premiership-lads-114

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 11: Hammers Part 114: Hammers Paris, 2008. Outside, somewhere in the corridor, two maids were having a rather loud conversation in rapid French. He only recognised a few key words and phrases and even they didn’t make any particular sense to his sluggish young brain. Ugh, actually, come to think of it, it felt a little bit like his brain had been in a blender and maybe some of his other internal organs too. The worst hangover in his limited years of underage drinking struck him like a sledgehammer and he winced into the soft white pillow, trying to piece together where he was, what the hell happened last night, why he felt quite so… Well, he had drunk a lot, yes. There was that. He pictured himself in one of the big shared rooms, huddled by some of the other England youth side, riding high on their international fun and, even more than the football, the thrill of being away from home and families, boys feeling like men. He’d knocked back almost an entire bottle of spiced rum to himself, not to mention the few alcopops and beers. It was a miracle he hadn’t been sick. Yet, he told himself. But the rest of the night in Paris was coming back to him too. He shifted his head from the pillow, narrowing his brown eyes against the sharp sun creeping in between thin, ethereal curtains — and there it fuckin’ was, he thought with a pained chuckle, the Parisian skyline, the Eiffel tower, the bloody city of lights. How fuckin’ romantic. He made another groan and dared to register and consider the other pain, beyond the headache and vague gut unease of hangover rippling through his muscular body. His arse hurt. Well, sure it did, he thought bitterly, when you go doing mad shit like that. Wow. He held his face and his arm to the pillow and thought about the rapid, intense scene that too much booze, a lot of false confidence, and a big dollop of hero worship had motored him rapidly into. Sure, he’d wondered about his bottom, a curious and horny teenager as he was, but he’d never done more than stroke or poke at it in the bath and shower, laughing at his own experimentation, and enjoying vague tales of anal sex from older footy lads who he suspected were mostly lying; he couldn’t imagine the girls he’d toyed with since his early teens would be up for something so kinky, surely hardly any women did that? And now, he thought, he could see why. Owch. Had it hurt this much last night? He thought, with a little tremble of fearful admiration, of how big that man’s hard cock actually was, and he felt fresh waves of pain and nausea. His whole backside stung and throbbed as if he was properly wounded, but he told himself this was normal and inevitable. It’s probably how birds felt after a good smashing even up the front door, he reasoned. David Beckham, he thought with a reverent tremble. He felt suddenly aware of his right side, his awkwardly angled arm and splayed thigh, wondering if his elbow and knee were brushing right up against him. He couldn’t feel the warmth of another body, but then it was a big bed. A big posh fucking bed in a big posh fucking hotel room, jesus. Very slowly he leaned his naked body to the right, unfolding his arm and reaching to… to… to stroke cool sheets and feel the ruffled bedding against his clammy, sticky palm. With a held breath, Jack Wilshere lifted his face from the pillow and stared into the abyss of empty bed. Oh. He groaned at a little stab of the boozy headache, closed his eyes for a few moments, then reopened; some fantastical streak in him expected the scene to be different when his eyes were reopened, the bed to be less expansively empty and white, the room to feel less coolly vacant. His own body was burning up with hangover horror, but the room felt chilly and abandoned. It hurt to really sit up and look around, but he did. And his arse cheeks, and the very sore privacy between them, throbbed at him as he rested on them to sit upright. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, he told himself. The bathroom door was ajar and there was no noise or light from in there. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the grey gloom and flickering shafts of invasive light. No luggage, no clothing other than his own, no… Okay. Right. When Wilshere climbed from the bed, 16 and naked and trembling from the knowledge of his lost virginity, he felt unusually self-conscious. The laddish bravado and youthful obliviousness that carried him through life like a bull in a china shop were gone for a few minutes. For privacy from an imagined observer, he cupped his bouncing privates in both hands and hopped over the cool, empty room, finding his clothes where they had dropped and scattered. He felt safer and better as soon as they were on. Again, he looked with a sort of confused optimism towards the bathroom door, then the main door; still, just distant and muffled voices of maids at work. A few other French accents. Then a babbled burst of English, maybe some of his teammates or Beckham’s senior pals, passing by on their way to breakfast? Breakfast, Wilshere thought grimly. When he met with the other lads, he would have to make up a story about where he spent the fucking night. Ugh. His head was sore and his thinking slow. He cuddled himself into the warmth of his baggy old jumper and reached the mahogany writing burea, pausing to see what was left on it. Dangling from the corner of the high-backed leather chair was the jockstrap, the thin off-white tangle of material. He picked it up in his hand, staring at it as a symbol of his cocky, naïve submission to an older man, feeling that same tremble of fearful excitement that had greeted him at the first morning memory. David fucking Beckham, he thought, who would even believe him? There was a note on the desk: `Had to go, kid. I’ll call Wenger soon. Best of luck. Thanks for dropping by’. He stared at it, his eyes feeling dry and scratchy, the jock still tangled in his grubby fingers, his bottom throbbing with last night’s passion. `Kid’, he thought with a touch of stupid bitterness, resenting the patronising tone of a man twice his age. The `Wenger call’ promise drifted pleasantly back to him, and he wondered if that hinted connection was what had pulled him up here, knocking on the door, coming to `return’ the borrowed underwear… `Thanks’, he mumbled aloud, and then, `dropping by’. So dismissive, so detached. For a second he felt at risk of being emotional and then he laughed aloud at himself. What were you expecting, dickhead? Still, alone and naked and thinking about the heat that had burst out between the two of them… No, Jack, no. Fuck’s sake. He scrunched up the jockstrap in his fist and shoved it into the pocket of his shorts, accepting the gift but unable to decide if it was mocking and dismissive or affectionate tribute. He was startled by a sharp knocking at the thick wooden door and he looked that way. `’Allo, Madame,’ came a thickly accented male voice, `your breakfast is `ere, Monsieur Beckham ordered it before he, ahem, left, and…’ Jack scowled to himself, teenage surliness and overconfidence beginning to return. He scrunched up the note and stuffed it in his other pocket. He marched to the hotel room door and unlocked it, and saw the abrupt surprise on the young man’s face, in the middle of kneeling in his starched uniform to rest a silver tray loaded in breakfast goodies. `Erm,’ was all the Frenchman could muster to say. Wilshere gave him a bold, challenging look, just daring him to acknowledge or question the situation. `Madame,’ he thought mockingly, and strode ahead without a tiny fuck of concern for Beckham’s reputation or obvious little deceptions. Who cared, Jack thought arrogantly, what a dumb French hotel boy thought was going on? He swaggered off down the corridor, 16 and in control, ready to regale his youth team pals with a carefully veiled narrative of a beautiful older blond with an incredible body and ravenous appetite, a 30-something MILF who he’d experienced wild new delights with all night long. They would eat it up with their croissants and worship him as their hero. Oh yes. The jockstrap still fit, just about, though it was tighter around the waist and actually the worn, tearing fabric of its front pouch actually didn’t hold his crown jewels quite so comfortably as it had in his late teens. The 28-year-old midfielder admired himself distantly in the full-length bedroom mirror, the youthful glow still held by his gently tanned skin and the compact, dense muscles of his limbs and torso; he knew there was something perennially boyish and wicked in his looks, even now he neared 30, but there was also a stocky strength that his weedy younger self could only imagine. He gently flexed his upper arms and tightened the hard-packed muscles of his abdomen and smirked flirtatiously with his own reflection. `I love it when you wear that thing,’ came the sensual, dreamy voice of a woman recently pleasured. Jack grinned more fully, lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head, not turning round but addressing her reflection behind his. `It’s just so sexy,’ she murmured, and her voice was still an indulgent, ethereal groan, as if the multiple orgasms of the lie-in still rippled through her body. Jack’s wife lay sprawled open on the tangled sheets of the marital bed, her legs hanging apart where he’d left them, one thigh gently lifted, her flat tummy rising and falling with her pleasured breaths, her pert tits spilling apart a little with the pull of gravity, her dark hair tousled about her face and the mass of pillows. Between her legs and below her naval shone greasy and wet with sweat, saliva and her own wet excitement. Jack looked back to his own reflection and ran one complexly tattooed forearm across his lightly bearded chin. `I know you do, hun,’ he grunted at his own handsome reflection. `Look at your little bottom,’ she sniggered, rubbing one hand of delicately manicured pink nails down her stomach towards the wet playground of her pussy, already hungry for more attention even after the long session of oral sex he’d woken her up with. `Little?’ laughed Wilshere, turning around with a bounce of his barely contained bollocks, `I got a great booty, Mrs Wilshere, so fuck off.’ He strolled past the bed, looking happily down at the naked and shivering woman he had repeatedly driven to orgasm with his tongue, lips, fingers. She wanted him to fuck her, had begged for it, but he had a big morning of training and he was applying matchday rules to keep himself fresh. His cock had still been semi hard when he pushed it into the jockstrap, which he saved for days when he really wanted to feel drunk on his own machismo and go wild on the pitch. mersin escort Not bothering to shower away the manly scents of sleep and sex, he pulled his West Ham training jersey on over his thick torso and shorts up his sturdy legs, then knelt on the edge of the bed and leaned over to kiss her with his cunt-flavoured lips. It was a lingering snog, the preview of further pleasure tonight, if they got such a beautiful window of privacy again in their busy family household. Jack hovered over her, enjoying the tease and his own dissatisfaction, then pulled away, leaving her naked and panting. To training, the jockstrap clinging excitingly below his shorts. As a player who had only just been nearing full recovery from injury and operations when the season paused, Jack Wilshere was attacking the increasing training regime and imminent Premiership restart with even more frenzied enthusiasm than anyone else at West Ham. He howled his way through the drills, as energetic and vocal as he had been as a fresh-faced prodigy at Arsenal, in the optimistic years before the injuries began to piss on his footballing parade. Fully fit now, Wilshere saw the end-of-season window as an opportunity to make fresh impact and ready himself for 2020-21 being the League year where he really hit his mature prime. For the last part of the morning, the men were split into groups of six and tasked with some quick relay races amongst themselves; Jack’s boyish energy was boosted by being teamed with rugged young Rice and speedy Spaniard Fornals, haring unfairly against a trio of older blokes until all sex of them dripped with sweat and were bursting out in exhausted laughter at the one-sided contest. The ensuing banter slowed down their work and by the time they’d finished what the coach wanted, trying to suppress a smirk at their antics and remain in authority, everyone else was already gone indoors and getting cleaned up. Jack, grinning goofily and slapping his two young speedsters on the back, led them in helping to clear away and sanitise the props and equipment before the sextet of gleaming, half-dressed footballers traipsed inside and made their way into the quiet dressing rooms, each gasping for water and a sit down. Wilshere made a performance of his remaining energy, skipping about barefoot for a while and teasing the older three about their losses. `You started thinking about your pension yet?’ he asked 32-year-old Robert Snodgrass cheekily, flicking him in the bare shoulder with his own sweaty West Ham shirt. `What’s wrong, you only used to doing long-distance?’ he teased the tall Russian Andriy Yarmolenko, grinning up at him like a naughty child, and stretching out each of his knees as if preparing to fuck off and do a marathon. `Cressy, did your wife make you one too many pies during lockdown, then?’ he hooted, looking across the sweaty space to the longest-serving Hammer of their little group, Aaron Cresswell just smiling placidly and rolling his eyes at the joke. The air of friendly humour and masculine competition lingered as the men lazed for ten minutes, letting the guys fresh from the shower begin to clear out, waved goodbyes and cheerful discussion of barbecue plans at home in the afternoon. Since the June start dates for the final games of the Premiership had been confirmed, there was a real buoyant mood to the atmosphere at the West Ham training days, helped by some of the upbeat characters in this little group. Jack didn’t just feel cheerful and satisfyingly worn out by the training, nor just buoyed by the banter and competition of his laddish teammates here; frankly, he felt fucking horny. That was the whole point of denying himself the morning shag his body had craved; it gave him all this pent-up extra energy that spilled out into his playmaking and his loud enthusiasm. But it was still there, even with his knees and thighs throbbing with effort and his abs caning from too many sit-ups. As he swaggered up and down the row of pegs and lockers, flicking his sweat-damp shirt at the other men, he felt so sexually riled that he could stuff his cock in the first mouth that dared speak next! `Give it a rest,’ chuckled young Declan Rice, coincidentally, and Wilshere smirked over at him, enjoying his own private joke. The once gangly 21-year-old was filling out and seemed to have returned from the suspension period looking bizarrely hunky; his arms were definitely bigger and the rugged fluff of his beard certainly helped. There was something else different in his manner, his easy confidence and swaggering runs, but it was hard to pin down. Probably, Wilshere surmised, he had a hot new girl on the go, someone he’d picked up on Instagram during the quiet weeks. Smug cunt. `He cannot shut up,’ Yarmalenko said in his harsh Russian accent, rising up to his 6ft2 and peeling his sleeveless top away from his solid torso. `He’ll shut up when I shove my prick in his gob,’ quipped Glaswegian Snodgrass with playful aggression, wiping sweat from his neck and beard with his own bunched-up shirt, and fumbling idly at the heavy front of his shorts. `Cheeky little prick.’ `Little prick? You’ve all seen my weapon,’ Wilshere cackled back. He turned away, stuffing his top at the bench and sliding his feet from his boots, beginning to undress properly and idly enjoying the prospect of the communal shower; the little peep-show it offered and the moments of steamy exhibitionism that always gave him pleasure. He pushed down his shorts now and noticed, with his usual little thrill of macho self-assertion, the curious flickering looks it got him. British men were unused to the criss-cross exposure of the American jockstrap. `You wearing that old thing, you tart?’ Snodgrass asked with a cackle. `It looks ridiculous,’ muttered Yarmolenko. `Is it comfy?’ asked Pablo Fornals less harshly, the 24-year-old midfielder in the middle of undressing to his own sweat-stained briefs, scratching his bulge casually and eyeing up the revealing underwear on their over-confident teammate. `Very,’ Jack boasted, moving about and noting whose eyes did and didn’t flicker back and forth between the loosely held swing of his bulge and the exposed dome of his arse cheeks. Now the conversation was in the air, it was hard for these masculine hetero blokes NOT to have an evaluative little look, and it thrilled Jack to note it; the lingering, almost disbelieving stare of young Dec over there, seeming alarmed by the showing off of his big arse; the quite prudish squint of Cresswell; the dismissive frown of the Russian. `Fuckin’ poser,’ laughed Robert Snodgrass, but it was affectionate chuckling. `Right, last one in the showers is licking clean Jacko’s codpiece, okay?’ He whipped away his own underpants and disappeared in a flash of his broad freckled back and pale hairy buttocks. Jack smirked at the joking challenge and twanged the waist of his jockstrap with an almost camp twitch of his bare body, winking generally at the others. One by one, the lads stripped and followed Snodgrass. Jack, still laughing at the empty challenge, made sure he was last, stretching the jock down and off and grabbing idly at his piece as he stomped along behind Rice and Fornals into the shower block, immediately feeling the damp heat of the air and the overwhelming nakedness of the six gathered athletes. Unashamedly, he toyed with his floppy thick meat as he took his place along the wall, just between Cresswell and Yarmolenko; as a sexually voracious and fairly open-minded fella, he’d been hopping about changing rooms with a near-permanent semi for most of his career, even if a vital `look-but-don’t-touch’ mantra had been largely clung to after a few awkward teenage experiments. It had been a shock to Jack at 18 or 19 that most men had so many hang-ups about their bodies and their sexualities — he’d met precious few who shared his liminal enjoyment of whatever came along. Today though, he just felt so fucking randy. Was it the vague dream he’d had of long-gone youthful days in his first England under-17s away game…? Nah, that memory was insignificant rubbish, he told himself with a long-toughened attitude to a certain bloke and the place he held in Jack’s sexual development. That memory was nothing but a funny story he’d never tell. Couldn’t be that. It was the long breakfast of pussy he’d eaten between his wife’s thighs, the tight jockstrap under his shorts, the collective testosterone of these worn-out fellas around him… His cock was getting hard and he did nothing to halt his erection. Cresswell noticed and his eyes bulged. `Mate,’ he hissed, as if Jack was cluelessly unaware and was about to become deeply embarrassed. The handsome 30-year-old Scouser, closer than the others to Jack in height, leaned over a tiny bit between their showerheads, `Mate, do you know you’re…’ `Oh yeah,’ Wilshere responded loudly, slipping a hand around it, `I know I’m… haha.’ He grinned arrogantly at the slightly older lad, watching the blush spread on the left-back’s tanned face, then turning to wink complacently at his other neighbour. Andriy just made a dismissive snort at the sight of his hard-on, running soapy fingers up through his dark blond mane and back down his tufty chinstrap beard. `Silly little man,’ he remarked. `What’s he…?’ This from Rice, craning around beyond the Russian, and making a little `oh!’ of realisation at what he saw. Jack turned and leaned on the wall, pushing the lever and drenching his stocky body in hot water, roving his smirk from those two back over to Cresswell and, beyond him, Pablo (blinking surprise and suppressed laugh) and Snodders (gritted teeth grin of coarse amusement). Wilshere let out a careless yawn and really pulled back on his boner, loosening the foreskin around the fat pink head and turning his yawn into a sigh. `Just so fucking horny today, lads,’ he said firmly. `Know what I mean?’ `Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Aaron uncomfortably, `save it for when you get home and the Mrs. Bloody hell, pal.’ His softened Liverpool accent was stammering and awkward; prudish and conventional as always, the long-time defender of the team surrounded by his brash newer colleagues. `Jack, mate, stop that…’ `Oh just let him,’ laughed Snodgrass gruffly from the far end. Jack looked over: he was rubbing soap suds down the broad hairy plateau of his chest and reaching down for his long floppy cock himself, chuckling deeply. `We all feel the need once in a while, huh!’ Yarmolenko said something in brutal Russian and leaned back to the wall just like Jack, his tall head brushing the round shower fitting and spluttering hot water down his big muscular frame. One of his long escort mersin tanned arms was reaching for the short thick beast beneath his bushy gingery pubes; behind him, Rice looked seriously alarmed yet interested. He was still rubbing soap at his bulging new biceps and twisting his neck about to soak his hair, but his eyes bulged and darted between the two well-equipped crotches. Jack revelled in this attention and the infectious playfulness he’d started. `I can’t save it for home,’ he told Cresswell, `do you know how often you get time for a good fuck in a house with as many kids as we have, haha? Mmm… just gonna have to bash one out here. You mind?’ Aaron swallowed his answer and just shook his head silently. He was now the only one not touching himself in some way, and he seemed to realise it, glancing past Jack and then back over his shimmering wet shoulder. Even Pablo, grinning in foreign amusement at these awkward Brits, was pulling gently on the slim darker-skinned meat between his hairy thighs. Behind him, the Glaswegian beast of a winger was really yanking down on his sizeable Scottish sausage and fondling heavy hairy bollocks too, a mischievous light in his eyes. `Just a shame,’ he barked, `that some slut isn’t here to suck us off.’ Wilshere grinned, sensing a man after his own heart, and led the laughter at this. `That would be sick,’ he agreed. `Fucking ideal, right now. A sweet pair of lips on my cock.’ `That is always good,’ Andriy chuckled heavily. Pablo was sniggering loudly and Aaron was laughing but looking very pointedly at the wall while he washed his hair. Jack teased his own fat boner and let his mind play over what might have been a pretty innocent suggestion from Snodders; yes, if only there was a slut here, he speculated, and eyed up the prospects of one of these blokey blokes getting on their knees and taking one for the team. `I’d kill for a blowie,’ Snodgrass continued with a burly insistence that Jack enjoyed. He grinned speculatively at the brutish Scotsman, not a guy he knew so well. `Or even a fuckin’ handjob at this rate!’ He’d been on loan last year in Jack’s first season at West Ham and his own injury woes had kept him off the squad for much of this one; he liked the rough blokey humour and Scottish charms of big Rob, but he was now wondering quite how much they had in common. `Yeah,’ he agreed eagerly, `any firm hand or lips will do, right? One of you blokes gonna do it for me?’ he asked, keeping it light and jokey but staring meaningfully at his two neighbours at the shower, watching the amused smirk on Andriy’s handsome Slavic features, and the terrified frown on the short Scouser to his right. `Yup, any!’ Snodders agreed with a throaty laugh. He was pushing playfully at Pablo as he spoke and sort of stepping into the middle more, bringing the lined up group a little closer together and fumbling with a rock hard erection of similar length and girth to Jack’s own. He smirked happily at the discovery of this potential ally, this parallel filth-merchant. Big Rob was patting at one of his pecs, his nipples hard, water dripping from his bearded cheeks and from his weighty prick as he pulled on it. `Any hole’s a goal, the old saying goes,’ he chuckled with rough Glaswegian tones. `Maybe to you two slags,’ grunted Cresswell; he was trying to sound jovial, but he just sounded judgmental — and worried. `They are right,’ chipped in Fornals then, turning lazily to his side and patting Aaron on the shoulder as he spoke in his smooth Castile accent. `Back when I young man at Malaga, well — it more normal in Spanish men maybe — younger player sometime please older player, you know what I say?’ `Well,’ boomed Andriy, `who is youngest here?’ The 30-year-old beamed handsomely from the fresh-faced 24-year-old Spaniard to the others, pleased with his own joke. He seemed to forget the one player behind him, the only lad younger than Pablo, whose cheeks were hot red and hands fidgeting awkwardly with a bar of soap. Wilshere and Snodgrass both looked past the tall Russian at their 21-year-old mate, who placed the soap carefully back on the ledge and brushed his bubbling palms down the smooth toned muscles of his torso. `That’d be Dec,’ Robert said with a cheeky grin. `Yep, little boy Rice,’ Jack confirmed. `How do you feel about that?’ He suspected the joke would die here; next to him, Aaron looked almost angry at the tone, and though he’d kept the joke going, big Andriy was less amused now. Pablo, at least, was pulling idly at his tool and looking oddly reminiscent, so that Wilshere couldn’t help but wonder if such Malagan traditions were something he’d heard about, observed, or… more actively embraced. Declan might have been the youngest there but he was 6ft1 of muscle, a towering centre-back who they all greatly respected for his tough performances and surprising maturity. Surely he was about to laugh all this off or even strop off in a sulk, joined by Cress? When he stepped suddenly past Andriy, his dick semi-hard, Jack felt a jolt of surprise and a lordly sense that the world liked to play out just as he fantasised, ready to please him. Fucking hell yes. Rice glanced from him to Snodgrass, hands resting just above his hips. `You two for real?’ he demanded. His tone was a little shaky, but unmistakably interested. Wilshere saw the faint hesitation and almost ashamed pause on the bearded 32-year-old Scotsman — he wondered if he’d overestimated Snodgrass’s role here, his experience or his limitations — but he took over, stepping into the centre of the slippery wet gathering and twanging his hard-on at his thigh. `I’m deadly serious,’ he announced calmly, `so get here and suck my prick, you lanky streak of piss, haha… Come on, kid…’ `Nah, actually,’ interrupted Robert, as if finding his voice again, bullish and full of Glaswegian menace, `that shouldn’t be it — if Dec has to gobble down cos he’s youngest, he should start with the oldest.’ (`Start with?’ demanded Cresswell in the background.) `And at the wise old age of 32, guess that’d be me, eh lads?’ He stepped forward, coming up close to Rice, just a fraction shorter than him but wider and dominant in his body language. Jack felt riled and envious but also furiously excited by this: he watched Declan’s twitching face expectantly. Andriy reached a big paw for his shoulder and muttered something slow and bland about `joke going too far now’ — but Rice ignored him, bent his knees, began to lower himself down. Behind Jack, a gasp from Aaron and a snigger from Pablo. The 6ft Scottish winger reached a cupped hand to the side of Dec’s head as it hovered just above waist height, stroking his shaved sides and into the longer fluffy hair on top. He tilted his head and guided it controllingly down with confidence until Dec’s pink lips brushed his member, rigid and shiny wet. Robert’s meaty backside, pale and flecked with reddish-brown hair, clenched and lifted a bit at the sensation. Jack tore his eyes upwards and saw that for all his physical dominance, there was something hesitant and fearful in the blue-eyed face of the brute; he suspected this was the first time Snodgrass had fed his big meat to a lad, after all. Jack looked at the others: Yarmolenko was towering behind Rice looking faintly worried, but his dick, short and incredibly thick, stood to attention even now; Pablo had moved forward, round to the other side of Robert, and was bringing a dark-tanned hand up to stroke his brick-like shoulder muscles; to Jack’s side, Aaron looked on in what could only be described as fascinated horror. He leaned over, threw his own strong arm about the other short guy’s shoulders. `Mate,’ he muttered into his ear, `don’t worry — what happens in here, stays in here.’ On his knees between them all, Rice screwed his eyes shut and got to work: his cheeks pulled in and his lips pouting as he pulled his face back and forth quickly and awkwardly on the Snodgrass manhood. Fucking hell, it was hot to watch. But watching was not enough. `That’s your lot,’ he grunted at Robert, `you can’t hog the lad, if we do this, we do it fair-` `Aye,’ snarled Snodgrass, `so back off, injury-boy. Next in age after me… who’s over 30? You are, ain’t you, Andriy…?’ The Russian stared at him, fingering his fat erection, looking indecisive, but not about his own age. Rice though, was doing as told; he’d slid off Robert’s cock and began to jerk it lightly with his left hand, while angling his long torso over and bringing his mouth instead to the girthy Russian meal. Wilshere frowned his impatient jealousy and pulled hard on his nob. Next to him, he felt Cresswell tense up and about to go. He relaxed his right hand away from his own cock and reached casually to the side without looking, until he was stroking Aaron’s semi. He wasn’t sure if the others noticed, but he didn’t mind; he glanced over his shoulder and smirked at his shocked teammate, who he knew to be 30, getting him ready for his turn. Cresswell stared back and gasped quietly. `Buddy…’ Yarmolenko was groaning loudly, seeming unwilling to physically touch Rice with his hands (just his cock), bringing his thickly muscled arms up to rest behind his head, staring to the damp ceiling, his whole big body stretched out, tanned and faintly furred with golden hair. Rice was noshing on him with noisy slurps, holding his thick hips, and to the side, Robert and Pablo were wanking off separately, eyes fixed on the discovered cock-sucker at their feet. Jack gave Cresswell’s stiffening prick an encouraging squeeze. `Aaron’s turn,’ he announced, letting go and reaching round to roughly push his mate forward into the fray. He rubbed and stroked his shoulders like a boxing coach, watching the embarrassed disappointment on Andriy’s face, the hungry voyeurism on Snodgrass’s. Rice whirled on the spot with heavy shuffles of his knees, which must be getting grazed and bruised by the rough floor; Jack caught a good look at his paled, wide-eyed face as he lunged over to his third cock of the session, mouth open wide and eyes half-open. Wow, this was a revelation — what a little slut. Wilshere jerked himself happily and pressed in, bodies close together, shoulder to shoulder with Cresswell who trembled and gasped while, down below, Declan slid his tongue along the thin, alert member. Behind him, the big Russian was wanking really furiously. Jack glanced to the left and saw with delight that the handsome young Spaniard had one hand on his cock and another on Snodgrass’s wet meat; Robert flinched a little with each pull, clearly unsure of this development, but grunted and growled and kept his eyes fixed on Rice. `How’s mersin escort bayan that, Aaron?’ Jack demanded excitedly. `How’s it feel, you prudish twit?’ `Mate,’ gasped Cresswell, as if about to complain or praise, but he had nothing more to say. `Mate,’ he repeated in a long sigh, eyes closed and head tilted, hands stroking furtively at Rice’s temples and wet hair and prominent little ears. He pulled his hands away, as if remembering it was a bloke, then reached out again and stroked his rugged features, then groaned some more. `Oh mate…’ `Fucking sweet,’ Wilshere crooned, `but lads… I think… it’s my turn…’ Impatience only amplified his randy energy. He practically elbowed Cresswell out of the way. He flashed a competitive smirk at twitching, tight-lipped Snodgrass, glared knowingly over at curious, perhaps experienced Fornals. Opposite him, Yarmolenjo seemed to have almost forgotten anyone else was there, loudly pleasuring himself and growling into the steam. Wilshere saw them as a perfect audience for his big-dicked performance. He stepped in closer to Rice and took his ears in each hand then pushed his cock roughly forward, none of the hesitance of the other horny lads. He felt Declan’s surprised little gag but pushed in, then out, then in. He groaned loudly and performatively, feeling the others’ eyes on him. Declan stared up, wide-eyed. His mouth responded well to the invasive thrusts — it occurred to Jack for the first time that this might not be Rice’s debut. What did it matter? He was so horny. He began to fuck him in the face, big powerful thrusts with his hips and glutes, making him splutter and gasp and lean on Jack’s incredible thighs for balance. The others had enjoyed brief, trembling blowjobs, experimental fun… Jack was raring to go, eager to blow his load. He had no interest in passing this hungry mouth on to the Spanish youngster, or back to his older teammates. Rice was all his now and he needed to feed him his load. He gasped and moaned loudly, yelping Rice’s name. To his right and in front of him, he saw both Aaron and Andriy looking down at the ground and pulling rapidly on their dicks. When he looked to his left he got a shock; the other two had moved a little apart, Robert leaning with one hand to the other wall, and the other resting in Fornals’ dark Spanish hair. That handsome face was intent and scarlet as it ducked in and out, sucking off Snodgrass with a more showy energy than Rice’s nervous submission. Seeing this was like wildfire crawling on Jack’s body — he was simultaneously jealous and resentful, feeling as if the Scot had got one over on him by subverting a different lad and earning a second suck-job; but it was also pornographic brilliance and confirmation that the Glaswegian hulk was as dirty and fluid as he was. And what’s more, he knew he’d won; he was fucking Rice’s mouth with mad energy, dominating the hotter and more rugged option. Pablo was handsome but seedy and lesser-known; at Jack’s crotch was a rugged boyish Englishman, a new national hero, a lad who would go far in the league. And for now, his pink lips were all Jack’s, his tongue was gonna be sticky with cum any minute now. As he often did when dominating a guy, he thought back to that first youthful encounter, the power and appeal of a successful footballer like Beckham, something that had once intoxicated and belittled him until he realised he could simply become it. Nobody used and abandoned Jack now, never… `Go on,’ he growled at Cresswell and at the Russian, `go on and spunk on him, go on…’ And they did. Surprisingly, Cresswell first. For all of his prudish uncertainty, he was pulling quickly on his twitching cock and spluttering out profanities. His cum lanced across in a couple of spurts and made two shiny lines down the side of Dec’s face and left shoulder. Immediately, Aaron was clinging with one hand to Jack’s shoulder and muttering regretfully in between his orgasmic groans. Andriy was heavier and louder, yelling out his satisfaction and cumming so furiously that it landed in thick droplets in Rice’s hair, on his shoulders, on Aaron’s arm (`Fucks’ sake!!’) and even a couple of droplets against Jack’s six pack. Somewhere to his left, he could hear Snodgrass growling and cursing in what was probably his own climax; he didn’t look though, his eyes fixed on Declan’s, feeding his cock to him in long forceful strokes until… `Ugh — yesss — oh mate — ah!’ With a final push forward of his stocky little body, Wilshere emptied his balls, creaming Dec’s tongue squeezing his fingertips tightly across his scalp to tug briefly on his ears. He pulled back so he could watch his sticky seed trail from quivering lips, Rice’s eyes squeezed shut now and three men’s cum dribbling on him in the centre of the steamy shower block. When it was all washed away and he was pulling the soft clean towel against his face and his hair, he still felt vaguely sticky and unclean; a sort of social shame he was slowly unlearning, thanks to a certain lad who was showing him the way. Declan Rice pulled the towel back over his head and tossed it down at the bench, strutting over to the mirror still shirtless. He knew he’d beefed up a bit in preparation for this proper defensive training and he felt good about his body, but still… the hints of shame were there, to think of his big figure crouched down and spunked over like that. But he’d enjoyed it, that was the fact he had to face up to. He’d been utterly exhilarated from the second that arrogant little hunk whipped his shorts off and paraded his silly bloody jockstrap in front of them. The question of labelling his own sexuality was dancing about the 21-year-old centre-back’s mind more and more, but again he pushed it away. What did it matter, after all? He felt a strong connection with a guy at the moment, and he’d learned what fun was to be had with other blokes when the mood took you… Didn’t have to mean anything, didn’t mean he wasn’t still into girls as much as before, and all that… He slicked his fingers in a little hair product and tidied his barnet, then moved back across the room to pull on a baggy tshirt for the warm drive back into Surrey; he knew he’d have to move back into his shared East London house soon, he just… couldn’t quite do it yet. He smiled thinking of the relaxing rural spot that awaited him at his parents’ place, and the comfortable weeks he (they!) were passing there now. Behind him, Andriy Yarmolenko was passing by and quitting the changing rooms with a few blunt goodbyes and a lingering chuckle to himself at what had gone on. The tall Russian winger had barely said a word since spilling his load on Dec’s shoulder but he seemed amused more than anything; Pablo Fornals was the same, tittering to himself and playing about on his phone. He passed by Rice on the way out, and they shared a knowing look; he’d been shocked to see the fiery Spaniard down on his knees but he was intrigued to not be the only one of those lads who’d tried it. He kinda hoped the pair of them could talk about it properly at some point, but it wasn’t a guarantee; `What goes on in here stays in here, lads!’ Wilshere had boomed at the end of their shared showers. Speaking of Wilshere, he was just to the right, buttoning up a white short-sleeve shirt over his thick muscular chest. Short but well-built, a powerful little stud. Declan stared thoughtfully at the creased bulge in the front of his chino shorts and blinked away the image of his own mouth being fucked like that. It should have been distressing but it had felt incredible, really. Incredible but weird too, all so different from… well, what he was… becoming used to. Next to Wilshere, Cresswell was pulling on a thin sweater and avoiding eye contact with everyone, the most obviously troubled member of their little party. He hung close to Jack though, seeming to take comfort in his confidence and dismissive attitude. Wilshere though, Dec noticed, was staring over thoughtfully at Snodgrass, who was still dressing, and whistling to himself. Old blue eyes, Rice thought, probably the most surprising experimenter here, right? Cresswell made his way past him and Dec gave him a thin reassuring smile — a West Ham youth product himself, he’d known and looked up to the Scouser for a long while, he didn’t want to think that this dirty fun had actually upset or bothered him other than a mild shock to his prejudices. Besides, his dick had tasted pretty good. Following Aaron out, Jack slapped a hand to Dec’s shoulder and gave him a nod. `You are alright ain’t you, kiddo?’ Wilshere asked firmly. `Nobody here will squeak a word of what you done there, boy, or I’ll fuckin’ sort them. Yeah?’ Rice held his smile, a little alarmed by the idea that gossip might spread amongst the club, more alarmed than relieved in fact by Wilshere’s promise. But he nodded and slapped a hand against the older man’s arm, then watched him go. Snodgrass shot him a knowing smirk over the room, seeming to enjoy the private knowledge of what had gone on even if he had no intention of speaking about it as openly and warmly a Wilshere. Dec picked up his things and followed the two older guys at a distance, leaving the Scottish player alone and strolling slowly out down a hallway and towards the training ground car park. He pulled out his phone on the way to the car and quickly rang up the boy. `I’m leaving now buddy so I should be swinging by your training ground in an hour maximum, yeh?’ `Sweet, just about to shower here.’ `Hmm, don’t tell me that, I’ll end up speeding.’ `Haha… shut up you. Daft bugger.’ `You know I’m only half-joking, Mase. Good day?’ `Brill, thanks. More great training here. Yours?’ `Erm…’ He paused. Well, the training HAD been great, but it already felt a long time ago, after the group fun he’d just emerged from, breathless and scrubbed clean and a little confused about his sexual urges. What to say? What was he meant to share and not share? `It’s been good,’ he said blandly, after an awkwardly long pause. `If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were hiding something from me!’ Mount exclaimed down the phone. Declan paused at this and suddenly felt deceitful, though he wasn’t actively lying about anything just there; did he really have to share every hiccup of his sex life with his best pal just because they were, well, kinda, shagging… He realised for the second time he was pausing too long, heard the tiniest suggestion of suspicion in Mason’s voice. `All good there, right?’ the young Chelsea player asked him in a lower voice that dragged to fill the silence Declan left on the line. `All good,’ he repeated with a bit more life. Well, fuck, he’d wussed out of saying anything, then. Now he was keeping secrets. From Mason. Great. Hmm. `All good buddy, all good — just gonna hit the road then. I’ll see you soon.’ `Drive safe, Dec.’ `Will do, Mase. Will do.’

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