Date: Sat, 4 Jul 2020 19:17:31 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 138: Guard of Dishonour

Part 138: Guard of Dishonour


For most of the lads, there seemed to be a holiday mood to the North West
trip into Manchester. Liverpool's claim of the League title hung on each
bloke's face in a confident grin, and the vague signs of several days'
celebration lingered in bags under eyes and slightly sluggish movement in
the `Away' changing rooms of the Etihad.

For Trent Alexander-Arnold, there was a pressing anxiety that the young
footballer had managed to suppress through denial in the hungover
recovery since that big night, and in the boisterous return to training.
But here, readying for a Thursday night game against the former champions
and their bitter runner-ups, Alexander-Arnold felt painfully aware of the
dirty deeds he'd committed at the crux of their Premiership party night.

That party, and the victory that had spurred it, were all any of the
fellas had talked about on the coach over from Merseyside, and it
dominated the banter here in the dressing rooms of their enemies, who
would be giving them a so-called Guard of Honour when they shortly
stepped out onto the pitch to fight it out, Liverpool full of victorious
swagger and boozy relish.

It didn't help, Trent thought, that two of his mates her were making
playful references to the fact he'd vanished away for much of the
maddest dancing and toasting. His good pals Wijnaldum and Van Dijk were
jokily quizzing him about which of the golf club barmaids he'd claimed
as his own, or which of the middle-aged female club staff in attendance
he'd scored with. Trent did have something of a reputation as a
cougar-hunter, popular with the older ladies for some reason. He had to
force a toothy grin at the banter and just concentrate on getting his
clothes off and his kit on, head bowed low in the happy crowd of
athletes.

But the nudging reminders of last week's big party got worse for Trent
when he realised that he was getting changed right in front of two older
players, visible from the metallic mesh divide between their rows of
coat-hooks. He stalled in the middle of opening up his Liverpool shirt
across both wrists, his taut abdomen bent over a little as he lifted his
face to look through the gaps: spying Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain in the
middle of tugging his own red shirt down the craggy cliff of his six-pack
and, next to him, Andy Robertson hoisting glossy red shorts up his lean
hairy legs and over the bouncy compact package of his white briefs.

Trent tuned in to their bland conversation, some very casual remarks
about what they'd been up to with their respective partners and families
today, conserving energy for tonight. Totally innocent. But Trent could
hear an almost lazy enjoyment in their voices, a comfort with each other
that pulled him back to whatever the hell he'd walked in on upstairs at
Formby Hall, drunkenly wandering the corridors to speak to one or both of
these two club jokers.

The young Liverpudlian stared naively at them through the space, hoisting
his Liverpool shirt up over his head and covering his lithe brown body
with it, trying to blink away the flashback to spying them, embraced and
kissing, both staring his way as he discovered them. When he'd seen
Alex, later in the night, and promised to keep silence, he'd meant it;
Trent had zero intention of discussing this with a living soul. That
didn't mean it wasn't burning at his confused brain and making him
question everything he knew about these hot-blooded macho fuckers he
played footy with day after day.

Kitted up, the guys were getting ready to go out into the tunnel;
somewhere, Klopp was cheerily barking out reminders of strategy and
positioning. Trent tried to get his mind back on that, but he felt a bit
washed out and detached. He finished lacing up one boot and started on
the other, then felt a soft pat of a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up
next to him as the much taller, broader figure of his fellow Liverpool
defender passed by. Joe Gomez, 6ft2 of black muscle, paused by him and
grinned his way, leaving his fingers against his shoulders. The big
self-assured Londoner gave a soft laugh, as if sensing his discomfort or
worries, and a smile to say `relax', then passed by without a word or
another more significant touch.

Gomez's attitude confused Trent as much as his own behaviour. He thought
highly of the 23-year-old, and that respect wasn't necessarily dented,
but he was so utterly sure of his heterosexuality. That he'd been
dabbling playfully with another lad (with Harvey!) and could just grin
about it in the sober light of day... It made Alexander-Arnold feel even
more bewildered by his fuzzy memory, his waves of guilt, his uncertainty
at why he'd not only fed his prick to Elliott, but reached out and
touched Joe's whopper too...

With all of this buzzing about his head, Trent marched out to join the
league-winning squad of tired, lightly hungover and deeply complacent
champions, no idea how ill-prepared they were for a showdown with
Guardiola's men.



Kyle Walker kept an assertive grin on his features as he left the home
changing rooms, clapping his big palms together and rolling his rounded
shoulders back and forth to psych himself up. The prospect of a `guard
of honour' for these Scouse pricks was not exactly filling him with
delight, but everyone knew their achievements were incredible. He was
determined not to look too sour or petty as he stood by and welcomed them
to City's home ground for the game, but he also was adamant he wouldn't
be no fawning gimp, sucking up to Klopp's Koppites.

`Here,' he barked at the taller defender at his side, nudging an elbow
into John Stones' arm, `dares ya to stick a big leg out and trip one of
the Scouse cunts up while they walk on...'

It was a stupid, petty little joke, the kind of thing the two of them
would always have enjoyed in the past. But walking side by side with him
down the tunnel, the big Barnsley lad just turned and gave him an icy
look, as uninterested in his affectionate banter as he had been since
their interrupted fun on the side of the motorway. Stones just looked at
him in quiet disapproval and turned his eyes away, something very set and
deliberate in his stomping gait as he sped up and ditched Kyle, shifting
to the side and for the corner, away to the subs bench, not part of the
official honour guard that would see Liverpool out onto the pitch.

`Be like that, then,' Walker muttered under his breath, not able to
stomach John's petty and girly drama, his refusal to just accept
practicality. For fuck's sake, Stones had gone back to his missus just
like he had, as planned; there was no fucking need for these theatrics
and silences! They had the safety of their female partners back in their
lives, secure as anything, and surely now they could play a bit on the
side and it would be safer than ever...?

That had been the plan, anyway. Fuck's sake. Kyle stomped on out,
looking up with increasingly familiar dismay at the deserted towering
terraces, the absent fans, but also at the nearer view of Raheem
Sterling's big round bottom, his low centre of gravity tightly
accentuated by the undersized shorts their club kitted them out in. Kyle
had felt a bit guilty for a few days after spunking on Phil Foden and his
smug goody-goody face, but whenever he was coldly blanked by moody John
Stones, the guilt dissipated. Walker needed satisfying and, though he was
not yet ready to admit it properly, moving back out of the Stones
household had left an emotional hole in his life that needed filling
somehow. He squinted with aggressive appetite at Sterling's bouncing
cheeks and chirpy stroll, and wondered if he might need to get the little
Jamaican Londoner drunk sometime soon, and demand a repeat of his
birthday gift.

Walker fell into place midway down the left row of men, holding his hands
severely in front of his beg pecs and folded just over his lap,
dangerously close to brushing his own briefs-clad package and turning
himself on. It was so easy these days. Kyle was one of those men who
sexual appetites were... self-propelling. The more he got, the more he
wanted.

As he took position and prepared his sternly congratulatory facial
expression for the cameras, Walker looked back down the line, spying
Foden himself, that slutty little cum-gobbler, and -- unsurprisingly --
Guardiola himself at his side. Pep had his hand on Foden's shoulder,
almost steering him into place at the bottom of the other line, and the
youngster was beaming evidently at being on the starting line-up rather
than the subs bench. Just for a moment, brief enough for nobody to
notice, the silver-bearded Spaniard was leaning in and talking in Phil's
ear, floodlights gleaming on the tanned pate of his head. Whatever he
said, the big cheesy grin on the young Stockport lad's face went up a
notch, and he seemed to suppress a laugh. Then Pep was patting him on the
shoulder and turning his attention more generally to the lads, ready to
clap with them and graciously welcome their champions out before giving
them a spanking.

Kyle found himself grinning wickedly at what he'd observed, and what he
knew.



By the 76th minute, Liverpool were comprehensively beaten. Trent felt
deflated as he was called off, bumping fists and elbows with his young
mate Neco Williams, but he knew it was a collective defeat. Bright-eyed
and eager to contribute, the young Welshman gave him a reassuring grin
before bursting past and heading out into the fray, under some illusion
that the Reds could come back from a 4-0 embarrassment.

Around him, Alexander-Arnold could see that not everyone was taking it so
badly. For all their professionalism and competitive nature, the lads
were still buoyed by their unassailable position at the top of the table.
He almost grunted and swore aloud at the complacency he'd seen in a
couple of others' faces, both on the pitch and here on the side-lines;
you could tell they weren't locals like him, you could tell that
Liverpool wasn't in their blood!

He stopped himself from making a comment along these lines to Jurgen as
he passed by the manager and took the gentle squeeze of his upper arm in
good spirits, knowing that in all honesty, his own sourness was not
entirely down to a 4-0 loss away at Manchester City.

Moving towards the subs bench and spaced out seating, slugging back water
and taking a sympathetic glance out at the 11 players still fighting an
uphill battle, Trent spotted the real reasons for his discomfort, both of
them sat quietly just ahead of him: Harvey Elliott, unused substitute,
was poised in the front row, tight red trackies pulled over his away kit
shorts, chin resting on steepled knuckles and a look of frustrated but
playful aggression on his young features, clearly wishing he could still
be called on and make some impact on the goalless performance; past him,
still glossy with a sheen of sweat, big arms folded, Joe Gomez sat with
his thick legs apart, cooling down. He'd been taken off in the first
half but was still in his full kit, eyes intent on the final quarter of
the game, an irritated look to his frown; he had, after all, been
replaced by Oxlade-Chamberlain, whose own goal had contributed to the
depressing score-line.

Trent looked at them both and felt a surge of anger. He'd been wasted
that night, pissed off his head, and so emotional; those two bell-ends
had taken advantage of him, he decided, they'd teamed up against him and
stolen his dignity. Some fucking prank, some banter he didn't quite get,
some effort to ridicule him, the local hero...! Never mind that he'd
joined them of his own volition, or seen his load smeared on Harvey's
young face, and never mind that somehow, against all instinct, he'd
managed to blow a load with them, out there in the fire escape, numb with
booze and high on victory... All their fault. Cunts.

He avoided making eye contact with either of them, and walked on. He
couldn't bear to sit out here, hugging his knees and biting his lip,
watching the dying minutes of the embarrassing game. It felt like an
insult to their great achievement, to be paraded here as champions yet
shown up by the smug, big-money bastards of City... The combination of
sexual confusion and local pride fuelled his stomping steps as he
disappeared around the corner and into the tunnel mouth, hopefully
unnoticed by the encampment of Liverpool subs and coaches, all still
hoping for a couple of redeeming goals in the final ten minutes...



Walker followed the Liverpool player into the bright electric glow of the
tunnel, away from the echoing grunts of his teammates and opposition.
Like Trent, he'd been taken off, minutes earlier in the half, having
picked up a yellow card for a very minor scuffle. Like Trent, he was
finding it uncomfortable sitting around in the dug out with the coaching
team and the other subs, even though his view was of a resplendent 2nd
place team making a promising challenge for next season. Like Trent, his
reason had everything to do with where his cock had been: as he neared
the free seat next to John Stones, dripping sweat from his warm evening
performance and hoping that he could finally get a friendly word out of
his best mate, the arrogant fuck had just put his jacket down over the
seat in a very public rejection, and leaned in to watch the game more
closely, not even acknowledging his presence.

Fuck him.

Fuck that stuck-up prick.

Walker had a bully streak in him and he knew that the only thing that
would make him feel better right now was making someone else feel worse.
Spying a moody-faced young Alexander-Arnold hurrying away down the
tunnel, he saw his opportunity.

Kyle liked Trent, had run into him now and then via England commitments,
and supposed that the 21-year-old was bound to be a much more regular
feature in those fixtures once international football started up again,
whenever that was. He liked him, the talented and cheery little fucker,
but he was gonna enjoy bringing him down a peg or two in the name of
banter.

`Oi,' he grunted, a few yards into the tunnel, match noises still
echoing after him.

A little way ahead, on his way to the away changing rooms, the Liverpool
midfielder paused and looked over his shoulder, still frowning deeply and
looking like he was running away from an argument. Everything about his
dejected manner screamed 4-0 to Kyle, not `Premiership champion'. He
grinned derisively as he swaggered after him, pulling at the sweaty
fabric of his pale blue City shirt and then pulling his hands together in
a mocking clap. `Champi-ooooons,' he hooted and sniggered, pulling
closer to the young player.

The Scouser's frown softened a little, replaced by a confused light in
his eyes, and his shoved his hands against his hips. `Oh, very funny,
Walker,' he growled softly.

Walker clapped his hands together three more times, walking right up to
him. `What a performance from the Unbeatables,' he said with a wicked
grin, holding his palms together as he finished his slow applause, then
burst out laughing more fully. `Fuckin' hell, I heard Liverpool were
winners, but... 4-0, eh...?' He moved in close to the younger player, his
smile curling into a little sneer. `What a downfall for the smug
Scousers...'

`Smug,' echoed Trent, an edge of annoyance to his patient voice, `hmm,
who here seems smug...'

Kyle chuckled at this, enjoying the mixed emotions on the lad's face;
the youthful respect and England camaraderie mixed with his obvious
annoyance and defensiveness at this unexpected teasing. `Guess you lot
can't have everything!' he needled. `Such a shame to see your historic
year ruined by a good arse-fucking off some real champs, eh...'

`Shut up, mate, not up for this banter...'

Kyle held his hands in front of him in a mime of his favourite
doggy-style position, fucking an imaginary figure in the narrow space
between them. `Oh baby,' he mimed in a high-pitch whined, `give it to
me, Pep and the boys, give it to me good... my Red arse needs more...
haha!' He brought his hands up and slapped Trent on his broad young
shoulders, enjoy the shorter lad's wriggling irritation at this gesture.
`Oh, how sweet a win this is...'

`Game ain't over,' Alexander-Arnold informed him tartly, but this just
made him laugh more.

Kyle looked at an imaginary watch on his thick wrist, expressive face
miming worry. `Oh yeah, fuck, about eleven minutes still to go, what
might happen...?' He slapped one hand against the lad's left arm, more
roughly this time, and grinned menacingly over at him. `Fucking pussies,
that's what you lot are, it turns out, so...'

`Fuck this, mate -- not cool!' snapped Trent, shouldering away his hand
and backing off, turning to head into the away changing rooms. Perhaps
normally, Kyle would have apologised, switched up his humour, left the
younger player to sulk. But he was riled himself, by bigger issues than
this confrontation, and so he followed him on in, breaking some unwritten
(or was it written?) rule of the league and stomping his way into
opposition changing rooms. He saw Trent's annoyance at this invasion,
moving away from him and looking at him in real anger now. `Buddy, what
are you after?' he demanded in that harsh Merseyside accent.

`It's alright, lad,' Walker grunted at him, half-consciously tugging
and fumbling at the crotch of his shorts. `Maybe after playing so well
this season, you can get a transfer to a real team like us, or Norwich,
haha...? Just messin' with ya, ya daftie...'

`Fuck off,' Trent muttered beneath his breath, pulling up his shirt to
wipe his face down, then pulling back at his thick afro of hair, looking
worn out and downbeat. `Can we do this shitty banter some other time
when I'm not...'

`Freshly fucked in the arse?' Walker quipped eagerly.

`I've never been fucked in the arse!' the 21-year-old snapped suddenly
and quite violently back.

Kyle couldn't hold in his rough, raspy laughter. `Jesus pal, just a
joke! God, doth the lady protest too fuckin' much...? Haha... Trent, lad,
I'm just pulling ya leg... you tosser...' Unapologetic but intrigued, he
muscled closer to the frowning youngster, slapping him on the hip now
instead of the arm, letting his hand linger on those glossy shorts for a
moment. `So touchy, such a little pussy...!'

`Ain't nobody's pussy,' Alexander-Arnold hissed back, avoiding his
eyes, but a distinct and new embarrassment in his innocent young
features, an innocence that called to something hungry and selfish in
Kyle's nature, something heavy and sweaty in his anatomy.

`Ain't you?' he murmured, taking a step closer; Trent tried to move
back form him but bumped into the central pillar at the head of the
dividing barrier between two halves of lockers and benches, leading down
to the shower entrances and cubicles. Kyle pulled closer, feeling their
mingled body heat, watching the anxious distraction in the lad's eyes
and twitching mouth. `You sure nobody's ever fucked ya, Little Trent,
you seem so...' He kept his hand on his hip, squeezing the flesh there
just a little, running the tip of his thumb under the rolled hem of his
shirt.

`What? Fuck off,' Trent told him, getting very red in the cheeks, his
eyes darting up once to meet Kyle's, full of nervous expectation, some
guilty secret hiding in his aggression. He pushed now at Kyle's thick
chest with both hands, the heels of them brushing his erect nipples and
shoving uncomfortably at the bulge of pectoral muscle. Kyle giggled and
pushed against this, his hand beginning to slip around the back of those
shorts to grab a handful of muscular buttock, the other hand reaching in
for the crotch of his shorts where, yep, suspicions confirmed, the cock
he roughly grabbed at through the material was already getting hard.

`Someone LIKES getting butt-fucked off 2nd place, then,' he murmured in
a gravelly purr.

`Get off, fuck's sake!' Trent snarled in his face, giving him another
shove, in the shoulders this time, but less urgently, less certainly. His
cheeks were burning red beneath his shifty eyes and in his shorts, Kyle
could feel his surprising and throbbing excitement. Well, well, well...

`He SAID get off.'

Kyle stopped himself, straightening up his posture, pulling both hands
away from below the player's waist, and turning to look over one
shoulder. The interrupter stood in the entranceway, leaning casually
against the doorframe, arms folded over his chest, and a stern expression
on his face. Joe Gomez, another tough defender, taller by a good couple
of inches than Kyle, probably a little heavier with muscle. What exactly
had he seen? Kyle hid his three seconds' paranoia beneath a wide grin
and a big laugh, and then he grabbed roughly at one of Trent's
shoulders, side-on.

`Just a bit of banter,' he huffed loudly, daring Alexander-Arnold to
say otherwise. He wondered if Gomez could see the embarrassing stiffy
developing in the Liverpool lad's shorts, but his own discretion was his
priority here. Time to get the fuck away from these tools. `Trent here
was just telling me how fun it was getting roasted off a bigger team,
y'know...' Walker moved quickly away from his target and towards Gomez,
who was squaring up to him with this hardened expression, ambiguously
threatening in his arrival. `Tough luck lads,' the City defender told
him quietly, slapping his thick shoulder too, feeling the warm muscle
beneath his shirt and wondering if he could take this big prick in a
fight if he needed to.

`Yeah,' Gomez said calmly, `tough luck. On yer way, Walker.'



Trent Alexander-Arnold pulled back against the supporting firmness of the
pillar, unaccountably relieved at the sight of Walker vanishing from this
space, then instantly worried again as Joe's arms unfolded and hung at
his sides and he took two long strides towards him. The weirdness of his
England teammate's bullying behaviour and physical contact was quickly
eclipsed by the more real knowledge of what he and Gomez had shared so
recently in the shadows.

`What did that twat want?' Joe asked in a low, friendly voice.

`Fuck knows,' Trent sighed.

`He gets like that.

`Yeah, yeah I know, I've seen him make a right tit of himself...'

`Thinks he can throw his weight around and everyone will just laugh
along...'

`Yeah... proper dick when he wants to be, really...'

`But you enjoyed it.' Joe had stopped, right in front of him, and his
comment was definitely not a question. Trent gulped and nervously met his
eyes, feeling trapped between the hard pillar and the tall, powerful
presence of his teammate; trapped, but less unpleasantly than when it had
been teasing, needling Kyle Walker, desperate to make a point. Trent
sucked in a deep breath and looked away, unsure what to say to his
accusation. Only then did it hit him quite what Gomez meant, what Walker
had realised; he hadn't noticed that his cock was almost fully erect in
his shorts, straining at the material of his undies, triggered by... by...
oh fuck...

`Joe, mate,' he whispered awkwardly.

`Huh, guess you're into that,' Gomez said, a bit like he was talking
to himself now.

`Into what?' the young football star demanded shakily. `Into...?
Fuck's sake, mate, erm...'

`Into a bit of rough.' The 23-year-old defender was laughing a bit as
he said it, pulling his body a little closer, looming over him now just
like Kyle had; a little leaner, but distinctly taller. Less aggressive,
but equally intimidating. He looked down and Trent joined him, both of
them staring at the obvious throbbing presence in the front of his
shorts; Trent's eyes moved inevitably from his own embarrassing outline
to the drooping bulge in the front of Joe's, the massive piece he'd
seen with his own eyes, fed to Harvey Elliott and then, briefly in his
own shivering fingers... The only dick other than his own he'd ever
touched.

`Joe, mate,' he said again, `I don't know what... I mean, I was
fuckin' slaughtered the other night, wasted drunk, I didn't... I ain't
queer, y'know, I ain't into...'

Gomez shrugged those big shoulders and Trent felt his fingers play at his
own wrist, slowly taking hold of the back of his hand. `Enjoyed it
though, didn't ya?' Joe asked, as his clammy warm palm closed about
Trent's knuckles and steered them gently inwards, between their bodies.
`Enjoyed getting noshed by that daft tart of a lad...' Trent felt his
fingers pushed slowly but commandingly in against the sagging bulge, the
body heat contained in those close-fitting shorts. `Enjoyed sharing him
with me,' added Joe in a low growl.

`I was pissed,' Alexander-Arnold told him again, quietly and shakily.
He let his fingers be curled into a loose hold of that heavy mound,
feeling the fat soft shape of his mate's endowment in there, not as
intimidatingly big or solid as when he'd touched it last, but still very
much there...

`You gave me quite a good tossing off,' chuckled Gomez.

Trent wilted at this, hearing it aloud, feeling the older lad's
enjoyment of his own degrading behaviour, and yet here he was, with his
fingers against that bulge again, doing nothing to push Joe away, or step
aside, escape this stupid moment; with Kyle he'd pushed half heartedly
at him, frightened that he'd swing out and smack the City player in the
face it the joke went too far. Now, pinned here, Joe's hot breath
brushing his smooth red cheeks and quivering lip, he just thought about
how twitching and aching his own cock was now, the boner in his shorts,
impatient with its novel arousal.

`Come on,' Joe grunted at him, `you can do it again.'

`Here?' he hissed. He heard his own voice, nervous but consenting.
`Here?' he'd asked, not `What the fuck?' or `Why would I?'

`Cubicles at the end,' Gomez said, just a flicker of uncertainty in his
suggestion. But to the cubicles they went, Trent leading the way; he held
both hands in front of him and rubbed the one Joe had touched with soft
disbelieving strokes, wondering why he'd touched it again, even through
shorts and pants, wondering what the hell he was doing, pacing silently
down the changing rooms, piled with the other lads' clothes and bags and
crap. He felt Joe's hand move to his lower back, but just resting there,
guiding rather than shoving him forward towards the cubicles that flanked
the arch into the communal showers.

`You won't tell anyone?' he found himself asking desperately.

`Oh mate, I'll send out an email to the whole club, straight after...!'
He looked worriedly at him but the twinkle in Joe's eyes and the curl of
his strong grin was actually pretty comforting after all. Outside, he
thought for a second, the match would be ending any minute, but here he
was, backing into the separate shower cubicle, while in front of him
Gomez pulled his shirt off, baring the broad dark muscles of his torso.
Almost against his will, Trent felt his cock react to the view.

Unceremoniously, perhaps conscious of the time too, Joe then pushed his
shorts and underpants down in one smooth gesture, letting them sag and
dangle and drop down his legs until he was stood pretty much naked, his
fat cock loose beneath the tight curl of pubes, stretching and lifting
with slow excitement. Trent didn't need to told or asked; he grabbed
hold of it, just like he had when he was wasted on the doorstep, and he
stared at its proportions in his grip, then up into Joe's softly
grinning face. `It won't bite,' he chuckled.

`We don't have long,' Trent thought aloud.

`You better make me cum fast, then.'

`What? But... erm...'

`Maybe your hand won't be enough?'

`Huh? What? Mate?'

`You know what I'm saying.' While Trent continued to gently, nervously
stroke at the fat length of Joe's erection, one of the other fella's
hands lifted up and rested on his smooth cheek, stroking close to his
plump shaky lips. Trent knew what he was saying, and he also knew he was
going to follow the idea through. He wasn't sure if it was a conscious
decision or just an instinctive following of the bigger, stronger guy's
desire. Down he went, horrified at himself even as he eagerly let his
bare knees hit the cool shower floor, and stared right into the lifting
head of the other player's hard-on. He heard Joe laugh softly,
playfully, as if at his quick compliance. `You better be quick, we only
got a couple of minutes,' he heard him say playfully.

Trent was terrified and confused, but he was also... competitive. Of
course he was. A fiery streak of rivalry, determination and ambition was
what had propelled him to his current position, fighting his way through
the youth ranks of this beloved club until, ultimately, he got to be part
of this history-changing squad. And here, on his knees faced with a hard
dick, the same determination that had pushed him through his football
career was pushing him to meet a new challenge. A couple of minutes?
Right...

Putting aside all of the worry and self-loathing that had plagued him,
Trent held the base of the dick and pulled his lips around the tip. The
taste was strong and shook him a little, the sour sweatiness of it, and
also the sheer thickness of it entering his mouth, rubbing his tongue.
But the low groan that sounded from above was encouraging, pleasing.
`Wank it while you suck it,' Joe breathed, `yeah, like that, good one
mate, mmm...' Trent slid his fists up and down the main length of it
while the top few inches remained in his mouth. Daringly, he brushed his
tongue over and around the tip, simulating some of his favourite oral sex
from various hot Liver birds over the last few years; another moan from
Gomez, deeper and stronger.

He could almost feel the seconds ticking by. It was probably the 88th
minute by now, if not the 90th? How much extra time would there be? How
long did they have before the rest of Liverpool's squad came crashing
into those changing rooms, heavy and loud with unexpected defeat? He
focused on the challenge and nothing else. He ignored the almost painful
erection in his shorts, ignored the rich taste and smell of a
footballer's crotch, ignored knowing how gay and slutty Harvey had
looked in this same subservient position... JUST MAKE HIM CUM, TRENT, his
inner voice said, JUST DO IT.

He gagged a little as the bigger player pushed forward, up his tongue and
deeper in his mouth. He felt Joe's tight fat balls pressing the base of
his gripping fist. His moan was deeper and stronger. Quick, quick, do
it... He pulled his fist up and down rapidly at the base and swirled his
mouth about the fat head of it, struggling for a breath in his race for
the finish.

`Ooh, god,' the Londoner gasped, `that's it, mate, that's it...'

Trent attempted to speak and agree but he had his mouth rather full. He
pushed deeper forward, taking more of it between his lips, holding in his
breath and feeling pubes tickle his fingers. He could feel a change in
Joe's stance, a shift in his moans and gasps, the tips of some fingers
brushing his own ear and the tight curl of his thick hair... god, he must
be close... the implication of that struck Trent moments before something
else would have too. Quickly, he pulled back, mouth open, and leaned back
a little on his knees, gasping for air. The thick wad of Joe's
excitement fired past his face and splashed his jawline and his shoulder,
but thankfully, did not fill up his mouth! He swayed to the side,
dizzied, and saw a last few spurts of the white stuff dribble onto his
chest and some flick over his shoulder and arm, avoiding his face. Above,
Joe was gasping and pushing both hands into the metallic dividing walls
either side of them, gripped with pleasure.

And beyond that deep, satisfied noise, there came others: clattering
footsteps, swinging doors, raised voices, mingled accents. Fuck, no. How
long had he been going at it? Had he miscalculated the time? The sounds
were muffled and not too nearby, but they were unmistakable. The game was
over, City's smug win complete, Liverpool's honeymoon prematurely
ended; and Trent Alexander-Arnold was on his knees in a shower cubicle
looking up at the dripping cock of his teammate.

Suddenly Joe was pulling him up by the shoulders; reaching one thick arm
past him and smacking on the shower controls, then twisting them about so
his body was under the spray, some of which bounced off and scattered
damply over Trent's face and chest. But Joe's hands were pushing him
back towards the unlocked, loose door, grinning confidently. `Now or
never,' he laughed, and he shoved Trent back further. Terrified, the
21-year-old held onto the door and staggered out into the open space,
then pulled it shut after him, closing the big naked fella in on his own.

He looked to his left and saw the figures of his teammates spilling into
the room at the other end, and quickly tugged up his shirt, aware of the
white streaks on its shoulder and chest, bunching it up and chucking it
down to the floor. He stared down at his crotch in miraculous relief.
Fear and hurry had killed most of his erection and his nob was semi at
most in his briefs. He stood there shakily, hearing Joe Gomez begin to
sing to himself in the shower, a tasteless bit of R Kelly: `Ain't
nothing wrong with a little bit of bump and grind...'

`Hey, Trent,' called one of the players, spilling towards this end of
the changing rooms and wrenching one boot off at a time, `didn't
realise you were already in here... first in the showers as always...!'

He stood there, smiling weakly, as one by one the other Liverpool players
bundled in, most of them not giving him a second glance, totally unaware
of what he'd been in here doing, the sour manly taste lingering on his
tongue. He let out a long confused sigh, then suddenly remembered that a
little bit of Gomez had streaked the side of his face. He reached up a
hand and felt it, cool and sticky on his skin, amazed the players nearby
hadn't seen it or said a word. He wiped it on his hand and almost let
out a little wretch of horror at his ready submission to the other man.

Someone tossed a towel his way and then one by one, the lads were busying
past him into the communal showers, stripped of kit and bodies gleaming
with sweat. Among them came Andy Robertson, his beady eyes fixed
nervously on him, and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, something more reserved
and trusting in his manner; like all the others, they moved past him and
into the showers, and Trent just stood there, bewildered. So that's what
cock tasted like, he thought dimly. Shit.



Pep Guardiola stood in the broad corridor and smiled, trying not to look
too infuriating for the sake of the Liverpool staff nearby. A perfect
win, he thought, as his players filed past back into the home changing
rooms; he shook hands or patted the necks of each, incredibly proud of
his boys. A perfect win! Just what was needed to signal that Liverpool
were deserved victors for now, but next season would a return to the
recent status quo, and an extra title for Manchester City.

Grinning uncontrollably at each man that passed, Guardiola held in the
shouted celebrations, saving them for a rousing little speech once he
followed the men into the privacy of the changing rooms, where he didn't
need to worry about pissing on the Merseyside visitors quite so much.

He congratulated the goal-scorers in turn. Big, red-cheeked De Bruyne,
the solid Belgian who had seemed a little off in training this past week,
but who had once again delivered the goods with his penalty-taking
tonight. `Excellent, just excellent,' he told the red-haired midfielder
on his way past, shaking his thick shoulder affectionately. And then
Raheem Sterling, still cackling at some private joke with another player,
gripping Pep's hand in a tight shake as they nodded happily to on
another. `Brilliant,' he told him firmly. And then, last but not least,
trailing behind the others, an ecstatic Phil Foden, whose 45th minute
goal had really secured a strong victory. Pep didn't say anything to
him, he didn't need to; he'd already arranged tonight's meet-up with
him before the game, whispering the timings and plans into his ear on the
way out to play, to get him riled up and excited. Tonight was not the big
night, but they would be able to share an hour so at the apartment again.
Pep might even get out the handcuffs. By way of congratulations, he
simply twinkled a wise smile at the youngster and tapped him on the
elbow, nodding him through after the other men into the changing rooms,
and cheekily wishing that Liverpool's Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain would pass
by too so he could congratulate him for being City's 4th scorer...

`Heh, you must get such a boner when he scores, right?'

Guardiola stopped himself; he'd thought for a second that Foden was the
last of the men, gone in to get changed out of his kit and freshly
showered. But no, here was Kyle Walker, standing next to him with a thin
jersey pulled over his City shirt, his shorts rolled up a little over the
bared muscle of his thighs, a can of soft drink in one hand. Pep blinked
and processed the odd, sarcastic question, then frowned at his defender;
they'd had their tense moments in the past, perhaps, but Kyle was
usually very terse and respectful to his face, so what the fuck...

`I mean, knowing he's all yours,' grunted Walker in a lower voice.
`Knowing you get to celebrate with him on your own, like...'

Pep blinked again and stared at the aggressive stance of the other man,
the 30-year-old right-back. He half-opened his mouth, instinctively about
to curse in Spanish and tell him to control his mouth and behave, as
he'd had to so many times in so many contexts, but... what was he saying?
What did he know? How could he...? Guardiola stared hard at the smug grin
and wild eyes of the younger bloke, tensing as one of Kyle's hands
reached to pat the sleeve of his shirt.

`Walker,' he breathed, holding back the more harsh and insulting
sentence he wanted to deliver.

`You're wondering how I know,' Walker chuckled at him.

`Know what?' Pep demanded firmly. `Get in there and-`

`I know enough,' the insolent player said in a loud whisper. `I know
what goes on between you and your golden boy, Pep. You old perv.'

Pep went to speak but found himself unusually voiceless, suddenly hot and
tense and unable to see anything but the beady eyes and curling smirk of
his troublesome player. Finally, he gasped, `You fucking idiot, who do
you think y-`

`Simple deal,' snapped Kyle, cutting him off. `I'm gonna tell
everyone what I know.'

`You-`

`Unless one thing happens.'

`Walker-`

`I get his hole first.' Pep stared at him, wanting to shake off his
infuriating touch at his arm, grab him by the throat, throw him against
the wall or to the ground. How dare he? How fucking dare he? How could he
possibly know... `I get him first, before you fuck him,' murmured Kyle
Walker in a low, threatening tone, pulling closer to him for a moment in
the silent corridor, all noise emerging from the parallel changing rooms.
`I get to pop that little slut's cherry, and then I stay silent.
Otherwise the whole club is gonna know what their beloved manager does to
his favourite boys.'

Pep glared furiously at him, his whole body shaking with shock and anger
and fear. His hands folded unconsciously into tight, trembling fists. He
could hardly stomach looking at Kyle's smug face, his relaxed shoulders,
his slow stride past, for the doorway, still patting Pep on the arm as he
did; turning to look at him one last time, smile more pleasant now, as if
they'd just enjoyed a quick friendly chat, not a threat of blackmail and
exploitation.

`Yep, that's the deal,' Kyle informed him in a falsely gentle voice,
and then, just as the horror seemed complete and impossible to make
worse, he added, `tonight, or never. Cheers, gaffer.' And then he was
backing off and disappearing into the noise of the changing rooms,
letting out a howl of laughter and leaping in to join the banter and
celebrations of his teammates, leaving Guardiola stood in the corridor on
his own, shaking with rage and terror.



**WHAT WILL PEP DO NOW? HOW WILL PHIL REACT? WILL KYLE REALLY EXPLOIT
THEM LIKE THAT? WILL TRENT RECOVER? PART 139 COMING SOON, 'UNBEATABLES &
CENTURIONS'...**