rimming, Jack took it like a pro, relaxing back into an experience that he'd always enjoyed - for a moment, legs in the air and arse opening up, he thought about his first time, but that brought a different pain to the discomfort of being out of practice, and that flashback of loose hay and shadowy barn made him picture, for a moment, a very different face above him. He returned to the moment, away from the painful past of first discoveries, and whined and gasped encouragingly, telling his big powerful captain exactly how good he was, how strong, how sexy, how fucking amazing - telling him how this secret would be safe between them, and his skipper could have this big meaty arse any time he fucking wanted, he just had to ask, as long as he kissed it like that again with that sexy amazing tongue, oh yeh! Grealish didn't even last long before, reaching for himself, he was shooting his own spunk up his bas and onto his chest, emptying out all of his cum with a few minimal touches to his dick, the arse stimulation of Dias' thrusts to overpowering and intense. It still felt good in the sensitive throes of orgasm, but he knew he could only take it for so long, and he needed to bring the hard-muscled beast to climax - so he reached for his nips, tweaking and pinching at them, and telling Dias he was some kinda god. `FUCK ME HARDER,' he yelled into the captain's face, and he could tell his dirty talk was driving him WILD - the big man really went for it then, as Jack pinched his nipples and grasped at his arm muscles, and the tortured look on the young man's face told him he was getting an arse full of goodness. Ruben stopped with the same violent suddenness as he'd thrusted, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched, and he rolled rapidly to one side, letting out hot quick pants of almost panicked relief. Jack, on the other hand, lay quite still, holding his legs up and apart, letting his sore arse relax and recover, glad that he'd scratched that ich, and wondering at the fact he'd allowed himself to go so long without a good stuffing. `God, you're good,' he purred heavily, listening to Ruben's quick breathing, and he slid further away from his captain's body - he wanted to go in for a sweaty snog, but he suspected that the deviance and boldness might have gone with the orgasm. Instead, he slid from the bed and found his pants, which he pulled up and on, and then knelt at the edge of the bed, watching the 26-year-old recover. Every muscle heaved and contracted, and he dragged big hands over his sweaty face, not looking this way. `Now that's one fuck that won't make the press,' Grealish reassured him again, and he hopped away from the bed to continue dressing, pulling one item after another onto his clammy physique, and shooting monitoring glances back at the shaky form of his captain, recovering physically and mentally from crossing that line. Fully dressed again and forcing each foot into a trainer, the 28-year-old England star just stood in the bedroom doorway, taking a moment, scotch glass in hand. He finished it and put it down, and slid the doors shut with a final `You're amazing' to the hunk on the bed, and left him to sweat it out and rationalise what happened. Walking a little funny after such a pounding, Jack left the apartment and the building with a sexy little swagger, chuckling to himself and suppressing a yawn - well, he'd been on the lookout for a worthy top for ages, and here he was, just a tower block away, his own sexy captain. Jack made the short damp walk between their buildings, hood pulled up and arse-hole faintly burning, and he laughed to think of his journey to the England camp tomorrow - would he still enter the international break with a craving to be made somebody's bitch, or had he satisfied that need? Would he be back to his more dominant alpha ways with some subservient fellow Englishman? Or even a bit of both? He was so excited that he worried he might not sleep - another week with the finest muscles in English football beckoned, and Jack was all the hornier for his power-fucking from Ruben Dias. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2023 10:23:20 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 376 Part 376: Keeping Out of the Headlines One by one, he acknowledged the men who were climbing onto the coach - just a pat on the arm, a few blunt words of praise, or a fuller manly hug where the men were more tactile or expressive. It was one of those little duties as captain that nobody told him to do, but the 26-year-old brickhouse was becoming attuned to, partly from just observing other Premier League leaders on fixtures like this. He kept a look and tone of measured reserve as he greeted the other players being rushed aboard their coach, not wanting to be falsely cheerful, but needing to acknowledge a hard-fought point - Chelsea should have been an easy 3pts for his team on their current form, but he was still expressing honest pride to the men he led, given the depth and struggle of the 4-4 match. And eventually Ruben Dias himself could take heavy steps onto the vehicle, patting large hands against the edges of side-rests to either side, and finding space for himself near the centre of the large bus they were occupying to exit London - chartered jet would replace the coach at the edge of the city, with the squad needing to be deposited back in Manchester as soon as possible. Many, Ruben himself included, had journeys planned tomorrow morning to join their national squads, and the Portugal player silently questioned why he couldn't travel directly to his home country from this London trip. The tall well-built defensive player was in a state of agitation that had only small part due to the frustrating battle against their Chelsea hosts, which had come so close to a proper win; more than anything else, he was irritated at the British tabloids, and there noxious interest in his love life. A number of stupidly written headlines in the last couple of weeks had pointed attention towards his fledgling situationship with a Love Island girl; not only was the Portuguese man intensely private, but `journalistic' attention had put stupid pressure on the casual sex and glimmers of romance, and now the narcissistic reality TV contestant was turning that pressure on him to label their early-days-dating. His attention was drawn by a mild fuss of noise at the coach doors. Ruben cursed his own counting skills as one final City player was ushered hurriedly onto the departing vehicle, his head bowed apologetically; like schoolchildren, the football players on board hollered and cheered sarcastically for the arrival of Julian Alvarez, who was being scolded by Guardiola's assistant, before scampering down the central aisle. He glanced apologetically this way as he passed Dias' seats, and the captain found the attention span to glower authoritatively at the youngster. Unnecessarily, he barked moodily at the Argentine: `What took you so long?' Alvarez froze awkwardly, resting his hand on the edge of the empty seat next to him, looking briefly troubled before speaking to him in Portuguese: `I needed to pass on some news to my friend Fernandez, that's it, and just-' Dias stared cynically at the 23-year-old, noting the dishevelled nature of his club jersey over his white print t-shirt, and the red mark on the side of his neck. He rose up slightly in his seat, leaning closer into the aisle. `Passing on a message, or kissing passionately with some Chelsea bitch?' he snapped with unwarranted aggression, taking out his mood on the junior player, and switching to Argentine Spanish to prevent such sucking up. He grabbed loosely at the hem of the younger guy's jersey, drawing them closer but keeping his voice low enough to avoid further panto attention from the busload. `Don't delay our team with your love life, Alvarez.' He was taking a punt based on the red marks on the youngster's spotty face, which could easily be sore spots from physical moments in the game, but Julian's facial expression confirmed it - the handsome little fucker had definitely been having an intimate moment with someone! `It was just a moment,' the World Cup winning youth panted quickly, switching now to awkwardly pronounced English. `I had to see Enzo to-' `Enough,' Ruben snapped simply at him, waving dismissively. `To your seat.' As soon as the boyish-faced younger player had rushed on, Dias felt acutely aware of his harshness, but this just made him scowl more; heavy November rain pelted the window at his side as the bus rolled out onto London thoroughfares, and this felt representative of the centre-back's mood. The arrival of more wintry weather felt tied in with the toxic personality of the British press, and Ruben felt an almost annual pang for Iberian warmth and his Benfica past. Their coach powered them through the wet city, as wet tonight as Manchester itself, and Dias remained glowering alone with his aching legs wrapped in sweatpants and spread across a pair of seats. He looked very briefly at his phone, studying the imbalance of text messages between himself and this latest casual partner - a week or two ago, he might easily have made arrangements for her to be waiting at his apartment when he returned, where he could give her the fucking she warranted, but now it was coming with questions about `what they were' and when it could `go public' on Insta. Ugh. `Hey,' hissed a voice. With some reluctance, Ruben shifted in the seats, and looked back through the gap in the headrests: the whiskery features of Jack Grealish were there between them, poking through to meet him, a cheeky expression on his features. Ruben gave him a serious look, trying to communicate to his friend and teammate that he was not in the mood for any of his humour or games - there was an eagerness in Jack's face that prodded at his curiosity all the same, and Dias paused before telling him to back off. `He wasn't lying,' Grealish muttered in a low, conspiratorial tone. `What?' Dias demanded, that brief bit of captain's discipline already forgotten. `Lil Jules,' the Englishman hissed at him. `He WAS with Enzo Fernandez, I saw `em.' `Oh.' Ruben felt disinterested in this already, although before he could dismiss the gossip, he did picture the rub marks on the boy's throat, the blotchiness of his bright young face, the guilt in his wide eyes when he'd been accused of pausing for a cheeky kiss with someone - and there was a playful leer to Jack's expression, as was often the cause, that made such suggestive links all the more apparent. `World Cup fwends,' muttered Grealish meaningfully, his face pushing further into the gap between the headrests, becoming distorted by the ridiculous posture. `Huh,' Dias grunted back, not catching the reference; he rose up further, on one knee, and throwing an elbow over his headrest to look down on Grealish, who pulled gently back in response, relaxing back into his seat - squashed next to one of his other buddies, rather than nabbing a double-seater for his own comfort. And Ruben's eyes drifted to the window seat and the bulky presence of fellow defender Kyle Walker, which immediately gave him cause to raise his dark shapely brows - `What the fuck?' the centre-back demanded crossly, unsure why he was getting a glimpse of his colleague's big cock outside of the showers - of all things, the other English footballer was taking a photograph of his equipment hanging out of his tracksuit pants. If Jack had already been aware of this act, he still whooped with interest and amusement, and Kyle himself guffawed quite happily to be discovered. `Just sending it to Cole Palmer, the traitor,' Walker announced quite cheerily. `Great banter,' Grealish evaluated simply. Ruben Dias stared at the pair of them, thinking that the two juvenile players were again representative of this stupid wet nation and everyone in it. He wondered who was more stupid, these two yobs behind him, the newspaper editors putting his casual dating on their front page, or the young woman who was refusing to meet him for sex tonight because a headline had made her think they were getting serious. At that, the large muscular captain slid and rested back into his own seats and ignored the schoolboy cackles of the two men, both older than him, in the row behind, not wanting to know if Walker still had his meat out, or if Grealish was spreading gossip about Alvarez and his Argentina buddies. He shook his head irritably and looked out of the window, noting the way the busy West London streets were already giving way to suburbia on the route to the airfield. A short flight and he would be home to Manchester, but without a beauty awaiting him on the silk sheets of his bed; he thought briefly about trying to arrange a sex worker like he might back in Portugal, with relative ease, but he remembered the stupid newspaper reports when his reckless colleague in the seat behind had done similar. You couldn't do anything in the Premiership without getting into the headlines, he reflected angrily, furious to think he would just have to toss himself off at the end of the long night. Jack Grealish was hoarse from laughter by the time they landed in a private corner of Manchester Airport: cackling like an idiot next to Kyle Walker on the coach out of London and in the cold wet airfield, and then playing ridiculous half-spontaneous card games on the brief flight with Haaland and Foden. His giddiness was giving way to sleepiness at this point, but with a strain of restless excitement all the same. He'd enjoyed making presumptuous comments about Alvarez to other players on the journey, and he'd enjoyed making teasing remarks to the young Argentine himself from across the length of the cabin in the air. Just a wind up, he'd assured Julian a moment ago as they collected their personal luggage and dispersed into the car park, just a bit of a laugh. He only half-believed that the two Argentines were in a secret relationship, but the narrative was credible enough to give him a hefty dose of entertainment, and a far more suppressed dose of... jealousy? After all, as keen as he was to quip about Julian having some quick rendezvous on the way out of Stamford Bridge, he was vaguely aware of his own latent hope for a little meeting of his own. The lad had been there, he'd noted him in the dugout with the active substitutes, but his messages had seemed to go ignored. Whatever else Ben Chilwell was up to in his rehab schedule and ongoing support for his club, it didn't seem to involve replying to his ex or finding a way to briefly catch up whilst they were in the same city, the same footy stadium. This source of hyperactivity and restlessness was something that the 28-year-old left winger was quick to move on from as it passed through his thoughts, never the most reflective of young men. He actually felt like getting pissed, even though tomorrow he had to travel back south to assemble with his England squad-mates. He'd asked a few guys on the flight and as they disembarked, but there had been no interest, not even from Foden, who clearly no longer idolised him, or from Walker, who had dozed for most of the short flight, showing his `old' age! As a result, Grealish was swinging his luggage restlessly at one side and strutting through the wet car park area, working out whose journey would pass closest to his own apartment building so that they could car-share. This need brought him back into contact with his moody captain, though it was always a little hard to tell with Ruben Dias. The tall 26-year-old was older than his years and carried himself with an imposing seriousness that hid his good humour and warm friendship, but rarely fazed or discouraged someone as gregarious and charming as Jack himself; he dumped the weight of his bag on the bonnet of the expensive car and placed himself by the passenger door, simply grinning when the other footballer looked up in the process of unlocking the other side of the vehicle. `Taxi for Grealish?' chirped the Brummie lad. `Fine,' his Portuguese skipper agreed quickly and simply, though Jack suspected that his suggestions of hitting a bar near their apartment buildings would be less well-received. He whistled a jaunty tune as he tossed his belongings into the back with Ruben's, and slid into the passenger seat next to the other City hero, rubbing his hands together and exaggerating the chilly air whilst the driver fiddled with the heating controls. `Thanks, fella, you're a legend, a true gent, a super-captain - I couldn't be arsed leaving my own car here whilst we were in London, I knew somebody would help me out.' `Hmm. We're not far apart.' `Exactly, but still, thanks a million, Rubes.' `Are you going to shut up at any point on the drive...?' `Oh, I dunno about that, Rubes, I'm feeling HYPER. What tunes are you blasting?' `Uh. I don't care. You choose.' A long heavy sigh. `Let me get my playlists up. What was that sigh about, big man?' `Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing - just sort the music out and let's get out of here.' `Sure, sure... what mood you in? Not hyper, clearly - chill-out? Late night feelings? Er - horny sex playlist?' He sniggered happily to himself and ignored Ruben's judgmental look. `What, you have to have the right tunes ready for those special nights, y'know...' And with a further snigger, Jack activated the playlist via Bluetooth to the car's sound system, immersing the pair of them in a sleazy mid-tempo number by The Weeknd. He crooned badly to it whilst Dias drove them out of the complex airport car park and onto the highway that would get them into the city centre - once Ruben's car was whizzing them quickly down this route, and the city was unfurling before them, Jack returned to the matter of his captain's sigh, of his rather frosty mood tonight. On this he was less blunt, less thoughtless, his social skills sharpening, and he threw subtle questions at the moodily focused centre-back, about his plans for tomorrow, his expectations for the international break, his attitude to the Chelsea draw, his love life... until quite firmly landing upon the obvious source of the other player's mood. `So,' he asked after a short silence between them, `if she's not a serious partner, why is it making you so grouchy, eh?' It wasn't long before Grealish had needled some truth out of Dias, and the usually reserved team leader was ranting quietly to him in the Manc traffic jams, complaining about both the tabloids and the girl herself, despairing broadly at the need for relationship labels and publicity of any kind. The Portuguese stud monologued about his craving for simplicity and privacy and Jack just made the occasional noise of agreement or sympathy, warmly interested in his friend's problems, but also beginning to muse over his own possibly solution to the problem. There was, as far as Grealish was concerned, only one good way for hot-blooded young football studs to keep their activities out of the headlines, and he thought about how to propose that way to someone as uptight as Dias; he held that suggestion back, but as they approached the posh industrial conversions where they lived a few blocks apart, he reached over and nudged his driver in the arm. `Let's have a nightcap and toast to the international break, eh?' Grealish suggested, half-expecting to be told to piss off. `You can tell me more about this whole mess of a situation, if you like, I can be a surprisingly good listener when people let me.' He turned his most innocently charming look towards the 6ft1 powerhouse, and found Dias looking momentarily conflicted. `One drink and I'll leave you be,' the Brummie lothario promised, `and I reckon I have some ideas on how you can keep out of the headlines, if you wanna hear them, big fella. What do you say?' Ruben Dias was more surprised at himself than Jack could have been, agreeing to this and then leading the way not up to Jack's latest pad, but to his own artfully furnished penthouse only a couple of buildings apart. The 26-year-old might have blamed this willingness on Jack's trademark charms, or simply his assumed persistence, but he shared something of the English guy's restlessness and adrenaline, the ferocity of their Chelsea battle still in his blood and in his thoughts, even apart from his more personal aggro. He led Grealish through the apartment, needlessly pointing out a few details he was proud of, given that the left winger had attended half a dozen different parties here over the past couple of football seasons. He didn't ask about what Jack wanted to drink, instead pouring healthy measures of a particularly expensive scotch he'd invested in, and then leading the way into the square of sunken seating that dominated the centre of this top-floor bachelor pad extraordinaire. For a moment, Dias' mind flashed with what might have awaited him here - the Love Island beauty he'd picked up at a recent fashion event could be on that sofa in her knickers, wet and ready, like she'd been after their last away trip. But no, the papers had put ideas in her head, and she'd already asked them which magazine he would be most keen on if they did a joint photoshoot. Jack trailed past him, his trainers kicked off, and his monstrously large calves on show as if it wasn't approaching wintertime outside, the only man in the squad who'd travelled back on a wet evening in just casual shorts. In a simple manoeuvre, the lithe 28-year-old wriggled out of a baggy grey hoody and threw himself on the sofa in just t-shirt, shorts, and white gym socks, comfortably choosing to occupy the same territory as Ruben's regretful fantasy. The lounged posture of his teammate both punctured and irritated the tall centre-back's imagined end to tonight, and he took his first sip of scotch. `You were saying,' he said in a low voice, stepping down to sit at a corner to the other player, `that you had some ideas...?' Grealish seemed to ignore this question, having retrieved his phone, propped now on his chest as he lounged sideways. `Jesus,' he said, `what the fuck is Walker playing at, sending that in the group chat? Fella is mad.' His words sounded reproachful but his creased face was one of enjoyment, delight. Ruben stared expectantly at him but when the Birmingham guy said nothing more, he fished into the pockets of his sweatpants for his own device, and found that a bunch of photos had appeared in their squad group chat - the first couple were harmless enough images of casual behind-the-scenes life on the Chelsea trip, and then suddenly there was a lot of skin on show. Alvarez, whatever he had or hadn't done at Stamford Bridge, retreating shyly from the lens in just white briefs - the same kind of tighty whities he'd ran the pitch in a few months back to the surprise and laughter of all of his teammates, after donating his shorts to a fan - everyone had had plenty to say about that at the time, he remembered! But then a couple of the others, and finally a picture of Jack, which he guessed was what had roused that half-hearted outrage, and perhaps also that smug complacency on his guest's face. Dias frowned at it, but spoke ironically too. `I wonder how much Pep will fine him for that.' He wondered how he should react in the chat, given his captain's duty, looking at the oddly framed shot of his visitor in the nude, arse prominent and eyes almost seductive over shoulder, caught in the process of getting dressed hours earlier - really, Kyle Walker was the biggest kid in their team even at 33, and never seemed to drop the clown act for a minute. Ruben generally enjoyed it, but this photography seemed a bit ridiculous - what if those pics were leaked to the idiotic tabloids?! `What do you think?' drawled Jack's Brummie accent from the other sofa. `I think he's a... you might say, twat?' Grealish chuckled, presumably at that most English of words in a Portuguese rasp, and Dias laughed too. He slid his phone away on the sofa and relaxed his big body, supping more scotch, and regretting not pouring more. `A dickhead,' he added, and `a pillock', reaching for more of the British words he had learned in his Manchester career. `I didn't mean of Kyle,' the other lad chuckled, and Ruben didn't know what to say to that. He just leant back further into the press of cushioned support, staring around his sparse stylish flat, a hint of loneliness in its chic tidiness. He felt Jack looking at him but he was confused by the question, and he wanted to go back to his OWN question - what had Jack said before, in the car, about having some solution to his love life problems...? To his surprise, if not slight alarm, Grealish was back on his feet, and his glass was empty. Without needing to be served, or even offered, the summer dressed footballer was prowling out of this sunken square and fetching the extortionate bottle. He was back, sloshing a double or more measure into Ruben's unfinished glass, making him raise his dark brows. Jack stood over him grinning. `You reckon they'll put that pic on the Sun front page if I leak it?' mused the playboy forward in a joke that was a little too thoughtful to be 100% joke, making Ruben both laugh and frown. `We're supposed to be talking about keeping out of the headlines,' he said heavily, drinking form his now overloaded glass, whilst Jack dropped a single thick knee to the sofa at his side, gently sliding down into a seated position to his left, much closer now. He turned, tired but restless, and looked intensely at his guest. `What did you mean, about a solution to that? How do you manage privacy these days, with your following?' Lounging in so close that their shoulders touched, Grealish laughed. `I'm not sure that I do, skip, but... well, some things stay behind closed doors.' `Some things,' Dias found himself echoing thoughtfully, taking another long sip. `The other summer,' his teammate said, and Ruben found that he'd expected that to come up, expected THAT to be the example, from the suggestiveness of tone - he stared away into the centre of the room as he drank, nodding slowly. `We all had fun,' Jack said wistfully, `and nobody else needed to know.' Ruben kept nodding, but he also thought that it was a poor example, something very apart from the problem he was sharing - what did that drunken antic on a rooftop beer garden after the trophy parade have to do with his love life and the media's interest in it, really? `I don't know if that helps,' he said distantly. `Doesn't it?' - Jack's voice almost a yawn - `It sure helps me. Knowing I can fuck about with lads who get it and nobody's gonna go crawling to the press to sell their story, cos everyone is getting paid as much as me.' Ruben couldn't help but lift an eyebrow and nudge an elbow into Jack's warm side. `Is that true, Mr £100 million man...?' He laughed abruptly and took another sip, astonished at how quickly the nightcap went down. He turned to look thoughtfully at Jack, who was lounging right into him on the sofa, and tilting his scruffily bearded face this way - looking at him in the moment, he couldn't help but see him as that photo from Kyle Walker had presented him, and also as he'd been on that summer rooftop. How they'd all been, really: triumphant, relaxed, horny, experimental. True, Ruben hadn't pushed his deviance as far as others, he'd drawn a clear line, but... `Some things are safer,' Jack was telling him in a murmur, rubbing one of the large muscles bulging from his shoulder. `Some things don't get to the papers, y'know, and that's coming from me - I've had my share of trouble, matey.' `Hmm.' He remembered that he'd been tempted to go further, watching as Jack and others REALLY took advantage of Phil Foden's shocking willingness; but Dias himself had stopped at receiving oral, like he'd tried on Portugal camps in the past, though haunted by the one time it had gone too far. He had never intended to try sucking a cock himself, but how did one say no to an icon like Cristiano...? Grealish was stroking his shoulder, and now the back of his neck. Dias turned, and found their faces very close. Jack's breath smelled like the scotch. `What are you saying?' he asked, but he thought he already knew. `There's people you can fuck,' the expensive winger purred, `and it defo won't make the papers, y'know. Safe fun.' Ruben realised he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out in a long sigh, his lips parting gently, and then meeting the approach of Jack's, accepting the surprising kiss. In his mind's eye there was a ready slut on the silk sheets of his huge bed, ready for his physical power - and sure, this wasn't quite what he had in mind, but the fella had a point... Jack wasted no time in pulling and dragging the bigger man through the sliding doors into the flat's master bedroom - he wanted to make things happen before Ruben could change his mind. They had left their glasses of drink behind, and also the heavy sports sweatshirt that had covered up the muscular bulk of Ruben's body. On the way through that threshold, Jack set about removing the close-fitting lycra t-shirt too, and exposing what he always enjoyed seeing in the changing rooms - what he'd particularly enjoyed seeing when his friend had agreed to the Nike underwear campaign, and really brought a spotlight to his hefty physique. To his surprise and pleasure, the bigger man was strangely receptive, huge strong hands grasping at Jack's neck, at his back muscles, running through his lustrous hair. The kisses were nervous pecks, and Jack stopped trying to meet their tongues, but he dropped his lips to the exposed paradise of the other man's pecs instead, pulling on his thick arms but lavishing kisses upon chest muscles and pointed nipples, tumbling backwards until he was falling onto silk sheets and dragging the centre-back with him. There was a moment of doubt there, Jack lying on his back and wrapping his strong legs about the other man's waist; he could see Ruben staring down at him in remembered alarm, as if surprised he wasn't a woman. But Jack reached up and gave scratchy kisses to the side of his neck, whilst pushing a hand into the front of his sweatpants and finding the big Nike package to hold and rub, pleased at how quickly the 6ft1 hunk was rising to the task. Ruben growled uncertainly and Jack grasped for one of his hands, bringing it about and slapping it to his own muscular arse through the shorts. `Here,' he hissed into the 26-year-old's ear, `grab a bit of that - you wanna fuck this big ass, Rubes?' Really, this was a needy frustration that had been welling in Grealish since the last England meet, where he'd been unable to find opportunity to give his perfect peach to any of his favoured national allies, and settled for regular oral attention from Maddison. It had been a good while since Jack let himself be fucked and he wasn't sure why he was so desperately craving it this autumn, but he needed to feel it, and there were few more powerful and exciting men in his circle than this Portuguese beast. The two men rolled and writhed on the bedsheets, battling to lose more clothing. Jack rolled and tossed away one sock and then the other, doing so in darting moments so that his hands never left Ruben's muscles or hard-on for long. Ruben was kissing him quite passionately on one of his shoulders, more comfortable there than on the lips, a huge muscular bulk over him, whose sweatpants were a battle to get over his thighs. Those and Jack's shorts soon went though, wriggled and kicked away over the side of the bed, so that the two of them wore only their undies. Jack separated from him, panting, and barked a command. `Lie back and let me suck you,' he insisted eagerly, and there was zero hesitation this time - huge and well-built, he soon had his captain lounging back against the mass of cushions, hands brought up behind his head to show biceps and faintly haired pits. Down came the camo print of the stretchy Nike sports boxers, and up came the hard curved trajectory of the man's rigid cock, standing happily between smooth muscular thighs. Jack stripped and tossed away his own shiny black trunks, letting his hardening cock and low balls swing free, and then diving down between open legs so that he could take Ruben into his mouth. `Oh fuck,' growled the City captain, and Jack did his finest work, spitting noisily and sliding up and down the fat shaft, lavishing attention on the bare head. All the while, he rubbed hands up and down the thick strong legs at either side, and tickled his fingertips up onto Ruben's defined six-pack. He kept his eyes open, twinkling his lusty gaze up that mighty body and meeting the wide-eyed wonder of his captain, who he'd always known could be led further astray when the moment came. Excitingly, it was Dias himself who insisted on ending the short blowie, because the promise Grealish made had him in its grip - `Your mouth feels good, but I want that arse,' declared the Portugal centre-back authoritatively, and Jack nodded with eager delight. He rolled to one side and toyed with his cock, then brought his big-muscled legs up and apart, whilst Ruben clambered around to face him, chest heaving and face flushed. Jack spat in his fingers and rubbed it quickly under his balls, down into the darker furrow between his prominent cheeks - now he could see nervousness and indecision on Ruben's face, an urgency to try this before the idea lost potency. Jack needed to let this happen quick, but he also knew that he would be tight and unyielding after such a long gap - his days of taking Chilly were a distant memory, sadly. Dias wasn't really waiting. He was holding his big Portuguese cock at the base and bearing forward, between the hoisted legs, pointing the fat head of his cock between the open cheeks. Jack clung to the underside of his hairy thighs and braced himself, but felt the inevitable, the closed-door policy of an unpractised arse - he did his best to relax himself but all he could feel was the battering ram force of a hard cock being pushed inexpertly up and down his crack with no success. Ruben swore in what must be Portuguese, several times, and he looked shaky on his knees, as if he might suddenly pull away and end this. `I can't get it in,' the City captain announced hotly. `Slow down,' Grealish urged, `it's different to pussy, you have to work up to it.' `You promised me your arse,' his skipper told him almost angrily. `It's yours,' Jack assured him eagerly, frustrated with himself, but laughing a little to ease the tension, and pushing two fingers down to rub against his knot. `You're too tight,' the bigger younger man said warily. `It'll go in, I can take it,' he groaned back at him, jerking on his own stiff member. `How?' Ruben demanded, sounding frustrated. `How do you get a good pussy ready?' Jack snapped back, and for a moment he meant it with just sarcasm, teasing and toying with the horny impatience of this big sexy man who he'd wanted privately for ages; but as soon as he'd said it out loud, he was smirking confrontationally at the hulking figure. `How do you get a girl good and wet before you shove that beast inside her?' he practically yelled at his captain. And to make a point, he licked his lips with a showy display of tongue, and watched the consternation on his captain's chiseled features. `Yeah,' he groaned, `that's how.' Jack's magnetic charm, his own sheer desperate urgency, the power of the scotch, or something else entirely? Ruben wasn't sure, but he did it. He slid forward, lowering his big muscular form to the sheen of the sheets, and pressed his huge hands at the base of those hairy thighs, just above the big parting arse cheeks. He took a deep breath and he pushed his face in, shocked by the distinctive smell of it, far less unpleasant than he might have imagined - and as if he was going down on one of his many hot girlfriends, he pushed out his large fat tongue, and ran it against the space between those glutes. Jack seemed to shiver immediately in his grip, and there was something encouraging in that - but he didn't quite know what to do, realised this was a different task to what he'd done before, but too late, his tongue already down here, his face buried between two of England's most coveted buns. And just like that, he licked the `pussy' of his winger, driven by the urgent burning feeling of his rock-hard cock and tight full balls - he pushed his tongue up and down and around the wrinkle of muscular skin... and then pulled back, breathing into one hairy cheek, unable to voice the question `Is that okay?' but getting his answer anyway - `FUCK YES,' whined his Grealish, pulling his body into a better position, `lick me there, captain!!' And so he went on, pressing down lower, pulling his face into a better angle, and really going for it, though he wasn't quite sure what `it' might be. This was madness, this was wild and way beyond his limits, and yet it was a way to get what he needed, the satisfaction his big body demanded. He couldn't believe he was doing this to a man, tasting their arse and finding their unyielding hole with the tip of a tongue that had spent hours between the legs of beautiful women. Jack writhed and buckled and swore and begged, and he loved the sound of it - loved the urgency and appreciation in that brash English accent, this arrogant fuck whining for him on his bed like some slut! He kept stopping, unsure of himself, and staring always in shock at the hairy muscle around the goal, because it made it so clear that he was licking no cunt; but Jack's moaning voice brought him back each time, telling him he was `the best', telling him he felt like `heaven', telling him to `eat that big ass!' And Ruben spat noisily in against it and rubbed first one finger then two over, and in, the hole, and he realised that he'd forgotten his goal for a moment. He gave one last prodding lick and then pulled away, spitting uncertainly against the bedding, and then spitting down onto the shaft of his cock. `Yeah,' moaned one of the most talked-about footballers in the country, one of the most interesting lads on his team. `Fuck me now, captain! I won't tell a fucking soul, buddy.' Ruben no longer needed to hear that, no longer had a thought for stupid headlines; he was driven by his cock and its needs, and nothing else, as he angled it well and started pushing the big ahead against the wet relaxing hole, the one he'd licked and kissed and spat on, and he almost shuddered at the lines was crossing, but it felt too good to stop. Pushing Jack's legs further up and apart, he mounted him, entered him, broke him, feeling such muscular tightness around his mighty Portuguese cock; his own moans, slurring in his native tongue, joined the greedy noise of Jack Grealish himself, and Ruben began to fuck his first man, pounding him like any hot bitch who entered this bedroom. Readied as he'd been by the hot brief rimming, Jack took it like a pro, relaxing back into an experience that he'd always enjoyed - for a moment, legs in the air and arse opening up, he thought about his first time, but that brought a different pain to the discomfort of being out of practice, and that flashback of loose hay and shadowy barn made him picture, for a moment, a very different face above him. He returned to the moment, away from the painful past of first discoveries, and whined and gasped encouragingly, telling his big powerful captain exactly how good he was, how strong, how sexy, how fucking amazing - telling him how this secret would be safe between them, and his skipper could have this big meaty arse any time he fucking wanted, he just had to ask, as long as he kissed it like that again with that sexy amazing tongue, oh yeh! Grealish didn't even last long before, reaching for himself, he was shooting his own spunk up his bas and onto his chest, emptying out all of his cum with a few minimal touches to his dick, the arse stimulation of Dias' thrusts to overpowering and intense. It still felt good in the sensitive throes of orgasm, but he knew he could only take it for so long, and he needed to bring the hard-muscled beast to climax - so he reached for his nips, tweaking and pinching at them, and telling Dias he was some kinda god. `FUCK ME HARDER,' he yelled into the captain's face, and he could tell his dirty talk was driving him WILD - the big man really went for it then, as Jack pinched his nipples and grasped at his arm muscles, and the tortured look on the young man's face told him he was getting an arse full of goodness. Ruben stopped with the same violent suddenness as he'd thrusted, his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched, and he rolled rapidly to one side, letting out hot quick pants of almost panicked relief. Jack, on the other hand, lay quite still, holding his legs up and apart, letting his sore arse relax and recover, glad that he'd scratched that ich, and wondering at the fact he'd allowed himself to go so long without a good stuffing. `God, you're good,' he purred heavily, listening to Ruben's quick breathing, and he slid further away from his captain's body - he wanted to go in for a sweaty snog, but he suspected that the deviance and boldness might have gone with the orgasm. Instead, he slid from the bed and found his pants, which he pulled up and on, and then knelt at the edge of the bed, watching the 26-year-old recover. Every muscle heaved and contracted, and he dragged big hands over his sweaty face, not looking this way. `Now that's one fuck that won't make the press,' Grealish reassured him again, and he hopped away from the bed to continue dressing, pulling one item after another onto his clammy physique, and shooting monitoring glances back at the shaky form of his captain, recovering physically and mentally from crossing that line. Fully dressed again and forcing each foot into a trainer, the 28-year-old England star just stood in the bedroom doorway, taking a moment, scotch glass in hand. He finished it and put it down, and slid the doors shut with a final `You're amazing' to the hunk on the bed, and left him to sweat it out and rationalise what happened. Walking a little funny after such a pounding, Jack left the apartment and the building with a sexy little swagger, chuckling to himself and suppressing a yawn - well, he'd been on the lookout for a worthy top for ages, and here he was, just a tower block away, his own sexy captain. Jack made the short damp walk between their buildings, hood pulled up and arse-hole faintly burning, and he laughed to think of his journey to the England camp tomorrow - would he still enter the international break with a craving to be made somebody's bitch, or had he satisfied that need? Would he be back to his more dominant alpha ways with some subservient fellow Englishman? Or even a bit of both? He was so excited that he worried he might not sleep - another week with the finest muscles in English football beckoned, and Jack was all the hornier for his power-fucking from Ruben Dias. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2023 18:13:03 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 363 Part 363: England Camp, Day Two Tuesday, and an unseasonal heat blazed over the outdoor training pitches of St George's Park, bringing an extra shine of sweat to the bare limbs of the England players who were getting stuck into their first full day's work. It was only just approaching midday, and already temperatures were in the upper 20s, and the athletic football blokes covered their dazed exhaustion with laughter and banter. Their home counties base felt like a hot-weather camp in the Med or the Gulf, and Ben Chilwell kept finding himself needing to pull back the short curtains of his chocolate-brown hair where it stuck to the lightly tanned skin of his brow and his cheeks. Determined to project nothing but peak fitness, the acting Chelsea captain gritted himself against the oppressive heat. At 26, the left-back had missed a lot of key opportunities on his national team through injury or fitness concerns, and he was determined to make Southgate's starting line-up for the upcoming fixtures, especially in a slightly depleted squad where some of his defensive competition had been ruled out, especially United's Luke Shaw, whose burly presence Chilwell might struggle to replace. Laughing along with the high spirits of the other players in his sub-group for this round of set-pieces, the determined young Englishman was entirely focused on his skills and his readiness for international football. Well, almost entirely focused. There was this morning to think about, of course, and it was difficult not to let his mind slip back to those precious images, even as the ball was deftly passed his way and he was supposed to chip it over a wall of his Three Lions teammates. Breakfast had been scheduled early for Day Two, partly with a nod to the day's heat and the possibility of getting maximum work done before the temperatures really soared. Ben had been as excitable and enthusiastic as anyone else in the hotel refectory as they raided the healthy buffet and shared a few new in-jokes about who had stood out in the preliminary work of Monday afternoon. Sat with his younger Chelsea comrades Conor Gallagher and debutant Levi Colwill, Chilwell had done his best to big up the other lads' efforts and rouse some approval from the more seasoned England stars at their table - but he'd also found himself scouting around the room, eyeing not just his own table but the other two long ones positioned in parallel. The breakfast window was almost over, he'd noted, and there were definitely a couple of key faces missing. In a lull in the chat, Ben leaned slightly to his right, nudging elbows with Jordan Henderson. Catching the older player's attention, he quietly asked, `Where's Trent at?' and then paused almost cautiously before adding, `And have you seen Jack...?' The soft-bearded ex-Liverpool man fixed with a decidedly odd look in the middle of eating his muesli, catching faintly at Ben's curiosity, but he was alerted by an interrupting voice from the other side of their table. `Both going home today, apparently,' Fikayo Tomoroi informed him bluntly, pausing to crunch into an apple in his hand. `Saw them with their cases just now - their medical appointments yesterday didn't go so good, and they've been ruled out.' The AC Milan player shrugged thoughtfully. `Shame for them, but means more match-time for the rest of us, huh.' Ben glanced briefly back at the troubled expression on Hendo's face and just nodded slowly, resting his elbows on the table and digesting this disappointing information. `They both looked fine to me,' Colwill was saying, only to be dismissed by Gallagher: `Club lawyers, ain't it, we're like expensive racehorses. Slightest knock and...' `Yeah,' Ben murmured faintly in agreement when he was asked, too distracted now to note just how sick and awkward Henderson looked at his side once Trent Alexander-Arnold became a general topic of conversation to the rest of the table. He left breakfast soon after that, chiding himself for the faint nausea of disappointment that had slapped him at this news. Trent's absence was hardly a problem, given how it might clear up some defensive midfield opportunity for him... but he'd been quite looking forward to a catch-up with Jack Grealish, having barely seen his, erm, friend for the whole of summer. They'd bumped into each other on the way into the campus on Monday morning and shared a long grateful hug, warming Ben to the idea of spending a bit more time with his ex on this international camp. Ben was just on his way back to his room, shared with newcomer Levi, when he walked straight into the man who was on his mind. The two football players ricocheted awkwardly from each other in surprise on the landing, and then strong hands slid to Ben's forearms to steady himself and he found himself staring into the charismatic grin and playful eyes of Jack Grealish. He blinked dumbly for a moment, confused briefly as if his very thoughts had manifested into the familiar figure of the Brummie star. `Hey buddy,' purred Jack's lilting accent, hovering in front of him and letting his hands drop to his sides again. `I just heard,' Ben breathed back. `Are you really not gonna be able to play?' Jack paused and sighed, then rolled his eyes. `It's nothing, but... y'know. It is what it is.' He shrugged, smiling so broadly that dimples creased in his scruffily bearded features. `Just means a few days off before rejoining Pep's bootcamp.' Ben just paused quietly and enjoyed that familiar smile and the irrepressible cheekiness of the other lad's eyes, questioning his own simple gladness to bump into and say some kinda goodbye to his longtime England companion, since they were brattish wannabes in the youth camp. `Gotta go,' Jack said quietly. `Me stuff's downstairs already.' `Right, yeah.' `But wanted to catch you first.' `Oh,' Ben said, unable to silence his surprise - it hadn't occurred to him that he was bumping into Grealish here because of any deliberate effort. He shifted from bashful surprise to a casual laugh and patted Jack on the arm. `Good of you,' he said blandly. `I'm sorry we won't get to hang out like we thought, mate.' A slow nod from Jack, something a little more intense in the lines around those eyes, and in the curl of that playboy grin. `Not so much, but - well, there's always here and now.' The Chelsea defender laughed weakly at this, then stopped himself, seeing the leer in Jack's expression. An electric tingle ran through him and he tilted his head quizzically. He was due outdoors for the first fitness drills in fifteen minutes, and it sounded like Grealish was on his way out of here. But... `Is your roomie downstairs?' the 27-year-old Brummie demanded quietly. Ben made a jokey scoffing noise, and glanced over his shoulder. `Well, yeh - Levi is chatting away, but-' `Great,' Jack barked. `Your room's on this floor?' Ben grinned awkwardly at him. `Mate...' Grealish leaned in, hands on his shoulders, faces brushing, and whispered hot breath in his ear: `I've been thinking about sucking your cock since the second I left Manchester, for fuck's sake. Come on.' He pulled back, chewing his lip in a coquettish manner, a few long strands of his trademark hair crossing his face... and Ben felt his cock stiffen in the mesh of his training shorts, and his heart skipped a beat. The 5ft11 defender had led Jack across the landing and down a separate corridor before he could question the risk, but as he unlocked the door and received a sharp spank on the rump of his England shorts, he still muttered, `This is daft!' Jack tumbled after him, pushing the door shut and grabbing him from behind. `Daft, or fuckin' horny?' the Villa-turned-City hero murmured, before proceeding to kiss the back and sides of his neck in a way that made him shudder and twist with unexpected delight. `Both?' Ben quipped breathlessly, twisting into a turn and facing the hunky winger, who just smirked back at him and came in for a kiss. Ben received it pliantly, sensory joy wiping out questions such as `What if Colwill comes in?' and `Have I got time for this?', but also `Aren't we supposed to be over?' and `Is there anyone in the world I'd rather kiss than this bastard?' This was for the best, because such complicated thoughts might have killed the stiffening presence in his clingy shorts, and prevented Jack's sinking hand from taking a good strong grip of the shaft whilst they snogged. `Levi?' Chilwell managed to murmur when the kiss ended and he was being pushed back against the wall, but Grealish was dropping to his knees, minor injury or not - and it was all Ben could do to hold himself still and quiet as he looked down his front and watched his own bulky cock swing free when his shorts were tugged down. Jack paused, their eyes locking, and licked his lips before gently kissing the tip and rolling back the foreskin. `Fuckkkk,' the Stamford Bridge skipper moaned, and Grealish went to work. Slowly, that perfect mouth slid up his shaft and took half of his lengthy member, then a little more, then really gobbled and slurped at it. God he was good at this, probably a lot better than when they'd actually dated, and he'd been full of hang-ups and insecurity, always questioning their man-on-man love... Manchester City Jack was a different creature, fully liberated and utterly self-confident, and fucking hell he could suck dick. Ben found himself staring at the bedroom door with superficial worry, far too satisfied by the oral attention to REALLY care if his 20-year-old Chelsea colleague might interrupt them. The thought that Jack was literally still here just to suck him off hit him like a sledgehammer. Again, he was in too much physical pleasure to entertain questions about their rekindled relationship and complicated history, but the questions were still floating there on the edge of his fuzzy lavender haze - and they would bother him deeply later in the hot day when he was supposed to be focused on his training, fighting for his place in the Qualifiers. `Fuck, man,' gurgled Jack as he kissed the underside of the shaft and then brought his hot mouth to Ben's big balls, `you taste GOOD, Chilly.' `Jeeeesus...' `Nah, just Jacko!' `Oh god...' `Mmmmph.' It felt like a long time since Chilwell had been serviced anything like this. Just stood with his back to the wall, Jack's hands clasping his wrists against the wallpaper. His cock rock hard and slobbered over by the crouching stud. His balls wet and tingling as tongue and lips worked them then returned to the head of his dick. He couldn't stop moaning and gasping, eyes closing and unable to nervously watch the door for intrusion. He wasn't normally a fast cummer, but it had been days and this just felt SO good - he could feel his climax approaching rapidly. He might have protested, not wanting to finish so soon, and already wanting to turn things around and get hold of the monster he knew to be lurking in Jack's own under-sized footy shorts, but... Well, Jack's hold was insistent, and they both had places to be. He realised how one-sided and generous this was, and he let it happen, amazed to find himself still so prized by the £100-million man. He tried his best to keep the noise down, subduing what might have been absolute squeals of delight, and inevitably bursting with cum against Jack's tongue and lips, his body heaving and shaking against the wall. His hands broke free of Jack's grip and he let his fingers run luxuriously through Jack's hair and over his scalp, all the while pushing his cock in deeper and emptying his messy load down the star's throat. `Oh man,' he moaned powerlessly, `oh Jack...' Panting and laughing, Grealish was up on his feet, wiping a hairy forearm across his lips and chin, and blinking furiously. `You enjoy that?' he demanded needlessly and insistently. `That feel good?' Ben wasn't able to form a sensible reply. `Fuck's sake,' was all he could moan softly, still collapsed heavily to the wall, and very slowly and clumsily reaching for the massive edifice of his prick, trying to shove it back down inside his shorts - his eyes scanned down and caught the angular hardness in Jack's matching England shorts, all the more prominent for his under-size penchant. He reached as if to grab it but his hand was stayed by Jack's. `Levi,' the Brummie hunk murmured, as if suddenly safety-conscious. `But...' `We both got places to be,' Grealish reminded him very quietly, giving a single glance to the hotel suite door before leaning in for a kiss that Chilly gladly met, tasting his own saltiness on the lips of the sexy winger. He rubbed his hands up his outer arms and against his shoulders through the long-sleeve training top he'd donned for travel, feeling the tight wiry muscles underneath... and just wanting to slide his hands down inside those shorts and find the big tackle that everyone liked to see bounce around in Jack's kit. `That was great,' Chilwell told him, hearing the emptiness and understatement of the description, and laughing awkwardly at himself - he could picture how red his face must be now, and how breathless he'd be as he hurried downstairs to get outside. But Grealish just leered at him and pinched his cheek in a laddish gesture that had followed their friendship since their teens. `I needed it,' the City player muttered, `but now I have a car waiting for me, and you gotta go get that left-back spot, Chilly baby. Yeh?' The door opened then, quite slowly but with enough force to alarm Ben and make him sidle self-consciously further from his visitor - in came Levi Colwill, still shouting back at someone in the corridor, and then starting in surprise as Grealish whirled around and bustled past him, giving him a slap on the shoulder and whistling a jaunty tune on his way out of the room. Levi seemed to stare after him in some vague puzzlement, allowing Ben a moment to grab a hoody off the side and dangle it over the obvious wilting hard-on in his shorts, a few moments' grace until his excitement was fully subsided. `Is he staying to train?' the 20-year-old defender asked with an eager grin - Ben supposed that Jack was a major role model for Levi's generation of up-and-coming Premiership starlets, in terms of media attention even more than footballing achievement. Ben, conscious of the glow in his cheeks and the slight cum-stain that would no doubt be appearing in his briefs under the shorts, cleared his throat and shook his head. `Nah, he was just grabbing something off me before he had to go. It's nothing major though - sadly, I guess, for Prem rivals like us, hah...' He smiled weakly and rubbed his face, readjusting the tightness of his briefs and shorts, glad as Colwill disappeared cheerfully into the en suite bathroom and giving him a moment to recover. But it wasn't his own red-faced recovery that the 26-year-old Milton Keynes lad found himself mulling over under the midday sun, as the Three Lions men sweated their way into a much-needed lunch break in the shade - it was mostly the image of Jack on his knees, grinning up at him with those devilish eyes and smirking lips, ready to suck him off in a risky moment of opportunity - and also the feel of those same lips softly kissing the back of his neck as they tumbled into the room at first, soft little touches of affection that took him back to a very different era in their intimacy. Took him back, and also made him think - the questions that had been brushed aside by pleasure before had queued up and returned, and plagued him distractedly as he sweated his way off the training pitch with the rest of Southgate's depleted squad. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 6 Sep 2023 18:13:03 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 363 Part 363: England Camp, Day Two Tuesday, and an unseasonal heat blazed over the outdoor training pitches of St George's Park, bringing an extra shine of sweat to the bare limbs of the England players who were getting stuck into their first full day's work. It was only just approaching midday, and already temperatures were in the upper 20s, and the athletic football blokes covered their dazed exhaustion with laughter and banter. Their home counties base felt like a hot-weather camp in the Med or the Gulf, and Ben Chilwell kept finding himself needing to pull back the short curtains of his chocolate-brown hair where it stuck to the lightly tanned skin of his brow and his cheeks. Determined to project nothing but peak fitness, the acting Chelsea captain gritted himself against the oppressive heat. At 26, the left-back had missed a lot of key opportunities on his national team through injury or fitness concerns, and he was determined to make Southgate's starting line-up for the upcoming fixtures, especially in a slightly depleted squad where some of his defensive competition had been ruled out, especially United's Luke Shaw, whose burly presence Chilwell might struggle to replace. Laughing along with the high spirits of the other players in his sub-group for this round of set-pieces, the determined young Englishman was entirely focused on his skills and his readiness for international football. Well, almost entirely focused. There was this morning to think about, of course, and it was difficult not to let his mind slip back to those precious images, even as the ball was deftly passed his way and he was supposed to chip it over a wall of his Three Lions teammates. Breakfast had been scheduled early for Day Two, partly with a nod to the day's heat and the possibility of getting maximum work done before the temperatures really soared. Ben had been as excitable and enthusiastic as anyone else in the hotel refectory as they raided the healthy buffet and shared a few new in-jokes about who had stood out in the preliminary work of Monday afternoon. Sat with his younger Chelsea comrades Conor Gallagher and debutant Levi Colwill, Chilwell had done his best to big up the other lads' efforts and rouse some approval from the more seasoned England stars at their table - but he'd also found himself scouting around the room, eyeing not just his own table but the other two long ones positioned in parallel. The breakfast window was almost over, he'd noted, and there were definitely a couple of key faces missing. In a lull in the chat, Ben leaned slightly to his right, nudging elbows with Jordan Henderson. Catching the older player's attention, he quietly asked, `Where's Trent at?' and then paused almost cautiously before adding, `And have you seen Jack...?' The soft-bearded ex-Liverpool man fixed with a decidedly odd look in the middle of eating his muesli, catching faintly at Ben's curiosity, but he was alerted by an interrupting voice from the other side of their table. `Both going home today, apparently,' Fikayo Tomoroi informed him bluntly, pausing to crunch into an apple in his hand. `Saw them with their cases just now - their medical appointments yesterday didn't go so good, and they've been ruled out.' The AC Milan player shrugged thoughtfully. `Shame for them, but means more match-time for the rest of us, huh.' Ben glanced briefly back at the troubled expression on Hendo's face and just nodded slowly, resting his elbows on the table and digesting this disappointing information. `They both looked fine to me,' Colwill was saying, only to be dismissed by Gallagher: `Club lawyers, ain't it, we're like expensive racehorses. Slightest knock and...' `Yeah,' Ben murmured faintly in agreement when he was asked, too distracted now to note just how sick and awkward Henderson looked at his side once Trent Alexander-Arnold became a general topic of conversation to the rest of the table. He left breakfast soon after that, chiding himself for the faint nausea of disappointment that had slapped him at this news. Trent's absence was hardly a problem, given how it might clear up some defensive midfield opportunity for him... but he'd been quite looking forward to a catch-up with Jack Grealish, having barely seen his, erm, friend for the whole of summer. They'd bumped into each other on the way into the campus on Monday morning and shared a long grateful hug, warming Ben to the idea of spending a bit more time with his ex on this international camp. Ben was just on his way back to his room, shared with newcomer Levi, when he walked straight into the man who was on his mind. The two football players ricocheted awkwardly from each other in surprise on the landing, and then strong hands slid to Ben's forearms to steady himself and he found himself staring into the charismatic grin and playful eyes of Jack Grealish. He blinked dumbly for a moment, confused briefly as if his very thoughts had manifested into the familiar figure of the Brummie star. `Hey buddy,' purred Jack's lilting accent, hovering in front of him and letting his hands drop to his sides again. `I just heard,' Ben breathed back. `Are you really not gonna be able to play?' Jack paused and sighed, then rolled his eyes. `It's nothing, but... y'know. It is what it is.' He shrugged, smiling so broadly that dimples creased in his scruffily bearded features. `Just means a few days off before rejoining Pep's bootcamp.' Ben just paused quietly and enjoyed that familiar smile and the irrepressible cheekiness of the other lad's eyes, questioning his own simple gladness to bump into and say some kinda goodbye to his longtime England companion, since they were brattish wannabes in the youth camp. `Gotta go,' Jack said quietly. `Me stuff's downstairs already.' `Right, yeah.' `But wanted to catch you first.' `Oh,' Ben said, unable to silence his surprise - it hadn't occurred to him that he was bumping into Grealish here because of any deliberate effort. He shifted from bashful surprise to a casual laugh and patted Jack on the arm. `Good of you,' he said blandly. `I'm sorry we won't get to hang out like we thought, mate.' A slow nod from Jack, something a little more intense in the lines around those eyes, and in the curl of that playboy grin. `Not so much, but - well, there's always here and now.' The Chelsea defender laughed weakly at this, then stopped himself, seeing the leer in Jack's expression. An electric tingle ran through him and he tilted his head quizzically. He was due outdoors for the first fitness drills in fifteen minutes, and it sounded like Grealish was on his way out of here. But... `Is your roomie downstairs?' the 27-year-old Brummie demanded quietly. Ben made a jokey scoffing noise, and glanced over his shoulder. `Well, yeh - Levi is chatting away, but-' `Great,' Jack barked. `Your room's on this floor?' Ben grinned awkwardly at him. `Mate...' Grealish leaned in, hands on his shoulders, faces brushing, and whispered hot breath in his ear: `I've been thinking about sucking your cock since the second I left Manchester, for fuck's sake. Come on.' He pulled back, chewing his lip in a coquettish manner, a few long strands of his trademark hair crossing his face... and Ben felt his cock stiffen in the mesh of his training shorts, and his heart skipped a beat. The 5ft11 defender had led Jack across the landing and down a separate corridor before he could question the risk, but as he unlocked the door and received a sharp spank on the rump of his England shorts, he still muttered, `This is daft!' Jack tumbled after him, pushing the door shut and grabbing him from behind. `Daft, or fuckin' horny?' the Villa-turned-City hero murmured, before proceeding to kiss the back and sides of his neck in a way that made him shudder and twist with unexpected delight. `Both?' Ben quipped breathlessly, twisting into a turn and facing the hunky winger, who just smirked back at him and came in for a kiss. Ben received it pliantly, sensory joy wiping out questions such as `What if Colwill comes in?' and `Have I got time for this?', but also `Aren't we supposed to be over?' and `Is there anyone in the world I'd rather kiss than this bastard?' This was for the best, because such complicated thoughts might have killed the stiffening presence in his clingy shorts, and prevented Jack's sinking hand from taking a good strong grip of the shaft whilst they snogged. `Levi?' Chilwell managed to murmur when the kiss ended and he was being pushed back against the wall, but Grealish was dropping to his knees, minor injury or not - and it was all Ben could do to hold himself still and quiet as he looked down his front and watched his own bulky cock swing free when his shorts were tugged down. Jack paused, their eyes locking, and licked his lips before gently kissing the tip and rolling back the foreskin. `Fuckkkk,' the Stamford Bridge skipper moaned, and Grealish went to work. Slowly, that perfect mouth slid up his shaft and took half of his lengthy member, then a little more, then really gobbled and slurped at it. God he was good at this, probably a lot better than when they'd actually dated, and he'd been full of hang-ups and insecurity, always questioning their man-on-man love... Manchester City Jack was a different creature, fully liberated and utterly self-confident, and fucking hell he could suck dick. Ben found himself staring at the bedroom door with superficial worry, far too satisfied by the oral attention to REALLY care if his 20-year-old Chelsea colleague might interrupt them. The thought that Jack was literally still here just to suck him off hit him like a sledgehammer. Again, he was in too much physical pleasure to entertain questions about their rekindled relationship and complicated history, but the questions were still floating there on the edge of his fuzzy lavender haze - and they would bother him deeply later in the hot day when he was supposed to be focused on his training, fighting for his place in the Qualifiers. `Fuck, man,' gurgled Jack as he kissed the underside of the shaft and then brought his hot mouth to Ben's big balls, `you taste GOOD, Chilly.' `Jeeeesus...' `Nah, just Jacko!' `Oh god...' `Mmmmph.' It felt like a long time since Chilwell had been serviced anything like this. Just stood with his back to the wall, Jack's hands clasping his wrists against the wallpaper. His cock rock hard and slobbered over by the crouching stud. His balls wet and tingling as tongue and lips worked them then returned to the head of his dick. He couldn't stop moaning and gasping, eyes closing and unable to nervously watch the door for intrusion. He wasn't normally a fast cummer, but it had been days and this just felt SO good - he could feel his climax approaching rapidly. He might have protested, not wanting to finish so soon, and already wanting to turn things around and get hold of the monster he knew to be lurking in Jack's own under-sized footy shorts, but... Well, Jack's hold was insistent, and they both had places to be. He realised how one-sided and generous this was, and he let it happen, amazed to find himself still so prized by the £100-million man. He tried his best to keep the noise down, subduing what might have been absolute squeals of delight, and inevitably bursting with cum against Jack's tongue and lips, his body heaving and shaking against the wall. His hands broke free of Jack's grip and he let his fingers run luxuriously through Jack's hair and over his scalp, all the while pushing his cock in deeper and emptying his messy load down the star's throat. `Oh man,' he moaned powerlessly, `oh Jack...' Panting and laughing, Grealish was up on his feet, wiping a hairy forearm across his lips and chin, and blinking furiously. `You enjoy that?' he demanded needlessly and insistently. `That feel good?' Ben wasn't able to form a sensible reply. `Fuck's sake,' was all he could moan softly, still collapsed heavily to the wall, and very slowly and clumsily reaching for the massive edifice of his prick, trying to shove it back down inside his shorts - his eyes scanned down and caught the angular hardness in Jack's matching England shorts, all the more prominent for his under-size penchant. He reached as if to grab it but his hand was stayed by Jack's. `Levi,' the Brummie hunk murmured, as if suddenly safety-conscious. `But...' `We both got places to be,' Grealish reminded him very quietly, giving a single glance to the hotel suite door before leaning in for a kiss that Chilly gladly met, tasting his own saltiness on the lips of the sexy winger. He rubbed his hands up his outer arms and against his shoulders through the long-sleeve training top he'd donned for travel, feeling the tight wiry muscles underneath... and just wanting to slide his hands down inside those shorts and find the big tackle that everyone liked to see bounce around in Jack's kit. `That was great,' Chilwell told him, hearing the emptiness and understatement of the description, and laughing awkwardly at himself - he could picture how red his face must be now, and how breathless he'd be as he hurried downstairs to get outside. But Grealish just leered at him and pinched his cheek in a laddish gesture that had followed their friendship since their teens. `I needed it,' the City player muttered, `but now I have a car waiting for me, and you gotta go get that left-back spot, Chilly baby. Yeh?' The door opened then, quite slowly but with enough force to alarm Ben and make him sidle self-consciously further from his visitor - in came Levi Colwill, still shouting back at someone in the corridor, and then starting in surprise as Grealish whirled around and bustled past him, giving him a slap on the shoulder and whistling a jaunty tune on his way out of the room. Levi seemed to stare after him in some vague puzzlement, allowing Ben a moment to grab a hoody off the side and dangle it over the obvious wilting hard-on in his shorts, a few moments' grace until his excitement was fully subsided. `Is he staying to train?' the 20-year-old defender asked with an eager grin - Ben supposed that Jack was a major role model for Levi's generation of up-and-coming Premiership starlets, in terms of media attention even more than footballing achievement. Ben, conscious of the glow in his cheeks and the slight cum-stain that would no doubt be appearing in his briefs under the shorts, cleared his throat and shook his head. `Nah, he was just grabbing something off me before he had to go. It's nothing major though - sadly, I guess, for Prem rivals like us, hah...' He smiled weakly and rubbed his face, readjusting the tightness of his briefs and shorts, glad as Colwill disappeared cheerfully into the en suite bathroom and giving him a moment to recover. But it wasn't his own red-faced recovery that the 26-year-old Milton Keynes lad found himself mulling over under the midday sun, as the Three Lions men sweated their way into a much-needed lunch break in the shade - it was mostly the image of Jack on his knees, grinning up at him with those devilish eyes and smirking lips, ready to suck him off in a risky moment of opportunity - and also the feel of those same lips softly kissing the back of his neck as they tumbled into the room at first, soft little touches of affection that took him back to a very different era in their intimacy. Took him back, and also made him think - the questions that had been brushed aside by pleasure before had queued up and returned, and plagued him distractedly as he sweated his way off the training pitch with the rest of Southgate's depleted squad. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-349

Date: Wed, 8 Feb 2023 20:14:45 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Fw: Premiership Lads, Part 349 Part 349: Player of the Month `You must be so very proud, Marcus?' He walked on through the sprawling ground floor of the house, smiling almost bashfully as he glanced back at the reporter from the magazine; he laughed slightly but didn't properly reply, leading her through the newly decorated rear lounge and into the warm conservatory extension beyond, its large window panes framing views of a bleakly beautiful Cheshire garden beyond. `Such a great month,' the interviewer continued, and her photographer advanced past her, following him more fully into the well-lit rear end of the house, camera clicking away as near-candid shots were snapped up of the young football star strolling across the under-heated flooring. It was a lifestyle magazine rather than the usual football media or even fashion, and the two of them almost seemed more interested in the house itself than an illustrious run of form for the 25-year-old Mancunian. He kept that awkwardly endearing smile on his face and led them towards what they'd really asked for here, even if both the cooing suburban thirty-something and he scruffy-edged photographer were really paying more attention to his furniture purchases and the views of his garden. He gestured quietly to the display cases along one stretch of wall between the huge windows, finding the pair of Player of the Month prizes that had recently become his. `What a January,' she praised quite casually. Marcus Rashford grinned and nodded and told her it was just another part of the journey, the inevitable highs and lows of a footballer's story; he aimed for quietly humble, but didn't want to sound to ridiculous or naive. He felt a lot more comfortable than he'd once done with such media intrusion in his home, but this side of his fame would never quite feel natural to the forward - it was one thing being grilled about his performance by a knowledgeable sports writer in the wake of win, loss, or draw, but another to be examined as a `celebrity' and to have his philanthropic efforts treated alongside his Premiership expertise. Though these two visitors were pretty pleasant, one of their colleagues on last week's Zoom call had asked him what it was like working with Pep Guardiola, and he still wasn't sure if it had been a bad joke or sheer ignorance. `Any highlights?' she asked him in an almost distracted voice, trailing along one wall of windows and inspecting some of the ornamentation on the low sills, whilst the bearded photographer contorted himself into new crouching positions to get the perfect still of Marcus looking pensive at the steamed windows. Suddenly self-conscious, the footballer frowned uncomfortably under the intensity of the man's efforts, and followed the lady from the magazine towards the valuable art pieces. He found himself trailing dimly between possible answers, realising that too much football specifics would turn off the interview and probably fail to get quoted. He fed her nuggets of enjoyment and professional satisfaction but didn't bother to elaborate, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting dark chinos, nodding his head and joining her in looking out at the windy early February gloom of the garden. But he turned and looked back at the two prizes, now being treated to the same close-up photography that the bloke kept inflicting on Marcus himself: he smiled proudly at the club and league Player of the Month trophies that had matched up his success over the January fixtures, and generally since his run at the World Cup. `And the other players,' said the journalist thoughtfully, flashing him her winsome smile, `how have they been with you about all these goals and accolades?' She paused with the voice-app on her mobile phone glowing gently from one palm, gesturing it in his direction and waiting for a less mumbled answer than he'd given so far. But Rashford paused, the smile on his striking young features faltering, covered by a fractured little chuckle. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and patted them against the chest and tummy of his garish t-shirt, tilting his head and making a thoughtful face for her, unsure exactly how to answer this one. `Great,' the 25-year-old said slowly, `really great.' He stopped to think. `Lots of attention - they're all just really happy for me, y'know?' He hesitated, unsure if she wanted more, something more insightful, but her smile was hard to read, and she lowered the hand with the recorder app in; the photographer was bustling after him to get some shots of the garden, and Marcus hung on behind them, briefly forgotten as they fixated on `lifestyle' details - he thought about his bland and generalised answer for them, holding in a stronger little laugh, as his thoughts cast out over the first month of 2023. Yeah, he thought, the other fellas have been happy and proud, really great - he just wasn't sure some of it was appropriate to go spilling in an interview...! He thought about a late afternoon early in the month, only two days after his goal had rounded off a 3-0 home win over Bournemouth; they'd had the previous day off to recover from the big win, their first of the new year, but then hit the ground running with a pretty gruelling return to Erik ten Hag's regime. For some reason, Marcus wasn't so sure now, he'd been one of the last to finish up at Carrington, and certainly among the last to hit the showers - it was some meeting or other with one of the expert staff, and it had him stomping wearily through the corridors and into the locker-room on his own, his body clad in tight-fitting nylon in the grey-blue of the current training gear, sparks of neon orange streaking the sleeves and sponsor-blazoned chest. He'd thought he was entirely alone, dragging down the clingy tracksuit bottoms and then the sweatshirt and under-vest, sliding the warm garments away from his smooth and decorated skin, baring each chiselled muscular tattoo canvas until he was just in scruffy white socks and the latest pair of promotional underpants that Nike were supplying him with to try and secure a contract extension as their model. Tired out, he yawned, and ran his hands over his bare chest, up his neck, and across his face, blinking and shaking himself, and then dipping through his locker for some toiletries to take with him into the shower. He was jolted from this short ritual of wind-down by the sound of a door and heavy footsteps joining him in the locker-room. `Oh, hey,' he said, catching sight of the team's increasingly defunct official captain, striding in and taking a place further down this wall of lockers. A fairly upbeat smile on his rugged face, Harry Maguire gave him a cheery salute but said nothing, dressed in heavy layers of the same club training kit, and looking like he'd had a pretty positive meeting. Marcus had decided not to question what had kept the big Yorkshire fella so long and delayed him as much as Rashford himself; it had been no secret throughout January that the club's oft-benched centre-back was fielding vague offers from several European giants, keen to rescue him from the doldrums of second fiddle at Old Trafford. From Maguire's mood that afternoon, Rashford had been forced to speculate that either one of those offers had significantly improved, or big Harry had enjoyed some assurances about his value to their laser-focused manager. Whatever it was, Slabhead was in a good mood. Behind Marcus, he whistled tunelessly to himself as he undressed, and Rashford smiled appreciatively to himself, glad to see and hear his captain in better spirits. Local Mancunian Marcus had struggled to choose sides during Harry's long war of attrition with Cristiano, but his loyalty to the club made it hard not to respect Maguire's dedication and resilience, and the two of them had shared enough England camps for Rashford to hold out hope that the big older lad might find a second wind at this great club. Casually half-aware of Maguire's presence, Rashford pulled off sock after sock into tight bundles and tossed them accurately at the nearby laundry basket, then dumped his clingy red Nike underpants too, pushing them into the sweaty depths of his own kit bag to be taken home for washing, rather than left with standard kit. Far from an exhibitionist but never unnecessarily shy, the 25-year-old lingered in his birthday suit, back and arse exposed whilst he selected a little tube of shower gel and some exfoliating face-wash that he would take with him into the showers. `Joining me for a wash-down?' barked the 29-year-old defender's gruff voice, and Marcus felt the brief sharp sting of a flicked towel strike his lower back above the curving extension of his glutes, and he yelped slightly before ducking forward. His yelp turned to a laugh and he shook his head, shooting a look over one shoulder. `What is this, Year 10?' he demanded, catching Harry's loose grin and warm eyes. The bigger bloke had paused on his way into the square entrance of the shower block, equally naked but somewhat more imposing in his 6ft4 frame, the offending towel draped between two large hands and covering his lower six-pack and the space between his huge hairy legs. Such banter was not quite captain Harry's style, but Marcus just smirked, confirming the skipper's good mood; it couldn't be some offer from abroad, Maguire had seemed so worried when people speculated about that in Doha, where league gossip leaked into the international campaign. Nah, he thought, Slabhead must be pretty sure he's staying put, and ready to fight for that captaincy. `See you in there,' Rashford chuckled, still shaking his head. He turned away from the heavy steps of Maguire and plucked up his own folded towel, throwing it loosely about his slim waist and then trotting after his teammate into the pine-scented steaminess of the showers. He paused to hang his own towel up on the hook next to the big man's, then moved towards a showerhead a polite couple of places away from the Sheffield brute; there was some weird complex etiquette here, where showering right next to his centre-back would be a suspicious imposition, yet showering too far away would express insecurity or aloofness. Such unwritten rules were dominant in their world of testosterone and macho competition. Here, the England forward pushed the lever and bathed his 5ft11 physique of deep brown muscle and faint black ink, lathering up some shower gel between his palms and starting at the back of his neck. `Quality goal again the other day,' came Maguire's gruff call over the hiss of plumbing. `Cheers, big man.' `Dunno what we'd do without you, some weekends.' `Hey - I was goal 3 and we'd already won it...!' `Fuck that modesty, Marcus. You know what we all think of ya.' `Well... it's nice to hear it.' With the careful discreet politeness of the male athlete, he avoided looking to the right and clocking Harry's tall wet body, listening to each friendly comment and chatting back whilst washing his hair, his face, his pits, down his ripped six-pack and rubbing bubbly lather over his soft cock and low-hanging balls. But then Harry spoke again and he couldn't help but glance that way: `Not a lad on the squad who wouldn't do anything to thank you, haha - if you know what I mean.' Rashford paused, soapy hands at his waist, and he looked sideways at the equally glistening form of the taller, broader fella, big masculine Harry and his scruff of chest hair, the dark trail of it that... nah, nah, I ain't looking down there. He smiled oddly, thinking about that comment, and trying to shrug it off. Did he know what he meant...? `No I in team,' he said generically, getting back to washing his bollocks and then slapping wet hands at the tops of his thighs. `On the England team as well,' came Maguire's Yorkshire chuckle. `Heck, I bet most fans would let you nut in their mouth if-' `Mate,' he exclaimed, trying to sound more amused than offended, but unable to keep the prudishness out of his voice or off his face - more to the point, his mind was flashing with panic. What secrets had the departed Jesse Lingard or clumsy Jadon Sancho been spilling...? Or, he thought in a fresh rush of worry, someone a bit closer to the huge centre-back, the Bournemouth game's second goal-scoring champ. Nah, surely Luke Shaw was a discreet lad, given what he'd once done for Rashford some time ago...? Frowning into the tiled wall, Rashford turned off the blast of hot water and paused, unsure what to say now, and thinking that he might hurry to dry off and dress, if Maguire was going to start throwing around accusations or insinuations. After all, he thought bitterly, everyone knew how the big man had learnt to keep that diva Ronaldo under control, and it had nothing to do with leadership theory. When he turned away from the wall, he found that his 6ft4 friend had moved closer to him, crossing the gap between their spaces, and still had that uncharacteristically jolly look on his face, that crooked smile of pleasure, looming over Marcus. `What?' he breathed, trying to cover his moment of slight intimidation; but the bigger bloke's laugh was friendly, oddly so, and he nudged closer, the two of them standing very close with fresh steam rising from muscular chests and shoulders. Harry brought a big hand up to wipe against his face, pawing at his stubbled jawline then sweeping it through damp hair, and bringing it down to rest for a moment on Rashford's left shoulder. `What?' he asked again through an uncertain laugh. `Like I said,' muttered Harry, voice lower and more private now, `we all want to say thanks for all the goals, y'know...?' `Right,' Marcus said, a little tense, unsure what the skipper's joke or point was, but finding some strange excitement in their private closeness, perhaps stoked by the suggestive comment - he tried not to make use of Jadon's hungry mouth too often, but the blow-job from the young Londoner had been far from a one-off for the senior forward, the club's most valued attacker. Harry's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly for a moment, but... his other hand had dropped lower, trailing down the long stretch of his own torso, and now crossed. Knuckles grazed Marcus' tummy about his navel, then without warning sank low. One of the skipper's big mitts was down low and cupping his balls abruptly, taking hold of his crown jewels and just smirking down into his face, a bit steamy giant in front of him. Marcus took a slow deep breath, surprised and alarmed, but trying very hard not to show it. He stared levelly at the older bloke and didn't move from the spot. `Well,' he said in a slow, measured voice, `do you like what you feel?' Nah, he told himself, this big fucker ain't gonna... `Feels good, aye,' grumbled the Yorkshireman. Harry's hand was big and powerful but also oddly tender. Marcus felt his thick dormant cock pulled and stroked, and he did tremble and jerk on the spot, his nervousness betrayed by physicality. But he stared up at the taller athlete and refused to budge, wondering if this was a game of chicken, or... Well, there was all that fuss between Slab and CR7, and so maybe... `How's that?' Maguire growled, his hand doing the work. `I've had better,' Rashford said with surly challenge in his grin. `Fuck off,' the Man Utd captain chuckled. `You're getting hard as owt.' `Slowly,' Marcus lied, feeling the stiffness and the throb. `Bet you love the feel of my hand,' his skipper huffed. `Bet you love the feel of my cock,' the younger player returned. `Big lad,' he was told. `Although don't go comparing with me, mate, you'll be sad.' `This favour isn't being returned,' Marcus warned him quietly. A huge shrug of those mighty shoulders. `Doesn't need to be - this is a thank you, goal machine. Like I said. It's what any of the fans would do for ya, the way you keep us in front, matey. Feel good...?' `You really need the compliments, huh?' he told him, suppressing the low rising moan of enjoyment as his thick black cock was stroked and teased into full life, stretching ahead of him in the spacious hold of a Maguire hand. Fuck, it did feel good, and the big fucker knew it, but Marcus refused to give him the satisfaction of- `Ohhhh,' he purred, feeling the tighter grip about the base of it, then the slow wet pull down the length, and the rub of a thumb on the head, and he stared into the tight smug grin on Harry's crooked face. `Yeah,' grunted the big Sheffield bloke, `you better moan for me, Marcus.' Steam poured off their bodies, and the drips of water from showerheads echoed around them, the only other sound being the wet fap of Harry's pumping fist on Marcus' excited cock, mingled with both of their low grunting breathing. Rashford did his best to hold in the excesses of moaned excitement, and he pressed his left hand into the damp tiles to support his toned body, trying to remain still and almost ambivalent, as if this sudden seedy handjob was exactly the kind of nonchalant thing that should happen to a talented striker like himself, from the captain no less - he still didn't know what had put the big man in such a good mood, but he was now the beneficiary of it, and god did it feel good. Without CR7 to tame, perhaps the skipper had leftover sexual energy to spill - he resisted the curious urge to glance down and confirm how well-endowed the bigger man was, not wishing to compare, and he just stared confrontationally back at the generous brute. `Cum for me,' Maguire hissed, maybe picking up on how close he was. `You gonna make me?' he panted back. `Fucking yes,' growled the centre-back. `Spunk in my hand, Rashers.' `Fuckkkk-' `That's it, buddy.' `Oh, cap'n...' `Come on lad - cum for me, Rashers.' `Fuckkkkk, mate, ohh-' `Yehhh, that's it, that's it...' `Oh god...' `Fuck, so much of it, haha, you dirty bastard... fuck...' Marcus had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was looking at Harry's lifted open hand between them, the silvery trails of his own jizz decorating the hot-pink palm and the hairy knuckles. Harry laughed and shook his hand, flicking a few spots of cum on the dark canvas of Rashford's chest, then knocking the shower water on for both of them. The skipper just smirked at him whilst rinsing down his triumphant hand, then backing off. `Luke was right,' the big defender murmured. `Great cock, mate.' Rashford made an awkward sigh, spent and a little dazed. He scrubbed the specks of cum from his pecs and stared suspiciously at the older man. `Well, maybe he's the one you should be, er, thanking for his goal against the southerners,' he muttered, failing to find the assertiveness with which he'd confronted this bugger all the way through the handjob. He frowned in spite of the wave of satisfaction that relaxed his whole body. Maguire, who had now found his towel and thrown it about his waist, was laughing to himself. `Oh mate,' he sighed on his way out of the steam, `you should see the thank-you that my Lukey boy got, let me tell ya. He'll be happy I thanked you though, that's for sure.' And he was gone to dry, leaving Marcus alone and satisfied, but a little confused, in the lingering heat of the showers, water still gushing over his neck and shoulders and then drizzling down his pecs and abs towards his drooping cock. And he thought about more recently, when he'd gone to get a gap filled on a leg tattoo - sat there with his long muscular legs on show, reclining in the comfort of the tattooist's chair. His left thigh stung where the needlework had etched more art against the dark muscle, but he smiled quite complacently to his teammate buddy who had joined him on the visit, now loitering close by rather than admiring flash designs on the far wall. For a minute, it was just the two of them in here, because the artist himself had disappeared to do some clean-up in another room of the edgy studio. Alone but for the gentle thrum of lo-fi hip-hop on a nearby speaker, the two Man Utd players met gazes and half-smiled in different ways. Though no stranger to the needle himself, the 22-year-old seemed deeply uncomfortable in the room, and he shifted from foot to foot as he moved closer to the recliner. `Does it still sting?' Jadon Sancho demanded, in a state of high nervousness in the build-up to his return to the pitch a couple of fixtures later. It did, but Rashford shrugged his shoulders, staying still and comfortable where he was; comfortable in spite of his bare legs and the satiny tautness of his underpants where they were exposed beneath his dark top and the extra-heavy chain at his neck. He smirked at his companion from beneath the tight fit of his du-rag, enjoying the way Sancho's eyes just kept straying inexorably to the black-clad view between his thighs. `He's taking his time,' the young Londoner muttered, sounding both critical and suggestive, and the older of the two United players just smirked more fully. `He knows his shit,' Marcus said loyally and vaguely, shrugging his jacketed shoulders and patting his hands on the arms of the relaxed chair. He kept his lazily hooded eyes on the other young star, floating aimlessly next to him, pulling and adjusting at his snapback cap and the baggy designer tracksuit that hung from his stock 5ft11 physique. `Show me that picture you got,' Marcus suggested after a pause. `I bet it looks pretty dope.' Jadon nodded enthusiastically and showed him it on his device. `I'll send you it, you look so cool. Really hench. Those thighs, man.' `Yeah,' murmured the 25-year-old, `I bet that's what you were looking at, huh?' He turned his head slightly to grin meaningfully at the other player who'd joined him on his trip into the Northern Quarter, and Jadon's cheeks coloured a little as he hung his head and fluttered his almost feminine lashes. It had been a little while, Marcus supposed, since he'd let Jadon near him in that way, and he was really starting to feel in the mood today; he chuckled and gestured at the phone. `At least you'll be able to zoom in on that when you need some material for inspiration,' the England forward said quietly but assertively, unable to resist a cheeky laugh at his own joke, whilst Sancho giggled but squirmed. `Ah, shut up,' mumbled the former Bundesliga youth. `Just teasing you, mate.' `Give it a rest, the bloke is just in there.' `He'll be a minute.' `Yeah, but-' `Give it a kiss, mate.' `Huh, what?' `Give it a kiss. Kiss it. Go on.' He grinned mischievously at his friend. He could tell that Jadon knew exactly what he was saying, but just in case, he reached between his displayed thighs, one of them still somewhat sore, and gave the thick prominent black bulge a good squeeze and tug, then broadened his inviting smile at the Camberwell lad. `Go on. Sniff it and kiss it, you little slut.' He'd never been quite so mean or abrupt with Sancho before, although he could hardly be accused of much tenderness of reciprocation when he sporadically took advantage of the 22-year-old's appetite for cock. He could see that Jadon liked to be called that. He was flustered but excited and he kept glancing anxiously away to the door that led away through the private studio rooms of the high-end tattoo parlour. Then he looked frantically back, laughed briefly, and rested a hand on Marcus' forearm before ducking in. He bent over and leant in, and Marcus grinned down his sprawled body to see the other rising player worship at his crotch, lean in and take a good nostril-flaring sniff of his crotch, then plant a needy kiss against the outline of his fat cock - not stopping there, Jadon mouthed damply against its shape, and gripped at his forearm a bit too tightly. A clank and a shuffle sounded from beyond the door and Sancho was snapping back away from him at speed, breathing heavily. `We thought you were never coming back!' Rashford called confidently away to his regular artist, not looking back at him, but keeping his eyes fixed meaningfully on Sancho's blushing face and trembling bottom lip, the same one that had brushed the shape of his heavy prick only seconds ago... And only fifteen minutes later, was on it again, more properly this time, in the car park of the converted warehouse that housed this studio and other arty businesses. His motor was parked in a relatively obscured corner, but there was still a delicious risk to it that was new and out of character for the normally cautious Rashford. In the dubious privacy of his car, the 25-year-old moaned and gasped, more openly and encouragingly than he usually did when biting back his doubts and letting Jadon go to town on his hard-on. Today, still maybe a little high on the physical adrenaline of being tattooed, he moaned freely and spat out demands at his `slut': `Take it deeper, Sanch - fuck, not like that - lick it, go slow now - don't forget the balls, for fuck's sake.' The 22-year-old was crouched uncomfortably between the front seats of the Beamer, stooped down low again so that he could take as much of the thick rod into his wet mouth as he could, and he got more greedy and sloppy with every vaguely insulting remark that Rashford gasped and barked, whilst keeping his eyes more cautiously on the car park around them in case any vehicle or pedestrian got too close. To keep it safer, he slid a hand over Jadon's head to keep it pressed into his crotch, making it hard for his drooling slut to rise up and be visible to anyone who happened to look this way in the tight square car park between warehouses. `Keep at it,' he growled, hearing something of Maguire's tough talk in his own mumble, feeling powerful and authoritative here with sloppy Sancho. `Suck it properly, lad - get your jaws round it, go deep. Fuck, that's more like it.' In the risk of the car park, Manchester's Player of the Month reclined his seat a little and settled into his enjoyment, no longer even that worried about discovery. He pushed down in repeated bobs on Jadon's head, bouncing his mouth up and down the shaft and fucking into his hungry gob, getting closer and closer to spilling his cream. In a moment of relaxation, he let go of Jadon's head, and the crouching lean jiggled for comfort, Jadon's face coming up closer to his, his lips and chin shiny with spittle. `Fuck me?' whimpered Jadon, and not for the first time; he often went and spoiled it with this, trying to push things too more, greedily demanding more than Marcus was up for giving. Sometimes it turned him off so much that he had to stop, and he'd sneer unhappily at the bisexual lad, blaming him for killing his buzz and his horn. Today, he was no less repulsed by the notion, but he ignored it, and pushed the lad's face back down, forcing his cock between his damp lips and pushing upwards in a last few spurts before he was feeding him and groaning very loudly into the car's interior, ignoring the sting as one of Jadon's grasping hands landed on the covered scarring of his new tattoo. And he thought about what happened just the other day: the latest and somehow most stirring incident of his increased confidence and status at Old Trafford, from wonder boy to senior attacking star. Just the other day, it was, on the last day of January when the whole Premier League quivered with uncertain anticipation of the closing transfer deadline, though Rashford himself had spent a quiet hour in his afternoon schedule being filmed for the club website and YouTube channel, crowned fans' Player of the Month before the League itself had thrust the same accolade on him. Freed from the short media duty, he'd made his way through the upper floor of the central building, away from the grunting action in the gyms below where the majority of the squad were building up muscle and getting ready for tomorrow's second leg Semi against Nottingham Forest. Marcus felt cocksure about the aggregate battle with the other club, already picturing his own team in the Wembley final against the Magpies. As he approached this latest encounter, he actually noticed the other lad first: he was walking along a balcony-edged corridor that overlooked the main reception area, dragging one palm along the smooth railing, and leaning to the right slightly to squint curiously down into the small entourage who were signing out of the building. Hoods were up and there was that special kind of discretion going on that can only attract extra attention, making the 25-year-old slow his step and almost pause, keen to confirm his suspicion of who he was looking at right now. He'd heard plenty of whispers about him in the past couple of weeks, since the verdict, and he was pretty sure... yep, there he was, half-turning this way, his face partly obscure by hood and hat, but distinctively boyish enough, and surrounded by lawyers in suits and an obvious beast of paid muscle. An awkward frisson simmered in the reception below as the hooded youth made for the doors, clearly leaving his long-awaited meeting with the bosses, and his legal and protective entourage went with him, none of their faces or miners giving anything definite away on the suspended player's fate. By now, he'd noticed that someone else was up here, and Rashford's attention shifted from the awkward scene below to the exit's other onlooker. A few yards further down the same rail, a lad in the same tracksuit as him was hunched forward and staring quite mournfully down there, seeming to be oblivious to Marcus. He cleared his throat loudly before continuing on, and the young defensive spare shot him a gloomy look that quickly shifted into a broken false smile. `Was that...?' Marcus asked unnecessarily. `Think so,' returned Brandon Williams with the same false ambiguity, his facial distress making it obvious that he'd been watching quite closely as their once-teammate was escorted from his appointment at Carrington. Drawing closer, Rashford found himself thinking aloud. `You two were close,' he said vaguely, memories of the two young upstarts and their incessant laughter rising out of his 2020 memory bank. He placed a hand instinctively against Williams' shoulder as the young full-back tried a shrug, cringing against the balcony rail in a way that was very telling; worry and kindness brought Rashford in closer, gripping him by the shoulder. `Hey, you ok?' he asked quietly but warmly. Brandon's answer was almost brattish in its strained force. `Course I am,' the 22-year-old grumbled, pulling away from him a little roughly. `What's it to me?' He scowled and frowned and turned his back on the quiet reception below, his voice an irritable hiss. `I just wondered what was going on,' he said, aiming for flippant and missing. He marched further down the corridor, away from this openness, and Marcus trailed curiously after him, an element of intrigue mixing with his own natural concern for a young teammate. The lad seemed pretty emotional, and Marcus wondered if it was deadline day - it was a good while now since his fellow Mancunian had seemed like United's big new defensive prospect, and a first-team start was becoming an alien concept to the youth. Surely the kid was getting another loan deal out somewhere where he could get the minutes in the tank...? It didn't make sense for him to skulk bitterly here at Old Trafford! `Hey, relax,' Marcus invited, keeping his voice low. `You don't have to do none of that tough-lad scally shit with me, kid, we're both Manc lads here - what's up?' He reached affectionately for his shoulder again and saw Brandon's brash frown wobble at even this physical intimacy - the lips trembled and the eyes almost instantly shone with the threat of tears, and the sudden swing of emotion awoke very caring tendencies in the big-hearted Mancunian. He pulled Williams instantly into a hug, wrapping his arms about the smaller player, and murmuring his support, `Let it out, pal, no shame in a few tears.' `Fuck,' whimpered Brandon in embarrassment, his face now buried in against one of Marcus' broader shoulders. `Fuck, sorry, I'm being - s-s-sorry, it's just...' `He's your friend,' he said soothingly. `It's okay. It's all intense. Are you and him still close...?' `Hardly,' the full-back sniffed. `We've barely spoke since, y'know, it all came out and-' `And do you think he's innocent?' Rashford couldn't help but ask, still holding onto his friend, feeling him twitch and shudder anxiously in his muscular grip. Williams didn't hurry to answer, so he just held him tight and stroked one caring hand on the back of his soft blond hair. `It's way out of our hands, matey, nothing for us to say or do about any of it.' `What if he is?' the 22-year-old sniffed very quietly, pulling his face back and revealing the extent of his shiny tears and pouting lips. `I turned my back on him, Rash, I literally blocked him as soon as... It all seemed so... I mean, everyone was saying...' He looked utterly miserable and Marcus found himself a little lost for words, squeezing onto the lad and grimacing awkwardly back at his moral dilemma - it wasn't really something he'd confronted himself, the possibility of that young guy's innocence rather than guilt, and it was hard to process now that the case had fallen through. `No smoke without fire?' was all he could say, weakly, but he knew how dangerous this cliche was, and the two lads fell silent, except for the light blubbering of Brandon's unleashed tears. `Here,' he said, and he guided the defender off the broad corridor, in through the nearest open door, into the interview room beyond it, a smaller one than the little studio area where his own accolades had been celebrated only minutes ago. The Manc scally looked miserable but grateful, pulling his sleeves over his fists and rubbing them aggressively against his eyes, trying to stammer out more apologies and embarrassment, but Rashford felt magnanimous and giving, and he just pulled the wiry lad into another tight hug, squeezing comfortingly onto him as if the sheer press of his own arm and chest muscles would squeeze the emotion out of his teammate. He didn't know what to say, but he could try and be here for the puffy-eyed youth - he was thinking now about how he should always have tried harder to mentor and steer this surly younger player, given their similar backgrounds in different deprived areas of this great northern city. As he was thinking this, he unconsciously hugged a bit more tightly into Bran, their feet stepping awkwardly over the room as he did, and the younger Utd player still wheezing out a few quiet sobs into the shoulder of his zipped-up tracksuit top. `That's it,' Marcus sighed to him, `just let it out...' Maybe it was his breathy sigh, he thought later, or maybe just the tight physicality of the hug - or maybe it was some stupid pheromone he was giving out as he strutted about thinking about that hand-job from Slabhead or how Sancho would drop everything to service his full balls. Maybe it was the Player of the Month prize, part of him almost thought, feeling like a fucking king at the football club that had made him. He wasn't sure what it was, but even as he sniffed and shivered, Williams began to nuzzle in against his neck, the cool tip of his nose and then a fluffy upper lip brushing in at his sensitive throat; and hands roamed down his sides a bit, one journeying in and down, and... and then he was holding and hugging the 5ft7 defender whilst one exploratory hand went inside the front of his trackies and squeezed the bulge of his green Nike boxer briefs, holding him there and surprising him, but not alarming him at all. He sighed again, lips close to the lad's ear. `Really?' he asked gently. `Just let me,' gasped Bran, perhaps unaware that he wasn't the first lad to curl his hand around that package, not even the first that week. And Marcus just groaned appreciatively, rubbing caring hands over Brandon's neck and back, and nodding wordlessly. He brought one tender hand and, a little surprised at himself, thumbed a tear from the lad's cheek, then started a little at his own gentle intimacy - whilst below, his cock was far less worried, quickly rock-hard and stretching at his underpants. Down Williams went, quickly and eagerly, letting Rashford push back until his bare arse cheeks rested on the edge of the table, trackies and Nike pants rolled down the thighs, a clingfilm covering still wrapped about the fresher ink on one. Brandon's mouth closed about his cock and Marcus knew instantly that this other 22-year-old teammate was either more skilled or just more experienced - wow. He was a lot more controlled and slow with it than the sloppy enthusiasm of Jadon, even now in his fragile mood. And all Marcus could do was throw his head back and groan, not reaching for words like `slut' because he sensed that his emotional lad did not need the dirty encouragement that drove Sancho wild. `That's it,' he groaned at last, `just enjoy it, mate...' He stroked fingers quite softly through the short mop of blond hair, pawing at but not guiding or forcing Brandon's bobbing head. He let him work his tongue and lips and just appreciated every tremor of pleasure that raced up his chiselled body, glutes tense against the edge of the table. At least, for a few minutes he did, dazed and easily satisfied, but then acting recklessly way beyond his own boundaries. It was more of a gagging choke than a fresh sob of emotion, but that same caring streak made him reach down and drag Bran upright by his armpits, hugging him again and then pushing their faces close together, nose to nose. Not kissing, as such, but their mouths so dangerously close that he was puffing hot breath in between shiny cock-sucking lips, and those shiny eyes were staring at him in wonder. Then Williams was in for the kiss, mouth open, and he was letting him, feeling a lad's tongue on his, but pushing back, resisting and overpowering it, and snogging the 22-year-old wholeheartedly. His arms gripped tightly about him and he pushed forward with his body, kissing him quite roughly, whilst his wet cock slapped and rubbed at the tummy of Bran's jersey. The kiss broke and resumed, Marcus breathless with this intense urge, but not wholly conscious of the lines he was crossing, having pushed Jadon away from him repeatedly when the other lad gave him the puppy-dog eyes and leaned in for it. But right now he just wanted Williams to feel better, and ravishing him with kisses seemed to be doing it, though those mean eyes still sparkled with fresh tears and the 5ft7 defender quivered in his hold, reaching down to stroke and pull Rashers' cock. `I need this,' Williams whispered, and Rashford was willing to give it to him. He took his head in both hands and pushed it down, encouraging him to lick the tip and then take the big black cock in his lips again; he was rougher now, less tender, but still caring, just wanting to feed and satisfy this surprising playmate. He'd never have had Bran down as into this cock fun, but then... he'd never have put himself down, either. A little overexcited, he reached a hand down Williams' back and spanked him through his tracksuit bottoms, encouraging the eager sucking of his own prick by delivering a series of playful smacks to the pleasingly chubby rump - then, sure this was okay, he pushed the waistbands over a bit so that he could slap part of the cheek bare, leaving pink prints against the pale smooth flesh. It was an almost feminine backside, he told himself, all smooth and curvaceous from the slim hips, and- he smacked it again, harder, and Brandon moaned for him, kissing his shaft. `Yes sir,' the full-back whimpered, and Rashford smacked him again, but this time held his hand there, and let his middle finger play into the crease between the jiggly white cheeks, shocked at himself, but also... curious. In a matter of moments he had him against the wall, kissing the soft hair on the back of his neck, and pulling up the back of the jersey to explore more of the lean toned back that curved down into those plump buttocks. His own cock was shiny with spit and gripped in his other hand. I'll just rub it, he thought, pushing his head up and down the crack, giving one cheek another fresh spank. He kissed some more at Brandon's neck, loving the desperate moans that his teammate made. `You want it?' he found himself asking in a rasp. `You want my cock, do ya?' How many times had he refused just this to horny Sancho...? It didn't matter. Now was the moment, the need. In he pushed it, feeling that insane tightness against the thick head of his tool. He hugged onto Brandon's body from behind, just as tightly as his sincere comforts before things got hot and heavy. He moaned into his ear, unsure that he could really get his girth into that tiny hole, but... `I can take it,' Williams assured him in a wobbly voice, `just be patient...' Impatience almost made him pull back and rethink the taboo, but the tightness felt so good, and Brandon's slim smooth body felt so good in his arms, and he just wanted to really make him forget his woes! That's what a captain would do, he told himself boldly and ambitiously. Maguire was fading and Fernandes was temporary - why shouldn't he aspire to lead...? He was a real man now. The aspiring captain's cock slid into Bran and made him gasp, but Marcus could no longer kid himself this was generosity or kindness, this was dirty pleasure and his own swelling ego. In and out he fucked him, almost oblivious to the sounds of pleasure that each thrust summoned, just slamming him into the wall and using his own dense muscles to power every movement. He twisted Bran's head to one side and craned to kiss him, locking tongues all over again, shutting up his gasps whilst jutting back and forth with his hips, getting a good workout. `God yes,' whined Brandon, but he shut him up with another kiss, choking him with his own questing tongue, and gripping him bruisingly hard at the neck and the hip, ploughing him at speed, absolutely no thought for the unlocked door back out into the corridor beyond. Rashford himself couldn't find the words, just long guttural moans and tight little puffs of breath, and the knock knock of Williams' body sounding against the wall, hammered away. He came inside him without questioning it, no doubts about filling up the arse-hole and claiming the 22-year-old as his new bitch, reaching up tender fingers to wipe tears away and cradle that shaky face whilst he kissed the back of his neck, heaving and panting into him, dripping with sweat beneath his club tracksuit. She smiled and repeated her question. `What kind of things have they been saying?' the reporter in the conservatory said, looking at him now as if he was a bit dim or mad; he blinked and slurred, unsure how long he'd zoned out. `What kind of reception did the lads have for you after you got both of those prizes over there, Marcus?' Her smile hardened with a little impatience behind the gloss, and close at his side, the whirring clicks of a camera became a bit too irritating. Rashford laughed it off and shrugged, avoiding the question, and avoiding his daydream of sordid fantasy, thinking that he might need to wank off as soon as he'd ushered these fashionable intruders out of the house. But he murmured out some excuse for an answer, commenting on Maguire being very complimentary, and younger players all looking up to him as a role model; and then he hinted as best as he could that he had places to be and people to see. Fortunately, the magazine crew had got what they came for, and there were few more questions or photographs before they were exiting the mansion and he was watching them from a bay window, his hand straying below the obstacle of the windowsill to stroke the front of his baggy pants. He thought about Harry Maguire, about Jadon Sancho, and about Brandon Williams, and he knew he would need to jerk off before he could attend tonight's dinner with his girlfriend, there was no option but to release this tension. He grinned to himself and set out through the house, growing hard-on swinging in the loose fit of his pants, and the thought of Brandon's smooth round arse filling his mind's eye. Double Player of the Month, he thought, and future United captain - of course every lad on the team was ready to service him...! 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 8 Feb 2023 20:14:45 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Fw: Premiership Lads, Part 349 Part 349: Player of the Month `You must be so very proud, Marcus?' He walked on through the sprawling ground floor of the house, smiling almost bashfully as he glanced back at the reporter from the magazine; he laughed slightly but didn't properly reply, leading her through the newly decorated rear lounge and into the warm conservatory extension beyond, its large window panes framing views of a bleakly beautiful Cheshire garden beyond. `Such a great month,' the interviewer continued, and her photographer advanced past her, following him more fully into the well-lit rear end of the house, camera clicking away as near-candid shots were snapped up of the young football star strolling across the under-heated flooring. It was a lifestyle magazine rather than the usual football media or even fashion, and the two of them almost seemed more interested in the house itself than an illustrious run of form for the 25-year-old Mancunian. He kept that awkwardly endearing smile on his face and led them towards what they'd really asked for here, even if both the cooing suburban thirty-something and he scruffy-edged photographer were really paying more attention to his furniture purchases and the views of his garden. He gestured quietly to the display cases along one stretch of wall between the huge windows, finding the pair of Player of the Month prizes that had recently become his. `What a January,' she praised quite casually. Marcus Rashford grinned and nodded and told her it was just another part of the journey, the inevitable highs and lows of a footballer's story; he aimed for quietly humble, but didn't want to sound to ridiculous or naive. He felt a lot more comfortable than he'd once done with such media intrusion in his home, but this side of his fame would never quite feel natural to the forward - it was one thing being grilled about his performance by a knowledgeable sports writer in the wake of win, loss, or draw, but another to be examined as a `celebrity' and to have his philanthropic efforts treated alongside his Premiership expertise. Though these two visitors were pretty pleasant, one of their colleagues on last week's Zoom call had asked him what it was like working with Pep Guardiola, and he still wasn't sure if it had been a bad joke or sheer ignorance. `Any highlights?' she asked him in an almost distracted voice, trailing along one wall of windows and inspecting some of the ornamentation on the low sills, whilst the bearded photographer contorted himself into new crouching positions to get the perfect still of Marcus looking pensive at the steamed windows. Suddenly self-conscious, the footballer frowned uncomfortably under the intensity of the man's efforts, and followed the lady from the magazine towards the valuable art pieces. He found himself trailing dimly between possible answers, realising that too much football specifics would turn off the interview and probably fail to get quoted. He fed her nuggets of enjoyment and professional satisfaction but didn't bother to elaborate, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting dark chinos, nodding his head and joining her in looking out at the windy early February gloom of the garden. But he turned and looked back at the two prizes, now being treated to the same close-up photography that the bloke kept inflicting on Marcus himself: he smiled proudly at the club and league Player of the Month trophies that had matched up his success over the January fixtures, and generally since his run at the World Cup. `And the other players,' said the journalist thoughtfully, flashing him her winsome smile, `how have they been with you about all these goals and accolades?' She paused with the voice-app on her mobile phone glowing gently from one palm, gesturing it in his direction and waiting for a less mumbled answer than he'd given so far. But Rashford paused, the smile on his striking young features faltering, covered by a fractured little chuckle. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and patted them against the chest and tummy of his garish t-shirt, tilting his head and making a thoughtful face for her, unsure exactly how to answer this one. `Great,' the 25-year-old said slowly, `really great.' He stopped to think. `Lots of attention - they're all just really happy for me, y'know?' He hesitated, unsure if she wanted more, something more insightful, but her smile was hard to read, and she lowered the hand with the recorder app in; the photographer was bustling after him to get some shots of the garden, and Marcus hung on behind them, briefly forgotten as they fixated on `lifestyle' details - he thought about his bland and generalised answer for them, holding in a stronger little laugh, as his thoughts cast out over the first month of 2023. Yeah, he thought, the other fellas have been happy and proud, really great - he just wasn't sure some of it was appropriate to go spilling in an interview...! He thought about a late afternoon early in the month, only two days after his goal had rounded off a 3-0 home win over Bournemouth; they'd had the previous day off to recover from the big win, their first of the new year, but then hit the ground running with a pretty gruelling return to Erik ten Hag's regime. For some reason, Marcus wasn't so sure now, he'd been one of the last to finish up at Carrington, and certainly among the last to hit the showers - it was some meeting or other with one of the expert staff, and it had him stomping wearily through the corridors and into the locker-room on his own, his body clad in tight-fitting nylon in the grey-blue of the current training gear, sparks of neon orange streaking the sleeves and sponsor-blazoned chest. He'd thought he was entirely alone, dragging down the clingy tracksuit bottoms and then the sweatshirt and under-vest, sliding the warm garments away from his smooth and decorated skin, baring each chiselled muscular tattoo canvas until he was just in scruffy white socks and the latest pair of promotional underpants that Nike were supplying him with to try and secure a contract extension as their model. Tired out, he yawned, and ran his hands over his bare chest, up his neck, and across his face, blinking and shaking himself, and then dipping through his locker for some toiletries to take with him into the shower. He was jolted from this short ritual of wind-down by the sound of a door and heavy footsteps joining him in the locker-room. `Oh, hey,' he said, catching sight of the team's increasingly defunct official captain, striding in and taking a place further down this wall of lockers. A fairly upbeat smile on his rugged face, Harry Maguire gave him a cheery salute but said nothing, dressed in heavy layers of the same club training kit, and looking like he'd had a pretty positive meeting. Marcus had decided not to question what had kept the big Yorkshire fella so long and delayed him as much as Rashford himself; it had been no secret throughout January that the club's oft-benched centre-back was fielding vague offers from several European giants, keen to rescue him from the doldrums of second fiddle at Old Trafford. From Maguire's mood that afternoon, Rashford had been forced to speculate that either one of those offers had significantly improved, or big Harry had enjoyed some assurances about his value to their laser-focused manager. Whatever it was, Slabhead was in a good mood. Behind Marcus, he whistled tunelessly to himself as he undressed, and Rashford smiled appreciatively to himself, glad to see and hear his captain in better spirits. Local Mancunian Marcus had struggled to choose sides during Harry's long war of attrition with Cristiano, but his loyalty to the club made it hard not to respect Maguire's dedication and resilience, and the two of them had shared enough England camps for Rashford to hold out hope that the big older lad might find a second wind at this great club. Casually half-aware of Maguire's presence, Rashford pulled off sock after sock into tight bundles and tossed them accurately at the nearby laundry basket, then dumped his clingy red Nike underpants too, pushing them into the sweaty depths of his own kit bag to be taken home for washing, rather than left with standard kit. Far from an exhibitionist but never unnecessarily shy, the 25-year-old lingered in his birthday suit, back and arse exposed whilst he selected a little tube of shower gel and some exfoliating face-wash that he would take with him into the showers. `Joining me for a wash-down?' barked the 29-year-old defender's gruff voice, and Marcus felt the brief sharp sting of a flicked towel strike his lower back above the curving extension of his glutes, and he yelped slightly before ducking forward. His yelp turned to a laugh and he shook his head, shooting a look over one shoulder. `What is this, Year 10?' he demanded, catching Harry's loose grin and warm eyes. The bigger bloke had paused on his way into the square entrance of the shower block, equally naked but somewhat more imposing in his 6ft4 frame, the offending towel draped between two large hands and covering his lower six-pack and the space between his huge hairy legs. Such banter was not quite captain Harry's style, but Marcus just smirked, confirming the skipper's good mood; it couldn't be some offer from abroad, Maguire had seemed so worried when people speculated about that in Doha, where league gossip leaked into the international campaign. Nah, he thought, Slabhead must be pretty sure he's staying put, and ready to fight for that captaincy. `See you in there,' Rashford chuckled, still shaking his head. He turned away from the heavy steps of Maguire and plucked up his own folded towel, throwing it loosely about his slim waist and then trotting after his teammate into the pine-scented steaminess of the showers. He paused to hang his own towel up on the hook next to the big man's, then moved towards a showerhead a polite couple of places away from the Sheffield brute; there was some weird complex etiquette here, where showering right next to his centre-back would be a suspicious imposition, yet showering too far away would express insecurity or aloofness. Such unwritten rules were dominant in their world of testosterone and macho competition. Here, the England forward pushed the lever and bathed his 5ft11 physique of deep brown muscle and faint black ink, lathering up some shower gel between his palms and starting at the back of his neck. `Quality goal again the other day,' came Maguire's gruff call over the hiss of plumbing. `Cheers, big man.' `Dunno what we'd do without you, some weekends.' `Hey - I was goal 3 and we'd already won it...!' `Fuck that modesty, Marcus. You know what we all think of ya.' `Well... it's nice to hear it.' With the careful discreet politeness of the male athlete, he avoided looking to the right and clocking Harry's tall wet body, listening to each friendly comment and chatting back whilst washing his hair, his face, his pits, down his ripped six-pack and rubbing bubbly lather over his soft cock and low-hanging balls. But then Harry spoke again and he couldn't help but glance that way: `Not a lad on the squad who wouldn't do anything to thank you, haha - if you know what I mean.' Rashford paused, soapy hands at his waist, and he looked sideways at the equally glistening form of the taller, broader fella, big masculine Harry and his scruff of chest hair, the dark trail of it that... nah, nah, I ain't looking down there. He smiled oddly, thinking about that comment, and trying to shrug it off. Did he know what he meant...? `No I in team,' he said generically, getting back to washing his bollocks and then slapping wet hands at the tops of his thighs. `On the England team as well,' came Maguire's Yorkshire chuckle. `Heck, I bet most fans would let you nut in their mouth if-' `Mate,' he exclaimed, trying to sound more amused than offended, but unable to keep the prudishness out of his voice or off his face - more to the point, his mind was flashing with panic. What secrets had the departed Jesse Lingard or clumsy Jadon Sancho been spilling...? Or, he thought in a fresh rush of worry, someone a bit closer to the huge centre-back, the Bournemouth game's second goal-scoring champ. Nah, surely Luke Shaw was a discreet lad, given what he'd once done for Rashford some time ago...? Frowning into the tiled wall, Rashford turned off the blast of hot water and paused, unsure what to say now, and thinking that he might hurry to dry off and dress, if Maguire was going to start throwing around accusations or insinuations. After all, he thought bitterly, everyone knew how the big man had learnt to keep that diva Ronaldo under control, and it had nothing to do with leadership theory. When he turned away from the wall, he found that his 6ft4 friend had moved closer to him, crossing the gap between their spaces, and still had that uncharacteristically jolly look on his face, that crooked smile of pleasure, looming over Marcus. `What?' he breathed, trying to cover his moment of slight intimidation; but the bigger bloke's laugh was friendly, oddly so, and he nudged closer, the two of them standing very close with fresh steam rising from muscular chests and shoulders. Harry brought a big hand up to wipe against his face, pawing at his stubbled jawline then sweeping it through damp hair, and bringing it down to rest for a moment on Rashford's left shoulder. `What?' he asked again through an uncertain laugh. `Like I said,' muttered Harry, voice lower and more private now, `we all want to say thanks for all the goals, y'know...?' `Right,' Marcus said, a little tense, unsure what the skipper's joke or point was, but finding some strange excitement in their private closeness, perhaps stoked by the suggestive comment - he tried not to make use of Jadon's hungry mouth too often, but the blow-job from the young Londoner had been far from a one-off for the senior forward, the club's most valued attacker. Harry's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly for a moment, but... his other hand had dropped lower, trailing down the long stretch of his own torso, and now crossed. Knuckles grazed Marcus' tummy about his navel, then without warning sank low. One of the skipper's big mitts was down low and cupping his balls abruptly, taking hold of his crown jewels and just smirking down into his face, a bit steamy giant in front of him. Marcus took a slow deep breath, surprised and alarmed, but trying very hard not to show it. He stared levelly at the older bloke and didn't move from the spot. `Well,' he said in a slow, measured voice, `do you like what you feel?' Nah, he told himself, this big fucker ain't gonna... `Feels good, aye,' grumbled the Yorkshireman. Harry's hand was big and powerful but also oddly tender. Marcus felt his thick dormant cock pulled and stroked, and he did tremble and jerk on the spot, his nervousness betrayed by physicality. But he stared up at the taller athlete and refused to budge, wondering if this was a game of chicken, or... Well, there was all that fuss between Slab and CR7, and so maybe... `How's that?' Maguire growled, his hand doing the work. `I've had better,' Rashford said with surly challenge in his grin. `Fuck off,' the Man Utd captain chuckled. `You're getting hard as owt.' `Slowly,' Marcus lied, feeling the stiffness and the throb. `Bet you love the feel of my hand,' his skipper huffed. `Bet you love the feel of my cock,' the younger player returned. `Big lad,' he was told. `Although don't go comparing with me, mate, you'll be sad.' `This favour isn't being returned,' Marcus warned him quietly. A huge shrug of those mighty shoulders. `Doesn't need to be - this is a thank you, goal machine. Like I said. It's what any of the fans would do for ya, the way you keep us in front, matey. Feel good...?' `You really need the compliments, huh?' he told him, suppressing the low rising moan of enjoyment as his thick black cock was stroked and teased into full life, stretching ahead of him in the spacious hold of a Maguire hand. Fuck, it did feel good, and the big fucker knew it, but Marcus refused to give him the satisfaction of- `Ohhhh,' he purred, feeling the tighter grip about the base of it, then the slow wet pull down the length, and the rub of a thumb on the head, and he stared into the tight smug grin on Harry's crooked face. `Yeah,' grunted the big Sheffield bloke, `you better moan for me, Marcus.' Steam poured off their bodies, and the drips of water from showerheads echoed around them, the only other sound being the wet fap of Harry's pumping fist on Marcus' excited cock, mingled with both of their low grunting breathing. Rashford did his best to hold in the excesses of moaned excitement, and he pressed his left hand into the damp tiles to support his toned body, trying to remain still and almost ambivalent, as if this sudden seedy handjob was exactly the kind of nonchalant thing that should happen to a talented striker like himself, from the captain no less - he still didn't know what had put the big man in such a good mood, but he was now the beneficiary of it, and god did it feel good. Without CR7 to tame, perhaps the skipper had leftover sexual energy to spill - he resisted the curious urge to glance down and confirm how well-endowed the bigger man was, not wishing to compare, and he just stared confrontationally back at the generous brute. `Cum for me,' Maguire hissed, maybe picking up on how close he was. `You gonna make me?' he panted back. `Fucking yes,' growled the centre-back. `Spunk in my hand, Rashers.' `Fuckkkk-' `That's it, buddy.' `Oh, cap'n...' `Come on lad - cum for me, Rashers.' `Fuckkkkk, mate, ohh-' `Yehhh, that's it, that's it...' `Oh god...' `Fuck, so much of it, haha, you dirty bastard... fuck...' Marcus had closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he was looking at Harry's lifted open hand between them, the silvery trails of his own jizz decorating the hot-pink palm and the hairy knuckles. Harry laughed and shook his hand, flicking a few spots of cum on the dark canvas of Rashford's chest, then knocking the shower water on for both of them. The skipper just smirked at him whilst rinsing down his triumphant hand, then backing off. `Luke was right,' the big defender murmured. `Great cock, mate.' Rashford made an awkward sigh, spent and a little dazed. He scrubbed the specks of cum from his pecs and stared suspiciously at the older man. `Well, maybe he's the one you should be, er, thanking for his goal against the southerners,' he muttered, failing to find the assertiveness with which he'd confronted this bugger all the way through the handjob. He frowned in spite of the wave of satisfaction that relaxed his whole body. Maguire, who had now found his towel and thrown it about his waist, was laughing to himself. `Oh mate,' he sighed on his way out of the steam, `you should see the thank-you that my Lukey boy got, let me tell ya. He'll be happy I thanked you though, that's for sure.' And he was gone to dry, leaving Marcus alone and satisfied, but a little confused, in the lingering heat of the showers, water still gushing over his neck and shoulders and then drizzling down his pecs and abs towards his drooping cock. And he thought about more recently, when he'd gone to get a gap filled on a leg tattoo - sat there with his long muscular legs on show, reclining in the comfort of the tattooist's chair. His left thigh stung where the needlework had etched more art against the dark muscle, but he smiled quite complacently to his teammate buddy who had joined him on the visit, now loitering close by rather than admiring flash designs on the far wall. For a minute, it was just the two of them in here, because the artist himself had disappeared to do some clean-up in another room of the edgy studio. Alone but for the gentle thrum of lo-fi hip-hop on a nearby speaker, the two Man Utd players met gazes and half-smiled in different ways. Though no stranger to the needle himself, the 22-year-old seemed deeply uncomfortable in the room, and he shifted from foot to foot as he moved closer to the recliner. `Does it still sting?' Jadon Sancho demanded, in a state of high nervousness in the build-up to his return to the pitch a couple of fixtures later. It did, but Rashford shrugged his shoulders, staying still and comfortable where he was; comfortable in spite of his bare legs and the satiny tautness of his underpants where they were exposed beneath his dark top and the extra-heavy chain at his neck. He smirked at his companion from beneath the tight fit of his du-rag, enjoying the way Sancho's eyes just kept straying inexorably to the black-clad view between his thighs. `He's taking his time,' the young Londoner muttered, sounding both critical and suggestive, and the older of the two United players just smirked more fully. `He knows his shit,' Marcus said loyally and vaguely, shrugging his jacketed shoulders and patting his hands on the arms of the relaxed chair. He kept his lazily hooded eyes on the other young star, floating aimlessly next to him, pulling and adjusting at his snapback cap and the baggy designer tracksuit that hung from his stock 5ft11 physique. `Show me that picture you got,' Marcus suggested after a pause. `I bet it looks pretty dope.' Jadon nodded enthusiastically and showed him it on his device. `I'll send you it, you look so cool. Really hench. Those thighs, man.' `Yeah,' murmured the 25-year-old, `I bet that's what you were looking at, huh?' He turned his head slightly to grin meaningfully at the other player who'd joined him on his trip into the Northern Quarter, and Jadon's cheeks coloured a little as he hung his head and fluttered his almost feminine lashes. It had been a little while, Marcus supposed, since he'd let Jadon near him in that way, and he was really starting to feel in the mood today; he chuckled and gestured at the phone. `At least you'll be able to zoom in on that when you need some material for inspiration,' the England forward said quietly but assertively, unable to resist a cheeky laugh at his own joke, whilst Sancho giggled but squirmed. `Ah, shut up,' mumbled the former Bundesliga youth. `Just teasing you, mate.' `Give it a rest, the bloke is just in there.' `He'll be a minute.' `Yeah, but-' `Give it a kiss, mate.' `Huh, what?' `Give it a kiss. Kiss it. Go on.' He grinned mischievously at his friend. He could tell that Jadon knew exactly what he was saying, but just in case, he reached between his displayed thighs, one of them still somewhat sore, and gave the thick prominent black bulge a good squeeze and tug, then broadened his inviting smile at the Camberwell lad. `Go on. Sniff it and kiss it, you little slut.' He'd never been quite so mean or abrupt with Sancho before, although he could hardly be accused of much tenderness of reciprocation when he sporadically took advantage of the 22-year-old's appetite for cock. He could see that Jadon liked to be called that. He was flustered but excited and he kept glancing anxiously away to the door that led away through the private studio rooms of the high-end tattoo parlour. Then he looked frantically back, laughed briefly, and rested a hand on Marcus' forearm before ducking in. He bent over and leant in, and Marcus grinned down his sprawled body to see the other rising player worship at his crotch, lean in and take a good nostril-flaring sniff of his crotch, then plant a needy kiss against the outline of his fat cock - not stopping there, Jadon mouthed damply against its shape, and gripped at his forearm a bit too tightly. A clank and a shuffle sounded from beyond the door and Sancho was snapping back away from him at speed, breathing heavily. `We thought you were never coming back!' Rashford called confidently away to his regular artist, not looking back at him, but keeping his eyes fixed meaningfully on Sancho's blushing face and trembling bottom lip, the same one that had brushed the shape of his heavy prick only seconds ago... And only fifteen minutes later, was on it again, more properly this time, in the car park of the converted warehouse that housed this studio and other arty businesses. His motor was parked in a relatively obscured corner, but there was still a delicious risk to it that was new and out of character for the normally cautious Rashford. In the dubious privacy of his car, the 25-year-old moaned and gasped, more openly and encouragingly than he usually did when biting back his doubts and letting Jadon go to town on his hard-on. Today, still maybe a little high on the physical adrenaline of being tattooed, he moaned freely and spat out demands at his `slut': `Take it deeper, Sanch - fuck, not like that - lick it, go slow now - don't forget the balls, for fuck's sake.' The 22-year-old was crouched uncomfortably between the front seats of the Beamer, stooped down low again so that he could take as much of the thick rod into his wet mouth as he could, and he got more greedy and sloppy with every vaguely insulting remark that Rashford gasped and barked, whilst keeping his eyes more cautiously on the car park around them in case any vehicle or pedestrian got too close. To keep it safer, he slid a hand over Jadon's head to keep it pressed into his crotch, making it hard for his drooling slut to rise up and be visible to anyone who happened to look this way in the tight square car park between warehouses. `Keep at it,' he growled, hearing something of Maguire's tough talk in his own mumble, feeling powerful and authoritative here with sloppy Sancho. `Suck it properly, lad - get your jaws round it, go deep. Fuck, that's more like it.' In the risk of the car park, Manchester's Player of the Month reclined his seat a little and settled into his enjoyment, no longer even that worried about discovery. He pushed down in repeated bobs on Jadon's head, bouncing his mouth up and down the shaft and fucking into his hungry gob, getting closer and closer to spilling his cream. In a moment of relaxation, he let go of Jadon's head, and the crouching lean jiggled for comfort, Jadon's face coming up closer to his, his lips and chin shiny with spittle. `Fuck me?' whimpered Jadon, and not for the first time; he often went and spoiled it with this, trying to push things too more, greedily demanding more than Marcus was up for giving. Sometimes it turned him off so much that he had to stop, and he'd sneer unhappily at the bisexual lad, blaming him for killing his buzz and his horn. Today, he was no less repulsed by the notion, but he ignored it, and pushed the lad's face back down, forcing his cock between his damp lips and pushing upwards in a last few spurts before he was feeding him and groaning very loudly into the car's interior, ignoring the sting as one of Jadon's grasping hands landed on the covered scarring of his new tattoo. And he thought about what happened just the other day: the latest and somehow most stirring incident of his increased confidence and status at Old Trafford, from wonder boy to senior attacking star. Just the other day, it was, on the last day of January when the whole Premier League quivered with uncertain anticipation of the closing transfer deadline, though Rashford himself had spent a quiet hour in his afternoon schedule being filmed for the club website and YouTube channel, crowned fans' Player of the Month before the League itself had thrust the same accolade on him. Freed from the short media duty, he'd made his way through the upper floor of the central building, away from the grunting action in the gyms below where the majority of the squad were building up muscle and getting ready for tomorrow's second leg Semi against Nottingham Forest. Marcus felt cocksure about the aggregate battle with the other club, already picturing his own team in the Wembley final against the Magpies. As he approached this latest encounter, he actually noticed the other lad first: he was walking along a balcony-edged corridor that overlooked the main reception area, dragging one palm along the smooth railing, and leaning to the right slightly to squint curiously down into the small entourage who were signing out of the building. Hoods were up and there was that special kind of discretion going on that can only attract extra attention, making the 25-year-old slow his step and almost pause, keen to confirm his suspicion of who he was looking at right now. He'd heard plenty of whispers about him in the past couple of weeks, since the verdict, and he was pretty sure... yep, there he was, half-turning this way, his face partly obscure by hood and hat, but distinctively boyish enough, and surrounded by lawyers in suits and an obvious beast of paid muscle. An awkward frisson simmered in the reception below as the hooded youth made for the doors, clearly leaving his long-awaited meeting with the bosses, and his legal and protective entourage went with him, none of their faces or miners giving anything definite away on the suspended player's fate. By now, he'd noticed that someone else was up here, and Rashford's attention shifted from the awkward scene below to the exit's other onlooker. A few yards further down the same rail, a lad in the same tracksuit as him was hunched forward and staring quite mournfully down there, seeming to be oblivious to Marcus. He cleared his throat loudly before continuing on, and the young defensive spare shot him a gloomy look that quickly shifted into a broken false smile. `Was that...?' Marcus asked unnecessarily. `Think so,' returned Brandon Williams with the same false ambiguity, his facial distress making it obvious that he'd been watching quite closely as their once-teammate was escorted from his appointment at Carrington. Drawing closer, Rashford found himself thinking aloud. `You two were close,' he said vaguely, memories of the two young upstarts and their incessant laughter rising out of his 2020 memory bank. He placed a hand instinctively against Williams' shoulder as the young full-back tried a shrug, cringing against the balcony rail in a way that was very telling; worry and kindness brought Rashford in closer, gripping him by the shoulder. `Hey, you ok?' he asked quietly but warmly. Brandon's answer was almost brattish in its strained force. `Course I am,' the 22-year-old grumbled, pulling away from him a little roughly. `What's it to me?' He scowled and frowned and turned his back on the quiet reception below, his voice an irritable hiss. `I just wondered what was going on,' he said, aiming for flippant and missing. He marched further down the corridor, away from this openness, and Marcus trailed curiously after him, an element of intrigue mixing with his own natural concern for a young teammate. The lad seemed pretty emotional, and Marcus wondered if it was deadline day - it was a good while now since his fellow Mancunian had seemed like United's big new defensive prospect, and a first-team start was becoming an alien concept to the youth. Surely the kid was getting another loan deal out somewhere where he could get the minutes in the tank...? It didn't make sense for him to skulk bitterly here at Old Trafford! `Hey, relax,' Marcus invited, keeping his voice low. `You don't have to do none of that tough-lad scally shit with me, kid, we're both Manc lads here - what's up?' He reached affectionately for his shoulder again and saw Brandon's brash frown wobble at even this physical intimacy - the lips trembled and the eyes almost instantly shone with the threat of tears, and the sudden swing of emotion awoke very caring tendencies in the big-hearted Mancunian. He pulled Williams instantly into a hug, wrapping his arms about the smaller player, and murmuring his support, `Let it out, pal, no shame in a few tears.' `Fuck,' whimpered Brandon in embarrassment, his face now buried in against one of Marcus' broader shoulders. `Fuck, sorry, I'm being - s-s-sorry, it's just...' `He's your friend,' he said soothingly. `It's okay. It's all intense. Are you and him still close...?' `Hardly,' the full-back sniffed. `We've barely spoke since, y'know, it all came out and-' `And do you think he's innocent?' Rashford couldn't help but ask, still holding onto his friend, feeling him twitch and shudder anxiously in his muscular grip. Williams didn't hurry to answer, so he just held him tight and stroked one caring hand on the back of his soft blond hair. `It's way out of our hands, matey, nothing for us to say or do about any of it.' `What if he is?' the 22-year-old sniffed very quietly, pulling his face back and revealing the extent of his shiny tears and pouting lips. `I turned my back on him, Rash, I literally blocked him as soon as... It all seemed so... I mean, everyone was saying...' He looked utterly miserable and Marcus found himself a little lost for words, squeezing onto the lad and grimacing awkwardly back at his moral dilemma - it wasn't really something he'd confronted himself, the possibility of that young guy's innocence rather than guilt, and it was hard to process now that the case had fallen through. `No smoke without fire?' was all he could say, weakly, but he knew how dangerous this cliche was, and the two lads fell silent, except for the light blubbering of Brandon's unleashed tears. `Here,' he said, and he guided the defender off the broad corridor, in through the nearest open door, into the interview room beyond it, a smaller one than the little studio area where his own accolades had been celebrated only minutes ago. The Manc scally looked miserable but grateful, pulling his sleeves over his fists and rubbing them aggressively against his eyes, trying to stammer out more apologies and embarrassment, but Rashford felt magnanimous and giving, and he just pulled the wiry lad into another tight hug, squeezing comfortingly onto him as if the sheer press of his own arm and chest muscles would squeeze the emotion out of his teammate. He didn't know what to say, but he could try and be here for the puffy-eyed youth - he was thinking now about how he should always have tried harder to mentor and steer this surly younger player, given their similar backgrounds in different deprived areas of this great northern city. As he was thinking this, he unconsciously hugged a bit more tightly into Bran, their feet stepping awkwardly over the room as he did, and the younger Utd player still wheezing out a few quiet sobs into the shoulder of his zipped-up tracksuit top. `That's it,' Marcus sighed to him, `just let it out...' Maybe it was his breathy sigh, he thought later, or maybe just the tight physicality of the hug - or maybe it was some stupid pheromone he was giving out as he strutted about thinking about that hand-job from Slabhead or how Sancho would drop everything to service his full balls. Maybe it was the Player of the Month prize, part of him almost thought, feeling like a fucking king at the football club that had made him. He wasn't sure what it was, but even as he sniffed and shivered, Williams began to nuzzle in against his neck, the cool tip of his nose and then a fluffy upper lip brushing in at his sensitive throat; and hands roamed down his sides a bit, one journeying in and down, and... and then he was holding and hugging the 5ft7 defender whilst one exploratory hand went inside the front of his trackies and squeezed the bulge of his green Nike boxer briefs, holding him there and surprising him, but not alarming him at all. He sighed again, lips close to the lad's ear. `Really?' he asked gently. `Just let me,' gasped Bran, perhaps unaware that he wasn't the first lad to curl his hand around that package, not even the first that week. And Marcus just groaned appreciatively, rubbing caring hands over Brandon's neck and back, and nodding wordlessly. He brought one tender hand and, a little surprised at himself, thumbed a tear from the lad's cheek, then started a little at his own gentle intimacy - whilst below, his cock was far less worried, quickly rock-hard and stretching at his underpants. Down Williams went, quickly and eagerly, letting Rashford push back until his bare arse cheeks rested on the edge of the table, trackies and Nike pants rolled down the thighs, a clingfilm covering still wrapped about the fresher ink on one. Brandon's mouth closed about his cock and Marcus knew instantly that this other 22-year-old teammate was either more skilled or just more experienced - wow. He was a lot more controlled and slow with it than the sloppy enthusiasm of Jadon, even now in his fragile mood. And all Marcus could do was throw his head back and groan, not reaching for words like `slut' because he sensed that his emotional lad did not need the dirty encouragement that drove Sancho wild. `That's it,' he groaned at last, `just enjoy it, mate...' He stroked fingers quite softly through the short mop of blond hair, pawing at but not guiding or forcing Brandon's bobbing head. He let him work his tongue and lips and just appreciated every tremor of pleasure that raced up his chiselled body, glutes tense against the edge of the table. At least, for a few minutes he did, dazed and easily satisfied, but then acting recklessly way beyond his own boundaries. It was more of a gagging choke than a fresh sob of emotion, but that same caring streak made him reach down and drag Bran upright by his armpits, hugging him again and then pushing their faces close together, nose to nose. Not kissing, as such, but their mouths so dangerously close that he was puffing hot breath in between shiny cock-sucking lips, and those shiny eyes were staring at him in wonder. Then Williams was in for the kiss, mouth open, and he was letting him, feeling a lad's tongue on his, but pushing back, resisting and overpowering it, and snogging the 22-year-old wholeheartedly. His arms gripped tightly about him and he pushed forward with his body, kissing him quite roughly, whilst his wet cock slapped and rubbed at the tummy of Bran's jersey. The kiss broke and resumed, Marcus breathless with this intense urge, but not wholly conscious of the lines he was crossing, having pushed Jadon away from him repeatedly when the other lad gave him the puppy-dog eyes and leaned in for it. But right now he just wanted Williams to feel better, and ravishing him with kisses seemed to be doing it, though those mean eyes still sparkled with fresh tears and the 5ft7 defender quivered in his hold, reaching down to stroke and pull Rashers' cock. `I need this,' Williams whispered, and Rashford was willing to give it to him. He took his head in both hands and pushed it down, encouraging him to lick the tip and then take the big black cock in his lips again; he was rougher now, less tender, but still caring, just wanting to feed and satisfy this surprising playmate. He'd never have had Bran down as into this cock fun, but then... he'd never have put himself down, either. A little overexcited, he reached a hand down Williams' back and spanked him through his tracksuit bottoms, encouraging the eager sucking of his own prick by delivering a series of playful smacks to the pleasingly chubby rump - then, sure this was okay, he pushed the waistbands over a bit so that he could slap part of the cheek bare, leaving pink prints against the pale smooth flesh. It was an almost feminine backside, he told himself, all smooth and curvaceous from the slim hips, and- he smacked it again, harder, and Brandon moaned for him, kissing his shaft. `Yes sir,' the full-back whimpered, and Rashford smacked him again, but this time held his hand there, and let his middle finger play into the crease between the jiggly white cheeks, shocked at himself, but also... curious. In a matter of moments he had him against the wall, kissing the soft hair on the back of his neck, and pulling up the back of the jersey to explore more of the lean toned back that curved down into those plump buttocks. His own cock was shiny with spit and gripped in his other hand. I'll just rub it, he thought, pushing his head up and down the crack, giving one cheek another fresh spank. He kissed some more at Brandon's neck, loving the desperate moans that his teammate made. `You want it?' he found himself asking in a rasp. `You want my cock, do ya?' How many times had he refused just this to horny Sancho...? It didn't matter. Now was the moment, the need. In he pushed it, feeling that insane tightness against the thick head of his tool. He hugged onto Brandon's body from behind, just as tightly as his sincere comforts before things got hot and heavy. He moaned into his ear, unsure that he could really get his girth into that tiny hole, but... `I can take it,' Williams assured him in a wobbly voice, `just be patient...' Impatience almost made him pull back and rethink the taboo, but the tightness felt so good, and Brandon's slim smooth body felt so good in his arms, and he just wanted to really make him forget his woes! That's what a captain would do, he told himself boldly and ambitiously. Maguire was fading and Fernandes was temporary - why shouldn't he aspire to lead...? He was a real man now. The aspiring captain's cock slid into Bran and made him gasp, but Marcus could no longer kid himself this was generosity or kindness, this was dirty pleasure and his own swelling ego. In and out he fucked him, almost oblivious to the sounds of pleasure that each thrust summoned, just slamming him into the wall and using his own dense muscles to power every movement. He twisted Bran's head to one side and craned to kiss him, locking tongues all over again, shutting up his gasps whilst jutting back and forth with his hips, getting a good workout. `God yes,' whined Brandon, but he shut him up with another kiss, choking him with his own questing tongue, and gripping him bruisingly hard at the neck and the hip, ploughing him at speed, absolutely no thought for the unlocked door back out into the corridor beyond. Rashford himself couldn't find the words, just long guttural moans and tight little puffs of breath, and the knock knock of Williams' body sounding against the wall, hammered away. He came inside him without questioning it, no doubts about filling up the arse-hole and claiming the 22-year-old as his new bitch, reaching up tender fingers to wipe tears away and cradle that shaky face whilst he kissed the back of his neck, heaving and panting into him, dripping with sweat beneath his club tracksuit. She smiled and repeated her question. `What kind of things have they been saying?' the reporter in the conservatory said, looking at him now as if he was a bit dim or mad; he blinked and slurred, unsure how long he'd zoned out. `What kind of reception did the lads have for you after you got both of those prizes over there, Marcus?' Her smile hardened with a little impatience behind the gloss, and close at his side, the whirring clicks of a camera became a bit too irritating. Rashford laughed it off and shrugged, avoiding the question, and avoiding his daydream of sordid fantasy, thinking that he might need to wank off as soon as he'd ushered these fashionable intruders out of the house. But he murmured out some excuse for an answer, commenting on Maguire being very complimentary, and younger players all looking up to him as a role model; and then he hinted as best as he could that he had places to be and people to see. Fortunately, the magazine crew had got what they came for, and there were few more questions or photographs before they were exiting the mansion and he was watching them from a bay window, his hand straying below the obstacle of the windowsill to stroke the front of his baggy pants. He thought about Harry Maguire, about Jadon Sancho, and about Brandon Williams, and he knew he would need to jerk off before he could attend tonight's dinner with his girlfriend, there was no option but to release this tension. He grinned to himself and set out through the house, growing hard-on swinging in the loose fit of his pants, and the thought of Brandon's smooth round arse filling his mind's eye. Double Player of the Month, he thought, and future United captain - of course every lad on the team was ready to service him...! 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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Date: Tue, 10 Oct 2023 17:24:40 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 372 Part 372: International Again, Monday Another England camp in their rural base, and another burst of unseasonal heatwave: the corridors of the attractive country hotel were a stuffy labyrinth, and the late afternoon kickabout in the neighbouring sports complex had been one soaked in a sheen of summery sweat. In the many shared suites of the senior men's team occupants, inefficient air conditioning units whirred into life, and in one room towards the side of the now-familiar venue, a frustrated occupant slid open a sash window in the hope of letting some cooler night air in. He paused, his sweaty hands splayed out on the sill, and looked down into the gently lit gravel entranceway just visible around the corner - a cluster of their attendant staff were out there, and the last senior player was making his arrival. The tall manly figure of Bundesliga export Harry Kane was strolling in towards the hotel, case in tow, and shaking hands with the assortment of hotel and FA figures who were managing their stay. For a moment, he considered whistling or hollering a greeting down to the national caption on his way into the hotel foyer, perhaps throwing some vague abuse his way for being the last arrival of the 26-man squad who Southgate had selected. But he pictured himself going unheard and laughed vaguely to himself, folding his elbows against the sill instead and staring thoughtfully out into the cool night, glad of the soft breeze on his face. At the sound of the door behind him, Jack Grealish retracted from leaning out of the window, and turned his attention across the room; it was just his chosen roomie for the trip, emerging from a piss and swiftly tying the cord at the waist of his baggy shorts, then offering him a casual salute. `Opening the window, do you wanna get a load of bugs in here?' James Maddison demanded instantly, lifting a hand to scratch at his thin brown beard. `It's October,' Jack protested, pausing dumbly to wonder if that made a difference, then just shrugging. `Let the bugs in,' he told his friend obnoxiously, `and they can bite what they want, as long as they give me a good suck.' The renowned City player chuckled gruffly and gave a lewd wink to his bro, leaning comfortably back by the window and tugging on the front of his own more close-fitting England shorts. James was chuckling softly and returning to the task of unpacking his case of neatly folded clothes, and Jack threw further banter his way: `It's these weird hot nights, innit,' he mumbled suggestively. `They really get ya horned up and desperate for some relief, don't they?' Apart from a vague smile to himself and a slow nod, Madders pretty much ignored this provocation, busy with unpacking and organising his personal effects. Watching him from the window, Jack let out a huffy breath and pulled the curtains of highlighted hair away from his brows. Suit yerself, he thought. The 28-year-old winger had been pleased to secure his good party pal as a roommate for the week, especially since his dear Lil Phil was pretty frigid nowadays - he didn't know what had changed to make his younger buddy so seemingly immune to his charms, but he'd totally failed to get any fun out of Foden in months now, though the other attacking player still seemed to look up to him and hang on his every word during training. It was almost like Philip was totally faithful to his missus or some bullshit, and it made Jack bored to think about. Little prude! Madders, though, was a more fun prospect. After all, they'd been pals for years, and when he had first begun to explore his sexuality at the encouragement of Benji, his then-teammate at Leicester had quickly joined them as a playmate - Jack could even remember the three of them driving up to Luke Shaw's `birthday party' at Maguire's invite, part of a big dirty fumble in the cottage garden to celebrate the Man Utd hunk. That felt like an eternity ago, and Jack paused only briefly on the rose-tinted memory, thinking about how wild and free he and Chilly had felt in those honeymoon months - he wasn't sure when things had got heavy and serious between them, but it had quickly crushed their young love, and now he just missed his Chelsea prince something rotten. As was his way, the Brummie lad brushed away the bigger feelings, and tugged lazily at the bulge in his shorts. `You're so OCD,' he criticised, watching Madders sort his stuff, and glaring almost accusingly at his own messy heap at the foot of his double bed. `We're not fucking moving in here, fella.' The Tottenham Hotspur signing laughed distractedly, not even looking his way, and so not noticing how much he was fidgeting with the contents of his shorts, or lifting up the front of his clingy t-shirt to scratch the faint trail of pubic hair above his waist. `We're here about a week,' he was reminded. `No away trips, remember, just the two Wembley fixtures.' Jack shrugged disinterestedly, only half-aware of the scheduled matches. He couldn't help but look at England work as little more than a glorified lads' holiday with a bit of footy, a chance to muck about with many of his best buds, and to feel smug-as-fuck with the Three Lions on his chest. He sighed frustratedly and pushed both hands inside the front of his shorts, pointlessly, dawdling to the side whilst James deposited some rolled t-shirts in a draw by his bed. `I mean, does your missus pack this for you, or are you the neat freak?' Grealish asked him. Maddison laughed but ignored the question. `Sort your own shit out,' he suggested. `God, you're like a little kid - do I need to give you an iPad to go and play with?' True to the joking insult, Jack scowled petulantly, twanging the waistband of his shorts, and running fingers through his hair. `Dickhead,' he quipped, then in a playful growl, `You could gimme something else to play with, fella.' Again, the Spurs 26-year-old seemed to hardly hear the flirtatious remark, and he brushed past, going to hang up a couple of nicer shirts in their shared wardrobe, whistling to himself. Jack frowned unhappily and kicked the corner of the bed with socked toes. `Man, I should have just got a room with Kal,' he grumbled, half to himself, and picked up the heavy crime thrillers that sat amongst James' things. `When did YOU start reading?' he demanded crossly, bored in advance at the prospect of his roommate burying his face in these boring books all night like some old git. `Oh, I learned at school,' mused Madders quietly from the wardrobe. `Has City not found a tutor to teach you any basic literacy yet...?' Jack chuckled but with a note of insecurity, calling his pal a `Daft cunt', and sloping back across the room to flop down on his bed in a mild sulk. He rubbed his toned tummy, t-shirt halfway up his tummy, now not even trying to catch James' impossible attention, just bored and frustrated for real. He stared at the ceiling as Madders passed by, finding a place for everything, and really making himself at home in the shared suite, making a few further jokes about Jack's stupidity - `I'll read you a bedtime story if you like, I'm getting good at these days' and `I should have brought you one of the little lad's picture books!' - whilst Grealish tried to shift the dirty appetite that had followed him down on the drive from Manchester to Surrey. And then, just as 28-year-old Jack the Lad was accepting a dull first night of England duty, a week where perhaps he'd actually have to be as professional as he was under Pep's management, he found that James was stood at the side of his bed, tattooed arms folded over his suddenly bare chest, and a big grin splitting his bearded face. Jack tilted his head on the pillow and frowned at James' expectant features. `Er, wha'?' Maddison shrugged impatiently. `Get your cock out you daft twat,' the midfield ace told him brightly. `You've droppe enough hints!' The new Londoner sniggered and slapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly, stood there in just baggy basketballer shorts - and Jack laughed delightedly, realising that his roomie had just been teasing him with the ignorance and wait, and was now leaping onto the bed by his hairy tanned legs, licking his lips - oh yes, this was more like it! Like the excitable overgrown schoolboy he was, Jack grabbed and fought with the rustling nylon of his shorts, helped quickly by the grasping hands of the ot her football player - and down the shorts went, over his meaty thighs and then past his almost equally meaty calves, flung aside once they were past his white-socked feet. `Fuck,' growled Maddison, `I dunno if there are sexier legs than these in England.' `England?' Jack barked, lounged on his back, flexing the muscular limbs. `Try the world, you horny prick!' He grabbed and shook the bulge in his silky black boxer briefs, his t-shirt still bunched up below his nips, most of his lithe body on show for his roomie. Momentarily, James stayed on his knees in front of him, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together eagerly, and then he pounced - falling forwards to plant kisses on the bottom of Jack's six-pack and then nuzzling the dark bulge, rubbing and gripping at the impossibly muscular thighs. And Jack groaned delightedly in response, very happy to get the attention he'd craved all day, all evening - desperate to get his dick wet and feel the lust and appetite of another horny man. He lifted his hips to let the Hotspur help him out of his undies, which went the same way down his furry legs, tossed loosely away, so that James could spit down on his near-hard prick, and give it a good rub to full mast. Jack grinned and absorbed the quick dirty compliments about his length and girth, about how he was the horniest and dirtiest bastard in their sport - James knew how to stoke his ego, always had, although this thought took him vaguely back to old times, playing with both Leicester Foxes when they met up, he, James, and Ben... But Ben was an idiot, he thought, who was stuck in that messed-up London club, and had got himself all injured AGAIN, so couldn't be here...! Dumb git, he thought bitterly, blaming Chilwell for his own absence, and trying to put the past in the past. The feel of Madders' mouth on his cock helped, and he sprawled luxuriantly back, enjoying the oral service, and thrusting sporadically upwards to feed his strong shaft into the soft wet mouth of the fellow Midlander. Maddison gobbled noisily on him and Grealish reached down, playing blunt fingers through his mate's thinning hair and down the back of his neck, so glad of the BJ that he kept cooing his gratitude, `Cheers mate, thanks for this, ah yeah...' Only when he was worried about spurting too soon did he pull James off his crotch and clamber up to him, hugging their bodies together and going in for a kiss. Madders was a little hesitant, which surprised him, but he was assertive and needy, and he let their hot wet mouths go to town, until the slim-built younger fella was putty in his arms. Then he pulled down the guy's shorts and boxers and noshed him too, glad at how stiff James' smaller thinner prick was, and glad at its salty taste in his mouth. He remained seated with Maddison kneeling over him, clutching his hips whilst sucking greedily on his lollipop, and making him moan heavily above. Jack felt a little hint of urge to bottom, having not had his meaty cheeks clapped in a while, but he just didn't feel like the Hotspur was the lad for the job, quite lean and lightweight, and he himself was too tired to top - he threw Madders down on the bed to the side, climbing into a position to suck him more comfortably, then scrambling up to lean over his chest and face, wanking his cock over the fella's grinning chops. Now Jack didn't feel the need to hold back or control himself, just spreading his big legs and positioning himself so that he could stare down his own strong lean body, and at his mighty appendage, balls swinging under it with each quick wet tug. `Fuck yeah,' James groaned. `Gimme yer load.' `All of it?' Jack wheezed. `All on me face,' the midfielder panted. `Every drop?' Grealish pushed through hot rasping breaths. `Fuck yeah, all over me...!' `Mmm, yes mate, YES!' The heavy Brummie balls were emptied, Jack pulling hard on his length, and spilling streak after streak of off-white jizz on Madders' lightly haired chest, on the chestnut brown of his facial hair, on the freckled pale tan of his face, on the receding hairline. Kneeling over him, Jack panted and moaned, continuing to yank his sensitive cock even as the orgasm receded, and loving the glisten of his juices where it oozed on that grinning face. Exhausted and laughing, he whirled about, stooping low to lick the tip of his friend's cock - the lap of his sloppy tongue was enough to send Maddison over the edge, and Grealish clamped his lips around the Tottenham cock to swallow his load. Five minutes later, the City winger was still lying near-naked on the bed, a fresh grime of sweat all over his tanned strong body, his t-shirt still uncomfortably tangled below his pits, whilst James cheerfully returned to the task of tidying and personalising his half of the room. Jack just grinned wearily and rubbed lazily at the flop of his soft cock and deflated bollocks, pleased with the immediate gratification and the prospect of room-sharing with a lad as chilled out and comfortable as Madders - no fucking drama or tension here, no way! `That was great,' the Brummie murmured contentedly. More banter from the other lad, who chucked a pack of tissues his way. `Yeah, but you STINK of cum now, you bell-end - get cleaned up or I'm not sucking that monster again all week. And tidy up your things, you pratt. Come on.' Jack just chuckled and assented, rolling off the bed and taking a tissue to his cum-smeared member - okay, okay, best to keep Maddison sweet, and make sure this week remained fun. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 10 Oct 2023 17:24:40 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 372 Part 372: International Again, Monday Another England camp in their rural base, and another burst of unseasonal heatwave: the corridors of the attractive country hotel were a stuffy labyrinth, and the late afternoon kickabout in the neighbouring sports complex had been one soaked in a sheen of summery sweat. In the many shared suites of the senior men's team occupants, inefficient air conditioning units whirred into life, and in one room towards the side of the now-familiar venue, a frustrated occupant slid open a sash window in the hope of letting some cooler night air in. He paused, his sweaty hands splayed out on the sill, and looked down into the gently lit gravel entranceway just visible around the corner - a cluster of their attendant staff were out there, and the last senior player was making his arrival. The tall manly figure of Bundesliga export Harry Kane was strolling in towards the hotel, case in tow, and shaking hands with the assortment of hotel and FA figures who were managing their stay. For a moment, he considered whistling or hollering a greeting down to the national caption on his way into the hotel foyer, perhaps throwing some vague abuse his way for being the last arrival of the 26-man squad who Southgate had selected. But he pictured himself going unheard and laughed vaguely to himself, folding his elbows against the sill instead and staring thoughtfully out into the cool night, glad of the soft breeze on his face. At the sound of the door behind him, Jack Grealish retracted from leaning out of the window, and turned his attention across the room; it was just his chosen roomie for the trip, emerging from a piss and swiftly tying the cord at the waist of his baggy shorts, then offering him a casual salute. `Opening the window, do you wanna get a load of bugs in here?' James Maddison demanded instantly, lifting a hand to scratch at his thin brown beard. `It's October,' Jack protested, pausing dumbly to wonder if that made a difference, then just shrugging. `Let the bugs in,' he told his friend obnoxiously, `and they can bite what they want, as long as they give me a good suck.' The renowned City player chuckled gruffly and gave a lewd wink to his bro, leaning comfortably back by the window and tugging on the front of his own more close-fitting England shorts. James was chuckling softly and returning to the task of unpacking his case of neatly folded clothes, and Jack threw further banter his way: `It's these weird hot nights, innit,' he mumbled suggestively. `They really get ya horned up and desperate for some relief, don't they?' Apart from a vague smile to himself and a slow nod, Madders pretty much ignored this provocation, busy with unpacking and organising his personal effects. Watching him from the window, Jack let out a huffy breath and pulled the curtains of highlighted hair away from his brows. Suit yerself, he thought. The 28-year-old winger had been pleased to secure his good party pal as a roommate for the week, especially since his dear Lil Phil was pretty frigid nowadays - he didn't know what had changed to make his younger buddy so seemingly immune to his charms, but he'd totally failed to get any fun out of Foden in months now, though the other attacking player still seemed to look up to him and hang on his every word during training. It was almost like Philip was totally faithful to his missus or some bullshit, and it made Jack bored to think about. Little prude! Madders, though, was a more fun prospect. After all, they'd been pals for years, and when he had first begun to explore his sexuality at the encouragement of Benji, his then-teammate at Leicester had quickly joined them as a playmate - Jack could even remember the three of them driving up to Luke Shaw's `birthday party' at Maguire's invite, part of a big dirty fumble in the cottage garden to celebrate the Man Utd hunk. That felt like an eternity ago, and Jack paused only briefly on the rose-tinted memory, thinking about how wild and free he and Chilly had felt in those honeymoon months - he wasn't sure when things had got heavy and serious between them, but it had quickly crushed their young love, and now he just missed his Chelsea prince something rotten. As was his way, the Brummie lad brushed away the bigger feelings, and tugged lazily at the bulge in his shorts. `You're so OCD,' he criticised, watching Madders sort his stuff, and glaring almost accusingly at his own messy heap at the foot of his double bed. `We're not fucking moving in here, fella.' The Tottenham Hotspur signing laughed distractedly, not even looking his way, and so not noticing how much he was fidgeting with the contents of his shorts, or lifting up the front of his clingy t-shirt to scratch the faint trail of pubic hair above his waist. `We're here about a week,' he was reminded. `No away trips, remember, just the two Wembley fixtures.' Jack shrugged disinterestedly, only half-aware of the scheduled matches. He couldn't help but look at England work as little more than a glorified lads' holiday with a bit of footy, a chance to muck about with many of his best buds, and to feel smug-as-fuck with the Three Lions on his chest. He sighed frustratedly and pushed both hands inside the front of his shorts, pointlessly, dawdling to the side whilst James deposited some rolled t-shirts in a draw by his bed. `I mean, does your missus pack this for you, or are you the neat freak?' Grealish asked him. Maddison laughed but ignored the question. `Sort your own shit out,' he suggested. `God, you're like a little kid - do I need to give you an iPad to go and play with?' True to the joking insult, Jack scowled petulantly, twanging the waistband of his shorts, and running fingers through his hair. `Dickhead,' he quipped, then in a playful growl, `You could gimme something else to play with, fella.' Again, the Spurs 26-year-old seemed to hardly hear the flirtatious remark, and he brushed past, going to hang up a couple of nicer shirts in their shared wardrobe, whistling to himself. Jack frowned unhappily and kicked the corner of the bed with socked toes. `Man, I should have just got a room with Kal,' he grumbled, half to himself, and picked up the heavy crime thrillers that sat amongst James' things. `When did YOU start reading?' he demanded crossly, bored in advance at the prospect of his roommate burying his face in these boring books all night like some old git. `Oh, I learned at school,' mused Madders quietly from the wardrobe. `Has City not found a tutor to teach you any basic literacy yet...?' Jack chuckled but with a note of insecurity, calling his pal a `Daft cunt', and sloping back across the room to flop down on his bed in a mild sulk. He rubbed his toned tummy, t-shirt halfway up his tummy, now not even trying to catch James' impossible attention, just bored and frustrated for real. He stared at the ceiling as Madders passed by, finding a place for everything, and really making himself at home in the shared suite, making a few further jokes about Jack's stupidity - `I'll read you a bedtime story if you like, I'm getting good at these days' and `I should have brought you one of the little lad's picture books!' - whilst Grealish tried to shift the dirty appetite that had followed him down on the drive from Manchester to Surrey. And then, just as 28-year-old Jack the Lad was accepting a dull first night of England duty, a week where perhaps he'd actually have to be as professional as he was under Pep's management, he found that James was stood at the side of his bed, tattooed arms folded over his suddenly bare chest, and a big grin splitting his bearded face. Jack tilted his head on the pillow and frowned at James' expectant features. `Er, wha'?' Maddison shrugged impatiently. `Get your cock out you daft twat,' the midfield ace told him brightly. `You've droppe enough hints!' The new Londoner sniggered and slapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly, stood there in just baggy basketballer shorts - and Jack laughed delightedly, realising that his roomie had just been teasing him with the ignorance and wait, and was now leaping onto the bed by his hairy tanned legs, licking his lips - oh yes, this was more like it! Like the excitable overgrown schoolboy he was, Jack grabbed and fought with the rustling nylon of his shorts, helped quickly by the grasping hands of the ot her football player - and down the shorts went, over his meaty thighs and then past his almost equally meaty calves, flung aside once they were past his white-socked feet. `Fuck,' growled Maddison, `I dunno if there are sexier legs than these in England.' `England?' Jack barked, lounged on his back, flexing the muscular limbs. `Try the world, you horny prick!' He grabbed and shook the bulge in his silky black boxer briefs, his t-shirt still bunched up below his nips, most of his lithe body on show for his roomie. Momentarily, James stayed on his knees in front of him, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together eagerly, and then he pounced - falling forwards to plant kisses on the bottom of Jack's six-pack and then nuzzling the dark bulge, rubbing and gripping at the impossibly muscular thighs. And Jack groaned delightedly in response, very happy to get the attention he'd craved all day, all evening - desperate to get his dick wet and feel the lust and appetite of another horny man. He lifted his hips to let the Hotspur help him out of his undies, which went the same way down his furry legs, tossed loosely away, so that James could spit down on his near-hard prick, and give it a good rub to full mast. Jack grinned and absorbed the quick dirty compliments about his length and girth, about how he was the horniest and dirtiest bastard in their sport - James knew how to stoke his ego, always had, although this thought took him vaguely back to old times, playing with both Leicester Foxes when they met up, he, James, and Ben... But Ben was an idiot, he thought, who was stuck in that messed-up London club, and had got himself all injured AGAIN, so couldn't be here...! Dumb git, he thought bitterly, blaming Chilwell for his own absence, and trying to put the past in the past. The feel of Madders' mouth on his cock helped, and he sprawled luxuriantly back, enjoying the oral service, and thrusting sporadically upwards to feed his strong shaft into the soft wet mouth of the fellow Midlander. Maddison gobbled noisily on him and Grealish reached down, playing blunt fingers through his mate's thinning hair and down the back of his neck, so glad of the BJ that he kept cooing his gratitude, `Cheers mate, thanks for this, ah yeah...' Only when he was worried about spurting too soon did he pull James off his crotch and clamber up to him, hugging their bodies together and going in for a kiss. Madders was a little hesitant, which surprised him, but he was assertive and needy, and he let their hot wet mouths go to town, until the slim-built younger fella was putty in his arms. Then he pulled down the guy's shorts and boxers and noshed him too, glad at how stiff James' smaller thinner prick was, and glad at its salty taste in his mouth. He remained seated with Maddison kneeling over him, clutching his hips whilst sucking greedily on his lollipop, and making him moan heavily above. Jack felt a little hint of urge to bottom, having not had his meaty cheeks clapped in a while, but he just didn't feel like the Hotspur was the lad for the job, quite lean and lightweight, and he himself was too tired to top - he threw Madders down on the bed to the side, climbing into a position to suck him more comfortably, then scrambling up to lean over his chest and face, wanking his cock over the fella's grinning chops. Now Jack didn't feel the need to hold back or control himself, just spreading his big legs and positioning himself so that he could stare down his own strong lean body, and at his mighty appendage, balls swinging under it with each quick wet tug. `Fuck yeah,' James groaned. `Gimme yer load.' `All of it?' Jack wheezed. `All on me face,' the midfielder panted. `Every drop?' Grealish pushed through hot rasping breaths. `Fuck yeah, all over me...!' `Mmm, yes mate, YES!' The heavy Brummie balls were emptied, Jack pulling hard on his length, and spilling streak after streak of off-white jizz on Madders' lightly haired chest, on the chestnut brown of his facial hair, on the freckled pale tan of his face, on the receding hairline. Kneeling over him, Jack panted and moaned, continuing to yank his sensitive cock even as the orgasm receded, and loving the glisten of his juices where it oozed on that grinning face. Exhausted and laughing, he whirled about, stooping low to lick the tip of his friend's cock - the lap of his sloppy tongue was enough to send Maddison over the edge, and Grealish clamped his lips around the Tottenham cock to swallow his load. Five minutes later, the City winger was still lying near-naked on the bed, a fresh grime of sweat all over his tanned strong body, his t-shirt still uncomfortably tangled below his pits, whilst James cheerfully returned to the task of tidying and personalising his half of the room. Jack just grinned wearily and rubbed lazily at the flop of his soft cock and deflated bollocks, pleased with the immediate gratification and the prospect of room-sharing with a lad as chilled out and comfortable as Madders - no fucking drama or tension here, no way! `That was great,' the Brummie murmured contentedly. More banter from the other lad, who chucked a pack of tissues his way. `Yeah, but you STINK of cum now, you bell-end - get cleaned up or I'm not sucking that monster again all week. And tidy up your things, you pratt. Come on.' Jack just chuckled and assented, rolling off the bed and taking a tissue to his cum-smeared member - okay, okay, best to keep Maddison sweet, and make sure this week remained fun. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-383

Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2024 20:47:58 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads Part 383 Part 383: The Birthday Boys He watched the road from an upstairs window, rocking on his heels, unable to stop himself from monitoring the driveway even though he was sure he'd get a call as soon as the car was on the way into this villagey Cheshire suburb - practically a hamlet of footballer mansions, since he was renting the rather soulless new-build from one teammate and about four others were based within kicking distance, with a pretty convenient drive to the Manchester United training camp the main selling point. The interest of neighbours occurred to the 25-year-old at just that moment, but it was a momentary worry - the whole fucking League knew that he was best buddies with the imminent arrival, there was no secret there, and why should Mason Mount worry if they understood it any further? He was getting beyond caring how secret his relationship with Declan Rice was or wasn't, and increasingly sure why it was something known by a couple of his closest friends at Old Trafford. And there it was - the windows of this unused study room on the upper floor of the house had an unrivalled vantage point on the road into the village, and he recognised the car instantly, though Declan Rice owned several. And at the same moment, the young footballer felt the dull throb of a vibrating phone in one baggy pocket of his jogger bottoms, and he answered the call at the same time as scampering eagerly through the quiet rooms of the house, ready to meet and greet. `Hey,' growled the heavy masculine drone of Dec's sexy voice over the phone, even as the egine of his car was audible outside, `I'm pretty much here.' `I know,' Mason replied simply, `see you in a sec.' He was already at the door, pushing the phone back into his pocket, and watching the vague silhouette take shape through the warped lens of the blocky glass tiles in the door; he'd unlatched it before the doorbell even started ringing, and yanked it inwards. A playful smile lighting up his boyish features, Mason reached a single hand forward and grasped at the label of the un-trendy waterproof jacket his boyfriend was wearing, and dragged the taller stud heavily inwards so he could shove the door shut behind him with a gentle slam. Dec tumbled forward with gruff laughter, arms closing forward about him, and Mason leaned upwards to kiss him instantly, silencing whatever the visitor was about to say - their lips grazed and pecked and tongues darted teasingly against each other, while Mason relaxed into the hold, sliding hands under the ugly coat and rubbing them against the fleecy thermal top underneath, feeling the cold of outdoors against his boyfriend's tall frame. Dec kissed him once more, more deeply and assertively, and Mase melted into his hold for a moment before yanking back, rosy-cheeked. `I will have to go soon,' he warned regretfully. `I know, I know, I rushed so I could see you before you did,' puffed Rice a little breathlessly. `I've probably got half a dozen speeding tickets, ha ha.' `Happy birthday,' Mason cut him off, remembering himself - although he'd obviously already wished him such by text and call earlier in the morning, shortly before Declan set off from outer London and whizzed up the motorway here - and they kissed again, before Declan returned the sentiment - `And you, baby boy,' he murmured, since the two lads were turning 25 only a few days apart, and this was the only way they'd been able to make their schedules work together... and even now, Mason soon had to be at Carrington with his neighbours to assemble for today's home game against Tottenham, despite not being fit enough to be named in the squad. He'd repeatedly told Dec on the phone that he would pull a sickie and tell his coaches he wasn't well enough to come support the team at Old Trafford, but his honourable and supportive boyfriend had insisted that he needed to show face and keep up the commitment. And so here Dec was, having rushed up as early as he could to be here before he was due to register with his squad. `You shouldn't have hurried,' Mase scolded him quietly, unable to stop smiling. `I mean, obviously I want you here, but I'm so sorry I'll be pissing off and spending most of the day with the team, and-' `It's fine,' Dec insisted, kissing him on the brow, and cuddling into his shoulders. `I needed to see you, didn't want to wait until you were free later. I was being selfish, if anything.' `Whatever,' the Man Utd player chuckled very quietly, unable to associate that word with his partner, and stroking his muscles through the fleece. `Birthday boy, driving up the country just for me... I love you, handsome.' They kissed, and Mason felt a dirty idea become concrete in his mind - if he drove as fast as Dec had, then he needn't leave for Carrington QUITE yet, he had a bit more time to kill, and maybe long enough to... he relaxed his body, letting his hands slide down the rustling sleeves of Dec's jacket, the two of them still standing here in the entrance of his hallway. Dec's face twitched with question, angling to one side, a wordless question forming in his frown and half-smile - Mason bent at the knees, sinking and smirking. Down he went, down to his knees in the hallway, kneeling down in front of the fully-dressed driver who was huffing and shivering in front of him. Their eyes locked, Mason kneeling before his man - and he undid the button fly of the chino pants, while Declan finally mumbled out the words that had formed: `Mase, you need to...' `I need to wish you a happy birthday before anything else,' the grinning 25-year-old told his dream-boy, and he licked his lips, and set about freeing that gorgeous cock and sucking it to rapid hardness, eager to show just how happy he was to see his long-distance partner. Declan stopped Mason short of emptying his balls, but only just - it was a brief but delicious bit of oral, swaying side to side on the inside of the doorway, feeling exposed and risque even though they were safely inside the house. It was just a couple of minutes but it sent the birthday lad into reveries of pleasure and satisfaction, leaning heavily back into the door, and stroking fingertips through the short spikes of tawny hair. It was only an effort of great willpower that allowed him to move his dick free and encourage Mase up onto his feet, pointing out the time to him and forcing him to go get organised - `Besides,' the Arsenal midfielder panted unsteadily to his lad, `I don't want to waste this seven-day load on your pretty face now, when I could put it in your arse later.' And they kissed wetly before Mason nodded and set about getting his shit together, rubbing a hard-on in his joggers as he did - Declan followed him in a happy daze, chatting to him about the drive up and the strangely busy week he'd had despite no Arsenal fixture this weekend. And soon he was alone, `abandoned' in Mason's words, but effusively reassuring his host that it had been worth the entire journey just for a kiss, never mind the feel of his hot wet mouth on his aching prick. And once alone, Dec actually had to fight himself not to finish the job, he was so fucking aroused! He found himself napping in the master bedroom and staring around it at scattered possessions of the occupant, wanting to cuddle up to one of his boyfriend's jumpers or scarves and just wank himself silly. But he didn't, meaning what he'd said earlier - he wanted to enjoy a proper fuck later, and he had been saving up his juices for his hungry lover all week! So it was a day of chaste waiting for the Arsenal star, who knew that there was something vaguely mad about this plan for his 25th, but he was glad that they'd worked out even this scanty compromise, given their schedules. He had enjoyed some days off himself this week, but they had been mismatched with Mason's schedule up here, and neither were sure what they'd be able to manage during the so-called `winter break' of lessened fixtures. It really was testing them both, this long-distance situation, but both young lads threw themselves uncomplainingly into the effort, never wanting to guilt or trouble the other with how much thought and effort was needed to arrange meets. The inconvenient realities of living at opposite ends of England were exaggerated by the way things had been before - playing for opposite London clubs but sharing the same cute city apartment and seeing each other almost every day. For Declan, this contrast was perhaps even more obvious, since he still lived in Mason's Chelsea apartment, not quite able to bring himself to move further north to somewhere more convenient for his Arsenal work. Instead, the tall defensive midfielder was living out his season in the flat that should be shared, the steward of Mason's life and belongings left behind. Sometimes Rice felt like one of those belongings, something cast aside like an old stuffed animal or unwanted t-shirt, but he knew that was unfair, and he kept that thought to himself. After a fitful nap, Rice occupied one of the three lounge spaces downstairs, battling the complicated controls of a huge TV, and drifting off into a second nap with a familiar sitcom jittering away on-screen. He felt disoriented and fuzzy when he was woken by the phone call of Mount exiting Carrington and heading home, and instructing him which Thai restaurant he was to start ordering their takeaway from - the call ended and Dec just lay there in a pleasant daze, letting Mason's sweet voice play over in his ear. He'd barely figured out the delivery app and identified the instructed eatery when he heard the car arrive and was swinging his long muscular legs off the couch to get up and greet his fellow birthday boy - for all of the effort and loneliness of the special day so far, he was drunk on love, just delighted to be here and to be spending the evening and night with his special boy. Mason was glad when the meal was over and they were settling down on the sofa together - he hadn't meant to ruin the loved-up atmosphere of the takeaway feast in the conservatory dining room, but he always spoke at a mile per minute, and he was especially hyper today. He did think Declan had overreacted somewhat, although he understood that the rules and dynamics were a little different now, with the distance to contend with, they weren't in the safe bubble of the London flat any more, living in each other's pockets and able to joke about anything and everything. But there was something about the spat that left a nasty taste in his mouth and reminded him of the more fraught early period of their relationship, when Dec's insecure jealousy had often rocked the boat and put them in doubt - a tension that he'd considered long in the past until just now. `Tell me who you've fucked on the team, then,' Mase had half-joked, even as they were just serving the curry and rice dishes at the counter together, tickling and cuddling at the taller footballer lad, and then soon after, `Has Arteta made a move on you yet, the old perv?' All in good humour, he thought, just giggles and stupidity, and not the kind of thing that was beyond their usual banter - their own intense sexual chemistry had never fully precluded extra-curricular fun, and cheekily updating each other on any random exploits had at one point become relished dirty talk. Argument resolved and cuddles moving to the couch and movie time, Mason regretted that he had pushed it any further, quietly accepting that he'd overstepped a line and goaded Dec into the little row that had broken out across the table. `Has Ramsdale tried to suck your dick since he caught you cam-wanking with me, hehe?' he'd asked more specifically, when the Arsenal goalkeeper came up in conversation - he knew that Rice found the cam-wank incident far less hilarious than Mount did, even if the seeming drama had worked out perfectly fine, and accidentally earned Declan a solid ally and confidante in the Emirates domain. `For fuck's sake,' the other 25-year-old player burst out at him over the table, thumping a fist on it and making the cutlery and crockery shake. `Can you stop chatting shit about all my teammates and pushing me into having sex with everyone in the fucking world who isn't my boyfriend, for god's sake?' Cue awkward silence, lack of eye contact, noisy eating as if they were at two separate meals - and then muttered apologies, Mason first and Declan rapidly afterwards, and then stilted uncomfortable conversation as they tried to get a birthday date night back on track. And then another awkward silence as this failed, before Declan pushed his food away and spoke out emotively, `I am sorry, baby, I just wish we were out doing something fancier, something more public - I'm sorry that our birthday celebration together is a stupid takeaway in Cheshire, and-' Mason was up off his seat in seconds, moving around the table, and cuddling Declan from above, kissing him on the crown. `Every second with you is perfect,' he told him earnestly, then kissed him on the temple and stole a chilli prawn off his plate to pop in his mouth. `I couldn't give a fuck about all the places we could be - this shitty dull house is everywhere I want to be whilst you're in it, okay? It's me who should be sorry - I was being giddy and stupid, sorry.' On the sofa, the half-joked topics did still play on his mind: he knew that Dec wasn't 100% celebate in a Mason-less London, and had practically insisted on that fact when he signed his United contract and they agreed they could make this work. He'd been firm and pushy with his boyfriend that he needed to satisfy his urges and live well, at Arsenal and on England duty, even in his absence... perhaps he'd been TOO firm and pushy on that, and tonight's little spat was long-held resentment at that? But no... they'd agreed it, and he'd listened to Dec wank furiously over the phone whilst he talked him through an early threesome with Shaw and Maguire in his first month of Manchester life. They were deeply committed to each other, but comfortably open, within reason - but he knew he'd been too specific and too persistent with his jokey comments about Arsenal fun. If Declan didn't feel able to be as playful and flippant about fun beyond their relationship, then he should probably just respect that and stop winding him up. The movie was okay, he presumed, but he couldn't concentrate on it - he really was still too giddy, too excitable, to turned on. He shifted and flexed in the spooning position against Declan's taller frame, pushing back into him with his back muscles and lower, gently grinding his bottom back into the crotch of those chinos. He felt the hold of Dec's arm and the grip of his hand tense a little across his side and front, and then slow warm breaths on the back of his neck advanced into a gentle grazing kiss at the nape. He moaned quietly, and then felt that breath move to his ear. `Upstairs?' Dec asked him, and Mase whispered, `Yes.' Still, strolling through the carpeted house hand in hand, travelling through into the house's master bedroom, Mount did look at Rice and wonder just how established his sexy boyfriend was in the Arsenal hierarchy, and in a more generally curious manner, whether the North London club was as rife with simmering sexual politics as the two big Premiership clubs that Mase himself had played for - it was a mixture of nosey curiosity and his own genuine sexual devotion to the 6t1 man leading him to bed and closing the curtains. Across the bed from him, the strapping defensive player ripped the fleece top off and the vest below, baring his slim ripped torso, and staring intensely this way with eyes full of lust. Mason wished privately that Declan could be a bit more open and expressive about his desires, because he thought it was easier and healthier - keeping Dec informed of his own naughty little episodes felt like a way of keeping them loyal and close, he hated the idea of doing stuff and NOT reporting it to his boyfriend, and he LOVED the idea of those stories sometimes getting Dec especially horny and aggressive in bed. And yet... well, he hadn't shared his latest little adventure with this sexy bugger, had he? Was that because he'd subconsciously picked up on this resentment before tonight's outburst, or because he didn't quite know how to narrate it...? Or had there been something different in what happened last month with the 20-year-old Dane...? Mason hadn't even trained with the main squad that day in December, he'd been doing one-on-one stuff with his specialist physio, but somehow their paths had crossed, and he'd ended up in the changing rooms with just Rasmus Hojland - it seemed like the young Danish forward had been putting extra hours in on his weights training or something, because he was the only first team player still loitering about. Or, Mason had dared to greedily suspect, the 6ft3 youngster had been in there waiting for him specifically, because there was something almost posed and attention-seeking in the way he turned that corner and found him, resting on the bench with his long muscular legs spread and just a tiny hand-towel draped over his naked crotch, stripped off and ready for his shower, but steam practically rising from his smooth hard muscles. Not a word had been spoken, as far as he could remember, from the second he entered that changing area and the moment he left in a clean tracksuit with a smirk on his lips - in the thirty minutes of pure physical delight that transpired, they communicated only with their eyes, and Rasmus' eyes could communicate quite a lot. Silently, Mason began to walk past the seated man-spread of the naked lad, then stopped right in front of him, giving an appreciate sidelong stare; Rasmus stared back at him with that Viking intensity he had, looking like some pornographic vision that had risen out of the clammy mists of the nearby showers, or the depths of Mason's overactive imagination. And then, as if reading his dirtiest thoughts, the youth had simply nodded once, and got up, letting the hand towel fall as he did. Towering and naked, the attacking player had just stood there, every muscle shining, and then moving away towards the showers. Mason stripped as he followed, disappearing into the hot fug of the showers, clearly recently occupied by many hot showering men, but now simply by them - Mason practically tripped over in removing his boxers, scampering butt naked into the tiled space and following the taller younger player into the corner. When Rasmus turned around, he was already stroking himself, and his cock was proportionate to his lofty height - the Manchester club's self-assured new Scandinavian was stroking his big Danish meat into life, and Mase was on his knees in seconds, tongue out and eyes staring obediently upwards. Rasmus grunted once, closed his eyes, and thrust his hips forward, and Mount did the rest. He gobbled noisily on it, not even realising how much he'd been admiring the goal-scorer's bulge in recent weeks, and sucked quite furiously on that shaft until he was eating thick creamy cum and being patted on the head like a well-behaved dog as the 20-year-old swaggered complacently away. And now Mase sucked energetically on Dec's cock, which was so beautifully familiar, and felt an unusual pang of guilt for the way he'd noshed off Rasmus Hojland - since when did he feel like his mouth belonged to any one cock? Did he really feel guilty about Rasmus, or just about how he hadn't mentioned him yet...? Well, he assured himself, tonight is definitely not the time...! Declan flipped the lithe body of the slighter 25-year-old, pinning him down from behind and kissing him passionately on the shoulders, the spine, the back of his head. He rolled his hips so that his hard wet cock slid between those perfect peachy cheeks, building slowly up to the moment of entry, making Mason whine and beg in anticipation, then eventually giving him exactly what he wanted, hard and firm and urgent. He fucked hard, slamming the other lad noisily into the mattress, and he surprised himself a little with the frenzied energy of his action - but he really hadn't cum in a week, and he hadn't shagged Mason in almost a month, not properly. And... he was certainly a little more tense than he'd realised before the argument, though he'd instantly forgiven Mase for anything annoying that came out of his mouth. But he WAS tense, he couldn't deny it to himself, and it was hard to explain or clarify exactly why - he knew he was less relaxed and free-spirited than his giggly twink, but he thought he'd got a lot better over the years of their beautiful closeness. There was some dissonance, Dec supposed, between the jokey fun of the days when they played for Chelsea and West Ham respectively. Dec's Arsenal life was one with a Mason-shaped hole in it, and so he found it strange when his boyfriend made dirty jokes about Dec shagging his way around his new club, or nonsense suggestions to that effect - it was stupid, and just not funny or charming in the way it could have been. It made Rice feel nervous and insecure, and he knew this was mainly because he was finding it so hard to have his precious boy up here in Manchester and surrounded by so many distractions - he simply could not believe that Mason would settle into Old Trafford life and NOT move on without him, he just couldn't. Rice cursed his own insecurity, even as he ploughed the plump gorgeous arse of the Nike underwear model who had been showing off his latest photoshoot whilst they waited for the takeaway to arrive - `I'll ask Nike for some huge high-quality prints for you, haha' - and he thought awkwardly, distractedly, about how Mount wasn't entirely wrong. Just the other day, he reflected, he'd slipped in his usual self-restraint, and enjoyed a surprising little encounter with one of his teammates - and he really couldn't figure out why he hadn't brought it up when Mase rang him that same night, the night before the (marginally) younger guy's birthday. Declan knew that Mason would absolutely love hearing about his tryst with the Brazilian, and yet... talking about it just felt... wrong. It was just a hand-job, just that - it was a sing of how experienced and adventurous Declan now was that he could think so dismissively of the fact he'd held that big Latino cock in his right hand and tugged it off, whilst his own prick was roughly jerked in tandem. They'd been lying on massage treatment beds, both just wiped out and vegetative after intense physio sessions on parallel beds, just the other day - he and Jorge Luiz Frello, former hero of the Chelsea defensive line. They were chatting, but in an idle sporadic fashion, rather than any real continuous conversation. Declan couldn't remember what had made him turn his head and look across at the sight of Jorginho lying there in the same black Umbro briefs as himself, body exposed and shiny with massage oil too; he couldn't figure out what had summoned his attention to the right, but once he looked, the tentpole of the Brazilian's erection was all too obvious in the confining fabric. And then the Portuguese inflection of the other defensive midfielder's languid sigh. `I know,' purred the older man, the 32-year-old defector from Stamford Bridge to the Emirates. `Terrible, but massages do this to a man.' And Dec had laughed his agreement and mumbled something like `know the feeling' or `you're telling me', and begun to get hard in his briefs the second he said it. Soon they were both laying there on their backs, treatment beds awkwardly close, with cocks stretching in their briefs and a heavy syrupy silence settling the air over their oiled physiques. Who touched who first? He genuinely felt unsure, although it had only just happened on Tuesday afternoon. He found it hard to imagine himself reaching out and taking that risk, touching the hot toned form of the 5ft11 South American on the next bed - surely Jorginho had done something to initiate it first, had made the opening gambit? He had been in such a heady horny daze that he really didn't know - one minute they were lying there awkwardly, both rock hard in their confining briefs, and the next they had their hands on each other's exposed cocks, saying nothing as they jerked mutually, arms bashing rhythmically as they did so. Throughout the whole sordid excitement, Rice didn't look again to the right, he just stared up at the ceiling, and so he heard rather than saw the violent throws of Frello's orgasm, brought to noisy gasping completion by Dec's own hand; he felt some of the sticky evidence on his knuckles and he left his hand there limp at the man's hip, whilst an oiled hand continued to slide rapidly up and down his own trembling shaft until it became a fountainhead. And then they were lying there in silence again, and Dec was almost nodding off, post-coital and bewildered - and when next he looked to the right, Jorginho had gone, upped and left, or... had he imagined the whole thing? Had it been a post-massage fever dream? Had the Brazilian ever been there on the next bed?! Dec propped himself up on one elbow and stared at his right hand for a dizzy moment: the drying crackle of cum that streaked his knuckles told him that he hadn't dreamt a thing. When Mason came, he was bouncing up and down on his boyfriend's cock, rapturous as he pulled himself to completion and shot silvery droplets of jizz all up Declan's sweaty torso, even hitting his chin. He slowed but didn't stop, continuing to squat his cheeks up and down on that delicious shaft, opting for a teasing grind of his perfect peach whilst he squeezed the final oozing traces of cum from his own equipment - and he studied the orgasmic anticipation on Declan's clammy face, knowing exactly to prolong his golden moment, and then speeding up suddenly until he knew he'd tripped the switch. He climbed off Dec's cock and hunched over him, kissing his climactic sighs, and letting their strong muscular fronts rub and chafe, whilst Dec played with his quivering cock and rubbed its sticky tip across each of his cheeks. They lay in that position for many long moments of kissing before rolling apart and breaking into exhausted laughter. Whilst Dec did the sensible thing and got up to fetch towels or wipes, Mase just luxuriated on his back, the irrepressible smile of the morning blowjob returning to his features. A darker cloud had crossed the birthday date at dinnertime, and he knew it was his fault, but it felt like the loved-up pair had fucked that darkness away, and all was good. Long distance was effort, the Man Utd twink reflected, but it was worth it. He thought of Rasmus and decided that he wasn't worried after all - there was no difference really between what had happened with the new `Great Dane' of Old Trafford and any of his past indiscretions, at United or at Chelsea. It had been a hot and exciting little episode, and he'd just delicately withheld it from his boyfriend because the timing didn't feel right; it was an erotic tale to entertain the London stud with over a cam-wank on some future occasion, he decided, and he hoped it would drive Rice Cakes wild. His boyfriend was back, and wiping him down tenderly, kissing his face, whispering sweet nothings - Mason just folded into his embrace and became the proverbial little spoon, sleepy and contented and oblivious to anything but the feel of Declan's body around him. He didn't care how complicated or interrupted their love life was now because of their careers; he didn't care who they did or didn't get to play around with in each other's absences; he didn't care how much or little Dec wanted to discuss it or admit to; he just cared about THIS, being cuddled and held by the tall gorgeous geek. And Declan too was thinking about the preciousness of the moment, yanking the duvet over their sweaty bodies and kicking the dirty towel away. He held and cradled Mason's body, naked and close, and kissed the side of his neck soothingly, thinking that they would both be asleep in moments, their fuck had been so athletic and exhausting! But still, a part of his brain was a little feverish - not just at the memory of what had happened with Jorginho, but flashing across other small tensions of his Arsenal life... whether it was the strange curious glint in Aaron Ramsdale's eye when the blokey goalkeeper asked about his secret relationship, or changing room glimpses of Ben White's Love Island muscle tan - whether it was the odd frisson of competitiveness he sensed when training alongside that moody youngster Emile Smith-Rowe, or the lingering looks he sometimes noticed from his young Spanish manager on the training field - whether it was Kai Havertz showering a bit too close to him sometimes, all tall and sinewy, or William Saliba's apparent inability to wear underpants during gym sessions - and all of that without mentioning the occasional chummy conversation with fellow ex-Hammer Jack Wilshere as he and the Arsenal youth coach crossed paths, exchanging gossip about former colleagues and dancing around the fact they'd barely spoken since Dec sucked his big dick. There was a lot bubbling under the surface at Arsenal, and what truly terrified Declan was the idea that he might share all of this with his precious Mason, and have it met with... what? Disinterest or approval? What if he told his boyfriend of the little shockwave of sexual magnetism he'd caused at his new club, and... Mason just took it as a sign to move on, to find a sexy new boyfriend in Manchester, and...! Rice lay there, sleepless in Cheshire, feeling Mount unconscious and peaceful against him, and tried to stop the anxiety spiral: the more he kept this all to himself, the worse it made him feel, what an idiot. He resolved, as he had before, that he would bring it up at breakfast and be more honest with Mase about how hard he was finding long-distance... and yet he knew he wouldn't be able to, faced with fresh-faced energy from the other lad, and under pressure to get driving south again. No, he thought bitterly, you'll just go on worrying and overthinking, and inevitably do something to ruin this! The final minutes of his 25th birthday ticked away and he drifted slowly into confusing bad dreams, comforted only by the warm muscular form in his arms, which he hugged all the tighter, unready to let go. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Mon, 15 Jan 2024 20:47:58 +0000 From: writer guy &lt;premiershiplads@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Premiership Lads Part 383 Part 383: The Birthday Boys He watched the road from an upstairs window, rocking on his heels, unable to stop himself from monitoring the driveway even though he was sure he'd get a call as soon as the car was on the way into this villagey Cheshire suburb - practically a hamlet of footballer mansions, since he was renting the rather soulless new-build from one teammate and about four others were based within kicking distance, with a pretty convenient drive to the Manchester United training camp the main selling point. The interest of neighbours occurred to the 25-year-old at just that moment, but it was a momentary worry - the whole fucking League knew that he was best buddies with the imminent arrival, there was no secret there, and why should Mason Mount worry if they understood it any further? He was getting beyond caring how secret his relationship with Declan Rice was or wasn't, and increasingly sure why it was something known by a couple of his closest friends at Old Trafford. And there it was - the windows of this unused study room on the upper floor of the house had an unrivalled vantage point on the road into the village, and he recognised the car instantly, though Declan Rice owned several. And at the same moment, the young footballer felt the dull throb of a vibrating phone in one baggy pocket of his jogger bottoms, and he answered the call at the same time as scampering eagerly through the quiet rooms of the house, ready to meet and greet. `Hey,' growled the heavy masculine drone of Dec's sexy voice over the phone, even as the egine of his car was audible outside, `I'm pretty much here.' `I know,' Mason replied simply, `see you in a sec.' He was already at the door, pushing the phone back into his pocket, and watching the vague silhouette take shape through the warped lens of the blocky glass tiles in the door; he'd unlatched it before the doorbell even started ringing, and yanked it inwards. A playful smile lighting up his boyish features, Mason reached a single hand forward and grasped at the label of the un-trendy waterproof jacket his boyfriend was wearing, and dragged the taller stud heavily inwards so he could shove the door shut behind him with a gentle slam. Dec tumbled forward with gruff laughter, arms closing forward about him, and Mason leaned upwards to kiss him instantly, silencing whatever the visitor was about to say - their lips grazed and pecked and tongues darted teasingly against each other, while Mason relaxed into the hold, sliding hands under the ugly coat and rubbing them against the fleecy thermal top underneath, feeling the cold of outdoors against his boyfriend's tall frame. Dec kissed him once more, more deeply and assertively, and Mase melted into his hold for a moment before yanking back, rosy-cheeked. `I will have to go soon,' he warned regretfully. `I know, I know, I rushed so I could see you before you did,' puffed Rice a little breathlessly. `I've probably got half a dozen speeding tickets, ha ha.' `Happy birthday,' Mason cut him off, remembering himself - although he'd obviously already wished him such by text and call earlier in the morning, shortly before Declan set off from outer London and whizzed up the motorway here - and they kissed again, before Declan returned the sentiment - `And you, baby boy,' he murmured, since the two lads were turning 25 only a few days apart, and this was the only way they'd been able to make their schedules work together... and even now, Mason soon had to be at Carrington with his neighbours to assemble for today's home game against Tottenham, despite not being fit enough to be named in the squad. He'd repeatedly told Dec on the phone that he would pull a sickie and tell his coaches he wasn't well enough to come support the team at Old Trafford, but his honourable and supportive boyfriend had insisted that he needed to show face and keep up the commitment. And so here Dec was, having rushed up as early as he could to be here before he was due to register with his squad. `You shouldn't have hurried,' Mase scolded him quietly, unable to stop smiling. `I mean, obviously I want you here, but I'm so sorry I'll be pissing off and spending most of the day with the team, and-' `It's fine,' Dec insisted, kissing him on the brow, and cuddling into his shoulders. `I needed to see you, didn't want to wait until you were free later. I was being selfish, if anything.' `Whatever,' the Man Utd player chuckled very quietly, unable to associate that word with his partner, and stroking his muscles through the fleece. `Birthday boy, driving up the country just for me... I love you, handsome.' They kissed, and Mason felt a dirty idea become concrete in his mind - if he drove as fast as Dec had, then he needn't leave for Carrington QUITE yet, he had a bit more time to kill, and maybe long enough to... he relaxed his body, letting his hands slide down the rustling sleeves of Dec's jacket, the two of them still standing here in the entrance of his hallway. Dec's face twitched with question, angling to one side, a wordless question forming in his frown and half-smile - Mason bent at the knees, sinking and smirking. Down he went, down to his knees in the hallway, kneeling down in front of the fully-dressed driver who was huffing and shivering in front of him. Their eyes locked, Mason kneeling before his man - and he undid the button fly of the chino pants, while Declan finally mumbled out the words that had formed: `Mase, you need to...' `I need to wish you a happy birthday before anything else,' the grinning 25-year-old told his dream-boy, and he licked his lips, and set about freeing that gorgeous cock and sucking it to rapid hardness, eager to show just how happy he was to see his long-distance partner. Declan stopped Mason short of emptying his balls, but only just - it was a brief but delicious bit of oral, swaying side to side on the inside of the doorway, feeling exposed and risque even though they were safely inside the house. It was just a couple of minutes but it sent the birthday lad into reveries of pleasure and satisfaction, leaning heavily back into the door, and stroking fingertips through the short spikes of tawny hair. It was only an effort of great willpower that allowed him to move his dick free and encourage Mase up onto his feet, pointing out the time to him and forcing him to go get organised - `Besides,' the Arsenal midfielder panted unsteadily to his lad, `I don't want to waste this seven-day load on your pretty face now, when I could put it in your arse later.' And they kissed wetly before Mason nodded and set about getting his shit together, rubbing a hard-on in his joggers as he did - Declan followed him in a happy daze, chatting to him about the drive up and the strangely busy week he'd had despite no Arsenal fixture this weekend. And soon he was alone, `abandoned' in Mason's words, but effusively reassuring his host that it had been worth the entire journey just for a kiss, never mind the feel of his hot wet mouth on his aching prick. And once alone, Dec actually had to fight himself not to finish the job, he was so fucking aroused! He found himself napping in the master bedroom and staring around it at scattered possessions of the occupant, wanting to cuddle up to one of his boyfriend's jumpers or scarves and just wank himself silly. But he didn't, meaning what he'd said earlier - he wanted to enjoy a proper fuck later, and he had been saving up his juices for his hungry lover all week! So it was a day of chaste waiting for the Arsenal star, who knew that there was something vaguely mad about this plan for his 25th, but he was glad that they'd worked out even this scanty compromise, given their schedules. He had enjoyed some days off himself this week, but they had been mismatched with Mason's schedule up here, and neither were sure what they'd be able to manage during the so-called `winter break' of lessened fixtures. It really was testing them both, this long-distance situation, but both young lads threw themselves uncomplainingly into the effort, never wanting to guilt or trouble the other with how much thought and effort was needed to arrange meets. The inconvenient realities of living at opposite ends of England were exaggerated by the way things had been before - playing for opposite London clubs but sharing the same cute city apartment and seeing each other almost every day. For Declan, this contrast was perhaps even more obvious, since he still lived in Mason's Chelsea apartment, not quite able to bring himself to move further north to somewhere more convenient for his Arsenal work. Instead, the tall defensive midfielder was living out his season in the flat that should be shared, the steward of Mason's life and belongings left behind. Sometimes Rice felt like one of those belongings, something cast aside like an old stuffed animal or unwanted t-shirt, but he knew that was unfair, and he kept that thought to himself. After a fitful nap, Rice occupied one of the three lounge spaces downstairs, battling the complicated controls of a huge TV, and drifting off into a second nap with a familiar sitcom jittering away on-screen. He felt disoriented and fuzzy when he was woken by the phone call of Mount exiting Carrington and heading home, and instructing him which Thai restaurant he was to start ordering their takeaway from - the call ended and Dec just lay there in a pleasant daze, letting Mason's sweet voice play over in his ear. He'd barely figured out the delivery app and identified the instructed eatery when he heard the car arrive and was swinging his long muscular legs off the couch to get up and greet his fellow birthday boy - for all of the effort and loneliness of the special day so far, he was drunk on love, just delighted to be here and to be spending the evening and night with his special boy. Mason was glad when the meal was over and they were settling down on the sofa together - he hadn't meant to ruin the loved-up atmosphere of the takeaway feast in the conservatory dining room, but he always spoke at a mile per minute, and he was especially hyper today. He did think Declan had overreacted somewhat, although he understood that the rules and dynamics were a little different now, with the distance to contend with, they weren't in the safe bubble of the London flat any more, living in each other's pockets and able to joke about anything and everything. But there was something about the spat that left a nasty taste in his mouth and reminded him of the more fraught early period of their relationship, when Dec's insecure jealousy had often rocked the boat and put them in doubt - a tension that he'd considered long in the past until just now. `Tell me who you've fucked on the team, then,' Mase had half-joked, even as they were just serving the curry and rice dishes at the counter together, tickling and cuddling at the taller footballer lad, and then soon after, `Has Arteta made a move on you yet, the old perv?' All in good humour, he thought, just giggles and stupidity, and not the kind of thing that was beyond their usual banter - their own intense sexual chemistry had never fully precluded extra-curricular fun, and cheekily updating each other on any random exploits had at one point become relished dirty talk. Argument resolved and cuddles moving to the couch and movie time, Mason regretted that he had pushed it any further, quietly accepting that he'd overstepped a line and goaded Dec into the little row that had broken out across the table. `Has Ramsdale tried to suck your dick since he caught you cam-wanking with me, hehe?' he'd asked more specifically, when the Arsenal goalkeeper came up in conversation - he knew that Rice found the cam-wank incident far less hilarious than Mount did, even if the seeming drama had worked out perfectly fine, and accidentally earned Declan a solid ally and confidante in the Emirates domain. `For fuck's sake,' the other 25-year-old player burst out at him over the table, thumping a fist on it and making the cutlery and crockery shake. `Can you stop chatting shit about all my teammates and pushing me into having sex with everyone in the fucking world who isn't my boyfriend, for god's sake?' Cue awkward silence, lack of eye contact, noisy eating as if they were at two separate meals - and then muttered apologies, Mason first and Declan rapidly afterwards, and then stilted uncomfortable conversation as they tried to get a birthday date night back on track. And then another awkward silence as this failed, before Declan pushed his food away and spoke out emotively, `I am sorry, baby, I just wish we were out doing something fancier, something more public - I'm sorry that our birthday celebration together is a stupid takeaway in Cheshire, and-' Mason was up off his seat in seconds, moving around the table, and cuddling Declan from above, kissing him on the crown. `Every second with you is perfect,' he told him earnestly, then kissed him on the temple and stole a chilli prawn off his plate to pop in his mouth. `I couldn't give a fuck about all the places we could be - this shitty dull house is everywhere I want to be whilst you're in it, okay? It's me who should be sorry - I was being giddy and stupid, sorry.' On the sofa, the half-joked topics did still play on his mind: he knew that Dec wasn't 100% celebate in a Mason-less London, and had practically insisted on that fact when he signed his United contract and they agreed they could make this work. He'd been firm and pushy with his boyfriend that he needed to satisfy his urges and live well, at Arsenal and on England duty, even in his absence... perhaps he'd been TOO firm and pushy on that, and tonight's little spat was long-held resentment at that? But no... they'd agreed it, and he'd listened to Dec wank furiously over the phone whilst he talked him through an early threesome with Shaw and Maguire in his first month of Manchester life. They were deeply committed to each other, but comfortably open, within reason - but he knew he'd been too specific and too persistent with his jokey comments about Arsenal fun. If Declan didn't feel able to be as playful and flippant about fun beyond their relationship, then he should probably just respect that and stop winding him up. The movie was okay, he presumed, but he couldn't concentrate on it - he really was still too giddy, too excitable, to turned on. He shifted and flexed in the spooning position against Declan's taller frame, pushing back into him with his back muscles and lower, gently grinding his bottom back into the crotch of those chinos. He felt the hold of Dec's arm and the grip of his hand tense a little across his side and front, and then slow warm breaths on the back of his neck advanced into a gentle grazing kiss at the nape. He moaned quietly, and then felt that breath move to his ear. `Upstairs?' Dec asked him, and Mase whispered, `Yes.' Still, strolling through the carpeted house hand in hand, travelling through into the house's master bedroom, Mount did look at Rice and wonder just how established his sexy boyfriend was in the Arsenal hierarchy, and in a more generally curious manner, whether the North London club was as rife with simmering sexual politics as the two big Premiership clubs that Mase himself had played for - it was a mixture of nosey curiosity and his own genuine sexual devotion to the 6t1 man leading him to bed and closing the curtains. Across the bed from him, the strapping defensive player ripped the fleece top off and the vest below, baring his slim ripped torso, and staring intensely this way with eyes full of lust. Mason wished privately that Declan could be a bit more open and expressive about his desires, because he thought it was easier and healthier - keeping Dec informed of his own naughty little episodes felt like a way of keeping them loyal and close, he hated the idea of doing stuff and NOT reporting it to his boyfriend, and he LOVED the idea of those stories sometimes getting Dec especially horny and aggressive in bed. And yet... well, he hadn't shared his latest little adventure with this sexy bugger, had he? Was that because he'd subconsciously picked up on this resentment before tonight's outburst, or because he didn't quite know how to narrate it...? Or had there been something different in what happened last month with the 20-year-old Dane...? Mason hadn't even trained with the main squad that day in December, he'd been doing one-on-one stuff with his specialist physio, but somehow their paths had crossed, and he'd ended up in the changing rooms with just Rasmus Hojland - it seemed like the young Danish forward had been putting extra hours in on his weights training or something, because he was the only first team player still loitering about. Or, Mason had dared to greedily suspect, the 6ft3 youngster had been in there waiting for him specifically, because there was something almost posed and attention-seeking in the way he turned that corner and found him, resting on the bench with his long muscular legs spread and just a tiny hand-towel draped over his naked crotch, stripped off and ready for his shower, but steam practically rising from his smooth hard muscles. Not a word had been spoken, as far as he could remember, from the second he entered that changing area and the moment he left in a clean tracksuit with a smirk on his lips - in the thirty minutes of pure physical delight that transpired, they communicated only with their eyes, and Rasmus' eyes could communicate quite a lot. Silently, Mason began to walk past the seated man-spread of the naked lad, then stopped right in front of him, giving an appreciate sidelong stare; Rasmus stared back at him with that Viking intensity he had, looking like some pornographic vision that had risen out of the clammy mists of the nearby showers, or the depths of Mason's overactive imagination. And then, as if reading his dirtiest thoughts, the youth had simply nodded once, and got up, letting the hand towel fall as he did. Towering and naked, the attacking player had just stood there, every muscle shining, and then moving away towards the showers. Mason stripped as he followed, disappearing into the hot fug of the showers, clearly recently occupied by many hot showering men, but now simply by them - Mason practically tripped over in removing his boxers, scampering butt naked into the tiled space and following the taller younger player into the corner. When Rasmus turned around, he was already stroking himself, and his cock was proportionate to his lofty height - the Manchester club's self-assured new Scandinavian was stroking his big Danish meat into life, and Mase was on his knees in seconds, tongue out and eyes staring obediently upwards. Rasmus grunted once, closed his eyes, and thrust his hips forward, and Mount did the rest. He gobbled noisily on it, not even realising how much he'd been admiring the goal-scorer's bulge in recent weeks, and sucked quite furiously on that shaft until he was eating thick creamy cum and being patted on the head like a well-behaved dog as the 20-year-old swaggered complacently away. And now Mase sucked energetically on Dec's cock, which was so beautifully familiar, and felt an unusual pang of guilt for the way he'd noshed off Rasmus Hojland - since when did he feel like his mouth belonged to any one cock? Did he really feel guilty about Rasmus, or just about how he hadn't mentioned him yet...? Well, he assured himself, tonight is definitely not the time...! Declan flipped the lithe body of the slighter 25-year-old, pinning him down from behind and kissing him passionately on the shoulders, the spine, the back of his head. He rolled his hips so that his hard wet cock slid between those perfect peachy cheeks, building slowly up to the moment of entry, making Mason whine and beg in anticipation, then eventually giving him exactly what he wanted, hard and firm and urgent. He fucked hard, slamming the other lad noisily into the mattress, and he surprised himself a little with the frenzied energy of his action - but he really hadn't cum in a week, and he hadn't shagged Mason in almost a month, not properly. And... he was certainly a little more tense than he'd realised before the argument, though he'd instantly forgiven Mase for anything annoying that came out of his mouth. But he WAS tense, he couldn't deny it to himself, and it was hard to explain or clarify exactly why - he knew he was less relaxed and free-spirited than his giggly twink, but he thought he'd got a lot better over the years of their beautiful closeness. There was some dissonance, Dec supposed, between the jokey fun of the days when they played for Chelsea and West Ham respectively. Dec's Arsenal life was one with a Mason-shaped hole in it, and so he found it strange when his boyfriend made dirty jokes about Dec shagging his way around his new club, or nonsense suggestions to that effect - it was stupid, and just not funny or charming in the way it could have been. It made Rice feel nervous and insecure, and he knew this was mainly because he was finding it so hard to have his precious boy up here in Manchester and surrounded by so many distractions - he simply could not believe that Mason would settle into Old Trafford life and NOT move on without him, he just couldn't. Rice cursed his own insecurity, even as he ploughed the plump gorgeous arse of the Nike underwear model who had been showing off his latest photoshoot whilst they waited for the takeaway to arrive - `I'll ask Nike for some huge high-quality prints for you, haha' - and he thought awkwardly, distractedly, about how Mount wasn't entirely wrong. Just the other day, he reflected, he'd slipped in his usual self-restraint, and enjoyed a surprising little encounter with one of his teammates - and he really couldn't figure out why he hadn't brought it up when Mase rang him that same night, the night before the (marginally) younger guy's birthday. Declan knew that Mason would absolutely love hearing about his tryst with the Brazilian, and yet... talking about it just felt... wrong. It was just a hand-job, just that - it was a sing of how experienced and adventurous Declan now was that he could think so dismissively of the fact he'd held that big Latino cock in his right hand and tugged it off, whilst his own prick was roughly jerked in tandem. They'd been lying on massage treatment beds, both just wiped out and vegetative after intense physio sessions on parallel beds, just the other day - he and Jorge Luiz Frello, former hero of the Chelsea defensive line. They were chatting, but in an idle sporadic fashion, rather than any real continuous conversation. Declan couldn't remember what had made him turn his head and look across at the sight of Jorginho lying there in the same black Umbro briefs as himself, body exposed and shiny with massage oil too; he couldn't figure out what had summoned his attention to the right, but once he looked, the tentpole of the Brazilian's erection was all too obvious in the confining fabric. And then the Portuguese inflection of the other defensive midfielder's languid sigh. `I know,' purred the older man, the 32-year-old defector from Stamford Bridge to the Emirates. `Terrible, but massages do this to a man.' And Dec had laughed his agreement and mumbled something like `know the feeling' or `you're telling me', and begun to get hard in his briefs the second he said it. Soon they were both laying there on their backs, treatment beds awkwardly close, with cocks stretching in their briefs and a heavy syrupy silence settling the air over their oiled physiques. Who touched who first? He genuinely felt unsure, although it had only just happened on Tuesday afternoon. He found it hard to imagine himself reaching out and taking that risk, touching the hot toned form of the 5ft11 South American on the next bed - surely Jorginho had done something to initiate it first, had made the opening gambit? He had been in such a heady horny daze that he really didn't know - one minute they were lying there awkwardly, both rock hard in their confining briefs, and the next they had their hands on each other's exposed cocks, saying nothing as they jerked mutually, arms bashing rhythmically as they did so. Throughout the whole sordid excitement, Rice didn't look again to the right, he just stared up at the ceiling, and so he heard rather than saw the violent throws of Frello's orgasm, brought to noisy gasping completion by Dec's own hand; he felt some of the sticky evidence on his knuckles and he left his hand there limp at the man's hip, whilst an oiled hand continued to slide rapidly up and down his own trembling shaft until it became a fountainhead. And then they were lying there in silence again, and Dec was almost nodding off, post-coital and bewildered - and when next he looked to the right, Jorginho had gone, upped and left, or... had he imagined the whole thing? Had it been a post-massage fever dream? Had the Brazilian ever been there on the next bed?! Dec propped himself up on one elbow and stared at his right hand for a dizzy moment: the drying crackle of cum that streaked his knuckles told him that he hadn't dreamt a thing. When Mason came, he was bouncing up and down on his boyfriend's cock, rapturous as he pulled himself to completion and shot silvery droplets of jizz all up Declan's sweaty torso, even hitting his chin. He slowed but didn't stop, continuing to squat his cheeks up and down on that delicious shaft, opting for a teasing grind of his perfect peach whilst he squeezed the final oozing traces of cum from his own equipment - and he studied the orgasmic anticipation on Declan's clammy face, knowing exactly to prolong his golden moment, and then speeding up suddenly until he knew he'd tripped the switch. He climbed off Dec's cock and hunched over him, kissing his climactic sighs, and letting their strong muscular fronts rub and chafe, whilst Dec played with his quivering cock and rubbed its sticky tip across each of his cheeks. They lay in that position for many long moments of kissing before rolling apart and breaking into exhausted laughter. Whilst Dec did the sensible thing and got up to fetch towels or wipes, Mase just luxuriated on his back, the irrepressible smile of the morning blowjob returning to his features. A darker cloud had crossed the birthday date at dinnertime, and he knew it was his fault, but it felt like the loved-up pair had fucked that darkness away, and all was good. Long distance was effort, the Man Utd twink reflected, but it was worth it. He thought of Rasmus and decided that he wasn't worried after all - there was no difference really between what had happened with the new `Great Dane' of Old Trafford and any of his past indiscretions, at United or at Chelsea. It had been a hot and exciting little episode, and he'd just delicately withheld it from his boyfriend because the timing didn't feel right; it was an erotic tale to entertain the London stud with over a cam-wank on some future occasion, he decided, and he hoped it would drive Rice Cakes wild. His boyfriend was back, and wiping him down tenderly, kissing his face, whispering sweet nothings - Mason just folded into his embrace and became the proverbial little spoon, sleepy and contented and oblivious to anything but the feel of Declan's body around him. He didn't care how complicated or interrupted their love life was now because of their careers; he didn't care who they did or didn't get to play around with in each other's absences; he didn't care how much or little Dec wanted to discuss it or admit to; he just cared about THIS, being cuddled and held by the tall gorgeous geek. And Declan too was thinking about the preciousness of the moment, yanking the duvet over their sweaty bodies and kicking the dirty towel away. He held and cradled Mason's body, naked and close, and kissed the side of his neck soothingly, thinking that they would both be asleep in moments, their fuck had been so athletic and exhausting! But still, a part of his brain was a little feverish - not just at the memory of what had happened with Jorginho, but flashing across other small tensions of his Arsenal life... whether it was the strange curious glint in Aaron Ramsdale's eye when the blokey goalkeeper asked about his secret relationship, or changing room glimpses of Ben White's Love Island muscle tan - whether it was the odd frisson of competitiveness he sensed when training alongside that moody youngster Emile Smith-Rowe, or the lingering looks he sometimes noticed from his young Spanish manager on the training field - whether it was Kai Havertz showering a bit too close to him sometimes, all tall and sinewy, or William Saliba's apparent inability to wear underpants during gym sessions - and all of that without mentioning the occasional chummy conversation with fellow ex-Hammer Jack Wilshere as he and the Arsenal youth coach crossed paths, exchanging gossip about former colleagues and dancing around the fact they'd barely spoken since Dec sucked his big dick. There was a lot bubbling under the surface at Arsenal, and what truly terrified Declan was the idea that he might share all of this with his precious Mason, and have it met with... what? Disinterest or approval? What if he told his boyfriend of the little shockwave of sexual magnetism he'd caused at his new club, and... Mason just took it as a sign to move on, to find a sexy new boyfriend in Manchester, and...! Rice lay there, sleepless in Cheshire, feeling Mount unconscious and peaceful against him, and tried to stop the anxiety spiral: the more he kept this all to himself, the worse it made him feel, what an idiot. He resolved, as he had before, that he would bring it up at breakfast and be more honest with Mase about how hard he was finding long-distance... and yet he knew he wouldn't be able to, faced with fresh-faced energy from the other lad, and under pressure to get driving south again. No, he thought bitterly, you'll just go on worrying and overthinking, and inevitably do something to ruin this! The final minutes of his 25th birthday ticked away and he drifted slowly into confusing bad dreams, comforted only by the warm muscular form in his arms, which he hugged all the tighter, unready to let go. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-380

Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2023 21:14:01 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 380 Part 380: The Ex Factor Sunday meant recovery day, squashed in the brief turnaround between yesterday's home win over Malta and tomorrow's trip to North Macedonia for the last qualification game for the 2024 Euros. It also meant that the men were put up in a central London hotel, rather than back to their main camp at St George's Park, or even the Tottenham Hotspur facilities that sometimes housed them around Wembley fixtures. It wasn't ideal from a training or scheduling point of view, but for older players like this 33-year-old, it was a pleasing excuse to take today relatively easy, and to maximise the recovery time between the two low-stakes England games. Though he grinned and bore the odd bit of teasing, Jordan Henderson knew that though there was no denying it: his playing life at Al-Ettifaq had allowed him to take the foot off the gas somewhat, and he'd found the intensity of England training last week quite tough after all. He'd gladly taken the central midfield position again for his country, and he hoped he could make it to at least this one last tournament under Southgate's leadership... but it had not been an easy week for the former Liverpool captain, far from it. It wasn't Henderson's first England camp since quitting the Premiership, nor since his break-up with his Liverpudlian boy, but it was the first one where he might have dared to hope for a thaw in the icy relations between he and the young Scouser; such hopes had proved false and naive, given the sharp glares he'd received from Trent on the arrival afternoon, in every training session of the week, and when the pair of them were lined up in the middle of the squad formation on Saturday night. It was crushing for Jordan, the guilt and anguish of looking into that beautiful sullen face and seeing nothing but cold resentment - but then what had he expected, really? And his attempts to bridge that gulf, to make some kind of peace, none of them had gone well... Not in the last couple of months when the two of them had met up in the England squad, nor this week in November as they finalised England's seeding for next summer. It was early afternoon, and Jordan was finished with his workout in one of the hotel's several spacious gyms, earbuds playing chill-out R&B as he threw the sweat towel about his sturdy neck and made his way out through the changing rooms, quick nods of acknowledgement to Trippier and to Ramsdale on his way past various teammates. Today was less communal than usual, the hotel's facilities not lending themselves to real serious training, rather breakout groups and personalised schedules of minor fitness work and deep recovery activity - and Jordan was glad that his next activity on such personal schedule was just a dip in the ice bath. Moving through the changing facilities, the 6ft Sunderland man peeled his gym top away, sleeveless lycra pulling away from the tanned musculature of his torso, as showy and ripped as it had been as he primed himself this summer, knowing a big-money transfer was on the cards. And, he supposed, that his day-to-day life would involve a lot more time poolside at his family's huge new home, rather than facing drab Merseyside autumn - he pictured a training day at the Liverpool ground, him and the lads jostling through chill rain, a romanticised haze falling over the downsides of Northern England, and a composite memory forming of his eyes meeting Trent's through the drizzle, sharing a knowing smile with his young boyfriend, and then finding each other's bodies in the shadows afterward. Off came the shorts too, dropped to his ankles and the longer compression shorts below peeled down with them, so that he was just in the black sports briefs that clung firmly to his hard glutes and sweaty package. Sock after sock rolled off and towel grabbed from the shelf of his locker, just as he heard the doors swing and caught sight of the other shiny-faced gym-goer emerging from the same exit behind him, also done with his fitness plan and ready to cool down. `Oh hey,' Hendo murmured vaguely, a little distracted by images of Liverpool in the rain, and he waved a hand in general greeting. Like him, the other England player was lost in the music of his earphones, and didn't immediately even seem to notice him, whipping his England training top away and spinning it recklessly in one hand, then pausing with wide eyes and raised brows, a trademark dopey expression creasing his scruffy face - `Oh, hiya,' trilled Jack Grealish cheerfully, snapping out of the daze of whatever dance track he was lost in, returning the wave. `Phwor,' the Brummie lad cawed instantly, `look at that six-pack, old man, I thought you said you'd let things go a bit since moving to Saudi...?' And chuckling brightly to himself, DJ Grealo went strutting past, earphones still in, humming loudly along, and then stopping a few lockers down the row. `Ice bath?' he asked matter-of-factly, and Jordan nodded. `Yup. Much needed. My legs, mate, my legs.' Jack grinned and nodded. `Getting old, Hendo, for fuck's sake.' `Sure am,' Jordan chuckled quietly, unfolding the towel to wrap more discreetly about his waist, and then taking long strides past the other player, just as Jack began to stoop over to plunge down his under-sized training shorts; Jordan was still thinking about wet Liverpool training kits, and grabbing hold of Trent's strong body in the darkness behind the kit shed, pushing the Scouse hunk in against a concrete wall and tickling his sensitive neck with the fluff of his own beard, whispering sweet nothings in his ear - he missed it so much, and yet it had been him who threw it away, hadn't it? Yes, Trent Alexander-Arnold thought bitterly, looking at the doors out of the gym, still hunched over the front of the exercise bike he had been powering against, but had now allowed to lull to a stop under his powerful limbs. Yes, it was all that fucker's fault, so he couldn't see why old Jordan had to make puppy dog eyes at him on his way past all the time, or give him those martyr looks on the pitch last night, as if they should have some kind of kiss-and-make-up in the middle of an England game just cos one of them had made a good pass to the other. The 25-year-old Liverpudlian was hardly going to start drama and conflict, kick up a fuss and refuse to play alongside his former skipper, he wasn't either that much of a dickhead or that careless about his international career... but he sure wasn't going to forgive and forget, and just allow things to be pushed under the rug. Jordan Henderson had dropped him like he was nothing the day he signed his Saudi contract, and Trent had been forced to learn about this movement alongside many of his teammates as it was announced on the training pitch, not in any private communication with the man who came inside him and whispered `I love you' in his ear, all tickling beard and tight powerful embrace. Fuck him, Trent thought bitterly, fuck him and his apology stares and nice-guy act, fuck him. Sweaty and irritated, the defender-turned-midfielder left the gym a couple of minutes after his ex, taking a slow route out, topping up his water bottle by the door and making idle chatter with the younger England newbies who were resting there, then disappearing into the locker-room off to the side. He was glad enough that there was no sign of Henderson himself in here - it looked like Grealish was just exiting off in one direction, strutting away ostentatiously in tiny black pants with a rolled towel over one shoulder, the bloody show-off, and this left just a couple of other occupants: Guehi was getting dressed after a shower, apparently heading upstairs for a massage treatment, and Bowen and Rice seemed to be enjoying a West Ham gossip catch-up in various states of undress by the showers. Suppressing his heated mood, Alexander-Arnold made bland conversation with the three of them, hovering alone at his locker, knowing that he ought to shower off and do the same as the Palace player - he was due a few physio treatments himself after playing a full 90 minutes in the Malta win - but feeling vaguely that he was unready to try and unwind like that, still restless and furtive. He loitered at his locker, fussing pointlessly with his things, and scratching at his bare thick arms, wondering how much he could delay the remains of his schedule without getting in any trouble with Southgate's underlings. He just didn't want to lie somewhere and be told by a physio masseur that he had loads of tense knots in his back or his legs - yeah, of course he fucking did, he'd been dumped unceremoniously by the love of his life, the handsome rugged DILF who had turned his world upside down. Sure, he was doing his best to get on with Liverpool life with him, but the best that had offered him was an awkward unrequited crush on that mysterious newcomer Dominik Szoboszlai, and a few near-meets on Grindr that he'd panicked and blocked at the last minute; so much for young, free, and single. Sad, sexless, and lonely, that had been Trent's reality for half this year. It suddenly occurred to Trent that there was only one clear way for him to release some of this tension, and he slammed his locker shut in a hurry, making the West Ham buddies look up from where they sat. He ignored them and disappeared back through to the gym, but turning away to the left into a separate fitness suite where he'd spied the swinging boxing targets and racks of gloves. A leathery thud told him that he wasn't the first to deviate from the prescribed regime and seek out such release - the 25-year-old shifted between the pendulous stuffed weights, picking up and strapping on a pair of boxing gloves with dextrous ease. He slipped into the centre of the room and found out who was on his wavelength: the central hanging target swung violently his way and he caught it, staring past it to the gleaming shirtless figure who had been pummelling gloved fists into it, his lean body heaving with exertion and almost reflective in its sweaty shimmer. The other man relaxed his fighter's stance at the realisation of company, and Trent allowed the weighted target to swing away form his awkward grip, giving a nod across to the other gloved man, who was panting and rolling his shoulders, stripped down to just his Nike under-shorts. `Just needed to throw some punches,' Marcus Rashford told him simply. `Sure,' Trent agreed. `Same, bro, same.' `Does me good,' grunted the thick accent of the Manc-born forward, relaxing further. `I know, nothing like it,' his Liverpool rival muttered, taking steps towards him. Rashford looked done, as if he'd been in here for quite a while, slamming punches into the targets; he began to undo the straps of the gloves, with some difficulty with both hands contained. `Here,' Trent said quietly, using his under-arm to remove one of his own and then reaching across to help, bringing them close together, and filling Trent's nostrils with the rich manly scent of Marcus' physicality. `There you go, lad.' Rashford paused, looking at him with terse gratitude, and then pulled away, tossing both used gloves aside. He cracked his knuckles and stood there, throbbing with heat and exhaustion, the intricate tattoos standing out on the dark shiny skin of his muscles. `You wanna punch these things, or want me to grab some pads and help?' he offered in an almost begrudging series of grunts, something weary and cynical in his face; Trent paused to consider this, surprised at the friendly offer, though the two of them had always had a decent relationship that set aside their cities' rivalry entirely. `Sure,' the 25-year-old agreed after a moment's thought, `I can throw some punches at you, be a bit more fun with a moving target. Cheers, Rashers. Just let me tighten these gloves properly, then get ready to feel my fury.' Some dreaded it, but Jordan enjoyed dipping much of his body into the deep square plunge pool, feeling it do its work on the aching muscles of his strong legs and his lower torso, towel discarded on the poolside shelf. He toyed with his phone as he did, firstly setting the timer so that he kept his lower half submerged for the correct allotted time, but then checking a few messages and, lastly, turning to the camera icon on his social media and poking an elbow into the other lad using the pool. `Here,' he grunted in his Mackem accent, `let's get a selfie for the gram, shall we?' A pic with the English sport's most popular face was hardly gonna damage his online presence, which had dwindled slightly after his transfer away from the Premiership and the mountain of hypocritical drama about his Saudi deal. Crouched to the other side and inspecting his own phone, Jack just made a slight `hmm' and only half turned, whilst Jordan lifted and angled the phone to get a good selfie angle: he kept angling it, wanting to reduce the amount of his own body in shot, not wanting it to be too thirsty or desperate in showing off his pecs or abs, which would just get him in hot water with his wife, who'd been convinced he was cheating on her before they agreed to leave Liverpool. He couldn't blame the deal and the break-up entirely on her suspicions, but it had certainly been a sensible factor. No, he didn't want this to look like a `thirst trap', as the kids called it, so he angled it to get in slightly more of Jack than himself, though he couldn't help but feel that he looked very ruggedly handsome as it caught his jawline and smize. And behind him, next to him in the ice pool, an almost forced smile from Jack, swaddled with white towel over his shoulders, highlighted curtains parted over his whiskered face. Click, caption, post. Jordan hovered at one side of the narrow pool, applying a filter and typing on the text, `Ice bath with this legend', tagging Jack Grealish in it, and inspecting the image properly: yep, he looked pretty good, he thought with rare vanity, and he dared to wonder what Trent might think, seeing him like this, seeing just how good he looked... but that was dumb. Trent could see his handsomeness every time they passed each other in their hotels and gyms and shared football pitches, and the youngster didn't show anything but lingering hate. The love they'd shared was over, Jordan thought, and he needed to accept that, having trashed it himself with his own decisions and his cowardice in failing to inform the lad in time. How many times had he almost confessed the plan to Trent, before it was too late...? He kept looking at the picture for a moment longer before hitting post and sending it to his story - yeah, he looked good, but so did Jack, coquettishly handsome like something from a 90s boyband, even with the towel about his shoulders like a chilly midwinter granny. And a slight curve of tanned back on show, thanks to Jordan's attempts to angle the shot away from his own muscles - and the other player's backside, framed against the surface of the water, enclosed in black and, Jordan thought with an internal laugh, almost shrunk by the distortion of the ice-cold pool, because in real life that trunk was way chunkier! He'd hit post, and within seconds found that he wasn't the only one to notice this about the posted selfie: `Gawd, don't my bum look cute there, haha,' drawled the Man City hero behind him, laughing hoarsely, clearly inspecting the notification from being tagged in Hendo's post; as if he'd hardly noticed this in the picture, Jordan half-turned, responding with just a vague `Hmm?' and placing his phone carefully beyond his folded towel. `Why'd you post my arse on Insta?' Jack demanded, but through a smug chuckle as if really enjoying the framing of his pert backside in such skimpy black sports briefs. `God, the thirsty messages I'll be getting after that, you dick - it's bad enough as it is.' He giggled to himself, still thumbing away at his phone and bent gently forward in the same posture - so that as Jordan turned to address him, he found himself facing the magnificent view in the watery flesh, looking the 5ft8 winger up and down, from his stylish hair and superhero towel cape to the curve of his back and hips, the distorted meatiness of his submerged legs, and the perfect black backside of those briefs, which looked so much fuller and bigger in front of him, far better than their dainty framing in the selfie. For some reason, Hendo couldn't help himself. `I just needed to share the view,' he chuckled warmly, propping his hands back against one side of the pool, and staring fully down Jack's rear, enjoying the masterpiece he could see with an appreciation for the male form that had taken years to develop - he really hadn't known what he was doing when, several years ago, he'd allowed those first hungover touches to be shared with his best mate Lallana in the spare bedroom of his marital home. `I look like such a tease,' Grealish groaned as he turned about to face him, sounding like he was exactly 50% worried and 50% delighted. Hendo still stared at the view, now the broad smooth chest and toned tummy, the bulging front of those briefs again distorted and shrank by the perspective of the water - and when the City player looked up from his phone, he seemed instantly to recognise the thoughtfulness of the stare. Or was Jack the Lad really incapable of looking at anyone without a flirty glint in his eye and a cheeky slant to his grin? That was possible. `Hey, were you looking at my arse?' the attacking player demanded simply. Jordan rolled his eyes. `It was a selfie,' he said. `I just thought I'd post a pic of us in recovery. For the fans, y'know.' `Not there, but now,' Jack laughed, pushing it. `You were looking at me.' `What?' Hendo asked, but it seemed hard to deny - he'd been staring so openly as the younger guy turned around to face him, and he was annoyed that it had been noticed. He gave him a strained smile, shrugging his broad bare shoulders, trying to evade this. `Stop fretting, I bet you love the pic - it's hardly more than the stuff you've done for magazines in the last couple of years, Little Beckham.' Confusingly, Grealish frowned and screwed up his face at that name, but laughed quite likely and slid his phone away on the sides of the pool, scratching at his furred chin. `Nah,' he said in that strangely charming Birmingham monotone. `You were proper staring. But yeah- I don't mind.' And he turned back around, this time more exaggeratedly, bending over to the edge of the pool, his big arse pushed back across the surface of the water, more prominent and glorious than in the selfie - and Jordan couldn't even bring himself to deny his mistake, just staring openly down at it, registered by smirking Jack as he glanced teasingly over one shoulder. Jordan glanced up, up from the black-framed cheeks, up the curving back, past the cape of towel, to those lined naughty eyes. `You like what you see, daddy Hendo?' purred the £100 million man, Villa's great loss. Perhaps it was the `daddy', perhaps it was the fresh burn of Trent's hateful stare - perhaps it was the physical exertion of the week gone and the tense battle of the Malta game, played awkwardly close to his ex. Perhaps it was all of this, and perhaps it was just lust, raging testosterone, a need he'd been suppressing since the day he packed his bags and moved to Saudi. He slid his hand through the water and grabbed it, taking hold of one big plump cheek through those tight wet briefs. Jack, over his shoulder, winked. `Maybe,' the former Liverpool captain growled, giving it a good squeeze, then releasing it, and stroking it more gently. `Maybe I do, Jack.' Grealish turned away, hunched over the side of the pool in this pronounced manner, and Jordan edged forward, into the pool's centre: he rested both hands on Jack's hips from behind, holding him there ,and then giving his arse a good feel, one big glute in each hand, cupping and squeezing the muscular cheeks, teasing his fingers at the tight edges of the clingy sports briefs. In front of him, Jack made a pleasant `Mmm', and Jordan sucked in his breath, biting his lip. He was excited. He inched further forward, his body heating up in spite of the cold pool. His hands slid up from Jack's arse, onto his sides, up his back - and his body edged closer, until he was right behind him, and it was no longer his hands pressing onto that perfect big rear, but the front of his own briefs. Jordan edged forward, letting his thick muscled arms embrace Jack's shivering form, and pressing his bulge in against his bottom, until he was leaning in and brushing his bearded mouth against the thin exposed strip of Jack's neck. Again, low and sensual, Jack moaned `Mmm', and Jordan felt the throb in his swelling cock. It was like he'd never wanted something this much in MONTHS. He rubbed forward, pressing his increasing bulge in against that meaty rump, rubbing his hands roughly up the smooth back, taking hold of the edges of the towel and lifting it up over Jack's head, then across his pecs, using it to pull him upright and back, bringing their bare bodies close together, skin to skin, bulge to arse, chest to shoulders, and breath to his ear as he said `Jack-' And, unceremoniously, was cut off by the trill of the alarm on his phone, the timer he'd set to make sure he kept his lower body in the icy water for the optimum period. He almost laughed, staying icy still, with the alarm ringing behind him, his hardening cock still pressed in against the prime Grealish buttocks. He let out a long rattling sigh, and Jack chuckled under his breath. `Time to get out,' purred the City lad, pressing back with every muscle into Jordan's hesitant, frozen grip, and Hendo saw that he had choices - he could pull away from this mistake with his dignity intact, saved by the bell, or he could sink further into a sudden and unexpected desire. Henderson pulled sharply away from Grealish, splashing the cold water as he did, reaching firmly across and turning off the alarm, leaving his hand there, and then turning back across the narrow square of waist-height water, staring hotly at the 28-year-old. Jack grinned simply at him, turned this way and reaching under the water to fondle the bulge of his briefs. He winked again, and Jordan could hear his own thundering heartbeat. Decision time. He nodded, looking over Jack's shoulder, across the room, and then he barked under his breath, very simply: `Get in that sauna, Jack.' Now Trent was every bit as dripping in sweat as the United striker. He too had shucked his top and danced from foot to foot in just his gym shorts, swinging punch after punch into the hard capable strength of the taller player, impressed by Rashford's focus and stamina as he countered blow after blow and pushed him to change it up, moving from hooks to uppercuts to rounds of swift one-two. And now Trent, like Marcus, was heaving with exertion, aches in his biceps and his shoulders, sweat flooding down his frowning face, and a vague thought for the relaxing physio treatments he had rejected in the suite upstairs. But he went flying in with one last flurry, almost determined to catch Marcus off-guard and see the Manc lad stumble or slip - but still, the 26-year-old icon countered each blow and held level with him, all intense focus and attention, right until the last weary smack of Trent's glove crashed into his left pad, and the two men reeled apart, gasping for breath and wiping forearms across the gloss of their brows and noses. `Feel better?' Rashford laughed through his heavy breathing. `A bit,' Alexander-Arnold told him through a hoarse chuckle, ripping at the velcro and ties and pushing glove after glove away, so that he could shake and flex his hands, then do some stretches with his strong arms behind his head, exposing pit after pit and wondering what muscle-clad Marcus thought of his short but bulking body. `What you got on your mind?' the forward demanded bluntly. `There was a fair bit of aggression in those punches, Trent lad.' He stared thoughtfully at the other player, something of a counterpart for him across the Manchester-Liverpool divide, a friend that perhaps he could confide partially in - certainly one of the lads he was closer to in this squad, though truthfully he was missing his new bosom buddy Jude Bellingham. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, unsure he could even find the words if he wanted to be honest and open with the other guy. Instead, keeping his voice dry, he just said `Life', and backed away, going to place his gloves on the rack, stroking shoulders with one of the swaying targets that hung from the ceiling - but his arm muscle then brushing something else as he turned back. Marcus too had come to place his pads here, and the two young football studs found themselves side by side, very close, between the rack and the hanging targets, and again all Trent could smell was the mixture of fresh sweat and Dior fragrance. The two men, a couple of inches apart in height, but Trent a little thicker and heavier in build these days, stared each other down: Marcus seemed to stare at him in an almost suspicious manner, down his hooked nose, nostrils flaring, lips pouting. He looked like he was struggling to read or understand something, and Trent felt that way himself, glaring back into that demanding expression, their arms and chest briefly brushing, hot and sweaty skin. He could feel the rising tension, could feel the inevitability of further contact, but was he just projecting? His own frustration, his own restlessness, his own desire... could this straitlaced hard worker really feel so distracted too...? And then he had his answer: Marcus' hand touching his skin halfway down his flank, resting by his six-pack, and his own hand, in answer, settling somewhere between bicep and shoulder, feeling the other lad's body heat, feeling the intense sweaty dampness of his smooth decorated skin. And then Marcus lunging in, the taller of them stooping somewhat, and Trent bringing his hungry mouth up to receive the kiss - and then Rashford was really kissing him, locking lips and questing tongue, and grasping at his thick muscular body, pulling him into a slippery wet hug, sweaty muscle against sweaty muscle, before pushing him roughly back into the unsteady surface of one hanging weight. It swung and shifted and their bodies tumbled sideways, bringing Trent crashing down against the floor with Marcus on top of him, snogging him and pinning his arms back against the ground at either side, straddling him and cock rubbing on cock. `Fuck,' Trent gasped in a pause in the kissing, staring up in shock. `Quiet,' Marcus hissed dismissively, and then bluntly, `I need my cock sucked.' And Alexander-Arnold wasted no time in nodding his head, just as Rashford wasted no time in lifting up on his knees and pushing back slightly, just as he dug into his tight clingy under-shorts and tugged out his long hard erection. Trent raised up on his elbows into an ab crunch below the other guy, and brought his eager mouth to the tip of the proferred cock, ready to taste more than just Marcus' mouth. Jordan pushed the other lad ahead of him, thrusting him into the narrow dark heat of the dry sauna, and letting the door swing shut behind him. He grabbed his confined hard-on in his wet briefs and scuttled into the room after Grealish, grabbing him once more from behind and kissing his neck, pressing his stiff bulge into his arse, cuddling at him and running hands up and down his chest, his neck, one up onto his jaw and his mouth, the other disappearing down his tummy to tease the waist of his pants; he kissed his neck roughly and passionately and groaned into his ear, grinding his wet bulge into the firm huge muscles of that famous arse, wanting desperately to be inside it. `Fuck yes,' drawled Grealo. `Quiet,' Hendo barked, `don't make too much noise.' `Yes, daddy,' the winger growled. `Don't call me that,' the Al-Ettifaq player commanded, even though it turned him on. `Whatever you say...' `Get these off...!' Down came Jack's briefs, pictured so well in the selfie, and it took both of them: Jordan wrenching them from behind and getting his hand on the bare damp cheek, and Jack pushing down at either hip, the material bunching and clinging. But down they went, so that Jordan could spit heavily on one finger and push it between them, finding and prodding the delicious hole that he wanted to penetrate. He kissed and chewed at Jack's left ear, at the side of his neck, at the nape and the top of his spine; and with his other hand he pushed down his own almost identical sports briefs and took his prick in his hand, slapping the head against one cheek, shivering with pleasure and enjoying the dirty `Mmmm' from Grealo, the hissed `Oh, DADDY' that giggle stupidly out, even though the Brummie lad was only 5 years his junior. Henderson was urgent and impatient, spitting down on his prick and rubbing his own saliva up and down the thick shaft; he felt like he hadn't fucked in ages, having not put his cock in a man's arse since the final night with Trent. (Only he'd known it was the final night, of course, a fact that he knew must break that beautiful boy's heart...) He pushed his cock in between those cheeks but just had to rub it up and down the crack, finding Jack tight and resistant, for all his slutty moans and gasps. Jordan hugged and held him, kissing still at his neck, so roughly that he would leave a rash or a hickey, and wanking the base of his cock, shoving it in against the hole, then giving up so that he could finger it some more, prodding roughly and impatiently, one then two fingers, making Jack howl and whine and giggle, needing to stick three fingers of the other hand in his mouth to shut him up, which the City slut sucked and kissed with deep lavish moans. `I'm gonna fuck you,' Hendo growled needlessly into his ear. `Yes,' whined Jack, bending further forward into the slatted wooden confines of the sauna, pressing back with his big perfect posterior - and between those parting cheeks, Jordan thrust forward, pushing the head of his cock in against the tight hole until it relented, and he could feel himself slide slowly inside the great arse, entering this most-wanted man, this cocky lad who in the past he'd barely wasted a second look on, no matter how wild everyone else seemed to go for him - that was the thing with Henderson's lust, it had never been wandering and promiscuous, not really - first it had been friendly curiosity with Adam, and then an almost protective urge to take Neco Williams in his arms; and then, like a bolt from the blue, a a fiery passion with Trent that had consumed him entirely and had him googling divorce lawyers - but now, here in the moment, he wasn't thinking romantically, there were no feelings to worry about, there was just his own bodily hunger, and Jack's big beautiful bottom, and the tightness of it as he entered. This was all he wanted, the now, the satisfaction, the feeling of being balls-deep in the gurning yob. `Feel that?' Jordan snarled powerfully. `Feel that cock in you?' `Fuck yeahhh,' moaned Grealish. `Oh, daddy Hendo - fuck me good!' `Shh!' he hissed, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry, before he began to slam forward with all his strength, giving the slut everything he wanted. Trent had sucked Marcus' cock slowly and luxuriantly, first lying on his back, with the forward pushing it down into his throat, feeding him with gentle hip thrusts in this awkward position; and then inverted, with the United player sprawled across the boxing room floor, and Trent crouched between his parted thighs, face bobbing down as he gave good oral service to the pleasingly long thick weapon of the striker. But sucking it wasn't enough, because now Trent wanted to feel it in him - he didn't know how sexy Rashford felt about fucking a guy, he was shocked enough that the serious-faced Manc lad was up for being sucked by one. But he wasn't about to wait and interview him on the matter. In the moment of welled-up lust, Trent was a commanding power bottom. He climbed atop the other guy, straddling above his waist, and staring down at the tense uncertainty on Marcus' face. He squatted there over him, reaching down as Rashford has before, and pinning muscular arms to the ground, whilst pushing back with his broad bare bottom, rubbing it over the curving tower of cock, making his intentions clear, watching the flicker of Marcus' eyes and the twitch of his pouting lips. Trent reached behind himself, stroking the hard dick, and then rubbing fingertips against his own puckered hole, and then shifting into better position - without letting Rashford take control of anything, he positioned his arse over the curved weapon and rocked back and forth, teasing his own hole against the thick tip until, gently and slowly, he felt himself open, and felt himself able to sink lower into seated position. He studied Rashford's intense face and wondered uncertainly if it was his first time. Soon the Liverpool defender was fully straddling him, riding his cock, and the Man Utd lad was just a mask of ecstasy, mouth forming an `O', lying there on his back whilst his cock was gripped and rode by the meaty muscular arse of the right-back. Neither of the mid-20s football hunks said another word, just rhythmic grunts and pants, more sweat trickling over the different brown shades of their strong limbs and torsos, and Trent's arse gripping that wonderful cock tightly as it rose and plunged over and over again. `Fuck, fuck, fuck!' gasped Jack, low and breathy, no longer showy or loud and needing to be muffled - he was bent forward, arse in the air, head banging gently into the wall of the sauna as his hot body buckled with each thrust. Behind him, Jordan thumped into him, fucking in that powerful reckless manner that he never dared with his wife, but powering into the strong body of the footballer lad in a way that surely only someone as wiry and muscled as Grealish could take - he wasn't even sure he'd fucked this hard with either of his sweet secret boyfriends, neither Trent nor Neco, who he'd always handled with care. They were good sweet lads who he'd wanted to treasure and protect - Jack, his hazy mind figured, was a dirty slut who just needed fucking senseless, and was getting exactly that, both of them overheated and dripping in the small dark sauna. And so he pounded on, ramming the lithe body into the side of the sauna, putting his big Mackem cock to use, really burying himself in that magnificent arse and making its meaty cheeks jiggle repeatedly. He barely registered that Grealo was cumming, the shift in the whine and moan and breathy Brummie dirty talk - he was focused entirely on his own pleasure, and he kept riding that arse until he was ready to blow himself, several heavy sweat minutes later. He pounded all the harder, holding Jack so tightly at the hips that he would leave bruises, and pushed the full length of his cock in and out, and then right back in, leaivng it there, and bending forward, moving his hands up to sweaty shoulders, emptying his balls deep inside him, filling his arse with cum, groaning and panting over him, exhausted completely. `Fuuuuuck,' was the Brummie's slow drawl of satisfaction. Henderson just gave his ragged wet hair a rough tug, pushing his head with one last soft bump into the wooden panel, and then slowly retreating, his dick aching as it inched out, out from between those majestic cheeks, trailing spunk. He gasped for air, but the stale heat of the sauna choked him, and he needed to be out of it, reaching for his towel and holding it over his face and chest, then lowering it about his waist and his weapon, backing away from Jack's shaking form, arse still in the air. Riding Marcus like a sex toy and thinking only about his own pleasure, an unusually selfish Trent pumped his dick in his fist, bouncing up and down - until, with a series of messy spurts, he unloaded his balls, cumming in long white streaks over Rashford's pecs, some hitting his neck, his chin, his shoulders. Trent groaned, not loudly, but deeply, and shook as he bounced, up and down and up and down, pleasuring himself with each squat upon the thick tool. `Ah god yeah,' moaned the Scouser, still playing with his sensitive cock, squirting the last drops of his seed onto the muscles below him. Below, Rashford stared up at him, his expression ambiguous - perhaps a little disgusted to be rained on with spunk, but still lost in ecstasy, having his cock slide in and out so quickly and roughly. And Trent kept going, even in the throes of exhausting orgasm, just riding that dick and staring intently down at the United player, nodding at him, encouraging him to finish, telling him it was okay. `Fill me up,' he mouthed silently, licking his lips. Rashford seemed to need that permission to relax, to let go, to unleash - and the way his eyes rolled and his lips pursed and parted, Trent knew he was getting an arse-full. He slowed but didn't stop, driving them both wild, bouncing on Rashford's quivering cock, and teasing his own throbbing member, and taking ages to reach a lull and stop, and then peeling their bodies apart and falling to one side, drenched. Alexander-Arnold laughed through his breathlessness, his arse feeling amazing, and his cock and balls tingling deliciously. He rolled onto his side and stared over, watching as the attacking player got unsteadily to his feet. There was something totally wild and brilliant about the 5ft11 naked sight of him, shaky on his feet, with little trickles of jizz moving down over his pecs and his abs, down his thighs, his cock greasy wet... his face a mask of torment, someone who couldn't believe how much he'd just been pleasured. Rather than stomping away, as Trent briefly expected, the tall gentlemanly Manc lad stopped right next to him and held out a sweaty hand to help him up. Stood face to face, the 25- and 26-year-old just stared each down with thoughtful frowns, Trent tempted by a final kiss. Instead, he reached up a hand and just stroked the striker's cheek and neck a little, and then clutched his shoulder. `Yeah,' he grunted quietly, `I sure feel better after that. Thanks.' He smiled ambiguously and backed away, picking up his shorts, his vest, and retreating backwards between the pendulous boxing targets, back through the door and into the vestibule of the main gym. He stopped there, catching his breath, and laughing happily, so glad that he'd first boxed away some tension and then exorcised the rest with a good power fucking sat astride that Manc hunk. And the 25-year-old Scouser moved through into the locker-rooms, which were less quiet now, more men busied with undressing or dressing, in and out of showers, finishing up - they were all due in reception late afternoon to report for the journey to Macedonia after all. Trent moved in a sex-drenched haze, unable to return any of the vague greetings or comments that came his way, just finding the way to his locker and beginning to peel off the drenched items of clothing: vest, shorts, boxers, socks, trainers. Naked, and thinking that Rashford's cum might leak from his arse soon if he didn't get into the hot shower and wash his pleasure away, he sniggered to himself. He grabbed his towel and moved backwards, holding it over his front not out of shyness or dignity, but because he knew his prick was still a little stiff and swollen. And he paused, turning in the direction of the showers, as another door opened and another sweat-gleaming figure walked into the gym, towel about his waist, and a most strained and awkward expression on his soft-bearded face - and their eyes met yet again, staring to each other across the busy changing rooms, two men in their towels. Trent stared at his big chest, his long arms, his handsome face framed in beard, his searching eyes - god, he's a sexy bastard, even if he is a selfish cunt. He tried to glare at him, to stare him down hatefully, to pierce him with laser beams of righteous indignation - but he could only stare at him with tragic wistfulness, his sexual satisfaction from riding Marcus Rashford fading into nothingness. And Hendo stared back at him with that some vague hopefulness, that same desperate enquiry in his eyes. Trent tried to break the lingering stare, but he couldn't, drawn magnetically across the room to his former captain. But then the swing and clatter of the door broke that spell, and he glanced past the midfield hero - swaggering along behind him in black skimpies, towel over shoulder, came a very smug-faced Jack Grealish, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. Trent's brain whirred and he stared from Jordan's anguished expression to the red-faced pleasure of Jack, striding by and intercepting them for a moment, whistling to himself. Trent stood there, absorbing the obvious truth, and looking at the guilt on Jordan's expression. And then he became aware of a presence to his side, the smell more than anything, as wet naked Marcus came marching past him, towel rolled under one arm, big dick swinging freely as if it hadn't been up his arse minutes ago, on his way int other communal showers. Trent stared back at Hendo, and the two ex-lovers just looked lost and confused at each other, wondering where their love actually went, before breaking the gaze and going their separate ways - Trent into the steam, following vaguely in Rashford's sweaty footsteps, and Jordan on to his locker, ignoring a rough playful push in the side from a giggling Grealish. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2023 21:14:01 +0000 From: writer guy &lt;premiershiplads@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 380 Part 380: The Ex Factor Sunday meant recovery day, squashed in the brief turnaround between yesterday's home win over Malta and tomorrow's trip to North Macedonia for the last qualification game for the 2024 Euros. It also meant that the men were put up in a central London hotel, rather than back to their main camp at St George's Park, or even the Tottenham Hotspur facilities that sometimes housed them around Wembley fixtures. It wasn't ideal from a training or scheduling point of view, but for older players like this 33-year-old, it was a pleasing excuse to take today relatively easy, and to maximise the recovery time between the two low-stakes England games. Though he grinned and bore the odd bit of teasing, Jordan Henderson knew that though there was no denying it: his playing life at Al-Ettifaq had allowed him to take the foot off the gas somewhat, and he'd found the intensity of England training last week quite tough after all. He'd gladly taken the central midfield position again for his country, and he hoped he could make it to at least this one last tournament under Southgate's leadership... but it had not been an easy week for the former Liverpool captain, far from it. It wasn't Henderson's first England camp since quitting the Premiership, nor since his break-up with his Liverpudlian boy, but it was the first one where he might have dared to hope for a thaw in the icy relations between he and the young Scouser; such hopes had proved false and naive, given the sharp glares he'd received from Trent on the arrival afternoon, in every training session of the week, and when the pair of them were lined up in the middle of the squad formation on Saturday night. It was crushing for Jordan, the guilt and anguish of looking into that beautiful sullen face and seeing nothing but cold resentment - but then what had he expected, really? And his attempts to bridge that gulf, to make some kind of peace, none of them had gone well... Not in the last couple of months when the two of them had met up in the England squad, nor this week in November as they finalised England's seeding for next summer. It was early afternoon, and Jordan was finished with his workout in one of the hotel's several spacious gyms, earbuds playing chill-out R&amp;B as he threw the sweat towel about his sturdy neck and made his way out through the changing rooms, quick nods of acknowledgement to Trippier and to Ramsdale on his way past various teammates. Today was less communal than usual, the hotel's facilities not lending themselves to real serious training, rather breakout groups and personalised schedules of minor fitness work and deep recovery activity - and Jordan was glad that his next activity on such personal schedule was just a dip in the ice bath. Moving through the changing facilities, the 6ft Sunderland man peeled his gym top away, sleeveless lycra pulling away from the tanned musculature of his torso, as showy and ripped as it had been as he primed himself this summer, knowing a big-money transfer was on the cards. And, he supposed, that his day-to-day life would involve a lot more time poolside at his family's huge new home, rather than facing drab Merseyside autumn - he pictured a training day at the Liverpool ground, him and the lads jostling through chill rain, a romanticised haze falling over the downsides of Northern England, and a composite memory forming of his eyes meeting Trent's through the drizzle, sharing a knowing smile with his young boyfriend, and then finding each other's bodies in the shadows afterward. Off came the shorts too, dropped to his ankles and the longer compression shorts below peeled down with them, so that he was just in the black sports briefs that clung firmly to his hard glutes and sweaty package. Sock after sock rolled off and towel grabbed from the shelf of his locker, just as he heard the doors swing and caught sight of the other shiny-faced gym-goer emerging from the same exit behind him, also done with his fitness plan and ready to cool down. `Oh hey,' Hendo murmured vaguely, a little distracted by images of Liverpool in the rain, and he waved a hand in general greeting. Like him, the other England player was lost in the music of his earphones, and didn't immediately even seem to notice him, whipping his England training top away and spinning it recklessly in one hand, then pausing with wide eyes and raised brows, a trademark dopey expression creasing his scruffy face - `Oh, hiya,' trilled Jack Grealish cheerfully, snapping out of the daze of whatever dance track he was lost in, returning the wave. `Phwor,' the Brummie lad cawed instantly, `look at that six-pack, old man, I thought you said you'd let things go a bit since moving to Saudi...?' And chuckling brightly to himself, DJ Grealo went strutting past, earphones still in, humming loudly along, and then stopping a few lockers down the row. `Ice bath?' he asked matter-of-factly, and Jordan nodded. `Yup. Much needed. My legs, mate, my legs.' Jack grinned and nodded. `Getting old, Hendo, for fuck's sake.' `Sure am,' Jordan chuckled quietly, unfolding the towel to wrap more discreetly about his waist, and then taking long strides past the other player, just as Jack began to stoop over to plunge down his under-sized training shorts; Jordan was still thinking about wet Liverpool training kits, and grabbing hold of Trent's strong body in the darkness behind the kit shed, pushing the Scouse hunk in against a concrete wall and tickling his sensitive neck with the fluff of his own beard, whispering sweet nothings in his ear - he missed it so much, and yet it had been him who threw it away, hadn't it? Yes, Trent Alexander-Arnold thought bitterly, looking at the doors out of the gym, still hunched over the front of the exercise bike he had been powering against, but had now allowed to lull to a stop under his powerful limbs. Yes, it was all that fucker's fault, so he couldn't see why old Jordan had to make puppy dog eyes at him on his way past all the time, or give him those martyr looks on the pitch last night, as if they should have some kind of kiss-and-make-up in the middle of an England game just cos one of them had made a good pass to the other. The 25-year-old Liverpudlian was hardly going to start drama and conflict, kick up a fuss and refuse to play alongside his former skipper, he wasn't either that much of a dickhead or that careless about his international career... but he sure wasn't going to forgive and forget, and just allow things to be pushed under the rug. Jordan Henderson had dropped him like he was nothing the day he signed his Saudi contract, and Trent had been forced to learn about this movement alongside many of his teammates as it was announced on the training pitch, not in any private communication with the man who came inside him and whispered `I love you' in his ear, all tickling beard and tight powerful embrace. Fuck him, Trent thought bitterly, fuck him and his apology stares and nice-guy act, fuck him. Sweaty and irritated, the defender-turned-midfielder left the gym a couple of minutes after his ex, taking a slow route out, topping up his water bottle by the door and making idle chatter with the younger England newbies who were resting there, then disappearing into the locker-room off to the side. He was glad enough that there was no sign of Henderson himself in here - it looked like Grealish was just exiting off in one direction, strutting away ostentatiously in tiny black pants with a rolled towel over one shoulder, the bloody show-off, and this left just a couple of other occupants: Guehi was getting dressed after a shower, apparently heading upstairs for a massage treatment, and Bowen and Rice seemed to be enjoying a West Ham gossip catch-up in various states of undress by the showers. Suppressing his heated mood, Alexander-Arnold made bland conversation with the three of them, hovering alone at his locker, knowing that he ought to shower off and do the same as the Palace player - he was due a few physio treatments himself after playing a full 90 minutes in the Malta win - but feeling vaguely that he was unready to try and unwind like that, still restless and furtive. He loitered at his locker, fussing pointlessly with his things, and scratching at his bare thick arms, wondering how much he could delay the remains of his schedule without getting in any trouble with Southgate's underlings. He just didn't want to lie somewhere and be told by a physio masseur that he had loads of tense knots in his back or his legs - yeah, of course he fucking did, he'd been dumped unceremoniously by the love of his life, the handsome rugged DILF who had turned his world upside down. Sure, he was doing his best to get on with Liverpool life with him, but the best that had offered him was an awkward unrequited crush on that mysterious newcomer Dominik Szoboszlai, and a few near-meets on Grindr that he'd panicked and blocked at the last minute; so much for young, free, and single. Sad, sexless, and lonely, that had been Trent's reality for half this year. It suddenly occurred to Trent that there was only one clear way for him to release some of this tension, and he slammed his locker shut in a hurry, making the West Ham buddies look up from where they sat. He ignored them and disappeared back through to the gym, but turning away to the left into a separate fitness suite where he'd spied the swinging boxing targets and racks of gloves. A leathery thud told him that he wasn't the first to deviate from the prescribed regime and seek out such release - the 25-year-old shifted between the pendulous stuffed weights, picking up and strapping on a pair of boxing gloves with dextrous ease. He slipped into the centre of the room and found out who was on his wavelength: the central hanging target swung violently his way and he caught it, staring past it to the gleaming shirtless figure who had been pummelling gloved fists into it, his lean body heaving with exertion and almost reflective in its sweaty shimmer. The other man relaxed his fighter's stance at the realisation of company, and Trent allowed the weighted target to swing away form his awkward grip, giving a nod across to the other gloved man, who was panting and rolling his shoulders, stripped down to just his Nike under-shorts. `Just needed to throw some punches,' Marcus Rashford told him simply. `Sure,' Trent agreed. `Same, bro, same.' `Does me good,' grunted the thick accent of the Manc-born forward, relaxing further. `I know, nothing like it,' his Liverpool rival muttered, taking steps towards him. Rashford looked done, as if he'd been in here for quite a while, slamming punches into the targets; he began to undo the straps of the gloves, with some difficulty with both hands contained. `Here,' Trent said quietly, using his under-arm to remove one of his own and then reaching across to help, bringing them close together, and filling Trent's nostrils with the rich manly scent of Marcus' physicality. `There you go, lad.' Rashford paused, looking at him with terse gratitude, and then pulled away, tossing both used gloves aside. He cracked his knuckles and stood there, throbbing with heat and exhaustion, the intricate tattoos standing out on the dark shiny skin of his muscles. `You wanna punch these things, or want me to grab some pads and help?' he offered in an almost begrudging series of grunts, something weary and cynical in his face; Trent paused to consider this, surprised at the friendly offer, though the two of them had always had a decent relationship that set aside their cities' rivalry entirely. `Sure,' the 25-year-old agreed after a moment's thought, `I can throw some punches at you, be a bit more fun with a moving target. Cheers, Rashers. Just let me tighten these gloves properly, then get ready to feel my fury.' Some dreaded it, but Jordan enjoyed dipping much of his body into the deep square plunge pool, feeling it do its work on the aching muscles of his strong legs and his lower torso, towel discarded on the poolside shelf. He toyed with his phone as he did, firstly setting the timer so that he kept his lower half submerged for the correct allotted time, but then checking a few messages and, lastly, turning to the camera icon on his social media and poking an elbow into the other lad using the pool. `Here,' he grunted in his Mackem accent, `let's get a selfie for the gram, shall we?' A pic with the English sport's most popular face was hardly gonna damage his online presence, which had dwindled slightly after his transfer away from the Premiership and the mountain of hypocritical drama about his Saudi deal. Crouched to the other side and inspecting his own phone, Jack just made a slight `hmm' and only half turned, whilst Jordan lifted and angled the phone to get a good selfie angle: he kept angling it, wanting to reduce the amount of his own body in shot, not wanting it to be too thirsty or desperate in showing off his pecs or abs, which would just get him in hot water with his wife, who'd been convinced he was cheating on her before they agreed to leave Liverpool. He couldn't blame the deal and the break-up entirely on her suspicions, but it had certainly been a sensible factor. No, he didn't want this to look like a `thirst trap', as the kids called it, so he angled it to get in slightly more of Jack than himself, though he couldn't help but feel that he looked very ruggedly handsome as it caught his jawline and smize. And behind him, next to him in the ice pool, an almost forced smile from Jack, swaddled with white towel over his shoulders, highlighted curtains parted over his whiskered face. Click, caption, post. Jordan hovered at one side of the narrow pool, applying a filter and typing on the text, `Ice bath with this legend', tagging Jack Grealish in it, and inspecting the image properly: yep, he looked pretty good, he thought with rare vanity, and he dared to wonder what Trent might think, seeing him like this, seeing just how good he looked... but that was dumb. Trent could see his handsomeness every time they passed each other in their hotels and gyms and shared football pitches, and the youngster didn't show anything but lingering hate. The love they'd shared was over, Jordan thought, and he needed to accept that, having trashed it himself with his own decisions and his cowardice in failing to inform the lad in time. How many times had he almost confessed the plan to Trent, before it was too late...? He kept looking at the picture for a moment longer before hitting post and sending it to his story - yeah, he looked good, but so did Jack, coquettishly handsome like something from a 90s boyband, even with the towel about his shoulders like a chilly midwinter granny. And a slight curve of tanned back on show, thanks to Jordan's attempts to angle the shot away from his own muscles - and the other player's backside, framed against the surface of the water, enclosed in black and, Jordan thought with an internal laugh, almost shrunk by the distortion of the ice-cold pool, because in real life that trunk was way chunkier! He'd hit post, and within seconds found that he wasn't the only one to notice this about the posted selfie: `Gawd, don't my bum look cute there, haha,' drawled the Man City hero behind him, laughing hoarsely, clearly inspecting the notification from being tagged in Hendo's post; as if he'd hardly noticed this in the picture, Jordan half-turned, responding with just a vague `Hmm?' and placing his phone carefully beyond his folded towel. `Why'd you post my arse on Insta?' Jack demanded, but through a smug chuckle as if really enjoying the framing of his pert backside in such skimpy black sports briefs. `God, the thirsty messages I'll be getting after that, you dick - it's bad enough as it is.' He giggled to himself, still thumbing away at his phone and bent gently forward in the same posture - so that as Jordan turned to address him, he found himself facing the magnificent view in the watery flesh, looking the 5ft8 winger up and down, from his stylish hair and superhero towel cape to the curve of his back and hips, the distorted meatiness of his submerged legs, and the perfect black backside of those briefs, which looked so much fuller and bigger in front of him, far better than their dainty framing in the selfie. For some reason, Hendo couldn't help himself. `I just needed to share the view,' he chuckled warmly, propping his hands back against one side of the pool, and staring fully down Jack's rear, enjoying the masterpiece he could see with an appreciation for the male form that had taken years to develop - he really hadn't known what he was doing when, several years ago, he'd allowed those first hungover touches to be shared with his best mate Lallana in the spare bedroom of his marital home. `I look like such a tease,' Grealish groaned as he turned about to face him, sounding like he was exactly 50% worried and 50% delighted. Hendo still stared at the view, now the broad smooth chest and toned tummy, the bulging front of those briefs again distorted and shrank by the perspective of the water - and when the City player looked up from his phone, he seemed instantly to recognise the thoughtfulness of the stare. Or was Jack the Lad really incapable of looking at anyone without a flirty glint in his eye and a cheeky slant to his grin? That was possible. `Hey, were you looking at my arse?' the attacking player demanded simply. Jordan rolled his eyes. `It was a selfie,' he said. `I just thought I'd post a pic of us in recovery. For the fans, y'know.' `Not there, but now,' Jack laughed, pushing it. `You were looking at me.' `What?' Hendo asked, but it seemed hard to deny - he'd been staring so openly as the younger guy turned around to face him, and he was annoyed that it had been noticed. He gave him a strained smile, shrugging his broad bare shoulders, trying to evade this. `Stop fretting, I bet you love the pic - it's hardly more than the stuff you've done for magazines in the last couple of years, Little Beckham.' Confusingly, Grealish frowned and screwed up his face at that name, but laughed quite likely and slid his phone away on the sides of the pool, scratching at his furred chin. `Nah,' he said in that strangely charming Birmingham monotone. `You were proper staring. But yeah- I don't mind.' And he turned back around, this time more exaggeratedly, bending over to the edge of the pool, his big arse pushed back across the surface of the water, more prominent and glorious than in the selfie - and Jordan couldn't even bring himself to deny his mistake, just staring openly down at it, registered by smirking Jack as he glanced teasingly over one shoulder. Jordan glanced up, up from the black-framed cheeks, up the curving back, past the cape of towel, to those lined naughty eyes. `You like what you see, daddy Hendo?' purred the £100 million man, Villa's great loss. Perhaps it was the `daddy', perhaps it was the fresh burn of Trent's hateful stare - perhaps it was the physical exertion of the week gone and the tense battle of the Malta game, played awkwardly close to his ex. Perhaps it was all of this, and perhaps it was just lust, raging testosterone, a need he'd been suppressing since the day he packed his bags and moved to Saudi. He slid his hand through the water and grabbed it, taking hold of one big plump cheek through those tight wet briefs. Jack, over his shoulder, winked. `Maybe,' the former Liverpool captain growled, giving it a good squeeze, then releasing it, and stroking it more gently. `Maybe I do, Jack.' Grealish turned away, hunched over the side of the pool in this pronounced manner, and Jordan edged forward, into the pool's centre: he rested both hands on Jack's hips from behind, holding him there ,and then giving his arse a good feel, one big glute in each hand, cupping and squeezing the muscular cheeks, teasing his fingers at the tight edges of the clingy sports briefs. In front of him, Jack made a pleasant `Mmm', and Jordan sucked in his breath, biting his lip. He was excited. He inched further forward, his body heating up in spite of the cold pool. His hands slid up from Jack's arse, onto his sides, up his back - and his body edged closer, until he was right behind him, and it was no longer his hands pressing onto that perfect big rear, but the front of his own briefs. Jordan edged forward, letting his thick muscled arms embrace Jack's shivering form, and pressing his bulge in against his bottom, until he was leaning in and brushing his bearded mouth against the thin exposed strip of Jack's neck. Again, low and sensual, Jack moaned `Mmm', and Jordan felt the throb in his swelling cock. It was like he'd never wanted something this much in MONTHS. He rubbed forward, pressing his increasing bulge in against that meaty rump, rubbing his hands roughly up the smooth back, taking hold of the edges of the towel and lifting it up over Jack's head, then across his pecs, using it to pull him upright and back, bringing their bare bodies close together, skin to skin, bulge to arse, chest to shoulders, and breath to his ear as he said `Jack-' And, unceremoniously, was cut off by the trill of the alarm on his phone, the timer he'd set to make sure he kept his lower body in the icy water for the optimum period. He almost laughed, staying icy still, with the alarm ringing behind him, his hardening cock still pressed in against the prime Grealish buttocks. He let out a long rattling sigh, and Jack chuckled under his breath. `Time to get out,' purred the City lad, pressing back with every muscle into Jordan's hesitant, frozen grip, and Hendo saw that he had choices - he could pull away from this mistake with his dignity intact, saved by the bell, or he could sink further into a sudden and unexpected desire. Henderson pulled sharply away from Grealish, splashing the cold water as he did, reaching firmly across and turning off the alarm, leaving his hand there, and then turning back across the narrow square of waist-height water, staring hotly at the 28-year-old. Jack grinned simply at him, turned this way and reaching under the water to fondle the bulge of his briefs. He winked again, and Jordan could hear his own thundering heartbeat. Decision time. He nodded, looking over Jack's shoulder, across the room, and then he barked under his breath, very simply: `Get in that sauna, Jack.' Now Trent was every bit as dripping in sweat as the United striker. He too had shucked his top and danced from foot to foot in just his gym shorts, swinging punch after punch into the hard capable strength of the taller player, impressed by Rashford's focus and stamina as he countered blow after blow and pushed him to change it up, moving from hooks to uppercuts to rounds of swift one-two. And now Trent, like Marcus, was heaving with exertion, aches in his biceps and his shoulders, sweat flooding down his frowning face, and a vague thought for the relaxing physio treatments he had rejected in the suite upstairs. But he went flying in with one last flurry, almost determined to catch Marcus off-guard and see the Manc lad stumble or slip - but still, the 26-year-old icon countered each blow and held level with him, all intense focus and attention, right until the last weary smack of Trent's glove crashed into his left pad, and the two men reeled apart, gasping for breath and wiping forearms across the gloss of their brows and noses. `Feel better?' Rashford laughed through his heavy breathing. `A bit,' Alexander-Arnold told him through a hoarse chuckle, ripping at the velcro and ties and pushing glove after glove away, so that he could shake and flex his hands, then do some stretches with his strong arms behind his head, exposing pit after pit and wondering what muscle-clad Marcus thought of his short but bulking body. `What you got on your mind?' the forward demanded bluntly. `There was a fair bit of aggression in those punches, Trent lad.' He stared thoughtfully at the other player, something of a counterpart for him across the Manchester-Liverpool divide, a friend that perhaps he could confide partially in - certainly one of the lads he was closer to in this squad, though truthfully he was missing his new bosom buddy Jude Bellingham. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, unsure he could even find the words if he wanted to be honest and open with the other guy. Instead, keeping his voice dry, he just said `Life', and backed away, going to place his gloves on the rack, stroking shoulders with one of the swaying targets that hung from the ceiling - but his arm muscle then brushing something else as he turned back. Marcus too had come to place his pads here, and the two young football studs found themselves side by side, very close, between the rack and the hanging targets, and again all Trent could smell was the mixture of fresh sweat and Dior fragrance. The two men, a couple of inches apart in height, but Trent a little thicker and heavier in build these days, stared each other down: Marcus seemed to stare at him in an almost suspicious manner, down his hooked nose, nostrils flaring, lips pouting. He looked like he was struggling to read or understand something, and Trent felt that way himself, glaring back into that demanding expression, their arms and chest briefly brushing, hot and sweaty skin. He could feel the rising tension, could feel the inevitability of further contact, but was he just projecting? His own frustration, his own restlessness, his own desire... could this straitlaced hard worker really feel so distracted too...? And then he had his answer: Marcus' hand touching his skin halfway down his flank, resting by his six-pack, and his own hand, in answer, settling somewhere between bicep and shoulder, feeling the other lad's body heat, feeling the intense sweaty dampness of his smooth decorated skin. And then Marcus lunging in, the taller of them stooping somewhat, and Trent bringing his hungry mouth up to receive the kiss - and then Rashford was really kissing him, locking lips and questing tongue, and grasping at his thick muscular body, pulling him into a slippery wet hug, sweaty muscle against sweaty muscle, before pushing him roughly back into the unsteady surface of one hanging weight. It swung and shifted and their bodies tumbled sideways, bringing Trent crashing down against the floor with Marcus on top of him, snogging him and pinning his arms back against the ground at either side, straddling him and cock rubbing on cock. `Fuck,' Trent gasped in a pause in the kissing, staring up in shock. `Quiet,' Marcus hissed dismissively, and then bluntly, `I need my cock sucked.' And Alexander-Arnold wasted no time in nodding his head, just as Rashford wasted no time in lifting up on his knees and pushing back slightly, just as he dug into his tight clingy under-shorts and tugged out his long hard erection. Trent raised up on his elbows into an ab crunch below the other guy, and brought his eager mouth to the tip of the proferred cock, ready to taste more than just Marcus' mouth. Jordan pushed the other lad ahead of him, thrusting him into the narrow dark heat of the dry sauna, and letting the door swing shut behind him. He grabbed his confined hard-on in his wet briefs and scuttled into the room after Grealish, grabbing him once more from behind and kissing his neck, pressing his stiff bulge into his arse, cuddling at him and running hands up and down his chest, his neck, one up onto his jaw and his mouth, the other disappearing down his tummy to tease the waist of his pants; he kissed his neck roughly and passionately and groaned into his ear, grinding his wet bulge into the firm huge muscles of that famous arse, wanting desperately to be inside it. `Fuck yes,' drawled Grealo. `Quiet,' Hendo barked, `don't make too much noise.' `Yes, daddy,' the winger growled. `Don't call me that,' the Al-Ettifaq player commanded, even though it turned him on. `Whatever you say...' `Get these off...!' Down came Jack's briefs, pictured so well in the selfie, and it took both of them: Jordan wrenching them from behind and getting his hand on the bare damp cheek, and Jack pushing down at either hip, the material bunching and clinging. But down they went, so that Jordan could spit heavily on one finger and push it between them, finding and prodding the delicious hole that he wanted to penetrate. He kissed and chewed at Jack's left ear, at the side of his neck, at the nape and the top of his spine; and with his other hand he pushed down his own almost identical sports briefs and took his prick in his hand, slapping the head against one cheek, shivering with pleasure and enjoying the dirty `Mmmm' from Grealo, the hissed `Oh, DADDY' that giggle stupidly out, even though the Brummie lad was only 5 years his junior. Henderson was urgent and impatient, spitting down on his prick and rubbing his own saliva up and down the thick shaft; he felt like he hadn't fucked in ages, having not put his cock in a man's arse since the final night with Trent. (Only he'd known it was the final night, of course, a fact that he knew must break that beautiful boy's heart...) He pushed his cock in between those cheeks but just had to rub it up and down the crack, finding Jack tight and resistant, for all his slutty moans and gasps. Jordan hugged and held him, kissing still at his neck, so roughly that he would leave a rash or a hickey, and wanking the base of his cock, shoving it in against the hole, then giving up so that he could finger it some more, prodding roughly and impatiently, one then two fingers, making Jack howl and whine and giggle, needing to stick three fingers of the other hand in his mouth to shut him up, which the City slut sucked and kissed with deep lavish moans. `I'm gonna fuck you,' Hendo growled needlessly into his ear. `Yes,' whined Jack, bending further forward into the slatted wooden confines of the sauna, pressing back with his big perfect posterior - and between those parting cheeks, Jordan thrust forward, pushing the head of his cock in against the tight hole until it relented, and he could feel himself slide slowly inside the great arse, entering this most-wanted man, this cocky lad who in the past he'd barely wasted a second look on, no matter how wild everyone else seemed to go for him - that was the thing with Henderson's lust, it had never been wandering and promiscuous, not really - first it had been friendly curiosity with Adam, and then an almost protective urge to take Neco Williams in his arms; and then, like a bolt from the blue, a a fiery passion with Trent that had consumed him entirely and had him googling divorce lawyers - but now, here in the moment, he wasn't thinking romantically, there were no feelings to worry about, there was just his own bodily hunger, and Jack's big beautiful bottom, and the tightness of it as he entered. This was all he wanted, the now, the satisfaction, the feeling of being balls-deep in the gurning yob. `Feel that?' Jordan snarled powerfully. `Feel that cock in you?' `Fuck yeahhh,' moaned Grealish. `Oh, daddy Hendo - fuck me good!' `Shh!' he hissed, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry, before he began to slam forward with all his strength, giving the slut everything he wanted. Trent had sucked Marcus' cock slowly and luxuriantly, first lying on his back, with the forward pushing it down into his throat, feeding him with gentle hip thrusts in this awkward position; and then inverted, with the United player sprawled across the boxing room floor, and Trent crouched between his parted thighs, face bobbing down as he gave good oral service to the pleasingly long thick weapon of the striker. But sucking it wasn't enough, because now Trent wanted to feel it in him - he didn't know how sexy Rashford felt about fucking a guy, he was shocked enough that the serious-faced Manc lad was up for being sucked by one. But he wasn't about to wait and interview him on the matter. In the moment of welled-up lust, Trent was a commanding power bottom. He climbed atop the other guy, straddling above his waist, and staring down at the tense uncertainty on Marcus' face. He squatted there over him, reaching down as Rashford has before, and pinning muscular arms to the ground, whilst pushing back with his broad bare bottom, rubbing it over the curving tower of cock, making his intentions clear, watching the flicker of Marcus' eyes and the twitch of his pouting lips. Trent reached behind himself, stroking the hard dick, and then rubbing fingertips against his own puckered hole, and then shifting into better position - without letting Rashford take control of anything, he positioned his arse over the curved weapon and rocked back and forth, teasing his own hole against the thick tip until, gently and slowly, he felt himself open, and felt himself able to sink lower into seated position. He studied Rashford's intense face and wondered uncertainly if it was his first time. Soon the Liverpool defender was fully straddling him, riding his cock, and the Man Utd lad was just a mask of ecstasy, mouth forming an `O', lying there on his back whilst his cock was gripped and rode by the meaty muscular arse of the right-back. Neither of the mid-20s football hunks said another word, just rhythmic grunts and pants, more sweat trickling over the different brown shades of their strong limbs and torsos, and Trent's arse gripping that wonderful cock tightly as it rose and plunged over and over again. `Fuck, fuck, fuck!' gasped Jack, low and breathy, no longer showy or loud and needing to be muffled - he was bent forward, arse in the air, head banging gently into the wall of the sauna as his hot body buckled with each thrust. Behind him, Jordan thumped into him, fucking in that powerful reckless manner that he never dared with his wife, but powering into the strong body of the footballer lad in a way that surely only someone as wiry and muscled as Grealish could take - he wasn't even sure he'd fucked this hard with either of his sweet secret boyfriends, neither Trent nor Neco, who he'd always handled with care. They were good sweet lads who he'd wanted to treasure and protect - Jack, his hazy mind figured, was a dirty slut who just needed fucking senseless, and was getting exactly that, both of them overheated and dripping in the small dark sauna. And so he pounded on, ramming the lithe body into the side of the sauna, putting his big Mackem cock to use, really burying himself in that magnificent arse and making its meaty cheeks jiggle repeatedly. He barely registered that Grealo was cumming, the shift in the whine and moan and breathy Brummie dirty talk - he was focused entirely on his own pleasure, and he kept riding that arse until he was ready to blow himself, several heavy sweat minutes later. He pounded all the harder, holding Jack so tightly at the hips that he would leave bruises, and pushed the full length of his cock in and out, and then right back in, leaivng it there, and bending forward, moving his hands up to sweaty shoulders, emptying his balls deep inside him, filling his arse with cum, groaning and panting over him, exhausted completely. `Fuuuuuck,' was the Brummie's slow drawl of satisfaction. Henderson just gave his ragged wet hair a rough tug, pushing his head with one last soft bump into the wooden panel, and then slowly retreating, his dick aching as it inched out, out from between those majestic cheeks, trailing spunk. He gasped for air, but the stale heat of the sauna choked him, and he needed to be out of it, reaching for his towel and holding it over his face and chest, then lowering it about his waist and his weapon, backing away from Jack's shaking form, arse still in the air. Riding Marcus like a sex toy and thinking only about his own pleasure, an unusually selfish Trent pumped his dick in his fist, bouncing up and down - until, with a series of messy spurts, he unloaded his balls, cumming in long white streaks over Rashford's pecs, some hitting his neck, his chin, his shoulders. Trent groaned, not loudly, but deeply, and shook as he bounced, up and down and up and down, pleasuring himself with each squat upon the thick tool. `Ah god yeah,' moaned the Scouser, still playing with his sensitive cock, squirting the last drops of his seed onto the muscles below him. Below, Rashford stared up at him, his expression ambiguous - perhaps a little disgusted to be rained on with spunk, but still lost in ecstasy, having his cock slide in and out so quickly and roughly. And Trent kept going, even in the throes of exhausting orgasm, just riding that dick and staring intently down at the United player, nodding at him, encouraging him to finish, telling him it was okay. `Fill me up,' he mouthed silently, licking his lips. Rashford seemed to need that permission to relax, to let go, to unleash - and the way his eyes rolled and his lips pursed and parted, Trent knew he was getting an arse-full. He slowed but didn't stop, driving them both wild, bouncing on Rashford's quivering cock, and teasing his own throbbing member, and taking ages to reach a lull and stop, and then peeling their bodies apart and falling to one side, drenched. Alexander-Arnold laughed through his breathlessness, his arse feeling amazing, and his cock and balls tingling deliciously. He rolled onto his side and stared over, watching as the attacking player got unsteadily to his feet. There was something totally wild and brilliant about the 5ft11 naked sight of him, shaky on his feet, with little trickles of jizz moving down over his pecs and his abs, down his thighs, his cock greasy wet... his face a mask of torment, someone who couldn't believe how much he'd just been pleasured. Rather than stomping away, as Trent briefly expected, the tall gentlemanly Manc lad stopped right next to him and held out a sweaty hand to help him up. Stood face to face, the 25- and 26-year-old just stared each down with thoughtful frowns, Trent tempted by a final kiss. Instead, he reached up a hand and just stroked the striker's cheek and neck a little, and then clutched his shoulder. `Yeah,' he grunted quietly, `I sure feel better after that. Thanks.' He smiled ambiguously and backed away, picking up his shorts, his vest, and retreating backwards between the pendulous boxing targets, back through the door and into the vestibule of the main gym. He stopped there, catching his breath, and laughing happily, so glad that he'd first boxed away some tension and then exorcised the rest with a good power fucking sat astride that Manc hunk. And the 25-year-old Scouser moved through into the locker-rooms, which were less quiet now, more men busied with undressing or dressing, in and out of showers, finishing up - they were all due in reception late afternoon to report for the journey to Macedonia after all. Trent moved in a sex-drenched haze, unable to return any of the vague greetings or comments that came his way, just finding the way to his locker and beginning to peel off the drenched items of clothing: vest, shorts, boxers, socks, trainers. Naked, and thinking that Rashford's cum might leak from his arse soon if he didn't get into the hot shower and wash his pleasure away, he sniggered to himself. He grabbed his towel and moved backwards, holding it over his front not out of shyness or dignity, but because he knew his prick was still a little stiff and swollen. And he paused, turning in the direction of the showers, as another door opened and another sweat-gleaming figure walked into the gym, towel about his waist, and a most strained and awkward expression on his soft-bearded face - and their eyes met yet again, staring to each other across the busy changing rooms, two men in their towels. Trent stared at his big chest, his long arms, his handsome face framed in beard, his searching eyes - god, he's a sexy bastard, even if he is a selfish cunt. He tried to glare at him, to stare him down hatefully, to pierce him with laser beams of righteous indignation - but he could only stare at him with tragic wistfulness, his sexual satisfaction from riding Marcus Rashford fading into nothingness. And Hendo stared back at him with that some vague hopefulness, that same desperate enquiry in his eyes. Trent tried to break the lingering stare, but he couldn't, drawn magnetically across the room to his former captain. But then the swing and clatter of the door broke that spell, and he glanced past the midfield hero - swaggering along behind him in black skimpies, towel over shoulder, came a very smug-faced Jack Grealish, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. Trent's brain whirred and he stared from Jordan's anguished expression to the red-faced pleasure of Jack, striding by and intercepting them for a moment, whistling to himself. Trent stood there, absorbing the obvious truth, and looking at the guilt on Jordan's expression. And then he became aware of a presence to his side, the smell more than anything, as wet naked Marcus came marching past him, towel rolled under one arm, big dick swinging freely as if it hadn't been up his arse minutes ago, on his way int other communal showers. Trent stared back at Hendo, and the two ex-lovers just looked lost and confused at each other, wondering where their love actually went, before breaking the gaze and going their separate ways - Trent into the steam, following vaguely in Rashford's sweaty footsteps, and Jordan on to his locker, ignoring a rough playful push in the side from a giggling Grealish. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-399

Date: Fri, 22 Mar 2024 22:47:43 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 399 Part 399: Without Jack There was a piano in the reception room at the foot of the stairwell - he'd noticed it before, but on the midfielder's last placement at St George's park, he'd been making slow progress with his music lessons and felt too self-conscious making any approach on the instrument. Still, after a few years of learning, the 27-year-old glanced almost warily down the rectangular room to the dark piano in the corner, awkwardly placed as if the hotel owners didn't know where to place this aged relic, a fairly showy piece that perhaps wasn't as high-quality as it was trying to look, unlike the sleek simple kit that Ben himself had invested in once he began to properly enjoy his sessions. He was still rather tentative about his abilities and progress, and far too self-conscious to `perform', and yet he found himself pausing at the foot of the stairs with his hand lingering on the bannister and only one slider placed on the carpeted bottom step. Ben Chilwell glanced up the stairs and over his shoulder, and back and forth across the central reception room that connected the various downstairs sections of the hotel, a chintzy-looking golf resort before it had been largely co-opted by the neighbouring high-spec football campus. The piano was very in keeping with this general decor, quaintly obnoxious, and it seemed to sit there waiting for someone to tinkle the ivories. Alone at this quiet hour, the strong young football player retreated from the step and paced quietly down the side of the staircase, moving into the enclosed corner where the instrument sat between a few ostentatious bookshelves, and he slid down onto the simple cushioned stood in front of the keys. It was not ridiculously late, but later than curfew had been for the last few nights - despite tomorrow night's Wembley fixture against giants Brazil, Southgate had appeared soft and liberal in his scheduling for much of today and tonight, and so the players were scattered variously across their hotel. Some were enjoying games of pool in a games room off the teetotal bar, there was a card game going on in the dining room, and others were watching the Scotland and Spain games on TVs in the lounge - and some of Ben's teammates had retired already to their rooms, including his moodily quiet roomie Conor Gallagher, who had been in a funny mood this past day or two. It was late enough for the hotel to feel quiet and sleepy, and Ben decided that it made sense to further delay his own quiet exit to his room - perhaps his Chelsea pal Gallagher just needed some space. So he sat down, flexed his hands, and started playing. The keys chimed quietly to his touch and he just did a couple of scales before attempting a tune he had been trying to learn, tinkling its notes out with a look of deep concentration lining his handsome features, a frustrated little frown of effort to master something that did not come naturally to him - perhaps it came naturally to nobody, and it just took more hours of work than a professional footballer was able to give it. Ben wasn't sure he was any good, though his paid tutor argued otherwise, but he didn't particularly mind - it was something that gave Chilly a lot of peace and comfort, and he was very happy to indulge himself here unnoticed and out of hearing - so he played on, starting the tune over and trying to relax rather than overthink it, letting his fingers find their way as the music teacher always encouraged, until he seemed to find the rhythm and pace, and it all just got a little bit easier, and- `Wow,' interrupted the quiet husky voice, making him start and jangle his fingers against the keys - he looked sharply to his right, mortified, and found that he'd zoned out and failed to notice the other England player advance on him. Phil Foden stood there with a pint of water in one hand and his Nintendo Switch in the other, an almost childish grin of enjoyment splitting his face, as he nodded his approval. `Wow,' the Manchester City prodigy cooed again, blinking, `I didn't know you were a some kinda musician.' Flustered at this interruption, Ben calmed his hands against the keyboard and then closed the wooden lid rapidly over the keys. `What? No, no - I'm nothing like that,' he muttered rapidly. `Just...' He ran fingers through the chestnut sweep of his hair. `Just something I picked up in the lockdowns. Erm.' He cleared his throat. `Nobody was meant to hear that,' he said a little resentfully, but softening in the face of Phil's simple smile and admiring eyes - he was a tough lad to be moody with. Despite the vague signals that Chilly was trying to give off, embarrassed to be caught out, Foden came closer - he leaned in against the piano and was about to carelessly place his glass of water on top of its aged cover before Ben urgently dissuaded him and pointed over to the shelving along the side of the stairs instead. `I dunno,' he mumbled self-consciously, getting up from the stool. `It might be worth a load of money, I dunno.' Again, he played with his hair, and pulled at the collar of his oversized white print tee. `You okay?' he asked a little stiffly, trying to pull attention away from his musical enterprise. Phil was still staring at him as if he'd just discovered he could speak eight languages and was studying for a PhD. Hands freed of drink and console, he slapped them eagerly together, and nodded back to the piano. `Will you teach me a tune?' `God,' Ben protested, `I don't think so, buddy. I can barely do it myself, never mind teach anyone. Erm.' He laughed awkwardly, flustered at being discovered but maybe more-so at the keen appreciation on his younger friend's face. `Another time,' he offered vaguely, seeing Phil's brimming enthusiasm - he really wouldn't know where to start trying to teach the Stockport lad a thing! `Ah, no worries,' Phil said, suppressing a yawn. `You were good though. It sounded nice.' `Er, thanks, yeah.' `Man of hidden depths,' the young midfielder remarked. Ben just smiled evasively at this, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt and finding that his loose grey shorts had no pockets to stuff his distracted hands into. Instead, he fiddled with the drawstrings at the front and stood facing the slight midfielder, a few inches shorter than him, and still grinning keenly at him in admiration. Ben paused in sudden unnamed discomfort, finding that he wasn't sure what to say to the City guy - he'd been in a funny mood himself today, he supposed, after accusing Conor of the same. A few different memories of England camps past were playing on his mind. `I tell you,' Phil said abruptly and ironically, `I do wish our Jack was here.' Ben hardly had time to dwell on the odd phrase `our Jack', he was too alarmed at the apparent psychic capabilities of the 23-year-old - he'd just been thinking the same thing before he sat down at the piano, and at various odd intervals since checking in here at the start of the week. `Well, yeah,' he said, after a moment's awkward pause, `it's a shame for the guy to miss out on a camp, dunno anyone who gets a bigger buzz from the shirt than Jacko...' `Did you see his post on Insta?' Phil asked sharply. `Putting a brave face on another month of injury recovery. Fucking annoying for him,' the midfielder said, with feeling. `I think everybody wishes he was here,' he added thoughtfully, `I heard Madders saying just that at dinner earlier.' `Erm, yeah,' Ben agreed distantly. He looked thoughtfully at the City star, and tried to dismiss the matter with brusque resolve - `Still, he's got a fair chance at summer, and there's a lot of different players for Southgate to pick from right now.' He didn't want to sound too sentimental or fixated on Jack Grealish's absence this week - and he certainly didn't want to be drawn into discussing the little slideshow of solitary photos their mutual friend had posted on social media to narrate his fight for full fitness. One or two in particular had made Ben's eyes boggle as he was shown it on Conor's phone at the breakfast table. Sometimes it was more difficult than others to be reminded of what he'd... let go. `Yeah, but like you said,' sighed Phil, `don't think many lads get quite so psyched for it as Jack the lad.' He sniggered, a little cheeky glint in his dark eyes. `You know what I mean if I say he can get... a bit OVER excited by the England crest on his kit, haha.' Phil looked naughty and embarrassed and rueful all at once, and Ben thought he DID know exactly what the midfield player was getting at - so, it was like that at Guardiola's Man City, was it? Ben didn't quite respond, tapping his fingers against the wooden edges of the grand piano, and looking past Phil towards the bottom of the stairs - upstairs was best after all, and the quiet comfort of his suite, their last night here before they checked into North London accommodation tomorrow before their two Wembley hosting fixtures. He was about to brush past the 5ft7 Manc lad and leave this ambiguous chat, when Phil's hand laid almost shakily on top of his, on the top cover of the piano. Ben fixed his friend with a curious look, eyes trailing up the slim pale arm and up to the sharp bright features of Phil's impish face, which was staring very thoughtfully back at him. `I mean, it's a big shame Jack isn't here,' murmured the midfielder, `but... you and me are, hey, matey?' The young man's voice was a little gruffer and more assertive again, in that way that Foden could sometimes transform once he was on the pitch - a soft deference in his usual manner swapped for the fierceness of a real competitor who had enjoyed great success at a young age. And Ben stared thoughtfully back at him before nodding his head in two slow jerks - `Yeh,' Chilly agreed quietly, feeling Foden's hand grip more firmly on top of his, `we are.' Kyle Walker had jeered it at him in the changing rooms after he wimped out of giving the big sexy bastard a discreet blowie, but Foden had been thinking the same all week: he did miss rooming with Grealish on trips like this, having particularly enjoyed the playfulness and charisma of his iconic teammate when they were away from the club pressure and Pep scrutiny of their City life. On a footy level, it struck Phil during every training session, missing Jack's enthusiasm and cheeky humour in the squad - and in more private moments, the missing Grealish factor burned at him as he toyed with his stiffy in the early morning, waiting for his alarm to chime, and looking bitterly across at the more aloof and prudish company of his current roommate. Phil and Cole went back years, fellow graduates of the City academy with a couple of years between them, but he knew Palmer to be a very reserved and unadventurous type. (Or so he thought.) For Phil, Ben seemed the closest thing to Jack on this squad, though in some ways their characters were so far apart - everyone here associated the two long-time besties with one another, and they were similar in their warmth, their generosity, their team spirit. And in being ridiculously fucking handsome blokes with huge obvious bulges in their footy shorts. Now, Foden let his fingers interlock gently with Chilly's, and he led him onto the stairs. Neither of the men said anything on the way up the steps or across the landing, not until Phil was nodding urgently down one corridor and adjusting the front of his rustling nylon shorts. He could understand the older player's concern before it found words, and he just whispered confidently across at him. `Palmer is down there,' he said. `He's playing doubles and they've just started a new game. He'll be ages. Promise.' And he retreated backwards down the corridor, fingers slipping loose from those of the 27-year-old left-back and Chelsea's acting captain. Phil watched him intensely as he retreated, licking his lower lip and hoping there was something seductive in his open and eager demeanour - and perhaps there was, because Chilly drifted cautiously after him, scratching at his recently-shaven face, pulling at his majestic hair, and then finally pulling up close to him in front of his hotel room door. `You're sure he's playing?' the Chelsea man whispered, sounding slightly nervous. `Totally,' Phil insisted. He unlocked the door and slid inside the room, glad when Ben instantly followed, and he pushed it shut after them, excited to have lured the (probably) most handsome lad in the squad up here into the quiet warmth of his lamplit room - god he'd been horny for days, and he'd much regretted not finishing off the little escapade with big Walker in the toilet cubicle. He was already rock-hard in his shorts and he grabbed it to emphasise this fact for his guest, who quickly responded by reaching down to grab it too, and then - oh, lovely - stooping forward and giving him a quick peck of a kiss. It was brief but delicious, and so Phil was delighted when it was followed by a second more passionate snog, wet and full, with Ben's strong hands grasping at his upper body and pulling him close. Oh, Benjamin Chilwell really was the swoon-worthy prince of the Three Lions! Phil kissed him back and relaxed into his hold, pleased with how sturdy and almost commanding the 27-year-old man was, in contrast to his reserve and shyness at the piano - this was the resilient left-back who held strong the Chelsea defence and captained them in James' neverending absence. Now that he was up here, Chilwell found himself throwing away all caution and grasping the moment - he was a hot-blooded lad with needs, and it had been several weeks since his last flustered encounter with married DILf Joe Cole. He took a firm hold of Foden's body and steered the lighter lad back to the nearest bed, gripping his waist and kissing him with greedy urgency until their bodies were falling back onto the sheets and he was pinning the City boy beneath his own muscular form. As they kissed, Ben grappled with Phil's sweater, and let their crotches rub firmly together, letting the 23-year-old feel how equally rigid and excited he was, but not wanting to rush things too much. With an attentiveness that came naturally to him, the Chelsea player began to peel Phil's top up and away, guiding it over his face and then tossing it quite powerfully away, almost toppling a bedside lamp; he kissed the lad on the lips but then snogged at his neck and his shoulder and down onto his chest, pushing his lean strong arms back onto the bedding so that he could plant tickling kisses on each bullet nip and then snog his way down onto that lean ripped abdomen. Ben thrust Phil's body further up the bed and hunched over him, draggin down on the shorts and then the trunks below, freeing the pleasingly solid rod of the midfield lad's erection - Ben moved more slowly, wishing to tease, and he nuzzled but didn't kiss it, lowering himself instead to kiss inner thighs and tickle across trimmed pubes and to roll his tongue across one bollock and then the other. Phil shivered and whimpered and exclaimed, `Fuck!', and then Ben lifted his face, spat once, and then closed his soft warm mouth about the scally lad's rock-hard cock, taking it in against his tongue. Guardiola's Golden Boy writhed on the bed, reaching down to grasp and squeeze at Ben's strong hands which rubbed up his sides and across his chest - he stared down his pale chest and tummy and looked at the shaggy looseness of Ben's reddish-brown hair where it fell and swept, as the man's head bobbed up and down, sending waves of intense private pleasure across the young football star's entire body. `Oh man,' Phil groaned, `that feels... sooo... good...' He would have been more than happy to come up here and service Chilwell in literally any way he so desired, so it felt great to be thrown on the bed and then sucked off so generously like this - wow, the polite friendly defender was a much more commanding presence in the bedroom than Foden might have imagined, and such a generous lover! The blowjob went on, and Phil's body buckled and twisted on the bed, pushing up to try and fuck that gorgeous mouth, but finding himself pinned and held by Ben's strength, and his own strength sapped and shattered by the sheer pleasure of those lips moving around his cock, that tongue massaging his tip, the breathy gasps of the sexy stud between his open legs. Every now and then Ben would angle his face up and Phil would catch is sexy eyes and he would think, wow, there's something special here... `Oh fuck,' Foden whined, `this is amazing... but... mmm... oh, god... Ben, let me suck you?' And eventually, wiping his mouth, Ben pulled away from his dick and stood up in front of him, his face hard and determined - he swept his baggy t-shirt away from his ripped upper body in one smooth movement, exposing the defined muscles of his chest and six-pack, and making the pronounced tent in his soft grey shorts all the more emphatic. Phil lay there and enjoyed the view, licking his lips, and glancing down at the shiny wet length of his heavy scally cock, amazed at how sensitive it had felt in Ben's mouth. Eagerly, he crunched up into a sitting position and then shuffled himself onto the edge of the bed, breathing in Chilly's scent, and grabbing the sides of those shorts; Ben stroked his hair and across his bare shoulders whilst he fought to pull down first those sweat-shorts and then the boxer briefs below, and... yep, there it was. Yep, Ben was huge. He had none of his new lover's patience and control, and he hoisted it in one hand and kissed the fat tip, before rolling his lips over it and taking as much of it as he could into his gob. He closed his eyes and opened wide and let it hit the back of his throat until he gagged and had to pull away to recover. He tried again, went deeper, and loved the deep throaty moan of Ben's appreciation, and the feel of his hands on his shoulders. Chilly stood there and enjoyed it, appreciating the thoroughness with which the City youngster consumed his cock, greedy for every thick inch of it; he felt both sensitive and numbed at once, loving the sensations but also feeling like he could stand here and sustain this attention for hours without really nearing climax. A restless frustration crawled all over his 5ft11 body, and the Milton Keynes stud couldn't bring himself to confront the source of that deep physical dissatisfaction: he didn't want to admit who he wished was on the bed in front of him, that different member of Guardiola's elite army. He tried instead to be present in the moment, to appreciate the attentiveness and excitement of his younger teammate, to appreciate the nervous eagerness and praise with which he'd been approached at the piano - to just appreciate the beautiful feeling of someone trying to deep-throat his surprise monster cock right now, repeatedly choking on it but panting to recovery and coming back down for more. To show his forced appreciation, he stroked his fingers through Phil's short trim, down his thin neck, and across his solid shoulders; and he also stroked a hand across his own six-pack and up his chest, playing with his nipples and inviting Phil to do the same... mmm, it did all feel so good, so why didn't he feel more... satisfied? Well, he thought, maybe a blowjob isn't enough. He let the sucking go on, and the stroking and rubbing, and the tweaking of his fat nipples - but then he needed to push it on, to move it forward, to reach for more, and he guided Phil's slobbering mouth away from the thick weight of his equipment, guided him backwards by the shoulders, and crawled after him onto the bed, naked now but for his fresh white Nike socks. He lay over the slighter younger lad again and snogged him, letting their bare bodies rub and grind, and then hooking his hands under each of Phil's pleasingly dense thigh muscles, hoisting them up, and kneeling between them to stare determinedly down at the rising star of Man City. `I wanna fuck you,' he announced fiercely. `Yes,' gasped Foden keenly. `Fuck me, Chilly!' Phil stared at him between his legs, reaching under his thigh muscles to hold them up and parted for the sexy man, his own cock throbbing between these muscles; and he watched as Ben, kneeling there with his cock swinging up and down, stroking up his shins and over his kneecaps and down the outer sides of his thighs, before looking downwards and spitting with impressive accuracy upon the shaft of his cock. But then he spat some more, into one hand, and was reaching two fingers down out of view - `Ohhh' - Phil felt his hole briefly tense and then relax for the skilled prod of two digits, and he rolled his head back in gratified pleasure as the Chelsea prince began to enter and open him, purring encouragement as he did, `That feel good, Philly, does it?' `God, yes...' `Deeper, like that?' `Oh fuckkkk, yeh...' `You like that, baby?' `Yes mate, oh godddd...' `You want them right in you?' `Oh, fuck fuck fuck, yes Chilly...' `You want a third finger? Can you take it?' `GOD YES...' `You want my big cock in you, buddy?' `More than fucking anything.' `You want me to fuck you hard?' `YES!' `Like Jack does?' asked Chilwell, and it was almost a snarl. Foden was mildly taken aback by this and reopened his eyes - seeing a fresh fierceness and hardness in Ben's face that was surprising and yet very exciting. He hoisted his legs up higher and wider and felt three fingers really pushing into his hungry hole, and he nodded his head. `Yes,' he gasped, with only a flicker of hesitation at this change in tone, `fuck me like Jack does,' he begged, `Fuck me like Grealish, you're huge like him...' `Tell me how he fucks you,' growled Chilly. `Oh, so hard,' Foden panted, `he goes so rough and hard in me...' `Does he feel good like this?' `He feels amazing... I mean, he feels- er, this feels so good, erm-' His dirty talk faltered and stumbled, but only because he didn't know what big Ben wanted to hear. Phil was loving it, was so turned on, wanted to be caught on his back like this forever, having his hole stretched and anticipating real penetration - but he wanted to please and satisfy this gorgeous man in front of him, and he was a little confused at what Ben wanted to hear from him, so he just moaned and muttered ambiguous fragments, from `I want your huge cock in me' to `if only Jack was here too...' and it all seemed to excite and infuriate the stud between his legs in equal measure. Regardless, he could feel the big thick head of Chilly's weapon pushign between his cheeks, and he felt the hard strength of the bigger stronger player pressing down upon him, holding him as he forced inside, and Phil's hole was briefly on fire before relaxing and accommodating, and allowing this big brilliant presence to bury inside him... oh, god... `OH GOD,' he groaned enthusiastically, and he felt Ben weigh down on him and grip him with both arms, and then their mouths were connecting again in a deep kiss, delicious and satisfying, but also ending the need for dirty talk, ending the haunting the presence of Jack's name in their fuck. Ben pushed himself hard inside the arse of the younger player, holding him tightly in missionary as he did, thrusting his ungainly weapon of stupid proportions, and glad that Foden seemed so equipped to take it - used, he supposed, to being pounded by someone as well-hung and boisterous as his precious Grealish - and he fucked harder and harder to try and blank that thought out, trying to just remember that it was him, Ben Chilwell, who was hear on top of the lad, pressing inside him and making him tremble and whine and beg for more, making him squeal and gasp and snog at his neck and cheek and lips, the bed creaking beneath each hard shove of Ben's strength. Like when he'd stood there getting his cock slurped, he felt that curious mixture of numbness and sensitivity, that feeling that he could fuck for hours and hours and not finish, and a strange detachment from the other lad's pleasure that was unlike him. He just fucked and fucked, grunting almost bitterly as he did, really making Phil scream his name and tell him how amazing he was, but the City twink sounded too forced, too performative, he didn't like it - he just kept thrusting into him, pushing harder and deeper, and trying to make himself cum, wanting to empty his heavy balls and breed this slut, but feeling shaky and weak all of a sudden, so that his thrusting humps slowed and stalled, and he found himself asking again, `Did Jack fuck you like this?' He heard Phil's struggling awkwardness at finding an answer, and he became still, his cock still buried to the hilt in Phil's perfect arse, holding onto him, but shaking and sweating; and he began to withdraw, uncomfortable, and his face feeling clammy. Phil's hands roved across his arm muscles and upper back, and he found himself looking into that sweet needy face. `Do you need to rest?' panted the scally lad. `It's okay - take a moment, but fuck me hard like that, god it's good...' `No,' Ben murmured, but he didn't know what to say, how to explain himself - he just wanted to finish here and run away and take a cold shower. But he couldn't just leave Phil without the explanation that he couldn't give. He was too giving for that. Instead, he pushed the slim muscular lad down on the bedding and began to kiss his torso again, pecking at his chest and tummy, kissing all over him, and then bringing his mouth back to his cock. His own cock throbbing and aching, he hunched beside the prone midfielder and noshed him off, pinning him down with all of his strength whilst also dragging his mouth up and down his shaft - Phil was groaning out loudly and wordlessly at this and Ben kept going, fixed on the goal of satisfying this sweet sexy superstar. Phil couldn't hold it in: he shot his load inside Ben's mouth, whining out his pleasure and writhing against the bed with an aching arse. `Oh god, oh god,' he panted, feeling out-of-body euphoria as he came heavily, Ben's mouth slurping and kissing messily across the head of his prick - he reached for him immediately, wanting to kiss that dirty mouth, but still the 27-year-old pushed and held him down, kissing his tummy with stick lips, and Foden could just lie there on his back and convulse with pleasure. He stilled and rested, gasping for air, and telling Ben how incredible he was, until the pressure of those commanding hands left his midriff and he felt his guest pull gently away, sliding across and off the bed. Phil rolled onto his side, chest still heaving and arse-hole still throbbing, and he reached down to stroke his wet cock - he looked over from the bed and saw the perfect rear-view of Ben Chilwell standing up, arms raised to hold his head, making the vista of his back muscles and large peachy arse all the more gorgeous. Phil enjoyed this image for a moment before noting the posture of the masterpiece as one of vague distress - `Ben, mate?' - and he tried to pick himself up from the bed, but felt exhausted with pleasure and pounding, and he practically tumbled over getting up onto his socked feet. He lunged clumsily for a hug but Ben evaded him, moving away; his cock still looked huge and veiny in its excitement, but Chilly didn't want help with it, dodging aside as Phil grabbed for it and giggled submissively. Awkward, he halted at the edge of his bed and grabbed for his shorts, a little embarrassed and confused. `Ben,' he breathed, `are you okay?' But the visitor didn't seem to want to look at him, fetching his clothes from different corners of the room and pulling them over his perfect body. `That was incredible,' Foden told the other Lion. `It felt so good.' `Yeah,' Ben agreed, but his voice wooden and distant. He was back in his t-shirt and pulling his dark hair back from his sweaty face repeatedly. Finally the two men looked at each other and Phil was confused by his pained expression. But not entirely confused. `It's Jack,' he murmured, again moving closer as if to hug or cuddle the taller lad, and adding, `you wanna talk about it, buddy...?' `No,' said Chilwell coolly, retreating from him and pulling up his shorts. `That was fun,' he said, in a fairly decent impression of fuck-boy indifference. Phil stared sceptically at him, still trembling with every ounce of pleasure this sexy guy had given him, but worried by the haunted look on his face, and the unfinished business bulging in his shorts. Phil followed him to the door, weary and clumsy with ecstasy, but reaching for one of Ben's hands and squeezing it tightly in his. `Stay?' he said, quietly. `We can talk about it...' `That was fun,' his guest repeatedly in this wooden manner, giving him a flashy false media day smile, and then a full tonguing snog too, before backing off and unlocking the door; out he went, into the brightness of the corridor, shaky on his feet, and Phil feeling conspicuously half-naked in the doorway behind him, sex-sweat seeming to emanate from his tight young body... so he closed the door and rested against it for a long moment before throwing himself back into the wrinkled sheets of his bed, lying there in the sweat patches of their lovemaking, and just thinking about how good it had all felt, every kiss, every inch. But what was going on with that handsome lad, and what exactly was the situation between him and Jack Grealish...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 22 Mar 2024 22:47:43 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 399 Part 399: Without Jack There was a piano in the reception room at the foot of the stairwell - he'd noticed it before, but on the midfielder's last placement at St George's park, he'd been making slow progress with his music lessons and felt too self-conscious making any approach on the instrument. Still, after a few years of learning, the 27-year-old glanced almost warily down the rectangular room to the dark piano in the corner, awkwardly placed as if the hotel owners didn't know where to place this aged relic, a fairly showy piece that perhaps wasn't as high-quality as it was trying to look, unlike the sleek simple kit that Ben himself had invested in once he began to properly enjoy his sessions. He was still rather tentative about his abilities and progress, and far too self-conscious to `perform', and yet he found himself pausing at the foot of the stairs with his hand lingering on the bannister and only one slider placed on the carpeted bottom step. Ben Chilwell glanced up the stairs and over his shoulder, and back and forth across the central reception room that connected the various downstairs sections of the hotel, a chintzy-looking golf resort before it had been largely co-opted by the neighbouring high-spec football campus. The piano was very in keeping with this general decor, quaintly obnoxious, and it seemed to sit there waiting for someone to tinkle the ivories. Alone at this quiet hour, the strong young football player retreated from the step and paced quietly down the side of the staircase, moving into the enclosed corner where the instrument sat between a few ostentatious bookshelves, and he slid down onto the simple cushioned stood in front of the keys. It was not ridiculously late, but later than curfew had been for the last few nights - despite tomorrow night's Wembley fixture against giants Brazil, Southgate had appeared soft and liberal in his scheduling for much of today and tonight, and so the players were scattered variously across their hotel. Some were enjoying games of pool in a games room off the teetotal bar, there was a card game going on in the dining room, and others were watching the Scotland and Spain games on TVs in the lounge - and some of Ben's teammates had retired already to their rooms, including his moodily quiet roomie Conor Gallagher, who had been in a funny mood this past day or two. It was late enough for the hotel to feel quiet and sleepy, and Ben decided that it made sense to further delay his own quiet exit to his room - perhaps his Chelsea pal Gallagher just needed some space. So he sat down, flexed his hands, and started playing. The keys chimed quietly to his touch and he just did a couple of scales before attempting a tune he had been trying to learn, tinkling its notes out with a look of deep concentration lining his handsome features, a frustrated little frown of effort to master something that did not come naturally to him - perhaps it came naturally to nobody, and it just took more hours of work than a professional footballer was able to give it. Ben wasn't sure he was any good, though his paid tutor argued otherwise, but he didn't particularly mind - it was something that gave Chilly a lot of peace and comfort, and he was very happy to indulge himself here unnoticed and out of hearing - so he played on, starting the tune over and trying to relax rather than overthink it, letting his fingers find their way as the music teacher always encouraged, until he seemed to find the rhythm and pace, and it all just got a little bit easier, and- `Wow,' interrupted the quiet husky voice, making him start and jangle his fingers against the keys - he looked sharply to his right, mortified, and found that he'd zoned out and failed to notice the other England player advance on him. Phil Foden stood there with a pint of water in one hand and his Nintendo Switch in the other, an almost childish grin of enjoyment splitting his face, as he nodded his approval. `Wow,' the Manchester City prodigy cooed again, blinking, `I didn't know you were a some kinda musician.' Flustered at this interruption, Ben calmed his hands against the keyboard and then closed the wooden lid rapidly over the keys. `What? No, no - I'm nothing like that,' he muttered rapidly. `Just...' He ran fingers through the chestnut sweep of his hair. `Just something I picked up in the lockdowns. Erm.' He cleared his throat. `Nobody was meant to hear that,' he said a little resentfully, but softening in the face of Phil's simple smile and admiring eyes - he was a tough lad to be moody with. Despite the vague signals that Chilly was trying to give off, embarrassed to be caught out, Foden came closer - he leaned in against the piano and was about to carelessly place his glass of water on top of its aged cover before Ben urgently dissuaded him and pointed over to the shelving along the side of the stairs instead. `I dunno,' he mumbled self-consciously, getting up from the stool. `It might be worth a load of money, I dunno.' Again, he played with his hair, and pulled at the collar of his oversized white print tee. `You okay?' he asked a little stiffly, trying to pull attention away from his musical enterprise. Phil was still staring at him as if he'd just discovered he could speak eight languages and was studying for a PhD. Hands freed of drink and console, he slapped them eagerly together, and nodded back to the piano. `Will you teach me a tune?' `God,' Ben protested, `I don't think so, buddy. I can barely do it myself, never mind teach anyone. Erm.' He laughed awkwardly, flustered at being discovered but maybe more-so at the keen appreciation on his younger friend's face. `Another time,' he offered vaguely, seeing Phil's brimming enthusiasm - he really wouldn't know where to start trying to teach the Stockport lad a thing! `Ah, no worries,' Phil said, suppressing a yawn. `You were good though. It sounded nice.' `Er, thanks, yeah.' `Man of hidden depths,' the young midfielder remarked. Ben just smiled evasively at this, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt and finding that his loose grey shorts had no pockets to stuff his distracted hands into. Instead, he fiddled with the drawstrings at the front and stood facing the slight midfielder, a few inches shorter than him, and still grinning keenly at him in admiration. Ben paused in sudden unnamed discomfort, finding that he wasn't sure what to say to the City guy - he'd been in a funny mood himself today, he supposed, after accusing Conor of the same. A few different memories of England camps past were playing on his mind. `I tell you,' Phil said abruptly and ironically, `I do wish our Jack was here.' Ben hardly had time to dwell on the odd phrase `our Jack', he was too alarmed at the apparent psychic capabilities of the 23-year-old - he'd just been thinking the same thing before he sat down at the piano, and at various odd intervals since checking in here at the start of the week. `Well, yeah,' he said, after a moment's awkward pause, `it's a shame for the guy to miss out on a camp, dunno anyone who gets a bigger buzz from the shirt than Jacko...' `Did you see his post on Insta?' Phil asked sharply. `Putting a brave face on another month of injury recovery. Fucking annoying for him,' the midfielder said, with feeling. `I think everybody wishes he was here,' he added thoughtfully, `I heard Madders saying just that at dinner earlier.' `Erm, yeah,' Ben agreed distantly. He looked thoughtfully at the City star, and tried to dismiss the matter with brusque resolve - `Still, he's got a fair chance at summer, and there's a lot of different players for Southgate to pick from right now.' He didn't want to sound too sentimental or fixated on Jack Grealish's absence this week - and he certainly didn't want to be drawn into discussing the little slideshow of solitary photos their mutual friend had posted on social media to narrate his fight for full fitness. One or two in particular had made Ben's eyes boggle as he was shown it on Conor's phone at the breakfast table. Sometimes it was more difficult than others to be reminded of what he'd... let go. `Yeah, but like you said,' sighed Phil, `don't think many lads get quite so psyched for it as Jack the lad.' He sniggered, a little cheeky glint in his dark eyes. `You know what I mean if I say he can get... a bit OVER excited by the England crest on his kit, haha.' Phil looked naughty and embarrassed and rueful all at once, and Ben thought he DID know exactly what the midfield player was getting at - so, it was like that at Guardiola's Man City, was it? Ben didn't quite respond, tapping his fingers against the wooden edges of the grand piano, and looking past Phil towards the bottom of the stairs - upstairs was best after all, and the quiet comfort of his suite, their last night here before they checked into North London accommodation tomorrow before their two Wembley hosting fixtures. He was about to brush past the 5ft7 Manc lad and leave this ambiguous chat, when Phil's hand laid almost shakily on top of his, on the top cover of the piano. Ben fixed his friend with a curious look, eyes trailing up the slim pale arm and up to the sharp bright features of Phil's impish face, which was staring very thoughtfully back at him. `I mean, it's a big shame Jack isn't here,' murmured the midfielder, `but... you and me are, hey, matey?' The young man's voice was a little gruffer and more assertive again, in that way that Foden could sometimes transform once he was on the pitch - a soft deference in his usual manner swapped for the fierceness of a real competitor who had enjoyed great success at a young age. And Ben stared thoughtfully back at him before nodding his head in two slow jerks - `Yeh,' Chilly agreed quietly, feeling Foden's hand grip more firmly on top of his, `we are.' Kyle Walker had jeered it at him in the changing rooms after he wimped out of giving the big sexy bastard a discreet blowie, but Foden had been thinking the same all week: he did miss rooming with Grealish on trips like this, having particularly enjoyed the playfulness and charisma of his iconic teammate when they were away from the club pressure and Pep scrutiny of their City life. On a footy level, it struck Phil during every training session, missing Jack's enthusiasm and cheeky humour in the squad - and in more private moments, the missing Grealish factor burned at him as he toyed with his stiffy in the early morning, waiting for his alarm to chime, and looking bitterly across at the more aloof and prudish company of his current roommate. Phil and Cole went back years, fellow graduates of the City academy with a couple of years between them, but he knew Palmer to be a very reserved and unadventurous type. (Or so he thought.) For Phil, Ben seemed the closest thing to Jack on this squad, though in some ways their characters were so far apart - everyone here associated the two long-time besties with one another, and they were similar in their warmth, their generosity, their team spirit. And in being ridiculously fucking handsome blokes with huge obvious bulges in their footy shorts. Now, Foden let his fingers interlock gently with Chilly's, and he led him onto the stairs. Neither of the men said anything on the way up the steps or across the landing, not until Phil was nodding urgently down one corridor and adjusting the front of his rustling nylon shorts. He could understand the older player's concern before it found words, and he just whispered confidently across at him. `Palmer is down there,' he said. `He's playing doubles and they've just started a new game. He'll be ages. Promise.' And he retreated backwards down the corridor, fingers slipping loose from those of the 27-year-old left-back and Chelsea's acting captain. Phil watched him intensely as he retreated, licking his lower lip and hoping there was something seductive in his open and eager demeanour - and perhaps there was, because Chilly drifted cautiously after him, scratching at his recently-shaven face, pulling at his majestic hair, and then finally pulling up close to him in front of his hotel room door. `You're sure he's playing?' the Chelsea man whispered, sounding slightly nervous. `Totally,' Phil insisted. He unlocked the door and slid inside the room, glad when Ben instantly followed, and he pushed it shut after them, excited to have lured the (probably) most handsome lad in the squad up here into the quiet warmth of his lamplit room - god he'd been horny for days, and he'd much regretted not finishing off the little escapade with big Walker in the toilet cubicle. He was already rock-hard in his shorts and he grabbed it to emphasise this fact for his guest, who quickly responded by reaching down to grab it too, and then - oh, lovely - stooping forward and giving him a quick peck of a kiss. It was brief but delicious, and so Phil was delighted when it was followed by a second more passionate snog, wet and full, with Ben's strong hands grasping at his upper body and pulling him close. Oh, Benjamin Chilwell really was the swoon-worthy prince of the Three Lions! Phil kissed him back and relaxed into his hold, pleased with how sturdy and almost commanding the 27-year-old man was, in contrast to his reserve and shyness at the piano - this was the resilient left-back who held strong the Chelsea defence and captained them in James' neverending absence. Now that he was up here, Chilwell found himself throwing away all caution and grasping the moment - he was a hot-blooded lad with needs, and it had been several weeks since his last flustered encounter with married DILf Joe Cole. He took a firm hold of Foden's body and steered the lighter lad back to the nearest bed, gripping his waist and kissing him with greedy urgency until their bodies were falling back onto the sheets and he was pinning the City boy beneath his own muscular form. As they kissed, Ben grappled with Phil's sweater, and let their crotches rub firmly together, letting the 23-year-old feel how equally rigid and excited he was, but not wanting to rush things too much. With an attentiveness that came naturally to him, the Chelsea player began to peel Phil's top up and away, guiding it over his face and then tossing it quite powerfully away, almost toppling a bedside lamp; he kissed the lad on the lips but then snogged at his neck and his shoulder and down onto his chest, pushing his lean strong arms back onto the bedding so that he could plant tickling kisses on each bullet nip and then snog his way down onto that lean ripped abdomen. Ben thrust Phil's body further up the bed and hunched over him, draggin down on the shorts and then the trunks below, freeing the pleasingly solid rod of the midfield lad's erection - Ben moved more slowly, wishing to tease, and he nuzzled but didn't kiss it, lowering himself instead to kiss inner thighs and tickle across trimmed pubes and to roll his tongue across one bollock and then the other. Phil shivered and whimpered and exclaimed, `Fuck!', and then Ben lifted his face, spat once, and then closed his soft warm mouth about the scally lad's rock-hard cock, taking it in against his tongue. Guardiola's Golden Boy writhed on the bed, reaching down to grasp and squeeze at Ben's strong hands which rubbed up his sides and across his chest - he stared down his pale chest and tummy and looked at the shaggy looseness of Ben's reddish-brown hair where it fell and swept, as the man's head bobbed up and down, sending waves of intense private pleasure across the young football star's entire body. `Oh man,' Phil groaned, `that feels... sooo... good...' He would have been more than happy to come up here and service Chilwell in literally any way he so desired, so it felt great to be thrown on the bed and then sucked off so generously like this - wow, the polite friendly defender was a much more commanding presence in the bedroom than Foden might have imagined, and such a generous lover! The blowjob went on, and Phil's body buckled and twisted on the bed, pushing up to try and fuck that gorgeous mouth, but finding himself pinned and held by Ben's strength, and his own strength sapped and shattered by the sheer pleasure of those lips moving around his cock, that tongue massaging his tip, the breathy gasps of the sexy stud between his open legs. Every now and then Ben would angle his face up and Phil would catch is sexy eyes and he would think, wow, there's something special here... `Oh fuck,' Foden whined, `this is amazing... but... mmm... oh, god... Ben, let me suck you?' And eventually, wiping his mouth, Ben pulled away from his dick and stood up in front of him, his face hard and determined - he swept his baggy t-shirt away from his ripped upper body in one smooth movement, exposing the defined muscles of his chest and six-pack, and making the pronounced tent in his soft grey shorts all the more emphatic. Phil lay there and enjoyed the view, licking his lips, and glancing down at the shiny wet length of his heavy scally cock, amazed at how sensitive it had felt in Ben's mouth. Eagerly, he crunched up into a sitting position and then shuffled himself onto the edge of the bed, breathing in Chilly's scent, and grabbing the sides of those shorts; Ben stroked his hair and across his bare shoulders whilst he fought to pull down first those sweat-shorts and then the boxer briefs below, and... yep, there it was. Yep, Ben was huge. He had none of his new lover's patience and control, and he hoisted it in one hand and kissed the fat tip, before rolling his lips over it and taking as much of it as he could into his gob. He closed his eyes and opened wide and let it hit the back of his throat until he gagged and had to pull away to recover. He tried again, went deeper, and loved the deep throaty moan of Ben's appreciation, and the feel of his hands on his shoulders. Chilly stood there and enjoyed it, appreciating the thoroughness with which the City youngster consumed his cock, greedy for every thick inch of it; he felt both sensitive and numbed at once, loving the sensations but also feeling like he could stand here and sustain this attention for hours without really nearing climax. A restless frustration crawled all over his 5ft11 body, and the Milton Keynes stud couldn't bring himself to confront the source of that deep physical dissatisfaction: he didn't want to admit who he wished was on the bed in front of him, that different member of Guardiola's elite army. He tried instead to be present in the moment, to appreciate the attentiveness and excitement of his younger teammate, to appreciate the nervous eagerness and praise with which he'd been approached at the piano - to just appreciate the beautiful feeling of someone trying to deep-throat his surprise monster cock right now, repeatedly choking on it but panting to recovery and coming back down for more. To show his forced appreciation, he stroked his fingers through Phil's short trim, down his thin neck, and across his solid shoulders; and he also stroked a hand across his own six-pack and up his chest, playing with his nipples and inviting Phil to do the same... mmm, it did all feel so good, so why didn't he feel more... satisfied? Well, he thought, maybe a blowjob isn't enough. He let the sucking go on, and the stroking and rubbing, and the tweaking of his fat nipples - but then he needed to push it on, to move it forward, to reach for more, and he guided Phil's slobbering mouth away from the thick weight of his equipment, guided him backwards by the shoulders, and crawled after him onto the bed, naked now but for his fresh white Nike socks. He lay over the slighter younger lad again and snogged him, letting their bare bodies rub and grind, and then hooking his hands under each of Phil's pleasingly dense thigh muscles, hoisting them up, and kneeling between them to stare determinedly down at the rising star of Man City. `I wanna fuck you,' he announced fiercely. `Yes,' gasped Foden keenly. `Fuck me, Chilly!' Phil stared at him between his legs, reaching under his thigh muscles to hold them up and parted for the sexy man, his own cock throbbing between these muscles; and he watched as Ben, kneeling there with his cock swinging up and down, stroking up his shins and over his kneecaps and down the outer sides of his thighs, before looking downwards and spitting with impressive accuracy upon the shaft of his cock. But then he spat some more, into one hand, and was reaching two fingers down out of view - `Ohhh' - Phil felt his hole briefly tense and then relax for the skilled prod of two digits, and he rolled his head back in gratified pleasure as the Chelsea prince began to enter and open him, purring encouragement as he did, `That feel good, Philly, does it?' `God, yes...' `Deeper, like that?' `Oh fuckkkk, yeh...' `You like that, baby?' `Yes mate, oh godddd...' `You want them right in you?' `Oh, fuck fuck fuck, yes Chilly...' `You want a third finger? Can you take it?' `GOD YES...' `You want my big cock in you, buddy?' `More than fucking anything.' `You want me to fuck you hard?' `YES!' `Like Jack does?' asked Chilwell, and it was almost a snarl. Foden was mildly taken aback by this and reopened his eyes - seeing a fresh fierceness and hardness in Ben's face that was surprising and yet very exciting. He hoisted his legs up higher and wider and felt three fingers really pushing into his hungry hole, and he nodded his head. `Yes,' he gasped, with only a flicker of hesitation at this change in tone, `fuck me like Jack does,' he begged, `Fuck me like Grealish, you're huge like him...' `Tell me how he fucks you,' growled Chilly. `Oh, so hard,' Foden panted, `he goes so rough and hard in me...' `Does he feel good like this?' `He feels amazing... I mean, he feels- er, this feels so good, erm-' His dirty talk faltered and stumbled, but only because he didn't know what big Ben wanted to hear. Phil was loving it, was so turned on, wanted to be caught on his back like this forever, having his hole stretched and anticipating real penetration - but he wanted to please and satisfy this gorgeous man in front of him, and he was a little confused at what Ben wanted to hear from him, so he just moaned and muttered ambiguous fragments, from `I want your huge cock in me' to `if only Jack was here too...' and it all seemed to excite and infuriate the stud between his legs in equal measure. Regardless, he could feel the big thick head of Chilly's weapon pushign between his cheeks, and he felt the hard strength of the bigger stronger player pressing down upon him, holding him as he forced inside, and Phil's hole was briefly on fire before relaxing and accommodating, and allowing this big brilliant presence to bury inside him... oh, god... `OH GOD,' he groaned enthusiastically, and he felt Ben weigh down on him and grip him with both arms, and then their mouths were connecting again in a deep kiss, delicious and satisfying, but also ending the need for dirty talk, ending the haunting the presence of Jack's name in their fuck. Ben pushed himself hard inside the arse of the younger player, holding him tightly in missionary as he did, thrusting his ungainly weapon of stupid proportions, and glad that Foden seemed so equipped to take it - used, he supposed, to being pounded by someone as well-hung and boisterous as his precious Grealish - and he fucked harder and harder to try and blank that thought out, trying to just remember that it was him, Ben Chilwell, who was hear on top of the lad, pressing inside him and making him tremble and whine and beg for more, making him squeal and gasp and snog at his neck and cheek and lips, the bed creaking beneath each hard shove of Ben's strength. Like when he'd stood there getting his cock slurped, he felt that curious mixture of numbness and sensitivity, that feeling that he could fuck for hours and hours and not finish, and a strange detachment from the other lad's pleasure that was unlike him. He just fucked and fucked, grunting almost bitterly as he did, really making Phil scream his name and tell him how amazing he was, but the City twink sounded too forced, too performative, he didn't like it - he just kept thrusting into him, pushing harder and deeper, and trying to make himself cum, wanting to empty his heavy balls and breed this slut, but feeling shaky and weak all of a sudden, so that his thrusting humps slowed and stalled, and he found himself asking again, `Did Jack fuck you like this?' He heard Phil's struggling awkwardness at finding an answer, and he became still, his cock still buried to the hilt in Phil's perfect arse, holding onto him, but shaking and sweating; and he began to withdraw, uncomfortable, and his face feeling clammy. Phil's hands roved across his arm muscles and upper back, and he found himself looking into that sweet needy face. `Do you need to rest?' panted the scally lad. `It's okay - take a moment, but fuck me hard like that, god it's good...' `No,' Ben murmured, but he didn't know what to say, how to explain himself - he just wanted to finish here and run away and take a cold shower. But he couldn't just leave Phil without the explanation that he couldn't give. He was too giving for that. Instead, he pushed the slim muscular lad down on the bedding and began to kiss his torso again, pecking at his chest and tummy, kissing all over him, and then bringing his mouth back to his cock. His own cock throbbing and aching, he hunched beside the prone midfielder and noshed him off, pinning him down with all of his strength whilst also dragging his mouth up and down his shaft - Phil was groaning out loudly and wordlessly at this and Ben kept going, fixed on the goal of satisfying this sweet sexy superstar. Phil couldn't hold it in: he shot his load inside Ben's mouth, whining out his pleasure and writhing against the bed with an aching arse. `Oh god, oh god,' he panted, feeling out-of-body euphoria as he came heavily, Ben's mouth slurping and kissing messily across the head of his prick - he reached for him immediately, wanting to kiss that dirty mouth, but still the 27-year-old pushed and held him down, kissing his tummy with stick lips, and Foden could just lie there on his back and convulse with pleasure. He stilled and rested, gasping for air, and telling Ben how incredible he was, until the pressure of those commanding hands left his midriff and he felt his guest pull gently away, sliding across and off the bed. Phil rolled onto his side, chest still heaving and arse-hole still throbbing, and he reached down to stroke his wet cock - he looked over from the bed and saw the perfect rear-view of Ben Chilwell standing up, arms raised to hold his head, making the vista of his back muscles and large peachy arse all the more gorgeous. Phil enjoyed this image for a moment before noting the posture of the masterpiece as one of vague distress - `Ben, mate?' - and he tried to pick himself up from the bed, but felt exhausted with pleasure and pounding, and he practically tumbled over getting up onto his socked feet. He lunged clumsily for a hug but Ben evaded him, moving away; his cock still looked huge and veiny in its excitement, but Chilly didn't want help with it, dodging aside as Phil grabbed for it and giggled submissively. Awkward, he halted at the edge of his bed and grabbed for his shorts, a little embarrassed and confused. `Ben,' he breathed, `are you okay?' But the visitor didn't seem to want to look at him, fetching his clothes from different corners of the room and pulling them over his perfect body. `That was incredible,' Foden told the other Lion. `It felt so good.' `Yeah,' Ben agreed, but his voice wooden and distant. He was back in his t-shirt and pulling his dark hair back from his sweaty face repeatedly. Finally the two men looked at each other and Phil was confused by his pained expression. But not entirely confused. `It's Jack,' he murmured, again moving closer as if to hug or cuddle the taller lad, and adding, `you wanna talk about it, buddy...?' `No,' said Chilwell coolly, retreating from him and pulling up his shorts. `That was fun,' he said, in a fairly decent impression of fuck-boy indifference. Phil stared sceptically at him, still trembling with every ounce of pleasure this sexy guy had given him, but worried by the haunted look on his face, and the unfinished business bulging in his shorts. Phil followed him to the door, weary and clumsy with ecstasy, but reaching for one of Ben's hands and squeezing it tightly in his. `Stay?' he said, quietly. `We can talk about it...' `That was fun,' his guest repeatedly in this wooden manner, giving him a flashy false media day smile, and then a full tonguing snog too, before backing off and unlocking the door; out he went, into the brightness of the corridor, shaky on his feet, and Phil feeling conspicuously half-naked in the doorway behind him, sex-sweat seeming to emanate from his tight young body... so he closed the door and rested against it for a long moment before throwing himself back into the wrinkled sheets of his bed, lying there in the sweat patches of their lovemaking, and just thinking about how good it had all felt, every kiss, every inch. But what was going on with that handsome lad, and what exactly was the situation between him and Jack Grealish...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-387

Date: Sat, 27 Jan 2024 12:49:38 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 387 Part 387: Kevin's Choice The new Kevin de Bruyne, post-injury, was different in more ways than just his hair: the lustrous red gold mane that he enjoyed sweeping his fingers through with uncharacteristic vanity. Everyone around him at Manchester City had commented on it, in their own different ways: a new lightness and boldness in the lauded midfielder, a less serious response to the pressure of his career stature. It was the longest gap the 32-year-old had experienced in his senior playing career, and so most of his teammates and friends put it down to the sheer joy of his comeback, a fine return to form in the Premier League. But there was a bit more to it than that, and all was not as calm as it seemed on the smiling ginger surface. It was City's final day in Abu Dhabi before returning to the UK, their Friday night clash at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium looming ahead - a historical cursed away trip for the treble winners which this hot weather training camp seemed largely devoted to. Kevin was red-faced and sweaty, as he was pretty sure he had been since the minute the squad touched down here; he was stomping away from one of the synthetic pitches with his boots off, socked feet leaving sweat-prints on bright fresh tarmac as he wove his way out of the action in search of an unscheduled cool break. He could get fined for slacking, he supposed, but De Bruyne had been working himself insanely hard all week, and he was sure the coaching staff would be happy to go easy on him. Entering some shade from the still-hot late afternoon sun, the red-faced Belgian processed through the quieter zones of the luxury sports camp they were all but occupying to themselves, and glugged cold water from a bottle in one clammy hand. He pulled on the chest of the training jersey that was sticking to his body and then similarly tugged at the screwed mesh lining of his shorts where it hugged his loose heavy cock and balls, adjusting and briefly fondling the jewels within. Just this little bit of self-touch set his flaccid cock stirring and his hormones simmering, horny in the heat as most red-blooded men were; and suddenly he was looking for more than just cool shade, but safe privacy. The City midfielder made a sharp turn into some of the covered area and then through some automatic sliding doors, enveloped immediately by satisfying air-con. At a water station, he refilled his bottle and then almost immediately drained it, finding a window that looked back out onto the row of small pitches where most of the other lads were still hard at work in assigned groups, including the one he had ditched. He stood there watching for a short while, but kept needing to pull and adjust at his damp top and the fit of his shorts, until he threw a frustrated glance in the direction of a disabled loo. Its unlocked door beckoned him with an invite of privacy and relative cool. KDB plonked the emptied water bottle down on top of the station and gave a couple of furtive looks up and down the passage, then made a rushed movement in through the door, locked swiftly behind him. Instinctively and irritably, he peeled the City training jersey straight off, pulling its damp weight away from the thickset pale muscle of his torso, and dumping it down in a heap at the side of the sink. He examined himself in the mirror, enjoying how much more handsome he felt he looked with longer hair and slightly leaner features, then reaching down and giving himself a proper squeeze and tug through the front of the shorts - this was a bit mad, but he really needed to attend to himself so he could focus. He pushed a hand into the sweat-sticky contents of these shorts, holding his fat semi and jostling his wrinkled balls, feeling the short soft growth of his trimmed auburn pubes. Mmm. He glanced back at the door, checking needlessly that he'd locked it, and then he pushed the shorts down past his hips, over his lightly furred thighs, dropped past his steely calves and then stepped clumsily over his socked feet. Stood in front of the mirror, daring to admire his physique, the 5ft11 football hunk toyed with his cock and balls some more, bringing his cock to pink-headed erectness, and then spitting on his palm to rub full veiny life into it, feeling the soft pangs of frustrated pleasure - but not enough pleasure, not yet, not just this. Nope. He moved across the small square room and sat himself on the toilet lid, no longer facing the mirror; he kept playing with his hard-on, but he brought up one thick chunky leg and set an ankle against the disabled handlebar at the side, lounging into an uneasy posture on this porcelain throne - angled enough to let his other hand reach down and caress past his balls, onto the fluff of his gooch, in the heat of his own rear. This, after all, was the secret to Kevin's new attitude: this was a man who, at 32, had discovered his own arse-hole. Sighing to himself, he rubbed a wet finger against his ring and felt the intensified pleasure of the other hand clutching his dick. Boredom and curiosity had led his fingers on a wander during the quiet nights at the start of his injury period, his wife refusing to service his needs when he wasn't physically up to making love; wanks just weren't doing enough for KDB, and so one curious digit had gone exploring. He supposed it had been on his mind for a long while, but the frustrated isolation of injury had called him further - and bit by bit, he'd learned to use some lube, and progressed sometimes from one finger to two, and deeper, firmer, more aggressively with himself. He'd borrowed a small vibrating toy of his wife's and brought that into play a few times before, panicking, binning it in case she noticed, and returning to the simpler pleasure of fingering himself silly. Here was the truth, though - a finger wasn't enough. Kevin was facing up to something which had perhaps been gradually occurring to him for the past few seasons, ever since his first nervous forays into guy-on-guy fun. He'd been horrified when his ex-teammate Raheem Sterling tried to persuade him to put a cock in him, really, having first dabbled with young Tommy Doyle and his nervous wet blowies; Kevin had stalled prudishly at the prospect of taking things further and actually fucking a man. But now, finger entering his hole and pleasure washing through his entire body, he was beginning to understand what he really wanted: a man to fuck him. He knew that it couldn't possibly be a `beginner's' option for a virgin backside, but he couldn't help but think about that cocky English lad's package as he began to finger himself and wank: just now, out in the group work, he'd noticed it again, the way Jack's package bounced and writhed in his shiny wet shorts as he bounded eagerly across the length of the field. He must know, Kevin thought, that wearing such under-sized kit just accentuated the monstrous weight in his underpants, and it often raised his eyebrows to see it, that and sometimes too the perfectly framed peach at the rear, brieflines cutting across each plump cheek. Jack Grealish, who had supposedly been in some awe of Kevin when he arrived at City, had become a good friend to him in these couple of seasons: he enjoyed the lad's brash humour and charisma, but also his family-oriented sweetness and very genuine behaviour towards their fans. He was a hard guy not to love, but recently Kevin had struggled to see past the drooping monster in the front of his shorts and tracksuit. He was a well-hung sexy bastard and sometimes Kevin couldn't help but fantasise about something happening with him - he suspected wild-spirited Grealo to be at least a little bi-curious, the jokes he made, and so he thought it might be something he could make happen. He fantasised about it now, circling a fingertip on his tight hole, and feeling it tighten at the prospect of big Jack's big whopper, swinging about in his shorts like that, but still he couldn't dismiss the sexy prospect of that 28-year-old Brummie guy's dirty knowing grin. Maybe, just maybe, Jack the Lad could be the one to fuck him...? But then he also thought about his captain, Ruben Dias, in these matters - there was less suggestion of open-mindedness from the stern handsome Portuguese centre-back, but god, Dias was an impressive physical thing. Kevin pictured him earlier today, arriving at breakfast - 6ft1 and incredibly broad-shouldered, his arm and chest muscles bulging through his shirt, and such an authoritative persona projected to the whole dining room of footballers. Ruben was a towering man in more ways than his height, and Kevin had always been very ready to defer to the younger player as City's usual captain, once just respecting his authority, and now... wondering about more than that. He pictured him yesterday and on so many other occasions, undressing for showers: every muscle so defined and obvious across his sculpted torso and super-powered legs. He looked so incredibly strong and lean, and Kevin suddenly had a flashback to the 26-year-old defender's underwear photoshoot in the past - the pics had circulated briefly in the team's group chats with many silly edits and captions, just like Jack's fashionista antics did, and Kevin wondered if he'd been as fascinated by the big bulge then as he more openly was now. He pictured Ruben's long thick snake, soft and dangling, as he'd seen it in the showers in the corner of his eye, and wondered if... would he be able to... could he... He shuddered, pushing the finger further into his hole and starting to relax it, but a nervous tension seizing the rest of his bulky body where it slid sweatily against the toilet lid and the tiles of the wall - he couldn't really be fucked by Ruben, could he? De Bruyne pictured them on that city rooftop the other summer, when the league title celebrations had... escalated. He hadn't got as wildly involved as some, for sure, but he'd had his cock sucked and then stood there, eyes wide, wanking his sturdy pale Belgian meat, and Ruben had also held back - the two tall broad guys jerking off as others went further. It was a faint scrap of memory now, the way Dias' hand had rested at his hip, grazed the curve of his bare white arse. A faint scrap, but stingingly vivid in its own way - had it been the sizzling suggestion of that brief touch that first made Kev become curious about this...? But the point of that memory, he acknowledged, adjusting his clumsy positioning on the imperfect throne of an access toilet, was that Ruben had held back, like himself, and seemed less playful and adventurous than some of their league-conquering teammates: and two of them in particular struck Kevin as... well, up for anything. Just the other day, during one of their relaxed evenings in the hotel grounds, a play-fight between the two burly English blokes had spiralled until they were practically ripping each other's clothes off, adding an awkward edge to the way the loose assembly of footballers laughed along with their banter and horseplay. Kevin pictured them, pushing his finger slowly in and out of himself and restraining a groan of satisfaction: he pictured the taller of the two, dopey-faced and permanently grinning, and then the more rugged looks of the shorter broader Yorkshire guy. Stones and Walker, Walker and Stones, utterly inseparable and... two of the most hard-partying wild spirits of the Man City elite. Kyle alone seemed to have put his cock everywhere in Manchester and Cheshire, based on the stupid tabloids, and the 33-year-old Sheffield man seemed to have been very glad to fly out of England and escape all that media scrutiny after his latest affair/break-up/illegitimate child/whatever. And John, though seemingly more settled and content these days, had has his little scandals too, a pair of sex pests and horny philanderers, and... two of the more forward adventurers on that rooftop, he dimly remembered, the exact details last in a boozy haze. Kevin fingered himself and stroked his shaft, picturing the way the two burly men had wrestled and fought in the courtyard, giggling like schoolboys, whilst the bulky 5ft10 right-back had fought to get his 6ft2 opponent into a headlock, all bulging biceps and straining neck veins. Grunts and groans as the fight continued and big Stonesy got the upper hand, almost wrestling the older lad to the ground, both of them wheezing out delighted laughs as the fight got rougher and fuller; Kevin had watched quietly from where he sat enjoying a zero-alcohol beer, ignoring the semi in his loose cotton trousers. And like big muscular Ruben, he pictured the two of them in the changing rooms, ostentatious and unabashed in their well-defined bodies and generously endowed downstairs regions; two more English lads who didn't seem to mind the huge obvious bulges in their kit when jogging out into a game, just like Jack Grealish...! He thought of others, his fantasy daydream blurred with serious consideration: a firm private determination to scratch this itch and try this new taboo. He tried a second finger but found himself too tight. More spit, more stroking, more focused effort to relax, contradictory but necessary. He thought of the other big defender, 6ft3 Spaniard Rodri, and wondered if the giant 27-year-old had any kinks or curiosities, or was as blandly well-behaved as he appeared and sounded. Kevin found it difficult to imagine beyond Rodri's placid professional appearance, but he tried: he wondered what the tall defender was like in bed, how loud or aggressive he was with his beautiful wife, and how he fucked, whether he became as animalistic and playful as Jack or Kyle or John. He thought too of his Austro-Croatian teammate, who like Rodri had been in his group for this afternoon's session: he supposed that 29-year-old Mateo Kovacic looked every bit as wild and sexed-up as Rodri looked serious and proper, and he wondered if the 5ft10 player had ever been adventurous or curious in the way that some Premiership footballers seemed so prone to. It was such a male-dominated environment, Kevin reminded himself nervously, it was no wonder so many of them... tried stuff. He tried to picture big Mateo going to work on his woman, and then on himself, but something about this latest little fantasy didn't feel right and he frowned speculatively as his mind roved on. There was the younger new addition to the defence, of course, and he pictured the big broad grin on the dark furry face of the other Croat: the tall dark-haired beast who had joined their centre-back options from Germany last summer. Was Josko Gvardiol really just 22? He seemed far too developed for his young age, tall and broad and thickly bearded, but totally full of energy and bounce - how much of that energy and bounce did the Croatian centre-back take into the bedroom? That was more like it, the thought of big built Gvardiol seemed to arouse the Belgian more than Kovacic or Rodri, and he suddenly wondered if he'd ever caught the Bundesliga import giving him lingering stares or suggestive grins when they sat opposite each other at team meals or on the coach to away fixtures? Kevin shifted his position, lifting the one leg higher, arching his back more, letting his buttocks slide sweatily over the plastic lid; he tried again, managing to get two thick fingertips into his virgin hole, and emitting a long low moan of pained enjoyment. Two fingers felt so much, how did a guy really take a full cock...?! He thought of another option, a less obvious one, but the player on their squad he knew to be most firmly into such naughty activity: young Phil Foden, a more manly 23 than the weedy kid who he'd first befriended. Had Tommy Doyle, before he left for Sheffield, ever known that his best mate was so kinky and open-minded...? Kevin was sure that couldn't be true, and the sight of Phil on all fours on that outdoor table, about to be shared by Jack and Kyle and John... fuck. Just this morning, Kevin had crossed path with the prodigy midfielder, the homegrown talent of their international line-up, and noticed just how the youngster was looking more built and muscular, more developed and manly, less the Stockport brat who they had all bantered and protected like a little brother as he joined their ranks. As the only remaining senior player who Pep Guardiola had inherited when taking over Man City, Kevin considered himself part of the furniture at their elite club, but he supposed that his time in the youth academy made young Phil the longest-serving player in this team. The 5ft7 Englishman had seemed to be arguing with the boss when Kevin passed them on his way out - or not quite an argument, certainly no shouting, but a stern disapproval on Guardiola's face, and a brattish pout to Foden's - a disagreement of some kind between the gloried manager and the up-and-coming star player. Kevin hadn't given it much thought, knowing how Pep's demanding nature and pursuit of perfection could cause such tensions between manager and egos - though he himself had been too mild-mannered to ever clash with the boss, and he'd always seen his friend Phil as the boss's Golden Boy. But as Foden strode on out ahead of him, de Bruyne had found himself unable to stop checking out the broadening shoulders and firm pert backside, then, catching up with him as they both ran out, the bouncing bulge in the front of his fresh shorts - less ostentatious than Grealo or Walker or Stones, but very much there, and tugged and rearranged in swift movement by a surly-faced young Phil, who ignored his attempts to start a conversation, clearly in a mood about his disagreement with the gaffer. Panting now, Kev continued to finger himself with two digits up to the knuckle, his face strained and red and dripping with sweat, whilst his other hand pumped his dick in long slow motions, bubbling pre-cum oozing - he thought that there was something much less intimidating about young Phil than the other guys who had cycled through his mind, the other `options' in this squad of muscle and testosterone. He knew that young family guy Foden was into more dirty fun than anyone would guess, though he supposed not quite in the way he was looking for... The 32-year-old felt frustrated and angry at himself, roving through these supposed options as if any of them would automatically want to fuck him should he offer his big white arse to them - he was sure lots of them thought him a dull ginger brick! All tense and jangling, he tickled his hole with two fingertips and wanked his cock more rapidly, eager for the satisfaction and release that was coming his way. Various sexualised images of his City teammates in their sweat-dripping training gear out on the astro-turf rolled through his mind's eye, from bulging Grealish and broad-chested Walker to pouting Foden and big grinning Gvardiol. He pictured a flex of biceps from smiling Dias and a cheeky wink from Kovacic and the hard serious stare of Rodri - and the whiskery bearded features of little Bernardo Silva, who'd also been on that roof terrace of sin and transgression. Kevin shot his messy watery load down his ginger-furred thighs, panting loudly, and remaining tensed in that position for two long minutes, letting his heart rate recover. And then he was at the sink, scrubbing his hands, washing his face, wiping spunk from his thigh, but unable to do anything about the dripping sweat that rolled over his pecs and tummy and down the backs of his calves. His dirty sweaty kit felt chafey and uncomfortable against his pale pimpled skin, and he really wasn't up for a couple more hours of training before he could get an ice-bath. He looked himself down in the mirror with the same mingled satisfaction and regret as came after these augmented wanks, feeling dirtied by the act of playing with his bottom, and troubled by the desperate cravings that told him he needed to take it further - the fantasies of being fucked by Jack or Ruben or Mateo faded into the background again and, without much feeling, he could even resolve to himself that he would give up the prospect, stop taunting himself with this idea of giving himself over to another man's phallic power. He checked the mirror: he looked a sweaty mess, but he had when he scrambled into this disabled loo. A last wash of the hands and face with cold water, still beetroot in the cheeks and brow, and he unlocked the door to leave. Turning the corner, he stumbled straight into someone else, someone who smelt of aftershave rather than sweat, who exuded a cool calm rather than overheated testosterone - and whose proximity to the corner meant that Kevin was stumbling right into him, almost rubbing his sweaty presence against his polo-necked t-shirt and pushing hairy arms. Their faces had brushed very close and for a second Kevin felt someone else's breath mingle with his as if the dangerous prospect of a kiss was floating on his near horizon - he opened his eyes and stared into those of the other man, matching his 5ft11 height, an intense moment of surprised stare between them. And then de Bruyne was shuffling back, blinking dizzily, surprised that neither he nor the other man had gone tumbling over as they mindlessly walked straight into one another - `Ah, Kevin,' drawled the Catalan accent of the older man, and his manager stared patiently forward at him, still close, still calm, gently smiling. `These are yours?' The ageing Spanish football coach stood in front of him with a water bottle in one hand and a pair of unlaced boots held up in the other, proffered forward. `I was about to become very angry at someone for leaving their things around,' Pep Guardiola explained in a bemused voice, `but I see you were just, aha-' He nodded across to the ajar door, and Kevin gawped dumbly at him as if he had just been caught wanking and fingering - but he also felt grateful for the calm authoritative presence of the 53-year-old former player, the manager with whom he had worked so closely and so well for all these seasons. `Yeah, mine,' the Belgian told the gaffer after an awkward pause. `Sorry-' `No problem,' Guardiola assured him, handing them over. `Are you well?' `Yes, yes,' Kevin rushed, although he was sure his awkward daze must show on his red face- He was cut off by the Spanish man, who planted a firm caring hand on one shoulder. `You look too hot,' Guardiola told him. `Is today too much? Do you need to finish early? Hey?' A squeeze and a rub to the shoulder and then the clammy side of his neck. `You are working too hard this week - remember we need to look after you, my Kevin!' Still dazed in the wake of his orgasm, de Buryne smiled weakly and nodded back at the gaffer, holding onto his boots and bottle, and enjoying the reassuring touch of that experienced hand, sad when it patted his outer arm and left him. He stared thoughtfully at the boss, the golden-tanned and silver-bearded handsomeness of the 53-year-old, the beginnings of a new thought entering his overheated brain, then cut off as Pep began to speak quickly to him about some new strategy for Friday, some new plan to break their Spursy curse on away fixtures at Tottenham. Kevin just nodded vaguely, until Pep paused and laughed. `You need a siesta,' the boss said. `Or a massage.' He nodded away behind him. `Go. Finish early. You need to cool down and recover - I will explain to the others. Go on.' And then he was pulling in for a hug, in spite of the sweat that dribbled down Kevin's neck and arms, seemingly unconscious of the way it marked and stained his expensive shirt. `You are our treasure, KDB, and we must treat you well.' It was a strong and lingering hug and one Kevin felt intensely, sad again when it ended and the chief was pulling away from him with a vague grin - the two men seemed to be looking at each other differently, sizing one another up, but Kevin's overactive imagination might be projecting that. He took slow steps away, still nodding. `Thanks, boss - I really do need to cool off.' `You go do that,' Pep instructed. `Leave it with me.' And with that, the City coach was striding away, lean and tall and elegant, and the overheated Belgian watched him go before trudging thoughtfully in the direction of a cold shower - his thoughts were scrambled and full of post-wank regret, but they were also parting and reforming to accommodate a new idea, a new option. Oh, though the most daring corner of his brain, what would it be like to be fucked by a man of Pep's confidence and experience...? The rest of him shot down this stupid idea and he told himself firmly that what he needed was a cold cold shower and a lie down in a dark room - nothing else! 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sat, 27 Jan 2024 12:49:38 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 387 Part 387: Kevin's Choice The new Kevin de Bruyne, post-injury, was different in more ways than just his hair: the lustrous red gold mane that he enjoyed sweeping his fingers through with uncharacteristic vanity. Everyone around him at Manchester City had commented on it, in their own different ways: a new lightness and boldness in the lauded midfielder, a less serious response to the pressure of his career stature. It was the longest gap the 32-year-old had experienced in his senior playing career, and so most of his teammates and friends put it down to the sheer joy of his comeback, a fine return to form in the Premier League. But there was a bit more to it than that, and all was not as calm as it seemed on the smiling ginger surface. It was City's final day in Abu Dhabi before returning to the UK, their Friday night clash at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium looming ahead - a historical cursed away trip for the treble winners which this hot weather training camp seemed largely devoted to. Kevin was red-faced and sweaty, as he was pretty sure he had been since the minute the squad touched down here; he was stomping away from one of the synthetic pitches with his boots off, socked feet leaving sweat-prints on bright fresh tarmac as he wove his way out of the action in search of an unscheduled cool break. He could get fined for slacking, he supposed, but De Bruyne had been working himself insanely hard all week, and he was sure the coaching staff would be happy to go easy on him. Entering some shade from the still-hot late afternoon sun, the red-faced Belgian processed through the quieter zones of the luxury sports camp they were all but occupying to themselves, and glugged cold water from a bottle in one clammy hand. He pulled on the chest of the training jersey that was sticking to his body and then similarly tugged at the screwed mesh lining of his shorts where it hugged his loose heavy cock and balls, adjusting and briefly fondling the jewels within. Just this little bit of self-touch set his flaccid cock stirring and his hormones simmering, horny in the heat as most red-blooded men were; and suddenly he was looking for more than just cool shade, but safe privacy. The City midfielder made a sharp turn into some of the covered area and then through some automatic sliding doors, enveloped immediately by satisfying air-con. At a water station, he refilled his bottle and then almost immediately drained it, finding a window that looked back out onto the row of small pitches where most of the other lads were still hard at work in assigned groups, including the one he had ditched. He stood there watching for a short while, but kept needing to pull and adjust at his damp top and the fit of his shorts, until he threw a frustrated glance in the direction of a disabled loo. Its unlocked door beckoned him with an invite of privacy and relative cool. KDB plonked the emptied water bottle down on top of the station and gave a couple of furtive looks up and down the passage, then made a rushed movement in through the door, locked swiftly behind him. Instinctively and irritably, he peeled the City training jersey straight off, pulling its damp weight away from the thickset pale muscle of his torso, and dumping it down in a heap at the side of the sink. He examined himself in the mirror, enjoying how much more handsome he felt he looked with longer hair and slightly leaner features, then reaching down and giving himself a proper squeeze and tug through the front of the shorts - this was a bit mad, but he really needed to attend to himself so he could focus. He pushed a hand into the sweat-sticky contents of these shorts, holding his fat semi and jostling his wrinkled balls, feeling the short soft growth of his trimmed auburn pubes. Mmm. He glanced back at the door, checking needlessly that he'd locked it, and then he pushed the shorts down past his hips, over his lightly furred thighs, dropped past his steely calves and then stepped clumsily over his socked feet. Stood in front of the mirror, daring to admire his physique, the 5ft11 football hunk toyed with his cock and balls some more, bringing his cock to pink-headed erectness, and then spitting on his palm to rub full veiny life into it, feeling the soft pangs of frustrated pleasure - but not enough pleasure, not yet, not just this. Nope. He moved across the small square room and sat himself on the toilet lid, no longer facing the mirror; he kept playing with his hard-on, but he brought up one thick chunky leg and set an ankle against the disabled handlebar at the side, lounging into an uneasy posture on this porcelain throne - angled enough to let his other hand reach down and caress past his balls, onto the fluff of his gooch, in the heat of his own rear. This, after all, was the secret to Kevin's new attitude: this was a man who, at 32, had discovered his own arse-hole. Sighing to himself, he rubbed a wet finger against his ring and felt the intensified pleasure of the other hand clutching his dick. Boredom and curiosity had led his fingers on a wander during the quiet nights at the start of his injury period, his wife refusing to service his needs when he wasn't physically up to making love; wanks just weren't doing enough for KDB, and so one curious digit had gone exploring. He supposed it had been on his mind for a long while, but the frustrated isolation of injury had called him further - and bit by bit, he'd learned to use some lube, and progressed sometimes from one finger to two, and deeper, firmer, more aggressively with himself. He'd borrowed a small vibrating toy of his wife's and brought that into play a few times before, panicking, binning it in case she noticed, and returning to the simpler pleasure of fingering himself silly. Here was the truth, though - a finger wasn't enough. Kevin was facing up to something which had perhaps been gradually occurring to him for the past few seasons, ever since his first nervous forays into guy-on-guy fun. He'd been horrified when his ex-teammate Raheem Sterling tried to persuade him to put a cock in him, really, having first dabbled with young Tommy Doyle and his nervous wet blowies; Kevin had stalled prudishly at the prospect of taking things further and actually fucking a man. But now, finger entering his hole and pleasure washing through his entire body, he was beginning to understand what he really wanted: a man to fuck him. He knew that it couldn't possibly be a `beginner's' option for a virgin backside, but he couldn't help but think about that cocky English lad's package as he began to finger himself and wank: just now, out in the group work, he'd noticed it again, the way Jack's package bounced and writhed in his shiny wet shorts as he bounded eagerly across the length of the field. He must know, Kevin thought, that wearing such under-sized kit just accentuated the monstrous weight in his underpants, and it often raised his eyebrows to see it, that and sometimes too the perfectly framed peach at the rear, brieflines cutting across each plump cheek. Jack Grealish, who had supposedly been in some awe of Kevin when he arrived at City, had become a good friend to him in these couple of seasons: he enjoyed the lad's brash humour and charisma, but also his family-oriented sweetness and very genuine behaviour towards their fans. He was a hard guy not to love, but recently Kevin had struggled to see past the drooping monster in the front of his shorts and tracksuit. He was a well-hung sexy bastard and sometimes Kevin couldn't help but fantasise about something happening with him - he suspected wild-spirited Grealo to be at least a little bi-curious, the jokes he made, and so he thought it might be something he could make happen. He fantasised about it now, circling a fingertip on his tight hole, and feeling it tighten at the prospect of big Jack's big whopper, swinging about in his shorts like that, but still he couldn't dismiss the sexy prospect of that 28-year-old Brummie guy's dirty knowing grin. Maybe, just maybe, Jack the Lad could be the one to fuck him...? But then he also thought about his captain, Ruben Dias, in these matters - there was less suggestion of open-mindedness from the stern handsome Portuguese centre-back, but god, Dias was an impressive physical thing. Kevin pictured him earlier today, arriving at breakfast - 6ft1 and incredibly broad-shouldered, his arm and chest muscles bulging through his shirt, and such an authoritative persona projected to the whole dining room of footballers. Ruben was a towering man in more ways than his height, and Kevin had always been very ready to defer to the younger player as City's usual captain, once just respecting his authority, and now... wondering about more than that. He pictured him yesterday and on so many other occasions, undressing for showers: every muscle so defined and obvious across his sculpted torso and super-powered legs. He looked so incredibly strong and lean, and Kevin suddenly had a flashback to the 26-year-old defender's underwear photoshoot in the past - the pics had circulated briefly in the team's group chats with many silly edits and captions, just like Jack's fashionista antics did, and Kevin wondered if he'd been as fascinated by the big bulge then as he more openly was now. He pictured Ruben's long thick snake, soft and dangling, as he'd seen it in the showers in the corner of his eye, and wondered if... would he be able to... could he... He shuddered, pushing the finger further into his hole and starting to relax it, but a nervous tension seizing the rest of his bulky body where it slid sweatily against the toilet lid and the tiles of the wall - he couldn't really be fucked by Ruben, could he? De Bruyne pictured them on that city rooftop the other summer, when the league title celebrations had... escalated. He hadn't got as wildly involved as some, for sure, but he'd had his cock sucked and then stood there, eyes wide, wanking his sturdy pale Belgian meat, and Ruben had also held back - the two tall broad guys jerking off as others went further. It was a faint scrap of memory now, the way Dias' hand had rested at his hip, grazed the curve of his bare white arse. A faint scrap, but stingingly vivid in its own way - had it been the sizzling suggestion of that brief touch that first made Kev become curious about this...? But the point of that memory, he acknowledged, adjusting his clumsy positioning on the imperfect throne of an access toilet, was that Ruben had held back, like himself, and seemed less playful and adventurous than some of their league-conquering teammates: and two of them in particular struck Kevin as... well, up for anything. Just the other day, during one of their relaxed evenings in the hotel grounds, a play-fight between the two burly English blokes had spiralled until they were practically ripping each other's clothes off, adding an awkward edge to the way the loose assembly of footballers laughed along with their banter and horseplay. Kevin pictured them, pushing his finger slowly in and out of himself and restraining a groan of satisfaction: he pictured the taller of the two, dopey-faced and permanently grinning, and then the more rugged looks of the shorter broader Yorkshire guy. Stones and Walker, Walker and Stones, utterly inseparable and... two of the most hard-partying wild spirits of the Man City elite. Kyle alone seemed to have put his cock everywhere in Manchester and Cheshire, based on the stupid tabloids, and the 33-year-old Sheffield man seemed to have been very glad to fly out of England and escape all that media scrutiny after his latest affair/break-up/illegitimate child/whatever. And John, though seemingly more settled and content these days, had has his little scandals too, a pair of sex pests and horny philanderers, and... two of the more forward adventurers on that rooftop, he dimly remembered, the exact details last in a boozy haze. Kevin fingered himself and stroked his shaft, picturing the way the two burly men had wrestled and fought in the courtyard, giggling like schoolboys, whilst the bulky 5ft10 right-back had fought to get his 6ft2 opponent into a headlock, all bulging biceps and straining neck veins. Grunts and groans as the fight continued and big Stonesy got the upper hand, almost wrestling the older lad to the ground, both of them wheezing out delighted laughs as the fight got rougher and fuller; Kevin had watched quietly from where he sat enjoying a zero-alcohol beer, ignoring the semi in his loose cotton trousers. And like big muscular Ruben, he pictured the two of them in the changing rooms, ostentatious and unabashed in their well-defined bodies and generously endowed downstairs regions; two more English lads who didn't seem to mind the huge obvious bulges in their kit when jogging out into a game, just like Jack Grealish...! He thought of others, his fantasy daydream blurred with serious consideration: a firm private determination to scratch this itch and try this new taboo. He tried a second finger but found himself too tight. More spit, more stroking, more focused effort to relax, contradictory but necessary. He thought of the other big defender, 6ft3 Spaniard Rodri, and wondered if the giant 27-year-old had any kinks or curiosities, or was as blandly well-behaved as he appeared and sounded. Kevin found it difficult to imagine beyond Rodri's placid professional appearance, but he tried: he wondered what the tall defender was like in bed, how loud or aggressive he was with his beautiful wife, and how he fucked, whether he became as animalistic and playful as Jack or Kyle or John. He thought too of his Austro-Croatian teammate, who like Rodri had been in his group for this afternoon's session: he supposed that 29-year-old Mateo Kovacic looked every bit as wild and sexed-up as Rodri looked serious and proper, and he wondered if the 5ft10 player had ever been adventurous or curious in the way that some Premiership footballers seemed so prone to. It was such a male-dominated environment, Kevin reminded himself nervously, it was no wonder so many of them... tried stuff. He tried to picture big Mateo going to work on his woman, and then on himself, but something about this latest little fantasy didn't feel right and he frowned speculatively as his mind roved on. There was the younger new addition to the defence, of course, and he pictured the big broad grin on the dark furry face of the other Croat: the tall dark-haired beast who had joined their centre-back options from Germany last summer. Was Josko Gvardiol really just 22? He seemed far too developed for his young age, tall and broad and thickly bearded, but totally full of energy and bounce - how much of that energy and bounce did the Croatian centre-back take into the bedroom? That was more like it, the thought of big built Gvardiol seemed to arouse the Belgian more than Kovacic or Rodri, and he suddenly wondered if he'd ever caught the Bundesliga import giving him lingering stares or suggestive grins when they sat opposite each other at team meals or on the coach to away fixtures? Kevin shifted his position, lifting the one leg higher, arching his back more, letting his buttocks slide sweatily over the plastic lid; he tried again, managing to get two thick fingertips into his virgin hole, and emitting a long low moan of pained enjoyment. Two fingers felt so much, how did a guy really take a full cock...?! He thought of another option, a less obvious one, but the player on their squad he knew to be most firmly into such naughty activity: young Phil Foden, a more manly 23 than the weedy kid who he'd first befriended. Had Tommy Doyle, before he left for Sheffield, ever known that his best mate was so kinky and open-minded...? Kevin was sure that couldn't be true, and the sight of Phil on all fours on that outdoor table, about to be shared by Jack and Kyle and John... fuck. Just this morning, Kevin had crossed path with the prodigy midfielder, the homegrown talent of their international line-up, and noticed just how the youngster was looking more built and muscular, more developed and manly, less the Stockport brat who they had all bantered and protected like a little brother as he joined their ranks. As the only remaining senior player who Pep Guardiola had inherited when taking over Man City, Kevin considered himself part of the furniture at their elite club, but he supposed that his time in the youth academy made young Phil the longest-serving player in this team. The 5ft7 Englishman had seemed to be arguing with the boss when Kevin passed them on his way out - or not quite an argument, certainly no shouting, but a stern disapproval on Guardiola's face, and a brattish pout to Foden's - a disagreement of some kind between the gloried manager and the up-and-coming star player. Kevin hadn't given it much thought, knowing how Pep's demanding nature and pursuit of perfection could cause such tensions between manager and egos - though he himself had been too mild-mannered to ever clash with the boss, and he'd always seen his friend Phil as the boss's Golden Boy. But as Foden strode on out ahead of him, de Bruyne had found himself unable to stop checking out the broadening shoulders and firm pert backside, then, catching up with him as they both ran out, the bouncing bulge in the front of his fresh shorts - less ostentatious than Grealo or Walker or Stones, but very much there, and tugged and rearranged in swift movement by a surly-faced young Phil, who ignored his attempts to start a conversation, clearly in a mood about his disagreement with the gaffer. Panting now, Kev continued to finger himself with two digits up to the knuckle, his face strained and red and dripping with sweat, whilst his other hand pumped his dick in long slow motions, bubbling pre-cum oozing - he thought that there was something much less intimidating about young Phil than the other guys who had cycled through his mind, the other `options' in this squad of muscle and testosterone. He knew that young family guy Foden was into more dirty fun than anyone would guess, though he supposed not quite in the way he was looking for... The 32-year-old felt frustrated and angry at himself, roving through these supposed options as if any of them would automatically want to fuck him should he offer his big white arse to them - he was sure lots of them thought him a dull ginger brick! All tense and jangling, he tickled his hole with two fingertips and wanked his cock more rapidly, eager for the satisfaction and release that was coming his way. Various sexualised images of his City teammates in their sweat-dripping training gear out on the astro-turf rolled through his mind's eye, from bulging Grealish and broad-chested Walker to pouting Foden and big grinning Gvardiol. He pictured a flex of biceps from smiling Dias and a cheeky wink from Kovacic and the hard serious stare of Rodri - and the whiskery bearded features of little Bernardo Silva, who'd also been on that roof terrace of sin and transgression. Kevin shot his messy watery load down his ginger-furred thighs, panting loudly, and remaining tensed in that position for two long minutes, letting his heart rate recover. And then he was at the sink, scrubbing his hands, washing his face, wiping spunk from his thigh, but unable to do anything about the dripping sweat that rolled over his pecs and tummy and down the backs of his calves. His dirty sweaty kit felt chafey and uncomfortable against his pale pimpled skin, and he really wasn't up for a couple more hours of training before he could get an ice-bath. He looked himself down in the mirror with the same mingled satisfaction and regret as came after these augmented wanks, feeling dirtied by the act of playing with his bottom, and troubled by the desperate cravings that told him he needed to take it further - the fantasies of being fucked by Jack or Ruben or Mateo faded into the background again and, without much feeling, he could even resolve to himself that he would give up the prospect, stop taunting himself with this idea of giving himself over to another man's phallic power. He checked the mirror: he looked a sweaty mess, but he had when he scrambled into this disabled loo. A last wash of the hands and face with cold water, still beetroot in the cheeks and brow, and he unlocked the door to leave. Turning the corner, he stumbled straight into someone else, someone who smelt of aftershave rather than sweat, who exuded a cool calm rather than overheated testosterone - and whose proximity to the corner meant that Kevin was stumbling right into him, almost rubbing his sweaty presence against his polo-necked t-shirt and pushing hairy arms. Their faces had brushed very close and for a second Kevin felt someone else's breath mingle with his as if the dangerous prospect of a kiss was floating on his near horizon - he opened his eyes and stared into those of the other man, matching his 5ft11 height, an intense moment of surprised stare between them. And then de Bruyne was shuffling back, blinking dizzily, surprised that neither he nor the other man had gone tumbling over as they mindlessly walked straight into one another - `Ah, Kevin,' drawled the Catalan accent of the older man, and his manager stared patiently forward at him, still close, still calm, gently smiling. `These are yours?' The ageing Spanish football coach stood in front of him with a water bottle in one hand and a pair of unlaced boots held up in the other, proffered forward. `I was about to become very angry at someone for leaving their things around,' Pep Guardiola explained in a bemused voice, `but I see you were just, aha-' He nodded across to the ajar door, and Kevin gawped dumbly at him as if he had just been caught wanking and fingering - but he also felt grateful for the calm authoritative presence of the 53-year-old former player, the manager with whom he had worked so closely and so well for all these seasons. `Yeah, mine,' the Belgian told the gaffer after an awkward pause. `Sorry-' `No problem,' Guardiola assured him, handing them over. `Are you well?' `Yes, yes,' Kevin rushed, although he was sure his awkward daze must show on his red face- He was cut off by the Spanish man, who planted a firm caring hand on one shoulder. `You look too hot,' Guardiola told him. `Is today too much? Do you need to finish early? Hey?' A squeeze and a rub to the shoulder and then the clammy side of his neck. `You are working too hard this week - remember we need to look after you, my Kevin!' Still dazed in the wake of his orgasm, de Buryne smiled weakly and nodded back at the gaffer, holding onto his boots and bottle, and enjoying the reassuring touch of that experienced hand, sad when it patted his outer arm and left him. He stared thoughtfully at the boss, the golden-tanned and silver-bearded handsomeness of the 53-year-old, the beginnings of a new thought entering his overheated brain, then cut off as Pep began to speak quickly to him about some new strategy for Friday, some new plan to break their Spursy curse on away fixtures at Tottenham. Kevin just nodded vaguely, until Pep paused and laughed. `You need a siesta,' the boss said. `Or a massage.' He nodded away behind him. `Go. Finish early. You need to cool down and recover - I will explain to the others. Go on.' And then he was pulling in for a hug, in spite of the sweat that dribbled down Kevin's neck and arms, seemingly unconscious of the way it marked and stained his expensive shirt. `You are our treasure, KDB, and we must treat you well.' It was a strong and lingering hug and one Kevin felt intensely, sad again when it ended and the chief was pulling away from him with a vague grin - the two men seemed to be looking at each other differently, sizing one another up, but Kevin's overactive imagination might be projecting that. He took slow steps away, still nodding. `Thanks, boss - I really do need to cool off.' `You go do that,' Pep instructed. `Leave it with me.' And with that, the City coach was striding away, lean and tall and elegant, and the overheated Belgian watched him go before trudging thoughtfully in the direction of a cold shower - his thoughts were scrambled and full of post-wank regret, but they were also parting and reforming to accommodate a new idea, a new option. Oh, though the most daring corner of his brain, what would it be like to be fucked by a man of Pep's confidence and experience...? The rest of him shot down this stupid idea and he told himself firmly that what he needed was a cold cold shower and a lie down in a dark room - nothing else! 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-360

Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2023 21:37:38 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership LAds, Part 360 Part 360: Losers of North London It was just getting fully dark as their chartered jet touched down in an airfield on the northern fringes of the capital; he'd never been gladder at Tottenham's decision to fly them to and from the Sunday afternoon fixture, figuring that the whole miserable host of them could still be halfway down the motorway, travelling miserably from Newcastle to London. The tall 29-year-old felt the sting of the defeat as sharply as anyone disembarking the plane, but he felt a certain pressure to restrain the severity of his mood and expression, a responsibility to model a more philosophical mindset to some of the younger and less resilient Spurs players who were filing past him in the twilit airfield. Harry Kane's own second-half goal counted for very little, not even in his own selfish imagination; his team had received a thorough kicking from their North East hosts this afternoon, a 6-1 defeat at St James' Park which had been over in the first twenty minutes. Kane, like so many of the blokes now trudging across the cooling tarmac, was thoroughly ashamed of the performance - before they'd even boarded the plane for take-off, there had been talk of how they were going to apologise to the fans, and Harry himself had fielded the idea of clubbing together to refund the disappointed travelling supporters. Though not captain here like he was with the Three Lions, the record-breaking striker still felt a special responsibility to be a leader and role model... It was that pressure and responsibility that could really eat at the 6ft2 Londoner, and make him crave an obliterating escape from the ordinary. Thinking about that escape, Harry couldn't help but let one hand stray thoughtfully to the blocky outline of his muted phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, fingering its hard edges through the fabric, and facing the shapeless internal struggle over whether he could or should make the call. `We go again,' Kane heard one of the others call with lacklustre and generic encouragement, pumping a weak fist in the air whilst lugging his overnight bag in the other hand; the Spurs striker turned and half-smiled at Eric Dier, admiring his close friend's earnest little effort at positivity, but seeing every shred of embarrassment on that handsomely bearded face - like so many others, Harry's best pal and ex-boyfriend had endured a long shit performance on the Tyneside pitch, and his muscular bulk looked deflated. `Fucking Saudi money, innit,' muttered another Tottenham man, brushing between them, and then adjusting the straps of his backpack before hurrying ahead - Ben Davies continuing to mutter moodily to himself as he made his way towards the fence and gates that connected the airstrip to the car park. `I wish we could blame that,' Eric huffed wistfully. `We can't blame anyone but ourselves,' Harry agreed sternly, having accepted this honest line in the away changing rooms and deciding they had no choice but to stick with it. `Got to take the flak and just move on, as always.' They'd all seen the footage of their own fans exiting the stadium after the first few Newcastle goals, and Harry hardly felt he could blame them. With a defeated sag in his posture, Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg was trying to rouse some interest in a couple of Sunday night drinks on the other side of the gates, hesitating at the side of his Land Rover and calling loudly to likely customers. `We can drink in my garden,' he was suggesting, `and not face a kicking in some bar where we might find our own gutted followers.' Harry grimaced at the prospect, feeling that he'd never felt less inclined towards such team-building social time - but a voice in his head told him that the Danish fella was spot-on and of course they should be attempting to salvage morale and togetherness in the wake of that shit-show up north. Kane paused between the vehicles and shot a questioning look over at Dier, who was passing him by. The other 6ft2 footballer lifted his moody gaze from the damp floor and met his eyes. `What do you think?' Harry asked him quietly. `A couple of drinks at Pierre's place, like he says? He might have a point.' Even as he said it, the England striker was also fingering at that pocket, feeling the cool solid rectangle of his dormant phone, and thinking about his chosen drug. A slight groan from the struggling defender. `Not for me - the fiancee is back in London tonight and we haven't hung out in almost two weeks,' he announced, and his voice was a detached monotone - it occurred to Harry that a 29-year-old stud like him should sound a bit more enthusiastic about being reunited with his supermodel girlfriend on a Sunday night, but then they were all in shitty moods and leaving the game behind was much easier said than done. Still bristling and glum, Eric pushed ahead and lifted a car key to beep at his vehicle, before turning to whack a quick fist-bump into Harry's knuckles: `Not sure I'd be good company for anyone else,' the defensive midfielder said weakly, and then made a beeline for the driver's door of his car. Around Kane, the reactions to Hojbjerg's suggestion were mixed. Dier was hardly the only guy making a hurried shuffle towards their high-spec motor, keen to hit the suburban roads and head back to their various mansions and townhouses; but there was clearly some agreement with the Dane's sentiment, as he could see him texting his home address to Romero and Perisic, and pleading with Skipp and Sarr to give it a go and just swing by for one. Harry teetered on the brink of the idea, letting his overnight bag swing from one broad shoulder, and waving a lazy hand as Eric's vehicle lurched past him, gently splashing the lower legs of his club tracksuit from a puddle. Harry grimly pictured the scene of a few drinks at Pierre-Emile's place, with the Danish midfielder playing an earnest host to the dejected lads - and he, their talismanic goal machine, burdened by the need to be upbeat and constructive, finding faint praise for the day's performances, and reassuring others with all of the cliches of their footballing banter. Something about the mental image pushed him one way on the briefly difficult decision, and the 29-year-old forward backed off and neared his own car, not even voicing a clear response to the vague shouty invite from Hojbjerg - there was a general fuss of noise and interaction around them in the car park as plans were made or hurried exits were made, and Kane's was just one more such escape, pulling the car door firmly shut after him and starting up the engine with the push of a single button. In there, his tall frame falling into a miserable slump that he'd had to avoid on the flight down, Kane could miserably relax and pull out his smartphone whilst the car's fancy systems geared up and lights flickered into existence all over the dashboard. Quiet and grumpy-faced, the all-time top goal-scorer of club and country thumbed two separate messages into his device, the car growling into life under his exhausted limbs. Firstly, to his wife: `Sorry babe, got to stick with team a bit longer - I won't be late though, promise xxx' sent in rapid guilty haste. And then secondly, to a number which was not saved or named in this phone, because he was a husband who sort of learned from his mistakes: `Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?' He didn't need to wait here in the rain-soaked car park of the private airport and check for an answer - his need was too urgent for that, and he was on the road in seconds, beating the rush and slipping away from the main assembly of his defeated teammates. Harry Kane, England captain and Spurs hero, but today one of many North London losers, was on his way to get high and let go of his responsibilities and pressures. Some men in powerful positions like his might opt for coke or weed or more exciting psychedelics, or even the hardcore downers... but for Harry, there was only one thing that would alleviate this cloud and let him really lose himself, and it was the chunky cock of a strapping young Gunner. The Tottenham Hotspur men weren't the only ones smarting from a football failure, though, and not the only guys who were trying to hold together some team spirit in the wake of disappointment - the Arsenal squad were coming to the end of a fairly downcast weekend of their own, triggered by their awkward Friday night battle against relegation fodder Southampton. A hard-fought draw had felt like a severe loss in the context, and yesterday's recovery sessions had been bitter and tetchy, a situation which captain Martin Odegaard was trying to solve by inviting as many lads as possible over to his for a Sunday evening barbecue. The optimistic Norwegian had not quite factored in the April weather, making the plan on a bright hot Saturday, and then facing a sudden downpour that had kept most of his garden party inside the cream-furnished sterility of his expansive home. With night falling and the party running out of steam, the drier end to the Sunday had brought some of the beer-drinking lads back outdoors into the washed-out luxury of the Odegaards' garden, and one 22-year-old regular of the table-topping side was perched on the arm of an outdoor sofa fiddling with his phone, and craving an illicit cigarette to round off the bevvies he'd consumed. Emile Smith-Rowe was no less sour than any other Arsenal player about the way their Friday night fixture had gone, but he was also hoping that the self-pity and navel-gazing would be left behind when they reassembled for proper training tomorrow; as had come up three dozen times during the chat and banter of Martin's attempted party, they all needed to fix their minds on this coming Wednesday, and their late-season clash with Man City... a game which many were seeing as the decider for the Premier League title 22/23, even if that wasn't quite mathematically the case. `We'll fuck them pretty boys up,' Smith-Rowe had found himself grunting at anyone who would listen after his third beer, thinking about the likes of twiglet Foden and hairband Grealish, and mentally obstructing the Predator-like spectre of Erling Haaland. Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the rear lounges, the Croydon youth could see how thinned-out the Arsenal party was becoming, and there were only a few odds and ends out here on the fringes of the garden with him - plenty of lads and their WAGs had already called taxis and headed out, ditching the rained-over festivity of Odegaard's admirable effort, and calling it quits on the recovery drinks. When the text buzzed into the grip of his palm, Emile was just weighing up his options: he could hit up a different party that one of his own pals was hosting further into the city, though it would be rife with weed and pills and he'd have to be careful to behave himself; he could swing by a recent casual girlfriend's place and see if she was feeling any less frigid; he could move on from the crappy healthy snacks of Martin's smorgasbord and drive into Surrey to see whether his mum had cooked a decent roast for the fam; he could go back to his own apartment and fire up the PS5, and go fuck up some arrogant tweens on online video games until he was tired enough to sleep. And there, in the palm of his hand, lit up a much better option than any of these, raising a dirty smirk on his toothy mouth, and making the young winger look suspiciously around him in case some dickhead was looking over his shoulder and seeing the text that had flashed across the top of his screen: `Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?' Unlike the older man, Emile had indeed saved this number, and even the contact name made him leer smugly to himself: `Spurs MILF'. It was how he liked to refer her to the likes of Tierney and White in the locker-room, or when he wanted to shock baby-faced Saka and prudish Zinchenko. They were always pushing to know who she was, and speculating about whether he was really shagging the missus of a Tottenham first team fella - there were a lot of jibes and doubts expressed, but Emile didn't care, and he thought that most of them believed him, and he was even more sure that none of the cunts had even half-guessed the truth: that he was still making Harry fucking Kane his personal cum-bucket cock-sucking sissy slut, even sharing him with Harvey Elliott behind the scenes of their recent England U21s experience. It didn't take ESR long to make a choice, yet he knew better than to respond immediately and appear too keen; instead, he slid the phone away and cracked his knuckles, and then picked his half-finished lager can from the wet cushions and drifted across the decking, making the odd comment to the other lads here, and then spilling into the kitchen and chatting idly to a couple of fellas there too - planting the seeds of his exit by remarking loudly about a booty call that just wouldn't leave him alone - then fetching his denim jacket from the closet and pulling it over the retro Arsenal shirt that hugged his toned upper body. And then, once enough time had elapsed, he swerved any more definite goodbyes, and slipped back out of Martin's house through the same kitchen entrance, and then made his way quietly to the painted gate that would lead down the side of the Barnet mansion onto the gravel driveway; he made sure his Uber was booked before he bothered opening the `Spurs MILF' message and thumbing in his response: `Be there on yer dirty knees, and let me thrash ya 6-1, LOL' Moments after Smith-Rowe's trainers crunched over the gravel and departed the gentle crowd noise of the diminishing house party, so did another pair; and this party-ditching figure slowly approached the pavement, peering out after the departing Uber taxi halfway down the quiet cul de sac, and then climbing into his own car to set off and follow. He'd felt a little out of place at Martin's party, for obvious reasons; he wasn't really one of the gang any more, though he'd found himself unable to resist the invite, and he'd ditched family commitments in favour of driving up here to take part in the so-called barbecue that turned into a washout and sedate indoor buffet. Still, it had been an entertaining enough evening, and for a few moments of banter and bonding, he'd felt like he was really still just a young lad like the rest of them. He was barely 31, after all, though Arteta's squad of men were largely in their early-to-mid 20s. He'd skulked about on the fringes of the party for a while when he first arrived, glancing soberly at the grey clouds and the initial slow drops of the eventual downpour. But his natural charm and extroversion had quickly led him into a few excitable chats with key members of the playing squad - he'd always been pretty good at assessing a crowd and knowing who you had to get in with to feel like the centre of the party, and that had hardly changed in these last few weird years as his career took its latest turn. He supposed that's how he'd got to hear about the `Spurs MILF', stood tossing peanuts into his mouth in the kitchen of Martin's place, sandwiched between Aaron Ramsdale and Benjamin White, and hearing both the goalie and defender scoff at the latest claims of Emile Smith-Rowe. He'd seen the opportunity and wedged himself into their conversation, entertaining both young lads with a few choice anecdotes from his years in their position, a hot-blooded young lad in a Gunners kit, surrounded by the attractive other halves of his senior teammates. `Never fucked a Tottenham slag though,' he'd pointed out in between bursts of coarse laughter, elbowing both younger lads, `I've always had standards.' But then, in between his own contributions, Rambo and Whitey had made more snide comments about Smithy, who they suspected was just in a committed relationship with his right hand and an XXL bottle of cheap lube. Ben was particularly dismissive and scathing, though Aaron just seemed tipsy and more interested in creating imaginative jokes about the Spurs kit sex doll that he believed their buddy had bought online. Something about the mystery of it had grabbed his interest, more so than anything else going at the pretty pedestrian party - the two lads' fiances had walked into the room at that point and killed the locker-room banter of it all, which was what he missed more than anything, obviously. But the thought had stayed with him as the rain stopped and the dry evening deepened, with more beers and cocktails served and a bunch of patisserie desserts unveiled for him to pick at. There were advantages to retirement, he supposed, as he helped himself to sweet treats whilst the nearest footballers just glared covetously at these options and then backed away in moody discipline. At some point towards the end of the party, he found himself at the window, first admiring a couple of design features of the Odegaards' garden, and then criticising himself internally for being such a boring bastard; his eyes had settled on the shifty figure of the team's young winger, the 6ft Croydon lad sitting apart from others and playing on his phone on the arm of a sofa - fair enough, he thought, getting away from these dull married fuckers in here, who are all comparing which box-sets they've binged and which photographers they used for which birth announcement in the family. He'd finished his beer at that point and went into the kitchen, where he talked distractedly to Saliba, and looked sharply over as Emile came indoors - the 6ft lad was a striking figure in the tight 90s Arsenal shirt that hugged his biceps, and the loose-fit grey jeans below. A curt nod from the 22-year-old on the way past, and he lingered curiously there, thinking about a couple of things reported by Ramsdale and White, who were through in the rear lounge being grilled about their separate wedding plans. When Smith-Rowe came back through, a distressed-look denim jacket pulled over his tight 90s footy shirt, Jack Wilshere was halfway through his last beer of the night, and not paying attention to what French centre-back next to him had to say - instead, the retired Arsenal star and current youth coach was watching Smith's discreet exit through the door, and thinking about the digs and aspersions of his teammates. The 31-year-old former midfielder turned around and made his excuses to William Saliba, telling the 22-year-old defender that he was way past his curfew from the wifey - and out he went, across the rain-glossy rear of the house, and towards the half-open gate in the corner... down the narrow path that ran alongside the big house, and onto its driveway, to a point where he could watch the smirking youngster climbing into the back of a taxi. Jack grinned and tossed the rest of his beer into a hedge, self-assessing that he was still sober enough to drive, and very curious to follow Emile into the night - on a mission to find out the identity of the `Spurs MILF'. Despite their respective hefty salaries, `the usual place' was little better than a shed structure, located only a few streets away from the big family home that Harry Kane was too cautious to ever let his visitor into; things had been different when he had been shagging Eric, his best mate, and he'd taken many a silly risk back then. Okay, what he did now was hardly SAFE, but this extra garage was entirely disused by the neighbour who owned it, and Harry had never actually returned the spare key that he'd borrowed when it was loaned him to house a particularly beautiful sports car one London summer. And now, since hotel bookings were too traceable and the young lad had flatmates, this damp square room within shouting distance of his marital home was the setting for the sporadic hookups... the mad ill-advised encounters... the desperate dick appointments. He'd sworn to himself that it was over after what happened on the last international break, though it was far from the first time Kane had made such a promise to himself - but still, noshing off both Smithy and that young Liverpool troublemaker...! In a side-room of St George's Park where ANYBODY could have found them...! He was becoming too foolish and greedy, he knew that - the carry-on in Qatar during the World Cup was enough evidence of that, the way he'd fawned over Jude Bellingham and the group session that had graced him when England eventually bowed out. He greatly appreciated the way Dier had organised that sordid little party for him in the hotel sauna, and yet he also felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever - the little bukkake party, sweat and cum dribbling down his face, had shown him on his knees to some prime alpha lads from up and down the Premiership, and he had been tempted to scold Eric for such risk-taking at the end of their tournament. Except that he couldn't bear to hurt the other lad's feelings, as sure as he was that the bearded hunk was having a hard time and keeping something from him lately. But in here, that was just another worry for Kane to forget about - that was the whole point. In here, his parked car taking up most of the space, he could stop being the country-leading strike force, and let go of himself. He understood his own needs far better now than in those heady days when Eric had first seduced him in the Russian summer, or any of the submissive sexual encounters since. He paced, as far as one could pace in the narrow track of space that surrounded his car, and then settled in the gap between its rear and the roller-door that fronted this rectangular parking shed. He rested his rump against the boot of the car and toyed with the zip of his hooded top, thinking that it was a little chilly still in here - and maybe he should be finding somewhere a bit more luxe for his trysts with the player from the rival club. For a few moments, a silly fantasy spiralled in his head: he could perhaps buy an `investment property' somewhere close to the Arsenal training ground, and then more easily meet up with the sexy 22-year-old prince, and use it to have a permanent escape from- There it was, the rattling knock on the front of the garage, and he stooped to undo the catch and start tugging it upwards, a quick fluid motion that brought him face to face with Emile's smirk, immediately enjoying the 90s gear of the surly younger player, and knowing that he needed this as badly as he'd claimed in his message. Smith-Rowe just gave him a light nod. `Hope yer hungry,' the Emirates player laughed quietly, and reached down to tug meaningfully at the crotch of his baggy jeans. One of his hands pushed Harry just below the chest, and he went back against the boot of his car, arse to the metal, and dick semi-hard inside his travel-worn underpants. Deftly, Emile was reaching behind himself to start shoving the garage door back downwards, whilst with the other hand lifting the front of his Arsenal shirt against his toned tummy, and undoing the top buttons of his jeans fly. Harry, licking his lips, allowed his meaty arse to slide against the cool metal until he could bend his knees and sink to a kneeling position on the hard concrete of this shabby space, his tall body brought low and tucked between the car and the drooping jeans. Above, Emile had chucked his jacket aside and lifted the 90s shirt further up his washboard abs; his jeans hung open at the front and Harry could get his hands in there, and then his face, rubbing and kissing the bulging front of the smart laddish boxer briefs inside, black cotton enclosing the meaty privates of the young winger. In moments like this, Harry Kane could entirely lose himself - down on his knees, slobbering against loaded undies, greedily pulling at cotton and elastic and getting his lips against a fat swollen cock, tilting his face and rolling his eyes and staring submissively up into the almost sullen aggression of Emile's lowered face. The angle accentuated the muscle definition across his midriff and the slight bulge of his chest and upper arms, and Harry opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue, letting the fat cock roll and rub against it as it hardened and grew for him, the high he needed to get over today's defeat. Except... `Suck that cock,' the Arsenal player growled. `Suck on that, loser - you're gonna let me fuck your mouth like your bitch boys got fucked by the Magpies, eh?' Okay, maybe not everything could be forgotten here - but the day's result went from sporting humiliation to submissive turn-on, and he nodded enthusiastically, just as Emile spat against his face and gave his hair a rough rub. `Well come on,' growled the Arsenal winger. `Open wide and gimme a suck, captain.' Emile loved being a bit nasty and extra with Harry; he'd never been vocal and rough like this with a girlfriend, and he wasn't sure if he'd feel comfortable with it. He might feel silly or he might go too far and upset her, and he'd be too scared of getting into some scandal. But with a bloke seven years and seven seasons his senior, the all-time top scorer for their national team? That was different. So he muttered on, jibing at Kane for his team's humiliation to Newcastle, and telling him exactly how he liked to have his dick sucked - when in reality, he was fucking delighted anytime he got it wet at all, like any other horny 22-year-old! For several moments, he was lost in it, his dick enclosed in Harry's soft wet mouth, his balls heavy and tingling, and his own team's difficult few days fading away - enjoying himself so much, in fact, that he didn't immediately hear the rattle and shift of the roller-door behind him, which he had pushed down so roughly and carelessly, and not pushed quite to the threshold when he reached to close it; it remained a good few inches off the ground and was quite easily pulled upwards by an intruder, and it was only as said intruder ducked low and barged in next to them that Emile realised that his back had been briefly exposed to the night, and to discovery. His face a mask of panic, Smith turned to his left, and gawped at the other man who now joined them in this cramped space behind the parked car; below, it seemed that Kane had no idea, his eyes closed and his mouth rushing back and forth over the shiny wet shaft of a big young cock. In a rushed few moments of horror, the 22-year-old stared from this and back up to the face of the other bloke, now stood next to him and laying a hand on his shoulder, the door slid back down and hitting the threshold with a dull metallic clink. This heavier noise did disturb the cock-sucker and Harry's face pulled away, gossamer traces of spit hanging between his trembling lips and the fat purple head of Emile's rocket cock. `Well, well, well,' chuckled Wilshere. `Fuck,' moaned Kane, sharply. Smith-Rowe himself said nothing, though he was already panting. He was caught between the rough dominant persona that he loved to throw at his England captain, and the more breezy respect that he always tried to show to this faded Arsenal legend - and sheer panic at being caught with his nob out and a man polishing his helmet with his tongue. He just didn't know what to say. But he was quick enough to read Jack's expression and know that this wasn't quite the disaster it could be - it was like at St George's, he thought, with that cheeky bastard Harvey following him out of the canteen, and... He recovered himself sufficiently to grunt out his invitation to the shorter, stockier figure at his left side, and to reach down and grip the base of his hard-on, rubbing the tip across Harry's dumbly gaping lips. `You want a turn on his pussy mouth?' he barked at Jack Wilshere, an inspiration to any young Arsenal player, and his heart skipped a beat whilst he waited for the alpha male to clip him across the face and tell him he was a perv - faced with his shiny cock, Harry's face seemed to be frozen in the same dread expectation. But cheeky Jack the lad just burst out laughing and reached down to grab the bulging fornt of his black skinny jeans, nodding enthusiastically. `Fuck yes, mate,' he announced. `Where the hell was my invite? As if I had to follow you out here like a stalker, you dark horse. So...' Jack was smirking down at the Tottenham player at their feet, his eyes alight with glee. `THis is the famous Spurs MILF, is it? Haha. Brilliant. Here, Harry, get your chops around THIS.' And Emile watched as the jeans were unzipped and pushed down bulging thighs, and the tighty whiteys were given a good grab and jiggle by one of Wilshere's hands, presenting their massive contents to the kneeling striker. Emile's eyes bulged a little at the sight of Jack's cock being whipped out, and he held tightly at the base of his prick, before reaching that hand forward and pushing Harry's face to the side, guiding it over and down to kiss the trouser-snake of the young coach. `Yeah,' Emile growled eagerly, `give Jackie boy a good suck, why don't you? That's it. If only there were 6 of us to your 1, eh, you Spurs loser!' This, Jack thought, was part of what he'd missed: coming to this party today, knowing he'd be something of an outsider to the current squad, he was chasing the things he'd given up as his playing career stuttered to its premature end. And he was loving his new role as a coach, sure, but you had to put on a different act for that, and you'd never be just one of the lads, especially not when you were coaching a bunch of teens. He'd felt prematurely aged by his sporting retirement, bewildered by the likes of Messi and Ronaldo who were bossing the sport into their mid or late 30s, whilst he was stuck in the dugout shouting tactics at 31 - and worse, strangely emasculated by the secret contract that tied his current Arsenal role to a weekly session getting his balls emptied in Mikel Arteta's office. He felt like a glorified gigolo in the shadows of the club he'd loved since boyhood, especially in this season where it might still top the league. But here in this shady garage, side by side with young Emile, he was like a beast unleashed again - a cocksure 5ft8, his waterproof jacket shrugged to the floor, and his tight white t-shirt pulled up to his nipples to show off his six-pack, pushing his massive hard-on into Kane's wet mouth, and turning to wink and leer at his young accomplice before passing Harry's blotchy stunned face between them. They could take it in turns shoving their cocks in between his lips and pushing back into the striker's throat until he gagged, and then wank themselves off and rub their cocks against his cheeks and the soft fur of his chinstrap beard - all the while muttering contentious obscenities at him, bantering about the real bottlers of North London, the trophy-less losers of White Hart Lane, the bitches who'd just been fucked senseless on Tyneside. `Fuck he's good,' Wilshere purred. `Who knew?' `Been my bitch for ages,' Smith-Rowe boasted next to him, `ever since I made my England debut, pretty much - fuckkkk, yes Harry mate, mmm-' `What a good slut,' he cooed and laughed, taking over and pulling Kane in close to his crotch, really hitting the back of his throat with the fat head of his own big meat. `Fuck this feels great, you big Spurs slag - what a MILF you've got here, Smithy kid! Haha.' Hot in spite of the damp cool night outside, Jack wrestled out of his muscle-fit t-shirt, glad to show off how thick and toned his body was in spite of his retirement, and glad that Emile seemed to note or even admire this out of the corner of his eye - yeah, Jack thought, I could run you and some of those other 22-year-old pricks ragged, you little bastard wannabes...! He pulled out of HArry's mouth, slapping his long fat tool against the side of his face, and then shuffled sideways a bit, kicking his jeans down properly and yanking his trainer-clad feet out of them, then his undies, so he was naked but for black gym socks and his chunky New Balances. Down below, Harry Kane seemed to be taking this as an invite for the same, shrugging away his Spurs hoodie, and then dragging his unbranded dark t-shirt up and over his long strong torso. Laughing, Wilshere snatched the hoody and rubbed it against his cock a a big fistful of material, telling the other two that it felt good to wipe his dick on a rag. `Fucking Spurs,' he muttered with real feeling, and spat on the hoodie before chucking it to the side and whacking his cock against one of Harry's cheeks again, then pushing roughly at Emile and telling him it was his turn. Harry lurched this way and began to suck him yet again, and Jack stared at the younger lad in a moment of naughty inspiration. `Here,' he yelped. `Give him that shirt off your back, mate.' `What?' was the youth's immediate rasping response, breathless and pink-cheeked. `Give him the Arsenal shirt to wear,' Jack said, more authoritatively, `and we'll really show him what a bitch he is.' He reached down and gave a light slap against the side of Kane's face, feeling the impact on his own gobbled cock. `You're gonna be an Arsenal slut tonight, Harry boy, how you feel about that? Hah.' He looked back up, and saw that Smith-Rowe was still oddly hesitant, pawing at the front of the distinctive 90s footy shirt; Wilshere grinned wickedly at him, licking his lips, and stared the taller Gunner down, insistent and excited. And then in a flurry of motion, Emile followed the idea, wriggling out of the vintage top and holding it out in front of him, whilst Jack pushed Harry aside and stepped back, wanking himself slowly and laughing some more. `Go on,' he urged loudly. `Put it on, Kane, and then you can bend over that car boot and really take the same fucking as your team.' At the word `fucking', Emile felt a tension in his muscles and his ball-sack, and his excitement briefly wavered. Harry was always begging for it, and needing silenced with a mouthful of cock or ball to shut up the greedy demands for more. Anal was a bit much for Emile to consider, for some reason, even after all these months of regular oral service from the Hotspur striker. He hadn't been sure he'd ever give in and properly fuck the married England captain, not really - it just seemed too much, too gay, too real. But here in this moment, flanked by Jack fucking Wilshere, well... `That's it!' Jack was exclaiming. `God, don't he look cute in it, haha? Good boy...!' Emile kinda got the point, though he'd been hesitant and wary; it was fucking horny, actually, to see this 6ft2 bloke on his knees, his hard-on evident in his sweatpants, his face now hidden as he struggled into a 90s vintage shirt that was two sizes too small for him. It was a tight fit on Emile's lean build, and this man was taller and broader than him; once Harry was in it, it clung tightly to his waist and chest and upper arms, and made him look very uncomfortable, more than physically: their Tottenham bitch, forced to wear Arsenal colours, on his knees to serve stars of present and past, fuck yes. `Jesus,' the striker moaned ambiguously, and it was hard to tell if he was cursing the humiliation of pulling on the wrong kit, or just excited by the two hard studs standing over him, wanking their equipment, and staring expectantly at him - or, more specifically, was he really just excited by Jack's suggestion? `Get up,' Wilshere told him now, firm and commanding, `and show us yer big arse.' Fuck, he meant it, he really meant it; Emile was shocked at all of this, although he'd always guessed that the retired player was a total shagger and party animal, but he'd thought the sordid experiences that had come his own way were more rare and extreme. Now he was wondering if loads of players got up to shit like this - what naughty stuff had Wilshere done in his heyday, when he was a real Arsenal player himself? Harry Kane wasted no time in getting up to his feet. For a moment he towered against the two Arsenal men, hard as a rock in his pants, and still licking his lips and a little dazed by taking the big and bigger cocks so roughly and submissively from the lads in here with him - he was too excited to question Wilshere's sudden presence with him, ignoring the danger and madness of expanding this playtime beyond he and his regular cum-supplier. Jack seemed unhappy to be loomed over by Harry's superior height, classic small man syndrome; he screwed up his face, all frowns and aggression, and pushing him by the arm slightly. `Bend over the car then you big slut,' he barked roughly, and the gravelly excitement of his voice sent delicious shudders all through Harry's body. But Emile, he thought, looked less certain - of course, he'd always resisted the begging for a proper fuck, as Harry's arse ached for it, and he reached back to finger himself sometimes whilst chowing down on the fat Croydon meat. Would Smithy really give it to him from behind, and was Jack bloody Wilshere really up to that too? He desperately wanted to find out. The ridiculous vintage Arsenal top clinging uncomfortably to his upper body, he turned around and gripped his pants at the sides of the waist - he needn't have, because hands, Jack's surely, helped him out, and started tugging the club sweatpants and the white CKs beneath, until his big pale bottom was exposed and then slapped. He moaned luxuriously at this and bent forward as gruntingly commanded, splaying himself across the boot and sticking his arse up in the air, baring it to these two alpha males. Quickly, he felt one cheek squeezed and slapped again, and then heard Wilshere spit loudly. In went one finger, pushing roughly into his hole, and he groaned loudly, spreading out where he lay against the car, pushing back with his hips, letting the retired player finger him good and proper - he could hear Jack's dirty moans and Emile's almost nervous gasps. Harry knew that his young regular wasn't half as confident or dominant as he liked to act, though it was a fantasy both of them were eager to maintain; he knew that there was this hesitation and nervousness to the Arsenal winger, and he could hear and feel it in him even without turning to look. He wanted to grab and reassure him, to tell him it was okay if he didn't want to fuck, but he didn't want to embarrass him in front of a club legend; and he also really really wanted to feel his cock inside him. Jack moved from one finger to two, and leered at Emile. `You need to feel this pussy,' he told him confidently. `God it's good. Here.' He pulled out and gave the broad backside another good spank. `Put a finger in there, kid - give him a little prod before we dick him. Yeah, go on - don't be so fucking shy, what are you?' He grabbed and shook the younger man by the shoulder, practically dragging his hand forward by the wrist, until he was leaning over and biting his lip and feeling his cock, horny as hell as he watched the formerly brutish youngster push a tentative digit in between the cheeks and rub it against Kane's hole with an expression of bewilderment on his awkward face. Okay, so the dick-head hasn't fucked a lad before, jesus christ. `Go on, lad,' he encouraged roughly. `Give him a good finger-fucking, will ya?' He continued to grab and shake at Emile, by the shoulder and the neck, and then reaching down and giving HIS meaty bottom a bit of a slap too, which really made the lad wince and grimace and shuffle from foot to foot. He didn't repeat it, in case it really freaked him out, but he did deliver a good stinging slap across one of Harry's cheeks instead, and then become impatient. `Turn around,' he barked at the striker. `Lie sideways so we can both have a hole to play with, eh? Come on. Let's spitroast the bastard.' Soon, he was grinning across the width of the car at his young buddy, with Harry stretched between them. At this end, his head was bowed low, mouth wide open so that Jack would slide his thick monster in and out of his gob, one hand planted between his shoulder blades to grip a portion of Arsenal shirt; the shirt that ended just above the base of his spine, where his big cheeks were exposed, and Emile was pulling two greasy fingers out of his hole, and staring down at his hand like a guilty Macbeth. But now the young stud was taking a hold of his own cock and looking across at him with a question in his eyes. `Shove it in him, kid,' Jack hollered. `He's fucking begging for it, isn't he? Go on, fuck this Hotspur loser and show him what we're packing in the Arsenal, right?' As he spoke, he fucked his own dick harder into Harry's mouth and really made him gag and struggle. `Go on,' he urged, excited and filthy, `just push it in and give him a proper hard fuck, mate, it's what he wants and deserves - fuck him like Joelinton in front of goal, haha.' And sprawled sideways across the back of his car, Harry Kane happily took it. At first he could feel the nervous tension of the 22-year-old, the same as when he let his tongue wander from his cock and gave too much attention to his balls, or when he tried to climb up and kiss or nip his nipples a little mid-blowjob; but then, as he relaxed himself and felt the thick young head push against his fingered hole, he could sense the growing confidence and authority behind the movement. Very soon, Smithy was deep in him, not yet thrusting, but just holding it there, tight against him and pawing at the footy shirt on his back, seeming really turned on by it, and adjusting to the sensation of being balls-deep inside an arse, tighter and stronger than any pussy. Kane wanted to tell him how good it felt, but he had a very full mouth. Over his head and back, Wilshere did it for him: `That's it, kid, give it to him good. Now go for it. Pound this bitch.' `Fuck,' Smithy was moaning. `Fuck, it feels...' `Shut up and fuck him. Go hard. Come on.' `Agh, it's so TIGHT!' `Yeah, don't it feel GREAT?' `Fuck...' `That's it - but go harder. Go faster, mate!' `Ughh... ohhh... fuckin' hell...' `Don't go soft on him, just keep smashing it, come on. Yes lad, that's it!' And between them Harry moaned and ached, doing his best to keep sucking lavishly on the delightfully huge Wilshere cock, whilst his bottom bounced and jiggled with each heavy thrust of the Arsenal winger who was buried inside him, gathering strength and confidence. In fact, he was just beginning to pick up real assertiveness in what he was doing, when Harry's mouth was suddenly emptied and deprived of cock, and Jack was demanding that they swapped ends. Harry felt the mixed disappointment and delight, sad to have Emile withdraw from him, but then pretty chuffed when the beautiful blond lad was in front of him, looming over him, and feeding him his slick cock - and double delight, really, because now an even bigger and thicker cock was being pushed between his buttocks, and a man who really knew how to use his body was taking charge. With a mouth full of Smith, Harry's back arched and his every muscle twitched and juddered - Jack Wilshere was full of the energy of someone who hadn't played 90 minutes in a while, and he was now giving a performance of fuckery that belied his injury-prone squib of a career. Fucking hell, what a sexy little bastard he was! For some time, Emile watched the older Arsenal guy go for it, and he wondered if he looked half as powerful and masterful when he took Kane from behind: Wilshere was an impressive figure, so thickly muscular and such a large presence, even if he was notably shorter than the strapping striker he was topping. He went for it, he really went for it, slamming into him and making the car shudder on its suspension, making it creak and whine, really powering into the Spurs player's body. He kept grabbing fistfuls of the 90s shirt, as excited by it as Emile felt too. And as he watched, feeling the voyeur's pleasure, he was slurped and kissed at the crotch, Harry drooling all over his trimmed pubes and his heavy balls and up and down the length of his veiny shaft. Not so much sucking any more, as if Kane could tell how frustratingly close he was to climax, but just teasing and servicing, just keeping him rock-hard and ready... and absent-mindedly, Emile couldn't help but reach down and stroke more gently and affectionately at the married DILF's hair and beard, really stroking him rather than roughly tussling at him like he normally would. `FUCK,' growled Wilshere. `I'm gonna cum soon. Shall I dump in him?' Emile found he didn't know what to say to that for a minute, just totally dazed and overwhelmed - he couldn't believe he'd crossed that line and put himself inside a man's arse. More, he couldn't believe just how amazing it had felt, and how long he'd resisted allowing himself that taboo pleasure. Wow. Recovering himself again, he frowned thoughtfully over at the other man, and shouted `No!' and then, slapping his cock more roughly against HArry's cheek, he reached down to pat the shoulder of the vintage top. `We're cumming on this,' he thought aloud, suddenly sure of it. `We're cumming on it, and this bitch is gonna be our Arsenal slut for sure!' Jack felt tonight like he'd found a kindred spirit in Emile's horny and nasty nature, and he hugged an arm against the strong shoulders of the 6ft lad as they stood over crouching Harry, all three of them wanking their dicks as hard as they could. There was a strong bond between them in the moment, all so excited and sweaty, two Arsenal stars and an honorary Arsenal slag. Jack came first, so in need of it: he pumped three solid bursts of thick creamy load, most of which hit Harry's beard and neck, but some of which spilled and trickled down the chest of the old Gunners shirt, staining it. He wasn't sure why Emile wanted his own vintage item soiled this way, but he was so fucking horny for it, especially when the young lad joined him and exploded with jizz of his own, aiming it well so that it painted the neckline and down the colourful sponsors, trails of oozing cum all over the tight-fitting kit. Jack gasped and groaned, rolling his neck muscles and stretching out his arms, and then looked down to watch as Harry too came, arching his body and pulling his cock back so that he too jizzed onto the glossy 90s nylon, adding to the cum-stains on the shirt. `Fucking hot,' he groaned aloud, amazed and delighted. `Sexy fucking stuff. Fuck yeah, get that top as dirty as you, our little Arsenal slut.' He grabbed and shook the Spurs DILF by his hair and laughed, enjoying feeling so powerful and dominant over the 6ft2 icon. He was sure he would never watch an England match in the same way again. WIlshere shook himself and stepped aside, still playing idly with his meat. `You two are good fun,' he whistled a bit more weakly, suddenly exhausted and spent, but still chuckling to himself, leaning on the sides of the car to support his trembling bare body. `Fuck, I needed that...!' He leaned down, elbows to the boot, and rested his clammy face in his hands, needing a moment to recover and find his balance - when he pulled back and righted himself, he found the the other two both standing at angles from him, looking very awkward and uncomfortable with each other. Harry looked different now, transformed from the greedy slut on his knees to the awkward masculine football captain; Emile just looked dazed and kinda lost. Jack pulled a hairy forearm against his sweaty mouth, then nodded in Smithy's direction. `You need a lift back to yours, ESR?' Emile sat stiffly in the passenger seat, not even looking back as Wilshere's ride pulled them out of the elite neighbourhood and back onto the artery road into the north-east corner of the city. Next to him, Jack was chatty and alert, his hand playing quite lightly against the steering wheel and the gearstick - his monologue skipped lightly from pointing out North London landmarks to telling him about his plans for training tomorrow morning, then abruptly and briefly back to what had just taken place: `He's a fucking great cocksucker, isn't he? Who knew! Harry Kane, what a dirty bastard.' Smith-Rowe didn't know what to say to him, other than cursory laughs. He'd wound his window down a little and he tilted his head towards the strip of cool air that it let in, glad of it on his sweaty features and the side of his neck. His cock ached in the front of his jeans and he was now wearing Harry's dark t-shirt under his denim jacket. The vintage Arsenal shirt, as per Jack's giggling demands, had stayed glued to Harry's body, even as he zipped up his hoodie. `He should keep it,' Wilshere had cackled in the garage. `Remind him of us two. Wear it under his shitty Spurs gear sometime, haha. Yeah? Yeah?' For a moment, Emile had thought that Harry might actually punch Jack, but then... the big tall striker had just nodded and got on with it, seemingly cowed and shamefaced, though hopefully also satisfied. The goodbyes had been oddly strained, with Harry sitting against the car on his own and the two of them striding off down the street to where Jack had parked. Emile hadn't looked over his shoulder, unsure what he would feel when he looked back at the Hotspur. Wilshere finally quietened down and put on the radio, and his car cruised them through the late traffic of Sunday night in the capital. Half-asleep in the passenger seat, Emile tried to process it all: so, he enjoyed fucking a bloke as much as he enjoyed getting his dick blown, so that was... interesting. He thought about the next time he met up with Kane, and what he would say when the big fella inevitably begged for more of it. He thought he might give in, given how amazing it had felt on his prick, and how heavily it had made him eventually cum. And it must be okay, he told himself, because Jack here has a wife and loads of sprogs, and he's a proper macho bloke, so...? Still, his goodbyes to the youth coach were awkward too as Jack dropped him off on the corner by his building, and Emile couldn't help but kinda regret that he'd exposed his private pleasure to this rowdy outsider - what would Harry be thinking about it all right now? How would he be feeling? Emile knew he'd be fucking chuffed to have taken two dicks like that, and yet... he'd seemed so strange at the end, humiliated by them and lingering there in the cum-slicked vintage shirt, the one that Emile himself had been so excited to source and to wear about the city, proud of his club. In a daze, he let himself into the foyer and then the lift, finding his way up to the apartment he shared with several old school pals, and paused a few yards from his front door when the phone in his pocket rang. It was, of course, the `Spurs MILF' - who else? He answered it with breathy nervousness, unsure why the man would be calling - had he left something else there, other than his jizz and his footy shirt? `Emile?' rattled the England captain's voice down the line. He paused. Then, `Yeah?' He tried to sound brash and confident, but he suspected he just sounded tired and vulnerable. `That's it,' Kane announced in a hiss. `It's over. That's the last time.' He paused again. Then. `You;ve said that before, mate.' `I mean it,' snapped the striker down the line. And he sounded like he did. There was a strange severity to his voice. `How dare you bring him here? A guy like that. You don't know the kind of trouble he could bring for me...' `Hey,' Emile grunted sleepily. `I didn't bring him, he-' `It's over,' Kane told him again, his voice quiet and icy. He sounded so distant and unpleasant, and it confused the young footballer - he thought of the groans and delight of the sluttish older man when he was being shared by Emile and Jack, compared to his apparent distaste now it was over. Perhaps the jizzy shirt had been too much? But... he'd felt wary of Jack too, hadn't he, climbing out of his car, so...? `Sorry,' Kane muttered. `It's been fun, mate, but - it was madness. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself tonight. Goodbye.' Click, gone. That was that. And Emile was too tired and confused to really react, just holding the device to his ear and staring blearily at his own front door, his mind full of strange sensations and vivid snapshots of the three-way action in the garage. He locked the phone and shook his head, and let himself into his flat, staggering in the direction of his bed. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2023 21:37:38 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership LAds, Part 360 Part 360: Losers of North London It was just getting fully dark as their chartered jet touched down in an airfield on the northern fringes of the capital; he'd never been gladder at Tottenham's decision to fly them to and from the Sunday afternoon fixture, figuring that the whole miserable host of them could still be halfway down the motorway, travelling miserably from Newcastle to London. The tall 29-year-old felt the sting of the defeat as sharply as anyone disembarking the plane, but he felt a certain pressure to restrain the severity of his mood and expression, a responsibility to model a more philosophical mindset to some of the younger and less resilient Spurs players who were filing past him in the twilit airfield. Harry Kane's own second-half goal counted for very little, not even in his own selfish imagination; his team had received a thorough kicking from their North East hosts this afternoon, a 6-1 defeat at St James' Park which had been over in the first twenty minutes. Kane, like so many of the blokes now trudging across the cooling tarmac, was thoroughly ashamed of the performance - before they'd even boarded the plane for take-off, there had been talk of how they were going to apologise to the fans, and Harry himself had fielded the idea of clubbing together to refund the disappointed travelling supporters. Though not captain here like he was with the Three Lions, the record-breaking striker still felt a special responsibility to be a leader and role model... It was that pressure and responsibility that could really eat at the 6ft2 Londoner, and make him crave an obliterating escape from the ordinary. Thinking about that escape, Harry couldn't help but let one hand stray thoughtfully to the blocky outline of his muted phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, fingering its hard edges through the fabric, and facing the shapeless internal struggle over whether he could or should make the call. `We go again,' Kane heard one of the others call with lacklustre and generic encouragement, pumping a weak fist in the air whilst lugging his overnight bag in the other hand; the Spurs striker turned and half-smiled at Eric Dier, admiring his close friend's earnest little effort at positivity, but seeing every shred of embarrassment on that handsomely bearded face - like so many others, Harry's best pal and ex-boyfriend had endured a long shit performance on the Tyneside pitch, and his muscular bulk looked deflated. `Fucking Saudi money, innit,' muttered another Tottenham man, brushing between them, and then adjusting the straps of his backpack before hurrying ahead - Ben Davies continuing to mutter moodily to himself as he made his way towards the fence and gates that connected the airstrip to the car park. `I wish we could blame that,' Eric huffed wistfully. `We can't blame anyone but ourselves,' Harry agreed sternly, having accepted this honest line in the away changing rooms and deciding they had no choice but to stick with it. `Got to take the flak and just move on, as always.' They'd all seen the footage of their own fans exiting the stadium after the first few Newcastle goals, and Harry hardly felt he could blame them. With a defeated sag in his posture, Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg was trying to rouse some interest in a couple of Sunday night drinks on the other side of the gates, hesitating at the side of his Land Rover and calling loudly to likely customers. `We can drink in my garden,' he was suggesting, `and not face a kicking in some bar where we might find our own gutted followers.' Harry grimaced at the prospect, feeling that he'd never felt less inclined towards such team-building social time - but a voice in his head told him that the Danish fella was spot-on and of course they should be attempting to salvage morale and togetherness in the wake of that shit-show up north. Kane paused between the vehicles and shot a questioning look over at Dier, who was passing him by. The other 6ft2 footballer lifted his moody gaze from the damp floor and met his eyes. `What do you think?' Harry asked him quietly. `A couple of drinks at Pierre's place, like he says? He might have a point.' Even as he said it, the England striker was also fingering at that pocket, feeling the cool solid rectangle of his dormant phone, and thinking about his chosen drug. A slight groan from the struggling defender. `Not for me - the fiancee is back in London tonight and we haven't hung out in almost two weeks,' he announced, and his voice was a detached monotone - it occurred to Harry that a 29-year-old stud like him should sound a bit more enthusiastic about being reunited with his supermodel girlfriend on a Sunday night, but then they were all in shitty moods and leaving the game behind was much easier said than done. Still bristling and glum, Eric pushed ahead and lifted a car key to beep at his vehicle, before turning to whack a quick fist-bump into Harry's knuckles: `Not sure I'd be good company for anyone else,' the defensive midfielder said weakly, and then made a beeline for the driver's door of his car. Around Kane, the reactions to Hojbjerg's suggestion were mixed. Dier was hardly the only guy making a hurried shuffle towards their high-spec motor, keen to hit the suburban roads and head back to their various mansions and townhouses; but there was clearly some agreement with the Dane's sentiment, as he could see him texting his home address to Romero and Perisic, and pleading with Skipp and Sarr to give it a go and just swing by for one. Harry teetered on the brink of the idea, letting his overnight bag swing from one broad shoulder, and waving a lazy hand as Eric's vehicle lurched past him, gently splashing the lower legs of his club tracksuit from a puddle. Harry grimly pictured the scene of a few drinks at Pierre-Emile's place, with the Danish midfielder playing an earnest host to the dejected lads - and he, their talismanic goal machine, burdened by the need to be upbeat and constructive, finding faint praise for the day's performances, and reassuring others with all of the cliches of their footballing banter. Something about the mental image pushed him one way on the briefly difficult decision, and the 29-year-old forward backed off and neared his own car, not even voicing a clear response to the vague shouty invite from Hojbjerg - there was a general fuss of noise and interaction around them in the car park as plans were made or hurried exits were made, and Kane's was just one more such escape, pulling the car door firmly shut after him and starting up the engine with the push of a single button. In there, his tall frame falling into a miserable slump that he'd had to avoid on the flight down, Kane could miserably relax and pull out his smartphone whilst the car's fancy systems geared up and lights flickered into existence all over the dashboard. Quiet and grumpy-faced, the all-time top goal-scorer of club and country thumbed two separate messages into his device, the car growling into life under his exhausted limbs. Firstly, to his wife: `Sorry babe, got to stick with team a bit longer - I won't be late though, promise xxx' sent in rapid guilty haste. And then secondly, to a number which was not saved or named in this phone, because he was a husband who sort of learned from his mistakes: `Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?' He didn't need to wait here in the rain-soaked car park of the private airport and check for an answer - his need was too urgent for that, and he was on the road in seconds, beating the rush and slipping away from the main assembly of his defeated teammates. Harry Kane, England captain and Spurs hero, but today one of many North London losers, was on his way to get high and let go of his responsibilities and pressures. Some men in powerful positions like his might opt for coke or weed or more exciting psychedelics, or even the hardcore downers... but for Harry, there was only one thing that would alleviate this cloud and let him really lose himself, and it was the chunky cock of a strapping young Gunner. The Tottenham Hotspur men weren't the only ones smarting from a football failure, though, and not the only guys who were trying to hold together some team spirit in the wake of disappointment - the Arsenal squad were coming to the end of a fairly downcast weekend of their own, triggered by their awkward Friday night battle against relegation fodder Southampton. A hard-fought draw had felt like a severe loss in the context, and yesterday's recovery sessions had been bitter and tetchy, a situation which captain Martin Odegaard was trying to solve by inviting as many lads as possible over to his for a Sunday evening barbecue. The optimistic Norwegian had not quite factored in the April weather, making the plan on a bright hot Saturday, and then facing a sudden downpour that had kept most of his garden party inside the cream-furnished sterility of his expansive home. With night falling and the party running out of steam, the drier end to the Sunday had brought some of the beer-drinking lads back outdoors into the washed-out luxury of the Odegaards' garden, and one 22-year-old regular of the table-topping side was perched on the arm of an outdoor sofa fiddling with his phone, and craving an illicit cigarette to round off the bevvies he'd consumed. Emile Smith-Rowe was no less sour than any other Arsenal player about the way their Friday night fixture had gone, but he was also hoping that the self-pity and navel-gazing would be left behind when they reassembled for proper training tomorrow; as had come up three dozen times during the chat and banter of Martin's attempted party, they all needed to fix their minds on this coming Wednesday, and their late-season clash with Man City... a game which many were seeing as the decider for the Premier League title 22/23, even if that wasn't quite mathematically the case. `We'll fuck them pretty boys up,' Smith-Rowe had found himself grunting at anyone who would listen after his third beer, thinking about the likes of twiglet Foden and hairband Grealish, and mentally obstructing the Predator-like spectre of Erling Haaland. Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the rear lounges, the Croydon youth could see how thinned-out the Arsenal party was becoming, and there were only a few odds and ends out here on the fringes of the garden with him - plenty of lads and their WAGs had already called taxis and headed out, ditching the rained-over festivity of Odegaard's admirable effort, and calling it quits on the recovery drinks. When the text buzzed into the grip of his palm, Emile was just weighing up his options: he could hit up a different party that one of his own pals was hosting further into the city, though it would be rife with weed and pills and he'd have to be careful to behave himself; he could swing by a recent casual girlfriend's place and see if she was feeling any less frigid; he could move on from the crappy healthy snacks of Martin's smorgasbord and drive into Surrey to see whether his mum had cooked a decent roast for the fam; he could go back to his own apartment and fire up the PS5, and go fuck up some arrogant tweens on online video games until he was tired enough to sleep. And there, in the palm of his hand, lit up a much better option than any of these, raising a dirty smirk on his toothy mouth, and making the young winger look suspiciously around him in case some dickhead was looking over his shoulder and seeing the text that had flashed across the top of his screen: `Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?' Unlike the older man, Emile had indeed saved this number, and even the contact name made him leer smugly to himself: `Spurs MILF'. It was how he liked to refer her to the likes of Tierney and White in the locker-room, or when he wanted to shock baby-faced Saka and prudish Zinchenko. They were always pushing to know who she was, and speculating about whether he was really shagging the missus of a Tottenham first team fella - there were a lot of jibes and doubts expressed, but Emile didn't care, and he thought that most of them believed him, and he was even more sure that none of the cunts had even half-guessed the truth: that he was still making Harry fucking Kane his personal cum-bucket cock-sucking sissy slut, even sharing him with Harvey Elliott behind the scenes of their recent England U21s experience. It didn't take ESR long to make a choice, yet he knew better than to respond immediately and appear too keen; instead, he slid the phone away and cracked his knuckles, and then picked his half-finished lager can from the wet cushions and drifted across the decking, making the odd comment to the other lads here, and then spilling into the kitchen and chatting idly to a couple of fellas there too - planting the seeds of his exit by remarking loudly about a booty call that just wouldn't leave him alone - then fetching his denim jacket from the closet and pulling it over the retro Arsenal shirt that hugged his toned upper body. And then, once enough time had elapsed, he swerved any more definite goodbyes, and slipped back out of Martin's house through the same kitchen entrance, and then made his way quietly to the painted gate that would lead down the side of the Barnet mansion onto the gravel driveway; he made sure his Uber was booked before he bothered opening the `Spurs MILF' message and thumbing in his response: `Be there on yer dirty knees, and let me thrash ya 6-1, LOL' Moments after Smith-Rowe's trainers crunched over the gravel and departed the gentle crowd noise of the diminishing house party, so did another pair; and this party-ditching figure slowly approached the pavement, peering out after the departing Uber taxi halfway down the quiet cul de sac, and then climbing into his own car to set off and follow. He'd felt a little out of place at Martin's party, for obvious reasons; he wasn't really one of the gang any more, though he'd found himself unable to resist the invite, and he'd ditched family commitments in favour of driving up here to take part in the so-called barbecue that turned into a washout and sedate indoor buffet. Still, it had been an entertaining enough evening, and for a few moments of banter and bonding, he'd felt like he was really still just a young lad like the rest of them. He was barely 31, after all, though Arteta's squad of men were largely in their early-to-mid 20s. He'd skulked about on the fringes of the party for a while when he first arrived, glancing soberly at the grey clouds and the initial slow drops of the eventual downpour. But his natural charm and extroversion had quickly led him into a few excitable chats with key members of the playing squad - he'd always been pretty good at assessing a crowd and knowing who you had to get in with to feel like the centre of the party, and that had hardly changed in these last few weird years as his career took its latest turn. He supposed that's how he'd got to hear about the `Spurs MILF', stood tossing peanuts into his mouth in the kitchen of Martin's place, sandwiched between Aaron Ramsdale and Benjamin White, and hearing both the goalie and defender scoff at the latest claims of Emile Smith-Rowe. He'd seen the opportunity and wedged himself into their conversation, entertaining both young lads with a few choice anecdotes from his years in their position, a hot-blooded young lad in a Gunners kit, surrounded by the attractive other halves of his senior teammates. `Never fucked a Tottenham slag though,' he'd pointed out in between bursts of coarse laughter, elbowing both younger lads, `I've always had standards.' But then, in between his own contributions, Rambo and Whitey had made more snide comments about Smithy, who they suspected was just in a committed relationship with his right hand and an XXL bottle of cheap lube. Ben was particularly dismissive and scathing, though Aaron just seemed tipsy and more interested in creating imaginative jokes about the Spurs kit sex doll that he believed their buddy had bought online. Something about the mystery of it had grabbed his interest, more so than anything else going at the pretty pedestrian party - the two lads' fiances had walked into the room at that point and killed the locker-room banter of it all, which was what he missed more than anything, obviously. But the thought had stayed with him as the rain stopped and the dry evening deepened, with more beers and cocktails served and a bunch of patisserie desserts unveiled for him to pick at. There were advantages to retirement, he supposed, as he helped himself to sweet treats whilst the nearest footballers just glared covetously at these options and then backed away in moody discipline. At some point towards the end of the party, he found himself at the window, first admiring a couple of design features of the Odegaards' garden, and then criticising himself internally for being such a boring bastard; his eyes had settled on the shifty figure of the team's young winger, the 6ft Croydon lad sitting apart from others and playing on his phone on the arm of a sofa - fair enough, he thought, getting away from these dull married fuckers in here, who are all comparing which box-sets they've binged and which photographers they used for which birth announcement in the family. He'd finished his beer at that point and went into the kitchen, where he talked distractedly to Saliba, and looked sharply over as Emile came indoors - the 6ft lad was a striking figure in the tight 90s Arsenal shirt that hugged his biceps, and the loose-fit grey jeans below. A curt nod from the 22-year-old on the way past, and he lingered curiously there, thinking about a couple of things reported by Ramsdale and White, who were through in the rear lounge being grilled about their separate wedding plans. When Smith-Rowe came back through, a distressed-look denim jacket pulled over his tight 90s footy shirt, Jack Wilshere was halfway through his last beer of the night, and not paying attention to what French centre-back next to him had to say - instead, the retired Arsenal star and current youth coach was watching Smith's discreet exit through the door, and thinking about the digs and aspersions of his teammates. The 31-year-old former midfielder turned around and made his excuses to William Saliba, telling the 22-year-old defender that he was way past his curfew from the wifey - and out he went, across the rain-glossy rear of the house, and towards the half-open gate in the corner... down the narrow path that ran alongside the big house, and onto its driveway, to a point where he could watch the smirking youngster climbing into the back of a taxi. Jack grinned and tossed the rest of his beer into a hedge, self-assessing that he was still sober enough to drive, and very curious to follow Emile into the night - on a mission to find out the identity of the `Spurs MILF'. Despite their respective hefty salaries, `the usual place' was little better than a shed structure, located only a few streets away from the big family home that Harry Kane was too cautious to ever let his visitor into; things had been different when he had been shagging Eric, his best mate, and he'd taken many a silly risk back then. Okay, what he did now was hardly SAFE, but this extra garage was entirely disused by the neighbour who owned it, and Harry had never actually returned the spare key that he'd borrowed when it was loaned him to house a particularly beautiful sports car one London summer. And now, since hotel bookings were too traceable and the young lad had flatmates, this damp square room within shouting distance of his marital home was the setting for the sporadic hookups... the mad ill-advised encounters... the desperate dick appointments. He'd sworn to himself that it was over after what happened on the last international break, though it was far from the first time Kane had made such a promise to himself - but still, noshing off both Smithy and that young Liverpool troublemaker...! In a side-room of St George's Park where ANYBODY could have found them...! He was becoming too foolish and greedy, he knew that - the carry-on in Qatar during the World Cup was enough evidence of that, the way he'd fawned over Jude Bellingham and the group session that had graced him when England eventually bowed out. He greatly appreciated the way Dier had organised that sordid little party for him in the hotel sauna, and yet he also felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever - the little bukkake party, sweat and cum dribbling down his face, had shown him on his knees to some prime alpha lads from up and down the Premiership, and he had been tempted to scold Eric for such risk-taking at the end of their tournament. Except that he couldn't bear to hurt the other lad's feelings, as sure as he was that the bearded hunk was having a hard time and keeping something from him lately. But in here, that was just another worry for Kane to forget about - that was the whole point. In here, his parked car taking up most of the space, he could stop being the country-leading strike force, and let go of himself. He understood his own needs far better now than in those heady days when Eric had first seduced him in the Russian summer, or any of the submissive sexual encounters since. He paced, as far as one could pace in the narrow track of space that surrounded his car, and then settled in the gap between its rear and the roller-door that fronted this rectangular parking shed. He rested his rump against the boot of the car and toyed with the zip of his hooded top, thinking that it was a little chilly still in here - and maybe he should be finding somewhere a bit more luxe for his trysts with the player from the rival club. For a few moments, a silly fantasy spiralled in his head: he could perhaps buy an `investment property' somewhere close to the Arsenal training ground, and then more easily meet up with the sexy 22-year-old prince, and use it to have a permanent escape from- There it was, the rattling knock on the front of the garage, and he stooped to undo the catch and start tugging it upwards, a quick fluid motion that brought him face to face with Emile's smirk, immediately enjoying the 90s gear of the surly younger player, and knowing that he needed this as badly as he'd claimed in his message. Smith-Rowe just gave him a light nod. `Hope yer hungry,' the Emirates player laughed quietly, and reached down to tug meaningfully at the crotch of his baggy jeans. One of his hands pushed Harry just below the chest, and he went back against the boot of his car, arse to the metal, and dick semi-hard inside his travel-worn underpants. Deftly, Emile was reaching behind himself to start shoving the garage door back downwards, whilst with the other hand lifting the front of his Arsenal shirt against his toned tummy, and undoing the top buttons of his jeans fly. Harry, licking his lips, allowed his meaty arse to slide against the cool metal until he could bend his knees and sink to a kneeling position on the hard concrete of this shabby space, his tall body brought low and tucked between the car and the drooping jeans. Above, Emile had chucked his jacket aside and lifted the 90s shirt further up his washboard abs; his jeans hung open at the front and Harry could get his hands in there, and then his face, rubbing and kissing the bulging front of the smart laddish boxer briefs inside, black cotton enclosing the meaty privates of the young winger. In moments like this, Harry Kane could entirely lose himself - down on his knees, slobbering against loaded undies, greedily pulling at cotton and elastic and getting his lips against a fat swollen cock, tilting his face and rolling his eyes and staring submissively up into the almost sullen aggression of Emile's lowered face. The angle accentuated the muscle definition across his midriff and the slight bulge of his chest and upper arms, and Harry opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue, letting the fat cock roll and rub against it as it hardened and grew for him, the high he needed to get over today's defeat. Except... `Suck that cock,' the Arsenal player growled. `Suck on that, loser - you're gonna let me fuck your mouth like your bitch boys got fucked by the Magpies, eh?' Okay, maybe not everything could be forgotten here - but the day's result went from sporting humiliation to submissive turn-on, and he nodded enthusiastically, just as Emile spat against his face and gave his hair a rough rub. `Well come on,' growled the Arsenal winger. `Open wide and gimme a suck, captain.' Emile loved being a bit nasty and extra with Harry; he'd never been vocal and rough like this with a girlfriend, and he wasn't sure if he'd feel comfortable with it. He might feel silly or he might go too far and upset her, and he'd be too scared of getting into some scandal. But with a bloke seven years and seven seasons his senior, the all-time top scorer for their national team? That was different. So he muttered on, jibing at Kane for his team's humiliation to Newcastle, and telling him exactly how he liked to have his dick sucked - when in reality, he was fucking delighted anytime he got it wet at all, like any other horny 22-year-old! For several moments, he was lost in it, his dick enclosed in Harry's soft wet mouth, his balls heavy and tingling, and his own team's difficult few days fading away - enjoying himself so much, in fact, that he didn't immediately hear the rattle and shift of the roller-door behind him, which he had pushed down so roughly and carelessly, and not pushed quite to the threshold when he reached to close it; it remained a good few inches off the ground and was quite easily pulled upwards by an intruder, and it was only as said intruder ducked low and barged in next to them that Emile realised that his back had been briefly exposed to the night, and to discovery. His face a mask of panic, Smith turned to his left, and gawped at the other man who now joined them in this cramped space behind the parked car; below, it seemed that Kane had no idea, his eyes closed and his mouth rushing back and forth over the shiny wet shaft of a big young cock. In a rushed few moments of horror, the 22-year-old stared from this and back up to the face of the other bloke, now stood next to him and laying a hand on his shoulder, the door slid back down and hitting the threshold with a dull metallic clink. This heavier noise did disturb the cock-sucker and Harry's face pulled away, gossamer traces of spit hanging between his trembling lips and the fat purple head of Emile's rocket cock. `Well, well, well,' chuckled Wilshere. `Fuck,' moaned Kane, sharply. Smith-Rowe himself said nothing, though he was already panting. He was caught between the rough dominant persona that he loved to throw at his England captain, and the more breezy respect that he always tried to show to this faded Arsenal legend - and sheer panic at being caught with his nob out and a man polishing his helmet with his tongue. He just didn't know what to say. But he was quick enough to read Jack's expression and know that this wasn't quite the disaster it could be - it was like at St George's, he thought, with that cheeky bastard Harvey following him out of the canteen, and... He recovered himself sufficiently to grunt out his invitation to the shorter, stockier figure at his left side, and to reach down and grip the base of his hard-on, rubbing the tip across Harry's dumbly gaping lips. `You want a turn on his pussy mouth?' he barked at Jack Wilshere, an inspiration to any young Arsenal player, and his heart skipped a beat whilst he waited for the alpha male to clip him across the face and tell him he was a perv - faced with his shiny cock, Harry's face seemed to be frozen in the same dread expectation. But cheeky Jack the lad just burst out laughing and reached down to grab the bulging fornt of his black skinny jeans, nodding enthusiastically. `Fuck yes, mate,' he announced. `Where the hell was my invite? As if I had to follow you out here like a stalker, you dark horse. So...' Jack was smirking down at the Tottenham player at their feet, his eyes alight with glee. `THis is the famous Spurs MILF, is it? Haha. Brilliant. Here, Harry, get your chops around THIS.' And Emile watched as the jeans were unzipped and pushed down bulging thighs, and the tighty whiteys were given a good grab and jiggle by one of Wilshere's hands, presenting their massive contents to the kneeling striker. Emile's eyes bulged a little at the sight of Jack's cock being whipped out, and he held tightly at the base of his prick, before reaching that hand forward and pushing Harry's face to the side, guiding it over and down to kiss the trouser-snake of the young coach. `Yeah,' Emile growled eagerly, `give Jackie boy a good suck, why don't you? That's it. If only there were 6 of us to your 1, eh, you Spurs loser!' This, Jack thought, was part of what he'd missed: coming to this party today, knowing he'd be something of an outsider to the current squad, he was chasing the things he'd given up as his playing career stuttered to its premature end. And he was loving his new role as a coach, sure, but you had to put on a different act for that, and you'd never be just one of the lads, especially not when you were coaching a bunch of teens. He'd felt prematurely aged by his sporting retirement, bewildered by the likes of Messi and Ronaldo who were bossing the sport into their mid or late 30s, whilst he was stuck in the dugout shouting tactics at 31 - and worse, strangely emasculated by the secret contract that tied his current Arsenal role to a weekly session getting his balls emptied in Mikel Arteta's office. He felt like a glorified gigolo in the shadows of the club he'd loved since boyhood, especially in this season where it might still top the league. But here in this shady garage, side by side with young Emile, he was like a beast unleashed again - a cocksure 5ft8, his waterproof jacket shrugged to the floor, and his tight white t-shirt pulled up to his nipples to show off his six-pack, pushing his massive hard-on into Kane's wet mouth, and turning to wink and leer at his young accomplice before passing Harry's blotchy stunned face between them. They could take it in turns shoving their cocks in between his lips and pushing back into the striker's throat until he gagged, and then wank themselves off and rub their cocks against his cheeks and the soft fur of his chinstrap beard - all the while muttering contentious obscenities at him, bantering about the real bottlers of North London, the trophy-less losers of White Hart Lane, the bitches who'd just been fucked senseless on Tyneside. `Fuck he's good,' Wilshere purred. `Who knew?' `Been my bitch for ages,' Smith-Rowe boasted next to him, `ever since I made my England debut, pretty much - fuckkkk, yes Harry mate, mmm-' `What a good slut,' he cooed and laughed, taking over and pulling Kane in close to his crotch, really hitting the back of his throat with the fat head of his own big meat. `Fuck this feels great, you big Spurs slag - what a MILF you've got here, Smithy kid! Haha.' Hot in spite of the damp cool night outside, Jack wrestled out of his muscle-fit t-shirt, glad to show off how thick and toned his body was in spite of his retirement, and glad that Emile seemed to note or even admire this out of the corner of his eye - yeah, Jack thought, I could run you and some of those other 22-year-old pricks ragged, you little bastard wannabes...! He pulled out of HArry's mouth, slapping his long fat tool against the side of his face, and then shuffled sideways a bit, kicking his jeans down properly and yanking his trainer-clad feet out of them, then his undies, so he was naked but for black gym socks and his chunky New Balances. Down below, Harry Kane seemed to be taking this as an invite for the same, shrugging away his Spurs hoodie, and then dragging his unbranded dark t-shirt up and over his long strong torso. Laughing, Wilshere snatched the hoody and rubbed it against his cock a a big fistful of material, telling the other two that it felt good to wipe his dick on a rag. `Fucking Spurs,' he muttered with real feeling, and spat on the hoodie before chucking it to the side and whacking his cock against one of Harry's cheeks again, then pushing roughly at Emile and telling him it was his turn. Harry lurched this way and began to suck him yet again, and Jack stared at the younger lad in a moment of naughty inspiration. `Here,' he yelped. `Give him that shirt off your back, mate.' `What?' was the youth's immediate rasping response, breathless and pink-cheeked. `Give him the Arsenal shirt to wear,' Jack said, more authoritatively, `and we'll really show him what a bitch he is.' He reached down and gave a light slap against the side of Kane's face, feeling the impact on his own gobbled cock. `You're gonna be an Arsenal slut tonight, Harry boy, how you feel about that? Hah.' He looked back up, and saw that Smith-Rowe was still oddly hesitant, pawing at the front of the distinctive 90s footy shirt; Wilshere grinned wickedly at him, licking his lips, and stared the taller Gunner down, insistent and excited. And then in a flurry of motion, Emile followed the idea, wriggling out of the vintage top and holding it out in front of him, whilst Jack pushed Harry aside and stepped back, wanking himself slowly and laughing some more. `Go on,' he urged loudly. `Put it on, Kane, and then you can bend over that car boot and really take the same fucking as your team.' At the word `fucking', Emile felt a tension in his muscles and his ball-sack, and his excitement briefly wavered. Harry was always begging for it, and needing silenced with a mouthful of cock or ball to shut up the greedy demands for more. Anal was a bit much for Emile to consider, for some reason, even after all these months of regular oral service from the Hotspur striker. He hadn't been sure he'd ever give in and properly fuck the married England captain, not really - it just seemed too much, too gay, too real. But here in this moment, flanked by Jack fucking Wilshere, well... `That's it!' Jack was exclaiming. `God, don't he look cute in it, haha? Good boy...!' Emile kinda got the point, though he'd been hesitant and wary; it was fucking horny, actually, to see this 6ft2 bloke on his knees, his hard-on evident in his sweatpants, his face now hidden as he struggled into a 90s vintage shirt that was two sizes too small for him. It was a tight fit on Emile's lean build, and this man was taller and broader than him; once Harry was in it, it clung tightly to his waist and chest and upper arms, and made him look very uncomfortable, more than physically: their Tottenham bitch, forced to wear Arsenal colours, on his knees to serve stars of present and past, fuck yes. `Jesus,' the striker moaned ambiguously, and it was hard to tell if he was cursing the humiliation of pulling on the wrong kit, or just excited by the two hard studs standing over him, wanking their equipment, and staring expectantly at him - or, more specifically, was he really just excited by Jack's suggestion? `Get up,' Wilshere told him now, firm and commanding, `and show us yer big arse.' Fuck, he meant it, he really meant it; Emile was shocked at all of this, although he'd always guessed that the retired player was a total shagger and party animal, but he'd thought the sordid experiences that had come his own way were more rare and extreme. Now he was wondering if loads of players got up to shit like this - what naughty stuff had Wilshere done in his heyday, when he was a real Arsenal player himself? Harry Kane wasted no time in getting up to his feet. For a moment he towered against the two Arsenal men, hard as a rock in his pants, and still licking his lips and a little dazed by taking the big and bigger cocks so roughly and submissively from the lads in here with him - he was too excited to question Wilshere's sudden presence with him, ignoring the danger and madness of expanding this playtime beyond he and his regular cum-supplier. Jack seemed unhappy to be loomed over by Harry's superior height, classic small man syndrome; he screwed up his face, all frowns and aggression, and pushing him by the arm slightly. `Bend over the car then you big slut,' he barked roughly, and the gravelly excitement of his voice sent delicious shudders all through Harry's body. But Emile, he thought, looked less certain - of course, he'd always resisted the begging for a proper fuck, as Harry's arse ached for it, and he reached back to finger himself sometimes whilst chowing down on the fat Croydon meat. Would Smithy really give it to him from behind, and was Jack bloody Wilshere really up to that too? He desperately wanted to find out. The ridiculous vintage Arsenal top clinging uncomfortably to his upper body, he turned around and gripped his pants at the sides of the waist - he needn't have, because hands, Jack's surely, helped him out, and started tugging the club sweatpants and the white CKs beneath, until his big pale bottom was exposed and then slapped. He moaned luxuriously at this and bent forward as gruntingly commanded, splaying himself across the boot and sticking his arse up in the air, baring it to these two alpha males. Quickly, he felt one cheek squeezed and slapped again, and then heard Wilshere spit loudly. In went one finger, pushing roughly into his hole, and he groaned loudly, spreading out where he lay against the car, pushing back with his hips, letting the retired player finger him good and proper - he could hear Jack's dirty moans and Emile's almost nervous gasps. Harry knew that his young regular wasn't half as confident or dominant as he liked to act, though it was a fantasy both of them were eager to maintain; he knew that there was this hesitation and nervousness to the Arsenal winger, and he could hear and feel it in him even without turning to look. He wanted to grab and reassure him, to tell him it was okay if he didn't want to fuck, but he didn't want to embarrass him in front of a club legend; and he also really really wanted to feel his cock inside him. Jack moved from one finger to two, and leered at Emile. `You need to feel this pussy,' he told him confidently. `God it's good. Here.' He pulled out and gave the broad backside another good spank. `Put a finger in there, kid - give him a little prod before we dick him. Yeah, go on - don't be so fucking shy, what are you?' He grabbed and shook the younger man by the shoulder, practically dragging his hand forward by the wrist, until he was leaning over and biting his lip and feeling his cock, horny as hell as he watched the formerly brutish youngster push a tentative digit in between the cheeks and rub it against Kane's hole with an expression of bewilderment on his awkward face. Okay, so the dick-head hasn't fucked a lad before, jesus christ. `Go on, lad,' he encouraged roughly. `Give him a good finger-fucking, will ya?' He continued to grab and shake at Emile, by the shoulder and the neck, and then reaching down and giving HIS meaty bottom a bit of a slap too, which really made the lad wince and grimace and shuffle from foot to foot. He didn't repeat it, in case it really freaked him out, but he did deliver a good stinging slap across one of Harry's cheeks instead, and then become impatient. `Turn around,' he barked at the striker. `Lie sideways so we can both have a hole to play with, eh? Come on. Let's spitroast the bastard.' Soon, he was grinning across the width of the car at his young buddy, with Harry stretched between them. At this end, his head was bowed low, mouth wide open so that Jack would slide his thick monster in and out of his gob, one hand planted between his shoulder blades to grip a portion of Arsenal shirt; the shirt that ended just above the base of his spine, where his big cheeks were exposed, and Emile was pulling two greasy fingers out of his hole, and staring down at his hand like a guilty Macbeth. But now the young stud was taking a hold of his own cock and looking across at him with a question in his eyes. `Shove it in him, kid,' Jack hollered. `He's fucking begging for it, isn't he? Go on, fuck this Hotspur loser and show him what we're packing in the Arsenal, right?' As he spoke, he fucked his own dick harder into Harry's mouth and really made him gag and struggle. `Go on,' he urged, excited and filthy, `just push it in and give him a proper hard fuck, mate, it's what he wants and deserves - fuck him like Joelinton in front of goal, haha.' And sprawled sideways across the back of his car, Harry Kane happily took it. At first he could feel the nervous tension of the 22-year-old, the same as when he let his tongue wander from his cock and gave too much attention to his balls, or when he tried to climb up and kiss or nip his nipples a little mid-blowjob; but then, as he relaxed himself and felt the thick young head push against his fingered hole, he could sense the growing confidence and authority behind the movement. Very soon, Smithy was deep in him, not yet thrusting, but just holding it there, tight against him and pawing at the footy shirt on his back, seeming really turned on by it, and adjusting to the sensation of being balls-deep inside an arse, tighter and stronger than any pussy. Kane wanted to tell him how good it felt, but he had a very full mouth. Over his head and back, Wilshere did it for him: `That's it, kid, give it to him good. Now go for it. Pound this bitch.' `Fuck,' Smithy was moaning. `Fuck, it feels...' `Shut up and fuck him. Go hard. Come on.' `Agh, it's so TIGHT!' `Yeah, don't it feel GREAT?' `Fuck...' `That's it - but go harder. Go faster, mate!' `Ughh... ohhh... fuckin' hell...' `Don't go soft on him, just keep smashing it, come on. Yes lad, that's it!' And between them Harry moaned and ached, doing his best to keep sucking lavishly on the delightfully huge Wilshere cock, whilst his bottom bounced and jiggled with each heavy thrust of the Arsenal winger who was buried inside him, gathering strength and confidence. In fact, he was just beginning to pick up real assertiveness in what he was doing, when Harry's mouth was suddenly emptied and deprived of cock, and Jack was demanding that they swapped ends. Harry felt the mixed disappointment and delight, sad to have Emile withdraw from him, but then pretty chuffed when the beautiful blond lad was in front of him, looming over him, and feeding him his slick cock - and double delight, really, because now an even bigger and thicker cock was being pushed between his buttocks, and a man who really knew how to use his body was taking charge. With a mouth full of Smith, Harry's back arched and his every muscle twitched and juddered - Jack Wilshere was full of the energy of someone who hadn't played 90 minutes in a while, and he was now giving a performance of fuckery that belied his injury-prone squib of a career. Fucking hell, what a sexy little bastard he was! For some time, Emile watched the older Arsenal guy go for it, and he wondered if he looked half as powerful and masterful when he took Kane from behind: Wilshere was an impressive figure, so thickly muscular and such a large presence, even if he was notably shorter than the strapping striker he was topping. He went for it, he really went for it, slamming into him and making the car shudder on its suspension, making it creak and whine, really powering into the Spurs player's body. He kept grabbing fistfuls of the 90s shirt, as excited by it as Emile felt too. And as he watched, feeling the voyeur's pleasure, he was slurped and kissed at the crotch, Harry drooling all over his trimmed pubes and his heavy balls and up and down the length of his veiny shaft. Not so much sucking any more, as if Kane could tell how frustratingly close he was to climax, but just teasing and servicing, just keeping him rock-hard and ready... and absent-mindedly, Emile couldn't help but reach down and stroke more gently and affectionately at the married DILF's hair and beard, really stroking him rather than roughly tussling at him like he normally would. `FUCK,' growled Wilshere. `I'm gonna cum soon. Shall I dump in him?' Emile found he didn't know what to say to that for a minute, just totally dazed and overwhelmed - he couldn't believe he'd crossed that line and put himself inside a man's arse. More, he couldn't believe just how amazing it had felt, and how long he'd resisted allowing himself that taboo pleasure. Wow. Recovering himself again, he frowned thoughtfully over at the other man, and shouted `No!' and then, slapping his cock more roughly against HArry's cheek, he reached down to pat the shoulder of the vintage top. `We're cumming on this,' he thought aloud, suddenly sure of it. `We're cumming on it, and this bitch is gonna be our Arsenal slut for sure!' Jack felt tonight like he'd found a kindred spirit in Emile's horny and nasty nature, and he hugged an arm against the strong shoulders of the 6ft lad as they stood over crouching Harry, all three of them wanking their dicks as hard as they could. There was a strong bond between them in the moment, all so excited and sweaty, two Arsenal stars and an honorary Arsenal slag. Jack came first, so in need of it: he pumped three solid bursts of thick creamy load, most of which hit Harry's beard and neck, but some of which spilled and trickled down the chest of the old Gunners shirt, staining it. He wasn't sure why Emile wanted his own vintage item soiled this way, but he was so fucking horny for it, especially when the young lad joined him and exploded with jizz of his own, aiming it well so that it painted the neckline and down the colourful sponsors, trails of oozing cum all over the tight-fitting kit. Jack gasped and groaned, rolling his neck muscles and stretching out his arms, and then looked down to watch as Harry too came, arching his body and pulling his cock back so that he too jizzed onto the glossy 90s nylon, adding to the cum-stains on the shirt. `Fucking hot,' he groaned aloud, amazed and delighted. `Sexy fucking stuff. Fuck yeah, get that top as dirty as you, our little Arsenal slut.' He grabbed and shook the Spurs DILF by his hair and laughed, enjoying feeling so powerful and dominant over the 6ft2 icon. He was sure he would never watch an England match in the same way again. WIlshere shook himself and stepped aside, still playing idly with his meat. `You two are good fun,' he whistled a bit more weakly, suddenly exhausted and spent, but still chuckling to himself, leaning on the sides of the car to support his trembling bare body. `Fuck, I needed that...!' He leaned down, elbows to the boot, and rested his clammy face in his hands, needing a moment to recover and find his balance - when he pulled back and righted himself, he found the the other two both standing at angles from him, looking very awkward and uncomfortable with each other. Harry looked different now, transformed from the greedy slut on his knees to the awkward masculine football captain; Emile just looked dazed and kinda lost. Jack pulled a hairy forearm against his sweaty mouth, then nodded in Smithy's direction. `You need a lift back to yours, ESR?' Emile sat stiffly in the passenger seat, not even looking back as Wilshere's ride pulled them out of the elite neighbourhood and back onto the artery road into the north-east corner of the city. Next to him, Jack was chatty and alert, his hand playing quite lightly against the steering wheel and the gearstick - his monologue skipped lightly from pointing out North London landmarks to telling him about his plans for training tomorrow morning, then abruptly and briefly back to what had just taken place: `He's a fucking great cocksucker, isn't he? Who knew! Harry Kane, what a dirty bastard.' Smith-Rowe didn't know what to say to him, other than cursory laughs. He'd wound his window down a little and he tilted his head towards the strip of cool air that it let in, glad of it on his sweaty features and the side of his neck. His cock ached in the front of his jeans and he was now wearing Harry's dark t-shirt under his denim jacket. The vintage Arsenal shirt, as per Jack's giggling demands, had stayed glued to Harry's body, even as he zipped up his hoodie. `He should keep it,' Wilshere had cackled in the garage. `Remind him of us two. Wear it under his shitty Spurs gear sometime, haha. Yeah? Yeah?' For a moment, Emile had thought that Harry might actually punch Jack, but then... the big tall striker had just nodded and got on with it, seemingly cowed and shamefaced, though hopefully also satisfied. The goodbyes had been oddly strained, with Harry sitting against the car on his own and the two of them striding off down the street to where Jack had parked. Emile hadn't looked over his shoulder, unsure what he would feel when he looked back at the Hotspur. Wilshere finally quietened down and put on the radio, and his car cruised them through the late traffic of Sunday night in the capital. Half-asleep in the passenger seat, Emile tried to process it all: so, he enjoyed fucking a bloke as much as he enjoyed getting his dick blown, so that was... interesting. He thought about the next time he met up with Kane, and what he would say when the big fella inevitably begged for more of it. He thought he might give in, given how amazing it had felt on his prick, and how heavily it had made him eventually cum. And it must be okay, he told himself, because Jack here has a wife and loads of sprogs, and he's a proper macho bloke, so...? Still, his goodbyes to the youth coach were awkward too as Jack dropped him off on the corner by his building, and Emile couldn't help but kinda regret that he'd exposed his private pleasure to this rowdy outsider - what would Harry be thinking about it all right now? How would he be feeling? Emile knew he'd be fucking chuffed to have taken two dicks like that, and yet... he'd seemed so strange at the end, humiliated by them and lingering there in the cum-slicked vintage shirt, the one that Emile himself had been so excited to source and to wear about the city, proud of his club. In a daze, he let himself into the foyer and then the lift, finding his way up to the apartment he shared with several old school pals, and paused a few yards from his front door when the phone in his pocket rang. It was, of course, the `Spurs MILF' - who else? He answered it with breathy nervousness, unsure why the man would be calling - had he left something else there, other than his jizz and his footy shirt? `Emile?' rattled the England captain's voice down the line. He paused. Then, `Yeah?' He tried to sound brash and confident, but he suspected he just sounded tired and vulnerable. `That's it,' Kane announced in a hiss. `It's over. That's the last time.' He paused again. Then. `You;ve said that before, mate.' `I mean it,' snapped the striker down the line. And he sounded like he did. There was a strange severity to his voice. `How dare you bring him here? A guy like that. You don't know the kind of trouble he could bring for me...' `Hey,' Emile grunted sleepily. `I didn't bring him, he-' `It's over,' Kane told him again, his voice quiet and icy. He sounded so distant and unpleasant, and it confused the young footballer - he thought of the groans and delight of the sluttish older man when he was being shared by Emile and Jack, compared to his apparent distaste now it was over. Perhaps the jizzy shirt had been too much? But... he'd felt wary of Jack too, hadn't he, climbing out of his car, so...? `Sorry,' Kane muttered. `It's been fun, mate, but - it was madness. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself tonight. Goodbye.' Click, gone. That was that. And Emile was too tired and confused to really react, just holding the device to his ear and staring blearily at his own front door, his mind full of strange sensations and vivid snapshots of the three-way action in the garage. He locked the phone and shook his head, and let himself into his flat, staggering in the direction of his bed. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-350

Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2023 20:43:29 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 350 Part 350: Lisbon The cold blast that had swept over Western Europe this week, pausing the advent of spring, was pleasantly mitigated here on the Portuguese coast - he wasn't sure if these temperatures were standard for Lisbon in March or not, but his phone reported a balmy 18 degrees under the soft grey clouds, and the Arsenal squad had all felt the difference in the air as they disembarked from the plane late last night. The night had been cool, but not compared to the velvety snow of North London that they had left behind, though apparently today it was already being washed away by drizzle. The 25-year-old football player felt particularly conscious of the comparative warmth, his thin puffer jacket zipped up high and a beanie hat pulled low against his ears, dark clothing hoping for some discretion as he moved through the city centre, and approached the large low squat of the market building. Inside, Kieran Tierney had to contend with the hustle and bustle of the late lunchtime rush, but he was glad of the crowds, which made him feel as anonymous and invisible as in the most touristy spots of London. The Arsenal defender could move quietly and thoughtfully through the busy lanes and food court of the Mercato da Ribeira without worrying so much that he might be spotted or acknowledged, and that was definitely for the best. He'd first suggested that the other lad came to him - after all, why shouldn't Arsenal's prodigal son be allowed a little visit to the club that had raised him, now that the tournament had brought them together? But Kieran had known it was unlikely even as he wrote it, and part of him hadn't wanted it at all. He wanted to see him properly, and not just share niceties and banter as part of a link-up with the rest of the visiting Premiership team - so he'd been glad when his former teammate dismissed that ideas unprofessional and unpopular, and asserted that they should try to meet in the city once Tierney was able. Getting away had been a little touch and go, but he'd managed it, and he'd taken a cab most of the distance from the upmarket suburban sports club where Arteta's lads had based themselves for the day, preparing for tonight's first-leg knockout match against Sporting Lisbon. As far as anyone knew, the young Scot was resting at the hotel like he was supposed to, although he'd spent much of the car trip musing that he couldn't be the only lad trying to get a little flavour of the Portuguese city before the match, rather than taking a swim or siesta or just video gaming at the accommodation. That little mental argument had meant to comfort and reassure himself in the cab... but it was also partly why Tierney was now shuffling through the busy food market with such self-consciousness, thinking that he would round a corner and find White and Ramsdale sneaking a custard tart, or Saka inflicting a spelling test on some local beauty. But he wasn't doing anything wrong, not really - they'd been given a few hours to themselves before they had to report for duty, and staying at the hotel had sounded more like a request than an instruction. Plus, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with meeting up with a former teammate, even if they were now on opposing sides of the Europa league fixture! Nothing weird or untoward in it, nothing suspicious or inappropriate, nothing that anybody needed to get funny about. So, Kieran, why didn't you tell or invite anyone...? Hmm. Kieran moved through the popular food market, paying little attention to the stalls, pulling at the chest of his jacket, and wishing he'd just gone for a lighter hoodie instead - when suddenly there was a steering hand on his shoulder, and he wasn't alone in this brief space between the herds of lunchers. He jolted slightly but glanced sharply aside and met the broad welcoming grin beneath Bellerin's thin dark moustache; a large pair of designer sunglasses covered much of his face and a pale bucket hat sat atop of his short crop of hair, but those high cheekbones and Iberian looks were so distinctive. `Here he is,' cooed the 27-year-old Spaniard. `Here in my new city - how weird. Here, give me a hug, Kier - welcome to Lisbon!' And then Hector Bellerin was grabbing him in a side-on hug and Tierney was gladly reciprocating, feeling immediate warmth and pleasure in seeing the former Gunner, this fashionable Barcelona fella in his slick Euro clothes, but with his gently East End accent picked up in formative teen years at the Arsenal academy. `I'm sorry I couldn't come to the camp,' the slightly older defender was apologising instantly, patting him on the upper back and steering him down a row of stalls. `I just don't think it would go down well, y'know, with the bosses and such - I mean, we're "enemies" for the day, right? I don't think I'd get some hero's welcome greeting all the Arsenal lads, just cos I used to be...' He laughed and shrugged one shoulder beneath the loose striped t-shirt that he wore, juxtaposing with Kieran's winter coat. `I'm not one of you any more, I guess.' `Well,' Kieran mumbled back, `everyone will be glad to see you tonight, game aside, you're a real Arsenal man, everyone knows that, wherever you go.' He grinned awkwardly at his friend, allowing himself to be guided along, and digging his hands into the warm pockets of his zipped-up North Face. `Ah, it is good to see you,' he told him earnestly. `I've been hoping to get over for months.' `Oh, don't worry,' Hector said pleasantly, `I understood that you were too busy when I invited you - I know what it's like in London.' Tierney paused thoughtfully at that, feeling that there actually hadn't been a very specific `invite' at any point this Bellerin's Barca loan shifted to a new deal at Sporting CP, and that if there had been, he probably would have made it happen - just like he had to reach the other man's party at his Barcelona penthouse once before, accompanied by no other Arsenal players. He shuffled in next to Bellerin at the chosen stall, and listened in feeling ignorant whilst Hector trilled and exclaimed in fluent Portuguese to the stallholder on the other side of the counter, ordering for them both. Kieran didn't know if it was pretty standard for Spanish people to also know Portuguese, or if it was just another testament to how much more cultured and sophisticated this guy was compared to himself. In London, it was hard enough to convince people he could speak English, and the thickness of his Lanarkshire accent was one of the reasons he was so open to the contact made by scouts at Newcastle United. `So,' he said slowly, `what are these?' They were seated to the right, on high stools aside from the dimming queue, and he was staring at a row of three crumb-coated orbs on his platter, supping form the open can of fruit soda. Hector grinned at him in that slightly odd fashion that he suspected was a touch patronising or amused, but might just be genuine friendship. `Bacalhau,' he said, and then chuckled a little at the Scotsman's blank face. `Salt cod croquettes, my friend - you'll like them.' It didn't sound great. He peered suspiciously at the light salad on Hector's own platter, topped with a crumbling cheese that might be feta. The handsome man in sunglasses was just plucking a juicy olive from the prongs of his wooden fork. `So what are you having?' Kieran asked, a little of his resentment and uncertainty coming into his voice. `Is this some horrible thing you just give to tourists...?' Another chuckle from the 27-year-old, but Bellerin gave his shoulder a squeeze. `I'm vegan, remember - and hey, they're basically deep-fried fish balls, I thought a Scotty would be really into them. Just try it, haha.' Perched on his stool, the 5ft10 defensive footballer blushed slightly and toyed with his zip, then picked up the small wooden fork and gave it a go. Bellerin paused and watched him, and seemed to laugh at his fussy pause and slow smile of enjoyment, and then Tierney couldn't help but laugh too, almost spitting out a mouthful of the salty dish, finding his own suspicions ridiculous in the face of Bellerin's welcoming warmth. Hector was glad that he got him to the bar, though he would be gladder if the pair of them were allowed an alcoholic beverage; for himself, the Spanish player felt less concerned about the night's commitments, because he felt it unlikely that he would make the manager's starting selection for the Europa knockout. Though Bellerin had been in good form since New Year, his Arsenal roots were well-known and he suspected that he wasn't going to be fully trusted in the defensive line for a match with the Premier League leaders right now. And so he felt like he'd love to sink a few beers or cocktails up here in one of his favourite drinking spots in Lisbon, somewhere he'd visited on holiday trips long before his transfer to Sporting. The barmaid brought their sugary mocktails and he slipped the generous notes of payment against the printed bill on the tray. They were sat at the line where the indoor bar met its outdoor terrace, positioned neatly to enjoy the sprawling view of city rooftops and the gaping river estuary that coursed seward against the cloudy city. There was something uncomfortable in Kieran's posture in the chair across from him, and Hector wondered if he'd been a bit unkind in pushing his Scottish amigo to spend longer in the city, rather than hailing a car back to the suburbs. But there was still plenty of time before the Arsenal players would be needed, and they hadn't really spoken much in the loudness of the food market, other than about the food, about the weather, and about how close the Spanish and Portuguese languages were or weren't. Up here on the balcony of the cocktail bar, Bellerin wanted to know more, and he asked Tierney about the transfer rumours, about whether he was really becoming so dissatisfied at Arsenal even as they raced towards the Premiership title. When the 25-year-old admitted that he expected to spend tonight on the bench again, Hector half-jokingly suggested that they say `fuck it' and order cocktails with some real spirits in after all, but he knew not to push it any further. It would be a disaster if either of them arrived drunk at their respective team talks, and neither of them needed to jeopardise their careers like that. Sipping disappointedly on the faux mojito in his hand, the more experienced player quizzed his friend on life in London, on his family in Scotland, and generally dug away at Kieran's seeming shyness with a charm that came natural to him, full of genuine curiosity about the world behind this pink-cheeked jock. He mined at Tierney with questions about his birth on the Isle of Man, his early years playing in Glasgow, and how the SPL and English equivalent measured up for him. He hardly minded that his visitor barely had a chance to fire back with his own questions, though he did slow down or pause whenever he thought that Kieran looked stressed or particularly private. At one point, he thought how much it felt like a first date, and he laughed to himself, but then chewed his lip thoughtfully, and toyed with the arms of his sunglasses in one hand, staring curiously at the other lad whilst he spoke confidingly about his longings for Celtic. The 25-year-old had certainly calmed somewhat, though, since it was Hector himself who had to roll up a sleeve of the loose cardigan that the breezy balcony had urged him to pull on, and look at the face of his vintage watch. `An hour,' he told his friend warningly, but added, `minus the five minute taxi out of the city.' `Five minute?' Tierny asked him sceptically. `Thereabouts,' Bellerin insisted quietly, and only half-inaccurately. `Time for another?' Kieran seemed to think about it. `I think I'll be on a sugar high and crash,' he grumbled. `If we were drinking the real stuff, like you said, then I'd happily go for one more, but...' He smiled that cute awkward smile of his. `No whiskey for me before a game, haha, not like at Celtic...! I'm... mainly joking.' Hector smiled patiently at this, slowly hesitant before making the suggestion that had passed through his mind. He put down his glass with a clink, and cracked his knuckles meditatively. `You see over there?' he murmured, leaning back in his seat and gesturing the other way, away from the river view and the soft orange glow of the Lisbon rooftops. He gestured instead across the street below, the one they had traversed to come up here to his new favourite bar, and Kieran followed his directions with a blankly dutiful expression. `Top floor, the big windows; that's my place, actually.' `Oh,' came Tierney's fairly anodyne response, but then his face looked almost cross. `You didn't say,' he said limply, with something like an accusation in his Caledonian gruffness. Bellerin smiled casually at him and shrugged, playing with the soft lapels of his own cardigan. `I'm saying now,' he told him with a playful curtness on his lips. He'd consciously decided against mentioning it as he led his friend through the quiet street of converted factories turned hipster food joints and bookshops, because... well, it had felt too suggestive, too leading, too... risky. And yet here he was, two alcohol-free cocktails later, and... `I just wondered if you wanted to pop over and see it,' he added, less brusquely, picking up and sliding on his sunglasses. `Before you need to go,' he added gently. He could see the thought process on Kieran's honest face, could see the cogs turning over and over. The lad's uncertainty was understandable, and Hector was prepared for a negative response... fair, they both had teams to join and a game to psych up for, they shouldn't really be hanging out, it was hardly kosher pre-match protocol. But the 25-year-old wasn't saying `no'. `I would like to see it,' Kieran told him ambiguously. `It's just over there,' Hector said, keeping his voice a little intimate, but not quite meeting the other man's furtive eyes. `Two lift rides, is all. I think you'll like it - it's very like that place I rented in Barca.' `Oh, right,' murmured the Arsenal defender. `We can make sure you're in a car on time,' he told him gently, patting the arms of his chair, and folding one leg thoughtfully over the other, tilting his head to one side. He let his smile curl and broaden, and saw a flicker of enjoyment play across the pale pink of Kieran's lips. Hector just nodded encouragignly at him. `What d'you say, amigo?' A flick of a nod. `Just a quick look, yeh?' `Sure. Just a quickie. Come on.' In the elevator of the other building, a similar converted industrial block opposite the rooftop bar, Kieran felt even more self-conscious at the market, even though it was now just the two of them in a sizeable industrial elevator, as shabby chic as the one that had creaked up and down in the building of the bar. On this side, they cruised slowly upwards away from the Thai restaurant and expansive bookshop that lay at ground level, and crunched and clicked through the many floors until they were arriving at the penthouse that was Hector Bellerin's latest rented luxury. The elevator was a broad cuboid of space and they stood comfortably apart, but Kieran's hands fidgeted in the pockets of his clingy maroon sweatpants, and he felt foolish and clumsy with every step once they were alighting at the top floor, and a simple lock was opened to let them into the airy open-plan space of the loft apartment. Bellerin was right, it was similar to the pad in Barcelona, the one where he'd hosted that party, and Tierney had been the solo Englishman in the artsy crew of continental socialites that buzzed around the vegan footballer. The one where he'd stayed over in Hector's spare bedroom, but not spent the full night in there alone. Gulp. Hardly hearing himself, the 25-year-old footballer walked slowly through it, churning out bland generic compliments for a coolly accepting host, telling him how much he liked the space and the decor and the art that had travelled from one hip loft to another. He rubbed his hands together stupidly and stared out of one huge window after another, taking in the similarly impressive views that he'd enjoyed over two mocktails - this was a cool city, he thought, and he would want to come back here soon, if he could. He looked at his smart-watch and felt surprised that only a couple of minutes had passed in their short journey from bar to loft, and that actually maybe he didn't need to be so worried about time, so on edge. As if it was the time that was making him on edge. He heard himself answer positively as Hector offered him a water or hot drink, though he'd already forgotten what he said when the Spanish man was back beside him at the window and passing him a small espresso to wake him up, a single Italian biscotti resting with it on the saucer. As he took it, he felt humiliated by the way his knuckles trembled and spilled the hot dark liquid before he could sip it, surely seen and noted by the other 5ft10 football player right next to him, though Hector's face told nothing. In fact, neither man said a thing, just stood companionably there, looking down into the hipster street they'd crossed - Kieran was contriving to look relaxed and grateful as he drank his espresso, but his whole body was tensing up, the soft muscle relaxation of the morning's exercises being rubbished by a psychological tension that ranged from neck to glutes. Despite his best efforts, Bellerin must be able to tell. `Are you okay?' the Lisbon resident asked him calmly. `Great,' Tierney said stiffly. `You look tense.' `Oh, no, I'm good. This is good coffee.' `It's decaf - I didn't think you needed the hard stuff, ha.' `Oh, right. Ha. Thanks.' `You're tense enough without caffeination.' `Hmm. Maybe.' `Here. Let me.' `Hmm? Oh-' Before he could stop it, those hands were on his shoulders. He was standing before the window and the pale grey afternoon sky, holding the cup and saucer, and Hector's fingers and thumbs were working through the layers of his open North Face jacket and the t-shirt below, and then the man's tongue was clucking in his cheek. `Take this off,' Bellerin insisted, and he did, letting the loose coat drop away halfway down his back, so that the Spanish hands could grip and stroke his shoulder muscles through the white cotton alone. `That's better,' Hector told him, and dear god it was. Tense but tingling, he stood there and let it happen, the firm but tender rubs up and down each shoulder, then back to his neck, and... a shiver ran over him, and he thought about his watch, about the time, about the cab that he needed to catch in order to- `So tense,' purred the Spanish-London accent behind him. `Sorry,' he mumbled aimlessly, making his friend just chuckle a little. `Am I making you nervous?' came Hector's insistent question, and he didn't know what he could possibly say to that - he was thinking about where these little massages had led before, lying on the leather bed in the physio suite of the Arsenal training ground, and again in that near-identical loft apartment of the Barcelona Latin Quarter. Nervous didn't quite cover what he felt. `Here,' suggested Bellerin in an even lower voice. `Why don't you come lie on the daybed, and let me do this properly for a moment? Before you go, Kier, before I call the cab for you. Yeah?' His voice had just the hint of breathy eagerness to it, Kieran thought, behind the cool charm and confidence that marked Hector's persona. `Sure,' Arsenal's neglected defender said limply, because a `No thank you' felt impossible for all sorts of reasons. He was being steered by the shoulders, away from the window, but not away to the partitions that must lead into the loft's bedroom space - just to another line of windows, high enough to loom over the highest views of the nearest buildings. A long couch of sorts sat lengthways by the window, and it didn't look the comfiest... but Hector was shifting past him, fingertips trailing across a patch of bare skin on one arm. Ahead of him, the other 5ft10 man with a similarly lean build ducked in and fiddled with the chaise longe until it was extending into a cushioned square, a day-bed as he'd called it - and Tierny was staring at it, knowing he was meant to get down on it and allow access to his tense back muscles. Just to them? He didn't know. He didn't have much time. Could he let it happen again? Was that what Hector wanted? His mind buzzed with questions and his body locked up even further, and he felt stiff and clumsy as he moved forwards to lie face-down on the square of cushioning, as if he hadn't spent hours warming up on a training ground with his teammates this morning in the Portuguese warmth. `That's it,' he heard Hector purr, and something in him relaxed. `That's it,' he told him, and he wondered how unfair or risky this was - the timing was poor, and perhaps so was the decision. But the lad DID look ridiculously tense, and his shoulders had responded to just a little touch, so... So in he went, stooping over the day-bed, and reaching for the shoulders again. He brought himself onto his knees on it, stepping one over Kieran's slim waist, resting both into the soft cushioning, and leaning forward to get the right angle, working both of his hands into the upper back, eliciting moans from the jock on the day-bed beneath him as he worked across one shoulder then another, then against the base of his thick neck. Just a little of this, Bellerin told himself, and then I should back off - he needs to go, he needs a car out of here. And Hector himself was hardly at leisure, he had his own deadline for reporting to the Sporting assembly and stadium. He'd hoped to take a long bath before then, or ring home to his family in Catalonia. But here he was, digging the heels of each hand into the white cotton that covered Kieran's upper back, and making little puffs of noise escape the reserved Scotsman as the strong rubs were dragged in loops against his shoulder-blades. Just a little of this, he was telling himself, even as he reached down and took hold of the hem of the white t-shirt, rolling and pushing it up to expose much of the pale skin across Tierney's back, and also expose the waistband of his supermarket-brand underpants - well, something cheap and unknown to fashionable Bellerin, anyway. He rubbed his hands together for more warmth and then lay them on bare skin, rubbing up and down the exposed length of back, his own breathing soft and rapid as he did so. Beneath him, a long low moan from the Arsenal boy. Hector paused, his hands back up the near the top of Kieran's back, so that his thick fingers were slid under the folded cotton of the tee, in against that warm soft skin. He hovered there on his knees, his hands still and firm, and he felt the quizzical shift in the prone body beneath, could hear the silent question in the younger lad's breaths. `Is this okay?' the 27-year-old asked, his voice a little firm and demanding - he couldn't quite word the full question that he was putting out there, but he hoped that his friend could understand it nonetheless. `It's fine,' came the quietly ambiguous response. As passive as before, he thought, remembering the sheepish accent of the sexy lad's body, letting him explore and test him when he massaged him on the physio table - and then so uncertain in his expectations as he hung out after that party. And yet both times... For some reason, perhaps the cool light of day, the sobriety of the afternoon, their impending appearances for different football clubs... he needed something more than `It's fine'. He needed a greater clarity at where he could go. This wasn't enough, even if it had been excitingly okay twice before. He left his hands where they were, fingers firmly still, and felt Kieran's back muscles rise and fall just a little under his pressure. Hector himself let out a long sighing trail of breath, hovering there, knees pressing into the cushions. He considered his options: pulling back, and sliding off this, and seeing his visitor out. He could use any number of apps to summon an urgent taxi to the street below and whisk Kieran into the leafy suburbs of his team hotel. He COULD do that. In some ways, sure, it would be preferable to this languorous uncertainty, this ambiguous quiet, this sheer passivity in the face of his wandering hands. But he keeps coming back for more, some inner voice reminded him, making his hands press more firmly into the upper back, and he didn't slide off to go and call that cab. No. Instead, he ran his hands down the sides of that bare back, inadvertently pulling the t-shirt some of the way too. But when his strong hands reached the waistline of the prone body, they didn't stop and circle back; they carried on, over the broad rump, until they were gripping and rubbing the big mounded cheeks through the clingy soft sweatpants, rubbing against that maroon fabric and whatever layer law below, in gentle circles. Another moany breath from his massaged visitor. When Hector spoke, it was his own voice that seemed to tremble and hesitate, not just Kieran's stiff reserve - he could hear himself and marvel at the tense excitement that had entered him. `Wait here,' he heard himself say. `Let me get the massage oil.' Tierney lay still in the brief pause in physical contact - what else was he going to do? The rigid erection in the front of his sweatpants was enough of a reason to stay still where he was on the day-bed. He couldn't bear the thought of tottering across the open-plan apartment with a tent in his sweats, unable to meet Bellerin's eye, and paranoid about whether any of the other penthouses could see into this high loft space. Yeah, you're just lying here out of caution, a sarcastic inner voice told him, and he was glad at the quick footsteps of his friend coming closer. He was gladder, it turned out, to feel his t-shirt pulled back up his torso, and then gladder still at the firm voice - `You should take this off' - before firm hands held him too, rendering him shirtless where he lay, and casting the light t-shirt off to some spot on the floor. The oily tickle on his pale skin preceded the strong warm rub of those big hands, working unctuously up and down his back, and then... back down south, so that he could feel his sweatpants and then his grotty black Asda undies yanked back over each globed cheek. Hector's strong oiled hands taking one cheek each and rubbing skifully at them in a way that was both relaxing and exhilarating - oh, wow. `Lift your hips,' he was instructed, and he did so, allowing these layers to be pulled further away, down his thighs - he wondered if his masseur could hear the thump as his loosed hard-on thwacked into the soft furnishing below his body, freed from his pants but pinned there at an awkward angle as he lay back down, his friend's hands exploring each of his gently hairy upper thighs, then back to his big buttocks, then lower back, then... It happened more quickly and less subtly than before: he felt Bellerin's presence heavy and close over them, then he felt one of his own big arse cheeks pulled to one side, and the oily finger found its way into his crack, as it had so eventually on that hot post-training afternoon on the physio bed. His body reacted with tension and tremor, but he knew that he wanted it - the questing fingertip against his ring, and the sense of Hector poised over him, knowing what he was doing. In it pushed, quicker and more forceful, and he felt fresh nervousness - it was broad daylight in this strange space, in the wrong city, on the day of a game. He daren't look at the watch on one of his wrists, both arms hanging limply over the sides of the day-bed in a state of readiness. He could feel the shifts of Hector's knees on the cushioning at his sides; he could feel the rub of one hand on his lower back, side to side; he could even feel the very gentle tickle of slow hot breaths on his upper spine; but mainly, he could feel the single finger working its way into his clenched arse-hole, opening him up again, entering and relaxing him at the same time as it hurt, and he wanted to cry out his relief at feeling this sensation... this sensation that he'd craved for weeks and months. All he could do was push back a little with his hips to show his approval and acceptance, little his bottom a little towards the other man, allowing him to finger him DEEPLY now, and letting out a little gurgling yelp of emotion, pulling his hands and elbows back onto the bed at his sides, sweat beading all over his bare skin. The finger stopped, pushed deep into him, and he heard a fierce growl in Hector's breath; it almost sounded annoyed or unhappy, and he waited to feel the finger pull back out of him, the message to end. He'd wondered what was in it for the other player; why would this cool guy want to waste his time playing with him like this, in secret? `You like that?' Bellerin asked fiercely after a pause. Tierney took a moment to answer. `Yep.' He was trying to sound aloof, cool about it. But his voice came out as a whimper. `How about this?' the Spaniard asked in the same almost confrontational voice; he could feel a second finger rub at his hole, and the first retreat, then try to re-enter, the two of them straining at the tight muscle of his ring. `Ye-ep,' he whimpered less certainly. `Erm...' `You can take it,' the Lisbon player grunted. `You just need to relax.' `Ergh,' grimaced Kieran uncomfortably, thinking how different this was - had either of them spoken before, when stuff happened? He didn't really think so, remembering the way he'd been able to lie in an exhausted stupor after training, or... sozzled on fine wine last time, fired up with rioja and curiosity. But now... he could feel his plump cheeks clenching and his body becoming tense again, hands pushing roughly against the daybed. `It's too much,' he muttered grimly, feeling the two digits push and wiggle at his tight entrance. `Just relax,' was Bellerin's gruff response, and he didn't like it - didn't like the insistence and the pressure, replacing the oily charm. He tensed up his whole 5ft10 physique and pushed forward, pulling his bare arse aware - in doing so, lifting and swinging his throbbing hard-on too, flashing it for Hector's view as he twisted aside, shaking a little. `This is mad,' he grunted, and looked dramatically at his watch. `I got to go.' He was clumsy as he got up from the daybed, his pants just below his knees, and he almost fell right back down. `Wait,' gasped the Spanish accent, and the 27-year-old was in his way, right in front of him and grabbing his sides; he hadn't realised that Hector had pulled off his -tshirt too, shedding the green-and-off-white stripes from his upper body, which was a little more tanned than his own, and decorated in many spots by tattoos of different styles, never mind the sprouting of dark hair in the centre of his chest. `Wait,' Hector repeated. `I was too rough. Sorry.' He stood there, strong and firm, and Kieran wavered in front of him, unsure what he was doing - but one of those big hands was off his elbow and down, taking firm hold of his hard prick where it bounced and bobbed, and Hector's eyes were staring intently to his. `Don't go,' urged the Spaniard's voice. Wordlessly, Tierney opened and shut his mouth, ashamed of his erection, though he wasn't sure how he thought he might have been pretending to Bellerin that he wasn't aroused by a little prostate massage, at this point. Still, he couldn't believe his cock was out and the other guy was holding it, taking him by his tangible excitement and squaring up to him like this, exuding that sexy power that had lured the curious jock back into his hands. Though hardly as inexperienced as he'd like to pretend, Kieran felt terrified and lost - this was nothing like his dabbling with Xhaka, or the brief intensity with which he'd fucked his young manager senseless, only to be cast aside when Arteta became bored of him. Perhaps, he thought, he could try to tell Hector some of that, like he'd told nobody else; perhaps he could finally offload to someone, and be understood? `Sit down,' the Barcelona man told him gently. He hesitated, but those frowning eyes were hard to refuse. He sank back, allowing himself back down onto the cushion on his bare arse, and planting his hands awkwardly at his side. Hector sank at the same time, down to his knees in front of him, between his spread bare thighs, his pants sliding right down his shins and calves to his ankles. Hector's hand was still on his cock, but not for long; in a moment, it was replaced by his mouth. Greedily, Hector took the big pale cock into his mouth, sucking on the head through the foreskin and then edging it back, swirling his tongue about the dark pink head, and then taking more of its hot hard length into his hungry mouth. He planted and rested his hands on those meaty Scotch thighs and sank in, sucking on Tierney and snuffling into his wiry pubes once he was deep-throating his full length. For his part, Kieran gasped and moaned, falling back onto the daybed with a little encouragement from Hector's hands, which inched up the thighs and over his hips, pushing him by his soft six-pack until he was on his back and the legs were fully apart, allowing him to gobble down on the hard cock in long messy slurps. Bellerin allowed himself to go into a frenzy, unsure why he had resisted going for the horny lad's cock, having claimed his experimental territory at the rear. Now he slurped on his uncut cock, rubbing eagerly up and down his legs and sides, glad of the fresh sweat that slid against his palms. He lifted his face to spit heavily on the big weapon and then ran his lips back over it, taking it all in with practised ease, luxuriating over his big cock like he'd once done to his treasured Welshman. On his knees, Hector serviced him with gusto, bobbing his face up and down and gripping the hips of the sexy Scottish bastard, loving the way his body twisted and jolted, loving his gruff moans and little whimpers of surprised pleasure - the Spaniard didn't know if a man had sucked on him before, but he could tell that nobody of HIS skills had been down there, for sure. No - and just to really make the 25-year-old convulse sweatily on his daybed beneath the huge exposing windows, he dragged one hand down the inside of his thigh and tickled at his flopping hairy balls, scratching and tugging on the sack and making Kieran really howl for him, a long strangled `Yessss'. But now that his fingers were down there... Bellerin spat again, first on the thick cock and then on his two fingers. He sucked on the rod again but slid the two fingers past the lad's balls and over his fluffy gooch. Down he dug, between the doughy cheeks and the cushions, and in against the hole - two fingers went right in this time, pushing that hole open and entering him, making him whimper another `YES'. Hector lifted and parted the heavy thighs, encouraging them up onto his strong fingers, and now he had better access - he could stick one and then two fingers deep into that gorgeous bottom whilst his lips quivered about the exposed head of the throbbing cock. He pushed and poked with his two digits, testing the strong ring, while tonguing about the tip of the cock and then slurping all the way down its length and almost gagging on it. With his free hand, Hector couldn't help it; reaching down and squeezing his own erection in the leg of his loose-fitting cargo pants, where it had sprung loose from the confines of his briefs. He jerked and squeezed it and wanted to get it out, his fingers and lips making Kieran twist and moan and shudder. Tierney now had no interest in his smart-watch, nor taxis or hotels or football matches; he just lay heavily back against the cushions, damp with his own sweat, and let his legs be lifted and spread, let his arse be plundered by two fingers, let his cock be licked and kissed and sucked. Fuck, it felt so good, and he couldn't believe he'd almost stumbled dizzily out of here to escape this intimacy - he'd been craving it for so long, hungering for this powerful man across the Channel and the continent. He'd been lying there and enjoying this with his eyes clamped shut, just enjoying the raw physicality, taken back to his first tender experiment with Granit and Lacazette, dumb and eager and readily manhandled by those two kinky older blokes at the club; or the first time he'd drunkenly engaged with shocking Mikel, unsure what he was doing. This was different, better. He was so excited to be here with Hector and to be exposed like this to him; it was by far the best blowjob he had ever experienced. `Fuck,' the Lanarkshire lad groaned at the world, `fuck fuck fuck!' He opened his eyes and propped himself up a tiny bit, digging his elbows down into the cushion. He stared down his pale toned body as Hector's moustached lips slid up and off the end of his hard-on, pausing to smirk this way at him, tongue running side to side over pouting lips. So handsome, so charismatic. He wanted to feel that mouth on his cock again, because it was so comforting and helpful as he felt the two exploring fingers push further into him, really finding his G-spot and making him quiver; but Bellerin was rising up on his knees as if it was over, just rubbing one hand at one of Kieran's thick thighs. Kieran felt his eyes bulge and his mouth drop open as he saw that, poised between his legs, Hector had pushed down his own pants and his dick in hand, a hug thick member with an angry red tip staring shinily at him. He stared at every detail of the Spanish player's bare body and dark hairy patches, and he knew what was on offer here. Bellerin must have seen the panic in his eyes. `Only if you want it,' murmured the gorgeous man. `I don't know,' Tierney whispered, unsure if his voice was even audible. `Your hole feels so good,' groaned the other man, shifting his fingers as if to prove his point. `Mmmm,' the Scotsman murmured uncertainly. `So tight,' gasped his masseur. `Fuck,' Kieran murmured anxiously, thinking about how he'd wielded his big weapon and stepped up behind his head coach those times the other year; he'd never really allowed himself to think how it might feel the other way round, not properly. And yet, the fingers felt so good up there, and... oh fuck, was the man trying a third now...? `I'll go gentle. I'll just try it. You feel SO good.' Hector's voice was closer now as he said this. The other man was over him, still fingering him but practically lying on top of him, their faces close, their bodies brushing; underpants and sweatpants and cargo pants sliding over ankles, shed and discarded to the wooden flooring. Over him, Hector sighed and gasped, and licked his own lips, telling him, `You have no idea how good you feel, Kier.' `I don't know if I can take it,' he told him weakly. `Let me try?' The Lisbon player's voice was almost begging. `Oh god,' Kieran moaned to him, `that feels... ohhh, fuck...' `It feels good to me too,' he was told hotly. `It feels so fucking good. I want to...' `Ohhh,' the defender groaned, because he could feel the fingers slide out of his hole, and this relief was its own strange pleasure as well as a disappointment; but Hector was holding him tightly at the sides, hugging him and pressing down on him, their faces so close they were almost kissing. Kieran's thick legs were still apart, thighs open, legs closing about the hairy cheeks of the Spaniard's arse. He could feel something hard and wet rub between his cheeks, and it was no finger. `Fuck,' Bellerin rasped, `you are SO tight...' `Go slow,' he found himself whimpering, locking eyes with the other man, and slowly lifting his face to meet him, unable to resist; before he knew what he was doing, he was reaching with his open mouth, and their lips and tongues met in kiss, and he was surrendering entirely to the charisma of the ex-Arsenal hunk, drawn towards him inexorably for many months now, and finally giving himself up entirely. The 27-year-old football star pressed forward, steeling himself to be slow and gentle, in spite of every hot-blooded desire; in it went, slowly but surely, the hole loosened by his skilled fingers, and his gentle shushing and cooing between the hot wet kisses that he stole from Kieran's gasping mouth. He pinned him to the daybed, locked in his tattooed arms, and gradually he pushed his raging cock into him, pressing between those plump cheeks, filling him up, pressing into him, pushing him into the cushions, and almost screaming in pleasure of feeling a strong arse about his mighty cock. `That's it,' he moaned after breaking a kiss, `you can take it, baby.' `It feels huge,' gasped Kieran, and his sincerity was both endearing and arousing; that was no cynical dirty talk, as if Hector's ego needed the same attention as his cock, but the genuine shock and fear of a virgin being opened up, and it both boiled the Spaniard's horny blood, and forced him to be slow and tender, to take good care of his sexy jock, fucking him now with the same slow patience and attention to detail as he'd once merely massaged him, oily hands on pale freckled skin. `Is it okay?' Bellerin whispered attentively. `Are you okay?' Slow sweaty nods, whimpered `yes', more furtive kissing. Oh god, this boy was like an angel, a big dopey sexy angel, and Hector just wanted to cuddle him and keep his hard cock inside him forever - fuck the Europa League. He was deep in him now, spreading his cheeks, opening up his hole, really filling him up with his own thick veiny rocket; he didn't push for more, just settling in, letting Kieran adjust to it, letting him gulp in deep breaths, then silencing him with long tonguing kisses, until... `I'm going to fuck you,' he announced quite severely, looking seriously into his eyes. `Just hold onto me, and tell me if it's too much.' Kieran stared silently back at him, and said nothing, until a slow pitchy `Oh!' With slow but assertive force, Hector pulled back and forth with his hips, his hairy arse lifting up and down, and his cock pulling in and out of that virgin hole, fucking his man in slow heavy jolts, eyes locked together, lips barely parted, waiting for Tierney to whimper it was too much and to tell him to stop. They kissed, and Kieran just told him, `Oh, fuck me like that' and `Fuuuuuuck, that's insane'. He kept it slow, holding back, controlling his power, just humping his cock deep into the man's plump arse in these slow forceful pushes, feeling himself get closer and closer to unloading, but holding back, wanting to make his lover climax first; he reached between their sweaty torsos to play with him, wanking it against his own six-pack, and pushing his tongue deep into the unresisting mouth. Having Hector's body pull away from him felt exposing and scary, as if he just needed to be held by his Spanish lover forever; but the big cock was still in him, his own body lain on the daybed and Bellerin kneeling at the end of it, pushing in and out of him very very slowly. But this position meant that the older defender could jerk him off properly, wanking him heavily whilst grinding back and forward inside his hole. There was only so much of it that Tierney could cope with, lying there and staring down his body at this; soon he was watching his own volcanic climax as if in slow-mo, the drool of white stuff over his foreskin and shaft, the flecks of it on his own skin, and some of it up the tattoos of Hector Bellerin's forearms. The orgasm left him shaky and giddy, and he just watched the final few juddering thrusts as Bellerin held his legs up and apart, and picked up a tiny bit of speed; the thrusts seemed to hurt a bit more now, as his own balls and cock ached in completion, but it didn't last long until his Spaniard was clearly finished, eyes shut and mouth wide open, silent but ecstatic. Kieran lay still and just felt the throb of his tight hole around the buried cock, both of them still but trembling, sticky and shiny with sweat on every inch of skin. When Hector pulled out of him, he ached and stang, and it left him a bit frightened and regretful for a moment, until the other man was on top of him again, cuddling him and pressing down, and finding his lips for a slow kiss. Their sticky dirty bodies rubbed together on the daybed, and Kieran relaxed into his hold, unwilling to overthink what he'd allowed; he reached searchingly with his mouth for another kiss but the 27-year-old was leaning away from him and looking at something. `What is it?' the Scot groaned. `The time,' Hector grunted back. `You shouldn't be here.' Hearing this, despite its obvious truth, was vaguely alarmed, so he was glad when the hands pulled back about his face and the lips landed on his, their tongues connecting. It was the longest and deepest kiss yet, but it had to end eventually. `Let me call you a taxi,' Bellerin purred languidly. `We both need to get ready for the subs bench.' Off he went, clambering away with a satisfied grin on his face, and Tierney just lay still for a few moments before rolling over and scrambling up onto his feet, unsteady and sore. He dressed in a daze, pulling up the weak elastic and fraying material of his supermarket undies, then tight-fit of his sweatpants, which stuck to his sweaty and cum-splashed legs. On went the white t-shirt, so thin that sweat patches became damp and visible in its fabric until the coat was on and zipped up. He caught sight of his blotchy red face in a reflective window and he just laughed awkwardly at himself. Hector walked about naked but for no socks, no concern for the windows apparently; he was on an app on his phone, sorting out two different taxi routes, and talking to himself quite distantly, as if nothing life-changing had just happened. Kieran traipsed uncertainly after him, unsure what he was feeling, but already beginning to wonder if he'd let things go too far, his arse screaming at him with the sting of lost innocence. The 25-year-old's thoughts turned to his watch and the time, and how late he might be at the hotel, when he was already seemingly out of favour for starting positions most weeks. He grimaced distractedly and followed his host to the doors, out into the vestibule and through the creaking doors of the large elevator; he turned to face the Lisbon player, unsure if they should hug, or more, or what. He stared awkwardly at him, and found that Bellerin just stared back, a slightly bewildered expression on his lean handsome face. Neither man did anything, and then just a vague wave of a hand from the other defender. `Well, see you tonight,' the Spanish man said very slowly and oddly, backing off from the lift doors which began to close - and Tierney just nodded back with the same slowness, blinking his eyes and wiping sweaty palms on the sleeves of his coat. `Tonight, see ya,' he echoed uncomfortably, his voice lost in the rusty creak of the lift doors, which excluded the sight of naked Bellerin from him; his stomach and body lurched as the elevator descended, taking him back down to earth. Bellerin sat out the game, not even a named substitute after all, but certainly not about to miss a cup clash between his old and current clubs; his attention, however, drifted regularly from the 2-2 first-leg draw between the English and Portuguese clubs. He leaned forward in his seat and stared over at the other dugout, seeking out the tracksuit silhouette of Kieran Tierney at one end of their subs bench. Now and then, quite by accident, he would make eye contact with other members of the travelling Arsenal squad, players who he knew from his own brief return there - he waved and smiled in a discreet, professional manner, not wishing to irk any of his Lisbon cronies, and then tried to go long stretches without looking at or thinking about the Scottish defender. He'd felt quite overwhelmed after he shot his load inside that handsome boy. He'd felt so intimate and intense during the shag, in a way that had become alien to him in the years since Ramsey ended their affair... and as he'd wandered around the flat trying to organise practicalities like cars, he'd felt an odd panic in his hairy chest. And then he'd seen Kieran look so gormless and regretful and he'd felt a weary certainty settle on him, that this really was just an experiment, a game, that this big Scot lad wasn't really open to anything between them - was just curious about what his big arse could take. Their goodbyes at the apartment had been terse and bleak, and he'd felt that was necessary and right... though he'd stood naked and sad in the vestibule for ten minutes after the lift groaned downwards away. It was crap, but predictable and obvious; he'd let himself get a bit over-excited and imaginative there, taking things so far with the handsome bugger. He'd been so controlled and playful before, recognising the curious needs, but not allowing himself to feel anything but bemusement and arousal. And now... In the latter stages of the game, the footballer felt gloomy and sad, unable to enjoy his team's relative success in drawing level with the visitors. The hot intensity of what had happened with his visitor had left a strange sort of emptiness in his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to focus on the football whatsoever. When the game ended, he didn't rush to go join the players in the home changing room, but dawdled outside instead, watching the slow departure of the fans, and taking his time before entering the brightly-lit tunnel. He hesitated at the noisy doorway of the home changing rooms, able to hear some loud celebratory chants from within, as the Lisbon players psyched themselves up for a second leg where they could take the lead over the Londoners. He pulled back, arms wrapped about the chest of his jumper, and found himself staring interestedly across at the other door, further down the tunnel, instead - in there, he thought, the Arsenal mood would be different, more gritty and determined, and less satisfied with the midway outcome. Bellerin moved on down the tunnel, passing first his own door and then that of the opposition, deciding to move on down and find his way through the stadium interior to await his freshly showered colleagues for their debrief meeting upstairs. But he'd barely gone a few yards down the tunnel past these doorways into the changing rooms when he heard his name as a hissed whisper, behind his back. `Hector...' The footballer turned around in surprise, arms hanging loose at his side; fully kitted out in an Arsenal away tracksuit, the Scots lad and his blushing red cheeks were lunging out of the door to the away quarters. Out he scampered into the empty glare of the tunnel, hurrying this way, eyes wide. `Kieran,' Hector began uncertainly. In seconds, Arsenal's unused defender was in front of him and then in his arms, grabbing and holding him about the middle. Hector opened up to receive the abrupt kiss, feeling lips and tongue on his, and sliding his hands onto the glossy back of the tracksuit, where they ran up and down, and briefly sank lower to cup and pat the big arse - and then he remembered where he was and jolted backwards a little. But the tunnel was empty apart from the two defensive players, and he stared from their surroundings back to Tierney's earnest panicky face. `Sorry,' the Scotsman whispered. `I just needed to.' Hector paused only briefly, unable to hold in the smile on his face. `That's okay,' he murmured back, and he let his hand stroke up part of the other man's arm, very gently, resisting the urge to grab and snog him. `I think I needed it too.' Then, his thoughts catching up with his new excitement, he dropped his voice more: `Are you okay? Not too sore?' A little grimace on those handsome features, a vague shrug. `A bit, but - oh, man, it was...' He giggled uncomfortably, self-consciusly, shyly - and become a dozen times sexier to Bellerin, whose cock was semi in his tracksuit bottoms. He held himself back, but played his fingers down the sleep and wrapped his hand briefly about Tierney's. `It was amazing,' he whispered. `I just hope you're okay. I'm glad you enjoyed it.' And then, taking the risk, surprised at his honesty and openness - `I hope we can do it again sometime soon, amigo.' He smiled bravely, waiting for disappointment. But the Scot nodded, furiously. `I can fly out soon,' he promised. `No,' Hector promised quietly. `I'll come to London, to you?' `Anything,' breathed the younger player. `Soon,' he promised, not wanting to say his thoughts out loud here, not quite - but picturing himself deep inside the chunky arse, making this beautiful man his again and again. He wanted to snog him again but it was too dangerous, and so he just squeezed his hand, and backed off. `We'll organise it. Make it happen. Okay.' He backed off, cautiously, and Kieran did the same, nodding fervently to him - both of them keeping brief eye contact and shifting away from each other and the temptation, back to their rival teams. Bellerin only turned around once Tierney was out of sight, walking backwards initially, then spinning on his heel. He marvelled for a moment at himself, shocked to find himself being so open and eager with this new man, after steeling himself against such feelings for several lonely years - shocked, but not unhappy. Fuck it, he thought, it's time to take the risk. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 9 Mar 2023 20:43:29 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 350 Part 350: Lisbon The cold blast that had swept over Western Europe this week, pausing the advent of spring, was pleasantly mitigated here on the Portuguese coast - he wasn't sure if these temperatures were standard for Lisbon in March or not, but his phone reported a balmy 18 degrees under the soft grey clouds, and the Arsenal squad had all felt the difference in the air as they disembarked from the plane late last night. The night had been cool, but not compared to the velvety snow of North London that they had left behind, though apparently today it was already being washed away by drizzle. The 25-year-old football player felt particularly conscious of the comparative warmth, his thin puffer jacket zipped up high and a beanie hat pulled low against his ears, dark clothing hoping for some discretion as he moved through the city centre, and approached the large low squat of the market building. Inside, Kieran Tierney had to contend with the hustle and bustle of the late lunchtime rush, but he was glad of the crowds, which made him feel as anonymous and invisible as in the most touristy spots of London. The Arsenal defender could move quietly and thoughtfully through the busy lanes and food court of the Mercato da Ribeira without worrying so much that he might be spotted or acknowledged, and that was definitely for the best. He'd first suggested that the other lad came to him - after all, why shouldn't Arsenal's prodigal son be allowed a little visit to the club that had raised him, now that the tournament had brought them together? But Kieran had known it was unlikely even as he wrote it, and part of him hadn't wanted it at all. He wanted to see him properly, and not just share niceties and banter as part of a link-up with the rest of the visiting Premiership team - so he'd been glad when his former teammate dismissed that ideas unprofessional and unpopular, and asserted that they should try to meet in the city once Tierney was able. Getting away had been a little touch and go, but he'd managed it, and he'd taken a cab most of the distance from the upmarket suburban sports club where Arteta's lads had based themselves for the day, preparing for tonight's first-leg knockout match against Sporting Lisbon. As far as anyone knew, the young Scot was resting at the hotel like he was supposed to, although he'd spent much of the car trip musing that he couldn't be the only lad trying to get a little flavour of the Portuguese city before the match, rather than taking a swim or siesta or just video gaming at the accommodation. That little mental argument had meant to comfort and reassure himself in the cab... but it was also partly why Tierney was now shuffling through the busy food market with such self-consciousness, thinking that he would round a corner and find White and Ramsdale sneaking a custard tart, or Saka inflicting a spelling test on some local beauty. But he wasn't doing anything wrong, not really - they'd been given a few hours to themselves before they had to report for duty, and staying at the hotel had sounded more like a request than an instruction. Plus, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with meeting up with a former teammate, even if they were now on opposing sides of the Europa league fixture! Nothing weird or untoward in it, nothing suspicious or inappropriate, nothing that anybody needed to get funny about. So, Kieran, why didn't you tell or invite anyone...? Hmm. Kieran moved through the popular food market, paying little attention to the stalls, pulling at the chest of his jacket, and wishing he'd just gone for a lighter hoodie instead - when suddenly there was a steering hand on his shoulder, and he wasn't alone in this brief space between the herds of lunchers. He jolted slightly but glanced sharply aside and met the broad welcoming grin beneath Bellerin's thin dark moustache; a large pair of designer sunglasses covered much of his face and a pale bucket hat sat atop of his short crop of hair, but those high cheekbones and Iberian looks were so distinctive. `Here he is,' cooed the 27-year-old Spaniard. `Here in my new city - how weird. Here, give me a hug, Kier - welcome to Lisbon!' And then Hector Bellerin was grabbing him in a side-on hug and Tierney was gladly reciprocating, feeling immediate warmth and pleasure in seeing the former Gunner, this fashionable Barcelona fella in his slick Euro clothes, but with his gently East End accent picked up in formative teen years at the Arsenal academy. `I'm sorry I couldn't come to the camp,' the slightly older defender was apologising instantly, patting him on the upper back and steering him down a row of stalls. `I just don't think it would go down well, y'know, with the bosses and such - I mean, we're "enemies" for the day, right? I don't think I'd get some hero's welcome greeting all the Arsenal lads, just cos I used to be...' He laughed and shrugged one shoulder beneath the loose striped t-shirt that he wore, juxtaposing with Kieran's winter coat. `I'm not one of you any more, I guess.' `Well,' Kieran mumbled back, `everyone will be glad to see you tonight, game aside, you're a real Arsenal man, everyone knows that, wherever you go.' He grinned awkwardly at his friend, allowing himself to be guided along, and digging his hands into the warm pockets of his zipped-up North Face. `Ah, it is good to see you,' he told him earnestly. `I've been hoping to get over for months.' `Oh, don't worry,' Hector said pleasantly, `I understood that you were too busy when I invited you - I know what it's like in London.' Tierney paused thoughtfully at that, feeling that there actually hadn't been a very specific `invite' at any point this Bellerin's Barca loan shifted to a new deal at Sporting CP, and that if there had been, he probably would have made it happen - just like he had to reach the other man's party at his Barcelona penthouse once before, accompanied by no other Arsenal players. He shuffled in next to Bellerin at the chosen stall, and listened in feeling ignorant whilst Hector trilled and exclaimed in fluent Portuguese to the stallholder on the other side of the counter, ordering for them both. Kieran didn't know if it was pretty standard for Spanish people to also know Portuguese, or if it was just another testament to how much more cultured and sophisticated this guy was compared to himself. In London, it was hard enough to convince people he could speak English, and the thickness of his Lanarkshire accent was one of the reasons he was so open to the contact made by scouts at Newcastle United. `So,' he said slowly, `what are these?' They were seated to the right, on high stools aside from the dimming queue, and he was staring at a row of three crumb-coated orbs on his platter, supping form the open can of fruit soda. Hector grinned at him in that slightly odd fashion that he suspected was a touch patronising or amused, but might just be genuine friendship. `Bacalhau,' he said, and then chuckled a little at the Scotsman's blank face. `Salt cod croquettes, my friend - you'll like them.' It didn't sound great. He peered suspiciously at the light salad on Hector's own platter, topped with a crumbling cheese that might be feta. The handsome man in sunglasses was just plucking a juicy olive from the prongs of his wooden fork. `So what are you having?' Kieran asked, a little of his resentment and uncertainty coming into his voice. `Is this some horrible thing you just give to tourists...?' Another chuckle from the 27-year-old, but Bellerin gave his shoulder a squeeze. `I'm vegan, remember - and hey, they're basically deep-fried fish balls, I thought a Scotty would be really into them. Just try it, haha.' Perched on his stool, the 5ft10 defensive footballer blushed slightly and toyed with his zip, then picked up the small wooden fork and gave it a go. Bellerin paused and watched him, and seemed to laugh at his fussy pause and slow smile of enjoyment, and then Tierney couldn't help but laugh too, almost spitting out a mouthful of the salty dish, finding his own suspicions ridiculous in the face of Bellerin's welcoming warmth. Hector was glad that he got him to the bar, though he would be gladder if the pair of them were allowed an alcoholic beverage; for himself, the Spanish player felt less concerned about the night's commitments, because he felt it unlikely that he would make the manager's starting selection for the Europa knockout. Though Bellerin had been in good form since New Year, his Arsenal roots were well-known and he suspected that he wasn't going to be fully trusted in the defensive line for a match with the Premier League leaders right now. And so he felt like he'd love to sink a few beers or cocktails up here in one of his favourite drinking spots in Lisbon, somewhere he'd visited on holiday trips long before his transfer to Sporting. The barmaid brought their sugary mocktails and he slipped the generous notes of payment against the printed bill on the tray. They were sat at the line where the indoor bar met its outdoor terrace, positioned neatly to enjoy the sprawling view of city rooftops and the gaping river estuary that coursed seward against the cloudy city. There was something uncomfortable in Kieran's posture in the chair across from him, and Hector wondered if he'd been a bit unkind in pushing his Scottish amigo to spend longer in the city, rather than hailing a car back to the suburbs. But there was still plenty of time before the Arsenal players would be needed, and they hadn't really spoken much in the loudness of the food market, other than about the food, about the weather, and about how close the Spanish and Portuguese languages were or weren't. Up here on the balcony of the cocktail bar, Bellerin wanted to know more, and he asked Tierney about the transfer rumours, about whether he was really becoming so dissatisfied at Arsenal even as they raced towards the Premiership title. When the 25-year-old admitted that he expected to spend tonight on the bench again, Hector half-jokingly suggested that they say `fuck it' and order cocktails with some real spirits in after all, but he knew not to push it any further. It would be a disaster if either of them arrived drunk at their respective team talks, and neither of them needed to jeopardise their careers like that. Sipping disappointedly on the faux mojito in his hand, the more experienced player quizzed his friend on life in London, on his family in Scotland, and generally dug away at Kieran's seeming shyness with a charm that came natural to him, full of genuine curiosity about the world behind this pink-cheeked jock. He mined at Tierney with questions about his birth on the Isle of Man, his early years playing in Glasgow, and how the SPL and English equivalent measured up for him. He hardly minded that his visitor barely had a chance to fire back with his own questions, though he did slow down or pause whenever he thought that Kieran looked stressed or particularly private. At one point, he thought how much it felt like a first date, and he laughed to himself, but then chewed his lip thoughtfully, and toyed with the arms of his sunglasses in one hand, staring curiously at the other lad whilst he spoke confidingly about his longings for Celtic. The 25-year-old had certainly calmed somewhat, though, since it was Hector himself who had to roll up a sleeve of the loose cardigan that the breezy balcony had urged him to pull on, and look at the face of his vintage watch. `An hour,' he told his friend warningly, but added, `minus the five minute taxi out of the city.' `Five minute?' Tierny asked him sceptically. `Thereabouts,' Bellerin insisted quietly, and only half-inaccurately. `Time for another?' Kieran seemed to think about it. `I think I'll be on a sugar high and crash,' he grumbled. `If we were drinking the real stuff, like you said, then I'd happily go for one more, but...' He smiled that cute awkward smile of his. `No whiskey for me before a game, haha, not like at Celtic...! I'm... mainly joking.' Hector smiled patiently at this, slowly hesitant before making the suggestion that had passed through his mind. He put down his glass with a clink, and cracked his knuckles meditatively. `You see over there?' he murmured, leaning back in his seat and gesturing the other way, away from the river view and the soft orange glow of the Lisbon rooftops. He gestured instead across the street below, the one they had traversed to come up here to his new favourite bar, and Kieran followed his directions with a blankly dutiful expression. `Top floor, the big windows; that's my place, actually.' `Oh,' came Tierney's fairly anodyne response, but then his face looked almost cross. `You didn't say,' he said limply, with something like an accusation in his Caledonian gruffness. Bellerin smiled casually at him and shrugged, playing with the soft lapels of his own cardigan. `I'm saying now,' he told him with a playful curtness on his lips. He'd consciously decided against mentioning it as he led his friend through the quiet street of converted factories turned hipster food joints and bookshops, because... well, it had felt too suggestive, too leading, too... risky. And yet here he was, two alcohol-free cocktails later, and... `I just wondered if you wanted to pop over and see it,' he added, less brusquely, picking up and sliding on his sunglasses. `Before you need to go,' he added gently. He could see the thought process on Kieran's honest face, could see the cogs turning over and over. The lad's uncertainty was understandable, and Hector was prepared for a negative response... fair, they both had teams to join and a game to psych up for, they shouldn't really be hanging out, it was hardly kosher pre-match protocol. But the 25-year-old wasn't saying `no'. `I would like to see it,' Kieran told him ambiguously. `It's just over there,' Hector said, keeping his voice a little intimate, but not quite meeting the other man's furtive eyes. `Two lift rides, is all. I think you'll like it - it's very like that place I rented in Barca.' `Oh, right,' murmured the Arsenal defender. `We can make sure you're in a car on time,' he told him gently, patting the arms of his chair, and folding one leg thoughtfully over the other, tilting his head to one side. He let his smile curl and broaden, and saw a flicker of enjoyment play across the pale pink of Kieran's lips. Hector just nodded encouragignly at him. `What d'you say, amigo?' A flick of a nod. `Just a quick look, yeh?' `Sure. Just a quickie. Come on.' In the elevator of the other building, a similar converted industrial block opposite the rooftop bar, Kieran felt even more self-conscious at the market, even though it was now just the two of them in a sizeable industrial elevator, as shabby chic as the one that had creaked up and down in the building of the bar. On this side, they cruised slowly upwards away from the Thai restaurant and expansive bookshop that lay at ground level, and crunched and clicked through the many floors until they were arriving at the penthouse that was Hector Bellerin's latest rented luxury. The elevator was a broad cuboid of space and they stood comfortably apart, but Kieran's hands fidgeted in the pockets of his clingy maroon sweatpants, and he felt foolish and clumsy with every step once they were alighting at the top floor, and a simple lock was opened to let them into the airy open-plan space of the loft apartment. Bellerin was right, it was similar to the pad in Barcelona, the one where he'd hosted that party, and Tierney had been the solo Englishman in the artsy crew of continental socialites that buzzed around the vegan footballer. The one where he'd stayed over in Hector's spare bedroom, but not spent the full night in there alone. Gulp. Hardly hearing himself, the 25-year-old footballer walked slowly through it, churning out bland generic compliments for a coolly accepting host, telling him how much he liked the space and the decor and the art that had travelled from one hip loft to another. He rubbed his hands together stupidly and stared out of one huge window after another, taking in the similarly impressive views that he'd enjoyed over two mocktails - this was a cool city, he thought, and he would want to come back here soon, if he could. He looked at his smart-watch and felt surprised that only a couple of minutes had passed in their short journey from bar to loft, and that actually maybe he didn't need to be so worried about time, so on edge. As if it was the time that was making him on edge. He heard himself answer positively as Hector offered him a water or hot drink, though he'd already forgotten what he said when the Spanish man was back beside him at the window and passing him a small espresso to wake him up, a single Italian biscotti resting with it on the saucer. As he took it, he felt humiliated by the way his knuckles trembled and spilled the hot dark liquid before he could sip it, surely seen and noted by the other 5ft10 football player right next to him, though Hector's face told nothing. In fact, neither man said a thing, just stood companionably there, looking down into the hipster street they'd crossed - Kieran was contriving to look relaxed and grateful as he drank his espresso, but his whole body was tensing up, the soft muscle relaxation of the morning's exercises being rubbished by a psychological tension that ranged from neck to glutes. Despite his best efforts, Bellerin must be able to tell. `Are you okay?' the Lisbon resident asked him calmly. `Great,' Tierney said stiffly. `You look tense.' `Oh, no, I'm good. This is good coffee.' `It's decaf - I didn't think you needed the hard stuff, ha.' `Oh, right. Ha. Thanks.' `You're tense enough without caffeination.' `Hmm. Maybe.' `Here. Let me.' `Hmm? Oh-' Before he could stop it, those hands were on his shoulders. He was standing before the window and the pale grey afternoon sky, holding the cup and saucer, and Hector's fingers and thumbs were working through the layers of his open North Face jacket and the t-shirt below, and then the man's tongue was clucking in his cheek. `Take this off,' Bellerin insisted, and he did, letting the loose coat drop away halfway down his back, so that the Spanish hands could grip and stroke his shoulder muscles through the white cotton alone. `That's better,' Hector told him, and dear god it was. Tense but tingling, he stood there and let it happen, the firm but tender rubs up and down each shoulder, then back to his neck, and... a shiver ran over him, and he thought about his watch, about the time, about the cab that he needed to catch in order to- `So tense,' purred the Spanish-London accent behind him. `Sorry,' he mumbled aimlessly, making his friend just chuckle a little. `Am I making you nervous?' came Hector's insistent question, and he didn't know what he could possibly say to that - he was thinking about where these little massages had led before, lying on the leather bed in the physio suite of the Arsenal training ground, and again in that near-identical loft apartment of the Barcelona Latin Quarter. Nervous didn't quite cover what he felt. `Here,' suggested Bellerin in an even lower voice. `Why don't you come lie on the daybed, and let me do this properly for a moment? Before you go, Kier, before I call the cab for you. Yeah?' His voice had just the hint of breathy eagerness to it, Kieran thought, behind the cool charm and confidence that marked Hector's persona. `Sure,' Arsenal's neglected defender said limply, because a `No thank you' felt impossible for all sorts of reasons. He was being steered by the shoulders, away from the window, but not away to the partitions that must lead into the loft's bedroom space - just to another line of windows, high enough to loom over the highest views of the nearest buildings. A long couch of sorts sat lengthways by the window, and it didn't look the comfiest... but Hector was shifting past him, fingertips trailing across a patch of bare skin on one arm. Ahead of him, the other 5ft10 man with a similarly lean build ducked in and fiddled with the chaise longe until it was extending into a cushioned square, a day-bed as he'd called it - and Tierny was staring at it, knowing he was meant to get down on it and allow access to his tense back muscles. Just to them? He didn't know. He didn't have much time. Could he let it happen again? Was that what Hector wanted? His mind buzzed with questions and his body locked up even further, and he felt stiff and clumsy as he moved forwards to lie face-down on the square of cushioning, as if he hadn't spent hours warming up on a training ground with his teammates this morning in the Portuguese warmth. `That's it,' he heard Hector purr, and something in him relaxed. `That's it,' he told him, and he wondered how unfair or risky this was - the timing was poor, and perhaps so was the decision. But the lad DID look ridiculously tense, and his shoulders had responded to just a little touch, so... So in he went, stooping over the day-bed, and reaching for the shoulders again. He brought himself onto his knees on it, stepping one over Kieran's slim waist, resting both into the soft cushioning, and leaning forward to get the right angle, working both of his hands into the upper back, eliciting moans from the jock on the day-bed beneath him as he worked across one shoulder then another, then against the base of his thick neck. Just a little of this, Bellerin told himself, and then I should back off - he needs to go, he needs a car out of here. And Hector himself was hardly at leisure, he had his own deadline for reporting to the Sporting assembly and stadium. He'd hoped to take a long bath before then, or ring home to his family in Catalonia. But here he was, digging the heels of each hand into the white cotton that covered Kieran's upper back, and making little puffs of noise escape the reserved Scotsman as the strong rubs were dragged in loops against his shoulder-blades. Just a little of this, he was telling himself, even as he reached down and took hold of the hem of the white t-shirt, rolling and pushing it up to expose much of the pale skin across Tierney's back, and also expose the waistband of his supermarket-brand underpants - well, something cheap and unknown to fashionable Bellerin, anyway. He rubbed his hands together for more warmth and then lay them on bare skin, rubbing up and down the exposed length of back, his own breathing soft and rapid as he did so. Beneath him, a long low moan from the Arsenal boy. Hector paused, his hands back up the near the top of Kieran's back, so that his thick fingers were slid under the folded cotton of the tee, in against that warm soft skin. He hovered there on his knees, his hands still and firm, and he felt the quizzical shift in the prone body beneath, could hear the silent question in the younger lad's breaths. `Is this okay?' the 27-year-old asked, his voice a little firm and demanding - he couldn't quite word the full question that he was putting out there, but he hoped that his friend could understand it nonetheless. `It's fine,' came the quietly ambiguous response. As passive as before, he thought, remembering the sheepish accent of the sexy lad's body, letting him explore and test him when he massaged him on the physio table - and then so uncertain in his expectations as he hung out after that party. And yet both times... For some reason, perhaps the cool light of day, the sobriety of the afternoon, their impending appearances for different football clubs... he needed something more than `It's fine'. He needed a greater clarity at where he could go. This wasn't enough, even if it had been excitingly okay twice before. He left his hands where they were, fingers firmly still, and felt Kieran's back muscles rise and fall just a little under his pressure. Hector himself let out a long sighing trail of breath, hovering there, knees pressing into the cushions. He considered his options: pulling back, and sliding off this, and seeing his visitor out. He could use any number of apps to summon an urgent taxi to the street below and whisk Kieran into the leafy suburbs of his team hotel. He COULD do that. In some ways, sure, it would be preferable to this languorous uncertainty, this ambiguous quiet, this sheer passivity in the face of his wandering hands. But he keeps coming back for more, some inner voice reminded him, making his hands press more firmly into the upper back, and he didn't slide off to go and call that cab. No. Instead, he ran his hands down the sides of that bare back, inadvertently pulling the t-shirt some of the way too. But when his strong hands reached the waistline of the prone body, they didn't stop and circle back; they carried on, over the broad rump, until they were gripping and rubbing the big mounded cheeks through the clingy soft sweatpants, rubbing against that maroon fabric and whatever layer law below, in gentle circles. Another moany breath from his massaged visitor. When Hector spoke, it was his own voice that seemed to tremble and hesitate, not just Kieran's stiff reserve - he could hear himself and marvel at the tense excitement that had entered him. `Wait here,' he heard himself say. `Let me get the massage oil.' Tierney lay still in the brief pause in physical contact - what else was he going to do? The rigid erection in the front of his sweatpants was enough of a reason to stay still where he was on the day-bed. He couldn't bear the thought of tottering across the open-plan apartment with a tent in his sweats, unable to meet Bellerin's eye, and paranoid about whether any of the other penthouses could see into this high loft space. Yeah, you're just lying here out of caution, a sarcastic inner voice told him, and he was glad at the quick footsteps of his friend coming closer. He was gladder, it turned out, to feel his t-shirt pulled back up his torso, and then gladder still at the firm voice - `You should take this off' - before firm hands held him too, rendering him shirtless where he lay, and casting the light t-shirt off to some spot on the floor. The oily tickle on his pale skin preceded the strong warm rub of those big hands, working unctuously up and down his back, and then... back down south, so that he could feel his sweatpants and then his grotty black Asda undies yanked back over each globed cheek. Hector's strong oiled hands taking one cheek each and rubbing skifully at them in a way that was both relaxing and exhilarating - oh, wow. `Lift your hips,' he was instructed, and he did so, allowing these layers to be pulled further away, down his thighs - he wondered if his masseur could hear the thump as his loosed hard-on thwacked into the soft furnishing below his body, freed from his pants but pinned there at an awkward angle as he lay back down, his friend's hands exploring each of his gently hairy upper thighs, then back to his big buttocks, then lower back, then... It happened more quickly and less subtly than before: he felt Bellerin's presence heavy and close over them, then he felt one of his own big arse cheeks pulled to one side, and the oily finger found its way into his crack, as it had so eventually on that hot post-training afternoon on the physio bed. His body reacted with tension and tremor, but he knew that he wanted it - the questing fingertip against his ring, and the sense of Hector poised over him, knowing what he was doing. In it pushed, quicker and more forceful, and he felt fresh nervousness - it was broad daylight in this strange space, in the wrong city, on the day of a game. He daren't look at the watch on one of his wrists, both arms hanging limply over the sides of the day-bed in a state of readiness. He could feel the shifts of Hector's knees on the cushioning at his sides; he could feel the rub of one hand on his lower back, side to side; he could even feel the very gentle tickle of slow hot breaths on his upper spine; but mainly, he could feel the single finger working its way into his clenched arse-hole, opening him up again, entering and relaxing him at the same time as it hurt, and he wanted to cry out his relief at feeling this sensation... this sensation that he'd craved for weeks and months. All he could do was push back a little with his hips to show his approval and acceptance, little his bottom a little towards the other man, allowing him to finger him DEEPLY now, and letting out a little gurgling yelp of emotion, pulling his hands and elbows back onto the bed at his sides, sweat beading all over his bare skin. The finger stopped, pushed deep into him, and he heard a fierce growl in Hector's breath; it almost sounded annoyed or unhappy, and he waited to feel the finger pull back out of him, the message to end. He'd wondered what was in it for the other player; why would this cool guy want to waste his time playing with him like this, in secret? `You like that?' Bellerin asked fiercely after a pause. Tierney took a moment to answer. `Yep.' He was trying to sound aloof, cool about it. But his voice came out as a whimper. `How about this?' the Spaniard asked in the same almost confrontational voice; he could feel a second finger rub at his hole, and the first retreat, then try to re-enter, the two of them straining at the tight muscle of his ring. `Ye-ep,' he whimpered less certainly. `Erm...' `You can take it,' the Lisbon player grunted. `You just need to relax.' `Ergh,' grimaced Kieran uncomfortably, thinking how different this was - had either of them spoken before, when stuff happened? He didn't really think so, remembering the way he'd been able to lie in an exhausted stupor after training, or... sozzled on fine wine last time, fired up with rioja and curiosity. But now... he could feel his plump cheeks clenching and his body becoming tense again, hands pushing roughly against the daybed. `It's too much,' he muttered grimly, feeling the two digits push and wiggle at his tight entrance. `Just relax,' was Bellerin's gruff response, and he didn't like it - didn't like the insistence and the pressure, replacing the oily charm. He tensed up his whole 5ft10 physique and pushed forward, pulling his bare arse aware - in doing so, lifting and swinging his throbbing hard-on too, flashing it for Hector's view as he twisted aside, shaking a little. `This is mad,' he grunted, and looked dramatically at his watch. `I got to go.' He was clumsy as he got up from the daybed, his pants just below his knees, and he almost fell right back down. `Wait,' gasped the Spanish accent, and the 27-year-old was in his way, right in front of him and grabbing his sides; he hadn't realised that Hector had pulled off his -tshirt too, shedding the green-and-off-white stripes from his upper body, which was a little more tanned than his own, and decorated in many spots by tattoos of different styles, never mind the sprouting of dark hair in the centre of his chest. `Wait,' Hector repeated. `I was too rough. Sorry.' He stood there, strong and firm, and Kieran wavered in front of him, unsure what he was doing - but one of those big hands was off his elbow and down, taking firm hold of his hard prick where it bounced and bobbed, and Hector's eyes were staring intently to his. `Don't go,' urged the Spaniard's voice. Wordlessly, Tierney opened and shut his mouth, ashamed of his erection, though he wasn't sure how he thought he might have been pretending to Bellerin that he wasn't aroused by a little prostate massage, at this point. Still, he couldn't believe his cock was out and the other guy was holding it, taking him by his tangible excitement and squaring up to him like this, exuding that sexy power that had lured the curious jock back into his hands. Though hardly as inexperienced as he'd like to pretend, Kieran felt terrified and lost - this was nothing like his dabbling with Xhaka, or the brief intensity with which he'd fucked his young manager senseless, only to be cast aside when Arteta became bored of him. Perhaps, he thought, he could try to tell Hector some of that, like he'd told nobody else; perhaps he could finally offload to someone, and be understood? `Sit down,' the Barcelona man told him gently. He hesitated, but those frowning eyes were hard to refuse. He sank back, allowing himself back down onto the cushion on his bare arse, and planting his hands awkwardly at his side. Hector sank at the same time, down to his knees in front of him, between his spread bare thighs, his pants sliding right down his shins and calves to his ankles. Hector's hand was still on his cock, but not for long; in a moment, it was replaced by his mouth. Greedily, Hector took the big pale cock into his mouth, sucking on the head through the foreskin and then edging it back, swirling his tongue about the dark pink head, and then taking more of its hot hard length into his hungry mouth. He planted and rested his hands on those meaty Scotch thighs and sank in, sucking on Tierney and snuffling into his wiry pubes once he was deep-throating his full length. For his part, Kieran gasped and moaned, falling back onto the daybed with a little encouragement from Hector's hands, which inched up the thighs and over his hips, pushing him by his soft six-pack until he was on his back and the legs were fully apart, allowing him to gobble down on the hard cock in long messy slurps. Bellerin allowed himself to go into a frenzy, unsure why he had resisted going for the horny lad's cock, having claimed his experimental territory at the rear. Now he slurped on his uncut cock, rubbing eagerly up and down his legs and sides, glad of the fresh sweat that slid against his palms. He lifted his face to spit heavily on the big weapon and then ran his lips back over it, taking it all in with practised ease, luxuriating over his big cock like he'd once done to his treasured Welshman. On his knees, Hector serviced him with gusto, bobbing his face up and down and gripping the hips of the sexy Scottish bastard, loving the way his body twisted and jolted, loving his gruff moans and little whimpers of surprised pleasure - the Spaniard didn't know if a man had sucked on him before, but he could tell that nobody of HIS skills had been down there, for sure. No - and just to really make the 25-year-old convulse sweatily on his daybed beneath the huge exposing windows, he dragged one hand down the inside of his thigh and tickled at his flopping hairy balls, scratching and tugging on the sack and making Kieran really howl for him, a long strangled `Yessss'. But now that his fingers were down there... Bellerin spat again, first on the thick cock and then on his two fingers. He sucked on the rod again but slid the two fingers past the lad's balls and over his fluffy gooch. Down he dug, between the doughy cheeks and the cushions, and in against the hole - two fingers went right in this time, pushing that hole open and entering him, making him whimper another `YES'. Hector lifted and parted the heavy thighs, encouraging them up onto his strong fingers, and now he had better access - he could stick one and then two fingers deep into that gorgeous bottom whilst his lips quivered about the exposed head of the throbbing cock. He pushed and poked with his two digits, testing the strong ring, while tonguing about the tip of the cock and then slurping all the way down its length and almost gagging on it. With his free hand, Hector couldn't help it; reaching down and squeezing his own erection in the leg of his loose-fitting cargo pants, where it had sprung loose from the confines of his briefs. He jerked and squeezed it and wanted to get it out, his fingers and lips making Kieran twist and moan and shudder. Tierney now had no interest in his smart-watch, nor taxis or hotels or football matches; he just lay heavily back against the cushions, damp with his own sweat, and let his legs be lifted and spread, let his arse be plundered by two fingers, let his cock be licked and kissed and sucked. Fuck, it felt so good, and he couldn't believe he'd almost stumbled dizzily out of here to escape this intimacy - he'd been craving it for so long, hungering for this powerful man across the Channel and the continent. He'd been lying there and enjoying this with his eyes clamped shut, just enjoying the raw physicality, taken back to his first tender experiment with Granit and Lacazette, dumb and eager and readily manhandled by those two kinky older blokes at the club; or the first time he'd drunkenly engaged with shocking Mikel, unsure what he was doing. This was different, better. He was so excited to be here with Hector and to be exposed like this to him; it was by far the best blowjob he had ever experienced. `Fuck,' the Lanarkshire lad groaned at the world, `fuck fuck fuck!' He opened his eyes and propped himself up a tiny bit, digging his elbows down into the cushion. He stared down his pale toned body as Hector's moustached lips slid up and off the end of his hard-on, pausing to smirk this way at him, tongue running side to side over pouting lips. So handsome, so charismatic. He wanted to feel that mouth on his cock again, because it was so comforting and helpful as he felt the two exploring fingers push further into him, really finding his G-spot and making him quiver; but Bellerin was rising up on his knees as if it was over, just rubbing one hand at one of Kieran's thick thighs. Kieran felt his eyes bulge and his mouth drop open as he saw that, poised between his legs, Hector had pushed down his own pants and his dick in hand, a hug thick member with an angry red tip staring shinily at him. He stared at every detail of the Spanish player's bare body and dark hairy patches, and he knew what was on offer here. Bellerin must have seen the panic in his eyes. `Only if you want it,' murmured the gorgeous man. `I don't know,' Tierney whispered, unsure if his voice was even audible. `Your hole feels so good,' groaned the other man, shifting his fingers as if to prove his point. `Mmmm,' the Scotsman murmured uncertainly. `So tight,' gasped his masseur. `Fuck,' Kieran murmured anxiously, thinking about how he'd wielded his big weapon and stepped up behind his head coach those times the other year; he'd never really allowed himself to think how it might feel the other way round, not properly. And yet, the fingers felt so good up there, and... oh fuck, was the man trying a third now...? `I'll go gentle. I'll just try it. You feel SO good.' Hector's voice was closer now as he said this. The other man was over him, still fingering him but practically lying on top of him, their faces close, their bodies brushing; underpants and sweatpants and cargo pants sliding over ankles, shed and discarded to the wooden flooring. Over him, Hector sighed and gasped, and licked his own lips, telling him, `You have no idea how good you feel, Kier.' `I don't know if I can take it,' he told him weakly. `Let me try?' The Lisbon player's voice was almost begging. `Oh god,' Kieran moaned to him, `that feels... ohhh, fuck...' `It feels good to me too,' he was told hotly. `It feels so fucking good. I want to...' `Ohhh,' the defender groaned, because he could feel the fingers slide out of his hole, and this relief was its own strange pleasure as well as a disappointment; but Hector was holding him tightly at the sides, hugging him and pressing down on him, their faces so close they were almost kissing. Kieran's thick legs were still apart, thighs open, legs closing about the hairy cheeks of the Spaniard's arse. He could feel something hard and wet rub between his cheeks, and it was no finger. `Fuck,' Bellerin rasped, `you are SO tight...' `Go slow,' he found himself whimpering, locking eyes with the other man, and slowly lifting his face to meet him, unable to resist; before he knew what he was doing, he was reaching with his open mouth, and their lips and tongues met in kiss, and he was surrendering entirely to the charisma of the ex-Arsenal hunk, drawn towards him inexorably for many months now, and finally giving himself up entirely. The 27-year-old football star pressed forward, steeling himself to be slow and gentle, in spite of every hot-blooded desire; in it went, slowly but surely, the hole loosened by his skilled fingers, and his gentle shushing and cooing between the hot wet kisses that he stole from Kieran's gasping mouth. He pinned him to the daybed, locked in his tattooed arms, and gradually he pushed his raging cock into him, pressing between those plump cheeks, filling him up, pressing into him, pushing him into the cushions, and almost screaming in pleasure of feeling a strong arse about his mighty cock. `That's it,' he moaned after breaking a kiss, `you can take it, baby.' `It feels huge,' gasped Kieran, and his sincerity was both endearing and arousing; that was no cynical dirty talk, as if Hector's ego needed the same attention as his cock, but the genuine shock and fear of a virgin being opened up, and it both boiled the Spaniard's horny blood, and forced him to be slow and tender, to take good care of his sexy jock, fucking him now with the same slow patience and attention to detail as he'd once merely massaged him, oily hands on pale freckled skin. `Is it okay?' Bellerin whispered attentively. `Are you okay?' Slow sweaty nods, whimpered `yes', more furtive kissing. Oh god, this boy was like an angel, a big dopey sexy angel, and Hector just wanted to cuddle him and keep his hard cock inside him forever - fuck the Europa League. He was deep in him now, spreading his cheeks, opening up his hole, really filling him up with his own thick veiny rocket; he didn't push for more, just settling in, letting Kieran adjust to it, letting him gulp in deep breaths, then silencing him with long tonguing kisses, until... `I'm going to fuck you,' he announced quite severely, looking seriously into his eyes. `Just hold onto me, and tell me if it's too much.' Kieran stared silently back at him, and said nothing, until a slow pitchy `Oh!' With slow but assertive force, Hector pulled back and forth with his hips, his hairy arse lifting up and down, and his cock pulling in and out of that virgin hole, fucking his man in slow heavy jolts, eyes locked together, lips barely parted, waiting for Tierney to whimper it was too much and to tell him to stop. They kissed, and Kieran just told him, `Oh, fuck me like that' and `Fuuuuuuck, that's insane'. He kept it slow, holding back, controlling his power, just humping his cock deep into the man's plump arse in these slow forceful pushes, feeling himself get closer and closer to unloading, but holding back, wanting to make his lover climax first; he reached between their sweaty torsos to play with him, wanking it against his own six-pack, and pushing his tongue deep into the unresisting mouth. Having Hector's body pull away from him felt exposing and scary, as if he just needed to be held by his Spanish lover forever; but the big cock was still in him, his own body lain on the daybed and Bellerin kneeling at the end of it, pushing in and out of him very very slowly. But this position meant that the older defender could jerk him off properly, wanking him heavily whilst grinding back and forward inside his hole. There was only so much of it that Tierney could cope with, lying there and staring down his body at this; soon he was watching his own volcanic climax as if in slow-mo, the drool of white stuff over his foreskin and shaft, the flecks of it on his own skin, and some of it up the tattoos of Hector Bellerin's forearms. The orgasm left him shaky and giddy, and he just watched the final few juddering thrusts as Bellerin held his legs up and apart, and picked up a tiny bit of speed; the thrusts seemed to hurt a bit more now, as his own balls and cock ached in completion, but it didn't last long until his Spaniard was clearly finished, eyes shut and mouth wide open, silent but ecstatic. Kieran lay still and just felt the throb of his tight hole around the buried cock, both of them still but trembling, sticky and shiny with sweat on every inch of skin. When Hector pulled out of him, he ached and stang, and it left him a bit frightened and regretful for a moment, until the other man was on top of him again, cuddling him and pressing down, and finding his lips for a slow kiss. Their sticky dirty bodies rubbed together on the daybed, and Kieran relaxed into his hold, unwilling to overthink what he'd allowed; he reached searchingly with his mouth for another kiss but the 27-year-old was leaning away from him and looking at something. `What is it?' the Scot groaned. `The time,' Hector grunted back. `You shouldn't be here.' Hearing this, despite its obvious truth, was vaguely alarmed, so he was glad when the hands pulled back about his face and the lips landed on his, their tongues connecting. It was the longest and deepest kiss yet, but it had to end eventually. `Let me call you a taxi,' Bellerin purred languidly. `We both need to get ready for the subs bench.' Off he went, clambering away with a satisfied grin on his face, and Tierney just lay still for a few moments before rolling over and scrambling up onto his feet, unsteady and sore. He dressed in a daze, pulling up the weak elastic and fraying material of his supermarket undies, then tight-fit of his sweatpants, which stuck to his sweaty and cum-splashed legs. On went the white t-shirt, so thin that sweat patches became damp and visible in its fabric until the coat was on and zipped up. He caught sight of his blotchy red face in a reflective window and he just laughed awkwardly at himself. Hector walked about naked but for no socks, no concern for the windows apparently; he was on an app on his phone, sorting out two different taxi routes, and talking to himself quite distantly, as if nothing life-changing had just happened. Kieran traipsed uncertainly after him, unsure what he was feeling, but already beginning to wonder if he'd let things go too far, his arse screaming at him with the sting of lost innocence. The 25-year-old's thoughts turned to his watch and the time, and how late he might be at the hotel, when he was already seemingly out of favour for starting positions most weeks. He grimaced distractedly and followed his host to the doors, out into the vestibule and through the creaking doors of the large elevator; he turned to face the Lisbon player, unsure if they should hug, or more, or what. He stared awkwardly at him, and found that Bellerin just stared back, a slightly bewildered expression on his lean handsome face. Neither man did anything, and then just a vague wave of a hand from the other defender. `Well, see you tonight,' the Spanish man said very slowly and oddly, backing off from the lift doors which began to close - and Tierney just nodded back with the same slowness, blinking his eyes and wiping sweaty palms on the sleeves of his coat. `Tonight, see ya,' he echoed uncomfortably, his voice lost in the rusty creak of the lift doors, which excluded the sight of naked Bellerin from him; his stomach and body lurched as the elevator descended, taking him back down to earth. Bellerin sat out the game, not even a named substitute after all, but certainly not about to miss a cup clash between his old and current clubs; his attention, however, drifted regularly from the 2-2 first-leg draw between the English and Portuguese clubs. He leaned forward in his seat and stared over at the other dugout, seeking out the tracksuit silhouette of Kieran Tierney at one end of their subs bench. Now and then, quite by accident, he would make eye contact with other members of the travelling Arsenal squad, players who he knew from his own brief return there - he waved and smiled in a discreet, professional manner, not wishing to irk any of his Lisbon cronies, and then tried to go long stretches without looking at or thinking about the Scottish defender. He'd felt quite overwhelmed after he shot his load inside that handsome boy. He'd felt so intimate and intense during the shag, in a way that had become alien to him in the years since Ramsey ended their affair... and as he'd wandered around the flat trying to organise practicalities like cars, he'd felt an odd panic in his hairy chest. And then he'd seen Kieran look so gormless and regretful and he'd felt a weary certainty settle on him, that this really was just an experiment, a game, that this big Scot lad wasn't really open to anything between them - was just curious about what his big arse could take. Their goodbyes at the apartment had been terse and bleak, and he'd felt that was necessary and right... though he'd stood naked and sad in the vestibule for ten minutes after the lift groaned downwards away. It was crap, but predictable and obvious; he'd let himself get a bit over-excited and imaginative there, taking things so far with the handsome bugger. He'd been so controlled and playful before, recognising the curious needs, but not allowing himself to feel anything but bemusement and arousal. And now... In the latter stages of the game, the footballer felt gloomy and sad, unable to enjoy his team's relative success in drawing level with the visitors. The hot intensity of what had happened with his visitor had left a strange sort of emptiness in his chest, and he couldn't bring himself to focus on the football whatsoever. When the game ended, he didn't rush to go join the players in the home changing room, but dawdled outside instead, watching the slow departure of the fans, and taking his time before entering the brightly-lit tunnel. He hesitated at the noisy doorway of the home changing rooms, able to hear some loud celebratory chants from within, as the Lisbon players psyched themselves up for a second leg where they could take the lead over the Londoners. He pulled back, arms wrapped about the chest of his jumper, and found himself staring interestedly across at the other door, further down the tunnel, instead - in there, he thought, the Arsenal mood would be different, more gritty and determined, and less satisfied with the midway outcome. Bellerin moved on down the tunnel, passing first his own door and then that of the opposition, deciding to move on down and find his way through the stadium interior to await his freshly showered colleagues for their debrief meeting upstairs. But he'd barely gone a few yards down the tunnel past these doorways into the changing rooms when he heard his name as a hissed whisper, behind his back. `Hector...' The footballer turned around in surprise, arms hanging loose at his side; fully kitted out in an Arsenal away tracksuit, the Scots lad and his blushing red cheeks were lunging out of the door to the away quarters. Out he scampered into the empty glare of the tunnel, hurrying this way, eyes wide. `Kieran,' Hector began uncertainly. In seconds, Arsenal's unused defender was in front of him and then in his arms, grabbing and holding him about the middle. Hector opened up to receive the abrupt kiss, feeling lips and tongue on his, and sliding his hands onto the glossy back of the tracksuit, where they ran up and down, and briefly sank lower to cup and pat the big arse - and then he remembered where he was and jolted backwards a little. But the tunnel was empty apart from the two defensive players, and he stared from their surroundings back to Tierney's earnest panicky face. `Sorry,' the Scotsman whispered. `I just needed to.' Hector paused only briefly, unable to hold in the smile on his face. `That's okay,' he murmured back, and he let his hand stroke up part of the other man's arm, very gently, resisting the urge to grab and snog him. `I think I needed it too.' Then, his thoughts catching up with his new excitement, he dropped his voice more: `Are you okay? Not too sore?' A little grimace on those handsome features, a vague shrug. `A bit, but - oh, man, it was...' He giggled uncomfortably, self-consciusly, shyly - and become a dozen times sexier to Bellerin, whose cock was semi in his tracksuit bottoms. He held himself back, but played his fingers down the sleep and wrapped his hand briefly about Tierney's. `It was amazing,' he whispered. `I just hope you're okay. I'm glad you enjoyed it.' And then, taking the risk, surprised at his honesty and openness - `I hope we can do it again sometime soon, amigo.' He smiled bravely, waiting for disappointment. But the Scot nodded, furiously. `I can fly out soon,' he promised. `No,' Hector promised quietly. `I'll come to London, to you?' `Anything,' breathed the younger player. `Soon,' he promised, not wanting to say his thoughts out loud here, not quite - but picturing himself deep inside the chunky arse, making this beautiful man his again and again. He wanted to snog him again but it was too dangerous, and so he just squeezed his hand, and backed off. `We'll organise it. Make it happen. Okay.' He backed off, cautiously, and Kieran did the same, nodding fervently to him - both of them keeping brief eye contact and shifting away from each other and the temptation, back to their rival teams. Bellerin only turned around once Tierney was out of sight, walking backwards initially, then spinning on his heel. He marvelled for a moment at himself, shocked to find himself being so open and eager with this new man, after steeling himself against such feelings for several lonely years - shocked, but not unhappy. Fuck it, he thought, it's time to take the risk. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-396

Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 19:15:28 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 396 Part 396: Alpha/Beta He pulled the new England home kit over his head and shoulders and down the sculpted muscle of his upper body, shuffling into comfort and giving the glossy retro football short a few tugs on the chest to make it look right about his broad shoulders, then examining himself thoughtfully in the full-length mirror at one end of the large plush hotel suite. It wasn't his first time sliding into the latest Three Lions jersey and examining its old-school charm, having posed in it at a photoshoot earlier in the year like several other well-known faces of the various national squads, but it was different getting a proper look at it now and trying it on in his room, trying to imagine himself stepping out in it under the floodlights of this summer's Euros, a tournament the pundits were tripping over themselves to tip England for winning... Here he was for yet another international camp under Southgate, but Euros selection was far from a given for the 33-year-old, despite Gareth's penchant for loyalty and familiarity in his squad selection. The handsomely bearded midfielder wasn't so much vainly admiring his sharp jawline or broad chest as he posed in front of the mirror in this footy shirt, more trying to imagine himself stepping out in his final tournament at the heart of Southgate's 11. Playing outside of the Premier League spotlight, entering his mid-30s, was the Northerner already moving out of his international prime...? `Here, let me at that mirror,' mumbled the voice of his much-younger roommate, and Jordan Henderson stepped obligingly to one side, pulling and fiddling with the jersey sleeves where they hugged at his biceps; he was still in fighting form and could show up some of his young colleagues on the training ground in fitness drills, so he was pretty sure that the England gaffer was right to show faith and keep selecting him. `I like it,' murmured the younger player distractedly, but Henderson had already decided positively on the new home and away kits when he was picked out to model them alongside the likes of Kane, Grealish and Foden - and of course Trent Alexander-Arnold, although their sessions at the photography studio had not overlapped, and the young Scouser was now conspicuously absent from the England selection settling into this Surrey hotel. `Yeah,' Jordan said vaguely, stepping out of the light of the mirror to allow the youngster his vanity, and already beginning to shrug off and remove the new jersey, baring his pale lean muscles and crossing the shared room; he was momentarily picturing the attractive larger-than-life photo mural of them modelling the kit down in the reception area of the England training base, which had seen him looking fondly up at a 10ft Trent whilst he checked in this afternoon - it was a shame that Trent wasn't here this week, Jordan was daring to hope that relations between them might soon begin to thaw. `Yeah, I really like it,' continued the gentle voice of the young lad now posing in front of the mirror, and Henderson turned to shoot a fond smile at the inevitable youthful vanity of the lauded 20-year-old - he was strutting very confidently in front of the room's single full mirror and pouting quite intensely at himself in reflection. Jude Bellingham had seemed quite offended when looking at the wall-mounted photography down in reception, though it was pretty obvious that his Spanish commitments had made him a less likely model for the new kit than others... `But you're not in England either,' the youth had complained quite seriously, and Jordan had enjoyed that reminder - more evidence that he was still big in the gaffer's plans despite his rather ill-fated spell at El-Attifaq and his current position at Dutch side Ajax - he was of course just as prominent and handsome on the big display in the foyer, posing in this very home kit and folding strong arms across his chest. Jordan stood by his bed and neatly folded the shirt, preparing to find and pull back on his grey Puma t-shirt which he'd worn for their gentle sunset kickabout on the training pitches, yet to be issued their shiny new training gear for tomorrow's big sessions and media duties - today had been the usual protracted interactions of gradual arrivals and check-ins, a very informal first bit of team bonding with a football, and next the guys were due downstairs in the hotel restaurant for their first meal together, looking ahead to the two minor March fixtures that awaited them. Jude, he noticed with a grin, continued to admire himself and cut different poses for the mirror, his lean brown face very serious and focused; he was growing up quickly, filling out and stepping into his persona as a world superstar, enjoying every bit of deserved success in La Liga. It was hard not to admire and enjoy for any English football fan, Jordan would happily admit, but it was already becoming strange to picture the quiet teenager who had first poked his nose into the England senior squad a couple of years back, compared to the 20-year-old Galactica who was preening in front of him. The 20-year-old Brummie must have turned and caught his nostalgic smirk, because he asked a slightly awkward `What's up?' and then checked himself, asking a bit more warmly, `What are you laughing at, Hendo?' `Nothing,' the Sunderland-born senior player chuckled dismissively, putting down the new jersey and fishing up his own tee, moving around the half-settled organisation of his belongings on his side of the room, then deciding that he needed to piss. He changed the subject, crossing the room. `Was everyone actually there at kickabout, or are some people still to check in tonight...?' Jude quietly ignored his question, perhaps still a little paranoid at Jordan's smirk and chuckle, or just still busy deciding how good he looked in the traditionalist England attire; regardless, Hendo crossed over into the adjoining bathroom of the now-familiar Surrey hotel that adjoined their sophisticated training centre. He pushed down the front of his shorts, an old Liverpool pair he wore for nostalgia's sake, and pissed echoingly in the bowl, then moving to wash his hands and inspect the minor signs of ageing in his strong handsome features - pausing as he caught sight of Jude over his bare shoulder in the mirror, now filling the bathroom doorway and leaning in its frame. Jordan smiled vaguely at him in the reflection, splashing some water on his face, and then turning around with a hand-towel doing its business between his damp paws. `Finished posing, or is this some more?' he chided quietly, noting that the 6ft1 youth had also shed his England jersey and was baring the tight clear muscles of his abdomen and chest as he leaned there, hands in the pockets of his black Birmingham City sweatpants, clearly a lad who shared Jordan's sentimentality for clubs left behind. Again, Jude seemed to blank the question, a little rudely, but he was definitely looking this way, and not at himself in the wall-mounted mirror - the same rather serious expression clouded his long handsome features, the same rather showy pout. Jordan raised his dark brown brows and smiled a bit more naturally at the tall imposing youth, taking a short step towards him with the intention of exiting their bathroom - but Bellingham straightened up and filled the space, shoulders squared and chest puffed, hands still buried in pockets. It was confrontational body language, albeit not remotely threatening, and Jordan gave his young roommate a lopsided grin. `What's this?' the former Liverpool skipper asked almost playfully. `What you've been wanting,' said Jude now, and there was something quite self-consciously purring and seductive in the way he softened his Stourbridge accent - an attempted meanness in his face that Hendo couldn't help but find vaguely amusing rather than exciting or, god forbid, intimidating - `Oh?' he answered lightly, and one of Jude's hands went from pocket to squeezing the front of those Birmingham sweats - `Yeah, this,' the 20-year-old grunted boldly, emphasising the outline of his package in the dark comfort-wear - and Jude just smiled quietly at him, standing right in front of him, an inch shorter but a little more thickset and mature in his physique. `You're keen,' was the senior midfielder's only remark. `And I bet you are,' Bellingham growled, quiet but serious. `Bet you've been thinking about it since we met at the airport and checked in here - get on your knees, Hendo.' He looked serious, intense, focused - and Jordan smiled quietly back into his eyes for a moment before breaking into playful laughter and clasping his strong hands to the lad's bare shoulders, taking him in hand and giving him a soft but commanding shove backwards to allow himself past and out of the bathroom. `Oh,' Jordan trilled quite mockingly, `he's a big La Liga alpha now, is he?' He brushed past the big strong youngster, shaking his head, and moving into the centre of the room, then turning to fix the younger player with a more serious expression of his own, the kind of stern stare he'd used as a captain when dealing with boisterous or unprofessional younger talent - `I'd thank you not to try pulling that shit on a bloke my age, kid, unless you want a broken nose and a room swap in your near future.' He smiled, but more acidly, and watched the immediate change in Jude's posture and expression - that intense pose and uptight squareness dissipated and the youngster sagged, eyes wide and lips mumbling a `Sorry' as he motioned forward in embarrassment. `Not to worry,' the 33-year-old Mackem said quite gruffly and unsmilingly, cutting across the younger man's mumbled embarrassment, and folding his arms over his bare chest as Jude came up in front of him - `Well, best get it out if you want it played with,' he said archly, smirking mischievously at the young poser who had tried to corner him so dominantly a moment ago and now looked mortified and silly - Jude hesitated in front of him, shirtless and buff too, and fingering the elasticated waist of his sweatpants and undies. Jordan stared him down with an impassive smile and bulging biceps, raising a single brow. `What? Have you changed your mind, kid? Not so horny after all?' Jude just stared back, seeming dopey and confused, looking momentarily returned to the gangly teen who had debuted amongst them from Borussia Dortmund. `Let me help ya,' Jordan chuckled, and he stepped in. He took a bare brown shoulder in one hand and pushed the other inside the front of Jude's pants, feeling the fat semi and rough stubbly pubes, and noting the immediate relief and excitement on the younger lad's face. He grinned in close at him and laughed. `I thought you'd lost interest there cos you didn't get the reaction you wanted, Mr Madrid - but remember who you're chatting to, will ya man, it's me, not some Spanish little slut - who's been on their knees for you out there in Madrid, giving you these ideas that you're a big dog alpha male kinda thing...?' `Sorry,' Jude mumbled again, looking and sounding a bit ashamed, but mainly grateful to have his cock rubbed and stroked, and beginning to push down now at his underpants and the sweats, backing onto the foot of the bed; Jordan moved with him, stroking that hand up the firm ridges of his six-pack, but then fishing into the front of his own shorts; as Jude fell into a seated position on the foot of the bed, Jordan brought one leg up in a short lunge, onto the bedding, and he pulled back on the leg of the shorts so that his stiffening cock came loose down his thigh. He stood there, pointing it at the youngster like a gun, and seeing an appropriate terror in the widening of eyes and flaring of nostrils. `Oh come on,' the Ajax midfielder said bluntly. `You can't just expect to have a load of attention and not give anything back, man - is that what they've been teaching you in La Liga...?' Jude looked at him in silent questioning - it's not as if his expectations were ridiculous, given the way both Hendo and his ex-boyfriend had fawned over the 6ft1 stud in the past, but Jordan hadn't liked the showy arrogance or pretended authority with which the lad 13 years his junior stepped up to him just now. No, he thought, this was needed, and better - it was time the sexually curious young prodigy became a bit more worldly. He pulled back on the glossy Liverpool shorts and teased his own rigid cock, and then nodded firmly at the lad whose face was inches from it. `Give it a rub,' he instructed, and he helped out - he took Jude's hand and brought it in against the firmness of his shaft, encouraging a slow rub, and watching the tremor of Jude's bottom lip. `Now,' Hendo asked firmly, `that ain't the worst thing in the world, is it?' Jude stared first at his cock and then at him; he didn't look sure. `I've never...' `I know you aint,' the Mackem grunted. `How's it feel?' `I- I dunno. You're hard.' `Yeah, I am. And I won't pretend you ain't the main reason, kid.' `Huh. You could have just...' `I think you're getting a bit big for your boots, young alpha,' Jordan grunted. `We all know you're gonna be better than any of us, but... you're young. Learn some respect.' He closed Jude's hand about his dick and stroked it with him in a few slow movements, watching his flickering eyes, his embarrassed regretful face... and stroked his shoulder and arm a little more affectionately. `You'll be a better man for it,' he promised, before flopping down onto the bedding next to him and tugging his shorts and underwear fully away, down his fluffy thighs and past his knees. He lay there, watching the nervous way Jude licked his lips and turned on his side, reaching down for his prick... `You first,' Hendo said firmly, propped on his side, and cupping his heavy bollocks and perky shaft from beneath. `You're gonna give this a taste before you get what you want, mate.' Lying in front of him, Jude's whole body stiffened to match the heavy veiny cock in his grip; he stared back with obvious anger and then seemed to look resentfully down at the cock he'd struck, then back into Jordan's unmoving grin, then about the room distractedly - he was weighing up a sulk and a storming off, Jordan could tell, but he could see from the swollen monster how horny and riled the young pretender was, faced now with a real alpha. It was a good job, Jordan thought vaguely, that the pouting young hero had tried it on with him and not one of the other senior dominant men on their England squad, because he wasn't sure how the likes of Maguire would have handled this confrontation. `Go on,' he told his young roomie. `It won't hurt you. Just a taste.' Jude stared at it, and at him, and made a few beginnings of talking, but just grunting and sighing in an exasperated way - and then he took Jordan's dick in his hand and gave it some tentative strokes that were all the more pleasurable for their resentful uncertainty. `I've never-' he began to drone again but Jordan cut him off - `Just give it a little lick, and try it out, and I promise I'll suck you til you scream, Bells.' And he sprawled back, opening his thick legs ,and posing one strong arm behind his neck and head for support - with the other he helped Jude's hand to pull up and down his own long firm shaft in gentle strokes, then tickled his own balls and let Jude's hand continue for a few strokes. Bellingham shifted closer, rising up on his knees and then stooping forward. He stared, still almost resentfully into Hendo's eyes, and held himself in a crouch just over the former captain's crotch - he spat down accurately against the head of it and rubbed his wet palm up and down it, and Jordan treated him to a little `Mmm' of pleasure before reaching to stroke the muscles of his resting arm. But - `That ain't the same as taking it in your mouth, matey.' And so, cowed by the friendly authority of Henderson, Bellingham stooped lower, looking frankly terrified, and open his lips - and Jordan clenched his glutes and raised his hips, and guided his excited cock to meet that hesitant mouth. He let his tip brush those full lips, chuckling softly as Jude pulled aside and tried again. He held the base of his cock and let his massaging hand move up Jude's arm onto his shoulder and then his neck, and he guided him to meet his prick - he felt the lips part and move over the head of his dick, felt the nervous touch of tongue on head. `Mmm,' he groaned loudly, even though Jude pulled back again and made a retching face as if he was about to rush off to the loo - `Go on,' he purred eagerly and commandingly, `give it a proper suck for me, man.' It took a little more cajoling, a little more gentle massaging touch to the neck and shoulder, and a few more grimacing retreats, but he eased his dick into that virgin mouth and felt Jude's tongue slide across his shaft - Bellingham knew what to do, from his own selfish enjoyment, but he seemed terrified to go for it, seemed too sure of his disgust before he had a chance to change his mind. But he tried, out of submission or loyalty, the beta man to Henderson's alpha status, and there was something sweet and loveable in his compliance - but Jordan was hardly going to force it and be so selfish, so he stopped when he'd pushed half of his tool into Jude's uncertain mouth and heard the spluttering coughs that followed. He laughed and stroked his wet dick and began to sit up. Bellingham's face looked relieved at this small sign of satisfaction, but Hendo shook his head, taking only a slow brief hold and pull of the young lad's big throbber - `Get on your hands and knees,' he growled - this time he could see the same slow terror dawn on the Real Madrid warrior's face, but he could see no intention to defy or argue, he could see the compliance of someone who was thinking only with their erection. Still, Jude moved slowly and uncomfortably, turning away and lifting back onto his knees, pants bunched about his ankles - and he asked `W-w-what do you w-w-wanna do?' as Jordan creaked the bed by sliding off it and getting to his feet at its end. This, he thought, was a good view: the La Liga sensation, England's great new export, posed on hands and knees on the bed, with his powerful legs parallel brown trunks, and his smooth bare back meeting them in the strong bulging mounds of his mocha-brown buttocks. Jordan stood at the foot of the bed and pulled back and forth on his cock, wet with Jude's spittle, and so close to cumming already. He let the stammering question hang in the air, enjoying the implied submission of the nervously open demand, and certainly excited by the prospect of fulfilling its worst fear - but much more measured and realistic in his expectations. Still, he quietly left Jude wondering and tense, as he sank down to the edge of the bed and rested on one hand on one strong glute, whilst the other teased his own member: his turn to spit, parting the smooth brown cheeks first and gobbing into the darker hairier furrow between them, finding the attractive pink pinpoint of the young man's rosebud. Jordan spot noisily into it again, feeling the kneeling body shiver, and then he lowered his face and went for it - he knew his beard must tickle the unexpecting cheeks, but he buried his face between the strong glutes and ran his tongue against the quivering virgin hole. To Henderson's delicious enjoyment, Bellingham moaned immediately and loudly, and his crack tasted a little sweaty from the light play on the field; Jordan rimmed him with the skill he'd developed as he eased first Neco and then Trent into taking him, applying his tongue to their holes in the same way he'd sent his wife over the edge all through their rich sexual relationship. Bellingham moaned and whimpered, sounding more submissive than ever, and Jordan gripped the sides of his arse and really went for it, pausing only to spit and slobber, and to prise the tight cheeks further apart - he didn't bother to try a finger, knowing how tight this arrogant young arse would be, but he ate it as much as he could, and stopped only when his own greed told him that it was time to suck. Then he helped to flip Jude into a lying position, legs in the air, and he briefly rimmed him some more at this more awkward angle, face pressed up against his gooch and balls, and he'd spunked his own load into his hand and lap moments before he even lifted his head and applied his strong masculine mouth to the girth and length of Jude's weapon. Still pulling on his tingling cock and oozing out the last of his load, Jordan brought his head bobbing up and down, sucking hungrily on this big cock as he had a couple of times before, finally giving over the oral service that the 20-year-old had tried to bully out of him in the bathroom door as if he was the one in charge - he definitely had a few things to learn, this young king of Spain, about his place in this pride of lions. Of course, Jude didn't last, and Jordan soon took a little of his salty depost in his mouth, letting the rest spill messily as he pulled away panting. He licked more of it from the big swollen head and then just kissed his balls and in his inner thighs and - once more for luck - stooped down to slurp a lick against his arse-crack. Henderson, his own chest heaving, got up from the edge of the bed and stood there tidying his shorts and the heavy stiff contents that was pushed back into them. He laughed gently and rubbed his dirty mouth on the back of one hairy arm, 6ft of pale muscular authority at the foot of the bed. In front of him, Jude trembled and moaned, recovering slowly, and looking still anxious about the things he'd tried - Jordan had no idea whether anyone, man or woman, had ever tasted that perfect arse, but the writhing surprise of the youngster suggested it was new and taboo for him. As he straightened himself up and tugged his pants roughly up his long mighty legs, Jude shot him a conflicted look, a mixture of resentment and gratitude, and Jordan found and tossed him his t-shirt, then went away towards the bathroom. He paused in the doorway, only half-consciously aping the dominant pose with which the Brummie had earlier confronted him: the 33-year-old posed a little more naturally in the doorframe and scratched at the outline of his wilting hard-on. `Here,' he barked at the other prime midfielder. `Come on, I'll scrub your back in the shower if you're quick, sexy.' He saw Jude hesitant but then quickly swing off the bed and scurry to join him, gawky and gangly again in his 6ft1 towering height, nervous in his disposition, but ready to do as the Liverpool daddy asked - and Jordan just chuckled and pulled him into a manly hug in the doorway, before pushing him towards the shower and dropping his shorts. `You're a sexy young bastard, Jude,' he told him as he knocked on the hot water and passed him the soap, `but don't you ever try that again, okay? I'm nobody's bitch. Now - turn around and let me soap up that amazing body, okay?' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 19:15:28 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads Part 396 Part 396: Alpha/Beta He pulled the new England home kit over his head and shoulders and down the sculpted muscle of his upper body, shuffling into comfort and giving the glossy retro football short a few tugs on the chest to make it look right about his broad shoulders, then examining himself thoughtfully in the full-length mirror at one end of the large plush hotel suite. It wasn't his first time sliding into the latest Three Lions jersey and examining its old-school charm, having posed in it at a photoshoot earlier in the year like several other well-known faces of the various national squads, but it was different getting a proper look at it now and trying it on in his room, trying to imagine himself stepping out in it under the floodlights of this summer's Euros, a tournament the pundits were tripping over themselves to tip England for winning... Here he was for yet another international camp under Southgate, but Euros selection was far from a given for the 33-year-old, despite Gareth's penchant for loyalty and familiarity in his squad selection. The handsomely bearded midfielder wasn't so much vainly admiring his sharp jawline or broad chest as he posed in front of the mirror in this footy shirt, more trying to imagine himself stepping out in his final tournament at the heart of Southgate's 11. Playing outside of the Premier League spotlight, entering his mid-30s, was the Northerner already moving out of his international prime...? `Here, let me at that mirror,' mumbled the voice of his much-younger roommate, and Jordan Henderson stepped obligingly to one side, pulling and fiddling with the jersey sleeves where they hugged at his biceps; he was still in fighting form and could show up some of his young colleagues on the training ground in fitness drills, so he was pretty sure that the England gaffer was right to show faith and keep selecting him. `I like it,' murmured the younger player distractedly, but Henderson had already decided positively on the new home and away kits when he was picked out to model them alongside the likes of Kane, Grealish and Foden - and of course Trent Alexander-Arnold, although their sessions at the photography studio had not overlapped, and the young Scouser was now conspicuously absent from the England selection settling into this Surrey hotel. `Yeah,' Jordan said vaguely, stepping out of the light of the mirror to allow the youngster his vanity, and already beginning to shrug off and remove the new jersey, baring his pale lean muscles and crossing the shared room; he was momentarily picturing the attractive larger-than-life photo mural of them modelling the kit down in the reception area of the England training base, which had seen him looking fondly up at a 10ft Trent whilst he checked in this afternoon - it was a shame that Trent wasn't here this week, Jordan was daring to hope that relations between them might soon begin to thaw. `Yeah, I really like it,' continued the gentle voice of the young lad now posing in front of the mirror, and Henderson turned to shoot a fond smile at the inevitable youthful vanity of the lauded 20-year-old - he was strutting very confidently in front of the room's single full mirror and pouting quite intensely at himself in reflection. Jude Bellingham had seemed quite offended when looking at the wall-mounted photography down in reception, though it was pretty obvious that his Spanish commitments had made him a less likely model for the new kit than others... `But you're not in England either,' the youth had complained quite seriously, and Jordan had enjoyed that reminder - more evidence that he was still big in the gaffer's plans despite his rather ill-fated spell at El-Attifaq and his current position at Dutch side Ajax - he was of course just as prominent and handsome on the big display in the foyer, posing in this very home kit and folding strong arms across his chest. Jordan stood by his bed and neatly folded the shirt, preparing to find and pull back on his grey Puma t-shirt which he'd worn for their gentle sunset kickabout on the training pitches, yet to be issued their shiny new training gear for tomorrow's big sessions and media duties - today had been the usual protracted interactions of gradual arrivals and check-ins, a very informal first bit of team bonding with a football, and next the guys were due downstairs in the hotel restaurant for their first meal together, looking ahead to the two minor March fixtures that awaited them. Jude, he noticed with a grin, continued to admire himself and cut different poses for the mirror, his lean brown face very serious and focused; he was growing up quickly, filling out and stepping into his persona as a world superstar, enjoying every bit of deserved success in La Liga. It was hard not to admire and enjoy for any English football fan, Jordan would happily admit, but it was already becoming strange to picture the quiet teenager who had first poked his nose into the England senior squad a couple of years back, compared to the 20-year-old Galactica who was preening in front of him. The 20-year-old Brummie must have turned and caught his nostalgic smirk, because he asked a slightly awkward `What's up?' and then checked himself, asking a bit more warmly, `What are you laughing at, Hendo?' `Nothing,' the Sunderland-born senior player chuckled dismissively, putting down the new jersey and fishing up his own tee, moving around the half-settled organisation of his belongings on his side of the room, then deciding that he needed to piss. He changed the subject, crossing the room. `Was everyone actually there at kickabout, or are some people still to check in tonight...?' Jude quietly ignored his question, perhaps still a little paranoid at Jordan's smirk and chuckle, or just still busy deciding how good he looked in the traditionalist England attire; regardless, Hendo crossed over into the adjoining bathroom of the now-familiar Surrey hotel that adjoined their sophisticated training centre. He pushed down the front of his shorts, an old Liverpool pair he wore for nostalgia's sake, and pissed echoingly in the bowl, then moving to wash his hands and inspect the minor signs of ageing in his strong handsome features - pausing as he caught sight of Jude over his bare shoulder in the mirror, now filling the bathroom doorway and leaning in its frame. Jordan smiled vaguely at him in the reflection, splashing some water on his face, and then turning around with a hand-towel doing its business between his damp paws. `Finished posing, or is this some more?' he chided quietly, noting that the 6ft1 youth had also shed his England jersey and was baring the tight clear muscles of his abdomen and chest as he leaned there, hands in the pockets of his black Birmingham City sweatpants, clearly a lad who shared Jordan's sentimentality for clubs left behind. Again, Jude seemed to blank the question, a little rudely, but he was definitely looking this way, and not at himself in the wall-mounted mirror - the same rather serious expression clouded his long handsome features, the same rather showy pout. Jordan raised his dark brown brows and smiled a bit more naturally at the tall imposing youth, taking a short step towards him with the intention of exiting their bathroom - but Bellingham straightened up and filled the space, shoulders squared and chest puffed, hands still buried in pockets. It was confrontational body language, albeit not remotely threatening, and Jordan gave his young roommate a lopsided grin. `What's this?' the former Liverpool skipper asked almost playfully. `What you've been wanting,' said Jude now, and there was something quite self-consciously purring and seductive in the way he softened his Stourbridge accent - an attempted meanness in his face that Hendo couldn't help but find vaguely amusing rather than exciting or, god forbid, intimidating - `Oh?' he answered lightly, and one of Jude's hands went from pocket to squeezing the front of those Birmingham sweats - `Yeah, this,' the 20-year-old grunted boldly, emphasising the outline of his package in the dark comfort-wear - and Jude just smiled quietly at him, standing right in front of him, an inch shorter but a little more thickset and mature in his physique. `You're keen,' was the senior midfielder's only remark. `And I bet you are,' Bellingham growled, quiet but serious. `Bet you've been thinking about it since we met at the airport and checked in here - get on your knees, Hendo.' He looked serious, intense, focused - and Jordan smiled quietly back into his eyes for a moment before breaking into playful laughter and clasping his strong hands to the lad's bare shoulders, taking him in hand and giving him a soft but commanding shove backwards to allow himself past and out of the bathroom. `Oh,' Jordan trilled quite mockingly, `he's a big La Liga alpha now, is he?' He brushed past the big strong youngster, shaking his head, and moving into the centre of the room, then turning to fix the younger player with a more serious expression of his own, the kind of stern stare he'd used as a captain when dealing with boisterous or unprofessional younger talent - `I'd thank you not to try pulling that shit on a bloke my age, kid, unless you want a broken nose and a room swap in your near future.' He smiled, but more acidly, and watched the immediate change in Jude's posture and expression - that intense pose and uptight squareness dissipated and the youngster sagged, eyes wide and lips mumbling a `Sorry' as he motioned forward in embarrassment. `Not to worry,' the 33-year-old Mackem said quite gruffly and unsmilingly, cutting across the younger man's mumbled embarrassment, and folding his arms over his bare chest as Jude came up in front of him - `Well, best get it out if you want it played with,' he said archly, smirking mischievously at the young poser who had tried to corner him so dominantly a moment ago and now looked mortified and silly - Jude hesitated in front of him, shirtless and buff too, and fingering the elasticated waist of his sweatpants and undies. Jordan stared him down with an impassive smile and bulging biceps, raising a single brow. `What? Have you changed your mind, kid? Not so horny after all?' Jude just stared back, seeming dopey and confused, looking momentarily returned to the gangly teen who had debuted amongst them from Borussia Dortmund. `Let me help ya,' Jordan chuckled, and he stepped in. He took a bare brown shoulder in one hand and pushed the other inside the front of Jude's pants, feeling the fat semi and rough stubbly pubes, and noting the immediate relief and excitement on the younger lad's face. He grinned in close at him and laughed. `I thought you'd lost interest there cos you didn't get the reaction you wanted, Mr Madrid - but remember who you're chatting to, will ya man, it's me, not some Spanish little slut - who's been on their knees for you out there in Madrid, giving you these ideas that you're a big dog alpha male kinda thing...?' `Sorry,' Jude mumbled again, looking and sounding a bit ashamed, but mainly grateful to have his cock rubbed and stroked, and beginning to push down now at his underpants and the sweats, backing onto the foot of the bed; Jordan moved with him, stroking that hand up the firm ridges of his six-pack, but then fishing into the front of his own shorts; as Jude fell into a seated position on the foot of the bed, Jordan brought one leg up in a short lunge, onto the bedding, and he pulled back on the leg of the shorts so that his stiffening cock came loose down his thigh. He stood there, pointing it at the youngster like a gun, and seeing an appropriate terror in the widening of eyes and flaring of nostrils. `Oh come on,' the Ajax midfielder said bluntly. `You can't just expect to have a load of attention and not give anything back, man - is that what they've been teaching you in La Liga...?' Jude looked at him in silent questioning - it's not as if his expectations were ridiculous, given the way both Hendo and his ex-boyfriend had fawned over the 6ft1 stud in the past, but Jordan hadn't liked the showy arrogance or pretended authority with which the lad 13 years his junior stepped up to him just now. No, he thought, this was needed, and better - it was time the sexually curious young prodigy became a bit more worldly. He pulled back on the glossy Liverpool shorts and teased his own rigid cock, and then nodded firmly at the lad whose face was inches from it. `Give it a rub,' he instructed, and he helped out - he took Jude's hand and brought it in against the firmness of his shaft, encouraging a slow rub, and watching the tremor of Jude's bottom lip. `Now,' Hendo asked firmly, `that ain't the worst thing in the world, is it?' Jude stared first at his cock and then at him; he didn't look sure. `I've never...' `I know you aint,' the Mackem grunted. `How's it feel?' `I- I dunno. You're hard.' `Yeah, I am. And I won't pretend you ain't the main reason, kid.' `Huh. You could have just...' `I think you're getting a bit big for your boots, young alpha,' Jordan grunted. `We all know you're gonna be better than any of us, but... you're young. Learn some respect.' He closed Jude's hand about his dick and stroked it with him in a few slow movements, watching his flickering eyes, his embarrassed regretful face... and stroked his shoulder and arm a little more affectionately. `You'll be a better man for it,' he promised, before flopping down onto the bedding next to him and tugging his shorts and underwear fully away, down his fluffy thighs and past his knees. He lay there, watching the nervous way Jude licked his lips and turned on his side, reaching down for his prick... `You first,' Hendo said firmly, propped on his side, and cupping his heavy bollocks and perky shaft from beneath. `You're gonna give this a taste before you get what you want, mate.' Lying in front of him, Jude's whole body stiffened to match the heavy veiny cock in his grip; he stared back with obvious anger and then seemed to look resentfully down at the cock he'd struck, then back into Jordan's unmoving grin, then about the room distractedly - he was weighing up a sulk and a storming off, Jordan could tell, but he could see from the swollen monster how horny and riled the young pretender was, faced now with a real alpha. It was a good job, Jordan thought vaguely, that the pouting young hero had tried it on with him and not one of the other senior dominant men on their England squad, because he wasn't sure how the likes of Maguire would have handled this confrontation. `Go on,' he told his young roomie. `It won't hurt you. Just a taste.' Jude stared at it, and at him, and made a few beginnings of talking, but just grunting and sighing in an exasperated way - and then he took Jordan's dick in his hand and gave it some tentative strokes that were all the more pleasurable for their resentful uncertainty. `I've never-' he began to drone again but Jordan cut him off - `Just give it a little lick, and try it out, and I promise I'll suck you til you scream, Bells.' And he sprawled back, opening his thick legs ,and posing one strong arm behind his neck and head for support - with the other he helped Jude's hand to pull up and down his own long firm shaft in gentle strokes, then tickled his own balls and let Jude's hand continue for a few strokes. Bellingham shifted closer, rising up on his knees and then stooping forward. He stared, still almost resentfully into Hendo's eyes, and held himself in a crouch just over the former captain's crotch - he spat down accurately against the head of it and rubbed his wet palm up and down it, and Jordan treated him to a little `Mmm' of pleasure before reaching to stroke the muscles of his resting arm. But - `That ain't the same as taking it in your mouth, matey.' And so, cowed by the friendly authority of Henderson, Bellingham stooped lower, looking frankly terrified, and open his lips - and Jordan clenched his glutes and raised his hips, and guided his excited cock to meet that hesitant mouth. He let his tip brush those full lips, chuckling softly as Jude pulled aside and tried again. He held the base of his cock and let his massaging hand move up Jude's arm onto his shoulder and then his neck, and he guided him to meet his prick - he felt the lips part and move over the head of his dick, felt the nervous touch of tongue on head. `Mmm,' he groaned loudly, even though Jude pulled back again and made a retching face as if he was about to rush off to the loo - `Go on,' he purred eagerly and commandingly, `give it a proper suck for me, man.' It took a little more cajoling, a little more gentle massaging touch to the neck and shoulder, and a few more grimacing retreats, but he eased his dick into that virgin mouth and felt Jude's tongue slide across his shaft - Bellingham knew what to do, from his own selfish enjoyment, but he seemed terrified to go for it, seemed too sure of his disgust before he had a chance to change his mind. But he tried, out of submission or loyalty, the beta man to Henderson's alpha status, and there was something sweet and loveable in his compliance - but Jordan was hardly going to force it and be so selfish, so he stopped when he'd pushed half of his tool into Jude's uncertain mouth and heard the spluttering coughs that followed. He laughed and stroked his wet dick and began to sit up. Bellingham's face looked relieved at this small sign of satisfaction, but Hendo shook his head, taking only a slow brief hold and pull of the young lad's big throbber - `Get on your hands and knees,' he growled - this time he could see the same slow terror dawn on the Real Madrid warrior's face, but he could see no intention to defy or argue, he could see the compliance of someone who was thinking only with their erection. Still, Jude moved slowly and uncomfortably, turning away and lifting back onto his knees, pants bunched about his ankles - and he asked `W-w-what do you w-w-wanna do?' as Jordan creaked the bed by sliding off it and getting to his feet at its end. This, he thought, was a good view: the La Liga sensation, England's great new export, posed on hands and knees on the bed, with his powerful legs parallel brown trunks, and his smooth bare back meeting them in the strong bulging mounds of his mocha-brown buttocks. Jordan stood at the foot of the bed and pulled back and forth on his cock, wet with Jude's spittle, and so close to cumming already. He let the stammering question hang in the air, enjoying the implied submission of the nervously open demand, and certainly excited by the prospect of fulfilling its worst fear - but much more measured and realistic in his expectations. Still, he quietly left Jude wondering and tense, as he sank down to the edge of the bed and rested on one hand on one strong glute, whilst the other teased his own member: his turn to spit, parting the smooth brown cheeks first and gobbing into the darker hairier furrow between them, finding the attractive pink pinpoint of the young man's rosebud. Jordan spot noisily into it again, feeling the kneeling body shiver, and then he lowered his face and went for it - he knew his beard must tickle the unexpecting cheeks, but he buried his face between the strong glutes and ran his tongue against the quivering virgin hole. To Henderson's delicious enjoyment, Bellingham moaned immediately and loudly, and his crack tasted a little sweaty from the light play on the field; Jordan rimmed him with the skill he'd developed as he eased first Neco and then Trent into taking him, applying his tongue to their holes in the same way he'd sent his wife over the edge all through their rich sexual relationship. Bellingham moaned and whimpered, sounding more submissive than ever, and Jordan gripped the sides of his arse and really went for it, pausing only to spit and slobber, and to prise the tight cheeks further apart - he didn't bother to try a finger, knowing how tight this arrogant young arse would be, but he ate it as much as he could, and stopped only when his own greed told him that it was time to suck. Then he helped to flip Jude into a lying position, legs in the air, and he briefly rimmed him some more at this more awkward angle, face pressed up against his gooch and balls, and he'd spunked his own load into his hand and lap moments before he even lifted his head and applied his strong masculine mouth to the girth and length of Jude's weapon. Still pulling on his tingling cock and oozing out the last of his load, Jordan brought his head bobbing up and down, sucking hungrily on this big cock as he had a couple of times before, finally giving over the oral service that the 20-year-old had tried to bully out of him in the bathroom door as if he was the one in charge - he definitely had a few things to learn, this young king of Spain, about his place in this pride of lions. Of course, Jude didn't last, and Jordan soon took a little of his salty depost in his mouth, letting the rest spill messily as he pulled away panting. He licked more of it from the big swollen head and then just kissed his balls and in his inner thighs and - once more for luck - stooped down to slurp a lick against his arse-crack. Henderson, his own chest heaving, got up from the edge of the bed and stood there tidying his shorts and the heavy stiff contents that was pushed back into them. He laughed gently and rubbed his dirty mouth on the back of one hairy arm, 6ft of pale muscular authority at the foot of the bed. In front of him, Jude trembled and moaned, recovering slowly, and looking still anxious about the things he'd tried - Jordan had no idea whether anyone, man or woman, had ever tasted that perfect arse, but the writhing surprise of the youngster suggested it was new and taboo for him. As he straightened himself up and tugged his pants roughly up his long mighty legs, Jude shot him a conflicted look, a mixture of resentment and gratitude, and Jordan found and tossed him his t-shirt, then went away towards the bathroom. He paused in the doorway, only half-consciously aping the dominant pose with which the Brummie had earlier confronted him: the 33-year-old posed a little more naturally in the doorframe and scratched at the outline of his wilting hard-on. `Here,' he barked at the other prime midfielder. `Come on, I'll scrub your back in the shower if you're quick, sexy.' He saw Jude hesitant but then quickly swing off the bed and scurry to join him, gawky and gangly again in his 6ft1 towering height, nervous in his disposition, but ready to do as the Liverpool daddy asked - and Jordan just chuckled and pulled him into a manly hug in the doorway, before pushing him towards the shower and dropping his shorts. `You're a sexy young bastard, Jude,' he told him as he knocked on the hot water and passed him the soap, `but don't you ever try that again, okay? I'm nobody's bitch. Now - turn around and let me soap up that amazing body, okay?' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-382

Date: Sun, 14 Jan 2024 21:37:08 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 382 Part 382: New Year, Old Ghosts An upmarket department store in central London, Christmas Eve - the shop floor thronged with tourist huddles, last-minute panickers, forlorn partners dragged around, time-wasting youths. He did his best to weave tactically through the forest of bulky coats, laden bags, and festive ire. He had his baseball cap pulled down and the collar of his own chunky jacket lifted high, minimising his chance of recognition and attention as he whizzed about to do the last of his own shopping - after all, the visiting family that he was hosting would be weaving their way through outer London traffic right now and he needed to be back before them. It was exciting, in a way, to be the one hosting his family's Christmas celebrations at his West London place, though largely he would prefer to be up in Liverpool like old times. But such was a footballer's life, his new club having trounced visiting Newcastle yesterday for much-needed points, and another fixture lying ahead on Boxing Day, where Luton FC would be travelling north to Sheffield. It was a peculiarity of English football to ruin players' Christmases like this, but it was one most players embraced, Ross Barkley included - perhaps his brief spell in the French league had changed his view, or he was just feeling particularly nostalgic for his Everton roots. So here he was, the strapping midfielder, weighed down by a host of hasty gifts and edible treats, readying himself for hosting slightly more guests than his roomy bachelor pad could realistically accommodate. Ross was yet to fix himself on the outskirts of London in a better location for his new club, and was still living in the flashy penthouse that he'd bought with the last Chelsea paycheque, sitting empty for the duration of his Nicois adventure. Just one last thing to get, he thought, trying to make himself more compact and agile, navigating the ground floor of Liberty of London. There was a particular perfume that his Scouse mum loved more than any other, and somehow everywhere else he'd visited was entirely sold out. The fragrances section here was expansive but chaotic, and the Premiership footballer was loathe to engage a sales girl and risk some excitement when anybody realised he was a celeb - although such high levels of recognition in day-to-day life were increasingly rare for Ross, whose football career had been wavering for years, but with some slow upward trajectory in his valiant efforts for struggling Luton. He grimaced at his own mixture of fears - being recognised and NOT being recognised - and got on with it, muscling his way through the perfume counters and trying not to knock anything or anyone flying with his shopping bags and bulky layers, until he spotted it, hawkeyed with urgency and determination. Forward he hurried, and he paused to put down the carefully balanced shopping bags at either side, then reached to take a box of the overpriced scent from the shelf, bumping arms with the next customer as he did so. Ross mumbled out a perfunctory `Sorry mate' in a hurry, unable to soften the Scouse inflection of the phrase, and he was vaguely alarmed when a hand grabbed him by the arm, as if there was about to be an outburst of Christmas Eve retail road rage - he turned sharply to the other shopper, expecting some red-faced husband who was ready to fight him tooth and nail for the arbitrary gift. `Ross,' came a gaspy voice, thick and masculine and more ambiguously accented than his own Merseyside tones - it might have taken him moments to recognise the man next to him, given that the other senior footballer was making the same half-arsed efforts to go incognito as he... but the husky beard and rugged features were instantly recognisable to him, even with a beanie hat pulled low and a heavy scarf wrapped about half of his face. Eric. Taken by surprise, Barkley froze, clutching the box of perfume. `Oh, hi,' was all he managed, wooden and heavy, blinking a few times at the bloke next to him. `Er - Merry Christmas Eve,' the Tottenham player said quietly after a similarly awkward moment of seeming to be startled - there was something shifty in his icy eyes and his posture, but then Barkley was the same, wanting to grab his bags and barge away towards a counter. He was conscious of the crowds and of the time, but it wasn't just that urging him to hurry - he wasn't sure what to say or do about being face-to-face with this fella for the first time in... how long, exactly? `Yeah,' Ross said slowly back, `Happy holidays, I suppose.' He wasn't sure why he added that phrase, and he felt rude and foolish, but then one clear thought shot through the muddle of emotions and memories that were threatening to explode in his head - `Congratulations,' he said heavily, leaving it vague - he could just mean on Eric's summer marriage, but it was more than that. He'd seen only today on Instagram the picture of Dier's wife cradling her bump, and he knew that married life was going well. He stared blankly at him, trying not to let all of his outrage and horror show on his lean face, but suspecting a guilty twitch in the movement of the other man's face. `Er, thanks,' the 29-year-old said to him vaguely, as if unsure which bit he was being congratulated on, or what exactly Ross knew - he looked like he had more to say but was having trouble getting it out, and Barkley wasn't feeling patient or inclined to give him time to do so. `I need to buy this,' he blurted. `Last thing, then home, y'know.' `Right, yeah,' murmured Eric very faintly, then a bit more decisively, `Did you get the gift I sent you for your 30th this month, mate...?' A brief mental image of a small jewellery box and some stupid fucking cuff-links, which had gone straight into the bin. Ross didn't answer, just giving a quick frosty look at the other fella, and then clutching at his bags. `I'm in a bit of a rush,' was all he said, then very begrudgingly, `Have a good one, lad.' And then he beetled away as quickly as he could, rushing so much that he almost darted out into Carnaby Street without paying, before the presence of a wary security guard reminded him and he joined the nearest queue - he glanced once over his shoulder with a mixture of fear and hope, but saw no sign of Eric Dier in the crowd of shoppers any more, as if the Christmas Eve encounter had been some sort of Scrooge ghostly apparition and nothing more. Ross bought the perfume, shoved it into the lighter of his many bags, and fled the store - back to his car, back on the stagnant roads, back to the flat, ready to play host. But Christmas already felt a long time ago, now that 2024 was underway - and Luton's scrabble away from the bottom of the Premiership table was ploughing on. Tonight, an irritating draw was being treated almost like a win, given that fellow relegation fodder Burnley had led for most of the 90 minutes, and Barkley's late assist had allowed his teammate Carlton Morris to equalise in the 92nd minute. Points stolen back from their close contenders made the Friday night draw at Turf Moor feel victorious, and the mood in the away changing rooms reflected that, so that Barkley's thoughts were far from the ghosts of Christmas past - especially with the solid chode of a Player of the Match award sitting heavily among his things as he peeled away damp cold footy kit from his 6ft2 physique. He was enjoying his season at the newly promoted side far more than his first post away from Chelsea life, and certainly more than his joyless latter years at Stamford Bridge itself. In many ways, he was enjoying his football in a way that hadn't been true since he abandoned his boyhood club, or since his forays into international football in a previous England squad. He quite liked feeling like a big fish in a small pond, and the lads here were all sound, full of hope and ambition in spite of a rocky few months - everyone had such great faith and respect in their equally optimistic and high-reaching manager, Rob Edwards, and the recent unity he'd seen in response to their captain's health crisis made the 30-year-old football hunk feel all the more committed to Luton Town. Down went his shorts and off came the long-sleeved Under-Armour vest, down now to just the stretchy grey briefs. With the deftness of a shy man who's been in locker-rooms for most of his life, they were off in the same instant the fresh towel wrapped about his slim waist, and Ross picked his way through the busy room to join the showers, one of the last to do so since and Morris had been stuck out in the cold for interview duty. If he let himself, self-conscious Ross could overthink the things he'd said and the way he'd spoken and convince himself it had been a disaster, but he was trying not to be that anxious guy any more, trying to be happy-go-lucky and match the plucky energy of the men around him here, many of whom were buoyed by their first taste of Premier League life, even after a real struggle to pick up Premier League points. Ross undid the towel and hooked it up at the side, shuffling through the hot damp air and gleaming bodies, finding a space to one side, and immediately punching the button to douse his cold achy form in lukewarm then scalding water. `Ross fucking Barkley!' boomed the voice next to him, and Carlton Morris elbowed him roughly with a deep laugh of appreciation. Grinning, Ross leaned across to high-five the goal-scorer and reminded him that the goal was in his name, then set about soaping up his chest and shoulders and getting on with his shower, always one to rush through such ablutions these days and minimise the time he had to be naked and shimmering among other athletic fellas. But Carlton, the substituted striker, was the opposite, chatty and gregarious even as he reached down to soap up his bollocks - he was loudly proclaiming Ross a superstar who was going to become a Luton legend, and then reaching aggressively for the lads nearest to them to elicit their agreement. Ross just laughed and focused on himself, but burly Carl was hard to ignore at his side, reaching over to tap and prod him and then leaning back on the wall as he rubbed soap suds down his prominent pectorals. `Look at this specimen!' the tall 28-year-old boomed across their side of the showers, and Barkley glanced past him at the bemused wet faces of the other three lads, who seemed to be sizing him up at Morris' request - it made Ross tense and hunch slightly, feeling their eyes on his tall lean body, his broad back and slim waist, his tattooed arm muscles, his... well, sizeable curving rear, the powerful legs that stretched down from it, never mind the wet droop of his long soft prick and sagging balls. Probably their eyes weren't taking in all of that detail, but Ross felt exposed and examined, and he wished his goal partner would shut up. `Premier League quality,' barked the damp blond fella at the far end of the short line - another substitute who had helped to turn the tide of the near defeat, Luke Berry, an upbeat guy who hailed from Cambridgeshire like Carlton Morris. `Like this one,' the midfielder was saying, grabbing at the broad dark shoulders of Andros Townsend next to him, Barkley's contemporary as one of the club's big promotion signings - and a former `next big thing' who'd played up and down the country. `Wasn't my night though,' Townsend said dismissively, `these two saved our bacon.' Between the two pairs was a fifth Luton player, a younger lad, who was nodding fervently and looking eagerly this way whilst running fingers through the dark blond mop of his hair. `It was a fucking brilliant play,' Alfie Doughty said firmly, full of admiration for how they'd equalised and earned the important point - and the 24-year-old Londoner went on, talking about what an exciting end to the game it had been. Carlton turned this way with a smug expression that made Ross chuckle, and the big broad striker continued to lean back into the tiled wall and shift his head side to side under the blast of water, which ran down his thick neck and onto his sandy-brown pecs, stubbled with hair regrowth. And Ross could not help but notice, though he pulled his gaze sharply away, that the 6ft1 lad was rolling his large spread hands down his six-pack and to his crotch to play idly with his bits - Ross blinked away that distraction and continued to wash the froth of soap suds away from his muscular limbs. `Stop playing with yerself, Morris,' called Berry, stupidly drawing attention to what Barkley was trying to ignore - and making Townsend, Doughty, and then Morris himself, burst out in stupid schoolboy laughter. `I scored a massive fucking goal,' complained the Cambridge-born striker. `Can't I play with my big dick for a minute, you prude?' `This one,' exclaimed his friend with playful disapproval, `he can hardly sit through a team talk without having a wank, for fuck's sake.' `Yeah, it's thinking about your mum,' Carlton told him simply. `Yeah, fittest MILF going,' Doughty threw in stupidly, trying to join the easy banter of the two more confident older lads - and Townsend was laughing heavily at all of them, shaking his head in what Ross was glad to see was a disinterested fashion. He wasn't sure where this banter was going and it made him vaguely uneasy - `Absolute wankers, the lot of you,' joked Andros as he strode away from them, and Ross felt that he ought to hurry to do the same - but just as he turned off his shower and shifted back, he was thumped playfully in the ribs by the next man. `Oi, you not gonna give yourself a tug?' Carlton demanded simply, a big dopey smile cracking his freckled face, framed by the almost golden brown of his beard and short crop of hair. Ross started at this blunt question and realised, without looking too closely, that Carlton was not alone in reaching down to play with himself - smiling lazily across the steamy line of showers, Luke was doing the same, and now with the same effort at imitating their banter, Alfie had taken his dick in his hand and was trying to wank its short flaccid length in an awkward manner that looked like he wasn't sure if he was horny or joking. `Nowt like a shower wank,' Carl grunted simply. `Release some tension,' Luke agreed. `Don't they do that in the Prem, big lad?' Ross felt the tingling of his low balls, the soft rush of his waking cock, but he coughed awkwardly and lingered at his spot, glancing furtively between their smiling eyes, and then across the emptied shower block back towards the noise and fuss of the changing rooms. There was something of the initiation ritual about the mood of the others, something confrontational in their light humour, and he sensed that he needed to meet this challenge, and overcome some shyness - he forced a fuller laugh and cupped his privates, shrugging a shoulder. `Depends on the club,' he said vaguely. Always a little intense in his own way, the 6ft1 striker next to him was moving one thick-muscled arm in slow motions that signalled the serious strokes of his cock, and Ross allowed himself to look briefly down and note the girthy length that was rising to attention - certainly bigger than the weedy erection that was saluting from Luke's crotch now. Right then, this was happening! He rolled his eyes and pulled lazily at his cock, both pleased and irritated to feel it swell and stretch, realising just how horny he must be, though the Christmas and New Year period had been so furiously busy - and so crowdedly occupied at his bachelor pad - that he obviously hadn't sorted himself out. `This is fuckin' horny,' the 24-year-old Londoner said eagerly. `Oh chill out,' Berry told him, giving him a clip across the head - and Morris told him to `Calm down before you jizz already', and Barkley just laughed awkwardly, unsure of himself, unsure where this was going - unsure if he was just being pranked in a ridiculously committed fashion by the three established Luton names. They had to go get dried and changed now, surely, because they would all be due on the coach before long? `Just get so horny after a goal,' Carl said in a grunting fashion. `That's cos it happens so rarely,' Luke teased. `I think I get it,' Alfie said fawningly. Ross relaxed a little, stroking himself and feeling the firm thickness against his wet fingers, feeling the short curls of his regrown pubes, sighing a little at his own touch, and knocking the shower back on so that hot rivulets caressed his shoulders and travelled down his abs. He wanted the air to be thicker with steam so that the four of them tossing off at the wall wasn't quite so visible and obvious... but the showers were empty but for them, and so the curling tendrils of steam weren't quite the thick fog that he'd strolled into when he whipped away his towel. `Really, we shouldn't be wanking ourselves,' Carl was saying in a low growling chuckle, and Ross only half-heard - `Well, who are we calling in to take over?' chittered the youngster next to him, and then throaty knowing laughs from Morris and Berry - when Barkley glanced to the side, confused by the momentary silence, he blinked furiously and raised his brows. At his side, the thickset forward was leaning his shoulders back into the wall with his hips forward, and he had one hand at the shoulders of the slim young white lad next to him, whilst his other hand was guiding his onto his cock. `Come on, just give it a pull, lad,' the Cambridgeshire yob was grunting at the young winger, whilst the midfielder behind him laughed and continued to jerk off. Carlton turned his intense broad face this way and smirked showily this way, winking once - `Tell him, Barks,' grunted the goal-scoring hero of the night, as he guided a gawping Alfie into slowly pulling back and forth on his big circumcised erection, `young twerps like him ought to service heroes like us who really bring in the points, hey? It's like that in the Prem, isn't it? Tell him...' Hand pausing on his near-hard cock, the 30-year-old Evertonian just stared at them, his head full of all sorts of confused Chelsea flashbacks - the ghosts of a twinky young Mason Mount, and the intense leering desire of Frank Lampard, all of it brought back by Carlton's smirk and Alfie's nervously determined pout. He flicked his gaze past to Luke, who was chewing his lip and wanking quite enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy seeing this - what did these fellas get up to, for this to be such an obvious idea...? Well, who was Ross to judge, the things he'd seen and done... but was this really who he was now? `Here, look,' barked Morris now. `Barks is waiting his turn, isn't he.' `Yeah, Alf, you need to give the Man of the Match a tug!' Berry encouraged. Flustered and excited in spite of himself, Ross began to mumble his dismissal and laugh the idea off, but Doughty was being pushed his way, a slippery 5ft10 plaything in Morris' forceful paws. Suddenly the twinky winger was between them, the two big muscled lads who'd secured the draw, and Carlton was pushing at his shoulder, whilst Alfie reached tenderly down and held his hand an inch away from Ross' heavy meat - which had began to droop and deflate, but was twitching in anticipation of a lad's touch. Was he going to let this happen, let history repeat, fall into this situation...? He stood there against the wall, his whole muscular body tensed and awkward, but also aroused and alert, with Carlton and Luke leering on, and Alfie staring at him like a deer in headlights - would this young player really just do anything to be matey with the two senior blokes? Ross was standing there in that state of slow inevitable acceptance, of unexpected sexual need, of vague ghostly reminiscence into the things that had happened in Chelsea and beyond... when the other voice barked through the echoey quiet of the communal shower, slicing into his consciousness and making him flinch backwards with Alfie's fingers almost grazing the veins of his shaft. `LADS,' yelled the no-nonsense voice of their young manager. `What the fuck, fellas? I hope this ain't what it looks like, for god's sake - stop fondling yourselves and get a fucking move on, we've a long drive ahead! Jesus Christ fellas, it was just a draw, it's hardly a cause for a circle-jerk, is it?' It was all spoken in a quick rush, in that strangely matey informal way that worked for Rob Edwards, the faintest hint of amusement interlaced with his authority and impatience. It was all said in a matter of moments, but Ross shuffled backwards from Alfie and Carl, and he looked sharply across through the faint steam at the silhouette of their gaffer in the entranceway - how much could he really see? What exactly had he noticed, guessed, interpreted...? Morris and Berry were howling with laughter after their yelped `Yes gaffer' exclamations, moving already towards hanging towels - Doughty looked more alarmed, his face beetroot and a shiver of nervousness crossing his slim pale form as he backed away from Barkley, glancing repeatedly up and down from the thing he'd made to grab at his striker's command. And Ross himself, breathing heavily, snatched roughly for his towel and tied it so tight across his waist that his near-erection was strapped to one thigh. He angled himself into a tight corner whilst drying off, willing his fat semi to shrivel up, and unable to make eye contact with anyone else until he was safely clad in clean Luton gear and joining the shuffling queue for the bus - he especially couldn't make eye contact with their 41-year-old manager as they shook hands on the way onto the coach, a swift clap to the back and an almost dismissive `Well done' ushering him aboard. Ross tried to picture the scene through the older man's eyes, the four football lads lined up and handling themselves, but one of them pushed towards himself, and reaching for his... Jesus, was it 2020 in Chelsea, for fuck's sake? The 30-year-old grumpily ignored calls to go and sit with Carlton and Luke to join their singsong as if they'd won the FA Cup - he just put his earbuds in and sulked in a seat on his own, arms folded across his chest, thinking about all the ghosts of his recent past that had surfaced over this Christmas period - the birthday phone call he'd had with sweet Mason the other day, returning the affection of the young lad who had sent him a lovely gift for his recent 30th; the emails from Lampard, informing him of the negotiations he was in for a new management job on the continent, and how he would be looking to assemble a whole new squad once there; the invitations to various nights out and dinner parties from his former Nice teammate Joe Bryan, who played on the other side of London. He shrank away from all of these things in his head, burned by what he'd agreed to only a couple of nights ago, in a bar a few streets from his apartment... Wednesday night in West London, a much quieter scene than the Christmas Eve shop floor - and yet the two of them had been almost as awkward, almost as unable to communicate. They sat in a shielded booth at one end of the stark, trendy bar, and Ross silently let Eric get the drinks in, half measures of craft beer - let him talk, answering his questions with little more than grunts. In the silences, of which there were many, he questioned why he'd even responded to Dier's messages and agreed to meet - was he looking for closure, or daring to harbour stupid regressive hopes? He was angry at himself for the decision, because their little tete-a-tete was as uncomfortable and pointless as he might have guessed. But then the man across the table from him got to the point, and Barkley found himself interested in spite of his instincts - he stared thoughtfully across at the nervous fidgeting of the strapping defensive midfielder, the man who'd broadened his horizons and more besides, the man who'd shown him a greater intimacy than any other relationship in his adult life, and the man who'd dumped him over the phone as soon as he moved to France. Bayern Munich, Eric was saying, and Ross felt the strange reversal of their fates - here he was, back in London, back in the Premiership, and off Eric was going, off into Europe, into the Bundesliga... and chasing Harry Kane, of all people. He blinked and glanced away and finished his drunk, really unsure why Dier was so desperate to tell him all of this, updating him on the whole complicated process of a loan transfer deal, as if he wasn't a fellow footballer who'd been in similar positions. Eventually, the 30-year-old Liverpudlian just had to interrupt him, breaking across the hoarse gruffness of Eric's diluted English accent. `So what, you think I need to hear all this from you?' he demanded sourly. `You think now's the time for big communication, right, when it was the fucking silent treatment across the Channel when I actually needed you...?' He stared hard at his ex over their empty half-pints. Eric bristled indignantly - how dare he? - but nodded, and shifted awkwardly. He rubbed an open hand across his face. Ross felt nasty with anger and hurt, and he hissed more at the man who'd opened him up: `Where was the heart-to-heart when you decided to get MARRIED, Eric? And are you going to mention that you're going to be a DAD?' There was a long silence after that, and Barkley almost got up and left. He stared away for a long few moments and when he looked back, he started - there was the faint glisten of tears in those grey-blue eyes, and Dier's hands were curled into fists, white at the knuckles. Ross bit his lip and cleared his throat and shifted position on his bench. He almost reached a hand across the tabletop to grip one of those fists - but stopped himself. He made to go instead, angling out of the booth, ready to leave the Germany-bound traitor with the bill and hurry back to his apartment building... But there it was again, Eric's hand on his arm, like at the shelf of perfumes. In one long throaty speech, gruff and quiet, Eric spilled the truth at him - the investigators, the leak, the screenshot and photographs - the near-blackmail that had come his way out of nowhere, ready to expose him as a `gay' footballer. Eric told him in a whispered rush how he'd ended their relationship in fear to protect him, how he'd never meant to be such a cunt, how he'd never meant to hurt anyone - and a tear spilled down one of his cheeks, getting lost in that beard. It whirled through Ross's head and he just stared silently back at the other man like he was a stranger now - he was overwhelmed and bewildered, and he didn't know what to say. Eric was barely speaking in sentences any more, just blurting phrases at him, gripping his arm so fiercely. Ross was crushed by the avalanche of emotions that hovered at the edge of his consciousness ,and he reacted the only way he knew, which was to shove them aside and puff out his chest, faking disinterest. He pushed Eric's hand away from him and slid out of the booth. `Dunno why you're telling me this,' he said coldly, not meaning a word of it, but unable to look at Eric's dewy eyes or shaking lip. He could feel the sting of threatened tears in his own eyes, and he looked away to stop the other lad seeing. He pulled his coat on and didn't listen to what the Tottenham exile was saying. `Good luck in Germany, mate,' he told him, talking over him, then fishing a £20 out of one pocket of his skinny jeans, and slapping it on the table between them. `Ross, do you understand what I'm telling you?' snapped Dier, sounding almost angry. He stared him down, pausing only for a moment more. `I understand that you got married and are having a kid. I understand that I'm playing for Luton and that you're fucking off after Kane. I don't understand what you're trying to do here, lad, I really don't. Goodbye.' He marched away, out into the icy night, feeling the cold tears stream down his cheekbones the whole way home, not looking back once - he couldn't make sense of anything Dier had told him in those minutes, nor in the sleepless night that followed, nor two nights later on the coach south from Burnley to Luton. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 14 Jan 2024 21:37:08 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads Part 382 Part 382: New Year, Old Ghosts An upmarket department store in central London, Christmas Eve - the shop floor thronged with tourist huddles, last-minute panickers, forlorn partners dragged around, time-wasting youths. He did his best to weave tactically through the forest of bulky coats, laden bags, and festive ire. He had his baseball cap pulled down and the collar of his own chunky jacket lifted high, minimising his chance of recognition and attention as he whizzed about to do the last of his own shopping - after all, the visiting family that he was hosting would be weaving their way through outer London traffic right now and he needed to be back before them. It was exciting, in a way, to be the one hosting his family's Christmas celebrations at his West London place, though largely he would prefer to be up in Liverpool like old times. But such was a footballer's life, his new club having trounced visiting Newcastle yesterday for much-needed points, and another fixture lying ahead on Boxing Day, where Luton FC would be travelling north to Sheffield. It was a peculiarity of English football to ruin players' Christmases like this, but it was one most players embraced, Ross Barkley included - perhaps his brief spell in the French league had changed his view, or he was just feeling particularly nostalgic for his Everton roots. So here he was, the strapping midfielder, weighed down by a host of hasty gifts and edible treats, readying himself for hosting slightly more guests than his roomy bachelor pad could realistically accommodate. Ross was yet to fix himself on the outskirts of London in a better location for his new club, and was still living in the flashy penthouse that he'd bought with the last Chelsea paycheque, sitting empty for the duration of his Nicois adventure. Just one last thing to get, he thought, trying to make himself more compact and agile, navigating the ground floor of Liberty of London. There was a particular perfume that his Scouse mum loved more than any other, and somehow everywhere else he'd visited was entirely sold out. The fragrances section here was expansive but chaotic, and the Premiership footballer was loathe to engage a sales girl and risk some excitement when anybody realised he was a celeb - although such high levels of recognition in day-to-day life were increasingly rare for Ross, whose football career had been wavering for years, but with some slow upward trajectory in his valiant efforts for struggling Luton. He grimaced at his own mixture of fears - being recognised and NOT being recognised - and got on with it, muscling his way through the perfume counters and trying not to knock anything or anyone flying with his shopping bags and bulky layers, until he spotted it, hawkeyed with urgency and determination. Forward he hurried, and he paused to put down the carefully balanced shopping bags at either side, then reached to take a box of the overpriced scent from the shelf, bumping arms with the next customer as he did so. Ross mumbled out a perfunctory `Sorry mate' in a hurry, unable to soften the Scouse inflection of the phrase, and he was vaguely alarmed when a hand grabbed him by the arm, as if there was about to be an outburst of Christmas Eve retail road rage - he turned sharply to the other shopper, expecting some red-faced husband who was ready to fight him tooth and nail for the arbitrary gift. `Ross,' came a gaspy voice, thick and masculine and more ambiguously accented than his own Merseyside tones - it might have taken him moments to recognise the man next to him, given that the other senior footballer was making the same half-arsed efforts to go incognito as he... but the husky beard and rugged features were instantly recognisable to him, even with a beanie hat pulled low and a heavy scarf wrapped about half of his face. Eric. Taken by surprise, Barkley froze, clutching the box of perfume. `Oh, hi,' was all he managed, wooden and heavy, blinking a few times at the bloke next to him. `Er - Merry Christmas Eve,' the Tottenham player said quietly after a similarly awkward moment of seeming to be startled - there was something shifty in his icy eyes and his posture, but then Barkley was the same, wanting to grab his bags and barge away towards a counter. He was conscious of the crowds and of the time, but it wasn't just that urging him to hurry - he wasn't sure what to say or do about being face-to-face with this fella for the first time in... how long, exactly? `Yeah,' Ross said slowly back, `Happy holidays, I suppose.' He wasn't sure why he added that phrase, and he felt rude and foolish, but then one clear thought shot through the muddle of emotions and memories that were threatening to explode in his head - `Congratulations,' he said heavily, leaving it vague - he could just mean on Eric's summer marriage, but it was more than that. He'd seen only today on Instagram the picture of Dier's wife cradling her bump, and he knew that married life was going well. He stared blankly at him, trying not to let all of his outrage and horror show on his lean face, but suspecting a guilty twitch in the movement of the other man's face. `Er, thanks,' the 29-year-old said to him vaguely, as if unsure which bit he was being congratulated on, or what exactly Ross knew - he looked like he had more to say but was having trouble getting it out, and Barkley wasn't feeling patient or inclined to give him time to do so. `I need to buy this,' he blurted. `Last thing, then home, y'know.' `Right, yeah,' murmured Eric very faintly, then a bit more decisively, `Did you get the gift I sent you for your 30th this month, mate...?' A brief mental image of a small jewellery box and some stupid fucking cuff-links, which had gone straight into the bin. Ross didn't answer, just giving a quick frosty look at the other fella, and then clutching at his bags. `I'm in a bit of a rush,' was all he said, then very begrudgingly, `Have a good one, lad.' And then he beetled away as quickly as he could, rushing so much that he almost darted out into Carnaby Street without paying, before the presence of a wary security guard reminded him and he joined the nearest queue - he glanced once over his shoulder with a mixture of fear and hope, but saw no sign of Eric Dier in the crowd of shoppers any more, as if the Christmas Eve encounter had been some sort of Scrooge ghostly apparition and nothing more. Ross bought the perfume, shoved it into the lighter of his many bags, and fled the store - back to his car, back on the stagnant roads, back to the flat, ready to play host. But Christmas already felt a long time ago, now that 2024 was underway - and Luton's scrabble away from the bottom of the Premiership table was ploughing on. Tonight, an irritating draw was being treated almost like a win, given that fellow relegation fodder Burnley had led for most of the 90 minutes, and Barkley's late assist had allowed his teammate Carlton Morris to equalise in the 92nd minute. Points stolen back from their close contenders made the Friday night draw at Turf Moor feel victorious, and the mood in the away changing rooms reflected that, so that Barkley's thoughts were far from the ghosts of Christmas past - especially with the solid chode of a Player of the Match award sitting heavily among his things as he peeled away damp cold footy kit from his 6ft2 physique. He was enjoying his season at the newly promoted side far more than his first post away from Chelsea life, and certainly more than his joyless latter years at Stamford Bridge itself. In many ways, he was enjoying his football in a way that hadn't been true since he abandoned his boyhood club, or since his forays into international football in a previous England squad. He quite liked feeling like a big fish in a small pond, and the lads here were all sound, full of hope and ambition in spite of a rocky few months - everyone had such great faith and respect in their equally optimistic and high-reaching manager, Rob Edwards, and the recent unity he'd seen in response to their captain's health crisis made the 30-year-old football hunk feel all the more committed to Luton Town. Down went his shorts and off came the long-sleeved Under-Armour vest, down now to just the stretchy grey briefs. With the deftness of a shy man who's been in locker-rooms for most of his life, they were off in the same instant the fresh towel wrapped about his slim waist, and Ross picked his way through the busy room to join the showers, one of the last to do so since and Morris had been stuck out in the cold for interview duty. If he let himself, self-conscious Ross could overthink the things he'd said and the way he'd spoken and convince himself it had been a disaster, but he was trying not to be that anxious guy any more, trying to be happy-go-lucky and match the plucky energy of the men around him here, many of whom were buoyed by their first taste of Premier League life, even after a real struggle to pick up Premier League points. Ross undid the towel and hooked it up at the side, shuffling through the hot damp air and gleaming bodies, finding a space to one side, and immediately punching the button to douse his cold achy form in lukewarm then scalding water. `Ross fucking Barkley!' boomed the voice next to him, and Carlton Morris elbowed him roughly with a deep laugh of appreciation. Grinning, Ross leaned across to high-five the goal-scorer and reminded him that the goal was in his name, then set about soaping up his chest and shoulders and getting on with his shower, always one to rush through such ablutions these days and minimise the time he had to be naked and shimmering among other athletic fellas. But Carlton, the substituted striker, was the opposite, chatty and gregarious even as he reached down to soap up his bollocks - he was loudly proclaiming Ross a superstar who was going to become a Luton legend, and then reaching aggressively for the lads nearest to them to elicit their agreement. Ross just laughed and focused on himself, but burly Carl was hard to ignore at his side, reaching over to tap and prod him and then leaning back on the wall as he rubbed soap suds down his prominent pectorals. `Look at this specimen!' the tall 28-year-old boomed across their side of the showers, and Barkley glanced past him at the bemused wet faces of the other three lads, who seemed to be sizing him up at Morris' request - it made Ross tense and hunch slightly, feeling their eyes on his tall lean body, his broad back and slim waist, his tattooed arm muscles, his... well, sizeable curving rear, the powerful legs that stretched down from it, never mind the wet droop of his long soft prick and sagging balls. Probably their eyes weren't taking in all of that detail, but Ross felt exposed and examined, and he wished his goal partner would shut up. `Premier League quality,' barked the damp blond fella at the far end of the short line - another substitute who had helped to turn the tide of the near defeat, Luke Berry, an upbeat guy who hailed from Cambridgeshire like Carlton Morris. `Like this one,' the midfielder was saying, grabbing at the broad dark shoulders of Andros Townsend next to him, Barkley's contemporary as one of the club's big promotion signings - and a former `next big thing' who'd played up and down the country. `Wasn't my night though,' Townsend said dismissively, `these two saved our bacon.' Between the two pairs was a fifth Luton player, a younger lad, who was nodding fervently and looking eagerly this way whilst running fingers through the dark blond mop of his hair. `It was a fucking brilliant play,' Alfie Doughty said firmly, full of admiration for how they'd equalised and earned the important point - and the 24-year-old Londoner went on, talking about what an exciting end to the game it had been. Carlton turned this way with a smug expression that made Ross chuckle, and the big broad striker continued to lean back into the tiled wall and shift his head side to side under the blast of water, which ran down his thick neck and onto his sandy-brown pecs, stubbled with hair regrowth. And Ross could not help but notice, though he pulled his gaze sharply away, that the 6ft1 lad was rolling his large spread hands down his six-pack and to his crotch to play idly with his bits - Ross blinked away that distraction and continued to wash the froth of soap suds away from his muscular limbs. `Stop playing with yerself, Morris,' called Berry, stupidly drawing attention to what Barkley was trying to ignore - and making Townsend, Doughty, and then Morris himself, burst out in stupid schoolboy laughter. `I scored a massive fucking goal,' complained the Cambridge-born striker. `Can't I play with my big dick for a minute, you prude?' `This one,' exclaimed his friend with playful disapproval, `he can hardly sit through a team talk without having a wank, for fuck's sake.' `Yeah, it's thinking about your mum,' Carlton told him simply. `Yeah, fittest MILF going,' Doughty threw in stupidly, trying to join the easy banter of the two more confident older lads - and Townsend was laughing heavily at all of them, shaking his head in what Ross was glad to see was a disinterested fashion. He wasn't sure where this banter was going and it made him vaguely uneasy - `Absolute wankers, the lot of you,' joked Andros as he strode away from them, and Ross felt that he ought to hurry to do the same - but just as he turned off his shower and shifted back, he was thumped playfully in the ribs by the next man. `Oi, you not gonna give yourself a tug?' Carlton demanded simply, a big dopey smile cracking his freckled face, framed by the almost golden brown of his beard and short crop of hair. Ross started at this blunt question and realised, without looking too closely, that Carlton was not alone in reaching down to play with himself - smiling lazily across the steamy line of showers, Luke was doing the same, and now with the same effort at imitating their banter, Alfie had taken his dick in his hand and was trying to wank its short flaccid length in an awkward manner that looked like he wasn't sure if he was horny or joking. `Nowt like a shower wank,' Carl grunted simply. `Release some tension,' Luke agreed. `Don't they do that in the Prem, big lad?' Ross felt the tingling of his low balls, the soft rush of his waking cock, but he coughed awkwardly and lingered at his spot, glancing furtively between their smiling eyes, and then across the emptied shower block back towards the noise and fuss of the changing rooms. There was something of the initiation ritual about the mood of the others, something confrontational in their light humour, and he sensed that he needed to meet this challenge, and overcome some shyness - he forced a fuller laugh and cupped his privates, shrugging a shoulder. `Depends on the club,' he said vaguely. Always a little intense in his own way, the 6ft1 striker next to him was moving one thick-muscled arm in slow motions that signalled the serious strokes of his cock, and Ross allowed himself to look briefly down and note the girthy length that was rising to attention - certainly bigger than the weedy erection that was saluting from Luke's crotch now. Right then, this was happening! He rolled his eyes and pulled lazily at his cock, both pleased and irritated to feel it swell and stretch, realising just how horny he must be, though the Christmas and New Year period had been so furiously busy - and so crowdedly occupied at his bachelor pad - that he obviously hadn't sorted himself out. `This is fuckin' horny,' the 24-year-old Londoner said eagerly. `Oh chill out,' Berry told him, giving him a clip across the head - and Morris told him to `Calm down before you jizz already', and Barkley just laughed awkwardly, unsure of himself, unsure where this was going - unsure if he was just being pranked in a ridiculously committed fashion by the three established Luton names. They had to go get dried and changed now, surely, because they would all be due on the coach before long? `Just get so horny after a goal,' Carl said in a grunting fashion. `That's cos it happens so rarely,' Luke teased. `I think I get it,' Alfie said fawningly. Ross relaxed a little, stroking himself and feeling the firm thickness against his wet fingers, feeling the short curls of his regrown pubes, sighing a little at his own touch, and knocking the shower back on so that hot rivulets caressed his shoulders and travelled down his abs. He wanted the air to be thicker with steam so that the four of them tossing off at the wall wasn't quite so visible and obvious... but the showers were empty but for them, and so the curling tendrils of steam weren't quite the thick fog that he'd strolled into when he whipped away his towel. `Really, we shouldn't be wanking ourselves,' Carl was saying in a low growling chuckle, and Ross only half-heard - `Well, who are we calling in to take over?' chittered the youngster next to him, and then throaty knowing laughs from Morris and Berry - when Barkley glanced to the side, confused by the momentary silence, he blinked furiously and raised his brows. At his side, the thickset forward was leaning his shoulders back into the wall with his hips forward, and he had one hand at the shoulders of the slim young white lad next to him, whilst his other hand was guiding his onto his cock. `Come on, just give it a pull, lad,' the Cambridgeshire yob was grunting at the young winger, whilst the midfielder behind him laughed and continued to jerk off. Carlton turned his intense broad face this way and smirked showily this way, winking once - `Tell him, Barks,' grunted the goal-scoring hero of the night, as he guided a gawping Alfie into slowly pulling back and forth on his big circumcised erection, `young twerps like him ought to service heroes like us who really bring in the points, hey? It's like that in the Prem, isn't it? Tell him...' Hand pausing on his near-hard cock, the 30-year-old Evertonian just stared at them, his head full of all sorts of confused Chelsea flashbacks - the ghosts of a twinky young Mason Mount, and the intense leering desire of Frank Lampard, all of it brought back by Carlton's smirk and Alfie's nervously determined pout. He flicked his gaze past to Luke, who was chewing his lip and wanking quite enthusiastically, seeming to enjoy seeing this - what did these fellas get up to, for this to be such an obvious idea...? Well, who was Ross to judge, the things he'd seen and done... but was this really who he was now? `Here, look,' barked Morris now. `Barks is waiting his turn, isn't he.' `Yeah, Alf, you need to give the Man of the Match a tug!' Berry encouraged. Flustered and excited in spite of himself, Ross began to mumble his dismissal and laugh the idea off, but Doughty was being pushed his way, a slippery 5ft10 plaything in Morris' forceful paws. Suddenly the twinky winger was between them, the two big muscled lads who'd secured the draw, and Carlton was pushing at his shoulder, whilst Alfie reached tenderly down and held his hand an inch away from Ross' heavy meat - which had began to droop and deflate, but was twitching in anticipation of a lad's touch. Was he going to let this happen, let history repeat, fall into this situation...? He stood there against the wall, his whole muscular body tensed and awkward, but also aroused and alert, with Carlton and Luke leering on, and Alfie staring at him like a deer in headlights - would this young player really just do anything to be matey with the two senior blokes? Ross was standing there in that state of slow inevitable acceptance, of unexpected sexual need, of vague ghostly reminiscence into the things that had happened in Chelsea and beyond... when the other voice barked through the echoey quiet of the communal shower, slicing into his consciousness and making him flinch backwards with Alfie's fingers almost grazing the veins of his shaft. `LADS,' yelled the no-nonsense voice of their young manager. `What the fuck, fellas? I hope this ain't what it looks like, for god's sake - stop fondling yourselves and get a fucking move on, we've a long drive ahead! Jesus Christ fellas, it was just a draw, it's hardly a cause for a circle-jerk, is it?' It was all spoken in a quick rush, in that strangely matey informal way that worked for Rob Edwards, the faintest hint of amusement interlaced with his authority and impatience. It was all said in a matter of moments, but Ross shuffled backwards from Alfie and Carl, and he looked sharply across through the faint steam at the silhouette of their gaffer in the entranceway - how much could he really see? What exactly had he noticed, guessed, interpreted...? Morris and Berry were howling with laughter after their yelped `Yes gaffer' exclamations, moving already towards hanging towels - Doughty looked more alarmed, his face beetroot and a shiver of nervousness crossing his slim pale form as he backed away from Barkley, glancing repeatedly up and down from the thing he'd made to grab at his striker's command. And Ross himself, breathing heavily, snatched roughly for his towel and tied it so tight across his waist that his near-erection was strapped to one thigh. He angled himself into a tight corner whilst drying off, willing his fat semi to shrivel up, and unable to make eye contact with anyone else until he was safely clad in clean Luton gear and joining the shuffling queue for the bus - he especially couldn't make eye contact with their 41-year-old manager as they shook hands on the way onto the coach, a swift clap to the back and an almost dismissive `Well done' ushering him aboard. Ross tried to picture the scene through the older man's eyes, the four football lads lined up and handling themselves, but one of them pushed towards himself, and reaching for his... Jesus, was it 2020 in Chelsea, for fuck's sake? The 30-year-old grumpily ignored calls to go and sit with Carlton and Luke to join their singsong as if they'd won the FA Cup - he just put his earbuds in and sulked in a seat on his own, arms folded across his chest, thinking about all the ghosts of his recent past that had surfaced over this Christmas period - the birthday phone call he'd had with sweet Mason the other day, returning the affection of the young lad who had sent him a lovely gift for his recent 30th; the emails from Lampard, informing him of the negotiations he was in for a new management job on the continent, and how he would be looking to assemble a whole new squad once there; the invitations to various nights out and dinner parties from his former Nice teammate Joe Bryan, who played on the other side of London. He shrank away from all of these things in his head, burned by what he'd agreed to only a couple of nights ago, in a bar a few streets from his apartment... Wednesday night in West London, a much quieter scene than the Christmas Eve shop floor - and yet the two of them had been almost as awkward, almost as unable to communicate. They sat in a shielded booth at one end of the stark, trendy bar, and Ross silently let Eric get the drinks in, half measures of craft beer - let him talk, answering his questions with little more than grunts. In the silences, of which there were many, he questioned why he'd even responded to Dier's messages and agreed to meet - was he looking for closure, or daring to harbour stupid regressive hopes? He was angry at himself for the decision, because their little tete-a-tete was as uncomfortable and pointless as he might have guessed. But then the man across the table from him got to the point, and Barkley found himself interested in spite of his instincts - he stared thoughtfully across at the nervous fidgeting of the strapping defensive midfielder, the man who'd broadened his horizons and more besides, the man who'd shown him a greater intimacy than any other relationship in his adult life, and the man who'd dumped him over the phone as soon as he moved to France. Bayern Munich, Eric was saying, and Ross felt the strange reversal of their fates - here he was, back in London, back in the Premiership, and off Eric was going, off into Europe, into the Bundesliga... and chasing Harry Kane, of all people. He blinked and glanced away and finished his drunk, really unsure why Dier was so desperate to tell him all of this, updating him on the whole complicated process of a loan transfer deal, as if he wasn't a fellow footballer who'd been in similar positions. Eventually, the 30-year-old Liverpudlian just had to interrupt him, breaking across the hoarse gruffness of Eric's diluted English accent. `So what, you think I need to hear all this from you?' he demanded sourly. `You think now's the time for big communication, right, when it was the fucking silent treatment across the Channel when I actually needed you...?' He stared hard at his ex over their empty half-pints. Eric bristled indignantly - how dare he? - but nodded, and shifted awkwardly. He rubbed an open hand across his face. Ross felt nasty with anger and hurt, and he hissed more at the man who'd opened him up: `Where was the heart-to-heart when you decided to get MARRIED, Eric? And are you going to mention that you're going to be a DAD?' There was a long silence after that, and Barkley almost got up and left. He stared away for a long few moments and when he looked back, he started - there was the faint glisten of tears in those grey-blue eyes, and Dier's hands were curled into fists, white at the knuckles. Ross bit his lip and cleared his throat and shifted position on his bench. He almost reached a hand across the tabletop to grip one of those fists - but stopped himself. He made to go instead, angling out of the booth, ready to leave the Germany-bound traitor with the bill and hurry back to his apartment building... But there it was again, Eric's hand on his arm, like at the shelf of perfumes. In one long throaty speech, gruff and quiet, Eric spilled the truth at him - the investigators, the leak, the screenshot and photographs - the near-blackmail that had come his way out of nowhere, ready to expose him as a `gay' footballer. Eric told him in a whispered rush how he'd ended their relationship in fear to protect him, how he'd never meant to be such a cunt, how he'd never meant to hurt anyone - and a tear spilled down one of his cheeks, getting lost in that beard. It whirled through Ross's head and he just stared silently back at the other man like he was a stranger now - he was overwhelmed and bewildered, and he didn't know what to say. Eric was barely speaking in sentences any more, just blurting phrases at him, gripping his arm so fiercely. Ross was crushed by the avalanche of emotions that hovered at the edge of his consciousness ,and he reacted the only way he knew, which was to shove them aside and puff out his chest, faking disinterest. He pushed Eric's hand away from him and slid out of the booth. `Dunno why you're telling me this,' he said coldly, not meaning a word of it, but unable to look at Eric's dewy eyes or shaking lip. He could feel the sting of threatened tears in his own eyes, and he looked away to stop the other lad seeing. He pulled his coat on and didn't listen to what the Tottenham exile was saying. `Good luck in Germany, mate,' he told him, talking over him, then fishing a £20 out of one pocket of his skinny jeans, and slapping it on the table between them. `Ross, do you understand what I'm telling you?' snapped Dier, sounding almost angry. He stared him down, pausing only for a moment more. `I understand that you got married and are having a kid. I understand that I'm playing for Luton and that you're fucking off after Kane. I don't understand what you're trying to do here, lad, I really don't. Goodbye.' He marched away, out into the icy night, feeling the cold tears stream down his cheekbones the whole way home, not looking back once - he couldn't make sense of anything Dier had told him in those minutes, nor in the sleepless night that followed, nor two nights later on the coach south from Burnley to Luton. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-395

Date: Fri, 15 Mar 2024 06:04:42 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 395 Part 395: Beaten (Off) at the Last Minute The quiet bar of a mid-range but conveniently located hotel, its windows overlooked the motorway out of the south coast town - commercial radio droned in the background and few customers remained to sup beer or wine in its dated decor, rendered gloomy by the heavy rainfall on the misty windows. But one figure was propped up at the bar on his own, elbows to the counter in hunched posture on his stool, pint nursed between his resting hands; the single barman on duty tonight had given up his attempts to strike up conversation with the football manager who had lingered on here after dismissing the rest of his cohort with a curfew. Now that barman was instead turning his half-interested attention to a different strapping athletic guest who was sauntering hesitantly into the bar area and approaching one end of the same bar - the shift worker wasn't interested enough in his hotel's relatively famous occupants tonight to note that the tracksuit-clad bloke strutting up to him and ordering a pint should actually be away in his suite as per said curfew. He was interested in pouring the pint, taking payment, and accepting the Scouse-accented man's generous tip, and then relaxing by the till and texting his girlfriend. If he'd looked up, he might have noticed the alarmed awkwardness on the 6ft2 footballer's face, realising that he'd just bought his contraband pint and was now stood a few stools away from the hunched gloom of his Luton Town manager; he might have noticed a similar look of faint embarrassed guilt on the silver-edged features of the club manager as he looked up from the dregs of his pint and acknowledged the arrival of the other sportsman at this small dated bar. Ignored by their barman, the player and manager gave each other knowing nods that spoke volumes about how neither of them should still be up, though it was clear that the manager held the power over this state of affairs - but 41-year-old Rob Edwards looked slightly too dejected and fatigued to offer any criticism of seeing Ross Barkley out of bed and sneaking into the bar at ten to midnight, given that the players had been dismissed over an hour ago by their beloved gaffer. `Can I join ya?' the 30-year-old midfielder asked simply, hovering close to the next stool, pint in one hand, and other shoved into the taut pocket of his Luton tracksuit pants. A simple wordless nod from the handsome young manager of their Hertfordshire club, gesturing at the stool as if to acknowledge it was a `free country', then turning quite gloomily back to his pint; with a little gesturing wave, he also caught the attention of the barman, not without some difficulty, and motioned that he was ready for another. The hulking Liverpudlian shifted until comfortable on the next stool and stared down at his drink with a similarly heavy manner to the Luton gaffer, who drained the last of his and awaited its replacement. `Some night,' Ross offered quietly. `You're telling me,' Rob agreed grimly. It was being touted as a great Premiership comeback by their Bournemouth hosts, since the Luton visitors had been 3-0 up - Ross himself smashing the third into the back of the net - before a stellar performance bringing Bournemouth first level, 3-3, and then stealing all the points, somehow ending 4-3 after all; insane. But a closer onlooker might have begun to suspect that there was a little more on the minds of Edwards and Barkley, the two broad-shouldered footballing men who now sat elbow to elbow, nursing pints with the manner of mid-afternoon alcoholics in a local Wetherspoons. `Still,' the retired centre-back now said in the same low growl of dismay, `some fight from you lads. Cheers to that, or something like it-' And he raised his glass to Barkley's, the plastic pints clanking blandly together for a moment, and making both men smile ironically at the low-rate accommodation their newly promoted club could manage this year, certainly compared to what the gaffer supposed his midfield signing might once upon a time have been used to at Chelsea or Everton. And with a little shared look of resigned grumpiness and what-the-hell acceptance, the two men raised glasses to their lips and took another swig of intoxicating lager. For Edwards at least, the problem had begun shortly before the match even begun, and the 3-0 lead at half-time might have done little to soothe his worry. After all, it had been a really embarrassing scene that the Luton manager had created, and he supposed what really bothered him now was the silence, the uncertainty, the hovering threat of what might be said and done as consequences to his slip of judgement. The former Wales international had left his team to warm-up under the instruction of his vice, keen to be part of the hospitality going on elsewhere in Bournemouth's stadium: it was a special evening, Luton's out-of-action captain returning to the scene of his health crisis to pay his thanks to the medical staff who had essentially saved his life. A heavy jacket over his quarter-zip sweater, Rob had found and shadowed Tom Lockyer upstairs in part of the stadium's events space; Rob wanted to support his favoured centre-back on what might be an emotionally charged night, as well as making his own thankyou gestures to the Bournemouth staff who had intervened so effectively that day. But survivor Lockyer and the medics themselves were the stars and so Edwards kept fairly quiet, a strong but silent presence, and the recovering football pro gave him plenty of grateful looks as he remained close by and interrupted only when it seemed right - Rob was someone who took his duty of care to his men very seriously, it was a big part of his managing ethos, and nothing had proven that to himself or others quite like the experience of Tom's cardiac arrest, surgery, and recovery. By the time the meet and greet and photoshoot were over, he felt as emotional himself as if it was back at that previous away fixture and the turmoil that followed - he actually felt himself tear up in one eye as he and the 29-year-old Welshman descended some stairs. Tom could have bundled off towards the hospitality box where his family were waiting for him to watch the game, but of course he wanted to come down and mingle with the preparing players, as dedicated as ever to the team - Rob felt a fresh surge of affection and admiration for his chosen captain, and he threw a sturdy arm about the younger man's shoulders as they rounded another landing. The pair of them tried to chat lightly, but both found themselves choking up, and the 41-year-old quickly apologised for his own emotions, feeling silly compared to the trauma that the football player had experienced first-hand - but Tom dismissed that as stupid and began to thank him profusely for his constant support since the event, trying to capture in words just how present his manager had been for him and his family in a difficult time... and of course this just set them both off, and soon both masculine athletes were shiny-cheeked with cheers and, after a minute, laughing embarrassedly at themselves as they hugged and patted one another's backs on the landing. `God, the things we go through,' huffed the Cardiff-born defender. `Together, though,' Rob assured him, squeezing him tight about the shoulders and briefly cupping the back of his head in one affectionate hand, and lingering in this intimate hold of manly friendship - `always together,' he pressed, really urging Lockyer to lean on him and the others, and wanting to reassure him that the support wasn't going anywhere. And the 29-year-old smiled back at him with shiny eyes, remaining close in that hold, his own puffy-sleeved arm draped about Rob's waist. Looking back on it tonight, halfway down his third pint, Edwards really couldn't understand what had come over him - perhaps he was just so unused to holding another man so intimately to him for a moment too long, perhaps he'd acted on some stupid autopilot or instinct that had been triggered by confusion and emotion. Sure enough, like some lost madman, he'd leaned in closer to the hug, and really held tightly onto the recovering player, and angled his face in towards his - the two 6ft1 athletes so close together that their breath mingled on their lips - had Rob even known he was going in for a kiss before that breathy near-contact and the sharp intake on Tom's part? Suddenly Lockyer was yanking away from him, his face a thunderous frown, glossy eyes blinking rapidly, lips parting in a question that he didn't know how to phrase; an the gaffer jus stared at him, open-mouthed too, hunched forward in that embracing posture, but no longer holding anyone - he slurred his words as he began to say, `What was that?', but Lokcyer's angry accusation slapped him across his reddening face: `Did you try to kiss me, boss?' Tom continued to blink and frown furiously and stare harshly at him, squaring up and taking another step back, whilst Rob just stared confusedly at him and rubbed a clammy hand across his own bristly face - `Er, what?' It seemed like only hearing it worded by Tom was enough to make him appreciate what he'd instinctively begun to do, but he shook his head and stopped mumbling, staring down at the ground and shifting foot to foot - he tried to speak again but Tom's voice cut angrily across his, `What the fuck, boss?' `Tom,' he began, and then more firmly, `Lockyer!' - but the out-of-action centre-back was spinning on his heel and heading back up the flight of stairs, hands thrust into pockets, leaving his manager stood embarrassedly on the landing, dry-mouthed and damp-eyed, and trying to understand what the hell had just happened. For Ross, on the other hand, the bother had begun last week - or was just the latest in a series of unfortunate events in another sense, given his hard work to reclaim his spot in the Premier League and restore his lost reputation as a powerful up-and-coming player when leaving Everton for Chelsea - but it was not entirely disconnected from the plight of the handsome young Luton manager. The interview had taken place at Luton's training ground early last week, and Barkley had assumed it was largely triggered by some good stats and the idle chat that he might finally get a fresh call-up back to the Southgate club at St George's Park - and to begin with, it had been just that, generic but positive questioning about his career highs and lows, and what his gradual comeback at Luton had meant to him as he turned 30 and entered his supposed `prime' as an attacking midfield threat. The Scouser had begun to feel more comfortable in these scenarios lately, especially when pre-recorded rather than on live telly, though he was still not the most articulate or self-assured of media personalities in his sport - he still tried the anxiety management techniques that Eric's therapy self-books had taught him whilst lounging on his boyfriend's couch, but they only worked half the time. He sat there, man-spreading his hefty thighs on a small chair, socked feet tucked into comfy sliders, training tracksuit clinging to his taut body, and did his best to answer in detail, and attempt something approaching charm and humour with the interviewer from the sports media channel; that was until one of the interviewer's questions really caught him off-guard and made him stare awkwardly back at him, reduced to a monosyllabic reluctance that felt like regressing several years to his later Chelsea years. `I just felt like I had a lot to prove,' he continued to the man on the next seat, resting his arms on his thighs, the baby-blue training top tight against his arms and shoulders. `I've not played that much over the last few years...' And he'd been the one to mention the manager, he supposed, and his supportive style being an attractive quality as he considered a move to Luton Town; but then the comment from the interview was such a curveball! `Well, speaking of the manager...' Ross had leant in - fair enough - ready to talk about the gaffer, before the reporter guy suddenly remarked, `He's constantly being told he's a very good-looking lad - how does that feel to play for a manager who's always being called so handsome, haha...?' It took Ross a few long moments to answer, his face going subtly red, leaning across the chairs and staring uncomfortably at the visiting reporter - Ross's first thoughts were to question what the nosy fucker knew or thought he knew, and who'd been saying what about him - but those anxious thoughts were pushed back enough for him to force a laugh and remark, `Yeh... he's a charmer, isn't he...?' He mumbled something else about the staff saying Edwards was `the best-looking manager in the league', rubbing a fist across his clammy red face, and then forcing another heavy laugh. It wasn't a big deal, really, just a momentary confusion and embarrassment - such an odd thing for a footy reporter to ask about! - and the interview concluded soon afterwards with several other slightly random questions about current controversies of the league, and then Barkley found himself dismissed and able to the rest of the afternoon's training circuit. He quickly forgot about the whole conversation and his discomfort at being grilled on his gaffer's good looks by that TV loon. Until a couple of days when clips of the interview circulated on social media and caught the attention of his teammates. Big brash Carlton Morris had been most vocal about it, always trying to set himself up as the squad joker, cooing over Barkley and his `crush' on the boss, but others joined in, from Townsend to Kaminski, from Doughty to Hashioka; like the interview itself, it didn't need to be a big deal, but Ross still had many hang-ups about his recent years of bi-curiosity and then full-on gay romance (and heartbreak), so being associated with the ongoing banter of `handsome' Rob Edwards was hardly what was needed for his peace of mind...! Jokes about their gaffer being a footy heartthrob were from new on the Luton training ground, but Ross being the butt of them was an unpleasant twist; and nobody seemed ready to point out that the same interviewer had asked two other lads on the team the same question that day. Perhaps it was just cos Barkley was such a hulking beast of a Scouser, looking like a much more aggressive yob than he ever lived up to, a scally accent that the other Luton players loved to impersonate - or perhaps it was just because he got so visibly uncomfortable when the joke was raised, especially once they began barking it at Edwards himself, players taking turns to show the gaffer the clip on their phones. Rob Edwards was predictably cool and dismissive about it, but Barkley suddenly found he could hardly make eye contact with his own head coach, even though he knew he was entirely overreacting to the little gaff. And it might have faded away like any other bit of club banter, he supposed, if some shitty tabloid rag hadn't published that stupid poll yesterday - some clever sod smuggling numerous copies of it onto the team bus as they travelled down from Luton to Bournemouth for tonight's rescheduled match. `You're Fit & You Know You Are!' read the chant-based pun of the headline, with a dimpled-smiling Edwards in the centre of the photo-spread - the apparent No.1 winner of a tabloid poll on the sexiest managers in the Premier League, `beating off' all the competition as loud cocky Morris put it when he stated passing the newspapers up the aisle of their moving coach. Ostensibly, it was a bit of affectionate banter for their boss - Edwards seemed unfazed and even uninterested, the jokes like water off a duck-s back - but it didn't take long to segue into a few jokes about Ross himself voting in the poll, and his pre-match mindset made the 30-year-old Merseysider even less inclined to laugh along with it. He sat and sulked heavily on his own and must have radiated annoyance, enough to stop the banter, but also to ostracise him as a grumpy loner, and by the time they were warming up in the Bournemouth stadium, he just felt ridiculous - he was supposed to be making pals here and settling in for a good few seasons of establishing Luton in the top flight - not making enemies and behaving so pompously over a bit of banter...! It was Rob who suggested a couple more drinks, although he knew it wasn't the most sensible idea - but the hotel bar was closing and he was enjoying the chance to talk more socially with one of the squad's most introverted Englishmen. At first, he thought Ross was just embarrassed or even offended by the invitation, because he was slow to answer, but then he was nodding heavily and rapping his knuckles idly on the bartop, slurring a `Yes, gaffer!' with some vaguely sincere enthusiasm. And so they'd left the empty bar behind, the barman looking bored and impatient, and Edwards had led Barkley up one floor to where his own suite awaited - he was pretty much the only member of the travelling away entourage who had a suite to himself, and it was an aspect of football management that Rob found vaguely difficult. He missed the camaraderie and banter of room-sharing when he'd been an active centre-back, a chequered career roaming between various Northwest and Midlands footy clubs. He said as much to Ross as he removed first a pair of frosty beer bottles from the mini-bar, and then a couple of vodka miniatures which he poured like shots into glass tumblers - he explained to his midfield player that management could be a bit lonely at times, and then he laughed off his own self-pity and apologised to the younger guy for becoming maudlin. He'd already explained to Ross how he'd got a bit over-emotional later on over the Lockyer scenes, but with one crucial detail missing from the anecdote. Ross, he was pleased to find, was an open-hearted and understanding listener, although this was helped by the fact that both men were a little bit pissed now. `Think your room is bigger than our shared ones,' the 30-year-old pointed out to him as he kicked and scuffed his way about the suite, unzipping his training jersey and letting it hang open over the taut white t-shirt below. `Well, lonely with perks,' Rob chuckled back, standing at the other side of the large room and playing with the TV remote to see what channels he had access to it - Ross had been less forthcoming in sharing his woes over their pints, and yet Rob had stumbled across it without trying, telling him that the silly jokes about that `Sexy Manager' poll would die away in no time at all - `bloody stupid nonsense', he called it, and he loudly chastised the more vocal players who had been trying to wind them both up on the coach. `I don't really care,' Barkley told him, but it was obvious he was lying. `It's a load of shit anyway,' the 41-year-old groaned, giving up on the TV and picking up his beer; he followed Ross towards the open windows and looked down on the blurred headlights of the still-active motorway lanes. `I mean, sexy, me? Haha. For fuck's sake, not even my missus thinks that...' He wasn't fishing for compliments, not knowingly, he was just sick of trying to look cool with the bizarre line of chat whenever he had to deal with the less football-focused avenues of the British media - and as a younger man he'd never seemed to generate much fuss as anything other than perfectly average. `Load of bollocks,' he declared, `I dunno what they're on about.' `Oh, I dunno,' slurred the slightly taller lad at his side by the windows, looking thoughtfully out at the wet night - `You're definitely up there.' He sounded sincere but half-interested, rather than affectionately jokey, and Rob immediately turned his way to frown curiously at his approval - Ross caught his eye and glanced back, looking rueful, and then forcing out a familiar throaty laugh as when pinned by that interviewer - Rob had seen the clip several times, of course, because almost everyone he knew on social media shared it with him with a slew of laughing-crying emojis. `Well, thanks,' he laughed. `You know what I mean,' Barkley insisted, less casually. `I really don't,' the football coach insisted, `but-' `You're a good-looking guy,' Ross told him, almost snappish, `I just dunno why that bastard felt the need to ask ME about it...' `Well, probably cos you're a bit of a looker yourself, mate,' Rob chuckled back, nudging him at the elbow - he was trying to diffuse any embarrassment, but he also meant it, and he found himself pausing to study the Scouse lad's looks in the reflection on the glass, and then in the flesh at his side - he WAS a good-looking guy, in a more rough-hewn style than his own soft friendly manner, and he was certainly an impressive muscular build. Rob shook off his own inner monologue of appraisal and clinked their bottles. `Here's to two sexy bastards, eh?' And then they were both laughing more openly, brief tension gone, both quite drunk and relaxed compared to the moping moods that had connected them at the bar an hour ago. As Edwards downed more of his beer and moved about the room, he felt less of a grip on himself or the night, idly considering how unprofessional it was for him to have one of his squad up here sharing a drink - favouritism or hypocrisy, he wasn't sure of his crime, but he wondered about Barkley's roommate and the fact that he'd been so sour in refusing to let the lads stay up and drown their sorrows together, insisting on the need for an early journey tomorrow and a solid recovery day before prep for their next crucial fixture. But it was hard for Rob to give much worry to the transgression of cheeky drinks with a key player - when his addled thoughts became organised enough for worry, they kept trying to turn to that accusing glare on Tom Lockyer's face. A second pair of beers were noisily opened, and he dismissed Ross suggesting that he ought to find his way back to his own room and try not to wake up Townsend; he pressed the fresh icy Peroni into the other man's hand and then threw himself into a lounging posture on the bed, turning the telly back on and flicking through the channels. Warm, he peeled off the grey cashmere of his sweater, just lounging their in camel-coloured chinos and a marl grey t-shirt that hung loosely from his solid upper body, riding up enough to expose a strip of midriff as he stroked absently at the soft curls of hair about his belly button. Half-noticed by the increasingly drunk manager, Ross seemed to dawdle about the room and try a couple of seats - the stiff armchair by the windows, and the simpler study chair at the bureau - before flopping down onto the bed a short distance from him, also stripped down to t-shirt, so that his arm muscles bulged as they folded over his chest. Rob looked at them admiringly, vaguely studying the artwork of tattoos, and then the swell of a developed chest, and the sharp features of a serious thoughtful face. Barkley looked this way, seeming to catch him staring - but Edwards just smiled limply at his player, slumped there almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He didn't feel the emotional intensity of staring into poor Tom Lockyer's face earlier, and he was drunk enough to start forgetting the way he'd held him and leaned in, following some instinct that had lain buried for longer than he could explain. Rob blinked, and realised he was still staring at the lad. `Sorry,' he mumbled. `S'alright,' slurred the Scouser, sounding as wasted and exhausted as he felt. `Sexiest manager,' Edwards blurted suddenly, a hollow laugh, `what a load of shit.' `Ah, shurrup...' `My wife doesn't even agree!' the 41-year-old complained again. He rubbed a hand across his hot face. `I mean, if she did, maybe she'd give me a fucking blowjob once in a while, right?' Another strained laugh. `Shit, what am I on about...' `Haha, I'll pretend I didn't hear that one, gaffer... Here, gimme that remote.' `Ugh. Ignore me. Talking rubbish. Sexiest fucking manager? Biggest bloody idiot.' `Shurrup - I thought none of it fazed you, boss?' `Well, I can hardly ignore it, I just have too much else to focus on...' `Of course, of course...' `And where are all these people who find me so-called sexy, eh?' he groaned. `Not that I'd ever cheat on the wife, you understand, but... it might be nice to feel like that could ever be an option, ha...!' `Oh, whatever,' drawled the lad at his side, flicking through the channels. `You must get offers all the time.' `Nah,' Rob insisted. `Not a fucking flutter. But - like I said, I'd NEVER cheat - never touch another lass, not really - I love her, I just - I mean...' He was talking too much, and he was at that special wired stage of drunkenness where he wasn't 100% sure what he was saying aloud and what he was just thinking - he could barely concentrate on the late-night football review that Ross had landed upon, where a couple of cunts in suits were discussing their loss against Bournemouth. He barked `Get this off' but Ross had already changed the channel, and both drunk men were laughing so heavily that the headboard shook behind their strong shoulders. Rob reached clumsily to the side and rested a hand on the warm bare skin of the lad's forearm. `No more about footy,' he groaned. `Let's forget about that fucking match until the team talk on Friday.' `Agreed,' Ross replied, in what sounded like a yawn - and Rob left his hand gently on top of the lad's arm, feeling the soft warmth of his skin, the thin tickle of hair growth, and just beyond his reach, the resting density of his muscular torso. But then he could feel a closer brush of their arms and it took a few tingling moments of drunken numbness to register that it wasn't his own hand now resting on the upper thigh of his chinos. `I'd never cheat,' he slurred vaguely. `I'd just like to meet these people who think I'm shexy, y'know...?' `Sure, gaffer...' He felt the hand creep slowly inwards across the plateau of his thick covered thigh, and he shifted his blinking eyes down to look at it - it was momentarily disembodied, an Addams Family creation, a remote hand connecting with the bulging front of his sensible middle-aged chinos - but then it was connected to that strong arm, and he was glancing across at the intense younger face which stared at him across the mounded pillows. Rob lay there, his chest rising and falling gently, and he made a vague purring of alarm as the fingers rubbed between his legs. `Hmm.' He was drunk, but he was not totally out of it - he definitely had enough consciousness to grab and remove that exploratory hand, or even land a smack on the cheeky face of the slouching Scouser at his hand. He could throw off this unexpected physical attention, he could kick the drunk lad out of his suite, send him back to his shared room where he belonged on another floor - he could do any of these things if he wanted. He just had to want to. He looked back down at the hand, watched its slow massaging motion, and he made another uncertain `Hmm' sound. It was not fully a conscious choice though, all of these things that he now didn't do - it was autopilot and instinct again, just like before the game, holding that fragile young man to him and letting his emotions guide him. And here and now, drunk in bed, he didn't even have to let those emotions guide anything - he just had to lie still and let it happen, and so that's what he did. Ross paused, his own breathing heavy and intense, and then he brought his other hand over. While one remained lightly clutching at the crotch of the chinos, the other gently undid the belt buckle. He let out a shivering breath and then relaxed his posture again, just the one hand at work: slowly but surely, it pulled open the flies of the trousers, and slid in for a warmer and closer grip of the older man's package. He watched as Rob closed his eyes and let out a longer and more purring `Hmmm...' Barkley was pissed, but he knew he was a little less drunk than the 41-year-old - he too thought about what he COULD do, how he could pull back his hand and laugh this off as a near-miss, an almost-mistake, a drunken misunderstanding that needn't ever be mentioned again. He could climb off the bed and let the drunken bloke start to snore, he could creep back through the hotel and find his way into his own cool bed, start to sleep off the beer and vodka, face the inevitable hangover and get over the Bournemouth defeat in another way. Yep, he thought dimly, that was all an option. But god, the softly stirring mass of an older man's cock, fat and warm beneath the cotton, felt so good in his clammy palm, and the latest gasping `Hmmm?' of Rob's breathy voice sounded curious and encouraging; so the 6ft2 Evertonian slid and shuffled his heavy body just a little closer on the kingsize, and he gave Rob's crotch a good firm squeeze, then began to push back at the obstructing boxer shorts and took the fleshy length in hand for real. He lay there, almost forgetting to breath, and worked his hand slowly, pulling gently on the fat sausage until it got thicker and harder - and with his other hand he reached inside his tracky pants and inside his black trunks, and began to stroke his own chunky monster. He half-expected that any second Edwards would fully realise what was happening and pull away, or lash out, or ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But Ross Barkley was beginning to understand why he'd become so flustered when the TV fella asked him that daft question: it wasn't just paranoid fear about his past, about that risk of blackmail exposure that Eric Dier had supposedly rescued him from before dumping him and marrying that floozy; he really had developed a crush on the strong and sensitive leader of his new football team, and he'd wanted to grab his big cock for ages. So he lay there side-by-side with his manager and played with his cock, finding it hard and excitable, and soon he yanked his own member out of his pants, wanking them both in rhythm. The noises that escaped Edwards' pursed lips were encouraging, but more physical approval came when he stretched his right arm out and hooked it about the back of Barkley's shoulders to hold him there, tight and authoritative, manly and affectionate - and Ross took this as permission to spit heavily in his palm and wank his gaffer off with a bit more furious energy, matching that rhythm with the right hand that now slid up and down his own veiny pole. He jerked them both and let out a series of excited gasps as he did so, enjoying the syncopation and the sight of both meaty weapons standing to wet-tipped attention - and he enjoyed the heat and tremor of his manager's body at his side, the slow slurring `Mmmm' noises, the deep surprised exhalations. `Fuck,' panted Edwards, more consciously. `Yes,' Barkley growled. `That feels... mmm, good...' `Yeah? Yeah? Mmm...' `Don't stop...' `I ain't stoppin', boss...' `Oh, fuck...' `Sexiest manager,' the 30-year-old footballer purred affectionately, an ironic lilt to his groaned compliment - he thought of that stupid newspaper sheet being passed around the coach, and he pictured the faces of the other mature men who made up the poll results - and for a brief moment he thought of a missing face that might have joined the line-up if the bastard wasn't unemployed. For a moment, in anticipation of regret, Ross's hand became slow and awkward on the fat heavy prick of the former Wales defender - he was thinking of how history repeats, and of how close he'd become with his illustrious manager during his doomed Chelsea era. Would this too become something of shame and regret for him, as his kinky little power struggle with Frank Lampard once had been...? `Keep going,' urged a tough growl from Rob's lips, his eyes closed but fluttering, and Ross stopped thinking about that Chelsea legend and those long-gone scenes - he returned to the moment and squeezed his slippery grip up and down the older man's shaft, giving more effortful attention to that than his own quivering prick, which felt like it might explode with cum if he rubbed it any more - he wondered if the Telford man was as close to spunking as he was, he couldn't tell from his fragmented gasps. `That's it,' moaned the married man, squeezing him tightly about the shoulders - and Ross leaned in a bit closer, finding a better angle to beat him off, but also leaning his face in very close - not kissing, but nuzzling in against the shoulder and cheek of the tensed older bloke, bringing their bodies a bit closer, locking one of his own heavy footballer legs over Rob's - and he pulled really rapidly on the taut cock, sure he must be close, so close, any second now - and he licked his lips as he stared at the glistening froth of pre-cum that drooled about the curled foreskin of it, wanting to lean over and go further, use his mouth as he'd learned to do in his years with beautiful Eric. But too late - because Rob was trembling and spasming at his side, and whilst most of the silvery-white cum shot in ugly streaks onto the camel-coloured trousers, some of its slid glossy and sticky over his own knuckles. With his right hand, he attended more aggressively to himself, pulling his manhood towards climax; but with Rob still quivering and gasping against him, he brought his shaky left hand up away from that cock, lifting it up across his tummy and chest, and then... he lapped his tongue across his knuckles and fingers, tasting that distinctive saltiness for the first time in many months, and brought himself shivering towards a peak of pleasure: he shot masses of Scouse jizz down the thighs of his trackies and spilt some of it on the chinos too, and rubbed the sticky stain of his knuckles down the chest of his white tee, trembling and gasping. Rob already had the beginnings of a hangover headache when he saw the prime player out of his room, fumbling with the belt of his chinos as he did; he mumbled and slurred goodbyes and a vague `thanks' to the Scouser at the door and then rested his whole weight in against the back of the door once it was shut and locked. He wasn't quite focused or conscious enough to even ask `What the hell was that?', he just slumped there with his face pushed into his folded arms, and his cock throbbing vaguely against the stained inside of his boxer shorts, his chinos threatening to droop form his waist and down his legs. Pushing away from the door, the drunk and satisfied football manager thought that a cold shower would do him good, but then found he didn't have the energy to cross the room and fight against the unknown bathroom - he kicked out of his trousers and then tumbled back into bed on his front, burying his face in the ruffle pillows and remaining on top of the covers in his paisley boxer shorts and saggy grey tee. He lay there, head throbbing and world spinning, and thought about how good his cock and balls felt - `Thanks Ross,' he slurred again to the quiet little world of his hotel room, with no idea how awkward and regretful he was going to feel in the morning when a sweet message from his wife would wake him five minutes before his alarm. And Ross drifted down the corridor, still adjusting the boxer briefs and tracksuit pants, his cock still swollen and heavy in them, and the armpits of his white t-shirt drenched in sweat. In his other hand he clutched the bundle of his training jersey, which dangled from his grip and trailed along the corridor carpet. He paused at the doors to the elevator and stared warily at his own reflection in the mirror - the Barkley that glared frostily back at him seemed like a ghost from his Premiership past, not the new man who had found himself in a quiet artsy romance with Dier, nor in the forlorn exile of Nice, not the more enlightened or progressive version of the awkward Scouser who had stood there and let Frank Lampard play with his nob in exchange for game minutes. History repeating, he thought bitterly - another frustrated older manager, another strong secret power struggle, more transgressions that weren't even knew or taboo to him any more. He wiped his cum-sticky paw down his chest again and winced, nauseous and dizzy with too much drank in a short period; his cock and balls ached wistfully for the pleasure that had ended, and he grimaced ruefully as he stumbled into the lift, punching randomly at buttons until it agreed to travel floors. Fuck, he thought, now I've really messed up. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 15 Mar 2024 06:04:42 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 395 Part 395: Beaten (Off) at the Last Minute The quiet bar of a mid-range but conveniently located hotel, its windows overlooked the motorway out of the south coast town - commercial radio droned in the background and few customers remained to sup beer or wine in its dated decor, rendered gloomy by the heavy rainfall on the misty windows. But one figure was propped up at the bar on his own, elbows to the counter in hunched posture on his stool, pint nursed between his resting hands; the single barman on duty tonight had given up his attempts to strike up conversation with the football manager who had lingered on here after dismissing the rest of his cohort with a curfew. Now that barman was instead turning his half-interested attention to a different strapping athletic guest who was sauntering hesitantly into the bar area and approaching one end of the same bar - the shift worker wasn't interested enough in his hotel's relatively famous occupants tonight to note that the tracksuit-clad bloke strutting up to him and ordering a pint should actually be away in his suite as per said curfew. He was interested in pouring the pint, taking payment, and accepting the Scouse-accented man's generous tip, and then relaxing by the till and texting his girlfriend. If he'd looked up, he might have noticed the alarmed awkwardness on the 6ft2 footballer's face, realising that he'd just bought his contraband pint and was now stood a few stools away from the hunched gloom of his Luton Town manager; he might have noticed a similar look of faint embarrassed guilt on the silver-edged features of the club manager as he looked up from the dregs of his pint and acknowledged the arrival of the other sportsman at this small dated bar. Ignored by their barman, the player and manager gave each other knowing nods that spoke volumes about how neither of them should still be up, though it was clear that the manager held the power over this state of affairs - but 41-year-old Rob Edwards looked slightly too dejected and fatigued to offer any criticism of seeing Ross Barkley out of bed and sneaking into the bar at ten to midnight, given that the players had been dismissed over an hour ago by their beloved gaffer. `Can I join ya?' the 30-year-old midfielder asked simply, hovering close to the next stool, pint in one hand, and other shoved into the taut pocket of his Luton tracksuit pants. A simple wordless nod from the handsome young manager of their Hertfordshire club, gesturing at the stool as if to acknowledge it was a `free country', then turning quite gloomily back to his pint; with a little gesturing wave, he also caught the attention of the barman, not without some difficulty, and motioned that he was ready for another. The hulking Liverpudlian shifted until comfortable on the next stool and stared down at his drink with a similarly heavy manner to the Luton gaffer, who drained the last of his and awaited its replacement. `Some night,' Ross offered quietly. `You're telling me,' Rob agreed grimly. It was being touted as a great Premiership comeback by their Bournemouth hosts, since the Luton visitors had been 3-0 up - Ross himself smashing the third into the back of the net - before a stellar performance bringing Bournemouth first level, 3-3, and then stealing all the points, somehow ending 4-3 after all; insane. But a closer onlooker might have begun to suspect that there was a little more on the minds of Edwards and Barkley, the two broad-shouldered footballing men who now sat elbow to elbow, nursing pints with the manner of mid-afternoon alcoholics in a local Wetherspoons. `Still,' the retired centre-back now said in the same low growl of dismay, `some fight from you lads. Cheers to that, or something like it-' And he raised his glass to Barkley's, the plastic pints clanking blandly together for a moment, and making both men smile ironically at the low-rate accommodation their newly promoted club could manage this year, certainly compared to what the gaffer supposed his midfield signing might once upon a time have been used to at Chelsea or Everton. And with a little shared look of resigned grumpiness and what-the-hell acceptance, the two men raised glasses to their lips and took another swig of intoxicating lager. For Edwards at least, the problem had begun shortly before the match even begun, and the 3-0 lead at half-time might have done little to soothe his worry. After all, it had been a really embarrassing scene that the Luton manager had created, and he supposed what really bothered him now was the silence, the uncertainty, the hovering threat of what might be said and done as consequences to his slip of judgement. The former Wales international had left his team to warm-up under the instruction of his vice, keen to be part of the hospitality going on elsewhere in Bournemouth's stadium: it was a special evening, Luton's out-of-action captain returning to the scene of his health crisis to pay his thanks to the medical staff who had essentially saved his life. A heavy jacket over his quarter-zip sweater, Rob had found and shadowed Tom Lockyer upstairs in part of the stadium's events space; Rob wanted to support his favoured centre-back on what might be an emotionally charged night, as well as making his own thankyou gestures to the Bournemouth staff who had intervened so effectively that day. But survivor Lockyer and the medics themselves were the stars and so Edwards kept fairly quiet, a strong but silent presence, and the recovering football pro gave him plenty of grateful looks as he remained close by and interrupted only when it seemed right - Rob was someone who took his duty of care to his men very seriously, it was a big part of his managing ethos, and nothing had proven that to himself or others quite like the experience of Tom's cardiac arrest, surgery, and recovery. By the time the meet and greet and photoshoot were over, he felt as emotional himself as if it was back at that previous away fixture and the turmoil that followed - he actually felt himself tear up in one eye as he and the 29-year-old Welshman descended some stairs. Tom could have bundled off towards the hospitality box where his family were waiting for him to watch the game, but of course he wanted to come down and mingle with the preparing players, as dedicated as ever to the team - Rob felt a fresh surge of affection and admiration for his chosen captain, and he threw a sturdy arm about the younger man's shoulders as they rounded another landing. The pair of them tried to chat lightly, but both found themselves choking up, and the 41-year-old quickly apologised for his own emotions, feeling silly compared to the trauma that the football player had experienced first-hand - but Tom dismissed that as stupid and began to thank him profusely for his constant support since the event, trying to capture in words just how present his manager had been for him and his family in a difficult time... and of course this just set them both off, and soon both masculine athletes were shiny-cheeked with cheers and, after a minute, laughing embarrassedly at themselves as they hugged and patted one another's backs on the landing. `God, the things we go through,' huffed the Cardiff-born defender. `Together, though,' Rob assured him, squeezing him tight about the shoulders and briefly cupping the back of his head in one affectionate hand, and lingering in this intimate hold of manly friendship - `always together,' he pressed, really urging Lockyer to lean on him and the others, and wanting to reassure him that the support wasn't going anywhere. And the 29-year-old smiled back at him with shiny eyes, remaining close in that hold, his own puffy-sleeved arm draped about Rob's waist. Looking back on it tonight, halfway down his third pint, Edwards really couldn't understand what had come over him - perhaps he was just so unused to holding another man so intimately to him for a moment too long, perhaps he'd acted on some stupid autopilot or instinct that had been triggered by confusion and emotion. Sure enough, like some lost madman, he'd leaned in closer to the hug, and really held tightly onto the recovering player, and angled his face in towards his - the two 6ft1 athletes so close together that their breath mingled on their lips - had Rob even known he was going in for a kiss before that breathy near-contact and the sharp intake on Tom's part? Suddenly Lockyer was yanking away from him, his face a thunderous frown, glossy eyes blinking rapidly, lips parting in a question that he didn't know how to phrase; an the gaffer jus stared at him, open-mouthed too, hunched forward in that embracing posture, but no longer holding anyone - he slurred his words as he began to say, `What was that?', but Lokcyer's angry accusation slapped him across his reddening face: `Did you try to kiss me, boss?' Tom continued to blink and frown furiously and stare harshly at him, squaring up and taking another step back, whilst Rob just stared confusedly at him and rubbed a clammy hand across his own bristly face - `Er, what?' It seemed like only hearing it worded by Tom was enough to make him appreciate what he'd instinctively begun to do, but he shook his head and stopped mumbling, staring down at the ground and shifting foot to foot - he tried to speak again but Tom's voice cut angrily across his, `What the fuck, boss?' `Tom,' he began, and then more firmly, `Lockyer!' - but the out-of-action centre-back was spinning on his heel and heading back up the flight of stairs, hands thrust into pockets, leaving his manager stood embarrassedly on the landing, dry-mouthed and damp-eyed, and trying to understand what the hell had just happened. For Ross, on the other hand, the bother had begun last week - or was just the latest in a series of unfortunate events in another sense, given his hard work to reclaim his spot in the Premier League and restore his lost reputation as a powerful up-and-coming player when leaving Everton for Chelsea - but it was not entirely disconnected from the plight of the handsome young Luton manager. The interview had taken place at Luton's training ground early last week, and Barkley had assumed it was largely triggered by some good stats and the idle chat that he might finally get a fresh call-up back to the Southgate club at St George's Park - and to begin with, it had been just that, generic but positive questioning about his career highs and lows, and what his gradual comeback at Luton had meant to him as he turned 30 and entered his supposed `prime' as an attacking midfield threat. The Scouser had begun to feel more comfortable in these scenarios lately, especially when pre-recorded rather than on live telly, though he was still not the most articulate or self-assured of media personalities in his sport - he still tried the anxiety management techniques that Eric's therapy self-books had taught him whilst lounging on his boyfriend's couch, but they only worked half the time. He sat there, man-spreading his hefty thighs on a small chair, socked feet tucked into comfy sliders, training tracksuit clinging to his taut body, and did his best to answer in detail, and attempt something approaching charm and humour with the interviewer from the sports media channel; that was until one of the interviewer's questions really caught him off-guard and made him stare awkwardly back at him, reduced to a monosyllabic reluctance that felt like regressing several years to his later Chelsea years. `I just felt like I had a lot to prove,' he continued to the man on the next seat, resting his arms on his thighs, the baby-blue training top tight against his arms and shoulders. `I've not played that much over the last few years...' And he'd been the one to mention the manager, he supposed, and his supportive style being an attractive quality as he considered a move to Luton Town; but then the comment from the interview was such a curveball! `Well, speaking of the manager...' Ross had leant in - fair enough - ready to talk about the gaffer, before the reporter guy suddenly remarked, `He's constantly being told he's a very good-looking lad - how does that feel to play for a manager who's always being called so handsome, haha...?' It took Ross a few long moments to answer, his face going subtly red, leaning across the chairs and staring uncomfortably at the visiting reporter - Ross's first thoughts were to question what the nosy fucker knew or thought he knew, and who'd been saying what about him - but those anxious thoughts were pushed back enough for him to force a laugh and remark, `Yeh... he's a charmer, isn't he...?' He mumbled something else about the staff saying Edwards was `the best-looking manager in the league', rubbing a fist across his clammy red face, and then forcing another heavy laugh. It wasn't a big deal, really, just a momentary confusion and embarrassment - such an odd thing for a footy reporter to ask about! - and the interview concluded soon afterwards with several other slightly random questions about current controversies of the league, and then Barkley found himself dismissed and able to the rest of the afternoon's training circuit. He quickly forgot about the whole conversation and his discomfort at being grilled on his gaffer's good looks by that TV loon. Until a couple of days when clips of the interview circulated on social media and caught the attention of his teammates. Big brash Carlton Morris had been most vocal about it, always trying to set himself up as the squad joker, cooing over Barkley and his `crush' on the boss, but others joined in, from Townsend to Kaminski, from Doughty to Hashioka; like the interview itself, it didn't need to be a big deal, but Ross still had many hang-ups about his recent years of bi-curiosity and then full-on gay romance (and heartbreak), so being associated with the ongoing banter of `handsome' Rob Edwards was hardly what was needed for his peace of mind...! Jokes about their gaffer being a footy heartthrob were from new on the Luton training ground, but Ross being the butt of them was an unpleasant twist; and nobody seemed ready to point out that the same interviewer had asked two other lads on the team the same question that day. Perhaps it was just cos Barkley was such a hulking beast of a Scouser, looking like a much more aggressive yob than he ever lived up to, a scally accent that the other Luton players loved to impersonate - or perhaps it was just because he got so visibly uncomfortable when the joke was raised, especially once they began barking it at Edwards himself, players taking turns to show the gaffer the clip on their phones. Rob Edwards was predictably cool and dismissive about it, but Barkley suddenly found he could hardly make eye contact with his own head coach, even though he knew he was entirely overreacting to the little gaff. And it might have faded away like any other bit of club banter, he supposed, if some shitty tabloid rag hadn't published that stupid poll yesterday - some clever sod smuggling numerous copies of it onto the team bus as they travelled down from Luton to Bournemouth for tonight's rescheduled match. `You're Fit &amp; You Know You Are!' read the chant-based pun of the headline, with a dimpled-smiling Edwards in the centre of the photo-spread - the apparent No.1 winner of a tabloid poll on the sexiest managers in the Premier League, `beating off' all the competition as loud cocky Morris put it when he stated passing the newspapers up the aisle of their moving coach. Ostensibly, it was a bit of affectionate banter for their boss - Edwards seemed unfazed and even uninterested, the jokes like water off a duck-s back - but it didn't take long to segue into a few jokes about Ross himself voting in the poll, and his pre-match mindset made the 30-year-old Merseysider even less inclined to laugh along with it. He sat and sulked heavily on his own and must have radiated annoyance, enough to stop the banter, but also to ostracise him as a grumpy loner, and by the time they were warming up in the Bournemouth stadium, he just felt ridiculous - he was supposed to be making pals here and settling in for a good few seasons of establishing Luton in the top flight - not making enemies and behaving so pompously over a bit of banter...! It was Rob who suggested a couple more drinks, although he knew it wasn't the most sensible idea - but the hotel bar was closing and he was enjoying the chance to talk more socially with one of the squad's most introverted Englishmen. At first, he thought Ross was just embarrassed or even offended by the invitation, because he was slow to answer, but then he was nodding heavily and rapping his knuckles idly on the bartop, slurring a `Yes, gaffer!' with some vaguely sincere enthusiasm. And so they'd left the empty bar behind, the barman looking bored and impatient, and Edwards had led Barkley up one floor to where his own suite awaited - he was pretty much the only member of the travelling away entourage who had a suite to himself, and it was an aspect of football management that Rob found vaguely difficult. He missed the camaraderie and banter of room-sharing when he'd been an active centre-back, a chequered career roaming between various Northwest and Midlands footy clubs. He said as much to Ross as he removed first a pair of frosty beer bottles from the mini-bar, and then a couple of vodka miniatures which he poured like shots into glass tumblers - he explained to his midfield player that management could be a bit lonely at times, and then he laughed off his own self-pity and apologised to the younger guy for becoming maudlin. He'd already explained to Ross how he'd got a bit over-emotional later on over the Lockyer scenes, but with one crucial detail missing from the anecdote. Ross, he was pleased to find, was an open-hearted and understanding listener, although this was helped by the fact that both men were a little bit pissed now. `Think your room is bigger than our shared ones,' the 30-year-old pointed out to him as he kicked and scuffed his way about the suite, unzipping his training jersey and letting it hang open over the taut white t-shirt below. `Well, lonely with perks,' Rob chuckled back, standing at the other side of the large room and playing with the TV remote to see what channels he had access to it - Ross had been less forthcoming in sharing his woes over their pints, and yet Rob had stumbled across it without trying, telling him that the silly jokes about that `Sexy Manager' poll would die away in no time at all - `bloody stupid nonsense', he called it, and he loudly chastised the more vocal players who had been trying to wind them both up on the coach. `I don't really care,' Barkley told him, but it was obvious he was lying. `It's a load of shit anyway,' the 41-year-old groaned, giving up on the TV and picking up his beer; he followed Ross towards the open windows and looked down on the blurred headlights of the still-active motorway lanes. `I mean, sexy, me? Haha. For fuck's sake, not even my missus thinks that...' He wasn't fishing for compliments, not knowingly, he was just sick of trying to look cool with the bizarre line of chat whenever he had to deal with the less football-focused avenues of the British media - and as a younger man he'd never seemed to generate much fuss as anything other than perfectly average. `Load of bollocks,' he declared, `I dunno what they're on about.' `Oh, I dunno,' slurred the slightly taller lad at his side by the windows, looking thoughtfully out at the wet night - `You're definitely up there.' He sounded sincere but half-interested, rather than affectionately jokey, and Rob immediately turned his way to frown curiously at his approval - Ross caught his eye and glanced back, looking rueful, and then forcing out a familiar throaty laugh as when pinned by that interviewer - Rob had seen the clip several times, of course, because almost everyone he knew on social media shared it with him with a slew of laughing-crying emojis. `Well, thanks,' he laughed. `You know what I mean,' Barkley insisted, less casually. `I really don't,' the football coach insisted, `but-' `You're a good-looking guy,' Ross told him, almost snappish, `I just dunno why that bastard felt the need to ask ME about it...' `Well, probably cos you're a bit of a looker yourself, mate,' Rob chuckled back, nudging him at the elbow - he was trying to diffuse any embarrassment, but he also meant it, and he found himself pausing to study the Scouse lad's looks in the reflection on the glass, and then in the flesh at his side - he WAS a good-looking guy, in a more rough-hewn style than his own soft friendly manner, and he was certainly an impressive muscular build. Rob shook off his own inner monologue of appraisal and clinked their bottles. `Here's to two sexy bastards, eh?' And then they were both laughing more openly, brief tension gone, both quite drunk and relaxed compared to the moping moods that had connected them at the bar an hour ago. As Edwards downed more of his beer and moved about the room, he felt less of a grip on himself or the night, idly considering how unprofessional it was for him to have one of his squad up here sharing a drink - favouritism or hypocrisy, he wasn't sure of his crime, but he wondered about Barkley's roommate and the fact that he'd been so sour in refusing to let the lads stay up and drown their sorrows together, insisting on the need for an early journey tomorrow and a solid recovery day before prep for their next crucial fixture. But it was hard for Rob to give much worry to the transgression of cheeky drinks with a key player - when his addled thoughts became organised enough for worry, they kept trying to turn to that accusing glare on Tom Lockyer's face. A second pair of beers were noisily opened, and he dismissed Ross suggesting that he ought to find his way back to his own room and try not to wake up Townsend; he pressed the fresh icy Peroni into the other man's hand and then threw himself into a lounging posture on the bed, turning the telly back on and flicking through the channels. Warm, he peeled off the grey cashmere of his sweater, just lounging their in camel-coloured chinos and a marl grey t-shirt that hung loosely from his solid upper body, riding up enough to expose a strip of midriff as he stroked absently at the soft curls of hair about his belly button. Half-noticed by the increasingly drunk manager, Ross seemed to dawdle about the room and try a couple of seats - the stiff armchair by the windows, and the simpler study chair at the bureau - before flopping down onto the bed a short distance from him, also stripped down to t-shirt, so that his arm muscles bulged as they folded over his chest. Rob looked at them admiringly, vaguely studying the artwork of tattoos, and then the swell of a developed chest, and the sharp features of a serious thoughtful face. Barkley looked this way, seeming to catch him staring - but Edwards just smiled limply at his player, slumped there almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He didn't feel the emotional intensity of staring into poor Tom Lockyer's face earlier, and he was drunk enough to start forgetting the way he'd held him and leaned in, following some instinct that had lain buried for longer than he could explain. Rob blinked, and realised he was still staring at the lad. `Sorry,' he mumbled. `S'alright,' slurred the Scouser, sounding as wasted and exhausted as he felt. `Sexiest manager,' Edwards blurted suddenly, a hollow laugh, `what a load of shit.' `Ah, shurrup...' `My wife doesn't even agree!' the 41-year-old complained again. He rubbed a hand across his hot face. `I mean, if she did, maybe she'd give me a fucking blowjob once in a while, right?' Another strained laugh. `Shit, what am I on about...' `Haha, I'll pretend I didn't hear that one, gaffer... Here, gimme that remote.' `Ugh. Ignore me. Talking rubbish. Sexiest fucking manager? Biggest bloody idiot.' `Shurrup - I thought none of it fazed you, boss?' `Well, I can hardly ignore it, I just have too much else to focus on...' `Of course, of course...' `And where are all these people who find me so-called sexy, eh?' he groaned. `Not that I'd ever cheat on the wife, you understand, but... it might be nice to feel like that could ever be an option, ha...!' `Oh, whatever,' drawled the lad at his side, flicking through the channels. `You must get offers all the time.' `Nah,' Rob insisted. `Not a fucking flutter. But - like I said, I'd NEVER cheat - never touch another lass, not really - I love her, I just - I mean...' He was talking too much, and he was at that special wired stage of drunkenness where he wasn't 100% sure what he was saying aloud and what he was just thinking - he could barely concentrate on the late-night football review that Ross had landed upon, where a couple of cunts in suits were discussing their loss against Bournemouth. He barked `Get this off' but Ross had already changed the channel, and both drunk men were laughing so heavily that the headboard shook behind their strong shoulders. Rob reached clumsily to the side and rested a hand on the warm bare skin of the lad's forearm. `No more about footy,' he groaned. `Let's forget about that fucking match until the team talk on Friday.' `Agreed,' Ross replied, in what sounded like a yawn - and Rob left his hand gently on top of the lad's arm, feeling the soft warmth of his skin, the thin tickle of hair growth, and just beyond his reach, the resting density of his muscular torso. But then he could feel a closer brush of their arms and it took a few tingling moments of drunken numbness to register that it wasn't his own hand now resting on the upper thigh of his chinos. `I'd never cheat,' he slurred vaguely. `I'd just like to meet these people who think I'm shexy, y'know...?' `Sure, gaffer...' He felt the hand creep slowly inwards across the plateau of his thick covered thigh, and he shifted his blinking eyes down to look at it - it was momentarily disembodied, an Addams Family creation, a remote hand connecting with the bulging front of his sensible middle-aged chinos - but then it was connected to that strong arm, and he was glancing across at the intense younger face which stared at him across the mounded pillows. Rob lay there, his chest rising and falling gently, and he made a vague purring of alarm as the fingers rubbed between his legs. `Hmm.' He was drunk, but he was not totally out of it - he definitely had enough consciousness to grab and remove that exploratory hand, or even land a smack on the cheeky face of the slouching Scouser at his hand. He could throw off this unexpected physical attention, he could kick the drunk lad out of his suite, send him back to his shared room where he belonged on another floor - he could do any of these things if he wanted. He just had to want to. He looked back down at the hand, watched its slow massaging motion, and he made another uncertain `Hmm' sound. It was not fully a conscious choice though, all of these things that he now didn't do - it was autopilot and instinct again, just like before the game, holding that fragile young man to him and letting his emotions guide him. And here and now, drunk in bed, he didn't even have to let those emotions guide anything - he just had to lie still and let it happen, and so that's what he did. Ross paused, his own breathing heavy and intense, and then he brought his other hand over. While one remained lightly clutching at the crotch of the chinos, the other gently undid the belt buckle. He let out a shivering breath and then relaxed his posture again, just the one hand at work: slowly but surely, it pulled open the flies of the trousers, and slid in for a warmer and closer grip of the older man's package. He watched as Rob closed his eyes and let out a longer and more purring `Hmmm...' Barkley was pissed, but he knew he was a little less drunk than the 41-year-old - he too thought about what he COULD do, how he could pull back his hand and laugh this off as a near-miss, an almost-mistake, a drunken misunderstanding that needn't ever be mentioned again. He could climb off the bed and let the drunken bloke start to snore, he could creep back through the hotel and find his way into his own cool bed, start to sleep off the beer and vodka, face the inevitable hangover and get over the Bournemouth defeat in another way. Yep, he thought dimly, that was all an option. But god, the softly stirring mass of an older man's cock, fat and warm beneath the cotton, felt so good in his clammy palm, and the latest gasping `Hmmm?' of Rob's breathy voice sounded curious and encouraging; so the 6ft2 Evertonian slid and shuffled his heavy body just a little closer on the kingsize, and he gave Rob's crotch a good firm squeeze, then began to push back at the obstructing boxer shorts and took the fleshy length in hand for real. He lay there, almost forgetting to breath, and worked his hand slowly, pulling gently on the fat sausage until it got thicker and harder - and with his other hand he reached inside his tracky pants and inside his black trunks, and began to stroke his own chunky monster. He half-expected that any second Edwards would fully realise what was happening and pull away, or lash out, or ask him what the hell he thought he was doing. But Ross Barkley was beginning to understand why he'd become so flustered when the TV fella asked him that daft question: it wasn't just paranoid fear about his past, about that risk of blackmail exposure that Eric Dier had supposedly rescued him from before dumping him and marrying that floozy; he really had developed a crush on the strong and sensitive leader of his new football team, and he'd wanted to grab his big cock for ages. So he lay there side-by-side with his manager and played with his cock, finding it hard and excitable, and soon he yanked his own member out of his pants, wanking them both in rhythm. The noises that escaped Edwards' pursed lips were encouraging, but more physical approval came when he stretched his right arm out and hooked it about the back of Barkley's shoulders to hold him there, tight and authoritative, manly and affectionate - and Ross took this as permission to spit heavily in his palm and wank his gaffer off with a bit more furious energy, matching that rhythm with the right hand that now slid up and down his own veiny pole. He jerked them both and let out a series of excited gasps as he did so, enjoying the syncopation and the sight of both meaty weapons standing to wet-tipped attention - and he enjoyed the heat and tremor of his manager's body at his side, the slow slurring `Mmmm' noises, the deep surprised exhalations. `Fuck,' panted Edwards, more consciously. `Yes,' Barkley growled. `That feels... mmm, good...' `Yeah? Yeah? Mmm...' `Don't stop...' `I ain't stoppin', boss...' `Oh, fuck...' `Sexiest manager,' the 30-year-old footballer purred affectionately, an ironic lilt to his groaned compliment - he thought of that stupid newspaper sheet being passed around the coach, and he pictured the faces of the other mature men who made up the poll results - and for a brief moment he thought of a missing face that might have joined the line-up if the bastard wasn't unemployed. For a moment, in anticipation of regret, Ross's hand became slow and awkward on the fat heavy prick of the former Wales defender - he was thinking of how history repeats, and of how close he'd become with his illustrious manager during his doomed Chelsea era. Would this too become something of shame and regret for him, as his kinky little power struggle with Frank Lampard once had been...? `Keep going,' urged a tough growl from Rob's lips, his eyes closed but fluttering, and Ross stopped thinking about that Chelsea legend and those long-gone scenes - he returned to the moment and squeezed his slippery grip up and down the older man's shaft, giving more effortful attention to that than his own quivering prick, which felt like it might explode with cum if he rubbed it any more - he wondered if the Telford man was as close to spunking as he was, he couldn't tell from his fragmented gasps. `That's it,' moaned the married man, squeezing him tightly about the shoulders - and Ross leaned in a bit closer, finding a better angle to beat him off, but also leaning his face in very close - not kissing, but nuzzling in against the shoulder and cheek of the tensed older bloke, bringing their bodies a bit closer, locking one of his own heavy footballer legs over Rob's - and he pulled really rapidly on the taut cock, sure he must be close, so close, any second now - and he licked his lips as he stared at the glistening froth of pre-cum that drooled about the curled foreskin of it, wanting to lean over and go further, use his mouth as he'd learned to do in his years with beautiful Eric. But too late - because Rob was trembling and spasming at his side, and whilst most of the silvery-white cum shot in ugly streaks onto the camel-coloured trousers, some of its slid glossy and sticky over his own knuckles. With his right hand, he attended more aggressively to himself, pulling his manhood towards climax; but with Rob still quivering and gasping against him, he brought his shaky left hand up away from that cock, lifting it up across his tummy and chest, and then... he lapped his tongue across his knuckles and fingers, tasting that distinctive saltiness for the first time in many months, and brought himself shivering towards a peak of pleasure: he shot masses of Scouse jizz down the thighs of his trackies and spilt some of it on the chinos too, and rubbed the sticky stain of his knuckles down the chest of his white tee, trembling and gasping. Rob already had the beginnings of a hangover headache when he saw the prime player out of his room, fumbling with the belt of his chinos as he did; he mumbled and slurred goodbyes and a vague `thanks' to the Scouser at the door and then rested his whole weight in against the back of the door once it was shut and locked. He wasn't quite focused or conscious enough to even ask `What the hell was that?', he just slumped there with his face pushed into his folded arms, and his cock throbbing vaguely against the stained inside of his boxer shorts, his chinos threatening to droop form his waist and down his legs. Pushing away from the door, the drunk and satisfied football manager thought that a cold shower would do him good, but then found he didn't have the energy to cross the room and fight against the unknown bathroom - he kicked out of his trousers and then tumbled back into bed on his front, burying his face in the ruffle pillows and remaining on top of the covers in his paisley boxer shorts and saggy grey tee. He lay there, head throbbing and world spinning, and thought about how good his cock and balls felt - `Thanks Ross,' he slurred again to the quiet little world of his hotel room, with no idea how awkward and regretful he was going to feel in the morning when a sweet message from his wife would wake him five minutes before his alarm. And Ross drifted down the corridor, still adjusting the boxer briefs and tracksuit pants, his cock still swollen and heavy in them, and the armpits of his white t-shirt drenched in sweat. In his other hand he clutched the bundle of his training jersey, which dangled from his grip and trailed along the corridor carpet. He paused at the doors to the elevator and stared warily at his own reflection in the mirror - the Barkley that glared frostily back at him seemed like a ghost from his Premiership past, not the new man who had found himself in a quiet artsy romance with Dier, nor in the forlorn exile of Nice, not the more enlightened or progressive version of the awkward Scouser who had stood there and let Frank Lampard play with his nob in exchange for game minutes. History repeating, he thought bitterly - another frustrated older manager, another strong secret power struggle, more transgressions that weren't even knew or taboo to him any more. He wiped his cum-sticky paw down his chest again and winced, nauseous and dizzy with too much drank in a short period; his cock and balls ached wistfully for the pleasure that had ended, and he grimaced ruefully as he stumbled into the lift, punching randomly at buttons until it agreed to travel floors. Fuck, he thought, now I've really messed up. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-374

Date: Tue, 7 Nov 2023 21:26:29 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads: Part 374 Part 374: A Damp Tuesday in Kirby Heavy November rain pelted against the tall windows of the fitness suite, outdoor floodlights forming dispersed halos of light against the cataracts on the panes. Indoors, the outer conditions could bring a shiver to the body of someone born for different climes, even if the gyms of the AXA Training Centre were adequately heated. Well, he thought, I'll just have to warm myself up more by pushing myself on the weights - he was hardly a slacker in that department as it was, attested by the intensely ripped physique beneath the clingy red of his Liverpool FC training gear. He pushed away thoughts of a hot break on the Egyptian coast or a transfer escape to a hotter country's league, and moved back instead to the free weights, needing to finish his strict regimen before calling it a day. Mohamed Salah was far from the only squad member still putting a shift in at the training centre, in spite of the gaffer's rather loose instructions at the end of the afternoon; in theory the lads could leave early and have more of an evening off, since tomorrow would see them travel to France ready for their Europa fixture against Toulouse. But senior stoics of the LFC first team were pushing themselves to end the day with a last burst of physical effort, and so a cluster of their younger wannabes were also hear, filling the fitness suites and passages of the slick modern training complex with idle chat and laddish bursts of laughter. Mo knew that there few names on this squad whom such youngsters respected and admired more fervently than himself - it was hardly egotism, it was just facts. And he was not immune to enjoying it, the way they deferred to him and ogled at the intensity of his musculature. Right now, lifting heavy free weights up against his pumped chest, the 31-year-old goal machine could tell that a couple of the nearest were glancing comparatively his way, conscious of his superior strength and determination. Young Ben Doak, for example, was staring this way whilst doing bicep curls with lighter weights, the young Scotsman frowning studiously in comparison and then blushing a little as Mo's complacent smile swung his way; and he could see other young midfielders McConnell and Clark struggling with the weight setting he'd left on the leg press machine, clearly too proud to lower the setting and accept their weaker young limbs versus the challenge that Salah had set himself about ten minutes ago, sweating profusely onto the leathery cushions of the machine. Mo reached the last of his reps and he clanked the gear away, panting lightly, and strolling in front of the mirrors on the far wall to inspect the way that certain muscles bulged through his clingy top and the short shorts that exposed much of his densely haired thighs. No doubt a few pairs of eyes were shifting this way to further admire him as one of the supreme fitness leaders of this ambitious team... but Mohamed didn't flicker his deep brown eyes away from his own reflection to acknowledge this, too confidently sure in the attention that he would never admit to loving. Hmm, he thought, perhaps it's been a long time since my last muscle selfie after the gym? The Egyptian king loved nothing more than dripping his superlative six-pack on social media and scrutinising the stupid thirsty messages that would explode into his DMs. All this attention, and yet Salah was a frustrated man. A man without... outlets. It was the Milner exit, he supposed, having struck up a quiet deal of sorts with the big muscle-bound elder statesman of Anfield, furious when the quietly confident champion moved away to his final challenges at Brighton. It was disgusting to Mohamed that he should suddenly be without an... `assistant' of that kind, having fucked James regularly in the mouth and arse for the final months of his Liverpool tenure, and enjoyed the casual readiness of the burly Yorkshireman, even when he initially shared it with that scamp Harvey. Mohamed couldn't help but glance sharply about the gym to see if young Elliott himself was still around, but there no longer seemed to be any sign of the mop-headed young star - a bright superficial friendship existed between the superstar striker and the up-and-coming winger, but it was a showy affection which no longer translated into private satisfaction. When he had most overtly approached the smirking young English boy about inviting him to a hotel room on a previous Europa trip, the 20-year-old had laughed and punched him in the bicep, and asked if King Mo would be returning the favour and 69ing him... The gall and confidence of the kid! So Mo had given up trying to rekindle that, just as he'd given up trying to lure a submissive Trent Alexander-Arnold back into his crotch, both former cock-suckers seemingly too sure of themself to be willing greedy sluts for their Pharoah. As these thoughts chipped through Salah's mind, he tugged irritably at the mesh inners of his gym shorts and turned frustratedly away from that hypermasculine reflection, no longer interested in the admiring or envious eyes of other gym-goers - the 31-year-old was bored and horny and suspected he would just have to go home and hope his wife was in the mood hours later. So fucking unfair! Said Trent certainly was a more confident and relaxed guy than in the days in which he had nightly taken Salah's thick cut cock between his lips - that was a very different era of nervous self-discovery for the Scouser, messed around by guy after guy. Sure, the handsome young footballer had experienced his first real heartbreak this summer, but he was slowly recovering, doing his best to move on from the horror of being so unceremoniously abandoned by his former captain. Day by day, Alexander-Arnold found it more possible to put Henderson's love behind him, though the prospect of joining him at another international camp still gave him a sickly feeling and the threat of private tears in the night. But he was confident and sure of himself, that was still true, and he could swagger around this training centre as one of the most senior and respected players, still aged only 25; Liverpool FC felt so much like home to him, and he was utterly comfortable in his private preference for guys, no longer torn-up about this secret as he'd been when dallying with Jonjo Kenney and being taken for granted by the likes of Salah or Gomez. And yet... There was someone new next to whom that confidence melted like candle-wax. `I should have done less on my shoulders,' barked the gruff Eastern European accent of his newer teammate, swaggering alongside him in the passage from the gyms to the main locker-rooms; both young men had their training tops pulled off and draped over one shoulder, and Trent couldn't help but admire the long strong torso of the other bloke as they walked, and the tattoo decoration of the nearer arm. Dominik Szoboszlai turned his way with one of his handsomely pouting smiles, and continued to complain about the pain in his muscular shoulders: `That last rep was one too many, you know what I say?' And Alexander-Arnold giggled along happily with him as he always did, following the Hungarian 23-year-old through into the large central changing rooms of the building, calling the bigger athlete a `Weakling' and `Pussy' then whipping him in the centre of his back with the sweaty nylon of his own gym top. The pair of them, increasingly inseparable pals, squared up to their lockers, and big Dominik continued to rub irritably at his upper arms and shoulders and make semi-exaggerated flinches of suffering. With the singsong voice of flirtation that he couldn't seem to avoid around the big guy, Trent yelped at him, `Hey, I offered you a massage, what more can I do?!' The Liverpudlian dropped down to sit on the slatted bench below the lockers, Szlobo still stood up next to him at his left, a strapping figure in close-fitting red shorts. The Hungarian frowned and laughed and dropped his sweaty shirt to the floor between his trainers, resting his large hands at the hips of his shorts and underpants. `A massage from a weed like you?' the 23-year-old demanded with the full manly confidence with which he carried himself. He scoffed. `I don't think that would help, Trentie.' TAA giggled and shrugged and laughed, desperate to show that it was all just a daft joke; he certainly didn't waste many an hour in bed fantasising about properly getting his hands on the big hetero Hungarian, his new go-to buddy in a squad that had lost some big personalities in recent seasons. Next to him, the RB Leipzig import continued to undress, kicking out of his trainers and rolling down white socks from his big bulky feet, flashes of those forested legs rising and falling in the corner of Trent's eye - and then down went the skimpy shorts, so that the hefty midfielder was in nothing but tight grey briefs that bulged impossibly at the front, a package that drooped weightily between hairy upper thighs. Unselfconscious of this, the relative newcomer turned partly this way and waved a dismissive hand at him. `No,' Dominik told him firmly, `I would need someone as strong as Mohamed to massage me!' Big throaty laugh and then he was looming forward, bringing his hips and underpants closer to Trent, reaching into his locker for the towel, and then throwing it over his shoulder as he backed away. `You make me laugh,' Dom said for the hundredth time, giving him a wink and a thumbs up, and then striding away - as he often did, away from the steamy archway of the communal showers, eschewing that for some privacy. Must be a Bundesliga thing! And this left Trent as deeply frustrated as Mo, but in a different place - he was conscious of being hot, young, and single, and he tried his very best to embrace the freedom of being spurned by Jordan Henderson, finally able to fuck his way around Liverpool like the 25-year-old prince he was. So... where were all the interested hunks for him to enjoy?! A younger member of the LFC squad, and another resented former playmate of frustrated Mo, was suffering no such crisis: a matter of yards away from Trent's sweat-sheened body slumped against his locker, locked safely inside a cleaning cupboard around the corner from said changing rooms, the 20-year-old wunderkind was on his knees in baggy sweatpants and only his white vest, other layers shrugged off for ease as he knelt down there and lapped hungrily at the big cock which he held at the base. Above him, one hand clutched against the sweaty skin of his lean face, Curtis Jones groaned and tried to muffle the noise as best he could, far more nervously conscious of their risky setting than the cock-hungry winger on his knees. With none of the frustration of Trent or Mohamed, Harvey Elliot noshed happily on the big circumcised weapon of his dopey buddy, glad that he'd discovered Curtis' delicious cock through that wild night with the Young Lions. Sure, sucking just one big cock wasn't half the wild thrill of the bukkake party with the future stars of the Three Lions, but he was very happy to foster this special intimacy with well-hung geek Curtis, a gangly stud who hardly seemed to understand how blessed he was with big cock and balls, and who still looked traumatised for every second of a blowjob apart from the joyous moment he emptied his sticky mess against Harvey's lips and tongue. As he had at semi-regular intervals since that decadent night with the England U-21s, Elliott had made quick work of luring Jones aside, nudging and winking at the lanky 22-year-old in the gym until the pair of them were slipping away and finding this perfect spot, one they'd utilised three or four times before. And here, on his knees, the goateed young stud went to town, spitting messily on the head and shaft, then taking as much of it as he could into his hungry gob, pausing only to lick and nip at the low-hanging balls beneath Curtis' trimmed bush, or to kiss the lower section of his tight six-pack, or his darkly-haired thighs, or to stare seductively upwards whilst tonguing below the tip, making wild devil eyes at the excited panicky face of his tall lean friend. For all of Curtis' high tension, there was something routine and familiar already about these scenes, as Harvey had made such greedy use of the big cock for a snack; so when he rose up to his feet and wiped his wet lips on the back of one arm, Jones actually looked a bit panicked and dismayed - Harvey never failed to finish him and earn his mouthful, and the questions were wide in Curtis' eyes. `God you taste good,' drawled the Surrey lad, hardly measuring up to the lofty figure of the sweating 22-year-old. `Ugh,' whimpered the Scouser, before stammering, `b-b-but you stopped?' Harvey sniggered at this, stroking his pal's wet cock in one hand, and nuzzling in close, kissing chest muscles through a clingy gym top, and nuzzling against a long neck in a way that tickled and panicked the less sexually open guy. Curtis shifted uncomfortably against him, as if considering bursting out of the cupboard to escape the intimacy - but he was sizeably rock-hard, so that was hardly an option, he was trapped here by his own lust, all Harvey's, which made the young pup smirk and laugh more, still quietly. `Come on,' he urged in a low growl, `you keep saying you'll try returning the favour.' This was the thing with Harvey, though he was less sex-starved than Trent or Mo - he was still quite sure that he was meant to be a powerful top lad, having bummed James fucking Milner. He had thought his dick-sucking days were behind him after discovering the pleasure of being the one being serviced. And then there'd been that wild episode with the U-21s, several of whom hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since, and now he was regularly eating loads from this gangly fuckwit - so there was a slightly desperate edge to his cajoling now as he rubbed himself in his sweats and pulled at the material of his mate's training top, writhing close to him. `Just try it,' he urged, more forcefully than he'd risked before - big Curtis was like a baby deer who might burst into a frightened run if you spooked him. Harvey looked him in the eye and he saw the mixture of feelings on his mate's face, maybe some disgust and horror alongside the nervousness and shyness - but there was also something so pliable and loyal about the stuttering 22-year-old, and Harv knew it. As he saw the frown of resignation furrow that acne-marked face, he almost felt bad and manipulative, but fuck it - he deserved a bit of sucking after the attention he'd lavished on big Curtis down there...! `I dunno how,' Jones began to say. `You ever had an ice lolly, for fuck's sake?' Harvey sniped back, unable to contain his impatience and sense of entitlement. He pushed a hand into the sweaty front of his pants, tugging out his stiff prick, which had been leaking pre-cum on his inner thigh as he noshed Curtis. He leant sideways, pressing himself against some shelves of gear, and nodded urgently downwards. `Come on, just a taste!' he hissed. Jones looked at him quite miserably, but he was a loyal guy, and Elliott knew he would follow through. Slowly, the lanky git folded down, holding on to a shelf for balance as he went down on his haunches, and Harvey leaned his head back with eyes shut, making a pre-emptive moan of enjoyment. `Mm, go on,' he purred, `just give it a lick, will you? Phwor - I can feel your breath on it, you tease.' Nothing yet. `Go on,' he urged, a bit more forcefully, `you promised, and I've been so good at making you cum, big fella.' All at once, he felt the hot wet lick of the nervous lad's mouth on his cock, and it felt so long since he'd had a blowie himself that he shuddered in enjoyment and let out a long genuine `Ohhhh' of pleasure. `Come on,' he moaned, `that's it, bet you like it.' He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the conflict on Curtis' long face - he was looking the dick in the eye like a mongoose and a snake, and Harvey couldn't help but laugh. `It won't bite ya, dick-face,' he rebuked. Eyes squeezed shut and face a grimace, Curtis leaned in and took the shorter thicker cock in his mouth, and for all his clumsiness, it felt GOOD - seeing his newness and discomfort just made it all the more exciting for Harvey, who had been so giving with his own mouth as he progressed through his teens. He resisted the urge to push forward, just letting his friend explore with his lips, if not quite his tongue, and moaning heavily to show him how good it already felt. `That's it,' he breathed. `Just give it a go, big fella, just a little go, mmm...' Just as the sensation was getting really good, Curtis pulled away, screwing his face up. `You taste so sweaty,' he complained, and then he was unfolding upright, back on his feet, spitting on the ground and grimacing some more - Harvey could have been annoyed, but he couldn't help just laughing at this, and grabbing his cock for a few wet tugs. `And what do you think YOU taste of, mate?' he retorted, all the while giving Curtis' dick a grab and tug, and starting to bend his knees. `I tried it,' Jones muttered resentfully. `Yeah you did,' he applauded. `Good lad. Now - are you gonna feed me that salty goodness, CJ?' He licked his lips provocatively and stooped low, ready to finish the job, locking eye contact with the nervous twitches of the other lad's face - and Curtis just nodded eagerly, blinking his heavy lashes, and leaning forward to bring his cock closer to Harvey's mouth, which opened responsively. It had been brief, but it was a start - he'd got a little payback from this big-dicked bastard, and it was something to work with. So he opened wide and worked the big veiny weapon, eager for another mouthful. He heard the faint clanks and bangs from behind the cupboard door, but he was distracted and somewhat naive, so he didn't really question it beyond assuming a member of the site-staff were in there - the 24-year-old Argentine was hardly going to imagine that two young academy graduates were trading oral sex and sweating profusely in the dark confines of the cupboard, was he? No, Alexis Mac Allister was hurrying on into the changing rooms, a man on a mission. He'd been happy enough to follow the example of some more established teammates and ignore Klopp's suggestion of an early finish, since guys like Salah and van Dijk were, but now it had worn thin and the World Cup winner was keen to get out of the AXA Training Centre. Quite specifically, he was keen to get onto the rainswept motorway and back home to his fiancee, who had begun to message him quite provocatively as he sweated on a treadmill. Now, the Celtic-tinged South American was peeling away his gym top in a hurry, tottering through the scattered occupants of the changing rooms - past some loud banter between Trent Alexander-Arnold and Diogo Jota, and past a jokey argument between Andy Robertson and the much younger Scot, Doak, whose accents Alexis absolutely struggled with in spite of his Fife roots. Urgently excited about what awaited him at home, Mac Allister found his things and continued to strip, deciding that there was no point showering. He'd be in a horny hot sweat all through the drive home, so he may as well just pull his clean clothes over his lithe muscular body even in this musty condition, sweat trails on his chest and back, and a rugged dampness in his thick beard and wispy hairstyle. Mac was down to his stretchy Under-Armour pants and some dirty black socks when the buzzing impatience of his mobile phone alerted him again and the World Cup star sat down to pluck it out and open the latest messages, not paying much attention to the other lads who were undressing next to him, fresh in from the same fitness suite as he. Younger and impressionable Liverpool upstarts who had stayed too long because they were keen not to be judged by the likes of Mo Salah. And so the 24-year-old had no idea that one such lad was looking over his shoulder as he opened first one and then several more dirty picture messages, very visual evidence to confirm that his girlfriend was `wet af' for him. The horny Argentine stared hungrily at the skilfully snapped pics of his fiancee's eager pussy, and he licked his lips unconsciously - theirs was a relationship of rabid sexual appetite, something that had got him in trouble when he posted about it in the comments under one of his World Cup celebration posts last year. As boyish and innocent as his awkward laugh could make him appear, Alexis was a ridiculously horny bastard, and this sort of urgent sexting was far from rare for he and his partner - and still, he jumped in shock as the lad just to his left cawed in appreciation and congratulated him, `Fuck's sake fella! Whose cunt is that?' Mac Allister started in a panic and then turned his awkward polite frown to the teen, locking and sliding away his phone screen of intimate porn. `Nobody for you,' the Argentine barked at the youngster, laughing throatily to cover his embarrassment; but the kid's loud comment had drawn attention, and the South American found himself the centre of focus. He stood up in his strretchy pants and began to clamber into jeans and hoody, ignoring them. The accidental voyeur sounded excited and appreciative. `That looked so hot,' 18-year-old Bobby Clark enthused, wide-eyed and admiring at his side, in the process of peeling away his long training pants, exposing his black boxers. `What was it?' Northern Irish lad Conor Bradley was demanding. `I didn't see, but it sounds hot,' chuckled Cumbrian James McConnell on the other side. `You dirty dog, Alex Mac!' Wriggling into his things, Alexis laughed off their comments and shook his head, partly embarrassed, but more-so just eager to get on the road. `You saw nothing,' he assured Clark falsely, refusing to engage. `But I DO have plans.' He winked once at the nosy bastard, finishing up the button fly of his Diesel jeans. The 24-year-old was somewhat shy now, but he really just didn't want to hang around and indulge the locker-room remarks of these veritable kids - he wanted out of here, before his cock was hard, and in that damp traffic, rushing home to lick the prize in the photo. The uproarious laughter of dirty banter rippling through the changing rooms COULD be heard in the separate shower cubicles at one end, but only JUST; the hissy roar of plumbing obscured peals of laughter and raised voices, and besides, blasted beneath this comforting heat, a guy could only be half-interested in what was entertaining an assortment of his teammates. Especially, that was, as a soapy hand slid past your wet pubes and toyed with the thickening weight of your semi, indulging in a little private fondle beneath the showerhead, as Dominik was now. Szoboszlai was loving life in Liverpool, by and large, and not just on the pitch; he was glad that he had fitted well into the sociable squad and established easy friendships with several influential figures, not least a local like Trent who could show him around the fun city. Dom was fitting in well and he who would be laughing heartily without any concern if he was out there and in on the joke. But instead he was in here, scrubbing himself, and giving in to the temptation of rubbing his full balls and massaging the oversized meaty snake above them, because... well, why not? His model girlfriend was out of the country this week and he would be heading back to an empty flat tonight, perhaps to video call his Hungarian family, or to play some video games and get an early night - why not pause here in the privacy of this shower cubicle and... have a play? It was an advantage to showering alone, he supposed, rather than the standard exhibitionism of the communal shower block - not that Slzobo fully avoided this sportsman ritual, he didn't want to seem weird or antisocial, or to cause any fuss and demand special treatment. Though there were oddities in their sport who really disliked the shared showers and drew a line at it, these men were somewhat ostracised by wary teammates who always interpreted it in a certain way - and Dominik had no intention of being viewed in such a way! No, no, not him, not a hot-blooded Hungarian like he. Bracing his handsome face against the hot spray and rubbing a soapy hand over his chest, the big strong midfielder quailed a little to think of certain memories, and the reasons why he now sometimes preferred to shower solo like this - it wasn't just for the sake of the odd secretive jerk-off. Ostensibly, the 23-year-old was thinking of his girlfriend as he pulled his dick into life, or a couple of key celebrity crushes, famous MILFs who got him going; but the awareness of his privacy here, and the growing aversion he had for the communal shower, it drew him inexorably back to the incident that had started the habit, in his final weeks at Leipzig - and for a moment he was back there in the Bundesliga, cleaning muck off his big body in the steamy showers, and only half-listening to the chat behind him. And in his mind's eye, he could see clearly enough the shuffling closeness of the next player, edging to him, and the curious expression as he'd half-turned to face his then-teammate: the spark in those troublesome eyes next to him, and the lilting grin as a low muttered voice in broken German delivered the intimate compliment: `Big guy!' The memory in the steam flickered away from Dominik's fractured attention, but was replaced by something worse: himself in a hotel bed, lying awake in the dark, and his cock as hard as it was now, but with the hand of another on it. It was just a wank, just a hand-job, nothing else, and yet it had troubled him every night since it happened - that same sparky look from the other Leipzig player, glanced even in the near-dark of the away match hotel suite. And his own self just lying there, letting it happen, having silently assented to the curious fondle in the night, to the murmured curiosity, the sharp broken German of the Croat he roomed with. Here under the hot shower, Dominik awkwardly let go of his heavy erection, ashamed to touch himself as his female fantasies were obscured by this one guilty memory: and all he could see was the awkward bearded grin of the other player, fellow quitter of the German league for Premiership glory this season. Szoboszlai grunted unhappily and did his best to wipe away the memory of allowing Josko Gvardiol so close to him that night, shortly before they had both confirmed their transfer deals to Liverpool and Manchester respectively - and he shuddered in spite of the heat, ignoring his throbbing hard-on, glad he was privately here in this solitary shower cubicle to grimace and flinch, and try his best to forget what he'd let happen in Germany. That, he reminded himself, was in the past, left in the Bundesliga. Nobody here needed to know that he'd allowed the Croat so close to him! The pair of them were still laughing as they entered the showers, their voices echoing in against damp tiles and gurgling pipes; 19-year-old Morpeth lad James couldn't actually believe that the other teen had seen such saucy details on Mac Allister's phone, and he was a bit shocked at how exciting he found the lewd gossip. He undid the knot of his white towel on the way across the tiled rectangle, taking his place at a free spot and knocking on the hot water, briefly shivering as it heated up in its blast against his slim muscular body. To his mild surprise, the other teenage football player took the spot right next to him, when surely it was more ordinary to use up the space of the quiet showers when they didn't have to pack in like slippery wet sardines. But it was clear that 18-year-old Bobby Clark still wanted to gossip about their teammate. `The dirty bastard!' the aspiring midfielder chuckled stupidly, knocking elbows with him and then reaching past him to grab the soap. `Not even showering - gonna go home and fuck her still sweaty from training!' McConnell laughed back, waiting to retrieve the stolen soap, and watching as dampness unfurled the tight blond curls of Clark's hair. `Well, yeh,' he grumbled through his laughter, `I guess some ladies are into that?!' `Not my bird,' the other young player confided, raising his voice over the watery roar. `She makes me shower before and after every shag, y'know - clean freak, haha.' `Oh, right,' newly single McConnell said vaguely, missing the brief period of regular sex that she'd enjoyed with his ex, and thinking how envious he was of the hot local social media influencer that Clark had begun dating. `Well - I'm sure she's worth it.' `Fuck yeah,' Bobby told him, `but she don't send me filth like THAT at training.' `No,' he murmured, thinking the same of his ex. He took back the soap and lathered it up and down each arm, then across his chest, letting the suds gather and dribble, and paying little attention to the varied bodies around him. But next to him, Bobby was elbowing at his side again, and leaning in too close. `Hey,' the Surrey lad insisted, `where the fuck did Doaky go, wasn't he coming in to shower with us?' `Uh - was he? Oh, er, dunno.' McConnell could become a bit shy and self-conscious once he was stark bollock naked in here, even when there wasn't many guys around, and no ridiculous Mens Health modelling going on from Mo Salah's six-pack or obnoxiously large circumcised prick. He glanced around, clocking the few others who were showering close to them, then back at shiny wet Bobby, who looked intrigued and puzzled. `He musta changed his mind,' James concluded disinterestedly, but Bobby snorted with amusement and had another theory. `Too shy about his tiny cock,' Clark theorised, and McConnell's instinctive reaction came soon too filter: `His cock isn't t-' Laughter exploded mockingly from the 18-year-old and from the other nearest guys, and James went beetroot under his shower, forced to join the laughter because he had no choice - oh for fuck's sake, there goes a comment he'd never live down...! In fact, Ben Doak had failed to follow his friends into the showers because he was guilty of his own separate hero worship apart from the cult of Salah; it was a Scotland thing, and the 17-year-old received much gentle teasing from his buddies from his puppy-dog following of his country's captain. Whilst Ben was stripped down and clad only in towel, the 29-year-old guy was still in the baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit that he'd worn to his physio appointment, drawing a big contrast between them as the younger player followed his hero. `Here it is,' Robbo told him pleasantly, fishing through the locker. They were in an adjoining changing room to the main one, which the Scotland skipper had only used because he wasn't involved in their main day's activity - Robertson was only here as part of his developing rehab program, following his international duty injury crisis, and had strolled through into the main gym for a bit of socialising as Doak and others finished up. `For real?' the teen asked breathily, unable to believe his luck. `Yeah, I told you I'd bring it!' the older man insisted happily. Doak could only let out a sigh of appreciation, clutching the knot his white towel, feeling a bit silly without clothes on - but he'd been interrupted by the gruff bark of Robbo, just about to follow his mates into the showers. But he was so impatient to get hold of this that he'd happily followed his hero away, even if it was cooler in this changing area, making his skin pimple and his dark pink nipples stand erect on his scantly-haired chest. Robbo turned to hold the item out wide, displaying it to him. `Yeah?' he grunted, his wide-smiling face a picture of pride and generosity. `You're sure?' Ben asked again. `You don't wanna keep it?' `Fuck no,' Andrew told him. `I'm not a nostalgic guy - surprised I still have it.' `But... doesn't it mean loads to you?' `Pftt -not like it does to you, matey!' The 17-year-old gladly took the dated Scotland jersey from his hero, clutching it in his fist: Andrew Robertson's match-worn shirt from his Scotland debut, now passed on as a good luck relic to the young right-winger. The Dalry youth clutched the treasured footy shirt in both hands, his rugged features alight with respect and admiration for the senior defender. Jesus, he thought, I'm gonna wear this to the next family party and look so boss, and all the lads back home will- Aloud, he gushed with gratitude and awkwardness, hardly able to believe that he was developing this close friendship with the wiry Glaswegian who he aspired to playing with it at club and country level. `Just fished it out of an attic,' Robbo told him dismissively, but beaming proudly. Doak was still astonished that his own naive hero worship was met with such willing mentoring from the Scotland hero, and he wasn't even sure how their training canteen chat last week had spiralled to the older fella offering him this shirt - but now he had it and he wanted to try it on, to slip into the legendary garment of his Scotland hero. Robbo seemed to sense this desire and just chuckled vaguely at him, scratching at the reddish-brown beard that was developing thickly upon his face. `Go on,' he said with a nod. And so Doak did, struggling into the slightly undersized footy shirt, making it fit, pulling it across his broad shoulders and back, stretching and writhing at it, suddenly paranoid it would be a terrible fit - and getting a quick helping hand from Andy too to pull it right down and onto him. It was taut on his slightly broader young build, but it felt good, and he could see a real pride glow in Andrew's face at seeing it worn. But- Ben could hardly have noticed it happened, wriggling and stretching to get into the gifted shirt, but the knot of his towel had loosened, and then loosened some more - so that now, stood in this empty room right in front of his injured idol, the rough white material shed away from his waistline. He'd covered up his pale upper body and perky nipples, but he was suddenly stood there with white legs on show, and bushy pale brown pubes, and soft dangling phallus - and he froze up in awkward mortification, wondering why he'd pranced through here in just a towel, then let it fall away! They both of them stood there, Robertson half-leaning on the open door of his locker, a frozen grin on his lips, other hand still scratching at his facial hair - Doak stared at him, frozen still with his young dick out, willing the older player to laugh, or say something, say anything, instead of just staring ambiguously at him. The moment's silence seemed to last forever, the narrow space between them filling with tension. Was Andy actually staring judgmentally down at his flaccid cock, distinctly average in size, but obviously miniscule in the teen's paranoid imagination - he got enough jokes to that effect from boisterous fellow players like Clark. Probably, it was only 15 or 20 seconds before Robbo burst into his trademark gruff cackle, but it felt like an hour's naked exposure. `Lad!' guffawed the Scotland hero, `Get your towel back on and put that big beast away, will ya? Jesus, put someone's eye out with that!' More heavy laughter and a slapping hand to the shoulder. `Come on, big fella, get outta here and have yer shower - fucking show-off bastard, haha!' No choice, Ben laughed along, loudly and anxiously, and he scrabbled for his towel, throwing it about his waist and covering up. He was shaken not only by his clumsy error, but by the long moment's tension - what kind of tension? He wasn't sure - but he did his best to laugh it off and not turn scarlet, backing away with both hands clamped to the seam of the towel. `Oh shurrup,' he scoffed, feeling weirdly buoyed by the tone of Robbo's banter - it made a joke for a fella to be laughing about his cock by claiming it was annoyingly big, even if he couldn't quite believe that to be true. And as Robbo said, he did make a swift exit, needing to put this treasured new shirt in his backpack, and to get that hot shower on his muscles; but he glanced back at Robertson, the injured left-back remaining at the open locker with an odd mixed expression on his face. He was still grinning and chuckling, sure, but there was a slightly distant look in his eyes - thoughtful, wistful, jarring. But Doak was too embarrassed to pause and consider it for long, rushing through and wriggling out of the shirt, not wanting to get it too sweaty on his bulky young physique. The training centre was emptying, player after player scampering out into the rain, heading for solitary or shared cars, of varying levels of extreme luxury - a world-weary and head-hanging Dominik sloped across the wet car park on his own, troubled by the interrupting thoughts in the shower, and a wistful Trent watched him from inside the soundtracked interior of his own vehicle; a slow-moving Robertson emerged from a different exit, moving his injured shoulder experimentally as he clicked a button on his keys to unlock his motor; Salah's vehicle was already skidding out of the gates and, playfighting like schoolboys, Elliott and Jones were emerging from the main exit. But inside, the gyms had not been entirely abandoned - not everyone had made their slow way to the changing rooms and showers, communal or otherwise. Unseen by most, two of the lingering players had continued to work quietly at their machines, exchanging silent intense stares behind the backs of others. And those two, right now, were finishing up their very specific muscular exercise, bodies interlocking, in a dark corner of the furthest gym, behind stacked shelves of dumbbells. It was a ridiculous risky spot, but that was half the fun, wasn't it? Fucking like this, he could see himself in fragmented reflections, snatches of mirror between the shelves and weights shining their bodies back at him: the tight pale tan muscle of the slighter lad in his arms, and his own dark bulk, pounding and slamming behind him. He had a hand clamped over the bitch's mouth, because risks had to be calculated, but their bodies made plenty of noise, the slam of meeting muscles and the puckered noise of his big cock sliding in and out of the tight masculine arse. He was close to finishing, and he held his thickly-muscled arms all the tighter around the lean frame of the other player, making the Uruguayan squeal into the clammy palm that silenced his lips. It was tough to suppress all that noise, when he enjoyed knowing how powerfully he was penetrating the 24-year-old, slamming into his jiggling buttocks over and over, cock buried deep in him and about to unload. Darwin Nunez was a ragdoll in his grip, fucked hard and fast against the shelves and mirrors, his face a picture of abjection and ecstasy. And over him, pounding and slamming, Joe Gomez could only grin and growl at his own dominant reflection, the big sexual beast of Liverpool Football Club - he slammed a few more times into his tight new bottom, a recent discovery, and then emptied his balls into the South American slut. Having silenced and muffled squealing Darwin for the last ten minutes, the 26-year-old Londoner now let out a long bestial groan of his own, and released the slim striker from his bear-hug, retreating with a swing of his strong arms, and a stroke of his sweaty pecs. Slowly, he stuffed his sticky cock back into the mesh of his gym shorts, and let out a long low laugh. Nunez glanced at him over his shoulder, pale and shiny in the face, and Gomez winked - he'd fucked the man good, just like he'd fucked Robbo and others before him. Whilst Mohamed and Trent sat around getting stressed by lust and romance, the big man from Catford saw what he wanted and took it. `On you go,' Joe purred. `Get showered and wash my cum out of your slut hole.' Darwin nodded in exhausted silence and pulled up his shorts, reached for his discarded vest. And off he went. Joe chuckled, felt the outline of his wilting cock in his shorts, and found his own dropped gym shirt somewhere on the carpet. He fought into it, covering up the bulging black muscles of his torso, and then slowly padding through the deserted gyms, feeling like a fucking king. At an open exit, he looked smilingly out in the car park, watching cars disappear through the rain, and then stepping outside to let some of the chill November downpour sizzle against his overheated body - he paused, eyes closed, and remembered how good it felt to be balls-deep in Darwin Nunez. God love Liverpool, the Londoner thought, and he walked to his car. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 7 Nov 2023 21:26:29 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads: Part 374 Part 374: A Damp Tuesday in Kirby Heavy November rain pelted against the tall windows of the fitness suite, outdoor floodlights forming dispersed halos of light against the cataracts on the panes. Indoors, the outer conditions could bring a shiver to the body of someone born for different climes, even if the gyms of the AXA Training Centre were adequately heated. Well, he thought, I'll just have to warm myself up more by pushing myself on the weights - he was hardly a slacker in that department as it was, attested by the intensely ripped physique beneath the clingy red of his Liverpool FC training gear. He pushed away thoughts of a hot break on the Egyptian coast or a transfer escape to a hotter country's league, and moved back instead to the free weights, needing to finish his strict regimen before calling it a day. Mohamed Salah was far from the only squad member still putting a shift in at the training centre, in spite of the gaffer's rather loose instructions at the end of the afternoon; in theory the lads could leave early and have more of an evening off, since tomorrow would see them travel to France ready for their Europa fixture against Toulouse. But senior stoics of the LFC first team were pushing themselves to end the day with a last burst of physical effort, and so a cluster of their younger wannabes were also hear, filling the fitness suites and passages of the slick modern training complex with idle chat and laddish bursts of laughter. Mo knew that there few names on this squad whom such youngsters respected and admired more fervently than himself - it was hardly egotism, it was just facts. And he was not immune to enjoying it, the way they deferred to him and ogled at the intensity of his musculature. Right now, lifting heavy free weights up against his pumped chest, the 31-year-old goal machine could tell that a couple of the nearest were glancing comparatively his way, conscious of his superior strength and determination. Young Ben Doak, for example, was staring this way whilst doing bicep curls with lighter weights, the young Scotsman frowning studiously in comparison and then blushing a little as Mo's complacent smile swung his way; and he could see other young midfielders McConnell and Clark struggling with the weight setting he'd left on the leg press machine, clearly too proud to lower the setting and accept their weaker young limbs versus the challenge that Salah had set himself about ten minutes ago, sweating profusely onto the leathery cushions of the machine. Mo reached the last of his reps and he clanked the gear away, panting lightly, and strolling in front of the mirrors on the far wall to inspect the way that certain muscles bulged through his clingy top and the short shorts that exposed much of his densely haired thighs. No doubt a few pairs of eyes were shifting this way to further admire him as one of the supreme fitness leaders of this ambitious team... but Mohamed didn't flicker his deep brown eyes away from his own reflection to acknowledge this, too confidently sure in the attention that he would never admit to loving. Hmm, he thought, perhaps it's been a long time since my last muscle selfie after the gym? The Egyptian king loved nothing more than dripping his superlative six-pack on social media and scrutinising the stupid thirsty messages that would explode into his DMs. All this attention, and yet Salah was a frustrated man. A man without... outlets. It was the Milner exit, he supposed, having struck up a quiet deal of sorts with the big muscle-bound elder statesman of Anfield, furious when the quietly confident champion moved away to his final challenges at Brighton. It was disgusting to Mohamed that he should suddenly be without an... `assistant' of that kind, having fucked James regularly in the mouth and arse for the final months of his Liverpool tenure, and enjoyed the casual readiness of the burly Yorkshireman, even when he initially shared it with that scamp Harvey. Mohamed couldn't help but glance sharply about the gym to see if young Elliott himself was still around, but there no longer seemed to be any sign of the mop-headed young star - a bright superficial friendship existed between the superstar striker and the up-and-coming winger, but it was a showy affection which no longer translated into private satisfaction. When he had most overtly approached the smirking young English boy about inviting him to a hotel room on a previous Europa trip, the 20-year-old had laughed and punched him in the bicep, and asked if King Mo would be returning the favour and 69ing him... The gall and confidence of the kid! So Mo had given up trying to rekindle that, just as he'd given up trying to lure a submissive Trent Alexander-Arnold back into his crotch, both former cock-suckers seemingly too sure of themself to be willing greedy sluts for their Pharoah. As these thoughts chipped through Salah's mind, he tugged irritably at the mesh inners of his gym shorts and turned frustratedly away from that hypermasculine reflection, no longer interested in the admiring or envious eyes of other gym-goers - the 31-year-old was bored and horny and suspected he would just have to go home and hope his wife was in the mood hours later. So fucking unfair! Said Trent certainly was a more confident and relaxed guy than in the days in which he had nightly taken Salah's thick cut cock between his lips - that was a very different era of nervous self-discovery for the Scouser, messed around by guy after guy. Sure, the handsome young footballer had experienced his first real heartbreak this summer, but he was slowly recovering, doing his best to move on from the horror of being so unceremoniously abandoned by his former captain. Day by day, Alexander-Arnold found it more possible to put Henderson's love behind him, though the prospect of joining him at another international camp still gave him a sickly feeling and the threat of private tears in the night. But he was confident and sure of himself, that was still true, and he could swagger around this training centre as one of the most senior and respected players, still aged only 25; Liverpool FC felt so much like home to him, and he was utterly comfortable in his private preference for guys, no longer torn-up about this secret as he'd been when dallying with Jonjo Kenney and being taken for granted by the likes of Salah or Gomez. And yet... There was someone new next to whom that confidence melted like candle-wax. `I should have done less on my shoulders,' barked the gruff Eastern European accent of his newer teammate, swaggering alongside him in the passage from the gyms to the main locker-rooms; both young men had their training tops pulled off and draped over one shoulder, and Trent couldn't help but admire the long strong torso of the other bloke as they walked, and the tattoo decoration of the nearer arm. Dominik Szoboszlai turned his way with one of his handsomely pouting smiles, and continued to complain about the pain in his muscular shoulders: `That last rep was one too many, you know what I say?' And Alexander-Arnold giggled along happily with him as he always did, following the Hungarian 23-year-old through into the large central changing rooms of the building, calling the bigger athlete a `Weakling' and `Pussy' then whipping him in the centre of his back with the sweaty nylon of his own gym top. The pair of them, increasingly inseparable pals, squared up to their lockers, and big Dominik continued to rub irritably at his upper arms and shoulders and make semi-exaggerated flinches of suffering. With the singsong voice of flirtation that he couldn't seem to avoid around the big guy, Trent yelped at him, `Hey, I offered you a massage, what more can I do?!' The Liverpudlian dropped down to sit on the slatted bench below the lockers, Szlobo still stood up next to him at his left, a strapping figure in close-fitting red shorts. The Hungarian frowned and laughed and dropped his sweaty shirt to the floor between his trainers, resting his large hands at the hips of his shorts and underpants. `A massage from a weed like you?' the 23-year-old demanded with the full manly confidence with which he carried himself. He scoffed. `I don't think that would help, Trentie.' TAA giggled and shrugged and laughed, desperate to show that it was all just a daft joke; he certainly didn't waste many an hour in bed fantasising about properly getting his hands on the big hetero Hungarian, his new go-to buddy in a squad that had lost some big personalities in recent seasons. Next to him, the RB Leipzig import continued to undress, kicking out of his trainers and rolling down white socks from his big bulky feet, flashes of those forested legs rising and falling in the corner of Trent's eye - and then down went the skimpy shorts, so that the hefty midfielder was in nothing but tight grey briefs that bulged impossibly at the front, a package that drooped weightily between hairy upper thighs. Unselfconscious of this, the relative newcomer turned partly this way and waved a dismissive hand at him. `No,' Dominik told him firmly, `I would need someone as strong as Mohamed to massage me!' Big throaty laugh and then he was looming forward, bringing his hips and underpants closer to Trent, reaching into his locker for the towel, and then throwing it over his shoulder as he backed away. `You make me laugh,' Dom said for the hundredth time, giving him a wink and a thumbs up, and then striding away - as he often did, away from the steamy archway of the communal showers, eschewing that for some privacy. Must be a Bundesliga thing! And this left Trent as deeply frustrated as Mo, but in a different place - he was conscious of being hot, young, and single, and he tried his very best to embrace the freedom of being spurned by Jordan Henderson, finally able to fuck his way around Liverpool like the 25-year-old prince he was. So... where were all the interested hunks for him to enjoy?! A younger member of the LFC squad, and another resented former playmate of frustrated Mo, was suffering no such crisis: a matter of yards away from Trent's sweat-sheened body slumped against his locker, locked safely inside a cleaning cupboard around the corner from said changing rooms, the 20-year-old wunderkind was on his knees in baggy sweatpants and only his white vest, other layers shrugged off for ease as he knelt down there and lapped hungrily at the big cock which he held at the base. Above him, one hand clutched against the sweaty skin of his lean face, Curtis Jones groaned and tried to muffle the noise as best he could, far more nervously conscious of their risky setting than the cock-hungry winger on his knees. With none of the frustration of Trent or Mohamed, Harvey Elliot noshed happily on the big circumcised weapon of his dopey buddy, glad that he'd discovered Curtis' delicious cock through that wild night with the Young Lions. Sure, sucking just one big cock wasn't half the wild thrill of the bukkake party with the future stars of the Three Lions, but he was very happy to foster this special intimacy with well-hung geek Curtis, a gangly stud who hardly seemed to understand how blessed he was with big cock and balls, and who still looked traumatised for every second of a blowjob apart from the joyous moment he emptied his sticky mess against Harvey's lips and tongue. As he had at semi-regular intervals since that decadent night with the England U-21s, Elliott had made quick work of luring Jones aside, nudging and winking at the lanky 22-year-old in the gym until the pair of them were slipping away and finding this perfect spot, one they'd utilised three or four times before. And here, on his knees, the goateed young stud went to town, spitting messily on the head and shaft, then taking as much of it as he could into his hungry gob, pausing only to lick and nip at the low-hanging balls beneath Curtis' trimmed bush, or to kiss the lower section of his tight six-pack, or his darkly-haired thighs, or to stare seductively upwards whilst tonguing below the tip, making wild devil eyes at the excited panicky face of his tall lean friend. For all of Curtis' high tension, there was something routine and familiar already about these scenes, as Harvey had made such greedy use of the big cock for a snack; so when he rose up to his feet and wiped his wet lips on the back of one arm, Jones actually looked a bit panicked and dismayed - Harvey never failed to finish him and earn his mouthful, and the questions were wide in Curtis' eyes. `God you taste good,' drawled the Surrey lad, hardly measuring up to the lofty figure of the sweating 22-year-old. `Ugh,' whimpered the Scouser, before stammering, `b-b-but you stopped?' Harvey sniggered at this, stroking his pal's wet cock in one hand, and nuzzling in close, kissing chest muscles through a clingy gym top, and nuzzling against a long neck in a way that tickled and panicked the less sexually open guy. Curtis shifted uncomfortably against him, as if considering bursting out of the cupboard to escape the intimacy - but he was sizeably rock-hard, so that was hardly an option, he was trapped here by his own lust, all Harvey's, which made the young pup smirk and laugh more, still quietly. `Come on,' he urged in a low growl, `you keep saying you'll try returning the favour.' This was the thing with Harvey, though he was less sex-starved than Trent or Mo - he was still quite sure that he was meant to be a powerful top lad, having bummed James fucking Milner. He had thought his dick-sucking days were behind him after discovering the pleasure of being the one being serviced. And then there'd been that wild episode with the U-21s, several of whom hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since, and now he was regularly eating loads from this gangly fuckwit - so there was a slightly desperate edge to his cajoling now as he rubbed himself in his sweats and pulled at the material of his mate's training top, writhing close to him. `Just try it,' he urged, more forcefully than he'd risked before - big Curtis was like a baby deer who might burst into a frightened run if you spooked him. Harvey looked him in the eye and he saw the mixture of feelings on his mate's face, maybe some disgust and horror alongside the nervousness and shyness - but there was also something so pliable and loyal about the stuttering 22-year-old, and Harv knew it. As he saw the frown of resignation furrow that acne-marked face, he almost felt bad and manipulative, but fuck it - he deserved a bit of sucking after the attention he'd lavished on big Curtis down there...! `I dunno how,' Jones began to say. `You ever had an ice lolly, for fuck's sake?' Harvey sniped back, unable to contain his impatience and sense of entitlement. He pushed a hand into the sweaty front of his pants, tugging out his stiff prick, which had been leaking pre-cum on his inner thigh as he noshed Curtis. He leant sideways, pressing himself against some shelves of gear, and nodded urgently downwards. `Come on, just a taste!' he hissed. Jones looked at him quite miserably, but he was a loyal guy, and Elliott knew he would follow through. Slowly, the lanky git folded down, holding on to a shelf for balance as he went down on his haunches, and Harvey leaned his head back with eyes shut, making a pre-emptive moan of enjoyment. `Mm, go on,' he purred, `just give it a lick, will you? Phwor - I can feel your breath on it, you tease.' Nothing yet. `Go on,' he urged, a bit more forcefully, `you promised, and I've been so good at making you cum, big fella.' All at once, he felt the hot wet lick of the nervous lad's mouth on his cock, and it felt so long since he'd had a blowie himself that he shuddered in enjoyment and let out a long genuine `Ohhhh' of pleasure. `Come on,' he moaned, `that's it, bet you like it.' He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the conflict on Curtis' long face - he was looking the dick in the eye like a mongoose and a snake, and Harvey couldn't help but laugh. `It won't bite ya, dick-face,' he rebuked. Eyes squeezed shut and face a grimace, Curtis leaned in and took the shorter thicker cock in his mouth, and for all his clumsiness, it felt GOOD - seeing his newness and discomfort just made it all the more exciting for Harvey, who had been so giving with his own mouth as he progressed through his teens. He resisted the urge to push forward, just letting his friend explore with his lips, if not quite his tongue, and moaning heavily to show him how good it already felt. `That's it,' he breathed. `Just give it a go, big fella, just a little go, mmm...' Just as the sensation was getting really good, Curtis pulled away, screwing his face up. `You taste so sweaty,' he complained, and then he was unfolding upright, back on his feet, spitting on the ground and grimacing some more - Harvey could have been annoyed, but he couldn't help just laughing at this, and grabbing his cock for a few wet tugs. `And what do you think YOU taste of, mate?' he retorted, all the while giving Curtis' dick a grab and tug, and starting to bend his knees. `I tried it,' Jones muttered resentfully. `Yeah you did,' he applauded. `Good lad. Now - are you gonna feed me that salty goodness, CJ?' He licked his lips provocatively and stooped low, ready to finish the job, locking eye contact with the nervous twitches of the other lad's face - and Curtis just nodded eagerly, blinking his heavy lashes, and leaning forward to bring his cock closer to Harvey's mouth, which opened responsively. It had been brief, but it was a start - he'd got a little payback from this big-dicked bastard, and it was something to work with. So he opened wide and worked the big veiny weapon, eager for another mouthful. He heard the faint clanks and bangs from behind the cupboard door, but he was distracted and somewhat naive, so he didn't really question it beyond assuming a member of the site-staff were in there - the 24-year-old Argentine was hardly going to imagine that two young academy graduates were trading oral sex and sweating profusely in the dark confines of the cupboard, was he? No, Alexis Mac Allister was hurrying on into the changing rooms, a man on a mission. He'd been happy enough to follow the example of some more established teammates and ignore Klopp's suggestion of an early finish, since guys like Salah and van Dijk were, but now it had worn thin and the World Cup winner was keen to get out of the AXA Training Centre. Quite specifically, he was keen to get onto the rainswept motorway and back home to his fiancee, who had begun to message him quite provocatively as he sweated on a treadmill. Now, the Celtic-tinged South American was peeling away his gym top in a hurry, tottering through the scattered occupants of the changing rooms - past some loud banter between Trent Alexander-Arnold and Diogo Jota, and past a jokey argument between Andy Robertson and the much younger Scot, Doak, whose accents Alexis absolutely struggled with in spite of his Fife roots. Urgently excited about what awaited him at home, Mac Allister found his things and continued to strip, deciding that there was no point showering. He'd be in a horny hot sweat all through the drive home, so he may as well just pull his clean clothes over his lithe muscular body even in this musty condition, sweat trails on his chest and back, and a rugged dampness in his thick beard and wispy hairstyle. Mac was down to his stretchy Under-Armour pants and some dirty black socks when the buzzing impatience of his mobile phone alerted him again and the World Cup star sat down to pluck it out and open the latest messages, not paying much attention to the other lads who were undressing next to him, fresh in from the same fitness suite as he. Younger and impressionable Liverpool upstarts who had stayed too long because they were keen not to be judged by the likes of Mo Salah. And so the 24-year-old had no idea that one such lad was looking over his shoulder as he opened first one and then several more dirty picture messages, very visual evidence to confirm that his girlfriend was `wet af' for him. The horny Argentine stared hungrily at the skilfully snapped pics of his fiancee's eager pussy, and he licked his lips unconsciously - theirs was a relationship of rabid sexual appetite, something that had got him in trouble when he posted about it in the comments under one of his World Cup celebration posts last year. As boyish and innocent as his awkward laugh could make him appear, Alexis was a ridiculously horny bastard, and this sort of urgent sexting was far from rare for he and his partner - and still, he jumped in shock as the lad just to his left cawed in appreciation and congratulated him, `Fuck's sake fella! Whose cunt is that?' Mac Allister started in a panic and then turned his awkward polite frown to the teen, locking and sliding away his phone screen of intimate porn. `Nobody for you,' the Argentine barked at the youngster, laughing throatily to cover his embarrassment; but the kid's loud comment had drawn attention, and the South American found himself the centre of focus. He stood up in his strretchy pants and began to clamber into jeans and hoody, ignoring them. The accidental voyeur sounded excited and appreciative. `That looked so hot,' 18-year-old Bobby Clark enthused, wide-eyed and admiring at his side, in the process of peeling away his long training pants, exposing his black boxers. `What was it?' Northern Irish lad Conor Bradley was demanding. `I didn't see, but it sounds hot,' chuckled Cumbrian James McConnell on the other side. `You dirty dog, Alex Mac!' Wriggling into his things, Alexis laughed off their comments and shook his head, partly embarrassed, but more-so just eager to get on the road. `You saw nothing,' he assured Clark falsely, refusing to engage. `But I DO have plans.' He winked once at the nosy bastard, finishing up the button fly of his Diesel jeans. The 24-year-old was somewhat shy now, but he really just didn't want to hang around and indulge the locker-room remarks of these veritable kids - he wanted out of here, before his cock was hard, and in that damp traffic, rushing home to lick the prize in the photo. The uproarious laughter of dirty banter rippling through the changing rooms COULD be heard in the separate shower cubicles at one end, but only JUST; the hissy roar of plumbing obscured peals of laughter and raised voices, and besides, blasted beneath this comforting heat, a guy could only be half-interested in what was entertaining an assortment of his teammates. Especially, that was, as a soapy hand slid past your wet pubes and toyed with the thickening weight of your semi, indulging in a little private fondle beneath the showerhead, as Dominik was now. Szoboszlai was loving life in Liverpool, by and large, and not just on the pitch; he was glad that he had fitted well into the sociable squad and established easy friendships with several influential figures, not least a local like Trent who could show him around the fun city. Dom was fitting in well and he who would be laughing heartily without any concern if he was out there and in on the joke. But instead he was in here, scrubbing himself, and giving in to the temptation of rubbing his full balls and massaging the oversized meaty snake above them, because... well, why not? His model girlfriend was out of the country this week and he would be heading back to an empty flat tonight, perhaps to video call his Hungarian family, or to play some video games and get an early night - why not pause here in the privacy of this shower cubicle and... have a play? It was an advantage to showering alone, he supposed, rather than the standard exhibitionism of the communal shower block - not that Slzobo fully avoided this sportsman ritual, he didn't want to seem weird or antisocial, or to cause any fuss and demand special treatment. Though there were oddities in their sport who really disliked the shared showers and drew a line at it, these men were somewhat ostracised by wary teammates who always interpreted it in a certain way - and Dominik had no intention of being viewed in such a way! No, no, not him, not a hot-blooded Hungarian like he. Bracing his handsome face against the hot spray and rubbing a soapy hand over his chest, the big strong midfielder quailed a little to think of certain memories, and the reasons why he now sometimes preferred to shower solo like this - it wasn't just for the sake of the odd secretive jerk-off. Ostensibly, the 23-year-old was thinking of his girlfriend as he pulled his dick into life, or a couple of key celebrity crushes, famous MILFs who got him going; but the awareness of his privacy here, and the growing aversion he had for the communal shower, it drew him inexorably back to the incident that had started the habit, in his final weeks at Leipzig - and for a moment he was back there in the Bundesliga, cleaning muck off his big body in the steamy showers, and only half-listening to the chat behind him. And in his mind's eye, he could see clearly enough the shuffling closeness of the next player, edging to him, and the curious expression as he'd half-turned to face his then-teammate: the spark in those troublesome eyes next to him, and the lilting grin as a low muttered voice in broken German delivered the intimate compliment: `Big guy!' The memory in the steam flickered away from Dominik's fractured attention, but was replaced by something worse: himself in a hotel bed, lying awake in the dark, and his cock as hard as it was now, but with the hand of another on it. It was just a wank, just a hand-job, nothing else, and yet it had troubled him every night since it happened - that same sparky look from the other Leipzig player, glanced even in the near-dark of the away match hotel suite. And his own self just lying there, letting it happen, having silently assented to the curious fondle in the night, to the murmured curiosity, the sharp broken German of the Croat he roomed with. Here under the hot shower, Dominik awkwardly let go of his heavy erection, ashamed to touch himself as his female fantasies were obscured by this one guilty memory: and all he could see was the awkward bearded grin of the other player, fellow quitter of the German league for Premiership glory this season. Szoboszlai grunted unhappily and did his best to wipe away the memory of allowing Josko Gvardiol so close to him that night, shortly before they had both confirmed their transfer deals to Liverpool and Manchester respectively - and he shuddered in spite of the heat, ignoring his throbbing hard-on, glad he was privately here in this solitary shower cubicle to grimace and flinch, and try his best to forget what he'd let happen in Germany. That, he reminded himself, was in the past, left in the Bundesliga. Nobody here needed to know that he'd allowed the Croat so close to him! The pair of them were still laughing as they entered the showers, their voices echoing in against damp tiles and gurgling pipes; 19-year-old Morpeth lad James couldn't actually believe that the other teen had seen such saucy details on Mac Allister's phone, and he was a bit shocked at how exciting he found the lewd gossip. He undid the knot of his white towel on the way across the tiled rectangle, taking his place at a free spot and knocking on the hot water, briefly shivering as it heated up in its blast against his slim muscular body. To his mild surprise, the other teenage football player took the spot right next to him, when surely it was more ordinary to use up the space of the quiet showers when they didn't have to pack in like slippery wet sardines. But it was clear that 18-year-old Bobby Clark still wanted to gossip about their teammate. `The dirty bastard!' the aspiring midfielder chuckled stupidly, knocking elbows with him and then reaching past him to grab the soap. `Not even showering - gonna go home and fuck her still sweaty from training!' McConnell laughed back, waiting to retrieve the stolen soap, and watching as dampness unfurled the tight blond curls of Clark's hair. `Well, yeh,' he grumbled through his laughter, `I guess some ladies are into that?!' `Not my bird,' the other young player confided, raising his voice over the watery roar. `She makes me shower before and after every shag, y'know - clean freak, haha.' `Oh, right,' newly single McConnell said vaguely, missing the brief period of regular sex that she'd enjoyed with his ex, and thinking how envious he was of the hot local social media influencer that Clark had begun dating. `Well - I'm sure she's worth it.' `Fuck yeah,' Bobby told him, `but she don't send me filth like THAT at training.' `No,' he murmured, thinking the same of his ex. He took back the soap and lathered it up and down each arm, then across his chest, letting the suds gather and dribble, and paying little attention to the varied bodies around him. But next to him, Bobby was elbowing at his side again, and leaning in too close. `Hey,' the Surrey lad insisted, `where the fuck did Doaky go, wasn't he coming in to shower with us?' `Uh - was he? Oh, er, dunno.' McConnell could become a bit shy and self-conscious once he was stark bollock naked in here, even when there wasn't many guys around, and no ridiculous Mens Health modelling going on from Mo Salah's six-pack or obnoxiously large circumcised prick. He glanced around, clocking the few others who were showering close to them, then back at shiny wet Bobby, who looked intrigued and puzzled. `He musta changed his mind,' James concluded disinterestedly, but Bobby snorted with amusement and had another theory. `Too shy about his tiny cock,' Clark theorised, and McConnell's instinctive reaction came soon too filter: `His cock isn't t-' Laughter exploded mockingly from the 18-year-old and from the other nearest guys, and James went beetroot under his shower, forced to join the laughter because he had no choice - oh for fuck's sake, there goes a comment he'd never live down...! In fact, Ben Doak had failed to follow his friends into the showers because he was guilty of his own separate hero worship apart from the cult of Salah; it was a Scotland thing, and the 17-year-old received much gentle teasing from his buddies from his puppy-dog following of his country's captain. Whilst Ben was stripped down and clad only in towel, the 29-year-old guy was still in the baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit that he'd worn to his physio appointment, drawing a big contrast between them as the younger player followed his hero. `Here it is,' Robbo told him pleasantly, fishing through the locker. They were in an adjoining changing room to the main one, which the Scotland skipper had only used because he wasn't involved in their main day's activity - Robertson was only here as part of his developing rehab program, following his international duty injury crisis, and had strolled through into the main gym for a bit of socialising as Doak and others finished up. `For real?' the teen asked breathily, unable to believe his luck. `Yeah, I told you I'd bring it!' the older man insisted happily. Doak could only let out a sigh of appreciation, clutching the knot his white towel, feeling a bit silly without clothes on - but he'd been interrupted by the gruff bark of Robbo, just about to follow his mates into the showers. But he was so impatient to get hold of this that he'd happily followed his hero away, even if it was cooler in this changing area, making his skin pimple and his dark pink nipples stand erect on his scantly-haired chest. Robbo turned to hold the item out wide, displaying it to him. `Yeah?' he grunted, his wide-smiling face a picture of pride and generosity. `You're sure?' Ben asked again. `You don't wanna keep it?' `Fuck no,' Andrew told him. `I'm not a nostalgic guy - surprised I still have it.' `But... doesn't it mean loads to you?' `Pftt -not like it does to you, matey!' The 17-year-old gladly took the dated Scotland jersey from his hero, clutching it in his fist: Andrew Robertson's match-worn shirt from his Scotland debut, now passed on as a good luck relic to the young right-winger. The Dalry youth clutched the treasured footy shirt in both hands, his rugged features alight with respect and admiration for the senior defender. Jesus, he thought, I'm gonna wear this to the next family party and look so boss, and all the lads back home will- Aloud, he gushed with gratitude and awkwardness, hardly able to believe that he was developing this close friendship with the wiry Glaswegian who he aspired to playing with it at club and country level. `Just fished it out of an attic,' Robbo told him dismissively, but beaming proudly. Doak was still astonished that his own naive hero worship was met with such willing mentoring from the Scotland hero, and he wasn't even sure how their training canteen chat last week had spiralled to the older fella offering him this shirt - but now he had it and he wanted to try it on, to slip into the legendary garment of his Scotland hero. Robbo seemed to sense this desire and just chuckled vaguely at him, scratching at the reddish-brown beard that was developing thickly upon his face. `Go on,' he said with a nod. And so Doak did, struggling into the slightly undersized footy shirt, making it fit, pulling it across his broad shoulders and back, stretching and writhing at it, suddenly paranoid it would be a terrible fit - and getting a quick helping hand from Andy too to pull it right down and onto him. It was taut on his slightly broader young build, but it felt good, and he could see a real pride glow in Andrew's face at seeing it worn. But- Ben could hardly have noticed it happened, wriggling and stretching to get into the gifted shirt, but the knot of his towel had loosened, and then loosened some more - so that now, stood in this empty room right in front of his injured idol, the rough white material shed away from his waistline. He'd covered up his pale upper body and perky nipples, but he was suddenly stood there with white legs on show, and bushy pale brown pubes, and soft dangling phallus - and he froze up in awkward mortification, wondering why he'd pranced through here in just a towel, then let it fall away! They both of them stood there, Robertson half-leaning on the open door of his locker, a frozen grin on his lips, other hand still scratching at his facial hair - Doak stared at him, frozen still with his young dick out, willing the older player to laugh, or say something, say anything, instead of just staring ambiguously at him. The moment's silence seemed to last forever, the narrow space between them filling with tension. Was Andy actually staring judgmentally down at his flaccid cock, distinctly average in size, but obviously miniscule in the teen's paranoid imagination - he got enough jokes to that effect from boisterous fellow players like Clark. Probably, it was only 15 or 20 seconds before Robbo burst into his trademark gruff cackle, but it felt like an hour's naked exposure. `Lad!' guffawed the Scotland hero, `Get your towel back on and put that big beast away, will ya? Jesus, put someone's eye out with that!' More heavy laughter and a slapping hand to the shoulder. `Come on, big fella, get outta here and have yer shower - fucking show-off bastard, haha!' No choice, Ben laughed along, loudly and anxiously, and he scrabbled for his towel, throwing it about his waist and covering up. He was shaken not only by his clumsy error, but by the long moment's tension - what kind of tension? He wasn't sure - but he did his best to laugh it off and not turn scarlet, backing away with both hands clamped to the seam of the towel. `Oh shurrup,' he scoffed, feeling weirdly buoyed by the tone of Robbo's banter - it made a joke for a fella to be laughing about his cock by claiming it was annoyingly big, even if he couldn't quite believe that to be true. And as Robbo said, he did make a swift exit, needing to put this treasured new shirt in his backpack, and to get that hot shower on his muscles; but he glanced back at Robertson, the injured left-back remaining at the open locker with an odd mixed expression on his face. He was still grinning and chuckling, sure, but there was a slightly distant look in his eyes - thoughtful, wistful, jarring. But Doak was too embarrassed to pause and consider it for long, rushing through and wriggling out of the shirt, not wanting to get it too sweaty on his bulky young physique. The training centre was emptying, player after player scampering out into the rain, heading for solitary or shared cars, of varying levels of extreme luxury - a world-weary and head-hanging Dominik sloped across the wet car park on his own, troubled by the interrupting thoughts in the shower, and a wistful Trent watched him from inside the soundtracked interior of his own vehicle; a slow-moving Robertson emerged from a different exit, moving his injured shoulder experimentally as he clicked a button on his keys to unlock his motor; Salah's vehicle was already skidding out of the gates and, playfighting like schoolboys, Elliott and Jones were emerging from the main exit. But inside, the gyms had not been entirely abandoned - not everyone had made their slow way to the changing rooms and showers, communal or otherwise. Unseen by most, two of the lingering players had continued to work quietly at their machines, exchanging silent intense stares behind the backs of others. And those two, right now, were finishing up their very specific muscular exercise, bodies interlocking, in a dark corner of the furthest gym, behind stacked shelves of dumbbells. It was a ridiculous risky spot, but that was half the fun, wasn't it? Fucking like this, he could see himself in fragmented reflections, snatches of mirror between the shelves and weights shining their bodies back at him: the tight pale tan muscle of the slighter lad in his arms, and his own dark bulk, pounding and slamming behind him. He had a hand clamped over the bitch's mouth, because risks had to be calculated, but their bodies made plenty of noise, the slam of meeting muscles and the puckered noise of his big cock sliding in and out of the tight masculine arse. He was close to finishing, and he held his thickly-muscled arms all the tighter around the lean frame of the other player, making the Uruguayan squeal into the clammy palm that silenced his lips. It was tough to suppress all that noise, when he enjoyed knowing how powerfully he was penetrating the 24-year-old, slamming into his jiggling buttocks over and over, cock buried deep in him and about to unload. Darwin Nunez was a ragdoll in his grip, fucked hard and fast against the shelves and mirrors, his face a picture of abjection and ecstasy. And over him, pounding and slamming, Joe Gomez could only grin and growl at his own dominant reflection, the big sexual beast of Liverpool Football Club - he slammed a few more times into his tight new bottom, a recent discovery, and then emptied his balls into the South American slut. Having silenced and muffled squealing Darwin for the last ten minutes, the 26-year-old Londoner now let out a long bestial groan of his own, and released the slim striker from his bear-hug, retreating with a swing of his strong arms, and a stroke of his sweaty pecs. Slowly, he stuffed his sticky cock back into the mesh of his gym shorts, and let out a long low laugh. Nunez glanced at him over his shoulder, pale and shiny in the face, and Gomez winked - he'd fucked the man good, just like he'd fucked Robbo and others before him. Whilst Mohamed and Trent sat around getting stressed by lust and romance, the big man from Catford saw what he wanted and took it. `On you go,' Joe purred. `Get showered and wash my cum out of your slut hole.' Darwin nodded in exhausted silence and pulled up his shorts, reached for his discarded vest. And off he went. Joe chuckled, felt the outline of his wilting cock in his shorts, and found his own dropped gym shirt somewhere on the carpet. He fought into it, covering up the bulging black muscles of his torso, and then slowly padding through the deserted gyms, feeling like a fucking king. At an open exit, he looked smilingly out in the car park, watching cars disappear through the rain, and then stepping outside to let some of the chill November downpour sizzle against his overheated body - he paused, eyes closed, and remembered how good it felt to be balls-deep in Darwin Nunez. God love Liverpool, the Londoner thought, and he walked to his car. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-385

Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2024 16:08:34 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 385 Part 385: Off-Camera `Right, Chilly - we're just gonna need to do a bit of filming of you in particular today, that ok?' `Sure, sure...' `A "day in the life" kinda thing, you know?' `Oh, right-' `Just a bit of a one-on-one focus to the training footage, basically - a bit more of a feature. We need to up the engagement on the old socials this month, if you get me.' `No bother...' `We won't be too annoying, and it won't be much different to the usual footage - you don't mind, do you?' `Not a problem, mate, just let me-' `Now, could you hang on a sec there, and just tie those laces again a bit more slowly for the camera, could you? We need it to look "authentic" and you were a bit rushed there, if you see what I mean. Good, good - promise we won't be a nuisance.' There was a little banter from a couple of his squad mates about the social media team's choice - `Disney prince good looks' was thrown about as a phrase, and `the Premiership pretty boy' - but the 27-year-old defensive player certainly liked to think his popularity was more about his talent or work ethic, and the idea of being the best-looking guy on the Chelsea roster was a challenge to his natural humility. It was his commitment, he assured himself, his performance and resilience - barring the unfortunate injury spells, he believed himself to be one of the most stable and consistent performers on the West London club's line-up, that was all, and so the Chelsea fans had really taken to him, online and on matchdays. That was why he was being picked for a daft little "day in the life" montage video, not because he looked like a... a "Disney prince", for fuck's sake, what did that even mean? The serious-faced Englishman scoffed this idea aside even as he ran his fingers through the glossy curtains of his chestnut brown hair and puffed out his lean muscular chest, ready to throw himself into action on the training pitch. A smiley chatty indoor warm-up, kitting up with a few of his friends, and lolling idly about the gym before heading out into the frost of the late morning greyness; an `authentic'-looking insight into a Chelsea player's day, he was assured, as the two-person social media team asked him to lift the same light weight for a third time and then suggested that he pose next to the new cardio machines even though a coach was shouting on everybody to get outside and assembled. Still, it really was only a minor nuisance, a minimal shift to the tone of his day, Ben all smiles and enthusiasm after another irritatingly long interruption in his fitness - outside, he worked hard in the drills and activities he was assigned, equally happy working on targeted action with his fellow defensive players as joining in for attacking set-pieces and proving that he could contribute goals. A happy, confident, and sociable young football star, captured for social media - only the faintest glimpses of impatience or annoyance during the day's late lunch break, when a gaggle of club VIPs were mingling with the sweaty players in the canteen, and the cameraman kept getting too close and making it harder for Chilwell to just relax and eat his lunch. It would be edited out later to meet the short-attention-span demands of the internet, but Ben looked visibly aggravated when he was being jostled and pestered simultaneously by the suggestions of the Chelsea social media manager and one of the visitors in smart-casual attire, a club legend who seemed to be on site for a totally different media opportunity to this one - looking exasperate for a moment before remembering the camera's gaze, Ben made awkward apologies to both the excitable social media manager and to the gent in chinos, shirt and cardigan, and disappeared from the refectory under the excuse of needing the toilet. When the 27-year-old returned shortly after, he looked more composed and upbeat again, and Joe Cole had been carried away in the fuss of whatever separate schedule he and the other guests were subject to. Back outside for Chilly and the others, back into the ice-cold January air, sunset already darkening the vista around their Surrey training ground - lots of banter and horseplay between the former Leicester star and the likes of Mudryk and Gallagher, Fernandez and Palmer, Sterling and Broja, until it was inky dark above, and the athletic young men were bounding about through the glare of the floodlights. This was a day in the life of Ben Chilwell, caught on camera, edited and glossy for social media - but there were other parts of that day which escaped the beady eye of social media, parts that might have shocked the average Chelsea FC supporter. It was hard for Ben to shake the chummy media personnel at the end of the day, too polite to refuse their requests for a quick photoshoot of some new merch in the gym, making him late into the changing rooms and entirely alone by the time he was showering warm life into his ice-cold physique and scrubbing away the frosty muck of the day's exertions. The Milton Keynes-born football stud was only mildly irked by this, always ready to accept that football in 2024 was interwoven with its huge online media presence, but then he suddenly realised the more annoying consequences of the delay - being stranded in the cold car park with his backpack on one shoulder and a puzzled frown on his chiselled face. Ben's car was in the garage for minor repairs this week and he had been hitching rides with a few close friends on the squad, swopping idly between their generosity each day... so that now, with his exit delayed, it seemed like all the other players who travelled further into the city were already gone, each perhaps assuming that Chilly had travelled home with a different teammate. There were a few other members of Chelsea personnel in the process of driving away, but all ones who lived further out in Surrey or Hampshire in country peace, rather than clinging to the trendy London life like Ben. So the `day in the life' of Ben Chilwell was ending with the left-back stood awkwardly to one side of the car park with pink cheeks and nose, wishing he'd brought a heavier coat with him, and begrudgingly opening up the VIP taxi app which would over-charge him for the simple journey into West London - the cautious spending habits of his prim family were hard to shake even on his salary. A car ground to a halt directly in front of him, and the passenger window rolled down - Ben had to stoop forward to look through it and meet the enquiring face of the driver, whom he immediately smiled awkwardly at and hesitated to respond - `You okay there?' Joe Cole called across the front seats of his beefy Jeep, leaning this way whilst holding onto the wheel - `Do you need a lift anywhere, matey?' Chilly was a bit uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to cut his frozen nose off to spite his pink blotchy face - he accepted the lift from the 42-year-old footy pundit and podcaster, and shivered into the heated passenger seat as Cole swerved out of the training campus and onto the country roads. At first, there was little need for the active player to say much, able to just focus on warming up and getting comfortable, glad at least that his former interviewer actually lived a short distance from his own Chelsea townhouse - Joe was happy to regale him with a lengthy explanation of why he'd been on-site today, doing some nostalgia interviews for a TV special, and how much effort the club hospitality had made in hosting him and the other `legends' who'd participated. But then, once they were on the busier route into West London, Joe fell as quiet as Ben, and a certain knowing tension thickened in the heated car interior, hardly mitigated by the chirpy quiet of Radio 1 playing from the dashboard. Despite a couple of attempts on behalf of the retired winger, there had been no real communication between the current and ex-Chelsea players since Ben attended an interview at Joe's family home late last year. To Chilly's quiet dismay, the shorter stockier bloke began to quietly address it: `Look, Chilly mate, I'd just like to say sorry...' Ben cleared his throat and stared pointedly out of the passenger window. `Oh, don't mention it, all forgotten and okay,' he told him in a low rush, overcompensating for how little he wanted to address the matter. `Everything's fine and I totally respect you, nothing to worry about, ahem...' Joe, who had paused to allow him this quick ramble, said a bit more heavily, `No, I was really out of order that day, I'm sorry.' The weighty tone made Ben glance his way, seeing the regretful frown on the stubbled features, the older man focused fully ahead on the traffic and not returning his shy glance; Ben shifted his pert buttocks against the warmed leather of the seat and he sighed awkwardly, unsure what to say. `I honestly don't know what came over me,' Cole told him, very quietly, `and I'm just really really sorry, mate, I was bang out of order, you must think... Well, god knows what you think. I don't normally do shit like that, I have to tell ya, and I'm really really embarrassed. I just hope you ain't told a soul, y'know, and I hope you mean it when you say you still respect me.' From here, via series of furtive sidelong glances, the 42-year-old looked genuinely rueful and worried, and this mollified Ben's passive aggressive wariness. `Don't worry about it,' he muttered ambivalently. `I do,' Joe assured him. `You were our guest.' And your wife was right upstairs, Ben thought awkwardly. `It's forgotten,' he insisted dumbly, hearing how unconvincing such dismissal was given that the married dad had cuddled him tight by the basement pool and tossed him off to sticky completion. It was not a memory that Chilwell had shaken off easily, and... it was hard to be sure that he wanted to forget it, in all honesty. But he felt he'd been hurt too much in the past, too trusting and open, and experience had taught him caution. And then, as abruptly as he'd brought it up, Joe seemed to move on from the taboo topic. He pointed out a particularly nice suburban village they were passing, and told Ben a story about a drunken weekend spent there with his missus; he went back to recounting the nostalgic glory of his day's filming; he started suggesting that Ben ought to come back to the Coles' place one Sunday soon for a big roast dinner, he should bring his girlfriend if he was seeing anyone, etc. etc. etc. And Ben, for his part, relaxed, and forgot for a while that he'd been left guilty and uncomfortable by his last visit to Chez Cole in a neighbourhood not far from his own, coffee and sticky buns by the laptop turning into something much more in the basement pool-house below. He still said little, happy to let the older guy do the talking, and thinking abstractedly about what he was going to make for his dinner, and what series he was currently bingeing on the streaming services; not ignoring his kind driver, but only half-present in the idle conversation. With less shyness, he kept glancing across into the driver's seat and checking out Joe's profile, noting the mild weight gain since his playing days, the thick stockiness of his figure as he hunched over the wheel - the fullness of his handsomely stubbled face, more mannish and rugged than men in their 20s or 30s. He was a full warm presence, and his heavy inner London accent gave him the blokey persona of a chatty taxi driver rather than a retired millionaire. They were passing through the outer layers of the city now, Surrey left behind, and Ben kept finding himself looking at the other man for longer and longer each time... still the quieter half of their conversation, but less distracted by other matters, and more distracted with trying to match up the chatty laddish footballer in the driver's seat with the strong comforting arms who had hugged him through his towel and made him feel... safe. He felt stupid when he thought about how awkward he'd been at Joe's attempts to speak about it, his apologies just pushed aside in a very repressed manner - looking back, Ben supposed he'd been a bit rude or unhelpful, treating it like that, but... what was he supposed to say or do? When they were idling in a parking space on Ben's street, the older guy didn't quite return to his effusive apology, but he did turn this way with a slightly more serious look on his face, and then rest the tips of two fingers just above the knee of Ben's slim-fit joggers. `I'm glad we're still mates, fella,' Cole said earnestly, beaming at him. `You're a great kid and Chelsea are very lucky to have ya - I'm glad the fans know it.' His fingertips stayed there, the slightest of physical contact, and the attractive older man seemed composed and controlled now, none of the inappropriateness of last time. Ben stared uncertainly back at him, one hand resting on the door-handle to exit, and the other bunched into a loose fist on his thigh, close to where Joe's fingers rested. After a moment of indecision that felt like an eternity, Ben's left hand loosened, shifted, and he rested it shakily on top of Joe's, bringing it more fully to rest on the warmth of his leg, the softness of his joggers. `Do you want to come in?' the left-back asked quietly, surprised to find his voice so dry and hoarse with nervousness as he spoke. He saw the momentary flinch of surprise in Joe's expression, the flicker of his eyes and the tightening of his warm smile - he was slow to answer, and Ben sensed that he'd broken some quiet agreement by making the falsely innocent suggestion. He swallowed and moistened his lip and stared hesitantly at the married bloke who'd kindly driven him home. `It's okay if you need to get home,' he said, even more quietly and almost stammering. `Kinda,' was Joe's taut answer, still looking intently at him. `Okay,' Ben said slowly, very slowly. `Maybe that's for the best?' `Maybe.' `Okay. Erm.' They stayed like that, Cole gripping the wheel tightly on one side and leaning into it, while his thick sleeved arm reached this way and rested above the knee, Chilwell's fingers clamped over it there. Ben saw him look down at this contact and he did the same, staring at their connected hands on his lower thigh. He found he could hardly breathe with the tension of the moment. He was about to blurt out a flustered apology, some spin to underplay his invite and dismiss the tension, to forget the whole thing as bluntly as he'd tried before - but Joe's grip tightened on his leg, and the press of a button stopped the background growl of the Jeep's engine. `I haven't got long,' the 42-year-old said, and he sounded as nervous as Ben felt. There was a fair chance that Cole's quiet claim, on the doorstep, that he needed to be home soon because he had errands to run for his wife, was just a nervous disclaimer; but Chilwell took it with a kind of determined seriousness, and filled with a strange boldness, he wasted no time. His voice brittle with anticipation, he made an empty offer, asking if Joe wanted a cup of coffee, whilst leading him from the hallway into the house's minimalist front lounge, directing him to an armchair in the corner. `Yeah,' the married guy said hesitantly, `if that's okay-' and Ben entirely ignored the fact that he'd asked the question, made the offer; whilst his guest sank down into the expensive designer chair, Ben moved to the room's bay windows and tugged shut thin curtains that hid them from the street. And then he moved quickly back to the room, watched with wary eyes by the seated bloke, and went down on his knees in front of the armchair. `Oh-' was all the older man said. Ben knelt neatly in front of him between the instinctive man-spread of Joe's thick thighs, the stone-coloured chinos hugging at the lingering muscle of an active footballer's legs. He rubbed his hands up and down each of them, quick and businesslike, and then leant in - quickly, unceremoniously, greedily, Ben pushed his face into the crotch, pushing in against the bulging front of the trousers, and feeling body heat on his cheek, his chin, his nose, his lips. Quietly, he snuffled at the bulge, feeling that Joe was already quite hard, and breathing in the manly scent there as he rubbed his mouth across the thick fabric, touching unsubtly at the contents through two layers, making his intentions 100% clear - overhead, he heard raspy exhalations of pleased surprise, and then Joe's strong hands on his head, running through his hair, patting awkwardly at his ears, the back of his neck. Ben lifted his face enough to bring his hands in and he undid the belt buckle with clumsy confidence, pulling down the zip of the fly - back down, snuffling at the prize now through the finer cotton of some M&S men's boxer briefs, navy blue, and the hardening contents red hot to his touch. Feeling Joe's hands on his shoulders, Ben took a good grip of the thighs, and used his teeth, nothing else, to seize and peel down the thick waistband of these daddish undies - then rolled his tongue across the fat thickness of the treat below. He kissed and spat against the thick chubby length and rubbed his nose in the wiry mass of pubes - he heard Joe's gasp when his tongue reached the tip, and he took it between his lips, feeling it reach full hardness with only a few wet mouthy motions. `Oh my god,' was Cole's quiet growl, and Chilly only made wet lip-smacking noises of enjoyment - rolling his tongue generously about the bulbous end and then the fat shaft, taking enough of it into his throat to make him gag and splutter and provoke a concerned `Are you okay?' from a man who clearly didn't get enough head. But `Oh GOD' moaned Joe as Ben recovered and upped his game, taking it deeper and managing not to gag; up an down he bobbed, glad when Joe's fingers pulled a bit more roughly at his hair and rubbed more possessively over the back of his head. Briefly, Ben took his mouth off the fat daddy dick and went lower to kiss and lick fat hairy balls, snuffling in the pubes, kissing the base of the shaft and then running his tongue up the full length in wet generous laps; all the while, the 40-something bloke in the armchair and panted and groaned and exclaimed, as if in disbelief, `Fucking hell, mate'. This was a generous payback for the cuddling handjob in the basement, and Ben was like an animal unleashed; he'd been a good boy for too long, that was the truth, and the sexual tension during the drive back had snapped his properness. Back to work, sucking noisily on it, wanking it at the base, realling pushing himself in against spread thighs, enclosed in Joe's body heat; the strong hands were no longer in his hair or on his clothed shoulders, because Cole was really sprawling back into the chair, gasping and wordless, and Chilly knew he was doing a better job than the pundit's missus ever did. He sucked greedily and worked towards the tasty end result, now wanking the big beast and just lapping his tongue across the bubbling pre-cum of the head, staring up at Joe's sweaty face as he did so - their eyes locked intensely, Joe looking almost worried as his mouth formed an `O' and he panted towards orgasm, Ben just staring him down and kissing the sensitive head in time with the rhythm of his jerks. It was a messy finish, and Ben felt the salty cream on his tongue, but also the stubble over his lips, down his jaw, his chin - he felt the hot mess cream all over his handsome face and he saw the mixture of delight and terror in Joe's wide eyes - so, the sexy older guy hadn't ever had a blowjob from a guy...? Ben had assumed something more confident and experienced in the naughty married fella who cuddled him that afternoon, but... Joe Cole was an enigma. Sticky and gasping, Ben kissed and licked at the quivering cock, causing almost pained moans from the sensitive DILF; again, Joe's fingers roved through his hair and tugged at his ears, massaged at his neck. But when he pulled back, sitting on his haunches, the married guy had one sleeved arm pressed over his eyes in a posture of swooning disbelief; there was some tense panic in his body, as if regretting it already. Ben flinched at the thought but he was still riding the wave of his lust, and he took the wilting cock in his mouth to suck some more before eventually scrambling back and getting up - wiping his cummy face on the sleeves of his Chelsea hoody as if it was just a rag. Joe remained in the seat, arm over his face, chest heaving through his shirt and cardigan, and cock flopping sideways to make some little stain marks on his pale chinos; Ben stood over him, breathless, feeling the strain of his erection in his boxers and joggers. He rubbed at it idly whilst his head span, and then he backed off, giving the man space, and then, growing wary, he wandered away, into the kitchen, making coffees on autopilot, because he didn't know what to say to the gasping older man. Ben looked up as Joe appeared in the kitchen doorway, doing up his belt. His face was dark with inner conflict and Ben's heart sank; had he really thought this quick visit was ending any way other than this? `I need to go,' Cole said, predictably, and `No worries' chimed Chilly, discreetly tossing one coffee down the sink and adjusting the obvious angle of his hard-on in the front of his pants before turning to face his visitor; as he turned round, the married ex-player was crossing the kitchen towards him, frowning. `I really have to go,' the 42-year-old repeated firmly, but there was something apologetic in his voice and his face, and Ben nodded uncertainly at him - but then Joe was in front of him, and grabbing him into a cuddle, pulling him in and wrapping those arms about him again. The older man must be able to feel my big hard-on, Ben thought, but he himself was almost oblivious to it - there was something in the hug that was way more satisfying than a handjob. And then, as the hug broke, their faces brushed close, and their mouths hung an inch apart, and... the almost kiss was somehow the most tender Ben had ever experienced. But Joe was pulling back, holding him by the shoulders, and composing himself. `I DO have to go,' he was insisting, and Ben just nodded silently, dizzy, whilst the ex-player pulled away and retreated, decisive and impatient. He left the room and marched away and didn't wait for Chilwell to see him out - the door slammed, and Ben wilted against the counters of his kitchen, deflated by the exit and yet enraptured by the quick events preceding it. Right there, one hand leaning back against the marble worktop, Ben pushed down the front of his joggers and yanked out his big veiny erection - eyes half-shut and mouth hanging open, the young stud wanked himself off urgently, still tasting Joe Cole's cum on his tongue, and remembering the heat of him as he pulled himself to completion, spattering his own juices against the expensive stone tiles of his kitchen floor, drop after drop. And then he just stood there panting, hand resting on his shaft, and sweat beading on his handsome face - a day in the life, away from the cameras. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2024 16:08:34 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 385 Part 385: Off-Camera `Right, Chilly - we're just gonna need to do a bit of filming of you in particular today, that ok?' `Sure, sure...' `A "day in the life" kinda thing, you know?' `Oh, right-' `Just a bit of a one-on-one focus to the training footage, basically - a bit more of a feature. We need to up the engagement on the old socials this month, if you get me.' `No bother...' `We won't be too annoying, and it won't be much different to the usual footage - you don't mind, do you?' `Not a problem, mate, just let me-' `Now, could you hang on a sec there, and just tie those laces again a bit more slowly for the camera, could you? We need it to look "authentic" and you were a bit rushed there, if you see what I mean. Good, good - promise we won't be a nuisance.' There was a little banter from a couple of his squad mates about the social media team's choice - `Disney prince good looks' was thrown about as a phrase, and `the Premiership pretty boy' - but the 27-year-old defensive player certainly liked to think his popularity was more about his talent or work ethic, and the idea of being the best-looking guy on the Chelsea roster was a challenge to his natural humility. It was his commitment, he assured himself, his performance and resilience - barring the unfortunate injury spells, he believed himself to be one of the most stable and consistent performers on the West London club's line-up, that was all, and so the Chelsea fans had really taken to him, online and on matchdays. That was why he was being picked for a daft little "day in the life" montage video, not because he looked like a... a "Disney prince", for fuck's sake, what did that even mean? The serious-faced Englishman scoffed this idea aside even as he ran his fingers through the glossy curtains of his chestnut brown hair and puffed out his lean muscular chest, ready to throw himself into action on the training pitch. A smiley chatty indoor warm-up, kitting up with a few of his friends, and lolling idly about the gym before heading out into the frost of the late morning greyness; an `authentic'-looking insight into a Chelsea player's day, he was assured, as the two-person social media team asked him to lift the same light weight for a third time and then suggested that he pose next to the new cardio machines even though a coach was shouting on everybody to get outside and assembled. Still, it really was only a minor nuisance, a minimal shift to the tone of his day, Ben all smiles and enthusiasm after another irritatingly long interruption in his fitness - outside, he worked hard in the drills and activities he was assigned, equally happy working on targeted action with his fellow defensive players as joining in for attacking set-pieces and proving that he could contribute goals. A happy, confident, and sociable young football star, captured for social media - only the faintest glimpses of impatience or annoyance during the day's late lunch break, when a gaggle of club VIPs were mingling with the sweaty players in the canteen, and the cameraman kept getting too close and making it harder for Chilwell to just relax and eat his lunch. It would be edited out later to meet the short-attention-span demands of the internet, but Ben looked visibly aggravated when he was being jostled and pestered simultaneously by the suggestions of the Chelsea social media manager and one of the visitors in smart-casual attire, a club legend who seemed to be on site for a totally different media opportunity to this one - looking exasperate for a moment before remembering the camera's gaze, Ben made awkward apologies to both the excitable social media manager and to the gent in chinos, shirt and cardigan, and disappeared from the refectory under the excuse of needing the toilet. When the 27-year-old returned shortly after, he looked more composed and upbeat again, and Joe Cole had been carried away in the fuss of whatever separate schedule he and the other guests were subject to. Back outside for Chilly and the others, back into the ice-cold January air, sunset already darkening the vista around their Surrey training ground - lots of banter and horseplay between the former Leicester star and the likes of Mudryk and Gallagher, Fernandez and Palmer, Sterling and Broja, until it was inky dark above, and the athletic young men were bounding about through the glare of the floodlights. This was a day in the life of Ben Chilwell, caught on camera, edited and glossy for social media - but there were other parts of that day which escaped the beady eye of social media, parts that might have shocked the average Chelsea FC supporter. It was hard for Ben to shake the chummy media personnel at the end of the day, too polite to refuse their requests for a quick photoshoot of some new merch in the gym, making him late into the changing rooms and entirely alone by the time he was showering warm life into his ice-cold physique and scrubbing away the frosty muck of the day's exertions. The Milton Keynes-born football stud was only mildly irked by this, always ready to accept that football in 2024 was interwoven with its huge online media presence, but then he suddenly realised the more annoying consequences of the delay - being stranded in the cold car park with his backpack on one shoulder and a puzzled frown on his chiselled face. Ben's car was in the garage for minor repairs this week and he had been hitching rides with a few close friends on the squad, swopping idly between their generosity each day... so that now, with his exit delayed, it seemed like all the other players who travelled further into the city were already gone, each perhaps assuming that Chilly had travelled home with a different teammate. There were a few other members of Chelsea personnel in the process of driving away, but all ones who lived further out in Surrey or Hampshire in country peace, rather than clinging to the trendy London life like Ben. So the `day in the life' of Ben Chilwell was ending with the left-back stood awkwardly to one side of the car park with pink cheeks and nose, wishing he'd brought a heavier coat with him, and begrudgingly opening up the VIP taxi app which would over-charge him for the simple journey into West London - the cautious spending habits of his prim family were hard to shake even on his salary. A car ground to a halt directly in front of him, and the passenger window rolled down - Ben had to stoop forward to look through it and meet the enquiring face of the driver, whom he immediately smiled awkwardly at and hesitated to respond - `You okay there?' Joe Cole called across the front seats of his beefy Jeep, leaning this way whilst holding onto the wheel - `Do you need a lift anywhere, matey?' Chilly was a bit uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to cut his frozen nose off to spite his pink blotchy face - he accepted the lift from the 42-year-old footy pundit and podcaster, and shivered into the heated passenger seat as Cole swerved out of the training campus and onto the country roads. At first, there was little need for the active player to say much, able to just focus on warming up and getting comfortable, glad at least that his former interviewer actually lived a short distance from his own Chelsea townhouse - Joe was happy to regale him with a lengthy explanation of why he'd been on-site today, doing some nostalgia interviews for a TV special, and how much effort the club hospitality had made in hosting him and the other `legends' who'd participated. But then, once they were on the busier route into West London, Joe fell as quiet as Ben, and a certain knowing tension thickened in the heated car interior, hardly mitigated by the chirpy quiet of Radio 1 playing from the dashboard. Despite a couple of attempts on behalf of the retired winger, there had been no real communication between the current and ex-Chelsea players since Ben attended an interview at Joe's family home late last year. To Chilly's quiet dismay, the shorter stockier bloke began to quietly address it: `Look, Chilly mate, I'd just like to say sorry...' Ben cleared his throat and stared pointedly out of the passenger window. `Oh, don't mention it, all forgotten and okay,' he told him in a low rush, overcompensating for how little he wanted to address the matter. `Everything's fine and I totally respect you, nothing to worry about, ahem...' Joe, who had paused to allow him this quick ramble, said a bit more heavily, `No, I was really out of order that day, I'm sorry.' The weighty tone made Ben glance his way, seeing the regretful frown on the stubbled features, the older man focused fully ahead on the traffic and not returning his shy glance; Ben shifted his pert buttocks against the warmed leather of the seat and he sighed awkwardly, unsure what to say. `I honestly don't know what came over me,' Cole told him, very quietly, `and I'm just really really sorry, mate, I was bang out of order, you must think... Well, god knows what you think. I don't normally do shit like that, I have to tell ya, and I'm really really embarrassed. I just hope you ain't told a soul, y'know, and I hope you mean it when you say you still respect me.' From here, via series of furtive sidelong glances, the 42-year-old looked genuinely rueful and worried, and this mollified Ben's passive aggressive wariness. `Don't worry about it,' he muttered ambivalently. `I do,' Joe assured him. `You were our guest.' And your wife was right upstairs, Ben thought awkwardly. `It's forgotten,' he insisted dumbly, hearing how unconvincing such dismissal was given that the married dad had cuddled him tight by the basement pool and tossed him off to sticky completion. It was not a memory that Chilwell had shaken off easily, and... it was hard to be sure that he wanted to forget it, in all honesty. But he felt he'd been hurt too much in the past, too trusting and open, and experience had taught him caution. And then, as abruptly as he'd brought it up, Joe seemed to move on from the taboo topic. He pointed out a particularly nice suburban village they were passing, and told Ben a story about a drunken weekend spent there with his missus; he went back to recounting the nostalgic glory of his day's filming; he started suggesting that Ben ought to come back to the Coles' place one Sunday soon for a big roast dinner, he should bring his girlfriend if he was seeing anyone, etc. etc. etc. And Ben, for his part, relaxed, and forgot for a while that he'd been left guilty and uncomfortable by his last visit to Chez Cole in a neighbourhood not far from his own, coffee and sticky buns by the laptop turning into something much more in the basement pool-house below. He still said little, happy to let the older guy do the talking, and thinking abstractedly about what he was going to make for his dinner, and what series he was currently bingeing on the streaming services; not ignoring his kind driver, but only half-present in the idle conversation. With less shyness, he kept glancing across into the driver's seat and checking out Joe's profile, noting the mild weight gain since his playing days, the thick stockiness of his figure as he hunched over the wheel - the fullness of his handsomely stubbled face, more mannish and rugged than men in their 20s or 30s. He was a full warm presence, and his heavy inner London accent gave him the blokey persona of a chatty taxi driver rather than a retired millionaire. They were passing through the outer layers of the city now, Surrey left behind, and Ben kept finding himself looking at the other man for longer and longer each time... still the quieter half of their conversation, but less distracted by other matters, and more distracted with trying to match up the chatty laddish footballer in the driver's seat with the strong comforting arms who had hugged him through his towel and made him feel... safe. He felt stupid when he thought about how awkward he'd been at Joe's attempts to speak about it, his apologies just pushed aside in a very repressed manner - looking back, Ben supposed he'd been a bit rude or unhelpful, treating it like that, but... what was he supposed to say or do? When they were idling in a parking space on Ben's street, the older guy didn't quite return to his effusive apology, but he did turn this way with a slightly more serious look on his face, and then rest the tips of two fingers just above the knee of Ben's slim-fit joggers. `I'm glad we're still mates, fella,' Cole said earnestly, beaming at him. `You're a great kid and Chelsea are very lucky to have ya - I'm glad the fans know it.' His fingertips stayed there, the slightest of physical contact, and the attractive older man seemed composed and controlled now, none of the inappropriateness of last time. Ben stared uncertainly back at him, one hand resting on the door-handle to exit, and the other bunched into a loose fist on his thigh, close to where Joe's fingers rested. After a moment of indecision that felt like an eternity, Ben's left hand loosened, shifted, and he rested it shakily on top of Joe's, bringing it more fully to rest on the warmth of his leg, the softness of his joggers. `Do you want to come in?' the left-back asked quietly, surprised to find his voice so dry and hoarse with nervousness as he spoke. He saw the momentary flinch of surprise in Joe's expression, the flicker of his eyes and the tightening of his warm smile - he was slow to answer, and Ben sensed that he'd broken some quiet agreement by making the falsely innocent suggestion. He swallowed and moistened his lip and stared hesitantly at the married bloke who'd kindly driven him home. `It's okay if you need to get home,' he said, even more quietly and almost stammering. `Kinda,' was Joe's taut answer, still looking intently at him. `Okay,' Ben said slowly, very slowly. `Maybe that's for the best?' `Maybe.' `Okay. Erm.' They stayed like that, Cole gripping the wheel tightly on one side and leaning into it, while his thick sleeved arm reached this way and rested above the knee, Chilwell's fingers clamped over it there. Ben saw him look down at this contact and he did the same, staring at their connected hands on his lower thigh. He found he could hardly breathe with the tension of the moment. He was about to blurt out a flustered apology, some spin to underplay his invite and dismiss the tension, to forget the whole thing as bluntly as he'd tried before - but Joe's grip tightened on his leg, and the press of a button stopped the background growl of the Jeep's engine. `I haven't got long,' the 42-year-old said, and he sounded as nervous as Ben felt. There was a fair chance that Cole's quiet claim, on the doorstep, that he needed to be home soon because he had errands to run for his wife, was just a nervous disclaimer; but Chilwell took it with a kind of determined seriousness, and filled with a strange boldness, he wasted no time. His voice brittle with anticipation, he made an empty offer, asking if Joe wanted a cup of coffee, whilst leading him from the hallway into the house's minimalist front lounge, directing him to an armchair in the corner. `Yeah,' the married guy said hesitantly, `if that's okay-' and Ben entirely ignored the fact that he'd asked the question, made the offer; whilst his guest sank down into the expensive designer chair, Ben moved to the room's bay windows and tugged shut thin curtains that hid them from the street. And then he moved quickly back to the room, watched with wary eyes by the seated bloke, and went down on his knees in front of the armchair. `Oh-' was all the older man said. Ben knelt neatly in front of him between the instinctive man-spread of Joe's thick thighs, the stone-coloured chinos hugging at the lingering muscle of an active footballer's legs. He rubbed his hands up and down each of them, quick and businesslike, and then leant in - quickly, unceremoniously, greedily, Ben pushed his face into the crotch, pushing in against the bulging front of the trousers, and feeling body heat on his cheek, his chin, his nose, his lips. Quietly, he snuffled at the bulge, feeling that Joe was already quite hard, and breathing in the manly scent there as he rubbed his mouth across the thick fabric, touching unsubtly at the contents through two layers, making his intentions 100% clear - overhead, he heard raspy exhalations of pleased surprise, and then Joe's strong hands on his head, running through his hair, patting awkwardly at his ears, the back of his neck. Ben lifted his face enough to bring his hands in and he undid the belt buckle with clumsy confidence, pulling down the zip of the fly - back down, snuffling at the prize now through the finer cotton of some M&amp;S men's boxer briefs, navy blue, and the hardening contents red hot to his touch. Feeling Joe's hands on his shoulders, Ben took a good grip of the thighs, and used his teeth, nothing else, to seize and peel down the thick waistband of these daddish undies - then rolled his tongue across the fat thickness of the treat below. He kissed and spat against the thick chubby length and rubbed his nose in the wiry mass of pubes - he heard Joe's gasp when his tongue reached the tip, and he took it between his lips, feeling it reach full hardness with only a few wet mouthy motions. `Oh my god,' was Cole's quiet growl, and Chilly only made wet lip-smacking noises of enjoyment - rolling his tongue generously about the bulbous end and then the fat shaft, taking enough of it into his throat to make him gag and splutter and provoke a concerned `Are you okay?' from a man who clearly didn't get enough head. But `Oh GOD' moaned Joe as Ben recovered and upped his game, taking it deeper and managing not to gag; up an down he bobbed, glad when Joe's fingers pulled a bit more roughly at his hair and rubbed more possessively over the back of his head. Briefly, Ben took his mouth off the fat daddy dick and went lower to kiss and lick fat hairy balls, snuffling in the pubes, kissing the base of the shaft and then running his tongue up the full length in wet generous laps; all the while, the 40-something bloke in the armchair and panted and groaned and exclaimed, as if in disbelief, `Fucking hell, mate'. This was a generous payback for the cuddling handjob in the basement, and Ben was like an animal unleashed; he'd been a good boy for too long, that was the truth, and the sexual tension during the drive back had snapped his properness. Back to work, sucking noisily on it, wanking it at the base, realling pushing himself in against spread thighs, enclosed in Joe's body heat; the strong hands were no longer in his hair or on his clothed shoulders, because Cole was really sprawling back into the chair, gasping and wordless, and Chilly knew he was doing a better job than the pundit's missus ever did. He sucked greedily and worked towards the tasty end result, now wanking the big beast and just lapping his tongue across the bubbling pre-cum of the head, staring up at Joe's sweaty face as he did so - their eyes locked intensely, Joe looking almost worried as his mouth formed an `O' and he panted towards orgasm, Ben just staring him down and kissing the sensitive head in time with the rhythm of his jerks. It was a messy finish, and Ben felt the salty cream on his tongue, but also the stubble over his lips, down his jaw, his chin - he felt the hot mess cream all over his handsome face and he saw the mixture of delight and terror in Joe's wide eyes - so, the sexy older guy hadn't ever had a blowjob from a guy...? Ben had assumed something more confident and experienced in the naughty married fella who cuddled him that afternoon, but... Joe Cole was an enigma. Sticky and gasping, Ben kissed and licked at the quivering cock, causing almost pained moans from the sensitive DILF; again, Joe's fingers roved through his hair and tugged at his ears, massaged at his neck. But when he pulled back, sitting on his haunches, the married guy had one sleeved arm pressed over his eyes in a posture of swooning disbelief; there was some tense panic in his body, as if regretting it already. Ben flinched at the thought but he was still riding the wave of his lust, and he took the wilting cock in his mouth to suck some more before eventually scrambling back and getting up - wiping his cummy face on the sleeves of his Chelsea hoody as if it was just a rag. Joe remained in the seat, arm over his face, chest heaving through his shirt and cardigan, and cock flopping sideways to make some little stain marks on his pale chinos; Ben stood over him, breathless, feeling the strain of his erection in his boxers and joggers. He rubbed at it idly whilst his head span, and then he backed off, giving the man space, and then, growing wary, he wandered away, into the kitchen, making coffees on autopilot, because he didn't know what to say to the gasping older man. Ben looked up as Joe appeared in the kitchen doorway, doing up his belt. His face was dark with inner conflict and Ben's heart sank; had he really thought this quick visit was ending any way other than this? `I need to go,' Cole said, predictably, and `No worries' chimed Chilly, discreetly tossing one coffee down the sink and adjusting the obvious angle of his hard-on in the front of his pants before turning to face his visitor; as he turned round, the married ex-player was crossing the kitchen towards him, frowning. `I really have to go,' the 42-year-old repeated firmly, but there was something apologetic in his voice and his face, and Ben nodded uncertainly at him - but then Joe was in front of him, and grabbing him into a cuddle, pulling him in and wrapping those arms about him again. The older man must be able to feel my big hard-on, Ben thought, but he himself was almost oblivious to it - there was something in the hug that was way more satisfying than a handjob. And then, as the hug broke, their faces brushed close, and their mouths hung an inch apart, and... the almost kiss was somehow the most tender Ben had ever experienced. But Joe was pulling back, holding him by the shoulders, and composing himself. `I DO have to go,' he was insisting, and Ben just nodded silently, dizzy, whilst the ex-player pulled away and retreated, decisive and impatient. He left the room and marched away and didn't wait for Chilwell to see him out - the door slammed, and Ben wilted against the counters of his kitchen, deflated by the exit and yet enraptured by the quick events preceding it. Right there, one hand leaning back against the marble worktop, Ben pushed down the front of his joggers and yanked out his big veiny erection - eyes half-shut and mouth hanging open, the young stud wanked himself off urgently, still tasting Joe Cole's cum on his tongue, and remembering the heat of him as he pulled himself to completion, spattering his own juices against the expensive stone tiles of his kitchen floor, drop after drop. And then he just stood there panting, hand resting on his shaft, and sweat beading on his handsome face - a day in the life, away from the cameras. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-381

Date: Sat, 13 Jan 2024 17:10:16 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 381 Part 381: New Year, New Starts It had begun with a drunk text on Christmas Day, received by the 30-year-old striker in the heat of his family holiday: `Festive love, big man - missing you, H - Jeremy Edgar xx'. Kane himself was far away from their footballing world, making the most of the different culture in the Bundesliga - his first Christmas without a rigorous training schedule and Boxing Day fixture, his first Christmas too without the pressure of somewhat inevitable disappointment in a Tottenham Hotspur almost-ran season campaign. Time difference factored in, Harry's own Christmas Day was disappearing away at midnight, whilst his ex's must be in its half-tipsy prime - he re-read the message and overthought his response at length before the impatient voice of his wife summoned him into the crisp cool of their bedsheets, stood in his boxer briefs letting the air-con play against his suntanned skin. It was not as if there had been silence and distance between Harry Kane and Eric Dier up to that message, not quite - the awkward coldness of their break-up was ancient history to them both, to a degree, and they had been close buddies at the point where the England captain finally took the plunge and quit the Premier League last summer. And yet they'd barely seen each other since that transfer, it was true, even with Harry's regular to-and-fro London visits, with his wife and kids still ensconced in their North London mansion. The messages and calls between the Hotspur pals had thinned after Harry began to settle into the routines and triumphs of German footballing life, and there was something surprising about a festive greeting from Dier that night. It was the nickname that the tall honey-blond football hero found himself turning over though as he held his phone and heard his wife call his name through the expansive suite of their luxury accommodation - `Jeremy Edgar'. It had been the bland name in which Eric's other number was saved in his phone during the height of their affair, the England defender's middle names turned into a fake identity as one of his business managers. It was a name that brought back red-hot memories of their intimacy, but also the skin-crawling awkwardness of where it was wrong - his wife sure that `Jeremy Edgar' was disguising a woman, attacking him half-accurately about his adultery, and almost ending his happy marriage. Harry wasn't sure he'd said or heard Eric's middle names since that period, and there was something both chilling and fiery about reading them tonight. `Coming,' the tall forward had called back to his missus, swaying a little on his bare heels, and scratching down the stubble of his shaved chest. He blinked at the message from Eric, and thought about how much his friend's life had changed in the past year or two - his old friend was married himself now, and had just announced his wife's pregnancy too. Harry had scolded himself over the possessive jealousy these developments stirred in his hypocritical heart, but back they came. `Miss you too,' he texted rapidly in one message, and then, `Long time since I got a message from Jeremy Edgar lol', with a few spelling errors on the way. And then a third message after a moment's pause, `Merry Christmas, Eric, I hope you're having the best time, love you'. A sharp intake of breath as he thought about that last short phrase. He wasn't such a neanderthal that he couldn't profess platonic love to a male friend, despite his Walthamstow upbringing, and yet... it was hardly just that, was it? That's how it had started, Eric Dier thought, but this is where it's come to - sat in a crowded treatment room at the Bayern Munich training campus, his hairy pecs adorned with sticky monitoring kit and a club photographer snapping away at every moment of his official medical and the various paperwork-turned-photoshoot meetings that made up a loan transfer day. The Cheltenham-born footballer drifted through the medical and paperwork in the same daze that he'd taken the whole journey and process, still not quite able to believe he was exiting the club that had been home for so long. In a sense it had been a long-time coming, with European clubs like this registering their interest in him at several points during his slow fall from prominence at Spurs, Munich included; and yet in another sense it had been a whirlwind of decisions and discussions since Christmas Day, talking it through with his new wife, his supportive family, his agent, his friends. And Harry, with whom he seemed to have been messaging almost constantly in the three weeks since Christmas. He'd found himself blushing slightly when Kane's name came up almost immediately in the press huddle at the airport this morning, the local media greeting him en masse as he touched down on German soil and travelled through the hoary morning to be poked and prodded in these medical exams. It was natural, he reminded himself, for the world to point out the obvious, he and Harry reunited on a team only six months after the first Spurs stalwart defected to Bavaria. It was obvious that journalists, and everyone else, would ask him how big a factor Kane had been in the move, and how he was feeling about playing once again with his old friend, longtime colleague, his national captain... Of course. And so why did the questions make him flush and chuckle and pull self-consciously at the fabric of his sleek black polo neck? When all of the formalities were over and his loan deal was complete, all of the photos taken and media content created, when Eric could finally get back into his own clothes and collect his luggage to head to the hotel, when he could check his phone for the first time since landing... there were about five friendly and encouraging text messages from the marginally older man, wishing him luck, asking what he thought of this and that, and reporting to him who he needed to befriend amongst the club personnel. In the taxi, Eric replied as fully as he could, and then shared the name and location of his booked hotel with the other Premier League export: `Do you fancy meeting for a couple of drinks?' `Tomorrow is game day,' came Kane's quick response, followed by a couple of sad-faced emojis - Eric was surprised at the extent of his own surprise and disappointment, and when he failed to respond immediately, Harry elaborated - `Got to stay in and get an early night, bro'. Bro, eh. `No worries,' Eric replied lightly, lifting his bearded face to watch his new city whirr by through the tinted window. He put a little thumbs-up gif into the thread of messages and locked his phone, stroking his grey-blond facial hair and trying to relax. Later, in the sprawling hotel suite the club was paying for, Dier looked askance at himself in a mirror wall, and felt a tremor of doubt - had he misunderstood the conversation that had spilled cautiously and euphemistically between them since Christmas Day? Had he read too much into the messages, the voice-notes, the invitations? Had he misconstrued the excitement, the potential, the insistence...? He turned away from his own brutally handsome reflection and got on with navigating the room service menu, trying not to worry - he was here for his career, he told himself, he was here because things at Tottenham had run their course, and as his agent kept saying, he was very lucky to strike a deal at a big club after such minimal play in the first half of the season. This was a bold new chapter for Eric Dier, flexible defensive midfielder and former England regular, just what he needed after his on-off prominence under a long line of unsuccessful Spurs managers. Reunion with Harry Kane was a social bonus, and nothing more. Scoring his 90th-minute goal and tying the ribbon on their win against Hoffenheim, he couldn't help but stare up into the home stands and seek out the corporate section where the new signing would be positioned - somewhere up there, hidden by the floodlight glare, he knew that Eric would be schmoozing with club owners and sponsors, being paraded as the club's first bit of January business, and perhaps right now joining some enthusiastic applause for the many goals that the England captain was delivering to Munich. Indeed, the 29-year-old grabbed him in a hearty hug when they were finally reunited in the home changing rooms, big heavy puffer coats over their respective clothing as the smartly dressed observer and the sweaty-kitted striker embraced, a lingering hug of celebration an closeness before Dier continued to be introduced to key players in the locker-room celebrations after the game. Kane undressed slowly, basking in the triumphant mood of the sweaty room, but finding it hard to tear his eyes away from their new arrival. They followed Dier about the room, watching as he was led by his broad shoulders from one introduction to another - the newcomer had been expected to visit today's brief training for tonight's fixture, but apparently the powers-that-be had organised more media exposure instead, and so this was the first encounter between the squad and their defensive addition... and the first face-to-face reunion for the former Hotspurs in some time. Harry wanted to ignore the dirty kit that clung to his tall physique, the minor scrapes from an aggressive game, the banter and multilingual enjoyment of the others who were celebrating a 3-0 Friday night - there was so much he wanted to say to his friend, but he couldn't monopolise him and ruin these important first impressions for the arrival. He had to hold back his excitement and undress, peeling kit away from toned muscle, taking the jokey praise of his nearest teammates, and eventually bare his whole body, ambling slowly to the showers with side-long looks at the other Englishman... longing for him to look this way in some special recognition, some acknowledgement of how fit and chiselled Harry was in his German chapter, somehow even more-so than back in London. Entering his 30s, Kane was thinking more and more about longevity and legacy, and how he could make sure the final act of his striker career was one that made him legendary. But Eric couldn't look this way and admire his towel-clad body, because he was being whisked away to meet more coaching staff, shepherded by an exec in a suit, and Harry had to move through into the wall of steam at the shower entrance, to wash away the dirt of a decisive victory. Eric stifled a yawn as he passed through the hotel reception - ridiculous really, he hadn't trained today or played in the game, and yet there was something exhausting about the huge transition that he'd experienced in the last 48 hours, leaving his comfortable London residence behind and sweeping into the south of Germany. He was tired out from cheerful chat, sometimes in strained language barriers, tired of smiling for pictures and of trying to remember names, and tired of novelty; he felt good and optimistic, but he was sure he'd be as tired at his training debut as the men who had just won 3-0 in the league. Perhaps due to this weariness, Dier had no time for the chat of the man on reception, who was trying to relay an important message to him in stilted English; he politely waved away the matter and asked to be updated in the morning, not catching the older guy's uncertain phrasing, and moving on towards the row of gleaming chrome elevator doors. Up on his floor, he stifled another yawn, and began undoing the zip of his overcoat, pulling a scar from about his furry neck. He fumbled in a deep pocket for the key-card into his temporary suite, wondering how easy it would be to find and choose a rental property so that his pregnant wife could soon join him, and slid it through the little groove to unlock the door ahead of him - he was over the threshold and throwing coat and scarf onto a nearby chair before he registered what the man at reception had been trying to tell him. Momentarily there was something alarming about re-entering a hotel suite and finding it not empty, a figure stood with their back to him at the city-view windows, but now the 6ft2 football player found himself staring across the room at the tracksuit-clad figure of his regained teammate and friend, who had clearly been allowed access to the club-booked accommodation and then comfortably mixed himself a drink from the minibar. Eric raised his brows and smiled in dazed pleasure, letting out a breathy laugh and nodding a greeting at the surprise visitor. `I had to tip about 100 euros, but they figured it was fine to let another club player up here - it's not as if anyone doesn't know we're pals.' The other English import smiled almost apprehensively at him before taking a sip of his drink and nodding to the minibar. `I'll make you one too?' For a moment, Eric found himself falling into a bland familiarity - of course his mate Harry was up here in his hotel room, how many had they shared over the years as Spurs and England comrades? He laughed and nodded and moved slowly through the room, unzipping the front of the heavy-knit cardigan over his muscular torso and kicking his feet out of loose trainers, socks padding across the laminate floor and cosy rugs. Harry was angling for the well-stocked mini-bar to the left, and Eric moved close to join him there, as the North Londoner spoke in his thick accent: `Sorry I couldn't hang out last night, buddy, it was just cos of...' Eric found himself interrupting brusquely, murmuring `It's fine' in a quiet gruff voice, and then reaching out to stop Harry's hand as it reached for the vodka. They both paused there by the bar and he reached up, sliding his colder hand in against Harry's, and taking hold of the glass in it. `We'll just share,' he said, taking a long sip from it, and then he put it down quite firmly next to him - `Or I'll taste it on you.' And he went in for the kiss, urgent and decisive, brushing their mouths together with gentle force - two 6ft2 hunks joined at the mouth, tongues meeting with a quiver of tense muscle, a snog that seemed to last as long as the huge gap since last they kissed. When Eric ended the kiss and straightened his posture, they were both breathless. He looked seriously into the other man's face, and saw that he had misread nothing - Harry's bullet eyes were full of focus and desire, and he was already leaning in to take a second kiss, which Eric gladly gave him, pushing his tongue in and really tasting him, grabbing him by the arms, the shoulders. Breathless again, they held their faces close, and he growled his honest lust - `I've missed you a lot,' Dier admitted. `I'm so glad you're here,' came Kane's shuddering whisper, his voice heavy and manly, and yet then under his breath, `We... we said we wouldn't let this happen...' `We did,' moaned the 29-year-old, days now from his 30th birthday, agreeing and ignoring all at once - he grabbed at Harry's neck and kissed him on the mouth a third time, pushing their tall strong bodies together. `But that was then.' He slid his arm about Harry's waist, really taking him in his arms, really exploring his mouth. `I wanted to push everyone out of the way,' he hissed almost angrily. `In the changing rooms, before - I wanted to drag you into the showers and have you. I saw you stripping off, teasing me, getting everything out. You big fucking sexy bastard.' He stared intensely into Harry's eyes, holding him back and delaying the next kiss. `I've been thinking about you every day since Christmas. Longer. Since you left England.' It was true, although a less riled and lusty Eric might have admitted it was less straightforward than that. But right now he had tunnel vision, and he didn't care about what they'd promised each other in the past - he was thinking about how amazing things had once been, starting in a hot Russian night during a World Cup of long ago. `You came here,' panted Kane, hands feeling up Eric's biceps through thick woollen sleeves, `you really came here - for me? You came for me?' There was something so sexy in the new vulnerability of his voice and Eric nodded furiously. `I did,' he promised. `I came for you.' And now he relented, kissing again, holding him tight, letting Harry's body heat warm him against the German night he had travelled through. They held close and breathed against each other's lips, hearts thundering in broad chests. `You're here,' Kane sighed, almost in disbelief, and Dier assured him sternly, `I'm here, I'm yours again.' Moving to the bed, Harry Kane didn't care a jot about all of the sensible promises he'd made to himself over the years since they'd last been together in this way - after all, he'd hardly been true to his chaste self-denial after he ended things with his `Jeremy Edgar', had he? How many football men had he wasted himself on in the long years without his boyfriend, after that affair closed? How many times had Kane debased himself for the excitement of teammates and even rivals, a slut for any horny lad on the Three Lions, and a gagging whore for a young Arsenal wannabe... the things he'd done for satisfaction, after throwing away a fierce secret love in a moment of panic! He'd regretted that break-up every day since he pulled the plug, and he'd hardly even hid it from Dier or himself. Off came the Bayern Munich tracksuit top and the Nike t-shirt underneath, and he shivered and whined as Eric's bearded kisses travelled his bare shoulders and shaved pecs, he groaned as his nipples were licked and bitten, and he fell back heavily into the bed at the thrust and push of Eric's questing hands. `Yes,' the record-breaking striker purred, `oh yes, Eric...' Here he was in Germany, out of his wife's gaze, those suspected affairs long buried, and trust rebuilt - and he was cheating again already, with his family duty out of sight and out of mind. None of it mattered, not compared to the need he felt here and now, and the beautiful fortune of having Eric back at his side! He fought clumsily to strip Dier's body, yanking away the zip cardigan and then the grey tee below, wanting to run his hands over bulging muscles, loving how defined and bulky the defender felt, loving the natural hairiness of his chest and the trail on his tummy - he loved the heat of them both, grinding together and rolling across the bed, he loved the tickle and scratch of that viking-like beard coming back up his chest and neck and then locking lips with his, kissing long and deep. Powering on top of his lover, Eric too was throwing away so many resolutions, in favour of a new year of rediscovery - it had come to him slowly, his longing for Harry, vivid memories surfacing on the night of the striker's goodbye party last summer, and simmering through the long autumn into winter. Things were complicated, there were a lot of different regrets and uncertainties, but a nostalgic craving for the England captain had risen through it all, turning from idle daydream into burning certainty between Christmas and New Year - and now here he was, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to the bulge in Eric's boxers, then taking his hard cock out and wrapping warm lips about the shaft - oh, god. Grunts and pants sounded from each of them and Eric found himself becoming more forceful, more urgent - off came his heavy slate-grey jeans, off came the socks, off came it all, until both tall strong bodies were fully naked and tangled across the neatly made bedding. They could hardly stop kissing, pausing only briefly to exchange quick wet blowjobs, but so fixated on locking lips and wrestling tongues that their hard-ons could wait, thwacking together as they rolled and wrestled, Eric always coming out on top, dominating and pinning down the body of England's great goal-scorer, the Three Lions' secret sub. Dier didn't care for a second about any of the other men who'd had their hands on his man in the years since they parted - those jealousies were long-abandoned, and the possessiveness he'd once felt for the big beautiful man he'd deflowered had matured. If anything, time and experience had made Harry a better lover - had he always been such a good kisser, or so tactile and confident? Had he always known how to grab it like that, to stroke it like this, to kiss right THERE? They were different men now, years later, but the passion was every bit as hot as he remembered, from the first time to the last - and every tear he'd shed when dumped was washed away by time and distance. Kissing and wrangling, body to body, he reached powerfully across Harry's back, kneading across his spine, across the muscles, and then pulling his fingers down, heading past the waist, grasping one soft-haired buttock, prising them apart, tapping fingertips into the crack that he'd explored before anyone else. Harry's legs were parting instinctively beneath him to give him better access, letting him rub and push his fingers there, pressing down him and kissing his throat. `You're mine,' the ex-Hotspur growled desperately. `I'm yours,' England's manly captain whimpered back, as ready as always to offer himself entirely to a powerful dominant force - was there a single other lad who'd fucked him where he hadn't briefly or indulgently wished and imagined it was Dier instead? Surely not - and he'd embarrassed himself several times trying to rekindle this once they were friends again, and regretted it every time, cooled and warned by Eric's steadfast moving on. But not tonight, not here in Munich! On his back, long striker legs wrapped upwards, he groaned and relaxed as Eric's fingers entered him, spit-lubed thrusts into his arse, its first attention in too long - he wanted the big cock, but he needed this first, and he just moaned and gasped for Dier's touch, writhing on his back and lifting and parting his thighs more, making it easier, following every grunted command until he was being roughly fingered and Eric was kissing the centre of his chest as he hunched forward to frig his muscular bum. `Oh god,' Kane shouted, two of Dier's fingers sliding firmly in and out of his hole, his moaning only quietened when they kissed again, bodies aligning. The fingering stopped and he gasped for air, and he felt the thicker pressure on his ring. `Yes,' he whined, scratching blunt fingernails down the pale smooth skin of Eric's back, `oh yes, I need you inside me...!' `Yes,' was all Eric could groan in his ear, seeming completely overcome by exertion or pleasure, but driving on - Harry stayed as relaxed as he could, letting him in, contorting beneath him and feeling himself open, feeling inch after inch enter and occupy him, until they were still and interlocked, Eric's cock deep into him for the first time in forever, and lips brushing clumsily in hot quick breaths. `Oh yes, ohhhh yessss.' Eric held it, let that moment linger, just feeling the muscular grip on his manhood, just feeling the satisfaction of being together and inside him, and then he began to roll his hips, clench and unclench his muscular glutes, work up a rhythm, slow at first, but quicker, quicker, heavier, heavier - fucking Harry Kane into the bed with loud squeaks of the bedsprings, powering into him as he had before, even the first few times when his man was nervous and new, bent over in Russian hotels, sweating profusely. Eric fucked with the force of his long anticipation, fucking the arse he'd watched walk away when Harry left London for Munich, fucking him with all the frustration and need of a top who hasn't fucked a man since the wedding ring slipped onto his finger. Like a machine, the 6ft2 hunk ploughed his man, slamming into him fast and hard, dripping sweat on him from his face, his biceps, his hairy chest, just pummelling his arse so hard that he'd be limping at training - Eric was desperately claiming his man, his territory, his reunion, taking Harry for his own all over again, and loving the wild cries and unrestrained pleasure of Harry's unthinking voice. `Fucking hell,' moaned Eric, mounting gradually towards the peak of his pleasure, both of them just panting and swearing and locking intense lusty eye contact. He slowed, temporarily thinking to delay his orgasm, but the slower rhythm just felt even better, for him and for his bottom, and soon he was shuddering and grimacing, and almost screaming out his `God yes!' before emptying his balls, shooting inside the striker - and tensing his six-pack as Harry's wanking cock rubbed furiously at it before making a mess against the pale muscle, slicking spunk against his navel. `Fuuuuck,' he moaned, and `Oh Eric', whined Harry. Kane had a lazy semi within about two minutes of his orgasm, and he played idly with it as they lolled on the bed under the covers, chatting quietly in snatches and then pausing the conversation to gently kiss. Dier asked him repeatedly if he'd been too rough and hard, if he'd hurt him, if it had felt ok - and all the 30-year-old could do was repeatedly tell him how perfect every moment had been, how it had been everything he wanted and needed, and how he was ready to go again as soon as his lover was. Tottenham's great departed striker was in a euphoric state, experiencing a dazzling shock at how reality had lived up to fantasy. He hadn't exaggerated Eric's prowess in his memories at all, and being fucked by him was truly incredible. He felt like if he got up from the bed, he'd be floating, his whole body just felt wiped out and weightless at the same time. His hole stung, but the mild pain just reminded him of how it felt to be penetrated and used by this glorious brute in his arms, who sighed quietly and nibbled on his ear. Only a full bladder eventually dragged Harry out of this cuddle, naked and giggly as he left the bed and went to piss from his semi-hard prick. Coming back to bed, he stared lovingly at the sprawled man, at his rugged face and beard, his bared manly chest, his bulging arm strength - the outline of his legs and bulge under the covers. Harry stood there and toyed with his semi, grinning delightedly at him, and regretting nothing. It didn't matter what had happened in the past, the decisions they'd made - they were back together, and safely here in Germany, away from everyone else they knew. This was a new year, a new start, a new togetherness for the two Munich Hotspurs. Kane slid back into bed with him, kissing his chest and his neck and his jawline, and happy now just to cuddle against him and ignore the swell of his eager cock, happy to wait until the other stud was ready for round 2 - they had the rest of the season stretching ahead of them, after all, all those hotel room nights, and it was open secret that Bayern were keen to make the loan a permanent move if their new defender could prove himself soon enough. And in his euphoric mood, Harry saw no doubts on that - he knew how talented and hardworking his perfect man was, and he would do everything he could to use his influence on the signing, just as he had on the loan decision. A player of Harry's international status could have quite a lot of influence in the Bundesliga, he was finding, certainly more than he'd ever wielded at Tottenham somehow. Yes, he thought, I'm here to stay, and now so is `Jeremy Edgar'. The 29-year-old Lisbon-raised stud sighed and murmured with a similar sense of bliss and arrival, happy to lie here and be hugged and stroked by someone who knew him this well, someone he trusted so comfortably, someone who could make him feel this good so quickly and easily. He was more tired than Kane, but he supposed it was the 3-0 adrenaline versus his overwhelming travel fatigue and experience of newness - and the fact that he'd put every muscle into pounding his striker, doing all the physical work in the sweaty perfection that had brought them both to climax. Yep, Eric felt happy too, felt weightless and satisfied, felt sure that he could make his mark in the Bundesliga and turn a short-term loan into a permanent transfer, closing the page on his Tottenham era. And having Kane here at his side, so literally, just made it all feel safer and instantly more homely...! This was what he'd wanted, he thought quietly, taking his turn to climb quietly from the bed and go for a piss, lingering in the bathroom and staring at his muscular reflection. This was what he'd come here for, he could admit to himself, as great an opportunity as he knew it to be. And he wasn't dumb enough not to suspect Kane's involvement, Kane's approval, Kane's lobbying for him at this end - his ego could cope with that, knowing how little he'd been playing in the past year. Bayern Munich with Harry Kane, his new chapter, his new direction, his new challenge! He was happy about it, he was sure of that, and all the happier for the frantic fuck that had felt so bloody good. He was sure of everything, and as sure of the decision to fuck his lover as the decision to sign for Bayern Munich. So, he asked himself, staring his blue eyes down in the mirror, if all that's true... ...why are you stood here thinking about Ross fucking Barkley...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sat, 13 Jan 2024 17:10:16 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads Part 381 Part 381: New Year, New Starts It had begun with a drunk text on Christmas Day, received by the 30-year-old striker in the heat of his family holiday: `Festive love, big man - missing you, H - Jeremy Edgar xx'. Kane himself was far away from their footballing world, making the most of the different culture in the Bundesliga - his first Christmas without a rigorous training schedule and Boxing Day fixture, his first Christmas too without the pressure of somewhat inevitable disappointment in a Tottenham Hotspur almost-ran season campaign. Time difference factored in, Harry's own Christmas Day was disappearing away at midnight, whilst his ex's must be in its half-tipsy prime - he re-read the message and overthought his response at length before the impatient voice of his wife summoned him into the crisp cool of their bedsheets, stood in his boxer briefs letting the air-con play against his suntanned skin. It was not as if there had been silence and distance between Harry Kane and Eric Dier up to that message, not quite - the awkward coldness of their break-up was ancient history to them both, to a degree, and they had been close buddies at the point where the England captain finally took the plunge and quit the Premier League last summer. And yet they'd barely seen each other since that transfer, it was true, even with Harry's regular to-and-fro London visits, with his wife and kids still ensconced in their North London mansion. The messages and calls between the Hotspur pals had thinned after Harry began to settle into the routines and triumphs of German footballing life, and there was something surprising about a festive greeting from Dier that night. It was the nickname that the tall honey-blond football hero found himself turning over though as he held his phone and heard his wife call his name through the expansive suite of their luxury accommodation - `Jeremy Edgar'. It had been the bland name in which Eric's other number was saved in his phone during the height of their affair, the England defender's middle names turned into a fake identity as one of his business managers. It was a name that brought back red-hot memories of their intimacy, but also the skin-crawling awkwardness of where it was wrong - his wife sure that `Jeremy Edgar' was disguising a woman, attacking him half-accurately about his adultery, and almost ending his happy marriage. Harry wasn't sure he'd said or heard Eric's middle names since that period, and there was something both chilling and fiery about reading them tonight. `Coming,' the tall forward had called back to his missus, swaying a little on his bare heels, and scratching down the stubble of his shaved chest. He blinked at the message from Eric, and thought about how much his friend's life had changed in the past year or two - his old friend was married himself now, and had just announced his wife's pregnancy too. Harry had scolded himself over the possessive jealousy these developments stirred in his hypocritical heart, but back they came. `Miss you too,' he texted rapidly in one message, and then, `Long time since I got a message from Jeremy Edgar lol', with a few spelling errors on the way. And then a third message after a moment's pause, `Merry Christmas, Eric, I hope you're having the best time, love you'. A sharp intake of breath as he thought about that last short phrase. He wasn't such a neanderthal that he couldn't profess platonic love to a male friend, despite his Walthamstow upbringing, and yet... it was hardly just that, was it? That's how it had started, Eric Dier thought, but this is where it's come to - sat in a crowded treatment room at the Bayern Munich training campus, his hairy pecs adorned with sticky monitoring kit and a club photographer snapping away at every moment of his official medical and the various paperwork-turned-photoshoot meetings that made up a loan transfer day. The Cheltenham-born footballer drifted through the medical and paperwork in the same daze that he'd taken the whole journey and process, still not quite able to believe he was exiting the club that had been home for so long. In a sense it had been a long-time coming, with European clubs like this registering their interest in him at several points during his slow fall from prominence at Spurs, Munich included; and yet in another sense it had been a whirlwind of decisions and discussions since Christmas Day, talking it through with his new wife, his supportive family, his agent, his friends. And Harry, with whom he seemed to have been messaging almost constantly in the three weeks since Christmas. He'd found himself blushing slightly when Kane's name came up almost immediately in the press huddle at the airport this morning, the local media greeting him en masse as he touched down on German soil and travelled through the hoary morning to be poked and prodded in these medical exams. It was natural, he reminded himself, for the world to point out the obvious, he and Harry reunited on a team only six months after the first Spurs stalwart defected to Bavaria. It was obvious that journalists, and everyone else, would ask him how big a factor Kane had been in the move, and how he was feeling about playing once again with his old friend, longtime colleague, his national captain... Of course. And so why did the questions make him flush and chuckle and pull self-consciously at the fabric of his sleek black polo neck? When all of the formalities were over and his loan deal was complete, all of the photos taken and media content created, when Eric could finally get back into his own clothes and collect his luggage to head to the hotel, when he could check his phone for the first time since landing... there were about five friendly and encouraging text messages from the marginally older man, wishing him luck, asking what he thought of this and that, and reporting to him who he needed to befriend amongst the club personnel. In the taxi, Eric replied as fully as he could, and then shared the name and location of his booked hotel with the other Premier League export: `Do you fancy meeting for a couple of drinks?' `Tomorrow is game day,' came Kane's quick response, followed by a couple of sad-faced emojis - Eric was surprised at the extent of his own surprise and disappointment, and when he failed to respond immediately, Harry elaborated - `Got to stay in and get an early night, bro'. Bro, eh. `No worries,' Eric replied lightly, lifting his bearded face to watch his new city whirr by through the tinted window. He put a little thumbs-up gif into the thread of messages and locked his phone, stroking his grey-blond facial hair and trying to relax. Later, in the sprawling hotel suite the club was paying for, Dier looked askance at himself in a mirror wall, and felt a tremor of doubt - had he misunderstood the conversation that had spilled cautiously and euphemistically between them since Christmas Day? Had he read too much into the messages, the voice-notes, the invitations? Had he misconstrued the excitement, the potential, the insistence...? He turned away from his own brutally handsome reflection and got on with navigating the room service menu, trying not to worry - he was here for his career, he told himself, he was here because things at Tottenham had run their course, and as his agent kept saying, he was very lucky to strike a deal at a big club after such minimal play in the first half of the season. This was a bold new chapter for Eric Dier, flexible defensive midfielder and former England regular, just what he needed after his on-off prominence under a long line of unsuccessful Spurs managers. Reunion with Harry Kane was a social bonus, and nothing more. Scoring his 90th-minute goal and tying the ribbon on their win against Hoffenheim, he couldn't help but stare up into the home stands and seek out the corporate section where the new signing would be positioned - somewhere up there, hidden by the floodlight glare, he knew that Eric would be schmoozing with club owners and sponsors, being paraded as the club's first bit of January business, and perhaps right now joining some enthusiastic applause for the many goals that the England captain was delivering to Munich. Indeed, the 29-year-old grabbed him in a hearty hug when they were finally reunited in the home changing rooms, big heavy puffer coats over their respective clothing as the smartly dressed observer and the sweaty-kitted striker embraced, a lingering hug of celebration an closeness before Dier continued to be introduced to key players in the locker-room celebrations after the game. Kane undressed slowly, basking in the triumphant mood of the sweaty room, but finding it hard to tear his eyes away from their new arrival. They followed Dier about the room, watching as he was led by his broad shoulders from one introduction to another - the newcomer had been expected to visit today's brief training for tonight's fixture, but apparently the powers-that-be had organised more media exposure instead, and so this was the first encounter between the squad and their defensive addition... and the first face-to-face reunion for the former Hotspurs in some time. Harry wanted to ignore the dirty kit that clung to his tall physique, the minor scrapes from an aggressive game, the banter and multilingual enjoyment of the others who were celebrating a 3-0 Friday night - there was so much he wanted to say to his friend, but he couldn't monopolise him and ruin these important first impressions for the arrival. He had to hold back his excitement and undress, peeling kit away from toned muscle, taking the jokey praise of his nearest teammates, and eventually bare his whole body, ambling slowly to the showers with side-long looks at the other Englishman... longing for him to look this way in some special recognition, some acknowledgement of how fit and chiselled Harry was in his German chapter, somehow even more-so than back in London. Entering his 30s, Kane was thinking more and more about longevity and legacy, and how he could make sure the final act of his striker career was one that made him legendary. But Eric couldn't look this way and admire his towel-clad body, because he was being whisked away to meet more coaching staff, shepherded by an exec in a suit, and Harry had to move through into the wall of steam at the shower entrance, to wash away the dirt of a decisive victory. Eric stifled a yawn as he passed through the hotel reception - ridiculous really, he hadn't trained today or played in the game, and yet there was something exhausting about the huge transition that he'd experienced in the last 48 hours, leaving his comfortable London residence behind and sweeping into the south of Germany. He was tired out from cheerful chat, sometimes in strained language barriers, tired of smiling for pictures and of trying to remember names, and tired of novelty; he felt good and optimistic, but he was sure he'd be as tired at his training debut as the men who had just won 3-0 in the league. Perhaps due to this weariness, Dier had no time for the chat of the man on reception, who was trying to relay an important message to him in stilted English; he politely waved away the matter and asked to be updated in the morning, not catching the older guy's uncertain phrasing, and moving on towards the row of gleaming chrome elevator doors. Up on his floor, he stifled another yawn, and began undoing the zip of his overcoat, pulling a scar from about his furry neck. He fumbled in a deep pocket for the key-card into his temporary suite, wondering how easy it would be to find and choose a rental property so that his pregnant wife could soon join him, and slid it through the little groove to unlock the door ahead of him - he was over the threshold and throwing coat and scarf onto a nearby chair before he registered what the man at reception had been trying to tell him. Momentarily there was something alarming about re-entering a hotel suite and finding it not empty, a figure stood with their back to him at the city-view windows, but now the 6ft2 football player found himself staring across the room at the tracksuit-clad figure of his regained teammate and friend, who had clearly been allowed access to the club-booked accommodation and then comfortably mixed himself a drink from the minibar. Eric raised his brows and smiled in dazed pleasure, letting out a breathy laugh and nodding a greeting at the surprise visitor. `I had to tip about 100 euros, but they figured it was fine to let another club player up here - it's not as if anyone doesn't know we're pals.' The other English import smiled almost apprehensively at him before taking a sip of his drink and nodding to the minibar. `I'll make you one too?' For a moment, Eric found himself falling into a bland familiarity - of course his mate Harry was up here in his hotel room, how many had they shared over the years as Spurs and England comrades? He laughed and nodded and moved slowly through the room, unzipping the front of the heavy-knit cardigan over his muscular torso and kicking his feet out of loose trainers, socks padding across the laminate floor and cosy rugs. Harry was angling for the well-stocked mini-bar to the left, and Eric moved close to join him there, as the North Londoner spoke in his thick accent: `Sorry I couldn't hang out last night, buddy, it was just cos of...' Eric found himself interrupting brusquely, murmuring `It's fine' in a quiet gruff voice, and then reaching out to stop Harry's hand as it reached for the vodka. They both paused there by the bar and he reached up, sliding his colder hand in against Harry's, and taking hold of the glass in it. `We'll just share,' he said, taking a long sip from it, and then he put it down quite firmly next to him - `Or I'll taste it on you.' And he went in for the kiss, urgent and decisive, brushing their mouths together with gentle force - two 6ft2 hunks joined at the mouth, tongues meeting with a quiver of tense muscle, a snog that seemed to last as long as the huge gap since last they kissed. When Eric ended the kiss and straightened his posture, they were both breathless. He looked seriously into the other man's face, and saw that he had misread nothing - Harry's bullet eyes were full of focus and desire, and he was already leaning in to take a second kiss, which Eric gladly gave him, pushing his tongue in and really tasting him, grabbing him by the arms, the shoulders. Breathless again, they held their faces close, and he growled his honest lust - `I've missed you a lot,' Dier admitted. `I'm so glad you're here,' came Kane's shuddering whisper, his voice heavy and manly, and yet then under his breath, `We... we said we wouldn't let this happen...' `We did,' moaned the 29-year-old, days now from his 30th birthday, agreeing and ignoring all at once - he grabbed at Harry's neck and kissed him on the mouth a third time, pushing their tall strong bodies together. `But that was then.' He slid his arm about Harry's waist, really taking him in his arms, really exploring his mouth. `I wanted to push everyone out of the way,' he hissed almost angrily. `In the changing rooms, before - I wanted to drag you into the showers and have you. I saw you stripping off, teasing me, getting everything out. You big fucking sexy bastard.' He stared intensely into Harry's eyes, holding him back and delaying the next kiss. `I've been thinking about you every day since Christmas. Longer. Since you left England.' It was true, although a less riled and lusty Eric might have admitted it was less straightforward than that. But right now he had tunnel vision, and he didn't care about what they'd promised each other in the past - he was thinking about how amazing things had once been, starting in a hot Russian night during a World Cup of long ago. `You came here,' panted Kane, hands feeling up Eric's biceps through thick woollen sleeves, `you really came here - for me? You came for me?' There was something so sexy in the new vulnerability of his voice and Eric nodded furiously. `I did,' he promised. `I came for you.' And now he relented, kissing again, holding him tight, letting Harry's body heat warm him against the German night he had travelled through. They held close and breathed against each other's lips, hearts thundering in broad chests. `You're here,' Kane sighed, almost in disbelief, and Dier assured him sternly, `I'm here, I'm yours again.' Moving to the bed, Harry Kane didn't care a jot about all of the sensible promises he'd made to himself over the years since they'd last been together in this way - after all, he'd hardly been true to his chaste self-denial after he ended things with his `Jeremy Edgar', had he? How many football men had he wasted himself on in the long years without his boyfriend, after that affair closed? How many times had Kane debased himself for the excitement of teammates and even rivals, a slut for any horny lad on the Three Lions, and a gagging whore for a young Arsenal wannabe... the things he'd done for satisfaction, after throwing away a fierce secret love in a moment of panic! He'd regretted that break-up every day since he pulled the plug, and he'd hardly even hid it from Dier or himself. Off came the Bayern Munich tracksuit top and the Nike t-shirt underneath, and he shivered and whined as Eric's bearded kisses travelled his bare shoulders and shaved pecs, he groaned as his nipples were licked and bitten, and he fell back heavily into the bed at the thrust and push of Eric's questing hands. `Yes,' the record-breaking striker purred, `oh yes, Eric...' Here he was in Germany, out of his wife's gaze, those suspected affairs long buried, and trust rebuilt - and he was cheating again already, with his family duty out of sight and out of mind. None of it mattered, not compared to the need he felt here and now, and the beautiful fortune of having Eric back at his side! He fought clumsily to strip Dier's body, yanking away the zip cardigan and then the grey tee below, wanting to run his hands over bulging muscles, loving how defined and bulky the defender felt, loving the natural hairiness of his chest and the trail on his tummy - he loved the heat of them both, grinding together and rolling across the bed, he loved the tickle and scratch of that viking-like beard coming back up his chest and neck and then locking lips with his, kissing long and deep. Powering on top of his lover, Eric too was throwing away so many resolutions, in favour of a new year of rediscovery - it had come to him slowly, his longing for Harry, vivid memories surfacing on the night of the striker's goodbye party last summer, and simmering through the long autumn into winter. Things were complicated, there were a lot of different regrets and uncertainties, but a nostalgic craving for the England captain had risen through it all, turning from idle daydream into burning certainty between Christmas and New Year - and now here he was, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to the bulge in Eric's boxers, then taking his hard cock out and wrapping warm lips about the shaft - oh, god. Grunts and pants sounded from each of them and Eric found himself becoming more forceful, more urgent - off came his heavy slate-grey jeans, off came the socks, off came it all, until both tall strong bodies were fully naked and tangled across the neatly made bedding. They could hardly stop kissing, pausing only briefly to exchange quick wet blowjobs, but so fixated on locking lips and wrestling tongues that their hard-ons could wait, thwacking together as they rolled and wrestled, Eric always coming out on top, dominating and pinning down the body of England's great goal-scorer, the Three Lions' secret sub. Dier didn't care for a second about any of the other men who'd had their hands on his man in the years since they parted - those jealousies were long-abandoned, and the possessiveness he'd once felt for the big beautiful man he'd deflowered had matured. If anything, time and experience had made Harry a better lover - had he always been such a good kisser, or so tactile and confident? Had he always known how to grab it like that, to stroke it like this, to kiss right THERE? They were different men now, years later, but the passion was every bit as hot as he remembered, from the first time to the last - and every tear he'd shed when dumped was washed away by time and distance. Kissing and wrangling, body to body, he reached powerfully across Harry's back, kneading across his spine, across the muscles, and then pulling his fingers down, heading past the waist, grasping one soft-haired buttock, prising them apart, tapping fingertips into the crack that he'd explored before anyone else. Harry's legs were parting instinctively beneath him to give him better access, letting him rub and push his fingers there, pressing down him and kissing his throat. `You're mine,' the ex-Hotspur growled desperately. `I'm yours,' England's manly captain whimpered back, as ready as always to offer himself entirely to a powerful dominant force - was there a single other lad who'd fucked him where he hadn't briefly or indulgently wished and imagined it was Dier instead? Surely not - and he'd embarrassed himself several times trying to rekindle this once they were friends again, and regretted it every time, cooled and warned by Eric's steadfast moving on. But not tonight, not here in Munich! On his back, long striker legs wrapped upwards, he groaned and relaxed as Eric's fingers entered him, spit-lubed thrusts into his arse, its first attention in too long - he wanted the big cock, but he needed this first, and he just moaned and gasped for Dier's touch, writhing on his back and lifting and parting his thighs more, making it easier, following every grunted command until he was being roughly fingered and Eric was kissing the centre of his chest as he hunched forward to frig his muscular bum. `Oh god,' Kane shouted, two of Dier's fingers sliding firmly in and out of his hole, his moaning only quietened when they kissed again, bodies aligning. The fingering stopped and he gasped for air, and he felt the thicker pressure on his ring. `Yes,' he whined, scratching blunt fingernails down the pale smooth skin of Eric's back, `oh yes, I need you inside me...!' `Yes,' was all Eric could groan in his ear, seeming completely overcome by exertion or pleasure, but driving on - Harry stayed as relaxed as he could, letting him in, contorting beneath him and feeling himself open, feeling inch after inch enter and occupy him, until they were still and interlocked, Eric's cock deep into him for the first time in forever, and lips brushing clumsily in hot quick breaths. `Oh yes, ohhhh yessss.' Eric held it, let that moment linger, just feeling the muscular grip on his manhood, just feeling the satisfaction of being together and inside him, and then he began to roll his hips, clench and unclench his muscular glutes, work up a rhythm, slow at first, but quicker, quicker, heavier, heavier - fucking Harry Kane into the bed with loud squeaks of the bedsprings, powering into him as he had before, even the first few times when his man was nervous and new, bent over in Russian hotels, sweating profusely. Eric fucked with the force of his long anticipation, fucking the arse he'd watched walk away when Harry left London for Munich, fucking him with all the frustration and need of a top who hasn't fucked a man since the wedding ring slipped onto his finger. Like a machine, the 6ft2 hunk ploughed his man, slamming into him fast and hard, dripping sweat on him from his face, his biceps, his hairy chest, just pummelling his arse so hard that he'd be limping at training - Eric was desperately claiming his man, his territory, his reunion, taking Harry for his own all over again, and loving the wild cries and unrestrained pleasure of Harry's unthinking voice. `Fucking hell,' moaned Eric, mounting gradually towards the peak of his pleasure, both of them just panting and swearing and locking intense lusty eye contact. He slowed, temporarily thinking to delay his orgasm, but the slower rhythm just felt even better, for him and for his bottom, and soon he was shuddering and grimacing, and almost screaming out his `God yes!' before emptying his balls, shooting inside the striker - and tensing his six-pack as Harry's wanking cock rubbed furiously at it before making a mess against the pale muscle, slicking spunk against his navel. `Fuuuuck,' he moaned, and `Oh Eric', whined Harry. Kane had a lazy semi within about two minutes of his orgasm, and he played idly with it as they lolled on the bed under the covers, chatting quietly in snatches and then pausing the conversation to gently kiss. Dier asked him repeatedly if he'd been too rough and hard, if he'd hurt him, if it had felt ok - and all the 30-year-old could do was repeatedly tell him how perfect every moment had been, how it had been everything he wanted and needed, and how he was ready to go again as soon as his lover was. Tottenham's great departed striker was in a euphoric state, experiencing a dazzling shock at how reality had lived up to fantasy. He hadn't exaggerated Eric's prowess in his memories at all, and being fucked by him was truly incredible. He felt like if he got up from the bed, he'd be floating, his whole body just felt wiped out and weightless at the same time. His hole stung, but the mild pain just reminded him of how it felt to be penetrated and used by this glorious brute in his arms, who sighed quietly and nibbled on his ear. Only a full bladder eventually dragged Harry out of this cuddle, naked and giggly as he left the bed and went to piss from his semi-hard prick. Coming back to bed, he stared lovingly at the sprawled man, at his rugged face and beard, his bared manly chest, his bulging arm strength - the outline of his legs and bulge under the covers. Harry stood there and toyed with his semi, grinning delightedly at him, and regretting nothing. It didn't matter what had happened in the past, the decisions they'd made - they were back together, and safely here in Germany, away from everyone else they knew. This was a new year, a new start, a new togetherness for the two Munich Hotspurs. Kane slid back into bed with him, kissing his chest and his neck and his jawline, and happy now just to cuddle against him and ignore the swell of his eager cock, happy to wait until the other stud was ready for round 2 - they had the rest of the season stretching ahead of them, after all, all those hotel room nights, and it was open secret that Bayern were keen to make the loan a permanent move if their new defender could prove himself soon enough. And in his euphoric mood, Harry saw no doubts on that - he knew how talented and hardworking his perfect man was, and he would do everything he could to use his influence on the signing, just as he had on the loan decision. A player of Harry's international status could have quite a lot of influence in the Bundesliga, he was finding, certainly more than he'd ever wielded at Tottenham somehow. Yes, he thought, I'm here to stay, and now so is `Jeremy Edgar'. The 29-year-old Lisbon-raised stud sighed and murmured with a similar sense of bliss and arrival, happy to lie here and be hugged and stroked by someone who knew him this well, someone he trusted so comfortably, someone who could make him feel this good so quickly and easily. He was more tired than Kane, but he supposed it was the 3-0 adrenaline versus his overwhelming travel fatigue and experience of newness - and the fact that he'd put every muscle into pounding his striker, doing all the physical work in the sweaty perfection that had brought them both to climax. Yep, Eric felt happy too, felt weightless and satisfied, felt sure that he could make his mark in the Bundesliga and turn a short-term loan into a permanent transfer, closing the page on his Tottenham era. And having Kane here at his side, so literally, just made it all feel safer and instantly more homely...! This was what he'd wanted, he thought quietly, taking his turn to climb quietly from the bed and go for a piss, lingering in the bathroom and staring at his muscular reflection. This was what he'd come here for, he could admit to himself, as great an opportunity as he knew it to be. And he wasn't dumb enough not to suspect Kane's involvement, Kane's approval, Kane's lobbying for him at this end - his ego could cope with that, knowing how little he'd been playing in the past year. Bayern Munich with Harry Kane, his new chapter, his new direction, his new challenge! He was happy about it, he was sure of that, and all the happier for the frantic fuck that had felt so bloody good. He was sure of everything, and as sure of the decision to fuck his lover as the decision to sign for Bayern Munich. So, he asked himself, staring his blue eyes down in the mirror, if all that's true... ...why are you stood here thinking about Ross fucking Barkley...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-351

Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2023 22:20:09 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 351 Part 351: The Curious Case of Benjamin Chilwell Saturday was match-day, even when he was ruled out with an abdominal strain, and was watching the build-up to Chelsea's latest match from a giant screen in a comfortable family residence positioned halfway between West London and his family's Portsmouth roots. A sensible low-alcohol beer in one hand and a fistful of broken pretzels in the other hand, the 24-year-old drifted from room to room, coming to check the time on screen and to see how long his travelling colleagues had before kick-off at the Walkers Stadium. On screen, Sky pundits were talking up the game as if it was a local derby or a knockout cup match, placing lots of hype on Chelsea's need for improvement and Leicester FC's own poor form in comparison to recent years, and Mason Mount could only tolerate so much of it. The eager young lad didn't need to hear about how crucial a game was when he couldn't be part of the fight, as much as he would tune in and root for his fellow players from halfway across the country. Luckily for Mase, the sound of his family piled into the sprawling lounge largely drowned out the opinions of this Saturday's suited experts, and the lightly injured midfielder could drift cheerfully between entertaining nephews and perching his perky arse on the arm of a sofa whilst listening in to the conversation of his mum and sisters, and then nip to and from the kitchen to courteously replace drinks for other family members - this house wasn't even really his, but the fact he'd blown so much money on it for his beloved family members pushed him into the role of host nonetheless. The Portsmouth boy's attention was taken back to the game by some close-up footage of the Chelsea lads marching out in their bland waxy-coloured away kit, and the odd sensation of watching his own sporting life from such a position of detachment, the curse of the injured spectator. Mason smiled almost unconsciously at the passing expressions of each Chelsea squad member, glad yet amused at the various facial evidence of gritty determination and almost irritable nervousness as they stepped out against the Foxes. It was when the camera lingered for a moment over one of his best mates on the team that Mount really had to pause for thought, in the middle of filching more pretzels from a dish on the low coffee table, then flopping himself into a free seat at the corner. As always, Ben Chilwell had his dark hair slicked back pre-game, none of its usual coiffured Prince Charming style, and his defensive teammate had his sharp jaw set in the same look of steely defiance as so many on the starting line-up. Handsome fucker, Mase told himself playfully, the thought laced with attraction and cheeky resentment; it was a dangerous thought, though, given that his closeness to the other England international had once been very problematic. That didn't change the truth of it though, taking in the camera's slow appraisal of Ben's good looks and his quick flurry of warm-up rituals as the Chelsea players found their spots and readied for kick-off. He WAS a handsome fucker, all being said and done, and it was a thought that buzzed repetitively at Mount's consciousness whenever he trained or played with or just plain hung out with the 26-year-old home counties lad. It had particularly struck him just a couple of days ago, when he and Ben had been doing arm day in the Chelsea training gym together, and he'd playfully compared their developing biceps as an excuse to feel Chilwell's up through his long-sleeved top, making them both giggle stupidly and play-fight their way across the fitness suite, until the slightly older footballer was squirting his water bottle at his head and telling him to go take a cold shower as soon as possible. Jokes aside, Chelsea's home-grown midfielder had been like a dog in heat that midweek afternoon, and he'd found himself unable to take Ben's hint; back close to the other lad, snatching the water bottle from him to steal a few glugs, and wondering loudly whether Chilly was doing lots of extra exercise sets at his London townhouse to get into such pumped physical condition lately, watching the slight humble blush form on those chiselled cheeks. `Relax,' the 24-year-old murmured, coming up close beside his teammate at the set of weights machines they were about to move onto, and draping one of his own bare arms across those strong lean shoulders, sweaty skin on his training jersey. `You want to learn how to take a good compliment, Chilly boy, that's your problem - no wonder you're still single, if every flirty comment makes you blush like this.' `Oh,' muttered Ben a little distantly, `so you ARE flirting, then - I did wonder.' Mason tutted and giggled and squeezed his shoulder. `Not sure i'm ever NOT flirting?' he laughed self-deprecatingly, then turned his squeeze into a stroke, running his hand back along the shoulder and letting his fingertips tickle sensuously at the base of the other lad's neck. `Wasn't my grabbing your big hench arms enough to...?' Chilly wriggled slightly away, chuckling but looking uncomfortable. `Okay, either flirting or just outright mocking me, fucker,' he said in a low voice, seeming distracted and uncomfortable now. `Never can tell with your sense of humour, Money Mase.' He hugged aforementioned arms about his chest now as if quite self-conscious about his muscle gain, and making Mason just wanna give him a reassuring hug, if not a reassuring blowie. And the gym was entirely empty, other than them two. He grinned and leaned in closer. `Not in the mood for jokes,' the young star said coquettishly. `No?' Ben murmured back. `Follow me into that cupboard and let me show you.' `Mate...' `Just a quickie,' Mason found himself giggling insistently, running a hand slowly down the back of Ben's jersey, leaning in so that their faces were almost close enough to kiss. `I'll show you that I'm not joking about what a fucking stud you look right now-' `Mate,' Chilly repeated, sounding cross. His handsome face was marred by a grumpy frown as he pulled back, the flecks of ginger in his thick stubble catching the gym lights. `Declan,' he said pointedly. `Watch what you're doing. Ahem.' And he took a step back, adjusting the front of his baggy shorts, then coughing - enough physical discomfort there to titillate and interest Mason further, suspecting that his tender touch was having the right effect on something other than Ben's sensible brain. `Declan?' he mused quietly. `He's not here, is he?' `You know what I mean...' `Things aren't like that any more,' Mount insisted, semi-truthfully. `Those troubles were a long while ago, buddy.' He licked his lips and nodded away to the left, to the half-open supply cupboard at one end of the gym. `Come on - give me ten mins and-' But Chilwell was barging past him, abandoning the weights machines, bumping shoulders and arms with him on the way past, shaking his head so that a few droplets of sweat flicked from the shaggy damp curtains over his brow. `Let's not go there,' the former Leicester player protested quietly but firmly. `I'm driving home before you get any sillier, bud.' He turned and frowned very seriously at him. `You need to stop this,' Chilly informed him with a kind of prudish approbation that irritated but excited Mase. He pouted sulkily at his friend and took a couple of steps after him. `Oh, matey, don't be like that,' he murmured, apologetic but not entirely un-seductive. `I'm just offering a little help to a lonely friend in need...' `Who says I'm lonely?' Ben demanded. `Anyone with eyes?' Mason offered, and he knew it was a bit blunt or rude, and he saw the flash of panic or discomfort on Ben's princely features. `Sorry, that was-' `See you tomorrow,' Chilwell told him, backing away, grabbing up a fee of his things from the shelf by the water cooler - for a moment he seemed to hold them at his crotch as if there was something specific to hide there, but then pulled them up to his chest in a hug and Mason was mildly disappointed that the bouncing bulge in his blue shorts was only as floppy and prominent as normal, not an extra hint of stiffness for him. Mount didn't shout after him, feeling a bit silly on his own in the gym, and still feeling a little bit daft as he mulled over it over a week later in his family's TV room. A bit daft, but also indistinctly horny, the TV camera panning past Ben again in the opening minutes of the clash; idly, Mase pulled at the crotch of his loose-fitting jeans and then pushed himself up off the chair, busying himself with grabbing a couple of empty glasses and cans from the nearby table. In the kitchen, dropping these on the counter by the sink, he found himself alone with his other half for the first time this afternoon. Here he was, slinking away from the oven and rubbing his large hands together against an already-grubby tea towel, and glancing furtively side to side to check they were alone before leaning in for the peck, a kiss that Mason so gladly returned and wanted to take further. Declan hovered in front of him, standing over him, smelling richly of the roast dinner he was cooking; Mason didn't really know what any of his fam REALLY thought about his `best mate' coming down here with him for the day, nor the fact Rice was so willing to watch his boyhood rejection club and now rivals, before he headed back to London to prepare for a West Ham outing of his own. But really, nowadays, Mason didn't particularly care - he liked to assume that they'd all guessed the nature of his closeness with the big stud, but he hadn't yet brought himself to open up. With an air of tense caution, Declan pecked him on the lips again, a cute expression of deviant boldness on his long face once he'd done it, and then a slow tender stroke of one large hand up the sleeve of Mason's jumper. `What's up?' the West Ham captain whispered. `My cock, if you touch me any more,' Mase joked back, resisting the urge to grab that hand and pull it down to the front of his jeans, and just pulling briefly on the fabric of his boyfriend's cooking apron for a moment instead. `All good, just thought I'd check on you...' `Nah, don't worry,' Dec insisted. `The game must have started. You enjoy that and I'll get things sorted in here. You checked that everybody likes Yorkshire puddings, right...?' `Declan,' he sighed, `what sort of fucking freak doesn't like Yorkshire puddings...?' `Okay, okay, I'll make loads.' A tight-lipped smile behind the wispy goatee of his features, framed by his new shorter cut that made him look all the more rugged and charismatic in Mount's eyes. `You're sure you're all good?' his lover and best friend asked sensitively, pausing in front of him for a moment more. `Just wondering why I got mugged off by the lad I cheated on you with' wasn't exactly a kosher response, so Mason just smiled and shrugged and backed off, knowing better than to reach for another kiss when one of his nephews could roar into the kitchen at a moment's notice pretending to be an inconvenient T-Rex. And yet... his comments to Chilly that afternoon weren't full bullshit, because he and his Declan had moved miles and miles since the difficult positions they'd been in before, gripped by Rice's insecure jealousy and his own mercurial desires. The couple who'd swapped bodies with Maguire and Shaw over a cheeky round of volley-ball in the pool were not the same lads who'd fought over the distracting good looks of Chilwell in the past - just as Ben himself was a more serious and grown-up fella than the troublemaker who'd disrupted their bond. Still, Mason knew that there were limits to the fun they could or should get up to, and he knew that in particular he should leave Ben alone; he and Chilly were close pals and Rice seemed to totally respect that. Best not to complicate it, even if Dec himself had made the odd cheeky joke about inviting Bulging Ben back to their London pad after a few too many shandies or vodkas - best to leave Ben to it, even if his self-imposed celibacy was an odd mystery to someone as promiscuous and mischievous as Mason Mount. Mount wasn't the only Chelsea teammate giving that mystery a little thought - another 24-year-old midfield player was watching Ben right now, albeit from a closer vantage point than the New Forest. That said, the view from the Chelsea subs bench was a little less vivid and HD than the Sky Sports camera-work on the Mounts' plasma screen, and Christian Pulisic wasn't just fixated on the close fit of Ben's away kit as he bounded about the pitch and built up inevitably to claiming his 11th minute goal that got things going for the Walkers Stadium visitors. No, the young American was thinking a little more about last night and this morning, and the nature of his close friendship with the left-back. Chelsea's Pennsylvania transplant sat forward, chin on knuckles, and pictured the comfortable banter on the chartered jet that brought the squad from Heathrow to East Midlands airport last night, he and Chilly squashed together on the same back row as Kai Havertz and Cucurella, posing for a rare selfie. On their side of the aisle, Christian and Ben had played a number of games on the embarrassingly short flight, and continued that into the almost-equally-long coach journey to their Leicester hotel. `It's good to get roomed together,' the American athlete chanced to say quite casually when they were playing a different card game together in the hotel suite about an hour later, and then fell quiet to try and catch Chilwell's full reaction to this. Pulisic felt a little silly in the pause that followed, because despite his laconic delivery, it was a very sentimental and un-English thing to say to a teammate, and perhaps his card game opponent was reading something into it right now, not quite looking up from his hand of cards. `Sure,' came Ben's vague and distracted reply, still not actually looking at him. The American 24-year-old nodded and tried to lose himself in scanning his own fanned-out hand of cards. `I mean - it's a shame Mase isn't out here with us this weekend, but - I like it when you and me get roomed together. Always a bit more of a laugh than some of the options, y'know?' Sat opposite him on the same double bed, dressed down for curfew just like him, Ben seemed to chew on this comment. `I'd have thought you'd have a better laugh with loads of the team,' he said fairly. `I know I'm not exactly the banter king, hah.' A little self-conscious smile split his face and his eyes twinkled briefly. `But yeah, I mean, we like a lot of the same things, don't we?' `We do,' Christian agreed, perhaps a little too quickly, his eyes following the sharp lines of Ben's face and the soft brown halo of his dishevelled hair. `I mean, considering we grew up on different sides of the Atlantic, and all that.' He grinned thoughtfully at the defender, forgetting all about the card game until Ben yelped triumphantly and laid down his next card, edging the game towards its dull conclusion. `I mean, sometimes it's like we're two halves of the same person,' some bold corner of the American's lovesick heart thought out loud, and then he backtracked desperately - `I mean, that sounds cringe, but I just mean I'm so glad to have friends like you - and, er Mason and Kai - out here so far from all my old school pals in Hershey, you see.' Ben gave him one of those earnest glances of his, seeming to be so clear and perceptive that surely he could see through these lame overtures of repressed romance. But he just smiled blandly and said, `Yeah, we're like brothers, the gang of us - I'm really glad to have a crew like this after leaving Leicester behind that season, when I thought it was going to be my team forever.' He laughed critically at himself. `I realise Pennsylvania is a bit further away than the East Midlands from London, though...' Pulisic, laying down a card and accepting defeat, was still smarting at the reality contained in the words `like brothers'. Tidying the cards away, he got up from his bed, dressed in loose long basketball shorts and a thick Penn State sweatshirt gifted by one of said high school buddies - and, he thought, another of his frequent crushes, a jock whose underwear he'd sniffed at every occasion, and still been cry-wanking over when he first moved to Germany to the continent where `soccer' really mattered. Pulisic had enough self-awareness to chart how quickly his crushes developed, he wasn't a total goofball idiot. At Chelsea alone he could count them off, could remember his almost slavish devotion to the ill-fated Ross Barkley, and then his greedy fixation on another departed colleague, Timo Werner, and that was just two of them. He'd been a bit TOO keen on Mase himself at a couple of intervals, he was fairly sure, and now... Well, he could hardly blame himself, just look at how handsome the English git was. Ben was still sitting on his bed where he'd left him, zip hoodie falling open halfway down his lightly hairy chest, and gym shorts riding up his pale muscular thighs, accentuated by the slouching position he'd adopted there, seeming to meditate on something now that the last night of the game was over. Christian stood still and studied him like an artist about to approach a portrait, now thinking about how Chilwell could be the handsome muse to any such painter. The 26-year-old on the bed seemed not to notice, and that felt typical; Ben seemed to be completely oblivious to the strength of Christian's feelings towards him in the last six months or so, and Pulisic had none of Mount's mischief or boldness. Compliments over card games was the American's idea of making a move, unfortunately. `Oh,' Chilly said suddenly, looking up and stretching out his posture. `You're waiting to get into bed - let me get out of the bloody way!' And up he went, clambering off the bed in a flash of chest and thigh, and then skipping lightly towards the other big double bed of their shared suite; and Christian just stood there between them, getting a little waft of Ben's aftershave as they crossed paths. At least Chilwell had misinterpreted his lingering stare, he supposed, wondering why he was so reluctant to just do something forward and voice the extent of his affection for the English left-back. He was about to say a muted thank you when a surge of such forwardness caught him at the right moment, maybe fuelled by the sweet Dior scent in his nostrils. `You could have stayed put,' the American said hollowly, `and just lined up for a spooning session.' It was as risque and seductive as he was getting. Just out of his eyesight, Chilwell was chuckling easily, taking it for a late joke. `Chance would be a fine thing, having someone to cuddle up with,' came the bittersweet laugh of another lonely single, and Pulisic burned with the impotent urge to shout out that he'd happily be that' someone', like literally RIGHT NOW. But instead of calling Ben out on this, he just climbed quietly into bed without looking across the room at him, his cock a little chunky in his shorts from having sat so close to those exposed legs for the last thirty minutes. He cursed himself as he lay down on the pillow, and was still cursing himself as he sat there in his substitute tracksuit in the first half of the Leicester game, celebrating Ben's surprise goal - he was absolutely convinced that the good-looking left-back was well out of his league, and THAT was the reason he wasn't going to put himself out there for rejection and humiliation, he knew it with grim self-awareness. Safe in the bubble of team spirit, the American cheered and yelled for his current crush as if he was hollering for his own special someone, rushing forward to hug and squeeze the goal-scorer on the touchline when Ben passed their way. In another league, the Pennsylvanian told himself unfairly, scratching at his own short dark curls of hair, and playing with the zip of his tracksuit top - yet another silly crush. And it will pass like the others, the winger urged himself hopefully, but hesitantly - because he didn't really want it to pass, not really, the sensation he got when he was in Chilly's company, basking in the handsome lad's quiet charms. He'd suffer his unrequited love for as long as he could stomach it, he admitted to himself, cheering the team on and hoping for a 2-0 lead soon, but unable to watch any player but Ben himself. `Fuckin' hell - you're filling those shorts up well, lad.' Other horny bastards might have just thought it, but Jamie Vardy saw no reason why he shouldn't come out and say it, although he'd have had some explaining to do if his muttered appraisal had been picked up by any pitchside microphone. As it was, such risks were mitigated by the fact the loyal home crowd at the Leicester ground were cruelly booing their former favourite, chanting about the Chelsea sell-out whose arse and bulge were giving Vardy plenty to visually enjoy. It was 2-1 now to the visitors, and Jamie was skulking as far forward as he could, ready to try and salvage a point at least by securing a second goal for the hosts. And in doing so, the 36-year-old striker was finding himself closely marked by the wearied figure of the Chelsea left-back, treating him to a close-up view of just how snug those pale gold shorts were on the curved backside of the younger lad, and how much there was to bounce about at the front whenever the goal-scoring defender burst into motion. `Bulging Ben, that's what some of the lads used to call you, hey?' Vardy leered across at him, making a short movement to try and claim a pass before slowing down as he saw it blocked and directed elsewhere. He slowed and turned his lewd grin towards the Chelsea player, shifting from jog to a casual hop and then pausing, hands on hips, to stare expectantly down the pitch at the midfield melee. `Shut up,' returned Chilly from a few yards away, a pant and a hint of laughter in his voice; he sounded businesslike and unamused, but not necessarily agitated. The daft cunt probably did just think it was mind games, or something like that, and that fresh Vardy off the bench was trying to put him off his stride whilst he anticipated getting the equaliser in the final ten minutes of the game. `You know me,' Jamie called discreetly to the man-marker, `I just calls it like I see it, boyo.' `Leave it out,' came Ben's dry chuckle close by, tracing his movements as Jamie zigzagged closer to the centre of the pitch and circled the action like the calculating predator he was. The older player glanced repeatedly over his shoulder to smirk and grin at his former young pal, former teammate, former... playmate. Jamie liked seeing him like this: older, stronger, a little more sure of himself, and making a reputation for himself at a high-status club, even one in such strange and self-destructive times as Chelsea seemed to face. He'd always genuinely liked Chilly, and had never expected the talented defender to stick about at Leicester, although he'd have marked him more for one of the Manchesters or Merseyside, like Big Slabhead. He was proud of the 26-year-old, in all honesty, and he'd even felt a contradictory flare of pleasure at seeing his goal from the bench, though it had set the tone for his own side's probably defeat. But it wasn't all wholesome affection or altruistic admiration, nah. He also just found the younger lad sexy as hell, always had. Amongst all of the conquests, and there had been so many since his first drunken and coke-fuelled fumbles in the lower leagues, Party Vardy would always hold a special place for those couple of memories of leading curious Ben astray several years ago: luring him into a shared wank and then, before the beautiful dope knew what was happening, sticking his tongue in his arse for a taste, licking the lad out like a slut's cunt on a Saturday night in Sheffield. Eventually, of course, he'd claimed that hole as his own and deflowered the stud, but it was rimming his peach that really got Jamie hot under the collar when he thought back to those days, back before he'd even bottomed himself for the first time, so his admiration for Ben's weighty equipment had never extended beyond giving it a dismissive stroke. He'd barely even bothered to try sucking off the gorgeous youngster, because back then Jamie had been exclusively a filthy top... except, maybe, for his penchant for eating arse. THAT'S what flared in his mind now, that Saturday afternoon, keeping one eye on the motion of the football, and the other on Ben's physique and deft movement, wanting an excuse to launch into a physical tackle with his former colleague, just to feel that strong young body against his own lean ripped one. So fucking what that Jamie had his own new playthings in the Leicester fold, from doe-eyed ginger Barnes to old faithful Madders - having Chilly back in this stadium made him want to tear down those ugly shorts and part those perfect cheeks for a sweaty lick. The striker played on with a heavy semi in his briefs and blue shorts, but then that was nothing new, the cut-and-thrust of the sport pretty much always got him randy and he rarely left the pitch without a slight swelling down there. But rarely was he as close to just grasping an opponent and shoving a hand inside his keks than when the ripples of action brought him closer and closer to Chilwell - so much so that his heart sank when the younger guy was eventually subbed off by Potter and discarded to the bench, and Vardy simply had to behave like a professional and concentrate on trying (and failing) to level the score. At the end of the match, the senior striker had to give a bitter laugh to himself, grabbing Ben's paw for a shake as the losing hosts stalked indoors to lick their wound. He smirked at Ben as if the younger lad was party to his own thoughts, joking earlier that his dirty comments might be misread for mind games as he tried to put Chilly off - in reality, he supposed, it had gone the other way, his own sharp focus blunted by a strong sexual magnetism towards the dark-haired pretty boy. In the moment's sweaty handshake, Chilwell seemed to read his lewd expression and realise that the comments were meant in all seriousness; he was already flushed red in the face, swaddled under a huge puffy coat over his kit, but Jamie could see the familiar shy panic in his bright eyes and tight smile. He smirked and pulled away, wanting to drag the Chelsea ace off to the locker rooms for a seeing to, but knowing that his sly social media messages later tonight would be ignored - Bulging Ben had moved on a long way from the perky curious bastard who'd bent over in a Leicester flat to let Jamie's tongue down his crack and against his virgin hole. Vardy licked his lips on the way in, the studs of his boots clicking and clacking on a tiled floor. Barnes fell into step next to him and the striker gave his panting redhead a sharp smack on the rump, loud enough to draw the vague and curious attention of every player near to them - young Harvey gave him a nervous but eager glance, and Jamie nodded simply. The ginger lad would be getting creamed as soon as they could break away from the crowd, and Jamie would be imagining a different young stud, indulging the memory. The away changing rooms of the Walkers Stadium were, as on many Saturdays and Sundays of the Premier League, a haze of steam, anti-perspirant spray, and raging testosterone. The London side occupying these changing and shower facilities in the aftermath of the day's fixture were ecstatic in their 3-1 victory, as happy as many other clubs in the lead to mark any positive result as a turning point. Though a flight back to West London lay ahead, there was no rush to the way the players peeled off their damp kits or traipsed in and out of the communal showers, some of them just lounging about in various states of undress rather than rushing to get cleaned down or dressed in fresh gear for the return journey south. One young member of the Chelsea crew was especially excited, though he'd played a short chunk of the 90 minutes and contributed little directly to the win; he was just pleased to have got some minutes in the tank and to be part of an increasingly rare win for the beleaguered Premiership giants. And, that aside, there was something special about this laddish atmosphere that always got the 23-year-old going, always had and always would, since he was an awe-struck teen, but not fading now. The sheer force of manly enthusiasm that hung in the air, that mix of sweat and aftershave, of soapy steam with the collective body heat of a full squad... a special kind of excitement, and one that made the blond-haired young midfielder grin from ear to ear as he stripped off and looked about him with bright curious eyes. Close by, Havertz and Kovacic were in particularly noisy celebration, repeatedly congratulating one another for their goals in the latter half of the game; they were joined by the club's latest expensive investment, World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez, and Conor Gallagher couldn't help but look thoughtfully at all three of them, the two goal-scorers still grimy and half-naked in the remains of their kit, whilst the young Argentinian gleamed and shone, fresh out of the shower with steam climbing off his compact tattoo-marked body. For a moment, Conor's bright eyes travelled between each of the three footballers, that thoughtful little wandering of the mind that he'd found harder and harder to suppress in the years since his academy days here at Chelsea. But as it so often did, the wandering of eyes brought with it a giddy little sensation in the pit of his stomach, and Gallagher found himself moving on, furtive and quick - his clingy, sweat-soaked white underpants tugged away down his legs and replaced with a hastily tied towel at his waste. Conor often found it hard not to study and examine the masculinity around him, a trait that seemed to have got worse in his loan seasons among the rugged fierceness of the Crystal Palace ranks, but come back with him on his return to his parent club - and if anything was getting worse in the latter half of the season! But he judged himself and worried about it and found himself sweating profusely at the danger of staring for too long at another bloke. The young Epsom lad had experimented somewhat, although... never sober, to be fair, and as a result his memories and understanding of his entangling with other feisty young lads were tinged with doubt and the air of a distant fantasy, rather than real physical experiences that the 23-year-old confidently identify and appreciate. He tentatively thought of himself as bi-curious but he wasn't sure if this was a proper label for his furtive interest in the athletic bodies around him, or if he was just really excited by team spirit and the highs and lows of competitive sport - maybe, he thought, all footballer lads felt this same crotch-centred buzz when they were in such steamy changing rooms...! Maybe. Into the showers he went, chuckling awkwardly to himself, and using his free hand, the one not gripping the knot in his towel, to pull back the greasy mane of blond hair over his head, ambiguously glad at the thick steamy air of the shower block that rendered the other naked players just vague muscular outlines. It might help him to keep his interests under control, hah, fat chance... Vague, muscular outlines, at least to begin with; as the strong-muscled 6ft lad soaped down his smooth well-defined chest and let his tingling soft cock jiggle between soft-haired thighs, he glanced to the left and found the form of his neighbour begin to clarify - the other athletic body was paler than his own olive skin, and it was a sweep of darker hair that the lad was pulling away from his eyes and forehead, running fingers back through the soapy mass of hair, whilst trickles of this same foam ran out onto their arms and - as Conor's eyes adjusted in the thinning steam - down a broad chest. Ben's blinking eyes met his and Conor could just gurn stupidly at the lad under the next shower, and give him a generic nod. `Here is,' Gallagher chimed against the rushing water sound. `The lad who kicked off the goal-fest, haha - big bollocks Benny!' He hadn't meant to comment on their shared nudity so much with the naff laddish nickname, at least not consciously - but even as he let out a throaty laugh, one of Chilwell's hands was down at his crotch, cupping and covering what Gallagher's eyes had yet to seek out in the steam... but let's be honest, what he'd noticed several times before. There were many blessed men on this team, fair enough, but few were quite so... unlikely as the slim-built nice-guy with the toothpaste advert smile. `Not sure what my bollocks have got to do with it,' was Chilly's murmured comeback, one hand wiping shampoo out of his eyes and the other still hovering between his legs, steam curling lovingly about his shiny naked form at the next showerhead - the left-back elbowed a nob that powered this back into action, its hot spray drenching him in a glossy curtain that drew Conor's thoughtful eyes from his squinting face down his defined torso towards the surprising hairy thickness of his thighs, and- yep, up went that hand to finish rinsing his hair, and the 23-year-old midfielder was, for a glorious moment, staring at the long thick snake that hung from Chilly's surprisingly full brunette bush. Jeez, everyone knew the lad was single, but wasn't he keeping things trim down there...? `Pfft, bollocks the size of yours,' Conor thought cheekily aloud, `they get involved in EVERYthing...' And the Chelsea spare cackled happily to himself, spunking shampoo onto his palms and setting about his own greasy hair, if only to extend his shower and the time he got to spend in close proximity to this particularly handsome lad. His mind was spinning, he couldn't help himself - and he hadn't even done a line or popped a pill. `What the hell are you on about?' chided Chilwell amiably. `Just messing, big boy,' Gallagher assured him through his laughter. `But serious, bro - careful where you swing that thing or I'll be tripping the fuck over, hey?' He dropped his voice to a naughty snigger as he added this, leaning in slightly in Ben's direction - they were looking at one another again, and the former Leicester defender was frowning a bit, looking shy and concerned - but the heady atmosphere of the changing rooms had emboldened curious Conor, and there was nobody else at this end of the showers. `Fuck, look at it,' he hissed under his breath, but clear enough for his intended to hear it. `That's a fucking python you've got there, Benjamin...' Ben turned away from him, facing the wall and the spray of the shower, and obscuring his view of the Chilwell family jewels. `Fuck's sake,' the left-back muttered to himself and Conor was both mortified and thrilled, his own dick throbbing and his balls tightening. He smeared a soapy hand over his privates with some caution, unsure if he'd be able to stop himself springing a thick curved little hard-on. He leaned his body slightly closer to his neighbour and began again, `Sorry bud, just pointing out the obvious...' `It's only obvious if you're looking, mate.' `Well who isn't looking at THAT?' He knew he was already on thin ice, but this had been on his mind. `Shit, the way we were reading Valentine's poems to each other for that shitty video content the other week, you had me charmed enough to-' `Mate...' `The way you read out that sonnet or whatever, haha - god, Kai looked as hook line and sinker as I was feeling, haha, you're the Casanova of Stamford Bridge for sure, so-' `What the heck...?' `Could have got on me knees and noshed you off by the end of that little filming sesh, haha-' He heard his own boundaries exploding in the air as he joked it, and there it was, that nausea, that shame, that uncertainty - what was he saying? He'd never actually sucked a dick, never actually would, would he? He thought about the way he'd grabbed at cocks of his mates while high - that time with jumpy stutterer Curtis Jones the Scouser, for one thing - and wondered if he'd really go as far as to- `What was that?' Ben demanded, perhaps lying to cover his embarrassment. `What are you on about, mate?' And then just as Conor was about to reply, a third voice cut between them, and a looming form wreathed in steam was between their paler bodies. A long muscular arm reached forward to lean on a rail between them, and Conor found himself looking up into the large impassive face of another key player of the afternoon. `Think Con here was just gonna go dry off and calm down,' came Loftus-Cheek's deep smooth voice, the tone of a man who wasn't easily intimated or made uncomfortable - and one with a little bit of command to his quite confidence. Shuddering at his own curiosity and boldness, Gallagher whipped away, rubbing his wet face, and willing his growing hard-on to relax before he had to drip his way across the changing room. Next to him, the 6ft3 physique of big Londoner Ruben loomed and dominated, and he shuffled aside to let the Lewisham midfielder in under his shower - stepping gingerly to the other wall to snatch his towel off a hook. Ruben must have heard him, he thought, to interrupt like that, and send him backing off with such quick clarity. Cheeks burning and heart thumping, Gallagher whipped his towel about his waist and moved away from them, mortified by the things he'd admitted - it had hardly been a joke, that was the problem, he'd sat through that Valentine's Day content with a solid erection in his sweatpants, whilst he and Ben and Kai followed a series of ridiculous prompts to amuse the online Chelsea faithful. The 23-year-old hurried away to dry himself and pull on layers of clothing over his chubby semi; he was shocked by the way he'd suggested his own cock-sucking to the likes of Ben Chilwell, whose indifference was confusing and intriguing, but kinda irrelevant. Conor was more worried about himself, and what he did or didn't want, drugs or no drugs. This was getting out of hand. Trudging across the airstrip under the light rainfall, he reached across and bumped his fist into the arm of the more average-heighted twentysomething. `Hey,' Ruben called gently to his yawning teammate, catching up with him one long stride as, in a long trail of their teammates, they made to board the jet that would whip them south to the outskirts of the capital, and then home to their different corners of London or Surrey. Ben Chilwell slowed and blinked back at him, his cute face partly obscured by a low-pulled baseball cap and the lifted collar of his overcoat. Loftus-Cheek rested one large hand on his shoulder as he kept pace with the 5ft11 guy, taller and broader than him as with most of the lads the sport paired him with. `Don't give that gimp any thought,' the 27-year-old Londoner advised his colleague as they walked through the accelerating winds of the airfield. `Hmm?' `Con, I mean - before, back in the showers?' `Oh, that...' `He was talking shite,' Ruben thought aloud, `and obviously just trying to wind you up. Dunno why some lads get like that.' Next to him, the goal-scoring left-back just shrugged and hugged onto his travel bag a bit more tightly, staring at his feet in an almost mopey fashion; the queue ahead was tightening up as the lads reached the stairs and fell into step to slowly ascend their flight. Only one lad at a time seemed to be allowed onto the stepway, leaving Ruben and Ben at the foot of the prop for a moment, and with the next players in line trailing behind them on the rain-soaked tarmac. `Little dick, I guess,' Ruben mused. `Wha'? Oh, Conor...? Erm-' `I mean, lads like us get it all the time, don't we?' `Lads like- us? Huh?' The tall midfielder chuckled deeply and nudged elbows with the Milton Keynes gent. `I mean, lads born like us,' he said in a confidential voice. `Tends to intimidate, doesn't it - tends to ruffle feathers, and get people talking, out of jealousy or fear or...' Ben stared at him quite dimly for a moment, just a bit slow on the uptake, and then blinked and looked a bit scandalised by the intimation. `Oh, sorry - did you think people hadn't generally noticed, mate...?' He grinned warmly, trying to be confidential and light-hearted but without any of the creepy suggestion and confrontation of what he'd overheard from Gallagher before - everyone knew that the Surrey lad was a little erratic. Chilwell, about to board the steps, one gloved hand to the rail, gave him an odd weary look, and shook his head. `It's been a funny day,' he admitted vaguely, not really responding to the indirect discussion of his endowment. `I've had a lot of funny comments.' `Oh, right,' Ruben said quietly, left alone then as Ben bounced his way up the steps, allowing the tall black Londoner to briefly meditate on how close the fit of those Chelsea track-pants was on the smaller-bodied football player, and how the lighting out here on the airfield didn't give the best of views to well-packaged muscular arses on their way up a staircase. But then he was being given the signal and making his own way up, bag slung over shoulder, and the 26-year-old was still hovering in the vestibule whilst a minor luggage pile-up was sorted out on the way into the cabin. Ben glanced back as Ruben joined him here, and the midfielder gave him another reserved smile. `I hope that wasn't out of order,' he said quickly and quietly. Chilly shrugged. `Sorry. Tired out. Like I said, odd day, and...' `Forget I said it - I just thought I'd help you out earlier, cos Conor seemed to be chatting shite, and you didn't look comfortable, so...' `Oh, yeah... er, thanks for that, actually, Lofty, it was cool of you, so...' `What are you doing when we get back into London?' `Hmm?' `I mean, any plans tonight, or...?' Ben blinked sleepily. `It'll be kinda late.' Ruben, a confident and easygoing playboy of the city's South East, smiled patiently at this and shrugged his huge shoulders. `But Saturday night, with tomorrow off... a friend of mine is DJing at a chilled club night at-' `It'll be kinda late,' Ben reiterated in a slow voice, scratching at his ginger-tinged stubble. `Sorry man, I'm not sure I'll be up for...' `No, no, that's cool, no worries,' the 6ft3 bruiser told him rapidly, thumbing at the shoulder-strap of his bag and feeling suddenly foolish - he wasn't even sure he'd make it to the event himself, had already eased his way towards cancelling on the invite before setting off today, and yet here he was, suggesting it to a pal on the team who he'd never really socialised with before beyond team-building banter. It had just felt... the right thing to do, for some reason, and now the big tall athlete was standing here feeling something of a pillock, with the other player's sleepy eyes watching him almost suspiciously. `Another time,' Loftus-Cheek said quietly. `Yeah maybe,' was Chilly's evasive reply. And then, to his own surprise, the Lewisham giant was making another impromptu suggestion, thinking about stepping up next to the handsome white lad in the showers, his attention drawn downstairs by Gallagher's comments. `I think there's a spare seat up front next to me if you want a more quiet, chilled journey back...' He left the invitation hanging warmly between them, leaning his bulky physique into the doorframe that led through into the cabin - in that same sleepy, quiet way, the left-back stared up at him, nodded slowly, but then informed him, `I think Yankee is saving me a space at the back still, thanks.' And off he trotted, marching quite primly down the aisle of their jet, and leaving Ruben to smile oddly at his own little befriending efforts, quite blandly snubbed tonight. That lad, he thought, was a bit of a mystery to him - what was up with him, really? As soon as he'd sent the message, he locked his phone and pushed it back into the front pouch of his big bulky hoodie. He was nestled on one large sofa in his lounge, a visiting friend snoring in the parallel one, and the closing scenes of a streaming movie wrapping up on a wall-mounted screen. Missing the away game through minor illness had at least given way to a pretty chilled recovery weekend for the East Londoner, and he was looking forward to rejoining the lads on Monday in training, and benefitting from the big mood which the Leicester win would no doubt generate. Reece James had watched the game on screen, of course, but like Mason Mount, he found it strange and difficult to support his boys from that kind of distance, and wished it had been a home game so he could perhaps at least show face at Stamford Bridge and show proper support for the lads in blue. The stocky 23-year-old right-back yawned widely and rubbed a balled fist across each of his tired eyes, glancing over to confirm that his old school pal was fast asleep on the other couch, swathed in blankets and the wrappers of the chocolate treats he'd been eating during the first half of their chosen thriller movie. A moment passed, and then James slid into a different position, sitting more upright, and dragged his phone back out from the pouch pocket. Thumb-print unlock, a quick few taps, and he was in his messaging thread with his close friend and teammate, staring dimly at the latest sent message to Chilly: `Congrats again boi, such a quality performance - just wish i'd been there to join in and get 2 goals myself lol. Miss you m8 - hope we're back rooming together next away team lol, could do with 1 of those sessions lmao' A thick thumb hovered over the screen and this sent message, unread it seemed by the other Chelsea player, who would at this time perhaps be landing already from the trip, and collecting his car to drive back into the city. With a moment's awkward decisiveness, Reece pushed his thumb in against the message and chose `delete for everyone', cutting the communication out of their chat before Ben might switch airplane mode off and receive his latest incoming messages. Stupid, Reece told himself, as the message dissipated from his view and from their online footprint. Stupid message - why'd he written that? `One of those sessions', he scowled at himself, even with the attempted mitigation of `laugh my arse off' next to it! But he genuinely didn't know what to call it, other than a `session', no other euphemism seemed to do the job - the nights in shared rooms with chilled out Chilwell, he thought, since they'd roomed together on that pre-World Cup England camp, and... Lying in their parallel beds, two hot-blooded young footballers, noisily satisfying themselves under the covers! Reece had never done anything like that in the same room as another lad, and he'd been surprised when Ben suggested it again in a couple of different hotels over the last few months, up and down the country and once abroad in Europe. It was just one of those things, a stupid little away-trip ritual, a light in-joke - neither of the young defenders had felt the need to mention it in daylight, away from the comfort of separate beds in discreet corporate hotel suites. Just one of those things, letting off steam, releasing some tension, and... The young right-back cringed at himself, thinking of how he'd stupidly referenced it in that message to Ben, deeply glad that he'd wiped it before it was read. God, he didn't need Ben to think he was weird about it, or too keen, or...! Reece groaned uncomfortably and rubbed again at his face, wondering if he should ditch his friend down here without waking him, and go wandering off to his own master bedroom of the Wandsworth bachelor pad. He lingered a while longer on the sofa, staring at his phone, and the credits rolled on the screen above. Just wanking in the next bed to a mate, he thought, the kind of thing horny teens might do on a first footy tour, or whatever; they were both active lads with a lot to burn off, he supposed, and he was glad at how cool and relaxed his mate Ben was, suggesting and allowing it. I mean, Chilly by name, chill by nature, but... not entirely, Reece supposed, because his friend could be quite distant and deep-thinking at times, and nobody ever seemed to know what was going on with him, exactly. He was a curious lad, Ben Chilwell, and when Reece heard other guys at the footy club say that, he would go blank and awkward - he could hardly admit to other blokes that he and his left-back were occasional wank buddies, tossing one off in adjacent beds and occasionally laughing stupidly at the groans and gasps made by the other in the dark. Wanks aside... he cared a lot for Ben, and he did hope the older defender was okay, that he wasn't as sulky or lonely as the gossips on the extensive Chelsea squad liked to make out. Reece stared contemplatively at their chat window, taking a while to decide against replacing the deleted message with some other kind words to his defender buddy, and just locking the screen again before heading to bed, mulling over the curious case of Ben Chilwell. Inside the townhouse, the 26-year-old didn't bother to turn any lights on before heading upstairs, totally wiped out by the overnight trip to the East Midlands. At the door to his bedroom, he dropped his coat and bag, and then discarded various items of tracksuit until he was in just clingy black boxer briefs and a thin stretchy gym top, clambering into his unmade bed and wrapping the covers over him; there was some issue with the hi-tech heating system of his West London pad, and so the whole place seemed to be freezing after his footballing trip away to Leicester. With a remote snatched from the bedside table, Ben Chilwell brought a modest TV on a table to life, and wriggled about there in search of a comfortable position whilst flicking through the late evening channels, settling on a sports round-up in the half-suppressed hopes of getting to watch a replay of his own goal; the handsome footballer pulled the covers up about him and dug his head and shoulders back into the pillows, getting comfy and squinting tired eyes at the screen. Dimly, it occurred to Ben that he must have missed the coverage of his own winning game, and that the 3-1 Chelsea triumph might have been one of the leading matches in the oddly amended Match of the Day. Still, he was a football fan like most of his fellow players, and he could keep his eyes on the latest league results whilst he relaxed down for the night, thinking vaguely about what he might do with his Sunday off to recover. It had been a long and odd day, he thought, shifting against the covers and thinking of how leering and suggestive Vardy had been on the pitch, never mind Gallagher in the showers; it was odd, because in different times, that kinda attention might have been more exciting and promising to him, back in his early 20s, when he was starting to discover himself. Now... Ben just felt a sort of detached impatience. Had daft Conor really been making some kind of move on him back then, or just making silly digs cos he was jealous about cock size, like big Lofty seemed to think...? `Lads like us', the midfielder had said, and Ben marvelled to think of himself as included next to that giant of a lad. But... well. Yeh. Ben wasn't exactly blind to what rested in the pouched front of his boxer briefs right now, was he, and it wasn't the first time a former Leicester teammate had referred to him as `Bulging Ben'. Vardy, Gallagher, Mount... fuck, it was as if he'd never been so attractive to other lads...! Weird, just as he was feeling like he never wanted anything like that to happen again. Next up, on screen, was the City game, against Palace. It occurred to Ben, as it had before, that maybe Guardiola's team were therefore still somewhere in the capital, although it was equally likely that Man City had flown or coached back home already after their away fixture, just like Chelsea. And yet he allowed his mind to wander, lying there in his match-weary stupor, picturing the ranks of the City squad in some high-end hotel of South London. He was doing his best to keep this imagining very generalised, until the footage on screen made it hard to do so: not even actual match footage of the City team smashing Palace 1-0, but just warm-up stuff, a brief montage of it, except... There he was. Calves as thick as some people's waists, out on show and darkly furred, rising up into thicker thighs, and the close-fitting white shorts that enclosed his muscular backside, exaggerated as he launched into a powerful kick and- Why were they even showing this? Showing so much warm-up shite when they could be skipping forward to the highlights of the game itself...? Ben frowned impatiently at the footage on screen, even as the hand not tapping the Tv remote began to creep down the chest of his slate-coloured gym top, and trace the bumps of his six-pack under its clingy fit, reaching down for the soft black cotton of his boxer briefs... The last thing he needed, Chilwell thought, stupid close-up of Jack Grealish and his famous fucking calves, or his imprisoned peach of an arse, the brief-lines so tantalisingly obvious through their child-size fit. The left-back grimaced to himself as his own hand closed about his lazy bulge, and he let out a huff of breath as he began to stroke it; his other hand tapped across the buttons of the Sky remote and found pause, then re-wind. Back to the warm-up. Back to the calves. The arse. The cocky facial expression as the shot went in, winking at the camera and whichever City arse-hole had made the pass to him. Fuck. Jack. Before he knew what he was doing, the screen paused on that wink, Chilwell had his cock in hand and was wanking it into life, until its sensitive tip was rubbing at the underside of his duvet, and the tight elastic waistband was hooked under his hairy balls, straining with a five-day load that had built up without him even noticing it. Intently, the football stud stared at the paused screen, and the tanned face of his ex - and he jerked his dick almost angrily, pumping it in one hand and liking the rough rub of it against the duvets, while his breath escaped in a series of gruff little blasts. Tired and still a little heartbroken, the Chelsea left-back fixated on the still image of his Jack, and pumped his cock until his balls were close to bursting - his mind was a supercut of other images of Grealish, spanning their long friendship even before that day in Birmingham, walking alongside the canals, and into the dimly lit peace of Jack's bedroom at the time... where Ben had wanted to show off what he'd learned from an anonymous older lover, actually Jamie Vardy. Prising apart Jack's big globes and putting a tongue in there, and setting off the chain of excitement and discovery between them - from rimming in the dark, to picnics and barns, and lockdown drama... discovering each other, one beautiful shag at a time, and finding so much intimacy and depth to their relationship. And then burning out, two fragile egos and insatiable cocks. It still astounded Ben to think that HE'D been the one to fuck it up, ultimately, and leave their love in tatters - him! When the other half of that equation was someone as chaotic and unreliable as Jack horny bastard Grealish...! Never meant to be, he would tell himself, even as he remembered that last time, when Jack had shown up here at the house, after a game in London, and slept in this bed, and fucked him silently in the kitchen downstairs first thing in the morning. God. Let him do that now - let him be in London, after beating Palace, and let him be in a taxi here now, from his hotel to my place! Ben closed his eyes, unable to squint at the screen any more, and he whimpered his prayer to the world, knowing that in truth Grealish was already back in Manchester - and his balls exploded, spraying his hot cum against the bedcovers above his pumping fist, a messy and quick-cooling slick over his knuckles and the fat head of his monster cock, and the sound of his panting sobs of breath. The curious case of Benjamin Chilwell was pretty simple: getting over Jack Grealish took a lifetime. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 13 Mar 2023 22:20:09 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 351 Part 351: The Curious Case of Benjamin Chilwell Saturday was match-day, even when he was ruled out with an abdominal strain, and was watching the build-up to Chelsea's latest match from a giant screen in a comfortable family residence positioned halfway between West London and his family's Portsmouth roots. A sensible low-alcohol beer in one hand and a fistful of broken pretzels in the other hand, the 24-year-old drifted from room to room, coming to check the time on screen and to see how long his travelling colleagues had before kick-off at the Walkers Stadium. On screen, Sky pundits were talking up the game as if it was a local derby or a knockout cup match, placing lots of hype on Chelsea's need for improvement and Leicester FC's own poor form in comparison to recent years, and Mason Mount could only tolerate so much of it. The eager young lad didn't need to hear about how crucial a game was when he couldn't be part of the fight, as much as he would tune in and root for his fellow players from halfway across the country. Luckily for Mase, the sound of his family piled into the sprawling lounge largely drowned out the opinions of this Saturday's suited experts, and the lightly injured midfielder could drift cheerfully between entertaining nephews and perching his perky arse on the arm of a sofa whilst listening in to the conversation of his mum and sisters, and then nip to and from the kitchen to courteously replace drinks for other family members - this house wasn't even really his, but the fact he'd blown so much money on it for his beloved family members pushed him into the role of host nonetheless. The Portsmouth boy's attention was taken back to the game by some close-up footage of the Chelsea lads marching out in their bland waxy-coloured away kit, and the odd sensation of watching his own sporting life from such a position of detachment, the curse of the injured spectator. Mason smiled almost unconsciously at the passing expressions of each Chelsea squad member, glad yet amused at the various facial evidence of gritty determination and almost irritable nervousness as they stepped out against the Foxes. It was when the camera lingered for a moment over one of his best mates on the team that Mount really had to pause for thought, in the middle of filching more pretzels from a dish on the low coffee table, then flopping himself into a free seat at the corner. As always, Ben Chilwell had his dark hair slicked back pre-game, none of its usual coiffured Prince Charming style, and his defensive teammate had his sharp jaw set in the same look of steely defiance as so many on the starting line-up. Handsome fucker, Mase told himself playfully, the thought laced with attraction and cheeky resentment; it was a dangerous thought, though, given that his closeness to the other England international had once been very problematic. That didn't change the truth of it though, taking in the camera's slow appraisal of Ben's good looks and his quick flurry of warm-up rituals as the Chelsea players found their spots and readied for kick-off. He WAS a handsome fucker, all being said and done, and it was a thought that buzzed repetitively at Mount's consciousness whenever he trained or played with or just plain hung out with the 26-year-old home counties lad. It had particularly struck him just a couple of days ago, when he and Ben had been doing arm day in the Chelsea training gym together, and he'd playfully compared their developing biceps as an excuse to feel Chilwell's up through his long-sleeved top, making them both giggle stupidly and play-fight their way across the fitness suite, until the slightly older footballer was squirting his water bottle at his head and telling him to go take a cold shower as soon as possible. Jokes aside, Chelsea's home-grown midfielder had been like a dog in heat that midweek afternoon, and he'd found himself unable to take Ben's hint; back close to the other lad, snatching the water bottle from him to steal a few glugs, and wondering loudly whether Chilly was doing lots of extra exercise sets at his London townhouse to get into such pumped physical condition lately, watching the slight humble blush form on those chiselled cheeks. `Relax,' the 24-year-old murmured, coming up close beside his teammate at the set of weights machines they were about to move onto, and draping one of his own bare arms across those strong lean shoulders, sweaty skin on his training jersey. `You want to learn how to take a good compliment, Chilly boy, that's your problem - no wonder you're still single, if every flirty comment makes you blush like this.' `Oh,' muttered Ben a little distantly, `so you ARE flirting, then - I did wonder.' Mason tutted and giggled and squeezed his shoulder. `Not sure i'm ever NOT flirting?' he laughed self-deprecatingly, then turned his squeeze into a stroke, running his hand back along the shoulder and letting his fingertips tickle sensuously at the base of the other lad's neck. `Wasn't my grabbing your big hench arms enough to...?' Chilly wriggled slightly away, chuckling but looking uncomfortable. `Okay, either flirting or just outright mocking me, fucker,' he said in a low voice, seeming distracted and uncomfortable now. `Never can tell with your sense of humour, Money Mase.' He hugged aforementioned arms about his chest now as if quite self-conscious about his muscle gain, and making Mason just wanna give him a reassuring hug, if not a reassuring blowie. And the gym was entirely empty, other than them two. He grinned and leaned in closer. `Not in the mood for jokes,' the young star said coquettishly. `No?' Ben murmured back. `Follow me into that cupboard and let me show you.' `Mate...' `Just a quickie,' Mason found himself giggling insistently, running a hand slowly down the back of Ben's jersey, leaning in so that their faces were almost close enough to kiss. `I'll show you that I'm not joking about what a fucking stud you look right now-' `Mate,' Chilly repeated, sounding cross. His handsome face was marred by a grumpy frown as he pulled back, the flecks of ginger in his thick stubble catching the gym lights. `Declan,' he said pointedly. `Watch what you're doing. Ahem.' And he took a step back, adjusting the front of his baggy shorts, then coughing - enough physical discomfort there to titillate and interest Mason further, suspecting that his tender touch was having the right effect on something other than Ben's sensible brain. `Declan?' he mused quietly. `He's not here, is he?' `You know what I mean...' `Things aren't like that any more,' Mount insisted, semi-truthfully. `Those troubles were a long while ago, buddy.' He licked his lips and nodded away to the left, to the half-open supply cupboard at one end of the gym. `Come on - give me ten mins and-' But Chilwell was barging past him, abandoning the weights machines, bumping shoulders and arms with him on the way past, shaking his head so that a few droplets of sweat flicked from the shaggy damp curtains over his brow. `Let's not go there,' the former Leicester player protested quietly but firmly. `I'm driving home before you get any sillier, bud.' He turned and frowned very seriously at him. `You need to stop this,' Chilly informed him with a kind of prudish approbation that irritated but excited Mase. He pouted sulkily at his friend and took a couple of steps after him. `Oh, matey, don't be like that,' he murmured, apologetic but not entirely un-seductive. `I'm just offering a little help to a lonely friend in need...' `Who says I'm lonely?' Ben demanded. `Anyone with eyes?' Mason offered, and he knew it was a bit blunt or rude, and he saw the flash of panic or discomfort on Ben's princely features. `Sorry, that was-' `See you tomorrow,' Chilwell told him, backing away, grabbing up a fee of his things from the shelf by the water cooler - for a moment he seemed to hold them at his crotch as if there was something specific to hide there, but then pulled them up to his chest in a hug and Mason was mildly disappointed that the bouncing bulge in his blue shorts was only as floppy and prominent as normal, not an extra hint of stiffness for him. Mount didn't shout after him, feeling a bit silly on his own in the gym, and still feeling a little bit daft as he mulled over it over a week later in his family's TV room. A bit daft, but also indistinctly horny, the TV camera panning past Ben again in the opening minutes of the clash; idly, Mase pulled at the crotch of his loose-fitting jeans and then pushed himself up off the chair, busying himself with grabbing a couple of empty glasses and cans from the nearby table. In the kitchen, dropping these on the counter by the sink, he found himself alone with his other half for the first time this afternoon. Here he was, slinking away from the oven and rubbing his large hands together against an already-grubby tea towel, and glancing furtively side to side to check they were alone before leaning in for the peck, a kiss that Mason so gladly returned and wanted to take further. Declan hovered in front of him, standing over him, smelling richly of the roast dinner he was cooking; Mason didn't really know what any of his fam REALLY thought about his `best mate' coming down here with him for the day, nor the fact Rice was so willing to watch his boyhood rejection club and now rivals, before he headed back to London to prepare for a West Ham outing of his own. But really, nowadays, Mason didn't particularly care - he liked to assume that they'd all guessed the nature of his closeness with the big stud, but he hadn't yet brought himself to open up. With an air of tense caution, Declan pecked him on the lips again, a cute expression of deviant boldness on his long face once he'd done it, and then a slow tender stroke of one large hand up the sleeve of Mason's jumper. `What's up?' the West Ham captain whispered. `My cock, if you touch me any more,' Mase joked back, resisting the urge to grab that hand and pull it down to the front of his jeans, and just pulling briefly on the fabric of his boyfriend's cooking apron for a moment instead. `All good, just thought I'd check on you...' `Nah, don't worry,' Dec insisted. `The game must have started. You enjoy that and I'll get things sorted in here. You checked that everybody likes Yorkshire puddings, right...?' `Declan,' he sighed, `what sort of fucking freak doesn't like Yorkshire puddings...?' `Okay, okay, I'll make loads.' A tight-lipped smile behind the wispy goatee of his features, framed by his new shorter cut that made him look all the more rugged and charismatic in Mount's eyes. `You're sure you're all good?' his lover and best friend asked sensitively, pausing in front of him for a moment more. `Just wondering why I got mugged off by the lad I cheated on you with' wasn't exactly a kosher response, so Mason just smiled and shrugged and backed off, knowing better than to reach for another kiss when one of his nephews could roar into the kitchen at a moment's notice pretending to be an inconvenient T-Rex. And yet... his comments to Chilly that afternoon weren't full bullshit, because he and his Declan had moved miles and miles since the difficult positions they'd been in before, gripped by Rice's insecure jealousy and his own mercurial desires. The couple who'd swapped bodies with Maguire and Shaw over a cheeky round of volley-ball in the pool were not the same lads who'd fought over the distracting good looks of Chilwell in the past - just as Ben himself was a more serious and grown-up fella than the troublemaker who'd disrupted their bond. Still, Mason knew that there were limits to the fun they could or should get up to, and he knew that in particular he should leave Ben alone; he and Chilly were close pals and Rice seemed to totally respect that. Best not to complicate it, even if Dec himself had made the odd cheeky joke about inviting Bulging Ben back to their London pad after a few too many shandies or vodkas - best to leave Ben to it, even if his self-imposed celibacy was an odd mystery to someone as promiscuous and mischievous as Mason Mount. Mount wasn't the only Chelsea teammate giving that mystery a little thought - another 24-year-old midfield player was watching Ben right now, albeit from a closer vantage point than the New Forest. That said, the view from the Chelsea subs bench was a little less vivid and HD than the Sky Sports camera-work on the Mounts' plasma screen, and Christian Pulisic wasn't just fixated on the close fit of Ben's away kit as he bounded about the pitch and built up inevitably to claiming his 11th minute goal that got things going for the Walkers Stadium visitors. No, the young American was thinking a little more about last night and this morning, and the nature of his close friendship with the left-back. Chelsea's Pennsylvania transplant sat forward, chin on knuckles, and pictured the comfortable banter on the chartered jet that brought the squad from Heathrow to East Midlands airport last night, he and Chilly squashed together on the same back row as Kai Havertz and Cucurella, posing for a rare selfie. On their side of the aisle, Christian and Ben had played a number of games on the embarrassingly short flight, and continued that into the almost-equally-long coach journey to their Leicester hotel. `It's good to get roomed together,' the American athlete chanced to say quite casually when they were playing a different card game together in the hotel suite about an hour later, and then fell quiet to try and catch Chilwell's full reaction to this. Pulisic felt a little silly in the pause that followed, because despite his laconic delivery, it was a very sentimental and un-English thing to say to a teammate, and perhaps his card game opponent was reading something into it right now, not quite looking up from his hand of cards. `Sure,' came Ben's vague and distracted reply, still not actually looking at him. The American 24-year-old nodded and tried to lose himself in scanning his own fanned-out hand of cards. `I mean - it's a shame Mase isn't out here with us this weekend, but - I like it when you and me get roomed together. Always a bit more of a laugh than some of the options, y'know?' Sat opposite him on the same double bed, dressed down for curfew just like him, Ben seemed to chew on this comment. `I'd have thought you'd have a better laugh with loads of the team,' he said fairly. `I know I'm not exactly the banter king, hah.' A little self-conscious smile split his face and his eyes twinkled briefly. `But yeah, I mean, we like a lot of the same things, don't we?' `We do,' Christian agreed, perhaps a little too quickly, his eyes following the sharp lines of Ben's face and the soft brown halo of his dishevelled hair. `I mean, considering we grew up on different sides of the Atlantic, and all that.' He grinned thoughtfully at the defender, forgetting all about the card game until Ben yelped triumphantly and laid down his next card, edging the game towards its dull conclusion. `I mean, sometimes it's like we're two halves of the same person,' some bold corner of the American's lovesick heart thought out loud, and then he backtracked desperately - `I mean, that sounds cringe, but I just mean I'm so glad to have friends like you - and, er Mason and Kai - out here so far from all my old school pals in Hershey, you see.' Ben gave him one of those earnest glances of his, seeming to be so clear and perceptive that surely he could see through these lame overtures of repressed romance. But he just smiled blandly and said, `Yeah, we're like brothers, the gang of us - I'm really glad to have a crew like this after leaving Leicester behind that season, when I thought it was going to be my team forever.' He laughed critically at himself. `I realise Pennsylvania is a bit further away than the East Midlands from London, though...' Pulisic, laying down a card and accepting defeat, was still smarting at the reality contained in the words `like brothers'. Tidying the cards away, he got up from his bed, dressed in loose long basketball shorts and a thick Penn State sweatshirt gifted by one of said high school buddies - and, he thought, another of his frequent crushes, a jock whose underwear he'd sniffed at every occasion, and still been cry-wanking over when he first moved to Germany to the continent where `soccer' really mattered. Pulisic had enough self-awareness to chart how quickly his crushes developed, he wasn't a total goofball idiot. At Chelsea alone he could count them off, could remember his almost slavish devotion to the ill-fated Ross Barkley, and then his greedy fixation on another departed colleague, Timo Werner, and that was just two of them. He'd been a bit TOO keen on Mase himself at a couple of intervals, he was fairly sure, and now... Well, he could hardly blame himself, just look at how handsome the English git was. Ben was still sitting on his bed where he'd left him, zip hoodie falling open halfway down his lightly hairy chest, and gym shorts riding up his pale muscular thighs, accentuated by the slouching position he'd adopted there, seeming to meditate on something now that the last night of the game was over. Christian stood still and studied him like an artist about to approach a portrait, now thinking about how Chilwell could be the handsome muse to any such painter. The 26-year-old on the bed seemed not to notice, and that felt typical; Ben seemed to be completely oblivious to the strength of Christian's feelings towards him in the last six months or so, and Pulisic had none of Mount's mischief or boldness. Compliments over card games was the American's idea of making a move, unfortunately. `Oh,' Chilly said suddenly, looking up and stretching out his posture. `You're waiting to get into bed - let me get out of the bloody way!' And up he went, clambering off the bed in a flash of chest and thigh, and then skipping lightly towards the other big double bed of their shared suite; and Christian just stood there between them, getting a little waft of Ben's aftershave as they crossed paths. At least Chilwell had misinterpreted his lingering stare, he supposed, wondering why he was so reluctant to just do something forward and voice the extent of his affection for the English left-back. He was about to say a muted thank you when a surge of such forwardness caught him at the right moment, maybe fuelled by the sweet Dior scent in his nostrils. `You could have stayed put,' the American said hollowly, `and just lined up for a spooning session.' It was as risque and seductive as he was getting. Just out of his eyesight, Chilwell was chuckling easily, taking it for a late joke. `Chance would be a fine thing, having someone to cuddle up with,' came the bittersweet laugh of another lonely single, and Pulisic burned with the impotent urge to shout out that he'd happily be that' someone', like literally RIGHT NOW. But instead of calling Ben out on this, he just climbed quietly into bed without looking across the room at him, his cock a little chunky in his shorts from having sat so close to those exposed legs for the last thirty minutes. He cursed himself as he lay down on the pillow, and was still cursing himself as he sat there in his substitute tracksuit in the first half of the Leicester game, celebrating Ben's surprise goal - he was absolutely convinced that the good-looking left-back was well out of his league, and THAT was the reason he wasn't going to put himself out there for rejection and humiliation, he knew it with grim self-awareness. Safe in the bubble of team spirit, the American cheered and yelled for his current crush as if he was hollering for his own special someone, rushing forward to hug and squeeze the goal-scorer on the touchline when Ben passed their way. In another league, the Pennsylvanian told himself unfairly, scratching at his own short dark curls of hair, and playing with the zip of his tracksuit top - yet another silly crush. And it will pass like the others, the winger urged himself hopefully, but hesitantly - because he didn't really want it to pass, not really, the sensation he got when he was in Chilly's company, basking in the handsome lad's quiet charms. He'd suffer his unrequited love for as long as he could stomach it, he admitted to himself, cheering the team on and hoping for a 2-0 lead soon, but unable to watch any player but Ben himself. `Fuckin' hell - you're filling those shorts up well, lad.' Other horny bastards might have just thought it, but Jamie Vardy saw no reason why he shouldn't come out and say it, although he'd have had some explaining to do if his muttered appraisal had been picked up by any pitchside microphone. As it was, such risks were mitigated by the fact the loyal home crowd at the Leicester ground were cruelly booing their former favourite, chanting about the Chelsea sell-out whose arse and bulge were giving Vardy plenty to visually enjoy. It was 2-1 now to the visitors, and Jamie was skulking as far forward as he could, ready to try and salvage a point at least by securing a second goal for the hosts. And in doing so, the 36-year-old striker was finding himself closely marked by the wearied figure of the Chelsea left-back, treating him to a close-up view of just how snug those pale gold shorts were on the curved backside of the younger lad, and how much there was to bounce about at the front whenever the goal-scoring defender burst into motion. `Bulging Ben, that's what some of the lads used to call you, hey?' Vardy leered across at him, making a short movement to try and claim a pass before slowing down as he saw it blocked and directed elsewhere. He slowed and turned his lewd grin towards the Chelsea player, shifting from jog to a casual hop and then pausing, hands on hips, to stare expectantly down the pitch at the midfield melee. `Shut up,' returned Chilly from a few yards away, a pant and a hint of laughter in his voice; he sounded businesslike and unamused, but not necessarily agitated. The daft cunt probably did just think it was mind games, or something like that, and that fresh Vardy off the bench was trying to put him off his stride whilst he anticipated getting the equaliser in the final ten minutes of the game. `You know me,' Jamie called discreetly to the man-marker, `I just calls it like I see it, boyo.' `Leave it out,' came Ben's dry chuckle close by, tracing his movements as Jamie zigzagged closer to the centre of the pitch and circled the action like the calculating predator he was. The older player glanced repeatedly over his shoulder to smirk and grin at his former young pal, former teammate, former... playmate. Jamie liked seeing him like this: older, stronger, a little more sure of himself, and making a reputation for himself at a high-status club, even one in such strange and self-destructive times as Chelsea seemed to face. He'd always genuinely liked Chilly, and had never expected the talented defender to stick about at Leicester, although he'd have marked him more for one of the Manchesters or Merseyside, like Big Slabhead. He was proud of the 26-year-old, in all honesty, and he'd even felt a contradictory flare of pleasure at seeing his goal from the bench, though it had set the tone for his own side's probably defeat. But it wasn't all wholesome affection or altruistic admiration, nah. He also just found the younger lad sexy as hell, always had. Amongst all of the conquests, and there had been so many since his first drunken and coke-fuelled fumbles in the lower leagues, Party Vardy would always hold a special place for those couple of memories of leading curious Ben astray several years ago: luring him into a shared wank and then, before the beautiful dope knew what was happening, sticking his tongue in his arse for a taste, licking the lad out like a slut's cunt on a Saturday night in Sheffield. Eventually, of course, he'd claimed that hole as his own and deflowered the stud, but it was rimming his peach that really got Jamie hot under the collar when he thought back to those days, back before he'd even bottomed himself for the first time, so his admiration for Ben's weighty equipment had never extended beyond giving it a dismissive stroke. He'd barely even bothered to try sucking off the gorgeous youngster, because back then Jamie had been exclusively a filthy top... except, maybe, for his penchant for eating arse. THAT'S what flared in his mind now, that Saturday afternoon, keeping one eye on the motion of the football, and the other on Ben's physique and deft movement, wanting an excuse to launch into a physical tackle with his former colleague, just to feel that strong young body against his own lean ripped one. So fucking what that Jamie had his own new playthings in the Leicester fold, from doe-eyed ginger Barnes to old faithful Madders - having Chilly back in this stadium made him want to tear down those ugly shorts and part those perfect cheeks for a sweaty lick. The striker played on with a heavy semi in his briefs and blue shorts, but then that was nothing new, the cut-and-thrust of the sport pretty much always got him randy and he rarely left the pitch without a slight swelling down there. But rarely was he as close to just grasping an opponent and shoving a hand inside his keks than when the ripples of action brought him closer and closer to Chilwell - so much so that his heart sank when the younger guy was eventually subbed off by Potter and discarded to the bench, and Vardy simply had to behave like a professional and concentrate on trying (and failing) to level the score. At the end of the match, the senior striker had to give a bitter laugh to himself, grabbing Ben's paw for a shake as the losing hosts stalked indoors to lick their wound. He smirked at Ben as if the younger lad was party to his own thoughts, joking earlier that his dirty comments might be misread for mind games as he tried to put Chilly off - in reality, he supposed, it had gone the other way, his own sharp focus blunted by a strong sexual magnetism towards the dark-haired pretty boy. In the moment's sweaty handshake, Chilwell seemed to read his lewd expression and realise that the comments were meant in all seriousness; he was already flushed red in the face, swaddled under a huge puffy coat over his kit, but Jamie could see the familiar shy panic in his bright eyes and tight smile. He smirked and pulled away, wanting to drag the Chelsea ace off to the locker rooms for a seeing to, but knowing that his sly social media messages later tonight would be ignored - Bulging Ben had moved on a long way from the perky curious bastard who'd bent over in a Leicester flat to let Jamie's tongue down his crack and against his virgin hole. Vardy licked his lips on the way in, the studs of his boots clicking and clacking on a tiled floor. Barnes fell into step next to him and the striker gave his panting redhead a sharp smack on the rump, loud enough to draw the vague and curious attention of every player near to them - young Harvey gave him a nervous but eager glance, and Jamie nodded simply. The ginger lad would be getting creamed as soon as they could break away from the crowd, and Jamie would be imagining a different young stud, indulging the memory. The away changing rooms of the Walkers Stadium were, as on many Saturdays and Sundays of the Premier League, a haze of steam, anti-perspirant spray, and raging testosterone. The London side occupying these changing and shower facilities in the aftermath of the day's fixture were ecstatic in their 3-1 victory, as happy as many other clubs in the lead to mark any positive result as a turning point. Though a flight back to West London lay ahead, there was no rush to the way the players peeled off their damp kits or traipsed in and out of the communal showers, some of them just lounging about in various states of undress rather than rushing to get cleaned down or dressed in fresh gear for the return journey south. One young member of the Chelsea crew was especially excited, though he'd played a short chunk of the 90 minutes and contributed little directly to the win; he was just pleased to have got some minutes in the tank and to be part of an increasingly rare win for the beleaguered Premiership giants. And, that aside, there was something special about this laddish atmosphere that always got the 23-year-old going, always had and always would, since he was an awe-struck teen, but not fading now. The sheer force of manly enthusiasm that hung in the air, that mix of sweat and aftershave, of soapy steam with the collective body heat of a full squad... a special kind of excitement, and one that made the blond-haired young midfielder grin from ear to ear as he stripped off and looked about him with bright curious eyes. Close by, Havertz and Kovacic were in particularly noisy celebration, repeatedly congratulating one another for their goals in the latter half of the game; they were joined by the club's latest expensive investment, World Cup winner Enzo Fernandez, and Conor Gallagher couldn't help but look thoughtfully at all three of them, the two goal-scorers still grimy and half-naked in the remains of their kit, whilst the young Argentinian gleamed and shone, fresh out of the shower with steam climbing off his compact tattoo-marked body. For a moment, Conor's bright eyes travelled between each of the three footballers, that thoughtful little wandering of the mind that he'd found harder and harder to suppress in the years since his academy days here at Chelsea. But as it so often did, the wandering of eyes brought with it a giddy little sensation in the pit of his stomach, and Gallagher found himself moving on, furtive and quick - his clingy, sweat-soaked white underpants tugged away down his legs and replaced with a hastily tied towel at his waste. Conor often found it hard not to study and examine the masculinity around him, a trait that seemed to have got worse in his loan seasons among the rugged fierceness of the Crystal Palace ranks, but come back with him on his return to his parent club - and if anything was getting worse in the latter half of the season! But he judged himself and worried about it and found himself sweating profusely at the danger of staring for too long at another bloke. The young Epsom lad had experimented somewhat, although... never sober, to be fair, and as a result his memories and understanding of his entangling with other feisty young lads were tinged with doubt and the air of a distant fantasy, rather than real physical experiences that the 23-year-old confidently identify and appreciate. He tentatively thought of himself as bi-curious but he wasn't sure if this was a proper label for his furtive interest in the athletic bodies around him, or if he was just really excited by team spirit and the highs and lows of competitive sport - maybe, he thought, all footballer lads felt this same crotch-centred buzz when they were in such steamy changing rooms...! Maybe. Into the showers he went, chuckling awkwardly to himself, and using his free hand, the one not gripping the knot in his towel, to pull back the greasy mane of blond hair over his head, ambiguously glad at the thick steamy air of the shower block that rendered the other naked players just vague muscular outlines. It might help him to keep his interests under control, hah, fat chance... Vague, muscular outlines, at least to begin with; as the strong-muscled 6ft lad soaped down his smooth well-defined chest and let his tingling soft cock jiggle between soft-haired thighs, he glanced to the left and found the form of his neighbour begin to clarify - the other athletic body was paler than his own olive skin, and it was a sweep of darker hair that the lad was pulling away from his eyes and forehead, running fingers back through the soapy mass of hair, whilst trickles of this same foam ran out onto their arms and - as Conor's eyes adjusted in the thinning steam - down a broad chest. Ben's blinking eyes met his and Conor could just gurn stupidly at the lad under the next shower, and give him a generic nod. `Here is,' Gallagher chimed against the rushing water sound. `The lad who kicked off the goal-fest, haha - big bollocks Benny!' He hadn't meant to comment on their shared nudity so much with the naff laddish nickname, at least not consciously - but even as he let out a throaty laugh, one of Chilwell's hands was down at his crotch, cupping and covering what Gallagher's eyes had yet to seek out in the steam... but let's be honest, what he'd noticed several times before. There were many blessed men on this team, fair enough, but few were quite so... unlikely as the slim-built nice-guy with the toothpaste advert smile. `Not sure what my bollocks have got to do with it,' was Chilly's murmured comeback, one hand wiping shampoo out of his eyes and the other still hovering between his legs, steam curling lovingly about his shiny naked form at the next showerhead - the left-back elbowed a nob that powered this back into action, its hot spray drenching him in a glossy curtain that drew Conor's thoughtful eyes from his squinting face down his defined torso towards the surprising hairy thickness of his thighs, and- yep, up went that hand to finish rinsing his hair, and the 23-year-old midfielder was, for a glorious moment, staring at the long thick snake that hung from Chilly's surprisingly full brunette bush. Jeez, everyone knew the lad was single, but wasn't he keeping things trim down there...? `Pfft, bollocks the size of yours,' Conor thought cheekily aloud, `they get involved in EVERYthing...' And the Chelsea spare cackled happily to himself, spunking shampoo onto his palms and setting about his own greasy hair, if only to extend his shower and the time he got to spend in close proximity to this particularly handsome lad. His mind was spinning, he couldn't help himself - and he hadn't even done a line or popped a pill. `What the hell are you on about?' chided Chilwell amiably. `Just messing, big boy,' Gallagher assured him through his laughter. `But serious, bro - careful where you swing that thing or I'll be tripping the fuck over, hey?' He dropped his voice to a naughty snigger as he added this, leaning in slightly in Ben's direction - they were looking at one another again, and the former Leicester defender was frowning a bit, looking shy and concerned - but the heady atmosphere of the changing rooms had emboldened curious Conor, and there was nobody else at this end of the showers. `Fuck, look at it,' he hissed under his breath, but clear enough for his intended to hear it. `That's a fucking python you've got there, Benjamin...' Ben turned away from him, facing the wall and the spray of the shower, and obscuring his view of the Chilwell family jewels. `Fuck's sake,' the left-back muttered to himself and Conor was both mortified and thrilled, his own dick throbbing and his balls tightening. He smeared a soapy hand over his privates with some caution, unsure if he'd be able to stop himself springing a thick curved little hard-on. He leaned his body slightly closer to his neighbour and began again, `Sorry bud, just pointing out the obvious...' `It's only obvious if you're looking, mate.' `Well who isn't looking at THAT?' He knew he was already on thin ice, but this had been on his mind. `Shit, the way we were reading Valentine's poems to each other for that shitty video content the other week, you had me charmed enough to-' `Mate...' `The way you read out that sonnet or whatever, haha - god, Kai looked as hook line and sinker as I was feeling, haha, you're the Casanova of Stamford Bridge for sure, so-' `What the heck...?' `Could have got on me knees and noshed you off by the end of that little filming sesh, haha-' He heard his own boundaries exploding in the air as he joked it, and there it was, that nausea, that shame, that uncertainty - what was he saying? He'd never actually sucked a dick, never actually would, would he? He thought about the way he'd grabbed at cocks of his mates while high - that time with jumpy stutterer Curtis Jones the Scouser, for one thing - and wondered if he'd really go as far as to- `What was that?' Ben demanded, perhaps lying to cover his embarrassment. `What are you on about, mate?' And then just as Conor was about to reply, a third voice cut between them, and a looming form wreathed in steam was between their paler bodies. A long muscular arm reached forward to lean on a rail between them, and Conor found himself looking up into the large impassive face of another key player of the afternoon. `Think Con here was just gonna go dry off and calm down,' came Loftus-Cheek's deep smooth voice, the tone of a man who wasn't easily intimated or made uncomfortable - and one with a little bit of command to his quite confidence. Shuddering at his own curiosity and boldness, Gallagher whipped away, rubbing his wet face, and willing his growing hard-on to relax before he had to drip his way across the changing room. Next to him, the 6ft3 physique of big Londoner Ruben loomed and dominated, and he shuffled aside to let the Lewisham midfielder in under his shower - stepping gingerly to the other wall to snatch his towel off a hook. Ruben must have heard him, he thought, to interrupt like that, and send him backing off with such quick clarity. Cheeks burning and heart thumping, Gallagher whipped his towel about his waist and moved away from them, mortified by the things he'd admitted - it had hardly been a joke, that was the problem, he'd sat through that Valentine's Day content with a solid erection in his sweatpants, whilst he and Ben and Kai followed a series of ridiculous prompts to amuse the online Chelsea faithful. The 23-year-old hurried away to dry himself and pull on layers of clothing over his chubby semi; he was shocked by the way he'd suggested his own cock-sucking to the likes of Ben Chilwell, whose indifference was confusing and intriguing, but kinda irrelevant. Conor was more worried about himself, and what he did or didn't want, drugs or no drugs. This was getting out of hand. Trudging across the airstrip under the light rainfall, he reached across and bumped his fist into the arm of the more average-heighted twentysomething. `Hey,' Ruben called gently to his yawning teammate, catching up with him one long stride as, in a long trail of their teammates, they made to board the jet that would whip them south to the outskirts of the capital, and then home to their different corners of London or Surrey. Ben Chilwell slowed and blinked back at him, his cute face partly obscured by a low-pulled baseball cap and the lifted collar of his overcoat. Loftus-Cheek rested one large hand on his shoulder as he kept pace with the 5ft11 guy, taller and broader than him as with most of the lads the sport paired him with. `Don't give that gimp any thought,' the 27-year-old Londoner advised his colleague as they walked through the accelerating winds of the airfield. `Hmm?' `Con, I mean - before, back in the showers?' `Oh, that...' `He was talking shite,' Ruben thought aloud, `and obviously just trying to wind you up. Dunno why some lads get like that.' Next to him, the goal-scoring left-back just shrugged and hugged onto his travel bag a bit more tightly, staring at his feet in an almost mopey fashion; the queue ahead was tightening up as the lads reached the stairs and fell into step to slowly ascend their flight. Only one lad at a time seemed to be allowed onto the stepway, leaving Ruben and Ben at the foot of the prop for a moment, and with the next players in line trailing behind them on the rain-soaked tarmac. `Little dick, I guess,' Ruben mused. `Wha'? Oh, Conor...? Erm-' `I mean, lads like us get it all the time, don't we?' `Lads like- us? Huh?' The tall midfielder chuckled deeply and nudged elbows with the Milton Keynes gent. `I mean, lads born like us,' he said in a confidential voice. `Tends to intimidate, doesn't it - tends to ruffle feathers, and get people talking, out of jealousy or fear or...' Ben stared at him quite dimly for a moment, just a bit slow on the uptake, and then blinked and looked a bit scandalised by the intimation. `Oh, sorry - did you think people hadn't generally noticed, mate...?' He grinned warmly, trying to be confidential and light-hearted but without any of the creepy suggestion and confrontation of what he'd overheard from Gallagher before - everyone knew that the Surrey lad was a little erratic. Chilwell, about to board the steps, one gloved hand to the rail, gave him an odd weary look, and shook his head. `It's been a funny day,' he admitted vaguely, not really responding to the indirect discussion of his endowment. `I've had a lot of funny comments.' `Oh, right,' Ruben said quietly, left alone then as Ben bounced his way up the steps, allowing the tall black Londoner to briefly meditate on how close the fit of those Chelsea track-pants was on the smaller-bodied football player, and how the lighting out here on the airfield didn't give the best of views to well-packaged muscular arses on their way up a staircase. But then he was being given the signal and making his own way up, bag slung over shoulder, and the 26-year-old was still hovering in the vestibule whilst a minor luggage pile-up was sorted out on the way into the cabin. Ben glanced back as Ruben joined him here, and the midfielder gave him another reserved smile. `I hope that wasn't out of order,' he said quickly and quietly. Chilly shrugged. `Sorry. Tired out. Like I said, odd day, and...' `Forget I said it - I just thought I'd help you out earlier, cos Conor seemed to be chatting shite, and you didn't look comfortable, so...' `Oh, yeah... er, thanks for that, actually, Lofty, it was cool of you, so...' `What are you doing when we get back into London?' `Hmm?' `I mean, any plans tonight, or...?' Ben blinked sleepily. `It'll be kinda late.' Ruben, a confident and easygoing playboy of the city's South East, smiled patiently at this and shrugged his huge shoulders. `But Saturday night, with tomorrow off... a friend of mine is DJing at a chilled club night at-' `It'll be kinda late,' Ben reiterated in a slow voice, scratching at his ginger-tinged stubble. `Sorry man, I'm not sure I'll be up for...' `No, no, that's cool, no worries,' the 6ft3 bruiser told him rapidly, thumbing at the shoulder-strap of his bag and feeling suddenly foolish - he wasn't even sure he'd make it to the event himself, had already eased his way towards cancelling on the invite before setting off today, and yet here he was, suggesting it to a pal on the team who he'd never really socialised with before beyond team-building banter. It had just felt... the right thing to do, for some reason, and now the big tall athlete was standing here feeling something of a pillock, with the other player's sleepy eyes watching him almost suspiciously. `Another time,' Loftus-Cheek said quietly. `Yeah maybe,' was Chilly's evasive reply. And then, to his own surprise, the Lewisham giant was making another impromptu suggestion, thinking about stepping up next to the handsome white lad in the showers, his attention drawn downstairs by Gallagher's comments. `I think there's a spare seat up front next to me if you want a more quiet, chilled journey back...' He left the invitation hanging warmly between them, leaning his bulky physique into the doorframe that led through into the cabin - in that same sleepy, quiet way, the left-back stared up at him, nodded slowly, but then informed him, `I think Yankee is saving me a space at the back still, thanks.' And off he trotted, marching quite primly down the aisle of their jet, and leaving Ruben to smile oddly at his own little befriending efforts, quite blandly snubbed tonight. That lad, he thought, was a bit of a mystery to him - what was up with him, really? As soon as he'd sent the message, he locked his phone and pushed it back into the front pouch of his big bulky hoodie. He was nestled on one large sofa in his lounge, a visiting friend snoring in the parallel one, and the closing scenes of a streaming movie wrapping up on a wall-mounted screen. Missing the away game through minor illness had at least given way to a pretty chilled recovery weekend for the East Londoner, and he was looking forward to rejoining the lads on Monday in training, and benefitting from the big mood which the Leicester win would no doubt generate. Reece James had watched the game on screen, of course, but like Mason Mount, he found it strange and difficult to support his boys from that kind of distance, and wished it had been a home game so he could perhaps at least show face at Stamford Bridge and show proper support for the lads in blue. The stocky 23-year-old right-back yawned widely and rubbed a balled fist across each of his tired eyes, glancing over to confirm that his old school pal was fast asleep on the other couch, swathed in blankets and the wrappers of the chocolate treats he'd been eating during the first half of their chosen thriller movie. A moment passed, and then James slid into a different position, sitting more upright, and dragged his phone back out from the pouch pocket. Thumb-print unlock, a quick few taps, and he was in his messaging thread with his close friend and teammate, staring dimly at the latest sent message to Chilly: `Congrats again boi, such a quality performance - just wish i'd been there to join in and get 2 goals myself lol. Miss you m8 - hope we're back rooming together next away team lol, could do with 1 of those sessions lmao' A thick thumb hovered over the screen and this sent message, unread it seemed by the other Chelsea player, who would at this time perhaps be landing already from the trip, and collecting his car to drive back into the city. With a moment's awkward decisiveness, Reece pushed his thumb in against the message and chose `delete for everyone', cutting the communication out of their chat before Ben might switch airplane mode off and receive his latest incoming messages. Stupid, Reece told himself, as the message dissipated from his view and from their online footprint. Stupid message - why'd he written that? `One of those sessions', he scowled at himself, even with the attempted mitigation of `laugh my arse off' next to it! But he genuinely didn't know what to call it, other than a `session', no other euphemism seemed to do the job - the nights in shared rooms with chilled out Chilwell, he thought, since they'd roomed together on that pre-World Cup England camp, and... Lying in their parallel beds, two hot-blooded young footballers, noisily satisfying themselves under the covers! Reece had never done anything like that in the same room as another lad, and he'd been surprised when Ben suggested it again in a couple of different hotels over the last few months, up and down the country and once abroad in Europe. It was just one of those things, a stupid little away-trip ritual, a light in-joke - neither of the young defenders had felt the need to mention it in daylight, away from the comfort of separate beds in discreet corporate hotel suites. Just one of those things, letting off steam, releasing some tension, and... The young right-back cringed at himself, thinking of how he'd stupidly referenced it in that message to Ben, deeply glad that he'd wiped it before it was read. God, he didn't need Ben to think he was weird about it, or too keen, or...! Reece groaned uncomfortably and rubbed again at his face, wondering if he should ditch his friend down here without waking him, and go wandering off to his own master bedroom of the Wandsworth bachelor pad. He lingered a while longer on the sofa, staring at his phone, and the credits rolled on the screen above. Just wanking in the next bed to a mate, he thought, the kind of thing horny teens might do on a first footy tour, or whatever; they were both active lads with a lot to burn off, he supposed, and he was glad at how cool and relaxed his mate Ben was, suggesting and allowing it. I mean, Chilly by name, chill by nature, but... not entirely, Reece supposed, because his friend could be quite distant and deep-thinking at times, and nobody ever seemed to know what was going on with him, exactly. He was a curious lad, Ben Chilwell, and when Reece heard other guys at the footy club say that, he would go blank and awkward - he could hardly admit to other blokes that he and his left-back were occasional wank buddies, tossing one off in adjacent beds and occasionally laughing stupidly at the groans and gasps made by the other in the dark. Wanks aside... he cared a lot for Ben, and he did hope the older defender was okay, that he wasn't as sulky or lonely as the gossips on the extensive Chelsea squad liked to make out. Reece stared contemplatively at their chat window, taking a while to decide against replacing the deleted message with some other kind words to his defender buddy, and just locking the screen again before heading to bed, mulling over the curious case of Ben Chilwell. Inside the townhouse, the 26-year-old didn't bother to turn any lights on before heading upstairs, totally wiped out by the overnight trip to the East Midlands. At the door to his bedroom, he dropped his coat and bag, and then discarded various items of tracksuit until he was in just clingy black boxer briefs and a thin stretchy gym top, clambering into his unmade bed and wrapping the covers over him; there was some issue with the hi-tech heating system of his West London pad, and so the whole place seemed to be freezing after his footballing trip away to Leicester. With a remote snatched from the bedside table, Ben Chilwell brought a modest TV on a table to life, and wriggled about there in search of a comfortable position whilst flicking through the late evening channels, settling on a sports round-up in the half-suppressed hopes of getting to watch a replay of his own goal; the handsome footballer pulled the covers up about him and dug his head and shoulders back into the pillows, getting comfy and squinting tired eyes at the screen. Dimly, it occurred to Ben that he must have missed the coverage of his own winning game, and that the 3-1 Chelsea triumph might have been one of the leading matches in the oddly amended Match of the Day. Still, he was a football fan like most of his fellow players, and he could keep his eyes on the latest league results whilst he relaxed down for the night, thinking vaguely about what he might do with his Sunday off to recover. It had been a long and odd day, he thought, shifting against the covers and thinking of how leering and suggestive Vardy had been on the pitch, never mind Gallagher in the showers; it was odd, because in different times, that kinda attention might have been more exciting and promising to him, back in his early 20s, when he was starting to discover himself. Now... Ben just felt a sort of detached impatience. Had daft Conor really been making some kind of move on him back then, or just making silly digs cos he was jealous about cock size, like big Lofty seemed to think...? `Lads like us', the midfielder had said, and Ben marvelled to think of himself as included next to that giant of a lad. But... well. Yeh. Ben wasn't exactly blind to what rested in the pouched front of his boxer briefs right now, was he, and it wasn't the first time a former Leicester teammate had referred to him as `Bulging Ben'. Vardy, Gallagher, Mount... fuck, it was as if he'd never been so attractive to other lads...! Weird, just as he was feeling like he never wanted anything like that to happen again. Next up, on screen, was the City game, against Palace. It occurred to Ben, as it had before, that maybe Guardiola's team were therefore still somewhere in the capital, although it was equally likely that Man City had flown or coached back home already after their away fixture, just like Chelsea. And yet he allowed his mind to wander, lying there in his match-weary stupor, picturing the ranks of the City squad in some high-end hotel of South London. He was doing his best to keep this imagining very generalised, until the footage on screen made it hard to do so: not even actual match footage of the City team smashing Palace 1-0, but just warm-up stuff, a brief montage of it, except... There he was. Calves as thick as some people's waists, out on show and darkly furred, rising up into thicker thighs, and the close-fitting white shorts that enclosed his muscular backside, exaggerated as he launched into a powerful kick and- Why were they even showing this? Showing so much warm-up shite when they could be skipping forward to the highlights of the game itself...? Ben frowned impatiently at the footage on screen, even as the hand not tapping the Tv remote began to creep down the chest of his slate-coloured gym top, and trace the bumps of his six-pack under its clingy fit, reaching down for the soft black cotton of his boxer briefs... The last thing he needed, Chilwell thought, stupid close-up of Jack Grealish and his famous fucking calves, or his imprisoned peach of an arse, the brief-lines so tantalisingly obvious through their child-size fit. The left-back grimaced to himself as his own hand closed about his lazy bulge, and he let out a huff of breath as he began to stroke it; his other hand tapped across the buttons of the Sky remote and found pause, then re-wind. Back to the warm-up. Back to the calves. The arse. The cocky facial expression as the shot went in, winking at the camera and whichever City arse-hole had made the pass to him. Fuck. Jack. Before he knew what he was doing, the screen paused on that wink, Chilwell had his cock in hand and was wanking it into life, until its sensitive tip was rubbing at the underside of his duvet, and the tight elastic waistband was hooked under his hairy balls, straining with a five-day load that had built up without him even noticing it. Intently, the football stud stared at the paused screen, and the tanned face of his ex - and he jerked his dick almost angrily, pumping it in one hand and liking the rough rub of it against the duvets, while his breath escaped in a series of gruff little blasts. Tired and still a little heartbroken, the Chelsea left-back fixated on the still image of his Jack, and pumped his cock until his balls were close to bursting - his mind was a supercut of other images of Grealish, spanning their long friendship even before that day in Birmingham, walking alongside the canals, and into the dimly lit peace of Jack's bedroom at the time... where Ben had wanted to show off what he'd learned from an anonymous older lover, actually Jamie Vardy. Prising apart Jack's big globes and putting a tongue in there, and setting off the chain of excitement and discovery between them - from rimming in the dark, to picnics and barns, and lockdown drama... discovering each other, one beautiful shag at a time, and finding so much intimacy and depth to their relationship. And then burning out, two fragile egos and insatiable cocks. It still astounded Ben to think that HE'D been the one to fuck it up, ultimately, and leave their love in tatters - him! When the other half of that equation was someone as chaotic and unreliable as Jack horny bastard Grealish...! Never meant to be, he would tell himself, even as he remembered that last time, when Jack had shown up here at the house, after a game in London, and slept in this bed, and fucked him silently in the kitchen downstairs first thing in the morning. God. Let him do that now - let him be in London, after beating Palace, and let him be in a taxi here now, from his hotel to my place! Ben closed his eyes, unable to squint at the screen any more, and he whimpered his prayer to the world, knowing that in truth Grealish was already back in Manchester - and his balls exploded, spraying his hot cum against the bedcovers above his pumping fist, a messy and quick-cooling slick over his knuckles and the fat head of his monster cock, and the sound of his panting sobs of breath. The curious case of Benjamin Chilwell was pretty simple: getting over Jack Grealish took a lifetime. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-354

Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2023 22:48:15 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 354 Part 354: Gift-wrapped Package Having left his Cheshire home at the crack of dawn, he was one of the first blokes to arrive at the shiny glass entrance hall of the St George's Park training campus; one of the first to be handed a sack-full of new gear by the support staff after being greeted with a kiss on the cheek by a flirtatious player liaison officer. Still a little sleepy, the 32-year-old Sunderland man could just smile amiably at the welcome party and make the lightest of efforts for the roaming camera-work that was always there to capture the details of life at another England international camp, the first since the World Cup. Like many of the men on Southgate's latest squad, Jordan Henderson was pleased to be here, especially as if his captaincy at Liverpool this season had been one of tension and frustration at their yo-yo results and uncertain prospects across all competitions. He knew that it was pretty unfashionable to be patriotic at Anfield, but the Mackem midfielder couldn't help himself; he got as excited as anyone else here to wear those Three Lions on his muscular chest. It was just a shame, he thought, to have to be separated from his lover, and he wasn't only thinking about the dawn goodbye kiss shared with his wife over their rumpled bed-sheets this morning. Still, he was here to play his part, and to enjoy his sport at its highest level. Jordan lingered in the foyer, arms folded across the chest of his England tracksuit jersey, catching up with some of the older coaches who had been working with this team since his first caps. He chatted pleasantly to a couple of familiar faces on the site team who were providing refreshments and keeping the operation running smoothly, and he interacted with polite blandness towards the media crew who he wasn't quite awake enough for this morning - smiling properly for the cameras and cutting a dashing figure as one of the England squad's `old boys' at 32 could wait until the next couple of days' training, and the Thursday trip to Napoli for a qualifier match versus Italy. One at a time, Henderson greeted the few other players who followed his arrival, always finding it hard to put aside his responsible captain duty when he was away from LFC, unable to cede that paternal vibe entirely to his friend Harry Kane. He grabbed Manchester City's John Stones in a big hug, complimenting the lanky defender on just how hench he was looking in his tight-fitting tracksuit; he greeted Luke Shaw from the other side of that rival city, always charmed by the bearded lad's humble good spirits, and was unsurprised when a car delivered big Harry Maguire to the entrance steps only two minutes later. He was drawn out onto said steps to join the welcome for a pair of Arsenal stars who were arriving together, Aaron Ramsdale and young Bukayo Saka; minutes ago, the 6ft athlete had been fending off slightly irritating questions from a media officer about club rivalries and how he might feel training again with stars who were beating Liverpool in the league. Ridiculous, he thought, though he'd been more polite with the young media twerp - the Premier League was a distant entity once they were here in this bubble of friendship and commitment, and he was pleased to see the young stars here to play for their country. And then there was an evident flurry of interest from the various parts of the St George's Park welcome committee - whoever was next arriving at the sweeping driveway of their state-of-the-art training complex was causing a bit more interest than an Arsenal goalkeeper and attacking midfielder, and Hendo instinctively picked up on this, seeing the change in the behaviour of the female staff, and the quiet interest of the guys. He paused in the doorway, hands in his pockets, and looked down the kerb - ah, right. An impressive figure at the end of his teens, the Bundesliga talent unfolded from his vehicle in a slow and awkward manner, looking far from fresh and eager as he came out into the light, blinking and grimacing. With a captain's friendly concern, Henderson paused to watch, a little taken aback by the uncomfortable way in which Jude Bellingham received his luggage from the driver and then approached the steps in a stooped and sluggish manner. Instantly, Borussia Dortmund's 19-year-old Brummie was enveloped by welcome, and Henderson himself was peripheral to the activity - he drifted inside with everyone else, failing to be distracted by the arrival of two more players out on the roadside. Inside, he could hear the natural slur of Bellingham's Midlands accent, but he was particularly quiet and gruff, and blank and charmless as many reached for handshakes and back-pats to welcome the squad's current teen sensation. A suspicion forming, Jordan zoomed in on his teammate, politely shouldering his way close and throwing an arm about the broadening shoulders of the 6ft1 midfielder. `How hungover are you, exactly?' the Liverpool captain asked in a discreetly low voice, smiling brightly at his young friend. Jude's long serious face turned his way, grimacing miserably, and the bearded older stud could only laugh sympathetically. Instantly, Henderson was steering him past the kit pick-up and chatting loudly at him with half-joking exclamations such as `Aren't you sick of Germany yet?' and `I have a Liverpool contract in my suitcase if you want to read it over?' Tactfully, he guided the youngster away from the fuss and attention, allowing the sound of Jack Grealish and captain Kane himself to draw away the interest of the crew - until he had the peaky-faced Brum lad in the broad doorway through towards the passages that connected the training site with the hotel wings. Bellingham groaned deeply. `Fuck, is it that obvious?' he asked weakly. His shoulders drooped and he hooked his thumbs into the bag-straps in a way that was decidedly teenaged, despite his physical maturity. `Ugh. Fuck.' `Well, I've seen that look before,' Jordan chuckled warmly. `Good night? Oh god - you need to get out of here and get some rest, look at you.' He was unjudgemental and calm, thinking just about Jude's wellbeing and also the young star's reputation - he didn't need the England PR machine capturing too much of his toxic state, his sallow cheeks and hazy eyes, or his clumsy still-drunk gait. Jordan laughed sympathetically and patted one strong bicep. `What's your room situation? Do you know who you're sharing with?' Jude shook his head, and it was amusing to see how sheepish and therefore boyish the Bundesliga star looked, for all his maturity on a football pitch. He looked like a young lad who'd been caught at his parents' vodka, rather than a 19-year-old international athlete. Jordan shook his head in mock disapproval. `Bad lad,' he muttered in his own thick Wearside accent. `Look, just go get your head down - you look like you'd throw up on one of those liaison people if they try to get anything over to you.' He fished into the pocket of his jersey and retrieved the heavy key and fob that had been handed to him minutes ago as he completed his player registration at the formal kiosk. `I dunno who I'm meant to share with, but they can just swap over, stick with me - take this and go get yourself in the room. I'll take care of your stuff down here.' Jude stared at him in wide-eyed misery, as if barely able to keep his eyes open or scared to open his mouth. `Leave that,' Hendo told him, as the younger guy reached for the tall handle of his case, `I'll sort it all. Go look after yourself, Bells.' He nudged a fist-bump into his sturdy chest and nodded firmly through the doors in the direction of their hotel quarters. And the tall teen just gave him a very grateful look and backed off, grabbing his bag straps and grimacing with one of those fresh waves of nausea - it made Jordan glad to be in his 30s and happily married, not often suffering those kinds of heinous hangover like he had in his 20s. He thought about that particularly stinking hungover morning where he'd woken up next to his best mate Ads and things had begun to wake up in his body. `Thanks, bro,' was Jude's slurred remark before loping off, tall and ungainly, and Jordan just waved him lightly off, before making a beeline back for the centre of the foyer and drawing any possible attention away from the lad's exit by going in for a big huge with Kane and then Grealish, the photographers all over the cross-club interaction like moths to a flame. And then Henderson set about quietly speaking to the registration staff and clearing things up for Jude, making it clear that the teen would room with him for the next few days; once that was sorted and he had some forms tucked into his tote bag ready for the youngster to sign, he paused to check his phone. On his way to start following Maguire and Shaw through into the hotel, Hendo couldn't help but grin to himself and feel teenage butterflies somewhere in his muscle-toned stomach. The first message that pinged up on the unlocked screen was one from his absent Liverpudlian, one of Southgate's 2023 snubs. `Hope today goes ok, big man' read the first of several subsequent WhatsApp messages from the 24-year-old defender, but Jordan's eyes were instantly drawn to the last one and its winking emoji: `Look out for our Jude, will ya - he's gonna be tender. Look after him haha, he's gonna be a Red xx' Jordan raised his dark brows slightly, surprised at the coincidence of topic and that he'd been the one to do just that, adopting the hungover youth out of protective instinct without any encouragement needed. He and Trent thought alike; he smiled absently, remembering that the two younger lads had made plans in London before the meet-up, and vaguely sad that he hadn't found a way to join them, but also conscious that they wouldn't necessarily want a married 32-year-old killing their fun night out. Before pausing to make sure he had all of his, and Jude's, luggage, Jordan punched in a rapid reply to his Anfield boy-toy: `Lol, already on it - poor kid is sick as a dog, I'm sorting things out for him,' and then, `Thanks for messaging, means a lot to hear from you x' And off he went, struggling under the collective cases, and piling into one elevator on his own that would take him up into the player suites above, wondering just what state he'd find young Bellingham in. The stinking hangover had hit Jude like a articulated lorry from the second he awoke. He hadn't even realised he'd had quite so much to drink, or that he'd got so wasted - after all, the pair of them had been pretty reserved at the Chris Brown arena gig, conscious of the cameras that would swing their way to see two top-flight football buddies gracing such a public event. They'd been sensible at the restaurant beforehand too, but at the elite VIP bar afterwards and at the bar of this hotel, things had clearly gone a different way: the insides of the teenager's mouth felt scorched and velvety, his tongue too big, and his head throbbed with slow pulses of pain that made it very difficult to wrench one eye and then both open. He brought one hand up to rub at his temple and across his clammy brow, and then ran the same sweaty palm across his bare six-pack, his tummy feeling all kinds of wrong. Ugh. Bellingham lay there very still, bracing himself against the physical consequences of drinking. Like all young professional footballers, he was an unpractised drinker. He'd been greatly protected from such vices as a Birmingham youth and then even more heavily coddled when he was transplanted to Germany for his big break. He wasn't exactly a puritan about it, but he'd always put his developing fitness ahead of such normal pleasures... but last night he'd clearly let it slide, and just enjoyed being out and about in London town, a rich young stud with everyone's eyes on him! He had vague memories of chatting to some supposed fashion models at the bar, and trying very hard to get their number, and cringed at himself. Instinctively, the hand flat on his abs went south, and he felt his manhood through the musty boxer shorts that had weathered the sweaty concert and drunken aftermath, and the cock that had gone unattended due to his abysmal flirting and, it turned out, utterly intoxicated state. Oh, there it was. Not just the headache and the hotness, not just the nausea and the self-loathing... but the hangover horn was here too. His cock felt fat and ready in his pants, and he hadn't even realised he was feeling that. But as his fingers found its sturdy outline, he knew how aroused he was, the proverbial extra symptom of a horrible beery hangover, stiffening to his lazy grip. Fuck's sake, what a waste. It took Bellingham a little longer to piece it all together: quite how the night had ended, and where in fact he was waking up. He was swathed in a tangle of duvet that his sweaty body had resisted in the heat of the night, and in a large bed in a fairly sprawling hotel suite. And, he remembered whilst blinking dizzily over the room, it was one of two beds. Another body lay not far away in a similar condition - strips of bare brown muscle contrasting the fluffy white of the disrupted duvet. Oh, yeh - they'd agreed to share the big suite, after Trent's other accommodation plans had apparently fallen through, and that had perhaps been half the reason they went on to drink so much. Jude could picture them being big ballers in the hotel bar, buying shots for everybody, and then drinking more up here, mourning the absence of the two 10/10 girls they'd been chatting to earlier. Sensibly, the teen pulled his exploring hand away from the loaded front of his black-and-grey striped trunks, remembering that he wasn't alone with his beer sweats and his hangover horn. But not for long. He couldn't help himself. His own long fingers crept down the bottom of his ripped torso and stroked across the warm fabric, finding and pulling at the outline of his increasingly stiff nob. Well... Alexander-Arnold looked and sounded fast asleep, so there wasn't really any harm in it, was there? He lay there in his awkward giddy state, pretty sure he was actually still quite pissed, and played with himself through his pants, enjoying the strange inconsistent numbness of his dick and balls, the gentle throb of abstract arousal. There was something pleasantly indulgent about lying here in his self-inflicted pain and grabbing loosely at his neglected prick, thinking about the great shag that he might have enjoyed if his flirting skills were less blunt. He was pretty sure his chat had amounted to `I'm pretty rich and famous and you're hot, so shall we?' The hungover self-care progressed quietly, his knuckles rustling against the bedding that covered his middle. His other hand strayed against his own chest, giving his own soft nipples a little tweak; he'd quite liked it the other week when his buddy Salih Ozcan had begun to play with them in another hotel bed, though at first he'd slapped at his hands and told him to focus his attention elsewhere. He'd quite like it though when the German Turk gave them a little lick. Jude rubbed a single finger over his lips and tongue and then circled it against one hardened nip, almost laughing at himself for the sensation. No doubt, though, it got him even hornier, and he couldn't stop himself - the cock came out of the restrictive elastic of his trunks, and he wanked it under the fold of duvet, pulling back and forth on the thick shaft, letting out faint sleepy moans, his headache somewhat soothed by the sensations in his crotch. The harder he pulled on himself, and the more he tweaked at his left nipple with two fingers, the less he felt like he needed to roll out of bed and be sick off the Mayfair balcony. His pants became more audible, really shifting his 6ft1 lean body on the bedding, pushing the impossible swirl of duvet away until his cock was properly out, held at the base, and he could look down the pale brown of his pecs and abs to see and admire just how well-equipped he actually was for a young guy. He was so braindead with drink, that's why he'd lost his sense of time and place, just physically needy for the self-comfort of the wank - otherwise he'd never have been so stupid as to wank his cock openly like this, duvet pushed down his strong thighs, hand sliding down his six-pack and reaching about to cup his fat balls - and then eyes squinting open and looking over at the next bed, only to recognise the shifting posture of the exposed flashes of muscle, and the face that was forming where he hadn't expected to see one. Eyes open, and looking this way. Jude froze, mortified, and met Trent's eyes with his own. He lay still and said nothing, hand about his cock, and much of his 6ft1 physique bared and exposed on top of his messy bedding. Only a strip of his mighty legs were covered by a stretch of duvet now, down where he'd pushed it to get a proper grip on his cock and really pull on it in a way that abated the pains of the hangover. Oh, bugger. `Having fun over there, are ya?' drawled the unmistakably Scouse tone of the right-back's voice, and Bellingham tried to let his eyes focus enough to properly take in Alexander-Arnold's facial expression in the unlit gloom of their suite. `Uh, sorry,' Jude moaned awkwardly, hand still about his hard dick, frozen in the act. `Sorry for what?' moaned the voice of the Liverpool star, sounding every bit as groggy and indulgent as he felt; he was immediately relieved by the tone of amusement and approval in Trent's voice, but still somewhat panicked and awkward, feeling exposed. It was as if baring his cock like this and being caught in the simple innocent act of masturbation also exposed everything else: the way he'd been drawn into youthful mischief once or twice by Jadon Sancho, or the way he'd asserted himself against their England captain last winter in Doha - or worse, the sordid group session he'd been led into by Eric Dier, the six of them standing over a gasping Harry Kane and feeding him their dirty loads. Meeting eyes again with the other hungover football player, Jude felt sweaty and anxious, as if the entire world had just seen him fucking the mouth of his Dortmund teammate Ozcan. Trent was a close buddy and favourite player - he didn't want to be judged by him. `Don't let me stop ya,' yawned the Scouser's voice. `You do what you got to do, lad.' Still the teenager paused, gripping awkwardly at his hard-on and wondering why it hadn't wilted the slightest in these moments of awkwardness and shame; the hangover horn was as raging in his touch as it had been when he woke up, and as oddly numb, as if he could play with it for HOURS and edge himself out of the hangover state. `Or,' droned Trent's voice, after a slight pause, `do you need a hand with it?' The offer was followed by a gentle snigger and a sort of groaning sound as if Trent was too hungover to think straight; Jude's whole 6ft1 body tensed up against the bed, and he stared across between their beds, unable to catch sight of the Scouse lad's face now that he'd spoken so wildly. Trent was shifting about, his locs bouncing as he moved positions, wrestling with his covers - but then spinning around to sit over the edge of his bed, his bulky 5ft9 body on show, increasingly thickset with defender's muscle. Jude stared at him, noticing the poised manner of the 24-year-old player's body; and finally focusing in properly on his face, the bleary baggy eyes and lazy pouting smile, the lad looking every bit as drink-destroyed as himself. Up he got, to his feet, his whole body on show in white CK boxer briefs, exactly as photographed by the brand - the images in December had left Bellingham thoughtful about his own future side-hustles, and the deals that might eventually come his way. Now he was getting his own intimate viewing of the Calvin Klein campaign shoot, Trent crossing the short journeys between their beds. He stood there at the side of Jude's, and Jude just lay still, slowing removing his hand from his sweaty cock, resting it on one thigh. He gulped anxiously and watched the other lad's hand come in for a stroke, but once his length was being teased and fondle, he just shut his eyes and let out the shuddering moan of appreciation - he was hungover, horny, and needy, and this was exactly what he wanted. Oh, fuck yes. Jordan waved goodbye to a couple of others on the landing and then progressed to his room. He half-expected to enter the suite and find the German league player fully dressed and snoring on the nearest bed, collapsed there in exactly the peaky state he'd arrived in. But nope - the large shared suite was visibly empty and undisturbed, and Henderson shuffled the luggage inside one item at a time, blinking confusedly and wondering what had happened, until he realised he could hear the sound of running water, and appreciated that his adopted roomie must be trying to freshen up. He smiled fondly, glad he could do something to alleviate the hungover teen's difficult morning, and dragged the last of their mutual bags into the room before shutting and bolting the door. With several players still to arrive, they still had a bit of down-time before a communal lunch and the afternoon's introductory training runaround. Into the room, unzipping his jersey top, and rubbing hands down his own sleepy face. He was craving coffee and he immediately began to investigate the espresso machine on the side, studying the bland features of the hotel room and trying to work out if it was a suite he'd occupied here before on some previous Three Lions jaunt. `You alright in there?' he called loudly into the en suite, shrugging off his top and settling into a chair in just his white t-shirt and tracksuit pants, pulling off his trainers and giving his socked feet a slight massage. There was no immediate response, and he assumed that Bells couldn't hear him for the shower; but then the watery noise responded and a garbled Brummie accent hollered back, `That you, Hendo?' Well, he already sounded a bit more alert than he'd looked downstairs, which heartened the 32-year-old. Not quite responding to the question, as the watery noise resumed, the Liverpool skipper pulled his phone out again, and checked to see if his Trent had acknowledged that last message - he was a bit surprised that he had, given that the 24-year-old must be wrecked today too, and didn't have young Jude's schedule. The sexy Scouser had much of the week off as a result of his England snub, a situation which Trent was not overtly worried by. `Oh?' read Trent's response, accompanied by a winking yellow face; `What kinda things you sorting out for him?' There was one of those little purple devils next to this, and then a message of `...' and finally a string of crying-laughing emojis. Jordan spluttered with amusement at the suggestive messages from his lover-boy, and felt himself instinctively rush to type in `NOT LIKE THAT' before pausing to question the tone that was coming this way - and then saw that his Liverpudlian love was typing more. `I told you - look after him lol - like PROPERLY look after him'. Jordan blinked at this imperative and laughed again to himself, then picked an eye-rolling emoji and typed, `You're a menace, TAA'. He paused, holding the device in both hands, and then waited awkwardly - there was a part of him that wanted more of this cheekiness from his younger man, this saucy streak that came out when Trent was in a particularly good or frisky mood - but also a little unnerved by it, and now starting to wonder what exactly had happened last night on the younger guys' big London night. Just the Chris Brown gig, or...? A single purple devil came again from Trent's number, and after a short pause, `I've packaged him up for you good n proper, daddy - enjoy'. The 32-year-old Sunderland man stared blankly at this oblique offer, trying to understand what Trent was actually getting at, and then distracted sharply from the saucy convo by the clearing of a throat. When he looked up, Jude himself was stood a few yards across the room, a towel wrapped about his waist and every deep brown muscle shining and glossy. `Cold shower,' the youth grunted. `It's definitely helped. But still, ugh.' Hendo stared at him. He couldn't help it. The Birmingham teen was so well-built for his age, 6ft1 and broad, already very different to the skinny 17-year-old geek who'd made his ambitious debut with this squad a couple of years ago. Jude's eyes met his and Jordan realised just how overtly he was staring down the towel-clad young stud, making him clear his throat awkwardly too, and blink heavily, and lock his phone screen as if Bellingham was about to see the cheeky communication with their mutual pal. `Right,' Hendo grunted. `Sure, of course. Glad it helped.' `Something up?' murmured Bellingham, his hands falling to the knotted waist of the towel, some arm muscles tensing inevitably in the moment; it was almost as if the 19-year-old was deliberately showing off his physique for him, although that was stupid, why would he bother...? `Nothing,' Jordan claimed, although in fact his cock was immediately on its way up, pulsing in the front of his tracksuit and making him shift his legs on the chair, and clear his throat again. He held on tightly to the locked phone, thinking over Trent's odd words. What the hell was the fella on about? `Packaged him up'? `Enjoy'? Jude was still staring at him with an odd expression, but the serious-faced young man turned away and strutted across to the big weekend bag which Jordan himself had delivered to the foot of one bed, the main bulk of the younger guy's luggage. In one move, Bellingham unzipped it and reached in, snatching something off the top of the neat contents, a slip of white which he unfolded and stretched and instantly revealed as a pair of CK briefs. And then Jude was back to him, allowing his eyes to study a different angle on those developing muscles; with a wiggle and a hop, the lad was stepping into those pants and letting the towel fall away, dragging it over his damp chest whilst relaxing in just the tight white- Oh. The pants were so familiar. So very familiar. Oddly distinctive, despite being white and classic. They were exactly the design that... `Did Trent give you those?' the Liverpool captain found himself asking. Jude half-turned, the towel about his broad shoulders and gripped in both hands; his long leaned torso stretched down to the sharp contrast of the brand-new white undies that hugged him so well, that `packaged' him so blindingly between those strong brown thighs. Oh my. Trent certainly had giftwrapped this beautiful boy for him. `What?' Bellingham mumbled first, then quickly, `Oh, right - yeah, actually, he did, erm - how did you know, ha? They're- I mean, apparently they're not out yet, they're a newer cut that... um. He explained what was different about them, but... I dunno, I think a pair of tighty whities is just a pair of tighty whities...' Jordan Henderson was a cautious man, especially about his blossomed bisexuality. But he was reading the signs from Trent, and he felt he knew what was possible. He stood up form the seat, phone slid into his pocket, and bulge perhaps already visible in the front of his trackies. `No, not just any pair, they look great on you,' he remarked boldly. `Just like they do on Trent, don't you think?' The youth wrinkled his face slightly at this query, standing there still and exposed - and Jordan took a few steps towards him, crossing the room. `Did he tell you to wear them?' he asked, his voice lower and more sensual. `Er - yes. He just said that... well...' The youth blushed slightly and let go of the towel, which fell from his strong shoulders, and one self-conscious hand moved down towards the big white bulge of the undies, Jordan drawing close enough to smell the soapy freshness of his body. He smiled at Bellingham's awkward expression and asked, `He told you they'd make your bulge look good?' he asked. It was exactly what Alexander-Arnold had insisted to him when he gifted him several pairs of them last week. `Something like that,' Jude whispered. `And it does.' Jordan reached down and took it in hand, giving it a good firm squeeze. `He also told me to look after you, to sort you out. What do you think to that, kid?' Jude stood in front of him, powerful and exciting, and letting out a purring murmur of interest. `Oh - is that right, boss...?' His smile was suddenly confident and approving, but his eyes were wide and betrayed surprise and a little apprehension. `Trent did tell me to ask you for anything I needed once I got here...' `He was right,' Hendo confirmed quietly, squeezing the gift-wrapped package, and bending his knees to start sinking down. He licked his lips as he did, and whispered one more assurance before kneeling in front of his young roommate. `He knows how comforting and supportive I can be, that lad. Now let's get these down...' Jude lay there, sweating and shuddering, feeling still sickened by the hangover, but also overwhelmed by the warm softness that enclosed his dick. Trent was on the bed with him, making it creak beneath their athletic bodies. There had been only a few gentle strokes of the other player's hand before he came in with his full lips and did the job properly - and oh god it felt good, perhaps better than any attention the 19-year-old's huge cock had ever received before. It felt so right, the two of them in here, strong and bare and stinking of sweat and booze, but his legs open and Trent's face burying in across his crotch each time he took the length into his throat. His lips and tongue were magical, and he made such an easy job of it, so much more talented than frantic nervous Salih in German hotel rooms these past two months. `Fuck,' the teen growled. `You're good at this, fella.' No answer from Trent; after all, his mouth was full. `Oh god, that feels goooood. Fuckkkk. Mmmm, buddy...' Just gargling and gurgling and lapping sounds from the Scouser. Jude pushed back with his tall muscular build, digging his elbows and heels into the mattress, spreading his limbs, stretching out his body and really allowing himself to enjoy it - so much better than his own fumbling wank, so much more tender and comforting, EXACTLY what he needed. `Jesus,' he panted, `you know how to use that mouth, lad...!' He felt glued to the bed, unable to move any inch of his powerful body, totally floored by both the weight of the hangover and the sheer overwhelming pleasure of Trent Alexander-Arnold's gifted mouth. This felt unreal and out-of-body. Oh, god. It was only in the deepest throes of his enjoyment that he felt any consciousness of time, and it somewhere dawned on him, in some stuffy corner of the brain that wasn't paying attention to the life-changing experience of his huge cock: didn't he have somewhere to be today? Didn't he need to get out of London and on his way to...? But then Trent gripped him about the base of the shaft and stooped to tongue at his balls instead, sending him into a giddy reverie that had zero interest in transport practicalities and professional commitments; the England training camp was a million miles away, and all that mattered was the hot wet mouth that was hell-bent on making him cum. Jordan peeled away the crisp white Calvins as if they really were gift-wrapping, exposing the trimmed fuzz of black pubes, and the heavy thick snake that now dangled between those gorgeous thigh muscles. It was certainly pretty big, even soft, and the flattering fit of these CKs had been an unnecessary advantage; Jude had no need for cosmetic help in that department. Wow. Bellingham stood in front of him, his posture calm and aloof, but he felt a little shaky and nervous when Hendo's hands rested below his hips. He breathed softly on the hanging snake, and looked up with serious eyes, staring up the ladder of the youth's six-pack, past his developing pecs, and up into his curious face. `I'm gonna suck you,' Henderson announced needlessly, and Bellingham just nodded. Without any more to say, Jordan angled his face and opened his mouth and took that soft cock in between his lips, more comfortable than ever with this once-taboo act; he could still remember nervously and almost fearfully putting his lips to Neco's quivering pipe in a silent hotel, claiming the Welsh prince as his own in what now felt like another lifetime. Holding the stud by the hips, Jordan coaxed the cock into life, resting it between his lips and lolling his tongue against the swelling meat; he nuzzled into the lad's crotch and let the sharp tufts of his own beard tickle and scratch, making the 6ft1 teen shudder and gasp. And then he guided him to one side and encouraged him back until the Dortmund player was seated on the side of the bed and Jordan was hunkered assertively between his open legs, holding his thighs open and leaning down to caress his tongue over the pink head of the long brown monster that rose to meet his kiss. As he began to suck on it, enjoying the thickness that bloomed in his mouth, he ran his hands up and down the legs, caressing every inch of powerful muscle in thigh and calf, and helping to remove those gifted white briefs from about the ankles. He bunched them inside a fist, knowing they were part of the gift; they weren't as new as they looked, and he suspected that if he sniffed them, he would pick up a hint of Trent's aroma. He gripped and squeezed them, connected to his Scouse hunk as he sucked on this handsome replacement, this hot new pal - and it was like sharing a distant kiss with his man, knowing that they had both `looked after' this huge veiny rod, this hunky 19-going-on-30 football prodigy. This... future Liverpool player? Prone on his hotel bed, Jude gushed with cum, wanking his wet shaft himself whilst Trent kissed and nipped at his fat balls and rubbed vigorously at the sides of his thighs. He moaned and growled as he emptied his load, sure that much of it must be painting the sides of Trent's face, but not caring. He just closed his eyes and howled out his dizzy enjoyment, muscles shaking against the bed as he experienced the throes of his perfect climax and then lay there in a sweaty state, still feeling Trent's tongue and lips all over his shaking privates, soothing and slow. The thought came back to him - I need to be somewhere else - almost as soon as Trent's kisses diminished down one thigh and left them, and he rolled to one side and hopped off the bed, cock swinging and dripping a little leftover spunk from its fat tip. He stood there with a stricken look on his face and saw Trent stood at the foot of his bed, one hand inside his Calvins, grinning mischievously. `Oh come on,' teased the Scouser, `it wasn't that bad, was it?' Jude stared at him for a moment. `Huh? Oh - no - it was... fuck. It was perfect.' He paused uncomfortably at the strength of his praise, not used to communicating so openly with a playmate after the deed was done. He felt hot and awkward and he wanted to shower, but he was looking at the face of the expensive watch he'd picked up from his bedside table. Fuck, fuck, fuck - he'd slept through alarms, or his phone was dead. A car would be waiting for him downstairs in a matter of minutes, ready to deliver him to the open arms of Southgate's England encampment. `Perfect?' he heard Trent muse smugly. `Wow. Okay.' And then Jude was hopping about the room, searching his scattered belongings and grabbing wildly at untouched cases which were all packed and ready, assisted by his mom, for the duration of his week as an England midfielder. But then Trent was next to him, still fondling himself in his trunks, and pressing a small white bundle into his hand. `Here,' grunted the Liverpudlian. `You don't have time for a shower, but you have time for fresh pants. And these will look fucking hot on you, big lad. Wear them for me and get the fuck out of here - you told me your schedule. You're short on time, lad.' The exit happened in a blur. Jude remembered staring at his slightly older friend in fascination, absolutely mind-blown to have discovered this talent and openness in the other pro footballer, far more-so than when he'd confronted that slutty captain by the pool, or when he'd urged Ozcan into servicing him in secret - or when Jadon had turned out to be so kinky. And he accepted the tight bundle of underwear, his own sweaty boxers already discarded on the bed and stained with streaks of his spilled jizz. Into the tight white briefs he went, pulling up his long legs, and feeling them hug his softening monster. Moments later and Trent was thrusting the items of an England tracksuit at him from an open case, and helping him out of the door once he had wriggled into each garment - the Liverpool player still just in his own undies, and not shy about how hard he was in the front of them. `Look out for Hendo,' his friend called after him as he dashed out into the corridor. `He'll look after ya, kiddo. He's good like that. Just you wait til he's your captain too, ha.' And Jude scampered towards the lift and down to his hired ride, feeling all of the nausea and dehydration rush back to him as he slumped against one wall of the boxy space, hot under the collar of his t-shirt, and sure that his cock was still leaking cum inside the tight white pants that had been thrust at him. Jesus christ he was hungover, and not sure how he was going to cope with his arrival at St George's Park. At St George's Park, a couple of hours later, he more than arrived: his load hit the back of Jordan's mouth and tasted delicious as it came. He was holding the lad's trembling thighs tightly in each hand as he kept his mouth glued to the shaft, receiving this second creamy load of the day, and refusing to pull his lips away until he'd swallowed every salty trace of it, always shocked at how much enjoyment he could find in his lover's juices. Eventually he pulled back, resting heavily on those solid thighs, and licking some stickiness from his lips, panting a little bit as he caught his breath. In front of him, Jude was sprawled back, naked and shaking, where his body had fallen back over the bed. He too was gasping for air, his strong bare chest rising and falling, and his arms lifting to expose his pits as he planted his big hands to his shiny face. He groaned to himself behind those fingers ,and Jordan stroked more gently up and down his thighs. `Better now?' he asked quietly, and then pulled away. He wiped the back of a hand over his bearded mouth, and let out a chiming laugh at the frenzy and greed of his own behaviour, but a chuckle that gave away to appreciative silence as he stood there and took in the majestic bare body of the 6ft1 teen on the bed, cock still bobbing and glistening. Jordan silently fetched the dropped towel and brought it to him, laying it over his waist and crotch, and then grabbing a clean one that was folded on the other bed, blanketing Jude's upper body in it as he lay there and recovered. Then he went to their small fridge and retrieved an icy bottle of still water. It was gladly received by Bellingham, now sitting up and breathing a bit more normally; glugging instantly on the open glass bottle, as if he hadn't seen water in weeks or months. Jordan sighed happily and stroked the shape of his erection through his trackies, feeling the bulge of the bunched-up underpants that he'd stuffed in one pocket. And then, quite calmly and mundanely, he asked, `Cup of tea, mate...?' and shot a wholesome smile across the room, watching Jude's bewildered face and limp body language as the sexually satisfied young hunk swathed himself in towels and dragged his feet up onto the bed to relax properly on his side. His expression was grateful and soothed as he nodded and smiled and curled up into an almost foetal position, wrapped in white towel. Jordan smirked and took control of the room's kettle, happy to look after his England (and perhaps next season, club) teammate. And he was even happier later that day when he'd sneaked back to the room, excusing himself from the last stage of informal training, to call up Trent and thank him for sharing the gift. Jordan's erection woke back up immediately, especially when he wrapped the white briefs about it like a wank-sock, and chatted away to his Scouse hunk over the call. Alone in the room, he wanked himself silly, listening to the hungover gruffness in Tent's voice, and telling him how he'd pictured him as he gobbled on Jude's 19-year-old prick. The two LFC lovers came in near unison, gasping down the phone lines in different hotels, and then broke into happy giggles at the desperate pleasure they'd just shared. `Thank you,' Jordan gushed earnestly. `Just look after him,' sniggered Trent, still quite playful, `and convince him to sign for us. Agents in red, us two, haha - he's all ours.' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 22 Mar 2023 22:48:15 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 354 Part 354: Gift-wrapped Package Having left his Cheshire home at the crack of dawn, he was one of the first blokes to arrive at the shiny glass entrance hall of the St George's Park training campus; one of the first to be handed a sack-full of new gear by the support staff after being greeted with a kiss on the cheek by a flirtatious player liaison officer. Still a little sleepy, the 32-year-old Sunderland man could just smile amiably at the welcome party and make the lightest of efforts for the roaming camera-work that was always there to capture the details of life at another England international camp, the first since the World Cup. Like many of the men on Southgate's latest squad, Jordan Henderson was pleased to be here, especially as if his captaincy at Liverpool this season had been one of tension and frustration at their yo-yo results and uncertain prospects across all competitions. He knew that it was pretty unfashionable to be patriotic at Anfield, but the Mackem midfielder couldn't help himself; he got as excited as anyone else here to wear those Three Lions on his muscular chest. It was just a shame, he thought, to have to be separated from his lover, and he wasn't only thinking about the dawn goodbye kiss shared with his wife over their rumpled bed-sheets this morning. Still, he was here to play his part, and to enjoy his sport at its highest level. Jordan lingered in the foyer, arms folded across the chest of his England tracksuit jersey, catching up with some of the older coaches who had been working with this team since his first caps. He chatted pleasantly to a couple of familiar faces on the site team who were providing refreshments and keeping the operation running smoothly, and he interacted with polite blandness towards the media crew who he wasn't quite awake enough for this morning - smiling properly for the cameras and cutting a dashing figure as one of the England squad's `old boys' at 32 could wait until the next couple of days' training, and the Thursday trip to Napoli for a qualifier match versus Italy. One at a time, Henderson greeted the few other players who followed his arrival, always finding it hard to put aside his responsible captain duty when he was away from LFC, unable to cede that paternal vibe entirely to his friend Harry Kane. He grabbed Manchester City's John Stones in a big hug, complimenting the lanky defender on just how hench he was looking in his tight-fitting tracksuit; he greeted Luke Shaw from the other side of that rival city, always charmed by the bearded lad's humble good spirits, and was unsurprised when a car delivered big Harry Maguire to the entrance steps only two minutes later. He was drawn out onto said steps to join the welcome for a pair of Arsenal stars who were arriving together, Aaron Ramsdale and young Bukayo Saka; minutes ago, the 6ft athlete had been fending off slightly irritating questions from a media officer about club rivalries and how he might feel training again with stars who were beating Liverpool in the league. Ridiculous, he thought, though he'd been more polite with the young media twerp - the Premier League was a distant entity once they were here in this bubble of friendship and commitment, and he was pleased to see the young stars here to play for their country. And then there was an evident flurry of interest from the various parts of the St George's Park welcome committee - whoever was next arriving at the sweeping driveway of their state-of-the-art training complex was causing a bit more interest than an Arsenal goalkeeper and attacking midfielder, and Hendo instinctively picked up on this, seeing the change in the behaviour of the female staff, and the quiet interest of the guys. He paused in the doorway, hands in his pockets, and looked down the kerb - ah, right. An impressive figure at the end of his teens, the Bundesliga talent unfolded from his vehicle in a slow and awkward manner, looking far from fresh and eager as he came out into the light, blinking and grimacing. With a captain's friendly concern, Henderson paused to watch, a little taken aback by the uncomfortable way in which Jude Bellingham received his luggage from the driver and then approached the steps in a stooped and sluggish manner. Instantly, Borussia Dortmund's 19-year-old Brummie was enveloped by welcome, and Henderson himself was peripheral to the activity - he drifted inside with everyone else, failing to be distracted by the arrival of two more players out on the roadside. Inside, he could hear the natural slur of Bellingham's Midlands accent, but he was particularly quiet and gruff, and blank and charmless as many reached for handshakes and back-pats to welcome the squad's current teen sensation. A suspicion forming, Jordan zoomed in on his teammate, politely shouldering his way close and throwing an arm about the broadening shoulders of the 6ft1 midfielder. `How hungover are you, exactly?' the Liverpool captain asked in a discreetly low voice, smiling brightly at his young friend. Jude's long serious face turned his way, grimacing miserably, and the bearded older stud could only laugh sympathetically. Instantly, Henderson was steering him past the kit pick-up and chatting loudly at him with half-joking exclamations such as `Aren't you sick of Germany yet?' and `I have a Liverpool contract in my suitcase if you want to read it over?' Tactfully, he guided the youngster away from the fuss and attention, allowing the sound of Jack Grealish and captain Kane himself to draw away the interest of the crew - until he had the peaky-faced Brum lad in the broad doorway through towards the passages that connected the training site with the hotel wings. Bellingham groaned deeply. `Fuck, is it that obvious?' he asked weakly. His shoulders drooped and he hooked his thumbs into the bag-straps in a way that was decidedly teenaged, despite his physical maturity. `Ugh. Fuck.' `Well, I've seen that look before,' Jordan chuckled warmly. `Good night? Oh god - you need to get out of here and get some rest, look at you.' He was unjudgemental and calm, thinking just about Jude's wellbeing and also the young star's reputation - he didn't need the England PR machine capturing too much of his toxic state, his sallow cheeks and hazy eyes, or his clumsy still-drunk gait. Jordan laughed sympathetically and patted one strong bicep. `What's your room situation? Do you know who you're sharing with?' Jude shook his head, and it was amusing to see how sheepish and therefore boyish the Bundesliga star looked, for all his maturity on a football pitch. He looked like a young lad who'd been caught at his parents' vodka, rather than a 19-year-old international athlete. Jordan shook his head in mock disapproval. `Bad lad,' he muttered in his own thick Wearside accent. `Look, just go get your head down - you look like you'd throw up on one of those liaison people if they try to get anything over to you.' He fished into the pocket of his jersey and retrieved the heavy key and fob that had been handed to him minutes ago as he completed his player registration at the formal kiosk. `I dunno who I'm meant to share with, but they can just swap over, stick with me - take this and go get yourself in the room. I'll take care of your stuff down here.' Jude stared at him in wide-eyed misery, as if barely able to keep his eyes open or scared to open his mouth. `Leave that,' Hendo told him, as the younger guy reached for the tall handle of his case, `I'll sort it all. Go look after yourself, Bells.' He nudged a fist-bump into his sturdy chest and nodded firmly through the doors in the direction of their hotel quarters. And the tall teen just gave him a very grateful look and backed off, grabbing his bag straps and grimacing with one of those fresh waves of nausea - it made Jordan glad to be in his 30s and happily married, not often suffering those kinds of heinous hangover like he had in his 20s. He thought about that particularly stinking hungover morning where he'd woken up next to his best mate Ads and things had begun to wake up in his body. `Thanks, bro,' was Jude's slurred remark before loping off, tall and ungainly, and Jordan just waved him lightly off, before making a beeline back for the centre of the foyer and drawing any possible attention away from the lad's exit by going in for a big huge with Kane and then Grealish, the photographers all over the cross-club interaction like moths to a flame. And then Henderson set about quietly speaking to the registration staff and clearing things up for Jude, making it clear that the teen would room with him for the next few days; once that was sorted and he had some forms tucked into his tote bag ready for the youngster to sign, he paused to check his phone. On his way to start following Maguire and Shaw through into the hotel, Hendo couldn't help but grin to himself and feel teenage butterflies somewhere in his muscle-toned stomach. The first message that pinged up on the unlocked screen was one from his absent Liverpudlian, one of Southgate's 2023 snubs. `Hope today goes ok, big man' read the first of several subsequent WhatsApp messages from the 24-year-old defender, but Jordan's eyes were instantly drawn to the last one and its winking emoji: `Look out for our Jude, will ya - he's gonna be tender. Look after him haha, he's gonna be a Red xx' Jordan raised his dark brows slightly, surprised at the coincidence of topic and that he'd been the one to do just that, adopting the hungover youth out of protective instinct without any encouragement needed. He and Trent thought alike; he smiled absently, remembering that the two younger lads had made plans in London before the meet-up, and vaguely sad that he hadn't found a way to join them, but also conscious that they wouldn't necessarily want a married 32-year-old killing their fun night out. Before pausing to make sure he had all of his, and Jude's, luggage, Jordan punched in a rapid reply to his Anfield boy-toy: `Lol, already on it - poor kid is sick as a dog, I'm sorting things out for him,' and then, `Thanks for messaging, means a lot to hear from you x' And off he went, struggling under the collective cases, and piling into one elevator on his own that would take him up into the player suites above, wondering just what state he'd find young Bellingham in. The stinking hangover had hit Jude like a articulated lorry from the second he awoke. He hadn't even realised he'd had quite so much to drink, or that he'd got so wasted - after all, the pair of them had been pretty reserved at the Chris Brown arena gig, conscious of the cameras that would swing their way to see two top-flight football buddies gracing such a public event. They'd been sensible at the restaurant beforehand too, but at the elite VIP bar afterwards and at the bar of this hotel, things had clearly gone a different way: the insides of the teenager's mouth felt scorched and velvety, his tongue too big, and his head throbbed with slow pulses of pain that made it very difficult to wrench one eye and then both open. He brought one hand up to rub at his temple and across his clammy brow, and then ran the same sweaty palm across his bare six-pack, his tummy feeling all kinds of wrong. Ugh. Bellingham lay there very still, bracing himself against the physical consequences of drinking. Like all young professional footballers, he was an unpractised drinker. He'd been greatly protected from such vices as a Birmingham youth and then even more heavily coddled when he was transplanted to Germany for his big break. He wasn't exactly a puritan about it, but he'd always put his developing fitness ahead of such normal pleasures... but last night he'd clearly let it slide, and just enjoyed being out and about in London town, a rich young stud with everyone's eyes on him! He had vague memories of chatting to some supposed fashion models at the bar, and trying very hard to get their number, and cringed at himself. Instinctively, the hand flat on his abs went south, and he felt his manhood through the musty boxer shorts that had weathered the sweaty concert and drunken aftermath, and the cock that had gone unattended due to his abysmal flirting and, it turned out, utterly intoxicated state. Oh, there it was. Not just the headache and the hotness, not just the nausea and the self-loathing... but the hangover horn was here too. His cock felt fat and ready in his pants, and he hadn't even realised he was feeling that. But as his fingers found its sturdy outline, he knew how aroused he was, the proverbial extra symptom of a horrible beery hangover, stiffening to his lazy grip. Fuck's sake, what a waste. It took Bellingham a little longer to piece it all together: quite how the night had ended, and where in fact he was waking up. He was swathed in a tangle of duvet that his sweaty body had resisted in the heat of the night, and in a large bed in a fairly sprawling hotel suite. And, he remembered whilst blinking dizzily over the room, it was one of two beds. Another body lay not far away in a similar condition - strips of bare brown muscle contrasting the fluffy white of the disrupted duvet. Oh, yeh - they'd agreed to share the big suite, after Trent's other accommodation plans had apparently fallen through, and that had perhaps been half the reason they went on to drink so much. Jude could picture them being big ballers in the hotel bar, buying shots for everybody, and then drinking more up here, mourning the absence of the two 10/10 girls they'd been chatting to earlier. Sensibly, the teen pulled his exploring hand away from the loaded front of his black-and-grey striped trunks, remembering that he wasn't alone with his beer sweats and his hangover horn. But not for long. He couldn't help himself. His own long fingers crept down the bottom of his ripped torso and stroked across the warm fabric, finding and pulling at the outline of his increasingly stiff nob. Well... Alexander-Arnold looked and sounded fast asleep, so there wasn't really any harm in it, was there? He lay there in his awkward giddy state, pretty sure he was actually still quite pissed, and played with himself through his pants, enjoying the strange inconsistent numbness of his dick and balls, the gentle throb of abstract arousal. There was something pleasantly indulgent about lying here in his self-inflicted pain and grabbing loosely at his neglected prick, thinking about the great shag that he might have enjoyed if his flirting skills were less blunt. He was pretty sure his chat had amounted to `I'm pretty rich and famous and you're hot, so shall we?' The hungover self-care progressed quietly, his knuckles rustling against the bedding that covered his middle. His other hand strayed against his own chest, giving his own soft nipples a little tweak; he'd quite liked it the other week when his buddy Salih Ozcan had begun to play with them in another hotel bed, though at first he'd slapped at his hands and told him to focus his attention elsewhere. He'd quite like it though when the German Turk gave them a little lick. Jude rubbed a single finger over his lips and tongue and then circled it against one hardened nip, almost laughing at himself for the sensation. No doubt, though, it got him even hornier, and he couldn't stop himself - the cock came out of the restrictive elastic of his trunks, and he wanked it under the fold of duvet, pulling back and forth on the thick shaft, letting out faint sleepy moans, his headache somewhat soothed by the sensations in his crotch. The harder he pulled on himself, and the more he tweaked at his left nipple with two fingers, the less he felt like he needed to roll out of bed and be sick off the Mayfair balcony. His pants became more audible, really shifting his 6ft1 lean body on the bedding, pushing the impossible swirl of duvet away until his cock was properly out, held at the base, and he could look down the pale brown of his pecs and abs to see and admire just how well-equipped he actually was for a young guy. He was so braindead with drink, that's why he'd lost his sense of time and place, just physically needy for the self-comfort of the wank - otherwise he'd never have been so stupid as to wank his cock openly like this, duvet pushed down his strong thighs, hand sliding down his six-pack and reaching about to cup his fat balls - and then eyes squinting open and looking over at the next bed, only to recognise the shifting posture of the exposed flashes of muscle, and the face that was forming where he hadn't expected to see one. Eyes open, and looking this way. Jude froze, mortified, and met Trent's eyes with his own. He lay still and said nothing, hand about his cock, and much of his 6ft1 physique bared and exposed on top of his messy bedding. Only a strip of his mighty legs were covered by a stretch of duvet now, down where he'd pushed it to get a proper grip on his cock and really pull on it in a way that abated the pains of the hangover. Oh, bugger. `Having fun over there, are ya?' drawled the unmistakably Scouse tone of the right-back's voice, and Bellingham tried to let his eyes focus enough to properly take in Alexander-Arnold's facial expression in the unlit gloom of their suite. `Uh, sorry,' Jude moaned awkwardly, hand still about his hard dick, frozen in the act. `Sorry for what?' moaned the voice of the Liverpool star, sounding every bit as groggy and indulgent as he felt; he was immediately relieved by the tone of amusement and approval in Trent's voice, but still somewhat panicked and awkward, feeling exposed. It was as if baring his cock like this and being caught in the simple innocent act of masturbation also exposed everything else: the way he'd been drawn into youthful mischief once or twice by Jadon Sancho, or the way he'd asserted himself against their England captain last winter in Doha - or worse, the sordid group session he'd been led into by Eric Dier, the six of them standing over a gasping Harry Kane and feeding him their dirty loads. Meeting eyes again with the other hungover football player, Jude felt sweaty and anxious, as if the entire world had just seen him fucking the mouth of his Dortmund teammate Ozcan. Trent was a close buddy and favourite player - he didn't want to be judged by him. `Don't let me stop ya,' yawned the Scouser's voice. `You do what you got to do, lad.' Still the teenager paused, gripping awkwardly at his hard-on and wondering why it hadn't wilted the slightest in these moments of awkwardness and shame; the hangover horn was as raging in his touch as it had been when he woke up, and as oddly numb, as if he could play with it for HOURS and edge himself out of the hangover state. `Or,' droned Trent's voice, after a slight pause, `do you need a hand with it?' The offer was followed by a gentle snigger and a sort of groaning sound as if Trent was too hungover to think straight; Jude's whole 6ft1 body tensed up against the bed, and he stared across between their beds, unable to catch sight of the Scouse lad's face now that he'd spoken so wildly. Trent was shifting about, his locs bouncing as he moved positions, wrestling with his covers - but then spinning around to sit over the edge of his bed, his bulky 5ft9 body on show, increasingly thickset with defender's muscle. Jude stared at him, noticing the poised manner of the 24-year-old player's body; and finally focusing in properly on his face, the bleary baggy eyes and lazy pouting smile, the lad looking every bit as drink-destroyed as himself. Up he got, to his feet, his whole body on show in white CK boxer briefs, exactly as photographed by the brand - the images in December had left Bellingham thoughtful about his own future side-hustles, and the deals that might eventually come his way. Now he was getting his own intimate viewing of the Calvin Klein campaign shoot, Trent crossing the short journeys between their beds. He stood there at the side of Jude's, and Jude just lay still, slowing removing his hand from his sweaty cock, resting it on one thigh. He gulped anxiously and watched the other lad's hand come in for a stroke, but once his length was being teased and fondle, he just shut his eyes and let out the shuddering moan of appreciation - he was hungover, horny, and needy, and this was exactly what he wanted. Oh, fuck yes. Jordan waved goodbye to a couple of others on the landing and then progressed to his room. He half-expected to enter the suite and find the German league player fully dressed and snoring on the nearest bed, collapsed there in exactly the peaky state he'd arrived in. But nope - the large shared suite was visibly empty and undisturbed, and Henderson shuffled the luggage inside one item at a time, blinking confusedly and wondering what had happened, until he realised he could hear the sound of running water, and appreciated that his adopted roomie must be trying to freshen up. He smiled fondly, glad he could do something to alleviate the hungover teen's difficult morning, and dragged the last of their mutual bags into the room before shutting and bolting the door. With several players still to arrive, they still had a bit of down-time before a communal lunch and the afternoon's introductory training runaround. Into the room, unzipping his jersey top, and rubbing hands down his own sleepy face. He was craving coffee and he immediately began to investigate the espresso machine on the side, studying the bland features of the hotel room and trying to work out if it was a suite he'd occupied here before on some previous Three Lions jaunt. `You alright in there?' he called loudly into the en suite, shrugging off his top and settling into a chair in just his white t-shirt and tracksuit pants, pulling off his trainers and giving his socked feet a slight massage. There was no immediate response, and he assumed that Bells couldn't hear him for the shower; but then the watery noise responded and a garbled Brummie accent hollered back, `That you, Hendo?' Well, he already sounded a bit more alert than he'd looked downstairs, which heartened the 32-year-old. Not quite responding to the question, as the watery noise resumed, the Liverpool skipper pulled his phone out again, and checked to see if his Trent had acknowledged that last message - he was a bit surprised that he had, given that the 24-year-old must be wrecked today too, and didn't have young Jude's schedule. The sexy Scouser had much of the week off as a result of his England snub, a situation which Trent was not overtly worried by. `Oh?' read Trent's response, accompanied by a winking yellow face; `What kinda things you sorting out for him?' There was one of those little purple devils next to this, and then a message of `...' and finally a string of crying-laughing emojis. Jordan spluttered with amusement at the suggestive messages from his lover-boy, and felt himself instinctively rush to type in `NOT LIKE THAT' before pausing to question the tone that was coming this way - and then saw that his Liverpudlian love was typing more. `I told you - look after him lol - like PROPERLY look after him'. Jordan blinked at this imperative and laughed again to himself, then picked an eye-rolling emoji and typed, `You're a menace, TAA'. He paused, holding the device in both hands, and then waited awkwardly - there was a part of him that wanted more of this cheekiness from his younger man, this saucy streak that came out when Trent was in a particularly good or frisky mood - but also a little unnerved by it, and now starting to wonder what exactly had happened last night on the younger guys' big London night. Just the Chris Brown gig, or...? A single purple devil came again from Trent's number, and after a short pause, `I've packaged him up for you good n proper, daddy - enjoy'. The 32-year-old Sunderland man stared blankly at this oblique offer, trying to understand what Trent was actually getting at, and then distracted sharply from the saucy convo by the clearing of a throat. When he looked up, Jude himself was stood a few yards across the room, a towel wrapped about his waist and every deep brown muscle shining and glossy. `Cold shower,' the youth grunted. `It's definitely helped. But still, ugh.' Hendo stared at him. He couldn't help it. The Birmingham teen was so well-built for his age, 6ft1 and broad, already very different to the skinny 17-year-old geek who'd made his ambitious debut with this squad a couple of years ago. Jude's eyes met his and Jordan realised just how overtly he was staring down the towel-clad young stud, making him clear his throat awkwardly too, and blink heavily, and lock his phone screen as if Bellingham was about to see the cheeky communication with their mutual pal. `Right,' Hendo grunted. `Sure, of course. Glad it helped.' `Something up?' murmured Bellingham, his hands falling to the knotted waist of the towel, some arm muscles tensing inevitably in the moment; it was almost as if the 19-year-old was deliberately showing off his physique for him, although that was stupid, why would he bother...? `Nothing,' Jordan claimed, although in fact his cock was immediately on its way up, pulsing in the front of his tracksuit and making him shift his legs on the chair, and clear his throat again. He held on tightly to the locked phone, thinking over Trent's odd words. What the hell was the fella on about? `Packaged him up'? `Enjoy'? Jude was still staring at him with an odd expression, but the serious-faced young man turned away and strutted across to the big weekend bag which Jordan himself had delivered to the foot of one bed, the main bulk of the younger guy's luggage. In one move, Bellingham unzipped it and reached in, snatching something off the top of the neat contents, a slip of white which he unfolded and stretched and instantly revealed as a pair of CK briefs. And then Jude was back to him, allowing his eyes to study a different angle on those developing muscles; with a wiggle and a hop, the lad was stepping into those pants and letting the towel fall away, dragging it over his damp chest whilst relaxing in just the tight white- Oh. The pants were so familiar. So very familiar. Oddly distinctive, despite being white and classic. They were exactly the design that... `Did Trent give you those?' the Liverpool captain found himself asking. Jude half-turned, the towel about his broad shoulders and gripped in both hands; his long leaned torso stretched down to the sharp contrast of the brand-new white undies that hugged him so well, that `packaged' him so blindingly between those strong brown thighs. Oh my. Trent certainly had giftwrapped this beautiful boy for him. `What?' Bellingham mumbled first, then quickly, `Oh, right - yeah, actually, he did, erm - how did you know, ha? They're- I mean, apparently they're not out yet, they're a newer cut that... um. He explained what was different about them, but... I dunno, I think a pair of tighty whities is just a pair of tighty whities...' Jordan Henderson was a cautious man, especially about his blossomed bisexuality. But he was reading the signs from Trent, and he felt he knew what was possible. He stood up form the seat, phone slid into his pocket, and bulge perhaps already visible in the front of his trackies. `No, not just any pair, they look great on you,' he remarked boldly. `Just like they do on Trent, don't you think?' The youth wrinkled his face slightly at this query, standing there still and exposed - and Jordan took a few steps towards him, crossing the room. `Did he tell you to wear them?' he asked, his voice lower and more sensual. `Er - yes. He just said that... well...' The youth blushed slightly and let go of the towel, which fell from his strong shoulders, and one self-conscious hand moved down towards the big white bulge of the undies, Jordan drawing close enough to smell the soapy freshness of his body. He smiled at Bellingham's awkward expression and asked, `He told you they'd make your bulge look good?' he asked. It was exactly what Alexander-Arnold had insisted to him when he gifted him several pairs of them last week. `Something like that,' Jude whispered. `And it does.' Jordan reached down and took it in hand, giving it a good firm squeeze. `He also told me to look after you, to sort you out. What do you think to that, kid?' Jude stood in front of him, powerful and exciting, and letting out a purring murmur of interest. `Oh - is that right, boss...?' His smile was suddenly confident and approving, but his eyes were wide and betrayed surprise and a little apprehension. `Trent did tell me to ask you for anything I needed once I got here...' `He was right,' Hendo confirmed quietly, squeezing the gift-wrapped package, and bending his knees to start sinking down. He licked his lips as he did, and whispered one more assurance before kneeling in front of his young roommate. `He knows how comforting and supportive I can be, that lad. Now let's get these down...' Jude lay there, sweating and shuddering, feeling still sickened by the hangover, but also overwhelmed by the warm softness that enclosed his dick. Trent was on the bed with him, making it creak beneath their athletic bodies. There had been only a few gentle strokes of the other player's hand before he came in with his full lips and did the job properly - and oh god it felt good, perhaps better than any attention the 19-year-old's huge cock had ever received before. It felt so right, the two of them in here, strong and bare and stinking of sweat and booze, but his legs open and Trent's face burying in across his crotch each time he took the length into his throat. His lips and tongue were magical, and he made such an easy job of it, so much more talented than frantic nervous Salih in German hotel rooms these past two months. `Fuck,' the teen growled. `You're good at this, fella.' No answer from Trent; after all, his mouth was full. `Oh god, that feels goooood. Fuckkkk. Mmmm, buddy...' Just gargling and gurgling and lapping sounds from the Scouser. Jude pushed back with his tall muscular build, digging his elbows and heels into the mattress, spreading his limbs, stretching out his body and really allowing himself to enjoy it - so much better than his own fumbling wank, so much more tender and comforting, EXACTLY what he needed. `Jesus,' he panted, `you know how to use that mouth, lad...!' He felt glued to the bed, unable to move any inch of his powerful body, totally floored by both the weight of the hangover and the sheer overwhelming pleasure of Trent Alexander-Arnold's gifted mouth. This felt unreal and out-of-body. Oh, god. It was only in the deepest throes of his enjoyment that he felt any consciousness of time, and it somewhere dawned on him, in some stuffy corner of the brain that wasn't paying attention to the life-changing experience of his huge cock: didn't he have somewhere to be today? Didn't he need to get out of London and on his way to...? But then Trent gripped him about the base of the shaft and stooped to tongue at his balls instead, sending him into a giddy reverie that had zero interest in transport practicalities and professional commitments; the England training camp was a million miles away, and all that mattered was the hot wet mouth that was hell-bent on making him cum. Jordan peeled away the crisp white Calvins as if they really were gift-wrapping, exposing the trimmed fuzz of black pubes, and the heavy thick snake that now dangled between those gorgeous thigh muscles. It was certainly pretty big, even soft, and the flattering fit of these CKs had been an unnecessary advantage; Jude had no need for cosmetic help in that department. Wow. Bellingham stood in front of him, his posture calm and aloof, but he felt a little shaky and nervous when Hendo's hands rested below his hips. He breathed softly on the hanging snake, and looked up with serious eyes, staring up the ladder of the youth's six-pack, past his developing pecs, and up into his curious face. `I'm gonna suck you,' Henderson announced needlessly, and Bellingham just nodded. Without any more to say, Jordan angled his face and opened his mouth and took that soft cock in between his lips, more comfortable than ever with this once-taboo act; he could still remember nervously and almost fearfully putting his lips to Neco's quivering pipe in a silent hotel, claiming the Welsh prince as his own in what now felt like another lifetime. Holding the stud by the hips, Jordan coaxed the cock into life, resting it between his lips and lolling his tongue against the swelling meat; he nuzzled into the lad's crotch and let the sharp tufts of his own beard tickle and scratch, making the 6ft1 teen shudder and gasp. And then he guided him to one side and encouraged him back until the Dortmund player was seated on the side of the bed and Jordan was hunkered assertively between his open legs, holding his thighs open and leaning down to caress his tongue over the pink head of the long brown monster that rose to meet his kiss. As he began to suck on it, enjoying the thickness that bloomed in his mouth, he ran his hands up and down the legs, caressing every inch of powerful muscle in thigh and calf, and helping to remove those gifted white briefs from about the ankles. He bunched them inside a fist, knowing they were part of the gift; they weren't as new as they looked, and he suspected that if he sniffed them, he would pick up a hint of Trent's aroma. He gripped and squeezed them, connected to his Scouse hunk as he sucked on this handsome replacement, this hot new pal - and it was like sharing a distant kiss with his man, knowing that they had both `looked after' this huge veiny rod, this hunky 19-going-on-30 football prodigy. This... future Liverpool player? Prone on his hotel bed, Jude gushed with cum, wanking his wet shaft himself whilst Trent kissed and nipped at his fat balls and rubbed vigorously at the sides of his thighs. He moaned and growled as he emptied his load, sure that much of it must be painting the sides of Trent's face, but not caring. He just closed his eyes and howled out his dizzy enjoyment, muscles shaking against the bed as he experienced the throes of his perfect climax and then lay there in a sweaty state, still feeling Trent's tongue and lips all over his shaking privates, soothing and slow. The thought came back to him - I need to be somewhere else - almost as soon as Trent's kisses diminished down one thigh and left them, and he rolled to one side and hopped off the bed, cock swinging and dripping a little leftover spunk from its fat tip. He stood there with a stricken look on his face and saw Trent stood at the foot of his bed, one hand inside his Calvins, grinning mischievously. `Oh come on,' teased the Scouser, `it wasn't that bad, was it?' Jude stared at him for a moment. `Huh? Oh - no - it was... fuck. It was perfect.' He paused uncomfortably at the strength of his praise, not used to communicating so openly with a playmate after the deed was done. He felt hot and awkward and he wanted to shower, but he was looking at the face of the expensive watch he'd picked up from his bedside table. Fuck, fuck, fuck - he'd slept through alarms, or his phone was dead. A car would be waiting for him downstairs in a matter of minutes, ready to deliver him to the open arms of Southgate's England encampment. `Perfect?' he heard Trent muse smugly. `Wow. Okay.' And then Jude was hopping about the room, searching his scattered belongings and grabbing wildly at untouched cases which were all packed and ready, assisted by his mom, for the duration of his week as an England midfielder. But then Trent was next to him, still fondling himself in his trunks, and pressing a small white bundle into his hand. `Here,' grunted the Liverpudlian. `You don't have time for a shower, but you have time for fresh pants. And these will look fucking hot on you, big lad. Wear them for me and get the fuck out of here - you told me your schedule. You're short on time, lad.' The exit happened in a blur. Jude remembered staring at his slightly older friend in fascination, absolutely mind-blown to have discovered this talent and openness in the other pro footballer, far more-so than when he'd confronted that slutty captain by the pool, or when he'd urged Ozcan into servicing him in secret - or when Jadon had turned out to be so kinky. And he accepted the tight bundle of underwear, his own sweaty boxers already discarded on the bed and stained with streaks of his spilled jizz. Into the tight white briefs he went, pulling up his long legs, and feeling them hug his softening monster. Moments later and Trent was thrusting the items of an England tracksuit at him from an open case, and helping him out of the door once he had wriggled into each garment - the Liverpool player still just in his own undies, and not shy about how hard he was in the front of them. `Look out for Hendo,' his friend called after him as he dashed out into the corridor. `He'll look after ya, kiddo. He's good like that. Just you wait til he's your captain too, ha.' And Jude scampered towards the lift and down to his hired ride, feeling all of the nausea and dehydration rush back to him as he slumped against one wall of the boxy space, hot under the collar of his t-shirt, and sure that his cock was still leaking cum inside the tight white pants that had been thrust at him. Jesus christ he was hungover, and not sure how he was going to cope with his arrival at St George's Park. At St George's Park, a couple of hours later, he more than arrived: his load hit the back of Jordan's mouth and tasted delicious as it came. He was holding the lad's trembling thighs tightly in each hand as he kept his mouth glued to the shaft, receiving this second creamy load of the day, and refusing to pull his lips away until he'd swallowed every salty trace of it, always shocked at how much enjoyment he could find in his lover's juices. Eventually he pulled back, resting heavily on those solid thighs, and licking some stickiness from his lips, panting a little bit as he caught his breath. In front of him, Jude was sprawled back, naked and shaking, where his body had fallen back over the bed. He too was gasping for air, his strong bare chest rising and falling, and his arms lifting to expose his pits as he planted his big hands to his shiny face. He groaned to himself behind those fingers ,and Jordan stroked more gently up and down his thighs. `Better now?' he asked quietly, and then pulled away. He wiped the back of a hand over his bearded mouth, and let out a chiming laugh at the frenzy and greed of his own behaviour, but a chuckle that gave away to appreciative silence as he stood there and took in the majestic bare body of the 6ft1 teen on the bed, cock still bobbing and glistening. Jordan silently fetched the dropped towel and brought it to him, laying it over his waist and crotch, and then grabbing a clean one that was folded on the other bed, blanketing Jude's upper body in it as he lay there and recovered. Then he went to their small fridge and retrieved an icy bottle of still water. It was gladly received by Bellingham, now sitting up and breathing a bit more normally; glugging instantly on the open glass bottle, as if he hadn't seen water in weeks or months. Jordan sighed happily and stroked the shape of his erection through his trackies, feeling the bulge of the bunched-up underpants that he'd stuffed in one pocket. And then, quite calmly and mundanely, he asked, `Cup of tea, mate...?' and shot a wholesome smile across the room, watching Jude's bewildered face and limp body language as the sexually satisfied young hunk swathed himself in towels and dragged his feet up onto the bed to relax properly on his side. His expression was grateful and soothed as he nodded and smiled and curled up into an almost foetal position, wrapped in white towel. Jordan smirked and took control of the room's kettle, happy to look after his England (and perhaps next season, club) teammate. And he was even happier later that day when he'd sneaked back to the room, excusing himself from the last stage of informal training, to call up Trent and thank him for sharing the gift. Jordan's erection woke back up immediately, especially when he wrapped the white briefs about it like a wank-sock, and chatted away to his Scouse hunk over the call. Alone in the room, he wanked himself silly, listening to the hungover gruffness in Tent's voice, and telling him how he'd pictured him as he gobbled on Jude's 19-year-old prick. The two LFC lovers came in near unison, gasping down the phone lines in different hotels, and then broke into happy giggles at the desperate pleasure they'd just shared. `Thank you,' Jordan gushed earnestly. `Just look after him,' sniggered Trent, still quite playful, `and convince him to sign for us. Agents in red, us two, haha - he's all ours.' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-398

Date: Thu, 21 Mar 2024 18:17:15 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 398 Part 398: "Keep It In Your Pants" It was day 3 of the England camp, and Kyle Walker was taking a short stroll with the gaffer; the old bod was pretty keen on this type of 1-to-1 stuff, and Kyle too quite liked the sense of being taken seriously by his national manager, steered around the edges of the training fields whilst Southgate seemed to confide strategy in him and pick his brains about how his teammates were performing so far this week. Kyle knew that he wasn't unique and that Gareth liked to take this tack with basically everyone, including some mentoring meetings for their young newbies, but he still enjoyed his ego being flattered, and the secure position of being the joint-oldest and most experienced player on this Three Lions squad. The Sheffield-born defender strutted along side by side with the slim bearded football coach, mouthing off at Southgate about who - in his opinion - had really turned up to play and who was slacking a bit or treating this week as a casual getaway. Kyle felt no particular loyalty to lads here in the same way that he did fiercely at Man City, with the exception of a few longstanding allies, and he was keen enough to rat on the lads he'd seen as a bit lazy or non-committal in the first couple of days. The boss nodded thoughtfully and stroked his scruffy grey-brown beard as they walked, seeming to register and mentally note Walker's every insight, or so it seemed to the rather self-satisfied centre-back, who puffed out his strong chest in his skintight training jersey and gesticulated emphatically at the gaffer to underline each critique. His tight new England shorts swished between his thighs and hugged perkily at the solid extension of his arse muscles, white Nike socks pulled high up his calves.but the odd flash of leg tattoo still on show; a tight dark compression vest hugged across his pecs and middle over the long-sleeved training top, which climbed partway up his thick neck to meet the neatly trimmed darkness of his beard. Next to him, Gareth shoved his hands into the pockets of black England trackies and nodded seriously along. Kyle's smug enjoyment of his confidante position came to an abrupt halt, as did the walk, when Southgate lifted one thoughtful hand from his pocket, gestured for him to stop, and asked almost out of nowhere, `Now, Walker mate - no funny business between now and summer, do you understand?' With the faux innocent look of a schoolyard clown, the 33-year-old ogled his manager and then frowned in confusion, as if `funny business' was never a phrase that could be applied anywhere near him - `You know what I'm talking about,' the England coach said simply, a weary edge to his sighing voice. `Everyone here rates you as a defender, and we know this could be your last big tournament, we really really want you there, believe me - but it's just one scandal after another for you in the tabloids - no, I know, I hate having to bring this up, Kyle, I really do - but I don't want any noise and negativity around my squad as we go into these Euros, and another...' He looked uncomfortable, seemingly unwilling to say `sex scandal', `affair', `lovechild', but he did burst out in a gruff laddish fashion that was unlike his usually soft-spoken delivery, `Just keep your cock in your pants for a little while, will you? Don't make it difficult for me to select you in summer, mate, just watch what you get up to.' He looked worried and imposing and embarrassed all at once, pushing his hands back into his pockets and standing there - it was clear enough that this off-pitch warning was the real reason he'd pulled Walker aside for a stroll, and all that chatter about individual efforts was preamble. Kyle was, unusually, speechless, opening and shutting his mouth and staring a little dumbfoundedly at the familiar manager. Eventually, he murmured, `Sure', not 100% clear on what he was agreeing to, and he dropped his gaze, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest and finding himself unable to meet Gareth's kindly apologetic eyes. `I knew you'd understand.' The manager patted him on the arm. `I really do hate to have this chat, mate, but... you understand. Now, let me get back inside - you go and see if you can catch up the other defenders for cardio.' `Sure,' Kyle said again, dully, feeling deflated and silly, and tugging uncomfortably at the high roll-neck of his training top, and at the straps of the compression vest; Gareth gave him another slightly awkward smile, a friendly salute at the brow, and then strolled away, unimposing yet widely respected - and his words turned over alarmingly in Kyle's mind for a minute, making a little pink flush come into his cheeks, before he processed the warning and let out a hollow little laugh to himself - what the hell? I mean, what a ridiculous thing for the gaffer to say - it's not as if, Kyle thought, he was always in the papers or causing any real controversy! Sure, his love life had been quite rocky in the past year, but that had nothing to do with his play, and it was all in the past, everything was out in the tabloids and he was doing his best to make amends with the assorted mothers of his children. And, he thought resentfully, I'm not ALWAYS getting my dick out, like some kind of pervy sexy pest or something... Walker managed to be privately outraged as he thought on the gaffer's warning, veritable slander against a well-liked banter king who was so popular here and at his club...! Ridiculous. I mean, sure... There HAD been that little prank at breakfast today, he thought, remembering his own surly stomp as he made it late to the hotel breakfast buffet, hitting snooze one too many times on his phone alarm and being abandoned by his hungry roommate. Dopey with sleep and unshowered, the 5ft10 defender had swaggered in at the end of the queue and joined the younger lads, some of whom were already topping up their plates with a second helping of the generous breakfast - it had been a pretty well-timed and apposite joke, as far as dick jokes, and Kyle hardly felt that it could have offended the gaffer, if he even knew about it...! It was hardly Kyle's fault that the boisterous younger England players about him at the buffet table were bantering about how many sausages were left in the platter and who was going to grab the last one: it had seemed comically inevitable that bulky Kyle would nudge closer to the tables, reach one sweaty hand into the confines of his grey sweatpants, and land his soft heavy cock on the edge of the table where he stood, his stocky body at exactly the right height to do so, and bark across at them, `Hey lads, you missed one - here's the biggest sausage on offer, haha!' And, he thought resentfully, everyone had laughed! Anthony Gordon, who had been the one to seize the final real sausage from the tray and still had it spiked on his fork, had sniggered with instant amusement, clearly appreciating the witty pun - and his gigantic roommate next to him, big Everton lad Jarrad Branthwaite, had exploded into a fit of boyish giggles at his side, a jittery tower of amusement clasping one hand over his mouth in shock. Kyle, egged on by their laughter, had jiggled his loose heavy prick across the starchy tabletop and sniggered too, always an exhibitionist, looking pointedly at the other youngsters beside him to check that everyone had noticed and laughed - young Man Utd midfielder Kobbie Mainoo looked briefly alarmed and prudish, but then was laughing heavily, and Arsenal keeper Aaron Ramsdale was practically crying with laughter. Of course, the laughter had dissipated as the middle-aged female waitress appeared on the other side of the buffet table, ready to top up the actual sausage tray from a steaming dish in her gloves, and proceeded to drop it noisily to the floor as her bored eyes landed up on the flabby prick that Kyle was in the process of stuffing back into his sweatpants, still chuckling and shaking at every muscle - yeah, that hadn't been ideal, the way the poor old bird squealed and went red, and then had everyone flocking about her to help pick up the broken dish and scattered pork products, whilst Kyle pushed his own porker into his sweaty undies and evaded being singled out as the troublemaker. And there had been yesterday, he had to admit to himself, but that had just been a little bit of banter, nowt more - he'd wanted to confront little Cole about all that texting the other month for ages, so he'd been delighted when a bit of group work placed him with the lanky winger on the smaller pitches, and he'd been able to mutter a few sly digs at the Chelsea traitor about their messaging after that fixture - `You still got that pic saved, eh?' he barked, and `I never did get a pic of yours, is that cos the zoom isn't strong enough?' - really teasing the 21-year-old starlet in the same way that he had after City and Chelsea last played each other, affectionately mocking the way Palmer was taking off at his new club. In reality, Kyle was delighted for the kid, who had been something of a spare part on City's bloated squad, but was now coming into his own at Chelski and being asked by rude pundits how it felt to be their only decent player. But this kinda banter was just what you did, he'd experienced plenty of it himself, and he enjoyed calling Cole a `Traitor' and referencing the BBC reality show, then going back to the topic of the dirty dick pic he'd messaged the kid that day whilst City slunk out of London and the Chelsea Blues got messy celebrating their win in London pubs and clubs. Of course, Captain Cardboard himself, Harry No-Trophies Kane, had overheard one of his remarks (`Why didn't you send me a full review of that dick pic? I was so gutted...') and scolded him, telling him to focus on his football, and Walker had dropped the topic for a while, rolling his eyes in boredom and shouting `Just messing, kid' at the lanky geek, before sweeping in at Kane with an aggressive tackle of resentment. Still, he'd cornered Cole Palmer later on yesterday to make his point, muscling up to the tall slim youth in a hotel corridor shortly before curfew, and managing to be apologetic and goading all at once: `Sorry about the banter, Colesy, but I was just so upset that you left me on read that weekend, hehe.' The broad-bodied centre-back puffed out his pecs and squared up to the taller youngster, grinning playfully at him and nudging a single finger into his chest - `Very naughty of you, showing such disrespect to a senior player - you should have known you'd be back under me once we were Lions.' Cole, who had said very little to him on the pitch earlier, squirmed and looked very uncomfortable - so uncomfortable, in fact, that Kyle couldn't help but suspect that it was about more than just his own bants and inappropriate picture messages. He paused, his face lighting up with curiosity, and he stroked a hand up and down one arm of the tall slim football lad, lowering his tone: `What's up, Palms? Have I said the wrong thing? You know it's just daft banter, don't you...' `I know,' the Chelsea purchase told him tartly, `I'm not offended or anything.' `Well, you don't look happy,' Kyle complained, `and I'm sure Kane thought I was proper bullying you or summat, the way you were pouting and ignoring me...' `Nah,' the 21-year-old protested, `I ain't bothered one bit, how wet do you think I am?' He scowled and scratched at his thin face. `I don't care, it's funny.' He hadn't laughed once. Kyle nodded slowly and thoughtfully, pausing to greet another player on their way past - James Maddison stalking down the corridor and looking oddly fixated on checking all of the room numbers - before returning his attention to the skinny lad and giving him his most soft-and-sensitive expression of avuncular concern. Cole glared oddly at him and then looked away, something clearly on his mind. `They treating you well down there in Chelski land?' Walker demanded. `Well enough,' Palmer said evasively. `You having enough fun in London?' he asked, hovering knowingly over the word `fun'. `It's great,' was the vague surly response. Kyle shifted in a little closer to him, in spite of the exposed spot on the long corridor of suites, and he poked that finger in at his chest again, before rubbing it a little more slowly and sensuously up towards his throat and Adam's apple, rubbing over the pale soft skin, and then bringing his hand up to pat him once on the cheek. `Cos if they ain't looking after you,' growled the centre-back, `and if you ain't having fun... you know you can always rely on Uncle Kyle, don't you?' He smirked, wondering if he'd been suggestive enough about the ideas of `looking after' and `fun', never great at subtlety, and he smiled intensely into Cole's thin nervous face, unsure if he was being understood. But again there other players, and hotel staff, and the corridor felt suddenly busy - Palmer had scampered off to his shared room, and so had Walker, and he hadn't whipped his cock out publicly then like he did the following breakfast,when he was pretty sure the 21-year-old sweetheart had stolen a curious glance over at what he was serving on the buffet. And, Kyle thought, a little fumble with Phil could hardly count - just a little grope in the showers at the end of their first full day's training, for fuck's sake! He'd found himself eyeing up the twink prince of Stockport across the communal showers, as one done - there was plenty of meat on display that evening, flitting between the towels and steam, but Kyle was always surprised by the dense muscularity of that 5ft7 physique, and there was something untouchably exciting about Pep Guardiola's Filipe. It wasn't that Walker had never had a little go with the sexy chav, but Foden had that special aura back home at their football club, the anointed `Golden Boy' who was Pep's obvious favourite and who only seemed to extend his dirty antics beyond their Spanish manager when it was tactically beneficial - Kyle had seen and experienced enough to know what went on between charismatic Guardiola and the Stockport Iniesta, and something about that secret dynamic made him crave and covet the wiry little pup, who he'd cheekily dabbled with a few times in their past and more fully that rooftop evening after their victory parade. Horny as always, Walker had ogled the younger lad across the showers, trying not to let his fat cock get fully hard in his soapy hands, but letting his eyes travel up and down the pale bare skin and tight muscular terrain of Phil's body - unable to resist, the centre-back had sidled loser to his 23-year-old teammate until he was right next to him, at the next showerhead, and lifting each bulky bicep to scrub his armpits. It took a moment or two for Foden to sense his presence and look this way, and the 33-year-old grinned wickedly across at him once he did. `Alright,' Kyle greeted in a playful tone. `Hiya,' Phil said, almost disinterestedly, wiping at his damp fresh face. `Dropped your soap,' Kyle quipped stupidly, despite the lack of actual soap bars in these showers, and scooping his fat cock and balls into one hand with predictable lame humour, so that as Phil instinctively glanced down to their feet, his eyes must travel past the displayed generosity of Kyle's manhood; Phil's gaze flicked up at him and Kyle chuckled and winked, and he let go of his privates, letting them swing between his thighs. I mean, who could accuse him of being silly and getting his cock out in the SHOWERS, how else was a fella meant to wash his bollocks? He sensed the talented 23-year-old tense up next to him, though both men ostensibly continued to wash themselves and hurry towards reaching for their towels in completion - but Phil kept shooting him ambiguous glances and Kyle just kept grinning and sniggering, and really dragging his large soapy palms down his six-pack and onto his package, stroking on his loose cock and pulling at the limited foreskin, then fumbling and fondling at his weighty balls, really drawing the eye down to it, and making Phil pout and blush and stare away, until... `Here,' the centre-back growled, grasping Phil's shoulder and leaning in, `I'm gonna go take a piss before I get dressed - last cubicle, one minute.' And he pushed away from the other lad, letting his long fat semi swing loose, and then throwing a towel lightly about his thick waist as he strutted out of the steamy block and through the busy locker-room beyond. He made a beeline for the nearest toilets branching off from the changing rooms, glad that the cubicles were unoccupied - wet and naked but for a towel, Kyle let himself into the last one and left the door ajar, whipping off the towel and hanging it over one broad shoulder, then reaching down to give himself a good stroke. It seemed like 60 seconds exactly when wet footsteps slapped down the lino and Phil came sliding into the cubicle with him, red-faced and tight-lipped, and Kyle grinned smugly at the shorter lad, holding onto his stiffening prick and nodding imperiously down at it - it was more like 6 seconds before the Stockport scally was kneeling down and slapping his lips about it, making Walker purr and groan and run fingers across his scalp, calling him `Golden Boy' and groaning `Yeh, suck it like Daddy Pep's...' But then there were foosteps and voices, presumably from the urinals opposite the cubicles, and Phil was freezing down there on his knees - he stopped sucking and just hunkered there, looking terrified. The deep manly voices beyond their cubicle were those of Ramsdale and Johnstone, and perhaps if it had been lads he knew better, Kyle might have abandoned caution and shoved his hard-on back into Phil's gifted gob - but he shared an ounce of the youngster's nervous fear and he just hulked there in silence, pressing one hand to the wall to support his powerful body, and sighing in frustration at the interruption to his oral service. One of the pissing goalkeepers shouted out to ask who was dropping a bomb in there, and the saucy mood seemed ruined - but once the footsteps and voices receded, Kyle assumed Phil would get back to work, instead of getting up in a fidgety manner and securing the towel back about his slim hips. `That was close,' Foden muttered. `Relax, they're gone,' Walker told him irritably. Phil shook his head, backing off, reaching to unlock the door - Kyle had to stop him momentarily cos his own rock-hard monster was so throbbing and obvious, and he glared reproachfully at the beautiful twink from the showers, unsure why they couldn't carry on and he couldn't dump a load on that pretty face. Instead, Phil was flattening his erection under his towel and retreating out through the bathroom area - Kyle stomped after him, having to shove his throbber at an awkward angle to pin it beneath his towel, scowling and sighing, and following the other Man City talent back into the main changing room area. `Huh, I bet you just wish Jack Grealish was here,' the older Lion complained loudly after the skulking midfielder, who glanced over his shoulder - `I bet things would be different if Jack the Lad was in the squad this week, mister,' Kyle teased meaningfully, always somewhat jealous of the way his twink pal trailed after Grealo like a lost puppy - and Phil just gave him an odd wary frown before disappearing off between the lockers - a few other attentive players gave him odd looks for these comments but Kyle shrugged and sighed and made his way back to his own spot in the corner. Well, he admitted to himself, there had also been this morning: everybody kitting up for the day, tight new England jerseys and skinny-fit tracksuit pants, making Kyle eye up with interest another young colleague with a little bit of previous. He could, he supposed, have controlled himself, and tore his eyes away from those strong young legs and the perfect rounded bottom that the leggings accentuated; he didn't have to follow discreetly when the unassuming 24-year-old quit the room to pop to those same loos where he'd almost fucked Foden's face, and yet off he went, sidling away from the lockers and the chat of others, even though the guys were already being called out into the bright morning sunshine. Dragged along by his second brain, the big fat one in his briefs, Kyle had found himself following the Gallagher lad around the corner and down that same row of urinals - Conor only even noticed him when he stopped at the next bowl to him, two strapping figures against the nooks of white porcelain. In tandem with the younger guy, Kyle pushed down the front of his shorts, removing his cock and directing it down into the urinal, and he stood there all burly and unnecessarily close, not even glancing suggestively at the Chelsea midfielder or shooting him a smirk or wink. He knew that his presence here would be suggestive enough to the handsome young blond who had been a highlight of his last England camp, and he just stood there pissing noisily, listening to the awkward sound of Conor clearing his throat over the echoing gurgles of their streams. Kyle thought about how fun it would be to haul the 6ft Chelski boy into that same last cubicle, and feed his pissy wet prick to his quivering lips - he thought of how conflicted and saucy Gallagher had been when he last played with him in a quiet corner of the neighbouring hotel, encountering the lad in similarly risque circumstances on the edge of their shared national team. But he had other ideas this morning, partly cos he'd sorted out an erection between breakfast and shower, and he didn't even really need to cum again yet. Leaving his own fat prick to hang obnoxiously over the waist of his shorts, he reached his left hand across and took a firm hold of Conor's pert backside. Now he did glance that way with a grin, catching the nervous profile of that stumpy face, the hair distinctively slicked back; Conor stood very still, a little uncomfortably, while Kyle's hand massaged across his beautifully framed cheeks. Kyle patted him gently there, and chuckled. `We should go out to train,' the burly centre-back said under his breath, testing just how uncomfortable and resistant the Chelsea lad was - but Conor didn't look like he was rushing off anywhere. Good. Walker gave his arse a good squeeze and then a firmer little slap, still through the taut nylon. Then he reached his hand forcefully inside first that layer, and then also the cotton pants below, and he yanked them down to expose curved pale cheeks; he leaned back enough to give them a proper look, and whistled appreciatively. And then, stood side by side with him at these exposed urinals, only half-caring that another player could come wandering around here at any moment - though it did sound as if everyone had heeded the coaches' calls and gone outdoors - he sucked wet a single finger and then slid it between those cheeks. With his right hand, Kyle just played loosely with his fat lazy prick, soon semi-hard, and with his left he frigged Conor's pert bottom, jabbiing his single questing ginger in and out of a clenched hole - while Kyle just pulled and played loosely and complacently with his own snake, the 24-year-old lad was tense and clenched and soon furiously jerking his own rigid pink member in quick little pumps of the fist. It was just a couple of tense minutes before Conor was spluttering out an `Oh god' and dumping silvery streaks of cum down the white porcelain, his cheeks really clenching and forcing out Kyle's one invasive finger. `Phew,' Kyle sighed at him, `that was a messy one.' He brought the single dirtied finger up and ran it playfully against Conor's cheek, under his nose, across his pouting lips. Then, laughing, he wiped it against the side of his shorts and pushed his lazy semi away into his briefs, backing away from the quivering 6ft Surrey kid. `Good lad,' the older man said dismissively to his teammate, going to the sinks to wash his paws, and then strutting away through the arched doorway and across the main changing rooms - a moment later Conor was following him at a distance, a slightly uncomfortable gait confirming that he was anally unpractised, and Kyle winked at him over his shoulder. The Gallagher lad blushed and lowered his gaze, but Walker knew how much he'd enjoyed it - the cum pooling in the urinal said it all. He thought about these little escapades and wondered if it was remotely possible that Southgate knew anything: nah, fucking hell, of course not. The old bugger was just chatting about the tabloids, surely, and all of that was starting to blow over... "Keep it in your pants", indeed! Still... it did vaguely occur to the highly-sexed 33-year-old that the gaffer might have a point, and he could do without any further scandal in the months coming into a Euro tournament. The Yorkshireman thought about the uproar he'd caused when CCTV caught him showing off his fat soft whopper in a near-empty bar in front of a few cackling pals that night - stupid reporters had been asking Guardiola why he wasn't stripped of the captaincy the following weekend! Pfft. But, still... Southgate had a point. Keep it in the pants. Yes, maybe. Behave, perhaps. Focus on football, for a while. Yes. Kyle didn't quite catch up the cardio running of the defensive contingent, and instead he did a little cardio alone indoors, on a treadmill, looking out thoughtfully at the spring evening, and then he headed across into the hotel, going up to his shared room in a thoughtful mood. Part of his brain was turning over the gaffer's wisdom, and part of it was just cycling reflectively through the showreel of dirty deeds since he'd got here for this camp - whopping his cock out at breakfast, toying with the Golden Boy, teasing his ex-City buddy, and finger-fucking Conor Gallagher. Was it all a bit much, then? But in his room, peeling off the compression vest and the long-sleeve jersey, and shoving down the close-fitting England shorts, Walker found himself feeling horny again, his morning wank long-forgotten. The broad Sheffield man bared his big chest and strong arms and stepped out of his socks, tottering about the large comfortable suite in just tight grey briefs that hugged his big arse and his sweaty package, and he admired himself briefly in a full-length mirror on the wall, waiting for the inevitable. When the door opened and his roommate bounded in, exuding his usual giant labrador energy, Kyle was ready for him, sprawled comfortably on one bed in just these sweaty grey briefs. `Oh,' barked the 6ft2 stud who burst into the room, smelling of outdoors and pink-cheeked from the long jog that the other defenders had taken through the grounds - but Kyle wasn't interested in comparing training schemes or explaining that his tete-a-tete with the boss had left him pensive and solitary for the rest of the day. Instead, he was hopping off the bed and instantly wrapping his thick arms about the taller body of the big Barnsley hunk - and silencing hish heavily-accented enthusiasm with a gentle kiss to the lips. Keep your cock in your pants, demanded Southgate - well, maybe Kyle Walker could control some of his bad behaviour and avoid too much scandal, but... Here was the real love of his life, and that needn't change. Big John Stones melted into the hold of his arms and responded happily to the sudden kiss, their tongues meeting as their lips fought. It was a long wet kiss and both men panted as it broke. `What's brought this on?' drawled the big handsome centre-back, but Kyle was already fondling him through his taut trackies, and nuzzling at his face, reaching for a second wet snog - `Shush,' he insisted, and he went down on his knees like Phil Foden in a toilet cubicle - desperate after a couple of days of mischief to get some real action, and frantic in the speed at which he pulled down those training leggings and then the compression shorts below, freeing Stonesy's rapidly stiffening cock. In a mutual frenzy of kisses and cuddles, the Man City defenders tumbled onto the bed, bodies lightly sweaty and in tune with one another. Quickly, Walker made sure that Stonesy was as naked as him, training gear peeled away and tossed to the sides of the room, and off too came Kyle's sweaty briefs, though not before John had bunched them in a fist and given them a playful sniff. Hands roved over muscles, fingertips tracing chavvy tattoos, but lips kept finding lips, both lovers too keen to tongue each other to really do anything more than tumble against each other in the bedding. `We have to get down to dinner,' laughed John between pants. `Let's be late,' insisted Kyle, kissing him on the neck, the collarbone, the shoulder, the pec - `let's be fucking late, gorgeous...' He shut the big sexy bastard up with a blowie, kissing and sucking on that long thick tool, wanking his own, and then shifting into a 69 position where both defender hunks could service each other simultaneously. Before long, Kyle was fingering John's hole and John was tickling his balls; and shortly after, they were in a spooning position, cuddling and kissing whilst the 33-year-old pushed his cock between the 29-year-old's sturdy cheeks. Kyle fucked him like this, gently and almost lazily, with their hefty bodies on their sides, and the strokes long and slow - it was passionate but sedate, the sex of a really intimate love, and neither lad gave a fuck about the evening meal they would be late too. Kyle could forget all about Southgate's warning or any of his naughty escapades here, because this was something so different. It always had been. Ever since that stormy afternoon when their wet bodies had steamed and simmered inside a parked sports car, both pulsing with adrenaline and testosterone from a playful boxing match inside the training centre; something special had been released that day in the parked car that had never stopped sizzling in the years since, even during the brief phases where one or the other had tried to knock it on the head to concentrate on their hetero lives. Nope, nothing seemed able to prise Walker and Stones apart, neither their tight bromantic relationship, nor more literally, as Kyle slid in and out of John's hole, gently fucking him to completion on the messy sheets, sweat beading on every muscle. Kyle didn't finish inside his boyfriend, but instead they turned around kissed and hugged each other face to face, and John wanked them both at once, their cocks pulled together in his grip, so that they were deeply snogging when they each released their loads against the other in a sticky mess - at some point in the dazed moments of blissful kissing that followed, there were impatient knocks on the door, and the voice of an assistant coach instructing them to `stop fucking about' and get down to dinner. The lovers giggled and kissed and fondled at each other's muscles, as delighted with each other now as three years ago. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 21 Mar 2024 18:17:15 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 398 Part 398: "Keep It In Your Pants" It was day 3 of the England camp, and Kyle Walker was taking a short stroll with the gaffer; the old bod was pretty keen on this type of 1-to-1 stuff, and Kyle too quite liked the sense of being taken seriously by his national manager, steered around the edges of the training fields whilst Southgate seemed to confide strategy in him and pick his brains about how his teammates were performing so far this week. Kyle knew that he wasn't unique and that Gareth liked to take this tack with basically everyone, including some mentoring meetings for their young newbies, but he still enjoyed his ego being flattered, and the secure position of being the joint-oldest and most experienced player on this Three Lions squad. The Sheffield-born defender strutted along side by side with the slim bearded football coach, mouthing off at Southgate about who - in his opinion - had really turned up to play and who was slacking a bit or treating this week as a casual getaway. Kyle felt no particular loyalty to lads here in the same way that he did fiercely at Man City, with the exception of a few longstanding allies, and he was keen enough to rat on the lads he'd seen as a bit lazy or non-committal in the first couple of days. The boss nodded thoughtfully and stroked his scruffy grey-brown beard as they walked, seeming to register and mentally note Walker's every insight, or so it seemed to the rather self-satisfied centre-back, who puffed out his strong chest in his skintight training jersey and gesticulated emphatically at the gaffer to underline each critique. His tight new England shorts swished between his thighs and hugged perkily at the solid extension of his arse muscles, white Nike socks pulled high up his calves.but the odd flash of leg tattoo still on show; a tight dark compression vest hugged across his pecs and middle over the long-sleeved training top, which climbed partway up his thick neck to meet the neatly trimmed darkness of his beard. Next to him, Gareth shoved his hands into the pockets of black England trackies and nodded seriously along. Kyle's smug enjoyment of his confidante position came to an abrupt halt, as did the walk, when Southgate lifted one thoughtful hand from his pocket, gestured for him to stop, and asked almost out of nowhere, `Now, Walker mate - no funny business between now and summer, do you understand?' With the faux innocent look of a schoolyard clown, the 33-year-old ogled his manager and then frowned in confusion, as if `funny business' was never a phrase that could be applied anywhere near him - `You know what I'm talking about,' the England coach said simply, a weary edge to his sighing voice. `Everyone here rates you as a defender, and we know this could be your last big tournament, we really really want you there, believe me - but it's just one scandal after another for you in the tabloids - no, I know, I hate having to bring this up, Kyle, I really do - but I don't want any noise and negativity around my squad as we go into these Euros, and another...' He looked uncomfortable, seemingly unwilling to say `sex scandal', `affair', `lovechild', but he did burst out in a gruff laddish fashion that was unlike his usually soft-spoken delivery, `Just keep your cock in your pants for a little while, will you? Don't make it difficult for me to select you in summer, mate, just watch what you get up to.' He looked worried and imposing and embarrassed all at once, pushing his hands back into his pockets and standing there - it was clear enough that this off-pitch warning was the real reason he'd pulled Walker aside for a stroll, and all that chatter about individual efforts was preamble. Kyle was, unusually, speechless, opening and shutting his mouth and staring a little dumbfoundedly at the familiar manager. Eventually, he murmured, `Sure', not 100% clear on what he was agreeing to, and he dropped his gaze, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest and finding himself unable to meet Gareth's kindly apologetic eyes. `I knew you'd understand.' The manager patted him on the arm. `I really do hate to have this chat, mate, but... you understand. Now, let me get back inside - you go and see if you can catch up the other defenders for cardio.' `Sure,' Kyle said again, dully, feeling deflated and silly, and tugging uncomfortably at the high roll-neck of his training top, and at the straps of the compression vest; Gareth gave him another slightly awkward smile, a friendly salute at the brow, and then strolled away, unimposing yet widely respected - and his words turned over alarmingly in Kyle's mind for a minute, making a little pink flush come into his cheeks, before he processed the warning and let out a hollow little laugh to himself - what the hell? I mean, what a ridiculous thing for the gaffer to say - it's not as if, Kyle thought, he was always in the papers or causing any real controversy! Sure, his love life had been quite rocky in the past year, but that had nothing to do with his play, and it was all in the past, everything was out in the tabloids and he was doing his best to make amends with the assorted mothers of his children. And, he thought resentfully, I'm not ALWAYS getting my dick out, like some kind of pervy sexy pest or something... Walker managed to be privately outraged as he thought on the gaffer's warning, veritable slander against a well-liked banter king who was so popular here and at his club...! Ridiculous. I mean, sure... There HAD been that little prank at breakfast today, he thought, remembering his own surly stomp as he made it late to the hotel breakfast buffet, hitting snooze one too many times on his phone alarm and being abandoned by his hungry roommate. Dopey with sleep and unshowered, the 5ft10 defender had swaggered in at the end of the queue and joined the younger lads, some of whom were already topping up their plates with a second helping of the generous breakfast - it had been a pretty well-timed and apposite joke, as far as dick jokes, and Kyle hardly felt that it could have offended the gaffer, if he even knew about it...! It was hardly Kyle's fault that the boisterous younger England players about him at the buffet table were bantering about how many sausages were left in the platter and who was going to grab the last one: it had seemed comically inevitable that bulky Kyle would nudge closer to the tables, reach one sweaty hand into the confines of his grey sweatpants, and land his soft heavy cock on the edge of the table where he stood, his stocky body at exactly the right height to do so, and bark across at them, `Hey lads, you missed one - here's the biggest sausage on offer, haha!' And, he thought resentfully, everyone had laughed! Anthony Gordon, who had been the one to seize the final real sausage from the tray and still had it spiked on his fork, had sniggered with instant amusement, clearly appreciating the witty pun - and his gigantic roommate next to him, big Everton lad Jarrad Branthwaite, had exploded into a fit of boyish giggles at his side, a jittery tower of amusement clasping one hand over his mouth in shock. Kyle, egged on by their laughter, had jiggled his loose heavy prick across the starchy tabletop and sniggered too, always an exhibitionist, looking pointedly at the other youngsters beside him to check that everyone had noticed and laughed - young Man Utd midfielder Kobbie Mainoo looked briefly alarmed and prudish, but then was laughing heavily, and Arsenal keeper Aaron Ramsdale was practically crying with laughter. Of course, the laughter had dissipated as the middle-aged female waitress appeared on the other side of the buffet table, ready to top up the actual sausage tray from a steaming dish in her gloves, and proceeded to drop it noisily to the floor as her bored eyes landed up on the flabby prick that Kyle was in the process of stuffing back into his sweatpants, still chuckling and shaking at every muscle - yeah, that hadn't been ideal, the way the poor old bird squealed and went red, and then had everyone flocking about her to help pick up the broken dish and scattered pork products, whilst Kyle pushed his own porker into his sweaty undies and evaded being singled out as the troublemaker. And there had been yesterday, he had to admit to himself, but that had just been a little bit of banter, nowt more - he'd wanted to confront little Cole about all that texting the other month for ages, so he'd been delighted when a bit of group work placed him with the lanky winger on the smaller pitches, and he'd been able to mutter a few sly digs at the Chelsea traitor about their messaging after that fixture - `You still got that pic saved, eh?' he barked, and `I never did get a pic of yours, is that cos the zoom isn't strong enough?' - really teasing the 21-year-old starlet in the same way that he had after City and Chelsea last played each other, affectionately mocking the way Palmer was taking off at his new club. In reality, Kyle was delighted for the kid, who had been something of a spare part on City's bloated squad, but was now coming into his own at Chelski and being asked by rude pundits how it felt to be their only decent player. But this kinda banter was just what you did, he'd experienced plenty of it himself, and he enjoyed calling Cole a `Traitor' and referencing the BBC reality show, then going back to the topic of the dirty dick pic he'd messaged the kid that day whilst City slunk out of London and the Chelsea Blues got messy celebrating their win in London pubs and clubs. Of course, Captain Cardboard himself, Harry No-Trophies Kane, had overheard one of his remarks (`Why didn't you send me a full review of that dick pic? I was so gutted...') and scolded him, telling him to focus on his football, and Walker had dropped the topic for a while, rolling his eyes in boredom and shouting `Just messing, kid' at the lanky geek, before sweeping in at Kane with an aggressive tackle of resentment. Still, he'd cornered Cole Palmer later on yesterday to make his point, muscling up to the tall slim youth in a hotel corridor shortly before curfew, and managing to be apologetic and goading all at once: `Sorry about the banter, Colesy, but I was just so upset that you left me on read that weekend, hehe.' The broad-bodied centre-back puffed out his pecs and squared up to the taller youngster, grinning playfully at him and nudging a single finger into his chest - `Very naughty of you, showing such disrespect to a senior player - you should have known you'd be back under me once we were Lions.' Cole, who had said very little to him on the pitch earlier, squirmed and looked very uncomfortable - so uncomfortable, in fact, that Kyle couldn't help but suspect that it was about more than just his own bants and inappropriate picture messages. He paused, his face lighting up with curiosity, and he stroked a hand up and down one arm of the tall slim football lad, lowering his tone: `What's up, Palms? Have I said the wrong thing? You know it's just daft banter, don't you...' `I know,' the Chelsea purchase told him tartly, `I'm not offended or anything.' `Well, you don't look happy,' Kyle complained, `and I'm sure Kane thought I was proper bullying you or summat, the way you were pouting and ignoring me...' `Nah,' the 21-year-old protested, `I ain't bothered one bit, how wet do you think I am?' He scowled and scratched at his thin face. `I don't care, it's funny.' He hadn't laughed once. Kyle nodded slowly and thoughtfully, pausing to greet another player on their way past - James Maddison stalking down the corridor and looking oddly fixated on checking all of the room numbers - before returning his attention to the skinny lad and giving him his most soft-and-sensitive expression of avuncular concern. Cole glared oddly at him and then looked away, something clearly on his mind. `They treating you well down there in Chelski land?' Walker demanded. `Well enough,' Palmer said evasively. `You having enough fun in London?' he asked, hovering knowingly over the word `fun'. `It's great,' was the vague surly response. Kyle shifted in a little closer to him, in spite of the exposed spot on the long corridor of suites, and he poked that finger in at his chest again, before rubbing it a little more slowly and sensuously up towards his throat and Adam's apple, rubbing over the pale soft skin, and then bringing his hand up to pat him once on the cheek. `Cos if they ain't looking after you,' growled the centre-back, `and if you ain't having fun... you know you can always rely on Uncle Kyle, don't you?' He smirked, wondering if he'd been suggestive enough about the ideas of `looking after' and `fun', never great at subtlety, and he smiled intensely into Cole's thin nervous face, unsure if he was being understood. But again there other players, and hotel staff, and the corridor felt suddenly busy - Palmer had scampered off to his shared room, and so had Walker, and he hadn't whipped his cock out publicly then like he did the following breakfast,when he was pretty sure the 21-year-old sweetheart had stolen a curious glance over at what he was serving on the buffet. And, Kyle thought, a little fumble with Phil could hardly count - just a little grope in the showers at the end of their first full day's training, for fuck's sake! He'd found himself eyeing up the twink prince of Stockport across the communal showers, as one done - there was plenty of meat on display that evening, flitting between the towels and steam, but Kyle was always surprised by the dense muscularity of that 5ft7 physique, and there was something untouchably exciting about Pep Guardiola's Filipe. It wasn't that Walker had never had a little go with the sexy chav, but Foden had that special aura back home at their football club, the anointed `Golden Boy' who was Pep's obvious favourite and who only seemed to extend his dirty antics beyond their Spanish manager when it was tactically beneficial - Kyle had seen and experienced enough to know what went on between charismatic Guardiola and the Stockport Iniesta, and something about that secret dynamic made him crave and covet the wiry little pup, who he'd cheekily dabbled with a few times in their past and more fully that rooftop evening after their victory parade. Horny as always, Walker had ogled the younger lad across the showers, trying not to let his fat cock get fully hard in his soapy hands, but letting his eyes travel up and down the pale bare skin and tight muscular terrain of Phil's body - unable to resist, the centre-back had sidled loser to his 23-year-old teammate until he was right next to him, at the next showerhead, and lifting each bulky bicep to scrub his armpits. It took a moment or two for Foden to sense his presence and look this way, and the 33-year-old grinned wickedly across at him once he did. `Alright,' Kyle greeted in a playful tone. `Hiya,' Phil said, almost disinterestedly, wiping at his damp fresh face. `Dropped your soap,' Kyle quipped stupidly, despite the lack of actual soap bars in these showers, and scooping his fat cock and balls into one hand with predictable lame humour, so that as Phil instinctively glanced down to their feet, his eyes must travel past the displayed generosity of Kyle's manhood; Phil's gaze flicked up at him and Kyle chuckled and winked, and he let go of his privates, letting them swing between his thighs. I mean, who could accuse him of being silly and getting his cock out in the SHOWERS, how else was a fella meant to wash his bollocks? He sensed the talented 23-year-old tense up next to him, though both men ostensibly continued to wash themselves and hurry towards reaching for their towels in completion - but Phil kept shooting him ambiguous glances and Kyle just kept grinning and sniggering, and really dragging his large soapy palms down his six-pack and onto his package, stroking on his loose cock and pulling at the limited foreskin, then fumbling and fondling at his weighty balls, really drawing the eye down to it, and making Phil pout and blush and stare away, until... `Here,' the centre-back growled, grasping Phil's shoulder and leaning in, `I'm gonna go take a piss before I get dressed - last cubicle, one minute.' And he pushed away from the other lad, letting his long fat semi swing loose, and then throwing a towel lightly about his thick waist as he strutted out of the steamy block and through the busy locker-room beyond. He made a beeline for the nearest toilets branching off from the changing rooms, glad that the cubicles were unoccupied - wet and naked but for a towel, Kyle let himself into the last one and left the door ajar, whipping off the towel and hanging it over one broad shoulder, then reaching down to give himself a good stroke. It seemed like 60 seconds exactly when wet footsteps slapped down the lino and Phil came sliding into the cubicle with him, red-faced and tight-lipped, and Kyle grinned smugly at the shorter lad, holding onto his stiffening prick and nodding imperiously down at it - it was more like 6 seconds before the Stockport scally was kneeling down and slapping his lips about it, making Walker purr and groan and run fingers across his scalp, calling him `Golden Boy' and groaning `Yeh, suck it like Daddy Pep's...' But then there were foosteps and voices, presumably from the urinals opposite the cubicles, and Phil was freezing down there on his knees - he stopped sucking and just hunkered there, looking terrified. The deep manly voices beyond their cubicle were those of Ramsdale and Johnstone, and perhaps if it had been lads he knew better, Kyle might have abandoned caution and shoved his hard-on back into Phil's gifted gob - but he shared an ounce of the youngster's nervous fear and he just hulked there in silence, pressing one hand to the wall to support his powerful body, and sighing in frustration at the interruption to his oral service. One of the pissing goalkeepers shouted out to ask who was dropping a bomb in there, and the saucy mood seemed ruined - but once the footsteps and voices receded, Kyle assumed Phil would get back to work, instead of getting up in a fidgety manner and securing the towel back about his slim hips. `That was close,' Foden muttered. `Relax, they're gone,' Walker told him irritably. Phil shook his head, backing off, reaching to unlock the door - Kyle had to stop him momentarily cos his own rock-hard monster was so throbbing and obvious, and he glared reproachfully at the beautiful twink from the showers, unsure why they couldn't carry on and he couldn't dump a load on that pretty face. Instead, Phil was flattening his erection under his towel and retreating out through the bathroom area - Kyle stomped after him, having to shove his throbber at an awkward angle to pin it beneath his towel, scowling and sighing, and following the other Man City talent back into the main changing room area. `Huh, I bet you just wish Jack Grealish was here,' the older Lion complained loudly after the skulking midfielder, who glanced over his shoulder - `I bet things would be different if Jack the Lad was in the squad this week, mister,' Kyle teased meaningfully, always somewhat jealous of the way his twink pal trailed after Grealo like a lost puppy - and Phil just gave him an odd wary frown before disappearing off between the lockers - a few other attentive players gave him odd looks for these comments but Kyle shrugged and sighed and made his way back to his own spot in the corner. Well, he admitted to himself, there had also been this morning: everybody kitting up for the day, tight new England jerseys and skinny-fit tracksuit pants, making Kyle eye up with interest another young colleague with a little bit of previous. He could, he supposed, have controlled himself, and tore his eyes away from those strong young legs and the perfect rounded bottom that the leggings accentuated; he didn't have to follow discreetly when the unassuming 24-year-old quit the room to pop to those same loos where he'd almost fucked Foden's face, and yet off he went, sidling away from the lockers and the chat of others, even though the guys were already being called out into the bright morning sunshine. Dragged along by his second brain, the big fat one in his briefs, Kyle had found himself following the Gallagher lad around the corner and down that same row of urinals - Conor only even noticed him when he stopped at the next bowl to him, two strapping figures against the nooks of white porcelain. In tandem with the younger guy, Kyle pushed down the front of his shorts, removing his cock and directing it down into the urinal, and he stood there all burly and unnecessarily close, not even glancing suggestively at the Chelsea midfielder or shooting him a smirk or wink. He knew that his presence here would be suggestive enough to the handsome young blond who had been a highlight of his last England camp, and he just stood there pissing noisily, listening to the awkward sound of Conor clearing his throat over the echoing gurgles of their streams. Kyle thought about how fun it would be to haul the 6ft Chelski boy into that same last cubicle, and feed his pissy wet prick to his quivering lips - he thought of how conflicted and saucy Gallagher had been when he last played with him in a quiet corner of the neighbouring hotel, encountering the lad in similarly risque circumstances on the edge of their shared national team. But he had other ideas this morning, partly cos he'd sorted out an erection between breakfast and shower, and he didn't even really need to cum again yet. Leaving his own fat prick to hang obnoxiously over the waist of his shorts, he reached his left hand across and took a firm hold of Conor's pert backside. Now he did glance that way with a grin, catching the nervous profile of that stumpy face, the hair distinctively slicked back; Conor stood very still, a little uncomfortably, while Kyle's hand massaged across his beautifully framed cheeks. Kyle patted him gently there, and chuckled. `We should go out to train,' the burly centre-back said under his breath, testing just how uncomfortable and resistant the Chelsea lad was - but Conor didn't look like he was rushing off anywhere. Good. Walker gave his arse a good squeeze and then a firmer little slap, still through the taut nylon. Then he reached his hand forcefully inside first that layer, and then also the cotton pants below, and he yanked them down to expose curved pale cheeks; he leaned back enough to give them a proper look, and whistled appreciatively. And then, stood side by side with him at these exposed urinals, only half-caring that another player could come wandering around here at any moment - though it did sound as if everyone had heeded the coaches' calls and gone outdoors - he sucked wet a single finger and then slid it between those cheeks. With his right hand, Kyle just played loosely with his fat lazy prick, soon semi-hard, and with his left he frigged Conor's pert bottom, jabbiing his single questing ginger in and out of a clenched hole - while Kyle just pulled and played loosely and complacently with his own snake, the 24-year-old lad was tense and clenched and soon furiously jerking his own rigid pink member in quick little pumps of the fist. It was just a couple of tense minutes before Conor was spluttering out an `Oh god' and dumping silvery streaks of cum down the white porcelain, his cheeks really clenching and forcing out Kyle's one invasive finger. `Phew,' Kyle sighed at him, `that was a messy one.' He brought the single dirtied finger up and ran it playfully against Conor's cheek, under his nose, across his pouting lips. Then, laughing, he wiped it against the side of his shorts and pushed his lazy semi away into his briefs, backing away from the quivering 6ft Surrey kid. `Good lad,' the older man said dismissively to his teammate, going to the sinks to wash his paws, and then strutting away through the arched doorway and across the main changing rooms - a moment later Conor was following him at a distance, a slightly uncomfortable gait confirming that he was anally unpractised, and Kyle winked at him over his shoulder. The Gallagher lad blushed and lowered his gaze, but Walker knew how much he'd enjoyed it - the cum pooling in the urinal said it all. He thought about these little escapades and wondered if it was remotely possible that Southgate knew anything: nah, fucking hell, of course not. The old bugger was just chatting about the tabloids, surely, and all of that was starting to blow over... "Keep it in your pants", indeed! Still... it did vaguely occur to the highly-sexed 33-year-old that the gaffer might have a point, and he could do without any further scandal in the months coming into a Euro tournament. The Yorkshireman thought about the uproar he'd caused when CCTV caught him showing off his fat soft whopper in a near-empty bar in front of a few cackling pals that night - stupid reporters had been asking Guardiola why he wasn't stripped of the captaincy the following weekend! Pfft. But, still... Southgate had a point. Keep it in the pants. Yes, maybe. Behave, perhaps. Focus on football, for a while. Yes. Kyle didn't quite catch up the cardio running of the defensive contingent, and instead he did a little cardio alone indoors, on a treadmill, looking out thoughtfully at the spring evening, and then he headed across into the hotel, going up to his shared room in a thoughtful mood. Part of his brain was turning over the gaffer's wisdom, and part of it was just cycling reflectively through the showreel of dirty deeds since he'd got here for this camp - whopping his cock out at breakfast, toying with the Golden Boy, teasing his ex-City buddy, and finger-fucking Conor Gallagher. Was it all a bit much, then? But in his room, peeling off the compression vest and the long-sleeve jersey, and shoving down the close-fitting England shorts, Walker found himself feeling horny again, his morning wank long-forgotten. The broad Sheffield man bared his big chest and strong arms and stepped out of his socks, tottering about the large comfortable suite in just tight grey briefs that hugged his big arse and his sweaty package, and he admired himself briefly in a full-length mirror on the wall, waiting for the inevitable. When the door opened and his roommate bounded in, exuding his usual giant labrador energy, Kyle was ready for him, sprawled comfortably on one bed in just these sweaty grey briefs. `Oh,' barked the 6ft2 stud who burst into the room, smelling of outdoors and pink-cheeked from the long jog that the other defenders had taken through the grounds - but Kyle wasn't interested in comparing training schemes or explaining that his tete-a-tete with the boss had left him pensive and solitary for the rest of the day. Instead, he was hopping off the bed and instantly wrapping his thick arms about the taller body of the big Barnsley hunk - and silencing hish heavily-accented enthusiasm with a gentle kiss to the lips. Keep your cock in your pants, demanded Southgate - well, maybe Kyle Walker could control some of his bad behaviour and avoid too much scandal, but... Here was the real love of his life, and that needn't change. Big John Stones melted into the hold of his arms and responded happily to the sudden kiss, their tongues meeting as their lips fought. It was a long wet kiss and both men panted as it broke. `What's brought this on?' drawled the big handsome centre-back, but Kyle was already fondling him through his taut trackies, and nuzzling at his face, reaching for a second wet snog - `Shush,' he insisted, and he went down on his knees like Phil Foden in a toilet cubicle - desperate after a couple of days of mischief to get some real action, and frantic in the speed at which he pulled down those training leggings and then the compression shorts below, freeing Stonesy's rapidly stiffening cock. In a mutual frenzy of kisses and cuddles, the Man City defenders tumbled onto the bed, bodies lightly sweaty and in tune with one another. Quickly, Walker made sure that Stonesy was as naked as him, training gear peeled away and tossed to the sides of the room, and off too came Kyle's sweaty briefs, though not before John had bunched them in a fist and given them a playful sniff. Hands roved over muscles, fingertips tracing chavvy tattoos, but lips kept finding lips, both lovers too keen to tongue each other to really do anything more than tumble against each other in the bedding. `We have to get down to dinner,' laughed John between pants. `Let's be late,' insisted Kyle, kissing him on the neck, the collarbone, the shoulder, the pec - `let's be fucking late, gorgeous...' He shut the big sexy bastard up with a blowie, kissing and sucking on that long thick tool, wanking his own, and then shifting into a 69 position where both defender hunks could service each other simultaneously. Before long, Kyle was fingering John's hole and John was tickling his balls; and shortly after, they were in a spooning position, cuddling and kissing whilst the 33-year-old pushed his cock between the 29-year-old's sturdy cheeks. Kyle fucked him like this, gently and almost lazily, with their hefty bodies on their sides, and the strokes long and slow - it was passionate but sedate, the sex of a really intimate love, and neither lad gave a fuck about the evening meal they would be late too. Kyle could forget all about Southgate's warning or any of his naughty escapades here, because this was something so different. It always had been. Ever since that stormy afternoon when their wet bodies had steamed and simmered inside a parked sports car, both pulsing with adrenaline and testosterone from a playful boxing match inside the training centre; something special had been released that day in the parked car that had never stopped sizzling in the years since, even during the brief phases where one or the other had tried to knock it on the head to concentrate on their hetero lives. Nope, nothing seemed able to prise Walker and Stones apart, neither their tight bromantic relationship, nor more literally, as Kyle slid in and out of John's hole, gently fucking him to completion on the messy sheets, sweat beading on every muscle. Kyle didn't finish inside his boyfriend, but instead they turned around kissed and hugged each other face to face, and John wanked them both at once, their cocks pulled together in his grip, so that they were deeply snogging when they each released their loads against the other in a sticky mess - at some point in the dazed moments of blissful kissing that followed, there were impatient knocks on the door, and the voice of an assistant coach instructing them to `stop fucking about' and get down to dinner. The lovers giggled and kissed and fondled at each other's muscles, as delighted with each other now as three years ago. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-357

Date: Fri, 7 Apr 2023 20:30:13 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 357 Part 357: The Footballers' Football Fanfic Wednesday night in a trendy postcode of East London, where there were still gaggles of midweek drinkers on the streets, and colourful bursts of life punctuating the late darkness of the city; he moved through it with a certain swagger in his step, this inflated confidence only momentarily paused by the need to check his phone screen for directions around the complicated street layout of the Hackney district. Eventually though, the Safari app on his device seemed to lign up with the recognisable landmarks around him, and he thought he could see the squat ultra-modern extension looming beyond a couple of more traditional ex-industrial conversions, and thought that he'd located a home that he'd briefly - visited in person only a couple of times, but entered into in a `virtual' sense on a weekly basis for lengthy online dialogues with its owner. The 31-year-old footballer hurried on, turning a final corner and swaggering on down the last length of street, bowing his head slightly to mask his grinning face under the peak of a baseball cap and the capacious fold of his hood - after all, it wasn't best to show your face too smugly at this end of London hafter travelling the length of the country to absolutely violate a team like West Ham...! On he sped, his broad physique covered by tracksuit and jacket, and his discreetly masked face jerking upwards to confirm that this was indeed the right building, and that he wasn't about to fight aimlessly with the wrong set of complex intercom buttons by accident. Yep, this was the place, and he paused only briefly on the street before climbing the short half-flight of steps into its sheltered entranceway; he couldn't wipe the broad victorious smile off his handsome brown features, even as he shot cautious glances left and right. Realistically, it would be just as inconvenient to stumble into a lingering pack of his own Geordie fans right now, though a much happier interruption than seeing the disgruntled East-enders who'd watched West Ham get thrashed 5-1 by the visiting Newcastle United. Callum Wilson jabbed thick fingers at the buttons of the intercom to alert the top-floor apartment of the stylish block of three, then stepped back down a step or two to make his smug face all the more obvious on whatever hidden security cam might be beaming his grin up to Michail Antonio's pad - like the overgrown cheeky boy he was, Newcastle's successful striker smirked and gave a little wave for the camera, sticking up two fingers in a V that denoted his brace of goals against the host team, then laughing loudly to himself as a little buzzer sounded and a lock on the main door released. He could imagine the swearing mock-fury of his football buddy on the floors above, and he shouldered the door inwards to let his 5ft11 body of stern muscle in off the cool damp streets, ready to catch up with his co-host for the Footballers' Football Podcast. They'd talked about the match at length, of course - how could they not? Michail himself couldn't help but think and laugh about this fact as he kitted himself up for the midweek fixture, brushing bulky muscles against those of other West Ham regulars along one wall of the broad home changing rooms earlier that evening, each of them getting psyched up to walk out there and face off against the precocious Magpies who were ready to dismiss the London team as an easy win. That had been the tone of their manager's pep talk a minute earlier, anyway, painting the visitors as arrogant and entitled, and trying to rouse the West Ham lads for another teeth-and-nail scrap for survival points at the lower end of the Premiership table - not that Moyes' words would end up having much positive influence on the outcome of the match ahead. In the blissful ignorance and open possibility BEFORE the game, however, Antonio grinned brightly to himself and enjoyed the prospect of facing up against his friend, having bantered ferociously on their BBC podcast just two days earlier. Michail himself, hooting with matey laughter, had made various threats towards his infectiously smiley younger counterpart, informing Newcastle's striker that he'd be straight in to boot and obstruct him and injure him if necessary, making wild claims that would become problematic if any serious refereeing should end up required...! And Cal himself had been brimming with playful confidence, leading him to demand suggestions for a goal celebration. Now, pulling a close-fitting under-vest against the dark heavy muscles of his shoulders and chest, the 33-year-old forward chuckled at his own quick retort, suggesting a dance of the Macarena for the other attacking player - as if Wilson was going to manage a goal, though the prospect of the other hefty lad whipping out a 90s throwback under the floodlights was enough to make Michail shake his head and laugh to himself before unfolding his fresh home shirt. He and Callum had been close pals for a number of years now, to the extent that neither footballer was even sure where they'd first met or bonded, and their friendship had been reinforced rather than tested by their surprise podcasting deal with BBC Sounds, allowing the rival Premiership forwards to put aside club differences and embrace their mutual admiration for the wider sport. Michail got lots of doubting comments from teammates and football contacts about managing to balance playfully neutral punditry on this side-hustle alongside his full commitment as a regular Premiership performer... but he and Callum found it easy enough to detach the roles and enjoy rather than avoid the little conflicts and competitive elements it sparked in their two-man show. It seemed to be the first time in a while that the two forwards were likely to share a pitch, with injuries on both sides tending to prevent that dilemma in the past, and so tonight's game had provided plenty of enjoyable tension and laddish abuse in this week's recording - and Michail grinned even more, yanking his shorts up over his meaty black thighs, to think at how the banter and threats had persisted off-air, with the podcast wrapped up and the two footy pals just mouthing off over webcams without their producer or tech left in the call. Callum, he thought, was much funnier and more lively than people might expect, often dismissed as a big-muscled pretty boy poser and a striker of fairly inconsistent standards, but Michail found him hilarious and entertaining, often very dry and surprising. He could be so vanilla and basic, and then come out with the most ridiculous stuff! Point in case, sitting there over the web-call and starting to mouth off that the winner or loser between them would need to do forfeits before the next podcast could possibly be recorded - and that whichever of them managed to net a goal would be absolutely dominant over the other, making Antonio's eyes water with mirth as he tried to come up with suitably shaming activities he could foist on the cocky Magpie. Now, rolling socks halfway up his calves and starting to tune in to the pre-game chat and aggression of the lads around him, Michail could only smirk and roll his eyes to think how quickly THAT strain of banter had gone downhill, spiralling rapidly into the gutter - `You'll have to let me have a go on your missus after I get my hat-trick', the 33-year-old Jamaica international had found himself belting at his friend over their laptops, whilst his friend only stapped laughing long enough to match this, `And what, I get one hour with your momma...?' In the present, it was Declan Rice's turn now to try and rouse a fighting spirit in the West Ham ranks, following on melodramatically from the gaffer's speech; the team's young skipper was red-faced with passion and standing up on one of the benches to address the guys, but Antonio found himself less intent on the moment than the lads either side of him, Benrahma and Soucek, and certainly not hollering enthusiastically along like Bowen or Zouma, nor readying to hoist up and crowd-surf Rice like Fabianski and Paqueta. With a slight guilt towards his squad, Michail over-compensated, slamming his large hands together in staccato applause and hollering `Rice Rice baby!' at the captain once the speech was over - he hadn't actually listened much to Declan's specific words, and had been thinking with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment about how that webcam banter and rivalry had specifically ended. It crossed Callum's mind too, both in the cheery confidence of the away rooms before kick-off, and in the heavy excitement and joy that followed - the NUFC players went into the game with their Man Utd revenge fresh in everyone's mind, and they came out of it almost laughing at their own confidence and superiority, nobody quite able to believe how well the win had gone. Not least Callum himself, who'd gotten the perfect opportunity to dance his Macarena, and then had to come up with a second celebration too, contributing heavily to the 5-1 win that made his team's Champions League dreams that little more substantial. By the end of the game, Wilson was less conscious of his joky rivalry with his co-host, because there was so much more at stake in the match; he was just full of excitement for his team, pride in the other lads, and personal satisfaction in a night that might silence some of his critics. Hugging bare torso with a couple of others at one end of their traditional post-match team photo to mark the win, the 31-year-old was just riding the wave of triumph and daring to imagine himself playing in some of the top stadiums of Europe next season, fighting it out for real international silverware. But by the time he had prised himself away from the giggling euphoria of Bruno Guimaraes and the tight hugs of Jacob Murphy, his thoughts did turn back to banter with Michail Antonio, first as part of the recording, and then one-to-one over their video call... He'd got a bit carried away, he supposed, but imagine Mic's face now if he called him out on the dares that had been boasted over that web-call...! Fucking hell, haha... It had been one thing when the two burly football lads were making inappropriate jokes about each other's stunning girlfriends, or lewd insinuations about other mutual acquaintances, but quite another when Callum himself had brashly told his old pal that the one who scored first between them would be getting their balls polished by the tongue of the other - the West Ham forward had shrieked with laughter at this and hung his face in his hand, jokily pleading forgiveness from Jesus at having enjoyed the outrageous suggestion between them. And something in Antonio's mirth and enjoyment had just driven Wilson on, drunk on the playful mood of their conversation, and liberated by the fact they weren't being recorded and produced for an audience of football fans - `Yeah, absolute mouthful of nut for the loser!' he cackled at his counterpart. `I hope you like your food salty, brother?' It had spiralled from there, the wise-cracks and throaty laughter rocking on for a few more minutes before one of them had the sense to end call - Callum mouthing off about how he couldn't wait to empty his balls in East London, and Michail joining in, wondering aloud whether Big Cal W would be such a pretty boy with his face painted in streaks of man-sauce. Two well-built blokes shaking with laughter in the view of their webcams, prodding and provoking each other with dirtier remarks until one of them - it was Callum, in the end - insisted on clicking off the call and getting on with cooking dinner. Now, stepping into the steam of the showers, Wilson thought about it with a mixture of silly amusement and vague self-conscious shame: he couldn't help but wonder if he'd joked too hard, been too crude and literal, and maybe given away some of his past experimentation to a friend whom such things should perhaps never be confided...? In the warm fug of the communal shower block, the tall broad striker looked around him, as if expecting the diminutive figure of his Bournemouth buddy to be among the glistening wet bodies and echoey laddish voices... but nah, it had been a while since Ryan Fraser had been part of the Newcastle first-team, and that thought brought a fresh guilt and awkwardness to Callum's otherwise jubilant mood tonight. Rubbing soapy palms across his face and letting hot water cascade from his shoulders and pecs, the 5ft11 footballer thought briefly about the private spats between he and the small Scottish lad, the souring of their long friendship - a strange intimacy between the Bournemouth and Newcastle teammates, under Howe at both clubs, that went back as far as that beach-front stag do. So many fierce little episodes of closeness, he thought, remembering his own domineering hands pushing Ryan's head under the covers, and the ways he'd used that greedy mouth... In spite of the hot shower covering his body, Callum shuddered: he'd put a stop to those fumbles a long while ago, frightened by their loose nocturnal experiments, and wary of the way the Scot alluded to it in front of others. After a long period of cool, Fraser had become impatient and bolshy with him, and many arguments had ensued, mostly in private, but some on the training ground... until the angry little man from Aberdeen had begun picking fights with everyone from the youngster Elliott Anderson, seeming to particularly resent the Geordie kid, and their de facto captain Kieran Trippier, big mistake. Ryan now trained with the Under-21s and was expected to be sold as cheaply as possible come summer - and Callum knew some responsibility for that downfall lay at his own front door, or somewhere between his thighs. Slaps on the back as Trippier himself passed him by, and a meaty fist-bump as Fabian Schar came next, helped to stir Wilson out of this guilty little reverie - stupid of him to start mulling over that broken friendship now, he asserted mentally, and stupid to imagine that Michail Antonio would read any such nonsense into a bit of banter...! Like the two hard-bodied defenders who were strutting past him, Wilson reached for his hanging towel and threw it about his thick waist, following them out of the showers in the same damp muscular waddle, and reminding himself to be glad that Ryan Fraser's demotion had removed a lot of conflict and nervous tension from his football days - things between he and the little guy had just become toxic, and had needed distance. Maybe when Ry got his transfer out of Tyneside, they could meet up and rekindle their friendship? He knew he was kidding himself. Towel-clad and muscles steaming, Callum moved through the away changing room in a slight daze, the smile of a winner still plastered over his face, but a niggling seed of embarrassment remaining at the back of his mind: he could see himself reflected in the footage of his webcam, shoulders shaking and face deadpan, informing Michail Antonio, `I cum loads, by the way, so hope you're thirsty on Wednesday night.' No sooner had the 33-year-old pressed the buzzer to unlock the entrance than he was off to the fridge of his open-plan kitchen, yanking open the Smeg door and retrieving two icy beers for them. He'd left the inner door open and in tramped his visitor, lifting the visor of his cap to reveal the insufferable smugness of his big open face. `I could smack you for that grin,' he informed his fellow striker simply, before grabbing him in a half-hug instead and forcing the cold open beer into his hand, then pushing him roughly in the direction of the main lounge space. `Sit yourself down and try not to look so fucking pleased with yourself, or you can find a new co-host to shithouse, yeah?' And in spite of his brunt words, he laughed heavily and smiled, glad to see his friend and to have some reason to see anything amusing in what had otherwise been a terrible night's work. Michail supposed that being here with Callum was some slight betrayal to the relegation woe that had gripped the West Ham men as soon as they were off the pitch, and he would certainly not be rushing to inform any of his teammates that he'd met a Magpie for a drink on the night of their humiliating defeat - but the whole point of the podcast work that the two blokes did together was THIS, he thought, this brotherly friendship and appreciation that transcended the corporate competition of their league. They were football fans just like their readers, and if Michail put aside his fears for his club, he could just enjoy the fact that a hardworking footballer like his younger pal was getting success and recognition, and that some beautiful goals had been scored... and, he was planning to rib his buddy, some really fucking lucky ones too. Beer in hand, the Londoner joined his friend at this other side of the flat, sliding down into the other L-shaped retro couch that bordered the large space with its city views; he sank into the corner of it so as to face his mate, taking a long glug from his bottle, and wondering why this was his first beer of the night. He should have been drowning his sorrows from full-time onwards, like Rice and Bowen and a couple of the others. `How did you get away?' Michail demanded first, conscious of the heavily controlled world that they occupied, and aware that Callum would be setting off for the North East at sunrise tomorrow - he supped more of his beer and made himself comfortable in his corner. `Rooming with Manquillo,' he was told, `and the kid was just too buzzing at getting some minutes to even question me when I said I had someone I needed to see whilst in town - he was straight on the video calls with his family back in Spain and in no mood to be ratting me out to the bosses for skipping curfew. Left him to him it and got out of the hotel without having to explain myself to nobody.' A pause and another smug look from the match-winner: `Why, were you worried I'd stand you up, chief?' Michail smirked at this, shaking his head. `I knew you wouldn't miss an opportunity to rub it in,' he said simply, `but I did think you might be a prick and try and bring a couple of your teammates along just to troll me - I bet they're all as fucking smug as you tonight, eh!' `Varying degrees of smug,' mused Wilson in confirmation. `Blood money pricks,' Antonio chided mockingly. `You lads couldn't have just left it 2-1 and got on the bus home, for fuck's sake...?' `Buddy - half of your players were trying to help us make it 10-0 by the end, including your retirement-home goalkeeper...' `Ah but it was never gonna be 10-0, given that your mates couldn't keep a clean sheet if they were wearing nappies,' Michail attacked, ignoring Newcastle's defensive record, and waving an accusing finger in his pal's direction, then laughing into a gurgle of glugged beer, his bottle near empty already. `Five winning goals is great, but I know that one concession will piss off Trips and Big Daddy Howe, haha - we can analyse that West Ham counter-attack in the podcast next week, what do you say...?' And giggling to himself, the bulky striker lifted his tired body up off the sofa and he gestured in Cal's direction with the bottle - `Another one of these, bud?' Callum nodded and then monologued at him about how shite and lucky that goal had been, whilst Michail fetched and opened two more bottles of San Miguel. Approaching the sofas again with one in each hand, he saw that his visitor had made himself more comfortable, stripping away his jacket and hoody and lounging into his corner with his t-shirt riding up his six-pack, a hand tucked there in the space above his waist, as if to show off some of that sculpted muscle which both beefy men liked to mock each other for. And as he reclined there, the 31-year-old was shooting him another ultra-smug look, enough to make Michail momentarily dread their online meeting where they would plan out the next episode of the discussion show - this bell-end was going to be insufferable all spring! Before Antonio could reach him to pass over the beer, Callum was calling him out in a voice that was almost a complacent yawn, and stopping him in his tracks. `So we won,' his visitor said in a sigh, `and one of us got a brace of fine goals - so what about these forfeits, Micky boy? What about our agreement?' A long simmering grin shone from that arrogant expression, and the yawning voice turned into a low chuckle - `What are you waiting for, big lad?' - Michail's heart skipped a beat and his stomach lurched. Callum stared at him for the sofa, and registered the shocked look across his silent face - for a moment, just a moment, he let the question hang there, provocative and bold, tipsy after several celebratory drinks with his fellow Newcastle players, and clutching the warming dregs of another beer in one hand, now reaching out to claim the fresh one that Michail had been about to offer him. The moment's silence stretched ominously between them and then, lifting his body off the L-shaped sofa and reaching to take hold of the offered beer, Callum's big grin twisted and he winked one bright eye, bursting into fresh gleeful laughter as he dropped comfortably back against the soft leather. `Your face!' the striker concluded, slapping one thigh of his club tracksuit pants, `You should see your face!' Stood over him, Antonio's laughter was deep and gruff and just a little hesitant. `You're a wrong un,' the Wandsworth-born footballer told him between chuckles. `A pure wrong un, Cal.' And down flopped the other 5ft11 man, an air of definite relief in the drop of his muscles as he joined Callum here on this sofa, shaking his head in the same mock disbelief that he'd pantomimed on their web-call. `Drink that beer and shut your filthy mouth!' the West Ham forward exclaimed with a frustration that seemed only half performative. And Callum himself just sniggered and smirked and finished one beer then started the other - how consciously had he thrown out that challenging `joke'? How much had it turned over in his head as a thing to say on the half hour walk here from his team's hotel? He wasn't even sure, really - he'd been embarrassed and regretful about the banter earlier tonight, wary and paranoid about being so crass with his burly mate, and yet... Swaggering in here and bantering with the losing man, well, their jokes and dares and forfeits had felt like an elephant in the room! And at least he'd had the balls to break the taboo and laugh it off - what was Michail gonna go, forget those jokes were even made? The Newcastle player shifted where he sat, hot under his grey t-shirt, and glad - mostly glad - that he'd broached the dirty joke and gulled his mate for a moment there. A joke, most definitely a joke, just a matter of seeing Michail's gullible gawp...! `Jesus,' the other player muttered. `Imagine we'd left the call recording that day and left that footage with the production team, ha ha.' Callum had shared that same worry once or twice, but he grinned foolishly and shrugged one big muscular shoulder. `Be great content for an end-of-season wrap-up,' the Coventry-born man sniggered, taking a long swig of cold beer. `Even if every other word would have to be bleeped for the BBC.' He tried to grin warmly and casually at the other forward, in case his joke had pushed Michail too far, and he did see some seriousness and discomfort in the other fella, but he wanted to push past it. `I had you on there, didn't I?' he demanded, reaching his arm across the top of the cushions and punching very lightly at the edge of the other man's arm. `Did you actually think I was...?' `Here for that?' sputtered Antonio. `Do you think I'm that daft...?' `You looked like you'd been visited by three ghosts at Christmas, for fuck's sake.' `Nah, just the one clown - tsk, what's got into you, daft lad? I'm gonna ring your missus and warn her, she should know how dirty you've got in your old age.' Cal read nothing serious into this plan, and yet he did feel an anxious twinge, a return of that worry that had ran down his spine whilst basking in the hot shower water with his teammates. He hesitated, sipping beer when he couldn't settle on what to say, and he watched Mic's ambiguous expression for another long moment. `And I'll be on to your bird,' he countered, `so I can tell her that her fella doesn't keep his word on promises and bets... ha!' A roll of the eyes and a stretch of those big shoulders, the beefy muscled football player shifting position on the edge of the sofa. `Right, I see - that IS what you came here for,' drawled the West Ham player in a mocking, affected voice, now planting one hand over Callum's. `You were looking for a romantic tryst before you have to head up to the Northern wastelands, why aye...?' Cal pulled his hand away instinctively even as he laughed. `All I'm saying,' he blurted, `is that I don't go back on my word, a man's honour is all he's got, buddy.' He didn't think about what he was saying, he just shot it out, and then sensed the thoughtful frown that it left on Michail's dark features. An awkward moment of quiet. `Just messing,' he added lamely, suspecting that he'd milked this joke too far, but then unsure where to go from it. `We both know you're a wuss who can't take a dare, that's all, but I'm the bigger man and the winner. Two goals say so, and I'll still podcast with you when you're in the Championship and I'm in the Champions League, deal?' And he stuck a handshake in the other man's direction, across the diagonal of the L-shaped sofa - but Michail seemed to reject his hand, making a loud huffing noise and kicking back into the cushion, thick arms golding across the chest of his polo shirt. Callum stared at his moody silence, hand in the air, unsure if it was a joke, and then added in a strained voice, `If Newcastle had bombed 5-1 to the Hammers and you'd scored a couple of bangers, I'd be sure fulfilling my part of the bet - straight on my knees like your mum, for fuck's sake.' Again, he wasn't really thinking carefully about his words - he was tipsy and over-excited, and really as frustrated as many of his teammates that the travelling Magpies hadn't been allowed a fuller celebration of their win, but ushered strictly to bed with an intense training schedule taking them into the Easter weekend. A strict curfew that he was breaking to be here, face to face with his mate. He felt hot under his clothes and embarrassed at his jokes, and he found that Michail was givng him a very measured stare. `That so?' the West Ham player demanded, and for a moment Callum didn't even follow what he was being asked, having to remind himself of his own ridiculously bold retort. He shrugged both shoulders and downed the rest of his bottle in one go. `Well I don't go back on my word,' he asserted roughly. `It's just basic rules of the bro code, or whatever.' He scratched at his neck and forced a laugh. `Jesus, why are you looking so serious, brother? I'm getting another beer - you want one?' Making himself at home in his co-host's flat, and really just escaping the thoughtful look on his pal's face, Wilson got up and padded across into the spacious kitchen, opening the fridge and taking too long to locate the obvious beers. He was glad of the cool glow on his face and on the chest of his tee. He heard steps behind him and the slight clink as empties were placed on the counter. He felt a strong warm hand on one shoulder and then the other player was in so close to him that it made him flinch, but then one of Michail's incredibly thick arms was just reaching past him to nudge aside a yoghurt pack and extract the one remaining beer, which was then pressed between his palm and his chest. The hand on his shoulder squeezed and the other man pulled away slowly, leaving him to shut the fridge and turn hsi back against it. `There's more,' his host told him quietly. `But they won't be cold.' `Right.' He clutched this solitary beer and then held his hand out whilst Michail supplied a bottle opener; in order to use it, both of his hands had to clutch warmly against Callum's clenched fist. The lid clicked and rattled on the kitchen floor and they just stood there in the low warm lamplight. Thick and strong, the other man's fingers wrangled against his, and it made him tense... but Michail was just pulling away and claiming the beer, holding it to his lips, and leaving Callum's hand floating limply between them, empty. Callum blinked, slightly flustered. `Wow, great host,' he muttered, ironically bitter. A long glug, and then bottle handed over. `I'm okay at sharing.' Callum drank from it, but self-consciously. Watched by the other man, he felt self-conscious of the way his pink lips spread fully about the neck of the bottle, and the pursing of his large moist mouth as he knocked back and glugged some of the Spanish beer against his tongue. He swallowed with some difficulty and then held the beer between their standing physiques, incredibly aware of the rash things he'd said on the sofa. `So,' his podcast pal said in a low growl of a voice, `tell me what mighta happened if Newcastle had lost...?' Antonio didn't know what he was doing, but pushed to put it in words, he might tell himself he was testing the extent of Wilson's supposed honour; here was this brash cocky winner, throwing his victory around in Michail's face, acitng like he wasn't a professional athlete whose club was facing painful relegation, and he needed bringing down a peg or two! Who did he think he was, pushing stupid bets and forfeits and making wild ridiculous claims about how honourable he would have been in defeat...? Pft, as if a losing Cal Wilson would even be HERE, sharing a beer, and not just sulking in his hotel with Trips and Joelinton and the rest of them...! Yeah, he thought, this is just a game of `chicken' - Callum was making big claims, his smug mouth writing cheques that his weak-ass personality couldn't cash - THAT'S what Michail was doing right now, testing and pushing him, that's all. So he needled him further: `You were saying, if YOU were the loser, then you would have kept your word and...?' Wilson made a gruff sound in front of him, seeming to flex and shift under his tight grey t-shirt, his tattooed arm muscles bulging as he did. `Well, jesus pal, we were both saying a lot of shit, weren't we? The things we'd do if we won, and that! I mean - bloody hell, I'm not actually asking to shag your missus, am I?' `That what you meant, then?' Michail found himself demanding. He took the half-drunk bottle and just placed it away on the counter behind him, then folded his arms against his own bulging chest. `Before, when you said you were a man of honour - were just chatting about THOSE bets and dares, were you? I see, I see... Not... the other stuff?' Pushed far enough, the West Midlander snapped. `Fuck's sake, are you wishing West Ham had done less shit so I would be on my knees sucking you, fella?' And Michail just laughed, enjoying the sudden discomfort that was replacing the brash smugness that his friend had, inevitably, brought into his flat - with a touch of confused sadism, he liked the little beads of sweat on Callum's handsome brow, and the uncertain forced smile which now met his own thoughtful grin. And so, wanting to relish the stupid jokey authority of the moment, he pushed, `What if I am, mate, what if I am?' Full of bravado on just two beers, the West Ham loser stared his pal down, feeling an upper hand and a sense of his dominance - the older and more experienced of the pair, always the more measured and assertive in their wide-ranging football debates and more generalised online arguments for their fans. And then, after this long quiet pause, Callum said, `Fuck' in a breathy voice, and broke the eye contact, lowering his face in a slightly submissive way, and just as Michail was about to boom with winning laughter in his face, the other football lad looked sharply back at him and spoke in a near-whisper - `You won't fucking tell anyone, will you?' The 33-year-old seasoned football pro froze on the spot, but did his best to maintain the look of cool dominance on his face and in his folded arms. Rather than speak, because what the fuck was he going to say, he tilted one bulging shoulder very slightly and raised his eyebrows in one slight movement. In front of him, Wilson blew out a long awkward breath, and then rubbed his knuckles over his sweaty upper lip. `Yeah,' he muttered now, his voice quiet, `I think I would have, buddy - you gonna make me prove it?' His voice was full of tension and, staring him down, Antonio found that his whole thickset 5ft11 body was too, tension that he had wound up quite deliberately to get one over his triumphant friend, sour against his deserved success, pushed by his gloating, and now... What the fuck? `Not gonna make you do nothing,' Michail mumbled, voice low, but then, `but not gonna tell anyone a thing,' surprising himself with the soft intimacy of the promise, and the volumes it admitted between them. He reached behind him and took the beer, taking down several gulps before passing the little that remained to his guest. `Drink up,' he muttered at him. `I think you're gonna need it.' And then, bristling with the invented conflict of the night, as if they were back in their kit in the London Stadium, he made for the bedroom. Wilson followed him to the bedroom in a daze, his big muscular arms just hanging at his sides. A single lamp glowed on a table near the low bed and its dark sheets, casting a murky light in the windowless room; the door fell shut behind him and enclosed the two attacking footballers in this half-light and warmth. Callum felt as if he was sweating from head to toe, and he pulled loosely at the chest of his grey t-shirt. `Take it off if you need to,' came Michail's ambivalent mutter and, sure, yeah, that seemed a good idea - off it came, pulled away from the thick strength of his torso and dropped lightly on the wooden floorboards by his trainers. Antonio had climbed onto the bed. He lay there, head and shoulders propped up on pillows, and arms brought up with hands resting behind his neck, accentuating the large curves of muscle as those dark arms bunched up there. He was a fairly dim outline in the limited light of the room and yet his pose and posture were vivid and expectant, and brought Callum stumbling closer to the bed, drawn on by his rash promises and provocative claims - and perhaps a curiosity that had been nursed behind his Ryan Fraser conflicts for some time, a question mark on what it might feel like. Bets had been made, and forfeits set, and the result decided - and yet here he was, in a topsy-turvy world, facing the exact defeat he'd set up for his rival. Nothing made sense in the space that Callum now occupied, and yet he found himself ready to just embrace that. Moving slowly forward, shirtless and a little sweaty, and climbing knee after knee on the foot of the bed, until he was crawling over his pal's outstretched legs in their loose rough black denim. His hands pawed over the bedding to bring him into place and he rested there on all fours, poised over Michail's prone body, as if waiting for the big West Ham man to suddenly tell him the punchline of this mutual joke. But Antonio just stared at him with an almost blank and disinterested face, hiding god knows what feelings about this - and Wilson could just hover where he was in a moment's shady indecision. He could kid himself he had a point to prove, that he was playing the same game of `chicken' as his host - he could even suggest to himself that he was trying to nudge this uptight bastard along and maybe earn his just reward, as jokingly agreed over their web-call. He could lie to himself with those thoughts, but tipsy excitement laid bare something more honest: he did want to try this, and in particular, he wanted to try it with this bloke. With several ragged breaths, he leaned in, and reached for the thick heavy buckle of a belt, tugging at the leather and metal until it was undone, and then, oh then, his hand on the shape in the thick rough denim, and the tight intake of his breath. A sort of awkward clearing of the throat by Mic. He tugged at the button fly, one at a time, to get the jeans open, and then he pushed up on the material of his friend's burgundy-coloured polo shirt - encouraged, the other man sat up a little in an ab crunch, and up the top went, cast aside like Cal's own sweaty tee. Back down on the bed, same relaxed posture, bulging arms up around the sides of his head, and an expression of sheer indifference on his face - eyes not quite open, hooded and evasive, no more intense challenging eye contact. Was Michail a bit nervous too? Was he really up for this? Callum stuck a clumsy hand inside the open flies and felt the contents. Fuck. Huge and soft. He lurched forward a little on his knees until his face almost rested on the hard ridges of the other man's six-pack. He leaned his face in and pressed a soft uncertain kiss against the smooth skin there, while fumbling his hand inside the open jeans, giving it a proper squeeze; he might have pulled nervously back had one of Michail's large strong hands not fallen against his shoulder and rested there with a kind of encouraging firmness that drove Cal on to wrench the front of the jeans open more fully and to kiss the base of his hard tummy muscles one more time, then... slowly, as if unsure what would be revealed, to push and pull on the black elastic of the undies, and to let it out. Antonio's huge soft cock, the one seen bouncing and bulging in every West Ham kit for the last eight seasons. The 31-year-old knew what he had to do next and yet still he hesitated, staring at the shape in the shadows; on his bare shoulder blade, his friend's hand rubbed gently, making slow progress to his spine and then onto the back of his neck, where its pressure could guide his face forward and down. Fuck. `Come on,' came the rumble of Antonio's voice. `Show us what you'd have done, loser.' Nothing here was hypothetical, this was real, and yet he was gonna show him - he'd won completely, and yet he was gonna show him. He opened his mouth and brought it in, rubbing his lips down the length, then jutting out his tongue and picking up the fat tip into his mouth, almost laughing at how plump and floppy it was, but opening wide and letting it in, and dragging one hand up the inner thigh of the denim and then using it to cup and hold the balls through the black cotton of the undies. And Antonio's hand, reaching up his neck and the fade cut of his hair, until it was on top of his crown and pressing forward, guiding him and his mouth - which was suddenly so very full. It tasted like his friend smelled: rich and manly, and it felt huge between his lips. He didn't do much at first, just testing it against his lips and his tongue, marvelling at its thickness and warmth, but then he tried to suck on it, unsure of how to perform, unsure of what he needed here - until a receptive moan came from the West Ham player, and an almost tender stroke of the hand on his head. Lips pursing and pulling back and forth a little, he coaxed life into the monster, breathing in the scent of a man's crotch, and realising that his heart was beating out some serious drum-and-bass behind his pecs. `Fuck,' the West Ham forward groaned openly, because why hide the pleasure? `Fuck, that feels good,' he added a little more expressively, and he rubbed both hands encouragingly in against the other man - rubbing at both the back of his head and at one huge thick shoulder, wanting him to know that he was doing right. Right? Well, good. Something good. It felt good. Michail's thoughts were a muddle of satisfaction and desire - and that same unfounded dominance, the restoring of some order between the two sporting friends, in spite of the score-line at the stadium. Something was being righted here, he thought, that had nothing and everything to do with 5-1 and Callum's part in that - fucking Macarena was one thing, but sucking my dick's another. The 33-year-old stud could feel his cock stretch and stiffen and he loved the soft hesitant wetness of a mouth on it, one that didn't know how good it felt - he loved the slow cursory attention of the lad's tongue and the gentle brush of his lips, he even loved the shaky weight of the muscular body against his thighs and his pelvis, felt like he could reach down and hug the bulky presence of the Newcastle striker and just tell his friend how great his muscles felt here in the shadows. `Keep going,' Antonio urged, and Wilson made a sort of gagging sound - he was so tentative with it, pulling back and gasping for air, and Michail had to resist the urge to push down on his head and to really force his growing length into that hot wet orifice. Instead he just reached for the base of his cock instead, squeezing and shifting it, holding the big black rod in place for Callum's experimental licks and rubs. Fully hard now, he felt incredibly sensitive, and even more appreciative of the rub and slurp of the mouth. `Oh god,' he groaned openly, and he felt Cal again try to take more of it in against his tongue, but struggle - it was even bigger and thicker now than the soft snake he'd begun with, and he heard edges of panic and frustration to the Tyneside star's heavy breathing. As if to help him, rather than himself, Michail shifted and moved - up onto his knees and his haunches, jeans pulled halfway down his solid thighs, and one hand cradling about his tight balls and the thick base of his weapon, the other guiding Cal's head in and down. There, he thought, that's better, the man could really get his lips about it, and - fuckkkkk, it felt so good, and he realised he was growling these things out loud and not just thinking them, `Fuck yes mate' and `Oh that's good', long drawling gasps of pleasure for his willing sucker, the forfeiter who'd won the bet. `Spit on it,' Michail told him, soft rather than aggressive, and Callum did so - his lips glided about the head and the foreskin and down some of the shaft, and so he spat some more, and Michail groaned more and more in response to each move of it. He reached one muscled arm behind him and gripped the metalwork that formed an ornate headboard, using it to prop up his heavy physique - the thick dark bulk of his muscles with the paler caramel of Wilson's body hunched before him. He stroked his broad strong back, running his hands side to side and then down the spine, and then - fuck, he was enjoying this too much! - even further, to drop a light slap against the round shape in the rear of those NUFC trackies. Another little smack, and then a good squeezing grip of them. Cal's arse was big and round like a hot woman's, and so fucking FIRM. Jesus. Some booty on him. He thought this was too much, too grabby, too much of a liberty, and yet - drooling over the huge fat head of Antonio's cock, he heard a panting enthusiasm in Wilson's breath, a little moan of his too as he squeezed his behind for him, and... fuck, why not? Hand on the small of his friend's back, the other guiding his face over his crotch, and a single finger slipping down the back where the underpants were starting to come away from his glutes... into the gap between those cheeks, so damp and sweaty, digging in and... fuck, fuck, his finger finding the hot wet fuzziness, tapping loudly against a virgin hole. His cock was raging hard and his whole muscular body was tense with sudden lust. He reached both hands for the sides of Callum's face and held it there, staring hotly down at him. `Good lad,' the West Ham striker breathed, and then, `come here and kiss me.' Callum Wilson was on his knees before he knew what he was doing, unsteady but excited, and gripping both hands to the thick hard sides of Michail's torso for balance; he pressed his wet quivering mouth to the other man's and kissed him, glad of the intimacy and approval of it. He slipped his tongue in and for a delicious moment the two strikers snogged recklessly, their heavy kneeling bodies falling into each other... Michail's hands all over his arms and his back muscles and then down again, pushing the tracksuit pants and the CK boxers away form his big pale brown cheeks! But then the kiss was broken, and Cal thought he knew why - the bristles of his stubble ripping against the more clipped and tidy goatee of Mic's beard, perhaps too masculine and real, and a clumsy parting of their damp lips. But still the other big built guy held onto him by the arse cheeks, and Callum kissed his neck instead, snogging the hot sensitive skin there and making the West Ham player groan in long tingling noises. But then there was a real urgency about Michail and Callum found himself pushed back - for a moment, it was if this was all way too much, not just the kiss but all of it, and he was about to be thrown from the bed of this married man. But instead, the other footballer was on him, pressing him back down into the bedding and kissing him on the neck in the same excited almost teenage way. His hands were rough and greedy on his ams and his sides and then his hips - and then his arse, squeezing and pulling at his cheeks, and at last, flipping him onto his side and holding him there, spooning him and kissing him roughly on the back of his neck. By the time Wilson understood what was happening, he knew how much he wanted it, and he could just reach down and take hold of his own cock, pulling it free of his undies which were dragged halfway down, and jerk on his own hefty length, which had been straining for release and pooling pre-cum against his Calvins. He lay on his side on the bed and felt held by Michail's mighty arms, kissed and nipped on the neck. He felt one of his heavy legs lifted and a finger in his crack again. He heard Mic spit heavily and the finger there was slick and wet, finding and pressing at his tiny hole. Fuck. He tried to help, tried to manoeuvre his strong heavy body into a better position, and left that leg more openly - `that's it' growled Mic's voice in his ear and a hand was hooked under his thigh muscle to spread his legs properly. Now it wasn't just a wet fingertip he could feel between his cheeks, but something far more huge and pressing. Callum couldn't believe how incredibly horny he felt, spitting into his own hand and bringing his fist up and down his erection in long wild pumps - nah, this couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this was just a mad sex dream, and - fuck, it felt so big and hard, the round wet tip that rubbed between his cheeks and passed over his puckered hole - the hot wet breaths of Michail on his neck and his stubbly cheek and the lips that nibbled at the lobe of his ear - and then the fingertip that was back down there, kneading over his ring and pushing ever-so-slightly inside him to open him up. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,' the Newcastle striker gasped over and over, lifting his heavy leg more, stretching his tall body, pressing back into Antonio's powerful grasp. He wanked himself with ridiculous speed, more sensitive and aroused than he thought he'd ever been. He could feel it again, pressing in there, and all he could think was the impossibility of it - Callum hadn't before put so much as a little finger inside his arse-hole and now he had the huge fat cock-head rolling against it, the same one that he'd gagged on as he tried to take more of the fat length inside his clumsy mouth! But the more that Michail pushed and rubbed, the less sure he was - was his ring responding to it, and wanting it? Were his cheeks relaxing and parting at Mic's strong touch and grasp? `Fuck,' he moaned, a tremble of fear in his breathy voice, countered by an assertive growl `You can take it', Mic's mouth so close to his ear. Maybe he could? He wanked furiously on himself and tensed up, inadvertently making such entry impossible - having never given any thought to such action for himself, he had no idea what he was doing, and no knowledge that as he tensed and squeezed on every muscle of his being, he was just locking out the prods of the other man's big black cock. But to Wilson, this no longer mattered - he could hold back no more. With the tip of a cock pressed between his butttocks and straining dangerously at that most private entrance, the 31-year-old reached his own separate climax, and spurted string after string of hot wet cum from the red tip of his cock, drenching his knuckles and his six-pack and much of the bedding beside him. He moaned loudly as he did, and reacted more sharply as Antonio ushed again, testing the locked tensin of his hole - he was less receptive now, more focused on his own pleasure, and he pulled his hips away, making Michail grip anxiously at him to keep control, but only for a confused moment before releasing him and letting him roll clumsily aside, cum still leaking for his dick. And the two friends stared at each other, their faces shining in the low lamplight, before the West Ham player began to jerk himself off on his side, grabbing at his dick in the same frenzied way that Callum had; and Callum himself, his broad chest heaivng with each breath, brought his wet cummy hand forward and stroked it against the other man's balls and onto the base of his shaft, smearing his juices up his length and taking over the tugs for just a moment, before letting his friend finish himself off. The men brought their faces close but did not kiss, eyes half-closed, pouts almost brushing, breath mingling, as Michail Antonio gushed semen onto the bedding between them and sweat glistened on the differing shades of their muscles. A bathrobe pulled over his now naked form, Antonio stepped around the interior of his apartment as if the floor was covered in broken glass, every movement cautious and loaded with regret. Popping briefly back into the bedroom, he stared at the sticky smears on the bedding and wondered if he would successfully launder the sheets before his wife returned from her family trip; should he just bin them all and buy new stuff from a department store tomorrow after training? Back out of the bedroom, into the open-plan heart of the floor, where Callum was still wriggling into his hooded top and then pushing each foot inside of his trainers, not stooping to lace either one. Michail just stopped at and stared at him, his breathing still quite laboured, and his eyes finding the prodding outline of a still-risen cock somewhere in the front of those Newcastle-branded tracksuit pants. His own dick was wilting but heavy inside the loose folds of his dressing gown, and he shivered anxiously. The 33-year-old striker said his quiet and stilted goodbyes to the other man and they hesitated over a hug, eventually deciding against it, and Michail pulling the robe more firmly about his bulky form. He let the visitor out onto the private inner landing and pressed the button that would undo the security locks down below; `See you online,' he called vaguely after his friend, staying on the top step and watching as Wilson jogged his way down the stairwell and out through the centre of the modern complex that was topped by his own Hackney penthouse. Back into the flat, and through to the large main bathroom. Robe to the floor, and white socks yanked off one at a time. Big naked body into the wetroom corner and shower flipped into life. Cold, at first, and welcome - icy ripples against the dark muscle and shameful sweat, cleaning his cock and balls and the kiss-marks on his neck and pecs. He swore under his breath and rubbed his hands over his face and then the tight braids of his hair, picturing himself in the shadows with the lighter-skinned bloke. Madness, to let that happen, madness to go through with any of it, but madness especially to almost- Fucking hell. Michail embraced the cold shower and let it warm gently over his skin until it was hot, at which point he switched it off and dried himself slowly, unable to look at himself in the gently steamed bathroom mirror. Callum walked the distance back to the hotel in just over twenty minutes, even sweatier below his gear as he came within sight of the upmarket but featureless accommodation, and the blank dark panels of its windows, behind each of which would be sleeping the dutiful members of a hardworking and ambitious squad - behind one of them, he thought, his Spanish roomie would be fast asleep, delighted and proud. And Wilson himself just had to get in there without alerting anyone, and crawl into bed; his body was drenched in shameful sweat and he knew that the cold shower he craved would wake up at least his room's other occupant, if not the players on either side of them. He would just have to rest in his own dirt, and wait until the grey light of dawn, when an early departure would carry the Black and White Army up the motorway. The married footballer played awkwardly with the wedding band on one finger as he moved through automatic doors and flinched at the beeps of his tapped key-card, making his way to his shared suite. He thought about Michail's awkward face and body language as they parted, and dreaded to imagine their video calls in the coming week as they prepped another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast. In bed, he gritted his teeth and found it impossible to get comfortable. He'd already been highly conflicted about his earlier experimenting - not just about those furtive nights when he and Fraser had first transferred to pre-Saudi Newcastle, or about the aggro that had developed when he cut off those illicit blowies - but about things like the England camp, where he'd been nudged into enjoying oral sex from Harry fucking Kane, or little shower escapades at Trippier's encouragement, where he'd seen Fraser gobble more hard cocks than his own, and seen cheeky Bruno go down on Big Joe. There was so much sex in the air between top-flight footballers, and Callum just about accepted that there were some needs which maybe shouldn't be talked about outside of their circle - but now, tossing and turning his big body in the sweat-stained sheets, he was thinking new thoughts, and fretting over new fears: just how many needs did he have, and how far would they take him? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 7 Apr 2023 20:30:13 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 357 Part 357: The Footballers' Football Fanfic Wednesday night in a trendy postcode of East London, where there were still gaggles of midweek drinkers on the streets, and colourful bursts of life punctuating the late darkness of the city; he moved through it with a certain swagger in his step, this inflated confidence only momentarily paused by the need to check his phone screen for directions around the complicated street layout of the Hackney district. Eventually though, the Safari app on his device seemed to lign up with the recognisable landmarks around him, and he thought he could see the squat ultra-modern extension looming beyond a couple of more traditional ex-industrial conversions, and thought that he'd located a home that he'd briefly - visited in person only a couple of times, but entered into in a `virtual' sense on a weekly basis for lengthy online dialogues with its owner. The 31-year-old footballer hurried on, turning a final corner and swaggering on down the last length of street, bowing his head slightly to mask his grinning face under the peak of a baseball cap and the capacious fold of his hood - after all, it wasn't best to show your face too smugly at this end of London hafter travelling the length of the country to absolutely violate a team like West Ham...! On he sped, his broad physique covered by tracksuit and jacket, and his discreetly masked face jerking upwards to confirm that this was indeed the right building, and that he wasn't about to fight aimlessly with the wrong set of complex intercom buttons by accident. Yep, this was the place, and he paused only briefly on the street before climbing the short half-flight of steps into its sheltered entranceway; he couldn't wipe the broad victorious smile off his handsome brown features, even as he shot cautious glances left and right. Realistically, it would be just as inconvenient to stumble into a lingering pack of his own Geordie fans right now, though a much happier interruption than seeing the disgruntled East-enders who'd watched West Ham get thrashed 5-1 by the visiting Newcastle United. Callum Wilson jabbed thick fingers at the buttons of the intercom to alert the top-floor apartment of the stylish block of three, then stepped back down a step or two to make his smug face all the more obvious on whatever hidden security cam might be beaming his grin up to Michail Antonio's pad - like the overgrown cheeky boy he was, Newcastle's successful striker smirked and gave a little wave for the camera, sticking up two fingers in a V that denoted his brace of goals against the host team, then laughing loudly to himself as a little buzzer sounded and a lock on the main door released. He could imagine the swearing mock-fury of his football buddy on the floors above, and he shouldered the door inwards to let his 5ft11 body of stern muscle in off the cool damp streets, ready to catch up with his co-host for the Footballers' Football Podcast. They'd talked about the match at length, of course - how could they not? Michail himself couldn't help but think and laugh about this fact as he kitted himself up for the midweek fixture, brushing bulky muscles against those of other West Ham regulars along one wall of the broad home changing rooms earlier that evening, each of them getting psyched up to walk out there and face off against the precocious Magpies who were ready to dismiss the London team as an easy win. That had been the tone of their manager's pep talk a minute earlier, anyway, painting the visitors as arrogant and entitled, and trying to rouse the West Ham lads for another teeth-and-nail scrap for survival points at the lower end of the Premiership table - not that Moyes' words would end up having much positive influence on the outcome of the match ahead. In the blissful ignorance and open possibility BEFORE the game, however, Antonio grinned brightly to himself and enjoyed the prospect of facing up against his friend, having bantered ferociously on their BBC podcast just two days earlier. Michail himself, hooting with matey laughter, had made various threats towards his infectiously smiley younger counterpart, informing Newcastle's striker that he'd be straight in to boot and obstruct him and injure him if necessary, making wild claims that would become problematic if any serious refereeing should end up required...! And Cal himself had been brimming with playful confidence, leading him to demand suggestions for a goal celebration. Now, pulling a close-fitting under-vest against the dark heavy muscles of his shoulders and chest, the 33-year-old forward chuckled at his own quick retort, suggesting a dance of the Macarena for the other attacking player - as if Wilson was going to manage a goal, though the prospect of the other hefty lad whipping out a 90s throwback under the floodlights was enough to make Michail shake his head and laugh to himself before unfolding his fresh home shirt. He and Callum had been close pals for a number of years now, to the extent that neither footballer was even sure where they'd first met or bonded, and their friendship had been reinforced rather than tested by their surprise podcasting deal with BBC Sounds, allowing the rival Premiership forwards to put aside club differences and embrace their mutual admiration for the wider sport. Michail got lots of doubting comments from teammates and football contacts about managing to balance playfully neutral punditry on this side-hustle alongside his full commitment as a regular Premiership performer... but he and Callum found it easy enough to detach the roles and enjoy rather than avoid the little conflicts and competitive elements it sparked in their two-man show. It seemed to be the first time in a while that the two forwards were likely to share a pitch, with injuries on both sides tending to prevent that dilemma in the past, and so tonight's game had provided plenty of enjoyable tension and laddish abuse in this week's recording - and Michail grinned even more, yanking his shorts up over his meaty black thighs, to think at how the banter and threats had persisted off-air, with the podcast wrapped up and the two footy pals just mouthing off over webcams without their producer or tech left in the call. Callum, he thought, was much funnier and more lively than people might expect, often dismissed as a big-muscled pretty boy poser and a striker of fairly inconsistent standards, but Michail found him hilarious and entertaining, often very dry and surprising. He could be so vanilla and basic, and then come out with the most ridiculous stuff! Point in case, sitting there over the web-call and starting to mouth off that the winner or loser between them would need to do forfeits before the next podcast could possibly be recorded - and that whichever of them managed to net a goal would be absolutely dominant over the other, making Antonio's eyes water with mirth as he tried to come up with suitably shaming activities he could foist on the cocky Magpie. Now, rolling socks halfway up his calves and starting to tune in to the pre-game chat and aggression of the lads around him, Michail could only smirk and roll his eyes to think how quickly THAT strain of banter had gone downhill, spiralling rapidly into the gutter - `You'll have to let me have a go on your missus after I get my hat-trick', the 33-year-old Jamaica international had found himself belting at his friend over their laptops, whilst his friend only stapped laughing long enough to match this, `And what, I get one hour with your momma...?' In the present, it was Declan Rice's turn now to try and rouse a fighting spirit in the West Ham ranks, following on melodramatically from the gaffer's speech; the team's young skipper was red-faced with passion and standing up on one of the benches to address the guys, but Antonio found himself less intent on the moment than the lads either side of him, Benrahma and Soucek, and certainly not hollering enthusiastically along like Bowen or Zouma, nor readying to hoist up and crowd-surf Rice like Fabianski and Paqueta. With a slight guilt towards his squad, Michail over-compensated, slamming his large hands together in staccato applause and hollering `Rice Rice baby!' at the captain once the speech was over - he hadn't actually listened much to Declan's specific words, and had been thinking with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment about how that webcam banter and rivalry had specifically ended. It crossed Callum's mind too, both in the cheery confidence of the away rooms before kick-off, and in the heavy excitement and joy that followed - the NUFC players went into the game with their Man Utd revenge fresh in everyone's mind, and they came out of it almost laughing at their own confidence and superiority, nobody quite able to believe how well the win had gone. Not least Callum himself, who'd gotten the perfect opportunity to dance his Macarena, and then had to come up with a second celebration too, contributing heavily to the 5-1 win that made his team's Champions League dreams that little more substantial. By the end of the game, Wilson was less conscious of his joky rivalry with his co-host, because there was so much more at stake in the match; he was just full of excitement for his team, pride in the other lads, and personal satisfaction in a night that might silence some of his critics. Hugging bare torso with a couple of others at one end of their traditional post-match team photo to mark the win, the 31-year-old was just riding the wave of triumph and daring to imagine himself playing in some of the top stadiums of Europe next season, fighting it out for real international silverware. But by the time he had prised himself away from the giggling euphoria of Bruno Guimaraes and the tight hugs of Jacob Murphy, his thoughts did turn back to banter with Michail Antonio, first as part of the recording, and then one-to-one over their video call... He'd got a bit carried away, he supposed, but imagine Mic's face now if he called him out on the dares that had been boasted over that web-call...! Fucking hell, haha... It had been one thing when the two burly football lads were making inappropriate jokes about each other's stunning girlfriends, or lewd insinuations about other mutual acquaintances, but quite another when Callum himself had brashly told his old pal that the one who scored first between them would be getting their balls polished by the tongue of the other - the West Ham forward had shrieked with laughter at this and hung his face in his hand, jokily pleading forgiveness from Jesus at having enjoyed the outrageous suggestion between them. And something in Antonio's mirth and enjoyment had just driven Wilson on, drunk on the playful mood of their conversation, and liberated by the fact they weren't being recorded and produced for an audience of football fans - `Yeah, absolute mouthful of nut for the loser!' he cackled at his counterpart. `I hope you like your food salty, brother?' It had spiralled from there, the wise-cracks and throaty laughter rocking on for a few more minutes before one of them had the sense to end call - Callum mouthing off about how he couldn't wait to empty his balls in East London, and Michail joining in, wondering aloud whether Big Cal W would be such a pretty boy with his face painted in streaks of man-sauce. Two well-built blokes shaking with laughter in the view of their webcams, prodding and provoking each other with dirtier remarks until one of them - it was Callum, in the end - insisted on clicking off the call and getting on with cooking dinner. Now, stepping into the steam of the showers, Wilson thought about it with a mixture of silly amusement and vague self-conscious shame: he couldn't help but wonder if he'd joked too hard, been too crude and literal, and maybe given away some of his past experimentation to a friend whom such things should perhaps never be confided...? In the warm fug of the communal shower block, the tall broad striker looked around him, as if expecting the diminutive figure of his Bournemouth buddy to be among the glistening wet bodies and echoey laddish voices... but nah, it had been a while since Ryan Fraser had been part of the Newcastle first-team, and that thought brought a fresh guilt and awkwardness to Callum's otherwise jubilant mood tonight. Rubbing soapy palms across his face and letting hot water cascade from his shoulders and pecs, the 5ft11 footballer thought briefly about the private spats between he and the small Scottish lad, the souring of their long friendship - a strange intimacy between the Bournemouth and Newcastle teammates, under Howe at both clubs, that went back as far as that beach-front stag do. So many fierce little episodes of closeness, he thought, remembering his own domineering hands pushing Ryan's head under the covers, and the ways he'd used that greedy mouth... In spite of the hot shower covering his body, Callum shuddered: he'd put a stop to those fumbles a long while ago, frightened by their loose nocturnal experiments, and wary of the way the Scot alluded to it in front of others. After a long period of cool, Fraser had become impatient and bolshy with him, and many arguments had ensued, mostly in private, but some on the training ground... until the angry little man from Aberdeen had begun picking fights with everyone from the youngster Elliott Anderson, seeming to particularly resent the Geordie kid, and their de facto captain Kieran Trippier, big mistake. Ryan now trained with the Under-21s and was expected to be sold as cheaply as possible come summer - and Callum knew some responsibility for that downfall lay at his own front door, or somewhere between his thighs. Slaps on the back as Trippier himself passed him by, and a meaty fist-bump as Fabian Schar came next, helped to stir Wilson out of this guilty little reverie - stupid of him to start mulling over that broken friendship now, he asserted mentally, and stupid to imagine that Michail Antonio would read any such nonsense into a bit of banter...! Like the two hard-bodied defenders who were strutting past him, Wilson reached for his hanging towel and threw it about his thick waist, following them out of the showers in the same damp muscular waddle, and reminding himself to be glad that Ryan Fraser's demotion had removed a lot of conflict and nervous tension from his football days - things between he and the little guy had just become toxic, and had needed distance. Maybe when Ry got his transfer out of Tyneside, they could meet up and rekindle their friendship? He knew he was kidding himself. Towel-clad and muscles steaming, Callum moved through the away changing room in a slight daze, the smile of a winner still plastered over his face, but a niggling seed of embarrassment remaining at the back of his mind: he could see himself reflected in the footage of his webcam, shoulders shaking and face deadpan, informing Michail Antonio, `I cum loads, by the way, so hope you're thirsty on Wednesday night.' No sooner had the 33-year-old pressed the buzzer to unlock the entrance than he was off to the fridge of his open-plan kitchen, yanking open the Smeg door and retrieving two icy beers for them. He'd left the inner door open and in tramped his visitor, lifting the visor of his cap to reveal the insufferable smugness of his big open face. `I could smack you for that grin,' he informed his fellow striker simply, before grabbing him in a half-hug instead and forcing the cold open beer into his hand, then pushing him roughly in the direction of the main lounge space. `Sit yourself down and try not to look so fucking pleased with yourself, or you can find a new co-host to shithouse, yeah?' And in spite of his brunt words, he laughed heavily and smiled, glad to see his friend and to have some reason to see anything amusing in what had otherwise been a terrible night's work. Michail supposed that being here with Callum was some slight betrayal to the relegation woe that had gripped the West Ham men as soon as they were off the pitch, and he would certainly not be rushing to inform any of his teammates that he'd met a Magpie for a drink on the night of their humiliating defeat - but the whole point of the podcast work that the two blokes did together was THIS, he thought, this brotherly friendship and appreciation that transcended the corporate competition of their league. They were football fans just like their readers, and if Michail put aside his fears for his club, he could just enjoy the fact that a hardworking footballer like his younger pal was getting success and recognition, and that some beautiful goals had been scored... and, he was planning to rib his buddy, some really fucking lucky ones too. Beer in hand, the Londoner joined his friend at this other side of the flat, sliding down into the other L-shaped retro couch that bordered the large space with its city views; he sank into the corner of it so as to face his mate, taking a long glug from his bottle, and wondering why this was his first beer of the night. He should have been drowning his sorrows from full-time onwards, like Rice and Bowen and a couple of the others. `How did you get away?' Michail demanded first, conscious of the heavily controlled world that they occupied, and aware that Callum would be setting off for the North East at sunrise tomorrow - he supped more of his beer and made himself comfortable in his corner. `Rooming with Manquillo,' he was told, `and the kid was just too buzzing at getting some minutes to even question me when I said I had someone I needed to see whilst in town - he was straight on the video calls with his family back in Spain and in no mood to be ratting me out to the bosses for skipping curfew. Left him to him it and got out of the hotel without having to explain myself to nobody.' A pause and another smug look from the match-winner: `Why, were you worried I'd stand you up, chief?' Michail smirked at this, shaking his head. `I knew you wouldn't miss an opportunity to rub it in,' he said simply, `but I did think you might be a prick and try and bring a couple of your teammates along just to troll me - I bet they're all as fucking smug as you tonight, eh!' `Varying degrees of smug,' mused Wilson in confirmation. `Blood money pricks,' Antonio chided mockingly. `You lads couldn't have just left it 2-1 and got on the bus home, for fuck's sake...?' `Buddy - half of your players were trying to help us make it 10-0 by the end, including your retirement-home goalkeeper...' `Ah but it was never gonna be 10-0, given that your mates couldn't keep a clean sheet if they were wearing nappies,' Michail attacked, ignoring Newcastle's defensive record, and waving an accusing finger in his pal's direction, then laughing into a gurgle of glugged beer, his bottle near empty already. `Five winning goals is great, but I know that one concession will piss off Trips and Big Daddy Howe, haha - we can analyse that West Ham counter-attack in the podcast next week, what do you say...?' And giggling to himself, the bulky striker lifted his tired body up off the sofa and he gestured in Cal's direction with the bottle - `Another one of these, bud?' Callum nodded and then monologued at him about how shite and lucky that goal had been, whilst Michail fetched and opened two more bottles of San Miguel. Approaching the sofas again with one in each hand, he saw that his visitor had made himself more comfortable, stripping away his jacket and hoody and lounging into his corner with his t-shirt riding up his six-pack, a hand tucked there in the space above his waist, as if to show off some of that sculpted muscle which both beefy men liked to mock each other for. And as he reclined there, the 31-year-old was shooting him another ultra-smug look, enough to make Michail momentarily dread their online meeting where they would plan out the next episode of the discussion show - this bell-end was going to be insufferable all spring! Before Antonio could reach him to pass over the beer, Callum was calling him out in a voice that was almost a complacent yawn, and stopping him in his tracks. `So we won,' his visitor said in a sigh, `and one of us got a brace of fine goals - so what about these forfeits, Micky boy? What about our agreement?' A long simmering grin shone from that arrogant expression, and the yawning voice turned into a low chuckle - `What are you waiting for, big lad?' - Michail's heart skipped a beat and his stomach lurched. Callum stared at him for the sofa, and registered the shocked look across his silent face - for a moment, just a moment, he let the question hang there, provocative and bold, tipsy after several celebratory drinks with his fellow Newcastle players, and clutching the warming dregs of another beer in one hand, now reaching out to claim the fresh one that Michail had been about to offer him. The moment's silence stretched ominously between them and then, lifting his body off the L-shaped sofa and reaching to take hold of the offered beer, Callum's big grin twisted and he winked one bright eye, bursting into fresh gleeful laughter as he dropped comfortably back against the soft leather. `Your face!' the striker concluded, slapping one thigh of his club tracksuit pants, `You should see your face!' Stood over him, Antonio's laughter was deep and gruff and just a little hesitant. `You're a wrong un,' the Wandsworth-born footballer told him between chuckles. `A pure wrong un, Cal.' And down flopped the other 5ft11 man, an air of definite relief in the drop of his muscles as he joined Callum here on this sofa, shaking his head in the same mock disbelief that he'd pantomimed on their web-call. `Drink that beer and shut your filthy mouth!' the West Ham forward exclaimed with a frustration that seemed only half performative. And Callum himself just sniggered and smirked and finished one beer then started the other - how consciously had he thrown out that challenging `joke'? How much had it turned over in his head as a thing to say on the half hour walk here from his team's hotel? He wasn't even sure, really - he'd been embarrassed and regretful about the banter earlier tonight, wary and paranoid about being so crass with his burly mate, and yet... Swaggering in here and bantering with the losing man, well, their jokes and dares and forfeits had felt like an elephant in the room! And at least he'd had the balls to break the taboo and laugh it off - what was Michail gonna go, forget those jokes were even made? The Newcastle player shifted where he sat, hot under his grey t-shirt, and glad - mostly glad - that he'd broached the dirty joke and gulled his mate for a moment there. A joke, most definitely a joke, just a matter of seeing Michail's gullible gawp...! `Jesus,' the other player muttered. `Imagine we'd left the call recording that day and left that footage with the production team, ha ha.' Callum had shared that same worry once or twice, but he grinned foolishly and shrugged one big muscular shoulder. `Be great content for an end-of-season wrap-up,' the Coventry-born man sniggered, taking a long swig of cold beer. `Even if every other word would have to be bleeped for the BBC.' He tried to grin warmly and casually at the other forward, in case his joke had pushed Michail too far, and he did see some seriousness and discomfort in the other fella, but he wanted to push past it. `I had you on there, didn't I?' he demanded, reaching his arm across the top of the cushions and punching very lightly at the edge of the other man's arm. `Did you actually think I was...?' `Here for that?' sputtered Antonio. `Do you think I'm that daft...?' `You looked like you'd been visited by three ghosts at Christmas, for fuck's sake.' `Nah, just the one clown - tsk, what's got into you, daft lad? I'm gonna ring your missus and warn her, she should know how dirty you've got in your old age.' Cal read nothing serious into this plan, and yet he did feel an anxious twinge, a return of that worry that had ran down his spine whilst basking in the hot shower water with his teammates. He hesitated, sipping beer when he couldn't settle on what to say, and he watched Mic's ambiguous expression for another long moment. `And I'll be on to your bird,' he countered, `so I can tell her that her fella doesn't keep his word on promises and bets... ha!' A roll of the eyes and a stretch of those big shoulders, the beefy muscled football player shifting position on the edge of the sofa. `Right, I see - that IS what you came here for,' drawled the West Ham player in a mocking, affected voice, now planting one hand over Callum's. `You were looking for a romantic tryst before you have to head up to the Northern wastelands, why aye...?' Cal pulled his hand away instinctively even as he laughed. `All I'm saying,' he blurted, `is that I don't go back on my word, a man's honour is all he's got, buddy.' He didn't think about what he was saying, he just shot it out, and then sensed the thoughtful frown that it left on Michail's dark features. An awkward moment of quiet. `Just messing,' he added lamely, suspecting that he'd milked this joke too far, but then unsure where to go from it. `We both know you're a wuss who can't take a dare, that's all, but I'm the bigger man and the winner. Two goals say so, and I'll still podcast with you when you're in the Championship and I'm in the Champions League, deal?' And he stuck a handshake in the other man's direction, across the diagonal of the L-shaped sofa - but Michail seemed to reject his hand, making a loud huffing noise and kicking back into the cushion, thick arms golding across the chest of his polo shirt. Callum stared at his moody silence, hand in the air, unsure if it was a joke, and then added in a strained voice, `If Newcastle had bombed 5-1 to the Hammers and you'd scored a couple of bangers, I'd be sure fulfilling my part of the bet - straight on my knees like your mum, for fuck's sake.' Again, he wasn't really thinking carefully about his words - he was tipsy and over-excited, and really as frustrated as many of his teammates that the travelling Magpies hadn't been allowed a fuller celebration of their win, but ushered strictly to bed with an intense training schedule taking them into the Easter weekend. A strict curfew that he was breaking to be here, face to face with his mate. He felt hot under his clothes and embarrassed at his jokes, and he found that Michail was givng him a very measured stare. `That so?' the West Ham player demanded, and for a moment Callum didn't even follow what he was being asked, having to remind himself of his own ridiculously bold retort. He shrugged both shoulders and downed the rest of his bottle in one go. `Well I don't go back on my word,' he asserted roughly. `It's just basic rules of the bro code, or whatever.' He scratched at his neck and forced a laugh. `Jesus, why are you looking so serious, brother? I'm getting another beer - you want one?' Making himself at home in his co-host's flat, and really just escaping the thoughtful look on his pal's face, Wilson got up and padded across into the spacious kitchen, opening the fridge and taking too long to locate the obvious beers. He was glad of the cool glow on his face and on the chest of his tee. He heard steps behind him and the slight clink as empties were placed on the counter. He felt a strong warm hand on one shoulder and then the other player was in so close to him that it made him flinch, but then one of Michail's incredibly thick arms was just reaching past him to nudge aside a yoghurt pack and extract the one remaining beer, which was then pressed between his palm and his chest. The hand on his shoulder squeezed and the other man pulled away slowly, leaving him to shut the fridge and turn hsi back against it. `There's more,' his host told him quietly. `But they won't be cold.' `Right.' He clutched this solitary beer and then held his hand out whilst Michail supplied a bottle opener; in order to use it, both of his hands had to clutch warmly against Callum's clenched fist. The lid clicked and rattled on the kitchen floor and they just stood there in the low warm lamplight. Thick and strong, the other man's fingers wrangled against his, and it made him tense... but Michail was just pulling away and claiming the beer, holding it to his lips, and leaving Callum's hand floating limply between them, empty. Callum blinked, slightly flustered. `Wow, great host,' he muttered, ironically bitter. A long glug, and then bottle handed over. `I'm okay at sharing.' Callum drank from it, but self-consciously. Watched by the other man, he felt self-conscious of the way his pink lips spread fully about the neck of the bottle, and the pursing of his large moist mouth as he knocked back and glugged some of the Spanish beer against his tongue. He swallowed with some difficulty and then held the beer between their standing physiques, incredibly aware of the rash things he'd said on the sofa. `So,' his podcast pal said in a low growl of a voice, `tell me what mighta happened if Newcastle had lost...?' Antonio didn't know what he was doing, but pushed to put it in words, he might tell himself he was testing the extent of Wilson's supposed honour; here was this brash cocky winner, throwing his victory around in Michail's face, acitng like he wasn't a professional athlete whose club was facing painful relegation, and he needed bringing down a peg or two! Who did he think he was, pushing stupid bets and forfeits and making wild ridiculous claims about how honourable he would have been in defeat...? Pft, as if a losing Cal Wilson would even be HERE, sharing a beer, and not just sulking in his hotel with Trips and Joelinton and the rest of them...! Yeah, he thought, this is just a game of `chicken' - Callum was making big claims, his smug mouth writing cheques that his weak-ass personality couldn't cash - THAT'S what Michail was doing right now, testing and pushing him, that's all. So he needled him further: `You were saying, if YOU were the loser, then you would have kept your word and...?' Wilson made a gruff sound in front of him, seeming to flex and shift under his tight grey t-shirt, his tattooed arm muscles bulging as he did. `Well, jesus pal, we were both saying a lot of shit, weren't we? The things we'd do if we won, and that! I mean - bloody hell, I'm not actually asking to shag your missus, am I?' `That what you meant, then?' Michail found himself demanding. He took the half-drunk bottle and just placed it away on the counter behind him, then folded his arms against his own bulging chest. `Before, when you said you were a man of honour - were just chatting about THOSE bets and dares, were you? I see, I see... Not... the other stuff?' Pushed far enough, the West Midlander snapped. `Fuck's sake, are you wishing West Ham had done less shit so I would be on my knees sucking you, fella?' And Michail just laughed, enjoying the sudden discomfort that was replacing the brash smugness that his friend had, inevitably, brought into his flat - with a touch of confused sadism, he liked the little beads of sweat on Callum's handsome brow, and the uncertain forced smile which now met his own thoughtful grin. And so, wanting to relish the stupid jokey authority of the moment, he pushed, `What if I am, mate, what if I am?' Full of bravado on just two beers, the West Ham loser stared his pal down, feeling an upper hand and a sense of his dominance - the older and more experienced of the pair, always the more measured and assertive in their wide-ranging football debates and more generalised online arguments for their fans. And then, after this long quiet pause, Callum said, `Fuck' in a breathy voice, and broke the eye contact, lowering his face in a slightly submissive way, and just as Michail was about to boom with winning laughter in his face, the other football lad looked sharply back at him and spoke in a near-whisper - `You won't fucking tell anyone, will you?' The 33-year-old seasoned football pro froze on the spot, but did his best to maintain the look of cool dominance on his face and in his folded arms. Rather than speak, because what the fuck was he going to say, he tilted one bulging shoulder very slightly and raised his eyebrows in one slight movement. In front of him, Wilson blew out a long awkward breath, and then rubbed his knuckles over his sweaty upper lip. `Yeah,' he muttered now, his voice quiet, `I think I would have, buddy - you gonna make me prove it?' His voice was full of tension and, staring him down, Antonio found that his whole thickset 5ft11 body was too, tension that he had wound up quite deliberately to get one over his triumphant friend, sour against his deserved success, pushed by his gloating, and now... What the fuck? `Not gonna make you do nothing,' Michail mumbled, voice low, but then, `but not gonna tell anyone a thing,' surprising himself with the soft intimacy of the promise, and the volumes it admitted between them. He reached behind him and took the beer, taking down several gulps before passing the little that remained to his guest. `Drink up,' he muttered at him. `I think you're gonna need it.' And then, bristling with the invented conflict of the night, as if they were back in their kit in the London Stadium, he made for the bedroom. Wilson followed him to the bedroom in a daze, his big muscular arms just hanging at his sides. A single lamp glowed on a table near the low bed and its dark sheets, casting a murky light in the windowless room; the door fell shut behind him and enclosed the two attacking footballers in this half-light and warmth. Callum felt as if he was sweating from head to toe, and he pulled loosely at the chest of his grey t-shirt. `Take it off if you need to,' came Michail's ambivalent mutter and, sure, yeah, that seemed a good idea - off it came, pulled away from the thick strength of his torso and dropped lightly on the wooden floorboards by his trainers. Antonio had climbed onto the bed. He lay there, head and shoulders propped up on pillows, and arms brought up with hands resting behind his neck, accentuating the large curves of muscle as those dark arms bunched up there. He was a fairly dim outline in the limited light of the room and yet his pose and posture were vivid and expectant, and brought Callum stumbling closer to the bed, drawn on by his rash promises and provocative claims - and perhaps a curiosity that had been nursed behind his Ryan Fraser conflicts for some time, a question mark on what it might feel like. Bets had been made, and forfeits set, and the result decided - and yet here he was, in a topsy-turvy world, facing the exact defeat he'd set up for his rival. Nothing made sense in the space that Callum now occupied, and yet he found himself ready to just embrace that. Moving slowly forward, shirtless and a little sweaty, and climbing knee after knee on the foot of the bed, until he was crawling over his pal's outstretched legs in their loose rough black denim. His hands pawed over the bedding to bring him into place and he rested there on all fours, poised over Michail's prone body, as if waiting for the big West Ham man to suddenly tell him the punchline of this mutual joke. But Antonio just stared at him with an almost blank and disinterested face, hiding god knows what feelings about this - and Wilson could just hover where he was in a moment's shady indecision. He could kid himself he had a point to prove, that he was playing the same game of `chicken' as his host - he could even suggest to himself that he was trying to nudge this uptight bastard along and maybe earn his just reward, as jokingly agreed over their web-call. He could lie to himself with those thoughts, but tipsy excitement laid bare something more honest: he did want to try this, and in particular, he wanted to try it with this bloke. With several ragged breaths, he leaned in, and reached for the thick heavy buckle of a belt, tugging at the leather and metal until it was undone, and then, oh then, his hand on the shape in the thick rough denim, and the tight intake of his breath. A sort of awkward clearing of the throat by Mic. He tugged at the button fly, one at a time, to get the jeans open, and then he pushed up on the material of his friend's burgundy-coloured polo shirt - encouraged, the other man sat up a little in an ab crunch, and up the top went, cast aside like Cal's own sweaty tee. Back down on the bed, same relaxed posture, bulging arms up around the sides of his head, and an expression of sheer indifference on his face - eyes not quite open, hooded and evasive, no more intense challenging eye contact. Was Michail a bit nervous too? Was he really up for this? Callum stuck a clumsy hand inside the open flies and felt the contents. Fuck. Huge and soft. He lurched forward a little on his knees until his face almost rested on the hard ridges of the other man's six-pack. He leaned his face in and pressed a soft uncertain kiss against the smooth skin there, while fumbling his hand inside the open jeans, giving it a proper squeeze; he might have pulled nervously back had one of Michail's large strong hands not fallen against his shoulder and rested there with a kind of encouraging firmness that drove Cal on to wrench the front of the jeans open more fully and to kiss the base of his hard tummy muscles one more time, then... slowly, as if unsure what would be revealed, to push and pull on the black elastic of the undies, and to let it out. Antonio's huge soft cock, the one seen bouncing and bulging in every West Ham kit for the last eight seasons. The 31-year-old knew what he had to do next and yet still he hesitated, staring at the shape in the shadows; on his bare shoulder blade, his friend's hand rubbed gently, making slow progress to his spine and then onto the back of his neck, where its pressure could guide his face forward and down. Fuck. `Come on,' came the rumble of Antonio's voice. `Show us what you'd have done, loser.' Nothing here was hypothetical, this was real, and yet he was gonna show him - he'd won completely, and yet he was gonna show him. He opened his mouth and brought it in, rubbing his lips down the length, then jutting out his tongue and picking up the fat tip into his mouth, almost laughing at how plump and floppy it was, but opening wide and letting it in, and dragging one hand up the inner thigh of the denim and then using it to cup and hold the balls through the black cotton of the undies. And Antonio's hand, reaching up his neck and the fade cut of his hair, until it was on top of his crown and pressing forward, guiding him and his mouth - which was suddenly so very full. It tasted like his friend smelled: rich and manly, and it felt huge between his lips. He didn't do much at first, just testing it against his lips and his tongue, marvelling at its thickness and warmth, but then he tried to suck on it, unsure of how to perform, unsure of what he needed here - until a receptive moan came from the West Ham player, and an almost tender stroke of the hand on his head. Lips pursing and pulling back and forth a little, he coaxed life into the monster, breathing in the scent of a man's crotch, and realising that his heart was beating out some serious drum-and-bass behind his pecs. `Fuck,' the West Ham forward groaned openly, because why hide the pleasure? `Fuck, that feels good,' he added a little more expressively, and he rubbed both hands encouragingly in against the other man - rubbing at both the back of his head and at one huge thick shoulder, wanting him to know that he was doing right. Right? Well, good. Something good. It felt good. Michail's thoughts were a muddle of satisfaction and desire - and that same unfounded dominance, the restoring of some order between the two sporting friends, in spite of the score-line at the stadium. Something was being righted here, he thought, that had nothing and everything to do with 5-1 and Callum's part in that - fucking Macarena was one thing, but sucking my dick's another. The 33-year-old stud could feel his cock stretch and stiffen and he loved the soft hesitant wetness of a mouth on it, one that didn't know how good it felt - he loved the slow cursory attention of the lad's tongue and the gentle brush of his lips, he even loved the shaky weight of the muscular body against his thighs and his pelvis, felt like he could reach down and hug the bulky presence of the Newcastle striker and just tell his friend how great his muscles felt here in the shadows. `Keep going,' Antonio urged, and Wilson made a sort of gagging sound - he was so tentative with it, pulling back and gasping for air, and Michail had to resist the urge to push down on his head and to really force his growing length into that hot wet orifice. Instead he just reached for the base of his cock instead, squeezing and shifting it, holding the big black rod in place for Callum's experimental licks and rubs. Fully hard now, he felt incredibly sensitive, and even more appreciative of the rub and slurp of the mouth. `Oh god,' he groaned openly, and he felt Cal again try to take more of it in against his tongue, but struggle - it was even bigger and thicker now than the soft snake he'd begun with, and he heard edges of panic and frustration to the Tyneside star's heavy breathing. As if to help him, rather than himself, Michail shifted and moved - up onto his knees and his haunches, jeans pulled halfway down his solid thighs, and one hand cradling about his tight balls and the thick base of his weapon, the other guiding Cal's head in and down. There, he thought, that's better, the man could really get his lips about it, and - fuckkkkk, it felt so good, and he realised he was growling these things out loud and not just thinking them, `Fuck yes mate' and `Oh that's good', long drawling gasps of pleasure for his willing sucker, the forfeiter who'd won the bet. `Spit on it,' Michail told him, soft rather than aggressive, and Callum did so - his lips glided about the head and the foreskin and down some of the shaft, and so he spat some more, and Michail groaned more and more in response to each move of it. He reached one muscled arm behind him and gripped the metalwork that formed an ornate headboard, using it to prop up his heavy physique - the thick dark bulk of his muscles with the paler caramel of Wilson's body hunched before him. He stroked his broad strong back, running his hands side to side and then down the spine, and then - fuck, he was enjoying this too much! - even further, to drop a light slap against the round shape in the rear of those NUFC trackies. Another little smack, and then a good squeezing grip of them. Cal's arse was big and round like a hot woman's, and so fucking FIRM. Jesus. Some booty on him. He thought this was too much, too grabby, too much of a liberty, and yet - drooling over the huge fat head of Antonio's cock, he heard a panting enthusiasm in Wilson's breath, a little moan of his too as he squeezed his behind for him, and... fuck, why not? Hand on the small of his friend's back, the other guiding his face over his crotch, and a single finger slipping down the back where the underpants were starting to come away from his glutes... into the gap between those cheeks, so damp and sweaty, digging in and... fuck, fuck, his finger finding the hot wet fuzziness, tapping loudly against a virgin hole. His cock was raging hard and his whole muscular body was tense with sudden lust. He reached both hands for the sides of Callum's face and held it there, staring hotly down at him. `Good lad,' the West Ham striker breathed, and then, `come here and kiss me.' Callum Wilson was on his knees before he knew what he was doing, unsteady but excited, and gripping both hands to the thick hard sides of Michail's torso for balance; he pressed his wet quivering mouth to the other man's and kissed him, glad of the intimacy and approval of it. He slipped his tongue in and for a delicious moment the two strikers snogged recklessly, their heavy kneeling bodies falling into each other... Michail's hands all over his arms and his back muscles and then down again, pushing the tracksuit pants and the CK boxers away form his big pale brown cheeks! But then the kiss was broken, and Cal thought he knew why - the bristles of his stubble ripping against the more clipped and tidy goatee of Mic's beard, perhaps too masculine and real, and a clumsy parting of their damp lips. But still the other big built guy held onto him by the arse cheeks, and Callum kissed his neck instead, snogging the hot sensitive skin there and making the West Ham player groan in long tingling noises. But then there was a real urgency about Michail and Callum found himself pushed back - for a moment, it was if this was all way too much, not just the kiss but all of it, and he was about to be thrown from the bed of this married man. But instead, the other footballer was on him, pressing him back down into the bedding and kissing him on the neck in the same excited almost teenage way. His hands were rough and greedy on his ams and his sides and then his hips - and then his arse, squeezing and pulling at his cheeks, and at last, flipping him onto his side and holding him there, spooning him and kissing him roughly on the back of his neck. By the time Wilson understood what was happening, he knew how much he wanted it, and he could just reach down and take hold of his own cock, pulling it free of his undies which were dragged halfway down, and jerk on his own hefty length, which had been straining for release and pooling pre-cum against his Calvins. He lay on his side on the bed and felt held by Michail's mighty arms, kissed and nipped on the neck. He felt one of his heavy legs lifted and a finger in his crack again. He heard Mic spit heavily and the finger there was slick and wet, finding and pressing at his tiny hole. Fuck. He tried to help, tried to manoeuvre his strong heavy body into a better position, and left that leg more openly - `that's it' growled Mic's voice in his ear and a hand was hooked under his thigh muscle to spread his legs properly. Now it wasn't just a wet fingertip he could feel between his cheeks, but something far more huge and pressing. Callum couldn't believe how incredibly horny he felt, spitting into his own hand and bringing his fist up and down his erection in long wild pumps - nah, this couldn't be happening, this wasn't real, this was just a mad sex dream, and - fuck, it felt so big and hard, the round wet tip that rubbed between his cheeks and passed over his puckered hole - the hot wet breaths of Michail on his neck and his stubbly cheek and the lips that nibbled at the lobe of his ear - and then the fingertip that was back down there, kneading over his ring and pushing ever-so-slightly inside him to open him up. `Fuck, fuck, fuck,' the Newcastle striker gasped over and over, lifting his heavy leg more, stretching his tall body, pressing back into Antonio's powerful grasp. He wanked himself with ridiculous speed, more sensitive and aroused than he thought he'd ever been. He could feel it again, pressing in there, and all he could think was the impossibility of it - Callum hadn't before put so much as a little finger inside his arse-hole and now he had the huge fat cock-head rolling against it, the same one that he'd gagged on as he tried to take more of the fat length inside his clumsy mouth! But the more that Michail pushed and rubbed, the less sure he was - was his ring responding to it, and wanting it? Were his cheeks relaxing and parting at Mic's strong touch and grasp? `Fuck,' he moaned, a tremble of fear in his breathy voice, countered by an assertive growl `You can take it', Mic's mouth so close to his ear. Maybe he could? He wanked furiously on himself and tensed up, inadvertently making such entry impossible - having never given any thought to such action for himself, he had no idea what he was doing, and no knowledge that as he tensed and squeezed on every muscle of his being, he was just locking out the prods of the other man's big black cock. But to Wilson, this no longer mattered - he could hold back no more. With the tip of a cock pressed between his butttocks and straining dangerously at that most private entrance, the 31-year-old reached his own separate climax, and spurted string after string of hot wet cum from the red tip of his cock, drenching his knuckles and his six-pack and much of the bedding beside him. He moaned loudly as he did, and reacted more sharply as Antonio ushed again, testing the locked tensin of his hole - he was less receptive now, more focused on his own pleasure, and he pulled his hips away, making Michail grip anxiously at him to keep control, but only for a confused moment before releasing him and letting him roll clumsily aside, cum still leaking for his dick. And the two friends stared at each other, their faces shining in the low lamplight, before the West Ham player began to jerk himself off on his side, grabbing at his dick in the same frenzied way that Callum had; and Callum himself, his broad chest heaivng with each breath, brought his wet cummy hand forward and stroked it against the other man's balls and onto the base of his shaft, smearing his juices up his length and taking over the tugs for just a moment, before letting his friend finish himself off. The men brought their faces close but did not kiss, eyes half-closed, pouts almost brushing, breath mingling, as Michail Antonio gushed semen onto the bedding between them and sweat glistened on the differing shades of their muscles. A bathrobe pulled over his now naked form, Antonio stepped around the interior of his apartment as if the floor was covered in broken glass, every movement cautious and loaded with regret. Popping briefly back into the bedroom, he stared at the sticky smears on the bedding and wondered if he would successfully launder the sheets before his wife returned from her family trip; should he just bin them all and buy new stuff from a department store tomorrow after training? Back out of the bedroom, into the open-plan heart of the floor, where Callum was still wriggling into his hooded top and then pushing each foot inside of his trainers, not stooping to lace either one. Michail just stopped at and stared at him, his breathing still quite laboured, and his eyes finding the prodding outline of a still-risen cock somewhere in the front of those Newcastle-branded tracksuit pants. His own dick was wilting but heavy inside the loose folds of his dressing gown, and he shivered anxiously. The 33-year-old striker said his quiet and stilted goodbyes to the other man and they hesitated over a hug, eventually deciding against it, and Michail pulling the robe more firmly about his bulky form. He let the visitor out onto the private inner landing and pressed the button that would undo the security locks down below; `See you online,' he called vaguely after his friend, staying on the top step and watching as Wilson jogged his way down the stairwell and out through the centre of the modern complex that was topped by his own Hackney penthouse. Back into the flat, and through to the large main bathroom. Robe to the floor, and white socks yanked off one at a time. Big naked body into the wetroom corner and shower flipped into life. Cold, at first, and welcome - icy ripples against the dark muscle and shameful sweat, cleaning his cock and balls and the kiss-marks on his neck and pecs. He swore under his breath and rubbed his hands over his face and then the tight braids of his hair, picturing himself in the shadows with the lighter-skinned bloke. Madness, to let that happen, madness to go through with any of it, but madness especially to almost- Fucking hell. Michail embraced the cold shower and let it warm gently over his skin until it was hot, at which point he switched it off and dried himself slowly, unable to look at himself in the gently steamed bathroom mirror. Callum walked the distance back to the hotel in just over twenty minutes, even sweatier below his gear as he came within sight of the upmarket but featureless accommodation, and the blank dark panels of its windows, behind each of which would be sleeping the dutiful members of a hardworking and ambitious squad - behind one of them, he thought, his Spanish roomie would be fast asleep, delighted and proud. And Wilson himself just had to get in there without alerting anyone, and crawl into bed; his body was drenched in shameful sweat and he knew that the cold shower he craved would wake up at least his room's other occupant, if not the players on either side of them. He would just have to rest in his own dirt, and wait until the grey light of dawn, when an early departure would carry the Black and White Army up the motorway. The married footballer played awkwardly with the wedding band on one finger as he moved through automatic doors and flinched at the beeps of his tapped key-card, making his way to his shared suite. He thought about Michail's awkward face and body language as they parted, and dreaded to imagine their video calls in the coming week as they prepped another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast. In bed, he gritted his teeth and found it impossible to get comfortable. He'd already been highly conflicted about his earlier experimenting - not just about those furtive nights when he and Fraser had first transferred to pre-Saudi Newcastle, or about the aggro that had developed when he cut off those illicit blowies - but about things like the England camp, where he'd been nudged into enjoying oral sex from Harry fucking Kane, or little shower escapades at Trippier's encouragement, where he'd seen Fraser gobble more hard cocks than his own, and seen cheeky Bruno go down on Big Joe. There was so much sex in the air between top-flight footballers, and Callum just about accepted that there were some needs which maybe shouldn't be talked about outside of their circle - but now, tossing and turning his big body in the sweat-stained sheets, he was thinking new thoughts, and fretting over new fears: just how many needs did he have, and how far would they take him? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-379

Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2023 20:25:18 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 379 Part 379: Defending His Honour Their game against the Serbian hosts was only hours away when the fight broke out, interrupting a light morning training session at a local sports centre close to the hotel - sulking over the incident later on, dropped from the coach's starting line-up to a position on the bench, Tyler Morton wasn't sure what had come over him. The boy-faced 21-year-old from Wallasey wasn't the most aggressive or belligerent of the young men who made up England's Under-21 line-up this winter, far from it, and in fact his superiors at his loan club Hull City tended to point out the opposite, and tell him that he needed to bring more aggro and fight into his game, to really stake his place in the Championship midfield; why else did big Premier League institutions like Liverpool farm out their youngster to the lower leagues for loan seasons, after all? But here Tyler was, grabbing the chest of the other lad's shirt in his fists, squaring up to him even though the big lad dwarfed his own 5ft10 stature. Red-faced and furious, the Scouse footballer tore into the other guy, ready to fight as hard as he had to. As soon as the first punch was thrown, they were surrounded by a flurry of the others, an ambiguous reaction of superficial concern - `Hey, guys, chill out!' - laced with the schoolyard thrill of young men on the edge of violence - `You gonna let him hit you like that, fella?' - and a combined mass of noise and physicality just totally enveloping them. The tension that snapped that Serbian Saturday had begun days ago, he supposed, quite quickly after they all met up in the lesser quarters of St George's Park, coached and accommodated at a frustrating periphery to the nearby senior men - close enough to watch the main squad hard at work and pass each other in single file, but never really mixing with them socially or getting much chance to catch the eyes of the senior staff. The transfer on day one of Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, replacing injured names on the main England team-sheet, sent a ripple of envy and frustration amongst the younger lads here, one that perhaps added to Morton's discomfort. But ambition was not at the forefront of the Liverpudlian's mind during those tense days and nights leading up to the Serbia away game - not so much as friendship, honour, and Anfield pride. The first joke, as far as Tyler heard, came over dinner on that first evening, when Palmer and Lewis were the main topic of conversation, and he and his buddy were queuing up with their trays at the serving hatch. A fragrant Thai curry was served to them and they picked at the accompaniments, thanking the staff with the deferential politeness that football academy had drilled into them, two Liverpool graduates who were representing the club here in England-branded tracksuits. Ahead, they had cold dessert options to grab at, and Tyler was just eyeing up the small glass bowls of key lime pie and strawberry cheesecake when he heard the weighty thud on his pal's tray, and the rattle of crockery and cutlery that it caused - he glanced sharply up the slow-moving queue of them, noting the jolting body language of his shorter friend and teammate. Harvey Elliott's mop of curly hair juddered as he flinched in shock at the short-range missile landing next to his dinner, and Tyler blinked and tensed, confused at what had happened - but just beyond his mate Harv, Leeds defender Charlie Cresswell as bristling with gruff laughter, having tossed the weighty banana from the fruit bowl into the midfield's dinner. `Here,' the big rugged Lancastrian barked quietly at Elliott, `get your lips round that for pud, Harvey lad, get some practice in for after the Serbia game, haha.' Proud of his non-existent wit, the big lanky fuck boomed with further laughter and high-fived the next lad in the queue, and Tyler just stared at them in irritation, before glancing cautiously at the other Liverpool youngster. `What the fuck?' Morton mouthed, unamused, bumping elbows with the curly-haired Surrey lad, one of his best mates at his parent club, someone he was always delighted to reunite with when international duty brought them back together. Harvey turned this way, brow creased slightly, but an ambivalent look on his face, neither quite amused nor offended by Cresswell's banter. Tyler paused, trying to read the other young guy's reaction, but also looking past him to study the way big Charlie sauntered confidently away to one of the dining tables. `You alright?' the temporary Hull midfielder asked discreetly, sidling closer to Harvey as they lingered at the dessert station of the hotel canteen. Harvey made a vague noise, pausing indecisively over a key lime pie conundrum, then picking himself one of the small portioned cheesecakes. `Huh? Oh, what? Haha, of course I am-' He paused, shoving the weaponised banana over to one side of the tray, and placing the sweeter dessert down next to it. `Just a bit of banter, mate,' he said calmly, flashing one of his big grins at a nervously frowning Tyler, looking totally unfazed by the tall defender's innuendo and insult. And Harvey picked his tray up in both hands and backed off, whilst Tyler paused briefly to decide what had alarmed him so much there - just the silly violence and surprise of the gesture, or the potentially nasty homophobia of the Leeds player's joke...? It had happened again though, on Thursday afternoon during training, and again in the showers on Friday, and Tyler had begun to feel very worried and protective towards the cocksure right winger whose Anfield success he both admired and envied - though a little younger than him, he'd always looked up to the street-smart maturity of the southerner, and saw Harvey's Blackburn Rovers spell and subsequent first team status as an important role model for his own career trajectory at Liverpool. On Thursday, it was actually big rosy-cheeked goalkeeper James Trafford who made the remark, the Burnley player bursting between the two friends on the way back out from lunch, and throwing long arms about Elliott's shoulders to hug and shake the attacking player. `Here, is Morton your boyfriend, then?' the celebrated young goalkeeper had butted in, breaking up their inane chat, and practically dragging a chuckling Harvey into a mild headlock, whilst Tyler himself was somewhat elbowed aside. `Or is it more of a three-way you Scouser boys have with Jarell Quansah...?' Trafford gave Harley's highlighted curls a good ruffle before letting him slip free, laughing heavily at his own accusation. `Very fucking funny,' Morton muttered, but half under his breath, somewhat intimidated by the height and physique of the big Cumbrian goalie, one of the most prominent young guys on their team following his spotless record at that last tournament. `Aw, have I interrupted a lover's tiff?' the Burnley signing continued, hands still on Elliott's shoulders in a jokily affectionate man, rocking along between them. It was Harvey himself who put an abrupt stop to this, smiling quite pleasantly along to James' banter, and just nodding his head - `Yeah, actually, we were just arguing over how many goals you were going to let in this afternoon, you big bell-end,' the short stocky winger declared coolly, slipping away from the other lad's tactile joviality. `Tyler here thinks just 200, but I've got my money on way more...' The Liverpool starlet smirked and leered and flipped a middle finger at the goalie, who laughed loudly and jogged ahead of them, off to catch up with the leaders of the pack, leaving Harvey to just let out a long wheezing chuckle. Tyler was about to say more about it, irritated, before stopping himself - it had been the silly banana moment that made him so sensitive to Trafford's insinuations, and he didn't want to make a big deal of the banter aimed at himself, so he kept his question to himself, and failed to ask `What's his fucking problem?' - instead, he tried to mirror Harvey's own casual disinterest and stomp along into the training pitch in the drizzle and mist, ready to shrug off such casual digs like everyone else. The moment the following day was a little worse though, he thought, and left him more firmly uncomfortable and defensive. It was Taylor Harwood-Bellis, the Man City loanee, who made the next unnecessary dig at Harvey's masculinity or sexuality, and this time he really saw the panic and upset on his friend's face. They were changing for the showers after their longest and hardest day of training, just yesterday, on other sides of the central row of hooks and rails, with Tyler himself pulling away clingy kit items and baring his lean pale torso as he did, flushed and blotchy from working hard in the damp cool. But across the metal frame from him, his buddy was undressing too, unzipping and wriggling out of his England training jersey, then dropping his shorts so that just the layers of compression lycra were hugging his compact muscular form - which turned a little to one side as their on-off captain called at him. `How are you coping without Curtis here?' the skin-headed Southampton defender asked gruffly, shirtless and gleaming sweaty under the electric lighting; in one sharp gesture, he flicked his sweat-damp training shirt at Harvey's back and shuffled closer, another big burly figure next to Harvey's 5ft7 stature. Across the rail from them, Tyler paused in the process of taking down his shorts, hearing a suggestive tone in Taylor's question. `Oh, he just has some ligament thing,' he heard Harvey say quietly, vaguely, distantly. `Ligament in his stupid big dick, ha ha?' came the City export's low chuckle. `Something like that,' Elliott quipped back. `You'd know!' boomed Harwood-Bellis, awkwardly loud. `Sure...' `Haha, you know,' egged the centre-back, leaning a heavy arm into the metal frame that separated them from Morton's own position, `cos you suck the big dope off every night on Merseyside, I fuckin' bet...' The defender lad was cracking up with laughter and so were a couple of others, and Tyler just froze where he was, holding onto a folded towel; he couldn't quite see Harvey's face properly for the lattice of metalwork that separated them on different sides of the changing room, but his pal was unusually quiet, no big comeback for the brutish humour of their team captain. `Probably sucked him too much and he couldn't make it down here,' sniggered Taylor incoherently, lingering there, close and almost threatening - the pause was over and there was a more familiar acidity to Harvey's tone as he responded - `Oh no, he's definitely injured, otherwise shite like you wouldn't have made the cut, y'know?' - and Tyler Morton just felt tense and uncomfortable, not liking the tone of the conversation he was overhearing. And for a long moment the two seemed to remain that way in front of him, Harvey still and head slightly hung, and the centre-back looming over him, ripples of grimy muscle against the harsh lighting. When someone else called for Taylor HB and drew him away, Harvey shifted and moved, and through the gaps in the metal, Tyler caught better sight of his face: there was a bitter little frown to his goateed features, a quiet thoughtfulness that didn't seem right, and he could tell that the other guy's comments had affected him somewhat. Acting as if he'd heard nothing, the 21-year-old dropped his shorts and his sweaty briefs, and he wrapped the towel about his slim waist, then came moving around the edges to pass Harvey on his way to the shower, giving his pal a nudge - but then noticing that the 20-year-old Surrey lad was already pulling a clean grey hoody over his clammy upper body, jogger bottoms tugged up over his compression shorts. `Er, not showering?' Morton asked, hesitating next to him. Harvey, his face poking through the neck-hole of the hooded top, met him with seemingly calm and casual eyes, then wrinkled nose, then the softly bearded thin mouth: `Oh, nah, gonna take one up in our room, I promised I'd ring my nan, just remembered.' And he turned his attention to his belongings, clothing his sweaty training-weary body rather than joining the huddle of lads heading for the showers, coursing past Tyler now in a miasma of youthful sweat and bluster. He let himself be carried away by this general movement, a concerned frown creasing his slim youthful features - towel off and hung on a hook, slim toned body disappearing into the obscuring steam and humidity of the showers, but a long sidelong glance connecting with the mighty frames of Taylor Harwood-Bellis and his cronies, the big heavy muscle of the England youth team, Trafford to one side and Cresswell to the other, their stinging words lingering on Morton's memory - something weird was going on here, and he wasn't going to let his buddy just suffer it. All of this, and a generally dissatisfied mood, had the nervy young football player ready to snap by the time they'd travelled to Serbia that night, and kitted up for a morning runaround in advance of the fixture itself - when he heard the careless comment from the bigger guy on the training pitch, he wasn't just going to let it go. He wasn't going to have these dickheads saying weird shit about his buddy, his pal, his role model - he wasn't going to have the yobs of the England U21s squad casting aspersions on the Liverpool `star-boy' Harvey Elliott, who to the best of his knowledge still had a girlfriend back home! They were doing the rounds with some pretty basic fitness activities, kitted up against a cool East European day, and Tyler's low mood was hidden behind a scrunched-up face of determined effort, throwing himself into the prep work with the same quiet determination as everybody else who wanted to prove themselves in the game - every U21s fixture felt like a coaching showcase where they were trying to prove that they, like Cole and Rico, could make the switch up to the Three Lions roster, Southgate's next protegee. But not everybody was dour with effort and focus - Harvey himself, Tyler noted, was full of grins and quips, something leering and excitable in his behaviour as he threw himself about the pitch in his stretchy slim-fit tracksuit and zipped-up training jersey, all grins and smirks and cheeky winks. It's a front, Morton assured himself, those guys must be getting to him, making jokes at the canteen queue and digs in the changing room, implying things about him and our other absent mate, Curtis! No, Tyler was not to be convinced by Harvey's brave-face or banter, because he'd seen the thoughtful pause, the quiet awkwardness, and seen him slip discreetly away from the showers as if he was suddenly shy for the first time in his life - that wasn't the Harvey Elliott he knew from the youth ranks of the Liverpool Academy, getting in trouble every other week for his cockiness and boundary-pushing. This must already have been weighing on Morton's thoughts, even if only subconsciously, when he turned away from the passing drill and heard the big guy make the comment - `Hey, Harv, get that next shot past Traff and I'll let you lick my bollocks, haha' - followed by a scrunching tousle of that curly hair, and a switch snapped in Tyler's body and brain. Like an unhinged XL Bully dog, the Scouse youth shot assertively towards the dickhead in question, even if he did tower up at 6ft5, a giant even amongst this squad of well-built young athletes on the rise. `What was that?' Tyler practically snarled, squaring up to the Evertonian - was that old city rivalry part of it, he later wondered, was he quicker to snap because he couldn't bear hearing a Toffee dare to make such a comment to his Harv? Perhaps, but that was nothing next to his loyalty and sense of honour, desperate to defend and protect a fellow honorary Scouser! Rising over him, Jarrad Braithwaite barely turned his head, the most dismissive and amused of expressions briefly curling at his rugged features. `You what?' was the big Carlisle lad's simple grunted response, looking him up and down and then, seeing his posture, squaring up himself, all broad shoulders and puffed chest - but there was no slowing or calming the path that Tyler had launched himself down, and he threw the first punch. Jarrad ducked back from this, genuine surprise flashing over his face, only to be replaced by a burst of heavy disbelieving laughter - `What the FUCK?' And just like that they were fighting, Tyler's blood pounding - `Take that back, you stupid big bastard,' he yelled stupidly at his opponent, thinking about the ridiculous comment, and Trafford's complicit sneer from over by the goalposts; he swung for another punch and grasped desperately at the other guy's England shirt. Instantly, others were rushing to them, he could feel the explosion of male energy and physicality against him - there were hands all over his back and arms, trying to drag him forcibly back, but he was not the skinny lightweight he might appear, rather wiry and steely - he elbowed a couple of lads away from him without even noting who was intervening, rushing at big Braithwaite and throwing a third punch, this one catching him hard in the side of his long face, so hard in fact that Morton's fist instantly stung and burned and he almost went flying sideways as his own ferocity broke away from the hold of others. The air roared with mixed voices, and he was too frenzied to detect the authority of coaching voices amongst the yell of his teammates - but as he turned and threw himself back towards that stupid big bastard who thought he could speak down to Harv, here was Elliott himself, whip-sharp out of the crowd and up in his face, leaping in his way and pushing him hard in the chest. `Leave it,' the 20-year-old barked fiercely in his face, `just leave it!' Tyler surged forward but the winger grabbed him about the middle and shoved into him, rugby tackling him away from the swinging fists of Jarrad, who was being similarly grasped and dragged at by the bodies of others - Trafford, Cresswell, Harwood-Bellis amongst them - until the moment's utter violence had dissipated, and Tyler felt the slow return of sanity and rationality, and with it a kind of crushing shame. He could see a look of sheer confusion and even almost amusement on Harvey's face, but over his shoulder, he could also see the red-faced rage of the gaffer, the top coach and two assistants bearing down upon them with arms full of clipboards. Oh, fuck. Back at a top-flight club, or in the world of their senior counterparts, Tyler's outburst might have been met with an instant ban or expulsion; as it was, the U21s were handled a little more carefully, and the young midfielder was simply told that he would be taken out of the starting line-up and remain an unlikely substitute. And even at that, it turned out, he still got game time, shamefacedly allowed onto the pitch in the 74th minute for McAtee, and even sharing the field with Braithwaite for almost ten minutes before the big centre-back was benched for another Liverpdulian, Quansah. By this time, of course, the young Englanders were 3-0 up, including Harvey's own moment of triumph not long into the second half - a great game for the team, but a lacklustre 20 minutes' runabout for Tyler Morton himself, after a long sulk on the subs bench. Funny looks from almost every team member, ranging from surprised admiration to distrustful wariness, from sour disapproval to outright snubs. By the end of the big win, their qualification for the U21 Euros another step closer, Tyler hardly felt able to partake in the celebrations, and found himself distant from the big group hugs and rowdy displays of the other lads - his training ground aggression had made him a pariah, and he wondered if the effects would be lasting or not. In the long dressing-down he'd received form the gaffer on the way to the stadium, it had been mentioned that he could easily be sent back to Hull tonight rather than remaining with the squad for their second fixture of the camp; by the time the Young Lions were showered, dressed, and enjoying a traditional Serbian supper in the hotel restaurant, Morton found himself wishing that was the case, just wanting to get out of here. His annoyance and resentment at the lads who'd made their mean comments to Elliott hadn't gone anywhere, but jostled with shame and embarrassment and regret, and an absolute confusion at the casual untouchability with which Harvey himself continued to be at the centre of the team, joyously celebrating the result and his own goal with dickheads like Taylor or Charlie or James, or that big smug bastard Jarrad too. Whilst the bulk of the team moved from the restaurant to the bar, strict beer limits shouted out by the gaffers, Tyler slipped away and went for an early night. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom of their shared suite, noting the split lip and grazes on his knuckles, not even sure if these marks of damage were from the brief fight or from his short part in the win against the host team. Quiet and low, the Scouse lad went to bed, daring to hope that this would all be a silly blip and not a big blot on his national team reputation - he had as much hope and desire for the senior squad as anyone else on the trip, he was just less braggartly and vocal about it. Tyler lay awake with these thoughts for what seemed a long while, but must have slipped into fitful sleep, perhaps poxed by dreams of being sold by Liverpool to a permanent place in the Championship, because at some other point he could feel himself begin to wake, disturbed as if from great distance by suggestions of noise and presence. He lay there, his face squished into his pillows, warm in the heated room, and sleepy hands beginning to pull at the thick pyjama t-shirt and shorts he wore under the covers. He turned gently, tumbling through that uniquely disorienting hinterland between sleep and wakefulness, only half-aware of opening/closing doors and footsteps in the suite. Eyes still glued shut, he opened his mouth wide in yawn and pulled at the covers, rolling over twice more, side to side, until consciousness began to gather force against his brief sleep, and a clattering noise somewhere on the edge of his universe really grabbed hold of his semi-woken attention. Eyes opening, he lay there on his back, experiencing the brief confusion of an unfamiliar hotel room, and then remembering where he was, who he was, how he'd made a prick of himself on the training ground; righteous indignation, the defence of his friend's honour, felt far away in earlier daylight, and all that was left was the embarrassment and the worry, the fear that no further call-ups would come his way. What if that was it, and he'd never pull an England shirt on again...? Pushing away this resurgent thought, the 21-year-old heard what sounded like a... giggle? A little thump, a suppressed snigger, a knock of foot or elbow on plastic; and then a voice, low and husky, chuckling `When you started on that big Serbian fella... so fucking funny, he looked like he was shitting himself even though he was twice yer height...' Tyler only half-recognised the voice, not clear enough in his fugue, but the voice that giggled back was clearer instantly, even if it was low and secretive, `I woulda knocked the fuckwit out if he'd raised a hand, you know that, I don't take shit - although I could have blown his mind in other ways, I guess, haha...' Harvey? Tyler brought one sore knuckle up to rub across his eyes, yawning again. He felt hot, uncomfortably hot, sweating under his bedclothes, and it was a relief to pull the thick winter duvet away from him, to slide across the bed, to place one bare foot uncertainly against carpet. Another bump or two, muffled sounds, coming from the room's adjoining bathroom, and more voices, similarly low and suppressed, but now indiscernible - the previous quiet comments seemed so unclear and unlikely that Tyler thought perhaps he'd dreamt them, surely there weren't two lads in there? Harvey fair enough, his roommate, but that first voice- it became more clear and familiar to him, its heavy Northernness, the distant Cumbrian tones, the smug authority of a huge defender like the Evertonian. And so he got up, bleary and unsure, and pulling uncomfortably at his top, his shorts, his wedgie; lanky pale legs tottering him across the room, dark but for the thin ray of light that crept out from the not-quite-closed doorway to the en suite; more bumps, more whispers and chuckles, and... he lurched close, unsure if this was a dream, and laid a hand to the door, pulling it slowly outwards, and staring into the illuminated space, as if expecting to tumble through the doorway into another universe, a sci-fi dreamscape, and not the simple square bathroom of their basic hotel suite. `Wha'...?' groaned the Scouse youth, dimly, his sleepy eyes blinking against the light - the light that revealed the big hefty build of Jarrad Braithwaite, leaning back against the hot silvery bars of their heated towel rack, his top off and clutched in one huge paw; big bulky chest muscles on show, stretching down from his gurning face, down washboard abs to the waist, which gave way to a bush of mousy pubes, and the protruding mast of his manhood, on which Harvey's head bobbed gently up and down, the other England youth player hunkering down there in front of the towering centre-back - Tyler stared down, still blinking, at the crouching figure of the Liverpool ace, then slowly and uncomprehendingly up, tracing Jarrad's powerful body, past large soft nipples and gently haired pecs, to his blocky jawline and lazily half-closed eyes, which stared bluntly this way to meet his own. Morton mouthed another puzzled question, but Braithwaite barked simply at him, `Oh, here he is, Tyson Fury himself...' A bronze bruise shone on the side of the big Cumbrian's face, right where Tyler Morton had landed that single effective punch; his knuckles ached just looking at it, and he wilted confusedly in the doorway. `What the hell?' groaned Tyler dimly. Slurping back noisily, Harvey turned on his haunches and looked this way, his lips wet and drooling; he looked drunk, they both did, and he looked confused too, but also bright and excitable. He licked his lips and took a good grip of the huge hard cock in his face, licking its fat tip without removing his eyes from Tyler's bewildered expression, the two friends locking eyes - Tyler had to reach out for the doorframe. This must be a dream, he told himself, but why the fuck am I dreaming about this...? `Here,' grunted Jarrad's sleepy slur of a voice, `come in...' `Yeah,' murmured Harvey too, not getting up, but kneeling down on the bathmat more comfortably, `come here, matey...' More out of confusion than any desire he could name, Tyler drifted into the awkwardly bright space with them, slow unsteady steps, until one of Jarrad's big hands was brought up to his warm shoulder and then the back of his neck, encouraging him to pull in closer next to them... and one of Harvey's hands was on one of his legs, sliding up and down about his knee and onto the downy muscle of his thigh, edging curiously into the leg of his pyjama shorts. Tyler swayed a little on his feet, looking from Harvey's flushed cheeky face and up to Jarrad's strange bruised leer. `No hard feelings,' the centre-back chuckled in his face, `but I think now you understand. Show him what you can do, Harv.' `What he can... huh?' mumbled Morton. The hand up the leg of his shorts was touching him gently but decisively, and he wobbled more where he stood - his warm sleepy balls stroked, his soft slim cock pulled softly, his bristly trimmed pubes rubbed by fingertips... and then that shorts leg bunched up as kisses climbed his inner thigh, until those kisses met his cock, soft goatee on his skin, shorts pushed up and open, soft cock sucked and tasted down their leg... Tyler leant into the supportive strength of the taller lad, and turned his confused face to Jarrad's snarling enjoyment, a beery laugh blowing into his face. Tyler didn't know what time it was, how long either his roomie or enemy had been in the hotel bar, how far they'd exceeded the gaffer's limit or curfew, or what the hell they were doing here in the bathroom - but he knew how good his cock felt, slowly entering a wet and warm stiffness, released properly as his PJ shorts were pulled slowly down his long slim legs. When he looked down, he saw Harvey's wet mouth travel slowly from his own slim average meat to the big thick whopper that juddered and towered from Jarrad's crotch, trails of spit stretching from cock to mouth as Elliott rapidly switched between lollipops. Oh, fuck. `Every lad likes a blowie,' Braithwaite grunted loudly, and if Morton had been more fully awake, he might have heard the way the big Carlisle lad was saying it more for his own assurance than for anyone else. `A mouth's a mouth, ain't it?' the 6ft5 Cumbrian groaned on, more quietly. `Just... mmm... a mouth...' A mouth, Tyler thought, pushing one hand into the wall and latching the other about Jarrad's towering shoulder; a mouth is just a mouth? Nah, this is... HARVEY'S mouth, he thought in a sleepy daze, but god it felt good, and this was so weird... hot wet lips going up and down his thin shaft, slowing then pausing about the tip, tickling his foreskin with tongue, spitting against it then sliding back down again. Harvey's wide eyes rolled up to look at him and he just stared back in a frown of disbelief. He thought about all of those lewd comments over the week, and wondered... had his mate... been... down on his knees... for them? He blinked, lids falling and rising slowly, and shuddered sensitively against more oral, before Harvey switched cocks again. `Fuck,' Tyler slurred, his accent stronger in his sleepy state, `fuckin' hell...' `He's good, ain't he?' Jarrad growled. `You both taste good,' Harvey panted, momentarily without a mouthful. `Jesus,' Morton whined, and Braithwatie just laughed gruffly. This was mad enough, this man-on-man oral service, this dirty experiment between friends, madder still to be shared with someone he'd lamped in the face earlier in the day and then been unable to make eye contact with as they passed each other on the pitch. All mad enough, mad sensations and mad revelations - but maddest of all, the madness that would really haunt him when he woke up the next morning, ready to pack his bag and fly on to the next fixture, was the hand that crawled down his back, fingers kneading his spine, his tension, his uncertainty. All the way down his back went Jarrad's hand, slowing and lingering on the small, curling up the hem of his t-shirt a little, pawing at the slightly damp sweaty skin there at the base of his spine, whilst his body rocked with the force of Harvey's mouth on his prick, taking him deep; and Jarrad's fingers then, the touch electric, pushing into the soft tight elastic of his PJ shorts, which were low at the front but bunching over his pert buns. Until they weren't, pushed down further, so that Jarrad's big questing hand was cupping his downy buttocks, holding him there, almost pushing him forward so that his cock fucked in and out of Harvey's eager mouth - his cock which touched Jarrad's cock now as the crouching lad tried to take both into his gob all at once. Madness, so much madness, but nothing as mad as the feel of one finger running down his sweaty crack, one finger pushing at him there, rubbing over a spot that made him feel queasy and sensitive, pushing so hard that a funny little burning pain joined the intense pleasure; maddest of all, maybe, that he just stood there, supported, with his cock pulsing and his hole being gently opened up, a single thick finger entering him in hesitant little prods, so that he turned his clammy face and stared into the bruised face that he'd punched. Jarrad's eyes were glassy and his grin kinda brittle, a look of sleazy enjoyment, but also uncertainty, and Tyler was awake enough to sense that the big guy was no less sure of all this than he, but was drunk enough to roll with it - and so Tyler didn't tense up, didn't protest, didn't ask questions, but he just felt the fingertip, feeling so much huger on his virginal ring, prod in and out of him in the same rhythm with which his wet cock was slurped and gobbled, until he was cumming all over his friend's face, watching his cum ooze into that facial hair and over that nose, looking at the feral desire in those pretty eyes. `Me too, me too,' Jarrad was grunting, `I'm gonna shoot...' And then there was more mess on Harvey's handsome face, something confusing from a porno, an oil slick of pearly whiteness drooling over the lad's cheeks, lips, chin. Tyler gasped wordlessly and felt the uncomfortable release of the pressure in his arse, felt a greasy fingertip wiped on his hip. He staggered back a little, grasping for the sink, his cock swaying, and he turned on a cold tape. Jarrad pushed past him to run a finger under that tap, and when Tyler looked up at him, he saw panic and regret on the big face, not the surly enjoyment of a minute ago. `Fucking hell,' moaned Harvey decadently, clambering upright. Braithwaite wasted little time in getting out of their way, a big pushy force in the cramped en suite, and then a huge absence when he was gone - pulling his tracksuit up even as he grasped open the door into the corridor to ditch them, his panting breaths still echoing in the warm air. Tyler washed his hands, his face, found a towel to rub against his cock, and then turned wild eyes to Harvey, who was leaning on the towel rail and jerking off, a dreamy expression on his face as he pleasured himself. Tyler just stood there and watched him cum, watched him spurt his juice into the air between them, and letting it fall upon the tiles below. And then, gingerly, the Scouse lad passed him the spare towel, hand shaking, and watched as Harvey wiped it over his face and then his crotch. `Guess I best shower,' the right winger murmured, sounding very drunk and tired. `Maybe,' Morton grumbled uncertainly back, staring at his friend in a totally new light. `He's not so bad,' Harv grunted then, nodding out across the room. Tyler remembered, with sudden intensity, his fist connecting with Jarrad's face, attacking the big guy over what sounded like vicious homophobia; had it just been a friendly agreement, and he'd just misunderstood everything? What the hell had been going on around him all week, he now wondered? He felt faint. He took a step back, rearranging his tangled shorts, and stumbling back through into the main room. Listening to the murmur and hum of Harvey drunkenly showering, the 21-year-old crawled into the heat of his own bed and re-entered the vague half-world of sleep, utterly dazed, utterly satisfied. He'd pushed the boundaries and broken the rules, first to defend his friend's honour, and then to... to join in the madness, he thought dreamily, to experience something dangerous and new. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 20 Nov 2023 20:25:18 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 379 Part 379: Defending His Honour Their game against the Serbian hosts was only hours away when the fight broke out, interrupting a light morning training session at a local sports centre close to the hotel - sulking over the incident later on, dropped from the coach's starting line-up to a position on the bench, Tyler Morton wasn't sure what had come over him. The boy-faced 21-year-old from Wallasey wasn't the most aggressive or belligerent of the young men who made up England's Under-21 line-up this winter, far from it, and in fact his superiors at his loan club Hull City tended to point out the opposite, and tell him that he needed to bring more aggro and fight into his game, to really stake his place in the Championship midfield; why else did big Premier League institutions like Liverpool farm out their youngster to the lower leagues for loan seasons, after all? But here Tyler was, grabbing the chest of the other lad's shirt in his fists, squaring up to him even though the big lad dwarfed his own 5ft10 stature. Red-faced and furious, the Scouse footballer tore into the other guy, ready to fight as hard as he had to. As soon as the first punch was thrown, they were surrounded by a flurry of the others, an ambiguous reaction of superficial concern - `Hey, guys, chill out!' - laced with the schoolyard thrill of young men on the edge of violence - `You gonna let him hit you like that, fella?' - and a combined mass of noise and physicality just totally enveloping them. The tension that snapped that Serbian Saturday had begun days ago, he supposed, quite quickly after they all met up in the lesser quarters of St George's Park, coached and accommodated at a frustrating periphery to the nearby senior men - close enough to watch the main squad hard at work and pass each other in single file, but never really mixing with them socially or getting much chance to catch the eyes of the senior staff. The transfer on day one of Cole Palmer and Rico Lewis, replacing injured names on the main England team-sheet, sent a ripple of envy and frustration amongst the younger lads here, one that perhaps added to Morton's discomfort. But ambition was not at the forefront of the Liverpudlian's mind during those tense days and nights leading up to the Serbia away game - not so much as friendship, honour, and Anfield pride. The first joke, as far as Tyler heard, came over dinner on that first evening, when Palmer and Lewis were the main topic of conversation, and he and his buddy were queuing up with their trays at the serving hatch. A fragrant Thai curry was served to them and they picked at the accompaniments, thanking the staff with the deferential politeness that football academy had drilled into them, two Liverpool graduates who were representing the club here in England-branded tracksuits. Ahead, they had cold dessert options to grab at, and Tyler was just eyeing up the small glass bowls of key lime pie and strawberry cheesecake when he heard the weighty thud on his pal's tray, and the rattle of crockery and cutlery that it caused - he glanced sharply up the slow-moving queue of them, noting the jolting body language of his shorter friend and teammate. Harvey Elliott's mop of curly hair juddered as he flinched in shock at the short-range missile landing next to his dinner, and Tyler blinked and tensed, confused at what had happened - but just beyond his mate Harv, Leeds defender Charlie Cresswell as bristling with gruff laughter, having tossed the weighty banana from the fruit bowl into the midfield's dinner. `Here,' the big rugged Lancastrian barked quietly at Elliott, `get your lips round that for pud, Harvey lad, get some practice in for after the Serbia game, haha.' Proud of his non-existent wit, the big lanky fuck boomed with further laughter and high-fived the next lad in the queue, and Tyler just stared at them in irritation, before glancing cautiously at the other Liverpool youngster. `What the fuck?' Morton mouthed, unamused, bumping elbows with the curly-haired Surrey lad, one of his best mates at his parent club, someone he was always delighted to reunite with when international duty brought them back together. Harvey turned this way, brow creased slightly, but an ambivalent look on his face, neither quite amused nor offended by Cresswell's banter. Tyler paused, trying to read the other young guy's reaction, but also looking past him to study the way big Charlie sauntered confidently away to one of the dining tables. `You alright?' the temporary Hull midfielder asked discreetly, sidling closer to Harvey as they lingered at the dessert station of the hotel canteen. Harvey made a vague noise, pausing indecisively over a key lime pie conundrum, then picking himself one of the small portioned cheesecakes. `Huh? Oh, what? Haha, of course I am-' He paused, shoving the weaponised banana over to one side of the tray, and placing the sweeter dessert down next to it. `Just a bit of banter, mate,' he said calmly, flashing one of his big grins at a nervously frowning Tyler, looking totally unfazed by the tall defender's innuendo and insult. And Harvey picked his tray up in both hands and backed off, whilst Tyler paused briefly to decide what had alarmed him so much there - just the silly violence and surprise of the gesture, or the potentially nasty homophobia of the Leeds player's joke...? It had happened again though, on Thursday afternoon during training, and again in the showers on Friday, and Tyler had begun to feel very worried and protective towards the cocksure right winger whose Anfield success he both admired and envied - though a little younger than him, he'd always looked up to the street-smart maturity of the southerner, and saw Harvey's Blackburn Rovers spell and subsequent first team status as an important role model for his own career trajectory at Liverpool. On Thursday, it was actually big rosy-cheeked goalkeeper James Trafford who made the remark, the Burnley player bursting between the two friends on the way back out from lunch, and throwing long arms about Elliott's shoulders to hug and shake the attacking player. `Here, is Morton your boyfriend, then?' the celebrated young goalkeeper had butted in, breaking up their inane chat, and practically dragging a chuckling Harvey into a mild headlock, whilst Tyler himself was somewhat elbowed aside. `Or is it more of a three-way you Scouser boys have with Jarell Quansah...?' Trafford gave Harley's highlighted curls a good ruffle before letting him slip free, laughing heavily at his own accusation. `Very fucking funny,' Morton muttered, but half under his breath, somewhat intimidated by the height and physique of the big Cumbrian goalie, one of the most prominent young guys on their team following his spotless record at that last tournament. `Aw, have I interrupted a lover's tiff?' the Burnley signing continued, hands still on Elliott's shoulders in a jokily affectionate man, rocking along between them. It was Harvey himself who put an abrupt stop to this, smiling quite pleasantly along to James' banter, and just nodding his head - `Yeah, actually, we were just arguing over how many goals you were going to let in this afternoon, you big bell-end,' the short stocky winger declared coolly, slipping away from the other lad's tactile joviality. `Tyler here thinks just 200, but I've got my money on way more...' The Liverpool starlet smirked and leered and flipped a middle finger at the goalie, who laughed loudly and jogged ahead of them, off to catch up with the leaders of the pack, leaving Harvey to just let out a long wheezing chuckle. Tyler was about to say more about it, irritated, before stopping himself - it had been the silly banana moment that made him so sensitive to Trafford's insinuations, and he didn't want to make a big deal of the banter aimed at himself, so he kept his question to himself, and failed to ask `What's his fucking problem?' - instead, he tried to mirror Harvey's own casual disinterest and stomp along into the training pitch in the drizzle and mist, ready to shrug off such casual digs like everyone else. The moment the following day was a little worse though, he thought, and left him more firmly uncomfortable and defensive. It was Taylor Harwood-Bellis, the Man City loanee, who made the next unnecessary dig at Harvey's masculinity or sexuality, and this time he really saw the panic and upset on his friend's face. They were changing for the showers after their longest and hardest day of training, just yesterday, on other sides of the central row of hooks and rails, with Tyler himself pulling away clingy kit items and baring his lean pale torso as he did, flushed and blotchy from working hard in the damp cool. But across the metal frame from him, his buddy was undressing too, unzipping and wriggling out of his England training jersey, then dropping his shorts so that just the layers of compression lycra were hugging his compact muscular form - which turned a little to one side as their on-off captain called at him. `How are you coping without Curtis here?' the skin-headed Southampton defender asked gruffly, shirtless and gleaming sweaty under the electric lighting; in one sharp gesture, he flicked his sweat-damp training shirt at Harvey's back and shuffled closer, another big burly figure next to Harvey's 5ft7 stature. Across the rail from them, Tyler paused in the process of taking down his shorts, hearing a suggestive tone in Taylor's question. `Oh, he just has some ligament thing,' he heard Harvey say quietly, vaguely, distantly. `Ligament in his stupid big dick, ha ha?' came the City export's low chuckle. `Something like that,' Elliott quipped back. `You'd know!' boomed Harwood-Bellis, awkwardly loud. `Sure...' `Haha, you know,' egged the centre-back, leaning a heavy arm into the metal frame that separated them from Morton's own position, `cos you suck the big dope off every night on Merseyside, I fuckin' bet...' The defender lad was cracking up with laughter and so were a couple of others, and Tyler just froze where he was, holding onto a folded towel; he couldn't quite see Harvey's face properly for the lattice of metalwork that separated them on different sides of the changing room, but his pal was unusually quiet, no big comeback for the brutish humour of their team captain. `Probably sucked him too much and he couldn't make it down here,' sniggered Taylor incoherently, lingering there, close and almost threatening - the pause was over and there was a more familiar acidity to Harvey's tone as he responded - `Oh no, he's definitely injured, otherwise shite like you wouldn't have made the cut, y'know?' - and Tyler Morton just felt tense and uncomfortable, not liking the tone of the conversation he was overhearing. And for a long moment the two seemed to remain that way in front of him, Harvey still and head slightly hung, and the centre-back looming over him, ripples of grimy muscle against the harsh lighting. When someone else called for Taylor HB and drew him away, Harvey shifted and moved, and through the gaps in the metal, Tyler caught better sight of his face: there was a bitter little frown to his goateed features, a quiet thoughtfulness that didn't seem right, and he could tell that the other guy's comments had affected him somewhat. Acting as if he'd heard nothing, the 21-year-old dropped his shorts and his sweaty briefs, and he wrapped the towel about his slim waist, then came moving around the edges to pass Harvey on his way to the shower, giving his pal a nudge - but then noticing that the 20-year-old Surrey lad was already pulling a clean grey hoody over his clammy upper body, jogger bottoms tugged up over his compression shorts. `Er, not showering?' Morton asked, hesitating next to him. Harvey, his face poking through the neck-hole of the hooded top, met him with seemingly calm and casual eyes, then wrinkled nose, then the softly bearded thin mouth: `Oh, nah, gonna take one up in our room, I promised I'd ring my nan, just remembered.' And he turned his attention to his belongings, clothing his sweaty training-weary body rather than joining the huddle of lads heading for the showers, coursing past Tyler now in a miasma of youthful sweat and bluster. He let himself be carried away by this general movement, a concerned frown creasing his slim youthful features - towel off and hung on a hook, slim toned body disappearing into the obscuring steam and humidity of the showers, but a long sidelong glance connecting with the mighty frames of Taylor Harwood-Bellis and his cronies, the big heavy muscle of the England youth team, Trafford to one side and Cresswell to the other, their stinging words lingering on Morton's memory - something weird was going on here, and he wasn't going to let his buddy just suffer it. All of this, and a generally dissatisfied mood, had the nervy young football player ready to snap by the time they'd travelled to Serbia that night, and kitted up for a morning runaround in advance of the fixture itself - when he heard the careless comment from the bigger guy on the training pitch, he wasn't just going to let it go. He wasn't going to have these dickheads saying weird shit about his buddy, his pal, his role model - he wasn't going to have the yobs of the England U21s squad casting aspersions on the Liverpool `star-boy' Harvey Elliott, who to the best of his knowledge still had a girlfriend back home! They were doing the rounds with some pretty basic fitness activities, kitted up against a cool East European day, and Tyler's low mood was hidden behind a scrunched-up face of determined effort, throwing himself into the prep work with the same quiet determination as everybody else who wanted to prove themselves in the game - every U21s fixture felt like a coaching showcase where they were trying to prove that they, like Cole and Rico, could make the switch up to the Three Lions roster, Southgate's next protegee. But not everybody was dour with effort and focus - Harvey himself, Tyler noted, was full of grins and quips, something leering and excitable in his behaviour as he threw himself about the pitch in his stretchy slim-fit tracksuit and zipped-up training jersey, all grins and smirks and cheeky winks. It's a front, Morton assured himself, those guys must be getting to him, making jokes at the canteen queue and digs in the changing room, implying things about him and our other absent mate, Curtis! No, Tyler was not to be convinced by Harvey's brave-face or banter, because he'd seen the thoughtful pause, the quiet awkwardness, and seen him slip discreetly away from the showers as if he was suddenly shy for the first time in his life - that wasn't the Harvey Elliott he knew from the youth ranks of the Liverpool Academy, getting in trouble every other week for his cockiness and boundary-pushing. This must already have been weighing on Morton's thoughts, even if only subconsciously, when he turned away from the passing drill and heard the big guy make the comment - `Hey, Harv, get that next shot past Traff and I'll let you lick my bollocks, haha' - followed by a scrunching tousle of that curly hair, and a switch snapped in Tyler's body and brain. Like an unhinged XL Bully dog, the Scouse youth shot assertively towards the dickhead in question, even if he did tower up at 6ft5, a giant even amongst this squad of well-built young athletes on the rise. `What was that?' Tyler practically snarled, squaring up to the Evertonian - was that old city rivalry part of it, he later wondered, was he quicker to snap because he couldn't bear hearing a Toffee dare to make such a comment to his Harv? Perhaps, but that was nothing next to his loyalty and sense of honour, desperate to defend and protect a fellow honorary Scouser! Rising over him, Jarrad Braithwaite barely turned his head, the most dismissive and amused of expressions briefly curling at his rugged features. `You what?' was the big Carlisle lad's simple grunted response, looking him up and down and then, seeing his posture, squaring up himself, all broad shoulders and puffed chest - but there was no slowing or calming the path that Tyler had launched himself down, and he threw the first punch. Jarrad ducked back from this, genuine surprise flashing over his face, only to be replaced by a burst of heavy disbelieving laughter - `What the FUCK?' And just like that they were fighting, Tyler's blood pounding - `Take that back, you stupid big bastard,' he yelled stupidly at his opponent, thinking about the ridiculous comment, and Trafford's complicit sneer from over by the goalposts; he swung for another punch and grasped desperately at the other guy's England shirt. Instantly, others were rushing to them, he could feel the explosion of male energy and physicality against him - there were hands all over his back and arms, trying to drag him forcibly back, but he was not the skinny lightweight he might appear, rather wiry and steely - he elbowed a couple of lads away from him without even noting who was intervening, rushing at big Braithwaite and throwing a third punch, this one catching him hard in the side of his long face, so hard in fact that Morton's fist instantly stung and burned and he almost went flying sideways as his own ferocity broke away from the hold of others. The air roared with mixed voices, and he was too frenzied to detect the authority of coaching voices amongst the yell of his teammates - but as he turned and threw himself back towards that stupid big bastard who thought he could speak down to Harv, here was Elliott himself, whip-sharp out of the crowd and up in his face, leaping in his way and pushing him hard in the chest. `Leave it,' the 20-year-old barked fiercely in his face, `just leave it!' Tyler surged forward but the winger grabbed him about the middle and shoved into him, rugby tackling him away from the swinging fists of Jarrad, who was being similarly grasped and dragged at by the bodies of others - Trafford, Cresswell, Harwood-Bellis amongst them - until the moment's utter violence had dissipated, and Tyler felt the slow return of sanity and rationality, and with it a kind of crushing shame. He could see a look of sheer confusion and even almost amusement on Harvey's face, but over his shoulder, he could also see the red-faced rage of the gaffer, the top coach and two assistants bearing down upon them with arms full of clipboards. Oh, fuck. Back at a top-flight club, or in the world of their senior counterparts, Tyler's outburst might have been met with an instant ban or expulsion; as it was, the U21s were handled a little more carefully, and the young midfielder was simply told that he would be taken out of the starting line-up and remain an unlikely substitute. And even at that, it turned out, he still got game time, shamefacedly allowed onto the pitch in the 74th minute for McAtee, and even sharing the field with Braithwaite for almost ten minutes before the big centre-back was benched for another Liverpdulian, Quansah. By this time, of course, the young Englanders were 3-0 up, including Harvey's own moment of triumph not long into the second half - a great game for the team, but a lacklustre 20 minutes' runabout for Tyler Morton himself, after a long sulk on the subs bench. Funny looks from almost every team member, ranging from surprised admiration to distrustful wariness, from sour disapproval to outright snubs. By the end of the big win, their qualification for the U21 Euros another step closer, Tyler hardly felt able to partake in the celebrations, and found himself distant from the big group hugs and rowdy displays of the other lads - his training ground aggression had made him a pariah, and he wondered if the effects would be lasting or not. In the long dressing-down he'd received form the gaffer on the way to the stadium, it had been mentioned that he could easily be sent back to Hull tonight rather than remaining with the squad for their second fixture of the camp; by the time the Young Lions were showered, dressed, and enjoying a traditional Serbian supper in the hotel restaurant, Morton found himself wishing that was the case, just wanting to get out of here. His annoyance and resentment at the lads who'd made their mean comments to Elliott hadn't gone anywhere, but jostled with shame and embarrassment and regret, and an absolute confusion at the casual untouchability with which Harvey himself continued to be at the centre of the team, joyously celebrating the result and his own goal with dickheads like Taylor or Charlie or James, or that big smug bastard Jarrad too. Whilst the bulk of the team moved from the restaurant to the bar, strict beer limits shouted out by the gaffers, Tyler slipped away and went for an early night. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom of their shared suite, noting the split lip and grazes on his knuckles, not even sure if these marks of damage were from the brief fight or from his short part in the win against the host team. Quiet and low, the Scouse lad went to bed, daring to hope that this would all be a silly blip and not a big blot on his national team reputation - he had as much hope and desire for the senior squad as anyone else on the trip, he was just less braggartly and vocal about it. Tyler lay awake with these thoughts for what seemed a long while, but must have slipped into fitful sleep, perhaps poxed by dreams of being sold by Liverpool to a permanent place in the Championship, because at some other point he could feel himself begin to wake, disturbed as if from great distance by suggestions of noise and presence. He lay there, his face squished into his pillows, warm in the heated room, and sleepy hands beginning to pull at the thick pyjama t-shirt and shorts he wore under the covers. He turned gently, tumbling through that uniquely disorienting hinterland between sleep and wakefulness, only half-aware of opening/closing doors and footsteps in the suite. Eyes still glued shut, he opened his mouth wide in yawn and pulled at the covers, rolling over twice more, side to side, until consciousness began to gather force against his brief sleep, and a clattering noise somewhere on the edge of his universe really grabbed hold of his semi-woken attention. Eyes opening, he lay there on his back, experiencing the brief confusion of an unfamiliar hotel room, and then remembering where he was, who he was, how he'd made a prick of himself on the training ground; righteous indignation, the defence of his friend's honour, felt far away in earlier daylight, and all that was left was the embarrassment and the worry, the fear that no further call-ups would come his way. What if that was it, and he'd never pull an England shirt on again...? Pushing away this resurgent thought, the 21-year-old heard what sounded like a... giggle? A little thump, a suppressed snigger, a knock of foot or elbow on plastic; and then a voice, low and husky, chuckling `When you started on that big Serbian fella... so fucking funny, he looked like he was shitting himself even though he was twice yer height...' Tyler only half-recognised the voice, not clear enough in his fugue, but the voice that giggled back was clearer instantly, even if it was low and secretive, `I woulda knocked the fuckwit out if he'd raised a hand, you know that, I don't take shit - although I could have blown his mind in other ways, I guess, haha...' Harvey? Tyler brought one sore knuckle up to rub across his eyes, yawning again. He felt hot, uncomfortably hot, sweating under his bedclothes, and it was a relief to pull the thick winter duvet away from him, to slide across the bed, to place one bare foot uncertainly against carpet. Another bump or two, muffled sounds, coming from the room's adjoining bathroom, and more voices, similarly low and suppressed, but now indiscernible - the previous quiet comments seemed so unclear and unlikely that Tyler thought perhaps he'd dreamt them, surely there weren't two lads in there? Harvey fair enough, his roommate, but that first voice- it became more clear and familiar to him, its heavy Northernness, the distant Cumbrian tones, the smug authority of a huge defender like the Evertonian. And so he got up, bleary and unsure, and pulling uncomfortably at his top, his shorts, his wedgie; lanky pale legs tottering him across the room, dark but for the thin ray of light that crept out from the not-quite-closed doorway to the en suite; more bumps, more whispers and chuckles, and... he lurched close, unsure if this was a dream, and laid a hand to the door, pulling it slowly outwards, and staring into the illuminated space, as if expecting to tumble through the doorway into another universe, a sci-fi dreamscape, and not the simple square bathroom of their basic hotel suite. `Wha'...?' groaned the Scouse youth, dimly, his sleepy eyes blinking against the light - the light that revealed the big hefty build of Jarrad Braithwaite, leaning back against the hot silvery bars of their heated towel rack, his top off and clutched in one huge paw; big bulky chest muscles on show, stretching down from his gurning face, down washboard abs to the waist, which gave way to a bush of mousy pubes, and the protruding mast of his manhood, on which Harvey's head bobbed gently up and down, the other England youth player hunkering down there in front of the towering centre-back - Tyler stared down, still blinking, at the crouching figure of the Liverpool ace, then slowly and uncomprehendingly up, tracing Jarrad's powerful body, past large soft nipples and gently haired pecs, to his blocky jawline and lazily half-closed eyes, which stared bluntly this way to meet his own. Morton mouthed another puzzled question, but Braithwaite barked simply at him, `Oh, here he is, Tyson Fury himself...' A bronze bruise shone on the side of the big Cumbrian's face, right where Tyler Morton had landed that single effective punch; his knuckles ached just looking at it, and he wilted confusedly in the doorway. `What the hell?' groaned Tyler dimly. Slurping back noisily, Harvey turned on his haunches and looked this way, his lips wet and drooling; he looked drunk, they both did, and he looked confused too, but also bright and excitable. He licked his lips and took a good grip of the huge hard cock in his face, licking its fat tip without removing his eyes from Tyler's bewildered expression, the two friends locking eyes - Tyler had to reach out for the doorframe. This must be a dream, he told himself, but why the fuck am I dreaming about this...? `Here,' grunted Jarrad's sleepy slur of a voice, `come in...' `Yeah,' murmured Harvey too, not getting up, but kneeling down on the bathmat more comfortably, `come here, matey...' More out of confusion than any desire he could name, Tyler drifted into the awkwardly bright space with them, slow unsteady steps, until one of Jarrad's big hands was brought up to his warm shoulder and then the back of his neck, encouraging him to pull in closer next to them... and one of Harvey's hands was on one of his legs, sliding up and down about his knee and onto the downy muscle of his thigh, edging curiously into the leg of his pyjama shorts. Tyler swayed a little on his feet, looking from Harvey's flushed cheeky face and up to Jarrad's strange bruised leer. `No hard feelings,' the centre-back chuckled in his face, `but I think now you understand. Show him what you can do, Harv.' `What he can... huh?' mumbled Morton. The hand up the leg of his shorts was touching him gently but decisively, and he wobbled more where he stood - his warm sleepy balls stroked, his soft slim cock pulled softly, his bristly trimmed pubes rubbed by fingertips... and then that shorts leg bunched up as kisses climbed his inner thigh, until those kisses met his cock, soft goatee on his skin, shorts pushed up and open, soft cock sucked and tasted down their leg... Tyler leant into the supportive strength of the taller lad, and turned his confused face to Jarrad's snarling enjoyment, a beery laugh blowing into his face. Tyler didn't know what time it was, how long either his roomie or enemy had been in the hotel bar, how far they'd exceeded the gaffer's limit or curfew, or what the hell they were doing here in the bathroom - but he knew how good his cock felt, slowly entering a wet and warm stiffness, released properly as his PJ shorts were pulled slowly down his long slim legs. When he looked down, he saw Harvey's wet mouth travel slowly from his own slim average meat to the big thick whopper that juddered and towered from Jarrad's crotch, trails of spit stretching from cock to mouth as Elliott rapidly switched between lollipops. Oh, fuck. `Every lad likes a blowie,' Braithwaite grunted loudly, and if Morton had been more fully awake, he might have heard the way the big Carlisle lad was saying it more for his own assurance than for anyone else. `A mouth's a mouth, ain't it?' the 6ft5 Cumbrian groaned on, more quietly. `Just... mmm... a mouth...' A mouth, Tyler thought, pushing one hand into the wall and latching the other about Jarrad's towering shoulder; a mouth is just a mouth? Nah, this is... HARVEY'S mouth, he thought in a sleepy daze, but god it felt good, and this was so weird... hot wet lips going up and down his thin shaft, slowing then pausing about the tip, tickling his foreskin with tongue, spitting against it then sliding back down again. Harvey's wide eyes rolled up to look at him and he just stared back in a frown of disbelief. He thought about all of those lewd comments over the week, and wondered... had his mate... been... down on his knees... for them? He blinked, lids falling and rising slowly, and shuddered sensitively against more oral, before Harvey switched cocks again. `Fuck,' Tyler slurred, his accent stronger in his sleepy state, `fuckin' hell...' `He's good, ain't he?' Jarrad growled. `You both taste good,' Harvey panted, momentarily without a mouthful. `Jesus,' Morton whined, and Braithwatie just laughed gruffly. This was mad enough, this man-on-man oral service, this dirty experiment between friends, madder still to be shared with someone he'd lamped in the face earlier in the day and then been unable to make eye contact with as they passed each other on the pitch. All mad enough, mad sensations and mad revelations - but maddest of all, the madness that would really haunt him when he woke up the next morning, ready to pack his bag and fly on to the next fixture, was the hand that crawled down his back, fingers kneading his spine, his tension, his uncertainty. All the way down his back went Jarrad's hand, slowing and lingering on the small, curling up the hem of his t-shirt a little, pawing at the slightly damp sweaty skin there at the base of his spine, whilst his body rocked with the force of Harvey's mouth on his prick, taking him deep; and Jarrad's fingers then, the touch electric, pushing into the soft tight elastic of his PJ shorts, which were low at the front but bunching over his pert buns. Until they weren't, pushed down further, so that Jarrad's big questing hand was cupping his downy buttocks, holding him there, almost pushing him forward so that his cock fucked in and out of Harvey's eager mouth - his cock which touched Jarrad's cock now as the crouching lad tried to take both into his gob all at once. Madness, so much madness, but nothing as mad as the feel of one finger running down his sweaty crack, one finger pushing at him there, rubbing over a spot that made him feel queasy and sensitive, pushing so hard that a funny little burning pain joined the intense pleasure; maddest of all, maybe, that he just stood there, supported, with his cock pulsing and his hole being gently opened up, a single thick finger entering him in hesitant little prods, so that he turned his clammy face and stared into the bruised face that he'd punched. Jarrad's eyes were glassy and his grin kinda brittle, a look of sleazy enjoyment, but also uncertainty, and Tyler was awake enough to sense that the big guy was no less sure of all this than he, but was drunk enough to roll with it - and so Tyler didn't tense up, didn't protest, didn't ask questions, but he just felt the fingertip, feeling so much huger on his virginal ring, prod in and out of him in the same rhythm with which his wet cock was slurped and gobbled, until he was cumming all over his friend's face, watching his cum ooze into that facial hair and over that nose, looking at the feral desire in those pretty eyes. `Me too, me too,' Jarrad was grunting, `I'm gonna shoot...' And then there was more mess on Harvey's handsome face, something confusing from a porno, an oil slick of pearly whiteness drooling over the lad's cheeks, lips, chin. Tyler gasped wordlessly and felt the uncomfortable release of the pressure in his arse, felt a greasy fingertip wiped on his hip. He staggered back a little, grasping for the sink, his cock swaying, and he turned on a cold tape. Jarrad pushed past him to run a finger under that tap, and when Tyler looked up at him, he saw panic and regret on the big face, not the surly enjoyment of a minute ago. `Fucking hell,' moaned Harvey decadently, clambering upright. Braithwaite wasted little time in getting out of their way, a big pushy force in the cramped en suite, and then a huge absence when he was gone - pulling his tracksuit up even as he grasped open the door into the corridor to ditch them, his panting breaths still echoing in the warm air. Tyler washed his hands, his face, found a towel to rub against his cock, and then turned wild eyes to Harvey, who was leaning on the towel rail and jerking off, a dreamy expression on his face as he pleasured himself. Tyler just stood there and watched him cum, watched him spurt his juice into the air between them, and letting it fall upon the tiles below. And then, gingerly, the Scouse lad passed him the spare towel, hand shaking, and watched as Harvey wiped it over his face and then his crotch. `Guess I best shower,' the right winger murmured, sounding very drunk and tired. `Maybe,' Morton grumbled uncertainly back, staring at his friend in a totally new light. `He's not so bad,' Harv grunted then, nodding out across the room. Tyler remembered, with sudden intensity, his fist connecting with Jarrad's face, attacking the big guy over what sounded like vicious homophobia; had it just been a friendly agreement, and he'd just misunderstood everything? What the hell had been going on around him all week, he now wondered? He felt faint. He took a step back, rearranging his tangled shorts, and stumbling back through into the main room. Listening to the murmur and hum of Harvey drunkenly showering, the 21-year-old crawled into the heat of his own bed and re-entered the vague half-world of sleep, utterly dazed, utterly satisfied. He'd pushed the boundaries and broken the rules, first to defend his friend's honour, and then to... to join in the madness, he thought dreamily, to experience something dangerous and new. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-384

Date: Thu, 18 Jan 2024 18:26:25 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 384 Part 384: The Third Leg The young football player opened up the screen of his shiny new iPhone and looked at the notifications that had buzzed against his thigh - a few messages of condolences and support from close friends and family at the night's FA Cup knockout, which he appreciated but didn't feel quickly inclined to open or read. Instead, he slid his thumb instinctively towards the most active of several group chats which skulked about the top of the screen - a couple of dozen unread chat messages from the `Young Lions Versus the Fucking World' group that had been set up over the past few call-ups by the national U21s. Looking idly for distraction, Tyler Morton skimmed his eyes past the coarse laddish banter of the other young England hopefuls who were proud to wear that shirt but were all jostling for promotion into Southgate's senior squad. With deft taps, the 21-year-old loan player tapped laughing emoji reactions to a few messages but then hesitated over a morally dubious meme shared by one member of the crew - he scrolled further down to see a few boastful holiday pics shared by that sender, whose Premiership Club had given him several days off for the `winter break' and allowed him to pose obnoxiously by a hotel pool wherever he was. Tyler found himself frowning ambivalently at the deckchair selfie, unable to look at the rugged facial features of the Everton lad who had been his international teammate since their first call-up in their teens. It was hard for Morton to encounter any sign now of lanky Jarrad Branthwaite without remembering first their aggressive clash on the training ground and then, making him shiver a little, the smug expectant look on those rugged features as the tall broad centre-back welcomed him into the en suite bathroom of his own fucking hotel room; blinking awkwardly into the glow of the phone screen and the shared selfie, Tyler pictured that same face leering slightly with a little sheen of sweat on the cheeks and brow, looming over him as the two 21-year-old lads stood close by under the electric light in the cramped little bathroom. For a moment it was like the lazy eyes of the smirking Cumbrian met his via the photograph as they had that night after the scrap, and Tyler frowned uncomfortably. He left the group chat without weighing in on the way the other lads were abusing Jarrad's choice of swim shorts and sliders, and noticed that just down the screen was a separate 1-to-1 message from the closest of those U21 buddies - but then Harv was more than just one of his `Young Lions' mate, more than just an acquaintance to banter with during international breaks and to try and climb that career ladder with. Whilst ignoring friendly support from many other close people in his life, the footballer lad slid open the brief message from Harvey Elliot: `Soz about the result, broski - chin up and fight on, Ty-dog xx'. There was of course something immediately warming about such casual friendliness from a fellow Liverpool baller, one of his Academy mates who went further back and more consistently than any connection from the England ranks. But... well, it wasn't as if kindness and affection from the other young Liverpool star came without the same baggage and pause for thought, and he was mentally back in that same dully lit bathroom, wandering sleepily from bed to threshold and then close next to the two of them. In his mind's eye, he saw Jarrad's cocky expression and slouching giant posture... and he saw Harv back on his knees between them, doing the dirty deed. A voice cut into the young man's reverie and, jolted and uneasy, he instantly locked the phone screen as if he had anything to hide, as if somehow the WhatsApp inbox could project his inner imaginings to the world around him: his friend Harvey noisily noshing off Jarrad fucking Branthwaite and then turning his wet lips this way to pleasure half-asleep Tyler too. Fucking hell. `Here, are you just gonna sit and text your girlfriends, or are we gonna play this game?' And with that, Morton's roommate lobbed a Ps5 remote at him from the doorway, having just returned to their shared space from a neighbouring suite of the Birmingham hotel. He caught it instinctively in one hand and shifted off the bed, shaking away the slight daze that came with poring over his smartphone for too long. `Shit this room is cold,' complained the other young man harshly. `Does the heating not go up any more? Bloody freezing. Here, I'll just get this set up - knock some tunes on or something will ya, Tyler?' `Er - oh, yeh, will do - good thinking.' He pushed his phone away without properly acknowledging Harvey's message, or any of those unread in the list; he wasn't in the mood for dwelling on the night's defeat in the FA Cup, with his loan team Hull City knocked out by their Brummie hosts. The visiting Tigers would be on their back into South Yorkshire if there weren't such icy conditions on the roads, hence an unscheduled second night in the city-centre hotel where he now sat, with his teammate and roomie setting up the console at the TV and himself looking about for the portable speaker he'd brought. Successful at the TV, Regan Slater turned around and saluted him - `Where's the tunes, DJ?' - before clapping his hands together and going away to fiddle with the controls of two different radiators, seemingly convinced he could make the small shared suite cosier. Tyler returned to his phone and fumbled with Spotify, self-consciously selecting a playlist of old indie tunes for them, and then clambering further down the bed for a comfier position from which to join in the two-player action. Tyler was mildly intimidated by Regan, though he did like him a lot; the 24-year-old Yorkshire lad was very confident and relaxed, similar in some ways to his mate Harvey - a charmingly cocky extrovert who presented himself as unfazed by the older and more experienced men on the squad, and full of throwaway comments about just how far he expected his career to go in the years ahead. To listen to Regan's self-assessment, it sounded like Tyler's midfield colleague expected to be at Real Madrid in two years and making billions in Saudi in ten. Slater was one of several more permanent Hull players who had casually welcomed him into their friendship group, their nights out, their in-jokes and banter, and so Morton was of course very grateful and vaguely deferential to him, almost apologetic about his own roots at a much bigger and higher-status club. Perhaps what really made the 21-year-old nervous around the other lad, more than his confidence or humour or bluntness, was the nickname used for him by most of the other Hull City squad members: `Tripod'. Squatted adjacently at the foot of their beds to play some shoot-em-up warfare and listen to indie bands from their boyhood, Tyler could start to relax and enjoy himself - he was quite good at this particular Call of Duty and hold his own against the arrogant claims of the 24-year-old, and they bantered easily, their chat moving from the game to the tunes to random insults against other lads on the team. This was all very comfortable, and Tyler could begin to feel quite settled as a Hull lad, pretty content to be roomed in central Birmingham with this Sheffield ruffian, rather than enjoying some Premiership time off like most of his colleagues and Everton's Branthwaite. It was when a lull in play, a shout from outside the room, or a notification from Regan's slow-charging phone, any distraction at all in fact, would make the other football player get up from his cross-legged position to move about the room. Like Tyler, Regan wore a slim-fitting team t-shirt on his upper half, and the soft dark tracksuit pants that formed part of their travel-wear for away games - but it was in these branded trackies that the problem lay, the source of Slater's crude epithet. Right now the other midfielder was up to get them more snacks from his backpack on the shelf, returning with a tube of Pringles in one hand and a bag of Giant Buttons in the other, and himself stood prominently in Tyler's line of sight at the TV screen where his character was still alive in another death-match - and the problem with Regan Slater, ultimately, was the obscenely prominent weight that bulged in the front of his Hull gear. It was ridiculous, really - it wasn't even as if Tyler was the sort of nosey or insecure lad who spent time comparing these things, not really, and he certainly had no OTHER reason to be checking out what was in his teammate's shorts! But it had been something which became obscenely clear in only his first few days of loan play in the Yorkshire city: it was seemingly impossible for the 24-year-old lad's lad to strut about in trackies or shorts or pretty much anything without bulging so ridiculously. At some early point, Morton could remember thinking it was an actual joke, that the roguish club joker had stuffed some stupid items down his shorts while they trained - it had only been when he looked his way across a pitch one damp autumn night that he observed that, nope, Slater genuinely played football with such an eye-catching mound swinging and bouncing in his kit! Then, gradually, Tyler had caught on to the `Tripod' labelling that was thrown at the guy, and accepted that yep, it really wasn't some prank or stupidity on Regan's part... he really just couldn't help but be so publicly on show without wearing oversized baggy trousers or jeans. `My eyes are up here, Anfield,' barked Slater now, since Morton had apparently fallen into the trap of staring awkwardly down at the front of the other lad's trackies for a moment, though he swiftly retorted, `What? Get out of the way, I'm playing!' And Regan, apparently fully comfortable with his dumb nickname, giggled stupidly and shook the sweet and savour snacks, throwing himself down onto the foot of Tyler's bed with him, out of his way but too late - a sniper killed Tyler's avatar and the game ended, so that he could lay down his controller and sit there receiving a handful of Pringles from the other player. To Morton's relief, Slater didn't elaborate on his suggestive jokey comment - he slagged off the mechanics of the video game instead, complaining about the AI and weapon options, and they were just too young blokes in front of a telly, arguing nonsensically about gaming and anything else that came to mind. Tyler let the reddening of his cheeks fade and he chastised himself for being intimidated or uneasy with Regan's showy complacency; it was hardly the Sheffield lad's fault what God had given him, and it was good that he had such a zero-fucks-given attitude to everything, wasn't it? Inevitably, the 21-year-old's thoughts spiralled back in the direction of England Under-21 service: it had been hard to be relaxed and normal after what happened in his shared room with Harv, and he'd not really had the proper confidence to confront or dissect it with his buddy. Mostly, it had put an awkward tension in his friendship with the Anfield regular, and made him wary of Branthwaite and some of the other burly alphas of their England crew... but apparently it had also skewed the youth's dynamic with guys at Hull City too. Still, a mouthful of crisps and then chocolate, a switch over to a less contentiou computer game, and Tyler began to relax properly. He half-wished that his roomie would shift over to the other bed to give him space, but it seemed rude to point out, and so they huddled here together at the foot of one bed, eventually sharing a duvet over their shoulders for extra warmth because the suite refused to heat up. As they became inevitably bored of this second game too, Slater pushed his remote away and lounged backwards, falling into the bunched-up duvet as a back support, with much of it closed about his neck and shoulders for comfort - and Morton glanced unthinkingly his way to see what he was doing, briefly considered lounging back in the same fashion but stayed still, cross-legged next to him, cradling a defunct remote in both hands. And his eyes, unconsciously, roved down the slim-fit of Regan's tee, down to the thin stripe of white skin before his Diesel underpants and the waist of the trackies, which... uh, stretched a bit stupidly at the front over the mound of the lad's privates, prominent and obvious in his gear even as he slid into this recumbent relaxation. Thinking that Regan was still watching the video game outro on the TV, Tyler blinked and stared, marvelling for the three dozenth time at how the other lad somehow contrived to bulge so ridiculously in literally whatever he wore, and how idly it was labelled and joked about by their teammates - the thought of being so obvious with his own tackle made the 21-year-old blush and cower, far less confident or assertive in his masculinity. `It's not my fault,' `Tripod' grunted, as if reading his mind. `Huh?' Tyler muttered back, immediately flustered. `Wha'...?' `I did ask for an even bigger pair,' Regan continued in a lower voice. `I always go XXL, even though I'm hardly the tallest or broadest fella on the team - but then they'll be stupidly big on me and the fit is terrible, so- Yeah, it's not like there's anything I can do about it.' Tyler flashed his eyes over to Regan's, caught his vague scowl of defensiveness, and he felt his own thin face flush redder. `What are you on about?' the young Scouser murmured back, looking away, refusing to acknowledge that he'd been staring so thoughtfully. `All your kit fits fine, you daft lad, stop worrying...' `Oh fuck off,' Slater said, quite quietly. `You know what I'm on about, matey. But I just have to not give a shit about it.' A thoughtful pause, in which Tyler blushed fiercely and looked anywhere but at his roomie - `How'd you think it was when I was still at school and shit like that? I'm used to the stares and the jokes, for fuck's sake, you don't need to be so bashful.' He chucked his PS5 remote at Tyler's side and sniggered. `I know my own nickname here, for fuck's sake - it is what it is.' Morton shook himself and got up, collecting the remotes into his hands and crossing the room to place them by the console and telly; when he turned, he was faced by the slouched relaxed posture of Slater on his bed, lounging back into the mound of duvet, bulging obscenely in his trackies, and shooting him a lopsided grin. `Go on, stare it out, I swear you'll blink first,' joked the 24-year-old with a roll of his eyes. `Never get into a staring contest with a Basilisk - ain't you read your Harry Potter, Anfield? Heh.' And Tyler mumbled out a laugh as he returned to the edge of his bed, sitting back down next to his friend, strangely charmed by the openness and surprising vulnerability of Regan's talk - the familiar intimidating confidence was still there, sure, but there was a quiet reflectiveness that was kinda alluring at the same time. `Jesus,' he muttered, `is that your nickname for it?' `Haha - one of them! Mostly I just call him the GOAT, y'know-' `Fuck off, haha...' `Ah, you know how it is, if I didn't make a joke of it I'd be as shy as gimps like you, fella - I know everyone thinks I'm just all Mr Confident and that, but it can be embarrassing sometimes, let me tell you.' `I bet it has it's upsides,' Tyler sniggered dumbly at him, looking away. `I mean, when you see yourself tagged in a dozen slow-mo clips on TikTok and that,' Regan muttered on. `You know - not on like actual footy accounts, mate, but weird pages obsessed with players' bulges and that sorta shit!' Tyler paused, eyes bulging, and glancing curiously over at the strange expression on Regan's face - both puzzled frown and self-satisfied smirk - as he talked: `Honestly, mate, like guys all over the fucking internet world, I think, sharing clips of me in my kit - on all these websites and forums and that. Seriously, don't google my name, it ain't footy stuff that you end up at. Fuck's sake.' Tyler blinked and stared at him, taking all of this in. `That's weird,' was all he could murmur in response - it briefly occurred to him that he was probably too weedy and unassuming, that surely there weren't pervy gay guys on the internet wanking over HIM? `I know what you're thinking,' Slater told him simply, although he was wrong. `You're thinking sure, that sounds great, right? I mean, yeah, don't get me wrong, it's nice to be fancied and all that, but - jeez, makes you feel a bit weird sometimes? I get messages asking me when I'm gonna set up my OnlyFans...!' Tyler couldn't help but laugh at this. `Well, we got knocked out of the FA Cup tonight, but things aren't quite that desperate...!' `We'll see what happens when I get through another transfer window without PSG coming knocking,' the `Tripod' chuckled at him with a touch more self-awareness and irony than was typical - again, it charmed Tyler and made him feel even more warmly towards the other player, who seemed to be confiding in him and dropping his bluster and bravado. Tyler nodded vaguely and lingered next to him, thinking he ought to change the subject - but Regan had more to say on the matter of his third leg - `Seriously, I'll find some decent sports briefs that are comfy enough for me eventually, I tell ya...!' `My heart bleeds, hah...' `You laugh, but you can't stop staring at it.' `Oh, shurrup...' `Where was the lie, bro?' `Er- fuck off la'-' And now Tyler was just uncomfortable again, wary of Regan's large character, and feeling vaguely as if he'd said the wrong thing and tripped himself up. He sat there, perched on the edge of the bed, and in spite of all uncertainty and resistance, or almost because he was trying not to, he swung to the right and stared right at it - the humongous mound in the front of the older lad's trackies. He flushed and blinked and stared up at Regan's face - there was nothing smug and obnoxious about the lad's expression though, oddly, and that disarmed him, made him feel hesitant and reserved. `Well, it's not my fault,' the 21-year-old Scouser found himself saying, defensively - `If you will lie there like that - I think you WANT staring at, you attention-seeker.' He huffed and pushed at Regan as if to encourage him off the bed - glad when the older footballer player did indeed get up, but less so when he stood squarely at the corner of the bed and shoved down the taut waist of his trackies, right down to the midpoint of his thighs, so that the bulge now loomed and swelled from the pale grey of boxer briefs - `What the fuck?' Tyler demanded under his breath, frozen where he sat. `Just need to show you I ain't tucked any socks down there to troll ya-!' `We've been playing on the same team for a few months now, mate-' `Here, look-' And with that, Regan pushed down the undies too, and out it unfurled. Tyler stopped where he was, staring intently - he'd been tempted to look in the showers, curious and wary, but always kept a distance from `Tripod' for that very reason. But there it was, the long thick snake of it, the surprisingly untrimmed bush of his ginger-brown pubes, the weighty cushion of large balls. And Regan just stood there, hips pressed forward, baring his equipment, t-shirt slightly lifted, a matter-of-fact apathy on his face. `Go on, give it a good stare,' Slater barked almost accusingly, as if Morton had asked for this peep show - his eyes bulged and he stared at it and then up at that oddly `whatever' expression on his face. `I mean, what do you want me to say?' Tyler grunted irritably, sitting painfully close to the exposure, hands pressed down at the bedding on the outside of his thighs. He felt irritated and oppressed but he still felt that lingering warmth at Regan's openness and his vague uncertain hidden insecurity - somehow, whilst standing there exposing his monstrous privates, the 5ft8 midfielder did actually contrive to look shy about it, embarrassed, as if this indecency was an inevitable ritual to be gotten out of the way, as if he'd shown so many blokes it in the past, baring himself to prove a point or to silence speculation. And so Tyler swallowed his aggressive retort and sat there, beetroot-faced, and glanced from the drooping meat to the sullen expression above, until he had to look away and wiped the back of a hand across his sweaty face. He looked back, and saw the droop of Regan's posture, some tension passing them by. `Yup, there it is,' sighed Slater, almost wistfully. `It must feel heavy...' `Meh, dunno - it's just there, y'know?' `But it must be so in the way when you're playing...' `Oh, kinda, but you know, I hardly really notice, until I see the pics or clips...!' `Mate, doesn't it annoy you when people use that nickname?' `I can't let it - it is what it is, you know, fucking look at it - it's just THERE, the bastard.' `It's huge,' Tyler breathed, the intimacy of their quiet chat releasing some primal honesty that made him blush even more as he heard himself - Regan just chuckling softly. And then he thought his ears deceived him, the question that came to him, low and uncertain in Regan's South Yorkshire accent: no way could the midfielder lad have just asked him that? He met Regan's questioning eyes and frowned, and realised that he hadn't imagined it. `You wanna touch it?' the 24-year-old had asked. Tyler stared back, his breathing awkward, his chest heaving. `Wha'?' he murmured very quietly, feeling like his face was on fire. A shrug from Regan. `You can, if you want.' Tyler's mouth felt as dry as a desert. He stared at it. Had it got even thicker and longer in the past few moments? Carried on by some inexplicable instinct, he reached for it without answering the muttered suggestions. He brushed his fingers against its soft swollen warmth. It somehow felt even bigger than it looked, freaking him out, but he ran his fingers against some of its length and then, briefly meeting eyes with the face above, he gave it a little lift, weighing it against part of his palm... his touch lingering, until the loud internal question was thrown back at him: what the hell are you doing, Tyler? He retracted his hand and let it droop free again, and he wiped a clammy palm on the thigh of his own trackies, releasing a long-held breath and feeling very silly. They stayed still and said nothing, exposed Regan standing over him, and Tyler just blinking his lashes furiously and wondering if he was going to be bullied for the rest of the season for what he'd just done - was Tripod just trolling him here? He looked nervously up and found Regan's face hard to read - the confident lad had nothing to say for himself, wasn't bursting into mocking laughter, or ribbing him with some insult for his complicity. Without being asked or invited, without saying anything more himself, Tyler lifted his hand and reached over, and this time he took it a little more securely in his fingers, then holding it and pulling very gently on its weight - now Regan did react, very slightly, with a breathy little sound that turned into some fraction of a laugh. Was he... nervous? Driven by some intent that he could hardly identify or name, Tyler brought his hand back, but this time just to hold open in front of him. Quietly, he spat in his palm, and then he rubbed its lubricated touch down the weighty shaft, and under it, hoisting and holding it, feeling its weight, rubbing at it gently but insistently - stopping to spit some more on his palm and give it a good slow pull. He bit his lip and now found he couldn't bear to lifted his head and make eye contact with Regan, who was barely making a sound - he could just stare at his object of fascination and continue to rub it, stroke it, pull on it, feeling it grow, stiffen, expand. He rubbed a thumb against the creased skin of the sack and tickled at the curls of public hair. He helped the foreskin to peel back and he stared at the shinier pink of the head, which stared back; some more spit against his palm and he rubbed it, making Slater seem to shudder silently, and he gave a firmer tug on the huge bloated length which saluted him, yanking needily on Slater's huge rigid manhood. `This okay?' Morton asked eventually in a harsh little whisper. `Yeah,' Slater grunted simply. `I've never...' `Don't talk, mate.' `Okay.' So it was like that - there was just the sound of their breathing, Regan's low growling breaths, suppressed and tense, as if he wanted to moan - Tyler hoped he wanted to moan - but was doing his best to be stoic. And Tyler's quick nervous chittering pants, and the vague wet sound of his spit-lubed hand as it slid more quickly up and down it, finding the right angle, the right rhythm, the right pressure. Just that, nothing more said, Tyler following Regan's instruction loyally - until it was `Tripod' himself who contradicted this, muttering `Fucking hell' to himself, and provoking another `Am I doing it right?' query from the Liverpudlian, his voice all shakes. Panting, from both of them, and the steady wet back-and-forth of the young player's tugging hand. He sat forward, tense, reaching his other hand for Regan's hip to steady himself. Jerk, jerk, jerk. He alternated between staring at it, making glossy eye contact with the monstrous tip, and shutting his eyes, questioning over and over what he was doing. And then he looked up, squinting into the tension of his mate's face - Regan had his eyes squeezed shut, his lightly freckled face contorted as if in pain, teeth bared and visible - he had his hands up on top of his head, elbows in the air, all pressure and restraint. Tyler pulled harder, desperate to free those suppressed moans, wanting to hear how good his hand might feel, how much relief and satisfaction he was giving to this surprisingly vulnerable boy behind the well-hung machismo of the footy crowd - and there it was, the `Ohhhghgh' that escaped wobbling lips, the unsteadiness of the short muscular lad, and suddenly one of Regan's hands reaching down to squabble with his, taking a grip, control... but too late? Right in front of Morton, the deed was done, and his handiwork had done its job. When it had finished, the 24-year-old was staggering a couple of paces backwards, and Tyler himself was just panting heavily, resting his right hand on his lap as if it was lame and injured - he could feel it damp and hot on his skin, but cooling, and he shuddered uncomfortably, absolutely bewildered. And then his mate's voice, gruff and urgent - `Oh, fuck, sorry sorry mate, sorry about that, er-' And before Morton really knew what was happening, the other midfielder was yanking up his pants and jiggling past, and then back with a towel - Tyler reached for it but Regan took control, rubbing it against his cheek, his chin, down his neck, wiping away the spunk that had splattered there in the moment of intensity. Pulling the towel back, Slater shot him a look of wide-eyed concern. `Sorry,' the permanent Hull player hissed at him again, `I didn't mean to-' He seemed awfully worried about the mess, making Morton feel all the more uncertain about the deed that had summoned it. He grasped for the towel and rubbed at himself, catching a dirty slick on the chest of his t-shirt, and he got up from the bed, shifting away from the other lad. He was tense and shaking and - he couldn't bear to let the roommate see - as hard as a rock in his own pants. He went into the bathroom silently, where he washed his face and hands thoroughly - another vague `Sorry' called through from the other lad, but he didn't answer, just rinsing at himself and then chucking the soiled towel into a corner. He leaned on the sink and hung there on his own - another hotel, another bathroom, another dirty deed, another... regret? He rubbed at his pink face and pictured it, Jarrad's groaning satisfaction, and downwards, the dirty shiny mess of Harvey's goatee...! Oh god, oh god, oh god. When the 21-year-old loan player moved back through, the PS5 was back on, video game playing, and Regan was perched on his own bed, not even looking up. Alone. Tyler tidied the rumple of his bedding, scratched at his neck, thinking he found a little dried crust there at the collar of his t-shirt, and he picked up the other remote controller, taking it with him as he clambered into bed. Without a word, he buzzed the buttons and joined the game that Regan had set up, and the two lads set about shooting each other to imaginary death - and the elephant in the room, the huge trunk of it, just fell silently away between them as if nothing had happened, the matter of Slater's third leg. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Thu, 18 Jan 2024 18:26:25 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 384 Part 384: The Third Leg The young football player opened up the screen of his shiny new iPhone and looked at the notifications that had buzzed against his thigh - a few messages of condolences and support from close friends and family at the night's FA Cup knockout, which he appreciated but didn't feel quickly inclined to open or read. Instead, he slid his thumb instinctively towards the most active of several group chats which skulked about the top of the screen - a couple of dozen unread chat messages from the `Young Lions Versus the Fucking World' group that had been set up over the past few call-ups by the national U21s. Looking idly for distraction, Tyler Morton skimmed his eyes past the coarse laddish banter of the other young England hopefuls who were proud to wear that shirt but were all jostling for promotion into Southgate's senior squad. With deft taps, the 21-year-old loan player tapped laughing emoji reactions to a few messages but then hesitated over a morally dubious meme shared by one member of the crew - he scrolled further down to see a few boastful holiday pics shared by that sender, whose Premiership Club had given him several days off for the `winter break' and allowed him to pose obnoxiously by a hotel pool wherever he was. Tyler found himself frowning ambivalently at the deckchair selfie, unable to look at the rugged facial features of the Everton lad who had been his international teammate since their first call-up in their teens. It was hard for Morton to encounter any sign now of lanky Jarrad Branthwaite without remembering first their aggressive clash on the training ground and then, making him shiver a little, the smug expectant look on those rugged features as the tall broad centre-back welcomed him into the en suite bathroom of his own fucking hotel room; blinking awkwardly into the glow of the phone screen and the shared selfie, Tyler pictured that same face leering slightly with a little sheen of sweat on the cheeks and brow, looming over him as the two 21-year-old lads stood close by under the electric light in the cramped little bathroom. For a moment it was like the lazy eyes of the smirking Cumbrian met his via the photograph as they had that night after the scrap, and Tyler frowned uncomfortably. He left the group chat without weighing in on the way the other lads were abusing Jarrad's choice of swim shorts and sliders, and noticed that just down the screen was a separate 1-to-1 message from the closest of those U21 buddies - but then Harv was more than just one of his `Young Lions' mate, more than just an acquaintance to banter with during international breaks and to try and climb that career ladder with. Whilst ignoring friendly support from many other close people in his life, the footballer lad slid open the brief message from Harvey Elliot: `Soz about the result, broski - chin up and fight on, Ty-dog xx'. There was of course something immediately warming about such casual friendliness from a fellow Liverpool baller, one of his Academy mates who went further back and more consistently than any connection from the England ranks. But... well, it wasn't as if kindness and affection from the other young Liverpool star came without the same baggage and pause for thought, and he was mentally back in that same dully lit bathroom, wandering sleepily from bed to threshold and then close next to the two of them. In his mind's eye, he saw Jarrad's cocky expression and slouching giant posture... and he saw Harv back on his knees between them, doing the dirty deed. A voice cut into the young man's reverie and, jolted and uneasy, he instantly locked the phone screen as if he had anything to hide, as if somehow the WhatsApp inbox could project his inner imaginings to the world around him: his friend Harvey noisily noshing off Jarrad fucking Branthwaite and then turning his wet lips this way to pleasure half-asleep Tyler too. Fucking hell. `Here, are you just gonna sit and text your girlfriends, or are we gonna play this game?' And with that, Morton's roommate lobbed a Ps5 remote at him from the doorway, having just returned to their shared space from a neighbouring suite of the Birmingham hotel. He caught it instinctively in one hand and shifted off the bed, shaking away the slight daze that came with poring over his smartphone for too long. `Shit this room is cold,' complained the other young man harshly. `Does the heating not go up any more? Bloody freezing. Here, I'll just get this set up - knock some tunes on or something will ya, Tyler?' `Er - oh, yeh, will do - good thinking.' He pushed his phone away without properly acknowledging Harvey's message, or any of those unread in the list; he wasn't in the mood for dwelling on the night's defeat in the FA Cup, with his loan team Hull City knocked out by their Brummie hosts. The visiting Tigers would be on their back into South Yorkshire if there weren't such icy conditions on the roads, hence an unscheduled second night in the city-centre hotel where he now sat, with his teammate and roomie setting up the console at the TV and himself looking about for the portable speaker he'd brought. Successful at the TV, Regan Slater turned around and saluted him - `Where's the tunes, DJ?' - before clapping his hands together and going away to fiddle with the controls of two different radiators, seemingly convinced he could make the small shared suite cosier. Tyler returned to his phone and fumbled with Spotify, self-consciously selecting a playlist of old indie tunes for them, and then clambering further down the bed for a comfier position from which to join in the two-player action. Tyler was mildly intimidated by Regan, though he did like him a lot; the 24-year-old Yorkshire lad was very confident and relaxed, similar in some ways to his mate Harvey - a charmingly cocky extrovert who presented himself as unfazed by the older and more experienced men on the squad, and full of throwaway comments about just how far he expected his career to go in the years ahead. To listen to Regan's self-assessment, it sounded like Tyler's midfield colleague expected to be at Real Madrid in two years and making billions in Saudi in ten. Slater was one of several more permanent Hull players who had casually welcomed him into their friendship group, their nights out, their in-jokes and banter, and so Morton was of course very grateful and vaguely deferential to him, almost apologetic about his own roots at a much bigger and higher-status club. Perhaps what really made the 21-year-old nervous around the other lad, more than his confidence or humour or bluntness, was the nickname used for him by most of the other Hull City squad members: `Tripod'. Squatted adjacently at the foot of their beds to play some shoot-em-up warfare and listen to indie bands from their boyhood, Tyler could start to relax and enjoy himself - he was quite good at this particular Call of Duty and hold his own against the arrogant claims of the 24-year-old, and they bantered easily, their chat moving from the game to the tunes to random insults against other lads on the team. This was all very comfortable, and Tyler could begin to feel quite settled as a Hull lad, pretty content to be roomed in central Birmingham with this Sheffield ruffian, rather than enjoying some Premiership time off like most of his colleagues and Everton's Branthwaite. It was when a lull in play, a shout from outside the room, or a notification from Regan's slow-charging phone, any distraction at all in fact, would make the other football player get up from his cross-legged position to move about the room. Like Tyler, Regan wore a slim-fitting team t-shirt on his upper half, and the soft dark tracksuit pants that formed part of their travel-wear for away games - but it was in these branded trackies that the problem lay, the source of Slater's crude epithet. Right now the other midfielder was up to get them more snacks from his backpack on the shelf, returning with a tube of Pringles in one hand and a bag of Giant Buttons in the other, and himself stood prominently in Tyler's line of sight at the TV screen where his character was still alive in another death-match - and the problem with Regan Slater, ultimately, was the obscenely prominent weight that bulged in the front of his Hull gear. It was ridiculous, really - it wasn't even as if Tyler was the sort of nosey or insecure lad who spent time comparing these things, not really, and he certainly had no OTHER reason to be checking out what was in his teammate's shorts! But it had been something which became obscenely clear in only his first few days of loan play in the Yorkshire city: it was seemingly impossible for the 24-year-old lad's lad to strut about in trackies or shorts or pretty much anything without bulging so ridiculously. At some early point, Morton could remember thinking it was an actual joke, that the roguish club joker had stuffed some stupid items down his shorts while they trained - it had only been when he looked his way across a pitch one damp autumn night that he observed that, nope, Slater genuinely played football with such an eye-catching mound swinging and bouncing in his kit! Then, gradually, Tyler had caught on to the `Tripod' labelling that was thrown at the guy, and accepted that yep, it really wasn't some prank or stupidity on Regan's part... he really just couldn't help but be so publicly on show without wearing oversized baggy trousers or jeans. `My eyes are up here, Anfield,' barked Slater now, since Morton had apparently fallen into the trap of staring awkwardly down at the front of the other lad's trackies for a moment, though he swiftly retorted, `What? Get out of the way, I'm playing!' And Regan, apparently fully comfortable with his dumb nickname, giggled stupidly and shook the sweet and savour snacks, throwing himself down onto the foot of Tyler's bed with him, out of his way but too late - a sniper killed Tyler's avatar and the game ended, so that he could lay down his controller and sit there receiving a handful of Pringles from the other player. To Morton's relief, Slater didn't elaborate on his suggestive jokey comment - he slagged off the mechanics of the video game instead, complaining about the AI and weapon options, and they were just too young blokes in front of a telly, arguing nonsensically about gaming and anything else that came to mind. Tyler let the reddening of his cheeks fade and he chastised himself for being intimidated or uneasy with Regan's showy complacency; it was hardly the Sheffield lad's fault what God had given him, and it was good that he had such a zero-fucks-given attitude to everything, wasn't it? Inevitably, the 21-year-old's thoughts spiralled back in the direction of England Under-21 service: it had been hard to be relaxed and normal after what happened in his shared room with Harv, and he'd not really had the proper confidence to confront or dissect it with his buddy. Mostly, it had put an awkward tension in his friendship with the Anfield regular, and made him wary of Branthwaite and some of the other burly alphas of their England crew... but apparently it had also skewed the youth's dynamic with guys at Hull City too. Still, a mouthful of crisps and then chocolate, a switch over to a less contentiou computer game, and Tyler began to relax properly. He half-wished that his roomie would shift over to the other bed to give him space, but it seemed rude to point out, and so they huddled here together at the foot of one bed, eventually sharing a duvet over their shoulders for extra warmth because the suite refused to heat up. As they became inevitably bored of this second game too, Slater pushed his remote away and lounged backwards, falling into the bunched-up duvet as a back support, with much of it closed about his neck and shoulders for comfort - and Morton glanced unthinkingly his way to see what he was doing, briefly considered lounging back in the same fashion but stayed still, cross-legged next to him, cradling a defunct remote in both hands. And his eyes, unconsciously, roved down the slim-fit of Regan's tee, down to the thin stripe of white skin before his Diesel underpants and the waist of the trackies, which... uh, stretched a bit stupidly at the front over the mound of the lad's privates, prominent and obvious in his gear even as he slid into this recumbent relaxation. Thinking that Regan was still watching the video game outro on the TV, Tyler blinked and stared, marvelling for the three dozenth time at how the other lad somehow contrived to bulge so ridiculously in literally whatever he wore, and how idly it was labelled and joked about by their teammates - the thought of being so obvious with his own tackle made the 21-year-old blush and cower, far less confident or assertive in his masculinity. `It's not my fault,' `Tripod' grunted, as if reading his mind. `Huh?' Tyler muttered back, immediately flustered. `Wha'...?' `I did ask for an even bigger pair,' Regan continued in a lower voice. `I always go XXL, even though I'm hardly the tallest or broadest fella on the team - but then they'll be stupidly big on me and the fit is terrible, so- Yeah, it's not like there's anything I can do about it.' Tyler flashed his eyes over to Regan's, caught his vague scowl of defensiveness, and he felt his own thin face flush redder. `What are you on about?' the young Scouser murmured back, looking away, refusing to acknowledge that he'd been staring so thoughtfully. `All your kit fits fine, you daft lad, stop worrying...' `Oh fuck off,' Slater said, quite quietly. `You know what I'm on about, matey. But I just have to not give a shit about it.' A thoughtful pause, in which Tyler blushed fiercely and looked anywhere but at his roomie - `How'd you think it was when I was still at school and shit like that? I'm used to the stares and the jokes, for fuck's sake, you don't need to be so bashful.' He chucked his PS5 remote at Tyler's side and sniggered. `I know my own nickname here, for fuck's sake - it is what it is.' Morton shook himself and got up, collecting the remotes into his hands and crossing the room to place them by the console and telly; when he turned, he was faced by the slouched relaxed posture of Slater on his bed, lounging back into the mound of duvet, bulging obscenely in his trackies, and shooting him a lopsided grin. `Go on, stare it out, I swear you'll blink first,' joked the 24-year-old with a roll of his eyes. `Never get into a staring contest with a Basilisk - ain't you read your Harry Potter, Anfield? Heh.' And Tyler mumbled out a laugh as he returned to the edge of his bed, sitting back down next to his friend, strangely charmed by the openness and surprising vulnerability of Regan's talk - the familiar intimidating confidence was still there, sure, but there was a quiet reflectiveness that was kinda alluring at the same time. `Jesus,' he muttered, `is that your nickname for it?' `Haha - one of them! Mostly I just call him the GOAT, y'know-' `Fuck off, haha...' `Ah, you know how it is, if I didn't make a joke of it I'd be as shy as gimps like you, fella - I know everyone thinks I'm just all Mr Confident and that, but it can be embarrassing sometimes, let me tell you.' `I bet it has it's upsides,' Tyler sniggered dumbly at him, looking away. `I mean, when you see yourself tagged in a dozen slow-mo clips on TikTok and that,' Regan muttered on. `You know - not on like actual footy accounts, mate, but weird pages obsessed with players' bulges and that sorta shit!' Tyler paused, eyes bulging, and glancing curiously over at the strange expression on Regan's face - both puzzled frown and self-satisfied smirk - as he talked: `Honestly, mate, like guys all over the fucking internet world, I think, sharing clips of me in my kit - on all these websites and forums and that. Seriously, don't google my name, it ain't footy stuff that you end up at. Fuck's sake.' Tyler blinked and stared at him, taking all of this in. `That's weird,' was all he could murmur in response - it briefly occurred to him that he was probably too weedy and unassuming, that surely there weren't pervy gay guys on the internet wanking over HIM? `I know what you're thinking,' Slater told him simply, although he was wrong. `You're thinking sure, that sounds great, right? I mean, yeah, don't get me wrong, it's nice to be fancied and all that, but - jeez, makes you feel a bit weird sometimes? I get messages asking me when I'm gonna set up my OnlyFans...!' Tyler couldn't help but laugh at this. `Well, we got knocked out of the FA Cup tonight, but things aren't quite that desperate...!' `We'll see what happens when I get through another transfer window without PSG coming knocking,' the `Tripod' chuckled at him with a touch more self-awareness and irony than was typical - again, it charmed Tyler and made him feel even more warmly towards the other player, who seemed to be confiding in him and dropping his bluster and bravado. Tyler nodded vaguely and lingered next to him, thinking he ought to change the subject - but Regan had more to say on the matter of his third leg - `Seriously, I'll find some decent sports briefs that are comfy enough for me eventually, I tell ya...!' `My heart bleeds, hah...' `You laugh, but you can't stop staring at it.' `Oh, shurrup...' `Where was the lie, bro?' `Er- fuck off la'-' And now Tyler was just uncomfortable again, wary of Regan's large character, and feeling vaguely as if he'd said the wrong thing and tripped himself up. He sat there, perched on the edge of the bed, and in spite of all uncertainty and resistance, or almost because he was trying not to, he swung to the right and stared right at it - the humongous mound in the front of the older lad's trackies. He flushed and blinked and stared up at Regan's face - there was nothing smug and obnoxious about the lad's expression though, oddly, and that disarmed him, made him feel hesitant and reserved. `Well, it's not my fault,' the 21-year-old Scouser found himself saying, defensively - `If you will lie there like that - I think you WANT staring at, you attention-seeker.' He huffed and pushed at Regan as if to encourage him off the bed - glad when the older footballer player did indeed get up, but less so when he stood squarely at the corner of the bed and shoved down the taut waist of his trackies, right down to the midpoint of his thighs, so that the bulge now loomed and swelled from the pale grey of boxer briefs - `What the fuck?' Tyler demanded under his breath, frozen where he sat. `Just need to show you I ain't tucked any socks down there to troll ya-!' `We've been playing on the same team for a few months now, mate-' `Here, look-' And with that, Regan pushed down the undies too, and out it unfurled. Tyler stopped where he was, staring intently - he'd been tempted to look in the showers, curious and wary, but always kept a distance from `Tripod' for that very reason. But there it was, the long thick snake of it, the surprisingly untrimmed bush of his ginger-brown pubes, the weighty cushion of large balls. And Regan just stood there, hips pressed forward, baring his equipment, t-shirt slightly lifted, a matter-of-fact apathy on his face. `Go on, give it a good stare,' Slater barked almost accusingly, as if Morton had asked for this peep show - his eyes bulged and he stared at it and then up at that oddly `whatever' expression on his face. `I mean, what do you want me to say?' Tyler grunted irritably, sitting painfully close to the exposure, hands pressed down at the bedding on the outside of his thighs. He felt irritated and oppressed but he still felt that lingering warmth at Regan's openness and his vague uncertain hidden insecurity - somehow, whilst standing there exposing his monstrous privates, the 5ft8 midfielder did actually contrive to look shy about it, embarrassed, as if this indecency was an inevitable ritual to be gotten out of the way, as if he'd shown so many blokes it in the past, baring himself to prove a point or to silence speculation. And so Tyler swallowed his aggressive retort and sat there, beetroot-faced, and glanced from the drooping meat to the sullen expression above, until he had to look away and wiped the back of a hand across his sweaty face. He looked back, and saw the droop of Regan's posture, some tension passing them by. `Yup, there it is,' sighed Slater, almost wistfully. `It must feel heavy...' `Meh, dunno - it's just there, y'know?' `But it must be so in the way when you're playing...' `Oh, kinda, but you know, I hardly really notice, until I see the pics or clips...!' `Mate, doesn't it annoy you when people use that nickname?' `I can't let it - it is what it is, you know, fucking look at it - it's just THERE, the bastard.' `It's huge,' Tyler breathed, the intimacy of their quiet chat releasing some primal honesty that made him blush even more as he heard himself - Regan just chuckling softly. And then he thought his ears deceived him, the question that came to him, low and uncertain in Regan's South Yorkshire accent: no way could the midfielder lad have just asked him that? He met Regan's questioning eyes and frowned, and realised that he hadn't imagined it. `You wanna touch it?' the 24-year-old had asked. Tyler stared back, his breathing awkward, his chest heaving. `Wha'?' he murmured very quietly, feeling like his face was on fire. A shrug from Regan. `You can, if you want.' Tyler's mouth felt as dry as a desert. He stared at it. Had it got even thicker and longer in the past few moments? Carried on by some inexplicable instinct, he reached for it without answering the muttered suggestions. He brushed his fingers against its soft swollen warmth. It somehow felt even bigger than it looked, freaking him out, but he ran his fingers against some of its length and then, briefly meeting eyes with the face above, he gave it a little lift, weighing it against part of his palm... his touch lingering, until the loud internal question was thrown back at him: what the hell are you doing, Tyler? He retracted his hand and let it droop free again, and he wiped a clammy palm on the thigh of his own trackies, releasing a long-held breath and feeling very silly. They stayed still and said nothing, exposed Regan standing over him, and Tyler just blinking his lashes furiously and wondering if he was going to be bullied for the rest of the season for what he'd just done - was Tripod just trolling him here? He looked nervously up and found Regan's face hard to read - the confident lad had nothing to say for himself, wasn't bursting into mocking laughter, or ribbing him with some insult for his complicity. Without being asked or invited, without saying anything more himself, Tyler lifted his hand and reached over, and this time he took it a little more securely in his fingers, then holding it and pulling very gently on its weight - now Regan did react, very slightly, with a breathy little sound that turned into some fraction of a laugh. Was he... nervous? Driven by some intent that he could hardly identify or name, Tyler brought his hand back, but this time just to hold open in front of him. Quietly, he spat in his palm, and then he rubbed its lubricated touch down the weighty shaft, and under it, hoisting and holding it, feeling its weight, rubbing at it gently but insistently - stopping to spit some more on his palm and give it a good slow pull. He bit his lip and now found he couldn't bear to lifted his head and make eye contact with Regan, who was barely making a sound - he could just stare at his object of fascination and continue to rub it, stroke it, pull on it, feeling it grow, stiffen, expand. He rubbed a thumb against the creased skin of the sack and tickled at the curls of public hair. He helped the foreskin to peel back and he stared at the shinier pink of the head, which stared back; some more spit against his palm and he rubbed it, making Slater seem to shudder silently, and he gave a firmer tug on the huge bloated length which saluted him, yanking needily on Slater's huge rigid manhood. `This okay?' Morton asked eventually in a harsh little whisper. `Yeah,' Slater grunted simply. `I've never...' `Don't talk, mate.' `Okay.' So it was like that - there was just the sound of their breathing, Regan's low growling breaths, suppressed and tense, as if he wanted to moan - Tyler hoped he wanted to moan - but was doing his best to be stoic. And Tyler's quick nervous chittering pants, and the vague wet sound of his spit-lubed hand as it slid more quickly up and down it, finding the right angle, the right rhythm, the right pressure. Just that, nothing more said, Tyler following Regan's instruction loyally - until it was `Tripod' himself who contradicted this, muttering `Fucking hell' to himself, and provoking another `Am I doing it right?' query from the Liverpudlian, his voice all shakes. Panting, from both of them, and the steady wet back-and-forth of the young player's tugging hand. He sat forward, tense, reaching his other hand for Regan's hip to steady himself. Jerk, jerk, jerk. He alternated between staring at it, making glossy eye contact with the monstrous tip, and shutting his eyes, questioning over and over what he was doing. And then he looked up, squinting into the tension of his mate's face - Regan had his eyes squeezed shut, his lightly freckled face contorted as if in pain, teeth bared and visible - he had his hands up on top of his head, elbows in the air, all pressure and restraint. Tyler pulled harder, desperate to free those suppressed moans, wanting to hear how good his hand might feel, how much relief and satisfaction he was giving to this surprisingly vulnerable boy behind the well-hung machismo of the footy crowd - and there it was, the `Ohhhghgh' that escaped wobbling lips, the unsteadiness of the short muscular lad, and suddenly one of Regan's hands reaching down to squabble with his, taking a grip, control... but too late? Right in front of Morton, the deed was done, and his handiwork had done its job. When it had finished, the 24-year-old was staggering a couple of paces backwards, and Tyler himself was just panting heavily, resting his right hand on his lap as if it was lame and injured - he could feel it damp and hot on his skin, but cooling, and he shuddered uncomfortably, absolutely bewildered. And then his mate's voice, gruff and urgent - `Oh, fuck, sorry sorry mate, sorry about that, er-' And before Morton really knew what was happening, the other midfielder was yanking up his pants and jiggling past, and then back with a towel - Tyler reached for it but Regan took control, rubbing it against his cheek, his chin, down his neck, wiping away the spunk that had splattered there in the moment of intensity. Pulling the towel back, Slater shot him a look of wide-eyed concern. `Sorry,' the permanent Hull player hissed at him again, `I didn't mean to-' He seemed awfully worried about the mess, making Morton feel all the more uncertain about the deed that had summoned it. He grasped for the towel and rubbed at himself, catching a dirty slick on the chest of his t-shirt, and he got up from the bed, shifting away from the other lad. He was tense and shaking and - he couldn't bear to let the roommate see - as hard as a rock in his own pants. He went into the bathroom silently, where he washed his face and hands thoroughly - another vague `Sorry' called through from the other lad, but he didn't answer, just rinsing at himself and then chucking the soiled towel into a corner. He leaned on the sink and hung there on his own - another hotel, another bathroom, another dirty deed, another... regret? He rubbed at his pink face and pictured it, Jarrad's groaning satisfaction, and downwards, the dirty shiny mess of Harvey's goatee...! Oh god, oh god, oh god. When the 21-year-old loan player moved back through, the PS5 was back on, video game playing, and Regan was perched on his own bed, not even looking up. Alone. Tyler tidied the rumple of his bedding, scratched at his neck, thinking he found a little dried crust there at the collar of his t-shirt, and he picked up the other remote controller, taking it with him as he clambered into bed. Without a word, he buzzed the buttons and joined the game that Regan had set up, and the two lads set about shooting each other to imaginary death - and the elephant in the room, the huge trunk of it, just fell silently away between them as if nothing had happened, the matter of Slater's third leg. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-371

Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2023 14:35:37 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 371 Part 371: Welcome to the Champions League The game was three-quarters down in the hot humid air of the San Siro, yet he could still hardly believe it when the nod came his way and was told to peel the training jersey off his ready kit and begin warming-up. Adrenaline fired through the ripped physique of his 5ft10 body, excitement laced with a gut-churning nervousness; the young man did his best to keep this from his locked facial expression, clapping handshakes of support with the other remaining substitutes: former Leicester Fox Harvey Barnes, tight-faced and envious but still wishing him luck, and nearby old faithfuls Lascelles and Dummett, both surprisingly content that they were missing out on their Champions League debuts. Trying to suppress the shaking in his strong body, Elliot Anderson moved away from them, doing more stretches as he took position between Howe and Tindall, ready to answer his coaches' summoning and step out onto the field. From League Two to the Champions League in 500 days, the fan-sites were saying, and it seemed like both yesterday and forever ago that he had been loaned out to Bristol Rovers and proving himself in a lower league - now about to be subbed on as a potential game-changer in Newcastle United's group stage clash with hosts AC Milan. Their first Champions League game in two decades, surrounded in hype for everyone involved, and a head-spinning opportunity for the 20-year-old midfielder in black-and-white. To compound Anderson's nervousness and pressure, he saw who he was to replace: the club's own Italian stallion and the night's homecoming performance, 23-year-old Sandro Tonali. The tall dark winger looked grim and defeated as he stomped this way to be taken off, clearly disappointed not to land a goal or assist against his former club; a sense of overwhelming expectation rocked Elliot as he was slapped on the back by the gaffer and urged out into the floodlights, sent on to replace the Italian and to try and shift the tide of Milan's threatening shots-on-target. Never had the young footballer felt so nervous about a performance, nor so shocked to be selected, but he tried to look strong and confident as he jogged in from the sidelines, ignoring the strong urge to run and hide and tell his bosses he just had an upset stomach or something. Red-faced and impatient Haervey could go on, he thought, or Targett or Livramento or anyone... It was the kind of horrible pressure that professional footballers seemed never to admit to, and for a long moment the Whitley Bay youth felt on the verge of a panic attack, finding his position and watching the action resume around him. But then, at just the right moment, there was a rough hand on his elbow, and then squeezing at his shoulder muscle through his Newcastle shirt. `Here we go,' grunted the rough Mancunian accent, familiarly reassuring, and he was squeezed briefly from the side by another thickset man of the same height. He glanced sharply to his side, glad when his eyes met the crystal-blue of the acting captain's - taking a moment's distraction from the game's final quarter, Kieran Trippier fixed him with a calming stare, holding his shoulder for a moment longer, but just long enough. `Hey,' Anderson panted quietly at the older man, feeling a strong pat to his lower back, and then catching the brief cheerful wink of Trippier's striking eyes. `Let's finish this,' the Bury-born defender hissed fiercely at him, and gave him a slight push away directing him further towards the middle of the field - and Elliot did so in a fierce run, his nerves instantly settled and his determination recharged by the quick contact with his captain. Nerves were abandoned and the excited young midfielder sprinted into the game, ready for a last push against the host opposition. The brief contact, the strong supportive touch, the deep reassuring eyes - it had all flashed the 20-year-old back to earlier today, and another gesture of faith and support from the experienced European contender. Fits and waves of this nervous energy had been slapping at Elliot all week in training, and especially on the Friday night journey into northern Italy, never mind in the slow afternoon hours that built up to the fixture. Mid-afternoon and he had been pacing the hotel on his own, opting out of the pool and darts tournament that some of the other young players had instigated once their light training session and near-ceremonial lunch break were over. Excitement levels were high, of course, but nobody seemed to be admitting to the pants-wetting nervousness of stepping up to this big stage, and so Elliot himself was far too embarrassed to say anything. Instead, the muscular young midfielder had broken away from his pals and wandered the hotel instead, finding windows on the upper floors with fairly spectacular views over the city and its famous duomo. That's where Trips had found him. The de facto skipper had been on the phone, to his wife by the sound of it, but brought the call to an end and joined him at the window, grabbing and squeezing his shoulder in exactly the same way as he did on the pitch just now. It had been less instantly gratifying in that moment of afternoon panic, but Anderson had still found himself turning pleading eyes and tight lips to the older player, and feeling glad to have someone as self-assured and calm as Kieran at his side. `It's okay to be worried,' Trips told him, apparently a mind-reader. `I'm just excited,' Anderson lied quietly. `Oh fuck off. You're shitting your pants, who wouldn't be?' `Is it THAT obvious, man...?' `Aye. But don't fret. You don't think every lad on the team ain't feeling it a bit?' `Ah, dunno like, er...' He mumbled and slurred and pawed a clammy hand against the freckles and acne scars of his pale young face. `Just embarrassing to feel scared, we're meant to be going out there all guns blazin', y'kna? Ergh. God, what am I like. Diven't tell anyone, skip...' Stood next to him, the Bury-born man just scoffed and smiled, his own freckled face broad with smile and his eyes full of warmth. He nodded away. `Come with me a minute, mate.' And Elliot had followed unquestioningly, always comfortable with the confidence and reassurance of his right-back, even since... well, what had happened that night at Alan Shearer's. There had been many Sundays this year spent as a guest at the Trippiers' house for roast dinners, an intimacy that the gregarious team leader still didn't seem to have extended to many squad members. In the top-floor suite that Trippier was sharing with another senior player, Anderson had felt himself directed quite roughly to the full-length mirror, handled with a close physicality that took him anxiously back to the whiskey haze of Shearer's party after the semi-final. Stood in front of his own reflection, he bristled with tension and felt an ambiguous thrill at that memory, and flinched then relaxed with Kieran's strong hands on each shoulder. `Look at yerself,' Kieran grunted in his ear. `Strappin' lad - ready to take on the world.' To the nervous young player, his own physical fitness seemed tangential from the psychological pressure of the sporting challenge ahead, but he was flattered by the older man's attention, and he laughed when Kieran stupidly lifted his heavy white t-shirt up to his pecs and exposed the ripped washboard of his abs. `Look at the fitness on you, you mad bastard - you're a warrior, Elliot.' Anderson's mumbled humility was ignored, and Kieran shook and held him, showing him off to himself in the mirror, then reaching an unambiguous hand around; he watched it in reflection, the sight of those scuffed knuckles and stubby fingers, grasping about his bulge in his baggy jogger bottoms. Again, the flinch of the unexpected against his nerves, and then the comforting reassurance of Kieran's certainty. `Big bollocks like these,' intoned the captain in his ear, `ready to take on the world.' `Fuck yeah,' Anderson returned with uncertain enthusiasm. `Big bollocks,' Trips repeated, `and bigger cock.' `Er-' The hand wasn't just on the bulge now - it was inside the front of his joggers, rubbing him in his briefs, and Kieran's face over his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He stood there, tense with a mixture of nerves and excitement, and felt the knowing fingers on the outline of his cock, gasping but unsure what to say. Kieran's blue eyes stared deeply into his from the reflective glass, and he let out another faint gasp. Out came his cock, pulled free and stroked in the captain's hand. `Big-dicked bastard,' growled the older footballer at his back, holding him still and stroking slow firm life into his manhood - touching him firmly but sensuously as he had on the rug of Shearer's downstairs study - and Elliot felt his own chest muscles swell with vanity, seeing himself like this, muscular and well-hung and prized. `A big fucking lad,' the captain muttered, pulling back and forth on his sensitive shaft, and his other hand gripping at his bicep. `A big hung lad like you, monster in your shorts, and all these muscles - you're gonna fuck up some Milan wankers, y'hear me?' Again the low growl of the skipper's voice seemed to read his thoughts: `Dick as big as old Shearer's, and I tell you whose tasted better to me. You're ready for this, mate.' `I am,' he wheezed in reply, his entire body tingling. And just as swiftly as it had begun, the pressure around his mounting hard-on went away - just as it was coming alive, his whopper was pushed back into the loose folds of his joggers, although it wouldn't fit back into his briefs, and Kieran was just patting his shoulders and chuckling ambiguously. `That's the spirit,' he said with sporting bravado, as if he hadn't just been handling his cock, and this was an ordinary pep talk. Elliot blinked stupidly and stared into his calm grin in the mirror, unsure what to do or say, but then just briefly massaged at the collarbone. `Off you go then, lad - go get a nap or something before we have to report to the coaches downstairs, eh.' For a few moments, the strapping young Geordie had faltered and hesitated, an obvious outline in his pants, but Kieran just blinking calmly with a thin smile and nodding him away to the door; no signs of sexual excitement of his own, just a calm and friendly encouragement. Anderson nodded at Trips and left in a stumbling shuffle walk, trying to find a way of moving without his hard-on being too obvious where it tented and poked, which was not possible. All the way back to his own room he was paranoid about it, but he passed nobody, and his own roomie was nowhere to be seen. Alone, he let out a series of deep breathy gasps, and leant on the door, letting the startled frustration seep away - all turned on and then pushed away. And yet... something up there had done the trick. Catching sight of himself in an identical mirror on the wall of this suite, the Whitley Bay boy saw a powerful muscular figure, a hard-faced North East lad who was ready to square up to AC Milan. His hard-on wilted, but his renewed confidence didn't - and grabbed and reassured by Trippier on the pitch tonight, his cock and balls had tingled inside his Adidas briefs, reminded of everything the captain had muttered in his ear. It was a draw that felt like a win, even without a goal; although other results across Europe put theirs to shame, the returning contenders were pleased to squeeze a point out of their hosts. The talk in the San Siro lockerroom and the bus back to the hotel was all of St James Park as a fortress where the real magic would happen, and how little chance AC Milan stood once those tables were turned. Proud even of his short appearance and limited contribution, Elliot was as loudly pleased as anyone else, swaggering about the changing rooms with his towel over his shoulder, big dick swinging, and joining a Geordie chant on the bus with Longstaff, Burn, Dummet, and Miley, happy to be the local pride heartbeat of an excitable squad on their way back to the accommodation. Necking a beer in the hotel bar, the 20-year-old smiled and chuckled to think of his own nervousness, as if this was anything more than another football match, the same even challenge as every other. He thought he'd held his own in the time he had and that the bosses would give him more opportunity as the rest of their group matches came into focus, not just AC Milan but PSG and Dortmund. The whole NUFC entourage were occupying the bar area, every player and travelling staff member, a collective sense of relief filling the room and revealing that Elliot's nervous dread had been far from unique. Everybody seemed glad to have gotten this first fixture out of the way, for their UCL journey to be underway. The team spirit across the bar was almost as if they'd thrashed the Italians 6-0, rather than a goalless draw, and Anderson was happy to be part of it, happy to enjoy the obnoxious gladness, happy to have popped his European cherry, and to be a key player at his boyhood club. His happy eyes sought out the figure of the night's captain, who was sat closely with the still-official leader Jamaal Lascelles, close to Eddie Howe too, proposing toast after toast with a pint of Italian lager. He wondered if he could have stepped onto the pitch and held his head high without that extra support of encouragement from the skipper, and felt a warm surge of gratitude and loyalty as the beer buzz tingled through him. What a fucking great guy, Elliot thought, taking another long glug - a proper sound guy, the absolute backbone of this group of lads, why aye... Next to him, the others were beginning to talk more about their next fixture, a Sunday afternoon in Sheffield - Sean Longstaff and Jacob Murphy were making loud predictions about steamrollering the newly-promoted Yorkshire team, and trying to involve Anderson in their banter, whilst on his other side big Dan Burn was enthusing about their impenetrable defence to fellow giant Nick Pope. But Elliot could barely hear them, putting the bottle back to his lips and studying the quiet confidence of Kieran Trippier, wondering at how much impact the Atletico Madrid investment had made in little over a season. He thought about the way the older guy had spoken to him in the afternoon, so perceptive and kind and... er, attentive. He'd made him feel like a fucking king. What a guy. `Oi,' shouted big Dan, elbowing him, `are you wasted already, Baywatch?' Shaking himself and laughing, Elliot returned to the room, and tried to zone in on the conversation fo the other guys. He was glad though to find his beer empty and to escape to the bar to get the next round, suddenly agitated and wanting to speak to his captain, wanting to say a proper thank you to him that had somehow slipped by in the group celebrations of ending the match without conceding. But the prospect of approaching and expressing his earnest thanks to Trips now, in front of everyone else, just felt a bit too cringe for him now, riding the wave of ego and bravado; it would have to wait. Beers were bought and drank, but the thought persisted: he'd been a nervous wreck all the way here from Newcastle's tiny airport, and Trippier's faith in him had been transformative. It was still on his mind when curfew was called, Howe himself dismissing the celebrations with a loud hearty toast, and Anderson busied himself with the gentlemanly task of helping to collect glasses and bottles for the patient Italian bar staff. One of the staff members, a pretty dark-haired Italian chick who looked straight out of Milan Fashion Week, smiled coyly at him for his help and fluttered lashes for days - the 20-year-old Geordie could only grin awkwardly back at the female attention of the signora, admiring the tight fit of her crisp uniform and those supermodel looks, before shouldering away through the vague crowd of lads. Briefly, he was grabbed about the shoulders by Longstaff, who bluntly informed him `Miss Italy 2023 there wants a bit of Geordie in her, man!' before cackling stupidly and skipping ahead to leap piggy-back onto big lofty Burn. The flirty moment escaped Anderson's attention: he was scanning the crowd for sight of Trips, thinking that he might be able to accost the skipper now and tell him how much his encouragement meant, how important his helpful words had been, not just tonight but since they became teammates - but he couldn't see the other 5ft10 football bloke, not in the melee of lads choosing between the lifts and the stairs, not anywhere in the opulent foyer they were crossing. Maybe he'd already headed up before Howe called time. Three-beers-tipsy and fixated on this surge of gratitude, Elliot ignored the approving hug of passing Harvey Barnes, uninterested in his newer friend's well-meant compliments on the way by, and he just murmured a response when a typically impassioned Bruno Guimaraes hugged him on the way past, throwing some Portuguese moniker at him that Elliot couldn't remember the meaning of. He drifted past the elevators and into the quieter stairwell, scratching the back of his neck and taking the steps two at a time - he wasn't heading for his own suite on the third floor, shared with Chelsea import Lewis Hall, but for the top floor of the large square hotel, for the window view where Trippier had found him lost in his anxiety. Once there, he tried to remember what doorway he'd been ushered through, pausing only briefly to look out at the nocturnally transformed city view. Anderson pulled at the neckline of the polo shirt he'd changed into, the same loose-fitting joggers swinging about his muscled legs. The need was so strong: the need to tell the team's captain that he was an inspiration and support, that his pep talks were everything a nervous young player needed to hear. It occurred to Elliot only in a detached and abstract way that there had been much more than a pep talk, much more than words; his entire body buzzed with the memory of that reassuring and ego-boosting touch, on his shoulder muscles and his six-pack and dipping into the crotch of his joggers... He was almost oblivious to the semi in his briefs, picturing himself in front of that mirror, seen through Trips' ice-blue gaze, stroked to alertness. Here it was, the door to the right room. His hand went down to the door-handle without a polite knock, which was odd, but he was a little dizzy and out of sorts, and he just wanted to lunge in there and holler his sincere `Thanks!' at the captain to overcome this rush of admiration and respect - the knob twisted in his grips and the door pushed easily inwards, unlocked, but Elliot's tipsy rush slowed with an awareness of privacy broken - what a dick, why didn't you knock? But the door was yielding and the air inside smelt richly of an aftershave that he associated with his role model - well, one of his heroes, his most recent one, and he briefly pictured the sweaty lined face of his other, Newcastle's great striker, smirking at him over Trippier's bobbing head. Had he and Shearer really cum together at the sticky lips of the Mancunian? On his way into the room, stumbling with quiet hesitation, the 20-year-old froze. His hand still gripped the loose doorhandle and he paused in the process of lurching forward, stopping himself instinctively even before he saw it. The doorway to the suite was in an awkward corner so that much of the room was angled away, and intruding Elliot found himself hovering in the cover of this corner, but staring around it, at the scene of the nearest bed, able to stare unnoticed. It wasn't his captain that he saw first, but the big figure on the bed, the unmistakable light brown of Callum Wilson's bare muscles, sprawled out sideways across the double bed. His big-muscled arms, covered in tattoo sleeves, were lifted up elbows in the air, hands pulled in over his face; more, his big striker's legs, lifted and parted, and Kieran down between them, head bent low over his crotch. Elliot felt not just admiration and gratitude for his captain, but a sudden burning envy - here was Trippier, gobbling down on the striker's black cock in the same way that he'd knelt for Anderson and Shearer, noisily sucking on another length of meat. Jealous or whatever, the youth's cock throbbed in his boxer briefs, and his grip on the doorhandle tightened. But Trippier wasn't just sucking off the forward. As Elliot's dizzy eyes found focus and clarity, he realised why the hefty muscular legs were lifted and parted so much. He could below the wet base of the shaft, where Kieran's lips went up and down, drooling over shaven bollocks; he could see the tense muscles of the captain's own bare tattooed arm, and the way his hand was pointed in against where the striker's body met the bedding. Elliot stared wide-eyed as two slick digits came in and out of the man's arse-hole, frigging it like a pussy, and combining with lip service to elicit the deep manly groans that Wilson's clamped hands were barely suppressing. Liminal and astounded, the 20-year-old footballer player froze on the threshold of the room, clutching the door and holding his own breath in silently. Inside his joggers and undies, the Geordie lad's cock and balls tingled and throbbed, and hard nipples chafed against the polo shirt. When, after the longest moment in the universe, he managed to tear his eyes from the sight of shirtless Trippier kneeling down at the side of the bed, his eyes flicked only to the full-length mirror on the wall, and he took in the exact same sordid scene, merely reversed and repeated: big manly Callum, sprawled out on the bed, and his NUFC and England teammate pleasuring him in two ways at once, making a lot of wet noise as he sucked his prick and fingered his butt-hole. Excitement competed heavily with shock and fear, and Elliot made his retreat as silently as he could, pulling the door to and stumbling backwards into the corridor. His brain and his cock were in conflict: one was pressing aggressively against the fabric of his keks, leaking precum in his foreskin, and the other was processing a profound distrust of Trippier's attention and support. A lifelong fear of fairies and anything `other' was rioting through the Whitley Bay lad and his working-class background. He remembered with disgust how he had felt after his first blowie off a man, Ryan Fraser's Scottish beard tickling his privates in the dark after a late-night drop-off. Blinking furiously, Anderson wiped sweaty palms across the tummy of his top, and wheeled away down the corridor. Gratitude and admiration were forgotten, and replaced instead with fear and shame; the sight of the two senior players had shattered some vague acceptance that his limited naughty experience had opened up, and he need urgently to prove his own hetero virility to himself. Barely twenty minutes later, Elliot Anderson's `hetero virility' was balls-deep in the dripping fanny of a hot Italian girl, making her squeal in the frosty cool of a walk-in fridge between the bar and the kitchen. It turned out that the girl's English vocab was as non-existent as Elliot's own Italian, but it hadn't really mattered. The awkward flirty look they shared at the bar had been traded for one of hunger and urgency when he returned downstairs and found her wiping down a table. Bodies had spoken louder than the words they failed to share, and now he was powering into her and making the metallic shelves rattle and creak, slamming his big veiny cock into her and interpreting her foreign gasps of delight as just as ego-affirming as any untrustworthy pep talk from Kieran fucking Trippier. Proving his own straightness to himself, the hot young charva fucked hard and fast, using every well-trained muscle, utterly intent on her curvy body and gorgeous skin, and feeling her wet glory envelop him. But with every deep stroke, his hands clutched one at her waist and the other on a single exposed tit, neither of them having really paused to properly undress, the image returned to him: Kieran's digits pushing in and out of the brown-pink furrow between Callum's spread cheeks, spit drooling down shaft and balls and across his furry gooch. It was all he could see when he shut his eyes. When he spent his load inside her, he shook and trembled more than he had with his pre-match nerves, and he sweated more than he had in the humid ferocity of the San Siro. Gasping and moaning, she tried in broken English to tell him her name and number, but he waved her away and staggered out of the cool walk-in, a dripping sticky mess on his way to the lifts, arranging and rearranging his cock in his joggers, and wiping his face on the backs of his equally sweaty arms. Inside the elevator, he could hardly look at his reflection, because he pictured Trippier's hands on him and his eyes over his shoulder, and the way the captain had massaged his ego and more. He panted and closed his eyes, and waited for the ping of arrival at his own floor; he was shaken and confused, and it felt like something more had been popped tonight than his UEFA Champions League newness. A simmering awareness of something else burned on his pale freckled skin, and he let himself quietly into his room to a distant yawned greeting from sleepy Hall, which he ignored. He peeled clothes away, his body seeming to stink of her cheap perfume, and climbed into his bed with his cock still wet and tingling, and he tried not to picture what was going on tow floors above. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2023 14:35:37 +0000 From: writer guy &lt;premiershiplads@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 371 Part 371: Welcome to the Champions League The game was three-quarters down in the hot humid air of the San Siro, yet he could still hardly believe it when the nod came his way and was told to peel the training jersey off his ready kit and begin warming-up. Adrenaline fired through the ripped physique of his 5ft10 body, excitement laced with a gut-churning nervousness; the young man did his best to keep this from his locked facial expression, clapping handshakes of support with the other remaining substitutes: former Leicester Fox Harvey Barnes, tight-faced and envious but still wishing him luck, and nearby old faithfuls Lascelles and Dummett, both surprisingly content that they were missing out on their Champions League debuts. Trying to suppress the shaking in his strong body, Elliot Anderson moved away from them, doing more stretches as he took position between Howe and Tindall, ready to answer his coaches' summoning and step out onto the field. From League Two to the Champions League in 500 days, the fan-sites were saying, and it seemed like both yesterday and forever ago that he had been loaned out to Bristol Rovers and proving himself in a lower league - now about to be subbed on as a potential game-changer in Newcastle United's group stage clash with hosts AC Milan. Their first Champions League game in two decades, surrounded in hype for everyone involved, and a head-spinning opportunity for the 20-year-old midfielder in black-and-white. To compound Anderson's nervousness and pressure, he saw who he was to replace: the club's own Italian stallion and the night's homecoming performance, 23-year-old Sandro Tonali. The tall dark winger looked grim and defeated as he stomped this way to be taken off, clearly disappointed not to land a goal or assist against his former club; a sense of overwhelming expectation rocked Elliot as he was slapped on the back by the gaffer and urged out into the floodlights, sent on to replace the Italian and to try and shift the tide of Milan's threatening shots-on-target. Never had the young footballer felt so nervous about a performance, nor so shocked to be selected, but he tried to look strong and confident as he jogged in from the sidelines, ignoring the strong urge to run and hide and tell his bosses he just had an upset stomach or something. Red-faced and impatient Haervey could go on, he thought, or Targett or Livramento or anyone... It was the kind of horrible pressure that professional footballers seemed never to admit to, and for a long moment the Whitley Bay youth felt on the verge of a panic attack, finding his position and watching the action resume around him. But then, at just the right moment, there was a rough hand on his elbow, and then squeezing at his shoulder muscle through his Newcastle shirt. `Here we go,' grunted the rough Mancunian accent, familiarly reassuring, and he was squeezed briefly from the side by another thickset man of the same height. He glanced sharply to his side, glad when his eyes met the crystal-blue of the acting captain's - taking a moment's distraction from the game's final quarter, Kieran Trippier fixed him with a calming stare, holding his shoulder for a moment longer, but just long enough. `Hey,' Anderson panted quietly at the older man, feeling a strong pat to his lower back, and then catching the brief cheerful wink of Trippier's striking eyes. `Let's finish this,' the Bury-born defender hissed fiercely at him, and gave him a slight push away directing him further towards the middle of the field - and Elliot did so in a fierce run, his nerves instantly settled and his determination recharged by the quick contact with his captain. Nerves were abandoned and the excited young midfielder sprinted into the game, ready for a last push against the host opposition. The brief contact, the strong supportive touch, the deep reassuring eyes - it had all flashed the 20-year-old back to earlier today, and another gesture of faith and support from the experienced European contender. Fits and waves of this nervous energy had been slapping at Elliot all week in training, and especially on the Friday night journey into northern Italy, never mind in the slow afternoon hours that built up to the fixture. Mid-afternoon and he had been pacing the hotel on his own, opting out of the pool and darts tournament that some of the other young players had instigated once their light training session and near-ceremonial lunch break were over. Excitement levels were high, of course, but nobody seemed to be admitting to the pants-wetting nervousness of stepping up to this big stage, and so Elliot himself was far too embarrassed to say anything. Instead, the muscular young midfielder had broken away from his pals and wandered the hotel instead, finding windows on the upper floors with fairly spectacular views over the city and its famous duomo. That's where Trips had found him. The de facto skipper had been on the phone, to his wife by the sound of it, but brought the call to an end and joined him at the window, grabbing and squeezing his shoulder in exactly the same way as he did on the pitch just now. It had been less instantly gratifying in that moment of afternoon panic, but Anderson had still found himself turning pleading eyes and tight lips to the older player, and feeling glad to have someone as self-assured and calm as Kieran at his side. `It's okay to be worried,' Trips told him, apparently a mind-reader. `I'm just excited,' Anderson lied quietly. `Oh fuck off. You're shitting your pants, who wouldn't be?' `Is it THAT obvious, man...?' `Aye. But don't fret. You don't think every lad on the team ain't feeling it a bit?' `Ah, dunno like, er...' He mumbled and slurred and pawed a clammy hand against the freckles and acne scars of his pale young face. `Just embarrassing to feel scared, we're meant to be going out there all guns blazin', y'kna? Ergh. God, what am I like. Diven't tell anyone, skip...' Stood next to him, the Bury-born man just scoffed and smiled, his own freckled face broad with smile and his eyes full of warmth. He nodded away. `Come with me a minute, mate.' And Elliot had followed unquestioningly, always comfortable with the confidence and reassurance of his right-back, even since... well, what had happened that night at Alan Shearer's. There had been many Sundays this year spent as a guest at the Trippiers' house for roast dinners, an intimacy that the gregarious team leader still didn't seem to have extended to many squad members. In the top-floor suite that Trippier was sharing with another senior player, Anderson had felt himself directed quite roughly to the full-length mirror, handled with a close physicality that took him anxiously back to the whiskey haze of Shearer's party after the semi-final. Stood in front of his own reflection, he bristled with tension and felt an ambiguous thrill at that memory, and flinched then relaxed with Kieran's strong hands on each shoulder. `Look at yerself,' Kieran grunted in his ear. `Strappin' lad - ready to take on the world.' To the nervous young player, his own physical fitness seemed tangential from the psychological pressure of the sporting challenge ahead, but he was flattered by the older man's attention, and he laughed when Kieran stupidly lifted his heavy white t-shirt up to his pecs and exposed the ripped washboard of his abs. `Look at the fitness on you, you mad bastard - you're a warrior, Elliot.' Anderson's mumbled humility was ignored, and Kieran shook and held him, showing him off to himself in the mirror, then reaching an unambiguous hand around; he watched it in reflection, the sight of those scuffed knuckles and stubby fingers, grasping about his bulge in his baggy jogger bottoms. Again, the flinch of the unexpected against his nerves, and then the comforting reassurance of Kieran's certainty. `Big bollocks like these,' intoned the captain in his ear, `ready to take on the world.' `Fuck yeah,' Anderson returned with uncertain enthusiasm. `Big bollocks,' Trips repeated, `and bigger cock.' `Er-' The hand wasn't just on the bulge now - it was inside the front of his joggers, rubbing him in his briefs, and Kieran's face over his shoulder, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He stood there, tense with a mixture of nerves and excitement, and felt the knowing fingers on the outline of his cock, gasping but unsure what to say. Kieran's blue eyes stared deeply into his from the reflective glass, and he let out another faint gasp. Out came his cock, pulled free and stroked in the captain's hand. `Big-dicked bastard,' growled the older footballer at his back, holding him still and stroking slow firm life into his manhood - touching him firmly but sensuously as he had on the rug of Shearer's downstairs study - and Elliot felt his own chest muscles swell with vanity, seeing himself like this, muscular and well-hung and prized. `A big fucking lad,' the captain muttered, pulling back and forth on his sensitive shaft, and his other hand gripping at his bicep. `A big hung lad like you, monster in your shorts, and all these muscles - you're gonna fuck up some Milan wankers, y'hear me?' Again the low growl of the skipper's voice seemed to read his thoughts: `Dick as big as old Shearer's, and I tell you whose tasted better to me. You're ready for this, mate.' `I am,' he wheezed in reply, his entire body tingling. And just as swiftly as it had begun, the pressure around his mounting hard-on went away - just as it was coming alive, his whopper was pushed back into the loose folds of his joggers, although it wouldn't fit back into his briefs, and Kieran was just patting his shoulders and chuckling ambiguously. `That's the spirit,' he said with sporting bravado, as if he hadn't just been handling his cock, and this was an ordinary pep talk. Elliot blinked stupidly and stared into his calm grin in the mirror, unsure what to do or say, but then just briefly massaged at the collarbone. `Off you go then, lad - go get a nap or something before we have to report to the coaches downstairs, eh.' For a few moments, the strapping young Geordie had faltered and hesitated, an obvious outline in his pants, but Kieran just blinking calmly with a thin smile and nodding him away to the door; no signs of sexual excitement of his own, just a calm and friendly encouragement. Anderson nodded at Trips and left in a stumbling shuffle walk, trying to find a way of moving without his hard-on being too obvious where it tented and poked, which was not possible. All the way back to his own room he was paranoid about it, but he passed nobody, and his own roomie was nowhere to be seen. Alone, he let out a series of deep breathy gasps, and leant on the door, letting the startled frustration seep away - all turned on and then pushed away. And yet... something up there had done the trick. Catching sight of himself in an identical mirror on the wall of this suite, the Whitley Bay boy saw a powerful muscular figure, a hard-faced North East lad who was ready to square up to AC Milan. His hard-on wilted, but his renewed confidence didn't - and grabbed and reassured by Trippier on the pitch tonight, his cock and balls had tingled inside his Adidas briefs, reminded of everything the captain had muttered in his ear. It was a draw that felt like a win, even without a goal; although other results across Europe put theirs to shame, the returning contenders were pleased to squeeze a point out of their hosts. The talk in the San Siro lockerroom and the bus back to the hotel was all of St James Park as a fortress where the real magic would happen, and how little chance AC Milan stood once those tables were turned. Proud even of his short appearance and limited contribution, Elliot was as loudly pleased as anyone else, swaggering about the changing rooms with his towel over his shoulder, big dick swinging, and joining a Geordie chant on the bus with Longstaff, Burn, Dummet, and Miley, happy to be the local pride heartbeat of an excitable squad on their way back to the accommodation. Necking a beer in the hotel bar, the 20-year-old smiled and chuckled to think of his own nervousness, as if this was anything more than another football match, the same even challenge as every other. He thought he'd held his own in the time he had and that the bosses would give him more opportunity as the rest of their group matches came into focus, not just AC Milan but PSG and Dortmund. The whole NUFC entourage were occupying the bar area, every player and travelling staff member, a collective sense of relief filling the room and revealing that Elliot's nervous dread had been far from unique. Everybody seemed glad to have gotten this first fixture out of the way, for their UCL journey to be underway. The team spirit across the bar was almost as if they'd thrashed the Italians 6-0, rather than a goalless draw, and Anderson was happy to be part of it, happy to enjoy the obnoxious gladness, happy to have popped his European cherry, and to be a key player at his boyhood club. His happy eyes sought out the figure of the night's captain, who was sat closely with the still-official leader Jamaal Lascelles, close to Eddie Howe too, proposing toast after toast with a pint of Italian lager. He wondered if he could have stepped onto the pitch and held his head high without that extra support of encouragement from the skipper, and felt a warm surge of gratitude and loyalty as the beer buzz tingled through him. What a fucking great guy, Elliot thought, taking another long glug - a proper sound guy, the absolute backbone of this group of lads, why aye... Next to him, the others were beginning to talk more about their next fixture, a Sunday afternoon in Sheffield - Sean Longstaff and Jacob Murphy were making loud predictions about steamrollering the newly-promoted Yorkshire team, and trying to involve Anderson in their banter, whilst on his other side big Dan Burn was enthusing about their impenetrable defence to fellow giant Nick Pope. But Elliot could barely hear them, putting the bottle back to his lips and studying the quiet confidence of Kieran Trippier, wondering at how much impact the Atletico Madrid investment had made in little over a season. He thought about the way the older guy had spoken to him in the afternoon, so perceptive and kind and... er, attentive. He'd made him feel like a fucking king. What a guy. `Oi,' shouted big Dan, elbowing him, `are you wasted already, Baywatch?' Shaking himself and laughing, Elliot returned to the room, and tried to zone in on the conversation fo the other guys. He was glad though to find his beer empty and to escape to the bar to get the next round, suddenly agitated and wanting to speak to his captain, wanting to say a proper thank you to him that had somehow slipped by in the group celebrations of ending the match without conceding. But the prospect of approaching and expressing his earnest thanks to Trips now, in front of everyone else, just felt a bit too cringe for him now, riding the wave of ego and bravado; it would have to wait. Beers were bought and drank, but the thought persisted: he'd been a nervous wreck all the way here from Newcastle's tiny airport, and Trippier's faith in him had been transformative. It was still on his mind when curfew was called, Howe himself dismissing the celebrations with a loud hearty toast, and Anderson busied himself with the gentlemanly task of helping to collect glasses and bottles for the patient Italian bar staff. One of the staff members, a pretty dark-haired Italian chick who looked straight out of Milan Fashion Week, smiled coyly at him for his help and fluttered lashes for days - the 20-year-old Geordie could only grin awkwardly back at the female attention of the signora, admiring the tight fit of her crisp uniform and those supermodel looks, before shouldering away through the vague crowd of lads. Briefly, he was grabbed about the shoulders by Longstaff, who bluntly informed him `Miss Italy 2023 there wants a bit of Geordie in her, man!' before cackling stupidly and skipping ahead to leap piggy-back onto big lofty Burn. The flirty moment escaped Anderson's attention: he was scanning the crowd for sight of Trips, thinking that he might be able to accost the skipper now and tell him how much his encouragement meant, how important his helpful words had been, not just tonight but since they became teammates - but he couldn't see the other 5ft10 football bloke, not in the melee of lads choosing between the lifts and the stairs, not anywhere in the opulent foyer they were crossing. Maybe he'd already headed up before Howe called time. Three-beers-tipsy and fixated on this surge of gratitude, Elliot ignored the approving hug of passing Harvey Barnes, uninterested in his newer friend's well-meant compliments on the way by, and he just murmured a response when a typically impassioned Bruno Guimaraes hugged him on the way past, throwing some Portuguese moniker at him that Elliot couldn't remember the meaning of. He drifted past the elevators and into the quieter stairwell, scratching the back of his neck and taking the steps two at a time - he wasn't heading for his own suite on the third floor, shared with Chelsea import Lewis Hall, but for the top floor of the large square hotel, for the window view where Trippier had found him lost in his anxiety. Once there, he tried to remember what doorway he'd been ushered through, pausing only briefly to look out at the nocturnally transformed city view. Anderson pulled at the neckline of the polo shirt he'd changed into, the same loose-fitting joggers swinging about his muscled legs. The need was so strong: the need to tell the team's captain that he was an inspiration and support, that his pep talks were everything a nervous young player needed to hear. It occurred to Elliot only in a detached and abstract way that there had been much more than a pep talk, much more than words; his entire body buzzed with the memory of that reassuring and ego-boosting touch, on his shoulder muscles and his six-pack and dipping into the crotch of his joggers... He was almost oblivious to the semi in his briefs, picturing himself in front of that mirror, seen through Trips' ice-blue gaze, stroked to alertness. Here it was, the door to the right room. His hand went down to the door-handle without a polite knock, which was odd, but he was a little dizzy and out of sorts, and he just wanted to lunge in there and holler his sincere `Thanks!' at the captain to overcome this rush of admiration and respect - the knob twisted in his grips and the door pushed easily inwards, unlocked, but Elliot's tipsy rush slowed with an awareness of privacy broken - what a dick, why didn't you knock? But the door was yielding and the air inside smelt richly of an aftershave that he associated with his role model - well, one of his heroes, his most recent one, and he briefly pictured the sweaty lined face of his other, Newcastle's great striker, smirking at him over Trippier's bobbing head. Had he and Shearer really cum together at the sticky lips of the Mancunian? On his way into the room, stumbling with quiet hesitation, the 20-year-old froze. His hand still gripped the loose doorhandle and he paused in the process of lurching forward, stopping himself instinctively even before he saw it. The doorway to the suite was in an awkward corner so that much of the room was angled away, and intruding Elliot found himself hovering in the cover of this corner, but staring around it, at the scene of the nearest bed, able to stare unnoticed. It wasn't his captain that he saw first, but the big figure on the bed, the unmistakable light brown of Callum Wilson's bare muscles, sprawled out sideways across the double bed. His big-muscled arms, covered in tattoo sleeves, were lifted up elbows in the air, hands pulled in over his face; more, his big striker's legs, lifted and parted, and Kieran down between them, head bent low over his crotch. Elliot felt not just admiration and gratitude for his captain, but a sudden burning envy - here was Trippier, gobbling down on the striker's black cock in the same way that he'd knelt for Anderson and Shearer, noisily sucking on another length of meat. Jealous or whatever, the youth's cock throbbed in his boxer briefs, and his grip on the doorhandle tightened. But Trippier wasn't just sucking off the forward. As Elliot's dizzy eyes found focus and clarity, he realised why the hefty muscular legs were lifted and parted so much. He could below the wet base of the shaft, where Kieran's lips went up and down, drooling over shaven bollocks; he could see the tense muscles of the captain's own bare tattooed arm, and the way his hand was pointed in against where the striker's body met the bedding. Elliot stared wide-eyed as two slick digits came in and out of the man's arse-hole, frigging it like a pussy, and combining with lip service to elicit the deep manly groans that Wilson's clamped hands were barely suppressing. Liminal and astounded, the 20-year-old footballer player froze on the threshold of the room, clutching the door and holding his own breath in silently. Inside his joggers and undies, the Geordie lad's cock and balls tingled and throbbed, and hard nipples chafed against the polo shirt. When, after the longest moment in the universe, he managed to tear his eyes from the sight of shirtless Trippier kneeling down at the side of the bed, his eyes flicked only to the full-length mirror on the wall, and he took in the exact same sordid scene, merely reversed and repeated: big manly Callum, sprawled out on the bed, and his NUFC and England teammate pleasuring him in two ways at once, making a lot of wet noise as he sucked his prick and fingered his butt-hole. Excitement competed heavily with shock and fear, and Elliot made his retreat as silently as he could, pulling the door to and stumbling backwards into the corridor. His brain and his cock were in conflict: one was pressing aggressively against the fabric of his keks, leaking precum in his foreskin, and the other was processing a profound distrust of Trippier's attention and support. A lifelong fear of fairies and anything `other' was rioting through the Whitley Bay lad and his working-class background. He remembered with disgust how he had felt after his first blowie off a man, Ryan Fraser's Scottish beard tickling his privates in the dark after a late-night drop-off. Blinking furiously, Anderson wiped sweaty palms across the tummy of his top, and wheeled away down the corridor. Gratitude and admiration were forgotten, and replaced instead with fear and shame; the sight of the two senior players had shattered some vague acceptance that his limited naughty experience had opened up, and he need urgently to prove his own hetero virility to himself. Barely twenty minutes later, Elliot Anderson's `hetero virility' was balls-deep in the dripping fanny of a hot Italian girl, making her squeal in the frosty cool of a walk-in fridge between the bar and the kitchen. It turned out that the girl's English vocab was as non-existent as Elliot's own Italian, but it hadn't really mattered. The awkward flirty look they shared at the bar had been traded for one of hunger and urgency when he returned downstairs and found her wiping down a table. Bodies had spoken louder than the words they failed to share, and now he was powering into her and making the metallic shelves rattle and creak, slamming his big veiny cock into her and interpreting her foreign gasps of delight as just as ego-affirming as any untrustworthy pep talk from Kieran fucking Trippier. Proving his own straightness to himself, the hot young charva fucked hard and fast, using every well-trained muscle, utterly intent on her curvy body and gorgeous skin, and feeling her wet glory envelop him. But with every deep stroke, his hands clutched one at her waist and the other on a single exposed tit, neither of them having really paused to properly undress, the image returned to him: Kieran's digits pushing in and out of the brown-pink furrow between Callum's spread cheeks, spit drooling down shaft and balls and across his furry gooch. It was all he could see when he shut his eyes. When he spent his load inside her, he shook and trembled more than he had with his pre-match nerves, and he sweated more than he had in the humid ferocity of the San Siro. Gasping and moaning, she tried in broken English to tell him her name and number, but he waved her away and staggered out of the cool walk-in, a dripping sticky mess on his way to the lifts, arranging and rearranging his cock in his joggers, and wiping his face on the backs of his equally sweaty arms. Inside the elevator, he could hardly look at his reflection, because he pictured Trippier's hands on him and his eyes over his shoulder, and the way the captain had massaged his ego and more. He panted and closed his eyes, and waited for the ping of arrival at his own floor; he was shaken and confused, and it felt like something more had been popped tonight than his UEFA Champions League newness. A simmering awareness of something else burned on his pale freckled skin, and he let himself quietly into his room to a distant yawned greeting from sleepy Hall, which he ignored. He peeled clothes away, his body seeming to stink of her cheap perfume, and climbed into his bed with his cock still wet and tingling, and he tried not to picture what was going on tow floors above. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-355

Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2023 16:35:04 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 355 Part 355: Rice, Rice, Baby As he walked between hotel rooms, Declan checked his phone - he was hoping for a reply from his Mason, given what he was about to do, and he would like to see some explicit encouragement from his serious boyfriend before he went dabbling beyond the boundaries of their tightly intimate relationship. Of course, Mount's encouragement had been open and blunt enough this week so far, asking several times by message and call whether Rice had `enjoyed himself properly' yet, chuckling playfully down the line or barraging him with cheeky emojis as he questioned the 24-year-old West Ham captain's sensible bedtimes and football-focused enjoyment of this latest England camp... his first in as long as he could remember where he hadn't been joined by the Chelsea twink. Sure enough, there was the message, the reply to his own slightly nervous `Might be celebrating that goal with a few others LOL' and a wink, to which Mason had predictably replied with a love heart and then a blunt monosyllabic `Go. Get. Some.' It was late, certainly past the manager's curfew for this second night in their Napoli hotel, and the flight back to London was scheduled for early on Friday morning, leading them straight into prep for the second Euro qualifier fixture. Really, the defensive midfielder should be in bed, just like his roommate, and conserving energy for the coming three days; instead, he was strutting quietly along the identical corridors of the ultra-modern accommodation, checking the room number in the text, and grinning to himself with boyish excitement. Mainly, he would say to himself, he'd been missing Mason's companionship: missing waking up next to someone he loved, and being able to spoon comfortably against him at the start or the end of the day; missing all of their silly in-jokes and their permanent simpatico; missed the cheeky smile and uplifting mood of being in the other 24-year-old player's presence. But he was a man with needs like any other, and of course he was missing the affectionate private touch of his boy, and the joys of partnering with someone who was instantly hard at the softest kiss or quietest suggestion of playtime - Mason's appetite for fun was beautifully exhausting, and it was why Declan tried to be so open-minded and forgiving about their slight struggle for fuller monogamy. But now, he supposed, it was his turn. Mason clearly found it hard to believe that Declan was getting through the week without any such attention - not even a solitary wank. He was here to focus on his football and to guarantee his future place at the heart of the Three Lions squad, and tonight he thought he'd proved that to anyone watching, contributing significantly to a historic win in Italy. He'd earned glowing reviews from Southgate himself and suspected that his stock value in the Premiership might have shot back up tonight, ready for the summer's prospective transfer opportunities... so yeah, football first, always, and yet... those manly needs. There had been offers already, he could point out to himself, though he hadn't bothered to point that out to Mase, who was already incorrigible in sending him dirty messages and suggesting how he might entertain himself in breaks during this busy week of international break. Mason, he supposed, was bored at home, and living vicariously through his horny suggestions; Dec hadn't told him that before the end of his first day at the training camp, Luke Shaw had slipped a warm hand onto his thigh at the dinner table and asked him how he was feeling about being here without his best mate; he hadn't let on to Mason how he'd caught Eric Dier giving him a funny look in the showers at the end of day two; he hadn't made a single comment to his boyfriend about the way No.1 goalkeeper Jordan Pickford had loitered at his room door last night on the way to bed, telling him that he felt too restless to go to his own room, `if you wanna hang out, matey'. Perhaps he'd overthought all three of those indirect approaches, and he was being a bit unrealistic about his own attractiveness, it was hard to tell - but tonight, for sure, fun was on the cards. As every lad on the team had grabbed him in sweaty hugs in the aftermath of tonight's 2-1 win, he'd felt the rising excitement in him, the restless urge for physicality, quite apart from the tender pangs he had for his specific missing boy - and then there had been the last of those hugs, just before the showers, and the growling purr of that Brummie stud's voice in his ear, telling him `We'll celebrate properly later, man, yeah?' Rice could easily have laughed off the remark from a beaming Grealish - in the moment, he did just that - and forgotten about it, very conscious of the Man City man's high spirits and bawdy banter. But then he'd got a text from Jack just as he was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed, telling him to come to `Room 412' in half an hour so that his goal could be `proper fucking celebrated'. Right. Rounding the corner and approaching the numbered room, Declan already had a semi in the vivid blue sweat-shorts he'd pulled back on to leave his suite, although he had to accept a slim chance that his friend was merely up for a swift nightcap of strong liquor, more than had been allowed in the bar downstairs after supper - a limited number of low-alcohol beers under the strict supervision of the management. Yeah, he reminded himself, adjusting the waist of his shorts and spotting the swell of his own bulge in them, there was a chance that a `proper fucking celebration' just meant a little bevvy after curfew. But... it was Jack Grealish, after all. The 6ft1 footballer knocked lightly on the door and stepped back, shoving fists into each pocket, and glancing warily up and down the bright neutral corridor; a slight scuffle of noises behind the door and then the click of a lock, and it opened inwards. Not Grealish himself there to greet him, but- ah, that other attractive young fella of the Manchester City ranks. Declan tried to calmly hide his surprise and just nod appreciatively at the broad smile of the younger player, who beckoned him in. `It's just Dec,' Phil Foden called to their host, stepping aside to let him in. The 22-year-old talent was in the same loose blue shorts and close-fitting white tee as Declan, though his socks and trainers were already off and he was barefoot on the pale carpet. `Rice, Rice, baby!' intoned the deeper voice of Jack Grealish, and the excitable winger was stood to one side of the suite, pouring miniature spirits and cans of pop into glasses and teacups, a very amateurish cocktail waiter in his tight-fitting black shorts and contrastingly baggy Dior sweatshirt. For a moment, taking slow steps into the room, Rice was attempting a calculation: did the presence of Jack's fellow City midfielder make it more or less likely that drinks weren't the only thing on offer in here? He took one look at the sultry welcome on the 27-year-old's handsomely scruffy face, and the eager brightness of Foden's smile, and reached his conclusion. He knew both of these lads too well to think they were just sharing a drink. But his brain had a bit more maths to do: there were more than three drinks being poured out on the long desk at the side of the room, Jack humming to himself as he did so. Before leaving his own room, Ben Chilwell had found himself giving his hair a quick comb and rubbing a little bit of matte moisturiser into his soft-featured face, inspecting himself fussily in the bathroom mirror before pausing and laughing awkwardly at his own behaviour. He'd pulled a light over-shirt on top of his white vest before wishing a quiet `see you in a bit' to half-asleep Reece James, and then he was out in the hotel past curfew, defying Southgate's rules with little hesitation. `You still up?' had begun the message from Jack Grealish, pinging in his phone's inbox not so long ago, and then `Wanna come to my room for a little drink? My roommate's gone walkabout. We can catch up.' The pair of messages had set the 26-year-old Englishman into a hot sweat of urgency, already sat on the edge of his bed and wondering what TV show he was going to watch an episode of on his iPad before catching some sleep. On the one hand, it had come out of nowhere and was a total surprise, a cheeky little transgression after the squad's relatively muted post-match celebrations at the Neapolitan stadium and downstairs in the restaurant and bar; but on the other... Well, the pair of them, old friends reunited, had sat side by side for quite some time the other afternoon, interviewed playfully by the almost ubiquitous social media face of the team, Josh Denzel. It had been an odd experience in a lot of ways, with Ben initially clamming up when one of the PR staff pulled him aside in training to tell him it was on the schedule, and that it was going to be great content for the team's socials; as much as Chilwell and Grealish maintained coolly friendly relations as part of this national side, surely everybody knew they weren't half as close as they'd been before...? Ben didn't think many would suspect the nature of their short-lived relationship or the extent of their estrangement since, but still... To be literally interviewed about their bromance as part of the team's media output?! He'd almost feigned a stomach bug and written off his chances of squad selection to avoid it...! But common sense or post-World Cup ambition had prevailed, and the Chelsea left-back found himself greeting Josh and Jack in one of the indoor training blocks, seated close together and ready to be quizzed on one another. Grealish was in as playful a mood as ever, perhaps a little warmer and softer with him than the last few times they'd attempted to hang out like old times - apart from anything else, the City winger made constant jokes about their interviewer, implying that the Love Island reject couldn't stop staring at Ben's bulge and that the daft lad probably wanted to get spit-roasted by the pair of them if it wasn't for the cameras. This was, of course, all in secretive whispers between shots, and it added a kind of confidentiality and naughtiness to proceedings that took Ben back in time - soon he was muttering back his own jokes to his ex, pretending to see a semi in Denzel's tracksuit bottoms, and arguing that the over-enthusiastic sports reporter was clearly more interested in `a taste of Grealo'. Flirtatious jokes aside, the interview experience had been nice, and seemed to involve a lot of both lads showing off their detailed knowledge of each other, or calling on significant memories of the footballing milestones they'd shared when they were England youth players together back in the day. Ben had to keep stopping himself from getting a bit over-excited at a funny story, or choking back a hint of emotion as his own comments revealed just how closely their lives had once been interlinked, despite playing for two rival clubs in the Midlands at the time. When it was over and they were being dismissed to go back to different corners of the Tuesday afternoon training schedule, Chilwell was left feeling slightly empty and alone, inviting various questions and concern from the other defensive players he was with out in the drizzle. `All good,' he claimed with breezy smiles to first Shaw and then Stones, and again when his old Leicester City bro Harry Maguire took him by the shoulder for a side-hug and checked where his head was at; `just worrying about getting a chance on the pitch in Italy,' he lied, brushing off the interest of the gigantic centre-back, and a similarly concerned look from nearby Luke Shaw. Even Eric Dier took a moment to draw close to him as the rain grew heavier and they moved indoors, stroking at his upper back in a way that brought back aching memories of their one-off closeness. `Everyone's a bit worried about you, Chills,' the Tottenham Hotspur player said softly. `You seem really distracted?' He fobbed off the kindly eyes and sexy beard of the Spurs player in the same way that he had to his other football pals, and got on with the last part of the day. He was thinking about dinnertime and a chance to maybe speak a little more privately with his ex-boyfriend. At dinner, Ben had ended up at the same table as Jack, able to quietly laugh along as he bantered with Maddison and Rice, thinking about the brotherly bonding he'd missed out on when these guys were all in Qatar and he was, as usual, injured. But you wouldn't think it, the way Grealish constantly paused Doha in-jokes to explain them to Chilly, making sure he felt included in the chat - and reaching across the corner now and then to tap him on the arm or give his shoulder a rub, publicly affectionate in front of the other players. It was enough to give Ben seeds of hope, a feeling that he'd brought with him on yesterday afternoon's flight to Naples, and all the way through tonight's match, where he'd failed to make the starting line-up or to get out there as a substitute. He was delighted when Grealish was benched and, swaddled in warm coat, chose to come and perch next to him for the remainder of the game, though all they spoke about was Rice's performance and the record-breaking penalty by Harry Kane. In quiet moments, Ben couldn't help but smile nostalgically to himself and stare to one side, seeing the way the lines and freckles of Jack's slightly weathered features caught the stadium lights, his face full of sexy pouting intensity as he studied the remains of the game. And now... this invite. Ben walked down the corridor with a lot of nervous tension in his 5ft11 body, his palms sweaty and his throat dry. He was particularly interested in the apparent absence of Jack's roommate - Kalvin, was it? - before inviting him over to share a drink. The possibility to talk properly seemed to lurk there in front of him, though Ben didn't dare to imagine anything more specific or exciting than that. He just hoped they could talk. God knows they needed to... discuss things. And without a fucking interviewer and camera present. When he knocked on the door to Jack's room, he was surprised but not immediately worried to hear multiple voices inside, and only started to turn from nervous anticipation to confused worry when he heard his name called from the other direction and saw an ex-teammate strutting towards this same numbered suite. Ben couldn't hide the confusion and perhaps dismay from his good-looking face as he stared down the arrival, who let out a whistling laugh and reached in for slight hug with one arm, the other cradling a bottle of vodka that James Maddison had magicked out of nowhere. `Sweet,' chirped the 26-year-old Leicester City faithful, one of his closest buddies from that period of his career, `Jacko said he thought you were coming, hehe. You knocked?' James turned his bright grin from him to the door, which was clicking open - both young men were enveloped immediately by the gruff `Lads!' of Jack's voice, and then enveloped by his sleeved arms as he lunged out to grab them in the hug of an already-tipsy man. `Come on in,' Grealish insisted, dropping his voice to a whisper as he seemed to remember the curfew, `come on in...' Suddenly gripped by the cold realisation of his own stupid naivety, Chilwell tiptoed into the hotel room, nodding blankly to Foden and Rice as he saw two more good friends seated along the bottom of one bed, both clutching white mugs of drink. Next to him, Maddison gushed with enthusiasm, `This was a fucking sweet idea,' he was saying to them all at large, thrusting the illicit vodka bottle into Jack's hands then rushing to hug and jostle at Declan. `Rice, Rice, baby!' he laughed, shaking at their friend and hero of the night, making the grinning lad blush and giggle. But Ben just stood there between them, wringing his hands together and looking back at his own stupid thoughts. He'd misread this, he realised, and probably misread a dozen other little signals in the days of this week. Fucking idiot. He needed to patch up a smile on his face and shift his expectations, that's all; he was here for a little post-curfew drink, and one of those was now being pressed into his hands. `Saved one of the decent glasses for my posh mate,' quipped Grealish with a big smile on his face. `Can you imagine your mum's face if you told her you drank voddy out of a coffe mug in a hotel? Fuck, you'd be out of the family group chat in seconds, ha.' There it was, Ben thought, that glow of Jack's approval and attention, and those casual allusions to how well they knew each other's worlds... but that was just his way, wasn't it? That's how Jack was with everyone, and why he was so universally liked. He treated everyone like they were his special favourite, and the world treasured him in return. Ben took hold of the glass and nodded his slow thanks, forcing a laugh at the remark, and then sinking down into the seat that he was offered, right beside the empty miniatures and crushed cans, his eyes falling on the vodka bottle supplied by Maddison - perhaps he could just down the whole thing right now and forget what a plonker he'd been, trekking across here expecting a romantic tete-a-tete and a frank discussion of where things went wrong. `To Rice,' Grealish boomed next to him, resting a hand warmly on his shoulder but facing across the room to taste Declan, who laughed and raised his mug. `To Rice!' the room chorused enthusiastically, before everyone but Ben broke energetically into a chorus of `Rice, Rice, Baby - Rice, Rice, Baby!' It was Jack the lad who got things going, unsurprisingly, and Maddison saw the mood shift coming; he was watching their host closely and he saw Grealish tug at the crotch of his skimpy shorts with particular vigour several times before anything else happened. But then he saw Jack, who was still bopping to an impression of Vanilla Ice, shift closer to little Phil, who was up doing the honours of topping up one drink a time with the vodka that James himself had smuggled into the hotel - and without much preamble, Jack was reaching to the side and giving the young player's arse a pat and squeeze through blue shorts, then gesturing at it as if premiering a work of art. `Just look at that, fellas,' cooed the Brummie hunk, framing Foden's pert backside with both hands, then bringing one hand to give it a good spank in the shorts. `What a little masterpiece booty he's got.' And Maddison was delighted - not that he couldn't happily just sit here and drink and talk shit with his fellow England players, pretty pleased to be back in the fold after so many past snubs before his World Cup inclusion. But he'd come across here tonight, ditching the snores of ageing goalkeeper Fraser Forster, because Jackie boy had heavily hinted that he was in the mood for mischief. And watching him now bend Phil over the side-table and lightly spank him in his shorts, there wasn't any room left for ambiguity. `How's that, Philly?' James called enthusiastically, hearing the sharp little yelps and giggles of the young City star who was trying not to spill vodka whilst bending to Jack's instructive touch. Down went the back of his shorts so that Grealish could spank him a bit more properly, planting his hand down on those lean pert cheeks through the simple white trunks below. `Do you like a bit of a spanking from old Grealo here, do ya?' Maddison sniggered to himself, seeing something of Vardy's bossy kink in the way Grealish carried on, and unable to stop himself from rubbing the crotch of his sweatpants as he did so. He himself was seated on one bed with Rice to one side and Chilly on the other, and he glanced between those two for approval as Grealish began to cuddle at Foden more peaceably, and help him to sort out the drinks. The horny mood had been initiated, and he could see it reflected with goofy handsomeness on the long hook-nosed face of Declan Rice, who was staring appreciatively with his mouth half-open, looking like he wanted to get up and take a few smacks to Phil's backside to try it out; but on James' other side, he thought that Ben looked reserved and prudish, one arm hugged over his chest and the near-empty glass of liquor held close to his lips. Pfft. James knew the medicine for that: he reached his left hand across and lay it provocatively by his old teammate's lap, then did the same with his right, taking a gentle hold of Rice through his shorts. From both athletic men came quietly approving sighs of consent, and James smirked to himself. He gave both lads a bit of a rub and a squeeze, then deprived them of his touch, hopping up to his feet to receive his refilled drink form Phil, and to pull an arm around the smaller lad's back as he did - the 5ft7 Stockport scally wavered between he and Jack, both only 5ft9 but looking taller next to this wiry lad. `You're right,' Maddison announced, bringing his hand down Foden's back and cupping at his arse, `it does feel like a work of art.' Jack's hand wnet there too, overlapping with his as they squeezed at Phil's cheeks through the shorts, and rubbed curious fingers with each other. Seated on the bed, Dec and Ben were watching them closely; from here, Ben's seriousness looked a bit more sexy and intense than sulky, but Dec looked just as big a goofball, and it was very endearing. He'd found himself admiring the tall young man a fair few times back in Doha, especially when he'd seen him leaping into the pool in well-filled speedos - but getting him alone without Mason Mount had always seemed an impossibility. Well, now was his chance to get a taste of Rice. Maddison took a long swig from the excessive vodka drink and then placed it back onto the table, before giving himself a good feel in the front of his tracksuit pants, and then advancing on the bed once more. He grinned decisively at Dec, who stared back with something that almost looked at panic, and then relaxed back onto his elbows as he understood and accepted; as the tall West Ham bloke stretched back, Maddison was given great access to those loose-fitting shorts. He reached greedily up one baggy leg to find the bulging briefs below, then brought his face in against the outsize to nuzzle the shape of a big swelling cock, making a loud appreciative `Mmmm' before looking up at and winking to tonight's goal-scoring Man of the Match. Without wasting much time, Madders grabbed hold of the shorts and pulled them down; now he could kiss and rub at the mound of privates in the grey briefs more easily, kissing his lips and rubbing his nose into the enclosed perfection of the Rice crown jewels. At the same time, he reached his right hand away until he was stroking encouragingly at the leg of Ben's khaki pants, inviting him closer with his touch; oh yes, he thought, now I remember how well-hung that posh bastard actually is... It didn't take the Leicester player long to have two cocks bared in front of him, peeling away Dec's grey briefs and releasing his long and gently curved weapon, whilst also undoing the button fly of Ben's khakis and fighting at the silky black undies until a less erect but even more impressively proportioned slab of meat was exposed. With exaggerated noise, the slim 5ft9 midfielder spat into his palms and brought both hands to work, taking Dec and Ben in his grip and pulling gently on them both in rhythm, smirking from one flushed face to another, and deciding who he should suck off first. Ben was a treasured old friend, but... well, Rice, Rice, Baby... he opened his mouth wide and leant into taste the long-desired prick of the tall Londoner, gratified by the immediate moan of pleasure. Leaving the hotel was even more strictly against the gaffer's curfew than having other guys in your room, although there were probably unwritten rules about gay orgies that might get a bit more response out of the FA than a quiet decaf coffee in a 24-hour-cafe on the other side of the road to the accommodation. That's where Kalvin Phillips was now, seated on a stool against the window, swaddled in hoodie to hide his face and distinctive afro ponytail, unsure a visiting England winner needed to be recognised on the streets of Naples tonight. He was supping his second frothy coffee on the stool, but he was also staring fixedly back across the road, studying the slick dark bulk of the hotel, and the single glowing window up on the fourth floor - his own vacated suite. `Don't be like that,' Jack Grealish had moaned at him in his low monotone. `Don't be so uptight. Just a laugh. Few drinks. See what happens.' `You've just said what's gonna happen,' the confused Yorkshireman had protested loudly, pushing away the gentle hug from his buddy and teammate. `Fucking hell, Jack, we're meant to be getting to bed and up before dawn to get ready for the flight...' `We won,' the 27-year-old protested, constantly trying to pat and hug him - way too tactile in his attention and arguing. `We deserve to celebrate a bit more than a fucking Bud Lite and a carb-free buffet, for fuck's sake...' `I'm not staying for this,' he'd told him, and stood by it; pulling his hooded top on and exiting their shared room to get away, `out for a walk'. Not much of a walk, since he'd done laps of the block and ended up here at this cafe. Fucking hell. Why did Jack have to be such a troublemaker? There was no point risking any bother from the gaffer or the hotel, not when the week was going so well...! Phillips had been delighted to start on the right wing and play a full 90 minutes in the fixture, and he certainly didn't want to discourage the boss from repeating that come Sunday in Wembley. Besides... he knew full well that his mate had more than a couple of discreet drinks on the mind, the way he'd carried on as he played with his phone and fussed over his hair. What had happened that night in Qatar still troubled Kalvin, just as it first had when he'd become over-excited in the Croydon strip bar away with Leeds - but the night in the winter heat had been much worse, sticking his dick up a squealing Daniel James instead of just letting the Welsh twink blow it in secret. He pictured himself and Jack Grealish taking turns to mount and pulverise the gasping Welsh boy and he felt absolutely disgusted at himself, finding it very hard to accommodate any open-mindedness about his sexuality; and more specifically, absolutely unable to look his girlfriend in the eye during sex for many weeks after they returned home in time for Christmas. It's not that Kalvin wasn't somewhat in thrall to his charismatic City friend - Jack was one of those guys who you wanted to be in with, and it had been a great source of comfort in a difficult first season at his new club, to have the friendship and support of someone as confident and gregarious as Grealish. The 27-year-old Yorkshire lad had left a lot behind to make the relatively short-distance transfer, and it had been a year riddled with regrets and self-doubt, except for when he was having his ego stoked by the Brummie hype-man, or being forcibly integrated into the team spirit by a player who never showed a second's insecurity about his price-tag or his leap in football clubs, even if he would confess to both in private conversation. So these two facts left the burly midfielder in an awkward position, because he wanted to remain close buddies with Jack the lad, but he couldn't quite sit comfortably with everything that friendship might entail. It had been one thing when he was first bonding with Jack on his England debut, and they'd shared a sexy prostitute together; that transgressive three-way had been one boundary trampled, high-fiving over her quivering body and plunging their big manly cocks into the same wet lips... but that night after the Wales game, well that had been pure madness, and he'd felt so dirty and ashamed in the hot morning that followed, despite every one of Jack's dismissive and reassuring quips. So here he was, on his own drinking decaf cappucinos in a silly little cafe, ousted from his own hotel room when he ought to be getting his head down, because... what? Jack Grealish was organising some kinda orgy?! It had sure sounded like that - one minute he'd just been talking about trying to get some time alone with an old friend who he needed to catch up with, and the next Phil was at the door, saying he was gonna have a shower and be back in twenty, and Jack was sending furtive messages to Declan Rice and James Maddison, claiming that it was time for a real party. He didn't know what to think about Dec or Madders, but he had a clear enough image of Grealo's dynamic with Lil Phil: his friend had been far from shy in sharing it with him once the season had re-started and they were in the week-to-week battle of chasing Arsenal for the title. `He's a good little slut,' Jack whispered to him out of the blue on the edges of the training ground, `and I'm sure you could borrow him sometime if you liked, haha?' He'd thought that was a joke, but stray comments like that came too often, and he came to realise that the friendship between the other two English lads was far from the brotherly banter that got talked about. `Pretty sure he's seeing someone else,' Jack had mused on one occasion, `but I've never figured out who - he'll bend over for my cock pretty much whenever, though.' Kalvin grimaced and shook his head. He'd been thinking about heading back in and just asserting his right to a good night's sleep when the gaffer had set curfew, but then he'd started to picture what he might walk in on, and get uncomfortable. But... as it always did, the thought of Jack's casual manliness and his utterly unabashed confessions came back to him, normalising the whole thing. It wasn't shocking or scandalous, according to Jack's dopey smirk and honest chatter, it was just what happened between testosterone-fuelled sports studs when they had to spend so much time away from women. Maybe he was right...? When the waitress came to collect his two empty cups, she found a 300% tip in the hastily folded Euros tucked under the saucer, the high stool vacated, and its shifty occupant just about visible through the dark window, crossing the road in a hurry - must be English, she thought, wearing tiny shorts like those on a chilly March night! Contrary to what Jack might boast in moments of laddish bravado, Phil had barely touched him in that way in the past few months; for a long period, Foden had needed to fight his crush on the charismatic older lad, and he'd held himself primly away from Grealish, Pep Guardiola's mission to appease and comfort the disruptive Villa lad long ago forgotten... Jack was now a regular starter at his new club and not likely to flip out and run crying back to Birmingham for a minimal fee, as their Spanish boss had once feared. And Phil had done what needed to be done to cut off `the feels' for the sexy bastard, before, during and since the action of the World Cup. Tonight, though, it was exactly what the horny Stockport lad needed, and he'd blazed scarlet with excitement when he caught sight of a naked Jack in the steamy showers after the game, remembering how good that meat had felt in his mouth and his arse. Unlike everybody else in the suite tonight, Phil hadn't been summoned by some cheeky message; he'd dropped by just before curfew and told Jack in no uncertain terms that he needed fun, and would go for a quick shower before returning to claim it. He'd seen Kalvin's innocent eyes burst out of their sockets as the hot Yorkshire lad eavesdropped in the background, and felt so reckless that he didn't even care - of course Jack had told him about their experiences in Doha, so Phil even dared to hope that Phillips might join in. His absence was a shame, but not one the 22-year-old was going to dwell on. After all, he was now in this increasingly warm and stuffy hotel room with four other Premier League studs. First, a gentle and playful spanking from Jack, who had learned his penchant for that a year ago; and then grabbed and manhandled by the tipsy and horny Brummie fucker, almost spilling all of the bottles and cans from the side table as Jack went as far to snog him and kiss him hard enough to leave love-bites on the neck. Even better, he was being held from behind by Jack's arms, which pinned and protected him, but also reached down the front of his baggy shorts to tease his erection and make it leak pre-cum against the confines of his white trunks. And this also meant that, whilst being kissed and cuddled and groped by Jack, he could watch as Madders went down on Rice and simultaneously jerked off Chilwell - then swapped positions, gagging on Ben's ridiculously oversized equipment whilst tossing off the spit-wet length of Declan's dick. When released by Jack's arms, Phil wasted no time in wrenching off his England-branded t-shirt and flinging it aside, and scampering in close to get a taste of Dec himself. He slid sideways onto the bed, coming in close to the goal-scoring stud, tall and masculine; in he leant, kissing his neck and collarbone, whilst his hand reached in and took over control from James, playing with and pumping on his gorgeous cock. Dec moaned appreciatively and hugged him from the side, before bringing that hand up his bare spine and onto his short-cropped hair, and push down. Oh, yes. Phil became the second horny bastard in the shared room to go down and drool over Rice's captainly hard-on, taking it deep-throat with more aplomb and practice than free-and-easy Maddison. Of course, none of these cocks were quite as pleasing to Phil as his Papi's, but that was probably why he was so totally up for it tonight; Pep Guardiola had sent him a rare dick pic from a restaurant bathroom in Barcelona, the huge circumcised monster jutting out from a nest of silver-streaked pubes. `Need you on this as soon as we are home' read the simple caption to the auto-deleting message, sent to Phil only minutes before the England squad had to take their places on the pitch and sidelines, and leaving the youngster rigid in his kit for the entire first half. But in anticipation of a reunion with his Papi Pep, the 22-year-old scally was very happy to play about with these studs of the England line-up, starting with a mouthful of Declan's hard shaft, and a good lingering kiss of his low-hanging balls - but then reeling aside and dropping to his knees to service Madders, whose cock was a perfectly compact mouthful and whose deep gaps of surprise suggest he'd never been sucked by anyone with REAL talent. But then, just as he was chowing down on the Leicester star, he felt and heard the same little judder and thump of a door, a noise that sent a ripple of discomfort through the sexually adventurous occupants of the suite- When Foden looked up form where he knelt, he found the rosy-cheeked wonder of Phillips' face staring down at him, and wildly to every corner of the room. The 5ft10 fellow City midfielder stood there in oversized hoodie and undersized shorts, much of his thick smooth legs on show between them and his ankle socks. Phil stared interestedly back at him and licked his lips, still holding James' prick in one hand, and vaguely aware of the tensing and shifting of three other bodies close behind him. The Leeds man stood there staring at them, but seeming to particularly stare here, and Phil waited to see his response. Over his head, Jack's voice called, `Don't just stand there, for fuck's sake.' Kalvin looked like he was about to speak, and then stopped himself; but Jack shouted again, a hearty laugh in his voice that clashed with the sudden anxiety of the others. `Get your big nob out and let Lil Philly have a taste, will ya?' boomed the Brummie playboy firmly. `Come on!' Phil gently let go of Maddison's cock and rubbed his forearm over his mouth and chin, turning and shuffling his knees into a better position to face the newcomer, who took a few inexorable steps forwards, despite the conflicted look on his cute dimpled features. And then Foden was in front of him, kneeling forward, and reaching for those strong thighs, but looking up at him with parted lips and shiny vulnerable eyes... with tight grip, he yanked down the small black shorts across the broad thigh muscles, and the man's underpants came with them. Out flopped his cock, short and thick and pressed forward by his enormous balls; it was soft, more or less, but it wouldn't be for long. Phil leaned in and opened his mouth and gave it a long sucking kiss, welcoming big Kal into the party. Above him, the Yorkshire stud just gasped, and then a shivering voice: `Is there any vodka left?' Jack Grealish kept having to remember to keep his voice and his moans down - it was his one tipsy concession to cautiousness, unsure who if anyone was occupying the rooms on either side of his and Kalvin's shared suite. He was sensible enough to know that this `party' could have shitty consequences for the lot of them, but he was also happy and horny enough to give minimal fucks. They'd won big in their qualifying match against the slimy Italians, and undone bad memories of the 2021 Euros final - they all deserved to let off some steam, sexy Declan more than anyone - `Rice, Rice, Baby!' This might have been hollered out with all of the gusto of a football fan in the stands, but that modicum of caution made him trill it out with reserved excitement, reaching across and slapping the lanky fucker on his bare back, having helped him out of his t-shirt a moment ago, and then pushed Phil's head back down into his crotch to suck on him some more. Jack himself was sprawled on his back in the centre of the bed, propped on his elbows, and all of his clothes hastily abandoned except for the off-white Puma socks which clung to his feet and ankles, jutting out at angles cos his big hairy legs were separated to allow Madders a good mouthful of his long fat cock, the slim Leicester lad gagging loudly on him at delightful intervals. `Fuck,' he groaned happily, `I'd forgot what that mouth could do, Mad-Dog - who you sucking off at Leicester all the time to get this good...?!' On Jack's right, Dec was seating and panting, sat a little bit more upright with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, his hands quite tender as he cradled Phil's head in between his smoother thighs. Jack almost laughed and shoved him, wanting to tell him that Foden doesn't like it so tender as that - the little scamp needed to be treated rough! But what did he know, since this was the first time in ages that Fodes had seemed remotely interested in him? After walking in on an obvious incident between Lil Phil and Jude Bellingham in their Doha hotel room, Jack had been unable to swallow his considerable pride and be the one to make a move on the younger lad in the few months that had elapsed - he'd started to assume that their once hot arrangement had burned out. And there, to his left... For the moment, Benji was just taking care of himself. He stood to that side of the bed, but with one leg propped up on the mattress at an angle, forming a dramatic lunge with his body. A little sweaty already, he'd just pulled off the over-shirt he wore, but that white vest still clung tightly to his lean torso, except for where it bared a stretch of his lightly haired chest... and his pants were well off and discarded, strong legs exposed and parted, and his hand pumping rapidly back and forth on his long sturdy weapon, still slick wet with spit from James' mouth. He stood there and wanked furiously as if impatient to get his turn again, lunging against the bed as he pleasured himself and stared - almost angrily - down at the blowjob Madders was lavishing upon Grealish himself. He'd imagined a different night when he first messaged Ben not so long ago; he'd sensed that this was a quiet night where he might briefly hang out with his old bestie, since things seemed quite mellow and upbeat between them this week. But no sooner had he texted Ben than Phil was at the door, stroking his cock through the front of his shorts, and putting other ideas in his heads. Minutes later, Jack had orchestrated this whole playful gathering - well, it didn't matter, did it? He could get Benjamin on his own some other time to talk about stuff, it didn't NEED to be tonight. He reached across and took his dick by the hand - Ben looked momentarily alarmed, his posture stiffening up as much as his rod, but then Jack stroked it at the right angle and pressure, and his ex's features melted into an open-mouthed gasp of appreciation, eyes half-closed. Jack licked his own lips as he leaned his body more to the left and really stroked that big tool, running his thumb about the head where the foreskin pulled clear. And then - fuck it - he rolled more to that side and dropped his face close enough to lap a tongue against the fat head of Ben's cock, tasting his saltiness, and gripping the big beast about the base whilst slobbering over its tip. `Ohhh,' moaned Chilly's throaty voice. `Tastes just like I remember,' Jack whispered, more or less quiet enough for his ears only, and continued to not-quite-suck him - kissing and licking and spitting on it, and easing his fist up and down the bottom few inches of it, impressed all over again by the size and girth of what the 26-year-old was packing. He held onto it but pulled his face away, because the blowie had stopped: it turned out to be just because Madders was grinning up so excitedly at this contact between them, drool on his thinly bearded chin. `Here,' Jack exclaimed, ruining a moment of possible tenderness as he caressed Ben, `if your'e bored of my cock, give my arse-hole a lick!' And he sprung away from Ben's lunging posture and threw his back down to the bed, pulling his mighty legs up and apart to flash his big meaty arse at the cock-sucker from Coventry - `Go on, give us a rim,' he chuckled, staring at Maddison's uncertain expression, and spreading his cheeks. Declan saw this and felt faintly inspired. It was still not something he felt totally comfortable and confident with, but he knew how much Mason enjoyed it, and he always tried his utmost to please and satisfy his precious lad. So... why not try and get better at it? But he didn't lunge across and take the opportunity from Maddison - he lifted Phil's face out of his crotch and smirked down at the sharp handsome features, then asked him outright, `Can I rim your arse, mate?' He wasn't ready for the feverish earnestness of the nodding reaction, or the speed at which the City starlet got up from his knees and began to push out of his white trunks, his surprisingly large dick quickly loose. Dec helped him, guiding those white pants down smooth legs, and dragging the 5ft7 football player up onto the crowded bed - but pausing to take a moment to appreciate how strong athletic Phil was getting. It was easy to dismiss the diminutive Manc lad as a scrawny thing, but he was densely muscular in his own way, increasingly strong and defined on that petite frame - but Dec supposed that the same was true of he and Mase, slim young men who were working hard to pile on the muscle and protect their bodies. Dec helped Phil into position, hands and knees in front of him, their bodies parallel to those of Jack and James; and then he crouched forward, taking hold of the youth's pale thighs, and pulling up on them a bit to help close the gap between his huffing face and the pert smooth buttocks who still bore the slight red handprints of Jack's opening gambit. `Yes, mate!' exclaimed Jack's voice, background to him, as he leant in, contorting his tall body to come forward enough, and spit between Phil's lean cheeks. He pushed his face in, tickling his stubble against that soft skin, and sliding his tongue between them until he was licking at the smooth pink hole. Phil whined for him, and Jack chuckled out another `Rice Rice baby!' whilst slapping him on the back. Their voices gave him a bit more confident and he squeezed open the cheeks to really push his tongue in there, trying it just as Mase would - in eager frantic pants - try to advise and instruct him, always with a slight tone that he wasn't quite doing it right. As he licked, he gave a good slap to one cheek, loud and firm, and earned more throaty approval from Grealish, and more shuddering moans from the younger player. Lifting his head, Dec looked to the side, excited to see Jack's splendid legs up in the air, and Madders' face down low, stretched low to lick and kiss beneath the swell of the Grealo bollocks and the swaying tower of his hard-on. James didn't look sure what he was doing, but he was going for it, much like Declan himself. Dec turned back and spat into Phil's crack, then pushed his face in to try some more, making the young lad tremble and whine, and making his own cock ache and throb - fuck this, he needed to put it to proper use! He leaned back a little, took a single index finger, and pushed it into Phil's wet entrance, giving it a few slow pokes, then beginning to shift the positions of their hard-muscled young bodies. `You ready for my cock, Foden?' he found himself gasping out too loudly, forgetting this was all a dirty secret. `You ready for my big cock, mate?' he huffed imperiously, a little bit drunk on all the attention he had earned in tonight's match. But `Yes sir' came the whining gasp of the 22-year-old, excitingly subservient, and Rice pushed him down into the bed to mount him, shaking with desire too. Ben felt his cock slide further into the soft warm mouth of this coveted stud, moving his body further onto the bed, leaning and angling himself so that he could properly feed himself into Jack's pursed lips. Ben pushed down with his right arm to steady himself, pressing his knuckles into the bedding on the other side of Jack's twisted head, where it bobbed and moved to lap at his cock, not just teasing it with licks, but properly sucking on it, fellating him in front of everyone. God it felt good, and Chilwell couldn't help but tell the world about it, moaning and gasping out `Yes' after `Yes', his left hand coming down and rubbing at that strong chest, feeling around his hard nipples and then up to his neck and his soft dark facial hair, stroking up and down his cheek, guiding the face in there to suck more inches of Ben's prized whopper. But the Chelsea defender's pleasure was jarring and inconsistent - for moments he was lost in his enjoyment of this contact and attention, and unable to stop rubbing his hand across Jack's face and chest, just wanting to empty his balls in this receptive mouth and then stoop down to kiss it clean. But his eyes flickered open and shut, as if to keep reminding himself that they weren't alone in this, that this wasn't... like it had been. He could look down at Jack's sterling chest and abdominal muscles, and see the flop of his big hard dick, which he could reach for and stroke... he could look at his bared thighs, those mighty leg muscles nestled in dark hair... but between them he could see the lines on Maddison's extended forehead, where his former teammate's face was buried low to try and lick between Jack's big peachy cheeks, something Ben had once introduced him to in a lamplit bedroom over the canals of Birmingham. And on the other side of Jack's body, so close that they all kept rubbing against each other in moments of sweaty tenderness, Declan was bearing down on Phil in rapid hard thrusts, his whole lanky body seeming to burn red with energy; before his thrusts, Foden buckled and shook, spit-roasted between the humps of the West Ham hunk and the thrusting crotch of a tall bare-chested Kalvin Phillips. All attractive specimens of their sport, lithe strong bodies, bare and glistening with sweat, and large exciting cocks on them... but these were two different events, two different worlds. In that moment of awareness, Benjamin could see how badly he wanted Jack, but... not like this. Grealish had ceased sucking on him, or just paused, so he could turn around and watch Dec pound Phil's backside like a sledgehammer; he was mouthing out obscenities of encouragement and reaching over to slap and squeeze at Dec's own slim lean arse muscles as he went for it, chuckling out his filthy approval... as interested in that as Ben's aching hard-on, he thought, pulling back a little with his hips, and almost staggering entirely off the bed. He hovered here at the side, momentarily a spare part, and let out a long awkward sigh, reaching up to pull sweaty strands of his prince charming hair away from his brows and eyes... and again, almost sliding off the side of the bed as he lost his balance. Jack was back turning this way, angling his body properly so he could grab hold of Ben's dick and suck on the tip - even kicking away James' attention as he did so, up onto his side and clambering closer, really grabbing Ben about the hips. And yet... Chilwell could feel it before it happened, the collapse of his excitement, the slow frustrating softening of his cock, even as it existed inside the hot wet mouth of Brimingham's finest son. Ben's ears filled with other sounds: the rapid pants and `Fuck yes' exclamations from Phil, and the furious grunts of Declan as he worked his body like an engine; the fresh groans of enjoyment from Kalvin, and the gobbling sound of Maddison turning his mouth to suck on a new cock. And he could hear the wet desperation with which Jack now sucked on his floppy member and kissed at his trimmed pubes and then dragged his tongue across his ball-sack, panting as he did... when Ben pulled back a little, he found Grealish was just staring up at him with a kind of giddy confusion on his boyishly beautiful face. `Wha'?' groaned Jack stupidly. Ben panted but said nothing, pulling his now flaccif dick away, and sliding off the bed at last, steadying himself against first the headboard and then the wall. Jack came sliding off the bed, feet to the floor, seated but close enough to bring his hands up to Ben's thighs, and to lean in and kiss his tummy through the vest, which he pulled up so he could plant the sam kiss in the centre of the six-pack. Ben stood there, dropping his hands to play in the coiled mess of Jack's hair, with his big soft prick pressing in against the furry bottom of his ex's chin, devoid of arousal... standing over Jack like this, he was just staring at the sight of Dec pounding Phil into the bed, and of Kal now face-fucking Madders. It was a sordid scene, and one he ought to find great enjoyment in, and yet... `What?' demanded Jack again, a bit more crossly. He'd sat back, licking his lips, and one of his hands toyed nervously against the weight of Ben's privates, cupping and pulling on his cock and balls in gentle motions, as if thinking this change of pace might coax some life into... `I just can't,' Chilly muttered at him, pulling back and dragging his fingers out of his disturbed hair, letting it fall about his face in curtains that now framed a hangdog look of a rejected pup. It was a heartbreaking face to look at, and completely jarring with the frantic fun going on behind him. `I can't,' Ben repeated more firmly, and he cast about desperately for his dropped things - he needed out of here, and he needed a cold shower. Maddison pushed Phillips back onto the bed, nudging his big muscular body into the gap that formed as Grealo slid aside; James only half-noticed as Ben's bare body slipped past his own, breathing heavily, and grabbing a pair of undies from under his heel. His attention was entirely on the Leeds stud taking up one side of the bed, lying there with a nervous expression on his face, all dimpled cheeks and sparse goatee; next to him, Phil now lying face-down on the covers with Dec fully on top of him, ploughing him with solid gyrations of his hips. James just grinned at Kalvin's nervous expression and then edged himself forward onto the bed, knees on either side of the other man's thighs, and shuffled forwards. He reached back down his back and slid fingers in between his own tight cheeks, then edged further forwards until he was in position. `Let me feel that big cock in me,' he told Phillips in a breathy voice, and the ex-Leeds player just stared at him with that same quite gormless uncertainty - he was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box, but he was cute and sexy nonetheless, and his return to the room said he was up for a lot more than he wanted to let on. Madders spat on his fingers and reached back, finding and rubbing his own hole; he'd taken a good shagging from Tielemans on Sunday night before travelling down south, so he wasn't as nervous about bottoming as he had been on some of his previous escapades. James was comfortably bisexual in his own view of himself, but he was not the most regular of experimenter with guys, going through long periods of fidelity and wholesomeness before the naughty urges dragged him to answer Jamie Vardy's late-night call or to offer young defender James Justin a lift home and persuade the stud into a quick 69. He took deep breaths as he positioned his arse over Kalvin's slick cock and sat on it very gently, watching the expression of amazement spread over the mixed-race Yorkshireman's gormless face, increasingly sexy in his innocence and epiphany - James mistakenly took this to be Kalvin's first time putting his dick in a man's arse, but it was certainly his first time doing so sober and fully conscious. Maddison controlled his breathing and focused instead on his own pleasure, his ring stinging at the girth of the meat, but slowly relaxing as he pressed down and spread his legs more, until slowly but surely he was sat astride the boy-faced 27-year-old, ready to ride him and feel his presence deep up his rear - `Giddy up,' the Leicester midfielder laughed loudly, pressing his hands down against the toned muscle of the man's tummy, `how's that feel?' Kalvin heard the door slam after Ben, but paid no attention to it; he just continued to stare wonderingly at the man who was descending onto his prick, grinning at him with only mild interruptions of grimacing discomfort. Kalvin could only begin to imagine how painful it might be take a cock up there, so he was actually quite amazed by how serenely the other England player straddled him, settling down on top of him and beginning to ride back and forth in a way that made Phillips already begin to panic that he would lose control and shoot inside him - was that allowed? And next to them, occupying the other half of the bed, the other two had switched positions: Phil Foden was on his back next to him, legs up and apart, and Declan's tall strong body was stretched out to pummel him in missionary, dripping seat from his chest and the tip of his nose. The bed creaked under the double fuck, two different positions; to their right, Rice powered Foden down into the bedding, whilst Phillips just lay awkwardly still, and Madders rocked back and forth on top of his aching cock. And then Grealish himself was back among them, a really deep frown lining his face for some reason; for a moment he was at the foot of the bed, visible between James and Declan's bodies, pulling hair out of his face, but then he was here at the bedside next to him, a bit smilier, and panting. `That's it, ride him good,' he was grunting at Madders. `Fuck, yes, how's that feel, Kal?' `Good,' he grunted honestly. `Come on, don't make him do all the work,' Jack urged him. `Thrust up into his pussy.' `Alright, easy there,' laughed Maddison, `let's not talk about a guy's sore arse like that. Oh yeah, fuck you've got a thick one, Phillips...' `Bloody hell,' Jack was shouting at Dec, `I hope you're gonna get tired soon and let me have a go on him...' But then Grealish was looking down, and Kalvin stared back at him - he was half-consciously seeking some reassurance or approval in his friend's face, lying here with his cock being ridden, and flecks of Rice's sweat hitting his face and chest. Jack did smile at him, but it was a lewd grin. He took him by the hand, and Kalvin let him, and the next thing he knew, his hand was being guided about the thick veiny feel of- Jack's cock. He tensed, Jack's tight grip enclosing his own fist about the shaft, and he stared questioningly into the other lad's smirk. `It's alright,' Grealish gasped, `just play with it a bit.' Phil came within a few moments of having to admit defeat and call for a break, when Rice withdrew from his throbbing hole and staggered aside for a breather; wow, the power of the West Ham captain had taken him aback! He'd messed about with Dec and Mase once before, a grateful third wheel in bed with the loved-up couple, but he'd never expected the 24-year-old to go QUITE so hard. Wow. This left the City player gasping on his back, arms spread out and legs still apart, trembling a bit as his hole recovered. He watched Dec stride about the sides of the bed, his whole body glistening wet, cock bouncing up and down, and go to pour himself more vodka. He looked resplendent in the wake of the night's game and his own significance in it, and Phil found the gangly lad more attractive than ever before - it was like he was seeing Mason Mount's boy-toy in a whole new light, and he liked it. And even better, he turned out to be quite the attentive top, returning to press a full cup of drink into one of Phil's shaky hands too, before flopping into the seat by the desk and starting to wank himself. Foden looked form this glorious sight to what was going on at his side, with Maddison still power-bottoming on top of an almost terrified-looking Phillips - aha, he realised why the lad's face was so white and stunned, seeing his hand sliding up and down the mighty shaft of the Grealish cock. Probably this stud had never actually done that to a guy. The 22-year-old revelled in it all and played with his dick and failed entirely to notice the absence of their sixth player. Already, he was thinking that he would get fucked by at least one more dick tonight, though his whole bottom felt almost bruised by the speed and force by which Rice had taken him. He lay on his side, jerking himself lazily, and feeling the droplets of sweat course over his pale lean body; then he got to his knees and wanked a bit more fully, watching as Jack nudged closer and stroked at Kal's neck encouragingly. The tip of Jack's cock drew closer to their teammate's face, and Phil watched the full lips part gently, saw the questioning hesitation in his wide eyes. Grinning, Phil leaned forward and dropped in close, putting his mouth to one of Kalvin's big nipples, licking and nipping then sucking it, making him moan - and when he pulled his face up, he could see the shape of a big cock in one of those dimpled cheeks, Jack teasing him into his first taste. `Good lad,' Grealish was purring, an oddly serious look on his own sweaty face. `Fuck, I need a break,' Maddison gasped, and Foden was quick to take his place, climbing over to straddle this inexperienced cock - shorter but thicker than Declan's, and it felt so fucking good on the way into him, making him let out a long gasp of relief. Jack groaned and enjoyed it, the feel of Kal's lips and tongue, and the sheer innocent fear on his handsome face, but he didn't push it too far; he pulled back and slid his hand up and down his heavy erection, nodding his approval at his mate. `Good try,' he growled, `good first try, big man...' He bit his lip and grunted, wanking himself and then stepping back a little, reaching over to grab a drink - somebody's drink, maybe Ben's - and downing it in one, needing a little more fuel to get him to a finish. He looked away from the sight of his `Lil Phil' bouncing up and down on Phillips' cock and focused instead on Dec. Like James, who was now collapsed on the other bed entirely, Dec looked exhausted, heaving with gasps and sighs, and shiny with all of the sweat he was exuding. Mason's big stud, he thought with an odd misplaced jealousy, and he walked closer to him, so that he could run his fingers through his short hairs and wank his cock close to him, reaching down and playing with both of their tools. `You fuck hard,' he complimented him simply, and Dec just chuckled weakly at him. `I think I lost my head for a minute there...' West Ham's golden boy began. `Nah, you did good,' he encouraged, and he took him by the hand. `But enough rest.' Jack turned, dragging Dec with him, and took the two steps to cross towards the other bed: Maddison was lying naked on his back, panting, but Jack leapt onto the bed with him and slapped one thigh. `Ready for some real fucking, buddy?' He hoisted up the Leicester player's legs and took up position at his arse, whilst Rice fumbled about on his knees until he was leaning over the other end, with Maddison instinctively lifting his head to suck on the goal-scorer's cock. In moments, they were both at him, pumping their big manly cocks into the arse and mouth of the England squad's recent addition - and then it was all five of them, with Phil and Kalvin staggering over to join them here and get a second bed as sweaty and messy as the first. Phillips looked dazed as he dragged his knees onto the bed and joined Rice in slapping his dick at Madders' face, whilst Phil just skulked at Jack's side, kissing his shoulders and chest and patting his strong bottom as he pumped in and out of James' hole. And James himself was wanking like silly, making a noise that might have been a warning if his mouth wasn't at that point stuffed with the tips of both Dec and Kal's boners - and then the Leicester City player was creaming up his slim torso, pooling cum on his lightly defined six-pack. Jack ploughed on regardless for several minutes, the powerful thrusts of his hips only about his own pleasure, but his cock almost numb; and then he slowed and stopped, listening to James' slowly grunted out `Enough, haha'. Now Madders was rolling aside, smearing the cum from his belly to the crumpled sheets, and Jack was just kneeling there wanking himself - he turned to look insistently at Phil, who nodded and threw himself into position, straight onto the sweaty outline where James had lain. Declan wanked his own and Kalvin's cocks now, one in each hand, but his attention was all on the sight of Jack fucking Phil in missionary in front of them; he was vaguely aware of a slim sweaty Maddison pulling clothes on nearby, but he was getting closer and closer to finishing, and he was incapable of thinking with anything but his raging cock - except for the odd thought of `If Mason could see this!' or `Wait til I tell him about this!' At his side, Phillips groaned insensibly, and his heavily muscled arm could flopping about Rice's shoulders to lean on him. He realised how close the Leeds lad was to cumming, and so he stooped down, bending his tall body, and wrapping his mouth about his cock to get a taste. He wasn't sure why he suddenly craved the taste of it, but he was hornier than he could remember in ages; he listened to and felt the shakes and eruptions of the 5ft10 midfielder's orgasm, capturing the first drops of jizz on his tongue, then letting the rest run down on his cheeks and bead against the neatly trimmed edges of his facial hair. Kalvin flopped away from him and climbed off the bed and then, in the tiny sweaty universe of their excitement, it was just the three of them: Phil on his back, gasping over and over, and Jack pinning him down, doing his god-damned best to repeat the power and ferocity with which Declan had already fucked the younger lad. `I'm gonna cum,' Phil was crying out, `slow down or I'll... ohhhh, fuckkkk...' In a daze, Rice moved about the bed; he was half-conscious of the sound of the door, which must be Maddison making a sweaty exit, and he saw that Kalvin was now laid out flat on the other bed, naked and his cock still a bit hard. On the bed beneath them, Phil's face was a mask of pure pleasure, and he was covering his own knuckles in a smeared mess of that released pleasure. Dec ignored this; he was stroking back and forth on his own big cock, and clambering close to the heaving power of Jack's body, reluctantly slowing in his thrusts into a second bottom in a row. Dec reached for and squeezed his behind, taking a handful of meaty cheek. Jack glanced at him, his face glossy and red, and many lank streaks of hair dangling in front of his sleepy eyes. He understood the hint, and nodded. No sooner had Foden rolled aside than Dec was pushing him down, manhandling the gorgeous star onto his front, and lying atop him. He kissed the sweaty back of his neck and eased his dick between those mighty cheeks, finding and rubbing the tip of his cock against the damp hole that had been somewhat licked by inexpert Maddison. Dec slowed himself as much as he could, but he needed to be inside another lad, and he hugged his arms about the upper body of the shorter and more well-muscled guy, slowly entering him and pushing down on him as he did, pinning him to the bed with his cock. Jack's low earthy groan told him, `That's it, buddy', and Dec began to fuck him in slow jolts, the opposite rhythm to with which he'd pummeled Foden. He held the Man City playboy beneath him and fucked him in bursts, eyes closed, and thoughts muddled somewhere between an appreciation of the 5ft9 muscle stud under him and an image of a naked and expectant Mason, lounging on their bed and grinning invitingly at him as he approached the bed. Thinking of both the present and the absent, Dec climaxed, loading up Jack's tight hole with his spunk, and panting into the back of his head, breathing in the exotic scents of his hair product. `Rice, Rice, baby,' Jack sang hoarsely, pushing back with his meaty arse, clamping about Dec's hard-on, and jerking furiously as he reached down to wank himself to completion too, but Rice just groaned into his ear and told him, `This was just what I needed.' Away from the action, Ben Chilwell had found a silent empty balcony up on the top floor of the hotel, by its closed rooftop bar. Out there, the cooler air could dry the sweat on his face and in his dishevelled hair, and he could be alone properly with his regretful thoughts. What did he regret most? Leaving the party without getting proper action? Rushing along to that room in the first place, and stupidly misinterpreting Jack's invite? Or further back, the mistakes he'd made in his love affair with Grealish: namely, reaching a point where he didn't communicate his needs and channelled them into a tryst with Mason Mount instead? Ben knew that his own mistakes and confused feelings had brought his and Jack's relationship crashing to an end that weekend, but he also knew that their entire time together had been fraught in different ways: ego, insecurity, fear, shame, miscommunication. He thought of himself and Jack in their earlier 20s as a pair of excited idiots who just didn't know how to handle the magic they'd discovered between each other's bodies, but ultimately he considered himself the bigger idiot - he'd let it go. The 26-year-old sat out here awhile, thinking that the longer he left it, the more deeply asleep Reece James would be, and the less choice of waking up his Chelsea pal as he sneaked back into the room. He wanted a cold shower, but that would definitely wake up his fellow Stamford Bridge defender, so it would have to wait until morning - but he really wanted to wash the vague, abstract shame of the night, the shame that seemed to have stuck to his skin ever since he cheated with Mason and almost ruined two relationships in one go. Ben brought up the sleeve of his over-shirt and rubbed it against one teary eye, and then buried his face in both hands and cried - when would he finally get over this? James Maddison re-entered his own hotel room with a lot of stealth, and much more cheer than his old teammate; albeit, with a very sore arse too. He sniggered between winces at this, undressing quietly by the bed and then sliding his sweat-drenched lean body in under the sheets. What a fun night, he told himself, letting a slideshow of bodies and moments pass groggily through his fuck-drunk brain. He'd be a tiny bit hungover in the morning and he'd definitely be limping on the way to the flight, but very worth it to get fucked by two City hunks in a row, and to have been part of it. Only then, replaying it all in a vague and messy sequence, did he begin to wonder about Ben Chilwell - why had his former Leicester pal been so morose, and where had he vanished to just as things got really nasty? Still, these weren't thoughts that overly disturbed him, he was too physically exhausted by it all. The only thing he did before crashing his face into the pillows and disappearing into sleep was to turn and peer through the darkness to check that Forster was still there, since the big goalkeeper's ugly snores had ceased in the time it had taken him to take part in a cheeky little orgy - huh, now the bugger could sleep quietly! Let's hope that continued for the remainder of the week. For a brief moment, he peered through the darkness and wondered what it might be like to be fucked by a such big brute, vaguely missing Kasper Schmeichel, but then he just dropped to the pillows and faded into REM, his dreams a sweet medley of climbing over Kalvin's body and bending over for Jack Grealish. Kalvin was equally exhausted, but he wasn't as asleep as an onlooker would assume. He lay naked on top of his sheets, his body too red-hot to want to be under anything, and he listened to the footsteps and low voices of first Phil and then Dec getting dressed and leaving the suite, accompanied by dirty chuckles and remarks from Jack, and the odd fleshy thwack of a bottom being spanked. Whistling, Grealish drew close to his bed, and Phillips felt a blanket tossed over his body - a kind act from his roommate, he recognised, but he was far too hot. But he lay still and gave no sign of his consciousness to the other player, because he just couldn't face the conversation that might happen. It wasn't the fact he'd fucked another lad that was bothering him there as he lay still, having found his own strange way to compartmentalise and dismiss that, just like he had with Dan James; no, it was the Other Thing. He grimaced in his fake sleep and rolled onto his side, facing away from the direction of the other bed. Could he still taste Jack's shiny wet cock in his mouth? He shivered anxiously and wondered how long that moment had lasted, opening his mouth and letting his frined stick it, even briefly, in there, testing him, pushing him, corrupting him... And had the others all seen...? Phil, their City teammate, and the others, from other major teams in the Prem...? The thought of the gossip and rumours was making him feel sick, even though logic might have told him that what went on in such a room party ceased to exist when all of the playmates went their separate ways. He listened out for the sounds of Jack getting into bed, hearing just a few soft footsteps and heavy breaths and the rustle of clothing - but then, instead of the slight creak of a muscular body settling into the other double bed, he heard instead the gentle clicks and groans of an opening door, then the muffled thump of it closing again. Kalvin lay alone with his thoughts and regrets, and tried not to picture the size and shape of his friend's dick. In another bed in another room, Phil stretched out his aching body on the sheets, and smiled in deep satisfaction in the dark. He'd popped very quickly into the en suite before climbing into bed, cautiously checking that Chelsea's Conor Gallagher, an old friend of his from the England Under-21s, was fully asleep. In the bathroom, he'd contorted himself over and took the quick snap of his puckered hole, then sent it to his Papi - `three cocks, sir, but one of them yours', sad-face. He knew that Pep would be asleep by now and that the arse photo would be the first thing the Spanish football wizard would see in the morning - well, it was what the sexy old bastard deserved for sending that cock pic minutes before an England game...! Phil drifted happily into sleep, happy to dismiss the multiplayer action in the other room as pure physical need, and now just craving a reunion with his manager and sugar daddy; his feelings for Jack had faded over time, with a long break in their playtime doing the trick and killing that crush. It had just been a brief fever of desire, but he knew what he really wanted, and it was to be falling asleep on the warm fur of Guardiola's hairy chest. Jack padded quietly through the silent corridors, more fully cautious now than he'd managed when growling and yelping in his suite. His sweatshirt and shorts stuck to the sweat of his lithe body, swaggering down several corridors in an aimless direction, and then finally reaching a stop on the balcony in the stairwell, realising he had no idea which floor Ben was on, never mind his roommate. Instead, the Man City star just paused and leaned heavily on the rails, bunching his hands into fists and resting his forehead over them. He felt... anger. He wasn't entirely sure what he was angry at, but he felt like it was somehow Ben's fault. Coming along to his room like that and then going floppy on him when he was trying to show him some appreciation. He pictured Ben's beautiful face turning from intense excitement to a kind of cold distance in his eyes, and he wanted to punch a wall. Damn it. He thought about that interview they'd shared the other day, where he'd sat feeling guilty and awkward because half an hour before he'd cum all over Josh Denzel's beard behind the building, making him shifty and restless as he sat between them, being reminded of how big a part of his life Chilly was. That's why he'd wanted to talk to him tonight, and it didn't occur to Jack to blame himself for that missed opportunity - Phil had turned up at his door, frisky and keen! Declan had needed to be toasted and celebrated! Rice, Rice, baby, and all that! Just look at big Kalvin and how much he'd needed that release, ha! Plus someone had to make Madders feel welcome, long-neglected absentee of the England crew. Jack hunched there at the rail and steadfastly refused to think about how he could have shirked all of that mischief and found a way to speak to Ben alone instead, to address the pangs he'd been experiencing, and how he couldn't seem to get close to anyone in the same way ever since they ended it... Ugh. He was drunk and his head hurt and this was all a bit too much. He rubbed thumbs over his eyelids and pulled back on his hair, then dragged thick sleeves across his damp sweaty face before straightening up and telling himself to pull it together. Grumpy and confused, Grealish left the stairwell and marched back in the direction of his room, bare feet quiet on the pale carpet; and if he'd stayed thirty seconds longer he might have heard the external door above, or the shuffle of feet in trainers making their way down from the top floor. But as it was, he was already almost back in his room when Ben passed through the same stairwell, puffy-eyed and embarrassed, and continued on down to the floor below to find his own shared room, wishing he could undo the entire night. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2023 16:35:04 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 355 Part 355: Rice, Rice, Baby As he walked between hotel rooms, Declan checked his phone - he was hoping for a reply from his Mason, given what he was about to do, and he would like to see some explicit encouragement from his serious boyfriend before he went dabbling beyond the boundaries of their tightly intimate relationship. Of course, Mount's encouragement had been open and blunt enough this week so far, asking several times by message and call whether Rice had `enjoyed himself properly' yet, chuckling playfully down the line or barraging him with cheeky emojis as he questioned the 24-year-old West Ham captain's sensible bedtimes and football-focused enjoyment of this latest England camp... his first in as long as he could remember where he hadn't been joined by the Chelsea twink. Sure enough, there was the message, the reply to his own slightly nervous `Might be celebrating that goal with a few others LOL' and a wink, to which Mason had predictably replied with a love heart and then a blunt monosyllabic `Go. Get. Some.' It was late, certainly past the manager's curfew for this second night in their Napoli hotel, and the flight back to London was scheduled for early on Friday morning, leading them straight into prep for the second Euro qualifier fixture. Really, the defensive midfielder should be in bed, just like his roommate, and conserving energy for the coming three days; instead, he was strutting quietly along the identical corridors of the ultra-modern accommodation, checking the room number in the text, and grinning to himself with boyish excitement. Mainly, he would say to himself, he'd been missing Mason's companionship: missing waking up next to someone he loved, and being able to spoon comfortably against him at the start or the end of the day; missing all of their silly in-jokes and their permanent simpatico; missed the cheeky smile and uplifting mood of being in the other 24-year-old player's presence. But he was a man with needs like any other, and of course he was missing the affectionate private touch of his boy, and the joys of partnering with someone who was instantly hard at the softest kiss or quietest suggestion of playtime - Mason's appetite for fun was beautifully exhausting, and it was why Declan tried to be so open-minded and forgiving about their slight struggle for fuller monogamy. But now, he supposed, it was his turn. Mason clearly found it hard to believe that Declan was getting through the week without any such attention - not even a solitary wank. He was here to focus on his football and to guarantee his future place at the heart of the Three Lions squad, and tonight he thought he'd proved that to anyone watching, contributing significantly to a historic win in Italy. He'd earned glowing reviews from Southgate himself and suspected that his stock value in the Premiership might have shot back up tonight, ready for the summer's prospective transfer opportunities... so yeah, football first, always, and yet... those manly needs. There had been offers already, he could point out to himself, though he hadn't bothered to point that out to Mase, who was already incorrigible in sending him dirty messages and suggesting how he might entertain himself in breaks during this busy week of international break. Mason, he supposed, was bored at home, and living vicariously through his horny suggestions; Dec hadn't told him that before the end of his first day at the training camp, Luke Shaw had slipped a warm hand onto his thigh at the dinner table and asked him how he was feeling about being here without his best mate; he hadn't let on to Mason how he'd caught Eric Dier giving him a funny look in the showers at the end of day two; he hadn't made a single comment to his boyfriend about the way No.1 goalkeeper Jordan Pickford had loitered at his room door last night on the way to bed, telling him that he felt too restless to go to his own room, `if you wanna hang out, matey'. Perhaps he'd overthought all three of those indirect approaches, and he was being a bit unrealistic about his own attractiveness, it was hard to tell - but tonight, for sure, fun was on the cards. As every lad on the team had grabbed him in sweaty hugs in the aftermath of tonight's 2-1 win, he'd felt the rising excitement in him, the restless urge for physicality, quite apart from the tender pangs he had for his specific missing boy - and then there had been the last of those hugs, just before the showers, and the growling purr of that Brummie stud's voice in his ear, telling him `We'll celebrate properly later, man, yeah?' Rice could easily have laughed off the remark from a beaming Grealish - in the moment, he did just that - and forgotten about it, very conscious of the Man City man's high spirits and bawdy banter. But then he'd got a text from Jack just as he was brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed, telling him to come to `Room 412' in half an hour so that his goal could be `proper fucking celebrated'. Right. Rounding the corner and approaching the numbered room, Declan already had a semi in the vivid blue sweat-shorts he'd pulled back on to leave his suite, although he had to accept a slim chance that his friend was merely up for a swift nightcap of strong liquor, more than had been allowed in the bar downstairs after supper - a limited number of low-alcohol beers under the strict supervision of the management. Yeah, he reminded himself, adjusting the waist of his shorts and spotting the swell of his own bulge in them, there was a chance that a `proper fucking celebration' just meant a little bevvy after curfew. But... it was Jack Grealish, after all. The 6ft1 footballer knocked lightly on the door and stepped back, shoving fists into each pocket, and glancing warily up and down the bright neutral corridor; a slight scuffle of noises behind the door and then the click of a lock, and it opened inwards. Not Grealish himself there to greet him, but- ah, that other attractive young fella of the Manchester City ranks. Declan tried to calmly hide his surprise and just nod appreciatively at the broad smile of the younger player, who beckoned him in. `It's just Dec,' Phil Foden called to their host, stepping aside to let him in. The 22-year-old talent was in the same loose blue shorts and close-fitting white tee as Declan, though his socks and trainers were already off and he was barefoot on the pale carpet. `Rice, Rice, baby!' intoned the deeper voice of Jack Grealish, and the excitable winger was stood to one side of the suite, pouring miniature spirits and cans of pop into glasses and teacups, a very amateurish cocktail waiter in his tight-fitting black shorts and contrastingly baggy Dior sweatshirt. For a moment, taking slow steps into the room, Rice was attempting a calculation: did the presence of Jack's fellow City midfielder make it more or less likely that drinks weren't the only thing on offer in here? He took one look at the sultry welcome on the 27-year-old's handsomely scruffy face, and the eager brightness of Foden's smile, and reached his conclusion. He knew both of these lads too well to think they were just sharing a drink. But his brain had a bit more maths to do: there were more than three drinks being poured out on the long desk at the side of the room, Jack humming to himself as he did so. Before leaving his own room, Ben Chilwell had found himself giving his hair a quick comb and rubbing a little bit of matte moisturiser into his soft-featured face, inspecting himself fussily in the bathroom mirror before pausing and laughing awkwardly at his own behaviour. He'd pulled a light over-shirt on top of his white vest before wishing a quiet `see you in a bit' to half-asleep Reece James, and then he was out in the hotel past curfew, defying Southgate's rules with little hesitation. `You still up?' had begun the message from Jack Grealish, pinging in his phone's inbox not so long ago, and then `Wanna come to my room for a little drink? My roommate's gone walkabout. We can catch up.' The pair of messages had set the 26-year-old Englishman into a hot sweat of urgency, already sat on the edge of his bed and wondering what TV show he was going to watch an episode of on his iPad before catching some sleep. On the one hand, it had come out of nowhere and was a total surprise, a cheeky little transgression after the squad's relatively muted post-match celebrations at the Neapolitan stadium and downstairs in the restaurant and bar; but on the other... Well, the pair of them, old friends reunited, had sat side by side for quite some time the other afternoon, interviewed playfully by the almost ubiquitous social media face of the team, Josh Denzel. It had been an odd experience in a lot of ways, with Ben initially clamming up when one of the PR staff pulled him aside in training to tell him it was on the schedule, and that it was going to be great content for the team's socials; as much as Chilwell and Grealish maintained coolly friendly relations as part of this national side, surely everybody knew they weren't half as close as they'd been before...? Ben didn't think many would suspect the nature of their short-lived relationship or the extent of their estrangement since, but still... To be literally interviewed about their bromance as part of the team's media output?! He'd almost feigned a stomach bug and written off his chances of squad selection to avoid it...! But common sense or post-World Cup ambition had prevailed, and the Chelsea left-back found himself greeting Josh and Jack in one of the indoor training blocks, seated close together and ready to be quizzed on one another. Grealish was in as playful a mood as ever, perhaps a little warmer and softer with him than the last few times they'd attempted to hang out like old times - apart from anything else, the City winger made constant jokes about their interviewer, implying that the Love Island reject couldn't stop staring at Ben's bulge and that the daft lad probably wanted to get spit-roasted by the pair of them if it wasn't for the cameras. This was, of course, all in secretive whispers between shots, and it added a kind of confidentiality and naughtiness to proceedings that took Ben back in time - soon he was muttering back his own jokes to his ex, pretending to see a semi in Denzel's tracksuit bottoms, and arguing that the over-enthusiastic sports reporter was clearly more interested in `a taste of Grealo'. Flirtatious jokes aside, the interview experience had been nice, and seemed to involve a lot of both lads showing off their detailed knowledge of each other, or calling on significant memories of the footballing milestones they'd shared when they were England youth players together back in the day. Ben had to keep stopping himself from getting a bit over-excited at a funny story, or choking back a hint of emotion as his own comments revealed just how closely their lives had once been interlinked, despite playing for two rival clubs in the Midlands at the time. When it was over and they were being dismissed to go back to different corners of the Tuesday afternoon training schedule, Chilwell was left feeling slightly empty and alone, inviting various questions and concern from the other defensive players he was with out in the drizzle. `All good,' he claimed with breezy smiles to first Shaw and then Stones, and again when his old Leicester City bro Harry Maguire took him by the shoulder for a side-hug and checked where his head was at; `just worrying about getting a chance on the pitch in Italy,' he lied, brushing off the interest of the gigantic centre-back, and a similarly concerned look from nearby Luke Shaw. Even Eric Dier took a moment to draw close to him as the rain grew heavier and they moved indoors, stroking at his upper back in a way that brought back aching memories of their one-off closeness. `Everyone's a bit worried about you, Chills,' the Tottenham Hotspur player said softly. `You seem really distracted?' He fobbed off the kindly eyes and sexy beard of the Spurs player in the same way that he had to his other football pals, and got on with the last part of the day. He was thinking about dinnertime and a chance to maybe speak a little more privately with his ex-boyfriend. At dinner, Ben had ended up at the same table as Jack, able to quietly laugh along as he bantered with Maddison and Rice, thinking about the brotherly bonding he'd missed out on when these guys were all in Qatar and he was, as usual, injured. But you wouldn't think it, the way Grealish constantly paused Doha in-jokes to explain them to Chilly, making sure he felt included in the chat - and reaching across the corner now and then to tap him on the arm or give his shoulder a rub, publicly affectionate in front of the other players. It was enough to give Ben seeds of hope, a feeling that he'd brought with him on yesterday afternoon's flight to Naples, and all the way through tonight's match, where he'd failed to make the starting line-up or to get out there as a substitute. He was delighted when Grealish was benched and, swaddled in warm coat, chose to come and perch next to him for the remainder of the game, though all they spoke about was Rice's performance and the record-breaking penalty by Harry Kane. In quiet moments, Ben couldn't help but smile nostalgically to himself and stare to one side, seeing the way the lines and freckles of Jack's slightly weathered features caught the stadium lights, his face full of sexy pouting intensity as he studied the remains of the game. And now... this invite. Ben walked down the corridor with a lot of nervous tension in his 5ft11 body, his palms sweaty and his throat dry. He was particularly interested in the apparent absence of Jack's roommate - Kalvin, was it? - before inviting him over to share a drink. The possibility to talk properly seemed to lurk there in front of him, though Ben didn't dare to imagine anything more specific or exciting than that. He just hoped they could talk. God knows they needed to... discuss things. And without a fucking interviewer and camera present. When he knocked on the door to Jack's room, he was surprised but not immediately worried to hear multiple voices inside, and only started to turn from nervous anticipation to confused worry when he heard his name called from the other direction and saw an ex-teammate strutting towards this same numbered suite. Ben couldn't hide the confusion and perhaps dismay from his good-looking face as he stared down the arrival, who let out a whistling laugh and reached in for slight hug with one arm, the other cradling a bottle of vodka that James Maddison had magicked out of nowhere. `Sweet,' chirped the 26-year-old Leicester City faithful, one of his closest buddies from that period of his career, `Jacko said he thought you were coming, hehe. You knocked?' James turned his bright grin from him to the door, which was clicking open - both young men were enveloped immediately by the gruff `Lads!' of Jack's voice, and then enveloped by his sleeved arms as he lunged out to grab them in the hug of an already-tipsy man. `Come on in,' Grealish insisted, dropping his voice to a whisper as he seemed to remember the curfew, `come on in...' Suddenly gripped by the cold realisation of his own stupid naivety, Chilwell tiptoed into the hotel room, nodding blankly to Foden and Rice as he saw two more good friends seated along the bottom of one bed, both clutching white mugs of drink. Next to him, Maddison gushed with enthusiasm, `This was a fucking sweet idea,' he was saying to them all at large, thrusting the illicit vodka bottle into Jack's hands then rushing to hug and jostle at Declan. `Rice, Rice, baby!' he laughed, shaking at their friend and hero of the night, making the grinning lad blush and giggle. But Ben just stood there between them, wringing his hands together and looking back at his own stupid thoughts. He'd misread this, he realised, and probably misread a dozen other little signals in the days of this week. Fucking idiot. He needed to patch up a smile on his face and shift his expectations, that's all; he was here for a little post-curfew drink, and one of those was now being pressed into his hands. `Saved one of the decent glasses for my posh mate,' quipped Grealish with a big smile on his face. `Can you imagine your mum's face if you told her you drank voddy out of a coffe mug in a hotel? Fuck, you'd be out of the family group chat in seconds, ha.' There it was, Ben thought, that glow of Jack's approval and attention, and those casual allusions to how well they knew each other's worlds... but that was just his way, wasn't it? That's how Jack was with everyone, and why he was so universally liked. He treated everyone like they were his special favourite, and the world treasured him in return. Ben took hold of the glass and nodded his slow thanks, forcing a laugh at the remark, and then sinking down into the seat that he was offered, right beside the empty miniatures and crushed cans, his eyes falling on the vodka bottle supplied by Maddison - perhaps he could just down the whole thing right now and forget what a plonker he'd been, trekking across here expecting a romantic tete-a-tete and a frank discussion of where things went wrong. `To Rice,' Grealish boomed next to him, resting a hand warmly on his shoulder but facing across the room to taste Declan, who laughed and raised his mug. `To Rice!' the room chorused enthusiastically, before everyone but Ben broke energetically into a chorus of `Rice, Rice, Baby - Rice, Rice, Baby!' It was Jack the lad who got things going, unsurprisingly, and Maddison saw the mood shift coming; he was watching their host closely and he saw Grealish tug at the crotch of his skimpy shorts with particular vigour several times before anything else happened. But then he saw Jack, who was still bopping to an impression of Vanilla Ice, shift closer to little Phil, who was up doing the honours of topping up one drink a time with the vodka that James himself had smuggled into the hotel - and without much preamble, Jack was reaching to the side and giving the young player's arse a pat and squeeze through blue shorts, then gesturing at it as if premiering a work of art. `Just look at that, fellas,' cooed the Brummie hunk, framing Foden's pert backside with both hands, then bringing one hand to give it a good spank in the shorts. `What a little masterpiece booty he's got.' And Maddison was delighted - not that he couldn't happily just sit here and drink and talk shit with his fellow England players, pretty pleased to be back in the fold after so many past snubs before his World Cup inclusion. But he'd come across here tonight, ditching the snores of ageing goalkeeper Fraser Forster, because Jackie boy had heavily hinted that he was in the mood for mischief. And watching him now bend Phil over the side-table and lightly spank him in his shorts, there wasn't any room left for ambiguity. `How's that, Philly?' James called enthusiastically, hearing the sharp little yelps and giggles of the young City star who was trying not to spill vodka whilst bending to Jack's instructive touch. Down went the back of his shorts so that Grealish could spank him a bit more properly, planting his hand down on those lean pert cheeks through the simple white trunks below. `Do you like a bit of a spanking from old Grealo here, do ya?' Maddison sniggered to himself, seeing something of Vardy's bossy kink in the way Grealish carried on, and unable to stop himself from rubbing the crotch of his sweatpants as he did so. He himself was seated on one bed with Rice to one side and Chilly on the other, and he glanced between those two for approval as Grealish began to cuddle at Foden more peaceably, and help him to sort out the drinks. The horny mood had been initiated, and he could see it reflected with goofy handsomeness on the long hook-nosed face of Declan Rice, who was staring appreciatively with his mouth half-open, looking like he wanted to get up and take a few smacks to Phil's backside to try it out; but on James' other side, he thought that Ben looked reserved and prudish, one arm hugged over his chest and the near-empty glass of liquor held close to his lips. Pfft. James knew the medicine for that: he reached his left hand across and lay it provocatively by his old teammate's lap, then did the same with his right, taking a gentle hold of Rice through his shorts. From both athletic men came quietly approving sighs of consent, and James smirked to himself. He gave both lads a bit of a rub and a squeeze, then deprived them of his touch, hopping up to his feet to receive his refilled drink form Phil, and to pull an arm around the smaller lad's back as he did - the 5ft7 Stockport scally wavered between he and Jack, both only 5ft9 but looking taller next to this wiry lad. `You're right,' Maddison announced, bringing his hand down Foden's back and cupping at his arse, `it does feel like a work of art.' Jack's hand wnet there too, overlapping with his as they squeezed at Phil's cheeks through the shorts, and rubbed curious fingers with each other. Seated on the bed, Dec and Ben were watching them closely; from here, Ben's seriousness looked a bit more sexy and intense than sulky, but Dec looked just as big a goofball, and it was very endearing. He'd found himself admiring the tall young man a fair few times back in Doha, especially when he'd seen him leaping into the pool in well-filled speedos - but getting him alone without Mason Mount had always seemed an impossibility. Well, now was his chance to get a taste of Rice. Maddison took a long swig from the excessive vodka drink and then placed it back onto the table, before giving himself a good feel in the front of his tracksuit pants, and then advancing on the bed once more. He grinned decisively at Dec, who stared back with something that almost looked at panic, and then relaxed back onto his elbows as he understood and accepted; as the tall West Ham bloke stretched back, Maddison was given great access to those loose-fitting shorts. He reached greedily up one baggy leg to find the bulging briefs below, then brought his face in against the outsize to nuzzle the shape of a big swelling cock, making a loud appreciative `Mmmm' before looking up at and winking to tonight's goal-scoring Man of the Match. Without wasting much time, Madders grabbed hold of the shorts and pulled them down; now he could kiss and rub at the mound of privates in the grey briefs more easily, kissing his lips and rubbing his nose into the enclosed perfection of the Rice crown jewels. At the same time, he reached his right hand away until he was stroking encouragingly at the leg of Ben's khaki pants, inviting him closer with his touch; oh yes, he thought, now I remember how well-hung that posh bastard actually is... It didn't take the Leicester player long to have two cocks bared in front of him, peeling away Dec's grey briefs and releasing his long and gently curved weapon, whilst also undoing the button fly of Ben's khakis and fighting at the silky black undies until a less erect but even more impressively proportioned slab of meat was exposed. With exaggerated noise, the slim 5ft9 midfielder spat into his palms and brought both hands to work, taking Dec and Ben in his grip and pulling gently on them both in rhythm, smirking from one flushed face to another, and deciding who he should suck off first. Ben was a treasured old friend, but... well, Rice, Rice, Baby... he opened his mouth wide and leant into taste the long-desired prick of the tall Londoner, gratified by the immediate moan of pleasure. Leaving the hotel was even more strictly against the gaffer's curfew than having other guys in your room, although there were probably unwritten rules about gay orgies that might get a bit more response out of the FA than a quiet decaf coffee in a 24-hour-cafe on the other side of the road to the accommodation. That's where Kalvin Phillips was now, seated on a stool against the window, swaddled in hoodie to hide his face and distinctive afro ponytail, unsure a visiting England winner needed to be recognised on the streets of Naples tonight. He was supping his second frothy coffee on the stool, but he was also staring fixedly back across the road, studying the slick dark bulk of the hotel, and the single glowing window up on the fourth floor - his own vacated suite. `Don't be like that,' Jack Grealish had moaned at him in his low monotone. `Don't be so uptight. Just a laugh. Few drinks. See what happens.' `You've just said what's gonna happen,' the confused Yorkshireman had protested loudly, pushing away the gentle hug from his buddy and teammate. `Fucking hell, Jack, we're meant to be getting to bed and up before dawn to get ready for the flight...' `We won,' the 27-year-old protested, constantly trying to pat and hug him - way too tactile in his attention and arguing. `We deserve to celebrate a bit more than a fucking Bud Lite and a carb-free buffet, for fuck's sake...' `I'm not staying for this,' he'd told him, and stood by it; pulling his hooded top on and exiting their shared room to get away, `out for a walk'. Not much of a walk, since he'd done laps of the block and ended up here at this cafe. Fucking hell. Why did Jack have to be such a troublemaker? There was no point risking any bother from the gaffer or the hotel, not when the week was going so well...! Phillips had been delighted to start on the right wing and play a full 90 minutes in the fixture, and he certainly didn't want to discourage the boss from repeating that come Sunday in Wembley. Besides... he knew full well that his mate had more than a couple of discreet drinks on the mind, the way he'd carried on as he played with his phone and fussed over his hair. What had happened that night in Qatar still troubled Kalvin, just as it first had when he'd become over-excited in the Croydon strip bar away with Leeds - but the night in the winter heat had been much worse, sticking his dick up a squealing Daniel James instead of just letting the Welsh twink blow it in secret. He pictured himself and Jack Grealish taking turns to mount and pulverise the gasping Welsh boy and he felt absolutely disgusted at himself, finding it very hard to accommodate any open-mindedness about his sexuality; and more specifically, absolutely unable to look his girlfriend in the eye during sex for many weeks after they returned home in time for Christmas. It's not that Kalvin wasn't somewhat in thrall to his charismatic City friend - Jack was one of those guys who you wanted to be in with, and it had been a great source of comfort in a difficult first season at his new club, to have the friendship and support of someone as confident and gregarious as Grealish. The 27-year-old Yorkshire lad had left a lot behind to make the relatively short-distance transfer, and it had been a year riddled with regrets and self-doubt, except for when he was having his ego stoked by the Brummie hype-man, or being forcibly integrated into the team spirit by a player who never showed a second's insecurity about his price-tag or his leap in football clubs, even if he would confess to both in private conversation. So these two facts left the burly midfielder in an awkward position, because he wanted to remain close buddies with Jack the lad, but he couldn't quite sit comfortably with everything that friendship might entail. It had been one thing when he was first bonding with Jack on his England debut, and they'd shared a sexy prostitute together; that transgressive three-way had been one boundary trampled, high-fiving over her quivering body and plunging their big manly cocks into the same wet lips... but that night after the Wales game, well that had been pure madness, and he'd felt so dirty and ashamed in the hot morning that followed, despite every one of Jack's dismissive and reassuring quips. So here he was, on his own drinking decaf cappucinos in a silly little cafe, ousted from his own hotel room when he ought to be getting his head down, because... what? Jack Grealish was organising some kinda orgy?! It had sure sounded like that - one minute he'd just been talking about trying to get some time alone with an old friend who he needed to catch up with, and the next Phil was at the door, saying he was gonna have a shower and be back in twenty, and Jack was sending furtive messages to Declan Rice and James Maddison, claiming that it was time for a real party. He didn't know what to think about Dec or Madders, but he had a clear enough image of Grealo's dynamic with Lil Phil: his friend had been far from shy in sharing it with him once the season had re-started and they were in the week-to-week battle of chasing Arsenal for the title. `He's a good little slut,' Jack whispered to him out of the blue on the edges of the training ground, `and I'm sure you could borrow him sometime if you liked, haha?' He'd thought that was a joke, but stray comments like that came too often, and he came to realise that the friendship between the other two English lads was far from the brotherly banter that got talked about. `Pretty sure he's seeing someone else,' Jack had mused on one occasion, `but I've never figured out who - he'll bend over for my cock pretty much whenever, though.' Kalvin grimaced and shook his head. He'd been thinking about heading back in and just asserting his right to a good night's sleep when the gaffer had set curfew, but then he'd started to picture what he might walk in on, and get uncomfortable. But... as it always did, the thought of Jack's casual manliness and his utterly unabashed confessions came back to him, normalising the whole thing. It wasn't shocking or scandalous, according to Jack's dopey smirk and honest chatter, it was just what happened between testosterone-fuelled sports studs when they had to spend so much time away from women. Maybe he was right...? When the waitress came to collect his two empty cups, she found a 300% tip in the hastily folded Euros tucked under the saucer, the high stool vacated, and its shifty occupant just about visible through the dark window, crossing the road in a hurry - must be English, she thought, wearing tiny shorts like those on a chilly March night! Contrary to what Jack might boast in moments of laddish bravado, Phil had barely touched him in that way in the past few months; for a long period, Foden had needed to fight his crush on the charismatic older lad, and he'd held himself primly away from Grealish, Pep Guardiola's mission to appease and comfort the disruptive Villa lad long ago forgotten... Jack was now a regular starter at his new club and not likely to flip out and run crying back to Birmingham for a minimal fee, as their Spanish boss had once feared. And Phil had done what needed to be done to cut off `the feels' for the sexy bastard, before, during and since the action of the World Cup. Tonight, though, it was exactly what the horny Stockport lad needed, and he'd blazed scarlet with excitement when he caught sight of a naked Jack in the steamy showers after the game, remembering how good that meat had felt in his mouth and his arse. Unlike everybody else in the suite tonight, Phil hadn't been summoned by some cheeky message; he'd dropped by just before curfew and told Jack in no uncertain terms that he needed fun, and would go for a quick shower before returning to claim it. He'd seen Kalvin's innocent eyes burst out of their sockets as the hot Yorkshire lad eavesdropped in the background, and felt so reckless that he didn't even care - of course Jack had told him about their experiences in Doha, so Phil even dared to hope that Phillips might join in. His absence was a shame, but not one the 22-year-old was going to dwell on. After all, he was now in this increasingly warm and stuffy hotel room with four other Premier League studs. First, a gentle and playful spanking from Jack, who had learned his penchant for that a year ago; and then grabbed and manhandled by the tipsy and horny Brummie fucker, almost spilling all of the bottles and cans from the side table as Jack went as far to snog him and kiss him hard enough to leave love-bites on the neck. Even better, he was being held from behind by Jack's arms, which pinned and protected him, but also reached down the front of his baggy shorts to tease his erection and make it leak pre-cum against the confines of his white trunks. And this also meant that, whilst being kissed and cuddled and groped by Jack, he could watch as Madders went down on Rice and simultaneously jerked off Chilwell - then swapped positions, gagging on Ben's ridiculously oversized equipment whilst tossing off the spit-wet length of Declan's dick. When released by Jack's arms, Phil wasted no time in wrenching off his England-branded t-shirt and flinging it aside, and scampering in close to get a taste of Dec himself. He slid sideways onto the bed, coming in close to the goal-scoring stud, tall and masculine; in he leant, kissing his neck and collarbone, whilst his hand reached in and took over control from James, playing with and pumping on his gorgeous cock. Dec moaned appreciatively and hugged him from the side, before bringing that hand up his bare spine and onto his short-cropped hair, and push down. Oh, yes. Phil became the second horny bastard in the shared room to go down and drool over Rice's captainly hard-on, taking it deep-throat with more aplomb and practice than free-and-easy Maddison. Of course, none of these cocks were quite as pleasing to Phil as his Papi's, but that was probably why he was so totally up for it tonight; Pep Guardiola had sent him a rare dick pic from a restaurant bathroom in Barcelona, the huge circumcised monster jutting out from a nest of silver-streaked pubes. `Need you on this as soon as we are home' read the simple caption to the auto-deleting message, sent to Phil only minutes before the England squad had to take their places on the pitch and sidelines, and leaving the youngster rigid in his kit for the entire first half. But in anticipation of a reunion with his Papi Pep, the 22-year-old scally was very happy to play about with these studs of the England line-up, starting with a mouthful of Declan's hard shaft, and a good lingering kiss of his low-hanging balls - but then reeling aside and dropping to his knees to service Madders, whose cock was a perfectly compact mouthful and whose deep gaps of surprise suggest he'd never been sucked by anyone with REAL talent. But then, just as he was chowing down on the Leicester star, he felt and heard the same little judder and thump of a door, a noise that sent a ripple of discomfort through the sexually adventurous occupants of the suite- When Foden looked up form where he knelt, he found the rosy-cheeked wonder of Phillips' face staring down at him, and wildly to every corner of the room. The 5ft10 fellow City midfielder stood there in oversized hoodie and undersized shorts, much of his thick smooth legs on show between them and his ankle socks. Phil stared interestedly back at him and licked his lips, still holding James' prick in one hand, and vaguely aware of the tensing and shifting of three other bodies close behind him. The Leeds man stood there staring at them, but seeming to particularly stare here, and Phil waited to see his response. Over his head, Jack's voice called, `Don't just stand there, for fuck's sake.' Kalvin looked like he was about to speak, and then stopped himself; but Jack shouted again, a hearty laugh in his voice that clashed with the sudden anxiety of the others. `Get your big nob out and let Lil Philly have a taste, will ya?' boomed the Brummie playboy firmly. `Come on!' Phil gently let go of Maddison's cock and rubbed his forearm over his mouth and chin, turning and shuffling his knees into a better position to face the newcomer, who took a few inexorable steps forwards, despite the conflicted look on his cute dimpled features. And then Foden was in front of him, kneeling forward, and reaching for those strong thighs, but looking up at him with parted lips and shiny vulnerable eyes... with tight grip, he yanked down the small black shorts across the broad thigh muscles, and the man's underpants came with them. Out flopped his cock, short and thick and pressed forward by his enormous balls; it was soft, more or less, but it wouldn't be for long. Phil leaned in and opened his mouth and gave it a long sucking kiss, welcoming big Kal into the party. Above him, the Yorkshire stud just gasped, and then a shivering voice: `Is there any vodka left?' Jack Grealish kept having to remember to keep his voice and his moans down - it was his one tipsy concession to cautiousness, unsure who if anyone was occupying the rooms on either side of his and Kalvin's shared suite. He was sensible enough to know that this `party' could have shitty consequences for the lot of them, but he was also happy and horny enough to give minimal fucks. They'd won big in their qualifying match against the slimy Italians, and undone bad memories of the 2021 Euros final - they all deserved to let off some steam, sexy Declan more than anyone - `Rice, Rice, Baby!' This might have been hollered out with all of the gusto of a football fan in the stands, but that modicum of caution made him trill it out with reserved excitement, reaching across and slapping the lanky fucker on his bare back, having helped him out of his t-shirt a moment ago, and then pushed Phil's head back down into his crotch to suck on him some more. Jack himself was sprawled on his back in the centre of the bed, propped on his elbows, and all of his clothes hastily abandoned except for the off-white Puma socks which clung to his feet and ankles, jutting out at angles cos his big hairy legs were separated to allow Madders a good mouthful of his long fat cock, the slim Leicester lad gagging loudly on him at delightful intervals. `Fuck,' he groaned happily, `I'd forgot what that mouth could do, Mad-Dog - who you sucking off at Leicester all the time to get this good...?!' On Jack's right, Dec was seating and panting, sat a little bit more upright with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, his hands quite tender as he cradled Phil's head in between his smoother thighs. Jack almost laughed and shoved him, wanting to tell him that Foden doesn't like it so tender as that - the little scamp needed to be treated rough! But what did he know, since this was the first time in ages that Fodes had seemed remotely interested in him? After walking in on an obvious incident between Lil Phil and Jude Bellingham in their Doha hotel room, Jack had been unable to swallow his considerable pride and be the one to make a move on the younger lad in the few months that had elapsed - he'd started to assume that their once hot arrangement had burned out. And there, to his left... For the moment, Benji was just taking care of himself. He stood to that side of the bed, but with one leg propped up on the mattress at an angle, forming a dramatic lunge with his body. A little sweaty already, he'd just pulled off the over-shirt he wore, but that white vest still clung tightly to his lean torso, except for where it bared a stretch of his lightly haired chest... and his pants were well off and discarded, strong legs exposed and parted, and his hand pumping rapidly back and forth on his long sturdy weapon, still slick wet with spit from James' mouth. He stood there and wanked furiously as if impatient to get his turn again, lunging against the bed as he pleasured himself and stared - almost angrily - down at the blowjob Madders was lavishing upon Grealish himself. He'd imagined a different night when he first messaged Ben not so long ago; he'd sensed that this was a quiet night where he might briefly hang out with his old bestie, since things seemed quite mellow and upbeat between them this week. But no sooner had he texted Ben than Phil was at the door, stroking his cock through the front of his shorts, and putting other ideas in his heads. Minutes later, Jack had orchestrated this whole playful gathering - well, it didn't matter, did it? He could get Benjamin on his own some other time to talk about stuff, it didn't NEED to be tonight. He reached across and took his dick by the hand - Ben looked momentarily alarmed, his posture stiffening up as much as his rod, but then Jack stroked it at the right angle and pressure, and his ex's features melted into an open-mouthed gasp of appreciation, eyes half-closed. Jack licked his own lips as he leaned his body more to the left and really stroked that big tool, running his thumb about the head where the foreskin pulled clear. And then - fuck it - he rolled more to that side and dropped his face close enough to lap a tongue against the fat head of Ben's cock, tasting his saltiness, and gripping the big beast about the base whilst slobbering over its tip. `Ohhh,' moaned Chilly's throaty voice. `Tastes just like I remember,' Jack whispered, more or less quiet enough for his ears only, and continued to not-quite-suck him - kissing and licking and spitting on it, and easing his fist up and down the bottom few inches of it, impressed all over again by the size and girth of what the 26-year-old was packing. He held onto it but pulled his face away, because the blowie had stopped: it turned out to be just because Madders was grinning up so excitedly at this contact between them, drool on his thinly bearded chin. `Here,' Jack exclaimed, ruining a moment of possible tenderness as he caressed Ben, `if your'e bored of my cock, give my arse-hole a lick!' And he sprung away from Ben's lunging posture and threw his back down to the bed, pulling his mighty legs up and apart to flash his big meaty arse at the cock-sucker from Coventry - `Go on, give us a rim,' he chuckled, staring at Maddison's uncertain expression, and spreading his cheeks. Declan saw this and felt faintly inspired. It was still not something he felt totally comfortable and confident with, but he knew how much Mason enjoyed it, and he always tried his utmost to please and satisfy his precious lad. So... why not try and get better at it? But he didn't lunge across and take the opportunity from Maddison - he lifted Phil's face out of his crotch and smirked down at the sharp handsome features, then asked him outright, `Can I rim your arse, mate?' He wasn't ready for the feverish earnestness of the nodding reaction, or the speed at which the City starlet got up from his knees and began to push out of his white trunks, his surprisingly large dick quickly loose. Dec helped him, guiding those white pants down smooth legs, and dragging the 5ft7 football player up onto the crowded bed - but pausing to take a moment to appreciate how strong athletic Phil was getting. It was easy to dismiss the diminutive Manc lad as a scrawny thing, but he was densely muscular in his own way, increasingly strong and defined on that petite frame - but Dec supposed that the same was true of he and Mase, slim young men who were working hard to pile on the muscle and protect their bodies. Dec helped Phil into position, hands and knees in front of him, their bodies parallel to those of Jack and James; and then he crouched forward, taking hold of the youth's pale thighs, and pulling up on them a bit to help close the gap between his huffing face and the pert smooth buttocks who still bore the slight red handprints of Jack's opening gambit. `Yes, mate!' exclaimed Jack's voice, background to him, as he leant in, contorting his tall body to come forward enough, and spit between Phil's lean cheeks. He pushed his face in, tickling his stubble against that soft skin, and sliding his tongue between them until he was licking at the smooth pink hole. Phil whined for him, and Jack chuckled out another `Rice Rice baby!' whilst slapping him on the back. Their voices gave him a bit more confident and he squeezed open the cheeks to really push his tongue in there, trying it just as Mase would - in eager frantic pants - try to advise and instruct him, always with a slight tone that he wasn't quite doing it right. As he licked, he gave a good slap to one cheek, loud and firm, and earned more throaty approval from Grealish, and more shuddering moans from the younger player. Lifting his head, Dec looked to the side, excited to see Jack's splendid legs up in the air, and Madders' face down low, stretched low to lick and kiss beneath the swell of the Grealo bollocks and the swaying tower of his hard-on. James didn't look sure what he was doing, but he was going for it, much like Declan himself. Dec turned back and spat into Phil's crack, then pushed his face in to try some more, making the young lad tremble and whine, and making his own cock ache and throb - fuck this, he needed to put it to proper use! He leaned back a little, took a single index finger, and pushed it into Phil's wet entrance, giving it a few slow pokes, then beginning to shift the positions of their hard-muscled young bodies. `You ready for my cock, Foden?' he found himself gasping out too loudly, forgetting this was all a dirty secret. `You ready for my big cock, mate?' he huffed imperiously, a little bit drunk on all the attention he had earned in tonight's match. But `Yes sir' came the whining gasp of the 22-year-old, excitingly subservient, and Rice pushed him down into the bed to mount him, shaking with desire too. Ben felt his cock slide further into the soft warm mouth of this coveted stud, moving his body further onto the bed, leaning and angling himself so that he could properly feed himself into Jack's pursed lips. Ben pushed down with his right arm to steady himself, pressing his knuckles into the bedding on the other side of Jack's twisted head, where it bobbed and moved to lap at his cock, not just teasing it with licks, but properly sucking on it, fellating him in front of everyone. God it felt good, and Chilwell couldn't help but tell the world about it, moaning and gasping out `Yes' after `Yes', his left hand coming down and rubbing at that strong chest, feeling around his hard nipples and then up to his neck and his soft dark facial hair, stroking up and down his cheek, guiding the face in there to suck more inches of Ben's prized whopper. But the Chelsea defender's pleasure was jarring and inconsistent - for moments he was lost in his enjoyment of this contact and attention, and unable to stop rubbing his hand across Jack's face and chest, just wanting to empty his balls in this receptive mouth and then stoop down to kiss it clean. But his eyes flickered open and shut, as if to keep reminding himself that they weren't alone in this, that this wasn't... like it had been. He could look down at Jack's sterling chest and abdominal muscles, and see the flop of his big hard dick, which he could reach for and stroke... he could look at his bared thighs, those mighty leg muscles nestled in dark hair... but between them he could see the lines on Maddison's extended forehead, where his former teammate's face was buried low to try and lick between Jack's big peachy cheeks, something Ben had once introduced him to in a lamplit bedroom over the canals of Birmingham. And on the other side of Jack's body, so close that they all kept rubbing against each other in moments of sweaty tenderness, Declan was bearing down on Phil in rapid hard thrusts, his whole lanky body seeming to burn red with energy; before his thrusts, Foden buckled and shook, spit-roasted between the humps of the West Ham hunk and the thrusting crotch of a tall bare-chested Kalvin Phillips. All attractive specimens of their sport, lithe strong bodies, bare and glistening with sweat, and large exciting cocks on them... but these were two different events, two different worlds. In that moment of awareness, Benjamin could see how badly he wanted Jack, but... not like this. Grealish had ceased sucking on him, or just paused, so he could turn around and watch Dec pound Phil's backside like a sledgehammer; he was mouthing out obscenities of encouragement and reaching over to slap and squeeze at Dec's own slim lean arse muscles as he went for it, chuckling out his filthy approval... as interested in that as Ben's aching hard-on, he thought, pulling back a little with his hips, and almost staggering entirely off the bed. He hovered here at the side, momentarily a spare part, and let out a long awkward sigh, reaching up to pull sweaty strands of his prince charming hair away from his brows and eyes... and again, almost sliding off the side of the bed as he lost his balance. Jack was back turning this way, angling his body properly so he could grab hold of Ben's dick and suck on the tip - even kicking away James' attention as he did so, up onto his side and clambering closer, really grabbing Ben about the hips. And yet... Chilwell could feel it before it happened, the collapse of his excitement, the slow frustrating softening of his cock, even as it existed inside the hot wet mouth of Brimingham's finest son. Ben's ears filled with other sounds: the rapid pants and `Fuck yes' exclamations from Phil, and the furious grunts of Declan as he worked his body like an engine; the fresh groans of enjoyment from Kalvin, and the gobbling sound of Maddison turning his mouth to suck on a new cock. And he could hear the wet desperation with which Jack now sucked on his floppy member and kissed at his trimmed pubes and then dragged his tongue across his ball-sack, panting as he did... when Ben pulled back a little, he found Grealish was just staring up at him with a kind of giddy confusion on his boyishly beautiful face. `Wha'?' groaned Jack stupidly. Ben panted but said nothing, pulling his now flaccif dick away, and sliding off the bed at last, steadying himself against first the headboard and then the wall. Jack came sliding off the bed, feet to the floor, seated but close enough to bring his hands up to Ben's thighs, and to lean in and kiss his tummy through the vest, which he pulled up so he could plant the sam kiss in the centre of the six-pack. Ben stood there, dropping his hands to play in the coiled mess of Jack's hair, with his big soft prick pressing in against the furry bottom of his ex's chin, devoid of arousal... standing over Jack like this, he was just staring at the sight of Dec pounding Phil into the bed, and of Kal now face-fucking Madders. It was a sordid scene, and one he ought to find great enjoyment in, and yet... `What?' demanded Jack again, a bit more crossly. He'd sat back, licking his lips, and one of his hands toyed nervously against the weight of Ben's privates, cupping and pulling on his cock and balls in gentle motions, as if thinking this change of pace might coax some life into... `I just can't,' Chilly muttered at him, pulling back and dragging his fingers out of his disturbed hair, letting it fall about his face in curtains that now framed a hangdog look of a rejected pup. It was a heartbreaking face to look at, and completely jarring with the frantic fun going on behind him. `I can't,' Ben repeated more firmly, and he cast about desperately for his dropped things - he needed out of here, and he needed a cold shower. Maddison pushed Phillips back onto the bed, nudging his big muscular body into the gap that formed as Grealo slid aside; James only half-noticed as Ben's bare body slipped past his own, breathing heavily, and grabbing a pair of undies from under his heel. His attention was entirely on the Leeds stud taking up one side of the bed, lying there with a nervous expression on his face, all dimpled cheeks and sparse goatee; next to him, Phil now lying face-down on the covers with Dec fully on top of him, ploughing him with solid gyrations of his hips. James just grinned at Kalvin's nervous expression and then edged himself forward onto the bed, knees on either side of the other man's thighs, and shuffled forwards. He reached back down his back and slid fingers in between his own tight cheeks, then edged further forwards until he was in position. `Let me feel that big cock in me,' he told Phillips in a breathy voice, and the ex-Leeds player just stared at him with that same quite gormless uncertainty - he was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box, but he was cute and sexy nonetheless, and his return to the room said he was up for a lot more than he wanted to let on. Madders spat on his fingers and reached back, finding and rubbing his own hole; he'd taken a good shagging from Tielemans on Sunday night before travelling down south, so he wasn't as nervous about bottoming as he had been on some of his previous escapades. James was comfortably bisexual in his own view of himself, but he was not the most regular of experimenter with guys, going through long periods of fidelity and wholesomeness before the naughty urges dragged him to answer Jamie Vardy's late-night call or to offer young defender James Justin a lift home and persuade the stud into a quick 69. He took deep breaths as he positioned his arse over Kalvin's slick cock and sat on it very gently, watching the expression of amazement spread over the mixed-race Yorkshireman's gormless face, increasingly sexy in his innocence and epiphany - James mistakenly took this to be Kalvin's first time putting his dick in a man's arse, but it was certainly his first time doing so sober and fully conscious. Maddison controlled his breathing and focused instead on his own pleasure, his ring stinging at the girth of the meat, but slowly relaxing as he pressed down and spread his legs more, until slowly but surely he was sat astride the boy-faced 27-year-old, ready to ride him and feel his presence deep up his rear - `Giddy up,' the Leicester midfielder laughed loudly, pressing his hands down against the toned muscle of the man's tummy, `how's that feel?' Kalvin heard the door slam after Ben, but paid no attention to it; he just continued to stare wonderingly at the man who was descending onto his prick, grinning at him with only mild interruptions of grimacing discomfort. Kalvin could only begin to imagine how painful it might be take a cock up there, so he was actually quite amazed by how serenely the other England player straddled him, settling down on top of him and beginning to ride back and forth in a way that made Phillips already begin to panic that he would lose control and shoot inside him - was that allowed? And next to them, occupying the other half of the bed, the other two had switched positions: Phil Foden was on his back next to him, legs up and apart, and Declan's tall strong body was stretched out to pummel him in missionary, dripping seat from his chest and the tip of his nose. The bed creaked under the double fuck, two different positions; to their right, Rice powered Foden down into the bedding, whilst Phillips just lay awkwardly still, and Madders rocked back and forth on top of his aching cock. And then Grealish himself was back among them, a really deep frown lining his face for some reason; for a moment he was at the foot of the bed, visible between James and Declan's bodies, pulling hair out of his face, but then he was here at the bedside next to him, a bit smilier, and panting. `That's it, ride him good,' he was grunting at Madders. `Fuck, yes, how's that feel, Kal?' `Good,' he grunted honestly. `Come on, don't make him do all the work,' Jack urged him. `Thrust up into his pussy.' `Alright, easy there,' laughed Maddison, `let's not talk about a guy's sore arse like that. Oh yeah, fuck you've got a thick one, Phillips...' `Bloody hell,' Jack was shouting at Dec, `I hope you're gonna get tired soon and let me have a go on him...' But then Grealish was looking down, and Kalvin stared back at him - he was half-consciously seeking some reassurance or approval in his friend's face, lying here with his cock being ridden, and flecks of Rice's sweat hitting his face and chest. Jack did smile at him, but it was a lewd grin. He took him by the hand, and Kalvin let him, and the next thing he knew, his hand was being guided about the thick veiny feel of- Jack's cock. He tensed, Jack's tight grip enclosing his own fist about the shaft, and he stared questioningly into the other lad's smirk. `It's alright,' Grealish gasped, `just play with it a bit.' Phil came within a few moments of having to admit defeat and call for a break, when Rice withdrew from his throbbing hole and staggered aside for a breather; wow, the power of the West Ham captain had taken him aback! He'd messed about with Dec and Mase once before, a grateful third wheel in bed with the loved-up couple, but he'd never expected the 24-year-old to go QUITE so hard. Wow. This left the City player gasping on his back, arms spread out and legs still apart, trembling a bit as his hole recovered. He watched Dec stride about the sides of the bed, his whole body glistening wet, cock bouncing up and down, and go to pour himself more vodka. He looked resplendent in the wake of the night's game and his own significance in it, and Phil found the gangly lad more attractive than ever before - it was like he was seeing Mason Mount's boy-toy in a whole new light, and he liked it. And even better, he turned out to be quite the attentive top, returning to press a full cup of drink into one of Phil's shaky hands too, before flopping into the seat by the desk and starting to wank himself. Foden looked form this glorious sight to what was going on at his side, with Maddison still power-bottoming on top of an almost terrified-looking Phillips - aha, he realised why the lad's face was so white and stunned, seeing his hand sliding up and down the mighty shaft of the Grealish cock. Probably this stud had never actually done that to a guy. The 22-year-old revelled in it all and played with his dick and failed entirely to notice the absence of their sixth player. Already, he was thinking that he would get fucked by at least one more dick tonight, though his whole bottom felt almost bruised by the speed and force by which Rice had taken him. He lay on his side, jerking himself lazily, and feeling the droplets of sweat course over his pale lean body; then he got to his knees and wanked a bit more fully, watching as Jack nudged closer and stroked at Kal's neck encouragingly. The tip of Jack's cock drew closer to their teammate's face, and Phil watched the full lips part gently, saw the questioning hesitation in his wide eyes. Grinning, Phil leaned forward and dropped in close, putting his mouth to one of Kalvin's big nipples, licking and nipping then sucking it, making him moan - and when he pulled his face up, he could see the shape of a big cock in one of those dimpled cheeks, Jack teasing him into his first taste. `Good lad,' Grealish was purring, an oddly serious look on his own sweaty face. `Fuck, I need a break,' Maddison gasped, and Foden was quick to take his place, climbing over to straddle this inexperienced cock - shorter but thicker than Declan's, and it felt so fucking good on the way into him, making him let out a long gasp of relief. Jack groaned and enjoyed it, the feel of Kal's lips and tongue, and the sheer innocent fear on his handsome face, but he didn't push it too far; he pulled back and slid his hand up and down his heavy erection, nodding his approval at his mate. `Good try,' he growled, `good first try, big man...' He bit his lip and grunted, wanking himself and then stepping back a little, reaching over to grab a drink - somebody's drink, maybe Ben's - and downing it in one, needing a little more fuel to get him to a finish. He looked away from the sight of his `Lil Phil' bouncing up and down on Phillips' cock and focused instead on Dec. Like James, who was now collapsed on the other bed entirely, Dec looked exhausted, heaving with gasps and sighs, and shiny with all of the sweat he was exuding. Mason's big stud, he thought with an odd misplaced jealousy, and he walked closer to him, so that he could run his fingers through his short hairs and wank his cock close to him, reaching down and playing with both of their tools. `You fuck hard,' he complimented him simply, and Dec just chuckled weakly at him. `I think I lost my head for a minute there...' West Ham's golden boy began. `Nah, you did good,' he encouraged, and he took him by the hand. `But enough rest.' Jack turned, dragging Dec with him, and took the two steps to cross towards the other bed: Maddison was lying naked on his back, panting, but Jack leapt onto the bed with him and slapped one thigh. `Ready for some real fucking, buddy?' He hoisted up the Leicester player's legs and took up position at his arse, whilst Rice fumbled about on his knees until he was leaning over the other end, with Maddison instinctively lifting his head to suck on the goal-scorer's cock. In moments, they were both at him, pumping their big manly cocks into the arse and mouth of the England squad's recent addition - and then it was all five of them, with Phil and Kalvin staggering over to join them here and get a second bed as sweaty and messy as the first. Phillips looked dazed as he dragged his knees onto the bed and joined Rice in slapping his dick at Madders' face, whilst Phil just skulked at Jack's side, kissing his shoulders and chest and patting his strong bottom as he pumped in and out of James' hole. And James himself was wanking like silly, making a noise that might have been a warning if his mouth wasn't at that point stuffed with the tips of both Dec and Kal's boners - and then the Leicester City player was creaming up his slim torso, pooling cum on his lightly defined six-pack. Jack ploughed on regardless for several minutes, the powerful thrusts of his hips only about his own pleasure, but his cock almost numb; and then he slowed and stopped, listening to James' slowly grunted out `Enough, haha'. Now Madders was rolling aside, smearing the cum from his belly to the crumpled sheets, and Jack was just kneeling there wanking himself - he turned to look insistently at Phil, who nodded and threw himself into position, straight onto the sweaty outline where James had lain. Declan wanked his own and Kalvin's cocks now, one in each hand, but his attention was all on the sight of Jack fucking Phil in missionary in front of them; he was vaguely aware of a slim sweaty Maddison pulling clothes on nearby, but he was getting closer and closer to finishing, and he was incapable of thinking with anything but his raging cock - except for the odd thought of `If Mason could see this!' or `Wait til I tell him about this!' At his side, Phillips groaned insensibly, and his heavily muscled arm could flopping about Rice's shoulders to lean on him. He realised how close the Leeds lad was to cumming, and so he stooped down, bending his tall body, and wrapping his mouth about his cock to get a taste. He wasn't sure why he suddenly craved the taste of it, but he was hornier than he could remember in ages; he listened to and felt the shakes and eruptions of the 5ft10 midfielder's orgasm, capturing the first drops of jizz on his tongue, then letting the rest run down on his cheeks and bead against the neatly trimmed edges of his facial hair. Kalvin flopped away from him and climbed off the bed and then, in the tiny sweaty universe of their excitement, it was just the three of them: Phil on his back, gasping over and over, and Jack pinning him down, doing his god-damned best to repeat the power and ferocity with which Declan had already fucked the younger lad. `I'm gonna cum,' Phil was crying out, `slow down or I'll... ohhhh, fuckkkk...' In a daze, Rice moved about the bed; he was half-conscious of the sound of the door, which must be Maddison making a sweaty exit, and he saw that Kalvin was now laid out flat on the other bed, naked and his cock still a bit hard. On the bed beneath them, Phil's face was a mask of pure pleasure, and he was covering his own knuckles in a smeared mess of that released pleasure. Dec ignored this; he was stroking back and forth on his own big cock, and clambering close to the heaving power of Jack's body, reluctantly slowing in his thrusts into a second bottom in a row. Dec reached for and squeezed his behind, taking a handful of meaty cheek. Jack glanced at him, his face glossy and red, and many lank streaks of hair dangling in front of his sleepy eyes. He understood the hint, and nodded. No sooner had Foden rolled aside than Dec was pushing him down, manhandling the gorgeous star onto his front, and lying atop him. He kissed the sweaty back of his neck and eased his dick between those mighty cheeks, finding and rubbing the tip of his cock against the damp hole that had been somewhat licked by inexpert Maddison. Dec slowed himself as much as he could, but he needed to be inside another lad, and he hugged his arms about the upper body of the shorter and more well-muscled guy, slowly entering him and pushing down on him as he did, pinning him to the bed with his cock. Jack's low earthy groan told him, `That's it, buddy', and Dec began to fuck him in slow jolts, the opposite rhythm to with which he'd pummeled Foden. He held the Man City playboy beneath him and fucked him in bursts, eyes closed, and thoughts muddled somewhere between an appreciation of the 5ft9 muscle stud under him and an image of a naked and expectant Mason, lounging on their bed and grinning invitingly at him as he approached the bed. Thinking of both the present and the absent, Dec climaxed, loading up Jack's tight hole with his spunk, and panting into the back of his head, breathing in the exotic scents of his hair product. `Rice, Rice, baby,' Jack sang hoarsely, pushing back with his meaty arse, clamping about Dec's hard-on, and jerking furiously as he reached down to wank himself to completion too, but Rice just groaned into his ear and told him, `This was just what I needed.' Away from the action, Ben Chilwell had found a silent empty balcony up on the top floor of the hotel, by its closed rooftop bar. Out there, the cooler air could dry the sweat on his face and in his dishevelled hair, and he could be alone properly with his regretful thoughts. What did he regret most? Leaving the party without getting proper action? Rushing along to that room in the first place, and stupidly misinterpreting Jack's invite? Or further back, the mistakes he'd made in his love affair with Grealish: namely, reaching a point where he didn't communicate his needs and channelled them into a tryst with Mason Mount instead? Ben knew that his own mistakes and confused feelings had brought his and Jack's relationship crashing to an end that weekend, but he also knew that their entire time together had been fraught in different ways: ego, insecurity, fear, shame, miscommunication. He thought of himself and Jack in their earlier 20s as a pair of excited idiots who just didn't know how to handle the magic they'd discovered between each other's bodies, but ultimately he considered himself the bigger idiot - he'd let it go. The 26-year-old sat out here awhile, thinking that the longer he left it, the more deeply asleep Reece James would be, and the less choice of waking up his Chelsea pal as he sneaked back into the room. He wanted a cold shower, but that would definitely wake up his fellow Stamford Bridge defender, so it would have to wait until morning - but he really wanted to wash the vague, abstract shame of the night, the shame that seemed to have stuck to his skin ever since he cheated with Mason and almost ruined two relationships in one go. Ben brought up the sleeve of his over-shirt and rubbed it against one teary eye, and then buried his face in both hands and cried - when would he finally get over this? James Maddison re-entered his own hotel room with a lot of stealth, and much more cheer than his old teammate; albeit, with a very sore arse too. He sniggered between winces at this, undressing quietly by the bed and then sliding his sweat-drenched lean body in under the sheets. What a fun night, he told himself, letting a slideshow of bodies and moments pass groggily through his fuck-drunk brain. He'd be a tiny bit hungover in the morning and he'd definitely be limping on the way to the flight, but very worth it to get fucked by two City hunks in a row, and to have been part of it. Only then, replaying it all in a vague and messy sequence, did he begin to wonder about Ben Chilwell - why had his former Leicester pal been so morose, and where had he vanished to just as things got really nasty? Still, these weren't thoughts that overly disturbed him, he was too physically exhausted by it all. The only thing he did before crashing his face into the pillows and disappearing into sleep was to turn and peer through the darkness to check that Forster was still there, since the big goalkeeper's ugly snores had ceased in the time it had taken him to take part in a cheeky little orgy - huh, now the bugger could sleep quietly! Let's hope that continued for the remainder of the week. For a brief moment, he peered through the darkness and wondered what it might be like to be fucked by a such big brute, vaguely missing Kasper Schmeichel, but then he just dropped to the pillows and faded into REM, his dreams a sweet medley of climbing over Kalvin's body and bending over for Jack Grealish. Kalvin was equally exhausted, but he wasn't as asleep as an onlooker would assume. He lay naked on top of his sheets, his body too red-hot to want to be under anything, and he listened to the footsteps and low voices of first Phil and then Dec getting dressed and leaving the suite, accompanied by dirty chuckles and remarks from Jack, and the odd fleshy thwack of a bottom being spanked. Whistling, Grealish drew close to his bed, and Phillips felt a blanket tossed over his body - a kind act from his roommate, he recognised, but he was far too hot. But he lay still and gave no sign of his consciousness to the other player, because he just couldn't face the conversation that might happen. It wasn't the fact he'd fucked another lad that was bothering him there as he lay still, having found his own strange way to compartmentalise and dismiss that, just like he had with Dan James; no, it was the Other Thing. He grimaced in his fake sleep and rolled onto his side, facing away from the direction of the other bed. Could he still taste Jack's shiny wet cock in his mouth? He shivered anxiously and wondered how long that moment had lasted, opening his mouth and letting his frined stick it, even briefly, in there, testing him, pushing him, corrupting him... And had the others all seen...? Phil, their City teammate, and the others, from other major teams in the Prem...? The thought of the gossip and rumours was making him feel sick, even though logic might have told him that what went on in such a room party ceased to exist when all of the playmates went their separate ways. He listened out for the sounds of Jack getting into bed, hearing just a few soft footsteps and heavy breaths and the rustle of clothing - but then, instead of the slight creak of a muscular body settling into the other double bed, he heard instead the gentle clicks and groans of an opening door, then the muffled thump of it closing again. Kalvin lay alone with his thoughts and regrets, and tried not to picture the size and shape of his friend's dick. In another bed in another room, Phil stretched out his aching body on the sheets, and smiled in deep satisfaction in the dark. He'd popped very quickly into the en suite before climbing into bed, cautiously checking that Chelsea's Conor Gallagher, an old friend of his from the England Under-21s, was fully asleep. In the bathroom, he'd contorted himself over and took the quick snap of his puckered hole, then sent it to his Papi - `three cocks, sir, but one of them yours', sad-face. He knew that Pep would be asleep by now and that the arse photo would be the first thing the Spanish football wizard would see in the morning - well, it was what the sexy old bastard deserved for sending that cock pic minutes before an England game...! Phil drifted happily into sleep, happy to dismiss the multiplayer action in the other room as pure physical need, and now just craving a reunion with his manager and sugar daddy; his feelings for Jack had faded over time, with a long break in their playtime doing the trick and killing that crush. It had just been a brief fever of desire, but he knew what he really wanted, and it was to be falling asleep on the warm fur of Guardiola's hairy chest. Jack padded quietly through the silent corridors, more fully cautious now than he'd managed when growling and yelping in his suite. His sweatshirt and shorts stuck to the sweat of his lithe body, swaggering down several corridors in an aimless direction, and then finally reaching a stop on the balcony in the stairwell, realising he had no idea which floor Ben was on, never mind his roommate. Instead, the Man City star just paused and leaned heavily on the rails, bunching his hands into fists and resting his forehead over them. He felt... anger. He wasn't entirely sure what he was angry at, but he felt like it was somehow Ben's fault. Coming along to his room like that and then going floppy on him when he was trying to show him some appreciation. He pictured Ben's beautiful face turning from intense excitement to a kind of cold distance in his eyes, and he wanted to punch a wall. Damn it. He thought about that interview they'd shared the other day, where he'd sat feeling guilty and awkward because half an hour before he'd cum all over Josh Denzel's beard behind the building, making him shifty and restless as he sat between them, being reminded of how big a part of his life Chilly was. That's why he'd wanted to talk to him tonight, and it didn't occur to Jack to blame himself for that missed opportunity - Phil had turned up at his door, frisky and keen! Declan had needed to be toasted and celebrated! Rice, Rice, baby, and all that! Just look at big Kalvin and how much he'd needed that release, ha! Plus someone had to make Madders feel welcome, long-neglected absentee of the England crew. Jack hunched there at the rail and steadfastly refused to think about how he could have shirked all of that mischief and found a way to speak to Ben alone instead, to address the pangs he'd been experiencing, and how he couldn't seem to get close to anyone in the same way ever since they ended it... Ugh. He was drunk and his head hurt and this was all a bit too much. He rubbed thumbs over his eyelids and pulled back on his hair, then dragged thick sleeves across his damp sweaty face before straightening up and telling himself to pull it together. Grumpy and confused, Grealish left the stairwell and marched back in the direction of his room, bare feet quiet on the pale carpet; and if he'd stayed thirty seconds longer he might have heard the external door above, or the shuffle of feet in trainers making their way down from the top floor. But as it was, he was already almost back in his room when Ben passed through the same stairwell, puffy-eyed and embarrassed, and continued on down to the floor below to find his own shared room, wishing he could undo the entire night. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-393

Date: Wed, 6 Mar 2024 21:13:00 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 393 Part 393: Gongs & Dongs Thursday night in Camden, and both men were clad in tailored suits that accentuated their lasting physiques, two retired football players now shoulder to shoulder at the bar - they had spent almost the entire night together now, as well as a perfectly civilised afternoon meal beforehand, with their wives and several other friends and family members - but now they were alone, just the two of them, two handsome cousins who had risen through the football world and could strut around this awards ceremony as celebrated Londoners. And here at the bar, away from the polite chat of their illustrious table, the 50-year-old pundit could bump a suited elbow into the side of his slightly younger cousin and shoot him one of his trademark smug looks, seizing the moment's impatience as the pair awaited attention from the Camden Roundhouse's serving staff. Eyebrows briefly folding, Frank Lampard looked curiously back at him, his face one of casual bemusement sliding in the direction of nervous tension - he almost looked as if he had been expecting the question all day, even before Jamie Redknapp leaned in and asked him, `So... do you still suck cock like a pro?' Redknapp paused and smirked, chuckling at everything from his own crass directness to the absurdness of asking his cousin this at the centre of the London Football Awards and all its blokey sporting camaraderie. He chuckled even more at the panicked fluster that came over the other 6ft man's slightly lined face - Frank was 5 years his junior and yet ageing a little more rapidly than his own curated boyishness at 50. He threw an arm about the shoulders of the other man's suit jacket and leaned in to elaborate, `Just wondering, cuz...! Good memories, hey?' Around them, the general after-party exuberance of the sporting award ceremony buzzed on, the gongs distributed but the majority of guests showing no hurry to exit the venue. Before Frank could answer his provocative question, Jamie caught the eye of a free waitress and he leaned charmingly forward to flirt heavily with her and order the lengthy list of drinks for their table. Once she was at work on their order, he laid his hands on the bartop and turned that same smug grin on the other ex-midfielder. Lamps, he noted, had recovered some brash dignity, rolling his eyes at him. `I don't know how much I remember,' the on-off club manager muttered with unconvincing dismissal, shrugging and adjusting the knot of his navy blue tie. `But yeah, fun memories, I guess - why you ask cuz, your wife need some tips?' Jamie grinned at his cousin's confrontational manner, unfazed by the banter - it wasn't often that the two friendly cousins got to hang out alone these days, and he often suspected that was more deliberate on Lampard's part than his own, and not unconnected from the days in recent years where the Chelsea legend had got on his knees and serviced him like a proper slag. His smiling eyes must have communicated all that thought, because Lamps blushed and frowned and looked away, clearing his throat and fiddling more with his tie. `Relax,' Redknapp insisted quietly enough, `do you think I'm dumb enough to ever tell a soul, Franco...?' `Should fucking hope not,' was the 45-year-old's breathy muttered retort. `No, I haven't recommended your throat to anyone,' Jamie quipped pleasantly, not really bothering to keep his voice low or secretive, and enjoying the way it irked and panicked the other ex-player. `Although - I thought you were John Terry's these days...' A dark look on the other married man's face. `I ain't seen much of JT lately,' he answered ambiguously, and Jamie almost felt a bit sorry for him - he wasn't sure of the exact nature of the bond between the two Chelsea heroes, but he knew that it was more than just nostalgic friendship. As brash as he could be, he sensed it was best not to dig into that affair, aware that he could be as cagey and defensive about some of his own extra-marital efforts, although he'd been so much more careful since marrying his second wife in middle age. `You hate me bringing this up, eh?' he asked curiously. `Just watch it, mate, think where we are.' `Hmm. I know.' `You best drop this, we need to-' `Where we are,' the slick TV pundit mused, stroking his stubbled cheekbones and beginning to ready his wallet to pay for the round. `That's what got me thinking, to be honest...' `You need to leave those days in the past,' Frank muttered irritably at his side, glaring at him, `they were odd times and I was under a lot of pressure, so-' Jamie looked at him and rolled his eyes. `I'm not suggesting we go back there,' he said, a little more firmly, almost snappish. `No - we're cousins, it's a bit icky really, ain't it? No...' He grabbed Frank by one shoulder and pulled closer to him, whispering since the barmaid was right in front of them lining up their bottles - `I was thinking of a contest.' Jamie paused to pay, sensing the mixture of glowering annoyance and cock-struck curiosity in the other man, then turning to grin at him. The two ex-players leaned in close to divide the drinks onto two trays, and Jamie spoke firmly but quickly, sharing his idea. `All these footballer fellas in one place, you know - we're both pretty well-connected here, don't you think? And we've been such good boys, playing along with the missus all day, so - why don't we so who can pull the best young lad in here, eh?' He smirked excitedly in at the other man's nervous face, resting a hand against his shoulder. `Come on,' he growled, sensing Lamps' hesitance, `it'll be fucking fun - let's see what we can pull, and compare notes later on...' `Our wives are-' `That's the fun, you pussy...' `Mate, this is-' `Come on,' Redknapp insisted in that same deep seductive growl, squeezing more at the thick shoulder of his stockier cousin, and grinning very enthusiastically across the drinks at him. `We've got, what, an hour or two before they close the bars and chuck us out?' He leaned right in to whisper in Frank's ear. `I'm getting my dick wet in that hour, cousin Frank, and I'm telling you all about it - you better have a story to share in return, little cuz, or who knows what I might come out with when we all stop off at yours for a nightcap.' The 50-year-old lothario smiled and laughed and patted Lampard on the back as if they were just chuckling over some Premier League anecdote of their younger days, before hoisting his tray of drinks and leading the way back to the table - his cousin would not be able to resist the challenge, he knew, and it would add an extra spice to tonight's exploits. Right enough, Lamps was snared: he only part-believed the joky threat of his handsome cousin's blackmail, not able to 100% dismiss the threat, but he was caught by Redknapp's seductive charm, the simmering remembrance of their taboo foolery, and the nature of the challenge itself. Jamie was right, there were so many active and retired footballers here from the London clubs, and so many connections for both of them, between their family ties, their club careers, their media links - this really was somewhere that the unemployed footballer manager could get a little special attention in a way that his life had been lacking since things fizzled out with his dominant lover John Terry. Soon after the drinks were shared at the table, cousin Jamie made his excuses and slipped away, claiming he was needed at the photocall for winners, and so Frank left it a few minutes before claiming the same, and pecking Christine on the cheek. Away from the table, his confidence surged and he felt sure that he could find some fun here that would impress or shock Jamie in the right way, and make him the winner of this vague challenge, some kinda macho bragging rights over the smugly good-looking older Redknapp... it didn't really make any rational sense, but Lamps was tipsy on red wine and his ego had been stoked by the confronting nature of a man who he had once begged on his knees. The target of Lampard's vague bravado and lust became quickly obvious, grinning into a camera not far off and still wielding his Premiership Player of the Year gong whilst a small crowd of event media jostled about him. Just as the 45-year-old Chelsea legend might have hoped, the media staff ambushing the young footballer caught sight of him and quickly beckoned him over - `Let's get one of you two together, yeh? Rice and Lamps, perfect...!' - and soon he was huddled close to the black-suited youth with a big celebratory grin on his face, hugging an arm about Declan's shoulders and posing with the award-winning Arsenal signing, a graduate of his own first senior club West Ham. And then, brusque and assertive, Lampard made his play - `Leave the kid alone, then,' he found himself barking quite authoritatively at one photographer and then another, and `Let him enjoy his win, eh?' at the latest journalist who was about to throw a question at the 25-year-old England international - arm about his shoulders, Lamps steered young Rice away from this attention and along the outskirts of the event, `rescuing' him from the `piranhas' of the media and laughing off the prestige of the event. He was, he thought, full of experienced charm and gruff avuncular support, helping Declan to move away from the excessive attention and offering to buy him drinks, talking volubly about their shared experiences of the London football scene - sympathising with Dec's youthful disappointment when released by Chelsea and then seeking common ground in his experience of rising through the ranks in East London instead. But... Frank was slightly taken aback. He'd met Declan before on a number of occasions, obviously, and between those past experiences and the general football perception of the 6ft1 defensive midfielder, he knew him to be a friendly and gregarious young man with one of the most humble down-to-earth attitudes in the Premiership... Instead, standing side by side at the edge of the round concert hall, Lampard found himself greeted with terse minimal remarks and a vague distracted frown on that long hook-nosed face. Faced with this, the older man fell quiet, fiddling with his knot in the same way as when challenged by his cousin, and briefly scanning the room to see where Jamie had got to. He certainly didn't want to be seen failing in his seduction by someone as confident and successful as J could be in that department! Maybe he'd picked badly, going after the Arsenal star who'd picked up the night's main trophy... `Is that all, then?' the former West Ham captain said now in a bored voice close to a yawn, and Frank blinked awkwardly at him, really quite surprised by his aloof rudeness. He must have looked offended more than surprised, because the lanky young player just frowned quite harshly at him and adjusting the poserish waist-belt of his Prada suit jacket. `I've got a lot of people to talk to,' the athletic youngster informed him quite coldly, stunning Lampard even more - he was very used to the aura of his own career success outshining his managerial exploits and bringing him much privilege and favour in all corners of their sporting world... `What's wrong?' he couldn't help but demand, his voice a little shaken. Rice just made a simply scoffing noise, toying with his tie, which was rather obnoxiously embossed with the Prada logo just below the knot, and looked irritating to wear. The slightly gangly football stud shifted from foot to foot and looked uncomfortable, as if not used to such rudeness even in himself, a far cry from the modest charm he'd shown to the media when Frank was pulled into his orbit. `I hope you didn't mind me saving you from the press,' Frank said quite resentfully, suddenly more annoyed than worried by the young lad's turn in mood, deciding that Rice Rice Baby wasn't such a loveable ordinary guy after all- `Saving me,' Declan muttered darkly, and now Frank was intrigued - he backed further from the fringes of the event and squared up to the 6ft1 youngster, back in the mode of an angry manager dressing down an arrogant player - `I don't know what I think of your attitude,' the ex-midfielder announced quietly but sharply, hands on the hips of his suit trousers. Declan gave him a look that could only be described as withering. `And I don't know what I think of your fucking managing career.' Frank could hardly believe it - the nerve was heavily hit, since everyone in the sport was queuing up to slag off his first few spells in the top job - and he was particularly annoyed to find out that Kingston-upon-Thames' little golden boy was actually such an entitled uptight wanker, so- he was about to speak when the slightly taller man leaned in and jabbed an accusing finger in the centre of his chest. `Mason's told me all about you, you dirty fucker,' snapped the Arsenal ace with all the gutsy confrontation he could show on the pitch, and Frank was frozen to the spot by the look of venom and disapproval on that long handsome face - `I know everything,' Rice insisted coldly, `and I think you're a fucking shameful bastard, Lamps, that's what I think.' Frank gawped at him, no idea what to say. If Lamps had immediately set his sights on the award show's Player of the Year, then his cousin hadn't chosen too far away; and at that moment, Jamie was propped up against one end of the bar, smiling quietly as part of a small group conversation that surrounded the London YOUNG Player of the Year instead - a bashful 21-year-old who, to Jamie's eye, was a far more credible target for his selfish needs. There were several of them here, players and assorted other figures from a couple of London clubs, including Jamie's own noughties home of Tottenham Hotspur - but the focus of their chat was the tall lean youth who seemed to be wearing his dad's suit, ill-fitting and awkward about his gangly frame, while he held his prize in one hand and scratched anxiously at his long neck between answering the friendly bantering questions of the significantly older men who were applauding his win. Redknapp chose his moment well - the old guy from Spurs was just about to ask young Cole Palmer another very dull and prosaic question about footballing life in London compared to Manchester when he leaned in closer to the youth winner and whispered in his ear, `Do you want to share some gear?' before pulling back and smiling blandly at their group with no hint of his saucy suggestion. He could see Cole's interest instantly on his thin acned face, slightly gormless but handsome in the right light - and, most importantly to Jamie, one of tonight's big winners and London's rising stars, so the perfect target. That gormless face would look very cute down at his crotch, he was sure. Redknapp made his vague quiet excuses to slip away from the dull group conversation and then watched over his shoulder as Palmer began to do the same, having to protest against hugs and back-slaps in order to extricate himself from the fawning attention of the middle-aged former pros and top journalists - and then scampering through the busy awards floor like some kind of Bambi impersonator, surely too gangly and clumsy to be half as talented a footballer as Jamie knew him to be, Chelsea's great young hope since snapping him up from an unappreciative Man City. Once the 21-year-old Mancunian had caught up with him, Jamie smirked at him, and then nodded in the direction of the toilets - he winked and patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. `Fancy a sniff then, kid?' he asked calmly and not too quietly, broadcasting his self-confidence and roguish casualness about taking party drugs at a formal event despite his senior age. Truth be told, he rarely partook these days, but tonight had threatened to be a dull wholesome one, and he always kept a few little baggies of good stuff around for when he was travelling with his punditry, away from family life - and a little dusting of gear could be a great lubricant when trying to sow wild oats. Cole nodded eagerly. `Seriously?' asked the young Chelsea attacker in a breathy awkward voice, giving shifty looks to left and right, and making their deviant escape as fucking obvious as anything. Jamie laughed at him and patted his arm. `Relax, you dork. Come on. Stop looking so shifty. And bring that trophy, haha.' Cole nodded again and followed him, and on the way down the passage towards the gents loos, Jamie couldn't resist reaching calmly down and feeling himself through the front of his suit pants - yep, he could really do with a wide-eyed innocent like young Palmer helping him out tonight, and he looked forward to describing every detail to that faux prude of a cousin...! At Lampard's insistence, more than the angry young man's, they had left the party behind, and were somewhere on the first floor, passing down another curving passage away from balconies that overlooked the floor of tables - downstairs, Declan had begun to say more explicit and damaging things, and Frank had cajoled and threatened the Arsenal player away from the footballer crowd and into this quiet corner, starting with muttered comments about libel and lawsuits, and now hissing apologies and excuses at the `Premiership Player of the Year' for London - clumsily insisting to him that he couldn't understand the pressures managers were under in this day and age, and he definitely couldn't understand the complexities of marriage in your 40s, and that whatever Mason Mount had told him, he had to remember how excitable and melodramatic that kid could be... `So he exaggerates it, does he?' Dec ranted at him a little bit too loudly, really squaring up to him in an almost aggressive manner - this was the red-faced Dec that argued with refs and went to war for the men on his team, not the grinning youth who ducked compliments and charmed the footballing community. `Look,' Lampard hissed at the younger guy, reaching for each of his shoulders only to have his hands pushed away, `it wasn't like that, Mason and I just had an understanding, and...' Though just an inch taller, the dark-suited younger man seemed to tower over him villainously for a moment, pushing another accusing finger into his chest and properly pushing forward into him, looking ready to swing fists. `You used him like a toy,' Rice snarled down at him, `you played about with him like he was nothing - your little pet when you wanted him to be, and then nothing when you didn't need him, I've heard all about it. You're a fucking monster, Fat Frank, and I think everyone in that room down there ought to fucking know about it - wonder if they'd let me re-do my acceptance speech?' It was at that point, backing frustratedly away from the hot-tempered 25-year-old, that a thought crystallised and clarified for Lampard, something that had been at the back of his mind for the last ten minutes; at first, he'd thought Dec was disgusted and prejudiced, sickened to learn of a manager-player affair of the steamy office-floor nature of what Lamps had once shared with his golden protegee. But slowly things had become clearer, and he understood the nature of Rice's passion, the intensity of his outrage, the very personal angle to his accusations and jabbing threats. He could see what he had in front of him: a jealous and possessive boyfriend. It was a realisation that didn't change the awkward rage of the moment, the disappointment or inconvenience of these accusations about his sexual manipulation of a young player, the aspersions against his professionalism... but it DID add an exciting undertone to Rice's puffed out chest and reddened face, the little beads of sweat on his brow and the flecks of spittle that hit Frank on the nose as he backed away from the Arsenal hothead. He found himself staring more with curiosity than apology now, deflecting another rough shove of Dec's hands, and grasping at his jacket sleeves to calm him down. `Seriously,' Lampard snapped, as authoritatively as he could, `you're getting me wrong, kid - it just was not like that - and I think if you asked your boyfriend, I think you'd get the same answer, Rice.' `He's just still awed by you,' the award-winner spat, but he then paused and looked a bit uncomfortable, as if understanding what he'd just implicitly acknowledged - and Frank didn't grin smugly at him, but he did let the silence hang, and tug at the young man's sleeves, drawing a little closer to him, letting their heavy breathing be the only sound between them, the rising noise of the sports crowd below falling away. Dec looked like he was computing whether it was too late to dismiss the word `boyfriend', but Frank's hand was already reaching down and cupping the outline in the front of those black Prada trousers, feeling to his pleasant surprise that shouting angrily and defending his boy's honour had given Declan Rice a rather weighty semi as it was. He felt it slowly and tenderly, and stared fiercely into Dec's red face and awkward frown. `An award winner like you,' Lampard purred more smoothly, `deserves to end the night well.' He jerked his head to the door next to them, which seemed to be some kind of changing room for the performers who usually occupied the Roundhouse. `We've got time.' He backed off and reached his groping hand for the door handle instead, found it helpfully unlocked - and retreated into a small rectangular dressing room, watching intently as the Arsenal midfielder hovered in the doorway and glared at him with conflicted outrage. Frank got slowly down to one knee at a time in the centre of the narrow room, moistening his lips, and nodding encouragingly. Dec moved forward and closed the door behind him, really towering now as he approached - his face still looked conflicted, the flash of anger replaced by some guilty embarrassment, and yet his body language spoke of greater certainty. He was undoing the waistbelt of his jacket and letting the black blazer fall open, then grasping confidently at the heavy Prada buckle of his leather belt. And on his knees, Lamps just nodded, flicked his tongue across his sweaty upper lip, and opened his mouth wide - glad when the zip fly went down and the long slender prick was pushed against his hungry tongue, glad to gobble down on the night's sexy winner. And somewhere below them, Jamie Redknapp had locked the door of the small toilet suite behind them, rendering the small ugly room private; he was glad that they didn't have to shuffle clumsily into a single cubicle together like rave teens, since there was a helpful lock on the main door, and in the past minute, he'd already ignored a couple of impatient knocks on it from others trying to use these facilities. There were other loos all over the venue, fellas could fuck off. He had business to attend to. `Good lad,' Redknapp cooed, as Palmer inhaled both lines he'd set up for him on the cool marble surface around the washbasin, and he enjoyed watching the twitchy excitement of the lad's young face as he straightened up and leant against the wall to steady himself during the headrush of the drug. With the practised ease of a wilder youth, the middle-aged TV star began to dab out a little of the white snow, a notably smaller portion than he'd offered the youth, and then chopped it into a couple of lines with his AmEx. He snorted it quickly and casually through a rolled £50 and then smirked at Cole, who was still twitchy and grimacing and fiddling with his nostrils, whilst Jamie briefly shook off the electric fizz in his body and began to arrange more lines for them on the counter. `Not used to it?' he asked lightly. `Done plenty,' the 21-year-old insisted. `Especially back up in Manc.' `Right,' Jamie said sceptically, watching his jerky body language and nervous eyes. They did more lines, and chatted, the conversation no less prosaic than outside with the other older guys near the bar - Jamie kept his voice low and cool, asking aimless dull questions and feeding the Chelsea attacker bland praise, taking it slower than he wanted to, making sure that both of them had dirtied their noses with plenty of the top-quality coke from his usual supplier. And then, cutting across the young star's giggly self-deprecation, he announced, `Trouble with gear, mate, is how fucking horny it gets you, right?' He said it with such experience and confidence that it was hard for Cole, despite his spluttering, to say anything but `Sure' - Jamie suspected this might be the up-and-coming baller's first experiment with it, or he was just shit at it, and that Cole Palmer was properly thrilled to be indulging in the kind of stupid excess that he'd expected from senior footballer life. Jamie was only too happy to oblige. `Nothing makes me want to get my cock sucked more,' he said. `Oh, right,' Cole laughed stupidly. `Just summat about that cokey buzz, y'know...?' `I guess - it does make you feel fuckin' mental.' `Oh, totally, but mainly... horned up. Ha ha.' `I guess, I guess... huh... erm-' `I mean, in my day,' Jamie purred, chopping the next line, `you'd just get coked up after a big win and find some no-hoper young substitute player and get him to nosh you off in the showers before you were due on the team bus, that sort of thing.' Cole was quiet for a moment, but too instantly high to question this, letting out an uncomfortable snigger, and another `I guess... sure... hehe... err...' `Still,' Jamie mused, handing him the rolled note, `I bet things are tamer now.' Palmer seemed to consider this before stooping to snort the substance. `No,' he declared dizzily. `There's still a bit of that shit going on, I think.' `At City?' Redknapp asked with the wistful curiosity of someone who had watched Jack Grealish from afar, but he was intrigued by Palmer's shake of the head and nervous knuckling at his electrified nostrils. `Nah,' the Manc youth slurred, `since I got down to Stamford Bridge, y'know...' He looked wary, but Jamie grinned disarmingly, and he went on - `I've had a couple of blowies off another player,' the award-winner announced, seeming torn between boastful and ashamed. `Good lad,' Jamie told him warmly, making him chuckle, and he bit his lip before sitting back against the edge of the counter and giving the taut package of his suit pants a good squeeze. `Nothing gets you more fucking horned up and wild than winning a big game, right? You just need serviced after that, and it don't fucking matter if it's your missus or your mate sometimes, am I right?' He leered at the Chelsea player and saw the certainty growing in Cole's eyes and in his dizzy nodding. `Who was it?' Redknapp demanded, before leaning over and inhaling the last line of their Class A treat. Cole laughed awkwardly, seeming unsure of confiding that, but Jamie knew how to coax it out of him - he pulled the gangly youth next to him and squeezed about his shoulders intimately, two suited men of different generations, thigh to thigh - and then he dropped a hand invasively against the baggy crotch of the young man's borrowed suit trousers, through which he could feel a certain hardness. Jamie didn't particularly like the idea of touching other cocks, not half as much as he liked his to be touched, but he could instantly feel Cole's confidence in him grow. `Who?' he barked in his ear. `Gallagher,' he slurred. `Conor Gallagher.' A pause, then a filthy laugh. `Sucks like a fucking Amsterdom hooker, hehe. Especially after a bit of gear. Erm.' Jamie thrilled at this gossip, but he wasn't sure if Conor was here tonight, and he'd already set his sights on a less handsome but more celebrated member of the Chelsea first team. He shook Cole by the shoulders and took him by the wrist, dragging his hand into returning the favour and gripping his own bulge - bigger, fuller, pants tighter. Cole's eyes bulged and he looked a bit scared, but Jamie laughed and brushed the back of his neck with his free hand. `Feel that?' he purred. `That's how fucking horny that sniff has got me.' `Yeah,' murmured the dopey midfielder. `You feel it, mate?' `Er, yeah.' `Feel how hard I'm getting?' `Yeah, yeah...' `Fuuuck, it's just so horny,' he sighed. `Thought of Conor fucking Gallagher getting on his knees for a star like you! Haha. But...' He tightly gripped Cole's hand over his bulge and pinched at the nape of his neck. `Daddy don't suck cock,' he growled, `so it's going to have to be you on your knees, mate.' He grinned arrogantly into the trembling features of the young Manc lad, staring him down, and keeping his hand in place, where his eager hard-on throbbed and pulsed, and he waited - was Palmer high enough to cross this line, awe-struck enough not to question it? A wobbly moment of uncertainty passed in which Jamie could see the young player pushing him away and fleeing the bathroom. There was always a risk of scandal and conflict, a risk of exposure and embarrassment, but wasn't that what made it all so fun...? `Fuck,' slurred Cole nervously. `Nah,' Jamie whispered dangerously. `I don't fuck lads. But I do want your gob on my dick, kid. Now, get on yer knees. Good boy.' Frank was shocked and excited by the sudden ferocity with which it happened: Dec's firm veiny cock pushed down his throat, quickly going deep, and grasping fingers brushing through his own short dark hair. He gagged and recovered and tried to do better, excited to be made a slut by the young stud in the same way as his mouth had been used by John in the past. He spluttered and choked and then gasped noisily for breath every time Dec pulled back, when he would wank his cock close to his face and spit down at him. `Yeah, suck on that,' Rice practically shouted at him from above, still bristling with the indignant fury that had led them here from the edges of the awards party below. There on his knees, still suited and booted, the former Chelsea and Everton manager slobbered over the young stud's cock, hungry for him, nodding submissively and mumbling his apologies in between deep mouthfuls of cock. He grasped greedily at the legs of the dark suit, reaching up to try and unbutton Dec's shirt, wanting to feel his six-pack, but his hands brushed away and his cheeks slapped - Rice was a rough lover in a way that nobody would have imagined from the polite young man who smiled for the cameras! Lucky Mason. After a few more rough fucks to the mouth and throat, he had to pull away, practically whimpering, to loosen his tie and his collar - he looked up at Declan's red face and angry eyes, and nodded greedily - `Feed it to me,' he begged, and the more he wanted it, the more Rice seemed to hold back, keeping his face at bay and wanking over him, spitting down at him some more, and cursing at him, `You took advantage of that boy for too long, now it's your fucking turn, you old cunt.' And Frank, rather than arguing back and trying to assert his aged authority, just nodded and panted, and submitted entirely to the exciting chivalry of the Arsenal hero. He kissed the wet pink tip of his cock and licked up and down the shaft, pulling it up and wrestling with the flies of the suit pants until he could tongue and caress the heavy big low-hanging bollocks below. Dec moaned at that, teabagging him and clutching his head quite roughly, then taking back control and pushing his long tool back into Frank's willing throat once more. God, this was exciting - Lamps had no thought for `the challenge' now, no interest in the gongs of tonight's award, or the bold confrontation of his handsome cousin! He was just thrilled to be here gobbling down on one of London football's most powerful young figures, a true star who everyone admired, and he, Frank Lampard, was kneeling obediently before, lapping at his cock and balls and tasting his salty precum all over his lips. `Yes,' Lamps panted, `your cock is so good.' `Shut up and suck it, you dirty old bastard!' `Fuck, yes, slap me again-' `Not if you like it, for fuck's sake. Lick my balls.' `God, yes.' `Shut up and get on with it!' He could hear Declan sound stressed by it, for all the defensive midfielder was all bluster and dominance, he seemed conflicted - did his precious boyfriend know he was getting up to this dirty business in Camden on a Thursday night? Frank thought nostalgically about the days he'd had Mount in his private office, humping the perfect twink on his managerial desk whenever he wanted, his perfect protegee - the accusations were hardly deniable, he knew, he really had just taken what he wanted back then, exhausting Mason with his dirty demands, and showing little interest in him at other times. He had been so new to these transgressions at the time, though, and he'd always considered Mase to be as desperate for it as he was! Looking back, he was less sure, and he'd been so experimental and different in the past four years, eventually John Terry's loyal sub. But here was a man who seemed, despite his youth, to be as powerful and commanding as the great JT - Dec was lightly slapping him on the face and jerking his cock against his lips, spitting on his face, calling him all the names under the sun, and the fact that he was driven out of some passionate defence of his boyfriend made it all even more gorgeous and irresistible! `I want it in me,' he begged eventually, unable to contain himself, and almost expecting Declan to silence him with a cock down his throat - but the 6ft1 Kingston lad looked broodingly down at him for a moment before nodding and commanding him to `Get the fuck up then'. Up on his feet and pushed in against the dressing table to one side of the room, Frank fought with the buttons of his pale blue shirt, shucking away his blazer, but not being given time to properly undress from the pristine designer suit - Dec was yanking down his trousers at the back and his dark grey underpants with them. He heard Rice spitting and then felt wet fingers between his pale chubby cheeks, feeling Rice's hand gripping at his hip under his shirt - he wondered what the ripped young athlete thought about his chunkier body, a little softer around the edges than it had been in his prime, thickset with relaxing muscle - did he like it, did it turn him on like his perfect lean twink lover? Dec was wasting no time, but Frank was out of practice - he winced and whined as he felt Dec trying to enter him, and he heard him repeatedly spitting into his hand to lube his prick up more. Frank was about to suggest to him a different position, or to offer some advice, but Declan was really assertive and dominant, grasping at the back of his shirt collar and pushing him forward, lifting his big arse up more, and angling his long hard weapon between those full buttocks. Frank did his best to relax and sure enough, Declan knew exactly what he was doing. He groaned very loudly, yelling into the wall, as he felt himself open up for Rice's prick, felt the same fucking force begin to rampage against his backside as it had his mouth and throat - oh god, all of this strong young hero's passion and vengeance, all of his devotion to beautiful Mount, fucking into Frank's fat arse! At first Cole licked it like a badly-flavoured lollipop - his nervous tongue flicking awkwardly against the tip and sides, and his lips mumbling uncomfortably against the veiny hardness of Jamie's prick - but gradually, the high of the drugs fizzing through him, he seemed to lose inhibition or gain confidence, and really open up his young gob, really lick and suck on the treat in front of him, smirked down upon by Redknapp. There were more knocks at the door, more yells of `Oi, who's locked this?' and `Others need to piss, are you just doing blow, for fuck's sake?' But he ignored them, and he wasn't sure that fizzy young Palmer had a fucking clue they were happening - the shaky youth on his knees was just totally focused on the task he'd been given, was taking at as seriously as a Cup final penalty. `That's it,' Redknapp cooed, calling him `Good boy' again as he opened wider and let more of the shaft into his soft warm gob. `That's it,' he encouraged, `do it good and slow like that, let me in... I bet Conor opened real wide, that slag, and I bet he licked you real good - yeah, do it like that boy, like Conor did I bet, yes... mmm...' Jamie was not unused to training a submissive virgin cock-sucker, he'd had his share of the Premier League's wide-eyed twinks before him over the years, and though Cole Palmer wasn't quite the boyband pretty type that he usually sought out, the fame and success of the young player was something that did thrill and excite him - there was something about staking his claim on Chelsea's new favourite, especially knowing how Frank would react when he told him. He imagined gossiping with his slutty cousin about fucking Palmer's gob and finding out about Gallagher, and pissing the twat off by making it clear that the young whores of Chelsea were already HIS. Still fully dressed, Jamie sweated into his shirt, leaning heavily back against the basin, closing his eyes and letting the twin pleasures of the coke and the blowie sizzle through his 6ft well-maintained physique, his muscles still firm and lean despite the pleasures and complacency of middle age. He loved that even as he got older, he could still lean on the impressionable lust of such young studs as this 21-year-old Manc. `That's it, mmm, give it a good suck... deeper, deeper, go on - no, don't choke, just relax - mmm, that's more like it, good lad...' He didn't even hear the next few flurries of knocking and shouting. He was out of it, really lost in the pleasure, enjoying both the present moment and the imminent prospect of boasting it to Lamps. Cole was clumsy and shaky but his mouth felt excellent, and Jamie really was at his horniest, he had to stop and slow the sloppy mouth down several times because he didn't want to embarrass himself by finishing too soon. In one such pause, he ruffled Cole's scruffy hair and smirked down at him. `You like that, kid?' he moaned, slapping his cock lightly against his chin. `Er, yeah,' mumbled Palmer uncertainly, but eyeing the fat pink head as he spoke, as if he wanted to get back to work on it. `How's it taste?' Redknapp insisted. `Er, weird.' `But you love it.' `Kinda.' `Good boy...' `Have you got any more blow, I could do with-' `Nah, just suck me some more. That's it, good boy.' `Mmmm...' And eventually Jamie was willing to finish. He kept trying to push deeper and really get a deep sucking, but he accepted the clumsy limitations of the kneeling geek, and to finish he pulled free and hunkered forward. He wanked his cock in one tight fist, keeping himself just over Cole's wide-eyed innocence, until with a series of barking grunts he reached his climax - releasing strings of pearlescent jizz across that gormless face, dripping off his chin, staining the lapels of his too-large suite jacket. Oh, yes. Jamie moaned wordlessly and gasped lungfuls of air, emptying his balls messily, and watching the slow dull blinks of Cole's awkward face, feeling an older man's seed dribble down his cheeks. `Did I do good?' Palmer mumbled after a long silence. `You were okay,' Redknapp told him simply. `For your first time.' `Oh.' He squeezed the last drop of cum onto Cole's brow and then helped him up - with a certain fussy reluctance, he found tissues and pressed them into shaky hands, helping the awkward-faced lanky youth to wipe and then wash his face. Cole was jittery and kept giggling nervously, and then feeling for his own hard-on in his pants. Jamie patted him on the back and patronisingly said, `It's okay - go in the cubicle and jerk it off.' Cole stared at him quite yearningly, as if expecting him to go against his earlier claim, and to go in there and return the favour - but Jamie just stared him down with brazen selfishness and then washed his hands whilst London's Young Player of the Year slunk ashamedly into the nearest of the two cubicles and shut it loudly behind him. Jamie chuckled to the background sound of jangling belt, and finished washing up - he checked his hair, his collar, the sheen of sweat on his neck, and declared himself presentable. Palmer was still loudly moaning and jerking off in the cubicle when he unlocked the main door and abandoned him, a couple of angry older guys in suits rushing past him to use the facilities, and presumably hearing the orgasmic moans of a horny youngster on his own, releasing against the cistern, with some of Jamie's cum still drying on his chin. Declan, meanwhile, came explosively, buried to the hilt in Frank's backside; he was grasped tightly at the hips as the younger man ploughed int him, spluttering with ecstasy in his throes of climax. Frank was bashed against the desk and the wall, and loved every bump and bruise of it, simultaneously wanking his own prick furiously as it happened, so that he brought himself to a messy climax only a minute later, dumping a pool of cum down on the surface of the dressing table. Dec, powerful as he was, continued to slide in and out of him even once spent, moaning with such gruff force, and still giving his neck a grab and his head a shake, pushing at him and muttering, `You fucking perv.' And then Rice was withdrawing from him, panting and muttering inaudibly, and crossing the room, and Frank was just hunched on his own, arse in the air, recovering from the bruised feeling of being taken with such passionate force. He pulled himself upright and looked down at the greasy mess of his release, then over his shoulder at Dec, who was burying his face in his hands and looking unsteady on his feet. Frank dragged up his grey undies and his trousers, and he turned around to face him. `Tell him I'm sorry,' he said quietly, breathless. `Tell him he always will mean a lot to me. Tell him-' `I ain't telling him a fucking thing from you,' huffed Dec seriously, fixing him with another scathing look, and continuing to button up his own shirt over the glossy sheen of his pectorals. `Just fuck off,' he insisted. `I shouldn't have put my cock in you.' `It felt good.' `It was wrong - you're a miserable old bastard and you fucked with that lad for too long, you really left him confused and low.' `I just...' `You just cared about yourself,' Rice declared sternly. `But it seems like you turned out to be a total sub, after all - dunno who you thought you were bossing my boy around all that time and acting like the king of West London. Dirty old prick. How many other players did you force yourself on?' `What? It was never like that. Mase wanted it-' `Don't call him that. You don't get to. He's... mine.' Dec was trembling with ferocity, wriggling back into his blazer, face shiny with sweat. He stopped himself from whatever he was going to say next. `I won't pass on any fucking messages from you,' he reiterated. `This was all you're getting from either of us. Good luck with the job hunt, Lamps, and don't come sniffing around me or my boyfriend ever again. Bye.' And he stormed off, dripping sweat from his nose and fringe as he lurched out of the door. Lampard took his time in tidying his outfit in the mirror and wiping up his spunk from the table; he was breathless and overheated and he knew he would have to face his confused and irritated wife when he found his way back to their table, probably just in time to be cleared out to their taxis. Back out on the curved balcony, he watched her from above and planned his excuses, and then set off on a slow descent back through the venue, finding his way through the dispersing crowds as they were all gradually ushered onto Camden high road and in the direction of various waiting vehicles. As predicted, there was some berating and lecturing from the missus - vague plans for further drinks at their place were abandoned now that the mood was a little soured, and goodbyes between the members of their party took place on the pavement. But then somebody said the wrong thing, and his wife was shutting him out of their taxi, abandoning him because he was `too drunk' and `smelt like some whore' - and before he knew it, he was left swaying on his shoe heels on the pavement, being led into a taxi with his cousin instead, whose wife had rushed to join Christine. This left the two clammy overheated ex-footballers in the back of a car together, bemoaning the moods of their partners, and being driven through North London towards the apartment where the Redknapps were staying. In the car, the two tipsy men spoke just about the awards show, but then Jamie was piling out to be deposited at his accommodation, and Frank was clambering out to follow him and soo goodbyes - and so they were standing in the shadows outside of the Islington apartment block, out of sight of the impatient taxi driver, and both of them were laughing uncontrollably. `You look so sweaty,' Lamps told him. `And you - we must have seemed a mess to the ladies.' `Fuck, do I really stink?' `We both do - I'm dripping through this whole suit!' `Jesus, were we that obvious...' `Okay, okay - who did you pull then, Mr Chelsea? Cos you'll wanna hear who I corrupted...' `Er - well - I-' Frank found himself struggling at that, unsure how much he wanted to admit to his cousin now, given how he had been handled and dominated by young Dec - but part of him was still desperate to boast that he'd got his hands on the man of the hour, the man of the night, the man of the season. He rocked on his feet in a moment of breathy quiet, wiping sweat off his brow, and reached for the words- Jamie cut him off, unable to contain his smug glee. `I fucked the gob of that lanky streak of piss at your old club,' he exalted. `Got a right sloppy blowjob off Cole Palmer, for fuck's sake - Young Player of the Year and Cum-Guzzler of the Fucking Night, haha - he wasn't half bad for a virgin, I'd say.' Jamie smirked deeply, excited by himself, and grabbed at Frank in a celebratory hug, pulling their sweaty suited bodies together - and Frank began to mumble something about Arsenal or Rice, trying to sound it out and reframe his dirty deeds in a way that might make it more impressive to his less sexually fluid role model - but their bodies had tumbled close in the hug and their faces were VERY close in the shadows, breath on breath, and Frank found himself looking into Jamie's eyes, mouth hanging slightly open, lips parted hungrily, and face craning in with aching slowness, reaching for a kiss that he'd never realised he truly wanted... A stiffness jerked through Jamie's physique and the other 6ft ex-player yanked back from him, steadying both of them on the steps. Redknapp blinked, huffed, wiped his face, and either was oblivious to the almost-kiss or wanted to throw it aside. `Anyway,' he grunted, `what the hell did you get up to, cuz?' Lamps, for a moment, was too stunned by the near-touch of their open mouths, and he pawed stupidly at his face. Somewhere behind him, the taxi driver beeped his horn. `Oh,' he mumbled. `Some nobody. Fucked him in a room upstairs. Hardly worth mentioning.' And he took a couple of dazed steps back, fingers reaching to stroke uncertainly at his chin, near his lips, craving the touch fo another's mouth on them, and then looking hopefully, yearningly, wistfully, up at his older cousin, the lad whose sexual confidence had inspired him since they were sharing bunk-beds on family holidays in their youth. But Jamie's expression had hardened. He looked disinterested, aloof. He was fumbling with keys, not looking this way. `What a fun night,' he said, but distractedly. `We're a right pair of sorts, ain't we? Right, get in the car, fuck off - go make peace with that bitch. I'll see you when I see you, right. Bye, Frank. See you.' `Yeah...' And the 45-year-old staggered dizzily back into the back of the taxi, his suit sticking to every soft muscle of his body, and his head spinning - not just now at the fresh memory of being plundered by Declan Rice, but by the shock of realising how much he wanted to kiss his dearest cousin. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 6 Mar 2024 21:13:00 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 393 Part 393: Gongs &amp; Dongs Thursday night in Camden, and both men were clad in tailored suits that accentuated their lasting physiques, two retired football players now shoulder to shoulder at the bar - they had spent almost the entire night together now, as well as a perfectly civilised afternoon meal beforehand, with their wives and several other friends and family members - but now they were alone, just the two of them, two handsome cousins who had risen through the football world and could strut around this awards ceremony as celebrated Londoners. And here at the bar, away from the polite chat of their illustrious table, the 50-year-old pundit could bump a suited elbow into the side of his slightly younger cousin and shoot him one of his trademark smug looks, seizing the moment's impatience as the pair awaited attention from the Camden Roundhouse's serving staff. Eyebrows briefly folding, Frank Lampard looked curiously back at him, his face one of casual bemusement sliding in the direction of nervous tension - he almost looked as if he had been expecting the question all day, even before Jamie Redknapp leaned in and asked him, `So... do you still suck cock like a pro?' Redknapp paused and smirked, chuckling at everything from his own crass directness to the absurdness of asking his cousin this at the centre of the London Football Awards and all its blokey sporting camaraderie. He chuckled even more at the panicked fluster that came over the other 6ft man's slightly lined face - Frank was 5 years his junior and yet ageing a little more rapidly than his own curated boyishness at 50. He threw an arm about the shoulders of the other man's suit jacket and leaned in to elaborate, `Just wondering, cuz...! Good memories, hey?' Around them, the general after-party exuberance of the sporting award ceremony buzzed on, the gongs distributed but the majority of guests showing no hurry to exit the venue. Before Frank could answer his provocative question, Jamie caught the eye of a free waitress and he leaned charmingly forward to flirt heavily with her and order the lengthy list of drinks for their table. Once she was at work on their order, he laid his hands on the bartop and turned that same smug grin on the other ex-midfielder. Lamps, he noted, had recovered some brash dignity, rolling his eyes at him. `I don't know how much I remember,' the on-off club manager muttered with unconvincing dismissal, shrugging and adjusting the knot of his navy blue tie. `But yeah, fun memories, I guess - why you ask cuz, your wife need some tips?' Jamie grinned at his cousin's confrontational manner, unfazed by the banter - it wasn't often that the two friendly cousins got to hang out alone these days, and he often suspected that was more deliberate on Lampard's part than his own, and not unconnected from the days in recent years where the Chelsea legend had got on his knees and serviced him like a proper slag. His smiling eyes must have communicated all that thought, because Lamps blushed and frowned and looked away, clearing his throat and fiddling more with his tie. `Relax,' Redknapp insisted quietly enough, `do you think I'm dumb enough to ever tell a soul, Franco...?' `Should fucking hope not,' was the 45-year-old's breathy muttered retort. `No, I haven't recommended your throat to anyone,' Jamie quipped pleasantly, not really bothering to keep his voice low or secretive, and enjoying the way it irked and panicked the other ex-player. `Although - I thought you were John Terry's these days...' A dark look on the other married man's face. `I ain't seen much of JT lately,' he answered ambiguously, and Jamie almost felt a bit sorry for him - he wasn't sure of the exact nature of the bond between the two Chelsea heroes, but he knew that it was more than just nostalgic friendship. As brash as he could be, he sensed it was best not to dig into that affair, aware that he could be as cagey and defensive about some of his own extra-marital efforts, although he'd been so much more careful since marrying his second wife in middle age. `You hate me bringing this up, eh?' he asked curiously. `Just watch it, mate, think where we are.' `Hmm. I know.' `You best drop this, we need to-' `Where we are,' the slick TV pundit mused, stroking his stubbled cheekbones and beginning to ready his wallet to pay for the round. `That's what got me thinking, to be honest...' `You need to leave those days in the past,' Frank muttered irritably at his side, glaring at him, `they were odd times and I was under a lot of pressure, so-' Jamie looked at him and rolled his eyes. `I'm not suggesting we go back there,' he said, a little more firmly, almost snappish. `No - we're cousins, it's a bit icky really, ain't it? No...' He grabbed Frank by one shoulder and pulled closer to him, whispering since the barmaid was right in front of them lining up their bottles - `I was thinking of a contest.' Jamie paused to pay, sensing the mixture of glowering annoyance and cock-struck curiosity in the other man, then turning to grin at him. The two ex-players leaned in close to divide the drinks onto two trays, and Jamie spoke firmly but quickly, sharing his idea. `All these footballer fellas in one place, you know - we're both pretty well-connected here, don't you think? And we've been such good boys, playing along with the missus all day, so - why don't we so who can pull the best young lad in here, eh?' He smirked excitedly in at the other man's nervous face, resting a hand against his shoulder. `Come on,' he growled, sensing Lamps' hesitance, `it'll be fucking fun - let's see what we can pull, and compare notes later on...' `Our wives are-' `That's the fun, you pussy...' `Mate, this is-' `Come on,' Redknapp insisted in that same deep seductive growl, squeezing more at the thick shoulder of his stockier cousin, and grinning very enthusiastically across the drinks at him. `We've got, what, an hour or two before they close the bars and chuck us out?' He leaned right in to whisper in Frank's ear. `I'm getting my dick wet in that hour, cousin Frank, and I'm telling you all about it - you better have a story to share in return, little cuz, or who knows what I might come out with when we all stop off at yours for a nightcap.' The 50-year-old lothario smiled and laughed and patted Lampard on the back as if they were just chuckling over some Premier League anecdote of their younger days, before hoisting his tray of drinks and leading the way back to the table - his cousin would not be able to resist the challenge, he knew, and it would add an extra spice to tonight's exploits. Right enough, Lamps was snared: he only part-believed the joky threat of his handsome cousin's blackmail, not able to 100% dismiss the threat, but he was caught by Redknapp's seductive charm, the simmering remembrance of their taboo foolery, and the nature of the challenge itself. Jamie was right, there were so many active and retired footballers here from the London clubs, and so many connections for both of them, between their family ties, their club careers, their media links - this really was somewhere that the unemployed footballer manager could get a little special attention in a way that his life had been lacking since things fizzled out with his dominant lover John Terry. Soon after the drinks were shared at the table, cousin Jamie made his excuses and slipped away, claiming he was needed at the photocall for winners, and so Frank left it a few minutes before claiming the same, and pecking Christine on the cheek. Away from the table, his confidence surged and he felt sure that he could find some fun here that would impress or shock Jamie in the right way, and make him the winner of this vague challenge, some kinda macho bragging rights over the smugly good-looking older Redknapp... it didn't really make any rational sense, but Lamps was tipsy on red wine and his ego had been stoked by the confronting nature of a man who he had once begged on his knees. The target of Lampard's vague bravado and lust became quickly obvious, grinning into a camera not far off and still wielding his Premiership Player of the Year gong whilst a small crowd of event media jostled about him. Just as the 45-year-old Chelsea legend might have hoped, the media staff ambushing the young footballer caught sight of him and quickly beckoned him over - `Let's get one of you two together, yeh? Rice and Lamps, perfect...!' - and soon he was huddled close to the black-suited youth with a big celebratory grin on his face, hugging an arm about Declan's shoulders and posing with the award-winning Arsenal signing, a graduate of his own first senior club West Ham. And then, brusque and assertive, Lampard made his play - `Leave the kid alone, then,' he found himself barking quite authoritatively at one photographer and then another, and `Let him enjoy his win, eh?' at the latest journalist who was about to throw a question at the 25-year-old England international - arm about his shoulders, Lamps steered young Rice away from this attention and along the outskirts of the event, `rescuing' him from the `piranhas' of the media and laughing off the prestige of the event. He was, he thought, full of experienced charm and gruff avuncular support, helping Declan to move away from the excessive attention and offering to buy him drinks, talking volubly about their shared experiences of the London football scene - sympathising with Dec's youthful disappointment when released by Chelsea and then seeking common ground in his experience of rising through the ranks in East London instead. But... Frank was slightly taken aback. He'd met Declan before on a number of occasions, obviously, and between those past experiences and the general football perception of the 6ft1 defensive midfielder, he knew him to be a friendly and gregarious young man with one of the most humble down-to-earth attitudes in the Premiership... Instead, standing side by side at the edge of the round concert hall, Lampard found himself greeted with terse minimal remarks and a vague distracted frown on that long hook-nosed face. Faced with this, the older man fell quiet, fiddling with his knot in the same way as when challenged by his cousin, and briefly scanning the room to see where Jamie had got to. He certainly didn't want to be seen failing in his seduction by someone as confident and successful as J could be in that department! Maybe he'd picked badly, going after the Arsenal star who'd picked up the night's main trophy... `Is that all, then?' the former West Ham captain said now in a bored voice close to a yawn, and Frank blinked awkwardly at him, really quite surprised by his aloof rudeness. He must have looked offended more than surprised, because the lanky young player just frowned quite harshly at him and adjusting the poserish waist-belt of his Prada suit jacket. `I've got a lot of people to talk to,' the athletic youngster informed him quite coldly, stunning Lampard even more - he was very used to the aura of his own career success outshining his managerial exploits and bringing him much privilege and favour in all corners of their sporting world... `What's wrong?' he couldn't help but demand, his voice a little shaken. Rice just made a simply scoffing noise, toying with his tie, which was rather obnoxiously embossed with the Prada logo just below the knot, and looked irritating to wear. The slightly gangly football stud shifted from foot to foot and looked uncomfortable, as if not used to such rudeness even in himself, a far cry from the modest charm he'd shown to the media when Frank was pulled into his orbit. `I hope you didn't mind me saving you from the press,' Frank said quite resentfully, suddenly more annoyed than worried by the young lad's turn in mood, deciding that Rice Rice Baby wasn't such a loveable ordinary guy after all- `Saving me,' Declan muttered darkly, and now Frank was intrigued - he backed further from the fringes of the event and squared up to the 6ft1 youngster, back in the mode of an angry manager dressing down an arrogant player - `I don't know what I think of your attitude,' the ex-midfielder announced quietly but sharply, hands on the hips of his suit trousers. Declan gave him a look that could only be described as withering. `And I don't know what I think of your fucking managing career.' Frank could hardly believe it - the nerve was heavily hit, since everyone in the sport was queuing up to slag off his first few spells in the top job - and he was particularly annoyed to find out that Kingston-upon-Thames' little golden boy was actually such an entitled uptight wanker, so- he was about to speak when the slightly taller man leaned in and jabbed an accusing finger in the centre of his chest. `Mason's told me all about you, you dirty fucker,' snapped the Arsenal ace with all the gutsy confrontation he could show on the pitch, and Frank was frozen to the spot by the look of venom and disapproval on that long handsome face - `I know everything,' Rice insisted coldly, `and I think you're a fucking shameful bastard, Lamps, that's what I think.' Frank gawped at him, no idea what to say. If Lamps had immediately set his sights on the award show's Player of the Year, then his cousin hadn't chosen too far away; and at that moment, Jamie was propped up against one end of the bar, smiling quietly as part of a small group conversation that surrounded the London YOUNG Player of the Year instead - a bashful 21-year-old who, to Jamie's eye, was a far more credible target for his selfish needs. There were several of them here, players and assorted other figures from a couple of London clubs, including Jamie's own noughties home of Tottenham Hotspur - but the focus of their chat was the tall lean youth who seemed to be wearing his dad's suit, ill-fitting and awkward about his gangly frame, while he held his prize in one hand and scratched anxiously at his long neck between answering the friendly bantering questions of the significantly older men who were applauding his win. Redknapp chose his moment well - the old guy from Spurs was just about to ask young Cole Palmer another very dull and prosaic question about footballing life in London compared to Manchester when he leaned in closer to the youth winner and whispered in his ear, `Do you want to share some gear?' before pulling back and smiling blandly at their group with no hint of his saucy suggestion. He could see Cole's interest instantly on his thin acned face, slightly gormless but handsome in the right light - and, most importantly to Jamie, one of tonight's big winners and London's rising stars, so the perfect target. That gormless face would look very cute down at his crotch, he was sure. Redknapp made his vague quiet excuses to slip away from the dull group conversation and then watched over his shoulder as Palmer began to do the same, having to protest against hugs and back-slaps in order to extricate himself from the fawning attention of the middle-aged former pros and top journalists - and then scampering through the busy awards floor like some kind of Bambi impersonator, surely too gangly and clumsy to be half as talented a footballer as Jamie knew him to be, Chelsea's great young hope since snapping him up from an unappreciative Man City. Once the 21-year-old Mancunian had caught up with him, Jamie smirked at him, and then nodded in the direction of the toilets - he winked and patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket. `Fancy a sniff then, kid?' he asked calmly and not too quietly, broadcasting his self-confidence and roguish casualness about taking party drugs at a formal event despite his senior age. Truth be told, he rarely partook these days, but tonight had threatened to be a dull wholesome one, and he always kept a few little baggies of good stuff around for when he was travelling with his punditry, away from family life - and a little dusting of gear could be a great lubricant when trying to sow wild oats. Cole nodded eagerly. `Seriously?' asked the young Chelsea attacker in a breathy awkward voice, giving shifty looks to left and right, and making their deviant escape as fucking obvious as anything. Jamie laughed at him and patted his arm. `Relax, you dork. Come on. Stop looking so shifty. And bring that trophy, haha.' Cole nodded again and followed him, and on the way down the passage towards the gents loos, Jamie couldn't resist reaching calmly down and feeling himself through the front of his suit pants - yep, he could really do with a wide-eyed innocent like young Palmer helping him out tonight, and he looked forward to describing every detail to that faux prude of a cousin...! At Lampard's insistence, more than the angry young man's, they had left the party behind, and were somewhere on the first floor, passing down another curving passage away from balconies that overlooked the floor of tables - downstairs, Declan had begun to say more explicit and damaging things, and Frank had cajoled and threatened the Arsenal player away from the footballer crowd and into this quiet corner, starting with muttered comments about libel and lawsuits, and now hissing apologies and excuses at the `Premiership Player of the Year' for London - clumsily insisting to him that he couldn't understand the pressures managers were under in this day and age, and he definitely couldn't understand the complexities of marriage in your 40s, and that whatever Mason Mount had told him, he had to remember how excitable and melodramatic that kid could be... `So he exaggerates it, does he?' Dec ranted at him a little bit too loudly, really squaring up to him in an almost aggressive manner - this was the red-faced Dec that argued with refs and went to war for the men on his team, not the grinning youth who ducked compliments and charmed the footballing community. `Look,' Lampard hissed at the younger guy, reaching for each of his shoulders only to have his hands pushed away, `it wasn't like that, Mason and I just had an understanding, and...' Though just an inch taller, the dark-suited younger man seemed to tower over him villainously for a moment, pushing another accusing finger into his chest and properly pushing forward into him, looking ready to swing fists. `You used him like a toy,' Rice snarled down at him, `you played about with him like he was nothing - your little pet when you wanted him to be, and then nothing when you didn't need him, I've heard all about it. You're a fucking monster, Fat Frank, and I think everyone in that room down there ought to fucking know about it - wonder if they'd let me re-do my acceptance speech?' It was at that point, backing frustratedly away from the hot-tempered 25-year-old, that a thought crystallised and clarified for Lampard, something that had been at the back of his mind for the last ten minutes; at first, he'd thought Dec was disgusted and prejudiced, sickened to learn of a manager-player affair of the steamy office-floor nature of what Lamps had once shared with his golden protegee. But slowly things had become clearer, and he understood the nature of Rice's passion, the intensity of his outrage, the very personal angle to his accusations and jabbing threats. He could see what he had in front of him: a jealous and possessive boyfriend. It was a realisation that didn't change the awkward rage of the moment, the disappointment or inconvenience of these accusations about his sexual manipulation of a young player, the aspersions against his professionalism... but it DID add an exciting undertone to Rice's puffed out chest and reddened face, the little beads of sweat on his brow and the flecks of spittle that hit Frank on the nose as he backed away from the Arsenal hothead. He found himself staring more with curiosity than apology now, deflecting another rough shove of Dec's hands, and grasping at his jacket sleeves to calm him down. `Seriously,' Lampard snapped, as authoritatively as he could, `you're getting me wrong, kid - it just was not like that - and I think if you asked your boyfriend, I think you'd get the same answer, Rice.' `He's just still awed by you,' the award-winner spat, but he then paused and looked a bit uncomfortable, as if understanding what he'd just implicitly acknowledged - and Frank didn't grin smugly at him, but he did let the silence hang, and tug at the young man's sleeves, drawing a little closer to him, letting their heavy breathing be the only sound between them, the rising noise of the sports crowd below falling away. Dec looked like he was computing whether it was too late to dismiss the word `boyfriend', but Frank's hand was already reaching down and cupping the outline in the front of those black Prada trousers, feeling to his pleasant surprise that shouting angrily and defending his boy's honour had given Declan Rice a rather weighty semi as it was. He felt it slowly and tenderly, and stared fiercely into Dec's red face and awkward frown. `An award winner like you,' Lampard purred more smoothly, `deserves to end the night well.' He jerked his head to the door next to them, which seemed to be some kind of changing room for the performers who usually occupied the Roundhouse. `We've got time.' He backed off and reached his groping hand for the door handle instead, found it helpfully unlocked - and retreated into a small rectangular dressing room, watching intently as the Arsenal midfielder hovered in the doorway and glared at him with conflicted outrage. Frank got slowly down to one knee at a time in the centre of the narrow room, moistening his lips, and nodding encouragingly. Dec moved forward and closed the door behind him, really towering now as he approached - his face still looked conflicted, the flash of anger replaced by some guilty embarrassment, and yet his body language spoke of greater certainty. He was undoing the waistbelt of his jacket and letting the black blazer fall open, then grasping confidently at the heavy Prada buckle of his leather belt. And on his knees, Lamps just nodded, flicked his tongue across his sweaty upper lip, and opened his mouth wide - glad when the zip fly went down and the long slender prick was pushed against his hungry tongue, glad to gobble down on the night's sexy winner. And somewhere below them, Jamie Redknapp had locked the door of the small toilet suite behind them, rendering the small ugly room private; he was glad that they didn't have to shuffle clumsily into a single cubicle together like rave teens, since there was a helpful lock on the main door, and in the past minute, he'd already ignored a couple of impatient knocks on it from others trying to use these facilities. There were other loos all over the venue, fellas could fuck off. He had business to attend to. `Good lad,' Redknapp cooed, as Palmer inhaled both lines he'd set up for him on the cool marble surface around the washbasin, and he enjoyed watching the twitchy excitement of the lad's young face as he straightened up and leant against the wall to steady himself during the headrush of the drug. With the practised ease of a wilder youth, the middle-aged TV star began to dab out a little of the white snow, a notably smaller portion than he'd offered the youth, and then chopped it into a couple of lines with his AmEx. He snorted it quickly and casually through a rolled £50 and then smirked at Cole, who was still twitchy and grimacing and fiddling with his nostrils, whilst Jamie briefly shook off the electric fizz in his body and began to arrange more lines for them on the counter. `Not used to it?' he asked lightly. `Done plenty,' the 21-year-old insisted. `Especially back up in Manc.' `Right,' Jamie said sceptically, watching his jerky body language and nervous eyes. They did more lines, and chatted, the conversation no less prosaic than outside with the other older guys near the bar - Jamie kept his voice low and cool, asking aimless dull questions and feeding the Chelsea attacker bland praise, taking it slower than he wanted to, making sure that both of them had dirtied their noses with plenty of the top-quality coke from his usual supplier. And then, cutting across the young star's giggly self-deprecation, he announced, `Trouble with gear, mate, is how fucking horny it gets you, right?' He said it with such experience and confidence that it was hard for Cole, despite his spluttering, to say anything but `Sure' - Jamie suspected this might be the up-and-coming baller's first experiment with it, or he was just shit at it, and that Cole Palmer was properly thrilled to be indulging in the kind of stupid excess that he'd expected from senior footballer life. Jamie was only too happy to oblige. `Nothing makes me want to get my cock sucked more,' he said. `Oh, right,' Cole laughed stupidly. `Just summat about that cokey buzz, y'know...?' `I guess - it does make you feel fuckin' mental.' `Oh, totally, but mainly... horned up. Ha ha.' `I guess, I guess... huh... erm-' `I mean, in my day,' Jamie purred, chopping the next line, `you'd just get coked up after a big win and find some no-hoper young substitute player and get him to nosh you off in the showers before you were due on the team bus, that sort of thing.' Cole was quiet for a moment, but too instantly high to question this, letting out an uncomfortable snigger, and another `I guess... sure... hehe... err...' `Still,' Jamie mused, handing him the rolled note, `I bet things are tamer now.' Palmer seemed to consider this before stooping to snort the substance. `No,' he declared dizzily. `There's still a bit of that shit going on, I think.' `At City?' Redknapp asked with the wistful curiosity of someone who had watched Jack Grealish from afar, but he was intrigued by Palmer's shake of the head and nervous knuckling at his electrified nostrils. `Nah,' the Manc youth slurred, `since I got down to Stamford Bridge, y'know...' He looked wary, but Jamie grinned disarmingly, and he went on - `I've had a couple of blowies off another player,' the award-winner announced, seeming torn between boastful and ashamed. `Good lad,' Jamie told him warmly, making him chuckle, and he bit his lip before sitting back against the edge of the counter and giving the taut package of his suit pants a good squeeze. `Nothing gets you more fucking horned up and wild than winning a big game, right? You just need serviced after that, and it don't fucking matter if it's your missus or your mate sometimes, am I right?' He leered at the Chelsea player and saw the certainty growing in Cole's eyes and in his dizzy nodding. `Who was it?' Redknapp demanded, before leaning over and inhaling the last line of their Class A treat. Cole laughed awkwardly, seeming unsure of confiding that, but Jamie knew how to coax it out of him - he pulled the gangly youth next to him and squeezed about his shoulders intimately, two suited men of different generations, thigh to thigh - and then he dropped a hand invasively against the baggy crotch of the young man's borrowed suit trousers, through which he could feel a certain hardness. Jamie didn't particularly like the idea of touching other cocks, not half as much as he liked his to be touched, but he could instantly feel Cole's confidence in him grow. `Who?' he barked in his ear. `Gallagher,' he slurred. `Conor Gallagher.' A pause, then a filthy laugh. `Sucks like a fucking Amsterdom hooker, hehe. Especially after a bit of gear. Erm.' Jamie thrilled at this gossip, but he wasn't sure if Conor was here tonight, and he'd already set his sights on a less handsome but more celebrated member of the Chelsea first team. He shook Cole by the shoulders and took him by the wrist, dragging his hand into returning the favour and gripping his own bulge - bigger, fuller, pants tighter. Cole's eyes bulged and he looked a bit scared, but Jamie laughed and brushed the back of his neck with his free hand. `Feel that?' he purred. `That's how fucking horny that sniff has got me.' `Yeah,' murmured the dopey midfielder. `You feel it, mate?' `Er, yeah.' `Feel how hard I'm getting?' `Yeah, yeah...' `Fuuuck, it's just so horny,' he sighed. `Thought of Conor fucking Gallagher getting on his knees for a star like you! Haha. But...' He tightly gripped Cole's hand over his bulge and pinched at the nape of his neck. `Daddy don't suck cock,' he growled, `so it's going to have to be you on your knees, mate.' He grinned arrogantly into the trembling features of the young Manc lad, staring him down, and keeping his hand in place, where his eager hard-on throbbed and pulsed, and he waited - was Palmer high enough to cross this line, awe-struck enough not to question it? A wobbly moment of uncertainty passed in which Jamie could see the young player pushing him away and fleeing the bathroom. There was always a risk of scandal and conflict, a risk of exposure and embarrassment, but wasn't that what made it all so fun...? `Fuck,' slurred Cole nervously. `Nah,' Jamie whispered dangerously. `I don't fuck lads. But I do want your gob on my dick, kid. Now, get on yer knees. Good boy.' Frank was shocked and excited by the sudden ferocity with which it happened: Dec's firm veiny cock pushed down his throat, quickly going deep, and grasping fingers brushing through his own short dark hair. He gagged and recovered and tried to do better, excited to be made a slut by the young stud in the same way as his mouth had been used by John in the past. He spluttered and choked and then gasped noisily for breath every time Dec pulled back, when he would wank his cock close to his face and spit down at him. `Yeah, suck on that,' Rice practically shouted at him from above, still bristling with the indignant fury that had led them here from the edges of the awards party below. There on his knees, still suited and booted, the former Chelsea and Everton manager slobbered over the young stud's cock, hungry for him, nodding submissively and mumbling his apologies in between deep mouthfuls of cock. He grasped greedily at the legs of the dark suit, reaching up to try and unbutton Dec's shirt, wanting to feel his six-pack, but his hands brushed away and his cheeks slapped - Rice was a rough lover in a way that nobody would have imagined from the polite young man who smiled for the cameras! Lucky Mason. After a few more rough fucks to the mouth and throat, he had to pull away, practically whimpering, to loosen his tie and his collar - he looked up at Declan's red face and angry eyes, and nodded greedily - `Feed it to me,' he begged, and the more he wanted it, the more Rice seemed to hold back, keeping his face at bay and wanking over him, spitting down at him some more, and cursing at him, `You took advantage of that boy for too long, now it's your fucking turn, you old cunt.' And Frank, rather than arguing back and trying to assert his aged authority, just nodded and panted, and submitted entirely to the exciting chivalry of the Arsenal hero. He kissed the wet pink tip of his cock and licked up and down the shaft, pulling it up and wrestling with the flies of the suit pants until he could tongue and caress the heavy big low-hanging bollocks below. Dec moaned at that, teabagging him and clutching his head quite roughly, then taking back control and pushing his long tool back into Frank's willing throat once more. God, this was exciting - Lamps had no thought for `the challenge' now, no interest in the gongs of tonight's award, or the bold confrontation of his handsome cousin! He was just thrilled to be here gobbling down on one of London football's most powerful young figures, a true star who everyone admired, and he, Frank Lampard, was kneeling obediently before, lapping at his cock and balls and tasting his salty precum all over his lips. `Yes,' Lamps panted, `your cock is so good.' `Shut up and suck it, you dirty old bastard!' `Fuck, yes, slap me again-' `Not if you like it, for fuck's sake. Lick my balls.' `God, yes.' `Shut up and get on with it!' He could hear Declan sound stressed by it, for all the defensive midfielder was all bluster and dominance, he seemed conflicted - did his precious boyfriend know he was getting up to this dirty business in Camden on a Thursday night? Frank thought nostalgically about the days he'd had Mount in his private office, humping the perfect twink on his managerial desk whenever he wanted, his perfect protegee - the accusations were hardly deniable, he knew, he really had just taken what he wanted back then, exhausting Mason with his dirty demands, and showing little interest in him at other times. He had been so new to these transgressions at the time, though, and he'd always considered Mase to be as desperate for it as he was! Looking back, he was less sure, and he'd been so experimental and different in the past four years, eventually John Terry's loyal sub. But here was a man who seemed, despite his youth, to be as powerful and commanding as the great JT - Dec was lightly slapping him on the face and jerking his cock against his lips, spitting on his face, calling him all the names under the sun, and the fact that he was driven out of some passionate defence of his boyfriend made it all even more gorgeous and irresistible! `I want it in me,' he begged eventually, unable to contain himself, and almost expecting Declan to silence him with a cock down his throat - but the 6ft1 Kingston lad looked broodingly down at him for a moment before nodding and commanding him to `Get the fuck up then'. Up on his feet and pushed in against the dressing table to one side of the room, Frank fought with the buttons of his pale blue shirt, shucking away his blazer, but not being given time to properly undress from the pristine designer suit - Dec was yanking down his trousers at the back and his dark grey underpants with them. He heard Rice spitting and then felt wet fingers between his pale chubby cheeks, feeling Rice's hand gripping at his hip under his shirt - he wondered what the ripped young athlete thought about his chunkier body, a little softer around the edges than it had been in his prime, thickset with relaxing muscle - did he like it, did it turn him on like his perfect lean twink lover? Dec was wasting no time, but Frank was out of practice - he winced and whined as he felt Dec trying to enter him, and he heard him repeatedly spitting into his hand to lube his prick up more. Frank was about to suggest to him a different position, or to offer some advice, but Declan was really assertive and dominant, grasping at the back of his shirt collar and pushing him forward, lifting his big arse up more, and angling his long hard weapon between those full buttocks. Frank did his best to relax and sure enough, Declan knew exactly what he was doing. He groaned very loudly, yelling into the wall, as he felt himself open up for Rice's prick, felt the same fucking force begin to rampage against his backside as it had his mouth and throat - oh god, all of this strong young hero's passion and vengeance, all of his devotion to beautiful Mount, fucking into Frank's fat arse! At first Cole licked it like a badly-flavoured lollipop - his nervous tongue flicking awkwardly against the tip and sides, and his lips mumbling uncomfortably against the veiny hardness of Jamie's prick - but gradually, the high of the drugs fizzing through him, he seemed to lose inhibition or gain confidence, and really open up his young gob, really lick and suck on the treat in front of him, smirked down upon by Redknapp. There were more knocks at the door, more yells of `Oi, who's locked this?' and `Others need to piss, are you just doing blow, for fuck's sake?' But he ignored them, and he wasn't sure that fizzy young Palmer had a fucking clue they were happening - the shaky youth on his knees was just totally focused on the task he'd been given, was taking at as seriously as a Cup final penalty. `That's it,' Redknapp cooed, calling him `Good boy' again as he opened wider and let more of the shaft into his soft warm gob. `That's it,' he encouraged, `do it good and slow like that, let me in... I bet Conor opened real wide, that slag, and I bet he licked you real good - yeah, do it like that boy, like Conor did I bet, yes... mmm...' Jamie was not unused to training a submissive virgin cock-sucker, he'd had his share of the Premier League's wide-eyed twinks before him over the years, and though Cole Palmer wasn't quite the boyband pretty type that he usually sought out, the fame and success of the young player was something that did thrill and excite him - there was something about staking his claim on Chelsea's new favourite, especially knowing how Frank would react when he told him. He imagined gossiping with his slutty cousin about fucking Palmer's gob and finding out about Gallagher, and pissing the twat off by making it clear that the young whores of Chelsea were already HIS. Still fully dressed, Jamie sweated into his shirt, leaning heavily back against the basin, closing his eyes and letting the twin pleasures of the coke and the blowie sizzle through his 6ft well-maintained physique, his muscles still firm and lean despite the pleasures and complacency of middle age. He loved that even as he got older, he could still lean on the impressionable lust of such young studs as this 21-year-old Manc. `That's it, mmm, give it a good suck... deeper, deeper, go on - no, don't choke, just relax - mmm, that's more like it, good lad...' He didn't even hear the next few flurries of knocking and shouting. He was out of it, really lost in the pleasure, enjoying both the present moment and the imminent prospect of boasting it to Lamps. Cole was clumsy and shaky but his mouth felt excellent, and Jamie really was at his horniest, he had to stop and slow the sloppy mouth down several times because he didn't want to embarrass himself by finishing too soon. In one such pause, he ruffled Cole's scruffy hair and smirked down at him. `You like that, kid?' he moaned, slapping his cock lightly against his chin. `Er, yeah,' mumbled Palmer uncertainly, but eyeing the fat pink head as he spoke, as if he wanted to get back to work on it. `How's it taste?' Redknapp insisted. `Er, weird.' `But you love it.' `Kinda.' `Good boy...' `Have you got any more blow, I could do with-' `Nah, just suck me some more. That's it, good boy.' `Mmmm...' And eventually Jamie was willing to finish. He kept trying to push deeper and really get a deep sucking, but he accepted the clumsy limitations of the kneeling geek, and to finish he pulled free and hunkered forward. He wanked his cock in one tight fist, keeping himself just over Cole's wide-eyed innocence, until with a series of barking grunts he reached his climax - releasing strings of pearlescent jizz across that gormless face, dripping off his chin, staining the lapels of his too-large suite jacket. Oh, yes. Jamie moaned wordlessly and gasped lungfuls of air, emptying his balls messily, and watching the slow dull blinks of Cole's awkward face, feeling an older man's seed dribble down his cheeks. `Did I do good?' Palmer mumbled after a long silence. `You were okay,' Redknapp told him simply. `For your first time.' `Oh.' He squeezed the last drop of cum onto Cole's brow and then helped him up - with a certain fussy reluctance, he found tissues and pressed them into shaky hands, helping the awkward-faced lanky youth to wipe and then wash his face. Cole was jittery and kept giggling nervously, and then feeling for his own hard-on in his pants. Jamie patted him on the back and patronisingly said, `It's okay - go in the cubicle and jerk it off.' Cole stared at him quite yearningly, as if expecting him to go against his earlier claim, and to go in there and return the favour - but Jamie just stared him down with brazen selfishness and then washed his hands whilst London's Young Player of the Year slunk ashamedly into the nearest of the two cubicles and shut it loudly behind him. Jamie chuckled to the background sound of jangling belt, and finished washing up - he checked his hair, his collar, the sheen of sweat on his neck, and declared himself presentable. Palmer was still loudly moaning and jerking off in the cubicle when he unlocked the main door and abandoned him, a couple of angry older guys in suits rushing past him to use the facilities, and presumably hearing the orgasmic moans of a horny youngster on his own, releasing against the cistern, with some of Jamie's cum still drying on his chin. Declan, meanwhile, came explosively, buried to the hilt in Frank's backside; he was grasped tightly at the hips as the younger man ploughed int him, spluttering with ecstasy in his throes of climax. Frank was bashed against the desk and the wall, and loved every bump and bruise of it, simultaneously wanking his own prick furiously as it happened, so that he brought himself to a messy climax only a minute later, dumping a pool of cum down on the surface of the dressing table. Dec, powerful as he was, continued to slide in and out of him even once spent, moaning with such gruff force, and still giving his neck a grab and his head a shake, pushing at him and muttering, `You fucking perv.' And then Rice was withdrawing from him, panting and muttering inaudibly, and crossing the room, and Frank was just hunched on his own, arse in the air, recovering from the bruised feeling of being taken with such passionate force. He pulled himself upright and looked down at the greasy mess of his release, then over his shoulder at Dec, who was burying his face in his hands and looking unsteady on his feet. Frank dragged up his grey undies and his trousers, and he turned around to face him. `Tell him I'm sorry,' he said quietly, breathless. `Tell him he always will mean a lot to me. Tell him-' `I ain't telling him a fucking thing from you,' huffed Dec seriously, fixing him with another scathing look, and continuing to button up his own shirt over the glossy sheen of his pectorals. `Just fuck off,' he insisted. `I shouldn't have put my cock in you.' `It felt good.' `It was wrong - you're a miserable old bastard and you fucked with that lad for too long, you really left him confused and low.' `I just...' `You just cared about yourself,' Rice declared sternly. `But it seems like you turned out to be a total sub, after all - dunno who you thought you were bossing my boy around all that time and acting like the king of West London. Dirty old prick. How many other players did you force yourself on?' `What? It was never like that. Mase wanted it-' `Don't call him that. You don't get to. He's... mine.' Dec was trembling with ferocity, wriggling back into his blazer, face shiny with sweat. He stopped himself from whatever he was going to say next. `I won't pass on any fucking messages from you,' he reiterated. `This was all you're getting from either of us. Good luck with the job hunt, Lamps, and don't come sniffing around me or my boyfriend ever again. Bye.' And he stormed off, dripping sweat from his nose and fringe as he lurched out of the door. Lampard took his time in tidying his outfit in the mirror and wiping up his spunk from the table; he was breathless and overheated and he knew he would have to face his confused and irritated wife when he found his way back to their table, probably just in time to be cleared out to their taxis. Back out on the curved balcony, he watched her from above and planned his excuses, and then set off on a slow descent back through the venue, finding his way through the dispersing crowds as they were all gradually ushered onto Camden high road and in the direction of various waiting vehicles. As predicted, there was some berating and lecturing from the missus - vague plans for further drinks at their place were abandoned now that the mood was a little soured, and goodbyes between the members of their party took place on the pavement. But then somebody said the wrong thing, and his wife was shutting him out of their taxi, abandoning him because he was `too drunk' and `smelt like some whore' - and before he knew it, he was left swaying on his shoe heels on the pavement, being led into a taxi with his cousin instead, whose wife had rushed to join Christine. This left the two clammy overheated ex-footballers in the back of a car together, bemoaning the moods of their partners, and being driven through North London towards the apartment where the Redknapps were staying. In the car, the two tipsy men spoke just about the awards show, but then Jamie was piling out to be deposited at his accommodation, and Frank was clambering out to follow him and soo goodbyes - and so they were standing in the shadows outside of the Islington apartment block, out of sight of the impatient taxi driver, and both of them were laughing uncontrollably. `You look so sweaty,' Lamps told him. `And you - we must have seemed a mess to the ladies.' `Fuck, do I really stink?' `We both do - I'm dripping through this whole suit!' `Jesus, were we that obvious...' `Okay, okay - who did you pull then, Mr Chelsea? Cos you'll wanna hear who I corrupted...' `Er - well - I-' Frank found himself struggling at that, unsure how much he wanted to admit to his cousin now, given how he had been handled and dominated by young Dec - but part of him was still desperate to boast that he'd got his hands on the man of the hour, the man of the night, the man of the season. He rocked on his feet in a moment of breathy quiet, wiping sweat off his brow, and reached for the words- Jamie cut him off, unable to contain his smug glee. `I fucked the gob of that lanky streak of piss at your old club,' he exalted. `Got a right sloppy blowjob off Cole Palmer, for fuck's sake - Young Player of the Year and Cum-Guzzler of the Fucking Night, haha - he wasn't half bad for a virgin, I'd say.' Jamie smirked deeply, excited by himself, and grabbed at Frank in a celebratory hug, pulling their sweaty suited bodies together - and Frank began to mumble something about Arsenal or Rice, trying to sound it out and reframe his dirty deeds in a way that might make it more impressive to his less sexually fluid role model - but their bodies had tumbled close in the hug and their faces were VERY close in the shadows, breath on breath, and Frank found himself looking into Jamie's eyes, mouth hanging slightly open, lips parted hungrily, and face craning in with aching slowness, reaching for a kiss that he'd never realised he truly wanted... A stiffness jerked through Jamie's physique and the other 6ft ex-player yanked back from him, steadying both of them on the steps. Redknapp blinked, huffed, wiped his face, and either was oblivious to the almost-kiss or wanted to throw it aside. `Anyway,' he grunted, `what the hell did you get up to, cuz?' Lamps, for a moment, was too stunned by the near-touch of their open mouths, and he pawed stupidly at his face. Somewhere behind him, the taxi driver beeped his horn. `Oh,' he mumbled. `Some nobody. Fucked him in a room upstairs. Hardly worth mentioning.' And he took a couple of dazed steps back, fingers reaching to stroke uncertainly at his chin, near his lips, craving the touch fo another's mouth on them, and then looking hopefully, yearningly, wistfully, up at his older cousin, the lad whose sexual confidence had inspired him since they were sharing bunk-beds on family holidays in their youth. But Jamie's expression had hardened. He looked disinterested, aloof. He was fumbling with keys, not looking this way. `What a fun night,' he said, but distractedly. `We're a right pair of sorts, ain't we? Right, get in the car, fuck off - go make peace with that bitch. I'll see you when I see you, right. Bye, Frank. See you.' `Yeah...' And the 45-year-old staggered dizzily back into the back of the taxi, his suit sticking to every soft muscle of his body, and his head spinning - not just now at the fresh memory of being plundered by Declan Rice, but by the shock of realising how much he wanted to kiss his dearest cousin. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-353

Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2023 20:39:00 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 353 Part 353: (Dis)allowed A Friday night fixture like this would often involve an overnight stay, but the bosses had decided that getting straight back up the East coast was a better plan, and nobody in the winning squad was in opposition; few of the well-paid football players who relish a bland shared hotel room on the outskirts of the East Midlands city of Nottingham, when they could be delivered to the edge of Newcastle and arrive in their various luxury accommodation, even if it was in the small hours of the morning. The mood on the main player coach was one of muted celebration, tiredness battling with the high spirits - not so long ago, the travelling Newcastle United squad had been in full chorus of excitement and enjoyment, following their recent tradition of marking every win like it was some tournament finale, urged by Howe to face every match with that ambition and passion, even if it was just a Friday night scraped win over Forest, one that had gone right down to the wire with Isak's second goal in the 3rd minute of extra time. It had almost been a different kind of 3pt outcome for the Magpies, though, and this fact was especially evident to one of the lads that climbed aboard the bus, freshly showered but a little hot and already sweaty under the dark tracksuit that covered his 5ft10 body. He clasped the handshake with the gaffer and received a hearty slap to the back, congratulation for his second-half shift and his almost-goal, then hurried aboard and directed down the aisle to find his place with a cursory pat on the bottom, the usual odd tactile laddishness of their sport. 20-year-old Elliot Anderson had almost opened his Premiership account with a headed goal that could have carried Newcastle to victory, until it was disallowed and he was robbed of his exciting moment - sure, the rugged young midfielder had been proper chuffed for Isak to get another and the game to break deadlock at 2-1... but he'd be way MORE chuffed if his own bold effort had pushed them over the edge and closed the deal, and there was something a little deflating in that knowledge, clambering down the aisle of the coach and fingering at the headrests for balance. Disallowed or no, Elliot kept getting the credit for his overruled goal, now on the vehicle as much as on the pitch or in the Away quarters of the City Ground. Just like the sweaty muscular hugs as the team posed for their latest victory photo, the walk down the bus now was accompanied by grabs of his arms and yelped encouragement from a host of teammates, more experienced blokes who were all like encouraging big brothers to the local lad who'd broken into the first team in spite of the incoming talent. On his way towards the back of the coach, Anderson was met with a tight earnest handshake from the Brazilian passion of Bruno Guimaraes, half-lifting off his seat to power the grip and tell him that his moment was `destined' to be around the corner, his face briefly serious before breaking into the more typical expression of gleeful enjoyment that made the central player so endearing; just past him, also occupying a pair of seats to himself, the forward who he'd replaced on pitch raised a fist of a salute at him and told him in syrupy French that he'd been `robbed' tonight, before Saint-Maximin leaned the other way to get comfortable against the cushion at his window; and perhaps more enthusiastically than anyone, Dan Burn and Sean Longstaff jostled and punched at him from either side midway down the coach, fellow Geordie lads who knew like he did that football was religion on Tyneside. It should clear the disappointment, the Whitley Bay lad told himself, this endorsement and support from his cheery mates, and he was even pretty sure that the support would be as rich and vocal if the game had ended 1-1 and his failed goal had been the only shot at dominance. But the deflation that Elliot felt was internal, his own competition and ambition, his own craving for moments of glory that would set him up as... well, the next Shearer, he dared to think, as devoted to the sacred idol of that Newcastle old boy as ever, even after the rather profane experiences at his Gosforth mansion earlier this year. `To Newcastle!' boomed big Dan Burn's voice shortly behind him, still loud and alert even if many of the other squad members looked wiped out; `Aye, out of this shite-hole!' Longstaff agreed very eagerly, setting up a great laugh across the bus and a series of terrible impressions of the guys' North East accents by some of their honorary Geordies. Anderson laughed at this but was glad to be out of it, his own coastal dialect a regular source of banter from the South American and European men on the team, having to join Big Dan and Longy in explaining various colloquialisms to astonished Bruno and sceptical Sven Botman. He was to take up one of the two-seaters right at the back of the coach, glad that the players and entourage were spread across two buses to allow such space, and thinking that he was likely to kip for the three hours or so that would carry them home. He unhooked the backpack from his shoulders and pushed it up onto the overhead space then swung his sturdy body into the window seat, stretching out his limbs as best as he could in this limited space. There were still a few guys getting on this coach, although Elliot could see the other vehicle starting up and leading the way out of the windy car park; he rested his head to the window and brought up one achey knee at a time to slide off his chunky trainers, releasing his thick-socked big feet and making himself more comfortable. It was pretty warm so he wriggled out of his jumper too and rolled it up into a cushion that he could jam between his warm face and the cool glass. In front of him, cool-as-ice Swiss defender Fabian Schar was taking a seat in the next double, pausing to smile respectfully over the headrests at him and offer a little silent salute of approval before sinking down to get into his own comfortable position for the trip; across the aisle from him, spare goalkeeper Martin Dubravka was already in place, but ignoring them as he spoke on the phone to his family in his own native Slovakian. And here came the team's somewhat displaced captain, and one of tonight's several unused subs, big Lascelles, who was also on the phone, clearly speaking to his wife about dinner that was being set aside for him - into the other side of the back seat he piled, and Anderson just nodded deferentially to the big bloke, still very aware of the guy as a leader, even if his appearances this season were minimal, the position more or less ceded in the new regime. Lascelles was an impressively committed player though, Anderson thought, very conscious of the older man's influence and motivation even from a backgrounded position, and also his recent outing against Man City to fight for his space on the first team. So that was the youth's company at the rear end of the coach, which grumbled now into movement, but it didn't really matter - it had been a long process getting organised after the game, with everyone too busy celebrating to hurry their showers, and a good number of beers shared out in the changing rooms from a cooler-box, and so Elliot was as zonked as anyone else, ready to just fall quiet and drift into fitful traffic sleep until deposited at the north end of Newcastle, ready for a taxi to the coast. To that end, he was just about to pull his strong legs up onto the seating and slump into his corner, feeling the heavy throb of engine through the cushion and support, when grazed knuckles gripped the edges of the free headrest in front and a fifth figure joined them at the back of the bus - it was the de facto captain of the top 4 hopefuls, grinning down at his way and swaying slightly as the bus eased its way through Nottingham traffic. `How are we doing back here?' Kieran Trippier asked, in a generalised way, but his smile and sleepy eyes fixed decidedly on Anderson himself, who gave a quick nod and lifted a hand in greeting to the skipper; after all, Dubravka and Lascelles were on the phone, and Schar had slipped into one of his aloof quiets - Elliot found himself stifling a yawn so wide that it looked like a deliberate effort to dismiss the grinning skipper, but asking back, `You all good, chief?' The simple question was taken as a sort of invitation. In the same club tracksuit, Trips came lurching in and dropping into the seat next to him, over which Anderson was slightly spread; he pulled back with stiff politeness, adjusting his slouched angle into the corner, and staring vaguely at the 32-year-old Manc bloke, who could be napping up front or making a call to his own missus. `All the better for a win,' Kieran told him. `Sure,' Elliot agreed. `The feeling isn't getting old.' `Would have been even better 3-1,' his sort-of captain told him firmly, turning partly this way and planting a supportive hand against his shoulder. `That's not a dig - I just wanted to tell you how fucking great that header could have been. Disallowed, for fuck's sake. Don't take it to heart, kid.' Sure... They'd already been through this, he thought, with the bare tattoos of Kieran's chest on show as he cornered him in the locker-room to share his own frustrating experiences of having goals discounted in similar circumstances - Trips and half a dozen others, all giving him the benefit of their wisdom in the aftermath of the win. Not that patient, respectful Elliot resented or distrusted any of it - he was eager to learn - but he was a bit confused at why he was getting it all over again from the right-back, and why his older teammate was making himself comfortable in the spare seat that should now be allowing Elliot to lounge out and find a sleepy position for the next few hours. In front of them, Schar was quiet enough to perhaps be asleep already, and he realised that Lascelles had finished his call already; glancing past Trippier, he could see the hulking figure of the official skipper turning in against the far window, getting as comfortable as he should be. In the background, the often harsh sound of Martin's Slovakian was a low murmur as he spoke on to his wife, and then Anderson tuned back into what he was being told. `Before the season is out,' Kieran Trippier was predicting, `you'll have bagged that goal and got off the starting blocks, fella.' `Sure,' he agreed, his voice a little slow and low with the fug of tiredness. `Big career ahead of ya,' Kieran insisted, lowering his voice, and elbowing at him from the side. `Sure hope so. Like yours, skip. I mean - something like that. Hopefully a lot of seasons at St James Park apart from anything else.' He shot an earnest smile at the older man, pinned here between his open thighs and the coach corner - trying in some vague weary way to signal his lack of conversational energy with the senior man, who had a similarly laconic air about him, but had chosen to come swaggering back here to speak to him anyhow - perhaps the chat at the front of the coach was just boring as fuck. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to query that, but just blinked slowly and tried to relax about it - he should just be glad that the captain continued to take such a supportive interest in him. A hand fell against the swell of his thigh muscle, and though it was a fairly innocent-looking pat, it was more than enough to make Anderson pause and consider that... supportive interest. That had been some night at Shearer's, he mused, in the early weeks of the year, and in the glorious optimism of the Carabao Cup, long before Man Utd stole the silverware from under their noises at Wembley Stadium. So much drunken enjoyment, and then... for a moment, blinking his eyes, the 20-year-old was back in that dark sultry lounge room of the big Gosforth house, and it was just the three of them... Kieran's hand didn't quickly leave his leg, and he looked down at it... the casual drape of the hand, those grazed knuckles and scuffed nails, resting there at an angle a few inches north of his knee; he looked at the bumps and thickness of the wrist above it and then the cuff of the tracksuit jumper, and he followed the hidden tattoos of that arm up until he was looking Trippier back in the face, and studying the lazy lopsided grin on those thin lips, the air of mischief in the ocean-blue eyes. It was, he considered, the same look of brewing trouble as at the end of tonight's game, when the skipper had toyed with Forest, mind games and shithousery as he fake-prepared for a penalty that would be handed over - successfully - to Isak instead. A low grunting laugh of sorts from the defender, twelve years his senior. `What's that look for?' challenged Trips, quietly. `Nowt,' the young Geordie grunted back, his freckled face one of frown and uncertainty - the hand was still there, but he shouldn't read too much into it. They were at the back of the team coach, for fuck's sake. `It's okay, is it?' he was asked. `Me, havin' me hand here, eh?' The grin deepend, and so did the little lines about those blue eyes. Elliot kept his face as impassive as he could, meeting Kieran's playful stare with his own bold apathy. He wasn't sure what else to do, although it was tempting to yank his right leg inward and push on the limited gap between their coach seats. Instead, he found himself twisting his head a little to look past Trips - yeah, Lascelles was definitely trying to get into a comfortable position and set sail for naptime, his big heavy form draped across both parallel seats, just as Anderson would quite like to be. `You're not going to... disallow it?' the 32-year-old chuckled next to him. Anderson shot quizzical eyes at him, hesitantly intrigued. `Come on,' he grumbled back very quietly, the edge of a laugh in his own accented voice, `very funny, chief, but-' `Wonder if I'd be allowed to move my hand up a bit?' Trippier breathed, and the placement of his hand on the thigh became far less casual, a bit more of a squeeze as it shifted just a fraction up the leg, making Anderson's physique tense into the backrest. Again, he stared more at the hand, taking in the finger details of the rugged defender's digits where they spread over the fabric, and over his own bulging muscle. `Sure you're allowed,' the 20-year-old found himself muttering. `Dunno why you'd want to.' They were speaking quietly, but... well, Fabian was just in front, a simple backrest away from him, stooped against the window in the same awkward lounge as Jamaal. And Dubravka's quiet voice was absent now. Three other senior players so close by, and here were the two of them, side by side in the corner, and Newcastle's plucky leader stroking his hand gently up the curve of his right thigh, smirking at him without saying anything for a moment. `Good to know,' Kieran told him coolly. `Wonder what else I'm allowed.' His hand, creeping up the broad platform of the resting thigh, went an inch too far, its journey seeming destined for the crotch, then stopping just short, tantalising, and sliding back down again, squeezing at his upper leg. Anderson realised he'd been holding his breath and he let it out in one ragged sigh, glancing between the offending hand and the freckles and lines of the 32-year-old's playful features. `Mate,' he coughed slightly. `You said this was allowed?' `Huh. Erm.' `You're gonna smash plenty of goals in, lad,' the Mancunian defender informed him, as if that was still the topic in questin - and now his hand was just patting at Elliot's upper leg in a very casual manner, and he was left feeling kinda foolish, as if the homoerotic tension of the moment was just in his imagination - but NO, he thought with an ambiguous shudder, that shit in Shearer's place had really happened, and- The pat turned into more of a squeeze, and then the hand left his leg after all. For a moment, it seemed as if Trippier was tensing to get up and hoist himself between the seats to march off down the aisle to wherever he was meant to be - but nah, not that. He was reaching further across, his hand passing momentarily over Anderson's crotch, but landing on the OTHER thigh, high and just on the inside of it, stroking and squeezing him there. The space between their seated bodies was narrower. He felt even more warm beneath his black tee and his leg-hugging sweatpant trackies. `Is this allowed...?' There was something of a challenge in Trips' face, behind the innocent grin. Anderson stared ambiguously back, genuinely unsure what to say or do, but clinging to the aloofness or disinterest this might imply. He wasn't just thinking about Shearer's; he was thinking about what Ryan Fraser had done, crouched between his legs in the darkness. He'd been quietly relieved when the diminutive Scotsman was sidelined into NUFC's b-team, training with the under-21s where Elliot himself might belong if he hadn't impressed the right coaches at the right time. He hadn't liked the way Fraser looked at him across the training ground sometimes, his line of vision dipping a little too low. A little too low, and right at the point where Kieran's hand now, quite abruptly brushed, finally crossing between his legs, and loitering against material without quite making contact with the vague outline there. Elliot's chest rose and fell and he stared down his front. Kieran's hand shuffled and left his crotch and was back on his right thigh again, where it had begun. He coughed uncomfortably. `Dunno if it was allowed there,' he mumbled honestly. `No?' growled the skipper. `Hmm.' Up his hand came, glancing over the crotch area, and catching instead at the fabric over his tummy - `And what `bout here, mate...?' He pulled gently on the material of the lad's t-shirt and lifted it just enough so that he could reach in and stroke just his fingertips across a thin band of exposed skin, making goosebumps spread rapidly all over Elliot's body. `Hmm,' he breathed uncertainly. They were on the bus, he reminded himself; this couldn't go far, the captain was just TEASING him, that was it. He set his jaw and looked more confrontationally at the man next to him. `I suppose I'd allow that,' he said, keeping his voice deep and quiet, and staring the other man down, trying not to quail against Trippier's laidback smirk and quiet self-assurance. He was hardly the most imposing of defenders or team leaders in the Premier League, when you compared him to some of the other big names on the pitch, a slight 5ft10 and very compactly built - and yet he was a big presence all the same, a much-admired deputy to their beloved manager. And, Anderson thought, he was hard to look at and not think about the shady lighting and sticky leather sofa of Shearer's study; hard not to picture the satisfied grin on the grey-flecked stubble of Big Al's face when they are all done and finished, the little wheezing laugh from their legendary senior. Kieran's fingertips tickled at the bottom of his tummy, reaching under the front of his tee; he felt the defined ridges of his six-pack stroked at their lower end, and one finger circle about his belly button. The older man's hand was rough and warm on his skin and, in doing this, the right-back had leaned in even closer so that their shoulders rubbed, and he was getting big lungfuls of a manly expensive eau de toilette. `Allowed for now,' Elliot grunted. `But you should probably stop.' `Probably should,' Kieran agreed in a thin sigh. `But not sure I'm gonna.' As he spoke, down went his fingers, his body turning a little so that his left hand had some leverage; down it scooped, out from the warmth of the t-shirt and creeping in against the waistline. Pushing at first the soft thick waist of the sweatpants and then at the taut elastic underneath - not yet invading the lad's underpants, but making his leg muscles tense even more against his seat, and making his cock and balls throb expectantly inside the tight black Diesel boxer briefs that were already dampening with sweat. `Fuck,' the 20-year-old hissed; his feigned indifference and coolness was dissolved, and he was sure that Trips could hear the thump of his heart in his bulky chest. `Mate - what are we doing?' he asked weakly, the tips of Kieran's fingers toying against the grip of the elastic, nudging into the waistband very slightly. `We're...' He shuddered anxiously, knowing that even as he pointed out the risk of the wandering touch, he could be alerting the attention of the other nearby players, tough Fabian was hardly staring back over his seat, and there was no remark forthcoming from Lascelles or Dubravka, so... Kieran also dropped his cheeky smirk, the smile on his face looking warmer and more earnest, even as his fingers crept in, tickling against the short bristles of Elliot's trimmed and re-growing pubes, but not dipping in far enough to touch his chubby semi. `Need you to know you're a big lad on this team, with a big future,' murmured the Manc bloke. `A real big lad.' Now his hand went in properly, inside both layers, and cupped about his cock, taking soft hold of it - when Anderson looked down, he could see the mound of the groping hand bulge up obviously in the dark sweatpants, and see the strong arm that emerged from there and up his front. He turned his face and grimaced nervously into the encouraging smile that split the captain's rugged features. `And getting bigger...?' `What if...?' The question trembled unfinished on his dry lips, because the Geordie lad couldn't think through the consequences, never mind articulate it. The Slovakian goalkeeper alone would probably beat him black and blue in disgust! Not to mention the big rugby-built centre-back who could still claim the captaincy, or- but fuck, his cock felt so good in Kieran's fingers, and he didn't think he knew how to say an emphatic `No' to the older man. After all, how could he convince Trippier of what was so blatantly obvious, that this was mad and dangerous...? Trippier's hand came out of his underpants and he couldn't help but sigh in disappointment - but a moment later, in went the other. The right-back leaned in now properly and his left hand, the one that had teased him into this, came up about his neck and onto hsi far shoulder, hugging him side-on, and Kieran's right hand came over to rub the crotch of his pants and then slide into them. `Feels like I'm allowed to do this?' Trippier muttered, giving his cock a long stroke inside the stretched undies, then jiggling the folded resting position of his heavy shaven balls. `Mmm.' Wide-eyed and shaky, Elliot stared at him and nodded. `Yer allowed, man, but-' Out came Kieran's hand again, but only briefly. He spat on his palm, quietly but heavily, and brought the slicked hand back against the fattening length inside Elliot's sweats. He sat there, pinned in position by nervousness and the physicality of Trippier's presence, feeling the muscles of his left shoulder kneaded by one hand, and the other teasing and stroking him inside his clothes. The 32-year-old's body heat and perfume overwhelmed him in this warm comfortable corner of the coach, and the vibrations of the engine pulsed dizzyingly at their resting physiques. `Aw man,' moaned the youth as quietly as he could, `this is too risky...' `Isn't that why you're getting hard?' They were both whispering very quietly and discreetly, and he was starting to doubt his own fear: could he really let this happen, get wanked off at the back of the coach by another man, and nobody would know? Surely not! But... was everyone basically asleep but for them? Hardly the quietest voice could be heard over the general noise of the vehicle on the motorway, and the dull bass of someone's over-loud headphones a few rows ahead. All Elliot could really hear was his own bloodrush and heavy breathing. Fuck. Suddenly, Trippier made a disappointed-sounding grunt. He seemed to have read a decision into Anderson's face or took his complaint at face value. His muscular body, a good match for Elliot's own, pulled back an inch or so, though his left arm remained jammed behind his neck and shoulders - but the all-important right hand was gone, leaving behind it a rock-hard angle that bulged obviously in the sweats, and the 20-year-old sat there with sweat beading on his red-flushed features. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and stared pleadingly to his right, meeting the older bloke's ambivalent expression. `Like you said,' murmured the former Atletico Madrid defender, `too risky.' `Uh...' In the confines of his pants, Anderson's cock throbbed and twitched, visible through the thick layers. He sat there feeling heavy and worried, but incredibly horny. He'd been teased into this bloodrush and then left to throb and ache. Next to him, Trips stayed still, and whistled very quietly to himself. In a hot rush of thought, Elliot found himself glancing to the left instead - his folded jumper was squashed in against the condensation of the window, where he'd planned to rest his head and spread out. With his left hand, he grasped at the folded garment and threw it loosely over his lap. He needed to hide the big tenting shape in his pants, essentially, but did he have other plans too? He wasn't entirely sure, but when he glanced back at Kieran and saw his grin, he realised what he'd facilitated. `Good thinking,' the right-back muttered. The unfolded jumper formed a blanket of sorts over Elliot's lap and if he shifted aside just a bit, and let their seated bodies squash together, a wandering hand could reach quite discretely under it, and suddenly Kieran was stroking him again - just on the outside of his sweats now, but more vigorously and assertively, the action gently hidden beneath the heap of jumper, unless someone looked too closely. `Hey there.' It was Jamaal's light Derbyshire accent, and it made Elliot tingle and tauten from head to toe. Here he was, seated in the corner, blocked in there by the relaxed posture of seated Kieran, and they were being addressed across the back of the bus by the other skipper. Sweaty-faced, the 20-year-old couldn't bear to look right and acknowledge Lascelles. He just stared weakly ahead, right into the outline of the head-rest that divided him from Schar. Under the folds of his jumper, Kieran's hand was pushing inside the sweats and the boxer briefs, taking a proper hold of him - even as one captain addressed the other. `Thought you were asleep already, mate,' Trippier said to Lascelles. `Maybe for a few moments. What you doing back here, Trips?' yawned the voice of the big centre-back, and on they chatted, their voices light and sleepy - and Elliot could just sit here, petrified, whilst his hard-on throbbed and trembled under the rough callused fingers of the right-back's paw. And right beside him, across the back of the bus, the Newcastle's squads two collaborative captains were chatting lightly about the game - `Three points is three points, after all,' Trips was saying, and as he did, he gave a good tight grip to the mighty girth of Anderson's prick, making him tremble and shift position noisily against his corner. He was glad to glance aside and realise that Kieran was sitting very carefully with one foot up on the seat, so that his thick folded leg provided extra screen to what his hand was up to. The conversation between the other two men quickly fell quiet, but this left Elliot just as tense and anxious, unsure if Jamaal was looking their way, or had tried again at sleep. Still, Kieran's hand worked him, pulling back and forth on his cock and making his bared red head rub sensitively against the cotton of his pants. He bit on his lip to stop himself from groaning, increasingly conscious of the closeness of other guys. But the sweat pooled on his neck and in his pits, and his body shook. This time when he looked pleadingly into Kieran's face, he didn't know what he was pleading for: to be left alone, or to be finished off. Trippier winked at him. `All good,' he whispered. In response, Anderson could barely whimper out his `Yeh'. When he looked at the senior player, he was alarmed by the thought that pressed at him: not that he shouldn't be letting a bloke play with him at all, never mind here; nope, rather that he wanted to feel that mouth on his dick again instead. Those thin chapped lips were hardly his usual porno babe fantasy, and yet - he could remember how it had felt to stand there with his muscles and hard-on out, side by side with hairy older Shearer, and sucked off by the surprisingly experimental guy here at his side. His captain, his mentor. Not on the bus, he reprimanded himself, but he couldn't get rid of the thought. `Just relax,' Trippier told him, impossibly. He tried. But his body was in full fight-or-flight mode. His cock felt so good it was almost agonising, stroked slowly and firmly; under the cover of the jumper, it was out of his pants now, to give Trips better long pulls on it, and he was sweating profusely through his tee. He couldn't help but let out a strangled little groan of pleasure. Almost instantly, the narrow space between headrests in front of them was occupied: it was the team's highly-rated Swiss defender, glaring sternly back at them. What exactly could he see? At Anderson's side, Trippier was one big grin. `Ahoy there, supermodel,' he quipped at the tall handsome 31-year-old. The sharp features of the dark-haired centre-back studied them through the gap in the seats before asking, `What was that noise?' in his clipped accent - could he see Trippier's arm disappearing in the folds of the jumper-blanket? Anderson didn't know and, his face shiny and red, he could just stare awkwardly back at the senior defender, gormlessly silent. Even now, stared down by the centre-back, Kieran's thumb was rubbing over the sticky wet head of his cock, smearing in the pre-cum that oozed from his slit! `Just elbowed this dafty,' grumbled Kieran casually, somehow able to communicate blandly with Fabian even as he made Elliot's privates burn with pleasure. `Thought you were having some kip before your weekend off, Toblerone.' `Some of us are trying!' came Martin Dubravka's deep voice from the other side of that row, and Anderson trembled all the more - god, they were surrounded by their teammates, and his cock felt like it was going to explode. But with an odd suspicious expression, Schar's face had disappeared after all, and the Swiss man could be heard sighing and yawning heavily through the seats; Schar and Dubravka must have no idea what was going on here, and he was safe after all, and next to him Trips was just beaming with illicit pleasure on his face. But as Elliot turned to look at him in sweaty relief, he glanced past him, and... Lascelles was sat up and facing this way with his legs stretched out, a thoughtful expression on his big bearded face. He was looking RIGHT THIS WAY. His eyes were focused and knowing, staring them down across the interrupted row of four seats. Fuck. Elliot blinked awkwardly back at him, and saw Kieran turn that way, though he couldn't read his expression... but the freckled dimpled grin came back his way and one of the blue eyes winked. The hand on his cock gripped tighter. Suddenly, accidentally or on purpose, the motion of Trippier's fist around his big veiny prick was too rough, too keen, enough to dislodge and shift the folds of the jumper. And in spite of Fabian's suspicion in front of, Elliot was sitting there in the corner being openly wanked, his cock on show and the knuckles slipping up and down his shaft. And he stared past Trippier's smirk and saw Lascelles watching intently. Both captains staring him down, one wanking him at furious speed, and the other... did one of Jamaal's big tattooed arms extend down and reach into his sweats...? A glistening moment of intensity followed in which Anderson knew he could be exposed, knew that the Swiss defender might lean back to look through that gap, or that the big Slovak goalkeeper could rise up and peer back this way out of curiosity - that in fact any fella on the coach could come this way and catch them at it. And so he focused on silence, his mouth clamped shut and sweat dribbling down his temples. But the moment was not going to stretch painfully on, because his balls were ready to unload. In a few more seconds of agonised tension, spurts of hot salty cum were landing on the front of his t-shirt, fired up his body by the angle of his cock. Hot and wet on the cotton, already damp with sweat. He gasped for air but as silently as he could. `Good lad,' trembled Kieran's hot whisper. For all of his nervous tension, Elliot was suddenly insensible to the danger of his position, his breaths becoming more audible pants, his large pectorals heaving in his taut tee; the marks of greasy cum darkening where they'd streaked the front of it. In the giddy high of his orgasm, the 5ft10 youth might have just panted and groaned there with his hard dick out, exposed and corrupted at the back of the bus - but he was nudged into fuller consciousness by a jab of Kieran's elbow, and the jumper was being draped generously over the juddering throb of his erection. `Here, put that thing away, and go clean yourself up, big lad,' grunted the skipper's low growl, nudging him again. Anderson did as he was told, stunned - he reached a shaky hand under the jumper to thrust his cock and balls into his Diesel pants, and dangled the jumper awkwardly there in front of him before scrambling upwards. The tug of his paw on the back of a headrest brought Fabian Schar's face back into the gap, demanding `What now?' loudly. The Geordie youth didn't quite hear what answer Trippier gave to the centre-back, clambering past him with the jumper dangling in front of him to obscure the outline of his spent erection and the dirty marks on his top, though anyone looking closely would see the gleam of sweat on his forearms and his reddened neck. All he could do was stagger into the space between their seats at the back of the aisle, swaying a little as the bus trembled down the motorway. He looked sharply to the other side of the back: there was the hulking figure of Lascelles, lounged back into his corner, an ambiguous smile across his serious face. His large hands rested over his raised knees, and Anderson wondered if he'd imagined the glimpse of one being pushed idly inside his pants - no doubt now that the defender had seen him jerked to completion by their teammate, but no certainty on what Jamaal thought about it. His smile was certainly quite approving, or was it just amused? Fucking hell. `Go have your piss,' the centre-back told him loudly, talking over the light buzz of conversation from Schar and Trippier. `You've been holding it in long enough.' He stared gratefully at the Derby man, twigging the effort to provide him cover. But he paused a moment longer, awkward and clumsy on his feet, to look at Kieran instead - the right-back was lifted up form his seat, arms folded down on the spare headrest so he could lean in and speak to Fabian, distracting him from any noises he might have heard. For a brief moment, the stubby freckled face of the skipper turned this way and shot him another wink, then chatted easily on to the Swiss bloke. Elliot looked at him, watching as he got properly to his feet and casually adjusted the front of his sweatpants, studying thoughtfully whether that was the outline of a hard-on. Underfoot, the bus rocked and swayed, and the 20-year-old stumbled on, past Burn and Longstaff, one of whom gave him a good smack on the arse of his sweatpants, before shouting `You going to be sick or something, Andy, you look awful?' `Bursting for a slash,' he yelled over his shoulder at them and hurried to the few descending steps that took him into the tiny toilet cubicle midway down the bus. In the cramped space, he let out a series of gulping pants, shoving the jumper in next to the tiny sink; off came the dirty t-shirt, which he thought must stink of his seed, and he dragged the jumper onto the taut sweaty muscles of his torso instead, glad of its baggy fit over his flushed skin. He lobbed his still-swollen cock from his pants and pissed loudly into the bowl, struggling for balance and accuracy against the motorway speed of the coach. His head moved at the same speed, rapidly replaying the dirty deed, allowed by himself. A splash of cold water on his face and neck, and a long pause staring himself down in a scruffy mirror, and Newcastle's Academy graduate midfielder could unlock the narrow door and clamber back into the centre of the bus, still self-conscious but glad that his bulge was back to normal. He hesitated, looking both ways down the aisle - the back looked a bit emptier, and towards the front, he could see Trippier on his feet, hovering by the front rows of seats, chatting to Howe and another member of the coaching staff. Anderson stared awkwardly that way for a moment, blinking back the rush of panic that he felt, then he clomped on down towards his own seat, pausing only to inform Burn and Longstaff that he'd almost pissed his pants before, then getting jostled on his way by the other two Tyneside lads. At the back, he found Martin and Fabian disinterested, and even Jamaal now giving him no attention - he was just slumped into his corner as if trying to sleep. Elliot slid into his own pair of seats, feeling that the musty air must still smell of his cum, and then slid right into the corner, hugging himself and letting the warm buzz of physical satisfaction flood through his physique. In mere minutes, the dull vibration of the coach had numbed him and the nap he'd expected could take over, but not without some flickering fragments of dream - thinking about how much he'd wanted to grab Kieran by the head and push his mouth down there to take care of him properly again, wanting to be sucked off by his strangely attentive right-back. He thought of Trippier and he thought of Shearer, and he thought of Fraser too - it was all happening so fast, and he would still be thinking of it in the early hours of Saturday when they were deposited in a damp car park in Newcastle, and he was bundled into one of many black cabs. Anderson was shaken and intrigued, but Trippier had been very successful in his aim: on his way to bed in the early hours of the morning, the young football player was not giving a second's thought to his disallowed goal against Nottingham. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2023 20:39:00 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 353 Part 353: (Dis)allowed A Friday night fixture like this would often involve an overnight stay, but the bosses had decided that getting straight back up the East coast was a better plan, and nobody in the winning squad was in opposition; few of the well-paid football players who relish a bland shared hotel room on the outskirts of the East Midlands city of Nottingham, when they could be delivered to the edge of Newcastle and arrive in their various luxury accommodation, even if it was in the small hours of the morning. The mood on the main player coach was one of muted celebration, tiredness battling with the high spirits - not so long ago, the travelling Newcastle United squad had been in full chorus of excitement and enjoyment, following their recent tradition of marking every win like it was some tournament finale, urged by Howe to face every match with that ambition and passion, even if it was just a Friday night scraped win over Forest, one that had gone right down to the wire with Isak's second goal in the 3rd minute of extra time. It had almost been a different kind of 3pt outcome for the Magpies, though, and this fact was especially evident to one of the lads that climbed aboard the bus, freshly showered but a little hot and already sweaty under the dark tracksuit that covered his 5ft10 body. He clasped the handshake with the gaffer and received a hearty slap to the back, congratulation for his second-half shift and his almost-goal, then hurried aboard and directed down the aisle to find his place with a cursory pat on the bottom, the usual odd tactile laddishness of their sport. 20-year-old Elliot Anderson had almost opened his Premiership account with a headed goal that could have carried Newcastle to victory, until it was disallowed and he was robbed of his exciting moment - sure, the rugged young midfielder had been proper chuffed for Isak to get another and the game to break deadlock at 2-1... but he'd be way MORE chuffed if his own bold effort had pushed them over the edge and closed the deal, and there was something a little deflating in that knowledge, clambering down the aisle of the coach and fingering at the headrests for balance. Disallowed or no, Elliot kept getting the credit for his overruled goal, now on the vehicle as much as on the pitch or in the Away quarters of the City Ground. Just like the sweaty muscular hugs as the team posed for their latest victory photo, the walk down the bus now was accompanied by grabs of his arms and yelped encouragement from a host of teammates, more experienced blokes who were all like encouraging big brothers to the local lad who'd broken into the first team in spite of the incoming talent. On his way towards the back of the coach, Anderson was met with a tight earnest handshake from the Brazilian passion of Bruno Guimaraes, half-lifting off his seat to power the grip and tell him that his moment was `destined' to be around the corner, his face briefly serious before breaking into the more typical expression of gleeful enjoyment that made the central player so endearing; just past him, also occupying a pair of seats to himself, the forward who he'd replaced on pitch raised a fist of a salute at him and told him in syrupy French that he'd been `robbed' tonight, before Saint-Maximin leaned the other way to get comfortable against the cushion at his window; and perhaps more enthusiastically than anyone, Dan Burn and Sean Longstaff jostled and punched at him from either side midway down the coach, fellow Geordie lads who knew like he did that football was religion on Tyneside. It should clear the disappointment, the Whitley Bay lad told himself, this endorsement and support from his cheery mates, and he was even pretty sure that the support would be as rich and vocal if the game had ended 1-1 and his failed goal had been the only shot at dominance. But the deflation that Elliot felt was internal, his own competition and ambition, his own craving for moments of glory that would set him up as... well, the next Shearer, he dared to think, as devoted to the sacred idol of that Newcastle old boy as ever, even after the rather profane experiences at his Gosforth mansion earlier this year. `To Newcastle!' boomed big Dan Burn's voice shortly behind him, still loud and alert even if many of the other squad members looked wiped out; `Aye, out of this shite-hole!' Longstaff agreed very eagerly, setting up a great laugh across the bus and a series of terrible impressions of the guys' North East accents by some of their honorary Geordies. Anderson laughed at this but was glad to be out of it, his own coastal dialect a regular source of banter from the South American and European men on the team, having to join Big Dan and Longy in explaining various colloquialisms to astonished Bruno and sceptical Sven Botman. He was to take up one of the two-seaters right at the back of the coach, glad that the players and entourage were spread across two buses to allow such space, and thinking that he was likely to kip for the three hours or so that would carry them home. He unhooked the backpack from his shoulders and pushed it up onto the overhead space then swung his sturdy body into the window seat, stretching out his limbs as best as he could in this limited space. There were still a few guys getting on this coach, although Elliot could see the other vehicle starting up and leading the way out of the windy car park; he rested his head to the window and brought up one achey knee at a time to slide off his chunky trainers, releasing his thick-socked big feet and making himself more comfortable. It was pretty warm so he wriggled out of his jumper too and rolled it up into a cushion that he could jam between his warm face and the cool glass. In front of him, cool-as-ice Swiss defender Fabian Schar was taking a seat in the next double, pausing to smile respectfully over the headrests at him and offer a little silent salute of approval before sinking down to get into his own comfortable position for the trip; across the aisle from him, spare goalkeeper Martin Dubravka was already in place, but ignoring them as he spoke on the phone to his family in his own native Slovakian. And here came the team's somewhat displaced captain, and one of tonight's several unused subs, big Lascelles, who was also on the phone, clearly speaking to his wife about dinner that was being set aside for him - into the other side of the back seat he piled, and Anderson just nodded deferentially to the big bloke, still very aware of the guy as a leader, even if his appearances this season were minimal, the position more or less ceded in the new regime. Lascelles was an impressively committed player though, Anderson thought, very conscious of the older man's influence and motivation even from a backgrounded position, and also his recent outing against Man City to fight for his space on the first team. So that was the youth's company at the rear end of the coach, which grumbled now into movement, but it didn't really matter - it had been a long process getting organised after the game, with everyone too busy celebrating to hurry their showers, and a good number of beers shared out in the changing rooms from a cooler-box, and so Elliot was as zonked as anyone else, ready to just fall quiet and drift into fitful traffic sleep until deposited at the north end of Newcastle, ready for a taxi to the coast. To that end, he was just about to pull his strong legs up onto the seating and slump into his corner, feeling the heavy throb of engine through the cushion and support, when grazed knuckles gripped the edges of the free headrest in front and a fifth figure joined them at the back of the bus - it was the de facto captain of the top 4 hopefuls, grinning down at his way and swaying slightly as the bus eased its way through Nottingham traffic. `How are we doing back here?' Kieran Trippier asked, in a generalised way, but his smile and sleepy eyes fixed decidedly on Anderson himself, who gave a quick nod and lifted a hand in greeting to the skipper; after all, Dubravka and Lascelles were on the phone, and Schar had slipped into one of his aloof quiets - Elliot found himself stifling a yawn so wide that it looked like a deliberate effort to dismiss the grinning skipper, but asking back, `You all good, chief?' The simple question was taken as a sort of invitation. In the same club tracksuit, Trips came lurching in and dropping into the seat next to him, over which Anderson was slightly spread; he pulled back with stiff politeness, adjusting his slouched angle into the corner, and staring vaguely at the 32-year-old Manc bloke, who could be napping up front or making a call to his own missus. `All the better for a win,' Kieran told him. `Sure,' Elliot agreed. `The feeling isn't getting old.' `Would have been even better 3-1,' his sort-of captain told him firmly, turning partly this way and planting a supportive hand against his shoulder. `That's not a dig - I just wanted to tell you how fucking great that header could have been. Disallowed, for fuck's sake. Don't take it to heart, kid.' Sure... They'd already been through this, he thought, with the bare tattoos of Kieran's chest on show as he cornered him in the locker-room to share his own frustrating experiences of having goals discounted in similar circumstances - Trips and half a dozen others, all giving him the benefit of their wisdom in the aftermath of the win. Not that patient, respectful Elliot resented or distrusted any of it - he was eager to learn - but he was a bit confused at why he was getting it all over again from the right-back, and why his older teammate was making himself comfortable in the spare seat that should now be allowing Elliot to lounge out and find a sleepy position for the next few hours. In front of them, Schar was quiet enough to perhaps be asleep already, and he realised that Lascelles had finished his call already; glancing past Trippier, he could see the hulking figure of the official skipper turning in against the far window, getting as comfortable as he should be. In the background, the often harsh sound of Martin's Slovakian was a low murmur as he spoke on to his wife, and then Anderson tuned back into what he was being told. `Before the season is out,' Kieran Trippier was predicting, `you'll have bagged that goal and got off the starting blocks, fella.' `Sure,' he agreed, his voice a little slow and low with the fug of tiredness. `Big career ahead of ya,' Kieran insisted, lowering his voice, and elbowing at him from the side. `Sure hope so. Like yours, skip. I mean - something like that. Hopefully a lot of seasons at St James Park apart from anything else.' He shot an earnest smile at the older man, pinned here between his open thighs and the coach corner - trying in some vague weary way to signal his lack of conversational energy with the senior man, who had a similarly laconic air about him, but had chosen to come swaggering back here to speak to him anyhow - perhaps the chat at the front of the coach was just boring as fuck. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to query that, but just blinked slowly and tried to relax about it - he should just be glad that the captain continued to take such a supportive interest in him. A hand fell against the swell of his thigh muscle, and though it was a fairly innocent-looking pat, it was more than enough to make Anderson pause and consider that... supportive interest. That had been some night at Shearer's, he mused, in the early weeks of the year, and in the glorious optimism of the Carabao Cup, long before Man Utd stole the silverware from under their noises at Wembley Stadium. So much drunken enjoyment, and then... for a moment, blinking his eyes, the 20-year-old was back in that dark sultry lounge room of the big Gosforth house, and it was just the three of them... Kieran's hand didn't quickly leave his leg, and he looked down at it... the casual drape of the hand, those grazed knuckles and scuffed nails, resting there at an angle a few inches north of his knee; he looked at the bumps and thickness of the wrist above it and then the cuff of the tracksuit jumper, and he followed the hidden tattoos of that arm up until he was looking Trippier back in the face, and studying the lazy lopsided grin on those thin lips, the air of mischief in the ocean-blue eyes. It was, he considered, the same look of brewing trouble as at the end of tonight's game, when the skipper had toyed with Forest, mind games and shithousery as he fake-prepared for a penalty that would be handed over - successfully - to Isak instead. A low grunting laugh of sorts from the defender, twelve years his senior. `What's that look for?' challenged Trips, quietly. `Nowt,' the young Geordie grunted back, his freckled face one of frown and uncertainty - the hand was still there, but he shouldn't read too much into it. They were at the back of the team coach, for fuck's sake. `It's okay, is it?' he was asked. `Me, havin' me hand here, eh?' The grin deepend, and so did the little lines about those blue eyes. Elliot kept his face as impassive as he could, meeting Kieran's playful stare with his own bold apathy. He wasn't sure what else to do, although it was tempting to yank his right leg inward and push on the limited gap between their coach seats. Instead, he found himself twisting his head a little to look past Trips - yeah, Lascelles was definitely trying to get into a comfortable position and set sail for naptime, his big heavy form draped across both parallel seats, just as Anderson would quite like to be. `You're not going to... disallow it?' the 32-year-old chuckled next to him. Anderson shot quizzical eyes at him, hesitantly intrigued. `Come on,' he grumbled back very quietly, the edge of a laugh in his own accented voice, `very funny, chief, but-' `Wonder if I'd be allowed to move my hand up a bit?' Trippier breathed, and the placement of his hand on the thigh became far less casual, a bit more of a squeeze as it shifted just a fraction up the leg, making Anderson's physique tense into the backrest. Again, he stared more at the hand, taking in the finger details of the rugged defender's digits where they spread over the fabric, and over his own bulging muscle. `Sure you're allowed,' the 20-year-old found himself muttering. `Dunno why you'd want to.' They were speaking quietly, but... well, Fabian was just in front, a simple backrest away from him, stooped against the window in the same awkward lounge as Jamaal. And Dubravka's quiet voice was absent now. Three other senior players so close by, and here were the two of them, side by side in the corner, and Newcastle's plucky leader stroking his hand gently up the curve of his right thigh, smirking at him without saying anything for a moment. `Good to know,' Kieran told him coolly. `Wonder what else I'm allowed.' His hand, creeping up the broad platform of the resting thigh, went an inch too far, its journey seeming destined for the crotch, then stopping just short, tantalising, and sliding back down again, squeezing at his upper leg. Anderson realised he'd been holding his breath and he let it out in one ragged sigh, glancing between the offending hand and the freckles and lines of the 32-year-old's playful features. `Mate,' he coughed slightly. `You said this was allowed?' `Huh. Erm.' `You're gonna smash plenty of goals in, lad,' the Mancunian defender informed him, as if that was still the topic in questin - and now his hand was just patting at Elliot's upper leg in a very casual manner, and he was left feeling kinda foolish, as if the homoerotic tension of the moment was just in his imagination - but NO, he thought with an ambiguous shudder, that shit in Shearer's place had really happened, and- The pat turned into more of a squeeze, and then the hand left his leg after all. For a moment, it seemed as if Trippier was tensing to get up and hoist himself between the seats to march off down the aisle to wherever he was meant to be - but nah, not that. He was reaching further across, his hand passing momentarily over Anderson's crotch, but landing on the OTHER thigh, high and just on the inside of it, stroking and squeezing him there. The space between their seated bodies was narrower. He felt even more warm beneath his black tee and his leg-hugging sweatpant trackies. `Is this allowed...?' There was something of a challenge in Trips' face, behind the innocent grin. Anderson stared ambiguously back, genuinely unsure what to say or do, but clinging to the aloofness or disinterest this might imply. He wasn't just thinking about Shearer's; he was thinking about what Ryan Fraser had done, crouched between his legs in the darkness. He'd been quietly relieved when the diminutive Scotsman was sidelined into NUFC's b-team, training with the under-21s where Elliot himself might belong if he hadn't impressed the right coaches at the right time. He hadn't liked the way Fraser looked at him across the training ground sometimes, his line of vision dipping a little too low. A little too low, and right at the point where Kieran's hand now, quite abruptly brushed, finally crossing between his legs, and loitering against material without quite making contact with the vague outline there. Elliot's chest rose and fell and he stared down his front. Kieran's hand shuffled and left his crotch and was back on his right thigh again, where it had begun. He coughed uncomfortably. `Dunno if it was allowed there,' he mumbled honestly. `No?' growled the skipper. `Hmm.' Up his hand came, glancing over the crotch area, and catching instead at the fabric over his tummy - `And what `bout here, mate...?' He pulled gently on the material of the lad's t-shirt and lifted it just enough so that he could reach in and stroke just his fingertips across a thin band of exposed skin, making goosebumps spread rapidly all over Elliot's body. `Hmm,' he breathed uncertainly. They were on the bus, he reminded himself; this couldn't go far, the captain was just TEASING him, that was it. He set his jaw and looked more confrontationally at the man next to him. `I suppose I'd allow that,' he said, keeping his voice deep and quiet, and staring the other man down, trying not to quail against Trippier's laidback smirk and quiet self-assurance. He was hardly the most imposing of defenders or team leaders in the Premier League, when you compared him to some of the other big names on the pitch, a slight 5ft10 and very compactly built - and yet he was a big presence all the same, a much-admired deputy to their beloved manager. And, Anderson thought, he was hard to look at and not think about the shady lighting and sticky leather sofa of Shearer's study; hard not to picture the satisfied grin on the grey-flecked stubble of Big Al's face when they are all done and finished, the little wheezing laugh from their legendary senior. Kieran's fingertips tickled at the bottom of his tummy, reaching under the front of his tee; he felt the defined ridges of his six-pack stroked at their lower end, and one finger circle about his belly button. The older man's hand was rough and warm on his skin and, in doing this, the right-back had leaned in even closer so that their shoulders rubbed, and he was getting big lungfuls of a manly expensive eau de toilette. `Allowed for now,' Elliot grunted. `But you should probably stop.' `Probably should,' Kieran agreed in a thin sigh. `But not sure I'm gonna.' As he spoke, down went his fingers, his body turning a little so that his left hand had some leverage; down it scooped, out from the warmth of the t-shirt and creeping in against the waistline. Pushing at first the soft thick waist of the sweatpants and then at the taut elastic underneath - not yet invading the lad's underpants, but making his leg muscles tense even more against his seat, and making his cock and balls throb expectantly inside the tight black Diesel boxer briefs that were already dampening with sweat. `Fuck,' the 20-year-old hissed; his feigned indifference and coolness was dissolved, and he was sure that Trips could hear the thump of his heart in his bulky chest. `Mate - what are we doing?' he asked weakly, the tips of Kieran's fingers toying against the grip of the elastic, nudging into the waistband very slightly. `We're...' He shuddered anxiously, knowing that even as he pointed out the risk of the wandering touch, he could be alerting the attention of the other nearby players, tough Fabian was hardly staring back over his seat, and there was no remark forthcoming from Lascelles or Dubravka, so... Kieran also dropped his cheeky smirk, the smile on his face looking warmer and more earnest, even as his fingers crept in, tickling against the short bristles of Elliot's trimmed and re-growing pubes, but not dipping in far enough to touch his chubby semi. `Need you to know you're a big lad on this team, with a big future,' murmured the Manc bloke. `A real big lad.' Now his hand went in properly, inside both layers, and cupped about his cock, taking soft hold of it - when Anderson looked down, he could see the mound of the groping hand bulge up obviously in the dark sweatpants, and see the strong arm that emerged from there and up his front. He turned his face and grimaced nervously into the encouraging smile that split the captain's rugged features. `And getting bigger...?' `What if...?' The question trembled unfinished on his dry lips, because the Geordie lad couldn't think through the consequences, never mind articulate it. The Slovakian goalkeeper alone would probably beat him black and blue in disgust! Not to mention the big rugby-built centre-back who could still claim the captaincy, or- but fuck, his cock felt so good in Kieran's fingers, and he didn't think he knew how to say an emphatic `No' to the older man. After all, how could he convince Trippier of what was so blatantly obvious, that this was mad and dangerous...? Trippier's hand came out of his underpants and he couldn't help but sigh in disappointment - but a moment later, in went the other. The right-back leaned in now properly and his left hand, the one that had teased him into this, came up about his neck and onto hsi far shoulder, hugging him side-on, and Kieran's right hand came over to rub the crotch of his pants and then slide into them. `Feels like I'm allowed to do this?' Trippier muttered, giving his cock a long stroke inside the stretched undies, then jiggling the folded resting position of his heavy shaven balls. `Mmm.' Wide-eyed and shaky, Elliot stared at him and nodded. `Yer allowed, man, but-' Out came Kieran's hand again, but only briefly. He spat on his palm, quietly but heavily, and brought the slicked hand back against the fattening length inside Elliot's sweats. He sat there, pinned in position by nervousness and the physicality of Trippier's presence, feeling the muscles of his left shoulder kneaded by one hand, and the other teasing and stroking him inside his clothes. The 32-year-old's body heat and perfume overwhelmed him in this warm comfortable corner of the coach, and the vibrations of the engine pulsed dizzyingly at their resting physiques. `Aw man,' moaned the youth as quietly as he could, `this is too risky...' `Isn't that why you're getting hard?' They were both whispering very quietly and discreetly, and he was starting to doubt his own fear: could he really let this happen, get wanked off at the back of the coach by another man, and nobody would know? Surely not! But... was everyone basically asleep but for them? Hardly the quietest voice could be heard over the general noise of the vehicle on the motorway, and the dull bass of someone's over-loud headphones a few rows ahead. All Elliot could really hear was his own bloodrush and heavy breathing. Fuck. Suddenly, Trippier made a disappointed-sounding grunt. He seemed to have read a decision into Anderson's face or took his complaint at face value. His muscular body, a good match for Elliot's own, pulled back an inch or so, though his left arm remained jammed behind his neck and shoulders - but the all-important right hand was gone, leaving behind it a rock-hard angle that bulged obviously in the sweats, and the 20-year-old sat there with sweat beading on his red-flushed features. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and stared pleadingly to his right, meeting the older bloke's ambivalent expression. `Like you said,' murmured the former Atletico Madrid defender, `too risky.' `Uh...' In the confines of his pants, Anderson's cock throbbed and twitched, visible through the thick layers. He sat there feeling heavy and worried, but incredibly horny. He'd been teased into this bloodrush and then left to throb and ache. Next to him, Trips stayed still, and whistled very quietly to himself. In a hot rush of thought, Elliot found himself glancing to the left instead - his folded jumper was squashed in against the condensation of the window, where he'd planned to rest his head and spread out. With his left hand, he grasped at the folded garment and threw it loosely over his lap. He needed to hide the big tenting shape in his pants, essentially, but did he have other plans too? He wasn't entirely sure, but when he glanced back at Kieran and saw his grin, he realised what he'd facilitated. `Good thinking,' the right-back muttered. The unfolded jumper formed a blanket of sorts over Elliot's lap and if he shifted aside just a bit, and let their seated bodies squash together, a wandering hand could reach quite discretely under it, and suddenly Kieran was stroking him again - just on the outside of his sweats now, but more vigorously and assertively, the action gently hidden beneath the heap of jumper, unless someone looked too closely. `Hey there.' It was Jamaal's light Derbyshire accent, and it made Elliot tingle and tauten from head to toe. Here he was, seated in the corner, blocked in there by the relaxed posture of seated Kieran, and they were being addressed across the back of the bus by the other skipper. Sweaty-faced, the 20-year-old couldn't bear to look right and acknowledge Lascelles. He just stared weakly ahead, right into the outline of the head-rest that divided him from Schar. Under the folds of his jumper, Kieran's hand was pushing inside the sweats and the boxer briefs, taking a proper hold of him - even as one captain addressed the other. `Thought you were asleep already, mate,' Trippier said to Lascelles. `Maybe for a few moments. What you doing back here, Trips?' yawned the voice of the big centre-back, and on they chatted, their voices light and sleepy - and Elliot could just sit here, petrified, whilst his hard-on throbbed and trembled under the rough callused fingers of the right-back's paw. And right beside him, across the back of the bus, the Newcastle's squads two collaborative captains were chatting lightly about the game - `Three points is three points, after all,' Trips was saying, and as he did, he gave a good tight grip to the mighty girth of Anderson's prick, making him tremble and shift position noisily against his corner. He was glad to glance aside and realise that Kieran was sitting very carefully with one foot up on the seat, so that his thick folded leg provided extra screen to what his hand was up to. The conversation between the other two men quickly fell quiet, but this left Elliot just as tense and anxious, unsure if Jamaal was looking their way, or had tried again at sleep. Still, Kieran's hand worked him, pulling back and forth on his cock and making his bared red head rub sensitively against the cotton of his pants. He bit on his lip to stop himself from groaning, increasingly conscious of the closeness of other guys. But the sweat pooled on his neck and in his pits, and his body shook. This time when he looked pleadingly into Kieran's face, he didn't know what he was pleading for: to be left alone, or to be finished off. Trippier winked at him. `All good,' he whispered. In response, Anderson could barely whimper out his `Yeh'. When he looked at the senior player, he was alarmed by the thought that pressed at him: not that he shouldn't be letting a bloke play with him at all, never mind here; nope, rather that he wanted to feel that mouth on his dick again instead. Those thin chapped lips were hardly his usual porno babe fantasy, and yet - he could remember how it had felt to stand there with his muscles and hard-on out, side by side with hairy older Shearer, and sucked off by the surprisingly experimental guy here at his side. His captain, his mentor. Not on the bus, he reprimanded himself, but he couldn't get rid of the thought. `Just relax,' Trippier told him, impossibly. He tried. But his body was in full fight-or-flight mode. His cock felt so good it was almost agonising, stroked slowly and firmly; under the cover of the jumper, it was out of his pants now, to give Trips better long pulls on it, and he was sweating profusely through his tee. He couldn't help but let out a strangled little groan of pleasure. Almost instantly, the narrow space between headrests in front of them was occupied: it was the team's highly-rated Swiss defender, glaring sternly back at them. What exactly could he see? At Anderson's side, Trippier was one big grin. `Ahoy there, supermodel,' he quipped at the tall handsome 31-year-old. The sharp features of the dark-haired centre-back studied them through the gap in the seats before asking, `What was that noise?' in his clipped accent - could he see Trippier's arm disappearing in the folds of the jumper-blanket? Anderson didn't know and, his face shiny and red, he could just stare awkwardly back at the senior defender, gormlessly silent. Even now, stared down by the centre-back, Kieran's thumb was rubbing over the sticky wet head of his cock, smearing in the pre-cum that oozed from his slit! `Just elbowed this dafty,' grumbled Kieran casually, somehow able to communicate blandly with Fabian even as he made Elliot's privates burn with pleasure. `Thought you were having some kip before your weekend off, Toblerone.' `Some of us are trying!' came Martin Dubravka's deep voice from the other side of that row, and Anderson trembled all the more - god, they were surrounded by their teammates, and his cock felt like it was going to explode. But with an odd suspicious expression, Schar's face had disappeared after all, and the Swiss man could be heard sighing and yawning heavily through the seats; Schar and Dubravka must have no idea what was going on here, and he was safe after all, and next to him Trips was just beaming with illicit pleasure on his face. But as Elliot turned to look at him in sweaty relief, he glanced past him, and... Lascelles was sat up and facing this way with his legs stretched out, a thoughtful expression on his big bearded face. He was looking RIGHT THIS WAY. His eyes were focused and knowing, staring them down across the interrupted row of four seats. Fuck. Elliot blinked awkwardly back at him, and saw Kieran turn that way, though he couldn't read his expression... but the freckled dimpled grin came back his way and one of the blue eyes winked. The hand on his cock gripped tighter. Suddenly, accidentally or on purpose, the motion of Trippier's fist around his big veiny prick was too rough, too keen, enough to dislodge and shift the folds of the jumper. And in spite of Fabian's suspicion in front of, Elliot was sitting there in the corner being openly wanked, his cock on show and the knuckles slipping up and down his shaft. And he stared past Trippier's smirk and saw Lascelles watching intently. Both captains staring him down, one wanking him at furious speed, and the other... did one of Jamaal's big tattooed arms extend down and reach into his sweats...? A glistening moment of intensity followed in which Anderson knew he could be exposed, knew that the Swiss defender might lean back to look through that gap, or that the big Slovak goalkeeper could rise up and peer back this way out of curiosity - that in fact any fella on the coach could come this way and catch them at it. And so he focused on silence, his mouth clamped shut and sweat dribbling down his temples. But the moment was not going to stretch painfully on, because his balls were ready to unload. In a few more seconds of agonised tension, spurts of hot salty cum were landing on the front of his t-shirt, fired up his body by the angle of his cock. Hot and wet on the cotton, already damp with sweat. He gasped for air but as silently as he could. `Good lad,' trembled Kieran's hot whisper. For all of his nervous tension, Elliot was suddenly insensible to the danger of his position, his breaths becoming more audible pants, his large pectorals heaving in his taut tee; the marks of greasy cum darkening where they'd streaked the front of it. In the giddy high of his orgasm, the 5ft10 youth might have just panted and groaned there with his hard dick out, exposed and corrupted at the back of the bus - but he was nudged into fuller consciousness by a jab of Kieran's elbow, and the jumper was being draped generously over the juddering throb of his erection. `Here, put that thing away, and go clean yourself up, big lad,' grunted the skipper's low growl, nudging him again. Anderson did as he was told, stunned - he reached a shaky hand under the jumper to thrust his cock and balls into his Diesel pants, and dangled the jumper awkwardly there in front of him before scrambling upwards. The tug of his paw on the back of a headrest brought Fabian Schar's face back into the gap, demanding `What now?' loudly. The Geordie youth didn't quite hear what answer Trippier gave to the centre-back, clambering past him with the jumper dangling in front of him to obscure the outline of his spent erection and the dirty marks on his top, though anyone looking closely would see the gleam of sweat on his forearms and his reddened neck. All he could do was stagger into the space between their seats at the back of the aisle, swaying a little as the bus trembled down the motorway. He looked sharply to the other side of the back: there was the hulking figure of Lascelles, lounged back into his corner, an ambiguous smile across his serious face. His large hands rested over his raised knees, and Anderson wondered if he'd imagined the glimpse of one being pushed idly inside his pants - no doubt now that the defender had seen him jerked to completion by their teammate, but no certainty on what Jamaal thought about it. His smile was certainly quite approving, or was it just amused? Fucking hell. `Go have your piss,' the centre-back told him loudly, talking over the light buzz of conversation from Schar and Trippier. `You've been holding it in long enough.' He stared gratefully at the Derby man, twigging the effort to provide him cover. But he paused a moment longer, awkward and clumsy on his feet, to look at Kieran instead - the right-back was lifted up form his seat, arms folded down on the spare headrest so he could lean in and speak to Fabian, distracting him from any noises he might have heard. For a brief moment, the stubby freckled face of the skipper turned this way and shot him another wink, then chatted easily on to the Swiss bloke. Elliot looked at him, watching as he got properly to his feet and casually adjusted the front of his sweatpants, studying thoughtfully whether that was the outline of a hard-on. Underfoot, the bus rocked and swayed, and the 20-year-old stumbled on, past Burn and Longstaff, one of whom gave him a good smack on the arse of his sweatpants, before shouting `You going to be sick or something, Andy, you look awful?' `Bursting for a slash,' he yelled over his shoulder at them and hurried to the few descending steps that took him into the tiny toilet cubicle midway down the bus. In the cramped space, he let out a series of gulping pants, shoving the jumper in next to the tiny sink; off came the dirty t-shirt, which he thought must stink of his seed, and he dragged the jumper onto the taut sweaty muscles of his torso instead, glad of its baggy fit over his flushed skin. He lobbed his still-swollen cock from his pants and pissed loudly into the bowl, struggling for balance and accuracy against the motorway speed of the coach. His head moved at the same speed, rapidly replaying the dirty deed, allowed by himself. A splash of cold water on his face and neck, and a long pause staring himself down in a scruffy mirror, and Newcastle's Academy graduate midfielder could unlock the narrow door and clamber back into the centre of the bus, still self-conscious but glad that his bulge was back to normal. He hesitated, looking both ways down the aisle - the back looked a bit emptier, and towards the front, he could see Trippier on his feet, hovering by the front rows of seats, chatting to Howe and another member of the coaching staff. Anderson stared awkwardly that way for a moment, blinking back the rush of panic that he felt, then he clomped on down towards his own seat, pausing only to inform Burn and Longstaff that he'd almost pissed his pants before, then getting jostled on his way by the other two Tyneside lads. At the back, he found Martin and Fabian disinterested, and even Jamaal now giving him no attention - he was just slumped into his corner as if trying to sleep. Elliot slid into his own pair of seats, feeling that the musty air must still smell of his cum, and then slid right into the corner, hugging himself and letting the warm buzz of physical satisfaction flood through his physique. In mere minutes, the dull vibration of the coach had numbed him and the nap he'd expected could take over, but not without some flickering fragments of dream - thinking about how much he'd wanted to grab Kieran by the head and push his mouth down there to take care of him properly again, wanting to be sucked off by his strangely attentive right-back. He thought of Trippier and he thought of Shearer, and he thought of Fraser too - it was all happening so fast, and he would still be thinking of it in the early hours of Saturday when they were deposited in a damp car park in Newcastle, and he was bundled into one of many black cabs. Anderson was shaken and intrigued, but Trippier had been very successful in his aim: on his way to bed in the early hours of the morning, the young football player was not giving a second's thought to his disallowed goal against Nottingham. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-341

Date: Wed, 18 Jan 2023 20:16:07 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 341 Part 341: Supercopa de Espana The whistle blew, and brought with it half time, 2-0 already; the white-clad players of their elite opposition were a mix of downcast and furious as they immediately turned heel for the edge of the pitch, whilst the Barcelona players were slower to move, offering up gentle claps towards their Saudi fans in the terraces above. But one Spanish player amongst them moved with a bit more speed and purpose, unusually offering no interest to the watching fans or the roving cameras; he was smiling, just like every Barca player right now on this hot Saudi Sunday night, but with a fiery glint in his dark eyes and a slight urgency to his pace and the swing of his arms. 20-year-old Pedro Lopez moved quickly among the slow loping figures of his teammates, making a beeline for the edge of the pitch, and zooming in on his target. He'd already congratulated and celebrated the team's young first goal-scorer, like every other man here, but he reached for him again, finding and grabbing at his shoulders through the glossy material of his brightly striped Barca shirt; the younger midfield player looked over his shoulder at him and his slightly dazed expression of enjoyment split into a more earnest grin, the two young men's eyes connecting as Pedri's thumbs massaged at his shoulders through his shirt and gave him a slight shake from behind. The younger Spaniard slowed his pace and fell into step with him, and Pedri threw a proud arm about the shoulders of the slightly shorter boy, surrounded as they were by their Barca colleagues moving in on the mouth of the tunnel, and heading into the air-conditioned interior and the smug privacy of their changing rooms. In the tunnel, they had to pass by the stomping procession of Real Madrid players, and Pedri glanced thoughtfully their way, smiling to himself; tonight's extra clash was an exciting test between the La Liga rivals, and proof of their battled supremacy over Spanish football. But for now, the Madrid team were languishing behind, and in Pedri's eyes, it was all thanks to the efforts of his 18-year-old beauty. The likes of Modric and Kroos marched glumly on the other side of the tunnel from them, and Benzema's loud French swearing could be heard through a nearby doorway - the streams of kitted footballers were parting as they filed into the separate locker-rooms of the Saudi stadium that was hosting El Supercopa. In here, some members of the Barcelona squad were singing as if they'd already won the one-off fixture and trounced their standard rivals, and Pedri couldn't help but grin as widely as every other lad, sniggering to the echoing voices of Busquets and Kounde through in the big rectangular locker-room beyond. But still, the 20-year-old Tenerifean couldn't really budge his attention from the young guy next to him, who had slid out of his loose grip and was being grabbed and hugged by two other men, clad in the fuller tracksuits of benched substitutes, just ahead - Gavi grinned and chuckled between the muscular hugs of Ferran Torres and Marcos Alonso and then staggered apart from them as one by one, the guys turned right and followed the corner into the main changing room. Pedri stared his secret boyfriend down from behind, from the shaggy tufts of his honey-coloured hair to the big lettering of his name and number on the back of the beloved shirt, then up from his sharp boots and taut socks to the brief flash of skin before his shorts, loose-fitting and yet still pulled a little more closely across the rear where they covered the bump of his backside, disappearing into the rear hem of his footy shirt. The 18-year-old was hesitating on his way about the corner, glancing back this way, his dazed happy expression once again turning into the more floodlit joyful smile that always seemed to occupy his handsome features when Pedri caught his eye. Others were bustling past them, but the 20-year-old paused, pulling briefly at the chest of his shirt, still feeling the heat, his whole kit seeming to stick to his body with the sweat of a tense 45-minute battle. Past him went ter Stergen and Lewandowski, and then another of the substitutes and one of the coaches, and still Lopez paused where he was, long enough to raise the thick brown brows of Gavi's face, and make the other boy's mouth hang slightly open in unspoken question. Without saying anything, Pedri jerked his head a little to the left, and then moved; the other side of the passage drew away into what looked like a storage area, and against the wall was the door to one male toilet, marked with the primitive stick figure of their gender. Pedri trotted neatly towards it and yanked the door open, shooting a firm and thoughtful look back at his 18-year-old buddy; the surprise and concern was evident on Gavi's moody face, never able to hide a single passing emotion, and yet instantly the central midfielder was tilting this way, drawn back form the doorway that would take him through to the others. `It's half-time,' the youngster reminded him in a nervous hiss, as he drew closer, and Pedri brought one clammy hand up against his elbow, then just jerked his head again, into the toilet cubicle, holding the door wider. With a startled look on his face, young Pablo Gavira slipped past him and into the narrow space, at which Pedri bowled in after him and yanked the door quickly shut behind him, recklessly sure that nobody had noticed a thing - sure, they'd be needed through in the other room in a few minutes, for a team-talk from the boss, but for now... Pedri slid a sweaty finger against a light switch to knock it on, illuminating the tight space of the toilet, and staring hungrily into Gavi's handsome earnest face, a smirk splitting the whole of his tanned features as he enjoyed the wide eyes and gently parting pink lips of the 18-year-old's face. `I just needed you,' the attacking player grunted simply in their shared Spanish, drawing even closer to him in the tight space and resting one hand in against the hot skin on the side of his neck, feeling that Gavi was just as hot and sticky as himself, and trembling a little to the touch. Those simple words, meant in all seriousness, seemed to melt the shaky nervousness of the other player, Gavi looming forward slightly into his arms, and bringing his face in - Pedri kissed him promptly, pecking their lips together once, twice and thrice, and then gripping the surprisingly thick muscle of Gavi's upper arms through the sleeves of his Barca shirt and the dark blue long sleeves beneath. `The team,' Gavi purred at him in concern, even as he melted into his grip. `Fuck it, we have a minute,' Pedri insisted, though he knew their absence, two young starlets, quickly arouse the notice of their teammates and manager; but ever since the 33rd minute when his beauty had put them in the lead, the horny 20-year-old had barely been able to pull his eyes away from his best friend, and so he'd rushed straight for him at the half-time whistle, and quickly knew that they needed a moment alone. He kissed him again, a little more fully this time, still not quite a natural at locking lips with another lad, but becoming increasingly comfortable with it as Gavi's lips and tongue surrendered to him, and the hot muscles of the 5ft8 boy shuddered under his grip. `Come on,' Gavi told him once their mouths parted, `we should...' He giggled gently as he spoke, because Pedri was pushing his hands firmly down his sides and past his hips, reaching around to lift his shirt and squeeze his pert arse through his shorts, holding their faces close so that their noses and brows touched. `Not yet,' Pedri told him, his voice low and breathy, and then, `turn around, against the wall.' He could hear the gruff edge of command in his quick speech, and he could see the mixture of worry and surprise all over Gavi's helplessly honest face. A moment's pause, and he did it, spinning away from him and then gasping as Pedri pushed him forward, further into the plain grey plaster of the wall, reaching in and kissing him once on the back of his neck, tasting his sweat on the soft skin and fuzz of trimmed hair. `Oh,' gasped the 18-year-old instantly. `Mmm,' he groaned back at him, holding him briefly by the shoulders like he had on the pitch, always glad that he could paw a little at this gorgeous lad, because their sport made men so tactile and comfortable in the right moments, and no onlooker would overthink the closeness between these two prodigies of the game. But he didn't hold him there for long, because they weren't out on the pitch now, they were in this tiny discreet space, and he knew what he wanted. He kneeled quite quickly down, pressing bare strong knees against the linoleum, and letting his hands run down the back of Gavi's shirt and onto the sides of his shorts as he did so, settling there behind him on his knees. He pushed his fingers in under the baggier team shirt and then beneath the tight lycra of the under-armour, hoisting that a few inches so he was holding just over the hips, feeling toned muscle and hot clammy skin. Gavi gasped again, anticipating what was coming, and Pedri pushed his face in to kiss at the small of his back, tasting his oddly sweet sweat again. `Pedro,' murmured Gavi's worried voice, `the team talk...' He ignored this, he ignored the world. His goal-scoring prince needed to be treated right, rewarded for that goal, and he told him so. `Shush, a moment - you were brilliant, you are so brilliant, I need to show you...' And he pulled down on those shorts, hooking his fingers into not just their waistband, but the tight sports brief below too, so that both layers came pulling back of the firm dough of that backside, two perfect cheeks bared for him - hooked under the bump of their globed shape, and his face now close to the mottled pink and sweaty gloss of the two orbs. He pushed them open, squeezing his hands onto the quivering warm muscle of the buttocks, and stared between them at the crack, little streaks of dark curling hair on either side of the tiny pink knot. In he went, pushing out that unusually long tongue, sliding it into his boy's sweaty crack to taste him, and making Gavi's purring moan become an anxiously happy yelp. Close by, the 2-0 merriment would be fading, and the guys would be settling down to re-hydrate and await the boss. But in here, he was pulling open the lightly tanned butt cheeks of his gorgeous teammate, and rolling his tongue in against the damp sweaty furrow between, pushing his tongue-tip in against the chico's hole. It was different, rimming him like this, all sweaty and hot from the game, and it felt a bit dirty and wrong, but Gavi smelt so good and clean even after 45 minutes' play, just with a faint spice and edge to his musk. Pedri pushed the cheeks a little further apart, opening them up as much as he could, and really pressing his face between them so he could tongue that hole again, needing to taste it, and loving the way Gavi trembled and whimpered for him, pushed in against the wall of the toilet cubicle with his legs apart. Pedri could feel his fat cock becoming stiff, but trapped awkwardly within the confines of his briefs, and he knew he didn't have time to do anything with it, so he ignored it, focusing entirely on eating Gavi's arse, pausing only to land a quick spank on one cheek and to run his hands more fully about the arse and lower back and down his hips, stroking the outside of his thighs, and then reaching around to find and tickle his balls. `Wank yourself,' he moaned, before pushing his tongue back between those cheeks, desperate to reward and spoil the goal-scoring little hunk. Gavi was obedient again, his body jerking with the movement as he reached down for his dick, and began to toss himself off, whilst his cheeks were jiggled and kissed and lightly nipped and then pulled apart once more so that Pedri could really get in. He spat noisily against the hole and then poked it with his tongue, pausing again to rub a single finger across it and make the lad really groan for Jesus. He edged the tip of his finger almost into Gavi's hole but stopped, remembering how unsure he'd been about that when he tried it with him in Qatar, but feeling such an urge to open that hole up and make it his pussy, like he'd started to fantasise when he woke up alone with a stiff prick in his PJs. He rubbed his finger over it and tried again, just testing the muscular ring, but then replacing it with the laps of his talented tongue, and hearing new gratifying moans of excitement from above. Gavi's body rocked and shuddered and he realised that his sweet 18-year-old was going to cum in so little time at all, and it made him super glad. He could tell that his excitement and eagerness was well-matched in this talented stud, and that his tongue skills were pushing the teen rapidly over the edge. He spat noisily into his crack again and muttered loud enough for him to hear, `You gonna come for me, Pabs? Cum for me, do it...' `Fuck,' was Gavi's muffled whimper. `We should-' He spanked him on one cheek again, just enough to sting, and pushed his face in to eat him some more, glad of the smell and taste of his match sweat. He pulled back on Gavi's hips, dragging the pert little arse more fully in against him, really tonguing on the hole and breathing in his crack, and then reaching his hand under again to stroke and tickle his balls, which bounced and jerked with the motion of his wanking, until... He could hear how hard the sexy 18-year-old was trying to suppress the sounds of his climax, and it made him snigger and smirk, pulling his damp face away and kissing again at each rounded cheek and at the base of his spine. Gavi's body shook with the waves of orgasmic pleasure, and Pedri climbed up him, letting his shirt fall back down but holding his sides, kissing that downy fur on his neck, and then the back of an ear, and then reaching around him and rubbing his hands on the quivering cock and the traces of spunk at its tip, whilst Gavi panted and gasped in his hold, feeling like he would collapse if released. And somewhere, muffled by door or wall, a voice could be heard calling - it was unclear, but it was calling at least one name, and Pedri chuckled into his boyfriend's ear. `Come on,' he purred, running his dirty tongue against the side of Gavi's neck, then helping him to yank up his briefs and then shorts, not before he'd grabbed a good squeeze of one cheek, and then elbowed awkwardly back into the door, which he opened and strutted out of; he could feel his own hard-on trapped in his crotch, held firmly down by the taut material, and he had to fiddle and adjust with his baggy Barca shorts to make sure its outline wasn't too obvious. He held his hands inside the waistband to stretch and disrupt the nylon, hiding the extent of his bulge as he swaggered around the corner and through into the changing rooms, where everyone was hurrying to sit down and look attentive for the team talk that would carry them back into the second half. He looked over his shoulder before ducking towards his space and sitting down, glad that the posture hid his excitement more easily; Gavi followed him, red-faced and dribbling with sweat down either cheek and all over his neck. The 18-year-old dropped into a seated position next to him, panting and ever-so-slightly shaking, and he discreetly slid a hand in against the back of his arm, cupping it at the elbow, so that the other midfielder glanced shakily this way, eyes wide and shiny. Pedri grinned at him. `It was a fucking great goal,' he told him simply, and then turned his red-cheeked attention and sweaty fringe back towards the posture of their manager, who was about to launch into his big team talk for round 2 of El Supercopa de Espana. In the second half of the game, Gavi struggled to get his head back into it with the same ferocity and determination that he usually did, that he'd shown all through the first half. He couldn't believe what had happened to him in the short break, that he'd been in that stadium toilet with his shorts down; his cock felt sensitive as it bounced in his sports briefs, and his arse cheeks were so tightly clenched. He felt like his secret enjoyment must shine from him like a beacon, a sex glow on his face, but everybody was hot and sweaty and he was still getting kudos from each older teammate for his performance; when he watched Gavi make it 3-0 in the 69th minute, he actually held back from immediately congratulating his slightly older boyfriend, unsure he'd be able to hug or high-five him without going in for another snog. But after Gavi shrunk back form the leaping group antics of victory, the 20-year-old raced straight for him and they double high-fived before Pedri wrapped his arms about him and practically picked him up off the ground. In the tightness of their hold, Gavi thought he felt a stiffness in the other Barca player's shorts, rubbing against him, and in that moment he was determined that he would match the excitement that had been lavished on him. The pair of them were benched in the 90th minute, as Barcelona danced almost lazily into additional time, sloppy enough to allow Karim Benzema his too-little-too-late response and end it 3-1. In the comfortable seating of the subs bench, the two youths sat side by side, and Gavi struggled to keep his hands to himself, pressing them beneath his sweaty thighs and clamping down on them to stop them from reaching over for one of Pedri's dark-haired legs, or even to lock fingers and hold hands. But inside... There was real singing now, no pause of respect for the defeated Madrid men, who were flatly ignored as the Barcelona squad zoomed into their quarters, boots tossed off and shirts being pulled away from shiny muscle. To the showers - but Gavi had no intention of making it there, not yet, and not only because he would probably spring a second erection if he tumbled into that steamy space surrounded by everyone else. He slowed his pace and looked behind him: Pedri, shirtless, was swaggering in out of the tunnel, and their eyes connected. Rather than lighting up like usual, the 18-year-old tried to look at him in a way that was intense and sultry, and then dived in the direction of the same loo, grabbing the handle awkwardly and standing there as a couple of other players went rushing past in a whirr of testosterone and aftershave, and then leaving the youths alone at this corner junction again. Into the toilet he backed, licking his lips, and he sat backwards onto the toilet lit, still fully kitted himself, and there was a dreadful moment with the door ajar where he thought his fellow Supercopa champion might not join him: perhaps Pedri had misread the signals or thought now was the time for caution, or perhaps he'd had enough excitement before, and wasn't really as desperate or needy for their togetherness as Gavi himself felt every single day. A thousand hurtful reasons that Pedro might move on to shower instead raced through his head, making him frown and pout, before the seconds were over and Pedri was diving in here with him and yanking the door shut after him. The 20-year-old stood over him, a little taller at 5ft9, with a sexy splash of dark hair sprouting in the centre of his developing chest muscles. Gavi looked up his six-pack to this, and to the big grin of his shiny face, the little dark curls where his neat fringe was disturbed, the blotches of red on his cheeks and neck. So handsome, he thought, and all mine. He leaned forward on his seat and dragged the shorts down without ceremony, to about Pedri's knees, before pushing his face in against the tight black Nike briefs that enclosed the precious jewels of cock and balls; through sweaty fabric he mouthed at the shape of a semi, his big eyes rolling upwards to connect with Pedri's lusty gaze. Stern fingers slid through his soft hair and about the sides of his face, cradling his head there without taking command, as Lopez occasionally did when he got excited - his more forceful touch would send shivers of panic and arousal through Gavira, and he didn't know if he wanted to beg his man to take it easy, or to go harder, but right now things were relaxed. Down went the briefs and he took a moment to admire the curving weight of the sweaty cock that was released, not quite hard yet, but getting there; he panted with his mouth half-open, still staring lovingly up, before opening his lips wider and sliding them about the heavy pink head of Pedri's meat, glad to use his mouth to bring it to full mast. Like his boyfriend, he was a little startled and more than a little turned on by the musky sweat and rawness of it, rather than the cleanliness of their bedroom exploration over these beautiful months together - but he didn't stop to gag or worry, sliding his mouth up and down the hard length of Pedri's beast of a prick. He felt less pressure now, less urgency, than when pressed to the side of this cubicle and eaten out, because the game was over, and there would be too much excitement in the locker-room and showers for anyone to be calling out his name - other than Pedri, who breathed it gently and then a bit more loudly, calling him, `My beautiful Gavi' and `Oh god yes, just like that, ohhh'. In this team toilet of the King Fahd International Stadium, one cup-winner gorged on the hard veiny shaft of the other, desperate to repay him for the brief but beautiful attention that had been lavished at half-time. Gavi would never have boldly initiated this naughty fun in such a risky scenario, not without the first round of action coming from Pedri, which still shocked him to contemplate. But he felt like he needed to restore some balance and reward his man for his goal, just like the rimming that had had brought him to such astonishingly quick climax up against this very wall. Gavi bobbed up and down on the cock, sucking hungrily and sloppily, pausing only to spit on the shaft like he'd seen some pornstar do, and seeming to drive Pedri wild by doing so. Pedri rocked his hips very gently to match his rhythm, and he did his best to just take it, this fucking of his mouth, without gagging or coughing or needing to stop, as he'd often done in the past; he wanted to get better at this, to be utter pleasure to his beautiful older friend, this stud who was no longer a teenager like him. He loved the beginnings of that hairy chest, the sexy darkness of the Tenerife footballer. He looked up as much as he could, though Pedri didn't hold his gaze now, his eyes closed in pleasure and his face rolling from side to side, clearly enjoying it so much. Gavi couldn't help but start to feel himself up in his shorts, and eventually pull his cock out of them down one leg, stretching the material of briefs and shorts aside so he could jerk his second erection, gob full of Pedri, craving the taste of him. And before long he got it, though Pedro Lopez didn't cum with such ridiculous speed as his own teenage explosion; the moans got deeper and the rocking of his hips got faster, really pushing his hard meat into Gavi's throat, and then announcing his ejaculation in a deep murmur: `You ready...?' Gavi took it against his tongue and his mouth, that salty blast, and he swallowed as much as he could, his eyes watering a little. He wanked harder and faster on his own cock as cum splashed in his mouth and Pedri took hold of his face at the sides to really pump the last of his cream in there, feeding him generously. Gavi wanked himself rapidly, wanting to cum quickly in this moment of glory, worried that it would need to end soon and that he would be left frustrated, unfinished... but he needn't have worried. Pedri, huffing and panting, was in no rush to exit their private stall. He pulled him up by the crook of his arm and kissed him, even though Gavi's lips were a little salty with cum - he either didn't notice or didn't care, and that thrilled and warmed him. And then, their faces close, Pedri reached down and took control of his dick. Gavi lifted his arms and held onto the biceps of his arms, rocking against him as the jerking was done for him, both of them trembling and groaning. Pedri kissed him again, with tongue, and that was what pushed him past his limits. He spunked messily against Pedri's wet cock and trimmed pubes and over his thighs and below his tummy, and he groaned into the snogging mouth on his, held tightly and supported. By the time they both slid discreetly out of the toilet cubicle, Gavi's breathing had just about recovered, though his heart was still beating an 808 in his lean chest. He followed Pedri around the corner in an almost limping stumble, still lost in the headrush of his second orgasm in 90 minutes. In front of him, the other player began to step nimbly out of his shorts and socks before they were halfway over the square room, which was sparse of men because most of the Barca squad were already in the showers. As they found their places at the wall, the teen smiled weakly at his lover, drained and overwhelmed, but deeply happy. And Pedri just smiled very simply back, so much confidence and reassurance in that face. It was a shame that he couldn't just pull closer to the other young star and grab another kiss, but the secrecy was also its own pleasure, and he knew that they would be cuddling later in their hotel room, before tomorrow's flight back into Catalunya. For a moment, the teen forgot about the win, the trophy, and the moment of restored glory for their club - he knew that he would remember tonight in Saudi for one thing alone, and that was what went on in that toilet. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 18 Jan 2023 20:16:07 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 341 Part 341: Supercopa de Espana The whistle blew, and brought with it half time, 2-0 already; the white-clad players of their elite opposition were a mix of downcast and furious as they immediately turned heel for the edge of the pitch, whilst the Barcelona players were slower to move, offering up gentle claps towards their Saudi fans in the terraces above. But one Spanish player amongst them moved with a bit more speed and purpose, unusually offering no interest to the watching fans or the roving cameras; he was smiling, just like every Barca player right now on this hot Saudi Sunday night, but with a fiery glint in his dark eyes and a slight urgency to his pace and the swing of his arms. 20-year-old Pedro Lopez moved quickly among the slow loping figures of his teammates, making a beeline for the edge of the pitch, and zooming in on his target. He'd already congratulated and celebrated the team's young first goal-scorer, like every other man here, but he reached for him again, finding and grabbing at his shoulders through the glossy material of his brightly striped Barca shirt; the younger midfield player looked over his shoulder at him and his slightly dazed expression of enjoyment split into a more earnest grin, the two young men's eyes connecting as Pedri's thumbs massaged at his shoulders through his shirt and gave him a slight shake from behind. The younger Spaniard slowed his pace and fell into step with him, and Pedri threw a proud arm about the shoulders of the slightly shorter boy, surrounded as they were by their Barca colleagues moving in on the mouth of the tunnel, and heading into the air-conditioned interior and the smug privacy of their changing rooms. In the tunnel, they had to pass by the stomping procession of Real Madrid players, and Pedri glanced thoughtfully their way, smiling to himself; tonight's extra clash was an exciting test between the La Liga rivals, and proof of their battled supremacy over Spanish football. But for now, the Madrid team were languishing behind, and in Pedri's eyes, it was all thanks to the efforts of his 18-year-old beauty. The likes of Modric and Kroos marched glumly on the other side of the tunnel from them, and Benzema's loud French swearing could be heard through a nearby doorway - the streams of kitted footballers were parting as they filed into the separate locker-rooms of the Saudi stadium that was hosting El Supercopa. In here, some members of the Barcelona squad were singing as if they'd already won the one-off fixture and trounced their standard rivals, and Pedri couldn't help but grin as widely as every other lad, sniggering to the echoing voices of Busquets and Kounde through in the big rectangular locker-room beyond. But still, the 20-year-old Tenerifean couldn't really budge his attention from the young guy next to him, who had slid out of his loose grip and was being grabbed and hugged by two other men, clad in the fuller tracksuits of benched substitutes, just ahead - Gavi grinned and chuckled between the muscular hugs of Ferran Torres and Marcos Alonso and then staggered apart from them as one by one, the guys turned right and followed the corner into the main changing room. Pedri stared his secret boyfriend down from behind, from the shaggy tufts of his honey-coloured hair to the big lettering of his name and number on the back of the beloved shirt, then up from his sharp boots and taut socks to the brief flash of skin before his shorts, loose-fitting and yet still pulled a little more closely across the rear where they covered the bump of his backside, disappearing into the rear hem of his footy shirt. The 18-year-old was hesitating on his way about the corner, glancing back this way, his dazed happy expression once again turning into the more floodlit joyful smile that always seemed to occupy his handsome features when Pedri caught his eye. Others were bustling past them, but the 20-year-old paused, pulling briefly at the chest of his shirt, still feeling the heat, his whole kit seeming to stick to his body with the sweat of a tense 45-minute battle. Past him went ter Stergen and Lewandowski, and then another of the substitutes and one of the coaches, and still Lopez paused where he was, long enough to raise the thick brown brows of Gavi's face, and make the other boy's mouth hang slightly open in unspoken question. Without saying anything, Pedri jerked his head a little to the left, and then moved; the other side of the passage drew away into what looked like a storage area, and against the wall was the door to one male toilet, marked with the primitive stick figure of their gender. Pedri trotted neatly towards it and yanked the door open, shooting a firm and thoughtful look back at his 18-year-old buddy; the surprise and concern was evident on Gavi's moody face, never able to hide a single passing emotion, and yet instantly the central midfielder was tilting this way, drawn back form the doorway that would take him through to the others. `It's half-time,' the youngster reminded him in a nervous hiss, as he drew closer, and Pedri brought one clammy hand up against his elbow, then just jerked his head again, into the toilet cubicle, holding the door wider. With a startled look on his face, young Pablo Gavira slipped past him and into the narrow space, at which Pedri bowled in after him and yanked the door quickly shut behind him, recklessly sure that nobody had noticed a thing - sure, they'd be needed through in the other room in a few minutes, for a team-talk from the boss, but for now... Pedri slid a sweaty finger against a light switch to knock it on, illuminating the tight space of the toilet, and staring hungrily into Gavi's handsome earnest face, a smirk splitting the whole of his tanned features as he enjoyed the wide eyes and gently parting pink lips of the 18-year-old's face. `I just needed you,' the attacking player grunted simply in their shared Spanish, drawing even closer to him in the tight space and resting one hand in against the hot skin on the side of his neck, feeling that Gavi was just as hot and sticky as himself, and trembling a little to the touch. Those simple words, meant in all seriousness, seemed to melt the shaky nervousness of the other player, Gavi looming forward slightly into his arms, and bringing his face in - Pedri kissed him promptly, pecking their lips together once, twice and thrice, and then gripping the surprisingly thick muscle of Gavi's upper arms through the sleeves of his Barca shirt and the dark blue long sleeves beneath. `The team,' Gavi purred at him in concern, even as he melted into his grip. `Fuck it, we have a minute,' Pedri insisted, though he knew their absence, two young starlets, quickly arouse the notice of their teammates and manager; but ever since the 33rd minute when his beauty had put them in the lead, the horny 20-year-old had barely been able to pull his eyes away from his best friend, and so he'd rushed straight for him at the half-time whistle, and quickly knew that they needed a moment alone. He kissed him again, a little more fully this time, still not quite a natural at locking lips with another lad, but becoming increasingly comfortable with it as Gavi's lips and tongue surrendered to him, and the hot muscles of the 5ft8 boy shuddered under his grip. `Come on,' Gavi told him once their mouths parted, `we should...' He giggled gently as he spoke, because Pedri was pushing his hands firmly down his sides and past his hips, reaching around to lift his shirt and squeeze his pert arse through his shorts, holding their faces close so that their noses and brows touched. `Not yet,' Pedri told him, his voice low and breathy, and then, `turn around, against the wall.' He could hear the gruff edge of command in his quick speech, and he could see the mixture of worry and surprise all over Gavi's helplessly honest face. A moment's pause, and he did it, spinning away from him and then gasping as Pedri pushed him forward, further into the plain grey plaster of the wall, reaching in and kissing him once on the back of his neck, tasting his sweat on the soft skin and fuzz of trimmed hair. `Oh,' gasped the 18-year-old instantly. `Mmm,' he groaned back at him, holding him briefly by the shoulders like he had on the pitch, always glad that he could paw a little at this gorgeous lad, because their sport made men so tactile and comfortable in the right moments, and no onlooker would overthink the closeness between these two prodigies of the game. But he didn't hold him there for long, because they weren't out on the pitch now, they were in this tiny discreet space, and he knew what he wanted. He kneeled quite quickly down, pressing bare strong knees against the linoleum, and letting his hands run down the back of Gavi's shirt and onto the sides of his shorts as he did so, settling there behind him on his knees. He pushed his fingers in under the baggier team shirt and then beneath the tight lycra of the under-armour, hoisting that a few inches so he was holding just over the hips, feeling toned muscle and hot clammy skin. Gavi gasped again, anticipating what was coming, and Pedri pushed his face in to kiss at the small of his back, tasting his oddly sweet sweat again. `Pedro,' murmured Gavi's worried voice, `the team talk...' He ignored this, he ignored the world. His goal-scoring prince needed to be treated right, rewarded for that goal, and he told him so. `Shush, a moment - you were brilliant, you are so brilliant, I need to show you...' And he pulled down on those shorts, hooking his fingers into not just their waistband, but the tight sports brief below too, so that both layers came pulling back of the firm dough of that backside, two perfect cheeks bared for him - hooked under the bump of their globed shape, and his face now close to the mottled pink and sweaty gloss of the two orbs. He pushed them open, squeezing his hands onto the quivering warm muscle of the buttocks, and stared between them at the crack, little streaks of dark curling hair on either side of the tiny pink knot. In he went, pushing out that unusually long tongue, sliding it into his boy's sweaty crack to taste him, and making Gavi's purring moan become an anxiously happy yelp. Close by, the 2-0 merriment would be fading, and the guys would be settling down to re-hydrate and await the boss. But in here, he was pulling open the lightly tanned butt cheeks of his gorgeous teammate, and rolling his tongue in against the damp sweaty furrow between, pushing his tongue-tip in against the chico's hole. It was different, rimming him like this, all sweaty and hot from the game, and it felt a bit dirty and wrong, but Gavi smelt so good and clean even after 45 minutes' play, just with a faint spice and edge to his musk. Pedri pushed the cheeks a little further apart, opening them up as much as he could, and really pressing his face between them so he could tongue that hole again, needing to taste it, and loving the way Gavi trembled and whimpered for him, pushed in against the wall of the toilet cubicle with his legs apart. Pedri could feel his fat cock becoming stiff, but trapped awkwardly within the confines of his briefs, and he knew he didn't have time to do anything with it, so he ignored it, focusing entirely on eating Gavi's arse, pausing only to land a quick spank on one cheek and to run his hands more fully about the arse and lower back and down his hips, stroking the outside of his thighs, and then reaching around to find and tickle his balls. `Wank yourself,' he moaned, before pushing his tongue back between those cheeks, desperate to reward and spoil the goal-scoring little hunk. Gavi was obedient again, his body jerking with the movement as he reached down for his dick, and began to toss himself off, whilst his cheeks were jiggled and kissed and lightly nipped and then pulled apart once more so that Pedri could really get in. He spat noisily against the hole and then poked it with his tongue, pausing again to rub a single finger across it and make the lad really groan for Jesus. He edged the tip of his finger almost into Gavi's hole but stopped, remembering how unsure he'd been about that when he tried it with him in Qatar, but feeling such an urge to open that hole up and make it his pussy, like he'd started to fantasise when he woke up alone with a stiff prick in his PJs. He rubbed his finger over it and tried again, just testing the muscular ring, but then replacing it with the laps of his talented tongue, and hearing new gratifying moans of excitement from above. Gavi's body rocked and shuddered and he realised that his sweet 18-year-old was going to cum in so little time at all, and it made him super glad. He could tell that his excitement and eagerness was well-matched in this talented stud, and that his tongue skills were pushing the teen rapidly over the edge. He spat noisily into his crack again and muttered loud enough for him to hear, `You gonna come for me, Pabs? Cum for me, do it...' `Fuck,' was Gavi's muffled whimper. `We should-' He spanked him on one cheek again, just enough to sting, and pushed his face in to eat him some more, glad of the smell and taste of his match sweat. He pulled back on Gavi's hips, dragging the pert little arse more fully in against him, really tonguing on the hole and breathing in his crack, and then reaching his hand under again to stroke and tickle his balls, which bounced and jerked with the motion of his wanking, until... He could hear how hard the sexy 18-year-old was trying to suppress the sounds of his climax, and it made him snigger and smirk, pulling his damp face away and kissing again at each rounded cheek and at the base of his spine. Gavi's body shook with the waves of orgasmic pleasure, and Pedri climbed up him, letting his shirt fall back down but holding his sides, kissing that downy fur on his neck, and then the back of an ear, and then reaching around him and rubbing his hands on the quivering cock and the traces of spunk at its tip, whilst Gavi panted and gasped in his hold, feeling like he would collapse if released. And somewhere, muffled by door or wall, a voice could be heard calling - it was unclear, but it was calling at least one name, and Pedri chuckled into his boyfriend's ear. `Come on,' he purred, running his dirty tongue against the side of Gavi's neck, then helping him to yank up his briefs and then shorts, not before he'd grabbed a good squeeze of one cheek, and then elbowed awkwardly back into the door, which he opened and strutted out of; he could feel his own hard-on trapped in his crotch, held firmly down by the taut material, and he had to fiddle and adjust with his baggy Barca shorts to make sure its outline wasn't too obvious. He held his hands inside the waistband to stretch and disrupt the nylon, hiding the extent of his bulge as he swaggered around the corner and through into the changing rooms, where everyone was hurrying to sit down and look attentive for the team talk that would carry them back into the second half. He looked over his shoulder before ducking towards his space and sitting down, glad that the posture hid his excitement more easily; Gavi followed him, red-faced and dribbling with sweat down either cheek and all over his neck. The 18-year-old dropped into a seated position next to him, panting and ever-so-slightly shaking, and he discreetly slid a hand in against the back of his arm, cupping it at the elbow, so that the other midfielder glanced shakily this way, eyes wide and shiny. Pedri grinned at him. `It was a fucking great goal,' he told him simply, and then turned his red-cheeked attention and sweaty fringe back towards the posture of their manager, who was about to launch into his big team talk for round 2 of El Supercopa de Espana. In the second half of the game, Gavi struggled to get his head back into it with the same ferocity and determination that he usually did, that he'd shown all through the first half. He couldn't believe what had happened to him in the short break, that he'd been in that stadium toilet with his shorts down; his cock felt sensitive as it bounced in his sports briefs, and his arse cheeks were so tightly clenched. He felt like his secret enjoyment must shine from him like a beacon, a sex glow on his face, but everybody was hot and sweaty and he was still getting kudos from each older teammate for his performance; when he watched Gavi make it 3-0 in the 69th minute, he actually held back from immediately congratulating his slightly older boyfriend, unsure he'd be able to hug or high-five him without going in for another snog. But after Gavi shrunk back form the leaping group antics of victory, the 20-year-old raced straight for him and they double high-fived before Pedri wrapped his arms about him and practically picked him up off the ground. In the tightness of their hold, Gavi thought he felt a stiffness in the other Barca player's shorts, rubbing against him, and in that moment he was determined that he would match the excitement that had been lavished on him. The pair of them were benched in the 90th minute, as Barcelona danced almost lazily into additional time, sloppy enough to allow Karim Benzema his too-little-too-late response and end it 3-1. In the comfortable seating of the subs bench, the two youths sat side by side, and Gavi struggled to keep his hands to himself, pressing them beneath his sweaty thighs and clamping down on them to stop them from reaching over for one of Pedri's dark-haired legs, or even to lock fingers and hold hands. But inside... There was real singing now, no pause of respect for the defeated Madrid men, who were flatly ignored as the Barcelona squad zoomed into their quarters, boots tossed off and shirts being pulled away from shiny muscle. To the showers - but Gavi had no intention of making it there, not yet, and not only because he would probably spring a second erection if he tumbled into that steamy space surrounded by everyone else. He slowed his pace and looked behind him: Pedri, shirtless, was swaggering in out of the tunnel, and their eyes connected. Rather than lighting up like usual, the 18-year-old tried to look at him in a way that was intense and sultry, and then dived in the direction of the same loo, grabbing the handle awkwardly and standing there as a couple of other players went rushing past in a whirr of testosterone and aftershave, and then leaving the youths alone at this corner junction again. Into the toilet he backed, licking his lips, and he sat backwards onto the toilet lit, still fully kitted himself, and there was a dreadful moment with the door ajar where he thought his fellow Supercopa champion might not join him: perhaps Pedri had misread the signals or thought now was the time for caution, or perhaps he'd had enough excitement before, and wasn't really as desperate or needy for their togetherness as Gavi himself felt every single day. A thousand hurtful reasons that Pedro might move on to shower instead raced through his head, making him frown and pout, before the seconds were over and Pedri was diving in here with him and yanking the door shut after him. The 20-year-old stood over him, a little taller at 5ft9, with a sexy splash of dark hair sprouting in the centre of his developing chest muscles. Gavi looked up his six-pack to this, and to the big grin of his shiny face, the little dark curls where his neat fringe was disturbed, the blotches of red on his cheeks and neck. So handsome, he thought, and all mine. He leaned forward on his seat and dragged the shorts down without ceremony, to about Pedri's knees, before pushing his face in against the tight black Nike briefs that enclosed the precious jewels of cock and balls; through sweaty fabric he mouthed at the shape of a semi, his big eyes rolling upwards to connect with Pedri's lusty gaze. Stern fingers slid through his soft hair and about the sides of his face, cradling his head there without taking command, as Lopez occasionally did when he got excited - his more forceful touch would send shivers of panic and arousal through Gavira, and he didn't know if he wanted to beg his man to take it easy, or to go harder, but right now things were relaxed. Down went the briefs and he took a moment to admire the curving weight of the sweaty cock that was released, not quite hard yet, but getting there; he panted with his mouth half-open, still staring lovingly up, before opening his lips wider and sliding them about the heavy pink head of Pedri's meat, glad to use his mouth to bring it to full mast. Like his boyfriend, he was a little startled and more than a little turned on by the musky sweat and rawness of it, rather than the cleanliness of their bedroom exploration over these beautiful months together - but he didn't stop to gag or worry, sliding his mouth up and down the hard length of Pedri's beast of a prick. He felt less pressure now, less urgency, than when pressed to the side of this cubicle and eaten out, because the game was over, and there would be too much excitement in the locker-room and showers for anyone to be calling out his name - other than Pedri, who breathed it gently and then a bit more loudly, calling him, `My beautiful Gavi' and `Oh god yes, just like that, ohhh'. In this team toilet of the King Fahd International Stadium, one cup-winner gorged on the hard veiny shaft of the other, desperate to repay him for the brief but beautiful attention that had been lavished at half-time. Gavi would never have boldly initiated this naughty fun in such a risky scenario, not without the first round of action coming from Pedri, which still shocked him to contemplate. But he felt like he needed to restore some balance and reward his man for his goal, just like the rimming that had had brought him to such astonishingly quick climax up against this very wall. Gavi bobbed up and down on the cock, sucking hungrily and sloppily, pausing only to spit on the shaft like he'd seen some pornstar do, and seeming to drive Pedri wild by doing so. Pedri rocked his hips very gently to match his rhythm, and he did his best to just take it, this fucking of his mouth, without gagging or coughing or needing to stop, as he'd often done in the past; he wanted to get better at this, to be utter pleasure to his beautiful older friend, this stud who was no longer a teenager like him. He loved the beginnings of that hairy chest, the sexy darkness of the Tenerife footballer. He looked up as much as he could, though Pedri didn't hold his gaze now, his eyes closed in pleasure and his face rolling from side to side, clearly enjoying it so much. Gavi couldn't help but start to feel himself up in his shorts, and eventually pull his cock out of them down one leg, stretching the material of briefs and shorts aside so he could jerk his second erection, gob full of Pedri, craving the taste of him. And before long he got it, though Pedro Lopez didn't cum with such ridiculous speed as his own teenage explosion; the moans got deeper and the rocking of his hips got faster, really pushing his hard meat into Gavi's throat, and then announcing his ejaculation in a deep murmur: `You ready...?' Gavi took it against his tongue and his mouth, that salty blast, and he swallowed as much as he could, his eyes watering a little. He wanked harder and faster on his own cock as cum splashed in his mouth and Pedri took hold of his face at the sides to really pump the last of his cream in there, feeding him generously. Gavi wanked himself rapidly, wanting to cum quickly in this moment of glory, worried that it would need to end soon and that he would be left frustrated, unfinished... but he needn't have worried. Pedri, huffing and panting, was in no rush to exit their private stall. He pulled him up by the crook of his arm and kissed him, even though Gavi's lips were a little salty with cum - he either didn't notice or didn't care, and that thrilled and warmed him. And then, their faces close, Pedri reached down and took control of his dick. Gavi lifted his arms and held onto the biceps of his arms, rocking against him as the jerking was done for him, both of them trembling and groaning. Pedri kissed him again, with tongue, and that was what pushed him past his limits. He spunked messily against Pedri's wet cock and trimmed pubes and over his thighs and below his tummy, and he groaned into the snogging mouth on his, held tightly and supported. By the time they both slid discreetly out of the toilet cubicle, Gavi's breathing had just about recovered, though his heart was still beating an 808 in his lean chest. He followed Pedri around the corner in an almost limping stumble, still lost in the headrush of his second orgasm in 90 minutes. In front of him, the other player began to step nimbly out of his shorts and socks before they were halfway over the square room, which was sparse of men because most of the Barca squad were already in the showers. As they found their places at the wall, the teen smiled weakly at his lover, drained and overwhelmed, but deeply happy. And Pedri just smiled very simply back, so much confidence and reassurance in that face. It was a shame that he couldn't just pull closer to the other young star and grab another kiss, but the secrecy was also its own pleasure, and he knew that they would be cuddling later in their hotel room, before tomorrow's flight back into Catalunya. For a moment, the teen forgot about the win, the trophy, and the moment of restored glory for their club - he knew that he would remember tonight in Saudi for one thing alone, and that was what went on in that toilet. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-373

Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2023 19:03:30 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 373 Part 373: An `El Classico' Rematch in Paris It was an experience devoid of the heart-stopping excitement of last year; it was nice to be suited and booted and to get the admiring nods and handshakes of some of the finest figures in football, many of them distractingly attractive older men in designer tailoring.. And the club guidance about diet and alcohol on this brief trip to France had quickly been dismissed by the senior figures in his group, meaning he was tipsy on presumed top-quality champagne and had stuffed his face with ambiguous vol-au-vents since arrival. But there was plenty missing from Gavi's 2023 Ballon D'Or experience. Last year had been one of electric tension, unable to believe the leaked information that he was to receive the same Kopa Trophy that had previously been awarded to his secret boyfriend - it remained one of the best nights of Pablo's young life, a wide-eyed 18-year-old at the top table of his international sport. It was a combo of those two things that meant he was enduring tonight's late-October ceremony in Paris with a mixture of quiet cynicism and glossy insincere enjoyment - a combo of not winning, and who wasn't here. Aggressively competitive as he was, the 19-year-old Spanish boy didn't like to think he was petty or selfish about such prizes, but there was definitely a dullness to being here the year after he'd stood up there and collected a prize - in reality, he was now years from snatching an actual Ballon d'Or and his moment as the `golden boy' of world football was already passing, as if 19 wasn't still spectacularly young for the things he was achieving in the Barcelona first team. Like the rest of the small Barca entourage who he was seated with for the whole event, ostensibly here to support their Women's team and their club's favourite son Messi, he saw little chance of a win in his own name, and so felt like shiny glamorous filler at someone else's big night. And that was the other thing - bosses back home in Catalonia had been fussy and stringent about simultaneously having a bright-faced contingent to represent their club at the event, but about limiting who exactly could go. And Pedri Lopez, it seemed, was at too crucial a turning point in his rehab and return to training, which meant that Gavi was on yet another overnight trip without the room-sharing comforts of his handsome boyfriend, or his soft tender lips, thoughtful mysterious eyes, strong curving cock, exploratory tongue. Gavi was furiously longing for the other young star's return to the Barca line-up so that it could stop being a logistical battle to spend nights together. As it was, Gavi was just another young football player in black tie, swilling champagne and ogling at the legends old and new who bobbed through the circles of this major awards event, its glamour and excitement largely passing the teen by. He kept imagining the cosy night in he might have been able to share at Pedri's plush apartment if he was back in their great city and not sat here in this stiff awkward chair! Still, the 19-year-old little stud managed to keep a plasticky grin on his dainty face and avoid the expressive belligerence that covered it throughout most football matches - until, that was, it came to the announcement of the 2023 Kopa Trophy. For Jude, tonight was everything that it had been for his counterpart last year, a night of dizzying success that cemented what he already knew: he was really fucking making it in his childhood dream, and the whole bloody world could see it. From the moment he met his family at the hotel and was helped into his couture, he'd felt light-headed and even humbled - trying to strut the red carpet coolly and then be introduced to hero after hero was a test to the calm maturity that everyone celebrated in him. Everybody from his mum and agent to his teammates and rivals were telling him the obvious, that the youth equivalent of the Ballon d'Or was his, but he was frightened to believe it as the event unfolded - until, that was, he had clammy fingers about the prize itself and was stood grinning modestly out at the sea of dark suits and glittering dresses. The only thing bothering Bellingham tonight was how it was passing in a whirl of unreality - would he even remember any of this tomorrow when he touched down in Madrid? He'd held a couple of glasses of champers for the cameras, but he was actually totally sober on sparkling water at his coaches' insistence, and yet he felt drunk on the excitement of it all, lost in this galaxy of superstars. Big international figures of yesteryear clutched his hands in theirs and slapped him heavily on broad shoulders, whilst key stars from the Premier League back home would punch him playfully in the arms and chastise him for choosing La Liga, demanding to know if he really saw himself spending 10-15 years at Real Madrid instead of coming to stir things up in England's top-flight. A couple of members of the award-winning City squad were there in sharp dark seats and they badgered him and his parents playfully at the bar, their attractive WAGs shooting him big smiles that felt flirtatious - he was sure that Kevin de Bruyne's eyes were trying to undress him even as her grinning ginger-haired hubby told him that he thought about retiring every time he watched him play. And eventually Jude Bellingham just had to pull himself away from this, overwhelmed. Feigning a need for the toilet that quickly became real, the 6ft1 midfield prodigy slipped away down the quietest route he could find, avoiding more inevitable congratulatory dialogues, and just disappearing into one of the outer passages of the ornate theatre venue, casting his eyes about for the gents. In the roomy cubicle of the toilets, Gavi sighed huskily down the line of his iPhone, and nodded resignedly to the chirpy voice that met him. `You aren't even staying overnight,' Pedri cajoled in Spanish, teasing him in an easy manner, as he had as soon as he picked up the call. `Come on, stop being a moody fool. Smile for the cameras and I'll see you tomorrow at training, if you're not too hungover...!' Gavi smirked a little at his boyfriend's teasing, but was slow to answer, sat down on the closed toilet lid and swirling the dregs of some champagne in his glass, nodding again as if the other lad could see. `I'm just bored,' the 19-year-old muttered for the dozenth time, and he could hear how sulky and ridiculous he sounded, hiding from the glitz of a ceremony that football players and fans would kill to attend. He rolled his eyes at himself and tried to think about how it had felt last year, but the nostalgia only threw tonight's dullness into further relief! `Stop sulking,' Pedri instructed him simply. `I'm going to hang up on you, sexy.' Gavi smiled just to hear that simple compliment, and he began to wonder how long he could hide in these upstairs toilets of the fancy theatre. For a moment, his other hand left the near empty champagne glass on the shelf to the side and slid across the breast of his blazer, toying just below his bowtie and tickling a few buttons of the starchy white shirt. `Hmm,' he mused as it began to head south, thinking that perhaps Pedri wouldn't hang up if he cheered up a bit and started talking dirty... He didn't hear his boyfriend's next quiet comment down the line, hand paused halfway down his front, cock twitching in his suit pants and undies, as a door slammed and footsteps echoed and then he could hear a loud sigh and the tinkle of piss in urinal. `Uh,' he mouthed, and the nervous tension in his voice must have been obvious to his listener. `I'll go,' Pedri said calmly and quietly, `if you're not alone any more - just text me when you're all boarding the flight, and let me know you land safe, okay buddy?' Suddenly too awkward to chat on the phone in the faux privacy of his cubicle, Gavi's only answer was a sort of awkward half-cough, and then the call bleeped out of existence in his ear, and he stood up from the toilet. The loos had been empty when he found his way in and dialled up his boyfriend, interrupting his night of TV bingeing alone, but the sound of another guest using the urinals made the teen very conscious of how risky it might have been to talk so frankly to Pedri - the sound of the guy pissing out there was so echoey that this cubicle would hardly have contained his muttered complaints and quiet little affections during the quick chat with his Barca hunk. Now Gavi just slid the phone decisively into the inner pocket of his blazer, unlocked the door, and strutted out into the main chamber of the mens' toilets; he did so with a ballsy swagger and puffed-out chest, which was more to gaslight himself than to impress whoever had come in to make genuine use of the facilities. But his manner became more rigid and awkward as he stood there and spotted who was using the middle urinal, a distinctive profile even from behind - not least from the fashionable bagginess of his dress trousers, which looked ridiculous to Gavi but had been well-received on the stupid red carpet. Gavi paused and stared daggers at the 20-year-old from behind, then moved quietly over to the marble block of sinks; he considered not washing his hands and just hurrying out of the bathroom, because he didn't want to have to force out stupid platitudes and join the general fawning over the new Madridista. Instead, he stood there with warm water rushing over his soapy hands, eyes fixed on the mirror, and then meeting Jude's as the taller young man arrived at the sink to his left. `Hola,' the 6ft1 midfielder greeted quite brightly, his Spanish thick with jarring accent. Gavi was as moodily quiet as he'd remained on the phone, just staring back at the other player's reflection, and then jerking his head that way to stare at him properly; if he'd managed to hide his almost comical scowls during the ceremony, he was failing now, pouting sulkily at the new Kopa winner, and furrowing into a frown. A soft half-laugh slipped out of Jude's lips and he spoke again in awkwardly accented but surprisingly accented Spanish - `Is there something on my clothes?' Gavi just stared frostily at him and Jude's smile faded. Gavi backed away from the sink and in a moody rush of blood to the head, turned and just spat at the ground near his successor's shiny shoes. `Well done,' the 19-year-old snapped in ferocious Spanish, `and enjoy the rest of your night.' He shook his damp hands at the sink and moved away to the cloths at the side, ready to dry them and stalk moodily away from this jumped-up Englishman - he was burning up with much more than his boredom at the night, the memories of El Classico fresh in his heart. He wiped his hands quickly and turned to make for the door - but suddenly Jude was blocking that path, overtaking him in a couple of long strides, and now looming over him. `Gracias,' Bellingham told him in a dry voice, his lean face deadly serious, slipping then into English. `What the fuck's your problem, short-stuff?' Jude didn't think he'd been particularly rude to the Barca youth during Saturday's game: nothing more than the slight banter he'd share with an opponent back in the Bundesliga or in his Birmingham early days. Sure, he'd laughed when he'd bested Gavi in tackles, and he'd celebrated as openly as always when he scored his inevitable brace of goals. He'd traded ambiguous remarks in the younger boy's ear when they passed in quiet moments, but he'd only returned the scowling antipathy of the Spaniard - the game between their clubs was a massive one for La Liga and surely a bit of banter and fighting talk was all part of it, they were all at it...! And Real Madrid had won 2-0, so of course Gavi just represented all of Barca's bitter resentment - a fallen giant, a club much reduced in recent years, and this angry little puppy was going to hold that as a grudge...! So the Brummie youth laughed calmly and stood there, glowering back at Gavi's moody face, and blocking his path to the door. When his question went unanswered, he repeated it to the best of his ability in Spanish, though he wasn't sure if his choice of curse words had the same impact. He smiled coolly and held his ground, unintimidated by this diminutive rottweiler of the Barca midfield. He'd had his banter on Saturday, but so had Gavi, full of muttered comments, some of them perhaps not meant to be understood by a green English migrant, and the little tit had even thwacked him on the arse at one point in a patronising and dismissive manner. 5 foot nothing and a complete Napoleon about it! `Are you just pissed because I got your prize?' Bellingham demanded then, finding the quiet awkward but not wanting to show it. `You know they give it to someone new every year, don't you? That is kinda the point, hey.' Gavi's English didn't seem to be great, but he'd understood the point. `Forget it,' he muttered in his own language. `Forget it.' He muttered a couple of other things but for all his speed of learning, Jude didn't follow them. Gavi went to push past him but he couldn't help but block him with one arm, pushing a hand at his shoulder and confronting him. `Or is it El Classico?' he demanded, a bit more forcefully. `All that trash talk from you and we still won.' Gavi really scowled at him and he looked like he might spit at the ground again - Jude Bellingham, the new contender for the crowns of Messi and Ronaldo, wasn't fucking standing for that. He grabbed the 5ft8 footballer by the jaw, holding his face commandingly and tilting it away so that Gavi's spit just bubbled stupidly at his lips. He let go and the shorter guy stumbled awkwardly back from him, face flushing. Jude almost struck him with a proper blow to the face, riled by this stupid confrontation and thinking just what a moody prick his opponent had been at the game on Saturday, but stopping himself - bloodying the nose of a Barcelona youth was hardly the kind of behaviour he wanted entering into the burgeoning legend of his own career, and he tried to relax the automatic fists that his strong hands were forming at his sides. Gavi stared at him again but the kid looked embarrassed now, and suddenly younger - there was just a year between them, but height and temperament made Jude feel older, more superior to the hot-blooded Spaniard. He opened his mouth to speak and then noticed something, the odd angular crease in the front of the other player's more tight-fitting suit trousers, exposed as his jacket shifted open and he tried to steady himself to rush past. Unable to stop himself, Jude let out a little barking laugh, and shifted position to keep blocking Gavi's exit, emphasising his superior height. `Que?' snapped the 19-year-old. Jude smirked and said nothing, just nodding downwards, and then reaching down to grab himself through the baggier crotch of his own outsized pants. He stood over the shorty, chuckling to himself, and thinking that he was really going to have to work on his ego if the world kept falling over itself to suck his dick. Gavi hadn't realised that, after Pedri ended the call, his bored teenage horn hadn't continued to swell in the front of his tight pants; after all, he was having trouble processing anything about the tall English newcomer as anything but aggravating and smug. From his towering height to the delicate scent of his aftershave, from those obnoxious trousers to the thin smirk of his lips... he was just a big infuriating bastard, an entitled prick who had crashed into the Spanish league as if he owned the place, and... And yet Jude's hand was on his shoulder, steering him back, and the 19-year-old was doing nothing to resist - in fact, he was reaching scrabbling hands to his side to push open the cubicle door that he'd shut behind him, and almost tripping over himself as he hurried backwards into it, eyes wide and lips trembling. His knees were bending almost of their own accord, lowering expensive black fabric to the polished floor, and his face held once more in Jude's strong grip, stroking and grasping his jawline, and angling it up to stare into his smirking features. Gavi knelt submissively on the cubicle floor and the Kopa prize winner towered luxuriously over him, doing nothing but grinning. `Good boy,' the Real player said in silky Spanish. It was the same smirking patronage that had come through his banter in El Classico, riling up a teenager who took the slightest tickle into aggression once he had his footy boots on. Gavi's entire playing style depended on his surprising ferocity, his willingness to throw himself into conflict with men twice his age and almost twice his weight. Now the terrier was tamed, kneeling silently in front of the new king, and practically drooling. His brain exploded with conflicting feelings, his frustration at everything about tonight not combatting an almost primal need to taste the rising alpha of world football. He thought about that moment of indignance on the pitch on Saturday, slapping a cheeky hand against the taller lad's backside as if to congratulate him, trying to put him down or make him uncomfortable - but just feeling the hard resistant muscles beneath his spank as he strolled away, and seeing the utterly unfazed cool in Bellingham's gaze as they ran separate ways on the pitch. `Good boy,' Jude repeated smoothly, in English now, and Gavi nodded silently, mouth open, eyes wide and glistening. He licked his pouting lips and rose on his knees, watching Jude's hands make light work of cummerbund and zip fly - and there it was, big and actually still flaccid, hanging out of the front of the black fabric, waiting for him. Long, pendulous, caramel brown but intensely pink at the tip, dormant but waiting to be woken with a kiss. Gavi breathed deeply, still infuriated by perfumed smugness, and dove in to taste it, falling under Jude's spell. Bellingham groaned quietly and stood in the same superhero posture with which he celebrated each inevitable La Liga goal. He felt the hot wet mouth close about his heavy cock and relaxed into it, feeling the skin tighten as his weapon swelled and stiffened. Soon Gavi was gobbling over it and trailing spit up and down the shaft, a talented little cocksucker if ever there was one! He reminded Jude almost of Phil Foden in Doha, noshing him off with red-faced enthusiasm only a few nights after Jude had been welcomed and initiated by that king of sluts, Harry Kane. Jude wished he hadn't had to leave the shiny Kopa trophy with event staff after the photographs were done, he wished he had it in one hand, held coolly at his side, one of the night's prizes, and the other this slut on his knees - last year's winner, Spain's bright young thing, now choking on his big Brummie hard-on, eating him up like the entire fucking world of football, ha. The sudden lewd toilet action was something that the 20-year-old stud could feel only as MILDLY surprising; of course he was getting blown, just like he deserved, just when he'd needed a short break from the applause and attention of the main event. And when he'd shot his load, he thought, he'd swan calmly back into it with just a faint glow in his cheeks, and he'd shake hands with Gavi's Barca teammates, and gloat to them too about how Madrid had thrashed them two days ago. Gavi was sucking his big black cock on behalf of the whole of La Liga, he thought, and then he told himself Yep, this ego is going to get out of control, for sure. At first he just stood there, presenting himself like a trophy, or like he was celebrating a penalty, but then he reached down and slid his fingers through the short silky turf of Gavi's chestnut hair. He held his head and fucked his mouth, unable to get his whole length in there but enough to choke and gag the lad, enjoying the splutters and gulps; he withdrew his cock and whipped it against one cheek and then the other, then wanked its wet tip against plump lips. He smirked down into Gavi's wide brown eyes, drooling a small drop of spit right down against the tip of his member and over Gavi's quivering lips - then he pushed his dick back in and let the youth go to town on it, sucking him quite expertly, making him wonder how many cocks the sulky bastard had eaten at the Nou Camp! Previously, Jude would have settled for this, this would have been more than enough. Previously, after all, he'd felt so new to this, and a little intimidated. There had been a time when Jude was naive and prudish, the nervous sidekick to illicit experiments of his friend Jadon Sancho. But then there'd been Kane by the swimming pool, and Foden, and Trent and Hendo, then his German Turk pal at Dortmund, and... he pictured trembling Kalvin Phillips in the night, sucking him off and thinking he was asleep! He pictured that Scottish thug Kieran Tierney, swaying after him into the Glasgow alleyway. He pictured those sturdy pale cheeks parting for him, and he knew he needed to fuck again. Gavi thought it was over, thought he might be left here, humiliated with spit and pre-cum on his boyish face - but as he was hoisted quite roughly up to his feet, he saw the determined and excited glint in Jude's eyes, and he knew otherwise. He was flipped against the firmer wall of the corner cubicle, the one that was all shining beige porcelain, and he felt Jude's fingers clutching his hair again. Just like on the pitch, the taller guy was leaning in close and whispering hotly in his ear. He said something in English that Gavi didn't understand, and then attempted it in Spanish - `You are going to have me inside you', or something close enough. Gavi nodded in spite of himself, shocked at the furious urgency of his agreement, at the speed with which he shucked his Gucci blazer and let it fall aside, feeling Jude's hands undoing his trousers for him at the front. He shook and whimpered and hoisted up the tails of shirt just as the bigger boy pulled down his taut trousers and the white CK underpants underneath. He felt his own plump rear exposed, just as it had almost been that time when he skidded clumsily across the turf, and he pushed it backwards, wanting it to impress and excite this young king. When Jude grabbed and spanked it, he moaned and yelped, and thought again how this cubicle was not soundproof, but didn't care any more. The sound of spit, and he knew he needed to say something urgently - he imagined handsome Jude drooling down onto that big brown cock, and he whispered out the Spanish for `virgin!' several times, hoping that the big lad's oddly impressive language skills were up to that. Just as he Jude chuckled hotly in his ear, Gavi once more yelped `Virgin!' emphatically, unaware the word was almost identical in both tongues, then experienced a giddy hit of relief as he realised Jude had already understood - it wasn't the thick hot tip of his meat that Jude was sliding between plump pale cheeks, but a single spit-wet finger. Gavi felt the fingertip on his ring and he whined his consent. Jude hadn't believed what he heard the brat say about being `virgen, virgen!', not with cocksucking skills like those, and yet once he was one finger in, he knew it - wow, he'd never fingered anything so tight. It's not like Kieran had been loose and easy for him, as he quite nervously entered his first male backside, but Gavi's bottom was vice-like, and he had to pull back his finger and spit on it some more. Then, over-excited, he reached around and made the pouting poser lick it for him, then shoved it back into him. Even this he loved, pinning the 5ft8 rottweiler to the wall and parting his cheeks - this'll teach the uppity arse-hole for trying to pat my bum in El Classico, ha! Jude pulled the single finger in and out, still questioning whether the gasping slut hadn't been passed around by the dominant blokes at Barca or Spain, but trying to loosen and prepare the tight `virgen' ring that clamped about his own digit - and wanking impatiently at his member with his other hand, so furiously ready to feel the ultimate pleasure like he had as he topped the grumpy Scotsman that late summer night. When he tried two fingers, it was a real struggle. He spat heavily onto his two fingers and ran them back and forward in the warm soft crack, losing track of where Gavi's hole even was. Muttered Spanish failed to register for him, whatever else the Barca slut was telling him. But he got them in, two fingers stretching and entering the player's backside, and his own cock absolutely throbbed with expectation - god, this was going to feel UNREAL! He had to shift Gavi into a new position, bent over and face pressed on top of the cistern. He pushed the white shirt further up the teen's back, enjoying the dense muscular strength of the smaller body. He pushed the white undies and trouser waist further down solid thighs, and paused to give a couple of good spanks to the bare cheeks, leaving red hand-marks on the Barca backside - he found it oddly beautiful in a way that he hadn't paused to appreciate with Tierney, the full pert muscles of the 19-year-old's rump making him look like some big booty porn bitch. In went two fingers again, more roughly, more demandingly - he felt like he was already close to cumming and he had to play with his cock in slow controlled strokes, though he just could not force himself to stop properly. He was utterly thrilled by not just Gavi's aching tightness, but the way the stocky little midfielder groaned and gasped for him, muttering contradictory `Too much!' and `Oh yes!' with alternating bursts of breath - and it was the mumbling speech of the other Kopa prince that finally broke Jude's paper-thin patience. He pulled his slick fingers away and spat noisily down between the spread cheeks, then again on the shaft and tip of his painfully hard member. `Brace yerself,' he grunted at Gavi and he pushed the head of his cock between those cheeks, rubbing it at the lad's crack with such little sense of entry that he might as well be trying to fuck a wall. He pulled away and tapped two fingers over the arse-hole, his other hand gripping hard at the waistline. Then he pushed in again, more sure of where the tiny entrance was, angling his cock as carefully as he could, really desperate to feel those muscles clamp about his weapon - he gripped both hands at Gavi's bare hips, feeling the tremor and intensity of the tight-muscled body beneath him, and thrusting forward as best he could. Gavi's cry was a little more pained, almost enough to make him stop, but then the groan sounded more pleased, and he picked out `huge' and `jesus christo' among the rushed breathy muttering that largely outdid his beginner Spanish. And moreover, really stopping him from admitting defeat, was the changed feeling, the sense of a change - he thought he could feel it accepting it, could feel a new pressure against the head of his cock, as if he was just about, just about, getting the tip in... And then, just as he began to feel the strength of this muscular backside relent to his dominance, just as he thought he could feel the tightness open for him, squeezing at his cock-head, just as he almost got exactly what he wanted- `No,' yelped Gavi's voice more forcefully, `no, no, no, stop!' Not a coquettish `too much' or `it's huge', but a definite refusal. Jude bit his lip unhappily and pulled awkwardly back, his cock throbbing and balls on fire; Gavi was sliding awkwardly sideways off the toilet, pants at his knees and shirt hanging huge and baggy. When he turned his face his eyes were shiny with tears and Jude felt a surge of guilt - had he pushed too much for this? No! The cocksucker had been gagging for it- `I'll go slower,' Bellingham found himself hissing, an almost begging desperation in his own Brummie voice. `We'll find proper lube, I'll try-' He was instantly embarrassed by the need in his voice, the urgency and greed - none of his cool domination there any more. But Gavi probably didn't understand what he was saying, and was paying him no attention anyway as he wriggled about, pulling up CKs and forcibly tucking his shirt up into the pants he was zipping up, his face bright red and shiny tears running down his puffy cheeks. Bellingham was confused and annoyed and several other emotions, but he snatched at the lapels of the blazer as Gavi tried to fight into it. `Hey, hey,' he hissed. `Stop - did I hurt you? I'm sorry, look, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to-' `No, no,' struggled the Spaniard, writhing against him uncomfortably, the roomy cubicle reduced to a tiny prison as their two male bodies fought for space, and Jude's big hard cock swung between them. Teary-eyed and trembling, Gavi was back in his disarrayed clothes and falling away from him, snatching for the door-lock; Jude was just confused and guilty and kinda embarrassed, needlessly ashamed of his own need to fuck a tight laddish arse, gutted that he'd felt just the tip enter. And then the Kopa winner was alone, the cubicle door slammed shut in his face, and he rocked on the heels of his black leather shoes. His chest heaving with overwrought breaths, the big sexy footballer looked down at the way his shiny wet cock still stuck out from his open fly. For fuck's sake. He re-locked the door, spat in his palm, and grabbed hold of himself - he'd have to sort this out before he floated back into his adoring public. Cold water splashed on his face, Gavi fled the bathroom without stopping to fix his ruffled hair or disturbed bowtie, or to tuck the last knot of shirt into the waist of his suit trousers. The blazer was only half on as the 5ft8 midfielder scampered awkwardly down the corridor, heading away from voices until he was going up another flight of stairs and hiding on the landing to a floor not in use tonight. Here he could find a windowsill and lean heavily onto it, gasping for breath and trying to ignore the painful burning sensation in his arse-hole, all but deflowered by Jude's powerful insistence. It had hurt like hell, even just the fingering, but that had hardly been the problem - he had been electrified with an excitement akin to this night in 2022, winning the Trophy himself. Safely alone, he cried loudly and clung to the windowsill, and then cursed himself in angry whispers. The amount of times he had put Pedri off, refusing and delaying and procrastinating! The ways he'd wriggled out of the inevitable, promising his boyfriend that they would do it soon, but `soon' never quite coming...! The times he'd watched that crestfallen expression cross Pedri's thick dark brows and nervous handsome face, as Gavi prevaricated away from giving up his arse to the other Spanish starlet. And here he was bending over for the Englishman like it was nothing, ready to go through that pain for someone he didn't even like-! He sobbed and fidgeted and thought how stupid and messy he would look when he eventually headed downstairs. He'd been drunker than he realised, he supposed, even when he rang Pedri, never mind when he spat at the feet of the Real Madrid superstar. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Angry with himself, Gavi felt his erection fade away unattended, and his bottom continue to sting, and he shakily took the phone out of his pocket. Just as when he'd strayed before, stupidly allowing himself to pleasure a couple of other older men in moments of frustration or resentment with his Lopez, he couldn't even fathom the idea of keeping a secret - he was hitting the buttons and calling Pedri before he even knew what to say. The other Barcelona player had answered the phone in seconds, but Gavi just cried down the line - `What is it? What's happened? Gavi, talk to me!' But Gavi couldn't talk sense to him, he was just so angry with how he close he'd come to letting someone else take his cherry. Gavi was angry and sobbing, but Jude was grunting quietly and spurting stream after stream of silvery-white cum on the green-painted interior of the cubicle door, firing his cum freely there and letting it dribble down the paintwork in thin trails. Controlling his breathing, the 6ft1 hunk continued to pull gently on his aching cock, and finally slowing to a stop; he reached for some toilet paper to rub across his sticky hand and then to dab along the shaft and head of his mighty Madridista cock. He'd come so close to a greater satisfaction, so the solo orgasm felt anti-climactic, despite the messy evidence. Washing his hands and then his face in the sink and at the mirror, Jude was still confused. Had he pressed himself too hard at the youngster? Had he misread the burbled Spanglish between them? He was frightened by his own forcefulness for the first time, and questioning the rapidly expanding ego that had brought him here. But he was also sure Gavi had been up for it and totally complicit, so he was daring to question what else the sulky teen was upset about - he really was a virgin, that was for sure! But he did his arse already belong to somebody else? Bellingham was confused and annoyed but not ready to let anything ruin tonight, El Classico and Kopa victories still all his. He tidied himself up in the mirror and admired himself, only momentarily dented by the revival of two thoughts: as hot as he was, he'd been refused by tonight's attempted fuck; and worse, he was so consumed by lust after Kieran Tierney that he'd lost his cool and begged for it. Fucking hell... he was in deep now. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2023 19:03:30 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 373 Part 373: An `El Classico' Rematch in Paris It was an experience devoid of the heart-stopping excitement of last year; it was nice to be suited and booted and to get the admiring nods and handshakes of some of the finest figures in football, many of them distractingly attractive older men in designer tailoring.. And the club guidance about diet and alcohol on this brief trip to France had quickly been dismissed by the senior figures in his group, meaning he was tipsy on presumed top-quality champagne and had stuffed his face with ambiguous vol-au-vents since arrival. But there was plenty missing from Gavi's 2023 Ballon D'Or experience. Last year had been one of electric tension, unable to believe the leaked information that he was to receive the same Kopa Trophy that had previously been awarded to his secret boyfriend - it remained one of the best nights of Pablo's young life, a wide-eyed 18-year-old at the top table of his international sport. It was a combo of those two things that meant he was enduring tonight's late-October ceremony in Paris with a mixture of quiet cynicism and glossy insincere enjoyment - a combo of not winning, and who wasn't here. Aggressively competitive as he was, the 19-year-old Spanish boy didn't like to think he was petty or selfish about such prizes, but there was definitely a dullness to being here the year after he'd stood up there and collected a prize - in reality, he was now years from snatching an actual Ballon d'Or and his moment as the `golden boy' of world football was already passing, as if 19 wasn't still spectacularly young for the things he was achieving in the Barcelona first team. Like the rest of the small Barca entourage who he was seated with for the whole event, ostensibly here to support their Women's team and their club's favourite son Messi, he saw little chance of a win in his own name, and so felt like shiny glamorous filler at someone else's big night. And that was the other thing - bosses back home in Catalonia had been fussy and stringent about simultaneously having a bright-faced contingent to represent their club at the event, but about limiting who exactly could go. And Pedri Lopez, it seemed, was at too crucial a turning point in his rehab and return to training, which meant that Gavi was on yet another overnight trip without the room-sharing comforts of his handsome boyfriend, or his soft tender lips, thoughtful mysterious eyes, strong curving cock, exploratory tongue. Gavi was furiously longing for the other young star's return to the Barca line-up so that it could stop being a logistical battle to spend nights together. As it was, Gavi was just another young football player in black tie, swilling champagne and ogling at the legends old and new who bobbed through the circles of this major awards event, its glamour and excitement largely passing the teen by. He kept imagining the cosy night in he might have been able to share at Pedri's plush apartment if he was back in their great city and not sat here in this stiff awkward chair! Still, the 19-year-old little stud managed to keep a plasticky grin on his dainty face and avoid the expressive belligerence that covered it throughout most football matches - until, that was, it came to the announcement of the 2023 Kopa Trophy. For Jude, tonight was everything that it had been for his counterpart last year, a night of dizzying success that cemented what he already knew: he was really fucking making it in his childhood dream, and the whole bloody world could see it. From the moment he met his family at the hotel and was helped into his couture, he'd felt light-headed and even humbled - trying to strut the red carpet coolly and then be introduced to hero after hero was a test to the calm maturity that everyone celebrated in him. Everybody from his mum and agent to his teammates and rivals were telling him the obvious, that the youth equivalent of the Ballon d'Or was his, but he was frightened to believe it as the event unfolded - until, that was, he had clammy fingers about the prize itself and was stood grinning modestly out at the sea of dark suits and glittering dresses. The only thing bothering Bellingham tonight was how it was passing in a whirl of unreality - would he even remember any of this tomorrow when he touched down in Madrid? He'd held a couple of glasses of champers for the cameras, but he was actually totally sober on sparkling water at his coaches' insistence, and yet he felt drunk on the excitement of it all, lost in this galaxy of superstars. Big international figures of yesteryear clutched his hands in theirs and slapped him heavily on broad shoulders, whilst key stars from the Premier League back home would punch him playfully in the arms and chastise him for choosing La Liga, demanding to know if he really saw himself spending 10-15 years at Real Madrid instead of coming to stir things up in England's top-flight. A couple of members of the award-winning City squad were there in sharp dark seats and they badgered him and his parents playfully at the bar, their attractive WAGs shooting him big smiles that felt flirtatious - he was sure that Kevin de Bruyne's eyes were trying to undress him even as her grinning ginger-haired hubby told him that he thought about retiring every time he watched him play. And eventually Jude Bellingham just had to pull himself away from this, overwhelmed. Feigning a need for the toilet that quickly became real, the 6ft1 midfield prodigy slipped away down the quietest route he could find, avoiding more inevitable congratulatory dialogues, and just disappearing into one of the outer passages of the ornate theatre venue, casting his eyes about for the gents. In the roomy cubicle of the toilets, Gavi sighed huskily down the line of his iPhone, and nodded resignedly to the chirpy voice that met him. `You aren't even staying overnight,' Pedri cajoled in Spanish, teasing him in an easy manner, as he had as soon as he picked up the call. `Come on, stop being a moody fool. Smile for the cameras and I'll see you tomorrow at training, if you're not too hungover...!' Gavi smirked a little at his boyfriend's teasing, but was slow to answer, sat down on the closed toilet lid and swirling the dregs of some champagne in his glass, nodding again as if the other lad could see. `I'm just bored,' the 19-year-old muttered for the dozenth time, and he could hear how sulky and ridiculous he sounded, hiding from the glitz of a ceremony that football players and fans would kill to attend. He rolled his eyes at himself and tried to think about how it had felt last year, but the nostalgia only threw tonight's dullness into further relief! `Stop sulking,' Pedri instructed him simply. `I'm going to hang up on you, sexy.' Gavi smiled just to hear that simple compliment, and he began to wonder how long he could hide in these upstairs toilets of the fancy theatre. For a moment, his other hand left the near empty champagne glass on the shelf to the side and slid across the breast of his blazer, toying just below his bowtie and tickling a few buttons of the starchy white shirt. `Hmm,' he mused as it began to head south, thinking that perhaps Pedri wouldn't hang up if he cheered up a bit and started talking dirty... He didn't hear his boyfriend's next quiet comment down the line, hand paused halfway down his front, cock twitching in his suit pants and undies, as a door slammed and footsteps echoed and then he could hear a loud sigh and the tinkle of piss in urinal. `Uh,' he mouthed, and the nervous tension in his voice must have been obvious to his listener. `I'll go,' Pedri said calmly and quietly, `if you're not alone any more - just text me when you're all boarding the flight, and let me know you land safe, okay buddy?' Suddenly too awkward to chat on the phone in the faux privacy of his cubicle, Gavi's only answer was a sort of awkward half-cough, and then the call bleeped out of existence in his ear, and he stood up from the toilet. The loos had been empty when he found his way in and dialled up his boyfriend, interrupting his night of TV bingeing alone, but the sound of another guest using the urinals made the teen very conscious of how risky it might have been to talk so frankly to Pedri - the sound of the guy pissing out there was so echoey that this cubicle would hardly have contained his muttered complaints and quiet little affections during the quick chat with his Barca hunk. Now Gavi just slid the phone decisively into the inner pocket of his blazer, unlocked the door, and strutted out into the main chamber of the mens' toilets; he did so with a ballsy swagger and puffed-out chest, which was more to gaslight himself than to impress whoever had come in to make genuine use of the facilities. But his manner became more rigid and awkward as he stood there and spotted who was using the middle urinal, a distinctive profile even from behind - not least from the fashionable bagginess of his dress trousers, which looked ridiculous to Gavi but had been well-received on the stupid red carpet. Gavi paused and stared daggers at the 20-year-old from behind, then moved quietly over to the marble block of sinks; he considered not washing his hands and just hurrying out of the bathroom, because he didn't want to have to force out stupid platitudes and join the general fawning over the new Madridista. Instead, he stood there with warm water rushing over his soapy hands, eyes fixed on the mirror, and then meeting Jude's as the taller young man arrived at the sink to his left. `Hola,' the 6ft1 midfielder greeted quite brightly, his Spanish thick with jarring accent. Gavi was as moodily quiet as he'd remained on the phone, just staring back at the other player's reflection, and then jerking his head that way to stare at him properly; if he'd managed to hide his almost comical scowls during the ceremony, he was failing now, pouting sulkily at the new Kopa winner, and furrowing into a frown. A soft half-laugh slipped out of Jude's lips and he spoke again in awkwardly accented but surprisingly accented Spanish - `Is there something on my clothes?' Gavi just stared frostily at him and Jude's smile faded. Gavi backed away from the sink and in a moody rush of blood to the head, turned and just spat at the ground near his successor's shiny shoes. `Well done,' the 19-year-old snapped in ferocious Spanish, `and enjoy the rest of your night.' He shook his damp hands at the sink and moved away to the cloths at the side, ready to dry them and stalk moodily away from this jumped-up Englishman - he was burning up with much more than his boredom at the night, the memories of El Classico fresh in his heart. He wiped his hands quickly and turned to make for the door - but suddenly Jude was blocking that path, overtaking him in a couple of long strides, and now looming over him. `Gracias,' Bellingham told him in a dry voice, his lean face deadly serious, slipping then into English. `What the fuck's your problem, short-stuff?' Jude didn't think he'd been particularly rude to the Barca youth during Saturday's game: nothing more than the slight banter he'd share with an opponent back in the Bundesliga or in his Birmingham early days. Sure, he'd laughed when he'd bested Gavi in tackles, and he'd celebrated as openly as always when he scored his inevitable brace of goals. He'd traded ambiguous remarks in the younger boy's ear when they passed in quiet moments, but he'd only returned the scowling antipathy of the Spaniard - the game between their clubs was a massive one for La Liga and surely a bit of banter and fighting talk was all part of it, they were all at it...! And Real Madrid had won 2-0, so of course Gavi just represented all of Barca's bitter resentment - a fallen giant, a club much reduced in recent years, and this angry little puppy was going to hold that as a grudge...! So the Brummie youth laughed calmly and stood there, glowering back at Gavi's moody face, and blocking his path to the door. When his question went unanswered, he repeated it to the best of his ability in Spanish, though he wasn't sure if his choice of curse words had the same impact. He smiled coolly and held his ground, unintimidated by this diminutive rottweiler of the Barca midfield. He'd had his banter on Saturday, but so had Gavi, full of muttered comments, some of them perhaps not meant to be understood by a green English migrant, and the little tit had even thwacked him on the arse at one point in a patronising and dismissive manner. 5 foot nothing and a complete Napoleon about it! `Are you just pissed because I got your prize?' Bellingham demanded then, finding the quiet awkward but not wanting to show it. `You know they give it to someone new every year, don't you? That is kinda the point, hey.' Gavi's English didn't seem to be great, but he'd understood the point. `Forget it,' he muttered in his own language. `Forget it.' He muttered a couple of other things but for all his speed of learning, Jude didn't follow them. Gavi went to push past him but he couldn't help but block him with one arm, pushing a hand at his shoulder and confronting him. `Or is it El Classico?' he demanded, a bit more forcefully. `All that trash talk from you and we still won.' Gavi really scowled at him and he looked like he might spit at the ground again - Jude Bellingham, the new contender for the crowns of Messi and Ronaldo, wasn't fucking standing for that. He grabbed the 5ft8 footballer by the jaw, holding his face commandingly and tilting it away so that Gavi's spit just bubbled stupidly at his lips. He let go and the shorter guy stumbled awkwardly back from him, face flushing. Jude almost struck him with a proper blow to the face, riled by this stupid confrontation and thinking just what a moody prick his opponent had been at the game on Saturday, but stopping himself - bloodying the nose of a Barcelona youth was hardly the kind of behaviour he wanted entering into the burgeoning legend of his own career, and he tried to relax the automatic fists that his strong hands were forming at his sides. Gavi stared at him again but the kid looked embarrassed now, and suddenly younger - there was just a year between them, but height and temperament made Jude feel older, more superior to the hot-blooded Spaniard. He opened his mouth to speak and then noticed something, the odd angular crease in the front of the other player's more tight-fitting suit trousers, exposed as his jacket shifted open and he tried to steady himself to rush past. Unable to stop himself, Jude let out a little barking laugh, and shifted position to keep blocking Gavi's exit, emphasising his superior height. `Que?' snapped the 19-year-old. Jude smirked and said nothing, just nodding downwards, and then reaching down to grab himself through the baggier crotch of his own outsized pants. He stood over the shorty, chuckling to himself, and thinking that he was really going to have to work on his ego if the world kept falling over itself to suck his dick. Gavi hadn't realised that, after Pedri ended the call, his bored teenage horn hadn't continued to swell in the front of his tight pants; after all, he was having trouble processing anything about the tall English newcomer as anything but aggravating and smug. From his towering height to the delicate scent of his aftershave, from those obnoxious trousers to the thin smirk of his lips... he was just a big infuriating bastard, an entitled prick who had crashed into the Spanish league as if he owned the place, and... And yet Jude's hand was on his shoulder, steering him back, and the 19-year-old was doing nothing to resist - in fact, he was reaching scrabbling hands to his side to push open the cubicle door that he'd shut behind him, and almost tripping over himself as he hurried backwards into it, eyes wide and lips trembling. His knees were bending almost of their own accord, lowering expensive black fabric to the polished floor, and his face held once more in Jude's strong grip, stroking and grasping his jawline, and angling it up to stare into his smirking features. Gavi knelt submissively on the cubicle floor and the Kopa prize winner towered luxuriously over him, doing nothing but grinning. `Good boy,' the Real player said in silky Spanish. It was the same smirking patronage that had come through his banter in El Classico, riling up a teenager who took the slightest tickle into aggression once he had his footy boots on. Gavi's entire playing style depended on his surprising ferocity, his willingness to throw himself into conflict with men twice his age and almost twice his weight. Now the terrier was tamed, kneeling silently in front of the new king, and practically drooling. His brain exploded with conflicting feelings, his frustration at everything about tonight not combatting an almost primal need to taste the rising alpha of world football. He thought about that moment of indignance on the pitch on Saturday, slapping a cheeky hand against the taller lad's backside as if to congratulate him, trying to put him down or make him uncomfortable - but just feeling the hard resistant muscles beneath his spank as he strolled away, and seeing the utterly unfazed cool in Bellingham's gaze as they ran separate ways on the pitch. `Good boy,' Jude repeated smoothly, in English now, and Gavi nodded silently, mouth open, eyes wide and glistening. He licked his pouting lips and rose on his knees, watching Jude's hands make light work of cummerbund and zip fly - and there it was, big and actually still flaccid, hanging out of the front of the black fabric, waiting for him. Long, pendulous, caramel brown but intensely pink at the tip, dormant but waiting to be woken with a kiss. Gavi breathed deeply, still infuriated by perfumed smugness, and dove in to taste it, falling under Jude's spell. Bellingham groaned quietly and stood in the same superhero posture with which he celebrated each inevitable La Liga goal. He felt the hot wet mouth close about his heavy cock and relaxed into it, feeling the skin tighten as his weapon swelled and stiffened. Soon Gavi was gobbling over it and trailing spit up and down the shaft, a talented little cocksucker if ever there was one! He reminded Jude almost of Phil Foden in Doha, noshing him off with red-faced enthusiasm only a few nights after Jude had been welcomed and initiated by that king of sluts, Harry Kane. Jude wished he hadn't had to leave the shiny Kopa trophy with event staff after the photographs were done, he wished he had it in one hand, held coolly at his side, one of the night's prizes, and the other this slut on his knees - last year's winner, Spain's bright young thing, now choking on his big Brummie hard-on, eating him up like the entire fucking world of football, ha. The sudden lewd toilet action was something that the 20-year-old stud could feel only as MILDLY surprising; of course he was getting blown, just like he deserved, just when he'd needed a short break from the applause and attention of the main event. And when he'd shot his load, he thought, he'd swan calmly back into it with just a faint glow in his cheeks, and he'd shake hands with Gavi's Barca teammates, and gloat to them too about how Madrid had thrashed them two days ago. Gavi was sucking his big black cock on behalf of the whole of La Liga, he thought, and then he told himself Yep, this ego is going to get out of control, for sure. At first he just stood there, presenting himself like a trophy, or like he was celebrating a penalty, but then he reached down and slid his fingers through the short silky turf of Gavi's chestnut hair. He held his head and fucked his mouth, unable to get his whole length in there but enough to choke and gag the lad, enjoying the splutters and gulps; he withdrew his cock and whipped it against one cheek and then the other, then wanked its wet tip against plump lips. He smirked down into Gavi's wide brown eyes, drooling a small drop of spit right down against the tip of his member and over Gavi's quivering lips - then he pushed his dick back in and let the youth go to town on it, sucking him quite expertly, making him wonder how many cocks the sulky bastard had eaten at the Nou Camp! Previously, Jude would have settled for this, this would have been more than enough. Previously, after all, he'd felt so new to this, and a little intimidated. There had been a time when Jude was naive and prudish, the nervous sidekick to illicit experiments of his friend Jadon Sancho. But then there'd been Kane by the swimming pool, and Foden, and Trent and Hendo, then his German Turk pal at Dortmund, and... he pictured trembling Kalvin Phillips in the night, sucking him off and thinking he was asleep! He pictured that Scottish thug Kieran Tierney, swaying after him into the Glasgow alleyway. He pictured those sturdy pale cheeks parting for him, and he knew he needed to fuck again. Gavi thought it was over, thought he might be left here, humiliated with spit and pre-cum on his boyish face - but as he was hoisted quite roughly up to his feet, he saw the determined and excited glint in Jude's eyes, and he knew otherwise. He was flipped against the firmer wall of the corner cubicle, the one that was all shining beige porcelain, and he felt Jude's fingers clutching his hair again. Just like on the pitch, the taller guy was leaning in close and whispering hotly in his ear. He said something in English that Gavi didn't understand, and then attempted it in Spanish - `You are going to have me inside you', or something close enough. Gavi nodded in spite of himself, shocked at the furious urgency of his agreement, at the speed with which he shucked his Gucci blazer and let it fall aside, feeling Jude's hands undoing his trousers for him at the front. He shook and whimpered and hoisted up the tails of shirt just as the bigger boy pulled down his taut trousers and the white CK underpants underneath. He felt his own plump rear exposed, just as it had almost been that time when he skidded clumsily across the turf, and he pushed it backwards, wanting it to impress and excite this young king. When Jude grabbed and spanked it, he moaned and yelped, and thought again how this cubicle was not soundproof, but didn't care any more. The sound of spit, and he knew he needed to say something urgently - he imagined handsome Jude drooling down onto that big brown cock, and he whispered out the Spanish for `virgin!' several times, hoping that the big lad's oddly impressive language skills were up to that. Just as he Jude chuckled hotly in his ear, Gavi once more yelped `Virgin!' emphatically, unaware the word was almost identical in both tongues, then experienced a giddy hit of relief as he realised Jude had already understood - it wasn't the thick hot tip of his meat that Jude was sliding between plump pale cheeks, but a single spit-wet finger. Gavi felt the fingertip on his ring and he whined his consent. Jude hadn't believed what he heard the brat say about being `virgen, virgen!', not with cocksucking skills like those, and yet once he was one finger in, he knew it - wow, he'd never fingered anything so tight. It's not like Kieran had been loose and easy for him, as he quite nervously entered his first male backside, but Gavi's bottom was vice-like, and he had to pull back his finger and spit on it some more. Then, over-excited, he reached around and made the pouting poser lick it for him, then shoved it back into him. Even this he loved, pinning the 5ft8 rottweiler to the wall and parting his cheeks - this'll teach the uppity arse-hole for trying to pat my bum in El Classico, ha! Jude pulled the single finger in and out, still questioning whether the gasping slut hadn't been passed around by the dominant blokes at Barca or Spain, but trying to loosen and prepare the tight `virgen' ring that clamped about his own digit - and wanking impatiently at his member with his other hand, so furiously ready to feel the ultimate pleasure like he had as he topped the grumpy Scotsman that late summer night. When he tried two fingers, it was a real struggle. He spat heavily onto his two fingers and ran them back and forward in the warm soft crack, losing track of where Gavi's hole even was. Muttered Spanish failed to register for him, whatever else the Barca slut was telling him. But he got them in, two fingers stretching and entering the player's backside, and his own cock absolutely throbbed with expectation - god, this was going to feel UNREAL! He had to shift Gavi into a new position, bent over and face pressed on top of the cistern. He pushed the white shirt further up the teen's back, enjoying the dense muscular strength of the smaller body. He pushed the white undies and trouser waist further down solid thighs, and paused to give a couple of good spanks to the bare cheeks, leaving red hand-marks on the Barca backside - he found it oddly beautiful in a way that he hadn't paused to appreciate with Tierney, the full pert muscles of the 19-year-old's rump making him look like some big booty porn bitch. In went two fingers again, more roughly, more demandingly - he felt like he was already close to cumming and he had to play with his cock in slow controlled strokes, though he just could not force himself to stop properly. He was utterly thrilled by not just Gavi's aching tightness, but the way the stocky little midfielder groaned and gasped for him, muttering contradictory `Too much!' and `Oh yes!' with alternating bursts of breath - and it was the mumbling speech of the other Kopa prince that finally broke Jude's paper-thin patience. He pulled his slick fingers away and spat noisily down between the spread cheeks, then again on the shaft and tip of his painfully hard member. `Brace yerself,' he grunted at Gavi and he pushed the head of his cock between those cheeks, rubbing it at the lad's crack with such little sense of entry that he might as well be trying to fuck a wall. He pulled away and tapped two fingers over the arse-hole, his other hand gripping hard at the waistline. Then he pushed in again, more sure of where the tiny entrance was, angling his cock as carefully as he could, really desperate to feel those muscles clamp about his weapon - he gripped both hands at Gavi's bare hips, feeling the tremor and intensity of the tight-muscled body beneath him, and thrusting forward as best he could. Gavi's cry was a little more pained, almost enough to make him stop, but then the groan sounded more pleased, and he picked out `huge' and `jesus christo' among the rushed breathy muttering that largely outdid his beginner Spanish. And moreover, really stopping him from admitting defeat, was the changed feeling, the sense of a change - he thought he could feel it accepting it, could feel a new pressure against the head of his cock, as if he was just about, just about, getting the tip in... And then, just as he began to feel the strength of this muscular backside relent to his dominance, just as he thought he could feel the tightness open for him, squeezing at his cock-head, just as he almost got exactly what he wanted- `No,' yelped Gavi's voice more forcefully, `no, no, no, stop!' Not a coquettish `too much' or `it's huge', but a definite refusal. Jude bit his lip unhappily and pulled awkwardly back, his cock throbbing and balls on fire; Gavi was sliding awkwardly sideways off the toilet, pants at his knees and shirt hanging huge and baggy. When he turned his face his eyes were shiny with tears and Jude felt a surge of guilt - had he pushed too much for this? No! The cocksucker had been gagging for it- `I'll go slower,' Bellingham found himself hissing, an almost begging desperation in his own Brummie voice. `We'll find proper lube, I'll try-' He was instantly embarrassed by the need in his voice, the urgency and greed - none of his cool domination there any more. But Gavi probably didn't understand what he was saying, and was paying him no attention anyway as he wriggled about, pulling up CKs and forcibly tucking his shirt up into the pants he was zipping up, his face bright red and shiny tears running down his puffy cheeks. Bellingham was confused and annoyed and several other emotions, but he snatched at the lapels of the blazer as Gavi tried to fight into it. `Hey, hey,' he hissed. `Stop - did I hurt you? I'm sorry, look, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to-' `No, no,' struggled the Spaniard, writhing against him uncomfortably, the roomy cubicle reduced to a tiny prison as their two male bodies fought for space, and Jude's big hard cock swung between them. Teary-eyed and trembling, Gavi was back in his disarrayed clothes and falling away from him, snatching for the door-lock; Jude was just confused and guilty and kinda embarrassed, needlessly ashamed of his own need to fuck a tight laddish arse, gutted that he'd felt just the tip enter. And then the Kopa winner was alone, the cubicle door slammed shut in his face, and he rocked on the heels of his black leather shoes. His chest heaving with overwrought breaths, the big sexy footballer looked down at the way his shiny wet cock still stuck out from his open fly. For fuck's sake. He re-locked the door, spat in his palm, and grabbed hold of himself - he'd have to sort this out before he floated back into his adoring public. Cold water splashed on his face, Gavi fled the bathroom without stopping to fix his ruffled hair or disturbed bowtie, or to tuck the last knot of shirt into the waist of his suit trousers. The blazer was only half on as the 5ft8 midfielder scampered awkwardly down the corridor, heading away from voices until he was going up another flight of stairs and hiding on the landing to a floor not in use tonight. Here he could find a windowsill and lean heavily onto it, gasping for breath and trying to ignore the painful burning sensation in his arse-hole, all but deflowered by Jude's powerful insistence. It had hurt like hell, even just the fingering, but that had hardly been the problem - he had been electrified with an excitement akin to this night in 2022, winning the Trophy himself. Safely alone, he cried loudly and clung to the windowsill, and then cursed himself in angry whispers. The amount of times he had put Pedri off, refusing and delaying and procrastinating! The ways he'd wriggled out of the inevitable, promising his boyfriend that they would do it soon, but `soon' never quite coming...! The times he'd watched that crestfallen expression cross Pedri's thick dark brows and nervous handsome face, as Gavi prevaricated away from giving up his arse to the other Spanish starlet. And here he was bending over for the Englishman like it was nothing, ready to go through that pain for someone he didn't even like-! He sobbed and fidgeted and thought how stupid and messy he would look when he eventually headed downstairs. He'd been drunker than he realised, he supposed, even when he rang Pedri, never mind when he spat at the feet of the Real Madrid superstar. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Angry with himself, Gavi felt his erection fade away unattended, and his bottom continue to sting, and he shakily took the phone out of his pocket. Just as when he'd strayed before, stupidly allowing himself to pleasure a couple of other older men in moments of frustration or resentment with his Lopez, he couldn't even fathom the idea of keeping a secret - he was hitting the buttons and calling Pedri before he even knew what to say. The other Barcelona player had answered the phone in seconds, but Gavi just cried down the line - `What is it? What's happened? Gavi, talk to me!' But Gavi couldn't talk sense to him, he was just so angry with how he close he'd come to letting someone else take his cherry. Gavi was angry and sobbing, but Jude was grunting quietly and spurting stream after stream of silvery-white cum on the green-painted interior of the cubicle door, firing his cum freely there and letting it dribble down the paintwork in thin trails. Controlling his breathing, the 6ft1 hunk continued to pull gently on his aching cock, and finally slowing to a stop; he reached for some toilet paper to rub across his sticky hand and then to dab along the shaft and head of his mighty Madridista cock. He'd come so close to a greater satisfaction, so the solo orgasm felt anti-climactic, despite the messy evidence. Washing his hands and then his face in the sink and at the mirror, Jude was still confused. Had he pressed himself too hard at the youngster? Had he misread the burbled Spanglish between them? He was frightened by his own forcefulness for the first time, and questioning the rapidly expanding ego that had brought him here. But he was also sure Gavi had been up for it and totally complicit, so he was daring to question what else the sulky teen was upset about - he really was a virgin, that was for sure! But he did his arse already belong to somebody else? Bellingham was confused and annoyed but not ready to let anything ruin tonight, El Classico and Kopa victories still all his. He tidied himself up in the mirror and admired himself, only momentarily dented by the revival of two thoughts: as hot as he was, he'd been refused by tonight's attempted fuck; and worse, he was so consumed by lust after Kieran Tierney that he'd lost his cool and begged for it. Fucking hell... he was in deep now. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-370

Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2023 21:30:07 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 370 Part 370: England Camp, Day Nine Taking the fresh drink from the attractive and minimally dressed waitress, the young superstar settled back into the boxy leather armchair and made himself perfectly comfortable, rightly feeling that the entire world was at his talented feet - or more specifically tonight, the VIP section of the most boujie nightclub in Glasgow's trendy West End, enjoying the fuss that their presence was making up here in the elevated mezzanine overlooking the main dancefloor of throbbing drunken bodies. He put the ice cold glass to his lips and took a long sip of the heady cocktail, resting his elbows on the broad arms of the chair, and smiling placidly at the party atmosphere around him. It wasn't a large outing of the night's winning England squad, fresh from their victory at Hampden Park in the heritage friendly. A lot of the guys had early journeys planned and family commitments before returning to their professional clubs, a few even setting off from the airport tonight almost immediately after the 3-1 win. But there were enough of them, a fresh-faced cluster of the squad's younger stars, and the rising king of La Liga the magnetic centre of their group. Jude Bellingham surveyed his scant party pals for the night, noting the raucous merriment of his buddy and past playmate Phil Foden by the balcony edge, chatting away with a couple of wealthy England fans who had bumped into them in the previous bar and secured their entrance to this swanky joint; he eyed Chelsea duo Gallagher and Colwill, both poised at the centre of a group of attractive girls closer to the bar, regaling them with some highlights from the game; he glanced casually across to the sight of Arsenal buddies Ramsdale and Saka being similarly surrounded by admirers, but with much less flirtatious effort between them than their West London counterparts. And that was it, he thought - a couple of others had joined them to the first bar, Chilwell and Rice and Nketiah, only to limp off at 1am for the safety of the hotel. Jude, who was beginning to adapt to the siestas and late nights of Madrid, had been disappointed not to rouse a bigger party from his senior colleagues, but he was still enjoying the night, the atmosphere, the drink, the attention. When the 6ft1 youngster clutched his negroni and got up from his perch, he could feel the eyes on him, including from chatty girls who were otherwise showing interest in Levi or Conor or big Aaron; he could feel their interest trailing after him as he took his strut across the mezzanine, even if most of them were in their later 20s or 30s, and might scoff at the idea of chatting to a 20-year-old in any other circumstances. Jude knew that he exuded a powerful maturity even off the football pitch, and the thought of turning on an audience of attractive older women was just fine for him. The dark silk shirt and loose-fit summer trousers hanging loosely from his lean muscular physique, he moved to the rail and held it with one hand, overlooking the dancefloor and feeling as if he could take his pick - any tipsy or high girl dancing with her pals down there would drop all patriotism for a session with a hot young thing like him, he thought, and he felt like fucking royalty. The relative shyness and reserve that had clung to Bellingham in his formative Bundesliga years was falling away, bit by bit, and the young man who had arrived in Spain this summer was not the same boy who had joined Harry Kane by the swimming pool that night in Doha. The thought of that transformative experience made the 20-year-old smirk to himself, and re-evaluate his cocky assessment of the dancefloor below: it wasn't just the hot girls dancing away who might drop their knickers for a ride on this football stallion, was it? Half their boyfriends would probably turn bi-curious at the prospect of footy's new poster boy. Jude could grin at the swell of arrogance in his train of thoughts, he hadn't lost all humility and common sense - but he really did feel unstoppable lately, stampeding into his new Spanish league and asserting himself with relative ease into a super-club like Real Madrid. And then coming here to this brief international camp with the Three Lions and consolidating his near-guaranteed spot in Southgate's plans. His cock-hungry captain aside, he could see the respect and even awe that many of the senior England players regarded him, and knew he'd properly made it now - he was the future of football, and one day his image would be as iconic as Messi or Ronaldo were now. For all of this simmering confidence, Jude was not getting approached in the same way his cluster of teammates were, and he suspected there was something intimidating or unapproachable in his aloof complacency. He didn't mind. He felt sure that when he saw what he wanted, he would just have to look across and smile. It all sounded so vain and idiotic, but then... not two nights ago the Stourbridge youth had woken from his first moments of slumber to find a `straight' roommate sniffing his bulge. He'd enjoyed winding Kalvin Phillips up since without overtly mentioning what had happened, and been a little disappointed when the Leeds lad had been among the first to escape camp and fly to Manchester tonight - he suspected his own hot young body had something to do with it, but he could hardly take any blame. The greedy slut had pawed and licked his body while he was pretending to sleep, and now Kal was just ashamed of himself. Dirty bugger. Jude felt horny just thinking about it, staring down his body and watching the greed on the older fella's face, before dropping the bombshell of his conscious enjoyment once the City guy was huddled across in the next bed. Here in the VIP section, he sniggered to himself, and stretched out his long arms against the rail, enjoying the memory. Turning away from the view, indifferent to the party-hard Scottish girls that he could see from here, he was about to go and round up the Lions for a set of Jager-bombs, when he noticed that they weren't the only ones being tailed by security. A small huddle of other conspicuous young men had entered the arena, and Jude recognised them immediately: a parallel handful of younger squad members from the Scottish side who his team had spanked only hours ago at Hampden Park. Grinning delightedly, Jude deliberately crossed their path on his way to the bar, pausing briefly in front of them, and flashing a wordless smile of victory at their gormless faces; almost as one, the small crew of Caledonians nodded acknowledgement and gave him a somewhat meek staring down, nobody mouthing a single word against the crashing dance music below them. Jude grinned and nodded too, and then stepped casually away from them, gesturing coolly at Ramsdale and Saka to join him for more drinks. As if they didn't have numerous friends and teammates in common, the small camps of England and Scotland players kept a cool distance in the relative confines of the VIP bar, as if their national side's so-called rivalry was anything that mattered to fellow Brits who largely played in the Premier League. The presence of the Scots seemed to delight Jude's drinking companions in different ways, with only treble-winner Foden seeming to be above gloating - but he was more interested in funny videos of his kids that his partner was sending him, the league's youngest boring family man. Jude had hoped he might get a little more attention from the Stockport scally at some point this week, like in their Qatari hotel, but there was something disappointingly chaste about Phil's behaviour this year. The Chelsea and Arsenal lads, however, were full of quiet banter and amusing bristling machismo, as if waiting for a West Side Story dance-off with a rival gang. Maybe it was their own pathetic London rivalry, Bellingham supposed, and bantering about the Scottish thistle-fuckers was a great way to bond and find common ground. For himself, he found himself looking at the self-conscious celebrity huddle with a particular idea in mind. The five Scotland players were mobbed now, all grateful selfies and hugged condolences with home turf fans, though it was more beery blokes than the hot women who were orbiting Jude's own crew. Staring past this, Bellingham found himself looking at the rival footballers in the same way that he'd surveyed his view from the balcony, because a particular kind of cocksure vanity was taking over; it was one thing lying back and having his cock worshipped by sluttish captain Kane or awkwardly curious Phillips, but he was now entertaining a particular fantasy of dominance: asserting that same precocious authority over an opponent who just couldn't resist his manhood. Drinking a fresh cocktail by the bar and ignoring the flirty group around him, the Madridista sized up his options here. The brashest and most attention-seeking of the Scots was Ryan Porteous, the Watford centre-back striking various muscular poses in group photos with glassy-eyed drunk fans - hmm, nah, too fucking full of himself, Jude thought unironically. Ex-Chelsea and now Brighton midfielder Billy Gilmour was a quieter presence, perhaps made more awkward by the fact his former teammates had done nothing to approach him since his arrival - hmm, nah, a bit too much of a skinny rat, not worth dominating! Then there were Serie A's Lewis Ferguson and Everton's Nathan Patterson, both ordering in ostentatious trays of drinks at the other end of the bar, surrounded by hangers-on - nah, he concluded, thinking that both hefty lads looked a bit too drunk to function, and not worth his effort or attention. Nah, it was the fifth of the Scotland footballers in their little clique that caught his eye and stirred his imagination, making him rub his thumb across his chin and lower lip, and wonder if anyone on the Scottish team could suck dick half as well as Harry Kane or Phil Foden. Apart from anything else, Scot Number 5 had something very important in common with him: both young men were new arrivals to La Liga, and the prospect of awkward reunion on a Spanish pitch gave Jude far more thrill than caution. He strutted calmly from the bar and the conversations of his teammates, and made a beeline for Kieran Tierney. The awkward distance between the rival teams was broken as soon as Jude approached Kieran: conversations were struck up among the other football players too and the athletes formed a ragged circle at the heart of the VIP area, bantering with each other and courting their fans and admirers quite happily, with only joking fisticuffs and aggressive photo poses as tribute to the ancient rivalry that tonight's game had celebrated. Jude chatted lightly and playfully with the 26-year-old Lanarkshire lad, teasing him with snatches of his own slow-progress Spanish, and enjoying the Real Sociedad player's stilting attempts to respond. There was plenty for the two of them to discuss, comparing notes on how they had been received in their different corners of a new country, commenting on the football culture and the language barriers, and discussing their respective club's upcoming fixtures in a shared league. Jude was a perceptive lad and he quickly picked up on the subtleties of Kieran's mood, easily detecting that the Arsenal man was somewhat annoyed at being initially snubbed by Aaron and Bukayo... Also, that Tierney was taking the Scotland defeat a bit more to heart than the other four, who were definitely more drunk than him, a more fierce patriot in spite of being born on the Isle of Man. Whilst the other four were loudly wasted and partying nearby, there was something impenetrably dour and serious about the 5ft10 full-back, and a certain interesting vulnerability. Lastly, Jude was quick to pick up on the way his seated neighbour kept checking his phone with a frown, and playing with a ring on his pinky finger - the fella was missing a girlfriend somewhere, in London or Spain, and less interested in the club girls than his younger teammates. They'd been chatting for a while now, slightly detached from the assembled footballers and their mixed fans, and Jude felt he had a good measure of the lad next to him. More drunk on his own blooming ego than the cocktails he'd been sipping, Jude was utterly sure of his own irresistible persona, completely convinced that the footballing world was his to command - and he was much more interested in asserting his macho power over a grumpy Scot than he was in the dozen 10/10 young ladies who were eyeing him up from different corners of the bar. He wanted Kieran Tierney to struggle to look him in the eye when their two Real teams next met in La Liga. Discreetly, he laid one calm hand on the shoulder of Kieran's crisp white shirt and leaned slightly closer so that he didn't have to shout over the music. `Do you want to get some air, KT?' he asked coolly, his own expression unreadable. Tierney seemed to frown briefly at the idea but turn this way and nod his head. `Aye,' he grunted over the tunes, `that makes sense.' Jude shrugged off the tail of two different security personnel, one from each national side's entourage, who tried to follow them - he also eschewed the door to the actual VIP smoking terrace where they were directed. `The last thing either of us need is a picture of us surrounded by smokers and vapers,' he said simply, shouldering the security door that took them into the broad dark side-street to the rear of the club. The night was cooler than recently, and both football men stepped away from the doorway to enjoy this light breeze. Jude slid his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers and paced away from the doorway, taking in the graffiti murals of the high-stretching ex-industrial buildings around them, aware of Kieran's slow steps and brooding quiet as he followed him. Out here, the nightclub felt both close and miles away, the air still ringing with suppressed music and the smell of sweat and aftershave, but the throbbing lights and manic crowd lost; the 3am street was deserted and empty, nobody to be seen on this side of the club but the two of them, and the few parked cars. `We might have trouble getting back in,' Tierney remarked ambivalently. Bellingham stopped in the middle of the street and look back at him. `Maybe.' `You don't sound arsed.' Jude smiled faintly at this, looking the lean defender up and down, and shrugging his own broad shoulders. `Well, the night is almost over, isn't it?' `Dunno, pal,' Kieran murmured oddly, hugging his arms about his chest. He seemed about to make some retort at this and then stop himself. `You lot are the winners,' he pointed out with ironic grace, `so you might go on celebrating until sunrise. Us losers, on the other hand, should probably be getting home soon.' He made a scoffing noise and looked about to turn back towards the club fire exit, still slightly ajar as they'd left it. Noise and lighting leaked manically from it, a reminder of the chaotic hedonism they'd left behind in search of fresh air. Jude smiled at this reminder of the game, and his international success, but he took a few casual steps back closer to the 26-year-old, enjoying the way he towered several inches over the old lad in height. `Winners and losers,' he mused quietly. `What?' `Nothing. Just thinking, that's all.' `You're acting odd, pal,' the grumpy jock told him bluntly. Jude ignored this, his smile unflinching. He slid one hand from his pocket and brought it to play idly with the thick gold chain about his neck, playing slightly at the open collar of his silk shirt; he studied the flicker and uncertainty of Kieran's almost aggressive eyes, knowing that he'd captured his interest. He left the hand loosely at his own neck and with the other he played with one button halfway down his front. Kieran's eyes didn't seem to know where to go, before coming up to meet his. `You're the one who followed me out here,' he said quietly. The Arsenal loanee started at this. His voice was husky and irritable. `You invited me out here for some air?' He let out a long huffy breath. `I thought we were having a good chat in there, pal. We've a fair bit in common. But if you just wanna gloat, then-' `Who's gloating?' Jude asked sweetly. `You're the one chatting about losers and winners.' Kieran huffed again. He pawed at the front of his ill-fitting chinos, somehow contriving to look like a working-class basic lad out on the town and nothing like the well-paid sportstar his senior career had made him, right up to the un-trendy chestnut tufts of his stable haircut. The Scottish Arsenal defender looked like a laddish embodiment of the Sunday League, and Jude knew that he oozed Champions League charm. He pulled lightly at the draped material of his shirt and laughed quietly under his breath, still locking eyes with the full-back. `What?' Sociedad's new transfer demanded hotly. `Nothing, nothing...' `Fuck this. You're high, or something. I'm going back in there to round up the lads - we shouldn't have come out tonight after that shit-show game, I told them. See you in Spain, or whatever, mate - I'm as big a fan of your footy as anyone else, but nobody told me you were such an arrogant prick.' He said all of this in one red-cheeked rush, then entirely failed to turn around and march back to the fire door that would return him to the nightclub and the safety of the VIP. Jude held a patient smile on his face and toyed with the top button of his shirt, and then nodded away over his shoulder; behind him, on the opposite side of the street from the fire exit, a narrow alley darted away, darker and more hidden than this road. He said nothing more but just grinned at the other footballer, and Kieran scowled back at him. There was a long moment there of self-doubt that cracked through Jude's new superstar mindset... the kind of insecurity and social anxiety that had plagued him through his mid- and late-teens, once utterly dependent on the more outgoing Jadon Sancho to steer him through German social life. Behind the glaze of superstardom was a gangly young lad who'd been terrified to leave Birmingham and take that career risk, and who still couldn't quite believe he got to wear the Three Lions on his chest. But that young boy from Stourbridge only took over for a faint moment, because the 6ft1 La Liga star was taking a cool step backwards, both hands in his pockets, and smirking with his head tilted playfully to one side - and with a long huffy sigh, Kieran Tierney was prowling across the pavement after him, following him into the cool Glaswegian shadows. `Come here and feel how hard I'm getting,' Bellingham instructed him coolly, flopping his tall physique casually back into a wall of concrete, and grabbing Tierney's hand on the way to his crotch, helping it to grab the bulge in his trousers, and grinning down into the flushed angular face of the frowning Scotsman. `Give it a good feel... loser.' Tierney's nostrils flared angrily and he pouted, but he grabbed and stroked it like he was told, helping the semi to quickly get even harder. Jude brought his hand up and clutched the side of Kieran's face instead. `Knew you'd be keen on tasting some English dick tonight, Scottie. Now - you gonna get down on your knees?' `You're so fucking in love with yourself,' the 26-year-old accused him in a growl, close up against him in the shadows, and rubbing furiously at his tenting hard-on, and Jude laughed gently in response, resting hands on his strong shoulders. `And so is everybody else, buddy, so get down there and suck my dick.' He was thrilled to hear the authority and power in his voice, and unsurprised when the Scot kneeled down to obey. Jude sighed with complacent triumph, resting back into the wall and unbuttoning his shirt in no hurry, whilst the front of his trousers was unbuttoned and unzipped with more furtive effort by Kieran's fingers. Soon the loose-fitting pants were sliding down mighty brown legs of muscle and the kneeling Scot was tugging down on dark grey boxer briefs, gasping a bit when face-to-face with the gently rising strength of Jude's erection. He grinned down, eyes adjusting to the gloom. `Give it a kiss, bitch.' He moaned loudly as the Arsenal reject did as he was told, and Jude's ego was stoked further in its ascent. He'd eyed Tierney as a moody slut across the VIP bar. He'd picked his target, and it had been that easy. He thought back to storming into that hotel gym in Doha, greedily confronting the England skipper - Harry Kane had made a man of him that night, going down on him and initiating him as a true Lion. Of course buggers like Kalvin were fondling him at night, and sluts like Kieran here were gonna gobble him down back-alleys - he was the King of Spain. He put his hands down there, scratching his fingers through Tierney's shite hair, taking control and feeding his long girthy piece into that greedy mouth, pushing deep enough to make him gag, and only briefly allowing him to cough and catch his breath before fucking his mouth again, gently pushing with his hips to plough the Scotsman's hungry mouth. He moaned and sighed and enjoyed himself, pleased with just how pleasingly eager and submissive the man on his knees had become, exactly as he'd fantasised: his big English prick filling up the throat of the Scottish loser, fucking his gob like his team had fucked them at Hampden Park! Unbidden, KT began to lap at his balls, and he moaned happily, wanking his wet cock as the hungry mouth kissed around his sack and briefly visited the glistening muscle of each thigh. He grinned down into Kieran's hot face of lust, slapping the weight of his cock on his protruding tongue and then forcing it back in between his lips. He ragged at his head like he was a sex toy, choking him on his meat, his shirt hanging open about his ripped abs, and his dominance making him want to prolong the pleasure - sure, he wanted to bust a nut, but he really wanted to let this linger, to assert himself fully over the representative Scotsman, and to feel like England's great fucking hope of future glory. To that end, he let the other player scrabbled upwards off his knees, but pulled his face away then the shorter lad stretched upwards and tried to kiss him - he had no interest in kissing another guy and he certainly didn't want to taste his own pre-cum on those sluttish lips! But when Kieran tried instead to kiss him on the neck, he let him, enjoying the hungry pecks at the side of his throat, and holding firm on Kieran's shoulders to control and contain him, whilst one of the older lad's hands pumped his spit-wet prick down below. `You fucking slut,' Jude groaned victoriously at him. `Knew you'd go down on me. Hah.' `Smug English prick,' Kieran muttered with the bitterness of someone who hadn't dropped to his knees at the slightest hint. `You suck dick pretty good,' Bellingham complimented him. `Does your whole team? Should I get Porteous or Patterson out here to suck my balls next?' `Fuck off...' `God you can't stop wanking it, can you? You love how it feels.' `You smug bastard...' `And you fucking LOVE IT, Arsenal reject, don't you?!' He heard the brash violence in his voice here, perhaps pushing it too far, perhaps enjoying his power trip that bit too much, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the cocksucking full-back tore away from him and fled at that insult, instead of tightening his grip about the base of his big alpha cock - and hissing back in a throaty whine, `I'll eat your load, but you ain't fucking me.' As yet, the prospect of fucking this fella hadn't even occurred to Jude - even after his England exploits and his occasional playmate back at Dortmund, it hadn't REALLY occurred to the youth that he might push this transgression any further, not in any explicit or definite way. It had not been in his thoughts as he singled Kieran out or led him here into the shadows to enjoy his submission. But now that the words were out there... `What?' he heard himself mumble in a moment of disrupted authority, his voice full of nervous energy and youthful inexperience. Kieran did not seem to pick up on the wobble. Rubbing a hand across his shame-red face and licking his lips, he muttered out his limits again, `I'll suck your big cock, pal, but I'm not taking it up me arse - I've got- er- I've got- uh - a boyfriend.' This admission seemed a difficult truth for him to spit out, and Jude could only begin to guess at the journey of self-discovery that his Tuesday-night slut had been on to say that word out loud to anyone in the world. But what KT could only begin to guess at was how much he had just handed real power to England's young hero. `You sure about that?' Bellingham purred, instantly reaching around to grab the older footballer's pert backside through his ugly chinos. `You don't want to bend over for daddy?' `Daddy?' grunted Tierney, outraged. `How old are you, 18?' `Fuck,' the Madrid midfielder growled back, hugging him into the wall, `never noticed what a nice booty you got, defender boy - why don't we see how tight that hole is?' He wasn't sure where his words were coming from. An unknown desire had been unlocked, or a quick new path to dominance. `Fuck off,' Kieran murmured, `and let me suck you again...' `Nah,' Jude insisted, arms about his waist, holding their faces super-close. `I know you want it, fella - your arse cheeks are clenched like crazy just thinking about it, haha. Turn around and drop the pants. I'm gonna fuck you like we fucked your whole team on the pitch.' The only response from the Scotsman was a deep angsty moan. `Come on,' he hissed. `I know you want my big dick, bitch.' And in seconds, the Sociedad transfer was spinning around, lifting up the back of his shirt. Hands moving at speed, Jude reached about his waist and undid the buckle of his belt, wrenching at the button flies - it was all happening so fast, tugging away the ugly chino pants and then the tighty whities below, til he was standing there with his cock in his hand and the pert pale cheeks of the Scotsman's arse down in front of him, pushed back as the slut leant into the concrete wall. `Fuck's sake,' panted Kieran, when Jude began to push the pink head of his member between these fleshy white globes, `I won't be able to take it like that!' For all his dominant energy, Jude was suddenly nervous, hyper-aware of his own relative virginity, and he pulled back with his hips, staring down at his monster cock and the firm arse cheeks like it was an unsolvable puzzle. His other hand held a fistful of white shirt just below the collar, pushing Kieran roughly forward as if he was 100% in charge, even as he stared wonderingly at his dick and the buttocks, and wondered if he could really cross this boundary. Kieran's eager hiss cut into his indecision: `Just rub a bit of spit down there or something, for fuck's sake - haven't you done this before?' Jude paused only briefly before snapping back arrogantly, `Your boyfriend's pencil-cock must be easier', then spitting noisily down on his cock. He spat more onto two fingers then shoved them very roughly between the glutes, making the Scot squeal and shudder. Without any grace, he thrust his fingers in against the tight knot of hole in the furry crack, and he felt muscle give way to his exploring digits, two thick fingers going straight inside the Scottish slut - the wild secret knowledge that Kieran Tierney was gay and had a boyfriend was blowing his mind but he was trying to ignore it. He preferred to think of the rival player as hetero and unavailable, yet conquered by his undeniable charisma and sheer footballing prowess! `Hows' that?' he growled, frigging the strong muscular arse. `Fucking hell,' Kieran moaned, and then, `that's it!' For a few minutes, Jude just kept on with this. Partly, he was thrilled by the way his two digging fingers could send absolute spasms through the 5ft10 figure of the Arsenal reject, and the way Tierney was now begging under his breath for him. But also he was delaying the terrifying true transgression, knowing that something irreversible was happening when he broke into this lovely tight arse with his own cock... Had he really never considered this next step? He'd been furious when Salih Ozcan tried to ask it of him in shared German hotel rooms, begging for more than a mouthful, and it had left their football bromance on thin ice as Jude departed the Bundesliga. But as soon as Tierney had tried to deny it him, it had been all he wanted. Dominance, that was the thing, and it didn't matter how he took it... `Please,' Kieran begged him in a rough yelp, `put that monster in me!' `So much for that boyfriend,' he hissed aggressively, and he took a tight hold of the man's bare hips, then shoved his cock between the spit-slicked cheeks, pressing his head in against the hole, which felt so impossibly tight and small all over again, as if he hadn't just had his knuckles against it - he hesitated, holding the 26-year-old tight, and trying to press forward, but as worried about hurting his own dick as he was the strong-arsed Scot bending before him... Growling ambiguous moans from KT, and his own ragged breaths hot in the air, and a slight moment of panic where he thought he might have to run impotently from the encounter, unable to commit this final act of dominance. And then he felt something in Kieran's backside yield to him, some slight relaxing of powerful muscles, and he felt his dick go in - wow - sliding slowly but surely into the other man, filling him up, and their bodies drawing closer and more fixed in a snarling posture against the wall. `Oh god yes,' howled Kieran, and Jude could just pant wordless ecstasy into the dark air. All doubt and panic was gone. Jude was an animal unleashed. He held tightly to the strong lean body of the other player as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, and he pumped his powerful cock in and out of his muscular arse in hard rapid movements, thumping him into the wall and making him sigh and gasp and yelp. Like the well-oiled machine of Southgate's England squad tonight, Jude pummelled Kieran, ploughing deep into him and throwing him back and forward with every aggressive thrust. He couldn't last for long, but even once he began to jet hot cum into the other man, he kept thrusting with the same rhythm and force, caught up in the pounding hurricane of his own alpha male energy. Eventually he was exhausted, his twitching cock still balls-deep in Tierney's arse, and his arms wrapped about the creased white shirt, sweating profusely against the cheap polyester, his face buried in the crick of the older lad's neck, sweating over his collar and shoulder. He stilled, feeling Kieran's orgasmic moans shake through into his grip, knowing that he'd fucked the man to completion, but unsure if Kieran had even touched his own dick more than once or twice in that - but slowly, gasping and sweaty, he unpeeled his body from the other, struggling a little to retrieve his throbbing cock from the tight entrance, and staggering apart, one hand clutched to his soaked brow. In front of him, he was reassured by the sight of hunched KT, still collapsed forward into the wall, shirt halfway up his back, tighty whiteys midway down his calves, chinos about his ankles. His big white arse bulged there, the prize that Jude had claimed. He felt surprisingly okay to stare at it now, knowing he'd been deep in it, after the momentary post-climax disgust of being so yoked to another man's body. He reached down and gave his sticky cock a stroke, then began to pull up his undies and baggy trousers, leaving his shirt unbuttoned while the wet perspiration cooled on his pecs and abs. Breathing heavily, he took slow swaggering steps down the alley, and paused only to land a single spank on Kieran's strong backside. `Scotland really got fucked tonight,' was all he could wheeze smugly before staggering on, heading at first for the other side of the broader road and the slightly ajar fire exit; but then pausing midway and deviating from this path, unable to face going back indoors. He glanced back behind him into the mouth of the alley, catching the dim outline of the other footballer, who was dressing in a hurry, and still moaning heavily as if he was still being fucked. Jude didn't want to stay here to listen to his guilty muttering about a boyfriend, and instead he strolled confidently up the road with his shirt wide open, pulling a phone from his pocket and loading up a taxi app as quickly as he could... but then, at the junction ahead, catching sight of his England teammates piling into a hire car with a couple of girls. `Hey,' he called out, hoarse from panting, and dashed in their direction. `Hey, wait up guys - where are we partying next?!' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2023 21:30:07 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 370 Part 370: England Camp, Day Nine Taking the fresh drink from the attractive and minimally dressed waitress, the young superstar settled back into the boxy leather armchair and made himself perfectly comfortable, rightly feeling that the entire world was at his talented feet - or more specifically tonight, the VIP section of the most boujie nightclub in Glasgow's trendy West End, enjoying the fuss that their presence was making up here in the elevated mezzanine overlooking the main dancefloor of throbbing drunken bodies. He put the ice cold glass to his lips and took a long sip of the heady cocktail, resting his elbows on the broad arms of the chair, and smiling placidly at the party atmosphere around him. It wasn't a large outing of the night's winning England squad, fresh from their victory at Hampden Park in the heritage friendly. A lot of the guys had early journeys planned and family commitments before returning to their professional clubs, a few even setting off from the airport tonight almost immediately after the 3-1 win. But there were enough of them, a fresh-faced cluster of the squad's younger stars, and the rising king of La Liga the magnetic centre of their group. Jude Bellingham surveyed his scant party pals for the night, noting the raucous merriment of his buddy and past playmate Phil Foden by the balcony edge, chatting away with a couple of wealthy England fans who had bumped into them in the previous bar and secured their entrance to this swanky joint; he eyed Chelsea duo Gallagher and Colwill, both poised at the centre of a group of attractive girls closer to the bar, regaling them with some highlights from the game; he glanced casually across to the sight of Arsenal buddies Ramsdale and Saka being similarly surrounded by admirers, but with much less flirtatious effort between them than their West London counterparts. And that was it, he thought - a couple of others had joined them to the first bar, Chilwell and Rice and Nketiah, only to limp off at 1am for the safety of the hotel. Jude, who was beginning to adapt to the siestas and late nights of Madrid, had been disappointed not to rouse a bigger party from his senior colleagues, but he was still enjoying the night, the atmosphere, the drink, the attention. When the 6ft1 youngster clutched his negroni and got up from his perch, he could feel the eyes on him, including from chatty girls who were otherwise showing interest in Levi or Conor or big Aaron; he could feel their interest trailing after him as he took his strut across the mezzanine, even if most of them were in their later 20s or 30s, and might scoff at the idea of chatting to a 20-year-old in any other circumstances. Jude knew that he exuded a powerful maturity even off the football pitch, and the thought of turning on an audience of attractive older women was just fine for him. The dark silk shirt and loose-fit summer trousers hanging loosely from his lean muscular physique, he moved to the rail and held it with one hand, overlooking the dancefloor and feeling as if he could take his pick - any tipsy or high girl dancing with her pals down there would drop all patriotism for a session with a hot young thing like him, he thought, and he felt like fucking royalty. The relative shyness and reserve that had clung to Bellingham in his formative Bundesliga years was falling away, bit by bit, and the young man who had arrived in Spain this summer was not the same boy who had joined Harry Kane by the swimming pool that night in Doha. The thought of that transformative experience made the 20-year-old smirk to himself, and re-evaluate his cocky assessment of the dancefloor below: it wasn't just the hot girls dancing away who might drop their knickers for a ride on this football stallion, was it? Half their boyfriends would probably turn bi-curious at the prospect of footy's new poster boy. Jude could grin at the swell of arrogance in his train of thoughts, he hadn't lost all humility and common sense - but he really did feel unstoppable lately, stampeding into his new Spanish league and asserting himself with relative ease into a super-club like Real Madrid. And then coming here to this brief international camp with the Three Lions and consolidating his near-guaranteed spot in Southgate's plans. His cock-hungry captain aside, he could see the respect and even awe that many of the senior England players regarded him, and knew he'd properly made it now - he was the future of football, and one day his image would be as iconic as Messi or Ronaldo were now. For all of this simmering confidence, Jude was not getting approached in the same way his cluster of teammates were, and he suspected there was something intimidating or unapproachable in his aloof complacency. He didn't mind. He felt sure that when he saw what he wanted, he would just have to look across and smile. It all sounded so vain and idiotic, but then... not two nights ago the Stourbridge youth had woken from his first moments of slumber to find a `straight' roommate sniffing his bulge. He'd enjoyed winding Kalvin Phillips up since without overtly mentioning what had happened, and been a little disappointed when the Leeds lad had been among the first to escape camp and fly to Manchester tonight - he suspected his own hot young body had something to do with it, but he could hardly take any blame. The greedy slut had pawed and licked his body while he was pretending to sleep, and now Kal was just ashamed of himself. Dirty bugger. Jude felt horny just thinking about it, staring down his body and watching the greed on the older fella's face, before dropping the bombshell of his conscious enjoyment once the City guy was huddled across in the next bed. Here in the VIP section, he sniggered to himself, and stretched out his long arms against the rail, enjoying the memory. Turning away from the view, indifferent to the party-hard Scottish girls that he could see from here, he was about to go and round up the Lions for a set of Jager-bombs, when he noticed that they weren't the only ones being tailed by security. A small huddle of other conspicuous young men had entered the arena, and Jude recognised them immediately: a parallel handful of younger squad members from the Scottish side who his team had spanked only hours ago at Hampden Park. Grinning delightedly, Jude deliberately crossed their path on his way to the bar, pausing briefly in front of them, and flashing a wordless smile of victory at their gormless faces; almost as one, the small crew of Caledonians nodded acknowledgement and gave him a somewhat meek staring down, nobody mouthing a single word against the crashing dance music below them. Jude grinned and nodded too, and then stepped casually away from them, gesturing coolly at Ramsdale and Saka to join him for more drinks. As if they didn't have numerous friends and teammates in common, the small camps of England and Scotland players kept a cool distance in the relative confines of the VIP bar, as if their national side's so-called rivalry was anything that mattered to fellow Brits who largely played in the Premier League. The presence of the Scots seemed to delight Jude's drinking companions in different ways, with only treble-winner Foden seeming to be above gloating - but he was more interested in funny videos of his kids that his partner was sending him, the league's youngest boring family man. Jude had hoped he might get a little more attention from the Stockport scally at some point this week, like in their Qatari hotel, but there was something disappointingly chaste about Phil's behaviour this year. The Chelsea and Arsenal lads, however, were full of quiet banter and amusing bristling machismo, as if waiting for a West Side Story dance-off with a rival gang. Maybe it was their own pathetic London rivalry, Bellingham supposed, and bantering about the Scottish thistle-fuckers was a great way to bond and find common ground. For himself, he found himself looking at the self-conscious celebrity huddle with a particular idea in mind. The five Scotland players were mobbed now, all grateful selfies and hugged condolences with home turf fans, though it was more beery blokes than the hot women who were orbiting Jude's own crew. Staring past this, Bellingham found himself looking at the rival footballers in the same way that he'd surveyed his view from the balcony, because a particular kind of cocksure vanity was taking over; it was one thing lying back and having his cock worshipped by sluttish captain Kane or awkwardly curious Phillips, but he was now entertaining a particular fantasy of dominance: asserting that same precocious authority over an opponent who just couldn't resist his manhood. Drinking a fresh cocktail by the bar and ignoring the flirty group around him, the Madridista sized up his options here. The brashest and most attention-seeking of the Scots was Ryan Porteous, the Watford centre-back striking various muscular poses in group photos with glassy-eyed drunk fans - hmm, nah, too fucking full of himself, Jude thought unironically. Ex-Chelsea and now Brighton midfielder Billy Gilmour was a quieter presence, perhaps made more awkward by the fact his former teammates had done nothing to approach him since his arrival - hmm, nah, a bit too much of a skinny rat, not worth dominating! Then there were Serie A's Lewis Ferguson and Everton's Nathan Patterson, both ordering in ostentatious trays of drinks at the other end of the bar, surrounded by hangers-on - nah, he concluded, thinking that both hefty lads looked a bit too drunk to function, and not worth his effort or attention. Nah, it was the fifth of the Scotland footballers in their little clique that caught his eye and stirred his imagination, making him rub his thumb across his chin and lower lip, and wonder if anyone on the Scottish team could suck dick half as well as Harry Kane or Phil Foden. Apart from anything else, Scot Number 5 had something very important in common with him: both young men were new arrivals to La Liga, and the prospect of awkward reunion on a Spanish pitch gave Jude far more thrill than caution. He strutted calmly from the bar and the conversations of his teammates, and made a beeline for Kieran Tierney. The awkward distance between the rival teams was broken as soon as Jude approached Kieran: conversations were struck up among the other football players too and the athletes formed a ragged circle at the heart of the VIP area, bantering with each other and courting their fans and admirers quite happily, with only joking fisticuffs and aggressive photo poses as tribute to the ancient rivalry that tonight's game had celebrated. Jude chatted lightly and playfully with the 26-year-old Lanarkshire lad, teasing him with snatches of his own slow-progress Spanish, and enjoying the Real Sociedad player's stilting attempts to respond. There was plenty for the two of them to discuss, comparing notes on how they had been received in their different corners of a new country, commenting on the football culture and the language barriers, and discussing their respective club's upcoming fixtures in a shared league. Jude was a perceptive lad and he quickly picked up on the subtleties of Kieran's mood, easily detecting that the Arsenal man was somewhat annoyed at being initially snubbed by Aaron and Bukayo... Also, that Tierney was taking the Scotland defeat a bit more to heart than the other four, who were definitely more drunk than him, a more fierce patriot in spite of being born on the Isle of Man. Whilst the other four were loudly wasted and partying nearby, there was something impenetrably dour and serious about the 5ft10 full-back, and a certain interesting vulnerability. Lastly, Jude was quick to pick up on the way his seated neighbour kept checking his phone with a frown, and playing with a ring on his pinky finger - the fella was missing a girlfriend somewhere, in London or Spain, and less interested in the club girls than his younger teammates. They'd been chatting for a while now, slightly detached from the assembled footballers and their mixed fans, and Jude felt he had a good measure of the lad next to him. More drunk on his own blooming ego than the cocktails he'd been sipping, Jude was utterly sure of his own irresistible persona, completely convinced that the footballing world was his to command - and he was much more interested in asserting his macho power over a grumpy Scot than he was in the dozen 10/10 young ladies who were eyeing him up from different corners of the bar. He wanted Kieran Tierney to struggle to look him in the eye when their two Real teams next met in La Liga. Discreetly, he laid one calm hand on the shoulder of Kieran's crisp white shirt and leaned slightly closer so that he didn't have to shout over the music. `Do you want to get some air, KT?' he asked coolly, his own expression unreadable. Tierney seemed to frown briefly at the idea but turn this way and nod his head. `Aye,' he grunted over the tunes, `that makes sense.' Jude shrugged off the tail of two different security personnel, one from each national side's entourage, who tried to follow them - he also eschewed the door to the actual VIP smoking terrace where they were directed. `The last thing either of us need is a picture of us surrounded by smokers and vapers,' he said simply, shouldering the security door that took them into the broad dark side-street to the rear of the club. The night was cooler than recently, and both football men stepped away from the doorway to enjoy this light breeze. Jude slid his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers and paced away from the doorway, taking in the graffiti murals of the high-stretching ex-industrial buildings around them, aware of Kieran's slow steps and brooding quiet as he followed him. Out here, the nightclub felt both close and miles away, the air still ringing with suppressed music and the smell of sweat and aftershave, but the throbbing lights and manic crowd lost; the 3am street was deserted and empty, nobody to be seen on this side of the club but the two of them, and the few parked cars. `We might have trouble getting back in,' Tierney remarked ambivalently. Bellingham stopped in the middle of the street and look back at him. `Maybe.' `You don't sound arsed.' Jude smiled faintly at this, looking the lean defender up and down, and shrugging his own broad shoulders. `Well, the night is almost over, isn't it?' `Dunno, pal,' Kieran murmured oddly, hugging his arms about his chest. He seemed about to make some retort at this and then stop himself. `You lot are the winners,' he pointed out with ironic grace, `so you might go on celebrating until sunrise. Us losers, on the other hand, should probably be getting home soon.' He made a scoffing noise and looked about to turn back towards the club fire exit, still slightly ajar as they'd left it. Noise and lighting leaked manically from it, a reminder of the chaotic hedonism they'd left behind in search of fresh air. Jude smiled at this reminder of the game, and his international success, but he took a few casual steps back closer to the 26-year-old, enjoying the way he towered several inches over the old lad in height. `Winners and losers,' he mused quietly. `What?' `Nothing. Just thinking, that's all.' `You're acting odd, pal,' the grumpy jock told him bluntly. Jude ignored this, his smile unflinching. He slid one hand from his pocket and brought it to play idly with the thick gold chain about his neck, playing slightly at the open collar of his silk shirt; he studied the flicker and uncertainty of Kieran's almost aggressive eyes, knowing that he'd captured his interest. He left the hand loosely at his own neck and with the other he played with one button halfway down his front. Kieran's eyes didn't seem to know where to go, before coming up to meet his. `You're the one who followed me out here,' he said quietly. The Arsenal loanee started at this. His voice was husky and irritable. `You invited me out here for some air?' He let out a long huffy breath. `I thought we were having a good chat in there, pal. We've a fair bit in common. But if you just wanna gloat, then-' `Who's gloating?' Jude asked sweetly. `You're the one chatting about losers and winners.' Kieran huffed again. He pawed at the front of his ill-fitting chinos, somehow contriving to look like a working-class basic lad out on the town and nothing like the well-paid sportstar his senior career had made him, right up to the un-trendy chestnut tufts of his stable haircut. The Scottish Arsenal defender looked like a laddish embodiment of the Sunday League, and Jude knew that he oozed Champions League charm. He pulled lightly at the draped material of his shirt and laughed quietly under his breath, still locking eyes with the full-back. `What?' Sociedad's new transfer demanded hotly. `Nothing, nothing...' `Fuck this. You're high, or something. I'm going back in there to round up the lads - we shouldn't have come out tonight after that shit-show game, I told them. See you in Spain, or whatever, mate - I'm as big a fan of your footy as anyone else, but nobody told me you were such an arrogant prick.' He said all of this in one red-cheeked rush, then entirely failed to turn around and march back to the fire door that would return him to the nightclub and the safety of the VIP. Jude held a patient smile on his face and toyed with the top button of his shirt, and then nodded away over his shoulder; behind him, on the opposite side of the street from the fire exit, a narrow alley darted away, darker and more hidden than this road. He said nothing more but just grinned at the other footballer, and Kieran scowled back at him. There was a long moment there of self-doubt that cracked through Jude's new superstar mindset... the kind of insecurity and social anxiety that had plagued him through his mid- and late-teens, once utterly dependent on the more outgoing Jadon Sancho to steer him through German social life. Behind the glaze of superstardom was a gangly young lad who'd been terrified to leave Birmingham and take that career risk, and who still couldn't quite believe he got to wear the Three Lions on his chest. But that young boy from Stourbridge only took over for a faint moment, because the 6ft1 La Liga star was taking a cool step backwards, both hands in his pockets, and smirking with his head tilted playfully to one side - and with a long huffy sigh, Kieran Tierney was prowling across the pavement after him, following him into the cool Glaswegian shadows. `Come here and feel how hard I'm getting,' Bellingham instructed him coolly, flopping his tall physique casually back into a wall of concrete, and grabbing Tierney's hand on the way to his crotch, helping it to grab the bulge in his trousers, and grinning down into the flushed angular face of the frowning Scotsman. `Give it a good feel... loser.' Tierney's nostrils flared angrily and he pouted, but he grabbed and stroked it like he was told, helping the semi to quickly get even harder. Jude brought his hand up and clutched the side of Kieran's face instead. `Knew you'd be keen on tasting some English dick tonight, Scottie. Now - you gonna get down on your knees?' `You're so fucking in love with yourself,' the 26-year-old accused him in a growl, close up against him in the shadows, and rubbing furiously at his tenting hard-on, and Jude laughed gently in response, resting hands on his strong shoulders. `And so is everybody else, buddy, so get down there and suck my dick.' He was thrilled to hear the authority and power in his voice, and unsurprised when the Scot kneeled down to obey. Jude sighed with complacent triumph, resting back into the wall and unbuttoning his shirt in no hurry, whilst the front of his trousers was unbuttoned and unzipped with more furtive effort by Kieran's fingers. Soon the loose-fitting pants were sliding down mighty brown legs of muscle and the kneeling Scot was tugging down on dark grey boxer briefs, gasping a bit when face-to-face with the gently rising strength of Jude's erection. He grinned down, eyes adjusting to the gloom. `Give it a kiss, bitch.' He moaned loudly as the Arsenal reject did as he was told, and Jude's ego was stoked further in its ascent. He'd eyed Tierney as a moody slut across the VIP bar. He'd picked his target, and it had been that easy. He thought back to storming into that hotel gym in Doha, greedily confronting the England skipper - Harry Kane had made a man of him that night, going down on him and initiating him as a true Lion. Of course buggers like Kalvin were fondling him at night, and sluts like Kieran here were gonna gobble him down back-alleys - he was the King of Spain. He put his hands down there, scratching his fingers through Tierney's shite hair, taking control and feeding his long girthy piece into that greedy mouth, pushing deep enough to make him gag, and only briefly allowing him to cough and catch his breath before fucking his mouth again, gently pushing with his hips to plough the Scotsman's hungry mouth. He moaned and sighed and enjoyed himself, pleased with just how pleasingly eager and submissive the man on his knees had become, exactly as he'd fantasised: his big English prick filling up the throat of the Scottish loser, fucking his gob like his team had fucked them at Hampden Park! Unbidden, KT began to lap at his balls, and he moaned happily, wanking his wet cock as the hungry mouth kissed around his sack and briefly visited the glistening muscle of each thigh. He grinned down into Kieran's hot face of lust, slapping the weight of his cock on his protruding tongue and then forcing it back in between his lips. He ragged at his head like he was a sex toy, choking him on his meat, his shirt hanging open about his ripped abs, and his dominance making him want to prolong the pleasure - sure, he wanted to bust a nut, but he really wanted to let this linger, to assert himself fully over the representative Scotsman, and to feel like England's great fucking hope of future glory. To that end, he let the other player scrabbled upwards off his knees, but pulled his face away then the shorter lad stretched upwards and tried to kiss him - he had no interest in kissing another guy and he certainly didn't want to taste his own pre-cum on those sluttish lips! But when Kieran tried instead to kiss him on the neck, he let him, enjoying the hungry pecks at the side of his throat, and holding firm on Kieran's shoulders to control and contain him, whilst one of the older lad's hands pumped his spit-wet prick down below. `You fucking slut,' Jude groaned victoriously at him. `Knew you'd go down on me. Hah.' `Smug English prick,' Kieran muttered with the bitterness of someone who hadn't dropped to his knees at the slightest hint. `You suck dick pretty good,' Bellingham complimented him. `Does your whole team? Should I get Porteous or Patterson out here to suck my balls next?' `Fuck off...' `God you can't stop wanking it, can you? You love how it feels.' `You smug bastard...' `And you fucking LOVE IT, Arsenal reject, don't you?!' He heard the brash violence in his voice here, perhaps pushing it too far, perhaps enjoying his power trip that bit too much, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the cocksucking full-back tore away from him and fled at that insult, instead of tightening his grip about the base of his big alpha cock - and hissing back in a throaty whine, `I'll eat your load, but you ain't fucking me.' As yet, the prospect of fucking this fella hadn't even occurred to Jude - even after his England exploits and his occasional playmate back at Dortmund, it hadn't REALLY occurred to the youth that he might push this transgression any further, not in any explicit or definite way. It had not been in his thoughts as he singled Kieran out or led him here into the shadows to enjoy his submission. But now that the words were out there... `What?' he heard himself mumble in a moment of disrupted authority, his voice full of nervous energy and youthful inexperience. Kieran did not seem to pick up on the wobble. Rubbing a hand across his shame-red face and licking his lips, he muttered out his limits again, `I'll suck your big cock, pal, but I'm not taking it up me arse - I've got- er- I've got- uh - a boyfriend.' This admission seemed a difficult truth for him to spit out, and Jude could only begin to guess at the journey of self-discovery that his Tuesday-night slut had been on to say that word out loud to anyone in the world. But what KT could only begin to guess at was how much he had just handed real power to England's young hero. `You sure about that?' Bellingham purred, instantly reaching around to grab the older footballer's pert backside through his ugly chinos. `You don't want to bend over for daddy?' `Daddy?' grunted Tierney, outraged. `How old are you, 18?' `Fuck,' the Madrid midfielder growled back, hugging him into the wall, `never noticed what a nice booty you got, defender boy - why don't we see how tight that hole is?' He wasn't sure where his words were coming from. An unknown desire had been unlocked, or a quick new path to dominance. `Fuck off,' Kieran murmured, `and let me suck you again...' `Nah,' Jude insisted, arms about his waist, holding their faces super-close. `I know you want it, fella - your arse cheeks are clenched like crazy just thinking about it, haha. Turn around and drop the pants. I'm gonna fuck you like we fucked your whole team on the pitch.' The only response from the Scotsman was a deep angsty moan. `Come on,' he hissed. `I know you want my big dick, bitch.' And in seconds, the Sociedad transfer was spinning around, lifting up the back of his shirt. Hands moving at speed, Jude reached about his waist and undid the buckle of his belt, wrenching at the button flies - it was all happening so fast, tugging away the ugly chino pants and then the tighty whities below, til he was standing there with his cock in his hand and the pert pale cheeks of the Scotsman's arse down in front of him, pushed back as the slut leant into the concrete wall. `Fuck's sake,' panted Kieran, when Jude began to push the pink head of his member between these fleshy white globes, `I won't be able to take it like that!' For all his dominant energy, Jude was suddenly nervous, hyper-aware of his own relative virginity, and he pulled back with his hips, staring down at his monster cock and the firm arse cheeks like it was an unsolvable puzzle. His other hand held a fistful of white shirt just below the collar, pushing Kieran roughly forward as if he was 100% in charge, even as he stared wonderingly at his dick and the buttocks, and wondered if he could really cross this boundary. Kieran's eager hiss cut into his indecision: `Just rub a bit of spit down there or something, for fuck's sake - haven't you done this before?' Jude paused only briefly before snapping back arrogantly, `Your boyfriend's pencil-cock must be easier', then spitting noisily down on his cock. He spat more onto two fingers then shoved them very roughly between the glutes, making the Scot squeal and shudder. Without any grace, he thrust his fingers in against the tight knot of hole in the furry crack, and he felt muscle give way to his exploring digits, two thick fingers going straight inside the Scottish slut - the wild secret knowledge that Kieran Tierney was gay and had a boyfriend was blowing his mind but he was trying to ignore it. He preferred to think of the rival player as hetero and unavailable, yet conquered by his undeniable charisma and sheer footballing prowess! `Hows' that?' he growled, frigging the strong muscular arse. `Fucking hell,' Kieran moaned, and then, `that's it!' For a few minutes, Jude just kept on with this. Partly, he was thrilled by the way his two digging fingers could send absolute spasms through the 5ft10 figure of the Arsenal reject, and the way Tierney was now begging under his breath for him. But also he was delaying the terrifying true transgression, knowing that something irreversible was happening when he broke into this lovely tight arse with his own cock... Had he really never considered this next step? He'd been furious when Salih Ozcan tried to ask it of him in shared German hotel rooms, begging for more than a mouthful, and it had left their football bromance on thin ice as Jude departed the Bundesliga. But as soon as Tierney had tried to deny it him, it had been all he wanted. Dominance, that was the thing, and it didn't matter how he took it... `Please,' Kieran begged him in a rough yelp, `put that monster in me!' `So much for that boyfriend,' he hissed aggressively, and he took a tight hold of the man's bare hips, then shoved his cock between the spit-slicked cheeks, pressing his head in against the hole, which felt so impossibly tight and small all over again, as if he hadn't just had his knuckles against it - he hesitated, holding the 26-year-old tight, and trying to press forward, but as worried about hurting his own dick as he was the strong-arsed Scot bending before him... Growling ambiguous moans from KT, and his own ragged breaths hot in the air, and a slight moment of panic where he thought he might have to run impotently from the encounter, unable to commit this final act of dominance. And then he felt something in Kieran's backside yield to him, some slight relaxing of powerful muscles, and he felt his dick go in - wow - sliding slowly but surely into the other man, filling him up, and their bodies drawing closer and more fixed in a snarling posture against the wall. `Oh god yes,' howled Kieran, and Jude could just pant wordless ecstasy into the dark air. All doubt and panic was gone. Jude was an animal unleashed. He held tightly to the strong lean body of the other player as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, and he pumped his powerful cock in and out of his muscular arse in hard rapid movements, thumping him into the wall and making him sigh and gasp and yelp. Like the well-oiled machine of Southgate's England squad tonight, Jude pummelled Kieran, ploughing deep into him and throwing him back and forward with every aggressive thrust. He couldn't last for long, but even once he began to jet hot cum into the other man, he kept thrusting with the same rhythm and force, caught up in the pounding hurricane of his own alpha male energy. Eventually he was exhausted, his twitching cock still balls-deep in Tierney's arse, and his arms wrapped about the creased white shirt, sweating profusely against the cheap polyester, his face buried in the crick of the older lad's neck, sweating over his collar and shoulder. He stilled, feeling Kieran's orgasmic moans shake through into his grip, knowing that he'd fucked the man to completion, but unsure if Kieran had even touched his own dick more than once or twice in that - but slowly, gasping and sweaty, he unpeeled his body from the other, struggling a little to retrieve his throbbing cock from the tight entrance, and staggering apart, one hand clutched to his soaked brow. In front of him, he was reassured by the sight of hunched KT, still collapsed forward into the wall, shirt halfway up his back, tighty whiteys midway down his calves, chinos about his ankles. His big white arse bulged there, the prize that Jude had claimed. He felt surprisingly okay to stare at it now, knowing he'd been deep in it, after the momentary post-climax disgust of being so yoked to another man's body. He reached down and gave his sticky cock a stroke, then began to pull up his undies and baggy trousers, leaving his shirt unbuttoned while the wet perspiration cooled on his pecs and abs. Breathing heavily, he took slow swaggering steps down the alley, and paused only to land a single spank on Kieran's strong backside. `Scotland really got fucked tonight,' was all he could wheeze smugly before staggering on, heading at first for the other side of the broader road and the slightly ajar fire exit; but then pausing midway and deviating from this path, unable to face going back indoors. He glanced back behind him into the mouth of the alley, catching the dim outline of the other footballer, who was dressing in a hurry, and still moaning heavily as if he was still being fucked. Jude didn't want to stay here to listen to his guilty muttering about a boyfriend, and instead he strolled confidently up the road with his shirt wide open, pulling a phone from his pocket and loading up a taxi app as quickly as he could... but then, at the junction ahead, catching sight of his England teammates piling into a hire car with a couple of girls. `Hey,' he called out, hoarse from panting, and dashed in their direction. `Hey, wait up guys - where are we partying next?!' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-378

Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2023 06:04:00 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 378 Part 378: England's Hole-keepers `Give me - like, an hour and a half? Would that be okay? You're sure you don't mind, mate?' He nodded enthusiastically and gave a mock salute to his Arsenal teammate, backing away out of the room; it was early evening on the second full day of the England camp, and their duties were largely over. A handful of other players were still involved in different media work that the bosses had organised, but the North London clubmates were entirely free, like a good half of the men on the squad. `All good,' the 25-year-old called brightly again to the other occupant of their suite, grabbing up a few items to hold under one long muscled arm, and backing to the door. `Enjoy your call, mate, it's all good.' Another waving gesture at the lad seated at the desk by the windows, and with that he took his leave, stooping out onto the landing area outside their room, and then up a short flight of stairs onto the next floor of the familiar hotel that formed part of the Three Lions' home base. It was a simple enough request to honour for the good pal who he was rooming with - Declan Rice was a more than welcome addition to his North London life and he was even gladder of the other English player once out here on England call-up again, and so more than happy to help the other young star out by giving him space for an hour or two on a Wednesday evening. The sensational midfielder was planning some big group call with family members, it seemed, and he'd made a point of asking if Aaron Ramsdale could keep out of the way and allow him some privacy. And sure, he thought on his way up the stairs, for all his warmth and good matey banter, Rice was actually a really private person, who didn't seem to share much of himself with his new Arsenal colleagues; Aaron wondered if things had been different at West Ham, where he'd been so much better established, or if this was just Declan's way of being professional. Nobody at the club even knew if Dec was single or not, whereas everybody knew all about Aaron's wedding plans and one-month-old kid - the big Stoke lad was an open book in every way. Up he went, rather than down; he wasn't sure anybody would be hanging out in the communal areas down in the hotel below, other than the few lads who were doing media interviews or filming silly content skits for the national team's social media. Excused from such obligations this time, Ramsdale had headed to his room in the same fatigued manner as everyone else, leaving a comfy nap on his bed only when Declan made his stilted formal request for a little bit of space. Instinct and familiarity drew Ramsdale to what seemed like the obvious corner to him, bringing him to a sharp flurry of knocks on a door at the far end of the corridor above, temporary home to his two fellow goalkeepers of Southgate's selection. The door was answered almost instantly, and Jordan Pickford puffed out his chest and gave him one of those looks of mock seriousness and inflated self-importance that he loved to adopt, acting like a bouncer at some top nightclub - `You got ID, son?' the Northerner demanded in a silly Londoner accent, barring the doorway and looking ominously past him in either direction. `Can a goalie not chill in the goalie suite?' the 25-year-old Arsenal player huffed playfully back at the England No.1, poising as if to rugby tackle past the senior keeper and invade the room he was sharing with the squad's other unused back-up. Pickford laughed immediately and opened his arms, welcoming into a brief tight hug, then shoving him on into the large room and pushing the door shut behind him. Ramsdale was often surprised that the team's accommodation plans didn't lump all three goalies into one shared room, since so much of the schedule did keep the three of them at close quarters, with a whole load of extra coaching and mentoring to create a `competitive triad' between them - the Arsenal player knew that the truth of it was about buttering up himself and Johnstone or Pope, whoever was in that other spot, so that they could handle being spare parts whilst the Everton keeper continued to be Southgate's favoured last defence, time after time. And with Pickford not yet even 30, a big change to the No.1 spot for England seemed like it might bypass Ramsdale's prime entirely. Sam Johnstone, this international break's fellow goalkeeper competition, was a large stoic fella who seemed relatively comfortable with that situation - in Ramsdale's limited experience thus far, the big lofty Lancastrian was someone who just plodded uncomplainingly into the duty and accepted whatever the gaffer handed out, unfazed by minimal game appearances and happy to work his socks off in training on behalf of the wider squad. An admirable big fucker, Aaron thought, but not perhaps a role he saw himself leaping into - he had enough of that angst going on at his Premiership club, never mind on the international stage. Right now, the 6ft4 Crystal Palace keeper was standing by the open window on a phone call, turning only to give a brief wave of welcome as Aaron sauntered into what felt communal space for them, even if he was actually roomed elsewhere with Rice. At Jordan's direction, he flopped down into a comfortable seated position at the foot of one bed, whilst the Mackem bloke slobbed down into a nearby chair and resumed whatever game he was playing on his Nintendo Switch. `Good lad,' the 29-year-old murmured distractedly to him, feet playing and thumbs bashing buttons, `for coming up here - we thought you might be getting ideas above your station and hanging out with the real footballers, y'kna.' He looked up, smirking. `But nope, good lad, up here with the goalie losers for a quiet mope.' He resumed his play with intense focus and Aaron chuckled vaguely at the lines, unsure how genuinely self-deprecating the typically over-confident bloke was being - he wasn't really sure what he'd expected by coming up to her join the guys, but it had seemed to make sense as he found himself outcast from his own room by Declan's intense politeness. After a moment's quiet, just Johnstone's deep rumbling voice in the background, Jordan paused the game and tossed the handheld console onto a stack of his belongings on the floor, lounging comfortably where he was with his feet propped on the edge of the bed. He fixed Aaron with an inquisitive look. `Did you come up here for some wisdom from your elders then, or what?' Again, it was hard to know when to take the swaggering Everton man seriously or not. `Just kicked out of my room,' Ramsdale told him lightly. `Dec had a call to make.' He scratched at his fine blond stubble and the back of his thick neck. `Just thought I'd pop by and see what you oafs were up to, that's all.' `Hmm, rightyo,' said Pickford. `I didn't mean to kill your gaming time,' he laughed gently, nodding at the discarded Switch, and then dumping out the few belongings he'd brought up with him on the blankets to his side: his tablet, a crime thriller he was reading, and a bag of cheesy snacks. Jordan gestured impatiently at them and he ripped open the bag to share. Jordan just shrugged as he crunched on a mouthful. `Was just playing it cos I'm bored,' he admitted conversationally. `Who the hell is Dec calling that he needs privacy?' A slightly nasty sneer formed on the Sunderland bloke's tanned face. `Mason bloody Mount, haha?' Less familiar with the running joke of the sport's greatest bromance, Aaron just frowned vaguely back at his teammate and shrugged broad shoulders, taking a large handful of the snacks himself. `Family, he said,' he said disinterestedly, in no mood to be cynical or suspicious of anything his friend got up to - he generally got on well with Pickford as a fellow keeper, but he did sometimes find something a little obnoxious or almost nasty in the other man's sense of humour, and he was not interested in joining any gossip. `I left him to it, what with not being a dickhead and all,' he added decisively, putting a lid on that topic and asserting himself to the other guy. `Fair,' was Jordan's vague, dismissive response. `Alright lads,' boomed big Sam's voice, his call now finished, striding between them and aggressively dislodging Jordan's feet from the bed to get past and throw himself down on the other double. `Goalkeeper party in da house, is it? Yes lads. What we drinking from the minibar, hey? Haha.' The well-built 30-year-old from Preston sprawled out comfortably on his bed in a white England polo shirt and baggy tracksuit pants, the exact same gear as the other two, but for the light shorts that Aaron had opted for, exposing the pale fluff of his thickly-muscled legs folded beneath him. `If only,' Pickford groaned, and Ramsdale nodded enthusiastically. `I could murder a pint,' Johnstone complained heavily. `Or seven.' `Shall we escape out of the window and find a country pub?' Aaron joked. `Oh now our kid's talking,' enthused Sam in his thick Preston accent. `Aye, talking shite,' corrected Jordan cynically. `Southgate would string us up. Gah, no wonder you two are just back-ups, it's my level head that England needs in goal, not two alcoholics,' he boasted with ridiculous piety, pausing to laugh at himself. His humour was obvious, and yet it was the wrong banter for the Number One to go with - for Aaron, it tapped into too much current discomfit at home, and even for stoic Sam, it roused a frosty expression and a sudden silence, and Jordan clearly knew it. `Minibar aside, what the hell shall we get up to?' he demanded frustratedly, running fingers through his quiff of strawberry blond hair. `Taking it in turns punching you in the gob,' quipped Johnstone brutishly, making Ramsdale snigger stupidly. `Taking it in turns to kick you up the backside?' he added, matching the big guy's tone, and fixing their superior with an ironic look. `Pfft, chill out the pair of yas,' chuckled the Mackem guy. He got up from his seat and climbed aboard his bed, joining Aaron, and giving him a gentle shove in the knee. He snatched up the bag of snacks and began throwing them for Sam to catch in his mouth like a performing animal, whilst whistling thoughtfully to himself. `Come on, Rambo, we know you came up here to quiz us and get all the best tips, don't deny it - I mean, if anyone can help you beat Raya and stay at Arsenal, it must be us.' Aaron blanched at the openness of this new topic, a matter which none of his friends here in the England camp had addressed with such directness, even after his own dad made sports headlines yesterday by complaining embarrassingly on his behalf to some interviewer. Life for Ramsdale had changed drastically this year at his club, going from a fan favourite hero and shithouse to a spare part with only cup appearances to his name - and he wasn't sure what he thought about arrogant Pickford bringing it up so casually right now on their evening downtime. He went awkwardly silent as he thought this comment over, glad when the Palace player cut into it instead: `Leave that out, Picky, for god's sake - don't be a cunt to the lad, or I'll smack yer arse myself.' `Huh,' chuckled Jordan, `don't threaten me with a good time, big man.' `Fine,' grunted Ramsdale quietly, in the quiet that followed. `What would you two fella do if you were in my position, then? Other than keying Arteta's car?' The second question was meant to sound funny and casual about the issue, but he could hear himself sounding nothing short of bitter and resentful, which made his cheeks blush and his head hang, wishing he'd changed the topic instead. To the 25-year-old Stokey's vague surprise and delight, however, the conversation turned into something of a heart-to-heart - whilst prime first-choice goalies at their current Premier League, both northern blokes had experienced varied highs and lows to their careers, which they talked about now with a frankness and kindness that took Ramsdale by surprise. Jordan, for a change, was all quiet humility, dwelling on a long spell of loan deals when he'd thought he might never have a permanent spot in anyone's goal, whilst big Sam complained about having been on the Man Utd roster for 7 years without a single proper appearance under the crossbar at Old Trafford. And then, as if they had spoken too openly and earnestly for too long, the pair of them fell into some more generic banter at each other, their clubs having clashed in the Premiership on Saturday gone - Aaron's career crisis brushed aside, Jordan went scrambling over to wrestle stupidly with the bigger bloke, bantering about Everton's dominant 3-2 win over Palace. Aaron, impressed and reflective after their shared experiences and moments of genuine advice, sat there quietly to the side, whilst also privately noting that a 5 goal game was hardly one for any keeper to try and take particular pride in, but never mind... Johnstone had Pickford in a headlock now and both men were turning red faces this way as if Ramsdale was the umpire of their conflict - he raised a single eyebrow and smirked stupidly at them, then grabbed and threw a couple of pillows their way to break them up. As they parted with a series of grunts, the 6ft2 lad stretched out and climbed off the bed, feeling slightly lighter after all for having talked the dry spell over with his contemporaries, men only a few years older than him but seemingly much more worldly. `Thanks guys,' he said once the noise of their scuffle was over, returning their surprising frankness. `It's good to hear all that, y'know, it's been a rough six months or whatever - a bit of a dry spell.' Pickford's little snort of amusement was quick, another seeming instance of him unable to think much before speaking - `And I bet it's not the only dry spell in your life right now, big lad, that's for sure!' Ramsdale, out of context, wasn't even sure what the other guy was trying to say, pausing and looking awkwardly his way - he could tell there was some mean or crude joke to what Pickford had to say, but he was so wrapped up in his Arsenal battle for that position, that he could only infer some sly dig at his performances, contradicting the No.1's kinder words only minutes ago. Jordan was clambering off the far bed, but Sam was giving him a thump in the side and shaking his head. `What you playing at?' the Palace man demanded crossly, but Jordan laughed and gestured pleadingly. `Hey, hey, Sam and I know what's it like,' Pickford professed enthusiastically, hurrying closer to him at this side of the room. `I mean, Rambo mate, we're both dads - we've been in your boat before, him a couple of times.' Realisation dawned on Aaron and he laughed embarrassedly, realising they'd moved on from his goalkeeper career to a very different kind of `dry spell' - and though it was hardly something he might have brought up or complained about to these two, or in fact anyone other than his closest pal Ben White, it was clearly a situation he was conscious enough of to instantly recognise what Jordan was trying to say. A month or so after the birth of his first son, the hot-blooded young athlete was nowhere near getting any intimacy from his beautiful fiancee, and had been stuck in one of the longest sexless ruts of his young life. He blushed deeply and continued to laugh, whilst Pickford leant in and pinched his cheek with a knowing wink, accompanied by a low grunting laugh from Johnstone in the background. `Tis true,' mourned the other goalkeeper, rising up to his 6ft4 stature and shrugging. `And don't expect it to go back to normal for a good while yet, youngster.' `What he's saying,' Jordan elaborated needlessly, `is get used to Mrs Palm and her five daughters, you get me?' A wanking gesture in the air left no room for misinterpretation and then the obnoxious fella jabbed him playfully in the ribs before returning to find a seat on his bed, picking up his Switch again on the way to play idly on his game whilst they spoke. In a wistful voice, Sam was trying to count out how long it might be before Aaron was going to have sex again, and Jordan was complaining loudly about all the other reasons his own partner found to say no these days - and Aaron just chuckled stupidly at them, unsure of this turn in the conversation, but then glad to think of something other than his battle with Raya. It felt disrespectful for him to say anything specific to their banter, anyway - Benjamin really was the only one of his football mates that he might do, given the alarming honesty previously shared between the two of them, in the Arsenal sauna and the similarly arid heat of Qatar. `You ought to show him that thing you brought,' Jordan barked suddenly at Sam, putting his console down, and really breaking into sleazy laughter. `Maybe you can recommend a purchase to this horny young buck too, hey?' Big burly Sam actually looked quite mortified, and so Aaron was intrigued in spite of himself, shooting a confused look to the tall broad man, whilst the main goalie continued to piss himself laughing on the bed. `Oh fuck off,' Johnstone was barking at Pickford, `I knew I shouldn't have shown you that, you cunt. I told you, I ain't even tried it out properly, so how could I go recommending it?' `Oh go on, get it out!' `Fuck off...' `Get what out?' the Arsenal back-up called to them, pausing by the open window and folding his arms. `What the hell are you two on about?' Jordan couldn't answer for his own laughter, whilst Sam grimaced and rolled his eyes and then, with a pantomime of reluctance, went fiddling into one of the bags by his bed. He pulled something out and threw it forcibly this way, arcing high through the room, so that Aaron had to lunge forward to give it a catch. He stared at the large thick tube in his hands, briefly uncomprehending, and then he noted the rough shape of it, the lip-like lining that formed a circle of sorts on this end, and- `Fucking hell,' he exclaimed, `is this a fleshlight?' He wasn't so innocent or thick that he'd never encountered the idea - he had, after all, sneaked into the only sex shop in Doha to buy that big chunky dildo to mock Ben White, for all the fucking trouble it had caused! - but in the context of this hotel room on England duty, the thing was alien and ridiculous, and - he frowned and blushed more deeply - a bit bigger than he'd imagined such an item to be. Quickly, as if it were a hot potato, he flung the thing back - not across the room at Sam himself, but at the cackling hyena Jordan on the nearer bed, unsure that such an item was the solution to his position as a new father trying his best to support his fiancee. `Well,' he said evenly, giving an empathetic look across at the Palace player, `you gotta do what you gotta do, big man, so no judgement here...' `Oh aye,' moaned Jordan. `No judgement, not like you're the lad who's gonna have to lie in the next bed while the big bastard here fucks this thing into oblivion - what if he gets over-excited and comes across to my bed once he's smashed it with his big cock, eh?' As always, there was something astonishing in the crudeness and sneer of Pickford's banter, which made Ramsdale himself feel prudish and silly in their room - watching as the Everton goalie placed the male sex toy over the crotch of his trackies and pretended to thrust upwards into it before tossing it back at Johnstone. Sam caught it deftly, smirking and shaking his head. `I'd fuck every item of furniture in here before I caught syphilis from you, Mackem lad. Thinks something of himself don't he, Aaron? Ugly prick.' And losing his self-consciousness about it, he tossed the toy from hand to hand, moving between the two beds. `It was a gift from the missus, said I should try it out on this trip, that's all - says it will stop be complaining when she's too tired, haha. I mean - it's just a daft toy, I'll defo give it a go.' `When he does,' Pickford insisted, `I'll be coming down to hang out with you and Rice, mate, even if he is having a cam-wank with Mason Mount, okay?' He was being sneering and derogatory and yet, Aaron couldn't help but notice, he was staring up very intently at the way Sam juggled it from hand to hand and then, in the same mocking exaggerated way, placed it dramatically over his crotch and proceeded to thrust into thin air. Aaron laughed and rolled his eyes at both of them, thinking maybe this was his cue to leave. `You two are mad,' he huffed in a half-laugh. `We're just trying to help,' Jordan protested weakly. `Just trying to offer some solutions to your dry spell, Rambo. Hey, I mean maybe if you empty your fat balls some time, you might actually lift your goalie game and get back in that Number One spot, so...' This time, as Aaron flushed and grimaced, there was no interjection or warning from the bigger man, who just chucked the fleshlight back his way, and shrugged his shoulders, saying, `Our man Prickford here might be right, y'know - nothing worse than sexual frustration for ruining your form during a tense season, kiddo.' Catching the tossed item, Aaron stared in surprise at this perspective from the giant, and then back at the lewd look on Jordan's face. `Sure,' he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, `I'll just whip my prick out now and pop this thing's cherry for you both, shall I? I'm sure that'll put me right in goal on Friday night, no worries... Fuck's sake, lads.' `Go on, I dare ya,' cackled Pickers, whilst Johnstone said less mockingly, `We don't mean Friday, for fuck's sake - this cunt has that one sealed up as usual - we just mean if you relaxed a bit more and let yourself go, maybe you'd find things got a bit easier for you at Arsenal, that's all. I think that's what we were trying to say earlier, mate, that's all - once you get uptight about it, once you freak out, that's when you start losing the battle, hey?' Aaron stood there, arse propped back against the windowsill, hoisting the offensively large plastic item in one hand and staring between the other two goalkeepers. `And whacking my nob in a fake vagina is the thing that's gonna relax me, is it?' he said, trying to sound annoyed but his face splitting into a grin and the question ending on a laugh of disbelief. He inspected the device more carefully, shaking his head - he had never tried such a thing, though he remembered staring at them in horrified fascination when scouring that sex shop for the most intimidating rubbery phallus on sale. The most intimidating and embarrassing rubbery phallus, he thought, which had caused so much aggro when secreted in Ben's bed to horrify his conjugal visitor - for a moment, staring at the fleshlight in his paw, Ramsdale was back there in the winter World Cup, and Benjamin was helping to push the stupid sex toy into his backside to... to what? To atone for his prank? To prove a point? He felt himself go pale and stiff and awkward, thinking about that incident between them, which had ended with Ben's pinkeye and flight home to the UK, perhaps the flat end to his entire career on the England squad. Fuck. His long moment's thoughtfulness must have been ambiguous or misleading, because Pickford now whooped, `He's tempted, isn't he? Fetch that lube she bought you with it, Samwise, and hoy it at the kid, he's well up for giving it a test drive.' Sam was laughing, but with some doubt in his voice as he said, `Hey, I don't think anyone is popping that cherry except me, boys, that was MY gift from the missus, okay...' And with an awkward kinda serious, he was moving this way and reaching out to accept it back - which Aaron gladly accepted with a laugh, chucking it to him and then wiping his hands on the sides of his shorts as if tainted by holding it for too long, though his thoughts were less on a receptive toy than the penetrating monster that had slid between his downy cheeks. `Well heck yeah,' Jordan barked, `you can go first, but I think all of us want a go on it.' It was as simple as that, somehow, the sudden shift in the tone, the shift from exaggerated banter and overdone outrage between them, because Jordan was sliding off the bed now and hopping over his roomie's bed too - leaning over and fishing rudely through his mate's belongings, until he was wielding the little pump tube of Durex lubricant, which he waved about like a trophy, then came in at Sam with some boxing moves, laughing his head off and then gesturing enthusiastically over this way. `Here, Aaron, you won't mind if the big twat gets his chopper out, will you? We're all goalies here, brothers-in-arms.' Ramsdale could laugh heartily at this, picking himself up from the windowsill, arms folded uncomfortably against his chest, but perhaps only because he was so sure that Jonhstone would laugh it off too, and give the uppity prick the clip about the ears he deserved. So when the Palace goalie reached a hand into the front of his pants and then flopped his cock and balls out with complete self-confidence, it gave the Arsenal boy a start. `Honestly,' big Sam sighed playfully, `this Mackem cunt will do anything to get another glimpse at my meat, y'know, he's such a fuckin' perv.' `Well,' remarked Jordan in the voice of a connoisseur, stood close next to him, `it is a fucking ridiculous big monster of a thing, ain't it? Ain't it, Rambo? What do you think?' And he forced the pump tube into Sam's free hand before lounging comfortably back down on his bed, staring brightly between the cock-swinging giant and the gawping younger lad. For several long moments, Ramsdale didn't really know what was expected of him - he could see the leer and provocation on Pickford's face, but he could also see a kind of simple dumb pride on Johnstone's, and more than anything he could see the fat drooping member that hung over the waist of the England tracksuit, a prick that was perfectly proportionate to the 6ft4 man's excessive height and breadth. It was big enough to make Aaron think again of that Doha dildo, but perhaps that offensive monster was already too much in his mind, triggered by all this chat about sex toys. `Here,' Sam chuckled, `watch me finger the sexy bitch.' And stood proudly before them, the third-place goalkeeper of the England squad squirted a bit of transparent lube onto two thick fingers, and then pushed them gracelessly into the `lips' of the toy, chuckling as he did, and eliciting whoops of amusement and approval from Jordan too. Aaron let out a hollow awkward laugh, blinking furiously. He was about to announce his departure to leave them to their egos and rivalries over dick size, but he was stopped in his tracks by further shock at the openness and exhibitionism of a bloke as simple and traditional as the Preston giant: more lube pumped out of the tube, into his palm, and then a few slow leisurely pulls on the soft length below the hem of his polo shirt, bringing it into an even thicker shape, slowly rousing himself with a few long strokes, whistled at admiringly by Pickford. `Fellas,' Ramsdale said quietly in a voice of nervous disapproval, but he felt himself ignored - Pickford was cackling quite happily, and Johnstone too was laughing, in a heavy grunting sort of way, whilst he took the fleshlight in one hand and his semi-hard prick in the other. `Fuck, not quite hard enough,' he was chuckling, whilst Jordan barked, `Well give it a proper stroke then you daft twat.' Aaron found himself oddly fascinated by it in several ways. He was fascinated by the openness and carelessness of Sam, a guy who had never seemed particularly broad-minded to him; he was fascinated by the extent of Jordan's dirty humour and unhealthy interest in his teammates, which went far beyond the daft jokes that he was used to hearing from him. He was fascinated by his own... what, prudishness? Who was he to judge, after what he'd let happen with Benjamin? It had been one thing joking around with the dildo, and pranking White, but then... why had he needed to appease him with such a physical act, why had he gone through with it? Why had he let Ben help, taking hold of the thing as it pushed into him and hurt his hole, made it sting and ache for DAYS, in such a way that he hadn't been able to admit to anyone, least of all the England medical staff who were so inquisitive about his limp the next day? Jesus, what a mad stupid time that had all been, how had he been so daft as to...? He saw Benjamin's face, as he unloaded messily into it, and remembered the difficulty in their friendship for so many months after Qatar was over, though everything was rosy again by now - so long as neither mentioned their Middle Eastern adventure whatsoever! `Right, maybe now,' boomed Sam, and dear jesus, his cock really was a big long hefty thing when getting seriously hard - was it fully hard, or did the thing extend further?! Whatever, he was bringing the plastic tubing back down to it, taking it in both hands, and inserting himself into the synthetic tightness - Aaron's eyes slide upwards, wanting to study the mixed amusement and pleasure on the big rugged face of the skinhead bloke, then across to the glassy fascination that covered Jordan's features, absolutely mesmerised by what was happening - with jealousy and eagerness to try it, he wondered, or some more unconventional interest in his well-proportioned roommate? `That's it,' insisted Jordan very eagerly. `Push yourself right in there, big fella - shit, she knows you need the XXL one, I guess - she's been split open by that weapon enough times since you swept her off her feet, ha.' `It's fucking huge,' Aaron found himself echoing awkwardly, taking a couple of steps forward, lowering one knee to the edge of Jordan's bed, knuckles resting on hips. Like Pickford, he too stared intently, watching as with a performative kind of rhythm, the fully-clothed giant of a man held the cup to his crotch with both hands and rolled his hips, fucking his dick slowly into the toy in several slow strokes, then a sudden flurry of quicker humps that were accompanied by higher-pitched laughter. And then, in a flourish, he pulled the thing off his manhood, making a squelchy sucker noise, and tossing a few damp flecks of lubricant against the edges of the bedding; his big dick twanged and shook where it protruded from between his polo shirt and his tracksuit, and he slapped one lubed hand to it instantly to continue playing, whilst holding the toy aloft. `Sure, she feels good,' he confirmed through his big manly laugh. `Here, I'll give it a go,' Pickford demanded, and Ramsdale was further shocked when he heard his own voice, firm and pushy: `Nah, I thought it was my dry spell we were trying to fix? I'll go next, thanks, and you can have sloppy thirds, Prickford.' He heard his own aggro there like it was the voice of some other rough lad from back home in the Potteries. And yet the other two were laughing their agreement and the toy and pump were being tossed his way. Right, then. Here goes. I mean, this can't be weirder or worse than what happened with Benj, can it? Fuck no, this is nothing like THAT. This is just banter, and- yeah, yeah, maybe these guys have a point. Maybe I just need to let loose, by some daft shite like this whilst sex is off the table at home, and... `Well you'll have to get yer dick out, Rambo,' Jordan informed him tartly. `Don't be shy,' guffawed Sam. `You can see I ain't.' And so with one hand Ramsdale found himself pushing down the front of his training shorts, exposing the soft wiry grey-blond of his pubes, and then flopping his saggy balls and gently swollen semi out into view, whilst also reaching for the little pump tube and spunking out some lube to rub against his fat pale member. He was confident in his size, but there was something about Johnstone's proportions that made him insecure and keen to make it harder, wanting the other guys to see it at full mast and not in this shy droop - somehow, their crass comments were helpful to his arousement, rather than distracting: `Rub yerself happy, Rambo lad,' tittered Sam stupidly, and `Have a wank imagining Raya snapping a wrist next weekend, hehe' was Jordan's nastier invocation. Whilst Aaron slid his hand about his reluctant and shy cock, slowly pulling it into fuller shape, Jordan picked up and inspected the cock, seemingly unphased by the slimy wetness of the entrance where their friend's cock had penetrated it - but passing it back once Aaron looked ready, holding his thick heavy cock at the base and angling the bright pink tip towards the entrance. `You sure you don't mind sharing your new girl?' he croaked across at Sam, trying to sound bolshy and aloof - met only with hearty laughter from both the other guys, and some pushy insistence from an excited Pickford: `Go on, shove yer big nob in her, daft lad, make her squeal like your bitch!' And so he did, although it was a giggling Jordan Pickford who added the squealing sound effects for him, adopting a high feminine voice and crying `Yes yes, I'm being fucked by the king of the Arsenal hole, I mean, goal! Oh yes, Rambo, you fuck much better than that wanker Raya or tiny-cock Arteta, ohhhh-' Until, that is, a heavy clip about Jordan's head from Sam silenced this distracting banter, and it was suddenly all three of them assembled about the one bed. Aaron stared into the middle-distance, avoiding eye contact with either of them, whilst pulling the strangely realistic skin-feel against his head, against his peeled foreskin, against the girth and veins of his shaft, sliding quite slowly into it, shocked at its tightness, its inexplicable warmth. Oh, it felt good, and he needed to buy one of these. He found himself unable to express this in words or laughter, just a breathy moan, one which triggered more peals of excitable laughter from his naughty pals. `Go on,' Johnstone grunted simply, `fuck her, pal.' `Does she feel good?' came Pickford's almost breathless enthusiasm. Pickford, he noticed, was feeling himself through his tracksuit, hot pink in his cheeks, his neatly quiffed hair falling out of place and a little sweaty sheen all over his brow; Johnstone, mind, was still openly pulling back and forth on the obnoxiously large rod that had christened the toy, wanking himself in a leisurely and immodest fashion, as if loaning the fake fanny out was a very temporary measure - he looked ready to reinsert and take back his wife's gift, impatient to finish the show-and-tell. Somehow, Ramsdale didn't really mind this, didn't mind their excitement or proximity, kinda proud that he'd got himself hard and shoved it into the toy, at their joky insistence - it was like he was proving himself to his fellow goalies here in some new way, actually stepping up and joining their experienced clique, rather than being the bright-eyed newcomer as he'd felt on his last few call-ups. And this, he told himself, was nothing like Doha, nothing like that whole messy prank. He felt like he'd barely played with it, barely pushed his hard member in and out of its slimy entrance, but Jordan was reaching for it - snatching rudely for it while it was still wrapped about his cock, which made him flinch uncomfortably, demanding that it was his turn. And Sam was muttering agreement, saying `Give it to Prickford, sloppy thirds like you said!' And so he pulled out with some reluctance, sad to lose the pleasurable pressure on his cock, and shy to have his lubed hard-on judder about as it was released - but grabbing it in his hand, like Sam was, because Sam made it seem okay, and after all he really WAS horny, so- Jordan was shoving down his trackies and boxer shorts, and making the joke before either of them could, putting himself down whilst sounding entirely smug and cocksure: `She'll hardly notice this chipolata after you two beasts, but here we go!' And with a fully performative energy to his movements, he was shoving his shorter, more slender prick into `her', holding it in one hand and bringing the other up for high fives, first with Johnstone and then with Ramsdale too, clapping palm to palm with them whilst gyrating his hip and fucking the lubed lips in a rapid flurry of motion. Here they were, all three of them, pleasuring themselves, the three England goalies together - god, Aaron thought, this is a bit much, ain't it?! And he and Ben had got in trouble for being found playing with themselves in a dark sauna, he remembered, fined by Mikel Arteta for inappropriate behaviour, and the gaffer hadn't even caught them trying to finger themselves because of Benjamin's relationship problems at the time...! If it hadn't been so long ago, it would be tempting to blame that silly disciplinary matter for his current out-of-favour subs bench era, but who knew where the boss's distrust had begun... Aaron pulled on his cock repeatedly, matching the slow steady rhythm of Big Sam, rather than the rather frenetic and showy fucking with which Jordan now attacked their shared toy, cackling as he slammed noisily in and out of it, overcompensating - his hair flopping back and forth and his face getting more shiny with sweat. It was Sam who broke into this, giving him a shove to the shoulder, and announcing with a sort of matter-of-fact simple bluntness: `Give us it back, then - I need to finish off this boner before we all have to go down for dinner, you pair of wank-stains...!' And like Jordan, he was casually snatching at the toy, pulling on it whilst it still gripped Jordan's smaller erection - yanking it away for himself, and pushing himself back into it, absolutely comfortable in his size and power, and happy to fill up the tight tubing in a way that must feel even better for his girthy equipment. Stop thinking about his dick, Aaron chided himself, you've never worried about your own size before, so quit this new insecurity! But he was thinking more about the toy, about its tightness, its strange realism, and maybe even... well, maybe just a bit, the AUDIENCE of it, being able to fuck it, fuck `her', with two other fellas here, like this was some seedy foursome or something, some tabloid footballer sex scandal like you read about with the names removed - Aaron had never been invited into anything so naughty as that, and he'd resented it before he started settling down with the current love of his life...! He felt that a misspent youth had escaped him, he looked like too much of a big goofy good guy, that was his problem... Too wholesome. And in front of this wholesome Staffordshire lad, in front of him and smirking wide-eyed Pickford, Johnstone was no totally going for it: one-handed, but rapid, really pulling the toy back and forth so that shiny wet glimpses of his thick shaft were flickering in and out of vision. There was something businesslike about it, something mechanical and repetitive, but his face was intense, his brow furrowed and veined, his cheeks red, his eyes fixed and narrowed, lips pursed, facial hair glistening damp. He was a man on a mission, and his grunts grew louder as he approached its completion. `Here I go, fellas,' he announced simply, speaking through the hot breathy dirty talk of Jordan's encouragement (`Fuck her hard, mate!') and Aaron's own mumbled endorsement (`Er, go for it, fella...'), until suddenly he was letting out an almost animalistic growl of satisfaction, and his motion ceased - he just held the toy tightly down on the entirety of his big cock, pushing himself into it and presumably filling it with his jizz. In his sweaty-faced climax, his big heavy body fell forward slightly, and one long arm extended - a big heavy hand clutched at Aaron's shoulder through his polo shirt, and he tensed to steady the weight of the 6ft4 man. The contact felt odd, his other hand gripped about his shiny dick, reaching the left one up to hold and support Sam's grip. `Fuck!' roared the Crystal Palace goalie, still stooping there, with Jordan grabbing and squeezing his shoulder in tactile approval, telling him, `You've cum buckets in there, I bet...' And just like that, big Sam's interest was switched off - he was pulling away and squeezing the toy from off his member, dropping it heavily to the bedding, and pushing back with heavy rasping breaths... grasping at the front of his white shirt to pull and waft it against his overheated chest and stomach muscles. `I'm showering,' he declared, adding, `might make it a cold one after that...!' He had no interest in the discarded toy, or the rapt faces of his audience - he was just steering heavily away from them, beginning to peel off the Three Lions merch, and disappearing into the bathroom doorway that his huge stature entirely filled. And then he was just a firmly closing door, and Aaron was an awkwardly kneeling one of two, dick in hand, staring down at the toy. The question was forming in his head, close to escaping his lips, when it was answered by Jordan's shiny snatching fingers. The question was `Did he really shoot his load in there?' and perhaps, as a follow-up, `We can't put our dicks in it now, can we?' The answer was, based on the enthusiasm of Jordan Pickford, `Who fucking cares?' Right next to him on the bed, kneeling up like him, the Everton goalie was dragging his polo shirt further up his dense torso, up to just below the nips, and rubbing sensually at his abdominal muscles, whilst bringing the lips of the toy back to his quivering cock, average-sized or perhaps a little smaller, Aaron didn't like to judge. He certainly felt bigger next to him than face-to-face with Sam. Whilst one hand applied the fleshlight to his prick, Jordan grabbed at Aaron's shoulder with the other, pressing his weight into him for support, and forcing the Arsenal keeper to grip helpfully at him with his right hand, bringing his left to his dick to carry on stroking it. As a more polite form of the questions that had died in his throat, Ramsdale asked, `How's it feel now?' He hoped Pickers understood what he meant, but it was unclear. The other man responded only in grunts and moans, thrusting into the toy really hard, breaking his gasps of pleasure only to laugh heavily as if this was all one hilarious dirty joke - and in the background, the sounds of a shower and a bad singing voice, Sam Johnstone casually washing away the sin of communal masturbation. `Fuck, it feels better,' Jordan hissed, either finally catching the hint of Aaron's query, or just spontaneously sharing his concern, `I can feel Sam's jizz as extra lube, fuck.' Such a filthy thought, Aaron couldn't help but purse his lips awkward and wrinkle his nose, but he was also intrigued by how excited it made his England senior - and so when Jordan's pace slowed and they shared a meaningful look, he nodded, and reached out, taking it directly from the other man's cock with a squelch of release. He paused only briefly, looking at how slick and shiny the lips were, but then just shoved himself into it again, glad at that tightness closing once more on his head and shaft - it didn't feel any different, neither better nor worse, but there was some special dirtiness in the knowledge of how well-used the synthetic cunt already was. `Fuck, that's it,' growled Pickford's voice, grabbing and rubbing at his shoulder muscles, and there was something cloying and excessive about his closeness now - Ramsdale shut his eyes to better ignore him, briefly using both hands on the toy, just fucking it like there was really a beautiful woman on the bed with him, but feeling the intimacy of Pickford's hands running over his bicep and shoulder and onto his broad back. And then, worse, brushing his chest, heading down - `Here,' hissed the England Number One, `just let me take over, pretend it's your bird...' Aaron's hands were brushed aside before he could take in this instruction, and now he was just kneeling there, feeling the pulsing tightness of the toy, but his hands dangling to his sides, a confusing moment's unreality with his eyes closed - he was fucking a fantasy woman, beginning to push with his strong hips and glutes now that his hands weren't involved, and for several beautiful moments, hardly processing that it was JORDAN'S hands who'd taken control. His eyes flickered open and so he was unable to edit out this information, because they were kneeling close on the bed, Johnstone gone so that the banter of three men had become the alarming intimacy of two - and with one hand still on Aaron's shoulder, Jordan's other was tightly gripping the toy, holding the fleshlight in place so that Ramsdale could thrust energetically into it with the full force of his 6ft2 physique, sweat pooling in his pits and down his back, damp and fresh beneath his polo shirt and the bunched up shorts. He shook, alarmed, when Jordan told him to pause, his voice breathy - it was as if Pickford was suddenly registering how dirty and wrong this was, and demanding that they stopped, which made Ramsdale feel filthy and desperate for allowing it to take place. Instead, though, the Everton man just reached for the little tube and held the lube over Aaron's crotch, pumping out two squidges of it so that the substance drooled down onto the base of his cock, meaning that as he slowly began thrusting again, his cock felt all the better and looser, and he could really pick up speed. `That's it,' hissed Jordan's voice. `Fuck her good.' Ramsdale found that he couldn't reply anything more than sharp gasps, but he didn't know what he'd say - he stared almost resentfully into the snarling face of his England superior, the man whose position he needed to usurp, and in his final moments of pleasure, found that he'd gone from sensual fantasy to utter grudge-fucking. It wasn't as if the toy in Pickford's hand still represented any idea of womanhood at all - he was literally fucking the man's fist and showing him that he was the more powerful, the more virile, the more manly goalkeeper, the young stud who should be defending England from all-comers. He stared quite aggressively into the shiny face of his prime rival, and in his mind's eye he was staring at David Raya too, at Mikel Arteta, at the whole fucking stupid situation, at the crippling sexual frustration that had gripped his body until today. `Cum for her,' drawled Jordan. `Shurrup,' Rambo barked back at him. `Yes,' gasped the England No.1, `fuck me- er, her, I mean, her-' `Shurrup,' he growled again, `shurrup!' His hands reached out and grasped at Jordan Pickford's rounded shoulders, holding tightly onto him as if he WAS the fleshlight, whilst the toy itself was held vice-like in both of those goal-saving mitts, keeping it still and secure as Aaron Ramsdale powered into it and emptied his balls, adding his own salty flavour to the mess that Johnstone had deposited inside. `OH FUCK,' he growled, and a flurry of other swear words and gasps escaped dry lips, eyes fluttering, and Jordan's pants turning into bursts of vicious laughter. Ramsdale slowed, his cock sensitive and tingling, his body suddenly exhausted; he realised how tightly, perhaps painfully, his large hands were gripping the 29-year-old by the shoulders, and he let go, leaning and swaying backwards, his face feeling drenched with sweat. He looked down, lashes fluttering, and fixed his eyes on Pickford's hands, still clutched around the plastic that encased his quivering member - sure, there were a couple of synthetic layers between meat and skin, but still... `Geroff,' he grumbled awkwardly, pulling away, sliding his cock out as Jordan simultaneously let go, so that the kinky thing tumbled down, silvery-white liquid oozing from its lips as it hit the bedding - his, he wondered, or Sam's?! Breathing heavily and avoiding eye contact, Ramsdale retreated off the bed, shoving his aching cock into the mesh of his shorts, and wiping the hairy backs of his arms across his clammy face. God. What a mad thing to do. He looked towards their en suite bathroom, but the door was still shut, the other goalie still having his cold shower; and so Ramsdale shot his eyes back at Pickford with an almost accusing expression. The Sunderland man was gently stroking himself, hand stuffed down the front of his tracksuit, small cock no longer on show, but definitely still hard; and the No.1 stared confrontationally back, which was fair enough. What was Ramsdale trying to accuse him of...? `You alright?' Jordan demanded. `Fine,' Aaron panted quickly. `Fine, fine.' He stood there at the foot of the bed, fiddling awkwardly with shorts that didn't fit well with a dick at half-mast. He writhed at the sweat-damp polo shirt. He glanced again at the bathroom door, thinking of how the tone had seemed to change when big dumb Sam had pulled away and left them to it. Jordan had gotten VERY close to him. He tugged uncomfortably at his collar and then wiped his face again on one arm. He took a slight step away, and paused as the senior goalkeeper suddenly spoke up. `What,' Jordan asked, his voice low and serious, `aren't you staying to help me finish too?' For a long awkward moment, Ramsdale stared at him, blinking, his pecs rising and falling with his pants - and then the deadly serious look on Pickford's face switched to his usual leer and a burst of laughter. `I'm fucking kidding, you twat - now piss off so I can enjoy myself in peace, go get yourself showered off before teatime, go on you wanker...!' And Aaron laughed too, shakily, and hurried for the door, still trying to adjust the bulge of his fading erection in the front of his England shorts - hardly noticing as he slipped out that Pickford immediately reached to pick back up the cum-leaking sex toy from the bed. He didn't rush immediately downstairs, too preoccupied with the obviousness of his physical arousal - he paced the corridor awkwardly, remembering at some point that he'd left his own personal tablet and book back in the goalkeepers' room, but too worried of interrupting Pickford if he went back. Eventually, still streaked with sweat, and cock very sensitive in his briefs and shorts, he took to the stairs, back down to his own floor. How long had it been since he left Declan to it? He wasn't sure. It felt like he'd been upstairs with the other keepers for absolutely hours, given the intensity of the experience - first the heart-to-hearts and man-to-man advice, and then... the other thing. He marched down towards the door of his own hotel suite in the confidence that Rice would be finishing up and done with his family call, confident that if not he could slip straight through and drench himself in his own ice-cold shower, following Sam's lead. Well, `finishing up' was one phrase for what he found when he burst into the room. Aaron's eyes picked details out one at a time as if in extreme slow-motion: the open laptop first, at the centre of the double bed, then the bulky bare legs spread either side of it, ending in the white-socked feet of his roommate and Arsenal colleague; the long wide-mouthed expression on Declan's face, the wildness in his wide eyes; the tension and contraction in his chest and arm muscles; the fortunate positioning of the open laptop, and the more explicit view that its presence perhaps obstructed from this imprinting visual; and for some reason, his eyes lingering ironically on it, one of those same pump tubes of Durex lubricant, lying nestled in the folds of duvet near Dec's knee. And last, but most vividly, happening in real-time as he lurched in through the hotel room door, the sticky shiny wetness that spurted up Dec's pectorals, accompanied by the throaty sound from his open mouth. And then, more vivid and distinctive than the orgasmic moan of Rice's vocals, the tinny distant speaker voice through the MacBook between his open legs: `That's so much cum, baby, so much!' It was a good long while since Aaron had spent any time with the out-of-favour midfielder of former Chelsea fame, now Man Utd, but the cheery perky voice of the south coast twink was very very recognisable. `Oh yes,' moaned Mason Mount's voice through the magic of the internet, and Aaron didn't hear the follow-up to that exclamation - in a panicked rush, he retreated, slamming the door behind him and staggering back into the corridor, his own aching cock and dubious behaviour forgotten, and his brain now completely obfuscated by the image of Declan Rice's secret orgasm. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2023 06:04:00 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 378 Part 378: England's Hole-keepers `Give me - like, an hour and a half? Would that be okay? You're sure you don't mind, mate?' He nodded enthusiastically and gave a mock salute to his Arsenal teammate, backing away out of the room; it was early evening on the second full day of the England camp, and their duties were largely over. A handful of other players were still involved in different media work that the bosses had organised, but the North London clubmates were entirely free, like a good half of the men on the squad. `All good,' the 25-year-old called brightly again to the other occupant of their suite, grabbing up a few items to hold under one long muscled arm, and backing to the door. `Enjoy your call, mate, it's all good.' Another waving gesture at the lad seated at the desk by the windows, and with that he took his leave, stooping out onto the landing area outside their room, and then up a short flight of stairs onto the next floor of the familiar hotel that formed part of the Three Lions' home base. It was a simple enough request to honour for the good pal who he was rooming with - Declan Rice was a more than welcome addition to his North London life and he was even gladder of the other English player once out here on England call-up again, and so more than happy to help the other young star out by giving him space for an hour or two on a Wednesday evening. The sensational midfielder was planning some big group call with family members, it seemed, and he'd made a point of asking if Aaron Ramsdale could keep out of the way and allow him some privacy. And sure, he thought on his way up the stairs, for all his warmth and good matey banter, Rice was actually a really private person, who didn't seem to share much of himself with his new Arsenal colleagues; Aaron wondered if things had been different at West Ham, where he'd been so much better established, or if this was just Declan's way of being professional. Nobody at the club even knew if Dec was single or not, whereas everybody knew all about Aaron's wedding plans and one-month-old kid - the big Stoke lad was an open book in every way. Up he went, rather than down; he wasn't sure anybody would be hanging out in the communal areas down in the hotel below, other than the few lads who were doing media interviews or filming silly content skits for the national team's social media. Excused from such obligations this time, Ramsdale had headed to his room in the same fatigued manner as everyone else, leaving a comfy nap on his bed only when Declan made his stilted formal request for a little bit of space. Instinct and familiarity drew Ramsdale to what seemed like the obvious corner to him, bringing him to a sharp flurry of knocks on a door at the far end of the corridor above, temporary home to his two fellow goalkeepers of Southgate's selection. The door was answered almost instantly, and Jordan Pickford puffed out his chest and gave him one of those looks of mock seriousness and inflated self-importance that he loved to adopt, acting like a bouncer at some top nightclub - `You got ID, son?' the Northerner demanded in a silly Londoner accent, barring the doorway and looking ominously past him in either direction. `Can a goalie not chill in the goalie suite?' the 25-year-old Arsenal player huffed playfully back at the England No.1, poising as if to rugby tackle past the senior keeper and invade the room he was sharing with the squad's other unused back-up. Pickford laughed immediately and opened his arms, welcoming into a brief tight hug, then shoving him on into the large room and pushing the door shut behind him. Ramsdale was often surprised that the team's accommodation plans didn't lump all three goalies into one shared room, since so much of the schedule did keep the three of them at close quarters, with a whole load of extra coaching and mentoring to create a `competitive triad' between them - the Arsenal player knew that the truth of it was about buttering up himself and Johnstone or Pope, whoever was in that other spot, so that they could handle being spare parts whilst the Everton keeper continued to be Southgate's favoured last defence, time after time. And with Pickford not yet even 30, a big change to the No.1 spot for England seemed like it might bypass Ramsdale's prime entirely. Sam Johnstone, this international break's fellow goalkeeper competition, was a large stoic fella who seemed relatively comfortable with that situation - in Ramsdale's limited experience thus far, the big lofty Lancastrian was someone who just plodded uncomplainingly into the duty and accepted whatever the gaffer handed out, unfazed by minimal game appearances and happy to work his socks off in training on behalf of the wider squad. An admirable big fucker, Aaron thought, but not perhaps a role he saw himself leaping into - he had enough of that angst going on at his Premiership club, never mind on the international stage. Right now, the 6ft4 Crystal Palace keeper was standing by the open window on a phone call, turning only to give a brief wave of welcome as Aaron sauntered into what felt communal space for them, even if he was actually roomed elsewhere with Rice. At Jordan's direction, he flopped down into a comfortable seated position at the foot of one bed, whilst the Mackem bloke slobbed down into a nearby chair and resumed whatever game he was playing on his Nintendo Switch. `Good lad,' the 29-year-old murmured distractedly to him, feet playing and thumbs bashing buttons, `for coming up here - we thought you might be getting ideas above your station and hanging out with the real footballers, y'kna.' He looked up, smirking. `But nope, good lad, up here with the goalie losers for a quiet mope.' He resumed his play with intense focus and Aaron chuckled vaguely at the lines, unsure how genuinely self-deprecating the typically over-confident bloke was being - he wasn't really sure what he'd expected by coming up to her join the guys, but it had seemed to make sense as he found himself outcast from his own room by Declan's intense politeness. After a moment's quiet, just Johnstone's deep rumbling voice in the background, Jordan paused the game and tossed the handheld console onto a stack of his belongings on the floor, lounging comfortably where he was with his feet propped on the edge of the bed. He fixed Aaron with an inquisitive look. `Did you come up here for some wisdom from your elders then, or what?' Again, it was hard to know when to take the swaggering Everton man seriously or not. `Just kicked out of my room,' Ramsdale told him lightly. `Dec had a call to make.' He scratched at his fine blond stubble and the back of his thick neck. `Just thought I'd pop by and see what you oafs were up to, that's all.' `Hmm, rightyo,' said Pickford. `I didn't mean to kill your gaming time,' he laughed gently, nodding at the discarded Switch, and then dumping out the few belongings he'd brought up with him on the blankets to his side: his tablet, a crime thriller he was reading, and a bag of cheesy snacks. Jordan gestured impatiently at them and he ripped open the bag to share. Jordan just shrugged as he crunched on a mouthful. `Was just playing it cos I'm bored,' he admitted conversationally. `Who the hell is Dec calling that he needs privacy?' A slightly nasty sneer formed on the Sunderland bloke's tanned face. `Mason bloody Mount, haha?' Less familiar with the running joke of the sport's greatest bromance, Aaron just frowned vaguely back at his teammate and shrugged broad shoulders, taking a large handful of the snacks himself. `Family, he said,' he said disinterestedly, in no mood to be cynical or suspicious of anything his friend got up to - he generally got on well with Pickford as a fellow keeper, but he did sometimes find something a little obnoxious or almost nasty in the other man's sense of humour, and he was not interested in joining any gossip. `I left him to it, what with not being a dickhead and all,' he added decisively, putting a lid on that topic and asserting himself to the other guy. `Fair,' was Jordan's vague, dismissive response. `Alright lads,' boomed big Sam's voice, his call now finished, striding between them and aggressively dislodging Jordan's feet from the bed to get past and throw himself down on the other double. `Goalkeeper party in da house, is it? Yes lads. What we drinking from the minibar, hey? Haha.' The well-built 30-year-old from Preston sprawled out comfortably on his bed in a white England polo shirt and baggy tracksuit pants, the exact same gear as the other two, but for the light shorts that Aaron had opted for, exposing the pale fluff of his thickly-muscled legs folded beneath him. `If only,' Pickford groaned, and Ramsdale nodded enthusiastically. `I could murder a pint,' Johnstone complained heavily. `Or seven.' `Shall we escape out of the window and find a country pub?' Aaron joked. `Oh now our kid's talking,' enthused Sam in his thick Preston accent. `Aye, talking shite,' corrected Jordan cynically. `Southgate would string us up. Gah, no wonder you two are just back-ups, it's my level head that England needs in goal, not two alcoholics,' he boasted with ridiculous piety, pausing to laugh at himself. His humour was obvious, and yet it was the wrong banter for the Number One to go with - for Aaron, it tapped into too much current discomfit at home, and even for stoic Sam, it roused a frosty expression and a sudden silence, and Jordan clearly knew it. `Minibar aside, what the hell shall we get up to?' he demanded frustratedly, running fingers through his quiff of strawberry blond hair. `Taking it in turns punching you in the gob,' quipped Johnstone brutishly, making Ramsdale snigger stupidly. `Taking it in turns to kick you up the backside?' he added, matching the big guy's tone, and fixing their superior with an ironic look. `Pfft, chill out the pair of yas,' chuckled the Mackem guy. He got up from his seat and climbed aboard his bed, joining Aaron, and giving him a gentle shove in the knee. He snatched up the bag of snacks and began throwing them for Sam to catch in his mouth like a performing animal, whilst whistling thoughtfully to himself. `Come on, Rambo, we know you came up here to quiz us and get all the best tips, don't deny it - I mean, if anyone can help you beat Raya and stay at Arsenal, it must be us.' Aaron blanched at the openness of this new topic, a matter which none of his friends here in the England camp had addressed with such directness, even after his own dad made sports headlines yesterday by complaining embarrassingly on his behalf to some interviewer. Life for Ramsdale had changed drastically this year at his club, going from a fan favourite hero and shithouse to a spare part with only cup appearances to his name - and he wasn't sure what he thought about arrogant Pickford bringing it up so casually right now on their evening downtime. He went awkwardly silent as he thought this comment over, glad when the Palace player cut into it instead: `Leave that out, Picky, for god's sake - don't be a cunt to the lad, or I'll smack yer arse myself.' `Huh,' chuckled Jordan, `don't threaten me with a good time, big man.' `Fine,' grunted Ramsdale quietly, in the quiet that followed. `What would you two fella do if you were in my position, then? Other than keying Arteta's car?' The second question was meant to sound funny and casual about the issue, but he could hear himself sounding nothing short of bitter and resentful, which made his cheeks blush and his head hang, wishing he'd changed the topic instead. To the 25-year-old Stokey's vague surprise and delight, however, the conversation turned into something of a heart-to-heart - whilst prime first-choice goalies at their current Premier League, both northern blokes had experienced varied highs and lows to their careers, which they talked about now with a frankness and kindness that took Ramsdale by surprise. Jordan, for a change, was all quiet humility, dwelling on a long spell of loan deals when he'd thought he might never have a permanent spot in anyone's goal, whilst big Sam complained about having been on the Man Utd roster for 7 years without a single proper appearance under the crossbar at Old Trafford. And then, as if they had spoken too openly and earnestly for too long, the pair of them fell into some more generic banter at each other, their clubs having clashed in the Premiership on Saturday gone - Aaron's career crisis brushed aside, Jordan went scrambling over to wrestle stupidly with the bigger bloke, bantering about Everton's dominant 3-2 win over Palace. Aaron, impressed and reflective after their shared experiences and moments of genuine advice, sat there quietly to the side, whilst also privately noting that a 5 goal game was hardly one for any keeper to try and take particular pride in, but never mind... Johnstone had Pickford in a headlock now and both men were turning red faces this way as if Ramsdale was the umpire of their conflict - he raised a single eyebrow and smirked stupidly at them, then grabbed and threw a couple of pillows their way to break them up. As they parted with a series of grunts, the 6ft2 lad stretched out and climbed off the bed, feeling slightly lighter after all for having talked the dry spell over with his contemporaries, men only a few years older than him but seemingly much more worldly. `Thanks guys,' he said once the noise of their scuffle was over, returning their surprising frankness. `It's good to hear all that, y'know, it's been a rough six months or whatever - a bit of a dry spell.' Pickford's little snort of amusement was quick, another seeming instance of him unable to think much before speaking - `And I bet it's not the only dry spell in your life right now, big lad, that's for sure!' Ramsdale, out of context, wasn't even sure what the other guy was trying to say, pausing and looking awkwardly his way - he could tell there was some mean or crude joke to what Pickford had to say, but he was so wrapped up in his Arsenal battle for that position, that he could only infer some sly dig at his performances, contradicting the No.1's kinder words only minutes ago. Jordan was clambering off the far bed, but Sam was giving him a thump in the side and shaking his head. `What you playing at?' the Palace man demanded crossly, but Jordan laughed and gestured pleadingly. `Hey, hey, Sam and I know what's it like,' Pickford professed enthusiastically, hurrying closer to him at this side of the room. `I mean, Rambo mate, we're both dads - we've been in your boat before, him a couple of times.' Realisation dawned on Aaron and he laughed embarrassedly, realising they'd moved on from his goalkeeper career to a very different kind of `dry spell' - and though it was hardly something he might have brought up or complained about to these two, or in fact anyone other than his closest pal Ben White, it was clearly a situation he was conscious enough of to instantly recognise what Jordan was trying to say. A month or so after the birth of his first son, the hot-blooded young athlete was nowhere near getting any intimacy from his beautiful fiancee, and had been stuck in one of the longest sexless ruts of his young life. He blushed deeply and continued to laugh, whilst Pickford leant in and pinched his cheek with a knowing wink, accompanied by a low grunting laugh from Johnstone in the background. `Tis true,' mourned the other goalkeeper, rising up to his 6ft4 stature and shrugging. `And don't expect it to go back to normal for a good while yet, youngster.' `What he's saying,' Jordan elaborated needlessly, `is get used to Mrs Palm and her five daughters, you get me?' A wanking gesture in the air left no room for misinterpretation and then the obnoxious fella jabbed him playfully in the ribs before returning to find a seat on his bed, picking up his Switch again on the way to play idly on his game whilst they spoke. In a wistful voice, Sam was trying to count out how long it might be before Aaron was going to have sex again, and Jordan was complaining loudly about all the other reasons his own partner found to say no these days - and Aaron just chuckled stupidly at them, unsure of this turn in the conversation, but then glad to think of something other than his battle with Raya. It felt disrespectful for him to say anything specific to their banter, anyway - Benjamin really was the only one of his football mates that he might do, given the alarming honesty previously shared between the two of them, in the Arsenal sauna and the similarly arid heat of Qatar. `You ought to show him that thing you brought,' Jordan barked suddenly at Sam, putting his console down, and really breaking into sleazy laughter. `Maybe you can recommend a purchase to this horny young buck too, hey?' Big burly Sam actually looked quite mortified, and so Aaron was intrigued in spite of himself, shooting a confused look to the tall broad man, whilst the main goalie continued to piss himself laughing on the bed. `Oh fuck off,' Johnstone was barking at Pickford, `I knew I shouldn't have shown you that, you cunt. I told you, I ain't even tried it out properly, so how could I go recommending it?' `Oh go on, get it out!' `Fuck off...' `Get what out?' the Arsenal back-up called to them, pausing by the open window and folding his arms. `What the hell are you two on about?' Jordan couldn't answer for his own laughter, whilst Sam grimaced and rolled his eyes and then, with a pantomime of reluctance, went fiddling into one of the bags by his bed. He pulled something out and threw it forcibly this way, arcing high through the room, so that Aaron had to lunge forward to give it a catch. He stared at the large thick tube in his hands, briefly uncomprehending, and then he noted the rough shape of it, the lip-like lining that formed a circle of sorts on this end, and- `Fucking hell,' he exclaimed, `is this a fleshlight?' He wasn't so innocent or thick that he'd never encountered the idea - he had, after all, sneaked into the only sex shop in Doha to buy that big chunky dildo to mock Ben White, for all the fucking trouble it had caused! - but in the context of this hotel room on England duty, the thing was alien and ridiculous, and - he frowned and blushed more deeply - a bit bigger than he'd imagined such an item to be. Quickly, as if it were a hot potato, he flung the thing back - not across the room at Sam himself, but at the cackling hyena Jordan on the nearer bed, unsure that such an item was the solution to his position as a new father trying his best to support his fiancee. `Well,' he said evenly, giving an empathetic look across at the Palace player, `you gotta do what you gotta do, big man, so no judgement here...' `Oh aye,' moaned Jordan. `No judgement, not like you're the lad who's gonna have to lie in the next bed while the big bastard here fucks this thing into oblivion - what if he gets over-excited and comes across to my bed once he's smashed it with his big cock, eh?' As always, there was something astonishing in the crudeness and sneer of Pickford's banter, which made Ramsdale himself feel prudish and silly in their room - watching as the Everton goalie placed the male sex toy over the crotch of his trackies and pretended to thrust upwards into it before tossing it back at Johnstone. Sam caught it deftly, smirking and shaking his head. `I'd fuck every item of furniture in here before I caught syphilis from you, Mackem lad. Thinks something of himself don't he, Aaron? Ugly prick.' And losing his self-consciousness about it, he tossed the toy from hand to hand, moving between the two beds. `It was a gift from the missus, said I should try it out on this trip, that's all - says it will stop be complaining when she's too tired, haha. I mean - it's just a daft toy, I'll defo give it a go.' `When he does,' Pickford insisted, `I'll be coming down to hang out with you and Rice, mate, even if he is having a cam-wank with Mason Mount, okay?' He was being sneering and derogatory and yet, Aaron couldn't help but notice, he was staring up very intently at the way Sam juggled it from hand to hand and then, in the same mocking exaggerated way, placed it dramatically over his crotch and proceeded to thrust into thin air. Aaron laughed and rolled his eyes at both of them, thinking maybe this was his cue to leave. `You two are mad,' he huffed in a half-laugh. `We're just trying to help,' Jordan protested weakly. `Just trying to offer some solutions to your dry spell, Rambo. Hey, I mean maybe if you empty your fat balls some time, you might actually lift your goalie game and get back in that Number One spot, so...' This time, as Aaron flushed and grimaced, there was no interjection or warning from the bigger man, who just chucked the fleshlight back his way, and shrugged his shoulders, saying, `Our man Prickford here might be right, y'know - nothing worse than sexual frustration for ruining your form during a tense season, kiddo.' Catching the tossed item, Aaron stared in surprise at this perspective from the giant, and then back at the lewd look on Jordan's face. `Sure,' he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, `I'll just whip my prick out now and pop this thing's cherry for you both, shall I? I'm sure that'll put me right in goal on Friday night, no worries... Fuck's sake, lads.' `Go on, I dare ya,' cackled Pickers, whilst Johnstone said less mockingly, `We don't mean Friday, for fuck's sake - this cunt has that one sealed up as usual - we just mean if you relaxed a bit more and let yourself go, maybe you'd find things got a bit easier for you at Arsenal, that's all. I think that's what we were trying to say earlier, mate, that's all - once you get uptight about it, once you freak out, that's when you start losing the battle, hey?' Aaron stood there, arse propped back against the windowsill, hoisting the offensively large plastic item in one hand and staring between the other two goalkeepers. `And whacking my nob in a fake vagina is the thing that's gonna relax me, is it?' he said, trying to sound annoyed but his face splitting into a grin and the question ending on a laugh of disbelief. He inspected the device more carefully, shaking his head - he had never tried such a thing, though he remembered staring at them in horrified fascination when scouring that sex shop for the most intimidating rubbery phallus on sale. The most intimidating and embarrassing rubbery phallus, he thought, which had caused so much aggro when secreted in Ben's bed to horrify his conjugal visitor - for a moment, staring at the fleshlight in his paw, Ramsdale was back there in the winter World Cup, and Benjamin was helping to push the stupid sex toy into his backside to... to what? To atone for his prank? To prove a point? He felt himself go pale and stiff and awkward, thinking about that incident between them, which had ended with Ben's pinkeye and flight home to the UK, perhaps the flat end to his entire career on the England squad. Fuck. His long moment's thoughtfulness must have been ambiguous or misleading, because Pickford now whooped, `He's tempted, isn't he? Fetch that lube she bought you with it, Samwise, and hoy it at the kid, he's well up for giving it a test drive.' Sam was laughing, but with some doubt in his voice as he said, `Hey, I don't think anyone is popping that cherry except me, boys, that was MY gift from the missus, okay...' And with an awkward kinda serious, he was moving this way and reaching out to accept it back - which Aaron gladly accepted with a laugh, chucking it to him and then wiping his hands on the sides of his shorts as if tainted by holding it for too long, though his thoughts were less on a receptive toy than the penetrating monster that had slid between his downy cheeks. `Well heck yeah,' Jordan barked, `you can go first, but I think all of us want a go on it.' It was as simple as that, somehow, the sudden shift in the tone, the shift from exaggerated banter and overdone outrage between them, because Jordan was sliding off the bed now and hopping over his roomie's bed too - leaning over and fishing rudely through his mate's belongings, until he was wielding the little pump tube of Durex lubricant, which he waved about like a trophy, then came in at Sam with some boxing moves, laughing his head off and then gesturing enthusiastically over this way. `Here, Aaron, you won't mind if the big twat gets his chopper out, will you? We're all goalies here, brothers-in-arms.' Ramsdale could laugh heartily at this, picking himself up from the windowsill, arms folded uncomfortably against his chest, but perhaps only because he was so sure that Jonhstone would laugh it off too, and give the uppity prick the clip about the ears he deserved. So when the Palace goalie reached a hand into the front of his pants and then flopped his cock and balls out with complete self-confidence, it gave the Arsenal boy a start. `Honestly,' big Sam sighed playfully, `this Mackem cunt will do anything to get another glimpse at my meat, y'know, he's such a fuckin' perv.' `Well,' remarked Jordan in the voice of a connoisseur, stood close next to him, `it is a fucking ridiculous big monster of a thing, ain't it? Ain't it, Rambo? What do you think?' And he forced the pump tube into Sam's free hand before lounging comfortably back down on his bed, staring brightly between the cock-swinging giant and the gawping younger lad. For several long moments, Ramsdale didn't really know what was expected of him - he could see the leer and provocation on Pickford's face, but he could also see a kind of simple dumb pride on Johnstone's, and more than anything he could see the fat drooping member that hung over the waist of the England tracksuit, a prick that was perfectly proportionate to the 6ft4 man's excessive height and breadth. It was big enough to make Aaron think again of that Doha dildo, but perhaps that offensive monster was already too much in his mind, triggered by all this chat about sex toys. `Here,' Sam chuckled, `watch me finger the sexy bitch.' And stood proudly before them, the third-place goalkeeper of the England squad squirted a bit of transparent lube onto two thick fingers, and then pushed them gracelessly into the `lips' of the toy, chuckling as he did, and eliciting whoops of amusement and approval from Jordan too. Aaron let out a hollow awkward laugh, blinking furiously. He was about to announce his departure to leave them to their egos and rivalries over dick size, but he was stopped in his tracks by further shock at the openness and exhibitionism of a bloke as simple and traditional as the Preston giant: more lube pumped out of the tube, into his palm, and then a few slow leisurely pulls on the soft length below the hem of his polo shirt, bringing it into an even thicker shape, slowly rousing himself with a few long strokes, whistled at admiringly by Pickford. `Fellas,' Ramsdale said quietly in a voice of nervous disapproval, but he felt himself ignored - Pickford was cackling quite happily, and Johnstone too was laughing, in a heavy grunting sort of way, whilst he took the fleshlight in one hand and his semi-hard prick in the other. `Fuck, not quite hard enough,' he was chuckling, whilst Jordan barked, `Well give it a proper stroke then you daft twat.' Aaron found himself oddly fascinated by it in several ways. He was fascinated by the openness and carelessness of Sam, a guy who had never seemed particularly broad-minded to him; he was fascinated by the extent of Jordan's dirty humour and unhealthy interest in his teammates, which went far beyond the daft jokes that he was used to hearing from him. He was fascinated by his own... what, prudishness? Who was he to judge, after what he'd let happen with Benjamin? It had been one thing joking around with the dildo, and pranking White, but then... why had he needed to appease him with such a physical act, why had he gone through with it? Why had he let Ben help, taking hold of the thing as it pushed into him and hurt his hole, made it sting and ache for DAYS, in such a way that he hadn't been able to admit to anyone, least of all the England medical staff who were so inquisitive about his limp the next day? Jesus, what a mad stupid time that had all been, how had he been so daft as to...? He saw Benjamin's face, as he unloaded messily into it, and remembered the difficulty in their friendship for so many months after Qatar was over, though everything was rosy again by now - so long as neither mentioned their Middle Eastern adventure whatsoever! `Right, maybe now,' boomed Sam, and dear jesus, his cock really was a big long hefty thing when getting seriously hard - was it fully hard, or did the thing extend further?! Whatever, he was bringing the plastic tubing back down to it, taking it in both hands, and inserting himself into the synthetic tightness - Aaron's eyes slide upwards, wanting to study the mixed amusement and pleasure on the big rugged face of the skinhead bloke, then across to the glassy fascination that covered Jordan's features, absolutely mesmerised by what was happening - with jealousy and eagerness to try it, he wondered, or some more unconventional interest in his well-proportioned roommate? `That's it,' insisted Jordan very eagerly. `Push yourself right in there, big fella - shit, she knows you need the XXL one, I guess - she's been split open by that weapon enough times since you swept her off her feet, ha.' `It's fucking huge,' Aaron found himself echoing awkwardly, taking a couple of steps forward, lowering one knee to the edge of Jordan's bed, knuckles resting on hips. Like Pickford, he too stared intently, watching as with a performative kind of rhythm, the fully-clothed giant of a man held the cup to his crotch with both hands and rolled his hips, fucking his dick slowly into the toy in several slow strokes, then a sudden flurry of quicker humps that were accompanied by higher-pitched laughter. And then, in a flourish, he pulled the thing off his manhood, making a squelchy sucker noise, and tossing a few damp flecks of lubricant against the edges of the bedding; his big dick twanged and shook where it protruded from between his polo shirt and his tracksuit, and he slapped one lubed hand to it instantly to continue playing, whilst holding the toy aloft. `Sure, she feels good,' he confirmed through his big manly laugh. `Here, I'll give it a go,' Pickford demanded, and Ramsdale was further shocked when he heard his own voice, firm and pushy: `Nah, I thought it was my dry spell we were trying to fix? I'll go next, thanks, and you can have sloppy thirds, Prickford.' He heard his own aggro there like it was the voice of some other rough lad from back home in the Potteries. And yet the other two were laughing their agreement and the toy and pump were being tossed his way. Right, then. Here goes. I mean, this can't be weirder or worse than what happened with Benj, can it? Fuck no, this is nothing like THAT. This is just banter, and- yeah, yeah, maybe these guys have a point. Maybe I just need to let loose, by some daft shite like this whilst sex is off the table at home, and... `Well you'll have to get yer dick out, Rambo,' Jordan informed him tartly. `Don't be shy,' guffawed Sam. `You can see I ain't.' And so with one hand Ramsdale found himself pushing down the front of his training shorts, exposing the soft wiry grey-blond of his pubes, and then flopping his saggy balls and gently swollen semi out into view, whilst also reaching for the little pump tube and spunking out some lube to rub against his fat pale member. He was confident in his size, but there was something about Johnstone's proportions that made him insecure and keen to make it harder, wanting the other guys to see it at full mast and not in this shy droop - somehow, their crass comments were helpful to his arousement, rather than distracting: `Rub yerself happy, Rambo lad,' tittered Sam stupidly, and `Have a wank imagining Raya snapping a wrist next weekend, hehe' was Jordan's nastier invocation. Whilst Aaron slid his hand about his reluctant and shy cock, slowly pulling it into fuller shape, Jordan picked up and inspected the cock, seemingly unphased by the slimy wetness of the entrance where their friend's cock had penetrated it - but passing it back once Aaron looked ready, holding his thick heavy cock at the base and angling the bright pink tip towards the entrance. `You sure you don't mind sharing your new girl?' he croaked across at Sam, trying to sound bolshy and aloof - met only with hearty laughter from both the other guys, and some pushy insistence from an excited Pickford: `Go on, shove yer big nob in her, daft lad, make her squeal like your bitch!' And so he did, although it was a giggling Jordan Pickford who added the squealing sound effects for him, adopting a high feminine voice and crying `Yes yes, I'm being fucked by the king of the Arsenal hole, I mean, goal! Oh yes, Rambo, you fuck much better than that wanker Raya or tiny-cock Arteta, ohhhh-' Until, that is, a heavy clip about Jordan's head from Sam silenced this distracting banter, and it was suddenly all three of them assembled about the one bed. Aaron stared into the middle-distance, avoiding eye contact with either of them, whilst pulling the strangely realistic skin-feel against his head, against his peeled foreskin, against the girth and veins of his shaft, sliding quite slowly into it, shocked at its tightness, its inexplicable warmth. Oh, it felt good, and he needed to buy one of these. He found himself unable to express this in words or laughter, just a breathy moan, one which triggered more peals of excitable laughter from his naughty pals. `Go on,' Johnstone grunted simply, `fuck her, pal.' `Does she feel good?' came Pickford's almost breathless enthusiasm. Pickford, he noticed, was feeling himself through his tracksuit, hot pink in his cheeks, his neatly quiffed hair falling out of place and a little sweaty sheen all over his brow; Johnstone, mind, was still openly pulling back and forth on the obnoxiously large rod that had christened the toy, wanking himself in a leisurely and immodest fashion, as if loaning the fake fanny out was a very temporary measure - he looked ready to reinsert and take back his wife's gift, impatient to finish the show-and-tell. Somehow, Ramsdale didn't really mind this, didn't mind their excitement or proximity, kinda proud that he'd got himself hard and shoved it into the toy, at their joky insistence - it was like he was proving himself to his fellow goalies here in some new way, actually stepping up and joining their experienced clique, rather than being the bright-eyed newcomer as he'd felt on his last few call-ups. And this, he told himself, was nothing like Doha, nothing like that whole messy prank. He felt like he'd barely played with it, barely pushed his hard member in and out of its slimy entrance, but Jordan was reaching for it - snatching rudely for it while it was still wrapped about his cock, which made him flinch uncomfortably, demanding that it was his turn. And Sam was muttering agreement, saying `Give it to Prickford, sloppy thirds like you said!' And so he pulled out with some reluctance, sad to lose the pleasurable pressure on his cock, and shy to have his lubed hard-on judder about as it was released - but grabbing it in his hand, like Sam was, because Sam made it seem okay, and after all he really WAS horny, so- Jordan was shoving down his trackies and boxer shorts, and making the joke before either of them could, putting himself down whilst sounding entirely smug and cocksure: `She'll hardly notice this chipolata after you two beasts, but here we go!' And with a fully performative energy to his movements, he was shoving his shorter, more slender prick into `her', holding it in one hand and bringing the other up for high fives, first with Johnstone and then with Ramsdale too, clapping palm to palm with them whilst gyrating his hip and fucking the lubed lips in a rapid flurry of motion. Here they were, all three of them, pleasuring themselves, the three England goalies together - god, Aaron thought, this is a bit much, ain't it?! And he and Ben had got in trouble for being found playing with themselves in a dark sauna, he remembered, fined by Mikel Arteta for inappropriate behaviour, and the gaffer hadn't even caught them trying to finger themselves because of Benjamin's relationship problems at the time...! If it hadn't been so long ago, it would be tempting to blame that silly disciplinary matter for his current out-of-favour subs bench era, but who knew where the boss's distrust had begun... Aaron pulled on his cock repeatedly, matching the slow steady rhythm of Big Sam, rather than the rather frenetic and showy fucking with which Jordan now attacked their shared toy, cackling as he slammed noisily in and out of it, overcompensating - his hair flopping back and forth and his face getting more shiny with sweat. It was Sam who broke into this, giving him a shove to the shoulder, and announcing with a sort of matter-of-fact simple bluntness: `Give us it back, then - I need to finish off this boner before we all have to go down for dinner, you pair of wank-stains...!' And like Jordan, he was casually snatching at the toy, pulling on it whilst it still gripped Jordan's smaller erection - yanking it away for himself, and pushing himself back into it, absolutely comfortable in his size and power, and happy to fill up the tight tubing in a way that must feel even better for his girthy equipment. Stop thinking about his dick, Aaron chided himself, you've never worried about your own size before, so quit this new insecurity! But he was thinking more about the toy, about its tightness, its strange realism, and maybe even... well, maybe just a bit, the AUDIENCE of it, being able to fuck it, fuck `her', with two other fellas here, like this was some seedy foursome or something, some tabloid footballer sex scandal like you read about with the names removed - Aaron had never been invited into anything so naughty as that, and he'd resented it before he started settling down with the current love of his life...! He felt that a misspent youth had escaped him, he looked like too much of a big goofy good guy, that was his problem... Too wholesome. And in front of this wholesome Staffordshire lad, in front of him and smirking wide-eyed Pickford, Johnstone was no totally going for it: one-handed, but rapid, really pulling the toy back and forth so that shiny wet glimpses of his thick shaft were flickering in and out of vision. There was something businesslike about it, something mechanical and repetitive, but his face was intense, his brow furrowed and veined, his cheeks red, his eyes fixed and narrowed, lips pursed, facial hair glistening damp. He was a man on a mission, and his grunts grew louder as he approached its completion. `Here I go, fellas,' he announced simply, speaking through the hot breathy dirty talk of Jordan's encouragement (`Fuck her hard, mate!') and Aaron's own mumbled endorsement (`Er, go for it, fella...'), until suddenly he was letting out an almost animalistic growl of satisfaction, and his motion ceased - he just held the toy tightly down on the entirety of his big cock, pushing himself into it and presumably filling it with his jizz. In his sweaty-faced climax, his big heavy body fell forward slightly, and one long arm extended - a big heavy hand clutched at Aaron's shoulder through his polo shirt, and he tensed to steady the weight of the 6ft4 man. The contact felt odd, his other hand gripped about his shiny dick, reaching the left one up to hold and support Sam's grip. `Fuck!' roared the Crystal Palace goalie, still stooping there, with Jordan grabbing and squeezing his shoulder in tactile approval, telling him, `You've cum buckets in there, I bet...' And just like that, big Sam's interest was switched off - he was pulling away and squeezing the toy from off his member, dropping it heavily to the bedding, and pushing back with heavy rasping breaths... grasping at the front of his white shirt to pull and waft it against his overheated chest and stomach muscles. `I'm showering,' he declared, adding, `might make it a cold one after that...!' He had no interest in the discarded toy, or the rapt faces of his audience - he was just steering heavily away from them, beginning to peel off the Three Lions merch, and disappearing into the bathroom doorway that his huge stature entirely filled. And then he was just a firmly closing door, and Aaron was an awkwardly kneeling one of two, dick in hand, staring down at the toy. The question was forming in his head, close to escaping his lips, when it was answered by Jordan's shiny snatching fingers. The question was `Did he really shoot his load in there?' and perhaps, as a follow-up, `We can't put our dicks in it now, can we?' The answer was, based on the enthusiasm of Jordan Pickford, `Who fucking cares?' Right next to him on the bed, kneeling up like him, the Everton goalie was dragging his polo shirt further up his dense torso, up to just below the nips, and rubbing sensually at his abdominal muscles, whilst bringing the lips of the toy back to his quivering cock, average-sized or perhaps a little smaller, Aaron didn't like to judge. He certainly felt bigger next to him than face-to-face with Sam. Whilst one hand applied the fleshlight to his prick, Jordan grabbed at Aaron's shoulder with the other, pressing his weight into him for support, and forcing the Arsenal keeper to grip helpfully at him with his right hand, bringing his left to his dick to carry on stroking it. As a more polite form of the questions that had died in his throat, Ramsdale asked, `How's it feel now?' He hoped Pickers understood what he meant, but it was unclear. The other man responded only in grunts and moans, thrusting into the toy really hard, breaking his gasps of pleasure only to laugh heavily as if this was all one hilarious dirty joke - and in the background, the sounds of a shower and a bad singing voice, Sam Johnstone casually washing away the sin of communal masturbation. `Fuck, it feels better,' Jordan hissed, either finally catching the hint of Aaron's query, or just spontaneously sharing his concern, `I can feel Sam's jizz as extra lube, fuck.' Such a filthy thought, Aaron couldn't help but purse his lips awkward and wrinkle his nose, but he was also intrigued by how excited it made his England senior - and so when Jordan's pace slowed and they shared a meaningful look, he nodded, and reached out, taking it directly from the other man's cock with a squelch of release. He paused only briefly, looking at how slick and shiny the lips were, but then just shoved himself into it again, glad at that tightness closing once more on his head and shaft - it didn't feel any different, neither better nor worse, but there was some special dirtiness in the knowledge of how well-used the synthetic cunt already was. `Fuck, that's it,' growled Pickford's voice, grabbing and rubbing at his shoulder muscles, and there was something cloying and excessive about his closeness now - Ramsdale shut his eyes to better ignore him, briefly using both hands on the toy, just fucking it like there was really a beautiful woman on the bed with him, but feeling the intimacy of Pickford's hands running over his bicep and shoulder and onto his broad back. And then, worse, brushing his chest, heading down - `Here,' hissed the England Number One, `just let me take over, pretend it's your bird...' Aaron's hands were brushed aside before he could take in this instruction, and now he was just kneeling there, feeling the pulsing tightness of the toy, but his hands dangling to his sides, a confusing moment's unreality with his eyes closed - he was fucking a fantasy woman, beginning to push with his strong hips and glutes now that his hands weren't involved, and for several beautiful moments, hardly processing that it was JORDAN'S hands who'd taken control. His eyes flickered open and so he was unable to edit out this information, because they were kneeling close on the bed, Johnstone gone so that the banter of three men had become the alarming intimacy of two - and with one hand still on Aaron's shoulder, Jordan's other was tightly gripping the toy, holding the fleshlight in place so that Ramsdale could thrust energetically into it with the full force of his 6ft2 physique, sweat pooling in his pits and down his back, damp and fresh beneath his polo shirt and the bunched up shorts. He shook, alarmed, when Jordan told him to pause, his voice breathy - it was as if Pickford was suddenly registering how dirty and wrong this was, and demanding that they stopped, which made Ramsdale feel filthy and desperate for allowing it to take place. Instead, though, the Everton man just reached for the little tube and held the lube over Aaron's crotch, pumping out two squidges of it so that the substance drooled down onto the base of his cock, meaning that as he slowly began thrusting again, his cock felt all the better and looser, and he could really pick up speed. `That's it,' hissed Jordan's voice. `Fuck her good.' Ramsdale found that he couldn't reply anything more than sharp gasps, but he didn't know what he'd say - he stared almost resentfully into the snarling face of his England superior, the man whose position he needed to usurp, and in his final moments of pleasure, found that he'd gone from sensual fantasy to utter grudge-fucking. It wasn't as if the toy in Pickford's hand still represented any idea of womanhood at all - he was literally fucking the man's fist and showing him that he was the more powerful, the more virile, the more manly goalkeeper, the young stud who should be defending England from all-comers. He stared quite aggressively into the shiny face of his prime rival, and in his mind's eye he was staring at David Raya too, at Mikel Arteta, at the whole fucking stupid situation, at the crippling sexual frustration that had gripped his body until today. `Cum for her,' drawled Jordan. `Shurrup,' Rambo barked back at him. `Yes,' gasped the England No.1, `fuck me- er, her, I mean, her-' `Shurrup,' he growled again, `shurrup!' His hands reached out and grasped at Jordan Pickford's rounded shoulders, holding tightly onto him as if he WAS the fleshlight, whilst the toy itself was held vice-like in both of those goal-saving mitts, keeping it still and secure as Aaron Ramsdale powered into it and emptied his balls, adding his own salty flavour to the mess that Johnstone had deposited inside. `OH FUCK,' he growled, and a flurry of other swear words and gasps escaped dry lips, eyes fluttering, and Jordan's pants turning into bursts of vicious laughter. Ramsdale slowed, his cock sensitive and tingling, his body suddenly exhausted; he realised how tightly, perhaps painfully, his large hands were gripping the 29-year-old by the shoulders, and he let go, leaning and swaying backwards, his face feeling drenched with sweat. He looked down, lashes fluttering, and fixed his eyes on Pickford's hands, still clutched around the plastic that encased his quivering member - sure, there were a couple of synthetic layers between meat and skin, but still... `Geroff,' he grumbled awkwardly, pulling away, sliding his cock out as Jordan simultaneously let go, so that the kinky thing tumbled down, silvery-white liquid oozing from its lips as it hit the bedding - his, he wondered, or Sam's?! Breathing heavily and avoiding eye contact, Ramsdale retreated off the bed, shoving his aching cock into the mesh of his shorts, and wiping the hairy backs of his arms across his clammy face. God. What a mad thing to do. He looked towards their en suite bathroom, but the door was still shut, the other goalie still having his cold shower; and so Ramsdale shot his eyes back at Pickford with an almost accusing expression. The Sunderland man was gently stroking himself, hand stuffed down the front of his tracksuit, small cock no longer on show, but definitely still hard; and the No.1 stared confrontationally back, which was fair enough. What was Ramsdale trying to accuse him of...? `You alright?' Jordan demanded. `Fine,' Aaron panted quickly. `Fine, fine.' He stood there at the foot of the bed, fiddling awkwardly with shorts that didn't fit well with a dick at half-mast. He writhed at the sweat-damp polo shirt. He glanced again at the bathroom door, thinking of how the tone had seemed to change when big dumb Sam had pulled away and left them to it. Jordan had gotten VERY close to him. He tugged uncomfortably at his collar and then wiped his face again on one arm. He took a slight step away, and paused as the senior goalkeeper suddenly spoke up. `What,' Jordan asked, his voice low and serious, `aren't you staying to help me finish too?' For a long awkward moment, Ramsdale stared at him, blinking, his pecs rising and falling with his pants - and then the deadly serious look on Pickford's face switched to his usual leer and a burst of laughter. `I'm fucking kidding, you twat - now piss off so I can enjoy myself in peace, go get yourself showered off before teatime, go on you wanker...!' And Aaron laughed too, shakily, and hurried for the door, still trying to adjust the bulge of his fading erection in the front of his England shorts - hardly noticing as he slipped out that Pickford immediately reached to pick back up the cum-leaking sex toy from the bed. He didn't rush immediately downstairs, too preoccupied with the obviousness of his physical arousal - he paced the corridor awkwardly, remembering at some point that he'd left his own personal tablet and book back in the goalkeepers' room, but too worried of interrupting Pickford if he went back. Eventually, still streaked with sweat, and cock very sensitive in his briefs and shorts, he took to the stairs, back down to his own floor. How long had it been since he left Declan to it? He wasn't sure. It felt like he'd been upstairs with the other keepers for absolutely hours, given the intensity of the experience - first the heart-to-hearts and man-to-man advice, and then... the other thing. He marched down towards the door of his own hotel suite in the confidence that Rice would be finishing up and done with his family call, confident that if not he could slip straight through and drench himself in his own ice-cold shower, following Sam's lead. Well, `finishing up' was one phrase for what he found when he burst into the room. Aaron's eyes picked details out one at a time as if in extreme slow-motion: the open laptop first, at the centre of the double bed, then the bulky bare legs spread either side of it, ending in the white-socked feet of his roommate and Arsenal colleague; the long wide-mouthed expression on Declan's face, the wildness in his wide eyes; the tension and contraction in his chest and arm muscles; the fortunate positioning of the open laptop, and the more explicit view that its presence perhaps obstructed from this imprinting visual; and for some reason, his eyes lingering ironically on it, one of those same pump tubes of Durex lubricant, lying nestled in the folds of duvet near Dec's knee. And last, but most vividly, happening in real-time as he lurched in through the hotel room door, the sticky shiny wetness that spurted up Dec's pectorals, accompanied by the throaty sound from his open mouth. And then, more vivid and distinctive than the orgasmic moan of Rice's vocals, the tinny distant speaker voice through the MacBook between his open legs: `That's so much cum, baby, so much!' It was a good long while since Aaron had spent any time with the out-of-favour midfielder of former Chelsea fame, now Man Utd, but the cheery perky voice of the south coast twink was very very recognisable. `Oh yes,' moaned Mason Mount's voice through the magic of the internet, and Aaron didn't hear the follow-up to that exclamation - in a panicked rush, he retreated, slamming the door behind him and staggering back into the corridor, his own aching cock and dubious behaviour forgotten, and his brain now completely obfuscated by the image of Declan Rice's secret orgasm. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-362

Date: Mon, 4 Sep 2023 21:22:19 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 362 Part 362: England Camp, Day One No sooner had the bag dropped from his hand and onto the beige carpet of the hotel room than he was grasped by the other man, hands slipping about his waist and face rushing in against his. Hot breath and soft lips and then the crackling electricity of a much-needed kiss. He gasped into the mouth of the younger footballer and grasped him back, more tightly and aggressively, snatching handfuls of his England t-shirt in tight knuckles, and kissing him all the more roughly. `Trent,' he growled when their mouths briefly parted, unable to say more without snatching another throaty kiss and locking lips with the Liverpudlian 24-year-old, then encircling his arms about the increasingly muscular mass of his upper body. His Trent. He hadn't been sure that there would be any such passion between them today, though his messages to the younger football player had tried their best to subtle hint so - after all, messages had been all that passed between the 33-year-old England stalwart and his younger man, not a single phone call or voice-note managed in the weeks of their separation. Short anodyne messages between a former captain and the rising star of his old club, and not much else. Arriving at the buzzing foyer of their training camp, Jordan Henderson's eyes had scanned the assemblage for any hint of the defensive midfielder, but Alexander-Arnold had arrived shortly after him, just as he finished signing in and collecting his usual allocation of kit and merchandise. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw that he and the Anfield lad were still roomed together after all, and he'd had to do his best not to rush over and hug the player liaison officer who took care of such details for Southgate. Downstairs, surrounded by a mixture of their national teammates and the familiar faces of the Three Lions entourage, Trent had been cool and distant, as feared or expected, not quite looking the defected Liverpool skipper in the eye; and yet here they were, across the site in one large room of the older hotel wing, and mouth to mouth, hands against firm muscles, reaching for heat and strength through the layers of England gear. They didn't have long, Jordan was conscious of this - they were due at an informal lunch and then a Day One training session for the cameras, and were up here just to drop off their belongings and check their rooms were okay. They didn't have time for any real action, he scolded himself, even as he began to pull irresistibly up on the clingy t-shirt that covered Trent's stocky torso. The thoughts went unheeded and the top peeled away from the caramel brown of the youngster's developed muscles, exposed and delicious, scented faintly with the sweat of travel on a hot day and the traces of a familiar aftershave. Grabbing the 24-year-old stud about the hips, Jordan stooped to kiss his upper chest and then roll his tongue against one nipple, before pulling up and grazing his bearded mouth against the smoother features of the handsome Scouser. `I've missed this,' the married 33-year-old hissed excitedly. Alexander-Arnold had nothing to say, but a look of feisty determination in his eyes. He stumbled back a little against the force of Jordan's eagerness, before the pair of them tumbled straight onto one of the beds. They didn't have time for this! Time, though, was forgotten: Jordan was intoxicated by the closeness of the 5ft9 right-back, topless and bulging with muscle, pinned beneath him on the bedding. He kissed his cheeks and his neck and scratched fingertips over his shorter cut of hair, wild with released desire for a young man he had not seen since his transfer went through. He moaned as one of Trent's hands slid under his tee and into the elasticated waist of his tracksuit bottoms. Trent's fingers massaged his already-aching hard-on through the grey trunks inside and he rubbed forward with his crotch to make the most of this, grinding on top of the well-built smaller bloke, making his lust as obvious as he could. `Get it out,' came an almost snarled urgency in Alexander-Arnold's Merseyside accent, a bit more fierce and demanding than Hendo was used to - but this was not an instruction he intended to ignore, as his cock leaked pre-cum on grey cotton and some pragmatic corner of his brain reminded him that they should be downstairs any minute. Staying on top of the other player, the ageing midfielder pushed himself up onto his knees and pulled his own blue t-shirt away in one rippling motion, baring the ripped definition of a body that he'd spent the summer break sculpting. Everybody thought he'd been working double-hard as some sort of self-promotion for the megabucks deal that had taken him to Saudi Al-Ettifaq... but it wasn't as if he could admit to anyone that the extra gym hours had been spurred by some age insecurity and the prospect of reunion with his younger lover. He pushed the trackies and his undies down together, over his hips, his strong glutes, down his soft-furred thighs. His cock sprung free, angry red at the tip, and he clutched at Trent's big shoulders as the lad swung up and stooped down. Jordan knelt there and suppressed the loud gasp as that soft mouth brushed and then sucked on his aching member, meeting it with a tender kiss and then a few sloppy sucks. How had he left this behind? What cowardice and caution had spurred him into the Middle East? Had his wife really been so close to a discovery, or had it been his own violent paranoia? It was hard to say now - everything had happened with such alarming speed, taking him from the pre-season beginnings of another year for LFC, straight into the synthetic paradise and air-conditioned alienation of his new life. But it was hard for the 33-year-old Mackem to ask himself big questions about his career's final chapter when his cock was being caressed and enjoyed by the bobbing head of his gorgeous mixed-race lover, allowing him to fall backwards and part his heavy thighs, the pants slid past his knees and towards his ankles. Trent sucked him and looked this way, and their eyes met. There was an intensity there, but it wasn't just passion - the first tingling sense of fear rippled up through Jordan's strong 6ft body, and he felt all the more desperately grateful. Enjoy this moment, he told himself, and let nothing else mattered. Their expensive watches and a clock on the wall ticked on, the team gathering in the hotel restaurant calling them silently down from their suite... but Trent kissed his hairy balls and wanked his wet cock, and then kissed up his tummy and let Jordan's greedy hands massage his neck and shoulders and those bulging brown biceps. `Fuck,' the Al-Ettifaq player groaned quietly, `fuck fuck.' He wished he could find the focus for more passionate or meaningful words, but his body was on fire with relief - how much had he thought about this possible reunion of their bodies, flying back into Heathrow last night and then toying with his cock in the suburban hotel last night? `Fuck me,' Trent was gasping as he kissed further up the trunk of Jordan's body, and he nodded eagerly, wanting just that - there was no cautionary voice in his head warning him against that, and reminding him that both of them had places to be. He just nodded and blinked and dragged Trent's body up closer so that he could kiss him on the mouth and then more on the neck, almost roughly enough to leave a hickey. He panted and gasped and rolled them over to be on top of his lad again, pinning him and snogging him and rubbed their crotches together. They paused intimately for just a moment, Jordan's hand curled about the back of Trent's neck, and his other hand reaching down to stroke the firm outline of that hard Scouse cock. Their eyes locked for an eternal second, and a second judder of panic troubled Hendo's strong physique, almost quenching the fire of his lust. Almost. He broke the meaningful stare and pushed back, fighting away his trainers and the bunched undies and tracksuit pants, naked now but for ankle socks. Trent was turning over away from him and he grasped at the backside to pull down at his pants, baring the smooth globes. Like an animal in heat, he was on top of the other strong man, pushing him down into the bedding and kissing the back of his neck. He parted those smooth cheeks and spat on two fingers which could slide between them to rub the familiar warmth of his lad's hole. `Fuck me!' growled Trent's voice again, harsh and forceful, if a little muffled by bedding and breathlessness; and Hendo complied with a kind of urgent desperation, feeling the transience of the moment, of the intimacy. He pushed his cock in against the wet hole, somehow shocked again by the resistant tightness of a man's arse, the long weeks stretching away since he'd last been inside his right-back. But moaning Trent pushed back too and that precious entrance opened up for him, so tight and clasping, and Jordan pushed roughly - he held his arms about the hefty muscle of the shorter lad and pressed down upon him, entering him further, deeper, and already thrusting. `You feel so good,' the former Liverpool captain moaned, but he heard his own voice as a whine, something begging in its tone - Trent just grunted and gasped, sounding pained but determined, and Hendo pushed deeper, harder. `You're amazing,' he whispered, sounding faint, and then, `I've needed this!' Still, just grunts, hard physical breaths, and a kind of forceful pushback from Trent's strong arse and back muscles, and- Henderson let his lust burn free, and he pushed really hard with his hips and his core, and he powered his long thick cock into the tightness of the Scouser's rump. Panting roughly now like his lover, Jordan just gasped and pumped, fucking the right-back down into the bedding, fast sharp movements and wordless gasps to match them. Sweat was beading all over his freckled skin and in the rich hazelnut brown of his hair and beard. Still, Trent pushed back against him, sinking low but lifting his magnificent arse, and the ex-captain pounded it as powerfully as he could, until his motions began to falter with a kind of emotional uncertainty that translated into physicality. `Fuck me!' hissed Trent's voice. Balls-deep in his fellow England player, Jordan slowed and hesitated, skin burning and muscles yearning. He became still and quiet, cock still buried, and hands frozen about the muscled hips of the other body. He held himself there on his knees, closing his eyes, and sucking in breaths that might calm and settle him - he heard a series of frustrated gasps from below and then Trent was wrenching away from him, relaxing muscles letting go of his rock-solid cock. Freed from this interlocking of their bodies, the Saudi star wavered on his knees, dizzied with a rush of emotion - and then settled only when Trent was against him, grasping his forearms and pushing their faces close enough together. Again there was a brief locking of their eyes, but then Trent's moist hand was on his prick, and he was reaching to reciprocate that handjob too - their bodies leaning heavily in together on their knees, creaking the bed and creasing the covers. As he neared orgasm, Jordan's mind raced. He pictured the boardroom meetings and the tense conference with his family, his agent, his former manager. He pictured the goodbyes and the greetings, his life scooped up and teleported from the Mersey to the Middle East. And as vivid as a classic black-and-white film, he pictured a look of hurt and confusion, directed at him across a training ground huddle, on the day he broke the news to the rest of the lads... confirming the rumours and letting the LFC players know that yep, he'd signed on the dotted line and was about to be really fucking rich. He could picture the drop of Trent's jaw and the wideness of his rich brown eyes, the unsteadiness of his stance and the telling silence of his trembling lips. Still, he came, his body responding perfectly to Trent's encouragement even as his mind and heart drew back in guilty horror: he dumped his jizz across the crisp white bedding and let out wolfish yelps of satisfaction, leaning so heavily forward that the pair of them almost tumbled sideways off the bed. Eyes and mouth clamped shut, his nostrils flared with each breath, and he held firmly onto Trent's cock, tugging it fruitlessly - it already felt less hard, and the closeness of their bared bodies was dimming. As his body rocked with the deep breaths of post-orgasmic stupor, the 24-year-old pulled silently away from him, and Hendo just fell forward into stooped recovery, knees and elbows dug into the sheets, and his cooling cum rubbing against his six-pack. When he had recovered enough to speak, the handsome bearded Sunderland man rolled sideways to sit on the edge of the bed, and he stared at the awkward figure of the other footballer, stood beyond the other double bed. Trent was staring this way with almost the exact same expression as that day on the training ground. Jordan had tried his best to explain it to him afterwards, how he'd been forced into that announcement there for everyone, his hands tied by the rattling cogs of the financial machinery - there just hadn't been time to tell him privately first. It wasn't his fault. His breath and his voice caught in his throat and his cock wilted between his hairy thighs. Trent spoke first, his voice quiet and distant. `I don't know you, skip.' Jordan blinked slowly, running one clammy hand against his beard, still breathy as he shuffled on the edge of the bed and cast his eyes about the familiar decor of the Surrey hotel room. His eyes found Trent's face again and his expression sagged guiltily. `What does that mean?' he demanded softly. `Come here. Let me finish you.' A bitter parody of a laugh left Trent's beautiful lips. His soft cock dangled as he stepped from foot to foot, and then he reached down to begin yanking up his black undies and the dark blue tracksuit pants. When they were up about his waist, he just shook his head and spoke again in the same voice of quiet heartbreak: `Did I ever mean anything to you, Jord, can answer that?' Henderson seemed to hear a dozen plaintive replies to this question at once in the moment before he spoke, and he could hear how empty they all were, none more so than the one he went with. `You meant everything,' the former Liverpool player said weakly. He got up from the bed in one rush of motion, tall and muscular and near-naked, his cock swinging as he navigated the room and approached Trent, who backed away slightly, t-shirt in both hands, and a new cynicism leaning into his expression. `It was bad enough when you kept going to visit Neco during his rehab,' the younger player muttered. `But I thought maybe there was still something special there, at least until you fucked me over like that and ditched us all for blood money.' `Trent,' he murmured, but he could hear all the excuses and explanations dying on their way up through his chest. He reached for Trent's arm but the sexy lad slipped further from him and Jordan stood where he was, naked but for his socks, a few greasy flecks of cum dotting the hair of one thigh. He stared earnestly at Alexander-Arnold, but the Liverpool local couldn't seem to meet his eyes again, just like downstairs in the foyer. Jordan dared for a moment to be confused and offended by the short-lived passion between them once they came up here to the shared room... but he couldn't kid himself that this wasn't everything he deserved. He'd acted in a rush of panic and suspicion, throwing himself into the Saudi offer after a series of pushy interrogations from Mrs H on a family holiday. Which one of his lies and alibis had gone wrong to make her so suspicious and sceptical? Where had he slipped up in his long-running steamy affair with his right-back, this beautiful boy in front of him...? `I dunno what part of it hurts the most,' the 24-year-old muttered. `I'm sorry-' Jordan began, wanting to elaborate, but finding himself unable to - after all, he just didn't know what to apologise for first. With a rush of certainty and fight, he moved quickly to Trent and slipped his hands about his waist again, going in for a kiss which failed to land. Still, he felt onto the 5ft9 stud and purred in his ear. `I'll fix it,' he said impotently. `I'll make you understand.' Another of those bitter almost laughs. Trent wriggled free, pushing him quite roughly to break the contact, and then sliding into his tee. He ran a face over the sweaty sheen of his youthful face, and then backed off further. `I'll speak to them downstairs and get the room switch sorted,' he asserted quietly but severely, and this pragmatic fact smashed into Henderson like a bullet train - he knew he'd fucked things up between them, and yet Trent's simple assertion of an obvious decision was entirely crushing. Moments ago he'd had his cock between those perfect cheeks and he'd felt still connected to the beautiful young Liverpudlian, just like they had been for so long. The 33-year-old was about to gasp and mutter his protests, but he stopped himself. He sank back, sitting his bare arse down against the bed again, and every ripped muscle in his 6ft frame sagging downwards. He caught his face in both hands and hunched there, horrified with himself. Again, the slideshow of painful moments whirred through his mind, charting the end of his Liverpool tenure and his shocking exit for the Saudi league - and his failure to break up properly with the man who'd held his heart. Bag over shoulder, Trent paused on his way to the door, and stared back at him in the most painful manner yet. It was an almost cold look, dismissive and judgmental, and in it Jordan could still see the effort of damaged love being pushed under the surface. He wanted to cry. He opened and closed his parched lips, and scratched aimlessly down the side of his neck. `Let me explain,' he muttered. Trent shook his head. `It's a bit late for that, skipper.' `It isn't as simple as you th-' `I laughed at the rumours,' the Anfield player told him in a creaking voice that threatened to turn into a sob at any moment. `I laughed, Jordan, I really laughed. And then I stood there like a total prick, watching you laugh and grin as you confirmed it for the lads. Shrugging off the banter and playing it cool. And not even fucking pausing to look at me.' `But...' `That Saudi money sure buys a lot, don't it?' grunted the heartbroken younger man. `I knew that, for fuck's sake, but I didn't think it would buy you, or... I didn't think it would be worth so much more than me, yeah. I was pretty fucking thick, huh?' `Trent...' `I just needed to feel you in me one more time.' `We can try to-' `No. That was it, Hendo. This is over, captain.' He fell silent, shaken with guilt. Instead of more quiet protest, he nodded his head heavily, and sagged backwards into the bed, watching as Trent opened the door and slid out into the corridor with his backpack and mini suitcase. The door clicked shut and Jordan was left alone on the bed, hardly able to imagine himself pulling his clothes back on. This was what he deserved, he thought, and how could he have expected anything else? Glancing bitterly at the clock, the champion midfielder dressed in fits and starts of movement, rubbing wearily at his beard and his eyes, and flinching guiltily when he saw himself in the mirror - as he had many waking mornings since he moved out of the Premiership and the UK, since he abandoned his boyfriend and swept his family safely away from such burning adultery. It had been an extreme way to end an affair and protect his marriage, but even now, racked with guilt and loss, he knew it had been his only way - he could see into an alternative reality for a few seconds, one in which he was signing divorce papers and facing public scandal, and ruining two prominent Premiership careers. The affair had burned too hot, and it had just had to end. He had convinced himself he was doing the right thing for everybody involved - and so why did it now feel so wrong? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 4 Sep 2023 21:22:19 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 362 Part 362: England Camp, Day One No sooner had the bag dropped from his hand and onto the beige carpet of the hotel room than he was grasped by the other man, hands slipping about his waist and face rushing in against his. Hot breath and soft lips and then the crackling electricity of a much-needed kiss. He gasped into the mouth of the younger footballer and grasped him back, more tightly and aggressively, snatching handfuls of his England t-shirt in tight knuckles, and kissing him all the more roughly. `Trent,' he growled when their mouths briefly parted, unable to say more without snatching another throaty kiss and locking lips with the Liverpudlian 24-year-old, then encircling his arms about the increasingly muscular mass of his upper body. His Trent. He hadn't been sure that there would be any such passion between them today, though his messages to the younger football player had tried their best to subtle hint so - after all, messages had been all that passed between the 33-year-old England stalwart and his younger man, not a single phone call or voice-note managed in the weeks of their separation. Short anodyne messages between a former captain and the rising star of his old club, and not much else. Arriving at the buzzing foyer of their training camp, Jordan Henderson's eyes had scanned the assemblage for any hint of the defensive midfielder, but Alexander-Arnold had arrived shortly after him, just as he finished signing in and collecting his usual allocation of kit and merchandise. His heart had skipped a beat when he saw that he and the Anfield lad were still roomed together after all, and he'd had to do his best not to rush over and hug the player liaison officer who took care of such details for Southgate. Downstairs, surrounded by a mixture of their national teammates and the familiar faces of the Three Lions entourage, Trent had been cool and distant, as feared or expected, not quite looking the defected Liverpool skipper in the eye; and yet here they were, across the site in one large room of the older hotel wing, and mouth to mouth, hands against firm muscles, reaching for heat and strength through the layers of England gear. They didn't have long, Jordan was conscious of this - they were due at an informal lunch and then a Day One training session for the cameras, and were up here just to drop off their belongings and check their rooms were okay. They didn't have time for any real action, he scolded himself, even as he began to pull irresistibly up on the clingy t-shirt that covered Trent's stocky torso. The thoughts went unheeded and the top peeled away from the caramel brown of the youngster's developed muscles, exposed and delicious, scented faintly with the sweat of travel on a hot day and the traces of a familiar aftershave. Grabbing the 24-year-old stud about the hips, Jordan stooped to kiss his upper chest and then roll his tongue against one nipple, before pulling up and grazing his bearded mouth against the smoother features of the handsome Scouser. `I've missed this,' the married 33-year-old hissed excitedly. Alexander-Arnold had nothing to say, but a look of feisty determination in his eyes. He stumbled back a little against the force of Jordan's eagerness, before the pair of them tumbled straight onto one of the beds. They didn't have time for this! Time, though, was forgotten: Jordan was intoxicated by the closeness of the 5ft9 right-back, topless and bulging with muscle, pinned beneath him on the bedding. He kissed his cheeks and his neck and scratched fingertips over his shorter cut of hair, wild with released desire for a young man he had not seen since his transfer went through. He moaned as one of Trent's hands slid under his tee and into the elasticated waist of his tracksuit bottoms. Trent's fingers massaged his already-aching hard-on through the grey trunks inside and he rubbed forward with his crotch to make the most of this, grinding on top of the well-built smaller bloke, making his lust as obvious as he could. `Get it out,' came an almost snarled urgency in Alexander-Arnold's Merseyside accent, a bit more fierce and demanding than Hendo was used to - but this was not an instruction he intended to ignore, as his cock leaked pre-cum on grey cotton and some pragmatic corner of his brain reminded him that they should be downstairs any minute. Staying on top of the other player, the ageing midfielder pushed himself up onto his knees and pulled his own blue t-shirt away in one rippling motion, baring the ripped definition of a body that he'd spent the summer break sculpting. Everybody thought he'd been working double-hard as some sort of self-promotion for the megabucks deal that had taken him to Saudi Al-Ettifaq... but it wasn't as if he could admit to anyone that the extra gym hours had been spurred by some age insecurity and the prospect of reunion with his younger lover. He pushed the trackies and his undies down together, over his hips, his strong glutes, down his soft-furred thighs. His cock sprung free, angry red at the tip, and he clutched at Trent's big shoulders as the lad swung up and stooped down. Jordan knelt there and suppressed the loud gasp as that soft mouth brushed and then sucked on his aching member, meeting it with a tender kiss and then a few sloppy sucks. How had he left this behind? What cowardice and caution had spurred him into the Middle East? Had his wife really been so close to a discovery, or had it been his own violent paranoia? It was hard to say now - everything had happened with such alarming speed, taking him from the pre-season beginnings of another year for LFC, straight into the synthetic paradise and air-conditioned alienation of his new life. But it was hard for the 33-year-old Mackem to ask himself big questions about his career's final chapter when his cock was being caressed and enjoyed by the bobbing head of his gorgeous mixed-race lover, allowing him to fall backwards and part his heavy thighs, the pants slid past his knees and towards his ankles. Trent sucked him and looked this way, and their eyes met. There was an intensity there, but it wasn't just passion - the first tingling sense of fear rippled up through Jordan's strong 6ft body, and he felt all the more desperately grateful. Enjoy this moment, he told himself, and let nothing else mattered. Their expensive watches and a clock on the wall ticked on, the team gathering in the hotel restaurant calling them silently down from their suite... but Trent kissed his hairy balls and wanked his wet cock, and then kissed up his tummy and let Jordan's greedy hands massage his neck and shoulders and those bulging brown biceps. `Fuck,' the Al-Ettifaq player groaned quietly, `fuck fuck.' He wished he could find the focus for more passionate or meaningful words, but his body was on fire with relief - how much had he thought about this possible reunion of their bodies, flying back into Heathrow last night and then toying with his cock in the suburban hotel last night? `Fuck me,' Trent was gasping as he kissed further up the trunk of Jordan's body, and he nodded eagerly, wanting just that - there was no cautionary voice in his head warning him against that, and reminding him that both of them had places to be. He just nodded and blinked and dragged Trent's body up closer so that he could kiss him on the mouth and then more on the neck, almost roughly enough to leave a hickey. He panted and gasped and rolled them over to be on top of his lad again, pinning him and snogging him and rubbed their crotches together. They paused intimately for just a moment, Jordan's hand curled about the back of Trent's neck, and his other hand reaching down to stroke the firm outline of that hard Scouse cock. Their eyes locked for an eternal second, and a second judder of panic troubled Hendo's strong physique, almost quenching the fire of his lust. Almost. He broke the meaningful stare and pushed back, fighting away his trainers and the bunched undies and tracksuit pants, naked now but for ankle socks. Trent was turning over away from him and he grasped at the backside to pull down at his pants, baring the smooth globes. Like an animal in heat, he was on top of the other strong man, pushing him down into the bedding and kissing the back of his neck. He parted those smooth cheeks and spat on two fingers which could slide between them to rub the familiar warmth of his lad's hole. `Fuck me!' growled Trent's voice again, harsh and forceful, if a little muffled by bedding and breathlessness; and Hendo complied with a kind of urgent desperation, feeling the transience of the moment, of the intimacy. He pushed his cock in against the wet hole, somehow shocked again by the resistant tightness of a man's arse, the long weeks stretching away since he'd last been inside his right-back. But moaning Trent pushed back too and that precious entrance opened up for him, so tight and clasping, and Jordan pushed roughly - he held his arms about the hefty muscle of the shorter lad and pressed down upon him, entering him further, deeper, and already thrusting. `You feel so good,' the former Liverpool captain moaned, but he heard his own voice as a whine, something begging in its tone - Trent just grunted and gasped, sounding pained but determined, and Hendo pushed deeper, harder. `You're amazing,' he whispered, sounding faint, and then, `I've needed this!' Still, just grunts, hard physical breaths, and a kind of forceful pushback from Trent's strong arse and back muscles, and- Henderson let his lust burn free, and he pushed really hard with his hips and his core, and he powered his long thick cock into the tightness of the Scouser's rump. Panting roughly now like his lover, Jordan just gasped and pumped, fucking the right-back down into the bedding, fast sharp movements and wordless gasps to match them. Sweat was beading all over his freckled skin and in the rich hazelnut brown of his hair and beard. Still, Trent pushed back against him, sinking low but lifting his magnificent arse, and the ex-captain pounded it as powerfully as he could, until his motions began to falter with a kind of emotional uncertainty that translated into physicality. `Fuck me!' hissed Trent's voice. Balls-deep in his fellow England player, Jordan slowed and hesitated, skin burning and muscles yearning. He became still and quiet, cock still buried, and hands frozen about the muscled hips of the other body. He held himself there on his knees, closing his eyes, and sucking in breaths that might calm and settle him - he heard a series of frustrated gasps from below and then Trent was wrenching away from him, relaxing muscles letting go of his rock-solid cock. Freed from this interlocking of their bodies, the Saudi star wavered on his knees, dizzied with a rush of emotion - and then settled only when Trent was against him, grasping his forearms and pushing their faces close enough together. Again there was a brief locking of their eyes, but then Trent's moist hand was on his prick, and he was reaching to reciprocate that handjob too - their bodies leaning heavily in together on their knees, creaking the bed and creasing the covers. As he neared orgasm, Jordan's mind raced. He pictured the boardroom meetings and the tense conference with his family, his agent, his former manager. He pictured the goodbyes and the greetings, his life scooped up and teleported from the Mersey to the Middle East. And as vivid as a classic black-and-white film, he pictured a look of hurt and confusion, directed at him across a training ground huddle, on the day he broke the news to the rest of the lads... confirming the rumours and letting the LFC players know that yep, he'd signed on the dotted line and was about to be really fucking rich. He could picture the drop of Trent's jaw and the wideness of his rich brown eyes, the unsteadiness of his stance and the telling silence of his trembling lips. Still, he came, his body responding perfectly to Trent's encouragement even as his mind and heart drew back in guilty horror: he dumped his jizz across the crisp white bedding and let out wolfish yelps of satisfaction, leaning so heavily forward that the pair of them almost tumbled sideways off the bed. Eyes and mouth clamped shut, his nostrils flared with each breath, and he held firmly onto Trent's cock, tugging it fruitlessly - it already felt less hard, and the closeness of their bared bodies was dimming. As his body rocked with the deep breaths of post-orgasmic stupor, the 24-year-old pulled silently away from him, and Hendo just fell forward into stooped recovery, knees and elbows dug into the sheets, and his cooling cum rubbing against his six-pack. When he had recovered enough to speak, the handsome bearded Sunderland man rolled sideways to sit on the edge of the bed, and he stared at the awkward figure of the other footballer, stood beyond the other double bed. Trent was staring this way with almost the exact same expression as that day on the training ground. Jordan had tried his best to explain it to him afterwards, how he'd been forced into that announcement there for everyone, his hands tied by the rattling cogs of the financial machinery - there just hadn't been time to tell him privately first. It wasn't his fault. His breath and his voice caught in his throat and his cock wilted between his hairy thighs. Trent spoke first, his voice quiet and distant. `I don't know you, skip.' Jordan blinked slowly, running one clammy hand against his beard, still breathy as he shuffled on the edge of the bed and cast his eyes about the familiar decor of the Surrey hotel room. His eyes found Trent's face again and his expression sagged guiltily. `What does that mean?' he demanded softly. `Come here. Let me finish you.' A bitter parody of a laugh left Trent's beautiful lips. His soft cock dangled as he stepped from foot to foot, and then he reached down to begin yanking up his black undies and the dark blue tracksuit pants. When they were up about his waist, he just shook his head and spoke again in the same voice of quiet heartbreak: `Did I ever mean anything to you, Jord, can answer that?' Henderson seemed to hear a dozen plaintive replies to this question at once in the moment before he spoke, and he could hear how empty they all were, none more so than the one he went with. `You meant everything,' the former Liverpool player said weakly. He got up from the bed in one rush of motion, tall and muscular and near-naked, his cock swinging as he navigated the room and approached Trent, who backed away slightly, t-shirt in both hands, and a new cynicism leaning into his expression. `It was bad enough when you kept going to visit Neco during his rehab,' the younger player muttered. `But I thought maybe there was still something special there, at least until you fucked me over like that and ditched us all for blood money.' `Trent,' he murmured, but he could hear all the excuses and explanations dying on their way up through his chest. He reached for Trent's arm but the sexy lad slipped further from him and Jordan stood where he was, naked but for his socks, a few greasy flecks of cum dotting the hair of one thigh. He stared earnestly at Alexander-Arnold, but the Liverpool local couldn't seem to meet his eyes again, just like downstairs in the foyer. Jordan dared for a moment to be confused and offended by the short-lived passion between them once they came up here to the shared room... but he couldn't kid himself that this wasn't everything he deserved. He'd acted in a rush of panic and suspicion, throwing himself into the Saudi offer after a series of pushy interrogations from Mrs H on a family holiday. Which one of his lies and alibis had gone wrong to make her so suspicious and sceptical? Where had he slipped up in his long-running steamy affair with his right-back, this beautiful boy in front of him...? `I dunno what part of it hurts the most,' the 24-year-old muttered. `I'm sorry-' Jordan began, wanting to elaborate, but finding himself unable to - after all, he just didn't know what to apologise for first. With a rush of certainty and fight, he moved quickly to Trent and slipped his hands about his waist again, going in for a kiss which failed to land. Still, he felt onto the 5ft9 stud and purred in his ear. `I'll fix it,' he said impotently. `I'll make you understand.' Another of those bitter almost laughs. Trent wriggled free, pushing him quite roughly to break the contact, and then sliding into his tee. He ran a face over the sweaty sheen of his youthful face, and then backed off further. `I'll speak to them downstairs and get the room switch sorted,' he asserted quietly but severely, and this pragmatic fact smashed into Henderson like a bullet train - he knew he'd fucked things up between them, and yet Trent's simple assertion of an obvious decision was entirely crushing. Moments ago he'd had his cock between those perfect cheeks and he'd felt still connected to the beautiful young Liverpudlian, just like they had been for so long. The 33-year-old was about to gasp and mutter his protests, but he stopped himself. He sank back, sitting his bare arse down against the bed again, and every ripped muscle in his 6ft frame sagging downwards. He caught his face in both hands and hunched there, horrified with himself. Again, the slideshow of painful moments whirred through his mind, charting the end of his Liverpool tenure and his shocking exit for the Saudi league - and his failure to break up properly with the man who'd held his heart. Bag over shoulder, Trent paused on his way to the door, and stared back at him in the most painful manner yet. It was an almost cold look, dismissive and judgmental, and in it Jordan could still see the effort of damaged love being pushed under the surface. He wanted to cry. He opened and closed his parched lips, and scratched aimlessly down the side of his neck. `Let me explain,' he muttered. Trent shook his head. `It's a bit late for that, skipper.' `It isn't as simple as you th-' `I laughed at the rumours,' the Anfield player told him in a creaking voice that threatened to turn into a sob at any moment. `I laughed, Jordan, I really laughed. And then I stood there like a total prick, watching you laugh and grin as you confirmed it for the lads. Shrugging off the banter and playing it cool. And not even fucking pausing to look at me.' `But...' `That Saudi money sure buys a lot, don't it?' grunted the heartbroken younger man. `I knew that, for fuck's sake, but I didn't think it would buy you, or... I didn't think it would be worth so much more than me, yeah. I was pretty fucking thick, huh?' `Trent...' `I just needed to feel you in me one more time.' `We can try to-' `No. That was it, Hendo. This is over, captain.' He fell silent, shaken with guilt. Instead of more quiet protest, he nodded his head heavily, and sagged backwards into the bed, watching as Trent opened the door and slid out into the corridor with his backpack and mini suitcase. The door clicked shut and Jordan was left alone on the bed, hardly able to imagine himself pulling his clothes back on. This was what he deserved, he thought, and how could he have expected anything else? Glancing bitterly at the clock, the champion midfielder dressed in fits and starts of movement, rubbing wearily at his beard and his eyes, and flinching guiltily when he saw himself in the mirror - as he had many waking mornings since he moved out of the Premiership and the UK, since he abandoned his boyfriend and swept his family safely away from such burning adultery. It had been an extreme way to end an affair and protect his marriage, but even now, racked with guilt and loss, he knew it had been his only way - he could see into an alternative reality for a few seconds, one in which he was signing divorce papers and facing public scandal, and ruining two prominent Premiership careers. The affair had burned too hot, and it had just had to end. He had convinced himself he was doing the right thing for everybody involved - and so why did it now feel so wrong? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-397

Date: Wed, 20 Mar 2024 21:33:30 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 397 Part 397: The Return of Big Joe The shared hotel room rang with the crackle and bass of the blue-tooth speaker on the bureau, playing the other footballer's Spotify tunes whilst he changed out of the official England merch that he'd worn to dinner like everyone else, and pulled a simple white vest over the broad heavy muscle of his upper body instead. Bearded and impressive, the 6ft2 Londoner tugged the white top into comfortable position and then adjusted the fit of the loose black shorts he'd pulled on over his boxer briefs, changing into these thin comfortable clothes to settle down for the second night in the room. His assigned roommate for the camp was muttering along to the lyrics of the dance music on his speaker whilst he finished tidying away his things at his side of the room, having been quite lazy with his personal effects when the pair of them checked into the shared room yesterday as two of the later Three Lions arrivals to Southgate's spring assembly. The two bulky men coexisted for the moment in a comfortable quiet, everybody rather chatted out after the team dinner that had taken place downstairs for the second night in a row, and the pretty intense full-day training that had welcomed them to their national duty under a cloudy March sky. The big muscle-bound Liverpool player was quite comfortable to lounge now on his bed and flick through some apps on the screen of his iPad, half-listening to the way the other England national was grumbling along to lyrics and punctuating it with snatches of chat about the day they had shared at their respective ends of the large squad: it should be Joe Gomez who was excitable and verbose about this week's action, really, given that it had been a god four years since his last disastrous visit to the England camp, enduring a career-threatening injury within twenty-four hours and missing out on more than a season of first-team football in his mid-20s prime. However, big Joe was doing his very best to approach the entire week with the laconic ease that made him such a trusted and respected tower back at Anfield, and had made him a valued young defender in his earlier outings for this national side; it was his roomie, Ivan Toney, who was springing quite lightly about the suite as he unpacked his socks and undies, and propped a few personal pics on the picture rail over his bed, as if the pair of them were moving into a boarding school dorm rather than a few nights' stay at a Surrey hotel before two minor international fixtures. Joe turned his attention back away from the 6ft1 Brentford forward, who had experienced his own controversial career interruptions to be fair, and looked through his emails and a couple of different social media platforms, giving all appearance of a resting giant, his huge muscular form slumped comfortably across the bed and his vest and shorts making him look pretty read to clamber underneath the sheets and get snoring - but big Joe's eyes slipped repeatedly to the time in the corner of the tablet screen, and once or twice to the digital watch around his wrist, and even then up to the traditional analogue clock on the wall above the hotel room door, ticking away the seconds. Curfew had passed, and Gomez and Toney were up here now under the orders of the England boss, like everybody else - early starts and early nights, just like any other intensive training camp, bookending the heavy physical work and the organised `fun' of team bonding, and of course all the inevitable media duty. Joe himself had been one of the stars of this afternoon's interview rounds, questioned about his past experiences here and how it felt to be back reclaiming a spot in Southgate's plans, having missed two big tournaments in recent years. With one of his big-shouldered shrugs and wry grins, the 26-year-old defensive footballer had dismissed the hype and pressure and pledged his gratitude to both Southgate and the mentorship of his club gaffer, refusing to make a big deal out of his return and giving them just a relaxed optimism to quote and scrutinise. Joe realised that Ivan was speaking to him, and tried to tune back in - misunderstanding his slow response, the other player turned down the speaker, and lunged this way, sitting on the edge of the other bed to address him. `You're not going to sleep yet, are you?' the marginally older player demanded brightly. `I was gonna suggest we play a game of cards or something.' Joe smiled vaguely at him, still swiping fingers across the screen. `Hmm? What game?' `Oh, I dunno,' grunted the Northampton-born guy. `Just feeling a bit bored and restless. I know today was tough work but fuck it was good to be out with everyone and just getting stuck in. You know how much it means to be here this week, with those fucking Euros around the corner, bruv.' Gomez nodded slow agreement, not quite looking up at the 28-year-old. `Sure,' he said loosely, glancing again at the time. `I just got that energy, y'know?' Toney informed him, laughing a bit awkwardly at himself in a pause in speech. `Not that I don't love playing for my club every week, you get me, but it's just different being out here, and being with all these guys - the big names and all that. You know what I mean, right?' Joe looked up and saw Ivan's uncertainty - `I suppose maybe it's different at Liverpool,' the attacking player mused. `Maybe every fucking week feels like the Euros in that love-in.' The 26-year-old just laughed this off and checked his watch, and then looked thoughtfully at the other tall black lad. `Something like that,' he said noncommittally. `I'll stop being a wanker,' Ivan laughed, sounding distant. `Honest, dunno why I'm so psyched to be picked this week, it don't mean anything for definite come summer, but still. It's just good that we're real contenders, huh?' A short pause, and then, `Why do you keep checking your watch, big man? Am I boring you that much, hey?' A slightly strained laugh, and the slapping sound of the big lad patting his hands on top of bare thighs where his shorts ended and exposed shiny smooth muscle. Joe looked thoughtfully at his 28-year-old roomie, not immediately answering, but locking the screen of his iPad and sliding it dismissively aside; he scratched at the dark curls of his distinguished beard and then propped himself up on his side, glancing from the other player - who was looking expectantly at him and fiddling with the zip of his hoody top - then at the door of their suite. Right on cue, making Gomez smile his lopsided smile, there was a bit of a knock on the door, and Joe waved a lazy hand in its direction. `Get that, will ya?' the Liverpool defender sighed self-assuredly. Toney looked a bit puzzled, which was fair enough, but gave him a light punch in the upper arm and then got up to cross the room. Gomez smirked and sat up properly, hanging thick arms across his knees, and watching as a confused-looking Ivan stopped to peer through the peephole before opening their door - their visitor had a similarly bewildered look on his face as he slid in, addressing the tall forward, but then shooting a furtive glance this way and smiling expectantly to Joe. `Hey, Joe.' `Howdy, mate,' yawned the 6ft2 man, giving a similarly casual nod his way, and then turning his own relaxed smile to his puzzled roomie. `I just invited Madders here to pop by and hang out, y'know. What? You said you weren't ready for sleep yet. Restless, did you say? Good, good - Jamesy here will keep us occupied for a bit, I'm sure.' Joe stroked his beard a little more and flashed warm playful expressions at both his blank roommate and the more nervous curiosity of a smirking James Maddison, Tottenham Hotspur's prized attacking midfielder. Joe had been in the training centre's indoor swimming pool when he first locked eyes with James in the late afternoon; he'd missed the final stage of full-team training due to his scheduled press interview alongside the gaffer, and so he'd opted for a half hour of swimming lengths to get some more exercise in, and somehow the short spry Midlander had come by and had the same idea. The two rival Premier League stars had shared bland chit-chat at the pool's edge, James explaining that he'd been rested from the full training due to a twinge in his ankle, and had the same idea as Joe; but they'd barely shared the pool in an overlap between their sessions, one diving in as the other called quits. But Joe had found himself lingering around the chlorine-scented pale blue of the pool-room, toying with his phone and a variety of messages, and so when he was showering down at the cool sprays near the poolside, rinsing pool-water off his big muscles without bothering to strip off his clingy soaked trunks, he'd ended up side-by-side with Madders at the next nozzle, smiling acknowledgements across at each other past the slim faint dividers. It had quickly occurred to Joe that James hadn't been in the pool for long, and the vain idea struck him that they weren't sharing neighbouring showers out of sheer coincidence: the former Leicester man seeming unable to tear his eyes away as Gomez rinsed his pecs and shoulders and one hefty thigh at a time, adjusting and fondling at the skimpy black trunks that hugged the outline of his dormant cock. When he caught Madders staring, he just grinned knowingly over at the 27-year-old family man, and gave him a simple subtle nod of firm agreement. Then he'd looked away, laughing, and finished washing the pool chlorine from his strong 6ft2 physique, before grasping a towel and stalking past the other football player - but stopping, towering over his slim pale body, and resting fingers briefly on his bare wet shoulder. Long enough to suggest a time of night and the number of his hotel room, and give a discreet wink to the cock-hungry Coventry lad being drenched in cool water. Madders had grinned at him then with certain desire, and the same look shone on his friendly face as he took nervous steps into the shared room, an England jumper tied about his waist and one of those simple white Three Lions t-shirts covering his lean torso. `It's after curfew,' Ivan Toney commented quietly. He laughed uncertainly. `I dunno if we should be visiting rooms at this time, lads.' He looked embarrassed to be speaking such boring words of warning, but then he was a guy who'd been in trouble with the higher powers of the FA, and perhaps he was once bitten twice shy about his career now. `Oh, don't worry,' Maddison told him, but he sounded a little cautious himself. `Just stopping by. My roomie is snoring already and it does my head in.' He played with the knot of the jumper around his waist and looked expectantly over this way - Joe grinned at him and shrugged, knowing just what the Hotspur slut must be thinking - sure, he'd imagined somehow getting the room to himself too, or finding another safe space in the confines of this team hotel, but... Wel, Ivan HAD said he was feeling restless before bed, right? Joe thought he had the measure of the tall broad forward and he was too focused on his own needs to overly worry about what the Brentford man had to say. With a jaunty little whistle, the big defender unfolded his body from the bed, rising up to his feet, a little taller than Toney and towering over 5ft9 Madders. He grinned from one man to the other and then, very unceremoniously, grabbed the package in the front of his thin dark shorts, stepping into the centre of the suite, between them both. `James here liked what he saw by the pool,' he said simply to Ivan, nudging at his guest with an elbow, and then throwing a powerful arm about James' slim shoulders, grabbing and shaking the handsome and gregarious ex-Fox who was one of the most liked figures in today's training squad, and as far as Joe had been able to discern, his best chance of getting his dick wet. He held one arm about James' shoulders and continued to grab and squeeze at the front of his shorts, giving a serious look and then brief wink to Ivan Toney. `Ha bloody ha,' declared Brentford's goal-scorer. `Are you sure about this, mate?' murmured Maddison - it wasn't clear if his question was more general or specific to the presence of a third. Joe just laughed them both off, and squeezed a firm hand on the back of James' neck. `Get down on your knees, then,' he told the Spurs player, and he pushed down the front of his shorts until his big fat cock was spilling loose over the waistband - as he did so, he didn't take his eyes off Ivan's alarmed face. James could hardly resist his powerful touch, and so the other player was down on his knees on the carpet, low down at his side like an obedient pup, and taking it in his hand. `Shit,' gasped Toney. `Sorry,' Gomez told him simply and confidently. `You rather I went into the bathroom and fed this hungry slut in there?' `Huh- wah? Oh- Er- Mate, are you for real?' `Fuck,' purred Madders, `it's as big as I thought. God. Can I suck it?' `Is he really gonna-? I mean- fuck's sake, lads, what are we...' `Sure,' Joe growled, `it's what you came for, right?' With both hands, he lifted his vest a little up his firm dark six-pack, giving James more access to his crotch, and smiling as the kneeling white man shuffled about to be in front of his strong legs and bringing his mouth in to kiss and lick the heavy dark shaft that was already getting thicker and harder. Right there in front of the other England call-up, Joe stood with relaxed confidence, and let Maddison take his prick in his hungry mouth, and Toney's jaw almost hit the floor. Joe smirked at him and let out a pleasured sigh, reaching one hand down to stroke the mousy brown hair of James' head, whilst the other stroked up his tummy and back down to his waist. `What, they don't have cock-suckers at Brentford FC?' he demanded, then let out a long gruff laugh. `Relax,' he told the 28-year-old simply. `A mouth is a mouth, as they say. And I'll defo share him with you if you stop looking like you've crapped yourself, Ivan.' Joe's boldness was not totally typical for him - he was fairly secretive about his on-off exploits at home in Liverpool, where he felt more pressure to prove himself and maintain his position, and he'd kept hidden his various encounters with the likes of Trent, Robbo and, most recently, Darwin. They weren't a big deal to him, after all, just much-needed moments of release and indulgence. But here, back in the England fold, the 26-year-old felt emboldened and reckless, and what did it matter what Ivan Toney or slutty Madders really thought of him...? He'd seen the wild hunger in James' eyes back in the pool-house, and suspected a flirty tone from the other Englishman all through the first twenty-four hours of the training camp - he was here to enjoy himself. And right now he was certainly doing that, enjoying the way James' mouth caressed every inch of his hard black cock. Madders was a skilled and confident sucker, more-so perhaps than the awkward bi-curious lads that Gomez had tended to claim as his own for these private moments of selfish pleasure. Certainly, the Spurs player was doing a better job of servicing his thick manhood than his current Uruguayan buddy - Nunez had to be repeatedly told to mind his teeth, and always needed reminding not to ignore the balls. Maddison, on the other hand, was lavish and wet, slobbering easily up and down his shaft, taking it quite deep in his throat, and stopping now to wank it whilst he lapped and kissed at the wrinkled skin around Joe's full heavy balls. `You wanna take a picture?' Joe laughed at Ivan, who was still stood still and staring. `Honestly, I can take him into the en suite if-' `You're letting him blow you?' Toney demanded, as if he needed verbal confirmation of what he'd been watching for two minutes, and Gomez laughed at him - `What does it look like, nobhead? Come on, get your whopper out, seems like he enjoys a big black dick in his throat. You want another one, Madders? Yeah, look at him nod and drool, the slag. Come here, mate, he'll do you too.' Of course, the 28-year-old forward took little persuasion, though his face was stony with reserve and judgement. But Ivan was like many hot-blooded footballers, especially attacking players, and Joe grinned with certainty as the 6ft1 Northampton lad muscled in next to him and fumbled with the crotch of his shorts - and then James was doing the fumbling for him, groping into his shorts whilst still gobbling on the first big treat. But one Ivan's semi was out and being stroked, Joe was happy to take a handle on his own stiffy and press Madders' face towards his roomie's cock instead - `That's it,' he grunted, `give Ivan a suck, show him what you can do. I knew you were a slut, Maddison, but I never expected you to be THIS good, bruv.' So the two tall muscular lads stood there side by side and shared the third on his knees. Ivan's face was a picture of shocked and wary ecstasy, whilst Joe just laughed and groaned, and gave the occasionally light slap to the side of James' face, showing him how dominant he could be, and upping the dirty talk - `Suck us good, you little slut, and maybe you'll get even more - yeh? You like that, don't ya? Two big black cocks inside ya? Fucking slut, go on, suck Toney some more, he loves it.' And the Spurs player was really relaxed about it, which was quite new and enjoyable for Gomez - he was used to a lot of bluster and panic from the curious lads he shared his body with, and he liked the gusto with which Maddison blew them both and giggled playfully between choking on the two bare tools. Yep, this was a good slut he'd discovered in his new England line-up - was he surprised? Not really, James gave off that kinda energy, and Joe could always tell when someone fancied him. `Hey,' he growled at the Brentford player. `You make yourself comfortable, on the bed, and just let him suck on your big balls, hey?' He wasn't just being generous here - by getting Ivan to lounge back at the foot of the bed, with his big dark legs open and James lapping at his bollocks, it meant that Joe could loom behind him, giving his arse a good few spanks through his thin white gym shorts, then pulling it down and admiring the faint pink handprint that lingered on the white skin. He gave a few firmer smacks to each cheek, turning pink to red, and then he spat on a finger and began to slide it in to find and explore the slag's knotty hole. He licked his lips and stood there, frigging the Hotspur's arse, whilst making grinning eye contact with an ecstatically panicked Ivan on the bed. `Fuck, nice little cunt on him,' Joe growled. `You're going to... fuck him?' `Why not? See if his arse feels as good as his mouth.' `But...' `Tell me you ain't enjoying him, haha.' Joe spat on two fingers and stretched the hole more, jerking back and forth on his thick member with the other hand. He pushed James further up onto the bed to get the height right and then he began to slid his cock in between the fuzzy cheeks, teasing his head against the tight little hole whilst James continued to stoop and slobber between Ivan's big thighs. Toney groaned and panted and Gomez felt just as excited, beginning to push himself in against that yielding ring, knowing with certainty that he was far from the first to penetrate the gifted goal-scorer. He loved the firm grip enclosing his cock, and he loved the wide-eyed panic and pleasure that met his gaze on Ivan's face - he loved the slutty way that Maddison jiggled his bottom and pushed back, keen to be impaled on a big cock. Soon Joe was really fucking him, holding his hips and slapping into his pale fuzzy cheeks, humping deep into him too hard for him to keep sucking - instead, Madders kissed and drooled up and down Toney's six-pack and around his nips, and the big firm hands of the forward roved up and down his back until they were kneading into the spread white buttocks, feeling the soft sexy arse cheeks that were accommodating Gomez's thrusts. It wasn't long before they were swapping positions - `Is it really that good?' Ivan gasped at him, shaky with excitement - and manhandling the Spurs player between them - `God, you two are fucking hot,' whined the midfielder eagerly, precum flecked on his scruffy goatee - until Joe was on the bed guiding his mouth back onto his cock and watching as his backside was mounted by the other black lad. Casually, the two of them spitroasted him, the 27-year-old caught between their big weapons - Joe thrusting up into his mouth and choking him whilst Ivan pounded into his arse with a shocked look on his long handsome face, both of their darker muscled physiques glossy with sweat as they shared the clammy white Midlander between them. `How's that feel?' he grunted at James, ignoring the fact that the lad couldn't talk whilst choking on his girth, and getting an answer from horny fucker Ivan instead - `He's so tight,' whined a man who had clearly never done anal before, and Gomez just laughed delightedly. He liked watching the rippling darkness of his friend's muscles as he pounded into their shared white boy, admiring the lean strength of the 6ft1 forward, but he quickly became jealous and needed to take over again - so they kept swapping ends, spit-roasting Maddison across the bed and barely giving him a chance to say anything but `God, yes' as they swapped ends and filled him up. At intervals, Gomez even turned to look at the full-lengthy mirror on the wall - identical to that in other parallel rooms of their corridor, where just yesterday evening Jude Bellingham had posed in the new England shirt and irked his DILF roommate into confrontation - so that he could enjoy the sight of their spitroast, seeing slim smooth James poised between their bigger thrusting physiques, sharing him in rapid bursts, making so much noise as they slapped against his pleasingly soft backside or fucked his gagging throat. Ivan, for all his claims of nervousness and caution, really went for it, a hard dirty fucker, loud gasps and moans, but none of Joe's confident dirty talk - Joe was excited by the energy and ferocity of his newly-converted ally, glad that he hadn't misjudged the Brentford bloke when he risked inviting Madders up here for this sesh. Ivan hit his climax before Joe did - he was in the middle of withdrawing his cock from Madders' arse, hassled along by an impatient Gomez, but he was so caught in his pleasure that he couldn't stop jerking his greasy prick, and he shot messy puddles over those cheeks and Maddison's lower back, making a high-pitched whine of something like embarrassment as he peaked and emptied. When Joe grasped hold of James' body, he just fingered some of the other lad's cum into the wet slippery hole and shoved his own thick monster inside, then told James to lick the rest of it off the source - he could heard the fap fap of Maddison jerking off whilst licking Ivan clean, his arse pounded by more rapid thrusts from Joe himself, who soon emptied his own bollocks and bred the Spurs lad deep inside, cumming inside him and then slowly withdrawing in a steaming heap of sweaty dark muscle. Joe lay there in a cum-happy daze, listening to the slurps as James went on sucking off sensitive Ivan's spent member, and then loudly enjoying his own orgasm between them, so that all three sweaty bodies were piled together on the same double, damp skin rubbing damp skin and gently staining the off-white sheets below. But James quickly became chatty, commenting on their big cocks and powerful bodies and how he hadn't factored on having such a great second night of England camp - he complained loudly about how quiet and frustrating his first night had been, listening to Maguire's snores, and how he was gutted Jack Grealish wasn't here. For his part, the Brentford player had gone awkwardly silent and had regret etched on every inch of his face; Joe was more blunt in his behaviour, and he told James it was time for goodnight. Without dressing, the 6ft2 Liverpool hunk steered the 27-year-old off the bed and back into his clothes, resisting attempts of a cuddle or kiss, and guiding his sweaty slim frame to the door. He gave him a reassuring pat or two on the arse when Madders asked `Same time tomorrow night?' but didn't verbally commit to anything - he just saw the chatty twunk out of their suite and then shut the door behind him, standing naked and playing with his floppy soft cock and tingling bollocks, then looking across at the beleaguered look on Ivan's worried face. `Don't sweat it,' he told him firmly, before going through to take a solitary shower and properly clean his big powerful body. When he returned to the main suite, Ivan was still hunched in a seat by the window, hands clasped ruefully over his face, muttering to himself in a manner that sounded suspiciously like prayer. `Just don't worry about it,' the Londoner barked across at him, irritated by silly notions of sin and restraint. `We all had fun, didn't we?' The 28-year-old gave him a strange worried look and then mumbled something unclear about `Just restless' - then they both began clambering into their separate beds, Joe swapping the sweat- and cum-stained duvet for a fresh one from the closet before flopping contentedly down and rolling onto his side, his body and cock spent and satisfied. Yes, he thought, same time tomorrow night does sound about right, whether or not his roommate wanted to join in, ha. Big Joe was back on the England squad, and he was here to enjoy himself.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 20 Mar 2024 21:33:30 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 397 Part 397: The Return of Big Joe The shared hotel room rang with the crackle and bass of the blue-tooth speaker on the bureau, playing the other footballer's Spotify tunes whilst he changed out of the official England merch that he'd worn to dinner like everyone else, and pulled a simple white vest over the broad heavy muscle of his upper body instead. Bearded and impressive, the 6ft2 Londoner tugged the white top into comfortable position and then adjusted the fit of the loose black shorts he'd pulled on over his boxer briefs, changing into these thin comfortable clothes to settle down for the second night in the room. His assigned roommate for the camp was muttering along to the lyrics of the dance music on his speaker whilst he finished tidying away his things at his side of the room, having been quite lazy with his personal effects when the pair of them checked into the shared room yesterday as two of the later Three Lions arrivals to Southgate's spring assembly. The two bulky men coexisted for the moment in a comfortable quiet, everybody rather chatted out after the team dinner that had taken place downstairs for the second night in a row, and the pretty intense full-day training that had welcomed them to their national duty under a cloudy March sky. The big muscle-bound Liverpool player was quite comfortable to lounge now on his bed and flick through some apps on the screen of his iPad, half-listening to the way the other England national was grumbling along to lyrics and punctuating it with snatches of chat about the day they had shared at their respective ends of the large squad: it should be Joe Gomez who was excitable and verbose about this week's action, really, given that it had been a god four years since his last disastrous visit to the England camp, enduring a career-threatening injury within twenty-four hours and missing out on more than a season of first-team football in his mid-20s prime. However, big Joe was doing his very best to approach the entire week with the laconic ease that made him such a trusted and respected tower back at Anfield, and had made him a valued young defender in his earlier outings for this national side; it was his roomie, Ivan Toney, who was springing quite lightly about the suite as he unpacked his socks and undies, and propped a few personal pics on the picture rail over his bed, as if the pair of them were moving into a boarding school dorm rather than a few nights' stay at a Surrey hotel before two minor international fixtures. Joe turned his attention back away from the 6ft1 Brentford forward, who had experienced his own controversial career interruptions to be fair, and looked through his emails and a couple of different social media platforms, giving all appearance of a resting giant, his huge muscular form slumped comfortably across the bed and his vest and shorts making him look pretty read to clamber underneath the sheets and get snoring - but big Joe's eyes slipped repeatedly to the time in the corner of the tablet screen, and once or twice to the digital watch around his wrist, and even then up to the traditional analogue clock on the wall above the hotel room door, ticking away the seconds. Curfew had passed, and Gomez and Toney were up here now under the orders of the England boss, like everybody else - early starts and early nights, just like any other intensive training camp, bookending the heavy physical work and the organised `fun' of team bonding, and of course all the inevitable media duty. Joe himself had been one of the stars of this afternoon's interview rounds, questioned about his past experiences here and how it felt to be back reclaiming a spot in Southgate's plans, having missed two big tournaments in recent years. With one of his big-shouldered shrugs and wry grins, the 26-year-old defensive footballer had dismissed the hype and pressure and pledged his gratitude to both Southgate and the mentorship of his club gaffer, refusing to make a big deal out of his return and giving them just a relaxed optimism to quote and scrutinise. Joe realised that Ivan was speaking to him, and tried to tune back in - misunderstanding his slow response, the other player turned down the speaker, and lunged this way, sitting on the edge of the other bed to address him. `You're not going to sleep yet, are you?' the marginally older player demanded brightly. `I was gonna suggest we play a game of cards or something.' Joe smiled vaguely at him, still swiping fingers across the screen. `Hmm? What game?' `Oh, I dunno,' grunted the Northampton-born guy. `Just feeling a bit bored and restless. I know today was tough work but fuck it was good to be out with everyone and just getting stuck in. You know how much it means to be here this week, with those fucking Euros around the corner, bruv.' Gomez nodded slow agreement, not quite looking up at the 28-year-old. `Sure,' he said loosely, glancing again at the time. `I just got that energy, y'know?' Toney informed him, laughing a bit awkwardly at himself in a pause in speech. `Not that I don't love playing for my club every week, you get me, but it's just different being out here, and being with all these guys - the big names and all that. You know what I mean, right?' Joe looked up and saw Ivan's uncertainty - `I suppose maybe it's different at Liverpool,' the attacking player mused. `Maybe every fucking week feels like the Euros in that love-in.' The 26-year-old just laughed this off and checked his watch, and then looked thoughtfully at the other tall black lad. `Something like that,' he said noncommittally. `I'll stop being a wanker,' Ivan laughed, sounding distant. `Honest, dunno why I'm so psyched to be picked this week, it don't mean anything for definite come summer, but still. It's just good that we're real contenders, huh?' A short pause, and then, `Why do you keep checking your watch, big man? Am I boring you that much, hey?' A slightly strained laugh, and the slapping sound of the big lad patting his hands on top of bare thighs where his shorts ended and exposed shiny smooth muscle. Joe looked thoughtfully at his 28-year-old roomie, not immediately answering, but locking the screen of his iPad and sliding it dismissively aside; he scratched at the dark curls of his distinguished beard and then propped himself up on his side, glancing from the other player - who was looking expectantly at him and fiddling with the zip of his hoody top - then at the door of their suite. Right on cue, making Gomez smile his lopsided smile, there was a bit of a knock on the door, and Joe waved a lazy hand in its direction. `Get that, will ya?' the Liverpool defender sighed self-assuredly. Toney looked a bit puzzled, which was fair enough, but gave him a light punch in the upper arm and then got up to cross the room. Gomez smirked and sat up properly, hanging thick arms across his knees, and watching as a confused-looking Ivan stopped to peer through the peephole before opening their door - their visitor had a similarly bewildered look on his face as he slid in, addressing the tall forward, but then shooting a furtive glance this way and smiling expectantly to Joe. `Hey, Joe.' `Howdy, mate,' yawned the 6ft2 man, giving a similarly casual nod his way, and then turning his own relaxed smile to his puzzled roomie. `I just invited Madders here to pop by and hang out, y'know. What? You said you weren't ready for sleep yet. Restless, did you say? Good, good - Jamesy here will keep us occupied for a bit, I'm sure.' Joe stroked his beard a little more and flashed warm playful expressions at both his blank roommate and the more nervous curiosity of a smirking James Maddison, Tottenham Hotspur's prized attacking midfielder. Joe had been in the training centre's indoor swimming pool when he first locked eyes with James in the late afternoon; he'd missed the final stage of full-team training due to his scheduled press interview alongside the gaffer, and so he'd opted for a half hour of swimming lengths to get some more exercise in, and somehow the short spry Midlander had come by and had the same idea. The two rival Premier League stars had shared bland chit-chat at the pool's edge, James explaining that he'd been rested from the full training due to a twinge in his ankle, and had the same idea as Joe; but they'd barely shared the pool in an overlap between their sessions, one diving in as the other called quits. But Joe had found himself lingering around the chlorine-scented pale blue of the pool-room, toying with his phone and a variety of messages, and so when he was showering down at the cool sprays near the poolside, rinsing pool-water off his big muscles without bothering to strip off his clingy soaked trunks, he'd ended up side-by-side with Madders at the next nozzle, smiling acknowledgements across at each other past the slim faint dividers. It had quickly occurred to Joe that James hadn't been in the pool for long, and the vain idea struck him that they weren't sharing neighbouring showers out of sheer coincidence: the former Leicester man seeming unable to tear his eyes away as Gomez rinsed his pecs and shoulders and one hefty thigh at a time, adjusting and fondling at the skimpy black trunks that hugged the outline of his dormant cock. When he caught Madders staring, he just grinned knowingly over at the 27-year-old family man, and gave him a simple subtle nod of firm agreement. Then he'd looked away, laughing, and finished washing the pool chlorine from his strong 6ft2 physique, before grasping a towel and stalking past the other football player - but stopping, towering over his slim pale body, and resting fingers briefly on his bare wet shoulder. Long enough to suggest a time of night and the number of his hotel room, and give a discreet wink to the cock-hungry Coventry lad being drenched in cool water. Madders had grinned at him then with certain desire, and the same look shone on his friendly face as he took nervous steps into the shared room, an England jumper tied about his waist and one of those simple white Three Lions t-shirts covering his lean torso. `It's after curfew,' Ivan Toney commented quietly. He laughed uncertainly. `I dunno if we should be visiting rooms at this time, lads.' He looked embarrassed to be speaking such boring words of warning, but then he was a guy who'd been in trouble with the higher powers of the FA, and perhaps he was once bitten twice shy about his career now. `Oh, don't worry,' Maddison told him, but he sounded a little cautious himself. `Just stopping by. My roomie is snoring already and it does my head in.' He played with the knot of the jumper around his waist and looked expectantly over this way - Joe grinned at him and shrugged, knowing just what the Hotspur slut must be thinking - sure, he'd imagined somehow getting the room to himself too, or finding another safe space in the confines of this team hotel, but... Wel, Ivan HAD said he was feeling restless before bed, right? Joe thought he had the measure of the tall broad forward and he was too focused on his own needs to overly worry about what the Brentford man had to say. With a jaunty little whistle, the big defender unfolded his body from the bed, rising up to his feet, a little taller than Toney and towering over 5ft9 Madders. He grinned from one man to the other and then, very unceremoniously, grabbed the package in the front of his thin dark shorts, stepping into the centre of the suite, between them both. `James here liked what he saw by the pool,' he said simply to Ivan, nudging at his guest with an elbow, and then throwing a powerful arm about James' slim shoulders, grabbing and shaking the handsome and gregarious ex-Fox who was one of the most liked figures in today's training squad, and as far as Joe had been able to discern, his best chance of getting his dick wet. He held one arm about James' shoulders and continued to grab and squeeze at the front of his shorts, giving a serious look and then brief wink to Ivan Toney. `Ha bloody ha,' declared Brentford's goal-scorer. `Are you sure about this, mate?' murmured Maddison - it wasn't clear if his question was more general or specific to the presence of a third. Joe just laughed them both off, and squeezed a firm hand on the back of James' neck. `Get down on your knees, then,' he told the Spurs player, and he pushed down the front of his shorts until his big fat cock was spilling loose over the waistband - as he did so, he didn't take his eyes off Ivan's alarmed face. James could hardly resist his powerful touch, and so the other player was down on his knees on the carpet, low down at his side like an obedient pup, and taking it in his hand. `Shit,' gasped Toney. `Sorry,' Gomez told him simply and confidently. `You rather I went into the bathroom and fed this hungry slut in there?' `Huh- wah? Oh- Er- Mate, are you for real?' `Fuck,' purred Madders, `it's as big as I thought. God. Can I suck it?' `Is he really gonna-? I mean- fuck's sake, lads, what are we...' `Sure,' Joe growled, `it's what you came for, right?' With both hands, he lifted his vest a little up his firm dark six-pack, giving James more access to his crotch, and smiling as the kneeling white man shuffled about to be in front of his strong legs and bringing his mouth in to kiss and lick the heavy dark shaft that was already getting thicker and harder. Right there in front of the other England call-up, Joe stood with relaxed confidence, and let Maddison take his prick in his hungry mouth, and Toney's jaw almost hit the floor. Joe smirked at him and let out a pleasured sigh, reaching one hand down to stroke the mousy brown hair of James' head, whilst the other stroked up his tummy and back down to his waist. `What, they don't have cock-suckers at Brentford FC?' he demanded, then let out a long gruff laugh. `Relax,' he told the 28-year-old simply. `A mouth is a mouth, as they say. And I'll defo share him with you if you stop looking like you've crapped yourself, Ivan.' Joe's boldness was not totally typical for him - he was fairly secretive about his on-off exploits at home in Liverpool, where he felt more pressure to prove himself and maintain his position, and he'd kept hidden his various encounters with the likes of Trent, Robbo and, most recently, Darwin. They weren't a big deal to him, after all, just much-needed moments of release and indulgence. But here, back in the England fold, the 26-year-old felt emboldened and reckless, and what did it matter what Ivan Toney or slutty Madders really thought of him...? He'd seen the wild hunger in James' eyes back in the pool-house, and suspected a flirty tone from the other Englishman all through the first twenty-four hours of the training camp - he was here to enjoy himself. And right now he was certainly doing that, enjoying the way James' mouth caressed every inch of his hard black cock. Madders was a skilled and confident sucker, more-so perhaps than the awkward bi-curious lads that Gomez had tended to claim as his own for these private moments of selfish pleasure. Certainly, the Spurs player was doing a better job of servicing his thick manhood than his current Uruguayan buddy - Nunez had to be repeatedly told to mind his teeth, and always needed reminding not to ignore the balls. Maddison, on the other hand, was lavish and wet, slobbering easily up and down his shaft, taking it quite deep in his throat, and stopping now to wank it whilst he lapped and kissed at the wrinkled skin around Joe's full heavy balls. `You wanna take a picture?' Joe laughed at Ivan, who was still stood still and staring. `Honestly, I can take him into the en suite if-' `You're letting him blow you?' Toney demanded, as if he needed verbal confirmation of what he'd been watching for two minutes, and Gomez laughed at him - `What does it look like, nobhead? Come on, get your whopper out, seems like he enjoys a big black dick in his throat. You want another one, Madders? Yeah, look at him nod and drool, the slag. Come here, mate, he'll do you too.' Of course, the 28-year-old forward took little persuasion, though his face was stony with reserve and judgement. But Ivan was like many hot-blooded footballers, especially attacking players, and Joe grinned with certainty as the 6ft1 Northampton lad muscled in next to him and fumbled with the crotch of his shorts - and then James was doing the fumbling for him, groping into his shorts whilst still gobbling on the first big treat. But one Ivan's semi was out and being stroked, Joe was happy to take a handle on his own stiffy and press Madders' face towards his roomie's cock instead - `That's it,' he grunted, `give Ivan a suck, show him what you can do. I knew you were a slut, Maddison, but I never expected you to be THIS good, bruv.' So the two tall muscular lads stood there side by side and shared the third on his knees. Ivan's face was a picture of shocked and wary ecstasy, whilst Joe just laughed and groaned, and gave the occasionally light slap to the side of James' face, showing him how dominant he could be, and upping the dirty talk - `Suck us good, you little slut, and maybe you'll get even more - yeh? You like that, don't ya? Two big black cocks inside ya? Fucking slut, go on, suck Toney some more, he loves it.' And the Spurs player was really relaxed about it, which was quite new and enjoyable for Gomez - he was used to a lot of bluster and panic from the curious lads he shared his body with, and he liked the gusto with which Maddison blew them both and giggled playfully between choking on the two bare tools. Yep, this was a good slut he'd discovered in his new England line-up - was he surprised? Not really, James gave off that kinda energy, and Joe could always tell when someone fancied him. `Hey,' he growled at the Brentford player. `You make yourself comfortable, on the bed, and just let him suck on your big balls, hey?' He wasn't just being generous here - by getting Ivan to lounge back at the foot of the bed, with his big dark legs open and James lapping at his bollocks, it meant that Joe could loom behind him, giving his arse a good few spanks through his thin white gym shorts, then pulling it down and admiring the faint pink handprint that lingered on the white skin. He gave a few firmer smacks to each cheek, turning pink to red, and then he spat on a finger and began to slide it in to find and explore the slag's knotty hole. He licked his lips and stood there, frigging the Hotspur's arse, whilst making grinning eye contact with an ecstatically panicked Ivan on the bed. `Fuck, nice little cunt on him,' Joe growled. `You're going to... fuck him?' `Why not? See if his arse feels as good as his mouth.' `But...' `Tell me you ain't enjoying him, haha.' Joe spat on two fingers and stretched the hole more, jerking back and forth on his thick member with the other hand. He pushed James further up onto the bed to get the height right and then he began to slid his cock in between the fuzzy cheeks, teasing his head against the tight little hole whilst James continued to stoop and slobber between Ivan's big thighs. Toney groaned and panted and Gomez felt just as excited, beginning to push himself in against that yielding ring, knowing with certainty that he was far from the first to penetrate the gifted goal-scorer. He loved the firm grip enclosing his cock, and he loved the wide-eyed panic and pleasure that met his gaze on Ivan's face - he loved the slutty way that Maddison jiggled his bottom and pushed back, keen to be impaled on a big cock. Soon Joe was really fucking him, holding his hips and slapping into his pale fuzzy cheeks, humping deep into him too hard for him to keep sucking - instead, Madders kissed and drooled up and down Toney's six-pack and around his nips, and the big firm hands of the forward roved up and down his back until they were kneading into the spread white buttocks, feeling the soft sexy arse cheeks that were accommodating Gomez's thrusts. It wasn't long before they were swapping positions - `Is it really that good?' Ivan gasped at him, shaky with excitement - and manhandling the Spurs player between them - `God, you two are fucking hot,' whined the midfielder eagerly, precum flecked on his scruffy goatee - until Joe was on the bed guiding his mouth back onto his cock and watching as his backside was mounted by the other black lad. Casually, the two of them spitroasted him, the 27-year-old caught between their big weapons - Joe thrusting up into his mouth and choking him whilst Ivan pounded into his arse with a shocked look on his long handsome face, both of their darker muscled physiques glossy with sweat as they shared the clammy white Midlander between them. `How's that feel?' he grunted at James, ignoring the fact that the lad couldn't talk whilst choking on his girth, and getting an answer from horny fucker Ivan instead - `He's so tight,' whined a man who had clearly never done anal before, and Gomez just laughed delightedly. He liked watching the rippling darkness of his friend's muscles as he pounded into their shared white boy, admiring the lean strength of the 6ft1 forward, but he quickly became jealous and needed to take over again - so they kept swapping ends, spit-roasting Maddison across the bed and barely giving him a chance to say anything but `God, yes' as they swapped ends and filled him up. At intervals, Gomez even turned to look at the full-lengthy mirror on the wall - identical to that in other parallel rooms of their corridor, where just yesterday evening Jude Bellingham had posed in the new England shirt and irked his DILF roommate into confrontation - so that he could enjoy the sight of their spitroast, seeing slim smooth James poised between their bigger thrusting physiques, sharing him in rapid bursts, making so much noise as they slapped against his pleasingly soft backside or fucked his gagging throat. Ivan, for all his claims of nervousness and caution, really went for it, a hard dirty fucker, loud gasps and moans, but none of Joe's confident dirty talk - Joe was excited by the energy and ferocity of his newly-converted ally, glad that he hadn't misjudged the Brentford bloke when he risked inviting Madders up here for this sesh. Ivan hit his climax before Joe did - he was in the middle of withdrawing his cock from Madders' arse, hassled along by an impatient Gomez, but he was so caught in his pleasure that he couldn't stop jerking his greasy prick, and he shot messy puddles over those cheeks and Maddison's lower back, making a high-pitched whine of something like embarrassment as he peaked and emptied. When Joe grasped hold of James' body, he just fingered some of the other lad's cum into the wet slippery hole and shoved his own thick monster inside, then told James to lick the rest of it off the source - he could heard the fap fap of Maddison jerking off whilst licking Ivan clean, his arse pounded by more rapid thrusts from Joe himself, who soon emptied his own bollocks and bred the Spurs lad deep inside, cumming inside him and then slowly withdrawing in a steaming heap of sweaty dark muscle. Joe lay there in a cum-happy daze, listening to the slurps as James went on sucking off sensitive Ivan's spent member, and then loudly enjoying his own orgasm between them, so that all three sweaty bodies were piled together on the same double, damp skin rubbing damp skin and gently staining the off-white sheets below. But James quickly became chatty, commenting on their big cocks and powerful bodies and how he hadn't factored on having such a great second night of England camp - he complained loudly about how quiet and frustrating his first night had been, listening to Maguire's snores, and how he was gutted Jack Grealish wasn't here. For his part, the Brentford player had gone awkwardly silent and had regret etched on every inch of his face; Joe was more blunt in his behaviour, and he told James it was time for goodnight. Without dressing, the 6ft2 Liverpool hunk steered the 27-year-old off the bed and back into his clothes, resisting attempts of a cuddle or kiss, and guiding his sweaty slim frame to the door. He gave him a reassuring pat or two on the arse when Madders asked `Same time tomorrow night?' but didn't verbally commit to anything - he just saw the chatty twunk out of their suite and then shut the door behind him, standing naked and playing with his floppy soft cock and tingling bollocks, then looking across at the beleaguered look on Ivan's worried face. `Don't sweat it,' he told him firmly, before going through to take a solitary shower and properly clean his big powerful body. When he returned to the main suite, Ivan was still hunched in a seat by the window, hands clasped ruefully over his face, muttering to himself in a manner that sounded suspiciously like prayer. `Just don't worry about it,' the Londoner barked across at him, irritated by silly notions of sin and restraint. `We all had fun, didn't we?' The 28-year-old gave him a strange worried look and then mumbled something unclear about `Just restless' - then they both began clambering into their separate beds, Joe swapping the sweat- and cum-stained duvet for a fresh one from the closet before flopping contentedly down and rolling onto his side, his body and cock spent and satisfied. Yes, he thought, same time tomorrow night does sound about right, whether or not his roommate wanted to join in, ha. Big Joe was back on the England squad, and he was here to enjoy himself. </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-377

Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2023 04:26:02 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 377 Part 377: Chelsea Buns He'd decided to walk rather than drive, seeing just how close their postcodes were - a potentially pleasant London stroll on a Tuesday afternoon, and one that allowed him to pick up coffees and pastries from a posh Kensington bakery on the way there. And then, predictably, the skies had opened and he'd got soaked in the final two minutes of his walk, breaking into an awkward run up what he hoped was the right street, and tucking the Gails bakery raid under the inside of his bomber jacket for protection. Fortuitously, his host for the afternoon was already at the door, holding it open and looking out for him, and the drenched young football star was ushered quickly into the porch of the sizeable London townhouse before he could be truly sodden, gasping a relieved `Cheers!' and allowing the older man to muscle him encouragingly into the busy entranceway of coats and shoes, all the signs of a bustling family home. Ben Chilwell had hardly hesitated at the suggested interview, and not just because of the free time afforded by his fairly slow-paced rehab program. He was inching towards what he believed to be an end to his hamstring recovery, but the club physios were being incredibly vague and refusing to pin a date for his return to full training with the rest of the team. As in previous bouts of poor fitness, this brought its own toll on his mental health, and the cautious 26-year-old was investing carefully in how he spent his free time to keep himself upbeat and focused, productive and optimistic. But aside from that, it was a great opportunity, and he was keen on the idea of being one of the first guests on a dedicated new Chelsea podcast, especially if it meant being interviewed by THIS legend in front of him, who was ushering him across the porch with gruff blokey laughter, snatching a towel from a shelf somewhere and throwing it about his shoulders and head - it was a gesture that should be a bit interfering and overbearing, but Ben was just so relieved to be back indoors and out of the rain, so he quickly relented to being helped out of his soaked bomber jacket and then swaddled in the pale cream towel, which was warm from a radiator. The coffee cup tray and bag of sweet treats were snatched from his damp grip and then he was further attacked with the towel, strong manly hands against his shoulder and neck and ruffling it in his hair - there was an almost paternal mix of kindness and brusqueness to it that caught the young man off-guard and made him laugh awkwardly, somewhat dazed when the towel was allowed to drape about his shoulders, and he was blinking into the smiling expression of the former Chelsea player. `God, that's got heavy, hey?' exclaimed the 42-year-old, grabbing him by his upper arm. `You're alright though, are you? Not too soaked? Here - let me hang this for you - come in, come in, er - you don't mind taking those soggy trainers off, do you? Haha - it's the missus, you know how it is...' And like that, the injured football player was hurried into the large family home of the Coles, with Joe himself scampering quite eagerly ahead of him, gesturing through a couple of doors into the big kitchen extension across the back. With a quick dancing gait, the player-turned-coach-turned-pundit put down the cups and bag and then clapped his hands roughly together, turning to inspect his visitor - `You're okay, are you? You don't need any dry clothes, or-?' Still a little overwhelmed by the tornado of warm welcome, Chilwell blinked stupidly at the older guy, and then shook his head - actually, he wasn't as wet as he might have thought, his long-sleeved t-shirt largely untouched, and just a faint dampness down the outer sides of his baggy trousers. His socked feet stretched and flexed against the underfloor heating of the open kitchen, and he collected his senses. `I'm good,' he assured Joe, grabbing at the towel on his shoulders and giving it another rub across his face and the glossy dark curls of his damp hair. `I'm all good-' `Here,' insisted the podcast host. `I'll go get you a warm jumper, kid. Have a seat, get comfortable - I thought we'd do the chat in here, if that's alright? It's the tidiest part of the house, hah.' And with the same high level of nervous energy, the short stocky ex-footballer disappeared away for a minute, and Ben drifted into the bright extension area to inspect the long garden through rain-soaked French windows. And then Cole was back, holding a big thick sweatshirt - it was branded with the Premiership legend's brief American team, Tampa Bay Rowdies, and fashionista Ben thought it was pretty cool in an ironic kinda way. He received it gladly and, more out of politeness than temperature, pulled it on before fiddling with his coiffed hair, ruined by the weather. And then, the chaotic entrance over, the pair of them were settling into smart but comfortable chairs at a breakfast table nearby, and Joe was thanking him profusely for the coffee, and serving the sticky pastries on a platter between them. The 42-year-old former midfielder was laughing as he did so. `Chelsea buns?' he demanded through his gruff giggles. `That used to be my nickname, back in the day...!' The retired player laughed heartily at his own joke and Ben joined in, but with an edge of awkwardness, as he clocked what his interviewer meant, and he felt silly or conspicuous for being instantly aware of a certain notorious feature of the older guy's physique! `Until I was replaced by Eden Hazard,' Cole continued lightly, settling down into the other chair, and fixing him with his easy laddish grin, `and stopped getting Rear of the Year from Heat Magazine, y'know...' A pause, a scratch of that greying stubble, and another heavy laugh. `And replaced now by you, no doubt, Ben's Buns? Haha.' He was all wide beaming smile and glittering blue eyes, a handsome fella as he entered his 30s and left his sporting prime behind - and he had an easy relaxing charm to him that Ben instantly took to, abandoning the awkward self-consciousness in favour of nodding enthusiastically and welcoming the silly tone. `Sure, sure,' he agreed, sipping his cappuccino, `I'm pretty sure it's on my FIFA stats - Chelsea Buns legacy.' He sniggered and gestured vaguely at the sweet treats, `Is that what you call these? I didn't know, I just thought they were pastries or whatever. Hah - I hope you like them, it seemed wrong turning up empty-handed.' Another big grin from his host. `You'd be surprised how rare those manners are,' Cole told him sagely, slightly exaggerating his position as the wise and experienced ex-footballer, and swiftly labelling him `a true Chelsea gent'. They both drank from their coffees and chewed quietly on the sugary dough for a moment, before Joe asked gruffly, `Shall we get started on this interview then, fella?' As he might have expected, Joe Cole was an easy guy to talk to, and they were already indulging in spiralling friendly chatter for the many minutes it took the host to set up his laptop and recording equipment, prompting them the only awkward pause as Joe told him to `save his banter until the green light was on' - Ben asked vague friendly questions about the house and Joe's life at the moment, unsure if he still had any coaching commitments or just a media focus, and asking after his family. `Hey,' Cole warned him warmly, finally getting the kit ready, `who's the one being interviewed here, a hot young left-back making his Chelsea legacy, or a boring old cunt who spends more time gardening?' The 42-year-old laughed self-deprecatingly and Ben just fumbled for words, unsure how seriously to take these words, but settling into a light laugh when he caught Joe's expression. `The kids are at school, of course,' he pointed out as he fiddled with the laptop, and Ben nodded along, unsure of their ages or even how many the guy had, `and the missus is out shopping, of course. You know how it is,' he added presumptuously, before pausing to ask an obvious question - `Or are you single? I don't think I know anything about your love life, fella, which seems rare for a Premiership footballer, ha.' `Single, for sure,' Chilly told him a little quietly, `for now.' Then, feeling the need to expand for some reason, he muttered, `Seeing a couple of people casually but... nothing major, nothing big... erm...' But Joe's interest in this question seemed to be low, and he was rifling through a set of printed notes before doing a few more checks on the laptop. And then they were off, and Ben found himself chatting quite volubly to everything the older guy had to ask him. Joe was just so relaxed and forward, nothing media or PR about him, purely chatty and frequently bursting into that gruff London laugh, still the working-class kid from Paddington. And as much as he'd joked about the interview being for Ben not him, they did talk about Joe too - it was much more of a rambling chat between the two intergenerational players than a formal interview, and Ben found himself asking questions out of genuine curiosity. He asked about Cole's transition from West Ham to Chelsea, and on to his days at Liverpool and Villa, and of course America, inspecting the baggy thick sweater that enveloped his warm and dry body. He found himself openly asking for Joe's advice on coping with injury setbacks, and the two very different players discussed issues like men's mental health taboos and, with surprising honesty, the current state of politics at Chelsea FC. `It'll all get edited down,' Joe reminded him regularly, especially when Ben made a worryingly frank comment about management behaviour at the club, and his panic must have shown all over his handsome face. Cole just slapped him on the shoulder and assured him that he would be doing cuts himself before he sent it to the editor. `Relax, kid, relax.' When the coffees ran out, Joe made them some more from a noisy machine in the kitchen, clearly something of a caffeine snob too, and the two men began to chat idly about non-football subjects, almost forgetting the recording altogether. So much so that Ben was taken by surprise when Joe stopped his travel anecdote and started clicking at the laptop - `Hang on,' the Chelsea legend told him, `I best stop this before it gets any messier to edit, hold that thought.' Frowning in the concentration of someone less tech-savvy than he was trying to seem, Cole busied himself with the devices, and then turned back this way with genuine interest in his eyes - `What were you saying?' Ben paused only briefly, surprised that his interviewer actually wanted to hear about his latest holiday now that the recording was over, but very ready to enthuse about his fave Greek island boat trips. Chilly found himself almost disappointed that they'd recorded enough material, sitting there with an empty coffee cup in front of him, and picking at some crumbs from the Chelsea buns on the platter. Cole had got up to go and check something in the kitchen, resting a large warm hand on Ben's shoulder for a moment, and leaving him to linger comfortably; there was something so inviting and comfortable about the Cole family home, he thought, that made him want to linger here, even though the rainfall on the windows was much lighter than the downpour that he'd ran through on the street. The 26-year-old felt a vague urge to while away his day off here, with only a few simple physio exercises to do before dinnertime, and so enamoured with the older man's patter and openness; but a well-mannered `Chelsea gent' as he was, feeling somewhat posh with his Milton Keynes RP against Cockney-tinged Cole, he knew it would be rude to impose and he should be making his move rather soon now that the interview was so clearly over. But, to his surprise, the coffee machine was hissing and bubbling again, and Joe was asking him if he wanted oat milk again with this one, frothed or just chilled; and Ben answered distantly, as if knowing he ought to be refusing the extra hot drink and getting a wiggle on instead. But he sat there, comfortable, and received a fresh cup from his host, who patted his shoulder with the same avuncular affection, then sat back down to join him. Now at last they seemed to be out of things to say and both men just sipped their flat whites quietly, looking out at the wet autumnal garden. `I do hope to see you back on the pitch soon,' the ex-player told him quite earnestly, after a while. `You're absolutely central to that squad, and they suffer when they don't have you or Reece out there, for sure. I won't ask for a date - if you knew, you'd be telling me.' Chilwell smiled weakly in gratitude at this, rolling his eyes to signify the well-known vagueness of these matters, and nodding. `I don't think any supporter or insider is as eager for my comeback as I am,' he assured his host. `I mean, it isn't even just Chels, y'know - the lads are assembling today for England training, and I'm missing that too, AGAIN.' He sighed wistfully, surprised at the sudden downturn in his mood. `Sorry, ignore me being maudlin - this is nice coffee again, Joe, thanks.' The older man gave him another fond smile that dimpled his grizzled stubble and lined his blue eyes. He licked coffee foam from his upper lip and nodded slowly. `Hey,' he said with a little suddenness, `you must like a swim, with that leg strain? We've just had the indoor pool re-done, if you want to give it a go.' And then with an expansive wave about the kitchen, `I'm assuming you'll stay on for dinner, yeah? I'm cooking my signature lamb, and the wife and kids would love to meet you properly - obviously they're all True Blues.' Ben paused at the broad invitations, unsure what to say - he felt that it was rude to accept, and yet Joe seemed so keen and genuine. And it WAS still raining out there, he reminded himself, with little else to do with his day. And, he thought, a little dip in a pool would be just the amount of exercise he needed to tick off today's requirements - still, it felt a real imposition against the generous guy, who was beaming expectantly at him. `Er...' `Good,' Cole said swiftly, interpreting this as a definite `yes'. `Come on, I'll show you downstairs - I think you'll be impressed, everyone is.' There was a laddish excitement to his speech that made it less boastful or boorish, and Ben just went with it, deciding to embrace the hospitality of this club legend. It was, he had to admit, pretty slick - a certain hyper-modernism in the warm basement that clashed with the soft family edges of the home above, like it should belong to an unambitious Bond villain instead. But standing over the shimmering rectangle of lightly heated water, Ben felt that a short swim was EXACTLY what he needed, and he smiled keenly at his host. `You're sure?' he prodded self-consciously. `You're sure you don't mind me having a swim? I can just leave you to it, and-' `But dinner,' Cole insisted. `Here - there's some spare swimming shorts here, if you want them.' He was opening neat built-in storage draws in a corner, whilst beginning to pull out of the zip-neck grey sweater he wore over his own t-shirt. Ben stood still, looking about for somewhere he would be able to change, and just deciding it might be less awkward to get his undies wet - `No, I'll be okay,' he insisted, quite used to pool dips in underpants during team recovery days. Seeing that his host was going to make a more serious change of clothing, Ben shuffled sideways and averted his eyes. Off came the borrowed Tampa jumper, which he folded more carefully onto one of the modernist recliners, before tugging his own long-sleeved print top off more roughly, and then undoing the waist-cord of his baggy combat pants. Ben paused, unable to help glancing to the right - Joe was casually topless now and yanking off slippers and socks, back this way. His earlier quip about a supposed nickname came back to Chilly, who couldn't help but confirm that the man still had that ample backside mounding in his chinos, outsized even for his stocky frame - he was not so lean and well-kept as some media-focused ex-players, the smugly preserved Redknapps or Linekers of their world, but he still looked good for his age. (To Ben, the early 40s felt a distant and ancient era.) And Ben's eyes lingered as a belt was undone and the pants were pulled down a bit - for a moment, with the chinos on their way down, that large heavy backside, that speedy midfielder's low centre of gravity, was framed in pale grey boxer briefs, big solid muscles at the base of a lightly muscled and faintly hairy back. But then politeness and self-consciousness took over and Ben looked sharply away, dropping his own trousers and pulling off his socks - he felt somewhat exposed in his tight black CK boxer briefs, but he didn't fancy removing them to slide into a pair of borrowed swimmers - even in his polite awkwardness, he could tell from the corner of his eye that Joe was stark naked with that big pale arse on show, pulling on some loudly coloured resort trunks. To avoid looking that way, Chilly leapt straight into the water, pleased at the lukewarm temperature, and glad to lose himself in a little light physicality; with a series of splashes, Cole joined him, but said nothing. Isolated within the water, they did a series of short lengths up and down the rectangle, Ben continuing to do so even once he could sense that Joe had slowed and was floating about more idly. He felt almost like he was trying to show off his fitness progress to the Chelsea supporter, but he was really just trying to reach an acceptable count of short lengths that could make him feel okay about skipping his prescribed exercises if he stayed here for dinner. When Ben stopped, clinging to one end of the pool and turning slowly, he found that Joe had actually left the water. His stocky 5ft9 body dripping wet, Cole was stomping about on the far side, at the end of the basement where high narrow windows let in light from the garden; rainfall seemed to have shifted for bright autumn sun, to his surprise, casting a warm glow on the stomping figure of the dripping ex-footballer. Ben swam that way with a few lazy strokes, whilst Joe disappeared briefly from sight, returning in the folds of a huge cosy-looking bathrobe to cover himself up. For a moment, Ben wondered if the older man might be insecure about his body, despite seemingly getting naked without a thought to change into his swimmers - Ben was hardly oblivious to the tightly toned muscle of his own taller frame, a young footballer in his theoretical prime, injuries aside, next to the daddy-ish softening of Joe Cole. Chilly dismissed this question as his own vanity, climbing the sturdy ladder to leave the pool at that end and join Joe. The downside of swimming in undies rather than proper swimmers, he thought, was the way the pool water almost sucked them from his waist on the way out of the water, and the way they sagged and clung once he was shivering and dripping on the slip-proof flooring and looking about for a similarly cosy robe option. But once again, taking him quite by surprise, Joe Cole was the tactile dad with the towel - he'd grabbed a spare one from wherever he'd taken his robe, and was behind Ben, throwing the towel around him in a quick helpful motion - `Cheers...' - but not stopping there. His hands, through the towel, were already on Chilly's shoulders, massaging warmth and soft dryness against the muscles, really wrapping and enclosing him in the towel in a movement that shifted more towards a hug, or even a cuddle. Unsure of him, Ben just let out a faint strained chuckle, finding something jokey in the physicality of his host's attention, hugged from behind; it was nice, he had to admit, the warmth and firmness of it, just like at the doorway as he left the storm and was ushered warmly indoors. He liked the strength he felt in the older man's arms, and the air felt cool on his wet torso and legs, so it was good to be enveloped in such a large sheet of soft towelling - it made him forget himself and his chuckle turned to a contented sigh. The easy comfort was short-lived though, because he thought his sigh sounded a little TOO pleased, and he expected Cole to pull away. But no. Oddly, if pleasantly, the other man remained where he was, behind him, and Ben just stood there accepting it, feeling swaddled and protected in the towel hug. It had gone on too long now, he thought, and yet it felt quite right. Shorter and broader than him, the robed figure behind him rocked a little, but held on as he did, closing arms firmly about Ben, and rubbing those big hands - towelling his arms, his chest, his neck. Ben sighed acceptance and let the moment linger, mystified by how safe and comfortable he felt in this position, when he ought to be questioning what the married older dad was up to - he didn't immediately recognise anything remotely sexual in the position, just comforted and supported and grateful. But then, with a slow judder of awakening, he felt the towelled hands rub down his six-pack, stirring about his waist, and he heard the heaviness of the sigh behind his shoulder. Saying nothing, Joe held him quite firmly, and brought one hand down further, through the thick towel, to close about the damp front of his black CKs, which clung to the weight of his prominent bulge. Chilly let out a long shaky breath but didn't flinch or pull away. He was still unsure how deliberate the touch was, and he wanted to know for sure. He relaxed back as best he could, pushing his 5ft11 strength into the hold of the older man's embrace; the hand went lower, firmer, the towel was no longer in the way. A large warm hand fondled his cock and balls through wet cotton, and Ben let out a weak moan that mixed with the breathy sigh over his shoulder. Neither man said a word. They communicated simply through their warm damp bodies, between layers of robe or towel. Ben relaxed and rocked on his heels, feeling his dozy weight supported by the strength behind him. A little stubble scratched at his jaw and neck from behind, but nothing more there; the real contact was down his front, where those big knuckles were pushing into the front of his undies, and now his cock was being stroked and toyed with inside the wet underpants. His sigh was louder and more pleased, trying to indicate how he was more than good with this intimate touch - any question or weirdness about this happening with the 40-something married dad was gone, there was just the strength and safety of his touch, the hold of his arms, and... yep, the huge stiffness of Ben's oversized prick, released from his pants and stretching out to its full length. A slightly choked gasp over his shoulder suggested that the older guy was just appreciating how big the contents of these pool-soaked pants were, more alarmed than impressed; but Ben just sighed and shivered and closed his eyes, allowing the warm grip to slide up and down his inches. After a few blissful moments of this he tried to turn; he wanted to return the touch, wanted to look sexy older Joe in the eye, wanted to reach for a dangerous kiss. But no: the strong arms held him in place and the only contact was the hand on his cock and the breath on his ear. He accepted it, just floating in Cole's grip, and moaning deeper and deeper as the pulls and tugs of his big white cock increased; it was a simple handjob, with no attention to his heavy balls or anywhere else, just a solid repetitive motion, a hand that moved with a kind of authority and control over him. But Ben shivered and gasped and knew that it would end with a mess, he couldn't help himself - as much as he'd felt something like a dad or uncle in Joe's affection, it now felt like something else entirely, and it excited him. This rough diamond older London geezer, this Chelsea legend, this big-arsed hunk... he gasped and sighed, totally bewildered, and let Joe's hand bring him slowly but rhythmically to completion, trying to signal it with his own yelping cries of pleasure. Cole didn't stop or slow. Chilly trembled and whined, and then heard the globs of his own jizz splatter down on the slip-proof floor while his cock trembled and throbbed in the older man's grip. `Oh fuck,' Ben moaned, breaking at last the wordless quiet of the warm basement, a few beads of pool water still trickling in places on his strong lean body, and the heat and strength of the other guy still holding onto him through the towels and robes; `oh, fuuuuck,' he moaned on, feeling slow tight pulls on his spent cock, squeezing the last glimmering drops of his seed out to fall against that floor. He thought he could feel a hardness pressing at him low down from the man behind, but there was such a thick bundle of towel and robe there that he couldn't actually be sure it wasn't just his own imagination. And then, just as the hand slowed and stopped around the base of his big erection, a sudden noise intercepted the chlorine-scented peace: a jarring mechanical sound that made him flench and wobble, and open his hooded eyes properly, starting to pull away from daddy Joe. `That'll be the missus,' Cole announced, and his voice was quite expressionless. When Ben turned around, his cock swinging awkwardly loose, Joe was turned away from him and wrapping up his robe, picking his way down the narrow path to one side of the pool; alarmed, Ben stared intensely up at the skylights in the garden, but becoming sure that the noisy garage doors were coming from the ot her side of the house. `Back from Westfield!' trilled Joe, almost disinterestedly, strutting away in his robe without a look over his shoulder - this left Ben tottering about at the edge of the pool, snatching up the dropped towel to hide his sagging hard-on, his whole body trembling and goose-pimpled. His skin still a little damp under his clothes, Chilwell joined them back upstairs, clutching the towel under one arm and the Tampa jumper under the other; in the central hallway of the house, both Mr and Mrs Cole breezed past, his host helping his wife to bring several large designer shopping bags in from the porch. They were going into the same kitchen extension area in which the interview had taken place, and Ben followed them in a slow dazed walk, glad of how baggy his trousers were - he'd had to jettison his wet boxer briefs and so was going commando in them, his cock still swollen and a little stiff. His face must be bright red, he thought, drifting after the married couple and their light chatter. `The kids will be back soon,' Joe was reminding is wife, before sweeping into introductions, `Here his, then, young Benjamin - fine young thing, isn't he? The future of Chelsea! He's going to stay for dinner, and-' Ben found he just had to interrupt their speech, he burst out with it before he could overthink the decision. `Actually, I really have to go,' he said stiffly, then broke into more apology and fawning compliments, sure that their cooking would be amazing and expressing his admiration for their home - but it was the rehab schedule and everything, he really did have to get back to his own place now, thank you very much, etc etc. There were various protests from both robed Joe and his glamorous wife, but Chilwell politely deflected them one by one, allowing the wet towel to be taken from him and thrust into a laundry room to one side; but when he tried to hand the Tampa Bay sweater back to the retired pro, Joe shook his head firmly and grabbed him in a manly hug. `Keep that,' Cole insisted, and because he didn't know how to refuse it, he pulled it back on over the wrinkled cling of his own thin tee. Mrs C was about to make more earnest protests at how much they would enjoy having him stay for the evening, but Ben made his move quickly - more thank you, more apology, more earnestness, but also haste and nervous energy. Before long, he was staggering down the garden path and waving pleasantly back at them in the porch, remembering how good it had felt to be overwhelmed by affection and comfort there as Joe Cole steered him in from the storm. If only it had stopped at that, he thought treacherously, suddenly queasy about the unexpected and illicit handjob that had taken place in the Coles' basement - how the fuck had he allowed that to happen? He stared with private horror at the innocent smile on Joe's wife's face and then turned away, out onto their posh quiet street, zipping up his bomber jacket, and breaking into as quick a walk as his weary hamstring allowed him. He'd just come for an interview and a Chelsea bun, and got a lot more than he bargained for. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2023 04:26:02 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 377 Part 377: Chelsea Buns He'd decided to walk rather than drive, seeing just how close their postcodes were - a potentially pleasant London stroll on a Tuesday afternoon, and one that allowed him to pick up coffees and pastries from a posh Kensington bakery on the way there. And then, predictably, the skies had opened and he'd got soaked in the final two minutes of his walk, breaking into an awkward run up what he hoped was the right street, and tucking the Gails bakery raid under the inside of his bomber jacket for protection. Fortuitously, his host for the afternoon was already at the door, holding it open and looking out for him, and the drenched young football star was ushered quickly into the porch of the sizeable London townhouse before he could be truly sodden, gasping a relieved `Cheers!' and allowing the older man to muscle him encouragingly into the busy entranceway of coats and shoes, all the signs of a bustling family home. Ben Chilwell had hardly hesitated at the suggested interview, and not just because of the free time afforded by his fairly slow-paced rehab program. He was inching towards what he believed to be an end to his hamstring recovery, but the club physios were being incredibly vague and refusing to pin a date for his return to full training with the rest of the team. As in previous bouts of poor fitness, this brought its own toll on his mental health, and the cautious 26-year-old was investing carefully in how he spent his free time to keep himself upbeat and focused, productive and optimistic. But aside from that, it was a great opportunity, and he was keen on the idea of being one of the first guests on a dedicated new Chelsea podcast, especially if it meant being interviewed by THIS legend in front of him, who was ushering him across the porch with gruff blokey laughter, snatching a towel from a shelf somewhere and throwing it about his shoulders and head - it was a gesture that should be a bit interfering and overbearing, but Ben was just so relieved to be back indoors and out of the rain, so he quickly relented to being helped out of his soaked bomber jacket and then swaddled in the pale cream towel, which was warm from a radiator. The coffee cup tray and bag of sweet treats were snatched from his damp grip and then he was further attacked with the towel, strong manly hands against his shoulder and neck and ruffling it in his hair - there was an almost paternal mix of kindness and brusqueness to it that caught the young man off-guard and made him laugh awkwardly, somewhat dazed when the towel was allowed to drape about his shoulders, and he was blinking into the smiling expression of the former Chelsea player. `God, that's got heavy, hey?' exclaimed the 42-year-old, grabbing him by his upper arm. `You're alright though, are you? Not too soaked? Here - let me hang this for you - come in, come in, er - you don't mind taking those soggy trainers off, do you? Haha - it's the missus, you know how it is...' And like that, the injured football player was hurried into the large family home of the Coles, with Joe himself scampering quite eagerly ahead of him, gesturing through a couple of doors into the big kitchen extension across the back. With a quick dancing gait, the player-turned-coach-turned-pundit put down the cups and bag and then clapped his hands roughly together, turning to inspect his visitor - `You're okay, are you? You don't need any dry clothes, or-?' Still a little overwhelmed by the tornado of warm welcome, Chilwell blinked stupidly at the older guy, and then shook his head - actually, he wasn't as wet as he might have thought, his long-sleeved t-shirt largely untouched, and just a faint dampness down the outer sides of his baggy trousers. His socked feet stretched and flexed against the underfloor heating of the open kitchen, and he collected his senses. `I'm good,' he assured Joe, grabbing at the towel on his shoulders and giving it another rub across his face and the glossy dark curls of his damp hair. `I'm all good-' `Here,' insisted the podcast host. `I'll go get you a warm jumper, kid. Have a seat, get comfortable - I thought we'd do the chat in here, if that's alright? It's the tidiest part of the house, hah.' And with the same high level of nervous energy, the short stocky ex-footballer disappeared away for a minute, and Ben drifted into the bright extension area to inspect the long garden through rain-soaked French windows. And then Cole was back, holding a big thick sweatshirt - it was branded with the Premiership legend's brief American team, Tampa Bay Rowdies, and fashionista Ben thought it was pretty cool in an ironic kinda way. He received it gladly and, more out of politeness than temperature, pulled it on before fiddling with his coiffed hair, ruined by the weather. And then, the chaotic entrance over, the pair of them were settling into smart but comfortable chairs at a breakfast table nearby, and Joe was thanking him profusely for the coffee, and serving the sticky pastries on a platter between them. The 42-year-old former midfielder was laughing as he did so. `Chelsea buns?' he demanded through his gruff giggles. `That used to be my nickname, back in the day...!' The retired player laughed heartily at his own joke and Ben joined in, but with an edge of awkwardness, as he clocked what his interviewer meant, and he felt silly or conspicuous for being instantly aware of a certain notorious feature of the older guy's physique! `Until I was replaced by Eden Hazard,' Cole continued lightly, settling down into the other chair, and fixing him with his easy laddish grin, `and stopped getting Rear of the Year from Heat Magazine, y'know...' A pause, a scratch of that greying stubble, and another heavy laugh. `And replaced now by you, no doubt, Ben's Buns? Haha.' He was all wide beaming smile and glittering blue eyes, a handsome fella as he entered his 30s and left his sporting prime behind - and he had an easy relaxing charm to him that Ben instantly took to, abandoning the awkward self-consciousness in favour of nodding enthusiastically and welcoming the silly tone. `Sure, sure,' he agreed, sipping his cappuccino, `I'm pretty sure it's on my FIFA stats - Chelsea Buns legacy.' He sniggered and gestured vaguely at the sweet treats, `Is that what you call these? I didn't know, I just thought they were pastries or whatever. Hah - I hope you like them, it seemed wrong turning up empty-handed.' Another big grin from his host. `You'd be surprised how rare those manners are,' Cole told him sagely, slightly exaggerating his position as the wise and experienced ex-footballer, and swiftly labelling him `a true Chelsea gent'. They both drank from their coffees and chewed quietly on the sugary dough for a moment, before Joe asked gruffly, `Shall we get started on this interview then, fella?' As he might have expected, Joe Cole was an easy guy to talk to, and they were already indulging in spiralling friendly chatter for the many minutes it took the host to set up his laptop and recording equipment, prompting them the only awkward pause as Joe told him to `save his banter until the green light was on' - Ben asked vague friendly questions about the house and Joe's life at the moment, unsure if he still had any coaching commitments or just a media focus, and asking after his family. `Hey,' Cole warned him warmly, finally getting the kit ready, `who's the one being interviewed here, a hot young left-back making his Chelsea legacy, or a boring old cunt who spends more time gardening?' The 42-year-old laughed self-deprecatingly and Ben just fumbled for words, unsure how seriously to take these words, but settling into a light laugh when he caught Joe's expression. `The kids are at school, of course,' he pointed out as he fiddled with the laptop, and Ben nodded along, unsure of their ages or even how many the guy had, `and the missus is out shopping, of course. You know how it is,' he added presumptuously, before pausing to ask an obvious question - `Or are you single? I don't think I know anything about your love life, fella, which seems rare for a Premiership footballer, ha.' `Single, for sure,' Chilly told him a little quietly, `for now.' Then, feeling the need to expand for some reason, he muttered, `Seeing a couple of people casually but... nothing major, nothing big... erm...' But Joe's interest in this question seemed to be low, and he was rifling through a set of printed notes before doing a few more checks on the laptop. And then they were off, and Ben found himself chatting quite volubly to everything the older guy had to ask him. Joe was just so relaxed and forward, nothing media or PR about him, purely chatty and frequently bursting into that gruff London laugh, still the working-class kid from Paddington. And as much as he'd joked about the interview being for Ben not him, they did talk about Joe too - it was much more of a rambling chat between the two intergenerational players than a formal interview, and Ben found himself asking questions out of genuine curiosity. He asked about Cole's transition from West Ham to Chelsea, and on to his days at Liverpool and Villa, and of course America, inspecting the baggy thick sweater that enveloped his warm and dry body. He found himself openly asking for Joe's advice on coping with injury setbacks, and the two very different players discussed issues like men's mental health taboos and, with surprising honesty, the current state of politics at Chelsea FC. `It'll all get edited down,' Joe reminded him regularly, especially when Ben made a worryingly frank comment about management behaviour at the club, and his panic must have shown all over his handsome face. Cole just slapped him on the shoulder and assured him that he would be doing cuts himself before he sent it to the editor. `Relax, kid, relax.' When the coffees ran out, Joe made them some more from a noisy machine in the kitchen, clearly something of a caffeine snob too, and the two men began to chat idly about non-football subjects, almost forgetting the recording altogether. So much so that Ben was taken by surprise when Joe stopped his travel anecdote and started clicking at the laptop - `Hang on,' the Chelsea legend told him, `I best stop this before it gets any messier to edit, hold that thought.' Frowning in the concentration of someone less tech-savvy than he was trying to seem, Cole busied himself with the devices, and then turned back this way with genuine interest in his eyes - `What were you saying?' Ben paused only briefly, surprised that his interviewer actually wanted to hear about his latest holiday now that the recording was over, but very ready to enthuse about his fave Greek island boat trips. Chilly found himself almost disappointed that they'd recorded enough material, sitting there with an empty coffee cup in front of him, and picking at some crumbs from the Chelsea buns on the platter. Cole had got up to go and check something in the kitchen, resting a large warm hand on Ben's shoulder for a moment, and leaving him to linger comfortably; there was something so inviting and comfortable about the Cole family home, he thought, that made him want to linger here, even though the rainfall on the windows was much lighter than the downpour that he'd ran through on the street. The 26-year-old felt a vague urge to while away his day off here, with only a few simple physio exercises to do before dinnertime, and so enamoured with the older man's patter and openness; but a well-mannered `Chelsea gent' as he was, feeling somewhat posh with his Milton Keynes RP against Cockney-tinged Cole, he knew it would be rude to impose and he should be making his move rather soon now that the interview was so clearly over. But, to his surprise, the coffee machine was hissing and bubbling again, and Joe was asking him if he wanted oat milk again with this one, frothed or just chilled; and Ben answered distantly, as if knowing he ought to be refusing the extra hot drink and getting a wiggle on instead. But he sat there, comfortable, and received a fresh cup from his host, who patted his shoulder with the same avuncular affection, then sat back down to join him. Now at last they seemed to be out of things to say and both men just sipped their flat whites quietly, looking out at the wet autumnal garden. `I do hope to see you back on the pitch soon,' the ex-player told him quite earnestly, after a while. `You're absolutely central to that squad, and they suffer when they don't have you or Reece out there, for sure. I won't ask for a date - if you knew, you'd be telling me.' Chilwell smiled weakly in gratitude at this, rolling his eyes to signify the well-known vagueness of these matters, and nodding. `I don't think any supporter or insider is as eager for my comeback as I am,' he assured his host. `I mean, it isn't even just Chels, y'know - the lads are assembling today for England training, and I'm missing that too, AGAIN.' He sighed wistfully, surprised at the sudden downturn in his mood. `Sorry, ignore me being maudlin - this is nice coffee again, Joe, thanks.' The older man gave him another fond smile that dimpled his grizzled stubble and lined his blue eyes. He licked coffee foam from his upper lip and nodded slowly. `Hey,' he said with a little suddenness, `you must like a swim, with that leg strain? We've just had the indoor pool re-done, if you want to give it a go.' And then with an expansive wave about the kitchen, `I'm assuming you'll stay on for dinner, yeah? I'm cooking my signature lamb, and the wife and kids would love to meet you properly - obviously they're all True Blues.' Ben paused at the broad invitations, unsure what to say - he felt that it was rude to accept, and yet Joe seemed so keen and genuine. And it WAS still raining out there, he reminded himself, with little else to do with his day. And, he thought, a little dip in a pool would be just the amount of exercise he needed to tick off today's requirements - still, it felt a real imposition against the generous guy, who was beaming expectantly at him. `Er...' `Good,' Cole said swiftly, interpreting this as a definite `yes'. `Come on, I'll show you downstairs - I think you'll be impressed, everyone is.' There was a laddish excitement to his speech that made it less boastful or boorish, and Ben just went with it, deciding to embrace the hospitality of this club legend. It was, he had to admit, pretty slick - a certain hyper-modernism in the warm basement that clashed with the soft family edges of the home above, like it should belong to an unambitious Bond villain instead. But standing over the shimmering rectangle of lightly heated water, Ben felt that a short swim was EXACTLY what he needed, and he smiled keenly at his host. `You're sure?' he prodded self-consciously. `You're sure you don't mind me having a swim? I can just leave you to it, and-' `But dinner,' Cole insisted. `Here - there's some spare swimming shorts here, if you want them.' He was opening neat built-in storage draws in a corner, whilst beginning to pull out of the zip-neck grey sweater he wore over his own t-shirt. Ben stood still, looking about for somewhere he would be able to change, and just deciding it might be less awkward to get his undies wet - `No, I'll be okay,' he insisted, quite used to pool dips in underpants during team recovery days. Seeing that his host was going to make a more serious change of clothing, Ben shuffled sideways and averted his eyes. Off came the borrowed Tampa jumper, which he folded more carefully onto one of the modernist recliners, before tugging his own long-sleeved print top off more roughly, and then undoing the waist-cord of his baggy combat pants. Ben paused, unable to help glancing to the right - Joe was casually topless now and yanking off slippers and socks, back this way. His earlier quip about a supposed nickname came back to Chilly, who couldn't help but confirm that the man still had that ample backside mounding in his chinos, outsized even for his stocky frame - he was not so lean and well-kept as some media-focused ex-players, the smugly preserved Redknapps or Linekers of their world, but he still looked good for his age. (To Ben, the early 40s felt a distant and ancient era.) And Ben's eyes lingered as a belt was undone and the pants were pulled down a bit - for a moment, with the chinos on their way down, that large heavy backside, that speedy midfielder's low centre of gravity, was framed in pale grey boxer briefs, big solid muscles at the base of a lightly muscled and faintly hairy back. But then politeness and self-consciousness took over and Ben looked sharply away, dropping his own trousers and pulling off his socks - he felt somewhat exposed in his tight black CK boxer briefs, but he didn't fancy removing them to slide into a pair of borrowed swimmers - even in his polite awkwardness, he could tell from the corner of his eye that Joe was stark naked with that big pale arse on show, pulling on some loudly coloured resort trunks. To avoid looking that way, Chilly leapt straight into the water, pleased at the lukewarm temperature, and glad to lose himself in a little light physicality; with a series of splashes, Cole joined him, but said nothing. Isolated within the water, they did a series of short lengths up and down the rectangle, Ben continuing to do so even once he could sense that Joe had slowed and was floating about more idly. He felt almost like he was trying to show off his fitness progress to the Chelsea supporter, but he was really just trying to reach an acceptable count of short lengths that could make him feel okay about skipping his prescribed exercises if he stayed here for dinner. When Ben stopped, clinging to one end of the pool and turning slowly, he found that Joe had actually left the water. His stocky 5ft9 body dripping wet, Cole was stomping about on the far side, at the end of the basement where high narrow windows let in light from the garden; rainfall seemed to have shifted for bright autumn sun, to his surprise, casting a warm glow on the stomping figure of the dripping ex-footballer. Ben swam that way with a few lazy strokes, whilst Joe disappeared briefly from sight, returning in the folds of a huge cosy-looking bathrobe to cover himself up. For a moment, Ben wondered if the older man might be insecure about his body, despite seemingly getting naked without a thought to change into his swimmers - Ben was hardly oblivious to the tightly toned muscle of his own taller frame, a young footballer in his theoretical prime, injuries aside, next to the daddy-ish softening of Joe Cole. Chilly dismissed this question as his own vanity, climbing the sturdy ladder to leave the pool at that end and join Joe. The downside of swimming in undies rather than proper swimmers, he thought, was the way the pool water almost sucked them from his waist on the way out of the water, and the way they sagged and clung once he was shivering and dripping on the slip-proof flooring and looking about for a similarly cosy robe option. But once again, taking him quite by surprise, Joe Cole was the tactile dad with the towel - he'd grabbed a spare one from wherever he'd taken his robe, and was behind Ben, throwing the towel around him in a quick helpful motion - `Cheers...' - but not stopping there. His hands, through the towel, were already on Chilly's shoulders, massaging warmth and soft dryness against the muscles, really wrapping and enclosing him in the towel in a movement that shifted more towards a hug, or even a cuddle. Unsure of him, Ben just let out a faint strained chuckle, finding something jokey in the physicality of his host's attention, hugged from behind; it was nice, he had to admit, the warmth and firmness of it, just like at the doorway as he left the storm and was ushered warmly indoors. He liked the strength he felt in the older man's arms, and the air felt cool on his wet torso and legs, so it was good to be enveloped in such a large sheet of soft towelling - it made him forget himself and his chuckle turned to a contented sigh. The easy comfort was short-lived though, because he thought his sigh sounded a little TOO pleased, and he expected Cole to pull away. But no. Oddly, if pleasantly, the other man remained where he was, behind him, and Ben just stood there accepting it, feeling swaddled and protected in the towel hug. It had gone on too long now, he thought, and yet it felt quite right. Shorter and broader than him, the robed figure behind him rocked a little, but held on as he did, closing arms firmly about Ben, and rubbing those big hands - towelling his arms, his chest, his neck. Ben sighed acceptance and let the moment linger, mystified by how safe and comfortable he felt in this position, when he ought to be questioning what the married older dad was up to - he didn't immediately recognise anything remotely sexual in the position, just comforted and supported and grateful. But then, with a slow judder of awakening, he felt the towelled hands rub down his six-pack, stirring about his waist, and he heard the heaviness of the sigh behind his shoulder. Saying nothing, Joe held him quite firmly, and brought one hand down further, through the thick towel, to close about the damp front of his black CKs, which clung to the weight of his prominent bulge. Chilly let out a long shaky breath but didn't flinch or pull away. He was still unsure how deliberate the touch was, and he wanted to know for sure. He relaxed back as best he could, pushing his 5ft11 strength into the hold of the older man's embrace; the hand went lower, firmer, the towel was no longer in the way. A large warm hand fondled his cock and balls through wet cotton, and Ben let out a weak moan that mixed with the breathy sigh over his shoulder. Neither man said a word. They communicated simply through their warm damp bodies, between layers of robe or towel. Ben relaxed and rocked on his heels, feeling his dozy weight supported by the strength behind him. A little stubble scratched at his jaw and neck from behind, but nothing more there; the real contact was down his front, where those big knuckles were pushing into the front of his undies, and now his cock was being stroked and toyed with inside the wet underpants. His sigh was louder and more pleased, trying to indicate how he was more than good with this intimate touch - any question or weirdness about this happening with the 40-something married dad was gone, there was just the strength and safety of his touch, the hold of his arms, and... yep, the huge stiffness of Ben's oversized prick, released from his pants and stretching out to its full length. A slightly choked gasp over his shoulder suggested that the older guy was just appreciating how big the contents of these pool-soaked pants were, more alarmed than impressed; but Ben just sighed and shivered and closed his eyes, allowing the warm grip to slide up and down his inches. After a few blissful moments of this he tried to turn; he wanted to return the touch, wanted to look sexy older Joe in the eye, wanted to reach for a dangerous kiss. But no: the strong arms held him in place and the only contact was the hand on his cock and the breath on his ear. He accepted it, just floating in Cole's grip, and moaning deeper and deeper as the pulls and tugs of his big white cock increased; it was a simple handjob, with no attention to his heavy balls or anywhere else, just a solid repetitive motion, a hand that moved with a kind of authority and control over him. But Ben shivered and gasped and knew that it would end with a mess, he couldn't help himself - as much as he'd felt something like a dad or uncle in Joe's affection, it now felt like something else entirely, and it excited him. This rough diamond older London geezer, this Chelsea legend, this big-arsed hunk... he gasped and sighed, totally bewildered, and let Joe's hand bring him slowly but rhythmically to completion, trying to signal it with his own yelping cries of pleasure. Cole didn't stop or slow. Chilly trembled and whined, and then heard the globs of his own jizz splatter down on the slip-proof floor while his cock trembled and throbbed in the older man's grip. `Oh fuck,' Ben moaned, breaking at last the wordless quiet of the warm basement, a few beads of pool water still trickling in places on his strong lean body, and the heat and strength of the other guy still holding onto him through the towels and robes; `oh, fuuuuck,' he moaned on, feeling slow tight pulls on his spent cock, squeezing the last glimmering drops of his seed out to fall against that floor. He thought he could feel a hardness pressing at him low down from the man behind, but there was such a thick bundle of towel and robe there that he couldn't actually be sure it wasn't just his own imagination. And then, just as the hand slowed and stopped around the base of his big erection, a sudden noise intercepted the chlorine-scented peace: a jarring mechanical sound that made him flench and wobble, and open his hooded eyes properly, starting to pull away from daddy Joe. `That'll be the missus,' Cole announced, and his voice was quite expressionless. When Ben turned around, his cock swinging awkwardly loose, Joe was turned away from him and wrapping up his robe, picking his way down the narrow path to one side of the pool; alarmed, Ben stared intensely up at the skylights in the garden, but becoming sure that the noisy garage doors were coming from the ot her side of the house. `Back from Westfield!' trilled Joe, almost disinterestedly, strutting away in his robe without a look over his shoulder - this left Ben tottering about at the edge of the pool, snatching up the dropped towel to hide his sagging hard-on, his whole body trembling and goose-pimpled. His skin still a little damp under his clothes, Chilwell joined them back upstairs, clutching the towel under one arm and the Tampa jumper under the other; in the central hallway of the house, both Mr and Mrs Cole breezed past, his host helping his wife to bring several large designer shopping bags in from the porch. They were going into the same kitchen extension area in which the interview had taken place, and Ben followed them in a slow dazed walk, glad of how baggy his trousers were - he'd had to jettison his wet boxer briefs and so was going commando in them, his cock still swollen and a little stiff. His face must be bright red, he thought, drifting after the married couple and their light chatter. `The kids will be back soon,' Joe was reminding is wife, before sweeping into introductions, `Here his, then, young Benjamin - fine young thing, isn't he? The future of Chelsea! He's going to stay for dinner, and-' Ben found he just had to interrupt their speech, he burst out with it before he could overthink the decision. `Actually, I really have to go,' he said stiffly, then broke into more apology and fawning compliments, sure that their cooking would be amazing and expressing his admiration for their home - but it was the rehab schedule and everything, he really did have to get back to his own place now, thank you very much, etc etc. There were various protests from both robed Joe and his glamorous wife, but Chilwell politely deflected them one by one, allowing the wet towel to be taken from him and thrust into a laundry room to one side; but when he tried to hand the Tampa Bay sweater back to the retired pro, Joe shook his head firmly and grabbed him in a manly hug. `Keep that,' Cole insisted, and because he didn't know how to refuse it, he pulled it back on over the wrinkled cling of his own thin tee. Mrs C was about to make more earnest protests at how much they would enjoy having him stay for the evening, but Ben made his move quickly - more thank you, more apology, more earnestness, but also haste and nervous energy. Before long, he was staggering down the garden path and waving pleasantly back at them in the porch, remembering how good it had felt to be overwhelmed by affection and comfort there as Joe Cole steered him in from the storm. If only it had stopped at that, he thought treacherously, suddenly queasy about the unexpected and illicit handjob that had taken place in the Coles' basement - how the fuck had he allowed that to happen? He stared with private horror at the innocent smile on Joe's wife's face and then turned away, out onto their posh quiet street, zipping up his bomber jacket, and breaking into as quick a walk as his weary hamstring allowed him. He'd just come for an interview and a Chelsea bun, and got a lot more than he bargained for. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-352

Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2023 18:08:13 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 352 Part 352: Return From Injury He lifted the under-vest up about both wrists and then wriggled it down his arms, over his head and shoulders and then dragging its clingy fit across the lean olive-toned muscle of his upper body. Over it went the Barcelona training shirt, layering up his lithe body and tucked neatly into his baggy shorts. A moment at the mirror confirmed that his almost-black hair was neatly in place and the light dusting of stubble looked good about his sharp jawline and mature young features, then Pedri was joining the others in jogging outdoors, getting out of the air-conditioned changing facilities and onto the cool bright pitch for the day's work. Just a standard day of training, really, except that it was the 20-year-old Tenerifian's first session back in amongst the guys, returning to full first team training after his minor injury. Minor, but a few weeks out of action, pretty much the first and only interruption to the Spanish prodigy's consistent career action since coming of age. The March sun was vivid and low in the sky, and would already be bringing fierce spring heat come midday, hence the early starting hours of Barcelona from this point in the year onwards; long shadows added drama to the training ground as the men hopped and stamped and got their feet comfortable in stiff studded boots, and young Pedri breathed in the excitement and opportunity of returning to his beloved team. It had been frustrating and difficult for the young star to watch from afar, especially given some of the results in his absence, and today he knew he would be torn between desperation to prove his readiness, and the sensible caution of his physio team who said he still needed to take it a little easier. He was not a typical 20-year-old and the committed professional in him was likely to side with that caution, rather than to throw himself around and push himself to catch the manager's eye - as young as he was, Pedro Lopez was hardly someone who needed to prove himself to the footballing world any more. Ambitious but thoughtful and cautious, that was Pedri's way; unlike some other young talents of the diminished La Liga giants... The 20-year-old smiled knowingly across the ground at the team's 18-year-old firebrand, watching as the other Spanish youth engaged in some furtive passes with Ansu Fati and Jules Kounde; he was playing pretty casually just now, warming himself up for the day's first formal skills session, but even now he had that almost comical expression of outrage on his boyish face, as if about to start a fight with the ball itself. Pedri smiled, but it was a smile not without concern, and he'd been one of many who pulled the boy aside this week to call him stupid for risking head injury in that tackle last game - images of Gavi's headfirst plunge into the boots of another player had gone viral instantly, and affectionate banter at the teenager's dedication and ferocity had sizzled through the team breakfast and changing room conversation this morning. Pedri was torn, of course: as a teammate, he certainly admired the other central midfielder's aggression and boldness, and could almost join in with the half-admiring jokes of the other guys... but as someone who loved Pablo Gavira, and not just `Gavi', he had hated to hear from one pundit on TV how the foolhardy dive could have been a career-ending mistake at the tender age of 18. And... well, the pictures of Gavi trying to head-butt someone in the studs wasn't the only moment from that fixture that had blown up the internet this week, or scored brash blokey banter between the Barca players on Pedri's first day back in the gang. GIFs and memes of Gavi almost losing his golden shorts had flooded the player group chats and in a little over twenty-four hours, the brief incident had exploded into a major joke across the training ground, so much so that Torres had started calling the teen `Pablo Booti' and Araujo had been chanting at him to do some twerking while he was in the middle of changing into his kit fifteen minutes ago. Thinking about these twin images of a fiery upstart trying too hard to make an impact on La Liga, Pedri could only roll his eyes and shake his head as if he was much older and wiser than his own 20 years; he'd probably been a bit severe when he rang Gavi up about the head-first thing, but then the kid had to learn...! With ease, Barca's 20-year-old star-boy manoeuvred himself closer to his fellow midfielder before the training session got up and going for real. The young besties were inevitably placed together in almost every drill, but it was still good to make sure by sticking close to him, and maybe Pedri had a little bit to make up for, after shouting at him so protectively, and with the moody teenager facing so many jibes and jests from across the squad. `You gonna take it easy today?' the 5ft9 central midfielder teased quietly, nudging arms with the slightly shorter player. Gavi paused, his resting frown switching to a gentle smile at turning to look at Pedri - the way his face, and his eyes especially, lit up to see him, well... it was pure magic to Pedri, and could make him fall for his friend all over again several times in a day. `Sorry, isn't that what YOUR doctor said?' quipped the increasingly confident 18-year-old, puffing out his chest and shoulders. `I hope you'll be taking it easy on that leg of yours, old man,' muttered the youth through a bitchy snigger. `Since you turned 20, you're just starting to fall apart...' Pedri sniggered pleasantly along with him, pulling his sleeves down over his bunched fists, and spinning a little on the spot to stretch out his hips and abdomen. `Oh, alright - give it a rest, kiddo.' Gavi started talking cheerily about the team's next fixture and Pedri decided, to his relief, that there was no resentment or unease from his lover over how severe he'd been with him about risk and common sense when it came to head injuries; things were as comfortable and right between the two of them as ever, even if Pedri's own injury setback had meant a little less time in each other's pockets than usual in the last three weeks or so. `Ah,' he sighed, half to himself. `It is good to be back.' He flexed one arm and then the other, and then added, `Back in the team, and back here to keep an eye on you - to keep you out of mischief and trouble, you dirty rascal!' He turned his broad, winsome grin towards the other young football player, and paused in surprise - rather than smiling loyally back in that charming way that seemed reserved entirely for Pedri, Gavi's face had blanched and his mouth hung slightly open, eyes looking widely at him for a second. Almost on autopilot, Pedri laughed. `What's wrong? I just meant the head thing - not - I mean, it wasn't a joke about your attempted striptease, buddy, it was...' His awkward tinkling voice trailed off and he paused, hands clapped awkwardly together, studying the oddly grave expression on Gavi's young face; there was no other word to describe that look in his eyes than guilt, and the articulation of the thought made Pedri's blood run cold. `What?' he demanded, getting no answer from the grimacing teen. `What?!' `Nothing,' Gavi half-said, but his voice was dull and his face looked almost tortured; instinctively, Pedri reached a hand for his arm, a reassuring touch that became a more insistent grab. `What happened?' he asked, thinking about how quiet and off the 18-year-old had been on their last date, a few nights back - `just tired', supposedly, but what if...? And still the other Spanish boy was just staring grimly at him, a player without the slightest of poker faces, every emotion always flashing on his almost cartoonish good looks. Gavi opened and shut his mouth. A whistle was blown somewhere and all around them, players were breaking into motion, moving out of the shadows and into the early morning sun; but the two young men stayed where they were at the edge of the pitch, even when a second impatient whistle sounded several yards away. `What is it?' Pedri demanded in a fierce whisper. `Oh god,' Gavi groaned. `I'm so so sorry.' It had been after the Copa del Rey semi, where they defeated Real Madrid 1-0, and Pedro Lopez had been stuck at home after the assessment of his leg injury. A pretty rowdy night of celebration in the Madrid hotel, by the fairly reserved standards of the Barca circle anyway, and definitely a few more cervezas than average for a triumphant young Pablo. Gavi had started and played a full 90 minutes in the decisive win, and was being widely applauded in the squad for the yellow card he'd earned fending off their rivals' attempted attacks. Having only turned 18 last summer, the diminutive midfield warrior was still working his way into the inner clique of the high-profile squad, despite the plaudits that came his way, especially since the winter World Cup. And when it came to team celebration, Gavi was still pretty fresh to being offered alcoholic drinks, and clearly couldn't yet handle it the way some of his older pals could. Midnight had seen the teenager with a glossy and glassy face, cheeks shiny with sweat and eyes glazed over with the steady buzz of the free beers. He was propped on a bench at one side of the hotel's bar, barely able to offer anything to the loose group conversation of the players around him other than inane laughs or a few shouty approvals when somebody else said something funny or interesting. At 18, Gavi was of a generation largely too cool and poised for excessive drinking, too social media savvy to make fools of themself in public - and there was nothing like the early professionalism of their youthful sport to kill the teenage rebellion in a boy. He was far from an experienced drinker, and he had already pushed past his usual limit, giddy and insensible from the amount he'd thrown back. Somehow, half an hour or so later, this had resulted in the loss of his room key, and Gavi padding the pockets of his sweatpants in the corridor, trying to work out if his roommate Marc Casado was asleep or still out enjoying a drink. This left the 5ft8 midfielder tutting and swearing to himself, repeatedly exploring the zip pockets of his sweats, and then patting uselessly up and down his chest and tummy, through the thin grey t-shirt that fitted close to his lightly tanned skin. That's how the other player found him, he supposed, looking absolutely fucking clueless at the door, and apparently unwilling to take the easy step of walking back down to the bar to see if he'd dropped the key-card. Instead, he just swayed on his feet and stared expectantly at the centre-back giant who'd joined him, expecting 24-year-old Ronald Araujo to magic a solution out of thin air for him - that, or to simply kick the hotel room door down with one of his powerful legs, mainly on show since the guy was still wearing skimpy gym shorts below a baggy designer hoodie. `Come crash in mine,' Araujo offered after a few moments, a helpful grin on his lean face. The 6ft3 defender strutted away down the corridor with the same casualness with which he'd approached, and Gavi went scampering after him, struggling a bit to walk in a straight line and certainly to patch the tall South American's relaxed pace. So that's how he ended up in the other bedroom, a couple of corridors away from his own shared suite with (presumably snoring) Casado. He wasn't sure where Araujo's own roommate had been, or who the big man was even sharing with on that away trip. It was just the two of them, and that was what had become significant. Dazed and losing his buzz, Gavi had flopped into a loose sitting position on one of the beds, and Ronald had disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, humming along to some music that he'd switched on to a portable speaker at the side of the room. When he returned and reappeared in Gavi's hazy line of vision, the hooded top was gone, and the 6ft3 Uruguayan was in just those skimpy thigh-revealing gym shorts, coming to pause in front of him - a tower of caramel-brown muscle, including one of the most intensely defined six-packs Gavi had ever seen in his life. He must have stared quite meditatively at it all, taking in the mountainous figure of the defender who loomed over him, until he was looking right up at him, into the man's lean grinning features, cocky and pleased beneath his crown of bleached afro hair. Honestly, Gavi didn't know how it started: had he made the move, reaching out to stroke one of those golden-brown thighs and then working his hand up inside the tight-fitting black shorts? Or had it been Araujo himself, reaching down and gently moving his head forward until his face was dangerously close to the loaded front of the shorts, and then... Well, it didn't REALLY matter, did it, how the shorts had ended up down at his knees, and the grey-and-blue striped briefs below, until that big brown cock was out and hard, and wet with Gavi's spittle - in fact, his memory of all of it was hazy from then on, other than a few key things. One, the depth and vigour of Araujo's groans; two, the way he'd been made to gag and choke on it, a hand on the back of his head; three, the taste of guilt that overpowered the salty tang of the Uruguay man's jizz. Still, the Barca teen had slouched there in a satisfied daze, gripping his pre-cum-leaking cock in his sweatpants, whilst Ronald rang down to the hotel staff and secured assistance to get him back into his room; even on the staggering walk back to his own room, where a suspicious-looking hotel employee opened it up and let him join the other young player's snoring... It was only in the morning, waking up with a banging dehydrated headache and the urge to throw up in bed, that the real guilty knowledge thwacked into him, and he understood what he'd gone and done... cheated on his boyfriend. Pedri shoved his foot against the pedal and drove on in silence. He'd had to wait half of the day to get any real explanation out of his boy, but shortly before the communal lunch, Gavi had spilled, and been disarmingly honest, telling him what seemed like every detail he could remember from the drunken transgression - and then Pedri had just had to get on with work, trundling through the afternoon's three indoor sessions, and at one point teaming up with Araujo himself as if nothing was wrong, but wanting to kick the giant centre-back in the balls and set about him with a goalpost as a weapon. And by the end of the day, when Gavira had tried to talk to him again in a quiet corner outside the changing rooms, he'd simply refused, unsure he could stomach hearing any more. When Gavi immediately suggested that he would find other transport home from the training campus, Pedri had found himself snapping at the younger player - `Why the fuck would you do that?' So here they were - in the car together as usual, hounded and photographed by Barca fans at the car park gates, but now whistling along the faster roads on the fringes of the city, seated parallel in the same moody silence with which they'd exited the training ground. Layered up now in dark brown tracksuit of his own, the 20-year-old didn't even glance across into the passenger seat of his motor, whizzing the expensive boy racer vehicle out of Barcelona and towards the suburban settlements in the outlying hills, one of which contained his apartment block and the nearby family home where Gavi still lived with his mom and sisters. But when Pedri reached the turn-off for that particular neighbourhood, he ignored the sign and drove on. Next to him, a quiet but pronounced `Huh?' from the otherwise silent and awkward passenger. Half a minute passed in silence, and then, `Ped, I think you missed the...' Pedri didn't actively cut him off, but something in his icy silence did so. Another possible turning came up on the right, another route which would get them quite swiftly back into the luxury streets that they both called home. Again, Pedri ignored it, his thick dark brows knitted as he stared intensely ahead on the road, both hands on the wheel, upping the speed unnecessarily. `We've missed the turning,' Gavi said stupidly after another minute. Pedri didn't look at him yet, but he could imagine the frowning worry on that face, the deep brown eyes wide in confusion, the pouting lips that exuded innocent pleasure. No, Pedri didn't say a thing, not until they were on an empty stretch of road well beyond all of the suburban turn-offs into the rich satellite towns on this side of the Catalan city. And then, still without saying a word, he pulled over onto a dusty space at the side of the road, the kind that should be occupied by a rogue food fan or something, and found a narrow dirt road branching off it into the grey-green woodland of the hillside. Still at some speed, Pedri pushed the car a dozen yards onto the dirt track before jolting it to a halt and sitting there in the same brutal silence, listening to the nervous pants coming from his right. `Where are we?' he heard his boyfriend ask in a thin voice, but he spoke over him: `Just get out of the car.' He didn't know what the other Barca youth was thinking or worrying, though later he would feel bad about the ominous nature of it all, and he'd struggle to shake the image out of his mind: Gavi on the other side of the car to him, his face as white with worry as the guilty moment when he'd been unable to hear himself called a `dirty rascal' without needing to confess everything. The two young men stood there on different sides of the motor, but Pedri looked at him in that moment with pure focus and purpose, no wasteful pathos or hesitation. He moved quickly in front of the car, the hot spring sun filtering down on them through the olive-coloured foliage overhead - seeing the commanding look in his deep dark eyes, Gavi did the same, stumbling around to meet him. There was something combative in the 5ft8 lad's stance, as if he thought he was going to have to defend himself - but Pedri just reached for him at the sides, still saying nothing and twisting him towards the bonnet of the car so quickly that he fell back against it, exactly where Pedri wanted him. He stood facing his own car for a moment, Gavi sprawled awkwardly back over its front, his light shirt hanging open over white tee, and baggy khaki pants tangled a bit at each of his bent legs. He looked horrified and full of dread, splayed against the vehicle with his limbs spread, a look of real fear on his youthful face - what the hell was he actually expecting? Down Pedri went, pushing his knees into the brittle and scratchy surface of the track - so much for taking it easy on his recovering leg. Down on his knees in front of the car, in front of Gavi. He grabbed the outer side of the boy's thighs, taking the khaki material in tight bunches, and yanking down. Some difficulty. Up went his hands, finding and undoing the knot of white drawstring. Now the pants came down more easily, sliding down chunky pale thighs, past blotchy red knees, down into folded bunches at the ankles over his fresh sneakers. Next, Pedri dealt with the underpants, taking those broad white boxer briefs down and down in one fluid motion, much more easy and twanging than the pants. Undies and khakis about the ankles, legs spread, sitting back on the bonnet of the car at an awkward ankle. Gavi's wide eyes stared down at him, and Pedri stared intensely and silently back at him, and then took his cock in one hand, pulling on it in slow firm tugs, and gently moistening his dark pink lips in several full licks. Quickly, Gavi's small floppy meat was growing and stretching against his fingers, rising up form the shaven pubes and the tight large balls below. `Well,' Pedri snapped, quite resentfully. `It's what you wanted, isn't it?' He took a deep breath before putting it in his mouth, taking Gavi's cock in between his wet lips before it was even quite hard - though in seconds of his amateurish sucking, it was rock hard and strangely hot against his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. Eyes closed, hands resting just above the lad's knees, Pedri tried his best and gave cock-sucking a go, finally returning the one-sided favour to the gasping fascination of his petrified boyfriend. It took many minutes for Gavi to seem to relax - and in this time, the older of the two starlets felt flashes of panic and insecurity. He must be terrible at this, on his first go, when Gavi had blown him dozens and dozens of times over the beautiful months of their intimacy, since those first fumbles last summer. Pedri's mouth was probably awkward and difficult and he wasn't sure how best to use his fierce tongue, as oversized as it was, once he had a stiff mouthful of meat, which overwhelmed and freaked him out a bit, his boundaries falling away as he equalised the nature of their antics. But Gavi DID relax, and his nervous breaths turned into appreciative moans, and Pedri felt soft fingertips rub down one side of his face and play with the short dark fuzz of his hair. He heard his name, gasped out in between moans, and he knew that he'd stunned his apologetic cheat with this response. But it was only right, wasn't it? Pedri had been lazy and selfish with him, when he'd known what Pablo wanted from him for months, so of course the beautiful boy would stray if he didn't get treated right - sucking him off like this, as weird and uncomfortable as it felt for Pedri's awkward mouth, was the right thing to do. Still, he gave up on it, breathless and unsure if he'd been doing it right, and just wanked the thick cock instead, pulling on it and kissing the inside of Gavi's thighs, his knees digging in painfully against the rough track. The car made a few tenuous creaks as the 18-year-old shifted his weight and spread his legs more, lifting up off the ground and making the bonnet dip with his muscular weight. Still Pedri wanked him, and moved his kisses in, planting smooches on each tight bollock, and then pushing past them to lick at the fuzzy gooch - okay, this was where he knew what to do. Pedri hooked hands under the heavy thighs and lifted up, moving aside so that he could get under and between those legs - and he pushed his face right in, the angle of it not perfect, but able to squash his nose into the balls and dart his tongue underneath, at the edges of the boy's crack, close to his hole, not the best rimming he'd ever given him, but a flickering service from his powerful tongue, until- `Oh god, Ped, I'm gonna cum-' and Pedri knew what to do. He knew he had to. Back up, planted between those open thighs, and wrapping his open lips bout the wet head of it, taking as many inches of his boy's cock into his mouth as he could, even as he heard Gavi's panicky breath and gurgle and then, ohhhh - well, it didn't taste as bad as he'd expected, but it WAS kinda bitter. And fuck, there was so much of it, such a mouthful! Fucking yes, he thought as he turned to the side and spat the cum out in the dirt without a trace of dignity; fuck yes, I bet Araujo wouldn't do that for you, the big ugly bastard! And now Gavi was flopped back on the hood of the car, gasping and moaning, with his pants still about his ankles, and his dick lying to one side against his thigh, still oozing gum and shiny with Pedri's saliva. But Pedri stood over him, panting, and wiping the sleeve of his brown tracksuit top over his dirty mouth, rubbing flecks of jizz away from his dark stubble, his intense eyes gazing down on the pleasured heap of his teenager. `Get up,' he said, his voice firm and authoritative - and not yet quite affectionate. He was still too angry for that, even if he blamed himself. Up Gavi got, but it was a slight struggle, sliding one way and then almost tripping the other, needing to balance himself with a hand to Pedri's firm chest. Once they were facing each o ther on their feet, Pedri spun him around, stopping him as he tried to stoop to drag his white undies up his legs. He held him from behind, bringing one hand up against his upper chest over the thin tee, feeling his crucifix chain through it and the thunder of his heartbeat. With the other, he reached down his back and squeezed a pawful of that perfect ass. `This is mine,' Pedri gasped in his ear, and Gavi instantly nodded. `I mean, this is all mine - whatever you did with your mouth, I forgive it, but this is MINE.' He was panting heavily as he spoke, only knowing what he wanted as he put it out loud, and shocked to hear how frantic and aggressive he was right now. `I mean it - ALL MINE.' Gavi nodded, gasping out a `Si'. `It was one thing,' heaved Pedri emotionally, `to hear you cheated - with that big guy - when I was injured - fuck! That was one thing, and I can cope with that, okay... But... but... Everybody out there,' he gasped, `seeing your bottom, seeing it almost out on the pitch like that... those pics, that video...!' He was stammering over it, almost ashamed to say it. `I don't want everyone looking at it and joking about it - it's MINE.' `Yes,' gasped Gavi dutifully, pushing back in against his body for support, but trembling as he did. `Yes it's yours.' `All mine?' `All yours!' `I'm gonna make it mine,' the 20-year-old rising star groaned in his boyfriend's ear, deep and meaningful. `You understand what I'm saying, baby?' Gavi went quiet there, trembled hard against his passionate hold. `Not now, not here - not like this,' he promised, his voice a lusty groan, `but soon. I'm going to take your cherry, my Pablo.' `Yes,' the 18-year-old agreed weakly, and he could imagine the tense indecision on his face; but he kissed him on the side of the neck, behind the ear, and then on the cheek, and then on the back of his neck, and then... Gavi was spinning around and holding him and the two young Spaniards were fully snogging, bodies rubbing through their clothes and Pedri's own hard-on taut at his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against the soft spent swell of Gavi's own cock and balls, naked still. Gavi's hand reached down into his pants and began to wank him, and Pedri wasn't ashamed of how little it took to pull his trigger and make him empty creamy white cum inside his boxer shorts, all over Gavi's bunched hand. He barely groaned as he came, having felt close to the edge the whole time he was on his knees, sucking and then teasing the crack of that perfect white arse - it really did drive him mad with possessive lust to know that its masterpiece image was all over the internet now. `I love you,' Gavira whimpered quietly. `I'll never cheat again. I'm so sorry.' `It's my fault,' Pedri told him simply, letting his breathing and heart rate recover after cumming in his pants ,and just wrapping his arms tightly about the slightly smaller midfielder. `All my fault, I think.' They kissed again, and he guided him gently back into the car before taking the driver's seat and re-starting the engine - he felt exhausted by his abrupt orgasm, and by the stress of breaking boundaries to repay and reclaim his boy. But it had needed to be done, and it hadn't tasted so bad. The engine growled and throbbed around them, and he looked carefully over at the Barca boy before reversing them back up the track. `I'm going to fuck you,' he told him simply, his voice low and gravelly. Gavi nodded, wide-eyed. `I want it,' he said even more quietly, a tremor in his voice, of fear and desire and loyalty. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 15 Mar 2023 18:08:13 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 352 Part 352: Return From Injury He lifted the under-vest up about both wrists and then wriggled it down his arms, over his head and shoulders and then dragging its clingy fit across the lean olive-toned muscle of his upper body. Over it went the Barcelona training shirt, layering up his lithe body and tucked neatly into his baggy shorts. A moment at the mirror confirmed that his almost-black hair was neatly in place and the light dusting of stubble looked good about his sharp jawline and mature young features, then Pedri was joining the others in jogging outdoors, getting out of the air-conditioned changing facilities and onto the cool bright pitch for the day's work. Just a standard day of training, really, except that it was the 20-year-old Tenerifian's first session back in amongst the guys, returning to full first team training after his minor injury. Minor, but a few weeks out of action, pretty much the first and only interruption to the Spanish prodigy's consistent career action since coming of age. The March sun was vivid and low in the sky, and would already be bringing fierce spring heat come midday, hence the early starting hours of Barcelona from this point in the year onwards; long shadows added drama to the training ground as the men hopped and stamped and got their feet comfortable in stiff studded boots, and young Pedri breathed in the excitement and opportunity of returning to his beloved team. It had been frustrating and difficult for the young star to watch from afar, especially given some of the results in his absence, and today he knew he would be torn between desperation to prove his readiness, and the sensible caution of his physio team who said he still needed to take it a little easier. He was not a typical 20-year-old and the committed professional in him was likely to side with that caution, rather than to throw himself around and push himself to catch the manager's eye - as young as he was, Pedro Lopez was hardly someone who needed to prove himself to the footballing world any more. Ambitious but thoughtful and cautious, that was Pedri's way; unlike some other young talents of the diminished La Liga giants... The 20-year-old smiled knowingly across the ground at the team's 18-year-old firebrand, watching as the other Spanish youth engaged in some furtive passes with Ansu Fati and Jules Kounde; he was playing pretty casually just now, warming himself up for the day's first formal skills session, but even now he had that almost comical expression of outrage on his boyish face, as if about to start a fight with the ball itself. Pedri smiled, but it was a smile not without concern, and he'd been one of many who pulled the boy aside this week to call him stupid for risking head injury in that tackle last game - images of Gavi's headfirst plunge into the boots of another player had gone viral instantly, and affectionate banter at the teenager's dedication and ferocity had sizzled through the team breakfast and changing room conversation this morning. Pedri was torn, of course: as a teammate, he certainly admired the other central midfielder's aggression and boldness, and could almost join in with the half-admiring jokes of the other guys... but as someone who loved Pablo Gavira, and not just `Gavi', he had hated to hear from one pundit on TV how the foolhardy dive could have been a career-ending mistake at the tender age of 18. And... well, the pictures of Gavi trying to head-butt someone in the studs wasn't the only moment from that fixture that had blown up the internet this week, or scored brash blokey banter between the Barca players on Pedri's first day back in the gang. GIFs and memes of Gavi almost losing his golden shorts had flooded the player group chats and in a little over twenty-four hours, the brief incident had exploded into a major joke across the training ground, so much so that Torres had started calling the teen `Pablo Booti' and Araujo had been chanting at him to do some twerking while he was in the middle of changing into his kit fifteen minutes ago. Thinking about these twin images of a fiery upstart trying too hard to make an impact on La Liga, Pedri could only roll his eyes and shake his head as if he was much older and wiser than his own 20 years; he'd probably been a bit severe when he rang Gavi up about the head-first thing, but then the kid had to learn...! With ease, Barca's 20-year-old star-boy manoeuvred himself closer to his fellow midfielder before the training session got up and going for real. The young besties were inevitably placed together in almost every drill, but it was still good to make sure by sticking close to him, and maybe Pedri had a little bit to make up for, after shouting at him so protectively, and with the moody teenager facing so many jibes and jests from across the squad. `You gonna take it easy today?' the 5ft9 central midfielder teased quietly, nudging arms with the slightly shorter player. Gavi paused, his resting frown switching to a gentle smile at turning to look at Pedri - the way his face, and his eyes especially, lit up to see him, well... it was pure magic to Pedri, and could make him fall for his friend all over again several times in a day. `Sorry, isn't that what YOUR doctor said?' quipped the increasingly confident 18-year-old, puffing out his chest and shoulders. `I hope you'll be taking it easy on that leg of yours, old man,' muttered the youth through a bitchy snigger. `Since you turned 20, you're just starting to fall apart...' Pedri sniggered pleasantly along with him, pulling his sleeves down over his bunched fists, and spinning a little on the spot to stretch out his hips and abdomen. `Oh, alright - give it a rest, kiddo.' Gavi started talking cheerily about the team's next fixture and Pedri decided, to his relief, that there was no resentment or unease from his lover over how severe he'd been with him about risk and common sense when it came to head injuries; things were as comfortable and right between the two of them as ever, even if Pedri's own injury setback had meant a little less time in each other's pockets than usual in the last three weeks or so. `Ah,' he sighed, half to himself. `It is good to be back.' He flexed one arm and then the other, and then added, `Back in the team, and back here to keep an eye on you - to keep you out of mischief and trouble, you dirty rascal!' He turned his broad, winsome grin towards the other young football player, and paused in surprise - rather than smiling loyally back in that charming way that seemed reserved entirely for Pedri, Gavi's face had blanched and his mouth hung slightly open, eyes looking widely at him for a second. Almost on autopilot, Pedri laughed. `What's wrong? I just meant the head thing - not - I mean, it wasn't a joke about your attempted striptease, buddy, it was...' His awkward tinkling voice trailed off and he paused, hands clapped awkwardly together, studying the oddly grave expression on Gavi's young face; there was no other word to describe that look in his eyes than guilt, and the articulation of the thought made Pedri's blood run cold. `What?' he demanded, getting no answer from the grimacing teen. `What?!' `Nothing,' Gavi half-said, but his voice was dull and his face looked almost tortured; instinctively, Pedri reached a hand for his arm, a reassuring touch that became a more insistent grab. `What happened?' he asked, thinking about how quiet and off the 18-year-old had been on their last date, a few nights back - `just tired', supposedly, but what if...? And still the other Spanish boy was just staring grimly at him, a player without the slightest of poker faces, every emotion always flashing on his almost cartoonish good looks. Gavi opened and shut his mouth. A whistle was blown somewhere and all around them, players were breaking into motion, moving out of the shadows and into the early morning sun; but the two young men stayed where they were at the edge of the pitch, even when a second impatient whistle sounded several yards away. `What is it?' Pedri demanded in a fierce whisper. `Oh god,' Gavi groaned. `I'm so so sorry.' It had been after the Copa del Rey semi, where they defeated Real Madrid 1-0, and Pedro Lopez had been stuck at home after the assessment of his leg injury. A pretty rowdy night of celebration in the Madrid hotel, by the fairly reserved standards of the Barca circle anyway, and definitely a few more cervezas than average for a triumphant young Pablo. Gavi had started and played a full 90 minutes in the decisive win, and was being widely applauded in the squad for the yellow card he'd earned fending off their rivals' attempted attacks. Having only turned 18 last summer, the diminutive midfield warrior was still working his way into the inner clique of the high-profile squad, despite the plaudits that came his way, especially since the winter World Cup. And when it came to team celebration, Gavi was still pretty fresh to being offered alcoholic drinks, and clearly couldn't yet handle it the way some of his older pals could. Midnight had seen the teenager with a glossy and glassy face, cheeks shiny with sweat and eyes glazed over with the steady buzz of the free beers. He was propped on a bench at one side of the hotel's bar, barely able to offer anything to the loose group conversation of the players around him other than inane laughs or a few shouty approvals when somebody else said something funny or interesting. At 18, Gavi was of a generation largely too cool and poised for excessive drinking, too social media savvy to make fools of themself in public - and there was nothing like the early professionalism of their youthful sport to kill the teenage rebellion in a boy. He was far from an experienced drinker, and he had already pushed past his usual limit, giddy and insensible from the amount he'd thrown back. Somehow, half an hour or so later, this had resulted in the loss of his room key, and Gavi padding the pockets of his sweatpants in the corridor, trying to work out if his roommate Marc Casado was asleep or still out enjoying a drink. This left the 5ft8 midfielder tutting and swearing to himself, repeatedly exploring the zip pockets of his sweats, and then patting uselessly up and down his chest and tummy, through the thin grey t-shirt that fitted close to his lightly tanned skin. That's how the other player found him, he supposed, looking absolutely fucking clueless at the door, and apparently unwilling to take the easy step of walking back down to the bar to see if he'd dropped the key-card. Instead, he just swayed on his feet and stared expectantly at the centre-back giant who'd joined him, expecting 24-year-old Ronald Araujo to magic a solution out of thin air for him - that, or to simply kick the hotel room door down with one of his powerful legs, mainly on show since the guy was still wearing skimpy gym shorts below a baggy designer hoodie. `Come crash in mine,' Araujo offered after a few moments, a helpful grin on his lean face. The 6ft3 defender strutted away down the corridor with the same casualness with which he'd approached, and Gavi went scampering after him, struggling a bit to walk in a straight line and certainly to patch the tall South American's relaxed pace. So that's how he ended up in the other bedroom, a couple of corridors away from his own shared suite with (presumably snoring) Casado. He wasn't sure where Araujo's own roommate had been, or who the big man was even sharing with on that away trip. It was just the two of them, and that was what had become significant. Dazed and losing his buzz, Gavi had flopped into a loose sitting position on one of the beds, and Ronald had disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, humming along to some music that he'd switched on to a portable speaker at the side of the room. When he returned and reappeared in Gavi's hazy line of vision, the hooded top was gone, and the 6ft3 Uruguayan was in just those skimpy thigh-revealing gym shorts, coming to pause in front of him - a tower of caramel-brown muscle, including one of the most intensely defined six-packs Gavi had ever seen in his life. He must have stared quite meditatively at it all, taking in the mountainous figure of the defender who loomed over him, until he was looking right up at him, into the man's lean grinning features, cocky and pleased beneath his crown of bleached afro hair. Honestly, Gavi didn't know how it started: had he made the move, reaching out to stroke one of those golden-brown thighs and then working his hand up inside the tight-fitting black shorts? Or had it been Araujo himself, reaching down and gently moving his head forward until his face was dangerously close to the loaded front of the shorts, and then... Well, it didn't REALLY matter, did it, how the shorts had ended up down at his knees, and the grey-and-blue striped briefs below, until that big brown cock was out and hard, and wet with Gavi's spittle - in fact, his memory of all of it was hazy from then on, other than a few key things. One, the depth and vigour of Araujo's groans; two, the way he'd been made to gag and choke on it, a hand on the back of his head; three, the taste of guilt that overpowered the salty tang of the Uruguay man's jizz. Still, the Barca teen had slouched there in a satisfied daze, gripping his pre-cum-leaking cock in his sweatpants, whilst Ronald rang down to the hotel staff and secured assistance to get him back into his room; even on the staggering walk back to his own room, where a suspicious-looking hotel employee opened it up and let him join the other young player's snoring... It was only in the morning, waking up with a banging dehydrated headache and the urge to throw up in bed, that the real guilty knowledge thwacked into him, and he understood what he'd gone and done... cheated on his boyfriend. Pedri shoved his foot against the pedal and drove on in silence. He'd had to wait half of the day to get any real explanation out of his boy, but shortly before the communal lunch, Gavi had spilled, and been disarmingly honest, telling him what seemed like every detail he could remember from the drunken transgression - and then Pedri had just had to get on with work, trundling through the afternoon's three indoor sessions, and at one point teaming up with Araujo himself as if nothing was wrong, but wanting to kick the giant centre-back in the balls and set about him with a goalpost as a weapon. And by the end of the day, when Gavira had tried to talk to him again in a quiet corner outside the changing rooms, he'd simply refused, unsure he could stomach hearing any more. When Gavi immediately suggested that he would find other transport home from the training campus, Pedri had found himself snapping at the younger player - `Why the fuck would you do that?' So here they were - in the car together as usual, hounded and photographed by Barca fans at the car park gates, but now whistling along the faster roads on the fringes of the city, seated parallel in the same moody silence with which they'd exited the training ground. Layered up now in dark brown tracksuit of his own, the 20-year-old didn't even glance across into the passenger seat of his motor, whizzing the expensive boy racer vehicle out of Barcelona and towards the suburban settlements in the outlying hills, one of which contained his apartment block and the nearby family home where Gavi still lived with his mom and sisters. But when Pedri reached the turn-off for that particular neighbourhood, he ignored the sign and drove on. Next to him, a quiet but pronounced `Huh?' from the otherwise silent and awkward passenger. Half a minute passed in silence, and then, `Ped, I think you missed the...' Pedri didn't actively cut him off, but something in his icy silence did so. Another possible turning came up on the right, another route which would get them quite swiftly back into the luxury streets that they both called home. Again, Pedri ignored it, his thick dark brows knitted as he stared intensely ahead on the road, both hands on the wheel, upping the speed unnecessarily. `We've missed the turning,' Gavi said stupidly after another minute. Pedri didn't look at him yet, but he could imagine the frowning worry on that face, the deep brown eyes wide in confusion, the pouting lips that exuded innocent pleasure. No, Pedri didn't say a thing, not until they were on an empty stretch of road well beyond all of the suburban turn-offs into the rich satellite towns on this side of the Catalan city. And then, still without saying a word, he pulled over onto a dusty space at the side of the road, the kind that should be occupied by a rogue food fan or something, and found a narrow dirt road branching off it into the grey-green woodland of the hillside. Still at some speed, Pedri pushed the car a dozen yards onto the dirt track before jolting it to a halt and sitting there in the same brutal silence, listening to the nervous pants coming from his right. `Where are we?' he heard his boyfriend ask in a thin voice, but he spoke over him: `Just get out of the car.' He didn't know what the other Barca youth was thinking or worrying, though later he would feel bad about the ominous nature of it all, and he'd struggle to shake the image out of his mind: Gavi on the other side of the car to him, his face as white with worry as the guilty moment when he'd been unable to hear himself called a `dirty rascal' without needing to confess everything. The two young men stood there on different sides of the motor, but Pedri looked at him in that moment with pure focus and purpose, no wasteful pathos or hesitation. He moved quickly in front of the car, the hot spring sun filtering down on them through the olive-coloured foliage overhead - seeing the commanding look in his deep dark eyes, Gavi did the same, stumbling around to meet him. There was something combative in the 5ft8 lad's stance, as if he thought he was going to have to defend himself - but Pedri just reached for him at the sides, still saying nothing and twisting him towards the bonnet of the car so quickly that he fell back against it, exactly where Pedri wanted him. He stood facing his own car for a moment, Gavi sprawled awkwardly back over its front, his light shirt hanging open over white tee, and baggy khaki pants tangled a bit at each of his bent legs. He looked horrified and full of dread, splayed against the vehicle with his limbs spread, a look of real fear on his youthful face - what the hell was he actually expecting? Down Pedri went, pushing his knees into the brittle and scratchy surface of the track - so much for taking it easy on his recovering leg. Down on his knees in front of the car, in front of Gavi. He grabbed the outer side of the boy's thighs, taking the khaki material in tight bunches, and yanking down. Some difficulty. Up went his hands, finding and undoing the knot of white drawstring. Now the pants came down more easily, sliding down chunky pale thighs, past blotchy red knees, down into folded bunches at the ankles over his fresh sneakers. Next, Pedri dealt with the underpants, taking those broad white boxer briefs down and down in one fluid motion, much more easy and twanging than the pants. Undies and khakis about the ankles, legs spread, sitting back on the bonnet of the car at an awkward ankle. Gavi's wide eyes stared down at him, and Pedri stared intensely and silently back at him, and then took his cock in one hand, pulling on it in slow firm tugs, and gently moistening his dark pink lips in several full licks. Quickly, Gavi's small floppy meat was growing and stretching against his fingers, rising up form the shaven pubes and the tight large balls below. `Well,' Pedri snapped, quite resentfully. `It's what you wanted, isn't it?' He took a deep breath before putting it in his mouth, taking Gavi's cock in between his wet lips before it was even quite hard - though in seconds of his amateurish sucking, it was rock hard and strangely hot against his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. Eyes closed, hands resting just above the lad's knees, Pedri tried his best and gave cock-sucking a go, finally returning the one-sided favour to the gasping fascination of his petrified boyfriend. It took many minutes for Gavi to seem to relax - and in this time, the older of the two starlets felt flashes of panic and insecurity. He must be terrible at this, on his first go, when Gavi had blown him dozens and dozens of times over the beautiful months of their intimacy, since those first fumbles last summer. Pedri's mouth was probably awkward and difficult and he wasn't sure how best to use his fierce tongue, as oversized as it was, once he had a stiff mouthful of meat, which overwhelmed and freaked him out a bit, his boundaries falling away as he equalised the nature of their antics. But Gavi DID relax, and his nervous breaths turned into appreciative moans, and Pedri felt soft fingertips rub down one side of his face and play with the short dark fuzz of his hair. He heard his name, gasped out in between moans, and he knew that he'd stunned his apologetic cheat with this response. But it was only right, wasn't it? Pedri had been lazy and selfish with him, when he'd known what Pablo wanted from him for months, so of course the beautiful boy would stray if he didn't get treated right - sucking him off like this, as weird and uncomfortable as it felt for Pedri's awkward mouth, was the right thing to do. Still, he gave up on it, breathless and unsure if he'd been doing it right, and just wanked the thick cock instead, pulling on it and kissing the inside of Gavi's thighs, his knees digging in painfully against the rough track. The car made a few tenuous creaks as the 18-year-old shifted his weight and spread his legs more, lifting up off the ground and making the bonnet dip with his muscular weight. Still Pedri wanked him, and moved his kisses in, planting smooches on each tight bollock, and then pushing past them to lick at the fuzzy gooch - okay, this was where he knew what to do. Pedri hooked hands under the heavy thighs and lifted up, moving aside so that he could get under and between those legs - and he pushed his face right in, the angle of it not perfect, but able to squash his nose into the balls and dart his tongue underneath, at the edges of the boy's crack, close to his hole, not the best rimming he'd ever given him, but a flickering service from his powerful tongue, until- `Oh god, Ped, I'm gonna cum-' and Pedri knew what to do. He knew he had to. Back up, planted between those open thighs, and wrapping his open lips bout the wet head of it, taking as many inches of his boy's cock into his mouth as he could, even as he heard Gavi's panicky breath and gurgle and then, ohhhh - well, it didn't taste as bad as he'd expected, but it WAS kinda bitter. And fuck, there was so much of it, such a mouthful! Fucking yes, he thought as he turned to the side and spat the cum out in the dirt without a trace of dignity; fuck yes, I bet Araujo wouldn't do that for you, the big ugly bastard! And now Gavi was flopped back on the hood of the car, gasping and moaning, with his pants still about his ankles, and his dick lying to one side against his thigh, still oozing gum and shiny with Pedri's saliva. But Pedri stood over him, panting, and wiping the sleeve of his brown tracksuit top over his dirty mouth, rubbing flecks of jizz away from his dark stubble, his intense eyes gazing down on the pleasured heap of his teenager. `Get up,' he said, his voice firm and authoritative - and not yet quite affectionate. He was still too angry for that, even if he blamed himself. Up Gavi got, but it was a slight struggle, sliding one way and then almost tripping the other, needing to balance himself with a hand to Pedri's firm chest. Once they were facing each o ther on their feet, Pedri spun him around, stopping him as he tried to stoop to drag his white undies up his legs. He held him from behind, bringing one hand up against his upper chest over the thin tee, feeling his crucifix chain through it and the thunder of his heartbeat. With the other, he reached down his back and squeezed a pawful of that perfect ass. `This is mine,' Pedri gasped in his ear, and Gavi instantly nodded. `I mean, this is all mine - whatever you did with your mouth, I forgive it, but this is MINE.' He was panting heavily as he spoke, only knowing what he wanted as he put it out loud, and shocked to hear how frantic and aggressive he was right now. `I mean it - ALL MINE.' Gavi nodded, gasping out a `Si'. `It was one thing,' heaved Pedri emotionally, `to hear you cheated - with that big guy - when I was injured - fuck! That was one thing, and I can cope with that, okay... But... but... Everybody out there,' he gasped, `seeing your bottom, seeing it almost out on the pitch like that... those pics, that video...!' He was stammering over it, almost ashamed to say it. `I don't want everyone looking at it and joking about it - it's MINE.' `Yes,' gasped Gavi dutifully, pushing back in against his body for support, but trembling as he did. `Yes it's yours.' `All mine?' `All yours!' `I'm gonna make it mine,' the 20-year-old rising star groaned in his boyfriend's ear, deep and meaningful. `You understand what I'm saying, baby?' Gavi went quiet there, trembled hard against his passionate hold. `Not now, not here - not like this,' he promised, his voice a lusty groan, `but soon. I'm going to take your cherry, my Pablo.' `Yes,' the 18-year-old agreed weakly, and he could imagine the tense indecision on his face; but he kissed him on the side of the neck, behind the ear, and then on the cheek, and then on the back of his neck, and then... Gavi was spinning around and holding him and the two young Spaniards were fully snogging, bodies rubbing through their clothes and Pedri's own hard-on taut at his tracksuit bottoms, rubbing against the soft spent swell of Gavi's own cock and balls, naked still. Gavi's hand reached down into his pants and began to wank him, and Pedri wasn't ashamed of how little it took to pull his trigger and make him empty creamy white cum inside his boxer shorts, all over Gavi's bunched hand. He barely groaned as he came, having felt close to the edge the whole time he was on his knees, sucking and then teasing the crack of that perfect white arse - it really did drive him mad with possessive lust to know that its masterpiece image was all over the internet now. `I love you,' Gavira whimpered quietly. `I'll never cheat again. I'm so sorry.' `It's my fault,' Pedri told him simply, letting his breathing and heart rate recover after cumming in his pants ,and just wrapping his arms tightly about the slightly smaller midfielder. `All my fault, I think.' They kissed again, and he guided him gently back into the car before taking the driver's seat and re-starting the engine - he felt exhausted by his abrupt orgasm, and by the stress of breaking boundaries to repay and reclaim his boy. But it had needed to be done, and it hadn't tasted so bad. The engine growled and throbbed around them, and he looked carefully over at the Barca boy before reversing them back up the track. `I'm going to fuck you,' he told him simply, his voice low and gravelly. Gavi nodded, wide-eyed. `I want it,' he said even more quietly, a tremor in his voice, of fear and desire and loyalty. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-343

Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2023 11:49:06 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 343 Part 343: DILF-to-be Someone had knocked some music on, via a low-powered portable speaker, but the tinny tunes were drowned out by the voices of the football players in the home changing room, whether they were doing a bad job of singing along, or just chatting loudly in the glow of their Saturday victory over the visitors; he didn't really have the energy to get up and join the cringe dancing of the lads at the other side of the locker-room, so he just swigged some more of the lukewarm beer he'd been given, and relaxed where he was, towel draped over bare shoulders and fresh BoohooMan boxer briefs pulled snugly up about his crotch and backside, the tracky bottoms left lazily at his knees as if he couldn't be arsed to finish dragging them up to his waist. Jarrod Bowen guzzled as much of the beer in one mouthful as he could, really keen now to just be rid of it - whose idea were these unpleasantly warm cheap beers anyway? He couldn't remember who'd sneaked the crate of contraband from their locker and started cracking them open, but when the gaffer had noticed and laughed along, the 26-year-old player had gladly accepted one and started on it once he was fresh out of the shower, but in his head he needed something iced and stronger to round off a fucking great night. Everything was a team effort, of course, but Bowen's own brace of goals in the first half had secured the much-needed win over Lampard's Everton boys, and so he felt like he should be drowning in champagne and carried aloft on the shoulders of his fellow West Ham lads, rather than supping sour warm Bud and feeling too tired to finish getting dressed, ha. He put the dregs of the bottle aside and yanked the tracksuit pants right up his chunky legs, hopping up from his arse to his feet, and looking about for the clean socks to pull over his bare feet. Desirous of a wilder party as he was, Jarrod felt a real warm buzz, especially as he checked his phone again and saw the shared images of his pregnant-with-a-football celebration, promised to the missus as a follow-up to breaking the news of their unborn twins; JB himself didn't care so much for social media and public attention, but Dani had been insistent, and now he was just embracing it. They were booked in for a massive photoshoot with a glossy magazine later in the week, not the kinda thing that Jarrod would seek out for himself, but he felt oddly excited, maybe just because her enthusiasm for showing off their happy news was so infectious. He felt proud that he'd bagged a pair of goals for the two incoming kids, and announced his father-to-be status to the world in the best way possible for a footballer. His messaging app and social media was abuzz with tagged and shared images and messages of congratulations, but he locked the device to save them for later, grinning happily to himself and dragging the towel through the soft damp of his blonde hair, then searching through his personal items for a comb. `JB!' cooed a very familiar voice, and suddenly his friend and captain was at his side, gripping him by one shoulder then pulling in for a quick manly embrace, bare chest to bare chest as towels slid away. But Declan Rice was fresher from the communal shower, and hot steam rose from blotchy pale skin, the 24-year-old England star breaming proudly at him and fussing with the folded towel that was slung over one broad shoulder. `Rice Rice Baby,' Bowen trilled happily back, and the two close teammates exchanged a half-arsed secret handshake of grabs and fist bumps, before he turned to snatch up the located comb and run it through his dark blonde fuzz. `Less of that, Bow-Bow Baby now,' chuckled the tall defensive midfielder, who was just in a pair of stretchy white CK boxers as he stood there with the towel over one shoulder and his cheeks pink with the heat of the shower. `Right, where are we going to celebrate?!' It was like Deccers could read his mind, really, since the 26-year-old expecting father had just been wondering if this warm beer was all he could toast the big win with - and yet, he had to give a slightly awkward half-smile back to the bright-eyed younger skipper, hesitating in the act of combing his hair and then dropping it back into his toilet bag. `What? Tonight? Oh, er-' he began, and Declan nodded enthusiastically in front of him, clapping hands together in front of his chest and bouncing from foot to foot, whilst a change in music track elicited a ragged cheer from the other side of the room. `Loads of the lads are up for it,' Rice said quickly. `Some mate of Antonio's has just opened up a new club in Bethnal Green but thinks he can get us into their VIP section from about midnight - and even Zouma and Paqueta are up for a bevvy, for fuck's sake, it could be a really fucking good one-' And the other Premier League man paused, apparently starting to read the conflicted expression on Bowen's boy-next-door features. `Look,' Jarrod said, `that sounds fucking brilliant, but...' `Maaaate-' `It's just I promised,' he pleaded, finding and unfolding the plain white t-shirt that he'd pull over his muscular upper half, backing an inch or two from the almost violent enthusiasm of his friend. `Look, she's a bit vulnerable at the minute, we're still kinda getting used to the idea that it's twins, and- Mate, I don't think it'll go down if I ring her now and say I'm-' `Buddy,' moaned Dec loudly, disappointment oozing from every pore; and he wasn't alone in this reaction, because a towel-clad Johnson was just passing them by and joined in with a `boo' that was picked up by a couple of other nearby guys, making Jarrod squirm and hide his face in the process of pulling on the tee. `Mate, trust me, I'd love a few drinks,' Bowen insisted, wriggling comfortably into it and then grabbing up the bunched socks that he'd lost before. `But I seriously promised, straight home to the bird. Look - scrap tonight, say, and we'll do a Sunday session in the afternoon tomorrow after recovery, or summat? You reckon anyone'll be up for that...?' But Rice was barely listening to this suggestion of compromise, backing away and joining in a fleshy hug with passing Flynn Downes, then pulling back this way and offering him the most hangdog expression of pouting lips and wide babyish eyes. `Come on,' pleaded the young Premiership captain. His voice lowered as he added, `Mase is out of town with the Chels, isn't he, up in Scouser-land - so I'm off the leash, so to speak, and I fancy getting wasted and pulling out some Vanilla Ice moves on a sticky dancefloor, so-' `I'm a man of my word,' Jarrod grunted at him with an air of finality, half-turning from him because he knew that Declan's pleading and playful banter would convince him if he gave it half a chance. He frowned to himself and ignored another moan of protest from his friend, lifting one leg at a time to yank the socks over his large feet, then shuffling away to go through his things and find his jumper. He thought that Rice might go on, trying to coax and guilt him, but then was almost disappointed when the West Ham skipper moved on almost instantly, leaving him with just a light pat to the back - he was straight on to one of the 50-something fitness coaches by the door, shouting at him that he should come out and show the young lads how to drink like a real bloke. It was the mention of Mason Mount, he supposed, that brought him a little discomfort and uncertainty, pausing in the act of unrolling his sweatshirt and staring thoughtfully through the melee of football blokes to watch Rice in action, gregarious and attentive to every guy around him, the consummate team leader and club representative - and yet, Jarrod thought, pretty much nobody here knew the truth about him, knew that he was shacked up with his `best friend' in West London, living in a relationship more happy and functional than most straight marriages Jarrod had observed in their world of big money and flashy lifestyles... He'd often suggested double dates to Rice, but the 24-year-old didn't like the idea of Bowen's celeb girlfriend being in on the secret, and got very nervous if he suspected that she already knew. She didn't, of course, because Jarrod was fiercely loyal to his West Ham bestie, and had guarded the secrets of the England camp even once he was snubbed from this winter's World Cup drama. After all... it was hardly just Declan's secret that needed to be kept, was it? He cringed to think of his own dabbles, and gulped down the very last of the sickly beer, chucking the bottle into a recycling bin and sitting down to pull on his trainers. As he tackled the laces, he pushed aside hazy memories of St George's Park and the risks he'd taken, and thought instead of the wholesome picture that awaited him on the Essex border, home to his pregnant girlfriend and whatever rom-com she'd chosen for them to watch in bed - he didn't need some messy laddish night out in East London to feel happy with the goals and win, not with such domestic bliss at the other end of the drive...! `You giving it a miss too, mate?' Bowen paused, sitting up from lacing the second trainer, and finding another squad member positioned next to him; the bigger bloke had dumped a backpack heavily down on the slatted bench next to him to riffle through it distractedly, and his casual remark had cut into some conflicted thoughts where Jarod's mind's eye had flickered between a cosy cuddle with Dani and an image of himself marching authoritatively into that bathroom stall with none other than the England captain, Harry Kane reduced to his knees and opening his mouth wide to initiate him into the national squad. `Huh - oh, this night out? Is everyone actually going into Bethnal Green? Well, I just promised the girlfriend, y'know, and we only just got this big news, and-' `Sure, sure,' grunted the London club's latest acquisition without looking from his bag, clearly a bit concerned about the whereabouts of something in there. He paused in this task and shot a knowing smile this way, before quietly adding, `They get like that when they're up the duff, fella, so get ready for a lot less freedom from now until forever, ha - but fair play to ya, bagging a Love Islander and bit of East London royalty, and knocking her up with twins. Must be some fucking crazy swimmers in ya.' He was being a bit crude, but his smile and eyes brimmed with warmth and comradeship, and Jarrod couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh at this ambiguous compliment. `Thanks, Danny,' he said a little uncertainly, resting his hands on his knees, and then glancing uncertainly over the room - Rice, already a bit more fully dressed, was doing his best to rouse a party crew and the crowd in the home changing rooms was already thinning out, someone somewhere shouting about ordering taxis - before leaning over and patting the older bloke on the arm. `Fucking solid debut there, buddy, it's great to have you with us. Look forward to many assists between us, big man, yeh?' A gruff laugh from the 30-year-old transfer, and then one large rough hand was pushed out for a shake, which Bowen gladly grabbed, though he had to hide a slight wince of surprise as Danny Ings gripped it a little too enthusiastically as if he had a point to prove. In his heart of hearts, Jarrod had been a bit wary about the purchase of the Aston Villa spare, because everyone knew what Ings could be capable of at full fitness, and Bowen wasn't desperate for competition on the front line of the West Ham squad - but he'd been pleased by how humble and team-spirited the seasoned striker was, and how neatly he'd fitted into their team dynamics during the past few days of training. He seemed a really sound bloke, a good addition to the gang. `Ah, cheers,' chuckled the more experienced footballer, going back to the frowning search through his backpack; he was all tracksuit-ed up and looking like he was ready for the off, as if he too had things to hurry home for. Bowen hesitated to ask, because a little part of him was still wondering if he could give Dani a quick ring and suggest to her that he join the lads for `one drink' a bit later on; there was an excited buzz in the changing rooms and guys were getting dressed in a real hurry. Michail Antonio was always a reliable one for good social plans, and if he was hooking them all up with some VIP shit, then- `Damn it,' Ings was muttering to himself. `Could swear I put them in here.' Jarrod scratched at the thin sprinkle of blond stubble on his jaws, and turned back to the hunched bloke next to him, while more lads exited the changing rooms, including a happily cheering Declan. Again, he thought a little grumpily that his good friend might have made a BIT more effort to convince him to come out, and pushed him a bit further - he was the star of the game, after all! `What's that?' he asked Danny distractedly. `Car keys,' the Winchester-born football ace mumbled. He let go of the bag and started packing at the pockets of his coat and tracksuit, frowning through his thin dark beard, and then staring down at the lino floor as if he might have dropped them here. Jarrod frowned and followed his frantic gaze from floor to bag, making a sympathetic `hmm' and the generic pantomime effort of trying to help find them, though his mind was elsewhere - really, he DESERVED a night out, after those two goals, and he hadn't had a proper drink in WEEKS, not since before New Year, so- `Fuck knows,' Ings muttered. `I swear I put them in here but I'd lose my head if it weren't attached to my shoulders, haha. Fucking hell.' He rolled his eyes and gave the various pockets of his winter coat another going-through, whilst Jarrod got to his feet and began packing his personal things together, whilst tossing his dirty kit into the nearby laundry bin to be dealt with. Jarrod shoved all the stuff into his own kit bag and stood by it, looking over thoughtfully at the far end of the room: Antonio was on the phone to someone, presumably the mate with the new nightclub, cackling along happily and estimating numbers and arrival times in a jovial voice. Then he was heading out, bag slung over one shoulder, and a couple of others were following him. Right, Jarrod thought, perhaps if he got home quick enough and dropped a few hints of FOMO to the missus, then SHE might actually be the one to suggest that he needed to see the lads and miss movie night...? After all, the details would all be in the squad group chat, or a quick call to Rice, or... `Taxi for me, then,' came a weary laugh from the newbie behind him, reminding him that Ings was still there in his predicament. But the bearded 30-year-old was zipping up his bag now with a perplexed expression on his slightly lined face, though he seemed more amused than distressed by the situation. `They'll be about somewhere, some bugger will find them cleaning up, or tomorrow... and I'll just head back in after the recovery sessions, and...' He smiled quite optimistically. `Should I take this as a bad omen for my time at West Ham, eh?' Jarrod suddenly had the strong sense that he was being a bit rude to his newest colleague, distracted as he was by his own indecision. He smiled encouragingly at the other man and then had another aimless look about their corner of the room, as if the dropped keys might suddenly turn up - `Nah,' he told him firmly, `this is just you getting old, Ings mate. Haha - taxi, you said? Nah, nah - you want a lift? Whereabouts are you staying at the moment? I'm sure I can drop you before I drive out into the burbs.' `Oh - well, if you're sure, fella, that would be nice. Just renting a place in one of the wharfs, for now, til I figure out a more permanent plan. You sure you don't mind?' Bowen shrugged. `Nah, no worries buddy, can't take long - you sure we shouldn't look about a bit more for your key though? You not a bit worried?' A hefty shrug from the striker in his winter layers. `It'll turn up. Car will be fine here overnight, right.' On the way out of the stadium's underground car park, he must have looked a bit too longingly at the sight of several teammates piling into Rice's Land Rover together, seemingly off to his flat for pre-drinks. He wouldn't have realised how obvious his indecision was if Danny Ings hadn't laughed at him and told him that he would be missing a lot more nights out once he was a daddy, and he should just treat tonight was a warm-up for the boring domestic life ahead - it was a harsh comment, but said with a smile and a laugh, and Jarrod just sighed and shook his head with a nervous laugh, steering them out into the secured roads that zipped them out of the Olympic park area and into normal traffic of East London, the apartment address already punched into the navigation app. `Is this the voice of experience, then?' the 26-year-old goalscorer asked at a red light, looking wryly at the comfortably slouched figure in the passenger seat. `How many kids you got, Danny boy?' `What? Oh, no - not me. Well, not officially,' he chuckled. `I think there might be a few little lads about the south of England with my ears and playboy eyes, but it ain't my name on the birth certificates.' He smirked, and Jarrod laughed at him before steering them out onto a more free-flowing route down towards the Thames. `No, childless here, but got hitched last year in Barbados - tamed beast, you might say.' A gold band was flashed on one hairy hand, and Jarrod tried to think of something politely interested to ask about the wedding, but Danny went on: `I'm just talking about all the mates I've lost to boring fatherhood over my 20s, that's all, you know how it is.' Bowen smiled awkwardly and thought about this for a moment, then laughed it off. `We'll see what happens with you and the new Mrs Ings, then, eh?' Both men laughed easily and fell quiet, moving slowly through the Saturday night traffic, following the navigator down into one of the slick riverside wharfs where Danny's apartment block rose among its neighbouring towers. They chatted some more, Jarrod asking a few polite questions about where Danny and his missus might settle properly, recommending his own suburb and a few other patches of the Essex hinterland where a football wage could buy a veritable palace or two. Caught up in a bit of friendly talk with the new signing, Bowen actually lost sight of his FOMO - he'd stopped thinking enviously about huge vodka bottles and buxom barmaids in a swish VIP section, and was set to reprogram the navigation to carry him right out into the quiet suburban peace where Dani awaited him. Until, that was, his calmly chatty patient made a last remark on the matter. `We won't miss out on much,' Ings announced, apropos of nothing, as Bowen pulled up on the kerb near the foot of an almost brand-new looking apartment block in one corner of the wharf. `I mean, you know the drill with footy lad nights out, don't you? Everyone will have a good laugh for about an hour and then five blokes will pass out from too much drink, another five will get kicked out for starting fights, and another five will ruin their marriages by shagging the wrong cunt in the club toilets. Am I right, or am I right?' And he smiled broadly, dimples forming in his bearded cheeks. Jarrod, taken slightly aback by the return to that topic, paused with both hands on the wheel, laughing as he thought through this prognosis. `Okay - you've got me there. Sounds fair. But if I don't go out, I don't get to find out which of those fives includes me...!' And again, both players laughed heartily, and Jarrod only half-regretted a joke about the idea of cheating on his beloved, the mother-to-be of his first kids. `Oh,' chuckled Ings in the passenger seat, seemingly in no hurry to get out and let him on his way into Essex, `I think we both know which category you'd be in, JB.' The initials were a bit over-familiar, he might have thought, though Danny would have heard everyone call him that on the training field all week, so it was fair enough. Still, his curiosity was oddly piqued, and he stared across at this guy who didn't know the first thing about him. `Which?' he demanded, a little more loudly than he meant to. As Danny began to suppress another laugh, he scowled jokily at him and tutted. `I'm not the kind of guy that pukes after three drinks and ruins a night out, for fuck's sake - I know I've got a boyish face, but-' `Haha, that is NOT the category I was thinking...!' `Oh, er, right, I just-' `And you don't look like you go starting fights,' Ings told him simply, giving him a light push across the front of the car, `so it must be the third. Come on, you must be a bit of a shagger. Big heavy bollocks on you, getting your missus preggo with TWINS, for fuck's sake. DILF-to-be of West Ham, haha.' As Jarrod paused quietly and digested this slightly odd appraisal, Danny went on, `And we both know you'd do something you regret if you went out on that team drinks in Shoreditch or wherever it was, fella...!' This made him stop, pressing his thumbs in against the top of the wheel, and a hesitant little frown colour his country-boy looks. The thought had crossed his mind before, but not quite in the way that this West Ham newbie probably meant. It had been in the car park, looking across at buoyant and sociable Declan, beckoning Fornals and Soucek into his motor; a jarring little imagining that he refused to label an urge or desire, more a speculation. He'd wondered if he might get so drunk that he couldn't face the journey from the city to his place, and if he'd have to crash at Rice's flat instead, and if maybe- Nah, nah, don't think about it, that shit can stay in the England camp, where it apparently belongs...! `What?' asked Danny warmly. `Offend you, did I?' `Huh, nah, nah - just - just you've got me wrong there, mate, I'm well happy with my girl, I'm not the kind to go around-' `Ohhh, I was just messing,' he was told. `Don't take it to heart, boss. Right, I should let you get away - or do you wanna see the view from the flat?' Danny seemed to thoughtfully stop himself, and then pat one of those hairy hands on the top of Jarrod's arm where it still clutched the wheel. `Tell you what, why don't you have a COLD beer in mine, and ring the missus, and figure out your plan for the night, instead of huffing and puffing over it like you're an old married bore?' His eyes twinkled, and though his voice had a lightly mocking edge, the offer felt sincere and helpful. `Just a quick drink up in the apartment while you weigh it up, and then you can either ditch your motor here and join the lads, or bugger off into Pleasantville or wherever you two are shacked up. Sound like a plan?' Jarrod looked at him and nodded vaguely, carried along by the firm warmth of the new player's confident voice, and realising that he genuinely couldn't decide what to do. It was a decent flat, big and airy, but very bland and corporate-looking, not Bowen's kinda pad at all. Ings seemed very excited about the views over the Thames, and he was right, with Tower Bridge the nearest landmark in the sprawl of nocturnal colour that stretched ahead. Up here, Jarrod held back from sitting himself down on any of the stiff-looking new leather furniture, unsure he wanted to be here more than five minutes, because he could feel his decision on a knife-edge, and he hadn't even texted his girlfriend, never mind called her to float the idea of his night out. `So,' he called through into the white brightness of the kitchen area, `how come you aren't rushing out to party with all your new teammates, mate?' He'd been a bit surprised by the absence of Danny's wife, who was still at their Birmingham residence, having vaguely assumed that a similar situation might be holding Ings back from getting out on the lash with Rice and Antonio, especially after his debut appearance as a Hammer. The new Hammer himself came strutting back through to him, his coat and jersey off, just a tight black t-shirt left, and the tattoo sleeves of his muscular arms on show as he passed a schooner glass of lager this way. `Honest? Just can't be bothered. Been a crazy week. And - well, I'll be frank - I can't see myself turning up to a team recovery session green with hangover, puking in the ice bath, and making a shitty impression on all my new coaches. Know what I mean? Don't get me wrong,' Ings continued, supping from his own drink, `I'm always the first to the bar, but I know when to keep a low profile. I need to let my goals do the talking for the next few months, rather than trying to be banter king.' They clinked glasses. `Once you pass 30 in this league, you've got to make sure you're in a good position, and West Ham might be my last club, JB - I need to do things right here.' Bowen nodded slowly at this logic, and looked back at the view for a while, pretty comfortable with Ings' explanation, but unsure about his own. He felt guiltily at the outline of his phone in the pocket of his tracksuit pants, knowing he should give her a ring and hint at the dilemma, or... Or, he told himself, just accept the inevitable and get on the road home, like he'd promised! It's not as if Rice or anyone else was bombarding him with messages to try and convince him that he was missing out, or would be missed. Even though, a bitter little voice pointed out, it would have been a draw or worse without his goals, huh. `Seriously though,' interrupted Danny's voice, `congrats on the family news, you know I'm only messing with ya. It'll be great for you both. Just because I've not given in to the dad life yet, don't let me put you off.' Smiling, he'd sat down in the centre of the white sofa, and Jarrod decided that to stay standing would look rude. He nodded gratefully at this comment and perched on the matching armchair, finding it as stiffly new and unyielding as it looked, and not quite able to make himself comfortable. `And like I say, you must be super-fertile or something,' Ings chuckled. It struck Bowen as a bit odd that this was already the third comment of this kind that his new teammate had made tonight, but he laughed hesitantly anyway, and murmured his bland agreement. `Yeah, crazy spunk in those big balls,' the striker told him in the same amused mutter. `That's why I had you for a bit of a shagger on a night out, is all, no judgement of your relationship with that Love Island babe. I mean, when you've got too much spunk, it has to go somewhere.' He made it sound so simple and matter-of-fact, and obviously Bowen had grown up on any number of teams loaded with crude laddish banter, but there was still something odd here, and he shifted against the stiff white leather, not laughing any more. `Give it a rest,' he said a little quietly, but trying to keep his voice bright and breezy. `Again, just thinking of other mates I've played with, that's all!' was the 30-year-old's cheery chuckle of response, and he slid down the sofa to one end, closer to Jarrod. `Maybe you're a way more controlled bloke than all that. Different generation, you and me.' Jarrod scoffed at this, scratching his light stubble again. `Hardly, you're only like 30 or whatever, so... I turned 26 last month,' he added, as if he somehow had to assert that he was a man and not a boy. `Aye,' said Danny in that odd voice that could be mockery or genuine support, `a big alpha bloke now, even if you look like some farm-boy who's barely had his first beer or shag at the barn dance, haha. Sorry, sorry - god, can't say the right thing, can I? Keep making you do that frown, JB. Ignore me, I'm a prick.' Bowen didn't know what to say to literally any of this and he just drank from his glass, the beer tasting so much better and colder than the bottle in the changing rooms. He wondered if the taste and buzz of it would push him to crave the sweaty excitement of the nightclub, but he found himself ambivalent. But then Ings had already offered his parking spot below the apartment block, so he could leave it safely here and even catch the Overground nearby, and... Hmm. He realised that Danny was looking at him expectantly, and had maybe said something else, probably another daft inappropriate comment. He paused, unsure what to say, and Danny just laughed. `I said, is she letting you shag her or is she one of those nervous-bump people?' At this bluntness, Bowen could only pause and blink and take a long sip of beer, but before he could say anything to dismiss the nosy question, Ings was chuckling to himself and going on. `That's where it must get tough, if you're a billy big bollocks heavy cummer like you, mate, and you can't even get the goodies at home, cos she's scared about the bump, or whatever - that's where a bloke could get desperate and ANYTHING could happen, you know? Next thing you know, you've fucked things up and you're shagging someone from a different Love Island scene in the bathroom of-' At that, the 26-year-old was up on his feet, and the glass of beer was smashing on the faux wood floor. Danny rose instantly to meet his aggressive stance, and Jarrod squared quickly up to him, a switch clicked. `You need to stop chatting shit,' he told the other player firmly, pointing a warning finger close to his face. `I don't like the things you're trying to say about me or my missus, so just watch it, alright?' `Whoa, whoa,' protested Ings, without backing off from him, just holding up both hands innocently, `I warned you I'm a prick, it's just my sense of humour - you're alright mate, no need to get so feisty, okay?' `Well just stop it,' Bowen grunted awkwardly, feeling a bit silly as the flash of anger receded, but still wagging the warning finger in the older man's face and stepping up closer to him, unfazed that his host was a good inch taller and a lot broader. `You've been muttering the wrong things since you chatted at me in the changing room and I'm not sure I like it, mate, so watch that mouth or you won't be making such a great start at West Ham, old man, just like you feared, okay?' They stood there, close to each other, and he felt like the wrong quip or push from Danny might earn the balding fucker a punch in the face, never mind his big tatted arms and pub bouncer demanour - Jarrod wasn't scared to get physical when needed, he'd learned a scrappy and fearless style in his seasons at this club. But Danny Ings didn't say a thing to push the wrong buttons, other than the rather infuriatingly cheery smile that still lit his bearded features as he lowered his protesting hands and relaxed his posture in front of him. No. Instead, he did something else, something that might still have earned him a knuckle-print on his cheek or nose, except that Jarrod Bowen didn't quite know how to react, and so he just stood there, fists at his sides, and mouth set into a grim frown. He let out a long deep breath and tried to understand what the hand on his crotch currently meant, paired with that leering grin on Danny's face. `Just like I thought,' breathed Ings quietly. `Fucking huge low hangers, by the feel of it.' `Fuck's sake, mate,' Bowen grunted awkwardly back, alarmed. `And a whopper cock - how big's that hard?' `Shit - none of yer business, mate!' `Bet she loves it-' `I've warned you, Ings.' `Are they full right now? They feel it.' `Mate, you can push me too far, and I'll...' `You'll what?' sneered Ings. `Throw me down and treat me rough? I'll let you in on a secret, big boy.' The 5ft10 striker was leaning in so close that their faces brushed, his mouth coming in close to the ear as he whispered. `That's just how I like it, daddy.' Jarrod's world spun, and for a moment, all he could really concentrate was the knowing hand on his bulge, and the breath on his ear and his cheek. It was hardly the point, but Danny was 100% correct, because he and his missus hadn't fucked since the morning she did the positive pregnancy test. And between that and the Premiership schedule, he'd barely had time to let loose with a quick tug. His cock was rising stiffly against this unexpected touch, and his fertile balls were every bit as big and full as this lewd cunt kept muttering. He stood still like a statue, fists clenching tighter, and still kinda wanting to swing one at the other man's infuriating expression. But... this... felt... good... so... `I'm gonna get it out,' Ings informed him in a quiet voice, `and I'm gonna taste it. We good, Mr Fisticuffs?' He didn't answer this question, just stood there, and even closed his eyes distantly, freezing himself up as he felt Danny's hands settle on his tense arms and stroke downwards. Soon it wasn't a hand rubbing the bulge in his tracksuit, but a mouth. He could feel the club's new striker nuzzling his privates through the nylon, and he shivered uncomfortably, but excitedly, and the weight of his ignored mobile phone in one pocket throbbed paranoidly against his thigh - she would be texting soon and asking about the traffic, asking when to expect him home. He wanted to be out, enjoying himself, getting drunk in the VIP, and... and... just like Danny said, fucking some hot new thing in the bathroom, pushing into a tight new pussy, but he never cheated, NEVER - he was 100% faithful, to all his girlfriends, well unless you counted... er, Harry Kane, Three Lions icon, noshing him off in that quiet toilet stall, or... He reopened his eyes, and tried to relax the aggro fists at his sides, and he looked down: the elastic waist of his West Ham trackies was being pulled away, and with it the black BooHooMan-branded logo too, and there were the short wiry pubes, and then... out was his hard-on, short but fat and glossy at the tip where the foreskin rolled back, and then his balls too, full and heavy and hairy. Danny Ings licked his lips and went to work, and the father-to-be shuddered. He dragged him through into the bedroom, his body on fire. His t-shirt and sweater were off, piled on the faux wood floor between the white leather furniture, but he still had his tracksuit bottoms on, though his cock and ball bounced over the stretched waistband and glistened with spittle. In they went, Jarrod dragging the 5ft10 muscle by the arms, panting as he did so, and mouthing `Shut up' at Danny's crude comments. `Slap me,' hissed the striker, like he had from his knees when he paused in the sloppy blowjob. `Slap me or thump me, you fucking stud, show me who's boss.' `Shut up, shut up-' `Throw me where you want,' groaned Ings, `and call me anything you like.' `Leave it out,' growled Bowen, unwilling to enter into this dirty talk, but tossing him at the bed all the same, pushing him down into a seated position and then cupping his head in both hands so he could lower it to his cock and hold it while he fucked his short thick meat in and out of that surprisingly talented gob, rough in a way that he never was with Dani. Never, he thought, with anyone really, except his national captain, that dark moment of temptation and curiosity, desperate to understand his best mate's gay activity. `You can't talk shit with a cock in your mouth,' he snarled at Ings, unwittingly falling right into the rough-and-nasty talk that the shocking guy was into - it was genuine anger and frustration from the winger, not some sleazy performance. `Fucking choke on it,' he told him simply, leaning into this aggression and authority, behaving in a way that he would never dare with the daughter of the East End's favourite hard man caricature. `That's it, slobber on my cock, you slut-' `Yes sir,' drawled Danny in a moment of gasping freedom whilst Jarrod pulled back and wanked himself, but then the cock was shoved back in and only muffled gagging noises could sound from the slut on his bed. Jarrod reached aggressively over him, scratching fingertips over his bald patch and across his bearded jawline, then down at his thick neck and those bulging shoulder muscles, liking how thick and strong this fella was who was serving him, wanting to rip that black t-shirt away to see just how bullky his bitch was. He paused to do that, helping Danny out of the garment, and then spitting directly onto his face, shocked when it was caught in the mouth and Ings began to tweak his own bullet nipples, those tattooed biceps bulging as he did. `Fuck my mouth,' slurred the 30-year-old, `fuck my mouth like her pussy...' Jarrod, unable to stop himself, slapped the side of the man's face before shoving his cock into the gaping mouth. `You don't mention her, okay, you shut the fuck up about my girl, you dirty little bitch!' When next Danny's mouth was not being slammed into, and he was just gasping and slobbering against Jarrod's six-pack instead, he grunted, `You gonna fuck my man-pussy, daddy? You gonna breed me like you bred her?' And Jarrod pushed at his head roughly, slapping his cock against his cheeks angrily, but the idea struck something in him all the same, even as the striker slurred on, `You gonna breed me and fill me with all that spunk like you did your other dirty Dani, eh? Cum in me, daddy-' `Shut up,' Bowen snapped at him for the hundredth time. `Fuck me good,' begged Ings. `Stick it in me and breed me!' If there had been a single rational thought left in the young footballer's head, he'd have known that he was giving this rough bastard exactly what he wanted, but he was all testosterone and desperation, and so much spunk. Onto the bed they went, grabbing and tussling with Danny's heavy physique, until he was being pushed face-first into his own mass of new pillows, his arse up in the air, the waists of his tracksuit and undies sliding down a bit like on a fat builder, exposing the top of his hairy cheeks. With rough grasping hands, Danny helped them on their way, pushing them down to expose the big round buttocks, covered in dark hair, and spitting clumsily at them whilst gripping his dick in hand. This was madness, but he was lost in it. `That's it,' came Danny's growl, `fuck me like your girlfriend, just another Danny-' `SHUT UP!' And he pushed the man's face down more roughly into the pillows, almost smothering him, whilst he parted the cheeks with another hand and gobbed once into the crack. Then, without much ceremony, he pushed the fat tip of his cock between the cheeks and tried to enter him, shocked by the feel of a muscular arse against his neglected cock. It took him a good few shoves and rubs, but the hole gave way and he was in him, pushing into him quite violently, and shocked that he was doing it and that Danny was taking it, but just needing to punish this cocky bastard - and needing, more than anything, to empty his swollen daddy balls. After holding Ings' face down into the smothering pillows for a little too long, he released his grip, and found that he actually wanted to hear that quivering gruff voice after all: `Fuck yes, that feels good - fuck fuck, fuck me hard, HARDER, god yes!' And smut to that effect. He loved to hear it, though he slapped aggressively at the muscular back, and pushed roughly on the back of the man's head, and slammed his thick meat into him harder with every thrust, shagging him (him!) into the bed with an energy that he usually restrained and controlled, finally fucking with the same gusto and battle spirit that he brought to West Ham's tough league fixtures. `Yes daddy,' the man called him, despite being four years his senior, and when he kept saying `Breed me like your Dani', Jarrod had to shove his face deeper into the pillows again to shut him up, slamming and pounding his hairy bottom with such force and speed that he knew he couldn't last for long. It was a matter of minutes before this slutty man was getting just what he'd asked for, just what he'd muttered about all night: the emptied contents of Bowen's bollocks, a huge dirty load fired inside his hairy arse, with the more established West Ham player panting and grunting over him with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pressed tightly just above the hips. For a few more thrusts he shoved into him, wheezing breathlessly and feeling his whole face sticky with sweat. The red mist in his head cooling, because now Danny Ings was just letting out gasps and sighs and moans, not giving him dirty chat or making crude remarks about his missus. Danny. Dani. Danny. Dani. He'd been fucking her, in his head, he told himself, as his hands found the hairy curve of the man's arse, and he shuddered at the knowledge of the line he'd crossed. He'd been fucking this lump of muscle as if it was his beautiful woman, he told himself, because she was pregnant now and wouldn't let him in her, and... and... and... Oh, god. Without saying anything, he pulled out, barely breathing, and scrambled slowly but desperately off the bed, his tracksuit pants still about his shins and calves. Up he tugged them as he hobbled for the door, moving slowly through the bland corporate apartment, finding his way into its oversized bathroom, where he could run his hands under cold water and then splash it on his face, his chest, his pits, his dirty cock. Oh, god. He stood over the sink and mirror in a shaky comedown, and then drifted back into the main living area and all its open-plan showhome grandeur. On the floor between the sofa and chair was his dropped clothing, but also the puddle and broken glass of his dropped beer. He picked his way past this mess and retrieved the layers of clothing, tugging them onto his tingling skin, covering up his chest and back and wiping the sleeves against his feverish face. Then, shaken, he sat back down in that stiff uncomfortable armchair, just staring down into the slick of beer on the laminate boards, the little sparkles of broken glass in it, as shattered as his discipline and certainty. His cock tingled sensitively inside his pants, and he glanced up as Danny emerged from the bedroom. He'd pulled a silky claret robe around his body, showing just a V of hairy chest, and a flash of leg before his socks. `Right,' Ings said very casually, `are you going out with the lads or driving home?' Bowen stared sharply at him. `What?' he asked, genuinely lost. `Tonight,' the other footballer grunted simply. `You came up here to have a beer and make up your mind. And... well, the beer is as fucked as my hole. So, what are you doing next?' The 26-year-old just stared at him, somehow as shaken by his cool indifference now as he had been by his lewd suggestions and nasty provocations before. Danny looked chill and comfortable in his robe, and he was moving through into the kitchen, apparently to find stuff to clean up the beer and glass. Jarrod's eyes followed him, and he slowly got up from his uncomfortable seat, wiping clammy palms on his knees. `Home,' he muttered, half to himself. `Probably for the best,' his host agreed quietly. `You don't look up to a night out.' Danny didn't even look this way as he attacked the mess with a mop, and Jarrod drifted away from him, picking up his jacket from the back of another chair, and making his way to the door. He just felt numb and a little bit frightened of himself. As he stopped in front of the door, unsure what to say, Danny stopped in his mopping and waved confidently this way, the robe slipping and showing a bit more chest muscle. `Good to hang out,' Ings called, as if they'd just shared a beer together and talked about footy. Bowen unlatched the door and hurried out into the corridor, but just before he slammed the door behind him, he heard the man's teasing voice follow him out: `Come again, daddy.' He practically sprinted to the lift, annoyed by how sensitive his cock was bouncing in his clothes, and by the prickle of the sex sweat under the layers, and he opened up his phone. He ignored the string of pleading messages that seemed to have just arrived, an already-tipsy Declan Rice begging him to join them at his flat and then on to the club, and he dialled the number to call his girlfriend instead. `Traffic,' he told her through his panting, full of apology, `but I will be back soon. Promise.' Alone in the apartment, Ings gave up on the mess, resting the mop and strutting back through into his big master bedroom, all immaculate and unlived in but for the creased outline of their heavy bodies where he'd been ploughed into the bed. He wondered silently if he would need to change the sheets for before Mrs Ings joined him here, but probably not, it'd be fine. He went to the desk in the corner, by another huge window with its river view, and picked up the spare mobile phone there, his secret one that he would never leave lying around whilst his wife was in residence. It wasn't locked, and he smirked at the app on-screen, stopping the sound recording that would have captured every filthy word and slap. Then he went into the messaging app and fired it across the network, tapping in his message of `For you to listen to tonight, sir'. Soon, the reply came, and he hunched over the device like an excited teen with their first crush, reading the `Good boy' and `Can't wait' that came in rapid succession. His hole stinging from the speed and force of Bowen's fucking, the practised submissive bottom smiled at the thought of the Irish beast who'd tamed him, but now very rarely came to see him in real life, even if he managed to dominate him from a distance in spite of that. The thought of Shane Long, his Celtic king, made him weak at the knees, and his cock strain against the silky robe. `Think I'll have fun here,' he texted to his former Southampton teammate. `Just like Villa lol' came the response. `Even more,' Danny typed in rapidly. Another `Good boy', and then a picture message. An old one, one that Danny might have thought or hoped was deleted by them both, a still of him on his kitchen floor with a carrot up his arse, taken for his dom a couple of years back, when he was much newer to serving hot football daddies. He grinned and responded `Thank you sir' and then typed out `Miss you' before wiping it away, knowing that he would be scolded for such neediness. But then, just as he was about to lock the device and put it down, the final message from old Shane slid into his inbox, and he stared at it eagerly: `Maybe I'll have to cum visit lol', and he hit a thumbs-up react as fast as he could, and he opened his robe to grab and wank his cock, desperate to be reunited with the Irish striker who had broken him in. Compared to him, Bowen was nothing but a boy, he needed his original DILF back inside him, making him scream - and he wanked himself to completion looking at just the messages, desperate for that powerful man to come back and claim him for the first time in many long months. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 22 Jan 2023 11:49:06 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 343 Part 343: DILF-to-be Someone had knocked some music on, via a low-powered portable speaker, but the tinny tunes were drowned out by the voices of the football players in the home changing room, whether they were doing a bad job of singing along, or just chatting loudly in the glow of their Saturday victory over the visitors; he didn't really have the energy to get up and join the cringe dancing of the lads at the other side of the locker-room, so he just swigged some more of the lukewarm beer he'd been given, and relaxed where he was, towel draped over bare shoulders and fresh BoohooMan boxer briefs pulled snugly up about his crotch and backside, the tracky bottoms left lazily at his knees as if he couldn't be arsed to finish dragging them up to his waist. Jarrod Bowen guzzled as much of the beer in one mouthful as he could, really keen now to just be rid of it - whose idea were these unpleasantly warm cheap beers anyway? He couldn't remember who'd sneaked the crate of contraband from their locker and started cracking them open, but when the gaffer had noticed and laughed along, the 26-year-old player had gladly accepted one and started on it once he was fresh out of the shower, but in his head he needed something iced and stronger to round off a fucking great night. Everything was a team effort, of course, but Bowen's own brace of goals in the first half had secured the much-needed win over Lampard's Everton boys, and so he felt like he should be drowning in champagne and carried aloft on the shoulders of his fellow West Ham lads, rather than supping sour warm Bud and feeling too tired to finish getting dressed, ha. He put the dregs of the bottle aside and yanked the tracksuit pants right up his chunky legs, hopping up from his arse to his feet, and looking about for the clean socks to pull over his bare feet. Desirous of a wilder party as he was, Jarrod felt a real warm buzz, especially as he checked his phone again and saw the shared images of his pregnant-with-a-football celebration, promised to the missus as a follow-up to breaking the news of their unborn twins; JB himself didn't care so much for social media and public attention, but Dani had been insistent, and now he was just embracing it. They were booked in for a massive photoshoot with a glossy magazine later in the week, not the kinda thing that Jarrod would seek out for himself, but he felt oddly excited, maybe just because her enthusiasm for showing off their happy news was so infectious. He felt proud that he'd bagged a pair of goals for the two incoming kids, and announced his father-to-be status to the world in the best way possible for a footballer. His messaging app and social media was abuzz with tagged and shared images and messages of congratulations, but he locked the device to save them for later, grinning happily to himself and dragging the towel through the soft damp of his blonde hair, then searching through his personal items for a comb. `JB!' cooed a very familiar voice, and suddenly his friend and captain was at his side, gripping him by one shoulder then pulling in for a quick manly embrace, bare chest to bare chest as towels slid away. But Declan Rice was fresher from the communal shower, and hot steam rose from blotchy pale skin, the 24-year-old England star breaming proudly at him and fussing with the folded towel that was slung over one broad shoulder. `Rice Rice Baby,' Bowen trilled happily back, and the two close teammates exchanged a half-arsed secret handshake of grabs and fist bumps, before he turned to snatch up the located comb and run it through his dark blonde fuzz. `Less of that, Bow-Bow Baby now,' chuckled the tall defensive midfielder, who was just in a pair of stretchy white CK boxers as he stood there with the towel over one shoulder and his cheeks pink with the heat of the shower. `Right, where are we going to celebrate?!' It was like Deccers could read his mind, really, since the 26-year-old expecting father had just been wondering if this warm beer was all he could toast the big win with - and yet, he had to give a slightly awkward half-smile back to the bright-eyed younger skipper, hesitating in the act of combing his hair and then dropping it back into his toilet bag. `What? Tonight? Oh, er-' he began, and Declan nodded enthusiastically in front of him, clapping hands together in front of his chest and bouncing from foot to foot, whilst a change in music track elicited a ragged cheer from the other side of the room. `Loads of the lads are up for it,' Rice said quickly. `Some mate of Antonio's has just opened up a new club in Bethnal Green but thinks he can get us into their VIP section from about midnight - and even Zouma and Paqueta are up for a bevvy, for fuck's sake, it could be a really fucking good one-' And the other Premier League man paused, apparently starting to read the conflicted expression on Bowen's boy-next-door features. `Look,' Jarrod said, `that sounds fucking brilliant, but...' `Maaaate-' `It's just I promised,' he pleaded, finding and unfolding the plain white t-shirt that he'd pull over his muscular upper half, backing an inch or two from the almost violent enthusiasm of his friend. `Look, she's a bit vulnerable at the minute, we're still kinda getting used to the idea that it's twins, and- Mate, I don't think it'll go down if I ring her now and say I'm-' `Buddy,' moaned Dec loudly, disappointment oozing from every pore; and he wasn't alone in this reaction, because a towel-clad Johnson was just passing them by and joined in with a `boo' that was picked up by a couple of other nearby guys, making Jarrod squirm and hide his face in the process of pulling on the tee. `Mate, trust me, I'd love a few drinks,' Bowen insisted, wriggling comfortably into it and then grabbing up the bunched socks that he'd lost before. `But I seriously promised, straight home to the bird. Look - scrap tonight, say, and we'll do a Sunday session in the afternoon tomorrow after recovery, or summat? You reckon anyone'll be up for that...?' But Rice was barely listening to this suggestion of compromise, backing away and joining in a fleshy hug with passing Flynn Downes, then pulling back this way and offering him the most hangdog expression of pouting lips and wide babyish eyes. `Come on,' pleaded the young Premiership captain. His voice lowered as he added, `Mase is out of town with the Chels, isn't he, up in Scouser-land - so I'm off the leash, so to speak, and I fancy getting wasted and pulling out some Vanilla Ice moves on a sticky dancefloor, so-' `I'm a man of my word,' Jarrod grunted at him with an air of finality, half-turning from him because he knew that Declan's pleading and playful banter would convince him if he gave it half a chance. He frowned to himself and ignored another moan of protest from his friend, lifting one leg at a time to yank the socks over his large feet, then shuffling away to go through his things and find his jumper. He thought that Rice might go on, trying to coax and guilt him, but then was almost disappointed when the West Ham skipper moved on almost instantly, leaving him with just a light pat to the back - he was straight on to one of the 50-something fitness coaches by the door, shouting at him that he should come out and show the young lads how to drink like a real bloke. It was the mention of Mason Mount, he supposed, that brought him a little discomfort and uncertainty, pausing in the act of unrolling his sweatshirt and staring thoughtfully through the melee of football blokes to watch Rice in action, gregarious and attentive to every guy around him, the consummate team leader and club representative - and yet, Jarrod thought, pretty much nobody here knew the truth about him, knew that he was shacked up with his `best friend' in West London, living in a relationship more happy and functional than most straight marriages Jarrod had observed in their world of big money and flashy lifestyles... He'd often suggested double dates to Rice, but the 24-year-old didn't like the idea of Bowen's celeb girlfriend being in on the secret, and got very nervous if he suspected that she already knew. She didn't, of course, because Jarrod was fiercely loyal to his West Ham bestie, and had guarded the secrets of the England camp even once he was snubbed from this winter's World Cup drama. After all... it was hardly just Declan's secret that needed to be kept, was it? He cringed to think of his own dabbles, and gulped down the very last of the sickly beer, chucking the bottle into a recycling bin and sitting down to pull on his trainers. As he tackled the laces, he pushed aside hazy memories of St George's Park and the risks he'd taken, and thought instead of the wholesome picture that awaited him on the Essex border, home to his pregnant girlfriend and whatever rom-com she'd chosen for them to watch in bed - he didn't need some messy laddish night out in East London to feel happy with the goals and win, not with such domestic bliss at the other end of the drive...! `You giving it a miss too, mate?' Bowen paused, sitting up from lacing the second trainer, and finding another squad member positioned next to him; the bigger bloke had dumped a backpack heavily down on the slatted bench next to him to riffle through it distractedly, and his casual remark had cut into some conflicted thoughts where Jarod's mind's eye had flickered between a cosy cuddle with Dani and an image of himself marching authoritatively into that bathroom stall with none other than the England captain, Harry Kane reduced to his knees and opening his mouth wide to initiate him into the national squad. `Huh - oh, this night out? Is everyone actually going into Bethnal Green? Well, I just promised the girlfriend, y'know, and we only just got this big news, and-' `Sure, sure,' grunted the London club's latest acquisition without looking from his bag, clearly a bit concerned about the whereabouts of something in there. He paused in this task and shot a knowing smile this way, before quietly adding, `They get like that when they're up the duff, fella, so get ready for a lot less freedom from now until forever, ha - but fair play to ya, bagging a Love Islander and bit of East London royalty, and knocking her up with twins. Must be some fucking crazy swimmers in ya.' He was being a bit crude, but his smile and eyes brimmed with warmth and comradeship, and Jarrod couldn't help but let out a muffled laugh at this ambiguous compliment. `Thanks, Danny,' he said a little uncertainly, resting his hands on his knees, and then glancing uncertainly over the room - Rice, already a bit more fully dressed, was doing his best to rouse a party crew and the crowd in the home changing rooms was already thinning out, someone somewhere shouting about ordering taxis - before leaning over and patting the older bloke on the arm. `Fucking solid debut there, buddy, it's great to have you with us. Look forward to many assists between us, big man, yeh?' A gruff laugh from the 30-year-old transfer, and then one large rough hand was pushed out for a shake, which Bowen gladly grabbed, though he had to hide a slight wince of surprise as Danny Ings gripped it a little too enthusiastically as if he had a point to prove. In his heart of hearts, Jarrod had been a bit wary about the purchase of the Aston Villa spare, because everyone knew what Ings could be capable of at full fitness, and Bowen wasn't desperate for competition on the front line of the West Ham squad - but he'd been pleased by how humble and team-spirited the seasoned striker was, and how neatly he'd fitted into their team dynamics during the past few days of training. He seemed a really sound bloke, a good addition to the gang. `Ah, cheers,' chuckled the more experienced footballer, going back to the frowning search through his backpack; he was all tracksuit-ed up and looking like he was ready for the off, as if he too had things to hurry home for. Bowen hesitated to ask, because a little part of him was still wondering if he could give Dani a quick ring and suggest to her that he join the lads for `one drink' a bit later on; there was an excited buzz in the changing rooms and guys were getting dressed in a real hurry. Michail Antonio was always a reliable one for good social plans, and if he was hooking them all up with some VIP shit, then- `Damn it,' Ings was muttering to himself. `Could swear I put them in here.' Jarrod scratched at the thin sprinkle of blond stubble on his jaws, and turned back to the hunched bloke next to him, while more lads exited the changing rooms, including a happily cheering Declan. Again, he thought a little grumpily that his good friend might have made a BIT more effort to convince him to come out, and pushed him a bit further - he was the star of the game, after all! `What's that?' he asked Danny distractedly. `Car keys,' the Winchester-born football ace mumbled. He let go of the bag and started packing at the pockets of his coat and tracksuit, frowning through his thin dark beard, and then staring down at the lino floor as if he might have dropped them here. Jarrod frowned and followed his frantic gaze from floor to bag, making a sympathetic `hmm' and the generic pantomime effort of trying to help find them, though his mind was elsewhere - really, he DESERVED a night out, after those two goals, and he hadn't had a proper drink in WEEKS, not since before New Year, so- `Fuck knows,' Ings muttered. `I swear I put them in here but I'd lose my head if it weren't attached to my shoulders, haha. Fucking hell.' He rolled his eyes and gave the various pockets of his winter coat another going-through, whilst Jarrod got to his feet and began packing his personal things together, whilst tossing his dirty kit into the nearby laundry bin to be dealt with. Jarrod shoved all the stuff into his own kit bag and stood by it, looking over thoughtfully at the far end of the room: Antonio was on the phone to someone, presumably the mate with the new nightclub, cackling along happily and estimating numbers and arrival times in a jovial voice. Then he was heading out, bag slung over one shoulder, and a couple of others were following him. Right, Jarrod thought, perhaps if he got home quick enough and dropped a few hints of FOMO to the missus, then SHE might actually be the one to suggest that he needed to see the lads and miss movie night...? After all, the details would all be in the squad group chat, or a quick call to Rice, or... `Taxi for me, then,' came a weary laugh from the newbie behind him, reminding him that Ings was still there in his predicament. But the bearded 30-year-old was zipping up his bag now with a perplexed expression on his slightly lined face, though he seemed more amused than distressed by the situation. `They'll be about somewhere, some bugger will find them cleaning up, or tomorrow... and I'll just head back in after the recovery sessions, and...' He smiled quite optimistically. `Should I take this as a bad omen for my time at West Ham, eh?' Jarrod suddenly had the strong sense that he was being a bit rude to his newest colleague, distracted as he was by his own indecision. He smiled encouragingly at the other man and then had another aimless look about their corner of the room, as if the dropped keys might suddenly turn up - `Nah,' he told him firmly, `this is just you getting old, Ings mate. Haha - taxi, you said? Nah, nah - you want a lift? Whereabouts are you staying at the moment? I'm sure I can drop you before I drive out into the burbs.' `Oh - well, if you're sure, fella, that would be nice. Just renting a place in one of the wharfs, for now, til I figure out a more permanent plan. You sure you don't mind?' Bowen shrugged. `Nah, no worries buddy, can't take long - you sure we shouldn't look about a bit more for your key though? You not a bit worried?' A hefty shrug from the striker in his winter layers. `It'll turn up. Car will be fine here overnight, right.' On the way out of the stadium's underground car park, he must have looked a bit too longingly at the sight of several teammates piling into Rice's Land Rover together, seemingly off to his flat for pre-drinks. He wouldn't have realised how obvious his indecision was if Danny Ings hadn't laughed at him and told him that he would be missing a lot more nights out once he was a daddy, and he should just treat tonight was a warm-up for the boring domestic life ahead - it was a harsh comment, but said with a smile and a laugh, and Jarrod just sighed and shook his head with a nervous laugh, steering them out into the secured roads that zipped them out of the Olympic park area and into normal traffic of East London, the apartment address already punched into the navigation app. `Is this the voice of experience, then?' the 26-year-old goalscorer asked at a red light, looking wryly at the comfortably slouched figure in the passenger seat. `How many kids you got, Danny boy?' `What? Oh, no - not me. Well, not officially,' he chuckled. `I think there might be a few little lads about the south of England with my ears and playboy eyes, but it ain't my name on the birth certificates.' He smirked, and Jarrod laughed at him before steering them out onto a more free-flowing route down towards the Thames. `No, childless here, but got hitched last year in Barbados - tamed beast, you might say.' A gold band was flashed on one hairy hand, and Jarrod tried to think of something politely interested to ask about the wedding, but Danny went on: `I'm just talking about all the mates I've lost to boring fatherhood over my 20s, that's all, you know how it is.' Bowen smiled awkwardly and thought about this for a moment, then laughed it off. `We'll see what happens with you and the new Mrs Ings, then, eh?' Both men laughed easily and fell quiet, moving slowly through the Saturday night traffic, following the navigator down into one of the slick riverside wharfs where Danny's apartment block rose among its neighbouring towers. They chatted some more, Jarrod asking a few polite questions about where Danny and his missus might settle properly, recommending his own suburb and a few other patches of the Essex hinterland where a football wage could buy a veritable palace or two. Caught up in a bit of friendly talk with the new signing, Bowen actually lost sight of his FOMO - he'd stopped thinking enviously about huge vodka bottles and buxom barmaids in a swish VIP section, and was set to reprogram the navigation to carry him right out into the quiet suburban peace where Dani awaited him. Until, that was, his calmly chatty patient made a last remark on the matter. `We won't miss out on much,' Ings announced, apropos of nothing, as Bowen pulled up on the kerb near the foot of an almost brand-new looking apartment block in one corner of the wharf. `I mean, you know the drill with footy lad nights out, don't you? Everyone will have a good laugh for about an hour and then five blokes will pass out from too much drink, another five will get kicked out for starting fights, and another five will ruin their marriages by shagging the wrong cunt in the club toilets. Am I right, or am I right?' And he smiled broadly, dimples forming in his bearded cheeks. Jarrod, taken slightly aback by the return to that topic, paused with both hands on the wheel, laughing as he thought through this prognosis. `Okay - you've got me there. Sounds fair. But if I don't go out, I don't get to find out which of those fives includes me...!' And again, both players laughed heartily, and Jarrod only half-regretted a joke about the idea of cheating on his beloved, the mother-to-be of his first kids. `Oh,' chuckled Ings in the passenger seat, seemingly in no hurry to get out and let him on his way into Essex, `I think we both know which category you'd be in, JB.' The initials were a bit over-familiar, he might have thought, though Danny would have heard everyone call him that on the training field all week, so it was fair enough. Still, his curiosity was oddly piqued, and he stared across at this guy who didn't know the first thing about him. `Which?' he demanded, a little more loudly than he meant to. As Danny began to suppress another laugh, he scowled jokily at him and tutted. `I'm not the kind of guy that pukes after three drinks and ruins a night out, for fuck's sake - I know I've got a boyish face, but-' `Haha, that is NOT the category I was thinking...!' `Oh, er, right, I just-' `And you don't look like you go starting fights,' Ings told him simply, giving him a light push across the front of the car, `so it must be the third. Come on, you must be a bit of a shagger. Big heavy bollocks on you, getting your missus preggo with TWINS, for fuck's sake. DILF-to-be of West Ham, haha.' As Jarrod paused quietly and digested this slightly odd appraisal, Danny went on, `And we both know you'd do something you regret if you went out on that team drinks in Shoreditch or wherever it was, fella...!' This made him stop, pressing his thumbs in against the top of the wheel, and a hesitant little frown colour his country-boy looks. The thought had crossed his mind before, but not quite in the way that this West Ham newbie probably meant. It had been in the car park, looking across at buoyant and sociable Declan, beckoning Fornals and Soucek into his motor; a jarring little imagining that he refused to label an urge or desire, more a speculation. He'd wondered if he might get so drunk that he couldn't face the journey from the city to his place, and if he'd have to crash at Rice's flat instead, and if maybe- Nah, nah, don't think about it, that shit can stay in the England camp, where it apparently belongs...! `What?' asked Danny warmly. `Offend you, did I?' `Huh, nah, nah - just - just you've got me wrong there, mate, I'm well happy with my girl, I'm not the kind to go around-' `Ohhh, I was just messing,' he was told. `Don't take it to heart, boss. Right, I should let you get away - or do you wanna see the view from the flat?' Danny seemed to thoughtfully stop himself, and then pat one of those hairy hands on the top of Jarrod's arm where it still clutched the wheel. `Tell you what, why don't you have a COLD beer in mine, and ring the missus, and figure out your plan for the night, instead of huffing and puffing over it like you're an old married bore?' His eyes twinkled, and though his voice had a lightly mocking edge, the offer felt sincere and helpful. `Just a quick drink up in the apartment while you weigh it up, and then you can either ditch your motor here and join the lads, or bugger off into Pleasantville or wherever you two are shacked up. Sound like a plan?' Jarrod looked at him and nodded vaguely, carried along by the firm warmth of the new player's confident voice, and realising that he genuinely couldn't decide what to do. It was a decent flat, big and airy, but very bland and corporate-looking, not Bowen's kinda pad at all. Ings seemed very excited about the views over the Thames, and he was right, with Tower Bridge the nearest landmark in the sprawl of nocturnal colour that stretched ahead. Up here, Jarrod held back from sitting himself down on any of the stiff-looking new leather furniture, unsure he wanted to be here more than five minutes, because he could feel his decision on a knife-edge, and he hadn't even texted his girlfriend, never mind called her to float the idea of his night out. `So,' he called through into the white brightness of the kitchen area, `how come you aren't rushing out to party with all your new teammates, mate?' He'd been a bit surprised by the absence of Danny's wife, who was still at their Birmingham residence, having vaguely assumed that a similar situation might be holding Ings back from getting out on the lash with Rice and Antonio, especially after his debut appearance as a Hammer. The new Hammer himself came strutting back through to him, his coat and jersey off, just a tight black t-shirt left, and the tattoo sleeves of his muscular arms on show as he passed a schooner glass of lager this way. `Honest? Just can't be bothered. Been a crazy week. And - well, I'll be frank - I can't see myself turning up to a team recovery session green with hangover, puking in the ice bath, and making a shitty impression on all my new coaches. Know what I mean? Don't get me wrong,' Ings continued, supping from his own drink, `I'm always the first to the bar, but I know when to keep a low profile. I need to let my goals do the talking for the next few months, rather than trying to be banter king.' They clinked glasses. `Once you pass 30 in this league, you've got to make sure you're in a good position, and West Ham might be my last club, JB - I need to do things right here.' Bowen nodded slowly at this logic, and looked back at the view for a while, pretty comfortable with Ings' explanation, but unsure about his own. He felt guiltily at the outline of his phone in the pocket of his tracksuit pants, knowing he should give her a ring and hint at the dilemma, or... Or, he told himself, just accept the inevitable and get on the road home, like he'd promised! It's not as if Rice or anyone else was bombarding him with messages to try and convince him that he was missing out, or would be missed. Even though, a bitter little voice pointed out, it would have been a draw or worse without his goals, huh. `Seriously though,' interrupted Danny's voice, `congrats on the family news, you know I'm only messing with ya. It'll be great for you both. Just because I've not given in to the dad life yet, don't let me put you off.' Smiling, he'd sat down in the centre of the white sofa, and Jarrod decided that to stay standing would look rude. He nodded gratefully at this comment and perched on the matching armchair, finding it as stiffly new and unyielding as it looked, and not quite able to make himself comfortable. `And like I say, you must be super-fertile or something,' Ings chuckled. It struck Bowen as a bit odd that this was already the third comment of this kind that his new teammate had made tonight, but he laughed hesitantly anyway, and murmured his bland agreement. `Yeah, crazy spunk in those big balls,' the striker told him in the same amused mutter. `That's why I had you for a bit of a shagger on a night out, is all, no judgement of your relationship with that Love Island babe. I mean, when you've got too much spunk, it has to go somewhere.' He made it sound so simple and matter-of-fact, and obviously Bowen had grown up on any number of teams loaded with crude laddish banter, but there was still something odd here, and he shifted against the stiff white leather, not laughing any more. `Give it a rest,' he said a little quietly, but trying to keep his voice bright and breezy. `Again, just thinking of other mates I've played with, that's all!' was the 30-year-old's cheery chuckle of response, and he slid down the sofa to one end, closer to Jarrod. `Maybe you're a way more controlled bloke than all that. Different generation, you and me.' Jarrod scoffed at this, scratching his light stubble again. `Hardly, you're only like 30 or whatever, so... I turned 26 last month,' he added, as if he somehow had to assert that he was a man and not a boy. `Aye,' said Danny in that odd voice that could be mockery or genuine support, `a big alpha bloke now, even if you look like some farm-boy who's barely had his first beer or shag at the barn dance, haha. Sorry, sorry - god, can't say the right thing, can I? Keep making you do that frown, JB. Ignore me, I'm a prick.' Bowen didn't know what to say to literally any of this and he just drank from his glass, the beer tasting so much better and colder than the bottle in the changing rooms. He wondered if the taste and buzz of it would push him to crave the sweaty excitement of the nightclub, but he found himself ambivalent. But then Ings had already offered his parking spot below the apartment block, so he could leave it safely here and even catch the Overground nearby, and... Hmm. He realised that Danny was looking at him expectantly, and had maybe said something else, probably another daft inappropriate comment. He paused, unsure what to say, and Danny just laughed. `I said, is she letting you shag her or is she one of those nervous-bump people?' At this bluntness, Bowen could only pause and blink and take a long sip of beer, but before he could say anything to dismiss the nosy question, Ings was chuckling to himself and going on. `That's where it must get tough, if you're a billy big bollocks heavy cummer like you, mate, and you can't even get the goodies at home, cos she's scared about the bump, or whatever - that's where a bloke could get desperate and ANYTHING could happen, you know? Next thing you know, you've fucked things up and you're shagging someone from a different Love Island scene in the bathroom of-' At that, the 26-year-old was up on his feet, and the glass of beer was smashing on the faux wood floor. Danny rose instantly to meet his aggressive stance, and Jarrod squared quickly up to him, a switch clicked. `You need to stop chatting shit,' he told the other player firmly, pointing a warning finger close to his face. `I don't like the things you're trying to say about me or my missus, so just watch it, alright?' `Whoa, whoa,' protested Ings, without backing off from him, just holding up both hands innocently, `I warned you I'm a prick, it's just my sense of humour - you're alright mate, no need to get so feisty, okay?' `Well just stop it,' Bowen grunted awkwardly, feeling a bit silly as the flash of anger receded, but still wagging the warning finger in the older man's face and stepping up closer to him, unfazed that his host was a good inch taller and a lot broader. `You've been muttering the wrong things since you chatted at me in the changing room and I'm not sure I like it, mate, so watch that mouth or you won't be making such a great start at West Ham, old man, just like you feared, okay?' They stood there, close to each other, and he felt like the wrong quip or push from Danny might earn the balding fucker a punch in the face, never mind his big tatted arms and pub bouncer demanour - Jarrod wasn't scared to get physical when needed, he'd learned a scrappy and fearless style in his seasons at this club. But Danny Ings didn't say a thing to push the wrong buttons, other than the rather infuriatingly cheery smile that still lit his bearded features as he lowered his protesting hands and relaxed his posture in front of him. No. Instead, he did something else, something that might still have earned him a knuckle-print on his cheek or nose, except that Jarrod Bowen didn't quite know how to react, and so he just stood there, fists at his sides, and mouth set into a grim frown. He let out a long deep breath and tried to understand what the hand on his crotch currently meant, paired with that leering grin on Danny's face. `Just like I thought,' breathed Ings quietly. `Fucking huge low hangers, by the feel of it.' `Fuck's sake, mate,' Bowen grunted awkwardly back, alarmed. `And a whopper cock - how big's that hard?' `Shit - none of yer business, mate!' `Bet she loves it-' `I've warned you, Ings.' `Are they full right now? They feel it.' `Mate, you can push me too far, and I'll...' `You'll what?' sneered Ings. `Throw me down and treat me rough? I'll let you in on a secret, big boy.' The 5ft10 striker was leaning in so close that their faces brushed, his mouth coming in close to the ear as he whispered. `That's just how I like it, daddy.' Jarrod's world spun, and for a moment, all he could really concentrate was the knowing hand on his bulge, and the breath on his ear and his cheek. It was hardly the point, but Danny was 100% correct, because he and his missus hadn't fucked since the morning she did the positive pregnancy test. And between that and the Premiership schedule, he'd barely had time to let loose with a quick tug. His cock was rising stiffly against this unexpected touch, and his fertile balls were every bit as big and full as this lewd cunt kept muttering. He stood still like a statue, fists clenching tighter, and still kinda wanting to swing one at the other man's infuriating expression. But... this... felt... good... so... `I'm gonna get it out,' Ings informed him in a quiet voice, `and I'm gonna taste it. We good, Mr Fisticuffs?' He didn't answer this question, just stood there, and even closed his eyes distantly, freezing himself up as he felt Danny's hands settle on his tense arms and stroke downwards. Soon it wasn't a hand rubbing the bulge in his tracksuit, but a mouth. He could feel the club's new striker nuzzling his privates through the nylon, and he shivered uncomfortably, but excitedly, and the weight of his ignored mobile phone in one pocket throbbed paranoidly against his thigh - she would be texting soon and asking about the traffic, asking when to expect him home. He wanted to be out, enjoying himself, getting drunk in the VIP, and... and... just like Danny said, fucking some hot new thing in the bathroom, pushing into a tight new pussy, but he never cheated, NEVER - he was 100% faithful, to all his girlfriends, well unless you counted... er, Harry Kane, Three Lions icon, noshing him off in that quiet toilet stall, or... He reopened his eyes, and tried to relax the aggro fists at his sides, and he looked down: the elastic waist of his West Ham trackies was being pulled away, and with it the black BooHooMan-branded logo too, and there were the short wiry pubes, and then... out was his hard-on, short but fat and glossy at the tip where the foreskin rolled back, and then his balls too, full and heavy and hairy. Danny Ings licked his lips and went to work, and the father-to-be shuddered. He dragged him through into the bedroom, his body on fire. His t-shirt and sweater were off, piled on the faux wood floor between the white leather furniture, but he still had his tracksuit bottoms on, though his cock and ball bounced over the stretched waistband and glistened with spittle. In they went, Jarrod dragging the 5ft10 muscle by the arms, panting as he did so, and mouthing `Shut up' at Danny's crude comments. `Slap me,' hissed the striker, like he had from his knees when he paused in the sloppy blowjob. `Slap me or thump me, you fucking stud, show me who's boss.' `Shut up, shut up-' `Throw me where you want,' groaned Ings, `and call me anything you like.' `Leave it out,' growled Bowen, unwilling to enter into this dirty talk, but tossing him at the bed all the same, pushing him down into a seated position and then cupping his head in both hands so he could lower it to his cock and hold it while he fucked his short thick meat in and out of that surprisingly talented gob, rough in a way that he never was with Dani. Never, he thought, with anyone really, except his national captain, that dark moment of temptation and curiosity, desperate to understand his best mate's gay activity. `You can't talk shit with a cock in your mouth,' he snarled at Ings, unwittingly falling right into the rough-and-nasty talk that the shocking guy was into - it was genuine anger and frustration from the winger, not some sleazy performance. `Fucking choke on it,' he told him simply, leaning into this aggression and authority, behaving in a way that he would never dare with the daughter of the East End's favourite hard man caricature. `That's it, slobber on my cock, you slut-' `Yes sir,' drawled Danny in a moment of gasping freedom whilst Jarrod pulled back and wanked himself, but then the cock was shoved back in and only muffled gagging noises could sound from the slut on his bed. Jarrod reached aggressively over him, scratching fingertips over his bald patch and across his bearded jawline, then down at his thick neck and those bulging shoulder muscles, liking how thick and strong this fella was who was serving him, wanting to rip that black t-shirt away to see just how bullky his bitch was. He paused to do that, helping Danny out of the garment, and then spitting directly onto his face, shocked when it was caught in the mouth and Ings began to tweak his own bullet nipples, those tattooed biceps bulging as he did. `Fuck my mouth,' slurred the 30-year-old, `fuck my mouth like her pussy...' Jarrod, unable to stop himself, slapped the side of the man's face before shoving his cock into the gaping mouth. `You don't mention her, okay, you shut the fuck up about my girl, you dirty little bitch!' When next Danny's mouth was not being slammed into, and he was just gasping and slobbering against Jarrod's six-pack instead, he grunted, `You gonna fuck my man-pussy, daddy? You gonna breed me like you bred her?' And Jarrod pushed at his head roughly, slapping his cock against his cheeks angrily, but the idea struck something in him all the same, even as the striker slurred on, `You gonna breed me and fill me with all that spunk like you did your other dirty Dani, eh? Cum in me, daddy-' `Shut up,' Bowen snapped at him for the hundredth time. `Fuck me good,' begged Ings. `Stick it in me and breed me!' If there had been a single rational thought left in the young footballer's head, he'd have known that he was giving this rough bastard exactly what he wanted, but he was all testosterone and desperation, and so much spunk. Onto the bed they went, grabbing and tussling with Danny's heavy physique, until he was being pushed face-first into his own mass of new pillows, his arse up in the air, the waists of his tracksuit and undies sliding down a bit like on a fat builder, exposing the top of his hairy cheeks. With rough grasping hands, Danny helped them on their way, pushing them down to expose the big round buttocks, covered in dark hair, and spitting clumsily at them whilst gripping his dick in hand. This was madness, but he was lost in it. `That's it,' came Danny's growl, `fuck me like your girlfriend, just another Danny-' `SHUT UP!' And he pushed the man's face down more roughly into the pillows, almost smothering him, whilst he parted the cheeks with another hand and gobbed once into the crack. Then, without much ceremony, he pushed the fat tip of his cock between the cheeks and tried to enter him, shocked by the feel of a muscular arse against his neglected cock. It took him a good few shoves and rubs, but the hole gave way and he was in him, pushing into him quite violently, and shocked that he was doing it and that Danny was taking it, but just needing to punish this cocky bastard - and needing, more than anything, to empty his swollen daddy balls. After holding Ings' face down into the smothering pillows for a little too long, he released his grip, and found that he actually wanted to hear that quivering gruff voice after all: `Fuck yes, that feels good - fuck fuck, fuck me hard, HARDER, god yes!' And smut to that effect. He loved to hear it, though he slapped aggressively at the muscular back, and pushed roughly on the back of the man's head, and slammed his thick meat into him harder with every thrust, shagging him (him!) into the bed with an energy that he usually restrained and controlled, finally fucking with the same gusto and battle spirit that he brought to West Ham's tough league fixtures. `Yes daddy,' the man called him, despite being four years his senior, and when he kept saying `Breed me like your Dani', Jarrod had to shove his face deeper into the pillows again to shut him up, slamming and pounding his hairy bottom with such force and speed that he knew he couldn't last for long. It was a matter of minutes before this slutty man was getting just what he'd asked for, just what he'd muttered about all night: the emptied contents of Bowen's bollocks, a huge dirty load fired inside his hairy arse, with the more established West Ham player panting and grunting over him with his eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pressed tightly just above the hips. For a few more thrusts he shoved into him, wheezing breathlessly and feeling his whole face sticky with sweat. The red mist in his head cooling, because now Danny Ings was just letting out gasps and sighs and moans, not giving him dirty chat or making crude remarks about his missus. Danny. Dani. Danny. Dani. He'd been fucking her, in his head, he told himself, as his hands found the hairy curve of the man's arse, and he shuddered at the knowledge of the line he'd crossed. He'd been fucking this lump of muscle as if it was his beautiful woman, he told himself, because she was pregnant now and wouldn't let him in her, and... and... and... Oh, god. Without saying anything, he pulled out, barely breathing, and scrambled slowly but desperately off the bed, his tracksuit pants still about his shins and calves. Up he tugged them as he hobbled for the door, moving slowly through the bland corporate apartment, finding his way into its oversized bathroom, where he could run his hands under cold water and then splash it on his face, his chest, his pits, his dirty cock. Oh, god. He stood over the sink and mirror in a shaky comedown, and then drifted back into the main living area and all its open-plan showhome grandeur. On the floor between the sofa and chair was his dropped clothing, but also the puddle and broken glass of his dropped beer. He picked his way past this mess and retrieved the layers of clothing, tugging them onto his tingling skin, covering up his chest and back and wiping the sleeves against his feverish face. Then, shaken, he sat back down in that stiff uncomfortable armchair, just staring down into the slick of beer on the laminate boards, the little sparkles of broken glass in it, as shattered as his discipline and certainty. His cock tingled sensitively inside his pants, and he glanced up as Danny emerged from the bedroom. He'd pulled a silky claret robe around his body, showing just a V of hairy chest, and a flash of leg before his socks. `Right,' Ings said very casually, `are you going out with the lads or driving home?' Bowen stared sharply at him. `What?' he asked, genuinely lost. `Tonight,' the other footballer grunted simply. `You came up here to have a beer and make up your mind. And... well, the beer is as fucked as my hole. So, what are you doing next?' The 26-year-old just stared at him, somehow as shaken by his cool indifference now as he had been by his lewd suggestions and nasty provocations before. Danny looked chill and comfortable in his robe, and he was moving through into the kitchen, apparently to find stuff to clean up the beer and glass. Jarrod's eyes followed him, and he slowly got up from his uncomfortable seat, wiping clammy palms on his knees. `Home,' he muttered, half to himself. `Probably for the best,' his host agreed quietly. `You don't look up to a night out.' Danny didn't even look this way as he attacked the mess with a mop, and Jarrod drifted away from him, picking up his jacket from the back of another chair, and making his way to the door. He just felt numb and a little bit frightened of himself. As he stopped in front of the door, unsure what to say, Danny stopped in his mopping and waved confidently this way, the robe slipping and showing a bit more chest muscle. `Good to hang out,' Ings called, as if they'd just shared a beer together and talked about footy. Bowen unlatched the door and hurried out into the corridor, but just before he slammed the door behind him, he heard the man's teasing voice follow him out: `Come again, daddy.' He practically sprinted to the lift, annoyed by how sensitive his cock was bouncing in his clothes, and by the prickle of the sex sweat under the layers, and he opened up his phone. He ignored the string of pleading messages that seemed to have just arrived, an already-tipsy Declan Rice begging him to join them at his flat and then on to the club, and he dialled the number to call his girlfriend instead. `Traffic,' he told her through his panting, full of apology, `but I will be back soon. Promise.' Alone in the apartment, Ings gave up on the mess, resting the mop and strutting back through into his big master bedroom, all immaculate and unlived in but for the creased outline of their heavy bodies where he'd been ploughed into the bed. He wondered silently if he would need to change the sheets for before Mrs Ings joined him here, but probably not, it'd be fine. He went to the desk in the corner, by another huge window with its river view, and picked up the spare mobile phone there, his secret one that he would never leave lying around whilst his wife was in residence. It wasn't locked, and he smirked at the app on-screen, stopping the sound recording that would have captured every filthy word and slap. Then he went into the messaging app and fired it across the network, tapping in his message of `For you to listen to tonight, sir'. Soon, the reply came, and he hunched over the device like an excited teen with their first crush, reading the `Good boy' and `Can't wait' that came in rapid succession. His hole stinging from the speed and force of Bowen's fucking, the practised submissive bottom smiled at the thought of the Irish beast who'd tamed him, but now very rarely came to see him in real life, even if he managed to dominate him from a distance in spite of that. The thought of Shane Long, his Celtic king, made him weak at the knees, and his cock strain against the silky robe. `Think I'll have fun here,' he texted to his former Southampton teammate. `Just like Villa lol' came the response. `Even more,' Danny typed in rapidly. Another `Good boy', and then a picture message. An old one, one that Danny might have thought or hoped was deleted by them both, a still of him on his kitchen floor with a carrot up his arse, taken for his dom a couple of years back, when he was much newer to serving hot football daddies. He grinned and responded `Thank you sir' and then typed out `Miss you' before wiping it away, knowing that he would be scolded for such neediness. But then, just as he was about to lock the device and put it down, the final message from old Shane slid into his inbox, and he stared at it eagerly: `Maybe I'll have to cum visit lol', and he hit a thumbs-up react as fast as he could, and he opened his robe to grab and wank his cock, desperate to be reunited with the Irish striker who had broken him in. Compared to him, Bowen was nothing but a boy, he needed his original DILF back inside him, making him scream - and he wanked himself to completion looking at just the messages, desperate for that powerful man to come back and claim him for the first time in many long months. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-361

Date: Sun, 16 Jul 2023 18:42:06 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 361 Part 361: Clean Sheets/Dirty Sheets In the gentlemen's loos of the hotel function rooms, he pushed his cock back inside his black briefs and then did up the zip fly of his close-fitting M&S tailored trousers; shifting from the urinals to the sinks, the mop-headed young English lad checked himself out in the mirrors. After a cursory wash of his paws, he shook them dry and clumsily adjusted the collar and knot of his tie, admiring the teenager-at-wedding or scally-at-court charm of the compulsory suit he'd had to don for tonight's celebrations, like all of his triumphant teammates. It was far from his usual style of baggy streetwear, but he liked the tailored fit and the look it gave him, in contrast to his edgy goatee and the honeyed curls of his trendy hair. The 20-year-old lingered a few moments more, enjoying his reflection, and experimenting with loosing the thick platinum chain necklace from beneath his collar and letting it hang obnoxiously over the knot his tie as a visible accessory; the Surrey-born football star thought it made him look like a right Peaky Blinders gangster, but he pushed the cool metal back in against his neck as the exit door crunched and a couple of other lads in matching suits came crashing into the gents', laughing loudly as they did. `Harvvvvvvvvvvv,' boomed one of the other lads immediately, staggering this way, and a bullish chant sounded from the other entrant: `Star-Boy, Star-Boy, Star-Boy!' For a moment, Harvey Elliott caught the eye of the bigger lad in the mirror, then half-turned as if to greet him with a clasped hand and bump of shoulders; but the other young athlete, notably taller and broader than himself, just crashed into him and wrapped arms about his shoulders in an overwhelming hug, almost bowling him right into the sinks with his clumsy strength. `YES, mate,' the England Under-21s captain exclaimed gruffly, shaking him almost off his feet, and scrunching at the messy mop of his hair - a strong contrast to the rather severe crop of the big skinhead, who'd come into the tournament with a short trim and then gone full yobbo midway because he reckoned it intimidated the opposition more. A squeezing awkward hug from behind locked about the 5ft7 winger and then he was released - Taylor Harwood-Bellis staggering simply from him with another loud hoot of `Haaar-vey', echoed by the other tall lout at the urinals, Charlie Creswell. For a moment, Harvey just hovered at the sink with faintly damp hands and a racing heart - being grabbed and jostled like that by a 6ft2 centre-back like the skipper made him feel 3ft tall and a few years younger again, a condescension that rankled with his Premiership Anfield ego, and there was some beer-warmed part of him that wanted to spin around and tell the bigger pair not to be such fucking trolls. But then, the tactile affection of his fellow Young Lions awoke OTHER feelings in Elliott too, and so he just turned slowly and gave a thoughtful glance to the two tailored silhouettes at the urinals instead, whilst the sparkling clean lavatory echoed with the watery gurgle of beer piss. `I'll leave you two here to admire each other's pricks,' the young midfield player barked dryly at the other youths, and made for the exit, still patting his hands dry on the lapels of his matching blazer, part of the same Marks & Spencer tailoring that was modelled by their senior counterparts. Harvey left the brash echoing laughter of the two defenders behind and broke out into the air-conditioned cool of the function suites, bladder emptied and ready to rejoin the party. Not so long ago, Harvey Elliott had been a little bruised by a lack of call-up for the REAL England squad. After all, the likes of Bellingham and Saka were now firmly installed in Southgate's plans, and mediocrity like Smith-Rowe had been able to dabble in the top level of international footy. The 20-year-old Liverpool player had been greedy for his own shot, even before he'd fucked Harry Kane in the mouth and assumed he'd be due his first senior cap. Under-21s had seemed like bullshit to him, stuff he'd moved past and outgrown... that was until they blistered through the tournament without conceding a single goal and then, tonight, smashed an ill-disciplined young Spain to take the Euros medals home. It's funny what a big tournament win can do for perspective. Harvey had enjoyed this Euros run more and more with each win, although he was still a little frustrated to be a second-half substitution in most fixtures. He'd worked hard in spite of the tough season behind him, tried his best to bond with the other lads, and kept his eye on the informal scouting of senior Three Lions reps who were studying the youth team's every move. It had only been as they went into the Semis had stopped obsessing over a senior call-up and appreciated that the Under-21s trophy would be a career breakthrough in itself - and tonight, on the top floor of a squat brutalist hotel in the obscure Georgian city of Batumi, this was a sentiment that had gripped the entire squad of up-and-coming English footy lads. He grinned as he made his way from the loos to the bar, pleased to be in the midst of the blokey celebrations; his young career had already seen some big achievements at Anfield, but he'd felt somewhat peripheral to them, just a young upstart on the fringe of the party compared to the likes of Hendo, Robbo and co. Here, he was probably one of the more experienced and successful figures, despite being one of the youngest, and he was generally treated by the players and staff as A-list, someone deserving of quiet respect and vocal admiration. He loved it. At the bar, Elliott bought himself another ice-cold beer bottle, and tapped his card to pay for a hefty round of Jagerbombs that he slid down to the corner and started gesturing boldly to nearby fellas to divvy out. The young men on this squad were of an age where their sizable salaries were still novelty, and gestures like this were more exciting and appreciated. Harvey could feel a big-shot handing out the cheap trashy shots, spilling sticky slicks down his knuckles and wrists, and knocking back the last couple for himself. There was one issue with this hot summery tournament though, the Liverpool midfielder would have to admit, and it separated the Euros run from his last trip out with this second-tier squad: a distinct lack of... action. As the recurring murky thought crossed his otherwise drunk and happy mind, the young football stud pulled lightly at the crotch of his suit trousers again, where his cock and full balls were nestled in those taut black CK briefs, and he made a bitter little grunt before knocking back the last Jagerbomb. All this testosterone in the continental heat, all of these big wins and clean sheets - and he hadn't enjoyed the slightest bit of horseplay with any of the other Young Lions...! He had, of course, made his subtle and not-so-subtle efforts, particularly at the handful of playful fuckers who had provided entertainment last camp. But everyone just seemed so fucking invested in the tournament, the dry bastards, or so wary and prudish, and he knew better than push things so far as to expose his own appetite in full. Scowling at the corner of the bar, he eyed up a couple of what he'd assumed to be likely candidates: pretty boy Max Aarons, right now laughing his head off at the apparent banter of their head coach, had acted as if their rowdy en suite fuck had never happened, and avoided being alone with him so far; ginger fluffer Tommy Doyle over there, he thought grimly, had been curt in informing him that their hotel bed romp last time had ended his blossoming romance with a teammate, and then blocked his number on WhatsApp. No cheeky action for Harvey's virile prick; not even a hushed circle-jerk in the locker-rooms of their various training grounds and match stadiums. In fact, barely a private tug under the duvet in his own hotel suites, to be honest; it wasn't worth upsetting priggish Curt and hearing about it all season once they were back in Scouser-Land. Fucking bell-ends! The unattended sexual tension had the youth on edge tonight, tingling with unspent extra energy, and now wired by alcohol and sporting elation. He licked a little sweet residue from his plump pink lips and then pursed them against the neck of the cool bottle for a slurp of beer, staring resentfully up and down the broad bar space, and thinking that he might explode if he didn't empty a load tonight...! A couple more beers and a comfy stool near the windows, and Harvey's mind was at least partly relieved of this spike of tension and frustration - he was now gladly listening to Curtis Jones' retelling of his big goal-scoring moment from tonight's cup final, throwing the odd encouraging question or compliment at the gangly 22-year-old Merseysider, who was barely even slipping into his usual stammers as he recounted the excitement to this small cluster of players overlooking the Georgian city below. Here was a moment where Harvey could put aside selfish ego and desire; he had a lot of love for the 6ft1 midfielder who'd risen ahead of them in the LFC youth academy, and he just felt warm sincere pride that his clubmate had been the star striker of tonight's historic win. `It was a quality goal, mate,' droned the Manc accent of young City attacker Cole Palmer, a lad almost as tall and gangly as Jones himself, seated on the next stool. `Ice in your veins!' complimented the fourth of their current posse, spare goalkeeper Josh Griffiths. Elliott enjoyed watching the high blush in Jones' lean cheeks and the goofy smile on his lips, and he leaned over to slap and rub at the taller lad's back through his warm blazer, immensely pleased for the socially awkward Scouser. `Gonna be the saviour of Liverpool,' he predicted boldly, side-hugging at the lanky fuckerr and almost swinging off his stool as he clinked their beers together. `Curtis Big Bollocks, European champ.' Happy laughter from the four friends, and then interruptions as one of the lead coaches approached to make goodbyes - and obviously singling Curtis out for a handshake and line of praise, just about denting Harvey's selfless pleasure for his friend. Where was his own big congratulations on the part he'd played...? Back at the urinal, pissing again - the seal well and truly broken now, and the aim of his stream a little shakier as the alcohol in his blood took its hold. Acknowledging this fact, the drunk lad let out a tipsy snarl of chuckles, blinking a few times to steady his focus before he got piss down the crisp legs of the dark grey suit. Door, footsteps, company at the urinal: `Plastoc Scouser, wotcha!' Another thumping hand to the back, as the lad at the next pissing stall approached him with the same rough tactile affection as Harwood-Bellis. Harvey gave a sidelong look to the much taller figure at his side, grinning to see one of his newer close pals in the squad, even if they'd have to be vicious rivals once back on Merseyside. Big hefty Jarrad Braithwaite left one heavy paw on Harvey's shoulder whilst the other deflty undid his fly. It was all the 20-year-old could do not to stare keenly down there as a cock was loosed and a loud spray of piss was directed down into the porcelain, sounding like a relieved horse. Instead, Harvey focused on shaking the final few drops from his own chubby cock, spraying the wall a bit as another heavy pat on the shoulder from the bigger lad briefly imbalanced him. At his side, Braithwaite let out a demonstrative sigh that turned into a laugh: `Fuck, been holding that in all night!' Pushing his twitching member back inside his trousers, Harvey spun away and towards those sinks, though his eyes fell on the mirror - the rear view of just how tall and well-built the Cumbrian defender actually was, his strong young Everton rival and recent pal. Jesus, the 21-year-old was a big tower of a guy, nearing 6ft5! Yet another powerful youngster who made Harvey feel dwarfed and a little awkward, unable to match the physicality of these contemporaries on the training ground - but confident in his speed and dexterity against the lumbering brutes who held this winning team together. And now the big rugged Evertonian was next to him, washing his big chapped hands with a little flash of soap, and meeting his thoughtful eyes in the mirror. `You won't fucking believe this,' the Carlisle-born defender announced, nudging him so heavily that he had to stop himself tumbling the other way - and big Jarrad was reaching for the inside pocket of his blazer and pulling out some kind of business card to lay down on the edge of their sinks, stifling a stupid giggle as he did. A little bewildered, Harvey thumbed it up and gave it a read, then snorted derisively and gave his pal a sharp look. `You desperate enough to pay for it, Braith?' The Cumbrian snorted. `Me? Nah! Fuck that - it's Charlie's idea. We found it in a phone box outside the hotel, that's all. Ha ha. Mad, innit?' The big brash blond was grinning and gurning as if the entire concept was new to him, and Harvey read the card again - it was pretty minimal, just the name and contact number of the presumed hooker, and a logo that left little to the imagination. He was amused and semi-aroused, but he flicked the rectangle of card back at Jarrad, dismissive. `Quick way to have the gaffer blacklist your name from any future international duty,' he muttered with uncharacteristic piety. A heft shrug from the 6ft5 defender. `Tournament's done, ain't it?' He was preening at his blond hair in the mirror, the confines of his blazer seeming to struggle with the muscular build of his shoulders as he did. `We're not gonna be Under 21s after this win, little fella.' Harvey tried to ignore the minor jibe, just a strained laugh, and a little fiddle with his tie to loosen the knot, but his eyes drawn sideways to Jarrad's rather chiselled looks and swelling chest as he undid his tie and top buttons. He blinked twice and looked away again, ignoring the tingling in his package. `Tell Charlie boy not to throw it all away by calling that number,' he mumbled with a concerned edge to his voice, unsure why he was capable of such sensible advice when he was this loaded on beer and Jagermeister. Jarrad gave a single hoot of laughter and shook him again by one shoulder. `Too late for that, captain sensible - Cresswell is down in reception waiting for her right now.' The big handsome 21-year-old leered confrontationaly at him before backing off, shaking his hands dry as he did. `You coming down for a deeks, kid?' And off he spun, shouldering his way out of the bathroom with the grace of a caveman, leaving the diminutive `kid' spinning in Harvey's beery thoughts. The disappearance of the coaching staff and `real' adults had shifted the mood in the bar. The room was less full, and yet louder, the laddish voices raised to the max and more beer ending up on shirt-fronts than in clumsy mouths. A few of the Under-21 players had already seemingly retired, gradually thinning out the crowd, but sure enough Braithwaite and Cresswell were nowhere to be seen, though Elliott didn't fully believe that the pair of footballers were really downstairs greeting a sex worker - reception wouldn't stand for it! And everyone on this squad was too serious and too professional, that much had been obvious for the past couple of weeks, right? Vaguely unsettled, the winger idled near the centre of the room, looking thoughtfully out into the shadowy stairwell that looked down into the rest of their hotel base. He glanced about, surprised that there were no staff left up drinking, and it was just the majority of the actual squad who were left, all in various states of dishevelment of their team tailoring, various blazers and ties jettisoned for open-chested white shirts as beer bottles were drained and replaced. The 20-year-old reached an internal decision and he darted across the room to the doors, out onto that lamp-lit landing. He held the metallic bannister and peered curiously down the deep well of space, unable to see anything of the reception below - but a couple of indistinct throaty voices echoed up to his ears, what sounded like the two absent players bantering their way down to the ground floor. Fuck, he thought, they were serious. He let out an ambiguous laugh and drummed his fingers on the rail, then glanced over his shoulder - it was Norwich's Max Aarons, stepping out of the function rooms with a glassy drunk look in his eyes, and an instant frown on his attractive features as their eyes locked. Harvey, forgetting the prostitute business in a flash, raised one barred eyebrow and grinned meaningfully across at the 23-year-old London Canary, who was still fully suited and booted with a glossy sheen of sweat on his brow. `Had enough?' Elliott asked quietly. `Oh, hey,' mumbled the Norwich defender. Harvey grinned more widely at him, doing his best to communicate with every muscle of his face that he was thinking about the night they'd shared not so long ago in a different team hotel, Max pressed up against the bathroom unit with his big round arse being rammed by Harvey's newly acquired topping skills, trained by a begrudging daddy Milner. Horny now, the 20-year-old licked his bottom lip and gave the bulging front of his suit pants a gentle squeeze. `Where's your roomie?' he asked, dropping his voice further. `What?' Aarons demanded a little tartly, even though his eyes betrayed that he knew exactly what was being asked. These eyes told Elliott plenty, and his own throbbing bollocks told him the rest; he slid away from the bannister and drew close to the 5ft10 lad, smirking up at him and squaring his shoulders almost confrontationally. He thought about how greedy the big-bottomed Canary had been a couple of months back, how he'd squealed as he was pounded in the hotel bathroom - the sweaty pinnacle of Harvey's exploits on that camp! The lad had the most gorgeous round brown arse cheeks in the world... He squeezed his crotch more and reached his other hand past Max's hip, reaching around to take a handful of suited glute, even though they were in partial view of the glass doors to the bar- `Oi,' snapped the West Londoner, pushing him roughly away with such force that Harvey had to grasp for the bannister again to stop himself tripping onto the stairs. `Just fucking drop it,' hissed the 23-year-old as he barged past him and down the first flight, not even looking back - a line that left the Liverpool starlet blushing awkwardly and steadying himself against the rail, somewhat deflated. His teens behind him, he'd been working hard to convince himself he was a powerful top, a kind of irresistible charismatic scallywag - it had definitely felt that way earlier this year, powering into a bearded DILF like James fucking Milner, and then throwing his cock about in this Under-21s cohort, getting up to mischief... but now he just felt like a scrappy midget in the company of these burly oafs, and out of the blue he thought again about the fact he'd barely made a starting line-up all tournament. The two ideas mixed in his drunken paranoia, the idea that his medal was only part-deserved, and that he wasn't quite the virile young stud that he'd been made to feel. Still scowling and blushing in his cheeks, Harvey tilted his heads and looked down into the landings below, seeing Aarons disappear away through one of the branching doorways. Prissy twat, he thought resentfully, the fat-arsed pretty boy had enjoyed it at the time, what was his issue now? Ungrateful twit, just like Tommy Doyle, the ginger prick! Harvey scratched restlessly at the crotch of his suit trousers and he wriggled against the heat of his blazer, undoing another button on his pale fluffy chest. `Hey,' called a soft voice, and another player was emerging from the warm bar, a beer in each hand; it was the star of the night, big Curtis, looking a little worse for wear, and certainly less suited and booted than sulky Max. Curtis' shirt was half-open and half-untucked and his tie was around his head like he was commando or stag do. He wasn't the best-looking lad in the world, but he was cute in a big dopey way, his crooked smile and acne-marked features all friendly concern as he approached. `Everything ok?' the other Liverpool player called, taking a long step in his direction. `Couldn't find you after I bought these.' Harvey stared for a moment with real affection at the 6ft1 lad, then accepted his beer and just held its icy cool against his flushed face. Then, rather than meeting Jones' soft-hearted concern, he just sniggered and blurted at him, `Couple of the others have hired a prozzer. You up for it, big man?' Inevitably, a flash of real panic crossed Curits' long face and his reply was an apopolexy of speech difficulties. `W-w-what? A p-p-prostit-t-t-tute? F-f-f-fuck's s-sake!' It was mean, but Harvey couldn't help himself. `They're bringing her up just for you, mate,' he barked. `You scored the winner, didn't you? If anyone deserves to get their dick wet tonight...!' He burst into seedy chuckles, punching Curtis in the arm, then taking a swig of beer back - he pushed down the insecurity and annoyance of Max's rejection, enjoying the wobble of this geek's lower lip and the furtive glances he was shooting down the stairwell, blinking stupidly. `You're joking?' mumbled the midfielder. `Deadly serious!' he insisted playfully. `F-f-fuck that,' Curtis insisted weakly. `Well, that's the plan, fella,' Harvey quipped with a wink. Just then, his bestie looking mortified, they were both distracted by a ping and sliding sound as the elevator on the far side of the landing opened - and out of it spilled the big burly figures of Jarrad and Charlie, but not the busty woman suggested by the artwork on that business card. The two footballers, neither of whom had been able to spend their energy as unused subs in tonight's final, hooted with coarse laughter and crashed in this direction, holding onto one another and trying to suppress their stupid chortles. Curtis blinked awkwardly at them and Harvey frowned with curiosity. `Where is she, then?' he demanded, as if he hadn't chided Braithwaite's idea in the gents about ten minutes ago. `Fuck,' howled Jarrad, covering his face with both big hands. Next to him, Leeds United's Charlie Cresswell snorted with laughter and shook his head. `We just watched her getting marched out of the building... Fuck - if we'd been a moment quicker it would have been obvious and the staff would have been ratting on us to the gaffer.' He sniggered idiotically. `We saw her getting grilled and just scarpered into the lift, haha - fuck, she didn't look ANYTHING like her picture. Swear she was someone's granny. Haha!' Both he and the rugged Everton player shook with laughter and fell against each other, so entertained with their own horny exploits. `Will she be in t-t-trouble?' came Curtis' worried input. Harvey shook off a touch of concern and just scowled at his friend as if it was a ridiculous question, then threw the drunken question out there. `Without her, who's going to get your cock sorted, champ?' He shoved at the lanky lad in the same rough way as the other lads kept doing to him, and then grinned mischievously at Jarrad and Charlie. The two defenders were nodding furious. `You were gonna get first go on her,' the Leeds player sniggered, throwing his arms about Jones in a rough hug. Harvey laughed along, unable to help but give his semi a rub in the front of his tailored pants and tight briefs; the air was thick with testosterone and alcohol, and his reservations about the aborted sex worker were long-gone. Tonight might get interesting. The bar closed soon after that - strict orders from the team bosses, apparently, and met with much loud booing from every lad still drinking. Some shed away at that point, Tommy Doyle managing to throw Harvey a sour glare even at this happy occasion, and triggering a slow exodus of weary drinkers who were less hyper on Red Bull. But the landing outside the bar remained crowded with about nine or ten of them, and it was Harvey who hissed the new plan to everybody with a few elbow digs and heavy slaps to the shoulder. `Few vodkas in our room?' he called repeatedly, and then faced up to the worried expression of his cohabitant. Curtis didn't need to say anything to broadcast his doubts, but Harvey grinned winsomely and hugged him tight. `Nightcap to celebrate you, big lad, that's all - okay? We'll keep the noise down...!' The player suites here were decently sized, but the twin room still felt quickly crowded with nine strapping young men lounging in it, two bottles of contraband vodka shared between them and mixed with tiny amounts of mini-bar soda. Harvey himself was perched on the desk next to an upturned lamp, his socked feet up on the arm of the study chair - his blazer and tie abandoned and his white shirt open halfway down his torso. He took slow sips from his imbalance mixer drink and enjoyed the debauched air of his laddish cronies scattered across the room. The chair at his feet was occupied by the draped figure of his big pal Jarrad, almost recreating the shared poses the enemy players had struck as they celebrated their medals at the stadium tonight - the only other chair in the room was occupied by the slouching mass of another big Cumbrian giant, their lauded and undefeated goalkeeper James Trafford. On one of the two doubles, Curtis looked anxious about the way Taylor kept almost spilling his drink, whilst the other was occupied by the relaxed figures of Cole Palmer and Levi Colwill. Their group was rounded out by Charlie Cresswell and Emile Smith-Rowe at the window, and Luke Thomas and Morgan Gibbs-White standing between the beds, fighting over the TV remote to flick through the foreign-language channels. `Where's Gordon?' someone was demanding. `And Skipp? Why are some lads such fucking lightweights.' `Jesus, do these guys have any proper telly on their network, or what?' grunted another drunk young footy stud, winning the fight for the remote. `Is this vodka and lemonade actually just vodka?' bemoaned a third loud voice, ignoring the agreement to remain quiet and avoid waking any neighbouring suites. Harvey, ignoring this hubbub, kicked his socked toes at Jarrad's arm, poised next to the sprawled bigger lad. `Hey, it's a shame you didn't get that girl up here,' he muttered confidentially, just loud enough for the Cumbrian to hear. `Imagine all nine of us sharing one bird, that would be fucking mental.' He grinned eagerly at the uncertain smirk on the bigger lad's face, throwing a giddy laugh at him in case his idea was too much - but Braithwaite gave a slow heavy nod and slapped a hand on his knee. `Too right,' he half-belched. `That was Charlie's thinking - get loads of us in on it, fuck her like we fucked the Spanish, haha, TEAMWORK...' He brought up a grazed fist and Harvey bumped knuckles with it, his cock throbbing in his briefs. Shame we don't have those sluts Max or Tommy in here, he thought, and almost blurted out, still resentful about the way those one-time playmates had avoided his hints and approaches, acting like their recent encounters were imagined or shameful. Worse prudes than Mo fucking Salah, he thought, thinking about the slew of unanswered messages he'd fired at his Egyptian king over the summer break from Anfield - or Milner, who had told him to stop sending selfies to him in the early hours of the morning. Bloody bores! Drunk and eager, Harvey chuckled dumbly to himself, and ran his fingers through the sweaty mop of his hair, staring hungrily about the room. `Oi, Chaz,' Jarrad was hollering across the room. `Harvs was just saying - wish we'd got Sonya down there up here after all, all had a turn on her - haha - even if she was a bit minging!' And the 6ft5 Carlisle lad almost fell over in his attempt to unfolding his big suited body from the desk chair, leaning back on Harvey for support before staggering into the centre of the room and miming a very obvious deed for all to see - one hand placed in the air in front of him to guide an imaginary head, while he made a few throaty moans and rolled his hips. Laughter rippled around the suite and Charlie Cresswell vaulted across the bed to join him in the centre - both hands clutched behind his head, elbows jutting out, the other big defender thrusted melodramatically into the space where the imaginary prostitute got to work, before the two huge lads fell stupidly against each other and hooted with laughter, to the apparent enjoyment of everyone but uncomfortable Curtis and scowling Morgan. `Oh yeah,' Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder declared as he stumbled this way and stole Jarrad's chair, `that's just what we all need, ruining our careers before they've got going...!' At 23, Gibbs-White was marginally one of the more seasoned and level-headed men on this young squad, taking to the chair now like a throne and spinning lightly on it whilst glaring at the troublemakers. `That bird would be straight on to the tabloids and our names would be mud in the Premiership, you know how it goes - we've all seen the vids.' The moody-faced footballer slouched in the seat and span, looking seriously about at them as if he was the voice of moral certainty - there was a brief quiet before Arsenal's Emile, still perched at the window, boomed with laughter. `Gibbo mate, what vids you been watching online?' the Gooner demanded very loudly, and the room shook with crude laughter again. Harvey laughed along but patted Morgan on the shoulder to show support, or at least... familiarity. He knew exactly what videos the Forest player meant, and he was more than a little interested by the idea that his older pal had watched them. He was getting more and more stupidly horny, too drunk for real caution as he patted and rubbed at the handsome mixed-race lad's shoulder muscles through his white shirt, seemingly unnoticed. Huh, he thought, Max Aarons doesn't know what he's missing - I'd have given him a lovely back-rub after I smashed his arse. Harvey paused awkwardly as if he might have spoken this thought aloud, his hand pausing against the other lad's body heat. Chuckling vaguely to himself, he slid off the desk and away from Gibbs, hovering by the two big beds, slurping vodka-and-coke-and-vodka. For a moment, he pulled himself away from the fray, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom - he clanked his glass down at the sink and then splashed cool water against his flushed cheeks and mussed fringe. He grinned stupidly at his reflection in the mirror, picturing himself railing Aarons in a similar Euro 4-star hotel. Behind him, the room shook with raised voices and heavy thumps as the lads shifted and bantered, and Harvey entertained a rash idea - ringing down to whatever room the Norwich player was occupying and telling him that there were nine big cocks up here in need of room service, hehe! Or he could call on Sheffield's ginger Tommy! Abandoning his unnecessary drink on the porcelain, Harvey drifted back into the room, scratching his thin chest hair through the open shirt, and thinking dirty thoughts. Two or three of the others seemed to be wrestling, perhaps still for the TV remote; Harvey's attention drifted to the wall-mounted screen and the softcore porn that someone had stumbled across, which made him chuckle and rub his crotch. And his eyes drifted back towards the desk where he'd been perched, and serious-faced Morgan, who was still hunched there with a gentle spin back and forth - and it seemed the Nottingham star was staring thoughtfully back at him, eyes slightly narrowed. Hmm, perhaps the stocky 5ft7 fella, the only lad here who didn't make Harvey feel short as fuck, had noticed that little shoulder rub after all... Somewhat nervous in spite of his inebriation, Elliott picked his way back in that direction, ducking to one side to avoid being sent flying by the physical play of the others, until he was stood right by Gibbs-White, perching his own pert arse back against the edge of the desk, and bringing his left hand gently up to rest on that broad shoulder muscle again, feeling its firmness and heat through the starchy white fabric. He gave a gentle rub and Morgan said nothing. Hmm. Only half-listening to the rabble of voices that filled the room, Harvey stroked that broad shoulder and then tickled his fingertips against the back of the lad's neck. Morgan was tense, and he understood that: the Forest player's late red card had been a rare moment of jeopardy in their spotless win, and would probably be Gibbo's remembered contribution to the otherwise perfect tournament. But they'd won, it didn't matter. Now he realised that he WAS thinking aloud; Morgan's head was tilted this way with a soulful look in his eyes. `Thanks,' he murmured distantly, and Harvey blinked and sighed, realising just how wasted he actually was. `Maybe we call this prozzer back up and get her in through a different entrance?' mused the distinctive Stockport growl of their captain, Harwood-Bellis; `She was gross!' chuckled the voice of Cresswell, joined by loud vomiting noises from Braithwaite; `Who the fuck pays for sex?' demanded Smith-Rowe quite touchily, making Harvey giggle to himself - Emile had been SUCH A GRUMP this trip, wasn't he still messing about with the legendary England captain? Their voices washed over him and he stroked his hand back and forth across Morgan's strong upper back, enjoying the physical contact, the heat and strength next to him, thinking idly of mental snapshots of the ripped physiques of teammates like Salah and Milner, his thoughts tumbling and blurring... `Was she really THAT gross?' That curious question seemed to come from the more reserved Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, talking across the laughter and dirty jokes of his pals. `Not if you're into old biddies,' murmured someone, but another voice, less distinct, announced that `Sometimes a fella just needs his cock sucked, you know?! Does it really matter what she looks like?' Much throaty laughter at that, including from Gibbs-White, whose muscular form juddered against Harvey's wandering hand. `Preach!' boomed someone, maybe Jarrad. `Yeah, any hole's a goal.' That was big goalie Trafford, he thought. `You lot are monsters,' sniggered a fairly nervous voice - Cole, was that? `Oh, like you ain't horny as fuck too after tonight!' argued Emile bluntly. `Does everyone get that after a big win?' mused a more thoughtful speaker, Leicester's Luke Thomas. Still, Harvey let the voices buffer against him, smirking distantly and just slouching back where he was, chewing at one side of his lips, and feeling a couple of beads of cool tapwater run down his jawline and onto his neck. Any hole's a goal, he thought; who the fuck cared who was doing the sucking, some of them were saying. Hah. Brilliant. Good point. Damn, he cursed inwardly, he'd love his cock sucked, and he pictured Max's pouting lips - he pictured a one-off with Trent Alexander-Arnold in a kit closet, and he pictured early trembling experimentation in his weed-hazy attic bedroom, reaching inside Neco Williams' joggers, and- Damn it, he didn't just want his cock sucked, he wanted to- `What's that you're mumbling?' questioned Morgan quietly. Harvey blinked and shuddered, unsure what he'd said. He stood there with his hand limp against the older lad's shoulder, and slowly turned to meet his dark question-filled eyes. As always, Morgan's face looked deadly serious, a resting frown of serious focused intensity. But then his lips curled a little, the suggestion of a smile. Harvey felt nervous in spite of his lost inhibitions, and he let out a slow half-laugh. `Dammit, I'd take a blowie from an ageing hooker!' declared Trafford hoarsely, close-by, followed by taunting chants from someone else, `Rooney Rooney Rooney!' `Go on,' urged the deep, thoughtful voice of the Nottingham Forest player, and Harvey began to slide from the desk, bending his knees. As he kneeled slowly down beside the study chair, it was Morgan's turn to pat and stroke at his neck and shoulder, pawing gently but firmly at him, guiding him down there - and then, for a blissful moment, the wasted 20-year-old felt that the rest of the room didn't exist, just this stocky well-muscled pal, who he'd shared a cheeky group wank with in a St George's Park locker-room earlier this year. Down to his knees, shuffling close, resting his hands on sturdy thighs, and looking up past the folds of creased white shirt, looking into Morgan's intense eyes and gently smirking lips... Harvey had no idea at what point anybody noticed, because for a moment he was lost: reaching for the belt buckle and undoing it, sliding down the zipper, rubbing a hand in against the loose grey boxers. Then staring at the cock in his hand as if hypnotised by a cobra, gripping the freed shaft and taking in the musty crotch smell. Darting his tongue out to roll against the exposed pink of the head, pulling back more of the dark foreskin and tasting a good mouthful of it - Morgan's instant appreciative purr. Slow-motion moments of devious delight, the other seven lads forgotten. But then their voices... `What the actual fuck?' `Is he-? I mean, is he actually-? Is that-?' `Whoa, Harveyyyyyy, yes boy!' `Dammit, did someone spike my drink?' `Fuck...!' `Jesus, somebody give him a kick, wake him up...' `Morgan, you dirty dog!' Gibbs-White just out a long chuckling groan; Elliott slurped up and down the shaft, held it in one curled fist, and then blinked stupidly, before turning his head and glancing uncertainly about the room. The men all seemed incredibly close, their shocked faces looming over him at different heights and positions, and yet... he just laughed, licking his lips, and turned back around, opening wide to take the thick shaft in against his tongue, loving the taste and firmness of it filling up his gob. `What the FUCK?' repeated Curtis' Scouse drawl. `He's fucking not! Fucking hell!' ranted Colwill, sounding scandalised. `Harvey man, this is bare funny, what a legend...' came the uncertain boom of Braithwaite's amusement shifting into worry. `I'm fucking imagining this, right?' mumbled Man City youth Palmer. `Watch him go,' tittered Smith-Rowe admiringly. `Good little slut.' `Does he know what he's doing?' questioned Trafford in a suddenly wavering voice, his booming confidence disappearing. `Gibbo, how's that feel?' cackled Cresswell close by. These different reactions formed a general mass of noise, a wall of attention that Harvey could no longer drunkenly ignore, and yet he was not mad about - he loved the tones of shock and outrage, but also the seeds of curiosity, the hint of scandal and temptation. He slurped off the fat tip of the lad's cock, drooling over it, and stared up into Morgan's face, seeing the roll of his eyes and the panting of his lips. He rested back on his haunches and wiped a hairy forearm across his damp lips, sniggering to himself. `Fuck,' Gibbs moaned loudly, `a mouth's a mouth, innit?' `Jesus,' someone muttered reproachfully, but another voice muttered, `Guess so.' Harvey ignored them, going down on the Forest hunk again, pressing palms against his thick thighs through his pants, bobbing up and down on his thick veiny tool, and feeling one hand rub through his hair and press down on the back of his head, making him deep-throat it, which always made him gag and splutter, slutty noises that seemed to provoke a ripple of dirty laughter from the men who loomed about him. As he pulled away, gasping, he felt one man become even closer, and when he turned his head to the right, there was another bare cock, squeezed and angled at his face, knuckles white; he licked the tip and looked up, following the shirt buttons up to the knowing smirk on his previous playmate's face. Emile looked happier than he had since arriving at England camp. Shifting from knee to knee, Harvey moved his oral attention from Gibbs-White to Smith-Rowe, sucking on the Arsenal youngster with the same deep gusto, until again he was gagging and spluttering, and laughing as eagerly as everyone else as he did so. He swayed on his knees, feeling vague hands in his curls and on his shoulders, and he knew there were others pressing close, even as some voices protested. `Is he ok-k-kay?' he could hear Jones slurring, and he thought he heard the door close, someone hurry out - this wasn't going to be everyone's cup of tea, but that left plenty of cock for him... Harvey was too drunk and horny for ego. His brash cocksure decision that he wouldn't be anyone's slut again was lying somewhere on the drink-splashed carpet, and he was as hungry for dick as he'd been as he crawled into Salah's master bedroom in lockdown, or as he blew Ross Barkley in his Jeep one cold Liverpudlian night. He was sucking a third cock already and he wasn't sure whose it was, eyes squeezed shut and hands roving around him, pulling on loose bare pricks and rubbing at suit pants bulges, hearing sighs and mutters and groans. Fuck, yes! He reached down to fumble with the awkward angle of his own stiff member, rubbing and pulling it through two layers, his head angled and jolted by hands and cocks. This third mouthful was pulled away, wet with his saliva, and he stared all the way up into the rosy-cheeked panic of their hero goalkeeper - fresh-faced James Trafford looked shocked and worried, but his dick was huge and hard, and tasted good. Without breaking eye contact, Harvey leaned in and licked the tip, making the 6ft5 goalie shudder and gasp, eyes sliding shut, big dumb hunk. `Get your nob out, Palmer,' Smithy was urging loudly, shaking at his buddy. `I d-d-don't think I'm horny,' stammered CJ to nobody in particular. `His lips are so soft,' murmured Morgan distantly. `Seriously, better than any bird.' `Oh come on then,' grunted the rough Cumbrian voice of his big pal, and Harvey found himself kneeling before the other 6ft5 northerner, looking up into Jarrad's stunned but excited features - out was his cock, huge and curved, big bruised knuckles sliding up and down the shaft, angling it down and towards Harvey's wet lips. He winked up at the big blond Everton twat, and then took his thick member into his mouth with relish, reaching for those strong thighs to steady himself, and gobbling down on Braithwaite. `Look at him go!' cackled Cresswell. `Dirty little slut,' chuckled Arsenal's Smithy. `Don't fucking call him that,' muttered Curtis somewhere. It wasn't just the breathy voices, it was the fap fap of hands going busy on hard cocks, because he could only suck on one at a time, and the mood was electric. He was on his knees and encircled by the M&S suits, slurping from tool to tool. He kissed goodbye to the huge head of Jarrad's and then wrapped his lips about Charlie's, and reached either side of him to stroke and pull on whoever's cocks were closest - an awkward gasp made him look to one side and see he had hold of Cole Palmer by the manhood, and the City starlet was beetroot in his long awkward face. Beautiful cocks all around, and big brooding footy players attached to them! Harvey opened the top button of his pants and shoved a hand inside his briefs to grip onto his leaking hard-on. `Fucking hell,' moaned someone, `nobody better mention this on the flight home tomorrow...!' `Oh yeah, are we not gonna take a selfie then, haha?' `You fuckin' dare, dickhead-!' `Relax, relax, just toss one off and enjoy it - hey, Harv, give him a slurp and shut him up?' `I bet that ancient prostitute wouldn't be this good.' `Are you acutally saying you prefer a lad's mouth?' `Nah, fuck off, that's not what I meant!' `Jesus, his lips...' `Haha, don't cum too soon, keeno!' Harvey laughed in a pause between mouthfuls, but then felt himself pulled and manhandled differently - for a second or two, he thought the game was up, and this bro-job circle-jerk was a bit rich for someone. But nope. He was being yanked up by the armpits and then cuffed and shook playfully by different hands, but guided towards his bed, towards those clean white sheets. He let out a filthy chuckle as he fell against it, undoing the last two buttons so that his shirt could spill open and expose his toned upper body, his cock jutting out of the CK-branded waistband of his briefs. And the other lads were about him, surrounding the bed, and all pumping on their cocks, so tall and powerful - it was Luke missing, he thought, Luke who'd panicked and fled - Luke who was, at 24, the oldest here, but you wouldn't think it, a nervous Bambi of a twink - and Harvey had caught him staring at his dick in the showers not so long ago, haha! So sprawled on the bed, he twisted and shifted so that he could grab and fellate Jarrad again, loving the gruffness and almost resistance of the big Cumbrian man's moans... but then reaching a hand out to stroke and tease Emile by his thick meaty piece, one of the first cocks he'd ever sucked, years ago in a stadium bathroom! He pivoted and licked the heavy hairy balls of James, seeing those bright pink cheeks and worried eyes in the big lad's face... and then, scrambling to the side, he found himself smirking up into a more worried and drawn face. And yet here he was. Stood at the foot of the bed, his shirt hanging open about his lean ripped torso, and his eyes half-closed; wanking furiously on his stupidly big cock, the monster Harvey had noticed bouncing about in trunks and shorts and joggers for years. Curtis hovered over him, pumping on his monster cock, staring down at him, and Harvey licked his lips. He slid from the bed and back onto his haunches right in front of the Liverpool midfielder, and kissed his cock, and then let the lanky git slide it down his throat, thrusting forward and fucking his face for a few eager moments. `Fuck, I think I'm gonna cum,' someone panted. `Me too,' another throaty voice admitted. `Damn, this is fucked up.' `Oh shut up and dump yer jizz on the bastard, haha!' `Harvey, get here - I'm gonna paint that face.' `Fucking hell mate...!' `Oh god, I'm getting close...' Harvey stayed where he was, squashed down on his arse, back to the foot of the bed, and the men drew closer about him, some kneeling on the bed over him, but most of them standing. `Fucking bukkake the cunt,' muttered Jarrad Braithwaite, the strapping hetero lad who'd been throwing a brotherly arm about his shoulders on the Georgian pitch earlier tonight; `I'm spunking in his stupid hair,' gasped Cole Palmer, nervous as a bunny rabbit five minutes ago. `I'm spunking in his Scouse mouth!' panted Trafford more loudly, and it was as if the big lads were fighting to be first, fighting to stand over him, all jostling elbows and puffed out pectorals. Harvey reached for two cocks at a time, stroking them and just lolling his head back against the foot of the mattress, a filthy grin across his face. `Come on, lads,' the England player growled at his teammates, `don't keep me waiting!' `Fucking slut,' grunted 22-year-old attacking midfielder Emile, and Harvey opened his mouth wide to catch some of the juicy load that spilled from the Croydon lads'juddering prick - a couple of dabs of salty load hit his tongue, but the rest spattered across the side of his face, flecking the chinstrap of facial hair, dotting the bridge of his nose, spilling across the nub of his chin. Above him, the dominant wanker gasped and mouthed silent blasphemy. `Fucking hell guys,' panted Cole nervously, apparently horrified by the sight of this, but red-faced with excitement all at once; he looked like he was straining to reach his own orgasm and get it out of the way, something desperate and frantic in his gestures and tremors. `Look at his dirty mouth,' gasped Gibbs-White, a bit too eagerly - Harvey rolled his tongue across his lips, catching a drop more of Emile's cum, eyes locked on Morgan's, urging the big black lad to finish on his face too. But someone else was gasping and moaning, and he flicked his eyes to the left - Trafford had gone from fresh-faced pink to scarlet, eyes clamped shut and chest heaving, the big lad that he was - and then a second load of manly seed was flecking Harvey's face, his hairline, his bare chest. `Oh jesus Christ,' bellowed the big goalkeeper who had kept things so clean all through the cup, but now was spilling a sticky mess over the young winger. `Fucking big load, mate,' someone grunted approvingly, `but watch this...' It was Charlie Creswell, bending his knees and almost squatting forward so he could aim his pistol cock and splash his wet load right across Harvey's face, running across his cheeks and lips - he stuck out a dirty tongue, catching a taste of the Lancashire juices and staring hungrily up at the big sexy bugger. The rugged Leeds centre-back broke into gruff laughter, hanging off the shoulders of the lads next to him, his veiny hard-on swinging free with more cum trailing from the tip. `Fuck yes,' the Liverpool star shouted at them, licking more at his lips, eyeing them all wildly, loving being the bukkake star of their release - he turned just in time to catch some of Cole's salty load on his tongue, though most of it scattered in his hair and across his brow. He lunged over and wrapped his mouth about the long thin tool of the Man City midfielder, wanting more of his Wythenshawe flavour. `Fuck yes,' Taylor grunted, the skipper of this team who, Harvey now thought, seemed to have been manhandling him more than anyone else all tournament, a bit handsy and intimate, and whose big bulge he'd been eyeing unconsciously himself. And that left just one, apart from his own straining erection. His head lolled to one side and he smirked eagerly at Curtis, licking some of Taylor's cum from his upper lip. He rose up on his knees, wanking himself furiously, and he gripped the base of his teammate's big prick - he held it there, about the base, and just rolled his tongue back and forth over the tip, gratified by the wild rolling gasp of Jones' breaths and swearing. `Eat his cum,' someone, maybe Harwood-Bellis, was grunting forcefully through heavy breaths. `Yeah, feed the slut!' `Look at his dirty fucking mug, fuckin' hell...' `God I need to shower...' `You do? Poor Harv, ha ha-' `FUCK,' whined the stammering Liverpool ace, and Harvey intensified, sliding his hand halfway up and down the shaft, really licking around the head, and then clamping his mouth about it just as the big lad's balls tightened and every ripped muscle in his midriff seemed to tense. He tasted yet more salty cum filling his mouth, and he slouched back, drooling jizz, and eyeing Curtis' shiny stunned face looming over him. Sitting there at their feet, looking up at their resting cocks and heaving bodies, Harvey pulled on himself and in a few more strokes he was spurting thick cum over his knuckles and over the thighs of his tailored trousers, bead after bead of his juices drained from his balls. He laughed, though it came out as a throaty gurgle, and he grabbed at an edge of the duvet to try and rub it over his messy face and fringe. Around him, in a haze, was a kind of chaos: Curtis sounded like he was hyperventilating, and then stampeding for the en suite, barking `Need a shower' at someone else; he had the sense of big tired bodies collapsing onto beds or chairs, some of the lads just totally spent by unloading; someone exited in a real hurry, so much so that they seemed to be still stuffing their cock into their suit pants on the way through the doorway. Harvey pulled to one side then scrambled upright, still chuckling and trying to wipe sticky mess from his face, his neck, his softly defined pecs. `Fucking hell,' muttered the hefty presence of Trafford, brushing past him, furiously buttoning up his shirt over his pecs, his eyes wild with regret. His City teammate Palmer was dashing after him, and neither lad looked back at Harvey, the recipient of their orgasms. Harvey swayed on his feet, almost knocked aside as the first cock of the night pulled in close next to him. Softly chuckling, Gibbs-White held him about the shoulders and brought his mouth close to his ear. `Neco said you were pretty handy with that mouth,' the Forest player muttered darkly, before patting him on the back and swaggering for the door. And so they went - Jarrad and Charlie both red-faced and laughing ambiguously, and Emile giving him a dirty smile of past knowledge, and then skipper Taylor coming in for, surprisingly, a hug. He practically lifted Harvey off his feet in the manly embrace, something awkward and wooden in his facial expression. `Always a team player,' was all the Man City centre-back could mutter at him, evading eye contact. `Solid, lad, solid.' And then the 6ft2 ruffian was hurrying after the other two big lads - Levi must already have gone, and Luke ages ago. This left Elliott alone, slumping down to seated on the edge of the bed, and listening to the watery hiss of his roommate's shower. The 20-year-old sniggered. `Breakfast will be fun,' he murmured, unsure if he was feeling the faintest of regrets - this was his whole generation of England players, he supposed, and fellas he might play alongside on the senior squad in future World Cups, and over half a dozen of them had just dumped their seed over his face like he was some porno slut or hired hooker. But he could only grin and snigger, and pull fingers through his messy hair, then stagger up from the bed and into the bathroom, where he shed his stained shirt to the floor and toyed with the waist of his undies and dirtied trousers. The water stopped, the curtain slide aside, and Jones instantly planted both hands over his exposed crotch, as if a roomful of lads hadn't just seen his beast in action. Curtis stared at him, mortified, his tall lean body glistening wet. Harvey softened his smile and hovered there, patting his flat tummy, and waiting for one of them to speak. `You okay, big man?' he asked quietly. `That was insane,' Curtis told him ambivalently. Harvey passed him a towel and made a show of looking away. Wrapped in it, the taller lad slid past him and out of the bathroom. Harvey strongly suspected that unconvincing snores would be heard by the time he followed his friend through into the main suite... but he and Curtis had a lot of training time together in the near future of the pre-season, and he wasn't worried. He'd seen how excited the big bugger was to get his cock out and join in, for all his concerns. He'd long resisted a curiosity about his well-hung pal, never wanting to push the nervous fella too far, or to mar their close alliance in the Liverpool ranks... But now, everything was different, and Curtis had joined in just like the other brutish lads. On his own, Elliott switched the shower back on and soaped the cum away from his body, playing idly with his still-tingling prick, and reflecting on the unexpected submission of his night; he'd wanted to fuck a slut, but he'd just become one instead. And... he felt pretty good about it. Surprised, dazed, but... good. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 16 Jul 2023 18:42:06 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 361 Part 361: Clean Sheets/Dirty Sheets In the gentlemen's loos of the hotel function rooms, he pushed his cock back inside his black briefs and then did up the zip fly of his close-fitting M&amp;S tailored trousers; shifting from the urinals to the sinks, the mop-headed young English lad checked himself out in the mirrors. After a cursory wash of his paws, he shook them dry and clumsily adjusted the collar and knot of his tie, admiring the teenager-at-wedding or scally-at-court charm of the compulsory suit he'd had to don for tonight's celebrations, like all of his triumphant teammates. It was far from his usual style of baggy streetwear, but he liked the tailored fit and the look it gave him, in contrast to his edgy goatee and the honeyed curls of his trendy hair. The 20-year-old lingered a few moments more, enjoying his reflection, and experimenting with loosing the thick platinum chain necklace from beneath his collar and letting it hang obnoxiously over the knot his tie as a visible accessory; the Surrey-born football star thought it made him look like a right Peaky Blinders gangster, but he pushed the cool metal back in against his neck as the exit door crunched and a couple of other lads in matching suits came crashing into the gents', laughing loudly as they did. `Harvvvvvvvvvvv,' boomed one of the other lads immediately, staggering this way, and a bullish chant sounded from the other entrant: `Star-Boy, Star-Boy, Star-Boy!' For a moment, Harvey Elliott caught the eye of the bigger lad in the mirror, then half-turned as if to greet him with a clasped hand and bump of shoulders; but the other young athlete, notably taller and broader than himself, just crashed into him and wrapped arms about his shoulders in an overwhelming hug, almost bowling him right into the sinks with his clumsy strength. `YES, mate,' the England Under-21s captain exclaimed gruffly, shaking him almost off his feet, and scrunching at the messy mop of his hair - a strong contrast to the rather severe crop of the big skinhead, who'd come into the tournament with a short trim and then gone full yobbo midway because he reckoned it intimidated the opposition more. A squeezing awkward hug from behind locked about the 5ft7 winger and then he was released - Taylor Harwood-Bellis staggering simply from him with another loud hoot of `Haaar-vey', echoed by the other tall lout at the urinals, Charlie Creswell. For a moment, Harvey just hovered at the sink with faintly damp hands and a racing heart - being grabbed and jostled like that by a 6ft2 centre-back like the skipper made him feel 3ft tall and a few years younger again, a condescension that rankled with his Premiership Anfield ego, and there was some beer-warmed part of him that wanted to spin around and tell the bigger pair not to be such fucking trolls. But then, the tactile affection of his fellow Young Lions awoke OTHER feelings in Elliott too, and so he just turned slowly and gave a thoughtful glance to the two tailored silhouettes at the urinals instead, whilst the sparkling clean lavatory echoed with the watery gurgle of beer piss. `I'll leave you two here to admire each other's pricks,' the young midfield player barked dryly at the other youths, and made for the exit, still patting his hands dry on the lapels of his matching blazer, part of the same Marks &amp; Spencer tailoring that was modelled by their senior counterparts. Harvey left the brash echoing laughter of the two defenders behind and broke out into the air-conditioned cool of the function suites, bladder emptied and ready to rejoin the party. Not so long ago, Harvey Elliott had been a little bruised by a lack of call-up for the REAL England squad. After all, the likes of Bellingham and Saka were now firmly installed in Southgate's plans, and mediocrity like Smith-Rowe had been able to dabble in the top level of international footy. The 20-year-old Liverpool player had been greedy for his own shot, even before he'd fucked Harry Kane in the mouth and assumed he'd be due his first senior cap. Under-21s had seemed like bullshit to him, stuff he'd moved past and outgrown... that was until they blistered through the tournament without conceding a single goal and then, tonight, smashed an ill-disciplined young Spain to take the Euros medals home. It's funny what a big tournament win can do for perspective. Harvey had enjoyed this Euros run more and more with each win, although he was still a little frustrated to be a second-half substitution in most fixtures. He'd worked hard in spite of the tough season behind him, tried his best to bond with the other lads, and kept his eye on the informal scouting of senior Three Lions reps who were studying the youth team's every move. It had only been as they went into the Semis had stopped obsessing over a senior call-up and appreciated that the Under-21s trophy would be a career breakthrough in itself - and tonight, on the top floor of a squat brutalist hotel in the obscure Georgian city of Batumi, this was a sentiment that had gripped the entire squad of up-and-coming English footy lads. He grinned as he made his way from the loos to the bar, pleased to be in the midst of the blokey celebrations; his young career had already seen some big achievements at Anfield, but he'd felt somewhat peripheral to them, just a young upstart on the fringe of the party compared to the likes of Hendo, Robbo and co. Here, he was probably one of the more experienced and successful figures, despite being one of the youngest, and he was generally treated by the players and staff as A-list, someone deserving of quiet respect and vocal admiration. He loved it. At the bar, Elliott bought himself another ice-cold beer bottle, and tapped his card to pay for a hefty round of Jagerbombs that he slid down to the corner and started gesturing boldly to nearby fellas to divvy out. The young men on this squad were of an age where their sizable salaries were still novelty, and gestures like this were more exciting and appreciated. Harvey could feel a big-shot handing out the cheap trashy shots, spilling sticky slicks down his knuckles and wrists, and knocking back the last couple for himself. There was one issue with this hot summery tournament though, the Liverpool midfielder would have to admit, and it separated the Euros run from his last trip out with this second-tier squad: a distinct lack of... action. As the recurring murky thought crossed his otherwise drunk and happy mind, the young football stud pulled lightly at the crotch of his suit trousers again, where his cock and full balls were nestled in those taut black CK briefs, and he made a bitter little grunt before knocking back the last Jagerbomb. All this testosterone in the continental heat, all of these big wins and clean sheets - and he hadn't enjoyed the slightest bit of horseplay with any of the other Young Lions...! He had, of course, made his subtle and not-so-subtle efforts, particularly at the handful of playful fuckers who had provided entertainment last camp. But everyone just seemed so fucking invested in the tournament, the dry bastards, or so wary and prudish, and he knew better than push things so far as to expose his own appetite in full. Scowling at the corner of the bar, he eyed up a couple of what he'd assumed to be likely candidates: pretty boy Max Aarons, right now laughing his head off at the apparent banter of their head coach, had acted as if their rowdy en suite fuck had never happened, and avoided being alone with him so far; ginger fluffer Tommy Doyle over there, he thought grimly, had been curt in informing him that their hotel bed romp last time had ended his blossoming romance with a teammate, and then blocked his number on WhatsApp. No cheeky action for Harvey's virile prick; not even a hushed circle-jerk in the locker-rooms of their various training grounds and match stadiums. In fact, barely a private tug under the duvet in his own hotel suites, to be honest; it wasn't worth upsetting priggish Curt and hearing about it all season once they were back in Scouser-Land. Fucking bell-ends! The unattended sexual tension had the youth on edge tonight, tingling with unspent extra energy, and now wired by alcohol and sporting elation. He licked a little sweet residue from his plump pink lips and then pursed them against the neck of the cool bottle for a slurp of beer, staring resentfully up and down the broad bar space, and thinking that he might explode if he didn't empty a load tonight...! A couple more beers and a comfy stool near the windows, and Harvey's mind was at least partly relieved of this spike of tension and frustration - he was now gladly listening to Curtis Jones' retelling of his big goal-scoring moment from tonight's cup final, throwing the odd encouraging question or compliment at the gangly 22-year-old Merseysider, who was barely even slipping into his usual stammers as he recounted the excitement to this small cluster of players overlooking the Georgian city below. Here was a moment where Harvey could put aside selfish ego and desire; he had a lot of love for the 6ft1 midfielder who'd risen ahead of them in the LFC youth academy, and he just felt warm sincere pride that his clubmate had been the star striker of tonight's historic win. `It was a quality goal, mate,' droned the Manc accent of young City attacker Cole Palmer, a lad almost as tall and gangly as Jones himself, seated on the next stool. `Ice in your veins!' complimented the fourth of their current posse, spare goalkeeper Josh Griffiths. Elliott enjoyed watching the high blush in Jones' lean cheeks and the goofy smile on his lips, and he leaned over to slap and rub at the taller lad's back through his warm blazer, immensely pleased for the socially awkward Scouser. `Gonna be the saviour of Liverpool,' he predicted boldly, side-hugging at the lanky fuckerr and almost swinging off his stool as he clinked their beers together. `Curtis Big Bollocks, European champ.' Happy laughter from the four friends, and then interruptions as one of the lead coaches approached to make goodbyes - and obviously singling Curtis out for a handshake and line of praise, just about denting Harvey's selfless pleasure for his friend. Where was his own big congratulations on the part he'd played...? Back at the urinal, pissing again - the seal well and truly broken now, and the aim of his stream a little shakier as the alcohol in his blood took its hold. Acknowledging this fact, the drunk lad let out a tipsy snarl of chuckles, blinking a few times to steady his focus before he got piss down the crisp legs of the dark grey suit. Door, footsteps, company at the urinal: `Plastoc Scouser, wotcha!' Another thumping hand to the back, as the lad at the next pissing stall approached him with the same rough tactile affection as Harwood-Bellis. Harvey gave a sidelong look to the much taller figure at his side, grinning to see one of his newer close pals in the squad, even if they'd have to be vicious rivals once back on Merseyside. Big hefty Jarrad Braithwaite left one heavy paw on Harvey's shoulder whilst the other deflty undid his fly. It was all the 20-year-old could do not to stare keenly down there as a cock was loosed and a loud spray of piss was directed down into the porcelain, sounding like a relieved horse. Instead, Harvey focused on shaking the final few drops from his own chubby cock, spraying the wall a bit as another heavy pat on the shoulder from the bigger lad briefly imbalanced him. At his side, Braithwaite let out a demonstrative sigh that turned into a laugh: `Fuck, been holding that in all night!' Pushing his twitching member back inside his trousers, Harvey spun away and towards those sinks, though his eyes fell on the mirror - the rear view of just how tall and well-built the Cumbrian defender actually was, his strong young Everton rival and recent pal. Jesus, the 21-year-old was a big tower of a guy, nearing 6ft5! Yet another powerful youngster who made Harvey feel dwarfed and a little awkward, unable to match the physicality of these contemporaries on the training ground - but confident in his speed and dexterity against the lumbering brutes who held this winning team together. And now the big rugged Evertonian was next to him, washing his big chapped hands with a little flash of soap, and meeting his thoughtful eyes in the mirror. `You won't fucking believe this,' the Carlisle-born defender announced, nudging him so heavily that he had to stop himself tumbling the other way - and big Jarrad was reaching for the inside pocket of his blazer and pulling out some kind of business card to lay down on the edge of their sinks, stifling a stupid giggle as he did. A little bewildered, Harvey thumbed it up and gave it a read, then snorted derisively and gave his pal a sharp look. `You desperate enough to pay for it, Braith?' The Cumbrian snorted. `Me? Nah! Fuck that - it's Charlie's idea. We found it in a phone box outside the hotel, that's all. Ha ha. Mad, innit?' The big brash blond was grinning and gurning as if the entire concept was new to him, and Harvey read the card again - it was pretty minimal, just the name and contact number of the presumed hooker, and a logo that left little to the imagination. He was amused and semi-aroused, but he flicked the rectangle of card back at Jarrad, dismissive. `Quick way to have the gaffer blacklist your name from any future international duty,' he muttered with uncharacteristic piety. A heft shrug from the 6ft5 defender. `Tournament's done, ain't it?' He was preening at his blond hair in the mirror, the confines of his blazer seeming to struggle with the muscular build of his shoulders as he did. `We're not gonna be Under 21s after this win, little fella.' Harvey tried to ignore the minor jibe, just a strained laugh, and a little fiddle with his tie to loosen the knot, but his eyes drawn sideways to Jarrad's rather chiselled looks and swelling chest as he undid his tie and top buttons. He blinked twice and looked away again, ignoring the tingling in his package. `Tell Charlie boy not to throw it all away by calling that number,' he mumbled with a concerned edge to his voice, unsure why he was capable of such sensible advice when he was this loaded on beer and Jagermeister. Jarrad gave a single hoot of laughter and shook him again by one shoulder. `Too late for that, captain sensible - Cresswell is down in reception waiting for her right now.' The big handsome 21-year-old leered confrontationaly at him before backing off, shaking his hands dry as he did. `You coming down for a deeks, kid?' And off he spun, shouldering his way out of the bathroom with the grace of a caveman, leaving the diminutive `kid' spinning in Harvey's beery thoughts. The disappearance of the coaching staff and `real' adults had shifted the mood in the bar. The room was less full, and yet louder, the laddish voices raised to the max and more beer ending up on shirt-fronts than in clumsy mouths. A few of the Under-21 players had already seemingly retired, gradually thinning out the crowd, but sure enough Braithwaite and Cresswell were nowhere to be seen, though Elliott didn't fully believe that the pair of footballers were really downstairs greeting a sex worker - reception wouldn't stand for it! And everyone on this squad was too serious and too professional, that much had been obvious for the past couple of weeks, right? Vaguely unsettled, the winger idled near the centre of the room, looking thoughtfully out into the shadowy stairwell that looked down into the rest of their hotel base. He glanced about, surprised that there were no staff left up drinking, and it was just the majority of the actual squad who were left, all in various states of dishevelment of their team tailoring, various blazers and ties jettisoned for open-chested white shirts as beer bottles were drained and replaced. The 20-year-old reached an internal decision and he darted across the room to the doors, out onto that lamp-lit landing. He held the metallic bannister and peered curiously down the deep well of space, unable to see anything of the reception below - but a couple of indistinct throaty voices echoed up to his ears, what sounded like the two absent players bantering their way down to the ground floor. Fuck, he thought, they were serious. He let out an ambiguous laugh and drummed his fingers on the rail, then glanced over his shoulder - it was Norwich's Max Aarons, stepping out of the function rooms with a glassy drunk look in his eyes, and an instant frown on his attractive features as their eyes locked. Harvey, forgetting the prostitute business in a flash, raised one barred eyebrow and grinned meaningfully across at the 23-year-old London Canary, who was still fully suited and booted with a glossy sheen of sweat on his brow. `Had enough?' Elliott asked quietly. `Oh, hey,' mumbled the Norwich defender. Harvey grinned more widely at him, doing his best to communicate with every muscle of his face that he was thinking about the night they'd shared not so long ago in a different team hotel, Max pressed up against the bathroom unit with his big round arse being rammed by Harvey's newly acquired topping skills, trained by a begrudging daddy Milner. Horny now, the 20-year-old licked his bottom lip and gave the bulging front of his suit pants a gentle squeeze. `Where's your roomie?' he asked, dropping his voice further. `What?' Aarons demanded a little tartly, even though his eyes betrayed that he knew exactly what was being asked. These eyes told Elliott plenty, and his own throbbing bollocks told him the rest; he slid away from the bannister and drew close to the 5ft10 lad, smirking up at him and squaring his shoulders almost confrontationally. He thought about how greedy the big-bottomed Canary had been a couple of months back, how he'd squealed as he was pounded in the hotel bathroom - the sweaty pinnacle of Harvey's exploits on that camp! The lad had the most gorgeous round brown arse cheeks in the world... He squeezed his crotch more and reached his other hand past Max's hip, reaching around to take a handful of suited glute, even though they were in partial view of the glass doors to the bar- `Oi,' snapped the West Londoner, pushing him roughly away with such force that Harvey had to grasp for the bannister again to stop himself tripping onto the stairs. `Just fucking drop it,' hissed the 23-year-old as he barged past him and down the first flight, not even looking back - a line that left the Liverpool starlet blushing awkwardly and steadying himself against the rail, somewhat deflated. His teens behind him, he'd been working hard to convince himself he was a powerful top, a kind of irresistible charismatic scallywag - it had definitely felt that way earlier this year, powering into a bearded DILF like James fucking Milner, and then throwing his cock about in this Under-21s cohort, getting up to mischief... but now he just felt like a scrappy midget in the company of these burly oafs, and out of the blue he thought again about the fact he'd barely made a starting line-up all tournament. The two ideas mixed in his drunken paranoia, the idea that his medal was only part-deserved, and that he wasn't quite the virile young stud that he'd been made to feel. Still scowling and blushing in his cheeks, Harvey tilted his heads and looked down into the landings below, seeing Aarons disappear away through one of the branching doorways. Prissy twat, he thought resentfully, the fat-arsed pretty boy had enjoyed it at the time, what was his issue now? Ungrateful twit, just like Tommy Doyle, the ginger prick! Harvey scratched restlessly at the crotch of his suit trousers and he wriggled against the heat of his blazer, undoing another button on his pale fluffy chest. `Hey,' called a soft voice, and another player was emerging from the warm bar, a beer in each hand; it was the star of the night, big Curtis, looking a little worse for wear, and certainly less suited and booted than sulky Max. Curtis' shirt was half-open and half-untucked and his tie was around his head like he was commando or stag do. He wasn't the best-looking lad in the world, but he was cute in a big dopey way, his crooked smile and acne-marked features all friendly concern as he approached. `Everything ok?' the other Liverpool player called, taking a long step in his direction. `Couldn't find you after I bought these.' Harvey stared for a moment with real affection at the 6ft1 lad, then accepted his beer and just held its icy cool against his flushed face. Then, rather than meeting Jones' soft-hearted concern, he just sniggered and blurted at him, `Couple of the others have hired a prozzer. You up for it, big man?' Inevitably, a flash of real panic crossed Curits' long face and his reply was an apopolexy of speech difficulties. `W-w-what? A p-p-prostit-t-t-tute? F-f-f-fuck's s-sake!' It was mean, but Harvey couldn't help himself. `They're bringing her up just for you, mate,' he barked. `You scored the winner, didn't you? If anyone deserves to get their dick wet tonight...!' He burst into seedy chuckles, punching Curtis in the arm, then taking a swig of beer back - he pushed down the insecurity and annoyance of Max's rejection, enjoying the wobble of this geek's lower lip and the furtive glances he was shooting down the stairwell, blinking stupidly. `You're joking?' mumbled the midfielder. `Deadly serious!' he insisted playfully. `F-f-fuck that,' Curtis insisted weakly. `Well, that's the plan, fella,' Harvey quipped with a wink. Just then, his bestie looking mortified, they were both distracted by a ping and sliding sound as the elevator on the far side of the landing opened - and out of it spilled the big burly figures of Jarrad and Charlie, but not the busty woman suggested by the artwork on that business card. The two footballers, neither of whom had been able to spend their energy as unused subs in tonight's final, hooted with coarse laughter and crashed in this direction, holding onto one another and trying to suppress their stupid chortles. Curtis blinked awkwardly at them and Harvey frowned with curiosity. `Where is she, then?' he demanded, as if he hadn't chided Braithwaite's idea in the gents about ten minutes ago. `Fuck,' howled Jarrad, covering his face with both big hands. Next to him, Leeds United's Charlie Cresswell snorted with laughter and shook his head. `We just watched her getting marched out of the building... Fuck - if we'd been a moment quicker it would have been obvious and the staff would have been ratting on us to the gaffer.' He sniggered idiotically. `We saw her getting grilled and just scarpered into the lift, haha - fuck, she didn't look ANYTHING like her picture. Swear she was someone's granny. Haha!' Both he and the rugged Everton player shook with laughter and fell against each other, so entertained with their own horny exploits. `Will she be in t-t-trouble?' came Curtis' worried input. Harvey shook off a touch of concern and just scowled at his friend as if it was a ridiculous question, then threw the drunken question out there. `Without her, who's going to get your cock sorted, champ?' He shoved at the lanky lad in the same rough way as the other lads kept doing to him, and then grinned mischievously at Jarrad and Charlie. The two defenders were nodding furious. `You were gonna get first go on her,' the Leeds player sniggered, throwing his arms about Jones in a rough hug. Harvey laughed along, unable to help but give his semi a rub in the front of his tailored pants and tight briefs; the air was thick with testosterone and alcohol, and his reservations about the aborted sex worker were long-gone. Tonight might get interesting. The bar closed soon after that - strict orders from the team bosses, apparently, and met with much loud booing from every lad still drinking. Some shed away at that point, Tommy Doyle managing to throw Harvey a sour glare even at this happy occasion, and triggering a slow exodus of weary drinkers who were less hyper on Red Bull. But the landing outside the bar remained crowded with about nine or ten of them, and it was Harvey who hissed the new plan to everybody with a few elbow digs and heavy slaps to the shoulder. `Few vodkas in our room?' he called repeatedly, and then faced up to the worried expression of his cohabitant. Curtis didn't need to say anything to broadcast his doubts, but Harvey grinned winsomely and hugged him tight. `Nightcap to celebrate you, big lad, that's all - okay? We'll keep the noise down...!' The player suites here were decently sized, but the twin room still felt quickly crowded with nine strapping young men lounging in it, two bottles of contraband vodka shared between them and mixed with tiny amounts of mini-bar soda. Harvey himself was perched on the desk next to an upturned lamp, his socked feet up on the arm of the study chair - his blazer and tie abandoned and his white shirt open halfway down his torso. He took slow sips from his imbalance mixer drink and enjoyed the debauched air of his laddish cronies scattered across the room. The chair at his feet was occupied by the draped figure of his big pal Jarrad, almost recreating the shared poses the enemy players had struck as they celebrated their medals at the stadium tonight - the only other chair in the room was occupied by the slouching mass of another big Cumbrian giant, their lauded and undefeated goalkeeper James Trafford. On one of the two doubles, Curtis looked anxious about the way Taylor kept almost spilling his drink, whilst the other was occupied by the relaxed figures of Cole Palmer and Levi Colwill. Their group was rounded out by Charlie Cresswell and Emile Smith-Rowe at the window, and Luke Thomas and Morgan Gibbs-White standing between the beds, fighting over the TV remote to flick through the foreign-language channels. `Where's Gordon?' someone was demanding. `And Skipp? Why are some lads such fucking lightweights.' `Jesus, do these guys have any proper telly on their network, or what?' grunted another drunk young footy stud, winning the fight for the remote. `Is this vodka and lemonade actually just vodka?' bemoaned a third loud voice, ignoring the agreement to remain quiet and avoid waking any neighbouring suites. Harvey, ignoring this hubbub, kicked his socked toes at Jarrad's arm, poised next to the sprawled bigger lad. `Hey, it's a shame you didn't get that girl up here,' he muttered confidentially, just loud enough for the Cumbrian to hear. `Imagine all nine of us sharing one bird, that would be fucking mental.' He grinned eagerly at the uncertain smirk on the bigger lad's face, throwing a giddy laugh at him in case his idea was too much - but Braithwaite gave a slow heavy nod and slapped a hand on his knee. `Too right,' he half-belched. `That was Charlie's thinking - get loads of us in on it, fuck her like we fucked the Spanish, haha, TEAMWORK...' He brought up a grazed fist and Harvey bumped knuckles with it, his cock throbbing in his briefs. Shame we don't have those sluts Max or Tommy in here, he thought, and almost blurted out, still resentful about the way those one-time playmates had avoided his hints and approaches, acting like their recent encounters were imagined or shameful. Worse prudes than Mo fucking Salah, he thought, thinking about the slew of unanswered messages he'd fired at his Egyptian king over the summer break from Anfield - or Milner, who had told him to stop sending selfies to him in the early hours of the morning. Bloody bores! Drunk and eager, Harvey chuckled dumbly to himself, and ran his fingers through the sweaty mop of his hair, staring hungrily about the room. `Oi, Chaz,' Jarrad was hollering across the room. `Harvs was just saying - wish we'd got Sonya down there up here after all, all had a turn on her - haha - even if she was a bit minging!' And the 6ft5 Carlisle lad almost fell over in his attempt to unfolding his big suited body from the desk chair, leaning back on Harvey for support before staggering into the centre of the room and miming a very obvious deed for all to see - one hand placed in the air in front of him to guide an imaginary head, while he made a few throaty moans and rolled his hips. Laughter rippled around the suite and Charlie Cresswell vaulted across the bed to join him in the centre - both hands clutched behind his head, elbows jutting out, the other big defender thrusted melodramatically into the space where the imaginary prostitute got to work, before the two huge lads fell stupidly against each other and hooted with laughter, to the apparent enjoyment of everyone but uncomfortable Curtis and scowling Morgan. `Oh yeah,' Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder declared as he stumbled this way and stole Jarrad's chair, `that's just what we all need, ruining our careers before they've got going...!' At 23, Gibbs-White was marginally one of the more seasoned and level-headed men on this young squad, taking to the chair now like a throne and spinning lightly on it whilst glaring at the troublemakers. `That bird would be straight on to the tabloids and our names would be mud in the Premiership, you know how it goes - we've all seen the vids.' The moody-faced footballer slouched in the seat and span, looking seriously about at them as if he was the voice of moral certainty - there was a brief quiet before Arsenal's Emile, still perched at the window, boomed with laughter. `Gibbo mate, what vids you been watching online?' the Gooner demanded very loudly, and the room shook with crude laughter again. Harvey laughed along but patted Morgan on the shoulder to show support, or at least... familiarity. He knew exactly what videos the Forest player meant, and he was more than a little interested by the idea that his older pal had watched them. He was getting more and more stupidly horny, too drunk for real caution as he patted and rubbed at the handsome mixed-race lad's shoulder muscles through his white shirt, seemingly unnoticed. Huh, he thought, Max Aarons doesn't know what he's missing - I'd have given him a lovely back-rub after I smashed his arse. Harvey paused awkwardly as if he might have spoken this thought aloud, his hand pausing against the other lad's body heat. Chuckling vaguely to himself, he slid off the desk and away from Gibbs, hovering by the two big beds, slurping vodka-and-coke-and-vodka. For a moment, he pulled himself away from the fray, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom - he clanked his glass down at the sink and then splashed cool water against his flushed cheeks and mussed fringe. He grinned stupidly at his reflection in the mirror, picturing himself railing Aarons in a similar Euro 4-star hotel. Behind him, the room shook with raised voices and heavy thumps as the lads shifted and bantered, and Harvey entertained a rash idea - ringing down to whatever room the Norwich player was occupying and telling him that there were nine big cocks up here in need of room service, hehe! Or he could call on Sheffield's ginger Tommy! Abandoning his unnecessary drink on the porcelain, Harvey drifted back into the room, scratching his thin chest hair through the open shirt, and thinking dirty thoughts. Two or three of the others seemed to be wrestling, perhaps still for the TV remote; Harvey's attention drifted to the wall-mounted screen and the softcore porn that someone had stumbled across, which made him chuckle and rub his crotch. And his eyes drifted back towards the desk where he'd been perched, and serious-faced Morgan, who was still hunched there with a gentle spin back and forth - and it seemed the Nottingham star was staring thoughtfully back at him, eyes slightly narrowed. Hmm, perhaps the stocky 5ft7 fella, the only lad here who didn't make Harvey feel short as fuck, had noticed that little shoulder rub after all... Somewhat nervous in spite of his inebriation, Elliott picked his way back in that direction, ducking to one side to avoid being sent flying by the physical play of the others, until he was stood right by Gibbs-White, perching his own pert arse back against the edge of the desk, and bringing his left hand gently up to rest on that broad shoulder muscle again, feeling its firmness and heat through the starchy white fabric. He gave a gentle rub and Morgan said nothing. Hmm. Only half-listening to the rabble of voices that filled the room, Harvey stroked that broad shoulder and then tickled his fingertips against the back of the lad's neck. Morgan was tense, and he understood that: the Forest player's late red card had been a rare moment of jeopardy in their spotless win, and would probably be Gibbo's remembered contribution to the otherwise perfect tournament. But they'd won, it didn't matter. Now he realised that he WAS thinking aloud; Morgan's head was tilted this way with a soulful look in his eyes. `Thanks,' he murmured distantly, and Harvey blinked and sighed, realising just how wasted he actually was. `Maybe we call this prozzer back up and get her in through a different entrance?' mused the distinctive Stockport growl of their captain, Harwood-Bellis; `She was gross!' chuckled the voice of Cresswell, joined by loud vomiting noises from Braithwaite; `Who the fuck pays for sex?' demanded Smith-Rowe quite touchily, making Harvey giggle to himself - Emile had been SUCH A GRUMP this trip, wasn't he still messing about with the legendary England captain? Their voices washed over him and he stroked his hand back and forth across Morgan's strong upper back, enjoying the physical contact, the heat and strength next to him, thinking idly of mental snapshots of the ripped physiques of teammates like Salah and Milner, his thoughts tumbling and blurring... `Was she really THAT gross?' That curious question seemed to come from the more reserved Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, talking across the laughter and dirty jokes of his pals. `Not if you're into old biddies,' murmured someone, but another voice, less distinct, announced that `Sometimes a fella just needs his cock sucked, you know?! Does it really matter what she looks like?' Much throaty laughter at that, including from Gibbs-White, whose muscular form juddered against Harvey's wandering hand. `Preach!' boomed someone, maybe Jarrad. `Yeah, any hole's a goal.' That was big goalie Trafford, he thought. `You lot are monsters,' sniggered a fairly nervous voice - Cole, was that? `Oh, like you ain't horny as fuck too after tonight!' argued Emile bluntly. `Does everyone get that after a big win?' mused a more thoughtful speaker, Leicester's Luke Thomas. Still, Harvey let the voices buffer against him, smirking distantly and just slouching back where he was, chewing at one side of his lips, and feeling a couple of beads of cool tapwater run down his jawline and onto his neck. Any hole's a goal, he thought; who the fuck cared who was doing the sucking, some of them were saying. Hah. Brilliant. Good point. Damn, he cursed inwardly, he'd love his cock sucked, and he pictured Max's pouting lips - he pictured a one-off with Trent Alexander-Arnold in a kit closet, and he pictured early trembling experimentation in his weed-hazy attic bedroom, reaching inside Neco Williams' joggers, and- Damn it, he didn't just want his cock sucked, he wanted to- `What's that you're mumbling?' questioned Morgan quietly. Harvey blinked and shuddered, unsure what he'd said. He stood there with his hand limp against the older lad's shoulder, and slowly turned to meet his dark question-filled eyes. As always, Morgan's face looked deadly serious, a resting frown of serious focused intensity. But then his lips curled a little, the suggestion of a smile. Harvey felt nervous in spite of his lost inhibitions, and he let out a slow half-laugh. `Dammit, I'd take a blowie from an ageing hooker!' declared Trafford hoarsely, close-by, followed by taunting chants from someone else, `Rooney Rooney Rooney!' `Go on,' urged the deep, thoughtful voice of the Nottingham Forest player, and Harvey began to slide from the desk, bending his knees. As he kneeled slowly down beside the study chair, it was Morgan's turn to pat and stroke at his neck and shoulder, pawing gently but firmly at him, guiding him down there - and then, for a blissful moment, the wasted 20-year-old felt that the rest of the room didn't exist, just this stocky well-muscled pal, who he'd shared a cheeky group wank with in a St George's Park locker-room earlier this year. Down to his knees, shuffling close, resting his hands on sturdy thighs, and looking up past the folds of creased white shirt, looking into Morgan's intense eyes and gently smirking lips... Harvey had no idea at what point anybody noticed, because for a moment he was lost: reaching for the belt buckle and undoing it, sliding down the zipper, rubbing a hand in against the loose grey boxers. Then staring at the cock in his hand as if hypnotised by a cobra, gripping the freed shaft and taking in the musty crotch smell. Darting his tongue out to roll against the exposed pink of the head, pulling back more of the dark foreskin and tasting a good mouthful of it - Morgan's instant appreciative purr. Slow-motion moments of devious delight, the other seven lads forgotten. But then their voices... `What the actual fuck?' `Is he-? I mean, is he actually-? Is that-?' `Whoa, Harveyyyyyy, yes boy!' `Dammit, did someone spike my drink?' `Fuck...!' `Jesus, somebody give him a kick, wake him up...' `Morgan, you dirty dog!' Gibbs-White just out a long chuckling groan; Elliott slurped up and down the shaft, held it in one curled fist, and then blinked stupidly, before turning his head and glancing uncertainly about the room. The men all seemed incredibly close, their shocked faces looming over him at different heights and positions, and yet... he just laughed, licking his lips, and turned back around, opening wide to take the thick shaft in against his tongue, loving the taste and firmness of it filling up his gob. `What the FUCK?' repeated Curtis' Scouse drawl. `He's fucking not! Fucking hell!' ranted Colwill, sounding scandalised. `Harvey man, this is bare funny, what a legend...' came the uncertain boom of Braithwaite's amusement shifting into worry. `I'm fucking imagining this, right?' mumbled Man City youth Palmer. `Watch him go,' tittered Smith-Rowe admiringly. `Good little slut.' `Does he know what he's doing?' questioned Trafford in a suddenly wavering voice, his booming confidence disappearing. `Gibbo, how's that feel?' cackled Cresswell close by. These different reactions formed a general mass of noise, a wall of attention that Harvey could no longer drunkenly ignore, and yet he was not mad about - he loved the tones of shock and outrage, but also the seeds of curiosity, the hint of scandal and temptation. He slurped off the fat tip of the lad's cock, drooling over it, and stared up into Morgan's face, seeing the roll of his eyes and the panting of his lips. He rested back on his haunches and wiped a hairy forearm across his damp lips, sniggering to himself. `Fuck,' Gibbs moaned loudly, `a mouth's a mouth, innit?' `Jesus,' someone muttered reproachfully, but another voice muttered, `Guess so.' Harvey ignored them, going down on the Forest hunk again, pressing palms against his thick thighs through his pants, bobbing up and down on his thick veiny tool, and feeling one hand rub through his hair and press down on the back of his head, making him deep-throat it, which always made him gag and splutter, slutty noises that seemed to provoke a ripple of dirty laughter from the men who loomed about him. As he pulled away, gasping, he felt one man become even closer, and when he turned his head to the right, there was another bare cock, squeezed and angled at his face, knuckles white; he licked the tip and looked up, following the shirt buttons up to the knowing smirk on his previous playmate's face. Emile looked happier than he had since arriving at England camp. Shifting from knee to knee, Harvey moved his oral attention from Gibbs-White to Smith-Rowe, sucking on the Arsenal youngster with the same deep gusto, until again he was gagging and spluttering, and laughing as eagerly as everyone else as he did so. He swayed on his knees, feeling vague hands in his curls and on his shoulders, and he knew there were others pressing close, even as some voices protested. `Is he ok-k-kay?' he could hear Jones slurring, and he thought he heard the door close, someone hurry out - this wasn't going to be everyone's cup of tea, but that left plenty of cock for him... Harvey was too drunk and horny for ego. His brash cocksure decision that he wouldn't be anyone's slut again was lying somewhere on the drink-splashed carpet, and he was as hungry for dick as he'd been as he crawled into Salah's master bedroom in lockdown, or as he blew Ross Barkley in his Jeep one cold Liverpudlian night. He was sucking a third cock already and he wasn't sure whose it was, eyes squeezed shut and hands roving around him, pulling on loose bare pricks and rubbing at suit pants bulges, hearing sighs and mutters and groans. Fuck, yes! He reached down to fumble with the awkward angle of his own stiff member, rubbing and pulling it through two layers, his head angled and jolted by hands and cocks. This third mouthful was pulled away, wet with his saliva, and he stared all the way up into the rosy-cheeked panic of their hero goalkeeper - fresh-faced James Trafford looked shocked and worried, but his dick was huge and hard, and tasted good. Without breaking eye contact, Harvey leaned in and licked the tip, making the 6ft5 goalie shudder and gasp, eyes sliding shut, big dumb hunk. `Get your nob out, Palmer,' Smithy was urging loudly, shaking at his buddy. `I d-d-don't think I'm horny,' stammered CJ to nobody in particular. `His lips are so soft,' murmured Morgan distantly. `Seriously, better than any bird.' `Oh come on then,' grunted the rough Cumbrian voice of his big pal, and Harvey found himself kneeling before the other 6ft5 northerner, looking up into Jarrad's stunned but excited features - out was his cock, huge and curved, big bruised knuckles sliding up and down the shaft, angling it down and towards Harvey's wet lips. He winked up at the big blond Everton twat, and then took his thick member into his mouth with relish, reaching for those strong thighs to steady himself, and gobbling down on Braithwaite. `Look at him go!' cackled Cresswell. `Dirty little slut,' chuckled Arsenal's Smithy. `Don't fucking call him that,' muttered Curtis somewhere. It wasn't just the breathy voices, it was the fap fap of hands going busy on hard cocks, because he could only suck on one at a time, and the mood was electric. He was on his knees and encircled by the M&amp;S suits, slurping from tool to tool. He kissed goodbye to the huge head of Jarrad's and then wrapped his lips about Charlie's, and reached either side of him to stroke and pull on whoever's cocks were closest - an awkward gasp made him look to one side and see he had hold of Cole Palmer by the manhood, and the City starlet was beetroot in his long awkward face. Beautiful cocks all around, and big brooding footy players attached to them! Harvey opened the top button of his pants and shoved a hand inside his briefs to grip onto his leaking hard-on. `Fucking hell,' moaned someone, `nobody better mention this on the flight home tomorrow...!' `Oh yeah, are we not gonna take a selfie then, haha?' `You fuckin' dare, dickhead-!' `Relax, relax, just toss one off and enjoy it - hey, Harv, give him a slurp and shut him up?' `I bet that ancient prostitute wouldn't be this good.' `Are you acutally saying you prefer a lad's mouth?' `Nah, fuck off, that's not what I meant!' `Jesus, his lips...' `Haha, don't cum too soon, keeno!' Harvey laughed in a pause between mouthfuls, but then felt himself pulled and manhandled differently - for a second or two, he thought the game was up, and this bro-job circle-jerk was a bit rich for someone. But nope. He was being yanked up by the armpits and then cuffed and shook playfully by different hands, but guided towards his bed, towards those clean white sheets. He let out a filthy chuckle as he fell against it, undoing the last two buttons so that his shirt could spill open and expose his toned upper body, his cock jutting out of the CK-branded waistband of his briefs. And the other lads were about him, surrounding the bed, and all pumping on their cocks, so tall and powerful - it was Luke missing, he thought, Luke who'd panicked and fled - Luke who was, at 24, the oldest here, but you wouldn't think it, a nervous Bambi of a twink - and Harvey had caught him staring at his dick in the showers not so long ago, haha! So sprawled on the bed, he twisted and shifted so that he could grab and fellate Jarrad again, loving the gruffness and almost resistance of the big Cumbrian man's moans... but then reaching a hand out to stroke and tease Emile by his thick meaty piece, one of the first cocks he'd ever sucked, years ago in a stadium bathroom! He pivoted and licked the heavy hairy balls of James, seeing those bright pink cheeks and worried eyes in the big lad's face... and then, scrambling to the side, he found himself smirking up into a more worried and drawn face. And yet here he was. Stood at the foot of the bed, his shirt hanging open about his lean ripped torso, and his eyes half-closed; wanking furiously on his stupidly big cock, the monster Harvey had noticed bouncing about in trunks and shorts and joggers for years. Curtis hovered over him, pumping on his monster cock, staring down at him, and Harvey licked his lips. He slid from the bed and back onto his haunches right in front of the Liverpool midfielder, and kissed his cock, and then let the lanky git slide it down his throat, thrusting forward and fucking his face for a few eager moments. `Fuck, I think I'm gonna cum,' someone panted. `Me too,' another throaty voice admitted. `Damn, this is fucked up.' `Oh shut up and dump yer jizz on the bastard, haha!' `Harvey, get here - I'm gonna paint that face.' `Fucking hell mate...!' `Oh god, I'm getting close...' Harvey stayed where he was, squashed down on his arse, back to the foot of the bed, and the men drew closer about him, some kneeling on the bed over him, but most of them standing. `Fucking bukkake the cunt,' muttered Jarrad Braithwaite, the strapping hetero lad who'd been throwing a brotherly arm about his shoulders on the Georgian pitch earlier tonight; `I'm spunking in his stupid hair,' gasped Cole Palmer, nervous as a bunny rabbit five minutes ago. `I'm spunking in his Scouse mouth!' panted Trafford more loudly, and it was as if the big lads were fighting to be first, fighting to stand over him, all jostling elbows and puffed out pectorals. Harvey reached for two cocks at a time, stroking them and just lolling his head back against the foot of the mattress, a filthy grin across his face. `Come on, lads,' the England player growled at his teammates, `don't keep me waiting!' `Fucking slut,' grunted 22-year-old attacking midfielder Emile, and Harvey opened his mouth wide to catch some of the juicy load that spilled from the Croydon lads'juddering prick - a couple of dabs of salty load hit his tongue, but the rest spattered across the side of his face, flecking the chinstrap of facial hair, dotting the bridge of his nose, spilling across the nub of his chin. Above him, the dominant wanker gasped and mouthed silent blasphemy. `Fucking hell guys,' panted Cole nervously, apparently horrified by the sight of this, but red-faced with excitement all at once; he looked like he was straining to reach his own orgasm and get it out of the way, something desperate and frantic in his gestures and tremors. `Look at his dirty mouth,' gasped Gibbs-White, a bit too eagerly - Harvey rolled his tongue across his lips, catching a drop more of Emile's cum, eyes locked on Morgan's, urging the big black lad to finish on his face too. But someone else was gasping and moaning, and he flicked his eyes to the left - Trafford had gone from fresh-faced pink to scarlet, eyes clamped shut and chest heaving, the big lad that he was - and then a second load of manly seed was flecking Harvey's face, his hairline, his bare chest. `Oh jesus Christ,' bellowed the big goalkeeper who had kept things so clean all through the cup, but now was spilling a sticky mess over the young winger. `Fucking big load, mate,' someone grunted approvingly, `but watch this...' It was Charlie Creswell, bending his knees and almost squatting forward so he could aim his pistol cock and splash his wet load right across Harvey's face, running across his cheeks and lips - he stuck out a dirty tongue, catching a taste of the Lancashire juices and staring hungrily up at the big sexy bugger. The rugged Leeds centre-back broke into gruff laughter, hanging off the shoulders of the lads next to him, his veiny hard-on swinging free with more cum trailing from the tip. `Fuck yes,' the Liverpool star shouted at them, licking more at his lips, eyeing them all wildly, loving being the bukkake star of their release - he turned just in time to catch some of Cole's salty load on his tongue, though most of it scattered in his hair and across his brow. He lunged over and wrapped his mouth about the long thin tool of the Man City midfielder, wanting more of his Wythenshawe flavour. `Fuck yes,' Taylor grunted, the skipper of this team who, Harvey now thought, seemed to have been manhandling him more than anyone else all tournament, a bit handsy and intimate, and whose big bulge he'd been eyeing unconsciously himself. And that left just one, apart from his own straining erection. His head lolled to one side and he smirked eagerly at Curtis, licking some of Taylor's cum from his upper lip. He rose up on his knees, wanking himself furiously, and he gripped the base of his teammate's big prick - he held it there, about the base, and just rolled his tongue back and forth over the tip, gratified by the wild rolling gasp of Jones' breaths and swearing. `Eat his cum,' someone, maybe Harwood-Bellis, was grunting forcefully through heavy breaths. `Yeah, feed the slut!' `Look at his dirty fucking mug, fuckin' hell...' `God I need to shower...' `You do? Poor Harv, ha ha-' `FUCK,' whined the stammering Liverpool ace, and Harvey intensified, sliding his hand halfway up and down the shaft, really licking around the head, and then clamping his mouth about it just as the big lad's balls tightened and every ripped muscle in his midriff seemed to tense. He tasted yet more salty cum filling his mouth, and he slouched back, drooling jizz, and eyeing Curtis' shiny stunned face looming over him. Sitting there at their feet, looking up at their resting cocks and heaving bodies, Harvey pulled on himself and in a few more strokes he was spurting thick cum over his knuckles and over the thighs of his tailored trousers, bead after bead of his juices drained from his balls. He laughed, though it came out as a throaty gurgle, and he grabbed at an edge of the duvet to try and rub it over his messy face and fringe. Around him, in a haze, was a kind of chaos: Curtis sounded like he was hyperventilating, and then stampeding for the en suite, barking `Need a shower' at someone else; he had the sense of big tired bodies collapsing onto beds or chairs, some of the lads just totally spent by unloading; someone exited in a real hurry, so much so that they seemed to be still stuffing their cock into their suit pants on the way through the doorway. Harvey pulled to one side then scrambled upright, still chuckling and trying to wipe sticky mess from his face, his neck, his softly defined pecs. `Fucking hell,' muttered the hefty presence of Trafford, brushing past him, furiously buttoning up his shirt over his pecs, his eyes wild with regret. His City teammate Palmer was dashing after him, and neither lad looked back at Harvey, the recipient of their orgasms. Harvey swayed on his feet, almost knocked aside as the first cock of the night pulled in close next to him. Softly chuckling, Gibbs-White held him about the shoulders and brought his mouth close to his ear. `Neco said you were pretty handy with that mouth,' the Forest player muttered darkly, before patting him on the back and swaggering for the door. And so they went - Jarrad and Charlie both red-faced and laughing ambiguously, and Emile giving him a dirty smile of past knowledge, and then skipper Taylor coming in for, surprisingly, a hug. He practically lifted Harvey off his feet in the manly embrace, something awkward and wooden in his facial expression. `Always a team player,' was all the Man City centre-back could mutter at him, evading eye contact. `Solid, lad, solid.' And then the 6ft2 ruffian was hurrying after the other two big lads - Levi must already have gone, and Luke ages ago. This left Elliott alone, slumping down to seated on the edge of the bed, and listening to the watery hiss of his roommate's shower. The 20-year-old sniggered. `Breakfast will be fun,' he murmured, unsure if he was feeling the faintest of regrets - this was his whole generation of England players, he supposed, and fellas he might play alongside on the senior squad in future World Cups, and over half a dozen of them had just dumped their seed over his face like he was some porno slut or hired hooker. But he could only grin and snigger, and pull fingers through his messy hair, then stagger up from the bed and into the bathroom, where he shed his stained shirt to the floor and toyed with the waist of his undies and dirtied trousers. The water stopped, the curtain slide aside, and Jones instantly planted both hands over his exposed crotch, as if a roomful of lads hadn't just seen his beast in action. Curtis stared at him, mortified, his tall lean body glistening wet. Harvey softened his smile and hovered there, patting his flat tummy, and waiting for one of them to speak. `You okay, big man?' he asked quietly. `That was insane,' Curtis told him ambivalently. Harvey passed him a towel and made a show of looking away. Wrapped in it, the taller lad slid past him and out of the bathroom. Harvey strongly suspected that unconvincing snores would be heard by the time he followed his friend through into the main suite... but he and Curtis had a lot of training time together in the near future of the pre-season, and he wasn't worried. He'd seen how excited the big bugger was to get his cock out and join in, for all his concerns. He'd long resisted a curiosity about his well-hung pal, never wanting to push the nervous fella too far, or to mar their close alliance in the Liverpool ranks... But now, everything was different, and Curtis had joined in just like the other brutish lads. On his own, Elliott switched the shower back on and soaped the cum away from his body, playing idly with his still-tingling prick, and reflecting on the unexpected submission of his night; he'd wanted to fuck a slut, but he'd just become one instead. And... he felt pretty good about it. Surprised, dazed, but... good. 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Date: Sun, 18 Feb 2024 16:10:57 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 389 Part 389: Portuguese Tart The 23-year-old winger loved playing for Wolverhampton Wanderers, comfortably settled at the West Midlands club since his late teens, part of the heavy Portuguese contingent that partly defined its squad; he'd steadily established him as one of the main performers on the Wolves team, and finally felt like he was coming into his prime as a fierce attacking player. He was popular on the team, with the coaches and the fans, and happy to often be the handsome smiling face of his Premiership club - especially on a Saturday like this when his side had beaten a supposedly `bigger' club like Tottenham Hotspur, 2-1 away, and he could really bask in the applause of their travelling fans... But there was one aspect of Wolverhampton life which gave Pedro Neto some cause for regret: he really did miss their former captain, Conor Coady. Pedro had been a more bright-eyed and inexperienced player when he began to bond with the confident English guy, though he was far less innocent than he could look... he'd quickly become indispensable to the former skipper once he began to suck his big cock at every available opportunity, later offering up his pert shapely arse too. Coady had always come at him with a certain hesitance and shame, aimlessly rending him that he was happily married and a responsible dad - such protestations had only ever made the older man more attractive and exciting to Pedro, who loved the risk of playing around with the Liverpudlian gent in toilet cubicles, their parked cars, the Coady family home. Even when the disastrous inevitable occurred, and Mrs C walked in on that sloppy blowjob on the rug, Neto had dared to hope that their steamy affair could continue - `she will have to understand!' - but nope, the Coadys had rapidly vanished from the West Midlands in no time at all. Captain Conor had disappeared away to first Everton and now Leicester, and the 23-year-old Portuguese twunk hadn't heard a word from his lover since. Handsome and horny Pedro was not exactly heartbroken - he'd had feelings of a sort for Conor, but nothing deep and passionate, it had been far more about physical needs and the sizzling excitement of risk - but he DID greatly miss having regular access to a hot married DILF on the team, and an outlet for his strong sexual energy when riding the captain's cock in his marriage bed on quiet afternoons. So yes, as happy as the young Portuguese international was at his Premiership club, it had begun to lack a certain spark... and for a good length of time he had accepted that, taking it as a sign to devote all of his vitality to his footballing... for a time. But that time had ran out, and Pedro Neto was HORNY; the Portuguese tart of Wolverhampton needed to replace his former captain. They were in a pricey little bar on the outskirts of Wolverhampton - the West Midlands town was hardly a buzzing metropolitan for the well-paid athletes, but it had its boujie corners where the players occupied VIP areas on celebratory nights like this. Many of the men had come only for one drink, a brief visit to the bar after the coaches returned them from North London, but a small crew were still out enjoying themselves, and providing Neto with vague shapeless prospects for a satisfying end to the night. Pedro was collecting another two bottles of champagne from the VIP barmaid, hoisting the icy buckets and delivering them to the table occupied by the other five men - he'd insisted on the fizz, brushing aside banter from the others about overdoing it and acting as if they'd won a cup. He'd insisted that they'd been too boring lately and needed a proper night out, even if most of the other lads had already abandoned them for their wives. A cheeky grin across his dark-stubbled face, the 5ft8 footy stud grinned encouragingly at his cronies for the night and set about refilling glasses as if he was the VIP hostess himself, eager to have everybody as drunk and excitable as he felt, and well on his way to achieving that. The Saturday hero was the most obviously drunk: the usual reserve of his fellow 23-year-old Portuguese speaker was gone and Brazilian Joao Gomes was demonstrative and brash under the influence of champagne and tequila shots, his ego grown wild on his brace of goals and their victory over Tottenham. Right now, he was narrating both goals to an attractive leggy blond on either side of him, and demanding that Pedro fill glasses for them; the central midfielder was quite visibly excited by his two female companions, pulling greedily at the bulge in his designer jeans, either trying to draw their attention to it, or already semi at the flirtations of the two babes. Their French-Algerian left-back, on the other hand, was a notable exception, seemingly quite firm in his sobriety, but vaping obnoxiously and ignoring the warning looks of the bar manager who hovered at the edge of the VIP area noting how much they were spending. Rayan Ait-Norui was unfazed by this, and the 22-year-old Frenchman lounged in a seat next to Gomes' loud flirtations, looking studiously at one of the women but not quite engaging with their excited Black Country accents or Joao's broken limited English. On the other side of the table, refilled glasses were greedily claimed by two Englishman and an Irishman. Their newish full-back, Matt Doherty, seemed to have put aside some earlier qualms about beating his former club, and was now drunk enough to be full of victorious cheer like everybody else, having left Tottenham for an unsuccessful stint at Atletico Madrid before washing up here - the tall well-built Dubliner had been unsure about champagne, insisting on whiskey, but he was now knocking back the bubbles like an enthusiastic wedding guest, and Pedro couldn't stop noticing how sleek and handsome the 6ft1 defender looked, the oldest of their small clique. Next to him, a guy who hadn't even made the pitch today was toasting the victory as if it was all his own doing, red-cheeked and clearly intoxicated - but Pedro had no resentment for the likeable loan midfielder from Man City, happy to have the boy-next-door ginger out with them as another drunk guy to ogle and contemplate. There was something very bashful and unassuming about Tommy Doyle much of the time, but when Pedro had laid eyes on the rock-solid celtic muscles under his kit, he'd developed quite a liking for the 22-year-old bench-warmer... who had an arm thrown about their current captain, a man who had taken the City reject under his wing as he did with anyone else who struggled in the squad. Ah yes, the captain... At the centre of their drunk gathering, laughing with his full broad chest and downing his new glass of fizz in two gulps, was Max Kilman, an Englishman who had become central to the Wolves squad after Coady's shock departure, and who occupied a lot of Pedro Neto's naughtiest thoughts when his lonely frustrations came to the surface. He reached over and refilled Kilman's glass for him then sat down opposite, grinning hungrily between the other men, and drinking from the bottle himself. Yes, he thought decisively, I've been too well-behaved for too long - tonight I need some cock. The girls' flat was small and shabby, certainly compared to the kind of luxury enjoyed by men on their Premier League salaries; clearly they were uni students, but their excitement at having a small troop of professional footballers swilling vodka in their tiny living room was a mood that could match the enthusiasm levels of their visitors, who knew that late night entertainment in Wolverhampton was somewhat limited. Tonight, Pedro had no interest in the two blondes from the bar, nor their scantily clad mixed-race housemate who had joined them here; he was comfortably bisexual and had not turned his back on women since discovering cock, but he could get with fawning female fans easily, tonight he needed to replace Conor Coady. He got up from his perch on the end of one small sofa and went to play with the laptop hooked up to the speakers, putting on some Bad Bunny, and jerking playfully about with a few dance moves whilst pouring a liberal amount of vodka into his plastic cup. He smirked knowingly as one of the girls, he had not caught their names, sidled away from the sofa, leading Gomes by the hand; the 23-year-old South American looked this way and Pedro winked encouragingly at him. He then took the warm patch of leather cushion that they'd vacated and leered thoughtfully across at sober Ait-Nouri, who puffed out bursts of vape like a fruity dragon, before beginning to snog passionately at the other blond girl who was draped across his lap. Okay, he thought, so the Latino and North African studs were perhaps too occupied to be led astray, but he had other options - he stared from this plasticky leather sofa to the other, where the one sober girl was perched delicately between the hulking forms of Doherty and Kilman, who seemed to be competing to pay her the most obnoxious compliment, whilst charming Doyle hovered on a folding chair just to the left, trying and failing to chip in with the banter, and showing no obvious interest in the girl herself. Hmm. Unnoticed by the drunken interests of those around him, Neto got lightly up from his seat, slurped on his drink, and moved towards the half-open bedroom door; through it he could watch a vertical stripe of soft porn, seeing the bare muscular back of the double goal-scorer, shirtless and lain on top of his host, kissing and cuddling her, his strong footballer's arse lifting and falling with a grinding motion, still clothed in sagging jeans and a glimpse of designer underpants. Pedro hovered at the door and licked his lips, touching himself through his baggy cuffed trousers. He wondered if he could go in and make it a threesome, wondered how open-minded the sexy Brazilian winger actually was, and whether the UK student chick would enjoy having two Premiership cocks in her tonight. But Neto left them to it, pausing only to enjoy her moans as Joao's kisses travelled down her front, and he saw that Rayan, sucking on his vape, was now being led out through another door, the sexy Algerian Frenchy - but the third flatmate was still giggling flirtatiously with both Matt and Max, no decision reached. That left Tommy in a fairly isolated position, getting up to fiddle with the drinks on the table, and Pedro joined him thoughtfully, again interfering with the playlist, then adding an extra measure to the drink that the 22-year-old Mancunian was preparing. He stroked his shoulder a little. `Hey,' the Portuguese winger purred to his newer friend, `did you not fancy any of the girls?' The ginger loan player turned an awkwardly shy expression his way, freckled and blushing, and shook his head with an uncertain `No' when Pedro prodded him further with another question: `Don't you see anything you like?' Stroking and squeezing the increasingly muscular youth by the shoulder, Pedro leaned in close, feeling more worldly and confident than his temporary teammate, and murmured in his ear, `If not the girls, is it Matt or Max you have your eyes on...?' It was a risky question, even whispered against the boom of the speakers, at this drunken hour of the morning, but the wide panic in Tommy's eyes told him everything he needed to know, and he just smirked back at him; he carried out his signature move, a long slow moistening of his dark pink lips with his rather sizeable tongue, and then chuckled knowingly to himself. He could see that Doyle was rattled, so he threw a matey arm about his broad shoulders and squeezed the other 5ft8 player close to him as they turned to look back at the three figures on the couch. `Is it captain Max, or the big Irishman?' Pedro hissed sensuously in his ear, bringing his face so close that he almost kissed his lobe, then letting go; Tommy mumbled something incoherent and slid away from him to visit the student flat's tiny bathroom - oh, silly boy, couldn't he take a bit of teasing...? Things on the couch had progressed - the girl had made a choice of sorts, and was kissing heavily with the Wolves captain Kilman, stretching up to snog with the very tall defensive player, but it was Matt Doherty's hand that had slid in between her legs and whose long fingers were brushing the front of her panties. Pedro stood in front of them, ignored, and again stroked himself through his trouser pants, loving the sordid scene, even if his options were running low - he loved the hints of sleaze in his champagne-soaked teammates tonight, a change from the low-key lifestyles around their mid-table club. And then big lofty Kilman was getting up, a 6ft4 hulk who seemed to fill this room, and the girl was getting up with him - but so was Doherty, whose 6ft1 was rather dwarfed by the skipper. And between them the petite sensuality of the excited girl, touched by both; she was taking them both by a hand each and nodding to the remaining bedroom door that branched off from this small central lounge. Soundtracked by the pulsing Latin music from the speakers, there was a moment of comical British and Irish awkwardness: Max and Matt seemed to realise at the same time that they were sharing her, and stare each other down conservatively, not so sexually open as someone like Pedro, but... they were drunk and horny and she was pulling insistently on their big manly paws. Off they went, and Pedro licked his lips again - three bedrooms around him, and four footy hunks working their magic on thirsty uni girls. And stumbling back into this space from the narrow brightness of the bathroom, Tommy Doyle looked rather panicked to find the others gone. `Where is...?' the red-haired lad began to ask, then seemed to become shy about the name of who he was worried about; Pedro smirked at him, but not unkindly, and he just played a guessing game in his head: surely it was the captain that this cutey was hung up on, though it could just as easily be the Dubliner... `Everyone's having fun but us,' he said simply, watching Tommy's lashes flutter and his hand come up to scratch the back of his neck. `I might get an Uber,' murmured the slightly younger player. `What's the rush?' With that, Pedro leaned in and kissed him very softly on the cheek, then steered him by the shoulder; gently, he guided the other medium-build footy star to the least closed of the doors, and the pair of them paused voyeuristically there, staring in through that strip of visibility. Joao Gomes was really going to work now, his muscular back still on show, but his firm caramel-coloured arse and hairy thighs also on show, the Brazilian midfielder ploughing one of the blonde girls and making her moan loudly. Tommy gawped, mouth hanging open a little, and Pedro stroked the back of his neck, leaning in and kissing him again on the cheek - `Are you jealous of her?' he purred. But then he tugged back on the sleeve of Tommy's loose shirt, moving towards the other door just to their right - it was only open a crack, but Pedro could push softly to open it some more without disturbing the occupants - again, they were hunched close together at the small cheap doors of the student accommodation, and through even this narrow slit of space, they could see that Rayan was having as much fun as their other teammate; the other blonde was being fucked doggy style on her bed, and if Pedro angled his head right, he could see the rippling beauty of Ait-Nouri's six pack whilst the 22-year-old Frenchman thrusted against a jiggling feminine booty, still puffing on his vape as he did. Pedro tugged Tommy back from the door before he could lean in and creak the door open too much - the boyish-faced ginger lad looked really taken aback by these sordid glimpses, or the quantity of drink was just hitting him. More confident, more controlled, more ambitious in his lust, Pedro pulled him steady and pressed him to the wall of the room; he leaned in, holding his sides, and kissed the sides of his neck, the bottom of his throat, and then his nipples through the shirt, reaching down and massaging his throbbing erection in the front of his baggy pale combat pants. Tommy stared almost fearfully at him, but Pedro was sure this wasn't the first time a man had touched him like this. `What are we doing?' Doyle breathed cautiously. `Are you...?' `Horny?' Neto insisted, irritated by the concept of labels. `As horny as you.' And he pulled one of those shaky pale hands in against the sizeable outline of his erection. `And the three girls are occupied, so...' He pulled the other 5ft8 lad in and snogged him deeply, touching tongues, before taking his hands and tugging him away from the wall; from the two ajar doors close to them, showy feminine moans and fainter male grunts sounded against the soundtrack of a reggaeton remix. `Mate,' whispered the City loan nervously, but Pedro silenced him with another kiss, and pushed a hand inside his pants and undies to fondle his cock. `Should we open door number 3?' he chuckled teasingly, and he saw a new wildness in those innocent eyes. Both young men looked across beyond the two cheap sofas to the third door that branched off from the messy lounge. Tommy looked breathless with fearful excitement and Pedro laughed happily, delighted with how tonight's drunken debauchery was turning out. He kept his hand in there, tugging gently on the English manhood, and then bringing that paw up to sniff the precum on his fingers, which he licked. He took Tommy by the hand and moved the short distance to this invitingly closed door - it was thin, but the music was loud, and nothing could be heard beyond it. `Go on,' he urged, `open it.' Tommy stared at him and reached for the handle, but seemed to stop short of pulling it down; the English youth looked almost nauseous with secret lust and social awkwardness, but Pedro just laughed at him, and snogged him again, really tonguing his sweet mouth, then ruffling his hair and giving his rounded bottom a squeeze through his baggy pants. He put his hand on top of Tommy's and half-opened the door, and the two of them stared in. It was the Wolves captain, big Kilman, who was sprawled out on the bed, seemingly naked but for black socks and the wide-open resort shirt that hung from his shoulders and biceps; he had his hands clasped behind his head and was propped up against pillows and headboard, his chest and abs glistening, but his crotch obscured by the bobbing head of the girl who was sucking him off; and she in turn was near-naked, her pale brown body stretched down between his long mighty legs; Matt Doherty was a hunched figure at the foot of the bed, shirtless too, contorted into a strange stooped posture so that he could press face down between her legs and lick her cunt from behind, noisy and enthusiastic. `Fuck,' breathed Tommy. Pedro clutched his hand and retreated, pulling him back with him, and the Englishman drifted with him, his face washed-out and his lip trembling. Pedro, hungry, pushed him down into the couch, and paused only to dial down the volume - not much, but enough to let the beats mingle with the released sex noises of the three occupied bedrooms, a beautiful backing track as he got on his knees and freed Tommy's cock from combat pants and boxer briefs. He spat heavily on the pale thick shaft and then sucked hungrily on it, making the shy lad's whimpers join the sounds of three uni students being pleasured by Premiership hunks - the noises from the first room becoming particularly loud, a fleshy slapping joining the girl's squeals and Gomes' groaning. Drooling, Neto stopped long enough to help Doyle unbutton his shirt; he wanted to run his hands up that surprisingly dense six-pack and chest, tweaking chunky nipples, enjoying the pale athletic body whilst gobbling back down on his sweaty cock. He'd never have suspected such needy openness in the midfield spare until tonight, but it made sense; he should have gotten his hands on this ginger slut more quickly when Tommy turned up at Wolverhampton last summer! But it was thoughts of pounding Gomes and thrusting Ait-Nouri that flooded his mind, images of sprawling decadent Kilman and hunched licking Doherty; he was turned on by all of them, wanted to be in each of these three beds right now AS WELL AS crouched at this sofa, noshing off the nervous ginger stud. His long abstinence since jeopardising the Coady marriage had left him... greedy. Instead, he focused his drunken libido on the here and now: Tommy's pulsing erection and fat balls, the short curls of his red pubes, the sweaty inners of his spread thighs. He held the lad's hands to each sides, fingers locked, and bobbed his head up and down, putting his strong skilled tongue to work, bringing the sexy guy to climax; he was tempted to flip him over and see if he could take a fucking, but he didn't want to take the shy guy too far! Besides, ginger Tommy was clearly smitten with the skipper. And for all his drunken inertia, he was sensitive and out of control - he was soon emptying his jizz on Pedro's tongue, lips, dark Portuguese stubble. He lapped at it, licking it from the cock and pubes and thighs, and from around his messy mouth. It tasted good. He sat back on his haunches and wiped the traces of spunk from his face on the back of one arm, panting a little. In front of him, the 22-year-old was spent, his eyes closed and his mouth wide in a series of throaty gasps; shirt hanging open and pants all about his hairy shins. His cock flopped to one side against the greasy smears of seed and spit, and his pale sturdy chest rose and fell. `Good boy,' giggled Neto - but nope, this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind, this wasn't quite a replacement for his departed Captain Coady. Rock-hard in his own slim-fit jeans, the 5ft8 cock-whore got up to his feet and licked his salty lips, leaving Tommy to pant and tremble, and checked in on the sexy North African: he hovered with his hand on the door handle, watching as Rayan did his magic in missionary, the beautiful smooth curve of his bum jerking up and down as he plunged himself into her - Pedro wanted to sneak in there and kiss it, but he wasn't sure if the French-Algerian would appreciate a helping hand; instead, he moved back to the surprising kink of the two tall men who were sharing the other flatmate - he was fascinated by the prospect of two rather straitlaced men like Matt and Max engaging in a three-way. As he stumbled eagerly to that far door and leant heavily on the handle, he leaned in and saw that Kilman too was in missionary, his back and thighs and arse exposed, roughly shagging his girl, whose brown legs were hooked about his lower back whilst he gave her his all. And this, Pedro quickly noticed, left a shiny-mouthed Doherty floating awkwardly to one side, hand stuffed into the front of his boxer shorts, jeans about his ankles. As drunk horny Neto floated on the threshold of this third small bedroom, Matt shot him a wary look, seeming surprised to be observed; the 6ft1 Irish hunk said nothing, but his frustration and impatience was obvious on his face. Pedro, drunk on champagne and cum, lurched his way, and stroked his bare upper arm. `Enjoying the view?' he quipped at the new defensive player, who stared hard at him, looking annoyed - not far from either of them, the huge naked body of their captain continued to pound into the screaming wetness of the room's occupant. Not a word passed between the big full-back and the grinning shorter Portuguese player; there was a special boldness that could only exist at 2am in a pool of champagne and vodka, with one masculine footballer already sucked dry in the next room. As if Kilman and his shag were miles away, Pedro Netro sank back to his knees on the cheap carpet, licked his lips ostentatiously, and stared demandingly up at the former Hotspur. Pedro could have no idea that stony-faced Matt Doherty had enjoyed his first man-on-man blowjob shortly before his Madrid stint, his cock devoured by his close pal Eric Dier, and that the shocking enjoyment of such taboo had played on the Dubliner's mind during his entire frustrating spell at Atletico. There could not have been a more sexually charged and ready recipient stood in front of the cock-hungry 23-year-old; with the mixed-race girl gasping in the background, and the sloppy wet slaps of Kilman's plunging cock, Pedro proceeded to pull down the boxers and kiss the low-hanging Celtic balls. He opened his mouth wide and took the near-hard stretch of cock inside it, bringing it swiftly to full veiny hardness - with the same sloppy frenzy that he'd pleasured Tommy next door, he began to suck off Doherty, maintaining intense eye contact with that long frosty face. This, he thought, was more like it - Doherty had the same steady macho energy as Coady, if less jovial and playful, and he was tall and imposing; as cute as he was, boy-next-door Tommy was not his type. The risk in here, too, drove him wild, and he jerked himself through the flies of his jeans, devouring Matt's long powerful tool in a hurry; if the frantic fucking behind them stopped at any point then either Max or his lover could look this way and see a shocking scene. But he sucked on regardless, drunk and reckless and sure that he could swallow his second load of the night in no time. Matt's face glowed with sweat and he chewed his lip; Pedro thought about seeing him with his face pushed into that girl's cunt, and he felt even more devoted to servicing him. Soon he was getting a gobful of cum that was salter and more bitter than Doyle's, but lapped up with equal gusto. When Neto left the bedroom, the girl was screaming `Fuck me Max' and Kilman sounded like he might be climaxing; he was aware of tall brooding Doherty drifting out after him, clumsily pulling clothing on - and Tommy was passed out on the couch with his soft cock nestled between open legs. But Pedro swanned past him and away from both red-blooded men whose balls had been emptied on his stubbled mouth; he pushed his way into the first of the three bedrooms, stroking his cock through the open front of his jeans. In here, Joao and the first blond girl were kissing and stroking each other, bu the fucking was over, a big soft Brazilian whopper flopping limp between caramel thighs; Pedro stood near the bed and grinned pleadingly at both fuckers. `Room for a little one?' he quipped spitting in his palm and playing with his own generously endowed erection. By the time he was clambering into a tax home, Pedro had fucked two of the horny female students and eventually spent his load on one's tits. He'd enjoyed that but was sure it would be the two rushed blowjobs that he'd remember in the morning when he was hungover and indulgent. Even in the cab, he couldn't stop smirking across at Doherty, wondering if he would be able to taste that big Irish rod again soon; a sleepy Tommy was squashed between them, head lolling side to side, and the other three were already en route in the first of the two hire cars. The girls, sexually satisfied and greatly amused, were left behind to snore and recover, the debauched couple of hours of bed-hopping over; false numbers exchanged and tabloid scandals risked. Pedro had lost track of who fucked who, but he knew mostly that he'd taken two delicious loads, and that the spent studs were insensible in the same taxi back seat as he, cute fluffy Tommy and hard severe Matt. He hadn't quite replaced Conor Coady, necessarily, but he'd had great fun trying. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 18 Feb 2024 16:10:57 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 389 Part 389: Portuguese Tart The 23-year-old winger loved playing for Wolverhampton Wanderers, comfortably settled at the West Midlands club since his late teens, part of the heavy Portuguese contingent that partly defined its squad; he'd steadily established him as one of the main performers on the Wolves team, and finally felt like he was coming into his prime as a fierce attacking player. He was popular on the team, with the coaches and the fans, and happy to often be the handsome smiling face of his Premiership club - especially on a Saturday like this when his side had beaten a supposedly `bigger' club like Tottenham Hotspur, 2-1 away, and he could really bask in the applause of their travelling fans... But there was one aspect of Wolverhampton life which gave Pedro Neto some cause for regret: he really did miss their former captain, Conor Coady. Pedro had been a more bright-eyed and inexperienced player when he began to bond with the confident English guy, though he was far less innocent than he could look... he'd quickly become indispensable to the former skipper once he began to suck his big cock at every available opportunity, later offering up his pert shapely arse too. Coady had always come at him with a certain hesitance and shame, aimlessly rending him that he was happily married and a responsible dad - such protestations had only ever made the older man more attractive and exciting to Pedro, who loved the risk of playing around with the Liverpudlian gent in toilet cubicles, their parked cars, the Coady family home. Even when the disastrous inevitable occurred, and Mrs C walked in on that sloppy blowjob on the rug, Neto had dared to hope that their steamy affair could continue - `she will have to understand!' - but nope, the Coadys had rapidly vanished from the West Midlands in no time at all. Captain Conor had disappeared away to first Everton and now Leicester, and the 23-year-old Portuguese twunk hadn't heard a word from his lover since. Handsome and horny Pedro was not exactly heartbroken - he'd had feelings of a sort for Conor, but nothing deep and passionate, it had been far more about physical needs and the sizzling excitement of risk - but he DID greatly miss having regular access to a hot married DILF on the team, and an outlet for his strong sexual energy when riding the captain's cock in his marriage bed on quiet afternoons. So yes, as happy as the young Portuguese international was at his Premiership club, it had begun to lack a certain spark... and for a good length of time he had accepted that, taking it as a sign to devote all of his vitality to his footballing... for a time. But that time had ran out, and Pedro Neto was HORNY; the Portuguese tart of Wolverhampton needed to replace his former captain. They were in a pricey little bar on the outskirts of Wolverhampton - the West Midlands town was hardly a buzzing metropolitan for the well-paid athletes, but it had its boujie corners where the players occupied VIP areas on celebratory nights like this. Many of the men had come only for one drink, a brief visit to the bar after the coaches returned them from North London, but a small crew were still out enjoying themselves, and providing Neto with vague shapeless prospects for a satisfying end to the night. Pedro was collecting another two bottles of champagne from the VIP barmaid, hoisting the icy buckets and delivering them to the table occupied by the other five men - he'd insisted on the fizz, brushing aside banter from the others about overdoing it and acting as if they'd won a cup. He'd insisted that they'd been too boring lately and needed a proper night out, even if most of the other lads had already abandoned them for their wives. A cheeky grin across his dark-stubbled face, the 5ft8 footy stud grinned encouragingly at his cronies for the night and set about refilling glasses as if he was the VIP hostess himself, eager to have everybody as drunk and excitable as he felt, and well on his way to achieving that. The Saturday hero was the most obviously drunk: the usual reserve of his fellow 23-year-old Portuguese speaker was gone and Brazilian Joao Gomes was demonstrative and brash under the influence of champagne and tequila shots, his ego grown wild on his brace of goals and their victory over Tottenham. Right now, he was narrating both goals to an attractive leggy blond on either side of him, and demanding that Pedro fill glasses for them; the central midfielder was quite visibly excited by his two female companions, pulling greedily at the bulge in his designer jeans, either trying to draw their attention to it, or already semi at the flirtations of the two babes. Their French-Algerian left-back, on the other hand, was a notable exception, seemingly quite firm in his sobriety, but vaping obnoxiously and ignoring the warning looks of the bar manager who hovered at the edge of the VIP area noting how much they were spending. Rayan Ait-Norui was unfazed by this, and the 22-year-old Frenchman lounged in a seat next to Gomes' loud flirtations, looking studiously at one of the women but not quite engaging with their excited Black Country accents or Joao's broken limited English. On the other side of the table, refilled glasses were greedily claimed by two Englishman and an Irishman. Their newish full-back, Matt Doherty, seemed to have put aside some earlier qualms about beating his former club, and was now drunk enough to be full of victorious cheer like everybody else, having left Tottenham for an unsuccessful stint at Atletico Madrid before washing up here - the tall well-built Dubliner had been unsure about champagne, insisting on whiskey, but he was now knocking back the bubbles like an enthusiastic wedding guest, and Pedro couldn't stop noticing how sleek and handsome the 6ft1 defender looked, the oldest of their small clique. Next to him, a guy who hadn't even made the pitch today was toasting the victory as if it was all his own doing, red-cheeked and clearly intoxicated - but Pedro had no resentment for the likeable loan midfielder from Man City, happy to have the boy-next-door ginger out with them as another drunk guy to ogle and contemplate. There was something very bashful and unassuming about Tommy Doyle much of the time, but when Pedro had laid eyes on the rock-solid celtic muscles under his kit, he'd developed quite a liking for the 22-year-old bench-warmer... who had an arm thrown about their current captain, a man who had taken the City reject under his wing as he did with anyone else who struggled in the squad. Ah yes, the captain... At the centre of their drunk gathering, laughing with his full broad chest and downing his new glass of fizz in two gulps, was Max Kilman, an Englishman who had become central to the Wolves squad after Coady's shock departure, and who occupied a lot of Pedro Neto's naughtiest thoughts when his lonely frustrations came to the surface. He reached over and refilled Kilman's glass for him then sat down opposite, grinning hungrily between the other men, and drinking from the bottle himself. Yes, he thought decisively, I've been too well-behaved for too long - tonight I need some cock. The girls' flat was small and shabby, certainly compared to the kind of luxury enjoyed by men on their Premier League salaries; clearly they were uni students, but their excitement at having a small troop of professional footballers swilling vodka in their tiny living room was a mood that could match the enthusiasm levels of their visitors, who knew that late night entertainment in Wolverhampton was somewhat limited. Tonight, Pedro had no interest in the two blondes from the bar, nor their scantily clad mixed-race housemate who had joined them here; he was comfortably bisexual and had not turned his back on women since discovering cock, but he could get with fawning female fans easily, tonight he needed to replace Conor Coady. He got up from his perch on the end of one small sofa and went to play with the laptop hooked up to the speakers, putting on some Bad Bunny, and jerking playfully about with a few dance moves whilst pouring a liberal amount of vodka into his plastic cup. He smirked knowingly as one of the girls, he had not caught their names, sidled away from the sofa, leading Gomes by the hand; the 23-year-old South American looked this way and Pedro winked encouragingly at him. He then took the warm patch of leather cushion that they'd vacated and leered thoughtfully across at sober Ait-Nouri, who puffed out bursts of vape like a fruity dragon, before beginning to snog passionately at the other blond girl who was draped across his lap. Okay, he thought, so the Latino and North African studs were perhaps too occupied to be led astray, but he had other options - he stared from this plasticky leather sofa to the other, where the one sober girl was perched delicately between the hulking forms of Doherty and Kilman, who seemed to be competing to pay her the most obnoxious compliment, whilst charming Doyle hovered on a folding chair just to the left, trying and failing to chip in with the banter, and showing no obvious interest in the girl herself. Hmm. Unnoticed by the drunken interests of those around him, Neto got lightly up from his seat, slurped on his drink, and moved towards the half-open bedroom door; through it he could watch a vertical stripe of soft porn, seeing the bare muscular back of the double goal-scorer, shirtless and lain on top of his host, kissing and cuddling her, his strong footballer's arse lifting and falling with a grinding motion, still clothed in sagging jeans and a glimpse of designer underpants. Pedro hovered at the door and licked his lips, touching himself through his baggy cuffed trousers. He wondered if he could go in and make it a threesome, wondered how open-minded the sexy Brazilian winger actually was, and whether the UK student chick would enjoy having two Premiership cocks in her tonight. But Neto left them to it, pausing only to enjoy her moans as Joao's kisses travelled down her front, and he saw that Rayan, sucking on his vape, was now being led out through another door, the sexy Algerian Frenchy - but the third flatmate was still giggling flirtatiously with both Matt and Max, no decision reached. That left Tommy in a fairly isolated position, getting up to fiddle with the drinks on the table, and Pedro joined him thoughtfully, again interfering with the playlist, then adding an extra measure to the drink that the 22-year-old Mancunian was preparing. He stroked his shoulder a little. `Hey,' the Portuguese winger purred to his newer friend, `did you not fancy any of the girls?' The ginger loan player turned an awkwardly shy expression his way, freckled and blushing, and shook his head with an uncertain `No' when Pedro prodded him further with another question: `Don't you see anything you like?' Stroking and squeezing the increasingly muscular youth by the shoulder, Pedro leaned in close, feeling more worldly and confident than his temporary teammate, and murmured in his ear, `If not the girls, is it Matt or Max you have your eyes on...?' It was a risky question, even whispered against the boom of the speakers, at this drunken hour of the morning, but the wide panic in Tommy's eyes told him everything he needed to know, and he just smirked back at him; he carried out his signature move, a long slow moistening of his dark pink lips with his rather sizeable tongue, and then chuckled knowingly to himself. He could see that Doyle was rattled, so he threw a matey arm about his broad shoulders and squeezed the other 5ft8 player close to him as they turned to look back at the three figures on the couch. `Is it captain Max, or the big Irishman?' Pedro hissed sensuously in his ear, bringing his face so close that he almost kissed his lobe, then letting go; Tommy mumbled something incoherent and slid away from him to visit the student flat's tiny bathroom - oh, silly boy, couldn't he take a bit of teasing...? Things on the couch had progressed - the girl had made a choice of sorts, and was kissing heavily with the Wolves captain Kilman, stretching up to snog with the very tall defensive player, but it was Matt Doherty's hand that had slid in between her legs and whose long fingers were brushing the front of her panties. Pedro stood in front of them, ignored, and again stroked himself through his trouser pants, loving the sordid scene, even if his options were running low - he loved the hints of sleaze in his champagne-soaked teammates tonight, a change from the low-key lifestyles around their mid-table club. And then big lofty Kilman was getting up, a 6ft4 hulk who seemed to fill this room, and the girl was getting up with him - but so was Doherty, whose 6ft1 was rather dwarfed by the skipper. And between them the petite sensuality of the excited girl, touched by both; she was taking them both by a hand each and nodding to the remaining bedroom door that branched off from this small central lounge. Soundtracked by the pulsing Latin music from the speakers, there was a moment of comical British and Irish awkwardness: Max and Matt seemed to realise at the same time that they were sharing her, and stare each other down conservatively, not so sexually open as someone like Pedro, but... they were drunk and horny and she was pulling insistently on their big manly paws. Off they went, and Pedro licked his lips again - three bedrooms around him, and four footy hunks working their magic on thirsty uni girls. And stumbling back into this space from the narrow brightness of the bathroom, Tommy Doyle looked rather panicked to find the others gone. `Where is...?' the red-haired lad began to ask, then seemed to become shy about the name of who he was worried about; Pedro smirked at him, but not unkindly, and he just played a guessing game in his head: surely it was the captain that this cutey was hung up on, though it could just as easily be the Dubliner... `Everyone's having fun but us,' he said simply, watching Tommy's lashes flutter and his hand come up to scratch the back of his neck. `I might get an Uber,' murmured the slightly younger player. `What's the rush?' With that, Pedro leaned in and kissed him very softly on the cheek, then steered him by the shoulder; gently, he guided the other medium-build footy star to the least closed of the doors, and the pair of them paused voyeuristically there, staring in through that strip of visibility. Joao Gomes was really going to work now, his muscular back still on show, but his firm caramel-coloured arse and hairy thighs also on show, the Brazilian midfielder ploughing one of the blonde girls and making her moan loudly. Tommy gawped, mouth hanging open a little, and Pedro stroked the back of his neck, leaning in and kissing him again on the cheek - `Are you jealous of her?' he purred. But then he tugged back on the sleeve of Tommy's loose shirt, moving towards the other door just to their right - it was only open a crack, but Pedro could push softly to open it some more without disturbing the occupants - again, they were hunched close together at the small cheap doors of the student accommodation, and through even this narrow slit of space, they could see that Rayan was having as much fun as their other teammate; the other blonde was being fucked doggy style on her bed, and if Pedro angled his head right, he could see the rippling beauty of Ait-Nouri's six pack whilst the 22-year-old Frenchman thrusted against a jiggling feminine booty, still puffing on his vape as he did. Pedro tugged Tommy back from the door before he could lean in and creak the door open too much - the boyish-faced ginger lad looked really taken aback by these sordid glimpses, or the quantity of drink was just hitting him. More confident, more controlled, more ambitious in his lust, Pedro pulled him steady and pressed him to the wall of the room; he leaned in, holding his sides, and kissed the sides of his neck, the bottom of his throat, and then his nipples through the shirt, reaching down and massaging his throbbing erection in the front of his baggy pale combat pants. Tommy stared almost fearfully at him, but Pedro was sure this wasn't the first time a man had touched him like this. `What are we doing?' Doyle breathed cautiously. `Are you...?' `Horny?' Neto insisted, irritated by the concept of labels. `As horny as you.' And he pulled one of those shaky pale hands in against the sizeable outline of his erection. `And the three girls are occupied, so...' He pulled the other 5ft8 lad in and snogged him deeply, touching tongues, before taking his hands and tugging him away from the wall; from the two ajar doors close to them, showy feminine moans and fainter male grunts sounded against the soundtrack of a reggaeton remix. `Mate,' whispered the City loan nervously, but Pedro silenced him with another kiss, and pushed a hand inside his pants and undies to fondle his cock. `Should we open door number 3?' he chuckled teasingly, and he saw a new wildness in those innocent eyes. Both young men looked across beyond the two cheap sofas to the third door that branched off from the messy lounge. Tommy looked breathless with fearful excitement and Pedro laughed happily, delighted with how tonight's drunken debauchery was turning out. He kept his hand in there, tugging gently on the English manhood, and then bringing that paw up to sniff the precum on his fingers, which he licked. He took Tommy by the hand and moved the short distance to this invitingly closed door - it was thin, but the music was loud, and nothing could be heard beyond it. `Go on,' he urged, `open it.' Tommy stared at him and reached for the handle, but seemed to stop short of pulling it down; the English youth looked almost nauseous with secret lust and social awkwardness, but Pedro just laughed at him, and snogged him again, really tonguing his sweet mouth, then ruffling his hair and giving his rounded bottom a squeeze through his baggy pants. He put his hand on top of Tommy's and half-opened the door, and the two of them stared in. It was the Wolves captain, big Kilman, who was sprawled out on the bed, seemingly naked but for black socks and the wide-open resort shirt that hung from his shoulders and biceps; he had his hands clasped behind his head and was propped up against pillows and headboard, his chest and abs glistening, but his crotch obscured by the bobbing head of the girl who was sucking him off; and she in turn was near-naked, her pale brown body stretched down between his long mighty legs; Matt Doherty was a hunched figure at the foot of the bed, shirtless too, contorted into a strange stooped posture so that he could press face down between her legs and lick her cunt from behind, noisy and enthusiastic. `Fuck,' breathed Tommy. Pedro clutched his hand and retreated, pulling him back with him, and the Englishman drifted with him, his face washed-out and his lip trembling. Pedro, hungry, pushed him down into the couch, and paused only to dial down the volume - not much, but enough to let the beats mingle with the released sex noises of the three occupied bedrooms, a beautiful backing track as he got on his knees and freed Tommy's cock from combat pants and boxer briefs. He spat heavily on the pale thick shaft and then sucked hungrily on it, making the shy lad's whimpers join the sounds of three uni students being pleasured by Premiership hunks - the noises from the first room becoming particularly loud, a fleshy slapping joining the girl's squeals and Gomes' groaning. Drooling, Neto stopped long enough to help Doyle unbutton his shirt; he wanted to run his hands up that surprisingly dense six-pack and chest, tweaking chunky nipples, enjoying the pale athletic body whilst gobbling back down on his sweaty cock. He'd never have suspected such needy openness in the midfield spare until tonight, but it made sense; he should have gotten his hands on this ginger slut more quickly when Tommy turned up at Wolverhampton last summer! But it was thoughts of pounding Gomes and thrusting Ait-Nouri that flooded his mind, images of sprawling decadent Kilman and hunched licking Doherty; he was turned on by all of them, wanted to be in each of these three beds right now AS WELL AS crouched at this sofa, noshing off the nervous ginger stud. His long abstinence since jeopardising the Coady marriage had left him... greedy. Instead, he focused his drunken libido on the here and now: Tommy's pulsing erection and fat balls, the short curls of his red pubes, the sweaty inners of his spread thighs. He held the lad's hands to each sides, fingers locked, and bobbed his head up and down, putting his strong skilled tongue to work, bringing the sexy guy to climax; he was tempted to flip him over and see if he could take a fucking, but he didn't want to take the shy guy too far! Besides, ginger Tommy was clearly smitten with the skipper. And for all his drunken inertia, he was sensitive and out of control - he was soon emptying his jizz on Pedro's tongue, lips, dark Portuguese stubble. He lapped at it, licking it from the cock and pubes and thighs, and from around his messy mouth. It tasted good. He sat back on his haunches and wiped the traces of spunk from his face on the back of one arm, panting a little. In front of him, the 22-year-old was spent, his eyes closed and his mouth wide in a series of throaty gasps; shirt hanging open and pants all about his hairy shins. His cock flopped to one side against the greasy smears of seed and spit, and his pale sturdy chest rose and fell. `Good boy,' giggled Neto - but nope, this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind, this wasn't quite a replacement for his departed Captain Coady. Rock-hard in his own slim-fit jeans, the 5ft8 cock-whore got up to his feet and licked his salty lips, leaving Tommy to pant and tremble, and checked in on the sexy North African: he hovered with his hand on the door handle, watching as Rayan did his magic in missionary, the beautiful smooth curve of his bum jerking up and down as he plunged himself into her - Pedro wanted to sneak in there and kiss it, but he wasn't sure if the French-Algerian would appreciate a helping hand; instead, he moved back to the surprising kink of the two tall men who were sharing the other flatmate - he was fascinated by the prospect of two rather straitlaced men like Matt and Max engaging in a three-way. As he stumbled eagerly to that far door and leant heavily on the handle, he leaned in and saw that Kilman too was in missionary, his back and thighs and arse exposed, roughly shagging his girl, whose brown legs were hooked about his lower back whilst he gave her his all. And this, Pedro quickly noticed, left a shiny-mouthed Doherty floating awkwardly to one side, hand stuffed into the front of his boxer shorts, jeans about his ankles. As drunk horny Neto floated on the threshold of this third small bedroom, Matt shot him a wary look, seeming surprised to be observed; the 6ft1 Irish hunk said nothing, but his frustration and impatience was obvious on his face. Pedro, drunk on champagne and cum, lurched his way, and stroked his bare upper arm. `Enjoying the view?' he quipped at the new defensive player, who stared hard at him, looking annoyed - not far from either of them, the huge naked body of their captain continued to pound into the screaming wetness of the room's occupant. Not a word passed between the big full-back and the grinning shorter Portuguese player; there was a special boldness that could only exist at 2am in a pool of champagne and vodka, with one masculine footballer already sucked dry in the next room. As if Kilman and his shag were miles away, Pedro Netro sank back to his knees on the cheap carpet, licked his lips ostentatiously, and stared demandingly up at the former Hotspur. Pedro could have no idea that stony-faced Matt Doherty had enjoyed his first man-on-man blowjob shortly before his Madrid stint, his cock devoured by his close pal Eric Dier, and that the shocking enjoyment of such taboo had played on the Dubliner's mind during his entire frustrating spell at Atletico. There could not have been a more sexually charged and ready recipient stood in front of the cock-hungry 23-year-old; with the mixed-race girl gasping in the background, and the sloppy wet slaps of Kilman's plunging cock, Pedro proceeded to pull down the boxers and kiss the low-hanging Celtic balls. He opened his mouth wide and took the near-hard stretch of cock inside it, bringing it swiftly to full veiny hardness - with the same sloppy frenzy that he'd pleasured Tommy next door, he began to suck off Doherty, maintaining intense eye contact with that long frosty face. This, he thought, was more like it - Doherty had the same steady macho energy as Coady, if less jovial and playful, and he was tall and imposing; as cute as he was, boy-next-door Tommy was not his type. The risk in here, too, drove him wild, and he jerked himself through the flies of his jeans, devouring Matt's long powerful tool in a hurry; if the frantic fucking behind them stopped at any point then either Max or his lover could look this way and see a shocking scene. But he sucked on regardless, drunk and reckless and sure that he could swallow his second load of the night in no time. Matt's face glowed with sweat and he chewed his lip; Pedro thought about seeing him with his face pushed into that girl's cunt, and he felt even more devoted to servicing him. Soon he was getting a gobful of cum that was salter and more bitter than Doyle's, but lapped up with equal gusto. When Neto left the bedroom, the girl was screaming `Fuck me Max' and Kilman sounded like he might be climaxing; he was aware of tall brooding Doherty drifting out after him, clumsily pulling clothing on - and Tommy was passed out on the couch with his soft cock nestled between open legs. But Pedro swanned past him and away from both red-blooded men whose balls had been emptied on his stubbled mouth; he pushed his way into the first of the three bedrooms, stroking his cock through the open front of his jeans. In here, Joao and the first blond girl were kissing and stroking each other, bu the fucking was over, a big soft Brazilian whopper flopping limp between caramel thighs; Pedro stood near the bed and grinned pleadingly at both fuckers. `Room for a little one?' he quipped spitting in his palm and playing with his own generously endowed erection. By the time he was clambering into a tax home, Pedro had fucked two of the horny female students and eventually spent his load on one's tits. He'd enjoyed that but was sure it would be the two rushed blowjobs that he'd remember in the morning when he was hungover and indulgent. Even in the cab, he couldn't stop smirking across at Doherty, wondering if he would be able to taste that big Irish rod again soon; a sleepy Tommy was squashed between them, head lolling side to side, and the other three were already en route in the first of the two hire cars. The girls, sexually satisfied and greatly amused, were left behind to snore and recover, the debauched couple of hours of bed-hopping over; false numbers exchanged and tabloid scandals risked. Pedro had lost track of who fucked who, but he knew mostly that he'd taken two delicious loads, and that the spent studs were insensible in the same taxi back seat as he, cute fluffy Tommy and hard severe Matt. He hadn't quite replaced Conor Coady, necessarily, but he'd had great fun trying. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-366

Date: Sat, 9 Sep 2023 08:52:41 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 366 Part 366: Day Five Golden hour light struck him as he stepped out of the airplane door and onto the stairway - and making the most of the sunset glow was one of the official photographers who would travel with them, perched halfway down the steps, camera at the ready. Standard stuff, really, but the 24-year-old took his fist steps onto the metal rungs with a certain frowning hesitance. He couldn't help but hoist the black travel-bag forward a little as if to swing it across his front, self-consciously, as he began to disembark. But a downstairs glanced assuaged the tall football lad's worries somewhat and he let it hang more limply at the right instead, pushing the free hand into the pocket of his zipped-up training jacket. It was hot here too, he thought, especially after the air-conditioned sanctuary of their flight into the country. Before descending further, the Arsenal midfielder couldn't help but shoot a single glance back over his shoulder, catching the mischievous expression of his teammate as the slightly older lad yanked a backwards baseball cap onto his head and picked up his own luggage in two hands. Their eyes met briefly and the 26-year-old just smirked knowingly, though Declan Rice himself suppressed the cheeky grin and opted instead for self-conscious seriousness - he thought it must look obvious, that he must glow with satisfaction and transgression, so he proceeded on down the runway stairs with a certain uncharacteristic awkwardness, bathed in the gold of the Polish sky. The flight out of London had begun in high spirits, lots of excitable singing from the lads as they boarded the chartered jet across the continent, ready to face down Ukraine in their Polish host city. Dec was as buzzing as anyone else, finding his way down the aisle and thinking about the usual pleasure of donning an England shirt on a Saturday night - and he was enjoying the banter and company of his newer teammates, pleased to share this experience with young Bukayo and good down-to-earth fellas like Aaron Ramsdale and Eddie Nketiah - though these three were quick to take other seats on the way down the plane, Saka and Nketiah buddying up and Rambo called over by the two elder goalkeepers of the squad to join their row. Dec himself continued on down the aisle and ended up at the actual back row, sliding in on the right and taking the window seat with a cheery whistle of comfort. Sat down, the former West Ham skipper joined in the throaty chorus of chanting that juddered down the cabin, a stupid old marching song that had taken on jokey significance in the past four and a half days' training. Unsure of some words, Rice let his vocals drop, but grinned pleasantly to himself. He loved the camaraderie and pride of his national team, perhaps now more than ever: things were going well at his new London club, for sure, but it didn't yet feel like `home' compared to his West Ham ascent or his Chelsea roots, and he was still trying to develop the tighter friendships that would do so. He got plenty of respect and admiration around his new club, but he still felt like he was proving himself and working out his place... here, even at just 24, he felt settled and confident, already established in Southgate's good books and increasingly thoughtful about a future captaincy. Settled and confident in most ways... just a little bit dented by the loss of his stalwart roomie on these trips since an early age, and now the love of his life. Getting comfortable in the spacious seat, unzipping his training jacket and adjusting his shorts, the Kingston-upon-Thames lad took out his phone and sent another affectionate message to Mason Mount, a variation on the `wish you were here' theme that had ran through their contact all week. He knew he'd get no reply from Mase, who was busy with some charitable community event in Greater Manchester this afternoon, but it still felt important to bash the little `love you' and kisses into the app before takeoff, and he wished deeply that the seat next to him could be occupied by his favourite person in the world. Thinking of Mount, Rice felt a twinge of unease - United weren't exactly kicking the season off as planned, and he had been a bit worried about the usually-perky lad's mood when they spoke on the phone lately, unconvinced that the Chelsea-raised fellow midfielder was settling in okay to Old Trafford life. Dec's thoughts were interrupted - Newcastle pals Trippier and Wilson were settling themselves in the pair of seats in front, and the latter of the two was swinging a big muscular arm over the headrest to clasp his hand in brief respect, whooping at him as `Newcastle's next signing' before sinking back down and play-fighting stupidly with his neighbour - and across the aisle, a solitary sour-faced Hendo was finding a window seat of his own. Rice waved vaguely across at one of his midfield role models, but the ex-Liverpudlian must not have noticed, because he just slouched close to his window and turned a cold shoulder to the noisy cheer of the elite cabin. At this, Declan could just shrug and try to get comfortable, noting that he seemed to end up with this half of the back row to himself, not that it mattered - the seating on the FA jet was luxuriously spacious, veritable armchairs of squeaky leather with plenty of leg-room, casual perks that Dec had taken for granted since his late teens. Inevitably, the 6ft1 footballer stretched his long muscular legs, and stretched them further than his existing generous leg-room, taking advantage of seeming to have the corner to himself, until- `Oi, shift over, shit-face!' Recent Tottenham acquisition James Maddison flopped down into the next seat and laid a tattooed arm on the rest to nudge Dec's out of the way. `You gonna take up all this space, or can a fella join you here?!' the new Hotspur demanded playfully, giving him a soft kick in the calf and wriggling into a comfortable position in the next seat. Dec laughed and played along. `I'm quite a big deal, you know, these days...' `Pfft, second most iconic transfer of the summer at best, Ricicle...' `Sorry, did you sign for a club with silverware, or-?' `How many goals and assists have you racked up, Deco? Ah, that's right, less than moi. Oi, move your elbow. Here, you want a pastille to suck for lift-off, bell-end?' Chatting and smiling, the two guys settled in for the plane's drawn-out taxiing and departure, sucking noisily on the sweets, whilst the Newcastle players in front quietened down and, Declan couldn't help but notice, Jordan Henderson seemed to be aiming for a nap on the other side of the aisle, hoody dragged up over his chest and face. Hendo's droop in energy just foreshadowed the shifting mood of the cabin - they were hardly settling in for a long-haul flight, but the days of unusual heat and intense training had left these strapping young men in a state of fatigue. The echo of chatter from ahead quickly faded and almost as soon as they were up in the air, Dec himself felt his eyelids drooping and his tall lean body settling into a groove of contented rest. Madders, however, seemed to be less drained - Dec was only dimly aware of the monologue of chatter from the 5ft9 Midlander in the next seat, talking about his family and his new London home, and seemingly satisfied by the sleepy `Mmmm' response which was all Rice could muster from the twilight of his impending nap. Increasingly sleepy, Arsenal's new poster boy nodded and murmured his false attention, his head drooping and his shoulders sliding to one side... and James talked quietly on, sounding hundreds of miles away... and his voice transformed into another, Declan sliding and tumbling into a dreamscape of his own idle thoughts. He was no longer aboard the chartered yet, no longer in his England gear, no longer surrounded by the other selections of Southgate's much-criticised preferences. He was on a beach and wearing just black shorts, his bare skin brushing pleasantly against warm sand, whilst an ocean breeze played against the fine hairs on his legs and arms. And turning his sleepy head to the left, he was smiling at Mason, who twinkled happily back, and locked hands with him, asking him if he'd expected Man Utd to have its own tropical island in the training ground. `Sure,' Dec murmured dumbly at him, `that makes sense', as a shark with five legs and a bright green tractor passed them on the dream beach. Mase came leaning in for a kiss, and Dec moaned happily to touch lips with him, thinking that Manchester was a lot more exotic than he remembered it from his last away trip... `Mmm, Mase,' was all he could purr, feeling their bare skin brush, and confident that nobody would be able to see them because they were wearing magical invisibility sunscreen - he could fuck his love right here on the beach and it would be fine, right? `Mmm, Mase,' he gasped again, feeling one of the United player's hands reach over his tummy and stroke the inside leg of his swim-shorts, and- `Here,' Madders told him in a sharp whisper, `you might wanna be careful with your naps if you're gonna talk in your sleep, fella!' And Rice's eyes slid open in a gut-dropping moment of horror, the hazy beach scene dissipating and the hand on his leg turning out to be James' - panic tingled up and down his body, the erotic fantasy merging with the cool cabin interior, and the smirk on Maddison's face revealing that he'd been moaning his boyfriend's name a little too publicly. But the Spurs player just sniggered and squeezed his upper thigh and leaned in a little closer with that excited whisper. `Don't worry, don't think anyone heard but me.' Dec made a dry-mouthed gurgling groan of embarrassment, then lifted a heavy hand to rub across his blotchy face, but then his eyes shifted down. `Er...' `Yeah,' agreed Madders quietly, `you were having quite some dream, huh?' In the lap of his open thighs and close-fitting shorts, the hard angular outline of his dream-coaxed stiffy was prominent and forceful, all the more obvious and awkward for the girth and length that he carried. The discretion of being sat in the rear window seat of the spacious cabin wasn't enough to stall the fresh panic and embarrassment that lurched through Declan and his shy sensibilities, even in front of a pretty close buddy like James; he let out another quiet groan of dismay and was irritated rather than comforted by the soft chuckle of enjoyment from his neighbour. But... `Here,' hissed Maddison, and he immediately unzipped his matching England training top, wriggling out of it and casting it aside as a sufficient blanket across Dec's lap, hiding the big hard-on that his Mason dreams had woken up. `Horny fucker,' teased the 26-year-old. `Jesus,' muttered Rice self-consciously. `Missing him?' The gentle question was matched by a prod of elbow. He shifted a little anxiously - he knew from mutual friends and not-so-distant experience that Maddison was pretty comfortably bi, and a brief flashback to the messy romp in Grealish's suite on their last England trip together did nothing to quell his erection. And yet still he felt nervous and protective about his magical connection with Mase, always scared to really talk about it to other players who might have loose lips or any reason to interfere. But he studied the friendly sympathy on James' face and tried to relax - he'd been one of five sweaty blokes in a room full of action with him, after all, Jack's guests for a little celebration. With a further rush of blood to the cock, Dec pictured how it had ended, his own strong tall body pressing the coveted Brummie down into the bed and parting his mighty cheeks. Fuck, his cock was practically leaking pre-cum, and he wasn't even thinking about Mount. `Yeah,' he answered quite grumpily. `It's a shame he's not with us,' his neighbour conceded. `Defo,' Dec mumbled, and he wa about to twist it more into a footballing point, suggesting that Mason had been overlooked by Southgate and that some of the newer additions were questionable replacements, fiercely loyal to his midfield love, but then James' hand came sliding over, resting on the discretionary jacket, and fondling the hard outline below - Dec was a little startled but undeniably it felt good, and he stared questioningly at the other England player, before staring worriedly past him to the sleeping mound of Henderson. `Mate?' he hissed. `Oh come on,' mumbled James very quietly. `It's what Mason would want. Heh.' `Here?' Dec breathed anxiously. They were literally sat in a plane with the entire fucking squad and coaching staff! Anyone could look back or walk up to them! But... his cock was ACHINGLY hard and James hand felt good even through three layers. He was still sleepy and fuzzy from the brief dream, and... `Nobody will know,' Maddison promised him, and the hand slid under the temporary blanket, caressing his warm crotch through his shorts - the bunched up cover of the training jersey was creased and lumpy enough to hide the motion of James' exploratory hand, and Madders just gave him a wink. Dec suppressed a moan of pleasure and stared at the headrests in front of them, trying his best to gauge if Trips and Wilson were dozing or lost in headphones, or if the Magpie lads might suddenly lurch back to communicate with them and see where James' hand was stuck. Fuck, the risk was scary but it made the rogue hand feel all the better. `Close your eyes,' came Madders' sultry whisper. `Close your eyes and pretend it's him?' The excitement in the lad's voice was tempered with a kind of sympathetic kindness, and Declan could tell he really meant it - and so he complied. He relaxed back and stopped staring nervously about them, and instead he tried his best to conjure up the fuzzy pastel colours of the Old Trafford beach, but the fantasy eluded him... except for the main detail, Mason's flirty grin and bright intelligent eyes. When James said `That's it' under his breath, it was Mason's chirpy voice, and he couldn't even suppress the long sigh of contact as the hand went into his shorts, and slowly released his long cock to start wanking it, making the head brush against the inner of the jacket. Fuck. For several minutes, Dec could actually forget where they were, up in the sky and on international duty, and just enjoy the talented hand that was working his young cock - it didn't matter who it was, it just felt so good, and he felt no guilt. He could imagine Mason's laugh and excitement at the tale (`You did WHAT on a plane?'), but then he had to shake this imagined dialogue because he was trying not to focus on their risky circumstances! `You're huge,' James complimented him in a small voice, but Dec just nodded complacently, biting his lip to silence the moan, feeling his cock pulled back and forth in slow perfect motions. But louder voices from further down the cabin sounded off and broke the brief relaxation, making it impossible for him not to worry that this would go wrong. He opened his eyes and flashed a wary look at James, who ignored him and continued to pull on his cock in gentle arcs, licking his bottom lip a little. Dec resisted the urge to groan as a thumb rolled over the wet pre-cum of his head. He could hear a loud conversation a few rows down the aisle, it sounded like his own teammate Ramsdale, a distinctive hearty laugh, playfully arguing something with the Mackem accent of No.1 Pickford. Other voices joined in though, and it seemed like the cabin was waking from its heat slumber, and the secretive handjob felt riskier by the stroke. He fixed Maddison with a warning look, unsure if he could take physical control and push the hand away without making more noise and attracting attention. James was doing such a good job of wanking him silently and secretly, but if someone peered into their row, or if Hendo woke up on the other side of the aisle... Someone, Kyle Walker he thought, started up the chant again, and noise ruptured through the cabin, taking away the false sense of privacy; but Declan's skin was on fire, he felt so horny and excited, and the anxious fear only electrified that. James hand was so soft and capable, better than some mouths, and Dec knew he would soon empty his big balls - he tried to communicate this in the widening of his eyes and the raising of his dark brows, his thin lips pursed and cheeks reddening... but Madders just smirked back and winked again, and told him `Think of Mason doing it', then chuckled mischievously. Dec closed his eyes again in spite of the risk, and he was back there on the beach, rolling on top of his gorgeous boyfriend, the new distance that they were trying to cope with removed and forgotten, their bodies close together on the hot sand, which was suddenly a big white bed instead, back in the London flat which he now rattled around on his own, looking at every item of furniture and remembering fucking Mason against it. `Oh Mase,' he couldn't help but moan, miraculously unheard by anyone but James, as he squirted his seed, a messy five-day load from a chaste week of room-sharing and intense physical exercise, all over his shorts and the insides of James' sports jacket, pump after pump of creamy white liquid. Fucking hell. By the time Declan Rice was disembarking the plane in Poland, his quiet gratitude to Maddison was largely replaced by wary nervousness, even with the cum-stains on his shorts dubiously washed out in the tiny cabin toilet, and now more-or-less dried. Still, as the photographer's camera swung towards him and capped Madders behind, Dec looked serious and nervous, as if the whole airport would be able to look at him and say `That man's just jizzed in the sky' - at the foot of the runway stairs, James just prodded him in the back and pulled close enough to whisper in his ear. `Relax, nobody can see! It's my jacket you ruined with your big load, Arsenal boy. Haha.' Dec chafed self-consciously but turned gladly to the slightly older player, and threw an arm about his shoulders in a gesture of gratitude. `Cheers for that, matey,' he said quietly, to which James just grinned and hugged him back, nodding in the direction of the other players boarding a coach. `I enjoyed every stroke, big lad,' he said brightly, pulling happily away from him and swaggering on after the others, leaving Dec to just laugh foolishly at his own nervousness - for fuck's sake, as if they'd got away with that...! He couldn't wait to ring up and tell Mason. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sat, 9 Sep 2023 08:52:41 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 366 Part 366: Day Five Golden hour light struck him as he stepped out of the airplane door and onto the stairway - and making the most of the sunset glow was one of the official photographers who would travel with them, perched halfway down the steps, camera at the ready. Standard stuff, really, but the 24-year-old took his fist steps onto the metal rungs with a certain frowning hesitance. He couldn't help but hoist the black travel-bag forward a little as if to swing it across his front, self-consciously, as he began to disembark. But a downstairs glanced assuaged the tall football lad's worries somewhat and he let it hang more limply at the right instead, pushing the free hand into the pocket of his zipped-up training jacket. It was hot here too, he thought, especially after the air-conditioned sanctuary of their flight into the country. Before descending further, the Arsenal midfielder couldn't help but shoot a single glance back over his shoulder, catching the mischievous expression of his teammate as the slightly older lad yanked a backwards baseball cap onto his head and picked up his own luggage in two hands. Their eyes met briefly and the 26-year-old just smirked knowingly, though Declan Rice himself suppressed the cheeky grin and opted instead for self-conscious seriousness - he thought it must look obvious, that he must glow with satisfaction and transgression, so he proceeded on down the runway stairs with a certain uncharacteristic awkwardness, bathed in the gold of the Polish sky. The flight out of London had begun in high spirits, lots of excitable singing from the lads as they boarded the chartered jet across the continent, ready to face down Ukraine in their Polish host city. Dec was as buzzing as anyone else, finding his way down the aisle and thinking about the usual pleasure of donning an England shirt on a Saturday night - and he was enjoying the banter and company of his newer teammates, pleased to share this experience with young Bukayo and good down-to-earth fellas like Aaron Ramsdale and Eddie Nketiah - though these three were quick to take other seats on the way down the plane, Saka and Nketiah buddying up and Rambo called over by the two elder goalkeepers of the squad to join their row. Dec himself continued on down the aisle and ended up at the actual back row, sliding in on the right and taking the window seat with a cheery whistle of comfort. Sat down, the former West Ham skipper joined in the throaty chorus of chanting that juddered down the cabin, a stupid old marching song that had taken on jokey significance in the past four and a half days' training. Unsure of some words, Rice let his vocals drop, but grinned pleasantly to himself. He loved the camaraderie and pride of his national team, perhaps now more than ever: things were going well at his new London club, for sure, but it didn't yet feel like `home' compared to his West Ham ascent or his Chelsea roots, and he was still trying to develop the tighter friendships that would do so. He got plenty of respect and admiration around his new club, but he still felt like he was proving himself and working out his place... here, even at just 24, he felt settled and confident, already established in Southgate's good books and increasingly thoughtful about a future captaincy. Settled and confident in most ways... just a little bit dented by the loss of his stalwart roomie on these trips since an early age, and now the love of his life. Getting comfortable in the spacious seat, unzipping his training jacket and adjusting his shorts, the Kingston-upon-Thames lad took out his phone and sent another affectionate message to Mason Mount, a variation on the `wish you were here' theme that had ran through their contact all week. He knew he'd get no reply from Mase, who was busy with some charitable community event in Greater Manchester this afternoon, but it still felt important to bash the little `love you' and kisses into the app before takeoff, and he wished deeply that the seat next to him could be occupied by his favourite person in the world. Thinking of Mount, Rice felt a twinge of unease - United weren't exactly kicking the season off as planned, and he had been a bit worried about the usually-perky lad's mood when they spoke on the phone lately, unconvinced that the Chelsea-raised fellow midfielder was settling in okay to Old Trafford life. Dec's thoughts were interrupted - Newcastle pals Trippier and Wilson were settling themselves in the pair of seats in front, and the latter of the two was swinging a big muscular arm over the headrest to clasp his hand in brief respect, whooping at him as `Newcastle's next signing' before sinking back down and play-fighting stupidly with his neighbour - and across the aisle, a solitary sour-faced Hendo was finding a window seat of his own. Rice waved vaguely across at one of his midfield role models, but the ex-Liverpudlian must not have noticed, because he just slouched close to his window and turned a cold shoulder to the noisy cheer of the elite cabin. At this, Declan could just shrug and try to get comfortable, noting that he seemed to end up with this half of the back row to himself, not that it mattered - the seating on the FA jet was luxuriously spacious, veritable armchairs of squeaky leather with plenty of leg-room, casual perks that Dec had taken for granted since his late teens. Inevitably, the 6ft1 footballer stretched his long muscular legs, and stretched them further than his existing generous leg-room, taking advantage of seeming to have the corner to himself, until- `Oi, shift over, shit-face!' Recent Tottenham acquisition James Maddison flopped down into the next seat and laid a tattooed arm on the rest to nudge Dec's out of the way. `You gonna take up all this space, or can a fella join you here?!' the new Hotspur demanded playfully, giving him a soft kick in the calf and wriggling into a comfortable position in the next seat. Dec laughed and played along. `I'm quite a big deal, you know, these days...' `Pfft, second most iconic transfer of the summer at best, Ricicle...' `Sorry, did you sign for a club with silverware, or-?' `How many goals and assists have you racked up, Deco? Ah, that's right, less than moi. Oi, move your elbow. Here, you want a pastille to suck for lift-off, bell-end?' Chatting and smiling, the two guys settled in for the plane's drawn-out taxiing and departure, sucking noisily on the sweets, whilst the Newcastle players in front quietened down and, Declan couldn't help but notice, Jordan Henderson seemed to be aiming for a nap on the other side of the aisle, hoody dragged up over his chest and face. Hendo's droop in energy just foreshadowed the shifting mood of the cabin - they were hardly settling in for a long-haul flight, but the days of unusual heat and intense training had left these strapping young men in a state of fatigue. The echo of chatter from ahead quickly faded and almost as soon as they were up in the air, Dec himself felt his eyelids drooping and his tall lean body settling into a groove of contented rest. Madders, however, seemed to be less drained - Dec was only dimly aware of the monologue of chatter from the 5ft9 Midlander in the next seat, talking about his family and his new London home, and seemingly satisfied by the sleepy `Mmmm' response which was all Rice could muster from the twilight of his impending nap. Increasingly sleepy, Arsenal's new poster boy nodded and murmured his false attention, his head drooping and his shoulders sliding to one side... and James talked quietly on, sounding hundreds of miles away... and his voice transformed into another, Declan sliding and tumbling into a dreamscape of his own idle thoughts. He was no longer aboard the chartered yet, no longer in his England gear, no longer surrounded by the other selections of Southgate's much-criticised preferences. He was on a beach and wearing just black shorts, his bare skin brushing pleasantly against warm sand, whilst an ocean breeze played against the fine hairs on his legs and arms. And turning his sleepy head to the left, he was smiling at Mason, who twinkled happily back, and locked hands with him, asking him if he'd expected Man Utd to have its own tropical island in the training ground. `Sure,' Dec murmured dumbly at him, `that makes sense', as a shark with five legs and a bright green tractor passed them on the dream beach. Mase came leaning in for a kiss, and Dec moaned happily to touch lips with him, thinking that Manchester was a lot more exotic than he remembered it from his last away trip... `Mmm, Mase,' was all he could purr, feeling their bare skin brush, and confident that nobody would be able to see them because they were wearing magical invisibility sunscreen - he could fuck his love right here on the beach and it would be fine, right? `Mmm, Mase,' he gasped again, feeling one of the United player's hands reach over his tummy and stroke the inside leg of his swim-shorts, and- `Here,' Madders told him in a sharp whisper, `you might wanna be careful with your naps if you're gonna talk in your sleep, fella!' And Rice's eyes slid open in a gut-dropping moment of horror, the hazy beach scene dissipating and the hand on his leg turning out to be James' - panic tingled up and down his body, the erotic fantasy merging with the cool cabin interior, and the smirk on Maddison's face revealing that he'd been moaning his boyfriend's name a little too publicly. But the Spurs player just sniggered and squeezed his upper thigh and leaned in a little closer with that excited whisper. `Don't worry, don't think anyone heard but me.' Dec made a dry-mouthed gurgling groan of embarrassment, then lifted a heavy hand to rub across his blotchy face, but then his eyes shifted down. `Er...' `Yeah,' agreed Madders quietly, `you were having quite some dream, huh?' In the lap of his open thighs and close-fitting shorts, the hard angular outline of his dream-coaxed stiffy was prominent and forceful, all the more obvious and awkward for the girth and length that he carried. The discretion of being sat in the rear window seat of the spacious cabin wasn't enough to stall the fresh panic and embarrassment that lurched through Declan and his shy sensibilities, even in front of a pretty close buddy like James; he let out another quiet groan of dismay and was irritated rather than comforted by the soft chuckle of enjoyment from his neighbour. But... `Here,' hissed Maddison, and he immediately unzipped his matching England training top, wriggling out of it and casting it aside as a sufficient blanket across Dec's lap, hiding the big hard-on that his Mason dreams had woken up. `Horny fucker,' teased the 26-year-old. `Jesus,' muttered Rice self-consciously. `Missing him?' The gentle question was matched by a prod of elbow. He shifted a little anxiously - he knew from mutual friends and not-so-distant experience that Maddison was pretty comfortably bi, and a brief flashback to the messy romp in Grealish's suite on their last England trip together did nothing to quell his erection. And yet still he felt nervous and protective about his magical connection with Mase, always scared to really talk about it to other players who might have loose lips or any reason to interfere. But he studied the friendly sympathy on James' face and tried to relax - he'd been one of five sweaty blokes in a room full of action with him, after all, Jack's guests for a little celebration. With a further rush of blood to the cock, Dec pictured how it had ended, his own strong tall body pressing the coveted Brummie down into the bed and parting his mighty cheeks. Fuck, his cock was practically leaking pre-cum, and he wasn't even thinking about Mount. `Yeah,' he answered quite grumpily. `It's a shame he's not with us,' his neighbour conceded. `Defo,' Dec mumbled, and he wa about to twist it more into a footballing point, suggesting that Mason had been overlooked by Southgate and that some of the newer additions were questionable replacements, fiercely loyal to his midfield love, but then James' hand came sliding over, resting on the discretionary jacket, and fondling the hard outline below - Dec was a little startled but undeniably it felt good, and he stared questioningly at the other England player, before staring worriedly past him to the sleeping mound of Henderson. `Mate?' he hissed. `Oh come on,' mumbled James very quietly. `It's what Mason would want. Heh.' `Here?' Dec breathed anxiously. They were literally sat in a plane with the entire fucking squad and coaching staff! Anyone could look back or walk up to them! But... his cock was ACHINGLY hard and James hand felt good even through three layers. He was still sleepy and fuzzy from the brief dream, and... `Nobody will know,' Maddison promised him, and the hand slid under the temporary blanket, caressing his warm crotch through his shorts - the bunched up cover of the training jersey was creased and lumpy enough to hide the motion of James' exploratory hand, and Madders just gave him a wink. Dec suppressed a moan of pleasure and stared at the headrests in front of them, trying his best to gauge if Trips and Wilson were dozing or lost in headphones, or if the Magpie lads might suddenly lurch back to communicate with them and see where James' hand was stuck. Fuck, the risk was scary but it made the rogue hand feel all the better. `Close your eyes,' came Madders' sultry whisper. `Close your eyes and pretend it's him?' The excitement in the lad's voice was tempered with a kind of sympathetic kindness, and Declan could tell he really meant it - and so he complied. He relaxed back and stopped staring nervously about them, and instead he tried his best to conjure up the fuzzy pastel colours of the Old Trafford beach, but the fantasy eluded him... except for the main detail, Mason's flirty grin and bright intelligent eyes. When James said `That's it' under his breath, it was Mason's chirpy voice, and he couldn't even suppress the long sigh of contact as the hand went into his shorts, and slowly released his long cock to start wanking it, making the head brush against the inner of the jacket. Fuck. For several minutes, Dec could actually forget where they were, up in the sky and on international duty, and just enjoy the talented hand that was working his young cock - it didn't matter who it was, it just felt so good, and he felt no guilt. He could imagine Mason's laugh and excitement at the tale (`You did WHAT on a plane?'), but then he had to shake this imagined dialogue because he was trying not to focus on their risky circumstances! `You're huge,' James complimented him in a small voice, but Dec just nodded complacently, biting his lip to silence the moan, feeling his cock pulled back and forth in slow perfect motions. But louder voices from further down the cabin sounded off and broke the brief relaxation, making it impossible for him not to worry that this would go wrong. He opened his eyes and flashed a wary look at James, who ignored him and continued to pull on his cock in gentle arcs, licking his bottom lip a little. Dec resisted the urge to groan as a thumb rolled over the wet pre-cum of his head. He could hear a loud conversation a few rows down the aisle, it sounded like his own teammate Ramsdale, a distinctive hearty laugh, playfully arguing something with the Mackem accent of No.1 Pickford. Other voices joined in though, and it seemed like the cabin was waking from its heat slumber, and the secretive handjob felt riskier by the stroke. He fixed Maddison with a warning look, unsure if he could take physical control and push the hand away without making more noise and attracting attention. James was doing such a good job of wanking him silently and secretly, but if someone peered into their row, or if Hendo woke up on the other side of the aisle... Someone, Kyle Walker he thought, started up the chant again, and noise ruptured through the cabin, taking away the false sense of privacy; but Declan's skin was on fire, he felt so horny and excited, and the anxious fear only electrified that. James hand was so soft and capable, better than some mouths, and Dec knew he would soon empty his big balls - he tried to communicate this in the widening of his eyes and the raising of his dark brows, his thin lips pursed and cheeks reddening... but Madders just smirked back and winked again, and told him `Think of Mason doing it', then chuckled mischievously. Dec closed his eyes again in spite of the risk, and he was back there on the beach, rolling on top of his gorgeous boyfriend, the new distance that they were trying to cope with removed and forgotten, their bodies close together on the hot sand, which was suddenly a big white bed instead, back in the London flat which he now rattled around on his own, looking at every item of furniture and remembering fucking Mason against it. `Oh Mase,' he couldn't help but moan, miraculously unheard by anyone but James, as he squirted his seed, a messy five-day load from a chaste week of room-sharing and intense physical exercise, all over his shorts and the insides of James' sports jacket, pump after pump of creamy white liquid. Fucking hell. By the time Declan Rice was disembarking the plane in Poland, his quiet gratitude to Maddison was largely replaced by wary nervousness, even with the cum-stains on his shorts dubiously washed out in the tiny cabin toilet, and now more-or-less dried. Still, as the photographer's camera swung towards him and capped Madders behind, Dec looked serious and nervous, as if the whole airport would be able to look at him and say `That man's just jizzed in the sky' - at the foot of the runway stairs, James just prodded him in the back and pulled close enough to whisper in his ear. `Relax, nobody can see! It's my jacket you ruined with your big load, Arsenal boy. Haha.' Dec chafed self-consciously but turned gladly to the slightly older player, and threw an arm about his shoulders in a gesture of gratitude. `Cheers for that, matey,' he said quietly, to which James just grinned and hugged him back, nodding in the direction of the other players boarding a coach. `I enjoyed every stroke, big lad,' he said brightly, pulling happily away from him and swaggering on after the others, leaving Dec to just laugh foolishly at his own nervousness - for fuck's sake, as if they'd got away with that...! He couldn't wait to ring up and tell Mason. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2024 20:39:33 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 386 Part 386: Knock at the Door It was a chilled Monday evening for the mature 25-year-old, and he was very pleased about that; he'd had a bit of fun during his club's nominal winter break, including a jaunt to a couple of fashion events where he'd got to hobnob with various celebs - but he'd been back at work for several days already, and his side were priming themselves for a midweek clash against Fulham for a spot in the EFL Cup Final. They were already 2-1 up after the first leg, but would be travelling down to London tomorrow evening, and so had been given a rather short and low-impact training day by the bosses - sent home to rest and relax and report for duty tomorrow afternoon, as fresh as possible. For Trent Alexander-Arnold, this had meant a nice walk in one of the city parks, taking in the last of the wintry daylight after driving back from the training ground; he'd swung by an expensive whole-foods supermarket in the city centre then retreated here to his luxurious flat to start prep on his dinner. When it was just him, Trent didn't always put much effort into cooking, but he liked relaxing into a complicated recipe when he had the time, and so a fancy French stew was simmering away in the kitchen now, and the young footballer had retired into the large airy room at the centre of his warehouse conversion. Though many 20something lads in his sport were somewhat itinerant and lived in blandly corporate shells as a result, Alexander-Arnold had invested in property when barely out of the youth squad, and he'd been furnishing and perfecting his Merseyside bachelor pad for many years now. It was quite the cosy nest of his own tastes and preferences that the versatile defender could settle into now, perusing the Netflix menu whilst burying his lithe brown body into the low sofa and masses of cushion. Trent felt safely distant from the stress and pressure of his job this evening, ensconced here on the soft furnishing and surrounded by framed prints of his own photography and art that reminded him of favourite holidays, interspersed with American sports memorabilia and a few tributes to his own career highlights. He was confident about Wednesday night and more excited than anxious about travelling down there tomorrow to finish the job. So he was free to relax, light as a feather, stretching his muscular physique against the cushions and pulling a thin extra blanket over his baggy basketballer shorts and the plain black hoody which covered his upper body. He scrolled the menu quite idly, and he'd pretty much just chosen his next binge, loading up a trashy thriller adaptation that he'd missed out on during the Christmas period, and was literally sliding his thumb to the `play' button when the knock at the door interrupted. Oh, for fuck's sake, really? The 25-year-old Scouse lad was so happily nested in his position, blanketed and foetal, ready to graze through a couple of naff TV episodes and then serving up his delicious-smelling dinner, which he thought he might even post smugly to social media. He paused with the remote in his hand, surprised to be interrupted, and the knock sounded again: a firm hard rapping against the flat's entrance. It was only as he slid the blanket away and leapt up from his nest of cushions that the Liverpudlian man thought that the knock was odd - it should be a rattling metallic buzz from the intercom down to the conversion's foyer - so maybe it was a neighbour and it would just be some quick query or requested favour. Or, he supposed, someone could have come in downstairs at a busy point when the bougie building's residents were all coming back from work or out to the gym... it would have to be one of his well-known teammates, he concluded, not to be stopped and queried by the expensive security service who operated the building's reception, though. Trent's mind was a rolodex of these prospects as he hopped and slid through the airy lounge and down a passage towards the main entrance - Robbo was most likely, as far as teammates who would just drop around for a cuppa, especially in the time since the Scotsman's boyfriend had been sold abroad; but it could be anyone, it could be that moody-faced little wannabe hard-man Harvey Elliott, or his bosom buddy, the lanky stammering Curtis Jones - both youngsters were chummy with Trent these days and seemed to look up to him as the Academy success story he was; or it could even be Joe Gomez, he mused, thinking about the slightly intense looks the big burly Londoner had given him when he complimented his Adidas TV ad this afternoon, the brooding player seeming to take the praise a little too deeply; or, Trent thought, in the seconds it took him to undo the security locks and put his eye to the peephole, it could be his crush. After all, Dominik Szoboszlai had been promising to drop off the kitchen equipment he'd borrowed in his first week of Liverpool life, telling Trent that his girlfriend had now bought everything they needed - it made Trent cringe a little to think about his eagerness in those first weeks, running about offering the Hungarian all sorts of neighbourly favours to help him move into a neighbouring apartment block in the city centre, bending over backwards to befriend the newcomer and trying not to have sex dreams about him every night. The first awkward heat of the crush had softened over time, since he and Dom were now such good buddies, but he knew that was a partial lie: he still got flustered every time he saw the tall dark beast of a man approaching him on the training pitch. But no, it was not Dominik, nor any of those other possibilities, but it WAS a teammate: he put his eye to the peephole and breathed a `Huh?' of mild confusion before undoing the manual lock and pulling the door inwards. `Hey there,' the Scouse lad called with a friendly daze to his tone, hanging off the big industrial door, and inspecting the glowering figure who greeted him on the landing. Mohamed Salah heaved a very heavy sigh, stared him down, and then nodded impatiently. `Can I come in?' Liverpool's iconic striker demanded without a `hello'. `Sure,' Trent agreed readily, a little confused, and he stepped aside to usher the forward into his flat, not for the first time - but certainly for the first time in a while. He pushed the door shut and followed the other man's stompy footsteps through into the large central space, where the Netflix menu was playing the same preview of his chosen TV boxset on a loop. In the centre of the room, Salah looked about appraisingly, as if noting all minor changes since he'd been a semi-regular visitor to the pad, and made a vague dismissive scoffing sound, turning to face a bemused Trent. `Shouldn't you be at AFCON?' the 25-year-old asked simply, a little confused at seeing Salah back on UK soil. `I - I'm sorry to hear about the injury, chief, but - how come you aren't there still supporting your Pharaohs...?' A grunt from Mo, who he realised was still dressed in his Egypt training tracksuit, as if fresh from the airport direct, the red and black nylon perfectly fitted against the taut muscles of the 5ft9 31-year-old. He had an angry look to his face, which was unnerving, but Trent couldn't help but meet it with a friendly smile of concern - `What's up, lad?' the younger player demanded brightly but firmly. `I should be there,' Salah told him, sounding irritable. `I should be there, like you say, cheering on my men - I should be. But I am here, HERE, in Liverpool - because our bosses say it must be so. Against my Egypt doctor's words. Hah!' He shook his head, fury in his eyes. `This is crazy. They do not respect the Africa cup, they never have.' He grunted and scoffed again and pulled at the neck of the tight jersey under his red-and-black jacket. Trent nodded his sympathy. `Too right,' he said darkly, `it's casual racism and nowt else, buddy, but - could they really make you come back?' and then after a pause, `But are you okay? Do you need proper treatment, or...?' He was ready to agree with the North African about a dismissive Premiership attitude to the African Cup of Nations, but he wasn't keen to disrespect LFC authorities - he was fairly sure that the gaffer and co wouldn't have had Mo flown home if it wasn't needed. The striker in front of him did not look ready to see that point of view, nostrils flaring and lips pouting. `Intense rehabilitation,' Salah mouthed angrily. `And then I COULD rejoin them if they make the final...' He laughed, bitterly. `Without me? The final, without me? Hah.' He shook his head again, uncharacteristically arrogant about his talent, and then rubbed at his slightly clammy travel-weary face. Even as he opened his own pouting lips to speak, Trent felt he had an inkling of the answer to his question - `But what am I gonna do about it, hey?' He gave a pretty calm, measured look at the muscular lad in front of him, matching his own height but a little thicker and broader in build. And Mohamed stared back at him, something intense and manic in his dark eyes and in the physical tension of his pose - he stepped forward, and he smelt quite sweaty, the must manly scent of a bloke who's had a long journey and yet to shower today. It was not an altogether unpleasant stink. `Hey,' Trent said vaguely, the visitor stepping right up to him and taking hold of the front of his baggy dark hoody. He let the warning sound trial off, a vague bemused smile still on his face, whilst Mo brought their faces very close and stared him down, not daring or needing to stay what had to be said - his wide dark eyes and flaring nostrils said it all, as did the rich manly stench of his sweat. There was a lot Trent thought about saying - not least, that he had a pretty chill solo evening laid out in front of him, and more specifically, that the phase of him being the Egyptian's personal cocksucker bitch were long gone, a phase of real insecurity for Trent where he'd needed to service that big circumcised cock almost daily to feel validated. Yep, `hey', he could have said lots of things to refuse this visitation and demand, he sure could - but ultimately, with the brooding muscular hunk stood imposingly in front of him, tugging at the front of his jumper, and his senses overwhelmed by the rich smell that was a mixture of oud and sweat, he knew that Netflix and dinner could wait. Especially when Mohamed's strong grasping hands came up to the collar of his hooded top and that mouth, bristly on the smoothness of Trent's face, came in for a hot wet kiss - holy fuck, there had been no kissing during their past affair. Trent almost stumbled off his bare feet, born back by the strength of Mo's anger and lust; he grabbed back at the rustling sleeves of the Egypt training jacket and steadied himself, holding onto the muscular force of the other 5ft9 bloke. The kiss ended sharply, Salah breathing heavily, and then he was instead kissing Trent on the neck, quite aggressively, making him `Oh!' a little moan and hang on even more roughly and desperately to the folds of nylon, clutching at the jacket and casting aside all doubts about what he wanted from his `chill' evening at his flat. Fuck yes. Mo pushed him back again, roughly, but this time he was ready for it, and he grasped back at him, tugging on him, so that as he tumbled back onto the nearest low couch and a springy bed of cushions, the injured striker came clumsily with him, bearing down on top of him with all of his muscular weight, and kissing again at his throat, his neck, behind his ear - a scratchy breathy passion that electrocuted Trent with desire for a man he had not touched in years. Greedily, he pushed a hand down to feel the bulge in the front of the Egypt national tracksuit, finding that the injured player had travelled commando - he could feel the loose heavy cock in there and he shuddered with desire for it. Trent grappled with the strength of the other man until he could flip them, wrestling against him on the couch and - once on top - pushing his way back and down, sliding until his knees dropping to the hardwood floor. He pushed up the black football training shirt and admired the detailed landscape of that ripped six-pack; he kissed the skin around the tight little navel and then down onto the stubbly growth where the upper edge of the pubes had been trimmed away. He yanked and dragged at the trackies until they were sliding away, not a scrap of underwear beneath them, and freeing the thick heavy dong that he remembered sucking so greedily and submissively for him. Trent didn't think of himself in terms of some needy cum-slut, but right now he was happy to repeat the role that the authoritative goal machine had cast him in - he spat noisily against the big helmet and then pushed his hungry mouth about it, thrilled when one rough hand pushed on his crown and helped his head down to swallow the fat veiny length. Trent sucked eagerly on him, breathing in the stale sweat and manly taste, and he slurped noisily up and down, spitting more lubricant on head and shaft, and turning his eyes up to the still-furious frown on the Pharaoh's stormy face. `That's it,' was all the Egyptian star could growl. Trent sucked him some more, and he pushed his hands up and down that six-pack, up onto the solid smooth pecs, tweaking and teasing bullet nips; he licked and slobbered and took one and then the other ball in his mouth for a gentle sucking, making Mohamed growl and moan, reaching down to slap his hard-on against Trent's boyish good looks; fuck, he hadn't thought about this cock in forever, but right now it was everything he wanted for dinner. `Fuck,' moaned Salah urgently. `Fuck, yes.' Trent would have happily carried on, putting his talented young mouth to work again, assuming that this one-way fellatio was all the dominant secretive Muslim was into - but then Mo was leaning forward on the coach, squishing his face between cock and six-pack, and reaching down his back, pulling his hoody up a bit, and sliding a hand into the rear of his baggy shorts and tighter trunks... giving one of his arse cheeks a good clench and then poking an exploratory finger into his crack, woah. The hand retreated but slapped and spanked aggressively at both cheeks through his shorts and Trent responded with a whimpering sigh of delight, kissing the base of the mighty shaft. `Up,' barked Mohamed, and TAA could only rush to oblige. He scrabbled to his feet and discarded the shorts, his own erection tenting in the plain grey boxer briefs below; he fought with the hoody and almost went flying to one side in his clumsy rush, until Salah's strong hands were tearing it upwards and freeing him of its baggy excess. He was grabbed about the waist by a now-shirtless Salah and again the aggressively horny Egyptian was snogging the side of his neck, really driving him wild, hands roving over his lean strong torso, down to feel his arse through his undies. Trent moaned with eagerness, becoming aware of how his former dom had progressed in the years since last feeding him a mouthful of jizz. Trent nuzzled forward experimentally and was rewarded with a second snog to the mouth, and he held the handsome face and slightly sheared fro of hair, kissing deeply into Mo's rasping mouth - all the while, strong imperious hands rubbed down his back and pushed his undies down below the curve of his cheeks, which they patted and squeezed and parted. Mo broke the kiss long enough to spit on two fingers and then, as they resumed snogging, Trent rose on tiptoes whilst two fingers pushed between his cheeks and found the pink tightness of his ring - `Ohhhh... fuck...' Muscles bulging, Salah hoisted him, and Trent brought his own strong legs grappling about the waist of the shirtless hunk; he allowed himself, only marginally lighter than the striker, to be hoisted and held, his arse parting, while the Egyptian began to roughly finger him and kissing the centre of his chest. Held aloft like this, Trent's eyes bulged and his mouth was wide open in a long `Ohhhh' of surprised pleasure, before he was once more flopped heavily back down into the softness of the sofa, this time on his front. Mohamed's hands were strong and commanding and he was happy to be putty in them - pushed forward, face into the cushions, arse yanked back and up, whole body bent over and read. Loud spitting and more pushy fingers. A bit of a good boy lately, Trent hadn't taken a dick since sitting on Rashford's on England duty, so he was glad that Mo was giving him a good fingering first - two digits pushing roughly in and out of his wet hole, spitting profusely against them. Fuck, Mo knew what he was doing - who'd he been fucking, then? Trent was bent unceremoniously forward and held tightly and then he felt the hugeness of the tip, the pressure and the need; he relaxed as best he could and let it happen, glad to be stretched, glad to be feeling this, so glad to have that big cut cock in his backside now and now just his mouth. He freed his face from a brief crush of cushion and sucked in air, letting out encouraging gasps and telling him how much he needed it - `Fuck me hard, Mo, you fucking beast!' Confusingly, after the kisses, Salah just clipped him lightly on the head and pushed his face more roughly into the back of the sofa, telling him to `Shut up and take it' and then forcing his cock forward; Trent could only moan into the expensive suede and arch his back sensuously, feeling himself accommodate the thickness and length of the masterful prick. Soon Salah was fucking him hard, gripping his midriff and bucking rapidly and powerfully against his arse - the low sofa squeaked and strained against the aggression and Trent was lost in pleasure as he got exactly what he hadn't realised he needed. His own cock was hard and leaking and he had to try hard not to touch it, knowing he would release at the slightest provocation right now! `Fucking Englishmen,' was Salah's stupid grunted outburst, `fucking England!' Right, Trent thought, he's fucking the whole Premier League establishment then - I'm happy to represent that tonight! In several positions, the 25-year-old Anfield right-back was tossed about the sofa, a ragdoll in Mohamed's sweaty grip - contorted and pushed, controlled and twisted, constantly pounded and railed by the strength of every muscle in the goal machine. For a while he was spread flat along the couch with his hard-on underneath him and out of reach, Mo powering into him from above and holding his head down hard with both hands - wow - but when he was flipped over again and his ankles resting on Mo's strong shoulders, he simply could not help himself, and he wanked his cock briefly before spilling his seed all over his strong dense tummy muscles. Mo's face twisted, he looked almost disgusted to see this sign of mutual pleasure, and he pulled him into a different position, back to doggy-style, to give him one last hard ragdoll set of thrusts - Trent took it in a post-orgasmic daze, eyes half-shut, feeling the force plough into him and only half-conscious of his seed staining the expensive fabric of the couch. Then Mo was out of him, pushing him aside and back into a seated position, and stood over him. Salah spat, and Trent thought it was to go on his own face in some aggressive gesture, but nope just down onto the big throbber - he lolled in the low seated position whilst Mohamed stood over him and wanked, pulling back rapidly on his monster cock, until with a shudder and a groan, he was releasing. Heavy, noisy droplets splattered against Trent's chest, a Jackson Pollock of Egyptian seed, falling across his pecs, over his hard nips, dribbling down onto his own taut abdomen, muddling with the smears of his own cum where it was drying on his treasure trail. He stared wonderingly up at Salah's drawn face, wide eyes, trembling lips - he still looked furious, but there was also something sated and finished in his stance - the fuck had been the therapy he needed. It occurred to Trent that if big sexy Salah was sexually active outside of his marriage, then his time in Africa might have been one of barriers and limitations - a tense Egyptian side of strict Muslim men, perhaps? Whoever else at Liverpool had been lucky enough to taste Mo, this big sexy brute had not been serviced at AFCON... and Trent was wholeheartedly pleased he had somehow been the first name on the married hunk's speed dial when he touched down at Liverpool John Lennon Airport. `Well,' he gasped after a long silence between them, `that was... new.' A vague non-verbal grunt from Mo, who proceeded to back off. He picked his trackies up from where they remained at his ankles and pushed his cock into them, where the damp stains of jizz were instantly visible in the crotch. His muscular torso shiny with sweat, Salah went about collecting his jersey and jacket from where they had fallen, saying nothing, whilst Trent inspected a few jizz marks on the couch and laughed to himself, then scrabbled back into his shorts and hoody, wiping his clammy face on a sleeve. He disappeared and left his visitor, collecting two glasses of icy water, and returned to push one into Salah's awkward hand. Now, the Egyptian couldn't even make eye contact with him. He glugged the water noisily and paced the room, and Trent smirked playfully at the silenced loop of promo on the TV screen, the show still waiting for him. And the herby scent that had followed him from the kitchen reminded him of his dinner waiting - for a moment, chuckling, he thought about inviting his guest to stay for food and more relaxation, but he already knew what the answer would be. Stormy-faced, Mo was looking for somewhere to put the emptied glass down - Trent took it for him, and he smiled reassuringly. `That was hot,' he told him. `Forget it,' the striker told him simply, bluntly. `It should not have happened.' `Yeah, but it did...' `Don't ever mention it,' Salah commanded him - and Trent's smile half-faded, remembering why he had ended their previous dalliance - too many regretful moments with his own pleasure neglected and the stains of a messy load drying in his t-shirt. Mohamed was adventurous, but only up to a point - the snogging and the fucking seemed new, but ultimately, his brief suspension of Halal rules ended sharply with his own release, and now it was like it had always been. He looked ready to bolt. Trent just sighed. `I'm glad I could help,' he said, half-sarcastically, and he drank from his own water. Mo shot him a strange, wary look, and made for the door; Trent followed quietly, helping him with the lock and seeing him out on the balcony. He stood there and watched as his teammate and surprise guest rushed away down the stairwell, Trent's arse-hole still throbbing from the power-fucking he'd received on the couch. Wow. He drifted back indoors, poured more ice-cold water, and began serving his dinner, the smell of Salah's sweat and cum still all over him - and he laughed cheerily to himself as he sat back down to eat his food and press play on Netflix - that had been unexpected but delightful, and he was no longer young or naive enough to hope it meant any more than it did. Big macho Mo had just needed to unload, and god Trent had needed that action too, but it was silly to expect anything sweeter from that - Mr Right would come along for him in some other form, he trusted, and he was happy to lay to rest his steamy affair with his former captain, and the more toxic awkwardness of his Evertonian love affair in the past. Trent put his feet up, ate his casserole, and watched a stupid whodunnit plot unfold, and Mohamed Salah drove home to his wife, bitterly disappointed in AFCON, but unloaded of the anger and frustration that had burned him on the long flight back from injury. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2024 20:39:33 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 386 Part 386: Knock at the Door It was a chilled Monday evening for the mature 25-year-old, and he was very pleased about that; he'd had a bit of fun during his club's nominal winter break, including a jaunt to a couple of fashion events where he'd got to hobnob with various celebs - but he'd been back at work for several days already, and his side were priming themselves for a midweek clash against Fulham for a spot in the EFL Cup Final. They were already 2-1 up after the first leg, but would be travelling down to London tomorrow evening, and so had been given a rather short and low-impact training day by the bosses - sent home to rest and relax and report for duty tomorrow afternoon, as fresh as possible. For Trent Alexander-Arnold, this had meant a nice walk in one of the city parks, taking in the last of the wintry daylight after driving back from the training ground; he'd swung by an expensive whole-foods supermarket in the city centre then retreated here to his luxurious flat to start prep on his dinner. When it was just him, Trent didn't always put much effort into cooking, but he liked relaxing into a complicated recipe when he had the time, and so a fancy French stew was simmering away in the kitchen now, and the young footballer had retired into the large airy room at the centre of his warehouse conversion. Though many 20something lads in his sport were somewhat itinerant and lived in blandly corporate shells as a result, Alexander-Arnold had invested in property when barely out of the youth squad, and he'd been furnishing and perfecting his Merseyside bachelor pad for many years now. It was quite the cosy nest of his own tastes and preferences that the versatile defender could settle into now, perusing the Netflix menu whilst burying his lithe brown body into the low sofa and masses of cushion. Trent felt safely distant from the stress and pressure of his job this evening, ensconced here on the soft furnishing and surrounded by framed prints of his own photography and art that reminded him of favourite holidays, interspersed with American sports memorabilia and a few tributes to his own career highlights. He was confident about Wednesday night and more excited than anxious about travelling down there tomorrow to finish the job. So he was free to relax, light as a feather, stretching his muscular physique against the cushions and pulling a thin extra blanket over his baggy basketballer shorts and the plain black hoody which covered his upper body. He scrolled the menu quite idly, and he'd pretty much just chosen his next binge, loading up a trashy thriller adaptation that he'd missed out on during the Christmas period, and was literally sliding his thumb to the `play' button when the knock at the door interrupted. Oh, for fuck's sake, really? The 25-year-old Scouse lad was so happily nested in his position, blanketed and foetal, ready to graze through a couple of naff TV episodes and then serving up his delicious-smelling dinner, which he thought he might even post smugly to social media. He paused with the remote in his hand, surprised to be interrupted, and the knock sounded again: a firm hard rapping against the flat's entrance. It was only as he slid the blanket away and leapt up from his nest of cushions that the Liverpudlian man thought that the knock was odd - it should be a rattling metallic buzz from the intercom down to the conversion's foyer - so maybe it was a neighbour and it would just be some quick query or requested favour. Or, he supposed, someone could have come in downstairs at a busy point when the bougie building's residents were all coming back from work or out to the gym... it would have to be one of his well-known teammates, he concluded, not to be stopped and queried by the expensive security service who operated the building's reception, though. Trent's mind was a rolodex of these prospects as he hopped and slid through the airy lounge and down a passage towards the main entrance - Robbo was most likely, as far as teammates who would just drop around for a cuppa, especially in the time since the Scotsman's boyfriend had been sold abroad; but it could be anyone, it could be that moody-faced little wannabe hard-man Harvey Elliott, or his bosom buddy, the lanky stammering Curtis Jones - both youngsters were chummy with Trent these days and seemed to look up to him as the Academy success story he was; or it could even be Joe Gomez, he mused, thinking about the slightly intense looks the big burly Londoner had given him when he complimented his Adidas TV ad this afternoon, the brooding player seeming to take the praise a little too deeply; or, Trent thought, in the seconds it took him to undo the security locks and put his eye to the peephole, it could be his crush. After all, Dominik Szoboszlai had been promising to drop off the kitchen equipment he'd borrowed in his first week of Liverpool life, telling Trent that his girlfriend had now bought everything they needed - it made Trent cringe a little to think about his eagerness in those first weeks, running about offering the Hungarian all sorts of neighbourly favours to help him move into a neighbouring apartment block in the city centre, bending over backwards to befriend the newcomer and trying not to have sex dreams about him every night. The first awkward heat of the crush had softened over time, since he and Dom were now such good buddies, but he knew that was a partial lie: he still got flustered every time he saw the tall dark beast of a man approaching him on the training pitch. But no, it was not Dominik, nor any of those other possibilities, but it WAS a teammate: he put his eye to the peephole and breathed a `Huh?' of mild confusion before undoing the manual lock and pulling the door inwards. `Hey there,' the Scouse lad called with a friendly daze to his tone, hanging off the big industrial door, and inspecting the glowering figure who greeted him on the landing. Mohamed Salah heaved a very heavy sigh, stared him down, and then nodded impatiently. `Can I come in?' Liverpool's iconic striker demanded without a `hello'. `Sure,' Trent agreed readily, a little confused, and he stepped aside to usher the forward into his flat, not for the first time - but certainly for the first time in a while. He pushed the door shut and followed the other man's stompy footsteps through into the large central space, where the Netflix menu was playing the same preview of his chosen TV boxset on a loop. In the centre of the room, Salah looked about appraisingly, as if noting all minor changes since he'd been a semi-regular visitor to the pad, and made a vague dismissive scoffing sound, turning to face a bemused Trent. `Shouldn't you be at AFCON?' the 25-year-old asked simply, a little confused at seeing Salah back on UK soil. `I - I'm sorry to hear about the injury, chief, but - how come you aren't there still supporting your Pharaohs...?' A grunt from Mo, who he realised was still dressed in his Egypt training tracksuit, as if fresh from the airport direct, the red and black nylon perfectly fitted against the taut muscles of the 5ft9 31-year-old. He had an angry look to his face, which was unnerving, but Trent couldn't help but meet it with a friendly smile of concern - `What's up, lad?' the younger player demanded brightly but firmly. `I should be there,' Salah told him, sounding irritable. `I should be there, like you say, cheering on my men - I should be. But I am here, HERE, in Liverpool - because our bosses say it must be so. Against my Egypt doctor's words. Hah!' He shook his head, fury in his eyes. `This is crazy. They do not respect the Africa cup, they never have.' He grunted and scoffed again and pulled at the neck of the tight jersey under his red-and-black jacket. Trent nodded his sympathy. `Too right,' he said darkly, `it's casual racism and nowt else, buddy, but - could they really make you come back?' and then after a pause, `But are you okay? Do you need proper treatment, or...?' He was ready to agree with the North African about a dismissive Premiership attitude to the African Cup of Nations, but he wasn't keen to disrespect LFC authorities - he was fairly sure that the gaffer and co wouldn't have had Mo flown home if it wasn't needed. The striker in front of him did not look ready to see that point of view, nostrils flaring and lips pouting. `Intense rehabilitation,' Salah mouthed angrily. `And then I COULD rejoin them if they make the final...' He laughed, bitterly. `Without me? The final, without me? Hah.' He shook his head again, uncharacteristically arrogant about his talent, and then rubbed at his slightly clammy travel-weary face. Even as he opened his own pouting lips to speak, Trent felt he had an inkling of the answer to his question - `But what am I gonna do about it, hey?' He gave a pretty calm, measured look at the muscular lad in front of him, matching his own height but a little thicker and broader in build. And Mohamed stared back at him, something intense and manic in his dark eyes and in the physical tension of his pose - he stepped forward, and he smelt quite sweaty, the must manly scent of a bloke who's had a long journey and yet to shower today. It was not an altogether unpleasant stink. `Hey,' Trent said vaguely, the visitor stepping right up to him and taking hold of the front of his baggy dark hoody. He let the warning sound trial off, a vague bemused smile still on his face, whilst Mo brought their faces very close and stared him down, not daring or needing to stay what had to be said - his wide dark eyes and flaring nostrils said it all, as did the rich manly stench of his sweat. There was a lot Trent thought about saying - not least, that he had a pretty chill solo evening laid out in front of him, and more specifically, that the phase of him being the Egyptian's personal cocksucker bitch were long gone, a phase of real insecurity for Trent where he'd needed to service that big circumcised cock almost daily to feel validated. Yep, `hey', he could have said lots of things to refuse this visitation and demand, he sure could - but ultimately, with the brooding muscular hunk stood imposingly in front of him, tugging at the front of his jumper, and his senses overwhelmed by the rich smell that was a mixture of oud and sweat, he knew that Netflix and dinner could wait. Especially when Mohamed's strong grasping hands came up to the collar of his hooded top and that mouth, bristly on the smoothness of Trent's face, came in for a hot wet kiss - holy fuck, there had been no kissing during their past affair. Trent almost stumbled off his bare feet, born back by the strength of Mo's anger and lust; he grabbed back at the rustling sleeves of the Egypt training jacket and steadied himself, holding onto the muscular force of the other 5ft9 bloke. The kiss ended sharply, Salah breathing heavily, and then he was instead kissing Trent on the neck, quite aggressively, making him `Oh!' a little moan and hang on even more roughly and desperately to the folds of nylon, clutching at the jacket and casting aside all doubts about what he wanted from his `chill' evening at his flat. Fuck yes. Mo pushed him back again, roughly, but this time he was ready for it, and he grasped back at him, tugging on him, so that as he tumbled back onto the nearest low couch and a springy bed of cushions, the injured striker came clumsily with him, bearing down on top of him with all of his muscular weight, and kissing again at his throat, his neck, behind his ear - a scratchy breathy passion that electrocuted Trent with desire for a man he had not touched in years. Greedily, he pushed a hand down to feel the bulge in the front of the Egypt national tracksuit, finding that the injured player had travelled commando - he could feel the loose heavy cock in there and he shuddered with desire for it. Trent grappled with the strength of the other man until he could flip them, wrestling against him on the couch and - once on top - pushing his way back and down, sliding until his knees dropping to the hardwood floor. He pushed up the black football training shirt and admired the detailed landscape of that ripped six-pack; he kissed the skin around the tight little navel and then down onto the stubbly growth where the upper edge of the pubes had been trimmed away. He yanked and dragged at the trackies until they were sliding away, not a scrap of underwear beneath them, and freeing the thick heavy dong that he remembered sucking so greedily and submissively for him. Trent didn't think of himself in terms of some needy cum-slut, but right now he was happy to repeat the role that the authoritative goal machine had cast him in - he spat noisily against the big helmet and then pushed his hungry mouth about it, thrilled when one rough hand pushed on his crown and helped his head down to swallow the fat veiny length. Trent sucked eagerly on him, breathing in the stale sweat and manly taste, and he slurped noisily up and down, spitting more lubricant on head and shaft, and turning his eyes up to the still-furious frown on the Pharaoh's stormy face. `That's it,' was all the Egyptian star could growl. Trent sucked him some more, and he pushed his hands up and down that six-pack, up onto the solid smooth pecs, tweaking and teasing bullet nips; he licked and slobbered and took one and then the other ball in his mouth for a gentle sucking, making Mohamed growl and moan, reaching down to slap his hard-on against Trent's boyish good looks; fuck, he hadn't thought about this cock in forever, but right now it was everything he wanted for dinner. `Fuck,' moaned Salah urgently. `Fuck, yes.' Trent would have happily carried on, putting his talented young mouth to work again, assuming that this one-way fellatio was all the dominant secretive Muslim was into - but then Mo was leaning forward on the coach, squishing his face between cock and six-pack, and reaching down his back, pulling his hoody up a bit, and sliding a hand into the rear of his baggy shorts and tighter trunks... giving one of his arse cheeks a good clench and then poking an exploratory finger into his crack, woah. The hand retreated but slapped and spanked aggressively at both cheeks through his shorts and Trent responded with a whimpering sigh of delight, kissing the base of the mighty shaft. `Up,' barked Mohamed, and TAA could only rush to oblige. He scrabbled to his feet and discarded the shorts, his own erection tenting in the plain grey boxer briefs below; he fought with the hoody and almost went flying to one side in his clumsy rush, until Salah's strong hands were tearing it upwards and freeing him of its baggy excess. He was grabbed about the waist by a now-shirtless Salah and again the aggressively horny Egyptian was snogging the side of his neck, really driving him wild, hands roving over his lean strong torso, down to feel his arse through his undies. Trent moaned with eagerness, becoming aware of how his former dom had progressed in the years since last feeding him a mouthful of jizz. Trent nuzzled forward experimentally and was rewarded with a second snog to the mouth, and he held the handsome face and slightly sheared fro of hair, kissing deeply into Mo's rasping mouth - all the while, strong imperious hands rubbed down his back and pushed his undies down below the curve of his cheeks, which they patted and squeezed and parted. Mo broke the kiss long enough to spit on two fingers and then, as they resumed snogging, Trent rose on tiptoes whilst two fingers pushed between his cheeks and found the pink tightness of his ring - `Ohhhh... fuck...' Muscles bulging, Salah hoisted him, and Trent brought his own strong legs grappling about the waist of the shirtless hunk; he allowed himself, only marginally lighter than the striker, to be hoisted and held, his arse parting, while the Egyptian began to roughly finger him and kissing the centre of his chest. Held aloft like this, Trent's eyes bulged and his mouth was wide open in a long `Ohhhh' of surprised pleasure, before he was once more flopped heavily back down into the softness of the sofa, this time on his front. Mohamed's hands were strong and commanding and he was happy to be putty in them - pushed forward, face into the cushions, arse yanked back and up, whole body bent over and read. Loud spitting and more pushy fingers. A bit of a good boy lately, Trent hadn't taken a dick since sitting on Rashford's on England duty, so he was glad that Mo was giving him a good fingering first - two digits pushing roughly in and out of his wet hole, spitting profusely against them. Fuck, Mo knew what he was doing - who'd he been fucking, then? Trent was bent unceremoniously forward and held tightly and then he felt the hugeness of the tip, the pressure and the need; he relaxed as best he could and let it happen, glad to be stretched, glad to be feeling this, so glad to have that big cut cock in his backside now and now just his mouth. He freed his face from a brief crush of cushion and sucked in air, letting out encouraging gasps and telling him how much he needed it - `Fuck me hard, Mo, you fucking beast!' Confusingly, after the kisses, Salah just clipped him lightly on the head and pushed his face more roughly into the back of the sofa, telling him to `Shut up and take it' and then forcing his cock forward; Trent could only moan into the expensive suede and arch his back sensuously, feeling himself accommodate the thickness and length of the masterful prick. Soon Salah was fucking him hard, gripping his midriff and bucking rapidly and powerfully against his arse - the low sofa squeaked and strained against the aggression and Trent was lost in pleasure as he got exactly what he hadn't realised he needed. His own cock was hard and leaking and he had to try hard not to touch it, knowing he would release at the slightest provocation right now! `Fucking Englishmen,' was Salah's stupid grunted outburst, `fucking England!' Right, Trent thought, he's fucking the whole Premier League establishment then - I'm happy to represent that tonight! In several positions, the 25-year-old Anfield right-back was tossed about the sofa, a ragdoll in Mohamed's sweaty grip - contorted and pushed, controlled and twisted, constantly pounded and railed by the strength of every muscle in the goal machine. For a while he was spread flat along the couch with his hard-on underneath him and out of reach, Mo powering into him from above and holding his head down hard with both hands - wow - but when he was flipped over again and his ankles resting on Mo's strong shoulders, he simply could not help himself, and he wanked his cock briefly before spilling his seed all over his strong dense tummy muscles. Mo's face twisted, he looked almost disgusted to see this sign of mutual pleasure, and he pulled him into a different position, back to doggy-style, to give him one last hard ragdoll set of thrusts - Trent took it in a post-orgasmic daze, eyes half-shut, feeling the force plough into him and only half-conscious of his seed staining the expensive fabric of the couch. Then Mo was out of him, pushing him aside and back into a seated position, and stood over him. Salah spat, and Trent thought it was to go on his own face in some aggressive gesture, but nope just down onto the big throbber - he lolled in the low seated position whilst Mohamed stood over him and wanked, pulling back rapidly on his monster cock, until with a shudder and a groan, he was releasing. Heavy, noisy droplets splattered against Trent's chest, a Jackson Pollock of Egyptian seed, falling across his pecs, over his hard nips, dribbling down onto his own taut abdomen, muddling with the smears of his own cum where it was drying on his treasure trail. He stared wonderingly up at Salah's drawn face, wide eyes, trembling lips - he still looked furious, but there was also something sated and finished in his stance - the fuck had been the therapy he needed. It occurred to Trent that if big sexy Salah was sexually active outside of his marriage, then his time in Africa might have been one of barriers and limitations - a tense Egyptian side of strict Muslim men, perhaps? Whoever else at Liverpool had been lucky enough to taste Mo, this big sexy brute had not been serviced at AFCON... and Trent was wholeheartedly pleased he had somehow been the first name on the married hunk's speed dial when he touched down at Liverpool John Lennon Airport. `Well,' he gasped after a long silence between them, `that was... new.' A vague non-verbal grunt from Mo, who proceeded to back off. He picked his trackies up from where they remained at his ankles and pushed his cock into them, where the damp stains of jizz were instantly visible in the crotch. His muscular torso shiny with sweat, Salah went about collecting his jersey and jacket from where they had fallen, saying nothing, whilst Trent inspected a few jizz marks on the couch and laughed to himself, then scrabbled back into his shorts and hoody, wiping his clammy face on a sleeve. He disappeared and left his visitor, collecting two glasses of icy water, and returned to push one into Salah's awkward hand. Now, the Egyptian couldn't even make eye contact with him. He glugged the water noisily and paced the room, and Trent smirked playfully at the silenced loop of promo on the TV screen, the show still waiting for him. And the herby scent that had followed him from the kitchen reminded him of his dinner waiting - for a moment, chuckling, he thought about inviting his guest to stay for food and more relaxation, but he already knew what the answer would be. Stormy-faced, Mo was looking for somewhere to put the emptied glass down - Trent took it for him, and he smiled reassuringly. `That was hot,' he told him. `Forget it,' the striker told him simply, bluntly. `It should not have happened.' `Yeah, but it did...' `Don't ever mention it,' Salah commanded him - and Trent's smile half-faded, remembering why he had ended their previous dalliance - too many regretful moments with his own pleasure neglected and the stains of a messy load drying in his t-shirt. Mohamed was adventurous, but only up to a point - the snogging and the fucking seemed new, but ultimately, his brief suspension of Halal rules ended sharply with his own release, and now it was like it had always been. He looked ready to bolt. Trent just sighed. `I'm glad I could help,' he said, half-sarcastically, and he drank from his own water. Mo shot him a strange, wary look, and made for the door; Trent followed quietly, helping him with the lock and seeing him out on the balcony. He stood there and watched as his teammate and surprise guest rushed away down the stairwell, Trent's arse-hole still throbbing from the power-fucking he'd received on the couch. Wow. He drifted back indoors, poured more ice-cold water, and began serving his dinner, the smell of Salah's sweat and cum still all over him - and he laughed cheerily to himself as he sat back down to eat his food and press play on Netflix - that had been unexpected but delightful, and he was no longer young or naive enough to hope it meant any more than it did. Big macho Mo had just needed to unload, and god Trent had needed that action too, but it was silly to expect anything sweeter from that - Mr Right would come along for him in some other form, he trusted, and he was happy to lay to rest his steamy affair with his former captain, and the more toxic awkwardness of his Evertonian love affair in the past. Trent put his feet up, ate his casserole, and watched a stupid whodunnit plot unfold, and Mohamed Salah drove home to his wife, bitterly disappointed in AFCON, but unloaded of the anger and frustration that had burned him on the long flight back from injury. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-342

Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2023 22:44:21 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 342 Part 342: "Millie screaming shoot..." `He said he could tell you were never going to pass,' the BBC reporter continued, holding the red tip of the mic closer to his face and smiling at him in a way that he could almost mistake for flirtatious, as flustered and excited as he was; the 19-year-old footballer grinned eagerly back at her, trying not to become too distracted by this, his pulse already racing from the attention of the camera fixed on his sweaty mop and grinning face, not to mention the hard-fought FA cup win that had passed tonight in Wolverhampton. `Oh yeah, Millie was screaming shoot,' Liverpool's celebrated young midfielder admitted, as she questioned him about his goal, the team's solitary achievement to sweep past their West Midlands opposition. `..and yeh...' he persisted uncertainyl, pausing to half-laugh at himself, `ha, if he's screaming that, then I'm gonna have to do it...!' He scratched at the light reddish brown of his beard hair and tilted his face, pulling some of the curling noodles of hair away from his sweaty brow. `I had the perfect opportunity to do that,' he told her, stumbling cheerily over the topic and finishing, `Maybe I'll have a word with him later and he can encourage me to shoot more, ha...' And in a minute or so, the post-match interview was over, and the attractive BBC reporter was thanking him for his time and backing away, already moving across to the sullen-faced representatives of Wolverhampton Wanderers to discuss their cup knockout. Shivering in spite of the heavy puffer jacket wrapped about his athletic body, the 5ft7 teen stood where he was for a minute, waiting for someone important-looking to dismiss him, but then having to shuffle aside from the frantic TV crew when nobody paid him much more attention - well, other than the remnants of the travelling Liverpool fans in the away stand who were still applauding, seemingly mainly for him. On his way past, the teenager waved jovially to what was left to the travelling Scousers, absolutely buzzing at his latest goal for his beloved club, and for the whole experience of the cup replay. In he went, replaying the short interview in his head as he crossed the pitch and moved towards the last few Liverpool figures at the dugout, realising that pretty much the rest of the squad were already gone in to change, whilst he'd been hopping about in the cold in his puffer jacket, waiting for his little bit of media attention. On the way into the tunnel mouth, he was grabbed and hugged by any number of men, a few tracksuit-clad substitutes who hadn't quite made it onto the pitch, and by members of Klopp's extensive management team. He was jostled happily by resting goalkeeper Alisson and big lad Nat Philips, steered indoors by the pair of taller blokes, who were telling him that he was the future of the club. A little red flush in his cheeks, the curly-haired Chertsey youth yanked one boot off at a time and chuckled protestations at the praise of the other two. At the door to the away changing rooms of the Molineux, this buzz was joined by a little round of applause from the reclining figures of two more resting subs, brash Scotsman Andy Robertson and his bulky pal Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. The big hands of the midfielder shook him by the shoulder whilst Robbo ruffled his mop of hair and gave him a swift slap to the arse on the way in, probably unaware of the private thrill it sent up his spine. And in the locker-room, he began to yank sweaty kit away from his body after shucking off the chunky coat, joining the steamy heat that exuded from the nearby showers, but the attention followed him, little whoops and chants of his name, making the 19-year-old feel on top of the fucking world. Sweat-damp socks were yanked down his thick lower legs and off his sore feet, and he flopped down into a seated position on the bench below his locker, glad to get off his feet even for a moment. Next to him, he found himself looking at the big toothy grin of `Millie' himself, with the words of his interview responses still shuffling through his brain cells. The ageing Premiership star beamed at him, a couple of spaces down the sparse row, in the middle of grabbing his towel from a shelf in front of him. Harvey returned the smile with a bashful grin of his own, pushing twirls of hair out of his eyes and straightening up his weary posture - something about the incredibly ripped physique of the versatile seasoned player always made a lad try to be a few inches taller and puff out the chest a bit. Especially right now, when the older man's shirt was off, his sturdy 5ft9 body glistening with the sweat of his 66-minute contribution to the win. `How'd the interview go?' the 37-year-old Leeds man demanded gruffly. `Oh - good, I think - er - you definitely got a shoutout, old man,' he added more smoothly, slightly jarred by the question just because it was exactly what he was asking himself; he'd signed a couple of sportswear modelling jobs lately and he was keen to pick up more of that sort of thing, so he really wanted to come across well on camera, the pretty boy future of an iconic Merseyside team. He chucked in the jokey age insult because he thought he could, having developed a much better friendship with the `old man' of the Anfield squad in the months since that drunken party and sober Milner's lift home. `Ah, nice one - good to remind people I'm still bossing the game, ey...' `Bossing? It was my goal, big fella, ha...' `Less of that cheek,' Milner chuckled, discreetly throwing the towel about his thick waist before continuing to wriggle out of his shorts and underpants beneath its cover, though certain shapes and outlines were still obvious under the white fluff. `You little toe-rag.' A friendly wink from the older man, making Elliott smirk a bit to himself, and shrug his shoulders before starting to tug his beloved Liverpool shirt up and off: `That's me, grandpa,' he retorted in a happy wheeze - and off went Millie, the night's sturdy right-back marching off for the showers, from which other rippling wet bodies were already emerging. For a moment, Harvey paused with his shirt still about his muscled upper arms, exposing the sweaty toned strength of his upper body to the warm damp air of the changing rooms; he was in a little reverie, distracted by the side of the 37-year-old adonis in his towel, and the memory of that night when Milner had driven him home from the party, the night he'd temporarily fallen out with Carvalho. It still stunned the Surrey teen that he'd fallen into that exciting tryst with the older man, having more-or-less hated him from afar since their previous episode together - but things had totally been reversed and redeemed, and the whole incident had even changed Harvey's perspective on what had happened between them in the past. A misunderstanding, he thought of it now, with burly James over-estimating his experience and readiness, and Harvey simply learning what he couldn't cope with; whilst last time, in the teen's own bedroom, the so-called king of boring had lay down for him and offered himself up willingly, allowing the young stud to fuck his first arsehole. It was a memory that had tickled and tantalised him ever since, and there was a dollop of self-confidence and ambition about Harvey Elliott that wouldn't let him relegate it to a complete one-off. He'd wanked over it twice daily for the first week or two after, and then found himself making half-joking remarks about it to Millie at training: never quite suggesting round 2, as such, but making the odd comment on how big and muscular the older man's bottom looked in a certain tracksuit, or trying to make boastful little comments to his manly friend about how hard he'd banged a bird last weekend. But every signal from James was a calm and patient rejection - Milner was making it loud and clear to Harvey that it had been a special treat, a generous gift to patch up their friendship, and a solution to the stress and frustration of a night where Elliott had almost got in serious trouble. Getting up to finish undressing and snatch up his own towel, the young central midfielder let out a private sigh of longing, annoyed that he couldn't repeat that amazing experience, being mentored through the experience of topping by James' infinite confidence and security, rather than the frantic mania of his younger experiences, making his first dabbles with an equally stoned Neco, or becoming a cum-slut for the likes of Mo Salah, whose chiselled tan form was drifting right past him at that moment with steam rising off every ultra-defined muscle. Ignoring him and enjoying his own moment of glory, Harvey whipped off his pants, momentarily naked with a relaxed exhibitionism that separated him from most of the other young players and their natural coyness, and then covering himself up with a wrap of towel, ready to go and shower down. As he headed that way, he brushed past other exciting physiques, sharing a nod with big sexy Joe Gomez and a damp side-hug with his Greek pal Tsimikas, then high-fiving a happy-faced Fabio Carvalho, their boyhood friendship restored after last year's misunderstanding. And then he was briefly face-to-face with Milner already, the older man apparently opting for a pretty brief shower - he aped Carvalho's eager high-five, slapping one of his huge paws against Harvey's smaller mitt, and giving him an almost smug smile of physical superiority before brushing past. The two men exchanged that knowing look of people who've experienced each other in a way far more intimate than simply being naked under towels, one that sent yet another thrill through Harvey's battle-weary body, and made it hard to keep his cock soft as he vanished into the steam himself. He thought of the patient smiles and dormant power of the well-established Liverpool hero during those fleeting one-to-one moments on the training pitch or in the rec room, where he'd tried and failed to hint at his need for a second go on his Anfield daddy; he was bright enough to read the firmness of the no, but then there was such friendly banter and new mentoring between he and the flexible senior midfielder, and part of him couldn't quite accept that he would never fuck him again. What young Harvey did not appreciate, though, was that every time James' eyes and smile said a firm no... they almost said yes. Milner was surprised at himself. After all these years! It had been over a decade since he'd taken it, and if he looked back through the football seasons of his illustrious career, he'd probably be able to pin down exactly how long. Regardless, he'd shocked himself when he went in for it with the kid, but it had been... a good laugh, more than that. He'd really fucking enjoyed himself, in a lot of ways. Being so trusted by an eager newbie like that, feeling the respect and reliance of a wannabe; the way it had melted the tension and hostility that had lingered between them since his own rash misunderstandings in the past; and, of course, the intense physical satisfaction of it all, fuckin' hell. He thought about this, striding across the guest changing rooms of the Wolves stadium, rubbing the big hand that had slapped and enclosed Harvey's against one of his firm pecs, and then bringing it up to stroke against his square jaw and stubby chin. The `old man' of LFC took his place at one side of the room, picking up another towel to drape about his broad wet shoulders, and glancing idly about him while his mind turned it over: it had been something different, hadn't it, something out of a long-gone past really, so no wonder it had preoccupied him a bit over the winter. The trouble was... well... Harvey was a nice lad, right enough, and James was keen to mentor and steer the young talent, just like so many of the other seasoned blokes at Anfield, everybody wanted the best for their plucky midfield sensation. He'd come back from his Championship loan with even more promise and confidence, and he wasn't the naughty braggart who'd caused trouble and controversy in his younger teens, not least for his teammate host after that first family kicked his weed-smoking arse out on the streets. Cockiness had turned to quiet confidence, and rebellion had been ironed out as determination and resilience. James liked him a lot, everyone did. But, he thought, the trouble was just that: he was a great kid, but he was a kid, and he had an ego that needed to be kept in check. Sure, Milner had got creative in his efforts to reassure and befriend the little bugger, but he was damned if he was gonna stoke that smug cockiness back to life, and be responsible for moulding an even more irritating teen troublemaker like Elliott had been when he first poked his nose into the Liverpool first team...! He wasn't about to enter into some kinda regular thing with the lad, nor give in and admit to the young lout just how good it had felt to- Well, mentor him. So to speak. No, James Milner, 37-year-old Premier League veteran, was not about to become the fucking bitch of a 19-year-old upstart who he was helping to mould and steer at their struggling giant of a football club, no way. That was NOT on the agenda. Every cheeky little comment or knowing look that the teen pushed his way, he had deflected with the practised cool of someone who's experimental dabbling had spanned almost as long as Harvey's 19 years. The cheeky little bugger. And still... Liverpool's ageing ace had found himself with a persistent and irritating temptation to... well, try that novelty again. He thought about it even as he nailed his wife quietly in bed on a Saturday morning before training, wondering why it had felt so surprisingly good to give in to something he'd barely tried a few times in his early twenties, and never looked back on until now. He scowled at himself judgmentally in the bathroom mirror over the thought of it, brushing his teeth, and unconsciously clenching his big muscly glutes in the loose fit of his Fat Face pyjama bottoms. Let it go, the thickset Yorkshireman advised his reflection, this is gonna be trouble. But the thought had plagued him for the rest of that recent Saturday, out onto the frost-touched training ground where his heavy panting breaths crystallised in front of him. And for a minute or so he'd even doubted his rational resolve, watching as diminutive but sturdy Elliott scampered about in tight legging with a couple of the other youngsters, stammering Curtis Jones and looming Nat Philips, tackled then by a quick-moving Trent Alexander-Arnold; and next to him, Milner realised, he wasn't the only one looking down the field at this cluster of their fellow players. To his left, paused with hands at his hips and one boot resting atop a ball, was their team's biggest international star. Mohamed Salah was frowning slightly as he watched, one of his hands coming up to stroke his thickening beard, and a long plume of warm breath escaping his pursed lips. `He hasn't been giving you any bother?' Milner murmured confidentially, giving a thoughtful glance to the Egyptian god of the Liverpool attack. `Hmm? What? Oh - James, no, no.' Still, the forward looked vaguely troubled, scratching and pulling at his dark facial hair, and then hanging his head a little, no longer looking at the tussle of young footballers half a field away from them. Milner watched him, rolling his rounded shoulders and stretching thick arms across his chest, one at a time - he was thinking with a little guilt about the way he'd tried to `help' Salah, and himself, by encouraging young Elliott's exile from Merseyside. But it had all worked out, he often reminded himself, and the Blackburn experience had been the making of the new Harvey. But that's not all the 37-year-old was thinking about this chilly Saturday a couple of weekends ago, because other thoughts had harassed him since he first sprung an erection and rolled expectantly closer to his missus. The Yorkshireman scratched his thick stubble across the blocky frame of his jaw, and glanced back at Mohamed, who was adjusting his shorts and shifting his posture, and raising questions in the forefront of Milner's mind. These urges that had been nudging at his mind and his crotch and the seat of his tight tracksuit, well they didn't have to mean giving an inch to the young upstart, did they? Close by him in the same LFC training gear, the Egyptian man tugged again at the crotch of his shorts and let out a huffy sigh that condensed in the air between them. Mo looked this way and frowned directly at him. `What is it?' the striker asked quietly. `Nothing, mate,' he murmured, pulling his eyes up from below the waist, and smiling blandly at his friend and teammate. `Just thinking about something my wife said this morning, that's all.' Mo shrugged and looked nonplussed, turning his attention instead to the ball at his feet, while Milner pulled his long sleeves further down about his chilly fists, and thought aloud, inching closer to his ally: `She was talking about how much she loves taking my big Yorkshire cock, that's all.' Thick eyebrows lifting, the Muslim man turned and gave him a look of arch prudishness, and Milner just smirked ironically into his face, patting him on one shoulder, already knowing a little too much about the forward's private life to buy this innocent reaction - and beginning to form a plan. The large square locker-room was filling up as the showers emptied, and Mohamed dressed himself at some speed, first pulling the long fit black boxer briefs up his hairy thighs and about his waist, then shedding the privacy of the towel to add the soft comfortable club tracksuit of sweatpants and hoodie. Around him, men in various lesser states of dress moved about noisily, all of them still high on the 1-0 win over Wolverhampton, and many still loudly praising the youngster who had secured it - not a topic that the goalless 30-year-old was rushing to join in on, tonight, having joined the fray and made minimal impact himself towards the end of the fixture. He was not selfish enough to really resent Elliott his success, he'd congratulated him as heartily as anyone else out there, but he had the same ego of any successful striker, and he mourned the goals he'd failed to score, and felt somewhat ambivalent to their FA Cup progress when their league position was such a headache. Not for the first time, the international star felt that some of his British and European colleagues lacked the competitive edge at the moment, the hunger for the win, the winner's instinct. But even so... it wasn't just football making Salah a little more tense and quiet than the men that surrounded him, all whipping towels and unfolding leisurewear; it was the plans he'd agreed to tonight. Standing there, his hard muscular form still just a little damp beneath the fresh clothes, Mo thought back to the coach that had delivered them to Wolverhampton, and the way James had leaned in closer to him between the headrests even as they parked up at the appointed hotel, his grin huge and confident, and his hand resting on one of his shoulders. `Are we still sharing, then?' the older guy asked him pointedly. For a moment, Salah just stared back, a slight frown lining his bearded face. But then, `We need to check with Klopp at check-in.' Milner's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly. `But we are, right?' chuckled the other player. `You haven't wussed out from what we were talking about...?' The 37-year-old spoke a bit too calmly and loudly for his liking and for a moment he flared his nostrils and stared quite confrontationally at him, other tracksuit-clad bodies brushing past the side of them as every member of the squad now started spilling out in the hotel car park and collecting the luggage they were presented with; still in his seat, the Egyptian forward continued to glare at the man in the pair of seats behind him, leaning heavily over the headrests to grin at him. `Milner,' he grunted, his tone a warning. `Ey,' chuckled the Leeds-born athlete, `if anyone should be wussing out, it should be me, hey?' And he burst out laughing quite heartily, sliding to one side, from the pair of seats into the central isle of the bus, queuing up behind Van Dijk, but still looking down at the awkward seated posture with which Mohamed now hesitated. `But I'm still game if you are, Mo, so you just say the word, king.' A wink, somehow as loud as his voice, as excruciatingly public and unsubtle, compared to the quietly whispered conversations on the training ground this week, or the hastily deleted text messages sent last thing at night. Salah stared intensely at him before pulling himself up to standing in the aisle, right behind him; right behind his broad powerful back muscles that filled out his tracksuit jersey, and below it, his- In the present, Mohamed slapped cool handfuls of moisturising cream onto his face, and then expensive beard oil onto his facial hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he rubbed both in with a ritualistic semblance of calm, hyperactive players muscling into hooded tops to his left and his right. He let the breath out, and dismissed the rising temper of that conversation this morning, which had continued in fits and starts on the way into the hotel reception, and during the brief time they'd had to settle into their assigned room - and he thought too about the way Milner had broached the idea to him at the start of the week, almost as a joke, but now... Players who were ready were being beckoned to the exit, with a player liaison guy mouthing off about the traffic between the stadium and the hotel, and Salah moved slowly in that direction, hoisting the sports bag with the rest of his things in over one shoulder. But he stopped, halfway across the room, and watched as Milner's head popped through the neck-hole of his top and came out facing right this way, smiling immediately at him. It was a broad friendly face full of expectation and promise, and it made Salah mouth a silent prayer of contrition to himself before hurrying out of the room. Harvey excused himself from his hotel room, mouthing his apologies to Fabio, his roomie, whilst feigning attention to the non-existent call on his mobile; from there, out into the long straight corridor of identical doors, and on his way to the number that he'd inked on the back of his hand after dinner, copying it from a rooming list clipboard that someone had left on the next table. He'd felt daft and secretive doing so, but somehow LESS daft than he would have sending a text to ask which room, as if that would make him look desperate and inept, and not... not... Well, the young alpha that he was! Goal-scorer of the night! The future of Liverpool FC! And stuff like that. He'd been surprised and not surprised when he got the invitation. Not surprised, on account of the fact he was the fucking toast of the team tonight; from the boss to the junior physio, literally everyone had told him his goal was a masterpiece, and he was finding it hard to hold on to humility in the face of that. At the start of the late supper at the hotel, literally the whole travelling entourage had clapped for his arrival, and half of the manager's closing remarks had been about the zeal he showed in the match, and how that was what Liverpool needed to recapture in the remainder of the season. And yet... after these weeks and weeks of smiling rejection, he'd been pretty shocked after all when he was walking across the dark damp car park with everybody else, and his arm was grabbed from behind, and suddenly the heavy figure of James Milner was at his side, calling him `Starboy' and asking him how it felt to be the Messiah for the night. And then, pulling closer, squeezing him about the shoulders of his hoodie, the bloke leaning right in and whispering in his ear, `Come by room at curfew, you smug twit, and I might let you in, hey?' After that, he'd said no more, nor even looked at him properly, speeding ahead to join Ox and Robbo and leap aboard the coach, while Elliott dwindled in a moment of disbelief, questioning exactly what Millie had said in his ear. The 19-year-old had been restless all the way back to their accommodation, fidgeting in his seat and rising up to crane his neck and look searchingly down the bus for a glimpse of Milner; the insecure part of him thought he was being punked, whilst the ego of a rising football star was telling him that sure, he'd scored a worldy and saved the day, and of course that meant the big burly bastard was craving his meat, sure! So now, Fabio ditched, he was checking the smudged ink on his hand and making his way through the hotel, going slowly and treading lightly because curfew had passed and he was supposed to be getting ready for bed. So, he supposed, was Millie, but the invitation had definitely happened, he'd definitely heard what he'd heard; and he was pretty sure he wasn't misreading the double entendre in it. `And I might let you in, hey?' old James had gruffly murmured in his ear as he squeezed those muscles about his shoulders, and surely he wasn't mad to think that the senior player was talking about more than just his ROOM. But here he was, this was it, room 405, and now he had to pause and wipe sweaty palms on the thighs of his jogger bottoms and pull on the neck of his print t-shirt, before lifting his knuckles and rapping them across the surface of the door; it was only as he knocked on Milner's suite that he wondered where the big man's own roommate would be, having ditched Carvalho back in their shared one. But as the door to room 405 swung inwards, Elliott was forced to become very aware of this fact. There he was, holding the door open: Mo Salah, frowning slightly at him, muscular shoulders on show against the thin dark straps of his vest top. But beyond him, Harvey quickly saw, was the room's other occupant, lounged back on one double bed with his head and shoulders propped up on two pillows. One thick arm was lifted to wave a hand in greeting, and the teenager just stood there for a moment in confusion, glancing from Salah's quietly serious bearded face, and across the shared room of the two senior players. `Come in,' barked Milner quietly, and he hesitated only briefly before doing so, slightly surprised as Mo's face mellowed and the forward stepped aside to let him in. The door closed behind him and he stood still, biting his lip slightly as he stared questioningly over at the lounged figure of one bloke and the tense stance of the other. Okay, there was a change of plan, or he'd misinterpreted what Millie had to say in his ear... `Alright fellas,' the 19-year-old said slowly, pulling loosely on the printed front of his t-shirt, and shifting from one flip-flop foot to another, waiting for Milner to explain. `Hullo,' was Salah's dull greeting, something moody and aloof in the manner of the 5ft9 striker, who folded arms across the front of his vest and took a few steps away, hovering at the foot of Milner's bed, as if just pausing on his way to sulk over in his half of the room; this left Elliott feeling more uncertain and he paused there, between them and the closed door, and he pushed both hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants, giving beady eyes at Millie and hoping for a way out. On his bed, James let out a complacent yawn, and he slid his hands behind his head, the posture really showing off the definition of his upper arms, and exposing a little hairy pit where the sleeves of his charcoal t-shirt ran up. He smiled and blinked, and then whistled. `Well, isn't this magic, having you two in my room? Ha.' He seemed to stifle another yawn and then loosened one hand from behind his resting head, placing it instead just above the waist, where his dark t-shirt met the bunched-up sweat-shorts about his thighs and crotch. Harvey was quick with a quip of false confidence. `Yeah, lucky you, the greatest goal-scorers of next season,' he tried, giving another curious look at Mo, and then back at the `old man' of Liverpool. `I think I got the wrong end of the stick,' he admitted, trying to keep his voice light. `Hmm? What? Well - you got here, so I don't think so.' One of James' large hands slid lower to scratch his balls in the short, his 5ft9 muscular frame stretched out quite leisurely on the nearby bed. At the foot of it, Mo unfolded those lean defined arms and let them hang awkwardly at his sides - he was also staring quite accusingly at Milner, as if he wasn't the only one here who'd been blindsided. `Am I missing a joke, fellas?' Harvey muttered faintly. `Not at all, but this should be fun,' Milner told him in a low voice. `Why don't you get started, then?' he added, nodding this way. `Go on - get your chops round Mr Egypt's cock, will ya?' The cheeky demand was followed by a huge grin across Millie's face and Harvey paused awkwardly, his cheeks flushing red, and sharing an awkward look with stony-faced Mohamed. He let out a single awkward laugh, scratched his beard, and then shook his head. `Nah,' he blurted. `That was a different time, boss.' `Wasn't so long ago,' came Mo's surprisingly sultry remark, and he hesitated. `Go on,' James insisted, quietly but firmly. `What the fuck?' Harvey couldn't help but mutter - this sure wasn't the little night visit that he'd envisaged when Milner accosted him in the car park, it wasn't the little fantasy he'd been relying on ever since last time. He felt mugged off and he tensed up, wondering if he should back off immediately and get back to his own room. What the hell was the old fucker playing at? Who did Salah think he was, glowering indignantly at him like that, as if the smug prick hadn't been pushed firmly away now? `Go on,' James said again, his voice rich with warm chuckles. `Suck him off a bit, Harvey lad.' A short pause. `Otherwise, how's he gonna get hard enough to give me a good stuffing?' Stood at an angle to them both, only part-way into the room, Harvey Elliott froze, and a little ripple of excitement replaced the nervous tension that had gripped his whole body of compact muscle. He blinked twice and stared first at smirking Milner, and then across at intense, sultry Salah, whose eyes were fixed on the beefcake on the bed. Oh, he thought, WOW. Milner grinned happily and watched it begin: the nervous and jumpy demeanour of the young visitor shifted, and there was something more of his cocky bravado as he took a couple of steps closer to Salah now, and gave a light punch to the muscles of the man's arm. Salah seemed to tear his dark eyes off Milner's lounging posture, and look the youth properly up and down. Oh, James knew all about the old arrangement between elite striker and rowdy teenager; it had been a vague awareness once, but over time he'd wormed the full story out of his cautious Muslim pal, right back to the moment dirty Elliott crept into the marital bed and woke up his thick North African cock while Mrs S slept on. Brilliant. Now, the 37-year-old footballer took a good grab of his cock through the loose grey shorts, giving his semi a good stroke, and watching as Harvey gave a stroke to one of Mo's arms, sidling in next to him with a snigger, and lifting the front of that vest a little with the other hand. He'd known how quickly Harv would comply once the lad knew what was really at stake here - and after all, it was hard to believe that the kid was REALLY over the taste of Salah's evident treasure. This was the thing: he'd itched for another little go at bottoming ever since he surprised himself and enjoyed it on Harvey's bed, but he really couldn't bring himself to admit this properly to the young lad. But a colleague like Mohamed, well that was different... They were all, in their own ways, submissive to a legend in the making like Salah, there wasn't a lad on the squad who wouldn't give anything to keep him at Anfield. So... if big Millie was going to let that happen again, so soon, then... yeah, he knew which cock was king at LFC, and he'd known how to make it happen. `Get on your knees for him,' he called playfully at Harvey. `We both know he's good at it,' he added teasingly at Mo himself, `so just let him at it, matey.' It was like a free porn show at the foot of the bed, and James gave his hardening cock another good squeeze and tug in his shorts. Harvey was wriggling unnecessarily out of his t-shirt, exposing the pocket-sized physique of his developing upper body and rather obnoxious arm tats, then going down on his knees, leaning one hand on the bedframe as he did; and in one smooth exhibitionist motion, Mo removed the black vest to toss away, exposing the only ripped body on the squad that could make 37-year-old Milner in any way yearn for a youth he had conscientiously maintained. Instantly, Elliott was kissing at the ridiculous six-pack of Salah, and one of the 30-year-old's hands was on his head, rubbing at his curls and guiding the kisses downwards. Over Harvey's descending head, Milner smirked insistently over at Salah, their gazes meeting, and he rubbed himself visibly to show his enjoyment and approval, though the thick Yorkshire meat at the front was NOT what he'd promised his friend. He could still picture Salah's expression when he'd let slip the idea between throaty chuckles and idle humour, and again when he'd repeated the offer at the end of that day. Mo had looked at him then with a surprising ferocity in his eyes, and it was back there now. Milner felt excited to be so desired, in spite of his usually relaxed confidence, and his long-matured ambivalence towards the man-to-man experiments of his younger seasons. Well, no point kidding himself about anything right here right now - he'd been aching to get fucked again ever since he let Harvey in, and the perfect curious top was staring right at him. Brilliant. This wasn't quite the night Mo had expected, but he couldn't deny it: he was delighted to have his cock wet in the mouth of Harvey Elliott again, and he tore his curious eyes away from the musclebound enigma on the bed, and down at the mass of poodle curls covering his crotch, whilst the talented teen slobbered up and down his cock over the taut waist of his loose pyjama pants. He moaned quietly, stroking quite gently at the honey and brown of Harvey's hair, and letting his uncertain gaze flicker upwards to check that James was still enjoying them, grabbing himself quite roughly in his short and leering with an almost unnerving enthusiasm. It was occurring to Mohamed that he might have been led astray after all - it had been too good to be true to believe that steady dependable Milner, the most trustworthy man in his team, was actually willing to... in spite of his excitement, the Egyptian still couldn't quite say it to himself. He'd wanted to try fucking a man for about a year now, and yet his lust was matched by his terror. So, he thought, maybe James lied, but if he did, he supplied an exciting alternative... Harvey looked up at him, eyes hooded, and lips almost sneering as they slid off the big fat mushroom head of his circumcised cock, drool trailing from that pink helmet to his parted lips and over his furry chin. Mo stared briefly and intensely at him, then shoved his fingers into that shaggy mop and pushed him back onto it, impaling the long thick monster and its veiny shaft into that hot wet mouth, just as he'd done so regularly for a while. He'd kept a safe distance from Elliott for a while, ever since the arrogant teen had bested him in that European hotel, and briefly pushed him into... ugh, reciprocating, getting his first awkward taste of- Forget it, he'd been mad with lust, and he should never have slipped and given in to the teen's demand. This, he thought, was back to normal, the English boy on his knees with a mouthful, and Mohamed looming over him, his king. Dominating him like he'd once dominated Trent, who now barely looked at him twice. But when he looked up, letting out a louder and fuller groan, he saw that James had moved off the bed. The bulky older man was stood beside it, and removing his dark grey t-shirt in a slow peel, inching it away from the impressive physique that kept the 37-year-old playing top-flight football well past average retirement for their profession, powerful and ripped enough to make even Salah envious. Off went the top, twirled briefly and tossed away, and still Milner smirked knowingly at him. Down went the grey sweat-shorts, and Mo looked briefly at the juddering spring of the released cock, glad somehow that it was not quite so long or impressive as his own, but then keen to look anywhere but at it - he certainly wouldn't be teased and tricked into tasting another, god-damn this kid and his beautiful lips running down Mo's cock. He shivered, really satisfied by the work of the tongue on the head of his cock, and he couldn't help but push both hands down to grip Harvey's face into his crotch, gritting his teeth and maintaining eye contact with Milner as he forced the 19-year-old to deep-throat him that little bit longer and deeper, then releasing him in a flurry of gasps and chuckles, and clearing his own throat emphatically. Naked, James was back on the bed, up on his knees, stroking himself gently, and casting his eyes about for something. He found it, and he reached away, bending over to fetch something, and treating Mo to a side-on view of his muscular sides and flexing limbs, and then, for a great moment, a proper view of his big arse, glutes so intensely muscular that they looked like something from an anatomy textbook, and a hairy darkness disappearing between them. Then James was turning back around, still on his knees, and holding a little tub of vaseline in one hand as he looked this way and winked. Harvey's mouth was closing back about his cock, but he pushed his face unceremoniously away, and took hold of his own heavy hard-on in one hand. He lunged forward and, unfazed, the teen helped him out of the drooping pyjamas, allowing him to climb naked over the foot of the bed and to join the older hunk on the sheets, staring him down and making ready to claim what had been promised. `Keen,' remarked Milner simply, and Salah ignored him, pushing one hand roughly into his broad chest. `Bend over,' the striker snapped imperiously, breathless with urgency. James just grinned and complied. `You can't just go in for it,' Harvey said, pulling himself up onto the bed. `You gotta try a finger or two first, it won't go in otherwise.' He said it sagely as if a man of great experienced, dragging himself across the duvet and hovering beside them, red-faced with excitement and rock-hard in his boxer briefs now he'd shed the grey sweatpants too. He crouched there in pants and socks, right beside the action, and staring insistently at a frowning Salah. `Go on, try a finger,' he urged eagerly. `Lad's right,' Milner grunted. `I'm tight, for fuck's sake - this isn't gonna be like mounting your missus, Mohamed. Gotta start slow. Show him, Harv.' The invitation didn't need to be offered twice. Shaky with horny energy, Harvey muscled in next to the powerful kneeling figure of the other stud, and he slapped a cheeky hand against one of James' big hard glutes. He snatched the little tub of vaseline and smeared it onto one finger, then poked it into Milner's hard crack, smearing it over his whole and making the man laugh then moan - he nudged his elbow into one of Mo's muscular arms and grinned conspiratorially at the beautiful Egyptian icon. `See?' He was elbowed aside with the same mindless dismissal as the end of the blowie, but he laughed confidently and recovered, hunkering down next to them, more than happy to watch as Salah lubed up two digits and dug them into Milner's backside, making the Yorkshireman groan deeply and go red in the cheeks as he looked over his shoulder. Fucking hell, this was amazing. Harvey shoved a hand into the front of his Diesel boxer briefs to play with his cock and balls, and he let his eyes rove every bare muscle of the scene. The teen was in prime position to watch all of it. The way Milner dragged his powerful athletic body into doggy style, hands and knees on the plain duvet; the eager smirk on the older bloke's face, repeatedly looking over one bulging shoulder, and also staring this way, winking secretively at him, perhaps turned on to be watched! The cautious jerkiness of movement from Salah, positioned behind him, frigging his bum-hole with two fingers when Harvey would have tenderly started with one, and wanking off his impressive prick at the same time, a perfect North African god about to go wild. Harvey couldn't stop himself but get more involved: he pawed at James' backside on the way down and pushed his face over the washboard abs to suck on Salah's cock again, bobbing up and down on it and using his mouth to keep him hard while he explored his first man-hole with those fingers - there was a bit of Harvey that couldn't help but wanna feel them in him, but the only thing he remembered about losing his virginity was the pain and regret after, and the teenager was adamant that he wasn't gonna try it again, fuck no. Yet again, he was yanked by his hair and pushed aside, though a bit less firmly. Mo was nudging forward, taking hold of James by the hips. Fuck, yes. Harvey groaned and muttered his encouragement, pushing his pants down his furry thighs a bit, and tossing himself off rapidly, spitting down onto it for lube. On his knees like the other two, hunched forward slightly, a rabid voyuer right now, Harvey wanked off and panted over it, watching as the king of Egypt angled his big helmet between those firm cheeks and into the greasy lubed crack, rubbing and pressing it into the hole. He was too hurried, too imposing, he thought, unsure that Mohamed was up to his - but also appreciating how clueless and clumsy he'd been, drunk that night, needing every word of advice and instruction from his muscular mentor who was now replacing him with a bigger star. He was too aroused to be jealous. He was also wrong: Salah was hurried, imposing, but he was so powerful. In it went. Milner coughed and swore and blasphemed, but he took it, his glutes parting. In it went. Mo's face was an absolute picture of unholy bliss, eyes almost closed and lips quivering open. He threw his head back as he edged forward, his clock sliding slowly into the tightest hole it had ever experienced. Fuuuuuck. Harvey almost came there and then, but he stopped himself, holding his hand still on his prick, and shuffling side to side to admire them both, reaching out his other hand stroking the power of Mo's arm, and then James' back, and then giving in and jerking frantically off. Milner breathed deeply in and out, composing himself and bracing against the initial pain; he felt less relaxed and in control of it than when guiding clumsy Elliott through the job, but he also felt horny and triumphant. It wasn't just scratching his own itch and having his tight hole stretched - it was the successful temptation of this godly prude, whose distress and conflict he had quietly observed ever since they first discussed the naughty influence of the same horny teen who was wanking hard next to them, eyes agog. For a while, James remained on elbows and knees, bracing himself against the slow powerful shoves with which Salah's thick equipment entered him, but then he needed to change it up and be more comfortable. He could hear and see the disappointment of both the 30- and 19-year-old for a few moments as he moved his body away and turned, but then he flopped himself onto his back and parted his legs, lifting them up with fingers pressed under his hairy thighs. Mo moved quickly in, directing his cock like a weapon, and Harvey shuffled too, up against the headboard so he was basically wanking over his side and shoulder, sweat appearing on his face and in his curly fringe. With a begrudging chuckle, Milner reached up and played with his balls, then took his cock in hand to jerk slowly, making the teen whine and groan appreciatively - all while Milner's hole stretched once more to accommodate the clumsy push of that big North African tool, Salah bearing down over him and unable to make eye contact, just concentrating on breaking in and filling up his arse, then trying to find some rhythm, pumping his monster in and out of him, all three of them sweating and groaning, the bed starting to creak. Harvey got over-excited and tried to push his cock closer, trying to rise up and direct his crotch at his face, but Milner was having none of that; he shoved him in the midriff and laughed, and focused instead on lifting and parting his big legs more to give Salah better access. He smirked at Elliott but shook his head. `Nah, I don't do that,' he grunted firmly at him, and gave the youth the cold shoulder, instead just focusing his attention on Salah. `Fuck me harder,' he growled at the young forward. `Fucking pound that hole, mate.' Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harv looking snubbed and awkward, but shiny with sweat on his smooth chest, and jerking his dick like a madman; but he swivelled his eyes back to meet the dark serious gaze of the Eygptian, and he nodded, `That's it, Harder, fuck me properly - I'm not some bitch you have to be careful with, Go for it!' Salah's mind swum with desire and recrimination, but he didn't let the doubts stop him. He ploughed into his first man, unable to believe how good and tight anal felt on his mighty cock, and finding some special satisfaction in overpowering a man as mighty and impressive as Milner still was. Harvey was like a fly to be swatted, pushed away when the arrogant keen got too close or tried to touch his arm, his back, his own bottom; pushed away, and yet tolerated, an audience to his dominance, and the beautiful lips that had woken his cock up for the task at hand. When next the 19-year-old moved excitedly in, he grabbed him in an almost hug, and pulled that head in to kiss appreciatively on the crown, only to then shove him quite roughly away and apply himself more ferociously to fucking James. He withdrew, panting, and forcibly encouraged James to turn over again. Not back into doggy, but face-down on the bed flat, so that he could lie fully on top of him and bury his cock between those cheeks, slamming down on him and dripping sweat on every inch of his broad neck and back. He forgot all about Harvey then, just powering down, and feeling his cock get more intense pleasure than ever in his mouth, even that first hot summer night with his teenage lodger crawling into his bed and risking everything. Next, he lifted James up, helping the heavy muscles forward and against the headboard, and he fucked him harder and faster, bodies tight together, humping bunnies at a frantic speed, really baking the hotel bed wince and squeak under their knees, only to slow down and flop over onto their sides. Side-on, he pulverised Milner's arse with the juddering rhythm of his hips, fucking into him at an angle that made it feel all the better, and beginning to moan very loudly as he felt his stamina give way and climax approach. He was distracted briefly by making eye contact again with Elliott, who was stood to one side of the bed, his face pink and shiny, and his hand pumping his cock like a machine, the poor lad looking like he might pass out from forgetting to breath. Again, he made the perfect audience, and his earnest stance was the final straw. `I'm - gonna - ugh-' Milner pulled roughly away from him at that warning, yelling `Not in me!', and so Salah collapsed onto his back and held his cock at the base it twitched and throbbed and then exploded thick cream all over the golden-brown of his toned tummy. He closed his eyes and convulsed against the sweat-damp sheets, gripping his cock in both hands, spewing cum over his knuckles and hairy wrists, and into the grooves of his six-pack. He cursed and swore and flinched, knowing he had sinned deeply, and unsure how he would face his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a few elastic moments, the 30-year-old forward lay in a vague daze, head swimming, but then he became aware that he was hardly alone, and that the others still occupied the bed. He brought his clammy hands up, smearing cum on the pillows, then dragging his palms over his hot face, and drumming them onto his waxed pecs, before planting them to the bed and pushing himself up to look between his spread hairy legs. Harvey was lying down on his back and facing away, his head crowned by that halo of curls, positioned between Mo's spread ankles. The muscular little teen stretched on down the bed, but only parts of his pale strong body were on show, because - fuck - James Milner was squatting over him and bouncing up and down, jerking and bobbing in a way that took dazed Salah a long hazy minute to understand. When he did, he felt a surge of envy, but his cock was floppy and leaking and not up to fucking anyone - instead, he just panted and stared, and watch Milner ride Elliott's cock. And then, shivering uncomfortably, he dragged himself off the bed and lurched away into the en suite, desperate for a cold shower. Harvey lay there in ecstasy, fucking his mentor again, but in no way in control of the situation. The weight of the hunk pinned him to the bed and even without that, he had Milner's huge paws pressing down on his arms, while that strong arse rode up and down on his tender cock, which had been on the verge of shooting from the moment they climbed atop the bed. He was imprisoned by the bigger man's strength, but what a prison to be in. He had no sense of Salah's proximity or exit, and certainly not the sound of a guilty cold shower; he could only stare up into Milner's masterful face and the sight of his twitching pecs, or the bulging muscles of the arms that pinned him; and he could feel every movement of that powerful body, bouncing up and down on him with a hole loosened by Salah's equipment first. Only one problem with this devastatingly brilliant position - he was so breathless that he couldn't get a word out of his shaking pink lips. He just opened and closed his mouth, a sweaty outline against the bedding, unable to lift his hands to hold and treasure the arse that rode his sensitive cock. And as he mounted towards orgasm, he couldn't even get out of the scream of pleasure that started in his six-pack and welled up into his chest. It just came and exploded, and then must have been totally evident on his blissful face. `Fuckin' hell, lad - nah, really? Shit - you could have said - oh FUCK-' The pressure on his cock and the weight on his body departed, his eyes blinking slowly open and shut, too high on pleasure to fully register Milner's approbation, the fact that he'd spunked inside his Liverpool daddy. He lay there, cock dribbling, and his whole body as shattered as he'd just fallen from a great height. His brain tuned in and out of Milner's ranting voice, and then he came to properly just in time to roll onto his side and watch the big Leeds bloke march angrily into the en suite bathroom, clutching his arse cheeks behind him. Dazed, the teen slid off the bed, still in his gym socks, and he pulled damp sweaty hair away from his brows. It was like a farce comedy: no sooner had Milner exploded into the bathroom, swearing his head off, but Salah was emerging, shivering in a small towel and with a haunted look on his face as he raced past. In the en suite, James was still grunting and shouting in annoyance, now about the temperature of the water as he hosed himself down and cleaned his arse; but Elliott just stood there with a cocky smirk on his sweaty lips and a little drop of cum hanging from the tip of his own young rod. Well, he thought, that had been almost as insane as tonight's goal. Quietly, he plucked his items of clothing from where they had dropped, glancing over to where Mo Salah muttered to himself in a frenzy whilst drying down his cold body, and James Milner came marching through the bathroom door, wagging a finger at him. `What'd I tell you?' the older man demanded furiously. `Just - don't - cum in me - okay? For fuck's sake, Harvey, you gimp...!' He grinned sheepishly at him, unable to find an apology, and just swayed away, wrestling back into his t-shirt and letting it stick to the sweat patches on his back and his chest. Up went the sweatpants, his fading erection obvious in the pale grey. `Right,' he slurred, ignored by the two angry men. `I'll leave you to it.' And out he went, giggling to himself as if he was drunk, because the interview was replaying in his mind - but not with insecurity and self-evaluation as it had earlier, but with irony and daft puns. `Millie telling me to shoot,' he sniggered on his way down the corridor, letting the room door slam behind him and forgetting to worry about the curfew, `more like the fucking opposite!' And off he went, happy with himself and glad he'd taken Salah's seconds, but vaguely unsure either of the imposing older fellas would be keen to play with him again in future. Didn't matter, he thought impetuously. He was the team's Star-boy, the future of this bloody football club. He was a hot sexy young alpha and he'd fuck who he wanted, and those two could whinge and repress themselves all they wanted. On he strutted back to his room, picturing what he'd witnessed and then experienced, and absolutely convinced that he was the biggest stud in the whole of England. Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2023 22:44:21 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 342 Part 342: "Millie screaming shoot..." `He said he could tell you were never going to pass,' the BBC reporter continued, holding the red tip of the mic closer to his face and smiling at him in a way that he could almost mistake for flirtatious, as flustered and excited as he was; the 19-year-old footballer grinned eagerly back at her, trying not to become too distracted by this, his pulse already racing from the attention of the camera fixed on his sweaty mop and grinning face, not to mention the hard-fought FA cup win that had passed tonight in Wolverhampton. `Oh yeah, Millie was screaming shoot,' Liverpool's celebrated young midfielder admitted, as she questioned him about his goal, the team's solitary achievement to sweep past their West Midlands opposition. `..and yeh...' he persisted uncertainyl, pausing to half-laugh at himself, `ha, if he's screaming that, then I'm gonna have to do it...!' He scratched at the light reddish brown of his beard hair and tilted his face, pulling some of the curling noodles of hair away from his sweaty brow. `I had the perfect opportunity to do that,' he told her, stumbling cheerily over the topic and finishing, `Maybe I'll have a word with him later and he can encourage me to shoot more, ha...' And in a minute or so, the post-match interview was over, and the attractive BBC reporter was thanking him for his time and backing away, already moving across to the sullen-faced representatives of Wolverhampton Wanderers to discuss their cup knockout. Shivering in spite of the heavy puffer jacket wrapped about his athletic body, the 5ft7 teen stood where he was for a minute, waiting for someone important-looking to dismiss him, but then having to shuffle aside from the frantic TV crew when nobody paid him much more attention - well, other than the remnants of the travelling Liverpool fans in the away stand who were still applauding, seemingly mainly for him. On his way past, the teenager waved jovially to what was left to the travelling Scousers, absolutely buzzing at his latest goal for his beloved club, and for the whole experience of the cup replay. In he went, replaying the short interview in his head as he crossed the pitch and moved towards the last few Liverpool figures at the dugout, realising that pretty much the rest of the squad were already gone in to change, whilst he'd been hopping about in the cold in his puffer jacket, waiting for his little bit of media attention. On the way into the tunnel mouth, he was grabbed and hugged by any number of men, a few tracksuit-clad substitutes who hadn't quite made it onto the pitch, and by members of Klopp's extensive management team. He was jostled happily by resting goalkeeper Alisson and big lad Nat Philips, steered indoors by the pair of taller blokes, who were telling him that he was the future of the club. A little red flush in his cheeks, the curly-haired Chertsey youth yanked one boot off at a time and chuckled protestations at the praise of the other two. At the door to the away changing rooms of the Molineux, this buzz was joined by a little round of applause from the reclining figures of two more resting subs, brash Scotsman Andy Robertson and his bulky pal Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. The big hands of the midfielder shook him by the shoulder whilst Robbo ruffled his mop of hair and gave him a swift slap to the arse on the way in, probably unaware of the private thrill it sent up his spine. And in the locker-room, he began to yank sweaty kit away from his body after shucking off the chunky coat, joining the steamy heat that exuded from the nearby showers, but the attention followed him, little whoops and chants of his name, making the 19-year-old feel on top of the fucking world. Sweat-damp socks were yanked down his thick lower legs and off his sore feet, and he flopped down into a seated position on the bench below his locker, glad to get off his feet even for a moment. Next to him, he found himself looking at the big toothy grin of `Millie' himself, with the words of his interview responses still shuffling through his brain cells. The ageing Premiership star beamed at him, a couple of spaces down the sparse row, in the middle of grabbing his towel from a shelf in front of him. Harvey returned the smile with a bashful grin of his own, pushing twirls of hair out of his eyes and straightening up his weary posture - something about the incredibly ripped physique of the versatile seasoned player always made a lad try to be a few inches taller and puff out the chest a bit. Especially right now, when the older man's shirt was off, his sturdy 5ft9 body glistening with the sweat of his 66-minute contribution to the win. `How'd the interview go?' the 37-year-old Leeds man demanded gruffly. `Oh - good, I think - er - you definitely got a shoutout, old man,' he added more smoothly, slightly jarred by the question just because it was exactly what he was asking himself; he'd signed a couple of sportswear modelling jobs lately and he was keen to pick up more of that sort of thing, so he really wanted to come across well on camera, the pretty boy future of an iconic Merseyside team. He chucked in the jokey age insult because he thought he could, having developed a much better friendship with the `old man' of the Anfield squad in the months since that drunken party and sober Milner's lift home. `Ah, nice one - good to remind people I'm still bossing the game, ey...' `Bossing? It was my goal, big fella, ha...' `Less of that cheek,' Milner chuckled, discreetly throwing the towel about his thick waist before continuing to wriggle out of his shorts and underpants beneath its cover, though certain shapes and outlines were still obvious under the white fluff. `You little toe-rag.' A friendly wink from the older man, making Elliott smirk a bit to himself, and shrug his shoulders before starting to tug his beloved Liverpool shirt up and off: `That's me, grandpa,' he retorted in a happy wheeze - and off went Millie, the night's sturdy right-back marching off for the showers, from which other rippling wet bodies were already emerging. For a moment, Harvey paused with his shirt still about his muscled upper arms, exposing the sweaty toned strength of his upper body to the warm damp air of the changing rooms; he was in a little reverie, distracted by the side of the 37-year-old adonis in his towel, and the memory of that night when Milner had driven him home from the party, the night he'd temporarily fallen out with Carvalho. It still stunned the Surrey teen that he'd fallen into that exciting tryst with the older man, having more-or-less hated him from afar since their previous episode together - but things had totally been reversed and redeemed, and the whole incident had even changed Harvey's perspective on what had happened between them in the past. A misunderstanding, he thought of it now, with burly James over-estimating his experience and readiness, and Harvey simply learning what he couldn't cope with; whilst last time, in the teen's own bedroom, the so-called king of boring had lay down for him and offered himself up willingly, allowing the young stud to fuck his first arsehole. It was a memory that had tickled and tantalised him ever since, and there was a dollop of self-confidence and ambition about Harvey Elliott that wouldn't let him relegate it to a complete one-off. He'd wanked over it twice daily for the first week or two after, and then found himself making half-joking remarks about it to Millie at training: never quite suggesting round 2, as such, but making the odd comment on how big and muscular the older man's bottom looked in a certain tracksuit, or trying to make boastful little comments to his manly friend about how hard he'd banged a bird last weekend. But every signal from James was a calm and patient rejection - Milner was making it loud and clear to Harvey that it had been a special treat, a generous gift to patch up their friendship, and a solution to the stress and frustration of a night where Elliott had almost got in serious trouble. Getting up to finish undressing and snatch up his own towel, the young central midfielder let out a private sigh of longing, annoyed that he couldn't repeat that amazing experience, being mentored through the experience of topping by James' infinite confidence and security, rather than the frantic mania of his younger experiences, making his first dabbles with an equally stoned Neco, or becoming a cum-slut for the likes of Mo Salah, whose chiselled tan form was drifting right past him at that moment with steam rising off every ultra-defined muscle. Ignoring him and enjoying his own moment of glory, Harvey whipped off his pants, momentarily naked with a relaxed exhibitionism that separated him from most of the other young players and their natural coyness, and then covering himself up with a wrap of towel, ready to go and shower down. As he headed that way, he brushed past other exciting physiques, sharing a nod with big sexy Joe Gomez and a damp side-hug with his Greek pal Tsimikas, then high-fiving a happy-faced Fabio Carvalho, their boyhood friendship restored after last year's misunderstanding. And then he was briefly face-to-face with Milner already, the older man apparently opting for a pretty brief shower - he aped Carvalho's eager high-five, slapping one of his huge paws against Harvey's smaller mitt, and giving him an almost smug smile of physical superiority before brushing past. The two men exchanged that knowing look of people who've experienced each other in a way far more intimate than simply being naked under towels, one that sent yet another thrill through Harvey's battle-weary body, and made it hard to keep his cock soft as he vanished into the steam himself. He thought of the patient smiles and dormant power of the well-established Liverpool hero during those fleeting one-to-one moments on the training pitch or in the rec room, where he'd tried and failed to hint at his need for a second go on his Anfield daddy; he was bright enough to read the firmness of the no, but then there was such friendly banter and new mentoring between he and the flexible senior midfielder, and part of him couldn't quite accept that he would never fuck him again. What young Harvey did not appreciate, though, was that every time James' eyes and smile said a firm no... they almost said yes. Milner was surprised at himself. After all these years! It had been over a decade since he'd taken it, and if he looked back through the football seasons of his illustrious career, he'd probably be able to pin down exactly how long. Regardless, he'd shocked himself when he went in for it with the kid, but it had been... a good laugh, more than that. He'd really fucking enjoyed himself, in a lot of ways. Being so trusted by an eager newbie like that, feeling the respect and reliance of a wannabe; the way it had melted the tension and hostility that had lingered between them since his own rash misunderstandings in the past; and, of course, the intense physical satisfaction of it all, fuckin' hell. He thought about this, striding across the guest changing rooms of the Wolves stadium, rubbing the big hand that had slapped and enclosed Harvey's against one of his firm pecs, and then bringing it up to stroke against his square jaw and stubby chin. The `old man' of LFC took his place at one side of the room, picking up another towel to drape about his broad wet shoulders, and glancing idly about him while his mind turned it over: it had been something different, hadn't it, something out of a long-gone past really, so no wonder it had preoccupied him a bit over the winter. The trouble was... well... Harvey was a nice lad, right enough, and James was keen to mentor and steer the young talent, just like so many of the other seasoned blokes at Anfield, everybody wanted the best for their plucky midfield sensation. He'd come back from his Championship loan with even more promise and confidence, and he wasn't the naughty braggart who'd caused trouble and controversy in his younger teens, not least for his teammate host after that first family kicked his weed-smoking arse out on the streets. Cockiness had turned to quiet confidence, and rebellion had been ironed out as determination and resilience. James liked him a lot, everyone did. But, he thought, the trouble was just that: he was a great kid, but he was a kid, and he had an ego that needed to be kept in check. Sure, Milner had got creative in his efforts to reassure and befriend the little bugger, but he was damned if he was gonna stoke that smug cockiness back to life, and be responsible for moulding an even more irritating teen troublemaker like Elliott had been when he first poked his nose into the Liverpool first team...! He wasn't about to enter into some kinda regular thing with the lad, nor give in and admit to the young lout just how good it had felt to- Well, mentor him. So to speak. No, James Milner, 37-year-old Premier League veteran, was not about to become the fucking bitch of a 19-year-old upstart who he was helping to mould and steer at their struggling giant of a football club, no way. That was NOT on the agenda. Every cheeky little comment or knowing look that the teen pushed his way, he had deflected with the practised cool of someone who's experimental dabbling had spanned almost as long as Harvey's 19 years. The cheeky little bugger. And still... Liverpool's ageing ace had found himself with a persistent and irritating temptation to... well, try that novelty again. He thought about it even as he nailed his wife quietly in bed on a Saturday morning before training, wondering why it had felt so surprisingly good to give in to something he'd barely tried a few times in his early twenties, and never looked back on until now. He scowled at himself judgmentally in the bathroom mirror over the thought of it, brushing his teeth, and unconsciously clenching his big muscly glutes in the loose fit of his Fat Face pyjama bottoms. Let it go, the thickset Yorkshireman advised his reflection, this is gonna be trouble. But the thought had plagued him for the rest of that recent Saturday, out onto the frost-touched training ground where his heavy panting breaths crystallised in front of him. And for a minute or so he'd even doubted his rational resolve, watching as diminutive but sturdy Elliott scampered about in tight legging with a couple of the other youngsters, stammering Curtis Jones and looming Nat Philips, tackled then by a quick-moving Trent Alexander-Arnold; and next to him, Milner realised, he wasn't the only one looking down the field at this cluster of their fellow players. To his left, paused with hands at his hips and one boot resting atop a ball, was their team's biggest international star. Mohamed Salah was frowning slightly as he watched, one of his hands coming up to stroke his thickening beard, and a long plume of warm breath escaping his pursed lips. `He hasn't been giving you any bother?' Milner murmured confidentially, giving a thoughtful glance to the Egyptian god of the Liverpool attack. `Hmm? What? Oh - James, no, no.' Still, the forward looked vaguely troubled, scratching and pulling at his dark facial hair, and then hanging his head a little, no longer looking at the tussle of young footballers half a field away from them. Milner watched him, rolling his rounded shoulders and stretching thick arms across his chest, one at a time - he was thinking with a little guilt about the way he'd tried to `help' Salah, and himself, by encouraging young Elliott's exile from Merseyside. But it had all worked out, he often reminded himself, and the Blackburn experience had been the making of the new Harvey. But that's not all the 37-year-old was thinking about this chilly Saturday a couple of weekends ago, because other thoughts had harassed him since he first sprung an erection and rolled expectantly closer to his missus. The Yorkshireman scratched his thick stubble across the blocky frame of his jaw, and glanced back at Mohamed, who was adjusting his shorts and shifting his posture, and raising questions in the forefront of Milner's mind. These urges that had been nudging at his mind and his crotch and the seat of his tight tracksuit, well they didn't have to mean giving an inch to the young upstart, did they? Close by him in the same LFC training gear, the Egyptian man tugged again at the crotch of his shorts and let out a huffy sigh that condensed in the air between them. Mo looked this way and frowned directly at him. `What is it?' the striker asked quietly. `Nothing, mate,' he murmured, pulling his eyes up from below the waist, and smiling blandly at his friend and teammate. `Just thinking about something my wife said this morning, that's all.' Mo shrugged and looked nonplussed, turning his attention instead to the ball at his feet, while Milner pulled his long sleeves further down about his chilly fists, and thought aloud, inching closer to his ally: `She was talking about how much she loves taking my big Yorkshire cock, that's all.' Thick eyebrows lifting, the Muslim man turned and gave him a look of arch prudishness, and Milner just smirked ironically into his face, patting him on one shoulder, already knowing a little too much about the forward's private life to buy this innocent reaction - and beginning to form a plan. The large square locker-room was filling up as the showers emptied, and Mohamed dressed himself at some speed, first pulling the long fit black boxer briefs up his hairy thighs and about his waist, then shedding the privacy of the towel to add the soft comfortable club tracksuit of sweatpants and hoodie. Around him, men in various lesser states of dress moved about noisily, all of them still high on the 1-0 win over Wolverhampton, and many still loudly praising the youngster who had secured it - not a topic that the goalless 30-year-old was rushing to join in on, tonight, having joined the fray and made minimal impact himself towards the end of the fixture. He was not selfish enough to really resent Elliott his success, he'd congratulated him as heartily as anyone else out there, but he had the same ego of any successful striker, and he mourned the goals he'd failed to score, and felt somewhat ambivalent to their FA Cup progress when their league position was such a headache. Not for the first time, the international star felt that some of his British and European colleagues lacked the competitive edge at the moment, the hunger for the win, the winner's instinct. But even so... it wasn't just football making Salah a little more tense and quiet than the men that surrounded him, all whipping towels and unfolding leisurewear; it was the plans he'd agreed to tonight. Standing there, his hard muscular form still just a little damp beneath the fresh clothes, Mo thought back to the coach that had delivered them to Wolverhampton, and the way James had leaned in closer to him between the headrests even as they parked up at the appointed hotel, his grin huge and confident, and his hand resting on one of his shoulders. `Are we still sharing, then?' the older guy asked him pointedly. For a moment, Salah just stared back, a slight frown lining his bearded face. But then, `We need to check with Klopp at check-in.' Milner's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly. `But we are, right?' chuckled the other player. `You haven't wussed out from what we were talking about...?' The 37-year-old spoke a bit too calmly and loudly for his liking and for a moment he flared his nostrils and stared quite confrontationally at him, other tracksuit-clad bodies brushing past the side of them as every member of the squad now started spilling out in the hotel car park and collecting the luggage they were presented with; still in his seat, the Egyptian forward continued to glare at the man in the pair of seats behind him, leaning heavily over the headrests to grin at him. `Milner,' he grunted, his tone a warning. `Ey,' chuckled the Leeds-born athlete, `if anyone should be wussing out, it should be me, hey?' And he burst out laughing quite heartily, sliding to one side, from the pair of seats into the central isle of the bus, queuing up behind Van Dijk, but still looking down at the awkward seated posture with which Mohamed now hesitated. `But I'm still game if you are, Mo, so you just say the word, king.' A wink, somehow as loud as his voice, as excruciatingly public and unsubtle, compared to the quietly whispered conversations on the training ground this week, or the hastily deleted text messages sent last thing at night. Salah stared intensely at him before pulling himself up to standing in the aisle, right behind him; right behind his broad powerful back muscles that filled out his tracksuit jersey, and below it, his- In the present, Mohamed slapped cool handfuls of moisturising cream onto his face, and then expensive beard oil onto his facial hair. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply as he rubbed both in with a ritualistic semblance of calm, hyperactive players muscling into hooded tops to his left and his right. He let the breath out, and dismissed the rising temper of that conversation this morning, which had continued in fits and starts on the way into the hotel reception, and during the brief time they'd had to settle into their assigned room - and he thought too about the way Milner had broached the idea to him at the start of the week, almost as a joke, but now... Players who were ready were being beckoned to the exit, with a player liaison guy mouthing off about the traffic between the stadium and the hotel, and Salah moved slowly in that direction, hoisting the sports bag with the rest of his things in over one shoulder. But he stopped, halfway across the room, and watched as Milner's head popped through the neck-hole of his top and came out facing right this way, smiling immediately at him. It was a broad friendly face full of expectation and promise, and it made Salah mouth a silent prayer of contrition to himself before hurrying out of the room. Harvey excused himself from his hotel room, mouthing his apologies to Fabio, his roomie, whilst feigning attention to the non-existent call on his mobile; from there, out into the long straight corridor of identical doors, and on his way to the number that he'd inked on the back of his hand after dinner, copying it from a rooming list clipboard that someone had left on the next table. He'd felt daft and secretive doing so, but somehow LESS daft than he would have sending a text to ask which room, as if that would make him look desperate and inept, and not... not... Well, the young alpha that he was! Goal-scorer of the night! The future of Liverpool FC! And stuff like that. He'd been surprised and not surprised when he got the invitation. Not surprised, on account of the fact he was the fucking toast of the team tonight; from the boss to the junior physio, literally everyone had told him his goal was a masterpiece, and he was finding it hard to hold on to humility in the face of that. At the start of the late supper at the hotel, literally the whole travelling entourage had clapped for his arrival, and half of the manager's closing remarks had been about the zeal he showed in the match, and how that was what Liverpool needed to recapture in the remainder of the season. And yet... after these weeks and weeks of smiling rejection, he'd been pretty shocked after all when he was walking across the dark damp car park with everybody else, and his arm was grabbed from behind, and suddenly the heavy figure of James Milner was at his side, calling him `Starboy' and asking him how it felt to be the Messiah for the night. And then, pulling closer, squeezing him about the shoulders of his hoodie, the bloke leaning right in and whispering in his ear, `Come by room at curfew, you smug twit, and I might let you in, hey?' After that, he'd said no more, nor even looked at him properly, speeding ahead to join Ox and Robbo and leap aboard the coach, while Elliott dwindled in a moment of disbelief, questioning exactly what Millie had said in his ear. The 19-year-old had been restless all the way back to their accommodation, fidgeting in his seat and rising up to crane his neck and look searchingly down the bus for a glimpse of Milner; the insecure part of him thought he was being punked, whilst the ego of a rising football star was telling him that sure, he'd scored a worldy and saved the day, and of course that meant the big burly bastard was craving his meat, sure! So now, Fabio ditched, he was checking the smudged ink on his hand and making his way through the hotel, going slowly and treading lightly because curfew had passed and he was supposed to be getting ready for bed. So, he supposed, was Millie, but the invitation had definitely happened, he'd definitely heard what he'd heard; and he was pretty sure he wasn't misreading the double entendre in it. `And I might let you in, hey?' old James had gruffly murmured in his ear as he squeezed those muscles about his shoulders, and surely he wasn't mad to think that the senior player was talking about more than just his ROOM. But here he was, this was it, room 405, and now he had to pause and wipe sweaty palms on the thighs of his jogger bottoms and pull on the neck of his print t-shirt, before lifting his knuckles and rapping them across the surface of the door; it was only as he knocked on Milner's suite that he wondered where the big man's own roommate would be, having ditched Carvalho back in their shared one. But as the door to room 405 swung inwards, Elliott was forced to become very aware of this fact. There he was, holding the door open: Mo Salah, frowning slightly at him, muscular shoulders on show against the thin dark straps of his vest top. But beyond him, Harvey quickly saw, was the room's other occupant, lounged back on one double bed with his head and shoulders propped up on two pillows. One thick arm was lifted to wave a hand in greeting, and the teenager just stood there for a moment in confusion, glancing from Salah's quietly serious bearded face, and across the shared room of the two senior players. `Come in,' barked Milner quietly, and he hesitated only briefly before doing so, slightly surprised as Mo's face mellowed and the forward stepped aside to let him in. The door closed behind him and he stood still, biting his lip slightly as he stared questioningly over at the lounged figure of one bloke and the tense stance of the other. Okay, there was a change of plan, or he'd misinterpreted what Millie had to say in his ear... `Alright fellas,' the 19-year-old said slowly, pulling loosely on the printed front of his t-shirt, and shifting from one flip-flop foot to another, waiting for Milner to explain. `Hullo,' was Salah's dull greeting, something moody and aloof in the manner of the 5ft9 striker, who folded arms across the front of his vest and took a few steps away, hovering at the foot of Milner's bed, as if just pausing on his way to sulk over in his half of the room; this left Elliott feeling more uncertain and he paused there, between them and the closed door, and he pushed both hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants, giving beady eyes at Millie and hoping for a way out. On his bed, James let out a complacent yawn, and he slid his hands behind his head, the posture really showing off the definition of his upper arms, and exposing a little hairy pit where the sleeves of his charcoal t-shirt ran up. He smiled and blinked, and then whistled. `Well, isn't this magic, having you two in my room? Ha.' He seemed to stifle another yawn and then loosened one hand from behind his resting head, placing it instead just above the waist, where his dark t-shirt met the bunched-up sweat-shorts about his thighs and crotch. Harvey was quick with a quip of false confidence. `Yeah, lucky you, the greatest goal-scorers of next season,' he tried, giving another curious look at Mo, and then back at the `old man' of Liverpool. `I think I got the wrong end of the stick,' he admitted, trying to keep his voice light. `Hmm? What? Well - you got here, so I don't think so.' One of James' large hands slid lower to scratch his balls in the short, his 5ft9 muscular frame stretched out quite leisurely on the nearby bed. At the foot of it, Mo unfolded those lean defined arms and let them hang awkwardly at his sides - he was also staring quite accusingly at Milner, as if he wasn't the only one here who'd been blindsided. `Am I missing a joke, fellas?' Harvey muttered faintly. `Not at all, but this should be fun,' Milner told him in a low voice. `Why don't you get started, then?' he added, nodding this way. `Go on - get your chops round Mr Egypt's cock, will ya?' The cheeky demand was followed by a huge grin across Millie's face and Harvey paused awkwardly, his cheeks flushing red, and sharing an awkward look with stony-faced Mohamed. He let out a single awkward laugh, scratched his beard, and then shook his head. `Nah,' he blurted. `That was a different time, boss.' `Wasn't so long ago,' came Mo's surprisingly sultry remark, and he hesitated. `Go on,' James insisted, quietly but firmly. `What the fuck?' Harvey couldn't help but mutter - this sure wasn't the little night visit that he'd envisaged when Milner accosted him in the car park, it wasn't the little fantasy he'd been relying on ever since last time. He felt mugged off and he tensed up, wondering if he should back off immediately and get back to his own room. What the hell was the old fucker playing at? Who did Salah think he was, glowering indignantly at him like that, as if the smug prick hadn't been pushed firmly away now? `Go on,' James said again, his voice rich with warm chuckles. `Suck him off a bit, Harvey lad.' A short pause. `Otherwise, how's he gonna get hard enough to give me a good stuffing?' Stood at an angle to them both, only part-way into the room, Harvey Elliott froze, and a little ripple of excitement replaced the nervous tension that had gripped his whole body of compact muscle. He blinked twice and stared first at smirking Milner, and then across at intense, sultry Salah, whose eyes were fixed on the beefcake on the bed. Oh, he thought, WOW. Milner grinned happily and watched it begin: the nervous and jumpy demeanour of the young visitor shifted, and there was something more of his cocky bravado as he took a couple of steps closer to Salah now, and gave a light punch to the muscles of the man's arm. Salah seemed to tear his dark eyes off Milner's lounging posture, and look the youth properly up and down. Oh, James knew all about the old arrangement between elite striker and rowdy teenager; it had been a vague awareness once, but over time he'd wormed the full story out of his cautious Muslim pal, right back to the moment dirty Elliott crept into the marital bed and woke up his thick North African cock while Mrs S slept on. Brilliant. Now, the 37-year-old footballer took a good grab of his cock through the loose grey shorts, giving his semi a good stroke, and watching as Harvey gave a stroke to one of Mo's arms, sidling in next to him with a snigger, and lifting the front of that vest a little with the other hand. He'd known how quickly Harv would comply once the lad knew what was really at stake here - and after all, it was hard to believe that the kid was REALLY over the taste of Salah's evident treasure. This was the thing: he'd itched for another little go at bottoming ever since he surprised himself and enjoyed it on Harvey's bed, but he really couldn't bring himself to admit this properly to the young lad. But a colleague like Mohamed, well that was different... They were all, in their own ways, submissive to a legend in the making like Salah, there wasn't a lad on the squad who wouldn't give anything to keep him at Anfield. So... if big Millie was going to let that happen again, so soon, then... yeah, he knew which cock was king at LFC, and he'd known how to make it happen. `Get on your knees for him,' he called playfully at Harvey. `We both know he's good at it,' he added teasingly at Mo himself, `so just let him at it, matey.' It was like a free porn show at the foot of the bed, and James gave his hardening cock another good squeeze and tug in his shorts. Harvey was wriggling unnecessarily out of his t-shirt, exposing the pocket-sized physique of his developing upper body and rather obnoxious arm tats, then going down on his knees, leaning one hand on the bedframe as he did; and in one smooth exhibitionist motion, Mo removed the black vest to toss away, exposing the only ripped body on the squad that could make 37-year-old Milner in any way yearn for a youth he had conscientiously maintained. Instantly, Elliott was kissing at the ridiculous six-pack of Salah, and one of the 30-year-old's hands was on his head, rubbing at his curls and guiding the kisses downwards. Over Harvey's descending head, Milner smirked insistently over at Salah, their gazes meeting, and he rubbed himself visibly to show his enjoyment and approval, though the thick Yorkshire meat at the front was NOT what he'd promised his friend. He could still picture Salah's expression when he'd let slip the idea between throaty chuckles and idle humour, and again when he'd repeated the offer at the end of that day. Mo had looked at him then with a surprising ferocity in his eyes, and it was back there now. Milner felt excited to be so desired, in spite of his usually relaxed confidence, and his long-matured ambivalence towards the man-to-man experiments of his younger seasons. Well, no point kidding himself about anything right here right now - he'd been aching to get fucked again ever since he let Harvey in, and the perfect curious top was staring right at him. Brilliant. This wasn't quite the night Mo had expected, but he couldn't deny it: he was delighted to have his cock wet in the mouth of Harvey Elliott again, and he tore his curious eyes away from the musclebound enigma on the bed, and down at the mass of poodle curls covering his crotch, whilst the talented teen slobbered up and down his cock over the taut waist of his loose pyjama pants. He moaned quietly, stroking quite gently at the honey and brown of Harvey's hair, and letting his uncertain gaze flicker upwards to check that James was still enjoying them, grabbing himself quite roughly in his short and leering with an almost unnerving enthusiasm. It was occurring to Mohamed that he might have been led astray after all - it had been too good to be true to believe that steady dependable Milner, the most trustworthy man in his team, was actually willing to... in spite of his excitement, the Egyptian still couldn't quite say it to himself. He'd wanted to try fucking a man for about a year now, and yet his lust was matched by his terror. So, he thought, maybe James lied, but if he did, he supplied an exciting alternative... Harvey looked up at him, eyes hooded, and lips almost sneering as they slid off the big fat mushroom head of his circumcised cock, drool trailing from that pink helmet to his parted lips and over his furry chin. Mo stared briefly and intensely at him, then shoved his fingers into that shaggy mop and pushed him back onto it, impaling the long thick monster and its veiny shaft into that hot wet mouth, just as he'd done so regularly for a while. He'd kept a safe distance from Elliott for a while, ever since the arrogant teen had bested him in that European hotel, and briefly pushed him into... ugh, reciprocating, getting his first awkward taste of- Forget it, he'd been mad with lust, and he should never have slipped and given in to the teen's demand. This, he thought, was back to normal, the English boy on his knees with a mouthful, and Mohamed looming over him, his king. Dominating him like he'd once dominated Trent, who now barely looked at him twice. But when he looked up, letting out a louder and fuller groan, he saw that James had moved off the bed. The bulky older man was stood beside it, and removing his dark grey t-shirt in a slow peel, inching it away from the impressive physique that kept the 37-year-old playing top-flight football well past average retirement for their profession, powerful and ripped enough to make even Salah envious. Off went the top, twirled briefly and tossed away, and still Milner smirked knowingly at him. Down went the grey sweat-shorts, and Mo looked briefly at the juddering spring of the released cock, glad somehow that it was not quite so long or impressive as his own, but then keen to look anywhere but at it - he certainly wouldn't be teased and tricked into tasting another, god-damn this kid and his beautiful lips running down Mo's cock. He shivered, really satisfied by the work of the tongue on the head of his cock, and he couldn't help but push both hands down to grip Harvey's face into his crotch, gritting his teeth and maintaining eye contact with Milner as he forced the 19-year-old to deep-throat him that little bit longer and deeper, then releasing him in a flurry of gasps and chuckles, and clearing his own throat emphatically. Naked, James was back on the bed, up on his knees, stroking himself gently, and casting his eyes about for something. He found it, and he reached away, bending over to fetch something, and treating Mo to a side-on view of his muscular sides and flexing limbs, and then, for a great moment, a proper view of his big arse, glutes so intensely muscular that they looked like something from an anatomy textbook, and a hairy darkness disappearing between them. Then James was turning back around, still on his knees, and holding a little tub of vaseline in one hand as he looked this way and winked. Harvey's mouth was closing back about his cock, but he pushed his face unceremoniously away, and took hold of his own heavy hard-on in one hand. He lunged forward and, unfazed, the teen helped him out of the drooping pyjamas, allowing him to climb naked over the foot of the bed and to join the older hunk on the sheets, staring him down and making ready to claim what had been promised. `Keen,' remarked Milner simply, and Salah ignored him, pushing one hand roughly into his broad chest. `Bend over,' the striker snapped imperiously, breathless with urgency. James just grinned and complied. `You can't just go in for it,' Harvey said, pulling himself up onto the bed. `You gotta try a finger or two first, it won't go in otherwise.' He said it sagely as if a man of great experienced, dragging himself across the duvet and hovering beside them, red-faced with excitement and rock-hard in his boxer briefs now he'd shed the grey sweatpants too. He crouched there in pants and socks, right beside the action, and staring insistently at a frowning Salah. `Go on, try a finger,' he urged eagerly. `Lad's right,' Milner grunted. `I'm tight, for fuck's sake - this isn't gonna be like mounting your missus, Mohamed. Gotta start slow. Show him, Harv.' The invitation didn't need to be offered twice. Shaky with horny energy, Harvey muscled in next to the powerful kneeling figure of the other stud, and he slapped a cheeky hand against one of James' big hard glutes. He snatched the little tub of vaseline and smeared it onto one finger, then poked it into Milner's hard crack, smearing it over his whole and making the man laugh then moan - he nudged his elbow into one of Mo's muscular arms and grinned conspiratorially at the beautiful Egyptian icon. `See?' He was elbowed aside with the same mindless dismissal as the end of the blowie, but he laughed confidently and recovered, hunkering down next to them, more than happy to watch as Salah lubed up two digits and dug them into Milner's backside, making the Yorkshireman groan deeply and go red in the cheeks as he looked over his shoulder. Fucking hell, this was amazing. Harvey shoved a hand into the front of his Diesel boxer briefs to play with his cock and balls, and he let his eyes rove every bare muscle of the scene. The teen was in prime position to watch all of it. The way Milner dragged his powerful athletic body into doggy style, hands and knees on the plain duvet; the eager smirk on the older bloke's face, repeatedly looking over one bulging shoulder, and also staring this way, winking secretively at him, perhaps turned on to be watched! The cautious jerkiness of movement from Salah, positioned behind him, frigging his bum-hole with two fingers when Harvey would have tenderly started with one, and wanking off his impressive prick at the same time, a perfect North African god about to go wild. Harvey couldn't stop himself but get more involved: he pawed at James' backside on the way down and pushed his face over the washboard abs to suck on Salah's cock again, bobbing up and down on it and using his mouth to keep him hard while he explored his first man-hole with those fingers - there was a bit of Harvey that couldn't help but wanna feel them in him, but the only thing he remembered about losing his virginity was the pain and regret after, and the teenager was adamant that he wasn't gonna try it again, fuck no. Yet again, he was yanked by his hair and pushed aside, though a bit less firmly. Mo was nudging forward, taking hold of James by the hips. Fuck, yes. Harvey groaned and muttered his encouragement, pushing his pants down his furry thighs a bit, and tossing himself off rapidly, spitting down onto it for lube. On his knees like the other two, hunched forward slightly, a rabid voyuer right now, Harvey wanked off and panted over it, watching as the king of Egypt angled his big helmet between those firm cheeks and into the greasy lubed crack, rubbing and pressing it into the hole. He was too hurried, too imposing, he thought, unsure that Mohamed was up to his - but also appreciating how clueless and clumsy he'd been, drunk that night, needing every word of advice and instruction from his muscular mentor who was now replacing him with a bigger star. He was too aroused to be jealous. He was also wrong: Salah was hurried, imposing, but he was so powerful. In it went. Milner coughed and swore and blasphemed, but he took it, his glutes parting. In it went. Mo's face was an absolute picture of unholy bliss, eyes almost closed and lips quivering open. He threw his head back as he edged forward, his clock sliding slowly into the tightest hole it had ever experienced. Fuuuuuck. Harvey almost came there and then, but he stopped himself, holding his hand still on his prick, and shuffling side to side to admire them both, reaching out his other hand stroking the power of Mo's arm, and then James' back, and then giving in and jerking frantically off. Milner breathed deeply in and out, composing himself and bracing against the initial pain; he felt less relaxed and in control of it than when guiding clumsy Elliott through the job, but he also felt horny and triumphant. It wasn't just scratching his own itch and having his tight hole stretched - it was the successful temptation of this godly prude, whose distress and conflict he had quietly observed ever since they first discussed the naughty influence of the same horny teen who was wanking hard next to them, eyes agog. For a while, James remained on elbows and knees, bracing himself against the slow powerful shoves with which Salah's thick equipment entered him, but then he needed to change it up and be more comfortable. He could hear and see the disappointment of both the 30- and 19-year-old for a few moments as he moved his body away and turned, but then he flopped himself onto his back and parted his legs, lifting them up with fingers pressed under his hairy thighs. Mo moved quickly in, directing his cock like a weapon, and Harvey shuffled too, up against the headboard so he was basically wanking over his side and shoulder, sweat appearing on his face and in his curly fringe. With a begrudging chuckle, Milner reached up and played with his balls, then took his cock in hand to jerk slowly, making the teen whine and groan appreciatively - all while Milner's hole stretched once more to accommodate the clumsy push of that big North African tool, Salah bearing down over him and unable to make eye contact, just concentrating on breaking in and filling up his arse, then trying to find some rhythm, pumping his monster in and out of him, all three of them sweating and groaning, the bed starting to creak. Harvey got over-excited and tried to push his cock closer, trying to rise up and direct his crotch at his face, but Milner was having none of that; he shoved him in the midriff and laughed, and focused instead on lifting and parting his big legs more to give Salah better access. He smirked at Elliott but shook his head. `Nah, I don't do that,' he grunted firmly at him, and gave the youth the cold shoulder, instead just focusing his attention on Salah. `Fuck me harder,' he growled at the young forward. `Fucking pound that hole, mate.' Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harv looking snubbed and awkward, but shiny with sweat on his smooth chest, and jerking his dick like a madman; but he swivelled his eyes back to meet the dark serious gaze of the Eygptian, and he nodded, `That's it, Harder, fuck me properly - I'm not some bitch you have to be careful with, Go for it!' Salah's mind swum with desire and recrimination, but he didn't let the doubts stop him. He ploughed into his first man, unable to believe how good and tight anal felt on his mighty cock, and finding some special satisfaction in overpowering a man as mighty and impressive as Milner still was. Harvey was like a fly to be swatted, pushed away when the arrogant keen got too close or tried to touch his arm, his back, his own bottom; pushed away, and yet tolerated, an audience to his dominance, and the beautiful lips that had woken his cock up for the task at hand. When next the 19-year-old moved excitedly in, he grabbed him in an almost hug, and pulled that head in to kiss appreciatively on the crown, only to then shove him quite roughly away and apply himself more ferociously to fucking James. He withdrew, panting, and forcibly encouraged James to turn over again. Not back into doggy, but face-down on the bed flat, so that he could lie fully on top of him and bury his cock between those cheeks, slamming down on him and dripping sweat on every inch of his broad neck and back. He forgot all about Harvey then, just powering down, and feeling his cock get more intense pleasure than ever in his mouth, even that first hot summer night with his teenage lodger crawling into his bed and risking everything. Next, he lifted James up, helping the heavy muscles forward and against the headboard, and he fucked him harder and faster, bodies tight together, humping bunnies at a frantic speed, really baking the hotel bed wince and squeak under their knees, only to slow down and flop over onto their sides. Side-on, he pulverised Milner's arse with the juddering rhythm of his hips, fucking into him at an angle that made it feel all the better, and beginning to moan very loudly as he felt his stamina give way and climax approach. He was distracted briefly by making eye contact again with Elliott, who was stood to one side of the bed, his face pink and shiny, and his hand pumping his cock like a machine, the poor lad looking like he might pass out from forgetting to breath. Again, he made the perfect audience, and his earnest stance was the final straw. `I'm - gonna - ugh-' Milner pulled roughly away from him at that warning, yelling `Not in me!', and so Salah collapsed onto his back and held his cock at the base it twitched and throbbed and then exploded thick cream all over the golden-brown of his toned tummy. He closed his eyes and convulsed against the sweat-damp sheets, gripping his cock in both hands, spewing cum over his knuckles and hairy wrists, and into the grooves of his six-pack. He cursed and swore and flinched, knowing he had sinned deeply, and unsure how he would face his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a few elastic moments, the 30-year-old forward lay in a vague daze, head swimming, but then he became aware that he was hardly alone, and that the others still occupied the bed. He brought his clammy hands up, smearing cum on the pillows, then dragging his palms over his hot face, and drumming them onto his waxed pecs, before planting them to the bed and pushing himself up to look between his spread hairy legs. Harvey was lying down on his back and facing away, his head crowned by that halo of curls, positioned between Mo's spread ankles. The muscular little teen stretched on down the bed, but only parts of his pale strong body were on show, because - fuck - James Milner was squatting over him and bouncing up and down, jerking and bobbing in a way that took dazed Salah a long hazy minute to understand. When he did, he felt a surge of envy, but his cock was floppy and leaking and not up to fucking anyone - instead, he just panted and stared, and watch Milner ride Elliott's cock. And then, shivering uncomfortably, he dragged himself off the bed and lurched away into the en suite, desperate for a cold shower. Harvey lay there in ecstasy, fucking his mentor again, but in no way in control of the situation. The weight of the hunk pinned him to the bed and even without that, he had Milner's huge paws pressing down on his arms, while that strong arse rode up and down on his tender cock, which had been on the verge of shooting from the moment they climbed atop the bed. He was imprisoned by the bigger man's strength, but what a prison to be in. He had no sense of Salah's proximity or exit, and certainly not the sound of a guilty cold shower; he could only stare up into Milner's masterful face and the sight of his twitching pecs, or the bulging muscles of the arms that pinned him; and he could feel every movement of that powerful body, bouncing up and down on him with a hole loosened by Salah's equipment first. Only one problem with this devastatingly brilliant position - he was so breathless that he couldn't get a word out of his shaking pink lips. He just opened and closed his mouth, a sweaty outline against the bedding, unable to lift his hands to hold and treasure the arse that rode his sensitive cock. And as he mounted towards orgasm, he couldn't even get out of the scream of pleasure that started in his six-pack and welled up into his chest. It just came and exploded, and then must have been totally evident on his blissful face. `Fuckin' hell, lad - nah, really? Shit - you could have said - oh FUCK-' The pressure on his cock and the weight on his body departed, his eyes blinking slowly open and shut, too high on pleasure to fully register Milner's approbation, the fact that he'd spunked inside his Liverpool daddy. He lay there, cock dribbling, and his whole body as shattered as he'd just fallen from a great height. His brain tuned in and out of Milner's ranting voice, and then he came to properly just in time to roll onto his side and watch the big Leeds bloke march angrily into the en suite bathroom, clutching his arse cheeks behind him. Dazed, the teen slid off the bed, still in his gym socks, and he pulled damp sweaty hair away from his brows. It was like a farce comedy: no sooner had Milner exploded into the bathroom, swearing his head off, but Salah was emerging, shivering in a small towel and with a haunted look on his face as he raced past. In the en suite, James was still grunting and shouting in annoyance, now about the temperature of the water as he hosed himself down and cleaned his arse; but Elliott just stood there with a cocky smirk on his sweaty lips and a little drop of cum hanging from the tip of his own young rod. Well, he thought, that had been almost as insane as tonight's goal. Quietly, he plucked his items of clothing from where they had dropped, glancing over to where Mo Salah muttered to himself in a frenzy whilst drying down his cold body, and James Milner came marching through the bathroom door, wagging a finger at him. `What'd I tell you?' the older man demanded furiously. `Just - don't - cum in me - okay? For fuck's sake, Harvey, you gimp...!' He grinned sheepishly at him, unable to find an apology, and just swayed away, wrestling back into his t-shirt and letting it stick to the sweat patches on his back and his chest. Up went the sweatpants, his fading erection obvious in the pale grey. `Right,' he slurred, ignored by the two angry men. `I'll leave you to it.' And out he went, giggling to himself as if he was drunk, because the interview was replaying in his mind - but not with insecurity and self-evaluation as it had earlier, but with irony and daft puns. `Millie telling me to shoot,' he sniggered on his way down the corridor, letting the room door slam behind him and forgetting to worry about the curfew, `more like the fucking opposite!' And off he went, happy with himself and glad he'd taken Salah's seconds, but vaguely unsure either of the imposing older fellas would be keen to play with him again in future. Didn't matter, he thought impetuously. He was the team's Star-boy, the future of this bloody football club. He was a hot sexy young alpha and he'd fuck who he wanted, and those two could whinge and repress themselves all they wanted. On he strutted back to his room, picturing what he'd witnessed and then experienced, and absolutely convinced that he was the biggest stud in the whole of England. Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-391

Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2024 17:18:46 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 391 Part 391: The Cursed Keeper, aka Thor of Tyneside Loris Karius wasted no time in sidling away from the main pack of his NUFC teammates and heading towards his allotted room in their Central London hotel - there was a faint mood of heady enjoyment in the team that was completely at odds with tonight's result, but a couple of leading figures had suggested the lads pause to drown their sorrows, combined with a rather incongruous effort to mark one year since the reinvigorated club had reached the League Cup final across this capital city at Wembley. For Karius, that landmark worsened rather than mitigated the feelings of losing 4-1 to Arsenal tonight, given that one of his former clubs were housed elsewhere in London in advance of their Carabao showdown with Chelsea for said trophy; tonight remained one of the big German athlete's few top-flight appearances since his grisly end at Liverpool, and it represented another outing of potential humiliation for his goalkeeping rep. The German man felt absolutely cursed and self-pitying, having proven himself so regular on the training ground only for his Premiership outing in Dubravka and Pope's footsteps to end in abysmal defeat. There was no obvious resentment or blame for Loris from the other guys, in fact there had been several moments of approval and encouragement coming his way as the disappointed Magpies left the pitch and washed up backstage - Howe had been quick to commiserate his misfortune and to praise some of the saves he made, sentiments echoed quickly echoed separately by both the squad's de facto leader Kieran Trippier and the remaining official captain Jamaal Lascelles; moments ago, he'd been grabbed in a firm handshake and sympathised with by fellow spare (albeit less infamous) goalkeeper Mark Gillespie. Everyone seemed to want to mitigate the failure of tonight's loss against the in-form title contenders, especially for the unlucky man at the back of the action, but the truth of the scoreline and the current state of his career were there to stare Karius in the face. Ghosts of previous showdowns haunted the 6ft2 goalie all way through the plush decor of their Euston-based hotel, the distant noise of his teammates becoming the chatter of other squads, other crowds, other failures, and the handsome blond man grimaced with his tight jawline and sculpted features, finding and unlocking the door to his suite and then practically tossing his shoulder-bag in there ahead of him. He stopped himself from sulkily slamming the door behind him but did give a couple of pathetic kicks to the dropped bag before dragging away the items of official Newcastle kit and changing into a slack t-shirt and shorts of his own, loosening and re-tying his golden mane of Viking-like hair before grabbing some fruit snacks from his belongings and nestling into his bed with only the TV remote for company. Haughtily, the Thor lookalike from Baden-Wurttemberg thought bitterly about the almost celebratory tone of the players who had flooded away to the hotel bar as he went his own way, unsure why they were taking the Arsenal thrashing in such good humour, but then his own guilt and self-criticism overtook the sneering and he just felt right to make a pariah of himself after his performance in front of goal, and the latest blot on his professional record; it was no wonder that the big muscular athlete had failed to secure an Italian transfer in the last three windows, as hoped, to make life with his beautiful TV presenter fiancee and new baby that bit less hectic and inconvenient. With a gloomy self-loathing that was becoming worrying regular for the big gym bunny, Loris reflected that his market value had just decreased yet again, and that the summer transfer window was that little bit less likely to yield the loan or transfer deal he wanted in Rome or Milan. And so, whilst the bulk of the NUFC squad drank away defeat in a bar overlooking the lights of London, including Karius' own roommate, Loris was one of few players to distance himself, muting the messages on his own phone, including from the love of his life, and just watching some mindless panel quiz shows and other rubbish on the suite's limited range of TV channels - dipping in and out of early sleep as he did so, his tall muscle-bound form nestled half in and out of the duvet and the snack dropped forgetfully to one side with the remote - in a really dazed state somewhere between waking and sleeping when the sharp knocks sounded at the door. As is the way of these things, the sounds seemed to enter one of Karius' vague dreams, so that he ended up laying there for a short while in confusion, wondering what had been on his mind, before a repeated flurry of knuckles on plywood informed him that the knocking had been real. Heavily, the 30-year-old got up, swinging heavy blond-furred legs from the bed and striding irritably across the shared room - the German did not know how long he'd been dozing, but the explanation seemed fairly obvious, that his own roomie for the trip was drunk already and had misplaced his room key as a result. He was very ready to glare accusingly at Fabian Schar and lecture the Swiss hero when he wrenched his door inwards and found himself staring at three other members of the Newcastle line-up instead - `Oh-' `Hellooooo,' cooed the central of the trio, flashing one of his trademark toothy grins that was full of manic energy, his eyes just as wide and passionate as when he stopped to over-celebrate a simple tackle on the pitch and delight the adoring fans - `We come in?' demanded the Brazilian lad in his somewhat restricted English, hoisting a brace of beer bottles in each hand, a stash matched by the men on either side of him; Bruno Guimaraes did not wait for an answer before bustling into the room, quickly followed with less obnoxious chuckles from the other two tracksuited figures. `Lads,' Loris said slowly and wearily, holding the door hopefully open even as they began to make themselves at home, `I skipped the party for a reason...' `We know,' chirped the other 26-year-old visitor, whilst locating a bottle opener at the room's generic minibar, and beginning to crack some lids off for them, `but we just didn't think it was right, y'know? You can't sulk up here alone, not tonight.' It was obvious from his tone, and from the flushed pinkness of the ginger man's lean face, that he was drunk - it was harder to tell with someone as generally manic as Bruno, but the towering third visitor had a confirmingly beery glaze to his serious eyes and slack grin; the usually-reserved Sven Botman was swaying on his heels and snatching a beer greedily from the services of Harvey Barnes, whilst Guimaraes came and squared firmly up to him, ready to make their case. `You need drink,' the Brazilian star informed him simply, passing the cold bottle into his hands, `and we want to make you feel good.' He grinned his almost boyish grin, 26 going on 18, and puffed out his chest as he took a long swig - Guimaraes barely drank, as far as Karius knew, so presumably the 6ft central midfielder was wasted after just a few in the hotel bar. `Go on,' urged big Dutchman Botman, clinking bottles with each of them, `just a couple, to take the edge off things.' Loris stared irritably between them, conflicted but rather charmed - it was, he had to admit, quite sweet and supportive of them to leave the bar and the pack of colleagues, and to bother him like this - certainly, his own roommate Schar was presumably still down there drowning his sorrows or enjoying himself, and the kind words of his manager and captains had been less forceful. The German let out a conflicted laugh and shook his head. `I was getting to sleep,' he complained half-heartedly, and gladly drank some beer. `But thank you, gentlemen, thank you.' Drunk and well-meaning, the trio invaded his quiet sulky space like a small but intense plague of locusts. Former Leicester star Barnes, recently returned from lengthy injury leave, threw himself onto the tangle of duvet that had been the goalie's nest, grasping the remote and flicking away through the other channels; big Botman perched near the windows and picked up some running joke that had been brought up form the bar and made no sense to Karius himself; Bruno buzzed about the room in his hyper manner, disturbing both occupants' things and deciding that his beer wasn't enough, pilfering miniatures from the minibar and causing Loris to raise a disapproving eyebrow - `I don't need the bosses getting that bill from the hotel on top of everything in this shitty trip,' he sighed exasperatedly, becoming irritated rather than grateful again. `We blame Sexy Fab,' Guimaraes insisted with a snigger, his words reflecting an affectionately mocking label that was common among the men, before turning it back on the night's cursed goalie: `In honour of Sexy Karius, haha - here.' And Bruno threw him one mini, before tossing others to the sniggering drunkenness of the others. Loris shook his head but thought `fuck it' and sat himself down on the foot of Fabian's bed rather than his own, supping alternately between the icy beer bottle and the tiny bottle of pleasant whiskey which had been volleyed at him by the Brazilian. Minutes passed, and the big goalie's mood softened - he could become bitter about his inferior place on Tyneside, the third or even fourth priority keeper in a rich squad, only getting his disappointing 90 minutes tonight due to Nick Pope's ongoing injury - but right now he was feeling the warmth and spirit that had grown at the club under Howe and Trippier's leadership, and he felt more included and valued than he usually did. He could feel pretty isolated and peripheral, but then he supposed he did that to himself; he'd really found it hard to commit to a squad since the way things had ended at Anfield. A beer and a mini scotch couldn't drag the 30-year-old into the tipsy haze of the three room-crashers, but it did give him a buzz, and it certainly made him less alarmed when Bruno now positioned himself behind him on the bed and began to massage his big shoulders through his thick baggy t-shirt - the physical intimacy of the move was somehow acceptable in amongst the quirky unpredictability of the team's Brazilian firecracker, who giggled as he attempted to massage him, and Loris could only laugh rather than shrugging away the tension, and gladly accepting a second beer from a pink-cheeked Harvey. The 26-year-old Englishman hovered in front of him with one hand in a pocket, cheersing him and drinking greedily on another beer. `How's that?' the left winger asked him over-enthusiastically. Karius made a playful expression of criticism: `I've had better - don't quit the day-job, Bueno.' Bruno giggled at the chocolate-based nickname for his own addiction, and he changed his approach, knotting his fingers more firmly and strenuously into the tight tense muscles of Loris' upper back in a way that was undeniably satisfying and relaxing, and then tickling them up the back of his bare neck. Letting this happen, he hunched there and looked thoughtfully back at the young redhead who was in front of him, looking a bit too intensely at him as if expecting something to happen. A deep throaty laugh from Sven, who moved from the window to sit on the corner of the other bed, close now to Loris: `These two just wanted to cheer you up,' the 6ft4 centre-back boomed in his deep voice, his English as crisp and precise as Loris', and an almost sly or leering expression across his large young face. `And I feel like I owe you something too, my friend - it was my own goal that started things...' `Only technically,' the goalkeeper murmured, dismissing any individual blame for the big strong defender, and shifting a little as Bruno's fingers needled across his shoulders and back onto his neck, feeling really quite good now. `Still,' huffed the 24-year-old Dutchman, `we all felt bad for you up here.' `Yeah,' said Harvey quite eagerly, `that's why we brought up the beers.' He shifted his twitchy gaze, and took a deep glug. `Here, let me have a go - Bruno, go on, I want to try. I reckon I have good hands.' Loris just laughed at this, the silly idea of the two 26-year-old professional footballers squabbling over giving him a shoulder massage, daft bastards - and he turned to smile vaguely across at Sven, expecting him to find this equally stupid, but again the big broad youngster was giving him an oddly knowing look, and chuckling to himself, and still toying with his miniature from the room's stash. `They just want to feel your muscles,' grunted the defensive player, following it with a puerile snigger. Loris blinked and frowned vaguely at him, mildly puzzled by his expression. Now Barnes was kneeling behind him and manhandling his broad powerful shoulders, and he noted idly that his hands were less strong and insistent than Bruno's, but pleasurable enough in their own gentle manner; and this meant that Guimaraes himself was next to him, and then in front of him, and then getting down to the carpet on his knees - eh? He knelt there right in front of where Loris' heavy body perched, that same manic grin on his face. `What?' Karius asked slowly, proxemics telling him what he didn't want to know. Bruno's hands were on his legs, brushing against the pale soft hair of his lower thighs, resting on his knees where his shorts ended, and the Brazilian laughed. It was Sven who spoke, reaching across and punching him lightly in his right bicep. `Go on, let him,' the Netherlands-born footballer insisted in his deep brute voice. `He's good at it.' And Loris glanced wide-eyed across at the giggling 24-year-old, then back into Bruno's expression of wild recklessness - the tips of his fingers had advanced beneath the hem of the bed-shorts, just enough to send jolts of electric sensation up the muscles of his inner thighs, and the firmness of Harvey's fingertips increased on his shoulders. Guimaraes took some more beer and put his bottle aside somewhere. `Sven knows,' he said in a low slutty murmur. `I AM good at it.' He licked his pink lips, eyes wild. A deep chuckle from Botman and a breathy nervous laugh from Barnes, whose hands were still and tense on his shoulders. Loris stared at the Brazilian, his expression and mood shifting from confused alarm to thoughtful contemplation - he could feel the questing fingers crossing invisible boundaries on his inner legs, and he was relaxing into the quick drinking and the affectionate attention. `Who ever felt sad after a blowjob,' laughed Sven Botman, and Karius glanced interestedly at the young Dutchman, before turning his handsome serious expression back at the kneeling midfielder - `Okay,' he said in a low voice, `show me what you can do, Bueno.' `Oh yes,' shuddered the slutty kneeling Brazilian, who unbeknownst to Loris was deeply missing the company of injured Joelinton and his Amazonian whopper, beginning now to pull gently on the shorts so that Karius had to lift his hips and glutes to make it easier - and down they came, stretching over his blond thighs and past his knees and down to his ankles, and his big powerful legs were exposed, and what's more the manhood between them. Just tipsy enough to put aside self-consciousness, he sat there, letting his muscular weight lean back in against the stroking firmness of Harvey Barnes, with his thighs open and his big Viking cock just drooping casually across his balls on the edge of the bed, a long thick snake of chubby meat even before it began to prickle at the sensuous fingers on his inner legs - Bruno stared into his eyes for a couple of moments more and then lowered down, moving his plump pouting mouth from side to side, kisses upon the inner thighs, electrifying the German's crotch, and then... breathy closeness to the weighty sleeping beast of his cock, teasing him with eternities of anticipation, and then... Mmm, he felt the soft wet lips enclose his tingling prick, and he leaned back further, his back and shoulder supported against Harvey as he relaxed into this treat. `That's it,' growled Botman's voice. `Look at him go, the big slut.' `Yeah,' Loris said, a little more slowly and thoughtfully, `he is a slut.' `He loves your big white cock,' breathed Harvey, practically in his ear. `Don't blame him, heh.' Mmm. It DID feel really good, or was that just the quick rush of a beer and a measure of whiskey? His cock felt sensitive and ready, and Bruno's mouth felt... well, SO soft, SO wet, SO warm. Fuck - it was as if the 30-year-old hunk had never actually experienced a proper blowjob, in all his years of many attractive models who gravitated to him like moths to a 6ft2 blond-haired big-muscled flame. Was this what it was MEANT to feel like?! Bruno Guimaraes' mouth felt like a delicious pussy, and his cock was rapidly rigid and veiny against those lips and that tongue, and he leaned fully back into Harvey's support - he felt those hands rove over his shoulders, his back, his neck, and... not just hands. Harvey was kissing the sides of his neck, brushing lips and tongue at the top of his spine, breathing heavily, and... lifting his tee, stroking his sides, his abs, his inked pecs, pinching and tickling his hard bullet nipples. With the relaxation of an open-minded German, Karius leaned into it, surprised but not frightened, and thinking... well, yes, this certainly WAS taking his mind off things, and helping him to feel `good'. `How is it, Thor?' asked Sven's heavy voice, cutting into the zen mood. He was up on his feet again, towering 6ft4, and gripping himself in the front of his NUFC away tracksuit pants; Loris, eyes fluttering lazily, grinned up at him, enjoying the leer on his face now, seeing the vague envy in the defender's deep dark eye and twitchy grin. `Fucking good,' he answered smoothly, lifting his arms now so that Harvey could peel the t-shirt up and away, baring his full powerful body in the buff. He rested there and felt Harvey's lips caress the back of his shoulders whilst his shaky hands cupped his muscular tits, and he laughed gently. `Two sluts,' he murmured thoughtfully, and Sven agreed: `Two dirty cock-sluts,' breathed the huge centre-back greedily. Karius, moaning softly under his breath, looked down at Bruno's wild face between his thighs, and he pushed him back, gently and almost regretfully. He met his eyes and nodded to one side. `I think the big man here needs you too,' he chuckled, and reached a calm strong hand up to one side and took Barnes by the wrist: `And this one can taste my cock instead.' His wish was their command. The 30-year-old was dazed but successfully cheered, and he was accepting this physical service in the complacent manner of an attractive sportsman who had always been treated as such by the women he met, and was relatively unsurprised to find certain men just as worshipful of his body - besides, an under-current of certain sexual tension had always caught his attention at his several senior football clubs, even if he himself had not been involved. Draining the rest of his second beer, he was only to happy to accept the nervous-faced young Englihsman between his lips, licking and kissing at his towering erection, whilst watching Bruno hunker down in front of Sven and be slapped in the face by what was unfurled from the front of those tracky pants. Loudly, the dual blowjobs proceeded, and again he couldn't help but note a greater skill and confidence in what his big veiny member had received from Bruno's mouth, compared to the almost tentative gestures of Harvey, whose anxious trembles transmitted to his thick upper legs through the clutch of his hands there on the muscle. Loris laughed gently and reached one big goalkeeper's hand to stroke the side of the lad's face, and then brush fingertips through his wiry red hair, and then playing a single thumb gently up and down one cheek - `Slower,' he growled at him, `gentler, boy...' It fascinated him to see that earnest face concentrated entirely on dribbling over his cock, rather than dribbling a football, and he wished Barnes had the same soft self-assurance as mad Guimaraes. After a while, they swapped again, Loris moving onto his own bed so he could stretch out, kicking his shorts away and fully naked, accepting a third beer from the Brazilian cocksucker who resumed gobbling his weapon, whilst Sven lay down on Fabian's sheets and yanked away his jersey to bare his ripped long torso. Harvey drooled over his cock and went low to suck on his big Dutch balls, and Loris instructed his Brazilian to do the same. He and the defender met each other's eyes with leering pleasure and smirking lips, and Loris decided that yes, this treat had been EXACTLY what was needed. It occurred only briefly to him to feel guilty or naughty here, but it had been offered to him on a plate and it was soothing the deep unhappiness and frustration of the night's result - fuck it. To that effect, he began taking Bruno's head in both hands and pushing his dick into that perfect mouth, working his hips and fucking the warm softness of his lips like they really were a cunt - ogled and encouraged by both Sven and Harvey as he did so, until a spluttering and greedy Bruno was catching his breath and playing a wet hand up and down his shaft, and asking him bluntly, `So you will fuck me, Thor?' `Fuck,' moaned Botman's voice, `he is such a slut for you, friend...!' Loris, who had settled so comfortably into this transgression, now paused, running his fingers through the Brazilian's short dark hair, and averting his eyes from the manic energy of his facial expression; he looked at Sven's expectant leer and Harvey's blanched excitement, pausing with his lips at the tip of a big Dutch cock, and he doubted how far he could go here. But already Bruno was wriggling out of his tracksuit pants and the black boxer briefs below them - naked, the lithe tanned devil was up on the bed, playing with his slim stiff prick, and straddling one thigh thick - `Let me sit on it,' he said almost pleadingly, continuing to play with Karius' wet shaft. The German looked across to the other bed and saw that Harvey was doing the same, whipping away his tracksuit, and that Botman looked unconcerned - socks were being tossed away and soon everyone was naked. In tandem, the 26-year-old cock-suckers were positioning themselves at the waists of the lounging giants, and Lorius realised he had left it too late to protest - already Bruno was squatting over his meat and rubbing his pert buttocks against the sensitive wet head, giggling as he did and pressing down on his six-pack. Soon, the wild-eyed midfielder was really sitting himself on it, and Lorius was reaching one semi-conscious hand down to help, gripping the base of his big cock to hold it in place, and feeling the tight ring that was ready to take his girthy tip. He hardly had to do a thing, just lie there, as soothed and spoiled as by the blow-jobs - Bruno Guimaraes was sitting down on his cock as if it was not so thick and huge, clearly not his first rodeo, and he could hear deep brutal moans from Botman and wild whimpering sighs from Barnes, resisting the urge to look their way in case it alarmed him from allowing this - he could feel the hot tightness of Bruno's arse clamp around his cock and he let out his own deep Germanic growl of satisfaction, reaching with strong fingers for the pale brown of those bare hips. And he lay there, the Thor-like cursed goalie, all thought of the night's game or his past sins forgotten, just the physicality of the here and now - he lay there, holding Bruno by the waist, and aiding in the bouncing rhythm of the way he sat up and down on that big German cock, making Karius feel so fucking good, making him groan and sputter, making him swear and curse and forget to speak in English - both of them matched the noisy enjoyment of the other two, the playful `Yes, you slut!' of Sven's grunts and the whining `Oh god' of Harvey's exclamations, a kind of dirty rhythmic synchronicity developing between the two beds - interrupted only by the half-noticed thump of the door and then the brittle disapproving exclamation of a fifth male voice. `You shits,' ranted Fabian Schar, `you absolute fucking shits - on my bed!' Karius lay there in a curious mix of alarm and enjoyment, shocked but also unbothered by his roommate's return, by the beery drunk presence of the tall 32-year-old Switzerland player standing at the foot of the beds, his face thunderous; the goalie stared at him as if he wasn't really there, and continued to thrust violently up there, matching the bounce of Bruno's arse cheeks, fucking up into his tightness and laughing rather than making any effort to stop. `They just came to cheer me up,' he moaned drunkenly, and he began to ram upwards even harder. `We think it worked,' guffawed Botman. `Here, let us - you can have his mouth, if you want?' Loris laughed, groaned, rolled his eyes, focused more on the intense physical satisfaction of the muscular ring that slid up and down his shaft like a fairground ride - but he expected raised voices and annoyance, and got instead fresh moans. When he looked over, Harvey Barnes, former Leicester Fox and sex pet of Jamie Vardy, was spit-roasted between the violent thrusts of a sweaty naked Botman and the pursed lips and closed eyes of Schar's handsome visage, the tall defender stood at the end of the bed with his clothes still on but Barnes' face clamped to his crotch. Seeing this sharing of the other slut pleased Karius in some way he could not name, and he really let himself go - he gripped Guimaraes tightly and hammered upwards into his cunt until he was letting loose all of his potent seed inside the gurning slut and then tossing his clammy body aside to catch his breath and cool down, lying back with sweat pooling around every bulging muscle. He lay there and laughed, stretching out his limbs and his torso, and then very slowly got up, dazed and relieved; with one smooth motion he untied his ponytail and flicked loose his mane, stood naked with his chunky limp cock between his legs, and watching quite casually as Bruno now fucked Harvey in the mouth and Sven reached an obvious orgasm in the ginger lad's arse, and Fabian stood to one side jerking off furiously. Loris stood to the side of them, panting and laughing, and shaking his head - what a scene. One by one, dazed and drunk in their different ways, the men were finishing, and he picked his way between them, still gasping for air and feelings trickles of sweat move down his abs and over his leg muscles, and finding his way into the bathroom to switch on a cold shower - he paused in the bathroom door and grinned gratefully across at them all, feeling quite firmly part of the team in a way he had yet to achieve. By the time he returned from his cold shower, one towel about his waist and another over one big shoulder, Schar was missing - `I offered him my clean bed,' chuckled Botman deeply - and the big Dutchman was making himself comfortable in that soiled bedding instead; Harvey was lolling in a chair by the window, rubbing a hand-towel against his clammy dirty face, and Bruno was opening the final beer in a state of casual nudity, shiny smears of cum up and down his midriff. He turned and smirked this way and Karius nodded gratefully at him, before gesturing commandingly at his discarded clothes. `You two best go,' he said, firmly but pleasantly, and the Brazilian just sniggered at him, taking his time - but bit by bit, he and his fellow dirty bugger dressed their lithe smoothe bodies and exited the suite, by which time Sven was already snoring, and Fabian must be safely ensconced in a room swap elsewhere - leaving the disaster-prone keeper to climb back into his own sweat-marked bed and cast aside the towels. Well, well, well - it was good to be so appreciated and reassured by core members of the team, wasn't it? And god that mouth and arse had felt incredible on his cock. Arsenal's 4-1 win was far from his thoughts as he drifted off, curling the sheets about his inked muscles and loose flowing hair, wondering if an Italian transfer really was such a priority this summer, with Bruno Guimaraes and co around... 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2024 17:18:46 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 391 Part 391: The Cursed Keeper, aka Thor of Tyneside Loris Karius wasted no time in sidling away from the main pack of his NUFC teammates and heading towards his allotted room in their Central London hotel - there was a faint mood of heady enjoyment in the team that was completely at odds with tonight's result, but a couple of leading figures had suggested the lads pause to drown their sorrows, combined with a rather incongruous effort to mark one year since the reinvigorated club had reached the League Cup final across this capital city at Wembley. For Karius, that landmark worsened rather than mitigated the feelings of losing 4-1 to Arsenal tonight, given that one of his former clubs were housed elsewhere in London in advance of their Carabao showdown with Chelsea for said trophy; tonight remained one of the big German athlete's few top-flight appearances since his grisly end at Liverpool, and it represented another outing of potential humiliation for his goalkeeping rep. The German man felt absolutely cursed and self-pitying, having proven himself so regular on the training ground only for his Premiership outing in Dubravka and Pope's footsteps to end in abysmal defeat. There was no obvious resentment or blame for Loris from the other guys, in fact there had been several moments of approval and encouragement coming his way as the disappointed Magpies left the pitch and washed up backstage - Howe had been quick to commiserate his misfortune and to praise some of the saves he made, sentiments echoed quickly echoed separately by both the squad's de facto leader Kieran Trippier and the remaining official captain Jamaal Lascelles; moments ago, he'd been grabbed in a firm handshake and sympathised with by fellow spare (albeit less infamous) goalkeeper Mark Gillespie. Everyone seemed to want to mitigate the failure of tonight's loss against the in-form title contenders, especially for the unlucky man at the back of the action, but the truth of the scoreline and the current state of his career were there to stare Karius in the face. Ghosts of previous showdowns haunted the 6ft2 goalie all way through the plush decor of their Euston-based hotel, the distant noise of his teammates becoming the chatter of other squads, other crowds, other failures, and the handsome blond man grimaced with his tight jawline and sculpted features, finding and unlocking the door to his suite and then practically tossing his shoulder-bag in there ahead of him. He stopped himself from sulkily slamming the door behind him but did give a couple of pathetic kicks to the dropped bag before dragging away the items of official Newcastle kit and changing into a slack t-shirt and shorts of his own, loosening and re-tying his golden mane of Viking-like hair before grabbing some fruit snacks from his belongings and nestling into his bed with only the TV remote for company. Haughtily, the Thor lookalike from Baden-Wurttemberg thought bitterly about the almost celebratory tone of the players who had flooded away to the hotel bar as he went his own way, unsure why they were taking the Arsenal thrashing in such good humour, but then his own guilt and self-criticism overtook the sneering and he just felt right to make a pariah of himself after his performance in front of goal, and the latest blot on his professional record; it was no wonder that the big muscular athlete had failed to secure an Italian transfer in the last three windows, as hoped, to make life with his beautiful TV presenter fiancee and new baby that bit less hectic and inconvenient. With a gloomy self-loathing that was becoming worrying regular for the big gym bunny, Loris reflected that his market value had just decreased yet again, and that the summer transfer window was that little bit less likely to yield the loan or transfer deal he wanted in Rome or Milan. And so, whilst the bulk of the NUFC squad drank away defeat in a bar overlooking the lights of London, including Karius' own roommate, Loris was one of few players to distance himself, muting the messages on his own phone, including from the love of his life, and just watching some mindless panel quiz shows and other rubbish on the suite's limited range of TV channels - dipping in and out of early sleep as he did so, his tall muscle-bound form nestled half in and out of the duvet and the snack dropped forgetfully to one side with the remote - in a really dazed state somewhere between waking and sleeping when the sharp knocks sounded at the door. As is the way of these things, the sounds seemed to enter one of Karius' vague dreams, so that he ended up laying there for a short while in confusion, wondering what had been on his mind, before a repeated flurry of knuckles on plywood informed him that the knocking had been real. Heavily, the 30-year-old got up, swinging heavy blond-furred legs from the bed and striding irritably across the shared room - the German did not know how long he'd been dozing, but the explanation seemed fairly obvious, that his own roomie for the trip was drunk already and had misplaced his room key as a result. He was very ready to glare accusingly at Fabian Schar and lecture the Swiss hero when he wrenched his door inwards and found himself staring at three other members of the Newcastle line-up instead - `Oh-' `Hellooooo,' cooed the central of the trio, flashing one of his trademark toothy grins that was full of manic energy, his eyes just as wide and passionate as when he stopped to over-celebrate a simple tackle on the pitch and delight the adoring fans - `We come in?' demanded the Brazilian lad in his somewhat restricted English, hoisting a brace of beer bottles in each hand, a stash matched by the men on either side of him; Bruno Guimaraes did not wait for an answer before bustling into the room, quickly followed with less obnoxious chuckles from the other two tracksuited figures. `Lads,' Loris said slowly and wearily, holding the door hopefully open even as they began to make themselves at home, `I skipped the party for a reason...' `We know,' chirped the other 26-year-old visitor, whilst locating a bottle opener at the room's generic minibar, and beginning to crack some lids off for them, `but we just didn't think it was right, y'know? You can't sulk up here alone, not tonight.' It was obvious from his tone, and from the flushed pinkness of the ginger man's lean face, that he was drunk - it was harder to tell with someone as generally manic as Bruno, but the towering third visitor had a confirmingly beery glaze to his serious eyes and slack grin; the usually-reserved Sven Botman was swaying on his heels and snatching a beer greedily from the services of Harvey Barnes, whilst Guimaraes came and squared firmly up to him, ready to make their case. `You need drink,' the Brazilian star informed him simply, passing the cold bottle into his hands, `and we want to make you feel good.' He grinned his almost boyish grin, 26 going on 18, and puffed out his chest as he took a long swig - Guimaraes barely drank, as far as Karius knew, so presumably the 6ft central midfielder was wasted after just a few in the hotel bar. `Go on,' urged big Dutchman Botman, clinking bottles with each of them, `just a couple, to take the edge off things.' Loris stared irritably between them, conflicted but rather charmed - it was, he had to admit, quite sweet and supportive of them to leave the bar and the pack of colleagues, and to bother him like this - certainly, his own roommate Schar was presumably still down there drowning his sorrows or enjoying himself, and the kind words of his manager and captains had been less forceful. The German let out a conflicted laugh and shook his head. `I was getting to sleep,' he complained half-heartedly, and gladly drank some beer. `But thank you, gentlemen, thank you.' Drunk and well-meaning, the trio invaded his quiet sulky space like a small but intense plague of locusts. Former Leicester star Barnes, recently returned from lengthy injury leave, threw himself onto the tangle of duvet that had been the goalie's nest, grasping the remote and flicking away through the other channels; big Botman perched near the windows and picked up some running joke that had been brought up form the bar and made no sense to Karius himself; Bruno buzzed about the room in his hyper manner, disturbing both occupants' things and deciding that his beer wasn't enough, pilfering miniatures from the minibar and causing Loris to raise a disapproving eyebrow - `I don't need the bosses getting that bill from the hotel on top of everything in this shitty trip,' he sighed exasperatedly, becoming irritated rather than grateful again. `We blame Sexy Fab,' Guimaraes insisted with a snigger, his words reflecting an affectionately mocking label that was common among the men, before turning it back on the night's cursed goalie: `In honour of Sexy Karius, haha - here.' And Bruno threw him one mini, before tossing others to the sniggering drunkenness of the others. Loris shook his head but thought `fuck it' and sat himself down on the foot of Fabian's bed rather than his own, supping alternately between the icy beer bottle and the tiny bottle of pleasant whiskey which had been volleyed at him by the Brazilian. Minutes passed, and the big goalie's mood softened - he could become bitter about his inferior place on Tyneside, the third or even fourth priority keeper in a rich squad, only getting his disappointing 90 minutes tonight due to Nick Pope's ongoing injury - but right now he was feeling the warmth and spirit that had grown at the club under Howe and Trippier's leadership, and he felt more included and valued than he usually did. He could feel pretty isolated and peripheral, but then he supposed he did that to himself; he'd really found it hard to commit to a squad since the way things had ended at Anfield. A beer and a mini scotch couldn't drag the 30-year-old into the tipsy haze of the three room-crashers, but it did give him a buzz, and it certainly made him less alarmed when Bruno now positioned himself behind him on the bed and began to massage his big shoulders through his thick baggy t-shirt - the physical intimacy of the move was somehow acceptable in amongst the quirky unpredictability of the team's Brazilian firecracker, who giggled as he attempted to massage him, and Loris could only laugh rather than shrugging away the tension, and gladly accepting a second beer from a pink-cheeked Harvey. The 26-year-old Englishman hovered in front of him with one hand in a pocket, cheersing him and drinking greedily on another beer. `How's that?' the left winger asked him over-enthusiastically. Karius made a playful expression of criticism: `I've had better - don't quit the day-job, Bueno.' Bruno giggled at the chocolate-based nickname for his own addiction, and he changed his approach, knotting his fingers more firmly and strenuously into the tight tense muscles of Loris' upper back in a way that was undeniably satisfying and relaxing, and then tickling them up the back of his bare neck. Letting this happen, he hunched there and looked thoughtfully back at the young redhead who was in front of him, looking a bit too intensely at him as if expecting something to happen. A deep throaty laugh from Sven, who moved from the window to sit on the corner of the other bed, close now to Loris: `These two just wanted to cheer you up,' the 6ft4 centre-back boomed in his deep voice, his English as crisp and precise as Loris', and an almost sly or leering expression across his large young face. `And I feel like I owe you something too, my friend - it was my own goal that started things...' `Only technically,' the goalkeeper murmured, dismissing any individual blame for the big strong defender, and shifting a little as Bruno's fingers needled across his shoulders and back onto his neck, feeling really quite good now. `Still,' huffed the 24-year-old Dutchman, `we all felt bad for you up here.' `Yeah,' said Harvey quite eagerly, `that's why we brought up the beers.' He shifted his twitchy gaze, and took a deep glug. `Here, let me have a go - Bruno, go on, I want to try. I reckon I have good hands.' Loris just laughed at this, the silly idea of the two 26-year-old professional footballers squabbling over giving him a shoulder massage, daft bastards - and he turned to smile vaguely across at Sven, expecting him to find this equally stupid, but again the big broad youngster was giving him an oddly knowing look, and chuckling to himself, and still toying with his miniature from the room's stash. `They just want to feel your muscles,' grunted the defensive player, following it with a puerile snigger. Loris blinked and frowned vaguely at him, mildly puzzled by his expression. Now Barnes was kneeling behind him and manhandling his broad powerful shoulders, and he noted idly that his hands were less strong and insistent than Bruno's, but pleasurable enough in their own gentle manner; and this meant that Guimaraes himself was next to him, and then in front of him, and then getting down to the carpet on his knees - eh? He knelt there right in front of where Loris' heavy body perched, that same manic grin on his face. `What?' Karius asked slowly, proxemics telling him what he didn't want to know. Bruno's hands were on his legs, brushing against the pale soft hair of his lower thighs, resting on his knees where his shorts ended, and the Brazilian laughed. It was Sven who spoke, reaching across and punching him lightly in his right bicep. `Go on, let him,' the Netherlands-born footballer insisted in his deep brute voice. `He's good at it.' And Loris glanced wide-eyed across at the giggling 24-year-old, then back into Bruno's expression of wild recklessness - the tips of his fingers had advanced beneath the hem of the bed-shorts, just enough to send jolts of electric sensation up the muscles of his inner thighs, and the firmness of Harvey's fingertips increased on his shoulders. Guimaraes took some more beer and put his bottle aside somewhere. `Sven knows,' he said in a low slutty murmur. `I AM good at it.' He licked his pink lips, eyes wild. A deep chuckle from Botman and a breathy nervous laugh from Barnes, whose hands were still and tense on his shoulders. Loris stared at the Brazilian, his expression and mood shifting from confused alarm to thoughtful contemplation - he could feel the questing fingers crossing invisible boundaries on his inner legs, and he was relaxing into the quick drinking and the affectionate attention. `Who ever felt sad after a blowjob,' laughed Sven Botman, and Karius glanced interestedly at the young Dutchman, before turning his handsome serious expression back at the kneeling midfielder - `Okay,' he said in a low voice, `show me what you can do, Bueno.' `Oh yes,' shuddered the slutty kneeling Brazilian, who unbeknownst to Loris was deeply missing the company of injured Joelinton and his Amazonian whopper, beginning now to pull gently on the shorts so that Karius had to lift his hips and glutes to make it easier - and down they came, stretching over his blond thighs and past his knees and down to his ankles, and his big powerful legs were exposed, and what's more the manhood between them. Just tipsy enough to put aside self-consciousness, he sat there, letting his muscular weight lean back in against the stroking firmness of Harvey Barnes, with his thighs open and his big Viking cock just drooping casually across his balls on the edge of the bed, a long thick snake of chubby meat even before it began to prickle at the sensuous fingers on his inner legs - Bruno stared into his eyes for a couple of moments more and then lowered down, moving his plump pouting mouth from side to side, kisses upon the inner thighs, electrifying the German's crotch, and then... breathy closeness to the weighty sleeping beast of his cock, teasing him with eternities of anticipation, and then... Mmm, he felt the soft wet lips enclose his tingling prick, and he leaned back further, his back and shoulder supported against Harvey as he relaxed into this treat. `That's it,' growled Botman's voice. `Look at him go, the big slut.' `Yeah,' Loris said, a little more slowly and thoughtfully, `he is a slut.' `He loves your big white cock,' breathed Harvey, practically in his ear. `Don't blame him, heh.' Mmm. It DID feel really good, or was that just the quick rush of a beer and a measure of whiskey? His cock felt sensitive and ready, and Bruno's mouth felt... well, SO soft, SO wet, SO warm. Fuck - it was as if the 30-year-old hunk had never actually experienced a proper blowjob, in all his years of many attractive models who gravitated to him like moths to a 6ft2 blond-haired big-muscled flame. Was this what it was MEANT to feel like?! Bruno Guimaraes' mouth felt like a delicious pussy, and his cock was rapidly rigid and veiny against those lips and that tongue, and he leaned fully back into Harvey's support - he felt those hands rove over his shoulders, his back, his neck, and... not just hands. Harvey was kissing the sides of his neck, brushing lips and tongue at the top of his spine, breathing heavily, and... lifting his tee, stroking his sides, his abs, his inked pecs, pinching and tickling his hard bullet nipples. With the relaxation of an open-minded German, Karius leaned into it, surprised but not frightened, and thinking... well, yes, this certainly WAS taking his mind off things, and helping him to feel `good'. `How is it, Thor?' asked Sven's heavy voice, cutting into the zen mood. He was up on his feet again, towering 6ft4, and gripping himself in the front of his NUFC away tracksuit pants; Loris, eyes fluttering lazily, grinned up at him, enjoying the leer on his face now, seeing the vague envy in the defender's deep dark eye and twitchy grin. `Fucking good,' he answered smoothly, lifting his arms now so that Harvey could peel the t-shirt up and away, baring his full powerful body in the buff. He rested there and felt Harvey's lips caress the back of his shoulders whilst his shaky hands cupped his muscular tits, and he laughed gently. `Two sluts,' he murmured thoughtfully, and Sven agreed: `Two dirty cock-sluts,' breathed the huge centre-back greedily. Karius, moaning softly under his breath, looked down at Bruno's wild face between his thighs, and he pushed him back, gently and almost regretfully. He met his eyes and nodded to one side. `I think the big man here needs you too,' he chuckled, and reached a calm strong hand up to one side and took Barnes by the wrist: `And this one can taste my cock instead.' His wish was their command. The 30-year-old was dazed but successfully cheered, and he was accepting this physical service in the complacent manner of an attractive sportsman who had always been treated as such by the women he met, and was relatively unsurprised to find certain men just as worshipful of his body - besides, an under-current of certain sexual tension had always caught his attention at his several senior football clubs, even if he himself had not been involved. Draining the rest of his second beer, he was only to happy to accept the nervous-faced young Englihsman between his lips, licking and kissing at his towering erection, whilst watching Bruno hunker down in front of Sven and be slapped in the face by what was unfurled from the front of those tracky pants. Loudly, the dual blowjobs proceeded, and again he couldn't help but note a greater skill and confidence in what his big veiny member had received from Bruno's mouth, compared to the almost tentative gestures of Harvey, whose anxious trembles transmitted to his thick upper legs through the clutch of his hands there on the muscle. Loris laughed gently and reached one big goalkeeper's hand to stroke the side of the lad's face, and then brush fingertips through his wiry red hair, and then playing a single thumb gently up and down one cheek - `Slower,' he growled at him, `gentler, boy...' It fascinated him to see that earnest face concentrated entirely on dribbling over his cock, rather than dribbling a football, and he wished Barnes had the same soft self-assurance as mad Guimaraes. After a while, they swapped again, Loris moving onto his own bed so he could stretch out, kicking his shorts away and fully naked, accepting a third beer from the Brazilian cocksucker who resumed gobbling his weapon, whilst Sven lay down on Fabian's sheets and yanked away his jersey to bare his ripped long torso. Harvey drooled over his cock and went low to suck on his big Dutch balls, and Loris instructed his Brazilian to do the same. He and the defender met each other's eyes with leering pleasure and smirking lips, and Loris decided that yes, this treat had been EXACTLY what was needed. It occurred only briefly to him to feel guilty or naughty here, but it had been offered to him on a plate and it was soothing the deep unhappiness and frustration of the night's result - fuck it. To that effect, he began taking Bruno's head in both hands and pushing his dick into that perfect mouth, working his hips and fucking the warm softness of his lips like they really were a cunt - ogled and encouraged by both Sven and Harvey as he did so, until a spluttering and greedy Bruno was catching his breath and playing a wet hand up and down his shaft, and asking him bluntly, `So you will fuck me, Thor?' `Fuck,' moaned Botman's voice, `he is such a slut for you, friend...!' Loris, who had settled so comfortably into this transgression, now paused, running his fingers through the Brazilian's short dark hair, and averting his eyes from the manic energy of his facial expression; he looked at Sven's expectant leer and Harvey's blanched excitement, pausing with his lips at the tip of a big Dutch cock, and he doubted how far he could go here. But already Bruno was wriggling out of his tracksuit pants and the black boxer briefs below them - naked, the lithe tanned devil was up on the bed, playing with his slim stiff prick, and straddling one thigh thick - `Let me sit on it,' he said almost pleadingly, continuing to play with Karius' wet shaft. The German looked across to the other bed and saw that Harvey was doing the same, whipping away his tracksuit, and that Botman looked unconcerned - socks were being tossed away and soon everyone was naked. In tandem, the 26-year-old cock-suckers were positioning themselves at the waists of the lounging giants, and Lorius realised he had left it too late to protest - already Bruno was squatting over his meat and rubbing his pert buttocks against the sensitive wet head, giggling as he did and pressing down on his six-pack. Soon, the wild-eyed midfielder was really sitting himself on it, and Lorius was reaching one semi-conscious hand down to help, gripping the base of his big cock to hold it in place, and feeling the tight ring that was ready to take his girthy tip. He hardly had to do a thing, just lie there, as soothed and spoiled as by the blow-jobs - Bruno Guimaraes was sitting down on his cock as if it was not so thick and huge, clearly not his first rodeo, and he could hear deep brutal moans from Botman and wild whimpering sighs from Barnes, resisting the urge to look their way in case it alarmed him from allowing this - he could feel the hot tightness of Bruno's arse clamp around his cock and he let out his own deep Germanic growl of satisfaction, reaching with strong fingers for the pale brown of those bare hips. And he lay there, the Thor-like cursed goalie, all thought of the night's game or his past sins forgotten, just the physicality of the here and now - he lay there, holding Bruno by the waist, and aiding in the bouncing rhythm of the way he sat up and down on that big German cock, making Karius feel so fucking good, making him groan and sputter, making him swear and curse and forget to speak in English - both of them matched the noisy enjoyment of the other two, the playful `Yes, you slut!' of Sven's grunts and the whining `Oh god' of Harvey's exclamations, a kind of dirty rhythmic synchronicity developing between the two beds - interrupted only by the half-noticed thump of the door and then the brittle disapproving exclamation of a fifth male voice. `You shits,' ranted Fabian Schar, `you absolute fucking shits - on my bed!' Karius lay there in a curious mix of alarm and enjoyment, shocked but also unbothered by his roommate's return, by the beery drunk presence of the tall 32-year-old Switzerland player standing at the foot of the beds, his face thunderous; the goalie stared at him as if he wasn't really there, and continued to thrust violently up there, matching the bounce of Bruno's arse cheeks, fucking up into his tightness and laughing rather than making any effort to stop. `They just came to cheer me up,' he moaned drunkenly, and he began to ram upwards even harder. `We think it worked,' guffawed Botman. `Here, let us - you can have his mouth, if you want?' Loris laughed, groaned, rolled his eyes, focused more on the intense physical satisfaction of the muscular ring that slid up and down his shaft like a fairground ride - but he expected raised voices and annoyance, and got instead fresh moans. When he looked over, Harvey Barnes, former Leicester Fox and sex pet of Jamie Vardy, was spit-roasted between the violent thrusts of a sweaty naked Botman and the pursed lips and closed eyes of Schar's handsome visage, the tall defender stood at the end of the bed with his clothes still on but Barnes' face clamped to his crotch. Seeing this sharing of the other slut pleased Karius in some way he could not name, and he really let himself go - he gripped Guimaraes tightly and hammered upwards into his cunt until he was letting loose all of his potent seed inside the gurning slut and then tossing his clammy body aside to catch his breath and cool down, lying back with sweat pooling around every bulging muscle. He lay there and laughed, stretching out his limbs and his torso, and then very slowly got up, dazed and relieved; with one smooth motion he untied his ponytail and flicked loose his mane, stood naked with his chunky limp cock between his legs, and watching quite casually as Bruno now fucked Harvey in the mouth and Sven reached an obvious orgasm in the ginger lad's arse, and Fabian stood to one side jerking off furiously. Loris stood to the side of them, panting and laughing, and shaking his head - what a scene. One by one, dazed and drunk in their different ways, the men were finishing, and he picked his way between them, still gasping for air and feelings trickles of sweat move down his abs and over his leg muscles, and finding his way into the bathroom to switch on a cold shower - he paused in the bathroom door and grinned gratefully across at them all, feeling quite firmly part of the team in a way he had yet to achieve. By the time he returned from his cold shower, one towel about his waist and another over one big shoulder, Schar was missing - `I offered him my clean bed,' chuckled Botman deeply - and the big Dutchman was making himself comfortable in that soiled bedding instead; Harvey was lolling in a chair by the window, rubbing a hand-towel against his clammy dirty face, and Bruno was opening the final beer in a state of casual nudity, shiny smears of cum up and down his midriff. He turned and smirked this way and Karius nodded gratefully at him, before gesturing commandingly at his discarded clothes. `You two best go,' he said, firmly but pleasantly, and the Brazilian just sniggered at him, taking his time - but bit by bit, he and his fellow dirty bugger dressed their lithe smoothe bodies and exited the suite, by which time Sven was already snoring, and Fabian must be safely ensconced in a room swap elsewhere - leaving the disaster-prone keeper to climb back into his own sweat-marked bed and cast aside the towels. Well, well, well - it was good to be so appreciated and reassured by core members of the team, wasn't it? And god that mouth and arse had felt incredible on his cock. Arsenal's 4-1 win was far from his thoughts as he drifted off, curling the sheets about his inked muscles and loose flowing hair, wondering if an Italian transfer really was such a priority this summer, with Bruno Guimaraes and co around... 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-347

Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2023 23:13:47 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 347 Part 347: What Benjamin Saw Saturday morning, he thought through a yawn, as the gates of their North London training camp came into view and the team bus swung off the B-road and down the sparse lane then in through those familiar gates. It had been a smooth journey across the country, but the young footballing lad was as restless as anyone else to disembark and disband - home and the licking of wounds, private recovery rituals and a break from the training schedule at last. As the big coach ground to a halt at one side of the broad car park, the 25-year-old clamped hands over his knees and readied himself to hurry up out of his seat and not be one of the last off the vehicle. Mind, it was hardly the sombre mood you'd expect from a squad returning from FA Cup knockout, to be fair; there was nothing like being comfortably top of the Premier League to take the edge off some disappointment, even in a tournament as iconic as the FA Cup, one solidly treasured by the club and its fans over the years where league success had seemed so distant. They were all of them a bit horrified to be pushed out of the national tournament, for sure, but they were all pretty measured and sanguine about the pay-off - their battle for the Premiership title had drained them and left them unable to really fend off Man City last night, and now they were to some extent freed to just fully focus on that one singular goal after all. Their Spanish boss had been brutally clear last night in the Etihad's away changing rooms: no tears or recriminations over failure against Guardiola's lot in the cup, just resilient and determined focus on the big win ahead. Like the rest of them, Ben White bought it, and he felt oddly liberated and unconcerned about being absent from last night's failed defence. He wasn't even wasting any thoughts on the notion that being subbed on might have allowed him to improve matters. Instead of being gloomy and downtrodden, the tall handsome player just felt keen to get some rest and then get back to work tomorrow afternoon with everybody else. He wasn't going to mope over watching the City pricks take their place in the latter stages of a cup that they had great history in, nah. Now, he braced himself to get up, fidgeting on his seat, and looking back down the aisle of the bus, then leaning heavily into the backrest and rising up on one knee, waiting for the coach doors to open and to be able to spring lightly down to the exit ahead of the rush. But next to him was a light scoffing sound, and he glanced to the left. `That desperate to get away from me?' chuckled his neighbour in the next seat, and his roommate as usual for last night's Manchester trip. The rhetorical question was light and jokey, as was Aaron Ramsdale's dimpled grin and bright eyes, and yet the mock offence carried it with a certain awkwardness that made him twitch and grimace, and force out a laugh as he set out quickly to explain himself: `Just need to stretch my legs and-' `I was kidding,' Aaron assured him quietly, though his smile faded a bit and he averted his eyes, glancing out of the window and then seeming to find something very interest in the small backpack on his lap - and Ben too looked sharply away, trailing off in his explanation of why he was so desperate to be off the bus, any reason but to get a break from the warm and companionable presence of the Arsenal goalkeeper. Once he was up and off, shaking his 6ft1 body and waiting to be handed his small wheeled case form the luggage hold, White was feeling a little bit awkward and uncomfortable about that momentary friction with Ramsdale. It was nothing, just a little moment of poor communication, but it was the kind of little off-moment that now seemed to happen daily between the firm friends, and it wasn't hard for the Arsenal lad to know where it had all begin, just as he knew his pal must be conscious of it too. As it had throughout the Christmas period and this first month of 2023, Benjamin's thoughts turned to the sweaty heat of Doha, and the couple of days before his controversial exit from the England camp. He'd dealt with any number of questions about his departure in the six or seven weeks that had passed, though now more from friends and colleagues than the initial media scrutiny, and he knew that half a dozen different rumours were floating about the footballing world, none quite sticking to his name. Thank fuck that none of them were any close to the truth, he thought, and rubbed instinctively at one of his puffy eyes, a gesture that any onlooker would mistake for the obvious tiredness of the blokes, aching from last night's game and from an early start to be driven down the country. Around him, other men collected their things and began to dissipate, a ragged thin crowd trailing from the bus to the other end of the car park, or in some cases towards the scattering of expensive buildings that housed the Arsenal training facilities. He was grabbed in brief hugging and handshake gestures by two or three of the nearer guys, bidding goodbye to newbie Trossard and to the likes of Holding and Gabriel, offering weak praise to the other defenders who had been bested by last night's opposition. For a moment, the Dorset lad was about to head directly for his own car, but then he remembered the few things he needed to drop off and collect from his locker inside, and he trundled in the direction of the main building, joining the thin stream of others who were also popping indoors for various reasons. Halfway across the tarmac, he couldn't help but pause and look morosely back in the direction of the idling bus: big Ramsdale, a hefty 6ft2 looking even more bulky in his hoodie and puffer jacket, was deep in conversation with Turner, the 2nd keeper who had unsuccessfully taken his place last night. Benjamin thought about the coldness between them in hot Qatar, that night and day after the conjugal visits went a bit wrong. Aaron's prank, Ben's fiancee's temper, and the ill-fated mischief that followed that evening. He blinked and winced and thought angrily about how silly and immature they'd both been. Once he'd got the gross stuff in his eye, he'd felt utterly ridiculous, and point blank refused to show his face amongst the rest of Southgate's men - he'd feigned various vague allusions to illness and bullied Ramsdale into supporting his lies, disappearing out of the hotel base as quickly as he could and catching that flight back to London, shrouded in gossip and controversy. But at least none of the headlines had read `Arsenal defender catches pinkeye playing about with joke dildo', and Ramsdale seemed to have successfully kept their secret for the remainder of the tournament - and, as far as he could tell, his female partner's indignation over the prank dildo had completely disappeared during a festive season of him lavishing every expensive gift on her that his limited imagination could stretch to. That afternoon in the Middle East, the stroppy girl had threatened to end their engagement over Aaron's joke and the idea that Ben might tell a soul about their sex life, but now all was forgiven and forgotten. Forgiven and forgotten - was that true between him and Rammers...? Well yeah, pretty much. His own sour resentment to the other fella had been cooled by how helpful and discreet Ramsdale was in helping him to get away from England training, and as soon as the big fella was back from the winter sun, they'd been thrown back together by Arsenal training regimes, and hung out plenty in between December and January fixtures much as before. But it hung there awkwardly between them, or at least over Ben's head: the knowledge of the silly shit they'd got up to in that hotel room, and how it had led to such vicious words between them once that clumsy twat got cum in Ben's eye. It was easier, subconsciously, for White to fixate on that little injury than to really acknowledge the full details of what had gone on between them; and yet all of it hung there at the back of his mind and made him that little bit more reticent and shy with his clubmate, that little bit distant and removed even when they hung out just the two of them. Not to mention his England prospects being in tatters, of course - a bit like last night's loss to City, Benjamin found himself curiously disinterested in something that should be a significant blow. Did he really care that he was unlikely to get another call-up from the Three Lions? It hadn't been much fun, and he'd never felt like he was being seriously considered to replace any of the gaffer's defensive faves. Sod them. Here at Arsenal he was valued, and their young-ish club hero manager had been quick to remind him of this as soon as he returned to them with his pinkeye faded away. The 25-year-old mulled over his dented friendship with Ramsdale and his limited national prospects, muddling through the cool quiet interiors of the training centre, pausing only to greet a couple of staff who were pleased to see him. The lean defender made his way to the players' main locker-room, then unzipped his case to leave a few items here, then fetched and packed away a few random pieces in the other direction: a couple of beanie hats and some clean underpants, then his Nintendo Switch and some spare headphones. The case was zipped back up and he lingered for a moment in the locker-room, still distracted by questions of his closeness to Aaron, and whether he would ever get to don an England shirt and represent this country on that stage. His thoughts were disturbed by the jaunty humming of another player strolling in beside him, and he glanced up to notice Granit Xhaka coming in, striding past with a large bag slung over one shoulder. White gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement, slightly keen to get away and not get drawn into any analysis of last night, but not wishing to disrespect the former captain and stalwart motivator of the squad. Unlike he or Aaron, Granit had put in a full 90 minutes against City, and was taking the cup defeat a little less brightly than the other league-topping lads. `You alright?' Xhaka asked, a slight frown on his face in spite of his fairly cheerful humming. He stopped at a locker a few spaces down, and White nodded again, fussing with the zip of his case, which had got slightly stuck. `All good,' Ben told him, when his nod was apparently not enough. `You? Hope you're not too worried about last night, big man, it was just tough luck, y'know.' The Swiss international nodded, unzipping his tracksuit top and beginning to riffle through the contents of his own personal locker. Ben was vaguely surprised to see him pulling out some club-branded gym kit, and he raised his eyebrows mildly. `You're going to have a workout?' he asked quietly, thinking again how desperate he was to get away from this working environment for the majority of the weekend, and he hadn't even made the pitch last night at the Etihad. The tight-muscled 30-year-old nodded quite fiercely, beginning to pull away his more relaxed travel clothes to change into the slim-fit gym top and some fresh shorts, briefly pottering about in just a pair of pale grey briefs. `Why not? A short session before home to Mrs X. I have to keep my routine.' He seemed to be a bit preoccupied in his thoughts, and Ben supposed that the cup loss was still weighing on him, Arteta's team talk somehow passing him by. Or maybe the fella just really cared about his six-pack, which was fucking admirable to be fair. White watched him idly, wondering if he should be showing the same level of commitment as the Albanian-Swiss player... but concluding that, nope, he really didn't have it in him this morning. He needed to be out of here. `We needed you on the field,' Xhaka grunted, pausing in the middle of tying up the drawstrings of his short shorts. `We should never have been playing a fucking B team against CITY. Ugh.' His face creased with unhappy lines, and then he seemed to shake it off and remember himself, and he rolled his shoulders and threw a few imaginary punches at the air. `Well, I'm going to go blow off some steam.' `Don't do too much,' White found himself advising faintly, although he was more resentful of the older lad's energy and commitment, rather than actually concerned for his match fitness. He high-fived one of his hands weakly as the other 6ft1 player passed him by, and then he looked over his shoulder to see the midfielder disappear through open double-doors to find his way into the fitness rooms. Bold bastard, but good for him. Left alone again, the 25-year-old pushed shut the locker door and twisted the key, then pushed it into the pocket of his heavy over-shirt. He was about to take a grab of the raised handle of his case and make a quick exit, but his thoughtful mood continued, and a third troubling idea had swirled in to join the Qatar memory and the lack of a future under Southgate: he couldn't help but slightly over-think what the Swiss fella had just said to him, and finally ask himself just why he HADN'T made a second-half appearance to help a comeback against City. He stood on the spot, hand on the case handle, cheeks suckered in thoughtfully as he stared absently into the red of the locker door. Then, with a moment of decisiveness, he pushed the case into the wall to leave it here, and made an exit through the opposite side of the room to the gym doors that Granit Xhaka had followed. Benjamin went a different way through the bright quiet halls of the building, and found his way up a broad curving staircase at its centre, up into the more corporate environment of its upper floor. He'd pop by and say goodbye to the boss, he thought. It's not as if he'd go in there and be unsubtle about it, of course; he wasn't that daft, he wouldn't actually blow his top and go barking at Arteta about why he'd spent the whole game on the sidelines when he might have helped to boost the resistance after their rivals went 1 up. Nah, nothing like that! No recreation of the supposed argument with a coach that most people believed had ended his tenure at the England camp, anyway! He'd be subtle about it, and just casual, pretend he was just passing by to wish the 40-year-old ex-Arsenal player a good weekend. Mikel would surely make some mild comment to him about forgetting the FA Cup, and he'd be able to steer the convo lightly to the squad line-up, or something, and... halfway down the corridor towards the big corner office that housed the club manager, Benjamin lost some of his confidence in the plan, and felt just a bit awkward. He was sure that the gaffer would be up here by now, and also that he would not already have exited the campus, but he was suddenly not so sure that he had the knack and conversational skill to broach this topic without sounding like a sulky brat or an angry primadonna. The doubt slowed his pace and he faltered a few strides from the door to Arteta's office, pawing at the lapels of his waterproof jacket, and then fumbling with the buttons of the corduroy over-shirt beneath it. But he took the last few steps, because turning back at this point felt more silly and embarrassing, and he propelled himself to the office door, surprised that thin slats of blinds covered its small square window, and only half-conscious of the little thud and scrape noises that sounded within when he rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood below that panel. When there was no immediate voice, he knocked his fist again, a little more firmly, and stepped back, hands on his hips, kinda hoping that the boss would be busy on the phone or something, and he'd have to- `Who is it?' sounded Mikel's voice, sounding a little muffled and strained. He wasn't quite switched-on enough right now to pay much attention to the odd quality of the head coach's voice, but he was still hesitant enough about his own agenda to pause and not shout immediately, just hovering there in front of the closed office door, one hand at his side and the other rubbing his knuckles softly against the fuzz of his goatee. `Hello?' barked Arteta's voice again, a little more clearly, and definitely impatient. `What is it, for god's sake?' The irritation in the gaffer's tone should have been a red flag for White, but he was still stuck in that awkward sentiment of feeling that he'd come this far, he may as well go through with it; and without quite announcing himself, he gripped at the door handle and found it obviously unlocked, pushing it open to let himself sharply in to the managerial office, calling an awkward `Hey chief' and then a sheepish, mumbled `It's me, coach, Benjamin' as he took a couple of steps inside and stalled. The Arenal manager, still dressed in the full club tracksuit as he had been when they left their Salford hotel, was stood sideways in front of his desk, turning his face away while he raised his voice - `Did I ask you to come in?!' - and he wasn't alone, which was what surprised and stalled White as soon as he was inside the office. On the far side of the desk, standing up, was another masculine figure in the same close-fitting tracksuit of all Arsenal coaches, though it hugged a little more tightly at the short and thick-set muscle of this other bloke. `Oh,' murmured Ben faintly, blinking away his surprise, `hey, Jack...' Across the office, the Arsenal youth coach gave him a nod and a lopsided smile, seeming to adjust the fit of his muscle-hugging dark jumper, and reaching down to finish by also adjusting the waist of his thigh-gripping tracksuit pants, standing there in a strangely powerful stance, looking more amused than anything else to be interrupted in this... er, whatever this meeting was. `Howdy,' Jack Wilshere called lightly his way, `good to see you, Whitey.' Mikel's face was less bemused than Jack's, although it was hard to read his expression properly; as he turned fully this way, the manager seemed to be wiping at his mouth and dark stubble with one shaky hand, his eyes narrowed a little seriously, and one of his hands pulling awkwardly at the front of his tracksuit. He cleared his throat loudly. `Did I ask you to come in?' the head coach demanded again, though a little less hotly this time. `Why ask if you aren't going to wait to be invited, hey?' `Er...' The defender didn't quite know what to say to that. He blinked stupidly at the two Arsenal coaches, two club heroes who were respected by every single member of the club community - the prematurely retired 31-year-old, a stocky 5ft8 in his tight blue tracksuit, and the glowering 40-year-old legend. Arteta cleared his throat again, still rubbing at something on his face, as if he'd been caught eating something he shouldn't, and then pulling at the neckline of his jersey. Behind him, beside the desk, Wilshere just smirked a bit and scratched on stubbled cheek, then shrugged his shoulders, as if a question had been asked, one that White couldn't hear. `Well,' Mikel demanded, `what is it?' This was odd. The Spaniard was a fiery character in his own way, but his open-door policy was famous throughout the squad, and he adopted a very warm and friendly manner in all of his dealings with individual players on the first team. The friendly and supportive coaching style of the former midfielder was something that White had particularly loved about his time here so far, and he was used to being able to pop in quite casually to see the boss before training, always able to have a quiet chat about his progress and his recent form - it was odd to be standing here and glared at like this, although clearly the two had been holding some kind of a meeting, and he'd gone and interrupted it... `Er,' he said lamely again. `Too bad about last night, huh?' interrupted Wilshere, sitting against the corner of the desk, and folding his arms a little bit confrontationally across his chest. `Still - not as if you can take any of the blame, eh, Benjamin?' At this, the actual manager seemed to turn and glare at his first office visitor, still fiddling oddly with the zip of his tracksuit jersey, and then pushing his hands into the pockets at the side. He glared from Wilshere to White, and then moved rapidly around the side of the desk to go and sink into his chair, whilst the youth coach remained perched at the edge of the desk as if he owned the place. Still unable to think of anything to say to either of them other than `Why the fuck didn't I play last night?', Ben just gawped from ex-midfielder to ex-midfielder, and then shut his mouth. `Sorry, chief,' he said quickly. `Didn't realise you were in a meeting.' Mikel looked briefly confused by this apology, then suddenly alert. `Ye-es. A meeting. We have a lot to discuss here - is this something important?' He looked arch and villainous in his big leather chair, flattening his palms across the top of the desk. To the left, Jack Wilshere's smirk deepend and his eyes sparkled with interest. `Er, no,' Ben admitted, deflating. Any chance of suave chat and indirect questioning was gone now. He felt stupid and out of place. He ran fingers through the curling fringe of his hair, then toyed briefly with an earring. `Sorry, boss - I just - it doesn't matter. Some other time. Sorry, sorry-' And he nodded respectfully at Wilshere too, sharing a lot of the other players' general awe of the ex-player, even if Jack's once-promising career had led to so little. Then he just looked apologetically at Mikel himself, who still seemed very tense and on edge, and was staring right at him with eyes full of impatience and question. And so White shuffled backwards and exited the office, pulling the door shut behind him and trying to decode what exactly had seemed so odd about the scene he just interrupted. It was only halfway down the corridor, hearing the vague click behind him that might be the turning of a lock, that the fact really registered in his confused brain, and nagged at the beginnings of a long-shot suspicion: why the fuck had Wilshere's jumper been on back-to-front...? He returned to the main locker-room to collect his case, and on the way he bid a couple more goodbyes, passing two younger players who were finishing up medical appointments, and almost bumping straight into Odegaard and Martinelli as they emerged from another door on that corridor of physios and nutritionists. He was curt and agitated with these encounters, the oddity of his failed visit to the gaffer plaguing him with new uncertainties as he came down here to fetch his luggage and return to the car park. As odd as Arteta had been, though, it didn't bother White as much as that lingering look he'd taken at Ramsdale in said car park. He'd looked over at the big goalie, perhaps to give him a light wave or just catch his eye, to bid farewell to his buddy before they parted ways for the majority of the weekend... and yet Aaron had been so engaged in talking to his fellow keeper, not even looking up and acknowledging him. Which, he told himself, was totally fine and normal, they were best pals but they weren't joined at the fucking hip...! He was overthinking it, as he seemed to do with all their interactions now, paranoid and insecure about what they'd allowed to happen in the hotel. Forget it, he told himself, stomping his way through the large empty locker-room. Forget about it, and just be cool. Everything's okay. Stop over-thinking, it don't suit you. The tanned handsome football lad scolded himself for being so restless and paranoid, deciding that this was just a surplus energy from having travelled for an away game and spent it on the bench - no doubt Rammers felt the same, the two of them having been stuck on the sidelines with nothing to do but applaud their losing teammates. White's attention was hooked vaguely by the reminding sight of Xhaka's stuff, some of it left loosely on the shelf below his closed locker, making him think again of how determined and committed the well-built midfielder was to be putting in a fitness shift today when they were free to get home to their personal lives. But, he thought, that's not just Granit's stuff - there was another bag on the next segment of shelf, and he tried to remember whose locker was next to the Swiss-Albanian's. It wasn't just this dull question that made him shrug off his jacket for a moment and hang it over the handle of his case to go wandering into the gym - it was some hopeful admiration for any teammate who was working on their muscles this morning after the hours on the motorway. Conscious of his own lack of minutes last night, and the pretty abrupt way the gaffer had just addressed him at his office, the 25-year-old was suddenly thoughtful about his own form and whether he'd slacked off a bit since all the distraction and weirdness of his England World Cup experience. In he went, dressed in his overshirt and black sweatpants, following the series of doors that took him into the well-lit gym suites that dominated this half of the building, lined with photographic murals of successful Arsenal players, teams, and trophies. The first main room was empty, overhead lighting crackling into life at the motion of his steps, and he turned one and then another corner, drifting slowly between unused machines, starting to wonder if actually nobody was hard at work in here after all. If not for a slight shifting of light through the next doorway, he might have turned back, keen as he was to go home and see his fiancee, to collapse on the sofa and indulge himself lazily, to plan their afternoon and evening together - but he hesitated on his trainers, poised halfway down the long room of weights machines. The next room was more for free weights than this array of machinery, and so one whole wall of it was mirrored - ostensibly for working on form and precision, though obviously really for posing and vanity - so that from where he stood, he could now make out the reflection of the room's occupants. Except that the two men in the next room weren't actually busy hoisting dumbbells and working on form, precision, posing OR vanity... Nope. They were... cuddling? Very slowly and quietly, Benjamin eased himself forward, padding lightly over the sprung floor and past the row of big weights machines, until he was poised a few feet away from the blocky doorway, and staring intently through it into that wall of mirror, and the vivid reflection it portrayed of the view around the corner: tall burly Xhaka, kitted out as he'd been in the changing rooms before, with his muscular arms pulled about the hunched figure of the other fitness enthusiast, screening him from this mirror as he did so. The uncertainty made White take one more stealthy step forward, and he leaned in a little bit, staring into that mirror view, and recognising the shorter build and dark brown hair of the other kitted figure in the weights gym, who looked a bit upset and red-faced. Their voices were low and private, but he could hear them clear enough from here. `Oh, it's okay,' murmured Granit with his softly purring accent. `You don't have to be embarrassed in front of me. Just tell me about it.' `It's nothing,' sniffed Kieran Tierney, another of last night's disappointing performers who had failed to hold a clean sheet at the back of the squad. The 5ft10 Scots bloke was still hunched slightly, being gripped and hugged from the side by the midfielder, one pale hand rubbing at his eyes and red cheeks. `Look at me - blubbing in the gym like a twat, what am I like?' `Just tell me,' purred Granit again. `What's wrong? Is it lady trouble?' Visible in the mirror, Kieran screwed up his face. `Something like that.' `Man trouble? Ha ha ha...' `Mate,' the left-back muttered testily. `Oh, come on, relax, I was joking,' insisted Xhaka. In the reflected view, White couldn't help but notice the way he grabbed and stroked at Tierney's neck and shoulders as he spoke, standing by and over him, so tactile and physical with him, weights forgotten about. `Here, let me message you, yeah?' And hands were on shoulders, the 6ft1 European man pulling up behind the Scotland star to knead at his shoulders through his sleeveless training top, which bared those lean pale arms. Standing at his vantage point around the corner from them, Ben didn't particularly stop to question his own stealth. He didn't need to ask himself why he was pausing here on the edge of the room, peering at them in reflection, and hiding the squeak of his stylish new trainers against the springy gym flooring. He just stood there, looking and listening, keeping his breathing low, as one teammate began to massage quite vigorously at the tense shoulders of the other, making his fellow defender let out a long moan of begrudging relief that echoed around the corner between the fitness suites. `That is pretty good,' growled Tierney's rich Lanarkshire accent. `You gonna tell me the problem?' Granit asked him, voice so low that White only half-caught his words, partly lipreading in the vivid reflection. `I wouldn't know where to start,' Kieran grumbled back - his head lolled as he relaxed into the other man's touch, facing the mirror but not really looking at it. Perhaps, Ben thought, if he had, he would have caught sight of a glimmer of Benjamin White, hunched awkwardly at the edge of the doorway, leaning out to stare through the doorway... and why? Out of what nosiness or curiosity? He wasn't sure, couldn't name it. Nor could he pinpoint the excitement he felt, the way he pulled a little at the collar of the corduroy shirt, or at the baggy crotch of the soft black sweatpants, as if the room had just got a lot warmer. `Who's breaking your heart, Tesco?' Xhaka grunted, invoking a little-used nickname from the Celtic youth graduate's early days at Arsenal, carrying his things to training in a plastic bag from the supermarket. `Nobody,' Tierney mumbled through another groan of relief. `Well - not that they know about, anyway...' `Who is she?' `Oh, it doesn't matter, honest... Just a... Not even a relationship, just a... thing, so...' `But you're feeling crap about it?' `Well, yeh - clearly, ha. Being a right soppy fuck, ain't I? As if...' `Do they know how you feel?' A hollow laugh. `Nah. Ain't told them anything like that-' `Well? Why don't you?' `You don't get it, they... they don't even live in this country, and I never see them, so...' A vague curious grunt from Granit there, but he was more busy with his hands, and Ben was watching every move: the intensity with which the footballer's paws worked at the other lad's neck and shoulders and upper arms, the closeness of their bodies, the way Kieran lolled and relaxed against the 6ft1 bloke, and... oh. The way that Granit's hands now slid onto the chest of the Scotsman, and the way he bowed down to rest his brow against the back of Kieran's head, their bodies standing so very close now. Too close? Benjamin was too busy asking himself this prudish question to even notice the way his own hand kept going back to the crotch of his black sweats, which was getting a bit less baggy. `Now, now,' grumbled the gruff Caledonian accent. `What?' purred the 30-year-old. `Doesn't it feel good?' `Should I be letting this massage carry on...?' mused Tierney's voice - he sounded uncertain, but quite happy about it. `I dunno where it might go...' `I think you do,' came the former captain's throaty chuckle. `And you know I can improve your Saturday.' A mingled sigh from both men, one that made White edge a little closer into the doorway and stare very hard at the mirror, so intrigued that he wanted to pull right around that corner and stare into the room properly, look at the two football players in front of the rack of dumbbells - Xhaka's wandering hands moving up and down Tierney's sides now, and beginning to pull up that sleeveless dark Arsenal vest, pulling it out from where it was tucked into the Scotsman's baggier shorts. The 25-year-old let out a ticklish giggle at this, but his body remained relaxed where it was, lifting his arms and allowing the vest to be pulled up and off, allowing those massaging hands to stroke over his pale bare chest for real, and down onto the softly defined six-pack below... Ben sucked in and held his breath, and realised that his hand was holding his semi through the sweatpants - jesus, why would any of this be exciting for him?! `Fuck,' came Tierney's gentle growl. `Just relax,' Xhaka was saying. `You remember how it was?' `That was ages ago,' the defender mumbled. `But you remember. Hehe.' White watched, and listened. He couldn't pull himself away. It was too risky now, he said to himself in his head - his trainers might squeak, or he might knock into the weight machine behind him. He might make some noise and alert or panic this secretive pair, these two friendly teammates who were giving him such a shock and a thrill. No, he couldn't move now, he'd sneaked too close, and paused too long - now he had to stay still, he insisted in his head, and just see what was going on! Erm. `Don't,' he heard Kieran moan, but Granit just laughed: in the mirror, he could see one large manly hand pushing down into the front of the dark blue shorts, disappearing and yet bulging through the glossy nylon. He could see Xhaka's strong tattooed arm reaching down the front of the Scotsman's torso, and he could see the lad's face too, eyes closed and mouth drooping open. He was just standing there, relaxing back into the strength of the other player, whilst Granit fucking Xhaka reached inside his shorts for a grope, shit. This was mad shit, and yet what was madder... for a moment, White looked down, seeing how tightly he was holding the stiff outline in the black cotton, his own hard-on throbbing. He didn't know what to tell himself, so he just looked back up and concentrated on the image in the mirror instead, where the players' bodies were shifting. He could feel his surge of irrational panic as he wondered if they might move out of sight, but no... They were just turning around, weren't they? Instead of looking head-on at Tierney's relaxed form, the shirtless Scot was leaning back into the rack of weights, supporting himself against it, and Xhaka was pulling his own shirt off, baring the strong toned muscles of his upper body, all a little shiny with the sweat of his interrupted workout. They both looked so strong and masculine, and Ben shivered as his hand began to stray back and forth over the outline of his erection. `Just you relax, Tesco...' `Mmm, we should stop.' `Do you want to?' `Mmm.' `Huh. Thought not. Just relax. Stand like this.' `What are you gonna...?' `You remember, mister. You remember.' Ben watched, paralysed with a heady cocktail of horror and arousal, as the mighty warrior of the Arsenal midfield began to stoop low, bending his knees. The man's short shorts pulled tightly about his muscular glutes and upper thighs, taut over his backside as he hunkered down behind the resting frame of 5ft10 Kieran. What was he doing...? Oh. He was pulling on the sides of Kieran's shorts. Down they were going, inch by inch, and now the big white undies below were going the same way, disappearing downwards - the view was less clear now, more obscured by Granit's head and shoulders, but the glimpses were vivid and startling, the peachy curve of Tierney's broad backside, exposed and pushed back a little. One of Xhaka's hands pushed and guided at the man's hips and the small of his back, making the Scotsman bend further forward into the rack of dumbbells, whilst behind him, the Swiss midfielder sank lower in his squat, and then placed a hand each on those plump sturdy cheeks, and... In his hand, Benjamin's cock leaked pre-cum against his boxer shorts and seeped through to lightly dampen the black of the sweats. He gripped his stiff one hard, almost too scared to shift his hand at all, wondering what sound that might make. He just hunched there at the side of the doorway, barely moving, and staring wide-eyed across into the wall of mirrors, his entire attention and his thundering heartbeat focused on the sight of it: the arching of Tierney's back and the tensing of his biceps as he held onto the metal racks, whilst the back of Xhaka's head bobbed and dipped a little, seeming to be kissing between those chunky cheeks in a violently passionate way - what the hell?! He moved an inch forward, and another. His hand gripped with more uncertain tightness at the shape of his hard cock, and his breaths came in and out with almost no noise at all. Gripped by stealth and excitement, his other hand clutched at the doorframe, and he stared incredulously across at that mirror image: hunched leaning Granit, burying his face in the presented backside of moaning, panting, sweating Tierney. However distressed the Scottish lad had been five minutes ago, now he was enjoying himself, though his growling voice was wracked by uncertainty: `Oh fuck, don't, you'll get me going - oh god, mate - fuckkk, this is wrong - not here, not here - ohhhhh yesss' and so on and so forth. Even after his recent near-adventures, with his curious missus and his prankster roomie, Ben was confused, naive, oblivious - he didn't really understand what he was seeing. Was Xhaka really licking the man's arse? Was that a thing people did? His mind was blown. And yet it was when the action turned around and became more obvious that he finally gave in and pushed his hand inside the sweatpants and his boxers and gripped his long slim cock properly to begin wanking silently under cover. `Your ass tastes as good as I remember,' he could just about hear the 30-year-old pant. `Suck my cock now,' moaned 25-year-old Tierney, a sudden excited authority in his growl. Now Ben couldn't stop but wank himself, pulling hard on his cock, the tip rubbing against the insides of his boxers. His eyes barely blinked, glued to the reflection of Granit still down on his haunches, head bobbing back and forth with a different rhythm, and the occasionally glimpses of a shiny wet cock as it escaped briefly from his mouth. The Swiss man's hands, roving up and down Kieran's abdomen and up towards his hard dark nipples. The rolls and lolls of Kieran's face, eyes still shut and mouth wide open, as he pressed arms and shoulders back into the shelving, but pushed and thrust forward with his hips, clearly enjoying the illicit blowjob even more than the strange act that preceded it. `Fuck yes,' Tierney almost shouted. `Suck it good. Yeh, that's what I remember, mate.' Breathless, wide-eyed, crazy with shock: White couldn't stop yanking on his cock, his whole 6ft1 frame shaking with tension and fear. His palm brushed roughly up and down the shaft and his balls tingled below. His heart thundered, and his muscles ached with the tension. But all of this anxiety was just speeding his rapid self-pleasure towards the inevitable. He'd lost any sense of time whilst he watched the sordid excitement, but he was only wanking his prick in his pants for a total of four minutes before he could feel the lukewarm ooze on his knuckles, filling the front of his boxer shorts with a three-day load of White stuff. In these moments, his restraint was stretched more than the front of the undies, as he fought back the pants and gasps and moans, and just stood there like a statue, his other hand gripping the doorway for balance, his face a frozen rictus towards the mirror. He was now more shocked by his own orgasm and the mess in his pants than anything he'd actually observed from his vantage point. Benjamin was finished, but Kieran wasn't yet, not quite. A long awkward minute stretched out in which White felt instantly dirty and regretful, but frozen to the spot with absolute fear. He needed to back off carefully, he needed to retreat from the doorway and the view - HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF HERE. But at first, he just couldn't move, it was like his hand was superglued to the doorframe and his trainers were cemented to the floor. He trembled all over and struggled to keep his breathing silent, or not to let out a little groan of disgust as he felt the spunk cool on his fingers and the shaft of his cock. `Fuck, I'm gonna cum,' hollered Kieran Tierney, and the strength of his voice was the jolt of reality that was needed to spur White into motion - but perhaps too late. A split-second before he yanked quickly and quietly back from the doorway, he saw Tierney's eyes open, and the ruggedly handsome Scot stare right into his own reflection in the mirror wall, perhaps enjoying the sight of his strong young body with an older man serving it on his knees - but his eyes darting and shifting, rolling THIS WAY, and - it was hard to be sure, but they seemed to meet Ben's own, connecting via the reflection like some weird mash-up of the Mona Lisa and the Lady of Shallot. But if he saw anything, Kieran didn't quite react to it, he just groaned, very loudly, and part of Ben wanted to stay and see it, the passionate throes of his fellow 25-year-old defender - but no, no, no, he needed to GO. White slipped through the gym rooms as quickly and quietly as he could, so hurried and frantic that he almost tripped over or into several machines and weight racks and water taps. His whole body felt drenched with sweat, but he could still feel the warm stickiness of his cock as it bounced limply against boxer shorts. In the final passage between the fitness suites and the locker-rooms, he had to stop himself, leaning heavily to one side, and confirm that no footsteps or shouts were following him out of the gymnasium. Had Kieran seen or heard him? Had their eyes really met in that mirror? He just didn't know, but he certainly wasn't staying put here to find out...! Driven by the visceral excitement of his own disgust, Benjamin stormed through the locker-room, snatching up his jacket under one arm and yanking on the long handle of his small suitcase with the other. He pushed out into a different corridor and retraced his steps for the reception and the exit, terrified of bumping into anyone on the way out of the training building now. He was just desperate to be in his car and on the road home around the North London suburbs, home to his woman and his engagement. Safety. `Hold up, hold up - where's the fire, buddy?!' The panicked lad was in such a direct rush for the exit that he didn't see his friend until they were almost smashing into each other on the way into the foyer, the slightly taller bloke having just stepped about the corner with a backpack two-strapping over his broad shoulders. In his hurry, Benjamin was just crashing straight into him, chest-to-chest, and now he was dropping his jacket and his case simultaneously in a jolt of frenzied panic; the big sturdy hands of the goalkeeper came up to grip his sides and steady him, and he found himself staring into the big broad smile on Aaron Ramsdale's face. `What the fuck's up with you?' the Stoke-born goalie demanded through his laughter, patting his upper arms firmly twice, just giving him that big puzzled expression of friendly innocence. In a rush of gladness to see his most trusted friend, White acted on instinct, and he threw his arms about him, gripping the bulky 24-year-old to him in a tight and manly hug. `Whoa,' mumbled Aaron's voice over his shoulder, `you're shaking - and, mate, you're SOAKED - did you go do a work-out in this gear, or summat?' He was prising apart from the hug, with difficulty, and leaving Benjamin swaying on his feet. `What?' Aaron demanded. `What's up? You look like you just saw a ghost.' For a moment, he pictured the scene again, Tierney held and massaged by Xhaka in front of those mirrors, but he drove the image desperately away, and wiped one rough sleeve against his clammy bronze face. He smiled awkwardly back into Ramsdale's concerned expression and shook his head. `I'm fine,' he told him gruffly, in spite of all evidence, resisting the panicked urge to grab and hug the 6ft2 lad a second time. Instead, he reached awkwardly to each side of him, grasping up his jacket and taking hold of the case, and distancing his body from Ramsdale's. `What?' the 24-year-old asked yet again. `What's wrong?' In a thin voice, White asked him the question he'd been trying to ask for a month. `We're okay, you and me, right?' He stared seriously at his best friend, unable to look at him without picturing his troublemaker smirk on the hotel bed, taking hold of that ridiculous sex toy from some dodgy shop of Doha's seediest market; and Aaron just grinned innocently back at him, blond eyebrows raised in surprise. `Why wouldn't we?' the goalkeeper demanded in all earnestness, and Ben felt for the dozenth time this month how stupid he was, how much he'd started to over-analyse things that didn't need it; the 6ft2 bloke exuded sheer casual friendliness and honest concern, and there was no awkwardness or distance at all, it existed only in White's feverish imagination. He didn't try to explain himself - what would he say? - but just nodded and forced out a laugh, and then stepped around the confused lad, making a quick dart into the foyer and towards the automatic doors that would lead him out to the car park. `Wait,' called his friend vaguely, `is something wrong...?' `Nah, nah,' Benjamin called back. `Just gotta go - running late - see ya!' And with that, he trundled quickly out of the auto doors and onto the cold mid-morning tarmac, glad of the icy air that hit his sweaty face and neck, and of the bright winter sunshine that could drown out the mental images of the weights room. At a window upstairs, a couple of fingers brushed at the vertical blinds, pulling them gently open a couple of inches, allowing a slightly better view of the sunlit car park: specifically, of the rushing figure with his case dragging behind him and a jacket slung over one shoulder, moving rapidly for one of the few remaining cars spaced out along the far edge of the tarmac. `Hmm,' murmured Jack Wilshere, watching one of the Arsenal squad's most superficially handsome young lads bundle himself into his expensive motor, and then disappear out of the bright parking lot, away onto the suburban roads. `What?' came Mikel Arteta's voice from close by, his tone tinged with the exhausted panting of someone who, until minutes ago, had been gagging on a very full mouth. The 31-year-old coach lingered at the window, fingering at the blinds, watching as a few other figures drifted to their cars, curiously picking out the tall silhouettes of what must be blond Ramsdale, then the slightly less distinctive form of Xhaka a minute later, and finally perhaps Tierney. They must be the last to go, he mused, before pulling himself away from the windows and facing back into the large square office, looking down at where his once-teammate and now sort-of-boss was slumped in his leather chair, gasping as he pulled on his socks and trainers. `Are you going to get dressed?' gasped the Spanish older man, quietly. Stood there, stark bollock naked in the corner of the locked office, Jack just grinned cheekily, and strolled boldly around the edges of the desk, stretching out his arms and flexing his lightly haired chest, happy to let his long heavy cock swing in front of his spent balls. He paused directly in front of where the Arsenal boss sat, hurrying into his clothes, red-cheeked and glossy-browed. Jack just smirked knowingly across at the man whose dirty appetite he was now contracted to feed, and said quietly, `You missed a spot of my spunk, chief.' With faux delicacy, the Stevenage-born lads' lad dabbed somewhere near his lips, and laughed as a paranoid Arteta plucked a tissue from a box and rubbed it over his thick dark stubble, clearly unsure if he was being helped or teased. Naked and chuckling, Wilshere reached down to toy with his exhausted crown jewels, starting to cast his eyes about the manager's office for where each items of his clothes had landed as he stripped off for Arteta's darkly adoring eyes. He spotted his briefs on a lampshade, but no sign of his tracksuit pants yet. He turned back to Mikel, scratching his balls with one hand and his chest hair with the other. The Arsenal manager always looked so frigid and resentful after he'd had his fun, and he looked up at him now with an icy expression on his face, tight-lipped and mean. `Same time in two days,' the Spanish bloke said quietly, his voice very low and tense. Jack gave another of his trademark cheeky grins. `Maybe,' he grunted, stepping over to retrieve his Armani briefs from where they dangled, and twirling them about in his hand rather than stepping straight into them. `See how I feel,' he added, stretching them at the waist and walking right back into Mikel's view, happy with the way the 40-year-old couldn't stop staring at his drooping cock. But then Arteta's icy voice cut across his bravado, reminding him of his place in a few simple words. `If you value your job,' the manager told him, `you'll be here.' And Wilshere had to pause in the act of stepping into the briefs and pulling them up his short mighty legs, twanging the waistband in and adjusting his big soft bulge in the front of them. He met the stony gaze of the cock-hungry football coach, his smile fading, and a slow nod offered to the gaffer's demanding face. `Right,' Jack grunted quietly, reminded of the two contracts he had signed in a boardroom down the corridor - the official contract that employed him as a youth team coach for his beloved club, and the separate one that tied him to his former captain's service to keep that job viable. He scowled resentfully at the older man, always hating these reminders that the power dynamic wasn't quite as he'd planned it - whilst his cock was hard and Mikel was gagging for it, he felt like he had all the power in the world, the muscular little king of a Red North London. But before the act and after it, he could see this for what it was: he was back at his beloved Arsenal on strict conditions, and he wasn't really here as a promising young coach setting out on a management career. Nope. He was here as Mikel Arteta's gigolo, the big creamy load to satisfy the married Spaniard whenever he most needed it, or his contract would suddenly... cease to be viable. The two men stared levelly at each other for a long moment, and then Wilshere continued dressing, saying nothing more until a prim `See ya' on the way out of the unlocked door, conscious of Arteta's eyes burning into his back all the way down the corridor. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 31 Jan 2023 23:13:47 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 347 Part 347: What Benjamin Saw Saturday morning, he thought through a yawn, as the gates of their North London training camp came into view and the team bus swung off the B-road and down the sparse lane then in through those familiar gates. It had been a smooth journey across the country, but the young footballing lad was as restless as anyone else to disembark and disband - home and the licking of wounds, private recovery rituals and a break from the training schedule at last. As the big coach ground to a halt at one side of the broad car park, the 25-year-old clamped hands over his knees and readied himself to hurry up out of his seat and not be one of the last off the vehicle. Mind, it was hardly the sombre mood you'd expect from a squad returning from FA Cup knockout, to be fair; there was nothing like being comfortably top of the Premier League to take the edge off some disappointment, even in a tournament as iconic as the FA Cup, one solidly treasured by the club and its fans over the years where league success had seemed so distant. They were all of them a bit horrified to be pushed out of the national tournament, for sure, but they were all pretty measured and sanguine about the pay-off - their battle for the Premiership title had drained them and left them unable to really fend off Man City last night, and now they were to some extent freed to just fully focus on that one singular goal after all. Their Spanish boss had been brutally clear last night in the Etihad's away changing rooms: no tears or recriminations over failure against Guardiola's lot in the cup, just resilient and determined focus on the big win ahead. Like the rest of them, Ben White bought it, and he felt oddly liberated and unconcerned about being absent from last night's failed defence. He wasn't even wasting any thoughts on the notion that being subbed on might have allowed him to improve matters. Instead of being gloomy and downtrodden, the tall handsome player just felt keen to get some rest and then get back to work tomorrow afternoon with everybody else. He wasn't going to mope over watching the City pricks take their place in the latter stages of a cup that they had great history in, nah. Now, he braced himself to get up, fidgeting on his seat, and looking back down the aisle of the bus, then leaning heavily into the backrest and rising up on one knee, waiting for the coach doors to open and to be able to spring lightly down to the exit ahead of the rush. But next to him was a light scoffing sound, and he glanced to the left. `That desperate to get away from me?' chuckled his neighbour in the next seat, and his roommate as usual for last night's Manchester trip. The rhetorical question was light and jokey, as was Aaron Ramsdale's dimpled grin and bright eyes, and yet the mock offence carried it with a certain awkwardness that made him twitch and grimace, and force out a laugh as he set out quickly to explain himself: `Just need to stretch my legs and-' `I was kidding,' Aaron assured him quietly, though his smile faded a bit and he averted his eyes, glancing out of the window and then seeming to find something very interest in the small backpack on his lap - and Ben too looked sharply away, trailing off in his explanation of why he was so desperate to be off the bus, any reason but to get a break from the warm and companionable presence of the Arsenal goalkeeper. Once he was up and off, shaking his 6ft1 body and waiting to be handed his small wheeled case form the luggage hold, White was feeling a little bit awkward and uncomfortable about that momentary friction with Ramsdale. It was nothing, just a little moment of poor communication, but it was the kind of little off-moment that now seemed to happen daily between the firm friends, and it wasn't hard for the Arsenal lad to know where it had all begin, just as he knew his pal must be conscious of it too. As it had throughout the Christmas period and this first month of 2023, Benjamin's thoughts turned to the sweaty heat of Doha, and the couple of days before his controversial exit from the England camp. He'd dealt with any number of questions about his departure in the six or seven weeks that had passed, though now more from friends and colleagues than the initial media scrutiny, and he knew that half a dozen different rumours were floating about the footballing world, none quite sticking to his name. Thank fuck that none of them were any close to the truth, he thought, and rubbed instinctively at one of his puffy eyes, a gesture that any onlooker would mistake for the obvious tiredness of the blokes, aching from last night's game and from an early start to be driven down the country. Around him, other men collected their things and began to dissipate, a ragged thin crowd trailing from the bus to the other end of the car park, or in some cases towards the scattering of expensive buildings that housed the Arsenal training facilities. He was grabbed in brief hugging and handshake gestures by two or three of the nearer guys, bidding goodbye to newbie Trossard and to the likes of Holding and Gabriel, offering weak praise to the other defenders who had been bested by last night's opposition. For a moment, the Dorset lad was about to head directly for his own car, but then he remembered the few things he needed to drop off and collect from his locker inside, and he trundled in the direction of the main building, joining the thin stream of others who were also popping indoors for various reasons. Halfway across the tarmac, he couldn't help but pause and look morosely back in the direction of the idling bus: big Ramsdale, a hefty 6ft2 looking even more bulky in his hoodie and puffer jacket, was deep in conversation with Turner, the 2nd keeper who had unsuccessfully taken his place last night. Benjamin thought about the coldness between them in hot Qatar, that night and day after the conjugal visits went a bit wrong. Aaron's prank, Ben's fiancee's temper, and the ill-fated mischief that followed that evening. He blinked and winced and thought angrily about how silly and immature they'd both been. Once he'd got the gross stuff in his eye, he'd felt utterly ridiculous, and point blank refused to show his face amongst the rest of Southgate's men - he'd feigned various vague allusions to illness and bullied Ramsdale into supporting his lies, disappearing out of the hotel base as quickly as he could and catching that flight back to London, shrouded in gossip and controversy. But at least none of the headlines had read `Arsenal defender catches pinkeye playing about with joke dildo', and Ramsdale seemed to have successfully kept their secret for the remainder of the tournament - and, as far as he could tell, his female partner's indignation over the prank dildo had completely disappeared during a festive season of him lavishing every expensive gift on her that his limited imagination could stretch to. That afternoon in the Middle East, the stroppy girl had threatened to end their engagement over Aaron's joke and the idea that Ben might tell a soul about their sex life, but now all was forgiven and forgotten. Forgiven and forgotten - was that true between him and Rammers...? Well yeah, pretty much. His own sour resentment to the other fella had been cooled by how helpful and discreet Ramsdale was in helping him to get away from England training, and as soon as the big fella was back from the winter sun, they'd been thrown back together by Arsenal training regimes, and hung out plenty in between December and January fixtures much as before. But it hung there awkwardly between them, or at least over Ben's head: the knowledge of the silly shit they'd got up to in that hotel room, and how it had led to such vicious words between them once that clumsy twat got cum in Ben's eye. It was easier, subconsciously, for White to fixate on that little injury than to really acknowledge the full details of what had gone on between them; and yet all of it hung there at the back of his mind and made him that little bit more reticent and shy with his clubmate, that little bit distant and removed even when they hung out just the two of them. Not to mention his England prospects being in tatters, of course - a bit like last night's loss to City, Benjamin found himself curiously disinterested in something that should be a significant blow. Did he really care that he was unlikely to get another call-up from the Three Lions? It hadn't been much fun, and he'd never felt like he was being seriously considered to replace any of the gaffer's defensive faves. Sod them. Here at Arsenal he was valued, and their young-ish club hero manager had been quick to remind him of this as soon as he returned to them with his pinkeye faded away. The 25-year-old mulled over his dented friendship with Ramsdale and his limited national prospects, muddling through the cool quiet interiors of the training centre, pausing only to greet a couple of staff who were pleased to see him. The lean defender made his way to the players' main locker-room, then unzipped his case to leave a few items here, then fetched and packed away a few random pieces in the other direction: a couple of beanie hats and some clean underpants, then his Nintendo Switch and some spare headphones. The case was zipped back up and he lingered for a moment in the locker-room, still distracted by questions of his closeness to Aaron, and whether he would ever get to don an England shirt and represent this country on that stage. His thoughts were disturbed by the jaunty humming of another player strolling in beside him, and he glanced up to notice Granit Xhaka coming in, striding past with a large bag slung over one shoulder. White gave him a curt nod of acknowledgement, slightly keen to get away and not get drawn into any analysis of last night, but not wishing to disrespect the former captain and stalwart motivator of the squad. Unlike he or Aaron, Granit had put in a full 90 minutes against City, and was taking the cup defeat a little less brightly than the other league-topping lads. `You alright?' Xhaka asked, a slight frown on his face in spite of his fairly cheerful humming. He stopped at a locker a few spaces down, and White nodded again, fussing with the zip of his case, which had got slightly stuck. `All good,' Ben told him, when his nod was apparently not enough. `You? Hope you're not too worried about last night, big man, it was just tough luck, y'know.' The Swiss international nodded, unzipping his tracksuit top and beginning to riffle through the contents of his own personal locker. Ben was vaguely surprised to see him pulling out some club-branded gym kit, and he raised his eyebrows mildly. `You're going to have a workout?' he asked quietly, thinking again how desperate he was to get away from this working environment for the majority of the weekend, and he hadn't even made the pitch last night at the Etihad. The tight-muscled 30-year-old nodded quite fiercely, beginning to pull away his more relaxed travel clothes to change into the slim-fit gym top and some fresh shorts, briefly pottering about in just a pair of pale grey briefs. `Why not? A short session before home to Mrs X. I have to keep my routine.' He seemed to be a bit preoccupied in his thoughts, and Ben supposed that the cup loss was still weighing on him, Arteta's team talk somehow passing him by. Or maybe the fella just really cared about his six-pack, which was fucking admirable to be fair. White watched him idly, wondering if he should be showing the same level of commitment as the Albanian-Swiss player... but concluding that, nope, he really didn't have it in him this morning. He needed to be out of here. `We needed you on the field,' Xhaka grunted, pausing in the middle of tying up the drawstrings of his short shorts. `We should never have been playing a fucking B team against CITY. Ugh.' His face creased with unhappy lines, and then he seemed to shake it off and remember himself, and he rolled his shoulders and threw a few imaginary punches at the air. `Well, I'm going to go blow off some steam.' `Don't do too much,' White found himself advising faintly, although he was more resentful of the older lad's energy and commitment, rather than actually concerned for his match fitness. He high-fived one of his hands weakly as the other 6ft1 player passed him by, and then he looked over his shoulder to see the midfielder disappear through open double-doors to find his way into the fitness rooms. Bold bastard, but good for him. Left alone again, the 25-year-old pushed shut the locker door and twisted the key, then pushed it into the pocket of his heavy over-shirt. He was about to take a grab of the raised handle of his case and make a quick exit, but his thoughtful mood continued, and a third troubling idea had swirled in to join the Qatar memory and the lack of a future under Southgate: he couldn't help but slightly over-think what the Swiss fella had just said to him, and finally ask himself just why he HADN'T made a second-half appearance to help a comeback against City. He stood on the spot, hand on the case handle, cheeks suckered in thoughtfully as he stared absently into the red of the locker door. Then, with a moment of decisiveness, he pushed the case into the wall to leave it here, and made an exit through the opposite side of the room to the gym doors that Granit Xhaka had followed. Benjamin went a different way through the bright quiet halls of the building, and found his way up a broad curving staircase at its centre, up into the more corporate environment of its upper floor. He'd pop by and say goodbye to the boss, he thought. It's not as if he'd go in there and be unsubtle about it, of course; he wasn't that daft, he wouldn't actually blow his top and go barking at Arteta about why he'd spent the whole game on the sidelines when he might have helped to boost the resistance after their rivals went 1 up. Nah, nothing like that! No recreation of the supposed argument with a coach that most people believed had ended his tenure at the England camp, anyway! He'd be subtle about it, and just casual, pretend he was just passing by to wish the 40-year-old ex-Arsenal player a good weekend. Mikel would surely make some mild comment to him about forgetting the FA Cup, and he'd be able to steer the convo lightly to the squad line-up, or something, and... halfway down the corridor towards the big corner office that housed the club manager, Benjamin lost some of his confidence in the plan, and felt just a bit awkward. He was sure that the gaffer would be up here by now, and also that he would not already have exited the campus, but he was suddenly not so sure that he had the knack and conversational skill to broach this topic without sounding like a sulky brat or an angry primadonna. The doubt slowed his pace and he faltered a few strides from the door to Arteta's office, pawing at the lapels of his waterproof jacket, and then fumbling with the buttons of the corduroy over-shirt beneath it. But he took the last few steps, because turning back at this point felt more silly and embarrassing, and he propelled himself to the office door, surprised that thin slats of blinds covered its small square window, and only half-conscious of the little thud and scrape noises that sounded within when he rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood below that panel. When there was no immediate voice, he knocked his fist again, a little more firmly, and stepped back, hands on his hips, kinda hoping that the boss would be busy on the phone or something, and he'd have to- `Who is it?' sounded Mikel's voice, sounding a little muffled and strained. He wasn't quite switched-on enough right now to pay much attention to the odd quality of the head coach's voice, but he was still hesitant enough about his own agenda to pause and not shout immediately, just hovering there in front of the closed office door, one hand at his side and the other rubbing his knuckles softly against the fuzz of his goatee. `Hello?' barked Arteta's voice again, a little more clearly, and definitely impatient. `What is it, for god's sake?' The irritation in the gaffer's tone should have been a red flag for White, but he was still stuck in that awkward sentiment of feeling that he'd come this far, he may as well go through with it; and without quite announcing himself, he gripped at the door handle and found it obviously unlocked, pushing it open to let himself sharply in to the managerial office, calling an awkward `Hey chief' and then a sheepish, mumbled `It's me, coach, Benjamin' as he took a couple of steps inside and stalled. The Arenal manager, still dressed in the full club tracksuit as he had been when they left their Salford hotel, was stood sideways in front of his desk, turning his face away while he raised his voice - `Did I ask you to come in?!' - and he wasn't alone, which was what surprised and stalled White as soon as he was inside the office. On the far side of the desk, standing up, was another masculine figure in the same close-fitting tracksuit of all Arsenal coaches, though it hugged a little more tightly at the short and thick-set muscle of this other bloke. `Oh,' murmured Ben faintly, blinking away his surprise, `hey, Jack...' Across the office, the Arsenal youth coach gave him a nod and a lopsided smile, seeming to adjust the fit of his muscle-hugging dark jumper, and reaching down to finish by also adjusting the waist of his thigh-gripping tracksuit pants, standing there in a strangely powerful stance, looking more amused than anything else to be interrupted in this... er, whatever this meeting was. `Howdy,' Jack Wilshere called lightly his way, `good to see you, Whitey.' Mikel's face was less bemused than Jack's, although it was hard to read his expression properly; as he turned fully this way, the manager seemed to be wiping at his mouth and dark stubble with one shaky hand, his eyes narrowed a little seriously, and one of his hands pulling awkwardly at the front of his tracksuit. He cleared his throat loudly. `Did I ask you to come in?' the head coach demanded again, though a little less hotly this time. `Why ask if you aren't going to wait to be invited, hey?' `Er...' The defender didn't quite know what to say to that. He blinked stupidly at the two Arsenal coaches, two club heroes who were respected by every single member of the club community - the prematurely retired 31-year-old, a stocky 5ft8 in his tight blue tracksuit, and the glowering 40-year-old legend. Arteta cleared his throat again, still rubbing at something on his face, as if he'd been caught eating something he shouldn't, and then pulling at the neckline of his jersey. Behind him, beside the desk, Wilshere just smirked a bit and scratched on stubbled cheek, then shrugged his shoulders, as if a question had been asked, one that White couldn't hear. `Well,' Mikel demanded, `what is it?' This was odd. The Spaniard was a fiery character in his own way, but his open-door policy was famous throughout the squad, and he adopted a very warm and friendly manner in all of his dealings with individual players on the first team. The friendly and supportive coaching style of the former midfielder was something that White had particularly loved about his time here so far, and he was used to being able to pop in quite casually to see the boss before training, always able to have a quiet chat about his progress and his recent form - it was odd to be standing here and glared at like this, although clearly the two had been holding some kind of a meeting, and he'd gone and interrupted it... `Er,' he said lamely again. `Too bad about last night, huh?' interrupted Wilshere, sitting against the corner of the desk, and folding his arms a little bit confrontationally across his chest. `Still - not as if you can take any of the blame, eh, Benjamin?' At this, the actual manager seemed to turn and glare at his first office visitor, still fiddling oddly with the zip of his tracksuit jersey, and then pushing his hands into the pockets at the side. He glared from Wilshere to White, and then moved rapidly around the side of the desk to go and sink into his chair, whilst the youth coach remained perched at the edge of the desk as if he owned the place. Still unable to think of anything to say to either of them other than `Why the fuck didn't I play last night?', Ben just gawped from ex-midfielder to ex-midfielder, and then shut his mouth. `Sorry, chief,' he said quickly. `Didn't realise you were in a meeting.' Mikel looked briefly confused by this apology, then suddenly alert. `Ye-es. A meeting. We have a lot to discuss here - is this something important?' He looked arch and villainous in his big leather chair, flattening his palms across the top of the desk. To the left, Jack Wilshere's smirk deepend and his eyes sparkled with interest. `Er, no,' Ben admitted, deflating. Any chance of suave chat and indirect questioning was gone now. He felt stupid and out of place. He ran fingers through the curling fringe of his hair, then toyed briefly with an earring. `Sorry, boss - I just - it doesn't matter. Some other time. Sorry, sorry-' And he nodded respectfully at Wilshere too, sharing a lot of the other players' general awe of the ex-player, even if Jack's once-promising career had led to so little. Then he just looked apologetically at Mikel himself, who still seemed very tense and on edge, and was staring right at him with eyes full of impatience and question. And so White shuffled backwards and exited the office, pulling the door shut behind him and trying to decode what exactly had seemed so odd about the scene he just interrupted. It was only halfway down the corridor, hearing the vague click behind him that might be the turning of a lock, that the fact really registered in his confused brain, and nagged at the beginnings of a long-shot suspicion: why the fuck had Wilshere's jumper been on back-to-front...? He returned to the main locker-room to collect his case, and on the way he bid a couple more goodbyes, passing two younger players who were finishing up medical appointments, and almost bumping straight into Odegaard and Martinelli as they emerged from another door on that corridor of physios and nutritionists. He was curt and agitated with these encounters, the oddity of his failed visit to the gaffer plaguing him with new uncertainties as he came down here to fetch his luggage and return to the car park. As odd as Arteta had been, though, it didn't bother White as much as that lingering look he'd taken at Ramsdale in said car park. He'd looked over at the big goalie, perhaps to give him a light wave or just catch his eye, to bid farewell to his buddy before they parted ways for the majority of the weekend... and yet Aaron had been so engaged in talking to his fellow keeper, not even looking up and acknowledging him. Which, he told himself, was totally fine and normal, they were best pals but they weren't joined at the fucking hip...! He was overthinking it, as he seemed to do with all their interactions now, paranoid and insecure about what they'd allowed to happen in the hotel. Forget it, he told himself, stomping his way through the large empty locker-room. Forget about it, and just be cool. Everything's okay. Stop over-thinking, it don't suit you. The tanned handsome football lad scolded himself for being so restless and paranoid, deciding that this was just a surplus energy from having travelled for an away game and spent it on the bench - no doubt Rammers felt the same, the two of them having been stuck on the sidelines with nothing to do but applaud their losing teammates. White's attention was hooked vaguely by the reminding sight of Xhaka's stuff, some of it left loosely on the shelf below his closed locker, making him think again of how determined and committed the well-built midfielder was to be putting in a fitness shift today when they were free to get home to their personal lives. But, he thought, that's not just Granit's stuff - there was another bag on the next segment of shelf, and he tried to remember whose locker was next to the Swiss-Albanian's. It wasn't just this dull question that made him shrug off his jacket for a moment and hang it over the handle of his case to go wandering into the gym - it was some hopeful admiration for any teammate who was working on their muscles this morning after the hours on the motorway. Conscious of his own lack of minutes last night, and the pretty abrupt way the gaffer had just addressed him at his office, the 25-year-old was suddenly thoughtful about his own form and whether he'd slacked off a bit since all the distraction and weirdness of his England World Cup experience. In he went, dressed in his overshirt and black sweatpants, following the series of doors that took him into the well-lit gym suites that dominated this half of the building, lined with photographic murals of successful Arsenal players, teams, and trophies. The first main room was empty, overhead lighting crackling into life at the motion of his steps, and he turned one and then another corner, drifting slowly between unused machines, starting to wonder if actually nobody was hard at work in here after all. If not for a slight shifting of light through the next doorway, he might have turned back, keen as he was to go home and see his fiancee, to collapse on the sofa and indulge himself lazily, to plan their afternoon and evening together - but he hesitated on his trainers, poised halfway down the long room of weights machines. The next room was more for free weights than this array of machinery, and so one whole wall of it was mirrored - ostensibly for working on form and precision, though obviously really for posing and vanity - so that from where he stood, he could now make out the reflection of the room's occupants. Except that the two men in the next room weren't actually busy hoisting dumbbells and working on form, precision, posing OR vanity... Nope. They were... cuddling? Very slowly and quietly, Benjamin eased himself forward, padding lightly over the sprung floor and past the row of big weights machines, until he was poised a few feet away from the blocky doorway, and staring intently through it into that wall of mirror, and the vivid reflection it portrayed of the view around the corner: tall burly Xhaka, kitted out as he'd been in the changing rooms before, with his muscular arms pulled about the hunched figure of the other fitness enthusiast, screening him from this mirror as he did so. The uncertainty made White take one more stealthy step forward, and he leaned in a little bit, staring into that mirror view, and recognising the shorter build and dark brown hair of the other kitted figure in the weights gym, who looked a bit upset and red-faced. Their voices were low and private, but he could hear them clear enough from here. `Oh, it's okay,' murmured Granit with his softly purring accent. `You don't have to be embarrassed in front of me. Just tell me about it.' `It's nothing,' sniffed Kieran Tierney, another of last night's disappointing performers who had failed to hold a clean sheet at the back of the squad. The 5ft10 Scots bloke was still hunched slightly, being gripped and hugged from the side by the midfielder, one pale hand rubbing at his eyes and red cheeks. `Look at me - blubbing in the gym like a twat, what am I like?' `Just tell me,' purred Granit again. `What's wrong? Is it lady trouble?' Visible in the mirror, Kieran screwed up his face. `Something like that.' `Man trouble? Ha ha ha...' `Mate,' the left-back muttered testily. `Oh, come on, relax, I was joking,' insisted Xhaka. In the reflected view, White couldn't help but notice the way he grabbed and stroked at Tierney's neck and shoulders as he spoke, standing by and over him, so tactile and physical with him, weights forgotten about. `Here, let me message you, yeah?' And hands were on shoulders, the 6ft1 European man pulling up behind the Scotland star to knead at his shoulders through his sleeveless training top, which bared those lean pale arms. Standing at his vantage point around the corner from them, Ben didn't particularly stop to question his own stealth. He didn't need to ask himself why he was pausing here on the edge of the room, peering at them in reflection, and hiding the squeak of his stylish new trainers against the springy gym flooring. He just stood there, looking and listening, keeping his breathing low, as one teammate began to massage quite vigorously at the tense shoulders of the other, making his fellow defender let out a long moan of begrudging relief that echoed around the corner between the fitness suites. `That is pretty good,' growled Tierney's rich Lanarkshire accent. `You gonna tell me the problem?' Granit asked him, voice so low that White only half-caught his words, partly lipreading in the vivid reflection. `I wouldn't know where to start,' Kieran grumbled back - his head lolled as he relaxed into the other man's touch, facing the mirror but not really looking at it. Perhaps, Ben thought, if he had, he would have caught sight of a glimmer of Benjamin White, hunched awkwardly at the edge of the doorway, leaning out to stare through the doorway... and why? Out of what nosiness or curiosity? He wasn't sure, couldn't name it. Nor could he pinpoint the excitement he felt, the way he pulled a little at the collar of the corduroy shirt, or at the baggy crotch of the soft black sweatpants, as if the room had just got a lot warmer. `Who's breaking your heart, Tesco?' Xhaka grunted, invoking a little-used nickname from the Celtic youth graduate's early days at Arsenal, carrying his things to training in a plastic bag from the supermarket. `Nobody,' Tierney mumbled through another groan of relief. `Well - not that they know about, anyway...' `Who is she?' `Oh, it doesn't matter, honest... Just a... Not even a relationship, just a... thing, so...' `But you're feeling crap about it?' `Well, yeh - clearly, ha. Being a right soppy fuck, ain't I? As if...' `Do they know how you feel?' A hollow laugh. `Nah. Ain't told them anything like that-' `Well? Why don't you?' `You don't get it, they... they don't even live in this country, and I never see them, so...' A vague curious grunt from Granit there, but he was more busy with his hands, and Ben was watching every move: the intensity with which the footballer's paws worked at the other lad's neck and shoulders and upper arms, the closeness of their bodies, the way Kieran lolled and relaxed against the 6ft1 bloke, and... oh. The way that Granit's hands now slid onto the chest of the Scotsman, and the way he bowed down to rest his brow against the back of Kieran's head, their bodies standing so very close now. Too close? Benjamin was too busy asking himself this prudish question to even notice the way his own hand kept going back to the crotch of his black sweats, which was getting a bit less baggy. `Now, now,' grumbled the gruff Caledonian accent. `What?' purred the 30-year-old. `Doesn't it feel good?' `Should I be letting this massage carry on...?' mused Tierney's voice - he sounded uncertain, but quite happy about it. `I dunno where it might go...' `I think you do,' came the former captain's throaty chuckle. `And you know I can improve your Saturday.' A mingled sigh from both men, one that made White edge a little closer into the doorway and stare very hard at the mirror, so intrigued that he wanted to pull right around that corner and stare into the room properly, look at the two football players in front of the rack of dumbbells - Xhaka's wandering hands moving up and down Tierney's sides now, and beginning to pull up that sleeveless dark Arsenal vest, pulling it out from where it was tucked into the Scotsman's baggier shorts. The 25-year-old let out a ticklish giggle at this, but his body remained relaxed where it was, lifting his arms and allowing the vest to be pulled up and off, allowing those massaging hands to stroke over his pale bare chest for real, and down onto the softly defined six-pack below... Ben sucked in and held his breath, and realised that his hand was holding his semi through the sweatpants - jesus, why would any of this be exciting for him?! `Fuck,' came Tierney's gentle growl. `Just relax,' Xhaka was saying. `You remember how it was?' `That was ages ago,' the defender mumbled. `But you remember. Hehe.' White watched, and listened. He couldn't pull himself away. It was too risky now, he said to himself in his head - his trainers might squeak, or he might knock into the weight machine behind him. He might make some noise and alert or panic this secretive pair, these two friendly teammates who were giving him such a shock and a thrill. No, he couldn't move now, he'd sneaked too close, and paused too long - now he had to stay still, he insisted in his head, and just see what was going on! Erm. `Don't,' he heard Kieran moan, but Granit just laughed: in the mirror, he could see one large manly hand pushing down into the front of the dark blue shorts, disappearing and yet bulging through the glossy nylon. He could see Xhaka's strong tattooed arm reaching down the front of the Scotsman's torso, and he could see the lad's face too, eyes closed and mouth drooping open. He was just standing there, relaxing back into the strength of the other player, whilst Granit fucking Xhaka reached inside his shorts for a grope, shit. This was mad shit, and yet what was madder... for a moment, White looked down, seeing how tightly he was holding the stiff outline in the black cotton, his own hard-on throbbing. He didn't know what to tell himself, so he just looked back up and concentrated on the image in the mirror instead, where the players' bodies were shifting. He could feel his surge of irrational panic as he wondered if they might move out of sight, but no... They were just turning around, weren't they? Instead of looking head-on at Tierney's relaxed form, the shirtless Scot was leaning back into the rack of weights, supporting himself against it, and Xhaka was pulling his own shirt off, baring the strong toned muscles of his upper body, all a little shiny with the sweat of his interrupted workout. They both looked so strong and masculine, and Ben shivered as his hand began to stray back and forth over the outline of his erection. `Just you relax, Tesco...' `Mmm, we should stop.' `Do you want to?' `Mmm.' `Huh. Thought not. Just relax. Stand like this.' `What are you gonna...?' `You remember, mister. You remember.' Ben watched, paralysed with a heady cocktail of horror and arousal, as the mighty warrior of the Arsenal midfield began to stoop low, bending his knees. The man's short shorts pulled tightly about his muscular glutes and upper thighs, taut over his backside as he hunkered down behind the resting frame of 5ft10 Kieran. What was he doing...? Oh. He was pulling on the sides of Kieran's shorts. Down they were going, inch by inch, and now the big white undies below were going the same way, disappearing downwards - the view was less clear now, more obscured by Granit's head and shoulders, but the glimpses were vivid and startling, the peachy curve of Tierney's broad backside, exposed and pushed back a little. One of Xhaka's hands pushed and guided at the man's hips and the small of his back, making the Scotsman bend further forward into the rack of dumbbells, whilst behind him, the Swiss midfielder sank lower in his squat, and then placed a hand each on those plump sturdy cheeks, and... In his hand, Benjamin's cock leaked pre-cum against his boxer shorts and seeped through to lightly dampen the black of the sweats. He gripped his stiff one hard, almost too scared to shift his hand at all, wondering what sound that might make. He just hunched there at the side of the doorway, barely moving, and staring wide-eyed across into the wall of mirrors, his entire attention and his thundering heartbeat focused on the sight of it: the arching of Tierney's back and the tensing of his biceps as he held onto the metal racks, whilst the back of Xhaka's head bobbed and dipped a little, seeming to be kissing between those chunky cheeks in a violently passionate way - what the hell?! He moved an inch forward, and another. His hand gripped with more uncertain tightness at the shape of his hard cock, and his breaths came in and out with almost no noise at all. Gripped by stealth and excitement, his other hand clutched at the doorframe, and he stared incredulously across at that mirror image: hunched leaning Granit, burying his face in the presented backside of moaning, panting, sweating Tierney. However distressed the Scottish lad had been five minutes ago, now he was enjoying himself, though his growling voice was wracked by uncertainty: `Oh fuck, don't, you'll get me going - oh god, mate - fuckkk, this is wrong - not here, not here - ohhhhh yesss' and so on and so forth. Even after his recent near-adventures, with his curious missus and his prankster roomie, Ben was confused, naive, oblivious - he didn't really understand what he was seeing. Was Xhaka really licking the man's arse? Was that a thing people did? His mind was blown. And yet it was when the action turned around and became more obvious that he finally gave in and pushed his hand inside the sweatpants and his boxers and gripped his long slim cock properly to begin wanking silently under cover. `Your ass tastes as good as I remember,' he could just about hear the 30-year-old pant. `Suck my cock now,' moaned 25-year-old Tierney, a sudden excited authority in his growl. Now Ben couldn't stop but wank himself, pulling hard on his cock, the tip rubbing against the insides of his boxers. His eyes barely blinked, glued to the reflection of Granit still down on his haunches, head bobbing back and forth with a different rhythm, and the occasionally glimpses of a shiny wet cock as it escaped briefly from his mouth. The Swiss man's hands, roving up and down Kieran's abdomen and up towards his hard dark nipples. The rolls and lolls of Kieran's face, eyes still shut and mouth wide open, as he pressed arms and shoulders back into the shelving, but pushed and thrust forward with his hips, clearly enjoying the illicit blowjob even more than the strange act that preceded it. `Fuck yes,' Tierney almost shouted. `Suck it good. Yeh, that's what I remember, mate.' Breathless, wide-eyed, crazy with shock: White couldn't stop yanking on his cock, his whole 6ft1 frame shaking with tension and fear. His palm brushed roughly up and down the shaft and his balls tingled below. His heart thundered, and his muscles ached with the tension. But all of this anxiety was just speeding his rapid self-pleasure towards the inevitable. He'd lost any sense of time whilst he watched the sordid excitement, but he was only wanking his prick in his pants for a total of four minutes before he could feel the lukewarm ooze on his knuckles, filling the front of his boxer shorts with a three-day load of White stuff. In these moments, his restraint was stretched more than the front of the undies, as he fought back the pants and gasps and moans, and just stood there like a statue, his other hand gripping the doorway for balance, his face a frozen rictus towards the mirror. He was now more shocked by his own orgasm and the mess in his pants than anything he'd actually observed from his vantage point. Benjamin was finished, but Kieran wasn't yet, not quite. A long awkward minute stretched out in which White felt instantly dirty and regretful, but frozen to the spot with absolute fear. He needed to back off carefully, he needed to retreat from the doorway and the view - HE NEEDED TO GET OUT OF HERE. But at first, he just couldn't move, it was like his hand was superglued to the doorframe and his trainers were cemented to the floor. He trembled all over and struggled to keep his breathing silent, or not to let out a little groan of disgust as he felt the spunk cool on his fingers and the shaft of his cock. `Fuck, I'm gonna cum,' hollered Kieran Tierney, and the strength of his voice was the jolt of reality that was needed to spur White into motion - but perhaps too late. A split-second before he yanked quickly and quietly back from the doorway, he saw Tierney's eyes open, and the ruggedly handsome Scot stare right into his own reflection in the mirror wall, perhaps enjoying the sight of his strong young body with an older man serving it on his knees - but his eyes darting and shifting, rolling THIS WAY, and - it was hard to be sure, but they seemed to meet Ben's own, connecting via the reflection like some weird mash-up of the Mona Lisa and the Lady of Shallot. But if he saw anything, Kieran didn't quite react to it, he just groaned, very loudly, and part of Ben wanted to stay and see it, the passionate throes of his fellow 25-year-old defender - but no, no, no, he needed to GO. White slipped through the gym rooms as quickly and quietly as he could, so hurried and frantic that he almost tripped over or into several machines and weight racks and water taps. His whole body felt drenched with sweat, but he could still feel the warm stickiness of his cock as it bounced limply against boxer shorts. In the final passage between the fitness suites and the locker-rooms, he had to stop himself, leaning heavily to one side, and confirm that no footsteps or shouts were following him out of the gymnasium. Had Kieran seen or heard him? Had their eyes really met in that mirror? He just didn't know, but he certainly wasn't staying put here to find out...! Driven by the visceral excitement of his own disgust, Benjamin stormed through the locker-room, snatching up his jacket under one arm and yanking on the long handle of his small suitcase with the other. He pushed out into a different corridor and retraced his steps for the reception and the exit, terrified of bumping into anyone on the way out of the training building now. He was just desperate to be in his car and on the road home around the North London suburbs, home to his woman and his engagement. Safety. `Hold up, hold up - where's the fire, buddy?!' The panicked lad was in such a direct rush for the exit that he didn't see his friend until they were almost smashing into each other on the way into the foyer, the slightly taller bloke having just stepped about the corner with a backpack two-strapping over his broad shoulders. In his hurry, Benjamin was just crashing straight into him, chest-to-chest, and now he was dropping his jacket and his case simultaneously in a jolt of frenzied panic; the big sturdy hands of the goalkeeper came up to grip his sides and steady him, and he found himself staring into the big broad smile on Aaron Ramsdale's face. `What the fuck's up with you?' the Stoke-born goalie demanded through his laughter, patting his upper arms firmly twice, just giving him that big puzzled expression of friendly innocence. In a rush of gladness to see his most trusted friend, White acted on instinct, and he threw his arms about him, gripping the bulky 24-year-old to him in a tight and manly hug. `Whoa,' mumbled Aaron's voice over his shoulder, `you're shaking - and, mate, you're SOAKED - did you go do a work-out in this gear, or summat?' He was prising apart from the hug, with difficulty, and leaving Benjamin swaying on his feet. `What?' Aaron demanded. `What's up? You look like you just saw a ghost.' For a moment, he pictured the scene again, Tierney held and massaged by Xhaka in front of those mirrors, but he drove the image desperately away, and wiped one rough sleeve against his clammy bronze face. He smiled awkwardly back into Ramsdale's concerned expression and shook his head. `I'm fine,' he told him gruffly, in spite of all evidence, resisting the panicked urge to grab and hug the 6ft2 lad a second time. Instead, he reached awkwardly to each side of him, grasping up his jacket and taking hold of the case, and distancing his body from Ramsdale's. `What?' the 24-year-old asked yet again. `What's wrong?' In a thin voice, White asked him the question he'd been trying to ask for a month. `We're okay, you and me, right?' He stared seriously at his best friend, unable to look at him without picturing his troublemaker smirk on the hotel bed, taking hold of that ridiculous sex toy from some dodgy shop of Doha's seediest market; and Aaron just grinned innocently back at him, blond eyebrows raised in surprise. `Why wouldn't we?' the goalkeeper demanded in all earnestness, and Ben felt for the dozenth time this month how stupid he was, how much he'd started to over-analyse things that didn't need it; the 6ft2 bloke exuded sheer casual friendliness and honest concern, and there was no awkwardness or distance at all, it existed only in White's feverish imagination. He didn't try to explain himself - what would he say? - but just nodded and forced out a laugh, and then stepped around the confused lad, making a quick dart into the foyer and towards the automatic doors that would lead him out to the car park. `Wait,' called his friend vaguely, `is something wrong...?' `Nah, nah,' Benjamin called back. `Just gotta go - running late - see ya!' And with that, he trundled quickly out of the auto doors and onto the cold mid-morning tarmac, glad of the icy air that hit his sweaty face and neck, and of the bright winter sunshine that could drown out the mental images of the weights room. At a window upstairs, a couple of fingers brushed at the vertical blinds, pulling them gently open a couple of inches, allowing a slightly better view of the sunlit car park: specifically, of the rushing figure with his case dragging behind him and a jacket slung over one shoulder, moving rapidly for one of the few remaining cars spaced out along the far edge of the tarmac. `Hmm,' murmured Jack Wilshere, watching one of the Arsenal squad's most superficially handsome young lads bundle himself into his expensive motor, and then disappear out of the bright parking lot, away onto the suburban roads. `What?' came Mikel Arteta's voice from close by, his tone tinged with the exhausted panting of someone who, until minutes ago, had been gagging on a very full mouth. The 31-year-old coach lingered at the window, fingering at the blinds, watching as a few other figures drifted to their cars, curiously picking out the tall silhouettes of what must be blond Ramsdale, then the slightly less distinctive form of Xhaka a minute later, and finally perhaps Tierney. They must be the last to go, he mused, before pulling himself away from the windows and facing back into the large square office, looking down at where his once-teammate and now sort-of-boss was slumped in his leather chair, gasping as he pulled on his socks and trainers. `Are you going to get dressed?' gasped the Spanish older man, quietly. Stood there, stark bollock naked in the corner of the locked office, Jack just grinned cheekily, and strolled boldly around the edges of the desk, stretching out his arms and flexing his lightly haired chest, happy to let his long heavy cock swing in front of his spent balls. He paused directly in front of where the Arsenal boss sat, hurrying into his clothes, red-cheeked and glossy-browed. Jack just smirked knowingly across at the man whose dirty appetite he was now contracted to feed, and said quietly, `You missed a spot of my spunk, chief.' With faux delicacy, the Stevenage-born lads' lad dabbed somewhere near his lips, and laughed as a paranoid Arteta plucked a tissue from a box and rubbed it over his thick dark stubble, clearly unsure if he was being helped or teased. Naked and chuckling, Wilshere reached down to toy with his exhausted crown jewels, starting to cast his eyes about the manager's office for where each items of his clothes had landed as he stripped off for Arteta's darkly adoring eyes. He spotted his briefs on a lampshade, but no sign of his tracksuit pants yet. He turned back to Mikel, scratching his balls with one hand and his chest hair with the other. The Arsenal manager always looked so frigid and resentful after he'd had his fun, and he looked up at him now with an icy expression on his face, tight-lipped and mean. `Same time in two days,' the Spanish bloke said quietly, his voice very low and tense. Jack gave another of his trademark cheeky grins. `Maybe,' he grunted, stepping over to retrieve his Armani briefs from where they dangled, and twirling them about in his hand rather than stepping straight into them. `See how I feel,' he added, stretching them at the waist and walking right back into Mikel's view, happy with the way the 40-year-old couldn't stop staring at his drooping cock. But then Arteta's icy voice cut across his bravado, reminding him of his place in a few simple words. `If you value your job,' the manager told him, `you'll be here.' And Wilshere had to pause in the act of stepping into the briefs and pulling them up his short mighty legs, twanging the waistband in and adjusting his big soft bulge in the front of them. He met the stony gaze of the cock-hungry football coach, his smile fading, and a slow nod offered to the gaffer's demanding face. `Right,' Jack grunted quietly, reminded of the two contracts he had signed in a boardroom down the corridor - the official contract that employed him as a youth team coach for his beloved club, and the separate one that tied him to his former captain's service to keep that job viable. He scowled resentfully at the older man, always hating these reminders that the power dynamic wasn't quite as he'd planned it - whilst his cock was hard and Mikel was gagging for it, he felt like he had all the power in the world, the muscular little king of a Red North London. But before the act and after it, he could see this for what it was: he was back at his beloved Arsenal on strict conditions, and he wasn't really here as a promising young coach setting out on a management career. Nope. He was here as Mikel Arteta's gigolo, the big creamy load to satisfy the married Spaniard whenever he most needed it, or his contract would suddenly... cease to be viable. The two men stared levelly at each other for a long moment, and then Wilshere continued dressing, saying nothing more until a prim `See ya' on the way out of the unlocked door, conscious of Arteta's eyes burning into his back all the way down the corridor. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-392

Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2024 21:03:05 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 392 Part 392: Carabao Hangover He was woke up by the pounding in the sides of his head, but this throb of pain was quickly joined by the parchment-dry feel of his lips, a sour burn at the back of his throat, and a deep unsteadiness somewhere in his guts that made him emit a faint strangled moan of dismay - oh bugger, here's the hangover. Still, the 19-year-old football player remained quite still, eyes firmly shut, allowing his half-conscious brain and exhausted body slowly orientate themselves, clammy against the folds of bedding that covered much of his lean 5ft10 form; as his lashes fluttered open and the youth accepted the sickly after-effects of morning, the room seemed to spin, and he couldn't quite orientate himself in the bed or in relation to the bright glare of the windows - there was nothing familiar or reassuring about the furniture or the decor of this space, and Bobby Clark shut his eyes again, as if a few more moments' dozing might reset reality and he would in fact be waking up in the flat his parents had bought him near the docks. Nope, opening one and then both eyes again, he was definitely here in this strange room, a fact that seemed to highlight some fuzzy gaps in the teen's perception of last night: he could picture much of the celebratory action after being part of a trophy-winning triumph, but he was a bit baffled about his current whereabouts or how he had got here. More baffling, the up-and-coming midfielder slowly realised, that not all of his body felt irritated by the rustling of starchy new bedsheets - he realised that at least part of one leg was chafing slightly against the warmth and softness of someone else's skin, and it occurred very gradually to Bobby that he was not in the bed alone. For a dizzy moment, his temples throbbing, the son of the more famous Clark footballer flinched but tremored with excitement, and he thought he must have managed to pull a bird when they made it out to the underground nightclub that someone's cousin owned - but twisting his prone body and lifting slightly onto one elbow, the teen almost spluttered with laughter. Next to him, squashed in between the jumble of pillows, could be seen a half-profile of a familiar face, that of his teammate James McConnell, squashed in between the pillows with his face twisted by the angle and his lips contorted by his slow snoring breaths. With a quiet `hah' of exasperation or disappointment, Bobby pulled his leg apart, and slid gently away from the heat of the bed's other occupant, up onto his feet on the soft beige carpet of somebody's guest room. On the floor he recognised his own skinny jeans, t-shirt, over-shirt, the tumble of his socks and trainers, and a quick glance up and down himself confirmed to the Geordie youth that he was just in his pants, low rise black boxer briefs that were a bit twisted in their fit by the writhing of fitful sleep. Clark laughed quietly to himself and swayed on bare heels, his head spinning, and he tugged and writhed at the fit of his underpants, blinking at the strength of light that burned in through the room's single large window - apparently they hadn't thought to shut the curtains of this guest room they'd been ushered into at the end of last night's partying, piling clumsily into one shared bed because their host was out of space. The 19-year-old tittered faintly and, partly out of kindness to sleeping James, yanked shut the curtains to diminish the bright spring sunshine that was pouring in, reducing the guest room to a dull mirk that matched the musty smell of laddish hangover sweat. `Fuck,' the young Liverpool player groaned, his headache worsening, `how much did we drink...?' Obviously last night in London had been a huge one for Bobby, just as it had for the other young players who had been called up to perform in the absence of bigger stars, and eventually beating Pochettino's `billion dollar bottle jobs' at the end of extra time - a historic silverware win for the club and a momentous career launch for Bobby and other Academy graduates who were slowly breaking their way into the Anfield first team. It was still hard for the 19-year-old to believe he had been subbed on in a Wembley final and then helped to bring about that victory in front of their travelling fans, fucking hell. He'd come on for his buddy Bradley in the 72nd minute and his snoring pal McConnell had joined him about 10 mins later, two 19-year-old midfielders helping to push the action forward and buy the big win over Chelsea. And from that late goal onwards, Tsimikas and Van Dijk breaking the deadlock, Cark and the others' world had just set on fire with excitement. The on-pitch celebrations had been like nothing Bobby had experienced yet in his career, and the mad atmosphere had continued on into the Wembley changing rooms; he'd loved posing with the other young guns from the Liverpool Academy, including the supportive friendship of big brotherly Trent Alexander-Arnold in his injury leg brace; even more, he'd loved being hoisted aloft by a host of senior players in the tunnel and dressing room and eventually chucked into the recovery pool with the rest of the wild-eyed youngsters who had been so crucial in winning the Carabao Cup. Now, the rest of the night flashed through his dehydrated head - he could picture the many rushed chats and meaningful hugs in the Wembley accommodation, and the hurried journeys to City Airport, the chartered jet back into John Lennon - he could picture the quick `official' drinks on the flight, toasting each other and the gaffer - he could picture the seriousness with which the bosses told them to get home to bed and informed them contradictorily of their morning off before assembling at the training ground for `Recovery' late this afternoon. And then he could picture the feverish excitement with which a solid portion of the squad had totally ignored this and bundled into taxis to first a lock-in at a ropey bar near the airport and then, diminishing in numbers, on to said exclusive club, opened up especially for them due to somebody's family connection. After that, things became less vivid, but it was slowly returning as he crept out of the room and onto the landing. This place, he realised, was actually Andy Robertson's place, the older Scotsman one of the few first team regulars who had joined them at the sweaty bunker of a nightclub, drinking any 19-year-old under the table in true Scottish style - Bobby could picture the brash Glaswegian player racing an injured Ben Doak to down pints at the bar, and then he also remembered the moment that Robbo demanded they come to his for `Afters', though in fact the squad of them had been so drunk and wiped out that they'd probably enjoyed one drink downstairs before crashing out in various guest accommodation. Quietly, Bobby slipped out of their guest room, careful not to make noise that would disturb the deeper sleep of James; it hadn't occurred to the youth to pull on the clothes from last night's adventure, and his near-naked body shivered out on the draughtier cool of the landing balcony, feeling exposed in just his minimal black underpants... but then the house felt asleep and quiet, and he tiptoed gently across the carpeted landing, down a short flight, and into what seemed to be a bathroom door. Inside, the 19-year-old footballer had to pause, and then stifle another laugh: there was the host himself, Andy Robertson having fallen asleep right over the bowl of a toilet, the seat of which was now his pillow. Bobby again regretted being just in his keks, but this time more so that he wanted his phone to take a compromising pic of the semi-naked Scotsman hunched over the loo, presumably banished from his marital bedroom after returning steaming drunk and dragging a cluster of equally wasted younger lads into the house. He retreated from this bathroom, shaking his head, and passed by a couple of other doors on the landing - vague snores sounded from each of them, and he wondered exactly how many teammates Robbo had gathered back here at the end of the night, or the early hours of the morning, summoning them here for an after-party that barely happened. Being on his feet was simultaneously making Bobby feel more conscious and alert, but also making his headache and guts worse, and he wandered a little aimlessly through the upstairs of the Robertson home - surely there were a couple of other bathrooms or loos up here, but the vague snores and dim memories made him loathe to open more doors, having already walked in on the slumped repose of their host. He didn't know whose rooms he might go stumbling into in his undies like some random weirdo, and he was starting to wonder if he should just go back to that guest room and piss out of the window - but the parched youth really needed water too. With some reluctance, Clark crept downstairs, clutching the bannister the whole way as if his hangover head might make him stumble, and he shivered again in the hallway below, though his bare skin was hot to touch with the feverish after-effects of so much drinking. A clock on the wall told him that it was barely gone 6am and that in fact he could only have grasped a couple of hours' sleep in that shared bed with McConnell anyway - fuck's sake. Downstairs, the 19-year-old moved quite daintily on his toes, trying not to cause a noise or fuss, especially as he passed the open double-doors into the rear lounge where they'd piled in to drink Andy's scotch at 3am, and found it like the den of sleeping lions. On one low sofa he could see the slung figure of last night's goalie, his friend Caoimhin Kelleher, flashes of pale skin visible beneath the ill-fitting blanket that was tugged around his foetal position; across from him on another similar low couch, Conor Bradley lay on his back, no attempt at covering himself with a blanket, and his body just settled into a contorted posture across several cushions, his shirt off and his jeans open at the front to show some of the bulging grey underpants below - Bobby might have judged himself for noticing, but it was the way the jeans were tugged down or up, and the ostentatious way the Northern Irish right-back lay there snoring at the ceiling. And so Clark junior moved on past this entrance, wondering how many teammates were passed out in there, and found his way into a quiet dark kitchen instead - no sweaty snoring lads in here, but it took him a while to find a clean glass and fill it at the sink. He emptied it twice in deep guzzles, refilling it each time; then, in a moment of thoughtful kindness, he found and filled a second glass, thinking of James, and then his bladder reminded him of other needs. Putting the glasses down on the bottom spot, he found a downstairs loo under the stairs and pushed down the front of his undies, taking a sweaty cock in hand and pissing heavily - the gurgly echo of his ablutions sounded like it might echo wakefully through the entire house, but it was probably in his pounding head. Piss done, he rocked on his heels and cradled his limp privates in a daze, feeling all the usual `never again' sentiments of a hungover teenager, before briefly washing his mitts and exiting the small hall toilet to journey back upstairs in relative relief. Feeling nauseous, the 5ft10 Espom-born Geordie made his way upstairs, clutching the two pint glasses and rubbing his achey face against the back of one arm, a quiet stumbling gait in search of the room where he'd woken up; it was only on the dim morning light of the landing that Bobby became unsure which door he'd actually emerged from, and which corner of the Robertson house he and James had been bundled into when they could no longer drink any more vintage whiskey. In a soft quite huff, the teen laughed at his own predicament, and stood their indecisively in his underpants - it occurred to him that he could just muscle into the bathroom and wake up Andy himself to get a pointer, but a 29-year-old Glaswegian who'd fallen asleep with his head in the bog didn't seem like the kinda guy worth waking up prematurely, nope. Instead, he moved in the right general direction, counting how many different doors branched off across the side of the upstairs, and peering ahead to the furthest one, which he thought might be theirs - but he didn't recognise that big framed photo of the Scottish highlands or that full-height pot plant, so... he hesitated, counted two back from the last door, and approached it with mustered confidence. Hands full, he leaned and used an elbow instead to push down on the handle and inch the door inwards, and- Stopped, abruptly, half-crouching, leaning into the white-painted door, as an even richer sweaty musk hit him from the dark room within, milliseconds before the sounds connected with his ears: a rapid low grunting rhythm of breath, and a faint almost nasal whine of response, noises which took a long moment to register with the teen's hungover brain. He'd just walked in on someone having a shag! It was dark, although his awkward opening of the door must have let in a shaft of disturbing light, but it didn't sound like it had interrupted the furtive action; he pulled instinctively back, clutching the two pint glasses in his clammy hands, and then stared dimly at the doorhandle which he would be unable to pull shut with his hands full - and so the lean young Geordie just hovered there at the doorway, a step back, the door only open by a couple of inches, but the grunts and whines sounding still through this crack of darkness - though he couldn't see a thing, a growling voice told him what he needed to know. `Take it,' the muffled grunting voice sounded in the darkness, `take my big cock...' Bobby's eyes bulged and he smirked, yet again resisting the urge to crack out laughing in the hungover sleepiness of the house, instead taking slow backwards steps over the carpeted landing, and staring decisively at another door which must surely be the one he'd emerged from, it was open a crack as he'd left it. Beginning to snigger stupidly to himself, Bobby used his bare arm and shoulder to push it inwards and slipped into the room, relieved when it seemed familiar, and thinking with admiration - fucking hell, good for big Joe Gomez, the team's London stud, managing to pull on the way back here and give her a hangover fucking in Andy Robertson's guest room! Big dirty bastard, haha, what a legend! James had drank just as many pints as his Academy bestie, downed just as many shot glasses of vodka and tequila; he woke up with the same stab of discomfort and sense of confusion, and then the same blurry montage of Cup victory streaming back over him as he rolled onto his front and then his back, thrashing out at the weighty bedding that covered his feverishly hot body. He was unaware that the tiptoeing steps of another and the creak of the door had broken his slumber, and only slowly conscious of the door reopening and the figure that pranced across the room - until, squinting one eye, the 19-year-old Northumbrian lad saw a single sweating pint glass clinked down on a bedside table close to him, and then was blinking briefly up at the smirking goateed face of his friend and teammate - `Bobby?' the hungover Geordie teen grumbled. As James shifted in the bedding and reached desperately for the glass of refreshing h2O, the other figure in the dimly lit room moved about and then sprang quite animatedly onto the bed, making the other booze-sweating youth pull aside to make room, frowning resentfully and fighting over his share of the duvet as the other slender midfielder scrambled into bed with him. For a second, the hungover lad felt territorial and irritable and he wanted to kick out at his best pal, his former rival from their earlier days in the Newcastle and Sunderland youth squads, but it dawned on him that, not for the first time, the two of them had shared the bed after all, and he'd been slumbering right next to the other lad until he went to get them water - this realisation made him grumble gratefully and slurp more water, spilling some down his fuzzy chin and then rubbing a clammy paw across his greasy face. `Ergh. Where are we?' `Mate,' Bobby hissed, `you'll never guess what I just saw.' `Are we at someone's gaff?' he groaned disinterestedly. `Well, not quite SAW, but-' `Shurrup,' McConnell complained quietly, closing his eyes and pushing his head back down at the pillow; close together, he felt the cooler skin of Clark's arm and thigh against his and he slid aside, realising how little space either of their strapping young figures had in here. `What you on about?' James murmured with the embers of curiosity, blinking furiously and cradling his head. He put the glass back on the bedside table delicately as if he might slip in focus and send the large decorative lamp crashing to the floor. Then, careful to maintain his own space on this half of the bed, he rolled over and squinted sleepily at the manic grin on Bobby's face. `What you saying, man?' Their faces were turned close to face each other's against the squish of pillows, and the 19-year-old Morpeth lad could taste his friend's beery breath mingle with his own. He was coming to now properly, and he was curious in Bobby's excitement, in spite of his surly frown and his throbbing headache. `Well,' hissed Clark's voice, close by, `you'll never guess who is banging some bird a couple of rooms away in another of Robbo's spare rooms, haha...' James laughed hesitantly at this and knuckled at his dry eyes, absorbing first the confirmation of their location - oh yeah, he could picture a roaring Braveheart Robbo leading them out of the nightclub like a small army, the gushing host as he poured them measures and tried to get them singing Liverpool chants downstairs - and then the news of mischief going on. He recognised that electric glee in Bobby's eyes, knowing how playful and extroverted the other Geordie youth could be about these matters, far more confident than himself - `Shurrup,' he grumbled again, feigning disinterest, and pushing Bobby's hand away as it came pushing in at his bare smooth chest. `Gomez,' the other lad hissed, apparently not waiting for his guess. `Joe?' he grumbled vaguely back. `Well duh, haha, yes mate - could hear it on way past, big Joe going at it, fucking hell - she'll be sore when he's finished!' `Ergh.' James glared at him judgmentally and wrinkled his face in disgust. `Dunno if I needed to know about that, buddy...' `Oh,' Bobby was insisting, seeming more awake and fresh than him - how didn't he feel like the room was spinning?! - and keen to talk. `You shoulda heard it, man, the grunts and whines, she had a deep kinda voice, but-' `Spying on him, were ya?' James cut in, gathering the conscious energy to banter, and giving his pal a shove in the side as they shifted positions to get comfortable; he tried, and failed, to turn further away from the growing body heat of the other boy, the double bed feeling impossibly narrow with two 5ft10 footy lads in it. He brought both hands up to drag across his face and lay on his back, letting his dizziness settle. `Hardly spying - you could hear it loud and clear on the landing.' `Perv.' `Oh yeh, for sure, you know me, always spying on fellas, aye...' `Well, wouldn't surprise me...' `You're the one who clocks everyone's dick size,' retorted Bobby now, and James scowled resentfully - it was not a joke that got any less chafing over time, but he knew he'd walked straight into it, that time when the two young friends were bantering about Alexis Mac Allister getting dirty texts after training, and Bobby had made some quip about his `tiny dick' as the Argentinian rushed home to his bird. James had stumbled clumsily into the humiliation of pointing out that their World Cup winner teammate wasn't quite `tiny', and Bobby had now brought it up two dozen times since - he was sniggering stupidly now and reaching across as if to tickle him, making James slap irritably at him under the covers and kick him clumsily across the shins. `Pair of dirty voyeurs, ain't we?' Bobby cackled into his pillow. `Speak for yourself,' James muttered, but he couldn't help it - his hungover imagination wandering sleepily to this gossip, wondering if he concentrated whether he'd be able to hear what his friend had heard - was their big strapping colleague really going at it at this time in the morning in another spare room of Robbo's house? He found himself almost picturing the dirty deed for some reason and then, riled by Bobby's banter, even picturing a soapy snapshot of Mac Allister showering next to them after last night's game, as cackly and dorky as always in his joy. `Lucky bastard,' Clark moaned, next to him. `I get so horny when I'm hanging.' `TMI,' James slurred lazily, but he knew what the other lad meant - the heat and frustration of the morning after could go straight to a man's crotch, even after a pretty standard night out, never mind after as exciting event as that Wembley win and flight home. Almost on cue, it was like his balls were fuzzy tingling in his keks, and he wished he had a bed to himself - how much would a taxi home to his flat-share cost? `You know what I mean,' the other 19-year-old continued regardless, `just that buzz and tingle and all hot and bothered and... pfft, y'know, it's just knowing that big Joe is getting his end away, that's all, and feelin' proper jel...' `Well you ain't knocking one out in here,' James hissed, and he regretted his bluntness immediately, because Bobby went quiet, making him lean and slide that way and peer at him over the pillows. `You're not seriously thinking about it, for fuck's sake...' `Well,' his friend complained, `I don't really see why not, man.' `Why no? Cos I'm fucking here, that's why not-' `Yeah, but like, I bet you're feeling it too, J, so-' `Maaaate...' `Just saying, just saying...!' Awkward silence. `You telling me you aren't horny as fuck like, man?' James ignored this pushy question and lay there, ignoring the sensation in the crotch of his CK white trunks, staring at the ceiling. Again, his thoughts were turning awkwardly to the thought of Joe Gomez, that towering London bloke who he found rather aloof and mysterious compared to some of their other more senior teammates, and... He blinked the thought away and tensed up, sensing the movement. `You fucking aren't,' he accused quietly into the sweaty mirk of the shared bed. `Oh come on,' complained Bobby's voice. James looked across at the sweaty lean face of the handsome blond lad and his obnoxiously tracklined eyebrow, grinning charmingly at him with arms disappearing under the covers. James could feel every twitch and rustle of the heavy duvet, knowing that Bobby's hands must be- `Maaate,' he groaned again, but Bobby just sniggered and elbowed him. `Relax,' he was told by the other young midfielder, `and give yourself a stroke.' McConnell found himself lying there frozen with indecision, as he often did when dragged along by the overt naughtiness of the other North East teen who had joined the Liverpool academy at roughly the same time as him and quickly became his closest ally, two Geordies on Merseyside, now two young Cup winners sweating and recovering in this shared bed. He thought of the cool water his friend had brought him and his irritation softened, but he was still outraged - moreso when Bobby suddenly let out a little moan. `Are you wanking?' he asked sharply in a pained whisper. `Aye - course I am! I told ya. Go on, just do the same.' Bobby flared his nostrils and made a huffy noise but, in spite of instincts, he did the same - he reached a hand down the flat tense muscles of his midriff and felt the front of his white CKs, feeling how hard he already was, with some trepidation. Gently, he stroked himself through the material, slowly and hesitantly, and then risked looking to his right: seeing Bobby's head rest back comfortably, that wicked young expression one of solitary enjoyment, lips slightly parted, lashes fluttering, hair mussy with sleep and fidgeting... and shoulder muscles twitching as one arm did some work under the sheets, fuck. Bobby lay there still again, hand resting on his undies, and his sleepy eyes fixed on this profile of Bobby's face, his soft curls of honey-blond hair stuck slightly to his brow, and his pink lips pursing over his white teeth, then another jarring little moan... But then Clark was opening his eyes and looking this way, meeting his, and seeming to pause. James swallowed hard and felt a knot of discomfort in his chest - had he been staring really badly at his friend there? `Lighten up,' Bobby told him, almost snappish, `it's just a tug. Let me enjoy myself. I won't get any on you.' He sniggered, and James laughed too, flustered but relieved, thinking that his stare hadn't been so odd or intense after all - and he pushed a hand into the front of his CKs and felt how hot and hard his Northumbrian cock was. `Wish we had some slag in here,' Bobby hissed very quietly, `that we could share.' `Share?' James protested in a low whisper. `Dunno about that.' `Oh, come on - we're senior players now, not kids, this is the shit they get up to.' `Oh right, in soaps and that maybe,' James told him, but uncertainly, nervously removing his long heavy tool from his undies and letting the tight waistband rest under the crease of his ballsack. He stroked slowly on his cock and felt the sensitive tip rub against the duvet, making him moan a little - when he heard himself, they both went silent for a moment, and then sniggered in unison. `Sorry,' he laughed. `Don't be,' Bobby chided. `It was... kinda hot?' `Oh, fuck off, man...!' But James glanced sidelong at his bedfellow, unsure - that had to have been a joke from Clarky, didn't it? He held his cock about the shaft and felt almost too tense to play with himself, this was too edgy for him, but he could tell that Bobby was going for it, tugging himself off out of sight and licking his lips as he did, then glancing this way too - `Mate, I have an idea,' said the voice of a true troublemaker, and James blinked dopily back at him, parched and dizzy - `We could, just, y'know, like, er-' `What?' McConnell insisted dimly, listening to the slurred confusion of the other young Geordie, and then frowning quizzically as Clarky made a nervous laugh and seemed to slide slightly closer to him in this narrow confines. `We could just, like, give each other a hand,' Bobby whispered in a rush, and then shutting his mouth and looking uncharacteristically shy and embarrassed, regret obvious in his bright eyes; James just stared at him with his dry mouth hanging slightly open, and he made a slow `Errr' noise of bewilderment back. `Daft,' Bobby grunted. `Daft idea, daft idea, I just thought- I dunno, I thought if- Oh, fuck, I was just joking, so...' `That'd be weird,' McConnell thought aloud in a breathy whisper. `Yeh,' the other 19-year-old agreed, `really weird.' `I don't think we should.' `Nah,' Bobby confirmed. `Defo a bit much.' `But...' `Yeh?' `Erm - guess it would just feel like we were...' James began, thoughtful, stopping and starting, `well - it would - I mean - it might feel like-' `Yeh?' Bobby breathed again, sounding eager. `It'd feel like we're just getting wanked off by some slag, right? What d'you think, man?' That thin blond face was intense and close and James found himself nodding slowly, staring back across the pillows at his buddy - he was surprised by the nervous energy of the usually-confident Clark, and the calm acceptance of his own murmured, `Why not?' And so, shifting against the bedding, Bobby's intricately tattooed left arm came this way; James felt it against his heated chest, and tummy, and then he could feel his hand pushing against his own. Unseen by either of them, his cock was taken in a light grip by Bobby's hand, and he pulled his own sweaty palms away, pushed flat against his hips; he glanced once more at Bobby's nervous face, and the other midfield player mouthed at him, `Well, gan on, mate, you too.' And he did - he lifted his right hand and crossed it awkwardly past his friend's arm, reaching blindly down under the bedding - he felt the hard ridges of muscle that must be Bobby's tight six-pack, and then he felt the light fuzz of pubes, and suddenly the firm muscular heat of another lad's cock on his sweaty fingers - a surge of electric excitement ran through him, the two of them lying there, taking each other in hand. It was weird, a little creepy - Bobby felt bigger than his own, but he wasn't sure how true that was, he certainly felt veiner, and... Bobby seemed to be circumcised he realised, unlike himself, as his nervous fingers brushed against the ridge of the helmet. `No eye contact,' was the last thing Clark mumbled at him, and McConnell took a moment to understand the urgency of this measure, before agreeing and shifting his head back to stare upwards - all the while, beginning to slowly slide his hand up and down the length of a cock, whilst feeling an almost rhythmic match in his own throbbing hangover erection, their arms brushing and banging slightly as they worked in secret hidden tandem - neither lad seemed comfortable and easy with it at first, but they kept shifting their weight, their postures, never looking across at each other, and soon James felt like he had a better grip, a better rhythm, a real control as he tugged and tugged. Bobby stopped, making him feel nervous and embarrassed - this was too much, wasn't it, and Bobby was about to say so? - but he just heard his friend spit loudly in his hand and get back to it, and so he did the same, his palm and fingers slick with spit as he picked up the pace and wanked Bobby off more firmly under the duvet. Both lads breathed heavily, clearly suppressing the little half-moans that escaped their lips, and James' head swam with the giddy sensations of his hangover, wondering if he was actually too dehydrated to shoot. `God,' Bobby moaned, after many minutes of this, `she feels good.' James, slow on the uptake, opened his mouth to speak and stopped himself. He thought about it, and then with a playful chuckle to his voice, he moaned, `God, her hand feels amazing,' and they both tittered stupidly, a sense of saucy oneupmanship entering their hoarse whispers - `She's got the softest hands,' Bobby was purring, and so James said, `Feels like she's sitting on my big Geordie dick,' and both erupted into breathy giggles of stupidity - paused when Bobby stopped to spit more in his hand, and James accordingly did the same, really going for it now. It took him a minute or so to realise that the pleasure of his own cock had lessened, slowed, stopped - he was tugging so energetically on the rigid mast of Bobby's arousal, really desperate to pull it to completion, as if it was his own. He wanked and wanked and realised that Bobby's arm had gone limp against him. Looking over, he saw the ecstatic look on Bobby's lean pretty face, the fluttering of his blond lashes, the `O' of his open mouth, and the fresh sweat beading on his brow and cheeks - `Mate,' whimpered Clark's voice, but McConnell already knew, didn't need to hear it, but... `She's gonna make me cum,' the ex-Magpie gasped into the half-light, and then let out a long controlled moan, and James found his hand slipping and sliding in its motion, wetter now, not with his own spit, but with warm gelatinous liquid on his palm, his fingers - his friend's cum, hot and sticky to his touch, making him falter and pant and stop. He wiped his hand instinctively on the bed between them but in doing so seemed to get it on his hip and Bobby's and he tried to rub his hand on something else, but it was the side of Bobby's undies; he felt the floppy weight of a spent cock rub and graze at his hand and he pulled it awkwardly back, his heart hammering. Next to him, his mate was still gasping quietly, but then he felt strength return to the limp hand and Bobby was stroking across his flat tummy, tickling the little dark growth between his navel and his pubes - `Sorry, I shouldn't have stopped,' his friend breathed, but James felt himself protesting - he wasn't sure why, but he was pushing down, pushing Bobby's hand away with his own sticky paw, shivering with terrified excitement. `It's okay,' James insisted, `you don't have to.' There seemed to be an awkwardness between them now, a long moment's quiet, as Bobby tried to reach dutifully for him, clearly intent on fulfilling an obligation of returning a favour, but James felt embarrassed now it was less mutual and synchronised, and also a little freaked out by the salty smell emerging from each disturbed ruffle of the bedding; he pushed the questing hand away and gripped at his own erection with the soiled hand, holding it tight, and just listening to his own and his friend's breathing. Bobby stopped trying and just lay next to him, silent and perhaps embarrassed and James wanked himself without saying a thing or letting a single panting moan escape his lip; soon he too had spent his load, a messy slick against the underside of the duvet, his cock flopping back against his tummy, and his chest heaving with each awkward breath. He tried to speak, but he didn't know what he could say, he felt completely lost. James wasn't sure how long the two Liverpool midfielders lay there in tense silence, or if Bobby even felt as tense and ridiculous as he did - perhaps the other Geordie lad was genuinely asleep when he looked over at his still face and shallow breaths - but after a while the darker-haired youth scrambled out of bed and found each items of his clothing from the floor of the tidy guest room, which stunk of sweat and spunk. He gulped from the glass of water and stared guiltily at his clammy hands, one of which must be stained with both his and his friend's jizz. He wiped them self-consciously on the thighs of his cargo pants and pulled the tie-dyed hoody over his t-shirt, covering his lean pale body in clothes to hide its naked shame from the mutual handjob. And then, with all of his usual easy charm, Bobby said `Get me a fucking fry-up, Morpeth', and the two pals were sniggering and bantering with their usual relaxed intimacy; once both dressed, the two teens left the room and followed dim voices down to the house's kitchen, where breakfast really was on the cards, their host Robbo offering out bacon butties and fried mushrooms to everyone who wanted some, muttering on about having haggis in the larder if anyone fancied it - the busy downstairs of the house echoed with hungover laughter and matey banter, various members of the Wembley squad seated on stools or kitchen surfaces or chairs pulled from elsewhere, and McConnell and Clark sidling in amongst them to join the gathering. The conversation shifted inevitably to the awful states they would be in when they reconvened at the training ground this afternoon, and the fact they had an FA Cup game tomorrow night. James felt happy but dazed, and the whole awkward episode in the bedroom already felt like a glimpse of a surreal dream, not something he could worry about in the light of day, or when he and his bestie were sat among this company of older and more experienced players, listening to people retell their involvements in the Chelsea win. But he did notice the way his friend Bobby kept staring thoughtfully over at towering Joe Gomez, who stood near the hob with Robbo, and supped from a big mug of coffee. At some point in the slow dispersal of this breakfast club, James overheard Bobby make a snide comment to 26-year-old defender, who was pouring them coffees. `Sounded like you had fun,' the son of Lee Clark whispered knowingly to the older man, nudging shoulder to shoulder with the bigger fella as he took his coffee cup. Joe, his face weary and dazed, just turned and gave him a blank look. `Eh?' he asked. James listened inattentively, waiting for his own coffee, but he felt a stab of awkwardness as his friend pushed quietly on, rather than dropping it. `I heard you,' Bobby whispered confidentially, just loud enough for James to hear, and then, `I heard you shagging her - who was she? Where'd she go?' Joe Gomez stared at Bobby and then, it seemed to James, at him too, his face blank and expressionless, frozen in the act of pouring from the cafetiere. A moody silence fell between them, the two teens and the big defensive player, and James wanted to kick his friend in the ankle, wanted to hiss at him to mind his own business and stop trying to be club joker; but they were rescued by the ding-dong of a bell interrupting the low chatter of the room, and one of the other players getting up to go answer it - Kelleher, the goalie, but another lad got up from the seat next to him, and announced his urgency to claim a seat in the first taxi. `No sleep,' Darwin Nunez informed the room very loudly, wrapping his inked arms across his lean chest, and then staring pointedly across the kitchen table, this way - to James' left, not at Bobby, but at tall brooding Joe. `No sleep,' the Urugayuan star repeated firmly, `not sharing a bed with that snoring bastard!! Haha!' And then, downing the last of his coffee, the injured forward who had not even played last night was making an exit from the kitchen, following Kelleher and Bradley into the hall, and Gomez and Robertson shifting after them... and James, who had only half-paid attention to this, found himself glancing to his left, and at the slapped confusion of Bobby's pretty features. `What?' he hissed impatiently at his friend, too tired and hungover himself to follow the logical implications. He reached past to snatch the coffee, having had Gomez interrupted before it could be poured. But he looked insistently at Clark, who was standing next to him with a face like he'd just had a big shock, his mouth opening and closing quietly. James waited, holding the hot cup in both hands - `What is it?' Bobby averted his eyes and slowly moistened one lip with his tongue, then shook his head. `Nothing,' he murmured evasively, but as he did, the cogs in James' head did their turning, moving past the dehydrated ache - and he thought back to that snatch of whispered gossip in the early hours of their sweaty shared bed. Oh. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Wed, 28 Feb 2024 21:03:05 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 392 Part 392: Carabao Hangover He was woke up by the pounding in the sides of his head, but this throb of pain was quickly joined by the parchment-dry feel of his lips, a sour burn at the back of his throat, and a deep unsteadiness somewhere in his guts that made him emit a faint strangled moan of dismay - oh bugger, here's the hangover. Still, the 19-year-old football player remained quite still, eyes firmly shut, allowing his half-conscious brain and exhausted body slowly orientate themselves, clammy against the folds of bedding that covered much of his lean 5ft10 form; as his lashes fluttered open and the youth accepted the sickly after-effects of morning, the room seemed to spin, and he couldn't quite orientate himself in the bed or in relation to the bright glare of the windows - there was nothing familiar or reassuring about the furniture or the decor of this space, and Bobby Clark shut his eyes again, as if a few more moments' dozing might reset reality and he would in fact be waking up in the flat his parents had bought him near the docks. Nope, opening one and then both eyes again, he was definitely here in this strange room, a fact that seemed to highlight some fuzzy gaps in the teen's perception of last night: he could picture much of the celebratory action after being part of a trophy-winning triumph, but he was a bit baffled about his current whereabouts or how he had got here. More baffling, the up-and-coming midfielder slowly realised, that not all of his body felt irritated by the rustling of starchy new bedsheets - he realised that at least part of one leg was chafing slightly against the warmth and softness of someone else's skin, and it occurred very gradually to Bobby that he was not in the bed alone. For a dizzy moment, his temples throbbing, the son of the more famous Clark footballer flinched but tremored with excitement, and he thought he must have managed to pull a bird when they made it out to the underground nightclub that someone's cousin owned - but twisting his prone body and lifting slightly onto one elbow, the teen almost spluttered with laughter. Next to him, squashed in between the jumble of pillows, could be seen a half-profile of a familiar face, that of his teammate James McConnell, squashed in between the pillows with his face twisted by the angle and his lips contorted by his slow snoring breaths. With a quiet `hah' of exasperation or disappointment, Bobby pulled his leg apart, and slid gently away from the heat of the bed's other occupant, up onto his feet on the soft beige carpet of somebody's guest room. On the floor he recognised his own skinny jeans, t-shirt, over-shirt, the tumble of his socks and trainers, and a quick glance up and down himself confirmed to the Geordie youth that he was just in his pants, low rise black boxer briefs that were a bit twisted in their fit by the writhing of fitful sleep. Clark laughed quietly to himself and swayed on bare heels, his head spinning, and he tugged and writhed at the fit of his underpants, blinking at the strength of light that burned in through the room's single large window - apparently they hadn't thought to shut the curtains of this guest room they'd been ushered into at the end of last night's partying, piling clumsily into one shared bed because their host was out of space. The 19-year-old tittered faintly and, partly out of kindness to sleeping James, yanked shut the curtains to diminish the bright spring sunshine that was pouring in, reducing the guest room to a dull mirk that matched the musty smell of laddish hangover sweat. `Fuck,' the young Liverpool player groaned, his headache worsening, `how much did we drink...?' Obviously last night in London had been a huge one for Bobby, just as it had for the other young players who had been called up to perform in the absence of bigger stars, and eventually beating Pochettino's `billion dollar bottle jobs' at the end of extra time - a historic silverware win for the club and a momentous career launch for Bobby and other Academy graduates who were slowly breaking their way into the Anfield first team. It was still hard for the 19-year-old to believe he had been subbed on in a Wembley final and then helped to bring about that victory in front of their travelling fans, fucking hell. He'd come on for his buddy Bradley in the 72nd minute and his snoring pal McConnell had joined him about 10 mins later, two 19-year-old midfielders helping to push the action forward and buy the big win over Chelsea. And from that late goal onwards, Tsimikas and Van Dijk breaking the deadlock, Cark and the others' world had just set on fire with excitement. The on-pitch celebrations had been like nothing Bobby had experienced yet in his career, and the mad atmosphere had continued on into the Wembley changing rooms; he'd loved posing with the other young guns from the Liverpool Academy, including the supportive friendship of big brotherly Trent Alexander-Arnold in his injury leg brace; even more, he'd loved being hoisted aloft by a host of senior players in the tunnel and dressing room and eventually chucked into the recovery pool with the rest of the wild-eyed youngsters who had been so crucial in winning the Carabao Cup. Now, the rest of the night flashed through his dehydrated head - he could picture the many rushed chats and meaningful hugs in the Wembley accommodation, and the hurried journeys to City Airport, the chartered jet back into John Lennon - he could picture the quick `official' drinks on the flight, toasting each other and the gaffer - he could picture the seriousness with which the bosses told them to get home to bed and informed them contradictorily of their morning off before assembling at the training ground for `Recovery' late this afternoon. And then he could picture the feverish excitement with which a solid portion of the squad had totally ignored this and bundled into taxis to first a lock-in at a ropey bar near the airport and then, diminishing in numbers, on to said exclusive club, opened up especially for them due to somebody's family connection. After that, things became less vivid, but it was slowly returning as he crept out of the room and onto the landing. This place, he realised, was actually Andy Robertson's place, the older Scotsman one of the few first team regulars who had joined them at the sweaty bunker of a nightclub, drinking any 19-year-old under the table in true Scottish style - Bobby could picture the brash Glaswegian player racing an injured Ben Doak to down pints at the bar, and then he also remembered the moment that Robbo demanded they come to his for `Afters', though in fact the squad of them had been so drunk and wiped out that they'd probably enjoyed one drink downstairs before crashing out in various guest accommodation. Quietly, Bobby slipped out of their guest room, careful not to make noise that would disturb the deeper sleep of James; it hadn't occurred to the youth to pull on the clothes from last night's adventure, and his near-naked body shivered out on the draughtier cool of the landing balcony, feeling exposed in just his minimal black underpants... but then the house felt asleep and quiet, and he tiptoed gently across the carpeted landing, down a short flight, and into what seemed to be a bathroom door. Inside, the 19-year-old footballer had to pause, and then stifle another laugh: there was the host himself, Andy Robertson having fallen asleep right over the bowl of a toilet, the seat of which was now his pillow. Bobby again regretted being just in his keks, but this time more so that he wanted his phone to take a compromising pic of the semi-naked Scotsman hunched over the loo, presumably banished from his marital bedroom after returning steaming drunk and dragging a cluster of equally wasted younger lads into the house. He retreated from this bathroom, shaking his head, and passed by a couple of other doors on the landing - vague snores sounded from each of them, and he wondered exactly how many teammates Robbo had gathered back here at the end of the night, or the early hours of the morning, summoning them here for an after-party that barely happened. Being on his feet was simultaneously making Bobby feel more conscious and alert, but also making his headache and guts worse, and he wandered a little aimlessly through the upstairs of the Robertson home - surely there were a couple of other bathrooms or loos up here, but the vague snores and dim memories made him loathe to open more doors, having already walked in on the slumped repose of their host. He didn't know whose rooms he might go stumbling into in his undies like some random weirdo, and he was starting to wonder if he should just go back to that guest room and piss out of the window - but the parched youth really needed water too. With some reluctance, Clark crept downstairs, clutching the bannister the whole way as if his hangover head might make him stumble, and he shivered again in the hallway below, though his bare skin was hot to touch with the feverish after-effects of so much drinking. A clock on the wall told him that it was barely gone 6am and that in fact he could only have grasped a couple of hours' sleep in that shared bed with McConnell anyway - fuck's sake. Downstairs, the 19-year-old moved quite daintily on his toes, trying not to cause a noise or fuss, especially as he passed the open double-doors into the rear lounge where they'd piled in to drink Andy's scotch at 3am, and found it like the den of sleeping lions. On one low sofa he could see the slung figure of last night's goalie, his friend Caoimhin Kelleher, flashes of pale skin visible beneath the ill-fitting blanket that was tugged around his foetal position; across from him on another similar low couch, Conor Bradley lay on his back, no attempt at covering himself with a blanket, and his body just settled into a contorted posture across several cushions, his shirt off and his jeans open at the front to show some of the bulging grey underpants below - Bobby might have judged himself for noticing, but it was the way the jeans were tugged down or up, and the ostentatious way the Northern Irish right-back lay there snoring at the ceiling. And so Clark junior moved on past this entrance, wondering how many teammates were passed out in there, and found his way into a quiet dark kitchen instead - no sweaty snoring lads in here, but it took him a while to find a clean glass and fill it at the sink. He emptied it twice in deep guzzles, refilling it each time; then, in a moment of thoughtful kindness, he found and filled a second glass, thinking of James, and then his bladder reminded him of other needs. Putting the glasses down on the bottom spot, he found a downstairs loo under the stairs and pushed down the front of his undies, taking a sweaty cock in hand and pissing heavily - the gurgly echo of his ablutions sounded like it might echo wakefully through the entire house, but it was probably in his pounding head. Piss done, he rocked on his heels and cradled his limp privates in a daze, feeling all the usual `never again' sentiments of a hungover teenager, before briefly washing his mitts and exiting the small hall toilet to journey back upstairs in relative relief. Feeling nauseous, the 5ft10 Espom-born Geordie made his way upstairs, clutching the two pint glasses and rubbing his achey face against the back of one arm, a quiet stumbling gait in search of the room where he'd woken up; it was only on the dim morning light of the landing that Bobby became unsure which door he'd actually emerged from, and which corner of the Robertson house he and James had been bundled into when they could no longer drink any more vintage whiskey. In a soft quite huff, the teen laughed at his own predicament, and stood their indecisively in his underpants - it occurred to him that he could just muscle into the bathroom and wake up Andy himself to get a pointer, but a 29-year-old Glaswegian who'd fallen asleep with his head in the bog didn't seem like the kinda guy worth waking up prematurely, nope. Instead, he moved in the right general direction, counting how many different doors branched off across the side of the upstairs, and peering ahead to the furthest one, which he thought might be theirs - but he didn't recognise that big framed photo of the Scottish highlands or that full-height pot plant, so... he hesitated, counted two back from the last door, and approached it with mustered confidence. Hands full, he leaned and used an elbow instead to push down on the handle and inch the door inwards, and- Stopped, abruptly, half-crouching, leaning into the white-painted door, as an even richer sweaty musk hit him from the dark room within, milliseconds before the sounds connected with his ears: a rapid low grunting rhythm of breath, and a faint almost nasal whine of response, noises which took a long moment to register with the teen's hungover brain. He'd just walked in on someone having a shag! It was dark, although his awkward opening of the door must have let in a shaft of disturbing light, but it didn't sound like it had interrupted the furtive action; he pulled instinctively back, clutching the two pint glasses in his clammy hands, and then stared dimly at the doorhandle which he would be unable to pull shut with his hands full - and so the lean young Geordie just hovered there at the doorway, a step back, the door only open by a couple of inches, but the grunts and whines sounding still through this crack of darkness - though he couldn't see a thing, a growling voice told him what he needed to know. `Take it,' the muffled grunting voice sounded in the darkness, `take my big cock...' Bobby's eyes bulged and he smirked, yet again resisting the urge to crack out laughing in the hungover sleepiness of the house, instead taking slow backwards steps over the carpeted landing, and staring decisively at another door which must surely be the one he'd emerged from, it was open a crack as he'd left it. Beginning to snigger stupidly to himself, Bobby used his bare arm and shoulder to push it inwards and slipped into the room, relieved when it seemed familiar, and thinking with admiration - fucking hell, good for big Joe Gomez, the team's London stud, managing to pull on the way back here and give her a hangover fucking in Andy Robertson's guest room! Big dirty bastard, haha, what a legend! James had drank just as many pints as his Academy bestie, downed just as many shot glasses of vodka and tequila; he woke up with the same stab of discomfort and sense of confusion, and then the same blurry montage of Cup victory streaming back over him as he rolled onto his front and then his back, thrashing out at the weighty bedding that covered his feverishly hot body. He was unaware that the tiptoeing steps of another and the creak of the door had broken his slumber, and only slowly conscious of the door reopening and the figure that pranced across the room - until, squinting one eye, the 19-year-old Northumbrian lad saw a single sweating pint glass clinked down on a bedside table close to him, and then was blinking briefly up at the smirking goateed face of his friend and teammate - `Bobby?' the hungover Geordie teen grumbled. As James shifted in the bedding and reached desperately for the glass of refreshing h2O, the other figure in the dimly lit room moved about and then sprang quite animatedly onto the bed, making the other booze-sweating youth pull aside to make room, frowning resentfully and fighting over his share of the duvet as the other slender midfielder scrambled into bed with him. For a second, the hungover lad felt territorial and irritable and he wanted to kick out at his best pal, his former rival from their earlier days in the Newcastle and Sunderland youth squads, but it dawned on him that, not for the first time, the two of them had shared the bed after all, and he'd been slumbering right next to the other lad until he went to get them water - this realisation made him grumble gratefully and slurp more water, spilling some down his fuzzy chin and then rubbing a clammy paw across his greasy face. `Ergh. Where are we?' `Mate,' Bobby hissed, `you'll never guess what I just saw.' `Are we at someone's gaff?' he groaned disinterestedly. `Well, not quite SAW, but-' `Shurrup,' McConnell complained quietly, closing his eyes and pushing his head back down at the pillow; close together, he felt the cooler skin of Clark's arm and thigh against his and he slid aside, realising how little space either of their strapping young figures had in here. `What you on about?' James murmured with the embers of curiosity, blinking furiously and cradling his head. He put the glass back on the bedside table delicately as if he might slip in focus and send the large decorative lamp crashing to the floor. Then, careful to maintain his own space on this half of the bed, he rolled over and squinted sleepily at the manic grin on Bobby's face. `What you saying, man?' Their faces were turned close to face each other's against the squish of pillows, and the 19-year-old Morpeth lad could taste his friend's beery breath mingle with his own. He was coming to now properly, and he was curious in Bobby's excitement, in spite of his surly frown and his throbbing headache. `Well,' hissed Clark's voice, close by, `you'll never guess who is banging some bird a couple of rooms away in another of Robbo's spare rooms, haha...' James laughed hesitantly at this and knuckled at his dry eyes, absorbing first the confirmation of their location - oh yeah, he could picture a roaring Braveheart Robbo leading them out of the nightclub like a small army, the gushing host as he poured them measures and tried to get them singing Liverpool chants downstairs - and then the news of mischief going on. He recognised that electric glee in Bobby's eyes, knowing how playful and extroverted the other Geordie youth could be about these matters, far more confident than himself - `Shurrup,' he grumbled again, feigning disinterest, and pushing Bobby's hand away as it came pushing in at his bare smooth chest. `Gomez,' the other lad hissed, apparently not waiting for his guess. `Joe?' he grumbled vaguely back. `Well duh, haha, yes mate - could hear it on way past, big Joe going at it, fucking hell - she'll be sore when he's finished!' `Ergh.' James glared at him judgmentally and wrinkled his face in disgust. `Dunno if I needed to know about that, buddy...' `Oh,' Bobby was insisting, seeming more awake and fresh than him - how didn't he feel like the room was spinning?! - and keen to talk. `You shoulda heard it, man, the grunts and whines, she had a deep kinda voice, but-' `Spying on him, were ya?' James cut in, gathering the conscious energy to banter, and giving his pal a shove in the side as they shifted positions to get comfortable; he tried, and failed, to turn further away from the growing body heat of the other boy, the double bed feeling impossibly narrow with two 5ft10 footy lads in it. He brought both hands up to drag across his face and lay on his back, letting his dizziness settle. `Hardly spying - you could hear it loud and clear on the landing.' `Perv.' `Oh yeh, for sure, you know me, always spying on fellas, aye...' `Well, wouldn't surprise me...' `You're the one who clocks everyone's dick size,' retorted Bobby now, and James scowled resentfully - it was not a joke that got any less chafing over time, but he knew he'd walked straight into it, that time when the two young friends were bantering about Alexis Mac Allister getting dirty texts after training, and Bobby had made some quip about his `tiny dick' as the Argentinian rushed home to his bird. James had stumbled clumsily into the humiliation of pointing out that their World Cup winner teammate wasn't quite `tiny', and Bobby had now brought it up two dozen times since - he was sniggering stupidly now and reaching across as if to tickle him, making James slap irritably at him under the covers and kick him clumsily across the shins. `Pair of dirty voyeurs, ain't we?' Bobby cackled into his pillow. `Speak for yourself,' James muttered, but he couldn't help it - his hungover imagination wandering sleepily to this gossip, wondering if he concentrated whether he'd be able to hear what his friend had heard - was their big strapping colleague really going at it at this time in the morning in another spare room of Robbo's house? He found himself almost picturing the dirty deed for some reason and then, riled by Bobby's banter, even picturing a soapy snapshot of Mac Allister showering next to them after last night's game, as cackly and dorky as always in his joy. `Lucky bastard,' Clark moaned, next to him. `I get so horny when I'm hanging.' `TMI,' James slurred lazily, but he knew what the other lad meant - the heat and frustration of the morning after could go straight to a man's crotch, even after a pretty standard night out, never mind after as exciting event as that Wembley win and flight home. Almost on cue, it was like his balls were fuzzy tingling in his keks, and he wished he had a bed to himself - how much would a taxi home to his flat-share cost? `You know what I mean,' the other 19-year-old continued regardless, `just that buzz and tingle and all hot and bothered and... pfft, y'know, it's just knowing that big Joe is getting his end away, that's all, and feelin' proper jel...' `Well you ain't knocking one out in here,' James hissed, and he regretted his bluntness immediately, because Bobby went quiet, making him lean and slide that way and peer at him over the pillows. `You're not seriously thinking about it, for fuck's sake...' `Well,' his friend complained, `I don't really see why not, man.' `Why no? Cos I'm fucking here, that's why not-' `Yeah, but like, I bet you're feeling it too, J, so-' `Maaaate...' `Just saying, just saying...!' Awkward silence. `You telling me you aren't horny as fuck like, man?' James ignored this pushy question and lay there, ignoring the sensation in the crotch of his CK white trunks, staring at the ceiling. Again, his thoughts were turning awkwardly to the thought of Joe Gomez, that towering London bloke who he found rather aloof and mysterious compared to some of their other more senior teammates, and... He blinked the thought away and tensed up, sensing the movement. `You fucking aren't,' he accused quietly into the sweaty mirk of the shared bed. `Oh come on,' complained Bobby's voice. James looked across at the sweaty lean face of the handsome blond lad and his obnoxiously tracklined eyebrow, grinning charmingly at him with arms disappearing under the covers. James could feel every twitch and rustle of the heavy duvet, knowing that Bobby's hands must be- `Maaate,' he groaned again, but Bobby just sniggered and elbowed him. `Relax,' he was told by the other young midfielder, `and give yourself a stroke.' McConnell found himself lying there frozen with indecision, as he often did when dragged along by the overt naughtiness of the other North East teen who had joined the Liverpool academy at roughly the same time as him and quickly became his closest ally, two Geordies on Merseyside, now two young Cup winners sweating and recovering in this shared bed. He thought of the cool water his friend had brought him and his irritation softened, but he was still outraged - moreso when Bobby suddenly let out a little moan. `Are you wanking?' he asked sharply in a pained whisper. `Aye - course I am! I told ya. Go on, just do the same.' Bobby flared his nostrils and made a huffy noise but, in spite of instincts, he did the same - he reached a hand down the flat tense muscles of his midriff and felt the front of his white CKs, feeling how hard he already was, with some trepidation. Gently, he stroked himself through the material, slowly and hesitantly, and then risked looking to his right: seeing Bobby's head rest back comfortably, that wicked young expression one of solitary enjoyment, lips slightly parted, lashes fluttering, hair mussy with sleep and fidgeting... and shoulder muscles twitching as one arm did some work under the sheets, fuck. Bobby lay there still again, hand resting on his undies, and his sleepy eyes fixed on this profile of Bobby's face, his soft curls of honey-blond hair stuck slightly to his brow, and his pink lips pursing over his white teeth, then another jarring little moan... But then Clark was opening his eyes and looking this way, meeting his, and seeming to pause. James swallowed hard and felt a knot of discomfort in his chest - had he been staring really badly at his friend there? `Lighten up,' Bobby told him, almost snappish, `it's just a tug. Let me enjoy myself. I won't get any on you.' He sniggered, and James laughed too, flustered but relieved, thinking that his stare hadn't been so odd or intense after all - and he pushed a hand into the front of his CKs and felt how hot and hard his Northumbrian cock was. `Wish we had some slag in here,' Bobby hissed very quietly, `that we could share.' `Share?' James protested in a low whisper. `Dunno about that.' `Oh, come on - we're senior players now, not kids, this is the shit they get up to.' `Oh right, in soaps and that maybe,' James told him, but uncertainly, nervously removing his long heavy tool from his undies and letting the tight waistband rest under the crease of his ballsack. He stroked slowly on his cock and felt the sensitive tip rub against the duvet, making him moan a little - when he heard himself, they both went silent for a moment, and then sniggered in unison. `Sorry,' he laughed. `Don't be,' Bobby chided. `It was... kinda hot?' `Oh, fuck off, man...!' But James glanced sidelong at his bedfellow, unsure - that had to have been a joke from Clarky, didn't it? He held his cock about the shaft and felt almost too tense to play with himself, this was too edgy for him, but he could tell that Bobby was going for it, tugging himself off out of sight and licking his lips as he did, then glancing this way too - `Mate, I have an idea,' said the voice of a true troublemaker, and James blinked dopily back at him, parched and dizzy - `We could, just, y'know, like, er-' `What?' McConnell insisted dimly, listening to the slurred confusion of the other young Geordie, and then frowning quizzically as Clarky made a nervous laugh and seemed to slide slightly closer to him in this narrow confines. `We could just, like, give each other a hand,' Bobby whispered in a rush, and then shutting his mouth and looking uncharacteristically shy and embarrassed, regret obvious in his bright eyes; James just stared at him with his dry mouth hanging slightly open, and he made a slow `Errr' noise of bewilderment back. `Daft,' Bobby grunted. `Daft idea, daft idea, I just thought- I dunno, I thought if- Oh, fuck, I was just joking, so...' `That'd be weird,' McConnell thought aloud in a breathy whisper. `Yeh,' the other 19-year-old agreed, `really weird.' `I don't think we should.' `Nah,' Bobby confirmed. `Defo a bit much.' `But...' `Yeh?' `Erm - guess it would just feel like we were...' James began, thoughtful, stopping and starting, `well - it would - I mean - it might feel like-' `Yeh?' Bobby breathed again, sounding eager. `It'd feel like we're just getting wanked off by some slag, right? What d'you think, man?' That thin blond face was intense and close and James found himself nodding slowly, staring back across the pillows at his buddy - he was surprised by the nervous energy of the usually-confident Clark, and the calm acceptance of his own murmured, `Why not?' And so, shifting against the bedding, Bobby's intricately tattooed left arm came this way; James felt it against his heated chest, and tummy, and then he could feel his hand pushing against his own. Unseen by either of them, his cock was taken in a light grip by Bobby's hand, and he pulled his own sweaty palms away, pushed flat against his hips; he glanced once more at Bobby's nervous face, and the other midfield player mouthed at him, `Well, gan on, mate, you too.' And he did - he lifted his right hand and crossed it awkwardly past his friend's arm, reaching blindly down under the bedding - he felt the hard ridges of muscle that must be Bobby's tight six-pack, and then he felt the light fuzz of pubes, and suddenly the firm muscular heat of another lad's cock on his sweaty fingers - a surge of electric excitement ran through him, the two of them lying there, taking each other in hand. It was weird, a little creepy - Bobby felt bigger than his own, but he wasn't sure how true that was, he certainly felt veiner, and... Bobby seemed to be circumcised he realised, unlike himself, as his nervous fingers brushed against the ridge of the helmet. `No eye contact,' was the last thing Clark mumbled at him, and McConnell took a moment to understand the urgency of this measure, before agreeing and shifting his head back to stare upwards - all the while, beginning to slowly slide his hand up and down the length of a cock, whilst feeling an almost rhythmic match in his own throbbing hangover erection, their arms brushing and banging slightly as they worked in secret hidden tandem - neither lad seemed comfortable and easy with it at first, but they kept shifting their weight, their postures, never looking across at each other, and soon James felt like he had a better grip, a better rhythm, a real control as he tugged and tugged. Bobby stopped, making him feel nervous and embarrassed - this was too much, wasn't it, and Bobby was about to say so? - but he just heard his friend spit loudly in his hand and get back to it, and so he did the same, his palm and fingers slick with spit as he picked up the pace and wanked Bobby off more firmly under the duvet. Both lads breathed heavily, clearly suppressing the little half-moans that escaped their lips, and James' head swam with the giddy sensations of his hangover, wondering if he was actually too dehydrated to shoot. `God,' Bobby moaned, after many minutes of this, `she feels good.' James, slow on the uptake, opened his mouth to speak and stopped himself. He thought about it, and then with a playful chuckle to his voice, he moaned, `God, her hand feels amazing,' and they both tittered stupidly, a sense of saucy oneupmanship entering their hoarse whispers - `She's got the softest hands,' Bobby was purring, and so James said, `Feels like she's sitting on my big Geordie dick,' and both erupted into breathy giggles of stupidity - paused when Bobby stopped to spit more in his hand, and James accordingly did the same, really going for it now. It took him a minute or so to realise that the pleasure of his own cock had lessened, slowed, stopped - he was tugging so energetically on the rigid mast of Bobby's arousal, really desperate to pull it to completion, as if it was his own. He wanked and wanked and realised that Bobby's arm had gone limp against him. Looking over, he saw the ecstatic look on Bobby's lean pretty face, the fluttering of his blond lashes, the `O' of his open mouth, and the fresh sweat beading on his brow and cheeks - `Mate,' whimpered Clark's voice, but McConnell already knew, didn't need to hear it, but... `She's gonna make me cum,' the ex-Magpie gasped into the half-light, and then let out a long controlled moan, and James found his hand slipping and sliding in its motion, wetter now, not with his own spit, but with warm gelatinous liquid on his palm, his fingers - his friend's cum, hot and sticky to his touch, making him falter and pant and stop. He wiped his hand instinctively on the bed between them but in doing so seemed to get it on his hip and Bobby's and he tried to rub his hand on something else, but it was the side of Bobby's undies; he felt the floppy weight of a spent cock rub and graze at his hand and he pulled it awkwardly back, his heart hammering. Next to him, his mate was still gasping quietly, but then he felt strength return to the limp hand and Bobby was stroking across his flat tummy, tickling the little dark growth between his navel and his pubes - `Sorry, I shouldn't have stopped,' his friend breathed, but James felt himself protesting - he wasn't sure why, but he was pushing down, pushing Bobby's hand away with his own sticky paw, shivering with terrified excitement. `It's okay,' James insisted, `you don't have to.' There seemed to be an awkwardness between them now, a long moment's quiet, as Bobby tried to reach dutifully for him, clearly intent on fulfilling an obligation of returning a favour, but James felt embarrassed now it was less mutual and synchronised, and also a little freaked out by the salty smell emerging from each disturbed ruffle of the bedding; he pushed the questing hand away and gripped at his own erection with the soiled hand, holding it tight, and just listening to his own and his friend's breathing. Bobby stopped trying and just lay next to him, silent and perhaps embarrassed and James wanked himself without saying a thing or letting a single panting moan escape his lip; soon he too had spent his load, a messy slick against the underside of the duvet, his cock flopping back against his tummy, and his chest heaving with each awkward breath. He tried to speak, but he didn't know what he could say, he felt completely lost. James wasn't sure how long the two Liverpool midfielders lay there in tense silence, or if Bobby even felt as tense and ridiculous as he did - perhaps the other Geordie lad was genuinely asleep when he looked over at his still face and shallow breaths - but after a while the darker-haired youth scrambled out of bed and found each items of his clothing from the floor of the tidy guest room, which stunk of sweat and spunk. He gulped from the glass of water and stared guiltily at his clammy hands, one of which must be stained with both his and his friend's jizz. He wiped them self-consciously on the thighs of his cargo pants and pulled the tie-dyed hoody over his t-shirt, covering his lean pale body in clothes to hide its naked shame from the mutual handjob. And then, with all of his usual easy charm, Bobby said `Get me a fucking fry-up, Morpeth', and the two pals were sniggering and bantering with their usual relaxed intimacy; once both dressed, the two teens left the room and followed dim voices down to the house's kitchen, where breakfast really was on the cards, their host Robbo offering out bacon butties and fried mushrooms to everyone who wanted some, muttering on about having haggis in the larder if anyone fancied it - the busy downstairs of the house echoed with hungover laughter and matey banter, various members of the Wembley squad seated on stools or kitchen surfaces or chairs pulled from elsewhere, and McConnell and Clark sidling in amongst them to join the gathering. The conversation shifted inevitably to the awful states they would be in when they reconvened at the training ground this afternoon, and the fact they had an FA Cup game tomorrow night. James felt happy but dazed, and the whole awkward episode in the bedroom already felt like a glimpse of a surreal dream, not something he could worry about in the light of day, or when he and his bestie were sat among this company of older and more experienced players, listening to people retell their involvements in the Chelsea win. But he did notice the way his friend Bobby kept staring thoughtfully over at towering Joe Gomez, who stood near the hob with Robbo, and supped from a big mug of coffee. At some point in the slow dispersal of this breakfast club, James overheard Bobby make a snide comment to 26-year-old defender, who was pouring them coffees. `Sounded like you had fun,' the son of Lee Clark whispered knowingly to the older man, nudging shoulder to shoulder with the bigger fella as he took his coffee cup. Joe, his face weary and dazed, just turned and gave him a blank look. `Eh?' he asked. James listened inattentively, waiting for his own coffee, but he felt a stab of awkwardness as his friend pushed quietly on, rather than dropping it. `I heard you,' Bobby whispered confidentially, just loud enough for James to hear, and then, `I heard you shagging her - who was she? Where'd she go?' Joe Gomez stared at Bobby and then, it seemed to James, at him too, his face blank and expressionless, frozen in the act of pouring from the cafetiere. A moody silence fell between them, the two teens and the big defensive player, and James wanted to kick his friend in the ankle, wanted to hiss at him to mind his own business and stop trying to be club joker; but they were rescued by the ding-dong of a bell interrupting the low chatter of the room, and one of the other players getting up to go answer it - Kelleher, the goalie, but another lad got up from the seat next to him, and announced his urgency to claim a seat in the first taxi. `No sleep,' Darwin Nunez informed the room very loudly, wrapping his inked arms across his lean chest, and then staring pointedly across the kitchen table, this way - to James' left, not at Bobby, but at tall brooding Joe. `No sleep,' the Urugayuan star repeated firmly, `not sharing a bed with that snoring bastard!! Haha!' And then, downing the last of his coffee, the injured forward who had not even played last night was making an exit from the kitchen, following Kelleher and Bradley into the hall, and Gomez and Robertson shifting after them... and James, who had only half-paid attention to this, found himself glancing to his left, and at the slapped confusion of Bobby's pretty features. `What?' he hissed impatiently at his friend, too tired and hungover himself to follow the logical implications. He reached past to snatch the coffee, having had Gomez interrupted before it could be poured. But he looked insistently at Clark, who was standing next to him with a face like he'd just had a big shock, his mouth opening and closing quietly. James waited, holding the hot cup in both hands - `What is it?' Bobby averted his eyes and slowly moistened one lip with his tongue, then shook his head. `Nothing,' he murmured evasively, but as he did, the cogs in James' head did their turning, moving past the dehydrated ache - and he thought back to that snatch of whispered gossip in the early hours of their sweaty shared bed. Oh. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-390

Date: Mon, 19 Feb 2024 22:04:00 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 390 Part 390: Toffees in South London Another damp shower descended as the coach deposited them in front of the South London hotel, the same alternative grey drizzle and bursts of wintry sunshine that had tracked the travelling squad south from Liverpool. All eyes on Crystal Palace, intoned the coaches as the men were ushered indoors into another bland hotel foyer; all eyes were rather bleary and more focused on afternoon naps, after a journey already punctuated with irritation and delays, an atmosphere of general irritation surrounding the arriving Everton squad that Monday afternoon. As soon as schedules had been announced and check-ins were completed, room keys were being handed out and pairs of tracksuit-clad footballers were sloping away with sagging shoulders and little planned for their brief downtime but a short snooze before preparations began for the Palace game. One young member of this away trip squad was a little more energetic as he took his key from the gaffer and checked the map of room numbers beside the three elevators; he shared a short furtive glance with his assigned roommate, who immediately dropped his eyes afterwards, and then he studied the map again to check what floor they needed; ahead, another member of the Everton defence was using a £1000 trainer to keep the lift doors open and let the two of them slip in. Up the elevator went, and the other pair of footballer lads chatted in low sleepy voices before bidding `goodbye for now' at the second floor; this young guy and his roomie let the doors slide shut and travelled up two more floors to the uppermost corridor of suites before getting out. Up here, leaving the lift and stomping wearily down a long straight corridor of numbered doors, the two young men didn't say a word to each other, even though it was remarkably quiet, deserted-feeling, compared to the dissipating huddle in the reception area. They wore matching Everton away tracksuits and swung half-empty kit bags over broad shoulders, two tall sporty blokes making their way to a door at the end of the corridor, where a large window on the landing viewed the London skyline in full. Only once inside room 432 did the 22-year-old Glaswegian seem to let out a long whistling breath that he felt like he'd held since the bus pulled up in the car park; his entire 6ft form was gripped by a giddy excitement as he pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and then jammed the key-card into the little slot that would power up the lighting and power-points of their spacious shared room. Wiping a large clammy palm across his face, Nathan Patterson pottered further into the room, hoisting the bag-strap from a big shoulder and dropping it heavily in place at the foot of one double bed; ahead of him, his roommate had moved towards the windows, flicking oddly at the curtains and shooting furtive glances about the room as if he expected to find some spy hidden behind a corner of furniture. Nathan let out a stupid gurgling chuckle, wiping his palms on the front of his t-shirt, and fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top. `You okay?' the tall muscular right-back defended, staring goofily at the other player. Across from him, the older and more experienced Premiership defender just shrugged big shoulders and stared anywhere but at him, stony silence and wary eyes. Nathan was not to be put off, he was excited as he had been all day, since he saw the rooming chart and knew they would be sharing for the first time in a while. `How long have we got?' the other guy asked after an uncomfortable pause, his Yorkshire accent almost as heavy as Nate's own West Scotch burr. `Good hour and a half at least,' the 22-year-old insisted. He toyed still with his zip, and let out another of those almost boyish chuckles of nervous energy, lingering in the centre of the room between the two beds. He lifted a big hand and fussed with the mousy brown sweep of his hair on top. `It's cool,' he insisted. `We've got time.' The other man drew a couple of steps closer, pushing his hands into the pockets of his Everton tracky bottoms; he finally looked properly at him, a pouty frown covered his long sandy-brown features. `Did you bring some stuff, then?' he asked, his voice blunt and demanding - matter-of-fact, straining for casual and aloof, but tellingly anxious and interested - and Nathan couldn't help but nod his big head eagerly, a big shaggy labrador of a man in his current mood. And to confirm the nod, he turned round and unzipped one end of his kit-bag, reaching into it to retrieve the goods. He lifted them up with a showy flourish towards his assigned roommate, who paced a little closer, fists in pockets and face very serious - the two men looked at each other and Nathan's grin split his youthful face. `Here,' the former Rangers defender proclaimed breathlessly. `Huh, yeah,' growled the voice of the York-born older defender. Patterson showed him the little bottle, just a couple of inches tall, with its garish colourful label declaring a brand name `Rush' and a rather alarming logo. `Should have seen me buying them,' he muttered through his nervous laughter. `Hood up, cap down, shop miles out of the city. Ha ha. Erm.' He passed the bottle to the 26-year-old man, who took and inspected them and just made a non-committal `huh' of interest before beginning to unscrew the lid; and Nate grinned intently at him, watching the lid come off and the bottle brought up to the flared nostrils of a long sturdy nose. Just like that rogue afternoon of their club's last big regime change - skulking about Frank Lampard's abandoned office as they were, led by the curious Coady and frowning Tarkowski - here they were again, Nathan alone now with Ben Godfrey, who sniffed deeply and loudly on one nostril at a time, sampling the amyl nitrate that Patterson had purchased as if it was Class A contraband. Breathing in the poppers, the mixed-race Yorkshire lad blinked and winced and exhaled, and Nathan grabbed back the little bottle to do the same - first one nostril and then the other, a heady snort of the alarming substance... just like they'd done at Coady's insistence when they found it in Lampard's desk drawer, goaded on by their departed older teammate. `Fuck,' the 22-year-old Scot murmured, instantly dizzy. It was just like he remembered. `Yeah,' grumbled Godfrey ambiguously, stood close in front of him; he looked into his wide and mildly bloodshot eyes, thinking that big Ben's mood already seemed a little softened, less rigid and uninviting than he'd been on the entire drive down here - it had, after all, been his idea that Patterson try and get hold of some of the daft party `drug'. Nathan stared giddily at the other 6ft man, perhaps even broader and heavier in build than his own developing physique, and he giggled stupidly - surely Ben Godfrey was just as aware as he was at how they'd behaved with this muck up their noses last time - wasn't that what they were really here for this afternoon? `Here,' the York man grunted deeply, `let me have another sniff.' `Sure,' panted Nathan submissively, letting their large rough hands brush as the open bottle was passed back between them. And then he just couldn't help himself - he reached forward and pushed his hand against the front of Ben's tracksuit pants, right into the crotch, feeling for the mound of meat that was usually pretty obvious and visible there, bouncing and shaping in whatever pants or shorts the mighty centre-back wore to play. With a firm grip that belied his nerves, the Scot took hold of the older man's copious bulge, holding his dizzy breath, and meeting intense eyes; without fully reacting, Godfrey continued to take a deep pull of poppers in each nostril, and then screw the lid back on. He nodded his head, very slightly, discreet aloof consent, and Nathan licked his lips. `We're doing this?' the Scotsman huffed with a surge of fearful energy. `Course fucking are,' the bulky 26-year-old muttered back, and he grasped him by the sound of the neck - and in he came, plunging into the dizzy senseless kiss, his breath and tongue filling Nate's mouth. In another shared room, one floor down, another young bastion of the Everton defence was stood in the same spot, at the centre of his room, but on his own; a bit like Nate above, this big muscular youngster was grinning eagerly in such a way that split his rugged face, but he was staring into the glow of his smartphone screen rather than at a poppers-sniffing colleague. And a bit like nervous Nathan on the fourth floor, this 21-year-old Cumbrian let out a boyishly nervous laugh under his breath, one that jarred with his intimidating physical stature and the look of brash confidence that he always wore on his face - but putting nervousness aside, Jarrad Branthwaite let his thumb dance across the screen and tap in a series of thumbs-up and purple devil emojis into the messaging thread, affirming his plans to the sender who was luring him away with the simple message `Blowie now???' For a short moment's indecision, the big 6ft5 centre-back turned and looked across the suite at his own roommate. But James Garner was already flopped face-down on his bed and practically snoring, his overnight bag dumped at one side - if the midfielder wasn't already asleep then he was well on his way to it, and Jarrad felt that he probably didn't need to worry about crafting any plausible excuses for the other footballer lad. Instead, he just locked his phone and pushed it back into the pockets of his loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms, zipping up his top over his tee, and making a quick shuffling exit back through the door of room 312, out into the broad quiet corridor that had led them here just minutes ago. Well, the up-and-coming defender told himself, they'd been given the downtime for relaxation before the pre-game rituals began and there wasn't much that relaxed the giant Carlisle youth more than getting head. So really he was just following the gaffer's instructions and prioritising his well-being before the Palace game, right?! Or something like that, anyway. Moving as quietly and discreetly as a broad lad of 6ft5 possibly can, Branthwaite exited the long corridor and opted for the stairwell rather than the lift, dropping down to the second floor and counting his way down the doors as instructed. He stopped a few feet from the given door and faffed with the cuffs of his top, the drawstring knot at the front of his pants, then even retrieved his phone and re-read the quick string of messages - there was still a seed of shameful doubt that made him consider deleting the chat and rushing back for the lift, back to his room and to Garner's snores - to a fitful nap to gather his strength for tonight. After all, he was crossing lines here, dipping his big toes in taboo, and he was less and less sure that he could brush these incidents off as standard footy lad banter as he had when it first happened with Harvey Elliott on that Young Lions excursion. But that shame and self-doubt had a lot to contend with in the big Cumbrian's red-blooded greed and fierce physical needs. The option of retreat didn't stand a chance. He knocked his heavy knuckles against the hotel room door and clenched both paws in and out of aggressive fists whilst he waited for an answer. When it came, the older man already had his top off, relaxedly exposing his well-defined chest and stomach muscles, a knowing smirk on his pink-tinged face beneath his ruffled quiff of blond hair. Jarrad stared awkwardly at him, his own stature somewhat dwarfing the 6ft1 England goalkeeper. `Come in, then,' murmured Jordan Pickford in his strong Mackem snarl. `Aye,' the other far Northerner grunted keenly back, muscling his way forward and following him into the room - and pausing just a few paces in, in the middle of unzipping his tracky top, when he saw the closed door to his left and heard the watery gurgles and low masculine voice behind it. `Hey,' he hissed, freezing up and staring accusingly at the casually sauntering topless figure in front of him. `You said you were alone,' the 21-year-old mouthed angrily, trying not to make any noise - what the fuck? Nearing the furthest bed, Pickford just turned and winked at him, coolly unbothered; the 29-year-old stretched one arm and then the other across his bare chest, beckoning Jarrad his way. The big lad paused, listening to the splashes and muffled words, then pacing nervously in Jordan's direction - he looked earnestly at the older guy, the experienced England star who had befriended and coaxed him in these months since his discovery on the England U21s. It had taken quite a few obnoxious looks and compliments at urinals and showers before Jarrad even noticed how interested the Sunderland native was in his big young cock, but once he had, things had progressed quickly; it was only a couple of weeks after he first let Harvey Elliott suck him and Tyler Morton off in that midnight bathroom that he enjoyed his second blowjob from a man, sucked dry by Pickford in a back alley behind a Liverpool nightclub. `He's having a bath and ringing his boring wife,' whispered Jordan placatingly, resting one hand on the waist of his tracksuit, and stroking the other across his waxed pecs. `He won't know a thing, the boring bastard - now, are you getting that big whopper out for daddy, or are you gonna whinge off to your room for a lonely wank, kid?' The England star stared confrontationally at him and the 6ft5 youth quailed at his crude hunger and the regularity with which these covert cock-suckings were taking place this season; each time he swore he wouldn't come back for more, a big strapping football star who could already have his pic of sexy Insta girls who wouldn't balk at deep-throating his monster - why did he need to have it noshed by this married weirdo? Most worrying of all, Jarrad might admit, was that he didn't even believe Jordan's claims that he'd `put a good word in with Southgate' for him ahead of the Euros - he wished he could kid himself he was offering his big Cumberland sausage up to the goalkeeper as career advancement. But nah. Hesitant, Branthwaite looked back at the hotel suite's bathroom door, then down at the smart bedsheets, and then at Pickford's bare pink chest and smirking smug face. In the confines of his briefs, the big stud's fat heavy balls and curled trouser-snake overruled caution and fear, just as they had shame and indecision in the corridor, and when Jordan reached down to stroke them, he just nodded his big rugged face, and closed his eyes. Another hotel suite, another door shutting, another key-card pushed clumsily into the slot near the door, triggering the low growl of electric heaters and an extractor fan in the bathroom. He moistened his lips with his tongue and turned away from this task so that he could follow the other lad into the room proper, dropping first his own kit-bag and then pushing that of the other lad down onto the carpet. Slightly alarmed by this action, the 5ft9 winger looked warily back at him, and then pulled slightly away, moving further into the room and close to one of the beds; he moved after him, stepping lightly over their discarded bags, and drawing close so that he really towered over the medium height man. `Here we are then,' murmured the low masculine voice of another Everton player, but one of their most treasured attacking players, rather than the big strong defenders roomed on the floor above; 6ft2 and densely muscled, the striker stood over the winger, continuing in the same dispassionate voice, `Just us two - alone.' `Yes sir,' came the breathless whisper of the smaller guy, marginally older at 27, and far less established in the Everton hierarchy of these embattled recent years. The lad looked up at him with that same wary expression on his pale face, dark black-brown hair slicked heavily back with gel as always, and dark lashes fluttering with each twitch of his beady eyes. `Just us two,' the 27-year-old attacking player echoed in a faint voice, starting to look slightly more relaxed about the mouth and the eyes, now that it was just the two of them, up in another shared away trip hotel room, rather than seated several rows apart on the coach, or playing side by side on the training pitch - a mixture of fear and excitement rippled visibly through the compact body of the tracksuited English lad. Standing over him, Dominic Calvert-Lewin took a deep breath, his eyes lazily half-open, and his face set into an expression of moody disapproval. `Well, what are you waiting for, you little slut?' the big powerful striker asked in the same low whisper of command. `Get on your fucking knees, Jack.' In front of him, the Leeds loan player and former Man City reject nodded and began to move down, but not swift enough; Dominic had to put a forceful hand on one of his shoulders and speed him down to his knees on the carpet of the suite. Once he was down there, the dark-haired face moved quickly in towards his crotch but Dominic wanted to tease him. He clamped a hand on top of his head and held it back, frustratingly close but separate from the bulging front of his tracksuit - and he held him at that distance whilst with his other hand he undid the drawstring and lowered them over his mega-strong thighs, so that just off-white briefs separated Jack Harrison's lips of quivering dark pink from the big heavy droop of DCL's manhood. `My little slut,' the Sheffield-born footy hunk purred at the kneeling lad. `Yes,' Harrison confirmed quietly, weakly. `Your slut, sir.' `Desperate for my big black cock?' `Always, sir,' Harrison added quickly. `Tell me how much you want it, Jacko.' `I want it bad, sir. Want it so much.' `Tell me.' `Want it in my dirty gob, sir, want to suck it deep, please-' `Tell me it's the best you've tasted!' `Yes,' Jack insisted, panting. `Yes.' `Better than Bamford's?' `Yes, yes,' the slut begged. `Bigger and better than that posh cunt's willy?' `Yes, definitely, the biggest - I love your big cock sir!' `Good fucking boy, good boy.' `Can I suck it sir? Please, please.' He reached down and slapped Jack across the face, leaving a pink mark, then he pulled his face in against his briefs, a dirty pair he'd worn deliberately so that they smelled all the mustier for this dirty little whore. Later, he would make Harrison wear them on the pitch at Crystal Palace, playing their Monday night game in them so that he knew what a slut he was for the full 90 minutes out there. Only once Jack had noisily sniffed them and tried feebly to kiss and suck at the fat sweaty cock through the fabric did Dom take his big hands and slide them in at the hips of his pants and slide them away, over the sculpted mounds of his big brown glutes, and more importantly away from his bushy pubes and the weighty circumcised serpent of his master cock. Jack paused, face angled up, obediently waiting for permission, mouth wide open and tongue lolling like an innocent puppy - Dominic smiled faintly, built up some spit, and delivered it aggressively onto Jack's tongue, lips, chin. Then he nodded, once, and slutty Harrison went to work, wrapping his mouth about the swelling mass and tonguing its huge length, gagging quickly on Calvert-Lewin's growing pipe. Ben Godfrey took another deep sniff from both sides of his nose, letting the burning sensation fizzle and the chemical rush hit his brain; and then he passed the bottle forward carefully, not wanting to spill any of the weird liquid onto the naked pale muscle of the prone Scotsman in front of him. Fumbling hands took it from him and he watched intently as Nathan did the same as him, taking big snorts of the evaporating substance; while Ben's own fumbling hands were lifting and parting the fluff-hairy weight of Nate's thighs, taking up those big defender legs, and letting his lower calves rest against the strength of his own bare shoulder muscles. He breathed deeply, letting the consumed effects of the poppers wash through him, and spitting again down onto his long hard prick, which he rubbed and tugged - he'd wanted to suggest making Patterson suck on it, but he didn't know if he could expect such a thing of the big gormless Glasgow kid - the kissing had been a wild risk, something he hadn't tried when they last clashed bodies like this. It had been early this season, the 26-year-old Yorkshireman reflected... quite a long time after the original deed, really, when Lamps had been sacked and the little silly gang of them were curiously exploring his office. High on poppers and the jokey encouragement of Coady, he'd pinned this gormless fucker down against the gaffer's desk in that ridiculous jockstrap and pushed his cock between his cheeks... He'd fucked a lad, he really had, and the tightness on his big black cock had been like nothing Godrey had experienced in his adult life, not at all. And so one drunken night last September, when the two 6ft defenders had ended up exiting a lads' night out together by contestant, an uninhibited Ben had seized the youngster and taken him back to his - drunk enough to be bold, he'd admitted to the Scotland player that he'd never felt anything so good as his arsehole, and that he had thought about it ever since. And in a fumbling drunken mess, the two of them had rolled about in Ben's bedding, and he'd tried to penetrate the youngster again, but without any luck - no kisses, no foreplay, no proper lube, but worst, no poppers. It had ended in pure awkwardness, Godfrey utterly regretting everything, and red-faced Patterson just full of apology and self-blame. It had felt so awful that Ben had called in sick to training for days and spoken to his agent about a January transfer... but Nate had actually been so sweet and charming about it all that he'd recovered his pride and dignity and briefly tried to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Until he decided that poppers was the magic ingredient and that if they just bought a bottle of the little party substance then maybe they could really do it again like they'd done in Lampard's office after his sacking...! Just like big oafy Nathan on the bed in front of him, Ben had no sense that he himself might be gay or bi, so he wasn't sure why it had felt right to kiss and snog the big daft lad first; was he trying to coax and relax him? Trying to make up for his clumsy painful efforts last time, jabbing stupidly between big white cheeks but making no entry into Patterson's most private part? Was he trying to make things easier? Or... He didn't know. But after the first sniffs of poppers, the two had kissed and cuddled and ripped each other's tracksuits away, but now was the time for the deed itself, and he had Nathan on his back, legs in the air, ankles over his shoulders, and he was spitting more on his cock and his hand, and trying to work out if he would really be able to get his massive meat in between those strong arse cheeks again like that afternoon in front of troublemaking Conor Coady. `You ready?' the former Norwich defender grunted impatiently at his friend. `I think so,' breathed Patterson faintly. `I'll do my best.' The sweet willingness of his face and tone made Ben feel awkward. `Tell me to stop if-' `I really want to let you,' gurned the younger defender, `like last time!' `But if it hurts...' `It'll be better with this poppers, right...?' `Yeah, well, probably, but just-' `Go on, I'm ready, I'm ready...' `Oh fuck, you're so tight though mate...' `Ain't that a good thing, haha...?' `In a pussy maybe, ha, but... mmm... shit, we should have got proper lube...' `Spit some more - that'll be okay. Here, let me sniff some more of this stuff.' `Don't overdo it, don't want you passing out mate...' `Go on, push it in, I reckon I can...' `Damn it, you're just so tight...!' `I'm trying to relax... ohhhh, shit-' `Fuckkkkk... Nath... ohhhh...' `Fuck, maaaaan-' `Oh god!' In it went, bit by bit, and Ben lost the ability to form words - again he was feeling that extraordinary tight grip against the head and, inch by inch, shaft of his large weighty cock; he was entering the 22-year-old fractionally, but with far less resistance than at first, and he could see a look of almost transcendental enjoyment on the Glaswegian's big freckled face, already beading with sweat, red and blotchy about his cheeks and neck. Ben lifted up his strong musclebound arms and took hold of Nate's ankles as he edged his powerful body forward, inch by inch by inch, until he was deep inside of the straining, open-mouthed young jock, and once again able to turn his gurning pants into words: `You... feel... so... good... buddy...' `And - you,' whimpered Patterson in response. `Ohhhh, fuck. Here - you want some more poppers?' Godfrey nodded and took the bottle. `Jesus fucking Christ,' was all he could say. Tarkowski often took long baths, but this afternoon hardly felt the right time for it; besides, all his missus could talk about was the attention garnered by a teaser clip for their upcoming appearance on the `Married to the Game' TV show, and it was making the 31-year-old Mancunian feel a bit silly and self-conscious. His voice lazy and laconic, he resisted his partner's teasing over speakerphone, the device propped between toiletries on a shelf above the bath where he rinsed suds from every lean muscle of his 6ft1 athlete's body, the draining water flooding away from his torso and legs and privates, forming a soapy whirlpool between his large hairy feet, and gurgling away so that he couldn't help but making a `Saltburn' reference to his giggling wife and asking her if she'd drink his bathwater in their next appearance on the new WAGs docu-soap. James, climbing out of the bath and reaching for his towel, snorted with laughter at his own stupid banter, shaking his head and catching his own eye in the mirror as he straightened up; he was both mortified and delighted with the social media attention for his terrible bit of flirting in the promo clip, but he did wish she would stop going on about it. He'd had his bath now and he wanted to try and fit in a brief nap still, which seemed feasible before the squad were due to assemble downstairs in the hotel restaurant. The 31-year-old former Burnley star wrapped the towel tightly about his lean waist and paused for just a moment's egotism, checking out his lightly haired pectorals and shapely shoulders in the mirror, turning his face this way and that. His wife was already trying to negotiate some photoshoot interviews for them with glossy magazines on the back of their appearance in the WAG series, and Tarkowski was examining himself to see if he was really as handsome as bantering teammates often accused, or if it was all a joke at his expense and he was really still the jug-eared geeky kid he tended to see reflected back at him; dismissing the posing moments, he began his goodbyes to his missus and dried his hands before retrieving the phone from its carefully balanced position. `Bye, babe, bye bye - I'll see you tomorrow, love you lots-' and so on. He ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and clutched the device at his side, using the other hand to check the knot of his wrapped white towel, then unlocking the door that would return him from the small steamy bathroom into the main shared suite where- The Everton centre-back froze in the doorway, looking at the wall-mounted mirror that exposed to him a view of the full room around the corner, meaning that for a long awkward moment his steamy emergence was unseen, and Tarkowski was just looking at a framed display at what was happening on one bed: there was that big young lad Branthwaite, of all people, up on his knees in the centre of the bed, with his t-shirt pulled right up above his nips, and his pants down to his knees; hunched sideways in front of him, head down to business, was undoubtedly Jordan fucking Pickford, England No1, and he was visibly - and audibly! - giving oral service to the big giant youth. James blinked and gawked disbelievingly at the scene, unable to contain the `Fuckin' hell' of horrified discovery, and turning about the corner to confront them almost on autopilot, when quickly a part of him wished he'd just slammed the bathroom door shut again and hid in the steam of his soak. Jarrad, of course, leapt from the bed as if stung or bitten, an alarmingly big long rod of manhood swaying and juddering with each clumsy movement of his half-dressed form. The stupidly tall Northern bastard went stumbling and skidding off the bed and into the wall with a crash, pants about his ankle and t-shirt all tangled. He immediately began to mouth off, stupid things like `Pickers, what the fuck were you trying there mate?' and `Jesus, where's my jacket?' and `James, mate, it ain't how it looks-' as if the big gurning lad hadn't just been caught getting his cock serviced by an older man. It wasn't long before Branthwaite, still struggling back into his clothing, was brushing past Tarkowski and making for the door, sounding almost like he was going to cry. Jordan, on the other hand, hadn't left the bed, but he had slid from his crouching attentiveness to a louche reclining position, saying nothing but just staring challengingly this way, and wiping his mouth across the back of one arm. James stared at him, blinking heavily, and letting the steam rise off his chest muscles. `Seriously, mate?' was all the 31-year-old could find to say. The England goalie laughed. `That was quick - I thought you'd be in the tub for ages.' `So it fucking seems-!' `Oh, relax - was just having a laugh, marra.' `Mate, you were...' `Having a laugh,' Pickford insisted. He wiped his mouth again, rolled his eyes. `Fuck, that lad is well hung, y'know? Everything in proportion, the big lucky bastard...' `Mate...' `Oh, fucking relax and let go, Tarks - come on. Get that towel off and I'll suck you instead, yeah?' James stared hard at him, several different uncomfortable memories surfacing, not least the occasional digging comments and suggestions of his much-missed temporary teammate Conor Coady who had joined Everton at the same time as him; breathless and awkward, the laddish 31-year-old stared down his roomie, and shook his head. This was hardly his first exposure to Pickford being a little bit, well, eccentric, but to walk in on him fully fellating a young player, Jarrad of all people...! James' mind was blown and the relaxed fugue of his bath was shattered; worse, the towel was slackening and loosening at his waist and he had to chuck his phone aside so he could reach down and save it from falling away from his naked athletic body. `Watch it,' chuckled Jordan, `I nearly saw the goods there. Oh, come on, lad, it's not like we ain't showered together for years... Come on. Whip it out and let me-' `Fuck off,' James told him decisively, and he stormed back to the bathroom, bright red in the face at what he'd confronted. `Honestly, Pickford, you're fucking mental - Jesus! - I can't believe you just...' And the flustered married Manc lad barged back into the bathroom in a state of deep embarrassment, locking the door behind him and clamping his angry hands against the rim of the sink - he looked back into the mirror and stared himself down while trying to calm from the shock of discovery, adding up certain clues and suspicions over his years of team company with the Three Lions superstar. And again, due to the rapid movement of his indignant rush, the towel was unknotting, and sliding away from his hips and the curve of his rump - and James looked down idly as it fell, stood there with his hands on the sink, ignoring the muffled sounds of Pickford's dismissive banter through the bathroom door. Tarkowski looked down in puzzlement that defied his usual self-awareness: if he was quite so horrified to discover Pickford sucking off their teammate, then why had his towel fallen away to reveal a raging hard-on between his hairy thighs...? `Come on,' Jordan was yelling through the door, `I was just joking really, I know you aren't open-minded or much fun...' `Oh FUCK OFF,' James shouted furiously back at him, hearing the insults. Pickford shouted something else but it was unclear; clearer was the slam of the main hotel room door as the goalie apparently exited, maybe in pursuit of Branthwaite. This just left Tarkowski in the steamy hotel bathroom, confused by his discovery, confused by his erection, and already vaguely flustered by the prospect of silly media attention because his beautiful wife wanted to launch a bit of a career in the spotlight. The 31-year-old footballer was gripped by confused frustration, and like most men at some point or another, he knew there was only one easy solution: a good wank. He gripped the sink in one pink-palmed hand took his cock with the other, and jerked furiously away, bringing first his wife to mind, and then the sight of big Jarrad being blown - and then, confusingly and distressingly, the knowing smirk of Conor Coady when they used to hang out together, occasionally resting a hand on his knee for a moment too long... `Thank you sir, thank you,' Jack tried repeatedly to say, but it wasn't so easy, with his mouth alternatingly full and just half-full of the big mocha-brown weapon that jutted from Dominic's crotch, the delicious meat that he'd been chowing on for a good three months now since first sneaking into the striker's bed one cold night in the FA Cup. He wasn't on his knees now, but lying curled on his side on the bed, next to where Calvert-Lewin's big godlike form sprawled and stretched, pausing moans only to call him `Slut' and `Whore' and tell him how grateful he should be to taste this perfect cock. Oh yes, Jack would think whilst wild in the moment of greed and subservience, lucky, perfect, yes yes yes - though he knew full well that afterwards would come bitterness, resentment, distrust, all of the usual insecurities of his sexual debasement. It was, he had quickly realised, just as it had been at Leeds, when he finally gave in to the alpha supremacy of posh boy Paddy Bamford, who had made him his cock-sucker when his little Geordie boyfriend was sold off to some shite lower league side. At Leeds with beautiful Paddy and now at Everton with majestic Dominic, it was the same: Harrison was so full of shame and uncertainty about his cock cravings that he could only give in and enjoy it when taken control of by these powerful dominant types, who he would drop and worship dutifully and obsessively, only to scowl and sulk and avoid them in between. He knew it was far from ideal, but it was what was currently available to him. Greedy and desperate, he gobbled up and down the shaft, spitting and gurgling all over it, and stopping when commanded to kiss and suck on the baggy balls, or to nuzzle in the rough curls of pubes, or to worship the lower rungs of Dom's six-pack - anything the big sexy bastard demanded of him whilst he sprawled there, lazy and selfish in his pleasure, calling him a `Dirty little whore' who barely deserved to drink `sir's piss'. `No,' Jack agreed in a whimper, `I don't deserve that, but...' `You dirty little shit, you actually want it, don't you?' Dominic barked aggressively. `Get back on my cock and suck it.' `Yes, yes, I'll be good...' God, why did the thought of Dominic's piss excite him even more than his cum?! Paddy had never pissed on him, but maybe Dom would, maybe if he sucked him really good and did everything he was told, maybe he would get a golden shower too before tonight's match...! Nathan gladly moved into the new position at Ben's insistence, back into a bent-over doggy position over the side of bureau at the windows, almost recreating the posture of that first time over the managerial desk; a little sniff more of poppers, too much perhaps since all he could see was fireworks, and Godfrey's cock was sliding back into his wet hole, feeling every bit as good as he'd remembered. How many times had the young Scotsman dared to fantasise about it in the year and a bit since that day? How often had he blushed to recall the mood of exploration that had followed them into the office? How easily he'd been convinced by the older men... how good it felt it to be back in that position, to be opened up by the big black cock and filled by another man. It confused and thrilled him, all the more for Ben's hot kisses after their first sniffs. They'd come out of nowhere and he had enjoyed every touch of mouth to mouth, baffled at the sensations. Patterson was a lad so broad-minded as to be almost unshockable, but he knew that he'd be astonished when he woke up tomorrow and thought about this episode in the lead-up to their Crystal Palace showdown - maybe, he suddenly dared to think, they would do it again later tonight, or tomorrow morning before the coach home??? He followed every grunting suggestion of thrusting Ben Godfrey, bending forward a bit and raising his strong arse, parting his long hairy legs some more. He took each diving plunge of that big cock, feeling it deep inside him, and he just gasped and moaned for it. He felt Ben's hands rove over his back, his shoulders, his arms, up into his hair, scratching through it against his scalp, and still he moaned and panted, unable to find words himself. Fucked for a second time, and loving it; wow. He almost unscrewed the bottle again but decided not to overdo it; besides, Nate didn't want to be more high and bewildered, he really wanted to feel it, the ramming force between his fluffy white cheeks. He folded his arms into the bureau and pushed his face against them, feeling Ben's hands return to his hips and grip him tightly there, signalling even more pace and force in the thrusts into him. God, this felt good, oh god - and behind him, Godfrey was verbalising his exact thoughts, moaning `Oh god oh god oh god', getting faster and harder, and then saying in a clumsy breathy rush, `I'm g-gonna... ugh... ugh... gonna cum...' Nathan received this information in his fuzzy cloud of poppers rush, and he didn't quite associate the news with his body, until Ben asked very forcefully, `Can I shoot inside you, bro?' The 22-year-old Scot mulled this question over in bleary slow-mo, puzzled and enticed by the idea, but then it was too late, because the older lad's groans were heavy and exhausted, and he knew he must be finished - when the cock slowly retreated from his throbbing ring, he knew he must be full of the man's cum, wow, and he stayed in his bent over position, throbbing and aching from the force that had railed him in several positions around the room... when he rose and turned, he found Ben backing off, arms swinging at side, head raised and eyes shut, big chest heaving. His cock, wilting and shiny, swayed from his neatly trimmed pubes in between mighty thighs - wow, to think that had been shoved so hard inside him, and left its seed behind...! Could Nathan now feel it trickling down one thigh...? He giggled stupidly and reached down for his cock. `Did that feel good?' he asked hopefully. Ben seemed able only to laugh and wheeze in response, and then stagger back close to him. `Yes,' he breathed in his ear, and he threw his arms about him. Nate leaned into him, smiling and sighing, and reaching down to stroke and pull on himself; his hand batted aside after a minute and replaced instead by Ben's strong grip. The young Scottish defender melted into the support of the other 6ft hunk, holding him about the middle, and jerked slowly off by one sweaty hand until he too was shooting his cum, smearing it on Ben's hip and wrist and in thick silvery droplets on the carpet below. `Fucking hell,' Godfrey moaned in vague disbelief, perhaps at what his hand had done more than his own powerful cock, and Patterson just giggled and sighed and held on, `Thanks buddy, thanks for that, aye...' Jarrad, trying unsuccessfully to smooth and hide his throbber in the front of his tracksuit, had barely made it halfway down the corridor before he had to stop, look surreptitiously about, then reach into the pants and give it a few strokes. He was mad with horny desire, interrupted mid-service like that, when he had been probably a few slurps away from dumping his load in the goalkeeper's throat -fuck! Usually Pickford's oral attention made him cum pretty quickly, but the tension of knowing someone else was in the bathroom had slowed and stalled in, he'd been too conscious of the danger... and yet not conscious enough, ugh! Now he'd been discovered at it by his respected fellow defender, a senior centre-back who he'd have to play side-by-side with tonight in the match...! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Angry, regretful, mainly horny, the youth made it into the lift, travelling one floor to his own corridor, glad at how empty the corridor was, since his pants were utterly tenting around the monstrous proportions of his Carlisle cock. The raging 21-year-old was almost back at the door to his own room, hoping Garner was deep asleep, when he heard Pickford hissing his name and scampering down the passage after him. `Hey... matey... sorry about that...' `Fucking hell,' Branthwaite hissed. `He saw us! Tarks! Fuck!' `Shush, shush - you wanna make it worse?' Jarrad felt like punching the smug-faced goalie, but he held back, and he just moaned frustratedly because he didn't know what to say. He was right at the door back to his shared room, but he just leaned on the wall and stayed there, alone with Jordan, because he wasn't sure if he'd find James awake or asleep, and he knew how obvious his hard-on still was; Jordan stood in front of him and made playfully apologetic expressions with his face, before bursting into suppressed chuckles. Jarrad, in spite of panic and anger and regret, returned this awkward snigger, and buried his rugged face in both large hands. `What the fuck?' he asked, more at himself or the world in general than of his older teammate. `Just you stand there,' muttered Pickford - he was about to ask what that suggestion meant when he felt it - Jordan's hand reached inside his pants and taking hold of it. Here? In the corridor? He verbalised that horror but was shushed. `Nobody's about - everyone's napping. This won't take long.' And just like that, he was wanked off inside his trackies, leaning back on the wall, publicly risking even more exposure as the England ace pressed against him and tugged on his slick wet weapon until he was pumping spurt after spurt of thick cream inside the Everton-branded nylon, and gasping into the collar of the older man's jersey - and then left like that, red-faced and clammy, cum dribbling down his inner leg. Overwhelmed, Branthwaite leaned heavily into the wall and stared belarily at retreating Pickford and his triumphant smirk. As Jarrad watched him retreat towards the lift, he saw the cheeky-faced 29-year-old lift one hand up to his mouth and lick his knuckles, tasting one trace of the Cumbrian sausage's release. Jarrad thrilled and trembled at this dirty man's enjoyment of him, both mortified and exhilarated with his own masculine power. And then the goalie disappeared into the elevator and left him, sagging and wet-crotched against the wall, ready for naptime. For the dozenth time, Dominic tried and failed to fuck Jack, who whimpered and yelped and told him `No, you're too big' before wriggling off the bed; again, Dominic called him back to the bed with insults and arrogance, and finished off by dumping his messy load on his face and chest, then spitting on him and disappearing into the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Staring into the mirror, the mighty tall striker thought the same thing as always: dominating and exploiting slutty Harrison brought a certain satisfaction or at least release, definitely, but it wasn't filling the hole in his love life, not at all. For a moment in the post-nut clarity that always followed his use of the slut in his bed, he pictured those curly blond locks and the trusting blue eyes - he thought of the intimacy that had developed between he and Tom Davies, who he would fuck just as powerfully and dominantly in mouth arse, but then treat with a tender kindness afterwards. Why had he never been able to say `I love you'? Now it was too late - little Tom was happy at a new club and dating a new guy, and seemingly had no idea that Dom still felt this way for him. DCL lingered there, muscles heaving and sweaty, his magnificence reflected in the mirror from handsome face to perfect muscles to drooping sated cock; and then Jack Harrison entered, hovering in the doorway with cum drying on his chest and face, his eyes wary and shy. Dominic briefly met his gaze in the mirror and then looked away, continued to wash his hands and splash the water against his torso and crotch... `Sir,' whispered the former Leeds star - Dom ignored him. `Sir...' And then, when he hadn't answered, `Sir, will you piss on me?' The Everton striker turned to the shorter lad, who flinched a little, and just stared at him in cold disinterest, then pushed past him and left him alone in the bathroom. He needed to stop doing this, he told himself, and not just because the wimp couldn't bottom properly and take his big cock; he was just trying to replace Tom, and it was all his fault that he'd let that beautiful Scouse lad leave his life. He stood naked in the bedroom and dragged a towel across his chest, his six-pac, his crotch; when Jack skulked in after him, he picked his dirty briefs up off the carpet and threw them this way. `All yours,' he spat bitterly, and slumped his 6ft2 adonis body back down into bed, alone now and undisturbed by Jack's fawning submissive hunger. He shut out the sound of Harrison wanking off whilst sniffing his dirty briefs and dozed off to dream of perfect memories of the holiday he and Davies had taken together in the Swiss Alps, and playing over and over the moments where he could have announced his feelings for his best mate. (P.S. I'VE JUST SEEN THE EVERTON GAME WAS HOME RATHER THAN AWAY... OH WELL. I'M SURE SOME OTHER DETAILS IN MY ACTION MIGHT NOT BE TRUE TO LIFE EITHER LOL) 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 19 Feb 2024 22:04:00 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 390 Part 390: Toffees in South London Another damp shower descended as the coach deposited them in front of the South London hotel, the same alternative grey drizzle and bursts of wintry sunshine that had tracked the travelling squad south from Liverpool. All eyes on Crystal Palace, intoned the coaches as the men were ushered indoors into another bland hotel foyer; all eyes were rather bleary and more focused on afternoon naps, after a journey already punctuated with irritation and delays, an atmosphere of general irritation surrounding the arriving Everton squad that Monday afternoon. As soon as schedules had been announced and check-ins were completed, room keys were being handed out and pairs of tracksuit-clad footballers were sloping away with sagging shoulders and little planned for their brief downtime but a short snooze before preparations began for the Palace game. One young member of this away trip squad was a little more energetic as he took his key from the gaffer and checked the map of room numbers beside the three elevators; he shared a short furtive glance with his assigned roommate, who immediately dropped his eyes afterwards, and then he studied the map again to check what floor they needed; ahead, another member of the Everton defence was using a £1000 trainer to keep the lift doors open and let the two of them slip in. Up the elevator went, and the other pair of footballer lads chatted in low sleepy voices before bidding `goodbye for now' at the second floor; this young guy and his roomie let the doors slide shut and travelled up two more floors to the uppermost corridor of suites before getting out. Up here, leaving the lift and stomping wearily down a long straight corridor of numbered doors, the two young men didn't say a word to each other, even though it was remarkably quiet, deserted-feeling, compared to the dissipating huddle in the reception area. They wore matching Everton away tracksuits and swung half-empty kit bags over broad shoulders, two tall sporty blokes making their way to a door at the end of the corridor, where a large window on the landing viewed the London skyline in full. Only once inside room 432 did the 22-year-old Glaswegian seem to let out a long whistling breath that he felt like he'd held since the bus pulled up in the car park; his entire 6ft form was gripped by a giddy excitement as he pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and then jammed the key-card into the little slot that would power up the lighting and power-points of their spacious shared room. Wiping a large clammy palm across his face, Nathan Patterson pottered further into the room, hoisting the bag-strap from a big shoulder and dropping it heavily in place at the foot of one double bed; ahead of him, his roommate had moved towards the windows, flicking oddly at the curtains and shooting furtive glances about the room as if he expected to find some spy hidden behind a corner of furniture. Nathan let out a stupid gurgling chuckle, wiping his palms on the front of his t-shirt, and fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top. `You okay?' the tall muscular right-back defended, staring goofily at the other player. Across from him, the older and more experienced Premiership defender just shrugged big shoulders and stared anywhere but at him, stony silence and wary eyes. Nathan was not to be put off, he was excited as he had been all day, since he saw the rooming chart and knew they would be sharing for the first time in a while. `How long have we got?' the other guy asked after an uncomfortable pause, his Yorkshire accent almost as heavy as Nate's own West Scotch burr. `Good hour and a half at least,' the 22-year-old insisted. He toyed still with his zip, and let out another of those almost boyish chuckles of nervous energy, lingering in the centre of the room between the two beds. He lifted a big hand and fussed with the mousy brown sweep of his hair on top. `It's cool,' he insisted. `We've got time.' The other man drew a couple of steps closer, pushing his hands into the pockets of his Everton tracky bottoms; he finally looked properly at him, a pouty frown covered his long sandy-brown features. `Did you bring some stuff, then?' he asked, his voice blunt and demanding - matter-of-fact, straining for casual and aloof, but tellingly anxious and interested - and Nathan couldn't help but nod his big head eagerly, a big shaggy labrador of a man in his current mood. And to confirm the nod, he turned round and unzipped one end of his kit-bag, reaching into it to retrieve the goods. He lifted them up with a showy flourish towards his assigned roommate, who paced a little closer, fists in pockets and face very serious - the two men looked at each other and Nathan's grin split his youthful face. `Here,' the former Rangers defender proclaimed breathlessly. `Huh, yeah,' growled the voice of the York-born older defender. Patterson showed him the little bottle, just a couple of inches tall, with its garish colourful label declaring a brand name `Rush' and a rather alarming logo. `Should have seen me buying them,' he muttered through his nervous laughter. `Hood up, cap down, shop miles out of the city. Ha ha. Erm.' He passed the bottle to the 26-year-old man, who took and inspected them and just made a non-committal `huh' of interest before beginning to unscrew the lid; and Nate grinned intently at him, watching the lid come off and the bottle brought up to the flared nostrils of a long sturdy nose. Just like that rogue afternoon of their club's last big regime change - skulking about Frank Lampard's abandoned office as they were, led by the curious Coady and frowning Tarkowski - here they were again, Nathan alone now with Ben Godfrey, who sniffed deeply and loudly on one nostril at a time, sampling the amyl nitrate that Patterson had purchased as if it was Class A contraband. Breathing in the poppers, the mixed-race Yorkshire lad blinked and winced and exhaled, and Nathan grabbed back the little bottle to do the same - first one nostril and then the other, a heady snort of the alarming substance... just like they'd done at Coady's insistence when they found it in Lampard's desk drawer, goaded on by their departed older teammate. `Fuck,' the 22-year-old Scot murmured, instantly dizzy. It was just like he remembered. `Yeah,' grumbled Godfrey ambiguously, stood close in front of him; he looked into his wide and mildly bloodshot eyes, thinking that big Ben's mood already seemed a little softened, less rigid and uninviting than he'd been on the entire drive down here - it had, after all, been his idea that Patterson try and get hold of some of the daft party `drug'. Nathan stared giddily at the other 6ft man, perhaps even broader and heavier in build than his own developing physique, and he giggled stupidly - surely Ben Godfrey was just as aware as he was at how they'd behaved with this muck up their noses last time - wasn't that what they were really here for this afternoon? `Here,' the York man grunted deeply, `let me have another sniff.' `Sure,' panted Nathan submissively, letting their large rough hands brush as the open bottle was passed back between them. And then he just couldn't help himself - he reached forward and pushed his hand against the front of Ben's tracksuit pants, right into the crotch, feeling for the mound of meat that was usually pretty obvious and visible there, bouncing and shaping in whatever pants or shorts the mighty centre-back wore to play. With a firm grip that belied his nerves, the Scot took hold of the older man's copious bulge, holding his dizzy breath, and meeting intense eyes; without fully reacting, Godfrey continued to take a deep pull of poppers in each nostril, and then screw the lid back on. He nodded his head, very slightly, discreet aloof consent, and Nathan licked his lips. `We're doing this?' the Scotsman huffed with a surge of fearful energy. `Course fucking are,' the bulky 26-year-old muttered back, and he grasped him by the sound of the neck - and in he came, plunging into the dizzy senseless kiss, his breath and tongue filling Nate's mouth. In another shared room, one floor down, another young bastion of the Everton defence was stood in the same spot, at the centre of his room, but on his own; a bit like Nate above, this big muscular youngster was grinning eagerly in such a way that split his rugged face, but he was staring into the glow of his smartphone screen rather than at a poppers-sniffing colleague. And a bit like nervous Nathan on the fourth floor, this 21-year-old Cumbrian let out a boyishly nervous laugh under his breath, one that jarred with his intimidating physical stature and the look of brash confidence that he always wore on his face - but putting nervousness aside, Jarrad Branthwaite let his thumb dance across the screen and tap in a series of thumbs-up and purple devil emojis into the messaging thread, affirming his plans to the sender who was luring him away with the simple message `Blowie now???' For a short moment's indecision, the big 6ft5 centre-back turned and looked across the suite at his own roommate. But James Garner was already flopped face-down on his bed and practically snoring, his overnight bag dumped at one side - if the midfielder wasn't already asleep then he was well on his way to it, and Jarrad felt that he probably didn't need to worry about crafting any plausible excuses for the other footballer lad. Instead, he just locked his phone and pushed it back into the pockets of his loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms, zipping up his top over his tee, and making a quick shuffling exit back through the door of room 312, out into the broad quiet corridor that had led them here just minutes ago. Well, the up-and-coming defender told himself, they'd been given the downtime for relaxation before the pre-game rituals began and there wasn't much that relaxed the giant Carlisle youth more than getting head. So really he was just following the gaffer's instructions and prioritising his well-being before the Palace game, right?! Or something like that, anyway. Moving as quietly and discreetly as a broad lad of 6ft5 possibly can, Branthwaite exited the long corridor and opted for the stairwell rather than the lift, dropping down to the second floor and counting his way down the doors as instructed. He stopped a few feet from the given door and faffed with the cuffs of his top, the drawstring knot at the front of his pants, then even retrieved his phone and re-read the quick string of messages - there was still a seed of shameful doubt that made him consider deleting the chat and rushing back for the lift, back to his room and to Garner's snores - to a fitful nap to gather his strength for tonight. After all, he was crossing lines here, dipping his big toes in taboo, and he was less and less sure that he could brush these incidents off as standard footy lad banter as he had when it first happened with Harvey Elliott on that Young Lions excursion. But that shame and self-doubt had a lot to contend with in the big Cumbrian's red-blooded greed and fierce physical needs. The option of retreat didn't stand a chance. He knocked his heavy knuckles against the hotel room door and clenched both paws in and out of aggressive fists whilst he waited for an answer. When it came, the older man already had his top off, relaxedly exposing his well-defined chest and stomach muscles, a knowing smirk on his pink-tinged face beneath his ruffled quiff of blond hair. Jarrad stared awkwardly at him, his own stature somewhat dwarfing the 6ft1 England goalkeeper. `Come in, then,' murmured Jordan Pickford in his strong Mackem snarl. `Aye,' the other far Northerner grunted keenly back, muscling his way forward and following him into the room - and pausing just a few paces in, in the middle of unzipping his tracky top, when he saw the closed door to his left and heard the watery gurgles and low masculine voice behind it. `Hey,' he hissed, freezing up and staring accusingly at the casually sauntering topless figure in front of him. `You said you were alone,' the 21-year-old mouthed angrily, trying not to make any noise - what the fuck? Nearing the furthest bed, Pickford just turned and winked at him, coolly unbothered; the 29-year-old stretched one arm and then the other across his bare chest, beckoning Jarrad his way. The big lad paused, listening to the splashes and muffled words, then pacing nervously in Jordan's direction - he looked earnestly at the older guy, the experienced England star who had befriended and coaxed him in these months since his discovery on the England U21s. It had taken quite a few obnoxious looks and compliments at urinals and showers before Jarrad even noticed how interested the Sunderland native was in his big young cock, but once he had, things had progressed quickly; it was only a couple of weeks after he first let Harvey Elliott suck him and Tyler Morton off in that midnight bathroom that he enjoyed his second blowjob from a man, sucked dry by Pickford in a back alley behind a Liverpool nightclub. `He's having a bath and ringing his boring wife,' whispered Jordan placatingly, resting one hand on the waist of his tracksuit, and stroking the other across his waxed pecs. `He won't know a thing, the boring bastard - now, are you getting that big whopper out for daddy, or are you gonna whinge off to your room for a lonely wank, kid?' The England star stared confrontationally at him and the 6ft5 youth quailed at his crude hunger and the regularity with which these covert cock-suckings were taking place this season; each time he swore he wouldn't come back for more, a big strapping football star who could already have his pic of sexy Insta girls who wouldn't balk at deep-throating his monster - why did he need to have it noshed by this married weirdo? Most worrying of all, Jarrad might admit, was that he didn't even believe Jordan's claims that he'd `put a good word in with Southgate' for him ahead of the Euros - he wished he could kid himself he was offering his big Cumberland sausage up to the goalkeeper as career advancement. But nah. Hesitant, Branthwaite looked back at the hotel suite's bathroom door, then down at the smart bedsheets, and then at Pickford's bare pink chest and smirking smug face. In the confines of his briefs, the big stud's fat heavy balls and curled trouser-snake overruled caution and fear, just as they had shame and indecision in the corridor, and when Jordan reached down to stroke them, he just nodded his big rugged face, and closed his eyes. Another hotel suite, another door shutting, another key-card pushed clumsily into the slot near the door, triggering the low growl of electric heaters and an extractor fan in the bathroom. He moistened his lips with his tongue and turned away from this task so that he could follow the other lad into the room proper, dropping first his own kit-bag and then pushing that of the other lad down onto the carpet. Slightly alarmed by this action, the 5ft9 winger looked warily back at him, and then pulled slightly away, moving further into the room and close to one of the beds; he moved after him, stepping lightly over their discarded bags, and drawing close so that he really towered over the medium height man. `Here we are then,' murmured the low masculine voice of another Everton player, but one of their most treasured attacking players, rather than the big strong defenders roomed on the floor above; 6ft2 and densely muscled, the striker stood over the winger, continuing in the same dispassionate voice, `Just us two - alone.' `Yes sir,' came the breathless whisper of the smaller guy, marginally older at 27, and far less established in the Everton hierarchy of these embattled recent years. The lad looked up at him with that same wary expression on his pale face, dark black-brown hair slicked heavily back with gel as always, and dark lashes fluttering with each twitch of his beady eyes. `Just us two,' the 27-year-old attacking player echoed in a faint voice, starting to look slightly more relaxed about the mouth and the eyes, now that it was just the two of them, up in another shared away trip hotel room, rather than seated several rows apart on the coach, or playing side by side on the training pitch - a mixture of fear and excitement rippled visibly through the compact body of the tracksuited English lad. Standing over him, Dominic Calvert-Lewin took a deep breath, his eyes lazily half-open, and his face set into an expression of moody disapproval. `Well, what are you waiting for, you little slut?' the big powerful striker asked in the same low whisper of command. `Get on your fucking knees, Jack.' In front of him, the Leeds loan player and former Man City reject nodded and began to move down, but not swift enough; Dominic had to put a forceful hand on one of his shoulders and speed him down to his knees on the carpet of the suite. Once he was down there, the dark-haired face moved quickly in towards his crotch but Dominic wanted to tease him. He clamped a hand on top of his head and held it back, frustratingly close but separate from the bulging front of his tracksuit - and he held him at that distance whilst with his other hand he undid the drawstring and lowered them over his mega-strong thighs, so that just off-white briefs separated Jack Harrison's lips of quivering dark pink from the big heavy droop of DCL's manhood. `My little slut,' the Sheffield-born footy hunk purred at the kneeling lad. `Yes,' Harrison confirmed quietly, weakly. `Your slut, sir.' `Desperate for my big black cock?' `Always, sir,' Harrison added quickly. `Tell me how much you want it, Jacko.' `I want it bad, sir. Want it so much.' `Tell me.' `Want it in my dirty gob, sir, want to suck it deep, please-' `Tell me it's the best you've tasted!' `Yes,' Jack insisted, panting. `Yes.' `Better than Bamford's?' `Yes, yes,' the slut begged. `Bigger and better than that posh cunt's willy?' `Yes, definitely, the biggest - I love your big cock sir!' `Good fucking boy, good boy.' `Can I suck it sir? Please, please.' He reached down and slapped Jack across the face, leaving a pink mark, then he pulled his face in against his briefs, a dirty pair he'd worn deliberately so that they smelled all the mustier for this dirty little whore. Later, he would make Harrison wear them on the pitch at Crystal Palace, playing their Monday night game in them so that he knew what a slut he was for the full 90 minutes out there. Only once Jack had noisily sniffed them and tried feebly to kiss and suck at the fat sweaty cock through the fabric did Dom take his big hands and slide them in at the hips of his pants and slide them away, over the sculpted mounds of his big brown glutes, and more importantly away from his bushy pubes and the weighty circumcised serpent of his master cock. Jack paused, face angled up, obediently waiting for permission, mouth wide open and tongue lolling like an innocent puppy - Dominic smiled faintly, built up some spit, and delivered it aggressively onto Jack's tongue, lips, chin. Then he nodded, once, and slutty Harrison went to work, wrapping his mouth about the swelling mass and tonguing its huge length, gagging quickly on Calvert-Lewin's growing pipe. Ben Godfrey took another deep sniff from both sides of his nose, letting the burning sensation fizzle and the chemical rush hit his brain; and then he passed the bottle forward carefully, not wanting to spill any of the weird liquid onto the naked pale muscle of the prone Scotsman in front of him. Fumbling hands took it from him and he watched intently as Nathan did the same as him, taking big snorts of the evaporating substance; while Ben's own fumbling hands were lifting and parting the fluff-hairy weight of Nate's thighs, taking up those big defender legs, and letting his lower calves rest against the strength of his own bare shoulder muscles. He breathed deeply, letting the consumed effects of the poppers wash through him, and spitting again down onto his long hard prick, which he rubbed and tugged - he'd wanted to suggest making Patterson suck on it, but he didn't know if he could expect such a thing of the big gormless Glasgow kid - the kissing had been a wild risk, something he hadn't tried when they last clashed bodies like this. It had been early this season, the 26-year-old Yorkshireman reflected... quite a long time after the original deed, really, when Lamps had been sacked and the little silly gang of them were curiously exploring his office. High on poppers and the jokey encouragement of Coady, he'd pinned this gormless fucker down against the gaffer's desk in that ridiculous jockstrap and pushed his cock between his cheeks... He'd fucked a lad, he really had, and the tightness on his big black cock had been like nothing Godrey had experienced in his adult life, not at all. And so one drunken night last September, when the two 6ft defenders had ended up exiting a lads' night out together by contestant, an uninhibited Ben had seized the youngster and taken him back to his - drunk enough to be bold, he'd admitted to the Scotland player that he'd never felt anything so good as his arsehole, and that he had thought about it ever since. And in a fumbling drunken mess, the two of them had rolled about in Ben's bedding, and he'd tried to penetrate the youngster again, but without any luck - no kisses, no foreplay, no proper lube, but worst, no poppers. It had ended in pure awkwardness, Godfrey utterly regretting everything, and red-faced Patterson just full of apology and self-blame. It had felt so awful that Ben had called in sick to training for days and spoken to his agent about a January transfer... but Nate had actually been so sweet and charming about it all that he'd recovered his pride and dignity and briefly tried to sweep the whole thing under the rug. Until he decided that poppers was the magic ingredient and that if they just bought a bottle of the little party substance then maybe they could really do it again like they'd done in Lampard's office after his sacking...! Just like big oafy Nathan on the bed in front of him, Ben had no sense that he himself might be gay or bi, so he wasn't sure why it had felt right to kiss and snog the big daft lad first; was he trying to coax and relax him? Trying to make up for his clumsy painful efforts last time, jabbing stupidly between big white cheeks but making no entry into Patterson's most private part? Was he trying to make things easier? Or... He didn't know. But after the first sniffs of poppers, the two had kissed and cuddled and ripped each other's tracksuits away, but now was the time for the deed itself, and he had Nathan on his back, legs in the air, ankles over his shoulders, and he was spitting more on his cock and his hand, and trying to work out if he would really be able to get his massive meat in between those strong arse cheeks again like that afternoon in front of troublemaking Conor Coady. `You ready?' the former Norwich defender grunted impatiently at his friend. `I think so,' breathed Patterson faintly. `I'll do my best.' The sweet willingness of his face and tone made Ben feel awkward. `Tell me to stop if-' `I really want to let you,' gurned the younger defender, `like last time!' `But if it hurts...' `It'll be better with this poppers, right...?' `Yeah, well, probably, but just-' `Go on, I'm ready, I'm ready...' `Oh fuck, you're so tight though mate...' `Ain't that a good thing, haha...?' `In a pussy maybe, ha, but... mmm... shit, we should have got proper lube...' `Spit some more - that'll be okay. Here, let me sniff some more of this stuff.' `Don't overdo it, don't want you passing out mate...' `Go on, push it in, I reckon I can...' `Damn it, you're just so tight...!' `I'm trying to relax... ohhhh, shit-' `Fuckkkkk... Nath... ohhhh...' `Fuck, maaaaan-' `Oh god!' In it went, bit by bit, and Ben lost the ability to form words - again he was feeling that extraordinary tight grip against the head and, inch by inch, shaft of his large weighty cock; he was entering the 22-year-old fractionally, but with far less resistance than at first, and he could see a look of almost transcendental enjoyment on the Glaswegian's big freckled face, already beading with sweat, red and blotchy about his cheeks and neck. Ben lifted up his strong musclebound arms and took hold of Nate's ankles as he edged his powerful body forward, inch by inch by inch, until he was deep inside of the straining, open-mouthed young jock, and once again able to turn his gurning pants into words: `You... feel... so... good... buddy...' `And - you,' whimpered Patterson in response. `Ohhhh, fuck. Here - you want some more poppers?' Godfrey nodded and took the bottle. `Jesus fucking Christ,' was all he could say. Tarkowski often took long baths, but this afternoon hardly felt the right time for it; besides, all his missus could talk about was the attention garnered by a teaser clip for their upcoming appearance on the `Married to the Game' TV show, and it was making the 31-year-old Mancunian feel a bit silly and self-conscious. His voice lazy and laconic, he resisted his partner's teasing over speakerphone, the device propped between toiletries on a shelf above the bath where he rinsed suds from every lean muscle of his 6ft1 athlete's body, the draining water flooding away from his torso and legs and privates, forming a soapy whirlpool between his large hairy feet, and gurgling away so that he couldn't help but making a `Saltburn' reference to his giggling wife and asking her if she'd drink his bathwater in their next appearance on the new WAGs docu-soap. James, climbing out of the bath and reaching for his towel, snorted with laughter at his own stupid banter, shaking his head and catching his own eye in the mirror as he straightened up; he was both mortified and delighted with the social media attention for his terrible bit of flirting in the promo clip, but he did wish she would stop going on about it. He'd had his bath now and he wanted to try and fit in a brief nap still, which seemed feasible before the squad were due to assemble downstairs in the hotel restaurant. The 31-year-old former Burnley star wrapped the towel tightly about his lean waist and paused for just a moment's egotism, checking out his lightly haired pectorals and shapely shoulders in the mirror, turning his face this way and that. His wife was already trying to negotiate some photoshoot interviews for them with glossy magazines on the back of their appearance in the WAG series, and Tarkowski was examining himself to see if he was really as handsome as bantering teammates often accused, or if it was all a joke at his expense and he was really still the jug-eared geeky kid he tended to see reflected back at him; dismissing the posing moments, he began his goodbyes to his missus and dried his hands before retrieving the phone from its carefully balanced position. `Bye, babe, bye bye - I'll see you tomorrow, love you lots-' and so on. He ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and clutched the device at his side, using the other hand to check the knot of his wrapped white towel, then unlocking the door that would return him from the small steamy bathroom into the main shared suite where- The Everton centre-back froze in the doorway, looking at the wall-mounted mirror that exposed to him a view of the full room around the corner, meaning that for a long awkward moment his steamy emergence was unseen, and Tarkowski was just looking at a framed display at what was happening on one bed: there was that big young lad Branthwaite, of all people, up on his knees in the centre of the bed, with his t-shirt pulled right up above his nips, and his pants down to his knees; hunched sideways in front of him, head down to business, was undoubtedly Jordan fucking Pickford, England No1, and he was visibly - and audibly! - giving oral service to the big giant youth. James blinked and gawked disbelievingly at the scene, unable to contain the `Fuckin' hell' of horrified discovery, and turning about the corner to confront them almost on autopilot, when quickly a part of him wished he'd just slammed the bathroom door shut again and hid in the steam of his soak. Jarrad, of course, leapt from the bed as if stung or bitten, an alarmingly big long rod of manhood swaying and juddering with each clumsy movement of his half-dressed form. The stupidly tall Northern bastard went stumbling and skidding off the bed and into the wall with a crash, pants about his ankle and t-shirt all tangled. He immediately began to mouth off, stupid things like `Pickers, what the fuck were you trying there mate?' and `Jesus, where's my jacket?' and `James, mate, it ain't how it looks-' as if the big gurning lad hadn't just been caught getting his cock serviced by an older man. It wasn't long before Branthwaite, still struggling back into his clothing, was brushing past Tarkowski and making for the door, sounding almost like he was going to cry. Jordan, on the other hand, hadn't left the bed, but he had slid from his crouching attentiveness to a louche reclining position, saying nothing but just staring challengingly this way, and wiping his mouth across the back of one arm. James stared at him, blinking heavily, and letting the steam rise off his chest muscles. `Seriously, mate?' was all the 31-year-old could find to say. The England goalie laughed. `That was quick - I thought you'd be in the tub for ages.' `So it fucking seems-!' `Oh, relax - was just having a laugh, marra.' `Mate, you were...' `Having a laugh,' Pickford insisted. He wiped his mouth again, rolled his eyes. `Fuck, that lad is well hung, y'know? Everything in proportion, the big lucky bastard...' `Mate...' `Oh, fucking relax and let go, Tarks - come on. Get that towel off and I'll suck you instead, yeah?' James stared hard at him, several different uncomfortable memories surfacing, not least the occasional digging comments and suggestions of his much-missed temporary teammate Conor Coady who had joined Everton at the same time as him; breathless and awkward, the laddish 31-year-old stared down his roomie, and shook his head. This was hardly his first exposure to Pickford being a little bit, well, eccentric, but to walk in on him fully fellating a young player, Jarrad of all people...! James' mind was blown and the relaxed fugue of his bath was shattered; worse, the towel was slackening and loosening at his waist and he had to chuck his phone aside so he could reach down and save it from falling away from his naked athletic body. `Watch it,' chuckled Jordan, `I nearly saw the goods there. Oh, come on, lad, it's not like we ain't showered together for years... Come on. Whip it out and let me-' `Fuck off,' James told him decisively, and he stormed back to the bathroom, bright red in the face at what he'd confronted. `Honestly, Pickford, you're fucking mental - Jesus! - I can't believe you just...' And the flustered married Manc lad barged back into the bathroom in a state of deep embarrassment, locking the door behind him and clamping his angry hands against the rim of the sink - he looked back into the mirror and stared himself down while trying to calm from the shock of discovery, adding up certain clues and suspicions over his years of team company with the Three Lions superstar. And again, due to the rapid movement of his indignant rush, the towel was unknotting, and sliding away from his hips and the curve of his rump - and James looked down idly as it fell, stood there with his hands on the sink, ignoring the muffled sounds of Pickford's dismissive banter through the bathroom door. Tarkowski looked down in puzzlement that defied his usual self-awareness: if he was quite so horrified to discover Pickford sucking off their teammate, then why had his towel fallen away to reveal a raging hard-on between his hairy thighs...? `Come on,' Jordan was yelling through the door, `I was just joking really, I know you aren't open-minded or much fun...' `Oh FUCK OFF,' James shouted furiously back at him, hearing the insults. Pickford shouted something else but it was unclear; clearer was the slam of the main hotel room door as the goalie apparently exited, maybe in pursuit of Branthwaite. This just left Tarkowski in the steamy hotel bathroom, confused by his discovery, confused by his erection, and already vaguely flustered by the prospect of silly media attention because his beautiful wife wanted to launch a bit of a career in the spotlight. The 31-year-old footballer was gripped by confused frustration, and like most men at some point or another, he knew there was only one easy solution: a good wank. He gripped the sink in one pink-palmed hand took his cock with the other, and jerked furiously away, bringing first his wife to mind, and then the sight of big Jarrad being blown - and then, confusingly and distressingly, the knowing smirk of Conor Coady when they used to hang out together, occasionally resting a hand on his knee for a moment too long... `Thank you sir, thank you,' Jack tried repeatedly to say, but it wasn't so easy, with his mouth alternatingly full and just half-full of the big mocha-brown weapon that jutted from Dominic's crotch, the delicious meat that he'd been chowing on for a good three months now since first sneaking into the striker's bed one cold night in the FA Cup. He wasn't on his knees now, but lying curled on his side on the bed, next to where Calvert-Lewin's big godlike form sprawled and stretched, pausing moans only to call him `Slut' and `Whore' and tell him how grateful he should be to taste this perfect cock. Oh yes, Jack would think whilst wild in the moment of greed and subservience, lucky, perfect, yes yes yes - though he knew full well that afterwards would come bitterness, resentment, distrust, all of the usual insecurities of his sexual debasement. It was, he had quickly realised, just as it had been at Leeds, when he finally gave in to the alpha supremacy of posh boy Paddy Bamford, who had made him his cock-sucker when his little Geordie boyfriend was sold off to some shite lower league side. At Leeds with beautiful Paddy and now at Everton with majestic Dominic, it was the same: Harrison was so full of shame and uncertainty about his cock cravings that he could only give in and enjoy it when taken control of by these powerful dominant types, who he would drop and worship dutifully and obsessively, only to scowl and sulk and avoid them in between. He knew it was far from ideal, but it was what was currently available to him. Greedy and desperate, he gobbled up and down the shaft, spitting and gurgling all over it, and stopping when commanded to kiss and suck on the baggy balls, or to nuzzle in the rough curls of pubes, or to worship the lower rungs of Dom's six-pack - anything the big sexy bastard demanded of him whilst he sprawled there, lazy and selfish in his pleasure, calling him a `Dirty little whore' who barely deserved to drink `sir's piss'. `No,' Jack agreed in a whimper, `I don't deserve that, but...' `You dirty little shit, you actually want it, don't you?' Dominic barked aggressively. `Get back on my cock and suck it.' `Yes, yes, I'll be good...' God, why did the thought of Dominic's piss excite him even more than his cum?! Paddy had never pissed on him, but maybe Dom would, maybe if he sucked him really good and did everything he was told, maybe he would get a golden shower too before tonight's match...! Nathan gladly moved into the new position at Ben's insistence, back into a bent-over doggy position over the side of bureau at the windows, almost recreating the posture of that first time over the managerial desk; a little sniff more of poppers, too much perhaps since all he could see was fireworks, and Godfrey's cock was sliding back into his wet hole, feeling every bit as good as he'd remembered. How many times had the young Scotsman dared to fantasise about it in the year and a bit since that day? How often had he blushed to recall the mood of exploration that had followed them into the office? How easily he'd been convinced by the older men... how good it felt it to be back in that position, to be opened up by the big black cock and filled by another man. It confused and thrilled him, all the more for Ben's hot kisses after their first sniffs. They'd come out of nowhere and he had enjoyed every touch of mouth to mouth, baffled at the sensations. Patterson was a lad so broad-minded as to be almost unshockable, but he knew that he'd be astonished when he woke up tomorrow and thought about this episode in the lead-up to their Crystal Palace showdown - maybe, he suddenly dared to think, they would do it again later tonight, or tomorrow morning before the coach home??? He followed every grunting suggestion of thrusting Ben Godfrey, bending forward a bit and raising his strong arse, parting his long hairy legs some more. He took each diving plunge of that big cock, feeling it deep inside him, and he just gasped and moaned for it. He felt Ben's hands rove over his back, his shoulders, his arms, up into his hair, scratching through it against his scalp, and still he moaned and panted, unable to find words himself. Fucked for a second time, and loving it; wow. He almost unscrewed the bottle again but decided not to overdo it; besides, Nate didn't want to be more high and bewildered, he really wanted to feel it, the ramming force between his fluffy white cheeks. He folded his arms into the bureau and pushed his face against them, feeling Ben's hands return to his hips and grip him tightly there, signalling even more pace and force in the thrusts into him. God, this felt good, oh god - and behind him, Godfrey was verbalising his exact thoughts, moaning `Oh god oh god oh god', getting faster and harder, and then saying in a clumsy breathy rush, `I'm g-gonna... ugh... ugh... gonna cum...' Nathan received this information in his fuzzy cloud of poppers rush, and he didn't quite associate the news with his body, until Ben asked very forcefully, `Can I shoot inside you, bro?' The 22-year-old Scot mulled this question over in bleary slow-mo, puzzled and enticed by the idea, but then it was too late, because the older lad's groans were heavy and exhausted, and he knew he must be finished - when the cock slowly retreated from his throbbing ring, he knew he must be full of the man's cum, wow, and he stayed in his bent over position, throbbing and aching from the force that had railed him in several positions around the room... when he rose and turned, he found Ben backing off, arms swinging at side, head raised and eyes shut, big chest heaving. His cock, wilting and shiny, swayed from his neatly trimmed pubes in between mighty thighs - wow, to think that had been shoved so hard inside him, and left its seed behind...! Could Nathan now feel it trickling down one thigh...? He giggled stupidly and reached down for his cock. `Did that feel good?' he asked hopefully. Ben seemed able only to laugh and wheeze in response, and then stagger back close to him. `Yes,' he breathed in his ear, and he threw his arms about him. Nate leaned into him, smiling and sighing, and reaching down to stroke and pull on himself; his hand batted aside after a minute and replaced instead by Ben's strong grip. The young Scottish defender melted into the support of the other 6ft hunk, holding him about the middle, and jerked slowly off by one sweaty hand until he too was shooting his cum, smearing it on Ben's hip and wrist and in thick silvery droplets on the carpet below. `Fucking hell,' Godfrey moaned in vague disbelief, perhaps at what his hand had done more than his own powerful cock, and Patterson just giggled and sighed and held on, `Thanks buddy, thanks for that, aye...' Jarrad, trying unsuccessfully to smooth and hide his throbber in the front of his tracksuit, had barely made it halfway down the corridor before he had to stop, look surreptitiously about, then reach into the pants and give it a few strokes. He was mad with horny desire, interrupted mid-service like that, when he had been probably a few slurps away from dumping his load in the goalkeeper's throat -fuck! Usually Pickford's oral attention made him cum pretty quickly, but the tension of knowing someone else was in the bathroom had slowed and stalled in, he'd been too conscious of the danger... and yet not conscious enough, ugh! Now he'd been discovered at it by his respected fellow defender, a senior centre-back who he'd have to play side-by-side with tonight in the match...! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Angry, regretful, mainly horny, the youth made it into the lift, travelling one floor to his own corridor, glad at how empty the corridor was, since his pants were utterly tenting around the monstrous proportions of his Carlisle cock. The raging 21-year-old was almost back at the door to his own room, hoping Garner was deep asleep, when he heard Pickford hissing his name and scampering down the passage after him. `Hey... matey... sorry about that...' `Fucking hell,' Branthwaite hissed. `He saw us! Tarks! Fuck!' `Shush, shush - you wanna make it worse?' Jarrad felt like punching the smug-faced goalie, but he held back, and he just moaned frustratedly because he didn't know what to say. He was right at the door back to his shared room, but he just leaned on the wall and stayed there, alone with Jordan, because he wasn't sure if he'd find James awake or asleep, and he knew how obvious his hard-on still was; Jordan stood in front of him and made playfully apologetic expressions with his face, before bursting into suppressed chuckles. Jarrad, in spite of panic and anger and regret, returned this awkward snigger, and buried his rugged face in both large hands. `What the fuck?' he asked, more at himself or the world in general than of his older teammate. `Just you stand there,' muttered Pickford - he was about to ask what that suggestion meant when he felt it - Jordan's hand reached inside his pants and taking hold of it. Here? In the corridor? He verbalised that horror but was shushed. `Nobody's about - everyone's napping. This won't take long.' And just like that, he was wanked off inside his trackies, leaning back on the wall, publicly risking even more exposure as the England ace pressed against him and tugged on his slick wet weapon until he was pumping spurt after spurt of thick cream inside the Everton-branded nylon, and gasping into the collar of the older man's jersey - and then left like that, red-faced and clammy, cum dribbling down his inner leg. Overwhelmed, Branthwaite leaned heavily into the wall and stared belarily at retreating Pickford and his triumphant smirk. As Jarrad watched him retreat towards the lift, he saw the cheeky-faced 29-year-old lift one hand up to his mouth and lick his knuckles, tasting one trace of the Cumbrian sausage's release. Jarrad thrilled and trembled at this dirty man's enjoyment of him, both mortified and exhilarated with his own masculine power. And then the goalie disappeared into the elevator and left him, sagging and wet-crotched against the wall, ready for naptime. For the dozenth time, Dominic tried and failed to fuck Jack, who whimpered and yelped and told him `No, you're too big' before wriggling off the bed; again, Dominic called him back to the bed with insults and arrogance, and finished off by dumping his messy load on his face and chest, then spitting on him and disappearing into the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Staring into the mirror, the mighty tall striker thought the same thing as always: dominating and exploiting slutty Harrison brought a certain satisfaction or at least release, definitely, but it wasn't filling the hole in his love life, not at all. For a moment in the post-nut clarity that always followed his use of the slut in his bed, he pictured those curly blond locks and the trusting blue eyes - he thought of the intimacy that had developed between he and Tom Davies, who he would fuck just as powerfully and dominantly in mouth arse, but then treat with a tender kindness afterwards. Why had he never been able to say `I love you'? Now it was too late - little Tom was happy at a new club and dating a new guy, and seemingly had no idea that Dom still felt this way for him. DCL lingered there, muscles heaving and sweaty, his magnificence reflected in the mirror from handsome face to perfect muscles to drooping sated cock; and then Jack Harrison entered, hovering in the doorway with cum drying on his chest and face, his eyes wary and shy. Dominic briefly met his gaze in the mirror and then looked away, continued to wash his hands and splash the water against his torso and crotch... `Sir,' whispered the former Leeds star - Dom ignored him. `Sir...' And then, when he hadn't answered, `Sir, will you piss on me?' The Everton striker turned to the shorter lad, who flinched a little, and just stared at him in cold disinterest, then pushed past him and left him alone in the bathroom. He needed to stop doing this, he told himself, and not just because the wimp couldn't bottom properly and take his big cock; he was just trying to replace Tom, and it was all his fault that he'd let that beautiful Scouse lad leave his life. He stood naked in the bedroom and dragged a towel across his chest, his six-pac, his crotch; when Jack skulked in after him, he picked his dirty briefs up off the carpet and threw them this way. `All yours,' he spat bitterly, and slumped his 6ft2 adonis body back down into bed, alone now and undisturbed by Jack's fawning submissive hunger. He shut out the sound of Harrison wanking off whilst sniffing his dirty briefs and dozed off to dream of perfect memories of the holiday he and Davies had taken together in the Swiss Alps, and playing over and over the moments where he could have announced his feelings for his best mate. (P.S. I'VE JUST SEEN THE EVERTON GAME WAS HOME RATHER THAN AWAY... OH WELL. I'M SURE SOME OTHER DETAILS IN MY ACTION MIGHT NOT BE TRUE TO LIFE EITHER LOL) 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-388

Date: Fri, 16 Feb 2024 21:34:04 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 388 Part 388: Even Stevens Outside of the restaurant windows, stormy cloud banks built up and promised a rainy February night in the northern town - any member of the squad or training staff who looked out at this from their late dinner made a grimace and said similar generic things to those around them, predicting a muddy farce at their Burnley hosts tomorrow night according to the local and national forecasts. He was just the latest guy there to pause on his way to the generous buffet tables and look out at the ominous weather, make a moody little frown in response, and then nudge an elbow at the fella next to him - `Hey, look at those clouds - is it gonna piss down for the whole trip?' The weather was presumably one of the reasons their London club had travelled up here on the Friday night, given their league game wasn't until 8pm kick-off on Saturday - the bosses must have been worried about delays to their journey and a chaotic build-up to the game. Burnley were hardly worrying opposition for Arsenal this weekend, but the Gunners were quivering in 3rd place and determined to canter past City and Liverpool in the next few fixtures. Next to him, the broad-shouldered goalkeeper lifted his head and cast a thoughtful look out of the second-floor restaurant windows - but a big white-toothed grin split the blonde-bearded face and the big shoulders just shrugged. `So what, we love getting a bit dirty,' chuckled the deep Stokey accent of Aaron Ramsdale, shouldering past him to go and top up his plate with a third portion of the food options laid out by the hotel - `Oi,' cursed Arsenal defender Ben White, overtaken by the slightly taller lad, and hurrying after him, but pleased and admiring by how unfazed and upbeat the other footballer could always be, a helpful buoy against his own irritable temperament. One after the other, the two Arsenal men loaded their plates, bickering like schoolboys over who got to certain dishes first, and then they wove their way back to one of the long shared tables. Already, some of the guys were exiting the meal and going to make use of various hotel facilities to wind down before curfew, leading Aaron to make jokes about their piggish appetites, an idea that 26-year-old White was far too lean and ripped to worry about. A little bit of dinnertime greed did, on the other hand, make him yawn sleepily and feel some reluctance when Rambo next to him went on to suggest they followed some of their pals through to join a pool tournament or find the video games consoles that had been set up in the team lounge; it was a mix of the stormy weather outside and a belly-ful of carbs that made the centre-back just want to retreat to their room. `You go, though,' Ben suggested quietly, pushing a few last bites around his plate, and supping on a bottle of kombucha tea. `Without my Benjy?' Aaron said jokily, flicking a nub of sweetcorn from plate to plate, and then grabbing and shaking his shoulder. `Nah, I'm the same really, feel like I could crash out - but guess we shouldn't aim to sleep too early, or we'll be out of sync tomorrow.' Smiling peaceably to himself, the 6ft2 goalie munched on the last of his third helpings and seemed quite contented to drop his various suggestions of whiling away their relaxation time - and White found himself staring gratefully along at the bulkier guy, very glad of his easygoing friendship in their high-stakes sporting bubble. He had other mates on the Arsenal squad, of course, and had made friends easily in his years at Southampton and Brighton and varied loan spells - but his bond with the Arsenal goalkeeper was definitely his closest inside the footy world, and the two men had been prominent ushers at each other's summer weddings last year. Ben only realised how long and ponderously he'd been staring in his pal's direction when Aaron shifted his head this way and caught his eye, his lips curling into another big toothy grin: `I know, I know, I'm looking fresh with this new trim, Benjamin, but you can take a pic instead of staring me down like that.' And the grinning 25-year-old pouted his thick pink lips in a jokey kiss and then punched him roughly in the bicep before collecting their plates to tidy them away - he went and made flirty banter with the waitress who protested against his helpfulness, and Ben just chuckled to himself, a little embarrassed to have been caught in his quiet moment of friendly contemplation. `I don't mind playing pool,' the 6ft1 defender assured his friend once they were back together and leaving the table. `Nah, you're right, it's been a long day - I dunno if I can be bothered pairing up with you and having you ruin my chances of winning the tournament, you wobbly bastard.' `Oh, sure, it'd be ME holding YOU back, right...' `Let's just hit the room - there's a couple of movies I fancied just gone on Prime, y'know, we could whack something on and settle in for the night? Wanna be fresh tomorrow and do Mikel proud, eh?' Ben nodded keenly at this idea, only vaguely uncertain because he felt like he might have curtailed the other player's more sociable ideas about their Friday night away trip; but he kept that reservation to himself, quite glad to exit the hotel restaurant, pausing only to notify a minor coach that they were signing off for curfew already, and then winding their way through the luxury-ish suburban hotel overlooking Burnley. By the time the two tall athletes were entering their shared suite and knocking a couple of lamps on, the clouds outside had broken, and rain was lashing the big windows. `Fucking hell,' he remarked quietly, but there was nothing more interesting to add, and he tugged on heavy curtains to close out the darkness and the loud wind and rain. Behind him, he noticed, the big burly goalie was skipping about the room setting up his firestick in the TV, whilst also tugging off a baggy grey hoodie and the socks off his large feet; with his usual careless ease, Aaron was dropping his combat pants and stomping about the room in just a thin white vest and the bulging black boxer briefs he'd been wearing underneath, much of his golden-fluffed legs on show. A little more reservedly, Ben began to look through the neatly folded contents of his kit bag to find his PJs, glancing up as Aaron cruised through a streaming menu and informed him of the two or three films he had in mind - again, the married 26-year-old fell into a smiling little reverie at the warmth and assurance of the other man's friendship, and how supportive it was to him in their pressurised footballing life, and through the various ups and downs they'd each experienced at Arsenal - and for England too, he supposed, although actually it was only Rambo who was still in Southgate's good books, and White fairly assumed that he'd rather blotted his copybook during his brief time in Doha two winters ago. `What you fancy, then?' the 25-year-old demanded, lifting his vest to scratch the dark blond trail on his tummy, and giving him a look of earnest demand. Ben realised he hadn't been listening to the options. `Whichever you want, mate, I'm really easy-' `Oh sure, Mr Easygoing, Because-Benjamin's-My-Name, rightyo,' his friend mocked him lightly, chucking the remote over for him to catch, and then disappearing away into their en suite; Ben laughed awkwardly and stared at the screen, trying to regain focus. Doha was a dangerous thought, he realised, and mulling over his friend's support in that instance was a bit more than he wanted to dwell on during a wet Friday night in the North. The prank that had rattled their closeness and jeopardised his own engagement at the time, but then ultimately led to Aaron being very considerate and helpful, discreetly aiding him in getting out of England training and away back to the UK - even though there was a significant episode in between these two facts that Benjamin didn't QUITE want to articulate in his head. He changed from his loose-fitting streetwear into the soft pyjama shorts and matching tee of designer-printed fluffy cotton, and then sat at the foot of his bed, flicking through the movie options and ignoring the background combo of tinkling piss and cheerful humming, before Ramsdale was back in the room and slapping a hand to his shoulder (`Hey, did you even wash those?') and then looming over him from behind, mussing his neat hear and demanding to know what he'd chosen. Ben's posture stiffened and then relaxed, held firmly onto from behind by the big strong goalie, then wobbled as he was pushed playfully aside and Rambo could flop across onto his own bed. `Oh I don't know,' Ben said a little snappily, his thoughts wobbling over a very different hotel room, air conditioned against the Qatari heat. He looked sharply across at Aaron and his big dopey grin and thought of them in that room for a moment too long, making his cheeks burn red and his appetite for this cosy buddy night diminishing. Quickly, wanting to brush past his odd tone, he turned back to the TV and hit select on one of the lined up films, consigning them to a recent action blockbuster - `This'll do, won't it?' Several times during the almost 3 hours of the film - `Didn't you look at how many minutes it was, for fuck's sake?' - the pair of them had to reach across and nudge or kick or, most recently, swipe heavily with a pillow, jokily keeping the other awake and attentive because they were supposed to stick to a fairly rigid bedtime for their boss's weekend plan. But by the end credits, both were looking frowningly at each other and silently communicating their dissatisfaction with the hyped Hollywood trash that might normally please both lads. `It was just meh, wasn't it?' Ramsdale concluded, resting back against a prop of pillows, and hugging the weaponised one under one bare muscular arm - the other hand reached idly down to tug and fiddle with the bulge in his undies in the unconscious manner of any red-blooded guy in comfortable surroundings. Ben failed to reply, even with a non-commital grunt, and he turned and fixed the other player with a curious look, before extending one furry leg across the space between their beds and prodding a toe into his hip. `Oi, you listening to me?' he demanded with a gruff laugh, and for the fifth or sixth time he noted a faraway worry on Ben's lean tanned face, momentary enough but to concern him. He ignored White's mumbled review of the trash film and slid his arse across the beddings to sit facing him across the gap between beds. `You alright, buddy?' the 25-year-old Stokey lad demanded in a quietly serious tone. His friend looked immediately alarmed by the question. `What? Me? Sure, yeh- what?' Aaron fixed him with a look of studious concern and made an unconvinced `Hmm', sitting there knee to knee with him between their two double beds. Film more or less forgotten, he steepled his thick fingers under his fuzzy chin and leaned his elbows into his thighs, facing Ben down until the other player laughed nervously. `What's on your mind, Whitey?' he asked a little less severely. `Tomorrow night,' came the evasive answer, and he `Hmmed'-ed his scepticism again. `We should get some kip now-' `Benjamin,' he insisted. `What's bothering you?' He shrugged his broad shoulders expansively. `This is me, not some other dickhead on the squad.' `Are you calling our teammates a bunch of dickheads, haha...' `Don't avoid the question mate, this is us! We've shared a lot.' `We really have,' the marginally older footballer said in a slightly dark tone, and Aaron raised his blond brows. Even at that, it took him a moment to guess at what Ben meant, but he saw the regretful flush on that tanned face, and he gave him a puzzled smile. `No way,' the goalkeepr said quietly. `No way what?' `No way that you're still hung up on THAT.' `What?' White asked, but the look on his face was obvious - both blokes knew what Ramsdale meant by `THAT'. They stared at each other, Benjamin a bit awkward, but he just bemused and only faintly uneasy with the memory - he shrugged his shoulders again and put the word out there, a quiet friendly question - `Doha, right?' The defender made a little snorty noise of annoyance and got up to his feet - so Aaron did the same, squaring up to him in the space between the beds, and bringing his large goal-keeping hands up to Ben's lean biceps. `Dude, that was... I dunno, years ago-' `Eighteen months at most,' Ben muttered, not meeting his eyes. `We've talked about it,' Aaron insisted quietly. `We laughed it off. Daft shite abroad. A prank that went too far.' He smiled encouragingly and gave the 6ft1 lad's shoulders a squeeze. `Mate, you married her,' he laughed, `so it's not like she took the joke so badly after all, it was a spat of a few days for the pair of ya...! I was at the wedding, she hardly looked like she was resenting a stupid practical joke at the World fucking Cup, so...' He trailed off, seeing the hints of the February storm in his friend's moody expression; he supposed he knew full well that Ben wasn't actually alluding to the brief trouble that Aaron's sense of humour at an illicit sex shop had sparked between fiances that hot winter. It wasn't the embarrassment of Ramsdale hiding the big yellow dildo in White's bed during a conjugal visit that was still playing on the lanky southerner's mind over a year later, was it? `It was just a bit of a daft laugh,' Aaron said, his voice quiet, but a little more low and gravelly, less light and jovial. He patted the shoulders and pulled his hands back, letting his long arms hang idly at his sides. He forced a laugh and scratched at his chin. `I mean, you recovered pretty quickly from the pinkeye, so...' Ben's face was a mixture of worried frown and sarcastic laugh, and he did pull away now, slipping away from the closeness of their standing figures, out from between the beds - and Aaron suppressed the lingering marvel and shock that he'd held onto at his own actions that night, joking around with his friend and trying to mend their closeness after taking his daft prank too far. But - and this was important, he thought - it was daft for Ben to be the one holding onto any stress or regret there, given the way things had gone, he just didn't know how to point this out to the moody-spirited defender without offending. `Let's leave it,' White was saying, switching off the telly and moving to twitch the curtains and check if the rain was still as heavy - but Ramsdale found he didn't quite feel like leaving it, after this stupid episode had been revived in their banter. `I don't know why you're thinking about any of that,' he said, trying to sound more kindly than accusing, `I mean, the things you and I have heard and seen since then...!' He didn't need to spell out the details, vaguely following his teammate across the room - unspoken between them was his own gossip about Declan Rice's private life, never mind a couple of shocking intimacies Ben had accidentally spied in the Arsenal training campus. And sitting more heavily apart from these matey confidences, the goalie thought with some tension, was the sweaty moment he'd shared in a room with his fellow England keepers last year - fucking that stupid sex toy of Johnstone's in Pickford's grip! Ben turned to face him, giving him a strange wary look, averting his eyes. `Please can we leave it? I'm just being daft...' `Nah,' Aaron insisted warmly, approaching him, `you know you can talk to me, you shouldn't have to feel daft...! What's bothering you, really? I mean - it was a stupid little joke, it's just between us, you haven't gone telling your missus or anything have you...?' `No, no, god no...!' `Thank fuck,' he whistled. `I mean, you and me can laugh our heads off about what happened, but I'd defo rather it didn't leave this room, bud...! Haha... Not that it meant anything dodgy, it was just...' He laughed and rubbed at his face, finding it a little warm and clammy. `It was just proving a point, wasn't it? I pissed you off and I wanted to make amends!' He felt himself reddening with the forcefulness of his point, and then his thought was tumbling out: `I mean, it were me who shoved the bastard thing up his jacksie, wasn't it?!' At this blunt truth, Benjamin stared back at him with wide horrified eyes and pursed lips, and Aaron regretted being so explicit about something that they had both coped with by brushing it aside in gruff jokes and banter - and he bristled uncomfortably at hearing himself say it out loud, this thing that he'd just insisted shouldn't leave the room. He wondered if he'd raised his voice too much there, with probable silent suites on either side of their shared space - and he wondered if he'd really pissed off his pal with his bluntness, the intensity with which the Poole-born poser was now staring him down. `Yeah, you did,' muttered Ben, without much humour or relief. `So what's the fuckin' problem?' Aaron demanded, unable to hide some aggro and frustration, having put words to the deed. `It just seems- I mean- Ergh. It-' Ben was really struggling to get his words out and Aaron stared at him almost accusingly, finding himself a bit annoyed and riled to have it all brought up, no longer able to laugh it off, the two of them standing alone with this elephant in the room - `Spit it out, mate,' he grunted, and instantly regretted the unkindness in his own tone - while Ben, looking a bit wild in the eyes, blurted at him, `I just feel bad that you were the one who tried that, when it was my stupid dilemma in the first place - feels like you really took one for the team there, and I feel really awkward about it...!' Benjamin didn't quite know what he was saying until he'd said it, and he found himself staring quite intensely at Aaron's broad open face, his blinking confusion, his puzzled open mouth - so his verbal rush spilled on, and he was shocked to hear himself say it: `I feel bad that you took that- that- that thing up ya,' he said, his voice dropping to an ashamed whisper, `and all cos I was all confused and worried by a little pinkie finger from my missus...!' He groaned miserably. `I mean, it was me getting us trouble when we tried that nonsense in the sauna back home - caught by the fucking gaffer, no less! I got us fined, I got pissed at you over a bloody prank, and then...' He waved his hands expressively at the bulky blond lad and then pushed past him, rubbing his sweaty red face and feeling mortified that he'd even started this dialogue. `I just wish it was even stevens or something,' he barked back at his roomie, moving across the suite and feeling like he needed a cold shower, then shooting a nervously apologetic look back at the other lad. `I started this nonsense and it was you who... you know... did that, and-' `Hey, hey...' Ramsdale's voice was low and soothing, his slow steady steps following White across the room, one of his large hands now catching him at the elbow. `This was ages ago,' Aaron said to him in a murmur, but his eyes looked as worried and frustrated as they had before - Ben felt bad, he'd seen how ashamed his mate looked as he voiced what had actually happened in Doha. They were both red in the face and Ben was furious with himself for doing this, after such a chilled night when his mate had been so ready to accommodate his antisocial mood and take it easy up here... `I know, I know,' the south coast heart-throb murmured shamefully. `It's just so... I dunno. It was all so stupid, wasn't it? But I feel bad. I mean, when I tried bringing that crap up with her after Doha, she wasn't...' He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the side of his neck. `She didn't want to stick a pinkie up me any more, she looked disgusted when she thought I was asking for it - I mean, I wasn't, was I! I was just saying it cos I thought SHE wanted to try it, like two years ago...!' Aaron smiled at him, his tension seeming to soften, and Ben just felt worse - he shouldn't be winding up and annoying his best footy mate like this. He covered his face with both hands and groaned. `I just think it should have been me taking that fucking whopper instead of you,' he grumbled. `Or- I dunno. I dunno what I think. Sorry, big man.' `Hey, hey...' He felt all the more flustered and confused as Aaron's arms enfolded him in a big manly hug, and he responded in kind, holding tightly onto the big warm body of the 6ft2 keeper. But he pulled away, cringing at himself, and tried to dismiss what he'd said - `I mean, if you hadn't bought the daft bloody thing, then-' `If you want things to be even stevens, then it's easily solved,' Ramsdale's voice cut across his, a gruff Midlands laugh - and it made him pause and look nervously at the goalie, his face and tone hard to read. Ben mouthed a `What?' and Aaron shoved him gently in the chest of his t-shirt. `It was just a laugh, wasn't it?' purred the big Stokey lad. `If we have to repeat it for you to feel equal, then...' Ben of course realised that this was literally what he'd been suggesting, in his awkward roundabout and kinda unconscious way, but he snorted and scoffed and shook his head. `Fuck off,' he mumbled, then added stupidly, `It's not like either of us carries around a big stupid sex toy like you bought-' `Nah,' Aaron agreed quietly, `but...' He was holding a hand up and moving closer where they stood, and Ben blinked, flustered and overheated, taking too many moments to understand the gesture - Aaron holding up first one, then two, then three of his thick callused fingers, and leering past them - `Oh...' `What do you think?' mused the contested Arsenal goalkeeper. `Three fingers about the same as...?' `Err - oh - errrm-' He must have looked wild with terror, because Aaron dropped the digits and grabbed him by both shoulders, shaking with laughter as he began to apologise `Just messing-' but Ben cleared his throat and spoke over him, locking eyes with his best mate: `Yeah,' he said, his throat dry, `I think three would be about the same. Erm.' Aaron stared at the other football lad in sudden high tension, his chuckling apologies dying in his mouth. He blinked twice, wiped a hairy forearm across his lips, and then took a step back; he looked away and then back at Benjamin, seeing the crestfallen anxiety of his handsome face. `Right,' the goalie said, quietly but firmly. `Well, we can do that.' They stared at each other for a long moment, and neither of them said anything. With a sense of Ben's suggested injustice, the 25-year-old found himself mentally returning for a moment to that air-conditioned suite in the Three Lions basecamp - him hoisting the big rubbery toy and sliding onto the bed, laughing his head off and willing to do any stupid stunt to show his level of apology to his bestie. And now... he cleared his throat and rubbed his knuckles together and then just let his hands hover at his hips. He was also, for another long moment, thinking about being in that room with Jordan and Sam, his two fellow goalies of the national team, and... that other toy. `Right then,' he said, surprised at the directness and bluntness of his own voice as if it was coming from further away - Benjamin was still stood tall and gormless in front of him, looking like he might be regretting his bold agreement to the ridiculous idea - `You get on the bed then, I think, and we'll see what you think?' He could hear himself saying it as if it was rational and sensible - the perfect solution to his friend's anxiety of two years ago, having had his fiancee investigate between his cheek in the middle of a shag... yeah, sure, this was just a friendly experiment to follow that up, wasn't it? `On the bed?' White echoed faintly, still staring at him. `Sure,' Ramsdale grunted back, full of feigned casual confidence. `You wanna be comfortable.' He nodded instructively to the bed and then followed his friend towards it. Suddenly nervous, he grabbed his mate by the wrist. `This is stupid,' he whispered, their faces suddenly close. `We don't have to do this, just cos I... I... y'know, tried that thing, and... I mean, you don't OWE me anything, it was MY prank, and...' `Please,' came White's hoarse quiet response - Ramsdale could feel him shaking - `I wanna try it, mate.' There was a tiny pleading sense to his fluttering eyes and shaking lip and suddenly Aaron felt new determination. He nodded, slowly, and squeezed the hand on Ben's warm tanned skin. `Get on the bed,' he said, gently but commanding, `and we'll see how this feels for you, okay...?' And so they moved on, both slow and deliberate in every little action; Ben looking very confused and indecisive as he got on the bed and sat there leaning back, and Aaron moving around him in a way that he hoped seemed sure, decisive, in control. `Nah,' he told him, `bend over, facing away, I think it'll be easier.' He wasn't sure he could look his friend in the eye and do this. So Benjamin did as he was told, shifting onto his knees and leaning forward. He could feel his tall strong body, decorated as it was by sun-tan and tattoo, trembling with indecision and expectation. What had he suggested? What were they doing? Were they both mad? He pressed his face down into his palms on the bedding and stayed there, elbows and knees, arse jutting back to one side of the bed - he could feel Aaron's heavy presence close by, hear him rifling in a toilet bag, hear his heavy faltering breaths, hear the indecision in every muscular movement... as slowly, no words spoken, one of those goal-saving hands rested on his lower back, his hip, his buttock... and clenching slowly at the soft fluffy cotton, pulled the loose designer PJ shorts away... so that Ben was leaning heavily forward, bent over on the bed, with his bare smooth arse jutting out into the cool air. Fuck. Aaron stared at it: two big oval muscles, the tan lines obvious where Ben's beach colour gave way to the natural pale pink of whatever speedos or briefs he'd been wearing on holiday in the winter break. It was all very smooth, almost feminine if you looked at it the right way and didn't think about the tall muscular form attached to it, or focus on the little fuzz of dark hair that was visible in the cleavage at the top. Aaron stared at it, and then down at his hand, and then at the little tube of vaseline he'd been using for his chapped lips. Ben tensed even more as he felt the cool touch, the single thick fingertip pressing between his clenched cheeks. He heard the bed springs jitter as his knees and elbows dug in more. This was mad, he told himself, this was a stupid idea; he could feel a slick greasy fingertip moving between his cheeks and pushing in, and he had to try hard not to lunge forward away from the invasive feeling - in fact, he might have failed to do so, had a solid hand not rested on the small of his back, pressing gently down, and that gruff friendly voice sounded gently from behind him, `Try to relax...' Aaron held his left hand firm atop the base of Ben's spine, and he pushed the index finger of the other hand slowly up and down, digging it between the tight firm canyon of Ben's cheeks, feeling the gentle fuzz of hair and the strangely intense body heat of it; he realised he'd been holding his breath for too long and let it out in an awkward sigh that turned into a stilted cough. Remembering himself, he repeated the mantra, keeping his voice low and warm: Just relax mate, try to relax...' Ben felt it, really felt it, the tip of one slick finger on his rosebud, and he let out his little concerned `Oh!' - he bit the yelp back down, too late, trying to be strong and manly about it, and suddenly fixated on an image of Aaron's gurning amusement as he tried his own hole, Ben helping a little, helping him to... ohhh... he could feel his friend's finger sliding very slowly into him, was it really just ONE finger, it felt so huge and impossible... `Ohhh!' And his friend's voice drifting over his shoulder, telling him repeatedly, `Relax buddy...' Aaron tried hard to stay slow, careful, hesitant; he was gripped by a curious excitement now that he didn't know what to do with. He was holding down on Ben's back even more firmly, no longer just a calm hand resting at his waistline - but gripping and pulling on the fabric of his pyjama top there, holding it like a harness, whilst with his other hand he squeezed that one solid finger further, deeper, entering the lad more fully, feeling his hot tightness about the entirety of his digit, right to the knuckle - `Ohhh,' whimpered White, and Ramsdale growled back, `Relax!' Ben felt it slide in and out of him, just like his own sweaty finger when they'd lain side by side in the sauna and briefly experimented with it - nothing like the brief electric touch of his wife, who had chanced it after some stupid advice article in a magazine, and never returned to the scene of the crime. His bent body was still tense and anxious, but he was surprised by how commandingly easy Aaron made it seem, gently fingering him like his arse was a wet pussy - and his awkward `Ohs' of surprise turned into a groan that he couldn't suppress, a long thoughtful `Ohhhh' of surprised enjoyment, and he felt his cock and balls twitch. In and out Aaron pushed now, less careful, less slow and uncertain - just plunging his finger deep into the tight hole of Ben's cunt, and pulling it back, loving the slick wet noise it made. He experimented with pressure and angle, trying to stretch the entrance, eager now to try a second finger. He pulled his hand back first, and rather than going for the vaseline, he just spat noisily on the two fingers, and... he leaned forward, one heavy knee squeaking against the edge of the mattress, and spat down between the tanned cheeks, his bubbly spit settling around Ben's near-smooth hole, against which he now pressed two rough fingertips. Ben whimpered, feeling his body resist, feeling the little struggle of opposing strength; but then they were inside him, the impossible thickness of two fingers, and he was arching his back, giving int other guiding control of Aaron's other hand. His strong lean arse pushed back and high and his face squishing down into the bedding, arms firm at his sides. His cock throbbed and lifted, and he wondered if Aaron could tell; but then Rambo had got all excited when he explored himself deeper and deeper, right? That was how... well, that was how the mess got made, and he left his first and only World Cup with pinkeye... `Relax,' Aaron growled, `you can take them...' This was more challenging, and he couldn't slide in and out as easily with two as with one, but he was sure it could become smoother, easier, if the tattooed poser on the bed would just... give in? He leaned forward, kneeling more heavily on the bed, and spat some more against his fingers and the fuzzy crack. He slid his hand further up Ben's back, until he was holding the nape of his neck; then he pushed his two fingers quite roughly into him, refusing to yield against strong muscle, and really stretched and explored him; his own cock throbbing in the front of his boxer briefs, as it had watched Johnstone and Pickford go to work on that tight fleshlight. Ben thought in a hot rush that two must be the maximum, even if that wasn't quite the same girth as the rubbery toy Aaron had tried; no way could his backside take more than this! No way! And why was Aaron grabbing his neck like that. More to the point, why did it feel kinda nice? He kept having to shift his face side to side, snuffling for air, and yet Rambo held him down, gripping the back of his head quite roughly, and he didn't necessarily want him to stop - he DEFINITELY didn't want him to stop pushing two fingers knuckle-deep in his aching, burning ring, penetrating and discovering him, making him moan and tremble, his cock throb and leak, his balls tingle where they drooped between his shaking thighs. Aaron pulled his hand back, formed three sturdy fingers, and stared at them. He spat on them then thought better of this feeble lubrication; he spurted as much vaseline from the tube onto them as possible, and then spat instead on Ben's glistening arse-hole. He leaned over him as he growled, `I'm gonna try it, buddy', then ignored the whimpering uncertainty of Ben's `Are you sure?' He pressed three fingers in and felt the tinyness of the hole, the impossibility of the penetration, this was nothing like fingering a bird; it frustrated him, and he took this out briefly by spanking hard against one of Ben's tight glutes. But he tried again, whispering `Relax mate' as he forced in one, then two, then... yes, yes, a third...! Ben's hole was on fire, but he braced himself and wondered if it would feel better in a moment, like one had, like two had; and he trusted big Aaron, whose huge muscular presence over him was so powerful and reassuring, so... so... so fucking sexy. His cock was leaking pre-cum in a little froth down his thigh and he couldn't believe how much he loved having his friend's fingers in him; he wanted to tell him this but he was scared to. This was a game, an experiment, a payback, just even stevens! Aaron pushed the three digits slowly that bit further in, edging his invasion that little bit further with each thrust, but really rubbing in a massaging manner at Ben's neck and up and down his back, and then over each of his firm pink cheeks; his own breathing was heavy and needy, and he was leaning back to stare down at it, the beauty of Ben's tight strong bottom, the pink stretched hole, the dark fuzz of hair above and below it; he reached down and, unable to stop himself, turned his left hand to the tented outline of his erection. He rubbed and pulled it through black fabric as he relented and settled for sliding just two fingers in and out, three having proved kinda too much - but he was starting to wonder what else might fit perfectly in there. Ben no longer knew if it was three fingers, two fingers, one; he just pushed his arse back and up and gasped for air, whimpering with each digging thrust of Aaron's knuckles. `Yes,' he whispered hoarsely, `oh yes...' And he heard Aaron spitting again, loudly, and was bewildered at how that phlegmy noise could be sexy; then Aaron was leaning over him, body to body, and he could feel his breath on his neck, the tickle of his blond beard on his cheek. He tensed, uncertain what his friend was going to tell him, and he shuddered with release when the inevitable words sounded close to his ear: `I've fucked you with my fingers,' growled the Arsenal keeper, `but now you're going to get the real thing, okay?' And shaky with anticipation, Ben couldn't stop himsel: `Yes Aaron, yes please sir, yesss...' It was the `sir', unbidden and unexpected, that really sent the shiver down Ramsdale's spine, making his every muscle seem electrified; edging himself into position behind the bent-over physique of the other player, his t-shirt tugged halfway up his tanned back, his arse open and slick, and Aaron's wet cock-head angled close to it. He pushed it forward, holding it at the base, and rubbed its thick tip up and down the wet crack, rolling it against the blinking entrance - just like he had to that tight synthetic pussy in the cup of plastic, goaded by Sam Johnstone and Jordan Pickford, one of the fellas in the England goalkeeping trio. What was the difference, he asked himself, between a toy like that, and... any willing hole. Now Ben groaned loudly and freely, unable to hide his pleasure, and gasping repeatedly `Aaron, Aaron, Aaron', feeling his friend entering him in a more powerful and filling way - he was glad that the big 25-year-old took it slow, inching into him, but somehow the veiny girth of the beautiful man's cock was easier than three fingers, but surely thicker and fuller than the two that had slid so easily in and out of his wet ring. He felt Aaron over him, holding him, breathing on him, but also in him, deep in him, pushing inside, stretching and filling him... and then pulling back and forward, fucking his aching burning ring, fucking him like he had with his strong fingers, plunging deep and tugging back, over and over and over- oh fuckkkk, oh fuckkkkk... `Yes,' Aaron groaned into his best mate's ear, `yes mate, your pussy feels good... oh yes, Benjamin, feel me in you yeah, feel how big I am, fuck yeah, mmm... your pussy, lad... ohhh, fuck, fuck, yess... how's that feel... better than my fingers, better than your wife's fucking pinkie finger, yeah.... Mmmm... you slut, you beautiful slut, you dirty little pussy slut... ohhh mmmm yeh....' `Yes sir,' Ben whimpered with a submissive desperation that he'd never felt before, `yes, all of it, oh yes, deeper, harder, fucking hell you're amazing... fuckkk... fuckk.... Yes sir, your slut, totally your slut, fuck my pussy sir, mmm... oh god, Aaron, Rambo, mmmm...!' And Aaron cumming hard, a few slow but hard final thrusts, emptying his balls inside the quivering strength of his teammate, sweat dripping from every muscle of his body, pooling against the vest on his torso, and dripping down his tree trunk legs to the bunched briefs at his ankles. He pushed deep inside and bred the man-cunt, filling this slut up with his seed, and holding him tightly with all of his exhausted strength, grunting and groaning in his ear: `Yes mate, yes mate... mmmm, yes...' And Ben, moaning wordlessly into the lamplit night, as he reached down and fumbled desperately with his cock; pulled onto his side, spooned and held by the big heavy form of the goalkeeper, his cock still buried to the hilt in his arse, while Benjamin jerked frantically on himself and spurted a messy load down his legs, up his tummy, over the bedding. He shook and gasped and whimpered and relaxed into the cuddle, feeling Aaron's lips brush the side of his neck, the lobe of his ear: `Yes mate,' the big stud was moaning for him again, and Ben whispered back through his own heavy breaths: `Thank you, thank you, thank you....' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Fri, 16 Feb 2024 21:34:04 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 388 Part 388: Even Stevens Outside of the restaurant windows, stormy cloud banks built up and promised a rainy February night in the northern town - any member of the squad or training staff who looked out at this from their late dinner made a grimace and said similar generic things to those around them, predicting a muddy farce at their Burnley hosts tomorrow night according to the local and national forecasts. He was just the latest guy there to pause on his way to the generous buffet tables and look out at the ominous weather, make a moody little frown in response, and then nudge an elbow at the fella next to him - `Hey, look at those clouds - is it gonna piss down for the whole trip?' The weather was presumably one of the reasons their London club had travelled up here on the Friday night, given their league game wasn't until 8pm kick-off on Saturday - the bosses must have been worried about delays to their journey and a chaotic build-up to the game. Burnley were hardly worrying opposition for Arsenal this weekend, but the Gunners were quivering in 3rd place and determined to canter past City and Liverpool in the next few fixtures. Next to him, the broad-shouldered goalkeeper lifted his head and cast a thoughtful look out of the second-floor restaurant windows - but a big white-toothed grin split the blonde-bearded face and the big shoulders just shrugged. `So what, we love getting a bit dirty,' chuckled the deep Stokey accent of Aaron Ramsdale, shouldering past him to go and top up his plate with a third portion of the food options laid out by the hotel - `Oi,' cursed Arsenal defender Ben White, overtaken by the slightly taller lad, and hurrying after him, but pleased and admiring by how unfazed and upbeat the other footballer could always be, a helpful buoy against his own irritable temperament. One after the other, the two Arsenal men loaded their plates, bickering like schoolboys over who got to certain dishes first, and then they wove their way back to one of the long shared tables. Already, some of the guys were exiting the meal and going to make use of various hotel facilities to wind down before curfew, leading Aaron to make jokes about their piggish appetites, an idea that 26-year-old White was far too lean and ripped to worry about. A little bit of dinnertime greed did, on the other hand, make him yawn sleepily and feel some reluctance when Rambo next to him went on to suggest they followed some of their pals through to join a pool tournament or find the video games consoles that had been set up in the team lounge; it was a mix of the stormy weather outside and a belly-ful of carbs that made the centre-back just want to retreat to their room. `You go, though,' Ben suggested quietly, pushing a few last bites around his plate, and supping on a bottle of kombucha tea. `Without my Benjy?' Aaron said jokily, flicking a nub of sweetcorn from plate to plate, and then grabbing and shaking his shoulder. `Nah, I'm the same really, feel like I could crash out - but guess we shouldn't aim to sleep too early, or we'll be out of sync tomorrow.' Smiling peaceably to himself, the 6ft2 goalie munched on the last of his third helpings and seemed quite contented to drop his various suggestions of whiling away their relaxation time - and White found himself staring gratefully along at the bulkier guy, very glad of his easygoing friendship in their high-stakes sporting bubble. He had other mates on the Arsenal squad, of course, and had made friends easily in his years at Southampton and Brighton and varied loan spells - but his bond with the Arsenal goalkeeper was definitely his closest inside the footy world, and the two men had been prominent ushers at each other's summer weddings last year. Ben only realised how long and ponderously he'd been staring in his pal's direction when Aaron shifted his head this way and caught his eye, his lips curling into another big toothy grin: `I know, I know, I'm looking fresh with this new trim, Benjamin, but you can take a pic instead of staring me down like that.' And the grinning 25-year-old pouted his thick pink lips in a jokey kiss and then punched him roughly in the bicep before collecting their plates to tidy them away - he went and made flirty banter with the waitress who protested against his helpfulness, and Ben just chuckled to himself, a little embarrassed to have been caught in his quiet moment of friendly contemplation. `I don't mind playing pool,' the 6ft1 defender assured his friend once they were back together and leaving the table. `Nah, you're right, it's been a long day - I dunno if I can be bothered pairing up with you and having you ruin my chances of winning the tournament, you wobbly bastard.' `Oh, sure, it'd be ME holding YOU back, right...' `Let's just hit the room - there's a couple of movies I fancied just gone on Prime, y'know, we could whack something on and settle in for the night? Wanna be fresh tomorrow and do Mikel proud, eh?' Ben nodded keenly at this idea, only vaguely uncertain because he felt like he might have curtailed the other player's more sociable ideas about their Friday night away trip; but he kept that reservation to himself, quite glad to exit the hotel restaurant, pausing only to notify a minor coach that they were signing off for curfew already, and then winding their way through the luxury-ish suburban hotel overlooking Burnley. By the time the two tall athletes were entering their shared suite and knocking a couple of lamps on, the clouds outside had broken, and rain was lashing the big windows. `Fucking hell,' he remarked quietly, but there was nothing more interesting to add, and he tugged on heavy curtains to close out the darkness and the loud wind and rain. Behind him, he noticed, the big burly goalie was skipping about the room setting up his firestick in the TV, whilst also tugging off a baggy grey hoodie and the socks off his large feet; with his usual careless ease, Aaron was dropping his combat pants and stomping about the room in just a thin white vest and the bulging black boxer briefs he'd been wearing underneath, much of his golden-fluffed legs on show. A little more reservedly, Ben began to look through the neatly folded contents of his kit bag to find his PJs, glancing up as Aaron cruised through a streaming menu and informed him of the two or three films he had in mind - again, the married 26-year-old fell into a smiling little reverie at the warmth and assurance of the other man's friendship, and how supportive it was to him in their pressurised footballing life, and through the various ups and downs they'd each experienced at Arsenal - and for England too, he supposed, although actually it was only Rambo who was still in Southgate's good books, and White fairly assumed that he'd rather blotted his copybook during his brief time in Doha two winters ago. `What you fancy, then?' the 25-year-old demanded, lifting his vest to scratch the dark blond trail on his tummy, and giving him a look of earnest demand. Ben realised he hadn't been listening to the options. `Whichever you want, mate, I'm really easy-' `Oh sure, Mr Easygoing, Because-Benjamin's-My-Name, rightyo,' his friend mocked him lightly, chucking the remote over for him to catch, and then disappearing away into their en suite; Ben laughed awkwardly and stared at the screen, trying to regain focus. Doha was a dangerous thought, he realised, and mulling over his friend's support in that instance was a bit more than he wanted to dwell on during a wet Friday night in the North. The prank that had rattled their closeness and jeopardised his own engagement at the time, but then ultimately led to Aaron being very considerate and helpful, discreetly aiding him in getting out of England training and away back to the UK - even though there was a significant episode in between these two facts that Benjamin didn't QUITE want to articulate in his head. He changed from his loose-fitting streetwear into the soft pyjama shorts and matching tee of designer-printed fluffy cotton, and then sat at the foot of his bed, flicking through the movie options and ignoring the background combo of tinkling piss and cheerful humming, before Ramsdale was back in the room and slapping a hand to his shoulder (`Hey, did you even wash those?') and then looming over him from behind, mussing his neat hear and demanding to know what he'd chosen. Ben's posture stiffened and then relaxed, held firmly onto from behind by the big strong goalie, then wobbled as he was pushed playfully aside and Rambo could flop across onto his own bed. `Oh I don't know,' Ben said a little snappily, his thoughts wobbling over a very different hotel room, air conditioned against the Qatari heat. He looked sharply across at Aaron and his big dopey grin and thought of them in that room for a moment too long, making his cheeks burn red and his appetite for this cosy buddy night diminishing. Quickly, wanting to brush past his odd tone, he turned back to the TV and hit select on one of the lined up films, consigning them to a recent action blockbuster - `This'll do, won't it?' Several times during the almost 3 hours of the film - `Didn't you look at how many minutes it was, for fuck's sake?' - the pair of them had to reach across and nudge or kick or, most recently, swipe heavily with a pillow, jokily keeping the other awake and attentive because they were supposed to stick to a fairly rigid bedtime for their boss's weekend plan. But by the end credits, both were looking frowningly at each other and silently communicating their dissatisfaction with the hyped Hollywood trash that might normally please both lads. `It was just meh, wasn't it?' Ramsdale concluded, resting back against a prop of pillows, and hugging the weaponised one under one bare muscular arm - the other hand reached idly down to tug and fiddle with the bulge in his undies in the unconscious manner of any red-blooded guy in comfortable surroundings. Ben failed to reply, even with a non-commital grunt, and he turned and fixed the other player with a curious look, before extending one furry leg across the space between their beds and prodding a toe into his hip. `Oi, you listening to me?' he demanded with a gruff laugh, and for the fifth or sixth time he noted a faraway worry on Ben's lean tanned face, momentary enough but to concern him. He ignored White's mumbled review of the trash film and slid his arse across the beddings to sit facing him across the gap between beds. `You alright, buddy?' the 25-year-old Stokey lad demanded in a quietly serious tone. His friend looked immediately alarmed by the question. `What? Me? Sure, yeh- what?' Aaron fixed him with a look of studious concern and made an unconvinced `Hmm', sitting there knee to knee with him between their two double beds. Film more or less forgotten, he steepled his thick fingers under his fuzzy chin and leaned his elbows into his thighs, facing Ben down until the other player laughed nervously. `What's on your mind, Whitey?' he asked a little less severely. `Tomorrow night,' came the evasive answer, and he `Hmmed'-ed his scepticism again. `We should get some kip now-' `Benjamin,' he insisted. `What's bothering you?' He shrugged his broad shoulders expansively. `This is me, not some other dickhead on the squad.' `Are you calling our teammates a bunch of dickheads, haha...' `Don't avoid the question mate, this is us! We've shared a lot.' `We really have,' the marginally older footballer said in a slightly dark tone, and Aaron raised his blond brows. Even at that, it took him a moment to guess at what Ben meant, but he saw the regretful flush on that tanned face, and he gave him a puzzled smile. `No way,' the goalkeepr said quietly. `No way what?' `No way that you're still hung up on THAT.' `What?' White asked, but the look on his face was obvious - both blokes knew what Ramsdale meant by `THAT'. They stared at each other, Benjamin a bit awkward, but he just bemused and only faintly uneasy with the memory - he shrugged his shoulders again and put the word out there, a quiet friendly question - `Doha, right?' The defender made a little snorty noise of annoyance and got up to his feet - so Aaron did the same, squaring up to him in the space between the beds, and bringing his large goal-keeping hands up to Ben's lean biceps. `Dude, that was... I dunno, years ago-' `Eighteen months at most,' Ben muttered, not meeting his eyes. `We've talked about it,' Aaron insisted quietly. `We laughed it off. Daft shite abroad. A prank that went too far.' He smiled encouragingly and gave the 6ft1 lad's shoulders a squeeze. `Mate, you married her,' he laughed, `so it's not like she took the joke so badly after all, it was a spat of a few days for the pair of ya...! I was at the wedding, she hardly looked like she was resenting a stupid practical joke at the World fucking Cup, so...' He trailed off, seeing the hints of the February storm in his friend's moody expression; he supposed he knew full well that Ben wasn't actually alluding to the brief trouble that Aaron's sense of humour at an illicit sex shop had sparked between fiances that hot winter. It wasn't the embarrassment of Ramsdale hiding the big yellow dildo in White's bed during a conjugal visit that was still playing on the lanky southerner's mind over a year later, was it? `It was just a bit of a daft laugh,' Aaron said, his voice quiet, but a little more low and gravelly, less light and jovial. He patted the shoulders and pulled his hands back, letting his long arms hang idly at his sides. He forced a laugh and scratched at his chin. `I mean, you recovered pretty quickly from the pinkeye, so...' Ben's face was a mixture of worried frown and sarcastic laugh, and he did pull away now, slipping away from the closeness of their standing figures, out from between the beds - and Aaron suppressed the lingering marvel and shock that he'd held onto at his own actions that night, joking around with his friend and trying to mend their closeness after taking his daft prank too far. But - and this was important, he thought - it was daft for Ben to be the one holding onto any stress or regret there, given the way things had gone, he just didn't know how to point this out to the moody-spirited defender without offending. `Let's leave it,' White was saying, switching off the telly and moving to twitch the curtains and check if the rain was still as heavy - but Ramsdale found he didn't quite feel like leaving it, after this stupid episode had been revived in their banter. `I don't know why you're thinking about any of that,' he said, trying to sound more kindly than accusing, `I mean, the things you and I have heard and seen since then...!' He didn't need to spell out the details, vaguely following his teammate across the room - unspoken between them was his own gossip about Declan Rice's private life, never mind a couple of shocking intimacies Ben had accidentally spied in the Arsenal training campus. And sitting more heavily apart from these matey confidences, the goalie thought with some tension, was the sweaty moment he'd shared in a room with his fellow England keepers last year - fucking that stupid sex toy of Johnstone's in Pickford's grip! Ben turned to face him, giving him a strange wary look, averting his eyes. `Please can we leave it? I'm just being daft...' `Nah,' Aaron insisted warmly, approaching him, `you know you can talk to me, you shouldn't have to feel daft...! What's bothering you, really? I mean - it was a stupid little joke, it's just between us, you haven't gone telling your missus or anything have you...?' `No, no, god no...!' `Thank fuck,' he whistled. `I mean, you and me can laugh our heads off about what happened, but I'd defo rather it didn't leave this room, bud...! Haha... Not that it meant anything dodgy, it was just...' He laughed and rubbed at his face, finding it a little warm and clammy. `It was just proving a point, wasn't it? I pissed you off and I wanted to make amends!' He felt himself reddening with the forcefulness of his point, and then his thought was tumbling out: `I mean, it were me who shoved the bastard thing up his jacksie, wasn't it?!' At this blunt truth, Benjamin stared back at him with wide horrified eyes and pursed lips, and Aaron regretted being so explicit about something that they had both coped with by brushing it aside in gruff jokes and banter - and he bristled uncomfortably at hearing himself say it out loud, this thing that he'd just insisted shouldn't leave the room. He wondered if he'd raised his voice too much there, with probable silent suites on either side of their shared space - and he wondered if he'd really pissed off his pal with his bluntness, the intensity with which the Poole-born poser was now staring him down. `Yeah, you did,' muttered Ben, without much humour or relief. `So what's the fuckin' problem?' Aaron demanded, unable to hide some aggro and frustration, having put words to the deed. `It just seems- I mean- Ergh. It-' Ben was really struggling to get his words out and Aaron stared at him almost accusingly, finding himself a bit annoyed and riled to have it all brought up, no longer able to laugh it off, the two of them standing alone with this elephant in the room - `Spit it out, mate,' he grunted, and instantly regretted the unkindness in his own tone - while Ben, looking a bit wild in the eyes, blurted at him, `I just feel bad that you were the one who tried that, when it was my stupid dilemma in the first place - feels like you really took one for the team there, and I feel really awkward about it...!' Benjamin didn't quite know what he was saying until he'd said it, and he found himself staring quite intensely at Aaron's broad open face, his blinking confusion, his puzzled open mouth - so his verbal rush spilled on, and he was shocked to hear himself say it: `I feel bad that you took that- that- that thing up ya,' he said, his voice dropping to an ashamed whisper, `and all cos I was all confused and worried by a little pinkie finger from my missus...!' He groaned miserably. `I mean, it was me getting us trouble when we tried that nonsense in the sauna back home - caught by the fucking gaffer, no less! I got us fined, I got pissed at you over a bloody prank, and then...' He waved his hands expressively at the bulky blond lad and then pushed past him, rubbing his sweaty red face and feeling mortified that he'd even started this dialogue. `I just wish it was even stevens or something,' he barked back at his roomie, moving across the suite and feeling like he needed a cold shower, then shooting a nervously apologetic look back at the other lad. `I started this nonsense and it was you who... you know... did that, and-' `Hey, hey...' Ramsdale's voice was low and soothing, his slow steady steps following White across the room, one of his large hands now catching him at the elbow. `This was ages ago,' Aaron said to him in a murmur, but his eyes looked as worried and frustrated as they had before - Ben felt bad, he'd seen how ashamed his mate looked as he voiced what had actually happened in Doha. They were both red in the face and Ben was furious with himself for doing this, after such a chilled night when his mate had been so ready to accommodate his antisocial mood and take it easy up here... `I know, I know,' the south coast heart-throb murmured shamefully. `It's just so... I dunno. It was all so stupid, wasn't it? But I feel bad. I mean, when I tried bringing that crap up with her after Doha, she wasn't...' He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the side of his neck. `She didn't want to stick a pinkie up me any more, she looked disgusted when she thought I was asking for it - I mean, I wasn't, was I! I was just saying it cos I thought SHE wanted to try it, like two years ago...!' Aaron smiled at him, his tension seeming to soften, and Ben just felt worse - he shouldn't be winding up and annoying his best footy mate like this. He covered his face with both hands and groaned. `I just think it should have been me taking that fucking whopper instead of you,' he grumbled. `Or- I dunno. I dunno what I think. Sorry, big man.' `Hey, hey...' He felt all the more flustered and confused as Aaron's arms enfolded him in a big manly hug, and he responded in kind, holding tightly onto the big warm body of the 6ft2 keeper. But he pulled away, cringing at himself, and tried to dismiss what he'd said - `I mean, if you hadn't bought the daft bloody thing, then-' `If you want things to be even stevens, then it's easily solved,' Ramsdale's voice cut across his, a gruff Midlands laugh - and it made him pause and look nervously at the goalie, his face and tone hard to read. Ben mouthed a `What?' and Aaron shoved him gently in the chest of his t-shirt. `It was just a laugh, wasn't it?' purred the big Stokey lad. `If we have to repeat it for you to feel equal, then...' Ben of course realised that this was literally what he'd been suggesting, in his awkward roundabout and kinda unconscious way, but he snorted and scoffed and shook his head. `Fuck off,' he mumbled, then added stupidly, `It's not like either of us carries around a big stupid sex toy like you bought-' `Nah,' Aaron agreed quietly, `but...' He was holding a hand up and moving closer where they stood, and Ben blinked, flustered and overheated, taking too many moments to understand the gesture - Aaron holding up first one, then two, then three of his thick callused fingers, and leering past them - `Oh...' `What do you think?' mused the contested Arsenal goalkeeper. `Three fingers about the same as...?' `Err - oh - errrm-' He must have looked wild with terror, because Aaron dropped the digits and grabbed him by both shoulders, shaking with laughter as he began to apologise `Just messing-' but Ben cleared his throat and spoke over him, locking eyes with his best mate: `Yeah,' he said, his throat dry, `I think three would be about the same. Erm.' Aaron stared at the other football lad in sudden high tension, his chuckling apologies dying in his mouth. He blinked twice, wiped a hairy forearm across his lips, and then took a step back; he looked away and then back at Benjamin, seeing the crestfallen anxiety of his handsome face. `Right,' the goalie said, quietly but firmly. `Well, we can do that.' They stared at each other for a long moment, and neither of them said anything. With a sense of Ben's suggested injustice, the 25-year-old found himself mentally returning for a moment to that air-conditioned suite in the Three Lions basecamp - him hoisting the big rubbery toy and sliding onto the bed, laughing his head off and willing to do any stupid stunt to show his level of apology to his bestie. And now... he cleared his throat and rubbed his knuckles together and then just let his hands hover at his hips. He was also, for another long moment, thinking about being in that room with Jordan and Sam, his two fellow goalies of the national team, and... that other toy. `Right then,' he said, surprised at the directness and bluntness of his own voice as if it was coming from further away - Benjamin was still stood tall and gormless in front of him, looking like he might be regretting his bold agreement to the ridiculous idea - `You get on the bed then, I think, and we'll see what you think?' He could hear himself saying it as if it was rational and sensible - the perfect solution to his friend's anxiety of two years ago, having had his fiancee investigate between his cheek in the middle of a shag... yeah, sure, this was just a friendly experiment to follow that up, wasn't it? `On the bed?' White echoed faintly, still staring at him. `Sure,' Ramsdale grunted back, full of feigned casual confidence. `You wanna be comfortable.' He nodded instructively to the bed and then followed his friend towards it. Suddenly nervous, he grabbed his mate by the wrist. `This is stupid,' he whispered, their faces suddenly close. `We don't have to do this, just cos I... I... y'know, tried that thing, and... I mean, you don't OWE me anything, it was MY prank, and...' `Please,' came White's hoarse quiet response - Ramsdale could feel him shaking - `I wanna try it, mate.' There was a tiny pleading sense to his fluttering eyes and shaking lip and suddenly Aaron felt new determination. He nodded, slowly, and squeezed the hand on Ben's warm tanned skin. `Get on the bed,' he said, gently but commanding, `and we'll see how this feels for you, okay...?' And so they moved on, both slow and deliberate in every little action; Ben looking very confused and indecisive as he got on the bed and sat there leaning back, and Aaron moving around him in a way that he hoped seemed sure, decisive, in control. `Nah,' he told him, `bend over, facing away, I think it'll be easier.' He wasn't sure he could look his friend in the eye and do this. So Benjamin did as he was told, shifting onto his knees and leaning forward. He could feel his tall strong body, decorated as it was by sun-tan and tattoo, trembling with indecision and expectation. What had he suggested? What were they doing? Were they both mad? He pressed his face down into his palms on the bedding and stayed there, elbows and knees, arse jutting back to one side of the bed - he could feel Aaron's heavy presence close by, hear him rifling in a toilet bag, hear his heavy faltering breaths, hear the indecision in every muscular movement... as slowly, no words spoken, one of those goal-saving hands rested on his lower back, his hip, his buttock... and clenching slowly at the soft fluffy cotton, pulled the loose designer PJ shorts away... so that Ben was leaning heavily forward, bent over on the bed, with his bare smooth arse jutting out into the cool air. Fuck. Aaron stared at it: two big oval muscles, the tan lines obvious where Ben's beach colour gave way to the natural pale pink of whatever speedos or briefs he'd been wearing on holiday in the winter break. It was all very smooth, almost feminine if you looked at it the right way and didn't think about the tall muscular form attached to it, or focus on the little fuzz of dark hair that was visible in the cleavage at the top. Aaron stared at it, and then down at his hand, and then at the little tube of vaseline he'd been using for his chapped lips. Ben tensed even more as he felt the cool touch, the single thick fingertip pressing between his clenched cheeks. He heard the bed springs jitter as his knees and elbows dug in more. This was mad, he told himself, this was a stupid idea; he could feel a slick greasy fingertip moving between his cheeks and pushing in, and he had to try hard not to lunge forward away from the invasive feeling - in fact, he might have failed to do so, had a solid hand not rested on the small of his back, pressing gently down, and that gruff friendly voice sounded gently from behind him, `Try to relax...' Aaron held his left hand firm atop the base of Ben's spine, and he pushed the index finger of the other hand slowly up and down, digging it between the tight firm canyon of Ben's cheeks, feeling the gentle fuzz of hair and the strangely intense body heat of it; he realised he'd been holding his breath for too long and let it out in an awkward sigh that turned into a stilted cough. Remembering himself, he repeated the mantra, keeping his voice low and warm: Just relax mate, try to relax...' Ben felt it, really felt it, the tip of one slick finger on his rosebud, and he let out his little concerned `Oh!' - he bit the yelp back down, too late, trying to be strong and manly about it, and suddenly fixated on an image of Aaron's gurning amusement as he tried his own hole, Ben helping a little, helping him to... ohhh... he could feel his friend's finger sliding very slowly into him, was it really just ONE finger, it felt so huge and impossible... `Ohhh!' And his friend's voice drifting over his shoulder, telling him repeatedly, `Relax buddy...' Aaron tried hard to stay slow, careful, hesitant; he was gripped by a curious excitement now that he didn't know what to do with. He was holding down on Ben's back even more firmly, no longer just a calm hand resting at his waistline - but gripping and pulling on the fabric of his pyjama top there, holding it like a harness, whilst with his other hand he squeezed that one solid finger further, deeper, entering the lad more fully, feeling his hot tightness about the entirety of his digit, right to the knuckle - `Ohhh,' whimpered White, and Ramsdale growled back, `Relax!' Ben felt it slide in and out of him, just like his own sweaty finger when they'd lain side by side in the sauna and briefly experimented with it - nothing like the brief electric touch of his wife, who had chanced it after some stupid advice article in a magazine, and never returned to the scene of the crime. His bent body was still tense and anxious, but he was surprised by how commandingly easy Aaron made it seem, gently fingering him like his arse was a wet pussy - and his awkward `Ohs' of surprise turned into a groan that he couldn't suppress, a long thoughtful `Ohhhh' of surprised enjoyment, and he felt his cock and balls twitch. In and out Aaron pushed now, less careful, less slow and uncertain - just plunging his finger deep into the tight hole of Ben's cunt, and pulling it back, loving the slick wet noise it made. He experimented with pressure and angle, trying to stretch the entrance, eager now to try a second finger. He pulled his hand back first, and rather than going for the vaseline, he just spat noisily on the two fingers, and... he leaned forward, one heavy knee squeaking against the edge of the mattress, and spat down between the tanned cheeks, his bubbly spit settling around Ben's near-smooth hole, against which he now pressed two rough fingertips. Ben whimpered, feeling his body resist, feeling the little struggle of opposing strength; but then they were inside him, the impossible thickness of two fingers, and he was arching his back, giving int other guiding control of Aaron's other hand. His strong lean arse pushed back and high and his face squishing down into the bedding, arms firm at his sides. His cock throbbed and lifted, and he wondered if Aaron could tell; but then Rambo had got all excited when he explored himself deeper and deeper, right? That was how... well, that was how the mess got made, and he left his first and only World Cup with pinkeye... `Relax,' Aaron growled, `you can take them...' This was more challenging, and he couldn't slide in and out as easily with two as with one, but he was sure it could become smoother, easier, if the tattooed poser on the bed would just... give in? He leaned forward, kneeling more heavily on the bed, and spat some more against his fingers and the fuzzy crack. He slid his hand further up Ben's back, until he was holding the nape of his neck; then he pushed his two fingers quite roughly into him, refusing to yield against strong muscle, and really stretched and explored him; his own cock throbbing in the front of his boxer briefs, as it had watched Johnstone and Pickford go to work on that tight fleshlight. Ben thought in a hot rush that two must be the maximum, even if that wasn't quite the same girth as the rubbery toy Aaron had tried; no way could his backside take more than this! No way! And why was Aaron grabbing his neck like that. More to the point, why did it feel kinda nice? He kept having to shift his face side to side, snuffling for air, and yet Rambo held him down, gripping the back of his head quite roughly, and he didn't necessarily want him to stop - he DEFINITELY didn't want him to stop pushing two fingers knuckle-deep in his aching, burning ring, penetrating and discovering him, making him moan and tremble, his cock throb and leak, his balls tingle where they drooped between his shaking thighs. Aaron pulled his hand back, formed three sturdy fingers, and stared at them. He spat on them then thought better of this feeble lubrication; he spurted as much vaseline from the tube onto them as possible, and then spat instead on Ben's glistening arse-hole. He leaned over him as he growled, `I'm gonna try it, buddy', then ignored the whimpering uncertainty of Ben's `Are you sure?' He pressed three fingers in and felt the tinyness of the hole, the impossibility of the penetration, this was nothing like fingering a bird; it frustrated him, and he took this out briefly by spanking hard against one of Ben's tight glutes. But he tried again, whispering `Relax mate' as he forced in one, then two, then... yes, yes, a third...! Ben's hole was on fire, but he braced himself and wondered if it would feel better in a moment, like one had, like two had; and he trusted big Aaron, whose huge muscular presence over him was so powerful and reassuring, so... so... so fucking sexy. His cock was leaking pre-cum in a little froth down his thigh and he couldn't believe how much he loved having his friend's fingers in him; he wanted to tell him this but he was scared to. This was a game, an experiment, a payback, just even stevens! Aaron pushed the three digits slowly that bit further in, edging his invasion that little bit further with each thrust, but really rubbing in a massaging manner at Ben's neck and up and down his back, and then over each of his firm pink cheeks; his own breathing was heavy and needy, and he was leaning back to stare down at it, the beauty of Ben's tight strong bottom, the pink stretched hole, the dark fuzz of hair above and below it; he reached down and, unable to stop himself, turned his left hand to the tented outline of his erection. He rubbed and pulled it through black fabric as he relented and settled for sliding just two fingers in and out, three having proved kinda too much - but he was starting to wonder what else might fit perfectly in there. Ben no longer knew if it was three fingers, two fingers, one; he just pushed his arse back and up and gasped for air, whimpering with each digging thrust of Aaron's knuckles. `Yes,' he whispered hoarsely, `oh yes...' And he heard Aaron spitting again, loudly, and was bewildered at how that phlegmy noise could be sexy; then Aaron was leaning over him, body to body, and he could feel his breath on his neck, the tickle of his blond beard on his cheek. He tensed, uncertain what his friend was going to tell him, and he shuddered with release when the inevitable words sounded close to his ear: `I've fucked you with my fingers,' growled the Arsenal keeper, `but now you're going to get the real thing, okay?' And shaky with anticipation, Ben couldn't stop himsel: `Yes Aaron, yes please sir, yesss...' It was the `sir', unbidden and unexpected, that really sent the shiver down Ramsdale's spine, making his every muscle seem electrified; edging himself into position behind the bent-over physique of the other player, his t-shirt tugged halfway up his tanned back, his arse open and slick, and Aaron's wet cock-head angled close to it. He pushed it forward, holding it at the base, and rubbed its thick tip up and down the wet crack, rolling it against the blinking entrance - just like he had to that tight synthetic pussy in the cup of plastic, goaded by Sam Johnstone and Jordan Pickford, one of the fellas in the England goalkeeping trio. What was the difference, he asked himself, between a toy like that, and... any willing hole. Now Ben groaned loudly and freely, unable to hide his pleasure, and gasping repeatedly `Aaron, Aaron, Aaron', feeling his friend entering him in a more powerful and filling way - he was glad that the big 25-year-old took it slow, inching into him, but somehow the veiny girth of the beautiful man's cock was easier than three fingers, but surely thicker and fuller than the two that had slid so easily in and out of his wet ring. He felt Aaron over him, holding him, breathing on him, but also in him, deep in him, pushing inside, stretching and filling him... and then pulling back and forward, fucking his aching burning ring, fucking him like he had with his strong fingers, plunging deep and tugging back, over and over and over- oh fuckkkk, oh fuckkkkk... `Yes,' Aaron groaned into his best mate's ear, `yes mate, your pussy feels good... oh yes, Benjamin, feel me in you yeah, feel how big I am, fuck yeah, mmm... your pussy, lad... ohhh, fuck, fuck, yess... how's that feel... better than my fingers, better than your wife's fucking pinkie finger, yeah.... Mmmm... you slut, you beautiful slut, you dirty little pussy slut... ohhh mmmm yeh....' `Yes sir,' Ben whimpered with a submissive desperation that he'd never felt before, `yes, all of it, oh yes, deeper, harder, fucking hell you're amazing... fuckkk... fuckk.... Yes sir, your slut, totally your slut, fuck my pussy sir, mmm... oh god, Aaron, Rambo, mmmm...!' And Aaron cumming hard, a few slow but hard final thrusts, emptying his balls inside the quivering strength of his teammate, sweat dripping from every muscle of his body, pooling against the vest on his torso, and dripping down his tree trunk legs to the bunched briefs at his ankles. He pushed deep inside and bred the man-cunt, filling this slut up with his seed, and holding him tightly with all of his exhausted strength, grunting and groaning in his ear: `Yes mate, yes mate... mmmm, yes...' And Ben, moaning wordlessly into the lamplit night, as he reached down and fumbled desperately with his cock; pulled onto his side, spooned and held by the big heavy form of the goalkeeper, his cock still buried to the hilt in his arse, while Benjamin jerked frantically on himself and spurted a messy load down his legs, up his tummy, over the bedding. He shook and gasped and whimpered and relaxed into the cuddle, feeling Aaron's lips brush the side of his neck, the lobe of his ear: `Yes mate,' the big stud was moaning for him again, and Ben whispered back through his own heavy breaths: `Thank you, thank you, thank you....' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </premiershiplads@outlook.com> </div></div>

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<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: the-chris-orgy</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <div> <div> <p><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/"><img src="https://static.nifty.org/nifty/images/N_132x86.png" width="132" height="86" alt="Nifty Archive logo"></a>™ <br><span>Have a Nifty Day</span></p> </div> <!-- col-md-3 --> <div> <div> <h2><small> <ul> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/">nifty</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/">gay</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/">celebrity</a></li> <li><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/">the-chris-orgy</a></li> </ul> </small></h2> </div> <div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Apr 23 20:08</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-12">the-chris-orgy-12</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Apr 23 20:08</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-11">the-chris-orgy-11</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Aug 11 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-10">the-chris-orgy-10</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Aug 5 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-9">the-chris-orgy-9</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Aug 2 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-8">the-chris-orgy-8</a></td></tr> <tr><td>19K</td><td>Jul 30 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-7">the-chris-orgy-7</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jul 26 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-6">the-chris-orgy-6</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 26 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-5">the-chris-orgy-5</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jul 25 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-4">the-chris-orgy-4</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jul 24 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-3">the-chris-orgy-3</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 23 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-2">the-chris-orgy-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jul 23 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-chris-orgy/the-chris-orgy-1">the-chris-orgy-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div> </div> </div> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/

Nifty Archive: coronation-street-boys SizeDateFilename 7K Mar 14 20:27 coronation-street-boys-21 2K Nov 26 17:45 coronation-street-boys-20 4K Mar 12 2023 coronation-street-boys-19 6K Mar 6 2023 coronation-street-boys-18 3K Mar 5 2023 coronation-street-boys-17 5K Mar 2 2023 coronation-street-boys-16 2K Mar 2 2023 coronation-street-boys-15 4K Mar 1 2023 coronation-street-boys-14 7K Feb 28 2023 coronation-street-boys-13 3K Feb 27 2023 coronation-street-boys-12 6K Feb 25 2023 coronation-street-boys-11 6K Feb 23 2023 coronation-street-boys-10 4K Feb 22 2023 coronation-street-boys-9 3K Feb 16 2023 coronation-street-boys-8 4K Aug 22 2022 coronation-street-boys-7 3K Aug 16 2022 coronation-street-boys-6 5K Aug 15 2022 coronation-street-boys-5 5K Aug 14 2022 coronation-street-boys-4 4K Aug 11 2022 coronation-street-boys-3 7K Jul 31 2022 coronation-street-boys-2 4K May 20 2021 coronation-street-boys-1

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: coronation-street-boys</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"><div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Mar 14 20:27</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-21">coronation-street-boys-21</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Nov 26 17:45</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-20">coronation-street-boys-20</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 12 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-19">coronation-street-boys-19</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Mar 6 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-18">coronation-street-boys-18</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Mar 5 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-17">coronation-street-boys-17</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Mar 2 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-16">coronation-street-boys-16</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Mar 2 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-15">coronation-street-boys-15</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 1 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-14">coronation-street-boys-14</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Feb 28 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-13">coronation-street-boys-13</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Feb 27 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-12">coronation-street-boys-12</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 25 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-11">coronation-street-boys-11</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 23 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-10">coronation-street-boys-10</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Feb 22 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-9">coronation-street-boys-9</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Feb 16 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-8">coronation-street-boys-8</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Aug 22 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-7">coronation-street-boys-7</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Aug 16 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-6">coronation-street-boys-6</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 15 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-5">coronation-street-boys-5</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 14 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-4">coronation-street-boys-4</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Aug 11 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-3">coronation-street-boys-3</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 31 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-2">coronation-street-boys-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>May 20 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/coronation-street-boys/coronation-street-boys-1">coronation-street-boys-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div></div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/hollyoaks-set-visit

Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2024 16:15:46 +0000 (UTC) From: John James Subject: Hollyoaks Set Visit Hollyoaks Set Visit (Gay, Celebrity) This is a fictional story, based on some actor's from the show Hollyoaks. None of it is real, it is totally made up fiction and does not imply anything other than it makes a good story. It was written after an email suggested the fantasy of meeting these men, and as they have spent so much time giving me feedback over the last year, I gave it a try. You, hopefully know who you are, hope you enjoy this. And the rest of you too. And please, support your favourite stories by contacting the authors. And if you can donate using link https://donate.nifty.org/ ----- Ryan was so excited, he was finally going to visit the Hollyoaks set and meet a load of the cast. He'd won a competition, and now was being driven to the set for a tour and a chance to watch a few scene's being filmed, and even appear as an extra in some background shot. At 18, this was the highlight of his life so far, and he had barely slept a wink all week at the thought of who he was going to meet. The car pulled in, and some smiling woman approached to greet him, introducing herself as Melissa and a writer on the show and explaining they would go and catch a scene being filmed, head off for a little meet and greet while the cast and crew had some breakfast, and then he'd be given a tour by one of them before watching some more scene's and maybe filming his scene if they got to it today. "It's so crazy and tight with the schedule, but I'm sure you'll have the best day," she said, Ryan distracted for a moment as he saw Jennifer Metcalfe walking past and did his best to act casual. Melissa saw the awe on Ryan's face and said, "You get used to it." Ryan grinned and said, "I never want to, this is amazing." She beamed at him and as they walked she told him to turn his phone off and stay silent, and they crept into the familiar village square where almost every major story had taken place, and Ryan had to contain himself as he saw Warren and Sienna arguing right there, the words hardly important as Ryan realised this was really happening. They watched for half hour or so, repeated takes and adjustments, getting closer to the action when they were able to, and then they were done and Jamie Lomax and Anna Passey were walking up to shake his hand, taking him by surprise by welcoming him to set and congratulating him on the win. He stumbled his way through some stupid fan questions, got their autographs in his book as well as about a hundred selfies and then they had to go, telling him it was great to meet him and they hoped he'd have a great day. "Wow, that was amazing. They're so nice," Ryan said in wonder. Melissa said, "Oh they're great, and they love meeting the fans. Now let's go meet some of the rest." She explained that obviously the whole cast weren't on set today, but that a decent crowd had assembled for today's shooting of the new credit sequence, so he should get the chance to fill his book and talk to plenty of them. He walked around the corner and was greeted to the sight of what looked to be half the cast mulling around and chatting while digging into some grub. There was Charlie and Darren laughing at some joke, Mason with Lucas and Ethan kicking a ball between them as they chatted about last night's game, half the McQueen women sat at a table while scrolling through their phones, Tony and Tom talking with people from the crew while Prince and Hunter walked over to join a table where Ste was sitting. Ryan's jaw was on the floor as he took them all in, knowing this was so strange to be meeting them in real life, and prayed he wouldn't embarress himself. He was just thinking of where to start when he felt a set of hands take hold of his waist and move him to one side, and he gasped as he turned his head and saw Dave, aka Dominic Power, smiling at him and say, "Excuse me." He edged through, walking over to get some food, leaving Ryan silent. He loved the Hollyoaks Dad, and his skin was on fire where the man had touched him, and he almost missed Melissa guiding him to the first group and started introducing him to everyone. ----- It took a while, but he met most of the cast and collected his autographs and selfie's, and they were all pretty great with him. He gradually got used to being around them, and as they drifted in and out of the area while they filmed their shots, he met more as the morning went on. Charlie Behan and Ellis Hollins were great, they'd been on the show forever and were used to meeting and spending time with fans, and when Ryan slipped and called Ellis "Tom" the guy had laughed it off and said, "Don't worry, happen's all the time. I should have got them to use my name as the character's like Charlie here." They all laughed as Charlie punched Ellis in his arm, and Ryan felt more relaxed as they talked about the time on the show, favourite storylines, and what was coming up. They both introduced him to other's, Melissa stepping away as Ryan seemed comfortable and promising to return later. They waved her off, and they brought Ryan to meet Nick Pickard and Jennifer Metcalfe, both on the show forever as far as Ryan was concerned and more than happy to talk to him for a while. He'd spent a couple hours total there by the time Melissa returned, and she asked if he was ready for the tour, and Ryan said definitely as she said, "So a little surprise is, we have a choice for you of who to guide you around, we had a few volunteer for it, so you decide. You can choose from Frank (Mason), Nadine (Cleo), James (John Paul), or Annie (Sally). They're all done for the afternoon until we get to their credit's shoot, so you can take your pick." She had pointed out each actor as she listed them off, and Ryan's head swirled at which one to choose. Ryan had decided and was about to choose Frank when behind them he heard, "You forgot me, Melissa. I'm free." He turned and gulped as he saw Dominic standing a few feet away, staring at him over his mug, eye's boring into Ryan's as they looked at each other. Ryan stammered as Melissa frowned and said, "You never volunteer though." Dominic shrugged, and she looked confused as Ryan said, "If you don't mind, that'd be amazing." Dominic waved him over and led the lad away, leaving Melissa behind as she went and told the other's what the plan was for this afternoon. ----- Dominic walked him through some sets, pointing out details and places that had the young man's head swimming. He was here, on set of one of his favourite show's, and with his favourite actor. Life couldn't be better right now, and then he felt a hand rest on the back of his neck, a finger grazing up and down slightly as Dominic guided him around The Loft, explaining the drinks were all fake and not as much fun in real life unfortunately. Ryan asked, "It's so great to see all this for real, it's so weird being here. Can we see more?" Dominic grinned as he answered, "Of course, actually let me show you my favourite set." Ryan gasped as he felt the man take his hand, and then he was being pulled out of the set and away as Dominic said, "Follow me, I'll show you." Ryan could hardly focus on anything as he was led through the massive space, seeing some of the school set up and glimpsing a few cast member's, and then they were in the flat above The Dog. Ryan felt a little dizzy at the rush of location's they walked through, and from the warmth of the hand as it fell away from his, and he walked around the place he had seen so often on the TV, wonder in his eye's that he missed the older man checking him out properly. He explained, "So, the set has been sealed ready for shooting tonight, so we can be alone here for a bit. Just make sure everything stay's as is or we'll be in trouble." Ryan put the ornament he had picked up back down in a panic, making the guy chuckle and easing the young man's nerves a little. He checked the doors, wondering what was on the other side and a little disappointed to find they led nowhere but more backstage area's, and walked back to the lounge area where Dominic was sat. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa and said, "Thanks so much for doing this, I'm sure you have loads to do." Dominic grinned and said, "No, I love meeting fan's. Especially one's that love the show as much as you obviously do." Ryan blushed a little, knowing he had been too keen when he was asked, "So, tell me. Why do you love it? And who are your favourite character's?" Ryan started to gush about the show, the storyline's he'd loved, the character's he missed, and Dominic listened to it all and asked again, "Your favourite character?" Ryan gulped, looking nervous he said, "Umm.. you actually. And Tony. And Mason is great too." Dominic laughed and said, "Yeah Frank's amazing. Did some great work since he got here, and everyone loves Nick. Loves the show as much as the fan's, and that's rare after so long." He paused and said, "Not many would say me though, what you like about Dave?" Ryan stared at the handsome older man and said, "You're such a good actor, and love how you struggled with everything and tried to do right but kept getting it wrong. He loves his family, and hurts when he hurts them. You are really great." Dominic accepted the praise and leant forward and placed his large hand on Ryan's leg, squeezing it as he said, "I appreciate that, I really do." Ryan looked at the hand as it rested there, his pulse speeding up as it rubbed against him, and he lost track of their conversation as they fell silent and Dominic waited for an answer. "Uh, sorry. What? I kinda spaced out there," Ryan said, mortified at his stupidity. Dominic smiled and said, "I said I think you'd love Frank, he's my best boy." The hand squeezed him tighter, running back and forth a little as he edged closer and asked, "Do you mind my hand here?" Ryan gulped and shook his head, racing at the way the heat of the palm on his leg, as Dominic threw his arm around the back of the sofa and touching Ryan's neck gently. All of the blood in his body seemed to flood to his dick, and as he felt it grow he had to try and distract from it as he said, "Are you and Frank really that close off screen?" Dominic nodded and said, "Oh yeah, we spent a lot of time together, so we're real close." Ryan detected an emphasis on the last two words, and then the hand on his thigh inched higher as he continued, "He even call's me Dad sometime's." Ryan groaned softly at that, and then Dominic's hand wrapped around his neck and pulled their face's closer and he asked, "Is this OK?" Ryan never answered, plunging forward as their mouth's met in a kiss, the scratch of Dominic's beard feeling really good on Ryan's face as their tongue's slid together. They kissed like that for a minute before the man used his strength to pull the 18 year old into his lap, leaving Ryan straddling his lap as they made out, his hands running up and down the lad's back. Minute's passed and they finally split apart, both breathing heavily as Ryan realised where he was and what they were doing and Dominic said, "I think we should go somewhere more private, with a lock maybe." Ryan grinned, grabbing the man's head and leaning in for another kiss, unwilling to move right now. ----- After ten minute's or so, Dominic managed to push the horny teen off his lap and started to lead him to another area. They were both panting a little, and did their best to avoid being seen as they rushed to wherever the man was thinking, and down a series of corridor's they found a dressing room. They stumbled in and Ryan barely had time to look around before he was spun around and pulled into another kiss, his body pushed against the door as he heard a hand fumbling to turn the lock and ensure their privacy. He gasped as Dominic moved from his mouth and began to kiss down his neck, the facial hair scratching against his sensitive skin as the teen clawed at his back. Domininc lifted Ryan's leg, holding it high so their bodies could press closer to each other, both of them hard as they thrusted against each other. Minute's passed and Dominic had worked Ryan's T-shirt up and over his head, leaving his chest exposed and open to an assault by Dominic's mouth, and the lad was soon moaning as he felt the mouth close over his nipple and start to flick his tongue against it, before kissing its way to the other and doing the same thing. He gripped the man's head, holding it close to his chest as the mouth worked over his skin, and felt hands scrambling at his jeans and pull them open, gasping again as he they fell to the floor and Dominic pressed close again as his head raised and caught Ryan in another kiss. Ryan couldn't believe this was happening, and with the little room he had he kicked his jeans away so he was left in just his boxers as he returned the kiss of the man he had lusted after since his arrival on the show. Finally they broke apart again, and breathing hard they looked at each other and smiled, and Ryan shoved the man back from him. The suddeness took Dominic by surprise, and then the teen was on him again, this time tugging his shirt out of his trousers and ripping open the buttons. He didn't even bother to push the shirt off, just left it open as his hands worked the trousers open and pushed them to the ground as Dominic stripped the shirt off himself and felt himself pushed back on the small sofa in the corner. Ryan dropped to his knees and pulled the trousers from the man's feet, throwing them aside as he leaned over him and started to explore the body in front of him. Dominic had a decent Dad body on him, signs of working out without going over the top, and as Ryan ran his hands through the chest hair and kissed his way around he felt the firm muscle underneath, trying to memorise every detail of the object of so many jack off fantasies as the teen moved lower, dipping his tongue into Dominic's belly button as he went, the man groaning at the sensation. Dominic had hooked up with a few fans here before, but never one as eager as Ryan was, even Frank wasn't this keen, and as he felt a hand slide into his boxers he gasped as it wrapped around him and pulled him free, his 8" dick throbbing in the lad's hand as Ryan quickly started to swirl his tongue around it. Dominic reached his hand down and tangled it in Ryan's short hair, guiding it over him as he bobbed up and down, desperate to taste this man he had dreamt of for so long, and he sucked harder. This wasn't his first time, so used all his skills to stimulate Dominic, his throat relaxing so that he could take him whole as he gagged, his hands spreading the man's legs out so he could shuffle closer. Dominic couldn't contain his groaning as he was sucked off, glad he had shut the door but aware anyone in the corridor could hear them, so tried to keep it down, but the kid was so good. He thanked whoever blessed him the chance of running into the competition win earlier, as it gave him the opportunity to see the starstruck look of the 18 year old, and seeing the look he had hung around waiting for the chance to get the young man alone. Dominic would have happily settled for the incredible blow job he was getting, but Ryan wasn't going to, and pulled his mouth away and started to lick down the shaft, moving lower to suck on his balls, smirking as he heard the man sigh as the teen carried on down, kissing and licking over his thighs and legs. Ryan crawled backward working his way down Dominic's leg until he reached his foot, and Dominic flinched as he felt the tongue start to lick over his bottom of his foot. It tickled, and he laughed as he asked, "What the hell, you like feet?" Ryan brought his face back from the foot a little, just enough to say breathlessly, "I love them, and have been looking for a picture of your's for ages." He started to kiss against the foot for a moment before saying, "Do you mind?" Dominic shrugged and said, "Knock yourself out, you're the winner after all." Ryan returned to the foot, spending time licking over the arch of the man's foot, and raising up to suck on each toe individually. Only when he had explored the entire foot, he felt a push on his shoulder, and looked to see Dominic had raised his other foot and rested it there, and Ryan dropped the one to his other shoulder and started on the other foot. His own dick was rock hard in his boxers, his 7" leaking into the fabric as his wildest fantasy played out, and he repeated the worship of Dominic's other foot as he knelt on the floor in front of him. Dominic was surprised how hot he was finding this, the initial surprise wearing off as the tongue worked over his foot, a thrill running up his spine as he felt the lips seal around his toes and suck on them. No-one had paid attention to his feet before, and as he felt his dick throb in his lap he wondered if Frank would be up for trying this out later, as his on-screen son was willing to try almost anything in the bedroom, so he'd definitely be asking. He hooked his abandoned foot behind Ryan's head, holding him in place as he pushed his other foot into the sucking mouth, forcing him to suck on a couple of his toes and he smirked as he heard the lad moan as his head became trapped by the two feet. A minute of this and he pulled his foot out of Ryan's mouth and said, "We have to get back soon or they'll come looking for you." Ryan nodded, kissed both feet as he let them fall to the floor and stood up, peeling down his boxers as he turned around and grabbed up a bottle of lotion from the table next to them and started to spread it over Dominic's erection, the man sighing as he watched his dick get prepped for what was about to happen. Ryan said, "I can't leave now without doing this." He turned and bent slightly, presenting his tight bubble ass to the older man, and groaned as he felt his face press up to his ass, licking and spitting on his hole, the beard making him pull away as it scratched against him before Dominic pulled him back onto this tongue. It was only for a few seconds before Dominic pulled back and started to rub the lotion against his ass, pushing his finger's in until he had two of them sliding smoothly, and when he was prepped he used his hands to guide the young man back to sit on his dick. Ryan cried out as he felt the head push into him, bigger than any he had taken before, and he did his best to muffle his moaning as it continued to press into him. The lotion helped, but his body would not relax because of the thrill of this happening, so it took a couple minute's before he was fully seated in Dominic's lap, adjusting to the man he had jacked off to for so long actually being about to fuck. He felt the hands lift him up, the dick sliding out of him as Ryan sighed at the loss, but then groaned as he was brought back down quickly. He turned his head and saw Dominic's eye's locked on his ass as it lifted back up, then pulled back down, fascinated by the sight of the 18 year old starting to ride him, so happy that he had taken the chance and volunteered to spend time with him. He looked up and saw the lad looking back at him and the two grinned at each other as Ryan started to move at his own pace, Dominic's hands just holding onto him as he moved, getting faster and dropping harder as he threw his head back in pleasure as the dick struck his prostate. Minute's went by, the sound of their sex filling the room and then Ryan felt the hands tighten and start to move him faster, and he just got louder as he heard the man say, "We've got to hurry, they're definitely looking for you by now." Ryan was about to say he was close when the door flew open, and he saw Tony Hutchinson standing there, gaping at the sight of his co-star fucking the competition winner he had been sent to collect. Nick Pickard had been on the show forever, and knowing his mate well he had suspected Dom doing his usual thing and trying to get into the pants of another fan, but hadn't expected to find him in the middle of shagging him in his dressing room. He usually had the sense to arrange a meeting after, but as Nick looked at the young man frozen in place, he understood the attraction. Nick was used to having fans throw themselves at him, and in the past he was more than happy to enjoy the company of dozens of them, mostly women but while he was reluctant at first he had been seduced by one particular lad that had opened his eye's to how good it could feel. Ryan was just the type that would catch his eye now, and seeing him naked and sitting right there, he could happily join in but they had no time and he locked the door properly this time and walked up to the sofa. Ryan gaped, the surprise appearance had barely registered before he saw Nick step closer to him and say, "You've got to finish soon, or they'll send someone else. Can I help?" Ryan's head swam as he heard the offer, THE Tony Hutchinson was asking if he could help him climax, and he nodded not trusting himself to speak. The two men worked together to move him, and Ryan had a fleeting idea that they had done this with someone before, and as his body was pushed back to lie on Dominic, his breathing increased as he realised he was making himself vulnerable to both of his favourite Hollyoaks Dad's. He had felt Dominic's hand's run up his body as Nick raised his feet off the floor and hooked them over Dominic's, leaving Ryan totally supported by the man below him, and as he was shifted he felt the 8" dick hit his prostate once more and he moaned while staring at Nick leaning over him. He saw the man smile at Dominic over his shoulder and say, "I think that's the perfect spot." Ryan felt the man beneath him start to move, and he gasped as he felt the dick in his ass grinding into him, constantly stimulating his prostate and he couldn't hold back the moan he let loose. His body writhed on top of Dominic, hands running over him and tweaking his nipples and stroking his stomach as he got louder, eye's rolling back as he saw Nick smirking down at him. Ryan had been wrong earlier, as this was the greatest moment of his life, getting fucked on the site of his favourite TV show with his favourite actor's from the show around him. Ryan was really getting loud now, and Nick and Dominic became worried someone would here him so Dominic said, "Help me out mate." Ryan didn't know what he meant but his eye's widened as Nick leaned over him and covered his mouth with his hand, staring at him as their faces got closer and he watched the young man come apart as he was fucked below him. Nick's own dick strained against his zipper as he heard the young man grunt as he was fucked, Dominic using his strength to move Ryan's body just enough that he could thrust up into his ass causing Ryan to just get even louder, his orgasm building when he felt the hand slip from his mouth only to be replaced by a couple of Nick's fingers. Ryan had always had a thing about Nick's hands, even pausing episode's to get a good look at them and fantasise about them, and now they were in his mouth and he immediately closed his lips around them and started to suck on the rough digits, groaning around them as Nick pumped them into the lad's mouth. His other hand was free, and he let it drop to Ryan's dick and grabbed it into his fist, feeling him grunt around his fingers as Nick started to jerk the young man off. Now Ryan was in heaven. His ass getting fucked by one of his favourite TV DILF's, while the other was masturbating him and letting him suck his finger's at the same time, even the wildest of his dream's couldn't have conjured this situation, and as he writhed between them he knew he wouldn't last. Dominic's dick was sitting in just the right spot so every move edged him closer to release, while Nick's hand seemed to totally surround his own leaking 7" member, the slightly rough hands feeling incredible on his skin, and it was the same for Dominic who was loving the direction this had gone. He usually just shared stories of his latest conquest with his co-star, but to both be here for it was new and exciting, as well as where they were and the danger of being caught, his own climax was close. Ryan stared at Nick with lust burning in his eye's, not wanting to forget a second of this and he moaned around the finger's in his mouth as the hand on his dick moved faster, the dick in his ass grinding into his ass until he could take no more. His dick fired into Nick's hand, the man smirking as he felt the member pulse in his hand and he aimed it up as he looked down to see the cum land all over Ryan's toned torso as he groaned his release, his body tensing as it finally gave into the pleasure. His ass clamped down and squeezed around Dominic's dick, and Ryan gasped around Nick's finger's as he felt the first blast cum explode into his ass, multiple streams of cum filling him up as the man thrust up one final time. They both led there, Ryan's limp body on top of Dominic's as they both took a moment to recover their breaths, Nick releasing his hold of Ryan's dick and pulling his finger's from the lad's mouth. Both hands were slick, one with spit and one with cum, and he looked around for something to clean up with when he felt a hand take his wrist and stop him moving away. Ryan had sat up, his ass still in Dominic's lap, and as he stared up at Nick he began to lick and suck on his hands, cleaning first his right hand of any trace of cum and then moving to the other to suck off the excess saliva he had left from having them in his mouth for so long. Nick smiled and said, "You got a thing for hands, or just mine?" Ryan smirked as he sucked on one of the thumbs, and he didn't want this to end, and seeing the bulge in Nick's he moved quickly, dropping the hand from his mouth and moved to pull the trousers open and reached in for the hard member within, only looking up when Nick pleaded, "No, wait. We don't have time for that." Ryan grinned and said, "I'll be quick." He plunged his mouth onto Nick's 8" dick, and started to suck on it rapidly, bobbing his head over it fast as he grew desperate to get to taste of the TV legend. A minute later he pulled back, gasping as he turned his head to see Dominic sit up to watch, causing his dick to shift in it's place in Ryan's ass and said to the guy, "Tell me I'm doing a good job Dad. Tell me how proud you are of me." He smiled at the shock on the man's face and restarted on Nick's dick, letting his tongue swirl around the head as he felt hands tangle in his hair again, and he missed the disbelief on the two men's face's as they let the young man work. Dominic hesitated but did as asked, telling the lad, "Yeah, doing a good job there. So good son, really showing Tony what you can do." Ryan's dick stirred as Dominic called Nick by his character's name, and the two men felt a thrill of excitement at the talk too, so Dominic continued and said, "I'm so proud of you my boy, taking care of your Dad and his friend like this. Fuck, you feel so good squeezing me like that." Ryan's ass was clenching as he sucked Nick off, as though trying to milk another load from the handsome Dad behind him as he listened to the dirty talk step up a notch, "Love to see you like this, so happy." Ryan pulled back gasping, his mouth slick with saliva and precum from Nick's dick and he begged, "I love this too Dad, and I love having you here watching me do this, and to feel you while I do." Dominic could have cum right then again, but watched in awe as Ryan turned his face up to Nick's and said, "Tony, tell my Dad I'm doing a good job." His mouth was on Nick again, the man throwing his head back in pleasure before looking down into Ryan's face where his eye's gazed back at him. Nick moaned, "Fuck, Dave your boy is so good. Natural talent, taking me so deep. Should be so proud to have raised such a good son." His hips thrust forward, fucking into Ryan's mouth as the 18 year old gagged around the dick, his throat trying to relax enough to take him whole. He heard Dominic lean in and carry on telling him, "Suck him, son. Your Dad's so proud of you. Go on, open up and take Tony all the way. Show him what my best boy can do." Ryan did, his throat seeming to open on request and Nick sank all the way in, his balls resting on the lad's chin as he groaned, and Dominic said, "Yes, buddy. Just like that, hold it there a few second's longer.. so good, do it again." Ryan was so blissed out he only heard the words and felt the dick slide in his mouth, the rest of the world didn't exist. Even Dominic's dick stirring to life while still buried deep in Ryan's ass was a distant sensation as his mind became overwhelmed with hearing Dominic and Nick speak, apparently both men now getting into it as he was barraged with comment's from them, and a minute later he felt Nick's dick swell and start to shoot in his mouth, he felt Dominic lean into his ear and whisper, "I love you, son." Ryan's body trembled, and he felt his own dick start to fire, untouched by any of them. He struggled to cope with Nick's massive load, but just managed to swallow it all, nursing the dick in his mouth until it became too sensitive and the man stumbled away, his leg's weak from the climax he just had. Ryan was panting too as his mouth was free, pulling in as much oxygen as possible, and felt Dominic's hard shaft pressing into his ass, and he leaned back so they were once again laying on the sofa and he said, "Did I do good Dad? Do you want to fuck me again?" Dominic and Nick both chuckled, and as Nick started to tuck his dick away and grab some towel's to clean up with Dominic said, "Damn right I do, kid." Ryan was pushed up out of Dominic's lap and moved so he was kneeling on the sofa as the older man moved behind and pushed his throbbing dick straight into Ryan's ass, both of the groaning as he started to thrust while holding the lad's waist tight enough to leave handprints. He started to fuck into the lad as he moaned, "Not going to last long, you might be the best piece of ass I've had for a long time. At least as good as Frank." Ryan groaned as he heard the man refer to his on-screen son, and as he looked over his shoulder he gasped, "Fuck me Dad, show me how you love your boys. Seed my ass like the sexy DILF you are." Dominic growled as he heard the request, and after only a couple of minute's he was moving faster and harder until he exploded deep into Ryan's ass for a second time moaning out, "Shit, fuck." They stayed in place for a moment, panting as they both recovered from the epic sex they'd just had, and then were disturbed when they felt Nick throw them both a towel each, and they reddened a little as they realised they had completely forgotten the other man while fucking. Nick just smirked though, telling them he'd go and let the crew know they'd be out soon, and telling them to make sure they didn't go for a third round. Ryan and Dominic cleaned up as best they could, both still flushed from sex and realised the room stank of it, and sprayed some deodorant around to mask the smell as best they could. After getting dressed, they looked each other over and when ready they creeped out of the room, heading down the corridor's and back to the set and find where Ryan was supposed to be. Ryan had a bit of a limp, and Dominic had to lower his voice and asked, "Can you try and not walk like you were just fucked in the dressing room, please?" Ryan shrugged and said, "But I was just fucked in the dressing room." They both broke down laughing, and could only stop when Melissa stormed up to them and demanded to know where they'd been. Ryan tried to think of an excuse, but Dominic was on it as he said, "Oh we got a bit carried away talking about the show. Turn's out, I'm his favourite character." Melissa scoffed and rolled her eye's and was about to speak when he ushered her away and said, "So I know you were thinking of getting him as an extra in a scene, but he'd probably end up getting cut anyone in edit so I was thinking. How about we get him as background for some of the shot's for the new credit's. He'd love it, and he'd be able to show all his mate's every day." Melissa thought it'd be a great idea, and there was much more chance of him actually making it to the screen this way, so she ran off to talk to the crew about making it happen as Dominic led Ryan over to wardrobe and make up, explaining on the way the new plan. Ryan was over the moon at the chance to be on the opening credits of Hollyoaks as Dominic said, "That way you'll always remember today." Ryan said, "Oh I'm never forgetting today. Best day of my life." Dominic patted him on the back as he introduced him, telling them to get Ryan into some new clothes and add a little make up and tidy up his hair, and he'd be back later. Ryan watched him leave before being swarmed by a group of people that started pulling him in every direction for measurements and checks on his skin tone, and half hour later he was in new clothing and looking good with his hair fixed and a little make up to hide the redness on his face. He had been embarressed when it had been pointed out, knowing it had come from kissing Dominic earlier, and then he saw Frank Kauer walk up and the two shook hands and chatted for a few minute's before the make up lady came out and grabbed Frank's arm and pulled him toward the trailer saying, "Come on you. Already had to spend a while sorting out his beard burn, not got time for you to be hanging around all day." Ryan thought he might die of shame, but saw Frank wink at him and smirk. ----- Ryan had a constant reminder of his day on set every night he watched the show, and told all his mate's about what a great day it had been. He only told a few he trusted most about what really happened, and they always shared sly smile's whenever there was a scene with Tony or Dave in. He told no-one that he had been invited back in a few week's for another meet and greet. ----- So I wrote this as an idea from someone who I hope enjoy's it. They've been giving almost constant feedback since my first writing last year, one of the first in fact to email me, so thought I'd pen them this chapter as thanks. It's only a single chapter, but now I've written this I've thought maybe I could add a few more, but not sure. Again, to be clear. This is all fake, I have no knowledge of the actor's real lives, or sexualities. IT IS A COMPLETE FICTION.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 22 Apr 2024 16:15:46 +0000 (UTC) From: John James <hollyguys@yahoo.com> Subject: Hollyoaks Set Visit Hollyoaks Set Visit (Gay, Celebrity) This is a fictional story, based on some actor's from the show Hollyoaks. None of it is real, it is totally made up fiction and does not imply anything other than it makes a good story. It was written after an email suggested the fantasy of meeting these men, and as they have spent so much time giving me feedback over the last year, I gave it a try. You, hopefully know who you are, hope you enjoy this. And the rest of you too. And please, support your favourite stories by contacting the authors. And if you can donate using link https://donate.nifty.org/ ----- Ryan was so excited, he was finally going to visit the Hollyoaks set and meet a load of the cast. He'd won a competition, and now was being driven to the set for a tour and a chance to watch a few scene's being filmed, and even appear as an extra in some background shot. At 18, this was the highlight of his life so far, and he had barely slept a wink all week at the thought of who he was going to meet. The car pulled in, and some smiling woman approached to greet him, introducing herself as Melissa and a writer on the show and explaining they would go and catch a scene being filmed, head off for a little meet and greet while the cast and crew had some breakfast, and then he'd be given a tour by one of them before watching some more scene's and maybe filming his scene if they got to it today. "It's so crazy and tight with the schedule, but I'm sure you'll have the best day," she said, Ryan distracted for a moment as he saw Jennifer Metcalfe walking past and did his best to act casual. Melissa saw the awe on Ryan's face and said, "You get used to it." Ryan grinned and said, "I never want to, this is amazing." She beamed at him and as they walked she told him to turn his phone off and stay silent, and they crept into the familiar village square where almost every major story had taken place, and Ryan had to contain himself as he saw Warren and Sienna arguing right there, the words hardly important as Ryan realised this was really happening. They watched for half hour or so, repeated takes and adjustments, getting closer to the action when they were able to, and then they were done and Jamie Lomax and Anna Passey were walking up to shake his hand, taking him by surprise by welcoming him to set and congratulating him on the win. He stumbled his way through some stupid fan questions, got their autographs in his book as well as about a hundred selfies and then they had to go, telling him it was great to meet him and they hoped he'd have a great day. "Wow, that was amazing. They're so nice," Ryan said in wonder. Melissa said, "Oh they're great, and they love meeting the fans. Now let's go meet some of the rest." She explained that obviously the whole cast weren't on set today, but that a decent crowd had assembled for today's shooting of the new credit sequence, so he should get the chance to fill his book and talk to plenty of them. He walked around the corner and was greeted to the sight of what looked to be half the cast mulling around and chatting while digging into some grub. There was Charlie and Darren laughing at some joke, Mason with Lucas and Ethan kicking a ball between them as they chatted about last night's game, half the McQueen women sat at a table while scrolling through their phones, Tony and Tom talking with people from the crew while Prince and Hunter walked over to join a table where Ste was sitting. Ryan's jaw was on the floor as he took them all in, knowing this was so strange to be meeting them in real life, and prayed he wouldn't embarress himself. He was just thinking of where to start when he felt a set of hands take hold of his waist and move him to one side, and he gasped as he turned his head and saw Dave, aka Dominic Power, smiling at him and say, "Excuse me." He edged through, walking over to get some food, leaving Ryan silent. He loved the Hollyoaks Dad, and his skin was on fire where the man had touched him, and he almost missed Melissa guiding him to the first group and started introducing him to everyone. ----- It took a while, but he met most of the cast and collected his autographs and selfie's, and they were all pretty great with him. He gradually got used to being around them, and as they drifted in and out of the area while they filmed their shots, he met more as the morning went on. Charlie Behan and Ellis Hollins were great, they'd been on the show forever and were used to meeting and spending time with fans, and when Ryan slipped and called Ellis "Tom" the guy had laughed it off and said, "Don't worry, happen's all the time. I should have got them to use my name as the character's like Charlie here." They all laughed as Charlie punched Ellis in his arm, and Ryan felt more relaxed as they talked about the time on the show, favourite storylines, and what was coming up. They both introduced him to other's, Melissa stepping away as Ryan seemed comfortable and promising to return later. They waved her off, and they brought Ryan to meet Nick Pickard and Jennifer Metcalfe, both on the show forever as far as Ryan was concerned and more than happy to talk to him for a while. He'd spent a couple hours total there by the time Melissa returned, and she asked if he was ready for the tour, and Ryan said definitely as she said, "So a little surprise is, we have a choice for you of who to guide you around, we had a few volunteer for it, so you decide. You can choose from Frank (Mason), Nadine (Cleo), James (John Paul), or Annie (Sally). They're all done for the afternoon until we get to their credit's shoot, so you can take your pick." She had pointed out each actor as she listed them off, and Ryan's head swirled at which one to choose. Ryan had decided and was about to choose Frank when behind them he heard, "You forgot me, Melissa. I'm free." He turned and gulped as he saw Dominic standing a few feet away, staring at him over his mug, eye's boring into Ryan's as they looked at each other. Ryan stammered as Melissa frowned and said, "You never volunteer though." Dominic shrugged, and she looked confused as Ryan said, "If you don't mind, that'd be amazing." Dominic waved him over and led the lad away, leaving Melissa behind as she went and told the other's what the plan was for this afternoon. ----- Dominic walked him through some sets, pointing out details and places that had the young man's head swimming. He was here, on set of one of his favourite show's, and with his favourite actor. Life couldn't be better right now, and then he felt a hand rest on the back of his neck, a finger grazing up and down slightly as Dominic guided him around The Loft, explaining the drinks were all fake and not as much fun in real life unfortunately. Ryan asked, "It's so great to see all this for real, it's so weird being here. Can we see more?" Dominic grinned as he answered, "Of course, actually let me show you my favourite set." Ryan gasped as he felt the man take his hand, and then he was being pulled out of the set and away as Dominic said, "Follow me, I'll show you." Ryan could hardly focus on anything as he was led through the massive space, seeing some of the school set up and glimpsing a few cast member's, and then they were in the flat above The Dog. Ryan felt a little dizzy at the rush of location's they walked through, and from the warmth of the hand as it fell away from his, and he walked around the place he had seen so often on the TV, wonder in his eye's that he missed the older man checking him out properly. He explained, "So, the set has been sealed ready for shooting tonight, so we can be alone here for a bit. Just make sure everything stay's as is or we'll be in trouble." Ryan put the ornament he had picked up back down in a panic, making the guy chuckle and easing the young man's nerves a little. He checked the doors, wondering what was on the other side and a little disappointed to find they led nowhere but more backstage area's, and walked back to the lounge area where Dominic was sat. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa and said, "Thanks so much for doing this, I'm sure you have loads to do." Dominic grinned and said, "No, I love meeting fan's. Especially one's that love the show as much as you obviously do." Ryan blushed a little, knowing he had been too keen when he was asked, "So, tell me. Why do you love it? And who are your favourite character's?" Ryan started to gush about the show, the storyline's he'd loved, the character's he missed, and Dominic listened to it all and asked again, "Your favourite character?" Ryan gulped, looking nervous he said, "Umm.. you actually. And Tony. And Mason is great too." Dominic laughed and said, "Yeah Frank's amazing. Did some great work since he got here, and everyone loves Nick. Loves the show as much as the fan's, and that's rare after so long." He paused and said, "Not many would say me though, what you like about Dave?" Ryan stared at the handsome older man and said, "You're such a good actor, and love how you struggled with everything and tried to do right but kept getting it wrong. He loves his family, and hurts when he hurts them. You are really great." Dominic accepted the praise and leant forward and placed his large hand on Ryan's leg, squeezing it as he said, "I appreciate that, I really do." Ryan looked at the hand as it rested there, his pulse speeding up as it rubbed against him, and he lost track of their conversation as they fell silent and Dominic waited for an answer. "Uh, sorry. What? I kinda spaced out there," Ryan said, mortified at his stupidity. Dominic smiled and said, "I said I think you'd love Frank, he's my best boy." The hand squeezed him tighter, running back and forth a little as he edged closer and asked, "Do you mind my hand here?" Ryan gulped and shook his head, racing at the way the heat of the palm on his leg, as Dominic threw his arm around the back of the sofa and touching Ryan's neck gently. All of the blood in his body seemed to flood to his dick, and as he felt it grow he had to try and distract from it as he said, "Are you and Frank really that close off screen?" Dominic nodded and said, "Oh yeah, we spent a lot of time together, so we're real close." Ryan detected an emphasis on the last two words, and then the hand on his thigh inched higher as he continued, "He even call's me Dad sometime's." Ryan groaned softly at that, and then Dominic's hand wrapped around his neck and pulled their face's closer and he asked, "Is this OK?" Ryan never answered, plunging forward as their mouth's met in a kiss, the scratch of Dominic's beard feeling really good on Ryan's face as their tongue's slid together. They kissed like that for a minute before the man used his strength to pull the 18 year old into his lap, leaving Ryan straddling his lap as they made out, his hands running up and down the lad's back. Minute's passed and they finally split apart, both breathing heavily as Ryan realised where he was and what they were doing and Dominic said, "I think we should go somewhere more private, with a lock maybe." Ryan grinned, grabbing the man's head and leaning in for another kiss, unwilling to move right now. ----- After ten minute's or so, Dominic managed to push the horny teen off his lap and started to lead him to another area. They were both panting a little, and did their best to avoid being seen as they rushed to wherever the man was thinking, and down a series of corridor's they found a dressing room. They stumbled in and Ryan barely had time to look around before he was spun around and pulled into another kiss, his body pushed against the door as he heard a hand fumbling to turn the lock and ensure their privacy. He gasped as Dominic moved from his mouth and began to kiss down his neck, the facial hair scratching against his sensitive skin as the teen clawed at his back. Domininc lifted Ryan's leg, holding it high so their bodies could press closer to each other, both of them hard as they thrusted against each other. Minute's passed and Dominic had worked Ryan's T-shirt up and over his head, leaving his chest exposed and open to an assault by Dominic's mouth, and the lad was soon moaning as he felt the mouth close over his nipple and start to flick his tongue against it, before kissing its way to the other and doing the same thing. He gripped the man's head, holding it close to his chest as the mouth worked over his skin, and felt hands scrambling at his jeans and pull them open, gasping again as he they fell to the floor and Dominic pressed close again as his head raised and caught Ryan in another kiss. Ryan couldn't believe this was happening, and with the little room he had he kicked his jeans away so he was left in just his boxers as he returned the kiss of the man he had lusted after since his arrival on the show. Finally they broke apart again, and breathing hard they looked at each other and smiled, and Ryan shoved the man back from him. The suddeness took Dominic by surprise, and then the teen was on him again, this time tugging his shirt out of his trousers and ripping open the buttons. He didn't even bother to push the shirt off, just left it open as his hands worked the trousers open and pushed them to the ground as Dominic stripped the shirt off himself and felt himself pushed back on the small sofa in the corner. Ryan dropped to his knees and pulled the trousers from the man's feet, throwing them aside as he leaned over him and started to explore the body in front of him. Dominic had a decent Dad body on him, signs of working out without going over the top, and as Ryan ran his hands through the chest hair and kissed his way around he felt the firm muscle underneath, trying to memorise every detail of the object of so many jack off fantasies as the teen moved lower, dipping his tongue into Dominic's belly button as he went, the man groaning at the sensation. Dominic had hooked up with a few fans here before, but never one as eager as Ryan was, even Frank wasn't this keen, and as he felt a hand slide into his boxers he gasped as it wrapped around him and pulled him free, his 8" dick throbbing in the lad's hand as Ryan quickly started to swirl his tongue around it. Dominic reached his hand down and tangled it in Ryan's short hair, guiding it over him as he bobbed up and down, desperate to taste this man he had dreamt of for so long, and he sucked harder. This wasn't his first time, so used all his skills to stimulate Dominic, his throat relaxing so that he could take him whole as he gagged, his hands spreading the man's legs out so he could shuffle closer. Dominic couldn't contain his groaning as he was sucked off, glad he had shut the door but aware anyone in the corridor could hear them, so tried to keep it down, but the kid was so good. He thanked whoever blessed him the chance of running into the competition win earlier, as it gave him the opportunity to see the starstruck look of the 18 year old, and seeing the look he had hung around waiting for the chance to get the young man alone. Dominic would have happily settled for the incredible blow job he was getting, but Ryan wasn't going to, and pulled his mouth away and started to lick down the shaft, moving lower to suck on his balls, smirking as he heard the man sigh as the teen carried on down, kissing and licking over his thighs and legs. Ryan crawled backward working his way down Dominic's leg until he reached his foot, and Dominic flinched as he felt the tongue start to lick over his bottom of his foot. It tickled, and he laughed as he asked, "What the hell, you like feet?" Ryan brought his face back from the foot a little, just enough to say breathlessly, "I love them, and have been looking for a picture of your's for ages." He started to kiss against the foot for a moment before saying, "Do you mind?" Dominic shrugged and said, "Knock yourself out, you're the winner after all." Ryan returned to the foot, spending time licking over the arch of the man's foot, and raising up to suck on each toe individually. Only when he had explored the entire foot, he felt a push on his shoulder, and looked to see Dominic had raised his other foot and rested it there, and Ryan dropped the one to his other shoulder and started on the other foot. His own dick was rock hard in his boxers, his 7" leaking into the fabric as his wildest fantasy played out, and he repeated the worship of Dominic's other foot as he knelt on the floor in front of him. Dominic was surprised how hot he was finding this, the initial surprise wearing off as the tongue worked over his foot, a thrill running up his spine as he felt the lips seal around his toes and suck on them. No-one had paid attention to his feet before, and as he felt his dick throb in his lap he wondered if Frank would be up for trying this out later, as his on-screen son was willing to try almost anything in the bedroom, so he'd definitely be asking. He hooked his abandoned foot behind Ryan's head, holding him in place as he pushed his other foot into the sucking mouth, forcing him to suck on a couple of his toes and he smirked as he heard the lad moan as his head became trapped by the two feet. A minute of this and he pulled his foot out of Ryan's mouth and said, "We have to get back soon or they'll come looking for you." Ryan nodded, kissed both feet as he let them fall to the floor and stood up, peeling down his boxers as he turned around and grabbed up a bottle of lotion from the table next to them and started to spread it over Dominic's erection, the man sighing as he watched his dick get prepped for what was about to happen. Ryan said, "I can't leave now without doing this." He turned and bent slightly, presenting his tight bubble ass to the older man, and groaned as he felt his face press up to his ass, licking and spitting on his hole, the beard making him pull away as it scratched against him before Dominic pulled him back onto this tongue. It was only for a few seconds before Dominic pulled back and started to rub the lotion against his ass, pushing his finger's in until he had two of them sliding smoothly, and when he was prepped he used his hands to guide the young man back to sit on his dick. Ryan cried out as he felt the head push into him, bigger than any he had taken before, and he did his best to muffle his moaning as it continued to press into him. The lotion helped, but his body would not relax because of the thrill of this happening, so it took a couple minute's before he was fully seated in Dominic's lap, adjusting to the man he had jacked off to for so long actually being about to fuck. He felt the hands lift him up, the dick sliding out of him as Ryan sighed at the loss, but then groaned as he was brought back down quickly. He turned his head and saw Dominic's eye's locked on his ass as it lifted back up, then pulled back down, fascinated by the sight of the 18 year old starting to ride him, so happy that he had taken the chance and volunteered to spend time with him. He looked up and saw the lad looking back at him and the two grinned at each other as Ryan started to move at his own pace, Dominic's hands just holding onto him as he moved, getting faster and dropping harder as he threw his head back in pleasure as the dick struck his prostate. Minute's went by, the sound of their sex filling the room and then Ryan felt the hands tighten and start to move him faster, and he just got louder as he heard the man say, "We've got to hurry, they're definitely looking for you by now." Ryan was about to say he was close when the door flew open, and he saw Tony Hutchinson standing there, gaping at the sight of his co-star fucking the competition winner he had been sent to collect. Nick Pickard had been on the show forever, and knowing his mate well he had suspected Dom doing his usual thing and trying to get into the pants of another fan, but hadn't expected to find him in the middle of shagging him in his dressing room. He usually had the sense to arrange a meeting after, but as Nick looked at the young man frozen in place, he understood the attraction. Nick was used to having fans throw themselves at him, and in the past he was more than happy to enjoy the company of dozens of them, mostly women but while he was reluctant at first he had been seduced by one particular lad that had opened his eye's to how good it could feel. Ryan was just the type that would catch his eye now, and seeing him naked and sitting right there, he could happily join in but they had no time and he locked the door properly this time and walked up to the sofa. Ryan gaped, the surprise appearance had barely registered before he saw Nick step closer to him and say, "You've got to finish soon, or they'll send someone else. Can I help?" Ryan's head swam as he heard the offer, THE Tony Hutchinson was asking if he could help him climax, and he nodded not trusting himself to speak. The two men worked together to move him, and Ryan had a fleeting idea that they had done this with someone before, and as his body was pushed back to lie on Dominic, his breathing increased as he realised he was making himself vulnerable to both of his favourite Hollyoaks Dad's. He had felt Dominic's hand's run up his body as Nick raised his feet off the floor and hooked them over Dominic's, leaving Ryan totally supported by the man below him, and as he was shifted he felt the 8" dick hit his prostate once more and he moaned while staring at Nick leaning over him. He saw the man smile at Dominic over his shoulder and say, "I think that's the perfect spot." Ryan felt the man beneath him start to move, and he gasped as he felt the dick in his ass grinding into him, constantly stimulating his prostate and he couldn't hold back the moan he let loose. His body writhed on top of Dominic, hands running over him and tweaking his nipples and stroking his stomach as he got louder, eye's rolling back as he saw Nick smirking down at him. Ryan had been wrong earlier, as this was the greatest moment of his life, getting fucked on the site of his favourite TV show with his favourite actor's from the show around him. Ryan was really getting loud now, and Nick and Dominic became worried someone would here him so Dominic said, "Help me out mate." Ryan didn't know what he meant but his eye's widened as Nick leaned over him and covered his mouth with his hand, staring at him as their faces got closer and he watched the young man come apart as he was fucked below him. Nick's own dick strained against his zipper as he heard the young man grunt as he was fucked, Dominic using his strength to move Ryan's body just enough that he could thrust up into his ass causing Ryan to just get even louder, his orgasm building when he felt the hand slip from his mouth only to be replaced by a couple of Nick's fingers. Ryan had always had a thing about Nick's hands, even pausing episode's to get a good look at them and fantasise about them, and now they were in his mouth and he immediately closed his lips around them and started to suck on the rough digits, groaning around them as Nick pumped them into the lad's mouth. His other hand was free, and he let it drop to Ryan's dick and grabbed it into his fist, feeling him grunt around his fingers as Nick started to jerk the young man off. Now Ryan was in heaven. His ass getting fucked by one of his favourite TV DILF's, while the other was masturbating him and letting him suck his finger's at the same time, even the wildest of his dream's couldn't have conjured this situation, and as he writhed between them he knew he wouldn't last. Dominic's dick was sitting in just the right spot so every move edged him closer to release, while Nick's hand seemed to totally surround his own leaking 7" member, the slightly rough hands feeling incredible on his skin, and it was the same for Dominic who was loving the direction this had gone. He usually just shared stories of his latest conquest with his co-star, but to both be here for it was new and exciting, as well as where they were and the danger of being caught, his own climax was close. Ryan stared at Nick with lust burning in his eye's, not wanting to forget a second of this and he moaned around the finger's in his mouth as the hand on his dick moved faster, the dick in his ass grinding into his ass until he could take no more. His dick fired into Nick's hand, the man smirking as he felt the member pulse in his hand and he aimed it up as he looked down to see the cum land all over Ryan's toned torso as he groaned his release, his body tensing as it finally gave into the pleasure. His ass clamped down and squeezed around Dominic's dick, and Ryan gasped around Nick's finger's as he felt the first blast cum explode into his ass, multiple streams of cum filling him up as the man thrust up one final time. They both led there, Ryan's limp body on top of Dominic's as they both took a moment to recover their breaths, Nick releasing his hold of Ryan's dick and pulling his finger's from the lad's mouth. Both hands were slick, one with spit and one with cum, and he looked around for something to clean up with when he felt a hand take his wrist and stop him moving away. Ryan had sat up, his ass still in Dominic's lap, and as he stared up at Nick he began to lick and suck on his hands, cleaning first his right hand of any trace of cum and then moving to the other to suck off the excess saliva he had left from having them in his mouth for so long. Nick smiled and said, "You got a thing for hands, or just mine?" Ryan smirked as he sucked on one of the thumbs, and he didn't want this to end, and seeing the bulge in Nick's he moved quickly, dropping the hand from his mouth and moved to pull the trousers open and reached in for the hard member within, only looking up when Nick pleaded, "No, wait. We don't have time for that." Ryan grinned and said, "I'll be quick." He plunged his mouth onto Nick's 8" dick, and started to suck on it rapidly, bobbing his head over it fast as he grew desperate to get to taste of the TV legend. A minute later he pulled back, gasping as he turned his head to see Dominic sit up to watch, causing his dick to shift in it's place in Ryan's ass and said to the guy, "Tell me I'm doing a good job Dad. Tell me how proud you are of me." He smiled at the shock on the man's face and restarted on Nick's dick, letting his tongue swirl around the head as he felt hands tangle in his hair again, and he missed the disbelief on the two men's face's as they let the young man work. Dominic hesitated but did as asked, telling the lad, "Yeah, doing a good job there. So good son, really showing Tony what you can do." Ryan's dick stirred as Dominic called Nick by his character's name, and the two men felt a thrill of excitement at the talk too, so Dominic continued and said, "I'm so proud of you my boy, taking care of your Dad and his friend like this. Fuck, you feel so good squeezing me like that." Ryan's ass was clenching as he sucked Nick off, as though trying to milk another load from the handsome Dad behind him as he listened to the dirty talk step up a notch, "Love to see you like this, so happy." Ryan pulled back gasping, his mouth slick with saliva and precum from Nick's dick and he begged, "I love this too Dad, and I love having you here watching me do this, and to feel you while I do." Dominic could have cum right then again, but watched in awe as Ryan turned his face up to Nick's and said, "Tony, tell my Dad I'm doing a good job." His mouth was on Nick again, the man throwing his head back in pleasure before looking down into Ryan's face where his eye's gazed back at him. Nick moaned, "Fuck, Dave your boy is so good. Natural talent, taking me so deep. Should be so proud to have raised such a good son." His hips thrust forward, fucking into Ryan's mouth as the 18 year old gagged around the dick, his throat trying to relax enough to take him whole. He heard Dominic lean in and carry on telling him, "Suck him, son. Your Dad's so proud of you. Go on, open up and take Tony all the way. Show him what my best boy can do." Ryan did, his throat seeming to open on request and Nick sank all the way in, his balls resting on the lad's chin as he groaned, and Dominic said, "Yes, buddy. Just like that, hold it there a few second's longer.. so good, do it again." Ryan was so blissed out he only heard the words and felt the dick slide in his mouth, the rest of the world didn't exist. Even Dominic's dick stirring to life while still buried deep in Ryan's ass was a distant sensation as his mind became overwhelmed with hearing Dominic and Nick speak, apparently both men now getting into it as he was barraged with comment's from them, and a minute later he felt Nick's dick swell and start to shoot in his mouth, he felt Dominic lean into his ear and whisper, "I love you, son." Ryan's body trembled, and he felt his own dick start to fire, untouched by any of them. He struggled to cope with Nick's massive load, but just managed to swallow it all, nursing the dick in his mouth until it became too sensitive and the man stumbled away, his leg's weak from the climax he just had. Ryan was panting too as his mouth was free, pulling in as much oxygen as possible, and felt Dominic's hard shaft pressing into his ass, and he leaned back so they were once again laying on the sofa and he said, "Did I do good Dad? Do you want to fuck me again?" Dominic and Nick both chuckled, and as Nick started to tuck his dick away and grab some towel's to clean up with Dominic said, "Damn right I do, kid." Ryan was pushed up out of Dominic's lap and moved so he was kneeling on the sofa as the older man moved behind and pushed his throbbing dick straight into Ryan's ass, both of the groaning as he started to thrust while holding the lad's waist tight enough to leave handprints. He started to fuck into the lad as he moaned, "Not going to last long, you might be the best piece of ass I've had for a long time. At least as good as Frank." Ryan groaned as he heard the man refer to his on-screen son, and as he looked over his shoulder he gasped, "Fuck me Dad, show me how you love your boys. Seed my ass like the sexy DILF you are." Dominic growled as he heard the request, and after only a couple of minute's he was moving faster and harder until he exploded deep into Ryan's ass for a second time moaning out, "Shit, fuck." They stayed in place for a moment, panting as they both recovered from the epic sex they'd just had, and then were disturbed when they felt Nick throw them both a towel each, and they reddened a little as they realised they had completely forgotten the other man while fucking. Nick just smirked though, telling them he'd go and let the crew know they'd be out soon, and telling them to make sure they didn't go for a third round. Ryan and Dominic cleaned up as best they could, both still flushed from sex and realised the room stank of it, and sprayed some deodorant around to mask the smell as best they could. After getting dressed, they looked each other over and when ready they creeped out of the room, heading down the corridor's and back to the set and find where Ryan was supposed to be. Ryan had a bit of a limp, and Dominic had to lower his voice and asked, "Can you try and not walk like you were just fucked in the dressing room, please?" Ryan shrugged and said, "But I was just fucked in the dressing room." They both broke down laughing, and could only stop when Melissa stormed up to them and demanded to know where they'd been. Ryan tried to think of an excuse, but Dominic was on it as he said, "Oh we got a bit carried away talking about the show. Turn's out, I'm his favourite character." Melissa scoffed and rolled her eye's and was about to speak when he ushered her away and said, "So I know you were thinking of getting him as an extra in a scene, but he'd probably end up getting cut anyone in edit so I was thinking. How about we get him as background for some of the shot's for the new credit's. He'd love it, and he'd be able to show all his mate's every day." Melissa thought it'd be a great idea, and there was much more chance of him actually making it to the screen this way, so she ran off to talk to the crew about making it happen as Dominic led Ryan over to wardrobe and make up, explaining on the way the new plan. Ryan was over the moon at the chance to be on the opening credits of Hollyoaks as Dominic said, "That way you'll always remember today." Ryan said, "Oh I'm never forgetting today. Best day of my life." Dominic patted him on the back as he introduced him, telling them to get Ryan into some new clothes and add a little make up and tidy up his hair, and he'd be back later. Ryan watched him leave before being swarmed by a group of people that started pulling him in every direction for measurements and checks on his skin tone, and half hour later he was in new clothing and looking good with his hair fixed and a little make up to hide the redness on his face. He had been embarressed when it had been pointed out, knowing it had come from kissing Dominic earlier, and then he saw Frank Kauer walk up and the two shook hands and chatted for a few minute's before the make up lady came out and grabbed Frank's arm and pulled him toward the trailer saying, "Come on you. Already had to spend a while sorting out his beard burn, not got time for you to be hanging around all day." Ryan thought he might die of shame, but saw Frank wink at him and smirk. ----- Ryan had a constant reminder of his day on set every night he watched the show, and told all his mate's about what a great day it had been. He only told a few he trusted most about what really happened, and they always shared sly smile's whenever there was a scene with Tony or Dave in. He told no-one that he had been invited back in a few week's for another meet and greet. ----- So I wrote this as an idea from someone who I hope enjoy's it. They've been giving almost constant feedback since my first writing last year, one of the first in fact to email me, so thought I'd pen them this chapter as thanks. It's only a single chapter, but now I've written this I've thought maybe I could add a few more, but not sure. Again, to be clear. This is all fake, I have no knowledge of the actor's real lives, or sexualities. IT IS A COMPLETE FICTION. </hollyguys@yahoo.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bruces-playtime/bruces-playtime-2

Date: Mon, 02 Oct 2023 22:51:52 +0000 From: gatekeeper95 Subject: Bruce's playtime 2 (gay celebrity) Bruce's playtime The story is fake and credit belongs to DC comics. If it's illegal to read this story in your jurisdiction if it's legal then enjoy. Bruce's playtime ch.2 It's getting late part 2 ". Good you enjoyed yourself but there's one thing left to do" "What's that "? "This , it's time for you to return the favor" said the commissioner Bruce said "I've never done that before "in a nervous tone. Commissioner said this "just follow my lead " in a reassuring tone. Bruce said "nice cock" "Well gee thanks." Bruce said to himself "I hope I do this right". Bruce unzips the commish pants out pops out through the fly of his pants commish cock which Bruce's jerks a little. The commish gets hard and is enjoying the touch. Commissioner said "boy your hands are cold" Bruce said "gee thanks" Commissioner said "go ahead and suck my cock. Bruce nodded his head yes in agreement .Bruce then engulfs the commishs cock.That takes the commish by surprise.Bruce suck sausage like a first timer. "You got a warm mouth work that pole." Commissioner said this " you got a warm mouth. Oh yea work that pole . Aw huh you catching on for a first timer. Ooh yea work that sausage like it's a lollipop. Oh yea deep throat that cock ,oh yes I'm close to cum" Bruce said to himself "the commish must be thick uh oh he's enjoying it too much" Commissioner said to himself "you have a pretty mouth and I hope he takes my load like a champ." Commissioner likes Bruce's gagging sound lets out a roar and said "oh yes hear it cums." Bruce said to himself this is a lot of cum ". Commissioner said this "yes take it like a champ" Commissioner said to himself "This is a hot experience" Bruce said this to himself "I'm never gonna forget this." As the two men kiss.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Mon, 02 Oct 2023 22:51:52 +0000 From: gatekeeper95 <gatekeeper95@protonmail.com> Subject: Bruce's playtime 2 (gay celebrity) Bruce's playtime The story is fake and credit belongs to DC comics. If it's illegal to read this story in your jurisdiction if it's legal then enjoy. Bruce's playtime ch.2 It's getting late part 2 ". Good you enjoyed yourself but there's one thing left to do" "What's that "? "This , it's time for you to return the favor" said the commissioner Bruce said "I've never done that before "in a nervous tone. Commissioner said this "just follow my lead " in a reassuring tone. Bruce said "nice cock" "Well gee thanks." Bruce said to himself "I hope I do this right". Bruce unzips the commish pants out pops out through the fly of his pants commish cock which Bruce's jerks a little. The commish gets hard and is enjoying the touch. Commissioner said "boy your hands are cold" Bruce said "gee thanks" Commissioner said "go ahead and suck my cock. Bruce nodded his head yes in agreement .Bruce then engulfs the commishs cock.That takes the commish by surprise.Bruce suck sausage like a first timer. "You got a warm mouth work that pole." Commissioner said this " you got a warm mouth. Oh yea work that pole . Aw huh you catching on for a first timer. Ooh yea work that sausage like it's a lollipop. Oh yea deep throat that cock ,oh yes I'm close to cum" Bruce said to himself "the commish must be thick uh oh he's enjoying it too much" Commissioner said to himself "you have a pretty mouth and I hope he takes my load like a champ." Commissioner likes Bruce's gagging sound lets out a roar and said "oh yes hear it cums." Bruce said to himself this is a lot of cum ". Commissioner said this "yes take it like a champ" Commissioner said to himself "This is a hot experience" Bruce said this to himself "I'm never gonna forget this." As the two men kiss. </gatekeeper95@protonmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/bruces-playtime/bruces-playtime-1

Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2023 03:06:39 +0000 From: gatekeeper95 Subject: Bruce's playtime gay celebrity Bruce's playtime This story is fake it's not real. If you are underage in your jurisdiction don't read this story. If you are then enjoy. All credit goes to DC comics. Bruce's playtime ch1. It's getting late Bruce and the commissioner are chilling and Having a drink. Bruce is sitting on a couch and the commish is sitting top of Bruce's desk in his office at night. "Wayne can I share a secret with you?" "Sure James what is it" asked Bruce? "Commisoner Gordon said "when I was in the academy my and a fellow cadet got caught watching porn and jerking each other off" Bruce said "really is that it?" Commissioner said "oh yea." Commissioner asked Bruce this "well how about you Wayne." Bruce looked confused and said "what do you mean?" "I mean have you did anything like that before?" Bruce said blushing "well there was this one time " Commissioner looked excited and said "really who" Bruce said "it was back in high school with a friend it was really a help me I'll help you type of situation ". Commissioner said "that was amazing there's nothing wrong with that." Bruce looked confused and said" are you sure?" Commissioner said "yes I'm positive." Bruce admits to an experience in high school but reminds the commish it's was a bonding experience. Commissioner said this "well have you learn any new techniques ?" Bruce said " what do you mean " with a confused look. Commissioner said "for example there's the double fisted,the pillow pumper the twisty nipple". Bruce said "the twisty nipple?" "Yea that's when you play with them when you are jerking off " The commish makes a silent gesture about his Bruce "size" which makes Bruce somewhat nervous. "So lot of the ladies like what you are working with?" "It's not something I boast about "said bruce in a worried tone. "You should be glad what god gives you." Then the commish walks over and sits right next to Bruce on the couch. "what you doing" asked by Bruce. The commish said" just relax " that's when he removes Bruce jacket and tie . Bruce said this in a nervous tone "I never done this before ?" Commissioner said " everyone has a first time." Bruce said this "okay if you say so" in an excited a nervous tone. Commissioner said this "just relax let me do the work" as he unbuckles Bruce's Bruce his head nodded in agreement. Commissioner said this as unbuckles Bruce's pants and pulls his cock out of his pants "nice cock". " Gee thanks, your hand are warm " Bruce said. Commissioner said this in a proud tone "thanks for the compliment." Commissioner said to himself "he's hot and attractive for someone his age". Bruce said to himself "I don't know but this guy is an attractive dilf". Commissioner said this in a cheerful tone"now time for the real fun to begin". Bruce said "what do you mean?" Commissioner said "you'll see." "Ooh yea suck my nipples " said Bruce Commissioner said to himself "he's fit for someone his age including his abs and nips." Commissioner said this " let's see what you are working with?" Bruce said this to himself "he's hot with those glasses." The commish begins to jerk Bruce a little bit.Bruce is surprised taken back by how the experience is going so much that he takes his shoes. Bruce said this"oh yesss your mouth is hot." The commish begins to jerk Bruce a little bit.Bruce is surprised taken back by how the experience is going so much that he takes his shoes off.The commish steps up the efforts by planting a hot wet kiss which surprised Bruce . Then the commish breaks the kiss and the jerking to remove Bruce's shirt. Commissioner said to himself "he's hotter in this state." The commish begins to suck Bruce's nips which drives Bruce crazy. The commish removes Bruce's pants while still sucking Bruce's nipples .Leaving Bruce in his boxers with his cock sticking through the fly of boxers and his socks. The commish stops the assault to kneel in front of Bruce massaging Bruce's thighs. Commissioner said "nows the time for the real fun to begin". Bruce "what do you -." The commish engulfs Bruce's cock before Bruce could finish the thought. Bruce begins to moan like a dog in heat. "Ooh yesss your mouth is hot oh yes work that cock suck it like a candy cane." The commish begins to go to town on Bruce's dick. Bruce continues moans in ecstasy. Bruce's breathing is labored as he is close to cumming. The commish steps up his assault on Bruce's cock. "Oh yes I'm close to cumming ". Bruce said to himself "I can't believe it a guy is gonna make me cum for the first time from a blowjob". Commissioner said to himself " come on son cum for daddy." "Oh god here it cums" as bruce roared . Commissioner said to himself "some much cum he hadn't cum in while I could tell." Few minutes later the commissioner said this" that was amazing " "Yes it was amazing "bruce said in an excited and exhausted tone. ". Good you enjoyed yourself but there's one thing left to do" "What's that "?

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sat, 23 Sep 2023 03:06:39 +0000 From: gatekeeper95 <gatekeeper95@protonmail.com> Subject: Bruce's playtime gay celebrity Bruce's playtime This story is fake it's not real. If you are underage in your jurisdiction don't read this story. If you are then enjoy. All credit goes to DC comics. Bruce's playtime ch1. It's getting late Bruce and the commissioner are chilling and Having a drink. Bruce is sitting on a couch and the commish is sitting top of Bruce's desk in his office at night. "Wayne can I share a secret with you?" "Sure James what is it" asked Bruce? "Commisoner Gordon said "when I was in the academy my and a fellow cadet got caught watching porn and jerking each other off" Bruce said "really is that it?" Commissioner said "oh yea." Commissioner asked Bruce this "well how about you Wayne." Bruce looked confused and said "what do you mean?" "I mean have you did anything like that before?" Bruce said blushing "well there was this one time " Commissioner looked excited and said "really who" Bruce said "it was back in high school with a friend it was really a help me I'll help you type of situation ". Commissioner said "that was amazing there's nothing wrong with that." Bruce looked confused and said" are you sure?" Commissioner said "yes I'm positive." Bruce admits to an experience in high school but reminds the commish it's was a bonding experience. Commissioner said this "well have you learn any new techniques ?" Bruce said " what do you mean " with a confused look. Commissioner said "for example there's the double fisted,the pillow pumper the twisty nipple". Bruce said "the twisty nipple?" "Yea that's when you play with them when you are jerking off " The commish makes a silent gesture about his Bruce "size" which makes Bruce somewhat nervous. "So lot of the ladies like what you are working with?" "It's not something I boast about "said bruce in a worried tone. "You should be glad what god gives you." Then the commish walks over and sits right next to Bruce on the couch. "what you doing" asked by Bruce. The commish said" just relax " that's when he removes Bruce jacket and tie . Bruce said this in a nervous tone "I never done this before ?" Commissioner said " everyone has a first time." Bruce said this "okay if you say so" in an excited a nervous tone. Commissioner said this "just relax let me do the work" as he unbuckles Bruce's Bruce his head nodded in agreement. Commissioner said this as unbuckles Bruce's pants and pulls his cock out of his pants "nice cock". " Gee thanks, your hand are warm " Bruce said. Commissioner said this in a proud tone "thanks for the compliment." Commissioner said to himself "he's hot and attractive for someone his age". Bruce said to himself "I don't know but this guy is an attractive dilf". Commissioner said this in a cheerful tone"now time for the real fun to begin". Bruce said "what do you mean?" Commissioner said "you'll see." "Ooh yea suck my nipples " said Bruce Commissioner said to himself "he's fit for someone his age including his abs and nips." Commissioner said this " let's see what you are working with?" Bruce said this to himself "he's hot with those glasses." The commish begins to jerk Bruce a little bit.Bruce is surprised taken back by how the experience is going so much that he takes his shoes. Bruce said this"oh yesss your mouth is hot." The commish begins to jerk Bruce a little bit.Bruce is surprised taken back by how the experience is going so much that he takes his shoes off.The commish steps up the efforts by planting a hot wet kiss which surprised Bruce . Then the commish breaks the kiss and the jerking to remove Bruce's shirt. Commissioner said to himself "he's hotter in this state." The commish begins to suck Bruce's nips which drives Bruce crazy. The commish removes Bruce's pants while still sucking Bruce's nipples .Leaving Bruce in his boxers with his cock sticking through the fly of boxers and his socks. The commish stops the assault to kneel in front of Bruce massaging Bruce's thighs. Commissioner said "nows the time for the real fun to begin". Bruce "what do you -." The commish engulfs Bruce's cock before Bruce could finish the thought. Bruce begins to moan like a dog in heat. "Ooh yesss your mouth is hot oh yes work that cock suck it like a candy cane." The commish begins to go to town on Bruce's dick. Bruce continues moans in ecstasy. Bruce's breathing is labored as he is close to cumming. The commish steps up his assault on Bruce's cock. "Oh yes I'm close to cumming ". Bruce said to himself "I can't believe it a guy is gonna make me cum for the first time from a blowjob". Commissioner said to himself " come on son cum for daddy." "Oh god here it cums" as bruce roared . Commissioner said to himself "some much cum he hadn't cum in while I could tell." Few minutes later the commissioner said this" that was amazing " "Yes it was amazing "bruce said in an excited and exhausted tone. ". Good you enjoyed yourself but there's one thing left to do" "What's that "? </gatekeeper95@protonmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/the-mystery-of-the-vanished-puppy

Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 02:54:06 -0400 (EDT) From: Colton Conner <megatronjames@gmail.com> Subject: The Mystery of the Vanished Puppy Hi guys, its been a while but below you will find an original story by yours truly. As ever, this is work of fiction and not meant to imply anything about the real people mentioned. Baby Austin is of Austin Mahone who is still my top fantasy boy even after all these years. please feel free to email me when he comments or suggestions etc at megatronjames@gmail.com The Mystery of the Vanished Puppy by Colton Conner Sunday, August 28, 2022 I stared in disbelief at the empty space in my curio cabinet. My gaze swept over the ceramic dolphin, the resin howling timber wolf statue and the mounted turtle shell. I felt my heart sink as I realized what was missing. I turned to Debbie. Like me, she was also studying the shelf. "Everything is here except for your golden Puppy." "I know." I whimpered. "That puppy is damn near priceless." "Yeah, but that's not the worst of it though. Baby Austin gave that puppy to me. It was my 5th anniversary present." I felt tears well up in my eyes. Debbie placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry Colton. We'll get it back." I took a shaky breath and with an effort of will, I forced the tears back. "You're right." Debbie had her phone out and was taking pictures of the cabinet. "Do you still have the insurance papers?" "Yeah. We keep all of our important papers in a safe." I rolled into our bedroom. The bed was still rumbled from that morning's activity. I smiled slightly as I remembered the naughty things Baby Austin had done to me. The safe was concealed behind a portrait of the two of us. It had been created last year when we went to Hawaii on vacation. The artist had captured us we took a stroll down one of the black sand beaches. Baby Austin was pushing me in an all-terrain chair. We were both bare chested and wore only shorts. The water gleamed with a soft golden radiance in the setting sun. When I returned to the living room, Debbie had finished taking pictures. I handed her the document. She gazed down at it and let out a long, low whistle. "Holy shit! This puppy costs more then my entire crib at full market value." "Yeah. Its 6 grams of pure 24 karat gold." Debbie shook her head in amazement. "Damn, Austin must really love you." Right on cue, the front door opened and my hot boyfriend strolled in. Baby Austin was breathing a little heavily having just returned from his morning run. He was wearing only a tight pair of workout shorts which did an excellent job of accentuating his package. I knew that Baby Austin preferred to free ball when he went running. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. Baby Austin grinned as he spotted us. "Yo whats up? Didn't know we were going to have company." He moved to stand next to me. He ruffled my head fur. "Yo champ! What's popping." He bent down and we kissed. I smiled up at him. "Yo Austy. How was your run?" "Good. Ran into Jack and Jack walking their puppy. Spent a few minutes just shooting the shit with them." "How are they?" "Still as sexy as ever." "Clive?" "He's just as rambunctious as ever. Nearly knocked me on my ass jumping on me. What's new with you?" Debbie had been looking at something on her phone while my boyfriend and I had been talking. Now she spoke. "That golden puppy you gave Colton disappeared sometime last night." The cheerful expression died out of Baby Austin's face. "You're joking. Right?" Debbie and I both shook our heads in unison. "I wish I was." I said. "I discovered the puppy was missing after you left this morning. I called Debbie right away." "This needs to be reported to the police." Austin ran a paw through his hair. "Let me shower and change then we can go down to the police station." Twenty minutes later we were ready to leave. I had thrown on a t-shirt over my cargo shorts and Baby Austin had changed into a polo shirt and jeans. Debbie road in the backseat while Baby Austin drove. I road shotgun. The police station was small and dingy. Small cubicles were located behind the bull pen. The air was full of ringing phones and lively chatter. The smell of coffee hung over the room like an invisible cloud. A smiling young man greeted us. "Hello there. I'm Officer Sunnshine. How may I help you?" Baby Austin gave a little cough which hid a snicker. The smile faded slightly, but Officer Sunnshine hitched it back at once. "My parents were farmers. They believed in giving meaningful names to their kids in the hope of pleasing the gods. If 'the gods were pleased then their crops would flourish and the harvest would be plentiful." He shrugged. I spoke up. "Is Chief Allic here?" Officer Sunnshine nodded. "He's in his office." "Could you ring him?" The officer nodded. He picked up the phone and placed the call. When the call was answered, he spoke into the receiver. "Chief Allic. I have 3 civilians out here. They would like to speak with you." Officer Sunnshine listened for a moment then covered the mouth piece. "He wants to know who you are." "Tell him its Colton Conner and two friends. The chief knows who I am." Officer Sunnshine's eyes widened in recognition. He quickly relayed the information. When he put down the phone he was smiling. "It is such an honor to meet the famous Colton Conner in person. Go on back." Chief Allic had an actual office rather then just a cubical. The powerfully built man rose to greet us. Chief Allic stood at 6/4. He cut an intimidating figure, but I knew him to possess a good nature. etective Conner old man! How are you?" We shook hands. The chief's grip was firm. "I'm just as crunchy as a cookie." I replied grinning. "How about you?" The chief chuckled. "Same old shit dude. Fender benders, litter bugs, graffiti. The usual. Never changes." He sighed. "Just once, I wish we could have something exciting happen. Maybe a homicide. Maybe a drug bust. Something. It gets tedious having to deal with the same shit day in and day out." "I think I might be able to spice up your job." Chief Allic leaned forward. "Oh? Tell me more." I started to explain about the golden puppy's disappearance. I felt Baby Austin 'slip his paw into mine. He squeezed reassuringly. The chief frowned as he listened. "You say that you had a golden puppy figurine that was stolen?" "Yes." "Are you sure you didn't just misplace it?" I shook my head vehemently. "I know I can be scatter fluff sometimes, but I wouldn't misplace something that valuable. It was stolen." "Do you have documentation for the item?" Debbie passed the folder containing the insurance information across the desk. Chief Allic flipped the folder open and studied the pictures inside. As he did so, I explained. "The puppy was locked safely in our curio cabinet last night. When I woke up this morning, it had gone poof." Chief Allic whistled. "This puppy is crafted of the highest quality 24k gold. It must've cost you a small fortune." Baby Austin spoke up. "It cost me about 11 grand." He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "I don't care about the monitory loss, but I would like to get it back. It means a great deal to us." Chief Allic nodded his understanding. "Well, I'll do whatever I can to help." He reached for the phone sitting on his desk. "I'll send a team out to your place to search for clues." Debbie gave a sudden start. "Oh my word! I almost forgot." "What is it?" Baby Austin asked her. Debbie reached "to her pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it out on the desk Debbie said, "I found this on the floor by the cabinet when you went to get the insurance papers." We all leaned in to read the note. In a jagged scrawl the note read: puppy barks. Puppy howls. You will yowl. Demands met. Compliance given. Puppy returned home. Refuse to obey. And you will not survey. Your puppy made from clay. Below this poem was an address and a time. We sat stunned for a few seconds after Debbie had finished reading. Baby Austin broke the silence. "I bet my ass that those dastardly doctors are behind this." I nodded in agreement. "This feels like the kind of thing they'd do." Debbie shuttered. "Ooh, I hate even thinking about them." Chief Allic looked from Debbie to Baby Austin. His gaze stopped on my face which wore an expression of distaste. "Hang on." He said slowly. "You don't mean--" Baby Austin let out a little growl. "Babs and Dr. W." He confirmed darkly. Chief Allic's forehead wrinkled. "We put them behind bars. Remember when they attempted to take over Buffalo with animatronic zombies several years ago." "We remember." Debbie said grimly. Baby Austin was flexing his fingers. "I've never met them, but Colty has told me all about them. I would love to get my paws on those stupid vets." At that moment, my phone began playing the theme song to the original Power Rangers. Reaching for it I said, "right on time." I tapped the screen. The proximity sensor automatically activated the speaker function. "Yo what's good?" The voice which issued from the device was impossibly deep and gravelly. Clearly the person was using a voice changer app or device. "Your time is running out. You hear me you stupid puffed up purple puppy?" "What you want?" I asked. "We want you." The unseen caller replied. "We want to use that tight ass of yours." A laugh -- colder then the Alaskan tundra -- froze my blood. "When we get through using you as our personal fuck toy, you won't be able to sit for 3 months." The voice paused briefly. "We'll let you recover then we'll start all over again." More evil laughter. Baby Austin was clenching his paws so hard his knuckles had gone white. His voice throbbed with rage. "If you so much as lay a single finger on my boyfriend, I will kill you! I swear to the Great Dog God I will!" Chief Allic leaned forward. "I'm the chief of police and I just heard you threaten kidnapping and imprisonment. Not to mention rape. I suggest you surrender yourself immediately." "Go fuck yourself." The electronically modulated voice answered. "We're not afraid of the cops! Stupid lazy fuckers you all are. Sitting on your asses all day eating doughnuts and drinking coffee." Debbie spoke up. "Where's Colton's gold puppy?" "Wouldn't you like to know." "Yes we would." I snapped. The caller was silent for a few moments. "Tell ya what. Let's make a deal. We'll give you the puppy if you give us Colton. You can have your little figurine if Colton gives us himself. That sounds like a fair trade." Baby Austin opened his mouth furiously, but I lay a restraining paw on his arm. "If we do this trade, how do we know you won't reneg on your half?" "You don't." The voice grew impatient. "I ain't got all day. Deal or no deal? Your ass in exchange for the gold puppy. Decide quickly. Tick tock." I looked at the others in the room. A silent message passed between us. Baby Austin was still holding my paw. He gave it a soft squeeze. "We don't have a choice." He said sadly. "I'm sorry Colty, but that gold puppy is far more valuable then you are." My voice was choked with tears. "Baby Austin! How could you do this to me dude? I thought you loved me!" Baby Austin dropped me a wink as he answered. "Nah dude. I don't do love." He let out a cold laugh. "I was just screwing with you dude. I only wanted a hole to fill. That's all you ever were to me. Just a fuck toy." I was impressed with Baby Austin's performance. His words should've cut my heart into ribbons, but the love and devotion shining from his eyes couldn't be faked. "Fine you asshole!" I yelled at him. "I thought we had something here man. I thought we were a team. Well you know what? You can take that stupid gold puppy and shove it up your ass!" The voice on the phone was laughing now. "You see? You see? All you fags are the same. You don't want love. You just want to fuck each other stupid." "Name the time and place." I said grimly. "The time is now. The place is the old Ronald McDonald house over on West Ferry Street. We'll expect you in 20 minutes. Oh and don't bother wearing any threads. We want to see exactly what we're getting." Twenty-two minutes later we pulled up to the old safehouse. The once cozy structure had been abandoned for years. Weeds choked the front yard and several windows were broken. A lose shutter baned against the wooden frame. A Wheaping Willow tree cast the house beneath it in its shadow. I shivered. The house was creepy. Baby Austin squeezed my bare thigh. It'll be all over soon." I took his paw and put it where it belonged. My dick stiffened as Baby Austin squeezed it. "You owe me a blowjob after this boy." He chuckled and leaned down to nustle my nuts. "Deal." My phone rang then and I answered it. "You're late." "Sorry. Traffic was bad." "I have no use for exuses. Get your ass out of the car and don't try anything funny." Debbie got my chair out of the trunk and I climbed into it. A gentle breeze tickled my balls. I was a nudest as a rule, but never outsside our crib before. The strange voice spoke again. "Good you're naked. Stand up and turn around. Baby Austin helped me stand. We stood with our crotches touching. My bare boy bits rubbed against my boyfriend's jeans. I was so fucking hard. A low whistle came from my phone. "That's one hot ass. We're gonna have a lot of fun turning you out. Spread his cheeks for me." Austin's paws slid down my back to cup my ass. He spread me wide as requested. The breeze felt good as it passed over my hole. "I'm gonna fuck you so damn good when this is all over." I kissed him passionately. His fingers started to stroke along my crack. The voice became sharp. "None of that gay shit now! Sit your ass down." I obeyed. I was leaking precum like a faucet. Baby Austin knelt and touched his tongue to the head of my dick. I moaned as he swirled it around. A bullet slammed into the car inches from my head. The crack of the gunshot made everyone jump. "The next one is going into your nuts. I hate having to repeat myself." Baby Austin quickly stood up and moved in front of me. "That's better. Now approach the front porch nice and easy." Baby Austin pushed me up the walkway. We stopped at the foot of a short flight of stairs. "Help you little fuck toy up the stairs." Baby Austin refused. "You come out and carry him in." The voice was icy. "Tell me boy. Do you ever wanna have kids? That won't be possible if I blow your balls off." Baby Austin lifted me into his arms and carried me up the three steps to the sacking porch. The door creeked as it swung open. A shadowy figure was just visible beyond the threshold. As we passed it, the figure murmured, "welcome to my humble home." The figure gestured with the pistol he held. Down the hall and turn left." The shadow followed in our wake as Baby Austin obeyed the directions. We entered a living room. It had the air of being warm and welcoming at some point in the past. Now it just looked dead. A two seater sofa faced a fireplace. A merrily crackling fire sent dancing shadows flickering over the room. In the uncertain light our host seemed to have the face of Freddy Kruegger. I was puzzled until I realized that he wore a mask. The pistol gestured again. "Put your little cocksucker down on the couch and get your ass out of here." Baby Austin didn't move. The man gestured impatiently with the gun again. "Move your ass now." "Where's the puppy?" My boyfriend demanded. I pointed at the mantlepiece. "There it is." Baby Austin crossed the room and lowered me gentlly onto the cushions. "Very good. Now leave us." Baby Austin reached around to his back and pulled the Desert Eagle from beneath his belt. He swiveled to face the wouldbe kidnapper bringing up the gun even as he turned. "Drop the gun." My boyfriend's voice was hard as stone. I had never heard him use that tone before. Fredy's eyes widened and he took a couple steps back. "I didn't mean nothing man. Honest. I just wanted some extra cash." The Desert Eagle remained pointing between Fredy's eyes. "Drop the gun. I'm not telling you again. The pistol fell to the floor with a clatter. Fredy raised his hands in surrender. At that moment, the door burst open and an entire swatt team swarmed into the room. Actually, it was only two officers and Debbie. One of the officers went straight toward Fredy while the other one removed his jacket and draped it over my lap. Baby Austin cheerfully surrendered the Desert Eagle to the officers. He sat next to me and we cuddled. Fredy pulled off the mask and wiped his sweaty forehead. "Phew, it's hot in that thing." Dr. W said. "Do you mind telling us why you stole the gold puppy?" Dr. W shrugged. "I only wanted to make a little money. I hate living paycheck to paycheck. Hand to mouth every single month." "Well now you will be in prison for 5 years." Dr. W was lead away. My breath whooshed from my lungs as I hit our mattress. I was still naked. Baby Austin's paws and tongue were everywhere. He licked and suckled my nipples. One of his hands stroked my shaft while he fondled my nuts with the other. My dick was leaking like crazy. I tugged at my boyfriend's head fur. My nipple popped from his mouth and I pulled him upuntil we were face to face. "I love you boy!" Our lips crashed together. The paw working my shaft moved faster. I moaned into his lips. When we finally broke the kiss, we were breathless. "Suck me boy!" I panted. Baby Austin slid down my body until he could take me into his mouth. I shuttered with pleasure as I felt his warm mouth engulf my member. He sucked hard and I whimpered. "Oh my Austin! Fuck yeah boy. Suck my dick. Suck it good! Take it all down your throat." I fisted the sheet as my skilled boyfriend obeyed my commands. Baby Austin licked and sucked and nib4 at my dick for what seemed like hours. More than once he had even taken my nuts into his mouth and sucked on them too. He had two fingers shoved into my ass and was viguriously rubbing my prostate. I was moaning and riving in ecstasy. "Fuck yeah boy! I wanna feed you my juice. When Baby Austin's lips closed around my shaft once more he sucked hard while furiously finger fucking me. I cried out as my body arched. My dick swelled in Baby Austin's mouth right before it began shooting my jizz down his throat. Five, six -- eleven times my cock pulsed in his mouth. He was still rubbing my love button and the added pressure made my dick shoot even harder then usual. Finally I had to beg him to stop. My cum tanks were empty, but the pressure on my love button kept my dick quivering in his mouth as it tried to shoot even more jizz. At last, Baby Austin allowed my dick to fall from his lips. He pulled his fingers from my ass and crawled up in the bed until his large nuts swing over my own lips. He grinned wickedly down at me. "My turn." After a few seconds I recovered enough strength to lick those tasty orbs. Baby Austin's ten inche pole was drooling all over my face. I licked, sucked, and nib4 at Baby Austin's package for a few minutes. I wasn't able to take his entire shaft down my throat like he had with me, but I did lick and suck on his head. I jerked him off while I sucked. I also played with his balls. Baby Austin pulled his dick from my mouth and furiously stroked it. "I'm gonna cover your face with my jizz! You like that boy? You want my cream all over your pretty face?" My only answer was to suck hard at his huge mushroom head. He threw back his head and howled as his dick swelled. I quickly pulled off and jerked him. Long sticky ropes of warm man milk blasted out and hit my face. My boyfriend had always been a heavy shooter and when his nuts were finally empty, my face was covered with his essence from chin to hairline. Baby Austin collapsed next to me. He was breathing hard. I put a paw on his chest had felt the rapid pace of his heart. I toyed with one of his nipples as he caught his breath. When he had, I felt Baby Austin petting my head. "Good doggy. Good boy." I barked softly and nuzzled his paw. We shared a tender kiss. "I love you Colty." "Same here old man." "I'm glad Dr. W is in prison." "Me too.? We spooned and I fell asleep with his arm draped protectively over me. Colton Conner, the Friendly Neighborhood Puppy. Just leaving tiny paw prints that matter.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Wed, 13 Mar 2024 02:54:06 -0400 (EDT) From: Colton Conner &lt;megatronjames@gmail.com&gt; Subject: The Mystery of the Vanished Puppy Hi guys, its been a while but below you will find an original story by yours truly. As ever, this is work of fiction and not meant to imply anything about the real people mentioned. Baby Austin is of Austin Mahone who is still my top fantasy boy even after all these years. please feel free to email me when he comments or suggestions etc at megatronjames@gmail.com The Mystery of the Vanished Puppy by Colton Conner Sunday, August 28, 2022 I stared in disbelief at the empty space in my curio cabinet. My gaze swept over the ceramic dolphin, the resin howling timber wolf statue and the mounted turtle shell. I felt my heart sink as I realized what was missing. I turned to Debbie. Like me, she was also studying the shelf. "Everything is here except for your golden Puppy." "I know." I whimpered. "That puppy is damn near priceless." "Yeah, but that's not the worst of it though. Baby Austin gave that puppy to me. It was my 5th anniversary present." I felt tears well up in my eyes. Debbie placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry Colton. We'll get it back." I took a shaky breath and with an effort of will, I forced the tears back. "You're right." Debbie had her phone out and was taking pictures of the cabinet. "Do you still have the insurance papers?" "Yeah. We keep all of our important papers in a safe." I rolled into our bedroom. The bed was still rumbled from that morning's activity. I smiled slightly as I remembered the naughty things Baby Austin had done to me. The safe was concealed behind a portrait of the two of us. It had been created last year when we went to Hawaii on vacation. The artist had captured us we took a stroll down one of the black sand beaches. Baby Austin was pushing me in an all-terrain chair. We were both bare chested and wore only shorts. The water gleamed with a soft golden radiance in the setting sun. When I returned to the living room, Debbie had finished taking pictures. I handed her the document. She gazed down at it and let out a long, low whistle. "Holy shit! This puppy costs more then my entire crib at full market value." "Yeah. Its 6 grams of pure 24 karat gold." Debbie shook her head in amazement. "Damn, Austin must really love you." Right on cue, the front door opened and my hot boyfriend strolled in. Baby Austin was breathing a little heavily having just returned from his morning run. He was wearing only a tight pair of workout shorts which did an excellent job of accentuating his package. I knew that Baby Austin preferred to free ball when he went running. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. Baby Austin grinned as he spotted us. "Yo whats up? Didn't know we were going to have company." He moved to stand next to me. He ruffled my head fur. "Yo champ! What's popping." He bent down and we kissed. I smiled up at him. "Yo Austy. How was your run?" "Good. Ran into Jack and Jack walking their puppy. Spent a few minutes just shooting the shit with them." "How are they?" "Still as sexy as ever." "Clive?" "He's just as rambunctious as ever. Nearly knocked me on my ass jumping on me. What's new with you?" Debbie had been looking at something on her phone while my boyfriend and I had been talking. Now she spoke. "That golden puppy you gave Colton disappeared sometime last night." The cheerful expression died out of Baby Austin's face. "You're joking. Right?" Debbie and I both shook our heads in unison. "I wish I was." I said. "I discovered the puppy was missing after you left this morning. I called Debbie right away." "This needs to be reported to the police." Austin ran a paw through his hair. "Let me shower and change then we can go down to the police station." Twenty minutes later we were ready to leave. I had thrown on a t-shirt over my cargo shorts and Baby Austin had changed into a polo shirt and jeans. Debbie road in the backseat while Baby Austin drove. I road shotgun. The police station was small and dingy. Small cubicles were located behind the bull pen. The air was full of ringing phones and lively chatter. The smell of coffee hung over the room like an invisible cloud. A smiling young man greeted us. "Hello there. I'm Officer Sunnshine. How may I help you?" Baby Austin gave a little cough which hid a snicker. The smile faded slightly, but Officer Sunnshine hitched it back at once. "My parents were farmers. They believed in giving meaningful names to their kids in the hope of pleasing the gods. If 'the gods were pleased then their crops would flourish and the harvest would be plentiful." He shrugged. I spoke up. "Is Chief Allic here?" Officer Sunnshine nodded. "He's in his office." "Could you ring him?" The officer nodded. He picked up the phone and placed the call. When the call was answered, he spoke into the receiver. "Chief Allic. I have 3 civilians out here. They would like to speak with you." Officer Sunnshine listened for a moment then covered the mouth piece. "He wants to know who you are." "Tell him its Colton Conner and two friends. The chief knows who I am." Officer Sunnshine's eyes widened in recognition. He quickly relayed the information. When he put down the phone he was smiling. "It is such an honor to meet the famous Colton Conner in person. Go on back." Chief Allic had an actual office rather then just a cubical. The powerfully built man rose to greet us. Chief Allic stood at 6/4. He cut an intimidating figure, but I knew him to possess a good nature. etective Conner old man! How are you?" We shook hands. The chief's grip was firm. "I'm just as crunchy as a cookie." I replied grinning. "How about you?" The chief chuckled. "Same old shit dude. Fender benders, litter bugs, graffiti. The usual. Never changes." He sighed. "Just once, I wish we could have something exciting happen. Maybe a homicide. Maybe a drug bust. Something. It gets tedious having to deal with the same shit day in and day out." "I think I might be able to spice up your job." Chief Allic leaned forward. "Oh? Tell me more." I started to explain about the golden puppy's disappearance. I felt Baby Austin 'slip his paw into mine. He squeezed reassuringly. The chief frowned as he listened. "You say that you had a golden puppy figurine that was stolen?" "Yes." "Are you sure you didn't just misplace it?" I shook my head vehemently. "I know I can be scatter fluff sometimes, but I wouldn't misplace something that valuable. It was stolen." "Do you have documentation for the item?" Debbie passed the folder containing the insurance information across the desk. Chief Allic flipped the folder open and studied the pictures inside. As he did so, I explained. "The puppy was locked safely in our curio cabinet last night. When I woke up this morning, it had gone poof." Chief Allic whistled. "This puppy is crafted of the highest quality 24k gold. It must've cost you a small fortune." Baby Austin spoke up. "It cost me about 11 grand." He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. "I don't care about the monitory loss, but I would like to get it back. It means a great deal to us." Chief Allic nodded his understanding. "Well, I'll do whatever I can to help." He reached for the phone sitting on his desk. "I'll send a team out to your place to search for clues." Debbie gave a sudden start. "Oh my word! I almost forgot." "What is it?" Baby Austin asked her. Debbie reached "to her pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper. Smoothing it out on the desk Debbie said, "I found this on the floor by the cabinet when you went to get the insurance papers." We all leaned in to read the note. In a jagged scrawl the note read: puppy barks. Puppy howls. You will yowl. Demands met. Compliance given. Puppy returned home. Refuse to obey. And you will not survey. Your puppy made from clay. Below this poem was an address and a time. We sat stunned for a few seconds after Debbie had finished reading. Baby Austin broke the silence. "I bet my ass that those dastardly doctors are behind this." I nodded in agreement. "This feels like the kind of thing they'd do." Debbie shuttered. "Ooh, I hate even thinking about them." Chief Allic looked from Debbie to Baby Austin. His gaze stopped on my face which wore an expression of distaste. "Hang on." He said slowly. "You don't mean--" Baby Austin let out a little growl. "Babs and Dr. W." He confirmed darkly. Chief Allic's forehead wrinkled. "We put them behind bars. Remember when they attempted to take over Buffalo with animatronic zombies several years ago." "We remember." Debbie said grimly. Baby Austin was flexing his fingers. "I've never met them, but Colty has told me all about them. I would love to get my paws on those stupid vets." At that moment, my phone began playing the theme song to the original Power Rangers. Reaching for it I said, "right on time." I tapped the screen. The proximity sensor automatically activated the speaker function. "Yo what's good?" The voice which issued from the device was impossibly deep and gravelly. Clearly the person was using a voice changer app or device. "Your time is running out. You hear me you stupid puffed up purple puppy?" "What you want?" I asked. "We want you." The unseen caller replied. "We want to use that tight ass of yours." A laugh -- colder then the Alaskan tundra -- froze my blood. "When we get through using you as our personal fuck toy, you won't be able to sit for 3 months." The voice paused briefly. "We'll let you recover then we'll start all over again." More evil laughter. Baby Austin was clenching his paws so hard his knuckles had gone white. His voice throbbed with rage. "If you so much as lay a single finger on my boyfriend, I will kill you! I swear to the Great Dog God I will!" Chief Allic leaned forward. "I'm the chief of police and I just heard you threaten kidnapping and imprisonment. Not to mention rape. I suggest you surrender yourself immediately." "Go fuck yourself." The electronically modulated voice answered. "We're not afraid of the cops! Stupid lazy fuckers you all are. Sitting on your asses all day eating doughnuts and drinking coffee." Debbie spoke up. "Where's Colton's gold puppy?" "Wouldn't you like to know." "Yes we would." I snapped. The caller was silent for a few moments. "Tell ya what. Let's make a deal. We'll give you the puppy if you give us Colton. You can have your little figurine if Colton gives us himself. That sounds like a fair trade." Baby Austin opened his mouth furiously, but I lay a restraining paw on his arm. "If we do this trade, how do we know you won't reneg on your half?" "You don't." The voice grew impatient. "I ain't got all day. Deal or no deal? Your ass in exchange for the gold puppy. Decide quickly. Tick tock." I looked at the others in the room. A silent message passed between us. Baby Austin was still holding my paw. He gave it a soft squeeze. "We don't have a choice." He said sadly. "I'm sorry Colty, but that gold puppy is far more valuable then you are." My voice was choked with tears. "Baby Austin! How could you do this to me dude? I thought you loved me!" Baby Austin dropped me a wink as he answered. "Nah dude. I don't do love." He let out a cold laugh. "I was just screwing with you dude. I only wanted a hole to fill. That's all you ever were to me. Just a fuck toy." I was impressed with Baby Austin's performance. His words should've cut my heart into ribbons, but the love and devotion shining from his eyes couldn't be faked. "Fine you asshole!" I yelled at him. "I thought we had something here man. I thought we were a team. Well you know what? You can take that stupid gold puppy and shove it up your ass!" The voice on the phone was laughing now. "You see? You see? All you fags are the same. You don't want love. You just want to fuck each other stupid." "Name the time and place." I said grimly. "The time is now. The place is the old Ronald McDonald house over on West Ferry Street. We'll expect you in 20 minutes. Oh and don't bother wearing any threads. We want to see exactly what we're getting." Twenty-two minutes later we pulled up to the old safehouse. The once cozy structure had been abandoned for years. Weeds choked the front yard and several windows were broken. A lose shutter baned against the wooden frame. A Wheaping Willow tree cast the house beneath it in its shadow. I shivered. The house was creepy. Baby Austin squeezed my bare thigh. It'll be all over soon." I took his paw and put it where it belonged. My dick stiffened as Baby Austin squeezed it. "You owe me a blowjob after this boy." He chuckled and leaned down to nustle my nuts. "Deal." My phone rang then and I answered it. "You're late." "Sorry. Traffic was bad." "I have no use for exuses. Get your ass out of the car and don't try anything funny." Debbie got my chair out of the trunk and I climbed into it. A gentle breeze tickled my balls. I was a nudest as a rule, but never outsside our crib before. The strange voice spoke again. "Good you're naked. Stand up and turn around. Baby Austin helped me stand. We stood with our crotches touching. My bare boy bits rubbed against my boyfriend's jeans. I was so fucking hard. A low whistle came from my phone. "That's one hot ass. We're gonna have a lot of fun turning you out. Spread his cheeks for me." Austin's paws slid down my back to cup my ass. He spread me wide as requested. The breeze felt good as it passed over my hole. "I'm gonna fuck you so damn good when this is all over." I kissed him passionately. His fingers started to stroke along my crack. The voice became sharp. "None of that gay shit now! Sit your ass down." I obeyed. I was leaking precum like a faucet. Baby Austin knelt and touched his tongue to the head of my dick. I moaned as he swirled it around. A bullet slammed into the car inches from my head. The crack of the gunshot made everyone jump. "The next one is going into your nuts. I hate having to repeat myself." Baby Austin quickly stood up and moved in front of me. "That's better. Now approach the front porch nice and easy." Baby Austin pushed me up the walkway. We stopped at the foot of a short flight of stairs. "Help you little fuck toy up the stairs." Baby Austin refused. "You come out and carry him in." The voice was icy. "Tell me boy. Do you ever wanna have kids? That won't be possible if I blow your balls off." Baby Austin lifted me into his arms and carried me up the three steps to the sacking porch. The door creeked as it swung open. A shadowy figure was just visible beyond the threshold. As we passed it, the figure murmured, "welcome to my humble home." The figure gestured with the pistol he held. Down the hall and turn left." The shadow followed in our wake as Baby Austin obeyed the directions. We entered a living room. It had the air of being warm and welcoming at some point in the past. Now it just looked dead. A two seater sofa faced a fireplace. A merrily crackling fire sent dancing shadows flickering over the room. In the uncertain light our host seemed to have the face of Freddy Kruegger. I was puzzled until I realized that he wore a mask. The pistol gestured again. "Put your little cocksucker down on the couch and get your ass out of here." Baby Austin didn't move. The man gestured impatiently with the gun again. "Move your ass now." "Where's the puppy?" My boyfriend demanded. I pointed at the mantlepiece. "There it is." Baby Austin crossed the room and lowered me gentlly onto the cushions. "Very good. Now leave us." Baby Austin reached around to his back and pulled the Desert Eagle from beneath his belt. He swiveled to face the wouldbe kidnapper bringing up the gun even as he turned. "Drop the gun." My boyfriend's voice was hard as stone. I had never heard him use that tone before. Fredy's eyes widened and he took a couple steps back. "I didn't mean nothing man. Honest. I just wanted some extra cash." The Desert Eagle remained pointing between Fredy's eyes. "Drop the gun. I'm not telling you again. The pistol fell to the floor with a clatter. Fredy raised his hands in surrender. At that moment, the door burst open and an entire swatt team swarmed into the room. Actually, it was only two officers and Debbie. One of the officers went straight toward Fredy while the other one removed his jacket and draped it over my lap. Baby Austin cheerfully surrendered the Desert Eagle to the officers. He sat next to me and we cuddled. Fredy pulled off the mask and wiped his sweaty forehead. "Phew, it's hot in that thing." Dr. W said. "Do you mind telling us why you stole the gold puppy?" Dr. W shrugged. "I only wanted to make a little money. I hate living paycheck to paycheck. Hand to mouth every single month." "Well now you will be in prison for 5 years." Dr. W was lead away. My breath whooshed from my lungs as I hit our mattress. I was still naked. Baby Austin's paws and tongue were everywhere. He licked and suckled my nipples. One of his hands stroked my shaft while he fondled my nuts with the other. My dick was leaking like crazy. I tugged at my boyfriend's head fur. My nipple popped from his mouth and I pulled him upuntil we were face to face. "I love you boy!" Our lips crashed together. The paw working my shaft moved faster. I moaned into his lips. When we finally broke the kiss, we were breathless. "Suck me boy!" I panted. Baby Austin slid down my body until he could take me into his mouth. I shuttered with pleasure as I felt his warm mouth engulf my member. He sucked hard and I whimpered. "Oh my Austin! Fuck yeah boy. Suck my dick. Suck it good! Take it all down your throat." I fisted the sheet as my skilled boyfriend obeyed my commands. Baby Austin licked and sucked and nib4 at my dick for what seemed like hours. More than once he had even taken my nuts into his mouth and sucked on them too. He had two fingers shoved into my ass and was viguriously rubbing my prostate. I was moaning and riving in ecstasy. "Fuck yeah boy! I wanna feed you my juice. When Baby Austin's lips closed around my shaft once more he sucked hard while furiously finger fucking me. I cried out as my body arched. My dick swelled in Baby Austin's mouth right before it began shooting my jizz down his throat. Five, six -- eleven times my cock pulsed in his mouth. He was still rubbing my love button and the added pressure made my dick shoot even harder then usual. Finally I had to beg him to stop. My cum tanks were empty, but the pressure on my love button kept my dick quivering in his mouth as it tried to shoot even more jizz. At last, Baby Austin allowed my dick to fall from his lips. He pulled his fingers from my ass and crawled up in the bed until his large nuts swing over my own lips. He grinned wickedly down at me. "My turn." After a few seconds I recovered enough strength to lick those tasty orbs. Baby Austin's ten inche pole was drooling all over my face. I licked, sucked, and nib4 at Baby Austin's package for a few minutes. I wasn't able to take his entire shaft down my throat like he had with me, but I did lick and suck on his head. I jerked him off while I sucked. I also played with his balls. Baby Austin pulled his dick from my mouth and furiously stroked it. "I'm gonna cover your face with my jizz! You like that boy? You want my cream all over your pretty face?" My only answer was to suck hard at his huge mushroom head. He threw back his head and howled as his dick swelled. I quickly pulled off and jerked him. Long sticky ropes of warm man milk blasted out and hit my face. My boyfriend had always been a heavy shooter and when his nuts were finally empty, my face was covered with his essence from chin to hairline. Baby Austin collapsed next to me. He was breathing hard. I put a paw on his chest had felt the rapid pace of his heart. I toyed with one of his nipples as he caught his breath. When he had, I felt Baby Austin petting my head. "Good doggy. Good boy." I barked softly and nuzzled his paw. We shared a tender kiss. "I love you Colty." "Same here old man." "I'm glad Dr. W is in prison." "Me too.? We spooned and I fell asleep with his arm draped protectively over me. Colton Conner, the Friendly Neighborhood Puppy. Just leaving tiny paw prints that matter. </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/fucked-in-the-van

Date: Sun, 25 Aug 2024 19:57:02 +0000 From: Sven Benters Subject: Fucked In The Van This is a fanfiction story with the characters Aaron Dingle (Danny Miller) and John Sugden (Oliver Farnworth). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ITV EMMERDALE John is named as "the man" since this story is based on the sex scene the soap skipped on Emmerdale and at that moment Aaron didn't know his name was John. ********************************* "I was wondering when you would shut up." The stranger says and pulls Aaron in a kiss. Aaron presses the stranger against the van and kisses him. A few minutes earlier Aaron didn't think he was going to have this hot outdoor sex by helping this stranger with his van that broke down. Hot kissing between the two men while they feel each other up and walk towards the back of the van where the man opens the back doors of the van. Aaron sees the man living in this van and notices the mattress in it. "Sorry I have nothing else fancy." The man says. "This will do." Aaron replies and winks at the man while removing his vest, showing himself in a black t-shirt that reveals his muscles. The man lays himself in the van and Aaron climbs on top of him. The two men kiss and Aaron pulls the man's shirt up, revealing the hairy body of the guy and starts to admire it by running his tongue from the chest down, following the hairy trail. The hairy stranger moans, feeling that tongue going over his hairy body, making him feel good and horny about it. The man reaches his hand out and pulls the black t-shirt off of Aaron, revealing that masculine body of Aaron. The stranger smiles, enjoying what he sees. Both reach for each other's jeans and start to pull them down. "I want to fuck you man." Aaron admits. "You can but I will fuck you too." The man says. Both smile and start to kiss again. Aaron helps the man out of his blouse and shirt, feeling that hairy body up. The man feels up that buff masculine body of Aaron. With their pants and underwear pulled off from each other, Aaron lays naked on the hairy man, feeling him up. "Give me that ass man." Aaron says and goes down to get between those legs to rim that hole. The man grabs hold of the sheets, balding his fists and lets himself be taken over from the pleasure he's feeling by getting rimmed. Aaron is so horny and hard he gets quickly back up and brings his dick to the man's hole. "Ready to get fucked?" Aaron asks. "Give it to me man." Aaron starts bringing in his thick hard dick. "Mmmmmm FUUUUCCCKKKK!" The man moans out, getting Aaron's thick dick all the way inside him. When fully lodged inside the hairy man Aaron starts to fuck him. Both feel each other's bodies up and enjoy the fucking. Aaron grunts and hovers over the hairy hottie, rubbing his hand over that hairy chest and leans in to kiss with the man. "Don't stop man, keep fucking me." The man says through the kissing. Outside the van is shaking from Aaron's deep hard thrusts that he's giving the man. Quickly the man turns Aaron around and rides Aaron's dick. "FUUUUCCKKK!" Aaron moans, enjoying how his dick is being ridden. Aaron feels his dick being fully ridden by the hairy stranger. "Yeah man, ride my dick, don't stop!" The man leans forward and kisses Aaron. Aaron wraps his arms tightly around the man and thrusts his hips up to fuck the man hard for awhile until he let's go of the man. "Now I want to fuck you." The man says and gets off of Aaron. Aaron gets on his hands and knees, feeling the man getting behind him and starts to rim him. "Fuck yeah man, that feels so good." Aaron admits while he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it. The man keeps rimming Aaron, hearing how Aaron moans loudly. Then the man gets further up and strokes his hard dick to bring it to Aaron's ass. "Here it comes man." The man says and starts to thrust his dick inside Aaron. "FUUUUUCCKKK!!" Aaron screams, feeling how big the man is. Also this round the van shakes from outside while Aaron gets fucked this time. "Take it man, fucking take my dick!" The man suddenly starts to get rougher, pouding Aaron's ass. Aaron feels the man's hands over his back to his shoulders and thrusting hard and deep inside him. The man takes his dick out of Aaron and rams it back inside, repeating that motion for a while. Aaron moans loudly, taking the rough thrusting. The man climbs completely over Aaron's back, having his arms beside Aaron, his hairy chest on Aaron's back fucking the hunky bottom. "Now this is a fuck!" The man whispers in Aaron's ear. Aaron moans, enjoying that dick hitting his prostate over and over again. The man reaches his hand towards Aaron's dick and starts to stroke it to the rhythm of his thrusts. Aaron gets pulled up on his knees, leaning against the man, letting himself being stroked and fucked. The man kisses Aaron's neck. "I'm about to cum man!" Aaron admits. "Yeah, cum for me." Aaron gets pushed forward again on his hands and knees, still being stroked and fucked. Then Aaron tenses up and shoots his load. "FUUUUCCKKK!!" Aaron screams. "Yeah man, that's fucking hot." The man says and gives several thrusts before cumming inside Aaron. "FUCK YEAH!" Aaron and the man drop down on the mattress, catching their breath. "That was intense." Aaron says. "It sure was." The man says. "We better get dressed now." Aaron jumps up to pull his shirt on. The man pulls Aaron in a kiss as thank you for this amazing fuck. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Sun, 25 Aug 2024 19:57:02 +0000 From: Sven Benters <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Subject: Fucked In The Van This is a fanfiction story with the characters Aaron Dingle (Danny Miller) and John Sugden (Oliver Farnworth). This story says nothing about the actors' sexual references; it's just fiction. Copyrights © ITV EMMERDALE John is named as "the man" since this story is based on the sex scene the soap skipped on Emmerdale and at that moment Aaron didn't know his name was John. ********************************* "I was wondering when you would shut up." The stranger says and pulls Aaron in a kiss. Aaron presses the stranger against the van and kisses him. A few minutes earlier Aaron didn't think he was going to have this hot outdoor sex by helping this stranger with his van that broke down. Hot kissing between the two men while they feel each other up and walk towards the back of the van where the man opens the back doors of the van. Aaron sees the man living in this van and notices the mattress in it. "Sorry I have nothing else fancy." The man says. "This will do." Aaron replies and winks at the man while removing his vest, showing himself in a black t-shirt that reveals his muscles. The man lays himself in the van and Aaron climbs on top of him. The two men kiss and Aaron pulls the man's shirt up, revealing the hairy body of the guy and starts to admire it by running his tongue from the chest down, following the hairy trail. The hairy stranger moans, feeling that tongue going over his hairy body, making him feel good and horny about it. The man reaches his hand out and pulls the black t-shirt off of Aaron, revealing that masculine body of Aaron. The stranger smiles, enjoying what he sees. Both reach for each other's jeans and start to pull them down. "I want to fuck you man." Aaron admits. "You can but I will fuck you too." The man says. Both smile and start to kiss again. Aaron helps the man out of his blouse and shirt, feeling that hairy body up. The man feels up that buff masculine body of Aaron. With their pants and underwear pulled off from each other, Aaron lays naked on the hairy man, feeling him up. "Give me that ass man." Aaron says and goes down to get between those legs to rim that hole. The man grabs hold of the sheets, balding his fists and lets himself be taken over from the pleasure he's feeling by getting rimmed. Aaron is so horny and hard he gets quickly back up and brings his dick to the man's hole. "Ready to get fucked?" Aaron asks. "Give it to me man." Aaron starts bringing in his thick hard dick. "Mmmmmm FUUUUCCCKKKK!" The man moans out, getting Aaron's thick dick all the way inside him. When fully lodged inside the hairy man Aaron starts to fuck him. Both feel each other's bodies up and enjoy the fucking. Aaron grunts and hovers over the hairy hottie, rubbing his hand over that hairy chest and leans in to kiss with the man. "Don't stop man, keep fucking me." The man says through the kissing. Outside the van is shaking from Aaron's deep hard thrusts that he's giving the man. Quickly the man turns Aaron around and rides Aaron's dick. "FUUUUCCKKK!" Aaron moans, enjoying how his dick is being ridden. Aaron feels his dick being fully ridden by the hairy stranger. "Yeah man, ride my dick, don't stop!" The man leans forward and kisses Aaron. Aaron wraps his arms tightly around the man and thrusts his hips up to fuck the man hard for awhile until he let's go of the man. "Now I want to fuck you." The man says and gets off of Aaron. Aaron gets on his hands and knees, feeling the man getting behind him and starts to rim him. "Fuck yeah man, that feels so good." Aaron admits while he grabs hold of his dick to stroke it. The man keeps rimming Aaron, hearing how Aaron moans loudly. Then the man gets further up and strokes his hard dick to bring it to Aaron's ass. "Here it comes man." The man says and starts to thrust his dick inside Aaron. "FUUUUUCCKKK!!" Aaron screams, feeling how big the man is. Also this round the van shakes from outside while Aaron gets fucked this time. "Take it man, fucking take my dick!" The man suddenly starts to get rougher, pouding Aaron's ass. Aaron feels the man's hands over his back to his shoulders and thrusting hard and deep inside him. The man takes his dick out of Aaron and rams it back inside, repeating that motion for a while. Aaron moans loudly, taking the rough thrusting. The man climbs completely over Aaron's back, having his arms beside Aaron, his hairy chest on Aaron's back fucking the hunky bottom. "Now this is a fuck!" The man whispers in Aaron's ear. Aaron moans, enjoying that dick hitting his prostate over and over again. The man reaches his hand towards Aaron's dick and starts to stroke it to the rhythm of his thrusts. Aaron gets pulled up on his knees, leaning against the man, letting himself being stroked and fucked. The man kisses Aaron's neck. "I'm about to cum man!" Aaron admits. "Yeah, cum for me." Aaron gets pushed forward again on his hands and knees, still being stroked and fucked. Then Aaron tenses up and shoots his load. "FUUUUCCKKK!!" Aaron screams. "Yeah man, that's fucking hot." The man says and gives several thrusts before cumming inside Aaron. "FUCK YEAH!" Aaron and the man drop down on the mattress, catching their breath. "That was intense." Aaron says. "It sure was." The man says. "We better get dressed now." Aaron jumps up to pull his shirt on. The man pulls Aaron in a kiss as thank you for this amazing fuck. ********************************* If you enjoyed the story or have a request please send me a message <daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> Please donate to Nifty for support to let this great site and its archive stay free. </daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com></daytimemenhotness@hotmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/premiership-lads-346

Date: Fri, 27 Jan 2023 22:10:44 +0000 From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com> Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 346 Part 346: Defenders Unleashed Without a manager about the training camp, there was a strange afternoon; after all, the sullen mood of defeat and almost inevitable relegation had already settled over the place since late last year, and now it was further soured by the exit of a manager they had all fought to believe in. There was an air of almost lazy indifference in the way the men performed in their drills and exercises, even though tomorrow was matchday. Matchday, Conor thought grimly, against the increasingly likely league winners, Arsenal - for fuck's sake, just what we need. The 29-year-old defender usually did his best to bring bucket-loads energy to work, and few lads in the squad had tried harder to rouse some determination and resilience in the battle-weary bunch of football players, and he wasn't even here on a permanent contract. The loaned Wolves man had thought he could help to turn the Merseyside club around, back home in Liverpool after years in the Midlands; now, he was building up the grim energy to speak to his agent and finally discuss what plans were after the loan spell ended. Today, though, even Conor Coady was feeling low under the somewhat toxic atmosphere, and he huffed out a big jet of condensing steam from his chapped lips, resting his hands grumpily on his hips and pausing before booting the ball away in a clumsy pass towards one of his fellow defenders, then immediately hanging his head and malingering before cantering after the others and trying to apply a bit more of himself to the work. It was a sunny winter's day, bright and golden in spite of the icy cold, but the frosty beauty of the afternoon training ground was lost on Coady and his fellow defensive players, jogging clumsily through their routines and barely listening to the half-hearted assertions of the junior coach who was working with them this afternoon. Conor was thinking grimly about tomorrow and their fixture to host the North London visitors, and daring to think critically about how unready so many of his dejected teammates were - then checking himself and adding the pessimistic notion that he was no readier himself, based on recent form. Oh, fuck it. So much for a big new chapter back home on the Mersey, even if it was at the wrong one of the two club options. The St Helens 29-year-old was as relieved as anyone else when they were dismissed, the coach seeming to call it a day early because he was getting so little out of this gaggle of defenders, who were all the more unmotivated for the fact that their weaknesses were being held responsible for most of the recent defeats. Every face was a picture of resigned disappointment, and Conor clocked them, and tried to correct his own; he forced a smile, clapping cold hands together and panting out more little clouds of frosty breath, coming in behind the other lads as they filed off their quadrant of the pitch, and barking generic praise at the others one by one. `Solid work, mate,' he told Holgate firmly, and `Looking sharp' he lied to Godfrey; `Give us a smile, Mina!' and `Oi, shake my hand, Patterson'. And then, falling into step with his closest buddy in the Everton defence, he opened his mouth to speak to James Tarkowski in the same forced manner, only to get a withering look from the bulky 30-year-old, and he shut his lips once more. `What a shit-show,' he sighed instead to his friend, keeping his rasping local accent low and discreet, and earning a heavy nod from the Mancunian centre-back at his side. The two 6ft1 defenders trudged on, muscling in through open doorways into the relative warmth and shelter of the training building, where a member of staff had a tray of hot drinks set up, and Conor could gratefully get his hand on a cup of tea before stomping away to flop down into one of the sofas at the window, able to look out on the other clusters of players who were still being worked out in the cold. James sat down heavily next to him, grumbling to himself, `We may as well stay in bed tomorrow, it's gonna be a fucking disaster.' `Well, that's the attitude,' he teased back half-heartedly, nudging the other man with his elbow, then slouching back in the sofa, and kicking off his muddy boots one at a time. `But, er, yes lad... it's gonna hurt. Fucking Arsenal, for fuck's sake. Ugh.' He glanced up from the steamed glass view of the training pitch, nodding acknowledgement as two more of the defensive line-up slumped in onto the nearby chairs, clutching their own tips of tea or instant coffee, and looking every bit as prematurely beaten as Conor felt. `Chin up, lads,' Coady grumbled weakly. `Everything to fight for.' `Hmm,' was Ben Godfrey's uncertain murmur, sipping from the mug in his large gloved hands, whilst the younger lad next to him at least managed a firm nod and a `Sure, sure, we can't just roll over for the fuckers.' The gruff young Scotsman slurped his hot chocolate boyishly and then wiped a thin brown moustache from the fluff of his upper lip, a gangly 21 next to the more developed muscular centre-backs. Conor smiled waveringly at young Nathan Patterson, momentarily wondering if the youth was being ironic, then realising that the Glaswegian kid actually might think they had a chance - yikes, the naivety. `Nope,' the 29-year-old sighed with hesitant approval. `We'll go down fighting.' He grimaced, hearing the nihilism in his own sentiment, but the other three didn't seem to notice. Sipping his strong tea, made just how he liked it by the elderly lady who he always flirted with, he leaned back and cast his eyes up and down the room - it seemed like the other defenders who they'd been working with had already headed on to get showered down, even Godfrey's usual companion Holgate. The atmosphere back in those dressing rooms was not an attractive prospect, and Coady found himself with no rush to pull his body up and stagger on after them, to undress and get hot and clean. Instead, he clutched the mug in both hands and just stared blandly out of the window, and then shifted his focus between the gloomy faces of Nate, Ben, and James. Well, what a bunch. For a couple of minutes more, they sat in silence. Godfrey and Patterson had already pulled out their phones and were staring soullessly into the void of social media, though Tarkowski was just cupping his chin in one hand swilling the remains of his coffee gently in the grip of the other. Coady slurped down a last mouthful of tea and then placed the cup down on the floor with a little click of a noise, before slapping his knees in a very dad fashion and getting decisively up to his feet. `Ah, come on lads,' the native Scouser remarked to the small group. `Let's stop moping and wake ourselves up, eh? We can't go into tomorrow in this bloody awful mood, can we?' In a minute, the four of them were strolling through the downstairs of the Everton training building, but not towards the locker-rooms to join the other defenders, or the stream of midfielders who'd also called time on their Friday training. Instead, Conor strolled along with dirty damp socks padding over the linoleum floor, and chilly hands tucked into the relative warmth of his tracksuit pockets, the slim-fit training gear clinging to his long lean legs. Like the others, he was a bit sweaty, but it was such a cold day that the body heat beneath the layers was welcome, and he wasn't exactly soaked. After him traipsed the others, the other three tall defenders, dragged along by his pretence of positivity and energy, even if York-born Godfrey was gently moaning to know what his plan was: `Where are we even going?' complained the 6ft 25-year-old, his face a stern frown, less accepting and trusting than the broad grin of Patterson at his side. Just at the moment, Coady didn't have much of an answer, although he already had an inkling of an idea. He'd steered the blokes away from their silence and pessimism without a clear direction, but playful memories had been roused in him as they passed the corridor to the showers and lockers, and he couldn't help but think with a smirk about that dirty day when he'd chanced upon the secret tryst between Dominic Calvert-Lewin and Tom Davies, and it had ended up a pretty chaotic scene of transgressive enjoyment. But those two were nowhere to be seen, he thought: he'd noted blond pretty boy Tom Davies leave the pitch early with an ankle concern just after lunch, and big Dom CL would still be out on the pitch with a couple of other forwards, working on set-pieces in the hope of sneaking a cheeky goal past the iron-clad Arsenal defence. Still, the 29-year-old, his Qatari experiences still relatively fresh in mind, couldn't help but enjoy the memory as he strolled past gym doors and hovered at the entrance to the indoor pool, couldn't help but picture himself sat on that bench by the lockers, joining Dominic in using the greedy mouth of Davies and then encouraging others to join in. And as he remembered the climactic interruption of the gaffer, he even let out a little chuckle of thought, earning a grumpy `What?' from Ben. The gaffer, he thought. No more. There had been no clear goodbye moment for Frank Lampard before the Chelsea legend exited the training campus at the start of the week, though Coady had been quick to message his thanks and support to the 44-year-old, like most of the lads. Ah well, it had been inevitable for a while, the total lack of wins or progress, so many second chances for Lamps before the board made their chop. Huh. `Come on,' he suddenly suggested with a thoughtful brightness, pulling back from the glass doors that would take him through into the chlorinated air of the pool-room. He nodded encouragingly at the other lads and then gestured to the nearby stairs. `I know what we can do,' the almost 30-year-old married dad announced with the air of a naughty schoolboy ringleader, earning curious looks from his friends. It was a stupid idea, but he felt a little pang of intrigue and fondness, and it was better than moping anywhere else with his fellow relegation fodder. So for some reason he led them up the stairs and into the largely abandoned suite of offices, glad that there was nobody about to tell them that they ought to get downstairs and to the showers - with the bright confident smile of someone who was prepared to blag and lie at any interruption, Coady found and opened the door into the gaffer's office, letting himself into Lampard's former den, and ignoring the uncertain mutters from Tarkowski: `Are we allowed in here, mate?' There were still quite a few signs of old Frank's occupancy, from a spare coat on a hook to a few scraps of Chelsea memorabilia on one shelf next to the window. The young Scot went to inspect these with an air of quiet distraction, whilst Godfrey stood thoughtfully in front of a big framed England shirt at the other wall. Tarkowksi hovered at the door, thick arms folded over the broad chest of his tracksuit top. And Coady himself went over and dropped himself playfully into the high-backed leather chair at the desk, placing his arse in the grooves left by their departed manager, the midfield hero whose management career was hardly setting the league on fire. He met James' eyes and smirked mischievously at his fellow centre-back, who looked deeply uncomfortable with their foray up into the quiet offices of the manager-less club, a room that had housed many serious meetings between each of them and the former boss at different points in the past year. Crisis talks in a club fighting for survival... and now just a stupid empty room to be explored by bored blokes in need of distraction, he thought, swinging the chair in little semicircles, and resting his arms at his sides, before beginning to look nosily through the drawers. `He'll come back for this stuff?' mused Nathan awkwardly. `Probably just send a rep,' grunted Ben. `I'm not sure we should be touching his shit,' James said stiffly. `Come on lads, fuck this - it's a bit creepy being in here, like the house of someone who just died.' `He ain't dead!' laughed Godfrey gruffly and uncomfortably. `He'll be dead to the fans,' Patterson muttered with rare cynicism. But Coady was ignoring all three of them, pausing with his hand on the edge of the left-side bottom drawer, pulled open against his own thigh, its contents rattling and shifting a little bit from the sharp tug that had brought it open, even though a flimsy lock had apparently been used to try and secure it. The Scouser stared into the open drawer with wide brown eyes and a white-toothed smirk lighting his mouth. Well, well, well. `Still,' Tarks was muttering, `I feel like we should leave this crap alone and go get changed - I mean, we all need to get a good rest this evening, cos of-' `Ah, chill out dad,' chuckled Patterson, playing with an obscure little trophy that he'd picked up from the windowsill. `Anyone else feel like the next guy to have this office won't even last the rest of the season?' was Godfrey's sombre contribution to the chat, unacknowledged by anyone else. `Lads,' Conor barked, interrupting them. `Take a peep at this, will you...?' And picking up an Everton-branded pen from the desktop, he used it as a little device to fish into the drawer and drag it out, twirling it on the tip of the pen and then flicking it into the grip of his other hand, with which he held up and dangled it for the sudden attention of his three teammates, who all stared. `What is it?' young Nathan asked dumbly. `Is that a... jockstrap?' Tarkowski was suddenly more amused than cautious as he suppressed laughter through this question. `Fucking hell,' laughed Ben awkwardly. Conor raised his dark brows and then flicked the odd garment down on the surface of the desk, a skimpy strappy affair of black fabric that strung in loops from the Calvin Klein waistband, and lay there in a little heap. Confused-faced, Nathan was approaching the desk to pick it up and inspect it, and Ben and James took steps forward too; but Conor was already reaching uncertainly into the desk drawer and retrieving another surprising find. Whilst the young Scot picked up the underwear with two fingers like it might bite, Conor held the small glass bottle and peered curiously at its shiny label, confirming it as a dose of amyl nitrate: poppers. Jeez. `Tarks,' he mused, `will you shut that door a minute?' And he inspected the little vial of odoriser thoughtfully, while Ben and Nathan were still sniggering stupidly over the skimpy undies that one had just thrust stupidly at the others, reduced to schoolboys. Conor glanced up, smirking, and then twisted off the lid and placed the small bottle to one nostril for a deep sniff, and then the other. His giggle of rush caught the attention of the others, and the two younger lads stared expectantly at him. `What is that?' demanded Tarkowski, who had dutifully closed them into the office despite his reservations, and now loomed at the side of the desk, seeming genuinely oblivious. Coady just sniggered and held a thumb over the bottle-neck, blinking away the headrush - he hadn't taken a playful sniff on these since a few silly nights out in his St Helens teens, though he was now trying to remember where he'd last come into contact with the daft little party drug. `These can't be Frank's pants,' Godfrey grunted dimly to himself, still holding on to the jockstrap with one cautious finger hooked under its waistband. `Give me a sniff,' Patterson demanded curiously, and Coady passed him the bottle, registering the little flicker of interest on the youngster's honest face, then smirking at his bewildered 30-year-old buddy. `You never done `em, Tarks?' he probed. `Done what?' the burly Manc bloke asked honestly. `What the fuck are they? What is all this? Where did you find this shit, mate?' The 6ft1 centre-back looked a little stressed out by it all, fiddling with the zip at the neck of his tracksuit, whilst Nate proceeded to sniff clumsily on the bottle in his grazed knuckles. Conor gave him a playful frown, resting back properly in the managerial chair and bringing his socked feet up onto it. `You need to do it one nostril at a time, you tit,' he coached. `And hold down the other, I think. Big sniff now, lad.' `Is it drugs?' Ben asked. `Fuck,' slurred Nathan. `Feels mad, don't it? Haha.' `Should we be doing drugs in the gaffer's office, for fuck's sake...?' Tarkowski grumbled. `Here, give me a go,' Godfrey contradicted quietly. `Haha, it's not even illegal,' Coady advised them with a shake of his head, still swaying the wheeled chair, and then glancing back at the open bottom drawer. `Well,' he thought aloud, `isn't old Lamps a bit of a dark horse...?' He was thinking about that day when the former player joined them and seemed briefly furious, as if he'd be dishing out fines for inappropriate behaviour on club property... only to whip out his middle-aged cock and take full advantage of Davies' soft pink lips. Hah. But... Conor was thinking differently about that memory, and wondering if Frank's experience with fellow footy lads was a little more fruity than imagined. He could picture his last encounter with the silly little bottles of amyl now, and he knew where and when: a hotel room in Iceland, the bedside table of Harry Kane, sniffed deep by the England captain before he bent over and exchanged his strong arse for a word in Southgate's ear. That seemed a long time ago now. `Fuck,' grunted Ben, shuddering a bit and passing the poppers back to Nathan. `Dunno if I like that. Ugh. Instant headache. Ha.' `Nah,' muttered James, who had just been offered the small bottle. He frowned and shook his head and then glared at Conor, as if the Wolves captain should be the one to end this naughtiness. `What are we doing in here, mate? Let's clear off. This is a bit - I dunno - disrespectful, or...' `Mate,' chuckled Coady now, `wait til you see what else is in the boss man's bottom drawer...!' And with a little cackle, he flourished the third mystery item hidden in the badly locked depths of the Everton manager desk. In front of him, the other three fell silent and stared, and the Scouser nodded his agreement. `Either I've got a very dirty mind, or this thing is a rubbery doppelganger for a fuck-off big dong. Ha ha ha.' He waved the dildo about like a dagger and then tossed it playfully at Tarks, who caught it instinctively but gurned in disgust and then threw it against the desk between them instead. `Nahhh - that isn't a fucking sex toy, is it?' `Well it bloody looks like one.' `None of this is Lampard's, for fuck's sake, is it?' `How should I know...?' `Here, give us another sniff on that stuff, I kinda liked it.' Sprawled back in the gaffer's chair, Conor Coady simply could not pull the naughty smirk off his handsome stubbled face, or extinguish the little fire of mischief in his dark brown eyes. It was all he could do not to reach down and instantly rub himself hard in his deep blue tracky pants, settling instead for a gentle tug on the lime-green of his top. He watched as big sturdy Godfrey took a couple more sniffs from the bottle, watched loyally by pink-cheeked Patterson, and Tarkowski just glared accusingly from the fallen dildo to himself, waiting for the punchline of this bad joke. `Here,' Conor laughed, snatching up the CK jock. `Who's trying this thing on for a laugh?' His question was met with a ripple of amusement, even from serious James, but he pushed the idea. `I'd do it myself but I've hardly got an arse - come on thunder thighs, why don't you try it on for size, Tarks? No? Haha. Here, Nate, give us a striptease, for fuck's sake.' And he tossed the scrap of black at the giggling 21-year-old, who was so gullible and impressionable that he fell quiet and serious with it in both hands, unsure what to do. `He's messing with you,' Tarks insisted. `Nah, don't be a bore,' Godfrey laughed, screwing up his face and then putting down the poppers. `Coady is right - try it on, hah. No way is it Frank's though, right? He wouldn't have this shit in his desk...!' `Then who would?' Tarkowski wondered aloud. `It's just a pair of pants,' Conor reasoned persuasively, catching Nathan by the eye. He'd taken back the poppers himself and gave the bottle a good sniff in each nostril before screwing the lid on and shaking himself, pretending to offer it back to a spooked James, then wielding up the flesh-coloured rubbery phallus again like a wand or weapon, glad by the way it put the lads on edge. Across the desk from him, Patters was laughing and scratching at his short mop of sandy-coloured hair, then shrugging and backing off from the table. `Alright,' he concluded, and he set about dragging down his blue pants, dragging them down long footballer's legs, hopping from foot to foot with his baggy check boxer shorts exposed. Tarkowski just groaned earnestly and Godfrey tittered like an idiot, and Coady swung about on the seat, lowering his ankles from the table. Oh Lampard, he mused, if only you hadn't been given the sack. He got up and hugged an arm about Tarkowski's broad shoulders, freaking him out by pulling the mystery toy too close to him, brushing it against one of his lime-green pecs. He mussed at the man's chestnut hair and got pushed roughly away, making him snigger more and then go running about the desk to tickle an alarmed Godfrey with the faux cock instead, the York lad getting more noisily freaked out by it than tutting Tarkowski. `There,' declared Patterson, standing there looking like an idiot in his long playing socks and the low-hanging hem of his vivid training shirt, which he had to lift up to display to them the flash of black across his bulging crotch, the branded strap at the waist pulling in against his pale goosebump skin. And then, grinning stupidly, the young player turned about to show them the back, the chubby rise of his big white bottom, cut across by the black straps that framed it, and Godfrey went awkwardly quiet as he stared at it, whilst Coady himself clapped his hands together appreciatively. `Get your booty out for the lads,' he jeered mockingly, and then he strutted right up to the younger player and gave his big bare arse a good noisy spank, leaving his scarlet handprint there for several moments. `Sod this,' Tarks moaned. `Shit,' muttered Godfrey in a strangely distracted manner. `Hope that didn't hurt?' Coady sniggered, giving the 6ft youngster a playful hug and then tousling his hair in the same way he'd done to his older mate. He pushed and pulled at the giggling youth from the side, and then gave his arse another grab, squeezing one pale cheek quite hard and slapping it gently as he released it. `Have another sniff of the poppers,' he suggested, steering him to the desk. And then he couldn't stop himself: he reached down and squeezed at his own bulge in his trackies, almost licking his lips. In front of him, sniggering Patterson was snatching up the bottle and pulling off the lid. At his side, Godfrey was coughing and folding then unfolding his thick arms, seeming flustered. And Tarkowski, shaking his head, was turning for the door. `Oh come on,' Conor pleaded, blocking his way and pouting at the other big fella. `It's just a laugh.' But as he said this, he couldn't help but rub his crotch, and he knew James noticed, flinching and shrugging and scratching at his red neck. `Does it feel weird?' Ben was asking quite innocently. `Pants without an arse on them?' `I think this is what some sportsmen wear,' Nathan murmured to him. `Like, back in the day...? With a protective cup in it, or...?' He trailed off, his thick Glasgow accent becoming a low grumble. `Here, try a sniff of these,' Conor suggested, steering James to the desk. `Give them to Tarks, mate - come on, just a sniff. Everyone else has done it. Mate, they aren't illegal or anything...! You ain't gonna get arrested, ha. It just... well, they relax you, or something...' `Relax?' Ben mumbled. `Just giving me a headache, to be honest.' Conor timed his next comment well, waiting until begrudging Tarkowski was inhaling deeply on the stuff. `They're used for relaxing bumholes, y'know,' he said sagely, making his friend splutter and grimace and almost drop the amyl. `I mean, clubbers like it too, but it's mainly for gay fellas, y'see - makes certain things easier, know what I mean...?' At that, he turned and landed a third meaty spank on Patterson's exposed backside, really making a hand-print on the doughy white buttock, and just making the 21-year-old explode with giggles. In one hand, Coady still wielded the dildo like a dagger; he brought it stroking and prodding against the stinging red cheek, tapping it against the young right-back and making his cheeks jiggle, and making Ben's eyes bulge out of his head. `Fuck,' murmured Tarks through the headrush. `You think that's really Frank's?' Pats demanded, giggling some more to feel the toy tap and prod against his bum. `Nahhh, can't be,' Godfrey said wonderingly. `Must be,' disagreed their Scouse ringleader, biting his lip. He pressed the taboo toy into one of the York lad's hands, clapping his own together and wondering how far he could take all this. He turned playfully towards James but the 30-year-old just glared at him and shook his head, then pressed the bottle of poppers into his palm. `I'm out,' the Manc guy declared simply, and he lurched for the door again - this time, Conor didn't try to stop him, unsure he could push the right buttons to make the big muscular Burnley transplant change his mind and relax into some mischief. He slammed the door after him and then it was just the three of them, a new playful tension thickening in the popper-scented air. Conor grabbed and squeezed himself shamelessly, and he winked when Ben caught his eye, glad that the big strong mixed-race lad had noticed. Then he took a good squeezing grip of one cheek and leaned in closer to Nate. `You reckon you've sniffed enough of that magic stuff to take Lampard's big cock in ya, Scottie?' He shook him by the shoulder and chuckled and he saw the younger athlete's face flush pink. `Fuck nah,' was Ben's awkward comment. `He'll never take that?' `That might be a joke too far,' sniggered Nathan, but... hesitantly. `Ah, I dunno, that stuff is meant to proper relax you, la',' snarled Conor eagerly. He nodded at it, watching the rather protective way Ben clutched and gripped it, then giving a gentle slap to Nate's backside and giving the bare-cheeked lad a bigger hug, steering him against the desk. `Why don't we give it a try, eh?' Patterson giggled. `I don't think I'll manage that, boss!' `Would you try it though?' came Godfrey's almost breathlessly curious demand. `You up for it?' Coady asked bluntly, stroking a shoulder of his training shirt. `Let's get this off,' he suggested before getting answer, and he and Ben now helped their younger friend out of the lime-green Everton prep gear, stripping him to just his footy socks and the skimpy black jockstrap, glad of the heated air of the deserted office. Turning to Godfrey, he said, `Tough Scots lad, ain't he, he'll be able to take this no problem.' `I dunno lads!' giggled Nathan, but he didn't protest as Conor steered him further forward, encouraging him to bend slightly over the desk that had so recently been Lampard's seat of power. The nervous laughter of the tall pale Glasgow lad made his body judder and tremble, making the chunky bare cheeks jiggle just a little, and both of the centre-backs stood behind him. `Here,' Coady purred to the 25-year-old, `you wanna lower the blinds on that window in the door, matey?' He leered encouragingly at the endearing gormlessness of Godfrey's face, nudging the well-built defender into life. He did as he was told, quickly, and stood by Conor's side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open a bit - he looked excited, and Conor glanced down for confirmation. Yep, the bulge in those deep blue pants was even more pronounced and urgent than his own, and he wondered if the dopey young Yorkshireman even realised how aroused he was becoming. Grinning wickedly, the former Wolves captain brought the toy up, and spat heavily on its chubby moulded tip. Then, with a little grace and ceremony, he brought it down and played it down the deep crease between the young lad's cheeks, making Nathan snigger and murmur some more, and say `Why's it wet?' with earnest curiosity. Conor smirked and he exchanged an eager look with breathless Ben, whilst working the rubbery toy up and down the lad's crack, gently parting his chubby cheeks. `Nate,' he said quietly, `why odn't you take another sniff of them poppers, hey...?' To the sound of Patterson breathing deeply, twice per nostril, he began to push in a bit more, and used his other hand to tug on one cheek, easing accent into the mousy brown fluff of hair between the smooth dough of each cheek. Godfrey was watching in astoundment, and unconsciously starting to rub himself, which reminded Coady to pull a hand back and play with his own stiff outline in the nylon. `Take another sniff mate, make it a long one,' he advised Nathan in a deep slow voice, and then - ah yeh, that was it! He pushed it in experimentally as if just teasing his wife's lips, making the young lad tremble and gigle awkwardly, and making Ben gasp interestedly. It was easier than he expected, but then the 21-year-old was high on poppers for the first time. In went the tip, nudging open the virgin hole of the straight right-back. As he pushed it in, Patterson yelped, and Godfrey gasped again, and he just bit his lip, hard as a rock in his own tight compression shorts under the tracksuit. `Sniff some more,' he repeated, and the younger defender did so - and Conor pushed more, easing the tip of the toy in between those cheeks, very slowly, and wanting to go rougher. The groan from the Scots lad was ambiguously pained and interested, and he didn't dare go further, pulling gently back and then nudging it in, teasing and testing him, and then... he glanced at the astonished look on handsome Ben's face, and nodded invitingly. Conor's own grip on the toy softened as the shaky brown fingers came exploring, and then the 25-year-old centre-back was taking over from him... Conor patted and stroked the centre of his broad back as he moved aside slightly, letting Godfrey in to take control and push the toy a little more firmly into Patterson's big white backside. Breathless with excitement himself now, the 29-year-old Scouser got on with it: he quickly undid the tight little drawstring knot and pushed his tracksuit pants halfway down his thighs, and then pulled his hard-on out of his boxer briefs, unnoticed for a moment by either of the others. He spat in his right hand and pulled on his long slender prick, licking his lips eagerly, and watching the heavy clumsy strength with which Ben pushed the toy further and further into the youngest defender, mixed with a kind of awkward delicacy as increasingly pained yelps showed Nathan's doubts - Conor helped by patting and stroking his bare back and shoulder, and murmuring support. `You can take more, big Scottish stud like you - take another sniff if you need it? Go easy on him, Ben, mate - he's not some slag you've picked up in Wetherspoons, y'know...?' Coady spat more lube down onto his prick and jerked urgently on it, and he saw Godfrey glance warily at it, before reaching his free hand to squeeze the alarmingly big outline in his own pants; but Patterson was oblivious, bent forward over the desk to rest on his elbows, laughing between pants and awkward groans, and telling them, `It really don't feel that bad...! How far is it in? Is it nearly all in? Haha - this is mad, guys! This is wilder than that time with Davies, y'know, when we all.. He-he-he...' `Here,' Conor grunted at the other centre-back, `move over.' Ben offered him hold of the toy, but he shook his head, and Lampard's forgotten dildo fell to the rug on the office floor. Instead, Conor shuffled into position behind the younger player, a wicked enthusiasm tensing every muscle in his 6ft1 physique. `See how this feels,' he told Nathan quickly, and went for it - pushing his hard cock in against the damp hole, sliding into him with far more ease than he might have expected. He wasn't quite as girthy as the toy that the pair of them had just sneaked into this big pale bottom. Still, Patterson yelped and flinched, and Conor rubbed tender hands up his back and held him by the biceps. `How's that?' he purred and groaned. `How's it feel, Nate?' `F-f-fuck,' the Glaswegian stammered - was he sure what he'd just taken? `Fuck,' echoed Godfrey, in shock. `Relax,' purred Conor, to both of them, beginning to grind his hips. `This feel better than the toy?' he demanded quite, finding his slow rhythm. `F-f-fuck, I d-d-dunno, er... oh... ohh... mmm... wow...' `Take another sniff or two, matey, you'll be grand.' Slowly and carefully, Coady began to fuck the other Everton lad against the desk, careful not to start rushing and giving in to instinct; he guided his cock in a little deeper with every tender stroke, the first time he'd entered a lad's backside since the sweet Portuguese hole that had got him in so much trouble in Wolverhampton, finally giving in to anal after a lengthy affair of steamy one-way blowies. He'd sworn never again, but here he was, almost balls-deep in this quivering pale Caledonian, bending him over the gaffer's desk, reaching round to hold the bottle of poppers under one of his flaring nostrils. `That okay?' he growled in his ear, pushing himself a bit harder against those chubby cheeks. `Ohhhh,' was all Patterson could groan, pinned against the wooden desk. `Fucking hell,' whispered Godfrey close by, and Coady could hear the fap fap of wanking from the burly Yorkshire 25-year-old - soon, he thought, he'd swap positions with him, but not yet, oh god, not yet! He fucked him a little quicker, but only a little, conscious of how fresh and virginal this beautiful arse was, so soft and broad against his own slim muscular form, and he loved the tight muscles that enclosed his prick. It was an act of restraint that allowed him to pull back, panting and planting a single kiss at the top of Nathan's spine - pulling aside, his cock wobbling in the gap between the green of his shirt and the black of his lowered boxer briefs, he turned and looked seriously at Ben, who just gawped silently. Conor planted a hand down to spank and jiggle one cheek, making Nate giggle uncertainly - `It felt weird,' was his quiet review, `should we stop?' - but then Ben was pushing forward, cock in hand, and Coady caught sight of just how bloody big it was, jesus christ. It wasn't on show for a long before the big pink mushroom was pressed between the cheeks and the thick brown shaft was going in - and now Godfrey was the one humping hard into Patterson from behind, pinning the quivering Scotsman against the managerial desk, making him groan very loudly and swear violently. And all Coady could do was pull back to admire the sight of it, and tug furiously on his own slick cock, close to blowing his load. `Sniff the poppers,' he growled at Patterson through the whimpering sound he made as he was impaled on the much thicker tool, maybe thicker than the toy. Godfrey was awkward and clumsy, big hands gripping and bruising at the other lad's arms and sides, and sweat pouring down his pale brown face. But his thrusts were strong and solid and more urgent than Conor's own self-control. Thrust after thrust, the excited 25-year-old ploughed the younger lad into the table, and it was clear enough that he'd never buried himself in another man like this before - fucking beautiful. `Go easy on him,' he encouraged, though he loved seeing the brutal strength mixed with nervousness that rocked and jolted Godfrey's motion, and he loved the depth and uncertainty of Patterson's whining cry. He wanked harder and harder on himself, and even reached about to pull the poppers away to take a sniff himself, riding the little wave of blood-rush and feeling his balls tingle excitedly. He stepped closer, pumping his prick, and Ben seemed to take this as some sign that he had to stop - and then there they both were, jerking off behind the quivering white bottom, until they were painting those doughy cheeks with a silvery icing of their manly juices, listening to the whimpering breaths and moans of the deflowered Glaswegian. Confidence was its own discretion, Conor advised the younger two, encouraging them to strut nonchalantly away from the area of offices, as if nothing dodgy had happened. Nathan was understandably a bit shaky, his face blotchy pink, and his erection badly hidden in his pants; an awkward kindliness in his body language, Ben helped him along, steering him by one shoulder whilst wiping his sweaty face with one green sleeve. And Conor himself strolled confidently ahead of them, still smirking, picturing the dirtied sex toy left in the waste paper bin under the desk, and the poppers now resting in one of his zipped pockets - the jockstrap, he thought smugly, was still tight about Nathan's waist and bottom, left on and stained with cum where his and Godfrey's load had dribbled over it, left on as the young lad dressed in a flushed hurry. `You two good?' the 29-year-old asked hesitantly as he led them down into the quietened changing rooms, noticing how shaken and scared they both looked by the new experiences they'd all shared. Surprisingly, bent-over Nathan nodded more firmly than Ben, who looked like he'd just spent a night in a haunted mansion. Conor smiled encouragingly at both lads and grabbed them in a group hug. `Go get showered, you two bad boys. That was fucking fun, huh? But y'know... our little secret.' He tapped his nose, and then laughed, unable to smell anything but the poppers. Nodding, the two younger defenders drifted away from him to one edge of the quiet locker-room, both starting to tug off their green shirts and bare their muscular backs. Coady lingered where he was, enjoying the dull throb of his spent cock and balls in his black undies, and feeling the hard outline of the little poppers bottle in one pocket. He grinned to himself and went over to another side of the room, hunkering down on one bench under his locker, and wiping both palms across his clammy face, unable to believe how risky it had been to just fuck a lad in an upstairs office. He sat there, pulling off his socks slowly, and the naked towel-clad figures of Ben and Nathan gradually slipped past him, disappearing into the steamy showers in awkward silence. Almost at the same moment as they did, the figure of another showered player emerged, barely acknowledging them on his way past, and re-entering the darkly decorated locker-room where they'd once all shared Tom Davies' mouth. It was James, still looking as severe and disapproving as he had upstairs. Conor smiled upright and grinned at his pal, watching as the big smooth body of muscle came close and then passed him to reach the next locker. Steam rose in plumes from every bulging muscle. `Glad you saw sense and ditched that bugger's office,' Tarkowski said quietly. Coady just laughed lightly at this review. `You missed out.' `Not sure I wanna know, fella.' `Hmm.' `Ugh.' `Relax, lad.' `Huh.' Next to him, Tarks hesitated, having grabbed a second towel to rub over his chest, neck, face. He seemed to want to undo the knot at the front of the first towel, to carry on drying off his 6ft1 body of thick powerful muscle, especially his famous legs. But he seemed nervous, uncomfortable, self-conscious. Conor just grinned, as if oblivious to the fact he was the source of this discomfort. He smirked up at the standing brute, and rested his back on his locker door, hands draped in the lap of his trackies. `What?' he asked politely. Tarks just grunted a `Huh' again, pausing with the second towel hugged against his chest. He let it droop, and undid the main towel, which slid away from his thick hips and down towards the floor, flashing ridiculously chunky thighs, and... for a moment, a strong view of his crotch, the neatly buzzed pubes and the thick dangling sausage over his tight hairy balls. Conor stared thoughtfully at it, remembering his first taste of dick in that Doha hotel room, coaxed and encouraged by his surprising friendship with Eric Dier. His eyes shifted up and met James' frosty gaze, despite their close friendship; still, Conor smirked, friendly but naughty, and he winked once. Then, conscious of how alone they were here, he reached out to touch it, cupping the big man's privates in one hand, weighing the cock and ball over his palm, and staring up at James' unreadable expression as he did so. He let out a slow quiet chuckle. Tarkowski moved, but not immediately, not quickly; there was a long moment of physical contact and then the big hunky bugger pulled back with his hips, dragging his cock and balls out of Conor's hand, and throwing a towel over his crotch once more, his high cheekbones scarlet. `Mate,' was his monosyllabic warning, and he broke the stare, looking anywhere but at his friend. Conor, spent and exhausted, just chuckled, and leaned heavily back into his locker door, feeling very hot and sweaty. `What?' he protested meekly, as if he hadn't just groped a feel, and he smiled quietly to himself whilst James dried and dressed in a huffing hurry, then told him that `I'll see you tomorrow for match-day'. Coady nodded and grinned, and watched awkward Godfrey and Patterson begin to emerge from the showers, keeping a safe two metres away from each other now, as if they weren't very intimately acquainted now - oh, what a fun afternoon, after all. Relegation or not, the Scouser thought, maybe he DID have a future at Everton after all...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> <pre>Date: Fri, 27 Jan 2023 22:10:44 +0000 From: writer guy &lt;premiershiplads@outlook.com&gt; Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 346 Part 346: Defenders Unleashed Without a manager about the training camp, there was a strange afternoon; after all, the sullen mood of defeat and almost inevitable relegation had already settled over the place since late last year, and now it was further soured by the exit of a manager they had all fought to believe in. There was an air of almost lazy indifference in the way the men performed in their drills and exercises, even though tomorrow was matchday. Matchday, Conor thought grimly, against the increasingly likely league winners, Arsenal - for fuck's sake, just what we need. The 29-year-old defender usually did his best to bring bucket-loads energy to work, and few lads in the squad had tried harder to rouse some determination and resilience in the battle-weary bunch of football players, and he wasn't even here on a permanent contract. The loaned Wolves man had thought he could help to turn the Merseyside club around, back home in Liverpool after years in the Midlands; now, he was building up the grim energy to speak to his agent and finally discuss what plans were after the loan spell ended. Today, though, even Conor Coady was feeling low under the somewhat toxic atmosphere, and he huffed out a big jet of condensing steam from his chapped lips, resting his hands grumpily on his hips and pausing before booting the ball away in a clumsy pass towards one of his fellow defenders, then immediately hanging his head and malingering before cantering after the others and trying to apply a bit more of himself to the work. It was a sunny winter's day, bright and golden in spite of the icy cold, but the frosty beauty of the afternoon training ground was lost on Coady and his fellow defensive players, jogging clumsily through their routines and barely listening to the half-hearted assertions of the junior coach who was working with them this afternoon. Conor was thinking grimly about tomorrow and their fixture to host the North London visitors, and daring to think critically about how unready so many of his dejected teammates were - then checking himself and adding the pessimistic notion that he was no readier himself, based on recent form. Oh, fuck it. So much for a big new chapter back home on the Mersey, even if it was at the wrong one of the two club options. The St Helens 29-year-old was as relieved as anyone else when they were dismissed, the coach seeming to call it a day early because he was getting so little out of this gaggle of defenders, who were all the more unmotivated for the fact that their weaknesses were being held responsible for most of the recent defeats. Every face was a picture of resigned disappointment, and Conor clocked them, and tried to correct his own; he forced a smile, clapping cold hands together and panting out more little clouds of frosty breath, coming in behind the other lads as they filed off their quadrant of the pitch, and barking generic praise at the others one by one. `Solid work, mate,' he told Holgate firmly, and `Looking sharp' he lied to Godfrey; `Give us a smile, Mina!' and `Oi, shake my hand, Patterson'. And then, falling into step with his closest buddy in the Everton defence, he opened his mouth to speak to James Tarkowski in the same forced manner, only to get a withering look from the bulky 30-year-old, and he shut his lips once more. `What a shit-show,' he sighed instead to his friend, keeping his rasping local accent low and discreet, and earning a heavy nod from the Mancunian centre-back at his side. The two 6ft1 defenders trudged on, muscling in through open doorways into the relative warmth and shelter of the training building, where a member of staff had a tray of hot drinks set up, and Conor could gratefully get his hand on a cup of tea before stomping away to flop down into one of the sofas at the window, able to look out on the other clusters of players who were still being worked out in the cold. James sat down heavily next to him, grumbling to himself, `We may as well stay in bed tomorrow, it's gonna be a fucking disaster.' `Well, that's the attitude,' he teased back half-heartedly, nudging the other man with his elbow, then slouching back in the sofa, and kicking off his muddy boots one at a time. `But, er, yes lad... it's gonna hurt. Fucking Arsenal, for fuck's sake. Ugh.' He glanced up from the steamed glass view of the training pitch, nodding acknowledgement as two more of the defensive line-up slumped in onto the nearby chairs, clutching their own tips of tea or instant coffee, and looking every bit as prematurely beaten as Conor felt. `Chin up, lads,' Coady grumbled weakly. `Everything to fight for.' `Hmm,' was Ben Godfrey's uncertain murmur, sipping from the mug in his large gloved hands, whilst the younger lad next to him at least managed a firm nod and a `Sure, sure, we can't just roll over for the fuckers.' The gruff young Scotsman slurped his hot chocolate boyishly and then wiped a thin brown moustache from the fluff of his upper lip, a gangly 21 next to the more developed muscular centre-backs. Conor smiled waveringly at young Nathan Patterson, momentarily wondering if the youth was being ironic, then realising that the Glaswegian kid actually might think they had a chance - yikes, the naivety. `Nope,' the 29-year-old sighed with hesitant approval. `We'll go down fighting.' He grimaced, hearing the nihilism in his own sentiment, but the other three didn't seem to notice. Sipping his strong tea, made just how he liked it by the elderly lady who he always flirted with, he leaned back and cast his eyes up and down the room - it seemed like the other defenders who they'd been working with had already headed on to get showered down, even Godfrey's usual companion Holgate. The atmosphere back in those dressing rooms was not an attractive prospect, and Coady found himself with no rush to pull his body up and stagger on after them, to undress and get hot and clean. Instead, he clutched the mug in both hands and just stared blandly out of the window, and then shifted his focus between the gloomy faces of Nate, Ben, and James. Well, what a bunch. For a couple of minutes more, they sat in silence. Godfrey and Patterson had already pulled out their phones and were staring soullessly into the void of social media, though Tarkowski was just cupping his chin in one hand swilling the remains of his coffee gently in the grip of the other. Coady slurped down a last mouthful of tea and then placed the cup down on the floor with a little click of a noise, before slapping his knees in a very dad fashion and getting decisively up to his feet. `Ah, come on lads,' the native Scouser remarked to the small group. `Let's stop moping and wake ourselves up, eh? We can't go into tomorrow in this bloody awful mood, can we?' In a minute, the four of them were strolling through the downstairs of the Everton training building, but not towards the locker-rooms to join the other defenders, or the stream of midfielders who'd also called time on their Friday training. Instead, Conor strolled along with dirty damp socks padding over the linoleum floor, and chilly hands tucked into the relative warmth of his tracksuit pockets, the slim-fit training gear clinging to his long lean legs. Like the others, he was a bit sweaty, but it was such a cold day that the body heat beneath the layers was welcome, and he wasn't exactly soaked. After him traipsed the others, the other three tall defenders, dragged along by his pretence of positivity and energy, even if York-born Godfrey was gently moaning to know what his plan was: `Where are we even going?' complained the 6ft 25-year-old, his face a stern frown, less accepting and trusting than the broad grin of Patterson at his side. Just at the moment, Coady didn't have much of an answer, although he already had an inkling of an idea. He'd steered the blokes away from their silence and pessimism without a clear direction, but playful memories had been roused in him as they passed the corridor to the showers and lockers, and he couldn't help but think with a smirk about that dirty day when he'd chanced upon the secret tryst between Dominic Calvert-Lewin and Tom Davies, and it had ended up a pretty chaotic scene of transgressive enjoyment. But those two were nowhere to be seen, he thought: he'd noted blond pretty boy Tom Davies leave the pitch early with an ankle concern just after lunch, and big Dom CL would still be out on the pitch with a couple of other forwards, working on set-pieces in the hope of sneaking a cheeky goal past the iron-clad Arsenal defence. Still, the 29-year-old, his Qatari experiences still relatively fresh in mind, couldn't help but enjoy the memory as he strolled past gym doors and hovered at the entrance to the indoor pool, couldn't help but picture himself sat on that bench by the lockers, joining Dominic in using the greedy mouth of Davies and then encouraging others to join in. And as he remembered the climactic interruption of the gaffer, he even let out a little chuckle of thought, earning a grumpy `What?' from Ben. The gaffer, he thought. No more. There had been no clear goodbye moment for Frank Lampard before the Chelsea legend exited the training campus at the start of the week, though Coady had been quick to message his thanks and support to the 44-year-old, like most of the lads. Ah well, it had been inevitable for a while, the total lack of wins or progress, so many second chances for Lamps before the board made their chop. Huh. `Come on,' he suddenly suggested with a thoughtful brightness, pulling back from the glass doors that would take him through into the chlorinated air of the pool-room. He nodded encouragingly at the other lads and then gestured to the nearby stairs. `I know what we can do,' the almost 30-year-old married dad announced with the air of a naughty schoolboy ringleader, earning curious looks from his friends. It was a stupid idea, but he felt a little pang of intrigue and fondness, and it was better than moping anywhere else with his fellow relegation fodder. So for some reason he led them up the stairs and into the largely abandoned suite of offices, glad that there was nobody about to tell them that they ought to get downstairs and to the showers - with the bright confident smile of someone who was prepared to blag and lie at any interruption, Coady found and opened the door into the gaffer's office, letting himself into Lampard's former den, and ignoring the uncertain mutters from Tarkowski: `Are we allowed in here, mate?' There were still quite a few signs of old Frank's occupancy, from a spare coat on a hook to a few scraps of Chelsea memorabilia on one shelf next to the window. The young Scot went to inspect these with an air of quiet distraction, whilst Godfrey stood thoughtfully in front of a big framed England shirt at the other wall. Tarkowksi hovered at the door, thick arms folded over the broad chest of his tracksuit top. And Coady himself went over and dropped himself playfully into the high-backed leather chair at the desk, placing his arse in the grooves left by their departed manager, the midfield hero whose management career was hardly setting the league on fire. He met James' eyes and smirked mischievously at his fellow centre-back, who looked deeply uncomfortable with their foray up into the quiet offices of the manager-less club, a room that had housed many serious meetings between each of them and the former boss at different points in the past year. Crisis talks in a club fighting for survival... and now just a stupid empty room to be explored by bored blokes in need of distraction, he thought, swinging the chair in little semicircles, and resting his arms at his sides, before beginning to look nosily through the drawers. `He'll come back for this stuff?' mused Nathan awkwardly. `Probably just send a rep,' grunted Ben. `I'm not sure we should be touching his shit,' James said stiffly. `Come on lads, fuck this - it's a bit creepy being in here, like the house of someone who just died.' `He ain't dead!' laughed Godfrey gruffly and uncomfortably. `He'll be dead to the fans,' Patterson muttered with rare cynicism. But Coady was ignoring all three of them, pausing with his hand on the edge of the left-side bottom drawer, pulled open against his own thigh, its contents rattling and shifting a little bit from the sharp tug that had brought it open, even though a flimsy lock had apparently been used to try and secure it. The Scouser stared into the open drawer with wide brown eyes and a white-toothed smirk lighting his mouth. Well, well, well. `Still,' Tarks was muttering, `I feel like we should leave this crap alone and go get changed - I mean, we all need to get a good rest this evening, cos of-' `Ah, chill out dad,' chuckled Patterson, playing with an obscure little trophy that he'd picked up from the windowsill. `Anyone else feel like the next guy to have this office won't even last the rest of the season?' was Godfrey's sombre contribution to the chat, unacknowledged by anyone else. `Lads,' Conor barked, interrupting them. `Take a peep at this, will you...?' And picking up an Everton-branded pen from the desktop, he used it as a little device to fish into the drawer and drag it out, twirling it on the tip of the pen and then flicking it into the grip of his other hand, with which he held up and dangled it for the sudden attention of his three teammates, who all stared. `What is it?' young Nathan asked dumbly. `Is that a... jockstrap?' Tarkowski was suddenly more amused than cautious as he suppressed laughter through this question. `Fucking hell,' laughed Ben awkwardly. Conor raised his dark brows and then flicked the odd garment down on the surface of the desk, a skimpy strappy affair of black fabric that strung in loops from the Calvin Klein waistband, and lay there in a little heap. Confused-faced, Nathan was approaching the desk to pick it up and inspect it, and Ben and James took steps forward too; but Conor was already reaching uncertainly into the desk drawer and retrieving another surprising find. Whilst the young Scot picked up the underwear with two fingers like it might bite, Conor held the small glass bottle and peered curiously at its shiny label, confirming it as a dose of amyl nitrate: poppers. Jeez. `Tarks,' he mused, `will you shut that door a minute?' And he inspected the little vial of odoriser thoughtfully, while Ben and Nathan were still sniggering stupidly over the skimpy undies that one had just thrust stupidly at the others, reduced to schoolboys. Conor glanced up, smirking, and then twisted off the lid and placed the small bottle to one nostril for a deep sniff, and then the other. His giggle of rush caught the attention of the others, and the two younger lads stared expectantly at him. `What is that?' demanded Tarkowski, who had dutifully closed them into the office despite his reservations, and now loomed at the side of the desk, seeming genuinely oblivious. Coady just sniggered and held a thumb over the bottle-neck, blinking away the headrush - he hadn't taken a playful sniff on these since a few silly nights out in his St Helens teens, though he was now trying to remember where he'd last come into contact with the daft little party drug. `These can't be Frank's pants,' Godfrey grunted dimly to himself, still holding on to the jockstrap with one cautious finger hooked under its waistband. `Give me a sniff,' Patterson demanded curiously, and Coady passed him the bottle, registering the little flicker of interest on the youngster's honest face, then smirking at his bewildered 30-year-old buddy. `You never done `em, Tarks?' he probed. `Done what?' the burly Manc bloke asked honestly. `What the fuck are they? What is all this? Where did you find this shit, mate?' The 6ft1 centre-back looked a little stressed out by it all, fiddling with the zip at the neck of his tracksuit, whilst Nate proceeded to sniff clumsily on the bottle in his grazed knuckles. Conor gave him a playful frown, resting back properly in the managerial chair and bringing his socked feet up onto it. `You need to do it one nostril at a time, you tit,' he coached. `And hold down the other, I think. Big sniff now, lad.' `Is it drugs?' Ben asked. `Fuck,' slurred Nathan. `Feels mad, don't it? Haha.' `Should we be doing drugs in the gaffer's office, for fuck's sake...?' Tarkowski grumbled. `Here, give me a go,' Godfrey contradicted quietly. `Haha, it's not even illegal,' Coady advised them with a shake of his head, still swaying the wheeled chair, and then glancing back at the open bottom drawer. `Well,' he thought aloud, `isn't old Lamps a bit of a dark horse...?' He was thinking about that day when the former player joined them and seemed briefly furious, as if he'd be dishing out fines for inappropriate behaviour on club property... only to whip out his middle-aged cock and take full advantage of Davies' soft pink lips. Hah. But... Conor was thinking differently about that memory, and wondering if Frank's experience with fellow footy lads was a little more fruity than imagined. He could picture his last encounter with the silly little bottles of amyl now, and he knew where and when: a hotel room in Iceland, the bedside table of Harry Kane, sniffed deep by the England captain before he bent over and exchanged his strong arse for a word in Southgate's ear. That seemed a long time ago now. `Fuck,' grunted Ben, shuddering a bit and passing the poppers back to Nathan. `Dunno if I like that. Ugh. Instant headache. Ha.' `Nah,' muttered James, who had just been offered the small bottle. He frowned and shook his head and then glared at Conor, as if the Wolves captain should be the one to end this naughtiness. `What are we doing in here, mate? Let's clear off. This is a bit - I dunno - disrespectful, or...' `Mate,' chuckled Coady now, `wait til you see what else is in the boss man's bottom drawer...!' And with a little cackle, he flourished the third mystery item hidden in the badly locked depths of the Everton manager desk. In front of him, the other three fell silent and stared, and the Scouser nodded his agreement. `Either I've got a very dirty mind, or this thing is a rubbery doppelganger for a fuck-off big dong. Ha ha ha.' He waved the dildo about like a dagger and then tossed it playfully at Tarks, who caught it instinctively but gurned in disgust and then threw it against the desk between them instead. `Nahhh - that isn't a fucking sex toy, is it?' `Well it bloody looks like one.' `None of this is Lampard's, for fuck's sake, is it?' `How should I know...?' `Here, give us another sniff on that stuff, I kinda liked it.' Sprawled back in the gaffer's chair, Conor Coady simply could not pull the naughty smirk off his handsome stubbled face, or extinguish the little fire of mischief in his dark brown eyes. It was all he could do not to reach down and instantly rub himself hard in his deep blue tracky pants, settling instead for a gentle tug on the lime-green of his top. He watched as big sturdy Godfrey took a couple more sniffs from the bottle, watched loyally by pink-cheeked Patterson, and Tarkowski just glared accusingly from the fallen dildo to himself, waiting for the punchline of this bad joke. `Here,' Conor laughed, snatching up the CK jock. `Who's trying this thing on for a laugh?' His question was met with a ripple of amusement, even from serious James, but he pushed the idea. `I'd do it myself but I've hardly got an arse - come on thunder thighs, why don't you try it on for size, Tarks? No? Haha. Here, Nate, give us a striptease, for fuck's sake.' And he tossed the scrap of black at the giggling 21-year-old, who was so gullible and impressionable that he fell quiet and serious with it in both hands, unsure what to do. `He's messing with you,' Tarks insisted. `Nah, don't be a bore,' Godfrey laughed, screwing up his face and then putting down the poppers. `Coady is right - try it on, hah. No way is it Frank's though, right? He wouldn't have this shit in his desk...!' `Then who would?' Tarkowski wondered aloud. `It's just a pair of pants,' Conor reasoned persuasively, catching Nathan by the eye. He'd taken back the poppers himself and gave the bottle a good sniff in each nostril before screwing the lid on and shaking himself, pretending to offer it back to a spooked James, then wielding up the flesh-coloured rubbery phallus again like a wand or weapon, glad by the way it put the lads on edge. Across the desk from him, Patters was laughing and scratching at his short mop of sandy-coloured hair, then shrugging and backing off from the table. `Alright,' he concluded, and he set about dragging down his blue pants, dragging them down long footballer's legs, hopping from foot to foot with his baggy check boxer shorts exposed. Tarkowski just groaned earnestly and Godfrey tittered like an idiot, and Coady swung about on the seat, lowering his ankles from the table. Oh Lampard, he mused, if only you hadn't been given the sack. He got up and hugged an arm about Tarkowski's broad shoulders, freaking him out by pulling the mystery toy too close to him, brushing it against one of his lime-green pecs. He mussed at the man's chestnut hair and got pushed roughly away, making him snigger more and then go running about the desk to tickle an alarmed Godfrey with the faux cock instead, the York lad getting more noisily freaked out by it than tutting Tarkowski. `There,' declared Patterson, standing there looking like an idiot in his long playing socks and the low-hanging hem of his vivid training shirt, which he had to lift up to display to them the flash of black across his bulging crotch, the branded strap at the waist pulling in against his pale goosebump skin. And then, grinning stupidly, the young player turned about to show them the back, the chubby rise of his big white bottom, cut across by the black straps that framed it, and Godfrey went awkwardly quiet as he stared at it, whilst Coady himself clapped his hands together appreciatively. `Get your booty out for the lads,' he jeered mockingly, and then he strutted right up to the younger player and gave his big bare arse a good noisy spank, leaving his scarlet handprint there for several moments. `Sod this,' Tarks moaned. `Shit,' muttered Godfrey in a strangely distracted manner. `Hope that didn't hurt?' Coady sniggered, giving the 6ft youngster a playful hug and then tousling his hair in the same way he'd done to his older mate. He pushed and pulled at the giggling youth from the side, and then gave his arse another grab, squeezing one pale cheek quite hard and slapping it gently as he released it. `Have another sniff of the poppers,' he suggested, steering him to the desk. And then he couldn't stop himself: he reached down and squeezed at his own bulge in his trackies, almost licking his lips. In front of him, sniggering Patterson was snatching up the bottle and pulling off the lid. At his side, Godfrey was coughing and folding then unfolding his thick arms, seeming flustered. And Tarkowski, shaking his head, was turning for the door. `Oh come on,' Conor pleaded, blocking his way and pouting at the other big fella. `It's just a laugh.' But as he said this, he couldn't help but rub his crotch, and he knew James noticed, flinching and shrugging and scratching at his red neck. `Does it feel weird?' Ben was asking quite innocently. `Pants without an arse on them?' `I think this is what some sportsmen wear,' Nathan murmured to him. `Like, back in the day...? With a protective cup in it, or...?' He trailed off, his thick Glasgow accent becoming a low grumble. `Here, try a sniff of these,' Conor suggested, steering James to the desk. `Give them to Tarks, mate - come on, just a sniff. Everyone else has done it. Mate, they aren't illegal or anything...! You ain't gonna get arrested, ha. It just... well, they relax you, or something...' `Relax?' Ben mumbled. `Just giving me a headache, to be honest.' Conor timed his next comment well, waiting until begrudging Tarkowski was inhaling deeply on the stuff. `They're used for relaxing bumholes, y'know,' he said sagely, making his friend splutter and grimace and almost drop the amyl. `I mean, clubbers like it too, but it's mainly for gay fellas, y'see - makes certain things easier, know what I mean...?' At that, he turned and landed a third meaty spank on Patterson's exposed backside, really making a hand-print on the doughy white buttock, and just making the 21-year-old explode with giggles. In one hand, Coady still wielded the dildo like a dagger; he brought it stroking and prodding against the stinging red cheek, tapping it against the young right-back and making his cheeks jiggle, and making Ben's eyes bulge out of his head. `Fuck,' murmured Tarks through the headrush. `You think that's really Frank's?' Pats demanded, giggling some more to feel the toy tap and prod against his bum. `Nahhh, can't be,' Godfrey said wonderingly. `Must be,' disagreed their Scouse ringleader, biting his lip. He pressed the taboo toy into one of the York lad's hands, clapping his own together and wondering how far he could take all this. He turned playfully towards James but the 30-year-old just glared at him and shook his head, then pressed the bottle of poppers into his palm. `I'm out,' the Manc guy declared simply, and he lurched for the door again - this time, Conor didn't try to stop him, unsure he could push the right buttons to make the big muscular Burnley transplant change his mind and relax into some mischief. He slammed the door after him and then it was just the three of them, a new playful tension thickening in the popper-scented air. Conor grabbed and squeezed himself shamelessly, and he winked when Ben caught his eye, glad that the big strong mixed-race lad had noticed. Then he took a good squeezing grip of one cheek and leaned in closer to Nate. `You reckon you've sniffed enough of that magic stuff to take Lampard's big cock in ya, Scottie?' He shook him by the shoulder and chuckled and he saw the younger athlete's face flush pink. `Fuck nah,' was Ben's awkward comment. `He'll never take that?' `That might be a joke too far,' sniggered Nathan, but... hesitantly. `Ah, I dunno, that stuff is meant to proper relax you, la',' snarled Conor eagerly. He nodded at it, watching the rather protective way Ben clutched and gripped it, then giving a gentle slap to Nate's backside and giving the bare-cheeked lad a bigger hug, steering him against the desk. `Why don't we give it a try, eh?' Patterson giggled. `I don't think I'll manage that, boss!' `Would you try it though?' came Godfrey's almost breathlessly curious demand. `You up for it?' Coady asked bluntly, stroking a shoulder of his training shirt. `Let's get this off,' he suggested before getting answer, and he and Ben now helped their younger friend out of the lime-green Everton prep gear, stripping him to just his footy socks and the skimpy black jockstrap, glad of the heated air of the deserted office. Turning to Godfrey, he said, `Tough Scots lad, ain't he, he'll be able to take this no problem.' `I dunno lads!' giggled Nathan, but he didn't protest as Conor steered him further forward, encouraging him to bend slightly over the desk that had so recently been Lampard's seat of power. The nervous laughter of the tall pale Glasgow lad made his body judder and tremble, making the chunky bare cheeks jiggle just a little, and both of the centre-backs stood behind him. `Here,' Coady purred to the 25-year-old, `you wanna lower the blinds on that window in the door, matey?' He leered encouragingly at the endearing gormlessness of Godfrey's face, nudging the well-built defender into life. He did as he was told, quickly, and stood by Conor's side, eyes wide and mouth hanging open a bit - he looked excited, and Conor glanced down for confirmation. Yep, the bulge in those deep blue pants was even more pronounced and urgent than his own, and he wondered if the dopey young Yorkshireman even realised how aroused he was becoming. Grinning wickedly, the former Wolves captain brought the toy up, and spat heavily on its chubby moulded tip. Then, with a little grace and ceremony, he brought it down and played it down the deep crease between the young lad's cheeks, making Nathan snigger and murmur some more, and say `Why's it wet?' with earnest curiosity. Conor smirked and he exchanged an eager look with breathless Ben, whilst working the rubbery toy up and down the lad's crack, gently parting his chubby cheeks. `Nate,' he said quietly, `why odn't you take another sniff of them poppers, hey...?' To the sound of Patterson breathing deeply, twice per nostril, he began to push in a bit more, and used his other hand to tug on one cheek, easing accent into the mousy brown fluff of hair between the smooth dough of each cheek. Godfrey was watching in astoundment, and unconsciously starting to rub himself, which reminded Coady to pull a hand back and play with his own stiff outline in the nylon. `Take another sniff mate, make it a long one,' he advised Nathan in a deep slow voice, and then - ah yeh, that was it! He pushed it in experimentally as if just teasing his wife's lips, making the young lad tremble and gigle awkwardly, and making Ben gasp interestedly. It was easier than he expected, but then the 21-year-old was high on poppers for the first time. In went the tip, nudging open the virgin hole of the straight right-back. As he pushed it in, Patterson yelped, and Godfrey gasped again, and he just bit his lip, hard as a rock in his own tight compression shorts under the tracksuit. `Sniff some more,' he repeated, and the younger defender did so - and Conor pushed more, easing the tip of the toy in between those cheeks, very slowly, and wanting to go rougher. The groan from the Scots lad was ambiguously pained and interested, and he didn't dare go further, pulling gently back and then nudging it in, teasing and testing him, and then... he glanced at the astonished look on handsome Ben's face, and nodded invitingly. Conor's own grip on the toy softened as the shaky brown fingers came exploring, and then the 25-year-old centre-back was taking over from him... Conor patted and stroked the centre of his broad back as he moved aside slightly, letting Godfrey in to take control and push the toy a little more firmly into Patterson's big white backside. Breathless with excitement himself now, the 29-year-old Scouser got on with it: he quickly undid the tight little drawstring knot and pushed his tracksuit pants halfway down his thighs, and then pulled his hard-on out of his boxer briefs, unnoticed for a moment by either of the others. He spat in his right hand and pulled on his long slender prick, licking his lips eagerly, and watching the heavy clumsy strength with which Ben pushed the toy further and further into the youngest defender, mixed with a kind of awkward delicacy as increasingly pained yelps showed Nathan's doubts - Conor helped by patting and stroking his bare back and shoulder, and murmuring support. `You can take more, big Scottish stud like you - take another sniff if you need it? Go easy on him, Ben, mate - he's not some slag you've picked up in Wetherspoons, y'know...?' Coady spat more lube down onto his prick and jerked urgently on it, and he saw Godfrey glance warily at it, before reaching his free hand to squeeze the alarmingly big outline in his own pants; but Patterson was oblivious, bent forward over the desk to rest on his elbows, laughing between pants and awkward groans, and telling them, `It really don't feel that bad...! How far is it in? Is it nearly all in? Haha - this is mad, guys! This is wilder than that time with Davies, y'know, when we all.. He-he-he...' `Here,' Conor grunted at the other centre-back, `move over.' Ben offered him hold of the toy, but he shook his head, and Lampard's forgotten dildo fell to the rug on the office floor. Instead, Conor shuffled into position behind the younger player, a wicked enthusiasm tensing every muscle in his 6ft1 physique. `See how this feels,' he told Nathan quickly, and went for it - pushing his hard cock in against the damp hole, sliding into him with far more ease than he might have expected. He wasn't quite as girthy as the toy that the pair of them had just sneaked into this big pale bottom. Still, Patterson yelped and flinched, and Conor rubbed tender hands up his back and held him by the biceps. `How's that?' he purred and groaned. `How's it feel, Nate?' `F-f-fuck,' the Glaswegian stammered - was he sure what he'd just taken? `Fuck,' echoed Godfrey, in shock. `Relax,' purred Conor, to both of them, beginning to grind his hips. `This feel better than the toy?' he demanded quite, finding his slow rhythm. `F-f-fuck, I d-d-dunno, er... oh... ohh... mmm... wow...' `Take another sniff or two, matey, you'll be grand.' Slowly and carefully, Coady began to fuck the other Everton lad against the desk, careful not to start rushing and giving in to instinct; he guided his cock in a little deeper with every tender stroke, the first time he'd entered a lad's backside since the sweet Portuguese hole that had got him in so much trouble in Wolverhampton, finally giving in to anal after a lengthy affair of steamy one-way blowies. He'd sworn never again, but here he was, almost balls-deep in this quivering pale Caledonian, bending him over the gaffer's desk, reaching round to hold the bottle of poppers under one of his flaring nostrils. `That okay?' he growled in his ear, pushing himself a bit harder against those chubby cheeks. `Ohhhh,' was all Patterson could groan, pinned against the wooden desk. `Fucking hell,' whispered Godfrey close by, and Coady could hear the fap fap of wanking from the burly Yorkshire 25-year-old - soon, he thought, he'd swap positions with him, but not yet, oh god, not yet! He fucked him a little quicker, but only a little, conscious of how fresh and virginal this beautiful arse was, so soft and broad against his own slim muscular form, and he loved the tight muscles that enclosed his prick. It was an act of restraint that allowed him to pull back, panting and planting a single kiss at the top of Nathan's spine - pulling aside, his cock wobbling in the gap between the green of his shirt and the black of his lowered boxer briefs, he turned and looked seriously at Ben, who just gawped silently. Conor planted a hand down to spank and jiggle one cheek, making Nate giggle uncertainly - `It felt weird,' was his quiet review, `should we stop?' - but then Ben was pushing forward, cock in hand, and Coady caught sight of just how bloody big it was, jesus christ. It wasn't on show for a long before the big pink mushroom was pressed between the cheeks and the thick brown shaft was going in - and now Godfrey was the one humping hard into Patterson from behind, pinning the quivering Scotsman against the managerial desk, making him groan very loudly and swear violently. And all Coady could do was pull back to admire the sight of it, and tug furiously on his own slick cock, close to blowing his load. `Sniff the poppers,' he growled at Patterson through the whimpering sound he made as he was impaled on the much thicker tool, maybe thicker than the toy. Godfrey was awkward and clumsy, big hands gripping and bruising at the other lad's arms and sides, and sweat pouring down his pale brown face. But his thrusts were strong and solid and more urgent than Conor's own self-control. Thrust after thrust, the excited 25-year-old ploughed the younger lad into the table, and it was clear enough that he'd never buried himself in another man like this before - fucking beautiful. `Go easy on him,' he encouraged, though he loved seeing the brutal strength mixed with nervousness that rocked and jolted Godfrey's motion, and he loved the depth and uncertainty of Patterson's whining cry. He wanked harder and harder on himself, and even reached about to pull the poppers away to take a sniff himself, riding the little wave of blood-rush and feeling his balls tingle excitedly. He stepped closer, pumping his prick, and Ben seemed to take this as some sign that he had to stop - and then there they both were, jerking off behind the quivering white bottom, until they were painting those doughy cheeks with a silvery icing of their manly juices, listening to the whimpering breaths and moans of the deflowered Glaswegian. Confidence was its own discretion, Conor advised the younger two, encouraging them to strut nonchalantly away from the area of offices, as if nothing dodgy had happened. Nathan was understandably a bit shaky, his face blotchy pink, and his erection badly hidden in his pants; an awkward kindliness in his body language, Ben helped him along, steering him by one shoulder whilst wiping his sweaty face with one green sleeve. And Conor himself strolled confidently ahead of them, still smirking, picturing the dirtied sex toy left in the waste paper bin under the desk, and the poppers now resting in one of his zipped pockets - the jockstrap, he thought smugly, was still tight about Nathan's waist and bottom, left on and stained with cum where his and Godfrey's load had dribbled over it, left on as the young lad dressed in a flushed hurry. `You two good?' the 29-year-old asked hesitantly as he led them down into the quietened changing rooms, noticing how shaken and scared they both looked by the new experiences they'd all shared. Surprisingly, bent-over Nathan nodded more firmly than Ben, who looked like he'd just spent a night in a haunted mansion. Conor smiled encouragingly at both lads and grabbed them in a group hug. `Go get showered, you two bad boys. That was fucking fun, huh? But y'know... our little secret.' He tapped his nose, and then laughed, unable to smell anything but the poppers. Nodding, the two younger defenders drifted away from him to one edge of the quiet locker-room, both starting to tug off their green shirts and bare their muscular backs. Coady lingered where he was, enjoying the dull throb of his spent cock and balls in his black undies, and feeling the hard outline of the little poppers bottle in one pocket. He grinned to himself and went over to another side of the room, hunkering down on one bench under his locker, and wiping both palms across his clammy face, unable to believe how risky it had been to just fuck a lad in an upstairs office. He sat there, pulling off his socks slowly, and the naked towel-clad figures of Ben and Nathan gradually slipped past him, disappearing into the steamy showers in awkward silence. Almost at the same moment as they did, the figure of another showered player emerged, barely acknowledging them on his way past, and re-entering the darkly decorated locker-room where they'd once all shared Tom Davies' mouth. It was James, still looking as severe and disapproving as he had upstairs. Conor smiled upright and grinned at his pal, watching as the big smooth body of muscle came close and then passed him to reach the next locker. Steam rose in plumes from every bulging muscle. `Glad you saw sense and ditched that bugger's office,' Tarkowski said quietly. Coady just laughed lightly at this review. `You missed out.' `Not sure I wanna know, fella.' `Hmm.' `Ugh.' `Relax, lad.' `Huh.' Next to him, Tarks hesitated, having grabbed a second towel to rub over his chest, neck, face. He seemed to want to undo the knot at the front of the first towel, to carry on drying off his 6ft1 body of thick powerful muscle, especially his famous legs. But he seemed nervous, uncomfortable, self-conscious. Conor just grinned, as if oblivious to the fact he was the source of this discomfort. He smirked up at the standing brute, and rested his back on his locker door, hands draped in the lap of his trackies. `What?' he asked politely. Tarks just grunted a `Huh' again, pausing with the second towel hugged against his chest. He let it droop, and undid the main towel, which slid away from his thick hips and down towards the floor, flashing ridiculously chunky thighs, and... for a moment, a strong view of his crotch, the neatly buzzed pubes and the thick dangling sausage over his tight hairy balls. Conor stared thoughtfully at it, remembering his first taste of dick in that Doha hotel room, coaxed and encouraged by his surprising friendship with Eric Dier. His eyes shifted up and met James' frosty gaze, despite their close friendship; still, Conor smirked, friendly but naughty, and he winked once. Then, conscious of how alone they were here, he reached out to touch it, cupping the big man's privates in one hand, weighing the cock and ball over his palm, and staring up at James' unreadable expression as he did so. He let out a slow quiet chuckle. Tarkowski moved, but not immediately, not quickly; there was a long moment of physical contact and then the big hunky bugger pulled back with his hips, dragging his cock and balls out of Conor's hand, and throwing a towel over his crotch once more, his high cheekbones scarlet. `Mate,' was his monosyllabic warning, and he broke the stare, looking anywhere but at his friend. Conor, spent and exhausted, just chuckled, and leaned heavily back into his locker door, feeling very hot and sweaty. `What?' he protested meekly, as if he hadn't just groped a feel, and he smiled quietly to himself whilst James dried and dressed in a huffing hurry, then told him that `I'll see you tomorrow for match-day'. Coady nodded and grinned, and watched awkward Godfrey and Patterson begin to emerge from the showers, keeping a safe two metres away from each other now, as if they weren't very intimately acquainted now - oh, what a fun afternoon, after all. Relegation or not, the Scouser thought, maybe he DID have a future at Everton after all...? 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share </pre> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/

Nifty Archive: suckered-by-a-jonas-brother SizeDateFilename 127K Mar 12 19:04 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-24 75K Jul 7 2023 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-23 86K Feb 17 2023 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-22 31K Nov 13 2022 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-21 76K Jul 20 2022 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-20 131K Jun 30 2022 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-19 74K Mar 1 2022 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-18 64K Jan 18 2022 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-17 22K Nov 17 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-16 24K Oct 1 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-15 57K Jul 10 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-14 31K Jun 2 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-13 30K May 1 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-12 30K Mar 29 2021 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-11 18K Oct 24 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-10 47K Sep 19 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-9 54K Sep 17 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-8 20K Aug 28 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-7 54K May 12 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-6 47K Mar 1 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-5 44K Jan 1 2020 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-4 22K Jul 30 2019 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-3 15K Jun 11 2019 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-2 18K Jun 4 2019 suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-1

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: suckered-by-a-jonas-brother</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"><div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>127K</td><td>Mar 12 19:04</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-24">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-24</a></td></tr> <tr><td>75K</td><td>Jul 7 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-23">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-23</a></td></tr> <tr><td>86K</td><td>Feb 17 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-22">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-22</a></td></tr> <tr><td>31K</td><td>Nov 13 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-21">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-21</a></td></tr> <tr><td>76K</td><td>Jul 20 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-20">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-20</a></td></tr> <tr><td>131K</td><td>Jun 30 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-19">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-19</a></td></tr> <tr><td>74K</td><td>Mar 1 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-18">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-18</a></td></tr> <tr><td>64K</td><td>Jan 18 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-17">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-17</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Nov 17 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-16">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-16</a></td></tr> <tr><td>24K</td><td>Oct 1 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-15">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-15</a></td></tr> <tr><td>57K</td><td>Jul 10 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-14">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-14</a></td></tr> <tr><td>31K</td><td>Jun 2 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-13">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-13</a></td></tr> <tr><td>30K</td><td>May 1 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-12">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-12</a></td></tr> <tr><td>30K</td><td>Mar 29 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-11">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-11</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Oct 24 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-10">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-10</a></td></tr> <tr><td>47K</td><td>Sep 19 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-9">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-9</a></td></tr> <tr><td>54K</td><td>Sep 17 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-8">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-8</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Aug 28 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-7">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-7</a></td></tr> <tr><td>54K</td><td>May 12 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-6">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-6</a></td></tr> <tr><td>47K</td><td>Mar 1 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-5">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-5</a></td></tr> <tr><td>44K</td><td>Jan 1 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-4">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-4</a></td></tr> <tr><td>22K</td><td>Jul 30 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-3">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-3</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jun 11 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-2">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-2</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Jun 4 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother/suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-1">suckered-by-a-jonas-brother-1</a></td></tr> </tbody></table> </div></div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/

Nifty Archive: wwf SizeDateFilename Dir Jul 24 19:25 revenge-of-the-rock/ Dir Jun 21 16:19 done-by-dirty-daddy/ Dir Oct 20 2023 xxx-in-wwe/ Dir Jun 7 2022 wrestling-hunks/ 15K Nov 24 2021 wwe-fantasies 11K Nov 24 2021 wwes-whore Dir Jan 21 2020 matt-and-the-buzz-saw/ 14K Nov 1 2019 lios-lust 21K Jan 9 2019 wrestlemania Dir Jun 20 2017 gettin-my-mvp/ 15K Jun 3 2017 draft-frustration 10K Jun 3 2017 that-look 14K Jun 3 2017 toms-new-day Dir Jun 3 2017 tom-does-wwe/ Dir Jul 30 2016 wwerotica/ 11K Jan 18 2015 rollins-vs-cena 9K Nov 4 2013 john-cena-and-brock-lesner 21K Aug 12 2013 dr-sheamus Dir May 10 2013 wwe-road-stories/ Dir Feb 23 2013 wwe-new-rules/ Dir Feb 19 2013 til-a-death-do-us-part/ Dir Dec 22 2012 erotic-era-of-wwe/ Dir Aug 11 2012 wrestling-diary/ 4K Jun 25 2012 dolph-zigglers-exam Dir Jun 14 2012 the-boys/ Dir Apr 23 2012 sexy-little-things/ 6K Dec 9 2011 trust Dir Dec 4 2011 betrayal/ Dir Nov 14 2011 the-young-and-the-wrestlers/ 18K Nov 13 2011 nexus-foursome.html Dir Oct 21 2011 russian-nightmare/ Dir Apr 14 2011 the-unit/ Dir Sep 12 2010 newfound-world/ Dir Aug 5 2010 eric-meets-justin-gabriel/ 3K Jul 21 2010 i-drove-all-night 15K Jul 3 2010 slater-and-gabriel 6K Jun 6 2010 wwe-gangbang Dir Mar 22 2010 might-as-well-be-on-mars/ 3K Mar 20 2010 does-he-know Dir Feb 6 2010 video-gamers/ Dir Jan 31 2010 the-bet/ 7K Jan 24 2010 mcintyre-and-morrison 1K Dec 25 2009 wwe-getting-it-on 11K Nov 17 2009 orton-betrayed Dir Oct 3 2009 broken-in/ 4K Jul 7 2009 seduction-of-cody-rhodes.html Dir May 2 2009 backlash-aftermath/ 6K Apr 19 2009 royal-orgy 4K Jan 3 2009 the-colons-enigma 4K Sep 4 2008 champions-threesome 2K Aug 31 2008 cm-got-punkd 7K Jun 3 2008 wwe-chronicles 10K May 10 2008 what-happened Dir Mar 4 2008 hangin-with-the-champ/ Dir May 7 2007 on-the-road/ 3K Feb 5 2007 blind-party Dir Nov 16 2006 hogan-knows-squat/ 20K Jul 27 2006 cena-and-nitros-summerslam 6K Apr 28 2006 new-ten-inch-club 1K Apr 28 2006 new-wrestling-orgy 16K Sep 1 2005 struggling-to-domonic Dir Mar 31 2005 john-gets-randy/ Dir Mar 22 2005 wwe-behind-the-scenes/ 4K Jul 8 2004 jericho-the-bitch 8K Dec 21 2003 brock-birthday-bash Dir Nov 22 2003 brian-and-paul/ 8K Nov 9 2003 turned Dir Aug 16 2003 loves-and-lives-of-smackdown/ Dir Jul 24 2003 summer-at-brocks-ranch/ Dir Jun 27 2003 locker-room-lust/ 2K Jun 19 2003 dose-of-mattitude 2K Jan 27 2003 staples-center-paradise 2K Jan 25 2003 tough-enough 59K Jan 23 2003 tug-of-war 10K Jan 19 2003 oh-captain-my-captain 63K Jan 11 2003 twisted-gold 6K Jan 4 2003 respecting-your-uncle 11K Jan 3 2003 getting-on-raw 4K Dec 25 2002 trailer-park-trash 8K Jul 22 2002 in-the-house 6K Jul 8 2002 sweatin-in-texas 6K Jul 5 2002 val-venis-and-chavo-guerrero 7K Jul 1 2002 no-dinner-just-a-show 5K Jun 27 2002 rock-and-benoit 18K Jun 27 2002 shower-rendezvous 6K Jun 27 2002 forceable-entry 3K Jun 27 2002 water-sports 8K Jun 20 2002 amateur-night 7K Jun 20 2002 lance-storm-and-val-venis 6K Jun 20 2002 hardcores-revenge 8K Jun 1 2002 jerrys-kid 17K Jun 1 2002 benoits-revenge 11K May 31 2002 king-goes-hardcore 3K Apr 11 2002 ready-to-cum 15K Apr 7 2002 contract-negotiation 4K Mar 3 2002 threesome 5K Mar 3 2002 steven-richards 2K Mar 3 2002 awesome-foursome 3K Mar 3 2002 hhh-rock 5K Mar 2 2002 jeff-gets-hard Dir Feb 27 2002 wrestling-orgy/ 4K Feb 22 2002 rock-and-jeff-hardy 6K Feb 3 2002 rey-jr-gets-some 6K Jan 30 2002 evan-karaigas 10K Dec 26 2001 poetry-in-motion Dir Dec 9 2001 ten-inch-plus-club/ 7K Oct 26 2001 fan-and-stasiak 5K Oct 13 2001 kane-and-crash Dir Oct 10 2001 hardy/ 6K Aug 26 2001 rock-gets-stasiak 11K Aug 21 2001 fully-loaded 5K Aug 4 2001 soft-and-wet 9K Jul 28 2001 rob-van-dam-and-hhh 13K Jul 27 2001 goldberg-and-austin 15K Jun 22 2001 hulk-hogan-vs-the-british-bulldog 10K Jun 18 2001 kevin-nash-and-shawn-michael 4K Jun 3 2001 hhh-vs-test 20K May 31 2001 jeff-hardy 5K May 20 2001 hhh-vs-austin 13K Apr 29 2001 jeff-hardy-and-crash-hollys-ultimate-match 8K Apr 21 2001 walls-of-jericho 7K Apr 17 2001 benoit-vs-jericho 19K Mar 5 2001 anything-can-happen 6K Jan 21 2001 kurt-angle-vs-hhh 9K Sep 4 2000 kevin-and-michael 7K Sep 1 2000 a-few-rounds-with-shane-omac 10K Aug 30 2000 val-veis-and-test 9K Aug 28 2000 vince-and-shane 16K Jun 21 2000 too-cool-vs-shane-mcmahon 12K Apr 29 2000 new-age-outlaws-vs-triple-h 8K Mar 9 2000 ken-shamrock-vs-steve-blackman 8K Mar 2 2000 the-rock-vs-stone-cold

<div id="readability-content"><h1>Nifty Archive: wwf</h1><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"><div> <table> <tbody><tr><th>Size</th><th>Date</th><th>Filename</th></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 19:25</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/revenge-of-the-rock/">revenge-of-the-rock/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 21 16:19</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/done-by-dirty-daddy/">done-by-dirty-daddy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 20 2023</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/xxx-in-wwe/">xxx-in-wwe/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 7 2022</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wrestling-hunks/">wrestling-hunks/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Nov 24 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-fantasies">wwe-fantasies</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Nov 24 2021</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwes-whore">wwes-whore</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 21 2020</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/matt-and-the-buzz-saw/">matt-and-the-buzz-saw/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Nov 1 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/lios-lust">lios-lust</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Jan 9 2019</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wrestlemania">wrestlemania</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 20 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/gettin-my-mvp/">gettin-my-mvp/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jun 3 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/draft-frustration">draft-frustration</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jun 3 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/that-look">that-look</a></td></tr> <tr><td>14K</td><td>Jun 3 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/toms-new-day">toms-new-day</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 3 2017</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/tom-does-wwe/">tom-does-wwe/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 30 2016</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwerotica/">wwerotica/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 18 2015</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rollins-vs-cena">rollins-vs-cena</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Nov 4 2013</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/john-cena-and-brock-lesner">john-cena-and-brock-lesner</a></td></tr> <tr><td>21K</td><td>Aug 12 2013</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/dr-sheamus">dr-sheamus</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 10 2013</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-road-stories/">wwe-road-stories/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 23 2013</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-new-rules/">wwe-new-rules/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 19 2013</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/til-a-death-do-us-part/">til-a-death-do-us-part/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 22 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/erotic-era-of-wwe/">erotic-era-of-wwe/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 11 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wrestling-diary/">wrestling-diary/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jun 25 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/dolph-zigglers-exam">dolph-zigglers-exam</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 14 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/the-boys/">the-boys/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 23 2012</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/sexy-little-things/">sexy-little-things/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Dec 9 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/trust">trust</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 4 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/betrayal/">betrayal/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 14 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/the-young-and-the-wrestlers/">the-young-and-the-wrestlers/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Nov 13 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/nexus-foursome.html">nexus-foursome.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 21 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/russian-nightmare/">russian-nightmare/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Apr 14 2011</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/the-unit/">the-unit/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Sep 12 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/newfound-world/">newfound-world/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 5 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/eric-meets-justin-gabriel/">eric-meets-justin-gabriel/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jul 21 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/i-drove-all-night">i-drove-all-night</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jul 3 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/slater-and-gabriel">slater-and-gabriel</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jun 6 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-gangbang">wwe-gangbang</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 22 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/might-as-well-be-on-mars/">might-as-well-be-on-mars/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Mar 20 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/does-he-know">does-he-know</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 6 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/video-gamers/">video-gamers/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jan 31 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/the-bet/">the-bet/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jan 24 2010</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/mcintyre-and-morrison">mcintyre-and-morrison</a></td></tr> <tr><td>1K</td><td>Dec 25 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-getting-it-on">wwe-getting-it-on</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Nov 17 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/orton-betrayed">orton-betrayed</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 3 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/broken-in/">broken-in/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jul 7 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/seduction-of-cody-rhodes.html">seduction-of-cody-rhodes.html</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 2 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/backlash-aftermath/">backlash-aftermath/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Apr 19 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/royal-orgy">royal-orgy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jan 3 2009</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/the-colons-enigma">the-colons-enigma</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Sep 4 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/champions-threesome">champions-threesome</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Aug 31 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/cm-got-punkd">cm-got-punkd</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jun 3 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-chronicles">wwe-chronicles</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>May 10 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/what-happened">what-happened</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 4 2008</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/hangin-with-the-champ/">hangin-with-the-champ/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>May 7 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/on-the-road/">on-the-road/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Feb 5 2007</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/blind-party">blind-party</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 16 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/hogan-knows-squat/">hogan-knows-squat/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>20K</td><td>Jul 27 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/cena-and-nitros-summerslam">cena-and-nitros-summerslam</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Apr 28 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/new-ten-inch-club">new-ten-inch-club</a></td></tr> <tr><td>1K</td><td>Apr 28 2006</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/new-wrestling-orgy">new-wrestling-orgy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>16K</td><td>Sep 1 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/struggling-to-domonic">struggling-to-domonic</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 31 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/john-gets-randy/">john-gets-randy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Mar 22 2005</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wwe-behind-the-scenes/">wwe-behind-the-scenes/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Jul 8 2004</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/jericho-the-bitch">jericho-the-bitch</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Dec 21 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/brock-birthday-bash">brock-birthday-bash</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Nov 22 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/brian-and-paul/">brian-and-paul/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Nov 9 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/turned">turned</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Aug 16 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/loves-and-lives-of-smackdown/">loves-and-lives-of-smackdown/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jul 24 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/summer-at-brocks-ranch/">summer-at-brocks-ranch/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Jun 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/locker-room-lust/">locker-room-lust/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Jun 19 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/dose-of-mattitude">dose-of-mattitude</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Jan 27 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/staples-center-paradise">staples-center-paradise</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Jan 25 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/tough-enough">tough-enough</a></td></tr> <tr><td>59K</td><td>Jan 23 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/tug-of-war">tug-of-war</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Jan 19 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/oh-captain-my-captain">oh-captain-my-captain</a></td></tr> <tr><td>63K</td><td>Jan 11 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/twisted-gold">twisted-gold</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 4 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/respecting-your-uncle">respecting-your-uncle</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Jan 3 2003</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/getting-on-raw">getting-on-raw</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Dec 25 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/trailer-park-trash">trailer-park-trash</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jul 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/in-the-house">in-the-house</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 8 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/sweatin-in-texas">sweatin-in-texas</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jul 5 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/val-venis-and-chavo-guerrero">val-venis-and-chavo-guerrero</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jul 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/no-dinner-just-a-show">no-dinner-just-a-show</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Jun 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rock-and-benoit">rock-and-benoit</a></td></tr> <tr><td>18K</td><td>Jun 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/shower-rendezvous">shower-rendezvous</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jun 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/forceable-entry">forceable-entry</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Jun 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/water-sports">water-sports</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jun 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/amateur-night">amateur-night</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Jun 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/lance-storm-and-val-venis">lance-storm-and-val-venis</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jun 20 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/hardcores-revenge">hardcores-revenge</a></td></tr> <tr><td>8K</td><td>Jun 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/jerrys-kid">jerrys-kid</a></td></tr> <tr><td>17K</td><td>Jun 1 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/benoits-revenge">benoits-revenge</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>May 31 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/king-goes-hardcore">king-goes-hardcore</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Apr 11 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/ready-to-cum">ready-to-cum</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Apr 7 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/contract-negotiation">contract-negotiation</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/threesome">threesome</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/steven-richards">steven-richards</a></td></tr> <tr><td>2K</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/awesome-foursome">awesome-foursome</a></td></tr> <tr><td>3K</td><td>Mar 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/hhh-rock">hhh-rock</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Mar 2 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/jeff-gets-hard">jeff-gets-hard</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Feb 27 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/wrestling-orgy/">wrestling-orgy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>4K</td><td>Feb 22 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rock-and-jeff-hardy">rock-and-jeff-hardy</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Feb 3 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rey-jr-gets-some">rey-jr-gets-some</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Jan 30 2002</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/evan-karaigas">evan-karaigas</a></td></tr> <tr><td>10K</td><td>Dec 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/poetry-in-motion">poetry-in-motion</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Dec 9 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/ten-inch-plus-club/">ten-inch-plus-club/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>7K</td><td>Oct 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/fan-and-stasiak">fan-and-stasiak</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Oct 13 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/kane-and-crash">kane-and-crash</a></td></tr> <tr><td>Dir</td><td>Oct 10 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/hardy/">hardy/</a></td></tr> <tr><td>6K</td><td>Aug 26 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rock-gets-stasiak">rock-gets-stasiak</a></td></tr> <tr><td>11K</td><td>Aug 21 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/fully-loaded">fully-loaded</a></td></tr> <tr><td>5K</td><td>Aug 4 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/soft-and-wet">soft-and-wet</a></td></tr> <tr><td>9K</td><td>Jul 28 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/rob-van-dam-and-hhh">rob-van-dam-and-hhh</a></td></tr> <tr><td>13K</td><td>Jul 27 2001</td><td><a href="https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/wwf/goldberg-and-austin">goldberg-and-austin</a></td></tr> <tr><td>15K</td><td>Jun 22 2001</td><td><a 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https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/mushroom-heads/mushroom-heads-1

Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2024 16:38:46 -0500 From: Mark Smith Subject: Mushroom Heads: The Last of Yas. Chapter 1 (Science fiction/Fantasy, Celebrity) Drop Nifty some bucks to keep these stories online. CONTENT: An explicit gay retelling of the Last of Us. Will Joel be able to keep Eli safe? And from what? Sci-fi / Fantasy Slash Fiction Incest (in later episodes) relationships If you like this story, consider sending your feedback to bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com I'm looking to write the whole show and want to hear from you. Connect online at @Gayfan_Erotica on x Treat me to a cup of coffee or some lube. $storiesbymark on cashapp Prologue: SAM, TEXAS, 2004 "Dad?" I called out. "Dad, where are you?" I looked around the living room of our suburban Texas home. Spider-Man was still playing. By the looks of it, we were close to the end. The last thing I remember was falling asleep, my head on Dad's knee while Peter visited Oscorp. I was glad I'd fallen asleep before the part where Uncle Ben died. Always felt so sad that Spider-Man grew up without any sort of dad. But something had woken me up, and it hadn't been Spider-Man. It sounded like a scream. I paused the film. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a strange ringing. "Daddddd." Where could he have gone? I got off the sofa and made my way towards the kitchen. "Uncle Tommy. Is anyone home?" Tommy had been living with us for a while. He always said he was gonna move somewhere he could have his own room, but Dad insisted he stay. Since then, he'd been crashing on the big sofa in Dad's bedroom Mom liked to read on before she died. "Hello?" No one answered. Stepping into the kitchen, I saw the screen door was open. Dad wouldn't have left it like this. I went to close it. But as I drew closer, I started to hear the sirens. It sounded like they were coming from every direction. I walked outside. The air was cool and crisp, the sky was clear, and the sounds of chaos surrounded me. I stood dumbfounded, listening to the world around me as Dad's red Ford pick-up truck squealed around the edge of our road. Dad ignored the road entirely and drove right onto the grass. "SAM, GET IN THE CAR." He yelled as he jumped from the truck. "Tommy, you drive." Before I could ask Dad what was going on, he ran full speed into the house. I stopped to stare at him. Dad had always been the strongest man I knew, but watching him barrel into the house I realized he was strong and capable. "Tommy?" I asked as soon as my dad had disappeared past the door frame. "Get in sport." "What's going on?" "Just end-of-the-world shit," Tommy said as he got out the passenger side and made his way to the driver seat. He gave me one of his million-dollar grins, but even that didn't shake the feeling of unease from my stomach. I stood there, dumbstruck, looking back at the only house I had ever known. Dad burst through the front door holding his shotgun. "SAM! IN THE CAR NOW." Startled, I scrambled into the back seat of the truck. I didn't even have shoes on. As soon as Dad was in, Tommy peeled out of our yard. I stared back at our house. The only one I'd ever known as we made our way down the streets. But my attention was soon pulled elsewhere. Under the street lamps of Oak Street, I watched as Lizzy Irwin, our neighbor, tackled her husband, Mike. There was something feral about Liz, like a rabid dog. Her face was contorted and stained by white sludge. "Dad?" "Don't look, Champ." "What's going on?" My voice broke in fear. "Radio said it's some sort of virus. Like rabies. People get bit, and then they go mad." "What's causing it?" "They don't know." "No." "When did it start?" I could tell Dad was irritated with all my questions, but I couldn't stop myself from asking. I just hated not knowing what was going on. "Today. Tommy. Take 80. Then we will head north. Get towards Delhi and away from the city." he turned on the radio, surfing the stations. Everything was static. "Just 10 minutes ago, this was filled with chatter. Something bad's going down, Tommy." "Fuck." is all Tommy said as the truck accelerated. "Language." Said dad. "80's fucked." Tommy said, not registering that Dad had just told him not to swear. It looks like everyone had the same idea we did." The road out of the city was swamped with cars. An endless sea of red lights blinking in the night. Beyond the cars, we could see swarms of helicopters cutting through the night sky. "The whole fucking army is here. Fuck." Said, Tommy. "Language! Cut across Stephen's Field and will pick up route 72." Tommy gave the wheel a sharp tug, and we cut across the grass. We drove in silence, the car bouncing across the field till we picked back up with the road that would take us down through town. I'd never seen my Dad or Tommy like this. They had both been Marines; nothing ever ruffled their feathers. "Dad, I'm scared." "Don't be scared, Champ. Tommy and I will keep you safe." "But what's happening?" "Nothing we can handle if we stick together. We got you." "Joel, do I stop?" Tommy pointed to a car in the field before us, just off the road. A couple stood there with a child in their arms, trying to flag down our car. "They have a kid." "We have a kid. Drive." Said my dad. I watched as their faces passed us. Desperation filled their eyes. When we drove into town, it was chaos. "Fuck." That was all Tommy said. The streets were filled with people running and screaming every which way. At first, it was hard to tell, but the people were running from the other humans who had crusted white sludge around their mouths. The streets were filled with screams. "What do we do, Joel." "Drive." "Through these people, I can't..." "FUCKING DRIVE, TOMMY." Tommy hit the accelerator and started heading through the crowd. "Don't watch." My dad shot back at me. I turned around, not wanting to see what Tommy drove into. "Dad!" "What." "DAD!" He whipped his head around, and I pointed. In the sky above us, a plane was streaking down. Headed right towards downtown. "DAD." "BRACE!" he screamed as the world filled with the deafening roar of 4 jet engines. The explosion that followed flipped our car. One moment I was watching the road. The next, everything was ringing in a sea of tinkering glass. "Sam. SAMMY." my dad called out. "Where are you?" "I'm stuck," I called back. When the car flipped, my leg ended up pinned. "My leg. Dad!" "I'm coming, Sammy. I'm coming." My Dad's hands snaked their way through the broken window of the truck's back seat, and he pulled me from my wreckage. I tried to stand but immediately screamed. My leg was undoubtedly broken. "It's okay. It's okay, Sam, I got you." I could barely hear my dad over the sounds of screams and explosions all around me. The world was all smoke and the smell of burning gas. "Tommy!" My dad called out. "Yeah." "Meet us on the other side of the river." "Okay, I've got your gun." Tommy was separated from us by the truck; it had ended up wedged into the mouth of an alley in the explosion. "Good, now come on. I got you, son." My dad swooped me up in his big burly arms. Sometimes I forgot how strong he was. "Keep your eyes on me." He began to run. People, well, they looked like people, tracked us with their eyes as we ran through the alleys. I tried to look away, but I was pulled in by their odd movements and the weird noises that passed their lips. We kept running. Dad never let up. Just kept charging through the back streets. One man watched us as we ran and began to follow. "Dad, he's chasing us." "Keep your eyes on me," Dad said breathlessly, picking the pace up. "He's gaining." "GAHHH," Dad screamed. We were running down an alley past a dumpster. With one heavy, Dad threw me onto the dumpster's lid and grabbed a 2x4 that was leaving against the alley wall. With one fluid movement, he brought it up and smashed the man who was running at us in the head. The man screamed but kept scrambling towards us. Dad wailed at him over and over again, beating the man into the dirt of the alley. The blood spattered around him. Drips of dark red stained the alley walls. "Look away, Sam," Dad said between blows. "Look away." When he had stopped twitching, Dad dropped the 2x4 and returned to me. I let out a sob. "It's okay, champ. It's okay." He pulled me back into his arms and began jogging out of town again. We reached the end of the alley, where the building gave way to nature at the creek's edge. Dad ran down the embankment, clutching me tight, and scrambled up the other side. For a moment, we caught our breath. I curled tighter into Dad. Holding onto him. Then we heard a rustle from the bushes. "Tommy?" He yelled. "Where are you?" A flashlight lit up the night. "Halt right there." His voice was gruff. He was dressed in green camo--an army man. "I'm just looking for my brother." My dad said to the army man. "Tommy." nothing answered the sound of static as the man with the flashlight. Reached up to his shoulder mountain walkie-talkie and began to converse. "I've got two civilians who have crossed the river. Over" "Please." My Dad said. "We're not infected." I could hear the hiss of static and chatter as the army man bent and listened. "Repeat. Over," he said after a moment's pause. "Please." My dad said. "Please. "Copy. Over." There was a pause. He raised his assault rifle. "I'm sorry." The sounds of gunfire erupted in the air. "DAD," I screamed as I fell. And fell, And fell. The stars above were more beautiful than I thought. My dad was one of them. His face swam into view. "SAMMY," Dad screamed. "CHAMP, stay with me!" Dad was always so demanding. "Yesss." My words were slurred, slow, and strangely pitched. "Yes, Daddy, I will. But the stars..." Then there was darkness. CHAPTER 1: ELI, INTERROGATION, 2023 The Firefly entered the old classroom with his double-barreled shotgun pointed right at my mouth; he probably wanted to shove those metal barrels down my throat and finish me off. I knew I wasn't threatening them, but they didn't see it that way. Chained to the wall by my ankle and standing 5 foot 8, barely 140 pounds wet, I couldn't start any trouble even if I wanted to. Unlike the other men who had guarded me this week, his hands weren't shaking as he entered the classroom, but he kept the barrels trained on me as he made his way forward. This 6-foot-2 slab of beef stared at me like I was a full-blown clicker. We locked eyes, taking stock of one another. He had been working out before he came for his guard shift, his muscle bulging with a post-gym swell under his tight green t-shirt. I could smell the sweat on him, heady and intoxicating. It was a particular sort of hell that all the guards seemed to be on gym rotation before they came to do guard duty in my cell. The scent of all those unwashed pits made me cross-eyed to the point that I'm sure one guard thought I was changing into a mushroom head. The way my eyes rolled back in my head, and I found it hard to focus. Usually, a guy pointing a gun at me, no matter how they smelled, would be a turn-off, but after ten days chained to a wall, I was starting to lose my mind. Some Firefly dropped my food off yesterday, and I was salivating, not because of the rations but because another guy with a pulse was in the room with me. He told me to stop staring at him like I would eat him and then bolted from the room. I almost thought of telling him he was what I wanted to chew on, but I'm pretty sure he would have iced me then and there if I had said that. I know I'm just fucking losing my mind with hornyness because I don't want to die a virgin. Okay, well, not a complete virgin. I've known I was gay since I started sucking off a few of the other cadets at FEDRA, but no one had ever been in my ass, and chances are no one ever is going to now. Killed by an infected, killed by the fireflies, killed by Fedra, what did it matter? I was still going to die before I had sex. At least in FEDRA, I could sneak off to the shower when the thoughts of the other cadets drove me crazy and jerked off in a stall before I ran out of water rations--jerking off to thoughts of the FEDRA guards pushing me into the lockers and doors, spreading my legs, forcing their fingers into me, making me squeal out their names. I had it good back then, locked in FEDRA's training dorms, and I didn't even know it. I haven't cum since the night the firefly's found me. I can't even remember when I went this long without a release. It was getting so bad that all my thoughts were about the guards, dreaming one might get horned up during his shift and start looking for a release. But being infected was a huge turn-off. The guard who had just entered my room had a face marked with scars and five o'clock scruff, starkly contrasting my smooth skin and fair complexion. His skin was obsidian in color, drawing my eyes whenever he moved. He was handsome with one of those noses that looked like it had been broken a hundred times. I let my attention wander past the pecs that pulled his t-shirt tight; his abs were visible under the cotton. His green camo pants strained under the size of his tree trunk legs as his weight shifted. His eyes kept searching me, studying me as much as I examined him. For a moment, I felt embarrassed about how I looked. I wish I had showered the dirt off my face, at least. I'd torn up my clothes pretty badly between trying to escape through the mall and fighting off the infected. My shirt was torn, and my left nipple, exposed to the air, stood at attention. My pants were worse off. The crotch had ripped completely, and my left ass cheek was exposed from where the infected had bitten me on the ass. I had asked for new clothes the day they had locked me up, but the firefly guards had denied me. Said they didn't waste good fabric on someone meant for the burnt heap. "Say your name." He said finally. His voice was like gravel. "Boo," I yelled, jerking forward. The guard flinched. I couldn't help but laugh, tucking my unruly brown curls back behind my ears. "All of you are scaredy-cats." "Say your name, rag boy.' They had started calling me that since they dragged me in. "Same name I gave some guard yesterday." "Say it." "Yes, sir," I said with a mock salute. I snapped my heels together and came to attention before letting the whole facade sluff off. "That salute had good form. You were in FEDRA cadet training." "Like I'm telling you anything." I shot back. "A bad boy there and a bad boy here." He almost smiled. "At least there they tell you what's happening to you." Every day some guard would ask me questions, try to ascertain if I had lost my mind, and then just let me be. How many more days of this would I have to endure? "Name?" "It's Eli. Eli Williams has been Eli. Always gonna be Eli." "What year is it?" "2023" "Age" "18" He seemed to regard me for a moment. "You're a bit scrappier than I expected you to grow up into." "Expected me to be? Are you some family friend I've never met?" I said it as a joke, but he just smiled. "Knew your parents. Dad was built like a truck. Figured you would always grow up to be more like him." "Well, hate to tell you, but I'm an orphan so my dad's built like a fucking dirt pile now. But if I'm wrong and one day I meet him, I'll let him know you think I could work out more." I'd never met anyone who knew my parents--never had anyone to call Dad. Just grew up in a system, Orphan number 778, trying to make a family from the boys in the bunks next to me. We just stood there in silence for what felt like ages. Then he lowered the gun. I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding. Part of me wanted to cry. This whole time I had just been living in fear. Fear of the moment my body would be taken over, replaced with the mushroom hoard, or whatever happened after you were infected. "Names Martin Dandri. I'm the leader here of the Boston Fireflies." He held out his hand for me to shake. I hadn't touched anyone in over a week. Never really thought I was going to again. I gingerly took it. His grip was warm and masculine as his hand closed over mine, dwarfing me. Despite the chill, I began to sweat. How often had I fantasized about men like this? "Haven't had the chance to talk to you myself yet. Do you know why you're chained up?" "Because you and the fireflies are a bunch of perverted men who like to chain up young boys." I shot back. "I assure you when I want a boy, they come to me freely, even if they end up in chains." Martin licked his lips, his eyes darting toward my ass. It was quick, but I saw it. "You're chained up because you were infected." "Yeah, I was, but no one lasts longer than two days, and I've lasted at least eight. So can I go?" He ignored my questions and kept asking his own. "Do you feel normal today, Eli?" I looked around the room. It was an old abandoned school classroom the fireflies had converted into a cell. From the looks of it, it had been an English classroom. Posters of famous authors were still stuck to the walls. Abbot, Adams, Affleck, the names went on. "Normal. What the fuck is normal. I'm chained to a wall in a classroom. I went to the mall for the first time to play Mortal Kombat and got fucking attacked by a man with a mushroom for a head, some big dick metaphor monster who has FUCKED my life. So now I'm wearing rags, pretty sure I will die a virgin, talking to a wanna-be-Jax. BUT If you mean normal, like not about to become a monster. Then yeah, I'm normal." "A virgin?" He asked with a laugh. "Whatever." I didn't mean to say that. My mind jumped to Max. Max... He was gone now. "Isn't FEDRA training co-ed?" he said with a shit-eating grin. "Is that why you're the leader of the fireflies? You're good at insulting kids? Or because you've convinced everyone to join you on some asinine quest to have camo come back into fashion." "Sassy boy." "Whatever." He gave a sigh. "I've been with the fireflies longer than you've been alive, boy. The only enemy we had a chance against. But you represent a chance to deal with our greater enemy. The Fucking Mushroom Heads. The infected." He gave me a stern look. "Do you even know how many lives you could save? Being Immune? You're all that matters." I hadn't thought about what being immune might mean. No one was. "Your blood could save us, save the fireflies; we could liberate all the Qz's." There was something almost pleading about how he spoke. The Fireflies had locked me up to the wall for days, and then their leader came by to tell me I could be a big help in their fight with FEDRA. Didn't they deserve treatment too? This guy was pissing me off. "I can help save your life. Cammo's never gonna come back. Stop committing this fashion fatality." "You could be humanity's answer to the mushrooms, yet all you can think about is a shit video game. " "Hey. Mortal Kombat is a great game." I shot back. "How would you know? Only one you've played." He gave me a weak smile. "If you helped me save humanity, who knows, someone might make a better game for you." "Are you really gonna try to guilt me into having a change of heart by promising me new video games?" "Parents used to convince kids to do all manner of things by promising they would get them new video games. Since it looks like you'll be the squad's boy, I thought I'd try. " He paused. "Or is there something else you want?" He let out a big sigh and flexed his arms above his head, arms that looked like they could crush my skull. I must have drooled a bit because he chuckled and muttered under his breath. "Hungry Boy." "So, if you want me to save humanity, why am I still chained up?" I finally asked, pulling my eyes from the veins in his arms. I almost felt angry with myself that all it took for me to consider helping him was looking at his arms, but I knew I just had to know what those sculpted arms felt like. "Safety first. Turn around and show me your bite mark." he licked his lips. "I'll need you to spread them both for me to investigate thoroughly. "Seen a lot of boys' asses to compare it to?" I asked. I meant it to sound cocky, but it came out horny. I wasn't sure what I was doing. He sat back on the desk, spread his legs, and took a thin cigarette from a tin in his left pocket. He lit it and blew the smoke at my face with an audible sigh. "Come here." He pointed to the floor a few feet away from him. This is how they always inspected me--at the end of my chain, bent over, ass up. I could feel my dick beginning to stir in. What was it about this irritating and demanding guy that was getting me hot and bothered? "No," I said. Not because I didn't want to. I was nervous he'd see that my dick was swelling. "If you know what's best for you, you'll come right now." He reached into his other cargo pocket and pulled out a Taser. He flipped a switch in the side, and electricity crackled in the air. "A 50,000-volt shock will knock out a recently infected as fast as a human. If I'm taking you anywhere, I must be sure for myself." He flipped the switch on his taser, and electricity crackled around us; I felt my dick stiffen. "Taking me somewhere?" "Yes." "Where." "Somewhere beyond your wildest dreams," he said, flashing me that grin more electrifying than his taser. They probably were moving me to a different holding cell. The sounds of gunfire had been getting closer the last few nights. FEDRA and the Fireflies fighting in the alleys behind the school. I walked forward, unsure of what else to do. But strangely excited. Would he use it on me? Did I want him to? What if I resisted? "Good boy." he smiled as I got to the end of my chain. "I don't want to have to use this on you." His smile was darker than a storm cloud. "This time. Turn around." I did. "Bend over." I hesitated. Only for a moment, but that was too long for him. He stepped forward, and I felt his arm on my back. With one quick shove of his hand and kick of his boot to my right leg, I fell forward with my legs spread. I caught myself with my hands pinwheeling down on the ground before me. "Show it to me." He said--his breathing was heavy. Taking my hands off the floor but still bending over, I separated the two halves of my pants, exposing my bite. I started sweating even in the cold air. I felt his hands grab either side of my ass. His calloused fingers dug into my skin. He made a low rumbling noise as he pulled my ass cheeks apart and inspected me. My exposed hole quivered in the cold air. "Virgin hole." I heard him mutter. My hole spasmed as he said it. He just chuckled. He moved his fingers around, getting closer to my hole. Pulling the skin taut. I moaned despite myself. "Does it look okay?" I asked breathlessly. "soft, tight, pink, boy hole. With peach fuzz." He said. Tapping my asshole on every word with his thick pointer finger. "Okay," I said, my voice quaking. His head was so close to my ass. I could feel his breath on me. "As your superior, you should get used to addressing me as sir." "Okay... Sir." "Very good." "I'm glad you approve, sir," I wasn't even sure what I was saying. No one had ever held my ass for this long. Just as soon as I was starting to relax, his hands disappeared. Pain erupted through my left cheek as he brutally smacked my ass right on the bite mark. "OUCH," I screamed. I whipped my head around and stared at him. What was he planning to do to me? "Don't resist." "Why? You slapped me!" "Needed to ensure you were not pretending to be human." He said. "Have you heard of an infected being able to talk?" "No, but I've seen a lot of things in this life I never imagined I would ever see." The fabric around his crotch was beginning to tent under my gaze. "Doesn't look like we have to blow your brains out today, boy." He gave me a smile that seemed to say he had considered that an entertaining option. "Your dad would be pleased that I still have time to turn you into a man." "Oh, would he know?" "Yes. Your old man and I got up to a lot together. Might even tell you some of those stories while we're on the road." "What do you mean on the road?" "We're taking you out of the Boston QZ tonight." "What? Outside? I thought you'd just be taking me to a different cell or part of Boston." I looked up at him, shocked. I have wanted to get out of Boston for ages. I grew up in the QZ here. I was used to walking the same 30 streets, the same 1-mile stretch of beach, and two blocks of trees. "Your blood holds the potential for a cure. We're taking you to our research base out in Salt Lake City, Utah." "Fuck." "It's gonna be a long, dangerous trip, and you will have to do everything I say to get out of the QZ alive and across the whole country." "Yes...." I hesitated, "Sir." "It's a dark world out there." He knelt beside me. I felt dwarfed by him. This close, he smelled more intoxicating. "Yes." "Filled with monsters.' His fingers wrapped gingerly around my jaw, and he turned my head to meet my eyes. "Yes." "And it is my job to keep you safe. A dad's job." I looked at him once more. "You're going to take me to Utah." I could drown in his eyes. "You, me, and a squad of my best guards." "Ughh," I said. A whole squad. All those burly men out in the woods. Protecting me. "Men I trust." "Yes." "The road will be hard. And long." "Okay," I said breathlessly. He was still holding my face. I prayed he'd never let it go. "If I am taking you out of the QZ, I need to know that you will do anything and everything I ask without question." "Yes." "Everything." "Yes." "No matter how absurd or crazy or scary it sounds." "Yes, sir." We stared at each other for a long moment. He pulled me by my jaw until my mouth was just a hair's-breadth away from his crotch. I didn't resist. Every part of me felt like it was on fire. "Get used to this smell." He said. "This is the smell of the man who will protect you." I felt a full-bodied shutter shake its way through me. "Breath it in, boy." I greedily drank down the scent: musky and earthy. "Good Boy, I'll keep you safe." He thrust me into his crotch. I have never felt more at home than at that moment. No one had ever treated me like this, just take control. His other hand reached around and slapped my ass once more. I yelped in surprise. "We start your training now. In the wild, you need to be able to keep going, even when you are in pain, without making any noise." He slapped my ass, I yelped once more. "Try harder. You must find a way to keep yourself quiet, or you'll get killed." Slap. "Or worse. Your squad mates." Slap. "Do whatever you need to stop yourself from screaming." SLAP I looked up at him. I expected his face to be angry. He looked expectant. "Shove something in your mouth if you have to." I found my hands on his thighs. I fumbled to his belt without breaking eye contact and undid the strap. "Many infected can't see; they use echolocation to find their prey." He gave an audible sigh as I put my hands on either side of his hips and pulled the pants down over the crest of his ass. He adjusted himself, and there it was. His cock, straining against the fabric of his tight tented white briefs. "That's right." I leaned forward and licked the outline of his dick. I could smell his piss. I looked back up at him as he reached behind me and slapped me thrice. "Do it for the squad." SLAPPP He just grinned. "Gag yourself." With shaking hands, I pulled the waistband of his underwear down and freed his cock. It was beautiful, cut, and starting to swell. His dick had a thick mushroom head in a sea of dense pubes. I reached out and licked the tip of his cock. "Ummmmmmm." He moaned above me. I licked the tip once more. Probing my tongue into his big piss split. His dick continued to grow. It was easily ten inches and as thick as my wrist. "Fuck." I said, adjusting myself so I could more easily get his cock into my mouth. I felt it swell within me as I slid my lips down his shaft. This close, the smell was overpowering. Sweat and piss and the stretch of man musk. I felt my hole quiver again. I pushed my lips down his cock further, trying to take more into my mouth. I was nowhere near the base when his dick hit the back of my throat, and I gagged--heaving on his manhood. But I was determined to take more. Max had a big cock easily 7 inches, and I had practiced on his, but this was stretching me. His dick tasted like home. I took one hand off the floor and adjusted my own cock. It was swelling in my hands. He must have noticed me touching myself because suddenly he let out a chiding tsk sound. "Focus on Dad," he said. I immediately took my hand off my own cock and brought it up to fondle his balls. But hearing him call himself Dad almost made me shoot my load of boy cum right then. I'd longed for paternal approval my whole life, and now it was in front of me. I wanted nothing more than to build a sacred bond with an older guy. To be taught how to be a man by him. To be used by him. "Good Boy." I kept playing with his balls, squeezing the big balls towards me while one of his hands found its way back onto my head and pushed me down further on his dick. "You've done this before, cocksucker," he said. "Your dad would be proud." Before his other hand reached back and slapped my ass again hard, I barely made a noise this time. "Good boy, you learn too." still keeping his hand on the back of my head, he began to pump his cock into my mouth. I squirmed under the pressure, trying to fight back to get a chance to breathe, but he wouldn't let me. Over and over, he thrust himself into my throat. Every time I gaged, he just fucked my throat harder. Suddenly it pushed past something, and I sank to the hilt. I felt like my mouth would burst. My eyes began watering, and I thought my ears would pop. I let go of his balls and tried to push myself off his legs, but all my hands found was hard muscle. He just laughed and grabbed both of my hands with his right arm. Holding them above my head while he pushed my head down even harder with the left. My vision began to swim, and I felt my own cock begin to leak pre-cum. I couldn't believe how much this was turning me on. How much I wanted to be abused like this. Fucked and opened by a real man. Not some 18-year-old cadet, but a fucking god. Right before I felt like I would pass out, he pulled my head clean off his dick, spit trailing between my mouth and his cock. He held me there by my hair and my hands. Nearly pulling me off the floor. I scrambled to try and stand, and he just let me go. I tumbled to the floor and let out a whimper. I looked up at him, and his face split into a devilish grin. He slapped me across the face. The stunned blow made my ears ring. Then he shoved his right hand into my mouth. I felt my eyes begin to water as his hand pushed as deep as his dick had been in me. His eyes flared with a look I had never seen before, and from the corner of my eye, I saw his dick quiver. "Maybe taking you to Utah won't be so bad. Spit on my hand, boy." I did. He pulled his hand from my throat, and before I could even say anything, he shoved me back down on his cock. With his spit-covered hand, he pulled down the shreds of my underwear and began teasing my asshole. It felt so good. I moaned as I worked myself up and down on his cock. My mouth was stretching itself, trying to accommodate him. "I'm gonna fuck you in front of the squad every night. Show them how to make a boy into a man." I moaned again as he slipped a finger into my hole. "Have you taken off my combat boots every evening and give them a spit shine before I use you." He pushed his finger deeper into me. They were so thick. He curled them towards my prostate and began rubbing it with his finger. The sensations were overwhelming. I began sweating and mumbling. The cold air on my nips, the cock at the back of my throat, the fingers inside me. I was overstimulated. I shuttered, and he laughed as he pulled his finger from my hole. I felt vacant, empty. I pulled my head off his cock to look up at him with pleading eyes as he shoved two fingers into me. I let out a shocked gasp. I felt it all the way down in my balls. "Nice and tight. I love virgin boy pussy. Shame that my guys and I are gonna ruin it." "Yes, sir." I whimpered as I looked up into his eyes. "You want that boy? To be used and abused by me and my men," I nodded. "Let me hear you say it." "Yes, sir." "Yes sir, what?" "I want you to ruin me, sir." "Good boy. Letting all the dads have a piece of your ass." He shoved his cock back into my mouth and began thrusting away. Pulling me deeper onto his cock with the fingers that were in my ass. My own dick was throbbing. I balanced on my right arm and reached back with my left, beginning to jerk my own dick off once more. It felt so good to touch my cock while pleasuring a man. Suddenly he pulled me off his cock and slapped me again across the face. The pain erupted through me alongside the feelings of bliss and belonging. This was what I needed from a man. "Didn't I say you couldn't touch yourself?" "Yes, sir." "This isn't about you. This is about me." "Yes, sir." "Do you need to be punished?" "No, sir." "Good because I don't want to punish right now I want to fuck." I moaned loudly. "The world outside of the QZ is no place for a boy, so I will have to make you a man before we leave. Fill you with man spunk" "Yes, Sir, please, Sir." my hole was going to be ruined by his throbbing cock. One look was all I needed to know; there was no way his cock wouldn't hurt. I had heard some of the other cadets talking about it. They said I just had to relax and breathe, but no part of me was relaxed at all. My heart was beating a billion times a second. "Show me your fucking hole." His eyes flared with desire. I hurriedly turned around. Shuffling on my knees so my ass was facing him once more. He put a hand on the small of my back and pushed me down into the floor. I had no idea if I could take it. I looked around for something to shove into my mouth if I started screaming, but there wasn't anything. "Arch your back like a fucking whore." he said. I had no idea what he meant, but I tried. "Better baby." I melted as he said that. "Such a pretty hole scar and all." He slapped me again. This time I kept my yelp inside. Then I felt him grab his dick and slap it a few times against my hole. I shuttered. "Take a breath, boy." I did. "Now let it out, and open your hole for me." I tried. His cock pressed against my hole; I felt him spit on his dick. The sound of spit landing on me made my hole quiver. He rubbed the head of his dick in the spit and continued teasing me with it. "The things I'm gonna teach you, boy." He mumbled as his cock started pushing into me. I moaned and yelped at the same time, pulling myself away. It hurt. He reached up with one hand on my shoulder and held me there. "Don't fight me faggot, submit." How long had I wanted this? Wanted a man to open me up and explore my guts with his dick. "Can you do that for Daddy?" "You really want to be my daddy?" I moaned, looking up at him. "Yes, baby. Share in the sacred bond of cock worshiping with my son." I nearly orgasmed when he said that. The moan I let out was long and deep. I could do this. Give myself to this stud. I was ready. Ready for my life to change, to become a man. "That's it, baby, bloom that hole for your daddy." His cock pressed against my hole once more, and I let out a breath as his dick started to enter me. Sweat erupted all over me. I began to shake as the first inch of his cock, slid into me, opening my virgin hole. "Oh, babbbbbby." He moaned. And then the shots rang out. Three in quick succession. "FUCK." he yelled. The gunfire wasn't coming from the streets. It sounded like it was down the hall. "Stay here." In a second, he was up. My hole felt empty, and it hadn't even been filled. Not really. As I felt him jump up. I saw him shoving his dick in his pants and buttoning them up. In one fluid motion, he found his way to the wall and grabbed the shotgun before approaching the door. He looked back at me. "Don't make a fucking sound." He tossed me a key from his pocket. "Hide in the fucking closet." With that, he cracked the door and slid into the hall, closing it behind him. I undid my ankle lock and heard his shotgun echo all around me. I went to the closet and slipped inside as quickly as I could, praying that Martin would be the one to find me.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2024 16:38:46 -0500 From: Mark Smith <bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com> Subject: Mushroom Heads: The Last of Yas. Chapter 1 (Science fiction/Fantasy, Celebrity) Drop Nifty some bucks to keep these stories online. CONTENT: An explicit gay retelling of the Last of Us. Will Joel be able to keep Eli safe? And from what? Sci-fi / Fantasy Slash Fiction Incest (in later episodes) relationships If you like this story, consider sending your feedback to bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com I'm looking to write the whole show and want to hear from you. Connect online at @Gayfan_Erotica on x Treat me to a cup of coffee or some lube. $storiesbymark on cashapp Prologue: SAM, TEXAS, 2004 "Dad?" I called out. "Dad, where are you?" I looked around the living room of our suburban Texas home. Spider-Man was still playing. By the looks of it, we were close to the end. The last thing I remember was falling asleep, my head on Dad's knee while Peter visited Oscorp. I was glad I'd fallen asleep before the part where Uncle Ben died. Always felt so sad that Spider-Man grew up without any sort of dad. But something had woken me up, and it hadn't been Spider-Man. It sounded like a scream. I paused the film. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a strange ringing. "Daddddd." Where could he have gone? I got off the sofa and made my way towards the kitchen. "Uncle Tommy. Is anyone home?" Tommy had been living with us for a while. He always said he was gonna move somewhere he could have his own room, but Dad insisted he stay. Since then, he'd been crashing on the big sofa in Dad's bedroom Mom liked to read on before she died. "Hello?" No one answered. Stepping into the kitchen, I saw the screen door was open. Dad wouldn't have left it like this. I went to close it. But as I drew closer, I started to hear the sirens. It sounded like they were coming from every direction. I walked outside. The air was cool and crisp, the sky was clear, and the sounds of chaos surrounded me. I stood dumbfounded, listening to the world around me as Dad's red Ford pick-up truck squealed around the edge of our road. Dad ignored the road entirely and drove right onto the grass. "SAM, GET IN THE CAR." He yelled as he jumped from the truck. "Tommy, you drive." Before I could ask Dad what was going on, he ran full speed into the house. I stopped to stare at him. Dad had always been the strongest man I knew, but watching him barrel into the house I realized he was strong and capable. "Tommy?" I asked as soon as my dad had disappeared past the door frame. "Get in sport." "What's going on?" "Just end-of-the-world shit," Tommy said as he got out the passenger side and made his way to the driver seat. He gave me one of his million-dollar grins, but even that didn't shake the feeling of unease from my stomach. I stood there, dumbstruck, looking back at the only house I had ever known. Dad burst through the front door holding his shotgun. "SAM! IN THE CAR NOW." Startled, I scrambled into the back seat of the truck. I didn't even have shoes on. As soon as Dad was in, Tommy peeled out of our yard. I stared back at our house. The only one I'd ever known as we made our way down the streets. But my attention was soon pulled elsewhere. Under the street lamps of Oak Street, I watched as Lizzy Irwin, our neighbor, tackled her husband, Mike. There was something feral about Liz, like a rabid dog. Her face was contorted and stained by white sludge. "Dad?" "Don't look, Champ." "What's going on?" My voice broke in fear. "Radio said it's some sort of virus. Like rabies. People get bit, and then they go mad." "What's causing it?" "They don't know." "No." "When did it start?" I could tell Dad was irritated with all my questions, but I couldn't stop myself from asking. I just hated not knowing what was going on. "Today. Tommy. Take 80. Then we will head north. Get towards Delhi and away from the city." he turned on the radio, surfing the stations. Everything was static. "Just 10 minutes ago, this was filled with chatter. Something bad's going down, Tommy." "Fuck." is all Tommy said as the truck accelerated. "Language." Said dad. "80's fucked." Tommy said, not registering that Dad had just told him not to swear. It looks like everyone had the same idea we did." The road out of the city was swamped with cars. An endless sea of red lights blinking in the night. Beyond the cars, we could see swarms of helicopters cutting through the night sky. "The whole fucking army is here. Fuck." Said, Tommy. "Language! Cut across Stephen's Field and will pick up route 72." Tommy gave the wheel a sharp tug, and we cut across the grass. We drove in silence, the car bouncing across the field till we picked back up with the road that would take us down through town. I'd never seen my Dad or Tommy like this. They had both been Marines; nothing ever ruffled their feathers. "Dad, I'm scared." "Don't be scared, Champ. Tommy and I will keep you safe." "But what's happening?" "Nothing we can handle if we stick together. We got you." "Joel, do I stop?" Tommy pointed to a car in the field before us, just off the road. A couple stood there with a child in their arms, trying to flag down our car. "They have a kid." "We have a kid. Drive." Said my dad. I watched as their faces passed us. Desperation filled their eyes. When we drove into town, it was chaos. "Fuck." That was all Tommy said. The streets were filled with people running and screaming every which way. At first, it was hard to tell, but the people were running from the other humans who had crusted white sludge around their mouths. The streets were filled with screams. "What do we do, Joel." "Drive." "Through these people, I can't..." "FUCKING DRIVE, TOMMY." Tommy hit the accelerator and started heading through the crowd. "Don't watch." My dad shot back at me. I turned around, not wanting to see what Tommy drove into. "Dad!" "What." "DAD!" He whipped his head around, and I pointed. In the sky above us, a plane was streaking down. Headed right towards downtown. "DAD." "BRACE!" he screamed as the world filled with the deafening roar of 4 jet engines. The explosion that followed flipped our car. One moment I was watching the road. The next, everything was ringing in a sea of tinkering glass. "Sam. SAMMY." my dad called out. "Where are you?" "I'm stuck," I called back. When the car flipped, my leg ended up pinned. "My leg. Dad!" "I'm coming, Sammy. I'm coming." My Dad's hands snaked their way through the broken window of the truck's back seat, and he pulled me from my wreckage. I tried to stand but immediately screamed. My leg was undoubtedly broken. "It's okay. It's okay, Sam, I got you." I could barely hear my dad over the sounds of screams and explosions all around me. The world was all smoke and the smell of burning gas. "Tommy!" My dad called out. "Yeah." "Meet us on the other side of the river." "Okay, I've got your gun." Tommy was separated from us by the truck; it had ended up wedged into the mouth of an alley in the explosion. "Good, now come on. I got you, son." My dad swooped me up in his big burly arms. Sometimes I forgot how strong he was. "Keep your eyes on me." He began to run. People, well, they looked like people, tracked us with their eyes as we ran through the alleys. I tried to look away, but I was pulled in by their odd movements and the weird noises that passed their lips. We kept running. Dad never let up. Just kept charging through the back streets. One man watched us as we ran and began to follow. "Dad, he's chasing us." "Keep your eyes on me," Dad said breathlessly, picking the pace up. "He's gaining." "GAHHH," Dad screamed. We were running down an alley past a dumpster. With one heavy, Dad threw me onto the dumpster's lid and grabbed a 2x4 that was leaving against the alley wall. With one fluid movement, he brought it up and smashed the man who was running at us in the head. The man screamed but kept scrambling towards us. Dad wailed at him over and over again, beating the man into the dirt of the alley. The blood spattered around him. Drips of dark red stained the alley walls. "Look away, Sam," Dad said between blows. "Look away." When he had stopped twitching, Dad dropped the 2x4 and returned to me. I let out a sob. "It's okay, champ. It's okay." He pulled me back into his arms and began jogging out of town again. We reached the end of the alley, where the building gave way to nature at the creek's edge. Dad ran down the embankment, clutching me tight, and scrambled up the other side. For a moment, we caught our breath. I curled tighter into Dad. Holding onto him. Then we heard a rustle from the bushes. "Tommy?" He yelled. "Where are you?" A flashlight lit up the night. "Halt right there." His voice was gruff. He was dressed in green camo--an army man. "I'm just looking for my brother." My dad said to the army man. "Tommy." nothing answered the sound of static as the man with the flashlight. Reached up to his shoulder mountain walkie-talkie and began to converse. "I've got two civilians who have crossed the river. Over" "Please." My Dad said. "We're not infected." I could hear the hiss of static and chatter as the army man bent and listened. "Repeat. Over," he said after a moment's pause. "Please." My dad said. "Please. "Copy. Over." There was a pause. He raised his assault rifle. "I'm sorry." The sounds of gunfire erupted in the air. "DAD," I screamed as I fell. And fell, And fell. The stars above were more beautiful than I thought. My dad was one of them. His face swam into view. "SAMMY," Dad screamed. "CHAMP, stay with me!" Dad was always so demanding. "Yesss." My words were slurred, slow, and strangely pitched. "Yes, Daddy, I will. But the stars..." Then there was darkness. CHAPTER 1: ELI, INTERROGATION, 2023 The Firefly entered the old classroom with his double-barreled shotgun pointed right at my mouth; he probably wanted to shove those metal barrels down my throat and finish me off. I knew I wasn't threatening them, but they didn't see it that way. Chained to the wall by my ankle and standing 5 foot 8, barely 140 pounds wet, I couldn't start any trouble even if I wanted to. Unlike the other men who had guarded me this week, his hands weren't shaking as he entered the classroom, but he kept the barrels trained on me as he made his way forward. This 6-foot-2 slab of beef stared at me like I was a full-blown clicker. We locked eyes, taking stock of one another. He had been working out before he came for his guard shift, his muscle bulging with a post-gym swell under his tight green t-shirt. I could smell the sweat on him, heady and intoxicating. It was a particular sort of hell that all the guards seemed to be on gym rotation before they came to do guard duty in my cell. The scent of all those unwashed pits made me cross-eyed to the point that I'm sure one guard thought I was changing into a mushroom head. The way my eyes rolled back in my head, and I found it hard to focus. Usually, a guy pointing a gun at me, no matter how they smelled, would be a turn-off, but after ten days chained to a wall, I was starting to lose my mind. Some Firefly dropped my food off yesterday, and I was salivating, not because of the rations but because another guy with a pulse was in the room with me. He told me to stop staring at him like I would eat him and then bolted from the room. I almost thought of telling him he was what I wanted to chew on, but I'm pretty sure he would have iced me then and there if I had said that. I know I'm just fucking losing my mind with hornyness because I don't want to die a virgin. Okay, well, not a complete virgin. I've known I was gay since I started sucking off a few of the other cadets at FEDRA, but no one had ever been in my ass, and chances are no one ever is going to now. Killed by an infected, killed by the fireflies, killed by Fedra, what did it matter? I was still going to die before I had sex. At least in FEDRA, I could sneak off to the shower when the thoughts of the other cadets drove me crazy and jerked off in a stall before I ran out of water rations--jerking off to thoughts of the FEDRA guards pushing me into the lockers and doors, spreading my legs, forcing their fingers into me, making me squeal out their names. I had it good back then, locked in FEDRA's training dorms, and I didn't even know it. I haven't cum since the night the firefly's found me. I can't even remember when I went this long without a release. It was getting so bad that all my thoughts were about the guards, dreaming one might get horned up during his shift and start looking for a release. But being infected was a huge turn-off. The guard who had just entered my room had a face marked with scars and five o'clock scruff, starkly contrasting my smooth skin and fair complexion. His skin was obsidian in color, drawing my eyes whenever he moved. He was handsome with one of those noses that looked like it had been broken a hundred times. I let my attention wander past the pecs that pulled his t-shirt tight; his abs were visible under the cotton. His green camo pants strained under the size of his tree trunk legs as his weight shifted. His eyes kept searching me, studying me as much as I examined him. For a moment, I felt embarrassed about how I looked. I wish I had showered the dirt off my face, at least. I'd torn up my clothes pretty badly between trying to escape through the mall and fighting off the infected. My shirt was torn, and my left nipple, exposed to the air, stood at attention. My pants were worse off. The crotch had ripped completely, and my left ass cheek was exposed from where the infected had bitten me on the ass. I had asked for new clothes the day they had locked me up, but the firefly guards had denied me. Said they didn't waste good fabric on someone meant for the burnt heap. "Say your name." He said finally. His voice was like gravel. "Boo," I yelled, jerking forward. The guard flinched. I couldn't help but laugh, tucking my unruly brown curls back behind my ears. "All of you are scaredy-cats." "Say your name, rag boy.' They had started calling me that since they dragged me in. "Same name I gave some guard yesterday." "Say it." "Yes, sir," I said with a mock salute. I snapped my heels together and came to attention before letting the whole facade sluff off. "That salute had good form. You were in FEDRA cadet training." "Like I'm telling you anything." I shot back. "A bad boy there and a bad boy here." He almost smiled. "At least there they tell you what's happening to you." Every day some guard would ask me questions, try to ascertain if I had lost my mind, and then just let me be. How many more days of this would I have to endure? "Name?" "It's Eli. Eli Williams has been Eli. Always gonna be Eli." "What year is it?" "2023" "Age" "18" He seemed to regard me for a moment. "You're a bit scrappier than I expected you to grow up into." "Expected me to be? Are you some family friend I've never met?" I said it as a joke, but he just smiled. "Knew your parents. Dad was built like a truck. Figured you would always grow up to be more like him." "Well, hate to tell you, but I'm an orphan so my dad's built like a fucking dirt pile now. But if I'm wrong and one day I meet him, I'll let him know you think I could work out more." I'd never met anyone who knew my parents--never had anyone to call Dad. Just grew up in a system, Orphan number 778, trying to make a family from the boys in the bunks next to me. We just stood there in silence for what felt like ages. Then he lowered the gun. I let out a sigh I didn't even know I was holding. Part of me wanted to cry. This whole time I had just been living in fear. Fear of the moment my body would be taken over, replaced with the mushroom hoard, or whatever happened after you were infected. "Names Martin Dandri. I'm the leader here of the Boston Fireflies." He held out his hand for me to shake. I hadn't touched anyone in over a week. Never really thought I was going to again. I gingerly took it. His grip was warm and masculine as his hand closed over mine, dwarfing me. Despite the chill, I began to sweat. How often had I fantasized about men like this? "Haven't had the chance to talk to you myself yet. Do you know why you're chained up?" "Because you and the fireflies are a bunch of perverted men who like to chain up young boys." I shot back. "I assure you when I want a boy, they come to me freely, even if they end up in chains." Martin licked his lips, his eyes darting toward my ass. It was quick, but I saw it. "You're chained up because you were infected." "Yeah, I was, but no one lasts longer than two days, and I've lasted at least eight. So can I go?" He ignored my questions and kept asking his own. "Do you feel normal today, Eli?" I looked around the room. It was an old abandoned school classroom the fireflies had converted into a cell. From the looks of it, it had been an English classroom. Posters of famous authors were still stuck to the walls. Abbot, Adams, Affleck, the names went on. "Normal. What the fuck is normal. I'm chained to a wall in a classroom. I went to the mall for the first time to play Mortal Kombat and got fucking attacked by a man with a mushroom for a head, some big dick metaphor monster who has FUCKED my life. So now I'm wearing rags, pretty sure I will die a virgin, talking to a wanna-be-Jax. BUT If you mean normal, like not about to become a monster. Then yeah, I'm normal." "A virgin?" He asked with a laugh. "Whatever." I didn't mean to say that. My mind jumped to Max. Max... He was gone now. "Isn't FEDRA training co-ed?" he said with a shit-eating grin. "Is that why you're the leader of the fireflies? You're good at insulting kids? Or because you've convinced everyone to join you on some asinine quest to have camo come back into fashion." "Sassy boy." "Whatever." He gave a sigh. "I've been with the fireflies longer than you've been alive, boy. The only enemy we had a chance against. But you represent a chance to deal with our greater enemy. The Fucking Mushroom Heads. The infected." He gave me a stern look. "Do you even know how many lives you could save? Being Immune? You're all that matters." I hadn't thought about what being immune might mean. No one was. "Your blood could save us, save the fireflies; we could liberate all the Qz's." There was something almost pleading about how he spoke. The Fireflies had locked me up to the wall for days, and then their leader came by to tell me I could be a big help in their fight with FEDRA. Didn't they deserve treatment too? This guy was pissing me off. "I can help save your life. Cammo's never gonna come back. Stop committing this fashion fatality." "You could be humanity's answer to the mushrooms, yet all you can think about is a shit video game. " "Hey. Mortal Kombat is a great game." I shot back. "How would you know? Only one you've played." He gave me a weak smile. "If you helped me save humanity, who knows, someone might make a better game for you." "Are you really gonna try to guilt me into having a change of heart by promising me new video games?" "Parents used to convince kids to do all manner of things by promising they would get them new video games. Since it looks like you'll be the squad's boy, I thought I'd try. " He paused. "Or is there something else you want?" He let out a big sigh and flexed his arms above his head, arms that looked like they could crush my skull. I must have drooled a bit because he chuckled and muttered under his breath. "Hungry Boy." "So, if you want me to save humanity, why am I still chained up?" I finally asked, pulling my eyes from the veins in his arms. I almost felt angry with myself that all it took for me to consider helping him was looking at his arms, but I knew I just had to know what those sculpted arms felt like. "Safety first. Turn around and show me your bite mark." he licked his lips. "I'll need you to spread them both for me to investigate thoroughly. "Seen a lot of boys' asses to compare it to?" I asked. I meant it to sound cocky, but it came out horny. I wasn't sure what I was doing. He sat back on the desk, spread his legs, and took a thin cigarette from a tin in his left pocket. He lit it and blew the smoke at my face with an audible sigh. "Come here." He pointed to the floor a few feet away from him. This is how they always inspected me--at the end of my chain, bent over, ass up. I could feel my dick beginning to stir in. What was it about this irritating and demanding guy that was getting me hot and bothered? "No," I said. Not because I didn't want to. I was nervous he'd see that my dick was swelling. "If you know what's best for you, you'll come right now." He reached into his other cargo pocket and pulled out a Taser. He flipped a switch in the side, and electricity crackled in the air. "A 50,000-volt shock will knock out a recently infected as fast as a human. If I'm taking you anywhere, I must be sure for myself." He flipped the switch on his taser, and electricity crackled around us; I felt my dick stiffen. "Taking me somewhere?" "Yes." "Where." "Somewhere beyond your wildest dreams," he said, flashing me that grin more electrifying than his taser. They probably were moving me to a different holding cell. The sounds of gunfire had been getting closer the last few nights. FEDRA and the Fireflies fighting in the alleys behind the school. I walked forward, unsure of what else to do. But strangely excited. Would he use it on me? Did I want him to? What if I resisted? "Good boy." he smiled as I got to the end of my chain. "I don't want to have to use this on you." His smile was darker than a storm cloud. "This time. Turn around." I did. "Bend over." I hesitated. Only for a moment, but that was too long for him. He stepped forward, and I felt his arm on my back. With one quick shove of his hand and kick of his boot to my right leg, I fell forward with my legs spread. I caught myself with my hands pinwheeling down on the ground before me. "Show it to me." He said--his breathing was heavy. Taking my hands off the floor but still bending over, I separated the two halves of my pants, exposing my bite. I started sweating even in the cold air. I felt his hands grab either side of my ass. His calloused fingers dug into my skin. He made a low rumbling noise as he pulled my ass cheeks apart and inspected me. My exposed hole quivered in the cold air. "Virgin hole." I heard him mutter. My hole spasmed as he said it. He just chuckled. He moved his fingers around, getting closer to my hole. Pulling the skin taut. I moaned despite myself. "Does it look okay?" I asked breathlessly. "soft, tight, pink, boy hole. With peach fuzz." He said. Tapping my asshole on every word with his thick pointer finger. "Okay," I said, my voice quaking. His head was so close to my ass. I could feel his breath on me. "As your superior, you should get used to addressing me as sir." "Okay... Sir." "Very good." "I'm glad you approve, sir," I wasn't even sure what I was saying. No one had ever held my ass for this long. Just as soon as I was starting to relax, his hands disappeared. Pain erupted through my left cheek as he brutally smacked my ass right on the bite mark. "OUCH," I screamed. I whipped my head around and stared at him. What was he planning to do to me? "Don't resist." "Why? You slapped me!" "Needed to ensure you were not pretending to be human." He said. "Have you heard of an infected being able to talk?" "No, but I've seen a lot of things in this life I never imagined I would ever see." The fabric around his crotch was beginning to tent under my gaze. "Doesn't look like we have to blow your brains out today, boy." He gave me a smile that seemed to say he had considered that an entertaining option. "Your dad would be pleased that I still have time to turn you into a man." "Oh, would he know?" "Yes. Your old man and I got up to a lot together. Might even tell you some of those stories while we're on the road." "What do you mean on the road?" "We're taking you out of the Boston QZ tonight." "What? Outside? I thought you'd just be taking me to a different cell or part of Boston." I looked up at him, shocked. I have wanted to get out of Boston for ages. I grew up in the QZ here. I was used to walking the same 30 streets, the same 1-mile stretch of beach, and two blocks of trees. "Your blood holds the potential for a cure. We're taking you to our research base out in Salt Lake City, Utah." "Fuck." "It's gonna be a long, dangerous trip, and you will have to do everything I say to get out of the QZ alive and across the whole country." "Yes...." I hesitated, "Sir." "It's a dark world out there." He knelt beside me. I felt dwarfed by him. This close, he smelled more intoxicating. "Yes." "Filled with monsters.' His fingers wrapped gingerly around my jaw, and he turned my head to meet my eyes. "Yes." "And it is my job to keep you safe. A dad's job." I looked at him once more. "You're going to take me to Utah." I could drown in his eyes. "You, me, and a squad of my best guards." "Ughh," I said. A whole squad. All those burly men out in the woods. Protecting me. "Men I trust." "Yes." "The road will be hard. And long." "Okay," I said breathlessly. He was still holding my face. I prayed he'd never let it go. "If I am taking you out of the QZ, I need to know that you will do anything and everything I ask without question." "Yes." "Everything." "Yes." "No matter how absurd or crazy or scary it sounds." "Yes, sir." We stared at each other for a long moment. He pulled me by my jaw until my mouth was just a hair's-breadth away from his crotch. I didn't resist. Every part of me felt like it was on fire. "Get used to this smell." He said. "This is the smell of the man who will protect you." I felt a full-bodied shutter shake its way through me. "Breath it in, boy." I greedily drank down the scent: musky and earthy. "Good Boy, I'll keep you safe." He thrust me into his crotch. I have never felt more at home than at that moment. No one had ever treated me like this, just take control. His other hand reached around and slapped my ass once more. I yelped in surprise. "We start your training now. In the wild, you need to be able to keep going, even when you are in pain, without making any noise." He slapped my ass, I yelped once more. "Try harder. You must find a way to keep yourself quiet, or you'll get killed." Slap. "Or worse. Your squad mates." Slap. "Do whatever you need to stop yourself from screaming." SLAP I looked up at him. I expected his face to be angry. He looked expectant. "Shove something in your mouth if you have to." I found my hands on his thighs. I fumbled to his belt without breaking eye contact and undid the strap. "Many infected can't see; they use echolocation to find their prey." He gave an audible sigh as I put my hands on either side of his hips and pulled the pants down over the crest of his ass. He adjusted himself, and there it was. His cock, straining against the fabric of his tight tented white briefs. "That's right." I leaned forward and licked the outline of his dick. I could smell his piss. I looked back up at him as he reached behind me and slapped me thrice. "Do it for the squad." SLAPPP He just grinned. "Gag yourself." With shaking hands, I pulled the waistband of his underwear down and freed his cock. It was beautiful, cut, and starting to swell. His dick had a thick mushroom head in a sea of dense pubes. I reached out and licked the tip of his cock. "Ummmmmmm." He moaned above me. I licked the tip once more. Probing my tongue into his big piss split. His dick continued to grow. It was easily ten inches and as thick as my wrist. "Fuck." I said, adjusting myself so I could more easily get his cock into my mouth. I felt it swell within me as I slid my lips down his shaft. This close, the smell was overpowering. Sweat and piss and the stretch of man musk. I felt my hole quiver again. I pushed my lips down his cock further, trying to take more into my mouth. I was nowhere near the base when his dick hit the back of my throat, and I gagged--heaving on his manhood. But I was determined to take more. Max had a big cock easily 7 inches, and I had practiced on his, but this was stretching me. His dick tasted like home. I took one hand off the floor and adjusted my own cock. It was swelling in my hands. He must have noticed me touching myself because suddenly he let out a chiding tsk sound. "Focus on Dad," he said. I immediately took my hand off my own cock and brought it up to fondle his balls. But hearing him call himself Dad almost made me shoot my load of boy cum right then. I'd longed for paternal approval my whole life, and now it was in front of me. I wanted nothing more than to build a sacred bond with an older guy. To be taught how to be a man by him. To be used by him. "Good Boy." I kept playing with his balls, squeezing the big balls towards me while one of his hands found its way back onto my head and pushed me down further on his dick. "You've done this before, cocksucker," he said. "Your dad would be proud." Before his other hand reached back and slapped my ass again hard, I barely made a noise this time. "Good boy, you learn too." still keeping his hand on the back of my head, he began to pump his cock into my mouth. I squirmed under the pressure, trying to fight back to get a chance to breathe, but he wouldn't let me. Over and over, he thrust himself into my throat. Every time I gaged, he just fucked my throat harder. Suddenly it pushed past something, and I sank to the hilt. I felt like my mouth would burst. My eyes began watering, and I thought my ears would pop. I let go of his balls and tried to push myself off his legs, but all my hands found was hard muscle. He just laughed and grabbed both of my hands with his right arm. Holding them above my head while he pushed my head down even harder with the left. My vision began to swim, and I felt my own cock begin to leak pre-cum. I couldn't believe how much this was turning me on. How much I wanted to be abused like this. Fucked and opened by a real man. Not some 18-year-old cadet, but a fucking god. Right before I felt like I would pass out, he pulled my head clean off his dick, spit trailing between my mouth and his cock. He held me there by my hair and my hands. Nearly pulling me off the floor. I scrambled to try and stand, and he just let me go. I tumbled to the floor and let out a whimper. I looked up at him, and his face split into a devilish grin. He slapped me across the face. The stunned blow made my ears ring. Then he shoved his right hand into my mouth. I felt my eyes begin to water as his hand pushed as deep as his dick had been in me. His eyes flared with a look I had never seen before, and from the corner of my eye, I saw his dick quiver. "Maybe taking you to Utah won't be so bad. Spit on my hand, boy." I did. He pulled his hand from my throat, and before I could even say anything, he shoved me back down on his cock. With his spit-covered hand, he pulled down the shreds of my underwear and began teasing my asshole. It felt so good. I moaned as I worked myself up and down on his cock. My mouth was stretching itself, trying to accommodate him. "I'm gonna fuck you in front of the squad every night. Show them how to make a boy into a man." I moaned again as he slipped a finger into my hole. "Have you taken off my combat boots every evening and give them a spit shine before I use you." He pushed his finger deeper into me. They were so thick. He curled them towards my prostate and began rubbing it with his finger. The sensations were overwhelming. I began sweating and mumbling. The cold air on my nips, the cock at the back of my throat, the fingers inside me. I was overstimulated. I shuttered, and he laughed as he pulled his finger from my hole. I felt vacant, empty. I pulled my head off his cock to look up at him with pleading eyes as he shoved two fingers into me. I let out a shocked gasp. I felt it all the way down in my balls. "Nice and tight. I love virgin boy pussy. Shame that my guys and I are gonna ruin it." "Yes, sir." I whimpered as I looked up into his eyes. "You want that boy? To be used and abused by me and my men," I nodded. "Let me hear you say it." "Yes, sir." "Yes sir, what?" "I want you to ruin me, sir." "Good boy. Letting all the dads have a piece of your ass." He shoved his cock back into my mouth and began thrusting away. Pulling me deeper onto his cock with the fingers that were in my ass. My own dick was throbbing. I balanced on my right arm and reached back with my left, beginning to jerk my own dick off once more. It felt so good to touch my cock while pleasuring a man. Suddenly he pulled me off his cock and slapped me again across the face. The pain erupted through me alongside the feelings of bliss and belonging. This was what I needed from a man. "Didn't I say you couldn't touch yourself?" "Yes, sir." "This isn't about you. This is about me." "Yes, sir." "Do you need to be punished?" "No, sir." "Good because I don't want to punish right now I want to fuck." I moaned loudly. "The world outside of the QZ is no place for a boy, so I will have to make you a man before we leave. Fill you with man spunk" "Yes, Sir, please, Sir." my hole was going to be ruined by his throbbing cock. One look was all I needed to know; there was no way his cock wouldn't hurt. I had heard some of the other cadets talking about it. They said I just had to relax and breathe, but no part of me was relaxed at all. My heart was beating a billion times a second. "Show me your fucking hole." His eyes flared with desire. I hurriedly turned around. Shuffling on my knees so my ass was facing him once more. He put a hand on the small of my back and pushed me down into the floor. I had no idea if I could take it. I looked around for something to shove into my mouth if I started screaming, but there wasn't anything. "Arch your back like a fucking whore." he said. I had no idea what he meant, but I tried. "Better baby." I melted as he said that. "Such a pretty hole scar and all." He slapped me again. This time I kept my yelp inside. Then I felt him grab his dick and slap it a few times against my hole. I shuttered. "Take a breath, boy." I did. "Now let it out, and open your hole for me." I tried. His cock pressed against my hole; I felt him spit on his dick. The sound of spit landing on me made my hole quiver. He rubbed the head of his dick in the spit and continued teasing me with it. "The things I'm gonna teach you, boy." He mumbled as his cock started pushing into me. I moaned and yelped at the same time, pulling myself away. It hurt. He reached up with one hand on my shoulder and held me there. "Don't fight me faggot, submit." How long had I wanted this? Wanted a man to open me up and explore my guts with his dick. "Can you do that for Daddy?" "You really want to be my daddy?" I moaned, looking up at him. "Yes, baby. Share in the sacred bond of cock worshiping with my son." I nearly orgasmed when he said that. The moan I let out was long and deep. I could do this. Give myself to this stud. I was ready. Ready for my life to change, to become a man. "That's it, baby, bloom that hole for your daddy." His cock pressed against my hole once more, and I let out a breath as his dick started to enter me. Sweat erupted all over me. I began to shake as the first inch of his cock, slid into me, opening my virgin hole. "Oh, babbbbbby." He moaned. And then the shots rang out. Three in quick succession. "FUCK." he yelled. The gunfire wasn't coming from the streets. It sounded like it was down the hall. "Stay here." In a second, he was up. My hole felt empty, and it hadn't even been filled. Not really. As I felt him jump up. I saw him shoving his dick in his pants and buttoning them up. In one fluid motion, he found his way to the wall and grabbed the shotgun before approaching the door. He looked back at me. "Don't make a fucking sound." He tossed me a key from his pocket. "Hide in the fucking closet." With that, he cracked the door and slid into the hall, closing it behind him. I undid my ankle lock and heard his shotgun echo all around me. I went to the closet and slipped inside as quickly as I could, praying that Martin would be the one to find me. </bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com> </div></div>

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/mushroom-heads/mushroom-heads-2

Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2024 15:38:37 -0500 From: Mark Smith Subject: Mushroom Heads: The Last of Yas. Chapter 2, Celebrity I've cum more times thank to NIFTY than any lover ever. Show them how much the cummunity means to you and send them some cash. (link https://donate.nifty.org/) CONTENT: An explicit gay retelling of the Last of Us. Will Joel be able to keep Eli safe? And from what? Sci-fi / Fantasy Slash Fiction Incest (in later episodes) celebrity If you like this story, consider sending your feedback to bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com I'm looking to write the whole show and want to hear from you. Connect online at @Gayfan_Erotica on x Treat me to a cup of coffee or some lube. $storiesbymark on cashapp CHAPTER 2: JOEL, FEDEXXX "The stars, Dad." his voice slipped through my fingers as I reached out, trying to grasp it. But there was nothing to hold as the morning light pulled me from my slumber. I woke up lost. I'd been dreaming of him again--my son, Sammy. He might have had his own family by now. I could be Grandpa Joel, not that I looked anything like a Grandpa at 52. I was still well-muscled, broad-shouldered, with tree trunk legs. They could take the man out of the Marines, but not the Marines out of the man. Even in the apocalypse, I found time to ensure I was putting the work in at the gym. I sat up in bed. Letting my legs slide out onto the hardwood floor. My bedroom was shitty. Poorly decorated. Probably had been the home of some Grandmother before the infection claimed her--yellow floral wallpaper, peeling off the walls and knock-off Tiffany lamp on a beat-up mid-century desk. The early morning light cut into the room. Illuminating the bottle of Jura Superstition whiskey I had polished off the night before. I felt something shift in the bed next to me, Trey. I hadn't even woken up when he came in last night. "Joel. Everything okay?" His voice had that raspy scratch of a person not yet up. I turned around and gave him a smile in the early morning light. We had met a year after the outbreak. Both of us had been in Amarillo trying to make our way North, where we heard there was more food and less infected. Not that either of those things had turned out to be true. He smiled up at me from the pillow. His tousled brown hair framed his face. He had been handsome once. Now he looked distinguished, which was odd in the Boston QZ, most people here looked like gutter rats, but he always had that homosexual flair of showing up fashionable even as the world burned around him. He was ten years younger than me--smaller, slighter, smarter. We'd found each other and survived together for years. Not quite love. Not just lust. Colaborative survival, with a side helping of butt stuff. Felt like he should be wearing suits and going to the opera, not helping me smuggle drugs. "Yeah," I said, brushing the hair out of his face. He had a big old bruise blossoming across his left eye. "Trey, what the fuck happened to you?" "Nothing." "That's not nothing," I said, cupping his face and turning it left and right. "Who did this to you?" "Bobby's men." "I'm gonna kill them." I stood up. The sheets slid off my body. I slept naked. Always did. I ignored Trey, who was trying to get me to slow down, as I grabbed a pair of underwear from the floor. A pair of old white Calvins stained yellow with age. "Joel. come back to bed." Said Trey with a wine. "Please." "Trey, I won't let Bobby treat you like this." I slipped my legs into the Calvins and pulled them up. The elastic had died years ago, but they hung off my muscular ass in a way that reminded me of my time in the backrooms of gay bars before the world ended. Slipping my pants down to free my monster cock and fuck some young twink who was drooling up at me. I was lucky that I loved dirty jocks and pit stank. People didn't wash their clothes often these days, and no one wore deodorant. "If you had done this to me, you would have woken up with a smile." "That's different. You're mine." "Yeah. And right now, your guy is telling you to come back to bed so that he can help you with that concealed weapon before you poke some eye out." he licked his lips and looked down at my cock straining against the fabric of the Calvins I had just shoved it in. Trey always knew how to redirect my attention. I grinned down at him. "You just gonna stand their marine or start doing your morning drills," I said. He sat up in bed and reached his hand out to my hard cock. Pulling down the top of my Calvins and taking all 8 inches in his warm hands. I felt my dick stir at his touch. "Daddy," he mumbled "Not today Trey," I grumbled, turning to face him. I wasn't in the mood to pretend to be his dad. The guy was in his mid-forties. Plus, the dreams of Sammy were too fresh; he was the only one who had ever called me that. These days Daddy role-play just wasn't the same for me. I preferred to be my sub's master. "But dad." he wined. Looking up at me. Before he could react, I grabbed the back of his head and shoved it onto my cock. I felt my dick swell as it slid past his teeth to the back of his throat. Trey always looked so pretty with a cock in his mouth and tears at the corners of his eyes. I'd been pumping loads down his throat most mornings. He was about the only thing that made a living in this hellscape bearable. "Shut the fuck up, Trey." He gagged as I felt my dick reach the back of his throat. I loved watching him take it up to the hilt. My dick flared as it got to the base, which made shoving that last inch in even more fun. Trey worked himself up and down on my cock dutifully. The sounds of him slurping was music to my ears. Every time he choked his way down to the base, he would begin massaging it with his tongue, getting my dick nice and wet for when I fucked his hole. His spit was pouring down my cock, making my furry balls wet. "Bet you're thinking about how you wish I had been there to watch Bobby's men use you? I know how much of an exhibitionist my slut is." Trey pulled himself off my cock. "Yes, Daddy." "Don't fucking call me that," I said. Slapping Trey hard across the face. The sound echoed around the room. He yelped in pain. "Dad!" his eyes looked up at me with fear. "I said no. Call me Master." He looked at me with anticipation in his eyes. I stepped out of my Calvins and shoved them into his mouth. Dominating had always come easy to me. I shoved him on his side, then grabbed his right leg flipping him over. I could hear his muffled cries as I pulled his ass towards my cock. I slapped him across the ass hard once more. I knew it would leave a mark, but we both liked that. "I'm gonna punish you like the disrespectful boy you are today." I took my dick slick with Trey's spit and pumped it a few times in my hand. I was already leaking precum. I spit on his hole and then rubbed it with the head of my cock, watching his hole quiver. He moaned and pushed himself back towards me. With my dick on his hole, I leaned over and whispered into his ear. "I will destroy you." Before he could think, I shoved my dick deep into him, all the way to the hilt. Feeling his ass protest as I shoved myself inside of him. He always wanted more lube. He would beg to be fucked like a slut, and then the moment I started abusing him, cry out that he needed to be treated like a delicate flower. Today though, he must have known I wasn't in the mood for his protests. "Yeahhhhh, good hole," I said as my cock sunk fully in him. I let him take a few moments there and just breathe before I started pulling my cock out to the head and sinking in deep into his hole once more. I could feel him quivering beneath me. I kept piston fucking his hole in long fast strokes. With each thrust, I felt his ass open up to take me. He felt so good. His tight sphincter squeezed around my cock, milking my dick. As I began to open him, I never let go of his mouth. Holding my Calvins in there, making him drink in the sweat off my balls. With my left hand, I reached around and grabbed his smooth cock. I made him shave his pubes and his balls for me. At first, he had complained about how it made his crotch itch. But in time, he learned it was because I wanted him to think of me every time he looked at his dick. To remember the man that owned his hole and his cock. I gripped his throbbing member and balls in my meaty hand and squeezed as I fucked him. He moaned out in pleasure. It was just so easy to hurt him, he made it so fun, and the reward was watching the bliss that flooded his face when finally bruised, beaten, and shaking, I would let him cum. He always tried to protest, but we both knew this was what he needed. Our safe world had been cordyceps since the day we met, but he had never used it. "You feel loose whore." I said as I fucked him. "You let some other men rape you?" He moaned into my underwear. "What was that hole I couldn't hear you. You let Bobby abuse my ass?" I pulled the Calvins out of his mouth so he could answer me. "No." "No, what?" "No, master." "You sure? I feel another load in this slick manhole." I slapped him across the ass and pulled on his balls more. "Don't fucking lie to me." "He didn't fuck me." Trey moaned at me. He pushed himself up on his arms and twisted his head around to look at me. "Please, Daddy." I slapped him across the face. "I said don't fucking call me that. Do I have to teach you another lesson?" I hooked my elbow around his throat and pulled him back into me. My dick opened his second hole as he slid down deep on me. He moaned as I released his cock and slapped it while I fucked him. "Did you let Bobby fuck you?" "No." "Then who used my hole." "His guys. They fucked me." The thought of Trey tied up in a basement somewhere. Two meathead jocks spit-roasting him while Bobby watched got me more turned on. I began fucking his hole faster, relishing in the sound of my heavy balls slapping into his backside. Breeding hole was a simple pleasure, but I fucking lived for it. For the stench of it all. I wished I had some poppers to shove up Trey's nose. I'd love to popper him up and watch his hole beg for more. I wasn't sure if I wanted to punish Bobby's guy for bruising my sub without asking or for not inviting me to watch. "His guys?" I asked. I wanted him to tell me the details. What their dicks felt like as they beat up his hole. If they were cut? But instead of telling me what their pits smelled like, he started speaking faster and faster words pouring from his mouth. "I went to pick up the truck battery yesterday. Bobby said that the price had gone up." He moaned loudly as my dick slammed into his prostate. "They Ughhh, they had a better offer." "Yeah?" I twisted his balls. "What, did you offer them your holes." "Pleasseeee." Trey moaned. "You're hurting me." I pulled harder on his dick, my cock throbbing in response to each and every one of his whimpers. "Take it." "Da... mast... Joel, they took the money, and then they took my holes, and when they were done, they said I was such a cheap fuck that they didn't owe me anything. Owwweee. Joel, they took our money and the battery." I was close to cumming, and all this talk about finances started killing my morning wood. "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at Trey. "Joel, they took our money." "FUCK." I yelled. I took his ass and began fucking it harder and harder. I needed to seed his hole before I got around to figuring out what happened. I let go of his cock and grabbed his ass on both sides, pulling him hard onto my dick. With each thrust, I felt my balls tighten, getting ready to flood his hole. Trey stopped resisting, and I felt him open up to me more. He began moaning and whimpering. Twisting the bed sheets up in his hands. "Then I'm just gonna have to sell this hole to the FEDRA guards until we have enough to buy another battery," I growled at him. "Please, master. Please whore me out." He moaned back at me. "Is that what you want? Be used like the whore you are." "Yes." "You want another load." "Yes." "Greedy fucking cum pig." "Yes, fuck, please, Joel. Cum in me." "Breed that ass." "Yes, Da.. da..." He moaned as I hit his prostate, and then I felt his dick begin to spurt. "DADDDDD." Try as I might, my dick quivered as he called me dad, and I felt my cock begin to erupt within him. Was this hunk of a man not in some way my boy? I took care of him. Cooked him dinner. Kept him entertained. And most importantly, I dominated every aspect of his sexual life. "FUCKKKKKK," I yelled as I came down his hole. Still inside him, I let myself collapse on the bed. Trey pinned underneath me. He moaned in response. We lay there until I had caught my breath, and my dick had begun to soften within him. "So they took the money and took the battery. Do you know who they were selling it to?" "Martin Dandri." "The fucking fireflies. Why would they want it?" "Who knows? But the deal is going down at their Union Street safe house this afternoon. And I want to fuck Bobby up, Joel. Get our money and our battery back." "Yeah, we will." "You're gonna have to get off me if we're going to get them through, Joel. Can't keep me pinned to this bed all day." "I'm just going to keep you here till I've marked you as mine. Can't stand Bobby's boys' cum being inside you." "What do you mean?" Trey started to ask. But before he could finish, I let go--just a trickle at first, but soon, I was flooding his ass with my piss. Letting it mix with my cum. There was something so liberating and primal about using a man like this. I just relaxed and let it all go. "Oh, Daddddd." Trey moaned. "You're gonna ruin the mattress." he wined as my piss began to leak out of his ass. I was too turned on pissing in him to be bothered that he called me dad again. Some men were just like that. Needing the masculine comforting presence. I would never be his or anyone's dad again, but I only cared about my release at that moment. "Good thing we're never sleeping in this fucking place again, then." I pulled out, having finished flooding him. Trey was still on his stomach, my piss and cum leaking from him. "Today, we get that battery, get out of Boston, and begin making our way to Tommy." Trey turned and looked up at me. My brother Tommy had left Boston at the start of Spring. He said he was taking supplies out to a Firefly headquarters in Utah, but he had stopped radioing somewhere around Jackson, Wyoming. He was out there. The only connection I had to my life before all of this started. I couldn't lose Tommy. Trey wouldn't want to hear that, but Tommy was the closest thing I had to a true soul mate. His mom had married my dad when we were kids, and it hadn't taken us long to learn we were both into guys. It began as jerking off in the same room at night and steadily grew into more. After Shelia, my wife, had died, he'd moved back in to help me raise Sammy, and our bond had just grown from there. "Joel, It's been weeks; who knows if Tommy is still alive out there." "Trey, don't say that." "I'm just being reasonable." "I'm going to find him, Trey. I told you before you can stay here." "Leave you out on the road by yourself? Never." "Fine. then get yourself cleaned up, and get our fucking battery back." --- The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air of the old school hallway, and it was quiet. Too quiet. I had expected the Fireflies headquarters to be bustling with activity, but no one was about. I motioned for Trey to get behind me; he was a terrible shot. "Infected?" "Nope. Looks to have been a shoot-out." Just to be safe, I took my pistol and steadied it before me. So far, we had seen three dead guys. Two were Bobby's men, the same that had fucked Trey late last night. Guess I didn't have to punish them for using my hole, life had punished them enough. The third was a firefly I didn't recognize. People always said that the `infected' were the enemy, but humans kept doing a good job of killing each other. Nothing about the bodies indicated they had died in a shoot-out with the infected. I slowly approached the t-junction of the hallway and listened. This place should be filled with the sounds of kids learning, not the drip of a leak in some far off corner. I inched towards the junction and stole a glance down the hall. Halfway down was Bobby Cruz, bleeding out on the floor, his hand on a battery. "Trey, they got Bobby," I said. "Wait here." I stepped out into the hall and walked down. I took one glance at the crusted battery and cursed. "Fuck." "What?" Trey called from the hallway. "Battery and Bobby are dead. Can't believe Bobby tried to fuck us over a shitty battery." "He was a fuck." Trey said, stepping into the hallway. "Yeah, well, he's paid for it now." I rifled through his pockets and found nothing. Not even our cash. "Fuck Trey, he doesn't even have his cash on him." While I was rummaging in Bobby's pockets, the door in front of me opened, and Martin Dandri, stumbled out, holding a weeping wound on his side. He was dragging a young boy wearing rags by the hand into the hall. "Hey." Martin said. As shocked as I was to find him standing there. My breath caught in my throat. The boy was beautiful. Tousled dark hair, big eyes, luscious lips. Precisely the type of twink I had spent my evenings destroying when I got home from the Marines. I felt my cock stir even though I'd cum in Trey hours before. I began imaging the kid on his knees. Looking up at me. Begging me to be gentle with his eyes, knowing I would ravage him. I didn't meet many guys these days that excited me, but this kid had something. It was like an itch in the back of mind; he excited me, because he reminded me of someone, I just couldn't place who. Then the kid looked at me and gave me half a smile as the sun parted the clouds and light streamed through the window, hitting him just right. His hair wasn't dark; it was a deep brown, just like Sammy's, and his eyes were the same shade of emerald green. He needed someone to cook him dinner and serve him ice cream. I wanted to run to him. To hold him close to me, but I knew this kid was not my son. He was just some other orphan from the war with the infected by the looks of him. Getting distracted by some kid with a passing resemblance to Sammy wasn't going to get me a new battery, however. I pulled my eyes off him and brought my attention back to Martin. "Joel." "Martin." We regarded each other for a long moment, even as the blood poured between Martins' fingers. We had been friends once. A few years back. Till Martin had convinced my brother Tommy to join up with the fireflies. He appealed to Tommy's sense of morals, and no amount of talking I could do kept Tommy from throwing away what we had been building in our snuggling business together to slip into some fuck ugly camo and call himself a freedom fighter. Wasn't long after that that I heard that Marting and Tommy had become fuck buddies. I saw the appeal. Martin was built like a tank. But I had my suspicions that Martin got close to Tommy so he could use him, not because he liked my brother. It's why Tommy needed me around, to help him understand what people actually wanted out of him. "Why are you here Joel?" He asked, finally breaking the silence. "Too pick up the battery Bobby sold me." "Bobby sold me the battery." "He double-crossed us both. Batteries dead." "So is Bobby. My guys took care of that." "Didn't take kindly to the fact that you wouldn't pay for something broken, I take it?" Instead of answering Martin just looked at me for a long while. "Why do you need a battery, Joel." "To go after Tommy." The weight of what I said hung in the air. I wouldn't have to go after Tommy if Martin hadn't convinced him to run out West to be a hero in the first place. "Tommy's gone, Joel." "You don't know that." He grimaced. "Fuck you're the last person I want to be in debt to, but Joel. I'm going to reason with you straight. I need you to get Eli out of the QZ and to the Fireflies at City Hall." "Why do you need to get the kid out?" "Doesn't matter; you're a smuggler, Joel. Smuggle Eli. If you do this, the City Hall branch will give you whatever you need to go after Tommy. Armored truck, guns, you name it." We stared at each other again. Two alphas sizing each other up. "Joel," Trey said, coming up from behind and touching my shoulder. "Listen, we take this kid out of here, and then we'll be good to go after Tommy. The City Hall fireflies have a bunch of old FEDRA gear. We'll probably get better gear from them than we could buy in the QZ." "No," I said. "Joel." Trey looked at me with pleading eyes. "Why?" What could I tell Trey? That Eli looked too much like my Sammy for me to want to spend time around him. I'd been around the boy for less than a minute, and he was already driving me crazy. What if I couldn't protect him? "Look, Joel, I don't have much time. I'm bleeding out, but I got to get this kid out of here and to our research base in Salt Lake, the same one your brother was headed to. Nothing is more important than getting this kid out. I will give you anything. Fuck you can travel with the fireflies out to Utah if you want. Safety in numbers, right?" The kid looked up at Martin. Keeping a kid, especially this kid, alive as we made our way through the downtown streets of Boston to City Hall wouldn't be easy. The spaces outside the QZ in Boston were filled with infected. They prowled the edges, always looking to pick off a stray human that wandered too far past the city walls. "I said no," I said just as Trey stepped before me. "Deal," Trey said. "Thank you, Trey," Martin said, pushing the kid at us. "I said no." Trey spun on me. "Joel. We know Martin. He wouldn't offer us a battery and guns if this weren't important. We can get this kid to City Hall in six hours." "Kid looks like we'd have to carry him that whole way." "I can take care of myself." The kid said. I ignored him completely. "Then we carry him, Joel. I'm no firefly, but if Martin wants this kid out of here so much, it's probably something to spite FEDRA. Let's deliver one more fuck you to FEDRA as we leave this shit hole forever." I looked between Trey, Martin, and the kid. All of them were looking at me with expectant eyes. I couldn't just roll over and do what Martin wanted, but I sensed the opportunity to get something I wanted. "Kiss my boots and call me sir, and I'll take the kid," I told Martin. "No." "Then we're out. Trey, let's go." Trey realized I wouldn't budge on this. He gave me a disappointed look and then we turned and started walking down the hall. "Fuck Joel," Martin called after us when we were 5 steps down the hall. I turned around, victory in my eyes. "Kiss my boots." The anger in Martin's posture was worth every moment we talked over this bull shit. He walked forward. "I'm only doing this because I'm bleeding out, and I know" He looked deep into my eyes. "That you will keep this fucking kid safe. Guard him with your life." "Kiss 'em." he got on his knees before me, groaning. I wanted to watch him kiss my boots, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the kid. He looked like he wanted to gut me for making Martin grovel. We just stared at each other as Martin kissed the first one. "And the other," I said. I turned my attention down to Martin. Watching the broad-shouldered hunk kiss the black leather of my boots. I didn't have many prized possessions these days, but my boots were one. Polished them every night when I got home from working in the burn pits. Martin looked up at me from the floor and then kissed my boot. I could get used to having a hunk like him serve me. "Pleasure doing business Martin; radio the City Hall Fireflies and let them know will be there first thing tomorrow morning or earlier," I said, turning around and walking to Trey. "That gave me a stiffy," Trey whispered to me, grabbing his crotch as I approached him. "Yeah, well, we don't have time for that now. Got a kid to deliver." "We made the right choice." "He's your responsibility, Trey." I turned to look back at the boy, and he was talking to Martin. I couldn't catch everything they said to each other, but Martin was warning the kid not to tell anyone about something. "Joel, what about this kid has you on edge? Is it Sam..." I cut him off. "Don't say that name, Trey. He's got nothing to do with this." I turned my attention back to the kid. "Hey, package, let's go." The kid looked at me and then back at Martin. "Better than rag boy, I guess." "Do what he tells you," Martin said, looking back at me again. "Joel's a messed up piece of shit, but he'll keep you safe." "I said, let's go." "Hold on." Martin opened the door next to him and shuffled in; he emerged a second later with a bundle of clothes, a backpack, and a coat for Eli. "Supply kit, food, flashlight, everything you need to get to City Hall." "You pack him Lunchables, Martin." "Yeah fuck you too, Joel. Just keep him safe." I nodded once. "Kid, you ready." I was already regretting this. "Just let me get dressed." He started stripping and putting his clothes on right there. He took his shirt off his head. His skin was smooth and beautiful, with a smattering of light freckles. Before I could help myself, I had already imaged the kid naked, sprawled out beside me, letting me draw constellations on his skin. Just being around him had already horned me up. I turned away. If I watched him change any longer, I would have to drag Trey into a side classroom and fuck the shit out of him again. "We don't have all day, kid," I said impatiently. "Yeah, Grandpa, stop getting your colostomy bag in a twist." He said as he began walking down the hall towards us. I caught Trey smiling at what the kid had said. These two would be in trouble if they tried to gang up teasing me. For now, I figured it best to ignore them both. I turned to lead the way out of the school and towards the sewer tunnel I used to get in and out of the QZ zone. Today we left Boston for whatever was out there.

<div id="readability-content"><div id="readability-page-1" class="page"> Date: Tue, 23 Jan 2024 15:38:37 -0500 From: Mark Smith <bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com> Subject: Mushroom Heads: The Last of Yas. Chapter 2, Celebrity I've cum more times thank to NIFTY than any lover ever. Show them how much the cummunity means to you and send them some cash. (link https://donate.nifty.org/) CONTENT: An explicit gay retelling of the Last of Us. Will Joel be able to keep Eli safe? And from what? Sci-fi / Fantasy Slash Fiction Incest (in later episodes) celebrity If you like this story, consider sending your feedback to bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com I'm looking to write the whole show and want to hear from you. Connect online at @Gayfan_Erotica on x Treat me to a cup of coffee or some lube. $storiesbymark on cashapp CHAPTER 2: JOEL, FEDEXXX "The stars, Dad." his voice slipped through my fingers as I reached out, trying to grasp it. But there was nothing to hold as the morning light pulled me from my slumber. I woke up lost. I'd been dreaming of him again--my son, Sammy. He might have had his own family by now. I could be Grandpa Joel, not that I looked anything like a Grandpa at 52. I was still well-muscled, broad-shouldered, with tree trunk legs. They could take the man out of the Marines, but not the Marines out of the man. Even in the apocalypse, I found time to ensure I was putting the work in at the gym. I sat up in bed. Letting my legs slide out onto the hardwood floor. My bedroom was shitty. Poorly decorated. Probably had been the home of some Grandmother before the infection claimed her--yellow floral wallpaper, peeling off the walls and knock-off Tiffany lamp on a beat-up mid-century desk. The early morning light cut into the room. Illuminating the bottle of Jura Superstition whiskey I had polished off the night before. I felt something shift in the bed next to me, Trey. I hadn't even woken up when he came in last night. "Joel. Everything okay?" His voice had that raspy scratch of a person not yet up. I turned around and gave him a smile in the early morning light. We had met a year after the outbreak. Both of us had been in Amarillo trying to make our way North, where we heard there was more food and less infected. Not that either of those things had turned out to be true. He smiled up at me from the pillow. His tousled brown hair framed his face. He had been handsome once. Now he looked distinguished, which was odd in the Boston QZ, most people here looked like gutter rats, but he always had that homosexual flair of showing up fashionable even as the world burned around him. He was ten years younger than me--smaller, slighter, smarter. We'd found each other and survived together for years. Not quite love. Not just lust. Colaborative survival, with a side helping of butt stuff. Felt like he should be wearing suits and going to the opera, not helping me smuggle drugs. "Yeah," I said, brushing the hair out of his face. He had a big old bruise blossoming across his left eye. "Trey, what the fuck happened to you?" "Nothing." "That's not nothing," I said, cupping his face and turning it left and right. "Who did this to you?" "Bobby's men." "I'm gonna kill them." I stood up. The sheets slid off my body. I slept naked. Always did. I ignored Trey, who was trying to get me to slow down, as I grabbed a pair of underwear from the floor. A pair of old white Calvins stained yellow with age. "Joel. come back to bed." Said Trey with a wine. "Please." "Trey, I won't let Bobby treat you like this." I slipped my legs into the Calvins and pulled them up. The elastic had died years ago, but they hung off my muscular ass in a way that reminded me of my time in the backrooms of gay bars before the world ended. Slipping my pants down to free my monster cock and fuck some young twink who was drooling up at me. I was lucky that I loved dirty jocks and pit stank. People didn't wash their clothes often these days, and no one wore deodorant. "If you had done this to me, you would have woken up with a smile." "That's different. You're mine." "Yeah. And right now, your guy is telling you to come back to bed so that he can help you with that concealed weapon before you poke some eye out." he licked his lips and looked down at my cock straining against the fabric of the Calvins I had just shoved it in. Trey always knew how to redirect my attention. I grinned down at him. "You just gonna stand their marine or start doing your morning drills," I said. He sat up in bed and reached his hand out to my hard cock. Pulling down the top of my Calvins and taking all 8 inches in his warm hands. I felt my dick stir at his touch. "Daddy," he mumbled "Not today Trey," I grumbled, turning to face him. I wasn't in the mood to pretend to be his dad. The guy was in his mid-forties. Plus, the dreams of Sammy were too fresh; he was the only one who had ever called me that. These days Daddy role-play just wasn't the same for me. I preferred to be my sub's master. "But dad." he wined. Looking up at me. Before he could react, I grabbed the back of his head and shoved it onto my cock. I felt my dick swell as it slid past his teeth to the back of his throat. Trey always looked so pretty with a cock in his mouth and tears at the corners of his eyes. I'd been pumping loads down his throat most mornings. He was about the only thing that made a living in this hellscape bearable. "Shut the fuck up, Trey." He gagged as I felt my dick reach the back of his throat. I loved watching him take it up to the hilt. My dick flared as it got to the base, which made shoving that last inch in even more fun. Trey worked himself up and down on my cock dutifully. The sounds of him slurping was music to my ears. Every time he choked his way down to the base, he would begin massaging it with his tongue, getting my dick nice and wet for when I fucked his hole. His spit was pouring down my cock, making my furry balls wet. "Bet you're thinking about how you wish I had been there to watch Bobby's men use you? I know how much of an exhibitionist my slut is." Trey pulled himself off my cock. "Yes, Daddy." "Don't fucking call me that," I said. Slapping Trey hard across the face. The sound echoed around the room. He yelped in pain. "Dad!" his eyes looked up at me with fear. "I said no. Call me Master." He looked at me with anticipation in his eyes. I stepped out of my Calvins and shoved them into his mouth. Dominating had always come easy to me. I shoved him on his side, then grabbed his right leg flipping him over. I could hear his muffled cries as I pulled his ass towards my cock. I slapped him across the ass hard once more. I knew it would leave a mark, but we both liked that. "I'm gonna punish you like the disrespectful boy you are today." I took my dick slick with Trey's spit and pumped it a few times in my hand. I was already leaking precum. I spit on his hole and then rubbed it with the head of my cock, watching his hole quiver. He moaned and pushed himself back towards me. With my dick on his hole, I leaned over and whispered into his ear. "I will destroy you." Before he could think, I shoved my dick deep into him, all the way to the hilt. Feeling his ass protest as I shoved myself inside of him. He always wanted more lube. He would beg to be fucked like a slut, and then the moment I started abusing him, cry out that he needed to be treated like a delicate flower. Today though, he must have known I wasn't in the mood for his protests. "Yeahhhhh, good hole," I said as my cock sunk fully in him. I let him take a few moments there and just breathe before I started pulling my cock out to the head and sinking in deep into his hole once more. I could feel him quivering beneath me. I kept piston fucking his hole in long fast strokes. With each thrust, I felt his ass open up to take me. He felt so good. His tight sphincter squeezed around my cock, milking my dick. As I began to open him, I never let go of his mouth. Holding my Calvins in there, making him drink in the sweat off my balls. With my left hand, I reached around and grabbed his smooth cock. I made him shave his pubes and his balls for me. At first, he had complained about how it made his crotch itch. But in time, he learned it was because I wanted him to think of me every time he looked at his dick. To remember the man that owned his hole and his cock. I gripped his throbbing member and balls in my meaty hand and squeezed as I fucked him. He moaned out in pleasure. It was just so easy to hurt him, he made it so fun, and the reward was watching the bliss that flooded his face when finally bruised, beaten, and shaking, I would let him cum. He always tried to protest, but we both knew this was what he needed. Our safe world had been cordyceps since the day we met, but he had never used it. "You feel loose whore." I said as I fucked him. "You let some other men rape you?" He moaned into my underwear. "What was that hole I couldn't hear you. You let Bobby abuse my ass?" I pulled the Calvins out of his mouth so he could answer me. "No." "No, what?" "No, master." "You sure? I feel another load in this slick manhole." I slapped him across the ass and pulled on his balls more. "Don't fucking lie to me." "He didn't fuck me." Trey moaned at me. He pushed himself up on his arms and twisted his head around to look at me. "Please, Daddy." I slapped him across the face. "I said don't fucking call me that. Do I have to teach you another lesson?" I hooked my elbow around his throat and pulled him back into me. My dick opened his second hole as he slid down deep on me. He moaned as I released his cock and slapped it while I fucked him. "Did you let Bobby fuck you?" "No." "Then who used my hole." "His guys. They fucked me." The thought of Trey tied up in a basement somewhere. Two meathead jocks spit-roasting him while Bobby watched got me more turned on. I began fucking his hole faster, relishing in the sound of my heavy balls slapping into his backside. Breeding hole was a simple pleasure, but I fucking lived for it. For the stench of it all. I wished I had some poppers to shove up Trey's nose. I'd love to popper him up and watch his hole beg for more. I wasn't sure if I wanted to punish Bobby's guy for bruising my sub without asking or for not inviting me to watch. "His guys?" I asked. I wanted him to tell me the details. What their dicks felt like as they beat up his hole. If they were cut? But instead of telling me what their pits smelled like, he started speaking faster and faster words pouring from his mouth. "I went to pick up the truck battery yesterday. Bobby said that the price had gone up." He moaned loudly as my dick slammed into his prostate. "They Ughhh, they had a better offer." "Yeah?" I twisted his balls. "What, did you offer them your holes." "Pleasseeee." Trey moaned. "You're hurting me." I pulled harder on his dick, my cock throbbing in response to each and every one of his whimpers. "Take it." "Da... mast... Joel, they took the money, and then they took my holes, and when they were done, they said I was such a cheap fuck that they didn't owe me anything. Owwweee. Joel, they took our money and the battery." I was close to cumming, and all this talk about finances started killing my morning wood. "Shut the fuck up!" I yelled at Trey. "Joel, they took our money." "FUCK." I yelled. I took his ass and began fucking it harder and harder. I needed to seed his hole before I got around to figuring out what happened. I let go of his cock and grabbed his ass on both sides, pulling him hard onto my dick. With each thrust, I felt my balls tighten, getting ready to flood his hole. Trey stopped resisting, and I felt him open up to me more. He began moaning and whimpering. Twisting the bed sheets up in his hands. "Then I'm just gonna have to sell this hole to the FEDRA guards until we have enough to buy another battery," I growled at him. "Please, master. Please whore me out." He moaned back at me. "Is that what you want? Be used like the whore you are." "Yes." "You want another load." "Yes." "Greedy fucking cum pig." "Yes, fuck, please, Joel. Cum in me." "Breed that ass." "Yes, Da.. da..." He moaned as I hit his prostate, and then I felt his dick begin to spurt. "DADDDDD." Try as I might, my dick quivered as he called me dad, and I felt my cock begin to erupt within him. Was this hunk of a man not in some way my boy? I took care of him. Cooked him dinner. Kept him entertained. And most importantly, I dominated every aspect of his sexual life. "FUCKKKKKK," I yelled as I came down his hole. Still inside him, I let myself collapse on the bed. Trey pinned underneath me. He moaned in response. We lay there until I had caught my breath, and my dick had begun to soften within him. "So they took the money and took the battery. Do you know who they were selling it to?" "Martin Dandri." "The fucking fireflies. Why would they want it?" "Who knows? But the deal is going down at their Union Street safe house this afternoon. And I want to fuck Bobby up, Joel. Get our money and our battery back." "Yeah, we will." "You're gonna have to get off me if we're going to get them through, Joel. Can't keep me pinned to this bed all day." "I'm just going to keep you here till I've marked you as mine. Can't stand Bobby's boys' cum being inside you." "What do you mean?" Trey started to ask. But before he could finish, I let go--just a trickle at first, but soon, I was flooding his ass with my piss. Letting it mix with my cum. There was something so liberating and primal about using a man like this. I just relaxed and let it all go. "Oh, Daddddd." Trey moaned. "You're gonna ruin the mattress." he wined as my piss began to leak out of his ass. I was too turned on pissing in him to be bothered that he called me dad again. Some men were just like that. Needing the masculine comforting presence. I would never be his or anyone's dad again, but I only cared about my release at that moment. "Good thing we're never sleeping in this fucking place again, then." I pulled out, having finished flooding him. Trey was still on his stomach, my piss and cum leaking from him. "Today, we get that battery, get out of Boston, and begin making our way to Tommy." Trey turned and looked up at me. My brother Tommy had left Boston at the start of Spring. He said he was taking supplies out to a Firefly headquarters in Utah, but he had stopped radioing somewhere around Jackson, Wyoming. He was out there. The only connection I had to my life before all of this started. I couldn't lose Tommy. Trey wouldn't want to hear that, but Tommy was the closest thing I had to a true soul mate. His mom had married my dad when we were kids, and it hadn't taken us long to learn we were both into guys. It began as jerking off in the same room at night and steadily grew into more. After Shelia, my wife, had died, he'd moved back in to help me raise Sammy, and our bond had just grown from there. "Joel, It's been weeks; who knows if Tommy is still alive out there." "Trey, don't say that." "I'm just being reasonable." "I'm going to find him, Trey. I told you before you can stay here." "Leave you out on the road by yourself? Never." "Fine. then get yourself cleaned up, and get our fucking battery back." --- The smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air of the old school hallway, and it was quiet. Too quiet. I had expected the Fireflies headquarters to be bustling with activity, but no one was about. I motioned for Trey to get behind me; he was a terrible shot. "Infected?" "Nope. Looks to have been a shoot-out." Just to be safe, I took my pistol and steadied it before me. So far, we had seen three dead guys. Two were Bobby's men, the same that had fucked Trey late last night. Guess I didn't have to punish them for using my hole, life had punished them enough. The third was a firefly I didn't recognize. People always said that the `infected' were the enemy, but humans kept doing a good job of killing each other. Nothing about the bodies indicated they had died in a shoot-out with the infected. I slowly approached the t-junction of the hallway and listened. This place should be filled with the sounds of kids learning, not the drip of a leak in some far off corner. I inched towards the junction and stole a glance down the hall. Halfway down was Bobby Cruz, bleeding out on the floor, his hand on a battery. "Trey, they got Bobby," I said. "Wait here." I stepped out into the hall and walked down. I took one glance at the crusted battery and cursed. "Fuck." "What?" Trey called from the hallway. "Battery and Bobby are dead. Can't believe Bobby tried to fuck us over a shitty battery." "He was a fuck." Trey said, stepping into the hallway. "Yeah, well, he's paid for it now." I rifled through his pockets and found nothing. Not even our cash. "Fuck Trey, he doesn't even have his cash on him." While I was rummaging in Bobby's pockets, the door in front of me opened, and Martin Dandri, stumbled out, holding a weeping wound on his side. He was dragging a young boy wearing rags by the hand into the hall. "Hey." Martin said. As shocked as I was to find him standing there. My breath caught in my throat. The boy was beautiful. Tousled dark hair, big eyes, luscious lips. Precisely the type of twink I had spent my evenings destroying when I got home from the Marines. I felt my cock stir even though I'd cum in Trey hours before. I began imaging the kid on his knees. Looking up at me. Begging me to be gentle with his eyes, knowing I would ravage him. I didn't meet many guys these days that excited me, but this kid had something. It was like an itch in the back of mind; he excited me, because he reminded me of someone, I just couldn't place who. Then the kid looked at me and gave me half a smile as the sun parted the clouds and light streamed through the window, hitting him just right. His hair wasn't dark; it was a deep brown, just like Sammy's, and his eyes were the same shade of emerald green. He needed someone to cook him dinner and serve him ice cream. I wanted to run to him. To hold him close to me, but I knew this kid was not my son. He was just some other orphan from the war with the infected by the looks of him. Getting distracted by some kid with a passing resemblance to Sammy wasn't going to get me a new battery, however. I pulled my eyes off him and brought my attention back to Martin. "Joel." "Martin." We regarded each other for a long moment, even as the blood poured between Martins' fingers. We had been friends once. A few years back. Till Martin had convinced my brother Tommy to join up with the fireflies. He appealed to Tommy's sense of morals, and no amount of talking I could do kept Tommy from throwing away what we had been building in our snuggling business together to slip into some fuck ugly camo and call himself a freedom fighter. Wasn't long after that that I heard that Marting and Tommy had become fuck buddies. I saw the appeal. Martin was built like a tank. But I had my suspicions that Martin got close to Tommy so he could use him, not because he liked my brother. It's why Tommy needed me around, to help him understand what people actually wanted out of him. "Why are you here Joel?" He asked, finally breaking the silence. "Too pick up the battery Bobby sold me." "Bobby sold me the battery." "He double-crossed us both. Batteries dead." "So is Bobby. My guys took care of that." "Didn't take kindly to the fact that you wouldn't pay for something broken, I take it?" Instead of answering Martin just looked at me for a long while. "Why do you need a battery, Joel." "To go after Tommy." The weight of what I said hung in the air. I wouldn't have to go after Tommy if Martin hadn't convinced him to run out West to be a hero in the first place. "Tommy's gone, Joel." "You don't know that." He grimaced. "Fuck you're the last person I want to be in debt to, but Joel. I'm going to reason with you straight. I need you to get Eli out of the QZ and to the Fireflies at City Hall." "Why do you need to get the kid out?" "Doesn't matter; you're a smuggler, Joel. Smuggle Eli. If you do this, the City Hall branch will give you whatever you need to go after Tommy. Armored truck, guns, you name it." We stared at each other again. Two alphas sizing each other up. "Joel," Trey said, coming up from behind and touching my shoulder. "Listen, we take this kid out of here, and then we'll be good to go after Tommy. The City Hall fireflies have a bunch of old FEDRA gear. We'll probably get better gear from them than we could buy in the QZ." "No," I said. "Joel." Trey looked at me with pleading eyes. "Why?" What could I tell Trey? That Eli looked too much like my Sammy for me to want to spend time around him. I'd been around the boy for less than a minute, and he was already driving me crazy. What if I couldn't protect him? "Look, Joel, I don't have much time. I'm bleeding out, but I got to get this kid out of here and to our research base in Salt Lake, the same one your brother was headed to. Nothing is more important than getting this kid out. I will give you anything. Fuck you can travel with the fireflies out to Utah if you want. Safety in numbers, right?" The kid looked up at Martin. Keeping a kid, especially this kid, alive as we made our way through the downtown streets of Boston to City Hall wouldn't be easy. The spaces outside the QZ in Boston were filled with infected. They prowled the edges, always looking to pick off a stray human that wandered too far past the city walls. "I said no," I said just as Trey stepped before me. "Deal," Trey said. "Thank you, Trey," Martin said, pushing the kid at us. "I said no." Trey spun on me. "Joel. We know Martin. He wouldn't offer us a battery and guns if this weren't important. We can get this kid to City Hall in six hours." "Kid looks like we'd have to carry him that whole way." "I can take care of myself." The kid said. I ignored him completely. "Then we carry him, Joel. I'm no firefly, but if Martin wants this kid out of here so much, it's probably something to spite FEDRA. Let's deliver one more fuck you to FEDRA as we leave this shit hole forever." I looked between Trey, Martin, and the kid. All of them were looking at me with expectant eyes. I couldn't just roll over and do what Martin wanted, but I sensed the opportunity to get something I wanted. "Kiss my boots and call me sir, and I'll take the kid," I told Martin. "No." "Then we're out. Trey, let's go." Trey realized I wouldn't budge on this. He gave me a disappointed look and then we turned and started walking down the hall. "Fuck Joel," Martin called after us when we were 5 steps down the hall. I turned around, victory in my eyes. "Kiss my boots." The anger in Martin's posture was worth every moment we talked over this bull shit. He walked forward. "I'm only doing this because I'm bleeding out, and I know" He looked deep into my eyes. "That you will keep this fucking kid safe. Guard him with your life." "Kiss 'em." he got on his knees before me, groaning. I wanted to watch him kiss my boots, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the kid. He looked like he wanted to gut me for making Martin grovel. We just stared at each other as Martin kissed the first one. "And the other," I said. I turned my attention down to Martin. Watching the broad-shouldered hunk kiss the black leather of my boots. I didn't have many prized possessions these days, but my boots were one. Polished them every night when I got home from working in the burn pits. Martin looked up at me from the floor and then kissed my boot. I could get used to having a hunk like him serve me. "Pleasure doing business Martin; radio the City Hall Fireflies and let them know will be there first thing tomorrow morning or earlier," I said, turning around and walking to Trey. "That gave me a stiffy," Trey whispered to me, grabbing his crotch as I approached him. "Yeah, well, we don't have time for that now. Got a kid to deliver." "We made the right choice." "He's your responsibility, Trey." I turned to look back at the boy, and he was talking to Martin. I couldn't catch everything they said to each other, but Martin was warning the kid not to tell anyone about something. "Joel, what about this kid has you on edge? Is it Sam..." I cut him off. "Don't say that name, Trey. He's got nothing to do with this." I turned my attention back to the kid. "Hey, package, let's go." The kid looked at me and then back at Martin. "Better than rag boy, I guess." "Do what he tells you," Martin said, looking back at me again. "Joel's a messed up piece of shit, but he'll keep you safe." "I said, let's go." "Hold on." Martin opened the door next to him and shuffled in; he emerged a second later with a bundle of clothes, a backpack, and a coat for Eli. "Supply kit, food, flashlight, everything you need to get to City Hall." "You pack him Lunchables, Martin." "Yeah fuck you too, Joel. Just keep him safe." I nodded once. "Kid, you ready." I was already regretting this. "Just let me get dressed." He started stripping and putting his clothes on right there. He took his shirt off his head. His skin was smooth and beautiful, with a smattering of light freckles. Before I could help myself, I had already imaged the kid naked, sprawled out beside me, letting me draw constellations on his skin. Just being around him had already horned me up. I turned away. If I watched him change any longer, I would have to drag Trey into a side classroom and fuck the shit out of him again. "We don't have all day, kid," I said impatiently. "Yeah, Grandpa, stop getting your colostomy bag in a twist." He said as he began walking down the hall towards us. I caught Trey smiling at what the kid had said. These two would be in trouble if they tried to gang up teasing me. For now, I figured it best to ignore them both. I turned to lead the way out of the school and towards the sewer tunnel I used to get in and out of the QZ zone. Today we left Boston for whatever was out there. </bodyworkbymarknyc@gmail.com> </div></div>