Date: Tue, 29 Dec 2020 11:47:10 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 220

Part 220: A Promise Fulfilled


The Tyneside squad was glum but not overly surprised at last night's
result, filing out of the Manchester hotel and onto their team coach to
head into the North East, beaten 2-0 by a weakened City and facing a
pessimistic middle to the season.

As he often did in these situations, 31-year-old striker Andy Carroll was
busy convincing himself that he could have swung matters on the pitch if
only Steve Bruce had started him rather than begrudgingly throwing him
into the mix with only 20 minutes to go. The tall Geordie's own goal-dry
run since returning to his boyhood club was irrelevant to such frustrated
delusions, as in his head he was still capable of many winning goals and
triumphant moments as a real Newcastle hero.

He strode across the hotel car park and boarded the bus in the same glum
hurry as the other guys, keen to leave Manchester behind and return to
home comforts and family relaxation in the post-Christmas slump. The
early alarm and breakfast buffet had been blandly suffered and now he
knew the coach trip would drag by, separating him from a cheerier
environment and a resumption of the Christmas fun he'd had to abandon to
travel over for the Boxing Day game.

Finding his place down the left side of the aisle, he swung his long
muscular legs into place and relaxed in his socially distanced seat,
still entertaining his egocentric reimagining of last night where he'd
scored a brace and assisted a third to buy a Newcastle victory. Around
him, it was clear that others had already compartmentalised the weak
showing at the Etihad: Ritchie and Clark passed him by in jovial
conversation about their families, and behind him Yedlin was already on
the phone to his girlfriend in his purring American accent. His closer
buddy on the squad, in so many ways, Paul Dummett was shuffling by
towards his own seat, but even Andy's fellow native Geordie seemed to
have moved on from the game and was chatting amiably with other Newcastle
boy Mark Gillespie, their new reserve goalkeeper.

The 6ft4 forward slumped sideways against the windows as the vehicle
began rumbling into life below the comfortable seats. He adjusted the
close-fitting NUFC tracksuit clinging to his tall well-built body and
distracted himself from fantasy strikes by opening up his phone and
flicking through a series of family and friendship group chats, then
sliding lazily into the bottomless pit of social media.

His glorious return to St James Park was still a move fraught with doubt
and wasted potential, hardly helped by the long lockdown breaks and the
unrest in his own marriage. He really was doing his best to throw his
weight into training and fight for a solid place in the team, but things
were grumpy and unstable here this season, making it harder and harder
for him to really be his best. There were murmurings from his agent about
a new loan move in January but he was doing his best to resist it,
increasingly comfortable back in his home city and not wanting to spurn
that for slightly more match-time -- he would turn 32 next month and so
was entering the `twilight' of a footballer's short career span. He
needed to just knuckle down and fight for the Magpies, that's what he
needed...!

The coach rolled through the outskirts of Manchester and onto the
motorway, and Andy dozed on his own, feeling too low-spirited today to
really engage with the light chatter of the other men on the bus, a blur
of English and foreign languages. At some point in the early journey,
light snow whipping past the coach windows, he was woken by the thrumming
of the phone still cradled in his hands, making him yawn and twist
sleepily in the position his long torso had slid into. He blinked his
eyes and yawned widely again, peering out of the window at the grey-white
stretch of countryside, then looked about him at the subdued low noise of
his fellow travellers, half of them with headphones on and phone screen
reflections flickering in their eyes.

Carroll squeezed onto his phone, registering that its dull vibration had
stirred him, and he swiped his thumb over it to open it up and view the
latest old-fashioned text message that had woken it and him. He peered at
it, his half-asleep brain not quite registering the name `Big Al' from
his contacts and then the short simple wording below. Andy took a sharp
breath and tightened each of his muscles at once, pressing his spine and
elbows back against the seat as if the bus had ground to a halt. In
particular, the lofty footballer's powerful glutes tensed and clenched
beneath him, and his heart skipped a beat. He reread the message and felt
the sudden and unavoidable little jolt of interest between his legs, and
knew before he hit `reply' that his answer would be a rapid `ok'.

The message was from Alan Shearer, and read: `Today. Soon as you get
back in Toon. House empty. It's happening. Ok?'



While the post-match footballers were carried northeast by coach, a
certain esteemed ex-footballer was traveling in the spacious First Class
carriage of a speeding train, staring down at the open phone screen on
the table of his booth while the fringes of London whizzed by against the
carriage window. He picked up and sipped from a black coffee and cleared
his throat, shooting nervous sideways glances about the carriage as if
expecting another distanced passenger or one of the friendly carriage
crew to be looming over his shoulder and reading his outgoing text
messages.

Alan Shearer had been in London for Boxing Day pundit duties with the
BBC, gladly whizzing back across the country now to reunite with his wife
and grown-up children and resume the Christmas period for a little longer
-- except, as he'd found out this morning checking out of his
aparthotel, they were all off on a day out without him to explore the
coastline, many apologies etc. etc. etc. Nobody had been quite sure what
time Alan's train would deliver him to Newcastle and so he'd been
excluded from the family plans. He'd faked a pang of envy and
disappointment on the phone, or at least embellished it, and realised the
opportunity that lay ahead of him.

It was just over five months now since the promise had been made: their
bodies close together in the dubious privacy of Alan's own study, a
Liverpool prize presentation blaring on the big screen and their female
partners temporarily occupied by cocktails and gossip a few rooms away.
He'd leaned in and whispered in the younger man's ear, eating up his
whimpering beg to be fucked. `Not yet,' he'd told him, `Not here, not
now...' and he'd MEANT it. He had.

In the couple of weeks that followed, he had made attempts, in the brief
windows of time between their separate holidays, trying to discreetly and
casually inform Carroll of moments where his home might be empty, or
turning up at training sessions uninvited but finding the COVID
regulations made it harder than usual to loiter about the Newcastle
grounds and throw his status around. When young Andy had disappeared to
the Mediterranean on a couples' holiday with Paul Dummett, he'd felt
the sting of possessive jealousy -- after all, hadn't Lascelles implied
that something unusual had gone on between the two Geordie lads...? And
then, crashing through his secret lust, Andy was a father again and it
just felt distasteful to be creeping around him at all.

Five whole months had rattled by without any consummation of his promise
to the struggling striker, his throaty whispered intent to give him
exactly what he begged for. It had begun to seem just a summer fever, a
brief obsession, something to be left behind in the surreal heat of
July.

It had leapt to Shearer's mind when he had realised he was travelling
back to a house empty until dinnertime, and of course he was always
fairly attuned to the day-to-day schedule of Newcastle United; he
realised now that the unfulfilled promise must still have been there at
the back of his mind, ticking over and becoming increasingly intense,
rather than randomly returning to him at a sudden opportunity.

It had been on his mind last night, he silently admitted to himself,
sipping his black coffee and letting it jangle his nerves. Lying there in
the crisp clean bed of the studio apartment hired for the night, soft new
pyjamas against his ageing skin, eyes fixed on the ceiling, cock stirring
lazily below the sheets, hairy chest itching against his tshirt. He'd
had to clamber out of bed and through into the large square bathroom,
washing cold water against his rugged face and pulling off his clothes
before leaping back into bed and emptying his head.

The response on his phone had been slow to come, making the ex-striker
shift anxiously in his seat and pull at his shirt collar, but now it
buzzed lightly against the tabletop with a simple retro chime of
attention. Andy C: `ok'. A man of few words, but what more needed to be
said...?

The Newcastle legend stared for several long moments at the simple reply
until the screen blacked out automatically and then he leant back on the
headrest and took several long gulping breaths. This needed to happen, he
told himself, he needed to get it out of his system!



It was a short drive from the Newcastle training complex to the Gosforth
estate where big Alan lived, and basically en route to Andy's own fairly
secluded mansion where fiancée and huge brood of children awaited him. It
was all a bit too perfect, really -- easy enough for the 31-year-old to
slide quietly away from the other lads after checking out of professional
duty and going their separate ways for a Sunday off, and fairly easy for
him to squeeze in without alerting Billi too much to his absence. Still,
just in case, he'd leaned on Dummo's friendship. `Why, where are you
off to?' the frowning younger player had demanded when he whispered his
request for an alibi, but the loyal Gateshead bloke had not pushed the
question or argued -- as always, he'd agreed to cover Andy's back and
protect him if needed, full of cautious smiles and gently suspicious
eyes.

He often wondered exactly what his local pal felt for him, thinking back
to those strange encounters they had shared around this time last year
and soon after. If anything, Carroll often marvelled at how casually
unaffected their close friendship was, but he still took moments to
question how willingly Dummett had literally toyed with him, and then...
But, really, ANDY had been the one to bring the problem to him, to ask
for help, to rely on him, right...? Poor Paul had just been helping out,
surely?

No matter -- Dummo was a good solid friend and he knew he could depend on
him to lie casually if his slow travel home from the bus drop-off was
questioned, Andy fearing his fiancée would speak to other WAGs and become
suspicious about the little gap in his day. Little gap, he mused, how
long was he expecting to be here, really...?

Here being the squat sandstone property of the Shearers, looming ahead of
him as he locked the car and crunched his trainers up the driveway,
adjusting himself idly in the front of his black club sweatpants and
shivering beneath the long-sleeved top and gilet he wore. He fiddled
habitually with the high heavy knot of his long hair and chewed on his
thumbnail for a few strides up to the front door. It took him several
moments to summon the courage to prod the doorbell, and when there was no
answer to that it took him even longer to dare rapping the ornate
knocker.

He wasn't exactly planning to dash childishly backwards and drive his
4x4 rapidly across the edges of the city, but he hopped from foot to foot
with nervous tension and repeatedly looked back at his vehicle and the
escape it embodied. He spat in a palm and slicked back some flapping
loose strands of his dark brown hair, fiddling with the topknot, then
backing away from the door and its festive wreath for a minute more,
staring up at the dead-eyed windows of the family house.

It took the tall guy a few minutes to decide between sitting impatiently
in the car and exploring around the back of the house, but the
investigation somehow won. Chilly hands dug into the pockets of his
gilet, he loped cautiously around the side of the house and peered
through windows around the back -- he felt vaguely criminal and silly,
but he was confused by the forcefulness of Shearer's invitation and the
strangeness of his absence. More worrying was the sense of invasion that
came as he looked into the dark rooms and saw glimmers of a decorated
tree and messy belongings, all symbols of the family life going on here
(and at his own place) -- this was really wrong, his cheating ways had
got him in enough trouble as a West Ham bloke...!

He pulled himself away from peering beneath the visor of his hand into
the big rear windows of the big lounge where he could picture himself and
his bird sprawled on comfy furniture making stall talk with the Shearers,
as if he hadn't just had the old guy's jizz stain his buttock grinding
on his lap like some nightclub slut. He shuddered shamefully and began to
retrace his steps in more of a hurry, bouncing along in a quick walk and
deciding that he just needed to speed home and kiss Billi and forget all
about this stupid obsession and it's many near-misses...

`Alreet,' came Alan's gravelly voice from the corner. Andy stared
sharply at him. The 6ft bald man was stood comfortably beneath a heavy
looking outdoor coat, a single small suitcase resting at his hip. In the
background, Andy could hear the departure of the station taxi that he had
somehow missed arriving.

`Alreet,' the striker returned to his lifelong hero, sheepish in the
shadows of the house.

`I wasn't sure you'd turn up,' the 50-year-old said now, his voice
still deep and mysterious.

`I almost didn't,' Carroll decided to admit.

`Huh. Well. Good lad.'

The silence felt awkward and charged with expectation. It did not occur
to Andy for a second that Alan might also be nervous -- the bald-headed
footie legend was a pillar of strength and masculinity to him, and he
hadn't once questioned the newness or terror of this to Shearer himself.
He approached him, conscious of his greater height and physique now the
former England captain was a little lighter and gone to seed. He rubbed
awkwardly at the zips of his pockets and found he couldn't quite look
his senior in the eye.

`Yes sir,' he murmured, that submissive streak surfacing again.

A gentle smile wrinkled Alan's kind lips and eyes. `Get inside,' he
commanded.



Blunt instruction and forceful hand gestures were a strong shield for the
sweaty nervousness that racked the player-turned-pundit, leading them
through the house and upstairs to the master bedroom -- eventually
pushing Andy squarely through the doorway and slamming it heavily behind
them, already grappling impatiently with his own belt buckle as he
followed his tall, athletic guest into the large richly furnished room,
full of his wife's arty touches and an impressive view over the gardens.
He could see the lad gawking out at it and looking anywhere but at the
big bed.

`I promised you this would happen,' Shearer growled, taking on the same
dominant and pushy voice that he'd greeted Carroll with outside and
bullied him through the house to get here. His open belt buckle jangling,
he fixed his attention on the thin woollen jumper on top of his shirt and
ragged it up and off himself in one quick gesture, then tossed it at the
foot of the bed. `You've been patient.'

Andy turned and looked at him. He was so tall and leonine, high-cheeked
and pouting, all the sexier for his clear apprehension and the way he
puffed out his chest. `I knew you would,' he said in a shaky Geordie
whisper. `I knew you'd do it, man. I wanted it so bad that night.'

`And you don't now?' Alan demanded fiercely.

`I do,' Andy corrected immediately, though his body language seemed
indecisive.

`Get your kit off,' Shearer demanded, taking refuge in force as much as
needing to wield his authority. He backed off, clumsily unbuttoning at
his shirt, and fixed the younger striker with a steely look of desire,
then glanced more pragmatically at the bed. `I'm gonna take you,' he
barked sexily, `I'm gonna make you whine like a bitch, lad.' As he
spoke, he disappeared from the master bedroom into the long en suite
extension, still tugging open the shirt over his hairy chest and tummy
and then shucking it away, while rifling through a cupboard of pills and
potions for some lubricant and condoms.

Hidden in here, his nervousness broke out a little: little pillboxes and
tubes of moisturisers rattled from the shelves and dropped into the sink,
a noisy mess as he retrieved some ancient rubbers and a little jar of
Vaseline that he hoped would work. Indecision was returning, now they
were here together, alone. He'd been drunk before, when he steered the
Newcastle forward away from their partners and groped at him in the study
-- and what of before, at St James Park, getting him on his knees...? What
was he drunk on then?

The grimacing old ace couldn't bare to look at himself in the bathroom
mirrors, pushing open his trousers a bit and seeing the stirring of his
semi in the silky boxers below, then marching back into the bedroom with
the box of condoms and the little jar. He was stopped in his tracks by
the adonis in the room, partly silhouetted against the window: so tall
and magnificent, and transformed by the undoing of that pretentious
top-knot. His hair spilled out like a long mane, making him vaguely
medieval as he stood there with his lean muscles exposed, just a pair of
long white trunks wrapped about his upper thighs, prominent package, and
high pert behind. He looked... magnificent.

The sight was all it took for Shearer's uncertainties to be shed with
his chinos and socks, grasping at Andy by the waist and attacking him
with a kiss. It had shocked him to the core when they previously snogged
but it felt utterly necessary and satisfying, roughly locking lips with
him and making him stoop a little to do so, then shoving him so roughly
to the side, sprawled over the bed so he could crawl on top and pin him
there. Alan still found himself pausing in the rough foreplay of kisses
and rubbing, exploring hands, pulling up on his arms while their crotches
rubbed and raged, wanting to look properly at this tall shaggy hunk he'd
summoned to his marriage bed. Fuck, he was beautiful, and Alan needed to
fuck him now.



Andy sucked so furiously on his hero's cock that he gagged and choked a
little and had to recover, still lounged on his back across the lush
sheets, with Shearer's weight bearing down on him as he straddled his
pecs and pushed his long fat cock against his face. The strong older
man's fingers ran through his loose locks to hold his head in place and
he loved the security of it, opening his mouth wide for the cock to go
back in, lapping at it and feeling its hot size fill his mouth and his
throat, making him gag all over again and splutter stupidly with
inexperience.

Alan was so sexy in his lusty rage, staring down that hairy body at him,
all frowns and almost snarling lips, tugging again at his hair to
reposition his face, slapping his cock against his cheekbones and then in
between his red lips.

Savouring the flavour of it, he nodded his head up and down eagerly,
trying to please and satisfy this rugged veteran, his own dick straining
at his clingy underpants somewhere out of sight. He found himself
mouthing noises of greedy pleasure as he did it, much whinier and louder
than he'd ever been with women, and t hen when the cock was withdrawn
from him he found his lips following it as if hypnotised, until he was
propped up on his strong elbows and staring needily at the man of the
house.

`It's time,' Shearer puffed. Andy nodded excitedly.

He began to shift sideways and elbow himself up to roll over and get into
the doggy position he'd assumed when experimenting with Dummo on a
similar winter afternoon, but no -- Alan pushed down on his shoulders and
shook his head. `Like this,' the old dog growled, shuffling backwards
and hoisting his thick thighs upwards so that he could scratch down the
waist of the whiteys and pull them first over buttocks, then thighs, then
wriggling past knees and ankles and leaving Andy naked and exposed on his
back. He stared at Alan through his open legs, seeing the experienced
power in that face and its assertive demands, while a cold-lubed thumb
pressed roughly against his passage and his dick stood fully to attention
over this invasion.

`Yes,' he whispered sluttishly to him, needing it as badly as he had
during that heated dinner party of temptation, craving this heroic guy to
make him his bitch. `Yes sir...'



Shearer felt once more the alien tightness of anal on his thumb and then
fingers, the distinctive struggle of the man-cunt versus the decades of
monogamy with his beautiful wife. He grunted and growled, partly at the
exertion, and partly in performance of his manly confidence and control
over the situation; control? He knew he was behaving like a smitten teen
in his pursuit of the big lad, had been borderline desperate and pathetic
in his following of him over these past months. But if he could convince
himself he was the dominant bloke, then he could convince Andy too!

Each poke of Andy's sensitive arse brought whinnies of pleasure and need
from the writhing hunk, and the sounds were validating. It was Andy's
huge build and his dramatically proportioned cock that made this so
empowering and exciting for Alan, having him laid out like this, all his
to use and own, and god was he going to do that! He experimented again
with two fingers at once, like he had in his small dressing room at the
stadium in summer, stretching and testing the hole, needing to push his
own cock into it. He was lubing his meat with his free hand, slapping the
makeshift gel over the taut rubber johnny and beginning to aim it
hesitantly into that dark-furred crevice.

He took Carroll's big footballer's legs over his own broad shoulders,
hoisting and parting them more, and then began jabbing his slick cock
into the twitching gap, testing his own thick head against the hole he'd
fingered awake, and loving every whore noise dribbling from Andy's lips.
`You ready?' he growled at him. `You ready to take it, lad? Aye?'

`Yes -- sir -- please -- Al -- ohhhh...'

He could hear the pain in that voice too as he pushed his cock forward
and he did have a twinge of concern, but then Andy was such a huge
meathead that he didn't have to feel too afraid or cautious, surely? He
pressed his dick in against the puckered ring, feeling it open with
difficulty about his girth, its amazing tightness closing about his dick
even more amazingly than it had his digits. He felt sweat dribble at his
lined brow and down his stubbled chops. It dripped against his chest hair
and on Andy's tight clammy six-pack, where his ridiculous boner towered
and quivered.

Some memory of last time made Alan want to reach for it and jerk him, but
he was also consumed by the selfishness of mounting this younger man, and
so he just kept his hands gripped below his knees, keeping those strong
legs up against him, while he guided himself deeper and deeper inside his
bitch with each brief powerful thrust. `That's it,' he panted, `take
it, man, take it, you fucker...' Carroll just whined and gasped his
response, and if there were words in it, they got lost in the general
moan, as Alan began to feel fully confident and fuck him, sliding further
into him and picking up some speed.



Andy reached his hands for Shearer's arms, holding onto the wiry biceps
up there as the man began to really plough him and lean into a kind of
manly missionary position. It hurt like hell, it had last time, but it
also felt incredible, that deep internal jab of pleasure; with his mouth,
he reached for kisses, now that Shearer's body was over his and sliding
into him in a forceful jiggling rhythm, but the older man avoided the
kisses he'd willingly given earlier, just fixated on fucking him
senseless.

The force and speed of it took Andy aback, though perhaps he had
romanticised and downplayed the pain of it all when he thought back to
those little experiments with his best mate -- or had Paul just been a
lot more gentle and tender in his attention to him? Helping him out,
always checking what was okay, never pushing him too far, just... Andy
blinked and gasped confusedly, unsure why Dummo was so present in his
mind when his lifelong hero was slamming it to him and dripping sweat all
over him from above!

But in those odd little moments of distraction, his body entirely
overpowered and dominated now, but his mind oddly third-person and
critical, that he became aware of the noise of a car -- not the distant
muffled noises of the road, but something closer, and gravelly crunch
that brought to mind his own arrival not so long ago. And then, perhaps,
voices...?

`Shearer,' he groaned, clinging to the pounding physique of him,
`Shearer, I think...'

`Shut up,' groaned Alan, eyes tightly closed, a mask of ecstasy etched
in his face.

`Sir,' he tried, `can't you hear...?'



Alan could hear nothing but the rush of blood in his ears, slamming his
cock right to the hilt in Andy's tight muscular ring with merciless
strokes, his balls tingling and twinging and his load ready to spill deep
inside him. He was deaf to any hint of noise on the driveway or any
pleading gasp of caution from the man beneath his body, crashing in and
out of him with a series of `ohs' and `ahs' until `Aaaaaagh!' and
he was cumming, blowing his wad deep inside Andy's body, really making
him his own with this creamy injection.

He shoved his cock numbly back and forth in the moments of sensitive
afterglow, slowly becoming more conscious of what the sexy fucker was
muttering into his ear. `Can't you hear that?' whimpered Carroll. `Is
that a voice? There was a car, and-`

It was like a bucket of water being thrown over him. Still pinning Andy
to the bed, Alan turned his head left and stared across at that big
indiscreet window and its view, the curtains he'd failed to pull. Nobody
could actually see into them but it still represented a fuck-tonne of
risk he'd taken today from the second he sent that message.

He pulled back, freeing his cock from the tight pleasure of the arse, and
skipped clumsily from the bed, strafing sideways so as not to burst into
view with a grimy hard-on in shot, just reaching the curtains and peeking
out through the latticed glass. Yep, there they were -- his wife and
daughter, and her boyfriend, and some neighbour he only half-recognised,
all emerging from the car, talking loudly but indistinctly. FUCK.

He was dizzy in the rush of orgasm but he moved fast to grab the robe
from its hook by the bathroom door and throw it closed about his sweaty
body, having rejected the tangled process of re-dressing. `Come on,' he
barked urgently at Andy, who was trying and failing to get his undies
around his ankles, `come on, I need you OUT.'

He knew he was being harsh and selfish, but he'd gone into survival
mode: shoving Andy along with sharp jabs to the lower back, not letting
him linger to dress at all, his entire outfit just a bunched mess held in
front of his crotch, and Alan himself carrying his trainers hooked
against the other hand. Out onto the landing and down the stairs and
through the house, moving at speed. Even in the rush, he caught a
photo-perfect glimpse of how beautiful the lad was from behind, the
rippling stretch of his back and the pert dark-haired mass of his behind,
now decorated with a silvery streak down one thigh -- it took a panicky
second or two for Alan to deduce that this was the trace of his own
pleasure and dominance, now dribbling from those cheeks. It almost made
him hard again beneath the bathrobe. Almost.

`Out this way!' he yelped at him.

`But-`

`Out, now!'

`I need to-`

`Dress outside,' Alan shouted at him, hearing the clatter of keys and
doors somewhere else in the house, thrusting Carroll out of the side door
and into the sheltered lea. He stared at him, his big bare feet crunching
over more gravel and a stray sock falling from the bundle in his hands;
Alan threw his trainers at his feet and almost paused to utter some
praise of his wonderful physique or his gorgeous tightness, his sexy
powerful presence, or... but no, there just wasn't time. He slammed the
door guiltily shut in his face and backed off, dripping with sweat
beneath his robe, his cock slowly retracting and drooping, his balls
still tingling.

Home gym, he told his wife, ambling about in a sweaty state beneath the
shower; just about to pour a bath, he elaborated, though there were no
suspicious or demanding questions. He couldn't quite make out the
complicated reasons their road trip up the coast had been ditched,
because his mind was a jagged mess of fear, satisfaction, regret,
concern. He thought of Andy out in the cold and, in a sweep of
pragmatism, steered the others into a room that didn't look out on the
driveway; of course, they must have seen Carroll's car there, but nobody
had mentioned it yet, he needed a lie ready for when they did, and...
Faintly, on the edge of hearing, he could detect the growl of a departing
engine, and he felt his entire sweaty body heave with relief, his
fuck-toy gone and the crisis somewhat averted. All that left behind was a
smear of horror at how he had treated the gorgeous lad after slamming
into him, and the hurt look on his face being pushed out into the cold.



When he got out of the car, he still wasn't QUITE dressed -- he'd had
to pull the designer gilet over his bare torso, unable to wrangle with
the vest and long-sleeved sports top that should be below it, and he had
no socks on so his ankles were chilly as he padded up from car to the
apartment door. He jabbed repeatedly and violently against the button for
the bell, feeling ridiculous in his half-outfit out on the elevated
entranceway on the side of the building, glancing nervously back down to
street level where his 4x4 was parked at a funny angle from his hurry.

He'd escaped Shearer's and fled into the city because he couldn't face
home yet. There was someone else he needed to see, someone who knew could
somehow calm him down and make this okay, even if just by taking the piss
out of it and brewing him a cuppa.

He pressed the button for the sixth time, impatient, and tried to pull
his long loose hair back a bit, but there was too much of it, he must
have dropped his hairbands on the bedroom floor. He gave up and let it
hang loose about his face, panting and watching his breath crystallise in
front of him. The door opened inwards and the state of undress of the
resident inside took him by jarring surprise in the winter glow of the
late afternoon.

`Oh,' mouthed Paul Dummett, stood there with one hand on the door, a
silky dressing gown hanging open about his broad chest and showing off
the skimpy pyjama shorts he wore low at the waist. The slightly younger
footballer blinked dumbly at him and said, `You are NOT who I was
expecting just now...' Still, the 19-year-old defender, back in the
Newcastle squad lately after such a long absence, but Andy's close
friend and ally throughout the year, grinned quite gladly at him,
suggesting it was not such an undesirable surprise.

Then, suddenly, there was a second voice, and Andy jerked his gaze past
Paul's vague welcome to further into the cosy half-light of the
apartment, and the man's head and shoulders (all bare and a little shiny
with sweat) leaning from a doorway. `Did they remember my curry sauce?'
came another soft Tyneside accent, but the question died in his mouth
when his eyes locked on Andy's, then the head and shoulders immediately
vanished back through the doorway.

`Andy,' whispered Paul awkwardly.

`Gillespie?' Carroll asked in a slow trance, piecing together what he
was seeing: Dummo in his sexy little shorts, robe draped so casually
about him as if it had just been pulled on, that satisfied leer on his
face. The red-faced goalkeeper peeking cheekily around a doorway as if
his naked body needed hidden. The closeness and banter between the two on
the coach earlier today. Oh fuck.

He backed off awkwardly form the doorway. `Sorry,' he mumbled. `It was
nothing.'

`Have you even got owt on under that gilet, mucker?' Dummo asked him.

`I'll go,' he said vaguely, turning away to walk down the long
elevated passage, passing the doors to other expensive apartments on this
small city block. There was a pause and then the patter of bare feet
after him on the brutalist concrete. Paul's hand grasped his arm.

`I'm sorry I didn't tell you,' Dummett whispered. `It's... kinda
new, still.'

`It's none of my business!' Andy said prudishly, flushing and finding
it hard to meet his friend's eyes; shocked and judgmental even though
he'd just parted his legs for Alan fucking Shearer and dashed naked
through his garden. `I'll leave you to it, man, and erm...'

`Andy,' said Paul, squeezing his arm a bit. `What's up? You look like
shite. Come on in, will ya?' A little smile curled his lips. `Come in,
we're waiting for a Chinese, y'know, and... well, maybe we can help you
with that...?'

It hadn't crossed Andy's mind in his hasty dressing, other than as a
physical obstacle, that his rigid boner had remained throughout the
escape from the master bedroom and being hoyed out of the house by his
favourite footballer. He certainly hadn't realised it was still
straining at his back-to-front undies and tight sweatpants all the way
down the roads into the city, or parking up down below on the quiet
frosty street.

Now he stared down at the visible ridge in the black fabric, as if it
exposed him to the whole world and screamed out what he'd been up to,
lying on his back and squealing his pleasure at Big Al. He looked back at
Paul's kind, smirking face, and felt his grip tighten more on his arm
muscle. `Come on in, man,' the other Geordie muttered dismissively,
`and let us cheer you up...'



He lay back against the soft couch, his legs open and his cock quivering,
staring incredulously down at the thin face of Gillespie, going to town
on his cock in a lavish blowjob. He had taken to the new reserve quickly,
a fellow Gateshead lad who had started out in the Newcastle youth ranks
at a similar time to himself and Paul, returning home to provide back-up
to Dubrovka and Darlow. The bloke had a missus and a young kid, seemed so
straitlaced and normal, and yet... well, isn't that what people would say
about him too, and about Dummo...?

Dummo was next to him, stroking his neck and shoulders, and guiding his
hand onto his own hard cock. Andy jerked at it while his cock was
sloppily serviced, the three of them a tangled tableau on the sofa --
both of the secret Geordie lovers were sheened with sweat and the smell
of their afternoon sex hung in the air. When Paul's orgasm spilled
against his hand, he knew it was his second cum in as many hours, heard
the soft lazy chuckle of extra pleasure from him -- then Paul leaned in
to kiss his chest and lick one of his nipples, and Mark's mouth moved
from his cock to his balls, teasing them with flicking motions.

As he did so, tonguing each big heavy bollock, Paul's hand now found
Andy's huge hard-on for him, and began to finish him off. All Carroll
could do was lie there gasping, head turned to the ceiling, while these
two... boyfriends, if that's what they were, enjoyed his body and brought
him to the orgasm that he'd been on the verge of since Shearer's cock
entered his body.

Sweat trickled down his long neck and against his liberated mane, and
down each muscled curve of his tall body. Paul's mouth danced across his
pec and up to the side of his neck, so tickling and stimulating, wow...
and Mark's kisses roved from thigh to thigh and back to his balls. And
his mammoth cock twitched and jerked to Dummett's skilled strokes and
then -- OH YES -- he was cumming, streaming thick white spunk over
Mark's red-brown hair and over his own muscular legs. He gasped and
frowned and sucked in air.

Moments later, Gillespie and Dummett were up on their feet, laughing,
Paul playing with Mark's meat, and snogging quite openly as they stood
there in just their socks. Andy watched them, silent except for heavy
gasps of satisfaction; his arse still ached and stung below. He watched
in amazement as Dummett kissed passionately at the other studly
footballer, his old friend reunited, and found himself frantically
reprogramming his view of the handsome stocky defender: not just a
helpful friend in crisis, if he was really into this stuff, and now
with...? He blinked confusedly at them and found it all a bit too much to
process.

The doorbell chimed and Paul slid back into that robe, closing it more
carefully over his naked crotch, and disappearing into the hall. Still
naked, Mark hung about in the centre of the big lounge, grinning
bashfully at Andy as if unable to believe he'd just been allowed to go
down on him. Andy stared awkwardly back at him then averted his gaze,
ignoring the quiet gambit of chitchat and beginning to grab at the shed
items of his own clothing.

`Fuck, this smells good,' Paul announced, rejoining them with a big
white carrier bag in one hand. `Andy mate, you wanna stay...? Ordered
plenty, you can tuck in and just-`

`Nah, nah,' Carroll told him without looking at him, dragging his
undies up and then the sweatpants, then doing a rush job of tying back
his impressive hair. `I need to get home, man.' He ignored half-hearted
pleas from the other two, then noticed when they stopped talking again,
as if he'd already left. He jerked the sleeveless top over his bare body
and zipped it up, then marched out of the room and the sickly smell of
Chinese takeaway.

`Andy, hang on,' came Paul's lazy voice of concerned friendship.

`Need to gan,' Andy barked back, reaching the door and letting himself
out into the biting cool air, ready to race down to the car and back to
his fiancée. He'd been far too long now, but his alibi at least was
safe; if Paul was happy to lick his nipple and wank his cock, he was
happy to lie on his behalf, no questions asked. Such a good friend. So
loyal and helpful.

As Andy got into the car and redid his hair in the mirror, glaring at the
sweaty glow of his handsome face, he briefly confronted the horrible
sensation of... jealousy? Heartache? Just pure surprise? He pictured Paul
and Mark kissing in a kind of sickly horror, and realised how much he had
misunderstood Dummett's interest when helping him out with all those
toys a year ago. There had been more there than he'd seen, hadn't
there? Oh fuck, what an idiot he'd been... Shaken and tired, he started
up the car and drove home, pausing in a car park to get properly dressed
and wiped himself down of sweat, and readying his lies for why it had
taken him so long to get home to them all today. All the while, fighting
down the sense of hurt and disappointment at the way two different men
had treated him today, and deciding it was all entirely self-inflicted.



*A LONG OVERDUE RETURN TO NEWCASTLE... AND FINALLY, A PROMISE FULFILLED!*

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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