Date: Wed, 1 Jul 2020 16:10:36 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 136: Switched On

Part 136: Switched On


The desert seafront stretched ahead as he walked on, catching up with his
girlfriend by phone and yawning out the weariness of a tough weeknight
football game. Luke Shaw chuckled at updates on life at home, grinning
fondly into the middle distance and keeping his other hand shoved in the
front pouch of his Adidas hoody. It had been a hot day but the cool sea
breeze tickled at his bare lower legs and had pushed him into pulling up
his hood as he wandered on.

3-0 against Brighton, a cheering Tuesday night result for Manchester
United, and he knew he'd put in a solid shift in left-back, until
eventually replaced in the final third by his youthful counterpart
Brandon Williams. He'd enjoyed the game and been pleased to see handsome
young Greenwood claim two goals, supposedly the youngest fella ever to
make that tally at the club. No doubt Williams would be taking care of
him well later, if not already, as reward for those glittering antics.

Yes, it was as good an away trip as it got, really; it really did feel
like the Red Devils were going to end the season very well after those
early blips. But for Luke, there was an uneasy pressure on things after
the weekend's FA Cup game and, before it, their 3-0 destruction of
Sheffield; another important win for the team, but a personal
embarrassment for Luke himself. He was trying his best to ignore the
attention that little incident was getting online, for a whole week now,
just keeping his head down and working hard. On the walk back to the
hotel, he'd be checking news sites and forums to see what, if any,
reactions there were to his performance against Brighton this evening.

Luke leaned on the railings, staring out to see, letting the warm phone
call slump towards murmured goodbyes and `I love yous'. It was odd how
easy it was to compartmentalise that -- to say it and mean it, knowing
that he could say it just as meaningfully to someone else. Luke supposed
he was probably a terrible person for being able to do that, but he was
learning to avoid that question.

Shaw made his way back to the hotel quietly, the deep cowl of his black
hoody performing the double duty of shielding him from the cooling night
and avoiding any `celebrity sightings' as he picked his way through the
quiet seaside town towards the otherwise deserted central hotel the squad
were occupying before traveling north early tomorrow. He gave the sea
view a last thoughtful look then made his way back in through automatic
sliding doors and the quiet corporate chic of the reception.

Upstairs, he could still hear music and chat emerging quietly from the
doors of some rooms, their 11pm curfew impending. Despite his recent
embarrassment, Luke felt a surge of affection for the Premiership team
and his position here, no desire to play anywhere else with any other set
of lads. Even Lingard, after that sordid saga, was softening again
towards him, their friendship picking up after months of unease, and Dan
James was a totally different friend again after he'd given him an
almost medicinal sorting out in that training session. And at the heart
of it all, he thought with relentless thrill, was his relationship with
their powerful captain -- even after Saturday.

Luke's room was at the far end of the corridor, and he suspected
Fernandes would already be asleep, he'd looked so worn out when they
sloped away from dinner and Luke formed his plan to go for a walk rather
than bore the Portuguese striker with his loved up phone chatter. Sliding
down the carpeted hallway, the 24-year-old footballer pulled the key from
the tight pocket of his shorts and fumbled at its clunky keychain,
reaching the door to Room 231. He pushed it into the lock and twisted,
stifling another little yawn, tired out from sea air and the battle for 3
points; the door pushed inwards and he heaved a thick shoulder at it,
since the carpet dragged a little, and stepped fully inside the room,
expecting the quiet snore of his roommate and a disorienting darkness:
instead, dull lamplight and a surprising tall figure in the centre of the
room, body glinting in that soft orange glow.

Harry Maguire stood there, 6ft4 of bared muscle, all of it oiled up and
shiny in the lights so that Luke's eyes instantly roved across the
exposed platform of his chest and the gently tensed fold of his strong
arms, then up to the burlesque collar and bowtie at his thick throat,
then back down the ripples of that torso to the sparkly black fabric of
the heavy pouch between his legs, wearing some sort of stripper's thong.
The big Yorkshireman stood there, exposed and shiny with baby oil,
shooting a smouldering stare his way in an oddly artificial pose, then
broke the sultry magic by loudly clearing his throat. `I've been
waiting for you,' he announced in a voice of forced excitement.
Somewhere nearby, the opening bars of `Pony' by Ginuwine starting
grinding out.

`Well,' Luke declared, `I can see that.'



`FUCKING SWITCH ON!'

The words had fallen out of his mouth in an aggressive roar, as such
things often did; Harry Maguire led by example and gave everything to his
play, never subtle or understated in his team spirit or desire to win. It
was only as the victorious Premiership clash came to its end, 3-0 over
plucky underdogs Sheffield, that the shouted criticism came vibrating
back through the United captain's thoughts, staring over the dressing
room at its very target.

Luke looked dazed and shy, stripped to the waist with little flecks of
mud and loose grass spotted against his bare torso, stood a little apart
from the others and seeming slow to undress from his kit and go through
to the showers. Harry looked at him guiltily, remember his angry outburst
after a few too many slow errors from his fellow defender. As he looked
on, a couple of the others -- Rashford, Martial -- slapped him proudly in
passing and commented on another great game's leadership from their
relatively new skipper, but this praise for his forceful behaviour just
made him feel worse, looking at his precious boy and thinking about how
he'd snapped at him.

Once the changing room quietened a little, because most of the lads were
moving through into the communal or individual showers of the Old
Trafford home changing rooms, Maguire moved around the room a little and
sidled up to Shaw, stripped down to his own underpants and a towel
dangling obscuringly from one hand below his chest. `Hey,' he panted
softly, resisting the urge to reach a tender hand towards one of Luke's
bare shoulders.

Shaw jolted away from in surprise, looking almost as if he didn't know
where he was. `Huh? Oh, Harry, hey... yeah... solid win...' The younger
defender brought one hand up to rub over his bearded face. `Sorry about
today...'

`No, no,' Maguire said quickly, keeping his voice low so as not to be
overheard and lose any face, `I just wanted to say sorry for...'

`I was shit,' grunted Luke. `I was proper slow and shit. Don't
worry...'

`But still...' Harry stood there uncomfortably, a little put out by the
detached gloom of the handsome southern lad, still able to hear himself
furiously shouting over the pitch at him. `I was just doing my job,' he
said, half to himself. `I can't be soft on anyone...' Luke nodded
distantly, rubbing his face again and starting to push down at his white
shorts. `Are you sure you're okay?' Harry asked, a nervous edge to his
lifting voice.

`Just a sleepless night,' Luke admitted. `Little one wasn't great.
You know how it is. Mummy getting paranoid over slightest thing, then
we're in A&E, and everything is fine, back home, but... yeah, not so much
sleep going on, so...'

`Oh fuck,' Harry muttered, `I didn't realise... Luke, you shoulda
said, I wouldn't have...'

`It doesn't matter,' Luke grunted. He didn't sound sulky but he did
sound sad. Just as Harry was about to say more, freshly regretful at the
realisation of just how tired the new dad's eyes looked there, he heard
his name being called from the other end of the locker-room; Ole
Solskjaer standing waiting for him for a debriefing, looking very pleased
with himself. Maguire gave a last anxious look at his teammate and lover,
then pulled away for this chat before the showers, leaving Luke to
quietly undress.



That had been the initial reaction, but then the online reactions had
come. It had been the talk of the training centre two days later: United
and footy fans all over the country greatly amused and mostly impressed
by Maguire's no-nonsense approach to team discipline. It was playfully
lauded over three days of training, prepping for the Norwich game on
Saturday, with various shouted jokes as soon as anyone stopped running or
rested for a moment, in case Maguire's Law came down on them. `Fuckin'
switch on!' became a chanted catchphrase by the Friday afternoon and on
the coach to Norwich

On that trip, another success, the `Away' rooming fell against Maguire
and Shaw's hopes yet again. Harry was roomed with Pogba and Luke with
Rashford. When he tried to get Luke alone between the game and their
hotel dinner, he was evasive and distant, just as he'd been all week.
They stole barely a brief conversation and it became a restless night for
the rugged captain; at dinner he almost lost his cool at a series of
jokes from the other players at Luke's expense, commenting that he
should be on diet portions to make sure he was running at full speed next
match-day.

His split-second decision not to fully interfere in that and tell
McTominay to stop being a cheeky prick sat with him in the night and he
ended up lying there sleepless and huffing in bed across the room from
Paul Pogba's deep snores. As always happened when he was frustrated and
downcast, he got horny (which also tended to happen every time he was
relaxed and contented, too) and he lay there indulging in an angry wank,
taking his mood out on his own big prick, with tightly gripped strokes
and barely suppressed grunts, until he spilled a two-day load of creamy
white against the sheets and down his own bumpy scarred knuckles.

He woke up with his dick, soft and clammy, still in his hand, having
wanked himself sore and into sleep; it was just luck that his French
roommate hadn't woken up and looked over, since the bedding was twisted
and knotted over his limbs to expose the way his cock and emptied balls
splayed over his hairy crotch. Maguire grunted sleepily at this and found
his underpants about his calves, yanking them up before thudding out of
bed and going through for his shower.

Refreshed but still tired, the United captain ended up the first lad at
breakfast, slowly realising that he'd piled up his plate from the
continental buffet but was really just sitting there waiting for Luke
Shaw to show his face so he could check he was okay. He'd seemed quiet
yesterday and his text replies were brief. Before he knew what he was
doing, Harry Maguire was drumming a small metal spoon noisily at his
coffee cup and tapping the fingers of the other hand on the surface of
the breakfast table, eyes trained on the entrance and the lift doors.
Each subsequent lad that entered gave him a nod of greeting but the giant
defender barely noticed or responded to them, so they vaguely avoided
him, leaving him sat alone, tense and erratic.

Finally, he saw him, sweeping noisily into the room in the middle of a
big leonine yawn, attractively bearded and a baggy jumper pulled over his
United leisurewear in the air-conditioned cool of the hotel dining room.
Maguire pushed back from his table and left his uneaten food behind,
intercepting the other player at the middle of the buffet spread and
nudging their arms together. `Mornin',' he said a little hoarsely.
`You okay?'

Luke blinked his way and smiled a little sleepily. `Good,' he
confirmed, but without much enthusiasm. `Bit tired.'

`Same,' Harry said quickly, `I couldn't sleep, cos...'

`Ended up sneaking out of my room,' Luke broke in confidingly, leaning
closer over the empty breakfast plate in his hands, `cos Dan was texting
me, thirsty fucker...' A sleazy little chuckle and a return of the elbow
nudge. `I ended up meeting him in the hotel pool locker-room and fucking
him then and there. Can you believe it?'

No, actually, Harry couldn't, but he just gawped wearily at him and
forced a grin. `You dirty dog,' he said faintly, watching as Luke began
scooping a sugary cereal into a bowl and reaching for a milk jug. `Last
night, right...? Huh... Er...'

`He just NEEDED it, you know?' Shaw muttered. `I'm surprised I had
the energy.

`Huh, aye...'

`How about you?' Luke asked with a subtle wink. `Get up to any...
mischief?'

`I wanked off three times in a row thinking about you and your beautiful
fucking face' seemed a tad extreme and honest for the busying canteen,
so Harry just shrugged ambiguously and held his hands awkwardly at his
hips, drifting after the other lad as he continued to top up a tray of
healthy breakfast foods, brightening up a little as he spoke, their
conversation shifting from his nocturnal wanderings to the journey back
to Manchester and the short gap before their next clash, Tuesday night in
Brighton. Harry looked at him, suddenly feeling impossibly distant, a
horrible realisation striking at him: he was losing his hold on Luke, and
his own officious captaining was responsible.



The idea had consumed him for the rest of the weekend and still ate at
him on Tuesday morning. On Monday, he'd tried his best to make his house
deliberately empty in the early evening, planning to lure Luke away from
the training ground and finally seize some quality time together. But
Luke had already made picnic plans with some of his girlfriend's family,
and seemed unresponsive to Harry's chat on the way off the training
pitch that day.

So by the following morning, readying himself for the afternoon's away
journey to the south coast, desperate times had triggered desperate
measures, and he'd reverted to a plan from an early anniversary with his
partner, who had been a bit obsessed with Magic Mike when it was
released, like every other woman her age. He stuffed the collar, cuffs
and baby oil into the bottom of his travel bag, and the wireless
Bluetooth speaker, blushing at his own silly determination; convincing
Bruno Fernandes to swap rooms for the night and shack up with Pogba this
time had been easier than expected, and so here he now was.

Stood gyrating his hips uncertainly in the skimpy, bedazzled fabric of
the stripper's thong, feeling the prickly warm grease of the baby oil
streaked over his long limbs and his defined torso, the starchy white
collars and cuffs clinging to the hot skin of his wrists and neck, the
stiff bowtie tickling his Adam's apple; the sleazy R&B track slurring
into life on his wireless speaker, as planned, and the awkward half-arsed
routine grinding into life just as it had for his delighted, wet-cunted
fiancée on their third anniversary. `I've been waiting for you,' he
announced in what he hoped was a seductive growl, approaching Shaw across
the room, his confidence in the quality of this seedy surprise
disappearing by the second.

`Well I can see that,' Luke replied in a voice of obvious surprise and
bewilderment, wide-eyed as he hovered in front of the hotel room door
that fell loudly shut and closed them in, two tall athletic men in the
lamplight. But as Harry minced forward, letting his heavy loaded crotch
lead and swinging his strong arms a bit exaggeratedly at his sides, he
saw the look of surprise turn to one of amusement, and when he was
standing right in front of his secret boyfriend, Shaw burst into outright
laughter, a hand lifting over his mouth.

Immediately, Maguire's certainty in this sexy cliché was gone, the
memory of how fun and naughty it had been with Fern wilted on the edge of
his mind, and he just felt exposed and silly. The thong felt tight and
daft about his waist and the oil just made his thighs and biceps rub
ridiculously against other muscles. The song sounded lame and tinny and
his tall, showy posture sagged into an embarrassed hunch, stopping where
he was and watching as Luke choked back another gulp of sudden laughter.
`Harry!' he exclaimed loudly. Maguire pulled a step back, almost
tripping over the corner of a dresser, lowering one hand to hold
foolishly about the skimpy covering of the sparkly pouch, the other
lifting self consciously towards his neck and the stripper's collar.
`What the hell is this?' his lover was asking. `Magic Maguire?'

Embarrassment turned rapidly to anger, as it easily did for Harry,
swinging away from Luke and catching sight of his rippling body in a
mirror; he smacked a fist at the piece of cheap wooden furniture, as if
for revenge, then swore loudly and retracted his hand as he cut one
finger against the rough corner of wood, reeling away back into the
centre of the room. `Fuck,' he repeated, `fuck's sake, I was just...'

Luke was quickly with him again, grabbing his arms, his thumbs slipping a
bit over the oiled skin. `Whoa...' Another more gentle laugh. `What is
this? What are you...? Where's Bruno?'

`Swapped,' Harry grunted simply into his face, tugging his arms back,
but Luke's hands slid to his waist instead, still chuckling at the
greasy feel of his warm skin, grinning broadly up at him and pulling
forward in his baggy hoody. `Fuckin' hell, I look such a doofus, I
can't believe I...'

`This is for me?' Luke was saying, cuddling up to him now, getting the
oil all over his top. `All for me? Jeez... feel like Channing Tatum's
brain just exploded in my hotel room, wow... Can we turn that fuckin'
song off, do you think?'

Harry held himself stiffly against the cuddle, still mortified, and
relaxed only a little as Shaw pulled away to go and tap off the portable
speaker, quickly returning and pushing one hand into his, reaching the
other up to flick and tug at the bowtie a second. `Harry,' he sighed,
and his voice was almost patronising in its tone, stoking the
embarrassment-fuelled-aggression rising up in the big captain.

`I needed to do something,' Maguire protested feebly, begrudgingly
laying his slippery palms on the shoulders of Luke's hoody, pulling him
in a little, half-closing his eyes, `I needed to do something to impress
you, to keep you...'

`What? What are you talking about? Hey...?' With almost infuriating
gentleness, the other bloke was stroking above his hips and tracing the
lines of his gleaming six-pack. `Harry, or Mike, or whatever you want me
to call you, hehe...'

Harry blurted out his honest worry. `I'm losing you,' he grunted,
holding on to Luke but also holding their bodies apart a little bit,
`and it's all my fucking fault. Shouting at you like that, getting at
you in front of everyone... they've been trolling you for shit online and
it's all cos of me, so...'

`Hey, hey -- you're just doing your job, you big oaf, I don't...
you're not losing me...'

`Am I not?' he demanded, hearing the sulky edge to his voice.
`Weren't you disappointed when you opened that door and it wasn't
Daniel fucking James or Brandon and Mason or... fuck's sake...' As the
truths poured out, Harry tugged away, wanting to find his neatly folded
clothes and pull something, anything on over this daft outfit; he heard
Luke suppress a fresh playful giggle as he turned his back on him,
flashing the g-string of the pants and the way his big bare buttocks
tensed up behind him.

`Harry!' Luke said, a little more seriously. `What are you on about?
You've played about too... We both have... they were the rules YOU set...'
Again, Shaw was after him, infuriating with his patting and stroking
hands, pulling him gently around and diffusing his physical tension. He
was pulling down on Harry's cheek and stroking his chin, then huffing as
he reached behind his neck and unclipped the daft collar and black
bowtie, letting them fall down between them to their feet. `Are you
saying you don't want me to doing stuff with others...?'

`Ugh... I dunno, I just...'

`You possessive dick,' Luke said, but he was teasing, `you want me all
to yourself?'

`Er, maybe, it's...'

`But what about you?' Luke asked, boldly but calmly, and one of his
hands was on the pouch of the thong, feeling up the snaking contents.
`Can you really keep this thing between us, you big sexy fucker...?'

`I don't know!' Maguire exclaimed hotly, gripping him more tightly.
`I just... I just... I NEED you...'

`And you've got me,' Luke promised, `you have. I didn't realise you
were so... I dunno, jealous. Worried. Did you really think you'd fucked
me off cos you called me out on a bad game...?'

`Well...' He screwed up his face in a frown, feeling belittled by the
honesty of the conversation, but also wanting to rip the black hooded top
right off Luke's body and throw him onto the bed without any more
needless talk. He met Luke's kind eyes and gentle smile and held still
as the shorter lad leaned up to kiss his lips gently, while wrestling
with the isolated collars and tugging them off his wrists, dropping them
to the floor. `I never know, Luke, I never know where I am, I just
try...'

`Babe, I'm half-dead with no sleep most of the time, I'm new to this
parenting lark,' Shaw assured him quietly, `and if you think for a
second that I'd choose Dan or Bran or anyone over you, then you're
fucking mental...' He was kissing him on the side of the neck now, his
beard tickly and rough. Harry let out a long moan, running his hands
under that top to feel his thick back.

`Then... stop... fucking about with them...' It was no use, even as he
said it, he knew what a hypocrite he was, the things he'd done, the
loads he'd spilled on Scotty's face, the fun he'd had in London with
Eric and the other Harry, jesus... `Just be mine, be mine!'

`I AM yours,' Luke insisted, squeezing his big cock in the thong pouch.
`Fucking switch on, Harry. I am yours, all yours.' He pulled on the
cheap Ann Summers underwear, pulled so sharply on it that the thin
waistband dug into Harry's skin and the g-string back pulled
uncomfortably at his big hairy cheeks, then -- twang -- it snapped free,
cheap elastic breaking, and tossed lightly aside so his heavy privates
were spilling out into Luke's palm. `You didn't upset me when you
shouted at me, H. I was just exhausted. I was doing my best, but I
respect my captain, and I can separate that from my... boyfriend.'

Harry purred softly as his long soft cock was gently stroked. `But...'

`If anything,' Luke said quietly, smirking, `it was kinda turning me
on...'

`Huh?'

`You. Shouting at me like that. Being so aggressive. You know how I like
it.'

`Do you?' Harry demanded, worried. `You're... different now, you do...
well, you know... you've topped people, and...'

Luke grinned at him and they stared at each other in silence for a long
moment. `Was I good enough tonight, Harry?' he asked in an exaggerated
drawl. `Did I play well enough, captain? Eh? Was I quick enough? Was I
switched on?' He asked the questions rapidly, fumbling at his balls and
panting against his chest and neck. `Do you need to discipline me? Do
you need to show me who's captain here and now, baby...? Eh...?' He
licked his lips and his eyes twinkled excitedly.

Maguire felt his body relax into the moment, his hands scooping further
up under the hoody, his big worried face settling into a hungry leer.
`You could definitely use some of the captain's authority on you,' he
muttered back, feeling his cock grow and stiffen to Luke's familiar
touch.

`Tell me what to do, captain, sir...'

`Mmm...'

Harry dragged up on the top, yanking it over Luke's tummy and chest and
shoulders, dragging it over his face and away, then dragging their heads
together to kiss properly; not just properly, hungrily and roughly,
biting. He lunged downwards and in one smooth motion scooped a hand
around each of Luke's thighs, riding up his shorts, and hoisting him up
into a holding cuddle against his torso, ignoring the younger lad's
muscular weight and just gripping him close as they kissed, holding at
his back muscles with bruising force. Then, breaking the kiss, turning a
little and tossing his whole weighty frame against the bed in one
dizzying motion so that Luke gasped and laughed and stared wildly up at
him. `You need a fucking talking to from the captain,' Maguire told
him, getting into it.

`Oh yes sir,' moaned Luke, propped up on his elbows and smirking at him
as he approached. Harry dragged off his trainers one at a time, then his
socks, thumbing roughly at his match-sore feet and big toes, then patting
and slapping up his legs and looming onto the bed on top of him. He knelt
astride him and dragged him upright into a sitting position until he
could shove his face into his crotch and feel Luke's lips on his cock.
Oh, yes. The lad just moaned and cooed, hugging his thick legs and
kissing and nibbling at his pubes and shaft and saggy balls.

`Quicker, you slow bugger,' Harry laughed, `need a better performance
than that to win the Cup... come on, fuck's sake, get in the zone,
mmm...' A gentle, playful slap to the side of Luke's face then a rougher
grab of his short hair, forcing more of his meat into his lips and
watching his eyes light up. Harry was beginning to realise that over the
months, he'd lost some of this force; as his feelings for Luke grew, so
did his fear of hurting him again, like those early days. But now there
seemed to be a new license to each touch of their bodies, a fresh
submission in Luke's lust.

After Shaw had sucked and kissed at his prick until it was rock hard at
its full footlong majesty, Harry was kneeling aside and pulling up again
on the other defender's body, getting at those tight grey Nike shorts
and dragging them down; no undies beneath, just a mesh lining trying to
cling to Luke's privates and cheeks, ripping a little in Harry's speedy
removal. Then he was pushing Luke face-first into the bed and pulling his
big cheeks up. `You've been a bad left-back,' Maguire chuckled loudly,
delivering the first tender spank. `A bad, bad boy... need captain to
look after ya...' Smack. Luke moaned in almost performative pain, pushing
his arse back further and higher and hugging a pillow to his face.

Harry delivered a third and a fourth smack then the same to the other
buttock, each one giving a loud stinging noise, making Luke coo and gasp
more. The bed creaked beneath them but was a lot sturdier than one in a
certain Spanish hotel they had previously frequented. Harry flopped down
onto his side and pulled Luke's body into his in a long naked spoon,
gripping him round the waist and planting hard kisses on his neck and the
back of his head.

`Mmm, do I deserve these kisses?' Luke demanded, in that same playful
voice, almost roleplay.

Harry found his hard-on at the bottom of his torso and pressed his thumb
around the head in a slow stroke, moaning into the crook of his neck.
`You deserve all of your captain's help,' he growled at him, `all of
your captain's strength...' He felt his cock rub at those cheeks,
teasing contact, but no, not YET...

He rolled back, and off the bed, and grabbed something off the floor.
Throwing himself back onto the bed, he grabbed Luke from behind again,
scrunching up the torn mess of the thong in one hand, then reaching
around and pushing it into Luke's open, groaning mouth, gagging him with
it while grinding at him from behind, dry humping his rear and thrusting
his dick between those hairy thighs, grunting as he did. `Get ready for
captain,' he panted, gripping both arms about him and spitting into his
other hand, reaching down to smear his lubricating saliva between the
cheeks.



In the next room, Dan James and Scott McTominay lay in parallel beds,
ears straining to each thump and moan through the thin hotel wall. Dan
rubbed furiously at the mound of his privates in his white briefs beneath
the bedding, and looked over at his much taller roomie, whose freckled
face was flushed and awash with excited voyeuristic thrill. `Is
that...?'

`Yeah,' Dan panted, `I'm sure it is... fuck...' He pulled his cock out
of his briefs and pulled on it rapidly, his other hand creeping down and
scooping under his balls a bit, squeezing and pulling at himself and
giving in to the horny rush. He didn't care if Scott could see what he
was doing, cos the lanky midfielder seemed, surprisingly, to be as
excited as he was about the sounds from next door.

`Are you wanking?' McT demanded, shifting onto his side a little, one
arm reaching beneath the covers in parallel to Dan's self-touch, his big
broad shoulders hunching as he looked from Dan to the wall; just then,
the cheap painting of Brighton Pier rattled in its frame and fell off,
crashing down into the space between two bedside tables and alarming them
both.

`Yeh,' Dan admitted through pursed lips, pulling on himself quickly and
hoping Scott wasn't about to overreact or ask too many questions; what,
then, did this big Scotland player know about Maguire and Shaw's secret
love...?

`Cool,' McTominay panted, and he shifted a little more in his bed,
closer this way, hugging at pillow and duvet, one hand getting busy
beneath the covers, but his face still propped up, looking over here,
biting at his lip.

Dan looked at him, licked his lower lip, and grinned thoughtfully. `You
er... wanna come over here, then, and help me...?' He giggled hesitantly,
no idea if he was misreading the moment; another thud hit the wall behind
them and the softest, barely audible sounds of men's groans. In an
instant, Scott was sliding from his bed and crossing the metre space
between them, long arms reaching for the duvet and a massive grin on his
lips; his blue boxer shorts tented around his visible enjoyment, and then
he was scrambling into bed with Dan, and hands were wandering to new
places.



On the other side, in another room, Mason pushed his hips back and forth
with rapid pace, fucking Brandon for the third time tonight, quick bursts
of cum-loaded action between the hyper teams, Greenwood absolutely
buzzing from his brace of goals against Brighton. Blinking sweat from his
heavily lashed eyes, the 18-year-old black lad pushed deep inside
Williams and tensed to keep up his rhythm, constantly on the verge of a
third orgasm that seemed to elude him. Muffled banging sounds leaked at
both of them through the wall and made him less cautious about the force
of his pushes; he picked up the speed even more, so that Brandon squealed
beneath him, doggy-style on the bedding, the headboard cracking
repeatedly into the wall.

`That must be Maguire in there,' Greenwood remarked excitedly.

`I don't care,' panted Brandon into the pillow, `I just care about
what's in ME...'

`You dirty fucker,' giggled Mason.

`Ohhhh, god... you're getting... hotter.... Every time...'

The Manchester United striker beamed proudly, feeling his increasing
strength and force, piling into his slim scally lover and letting his
eyes stray to the ugly wallpaper, imagining the scene next door, Harry
and Luke; not that he needed any aphrodisiac when he was with sexy
beautiful Brandon, but the thought of their simultaneous action just hit
him differently, and drove him inevitably to cum in Williams' hole for
the third time tonight...



A few rooms away, Diogo Dalot lay back and clamped a hand over his face,
as if this simple gesture barred him from the reality of what was
happening in the room; with a sweaty palm clamped over his eyes and his
other hand playing over his bare chest a little, tickling at the strands
of dark hair, the Portuguese player could just lie there, and let it
happen; the slow, sloppy sucking that Jesse Lingard was delivering to his
crotch, rising up and down over his stiff prick and trailing saliva and
pre-cum from his pink lips.

As he noshed on the handsome young Portuguese lad, still amazed how easy
it had been to initiate after a bit of telly and banter, Lingard savoured
the fresh salty taste of his oozing fluids, and massaged at the relaxed
muscle of his thighs, taking it slow because he wanted the experience to
go on for ages, in no rush to sample Dalot's creamy manliness, just
loving the teasing build-up so much...

And as he sucked him off, he dared to think back to the highlight of his
year, being double-teamed by the Super Maguire Brothers, and his arsehole
twitched in his pyjama bottoms. He knew that three-way was unlikely to
recur, respected the boundaries that had been so forcefully and
excitingly imprinted, but unable to take his mind away from those two
massive Sheffield hunks utterly owning him, and having his wildest
fantasies about Big Harry utterly satisfied... but for now, unsure where
his next adventure would come from, the 27-year-old swallowed more of
Diogo's Iberian meat into his gob, and enjoyed what he had.



`Oh HARRY,' Luke cried, his whole body supported by the big body
beneath him on the floor between the two beds, corners of duvet and
crumpled pillows overhanging them in this private canyon; his shoulders
rested back on the oily mounds of Maguire's pecs, but two thick arms
stretched down his own midriff to hold him in place. One hand wanked
furiously on his cock and the other reached below, pressing at his
perineum; from below, Harry's huge meat drilled in and out of his whole.
Harry was sprawled back on the rough carpet, holding him down over him,
and thrusting upwards over and over, so that all Luke could do was lie
here, suspended and pleasured and trapped delightfully in the embrace.

He could feel Harry right inside him, so much more comfortably than ever
before, though he hoped it felt just as tight for the well-hung beast, he
hoped he still had THAT advantage over any vagina... He moaned and panted,
the crumpled thong still hanging over his face a little, so he could
breath in the musky odour of Harry's crotch while he was fucked from
below. It slid off him as he gasped and rolled his neck, falling past his
shoulder and to the floor beneath their writhing forms.

`Cum for captain,' growled Harry, driving upwards with all his
strength.

`Yes, yes,' Luke whined desperately, having felt on the edge of orgasm
for a good ten minutes already. `Yes,' he repeated weakly, no idea what
else to say, his own hands redundant as his hole and prick were
masterfully pleasured by the big brute beneath him.

`Cum now,' Harry growled forcefully.

`Ye-e-ess...'

It was like his dick was as subservient to the big beautiful fucker as
his spirit. His cock was a fountain of cum now that rained back on him,
his chest and his own face, and he lost all control of his senses,
rolling and arching back over Harry's body until he could feel that
mighty cock withdrawing, inch by inch. He looked down between his legs
and saw it streaked and messy with cum; Harry, he realised, had cum
minutes ago, inside him, and just fucked on regardless until he too
finished. He'd never felt more in love.

They stayed there on the floor, no need for a bed, Harry cuddling him
from below and kissing at the side of his neck and face, somehow always
making it feel like the first time, like they were discovering each other
afresh. Shaw just moaned and sighed, still floating on a cloud somewhere
miles in the sky. `I love you,' he said finally, `I fucking love
you.' Yep, you could say it to two people and still entirely mean it,
apparently.

He slid off Harry's body, but only so he could see him, falling onto his
side and feeling the rough cheap carpet on his skin, thinking how much it
must have stung at Harry's back and arse as he ploughed into him. Fuck.
He melted into his side, cuddling him and kissing his shoulder and
reaching to stroke his floppy, greasy prick. `You need to stop
worrying,' he whispered. `You're everything, Harry, you're fucking
everything.'

Maguire kissed him on the lips, grinding sideways so that their backs
pushed into the parallel bedframes and they really filled this narrow
space. `You just make me go crazy,' he admitted, open-faced and
vulnerable-seeming despite the force with which he'd just thrown Luke
around the entire bedroom, breaking a lamp and ripping open one pillow in
their movements. It suddenly dawned on Luke how audible they must have
been in the neighbouring rooms, but now was not the moment for THAT
panicked epiphany.

`I'll stop doing anything with others if you need it,' Luke promised,
and meant it. `I'm having fun, I'm figuring shit out, but... not if
it's at the expense of...'

`I dunno if that's right for either of us. What if we can't handle it?
We're... huh... I guess we're just both... really fucking randy... heh...'

`Well,' sighed Luke, seeing his point, `maybe... maybe... I dunno, maybe
we just need to try and play together next time, eh? No matter who the
others are... but let's not worry about fucking rules, let's just... be
us. And if us happens to also include me watching you fuck someone else,
or whatever, then so be it.'

`I just get so jealous,' Harry admitted quietly. `I can't control it.
It's what you do to me! It's not fair, but...'

`You're my captain,' Luke murmured affectionately, not even sure what
he was saying any more. `And I refuse to believe you've ever fucked
anyone else like what you just did there, big man. So... no more jealousy
for me, nah. I know I win.' He sighed into Harry's chest and kissed
just above his nipple. `And you can shout at me on the pitch all you
want,' he added, wistfully, `as long as you don't mind me springing a
boner on the pitch...'

`You fucking tease.'

`I can't control it,' Luke returned teasingly. `It's what you do to
me!'




*YET AGAIN... JUST LETTING THE FOOTBALL NEWS GUIDE MY STORYTELLING!
HOPEFULLY, AGAINST THE ODDS, THESE TWO ARE STILL ENTERTAINING AFTER ALL
THESE STORIES...!*