Date: Wed, 1 Jan 2020 01:24:20 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 19: New Year in Newcastle

Part nineteen: New Year in Newcastle


New Year's Eve, and a stiff formal drinks reception at St James Park. For
the players, it was a load of shite: they had a game at 3pm tomorrow
against Leicester, so they could hardly let loose and enjoy
themselves. They had been doled their token flute of buck's fizz on
arrival, and that was very firmly their limit. It was much more an event
for local business sponsors, and for the WAGs to parade and compete. And
for a slightly awkward bachelor like Paul Dummett, it was a bit of a chore.

Still cradling the last inch of his one free drink, the stout Geordie
defender traipsed around the event in a fitted suit that made him feel
stiff and uncomfortable, making bursts of small talk with a few of his
fellow players, their posing wives, and dull smiling local businessmen who
asked inane questions about the busy festive football schedule. The
elephant in the grand function room was the two back-to-back losses since
Boxing Day, though Paul had not been on the pitch for either. A small
comfort. A team loss was a loss for everyone.

He spotted Andy. Big tall Carroll looked majestic rather than uncomfortable
in his black tie formalwear, an arm cradled about the sleek figure of his
Essex star wife, trailed by a few other female guests, and a couple of fat
old board members courting his attention. Paul watched them idly through a
haze of twinkling fairy lights, passing suits and dresses, and the soft
dappled glow of a mirrorball somewhere. Fucking hell, Andy was a beautiful
bloke, he thought wistfully. For a month or two, he'd convinced himself
that was the issue: that he wished he had those high cheekbones, that manly
hold to his body, those intense eyes. But no, he was realising more and
more, it was more than wish projection. Yedlin had been pretty spot on in
his insights.

Nobody else was probably trailing Carroll so closely with their eyes, and
so it was unlikely anybody else would notice what he noticed: Andy turning
to shake hands with another old fuddy duddy in a baggy suit, and suddenly
jerking his posture a bit as he did, his smile going strained, his eyes
lifting momentarily, his back clenching beneath the tails of his
blazer... and behind him, his wife's hand dipping briefly into her handbag
as if to fetch some makeup!

Seriously? Did Andy have that toy in now? Was his hot wife really toying
with his backside here, at this event, in front of everyone? Fucking
hell... He felt immediately flustered, a mix of his own voyeuristic
excitement, and a worry for his mate, who had seemed so uncertain about the
device and it's purpose, so alarmed by it during their coach trip debacle.

He was distracted by this uncertain glimpse by a couple of others,
Lascelles and Gayle, pulling him away to chat to him, but Dummett was
deeply distracted by what he was sure he'd seen; he struggled to engage in
the conversation, and glanced repeatedly over his shoulder to try and catch
another look at big Carroll. Perhaps he'd imagined it, after all? Surely
they wouldn't be so risky or brazen, after...?

After a while, he made an excuse, and slipped away from the other lads,
unable to really follow their jokey banter about a few dickheads on the
Leicester team who needed a good solid tackle to sort them out tomorrow
afternoon. Paul was half-expecting not make the team anyway, having sat out
the last two for no reason he could think of. Was he really so distracted
lately that his performances were suffering, or was he just unlucky...? He
drifted across the periphery of the function room, trying to catch another
sight of what Andy was up to, just in case he-

`Paul,' cut in the gruff American tones of his recent confidante, and
suddenly short, broad-shouldered DeAndrew was in his path, holding a glass
of sparkling water and giving him a playful, knowing look. `How's it
hanging, bro?'

Dummett halted, and flashed a nervous smile. There was still a large part
of him convinced that Yedlin was going to drop in it, and tell everybody
what he'd... but then, this was mutually assured destruction. What would
anybody else say if they knew about this tattooed Yank's ridiculous
collection of toys?!

`I'm good,' Paul told him evasively, `just finding it hard to relax...'

`Huh, yeah, all the same,' agreed Yedlin in his low purr. `Hey, dude, you
happen to have tried out any of...?'

Paul shook his head instantly. It had only been a matter of days! `No, no,'
he said quickly, hoping Yedlin wouldn't ask anything more specific, or
anything that could be overheard. `Not yet. But yeh... er, thanks again for
the other night, it was...'

DeAndre chuckled and shrugged, and patted his arm for a moment. `I should
be thanking you,' he pointed out in a wistful, less confident voice. `It
was you who... Well. You know.'

`Yeah, sorry about that,' Paul said vaguely, thinking again how many lines
he must have crossed in his over-excitement. Had he really tried to grab
this bloke's cock that night? And what he HAD done... well, he'd near
enough fucked him, the way he handled that stupid phallic plastic...

`No, no, it's cool,' DeAndre reassured him softly, `so long as you... get
the message. About my real tastes.' He gave Paul a meaningful look, and the
local lad nodded quickly.

`Aye, aye. I get it. I was... carried away.'

`You sure were.'

Paul's eyes scanned the room over Yedlin's shoulder, and caught sight of
Andy and Billi again, and he quickly disentangled himself from this
uncomfortable little exchange. `I'll update you when I get to er, try out
your, er, presents,' he said, and rubbed the shorter player's shoulder a
bit, and darted away. Over by the doors, Andy was breaking away from the
group he was talking to, looking a little red-faced and uncomfortable. Paul
scanned his eyes from his lanky mate to the beautiful missus, who was in
the midst of chatting to their manager, Steve Bruce, while again seeming to
fish into her fucking handbag... wow, she was risquι...

Paul made his way over, and as soon as Andy spotted him, the big striker
was muscling his way over and grabbing Dummett by the arm: it was hard to
deny a sudden thrill at the contact, and at Carroll's urgent need of him in
his frustration.

`Hey, pal,' hissed the tall Gateshead lad, `can we have a quick chat?'

`Aye, easy,' Paul replied with a friendly smile, and he swiftly followed
Carroll away from the group and out of the fancy function suite into the
quieter, cooler corridor beyond, Andy coming to a stop by the stairwell and
leaning on the rails with very flushed cheeks. He let out a little whistle,
rubbed his chin, and glared back into the function suite.

`What is it?' Paul asked, though he knew enough, showing Andy his concern
over his softly bearded, loyal face. He reached a hand to Andy's arm
affectionately.

`SOMEONE is a bit pissed off, apparently,' Andy grimaced, `and so SOMEONE
is trying to teach me a lesson, so...' And then the big lad tensed up, as
Paul had spied, stretching the fit of his shirt and blazer, and twitching
his handsome head with a flick of the topknot, and then relaxing back into
natural posture with a sigh. There was no mistaking the physical effects.

`She's zapping you with that THING?' Dummett hissed at him anxiously.

Andy nodded, still glowering back at the heavy double doors of the function
suite, glad they were briefly alone out here. `What even is the range on
that bloody remote control?' he asked in a furious whisper. `She, er, well
she caught me watching some porn this afternoon – I refused to sleep
with her, you know, cos of the pre-match sex ban, of course, but I thought
a cheeky tug might not hurt, and so...' He made an embarrassed, bashful
expression and tapped his head with one hand, miming his idiocy. `Did NOT
go down too well, let me tell you...'

Paul glanced from Andy back to the doors. `So she's punishing you by...?'

`Sticking this daft thing up my jacksie, and pressing that remote every
chance she gets,' Andy explained in a voice of utter exasperation. His
long, lightly bearded neck was prickling with perspiration just above the
collar. He was about to speak again when, obviously, she pressed her button
once more, and he jolted so firmly that he had to grab Paul's shoulder for
support, almost leaning into his good mate as he felt it. Paul gasped his
mix of empathy and excited, and helped to steady him.

`This is silly,' he said bluntly, `she's just being...'

`It's silly,' Andy agreed through gritted teeth, `and it is making so –
fuck – ing – horny.' He let out a thin, awkward laugh and shook his
head at his own confession. `Never got to finish this afternoon, did I?
Miss Pissy Pants getting all fucking moody just cos I was gonna... sort
myself out. Jeez.'

`Can't you just take it out?' Paul asked with what he hoped was a calm,
reassuring tone. He tried to hide his own excitement, looking the big lad
up and down, remembering their fumbling in the training ground as he helped
insert the toy, and... `Do you want me to help take it out?' he asked in a
trembling murmur.

`She'll go mad,' Andy said. His voice was a frustrated whine almost.

`Yeah but... look at you, man. You're sweating. I saw you jerking about cos
of that thing from the other side of the fuckin' party, mate, so...'

`You did??'

`Well, yeah,' Paul said slowly, regretting this comment, knowing that if
Andy really thought about it, it would make it pretty obvious how much he'd
been staring... or on the other hand, how paranoid it was now making
Carroll, who was too trusting to make the other assumption. He rubbed his
arm and leaned in a bit more intimately. `Sorry, I shouldn't have said
that. Buddy, this is daft, she's making you a mug...'

`She's making me stiff in my keks,' Andy complained, mortified, leaning on
him a bit more, anticipating another jolt from the woman in charge. `Sorry,
I should not be telling you that, you go back in there and enjoy yourself,
Dummo.'

`No, I ain't leaving you like this, man,' Dummett protested loyally, and
not without some enjoyment of the taller bloke leaning into him, feeling
the heat of his body. `Come on, to the loos, let's sort this out, one way
or another.' Andy looked confused but could only nod – if anyone emerged
from the party in a moment, he was going to look a right mess, and
explaining would be impossible.

They made their way down the corridor, skipping the nearest men's at Paul's
wisdom, and carrying on to the end of the passage to a smaller set of
toilets by the closed members' bar for executive guests, Paul shoving the
door open and holding it for him. Andy went to the sinks to wash his face
in cold water, and an extra jolt of impatience from his wife, probably
wondering where he was, went through him. He lunged forward, resting his
weight on the porcelain, and Paul watched his back jerk and his backside
clench from behind, seeing the suit tighten around the flex of his
body. For Paul, in that moment, it was like someone was also pressing a
button on a toy in him, as he felt a twinge downstairs, a pang of
stimulated desire.

`Buddy, I'm gonna need you to get it out,' Andy muttered reluctantly, `I
dunno if I can manage it myself, I really struggled last time, and...'

`Sure, sure,' Paul agreed readily, `come on, get in this cubicle, then.'

He led the way, and Andy pushed past him, and into the narrow space,
standing over the closed toilet with his back to his mate. Dummett pulled
the door shut, locked it, and slipped off his own blazer to keep cool in
the claustrophobic space, and pulled at Andy's to try and relax the big
man; he complied, and Paul hung both blazers up onto the coat-hook behind
them, and observed the visible sweat patches in the centre of Andy's back
and beneath his tense arms: wow, that thing was really putting him into
overdrive, here!

Andy was undoing the front of his black trousers, and Paul gulped back a
burst of his own excitement, before helping – he pulled up on Andy's
thin white shirt to loosen it, then reached for the waistband of the
trousers. His thumbs brushed the warm, moist flesh of Andy's lower back and
he had to bite his lip to hold back a gasp of lust. Then he was pulling the
loosened trousers down, guiding them partway down the trunks of Andy's
legs, and looking at that strong backside framed in tight baby blue boxer
briefs, a thin sweat patch between the tensed cheeks.

`Er, you mind if I...?'

`Go for it, just sort it out!'

`Right, aye...'

Paul hooked his fingers back into the fabric of the undies and pulled them
down, letting his knuckles graze the firm, slightly sweaty butt cheeks, and
resting them beneath their curve, then looking at the thin plasticky strand
poking out between the buttocks like a teeny tiny pigtail – it looked a
bit ridiculous, and really, so was this whole scenario. But Paul was not
about to complain. He'd thought of little else since he'd been the one to
put this stupid thing in there in the first place! He used one hand to
squeeze and part a cheek, and slid one finger of the other into Andy's
crack – big Carroll let out an awkward moan, and for a second Paul
thought it was because that woman had hit the remote button again, but
no... It was just the other guy's reaction to his questing finger. Paul
really felt his dick stiffen in his own undies at that realisation.

`Thanks,' Andy murmured shamefacedly, biting down on his own wrist and
leaning into the wall to stop himself letting out any more inappropriate
moans, as Paul dug a finger through the sweaty hair of his arse crack and
hot hold of the little fibrous cord, and pulled tentatively on it. And just
as his fingers brushed Andy's twitching hole, he felt it: the
vibration. This time, she HAD pressed it, and it wasn't just stimulating
Andy's ring, but buzzing into Paul's fingers at the same time as he
pulled. Both men let out ragged gasps of surprise, and then with a tug, it
was out, and clutched in Paul's hand as it throbbed out the last of its
buzzing vibration: it felt so strong in his fist, he could only imagine how
it had felt INSIDE. It was way more intense than the thin pink stick he had
borrowed on Yedlin's bed, and tentatively pushed a little way into his own
arse.

Andy gasped his relief, leaning into the wall, his arse still on show, and
Paul stared down at the stupid curbed bullet of plastic and metal, glossy
with the other man's sweat, clutched in his hand and temporarily still and
silent. Who the fuck even invented this? He realised he was asking himself
this question in equal parts disgust and admiration.

`God my hole aches,' Andy moaned irritably, inadvertently drawing Paul's
eyes back down to those quivering cheeks he'd just had to play with, and
his dick pressed intensely in the tightness of his fitted trousers. Andy
straightened up his body, his shirt falling to half cover his buttocks, but
as he turned, it could do nothing to hide the other big sight in the
cubicle: the man was red-faced, and the colour was almost matched by the
throbbing, erect monster jutting out between his shirt tails and staring
vividly up at Paul's shocked face. `I am so sorry,' hissed the tall Geordie
striker, oblivious to his mate's excitement at what he was getting to see
in the flesh.

`No, it's okay,' Paul breathed, `it ain't your fault, she-`

The sound of the door. A hoot of masculine laughter, a couple of familiar
voices. It was their Polish goalkeeper Dubravka and the Swiss defender
Schaer, conversing in loud jovial German. Paul and Andy both stood stock
still, eyes meeting, hardly daring to breathe. Paul watched Andy's slow
recognition, spotting the tenting outline of his own manly excitement in
his suit trousers, confusion spreading on that big honest face, while
outside the cubicle, the other two burst into laughter at some shared joke
that they had no access to. The vague sounds of zips and splashing piss,
and more chat and laughter. Paul let out as quiet a breath as he could and
glanced furtively from Andy's throbbing member to his puzzled frown. How
long were these two going to fucking take? And yet, here it was, his
moment. He kinda knew he had to go for it. Would he ever have another
chance to... satisfy this curiosity? Knowing Andy was silenced by the
presence of the other two, he reached out, and brushed his fingers against
the tall standing veiny monument rising from Andy's shirt tails, and
watched the expression of confusion turn to fuller shock, and muted
pleasure...

Andy mouthed a silent `Mate?' and Paul took a firmer hold of that rod, and
gave it the most gentle of pulls. And then, in Paul's other hand, suddenly,
the firm vibration of the toy, clutched in his fingers, pulsing through his
hand and letting out its high-pitched wine of activity. The chatter at the
urinals ceased for a moment, and then:

`Hullo?'

Andy stared in panic at Paul, seeming to forget the hand on his cock for a
moment, and he called out: `Oh, hey boys... don't mind me...'

A bit of laughter, some more chatter in German or Polish, and then they
were leaving, the sound of the door, and a long sigh from both
blokes. `That fucking thing,' Andy growled out in a long frustrated sigh,
and then looked back down at Paul's hand on his meat. `Buddy... I know you
want to help, but...'

`Sorry, sorry,' Paul muttered, pulling his fingers away with a slow caress
over the shaft and head, `I just... you can't hardly leave here with that
going on, so...'

`Nor you!' Andy pointed out, shaking himself. His erection bounced. Paul
wasn't sure what to say to that: how to explain why he was rigidly hard in
his trousers now, and just as in desperate need of getting off as the
toy-stimulated striker in front of him? Luckily, with an awkward laugh,
Carroll sorta did it for him: `Sympathy boner?'

Dummet chuckled uncomfortably and tore his eyes aware from the straining
pink head of Andy's tool, and felt the toy buzzing again in his hand. They
both looked sharply at it, then their eyes met, and then they were both
laughing again, awkwardly close together in the confined cubicle. `She's
getting impatient,' Paul said cautiously.

`Fuck her,' Andy said, `I just got to get rid of THIS...'

`You sure do,' Dummett agreed, mirroring his laughing tone. `Me too, I
guess!'

`Aye... aye... but maybe not in the same cubicle though, man...?' There was
a hesitant, faintly suspicious look on Andy's frowning face now, and Paul
gulped back his giddiness, and nodded his head.

`By god though,' he said in a low murmur, `that toy might be annoying,
but... it's got you raring to go, hasn't it...?' Andy tried to laugh this
off but he looked almost as surprised as Paul and unable to
disagree. `You... like it then, now?' Paul dared ask, his hands lingering
behind him at the cubicle lock he should be undoing.

Andy went to speak but stopped himself, he genuinely looked like he didn't
know what to say. He was looked increasingly embarrassed by their
closeness, and by the relentless hard-on swinging in front of him, and Paul
could think about was how strong and huge it had felt in his hand, the
veiny shaft against his fingers...

`But thanks for getting it out,' Andy sighed. `I think I might have fucking
passed out or summat. Right, get out, leave me to it before we're disturbed
again...' He paused, and his eyes darted downwards and back up again. `But
er, use the next cubicle if you, er, need to... join me?'

Somehow, that was exciting enough. Dummett clumsily unlocked the cubicle,
leaving sharply so he could shut the door behind him and not risk exposing
Andy's indecency, and sidled swiftly into the neighbouring cubicle with a
click of the doors. As he fumbled with his belt and flies, he could hear a
frustrated sigh through the thin division, and knew Carroll must be getting
started. He was short of breath as he struggled getting his own hard-on
out, almost grazing it on his flies in his rush. By the time he was holding
his meat, he was pretty sure Andy was really going for it: he could hear
his low, rhythmic grunts, as animalistic as he might have expected... or
hoped.

`How's it feel?' he asked, unable to stop himself.

`Huh? Oh... fuckin' good, mate... Yours...?'

`Aye, aye... grand...'

`Seriously,' Andy's quiet voice confessed, `that thing did get
me... really... fuckin'... randy...'

`Maybe you like her being in control,' Paul moaned in response. He spat in
his palm for some lube and really tugged on himself, with the same fury he
had lying on Yedlin's bed, watching the mixed-race American pleasure
himself. Just being so near, and half-hearing Andy, were aphrodisiac enough
tonight.

`Yeah,' he heard Andy groan, `must be that... Definitely not having a lump
of fuckin' plastic up my backside, man, haha... ohhhh...'

`Mmm,' Paul responded, allowing his sounds of pleasure to escape, wanting
Carroll to here. `Mmm, mate...'

`You... you getting' close?'

`Aye...'

`Cool... same, mate...' A groaning pause. `Is this weird, buddy?'

Paul threw his head back, trying to suppress another moan, and tugged back
on his thick cock, thinking of Andy's length, and his bared muscular
behind, to get him towards climax. `Nah,' he panted, `it's not weird for
me... Is it weird for you...?'

Andy took too long to answer (a definite yes), but when his answer came, it
was all Paul needed to hear. `It might be weird with a different friend,'
he heard Andy's quite, breathy voice say uncertainly, `but... with you... I
think it's okay...'

Why was that loyalty and affection so fucking ball-busting?! Paul groaned
into his orgasm and spunked over his curled fingers and the floor below,
narrowly missing the smart black of his suit trousers. And as he watched
these globs of his seed spill, he heard a growling sound that was Andy's
best effort to quieten his cumming. Paul leant to the cubicle wall to
listen more closely, giving his dick a last slow stroke.

`All good, man?' he asked softly.

`Great,' Andy's sighing response came. `Fuckin' great...'

Minutes later, they were washing their hands side by side at the sinks,
their eyes sporadically meeting in their handsome reflections. Paul slid
the arse-toy from his pocket, held it under the hot tap, and gave his mate
a sly look. Then he pressed it to the marble surface between their sinks,
slammed his fist on it once, and pushed it towards Andy. `Say it stopped
working, your cheeks clenched too tight on it, or summat,' he said, still
panting a little.

Andy took the dented thing, holding it nervously in case it was still going
to do its magic, then shoved it into the inside pocket of his blazer,
letting out a laddish chuckle. `Fuckin' hell. What would I do without you,
Dummo?' He reached out and grabbed Paul to him in a hug. Paul breathed in
his manly, musty scent, sweat interlaced with expensive aftershave, and
reluctantly pulled away.

`God knows,' he said, with a bashful smile. `God knows.'

And they headed back out, taking a slow stroll down the hallway and into
the function suite, ready to end the weirdly sober party. They drifted
apart tactically, Andy approaching his sour-faced partner ready to fend off
her criticism, and Paul wondering just how early he could leave. Now he'd
blown his load, he was exhausted.