Date: Sun, 17 May 2020 20:28:07 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 103: Domestic Conflict

Part 103:


Kyle Walker lingered on the first-floor landing and felt like he should
be anywhere but here, listening to the explosive row in the hallway
below. His and her voices were raised in fury and there had definitely
been the clatter of thrown objects. No stranger to a domestic blow-up,
the 29-year-old rested his hands on the bannister for a moment and took a
peek over the edge -- the lady of the house came stomping down the
hallway with another couple of bags in her hands, yelling over her
shoulder and clicking high heels over the expensive flooring. After her
came John Stones, waving both hands and yelling an angry and unconvincing
apology. The rowing couple spilled out through the double doors at the
front of the house and out onto the driveway and Kyle bit his lip with
second-hand worry, straining his ears a little to catch the public
yelling out front.

He had been wondering for a while if he ought to intervene -- play
peacekeeper and either try to calm her down or give John-boy some tips on
how to apologise without sounding like a total dick. But all said and
done, who the fuck was he to give anyone relationship advice? So he just
hung about up here like an awkward ghost haunting the lofty Manchester
new-build where he had been guest for about two weeks now.

John's girlfriend, Olivia, swept dramatically back in through the thrown
open doors, hair whipping about her shoulders. Tall, frowning Stones came
after her, trying to pick up one of her cases from the foot of the
stairs, but she was on him, lashing out; Walker saw the attack clearly,
saw the little gashes of conflict left on his pal's cheek, he thrilled
faintly at the unexpected violence of it. Then, in a gulp, he realised
she was pushing Stones aside and stomping back onto the stairs to collect
more of her things.

Like a guilty spy or a worried child in a broken home, Walker back off
over the landing and quickly retreated through the half-open door of the
guest room he occupied, pulling it closed and listening to her harsh
footsteps mounting the stairs. He felt a bit silly, hiding away like
this, but it was hard to imagine his presence making anything better
between the fighting pair. John had followed her up the stairs and the
slagging match of angry jibes continued over the landing and down to
their master bedroom. Walker half-listened, looking about `his' room
and whistling awkwardly to himself.

It had begun yesterday when a couple of police officers had unexpectedly
turned up at the house -- Kyle wasn't alone in making grim assumptions
that this was more trouble for him from one of the women in his life. But
it had been smiling goodie goodie John they'd wanted to speak to, and
Kyle hadn't quite caught what the issue was. Sitting out back with
Olivia and the kid, he'd assured her it would be a load of rubbish,
laughing it off, confident in the wholesomeness of his close friend and
teammate. When the coppers had gone and the couple were entering muted
little arguments in other rooms, Kyle had held onto this assertion; HE
was the dickhead here, the one breaking rules and causing a fuss, not
John!

Lying in bed late last night, bored after wanking himself to completion
over some crappy dated porno on his tablet, he'd seen the bonkers news
headlines and had some narrative gaps filled in for him by the hideous
British tabloids. `Spying' was the word they were using. He'd laughed
aloud to himself in bed, lying damp with night sweat and his cock hanging
sticky against the sheets that covered him. He'd skim-read the bollocks
article and chuckled it away, wondering what craziness had led to such
accusations from John-boy's ex-missus: the idea of Stones spying on
anyone was hilarious and soap opera. Still, he'd muddled into confused
dreams, not for the first time lately, where he was in bed with the man
himself, kissing him and grabbing at him and trying for more, and then
suddenly they were surrounded by CCTV cameras and scavenger journalists.

He laughed at the dream as he showered that morning -- laughing at both
the news story that had leaked into his subconscious, and the nervous
uncertain feelings that were making him have fleeting dreams about his
best mate and current host. He laughed, because he wasn't sure how else
to process the feelings he'd been daring to confront since coming to
stay here.

Of course, things had gotten a bit odder as today progressed. He'd been
sat eating his breakfast and entertaining Olivia's young child with
silly facial expressions and clowning about with his food, vaguely aware
that she and John were arguing out in the garden; they'd stormed in at
some point and what he'd caught had actually shocked him. Stones
unwilling to fully deny the accusations, Olivia furious at his vague
excuses and confusing narrative. Walker had just gawped after them, kept
some distance, then eventually tried to speak to John alone and get some
truth and sense out of his mate. He'd been told, in no uncertain terms,
to `fuck the fuck off', and so he had. He'd fucked off out for a long
run and came back to this: a warzone.

A female relative had already picked up the child and was back now with a
big car out front, and John's girlfriend was making every performance of
a stark exit. Right now, he could hear, she was grabbing more things from
their room down the far end of the floor, and Stones was shouting
desperately at her to stay. Walker lounged on his bed and fought between
wanting to creep to his door and listen in, and putting on some rap music
loud enough to drown them out and maintain this polite distance...

Slammed doors and more footsteps. The break-up hurricane descended the
stairs and could be heard in the hall below again. He lingered on the
bed, scratching his tummy beneath the borrowed t-shirt of John's,
flexing and stretching his feet and toes against the covers. He opened
his phone and re-read the news story, the gossip he'd immediately
dismissed: John Stones holding onto an access code to CCTV systems at his
old home so he could keep tabs on his ex long after dumping her last
year. Jesus, what a dumbass, he thought, then dismissed the unfairness.
He'd made plenty of dumb mistakes in his own relationships of late.

Driven more by worry for John than the idle nosiness that he also felt,
Kyle pulled his muscular weight off the bed and opened the door a
fraction. The voices had shifted a little now, it was her shouting,
screeching really, and John's voice was lower and shakier and emotional.
Kyle crossed the landing in t-shirts and tracksuit pants, barefoot,
quietly reaching the bannister just in time to see her drag her case and
two other bags out with her onto the doorstep, where Stones stood alone,
head in his hands, defeated enough not to follow her out. Walker sighed
and waited a respectful minute before slowly heading downstairs himself.

When he reached him, the tall fellow City defender was slumped in the
doorway and the drive was empty of Olivia's car. John turned away from
the doorway, pushing it shut with a slam, and started a bit at the sight
of his houseguest. His eyes were puffy with crying and his cheeks a bit
blotchy; three or four scratched lines were still visible where she'd
lashed out at him, perhaps not undeservingly. He stared dully at Kyle and
then stomped post with a sniffle.

`Mate,' Kyle sighed, blocking his way with one hand, `come here.'

Stones, who hadn't said much to him today other than `fuck off',
stalled awkwardly against his hand and arm, looking at him with his puffy
emotional eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but just made a gargling cry
of either anger or anguish. Kyle pulled the arm about him, easing him
into a strong hug that the distraught younger man could not resist or
wrestle out of. He just relaxed limply into the other footballer's
strong arms and rested his head side-by-side.

`She'll be back,' Walker told him gently. `Just you see.'

John made a wet scoffing noise then began pulling away from the warm hug.
He dragged both hands across his blotchy face and backed off, striding
off down the hall towards the kitchen, still in the loose pyjama bottoms
and worn old vest that he'd slept in last night, smelling unwashed and
anxiously sweaty. Walker followed him silently through, watching as he
wrenched a bottle of spirits from a high shelf and began sloshing it into
the first glass his hand found. Outside, it was still mid-afternoon,
lending a sunny tragedy to the sight of the tall muscular man in his
bedclothes downing neat vodka.

`Buddy,' Kyle said again in a sympathetic but firm voice, `you wanna
talk about this?'

John looked over his shoulder, less angry but more downcast. `What's to
talk about?' he asked, pouring a second generous glass of the
translucent liquid. `I fucked up, pal. I really fucked up, again. What a
pair we are. A pair of FUCK UPS.'

Kyle felt the mild sting of the association but crossed the room and
patted the warm back where the vest clung to his long muscled torso.
`Mate,' he prodded, `let me pour you a proper drink and go get a seat.
We'll knock on some Call of Duty or summat, and-`

`I don't think that's gonna fix anything,' Stones said, his voice
brimming with violence. He tensed up and shuddered at his own tone,
seemingly. `Sorry, sorry -- know you're just trying to help. Ugh... Why
am I such a cunt? I should have deleted that months ago, stopped
looking...' He turned round, clutching the glass of vodka to his broad
chest, arms bunched up at either side, Kyle patting one sensitively. `I
was just worried about her, y'know? It wasn't like... weird. It's not
how the papers are making it sound, creepy and sleazy, I was just scared
for her, so I would check sometimes, maybe a few too many times, and...
ugh...'

Walker knew better than to ask questions or say too much, he just slid
his arms out and pulled on another manly hug, squeezing his taller friend
to him and prising the unhelpful neat booze from his hand, pushing it
aside on the kitchen counter, thinking about his own excessive drinking
in the lonely lockdown weeks before being invited here. He cuddled at
Stones, folding his arm muscles about his, reaching up to pat and stroke
the back of his long neck, feeling the soft curls of his dark brown hair
and... remembering...

He'd been watching some shitty old porn on his tablet last night when he
wanked, tossing off his short thick tool with his eyes on some generic
all-American slag, but... had he really been focused on the screen? Or had
he been remembering and imagining, just like in his dreams, thinking
about sharing some hot paid-for bird in a hotel room, watching big tall
John and his mighty tool ram into a tight wet pussy, eager to share it,
eager to let their juices mix, eager to...

He felt himself stir a little in the loose black nylon of his trackies,
cringing at his own horniness, but also stroking thick fingers at the
hair on the back of this lad's neck, and letting his other hand run up
and down one bare bicep a little, tracing the curve of lean muscle with
his thumb and pulling in just a tad closer, letting their chests brush a
little, pec to pec... He tilted his head up and pushed his lips in a
single slow kiss to John's jawline, an inch below where his
girlfriend's fake nails had lightly gouged his cheek. He heard a faint
gasp leave Stones' lips at this hint of a kiss, squeezed his hands a bit
more firmly where they rested. Then, after an aching moment, the other
guy's reaction was explosive.

Kyle was thrust quickly back, toppled despite his heavier muscle mass,
and the fist struck him squarely in the face with such a force that his
head jerked back painfully and he had to bring one hand up instantly to
hold his popped nose, red blood spilling down his arm and hitting the
white kitchen tiles in thick droplets. He staggered back, forcing open
one eye with some pain and difficulty, seeing John trembling and
spluttering in front of him.

`For fuck's sake, I'm in the middle of being dumped,' John raged.
`That isn't an excuse for you to grope me, you fucking pervert.'

`Wha...?'

`Get the fuck away from me,' his host shouted, the same furious energy
as the arguments that had been going on all day. `For fuck's sake,
Kyle! Just keep your hands off and me and take a hint, man, what the
f...'

Kyle spluttered, tasting blood in his mouth, blinking his dizzy eyes. He
leaned on the island kitchen for support and steadied himself. `I was
just looking out for you,' he protested through a mouthful of spit and
blood, checking each tooth with his tongue to make sure nothing had
popped loose in the force of the punch. `Jesus, John boy, I just want
to...'

`Why did you kiss me?' Stones demanded loudly. `Why did you kiss me
you daft prick? Get the fuck away...'

Confused and feeling a rising anger himself, Kyle lurched forward to pat
or stroke or placate -- but his hands and wrists were immediately
snatched in John's and they wrestled pathetically for a moment before
backing away from each other, both shaking and dazed.

`I dunno what your problem is,' Stones yelled. `You're obsessed with
me or summat, you queer.'

`I'm just being a mate,' Walker wailed back. He spat bloody saliva
against the worktop and backed further off. `Oh fuck you, you big prick.
Fucking CCTV stalker! Jesus...' He turned on his heel and stormed out of
the kitchen, knowing how violently he'd strike back if he let himself;
he felt pathetic again, hiding from conflict like a weaker or younger
guy, but he wasn't about to strike or hurt this great guy who'd been so
fucking kind to him. And he knew he'd let his hands wander and his lips
move inappropriately; that ghostly kiss had been bang out of order right
now.

Bang out of order regardless, a corner of his mind told him shamefully.

Upstairs, he pulled the door to the guest bedroom shut so hard that it
rattled in its frame, stood for several minutes with his back to it. He
was still blinking his eyes and coming to from the unexpected blow to the
face, his already crooked nose throbbing and dried blood pooling about
his lips. Had he deserved that? Perhaps.

He'd have to go. He looked miserably at his bags and case, minimal
luggage, lined up in one corner of the generous spare room, scraps of his
possessions littering a bedside table and the long broad sweep of
windowsill. It was nice here, and a bit less lonely than his luxurious
but dark apartment out in Cheshire -- plus, going back there would just
remind him of a few more depressing weeks, and a few mistakes of his own.
Those fucking prostitutes. His fucking treacherous manager!

Why did you have to try and kiss him? He glared at his own reflection,
bloody-nosed and red-eyed, in the mirror on the wardrobe doors. If he
hadn't got a bit tactile there, they could have relaxed, had a drink
together, talked it through, maybe he could have really brought some
comfort and relief to his closest pal in Manchester, and...

Kyle had been trying his best not to sweat his curiosity for men in the
past few months. After all, he'd always admired other guys' bodies,
with a sort of competitive relish and a lot of confidence in his own
physicality in strength. That, he supposed, was an occupational hazard,
all those hours in the gym or on the training ground or in various
changing rooms. You couldn't not look a bit, you couldn't no compare or
make mental notes. And sure, his libido had always brought him kinda
`close to the line' on what might be considered mainstream
heterosexuality; how many times had he been involved in threesomes,
foursomes, moresomes? How many times had he shared a willing bird with
another bloke, paid for or not? How many different guys had he seen in
states of arousal because of this, long before he'd ever initiated
impressionable young Stones into such filth...?

But then last week... He'd enjoyed the vague flirtations in his banter
with Stones, since that night when he caught the gormless hunk watching
him at work, spying on his shagging antics. Huh, always the voyeur, eh!
He'd enjoyed the vague tease, confident that Stones wasn't really
`into' him like that, not really; he'd enjoyed their sharing of cunt,
their wild shags side by side, even mocking stupid little Foden when they
had the chance. And that day of the storm, well yeah, things had gone a
bit further than he expected, but still -- he'd felt in control, felt he
knew what he was doing and he could shrug it all off when he needed to.
Even at Wembley on the day of the cup final, pushing past however many
taboos, using Jack Grealish as a sex toy, he'd resolved that in his head
as a symbolic gesture, a fitting victory over that long-haired little
pretty boy...

He'd never expected to find himself the one on his knees.

He was about to drag the big satchel from the shelf and throw it on the
bed, start tossing his underpants and training kit and pairs of jeans
inside, but he caught sight of himself in the mirror again and grimaced.
Blood streaked down his mouth and chin and stained the front of the
borrowed tshirt, some old England merch from a different era. He had to
get cleaned up. He left the bag where it was and stomped to the bedroom
door, grabbing the handle tightly before wrenching it fully open and-

John Stones stood in the doorway, one hand lifted halfway to knock,
frozen in a silly pantomime of social politeness, his face a bit grim
with emotion. The two Manchester City players froze oppositely, the door
hanging open between them. Kyle held his hand tightly at the door-handle
and John's curled knuckles hung still in the air, nothing to knock on.

`God, I'm sorry,' wheezed John eventually, clearly looking at all the
blood. `I'm so sorry, mate...'

`S'okay,' Kyle mumbled back, finding his lips thick and sore when he
tried to speak. `You dickhead.'

Who moved first? Perhaps they moved at the same time. One minute they
were stood facing each other through the open doorway, the next their
hands were scrabbling at the other, grabbing fabric in bunches and
pulling their bodies together in the threshold. Kyle moved with the same
primal force as he always did once aroused, wrenching at the scrappy
khaki vest on his friend's body, almost ripping it in his eagerness.
John's mouth came for his but as soon as he did, he felt twitches of
sharp pain up and down his nose and in his gum, had to twist his face
away; the other man could see the problem and stooped lower. Suddenly he
was kissing at Kyle's stubbled neck while both his hands dragged the
rough old cotton up over his six-pack in a smooth pull.

`I'm sorry,' John whined again. `Can you forgive me? I shouldn't
have hit you...'

`It's okay,' Kyle insisted, more firmly, and he pulled his friend more
inside the room, wrapping his arms about his waist and twisting his neck,
pushing his sore lips in to kiss and almost bite at his friend's throat
instead, mimicking his frantic passion. He felt the vest beneath his
grasping hands and he gave up on any politeness; he pulled it from both
ends and heard it tear, old material giving way and ripping clean off
John's ripped torso and to the floor.

He began to move backwards, finishing off what John had begun, taking the
tshirt in both hands and wrestling it up past his big chest and shoulders
and over his head, accidentally dragging it past his bloodied lip and
nose before throwing it, bloodstained, to the ground. He reached and
grabbed John's wrist to pull him back in the direction of the bed, but
John resisted, dragging him the other way. `Not in here,' Stones
purred, `in MY bed...' With the same violent force witnessed downstairs,
the younger taller lad pulled him forward and out of the guest room, onto
the landing. They tried kissing again, lips clashing and noses rubbing,
but Kyle winced in pain and had to pull away; still, he was tugged by the
arm, stumbling down the landing and corridor and to the master bedroom.

`Why did you suck me off?' Stones was suddenly demanding, pulling his
hand down to the front of his pyjamas as he backed into the room. `Why
the fuck did you do that, Kyle?'

`Because I'm... what did you call me...? A pervert...?' Walker couldn't
hide the sneer and resentment in his answer as he let himself be dragged
across the room, willingly grabbing the package in those stripy PJs, his
other hand running over one pec and thumbing at a soft nipple. He lunged
for more kisses, hurting himself as he pressed his lips to John's neck
and chin and then shoulder muscle.

`Fuck's sake,' cursed Stones confusedly, `what is any of this...?'

`Does it matter?' Walker yelped in pain. He pressed both hands to that
smooth sculpted chest and shoved the other man back towards the bed until
he was falling on his arse, legs bouncing up a moment. Kyle pounced on
him, rubbing their torsos and crotches together, bare-chested and hearts
going wild behind pectorals.

`It does,' panted Stones, wriggling from beneath him so they were side
by side instead, `if you're gonna do it again...'

Kyle slipped his hand inside the front of those PJs, taking the sweaty
flaccid meat in hand, almost growling as he brought their faces close and
responded. `Do ya want me to, big lad? Eh?' He panted against that
pretty face, letting their foreheads and fringes brush. `Tell me what
you want.'

`Fuck knows what I want,' gasped Stones honestly, his hands all over
Kyle's biceps and reaching for his back. `Oh buddy... that should NOT
feel so good...'

`But it does?' insisted Kyle insufferably. `Tell me it feels good.'

`You know it feels good! Feel how fucking hard I am for ya... you cunt...
ohhhh...'

They rolled roughly across the bed like that, yanking at each other's
pants and dragging hands over limbs and chests and ridged six-packs. Kyle
found himself on his back beneath the taller guy, arms pulled to his
sides and hands pinned down, and now they were kissing properly, and he
was ignoring the pain in his face. He was bleeding again, and he could
taste it, but he just didn't care. John's cock was fully hard in his
hand, still inside the pyjamas, and he still couldn't believe how it
felt even bigger to touch than to see.

He slowed suddenly, his face throbbing, and looked awkwardly at the man
on top of him. `I can't suck you,' he admitted feebly, no will for a
fight here. `It'll hurt too much and I'll get my blood all over your
dick and...'

For a second, Stones' sigh sounded frustrated and angry, looking down
with wide-eyed disappointment. But as he leaned in closer, stroking at
Kyle's throat and the dip between his pecs, his throaty voice was a
surprise. `Then I guess it's my turn?' came his trembling question.

`Mate,' moaned the Sheffield bloke, trying to ignore the persistent
pain in his face, knowing the same guy who'd causes it was now willing
to do almost the complete opposite... `Are... you... sure...?'

`Gotta say sorry somehow,' was the mumbled reply, and Walker couldn't
tell if it was a nervous joke or just blunt laddish logic. He felt those
long fingers leave his neck and his chest, pawing down his torso, an
John's face vanishing from sight. He lifted and twisted himself a bit,
sprawling back on the big bed and its silky sheets, surrounded by all the
feminine touches of John's possibly ex-girlfriend. John, who was now
kissing him just above the naval, putting his lips to that hard pale
brown skin and fumbling at the loose waist of his black Adidas trackies.
Kyle reached down and ran fingers through that overgrown mop of lightly
curling brown hair again, so soft and tousled.

`Forgive me if I'm shit at this,' Stones murmured.

`It was my first time too!' Walker protested, again with weak
half-laughs.

Stones was peeling back his trackies and now also his black CK briefs,
yanking it all down and away, freeing his thick boner instantly and
grabbing it very softly, as he had back in Kyle's own bed during the
escapade with the fleshlight. Except now it wasn't just a game, it felt
intense and serious, and Kyle suddenly felt like he wanted nothing more
than to push his member between those pink lips and fuck that gorgeous
manly face. John's eyes stared at him, flickering with nervousness.

`You'll be reet,' Kyle grunted, `can't be that tough, if I managed
it...'

`You certainly fuckin' managed it,' the Lancashire lad between his
legs panted, and he took the compliment. Then those lips were saying
nothing more but prodded experimentally at the flesh of his boner,
closing about the tip and inching forward.

Kyle spread all four limbs out and hoarsely cried to the ceiling `Oh,
mate!' while lips were joined by tongue and Stones began to amateurishly
suck at his thick veiny member. Kyle felt a pang of regret that it would
be too painful to return the favour right now, and even in his intense
pleasure, questioned that urge: do you really want to suck a dick, Kyle
Walker?!

Stones worked on, circling his tongue playfully and planting little
kisses against the shaft. His hands felt their way up and down Kyle's
washboard abs and his own back arched up, pale and sturdy and ending in
the rising mound of arse, to which clung those striped PJs like the
wrapping on a long-desired Christmas gift. Kyle took it all in with
lustful eyes and then felt a more adventurous mouth descend his tool and
let out wordless cries of enjoyment, gasps and groans and bitten yelps.

`John,' he said, feeling his speech slur and get worse as his face
swelled up, `move round so I can... lend you... a hand...'

He recognised the flash of eagerness in the 25-year-old's crystal blue
eyes. A wriggling contortion followed, big bodies clumsy and
inexperienced, but John eventually lain on his side by Kyle, hunched
forward so he could descend his lips to the cock side-on, allowing Kyle a
good view of his puckered cheeks as he attempted to take its girth deeper
into his gob. Meanwhile, Kyle could pull on the frustrating veil of those
PJ bottoms, exposing his mate's lengthy weapon and closing his mitt
around it firmly and greedily. He jerked on it rapidly and stared down
the tattooed plateau of his chest, enjoying the sight of the handsome big
Barnsley lad fellating him.

Neither man heard the door or footsteps down below, too busy attending to
the other guy's prick, the master bedroom full of their dry pants and
murmuring each other's names: `Oh fuck me, that is so good John boy...'
`Kyle, buddy, you taste like...'

Equally, they failed to hear the steps on the stairs, the muffled call of
`John, what the hell...?' They didn't even hear the bedroom door open
more fully with a tiniest hint of a creak.

`I'm gonna cum,' Kyle said loudly, feeling his balls tighten, `I'm
gonna shoot my load...'

`Do it,' gasped John, lifting his lips from the rock hard tool, a
little drool sliding off his full bottom lip, mixed maybe with his
mate's precum. Kyle stared at this in greedy wonder then, in the corner
of his eye, caught the flicker of movement, but far too late; as his eyes
moved to take in the sight of her, sweeping into the room with a mask of
pure horror on her contoured face, he reached his peak and shot frothy
cum up in a little fountain from his dick, narrowly missing John's
nervous face but splashing in the dark curls of his fringe and spattering
the pink floral bedding between his thighs.

`John,' Kyle gasped in miserable realisation.

`Oh buddy,' groaned John, still staring at the sticky cum pooling
around the thick bell-end, looking like he couldn't decide whether or
not to lick it, `oh yes mate, I'm gonna cum too...'

`WHAT -- THE -- FUCK?'

John twisted his head and his horror was evident across the long pale
handsomeness of his face. His body leapt up as if struck by lightning,
kneeing Kyle painfully in the hip in his rapid leap, his big thick tool
dragging away from Kyle's wanking grasp just as it neared its own
climax. She, by the door, was immediately retreating, shaking her head
and letting out several repeated wails of her reasonable question. Oh
shit! What the fuck?

John was leaping off the bed, his rounded buttocks jiggling with the
leap, hard-on flapping noisily from side to side. Kyle lay still, frozen
to the bed by the intense buzz of his own lingering orgasm, the horror
show of their discovery too momentous and destructive for him to really
consider. He could hear John and her shouting again but as if through
several hazy filters; it was as if the dreaded discovery of their
experimentation had actually happened to another Kyle Walker and this
one, cum dribbling down his thick tool, was allowed to bask here and let
it dry against his fluffy thighs.

But no... poor John, and...

He dragged himself off the bed, his feet heavy and clumsy. He realised
just how much blood he'd spilled, spotting dabs of it on the bedding and
the carpet. He grabbed his trackies and undies off the bed with one hand
but didn't stop to pull them on, running out onto the landing and
staring down the stairs. As he did, he saw the front door slam loudly
shut and, between him and that, the younger footballer hovering at the
foot of the stairs, 100% naked and 100% fucking terrified.

`John,' he gasped, taking the steps carefully, wondering if he actually
had some kinda concussion from the punch, he felt so fuzzy and
bewildered. Maybe it was just the best damned orgasm he'd ever had?

`She saw everything,' Stones was whispering, clinging to the bannister
for support. `What did she HEAR? Dear god... Walker, we're ruined, this
is...'

`Hey, hey, hey,' Kyle hissed. He knew that was probably true, but in
the same way he'd lingered lazily in the bedroom, he felt protected by
the bubble of his own satisfaction. In a minute, he knew it would sink
in, the terror that an angry and betrayed women had just found them at it
in her own bed, seen far more than she could ever have imagined; on top
of John's other mistakes and stupidities. `Ruined' probably didn't
even come close, he thought rationally, but first...

He took his place next to John at the bottom of the steps, resting one
hand on his lower back, just above that adorable pale bubble butt, and
reached about with the other paw, sliding it onto the still erect length
of John's Barnsley meat. `Hey,' he breathed, `just... let me...
finish...' He hugged him from behind and pulled on it, while John let out
another anguished sigh and curse. `She won't say anything,' Walker
insisted, `she'll be so confused... We can explain, we were fighting
and...' He tugged rapidly and tightly on that big prick. John gasped and
groaned.

`But...' he began angrily.

`Don't matter,' Kyle insisted forcefully, `just let me... yes...'

John's body hardened and pulled back against him, his `But' became
`Buddy, oh fuckkk...' and Kyle heard rather than saw the sputter of cum
hit the laminated flooring of the hall, pearlescent white dashes on the
beige floor. Then he felt the latter dribbles of it on his own hand, and
he ran them up John's six pack and over his chest and, finally, up to
his soft quivering lips, sliding two fingers into his mouth just as he
had after fingering pussy in hotel rooms. John sucked them clean, tasting
himself, his face clammy and sweaty.

Kyle turned him round then and cuddled at his hot body, pulling them
close and fighting off reality in his brain. The word `ruined' drifted
back and forwards over his thoughts. John held onto him tightly, almost
painfully so, and they stayed there on the bottom step for several long
minutes, silent but for ragged breaths and words they couldn't bark out.

It was John who eventually broke it, his quiet voice thick with emotion.
`I need more vodka,' he said.

`A bottle each might cut it,' Kyle returned. Neither of them laughed.



**LOTS OF READERS WERE ASKING FOR EVEN MORE FROM THESE TWO... HOPE YOU'RE
STILL ENJOYING THE STORIES POST-100! REALLY INTERESTED IN NEW SUGGESTIONS
AND REQUESTS...**