Date: Wed, 8 Jul 2020 22:09:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 141: Glory

Part 141: Glory


It was early evening on a Tuesday, but the atmosphere in the sea-front
bar was very much that of a party weekend. Men milled about the wooden
terraces overlooking the waters and into the lurid neon lights of the
long thin bar, half of which had been booked out by the club. Southampton
were rightly revelling in Sunday's achievement: 1-0 against City, the
2nd place `centurions' who had trumped even Liverpool of late. As a
break in the rigorous training schedule, their manager Ralph Hasenhuttl
was throwing this tame but much-appreciated shindig in a reopened bar on
the edge of the coastal city, honouring his players' effort and
resilience.

Nobody was revelling in this week's mood more than Sunday's solitary
goal-scorer, Che Adams.

The 23-year-old attacking midfielder leaned back in the low-slung window
seat he occupied, sipping cheerfully from the beginnings of a third cold
pint, just bought for him by one of the admiring fans occupying the other
half of the bar; it was a thrill to be allowed a few drinks on a
weeknight, to have been repeatedly toasted by his teammates and a few
respectful strangers.

The Leicester-born lad's first season down here on the South Coast had
been decent but interrupted and odd, for obvious reasons, but Sunday's
win had felt a momentous one, a moment to really put him in on the
Premiership map, whether he hung on for a good few years here or starting
getting the attention of a really big club. He was a naturally humble
young bloke but this week he would allow himself to just enjoy the
attention, the mood of feverish excitement amongst the others, and the
confident prospect of their next game, hosting against Everton on
Thursday evening.

Around him, a few of the others were swigging back from the same round
they had been bought by the gushing middle-aged man and his son;
obviously, they all felt a little awkward accepting the gesture, knowing
their own generous salaries, but the lifelong Southampton fan had been
adamant and Che had been persuaded by the others that they were honouring
the fella by accepting. So now the free drink was in his hand, Adams was
determined to relish it. In the chair opposite him, Jack Stephens was
slurping back his greedily, and positioned on a higher stool just by him,
the more dour Stuart Armstrong was taking a long slow sip. Looking
distinctly younger than the rest of them, amusingly named 20-year-old
Will Smallbone was cupping his in both hands and already looking kinda
tipsy on just two beers!

They were joined then, with a loud chuckle and a clapping of palms, by
their older teammate Shane Long, the club's experience marksman who had
been leading much of the cheers and speeches in Che's honour over the
past few days. Che grinned at the big Irishman as he slid into their
group and shoved his arse on the arm of his own seat, a half-finished
beer bottle clutched in one hand. `To the legend!' Long announced,
lifting the bottle, and triggering a jolly clinking of glass and downing
of alcohol by the circle of men, and a few of their teammates at the next
table. Adams really appreciated the older bloke's positivity, impressed
by the lack of ego from a legend who was probably past his best; Long,
who had come off the bench but failed to contribute, seemed only too
happy to celebrate the younger generation who were picking up the work.

Around them, the party mood was a little short-lived, as the manager's
three-drink limit rule was pretty clear and non-negotiable; the booked up
area they held was dissipating slightly, with some men having already
headed home to dinner with wives and families, and others mingling with
the `civilian' half of the seafront bar or drifting out onto the
terrace. Still, there was a mood of festivity here around this low table,
bolstered by Shane's arrival -- and Che noticed that the Irish striker
was brimming with a cheeky grin and eyeing them all in a very
conspiratorial way.

`What's that look for?' the 23-year-old demanded, looking up at the
jeans and tshirt clad Irishman hovering over the side of his seat and
grinning like the cat who got the triple cream.

`Lads,' sighed Shane, `you ain't gonna believe me when I tell ya.'
This pricked the attention of the others, and all eyes were quickly on
the self-satisfied older footballer, who slid off the arm of Che's seat
and pulled up a stare stool between him and Smallbone.

`Well we can't believe you if you don't bloody tell us, Long,'
pointed out Stephens with mock irritation, the 26-year-old defender
knocking back more of his IPA and grinning playfully at his long-term
teammate, both seasoned Southampton men by now.

`Give him a chance, for fuck's sake,' Che pointed out through his own
gruff laugh.

Shane sniggered and leaned in, hunching his broad shoulders and looking
with a secretive grin from Che to the others, then laughing again to
himself, as if momentarily unsure whether to share. `Lads, you know the
loos in here are unisex,' he pointed out. `Very fuckin' modern, aye?
Just got the most awesome blowie off a wee lassie from behind the bar.'
Che started in surprise at this, totally taken aback despite the obvious
smirk of satisfaction on Shane's face.

`What?' demanded Will awkwardly. The English-born Ireland international
always seemed to look up to Long even more than the rest of them, pretty
much hero worshipping the forward and hanging on his every word in a way
that earned him a lot of teasing and banter from other young players. The
20-year-old now stared at Shane in something nearing horror; Jack,
however, was chuckling away.

`Are you kidding, Long? For real?'

`For real,' Shane confirmed with a quiet whistling breath, rolling his
shoulders and cricking his neck in the same smug manner as if he'd just
scored a goal as surprising and important as Che's on the weekend. Adams
looked at him in puzzled admiration, then across the bar to the corner
door into the unisex loos, wiggling his thick eyebrows.

`Which barmaid?' he asked, disbelieving. `Are you for real? She what,
just followed you into the cubicle, or...'

`She's clocked off,' Shane said firmly, `you know, the blond who was
on before, served us when we first got here.' He punched Che lightly in
the arm. `And best bit is, lad, she's still in there.'

`No way,' laughed Jack, and Will stammered some similar protestation,
looking very excited.

`And how did you make this shit happen?' asked Armstrong, a bit
suddenly, and in a more cynical and frosty tone, the tall handsome
Scotsman shifting on his stool and taking another long slow sip of his
ale. `Just that magic Shane Long touch was it? One look at you and she
had to...?'

`He says it like it doesn't happen on every night out,' Shane tittered
confidently, taking Che and Will in his smug grin, siding against the
stern-faced fellow player, who Che thought was being oddly hostile in his
reaction to Long's admission. `I was just getting my second in, you
know, when she was clocking off,' Shane said with a dismissive wave of
his hand in Stuart's direction, `and she leans in, like, and whispers
in my ear, real close -- see you in the bogs. Hah, real classy!'

`And what, she was just waiting for you in there?' Smallbone asked,
nervously excited in the way he looked up to his senior Ireland
colleague, drumming his fingers against the low wooden surface of their
table.

`Well, yes and no,' the eager storyteller continued, grinning around to
make sure he had everyone's full interest in his secretive antics; none
of them had even noticed he was gone, Che thought, since the party had
quickly gone from rowdy cheers to dissolved and distanced. `She was in
there waiting for sure, but way more careful than what you're thinking,
haha.' A dramatic pause and a deep, devilish smirk from the dark-haired
forward, who rubbed is hands together then picked back up his beer. `You
fellas ever heard of a glory-hole, eh?'

Jack and Stuart immediately snorted in a mixture of derision and
amusement, while Che saw a look of perplexed novelty on Will's face that
matched his own. He stared searchingly at the older man, cupping his cool
pint and frowning a little. `A glory what?' he asked. `Is that a
golfing term?' Jack burst out laughing on the other side of the table to
him and Shane just grinned condescendingly down, slurping down the last
of his bottle of Peroni.

`What are you all laughing at?' Smallbone asked, darting glances from
chuckling Stephens to beaming Long, and then over at Armstrong, who
looked less amused, shaking his head and putting down the dregs of his
pint on the table with a long reach.

`One of you fellas should go and find out,' Shane quipped, planting his
hands on the thick hips of his tshirt, an almost challenging look to his
bearded face.

`I'm so lost,' Che admitted, but Shane and Jack just laughed more at
this, and Stu snorted; as confused as he and Will clearly were, Che found
it odd to see how pissed off the Scottish bloke actually looked, clearly
understanding or hearing more in this than them or Jack!

`What do you say?' Shane demanded, fixing his puckish smirk on
Armstrong now, and cheekily reaching over to steal his pint from where
he'd placed it and have a sip; Stuart just stared back at him in a hard,
detached way, that Adams found odd to see between two men who, as far as
he knew, worked perfectly well together on the pitch and had never had
any crossed words in public. He wondered, for a moment, what history the
two blokes had, but he was still turning over the phrase `glory hole'
in his head and trying to decide why it sounded familiar.

`What the fuck are you up to, eh?' Stuart suddenly burst out, getting
up to his feet off his stool; Che assumed for a moment he just meant the
stolen sip of lager and he frowned at the overreaction, but then Stuart
was pulling away from the table, muttering to himself; Jack howled with
laughter and slapped his thigh.

`God, what's up with him?' the 28-year-old Cornish lad asked loudly,
finishing off his own pint.

`Uptight prick,' Shane remarked.

`I'm still lost,' Che butted in, `what the hell are we talkin'
about...?'

`A glory hole, for real?' Jack asked, kinda ignoring him and leaning
over the table a little, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth to
rub beer from his stubble, his eyes quizzical and eager. `And that blond
lass from before, you say?'

`Aye,' the Irishman confirmed, meeting Jack's naughty eyes and smiling
fully. He reached over and patted a hand each at Che and Will's
shoulders, seeming to enjoy their apparent confusion; Che felt a little
embarrassed, but he was also excited, catching the mood of the two older
more experienced footballers.

`She really still in there?' Stephens asked, rubbing his chin.

`Yeah, last cubicle,' Shane said, leaning back in his chair and
removing his patronising patting hands from Che's shoulder, eyes still
on Jack, `waiting for ya... I told her, I did, I'd get another lad in
there for her...'

`You're winding us up,' chuckled Will, blushing a little, fingering at
a beermat and glancing between Shane and Jack, then over Che's way,
seeming to look for some support in his confusion; Che felt embarrassed
for not understanding the joke and he just bristled uncomfortably,
sitting back in his chair and looking out of the window onto the terrace
instead. Somehow, meeting Will's eye and sharing his puzzled frown just
seemed a confirmation of his own youthful naivety compared to the other
fellas.

Fortunately, before young Adams could embarrass himself further or be
forced to ask any blunt questions, the 6'1 defender was punching
Smallbone lightly in the shoulder and leaning in for a muttered,
confidential explanation. `A hole in the wall, mate,' he grunted, `for
you to, you know, stick it through, and... heh, seen it on Pornhub a bit,
so...' The well-built Cornish lad grabbed a little bit at the crotch of
his baggy cargo pants, swinging around in his seat and grinning wickedly
at the instigator of this odd new conversation. `You're serious, mate?
She's in there waiting for a second round?' They all turned and stared
intently at Shane Long.

The confident Irish footballer sprawled in his curved seat, and winked at
Jack. `Go and see,' he suggested. `Last cubicle, so go into the one
just before that, third one down the row. Okay?'

Stephens was a little red-faced, scratching at the dark brown beard
around his lean features, shifting his broad shoulders in an agitated,
indecisive manner; then he was getting up, grabbing again at the crotch
of his baggy black cargo pants, adjusting the long sleeved tshirt he
wore. `See you lads in fifteen minutes,' he remarked enigmatically, and
Long immediately sniggered out a correction: `More like two and a half,
I bet.' He reached up and slapped the other lad gently on the lower back
as the Southampton defender left them and wove his way across the narrow
bar towards the unisex toilet door. Che watched him go then stared back
at the other two: at Will's pale features and trusting stare, Shane's
deep smirk and furrowed dark brows.

`Which barmaid?' Will asked, almost reverently. `Don't remember a hot
blond one.'

`Sure you do,' Shane informed him quickly, `she was serving when we
got here.'

`Fuck,' Che murmured, `this is mental. She sucked you off through a
hole in the wall?' He leaned in closer to Long as he asked it, dropping
his voice low, self-conscious but excited. He leant into his own knuckle,
elbow on the arm of the chair.

`Lads,' Shane purred, seeming to enjoy their fascinated attention, `it
was unreal, proper filth. Get yourselves in there when your man Jack is
done, eh?' He nodded vaguely in that direction. `Never met such a
slutty wee filly, she's well up for it; she'll nosh both of you and...
well, maybe I'll go in for round two when she's done, heh. Right, fresh
drinks, boyos?'

`Three drink limit,' Will murmured vaguely.

`Yeah,' muttered Che, ignoring that rule, kinda needing a fresh pint to
ease him through this confusing notion and the exciting temptation of
what his pal was suggesting. It was like something from a dodgy porno,
which he supposed Jack's earlier comment confirmed. Shane got up to go
for the bar for them and he found Will was staring nervously at him. The
slim, dark-haired midfielder was chewing his lip and making questioning
eyes. `You up for it?' Che asked him, trying to sound more relaxed and
sure of himself.

`Sounds mental,' said the young lad, a Southampton trainee since before
his teens. He looked over at Shane by the bar in his trusting, puppy-dog
fashion, and Che tried to relax into his own seat, turning over the mad
notion. Yeah, he'd heard the phrase before, it definitely rang bells, he
could almost picture something from a porn clip he'd skimmed over. What
was so hot about it? He supposed there was a kinky anonymity to it or
summat, a sensual focus, or... Fuck, he was certainly feeling a bit randy
at all the chat of it anyway. Like Will, he couldn't ACTUALLY picture
the particular barmaid Shane was on about but, well, Long had good taste;
Che had wanked off over the thought of the Irishman's attractive wife a
fair few times after seeing her in tight dresses at club socials.

When Long returned, it was as if there was a complete suspension of the
exciting but uncomfortable conversation. Placing their three bottles of
Peroni down on the table with ease, the charming Irishman was quickly
back into praising their performances on Sunday and making bold claims
about where Southampton FC might ultimately finish in this year's league
table, and next. Will, relieved, joined in the discussion, but Che found
himself just listening along and saying little, his eyes flitting back
and forth to the little unisex symbol on the toilet entrance, feeling a
kinda proxy nervousness every time he saw a man or woman head in then
return shortly later. He didn't check his watch but it was probably a
little under fifteen minutes when their mate emerged.

Jack walked, no, swaggered over the room, a real swing to his legs and
arms, a massive beaming grin on his face, similar to the way Shane had
arrived and interrupted their conversation not so long ago; Shane
immediately got up to greet him and slapped a palm to his in a quick
shake. `Good man yerself,' he chirped, squeezing his forearm, `how was
she, eh?' Che saw Smallbone's eyes bulge at this as he turned round to
stare, and he pulled on the collar of his own polo shirt, sweating
uncomfortably but lustily.

`Quality,' Stephens declared, flopping down into Shane's abandoned
chair, leaving him stood up smirking victoriously. `Fuckin' quality,'
the defender went on, `oh my god... lads...'

`She'll want another,' Long giggled.

`She didn't say owt,' began the recently blown defender, but he was
shushed.

`Adams, you up next?' Shane demanded, standing between Will and Jack
and biting his lip excitedly, then picking up his own beer bottle and
passing it to Jack, who glugged on it gratefully. `Here, I'll have your
Peroni, you just head on through, we'll have a fresh one waiting for ya
when you're done.'

The Leicester-born footballer sat still, gripping the arms of his chair
for a moment, looking down to stare at the glistening green glass of his
bottle; the nervous and bewildered part of him just wanted to grab and
drink that, to chill here and bask in what little was left of the team
social in his honour. But the satisfied and giddy looks on Jack and
Shane's faces, and the novelty of what they'd indulged in, all called
to him. And didn't he deserve a bit of a special treat, being the hero
of the week down here, and all...? The 23-year-old let lust win over
social awkwardness. `Go on then,' he barked, pushing his bottle across
the tabletop in Shane's direction, then getting up, swinging his body
with false confidence, and grinning at the three of them, `drink up
lads, I won't be long, haha.'

Off he went. The 5ft9 lad almost bashed right into the back of a man's
seat, clumsily hurried as he crossed the room and elbowed open the swing
door into the loos. He didn't risk looking back at the fellas by the
window table, knowing his grin would give away his indecision and
apprehension. Instead he just charged on into the mixed toilets, glad
that it was visibly empty, nobody queueing for any of the cubicles or
lingering at the sinks and mirrors. He could see the three faintly ajar
doors and the fourth one at the end, clearly locked shut; there was a gap
of a few inches at the bottom of it and he was, momentarily, tempted to
hoy himself on the floor to peek under there and catch a proper glimpse
of this hottie Shane had fixated on. But the floor was hardly gonna be
clean and it would look... desperate.

When he pushed on the third cubicle door and slid in, he half-expected
the hole to be a fiction, the whole thing to be a joke; Shane and co
would burst into the toilets, cackling, and he'd be outed as a randy sex
pest to the rest of the squad. But there it was, a cock-sized dark circle
in the blue-painted plyboard divide, nothing much visible through the
other side. He stood there, as if waiting for her to say something, but
it had been obvious that conversation was no major part of what Shane
Long or Jack Stephens had enjoyed in here.

Hurrying before his nervousness got the better of him, Adams elbowed shut
the cubicle door and began to untie the drawstrings at the front of his
tight grey sweatpants. He locked the door with a slide of rustling metal
then stepped closer to the `glory hole' (where the hell had that daft
name come from?) and pushed down the front of the pants, then the red
boxer briefs beneath; his big soft cock flopped into his hand, smelling
of mixed soap and sweat, a chubby brown shape in his pale palm. Che
gulped, loudly, and he thought he maybe detected the soft tickle of a
laugh through that thin divide; he ran his fingers through his short
fluffy afro of hair, a bit embarrassed to find how damp his brow was with
perspiration. Fuck it, fuck it. Jack did it, Shane did it.

Taking his gently stiffening prick in hand, Che pushed it through the
gap, and immediately felt alien fingers tickle at his sensitive skin. He
guided his length into the gap until his balls rested against the cool
firm material and his curly pubes tickled it above the hole. He stared
down at his own appendage disappearing into the plyboard, a bit aghast at
himself, then felt the first wet contact of a tongue and lips. `Ohhh,'
he groaned aloud instantly, breathing into the hard bland surface of
chipped blue paint. He pressed both palms to the flimsy divide and gasped
again, feeling his dick taken fully in mouth by this Southampton slut. Oh
wow.

It'd been a while since the young forward had been sucked off, actually,
and a while longer since he'd felt such full lips on his member, or such
a big sluttish tongue; and yeah, weirdly, not seeing her was kinda...
thrilling. He found himself picturing the hottest pornstar he'd ever
spaffed whilst watching, down on her knees, in a grimy bar toilet
cubicle. He pressed into the divide and pushed his cock a bit further
into the hole. It was fully hard already. Ugh. There were downsides, some
rational bit of his brain noted: he wanted to stroke her hair, pull his
dick out and take a bit more control, see her fluttering lashes and
greasy lips. But the sensory deprivation of the divide and the hole had
so much thrill of its own. Apart from anything else, his whole body was
tensed up at the prospect of interruption or discovery. He was doing a
bad job of holding in his little moans, and anyone entering the next
cubicle would surely hear. But he'd hear the main door first, and
footsteps, so surely he was okay?

On she went, a proper little cock-sucker down there in her cubicle,
making the most of his decently sized caramel brown weapon. He rested his
damp forehead against the divide and brought his hands up under his
squished chin, pushing knuckles into his jawline to shut his mouth and
suppress the louder gasps he wanted to make as a lapping tongue encircled
then devoured his clammy bell-end. Already, he was wondering how that big
lad Jack Stephens had lasted almost fifteen minutes in here, haha, he
felt like he was gonna cum already!

But somehow, he held off, delayed that eventuality, and just enjoyed the
filthy minutes. His nob ached with pleasure and the tight waist of his
undies dug in under his tight, loaded ball-sack. Sweat trickled down his
neck and over his brown back muscles under the pale grey polo shirt. His
legs wobbled a little with the concentrated effort of not making too much
noise or unleashing his load. He thought, for a second, of the other two
lads enjoying this same position, turned on by their sharing, then a
little queasy at accidentally picturing his teammates `in the moment'.
Fuck them, he laughed internally, think of HER... mmm... the particular
European video slut he'd developed a fixation for on Pornhub recently
came to mind and he released a shivering groan of appreciation at the
imagined scene. But the real woman, if Shane was to be believed, was
maybe even hotter?!

It wasn't long before it was too much for him, and Che was pushing the
knuckles of one fist into his mouth to shut himself up. He spurted. The
tongue and lips didn't cease, the tickling fingertips near the base,
right at the hole in the divide. Oh fuckkk. He must be spunking all over
her face, her lips, her cheeks, maybe dropping down onto her tits, which
hopefully were bare with erect nipples... Che gently fucked the hole in
the wall, pushing palms back against the blue paint, squeezing his own
round buttocks with each slow thrust. When the mouth finally pulled away
from his tool and he slid his wet, twitching erection back through the
hole, he almost burst out laughing at himself: fuck yes, that WAS
glorious, the silly nickname made sense after all...

`Er, thanks?' he said, because it felt like he should say something,
but she didn't. He could just about hear her pant and gasp, the
cock-hungry slut; was she really crouched there hoping for a FOURTH dick
in her gob? Well, little Willy Smallbone, haha...

Che snatched a rag of toilet roll and wiped at his cock before starting
to push its ungainly rod back into his pants, wiping his sweaty face on a
shoulder. `Thanks,' he said again, uncomfortable with the lack of
response, `that was... well hot, luv...' He paused, still kinda expecting
a response, but nope; he rattled at the lock and burst out of his
cubicle. He wanted to stop at the sink and wash his hands and face but
somehow he felt too embarrassed, knowing she was listening. Instead he
hurried for the main door and back out into the bar, stopping abruptly as
he found himself face to face with his teammate on the way in. Will
Smallbone stood a metre away, cracking his knuckles nervously; Shane Long
was beside him, a hand on his shoulder, as if he'd had to steer the
nervous 20-year-old all the way over here.

`How was it?' Will whispered quickly.

`Amazing,' Che gasped, but self-consciously, feeling as if the whole
thin crowd of the bar would turn and look at them and clock what they
were up to. He laughed gently, wafting at his chest-hugging shirt, and
meeting Shane's dirty grin, then nodding at Will. `Go on, mate. Go on.
Fucking hell. See you in what, 90 seconds, haha...'



The slut in the cubicle gasped as the fourth man's load oozed on their
tongue and bottom lip and down onto their chin. The rapid, furtive gasps
on the other side of the divide continued for a few moments, ending in a
little almost regretful gurgle, and then Smallbone's reedy young voice:
`Shit, girl... fuck...' He couldn't get out of their quick enough, his
footsteps echoing and the cubicle door rattling.

The cock hungry figure in the last cubicle pulled gently away from the
rough circular orifice, leaning back against the toilet seat for support
before beginning to pull up, arse off the floor, knees pressing down.
Outside, there was more vague swing and rattle of the outer door, more
footsteps in the bathroom; then, as expected, the gentle rapping of
knuckles on the door to this cubicle. A quick grab undid the sliding lock
and in the door swung a little.

Shane Long edged in with a trace of caution, a look back into the main
space of the bar toilets, then pushing the door shut behind him and
resting his firm shoulders back into it, gasping a little. There was a
dirty smirk on his puffy face, an admiring glint in his eyes. He was
staring down with this expression of maddened lust, and there was a
distinct fullness to the bulging front of his slim-fit jeans beneath the
crumpled white tshirt he wore.

`You look a mess,' the Irishman said, his voice a quiet purr, the
insult a compliment from him.

`Did I do good, sir?' the slut asked.

`You did fuckin' great, Danny,' he murmured, still staring down.

Danny Ings nodded his head, letting the little dribbles of mixed spunk
dry and cool on the dark stubble of his chin, still tasting each load
against his tongue, unable to take his eyes off the prospect of Long's
refreshed erection. He kept one elbow pressed back into the toilet seat
lid, his broad muscular chest heaving a little in the black Adidas tshirt
he wore; silvery streaks on the front of it suggested black was not the
best colour to wear before slurping up four loads in a row.

He leaned forward and reached out his thick tattooed arms, stroking at
Shane's thighs in his jeans and staring up at him, wanting him to fully
see the mess of his face, the dirty stains on his shoulders and chest and
crusting down his thick neck. `Sir,' he groaned quietly, `oh sir...'

He watched with worshipful eyes as Shane grabbed and tugged at the heavy
belt buckle on the front of his jeans, not breaking eye contact once. It
had been Danny who found the glory-hole first, nipping to the loo almost
immediately after settling in at the bar, someone else queuing up for his
pint; he'd pointed it out to Shane in a jokey, playful whisper, amazed
at such a thing really existed in their world. He'd been shocked,
frightened in fact, when Shane looked back at him with those sparkling
mischievous eyes, and commanded him to go back to the toilets as soon as
he'd finished his pint. Disobedience had not even crossed Danny's mind.

`You ready for a fifth load, slut?' the Irish Southampton hunk growled
quietly, looming over him, 5ft11 of firm athletic build, something chunky
about the way he filled his jeans and tshirt, something gorgeously seedy
in the 33-year-old's return to him. It had been Shane he thought as he
sucked the others, recognising them somehow through skin tone and the
murmured noises of their orgasms: Stephens, Adams, Smallbone. And now,
back to Long. The jeans were open and the cock pulled out, still smelling
a little of the spunk it had shed earlier this evening. Danny kissed it
gladly on the shaft and then stole a kiss against the rough knuckles of
one hand, which his master tolerated with a sigh.

How many times had he debased himself on camera or over the phone at
Long's purring instruction during lockdown? How had he ACHED to see the
Irish beast again when training gently resumed in late June? How had he
cried in desperation when Shane finally led him to a quiet empty room at
the Southampton training centre, and made him kiss all the way from the
studs of his boots up his socks and shin-pads and into his shorts...

The bulky, 27-year-old striker rose up more on aching knees, pulling down
a bit more on Shane's jeans and checkered boxer shorts, and took the
semi-hard cock back in his lips, teasing it into a fuller and more rigid
pole, tasting like heaven to him. He wasn't sure how many times he'd
been able to nosh his beautiful master now, but it was easily
double-figures. Danny had so many queasy feelings about the submission
he'd eagerly crawled into since his crush was first aggressively outed
in those showers, witnessed by Stu Armstrong of course, but never WHILST
it was happening, never WHILST he was slurping about the Irish cock and
balls or being smirked down at by his fellow Southampton goal machine.

`That's it,' groaned Shane, `you good little slut...'

`Oh sir,' Danny moaned, his voice small and pleading despite his broad
muscular frame, hunched down on the cubicle floor breathing in the musty
odour of Long's dark curling pubes.

`Mmm... my slutty lad...'

`Always, sir. Always.'

`Still hungry even after all that cum...!'

`I'm always hungry for yours, sir!' The words, as always, tripped from
his plump red lips like a script he'd been learning all his life, this
needy lust he felt for Shane Long, had felt half-knowingly ever since
they played their first game together here on the South Coast. He put his
mouth back to the firm veiny length of Shane's cock and sucked madly,
still marvelling at how good one felt between his lips, though he
continued to wish it would go other places. `Fuck me,' he muttered
again, rolling his fingers up the wet underside of it and looking up,
widey-eyed. `Fuck me, please.'

`Be a good slut and eat my cum,' Shane said, and then he spat heavily
down so that his dribble mixed with the drying cum on Danny's hairy
chops. He shuddered excitedly and gagged on that cock, pulling his hands
under the tshirt to grip Shane's thick warm hips and pull him in,
letting it almost choke him until he could slowly, happily, groaningly,
tease a second orgasm out of the beautiful man. Shane made cool, gentle
moans, planting both hands on his head and stroking his short thick hair,
combing through his receding temples and tickling down over his small
ears. Danny sucked in a mouthful of Shane's second load, less creamy and
pungent than the first, then licked the red tip of his cock clean in one
smooth gulp.

Still panting, Danny hung there on his knees and rested his face in
against the warm toned flat of Shane's abdomen, holding his sides,
letting his cock rub gently on his stubble so that it stimulated the big
guy and his lingering orgasm. Then he reached one hand down and stuffed
it inside his own jeans, finding the hard-on that had throbbed there on
and off since he opened his lips for Jack and the others. He wanked
himself in furious, tight little strokes, feeling Shane's rough but
caring strokes on the back and sides of his head, cuddling his face into
his cooling crotch, and moaning very softly. `Good little bitch, good
little bitch,' Shane whispered, then giggled, a boyish sound for a man
of his age.

Over and over, in lockdown and since, Danny had given himself up to
Shane, locked in a trance of desire for the man, six years his senior and
such a legend in their game. If he wasn't lying on his kitchen floor in
the night putting a carrot in his hole, he was wearing a dirty stained
pair of the other man's undies to training, or on his knees in a cubicle
like this, or sneaking out of the house very early so that he could come
and meet him at the back of his garden and nosh him off in the summer
house.

Long grinned down at him, stroking his bulky shoulders and thick neck,
giggling again at the power he had hear, the mischief he'd played with
their horny teammates. So dominant and callous, in his way; Danny felt
dirty and used and, more often than not, far from the centre of Shane's
private world. He knew he was nothing but a toy to his mate in these
games, but he didn't care; he loved every fucking second of it, and when
he was deep inside his own missus, making her squeal, all he could think
about was who owned him.

`Good lad,' sighed Shane now, patting him on the side of the head.
`Good lad.'


**I'M SURE YOU SAW THE TWIST COMING, BUT PEOPLE HAVE BEEN ASKING FOR A
SHANE + DANNY UPDATE FOR QUITE A WHILE... HOPE IT SATISFIES THAT
INTEREST! LET ME KNOW WHO YOU NEED TO SEE MORE OF IN THE FINAL WEEKS OF
THE SEASON :) **