Date: Sat, 9 Jan 2021 13:04:34 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads PArt 223

Part 223: An Italian Stallion Returns


He had come straight from the airport to the training ground and had to
stifle a little yawn as he was helped with his bags in the car park and
assisted indoors to be greeted. Thin January snow was falling from a
pearlescent afternoon sky and the temperatures bit at him with a little
more ferocity than he had become used to in Florence of late -- though
his extended Christmas break with family by the Italian lakes had been
buried beneath much fuller snow than this.

The 23-year-old striker ambled through the reintroductions with a strange
sense of ambivalence: this was all potentially exciting, but it was also
an odd repetition, and an unexpected change that he had yet to get his
head around. After all, Patrick Cutrone had not spent long here at his
new club before being signed away on the Fiorentina loan deal, he was now
more settled and at home at that `temporary' club than the Premier
League lightweights who had now recalled him at short notice to bolster
their attacking prowess during a major injury absence. Patrick, to the
slight knock of his manly young ego, had barely been consulted about the
decision, agreed between his agent and the Wolverhampton management, and
in little over twenty-four hours he had gone from prepping for
Fiorentina's next match to landing at a Midlands airport and returning
to the grey British gloom.

He tried his best to smile enthusiastically at the staff who were now
welcoming him, ushering his limited luggage off to a safe spot until it
could be collected and delivered to his new accommodation; it wasn't
that he was specifically unhappy to be back or uninterested in resuming
action for the Wanderers, he was just a little dazed. And he had been
really beginning to enjoy himself in Tuscany, really establishing his
place in that squad after so many months of competition.

The Wolves head coach and a couple of older guys in suits spoke excitedly
to him about his prospects and the whole club's joy at having him back
here after so long on loan, and there was something a little too
performative in it for Cutrone to feel fully convinced. He knew the deal:
he was a plaster to be stuck over a wound, a much-needed solution. None
of this was about `Supporting and facilitating' his `career
trajectory', but about what Wolverhampton desperately needed to keep
them afloat; also, he noticed, the three men kept stopping and dumbing
down their words, as if the young Italian was not almost entirely fluent
in English.

Cutrone bit back his little pangs of petulance, especially when he was
informed he would not be able to spring straight into the afternoon's
training session when the men finished their lunch break, because of a
series of fitness and wellness tests he had to be put through during the
afternoon. The thought of kicking a ball and reconnecting with the
players he barely knew had sustained him on the stop-start journey here
all morning, and now he faced nothing but prim diagnostics and being
handled like a lab-rat. Meraviglioso.

He prowled along with his hands in the pockets of his sleek black
tracksuit bottoms, pulling them taut about his hips and glutes, nodding
along and smiling obediently at the rambling older men who were doing
their best to make him feel important and excessively welcome, yet
denying him the afternoon of football that would actually relax and
please him.

`Aha, and here are some of the boys,' barked the elder of the suited
fellas, some corporate dude who didn't seem to know what was going on,
grinning stupidly at the three Wolves-tracksuited men rounding the corner
as if trying to remember their challenging foreign names.

Patrick turned and smiled at the lads, recognising them instantly and
giving them a polite nod of greeting as they approached in a noisy
triangle of machismo -- three dark-haired Portuguese athletes, a staple
of the English club's line-up. He grabbed hearty handshakes with them
one at a time: grizzled 30-something Joao Moutinho, clapping him on the
shoulder and welcoming him in smooth Italian as if it was his first
language; Ruben Neves, squeezing his paw in both hands and nodding
frenetically at him, enthusing about the ridiculous goals they would
achieve together; and visibly younger than the other two, Pedro Neto, the
boyishly handsome winger who had shot to prominence during the time
Patrick had spent back in his home country, dimpled smile of respect and
admiration.

`Ah,' interrupted the head coach now in a steady voice, `this is
convenient...'

`My new house friend,' Neto said in clumsy English, letting go of
Patrick's hand and giving him another of his bright-eyed youthful
smiles. The two older players seemed to snigger at either his poor
phrasing or his boyish enthusiasm. Cutrone blinked slowly at him and then
registered his probably meaning, glancing at the gaffer for
clarification.

`Yes, young Pedro here lives in a big house we own,' the boss
explained, `and you are to lodge there for the time being, provided you
haven't already made any, er, plans of your own...?'

`No,' Patrick said vaguely, the strange blur of today only enhanced by
the realisation he hadn't even thought about where exactly he would be
living -- and an odd reminder of how temporary his living arrangements
felt, drifting from managed properties in Florence and Wolverhampton,
housed and organised by his employers as if he was incapable of arranging
a house for himself. Well, it was a helpful gesture by them, and it would
certainly be welcome in the short-term.

`It is massive house,' boasted Pedro pleasantly, nodding quickly. `I
very happy to have you join.'

`Good, good,' Patrick said, as the two taller and older Portuguese
players pulled at Pedro by the shoulders and collar, and more footballers
streamed out of the opposite door, exiting the site's canteens and
psyching themselves up for the afternoon training sessions. Patrick took
a step back, grinning amiably at his reunited teammates but with a pang
of jealousy for the liberating play they would engage in while he was led
away to be assessed by a bunch of charmless experts.



It was not such a bad afternoon -- he knew he was being a little
impatient and sulky about it, tired from an early start and the upheaval
of quitting that beautiful Florentine loft apartment. Rushed goodbyes to
his Fiorentina pals last night, as well, including that troublemaker
Riccardo Sottil who had become such a close confidante over the course of
this season, two young men approaching their prime and desperate to
become first team regulars at their club -- well, maybe Ritchie would
achieve it, but Patrick was back in the Premiership...!

The surreal sense of newness quickly began to fade. The various members
of training and support staff who dealt with him today seemed to fondly
recognise him and make a fuss of his comeback, none of the cool
strangeness of being a total newcomer; warm memories of his exciting
first arrival at Wolves surfaced and made him feel more positive about
his second-chance in England. He could remember how thrilled he had been
to sign for a Premier League side after his formative years in Milan, and
how strange it had been to be sent back to the Italian football world so
rapidly! On the plane here t his morning, he had allowed himself to
fantasise not only about the goals he would score at Wolverhampton, but
about the buzz of interest that would ensue from the bigger names here in
the UK: the Manchesters, the massive London teams... this place could be a
stepping stone to even bigger success and fame, he supposed
egotistically.

With that ambition tucked aside, the 23-year-old Italian stallion
tolerated a dull afternoon of extra medical checks and little fitness
trials, nodding and smiling through the admiring feedback of various club
employees and pausing only once to feel resentment when he was passing
between appointments and found himself at a second-storey window
overlooking the training field, looking out at his `new' colleagues
acting out a jokily competitive friendly game to end their day's work,
preparing for an FA Cup challenge tomorrow night. He supposed it was not
likely he would make an appearance quite so soon, but it was possible.

When he was done for the afternoon, he gladly took up the offer of a
chance to shower and change; waking up in his own bed in the apartment
felt like at least two days ago now, rather than a matter of hours, and
he really needed to refresh his sweaty body before the fuss of lugging
his things to a new home and trying to settle in with the Portuguese lad
and whoever else lived there.

Making the most of his own company, the footballer found his way into the
more private end of the changing facilities, opting for the privacy of
the separated shower cubicles here since nobody else was around and
communal showers always seemed creepy horror movie scenes to him when
they were empty. It didn't seem as if any of the other players had come
indoors yet from their playful contest, so he whistled idly to himself
and undressed from his tracksuit and the layered vests and shorts below
it, sheened with a little sweat from proving himself all day, and the
musty smell of a long journey emanating from his thick pale muscles.

The 6ft stud piled his things very neatly on a shelf, almost militaristic
in his self-discipline, and then disappeared with his toilet bag into one
of the square cubicles, pulling the curtain shut behind him and shivering
a little in his own nudity before getting hot and wet. He was impatient
to be hosed down in steaming water, but he hesitated, fussing among the
organised contents of a leathery little toilet bag, wondering if he ought
to shave off his thick dark stubble to help freshen up, and distractedly
hearing other footsteps ring out in the echoey space beyond his inactive
shower. Whispered voices and rustling clothing, not quite audible to him.
He didn't think much of it, squirting some shaving foam into his palms
and rubbing it softly across his jowls.

It dimly occurred to him then that his own presence was a bit hidden,
with his clothes so neatly piled away and his shower not yet roaring into
life, and he considered shouting some vague English greeting to make
himself known -- but standing here naked from head to toe, that prospect
seemed weirdly exposing and needless, so he just stood quietly massaging
the white foam into his face and neck, then selecting his razor to go to
work. Close to, another shower curtain yanked back and forth with such a
loud rustle that he briefly thought his own was being opened and his
lightly-haired naked form was being spied on. But no, it was the next
cubicle, he realised, standing awkwardly as he heard a shuffle of
footsteps and creaks and then two distinctly different voices murmuring
just below a volume he could make out.

`This has to be quick,' came the first voice, a little raspy and
growling. Patrick was not yet great with the oddly rich patchwork of
accents that marked the United Kingdom's English speakers, but this was
one of those quite distinctive ones he definitely associated with another
famous footballer.

`Quick, yes,' came the second voice, one that felt more immediately
familiar, but really could have been any one of half a dozen guys: Latin
and fragmented, Spanish or Portuguese or potentially even a fellow
Italian.

`And you tell nobody,' snapped the first voice, quite moodily, `I mean
-- not a fucking soul, okay?'

Cutrone stood awkwardly still with razor in hand, a dreadful image of
what these two odd voices signified coming to mind, and a horrible sense
of his accidental voyeurism here in the parallel shower compartment. He
could shout out, or clear his throat loudly, or pull the knob on the wall
and make the shower hiss loud enough to announce himself. He didn't
though, paralysed by anxious recognition at the excited gasp (`Yes, I
tell nobody, I keep quiet, yes') and then the growling command (`Get on
yer knees then, la'.') that followed.

More shuffling and noise, more rustling of clothing. A little creak of
the dividing plyboard between them that made the naked striker back an
inch away from it, gulping. And then, inexplicably but firmly, it felt
too late to make his presence known, he had waited too long, heard too
much; he felt trapped, hovering there and shivering at the nipples and
thighs, while through the thin divide he heard heavy moaning breaths and
a sort of wet sloppy noise.

It went on and on. He could hear the little thuds of a strong hand
against that divide, as one of the men supported himself and continued to
breathe very heavily and frustratedly; and the little damp slap noises of
feet and legs on the ground, the occasional muffled giggle and purr from
whoever else was in there. And then came all the confirmation Cutrone
needed of at least one identity, and of exactly what was happening in
there: `Captain, cum on my face, please captain...' Fucking hell.
Ridicolo!

Perhaps it was a matter of minutes, but to the prudish Italian, it felt
closer to an hour. And when `it' was finished, there was a long phase
of gasping recovery breaths and some murmurs of speech from one or both
of them that he couldn't make out; he was in no mood to press his ear to
the wall and strain for the snatches of dialogue from in there. He stood
hot-cheeked and horrified, and realised he was gripping the razor so
tightly that he'd cut his thumb. A single drop of his blood hit the
shower floor and its drip sound was deafeningly loud to him, but
irrelevant to the guys in there. Angry at something he couldn't name,
the striker placed the razor back inside his toilet bag, and flinched at
a fresh rustling sound of curtain -- one of them was leaving.

He couldn't help the rush of curiosity. He let a moment pass and then
unfurled a tiny amount of the plastic sheeting, peering out into the dim
space beyond: even from behind, there was something distinctive about his
physique and his gait, his dark hair and slim muscular shoulders. He was
shirtless but in black shorts, grabbing a jersey up from somewhere and
yanking it on as he walked away, his back to the showers, but then
pausing to stoop by a sink at the wall to wash his face, which was
briefly visible in the misty glass to confirm Patrick's suspicion. With
eyes as innocent as an angel, Pedro Neto grinned at himself in the
mirror, and then the 5ft8 youngster disappeared from the changing rooms,
and Cutrone let the curtain fall fully back into place. To his side, the
other cubicle was now filled with the sound of blasting water and the
other secretive footballer washing away his sins -- a thought that made
Patrick clutch weakly at the little catholic crucifix at his neck, and
then safely activate his own shower without fear of embarrassment.

He took his time, hoping to avoid the occupant of the neighbouring
cubicle, washing away the wasted shaving foam and a little streak of his
own blood, unable to quite relax and refresh himself as much as he would
have liked. All of the little noises and snatched exchanges of what had
gone on next to him just kept returning in the steam, sinful little peeks
at behaviour he had been raised to condemn. Behaviour he had vowed he
would never let happen again.

When he turned off the water and reached for his towel, he assumed the
space outside would be quiet and abandoned, though he could already hear
the echo of voices from further away, the main changing facilities now
fully occupied by the squad. Instead, he found himself sharing the narrow
room with another steaming body wrapped in a matching pale orange towel.
The Wolverhampton captain seemed briefly perturbed and paranoid at not
being alone in here, but then regained composure, and stuck a welcoming
hand his way across the centre of the changing room.

`So good to have you back, mate,' he said, in that slightly crackling
accent that Patrick could now place as Liverpudlian -- it sounded like
Premiership greats like Steven Gerrard to him, an accent he'd always
found particularly odd and hard to follow... even in the voice of his own
temporary flatmate just last year, who promised him that he barely had an
accent at all.

`Yes,' Cutrone told him hesitantly. `Yes, it is good to be back.'

The captain spoke on, rapidly. Conor Coady was a tall, rugged figure,
something very cheerful and satisfied in his body language as he politely
asked about Patrick's day and journey and how he was feeling about it
all -- stuff few others had bothered to ask today, as it happened. Of
course, Patrick found it impossible to look at or listen to him when he
knew exactly why the 6ft2 defender was so smugly content right now,
having heard every gasp of it through an inch of cheap material.

`You know what,' went on Coady in his quick Scouser accent, `I even
reckon you'll make the bench tomorrow night, matey. That's how much we
need ya. It's all the gaffer keeps saying. They're worried, and you
will be a fucking HERO if you live up to it.'

Cutrone stumbled over a dozen obvious replies to this friendly patter,
hesitant to remove his towel and dry himself properly in front of this
strange perverse man, a shocking figure to be up to such things, so
level-headed and respectable in his memory of his previous spell here. He
kept picturing the cheeky angelic look on Neto's face in the mirror, the
Portuguese youngster checking himself out before darting away from the
scene of the crime. His flatmate, for god's sake!

`Hero,' the older bloke repeated. `What's up?'

`Hmm?'

`You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost, or summat.'

`What? Er -- a ghost?'

`Sorry, ignore that, stupid English saying...'

`I am fine. I am okay.'

`Right, cool. Sweet. Erm.'

And that was more or less as far as the conversation went. Coady seemed
to abandon his earnest captain efforts at being welcoming and chatty,
moving a little further from him and turning his back to him as he dried
off properly, briefly exposing a round muscular bottom of his smooth
body, then wriggling into fresh clean clothes. Patrick cursed himself for
looking and rushed to dress too, his cock and balls still damp in his
re-used boxer shorts and his upper body feeling too hot and irritable.

`We'll have to give you a proper welcome party,' Conor was saying
lightly over his shoulder, `you know, when we're actually allowed out
of our own homes, haha, and...' Patrick didn't hear the rest of this,
because he was already muscling his way out of the changing rooms and
letting the door slam rudely behind him, totally unconcerned by making a
terrible first impression on his captain, just desperate to be out of
that seedy room and away from the echoing memory of `Get on your knees,
then, la'.'



It turned out to be just the two of them, occupying a modern detached
house that could probably have homed seven or eight adult men. The luxury
of the place was a bit embarrassing with just two young guys living in
its sparse rooms, but Neto seemed to like it; the 20-year-old was as
excited as a puppy to have a friend to share it with for a while, and was
totally unfazed by Cutrone's moody silences and efforts to distance in
the long evening hours. He had snapped repeatedly at his new housemate
while unpacking his things and dealing with a load of messages and
emails, trying to make it clear he wanted to be alone, but then the
Portuguese lad had taken the liberty of ordering dinner in for them and
returned to the door of his chosen room to demand his company.

Patrick was moody and conflicted, but he was not very good at being
anti-social, so he had relented, and was now sat at opposite ends of a
stupidly long dining table with the other migrant footballer, feeling
embarrassed at the sweet effort Pedro had made by ordering a selection of
very authentic pasta dishes for him from some local Italian eatery.

He had of course resolved to say nothing of what he overheard: he had no
interest in letting that sort of strange, chaotic behaviour complicate
his football relationships any more! Not after what happened at
Fiorentina. It had taken several heavily stressed conversations with
Sottil to make the other player stop making subtle jokes about it,
teasing the prospect of a little more fun between them like the drunken
night in the apartment. And then, of course, there was the other time,
when it was just he and... well, that didn't matter. He had gone, hadn't
he, without even a proper goodbye...?

Patrick had spent long hours confessing his sins in church, desperate to
be cleansed of it.

It turned out Neto spoke a little Italian and that made the conversation,
largely about the upcoming match and how Wolves were doing in the League,
a little easier, the two of them slipping between languages and the
younger lad so evidently delighted to have some company in his free
mansion. He seemed a sweet kid, Patrick slowly concluded, trying to
forget his purring murmurs in the next shower cubicle, his breathy
giggles and `Please captain'. He was also a very talented player,
Patrick new, both from memory and from recent reputation.

And then conversation turned to one particular aspect of the team, and
the strain on his patience and tolerance reached breaking point. `He is
excellent captain,' trilled the Portuguese winger, sliding between
snatches of English and Italian, `a great leader for the team. You know
they only finally let him play for England last year, at 27, can you
believe that, he was so happy about it and...'

`You need to be careful of him,' Cutrone barked suddenly, cutting off
the little rant of admiration.

`Sorry?'

`You need to watch out for him,' he said, staring at the dregs of his
meal rather than looking directly at the younger athlete. `He is a
dangerous man, Conor Coady, let me tell you that. You should watch out
for people like that, otherwise you will...'

`Paddy,' giggled Pedro now, `don't be silly, Coady is-`

`I know,' he snapped, opening up the terrible topic. `I heard
everything today, you idiot.' He looked up with his fierce dark eyes,
staring down the long table at this sweet young lad who had been so
incredibly welcoming to him. `I heard what you and he got up to, Neto. I
feel sick thinking about it.' Across from him, the boy's mouth hung
open and he slowly put down his forkful of tagliatelle, his whole posture
drooping with private horror. Pedro went to say something several times
but gave up, just sitting now in stunned silence, looking as if slapped
in the face. Patrick stared at him, feeling cruel and harsh, but his
anger and righteousness only intensified by how likeable and almost
innocent the 20-year-old actually seemed.

`Please,' Pedro murmured at last, `please do not tell...'

`Who would I tell?' he demanded hotly. `Except maybe my priest! It is
a sin, my friend. A sin!'

Pedro's cheeks went crimson and he pulled back in his seat. `Please,
Paddy, just-`

`You degrade yourself for him,' he accused with strong feeling. `You
let him use you.'

The sweet youngster squirmed and winced at this. `It is not like that, I
think, erm -- Please, please just forget what you... Oh god...' And he
tumbled back into quick curses in his own language, pushing away from the
table and getting up to his feet, jittery and clumsy in his long baggy
board shorts and the loose hoody he wore. Patrick scraped back his chair
and got up too instinctively, remaining at the far end of the table.

`It is crazy,' he ranted. `A captain, behaving like that! Treating you
that way. Disgusting. Who does he think he is? How long as this been
happening?' he demanded, taking a few strides towards Pedro. `How long
as he been treating you like that? You need to stop it and look after
your soul and your body, friend, this is-` He could hear the old world
formality in his rambling, the stupid echoey words of a priest in a
Catholic church -- he didn't like to hear himself be so severe and
dogmatic, and the shaky nervous expression on the other player's face
made him feel guilty and cruel again.

Pedro, boyish behind his tufty goatee, hugged his arms across the front
of his baggy hoody. `Patrick, it just happened,' he whispered
confidingly. `I never did anything like this before England, you see.
Never back in Portugal, not at Lazio before... erm...' He groaned in
dismay. `I don't know. It has been so lonely in Wolverhampton.' The
town sounded strangely exotic in his clumsy accent. `And just before
Christmas, really, it happened, and... Oh dear god, please do not be angry
with me, Patrick. I just wanted to be friends. I am so ashamed. Oh dear
god.'

Cutrone felt the white heat of his indignation recede, but he still felt
queasy with disgust -- at himself and his own recent past far more than
the quivering wreck now in front of him. `I am not angry at you,' he
said thickly, knowing this was not fully true, but now unsure what he was
really railing against. Again, he slipped into simplistic Catholic
doctrine: `It is dangerous for you to do these things, Neto, don't you
realise that?! These dirty Englishmen, they don't care, but...'

`I don't know how it happened,' Pedro moaned naively. `But... oh god,
I cannot believe you HEARD us... oh fuck...' He rubbed both hands over his
blotchy red face, a handsome tragedy. `He is the captain, you see, I
wanted to be friends with him, but then... it is my fault, though, it is
me, not him, I did it, you know, I am the dirty one...'

`No,' Patrick found himself mumbling, contradicting his own churned-out
homophobia and then falling awkwardly silent, standing quite close to the
other footballer now. `These things... happen,' he grunted in a softer,
more negotiable tone, his head spinning. It had been such a long and
overwhelming day. `But you should not... Pedro, my friend, why make
yourself so weak for him...? It is not right,' he insisted, but less
strenuously, `and he will not respect you when... ugh...' They both of
them stood there, a couple of feet apart, everything in their stance
awkward and hesitant.

`I don't know what to say,' Neto muttered.

`Neither do I,' he growled back, rubbing at his temples, and thinking
for a moment of his girlfriend who would soon move out here to join him;
the other side of his complex guilt at his frenzied experimenting in a
bed with two other Fiorentina players. He grimaced and frowned and rubbed
at his face and stood there, dressed still in the musty warm tshirt and
trackies of his flight into England, sweating quite profusely at his hot
after-dinner temper.

`Paddy...?'

`You don't need to say anything,' he grumbled, forlorn. `I should not
have shouted...'

`No, Paddy...'

`What? What is it?'

`Erm... my friend...'

He opened his eyes fully, stared at the handsome young guy, confused by
his quizzical expression, finding his quiet charms hard to link up with
the behaviour he'd overheard so vividly between those shower
compartments today at the training ground. And then he realised that
Pedro's nervous expression was indicating gently downwards, and he
followed his eyes, looked down at the front of his own glossy black
bottoms, and- ah, right. Fuck. Porco cane! For God's sake!

He stammered out his indignity. `I... that is... I just... why...'

A soft, slurring half-laugh from the other guy, full of excitement and
nervous tension. `Patrick,' he teased in that quiet little voice, both
of them looking at the very long and very obvious protrusion in the sleek
material. The tracksuit bottoms were too tightly fitted to hide any rigid
stirring in their crotch, and Cutrone could just gawp at the unfelt
erection that now pressed so strenuously at the front of his pants,
utterly rubbishing his Catholic condemnation.

`Pedro,' he breathed back with a tone of half-hearted warning.

`These things happen,' Neto said, quoting him. And then, yep, sure
enough, this thing happened.

Without needing a gruff snarling command like that of their captain,
Pedro sank down to the tiled floor on his bare knees, and leaned in and
nuzzled at the front of those trackies. Patrick shuddered in acceptance,
angry now only at his own body and apparently raging hormones. His cock
twitched and throbbed in its clothed restriction, feeling nose, lips,
fingers caress at its monstrous outline. He put a hand over his face and
sighed, tried to shut out guilty thoughts of his girlfriend, who had been
so pissed off when he informed her they were moving to the UK. Well,
imagine how pissed off she'd be if she could see THIS.

The touching became a little firmer, Pedro grabbing experimentally at his
pipe through the rustling nylon, then beginning to peel at the waist of
them, undoing the tight little drawstring and draggin them downwards,
exposing patches of dark-haired thigh and the heavily loaded boxer
briefs, their print pattern distorted by the engorged shape now
stretching them. Cutrone opened his eyes long enough to watch his thick
long meat drawn out into the air and stroked once, then shut them again,
unable to bear seeing the wide opening of Neto's mouth and the tremulous
action of his stooping face. He could shut out the sight of it, but not
the sensation; a shivering sigh of delight escaped his pursed lips
between the unshaven stubble, and he considered the many ways he could
say `No thanks' or `Fuck off' to his confused junior.

But he didn't, he just stood there in the long cool dining room of their
shared mansion, his trackies and underpants stretched halfway down his
thick thighs, Pedro's hands tracing that line and tickling at his leg
hair, his mouth and tongue working at the tip and shaft of the big
Italian sausage. Patrick tried to hold in the sighs but they escaped
inevitably as the blowjob slowly worked onwards. It was as alarmingly
pleasant as the last time he had been touched by another man, and the
memories of that were far more troubling than just accepting the present
moment. That had been disastrous, he thought for the thousandth time, he
had been so heavy-handed and stupid, gone too far... he had sinned and
sinned again, and he had driven that poor boy away, broken a friendship...
ugh.

`Is that okay?' whispered Neto in a pause, his fingers still dancing
against the side of the thick shaft, looking up at him. Cutrone stared
dismally at him, seeing again that great aura of innocence that had
seemed so jarring and appalling against the sound of him pleasuring their
English captain. Now HE was the one degrading him, he thought, standing
here with his raging hard cock, and this boy making a slut of himself on
his knees, eyes full of neediness. Oh fuck.

`We should not,' he muttered pointlessly; Pedro half-smiled and ran his
tongue against the red tip, making him moan more loudly, really lapping
about the glans of his head and pushing back his foreskin and making him
TREMBLE.

He was unsteady on his feet with the pleasure of it, so he moved. He
grabbed roughly at the neck of Pedro's hoody and yanked him along after
him, bringing him up to his feet and crossing the room -- down a few
steps into the sweeping lounge area, and then flopping onto one of the
big brightly coloured sofas, arse to the cushions and legs parted just
enough. Pedro's head quickly swooped down and his mouth was back around
the prized cock, the big Italian meat; Patrick stroked uselessly at his
short soft hair and the warm back of his neck, closing his eyes against
the transgression and pre-emptive regret, just needing this pleasure.

Instinctively, he let his right hand move further over the lean muscular
back of the short Portuguese man, rubbing down his spine through the
thick soft fabric of the hoody, then peeling it away to stroke his lower
back. Questing beyond that: fingers moving under the tight waistband of
some unseen designer undies and finding the warm space between his
footballer's glutes. Pushing in there, one finger into the warm moist
crack, unable to stop himself, his hands restless. Against his cock,
Pedro whined a little. Patrick pushed on, feeling the surprising
hairiness of the cheeks and crack, forcing in a finger and...

Neto wasn't even sucking on him now, just kissing at his far thigh,
leaning heavily across his lap, shifting a little to make the angle
easier, so that Cutrone could reach into his underpants and properly frig
his tight inexperienced hole with a single thick digit. He didn't know
why he was doing it, just as he didn't know why he'd felt the need to
do it to... him. Well, it was what he did, wasn't it? When you were with
a girl! Like normal. So... in his finger went, in and out, opening up that
tight little entrance, something in Pedro's hot gasps suggesting it had
never been tried before, no wonder it felt like a vice around his
fingertip...

And then Pedro was making such an odd noise, quite a strangled sort of
sigh, and Patrick was briefly confused, until he felt it, hot and wet, on
his thigh... He stopped his hand and rested it at the base of the boy's
spine, and stared down at the back of his head hovering over his crotch,
realising how excited his housemate had become. He hadn't even noticed
him start to wank. And now he could feel his seed cooling against his
skin, could smell its salty burn in the air. Ugh! Neto retreated quickly
and he saw it, the greasy slick of cum on his leg muscle, and he stared
resentfully at the younger athlete at this offensive gesture. He swore at
him in Italian.

`Sorry,' murmured the other man sheepishly, clambering backwards on the
sofa, his hard cock jutting out between hoody and shorts, the tip slick
with his orgasm, a deep red flush all down his cheeks and neck. `Nobody
ever... your finger... oh my...!'

Patrick ignored him, standing upright and grabbing a colourful cushion to
rub aggressively at his leg, desperate to remove the condemning stain of
spunk. He ignored the quiet bleating of Pedro's speech, continuing to
swear loudly. Then Pedro's hand came reaching for his cock where it
stood proudly from his hairy crotch, and he batted it away with a hard
slap. `No,' he said coldly. `No more.' He turned and glared furiously
at the sweet lad he'd just fingered, seeing the hurt in his eyes, but
his own pride and confused regret were much stronger than his protective
fondness for the other Wolves player -- this had been a fucking stupid
mistake, and on his first night back in the country...!

Cutrone pushed his tool uncomfortably back into his pants as he dragged
them up, moving away form the sofa and ignoring the dampness he could
still feel between his thigh and the pants. He began loudly talking about
how delicious the pasta had been, what a nice dinner it was, but how much
better his mama's cooking was back by Lake Como in his home village. He
glanced back to see Pedro Neto just sitting awkwardly on the couch
covering up his exposed penis with one hand and scratching his bearded
chin with the other, looking totally mortified. He ignored this and spoke
on, ignoring also the fat hard-on on his pants, and returning to the
dining table to start clearing up.



His cock never quite relaxed for the rest of the night, a chubby semi in
his pants as he and Pedro watched a football game on television in frigid
silence. When he went upstairs and finished unpacking, it throbbed
inconveniently and he almost stopped for a wank, considering ringing up
his woman in Italy and getting her to talk dirty for him. But he still
felt a bit queasy at the easiness with which he had fed his meat to Pedro
and then pushed a finger inside him, so he held back from that hetero
solution. But when he went through into one of the large bathrooms and
undressed beside the slowly running bath, he found his cock still large
and semi-hard beneath the dark curl of his pubes, and he couldn't help
but play with it while he waited for the frothy tub to fill.

Soaking in the hot water, he dragged and pulled at himself, breathing in
the aromatic steam, finally beginning to relax for the first time today,
his tall athletic body submerged but for the tip of his cock as he toyed
with it. And his mind wandered back to that apartment in Florence,
rushing into one of the sloping bedrooms, wrestling with that young
English lad and with his own conflicting desires...

The way their strong young bodies had tangled and tussled, the things
they had briefly tried before satisfaction and sleep came their way. And
then Patrick, waking alone, the suitcases gone and the apartment left
quiet and emptied. Not a word from Bobby Duncan until he saw the
announcement in a work email: Duncan sold for a small fee back to some
minor English team, not returning for pre-season training after all. He
had never really settled, had made few connections; there was little
discussion of his quiet departure. Who gave it a thought, except for
Patrick Cutrone, who thought about it often, and with little stabs of
private pain...?

The bathwater rippled gently with the jolting spasm of muscle as the
Italian stallion quietly climaxed, his messy load oozing in and mixing
with the bubbles while he relaxed back against the sides of the tub and
let out a long wistful sigh.



A TV blared somewhere in the background as he recovered from the force of
his youthful climax, pushing back against the supportive leathery cushion
of the managerial seat and resting his taut arms on the supports; it
swung and creaked a little on its axis and wheels, and he sucked in deep
mouthfuls of air to recover from the red-faced excitement with which he
had just shot his load, glancing across the office at the wall-mounted
television and the false crowd noise it leaked from another English
football stadium.

He felt Rooney's rough strong hands pat at the tops of his thighs, a
gesture that was both intimate and dismissive, and glancing down he saw
the torn regret in those wide eyes and snarling lips; the rugged freckled
figure pulled back and away, wiping the sleeve of his big coat that he
hadn't even removed to service him, smearing his sticky lips and
red-brown stubble over it to rid himself of traces of Bobby Duncan's
salty load.

While his manager fussed about him now with a quiet mutter of `You tasty
bastard', Bobby relaxed in the weary afterglow, swinging back and forth
in the club manager's seat in this important office at Derby County,
satisfied by yet another discreet `one to one' with the acting head
coach and former England/Man Utd legend, now gargling some water from a
bottle and trying to reach around him to log off the computer, humming to
himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he made out a flash of Wayne's
bristling hardness between the open fronts of his coat, pressing at his
tracksuit bottoms, but the rugged older man had not insisted on any
reciprocation since that first tense encounter. In the four or five
`meetings' since, it had been simple: `Be at my office last thing, and
don't bother showering first.' Or words to that effect.

Still dazed from the intense pleasure of the blowie, the young forward
swung back and looked at the TV -- it was nothing special, not the most
exciting of the cup clashes tonight or over the weekend, just
Wolverhampton Wanderers, against... who, Palace? The second half was well
underway and an Adama Traore goal had the Wolves 1-0 up. Bobby's eyes
rested sleepily on it as he thought how he needed to pull his shorts up
and get out of here before some late-evening cleaner passed by and wanted
to do the gaffer's room. Wayne's fussy body language and distracted
muttering echoed the idea, as if he was impatient for the stocky young
player to shift his meaty legs and fuck off, uninteresting how his cum
was at the back of Rooney's throat.

Duncan was just about to get up from the seat, his hands pressing down
into the armrests, when he paused and stared at the substitution being
announced. The close-up shot of the tall dark figure on the sidelines,
being waved on in place of Fabio Silva, with so little of the match still
to come. No, Bobby thought, it couldn't be, he was still in... wasn't
he? He stared dumbly at the screen. A commentator's voice confirmed his
mad suspicion in a tinny volume: `And here is Patrick Cutrone, fresh
from his spell at Fiorentina, called back by the side in order to...'

`What the fuck?' he muttered under his breath.

Rooney paused in the middle of zipping up a bag at the other end of the
desk, giving him one of those edgy, suspicious looks he was so good at,
then glancing at the screen too. `Wolves, Palace,' he muttered vaguely.
`Well-matched, but no surprise in that result.' He frowned curiously at
him. `What's that look for?'

`Nothing,' Bobby whispered, transfixed for a moment by a close-up of
sturdy dark-haired Paddy on the screen, tucking his Wolves shirt in and
dashing onto the pitch with everyone else, then lost in the pixelated
blur of it all, the final chunk of the game underway. Paddy. Patrick.
Cutrone. Here in England. In Wolverhampton, at the other side of the
Midlands. He realised how tightly he was gripping the sides of the chair,
and how oddly his manager and occasional cock-sucker was staring at him,
and then got up, shaking it off. `Er, thanks for that,' he mumbled
stupidly at the older bloke, as he always did afterwards, never sure what
the hell to say.

`Last time,' Rooney muttered without looking at him. This too was
ritual: every time they `met', he insisted it was a stupid thing and
would NOT be recurring. He was a married bloke with a lot of
responsibility right here. He was totally straight. They both were. Fuck
off, get out. He didn't say another word to Bobby as he picked up his
backpack and let himself out, drifting into the silent corridors of the
training centre and moving towards the car park, his mind racing.

In the car, he stared indecisively at his phone for several long minutes,
put it away twice, then eventually rested his forearms on the steering
wheel and punched in the quick, simple message, hitting send before he
could delete it. `Hey champ. Welcome to UK I guess. Ciao.'




**Do we want to see these two reunited...? Let me know what you thought
of the latest stories and what else needs to happen in 2021. Keeping an
eye on the transfers this month for exciting developments haha.**



Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
  https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share