Date: Wed, 3 Jun 2020 10:02:47 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 11: Suncream

Part 115: Suncream


The sexual tension had crackled between them for weeks now. It was a new
and alarming sensation for Andy Robertson, to be quite so distracted and
aroused when at work, but it was not completely uncomfortable. Obviously,
the return to training had been a thrilling time for all of the Liverpool
FC lads, but for the excitable young Scotsman, it had been more than just
the football.

He watched him now, across the carefully distanced pockets of talented
players in the glare of a June sun: the Ox's muscular arms swung heavily
at his side and his biceps glinted a little in the midday fire. His broad
face was set in that determined frown, topped with a curling tumble of
afro hair. He zipped side to side with a speed that belied his stocky
muscular weight, and he dove into tackle after tackle with an appealing
ferocity.

Robertson was quite good at multitasking. He could feign full focus on
the training at his feet and still steal these thoughtful glances across
the pitch -- across the gym -- across the changing rooms. Still, he
needed to control himself. He tore his eyes away from Alex Oxlade
Chamberlain diving into a very physical challenge with Milner and
concentrated on snatching the ball from members of his own little group.

Some days, it felt as though Jurgen Klopp himself was trying to tease
Andy. The pair of them had barely crossed paths in the almost two weeks
of resumed training at Liverpool's edge-of-town complex. In the initial
paired training sessions, and then the smaller groups, he had been placed
with many of his close Merseyside pals, but never Alex; even now, with
close-contact training officially approved and fuller squad sessions
taking place daily, some weird football destiny seemed to hold them
tantalisingly apart. Perhaps, he thought, that was for the best; he was
distracted enough as it was.

He could still vividly remember the drive back to Alex's place and his
gorgeous popstar girlfriend. The excited but awkward silence between them
on the quiet nocturnal roads, the stolen looks in the mirror, little
knowing smirks of what had occurred in the Robertson garage. At first,
the Ox's flat heavy hand on his leg had felt provoking and
uncomfortable, but by the time they pulled up in the right expensive
housing development, he'd been sad to feel it pull away. He'd stared at
his own leg for moments, willing the Ox to touch him again, to give him a
last stroke or squeeze before climbing out of the vehicle in borrowed
clothes, home to normality.

The Scottish Liverpool player was returned sharply to the present by the
harsh whistle of the manager in the next quadrant of the field, calling
breaktime on the intense skills session. He stumbled his fast legs to a
halt and pressed his hands to his knee, sucking in hot air and letting
his senses recover from the quick bursts of exertion and concentration.
He high-fived Salah and Gomez on their way past him and staggered to the
sidelines, rolling his shoulders and stretching one knee at a time away
from his body.

The players were all making their way over here in huddles, taking seats
on the raised rows of benches and grabbing drinks and snacks that had
been laid out for them. Andy slowed his walk over the grass, coming to a
pause in the tight black shorts and glistening blue sleeveless top of his
training kit. A few yards to the left, Oxlade-Chamberlain was swaggering
to the sidelines with the rest of his group, and Andy swerved a little,
casually mingling with the gathering as he approached the benches.

`You heard this?' James Milner barked at him, sitting down heavily with
his thick thighs apart, knocking back cool water from a bottle and
nodding towards the Liverpool captain next to him. Andy cocked his head
in interest, sidling closer to the group, arms wrapped about his chest,
but he found his eyes straying past the two Englishmen to his closer pal:
Alex was sat on the raised bench behind them, gasping wearily and pulling
apart some fruit. He lifted his bright eyes a little and their gazes met
over the sweating assembly of men, yet another shared look of... well,
knowledge, but what else? They hadn't really been able to speak properly
since the day Andy had `rescued' him, their communication since was
largely just this: eyes meeting for a moment in the middle of group
situations, a private connection thundering in the background of idle
chat.

`I think it's a good idea,' young local lad Trent Alexander-Arnold was
saying, still on his feet with visibly more energy than the rest of the
blokes, hopping a little from foot to foot and twisting his hips
casually. `It might show the pair of them how to behave!' He grinned a
bit and looked down the stretched gaggle of kitted players along the side
of the training ground.

`What's this?' Robertson demanded faintly, only half-interested in the
men's conversation. He was still watching Andy discreetly, watching the
thickness of his neck as he ran a towel across it to capture some of his
sweat. Andy pulled his eyes from this little moment's fascination,
feeling suddenly very aware of the perspiration prickling at his own neck
and chest, tugging a little at the blue vest top.

`Hendo here has a house guest,' Trent chirped.

The captain chuckled and shook his head, sat sideways beside Milner
stretching out one of his long fluffy legs on the bench and reaching for
his booted toes. `It's a temporary arrangement,' he said in his
familiar Wearside twang, `just for a few weeks til something else is
sorted.' The tall handsome leader shrugged off the conversation with
professional detachment, but Trent sniggered.

`Pair of rascals,' the 21-year-old said, nudging Andy with his elbow as
if he was supposed to know who his talented teammate was on about. He
just looked curiously from him to the other guys -- stretching Henderson,
relaxing Milner, yawning Oxlade, and next to him, big Virgil Van Dijk.

`He's on about Elliott and Williams,' Milner informed him with an easy
grin, sensing his bewilderment. The beefy Yorkshireman pulled up his own
blue training shirt to wipe his face of sweat, baring his incredibly
ripped torso for a moment.

`Up to no good,' agreed Van Dijk with a throaty laugh.  `Boys will be
boys.'

Andy scoffed at the old expression and glanced down the way, past the
weary huddle of his own group, towards where some of the first team's
youngest lads were being spoken to by Klopp's second-in-command. He
could make out the almost snarling figure of Harvey Elliott, arms folded
petulantly and shirt stripped off, just a skimpy compression vest over
his chest and back. Neco Williams was there too, an unusual frown on his
face, metres apart from his young housemate...

`What they been up to, then?' Andy asked, looking back at the guys.
`What's the goss...?'

`I think that's enough,' Jordan Henderson said firmly, ever the
leader, twisting his body around so he could stretch out and lean into
the other leg.

Trent ignored him, a mischievous look on his face. `Caught with a load
of weed by their host family,' he confided quietly -- Virgil and Alex
chuckled, Milner smiled patronisingly and Jordan frowned at the broken
confidentiality -- `so they've been kicked out by the people who they
were living with, and housed with older players for the time being.' He
nodded to Henderson. `Captain fantastic here has been landed with one of
the teenage troublemaker himself, fuck's sake...'

`Neco is a good kid,' Jordan pointed out fairly. There was only a
flicker of doubt in his smile and eyes as he leant back on the bench.
`He'll be grand. Just staying with the wife and I for a couple of weeks
until something else is sorted. He's not 18 so he can't just... you
know...'

`And Elliott is staying with Salah,' Trent gossiped idly. `Mr
Responsible no.2! Klopp correctional intervention, I call it. How to turn
two teen tearaways into...' He smirked over at their captain, throwing
his arms back and forth. `Into boring little professionals...!'

Andy laughed weakly at this, losing interest. Behind the others,
Oxlade-Chamberlain was barely looking up, cracking his knuckles and
staring down between his knees. Andy wanted him to look this way, some
silent acknowledgement of their bond, but it wasn't forthcoming. For a
second he felt exposed and vulnerable, stood here amongst these bigger
blokes, listening to their idle rumours about younger players, knowing
that he'd been up to worse mischief than a load of weed -- cheating on
his wife, with a bloke! In his own garage! Fucking hell. He felt the
familiar mixed jab of guilt and excitement that came whenever he thought
of it. He felt spiralling surges of panic from day to day, and they only
really subsided when he caught sight of sturdy, calm Oxlade, so clearly
unfazed by their private experimentation.

But now, he seemed disinterested. Perhaps, Andy thought, he regrets it?
Perhaps he had just been really desperate that night, he had been in some
not entirely specified emergency, after all... And you're just some rough
Glasgow scally, he reminded himself, not in the league of handsome
footballing posers like Oxlade-Chamberlain or Henderson there, so... These
insecurities nagged at Robertson far more than the awareness of his own
infidelity. He knew he was an attractive enough guy, a cheeky chappy, but
he wasn't all slick and showy like the Ox or half the other Liverpool
players, people had been lining up to tell him that since he was a spotty
teenager on the council estates of the Clyde.

`Hey, shouldn't you be in the shade?' quipped Alexander-Arnold
suddenly, elbowing him again -- the chatter about the teenagers' drug
scandal and rehousing had fizzled out already, the guys had fallen quiet,
building up their energy for the next round of training.

Andy rolled his eyes. `Oh yep, I'm burning to a crisp-`

`Here, let's get you lotioned!' laughed the taller younger guy,
striding past him to the side and snatching up a little spray bottle of
Nivea sun cream. `Factor 6 million,' he was joking, `that should look
after Glasgow's finest milk bottle, right?!'

It was familiar banter, and stuff Robertson usually encouraged. Making a
joke of his flaws had become a hobby early in his school years and one
he'd taken with him into the rough banter of the football changing room;
he was always ready with a joke about his diminutive height, his freckly
skin, his pale complexion, his gingery curls... He gave Trent a look of
mock annoyance and then raised his eyebrows in surprise as the 5ft9
21-year-old spurted sun lotion to his palms and stepped up to him,
confident in his own higher melanin count. Then his lotioned palms were
on Andy's right arm, slapping it against his warmed skin and smoothing
it down over the gentle curve of his bicep. He let out a slightly
embarrassed giggle at the unexpected contact. `Oi,' he laughed, Trent
running his large hands right down his forearm to his wrist then back up.

`We don't want a barbecued Robbo by the time the season resumes!'
James Milner chuckled disinterestedly. Trent was spraying it again onto
his hands and coming round to do the other arm; Andy laughed, ticklish
and vaguely emasculated by the intervention, but suddenly very conscious
of Ox looking up from his own knees and seeming to see him properly.

`Yep,' Trent was agreeing, `let's get pale boy nice and safe!' With
that, he dragged his palms rather senuously over Andy's bare shoulder,
making him twitch and giggle again. Suddenly he had his left hand in his,
massaging sun-cream into the back of his hand and down his fingers. He
pulled his hand back away from this intimacy with a hoarse laugh, saw how
amused Hendo and Milner and Van Dijk were by this; not Oxlade though. He
glowered oddly from beneath his heavy brow. `Back of the neck is
important,' A-A pointed out, with another squirt of the Nivea bottle.
Then his hand, slick and cool with lotion, was on the back of Andy's
neck, just below the boundary of his overgrown curly thatch, then dipping
just within the neckline of his vest.

`Oi, pal!' Robertson burst out gruffly, wriggling away from the
ministrations and giving Trent a comical look of outrage, realising how
thickly the Factor 50 had been spread over his limbs. He rolled his eyes,
the butt of the joke, and shrugged his shoulders at the little audience
of the others.

`Come on,' Trent said loudly, waving the sun lotion bottle like a
pistol and shuffling after him, `let's make sure you don't get burned,
Andy, come on...' Robertson laughed but twisted away, batting
half-heartedly at Trent's limbs and ducking to avoid a little jet of the
white spray.

`If he doesn't want your help just fuckin' leave it, then!' They all
stopped at the outburst. Andy cringed back from Alexander-Arnold, still
giggling from his tickling touch; next to him, Trent was paused in his
attacking gesture, staring oddly across at the bench. Milner and
Henderson had turned where they sat to look back with raised eyebrow at
Alex, who had stood up from his own bench and squinted crossly at them in
the sunlight. `Just leave off him,' Oxlade-Chamberlain barked grumpily,
`the joke's not even that funny, fuck's sake.'

`Alright mate,' the local Scouser teased back, squirting some sun
lotion up into the air with a little puff of its spray, patting his lubed
palm once more against Andy's neck. `What the fuck's got into him?'
The question was light and quiet but loud enough to be heard by Alex, who
was slowly sitting back down next to Virgil as if nothing had happened.
Andy stood very still, his heart rate rapid, embarrassingly jolted into
excitement and arousal by the little moment of conflict. He'd resisted
the banter but he'd clearly not been distressed, so... was Ox just...
jealous?

`Here,' muttered Trent a little sulkily, pushing the Nivea into his
hand, `get yourself protected then, Scotty.' He broke away from the
group at a light jog, following the first of the other men to drift back
out onto the grass and finding their allotted patches of space and kit.
Andy remained where he was, holding the sun spray in one limp hand,
watching first Milner then Henderson then Van Dijk get up and march by
him; Alex followed but he was still frowning a little to himself, and he
didn't quite meet Andy's eyes as their arms brushed. For a second, bare
sun-warmed and sweat-lined muscle dragged side by side, and Andy turned
wistfully after the other, slightly taller lad.

But Oxlade-Chamberlain was loping after the others; ahead, Trent and
James were cackling over something else and Jordan was speeding ahead
with Virgil. Andy pressed the Nivea sunscreen between both hands and felt
Mo Salah suddenly at his side, grinning broadly with his tireless
optimism. `Come on, Robbo,' he said gruffly, `we've work to do.'

The Scotsman nodded and followed his Egyptian fellow player across
towards the rest of their group. Ahead, he could spy Harvey Elliott
dashing across the centre of the training field, ostentatiously shirtless
and mouthing off at Curtis Jones. `Is young Harvey really staying with
you?' he asked disinterestedly, following the goal-scoring champion
towards the marked-out grid of their training space, stealing a last
glance over to Alex's broad back and distinctive silhouette.

`You heard of that,' chuckled Salah. `Yes, for now.'

`Drugs,' Andy remarked with vague disapproval. `Silly git.'

`Yes,' Mo agreed, `so I suppose they thought the good Muslim would
sort him out -- huh!' He rolled his eyes but without much cynicism,
bounding along with muscular grace. `Harvey Elliott is an excellent
young footballer... I am sure he will be no trouble at all. He will just
be one of the family!' None of Henderson's flickering hesitation;
Mohamed was just too good a fella, Andy thought admiringly, wishing he
could be as clear and simple in his thinking. He jogged after the
Egyptian star, ready to get stuck in.



After training, the doubts returned: he'd misread things with
Oxlade-Chamberlain. He'd worried over nothing, hadn't he? The weeks of
distance from his friend -- even before social distancing was a thing --
had been a paranoid overreaction. In the changing rooms, he looked
quietly through into the communal showers and pictured the day in there
that things had got a bit kinky, the Ox bounding in half-horny from a
massage. Soggy fucking biscuit, as if they'd played that! The last time
he'd played that, well... it didn't need bringing up. Not since his Hull
days!

That fucking cookie had been the beginning of several strained months for
he and Alex, though it had been the encounter with Jamie Redknapp that
really brought on Robertson's anxieties. He'd done some crazy stuff
that afternoon to support his close pal, but the price had been a
struggle to be alone with him or look him in the eye for weeks, no
months, afterwards. And then he'd begun to realise what a dick he was
being, how daft it was, and then... Then last month. That appearance in
the garden. That tussle in the garage. That... phwoar. He thought about
the things Alex's tongue had done to him and he shuddered in his
training kit in the middle of the warm, sweaty changing rooms of
Liverpool's training centre.

Stop it, he told himself. This is madness. You're straight. You're
practically married. He's out of your league, another voice said.
You're a daft wee lad from Glasgow and you don't belong anywhere near
his kind, you NED.

Emotion, lust and sunburn flushed his cheeks pink-red and he lingered
alone, unable to face the hot busyness of the showers, and the banter of
his teammates. Trent bounded past naked, towel over shoulder, laughing
and joking with Henderson. Andy flicked his eyes away from them and
caught sight of handsome Lallana following, then Becker -- great, more
fucking flashbacks to that kinky afternoon where they had all jazzed on
the same snack and let poor Oxlade-Chamberlain try it out... His cock
shivered in his undies and shorts and he shook himself.

He removed himself from the busier space, though most of the lads were in
the showers or already heading out. Pulling his vest up and off, he wound
back through the changing rooms and into the adjoining passage of steam
rooms and recovery pools and physio suites, all empty and silent. He
wasn't sure where he was going but he felt overheated with the sun and
the confusion; it would be okay when he got home to Rachel and the kids,
he thought, it would be fine. He'd forget all this, he always did, it
was only when he was here, in closer proximity, that...

He'd come to a dead end. The passage closed off ahead. To the right were
the smoked glass doors of a few dry sauna spaces, deactivated for obvious
reasons. To the left were empty plunge pool, tiled dips with no bubbling
or cold water. He stood still, dropping the sweaty vest to his feet and
bringing both hands up to his freckled, blotchy face. Calm yourself, kid,
let it go, this is nonsense... In his underpants, his cock throbbed and
stretched a little at the fabric. Nonsense.

`You look like you've caught the sun.' It was him.

Andy half-turned, looking over his shoulder. Ox was approaching him down
the deserted passage; he too was shirtless, his big buff torso on show,
faintly shiny with the sweat of exercise. His shorts were short and
bunched about his thighs and he had his boots off, just off-white socks
padding on the cool tiled floor. He had an unreadable frown on his
sun-darkened features.

`Aye,' Andy grunted quietly. He looked at his shoulders and his arms,
seeing the redness. Trent had done a shit job, for all his playfulness,
or just been too late. The pale Celtic flesh was scorched from the June
fire in the sky. Robertson looked up to see Alex taking a couple more
steps towards him. He had something in his hands. `Earlier on,'
Robertson found himself saying with a challenging tone, `when Trent
was... messing about... were you... did it make you...?' He couldn't finish
the question.

`Was I jealous?' Alex asked quietly but bluntly. `Fuck yes, I was
jealous.'

`Er... oh...'

An awkward fart-like spurting noise. Andy looked down between Alex's big
capable hands. He was holding a translucent Nivea tube; not sunblock now,
but the oily green aloe vera after-sun. He'd squirted a blob of it onto
one hand. Then, without saying a word, he brought the hand up and slapped
it firmly against Andy's chest. He stood still, feeling the cool shock
of it beneath the warmth of Alex's palm. The hand slid left then right,
massaging the gel over his prickly hot skin and up onto the burn of his
shoulders. Ox stood there, maintaining a cool eye contact, spurting more
of the aloe jelly into his palms; both hands now, the tube discarded,
both hands rubbing over his flat pecs and lightly furred centre, onto his
reddened shoulders then down his arms a little. His body tingled with a
mixture of the cooling gel and the heating atmosphere. In his shorts, his
cock strained and stiffened. A little gasp escaped his chapped lips.

Alex's hands moved over him in sweeping massages. One ran down from his
flat chest over the lightly defined ridges of his six-pack, not as dense
or as compact as Alex's, but there. It slid round to his hips and
brushed close to the waist of his shorts. The other hand had gone around
his shoulder onto his upper back, then found its way to the burning skin
of his neck -- then curved, thumb-first, onto his bristly jaw and to the
rounded bump of his chin. A thumb-tip landed on his bottom lip and stayed
there, tasting and smelling minty fresh and cool.

Andy let his lips gently close and pucker. He kissed the thumbprint.

A trance of sorts was broken and he pulled forward; he grabbed each of
Alex's big thick upper arms and pulled their bodies close, barely apart
in height but one much stockier and darker. Faces came shudderingly
close, lips an inch apart. Tips of noses rubbed. Breath mingled. Andy
closed his eyes and decided whether to fight it; was fighting it an
option, this burning lust? His crotch suggested not. His marriage vows
and lifelong certainty in his own sexual preferences screamed resistance.
For months he'd avoided how much he wanted this. He opened his eyes
again and looked closely at Ox's face, as his lips parted a little and a
fraction of tongue was visible; oh, that tongue, and the things it could
do... Resist this... why the fuck should he?

Andy pulled Alex into him and they kissed. Clumsy and uncertain, neither
lad sure it was what they wanted or should do, but drawn to it. Sore dry
lips pushed at sore dry lips, overheated limbs grappled at sun-scorched
back muscles. Andy broke the kiss as frantically and hesitantly as he'd
started it, leaning his weight into Alex, and looking to the side, the
smoky brown glass of a steam-room door. He pulled gently on his friend's
shoulders and darted that way, yanking it open, thank god it was
unlocked. Inside was cool and dark without the activated heat or
lighting. The door was just about clouded enough for privacy.

`Of course I was jealous,' muttered Oxlade, `watching him paw at
you...'

`It's only Trent...! He was just...'

`Do you fancy him?'

`What?! No... I don't... I don't fancy guys...'

`But me?'

`Alex...!'

`Cos I fancy you,' Ox hissed at him, or at his neck, in the middle of
nuzzling the top of his shoulder. Just hearing it made Andy feel dizzy
and confused, but he clung on to the burly body pressed against him. He
was being borne back into the wooden slats of the wall with a gentle
thud. He ran his fingers down a muscled back towards the tight waist of
those black shorts. Strong hands were moving down his own front and
finding the outline of his Glaswegian stiffy. He groaned.

`You do?' he asked tremulously.

`So -- fuckin' -- much...'

`But Perrie-`

`I want YOU.'

`Me?!'

`YOU.' With that, Alex yanked down his shorts a few inches and Andy's
cock sprang free, brushing against firm muscle and then taken in hand so
he had to let out a whimper. His hands were scraping inside the other
guy's shorts, finding the bulge of his buttocks and squeezing them, one
in each uncertain hand.

There were a few more soft thuds to the wood as they moved, hugging and
grabbing each other. Robertson felt his shorts slide away, pulling down
his hairy lean legs with each movement. His cock throbbed and ached in
Alex's grip and he felt like he might cum any second. Wet clumsy kisses
brushed his jaw and cheeks and neck and then his chest. For a moment Ox
found one of his nipples and sucked it like a teat and he had to hold in
the visceral noise that almost blurted out. That smoked glass was in no
way soundproof. In turn, he squeezed and prised at those arse cheeks and
slapped one. He brought his hand round and found that sizeable meat,
distinctly thicker than his own, through the fabric of skimpy briefs that
hardly held it in place. Soon both pairs of shorts were about their
socked ankles.

`You want me to suck you again?' Alex offered. It came out harsh and
brutish, not so much an offer as a dangerous tease. But for Andy,
shamefully, it was too late, it was unneeded. He groaned awkwardly and
clung to Alex's body, mortified -- Oxlade seemed confused for a minute
but then pulled their bodies apart just enough to look down. Robertson's
thin beautiful cock rested on his six pack, where the sticky traces of
his orgasm clung to dark tan. Andy felt a surge of embarrassment, no idea
what to say. When he opened his mouth to speak Ox just chuckled and
kissed his lips shut. `It's okay... it's okay... You just got
overexcited. Over... me?' Andy nodded his head. A gentle but unmistakably
frustrated sigh was the southern Englishman's only answer.

`It's okay,' Ox was repeating, `I don't mind...'

`Turn around,' Andy whispered at him in the rush of his peaked
excitement. He saw a puzzled frown on Alex's face but he repeated
himself and pushed back a little at his body. He was thinking about what
had happened in the garage, what this beautiful man had done for him that
felt so shockingly good. When Alex was turn around he kissed the back of
his neck and squeezed his sides, and then guided him into the far wall of
long wooden slats, and began to crouch down to his knees. `Oh, Robbo,'
groaned Alex in delighted surprise, `are you gonna-`

Andy slapped one buttock hard, half-aware this spanking sound might echo
beyond the steam room, but unconcerned. His knees grazed the floor and he
planted a kiss in the little downy holly just above the ample buttocks of
his fellow footballer. Alex was lenaing forward a bit to help him,
pressing back with his meaty behind. Andy parted the cheeks carefully and
leaned in, taking a breath of the intense sweaty odour. Between thighs,
beneath cheeks, he could reach a hand through and stroke at first the
balls and then the thick veiny meat of Alex's cock. As he did, he pushed
his mouth up to the crack and ran his tongue in. As expected, he could
taste Ox's manly scent, but even more so. The buzz of his orgasm was
fading, and with it his confidence, but still he pushed his tongue in and
licked, his own bristly bearding tickling at those firm muscled cheeks.

`Oh, Robbo.... Oh mate... fuckkk... YES pal, oh YES...' The groaning dirty
talk was everything to Robertson, though in his head he replayed earlier
words: `I want you...' It was like being back in his earlier footballing
days, not pushed aside or ignored as a weedy lad from the wrong end of
town, but chosen and wanted. The taste of Alex's arse was the taste of a
fantasy he didn't know he'd held for years. His hand continued its
awkwardly angled toying of the man's cock and he spluttered and
sniggered into the firm pillow of his mate's behind.

Then Alex was turning round, and he felt glad. He was staring up past the
tuberous erection to the firm sculpture of that torso, so much more
ripped and built than his own. On his knees, he didn't even lean in to
suck or lick the thick nob -- perhaps because his cum-drunk buzz was
fading, and he was nervous to revisit what he'd once done to Ox in front
of Redknapp -- or perhaps because all he wanted was to see the look on
his friend's face as he came. He held his head in place and stuck out
his tongue as far as he could, and let Alex toss himself. His whole
muscular body rippled and his face was beautifully vulnerable.

It didn't take him long, and Andy felt a flash of fear, then relief,
then ecstasy, as the salty goodness brushed his tongue and settle in his
moustached upper lip. He had to blink his eyes as some of the spunk hit
his brows and laced his cheek. He swallowed what was on his tongue then
ran it about his lips, tasting the creamy goodness of this hunk. The two
26-year-old blocks remained like that for a long minute, not even
touching, just staring at each other around the quivering silhouette of
one cock. Then Alex reached down and helped him up, and kissed him on the
mouth; he must be able to taste his own seed in the kiss, Andy thought,
and he didn't even seem to care.

`What is this?' Robertson dared to ask.

`Long overdue,' was all Oxlade-Chamberlain could say back. Their bodies
squeezed and held and it seemed a competition who would fail first and
push for the door. When they eventually disentangled they both laughed
with nervous excitement, reaching for the shorts about their ankles. They
almost butted heads doing so, laughed again. When they were
semi-respectable, cum drying on one abdomen and one face, they went in
for another kiss, more slow and careful.

`Nobody can know,' Andy hissed.

`Nobody needs to,' Alex promised.

`I've been thinking about you so much.'

`Same. Honestly, same.'

`What does it mean?'

`I dunno. But...'

`Yeah?'

`I didn't like seeing Trent touch you. I know it sounds daft, but... it
felt so bad, seeing that. I just... I just want you to be... mine.'

He let out a wheezing laugh then felt bad because it sounded mocking or
dismissive. `I'm sorry, it's just... so strange hearing that... I...' He
let out a long heavy breath, reached hesitantly for the glass door to
begin pushing it open. `Trent can fuck off,' he promised quietly. `He
was just joking, he hasn't got an idea. No lad has ever touched me like
you. Except... you know. Redknapp, I guess. You're the only lad I've
thought about like this. Ever. Alex, I think I...'

He was stopped by a gentle two fingers on his lip. `You're married,'
Alex reminded him very gently. `Don't say anything you might regret.'
A kiss on the cheek, a rub of their stubbles and beards. Andy nodded
slowly, pushed more on the door, slipped away from Alex as they spilled
into the still-deserted passage, faint echoes of laddish noise reaching
them from the main changing rooms. Alex moved a few paces away then sank
down for a moment, snatching the after-sun up from the floor, squeezing
it in his hand; he grinned and walked on, a safe and discreet few paces
ahead. Robertson followed him in a satisfied daze, feeling like he could
pass out -- whether from the heat and sunburn or the taste of
Oxlade-Chamberlain's backside, who could say?



*COMING SOON... A HOMESICK SCOT IN LONDON GETS SOME COMFORT - A LAD
SEVERAL READERS HAVE BEEN REQUESTING FOR MONTHS FINALLY SHOWS UP...*