Date: Thu, 1 Oct 2020 16:00:35 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 185: The Great Dane

Part 185: The Great Dane


A hotel room somewhere in Germany -- Leicester were playing in the
earlier rounds of a lesser European tournament and had narrowly lost out
on the win they needed to progress into the next stage of knockouts.
Sorrows had been drowned with a kind of affable half-interest by the
players, their minds fixed more on the domestic league than their minor
chances in this foreign competition. Their head coach had spied an
opportunity for team bonding, had nudged them into drinking a little too
much and switching from faintly morbid quiet to a beer-lubricated
cheerfulness -- all part of the big plans to transform this mid-table
squad and really aspire to compete for the Premiership title in the years
ahead.

It was 2013, Leicester had yet to make their plucky underdog stab at the
top spot, and the name of their 26-year-old missed-his-chance striker was
not yet recognised across the UK, still a couple of years away from his
belated England debut. For now he was still the rough-around-the-edges
surprise on his way into the limelight, fighting his way into prominence
after wilderness years in the lowest leagues. And he was a drunken mess.

His roommate watched him across the hazy warmth of their shared space,
the late night shifting already to the early morning; they were both
pissed, that was true, but Jamie Vardy was utterly wasted as he tottered
about the room, almost scrawny in his shirtlessness, a decidedly
contraband cigarette pluming smoke from his tight red lips and the bottle
of water he'd snatched from the mini bar spilling messily as he made his
way around, clinging to the night's revelry and not quite ready to let
it all go. The promising forward was loud and obnoxious, retelling his
single goal of the game, the Foxes' only real chance at success here
tonight -- if only more balls had been fed to Vardy, the Sheffield-born
scally loudly proclaimed yet again, then he would have bagged an easy
hat-trick and put Leicester through to the serious rounds of the contest.
His roommate could only smile indulgently and laugh along with the easy
claims, sprawled drunkenly as he was on one of the two double beds that
dominated the darkly decorated suite.

And then Vardy was on the bed with him, crashing against it in his tumble
of energy, all wiry limbs and pigeon chest, grinning wickedly in his
slightly spot-scarred face and crawling close... he stunk of booze, had
perhaps spilled some on his scruffy tracksuit bottoms or was it just on
his stale English breath... In bed, the Danish man stared dizzily at him,
only half listening to his arrogant boasts and his excited claims about
their league chances once home in England, how this time next year
everyone would be chanting his name...

What time had it got to then, that dark drunken night of 2013? It was his
third season with the East Midlands club, and only Jamie's second -- two
men the same age, rated increasingly highly by their management team and
by the footballing media. They were both being treated very well this
year, enticed to stay put and commit to the slowly ascending club. Roomed
together for that reason, in fact, so that they could be lavished as key
stars of Leicester's future, two 26-year-old men entering their
footballing prime...

It was hard to pinpoint at what point his large strong hand was on the
other man's leg or reaching inside of his trackies, but it happened,
there on the warm wriggling sheets and muffled laughter of their early
morning conversation, eyes stinging with tiredness and throats aching
with loud boisterous remarks. And somewhere in that, their legs brushed
and their bodies did too and Vardy began to make jokey grabs and pulls,
feeling at the muscular heaviness of his right arm, guiding it... teasing
him with jibes about his famous father and how he needed to prove
himself, how the whole footballing world needed to know if he could
really cut it out there, could he really be a great Dane like his dad...

And there in the tumbling sheets he found himself touching it, feeling
it, testing it, curiosity and amusement dragging him through the motions,
laughing at the rasping insults and banter of the other 26-year-old,
feeling one thin strong arm of Jamie's on his big bulky shoulders, and
then... then the wet, warm release of something in his fingers, the
surprise and obviousness of a man's seed squelching between his chunky
knuckles and dribbling onto his palm, shocking yet inevitable, a queasy
sensation reaching him through the hot dark haze of too much German
beer... that night in 2013 where he'd first slipped into Vardy's web.



2020, and the guy was boasting again.

Tonight, they had won: 5-2 against Manchester City, a little to their own
surprise. And at the heart of the Premiership win over Guardiola's side
had been Vardy's hat-trick. As the longstanding Leicester hero was
repeatedly telling anyone who would listen in the hotel bar, the
legendary Spanish manager had only experienced such a loss three times
since taking the helm at City. Once against his own former protegee
Lionel Messi, and now TWICE against the lightning feet of Vardy...

Kasper Schmeichel could hardly resent the other 33-year-old sportsman his
enjoyment of this achievement, but he wasn't keen on hearing it again,
or massaging the bloated ego of the working-class hero. Instead, the
mature Dane kept to the other side of the bar, nursing his third pint and
holding back from getting a little rowdier like some of the younger
players present. Schmeichel was quietly chuffed at his own solid
performance and his part in holding off the majority of attacks from
Manchester.

But soon he was deciding to quit the bar area and leave it behind. The
wood-panelled and old-fashioned saloon in the ground floor of the
suburban hotel rang with the loud excitement of the match's two other
goal-scorers: young Belgian Youri Tielemans and Vardy's more British
crony James Maddison. The few quiet drinks in the Manchester venue were
turning into a self-congratulatory piss-up, marking the fact the win that
shunted them into joint first place in the league, a meaningless step at
this early stage.

Kasper left the bar and wound his way up the stairwell to the third floor
in heavy steps, questioning his own mood and his reluctance to really
engage in the celebrations here. Danish as he was, he was nearing a
decade at Leicester and the club's fortunes meant so much to him. The
new season was failing to excite him, though, he was longing for
Copenhagen and an escape from the strange brutishness of English footy.

Things had turned in summer, he supposed, when that leaving party had
gone a bit further than he could stomach. He thought about it on his way
down the corridor of garish local art, counting down the room numbers and
seeking his own: what a strange night that had turned into, his twisted
friend Jamie lolling at the centre of it like some seedy puppet-master.
Kasper had lost control that night, bidding goodbye to their experienced
mate Andy King; he cringed to think of how things had developed, no,
spiralled.

Schmeichel let himself into his own large shared room and shut the door
firmly behind him, leaning into its heavy wood frame a little with a
sighing yawn of drunkenness, pushing away the confusing images of another
hotel room and that busy summer night when they'd given King his
send-off, without the promised FEMALE prostitutes of Vardy's leering
boasts in the week before... Nah, no women present, he remembered
bitterly, but sluts aplenty.

The big goalkeeper's private interactions with the England striker had
happened sporadically over the past seven years or so, starting on a much
more drunken night at an international tournament, but continuing in fits
and starts in a number of Premiership away weekends. In the years of
Leicester's surprise glory, random fumbles had kicked off between the
two of them almost every other weekend -- there had been so much to
celebrate, so much beer guzzled and white powder snorted.

The 6ft2 hunk of Scandi blond and primed muscle had kept a faintly open
mind about it all, he was not totally weighed down with British
repression -- but he was definitely confused by it, confused by his own
sudden desires in the drunken dark and by the seemingly relentless lust
of this supposedly heterosexual teammate who turned into a different
animal when the lights were off and no girls were there to catch his
beady little eyes. Schmeichel had only `ended' things with his fellow
football stud because 1) the team rotation meant they no longer often
roomed together and 2) he had a brief affair outside of his otherwise
happy marriage and realised that he couldn't comfortably keep touching
up another guy's dick without feeling it was still cheating. He had,
essentially, written off the dozen or so episodes as silly sporting
banter.

But he had assumed it was just between them. This summer, in those
strained post-lockdown weeks when it had felt so great to be in a goal
again and with the lads, his perception of what had happened had been
blown open. Firstly, because loose-lipped and dirty-minded Vardy had
`outed' his behaviour to several of the lads in that crowded seedy
hotel room, and secondly because it had slapped him around the face with
the knowledge that the team's prolific forward was dabbling and messing
around with plenty of different lads. A stream of awkward drunken
handjobs, never reciprocated, suddenly felt so much more demeaning and
emasculating, so much more taboo and adulterous. It wasn't an eccentric
quirk of his close friendship with the Yorkshireman, he was just another
tart on Vardy's roster of satisfying pairings.

The big Viking man pulled his way out of his long-sleeved Leicester
training top, shrugging away the vest beneath and padding around the
quiet hotel room with his upper body exposed. In the bathroom, he brushed
aggressively at his teeth and spat huge mouthfuls of menthol wash down
the drain, performing all of his nightly rituals with the sluggish lumber
of a man who hadn't drank three pints so rapidly in a while, not after a
hard shift in the football stadium.

Back in the main room, he changed from baggy blue tracksuit bottoms and
his tight white Bjorn Borg underwear into a pair of leg-hugging pyjama
bottoms that clung to the shapes of his physique and felt satisfyingly
snug. He stared out of the window for a while at the roiling clouds and
obscured city view, then clambered onto his bed and fingered at a remote
to flick through the TV channels, sick of their dull Englishness or brash
Americana, feeling fresh pangs of homesickness for Denmark. The thought
that trailed his anti-Vardy moodiness this month was frightening but
consistent: was it time to quit Leicester and get out of the Premier
League?

More terrifying: was it almost time he ought to RETIRE?

33 was well into the `middle age' of professional football, though he
knew his goalkeeping position gave him far better longevity than, say,
Vardy, whose speed and agility would quickly wane in the next couple of
years. He snorted vaguely at this thought, not paying attention to the
news broadcast, finding some bitter satisfaction in besting that
manipulative pervert in that regard at least.

He must have dozed off in front of the television, because he went from
slow placid thoughts of this career turning point and disinterested
observations about the politics on the screen to a jolting sensation and
an awareness that he was gripping the TV remote too tightly in his right
hand, the other resting lazily in the folded crotch of his PJs. A light
wooden tapping sounded and he realised that was what had broken him from
his dizzying late night nap after all, somebody was at the hotel room
door.

He swung his heavy legs off the bed and made a vague tutting noise,
glancing at the other bed and his roommate's belongings there, scattered
in the space between it and the wall. Fucking hell, Danny, what time was
it and where was his key? Danny Ward, the Wrexham-born second keeper and
his current regular roomie, was normally one of the quieter lads on away
trips, but clearly he'd been led astray or come out of his shell -- a
glance at a digital clock on the desk by the window told him it was well
past midnight now, and much further past the boss's curfew.

He undid the lock and pulled the door inward, stalling in the act of the
humorous disapproval he'd mustered for the younger Welsh goalie, jolted
more out of his naptime stupor by the lean 5ft10 figure hovering in the
doorway instead, grinning at him beneath the soft glow of the corridor's
nightlights. Kasper stood there with both hands on the door, taken aback
by Jamie's appearance at his door, looking as wired and excitable as he
had a couple of hours earlier; still in a half-zipped training top over
his tshirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms, a half-finished small bottle of
vodka in one hand.

`Where is Ward?' Kasper asked immediately in a neutral tone.

`Passed out in my bed, the lightweight,' Jamie muttered at him, jerking
his head back down the corridor simply. `Little afterparty in our room
but the big heavy cunt passed out on my fuckin' bed, y'know? He's
snoring like a beast. And my roomie Madders is out for the count too, and
the Belgians are laid out cold on the floor, bunch of weak pissheads, the
lot of `em...' He nodded into the room. `Well, can I come in and use
the only bed going free, Schmike, or do I fuck off and kip in the lobby,
eh?' And in he bundled, sparky with chaotic energy as always, brushing
past Kasper's big bare arm in the process, leaving him to push the door
begrudgingly shut and blink sleep from his eyes.

Behind him, Vardy was chattering on in his strangely energetic manner,
about how messy things had got in the bar and who had almost had a
punch-up with who, and where had Schmeichel sloped off to actually, why
hadn't he been there? Kasper just smiled weakly at him and shrugged,
still in just the pyjama bottoms, too tired and beer-warmed to engage in
Jamie's speech -- he sounded like he was high, not just drunk, and it
was weird that the Dane's slightly bitter reminiscence had conjured him
out of the hotel night like this, evidence of just what a messy human he
was.

He moved over the room with a growing wariness, watching as Jamie
unzipped and pulled off his top, down to a white vest that clung to the
lean tight muscle of his torso. He looked a little different -- shorter
cut to his hair, more pronounced mousy brown beard around his jaw, it
seemed to make him look younger rather than older. He was fiery with his
confidence or cocaine, meeting Kasper's eyes and grinning at him between
the two beds.

`Been a while, huh?' Vardy asked meaningfully.

Schmeichel just made a vague scoffing noise. `Huh. I was asleep.' He
picked up the remote from his bed and switched off the quietly droning
television, still watching as Jamie paced between the beds, pawing at his
vest and kicking his feet out of the sweaty trainers, peeling away socks
one by one.

`Were you, old man?' chuckled the other 33-year-old.

`And I would like to get BACK to sleep,' he added heavily.

`Hey, I won't stop ya,' the other guy chuckled at him.

`You know what I mean,' the Dane grumbled. He scratched at the hard
muscle of his tummy and turned away from the bed, going to place the
remote on the desk and keeping his back to the other guy, trying to
settle down his irritation and the slight drunken burn of resentment.
This guy here was still one of his best mates on the team, one of his
closest friends over here in the UK; just not like this, not in one of
his fits of dirty desire and high-wired curiosity.

When Kasper glanced over his broad pale shoulder, he saw that Jamie was
grinning at him from the edge of the bed, legs pulled up under him, a
smirk curling his lips and his eyes wide with alertness, a little
red-rimmed. He looked as electrified now as he did as he'd booted in his
third goal of the game and humiliated Guardiola's squad.

`Don't give me that look,' Schmeichel told him simply and curt, his
Danish tones clipped and severe.

`What look?' Vardy demanded with the most unconvincing mock innocence.

He dropped his voice to a stony murmur. `You should have stayed with
your other drunk pals.'

`That ain't very kind of you, mate.'

`Don't try anything, Jamie.'

`Mate, you are being frosty as fuuuuck...'

`I know what you're like,' he returned sharply.

Leaving it at that, the Denmark goalkeeper moved away again, crossing the
suddenly silent room, disappearing into the bathroom just to take a
moment. A bit of him was thinking about all of those nights in other
situations, the times he'd reached across and folded one of his strong
keeper's hands about the contents of his friend's pants, taking it on
as if it was his own, for fuck knows what reason...! In the square grey
space of the en suite, he stared at himself in the mirror, at the hard
set angles of his frankly handsome face and the pale silvery blond of his
slicked back hair, a little fluffy where he had slipped into sleep
against the pillows.

`You wanna drink?' slurred the other player's voice, muffled by the
almost-shut bathroom door.

Kasper saw himself flinch in the mirror, and he knew angrily that part of
him wished he was drunker, lost in the boozy fug that had somehow led him
to share the same bed as his good mate on certain occasions -- but no, he
wouldn't do that again, not now the extent of Vardy's debauchery was
exposed to him, not after he himself had- He stared angrily at his own
stony-faced reflection in the bathroom mirror and clasped his hands to
the rim of the sink.

`I'm pouring you one,' he heard Vardy chuckle.

`No, leave it,' Schmeichel barked, thumping his big bare feet back into
the room at where Vardy, stripped down to tight black trunks of boxer
shorts, was sloshing the remainder of his little cheap vodka bottle into
two mugs and screwing the lid off a small lemonade bottle from the
mini-bar. He did looked decidedly ripped and muscular, such a small built
man but so dense with the strength that powered his attacking moves --
and glaring tattoos crawling about the sides of his pale midriff as he
stood there mixing two drinks, turning to grin warmly this way.

`Go on,' Jamie said to him. `Just the one. Eh?'

The pale white mug of overstrong vodka and lemonade was pressed into his
big hand and the pair of them stood there, face to face, six inches
apart. He loomed over the striker, bigger and broader, his chest a
powerful stretch of muscle lightly haired with white-blond flecks.
Jamie's was smooth but for a little dark growth in the middle. He was
grinning in that unmistakably knowing way, the intimate leer of someone
who knew too much.

`Relax,' this evening's hat-trick told him in a quiet mutter.

`No fun for you over there?' he retorted less intimately. `No fun with
that little slut James Maddison?'

The grin on Jamie's face intensified as if, he looked as if he heard
envy in Kasper's muttered comment, and laughed under his breath.
`Madders?' the Leicester ace told him in the same quiet rasping voice.
`Nah, he's still too lovesick at his boy Ben moving to London, you know
that. I mean, we all miss Chilly, but only one lad on this squad who's
not smiled since...'

Schmeichal stiffened his posture at this more blunt talk, snarling a
little at his friend. `Leave it out, there wasn't anything between
them,' he said in the faintly Midlands accented English of his long time
in the team. `Chilwell is seeing some girl in Birmingham, you know that,
he is always visiting her. He and James were not...'

`Never said they were,' Vardy cut him off, almost irritably, `but
another thing altogether in the kid's head, methinks...' Another leer
and chuckle. `Summat's up with the kid, anyway.' He seemed to move
closer without shifting his bare feet, leaning in a little so that the
undressed exposure of their upper bodies felt more strange and unwanted.
His abs and chest were tensed, tight-packed with muscle as he leaned in,
hands to his bony hips, a smirk framed by that dark growth of beard.
`No, no fun for me with those pissheads, they're all pissed and asleep,
I told ya... why do you think I'm here, eh...?'

Here it was, Kasper thought, the inevitable move, although in the past
the things between them had always been unspoken, initiated only by
clumsy touch and never a moment's eye contact shared. As if to stop both
Jamie and himself, the big Dane clenched his hands into fists, closing
himself off to the idiocy of touching up this arrogant fucker in the
night, tensing even more as one of Jamie's hands ran up the fluffy white
blond hair of his forearm and to his elbow, sending little tingles
through his bicep and shoulder. `Don't,' he said warningly, thinking
he would hit this prick if he started getting too friendly now, he'd
made it clear enough!

`No fun down there at all,' Vardy sighed at him, tickling his elbow and
up his bicep, `no matter how much booze we got through... bunch of wet
lettuces ain't they, really...'

Kasper thought angrily about the other men in the room that night. `What
about JJ?' he demanded heavily, angrily. He'd been so bewildered and
surprised to see James Justin, the young defender, become so uninhibited
on the night of that `party'... `Or Harvey?' he pushed menacingly.
`You sure seemed keen to invite him over to King's goodbye, and-`

Jamie made a simple tutting noise and brought up his other hand, holding
each of his palms to the thick tense muscle of Kasper's upper arms.
`Schmike!' he sang. `Those boys are idiots, don't know how to enjoy
themselves, not like real men like you or me...'

`Or Fuchs,' he snapped, `what about that dirty fucker?'

`Christian went to bed ages ago like the boring fart he is,' the
striker said with a giggle to his voice, pulling in close, making
Schmeichel so frustrated and tense, but he held still and clenched his
fists and stared down the provocative impish face of the other
experienced sportsman, determined to hold fast against his playful humour
and bisexuality.

Staring angrily down at him, Kasper could not help but remember the
spiralling events of that goodbye party, the way this sleazy fucker had
initiated things and made his moves, got each of them excited and
experimental. Schmeichel could hardly believe how hard he had gone,
swilling back cheap beer and following his host's guidance, how he had...
he shuddered to think it, but then shuddered with new sensation, feeling
the fingers against the looser front of his tight pyjamas, playing
against the fold where his bulge sagged heavily forward, tracing and
identifying its shape and making little tickling sensations run through
his lower body.

He stared down at the man's hand, then up his chiselled front and into
the wicked glint of his eyes.

`What are you doing?' he demanded hotly, but keeping his voice quiet.

`Returning a favour I've owed for a long time,' he was told in a hot
whisper.

In all those sweaty nights, he didn't think Jamie Vardy had ever really
touched him back -- none of it had been thoughtful or measured, it had
always been a confused rush, and it had only been this year that he ever
thought about the creepy one-sidedness of their play. He'd grabbed at
and jerked this smug fucker, full of some grudging excitement that enough
units of alcohol seemed to unleash in him, but he'd never pushed to have
his own big Scandinavian weapon played with, just jerked them both,
hadn't he... and now... now he could feel Vardy tracing the outline of his
dormant cock, drawing out the excitement he didn't know had been
building. It stretched and flexed at his insistent touch.

`Jamie,' he breathed.

`There was no fun for me down there,' the striker purred at him, his
voice so low that Kasper leaned closer instinctively to hear it. `But
there's so much in here for me.'

Kasper bit his lip and closed his eyes, willing himself to resist. He
could feel his semi pressing at the front of the PJs, making the
patterned cloth stretch more at his broad hips and muscular behind,
clamping around his thick manly thighs; he felt the exciting newness of a
man's fingers there again, compared to the domestic familiarity of his
wife's. Now he was holding his strong flat hands to Jamie's upper arms
in a pose that might have been on the verge of pushing him away, or
pulling him closer, but for now, just keeping him in place, his fingers
finding their grip.

`Relax,' Vardy told him again, forcefully.

`I need to sleep,' he told him dumbly.

`This'll get you to sleep, mate...'

A thumb was hooked into the front of his waistband, pulling forward
slightly as Jamie moved; Kasper shifted with him, long heavy steps, their
two muscular forms heading for the nearest of the beds, his own. Jamie
stopped with his back to it and his legs brushing the edge of the covers,
and dipped his hand right inside the PJs now, taking hold of his manhood
and making him shudder and sigh.

`Jamie...'

`Kasper, mate...'

Very gently, the striker leaned in and kissed him dead centre on the
chest, brushing his lips in the furrow between his pecs, still gripping
and pulling on his growing erection as he did. Kasper stood there, still
and resistant, as his teammate slid into a sitting position on the bed in
front of him, and manoeuvred his lips down the front of his tall powerful
body and... the inevitability of it made his whole being seize up with
anticipation and then relief, as the lips brushed over the short curls of
his dark blond pubes and onto the veiny shaft of his cock. For several
moments he held his head back and kept his eyes closed, then had to crane
forward and stare down to believe it was really happening: the filthy
womaniser and sexual deviant was sat in front of him chowing down on his
big Danish cock, lips parted as wide as they would go and still somewhat
struggling.

The goalkeeper stared down. He was too amazed and shocked by what was
happening to really question it himself. He'd learned in the summer how
many of these dirty lads could be enticed into using their mouth in this
way, felt his Dutch ally Christian Fuchs go down around there, seen
slutty Maddison in action, and Justin, shockingly... but not Vardy, never
Vardy, surely, but... oh... there was something inexperienced and
uncomfortable about the way he did it, but that just made his big prick
feel even more sensitive and delighted.

Now Vardy was slurping back off it, closing his fist about the
saliva-slick length of it, and grinning triumphantly up at him. `Yeah,
how'd that feel, mate?' he muttered, licking his upper lip. `How is
it? Eh? Come on...' And then his hands seemed to be all over Kasper,
stroking his sides and yanking on the waistband of those PJs, peeling
down the side of his leg. He lumbered awkwardly forward, breathlessly
aroused but uncomfortable, tumbling onto the bed beside the other man,
his hair falling out of place and silver-blond strands brushing just
above his eyes. He grabbed at Jamie's shoulders and neck and pulled him
to him, forcibly guiding him to carry on -- and there it was again, the
tight warmth of that man's dirty mouth, dripping over his thick pale
cock, mmm.

Just as he had in the other hotel, he could feel himself letting go,
giving in to the open-minded wonder of it, almost aggressively. He'd
fucked Christian in the mouth then and now he wanted to do that to Jamie,
but it was different -- the guy's mouth felt so much smaller and less
soft and inviting, and he struggled for breath as Kasper pushed up with
his hips and thighs and pressed more of his girthy thing in against his
narrow tongue. Jamie gave up sucking on it and just lapped and kissed at
the sides and below the base, which felt so good still, precum oozing
around the fat purple-red head.

It was only then that a sort of dull wariness seized him again, pulling
his body more fully onto the bed and kicking the tight pyjamas down his
shins and calves and over his ankles so he was naked, Jamie crawling up
with him and tenting in his own black trunks. It occurred to Kasper in
horror that nothing came for free, maybe Vardy would expect the same oral
treatment from him, and he felt adamantly that he wouldn't degrade
himself like that... but no, all Vardy was doing now was kissing at his
tummy and nuzzling one of his pecs in a weirdly submissive way, clinging
to the trunk of his leg and moaning with uncharacteristic neediness.

Schmeichel felt incredibly turned on, the great Dane grabbing and pushing
at Vardy's head and hair and slapping at the back of his shoulders. His
cock ached and throbbed, he wanted to fuck his mouth properly, wanted to
really punish him for all his dirty talk and arrogant boasting... he
wanted to shove his dick inside him so deep, but... he realised exactly
what he wanted just as Jamie seemed to realise the same thing, climbing
up his body and sitting over him now, still in his undies. Kasper lay
there in an awkward position and felt the rubbing deliciousness -- Jamie
mounted him at the waist and rubbed his clothed arse over his hard-on in
a frustrating series of grinding motions that made him shudder and
grunt.

`Damn it,' the Dane growled.

Vardy just laughed, rubbing back and forward, legs spread over his own
thighs, reaching down to grab and pin at his torso as he rode him through
his undies, rubbing the hard peachy muscle of his cheeks through his
underpants and making Schmeichel's cock leak and buckle.

`Fucking hell!' the Leicester keeper shouted, reaching for him, pushing
his hands away, grabbing at his lean tightly muscled middle, pushing his
cock up against his clothed backside, biting his lip, feeling the lust
that had seized him when he'd been the third or fourth to mount and
plough little Maddison that night, the moment of unquenchable lust that
he had been trying to blank out for months; but now all he wanted was to
feel it again, and even better, inside this smug twat!

He wrestled with him, both big 33-year-old men panting passionately,
Jamie grinning eagerly into his face as he twisted with him and pressed
him back down into the bed. `Go on,' the smug striker yelped into his
face, `go on and shove that up me you big dirty cunt, I wanna feel
your-` Heavily, he clamped his hand over his mouth to silence him,
wanting to shut that boastful voice up, so taunting and frustrating; he
pressed down on him, squeezing him to the bed in missionary position,
jabbing his wet cock at his bottom and fumbling at those undies, leaving
them on at the front but dragging them up over the smooth globes of his
butt so he could press in there and find the angle. He didn't want to
sully his fingers, he just put his cock straight to the fold of the
cheeks and pushed, weighing his body down onto the sleazy fucker,
pressing at him and growling and panting over his face, feeling him bite
and lick at his palm where it silenced him...

And then Jamie was fighting back, giggling stupidly as he did, using
Kasper's uncertainty and awkwardness to get the upper hand, rolling them
across the bedding and back on top, rising up on his knees -- winded for
a moment, the Danish man lay there, trembling with his own guilty
passion, his own forceful lust, his dick so long and hard and eager to be
used. Jamie was reaching behind himself, playing with his own arse,
readying it before sitting back down and -- ohhhh -- riding him properly
now, his cheeks feeling cool and firm but then his hole so warm and tight
and -- ohhhh! -- Kasper could feel his cock entering him, stuck on his
back with the other lad sat astride him, descending onto his fat Scandi
meat. He gripped at the hairy curve of Jamie's upper thighs and began to
push up as best he could against the weight of the 5ft10 Sheffield bloke
on top of him. Up and down he flexed his hips and arse muscles, pressing
his fat prick into that tight cavern, fucking one of the greatest
strikers in the country and breaking open his sweaty drunken hole.

It was one of his favourite positions with his wife, this cowgirl pose --
such a strong and authoritative guy, Schmeichel did love to power-fuck
and to dominate his petite Danish wife, but he also loved the switch, the
passivity of lying back and just feeling someone else take over the work,
his big body laid out and his cock utterly pleasured. The rise and fall
of Vardy's body was insanely pleasurable and staring up at his lean
muscled front, his chavvy tattoos and his gurning bearded face, wow...

But only for so long. Once more, there was a rugged tumble of their
bodies, flipping across the bed as Kasper's strong hairy limbs wrestled
with the lithe form of his target. Pressing and pushing onto his back,
dick still in him, locking him into that missionary again and gaining
pressure so that he could really push more fully into him and slam his
cock there, slam him over and over like he could so clearly remember
doing to dirty little Madders, that English boy... he held him down, his
arms bulging with strength around him, no longer looking him in his
sleazy face, just closing his eyes and pressing his brow down against the
bedding, thrusting and retreating then thrusting more powerfully.

`Cum in me,' whispered Vardy in his ear. `Shoot inside me, man...'

`Yeah,' he growled back, `oh yeah, oh yeaaaah...'

It may as well have been his wife he was fucking, or any woman, there was
something so smooth and supple about the striker's body in his hold,
slimmer and shorter than his own, all of those tight muscles relaxing in
his grip as he powered into his hole and drooled over his shoulder. And
soon the tightness was too much and the forceful thrusts of his own body
did the trick, and he was emptying his load inside him, squirting his cum
deep in the Yorkshire slag, owning this smug deviant who until now had
seemed to dominate the intimate lives of so many men on the team. Fuck
that, Kasper thought, I'm in charge here, I'm a fucking Schmeichel,
mmm... He pounded his last ounces of energy into the dirty chav and filled
him with his spunk, panting and coughing and growling.



Vardy lay there with his hole twitching and aching around the girth of
the other man, so much thicker than his own slender hard on now leaking
cum against the inside of his pants and the base of his tummy. He'd
slithered a hand in there to finish himself while he braced himself
against the sturdy fucking of the Danish goalie, crushing him down
against the bed in missionary, their faces so close that he'd almost
craned to kiss his neck and cheek. Lying there beneath him, cum oozing
against his navel, he reached up and dared to stroke and fondle the
floppy pale hair of the Viking god, feeling the strange reverse pain of
that chunky prick being dragged out of his burning hole.

It was true he had taken bigger, and harder, but still it had been an
intense feeling, everything he wanted and needed in him.

It had taken him a few weeks to embrace the knowledge that he wanted to
be fucked again; in fact, it had taken him quite a few weeks to
physically recover from losing his cherry. Perhaps if it hadn't been to
Harry Maguire, the consequence of his hubristic end-of-season bet, then
it wouldn't have left him limping and wincing for quite so long, but
that was how it had happened, and so... yeah, in all honesty, he'd been
craving another big dick in him all summer long, even on the beach with
his wife. For a man as sexually liberated as Jamie, bottoming to Maguire
had been an utter revelation; it was as if one chapter of his sleazy bi
experiments was closing and another just beginning. All these years of
playful domination, usually over naïve younger lads, and now...

Schmeichel was pulling off him, grunting and looking away. He looked
shaken by the force of his own behaviour, but not necessarily regretful.
When Vardy stroked his thick arm and patted his side, he just sighed and
nodded, his energy spent, his cock dangling from the beautiful downy
fluff of his pubes, swinging as he rolled aside and into his own space,
heaving out a snoring sigh and then going onto his front, his bare back
and arse on show, a little greasy with his sweat.

Still throbbing and aching in his inexperienced rear, Vardy slid from the
bed and clambered over into his own, adjusting his dishevelled black
undies and throwing himself against the bedding with his own satisfied
growling moan out to the quiet hotel room.

`Fuck,' he sighed, mostly to himself since Schmeichel already seemed to
be sinking into sleep on the other bed, or feigning it to avoid any
post-coital chatter. `Fuck...!' Utterly liberated, Leicester's filthy
predator lay on his back and adjusted his position until his sore bottom
felt better, staring up at the ceiling and spreading his long wiry limbs.
He grinned to himself, delighted by the success of tonight's seduction;
yes, he had tried to angle at other, younger players, he'd been gagging
for anyone's attention tonight, but he'd long suspected big Kasper was
his best bet.

As he'd told the Dane, he was pretty sure James was lovesick for Ben; he
suspected Maddison was fully homosexual and really quite smitten with
`Bulging Ben', he'd moped and sighed and been useless since the slick
southern lad made his move to Chelsea at the end of the summer break.
Besides, Jamie had been craving a manly man, a powerful bloke like the
Manchester United beast who had deflowered him with the help of his
subservient teammates. He'd considered Christian Fuchs but he had
already made a bitch of that other big strong Dane on the Leicester squad
-- and similar issues with JJ, whose beautiful soft lips he had spunked
on three or four times last season. Really, big Schmeichel, the other old
man of the squad, was the only option, and... well, Jamie felt more sure
than ever of his seductive talents and irresistible libido.

He looked across at the snoring bulk of the goalie, unable to stop the
other thought of his summer reflections drifting back to him. It wasn't
just the fucking role reversal that had shaken him this year, if he was
honest, though that was a lot -- years of casually exploiting horny
blowjobs from other footy lads and learning to pound them like he once
had his gorgeous best man, Dave Nugent -- no, it was also the things big
Slabhead had said to him when Leicester lost to United on the final day
of the 19/20 season.

So big Harry and his mini DILF Luke were really in love, were they? He'd
wanted to laugh at that notion at the time, the two big masculine blokes
with their partners and their children, their utterly ordinary hetero
lives rattling on while they pranced about together in the shadows. It
had seemed ridiculous to him, not the adultery of it, but the fluidity
and quiet joy; but Harry's words had shaken him and left him wondering.

Was he missing out? Were his meaningless dirty exploits with lad after
lad becoming dull and soulless? Was that, he wondered, the only reason he
was having to go further and further to find a taboo thrill in lad-on-lad
fun? Why else was he suddenly gagging to be topped when he'd spent all
that time insistently remaining the one in control, with everyone from
Raheem Sterling to Ben Chilwell...?

He glanced at sleeping Schmeichel again and jeered internally at his
uncertain longings, sure that the answer didn't lie here. There was
something gorgeous about the big Viking, his sturdy frame and his
glittering hairline, his strong silences and powerful mood swings. And
they were close friends. But it wasn't more than that, lust and
friendship and alcohol. There was no spark of anything more intimate or
magical there, no... just the lingering pain in his ravaged arse.

Jamie Vardy lay back quietly, pulling the sheets over his clammy body,
and tried to think instead of the glorious match that had seen him score
thrice and really triumph over Man City, the arrogant tossers that they
were; it was Leicester's turn to really compete with Liverpool, he
decided, nobody else's. He tried to focus on that, on his empowered
place as an experienced striker still breaking the statistics at 33, the
Messi of the Premier League. But try as he might, his thoughts diverted
and until he drifted into the deep sleep of the sexually satisfied, he
wondered if Maguire was right: did he need to find a more meaningful
bloke to enjoy this stuff with after all...?


*AGAIN, APOLOGIES FOR THE SLOW PROGRESS... FINALLY A NEW STORY THOUGH, A
BELATED TALE ON LEICESTER'S BIG WIN LAST SUNDAY OVER MAN CITY. LET ME
KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THE NEW SIDE TO DIRTY VARDY, UNLEASHED BY
MAGUIRE...    COMING SOON, SOME 'BEHIND THE SCENES' STORY BEHIND THE ODD
EVENTS OF THE RECENT CHELSEA-SPURS CLASH...*