Date: Fri, 30 Oct 2020 23:19:47 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 199: The Champions League, a montage Part 199: The Champions League, a montage At Anfield, one of several English clubs had just made another successful stab at this year's UEFA Champions League -- Liverpool had just cruised into a 2-0 victory over the Danish visitors in their crowdless stadium, and the players were moving off the pitch in the light-hearted stroll of a reassuringly easy win. After the respectful business of applauding and acknowledging the visiting losers was done with, they could echo into the tunnel mouth with loud upbeat banter -- their Premiership season had not exactly shone thus far and every red-clad football lad marching indoors was relieved by the storming success of the Tuesday night. None more so than their captain, tall sturdy Jordan Henderson stomping his aching feet along at the back of the huddle of men, grinning softly at the camaraderie and happiness that filled the long square tunnel ahead. The 30-year-old Mackem let out long weary sighs and pulled lightly at the clammy chest of his Liverpool shirt, then glanced briefly over one shoulder -- past the last few Liverpool men trudging indoors and to the slow snake of their coaches and attendants following them in, but in the midst of that, a couple of the unused substitutes who had been resting on the side-lines. With trembling inevitability, Jordan's warm brown eyes fell on a particular tall tracksuited figure in that troop of cloth masked figures -- their eyes met across the busy corridor with a flash of meaning, and Henderson marched on. `Don't mind me a minute,' he muttered at a couple of the other guys at the entrance to the Home changing rooms, punching one fella in the arm and grabbing at the shoulder of another, congratulating both Jota and Salah on their important goals, then moving onwards. He didn't risk the important second glance over his shoulder, the discreet confirmation or reassurance he needed; he just walked on a bit further and rounded a corner where the tunnel broke out into several sets of stairs that disappeared into the echoey innards of the stadium. Like clockwork, the soft rubbery footsteps of trainers approached from behind and then the young lad was turning the corner after him, kitted from head to toe in the slightly garish patterns of the Liverpool warm-up tracksuit. Jordan snatched him by his broad young shoulders and pushed the other 6ft man riskily into the wall in an instant, rounding him against him and pulling their faces dangerously close in this empty spot, all the noises of the squad drifting about the corner. `Captain,' the Welsh teen sighed quietly, a mix of warning, interest and longing in his fractured voice. Henderson breathed deeply of the fresh aftershave scent of the handsome younger man, holding him tightly against the wall with his own more battle-weary and sweat-scented body pressing in against him, their mouths close but not touching. `You don't have to call me that,' he said in a thin voice, equally aroused and embarrassed by the loyalty and respect that filled Neco's anxious voice. He savoured the dangerous prospect of a kiss, delaying the inevitable, holding his mouth away from him whilst pressing his tall lean body tightly at the white tiles of the wall. `You can just call me Jordan, y'know...' `I know,' Williams said in a quietly gruff Wrexham accent, `but it doesn't get you as hard as when I call you skipper, sir...' And just like that, one of his hands was down there, ruffling in the front of Henderson's shorts, finding the outline of his sweaty bulge that had bounced and fidgeted throughout his masterful midfield performance. The Merseyside captain bit back his breath and held his face closer, their noses and brows touching a little but their lips tantalisingly apart. `Don't, not here,' he murmured, though he was the idiot who had initiated this with a glance and led them down here around the corner, excitingly hidden yet close to the buzz of their winning team. `Not tonight,' he added wearily, his voice full of wistful desire for a different night of celebrations than lay ahead. `I need to be home. To... her. To the kids.' `I know, it's okay,' Neco mumbled at him -- did something in his voice or his shifty dark eyes suggest that he didn't quite understand or it wasn't quite okay, or was that just the captain's own insecurity and fear transferring...? He sighed almost painfully and pulled back with his hips, taking the loose front of his shorts away from the gently exploring hand. He released his grips on the younger lad's shoulder and straightened up away from him. `Soon, though,' he promised, and he felt like he was swearing the oath to himself as much as to the handsome young defender now staring pleadingly into his eyes and stroking his hairy forearm. `Soon.' Vague nearby footsteps so he spoke again and raised his voice. `Soon you'll get to play in a proper Champions League game and prove yourself! Just you wait, Neco, just you wait...' He backed off as the grounds staff passed by and then the other spilling echoes of voices and laiughter rang around them, reminders of the dangerously public spot they occupied. He looked seriously at the other footballer and then walked away from him, willing down the rising fire in his loins. Another man with fire in his loins had been looking admiringly at his target for over an hour, uninterested in the jovial mood of the long hotel bar in Marseilles. It was all Pep Guardiola could do to keep his hands away from the crotch of his suit trousers, his burning eyes following young Filipe around the room on and off until... until now, when he could finally make his excuses and dart away from a conversation with the wealthy hotel investor who was throwing this little celebration soiree for the Manchester City squad here on the French riviera. Guardiola should be basking in the glow of his side's 3-0 win over the hosts, but the night's football had already disappeared from his mind and all he could picture was his suite upstairs where he could disappear into privacy and ravage the boy who had fought so hard for him on the pitch. Foden had just left the bar, bleary-eyed and grinning and finishing the flute of champagne that had been forced on him; Guardiola pursued him with a discreet exit from the bar, muttering his excuses disinterestedly to a couple of coaches and older players who tried to grab his attention. He skittered out into the quiet corridor beyond and saw the 20-year-old lingering in front of the elevator doors, pulling at the collar of his shirt. The Stockport scally looked deeply uncomfortable in smart clothing tonight, but his thin anxious face lit up as he saw Pep walking his way, striding down the corridor. `I thought we would never escape,' the Spanish football manager purred, glancing cautiously about before he lay a strong hand on the short wiry player's lower back. He leaned in and said in a syrupy voice: `I want to rip this shirt off your body and fuck you senseless, my boy.' Phil didn't really say anything to that, shuddering somewhat and turning his wide-eyed face this way, looking totally overwhelmed by the simple and demanding sentiment. He reached out and jabbed impatiently again at the button to summon the lift, while Pep rolled and massaged his hand against the tight thin muscles of his back through thin silky fabric. He stared lustily at the youngster beside him, knowing that even this physical gesture could be seen as risky by prudish English eyes; to Pep it was innocently tactile, nothing compared to what he WANTED to do to the lithe midfielder once they were in his suite. `Some of the guys were talking,' Filipe mumbled at him once they were both in the lift, firing upwards through the expensive coastal hotel. Pep paused in chewing his lip, looking at their contrasting reflections in the cloud distorted metal of the lift doors. He had been enjoying the difference in their heights and builds, imagining the positions their powerful bodies would soon take. His sexual reverie was broken by the sheepish mumbling voice of the young Manc lad. `Sorry?' An awkward, regretful laugh from Foden. `Some people are saying you had a meeting with people from Barca,' the young father said quietly, `and I told them it was just bollocks, but...' Pep's immediate reaction was irritation, as he'd been deflecting media questions about this for forty-eight hours and getting nervous looks from many of his managerial team all through this short international visit to the south of France. But as the lift doors opened and they walked out into the floor of his room, removed from the main team quarters down below, he saw just how worried and needy his youthful lover looked. Without even waiting for the safety of his room, he grasped him by the bicep and pulled him close. `How often do I have to tell you?' he asked in a sexy growl. `I am going nowhere. And if I did, I would only do it if you could go in my luggage.' He chuckled at his own stupid joke, thumbing at Phil's thin strong arm, then leaning down and kissing him on the brow, right in the middle of the risqué corridor where anybody could emerge from any door. He got the better of his lust and let go, but prodded Foden onwards with a rough little push, urging him along and to the correct door. `I'm sorry,' grimaced Foden, following him into the room, tugging uncomfortably at his shirt cuffs, `obviously I knew they were talking rubbish, Papi, it's just... I always think about... I mean, HIM, and...' Phil followed him miserably, pulling at his shirt and his smart trousers, twitching his neck and shoulders. Guardiola shrugged off his blazer in one move then rolled up his sleeves and threw both arms about the 20-year-old, embracing him. `I have everything I want here,' he insisted quietly, and pressed the hidden hardness of his crotch in against him, towering slightly over him as he hugged his shoulders and let Phil feel just how horny and desperate he was tonight in Marseilles. But as he clutched him and nuzzled his short dark hair from above, he looked over at the mirror and their reflected image, seeing the gap in their ages and the problems that the rest of the world might see. He also saw the problem that had been swaying back and forth in his mind since the summer, since Portugal. How long could he sustain this... distraction? Yes, tonight's game had been a masterclass from his Manchester side, but... he knew how lost his mind could get in planning and preparing and fantasising for these increasingly rare opportunities to be alone with his Golden Boy. His intense feelings for Filipe were getting in the way of his clarity and his `main' obsession: winning. He hugged Phil to him and stared into his own moody face in the mirror, forgetting for a moment how much he wanted to throw the skinny midfielder on the bed and pleasure them both; he thought about the inevitability that he would need to distance himself from this fiery passion in order to refocus his tactics and keep himself on top. He knew the pressure that hovered above him at City. If he put a foot wrong, he would lose this job, never mind take a new one at his old kingdom. He needed to be focused on making City win the League this year, if not several other trophies too; could he really do that with his cock making all of his decisions? Phil was stroking it right now, touching it through his tight suit trousers and rubbing his lips on his hairy chest through the undone top buttons of the shirt. His touch was needy and distracting, sensual and prickling. It made Pep want to fuck him, but it also made him frightened. His team's victory, and this boy's sexual brilliance -- could he have them both? And would Phil ever stop obsessing over... him? In another hotel room, the `him' was lounged back in a reclining armchair with his sweatpants around his ankles and trainers and his tshirt lying on the expensive rug halfway across the suite. Lionel Messi lounged back in the chair, sturdy arms resting on the broad arms of the seat; one held cradled a cut-glass tumbler of some expensive liquor and the other kneaded against the patterned fabric, knuckles closing and opening with slow sensual appreciation of what was going on down his front. The short tightly-muscled footballing legend sighed with slow, half-attentive appreciation of the blowjob, not even looking down his sculpted midriff at the bouncing rolling head of the unimportant lover who was servicing him tonight. He looked over them at the windows and view of the Italian city the team were visiting for tonight's victory over Juventus. Messi was a small guy in physical stature but impressively bodied and so generously endowed, though it was his huge reputation and status that made him such a towering figure for his teammates, a room-filling presence in the footballing world -- especially for cock-hungry sluts like the one currently crouched between his bare thighs, drooling all over the long fat shape of his hard-on. It meant nothing to Leo, he was almost bored by it. He looked at him, the narrow blond face of the tart desperately trying to make him cum. His penalty at the end of tonight's Champions League game had marked his 70th goal in the competition. Like the blowjob, the record-breaking barely fazed or excited the 33-year-old Argentinian, though his love for the pleasure and adventure of the game itself had never dwindled. The occasion of this 70th goal had been an excuse for this secretive slut to move on him in the hotel tonight, desperate a repeat of a scene that had played out between them five or six times now, whenever Frankie de Jong was drunk enough to let himself go and follow Messi to his room. The boyish blond Dutchman was going mad down there, gurgling and panting and running his eager hands up and down the thick inner thigh muscles. But it didn't matter if it was de Jong doing the sucking there or some cheap female tart from reception, or even his own wife. It bored the football legend. For many years after his Papi left Barca, he totally rejected his newfound enjoyment of the male body; he'd drowned himself in fidelity and completed thrown himself into his newly official marriage. But slowly, over the years, he'd found it hard to resist the little opportunities. There were always a handful of men around who saw him not just as the `GOAT' of his sport, but a deeply sexual little beast; it didn't seem to matter how baggy the shorts he chose were, people would always spot and comment on his huge bulge. De Jong groaned performatively between his legs, getting faster and greedier; it irritated as much as stimulated Messi, who just adjusted is meaty little arse on the seat and took a sip from his glass of alcohol, resting his head and shoulders further back on the seat rather than look down his bare chest at the sweaty flop of Frankie's hair. He was close to cumming, he supposed, would soon jet his white juices over the twink's face and give him what he wanted -- before he went blubbering to his own room and pretending it had never happened for a month or two. Until next time. Lionel closed his eyes and growled, wishing it was someone else down there sucking on his meat, the only man whose touch and intimacy had ever really mattered. He'd thought that sampling it again in the summer after the shit-show of their teams' matches in Portugal would be okay. He'd thought he was strong and wise enough now in his 30s to dip his toe in the pool of Guardiola's lust. He'd been wrong. Thoughts of his Papi had filled the summer break and made him an agitated animal this autumn; his desperation to leave Barcelona had been about many many factors, but the prospect of a rash move to City and to Pep had burnt strongly in his chest, crushing him when the financial web kept him trapped in a dwindling club. He thought angrily of the resigned president and the regime change he had slowly engineered here to get his way. THAT made him feel more excited and empowered than the sloppy blowjob going on in front of him; the idea that he, just one footballer, could oust the corrupt and stupid management of a Spanish football club, well... he was not just the shrunken little boy from Argentina any more, was he? He wasn't even the passive nervous bitch who had sucked off his young manager in the Barcelona bootroom, was he? He was a different man now, a different creature. He groaned in self-satisfaction, almost ready to unload on de Jong's face. He'd come so far and achieved so much, become a legend before he was even retired. So why was he sitting here STILL fantasising about Guardiola...? Why was he STILL wondering if their secret relationship could have gone further...? Why has he STILL bitterly thinking about HIM, the missing enemy from the Juventus team who he should have faced off against tonight on the pitch, the man who had destroyed his bond with Pep...? Isolated from both his team and his family by an ongoing COVID-19 diagnosis, the OTHER greatest footballer in the world sat in a different chair, his shorts and briefs also about his bare ankles, his ripped upper body exposed so that he could look vainly down it as he pleasured himself in the empty silence of his spare villa. Cristiano Ronaldo glanced between the majestic sight of his long veined prick, pumping up and down in one tanned fist, and the huge wall-mounted screen which displayed the `highlights' of Juventus losing to Barce-fucking-lona. The Portuguese legend snarled at the screen as he wanked himself, furious that the virus had barred him from joining the men and leading his Italian team to an important win over the Spanish enemy, over one man in particular. If Juventus had beaten Barca, Cristiano knew he would have found a way into that hotel, a way of accessing Little Leo and once again showing him who was boss, who was really the greatest in the game. But no. Fucking virus. He was stuck here on his own, sitting in his designer leather armchair, jerking himself so hard that the veins on his arm stood out, eyes glued to the screen as his mind analysed his teammates' collective failure and caught sight of majestic little Lionel bursting around the pitch. Ronaldo just grunted angrily at the situation, irritated that he'd caught the stupid virus (from that juicy little slut of a lad he'd fucked in Verona on Sunday, a bell-boy in the team hotel who he'd paid several thousand Euros to shut up after) and had to isolate from his rightful place scoring goal after goal in the Champions League. He came angrily, spurting hot white cum down the deep brown tan of his muscular thighs. The hot shower water coursed between the hard tan muscles of his naked body and dripped from the ringlets of his black hair; the match-winning Liverpool striker pushed his face upright against the blast then shook his wet tangled hair as he backed away a moment, letting the steamy shower strip dirt and sweat from his intensely ripped body. It had been a fantastic game for Mohamed Salah, entering the action as a substitute but smoothly proving his indispensable talents once again -- he was as delighted as any of his teammates here at Anfield, but a certain matter was playing on the Egyptian superstar's mind as he slapped wet hands against his firm waxed pecs and pushed soap suds down his abs to play idly with the floppy circumcised length of his virile manhood. Next to him in these Anfield showers was another sturdy centrepiece of the League-winning side, one of the oldest and most experienced of Liverpool's many talents here; Salah looked across at the him while gently adjusting the excessive heat of his shower, seeing the well-matched physique of his older teammate and wondering if he could break some etiquette to speak briefly to him here and now. `He'll be okay, won't he?' the Egyptian asked in a voice quiet enough to sound discreet but loud enough not to be immediately drowned by clanking pipes and hissing hot water, or the low rumble of voices behind them and through in the changing rooms where men were drying off or pulling on fresh clothing for their journeys home. Next to him, James Milner shot him a bemused look, scrubbing at his hairy armpits with a distinct bulge of his big biceps and shoulder muscles, then reaching over for the soap nozzle between them and pumping more of the sweet-scented shower gel into his big capable palm. `Who?' he asked, but something in Milner's knowing expression belied the question. He had been the only one Salah risked confiding in, after all, even if he hadn't actually revealed the nature of the problem. `You know who,' the striker murmured, his voice almost lost in the shower noise this time. `Was it right, to suggest he move? Was I right?' He glared intensely over at the 34-year-old Yorkshireman next to him, unable to hide his undercurrent of guilt and concern as he thought about what he'd done to clear his conscience and remove conflict from his footballing life. He saw the little hint of smile rather than smirk on James' face and knew his doubts were understood. `He'll thrive there, will he not? It will be... good for him.' Milner nodded his square-jawed head, splashing his short brown hair beneath the showerhead and slapping soapy hands over the bulging muscles of his very broad chest. `It definitely will,' he answered loudly and gruffly. `Classic move for a troubled teen, a loan spell like that. He'll come back a... new man.' A soft chuckle from the seasoned Liverpool player. `A new something, anyway.' Salah nodded uncertainly, rubbing water from his eyes and looking away from the burly muscular figure of the other footballer, turning off the creaking tap of his own shower and readying to leave Milner here preening over his muscles and grinning contentedly to himself. He was not convinced, even with the great faith he placed in this solid family man who'd become the `dad' of the squad years ago -- he couldn't help but feel that asking the management to transfer Harvey Elliott away from Anfield had been a dangerously selfish move for someone as devout and honourable as Mohamed. But he'd had to do something -- the teenager's sly looks and breathy little sniggers, his lurking behaviour after training sessions or occasionally suggestive social media messages...! It had felt too terrifying for the Muslim footballer to bear. He'd needed to just REMOVE the problem. So when he confided in James Milner that he feared for Harvey's reputation if his ego remained unchecked, he'd been pleased when the senior man readily agreed. Salah hadn't given any hint of just how complicated his own interactions with Harvey had become, but Milner had seized on the idea and admitted that he'd observed odd behaviour and a dangerously subversive attitude. Milner had spoken to Klopp and within days it had happened: the young southerner was loaned out to Burnley just before the deadline, sent away from Merseyside to cut his teeth in another league. `He'll be good,' Milner said firmly, slapping him on the shoulder. `He's a bright lad and he's at an interesting new club. He'll come back to Liverpool a bit... wiser. A bit more... careful.' There was a flicker of something other than calm certainty in the craggy face of the Leeds-born full-back, almost as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Mo. `Trust me, mate -- we did the right thing.' `Trust me, mate,' he whispered, tickling his fingers discreetly at the other lad's back, confident that they were screened away from the others enough at this side of the common room; nobody would notice that he didn't just have his long arm draped about Brandon Williams' back in a mate way, but was gently tickling his spine through his thin black top, trying to amuse or distract him. They and several more of the Manchester United squad were in one of the social spaces of the team training ground, seizing it as a little party venue following an incredible 5-0 triumph over RB Leipzig in the Champions League. Really, the rule-breaking shindig in here, safe from any risky public eye -- big bossy captain Maguire had outright banned mobile phones on arrival, `No fuckin' Snapchat, you idiots' -- was mainly in honour of the match's late star and the country's new activist hero: Marcus Rashford. Fighting the government to end child poverty by day, bashing in heroic hat-tricks by night, launching new underwear campaigns for Nike at lunchtime. It was Rashford's party, but the humble MBE was very happy for it to be shared, and looked typically uncertain about the transgression of this secret player party in his honour. Little Brandon didn't look interested in partying at all, and the left-back was just scowling into the bottle of Moretti in his hands, not really responding to Mason Greenwood's tickling fingers up and down his back. Riled by this failure, Greenwood tickled lower, edging his fingers towards the hem where this black top pulled up and exposed a band of pale pink skin above the Hugo Bass waistband of his underpants. He brushed his own pink-brown fingertips onto the bared skin and then nudged them beneath the elasticated branding until one single digit could creep into his clammy crack... finally, Brandon twitched and stiffened his posture and made a stifled giggle, elbowing him in the ribs to resist the naughty exploration. `Mate,' the young Manc lad grunted distractedly, `leave it...' Mason, with great reluctance, removed the finger, but held his hand there at the gap between garments so he could really feel the body heat of his slender sexy lover on his palm. `Just trynna make you smile,' he whispered with a sidelong glance. `Trust me, mate -- it'll all blow over. Fuckin' bullshit, aint' it. You'll be grand.' Brandon turned his moody face this way and frowned anxiously at him beneath the floppy blond curtains of his hair, then looked away again at the more relaxed teammates who were playing pool and cards and cracking open more beers. `Easy to say that when it ain't you,' the 20-year-old barked, but under his breath, shifting and wriggling on the windowsill their arses occupied. Mason sighed and nodded, knowing the truth in that. He would be freaking out and struggling in Williams' shoes, facing the stupid false accusations that his teammate and boyfriend was now trying to legally battle. He could see the strain of the stupid scandal on the feisty petite defender's shoulders and eyes. All Mason wanted was to sweep him out of this party and fuck the worry out of him in either his flat or Brandon's home, but the social distancing rules made that tough. Well, that was most of what he wanted. He stroked insistently at Brandon's back and remained loyally beside him while his eyes wandered the more light-hearted fun around the room, the other guys who were already getting drunk and loud and excitable. A bit of him wanted to just bounce off with these other lads and relax, he was 19 now but still very youthful and energetic at heart, a big kid in a man's world. And he also had... wandering eyes. He started guiltily at the repeated awareness of it, looking across the room at where chunky Luke Shaw stood leaning on his pool cue, his big rear contained by tight pale jeans and his rugged new look of cropped hair hotter than ever -- or the big captain nearby, leaning on the far wall but blatantly (to Mason) rarely taking his eyes off Shaw. He ogled the newbie, Donny van de Beek, thinking how attractive the new Dutchman was as he jostled with a couple of well-established blokes by the crates of beer bottles on the other table; he looked at the heroic man of the night himself, Marcus, and thought about those Nike underwear ads which everyone had passed around on WhatsApp and sniggered over in the locker-room before the match. `Fuckin' poser,' he'd had to laugh like everyone else, impressed by the arty shots of Marcus in sporty undies on a city balcony, tattoos bared. He looked back at Brandon, hunched sadly next to him, and tried to remember how deeply he just desired this one sexy scally; he felt no differently about Williams, not at all, but he was still smarting from the temptation and scandal of his not-quite-encounter with Philip Foden in Iceland, the `punishment' that had awaited him in Manchester on his return. Brandon's possessiveness had alarmed him then, the closed nature of their special romance. Mason wanted Brandon, but he also wanted to play the field and make the most of his hyperactive sexuality. He whistled frustratedly through his teeth and patted the lad on the back, knowing that he needed out of this room to stop himself coveting those other attractive masculine blokes. `Oi,' he hissed, `I need a piss.' `Wha'?' `Loos,' he grunted. `Come on.' `Go on your own,' Brandon mumbled disinterestedly. Greenwood tutted, sniggered, pulled him closely with an arm around his back, and brought his soft lips close to his ear to whisper everything he wanted. `Come with me now you sexy little bastard, I want your cheeks bouncing on my nob in the toilets downstairs, NOW. Yeh?' He caressed his lips so close to the earlobe it was almost a kiss, then ruffled his blond hair cheekily and slid off the windowsill, deliberately gyrating his own pert arse as he stalked away, confident Williams would follow and bend over for him. In a different toilet cubicle of a very different building, another pair of footballers muscled in. Krasnador, Russia, and two Premiership footballers bustling into the almost soundproofed little WC room on a quiet floor of an otherwise bustling international hotel. Timo Werner pushed his night's paramour ahead of him and pushed the door heavily shut behind him, immediately digging a fist into the front of his loose sweatpants and fondling his dick. The chubby German tool had been semi-hard most of the evening, but admittedly not for the coupling it was now to be used in. Christian Pulisic was clammy-faced with excitement, slipping his bottom onto the closed toilet seat so that he was neatly crouched at the right height, his trusting eyes rolling upwards to meet Timo's as the stern German advanced on him and pushed down his pants to expose his privates to the goofy Pennsylvania lad. With speed and greed, Pulisic was opening his lips and going down on Werner, mouthing furtively at the warm stiffening flesh and snorting through his nostrils as he did. He was better at it by far than the first time Timo had fucked his mouth, that was true, the lovesick little pup of an American...! He wasn't the one Timo wanted to be dragging in here at the tail end of the Chelsea celebrations tonight though, following their 4-0 win over the locals, both of these horny lads contributing to the score themselves. No, it wasn't the ruggedly attractive youngster who the slick German had been fixating on in particular tonight and, frankly, most days of this footballing season. He'd certainly tried, responding to what often seemed flirtations from the defender, playing allowing with the English man's stupid humour and physical japes, but whenever he played back, Chilwell seemed to lose interest and fall into a sulk again. Nobody that Werner spoke to on the team quite understood it, really -- the popular theory was that a secret girlfriend had thrown over the very handsome 23-year-old from Milton Keynes, but Timo wondered if it was even more serious. Ben would go from a showy joker in a group training session to distant and melancholy once he was on his own, Timo's sharp eyes observed it. He didn't exactly want to know the English lad's heart and soul, but he was intrigued by his hidden depths, and whatever moody preoccupation was making the studly left-back unavailable to him...! It was frustrating for a guy of Timo Werner's tastes. He considered himself firmly heterosexual, would always choose a dripping cunt over the hottest of male bodies. But he enjoyed the aesthetics and the power of other men so much, had dabbled with man-on-man pleasure since very early on in his footballing career. He certainly had a `type' -- handsome but very traditionally masculine figures of strength. He had been drawn to Barkley before he even arrived at Chelsea, and most disappointed when the big stud was sent off to Villa; now he had fixed his interests on Chilwell instead, but after one playful encounter, he found him cold and uninterested. What was it that was eating up the 23-year-old Englishman so much...? It infuriated Timo that he couldn't break through those defences and more decisively charm his teammate. Instead... Christian was cute, but too submissive and desperate, not at all Timo's type. Still. A blowjob was a blowjob, and there was little chance he would get inside a woman here in the Russian hotel tonight. So he stood there with his hands pressed out to either wall of the narrow toilet space, thrusting his hips and pushing his German hard-on into the receptive mouth of the midfielder, letting Pulisic exhaust himself excitedly over his dick. He felt a little twinge of guilt, knowing how strong a crush the 22-year-old had formed for him over the past couple of months, something Werner had initially encouraged but now wanted over and done with. He laid one hand on top of Pulisic's head, roughly tugging at the little dark curls of his hair, and fucked his mouth relentlessly, putting aside his dissatisfactions and focusing on the pure physical enjoyment of the moment, glad that at least this puppy-dog geek was mad for him, mmm, and he was really QUITE talented down there now... So too was Tommy Doyle, sat on the edge of the bed with his head bowed down into the crotch of the older man in front of him. Kevin de Bruyne had to close his eyes and tilt his head to fully relax, hands pulled over the back of his head while he gasped out into the air and slowly mounted towards the peak of his night's pleasure. Every now and then he opened one eye and squinted at the clock on the wall, conscious of the risk of this encounter and the need for him to be out of here ASAP. Luckily, Tommy was good, really good -- so much more assured than that first time that he'd grabbed at Kevin's prick in the supply cupboard of the City gym, or that first hidden blowjob under the covers in Portugal. The teenaged lad seemed to really know what he was doing now, part trained by the ginger Belgian's grunts and awkward murmured encouragements in Flemish he couldn't understand. All of which meant that KDB, his whole thick body exhausted from the night's match against Marseilles, was soon emptying his heavy fluffy balls once more, piling his creamy spunk in against the lips and tongue of the closeted youth. Still neglected by his wife and with no real release other than Doyle's soft lips, De Bruyne stood there and let the last streaks of cum be licked from the red head and foreskin of his dick, sighing repeatedly and resisting the urge to murmur too much gratitude or affection at the boy. He didn't want to give Tommy any artificial ideas about what this was, didn't want to lead him on or hurt him. (He knew it was too late for that, knew that real kindness would have made him refuse even the first blowjob, but here he was, being sucked off for the... eighth time, ninth time...?) It was over again. Silent, Kevin retreated from the bed, cock flopping on his thigh, and he slowly paced the room as he dressed, dragging his black boxer shorts up his legs and retrieving his tshirt and hoody and baggy basketball shorts from the spots where they had been thrown by Tommy's eager hands. On the bed, Tommy remained very still, and Kevin watched him out of the corner of his eye, sensed the quiet longing of the teenager who had done his job and perhaps now wished the `favour' could be reciprocated. KDB quailed at the prospect, adjusting his shorts repeatedly and turning his back on him before speaking. `Where does the boy go?' he demanded in a faraway voice, sounding casual, totally removed from the sweaty blowjob that had just taken place between them. `Fuck knows,' Doyle grunted distractedly. `Phone calls to his girlfriend, his little boy. Likes his privacy, I guess. He'll be back in here soon. So, erm. You're right to... hurry.' The little flicker of resentment or wishful thinking in that voice made Kevin look guilty over his shoulder at the profile of the handsome freckled young sportsman, crouched on the edge of his hotel bed and staring at his toes. The Belgian hunk and famed player sighed with a regretful disappointment in himself and the situation he'd allowed to develop. He walked back to the edge of the bed and ruffled the lad's strawberry blond hair, giving him a half-smile and standing over him. A drop of his cum was still there on the fluffy chin so he wiped it away with his thumb and then cleaned his hand on the leg of his shorts. `Thank you,' he said, aiming for a detached formality that he was sure was for the best. `I should go.' `Yep,' said Tommy with a readiness that sounded almost sarcastic, `yep you should, Kev.' De Bruyne lingered guiltily over him, almost saying many things, but saying nothing. `Go,' Doyle insisted. `Before Phil returns form wherever the fuck he is. You know I don't want you to... get in trouble. Or anything. I wouldn't... do it, if I minded, so...' The blue eyes flashed away and he sank his head again, his short stocky body stooping. Kevin made a little grunting sigh and nod, squeezed his shoulder, moved away. He let the words of kindness and affection die in his throat and left the room quietly, abandoning the 19-year-old to his quiet lonely hotel suite. Most of the Man Utd players had already quit the illegal party now, there weren't many of them left here, now that the handful of excited and giggling girls had arrived to join them -- all friends of friends of somebody or other, chosen for their discretion and eagerness. They were hot girls, but not doing very much for Daniel James, unsurprisingly. What was doing plenty for him though, was how quickly the remaining lads got involved with them, and the scene now unfolding before his eager young eyes. Opposite to him, sharing one of the little cheap couches, Anthony Martial was loudly snogging one of the sweethearts, and Dan's eyebrows lifted in voyeuristic excitement when he realised she was reaching into his slack chinos and playing with his cock and balls. Wow. Dan knew he should look away but he watched for a moment longer, guzzling an unnecessary beer from its bottle even though he was already pretty wasted. When he tore his eyes away from Martial and the handjob, he scoured the limited remaining gathering for `friendly' faces, wishing he could get his own keen hands on a bit of cock like that lucky bitch now playing with Martial, rewarding him for his penalty against Leipzig. But the usual suspects were gone, Dan thought again sadly. He'd noticed Williams and Greenwood slip away early, glad to see sparky young Mason looking after the troubled Manc lad in his time of need; he'd also noticed Luke and Harry leave fairly early, faking some family-friendly excuse for leaving together in the same car and ducking out of the party they'd been instrumental in stirring up; even Scott McTominay seemed to be absent, but James couldn't figure out when he'd gone. He realised that the handjob in the front of Anthony's pants was not the wildest of the events unfolding in this seedy drunken space. The Wales player twisted in his seat to look across, and saw that Donny and his girl were up on their feet, fondling each other at the side of the pool table. Dan's eyes bulged at the exposure of the Dutch lad's big white bottom, the girl's painted nails scratching over it as she pushed down his undies and jeans and he, presumably, began to mount her. But Dan's eyes went further, past this fun at the pool table, over to another of the couches, getting a wonderful side-on view of proper fucking: it was Rashford, the hero of the night, all his goody two shoes behaviour forgotten now he was pissed and in the right place at the right time. He was on top of the curviest of the visiting girls, ploughing her against the couch with his lean muscular body buckling and arcing, all glistening chocolatey skin and elaborate tattoo. Dan's dick went instantly hard in his cargo pants and he gripped the arm of his chair awkwardly. Then he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up and to the side. Oh. Big goofy-grinned Scotland hunk McTominay loomed over him, a drunken glow in his eyes. `Hey,' he said softly. `Do you feel like we're missing out a bit here, Dan mate...?' He sniggered and nodded, and lifted slowly out of the seat. `Yeah. So true.' `Maybe we should do something about that,' Scott said, barely audible. `We, er... we quite enjoyed ourselves when we room-shared that time, huh...' `Yeah,' Dan murmured back hotly, `yeah, we did. Um.' `So,' Scott mumbled. `Your place or mine, Daniel...?' The 22-year-old winger stepped closer, knowing that the other lads in the room were too busy with their female companions to pay any attention to what these two spare parts were now up to. `I can't wait that long,' he said. `Let's find a quiet corner here... please?' He gently licked his bottom lip. `And this time... maybe we go a bit further... big lad...?' Speaking of big lads... two very big lads were on their knees in a German hotel room, obediently following the loud guttural commands of their captain. `This,' he called at them in throaty Spanish, `is how you will behave if you speak out and betray a teammate again, SI...? Si?!' On their knees, the two caught-out Real Madrid stars faced their captain in awkward obeisance, knowing they needed to redeem themselves after being caught loudly bitching on camera against a weaker player during half-time. Sergio Ramos did not necessarily disagree with them about the failings of the man in question, but he needed to assert his dominance and, besides, he was as horny as fuck after a long week preparing for tonight's match. It should have been an easy win over the host team, Monchengladbach, but the Spanish giants had faced a meagre draw of 2-2, and Sergio was choosing to blame this on the cantankerous pair who had been caught out. In fact, the manager Zidane had even tasked him with disciplining the pair for their loose lips and risqué speech, but the French chief would faint if he knew how Ramos was choosing to do that. The heavily tattooed beast of a defender and captain was squatting on the side of his bed, jerking his slick wet cock that had pushed inside the virginal mouths of both of them, and he was now jerking to completion and preparing to drench these two bitches in his cum. This, for Sergio, was sexual satisfaction at its best, having these two big manly players kneeling before him, deferring to his rule as El Burro, El Capitan, the alpha of this powerful masculine squad. On his left, Ferland Mendy looked particularly aghast, much newer to this fluid play after the pool party that had seen off prudish Gareth Bale. The 5ft11 black Frenchman was butt-naked and his dark brown skin shone with nervous sweat, though his tongue and lips had felt incredibly good, so good that Sergio had briefly wondered if it was really his first time going down on another guy. The defender was rock-hard himself, playing with himself even as he fearfully waited the dirty shower of cum over his chest and face. And next to him, against Sergio's right thigh and knee, one wing of his bodily art gallery, was Karim Benzema: the other Frenchman, distinctly older than Mendy, and taller and thicker in his big shaven body, looked resigned and respectful of his captain. He was such a brute of a striker but ever since confronting him at the president's party, Sergio had sensed a submissive streak in him that he had been keen to exploit -- he had not been so readily skilled as Ferland when the Spanish captain's donkey-dick was pushed between his lips, but he had gone along with it still, understanding his sins and wanting to appease his leader. Now Ramos was cumming, blowing wads of thick white goo from his huge erection, spraying it over the bared glossy chests of the two Madrid players, and dashing specks of his seed over their agonised faces, their wide gawping mouths and pinched cheeks, staining them with his product. He got up to his feet off the bed, still pulling on his erection, gasping and sweating and looming over them, his power at the top of the Real hierarchy re-established yet again. His team had not won tonight, but HE had. Other top European teams were lost in their own debauchery in other hotels, social distancing rules thrown out of the window as hot-blooded young men basked in their teams' victories over foreign opposition. In a particular suite in X, three expensive local prostitutes had been bought in and were being enjoyed to the full, but particularly by the loudest and most assertive of the three young lads in the central of three beds. This wasn't even an official team hotel, since Borussia Dortmund had been hosting their visiting Russian opposition before thrashing them 2-0; it was just a cheap local place well-known for its links to prostitution, and the three eager athletes had moved here rapidly from the post-match drinks. Jadon Sancho had been surprised (but a little bit excited) when one of the other two suggested just sharing one room for all six of them rather than breaking off into pairs -- the idea was that they could share and swap the hot girls they'd booked, but for Sancho there was an extra seedy thrill in the crowdedness of the suite and the huffing noisiness of his comrades at work. The 20-year-old Camberwell boy had scored tonight and was high on the achievement of it, had just fucked his chosen mixed-race German girl in missionary for a good fifteen minutes of rhythmic thrusting, but now lay on his back so she could suck him off and kiss at his furry thighs while he relaxed, stretched, yowled like a happy pet. He was enjoying the blowjob but he was pissed and excited and recent memories were making him want MORE from the expensive sex worker he and his pals had sourced for their dirty pleasure tonight... For a moment, Sancho glanced over at the lad on his right and the lad on his left, then grinned down his fluffy young chest at the girl lapping his short chunky London meat. `Yeh, lick the balls,' the cocky young England player muttered eagerly at her, then added, `get lower, give my arse a lick, you sexy ho... mmm, go on...' He lifted and parted his meaty footballer's thighs a bit more, reaching down his smooth tummy to take hold of his nob while her face lowered past his bollocks a bit with comfortable acceptance of his kink... he buzzed with remembrance of the night in Denmark rooming with that Man City lout, eerily introducing him to... oh! He felt her practised tongue bat against the fuzzy hair of his crack and her claw-like fake nails spread and clutch his plump cheeks. `Jadon!' he heard one of his two accomplices exclaim immediately -- Sancho's self-consciousness about being rimmed by the paid whore was tempered by an amusing sense that it meant the Norwegian striker was looking this way in some admiration or envy for his dick or how he used it. He leaned his head drunkenly to the right on the pillow, smirking between the scruffy single beds, liking the idea of Erling Haland's puffy shocked face, his alarm or awe at what Jadon was doing. And in turn, he heard a heated little gasp of disbelief from the left, and turned his complacent smirk to the third man, to shocked young Jude Bellingham. He had rather taken the young English transfer under his wing as an obvious sidekick in the heavily European squad, and in fact even Haland had been born in Leeds. This trio was Sancho's little crew of sorts, this season. `Mate,' the West Midlander grunted in a slightly judgmental voice, looking up from cuddling and snogging his slim Eastern European girl, all slim and pale brown and horrified. Sancho loved his prudishness now, his worried eyes and twisted frowning little mouth. It made him lift and part his legs more, making a slightly exaggerated groan for his roommates, hooking his hands below his knees and relaxing into the feel of her furtive licks on his arse-crack and, somewhere in the fuzz, tiny little rosebud. `Lads,' Sancho drawled, `you can't imagine how fuckin' good this feels...' He could feel their judgment and disbelief, but also their indecision. He heard the Norwegian whizzkid's hesitation and curiosity in the lofty tone of his voice. `I have never TRIED to imagine, friend,' he barked stiffly, but Jadon just turned and winked at him, stretching out his arms at either side of him, baring the fresh cartoonish tattoos down them. `Go on,' he hollered at the prostitute lying on top of Erling, `show him what I mean, babe, get down there and...' There was dirty giggling from the hookers, and soon both Jude and Erling were on their backs, paralleling Jadon's relaxed and almost yogic position. He clung to his calves and moaned as deeply as he could be arsed, loving the soft tingling pleasure of it, this newness he'd been introduced to. But it was hard to just fully enjoy the moment, he realised, when a nagging hyperactive little corner of his young brain was inevitably shuffling towards that first experience, that England squad hotel, that weird bullying mood of Kyle Walker's, the way he'd... it made him shudder, lying against the bed, to remember that, the way he'd entrusted his backside over to the yobbish defender and just... oh, fuck, he was gonna cum soon, this girl was good, it felt amazing... and yes, he realised, looking left and then right, he could see the other two trying it, could see the terrified novelty of Bellingham and the stuffy imperious uncertainty of Haland. It added to the ambitious winger's dirty pleasure, the idea of newness and discovery between the other two young sportsmen, but still... lying there, gripping his rod, feeling the wet brushing of his cheeks and crack, he couldn't help but long for a more assertive mouth and muscular tongue, the knowledge and firmness of a Man City beast trying to... `Oh KYLE, I'm gonna blow too soon if you keep on... ohhhh FUCK, bro... mate... ahh!' John Stones leaned heavily forward into the shower wall, his 6ft2 frame of ripped muscle still dripping with cooling water and smelling of fragrant soap, each sturdy tatted leg trembling and jerking as the Northern lad tried to retain balance and control despite the melting pleasure at his rear. He pushed his face into his folded arms and blinked water from his eyes, his big Barnsley dick so hard and long that the tip glanced coolly off the shower wall from time to time as his hips rolled and jerked. At his arse, Walker was noisy and dirty, slobbering between his long muscled cheeks, prising them apart with rough grabs, finally delivering what he'd promised weeks ago over video call, having shared the filthy clip of his antics with Sancho on England duty. Now, finally, John was getting to experience what he'd witnessed and begged for, shocked even now that Kyle could lower himself to such tricks despite being so fucking manly and rugged and such a pussy-lover. Well, that last bit, maybe that made sense; of course Kyle was fucking amazing at this, how many cunts had the big bastard eaten in his dubious love life? John's shouted echoing warning was sincere. He was trying his best not to touch his huge cock but it jerked and throbbed and ached all the same, the newness of being rimmed by his defensive teammate just far too much for his body to withstand. It felt as if the slightest touch of his rod would make it blast off like a shotgun, he was so electrified with sensitivity by the broad strong tongue massaging his hole. Walker snuffled around his rear like a pig, slapping and grabbing at his thighs as well as his cheeks, sometimes pushing him forward into the wall and then sometimes dragging him backwards to his own face. `Kyle,' the big City hunk whined, unable to stand it any more, `I'm gonna...' `Then turn the fuck around you big plonker,' the stocky bloke on his knees commanded, grappling at his hips until Stones was spinning around and planting his shoulders back to the damp wall -- the filthy mouth that had pleasured his rear was instantly on the front, sinking lips tightly around the sensitive shaft and swallowing his bulging head into his mouth so that, as predicted, the 26-year-old's orgasm was near instant, and more explosive than he could have imagined, feeding his butch lover with more cum than his mouth could take... It filled his mouth, spilling warm and salt against his willing tongue: the rich musty taste of the bigger Liverpool defender's jizz, washing through his mouth and pooling in a sticky mess between his lips as he dragged his mouth away, hunched over in the front of the sports car in this silent lightless suburban lane. He swallowed as best he could but still drooled a little mix of cum and his own saliva down against the legs of the man's tracksuit, hearing a throaty little scoff noise of disapproval at his spillage, even as the man in the driver's seat grunted and moaned his selfish satisfaction. Trent Alexander-Arnold pulled away with a little pant, supporting himself against one of the other player's meaty thighs through his black tracksuit bottoms and grasping at the bar between their leather seats. He gasped for air and recovery, dizzy from the moments of lose control as he chowed down on the thick brown cock in front of him, still pulsing and oozing as it lay forward over the waistband of those trackies beneath the wire-wool black pubes. `Thanks,' came the almost begrudging growl of the other Liverpool player's voice, one of his rough hands stroking very briefly at the smooth caramel skin on the back of Trent's neck; he felt the familiar mix of shame and relish in him, both enjoying and hating the manly dismissal of the bloke next to him, pulling back and stiffening up in the passenger seat. He dragged his bunched fists into the sleeves of his Nike hoody and ran them over his mouth and chin, smearing away the sticky remains of his late-night mouthful in this Cheshire alleyway. `Thanks mate,' said the driver again, throwing his head back against the rest at the top of his seat and closing his eyes, just huffing and panting and sitting there with his thick legs spread and his long quivering dick still out across his lap, damp with his juices and with Trent's spit. He looked at Joe Gomez, the brooding 23-year-old Londoner, filling out his tshirt with the swollen muscles of his torso. There was something circular in ending up here tonight, he supposed, returning to the sweaty hairy crotch of the big centre-back -- after all, Gomez was the first prick he'd put in his mouth, terrified and hypnotised, and he'd thought about it a few times since. When they were training or playing together, it was hard not to notice the bouncing bulge in the glossy red shorts, so he was regularly entranced by his fellow defender. On the other hand, he reflected gloomily, slowly licking his upper lip and checking his frayed afro in the rear-view mirror, Joe's behaviour was just as he remembered it that day. Belligerent and greedy, forceful and one-way. Not that Trent had done anything to resist or avoid getting his face buried down there, not once he knew it was on the menu after being offered the lift `home'. No, he'd gone for it with a sluttish eagerness that made him queasy and ashamed now that the rush was over (though his own slim excitable cock was still rigid down the leg of his jogger bottoms). But here he was in the sweat of his own self-loathing, just as when he'd sucked Gomez before, or when he'd gone down on his knees in that seedy public loo...! Trent had tried to nuzzle in with Robbo after tonight's great UCL win. Andy had looked as grizzly and sexy as ever with his gingery beard and his rapid humorous manner. No luck for Trent, though, as the Scotsman seemed keen to get back to his missus and made excuses about how he'd promised to wait until Alex's rehab was more complete before he... indulged. It had felt like another little push from those two hunks, Trent thought, another awkward hint that the `thruple' phase might be over -- he'd loved joining in with the sexy Scot and the burly south coaster. He felt excluded and snubbed now, just a plaything for his close mates to put aside... but he'd never dare say that to either Andy or Alex, he didn't want to ruin their sweet romance. `Can you walk from here, you reckon?' Gomez said now, finally stuffing his private away and doing up the drawstring of his trackies, letting out a long whimsical sigh. `It can't be far to yours, can it?' `Oh,' the young scouser said uncertainly, `I guess so, yeah.' `Great. Great. Just a bit easier if I can dart off, y'know. Opposite directions, innit.' `Right. Sure. Um.' He pulled the zip of his hoody fully up over his chest now and avoided looking to his right at the taller thickset Londoner who'd driven him out here to this awkward spot for the much-needed post-match relief. Relief for one of them anyway. His cock twitched. There was a little more muttered chat between them before Trent got out into the chilly dark and pushed shut the passenger door, hanging his head a little and wishing he could have resisted Joe's allure. Not just Joe, he supposed -- why was he letting his newfound bisexuality drive him to such erratic and dangerous behaviour? Unavoidably, he thought again of the night in the park, the incident in the public lavatories. He thought of the Everton scoundrel in front of him and those alarmed blue eyes glaring at him as they shared their horrified recognition. It made him feel sicker than the cum taste lingering in his mouth as he walked off into the night, dismayed to realise he was nowhere near his apartment block. He could still not believe he'd gone down on a scumbag from the wrong Merseyside team, it seemed like a prime symptom of his mania for these new encounters -- he had to give it up, he had to get over it... otherwise before he knew it he'd be back on his knees, servicing an Everton twat and degrading himself all over again... `That would be so hot,' he whimpered, keeping his voice as quiet as he could, holding the phone very close to his cheek to make that easier and to hear the whispering on the other end of the line. `God, yes, I'd love that... mmm, would you? Would you do that? Mmm... babe, I'm gonna cum any minute if you keep saying that, hehe... mmm, FUCK, Declan, fella...' He was tucked inside the en suite bathroom of the Russian hotel room, the door shut tightly and a towel folded along the gap at the bottom of it in a vain attempt to make this hideyhole a LITTLE bit more soundproofed as he hunched by the sink and played with his rigid nob, listening to the charming quiet growls of Rice's voice from the other side of Europe. Dec had such a sexy fucking voice and attitude, even more so over the phone somehow, it was mad that they had only recently thought to try `phone sex' as a concept; Dec had been embarrassed and cynical to begin with but now, chatting across the different time zones and hungering for one another, he was really into it. `I'd push it so far in,' the other 21-year-old footballing stud purred, `I'd fuck you so DEEP... really really ride you, my lad, really make you SQUEAL and...' He was so getting into his dirty talk, and Mason Mount absolutely adored it. He couldn't believe the assertiveness and confidence his big West Ham hunk acquired over the phone, not always there in person when he was stressing out and second-guessing himself; from a distance and over the phone, Rice was wilder and more powerful and genuinely Mason wanted to record the whole fucking as a voicenote to listen to over and over. It was imperfect play, his own voice muffled and breathy as he did his best to be unheard from the main bedroom, struggling to return Rice's detailed filthy verbalising. Instead he just moaned and encouraged and praised, jerking almost competitively on himself and aiming his cock at the sink so that it would catch his juicy load when his boyfriend's voice finally -- inevitably -- took him over the edge. And it didn't take long. It was Declan describing in surprising detail how much he wanted to ravage him in his full Chelsea kit in the middle of Stamford Bridge at midnight that pushed the right buttons and had the 21-year-old ace spilling his spunk against the porcelain. He knew form the ensuing moans and loss of words that Dec was doing the same, jizzing all over himself in their shared apartment in London. For a while, both lads just panted down the line. `D'you think he heard owt?' came Dec's returning shyness down the line. `Nah,' Mase promised him, though he couldn't say for certain. `I mean... it's only Ben, at least he... well, knows, and stuff.' They went quiet for a few moments. `Still, be embarrassing if he heard some of the stuff we said, hehe. Some things... just for you and me, baby... heh!' He sniggered stupidly into his phone, stroking his dulling prick and sighing out the lingering waves of pleasure. `No, he's still in a bad way,' he answered with a sigh when Dec asked the obvious questions, `and when we chatted at the airport, he even said... well, he thinks it might actually be over for them two, so...' `That's shit,' Dec answered with quiet gloom; from the heaviness of the West Ham defender's voice, it almost sounded like he was taking the Chilwell-Grealish freeze as a bad sign for their own secret romance, which made Mount panicky and sensitive. `I'll see what I can do to help,' Mason muttered at his faraway lover, `and I'm doing my best to cheer him. He's just so worried that he's ruined it, that they've lost their... their spark, or something.' He could hear the pregnant silence on the other end of the line. `That won't happen to us, Ricecakes,' he said, lightening the sentiment with his favourite and stupidest nickname for the big muscular footballer. `We are good. We're for keeps.' `You mean that?' Luke Shaw gasped and panted, writhing on the bed with his arms pulled over his head and his wrists manacled to the headboard again, his thighs and buttocks shaking a bit with the final muscular thrusts of Maguire's big body. The United captain pulled his dick out at the last minute so that he could shoot his watery load (it was the third time they'd fucked in twenty-four hours) between his lover's legs and all over his flat tummy, spilling his juices into his belly-button and mingling it over the patchy pale hair. `Yes,' the 27-year-old giant groaned, holding Luke's legs up in the air and kissing each of his ankles before flopping back away from him onto his own back, exhausted from both the triumphant 5-0 football match and the incredibly athletic performance in this rented Manchester bedroom on the seedy side of town. It was scruffy and awful but part of a very discreet B&B they had discovered for meeting up in, sick of the increasingly long gaps between opportunities to be alone and fucking. Maguire lay on his back for a while, letting Luke's thick legs settle over his tummy and chest and holding onto them, cuddling the thighs and calves to his pecs and abs, enjoying the strange intimacy of their postures. Soon Luke would get uncomfortable and want to be freed from this latest little experiment in bondage, but for now Harry strangely enjoyed the power he still held, leaving his gorgeous lad tied to the bed as if he had the energy to do any more to his body tonight before driving home to Cheshire. When the left-back's tree-trunk legs felt too uncomfortable over the prickly heat of his torso, Maguire rolled aside and unfolded off the squeaking cheap bed of the room, sweat trickling around much of his 6ft4 body as he stretched and paraded himself and yawned into the cool air. On the bed, Luke lolled pleasantly, armpits exposed and nipples hard, his dick limp from cumming midway through the fuck. Harry grinned adoringly at the seedy sight, wanting to photograph it but knowing it would be far too dangerous an image to own on his phone. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with the vibration of an incoming message, and he turned away from this gorgeous view with great reluctance, not wanting to waste a second of their alone time on anyone else -- turning, he realised it wasn't his phone buzzing, but Luke's, the two similar devices resting parallel on the sideboard. Out of habit or instinct more than nosiness, he pushed at the screen and saw the incoming message displayed over the front of Shaw's phone, fixated on the contact name over it: `Memphis D'. The tall skipper flared his nostrils with immediate distrust and dislike, poked two long fingers at the screen. Of course, by now he knew Luke's code, probably vice versa, not from deliberately sharing but from watching each other do it and unthinkingly memorising it. He opened up the phone and loaded the message, listening to Luke's soft satisfied sighs on the bed. Harry, on the other hand, held his breath as he read it. `hey lukey boy -- been 2 long, handsome! Miss u loads. Meet soon? need to hang out like old times, boi -- u seen my new music video? Gonna send you some of my merch lol, you can be my fangirl hehe. Peace, bro xxx' Behind him, Luke's body shifted on the bed with a squeak. `Is that Fern?' he asked in a quiet and guilty voice, assuming the message was for Harry, probably unable to see much past Maguire's thick shoulders at this angle. Before answering him, Harry stared furiously at the invasive text message from the Dutch playboy and thumbed rashly at the `delete' icon, removing the message from existence and stopping Shaw from ever reading it. Then he locked Luke's phone back up, tapped his hands moodily on the sideboard, and turned back to look at the bed. `Hmm? Oh, yeah. Wondering what time I'll be in, as usual.' He rolled his eyes. `Well, we both ought to go,' the handsome left-back sighed, staring lovingly up at him with one of those long toothy grins; for all his bearded ruggedness and the shorter hairstyle, he retained the pretty boy features of his earlier years at Manchester, the unsettling handsomeness that had struck at Maguire at the end of last year when they took those first fumbling steps together into new territory. Look how far we've come, Maguire thought protectively -- no way is some wannabe rapper from the Netherlands gonna get in the way of that...! Before he came, his thrusts weakened and became almost robotic, lifeless, uninterested, losing the aggressive rigour he'd pushed for when he first seduced her or pleasured her to three loud orgasms. She was some big model here, apparently, the only other famous person staying in the Russian hotel beyond the Chelsea squad. Frank Lampard had ended up talking to her over a martini once he had sent his lads off to their rooms with a strict curfew that he had no intention of keeping to himself. Three dirty martinis later and they were all over each other, the intense football manager and the monosyllabic Russian supermodel. Lamps wasn't sure at what point during their `lovemaking' that he'd lost interest, but he knew that the martini-fuelled passion for proving his virility and masculinity had fizzled out, and he just wanted to cum and get out of her boudoir now. His grunting cries were more of frustration and dissatisfaction than of pleasure and relief as he filled up the condom and shuddered against her in doggy position, sweat cascading over his still-shapely chest and lingering stomach muscles. He rubbed an arm over his face and pulled his fringe back, pained expressions and tired body. The gorgeous Russian woman, for her part, seemed bored too, as if she'd peaked in her enjoyment about forty minutes ago. With his dick pulled out, she rolled over onto her back, gave him an almost dismissive look, and reached around her for items of clothing. Frank backed off from the bed, dick wavering and numb, rubbing again at his sweaty lined face and then staring dizzily about the room for the Chelsea-branded tracksuit he'd shed on his way in, when he felt the fire in his crotch and the need to prove his manliness to the universe. Now he was dressing in a state of vague impotence, feeling that he'd somehow failed in his task even though they'd fucked for ages and she'd screamed like a pornstar. It was his own muted pleasure that troubled him. By the time he was leaving her room, the coldly beautiful stranger was sat in a baggy nightdress talking in rapid and inscrutable Russian down the phone, and he was wandering out into the hallway without even saying goodbye. He got lost on the way between her massive suit and his own more modest room beside the rest of the team. Inside, he poured himself a vodka and then tossed it in the sink without tasting it, pacing the room in a sense of agitation, hoping he could tire himself out and crash moodily into the bed. Then he saw the messages waiting for him on his phone, abandoned at the bedside to avoid prying calls from his wife whilst he was seducing his St Petersburg beauty; the enormity hit him that this was the first woman he'd cheated with during his second marriage, though everything he'd dabbled in with Ross and Mason and Ruben (and his own fucking cousin) must count for so much worse. He was exhausted at the thought of it all and he squinted blearily at the texts waiting for him, then became suddenly alert as he read who they were from. `we need to meet. Talk proper, man to man' `soon, I dunno. When u free' `villa in LDN next weekend, m8. Could meet then' `not at urs tho, needs to pvt' `u ignoring me?' `where fuck r u fat frank????' `ok u twat, ignore me then, fine' `plz, lamps, m8, we need 2 talk proper' The Chelsea manager held the device in both hands and stared giddily at the string of moody texts from John Terry, nodding his silent agreement at everyone of them. Yes, he thought, queasy with possibility and nostalgia, yes they did need to talk, they really did. He clutched the phone to the chest of his tshirt and flopped sideways onto the bed in a stupor, wiped out but also reinvigorated by this burst of communication out of nowhere. He no longer felt the subtle guilt of having fucked another woman behind his wife's back; all he felt was guilt that he'd touched anyone other than John fucking Terry in his life at all. ***OKAY, I KNOW ALL THOSE EUROPEAN GAMES DIDN'T ACTUALLY OCCUR ON THE SAME WEEKNIGHT, BUT... REALLY JUST WANTED TO USE THE 199TH STORY TO GET AN OVERVIEW OF SOME MAJOR CHARACTERS AND DYNAMICS AND CHECK IN ON SOME FAVES FROM THE SERIES, MAYBE GIVE SOME HINTS OF WHAT MIGHT COME IF I GO PAST 200 EPISODES. LET ME KNOW IF THERE ARE ANY BITS HERE YOU THINK REALLY NEED DEVELOPING INTO FULLER STORIES! LOVE TO HEAR YOUR FEEDBACK AND REQUESTS IF YOU ARE STILL REAIDNG. CHAOTIC I KNOW BUT I THINK IN ALL THOSE FRAGMENTS THERE MUST HAVE BEEN SOMETHING FOR EVERYONE. PART 200, 'THE CLIMAX', COMING SOON***