Date: Sat, 20 Jun 2020 08:16:22 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 127: A Tale of Three Harrys

Part 127: A Tale of Three Harrys


One by one, the Manchester United men exited the coaches, making various
comments on how weird it felt to travel hours down the motorway in the
vehicle, the most travel any of them had done in months. It was, like
many of the rituals of an away match, a bit surreal for them, returning
to these gently altered normalities.

On the tarmac of the Tottenham Hotspurs car park, Harry Maguire shot a
slightly weary grin across the gathering at his boy Luke Shaw, both of
them a little sad that they'd been forced to sit apart after all, each
lad given a pair of seats to himself across two big coaches, for the sake
of distancing. It was probably for the best, Harry thought idly, since he
might have struggled not to pat Luke's big thighs through the glossy
black of his tight tracksuit bottoms, or rub his crotch on them whilst
curling up and steaming the window... Yep, his overactive imagination told
him, definitely for the best.

In fact, they wouldn't even be roomies tonight, he'd been paired with
Juan Mata after all. Again, perhaps it was for the best, both of them had
said on the phone last night, both slightly willing the other to complain
more, to argue against their short-term fate. The prospect of an away
game hotel room in London had hung before them for a couple of weeks now,
since the Premiership match schedule began to release, but they both knew
there would be more opportunities ahead. As he'd begrudgingly explained
to Luke, Harry had to be careful how he requested or negotiated them
sharing rooms with the gaffer, he couldn't just blatantly march into his
office and holler `Make sure I have a big double room to fuck that sexy
chunky bastard in, aye?' Which was exactly how he'd phrased it in their
quiet phone-call last night, making his fellow defender splutter and
chuckle over a mug of coffee.

The excursion had an amateurish and confusing air to it; nobody really
knew what was and wasn't allowed, and nobody looked quite as riled up
and excited for tonight's game as they ought to be. They were also going
to be stuck hanging out at the stadium for a few hours now, rather than
being allowed to check in and relax at the local hotel, as they normally
might; more rules and regulations. The red and black tracksuit-clad
athletes milled about the car park for now, twitching with anticipation
and bursting into laddish giggles at the slightest humour. Their manager
was walking ahead to speak to some Hotspurs staff about the next
arrangements, and Maguire watched from afar, broad arms folded against
his chest.

He cast his eyes idly over the others -- the pally youngsters Williams
and Greenwood jabbing playfully at each others' ribs by the coach door,
sniggering at something; Dan looking a little moody and isolated, or
perhaps just half-asleep; Dalot giving him and others shifty eyes as he
lingered at the luggage hold of the other coach, looking disinterested in
Fernandes' rapid Portuguese speech beside him; Scott McTominay stealing
shy glances back at Harry from where he floated by Pereira and Pogba, the
beady little looks now and then that assured Maguire he could have a
repeat performance of by the bins any time he so desired, reassuring and
ambiguously exciting. But his eyes settled last on Luke, who was paying
him no attention now, but speaking instead to Rashford, the hero of the
hour for his less football-related endeavours. Harry looked fondly at the
rugged hair and beard of his younger lover, secretly missing his fussier
blond locks and more boyish appearance of recent years, but still
intoxicated by the sight of him; could you really not be attracted to men
generally and be so profoundly in love with the sight of just one?

He steered away from this deep question and looked back up towards the
London club's expensive new grounds, their home for the next few hours
before the big night game, the first return to Premiership action for
both sides. Tottenham Hotspurs. And apart from any other concerns on his
mind, Harry had a couple of questions for one Hotspur in particular...



Eric Dier left the massage table feeling buoyant and newly human, as
always, glad he'd been able to arrange the 1-to-1 with the physio this
early evening -- he needed to loosen his big body up from the week's
hard training, and after 45 minutes on the table beneath her skilled
hands, the 26-year-old midfielder felt fully ready to step out for
tonight's clash against United.

Dier thanked the physio masseuse, an attractive women in her mid-thirties
who he knew many of the other lads bantered privately about and enjoyed
the touch of; he found himself less and less interested in her looks or
figure, vaguely aware of how removed his tastes now were from the women
he'd always slept with... before. Before his heart got stamped on, he
told himself with almost self-mocking bitterness, on his way out of the
recovery suite and back through the crystal clean corridors of the
Hotspur Stadium.

You should get back on that horse, a more conservative and cautious part
of his brain told him seriously; get back in the mix, meet some nice
girls. It's all very well experimenting with your tastes and
preferences, but you always knew it wouldn't work out with a bloke,
right? Right?

This was the kind of back-and-forth gloom that often occupied Eric at the
minute. He couldn't help but be struck by patchy memories of times with
Harry Kane: not just erotic memories, of shared store cupboards or
bathroom stalls or distant hotel rooms, but of moments of shared laughter
or silly chatter on team coaches, even from BEFORE things had become
complicated. And with these little flashbacks would come a slew of
questions, always in some negative direction, berating himself for
getting so wrapped up in anyone, questioning how he'd ever come to feel
more than friendship for a bloke on his footy team. The whole episode
with a younger teammate had hardly helped, nor had some scatty
conversations with his other closest mate here, Dele Alli, who seemed to
be in enough trouble of his own at the minute. As a consequence, Dier
found himself quite isolated, no pun intended, keeping away from other
guys and their conversations during training, and frequently wishing
young Parrott was back amongst them instead of recovering in hospital.

The England and Spurs player made his way back through the corridors in
loose-fitting Nike shorts and an open hoody over his vest, headed for the
communal player rooms where he'd be able to get refreshments and hang
out as one by one the rest of the squad showed up, due for warm-ups on
the pitch in an hour or so. Distracted by his thoughts, he almost bowled
straight into the taller figure of another man at the corner of two
passages, and he flew into a polite fluster of apologies and indignation
until, a minute later, he realised who he was looking at. `Harry,' he
exclaimed, instinctively wanting to pull forward for a hug, then
remembering all of the rules signposted everywhere, `Harry fuckin'
Maguire... good to see you...!'

Maguire beamed at him, 6ft4 of rigid muscle in loose-fitting red polo
shirt and slimmer fitting black tracksuit pants, somehow looking vaguely
out of place and up to no good, but grinning warmly and pulling in for
the embrace that Dier had avoided; he laughed lightly and squeezed back,
their bulky torso brushing for a moment then pulling away.

`Shouldn't you Reds be tucked away safely somewhere psyching yourselves
up for the game?' Eric demanded lightly, lifted from his worries, glad
to see his frequent England teammate off the pitch for a minute or two.
`God, it's all so weird, isn't it? Being back?'

Harry nodded his heavy head with a slightly twisted smile. `Weird as
fuck, mate, aye -- how you keepin', Eric lad?'

`Good, good,' he lied blandly, with a bit more forceful pretence than
he'd been bothering for the men at the club, since it wasn't an act he
could sustain well at the moment. `Feeling fit and ready!' he added
with playful boasting, running a hand over the short crop of his dark
blond hair, trimmed in a broad mohawk lawn over his square head. `We'll
see who's feeling more fit later on though, huh?'

Maguire grinned more and his shoulders shook with a soft laugh. `Aye, we
will that, Spurs.'

`Are you -- I mean, are you a bit lost, or summat? Not sure you guys are
meant to be up here...'

`Uh oh,' teased the United player quietly, `am I gonna get in trouble
or summat...? Hah... no, I know, I'm just -- actually, was kinda looking
for you, as it happens, Eric lad. Little birdy told me you might be round
here, getting' touched up by some bird...'

`They call it a MASSAGE in London,' Dier quipped gently, `but yeah...
fresh off the table, legs ready for action...! Er, what can I...?'

`Just wanted a little word, that's all -- nowt much.'

`Oh -- right. Yeah, cool...'

`Just a little catch-up, it's been fuckin' ages, ain't it...'

`Well, sure, we lost out on our England friendlies in March, that woulda
been sweet, so...'

`And aye, been meaning to chat to ya, ever since...' A throaty laugh
with an edge of trouble to it, that gave Dier a very sudden foreboding of
what they might need to discuss. `Ever since you -- you remember? --
sent me that funny picture, you know...' The Manchester captain beamed
down at him, leaning one arm a little against the wall and dragging a
large hand slowly over the stubbled jut of his chin. `That were a bit
weird, eh...?'

Dier paused, blinked, pulled at the lapels of his open hoody. `Aha...!
Well... It's like I said, Maguire, it was... bit of banter, gone wrong,
obviously! I mean -- surely you deleted THAT picture a long time ago,
haha, and...'

`Sure I did,' Maguire insisted, `but still...'

Just then, as Eric stared widely at his friend and upcoming opponent,
mind racing back to the little volley of awkward messages earlier this
year after his mistaken picture message, his eyes shifted to the right
and he spotted another figure entering the little junction of corridors
with a more anxious and subdued expression on his face; Harry Winks
bundled around the corner and towards them, hands dug into the pockets of
his dark blue Tottenham training pants, the white polo shirt hugging his
lean physique as he stumbled to a halt beside them, registering the other
England hero's presence with a half-smile.

`Winks,' Dier blurted, ignoring the unfinished and ambiguous question
Maguire was about to ask, `what's up...? Big Brickhead here coming to
pay us a visit before we whoop his side later...'

Winks, visibly alarmed, looked between them with a shifty smile, not
pulling his hands from his pockets as he spoke. `Hah, yeh... hi there,
Maguire, welcome to our ends hah...' Dier saw the apprehensive expression
on the younger player's face, as always when they were near each other,
since his foolish attempts at provoking Kane's jealousy not so long ago;
he also saw the thoughtful grin on Maguire's features, the musing rub of
his stubble and twitch of his arm muscles.

`Were you looking for a word with old Eric here too?' the United
captain asked in a murmur.

`Oh, yeah, kinda, but -- it doesn't matter,' the 24-year-old
midfielder, in a bit of a rush.

`Oh, Harry -- I mean, er, Harries, hah... well I was just coming to hang
out in the players' lounge when I, er, ran into Maguire, so...'

`Harry,' repeated Maguire aloud, staring hard at Winks and then back at
Dier, a smirk of sorts forming on his lips. Dier just stared at him then,
unsure what to say to break the tension he suddenly felt with his England
teammate, the powerful defender he'd be hoping to outmanoeuvre on the
pitch in a couple of hours. Dier looked at Winks, who seemed to be
regretting joining them, and he felt a grim sense that the conversation
he was after might not be a very comfortable one either.

`Well I guess you better be heading downstairs to your lot,' Dier said
a little forcefully, taking a step away from both of them and fiddling a
little with the zip of his top. `We don't wanna keep you from any
important team talks, big man -- catch up in the tunnel later though,
eh?' He smiled carefully at the visitor, and then at a slightly confused
seeming Harry Winks. Maguire gave a big slow nod and clapped his large
hands together.

`Aye, aye... I won't take more of your time, mate...'

`But what you wanted to ask about,' Eric interrupted quickly, `well --
don't think about it, was just a daft joke, like I said. Too boring to
even explain properly, mate! Yeah?' He gritted his teeth and felt the
gentle mockery in the bigger man's eyes as he backed away from them and
waved his goodbye. Then it was just the two of them, two Spurs
midfielders stood an awkward two metres apart, pushing fists into pockets
and glancing coolly at one another. `You ok, Winks?' he asked in a
cautious mutter, when he was sure Maguire was out of earshot.

The younger Englishman looked hesitant, conflicted, then just sighed.
`Yeah, you know what, forget it,' he said in a little hurry, `wasn't
anything... just wondered if you were coming over to the lounge, see
what's up... think the gaffer is giving us a talking to soon, you know.'
He'd lowered his eyes to avoid meeting Eric's, and squared his slimmer
young shoulders, another step back. Dier nodded vaguely and they fell
into stride together, neither saying what desperately needed said.



When Harry Winks got home to the large comfortable emptiness of his North
London bachelor pad, his whole body ached. A long 90 minutes and a
tensely won draw, so close to a victory for Spurs -- between the late
kick-off, the long build-up of action, the fraught battles for a 2nd
goal... the 24-year-old defender was glad to push shut the door behind him
and traipse into the quiet of his home, walking straight through into the
big, high-ceilinged lounge and pouring himself a generous nightcap of
bourbon.

Harry felt fairly convinced by his own midfield performance and couldn't
help but dwell on the conviction that his team had deserved the 3 points,
but the score stood as it did. Wow, he'd have to get used to these
frustrations and tensions again, the realities of the league felt a long
time ago already.

He slumped in the centre of a long couch, tumbler of alcohol in one hand,
blinking tiredly around the room, the isolation that had bothered him so
much during lockdown now a real comfort blanket after the crowdless
intensity of the night game. He pulled off the thin jacket of his club
branded tracksuit and sat there in white tshirt and dark blue tracky
bottoms, still exuding the uncomfortable warmth of the post-match shower.

When the doorbell chimed into his moment's peace, he got up
instinctively, then paused midway back across the room -- it was getting
towards midnight, who the fuck was turning up at this time? Winks made
his way back through the house with a dose of caution, thrown by the
disturbance, checking the security camera by the door before rushing to
unlock anything. He peered in marvel at the figure stood out on his
porch, glancing shiftily from side to side, then punched the buzzer to
unlock the door. Just ahead of him, it swung open, and in he walked.

`Glad I caught you still up,' grunted Harry Maguire, stepping inside
his home, leaving the big front door ajar and strolling on forward. The
6f4 defender had a similar dark tracksuit on in United colours,
inexplicably here straight from the game, arms curved at his sides and
fists tucked into the pockets of a tracksuit top; he was grinning, but in
a moody, frustrated way. There was enough reason for both sides to feel
cheated by tonight's draw, Harry begrudgingly supposed.

`Mate,' he responded wearily, rubbing at his tired eyes and lingering
by the security panel as his visitor swaggered on by him into the
corridor. He stared from the half-open door to the other Harry, then
shook himself awake. `Harry, mate, what the fuck...? It's pretty late,
you know...'

Maguire turned back to him, finished inspecting the random art that
decorated the hall. He flashed a suspicious smile. `Aye, `tis. But we
just need a quick word, is all. A quick word about you -- and Eric.' His
grin had the look of a shark going in for the kill.

Immediately, Winks was flustered. He pulled his hand away from the
security panel and stepped closer to Maguire, knowing his expression
betrayed him. `What? How do you know about that? What did Dier say?' he
demanded, all in a mumbled rush. He saw the amusement in the United
captain's beady eyes, felt the renewed frustration of it all rush back;
he'd been determined to finally chat to Dier about it this evening
properly, to finally ease some of the awkwardness that had settled
between them since the, erm, incident, but... He'd wussed out, bottled
it, given up. Largely because this one had been looming about when he
tried!

`It's okay, I'm not here to judge,' Harry said in a surprisingly
playful voice. Winks stared worriedly at him, squaring defensively up to
the bigger bloke, a lean 5ft10 compared to the Manchester player's
towering physique. But his expression and tone were confusing, almost...
flirtatious.

`What do you mean?' Harry demanded. `Why have you...?' He frowned
irritably at the bigger fella, becoming as annoyed as confused; what
fucking nonsense was this, from Maguire and/or from Dier? He was quickly
regretting his response, his lack of denial or refusal to engage with a
conversation he'd been dreading for days. `Look, dunno what you heard,
big lad, but...' But then Harry's hand was on him, reaching down between
them at crotch height and resting calmly on the front of his trackies,
accompanied by a casual grin on his rugged features.

`It's okay, lad,' grunted Maguire. Winks stood very still and felt the
vaguely defined pack get a soft but clear squeeze through the baggy nylon
of his dark blue trackies, prickling immediately with the unexpected
attention.

`Tough game tonight,' the 24-year-old blurted out uncomfortably, as if
this wasn't happening, just standing there with his arms hanging loosely
at his sides, his eyes following the twitching mass of Harry's reaching
arm, up and down. Maguire just laughed softly at this comment then
scoffed.

`You guys were lucky,' he muttered mutinously.

`A draw was fair,' Winks jibed quietly. He watched Harry's long thick
fingers skirt about his bulge then pull back. He could feel his cock
reacting annoyingly to this invasive touch, his whole body suddenly hot
and bothered. He realised he'd been holding his breath and let out a
frustrated sigh. `Mate, I dunno what big Eric told ya, but...'

Very simply and without fuss, Harry took his hand and pushed it inside
his own pants instead, forcing his big paw down past the waistband and
inside the leg-hugging black training pants he wore, accentuating an
already heavy bulge and fumbling loutishly at his crotch, right there in
front of Winks, smirking and making another gentle scoffing huff of
noise. `You dirty bugger,' intoned the northern lad coolly, his voice a
low purr, `never would have thought you had it in ya, Tinky Winky...'

Then, just as Winks was about to pull away and break this incredibly
tense moment, Maguire was pushing down at his pants and unfurling the big
mass of his prick; young Harry had caught awkward sight of it before, was
vaguely aware of what a well-hung beast his England teammate was, but he
made no habit of checking out and measuring up lads in showers! Now he
found himself looking at the weighty schlong in full, dangling out of the
front of those black trackies and swinging pendulously away from
Maguire's big hand, obviously already a little aroused too. Again, he'd
been holding his breath, let out a heated sigh, brought a hand up to rub
over his dry mouth in confused alarm. `Buddy,' he grunted, `what are
you...?' But the other Harry was grabbing his other hand, loose at his
side, and dragging it across, closing his fingers around that long floppy
snake, then returning to squeeze and pull at his own bulge. `Ohhh...'

`Mmm... good man.... You're getting' hard already...?' The big imposing
figure of the United player chuckled sleazily and seemed to close the
distance between their bodies more, looking down on him, squeezing firmly
at his bulge, pushing his own weighty cock more firmly into Winks'
quivering hand, two Harrys pulling close in the hallway. `Knew it... knew
you'd be up for it... you dirty little fucker... knew it as soon as I saw
that pic...'

`What pic...?'

`You know what pic,' moaned Maguire, lifting his other hand and
stroking it imperiously over Harry's cheek a little, cupping his
stubbled jaw and tilting his head upwards, their faces parted but the
bigger man's warm stale breath playing on his features. `Your Dier's
little slut, ain't you... mmm... but maybe your anyone's slut, ey...?'
Another dark little laugh.

Harry's hand was no longer on his crotch; as Winks stood there, his own
grip resting limply against the swelling length of the man's stupidly
big appendage, he felt Maguire's fingers dance over his hip and reach
around to squeeze at his plump backside, making him stiffen in posture
and yelp in surprise, more freaked by this touch than what he was
holding. `Oi...! Fella...! Watch it...' Then it was too much, those long
powerful fingers squeezing his buttock through the fabric and edging into
the wedgie of his crack; he pulled back, almost stumbling into the wall,
holding his hands up innocently as if to wipe away the fact he'd just
been holding a cock. `Mate! Fuck's sake...! What picture?!'

Maguire stood there, big cock swinging free at the waist, pants bunched
up around his loaded ball-sack; he tugged a phone from his pocket and
fumbled at the screen, then held it up like a piece of court evidence.
Winks stared confusedly at it, whatever snapshot of gay porn it was! Some
lad's body and -- sure, a flash of dark hair, pale lean muscular
physique, bit of a hairy arse on show, what was that white stuff
streaking over it? Oh, fuck...!

`Mate, that ain't me!' he protested violently, overwhelmed by the
encounter, horrified by the stiffness of his own member in his undies
now, really quite worried by what other guys must be saying about him for
any of this to happen. `Fuck off, Maguire, that ain't me, I dunno what
the hell you're on tonight, but-` Maguire was pushing forward towards
him, dick swinging, reaching for his bulge again, except now it was more
than a bulge, it was the diagonal arcing form of his stiffness, clearly
pronounced in the dark fabric, and big Harry's fingers found it easily.
`Ohh... mate...!'

`Lads,' barked a third voice, from the door, `oh lads!' There was a
gentle slam as the door, left carelessly half open by Maguire, fell
firmly shut, a little beep of the alarm system following. Both Harrys
turned sharply down the corridor to look at Eric Dier, stood with a look
of critical interest on his ruggedly handsome face, facing them down the
stuffy warm air of the hallway, hands on his hips.



Every minute of tonight's game had been an exercise in deep frustration
for Eric. His tentative relaxation after the massage had been crumpled by
Maguire's dredging of that silly photograph, by Winks' obvious
discomfort; by Kane's cold distance in the changing rooms before the
game, the one person he wanted to confide those worries in, remaining as
far from him as possible at all times, behind a wall of silence. Since
Harry Kane's tender intervention and goodbye wank in the showers, he'd
tried to be more respectful of this distance, less moody in response, but
tonight his emotions had got the better of him.

And it had manifested throughout the match, even whilst Spurs were
happily 1 goal up. He'd felt himself distracted at times by fleeting
looks of accusation from Harry Winks, from the complete absence of looks
and acknowledgement from Kane himself, up front trying to secure a win
for them. For Dier, every glance or look from a United player had felt
suspicious and accusing, his mind playing on Maguire's vaguely
threatening presence and what he might have shown or said to other Old
Trafford men in the months since that clumsy picture message. And
eventually it had made him clumsy, allowing dubious penalties and fucking
up Tottenham's defence: 1-1, disappointing draw.

After the game, he'd tried and failed to catch Kane, in dire need of
someone to just speak easily to, someone who understood him or his
predicament. But the tall forward had been typically evasive, seeming to
vanish off for an interview just to avoid bumping into him. So Dier had
changed plans: if Winks wanted to talk it out, then he'd do that, he'd
address his own dubious behaviour and apologise for the confusing antics
he'd initiated there! But Winks too seemed to slip away from him in the
busy post-match environment. By the end of the long night, Dier had found
himself sat alone in his car, cursing at what should have been an
exciting and satisfying Friday night; somehow, this had resolved into the
decision to drive to Winks' home. Somehow.

What had he come for? An argument? To explain himself? To initiate more?
It was hard to know for sure, especially now, staring down the hallway at
the two of them, feeling vaguely that a complicated situation was very
much his own fault. He registered, inevitably, the hanging proportions of
Maguire's endowment, and the very obvious erection in the front of
Winks' pants, and he felt immediately aroused. Two very surprising
blokes in a position of intimacy. He rubbed the front of his own bottoms
and lingered there in the doorway, the night's many frustrations
channelling into one mood: horny as fuck.

`Eric,' breathed Winks awkwardly, sounding caught out, but also maybe
relieved.

`Here he is,' murmured Maguire pleasantly, `Mr Photographer
himself...'

`Lads,' puffed Dier again, taking a few steps towards them, clapping
his hands together and rubbing his palms eagerly, `how cheeky of you not
to invite me...?' He just grinned at them, ignoring the awkwardness, and
walked right up to them. Maguire looked about to speak, to make some
sarcy retort, or mild threat; and Winks was stammering his lips open and
shut and looking at him with fight-or-flight tension. Dier ignored this
and just reached down, scooping a hand at both their crotches with
relaxed confidence, asserting his own position in this little frisson. He
curled his fingers about the stiffening bulk of Maguire's big northern
meat in one hand, and slid the other inside the front of Winks'
trackies, fingering at his hard-on for the second time in recent memory.
`Mmm, lads... so excited to see me, eh...? Come on, let's get out of this
corridor, fellas...'

The 26-year-old let go and brushed past them, strolling on through into
Winks' big decorative lounge, a room he'd enjoyed many a quiet drink in
before visiting the young bachelor on team socials, transformed now by
lamplight and shadows and his own growing arousal. As he walked, he
peeled his long-sleeved Spurs training top up and off, baring the blotchy
red of his muscular torso, still over-warm from showers and changing,
letting his top float to the cool floor and wandering on into the centre
of the room. He looked over one bare shoulder to see them follow: Winks
drifting awkwardly after him as if literally led by the erection in his
pants, pulling uncomfortably at his tshirt and staring at him with a
clear memory in his eyes. Just how much had young Harry enjoyed being
Dier's jealousy toy...? After him lumbered Harry, a hint of surprise in
his complacent smirk, swaggering through the lounge like he owned the
place, cock almost fully hard now, its full length and girth sending a
shiver of admiration through Dier's body.

Eric saw the half-finished glass of bourbon on the low wooden table,
picked it up, took a sip. He grinned at them both and held it forward as
if in a toast. `Dunno about you fellas,' he murmured, `but that match
has got me so worked up...'

The other two men closed in on his position, movement as roughly
masculine and inevitably confrontational as a set-piece on the pitch. Big
tall Maguire was reaching a hand about younger Winks' shoulders and
steering the three of them together, then reaching is other hand to
briefly fondle the rounded muscle of Dier's shoulder, smirking hungrily
and letting his big thick erection dominate the space between the three
of them. Eric placed the emptied tumbler down on the table and took hold
of Maguire's thick tool instead, then let his other hand reach up to
stroke Winks' chest a little and move to tickle at his chin. Oh yes, he
thought, this was going to be fun.



Harry Maguire moaned softly in appreciation for Eric Dier's surprisingly
tender touch, and squeezing his big arm more firmly about Winks'
shoulders, bringing the three of them close together. He let go though,
to do the important job of tugging his tracksuit top and the red polo
shirt beneath it up and off, tossing them over his broad shoulders and
baring the long landscape of his muscled torso to the others; less
compactly defined than hunky Dier, but impressive in his stature and
latent power. He and Eric both took a grip of the other Harry's tshirt
and, as one, began peeling it up. Winks made a vague noise of concern but
lifting his arms to help them, and then they were all shirtless, all
erect, all touching.

To his disappointment, burly Dier let go of his cock, letting it sag and
swing, and seemed to ply his attention on the other Harry instead. So,
that's how it was. This close contact felt weirdly like some extension
of the battle on the pitch, Maguire thought, another way for the men to
compete and challenge each other's dominance... and Winks here was the
ball in that metaphor. He grinned playfully at them both and pawed at the
midfielder's bare shoulders and neck, enjoying the nervousness in his
posture, watching as Eric freed his rigid cock from his pants and gave it
a good slow pull, seeming performative for his benefit.

`Ohhh, fuck,' Winks murmured as his tool was handled, and Maguire's
big strong hands ragged down his undies and his trackies more, baring
most of his legs, stooping to drag them right past his knees, then
running his hands back up those dark-haired legs until they topped his
thighs and were grabbing his arse again, now bare and exposed. Harry
looked at it, the generous curve of the lean midfielder's bottom, cheeks
plump and low, but very smooth; it occurred to him with a note of almost
tangential surprise that Winks told the truth. That picture was not him
at all. But...

Dier had shoved Winks now, pushing him back towards the low spread of the
pale grey sofa, the overwhelmed form of the 5ft10 player sinking down
into it with his hairy thighs spread and his cock standing firmly to
attention. And Eric was down on the floor on his knees, kneeling forward
so that his dark blue tracksuit bottoms pulled attractively over his
muscled rump, his back rippling as he leant in and took Winks in hand,
whilst kissing the furry flesh of his upper thigh with stooped head.
Harry pushed his own pants down and off, stepping out of them in just red
socks, and looming in to re-join the action. He slid into sitting
position next to Winks, throwing a long arm about his clammy shoulders
and leaning in to nuzzle playfully at his shoulder, his neck, letting his
lips graze skin without really kissing.

He reached a big strong hand in and roughly pushed Eric's paw from the
younger lad's cock, taking over assertively, squeezing and dragging on
that shapely erection until Winks let out a long strangled moan; but as
if rising to the challenge, Eric was stroking his inner thighs and then
dipping his face down, applying a long firm tongue to the tight package
of Winks' bollocks, turning his moan into a sheer whine. Eric's eyes
met Harry's, challenging and provocative, with the shared lad's cock
erect between their gazes.

Well, Harry thought bitterly, two can play at that game.

When Maguire swooped in and lapped his furtive tongue over the head of
Winks' prick, the handsome young Spurs player practically screamed in
new delight, writhing against the sofa as two big dominant men attended
to his privates with competitive relish. Maguire and Dier's faces drew
weirdly close as they flicked their tongues against cock and ball,
nuzzling at the young athlete's privates and frustrating him with their
moist attention; they ran their strong hands up and down his legs and
onto the toned smooth skin of his torso, pressing him back against the
soft cushions. But Maguire had to hold himself back, staring at the ample
meat of Harry Winks, and thinking about `the rules'; was oral covered?
He wasn't allowed to nosh off other blokes, was he? He pulled back,
uncertain, and then another little voice in his head nagged him for even
wanting it: Harry Maguire doesn't need to sink to that, he's the one
who gets noshed! It was different with Luke, he told himself.

So while Dier's cropped head slid down and began to mouth properly at
young Harry's cock, bigger older Harry grabbed and pushed at the lad's
middle and up to his chest and planted his lips there instead, flicking
his tongue over one soft nipple until it went rock-hard, then reaching
his big body over to do the same to the other. He laughed excitedly and
pawed at Harry's neck and face, rubbing at his pink lips with a rough
thumb, teasing him with a kiss he wouldn't give. `You slut,' he
snarled at him, `you dirty little fucker... you love Dier's lips on you,
I bet, you prissy little Ken doll...' Winks just moaned, and Dier slurped
messily. `Yeah, just you moan, you little cunt...' And with these
grunted attacks, Maguire began to reach down the back of his neck, past
his shoulders, tracing the nobs of his spine and massaging at his toned
lithe muscle, reaching down to find those plump cheeks again, sliding his
hand between them and the sofa to give them a good, tight squeeze, mmm...

Dier was getting up to his feet, and pushing down at his pants, releasing
his hard-on -- a good size, Harry thought, though no competition for me...
He watched Eric lean back, hands on hips, letting his erection rise and
twitch in the air between them, pink tip a little glossy as the foreskin
drew back. Winks was staring at it like the victim of a hypnotic snake.
`Go on,' Maguire drawled at him in his rough Yorkshire accent, `go on
and kiss it, you little slut...'

`Mmm, come on,' Eric's voice joined his, `get your lips around it,
mate...'

Maguire looked briefly up and felt a bond between he and Dier, both of
them flaring nostrils and narrowing eyes in lusty enjoyment of the
moment's corruption; Winks just staring innocently at the thick veiny
tool beneath Dier's sculpted six-pack, pronounced by the patch of neatly
trimmed pubes above it and he low swing of bollocks beneath. He leant
hesitantly forward, tongue darting between his lips. `Ah, go on,'
Maguire grunted, and he pushed his head forward more urgently, until his
lips and tongue met Eric's cock, provoking deep groans from the big
defensive midfielder, 6ft of pure English muscle stood over them.

Maguire groaned his envy and ruffled Winks' short floppy hair, then
patted his neck and slid his hand back down his spine, back down to that
tensed arse. He leaned close and touched both of their arse, reaching one
hand past Dier's broad hips to pat and fondle his muscular glutes, while
his other crept under Winks' arse and tickle at the edge of his crack,
the little butt-cleavage behind him, feeling it dampen with nervous
sweat. Winks, his eyes shut tightly and more sweat beading on his brow,
opened his mouth and took in a little of Dier's meat, making a whimpery
gurgle as he did. More loud purrs from big Eric himself, driving Maguire
wild with a voyeur's enjoyment and a heady jealousy that his own dick
just swung unattended, slapping a little against Winks' leg as he
twisted beside him. The younger Harry, as if reading his mind, took
uncertain hold of it, one cock in his palm and one between his lips, his
whole lithe body trembling against the couch.

`Get up,' Maguire barked commandingly, `get up you cunt...' And Winks
shifted immediately in nervous obedience, helped by the imperious drag of
Harry's big hands, up onto his feet in front of him, Dier shifting away
and stroking on his gently dampened bell-end, smirking happily at the
tentative little suck he'd received. `Go on, suck the lad again,'
Maguire barked at his rival, `let's make this little pussy kid cum
buckets...'

He spanked the pale smooth buttocks in front of him, still seated on the
couch, and laughed some more. `You slutty little prick,' he teased at
Winks, `you dirty gobshite... bend over a bit...' He slapped his arse
again more, leaving a large red handprint on one cheek. Dier was down on
his knees in front of him, kissing just below his navel, and young Harry
murmured and moaned; Maguire spanked him a third time, making his whole
body twitch and sway. Then he squeezed the red cheek and parted the
surprisingly smooth unexplored crack between them, thinking of a dirty
trick not covered by he and Shaw's `rules'. `You like a spanking do
ya, little Harry?' Thwack. `Dirty fucker, getting sucked by your big
teammate there, god imagine if your mates knew...' Thwack. `Mmmm, bend
over a bit more you little bitch, let me...' And Harry pushed his face
in, echoing the dirty behaviour he'd never even imagined until he
witnessed Vardy at it on Ben Chilwell. It made sense that he loved doing
it and was good at it: he'd always had to spend ages going down on women
to loosen them enough for his gigantic prick.

As predicted, Winks didn't take long to cum. He panted and moaned
loudly, half-formed words crying from his lips, his hands flailing about
at his sides as he stood there, double-teamed by them; Maguire held him
firmly by the muscular sides just above his hips, and kept his mouth
between the globed cheeks, pushing his tongue again and again over that
virgin territory, loving the sweaty taste and the way it clearly
frightened and excited the twink, whose sloppy wet blowjob from Eric Dier
was so very audible. `Ohhhh, guys, ohhhh, I'm gonna...' Maguire leaned
back and delivered a couple of harsh, noisy spanks to the other cheek
whilst he watched Winks from behind, quivering in his orgasm, head
rolling on his shoulders, arms held halfway up and hands curled into
excited fists.

Harry let himself fall back in against the couch, licking his lips and
squeezing possessively at one of the younger lad's chubby cheeks, seeing
Eric lean back and shift to the side; he hadn't been sure, but he
realised that Dier was no swallower, it seemed. The younger footballer's
wet orgasm was streaked beautifully over the golden fluff of Dier's
chest hair, trails of white oozing down his chunky pecs as he moved away
and rose unsteadily to his feet, holding his own dick and chuckling
triumphantly at Harry's dizzy orgasm. The young lad was swaying back
towards the couch, and Maguire shifted aside out of his way, pushing up
onto his feet and asserting his superior height.

He looked down at Winks, bleary-eyed as he fell onto the cushions, still
gasping, his cock rock-hard and trickling spunk from its rounded head. He
was an attractive sight, a smooth and toned young finger of manly beauty,
a shapely mannequin of attractiveness, wiped out against the sofa by the
lusty attention of two more experienced men. Harry bit his lip excitedly,
and swung his left arm about Dier's broad shoulders, the two of them
stood over their prize. They seem to have the same idea at once, reaching
for and yanking on their two sizeable tools, big thick bodies hugged
together as they stood over Winks as one.

`Come on,' Maguire purred in his ear, `let's drench the cunt...'

It seemed to take Winks a moment to remember they were even there,
blinking sleepily at them from the sofa, stiffening up a bit as they
stepped in closer, shins and knees brushing sweatily. Maguire squeezed
his arm muscles about Dier's neck and shoulders and pumped his right
hand aggressively on the long, mighty shaft of his cock, spitting down to
lube it a bit. He eyed Eric's red face and heaving, cum-streaked chest,
his bulging arm muscles as he too wanked furiously. Then Maguire felt one
of those driving urges to be FULLY in control of the room, and he
unfurled his arm from about his England teammate's shoulders and reached
down to his crotch instead. Now he wanked them both, looming over
transfixed Harry Winks, grinding both of their big cocks right up to the
moment of climax. `Stay still,' he growled at Winks, `stay still and
let us... mmm.... Oh yeh... come on, Eric... oh fuckkk...' And as one, the
two big muscular athletes unloaded their balls, showering the Tottenham
twink in globs of their manly seed. Spunk rained messily down on Harry,
mostly hitting his abdomen and his heaving flat chest, but some streaking
the hair of his thighs, a wad of it landing on his wilting prick, some
reaching his shoulders, his chin. He stared wide-eyed at them as it
happened, this rain of white goo. Both Maguire and Dier heaved out sighs
of satisfaction, Eric's arm slung about Harry's waist, torsos pulled
close as they squeezed out final drops of their heady spunk, both tossed
to completion by the United captain's powerful grip.



Outside, they stood at their respective cars, silhouetted by security
lamps on the gravel drive of the bachelor pad. Inside, presumably, the
24-year-old single man was fast asleep on the couch, sticking to its
fabric with a mixture of three men's spunk, where they'd left him to
recover. Perhaps he'd dragged himself for a shower to wash off their
loads, or just crawled straight into bed. Eric Dier wasn't sure which
image he preferred, but he resolved to give Winks a phone call in the
morning and check he was alright; he'd never seen someone look quite so
traumatised by the thrill of their own orgasm, after he sucked him to the
edge and let him spunk on his pecs.

And now they were out here, looking at one another, he and Maguire.

`He'll be alreet, won't he?' the Yorkshireman grunted at him, zipping
up his tracksuit top.

Dier nodded slowly, hand lingering on the door-handle to the driver's
seat of his expensive motor. He was admiring the tall broad figure of his
fellow national hero, a shadowy figure in the nightlights outside Winks'
North London home. A man full of fucking surprises, apparently. `He'll
be good, he's just surprised at himself,' he murmured vaguely. `It was
a few big firsts for him...'

Maguire let out a calm tinkle of laughter, shifting in and out of the
light as he moved from one foot to the other. `Dirty boy... Fun time,
though, eh.' He brought a hand up and fiddled with the shaggy mop of his
hair, displaced and sweaty. `You've played with him before, mate...?'
The nervous honesty of the question hung between them in the humid night.

`A bit,' Dier said vaguely. He had no idea what could and couldn't be
said here, between them, when they'd seen and felt so much in there. He
was struggling to re-evaluate his image of the big brick-headed defender
in light of his dirty talk and lusty action. His whole perspective on
Manchester United's lofty captain was turned upside down, and he
realised that perhaps the opposite was also true. `Nothing major,' he
added weakly. `He's never been sucked like that before. Never... tried
to suck, either...'

`Was he good?' Maguire asked bluntly, eyes catching the light with a
little glimmer of curiosity.

Dier shrugged. `He was terrified to try it, but...' He let out a
self-conscious chuckle. `Maybe I can show him the ropes.' He folded his
thick arms at his chest, resting his backside to the car, finding it
strange to be talking so openly about this with a guy from another team.

`Shame we didn't fuck him,' Maguire said. Blunt, again, but also
experimental; testing the waters of this friendship and this openness. He
was grinning, but a little sheepishly, shifting foot to foot again in the
shadows, pawing at his car keys. Dier laughed a little bit and nodded
slowly, not really saying anything; internally, though, he was
passionately agreeing, and wondering if he could get that far with his
twinky teammate. `Ain't him in the photo though, is it?' He was thrown
by big Harry's question, the subtle shift in tone, from camaraderie to
suspicion.

Eric started speaking a few times but let the words die in his mouth.
Eventually, he just nodded his agreement, and rolled his shoulders in a
shrug. Maguire spoke again: `And you ain't gonna fuckin' tell me who
is, I suppose?' There was a laugh that followed, easy and companionable.
They looked at each other, and Dier recognised the discreet
understanding. `No,' he said firmly but warmly, feeling the mutual
respect of a fellow player. `It's not your business, chief. It's no
one for you to worry about.' The thought, for a moment, of Harry Maguire
getting his big rough hands on Troy Parrott send a protective shudder
through Eric, already ashamed to have exposed his young pal by ever
sharing the degrading image.

`Shame,' Maguire sighed. `Good arse on him.'

Dier didn't want to talk about the image, or hear Maguire's lewd
fantasies over it. He bristled, trying to signal that the conversation
needed to end. `I need to get home,' he said a little more coolly,
`I'm fucking shagged out.' He reached for the door handle again, half
turning away from the other bloke.

`That pic,' Maguire said firmly, dragging back his attention. But he
didn't go on about the lad in it, he didn't push at Troy's hidden
identity. `It were never meant for Winks, were it?' He'd dropped his
voice to a conspiratorial mutter, thick with his accent. He took a long
stride across the gravel space between them, feet crunching close to
Eric's. `It weren't meant for him, it weren't meant for me.' They
were close now, Dier feeling suddenly much less comfortable in their
restructured friendship, the inevitable exposure hovering in the air
between them, unspoken but about to become explicit. `There's a third
Harry, ain't there?' Maguire whispered. But it sounded less like an
accusation, more tender and cautious than that.

Eric sighed and gave a slight nod of his head. `Or... there was,' he
corrected in a quiet, gruff voice. He looked at Harry's stern, attentive
face. `There... isn't any more.' There was no doubt in Maguire's eyes
or his voice that he knew exactly who the other Harry was, it must be
fucking obvious; still, Eric wouldn't say `Kane' out loud, make it
real. Still, he felt the emotions tug at him. `There was, now there
isn't, simple as that,' he muttered at the bigger guy, wanting this
conversation over with, wanting to get in his car and fuck off.

What came next took him by surprise, and yet was everything he needed
tonight. His big friend reached forward, threw his long arms about him,
and held him tightly in a laddish, matey hug, squeezing him for several
long moments in the shadowy driveway, not saying another word. Eric
briefly resisted then hugged back, squeezing his conflicted feelings into
the manly embrace, just feeling the sturdy comfort of someone who --
against all odds -- seemed to understand his position and his suffering.
When Maguire pulled gently away, his big rugged face was awash with
surprising empathy, and he patted Dier on the arms softly with both big
hands.

`Look after yourself, mate,' the United player said in a kind mutter.

`Yeah,' Eric said, fighting to keep his voice strong and unemotional,
`you too.' They got in their cars and drove off, leaving the scene of
their playful enjoyment and almost brotherly communion. Dier's
frustrations and temper were sated by the hot interplay of teasing Harry
Winks into the `other side' of male sexuality; but his deep heartbreak
was sated by nothing more than a simple hug, and the vague sense that
someone might actually understand. Wow, he thought, hitting the road and
sweeping north towards his own suburb, Harry fucking Maguire: a man full
of surprises.




**A LONG OVERDUE CONFRONTATION, RIGHT? I HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT...
BUT THE ONLY QUESTION IS, WHAT WAS LUKE SHAW GETING UP TO WHILE HIS
BOYFRIEND WAS OUT PLAYING DETECTIVE? ;) **