Date: Thu, 13 Aug 2020 14:28:20 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 164: I Can Resist Everything But Temptation

Part 164: I Can Resist Everything But Temptation


Morning brought dazzling light into the ground-floor hotel room, sneaking
around the lazily closed curtains and blazing against the consistently
white interior. Somewhere central in the room, one of their phones was
chiming brashly with the 7.30am alarm, and was then joined by the
other's; two mobile phones belting out their electronic crowing and
reverberating in the 18-year-old's ears. He made his generic teenage
groan of dismay but then grinned automatically at the fact the irritating
chiming really just marked the start of another day doing what he loved:
being paid a large amount to kick a ball about and perfect his skills
alongside athletes he loved and respected, in the latter stages of an
international tournament.

Grinning like a creamy cat, Mason Greenwood threw the overly thick duvet
away from his bare brown chest and tilted his head to smile across the
hotel room at his parallel roomie, who was going through the same
early-morning rigmarole of reactions. Greenwood caught the other teen's
eye and they shared a sleepy, thoughtful smirk, as amused today by their
separate beds as they had been since the weekend. From his pillows,
Brandon Williams' cherubin young face beamed with the wry amusement at
their separateness and the unspoken yet deafening longing for this to be
otherwise.

It had been Mason's own idea, but it was one he was struggling with.

The lean young striker climbed from the comfortable bed and moved to the
windows for a moment, peeking out into the courtyard gardens of the
German hotel complex beyond, bathed in early golden light, then back
across the room at the stretches and yawns of his United roomie. Brandon
was now lunging for the coffee table between their beds to silence both
mobile phones, ending their wake-up cacophony. `Fuck that noise,' the
19-year-old Manchester lad groaned, pushing at buttons and then grimacing
at their iPhones, `we need to change those alarm tones, Woody...!'

Mason lingered at the windows in just his crotch-hugging stripy boxer
shorts, taking a private moment to enjoy the `we' pronoun in his
teammate's grumbles, patting and rubbing his palms together and blinking
sleep from his eyes. Williams was swinging from his bed, a little more
dressed in the baggy grey vest that draped from his thin shoulders and a
longer pair of bed-shorts drooping from his waist. His dirty blond hair
was messed up and jagged from the press of pillows and he fiddled vainly
with it in the mirror for a moment even though he would soon be leaping
into their spacious wet-room shower anyway. Mason grinned indulgently at
these little touches of metrosexual vanity in the scally Mancunian he had
so closely befriended and appeared behind him, grabbing his slim hips and
grinning into his reflected face, pink-cheeped and droopy-eyed.

`Stop fussing,' the Yorkshire-born teen muttered at the defender,
holding him from behind, letting his smooth toned front rub against the
bed-warm fabric of his vest. `You look lush, mate. Here...' He squeezed
at his side, pressing his body in more, grinning wickedly into their
shared reflection. `Since we were good boys and didn't snooze the
alarm, maybe we could...'

`Mase,' tittered the other young United player, pulling loose of his
gentle touch and pouting a bit at him from beneath the messy fringe of
his hair. `I'm showerin' first,' Brandon barked at him, sliding away
from his reaching fingertips. `Calm down, Woody, you know I can see your
boner in those wee panties, you dirty prick.' The cheeky 19-year-old
winked coyly at him and disappeared past him to his set of shelves.
Grabbing up fresh clothes and his towel, the blond rushed by and vanished
into their en suite, leaving Greenwood stood on his own by the mirror,
glancing down to confirm the accusation: his eager teenage hard-on
visible and prominent in the stripes of primary colour.

It had been his own idea, and it was for the best.

Greenwood knew he'd had a fantastic first season of senior football. But
he also knew that people were lining up to criticise and mock Man Utd
these days. He fully recognised that the Europa league was hardly that of
the Champions, this second rung of cross-European footy competition, but
to a fresh-faced 18-year-old Bradford lad, it was massive. He wanted his
squad to win this, for their fans and for his colleagues, but also for
his own rep, his own career, his own myth-making; he saw a long future
for himself at Old Trafford and the excitable young starlet could see
himself scoring the winner in a Europa League final, cementing his place
in club history before he even reached 19.

And so, the plan... since the lads had returned to training from their
brief respite after the Premiership season ended, a matter of days before
they were back to work for the Europa, he'd proposed this to Bran. A
sex-ban. Sure, everyone knew about the official sex bans, written into
their professional contracts in polite euphemisms -- everyone knew that
sportsmen like them weren't meant to tire themselves out on the eve of
professional clashes by wasting their manly energies on the wrong
activity... footballers' attitudes to this universal rule varied as much
as their choice of boots. But this one was different: he and Brandon
Williams had promised not to touch each other at all until the Europa was
done and the trophy was theirs.

Convincing Bran had been easy: they were in the same boat, lads at the
outset of promising careers with everything in their favour. So much to
gain from a European win this summer. And just in case there were
flickers of worry or resentment from Williams, Mason had been painfully
honest in his concerns: `If we don't make a pact like this, Bran,
we'll be all over each other from the minute we fly outta Manchester
Airport. Think about it, buddy, we'll be sharing a room and together
like ALL the time... neither of our girlfriends about, not your parents or
brother or sister getting in the way, not my flatmates... it'll be
carnage. We'll fall asleep on the pitch...!' Both teens had sniggered
and smirked at the image he painted, then shook on their celibate deal.

It made perfect sense for them both, it was definitely for the best. But
if it was for the best, Greenwood asked himself in the hotel room mirror,
why was it so fucking tough?



With the Semi-Final approaching on Sunday, United's training preparation
was pretty intense. Brandon spent each day tired but excited, soaking up
the south German heat and enjoying the scene change of this small fitness
camp where the lads were based for the duration of the tournament. It
seemed a lot less sophisticated than their Manchester home set-up but the
whole thing was like an exciting boot camp -- for players as young and
energetic as Brandon, it already felt like their summer holidays had
begun. When he would see the various shirtless pics of their mates at
other teams living it up in European beach resorts, he didn't feel the
lazy envy of some older colleagues, ecstatic to be here as the temporary
first-choice left-back, Shaw still home and injured -- and besides, the
view here was better than some Ibiza beach bar...!

The view, right now, consisting of the lad at the next exercise mat on
the dark green pitch they occupied this morning, running through the same
mix of yoga and core strength exercises as him, but everything looking
that bit more elegant and poised thanks to Mason's slender 5ft11
physique and the rich brown gleam of his bare legs. Even as he listened
to their coaching from Carrick, Brandon could not help but look that way
continuously, seeing the way his Greenwood flexed his limbs and slid from
position to position, an expression of such intense and youthful focus on
his handsome but maturing features. His shorter hair and his new tattoo
certainly gave Woody an older and less geekily teenaged look to Williams,
who felt familiar and inconvenient stirrings in his own shorts as he
rolled onto his front to pull into some push-ups.

He knew Mason was right about their little sex-ban. It made complete
sense to him. He'd been so thrilled at the idea of them being away
together in Germany for the tournament, especially once the pain of
Luke's ankle problem became apparent and he knew he was likely to start
every game -- two teenagers at the heart of an international tournament
squad, totally trusted by manager and fans! It was all so fucking
exhilarating and Mason was so right: they needed to focus and give it
everything they had, they needed to bring their A game and really make a
mark on the Europa stage.

But still...

Bending his elbows and stooping towards the mat in another push-up,
Brandon twisted his head and smiled over at the parallel grace of
Greenwood's body, his arms so much stronger than their wiry appearance
indicated; he dipped up and down in rapid militaristic press-ups,
grunting audibly with his own exertion. As he did so, his tight black
United shorts pulled about his small but shapely backside and dug into
his crack deliciously. Brandon wished he could crawl beneath and just lie
there, letting his drooping bulge sink down onto his own face with every
dipping press-up, yum... fuck, stop it, your shorts do not have room for
an erection right now...!

Yep, the sex-ban was for the best, but it was still... HARD.



The canteen of the sports complex they had invaded as their
home-away-from-home rattled with the noisy clink of cutlery and the busy
chatter of sportsmen on a break. It had been a long and fairly sweaty
morning, lots of different fitness set-ups before the afternoon's more
skills-focused workshops. The Sevilla match and their shot at a Cup Final
was still several days away but the intense focus of the coaching team
and everyone involved made the hot air thick with tension.

Still, Mason swaggered from the room with his cheerful air, refusing to
be cowed or worried by the pressure since their Quarter-Final victory on
Monday night; his own plucky goal had been disallowed and it had been up
to Bruno to secure the win in extra time, a real sweaty late shift for
them all, but to Greenwood it had still felt like a sensational moment
for him. He anticipated at least one goal in the Sevilla game on Sunday,
floating out of the canteen high on his own confidence about what he
could achieve, leaving behind the heavy echo of men talking in his hurry
to be first back out in the sunshine. He wanted a football at his feet
and though he ached already from the morning's workouts, he was
desperately happy at the prospect of a few more hours' training, banging
in goal after goal against one of the big squad's minor keepers.

`Oi, bud...'

He half-turned with a little grin as his Brandon scuttled out of the
double-doors after him into the broad sweeping corridor that led back out
to the field. Like him, he still had a faint sheen of sweat to his brow
and bare arms, dressed in the same tight dark training gear as everyone
else, new for the approaching season. Mason had felt a little guilty as
he chose not to join Bran at his canteen table, but they had agreed that
limiting their interactions during each day was important to the plan.
Even so, he was delighted to have Williams come chasing him like this,
stealing a moment... he felt his hand brush behind his wrist and his grin
widened.

`Sneaking off?' the Manc lad hissed playfully. `Hope you ate up all
your greens first, kid.'

`Kid,' Mase chuckled back. `What are you, thirteen months my
senior...'

`Old enough to be your daddy,' Bran joked, stroking up to his elbow as
they walked side by side down the hallway, then suddenly grabbing a
little at the close-fitting fabric of his shirt. Mason slowed and stopped
and grinned at the shorter footballer, then back towards the doors just
in case anyone else was finishing lunch early and might spot them in a
fairly intimate pose. `And daddy is hungry,' muttered Williams now with
a mischievous glint in his elfin little face. `Uh, that sounded less
creepy in my head. Come on, training doesn't start for another thirty
mins.'

`And?' Greenwood asked, though he knew exactly what was meant. He
brushed Brandon's hand from his shirt but stroked his knuckles gently as
he did and smiled happily at the handsome little fucker beside him, every
bit of strength he had needed not to drag his training top up off his
slim pale body right here and throw him against that wall of healthy
eating posters. He'd watched him across the canteen while barely
listening to Rashford and Lingard discuss their summer holiday plans,
wanting to throw crockery off the table and plough him there while his
mouth was full of German sausage.

`Come on,' murmured the 19-year-old. `This is getting unbearable. I
saw your mornin' wood.'

`Don't know what you mean,' Mason teased. `I'm doing fine. All
discipline, me.'

`Mase...! I'm dying here. You know I've been watching you all fucking
morning? Seriously, were those squats meant just for my personal
entertainment, bruv, or...? Stop playin' with me, come on, we can find a
quiet spot now and-`

Greenwood arched his brows, leaned in and stole a single kiss against the
other lad's cheek. `We have a deal, mate,' he said simply and coolly,
denying every bit of his temptation. `And we're doin' so well. So go
pour a bucket of ice water over you and meet me out on the pitch. I'm
gonna be on fuckin' fire this afternoon, just you watch me.'

Brandon gave him a funny mix of scowl and smirk. `Oh, I will be
watching, you can be sure of that...!'



And watch he did. All through the frenzied afternoon of small-group
exercises, which at least meant that the pair of them were not constantly
together, side by side, an arousing little preview for Brandon to ogle.
He was with the other defenders most of the time, focusing on passing
work and a variety of crisis scenarios. He fluffed passes from Bailly and
accidentally gave Wan-Bissaka a nasty kick in the calf whilst losing
focus on some tackling practice; a couple of short stern lectures from
Maguire punctuated his hard work and sloppy focus, but Williams didn't
take them to heart. It was obvious how strained and frustrated the big
captain was with his lover-boy back in England as they worked hard over
here -- he and Greenwood had noted his obvious tension several times
already this week and in spite of all previous misgivings about the
bullish alpha male of the squad, Brandon just felt a dollop of empathy
for his skipper. He was being driven wild by tournament celibacy, but at
least he got to enjoy Mason's company almost 24/7.

Stolen glances at Greenwood robbed the afternoon session of any enjoyment
or satisfaction for him in the end and he was pretty relieved when the
afternoon heat was declared too much, and the session was brought to a
marginally early close. He just smiled loosely at a few half-joking
criticisms from his defensive colleagues and trailed off the field with
everyone else, ready to unwind on the row of picnic tables. Some guys
looked utterly shagged out by the heat and their group's activities,
draped about the tables in various states of physical defeat, but others
were still doing idle keep-ups and other tricks with the ball, playing
about for the attention of one of the team photographers who was trying
to capture every detail of the Europa trip.

Williams sat on the edge of one table, beside a huffing young Martial,
and trained his eyes on the light-footed figure of his roommate and
lover, happily posing and practising for the camera. He found Greenwood
deeply attractive every time he caught sight of him, but why was he even
sexier with a ball at his feet? Something about his mercurial lightness
or his sheer excitement. Other men looked angry and violent in play --
Harry Maguire looked ready to commit a massacre and Brandon was vaguely
aware that his own boyish innocence seemed to vanish when he got to work
-- but Mason just looked playful and overjoyed. His beaming grin as he
played was probably a weapon to them, it made opposition defenders expect
so much less from the boy wonder.

Brandon sat there, resting his back to the wood of the table, and feeling
his own wood begin to press at the mesh of his shorts, while little
rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks and neck and pooled at the
collar of his black top. Calm it, he told his penis firmly, you're being
ridiculous!



Mason's penis hung loose from his overheated body as he stripped down
like everyone else in the changing rooms, getting themselves cleaned off
for a couple of hours downtime before their communal dinner. Across from
him, Marcus Rashford was loudly reminding him of the little FIFA
tournament the younger lads were going to have in the common room and how
the young activist was 100% sure of his win.

Greenwood grinned at the more experienced player down the row from him
and nodded with a `yeah yeah' laugh, pretty sure he could give Rashers
a good run for his money, or any of the other PS4 enthusiasts who would
soon be huddled around bean bags in the hotel's games lounge while they
wound down from their day's work. Laughing at him, Rashford disappeared
among the other bare bodies of the room, white towel about his waist,
leaving Greenwood to pluck his own folded towel from the shelf and throw
it down about his naked body.

He stepped through the busy changing rooms, rubbing shoulders with a
sun-reddened and hairy-chested Juan Mata and then pausing briefly at the
distracting sight of Dan James' big white-clad booty as he bent forward
to pick something up; he grinned happily at a passing compliment from the
captain, Maguire stripped to the waist and pausing in his chat with Pogba
to reach over and grab him on the shoulder, all rippling smooth muscle
from neck to naval. Greenwood slipped past them all and to the doors of
the communal shower, already half-full, cursing the little tingles of
frustrated excitement between his hard-worked thighs. Wow, he hadn't
actually been without sex for this long since he lost his virginity a few
years back...!

He and Brandon had hardly had the opportunity to become anything more
than sporadic in their encounters, thanks to fucking lockdown and all the
rules and weirdness since, but the closing weeks of the season had
allowed them fairly regular opportunity still, and normally he would
satisfy himself with the highly available enjoyment of his sweet
girlfriend, never allowing himself to become this starved or randy. And
in fact, sharing a room with the guy he was staunchly resisting sex with
meant he wasn't even masturbating much -- he'd had one cheeky wank in a
toilet cubicle on Monday night after the game, that was it since they'd
left the UK...!

Thinking of his girlfriend as he hung up his towel and found a space in
the showers made him feel the guilt again. He envied Brandon: things
seemed to be very casual between the Mancunian teen and his rather showy,
reality TV wannabe of a girlfriend, as much a pairing for Instagram as
anything real. Williams seemed to find no problem in casually dating her
and whispering sweet nothings in his ear in hotel beds. But Mason's
teenage romance was a bit more serious, had been going on for almost a
year before he even caught his first taste of homo-fun at Maguire's
seedy invitation -- speaking of which, there was Dan James and his chubby
arse again, lining up at the next showerhead, giggling away at some joke
another guy was making further down the line -- and Greenwood felt
terrible at the lies he sometimes had to tell her, or the fact that he
wished he could bring Brandon with them when they went on holiday to the
Greek islands later this month. He never actually felt guilty while he
fucked one of them -- Brandon, or his girl -- but the contradictory life
he was starting to live gave him troubled moments that he didn't know
how to deal with.

He squeezed strong-smelling soap between his palms and pushed away those
awkward thoughts, issues for another day -- more pressing in his young
problems was the risk of springing an actual boner in the midst of so
many older men. Just imagine the jokey bullying he'd get for years to
come, even from lads here he knew had got up to far more exposing
things...!

In the twisted logic of his hormonal brain, he turned his back to the
wall and the shower, tilting his head back and letting hot water cleanse
is short fuzzy hair and his broad lean shoulders, coursing down over the
tight muscle of his tall slim body. If he kept his crotch angled to the
room, he was at more risk, and social awkwardness would hold back his
loose semi-arousal more than a shy hidden boner pointed at the wall. It
was fuzzy logic but it worked. The intimidating vista of his older
teammates made Mason's cock shrivel back against his low balls and
close-trimmed pubes and he stood there soaping his chest in thoughtful
quiet, while other low voices mumbled against the hiss and clank of
provincial plumbing.

But Greenwood's eyes still found the alluring sight that he'd struggled
to look away from every day since they'd flown out to beat LASK in the
middle of last week, since the two teens had shaken on the deal: no sex
til the Europa cup was theirs, a glittering marker to their blossoming
careers. But Brandon's naked body at the far end of the busy shower
glistened more than any trophy could. He was tucked between the much
bigger forms of Pogba (soap suds trickling over his long muscular back of
dark brown) on one side and gigantic pale McTominay on the other (skin
flushing hot pink in the steam as he sang a mocking song about another
player's missus). Between them, the 5t7 left-back seemed slender and
vulnerable, though his short frame was packed with lean muscle that
bulged and relaxed as he washed his mop of hair and scrunched up his
handsome face, turning a little so that Mason could catch a glimpse of
the swing of his privates between his legs, so chunky and grabbable, and
then gone again as he turned back to the wall in the lurid slow-mo of a
shampoo advert. Greenwood choked down the lusty little gasp he wanted to
emit and slapped his soapy hands to his face, blacking out the melee of
wet bodies.



On his left, the goalkeeper Sergio Romero was loudly protesting some
generous accolades from the other players; on his right, Bruno Fernandes
was talking to him (but really himself) about the quality of their
dinner, poking fussily at the meal and longing for more interesting menus
than their temporary German base seemed capable of providing. But Brandon
was listening to neither, staring across the broad dining table at the
smirking figure of his roommate, who was similarly ignoring his
neighbours, dinner half-eaten and fork poised lazily in one hand. The two
young men locked eyes for a dangerous moment more before Bran lowered his
gaze and finished the last mouthfuls of his grub, aware that his lust for
Greenwood probably showed in his pert cheeks as he busied himself with
the last of his main course and slurping pithy orange juice from a
plastic cup.

The 19-year-old defender tried to readjust to the busy, jovial atmosphere
of the hotel refectory, recovering from the dazed little moment he'd
shared staring across at Mason's relaxed posture and disarming smile. It
was like the chatty rumble of the full dining room had faded out to white
noise for a minute then came rushing back, making his head ache and his
cheeks flush and his fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the table.

He turned to Fernandes, trying to engage with whatever the Portuguese
primadona was talking about now, but still thinking idly about how
difficult it was going to be returning to that stuffy hotel room for yet
another night of abstinence and caution, trying to focus purely on the
Semi-Final and not his own perky semi.



Three or four different large screens were set up across the bar and
games lounge, allowing the sprawling posse of the United squad and their
accompanying staff, Ole's entire tournament entourage, to sit in
clusters and patches, enjoying the top-flight entertainment of Paris
Saint-Germain versus Atalanta in the Quarter-final of the Champions
League. It was only half an hour in, but Atalanta were leading 1-0 and
the men who had placed their cheeky bets on such an outcome were
rapturous, while those who'd put their money on the French were tense
and giddy. A small minority that included the most senior figures there
were actually watching a different game on one of the screens, a Dortmund
summer friendly where the attention was not on the teams or any bets, but
on Jadon Sancho and the question of whether Old Trafford could finally
lure him home to England.

Mason's money was on PSG, but his concentration was not half so intently
on either game as it seemed to be elsewhere in the room. He sat in a
cushioned seat with his legs outstretched and a sugar-free soda in one
hand, sucking on a paper straw and watching the big flatscreen view of
the Lisbon-based football match without really registering anything.
Uninterested by a near-miss from Neymar, unconcerned by tight possession
from Atalanta; he couldn't even find any interest in the sharp jibes of
competition between the men either side of him, Maguire and Lingard.
Harry was hunched over with his big square chin in his hands, glaring
intensely at the screen as, like Mason, he'd plumped for the Parisians
with his wager. Jesse was catlike and gleeful, legs folded under his
elbows on the chair, slating the PSG manager and so-called star players
just to wind up their moody captain.

Increasingly blind to all this, Mason looked at intervals towards another
huddle of their friends, around a sofa and single armchair at a smaller
screen. Brandon was sat in the armchair a little to the side, legs up on
the cushion and knees hugged by his arms, face fixed thoughtfully on the
match and the hazy lights of the screen playing on his pale features.
Mason glanced from this view to the game, feeling aroused by both: while
the almost angelic profile of his 19-year-old lover stirred days of
uneased tension between them, the match itself roused his ego and
ambition and a kind of generalised physical awe at the players on both
teams. Every time the camera lingered on someone like Neymar, princely
and handsome under the floodlights, he pictured himself in their place,
sweat-sheened and ready for action, as he would be on Sunday against
Sevilla.

And then just before half-time, something in him snapped. The trigger was
innocuous. The two of them had shared a couple more glances in here as
they avoided sitting too close and selected different buddies for the
duration of the games, fleeting smirks passed over the attentive room;
there was no reason why the latest glance this way from young Williams
should do anything different to Greenwood's resistance, but it did.
Playing with his own fluffy washed hair, Brandon sprawled almost sideways
in his armchair and yawned, lifting his t-shirt to scratch his tummy and
wrinkling his nose with sleepy contentment as the lads beside him all
roared and hollered at a missed penalty. And then their eyes connected
again, and Mason knew with sudden and unarguable clarity that he needed
to fuck that boy as soon as possible.

Brandon stared back, seeming to sense something sudden and urgent in
Mason's expression or posture. He froze in his languorous position then
slowly began to climb off the chair, not saying anything to his
companions. Watching closely, Mason took a last suck on the paper straw
and then put the glass of soda down on the carpeted floor, straightening
up and adjusting his baggy hooded top.

Next to him, Captain Harry's eyes flickered distractedly from the game
and rested on him for a minute. Greenwood felt oddly caught in the act,
sure his vivid fantasies (urgent to be made realities) must show all over
his face and unfolding limbs. He paused, meeting the steady gaze of the
club captain and hesitating to get up from his chair. But Harry's tense
features seemed to have softened, forgetting the game on the screen for a
minute. He followed Mason's tense stare over the room then looked back
at him and nodded once, captain's approval.

`Where's he off to?' demanded Lingard nasally as Greenwood got up from
his seat and cracked his knuckles.

`None of our business, leave him,' barked Maguire sternly, ending all
interest from anyone else in why Mason now marched hurriedly out of the
room and was quietly but indiscreetly followed by Brandon Williams less
than a minute later.



`But, we promised,' he sniggered, glancing back down the narrow dim
hallway and feeling his left hand clasped tightly in Mason's right. He
grinned, zero commitment to his quiet protest, happy to be dragged alone,
loving the determination and victory on the younger teen's face as they
disappeared around a corner and crashed into the door of their shared
room. Brandon watched Mason fumble with his key for a minute then slide
his own from his loose sweatpants pocket and took over, opening up and
leading them into the silent white space, the last shreds of late
sunlight streaking the unmade beds and their half-organised belongings.

Immediately, Mason was grabbing him, pulling up on his tshirt and leaning
over him, all grins and fluttering dark lashes. Brandon giggled again, so
surprised by the inevitable breaking of their secret vow, so ready to
trash the promise and fuck the consequences. He slid his hands under
Mason's hoody and stroked his abs, thumbed over his little belly button,
scratched at the skin below his pecs. He opened his mouth to say
something dumb but was silenced by a flurry of fabric as his own top was
pulled and stripped from him by the other lad's pushy hands, which
immediately rubbed and held at his smooth torso and pulled him into a
cuddle. Then lips were on his and they were snogging, their first kiss in
near two weeks. Brandon just relaxed into the hold, clinging to the folds
of the hoody and resting in the strong grip of long arms; Mason's tongue
invaded his mouth and sent shivers of sensitive arousal all the way down
his body.

Next he was pushed against the bathroom door and Mason was going down on
him. Brandon gasped and pulled his arms up to hold the sides of his head,
feeling his sweatpants yanked all the way down and then his cock teased
out of the button fly of his boxer shorts and into Mason's lips. He'd
never known his Woody so greedy or rushed and he loved it, feeling a wet
tongue curl over his bell-end and then dive back and forth along the
short sturdy shaft of his member. Gasping again, he brought his hands
down to stroke at the short fluffy crop of his lover's hair and stroke
down his long neck and inside the warm cowl of his hoody, which needed to
come off. He pulled up on it and Mason's hurried suck-job was only very
briefly interrupted as the garment was removed.

Brandon was jealous of his own blow-job. Once Mason was back on his feet
and the two shirtless youths were kissing again, he pushed and steered
him towards his bed and almost pounced on him as they fell into the
tumble of sheets, kissing down his tight narrow abs and thrust hands
inside his tight dark trackies. Quickly, he had it in his lips, the thin
chocolate-brown length of Mason's veiny tool, as rigid as anything and
already tasty with a leak of precum.

The pair of them writhed into a complex 69, side to side on the bed and
slurping noisily at each other's cocks. Bran sucked as deeply as he
could on the fleshy treat, spitting on it and licking it and wrestling
with the lad's pants to get them down and off his horizontal legs. They
pulled apart with intimate chuckles, tugging at their own socks,
stripping completely naked before coming together again, there kisses now
flavoured with each other's pricks.

Brandon felt himself pushed down more fully, held in place with Mason's
hands on his and lips on his, cocks brushing lightly and shooting
pleasure into them both like poison darts. He brought his legs up and
wrapped his lightly haired thighs on either side of his lad's smooth
brown torso, desperate for his arse to be brought into play. But
Greenwood was unready, and kissing down his neck and chest, back to his
cock once more. He stretched up one arm and held Williams down at the
chest while his head descended to continue his blowjob, pinning and
sucking the short left-back until he was repeatedly gasping his name and
he could feel his arsehole throb for attention.

Eventually he got his wish, felt Mason's always surprisingly strong
hands flip and manage him, one now on the back of his neck and pushing
his face down into a crevice between pillows and duvet while he lifted
his pert pale backside into the air and longed for it to be smashed. He
made muffled groans into the bedding as two wet fingers found and worked
his tight eager hole, snatching and tugging at bedsheets on either side
of him as he writhed into this treatment. `Fuck me,' he yelled into the
thick soft bedding, `fuck me baby, fuck me...!'



Mason fucked him in a number of positions. Face down on the bed first,
pressing inside him with little lubrication and shagging him hard into
the duvet for a good ten minutes, quickly finding a rhythm it usually
took him ages to establish, surprised at the raw strength of his own
primed body. In this position, he loved looking down on Brandon's
powerless form submitting to him, enjoyed the force he could put into his
thrusts -- but he wanted to see that pretty face.

He slid out and pulled Brandon over, launching down to kiss him, then
pushing his legs apart and fucking him in a new posture, kneeling down
low and shoving himself inside that tight little arse while their taut
torsos spread at a perpendicular angle. He made the mattress bounce with
his sharp little shoves and now he could see Brandon's red face and his
wide eager eyes, better hear his gasping dirty talk. `Fuck me harder you
big stud,' gasped a teenager who'd learnt everything he knew about sex
from online cheap porn.

Minutes later Greenwood tossed him onto the other parallel bed, pulling
both of them onto their side and hugging his arms tight around his waist
while he fucked him more slowly and carefully, kissing his neck and cheek
and biting a little at his tongue. But slow and sensual just restored his
dirty eagerness and he was soon dragging the Manc youth off the bed and
pushing him to the wall beside the window for a stand-up fuck, rogering
him against the frame of it in such a way that if anyone had passed too
close to the ground-floor window and looked into its lazy curtains, they
would have caught a delicious angle of the two lithe bodies working
hard.



Brandon squatted in the chair now, leaning forward over it, hugging its
back to his chest, legs spread and Mason powering into him from behind.
His fringe flickered at his eyelashes and sweat rolled down his face. He
felt and heard his cheeks slap at the repeated movements of the taller
lad's body, could hear the quickening of his grunts and whispers.
`No,' he pushed with sudden force, puling a little forward and pushing
back in the middle of Mason's torso to separate them.

`I'm gonna cum,' rambled Greenwood plaintively as he turned and kissed
him, scrambling off his knees and almost breaking the chair in the
process.

Face to face now, arse throbbing, he reached down and clasped Mason's
cock in his hand and kissed him beside his Adam's apple. `Not yet,' he
commanded breathily, `not yet...'

`But I'm close,' whined the striker into his ear.

`Not yet!' Brandon insisted, squeezing at his nob and then stroking it
really slow, agonisingly slow. He stood there, finding control, watching
Mason's face flicker as he edged him.

`Oh baby,' moaned Mase and now he was almost trying to push forward and
fuck the curl of Brandon's hand, so close and desperate to climax. He
gripped him by the upper arms, still strong and eager, but Williams
sniggered and wriggled against him, trapping his twitching cock in the
most excruciatingly gentle and controlling of pulls, turning their bodies
as he did, guiding them to one of the beds, flopping backwards.

`Stop it,' groaned Greenwood, on top of him, trying to reach down and
take his own cock in hand to finish, frustrated and howling as Brandon
just milked it gently and wriggled beneath him, guiding his hand instead
to his. `Ohhhh...'

`See,' Williams hissed in his ear. `See? We DO have control...'

`Oh babe, I...'

`We were just worried,' Bran muttered, `we were just worried we
couldn't stop ourselves, we'd go too mad... but look...' He stopped his
strokes and just squeezed his nob. `You see? We are fuckin' athletes,
mate, we have discipline... we can enjoy ourselves and stop...' He grinned
into Mason's confused face, knowing his explanation was shit, but
understanding his own point, his own realisation. He let his fingers
linger agonisingly on the raw ready meat of his lover's dick, kissing
him on the lips. `And now, babe, you can cum...' He squeezed it more
tightly, kissed him passionately, and yanked on him. Lying awkwardly over
him, Greenwood grunted fiercely and reached his delayed peak of
pleasure.

Brandon felt his lover's spunk splutter on his tummy and he closed his
hand around Mason's, on his nob, so that they jointly wanked him until
he blew his own wad, creaming up Mason's abs. As they cuddled and
kissed, their sticky fronts rubbed and mingled and their sensitive dicks
brushed and rubbed. Brandon kissed whimpers out of his lad's mouth and
pulled down on his body, rolling them tightly into the bedding.



When either of them had recovered enough to even think about moving, the
first thing Mason did was to find a remote and switch on the small
wall-mounted television. He stood naked in the centre of the room, their
mixed cum crusty above his waist, and eyed the final minutes of the
PSG-Atalanta match with slowly rising interest. 1-1 now, someone had
claimed an equaliser for the French team.

`Hmm, I thought I'd won for sure,' sighed Williams lazily from where
he still lay, playing with his soft cock and balls, his hair deranged and
his body marked with little red finger burns and bruise-like puckers of
kissing.

`Huh, yeh,' sighed Greenwood half-interestedly, so glad that he had
spent the remainder of the theoretically interesting game in here, piling
into his precious boy and not listening to the droning patter of men
waiting to win small money.

One glance at the bed and Brandon's bare body was enough to drag him
back, unwilling to leave their cuddles and kisses. He climbed over him,
taking over the fondling of his soft satisfied privates and planting two
kisses each on his scarlet cheeks. He pulled hair out of his eyes with
sticky fingers and grinned down into his cute face. `I love you,' he
told him, aware he didn't say it enough, always scared of how insincere
it might sound. And as before, as he said it, he felt twinges of guilt,
knowing how odd it was to say it to him but also to say it on the phone
to his girlfriend in Manchester. He grinned his complicated emotions down
into Brandon's face and the other guy just beamed calmly back.

`Know you do,' teased Bran, `who wouldn't?'

`Fuck you.'

`You just did, big boy.'

Their play-talk was interrupted by commentary gasps and a swell in the
fake crowd noise. Holding each other, they both turned to look up at a
replay of PSG's second and winning goal slamming in, 2-1. Greenwood
giggled victoriously, pinning and cuddling his boy, and thinking of the
petty prize he would claim from the squad's unofficial sweepstake, the
gambling victory utterly meaningless next to the real win: lying here on
top of the most handsome and funny lad he'd ever met, his favourite
teammate, his favourite human.



*SO MANY REQUESTS FOR THESE TWO... JUST HOPE IT SATISFIES THAT ITCH!*



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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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