Date: Thu, 10 Dec 2020 21:17:52 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 213: Anniversary

Part 213: Anniversary


Instinctively, he reached with his left hand and then whole arm, sweeping
it against the cool cotton of the bedding and finding no other body to
grasp at for comfort. Half-asleep, the 25-year-old footballer gave a
little snort of disappointment and snuffled his handsome bearded face
into the pillow then shifted his weight a few times, stifling a yawn
against the covers then opening his eyes to look over the room at the
offending separation of the other bed. That other bed was as empty as the
space beside him, horrifyingly, so Luke Shaw didn't even get to ogle
across the narrow gulf at his hypermasculine roommate.

The left-back slumped back against his own bed with a thin sigh of
wistfulness, disappointed that night 1 in their Leipzig hotel had
contained only a few hugs and kisses while they brushed their teeth. He
saw the fairness in Maguire's rare burst of self-discipline: `The
pressure, mate. I need to be so fresh tomorrow night, you know I do. Come
on.' Self-denial and celibacy were so alarmingly rare in the Manchester
United captain that he had struggled to keep in his mild offence and just
playfully tease the bigger bloke in the tight en suite bathroom when his
advances were denied.

He WAS right, though, both on the bigger scale of their beleaguered club,
and for them as individuals: Harry as their much-criticised expensive
defensive captain, and Luke on his post-injury comeback after another
month of rehabilitation. The Europa League away trip was fraught with
tension for the whole team, all eyes on tonight's RB Leipzig clash; it
felt like their manager's future depended on tonight's performance, if
the critical sports media were to be believed. It was important for both
defensive players to be fresh and strong today, and the night of intense
fuckery that Luke had longed for would perhaps not have been conducive to
that... he'd be waking up right now with a throbbing backside and aching
wrists. (But deeply, deeply satisfied.)

On cue, Harry returned. A creak of the dividing door into the bathroom
and an emerging growl of its extractor fan, then the massive 6ft4 body
was passing by, glistening wet over the loose towel at his waist, a
sleepy and grumpy frown all over Slabhead's face. `Hey,' Luke murmured
at him, getting only a fraught nod of acknowledgement before his usually
intense lover drifted by and moved straight past his own bed to dry and
dress. Again Luke swallowed his touchiness and enjoyed the voyeurism if
nothing else: the ripple of muscle and the flash of big pale buttocks,
dark leg hair disappearing between them. He felt the same burn of lust
for this man every time he looked at him, even after all this time. All
this time, he thought almost sullenly, remembering what today was.

The date had once been embarrassingly scribbled into a diary and, later,
etched sentimentally in his head. He knew today was the day and yet he
hardly dared to mention it: it didn't seem worth it, not really. It was
silly to bother, to fixate on it. Arbitrary and daft. Stop it, he scolded
himself, just leave it. Sleeping in separate beds and controlling their
base instincts was important for them both today, more important than
some coincidence of timing. Still, shivering slightly in a cool hotel bed
in the ageing décor of a continental suite, awaiting Europa conflict...
there was a dollop of de ja vu to it for Luke, and last night's
check-in, dinner and downtime had all filled him with reverie for a
different away trip in a different hotel.

Beginning to accept the arrival of game day and a relatively later start,
Shaw slid from the bed in loose tshirt and tight pale blue boxer briefs,
tight about his pert bottom, and moved into the bathroom himself, steamed
by Maguire's shower and scruffy with his discarded bedclothes, messily
spilled toiletries, chaotic routines. A large-breasted caricature of some
porno babe posed fingerpainted on the steamy mirror like a tawdry Venus.
Luke grinned lazily at it all and contemplated his own shower, stopping
first to check himself out in the mirror and rub loosely at his itching
beard hair.

Things had been quite strained between them lately, and not just because
of the awkward absence created by his own injury. A month out of action
had also meant almost a month out of Harry's company, since he had been
separated from training and unable to travel with the team -- between
that and heavy Tier 3 rules, the two of them had barely been able to
snatch their usual moments of intimacy and filth. That was why Luke had
been so intensely ready for last night, and so disappointed when, in this
little damp room, Harry had snubbed passion with uncharacteristic
restraint. It was no wonder Luke was struggling not to feel rejected or
unwanted, or worse -- paranoid that Harry had better plans on this German
excursion.

Better plans like he got up to with the England squad, Luke thought
sourly, inspecting a couple of minor spots on his cheek and shoulder in
the mirror, vain about his changing good looks and sturdy young body. Not
exactly the bright-eyed fluffy twink he had been a year ago, he mused,
seeing the maturity and responsibility in his changed appearance: wearied
young daddy.

Luke tried to bite back jealousy but Harry's boastful narration of his
dominant antics in Surrey had grated on him this time, coming as it did
after a series of little spats over Luke's distant friend. When he'd
first realised that Harry had been messing with his phone and blocking
contact with Memphis fucking Depay, he'd been furious; only empathy for
Maguire's aggressive insecurity and a mild thrill at the brutish
possessiveness had allowed him to forgive and negotiate. But all of these
things had put a strain on them, the difficulty in meeting combined with
Harry's hypocrisy, and a dangerous question popped over and over in his
head. With so much pressure and difficulty, so much lying to their
families, so much aggro time and again... was being with Harry really
worth it...?

The pushy little `yes!' was slow to come this morning, sulking into the
mirror and scratching at his bulge, but it did always come. And again on
cue, Maguire lumbered in behind him, resting his big hands on Luke's
warmed shoulders and grunting sleepily as he barged past, naked from head
to toe, to angle his big soft cock at the toilet and piss messily at the
seat. `Get showered,' he yawned distractedly, `I'm fuckin' starved
for breakfast...'

Luke paused, looking from his cannon cock to his gurning yawn, and
grinned with strained affection. `Yes, captain,' he chimed with a
familiar playfulness, and turned away to strip his bedclothes off and
disappear into the shower cubicle, guiltily pushing away his morning
worries and resentment.



Breakfast, and then a slow set of very light training exercises in the
late morning, using a sports facility just across the road from the small
German hotel that formed their Leipzig camp ahead of tonight's game.
Luke was almost alone in taking the morning drills very seriously,
including the coaches, because he was desperate to make an impact on his
first match back at full fitness. Not totally alone, mind: the studly
captain himself was all frowns and scowls throughout the session, not a
good word for anyone or anything, while many of the other players became
playful and silly with pre-match nerves.

Some more than others -- he found himself watching the two young lovers,
Greenwood and Williams, pretty much chasing one another around the grass.
He supposed that their behaviour would look less flirty to other guys who
didn't know what they got up to, but to Luke, it was like watching
foreplay in the sports centre. Wiry little Brandon scampered back and
forth like a hunted rabbit and tall powerful Mason darted after him in a
series of lunging rugby tackles, hoisting the scally twink off the ground
between his arms and then dropping him roughly to the side, bare leg
muscles bulging as he worked. Tittering and catcalling, the two
attractive young players sped by, and Luke's blue eyes followed them
with a trace of envy.

Life looked so simple and chilled for those two, who played together and
balanced their private antics with public girlfriends of their own. It
was an attractive and enviable sight for Shaw, panting a little from the
last set of drills and flexing his shoulder muscles in slow rolls.

`Can they just go get a room?' quipped his current training buddy with
a quiet smirk, nudging his arm with an elbow. When he looked over, Dan
James winked cheekily at him then giggled self-consciously. The cute
young Wales midfielder was growing in confidence since his recent
international duties, coyly refusing to tell Luke who had fucked that
smug grin into him afterwards. It was sweet to see, regardless.

`Pretty sure they already have one,' Luke said quietly back, `and I
think we both know why they were last down to breakfast from it, huh.'
He chuckled, annoyed to hear the wistful envy in his voice, in no mood to
share his worries even with his close pal.

`Oh, to be a fly on THAT wall,' Dan said in the same giggling voice,
something restless and playful in his tone as he did a few star-jumps and
stretches, inexplicably energetic even after the slow sessions they had
worked through to warm up for tonight. He hopped about, pulling his short
strong legs back against his plump arse one at a time and balancing
carefully as he did -- then, losing that balance, he leant heavily into
Luke's strong arm and grinned meaningfully at him, clearly enjoying the
contact. Luke just smirked back at him, happy to be a support, but
ignoring the little squeeze of his bicep.

`Leave the two lovebirds alone,' Shaw advised him with a titter.
`It's sweet to watch them. Nobody else exists for those two when
they're together.' He kept his voice in a husky whisper, not wanting
his romantic comments mistaken for homophobic banter by any of the
passing footballers at this end of the training pitch. Again though, he
had to try hard to keep the resentful envy out of his low voice, still
frustrated by his sexless night away from home.

`That's true,' sighed Dan, pulling away from him and adjusting his
shorts fussily. `But you know those lads aren't my type, anyway...'

`Oh,' Luke said distractedly, wiping the light sweaty sheen of his face
along the hair of one forearm, `and what IS your type, DJ...?'

`Hmm. Six foot one. Dirty blonde. Bit of a beard. Heavy build, West
London accent...'

`Oh, fuck off,' Luke said with a roll of the eyes as Dan leaned in to
nudge and pinch him, his face all wide grins and sparkling dark eyes. He
pushed him away with a shake of the head, complimented and amused but
also deeply frustrated. `You are not getting anything out of me, Danny
boy, I'm making my big return tonight, leave it out...' They grinned at
each other and Luke paused in his enjoyment of the friendly banter in
their softened relationship, wondering for a second if there was more of
a crush behind his pal's jokes and comments -- some lingering fire from
past encounters in the heat of summer and the excitement of a restarting
Premier League. Maybe he WAS exactly Dan's type...

`Boys! Stop it!' came a barking voice of authority somewhere nearby,
and Luke turned to look over his shoulder, seeing the skipper marching
commandingly out onto the green and waving dismissively at the running
figures of Mase and Bran. `Get over here. You'll tire yourselves.
Fuck's sake.' Barks and grunts from Maguire, killing the lively fun of
Greenwood and Williams. Shaw watched the youngsters run past and the big
tall Yorkshireman stomp over them, serious and sexy to Luke's eyes. He
made a little grunt of dismissal at his own wandering attention and
turned to follow Dan, who he loved deeply as a friend, but could never
excite or impress him like his man.



In the away changing rooms of Leipzig's stadium, he and his man were
positioned side by side to get ready -- a recent development born of some
squad bonding technique, grouping the lads by position around the
dressing room rather than letting them stick with their pals. Luke and
Harry had consciously avoided closeness in such contexts for a long time,
but now bashfully accepted the exciting proximity as they undressed in
the warm changing facilities tonight.

Luke grinned at the sight of their hanging numbered shirts, side by side,
and the neat folding of their kit items below, from branded socks to
fresh white sports briefs, all waiting to be pulled over their strong
bodies and stained with sweat out on the pitch. Watching Harry's strong
grazed knuckles snatch up the folded pair of skimpy pants brought back
more de ja vu to a year ago, memories of where it had all begun, his own
shameful curiosity in a time of great confusion.

Flanked by the huffing tower of Harry, silent with his pre-match tension,
but surrounded by the gentle chatter of the squad behind them, Luke
tugged off his shirt and kicked off his plimsoles, rolling socks down and
off and lingering there in just baggy pale sweatpants, reaching for his
phone where it rested amongst the neat stack of items, a vibe of green
light across the corner of the screen indicating the incoming message. He
expected something from his girlfriend, maybe a timely baby pic to
encourage and reassure him, but no...

`good luck out there broooo! Stay strong! Yessss'

`Who's that from?' Maguire demanded almost immediately, his big legs
out as he stepped out of his trackies and fumbled at the front of his
boxer shorts, a long-sleeved tee still tight across his torso and arms.
He frowned oddly at Shaw as he asked it, and then almost immediately
leaned forward to look over, snorting loudly when he saw the name and
then muttering under his breath, `Of course...'

Luke stood there, stripped to the waist, and started in annoyance at the
weary voice next to him. Conscious that they were surrounded by their
teammates, he furrowed his brow and stared hard at his bigger teammate,
mouthing a `what the fuck?' before then actually demanding, `And
what's wrong with that, big man...?'

`Nothing,' grunted Maguire sourly in a voice that actually said,
`EVERYTHING.'

The Leipzig changing rooms were filling up with noise. The clatter of
boot studs, the deep manly voices, the rustles of coats and tracksuits.
The more distant noises of the tunnel outside and somewhere, a tested
tanoy system in the stadium proper. But in this particular corner of the
Away rooms, a frosty silence seemed to descend, Luke gripping his phone
tightly and very pointedly thumbing in his brief and happy reply to a
friend's supportive text message, exaggerating each little flicker of
movement to provoke more frowns and scowls from Harry next to him. Almost
in some silent challenge to Depay's presence between them, he'd dropped
his boxers and let his privates hang massively free, stretching out his
white sports briefs and then dragging them up the tree trunks of his
legs, making a scene of stuffing his cock and balls into the front of
them at the same height as Luke's texting hand.

`Shouldn't be on yer phone,' the 27-year-old centre-back muttered in a
voice that was small and boyish against his height and physicality (and
his bulge), full of petty jealousy and accusation. Jealousy and
accusation from a man who kept showing off that he'd fucked his England
captain twice and telling Luke how delicious it felt to be the alpha male
of the whole Three Lions squad.

`Well, I'll put it away then, won't I?' Luke snapped at him, locking
the screen and slamming it down on the small shelf in front of him in
annoyance, stalking away from the spot to go and piss and avoid Harry's
judgmental face in case it got him more distracted and annoyed in the
build-up to the match itself, where they would need to play seamlessly
side by side in the back line. He felt his cheeks flush with indignation
and his stomach churn with knowledge of what today really was -- some
things were just a little hard to take when he knew this week marked
their one-year anniversary.



For all of this hot-headed feeling, Luke was a professional, and he
pushed aside all questions about his secret relationship until he was
side-lined in the 61st minute, replaced with floppy-haired Brandon, who
he embraced briefly on the line before collapsing into a leather seat and
gratefully pulling a warming jacket about his sweaty body to watch the
remainder of the ill-fated game.

Professional or not, Shaw found it hard to concentrate on the closing
quarter of the 3-2 match, too distracted to feel much optimism at Bruno
Fernandes scoring a penalty or the fluke own goal that almost brought
United within equalising distance of the hosts. Before long the final
whistle was blowing and they were out of the Europa League -- but Luke
Shaw was asking himself that dark question, as he had at many strained
moments in the past twelve months, doubting whether there was really any
hope for he and the growling sweaty beast who was leading the retreat of
exhausted players off the pitch, heads hung low with gloomy defeat. Was
it all worth it?

Glad at least that the negative moment hid his own bad mood behind a more
acceptable cover, the 25-year-old hopped up and joined the fray, grabbing
at other crestfallen blokes in half-hugs of comradely comfort, offering
his condolences to the boss and receiving muted praise for his own
returning performance. He watched as the sour-faced figure of his captain
and lover was called aside and sent away towards the media area to
represent them for a monosyllabic interview, finding it hard not to look
angrily at him after that dressing room outburst, even though half of him
just wanted to race after Harry and hug him better.

Instead, he sought out his own replacement, throwing a hugging arm about
Brandon's narrow shoulders and muttering his encouragement to his rival
left-back. `Solid work, kiddo,' he told the 20-year-old athlete,
squeezing their sweaty shoulders together on the fringe of the bumbling
crowd of match-losers. `Good to know Mase hasn't totally worn you
out,' he added under his breath, flashing a wink at his friend and
pausing in surprise at the scowl and eye-roll of the Manc lad.

`He does wear me out, that one,' Brandon complained in a quiet mutter,
`because if I take my eye off him for one minute, I swear he'll be
humping a corner flag or off noshing the Leipzig coach, I dunno...' The
forceful little outburst took Luke aback and he instinctively pulled the
lad closer in the hug, concerned in part that his little confession of
relationship trouble might catch the unwanted listening attention of
other players.

`Hey, hey...' He held him back as the guys began to file indoors,
loitering in the cold night air under the floodlights. `What's all
that, Bran...? Is Greenwood giving you bother, mate...?'

A huffy sigh and a wriggling tug away from the short wiry youth. `Sorry,
ignore that,' he grumbled. `Just in a bad mood cos we lost, y'know.'
He glowered beneath the sweaty tangle of his blond hair and sucked
enthusiastically on his water bottle. `Shouldn't have said that.'

Luke continued staring at him with affectionate concern. `I thought you
two were... exclusive.'

Brandon shrugged with the moody teenage persona he couldn't shake off.
`We are. I think.'

Luke just raised a curious eyebrow. Patted him on the back. `You're
cute together, you know.'

`Hmmph. Tell him that, eh. Sorry. I mean. Erm. It's nowt, just -- well,
I told you about Iceland and that, and... I dunno.' He shrugged again and
pulled hair out of his eyes. `Boys will be boys, or whatever. I dunno if
I can...' He trailed off vaguely, looking troubled, and then turned away
as Greenwood himself came lumbering past, beckoning at the other young
player, and looking close to tears at tonight's failure. Luke watched
them go, walking slowly after them, realising how simplistic his view of
the pair had been this morning -- all relationships were complicated and
difficult, he supposed pessimistically, no matter how it seemed from the
outside.

With that in mind, he slowed his pace, zipping the jacket up over his
chest and staring down the line at where a media interview was finishing
up, and the stooped posture of the tall United captain could be seen
backing off from cameras and lights, ready to slink down this way and
re-join his men. Quiet and alone, Shaw waited loyally for him, ready to
tell him he'd done his best.



That moment alone in the mouth of the tunnel, before the noisily
victorious home players started stampeding by, was their only time
together for another couple of hours -- lost and separated among the
other Manchester players in the changing rooms and the showers, then the
painfully quiet coach trip to the hotel and the morbid supper that
followed. It was with heavy relief that Luke pushed the hotel room door
shut behind him and turned the lock, not even too bothered what might
happen between them now, just pleased to be alone with Harry and nobody
else for a second night before they flew home.

He watched the bigger old man prowl into their shared suite and its two
neatly re-made beds -- hopefully only one would need making in the grey
morning -- and, warmly exhausted, let this morning's thoughts resurface.
Both the intense lust for the broad Sheffield brute and the reflective
worry about their passionate but on-off affair. Neither of them was quite
the same lad he had been when they shared an Austrian hotel room the
night before the LASK game this time in 2019.

Maguire was wrangling out of his hoody and kicking off his sliders,
shuffling past the far bed and stooping over to rifle in his bag. Shaw
echoed his movements, peeling away his tracksuit top and stifling a yawn,
then moving to the windows to tug the curtains shut, making a murmured
laugh at the ancient creaking of the heating system and thinking about
that colder hotel suite that had forced them closer together in the
winter night. This place was a little more sophisticated, but it still
felt very `Europa' rather than `Champions League' in standard.

`Here,' he heard his captain grunt, and he turned back towards the
beds. Harry had yanked his kit bag up onto the bed and was rifling
clumsily through it. `Got summat for ya,' he mumbled sheepishly,
wrestling with the contents and spilling out a pair of jeans and other
miscellaneous items as he did. Luke made a curious little smile as he
approached, wondering what inane sex toy his man had somehow got his paws
on, mostly expecting a pair of crass handcuffs to emerge and- he stopped
and looked down at the little black box Harry had retrieved and pushed
his way, joining him in the space between their beds and taking gentle
hold of it. It was rectangular with a little flourish of ribbon around
it. `Here,' Harry muttered again, `sorry I didn't give it ya earlier,
just had my head on the game, all the good that did, heh, erm...' Luke
took the box from him and held it in both hands, staring down at it then
lifting his face towards Harry's as the big guy gurned and sighed and
shrugged his massive shoulders. `It's not much, but like, I just...'

`You remembered,' Shaw breathed.

A long pause, then, `I ain't fuckin' daft, mate. Course I
remembered.' He shuffled on the spot, scratching his head. `Well, open
it, for fuck's sake.'

Luke felt a hot blush enter his cheeks through the red-brown thatch of
his short beard. `I didn't,' he said emptily, remembering his
week-long internal dilemma about whether or not to buy an anniversary
present and the various silly reasons that had convinced him he
shouldn't. He gave his boyfriend an agonised smile and then began
undoing the ribbon, while Harry muttered `Doesn't matter' and then `I
doubt you'll like it, I just-` He opened the box and slid out the heavy
bling of bracelet there, stooping to squint at the little engraved panel
by the clasp.

`Couldn't exactly put our names on it,' the United captain said with a
bashful laugh.

`Just the date,' remarked Luke, already fast-forwarding to the little
lie that might be needed to explain the significance of it. `Fuck.' He
bit his lip, tested the heavy jewellery against his wrist, then stsared
wide-eyed at the man looming over it. `That's... I mean -- you... I...'
He felt his balance wobble and his cock throb somewhere in his soft black
sweatpants. `Harry,' was all he managed in a choked voice, rejecting
several weeks' effort to dismiss this milestone as a daft non-event.
Then in a rush, `I'm sorry, I didn't buy you anything, I wasn't sure
what you'd think, y'know, so I just...'

Harry put a big hand on each of his biceps and leaned in, tilting his
mouth up to kiss. `You're my fucking gift, you mug,' he growled, mouth
by mouth. `Now...' He leant to one side, pushed and pulled at the
contents of the bag again with a big fist, then brought something else up
between them with another metallic jangle. Luke glanced down and laughed,
looking at the handcuffs, and knowing how much fun he was about to have.



Their clothes were soon off, a button ripping from the collar of Luke's
pale polo shirt. He loved the aggressive roughness of Harry's hands
pulling across his back and down his sides, and into the warm grip of his
undies, squeezing his chunky arse possessively. Was being with Harry
worth al the aggro? Of course it fucking was.

Garment after garment was chucked aside and then they were pulling each
other onto the bed in frantic bursts of energy, lips locked in a string
of kisses while they released each other's muscular bodies from the last
layer, underpants slipping over knees and shins and kicked flying to some
remote spot of carpet. Inevitably, Luke was rolled onto his back and
pinned beneath the hot weight of Maguire's body, reaching up over him
and writhing against his forceful gestures. Their cocks clashed with
fleshy rubs and he felt Harry almost bite at his lips and then his cheek,
so greedy and aggressive in his love.

Luke opened his thick legs, closing them against the firmness of Harry's
hips, and he buried his face in the hollow between his broad shoulder and
thick neck, kissing and licking at that erogenous zone to make him grunt
and purr. He stroked his palms over the contoured back muscles and right
down into the curve above his big arse, fingering the very entrance of
his hairy crack a little to tease and excite. He felt the Maguire meat
get harder and press on his own and his inner leg, tickling on the downy
fur there. Harry's hands ripped at his ears and his short hair for
purchase, fingering and grabbing every inch of his face and upper body.
In gasping pauses between kisses the men just stared at one another an
inch apart, salivating with a build-up of lust. They'd barely touched in
about four weeks.

With one of his amusing moments of attempted gentleness, Maguire shifted
backwards and kissed down his body -- breaking role to nip roughly at his
teats and slap the side of his thigh commandingly -- then hovering over
his stiff thick tool for a while, spitting on the head and running his
fingers in tickling strokes down the underside. He stopped short of
giving head, just blowing sensitively on the red tip and pushing at his
full balls, then rising up on his knees and playing with his own monster
instead, brashly showing it off for Luke's adoring eyes.

`Give it to me,' Luke begged.

`All yours,' Harry promised.

`Fuckkkk.'

Luke rose up, grappling with his lover's strong arms for support, and
licked his six-pack lovingly then bent in to lick his dick instead,
rolling his tongue across the head in slow moves that made Harry's whole
strong body shudder and buckle. Then he wrapped his lips about it and let
the bigger guy thrust gently upwards, feeding the top inches to him. He
spat on it and stroked it and kissed those firm abs again, cuddling his
thick bare arms about the great man's waist and holding desperately onto
him as if this might be stolen away by his private doubts and
frustrations, bad karma.

They shuffled about in clumsy movements, so desperate for each other that
they could barely manage to say anything sexy or exciting, or even focus
long enough on one part of the other's body. But soon Harry was leaning
away and snatching the handcuffs up off the carpet where they'd fallen,
the giftbox and extortionate designer bracelet beside them. He had a long
wicked grin on his face, the lost football match forgotten, as he lunged
close and breathed heavily. Luke grinned back, thinking about that
intense night in Newcastle where they had begun to experiment with a
little light bondage, the way he had been `punished' for an own goal
but felt utterly rewarded by the end of it.

Still... always fun trying something new, and...

Shaw snatched at the chiming metallic cuffs, distracting Harry with a
sloppy kiss to the lips, and stealing the cheeky toy from his callused
fingers. With his other hand he stroke the big balls to control and
command his captain, edging them aside and then rolling on top of him,
sending such overwhelming pleasure up Maguire's body that he had
momentary control. He held his sweaty palms against his and pushed his
long arms upwards, then did it: wrapped the cuff about one thick wrist
with a click and leaned urgently forward to get the other end about the
bedpost, trapping his beastly lover below him. He pulled at Harry's free
hand, seeing the flicker of concern on his wide face, then the awkward
consent, dragging the other hand up and cuffing it, both wrists held
tightly about the post, long muscular arms stretched above his head,
exposing the hairy cavern of each pit.

`All mine,' he joked, `all mine...'

He proceeded to drool over every inch now of Harry's torso. He sniffed
at those pits and chewed on his nipples, matching his partner's
roughness, spitting at and licking the curves of his pectorals and onto
his six-pack. But in more mirroring, he refused a blowjob, just spat
messily on that big footlong thing and got up on his knees. Harry, unused
to the lack of agency, wriggled and writhed -- if he'd stopped and
thought, or genuinely wanted release, he could have snapped those cuffs
or that bedpost, surely, but he didn't, lying there outstretched with
his cock reaching upwards. And Luke prepared himself to sit on it,
wanting to ride his prisoner.

He got off the bed to fetch the lube from his toilet bag and paused to
enjoy the view. The 6ft4 centre-back stretched out down the bed, his legs
kicking about slightly and his big bare feet dragging over the crumpled
sheets. His cock perpendicular to the long stretch of his athletic frame.
Luke wanked himself as he looked down at him, then reached to the floor
and fetched up his discarded gift, clasping it about one wrist: both of
them cuffed now, totally one another's.

He reached behind and poked lubricated fingers between his cheeks as he
mounted the bed and straddled his captain, but didn't fuss with it -- he
wanted the burn of that big meat going into him, wanted to feel every bit
of it. He thought of the first time, when he'd been so naïve and
agonised, dry-fucked in the faintly snowy woods near his Cheshire rental
house. Christmas day. And every time since, becoming accustomed to it,
becoming confident and empowered -- but never quite as powerful and
confident as tonight, Harry cuffed to the bed and whining in delight, as
he sat down on the throne of that cock and gently guided it between his
slippery cheeks. He jiggled and adjusted, spreading his legs more and
arching his body until, mmm yes, he could feel it on his hole, and could
push down -- Harry's hips tensed and rose to help and in it went, never
without some difficulty, between its girth and his tight muscles, but in
it went, and god it felt good.

`FUCK,' growled Maguire, `ev-er-yyyy time.... Ohhhh...'

Luke moaned his own enjoyment, settling into position, letting it fill
and stretch him, then beginning to rock gently, riding his boyfriend like
a big brutish buckaroo. The bed squeaked and rocked, and the chain of the
handcuffs rattled on the bedpost, but these noises were nothing against
the deep animal moans of tamed top and power bottom. Luke had never
before felt quite so comfortable in this position, body-conscious and
sporadically submissive as he was, but tonight it felt right, the gifted
bracelet shifting and clicking about his wrist as he rested both hands on
the six-pack and grinded his big arse over the hot crotch of his man.

For a few minutes, the left-back jerked off while riding that cock, but
he had to keep stopping himself, feeling his cock throb and near
completion. He locked his hands behind his head instead to delay the
inevitable, buying long minutes more of deep internal pleasure as he sat
on the big skipper dick, rotating his hips and cheeks and pushing down
with his sturdy form. But then he just had to touch himself, grasping
with his right hand and pulling on it dramatically until his seed was
shooting out across the hard muscles of Harry's chest, painting his
nipples and his chin with sticky cum. Luke moved in a daze, dancing his
arse over that throbbing cock, grinning foolishly and feeling the last
drops of spunk ooze on his knuckles.

That was when Harry asserted himself. He tensed his arms, biceps bulging
for a moment, and dragged down with both wrists. There was a little
clicky snap as the cheap cuffs broke at their connection, and the cuffed
wrists came flying down to grab each of Luke's thighs. And then, holding
their bodies together, Maguire thrust upwards in a series of powerful
jabs, erupting in a cry of `YES BABY'. Luke felt the wetness inside him
and he gasped to the ceiling, still riding the waves of pleasure. `Yes
baby,' he groaned softly back, `oh YES...'



They both came a second time, despite their post-match exhaustion: Harry
giving a surprisingly tender blowjob in the shower and Luke bending over
the sink to be fucked a second time, their reflections leering back at
them in the bathroom mirror. The tiny en suite rattled with their
lovemaking and the bed creaked beneath their bodies -- clean and soapy
but exuding fresh smell and sex as they cuddled beneath the covers and
spooned.

Their pillow talk was lazy and indulgent. Maguire asked him if he
intended to start chaining him up more often, making teasing suggestions
about whips and gags and other things he'd probably seen in hetero S&M
porn; Luke made more romantic gambits of conversation, demanding to know
how he'd bought an expensive bracelet without alerting his missus, and
talking through some of the novelty gifts he'd almost bought him in the
past six weeks, conscious of today approaching.

Somehow, the Dutch elephant in the room did eventually come up, a
dangerous spark in the warmth of their cuddle. Luke was so comfortable
against Harry's enclosing form that he didn't feel the risk of the
topic, he just needed it swiped away, along with all his other doubts and
fears. (Is it worth all the aggro, being with Harry Maguire...? STUPID
FUCKING QUESTION.) Still, he grabbed one of the other man's hands and
held it in against his tummy as he asked in a cautious voice, `You
really don't need to worry about me and any friend, you know. I'm not
like that, I never have been. We both tell each other everything now,
that's why it works. There is no-`

`Do we have to?' grumbled his lover's yawning voice by his neck. `Can
we just...'

`Memph is a pal, nowt more. Like... he doesn't see me that way, Harry...
he just doesn't. Yes we've done stuff, like you and I have with a fair
few blokes, eh...! It's no big deal, trust me. You know how tough my
early days at Manchester were, I've told you over and over. He was there
for me before I had a big fucking Yorkshire monster to protect me,
y'know...?'

`Mmm, monster you say?' The soft spent cock, surely not up for round 3,
rubbed provocatively at his buttock. `I know,' sighed Harry's voice,
going small and vulnerable again now that they weren't eye to eye, `I
know that, I really do, I just... and I mean, I know I'm a cunt, I know
I'm hardly one to talk, it's just...' He trailed off, but he didn't
really need to explain it. Luke knew him, got it. He knew the fierceness,
the hypocrisy, the neediness, the domination. `I trust you,' Maguire
said finally, his voice the same awkward grumble it had been for the
sports media when reflecting on losing the match, `I just... don't trust
HIM. Smug prick. Wannabe rapper. Poser-`

`Okay, okay, he IS my mate,' Luke chuckled, enjoying the distinction in
being trusted but his glamorous ex-teammate being the enemy, still able
to find sexiness in the jealousy as he was spooned more tightly from
behind. `But you get him wrong, yknow. He's not the lothario people
think, he's way more humble and down-to-earth than he acts, seriously...
you know me, I ain't into all that bigshot bollocks...!' He pushed back
against Harry's warm sleepy body, feeling an annoying pang from his
bladder. `Trust me, and trust him. He just looks out for me -- but he
knows you treat me good now. I've told him several times. Eh?'

A vague `Mmmm' of tentative agreement from Harry, who sounded like he
was already half-conscious. Luke waited a moment then very carefully
removed the heavy arm from his side and clambered out of bed, naked and
bursting for a piss. He shuffled quietly into the en suite and did his
business, then silently tidied up the little mess their fucks had made,
picking up bottles and toilet rolls from the damp floor, fetching tangled
towels and hanging them to dry. Then he made his nude way back into the
room, greeted by the buzzsaw snores of his partner.

He found his phone idly, no longer thinking about the awkward
conversation, the most central source of conflict in their relationship
of late. So the text message from Memphis Depay took him by surprise but
did not panic or annoy him -- he felt sure he'd pressed his message to
Maguire and made it clear where things stood. Yes, he'd experimented
with Memph when things were new and frightening, and he'd once taken
comfort in him when they hit rocky water -- but Depay really was just an
amazing pal and nowt more, and really not earthy and real like Maguire
anyway, not the kind of gritty British alpha that seemed to ring his
bell.

The message (`sorry bout dat result bro, hard knock, but this might help
xxx') and winking emojis cut through his sleepy satisfaction and, when
he opened the picture attachment and ogled it on the bright touchscreen,
rang his bell-end.

Depay was posing in a large hotel bathroom with one hand cupped over his
crotch and his body otherwise on show, trailing with decorative tattoo
and his muscles gently oiled to catch the amber light. He was winking
into the eye of the camera and the strong hand cupping his privates
wasn't QUITE containing them. Luke stared dimly at it, reminded of just
how beautiful and charismatic the Dutchman truly was, brought back to
another night almost a year ago, when he had rested his panicky curiosity
in his old friend and found surprising acceptance.

`this might help', winked the message from Memphis, nude attached. Luke
sighed lustily and struck `delete' as fast as he could, thinking back
to Harry's words of warning about trust. Oh bloody hell.




*SO... FORGIVE MY SELF INDULGENCE, BUT ONE YEAR AGO THIS WEEK I SUBMITTED
MY FIRST STORY TO NIFTY: LUKE SHAW SNIFFED HARRY MAGUIRE'S UNDERPANTS IN
A MANCHESTER CHANGING ROOM AND THE REST, AS THEY SAY, IS HISTORY. FELT
LIKE THE MILESTONE NEEDED TO BE MARKED AND HOPE THIS BELATED STORY FOR
TUESDAY NIGHT DOES THE JOB... EVERY TIME I THINK I MIGHT HAVE RAN OUT OF
STORY FOR SHAW AND MAGUIRE, I TURN OUT TO BE WRONG. ENJOY!*