Date: Sat, 30 Jan 2021 10:52:49 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 231

Part 231: Strikers' Egos


Harry Kane slunk into the Home rooms of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium
with the same heavy disappointment as each of his teammates, taking the
loss to the visitors Scousers hard; the 27-year-old striker, benched in
the first half of the game, was angry for the team at being beaten 3-1
tonight, but as always his ego suffered terribly at any match where he'd
been unable to fire at least one in himself. Lately, his winning
partnership with Son had made such disappointments wonderfully rare, but
tonight felt like a painful dip in that good form.

Having spent the second, more action-packed half of the football match
out of action, a big puffy overcoat was now draped over his clingy kit,
his face clammy with dried sweat and his honey-coloured hair a
dishevelled state as he paraded in after the others, eyes wandering a
little to examine the way they peeled at their kits as soon as they were
through the doorway.

Nearest to him was the one whose body he knew most intimately, and he saw
a flash of those rock-hard abdomen muscles as Eric Dier tugged up on his
dark blue and gold shirt, giving Harry a tantalising side-view of his
thick strong middle above the marginally exposed line of his Sloggi
briefs. Dier finished wiping his sweaty chops with the front of his shirt
and turned his furrowed frown this way, seeming to catch Kane in the
little act of wistful voyeurism; there was accusation in his crystalline
blue eyes. Harry made a face of quietly hurt innocence and the powerful
defender just stalked on, ripping the shirt up and off and baring a
fuller view of his strong pale back as he disappeared through the melee
of undressing men.

Kane's eyes roved half-interestedly: the even paler and tattoo-adorned
physique of the side's solitary goal-scorer of this Thursday night
defeat, Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg muscling past in just a skimpy pair of dark
briefs, loud and confident now he was a bit more settled into his new
team; gruff Irish Matt Doherty standing to the side with both fists
pushed idly into the front of his Tottenham shorts like a sullen scally
teen; the ripped body of the lean Argentine who had replaced Harry on the
pitch tonight being shown off as Erik Lamela stripped bare naked a few
inches from him, cold-shrunken cock exposed in the waxed smooth intimacy
of his crotch. And just beyond him, Kane noticed with a little burst of
regretful memory, a normally shy English lad was reaching the same level
of nudity, shoving down his tight under-shorts and baring his privates
alongside the South American, giving Kane a brief and memory-jolting
picture of young Winks in the nude. For a moment he was in that poolroom
at the England training camp, one Harry used by two more.

In his speed to shift his eyes from the grinning 24-year-old and his Ken
Doll good looks, Harry took a few vague steps forward, his overcoat
rustling, and looked further down the row at the big exposed bottoms of
two Welsh warriors: big experienced Ben Davies, his long lean cheeks a
little furred with dark hair, and beyond him the rounder softer rump of
young Joe Rodon, almost doughy and inviting a squeeze. Blinking
self-consciously at this picturesque landscape of muscle, it occurred to
him that a third figure was missing beside the pair, the other Welsh
wonder of the Spurs squad. He darted his eyes curiously and then
suspiciously among the fray, getting a few elbowed gestures and blunt
calls since he was dawdling in full kit while others disappeared through
into the showers... but he was caught up suddenly in a notable absence
from the changing rooms.

Without responding to any vague remarks, Kane exited the changing rooms
and returned to the tunnel, warm beneath the coat and pawing at the front
of his Spurs shirt with restless hands -- there he was, lingering in this
broad passageway, speaking to one of Mouirnho's assistants. As Kane
joined them out here in the draughty space, whatever they had been saying
cut quickly short and the two men stood in silence, the majestic Cardiff
beast and the thin little Portuguese fella who was glaring quite
intensely at him. Without another word, the assistant manager pulled away
from Gareth Bale and brushed past Kane to go stomp up the tunnel away
from all of the changing facilities, leaving the 31-year-old stood with
drooping broad shoulders and clenched fists. His face shifted and his
expression contorted a little as he spotted Harry standing here and
staring his way.

`What was that?' Kane demanded in one of his low inarticulate murmurs,
approaching his teammate and pushing his hands inside the pockets of his
big coat.

`Nothing,' was all the Welsh winger had to say to the prolific striker
who had all but replaced him during his years abroad, not meeting his
eyes and just curling a lip in one of those dismissive little snarls; it
was the same snarl he made when he was about to cum, Harry knew, from the
half dozen little episodes in which he had brought that creamy orgasm
with his own eager lips.

`Didn't look like nothing.'

`Yeh, well. None of your business.'

`It was about your contract, wasn't it?'

`Leave it out, H -- I need to go get showered, I fucking stink.'

`You smell beautiful.' He lowered his voice further as he released this
seedy compliment, trying a flirty smile on his thin lips and hovering
beside the other well-built footy bloke. `Gareth, we can talk about
this, you know, you can confide in me if you...'

`Well I hope you don't miss my beautiful smell too much when I fly out
of Heathrow in a few days,' Bale snapped moodily back at him, cutting
him off. `For fuck's sake. The way they speak to me! Jesus. The things
I've done in my career, to be treated like this at TWO clubs, fucking
hell...'

Kane was unable to hide the lightning panic that entered his voice. `You
aren't really going to go back there this weekend, are you?' he asked,
hearing the almost teenaged tremble in his question. He reached ah and
for one of Gareth's sleeved arms but the muscular limb was pulled back
from his reach and Bale just gave him an icy stare that was impossible to
read. `Gareth,' he hissed, `you aren't really going to leave me, I
mean, leave the team...'

`It's out of my hands,' Bale almost spat, folding those thick arms
over his chest and shrugging his massive shoulders. `I won't stay here
if I'm getting so few minutes, I don't care what threats are made here
or back at that den of vipers in Madrid. I'm a world-class player, I
deserve better than any of this.' He spat openly on the floor between
them, his face seeming angular and aggressive -- but, to Harry, also
exquisitely beautiful against the electric lighting.

He reached for his arm again, brushing his fingers against the nylon.
`Come and see me tomorrow on our day off,' he insisted in a furtive
whisper, `like you used to, we can talk a bit, and...' He let the
sentence trail sensuously into the air between them, thinking of that
intense first encounter between them in Hart's garden, and the secretive
Christmas-time moments that it had triggered, as he repeatedly blew this
proper hunk and fell further in lust for him.

`No,' came the curt response. Bale bristled with irritation. `I don't
think that's a good idea. I told you, mate. No more of that.' There was
a threatening growl to the purring valleys accent of the Welshman, his
brow creasing down in annoyance. He puffed out his chest, and spat on the
floor again. `No more, Kane, you hear me?' The edges of their squared
shoulders connected with momentary roughness as Gareth moved on, last
into the changing rooms and leaving Kane entirely alone in the tunnel for
a minute of gloomy reflection.



`Hey chess genius -- when are we having that game?!'

He tilted his head, processing down the passageway towards the stairs
with his leg muscles twitching sorely and a thick warming tracksuit over
his shower-heated body, ready to face the chilly London night of the car
park as they met their coach back to the local hotel. He stepped out of
line with the movement of Liverpool players, all quietly delighted with
their away win tonight, but too physically and mentally shattered to be
boisterous in their celebrations on the way out of the stadium.

Trent Alexander-Arnold recognised the voice immediately, and it was nice
to briefly see him out of their playing kits and not in the heat of the
battle; he stepped out of the way of his own red-tracksuited teammates
and lifted his free hand in a gentle wave at the passing figure, giving
him a weary smile and hovering on the landing. `Whenever you're ready
to be destroyed!' he called cheerily at the other infamously
chess-obsessed footballer, with whom he had discussed his geeky hobby at
several points during last year's international breaks.

The other guy hovered in the open doorway, resting one hand on the frame
and giving him a welcoming smile that said nothing about the fact
Liverpool had just whipped the North London team in their empty home
stadium. Trent enjoyed the mildly patronising smile of approval on Eric
Dier's lightly bearded features, little dimples creasing at the sides of
his ruggedly handsome face.

`Huh, I think one defeat from dirty Scousers might be enough for this
month,' the Tottenham player quipped back, stifling an uncomfortable
yawn. `But good to see ya, Trent boy.'

`Yeah,' Alexander-Arnold agreed lightly, sparing an excited thought for
the prospect of further England action this year, especially after his
comeback performance tonight that would reassure Southgate of his prowess
and potential. He was about to make another comment on chess, make some
pun on the football match and his own strategic manoeuvres, but then he
felt a firm hand at the side of his arm, pushing and steering him.

`But one of us needs to bring a board to St George's Park next time!'
Eric called in a friendly manner, retreating a little through the doorway
back into the corridor he had been passing down, his tall strong body
exuding the heat of the showers in the light Spurs-branded leisurewear.
But Trent's attention for him was broken with the strength of the hand
on his shoulder and the other voice suddenly beside him as he was steered
on towards the stairs.

`What is this?' demanded his teammate, cruising along at his left and
manhandling him to the top step without so much as a goodbye glance at
the host player, who must have found it a terribly rude gesture. Trent
stared questioningly at the older Liverpool star next to him, trying to
shrug his hand off his shoulder and regain some control of his own
movements as the two of them began to descend the staircase after the
stream of red nylon ahead.

`What?' the young Scouse lad demanded through a laugh. `He's a
pal.'

Mohamed Salah fixed him with an intense dark look, stomping down the
staircase at his side in matching thick tracksuit, a baseball cap pulled
over his thick dark curls. `While we are in HERE, Arnold, he's an
enemy!' the heroic Egyptian exclaimed firmly. `Ah, you English boys,
what is it with you...?' He tutted and shook his head in some oddly
formal distaste. `All hugs and brotherly -- no wonder you never win
anything as a country. No fighting spirit!'

Trent's laugh died in his mouth as he saw how oddly serious Mo was, and
he just fell reflectively quiet as the two of them reached the hall below
and approached the draughty doors out into the car park. He looked
quizzically at the other guys and then back at Salah too, who actually
looked almost pissed-off. `Nothing wrong with some professional
friendships,' the youthful defender said brightly but uncertainly to
him, tightening the strap of the bag over his shoulder as they stepped
out into the windy night. `It doesn't stop us playing our best!'

`Does it not?' Salah snapped. `There are many things that can distract
us,' he said ominously, `and we have to stay entirely focused.' He
frowned deeply, giving Trent a rather patronising stare. `You need more
fighting spirit, friend.'

After the performance he had given tonight, Trent felt both amused and
challenged by the 28-year-old's remarks, but he was also a little too
dazed and weary to argue back and suggest that Salah was missing the
point -- surely the closer friendships and tighter bonding of the current
England line-up was exactly why they MIGHT win something in the delayed
Euros tournament...? But Trent was a very thoughtful lad and it was hard
for him not to glance reflectively back at the towering form of the
stadium and wonder if it WAS odd for him to stop and greet a Spurs player
so cheerily so soon after fighting them for 3 points.

And then, inevitably, his mind slipped to other rival teams, more
ferociously despised rival teams, and the things he had done that were
far more than a casual greeting or a shared interest in chess... His
preoccupied young face must have fallen at this memory of his
Liverpudlian treachery, because Salah stopped short of the queue of lads
and slapped him firmly on his upper back.

`It is okay, you are young,' the more experienced player said simply.
`You will learn. Team loyalty is everything. I thought you of all of us
knew that, but perhaps not...' And then his ferocious expression was gone
and it was the other Mo, all goofy grins and gentlemanly ease, rather
than the fierce egotistical striker he became once he had studded boots
on his feet and opposition in front of him; it occurred to Trent that
perhaps he was only being moody and dismissive because of his own failure
to score. A 3-1 win and none of the winners had come from his already
legendary feet. Yes, Trent convinced himself as they boarded the coach,
it was fine to be friendly with rival players, this bugger was just sour
that a defender had scored when he hadn't...!

But all through the traffic-laden coach journey to their hotel, the
question plagued him: And what about being a bit more than friendly with
a rival player...?



The sound didn't wake him up -- he was already lying flat on the bed
with his eyes trained pointlessly at a spot in the coving, denied sleep
and trying to focus on the occasional fuzzy crackle from a baby monitor
on a nearby dresser. A gentle cry from their newest child would be a
welcome disturbance and excuse for him to be needlessly awake while his
exhausted wife snored gently in the other half of the kingsize. No, the
sound didn't wake him up, but it did catch his attention. It did so in
that strange half-registered way that took him a few minutes and
repetitions to even feel clear on what he was hearing: the faintest and
oddest of scurrying clicks and chinks.

There was a long pause in which the restive footballer began to decide
the sound had existed only in his imagination, and then it came, just a
little clearer and glassier. Harry took a deep breath, dug his elbows
into the mattress, then rolled aside and slid out from beneath the
covers. With thin warm pyjamas clinging to his footballer's legs and
long thick torso, the 6ft2 striker stood by the bed and glanced back at
first his wife and then the dim light of the baby monitor. Then the sound
came again, a little burst of gentle clicks, and he swung his sleepless
head in its direction: the window.

Kane moved across the spacious sprawl of the master bedroom and found the
gap in the centre of the heavy shimmery drapes, parting them an inch. The
source of the odd interrupting sounds lay below him in the garden, caught
in thin shafts of glaring security light, like some idiotic teenager
Romeo: a hooded male figure with its arm poised to throw another handful
of gravel. Pausing now at the motion of the curtains and Harry's
presumably indistinct silhouette in the window.

With great care not to make any disturbing noise for the rest of the
household, Harry pulled a pair of slack slippers onto his big bare feet
and then, creeping down the central stairs, pulled on the same big padded
overcoat on top of his black bed-shirt. He let himself out through the
back door and into the long neat gardens of their London home, staring to
the left into the pool of security light where his phantom visitor had
stood with its handful of gravel. For a moment, he thought the apparition
was entirely gone, but then he made out its bulky form on the other side
of this light, lingering by the corner of the house. A small thought at
the back of Kane's mind cursed the supposedly high-tech security system
they had installed lately, but it was only a small thought; he moved
quickly and excitedly in the direction of the nocturnal visitor, hugging
his arms close and pulling the coat tighter against his thin bedclothes.

`You,' he said with gruff accusation, pulling up next to him. `I knew
it was you,' he insisted, as the hood came down and that serious
high-cheeked face stared intensely at him in the odd yellowy lighting of
the back gardens. It wasn't an entirely truthful statement: there had
been a confused few seconds upstairs when he initially assumed the
mystery man chucking pebbles at the window was none other than his
`Jeremy Edgar', but that would have been a scene from a different year
and a different world, not tonight.

Gareth glowered at him. `I wasn't sure you'd hear.'

`Well, you did it enough times!' Harry returned in a hiss that he hoped
sound a little jovial and welcoming, rather than just irate with
sleeplessness and bewildered to be out her in his PJs and coat, face to
face with a man who had so evidently spurned him earlier tonight; spat at
his feet, twice!

`Did it wake her?' Bale demanded hotly.

`No,' Harry said, something defensive and confrontational creeping into
his voice. `Why are you here, mate? What's this about? It's cold,' he
added lamely, though it was a much milder night than it had been in the
late January snowfall. Still, he shivered a little in the thin checked
pants that clung to his leg muscles, and his nipples were stiff against
the black tshirt. His cock too, loose without underpants, stiffened a
little against the pull of his PJ bottoms, summoned enough by just being
close to Bale, whose breath formed great plumes of mist between them, and
whose cheeks burned a deep scarlet.

`What?' Harry asked again, staring him warily down. `What do you
want?' he asked. He knew full well what HE wanted, but the question of
what his imperious Welsh target wanted had been an ambiguous one for some
time now. In that first night, he thought, Gareth had gone from storming
out of Hart's party shack in disgust to whipping out his meat and
fucking him in the mouth in a matter of seconds; what the hell did this
brute want?!

A sudden and violent burst of physicality told him what Gareth wanted.
Right now, at least.

Harry felt a strong hand on one of his shoulder, steering him backwards
and to the side until he was clashing against the firm modern brickwork
of his own house. The other man was pushing against him with exciting
force, that one hand still gripping almost painfully at his shoulder and
the other taking him just above the other hip, embracing him and pressing
strong torso to his; Harry stared through blurred eyes into the sudden
extreme close-up of the other guy's face, the black-brown intensity of
his brows and few stray hairs that had crept out of his tight man-bun
beneath the hood. And then there were fireworks in Kane's world as their
lips met in kiss, a kiss he had once reached for in the afterglow of
making Bale shoot his load, and been almost smacked for seeking.

This man, who had recently stared vindictively at him across team talks
and done his best to silence and avoid their little bursts of closeness,
was now locking lips with him and pushing a tongue in against his own.
Harry's cock, stimulated before, felt rock hard in his pyjama bottoms
and he suspected it was pressing very obviously into the thigh of
Gareth's loose thick sweatpants where their bodies met. The hands on his
side and shoulder become tighter and more aggressive in their bruising
grip, but it just made Kane all the more excited to be pinned here and
tasting Gareth's stale breath mixed with his own.

`My wife,' he found his rising panic blurting out of his glossy mouth,
painfully conscious of the time and place; the big domestic world of his
marriage and family pressing at him from behind as insistently and
frantically as the man's hands. `She's just up there, and...'

`And?' Bale snarled, and there was a violent impatience in his
whistling tones. `You want my cock or not?' he demanded, every blunt
syllable tripping straight out of Kane's fantasies and into this waking
dream of confrontation. And all he could do was nod, drooling a little
where the kiss had left his lips pouting and puckered, snatching at the
front of the hoody over Bale's pecs. Yes, he mouthed silently, yes yes
yes, he wanted nothing more!



`well dun on your goal lol -- cant say anything nice bout team win but
can say that bout ur 1 lmao'

The 22-year-old Liverpool boy leaned back in the comfortable hotel room
chair, smirking lightly at the phone screen in his hand, enjoying the
awkwardness of Kenny's messaging; it had been a lingering exchange of
banter before the opposing Scouser could even type in that muted praise
for Trent's big night in London, following a series of more provocative
jibes about his recent poor form and some of Liverpool's missed chances
tonight, especially in the first half of the game.

When had they suddenly started messaging like this? It had taken a little
while after the morning run clash and the episode in Jonjoe's city
apartment, the Everton player quivering emotionally against him after
their charged-up fumble. But the other young fella had started popping
the odd emoji reaction in DMs to Trent's Instagram stories, and at some
point in the New Year, these pictograms had turned into slowly
lengthening little messages of jokey rivalry and... friendship. Of course,
the back-and-forth had at no point acknowledged the elephantine truth:
they had caught each other in a cottaging toilet block and then tussled
excitedly in bed like two horny dogs.

The Liverpool whizz-kid scrolled back idly through the blunt and
borderline illiterate messaging from his Everton pal with a softly
affectionate smile creeping onto his pert lips, relaxing in the seat and
wondering how to respond to that tentatively celebratory last message --
did he mock and tease Kenny for betraying his team with even that
understated applause, or did he just take it as sincere and affirming...?

`What is it? More texts from our enemies?'

Salah, stood a little distance from him in the rather small but finely
decorated London hotel suite, spoke with an unusually sardonic tone,
shooting an odd judgmental look this way and making Trent colour
awkwardly where he sat, lifting his eyes from the blank text box and
instinctively closing the instant messaging part of his social media app.
`What?' he barked awkwardly back at tonight's roommate, bringing his
legs up under him on the seat and curling into himself, embarrassed by
the idea that Mohamed had been watching him grin romantically in his
little bout of messaging.

`On that silly chess app?' the striker demanded. `Dier is a Spurs
player, we beat them. Leave him to sulk. Not our problem. We go again, we
move on. Who next? That's the only question that matters.' He spoke
quite severely and in such a way that it almost sounded like he was
sternly lecturing himself, far from taking any real interest in Trent's
sociable nature. `Keep your head in the game,' he said in this same
lofty manner, `nothing else matters, just the fight.'

Trent frowned sourly for a moment, then shook it off. `I'm just
messaging my boys,' he said, hearing the sulk in his tone. `The group
chat is on fire, all my lads congratulating me on that goal, okay?' He
emphasised the word `goal' moodily, still wondering if Salah was just
being severe because he had left the match empty-handed; were strikers
really so conceited as that? At the back of his mind was the other, more
invasive thought: he's kicking off at the prospect that I'm playing
online chess with Eric Dier, how would he react if he knew I was flirting
with an Everton defender...?! (Flirting! He blushed even more deeply and
locked his phone to block out that unfinished conversation with Jonjoe.)

Salah turned away from him and Trent watched him with moody eyes. Whereas
the 22-year-old was still in the shiny red tracksuit pants and a thin
grey vest as he relaxed before bedtime, his older roomie had undressed to
his boxer shorts and was now stood in front of the room's single
full-length mirror, seemingly inspecting his remarkable physique; Trent
found himself inspecting it too, as presented in the reflective glass,
the beautiful sandy-brown architecture of Mo's torso and legs, and then
his bulging arms as he lifted them in an oddly vain pose. This was far
from typical Salah behaviour, he noted confusedly, though he knew the
striker to be quite obsessed with his fitness, it had only ever seemed to
be as a device for further footballing success, not for such posing and
posturing...

The jarring sight of it broke the little frisson of interest in messaging
Kenny, and guilt for wanting to do so, and occupied Trent's attention
entirely: Mo Salah, humble religious athlete, staring so seriously whilst
crunching his stomach muscles in the mirror and tilting his head to look
at his raised biceps and company, only a pair of silky green boxer shorts
and plain white socks left on his body. Quite suddenly, the gentle ripple
of movement in him stopped and his head angled to meet Trent's eyes in
the mirror instead. Caught out, both of them.

Rather than blushing and cringing, Trent held his stare, deciding that
Mo's behaviour was far more odd and out of character than his slipping
glance of appreciation -- he had no reason to be embarrassed for looking,
when the 28-year-old was so openly displaying himself and examining the
results in that mirror. He just stared back until Mo lowered his eyes and
relaxed his arms and made an odd little whistling noise of thought. `I
was just wondering,' was all he said, patting his hands flatly against
his pectorals and defined six-pack, backing away from the mirror.

`Wondering what?' Alexander-Arnold demanded curiously, unfolding his
lean body and stepping up from the seat, playing with the locked phone in
his paws then tossing it aside onto the foot of his bed. He stood and
looked interestedly at the other guy, watching the hesitation to speak.

`Well -- Ah, no, nothing for you. It is getting late, I must...'

`No, what is it?' Trent asked softly, pouting curiously at his senior.

Mo, about to lunge past him and aim for the en suite bathroom of their
room, paused a few paces in front of him, his body so abundantly muscled
and all plainly exposed, and sighed deeply. `I just wonder if this is
too much, too silly,' he said uncomfortably. `Do I need to work on my
body this much just for football? I do not want people to think it is for
anything else, or for...' He grimaced. `The pictures I have posted from
the gym, some people say that they are...' His face creased, as it often
did when the limits of his excellent English were tested by the
vernacular. `A hunger trap?'

Trent smirked broadly. `A thirst trap, you mean? Haha. Not you, MoMo,
never...'

`I work on my body because I am an athlete,' Salah announced with that
same odd formality.

`Sure,' Trent agreed, still leering a little, `but it doesn't hurt to
look like some Renaissance sculpture, does it?' He sniggered a bit,
coyly, embarrassed both for Mo and his odd dilemma, and for his own more
open admiration of the results. `Come on, are you really worried about
this? Since when do you care about what people think, Mohamed?'

Salah shrugged those bare shoulders, causing a delightful rippling effect
in the muscles of his arms and the trunk of his body. They were both 5ft9
and quite stocky for their height, but Trent could not claim to be as
thickly built or as visibly shredded as the striker in front of him, and
he let his eyes explore every detail of it, since it was there on show.
He could see the devout Muslim bloke register that staring, and he could
see the conflict between shyness and exhibitionism. He brought his eyes
back up to Mo's darkly bearded face, his uncertain frown.

`What have people been saying?' the young Scouser asked sensitively.

`Just... things,' Salah responded. It was clear that he was not going to
reveal the exact source of his anxiety or vanity here, though Trent could
tell something had particularly troubled him. Whose attention was he
concerned about, or lack of?

`Well, don't you worry,' he said, daring a playful tone, taking a step
closer. `Your body looks great.'

Salah winced a little at the compliment. `That is not the point,
though.'

`You're a powerful player,' Trent told him, edging closer. `And it
looks good on you. I don't think you should worry, Mo.'

`You... like how it looks?' The accented English trembled with what
sounded like hope.

`I like it a lot,' Trent answered simply. `I think a lotta people
must, chief.'

`I don't mean to cause... ahem. Thirst.'

Trent nodded his head slowly and very gently (but deliberately) ran his
tongue against his plump bottom lip, rolling his shoulders and pulling
loosely at the front of his tight vest as he took a further step towards
the handsome Egyptian. `But you do, mate,' he said, his voice now a
masculine whisper. `And some of us get real thirsty, y'know?' He
brought one hand forward and, very cautiously, let his knuckles graze up
and down the hard compact bumps of that intricate six-pack, making
Mohamed shiver and suck in his breath. `REALLY thirsty,' he repeated in
a gasp.



After the surprising and aggressive kissing ran dry, he had begun to
climb downwards, ready to lower his knees to the hard stone flagging
below, in spite of this dangerous spot. It wasn't just the flares of
security lighting; weren't there cameras fixed in various spots? Hadn't
he paid £1000s for the clearest and most efficient ones, to prevent any
such intruder?! But even as he prepared to stoop down and suck off this
snarling intruder, he found that the Welshman had other plans.

`No,' grunted Bale, scooping his large hands under his upper arms and
yanking against his sinking posture. `No, not that,' was snapped
brusquely into one of his ears, before the other football stud kissed and
licked at the lobe and then nipped it between his teeth. He didn't say
what he wanted instead of sucking off, but his hands found their way over
Kane's back and under the voluminous puff of the coat, in against his
tight shirt and the thin cotton of the pyjamas, clutching at his rear,
one hand on each cheek. Harry started at this, taken aback, but more than
up for it.

`Really?' he gushed, clinging to the slightly shorter hunk and his
broad shoulders. `Really, Gareth?'

There was a blunt nod and a tightening of the squeezing fingers on his
cheeks. `Not here,' he told him, then adding, `down at the bottom of
the garden. Please.'

This was already madness -- he would have to access the security systems
and wipe the footage, the cameras would definitely have picked up a
hooded bloke loitering out here, if not his own image sneaking out to
meet it and being dragged in against the wall! But down the gardens, at
the far end... well, it was all shadow and mist, and high walls blocked
off the neighbours. His bare ankles felt damp against the dewy lawn and
his slippers were almost sliding off his feet. Following close at his
side, Gareth continued to grasp at his bottom and growl in his ear. `Get
these down,' Bale was saying impatiently, `get these off and bend over,
you slag.'

Harry tried to turn around for another kiss, or at least just for another
exciting glimpse of Gareth's hard-set features and lusty eyes; but he
was shoved quite unceremoniously in the back until he was stumbling
forward into the shrubbery, reaching out to steady himself. He could feel
his visitor grasping at the coat and he wriggled his shoulders and arms
to let it free, instantly cold as it was thrown aside and the tshirt was
shoved halfway up his spine. Instantly, down went the PJs too, yanked
over his broad muscular bottom, which was given a single stinging slap.
`Oh yes,' he panted, watching the words form misty streams in front of
his face. He pushed out with his hands to find a better grip on the
plants in front of him, pushing face-first into the shrubs as his bottom
was hoisted and gripped. He could barely understand what Gareth was
muttering, it was either nonsense or Welsh, or both.

`Fuck me,' he moaned, sad to keep it low and suppressed, but needing to
say it anyway.

One of Bale's hands came grabbing at his face, fingers pushing into his
mouth so he could suck them, providing the limited lube with which the
masterful winger then inserted them between his cheeks. Harry's knees
rubbed against brittle leaves and branches which broke and dislodged
against the friction of his body slumping forward, arse higher in the
air. Ohhhh. He felt his hole invaded and stretched, Gareth's finger an
intruder in his ring like the man had been in his garden.

`You feel that, you slut?'

`Yes, get it in me, I want your big cock.'

`God, you're a horny slag, ain't ya??'

`Yes, for you,' he pleaded weakly. `Fuck me. Fuck me!' He repeated it
in hot wet gasps, feeling his palms and fingers scratch at broken
branches, feeling his knees graze on bark and soil, his mind racing to
question just quite how shadowy and discreet this bottom of the garden
was. Two fingers in his hole and Gareth's hot wet breath on his ear and
neck. The mild chill of the night long-forgotten; everything but the wet
tip of Bale's manhood on his buttock and his knuckles on his ring,
forgotten.

`Fuck me!' he squealed quietly, bending forward, arching his back more,
pushing his wide rear back for the man who wanted to claim it, as each of
those others had: Maguire, Winks, and so many times in the prime of their
passion, Dier. Fuck me, he thought beggingly, fuck me and fuck away those
memories!

The entry was clumsy and painful, so that he wondered if Bale had ever
fucked a guy before, or even if he'd ever done anal before; Harry hoped
not, possessive in his lust, wanting to be his first and only, wanting
something more meaningful alongside the filth and domination that was
making his cock leak against the tangled front of his PJs. He rubbed
back, helping Gareth, letting the fat big head of his Welsh cock rub
against his ready damp hole; to relax himself further, he pushed one
scratched hand in to stroke his own cock, and then couldn't stop himself
from wanking, pumping it furiously even as Bale was struggling to stuff
an inch of his meat inside a tight manly hole. By the time it was
ploughing into him, Harry was already cumming, spewing his own unseen
load onto his knuckles and the fabric of his boxers, making his hole
pulse and throb, tightening and loosening and letting Bale in to fuck him
deeply in long desperate strokes that broke more branches and scattered
more leaves. Muddy soil slid and loosened beneath knees, shins, toes.
Their breathing and pants mingled as alternative bursts of `Fuck me'
and `You fucking whore'.

Kane road the wave of his early orgasm, just relaxing into the submissive
role as a man's toy, his fragile striker's ego always soothed and eased
by the abnegation of handing his body over like this, being owned and
used so powerfully. The fucking didn't last long, because Bale seemed to
be as sensitive and hyped up as he was, was quickly unloading, some of it
in his hole and some of it on one of his cheeks, and gasping madly into
his ear, clinging to him and swearing at him and calling him his slut,
his slag, his bitch. Yes, Harry thought and whimpered, all of those
things and more.



He had held back while Salah moved to the bed and lay down, but now he
made his approach. As if their quiet conversation had barely taken place,
the Egyptian striker lay on his back over the covers, resting one hard
muscular arm between his curly mane and the pillows, and then bringing
the other one up to rest over his eyes as if shielding them from the
truth. Below this, his hard-muscled frame lay exposed, and the silky
boxer shorts caught the lamplight.

Onto the bed crawled Trent, quick but careful, sensing the fragility of
the opportunity he was now allowed. He dipped his face in and kissed Mo
on the skin once, in the softly haired space between his navel and his
waistband, hovering over his crotch, rested on his own elbows. Then, very
delicately, he began to unbutton the front of those boxer shorts, not
actually removing them; he quite liked their tactile presence and the way
they maintained some scrap of dignity for the conflicted exhibitionist
beneath him. He reached inside the opened fly and gently took out the
prize, Mo's chubby flaccid piece, the huge swell of its circumcised head
-- but he didn't waste much time with his fingers on it.

Resting gently on his knees and elbows, he dipped in and took it almost
instantly in his mouth, between his lips which had been so complimented
for their softness -- by a grunting and aggressive Gomez, by a Glaswegian
growling Robertson, by a chuckling affectionate Oxlade-Chamberlain, and
most recently, by shaky inexperienced Kenny. And now Salah, whose
reaction came in a long, muffled groan delivered into the hair of his
forearm.

Trent opened wide and felt it grow and stiffen. He lifted his eyes and
drank in the sight of Mo's washboard and bulging chest while he savoured
his salty cock, fully enjoying the `thirst trap' that tonight was just
for him. Everything about this was making his own dick leak against the
front of his undies, and he resisted the urge to reach down and play with
it, just focusing on the more immediate job. The blowjob. Up and down he
brought his soft full lips, nothing slow or teasing in his work here,
just straight-up pleasuring of this magnificent specimen; the
uncomfortable and suppressed nature of the married Muslim's gasps was so
taboo and thrilling to him, and piqued his curiosity as to whether any
other lad had ever tasted this thick cut weapon. Surely not?! Who else
would dare to make a move on the fella?!



They lay there, bodies shivering in the inappropriate boudoir of the
undergrowth, for long precious moments that Harry tried to savour,
spooned into the shrubs by the heat of Gareth's clothed body on his own,
his coat pulled over them both like a makeshift blanket. `Are you
okay?' Gareth's gruff growl sounded in his ear, his hands feeling
tentatively at Harry's elbows and arms and the sides of his thigh. `I
didn't... hurt you too much?'

The shaky grunted questions felt soothing and romantic to Kane, excited
to be asked even this, lying there in the deeply unromantic dirt of his
own invaded garden. He shook his head and whispered at him. `It was
incredible,' was all he could murmur back, feeling as though he could
fall asleep here in the muck and leaves -- to be woken by the sun and
exposed to daylight.

Nothing more was said for a minute, but then the other man was pulling
away from him, wriggling on the soil and grass. Harry wanted to reach
back, roll over, pull him down into the dirt and shrubbery, kiss him and
fondle him, find his grubby cock and play with it until it was hard and
fresh again, surely neither of them was really spent after such quick
explosive orgasms, but... He lay still as he indulged this fantasy, then
jerked into motion and scrambled onto his hands and knees, then upright,
adjusting his scuffed and awkward bottoms and snatching up the dirtied
coat. As he flung it about his shoulders, resting on his knees, he looked
wide-eyed at the looming figure of Bale standing beside him, disappearing
inside his hood. His cock, still swollen and large, showed obviously in
the sweatpants, even in the thin light of this shady corner.

Kane felt a certain `I told you so' smugness rise up and try to escape,
thinking of the adamant and hostile way Bale had reacted to him in the
tunnel hours ago. But this beautiful filthy moment felt too fragile and
delicate for that. He used a trellis against the wall to help himself to
his feet, trying and failing to dust mud off the sides of his coats and
the knees of his pyjamas. His arse stung with the brief force of being
bummed, and he stared appreciatively at the man who had broken him
tonight, his eyes full of wonder and greed.

`I'm sorry,' Gareth muttered, not quite looking at him.

`Sorry? For...?'

Just a huffing noise. Bale rubbed at his nose and cheek, his face seeming
to disappear further into the cowl of his hoody. `This is all tough for
me,' he grumbled. `It's... new. Difficult. It's not what I... I've got
the wife, Harry, and-`

`Same,' he returned, though not disapprovingly or defensively. He tried
to convey their togetherness and the shared conflict of their positions.
`Same, Gareth, I get it, I understand...'

`Stuff happened over there,' Bale confided in a very small voice.
`Back in Spain. Mad stuff. And I swore I'd never- but- we just- Fuck.'
He wiped a sleeve across his face and seemed to retreat from Kane, taking
a step away and half-turning, staring across the dim night shapes of the
garden and the squat looming presence of the house, a soft glow in some
of the windows. Kane reached for him, rubbed at his back a little, sighed
when the body language pulled away from him.

`We're so similar,' he whispered. `I've... I mean, I'd done things
before, there were others, I mean, there was one guy in particular,
but...' He was saying too much. Too much truth was tumbling out. He shut
himself up. `I understand you,' he said almost desperately, stroking at
Gareth's wrist where it disappeared into the front pocket of his hooded
top. `I really do, Bale. We're the same, I think?' And the Welsh
player shot him a doubtful look that stung a bit -- it seemed to demand
to know what they had in common, when one of them was a pathetic slut on
his knees and the other was a dominant beast who had made him whimper and
cry.

`Don't go,' Kane said plaintively in the darkness.

`I have to,' was Bale's blunt response, `it's late and we're in
your fuckin' garden...'

`I don't mean that. I mean don't... Don't go back to Spain, Gareth.
Please. Not now. Not after...'

`After that?' This rhetorical answer was shaky and conflicted, in a
voice that couldn't seem to choose between mockery and awe. `We're
married men, Harry, buddy, I don't think we can be...'

`Please, just... let's try?' His ambiguous, hopeful words hung in the
air between them like the floating moisture of their panting breaths. He
caught Bale's dark glinting eyes for a moment and then the potential
intimacy was broken, the broad Welshman backing away from him, shrugging
and bustling and quickening his breaths. Kane followed him in a
zombie-like daze, staring from the dark outline of the hooded man to the
low bulk of the house, the window of his master bedroom where he had lain
awake by his snoring wife. When they were near the house, his bare feet
(where had the slippers fallen off?!) touching the flagstones rather than
the lawn, a noise burst from the house, muffled but striking: the
nocturnal crying of a newborn.

He stared up at the house for a moment, needing to be back inside and in
his role as daddy and husband. Then he looked at Gareth, who seemed to
have shrunken away from him more at that noise, and was now backing away
to the corner, ready to disappear like a suburban fox into the hedgerows.
Harry wasn't sure what more he could say to him, after his rather
desperate muttered pleas back there in the sexed-up darkness further from
the house. He stared at him with his mouth hanging open, unable to find
better words, then he watched him go, disappearing away, backing into a
jog and then vanishing about the corner.

Kane, his ego thrilled but bruised, let himself back into the warmth of
the house, his cheeks quivering and his hole stinging, hoping that when
sleep found him, he would relive the fuck in the bushes over and over and
over.



Trent tasted the creamy thickness of it against his tongue and lips, his
nostrils flaring as he desperately caught his breath. He was both proud
and frustrated at how quickly it was over, having knuckled down and
sucked so skilfully on the thick veiny meat until it exploded against his
youthful gob.

Still Salah lay with an arm over his face, his mouth parted and his chest
heaving with the orgasmic breaths of recovery. His cock glistened before
Trent's eyes, a little more of his seed oozing out and over the pink-red
helmet; he lapped his tongue over this for an extra little taste of that
fertile side, kissing the tip and sniggering softly against it, feeling
some specks of cum dribble down his chin and need to be wiped away.

He pushed on his elbows and lifted his face away from the hot crotch and
the thick wiry pubes that had tickled his smooth-shaven face. He sat up
on his knees and lifted his vest to wipe the fabric over his seedy mouth,
still drinking in the magnificent view: Mo's thick splayed thighs, oddly
smooth against the au naturel hairiness of his private regions, most of
his muscular body clearly waxen smooth -- more conflicting hints of
vanity and enjoyment of his muscular achievements! This guy was an enigma
wrapped in a porn fantasy.

Trent lingered there, his own dick so very hard in his tracky bottoms,
and then sighed a little disappointedly as some clarity dawned on him.
Salah could not even bear to slide his arm away and look at him now, just
lay there, chest rising and falling, cock wilting very slowly against the
side of one thigh. There would be no reciprocation, no hint of justice in
this little midnight favour. Trent, who had perhaps known and accepted
that as soon as he crawled onto the other man's bed, just patted one of
those glorious striker's thighs, and whistled to himself as he moved
backwards and left the bed. `Well, hope that was good,' he said in a
singsong voice. No answer from Mo.

He moved in the space between the beds, turning off the lamps with the
switch on the wall, and then standing with his back to Salah's bed. He
heard the regretful sigh, the rustle of sheets against muscle, as Mohamed
disappeared into the safety of the bedding and began his performance that
Nothing Had Happened. Not so long ago, Trent thought, there could have
been something very hurtful in those gestures, in the one-sided
satisfaction of the secret interaction; just like with poor injured Joe
Gomez, who had very much used him and walked away laughing each time. And
a different kinda hurt, he remembered, at feeling left out in the cold by
the deep warm intimacy that Andy and Alex clearly shared.

But now, in the dark, with Salah so exaggeratedly pretending to be
immediately asleep, another type of secret shame could be shucked aside.
Off came his vest and his trackies and, before sliding into bed, his
boxer briefs too. And then, under the covers, he could reach for an
unlock his phone, and open the Instagram DMs back up once more: he
re-read Kenny's congratulory message with a little heartfelt grin but
then scrolled back through their conversation, for the treasure in
amongst the banter. The pictures the other young player had sent him at
New Year, the cheeky selfie with only a hand cupped over his jewels,
grinning toothily in an Everton disabled toilet...

And with one hand clutching the glowing phone screen close to his face on
the pillow, Trent reached for and jerked his stiff prick, remembering the
intense tumble of the Liverpudlian enemies in bed, discovering each other
and themselves, Red and Blue and spunky white.





SORRY ABOUT THE SLOWDOWN IN STORIES LATELY, HOPE THE QUALITY STAYS THE
SAME! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU'VE ENJOYED AND WHAT ELSE YOU WANT TO SEE SOON!​


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