Date: Wed, 13 May 2020 10:09:25 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 100: Centurion

Part one hundred: Centurion


The golden cap gleamed in its case, centre of many trophies and plaques
on the wall of accolades in Beckham's upstairs study. There were a
number of prizes, footballing and otherwise, decorating the shelves, a
gaudy vanity to the whole display that the young 21-year-old David would
have balked at. But there was still a gentle humility to the man he'd
become; he supposed a lot of his contemporaries would have this wall of
victory somewhere much more public and obvious, he barely felt
comfortable showing it off in front of his own close family. He liked it
tucked up here in his own private office, a reassuring presence that
greeted him only when he chose to come and work or think or wank alone in
here.

Tonight, he was swirling a tumbler of Scotch in one hand and stroking at
the greying stubble of his short beard with the other, slipping quietly
into the study before bed to enjoy a moment's solitary peace at the end
of a lovely but noisy day of food and games to celebrate his 45th, a
loose series of online group parties on Zoom and other platforms. He felt
well and truly celebrated.

He stood there and sipped the whiskey, strong extortionate stuff from a
company he endorsed and represented, one of the numerous deals he had
agreed to in the past decade of transition from ex-player to veritable
mogul. But David didn't want to think about that; he didn't want to
think of himself as the businessman or entrepreneur right now, nor the
pretty poster boy for whatever brand so desired. It had begun with a
Brylcreem ad, signed when a few sloppy blowjobs from Ryan Giggs had left
him feeling he was the best-looking young lad in the Premier League. He
didn't wan to think of the weighty responsibilities he was tied to over
in the USA with his new role at Inter Miami. He wanted to look at this
wall of achievements and think of the golden-haired Lion he'd been at
the height of his footballing career.

The golden cap encased at the centre of this display were the trophy
given to players who reached their 100th appearance for the English
national team. He'd been only the fifth man to do so when he was handed
the traditional trophy in 2008, and he remembered the moment well.
Remembered so many things about that day and night. A smirk lit his lips
and he stroked his facial hair again, smoothing the rough `tache above
his lips and letting out a nostalgic little chuckle; he'd been a bit
wild in those years, when he thought about it, a bit drunk on his own
prestige.



There had been a lot of gentle banter, rooted in admiration, for
Beckham's achievement on that trip to Paris for an international
friendly against France. When he joined the rest of the men at their
hotel near the Stade de France, he was greeted with extravagant bows and
mock formality, some group joke initiated by the new England captain, Rio
Ferdinand, and carried out with relish by several of the younger blokes.

Beckham strolled through the luxurious foyer of marble and velvet with an
indulgent grin on his face, a bag slung over his shoulder and his shirt
and chinos creased and crumpled from the transatlantic flight. Originally
he should have flown to the UK first a couple of days ago but his
schedule had become crazy and so here he was, jetting directly into Paris
to join his favourite team, released from LA Galaxy for the weekend to
play for his beloved homeland. He'd had to manage his sleep schedule
carefully over the past 48 hours to land here, fresh and ready.

The other men were already in their formal England suits, ready for the
short press conference that would take place here at the hotel. Beckham
grinned at Owen Hargreaves and Ashley Cole, still bowing dramatically
towards him as if greeting some great king. `Oh alright,' he joked,
`you can stop now, unless you're expecting me to knight you or
something...'

He was approached by Ferdinand himself, clearly thrilled to be stepping
into his first captaincy, and threw a hug around the taller player. The
lads approached and greeted them with a mixture of sincere
congratulations (`100 caps, what a legend, lad,' Stevie Gerrard
exclaimed in his Scouse rasp) to gentle mockery (`Nearly retirement
then?' demanded John Terry teasingly whilst attempting to show who was
the real alpha male via his handshake). David beamed at them, his natural
modesty battling with a fiery pride in the event of the day, but also
just really happy to be amongst English players. He grinned back at their
greetings and jokes, someone helpfully taking his bag for him (cue more
joking from Joe Cole, `Can't let an old man like Becks carry his own
kit...'), glad of the easy humour and camaraderie here.

At that point, David was nearing the end of his first season with LA
Galaxy: as much as Hollywood life agreed with his marriage and his
family, the football simply couldn't compare to what he'd grown up
with. He'd endured one culture shock, leaping from Manchester United to
Real Madrid, but nothing had prepared him for the soulless vacuum of
American soccer, or at least, Californian soccer. But the pay was insane
and his own status there was godlike. There was talk of loan spells to a
big European club next season and, between that and these bursts of
international football, the 32-year-old was keeping his priorities in
order.

A member of the press team appeared from somewhere, clapping her hands
cheerily and joining the blur of welcomes -- but in her business-like
way, she made it pretty clear they needed to get a move on and the press
interviews would begin shortly. She guided Beckham aside and gestured him
towards another of her team, a pretty younger lady who would assign him
his room and wardrobe so he could change and join the other men. With a
nod he took his leave, giving a nod to the lads and letting himself be
led off away from the main foyer past another reception.

He looked at the girl leading the way, perhaps 8 or 9 years younger than
him. An attractive platinum blond in a tight-fitting pants suit, her arse
and tits looking excellent in it. Beckham checked his own lust here. A
couple of ill-chosen affairs in Spain had been the secret central trigger
for he and the family's big move to Los Angeles: Hell hath no fury like
a Victoria scorned. Their marriage was still strong, somehow, but the
expectations were clear and severe. LA life was, beyond the comfortable
marriage bed, dull and sexless. David's wandering had been stamped out.
For now.

So, he thought with well-trained primness, get your eyes off this hot
young thing.

At this other reception were more of the England Football entourage; he
recognised one of Capello's assistant managers and some of the youth
coaches. A load of younger and more star-struck men were gathered in the
same tracksuits issued to the senior squad; they milled about with a
vagueness and lost quality that reminded Beckham of his own days working
up the ranks to get a shot at the main team. He slowed down as the aide
rushed ahead to get his key from reception, and gave a little smile and
wave to some of the younger lads; he saw the little flashes of excitement
or recognition as the nearest few noticed him. Probably some of these
lads were inspired into the sport by a high-profile figure like him,
Beckham reasoned with a touch of vanity.

`The Under 17s,' his temporary minder told him as she returned for a
desk. `Aren't they adorable?'

Beckham hadn't realised just how young some of them were, he'd assumed
it was the Under 21s squad. `The future of English football,' he said
smoothly, taking the key from her hand and noting the way she let her
fingers linger against his. There was a flashy smile on her face that he
suspected was more than just good PR. Though once upon a time it had
mystified David that anyone woman might want to flirt with him, now it
was almost assumed. `So,' he said, meeting her grin with a certain
caution, `who's my roommate?'

`Oh, Capello insisted that you had your own room,' she said. `Given
the long-distance flight.'

Did Capello insist, David wondered, or did you arrange it? He grinned and
she smiled even wider. Oh dear, he thought, the `hail king David'
banter from the jokey teammates would be even worse then they realised
he'd landed a suite all to himself, totally unconventional in the
professional footballing world. Only the biggest prima-donnas might
demand such treatment! He broke contact with her bright blue eyes,
ignoring the flirty signals; how many rumours of his infidelities had
spread that every pretty woman he met seemed to think he might leap into
bed with her? Too many lessons had been learned in Madrid for him to do
more than smile with his eyes and feel glad that women in their 20s still
gravitated towards him now he was well past 30.

`I see,' he said, `well, that's very kind of you- of him, I mean.'
He rolled his shoulders and cricked his neck, miming the discomfort of
the LA-Paris flight. `I'll head up there and get changed in a second
then -- do you think it's okay if I take five to chat to these bright
sparks?'

Her smile was a bit strained then. `That's such a lovely idea but we
really must get you into this suit.' She held up the formalwear carrier
that she'd retrieved from the counter and gave him a pushy look; aha,
not such a wet newbie as she seemed. `I'll have someone grab your case
from the main reception, Mr Beckham,' she added, `I could bring it up
myself if...'

He needed to put a stop to that notion. `No, it's okay,' he said with
a weary firmness, `I'll manage. I'll be down before you know it,
Miss...?'

`Aha. Call me Lucy. Well, do be quick, Mr Beckham.' Another smile that
managed to be flirty and impatient all at once, and she spun round on her
heel. Again, he couldn't help but check out her shapely behind and
hourglass figure as she disappeared. To his left, he saw a number of the
tracksuited teenagers inevitably doing the same and grinned to himself.
He headed back through the way he'd come, seeing the rack where Terry
had dumped his case and backpack for him, and grabbed them up again. He
tottered on through towards the lift with the suit-hanger draped over one
shoulder and a few heavy bags hanging from him at either side; he was
hardly a weakling but it was very awkward to carry.

`Can I give you a hand?' piped up a young voice just to his left as he
neared the row of glossy elevator doors. For a second, Beckham thought it
was just some hotel bell-boy, then remembered he was on the outskirts of
Paris and not in East London. He turned and looked properly at the short
teenager beside him and realised he'd broken away from the impatient
youth team who were in the middle of being checked in by their coaches
and minders.

`Oh,' Beckham began, not overly keen to need held from some youngster
when he was at peak physical fitness, except these bags were incredibly
awkward and this stupid suit needed to stay vertical and not get creased,
and -- even the gesture of turning to smile patronisingly at this
interrupting teen imbalanced his stroll and he felt his heavy case
sliding off his shoulder and down the sleeve of his shirt.

The lad caught it up and hoisted it about his own shoulders, giving him a
big eager grin. `You're like my total hero,' he burst out, and nodded
to the lift doors sliding open not far from them, `I'll just give you a
hand with this?'

David laughed softly, and nodded, pride put aside for a moment. He led
the way into the waiting elevator and studied his young helper. Young,
but by no means as young as some of the gawky lads waiting in line for
the England Under 17s, who apparently had their own France friendly
coming up today as a `pre-show' to tonight's clash. The lad was about
5ft8, short enough to make David feel quite confidently tall as they
stood side by side in the lift. His hair was a fairly dark brown, tufty
and roughly cut, his dark eyes wide and the fluffy suggestions of a
goatee on his square chin. He was staring up at the England ex-captain
with an innocently admiring grin.

`So you're on the Under 17s,' Beckham said by way of initiating some
chat.

`Yeah, for now,' the teen told him firmly, `but I reckon I'll switch
to under 19s within this year, mate, and then I wanna be hitting the
senior team before I'm-`

`Mate', thought David, and he couldn't help but gently laugh aloud.
There was something instantly likeable about the confidence of this
helpful youngster. He instantly regretted laughing because he saw the
faintly hurt expression on the youth footballer's face, his cocksure
monologue tailing off and his cheeks blushing ever so slightly. `Oh
carry on,' Beckham quickly encouraged, `I was just laughing to think of
my own time on those squads, that's all... we all have to earn our
stripes! Say, how old are you anyway?'

`Nearly eighteen,' the youngster proclaimed, then rapidly, `well not
quite, I'm sixteen, but I'm really advanced for my age, I think I'm
gonna make the senior side at my club by the end of next season, and-`

`Okay, okay,' chuckled David, `take a breath between words, will ya?'

Ping. The elevator reached the 3rd floor as indicated on his issued key.
David nodded out into the corridor and his young companion led the way
out, strutting along in his baggy blue England tracksuit, looking about
searchingly for the correct room. David re-read the tag on his key and
pointed down towards the end of the corridor. `309,' he called, lugging
the rest of his things behind him and taking care with the pressed suit,
`that's me. Thanks for this, kid, it's a kind gesture.'

`Oh anytime,' the chatty upstart was saying, `I just saw you
struggling and thought, fuck, that's David Beckham, why ain't anyone
helping him out? So I was like, let me go and see if-`

`Yes,' David murmured whilst the 16-year-old chatted on, `rightyo...'
He dumped the formalwear case into the lad's arms and unlocked the door,
pushing it open and gesturing for his helper to go first. A nice big
room, as it happens; the flirty blond had really pulled the right strings
to get him a suite like this, bigger than he would normally end up
sharing with another bloke! He found himself blinking a bit in the bright
light of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and noted the Under 17s player
doing the same thing.

`Fucking hell,' the kid exclaimed with that same refreshing bluntness,
then his face coloured again as he seemed to realise he was stood there
swearing like a trooper in front of a senior England player. `It's
just... er, Beckham mate, this room is all for just you, is it...?'

Beckham almost made a quip about having already identified a potential
roommate in the woman downstairs, but decided against it; teenagers talk.
But he nodded humbly, aware of the opulence of this corner room and
impressed already by its views. He dumped his cases at the foot of the
big king bed and made his way to the windows to look at the City of Light
sprawling ahead, its landmarks spiking against the early afternoon
brightness. The youth joined him, gawping in wonder, and he laughed
reminiscently; it seemed an age since he'd been so impressed himself by
the foreign travel of his footballing life. But he could still remember
being foolish enough to be impressed by the ugly concrete communism of
Moldova, he thought, a good few years older than this bugger!

He moved away from the windows, happy to let the short sturdy lad linger
there and stare out at the views; he wondered idly what smaller rooms the
travelling young players would be crammed into, 4 to a room. He could
remember the sardines experiences of it all. He unzipped the suit-bag and
inspected the new tailoring he'd been supplied, aware of how snobbish he
was becoming about his fashion of late -- Vicky's influence, for sure.
It would do. He unzipped his other case and flopped it heavily open, and
idly unbuttoned the top half of his loose blue shirt, all creases,
watching as the Under 17s player turned back from the windows, eyes still
wide and sparkling.

`This is mad, I've never even been to France before. Never been abroad
before, haha.' He went on, babbling eagerly as David fumbled through his
belongings and quietly rebelled by taking his time, unwilling to be quite
so rushed by the machinations of Team England after traveling all this
way to play in a friendly; besides, he was the star attraction today, he
could arrive fashionably late to the press conference below. He
unbuttoned the rest of the worn shirt and privately thought how rude it
was that they weren't even allowing him time for a shower. His shirt
hung open over the bare muscle of his chest and abdomen as he realised
his young visitor had stopped chattering.

`Should I go?' he asked, fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top up
at his fluffy chin.

`No rush,' David responded casually, giving him a friendly grin.

`Oh right, cool,' the teen immediately said and continued monologuing
about his trip, making his way back across the big room towards where
Beckham was sliding out of his shirt and holding up the starched white
new one he needed to change into so he could march on down to grin at the
media and revel in the honour of his 100th international appearance. He
slid the crisp material over his shoulders and left the luggage on the
bed, going over to the freestanding mirror by the bathroom door to check
how well it fit. Beckham looked at the fresh buzzcut that allowed him to
cut a more masculine profile than ever, pleased with the 32-year-old
athlete that looked back at him.

`What's this thing?'

He paused at the chirpy, vaguely London accent of the teenage footballer,
pulling his eyes away from his own image. He'd found himself becoming
more and more self-conscious towards the end of his 20s; not the shy
insecurity of his teens, but a hyper-awareness of his image and
reputation, his position between the worlds of football and fashion.
Something about the world watching your latest haircut will do that to
you, he reflected, uncritical of his own vanity. He looked back over the
spacious French hotel room and saw the young scally right by his cases,
picking something up from the disturbed rubble of his things. When he saw
what it was, he just grinned.

`Just some underwear,' he answered, leaving the crisp white shirt open
and undoing the buttons of his chinos as he turned and walked back
towards the bed, looking at the puzzled expression on this lad's almost
elfin features.

`There's not much of it,' was his review of the item he held up on his
fingers.

`It's just a jockstrap,' David said, coming to a stop a couple of feet
from him. `They're big on them in the States, you see. In the sports
world there.'

`It's weird.'

`It's comfy,' Beckham contradicted. `They, er, well they keep your
private parts quite comfy, you see, while you play, and --` He reached
past the still puzzled lad and pulled the little curve of reinforced
plastic out from where it rested, then pressed it into the teen's hand.
`And if you slide a cup in like this, you keep your crown jewels a bit
better protected. Important stuff, if you plan to use your cock and balls
much in life, haha.' He leaned back away and opened the front of his
trousers fully, dropping them down his muscular legs and reaching for the
dark navy suit pants he needed to slide into before heading down.

The teenager looked genuinely fascinated, which was amusing. For sixteen,
he was actually quite well developed and mature looking; despite his
height, there was a chunkiness to his build, a tightness to the fit of
the sporty outfit. His ignorance about a bit of basic sporting kit, even
one not so normalised in England, was funny to David and again invited
some nostalgia for his youthful ignorance and those clumsy years of first
times.

`You should try it on,' David said, amused again by the playful daring
of his own idea. `See what you think of it.'

The lad paused then, stared at the thin straps of fabric in his hands,
then across at the older experienced England star. `Is it really that
comfortable? It doesn't look it, Beckham mate. I can't see how it would
be, cos-`

`You can't knock it til you try it,' David said calmly. `But maybe
you're not so worried about getting bashed downstairs.' He was stood in
his open white shirt and the tight-hugging grey Armani boxer briefs
beneath, bulging very heavily at the front to accentuate his phrasing. He
saw the younger guy's eyes flick down that way as he said it, pleased by
the little bulge of the eyes and curl of the lips at his recognition of
Beckham's endowment. To think he'd once been embarrassed by this
equipment!

`Alright then,' the young footballer said with a gusto that took him by
surprise.

David stood there, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, conscious of the
time but refusing to hurry. `Well then,' he said, `no time like the
present, is there?' He gave a smile of friendly challenge, intrigued by
the sheer confidence of this jumped up little football hopeful with his
big plans and ambitious claims. `Try it on here.'

`I will,' the lad said in the same tone of defiance, scratching at his
chin a moment and pulling back his short but shaggy hair. `I'm not shy
or anything, you know,' he added bullishly. David just nodded.

Down went the zip at the front of that tracksuit top and off it came,
shrugged aside with a kind of determined `hah!', as if Beckham would
suddenly crack and laugh and say he'd been joking all along. He just
nodded his head slightly and watched this youngster drag his top up and
off. His body was definitely quite broad and muscular for his age. David
was a little impressed. He idly watched the tshirt and jersey hit the
bedding, then nodded again. `You better get those tracky bottoms off,
kid.'

There was an almost scowl on that pouting young face now, a look of
irritation as if he'd begun something he could no longer go back on. He
kicked his trainers off each foot with a rough gesture then hooked his
thumbs inside the waistband of his bottoms. David could not help but
notice the definition on his promising six pack, the swell of his chest
muscles, the thickness of his pale arms, bare arms, so untouched compared
to the tattooed scrolls of his own sleeves. Then the trackies were down,
tugged over the most surprisingly thickset and hairy thighs on a lad in
his teens.

`You're pretty advanced for your age,' Beckham told him quietly.

`I told ya,' the young Englishman pipped back, `I'm gonna be on the
first team at Arsenal by the end of this year, just you watch.'

`Arsenal, eh,' Beckham replied softly. `I'll look out for that. But
you'll have to get those boxers off, won't you, eh...? I don't think I
caught your name.' He grinned calmly, conscious of his slick gentleman
looks opposite this teenage scally -- it reminded him of a different
hotel room with a different young lad.

The lad gave a little huff of breath. `It's Jack,' he said in a
grouchy tone, and grabbed the front of his badly fitting spotted boxer
shorts. `Jack Wilshere. I know I'm nobody now, but...'

`You'll be massive in a year,' David echoed, not mockingly but he knew
somewhat patronisingly. Down came the boxers now, ragged down in one
grab, but not with a nervous hurry as he might have expected; this young
guy seemed to relish it, find some victory in shoving down his underpants
and standing there totally naked in another guy's room, wearing only
grubby off-white socks and a challenging smirk on his face. `Well,'
David said slowly, `you're a bit massive now, aren't you...?'

He saw the flicker of surprise or discomfort on the young face at this
acknowledgement of his proportions, but he liked the determination and
grit of this teen when he refused to back down. `I'm pretty lucky
yeah,' he responded in a tone of showy masculinity. `Guess you know how
that feels, looking at you. Hah.'

`You're a confident kid,' Beckham said.

`I'm not a kid,' young Jack Wilshere responded bluntly.

Between his oddly developed and powerful looking thighs hung a chubby
snake beneath a scrappy bush of pubes and his balls hung low behind it.
He seemed very aware of its length and size and David, comfortable in the
knowledge it couldn't really match his own, just gave it an appreciative
looking over and a slow nod; he was trying to read just how far this
scally lad's confidence and self-awareness stretched, compared to his
own youthful naivety. Naivety? Obliviousness.

`Try it on,' Beckham prodded. `I think you might like it.'

Jack stepped out of his dropped undies and trackies and stretched the
bands of the jock, stepping through it uncertainly, clearly a bit
mystified by the tangle of elastic, then got it right and pulled it up
his legs until he could slip the protective cup into its pouch and pull
it into place over his ample package; the waist and arse straps twanged
into place around his heavy centre of gravity. `You better go look in
the mirror,' David told him, and nodded that way. With slow, uncertain
steps, the youth player walked past him and approached the mirror -- but
as he did, it was the randy bi-curious Beckham who got the real view.
While Wilshere strode up to his own full-length reflection, clearly taken
with the sculpted young beauty of his physique, Beckham looked at his
toned back and at the heavy mounds of his buttocks, framed by the white
elastic straps that formed a broken triangle over these two perfect
globes.

`How's it feel?' the 32-year-old married man asked in a low voice.

`Feels good,' grunted Jack. `Comfy. Safe.'

`You're playing your game this afternoon, eh?'

`Yeah. Yeah we are. Gonna smash those French fuckers.'

`Glad to hear it,' David purred. `You should wear this in the game,
Jack. If it feels good.' Their eyes met in the mirror, and David began
to slowly button his own shirt up. `What do you say?'

Jack's elfin face nodded in the mirror, stroked again at his hair-line
and rolled his bare, sturdy shoulders. David watched his buttock clench;
had he noticed how much he was staring at it? Then he turned round,
facing the footballer twice his age with almost belligerent agreement;
the view in the mirror swapped to that beautiful young arse. `Cheers,
captain,' he said. `That'd be cool.'

`Not captain any more,' Beckham said thoughtfully. `But... centurion.'



The game itself was a drab affair, 1-0 to France and nothing more
exciting than a yellow card for David Beckham. The pomp and circumstance
around it, however, made this frustrating but irrelevant. The glimmering
attention of the press conference, where David had fielded questions
about how it felt to reach his 100th international game, charming and
humble next to his manager and teammates; the reception afterwards where
the players had stood around, suited and sober, mingling with English and
French celebrities who had expensive fizz in their glasses; the
tokenistic in the youth sides' friendly in mid-afternoon, which Beckham
suddenly felt a little more interested in. When the friendly ended in
this low-scoring defeat, he clapped the small contingent of travelling
England fans with his usual grace, and stalked off the pitch in his
custom-made gold boots, designed for him to reflect the trophy he would
be given.

Despite the loss, there was a short presentation for him at the end of
the game, the kind of fuss he might once have dreaded as embarrassing and
cringe-inducing; today he lapped it up, graciously taking the symbolic
golden cap from the wrinkled senior FA figures at the podium, enduring
the claps and slaps and woops from his defeated teammates as they all
descended through the tunnel and back into the spacious changing rooms of
the Stade de France.

It was like a special birthday or anniversary, or like passing some kinda
exam. The team had lost in a poor uncoordinated display that had a few of
them muttering about Capello's odds of keeping the manager's job, yet
the mood in the changing rooms was oddly jubilant. Beckham soaked it up,
stripping off his shirt, already quite recovered after being benched
three-quarters into the game. Even this brought some congratulations his
way.

`Fucking excellent yellow card,' laughed the team's ageing goalkeeper,
David James, strutting past with his long ripped torso on show and
slamming a palm against Becks' shoulder, `showed that smug French prick
what he was worth after his luck goal past me, hah...'

He just laughed this one off, privately enjoying the acknowledgement, and
surveyed his teammates with a moment's nostalgia; he was remembering a
similar chilly night at a losing game, back in early 1997. It had been
the fourth time something had happened between he and Ryan Giggs, and
they hadn't even been sharing a room that night. The Welsh lad had
sneaked past his room, shared with Butt, and invited him out to a
discreet separate bathroom, where he dropped his knees and noshed him for
an impossibly long time, then both of them jazzed in the sink and washed
it away. Beckham, still flushed with the excitement of these sporadic
intimacies in his sexless youth, had hugged his friend and perhaps gotten
too close to doing more -- `Mate,' Giggs had hissed at him, `don't
get any funny ideas there.'

Beckham had been a bit confused and offended at the time, but Ryan had
gone on to explain, more quietly, stroking his hair and guiding him
quietly down the corridor to their separate rooms. `Two bits of
advice,' the dark-haired midfielder had whispered at him. `One, don't
let it go any further than what you've seen. You know the kinda stuff I
mean. It isn't worth the risk.' He'd looked at David meaningfully
then, a really grim expression to his face that suggested he spoke from
experience. `And two, same reasons really, you... you don't mess with
the same bloke more than once or twice. You hear me? Just don't. It gets
complicated.'

Pausing in the hallways of a Newcastle mid-range hotel, Beckham had
stared curiously at his close pal and teammate, taking his time before
questioning the logic of these comments. `But that was more than the
second time you've...' he began.

`Exactly,' Giggs had hissed, and left it at that. A sharp pat to the
side of David's neck and then a rapid walk away, disappearing to and
through his hotel room door. Beckham had been left confused and anxious
in the corridor, though after several nights of turning over the advice
in his mind he'd begun to make sense of it, figure out his... strategy.

Don't go too far with a bloke, and don't repeat it. Two simple steps to
keep it light, keep it discreet, keep it straightforward. For twelve
years now, it had worked well. The evidence of this lay around him in
this sweaty French changing room, he thought, here for the 100th time as
an England hero.

Rio Ferdinand, the latest Three Lions captain, was stripping down
opposite him, confidently naked as such a tall well-endowed bastard could
be. It had been a few years back, David remembered, that he'd had his
brush with Rio; nothing major, as per the rules, it had barely been
mutual handjobs while they were drunk and sharing a hot room somewhere on
tour. He wasn't even sure if swaggering obnoxious Rio quite knew what
had happened, he'd cum so quickly and immediately stopped touching
Beckham's own big meat. It had not been something Golden Balls thought
to revisit, both because of the risks and because it just hadn't been
that satisfying.

And over there, already showered and emerging to snatch a towel, were
Lescott and Johnson, both lads who he'd encouraged to jerk off with him
last year on international duty, and eventually encouraged to taste their
own cum -- and then his. But he'd never mentioned it to either of them
since and would never dare push for anything else. There was no stain of
shame or awkwardness in his banter with the two younger players, they
seemed to just accept it as some weird over-sexed moment for all of them,
nowt more. Nothing work thinking over.

Who else? He looked around, stripping off his shorts and down to his
white briefs, well-packed and a little greyed with sweat. Nearby, John
Terry had stripped down to the same item, his raggedly muscular body on
show and his hair as limp and spiky as always, that wasted look on his
face as if constantly just arriving from some wild bender. Not an
attractive guy, in David's increasingly vain eyes, but something about
his potent sexuality had still pulled him curiously towards him at a few
points in their shared England careers -- they had wanked in the same
room a few time, sweaty grunting episodes in parallel beds, laughing at
each other afterwards and sharing a couple of whispered filthy stories.
But nothing more than that, a little disappointingly; when he became
captain, Beckham had really wanted to have JT toss him off in the way
he'd once jerked Shearer.

Both Coles had been unresponsive to his gentle hints, Ashley and Joseph,
though he'd once shared a drunk girl's hole with Ashley, sloppy seconds
and awkward glimpses of each other in action. David James he did not even
dare try to go near, that big bugger looked too likely to thump you.
Briefs off and on his way to the showers, Becks looked over and smirked
to himself at three more successful adventures lined up: the Scousers.

Stevie Gerrard had been drunker than David ever saw him the night he came
on his furry thighs, stammering awkwardly afterwards and pretending not
to know what he'd done; Michael Owen barely made eye contact with any
more after that night in Madrid where he'd fucked his mouth; and hulking
young Wayne Rooney, perhaps the most intense and surprising blowjob he'd
experienced in all these years of experimentation. He'd considered
dipping his dong there again so many times since, but...

But as he looked at them, walking past slowly so his big dick swung free,
grinning at each of them with a silent reminder of what had once taken
place, he thought again of Giggsy and his advice. Don't let it go too
far; don't go back to the same guy. It had worked so far, and he had no
desire to let things get complicated or dangerous now. He entered the
communal showers alone and disappeared into the steam to clean off
beneath the scorching water, resisting his temptations to try and hook up
with one of these fluid or curious men that dotted his team. It wasn't
worth the risk.

But still, he thought beneath the shower... This is my 100th cap.
Centurion. Don't I deserve the fun?



A few champagne flutes later, he threw caution to the wind. Not for
Rooney's sullen mouth or Gerrard's furry thigh, not for Terry's rough
aggression or Ferdinand's long thin schlong; he met eyes with the
attractive blond FA manager who had greeted him earlier today, and gave
the soft grin and melting eyes that he knew signalled one thing with
confidence and clarity: I'm going to fuck you later.

There were quite a few miles between Paris and LA, he reasoned; this
woman seemed mature enough not to go running about telling stories; she
didn't seem so besotted with him that the morning goodbye would be
difficult; his flight out of France was early enough too, plenty of
excuse to kick her out of bed when needed. Drunk on expensive French
champagne and high on his international football achievements, the
`centurion' footballer could convince himself of a million reasons why
it was going to be okay to cheat on his wife tonight with this hot young
English girl and avoid all consequence.

At some point around the fourth or fifth glass of the bubbly, he stopped
enjoying the glamour and fuss of the after-party a big Parisian magazine
had thrown for members of both squads. He was sick of posing for
photographs, giving the half-smile pout his wife had taught him, sick of
making empty chat and pretending he could understand more than five words
in French. His eyes kept seeking that hot blond out across the party,
time and again. In his tight suit pants (a more stylish paler suit of his
own choosing, not the stiff formality of the official England tailoring),
his dick ached and spent most of the evening at a prominent semi that he
didn't bother trying to hide. Men and women alike checked out his bulge
as it was.

He grazed arms with her at the drinks station and gave her that seductive
smile again. `I suppose you already have my phone number,' he said
quietly, thinking of her job and her networking.

`Oh yes. About seven of them. Why?'

He put down his empty glass, pulled a napkin from his blazer pocket and
dabbed his lips. `Call me in about half an hour. You know which room
I'm in, of course. Don't be wearing knickers.' He nodded his shaved
head, a mix of faux thug and suave gentleman, and walked on, leaving her
to gasp and thrill. It wasn't vanity or self-obsession that made him
assume that, just experience.



Slipping away from the party was easy (`Oh, sorry, I'm just going
to...') and he was surprised how relieved he felt when he did. Perhaps he
was just tired out, much of him still on West Coast time, or perhaps his
ego was glutted with the attention of all these posers and wannabes.
Apart from anything else, he was quite drunk.

Safely in his hotel room, he removed the warm suit blazer and turned some
easy jazz music on his phone speaker. He was well past his sneaky
mini-bar raiding days; he called on room service and paid for the bottle
of expensive French wine with his own cash. He loosened his tie and cuffs
and opened a window to let the room air. He splashed a little more
aftershave against his stubbled neck and his wrists. He guiltily read and
ignored a message from Mrs Beckham, confused about time zones and
thinking his football match had yet to happen.

Soon, the call would come through from that cute minx and she would be on
her way through the hotel, ready to get what she clearly hungered for.
His whole muscular body hungered for it. In this nine-month period since
moving to Los Angeles, he hadn't had his dick touched by anyone but his
wife, not a peep of extra-marital fun, not a hint of the sleaze he'd
begun to indulge in before leaving Manchester United and in the Madrid
years. No pussy, no cock.

He paced the room, switched the music, sprayed more aftershave. Looked
himself up and down in the full-length mirror and assured himself that he
was a ruggedly attractive slab of England's finest masculinity. She
would call soon and he would undress her and make her cum thrice before
even getting his dick out. He'd fuck her and she'd scream and he'd cum
on her tits and when she left, she'd be fucking grateful for it, and
never say a word to a single girly pal. Never mind a newspaper. That was
how this was going to go down, he told himself. It's what you deserve,
he told his drunkenly arrogant reflection. 100 caps. Centurion.

There was a knock at the thick black door of the hotel room. He
immediately looked at his phone in his hand: no call. Oh, the saucy cow
-- not even bothering to ring him before storming over here for her
prize? Well, who was he to deny her... He clutched the silent phone in his
right palm and undid a button, loosening his tie more. Had he overdone it
on the aftershave? He strode over and unlocked the door and pulled it
open, stopped in surprise.

`Hey chief,' Jack Wilshere said, the 16-year-old upstair rocking a
little on his heels. His scruffy Adidas jumper and baggy jogger shorts
hung off his athletic young body and he scratched his ear
self-consciously, sensing Beckham's confusion. `Am I... interrupting?'

David looked at him, their entire midday conversation suddenly seeming so
distant and detached from this current reality where all he was waiting
for was a tight young pussy and a fresh new body between his tattooed
arms. He shook his head. `Nothing, just -- hey kid, it's pretty late.
Don't you lads have a curfew, or...?' He smelt a trace of booze on the
lad's breath -- of course, even if the Under 17s couldn't join the
seniors at the drinks event, they would be having their own boozy room
parties of illicit spirits. He looked at Jack's wide eyes and smirking
grin; drunk.

`I came to give you it back,' Wilshere grunted, and his voice was a
tipsy giggle.

`Give me what back?' But as soon as he asked the question, Beckham
knew. The past twelve hours disappeared. He stepped back a little in the
doorway and gave a slow nod. Jack wasn't carrying anything, not even
whatever stolen booze he and his teenage mates had been knocking back.
Did that mean... he was... still... wearing it?

Just then, a chiming intrusive ringtone. A gentle vibration on his palm.
He looked at his phone. Unknown number calling. But, of course, he knew
who. `Hey,' he said, lifting it to his ear. He hardly listened to her
husky voice. `Changed my mind,' he interrupted. `Forget we spoke.
Sorry.' Hang up. Phone and hand drooping again at his side. Eyes on
Jack's cocky little smirk.

`Who was that?' Wilshere asked. He leaned to the side a little, peering
past David into his opulent room. `You expecting somebody for a little
party or summat, captain?'

`Not any more,' Beckham murmured. `You wanna come in, Jack...?'



They were sat down now in the two big curved armchairs by the windows,
Paris twinkling attractively in that framed view. David watched Jack
watch it, the glamorous lights of the French capital reflected in those
wide brown eyes. The eyes were the only thing boyish about this rugged
young footballer, well the eyes and his diminutive height; he spread his
thick legs wide in the seat, the loose grey shorts pulling up over his
thighs, and he grabbed his wine glass with an unsophisticated but
dismissive gesture that told anyone watching he'd rather it was a
fucking pint. His shoulders were surprisingly broad, evident even in the
baggy folds of his sweatshirt. Beckham, sipping his own white wine,
thought again how excellent the young player's backside had looked in
the loaned jockstrap, longed to see it once more.

`Don't normally drink wine,' Wilshere grunted, as if this wasn't
patently obvious. He looked from the twinkling skyline to his host. `You
played well tonight, Mr Beckham.' How odd and endearing that he was more
respectful after a night of illicit boozing with his teenage pals.

David shrugged off the compliment, stretching his limbs in his own seat
and tickling at the loose knot of his tie. `It was hardly a dream game,
but it was an honour all the same.' He nodded past Jack to where the
boxed golden gap sat on top of the dresser. It looked a bit silly now,
but still. He loved what it represented and he could see the hungry
admiration, the long-sighted ambition of this youngster as he ogled it.
`You were good too,' he told the 16-year-old hopeful. `I caught a few
minutes of your game, anyway. A real bunch of fighters.'

Jack looked back and nodded. `Yeah, we did good.' He grinned, shy and
cocky at the same time. `Got a few nasty tackles my way, but I was well
protected. Huh, thanks.' He lifted his coy young eyes and the grin
turned to a smirk. `It felt good to wear it, Mr Beckham.'

`Call me David.' He ran a finger around the rim of his wine glass, as
disinterested in it as Jack was; he was pissed on champers already and he
hardly cared for the subtleties of French whites. It was here to impress
the one night stand he'd spurned. He put the glass down on the floor and
steepled his fingers, looking over them at his surprise guest for a few
intense moments. Jack met his eyes and returned the stare with the same
teenage defiance he'd stripped off earlier in the day, a strong sense of
his own position and potential. To be that sure at 16, David thought
wistfully. This lad might go far.

`I should go back to my floor,' Jack said distantly. `Other lads will
be fuckin' passed out, mind you.'

`I bet they will,' David agreed. `I thought you came to give me
something back, though.'

Jack nodded. `I did.' He shifted in his seat, pulled aimlessly at the
neck of his sweatshirt. `I guessed it was a loan. Not a gift. Huh.'
Again that grin that was half mischievous goblin and half shy schoolboy.
He tugged at the neckline again and then started pulling the jumper up
and off, letting it fall to the floor between their seats. He relaxed,
his smooth and lightly tanned torso on show.

`It could have been a gift,' Beckham answered vaguely, `if you'd
wanted to keep it. But... it's nice of you to come up and see me, either
way.' He could barely stop himself licking his lips. He pulled at the
knot and let his tie slide fully open then undid one button in response
to Jack's ambiguous striptease. Both men smiled with a dose of
uncertainty. Jack got to his feet and dropped the shorts, then sat back
down in just socks and jockstrap. He looked like something from an
artistic photography book that might linger on Victoria's work desk,
high fashion minus the clothes.

`You kept it on after the game,' Beckham remarked gently.

`It felt good,' Wilshere repeated, his voice and expression vague.

David smiled more fully at him and undid the rest of his shirt buttons,
letting it fall back open. He knew his torso looked particularly good at
the minute, he had been working on it in the lofty air-conditioned gyms
of LA; there wasn't a lot else to do. And besides... He undid the front
of his grey-blue suit trousers and let them jut open, exposing the
Emporio Armani waistband of another pair of underpants, charcoal briefs
now. He had just signed on the dotted line of the modelling contract for
this brand, photoshoot to come next month in the desert. He was aiming to
look his best.

`Stand up and show me the back again,' David said. His tone was soft,
but it wasn't a request.

Jack smirked, shifted his limbs a bit, then got up. He stood in the
narrow space between their seats and just faced his footballing hero for
a long moment, flexing his upper arms a little, rolling his strong hips
-- then he did as asked and turned his back, showing the older man what
he wanted to see. Jack looked cheekily over his shoulder. His mixture of
arrogant exhibitionism and young uncertainty were contradictory but
brilliant. When he seemed to sense enough was enough, he sat back down,
and suddenly looked less sure of himself. Perhaps he was regretting the
moment of showing off, perhaps he was wondering what came next.

`You got a girlfriend?' Beckham asked him indifferently.

`Not one,' Jack boasted dismissively, `I'm shagging a few girls, you
know how it is.' He grabbed the front of the jockstrap; it was loose, no
protective cup in there now, which was nice. It meant you could really
see the weighty contents move beneath his fingers. `I'm not some dumb
virgin,' he claimed, `I know how to handle things.'

`I bet you do,' Beckham sighed. He stood up himself, shirt falling open
and trousers hanging in place where they gripped his hips and butt. Jack
stood to meet him, a few inches below but otherwise head to head. David
let out a long sighing breath. `Get on the bed,' he said, more firmly
than his last instruction. Jack looked back at him with a hint in his
face that he was about to laugh at this command, push his own masculine
authority, but he knew his place here. David caught him glance again at
the golden cap, the symbol of his experience and status. Wilshere walked
in slow strides to the huge bed and its dark silky sheets, and Beckham
followed.

Don't go too far, Ryan Giggs had said, don't let it go beyond... Fuck
that.

Once Jack was at the foot of the bed, he pressed his hands to his
shoulders and nudged forward. There was a tiny bit of resistance, but
then Wilshere was leaning forward, and his chunky backside, smooth and
round, was lifted and displayed. Beckham slid his knees to the glossy
wooden boards of the floor and rested behind the youngster. He pressed
his lips at the top of that crack, flicked his tongue out, heard the
immediate gasp from the drunk teenager. Then he pulled it down and used
both hands to gently part Wilshere's solidly muscular cheeks. David
explored the musty crack in one long lick then pulled his head back a
little, listening to the heavy breaths on the bed. Then he darted back
in, more purposefully, and ran his tongue over and over against the tiny
quivering hole he found there. Jack moaned wordlessly and shifted side to
side, overwhelmed.

Beckham spat into his arse and pressed his tongue to it more. He might
have been going down on that blond woman right now and he loved, really
loved, giving cunnilingus to beautiful women, driving them mad with his
lips and tongue and making them peak before he'd even got his dick wet.
He'd never really thought it could be so exciting on a lad but here he
was and this felt brilliant.

`OH FUCK,' yelped Wilshere, finding his voice, `FUCKING HELL...'

David lifted his head away from the beautiful buttocks and patted them
with both hands, then pushed forward again, shoving his compact companion
up onto the mattress and standing to shed his clothes. He let the
expensive shirt float away and shoved down the trousers. In just his dark
grey Armani briefs he climbed onto the bed with Jack and pulled their
bodies together in a sudden cuddle; Jack's limbs wriggled and he laughed
drunkenly, but held on. David kissed his neck once and his shoulder
twice, then found the well packed front of the jockstrap with one hand.
He slid it in and squeezed the meaty young dick inside it, enjoying the
new gasps and moans that this cocky lad emitted now.

Jack's hand brushed down there too, trying to push the skimpy underpants
away; David stopped him, teasing and tugging him inside the pouch
instead. He didn't' want this jock to leave Jack's body just yet. He
fondled his balls and stretched the pouch and let its elastic twang. He
kissed the lad on the neck again, tempted to go higher, but remembering
Ryan's rules. Jack's hands were on his own body now, tracing the ridges
of his six-pack and finding the waistband of his briefs. Matching him,
Jack's hand went into the right briefs and found his swelling cock. Oh,
yes.

The former England captain sprawled onto his back, resting his shaven
head against the soft silk. He lifted his hips a little to help Jack
slide them off. He looked down his ripped torso to see his fat semi in
one of Wilshere's hands. Beckham reached to stroke his strong young
shoulders then his fluffy brown hair, then he pushed that head down
encouragingly. The wide eyes flicked nervously at him, but he nodded
encouragingly. No words were exchanged. Jack's lips found his cock and
David groaned with wild abandon. `Oh, yes, go for it,' he said.

It was the best he'd had since Wayne in 2003. This compact muscular
youth, so full of confidence and ambition, crawling against him and
testing the feel of a fat excited dick in his mouth. David didn't push
it, knew he was too big for this newbie's lips to really get onto it,
but he loved the feel of that curious tongue on his shaft and his balls,
loved the nervous pants and grabbing hands. He watched his cock get
licked wet, watched it reach its full height and saw the respectful
surprise on Jack the lad's gawping face.

`Oh good god, buddy,' Beckham howled in pleasure. He kept his right
hand on the back of Jack's head, guiding it around his crotch without
forcing it. His left hand he let slide down the muscle of the lad's back
and past the tight white waistband and onto those chunky cheeks. He
pushed a single finger into the tongue-damp crack and found the hole
again, teasing it. Jack's body tensed up at the novelty but he kept
going, wiggling his digit until he could just about push it in. The
Arsenal youth player lifted and turned his head to stare at him in shock.
`Does it feel okay?' David asked.

`It feels crazy,' was all Jack could say.

`Should I stop?' the England ace demanded hotly.

`No, captain,' Wilshere responded quickly, `definitely not.'

Beckham grabbed and pulled at his waist. He hoisted their bodies closer,
still lying on his back, and pulled the tasty arse to him so they were in
an almost 69 position; on hands and knees, Jack lapped hesitantly and let
out drunken chuckles, playing with the biggest cock he'd probably ever
seen; behind him, David kneaded at his strong glutes and then returned
his tongue to the hole he'd slid one finger in, wetting and relaxing it
with the tongue that had pleasured dozens of hot women, so many discreet
Spanish pussies before his Madrid antics were exposed.

How many times had he thought about fucking a lad? He'd hardly even knew
what Ryan alluded to back in the late 90s, urging him to keep things in
check and not let the action develop; at what point had hands and lips of
admiring lads stopped being enough? He'd had to hold himself back from
trying it so many times in the past decade. But now... He deserved it. It
was happening.

He pulled himself back from under Jack, felt the lad's hungry tongue try
to follow his swaying meat. He pushed back and rose up on his knees and
spanked Jack's arse once then twice, watching the meaty cheek shudder
beneath the blow. Wilshere giggled again and looked over his shoulder.
`You gonna put another finger in?' he asked with an air of bolshy
challenge.

`You want that, do you?' Beckham asked, a third spank landing on his
cheek.

`Maybe,' sniggered the youth.

Beckham slid one finger back in, tickling the hole, then swiftly doubled
it and pushed them slowly but firmly inside the lad, who yelped and
nervously chuckled and then groaned intensely. Beckham stroked his cock
with his other hand and edged his fingers in and out of that super-tight
ring. Take it slow, he thought, take it slow or this isn't happening.

`Oh, Beckham,' the Arsenal hopeful whined, `oh fucking hell...'

`You like that, huh? You like my fingers in you?'

`Yes sir... oh yesss....'

Beckham realised that by accident, they were perfectly positioned facing
the same full-length mirror he had admired himself, and Wilshere, in
earlier. It stood at a perfect angle a few metres from the bed and in it
he could see Jack's wild, sweaty face, wide-eyed and excited, and his
own tensed rippling body behind him. His vanity was as tickled as his
cock. He ramped up the fingering, knuckle deep inside the growling and
groaning young footballer, but desperate for more. Still, the jockstrap
clung tightly to Jack's crotch and prevented him really attending to his
own excitement.

Go for it, Beckham thought, just go for it. He stopped fingering the
tight hole and spanked the other buttock a couple of times, leaving
temporary red handprints on plash flesh. Then he pressed the thick head
of his dick between the chunky cheeks and eased it up and down the wet
crack. Just as he'd once watched his cock disappear inside Giggy's
mouth for the very first time, he looked down in shock as he saw his nob
disappear between the glutes. Jack howled and he paused, realising he'd
broke in, suspecting the pain it must cause. He ran his hands tenderly up
the lad's back and hovered there behind him, seeing the beautiful sight
in the mirror.

`Are you okay?'

`Take it slow,' wheezed Wilshere, `just take it slow. Ohhh...'

David pulled back then thrust in again, feeling that insane tightness
around the first inch of him, so much hotter than the loose folds of most
women. He reached forward and scooped up Jack's torso, pulling him up
onto his knees so that he could hold his body in his strong arms whilst
he gently guided his meat inside. He kissed the side and back of his
neck, rough rasping kisses, and stroked his toned chest and tummy.
Jack's pained whine became a low moan of anticipation and ecstasy, and
David felt himself go deeper inside. He looked intensely into the mirror
and saw Jack look too, their eyes meeting across the sight of their
strong bodies interlocking.

`You still okay?' Beckham asked, whispering it in his ear and letting
his lips brush the lobe.

`I think so,' whimpered Wilshere. `Oh, SIR...'

Now, the jockstrap came off. David pulled away and reached down, twanging
the straps and pouch off of Jack's wriggling body. He was about to toss
it away and changed his mind. He brought it up and pressed it firmly
against Jack's mouth, watching his eyes light up in risqué thrill, then
pushed him down on his side and grabbed him tightly before pressing his
dick back between his cheeks. He got it in further now, but not without
some force. Jack's hands found his and gripped his knuckles, the fear he
didn't want to admit or show in his face coming out in his touch. David
held him with some tenderness while his crotch moved with less merciful
lust. He fucked his tool into the teenager and cuddled the lad's chest
and shoulders to him, kissing his hair and his neck and the back of his
ears. `You sexy fucking lad,' he whispered in his ear, `you sexy
little beast, you...'

Another change of position, Jack back on his hands and knees and David
behind him, side-on view in the mirror. His cock was really going in now,
filling up this little hunk. Sweat glossed on both their naked bodies,
naked but for the socks they both still wore. Jack still had the
jockstrap pressed to his face, but held there by his own hand now,
sniffing in his own crotch-scent as he braced himself to take a huge
Beckham cock inside him. David slid more fully in and picked up some
speed, then grabbed Jack's body up and changed position once more.

David hunkering on his knees, Jack's body thrown in front of him with
his short thick legs in the air, up against David's pecs and shoulders.
David held his hips and rammed his cock up into him and watched his body
contort on the sheets, the jockstrap falling aside and his mouth a big
`O' of pained delight. Jack's hands found his own dick and bollocks
and he played with himself in this undignified position, staring up with
lust and wonder. David ploughed him deep then, each thrust as long and
hard as he could manage in this position and with the tightness of his
target. He looked aside to the mirror and he almost winked at his
reflection.

`I'm gonna cum, sir,' whimpered Jack now. `I'm gonna cum.'

`Wait for me,' David hissed. He pulled out, dick released and sticky,
but held Jack in place, legs in the air. They both jerked themselves,
cock tips inches apart. `Oh yes,' David groaned, `oh god this is...'

`Cum for me, sir,' Jack muttered, `cum all over me... you're my
fuckin' hero... come on, Beckham, come on... fuckkk...'

The eager speech took the centurion over the edge. He blew his load and
watched intently as every drop of it scattered in a shower up Jack's
shimmering sweaty torso and up his neck. The young lad exploded with cum
and his long streak of white juice arced up to David's left nipple. They
both panted long ragged breaths and David still held tightly at his hips.
Very slowly, he leaned forward and to the side, falling deliberately into
the bedding at the lad's side, and letting out a long tinkling laugh.

`Fuck,' he gasped. Jack turned his head and stared at him, unable to
find words.

David grinned and let his eyes drift closed. He threw one arm over
Jack's chest, feeling his own seed damp and sticky beneath his skin. He
pulled him in, twisting him into a spooning cuddle. The younger guy
relented, turning on his side and easing into the hold. David grabbed for
the sheets and pulled the mover their heaving bodies until they were
covered up to the necks. Still, he didn't let go, holding the tight
muscled form of the Arsenal player in against his body and his wilting
prick. Hot and sticky and sweaty, stinking like a used jockstrap.

`You'll be sore,' David murmured into his ear.

`It hurts like fuckin' hell,' mumbled Jack. `But... it was worth it...
sir.'

`You're incredible,' Becks said firmly. `Really fucking incredible.'
There was just a nervous giggle at that; this mouthy teen finally lost
for words. `Arsenla, you said, right?' A nod and `uh-huh' in the
cooling dark. `I have a good relationship with Wenger... I could give him
a call tomorrow, you know. Say I noticed some bright spark on the Under
17s side. Someone who needs a shot at the first team this year.' He
squeezed a little tighter in the hug. `What do you think?'

`I think that would be amazing,' whispered Wilshere. `You don't have
to-`

`I want to,' Beckham told him tenderly. `I want everything for you,
Jack.' He didn't really hear the sentimental weight of his words before
they were out of his mouth, and it gave him pause for thought. He ought
to let go of the hug now, he thought. This kid couldn't sleep here, not
after what they'd done. He couldn't share his bed with a young guy like
this, empty hotel suite or wherever. It wasn't right, it wasn't the
rules. But letting go seemed impossible. He could already hear the
purring shallow breaths of sleep coming from his companion and his own
thoughts felt slow as treacle.



He must have fallen asleep soon after that. When he woke, their bodies
had parted, but only just. Their limbs were gently tangled and Wilshere
had greedily pulled much of the duvet to him. Beckham watched him sleep
for a while, his smooth chest rising and falling, his face peculiarly
innocent in the pale glow of Parisian lights that shone in through the
big windows, curtains left wide open all night.

David Beckham climbed very carefully from the bed, and watched the lad
sleep for another minute. Then he dressed in silence and packed his
things with unrushed precision. He tugged the curtains shut as quietly as
he could then checked the time. 5:09. If he caught the first flight out
of Charles de Gaulle, he could be back with wife and family several hours
earlier than planned, surprise them for dinner rather than arriving in
the middle of the LA night. He finished packing and organising his
things, careful to make no bangs or scrapes that would wake the mildly
snoring figure of Jack Wilshere.

When he was done, he fished the seedy item from where it lay at the foot
of the bed. He draped the jockstrap on the arm of one chair by the
window, then scribbled the note on the hotel branded writing paper on the
bureau. `Had to go, kid. I'll call Wenger soon. Best of luck. Thanks
for...' He paused over the right word to write here, tapping the gold pen
idly, then settled on, `Thanks for dropping by'. Innocuous enough. He
re-read his note and his own words left him cold. It wasn't what he felt
like writing, right now, glancing at the sleeping beauty and thinking
about the intense exchange that had occurred in the middle of the night.
But Giggs' rules worked, he thought almost sadly. Don't get too close;
don't let it happen again.

He gathered his things, including the gaudy golden cap, and left the room
in a hush. A luggage rack was sourced and he made it downstairs without
much struggle. At reception, he charmed the night manager at the end of
his shift, and ordered a luxury breakfast to Room 309. The Frenchman
seemed briefly puzzled, having just dealt with the checkout paperwork.
`I had a friend stay the night,' David said quietly. `You know how it
is.' He slipped 100 euros across the surface of the counter. `Please...
have your staff leave the breakfast outside the room, knock and then
leave.' A second note from his wallet slid over. `I'm sure you
understand.' The night manager nodded slowly, a dirty grin on his
stubbled features. If only you knew, Beckham thought, and went outside to
wait for his taxi.



What had Jack Wilshere thought when he woke up in the empty room? Well,
Beckham supposed, 12 years later in the silent warmth of his study, his
first thought was probably `god, my arse hurts'. Surely the teen had
been a total virgin and he'd taken Beckham's majestic piece, that
seemed mad looking back. He'd licked and fingered first but even so...
wow. Poor lad. David stared across the room at the gold cap trophy and
pictured the scene: what had Jack thought when he found and read the
note, had he laughed at the discarded jockstrap..? Had he hung around
long enough to take in and enjoy the luxury breakfast? David suppressed a
sad twinge alongside the nostalgia as he imagined all of this, his mind
briefly lost in how good that first time had felt, fucking a bloke.

What he did know, and what really mattered, was the long conversation
he'd had with Arsene Wenger on the phone some days later on an LA beach.
Wenger had clearly been musing on Wilshere's progress already and
Beckham's gentle praise had sealed the deal. The over-confident
youngster was playing amongst his seniors before long, a much-discussed
bright star in the Premiership and England side for some years before the
first of many shitty injuries took the wind out of his sails. Beckham
wondered like so many other men in the footballing world: what might
Wilshere have come if not for those injuries?

David had met him many times since, but always kept his distance. A nod,
a grin, a knowing look, nothing more. That was the key, Ryan Giggs had
explained to him. Respectful distance. Acknowledge the memory, nothing
more. Keep yourself free and safe. Don't let it go too far, don't let
it happen again.

The tumbler glass in his hand was long-empty, expensive Scotch gone. He
put it down on a coaster on the desk and rubbed at his tired face. Gosh,
how long had he been in here, reminiscing? Victoria was probably waiting
for him in bed. Second birthday fuck of the day? Hopefully. He reached to
switch off the light and took a last glance at the central trophy of the
golden cap, the testament to his long and dutiful England career. Just as
he was about to quit the office and pad through their big stone manor
house to the master bedroom, he felt the phone in his pockets buzz
lightly. He pulled it out and looked at the final birthday message of the
day, trying to think of someone significant who'd yet to get in touch,
but...

It was from Alan Shearer, whose own odd message he'd quietly responded
to first thing this morning, after walking the dogs. His own message
glowed soft green near the bottom of the thread: Thanks Big Al *wink*
Often think of those days -- especially my debut!! X' David smirked
thoughtfully to himself as he read the reply beneath, a tiny jolt of
surprise crossing his tired body.

`Haha -- yep, was thinking of that night myself last month. Crazy. X'

David's eyes took in the solitary X from the older guy, the specificity
of `that night', not the day of the match, the description of
`Crazy'. So, he thought as he slowly walked the corridor to his bedroom
and the anticipated fuck with his wife, old Alan Shearer DID remember,
and had been thinking about it just recently...

Interesting.



***100 EPISODES DONE... I'D LOVE TO HEAR WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF THIS, DID I
DO THE MILESTONE JUSTICE? WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE MORE BECKHAM OR ANY OTHER
RECENT ADDITIONS TO THE CHARACTERS? I'D BE REALLY INTERESTED IN HEARING
YOUR TOP 5 STORIES OR GUYS AFTER THIS CENTURY OF EROTICA - THANKS FOR
READING AND ALL THE ENCOURAGEMENT AND FEEDBACK BY EMAIL IN THE PAST 6
MONTHS. X***