Date: Wed, 29 Jul 2020 16:34:20 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 156: The Newcomer

Part 156: The Newcomer


Frank Lampard strolled out towards the main training field with him, a
certain impatience in his gestures and body language as he led the way.
His mind was still on the terse phone call he'd been engaged in at his
desk when the club's latest signing was led in for their briefing,
breaking Lampard from his brief and awkward chat with Terry. Not that it
had been going anywhere, the two of them talking at cross-purposes: the
Aston Villa second-in-command making blunt, difficult apologies for his
aggression whilst utterly avoiding Frank's suggestions that they should
meet soon for a drink. After their hasty and disastrous rendezvous at the
weekend, it was as if neither of the best friends knew what to say to
each other to make things okay.

Here I am again, Lampard thought uncomfortably, distracted from the task
at hand just when things matter the most!

The Premiership season was over, but there was no time for jolly holidays
in the Chelsea camp, and the lads in blue were hard at work in front of
him; they had the impending Final of the FA Cup against their North
London neighbours. And beyond that, a stab at the delayed Champions
League coming up, based in Portugal, with a genuine shot at a trophy that
could be their season highlight. Irritatingly, Lampard was still awaiting
confirmation from the FA bosses that his players would get extended
summer leave into September to compensate these extensions to their hard
work!

Beside him, the team's new boy was fresh and alert, grinning quite
enthusiastically as he was led towards the action, new tracksuit of
bright blue clinging to his strong athletic frame. Frank found himself
looking him up and down properly, the bristling energy of the young
German breaking him from his moody career reflections and the increasing
tension with JT. He let his eyes rove up and down the 5ft11 blond profile
of Timo Werner, appreciating the power in his stride and the way his new
Chelsea training top hugged the swell of his pectorals.

`Here I finally am,' the blond German lad barked in his soft accent,
grinning eagerly ahead to the spaced out groups of players, arranged
roughly by position and headed by a range of Lampard's underlings. So
far, Werner had spent a pleasant first few days in Chelsea training since
joining their ranks on Monday, but only alone and in pairs; now he was to
be transitioned into the main squad regime, even though Lampard would not
be allowed to play him until the official new season in September. For
now, he was all dazzling Teutonic potential.

`Yes,' the ex-player said with forced brightness, hugging his arms over
his pale blue shirt and frowning out at the somewhat lethargic training
session underway; he couldn't decide if he'd been right to instruct a
fairly relaxed regime this week, a lull as the men recovered from the
intense late-season schedule, and begun looking ahead to the Cups. He
paused at the line, arms still folded, and looked back at bright-eyed
Werner.

`It will be strange,' remarked Timo, rubbing his palms together and
stamping his booted feet a little. `I look forward to joining in, but so
long until I get to play in blue, heh...!'

`Strange, yep,' Frank agreed distantly, pulling his eyes back up from
where they drooped, past Timo's long firm torso towards the front of his
tight skinny-fit blue trackies. `But we all have high, high hopes for
you, Werner, we are all very happy to have you here, fella.' He gave him
an odd, strained smile, the same slightly off dynamic he'd struggled
with as they chatted at his desk; Frank was deeply conscious of his own
odd behaviour, the absence of his matey patter and informal working
relationships. He felt tense and awkward, his face still puffy and sore
from his clash with Terry, his whole understanding of who he was in
silent jeopardy. Still, the crisp handsomeness of this new signing seemed
to cut through all that for a moment, with his rich brown eyes and
angular blond-bearded jawline.

Timo grinned at him with a strange, determined expression. `Oh, well, no
pressure then,' he chuckled. `Do not worry, Mr Lampard.' He leaned in
a little, and there was something ferocious and meaningful in both his
stare and his voice. `I am here to serve you, and I will not be letting
you down, sir.' And with that, leaving Lampard momentarily distracted
and aroused, the 24-year-old German striker bounced ahead and loped over
towards the forwards and attacking midfielders to join the rest of the
training session.



Mason Mount's response to the relative ease of this week's training
schedule was to occasionally lose focus and daydream. This afternoon,
completing a series of light runs between shooting exercises, he allowed
his thoughts to drift indulgently to his accidental lie-in this morning:
Dec had made him late to work at the Chelsea grounds by pulling him back
into bed after he showered, fucking him deeply with that forceful new
manner he had, pinning him down afterwards and just snogging at him for a
full half hour even after they had both shot their loads. By the time
Mount was re-showered and kitted for training, he'd been markedly late
to the team breakfast meeting, flushed and self-conscious with the glow
of young love. Declan, of course, had the day free to lounge in the flat,
West Ham being all done for the summer!

Mildly returning his focus to the work at hand as he stepped up and took
his mock penalty then jogged aside for the next exercise, Mason thought
idly on the `problem' of their different positions now -- it was a
problem, in theory, but it was one he grinned uncontrollably to even
think about. It was the stress of privilege, the cost of luxury -- to
have his old buddy Rice lounging about pretty much waiting for him to
come home to be fucked! But still... it wasn't sustainable to have the
big sexy fucker bored in the apartment while he still had to keep up the
daily grind of their sport. He wanted Rice to go home to his family or
away, somewhere to refresh and enjoy himself... when he tried to suggest
this, though, Declan insisted that he wanted to wait until they were both
free for a holiday. At that point, Mount would always giggle as he
protested and insisted, secretly loving Rice's refusal to leave his
side.

The 21-year-old Chelsea midfielder was snapped out of his reverie by the
thwack of boot on ball, the power of the shot-on-goal following his. With
the rest of the gathering, Mason blinked appreciatively at the sight of
Werner's strike arcing into the net, and the German's cool confidence
and lordly wave as he circled from the penalty spot to join the others.
Mason raised his eyebrows, professionally admiring his new teammate as
the strong German lad jogged this way, the front of his blue tracksuit
bottoms bouncing a little, and the shirt tautening over his broad chest.
Okay, mostly professionally admiring; he blushed.

Suddenly, Werner was beside him, his breathing barely disturbed, a very
clean and fresh scent pouring off his broad figure. Mount grinned
foolishly at him, sensing the almost prickly awe of the men around them,
having begun to see what the newcomer was capable of. `Wow,' Mason
breathed at him quietly, `quite a kick on you, mate...' He hesitated
over a handshake or a fist-bump and just grinned goofily at the new
Chelsea man, who smiled guardedly back at him.

`I watched your goal on Sunday, remember,' Timo told him simply. `I
know what you are capable of too, Mason Mount. There will be some
competition for the goals in autumn.' His grin was light and friendly
but also fiercely competitive.

Mount let out an almost flirtatious giggle of pleasure, something in the
taller bloke's presence and charisma tickling at him. `I look forward
to that,' he said, aware of spots of blush in his high cheeks, and
turning away to face the dribbling exercise that they were moving on to,
feeling Timo's intense grin almost burning into him from the side before
he set off away from him with a ball at his feet, somehow flustered by
the tiny interaction. God, you tit, he told himself, you need to calm
down...! You're spoken for, and he's almost certainly 100% straight...!



Ruben Loftus-Cheek had been eyeing him speculatively from a distance
since Sunday, when Chelsea's big signing had been welcomed to Stamford
Bridge to spectate at their season-ending match against Wolves; there was
something distinct and attractive about the 24-year-old, Ruben had
quickly decided, even though not traditionally his `type'. Watching him
parade thoughtfully about in the quiet stands before and after that
match, he'd found himself curiously aware of the new man joining their
club and the fuss his talent and charisma might cause next season.

Today, he found himself less curious about Werner's potential impact on
the line-up and playing style, and a lot more curious about the way he
filled out his brand-new training kit. Up close, in action, he was about
20% more attractive than the Londoner had previously estimated. Heh, a
delightful new view, if nothing else! Ruben was perfectly capable of
admiring and window-shopping without becoming hung up and obsessive...
unlike some men quite close to his footballing life!

The mountainously tall London lad kept one eye on the frantic passing
drill he was engaged in, and one on the diagonal position of Timo Werner.
Luckily, the pace was slow enough for Lofty to neatly receive and
reciprocate passes from his own partner, Tammy Abraham, whilst enjoying
the view of another football dashing back and forth between Werner and
Jorginho.

Ruben rarely went for blonds, in fact rarely felt very strongly attracted
to Caucasian men, but he found himself somewhat fixated on the chiselled
jawline and long sharp nose of Timo's determined face. There was also
the bulge of his obvious chest muscles, forcing Lofty to speculate what
Werner might look like sans footy shirt, and the supple speed of his long
legs. It was probably just novelty, he rebuked himself, used to a more
idle and composed appreciation of the fit men that constantly surrounded
him -- a bit of a peek show was an occupational hazard for him, one that
had only rarely led to any worthwhile fun off the pitch. He grinned
smugly at the most recent and nearby success stories of his charms: Ross,
Mason, Frank... even Danny Drinkwater was back in the Chelsea fold, for
now, while his future after a poor loan spell was decided.

`Oi, Rubes!' bellowed Tammy across the distance at him. `What was
that?'

The 6ft3 midfielder paused in sudden realisation that he had been
nutmegged by Abraham's gentle pass, and almost tripped over his own long
strong legs as he spun round to retrieve the ball; he burst into playful
laughter, quick to cover-up his distraction and error, and booted it a
little forcefully back at his training partner so that Tammy had to
really lunge to meet and control the pass, some balance restored between
the two players after his own error.

`Careful, boys,' Werner called over jovially, `I hope my arrival is
not too distracting for anybody! Ha ha...' Tammy and Jorginho burst out
laughing at this and Ruben joined in less enthusiastically, stopping a
return pass from his partner beneath his boot, and rolling his eyes.

Bloody hell, mate, he addressed himself, don't get so overexcited about
a fresh face in the squad...!



Danny Drinkwater watched the new player closely as they left the training
ground in sparse clusters, thinking that Timo Werner was just yet another
reason for him to feel pessimistic about his chances of re-joining the
fold; he was a midfielder himself, rather than attack, but the likes of
Timo made it harder to picture Lampard and his management circle needing
to draw on `spare' talent.

It had been a pleasant surprise to be even included in this week's
training work at all, Danny would admit, but he suspected he was just
here filling up space, someone for the more settled Chelsea players to
bounce off and work with. Like Werner, his loan deal would mean he
wasn't actually an available option in the Champions League or FA Cup
games ahead, simply a spare part earning an embarrassingly good salary
without entering a match. In moments of positivity, Drinkwater could tell
himself that his inclusion in this week's Chelsea training was somehow
connected to his `meeting' with Lampard not so long ago, but... old
Frank had barley given him a second look since he arrived, stomping about
the place with a deep frown, looking like he still hadn't got over the
argy-bargy of the night in Liverpool. It was hard for Danny to believe
he'd made much impression on the gaffer despite the interesting kink
they'd shared.

Following the other guys indoors and thinking that he would almost
certainly head to the gym alone to work on his incredible six-pack, Danny
took a last bitter look at the departing outline of Werner's figure, a
similar height and build to himself, but carried with the confidence of
an expensive transfer deal from RB Leipzig. In a brief flash of hot mood,
Danny's thoughts went from football (`Fuck's sake, everyone was cooing
over his shots today, the smug bell-end...') to something else (`Jeez,
the arse on those trackies is a bit tight, ain't it...'), and he was
looking at the departing German with a mild semi in his own baggy undies,
thinking about how wildly fun it had been to smack Frank Lampard around
the glutes and be intimate with a bloke again like in the past.

Dammit, Danny! Stop thinking like that... you know you only took part in
any of that dirty business to try and win favour, nowt else... He grimaced
and bunched his fists and rolled his shoulders, irritable and restless,
breaking away from the group and determined to put in some solo gym hours
instead of spending any more time hearing about how fucking amazing the
new guys were, both Werner and Hakim Ziyech.



It was exciting, seeing new talent join them for the first time, but also
faintly intimidating; Ross Barkley had faced a surprising and unpleasant
dip in his match appearances in the final fortnight of the 2019-20
season, returning for a substitute appearance in the closing game against
Wolverhampton. As a result, he found himself regarding Timo Werner with a
sort of cautious expectation, glancing sideways across the changing room
whilst pulling up at his tight blue under-vest and rolling its lycra over
the toned muscle of his tummy and chest.

He couldn't help but stare competitively for a moment at the pale pink
flush of the German lad's bared torso at the other side of the row,
seeing the tight definition of his six-pack with a hint of envy; Timo was
a lot more heavy-set above the waist than him, the paleness of his skin
seeming to accentuate the rippling definition of his athlete's muscles,
against the deep mixed-race tan of Ross's own leaner upper body. Still,
they were footballers, not bodybuilders...!

Pulling his eyes away from the sight of the new lad laughing deeply and
punching at Ziyech, Barkley realised that he wasn't alone in shooting
idle stares over that way; just to his right, the next player along this
row was looking Werner's way with a slightly glazed-over expression,
even as he brought one trainer at a time up onto the bench to undo his
laces. Looking at the slightly hunched figure of Christian Pulisic and
his innocently ogling expression, Ross failed to suppress a little
scoffing noise; he'd already watched Mason Mount spend a good ten
minutes giggling and blushing with their European arrival in the middle
of the day's work.

Pulisic turned sharply this way, blinking and staring at him. `What was
that?' he asked quietly in his rich Pennsylvanian accent, straightening
up and wriggling out of his training top, all lean toned muscle and thin
chest hair. Ross, watching the affable American struggle a bit with his
tight-fitting gear, reached dismissively across and yanked the top off
for him, checking himself a little at this almost affectionate gesture
and tossing it down on the bench between them, shifting his eyes around
to see if anyone had noticed his intervention. `Nothing,' he returned,
looking away from Christian's gawping face, `nothing at all.'

He focused simply on the wall ahead of him and rubbed at his lightly
sweaty face, comfortably stretched and drained by the training today, but
knowing he could put in more work if needed; he was confident his fitness
and performance was going to bag him a key role in the remaining
tournament matches, as long as Lampard's weird moods and evasive
behaviour weren't somehow weirdly connected to anything they had gone
through in the past.

`Hey,' murmured Christian, leaning a little closer in the `safe' 1
metre between them. `Are you still crashing at mine tonight, dude...?'

Ross glanced at him, unable to keep the slightly aloof and defensive
expression from his own rugged face, but then sagging somewhat at the
sight of the American's wide brown eyes and nervous half-smile. He could
hear himself about to cancel the plans with blunt dismissal, `Nah,
better offer' or `I don't think I feel like it', but he stopped
himself short and just tutted out a sighing and faux casual `Yeh, lad,
why not?'

Still without a permanent residence since his break-up, Barkley
essentially rotated between his kindly loaned spare room at their
captain's place, and Pulisic's inner-city pad. He was pretty sure that
if he wanted to, he could stay more permanently at the American's luxury
apartment, but something was holding him back: evenings and mornings
there were good, Pulisic seeming oddly keen to cook for him or take him
out to London eateries, then quietly and unassumingly initiating nightly
oral sex without ever daring to speak of it in the warm al fresco
breakfasts that followed. Ross Barkley was keeping the sweetly innocent
younger footballer at a careful arm's distance; what he couldn't decide
was whose benefit or protection this was for, Christian's or his own.

Now, hugging loose arms at his slightly hairy chest and lean body,
Pulisic grinned a bit more firmly and nodded. `Ah, cool, that'll be
good, I was gonna make a Thai curry and stuff, heh, so erm...'

Ross nodded slowly, one eye on Christian, and one on the business of the
room beyond him, and shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal
contradiction of his agreement. `I like that,' he said vaguely, though
Thai food was one of his faves, and he knew the nervous lights-out
blowjob that would inevitably follow it would ease him into another great
night's sleep. Guiltily aware of his dismissive attitude, he cracked a
smile at Pulisic and saw his dark eyes light up in relief at some subtle
confirmation of the plan.

With this settled, Christian moved away from him, grabbing and hugging a
folded white towel to his front, disappearing through the shifting huddle
of half-dressed athletes in his tight grey American Eagle underpants; in
his absence, a long cleared view was exposed for Barkley, the several men
separating he and Werner's changing spots going to shower, so that
suddenly the two athletic men were staring right at each other down the
room. Barkley started when he found his moody, resentful eyes meeting
Timo's for a moment, the handsome blond German paused at the far end of
the row in just his dark blue Under Armour stretched lycra pants,
clinging to his thick hips beneath the sharp rows of his abdominal
muscles.

`Aha, Ross Barkley,' called Timo warmly, lifting one hand in a slight
wave; they hadn't been properly introduced out on the training ground,
Barkley not rushing to change that in his flustered inner thoughts about
Lampard's likely team selection in the new season, and the slipping
influence or value of his position as an attacking midfielder. `Tell me,
what is a "Scouser"? I kept hearing the men call you that as we
trained, Ross...' Stood tall at the end of the row in his tight lycras,
Werner grinned lightly this way, in the middle of neatly folding his blue
training shirt.

Ross could see the friendliness of the newcomer's conversational gambit,
could see the unreasonable tension of his own selfish reaction, but he
felt oddly provoked by the look and the question. Staring back at the
blond newbie, all he could see was a flashy handsome imposter, swaggering
into the club he'd worked hard for, stealing the attention of manager
and teammates. Certain teammates in particular, went the faintly
suppressed line of thinking, possessive of the attention he was slowly
becoming accustomed to...

`Hard to explain,' he grunted, as he pushed down on his Chelsea shorts
and sports briefs in one go, whipping up a towel from the shelf and
slapping it over his shoulder before strolling down the room,
bollock-naked with thick loose cock swinging aggressively, `but you're
looking at one.' Refusing to crack a welcoming smile at Timo, he
strolled arrogantly past him, his tanned body bared and downstairs assets
all on show, set to intimidate any rival. He didn't bother to look at
Christian's reaction to this showy nudity, just bowled by him towards
the busy showers, aware of his petty gesture and the base need to assert
himself after all.



Pulisic rubbed ineffectually at his left arm as he made his way down the
quiet corridor to the treatment rooms, dully conscious of the minor
injury he'd picked up in a Wolves tussle on Sunday as the Premiership
rattled to a close. It had panged a bit with pain during today's
training again, so he was glad of the scheduled session with one of the
club's experts to check it out and give him a slight physio over it,
though his mind was already out of the suburban sports complex and back
in his city-centre apartment, plotting his kitchen efforts and the
prospect of Barkley's company for another sporadic weeknight visit.

Christian was, very slowly, coming to terms with the twist in their
casual football friendship. What had happened between them several
weekends ago, first in his outdoor pool and then in the shadows of his
bedroom, had floored him, a complete shock. The small-town American had
suffered inevitable bouts of homophobia in his youth, `soccer'
generally seen as the effeminate choice in the burly high school
environments of his youth; many times in his early teens, Pulisic had
marvelled at the persistent `banter', briefly questioning his own
masculinity until coaches and teammates and then European contacts
reassured him that this was prejudiced bullshit.

But now... staring at Ross that day and being allowed to delicately
explore him... it had been a bolt from the blue. And since, rather than
feeling worried or guilty or ashamed, he felt more relaxed, even
relieved. True, he couldn't work up the confidence to really ASK Barkley
about it, to meet it head-on and question what the hell was going on
between them, not in the harsh light of day, but he continued to
tentatively invite the other Chelsea player to crash at his whenever he
needed... and each night the Liverpool-born footballer had spent either in
his guest room or passed out on his sofa, something had happened.

And, he figured with nervous pleasure, would happen again tonight.

Ahead of him were a row of doors to the treatment rooms; he paused at the
middle of the three, hearing Gary's voice leak through it as he finished
up with whoever he was seeing. The American rested where he was, cooling
down in his baggy shorts and tshirt, fresh and rosy-cheeked from the
showers. Unconsciously, he moved a little to the right, catching the
softer and female voice that sounded very faintly from the next treatment
room. He found that if he angled his head a little to the side, he could
see in through a sliver of a gap left by the parchment blind that covered
the door's little square window. Through it, he realised with a tiny
thrill of voyeurism, he could see a sports massage take place: a man was
lying on his front and a woman (was her name Karen? Janet? He couldn't
actually remember) was working her hands down his back. The guy's head
was lifted and angled slightly from the treatment, and through his tiny
peephole of innocent espionage, Christian recognised the novel features
of their new signing.

Timo had, inevitably, caught his eye at points in the day. He was a
striking dude and Christian enjoyed the soft music of his German accent.
He seemed like a pretty exciting addition to Chelsea's roster; Pulisic
supposed that Werner was a vague threat to himself, but he knew his own
youth and inexperience, and welcomed the challenge and teamwork of a
talented European striker joining their ranks. Probably he could learn a
lot from a guy like Timo Werner! He knew enough of his career, how he'd
been the youngest player ever to score in the Bundesliga. An impressive
guy, he'd thought all day in training, guiltily noting that he was
physically quite... well, aesthetic, too. The notion of being attracted to
men was a dazzling novelty to Christian right now, the heart of his
pleasant confusion.

His eyes followed the physio masseuse's hands down the smooth sweep of
Timo's back towards the plump rise of his bottom, hugged tight by black
briefs, making Christian's eyes bulge attentively; he was quite alarmed
when the nearby door to Gary's physio room rattled open and disturbed
his spying. He shifted guiltily away from his secret view and smiled at
Mason Mount, emerging from the treatment room looking satisfied and
serious, snatches of his conversation with the masseur interrupting
Pulisic's thoughts. They were discussing some knee trouble or something,
and Mount was very earnest and professional about it, but then leaving,
giving Christian a friendly wave and nod before marching happily off down
the hallway.

`Chris,' sighed Gary a little wearily, `how are ya? Give me a few
minutes, will ya? I have to speak to the gaffer briefly. Few minor
worries about Mount's knee, that's all. Need to update him.' The
physio, a guy in his early 50s or so who had been Pulisic's regular
go-to this season about a series of minor concerns, patted him on the arm
and headed off. Christian made a vague `no worries' or `sure, bud'
and then hovered a little closer to the adjacent door, turning his head
back to peek in through the fortuitous gap. Left alone, he couldn't
resist peeking a little longer, and- Oh!

Timo Werner, it was definitely him, was rolled over onto his front now;
his hard white six-pack and pectorals on show as he lay there, and...
well, did it just look dodgy from this angle, or... the gentle manicured
hands that had worked down his strong back were now... Christian leaned
hesitantly closer to the Perspex and peered through the narrow gap. Yes,
yes she was really... oh wow. The physio lady whose name escaped him was
firmly handling the front of the man's briefs. He couldn't hear her
voice now, too low, but he could see she was giggling and twirling her
hair with a finger of her other hand, and...

He hovered indecisively where he was, suddenly hot and flustered. He was
defo seeing something wrong here, this was totally unprofessional and
taboo, surely? But then... any Puritanical judgment that his American
upbringing left with him was balanced with the coy knowledge of what
he'd been getting up to lately with a teammate. Was THAT professional,
really? Caught in this moral maze, he found himself trapped there,
peering curiously through and holding in a gasp of shock as he saw it
progress. Timo had grabbed at the woman (early 40s? he struggled to
guess) down towards him and they seemed to be kissing, though her hand
was still on his crotch, painted nails shifting over the black mound
between his thighs. Christian bit his lip tightly.

He glanced back down the corridor and at the half-open door of Gary's
physio room, wondering how long `a minute' really meant in the old
Chelsea employee's jargon. Lampard's office was two floors away, for a
start. Pulisic looked quickly back through his peephole and saw that Timo
was sitting upright on the treatment bed now, holding her close,
DEFINITELY kissing. The 24-year-old was reaching up with his strong chin
and snogging the vaguely MILFy physio lady, his hands under her top and
reaching... Christian could only stare. Stare and gawp. Stare and gawp and
feel a voyeuristic tingling inside his loose shorts, where his cock and
balls were held in place by the thin mesh inner lining. Jesus.

More nervous glances into the corridor, frightened of being caught in the
act of watching, more worried about his own behaviour than the obvious
transgression of `treatment' going on in there, but equally unable to
stop watching it. There was something inevitable and obvious about the
powerful way Werner was handling and stroking and kissing the lady, just
like his style of play in their training exercises. In response to what
he saw, the American's circumcised prick trembled and swelled.

Timo was stripping her now, the top was off, and her bra too! He had his
bearded face down between her large, drooping tits, kissing at each of
them and sliding his hands round her curvy bottom. Then, Christian saw,
he slid OFF the bench, and was down on the floor, peeling away her
knickers, and... he couldn't QUITE see the action now, but he could see
an angled profile of the sharp German features burying between her legs,
kissing into her private parts, holding her thick doughy thighs. Pulisic
could hear his own breathing and heartbeat clamorous and perverted, but
he could NOT stop watching.

He rubbed the back of a hand over his dry mouth, blinking repeatedly as
if it might either make the sordid sight go away, or take a proper mental
photograph of it for later; he couldn't decide which he wanted. He would
be seeing this image in the night when he closed his eyes, he felt, or
before then -- when he lay down with his head in between Ross Barkley's
big monster thighs and began licking anxiously at his member.

He couldn't hear her gasps but he could see her enjoyment, the physio
lady (Elaine! That was it) tossing back her head, her short blond bob
shaking and fluttering, holding and stroking her own big tits as she
lifted one leg up onto the side of the bed and Werner's face shook
aggressively from side to side as he licked her fanny. By now Pulisic's
cock felt almost totally hard, constricted and made uncomfortable by the
lining of his shorts. He touched its outline unconsciously and then took
another cautionary look down the corridor. When his eye return to the
sliver of visibility, they had moved around again, were kissing deeply,
as Timo picked her up and plumped her onto the bed where he had lain for
his massage. Both he and she were fingering down between them, at her
cunt or his bulge or both, it was not all fully clear or distinct here.
Oh my...

Christian's dick ached for attention.

Biting his lip and knowing he was made, he pushed his hand inside his
shorts and rested the other on the doorframe, holding himself carefully
in place to watch the private show, fingering his chubby hard-on and
controlling his excited breaths. He wanked himself inside the shorts as
he watched, unable to stop himself.

Werner was inside her now. He had her back on the bed, curled over it and
against the wall, and he was pressing in between her outstretched legs.
The main thing that Pulisic's eyes fell on was the firm curve of his
backside sliding back and forth, the strong bulge of his arm muscles as
he held her, the sharp outline of his long nose and jutting chin, the
tufty blond halo of his hair. He wished, filthily, that the door was
thinner or open a crack, and he could hear their moans, the noisy
evidence of their secret tryst. (Timo had been here, what, three days?
Had he even met Elaine before? Had he literally seduced her in the space
of one massage???)

Pulisic pulled on his dick and held in the squeaky excited noises he
wanted to release, the muffled whimpers of secret and shameless enjoyment
that he could make in the night when he was tasting around Barkley's
foreskin or weight balls or licking anxiously down his perineum. This,
here and now, was a silent passion, a secret thrill. When he came inside
his shorts, he was ashamed of how quickly it had happened, and the silky
goo on his fingers and in the rustling mesh, ashamed of the perversity of
spying on anyone. He stood there, eye fixed to the gap, watching the
repetitive drilling motion of the German's body, then closed his eyes
and pulled his face away, letting out a long whistling breath of shame!

`Chris, Chris...' Gary, rattling down the corridor with a clipboard in
hand and an apologetic smile on his grey-bearded face. Instantly, Pulisic
tugged his hand from his shorts and shoved it in a pocket, thinking
rapidly how dark the blue of the shorts was and how almost sure he was
there would be no visible stain, nor too obvious a hard bulge in their
baggy folds... but as his regular physio stood before him, gripping the
clipboard and grinning curiously his way, he wrinkled his nose. `What is
that smell?' he demanded with a vague flicker of recognition in his
eyes. `Can't be you, you're just out of the shower...! Huh, Mason less
hygienic than a Yank like you, maybe...' He was grinning loosely,
dismissing the sickly salt scent between them, and pushing open the door
into his treatment room. Christian stared at him in guilty shock, feeling
the cooling smear of his juices in the palm of his clenched fist in his
pocket. Thank god handwashing was an international obsession right now.

`Come in, come in,' Gary was saying. `Now, I will be ready to look at
your shoulder ANY minute, I just... I'm out of those daft gloves, y'see,
let me see if Trish next door has some...' (Aha, THAT was her name...) He
bustled back through the doorway and Pulisic acted fast, stepping forward
and barring his way and then shoving his right foot clumsily aside to
kick the base of the other door. It thudded and rattled and he made a
bashful, apologetic expression at the old guy.

`Oh, don't worry, no rush,' he mumbled, and then kicked his toes into
the door one more time before pulling back, his breath and heartbeat
still deafening in his ears. Gary frowned briefly at him as if worried
about his mood, then pushed over to the side and reached for the door
handle. Christian stared at him, meeting his eyes and grinning goofily
his way, then past him, no longer able to see through the rolled down
blind. Gary hesitated, hand on the door, looking him up and down. (He can
see a stain, he can see a stain, he can see I'm sweating, oh fuck, he
can smell my jizz...)

`You're in a lot of pain, aren't you?' the middle-aged therapist
asked tenderly.

`Hmm? Oh, y'know, actually, just these past ten mins... kinda...' He
reached up for his shoulder and nodded slowly, pouting innocently at his
physio and stepping back a little bit, self-conscious of his wilting
hard-on and staining cum in his shorts. And then, by Gary, the door was
jerking inwards and it was Trish herself, hair swept back and clothes a
little rumpled, smiling broadly at her colleague and paying zero
attention to Pulisic. Just faintly, behind her, Werner could be seen,
adjusting the front of his shorts, a Chelsea shirt pulled over his upper
body, looking for all the world like he was just flushed and relaxed from
a deep-tissue massage.

In a brief farce of casual workplace conversation, supplies were handed
over, niceties exchanged, and the two therapists were disappearing into
their separate treatment rooms while Pulisic hung between them, hovering
in the corridor, pulling the dirtied hand from his pocket and thrusting
it to a hand sanitiser pump on the wall between the two doors. The minty
clean smell of the hand gel eclipsed the spunky odour around him (well,
hopefully) and he rubbed his palms with Macbeth-like guilty glee. Werner
was emerging from his treatment, red-cheeked and grinning complacently;
something in his manner suggested he had managed to finish just in time,
or he was so pleased with his endeavours that he didn't care. Christian
did not dare look down at the front of his blue shorts to find out.

Gary was mouthing something about being ready for him, telling him to
come on in and take a seat, but the American hovered where he was as Timo
dropped a large hand to his shoulder and smiled at him. A grateful,
discreet wink. `Good man, Captain America -- I hope you enjoyed what you
saw?' he teased in a low, purring whisper, full of continental
assurance, and then he brushed past and marched on down the corridor,
leaving Christian to stare momentarily after him and then limp guiltily
in for his check-up, a caught-out voyeur racked with shame.



'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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