Date: Sat, 30 Jan 2021 23:25:20 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 232

Part 232: Black & White Orgy


The whistle blew and the home loss was confirmed, mere moments after
Newcastle's second goal had blazed past him and left him bereft. Today
had felt like a sure 3 pointer to he and the rest of the Everton players,
and now he was leaving the pitch with a high awkward flush on his cheeks
and neck, his always fragile masculine ego crumpling beneath the palpable
joy of the visitors who were still celebrating nearby, huddling almost
violently around their one hero, the man behind both second-half goals.

All Jordan Pickford do was look searchingly at his teammates and his
coaches, questing for a reassuring face or an expression of support, none
of which seemed to be coming his way as backs were patted and chins were
held defiantly high. In fact, the other men seemed to social distance
from him like he was a plague victim breaking lockdown, nobody coming
within 2 metres or even making eye contact with him as the home squad
departed the pitch and wove through the concrete surrounds into the
echoey white tunnel.

Pickford removed his gloves one by one and threw them stroppily at the
concrete floor, muscling along into the Home changing rooms and dragging
his black keeper top off his sweating upper body and threw it quite
forcefully at the wall by his locker. He shot snarling glances around
him, no longer waiting for the sympathetic platitudes or blandly
supportive team spirit; now he was DARING anybody to look at him or
broach the subject of his poor performance in front of goal. His quick
temper was sizzling into action and he was raring for a fight on just why
Everton had failed so miserably to beat a Newcastle United who hadn't
won in some weeks.

One by one he saw the other players of the Liverpool blues drift by him,
avoiding him almost as if he didn't quite exist. He flashed angry eyes
at two unused substitutes who passed nearby, and youngsters Holgate and
Kenny just looked blankly through him in their shy desperation not to
engage with his temper or self-pity. Hah, Kenny, he thought bitterly, the
gap-toothed little scally he'd let into his home to pleasure his randy
cock-obsessed missus, how dare that little chav gobshite not even
acknowledge him on the way past now? Pickford's temper flared hotter. He
ignored those two fresh-faced youngsters and stared furiously around at
the other spaced-out guys making their way through the labyrinth of
changing spaces and shower blocks, more carefully spread in their
`changing bubbles' now to prevent further virus breakouts in their
ranks.

When nearby Keane and Digne failed to meet his stony glare, and a barked
little greeting to Richarlison at the next locker was blanked, the
unfortunate goalkeeper turned his sweaty back on them in a fuming silence
and stripped off his shorts and socks then, unable to even find the
energy to enter the showers yet, he sat his thick arse down on the
slatted bench and cracked his knuckles menacingly at nobody in
particular, haunted by the image of powerful Callum Wilson charging his
way with chest muscles heaving beneath his black-and-white shirt. That
smug cunt! It made Jordan sick to his stomach to imagine how happy that
striker would be just now, in a changing room not far from here...



Wilson was indescribably happy, in another white-tiled low-ceilinged room
of the Goodison Park changing facilities, booming with pleasant laughter
at the nicknames and praise flowing his way from the other men,
accompanied by a nastier streak of mockery towards their opposition. At
this very moment, their own Slovakian goalkeeper was flapping folded arms
at his sides and acting out the lads' brutal assessment of Jordan
Pickford as a tiny-armed tyrannosaurus rex with no reach for Wilson's
powerful shots in the latter chunk of the game.

The 28-year-old striker sat back on the bench he occupied, clutching one
hand to his abs as he rocked with laughter at the lads' exuberant moods
and their championing of his contributions. `Stop it,' he cackled
deeply, waving his other hand at Dubravka, `stop it, I'm gonna piss my
briefs if you keep this up. God, that poor bloke, he won't be getting
much love from his teammates, will he?' He grinned with insincere
empathy for the Everton `keeper, while Martin Dubravka continued a
chicken-like Monty Python stroll back and forth through their small
crowded changing space and the others hooted and giggled like sugar-high
schoolboys.

There was only the eight of them in here, as the fairly constricted
facilities of the Liverpool team's stadium had tightened the
`bubbling' of changing facilities before and after the game, with the
Newcastle squad spread across three loosely connected changing areas; you
could still hear some chants and laughter echoing through from the
further reaches of the Away suite of rooms, but this was where the party
was at, Callum thought happily, with him now the centre of attention and
all of the excitement circling about him before they would have to
assemble and travel back to the North East during the wintry evening.

So much so that Dubravka and a couple of the others didn't even need to
be in here, unused substitutes from the match but joining them in the
sweaty atmosphere of the changing room -- keen to bask in the
overwhelming relief of the Wilson-led win. Not just the big Slovakian
bloke but fellow bench-warmers Carroll and young Anderson, both in the
tightly zipped black-and-white tracksuits over their kits, while Fraser,
Lascelles, Darlow and Saint-Maximin loitered in various states of
undress, horsing about the boxy rectangular room and bursting into
spontaneous little fits of applause or hollered praise for Callum
himself.

`No,' the other present `keeper laughed happily, `no love for
Pickford over there at all, I bet.' The talented goalie clapped his own
successful hands together and grinned smugly at his colleague and
competition, Dubravka, who was straightening up and punching him cheerily
in the arm.

`None,' grunted Fraser in agreement, the short stocky Scot stood
between the two 6ft3 towers, arms folded over his chest; his red-cheeked
happy grin swung this way and he stared directly at Wilson, who twitched
a little where he sat and turned his eyes quickly away from his long-time
friend's attention, becoming suddenly quite interested in the untidy
mess of his belongings in the open locker cubby beside him. He had
struggled a little there when everyone dove at him with hugs and
handshakes and tactile celebration, unable to quite return Ryan's
enthusiastic hold -- he was ashamed of the wariness with which he treated
his close pal now, but it seemed as though a thaw in their relations was
needed after the over-enthusiasm that had occurred in that Sheffield
hotel room so very recently.

`Not like here,' the growling Scottish 26-year-old was saying now,
rocking on his heels and clawing at his tight-fitting neon away shirt,
`where we all got so much love for our boy!' The words sounded jarring
and a little unwelcome to Callum, who could only hear the awkward truth
that existed between the two of them, whereas the other guys quickly
latched onto this idea with energy. `So much love!' boomed sturdy
French winger Saint-Maximin, in the middle of stripping off his clingy
shirt, and `He's our fucking king, give him keys to the city!' roared
the seated giant of local hero Andy Carroll, sitting just to his right
and slapping his thighs merrily.

Wilson grinned about at them with what might be mistaken for his natural
humility, trying his best not to overthink Fraser's jokey declaration of
love. `Ah, stop it, I'll never get into the showers if my head swells
up at all this nonsense,' the striker chuckled back at them. He got up
and turned to the wall to undress, reminded of the need to shower down
his aching body; perhaps there would be time for a massage from the
physio team before they all had to clear out of here and onto the
coaches, since the bosses had opted against an overnight stay on
Merseyside.

He tuned out the rapid banter of the others, not wanting to milk his
Saturday glory too much, and needing to get out of this gaudy kit to get
cleaned up. Up and off came the shirt and lifted one leg at a time to
unlace his boots properly and kick them off before removing the tight
damp socks from his bulging calves and large feet.

`Fuck this, I'm in a sweat just from watching that masterclass,' he
heard the deep Geordie twang of his locker neighbour; the 6ft4 back-up
striker was on his feet next to him and unzipping his tracksuit,
evidently in high spirits despite his lack of minutes. `Shower time for
the substitutes,' he said with a shrug, catching Callum's eye casually,
stripping away the layers over his still-fresh bright neon kit. `You
joining the grown-ups?' he then barked at the young lad beyond him, and
Callum gave a reassuring glance to the Whitley Bay teen skulking there
with hands in pockets. Eliot Anderson just shrugged blankly then nodded
and began unzipping.

Wilson, thinking little of these not-unusual decisions, pushed his dirty
top down against the bench and then hooked his thumbs inside both his
shorts and the tight Umbro briefs below and yanked them down, feeling the
usual temporary twinges of self-consciousness he had felt all through his
senior career, regardless of being such a well-built and otherwise
confident bloke. Still, there was something innately awkward about baring
your milky-brown backside to a roomful of other fellas, and he now
instinctively glanced over his shoulder to check that Ry wasn't looking
at him, checking him out, getting any weird ideas again! But the Scotsman
was loudly conversing with the two goalkeepers at the far side of the
room, stripped to scruffy white briefs and trying to boast about his
assistant role in Wilson's goal success.

He wriggled the discarded undies and shorts away down his thick brown
legs and then stepped away, naked and blinking back the pointless shyness
of his inner self, reaching for the Everton-branded towel that was laid
out for him, and his small shower-bag of toiletries. `Hah, as if it is
not enough for him to be our best player!' boomed the jolly Parisian
accent of fellow forward, stood in the middle of the changing room with
his shorts lazily tugged down a bit at one side exposing the line of his
pale grey underpants against the dark brown of his smooth skin. The
23-year-old Frenchman was grinning stupidly and he gave him a playful
wink beneath the floppy blond-and-black of his messy dreds.

`Huh?' Wilson gawped back at him, letting the folded square of towel
unfurl and drop down his front as he stood there. `Sorry?'

`Mate,' chuckled the voice of their captain, stepping past him in the
same nude state, busied with knotting the towel discreetly about his
thick waste, `I think he's making a joke about THAT!' And with a laugh
and shake of the head, Jamaal Lascelles gestured down past the draping
towel at the loose swing of Callum's equipment, making him scowl and
force a sardonic laugh at the cheeky French winger, who burst into fresh
cackles and dashed out of the way as he tried to whip him in the chest
with a snap of his towel.

Wilson strode on, rolling his eyes at the needless comment from Allan,
gladly leaving him behind and entering the narrow strip of available
showerheads; the dated plumbing hissed and rumbled as he twisted a knob,
then it burst into life and lukewarm water crashed over his broad smooth
chest and bulging shoulders just as he tossed his towel up onto the wire
shelf high up on the wall to keep it dry. He squirted shower gel into his
large pink palms and rubbed it over his upper muscles, blinking and
snorting as the cascade heated up and crashed down his face and front.

`Ignore him,' Lascelles was laughing, taking up the spot beside him
even though there were three other showerheads further down the wall from
him; Wilson dismissed the possible discomfort of this proximity as he
remembered how many of them there were to come through and shower down.
More than the total of five spaces, he noted distractedly, thinking that
the space might actually be a bit too full if everyone tried to wash at
once. At least big bulky Jamaal taking the spot next to him created a
very tangible barrier between himself and Ryan, he thought guiltily,
unhappy to be so calculating and suspicious about his best friend at the
club.

`Oh, I don't mind,' Callum laughed gruffly to his skipper, the taller
bloke soaping up inches to his right, an imposing presence at 6ft2 and
with even more intricate tattooing on his thick arms as he flexed and
sponged them at his side, smirking a little at Saint-Maximin's banter.

`He's quite short, ain't he?' the Derbyshire centre-back pointed out.
`No wonder he's obsessed with comparing, mate, don't take it the wrong
way...!'

`I'm not,' Callum told him, annoyed to hear how defensive he sounded.
`It's all good. Nothing can bother me today, not after that game, skip.
Fucking buzzing.'

`Ain't we all!' cooed Karl Darlow's voice as the 30-year-old patted
along behind him, reaching out and giving one of his broad shoulders a
good squeeze before moving onwards to the spot beyond Jamaal; his fellow
goalie Dubravka came along just behind him, similarly imposing at 6ft3
and with none of the shrinking self-consciousness of most footy blokes
when it came down to such close naked proximity. The Slovak walked along
as if dragged by his hairy crotch, and he shoved and wrestled stupidly at
the Englishman who was beginning to oust him as the Magpies' number 1.

`Whoa,' he heard Ryan exclaiming just behind him, `a bit close in
here, ain't it?' Still, Callum noticed, it didn't stop the diminutive
winger from brushing an elbow across his back muscles on the way past,
skipping on to the far end of the narrow space even as the others bundled
in behind him regardless, making the shower block feel suddenly crowded
as the water heated further and the air became thick with steam.

`Budge up,' Carroll laughed, jabbing an elbow into him from the left
and suddenly right next to him, stooping his 6ft4 frame to share the
spray of his shower. He slapped him on the shoulder with an apologetic
laugh, and Callum grimaced uncertainly back, unhappy with their
closeness; he turned and saw that in the same way, Saint-Maximim was
trying to share Lascelles' spot and poor Anderson was stood just back
from them making a silly attempt to catch a shower without forcing
himself between the close bodies of his taller, older colleagues.

Wilson frowned his concerned for the awkward, embarrassed 18-year-old
midfielder, and he stepped back away from the pipes, gesturing to
Anderson and putting some distance between himself and the tall Geordie
striker who was soaping up his chest and shoulders and shaking loose his
long brown hair. `Here,' Callum told Eliot, `get in here and have some
space, mate, sorry about this.' The pale, awkward-faced young Tyneside
lad shuffled past him, accidentally rubbing their hips and turning bright
pink at that; Callum just patted him on the back and edged to the right,
glad that Jamaal and Allan made some room for him, as far as was possible
in these close quarters. Right, he told himself, just get the suds rinsed
off and head back through to dry, you can have a fucking lovely bath when
you get home to the wife later on...!

`Haha, we should be scrubbing you down, legend,' Jamaal joked beside
him.

`Oh yes, a massage for our king,' he heard Darlow snigger.

`More than massage,' joked Saint-Maximin in his heavily accented
English, `someone should be giving him a -- how you say? -- a little job
of the hand.' There was a general uproar of laughter at both the crass
humour and the Frenchman's broken phrasing, but Callum, stood at the
centre of this tight row of footballers, cringed inwardly and resisted
the urge to glare over the room at Fraser, whose gruff Scotch laugh
sounded the last over the watery hisses and gurgling plumbing.

`Oh, is that you offering, Saint?' laughed Dubravka with a sneer.

`He's little enough, easier for him,' teased Darlow with an innocent
glow to his playful grin.

`Not as little as Fraser,' Carroll pointed out, `it should be Ry-dog
who gets down there for our goal wizard, don't you reckon, mateys...?
Haha...'

`Fuck off!' boomed Ryan through his laughs, tossing a half-empty
toiletry bottle in an arc over their heads and crashing against the lofty
forward's head. And then, giddy and laughing, Andy was scrabbling down
the line, his wet soapy body pushing past everyone in between as he went
to wrestle at Fraser, who giggled and tried to hide behind Dubravka.
Callum frowned in annoyance, feeling squashed in and unamused, rubbing a
soapy hand self-consciously down against his swinging privates.

`Ignore them,' Jamaal told him again, resting back against the wall in
front of he and Eliot, his whole bulky body shiny beneath the water, and
an almost teasing smile on his more typically serious face. `As captain,
I'd volunteer as tribute, haha, if one of us had to...! Take one for the
team, so to speak!' Callum met his bizarre grin, noting Eliot's alarmed
expression next to him.

Then Ryan was bowling stupidly into them like a furry, red-faced
cannonball, lunging away from Andy and crashing between Callum and
Jamaal; almost instinctively, he caught hold of and steadied the shorter
lad, annoyed to find himself clinging to the naked muscular lad
sandwiched between himself and his captain, with Andy and the goalkeepers
looming over them at the side. `Oh look, it is Ryan who wants to take
the job after all!' called Dubravka mockingly, triggering a ripple of
laughter in Darlow, Saint-Maximin and Carrol, echoed uncertainly by
Anderson. Wilson stared intensely down at 5ft 4 Fraser, DARING him to
make a jokey allusion or to take any teasing move on his parts; he was
glaring so furiously at his Bournemouth accomplice that he noticed far
too late Andy Carroll's long grasping arm pushing down between them and
-- fuck! -- taking a firm hold of his equipment.

`Ah, fuck it, I'll do anything for this bastard!' the local Gateshead
32-year-old announced to their claustrophobic group, stroking him by the
thick soft cock. `Team means more to us real Geordies, I'd literally do
anything for this hero, even if he is making me totally fuckin'
redundant, aye...!'

Callum stood there, encircled by throaty laddish laughter, with the tall
long-haired man tugging gently on him and booming laughter in his ear as
if this was totally acceptable; in front of him, Ryan was staring at him
wide-eyed, and Jamaal grinned almost too excitedly over the Scot's
shoulder, biting at his lips and planting his hands firmly on Ry's
shoulders while he watched.

`Not this filth again!' said, almost yawned, Martin, leaning against
the wall beneath the slowing drips of his shower, and running fingers
through his dark wet spikes of hair. Next to him, his face pink with
embarrassed surprise, Darlow murmured, `Again?!'

Callum began to push at Andy's arm, alarmed as the slippery touch became
more tender and insistent, and he felt a horrified pang of possibility
down there. `Alright now,' he barked at Andy, pushing at his wet
shoulder and feeling his fingers slip between the long dark strands of
his mane; at which the Geordie man just leaned in closer and squeezed on
the base of his member, chuckling stupidly into the steam!

`Fuck, Andy,' mouthed Fraser, and Wilson flared with annoyance at this
remark, glaring accusingly at him as if appalled he was faking shock at
what he himself had done -- and again he was distracted for a moment,
slow to push away, too late to stop what he had dreaded... his cock
stirred and panged and he stared down between them at the fuller length
and girth of his meat, stretched out and let flop by Andy's
rough-knuckled paw. He let out his breath in a long frustrated sigh and
went to make some barbed comment, some angry retort, but... Andy's other
hand patted and stroked the back of his neck and the tall lad was just
chuckling over him, his voice full of mischief. `Oops, didn't mean to
get you so excited, legend!'

He saw Fraser act in slow-mo, and did nothing to stop it; with an
incredibly forced look on his grinning face, the 26-year-old seized hold
of what Andy had let go of, stroking his wet hand onto the rising arc of
Callum's prick. Both Jamaal and Andy hooted with laughing approval and,
to the left, he caught Eliot's horrified blushing face in the corner of
his eye, the 18-year-old just gawping at what was jokily passing between
his older, more confident comrades.

`What's he doing?' Karl could be heard exclaiming in disbelief. `Is
Ry really wanking Cal?'

`Shit happens,' barked the cool Slavic disinterest of Martin beside
him, their voices echoing a little now that their showers had eased and
nobody was turning to smash them back into action, the little timer
buttons there to be pushed; it was all just hot steam and weak dribbles
of water over their heads and shoulders, the thin rectangle of metallic
space feeling entirely occupied by their bare, glistening bodies.

`We got to show our appreciation,' guffawed the Aberdeen lad, pulling
quite firmly and demandingly on Callum's cock, while behind him Jamaal
squeezed at his shoulders and sniggered almost enviously; `Aye, we just
love our striker!' chipped in Andy, whose big hand was rubbing from the
back of his neck onto the velvety shaven hair on the back of his head,
making his muscles relax and loosen and his throat purr with a
half-conscious little murmur of... arousal?

He cleared his throat and stared hotly from guy to guy, concerned by
several pressing issues, but none more than how hard and thick his cock
was against Fraser's paw; he thought about the way he had lain there in
the hotel bed, the mess in his bed-shorts when the `apology' handjob
had finished. That had been a little unsettling, but it had been private
at least, and now...

`Oh come on, we should all be lending a hand,' Andy was saying, seeming
to move around behind him and pretty much massaging at his shoulders now,
leaning his head in over them to look down at the soapy sliding strokes
of Ryan's hands across the full hard-on that was making Callum cringe
and shudder. He saw his own surprise and repulsion reflected in the face
of Karl, who had edged closer and was huddled close to Ry and Jamaal,
eyes wide as he stared down at what his little teammate was up to.

`Bloody hell,' the goalie exclaimed, and then suddenly Martin was there
next to him with one of his big strong arms about his shoulders, just
laughing and rolling his eyes.

`Let the Scottish midget play!' laughed their Slovakian stalwart, the
32-year-old scratching at the thin damp hair on his mighty chest, then
seeming to reach down and play with his own thing. `Andy C,' he barked,
`at least there is no mad toy here this time, eh...?!' He rumbled with
laughter that Carroll shared and Wilson's mind pinged with questions
about what other japes had gone on at St James' Park in the season
before he travelled north!

`Fuck,' he muttered bashfully, pulling away with his body, letting his
hard nob slide away from Ryan's fingers, glaring at him and the others,
wincing at how shocked and disapproving Karl seemed, even as he was oddly
cuddled and shaken by Martin at his side. It was Allan, though, that
pushed forward then, a thoughtful expression on his face, and reached to
pick up the job. A startled `Hey!' escaped Callum's lips but he did
not instantly back away, his sensitive and stimulated cock now held by a
third manly hand, the short broad 23-year-old stepping in close to him
and seeming to laugh loudly at his own inappropriateness.

`And I thought it looked big before,' the Frenchman murmured.

`Guys?' blurted Anderson, but his panic was ignored -- Callum retreated
back against the cooler rear wall of the narrow showers, but Allan
followed, grinning wickedly at him and taking a few teasing pulls on his
erection. From the left, Andy stroked and rubbed at his shoulders,
sniggering and grinning and training his eyes on the sight of the slow
wet wank.

`What the fuck, man?' Darlow was muttering; `Relax, here, I wish
someone was servicing mine!' Dubravka was barking and chuckling; `Let
me give it a go?' Carroll was murmuring. What the hell?

From there, it all became a steamy blur. Someone, he wasn't sure who,
had elbowed back on a shower, so that the hissing wet sound seamed to
blur with their voices and murmurs, and add to the thick hot damp of the
air. Callum tried to laugh off the visible enjoyment he was experiencing,
pushing Allan gently in his firm dark chest, then edging away -- but
further into the narrow room, rather than towards the archway into the
changing space. He glanced to the right and saw that, yep, Andy was
following through on his joked offer to the big foreign goalkeeper,
grabbing and playing with his long curved piece while Karl stared on and
was grabbed in a matey half-hug by the skipper, who... what, was Jamaal
really rock-hard and playing with his dick...? And was Ryan next to him,
hands hovering at his side, but cock semi and lifting... it was only Eliot
who seemed entirely detached, stood looking on with his eyes narrowed and
his dumb teenage face twisted in confusion.

`Lads,' Wilson muttered uncertainly, placing a hand instinctively at
his rigid prick, but not quite wanking on it, just holding it
protectively and leaning his left hand into the hard lukewarm panel of
the wall. `Lads, we should be getting dried off and -- y'know, the
coach will be ready, and...' His voice trailed off uncertainly and there
was giggling Saint-Maximin, reaching for his meat again and tugging
gently on his own flaccid manhood. And just next to them, big mighty
Carroll had gone down to his knees and had a hand each on the crotches of
Newcastle's two prominent `keepers -- Karl looked stricken but
compliant, Martin's thick heavy arm still about his shoulders while
Carroll's right and left hand slid back and forth in sink, lubed with
soap.

`You want me to give yours a grab?' Fraser could be heard asking
Anderson in a gruff little laugh.

`Er -- I dunno man, is this all okay?' the teen hissed back.

Wilson was too distracted to see if this did or didn't happen. He was
backed into the end of the steamy space, his broad back muscles pressing
on the panelling, and Maximin beginning to pull more enthusiastically on
him, his dreads bouncing and snaking with the keen jerks of his head, his
puzzled face fixed downwards on what he was trying out. `Mate,' Callum
sniggered at him, pushing on one of his shoulders, then stopping and
moaning as the grip tightened and slid down his shaft and back again,
finding an angle and rhythm that worked... `Ohhh...!'

`Fuck yeah, show him our gratitude, ha ha,' boomed Dubravka, `look at
that...'

Callum lifted one brow and stared through the steam at the big, tall
goalkeeper. `Fuck, fuck...' The other bodies seemed to advance closer,
and his eyes fixed on the closeness of Ryan suddenly, closing the
distance between them in a few steps, and almost barging Allan aside to
get a grab of the most popular rod in the room. There was something
reassuring about his touch compared to Saint's, Callum noted, his
initial horror and sense of exposure being replaced with the deep
intimate satisfaction of being jerked and fondled. He reached for and
took hold of the side of Ryan's neck, like a petite sexy girl's,
hunching forward a little and groaning with slightly more openness.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was cuddling a bulging arm around
Ryan's lower shoulders, pulling his face in against his slick wet
chest... and then it seemed to be Andy next to him, grabbing at his side,
stroking the bicep of his other arm, reaching across to scratch blunt
fingernails over his pec and around his stiff nipple... he growled and
writhed back against the wall, feeling two blokes' hands on him. Just
two? It felt less clear now, shrouded in steam and with different voices
and gasps mixing...

What he did feel then, with greater clarity, was that it was no longer a
hand on his nob. The sensation was so good, so firm and wet, and he let
his thick neck roll, groaning deeply into the steamy air before,
eventually, squinting downwards and seeing the long thin features of
Andy's face down there in front of him, lips around his meat, the veiny
shaft disappearing into the big Geordie gob -- fuck! He pushed a hand
down and as he outstretched his right amr he fully intended to push the
big striker's face away from him, but... somehow his fingers disobeyed,
clutching at the long wet tangle of his hair instead, gripping a handful
of it over his scalp and pulling rather than pushing. He dragged the
lad's face in closer and pushed his dick deeper, making him gag.

Beside him was the captain, cock in hand, aiming it at Andy's high
cheekbones, rubbing the chubby pink tip of his erection there and then to
his lips, as if about to force it in, but both he and Callum were too
generously endowed for that... instead, Andy pulled hesitantly off him and
turned his wide open mouth to Jamaal's boner instead, leaving Callum
just staring at this with his cock absolutely throbbing... seeing what he
had just allowed repeated by the thick powerful body of his Newcastle
skipper, Jamaal's face dripping with sweat or steam, one of his hands
pushing roughly down on the Geordie's head just as Callum had begun
too... god it looked so wrong, so transgressive, but...

He jerked his head to the side and found Ryan staring intensely at him,
his whole face red with heat and exhilaration, his chunky muscular body
stretched up on his toes, and his lips quivering as if on the verge of
speaking... Wilson saw Fraser look over at where Carroll now devoured
Lascelles with loud slurping gasps, and it was clear what he was
thinking; when he looked back this way, the triumphant striker just
nodded decisively. Down he went.

Callum let himself relax back against the wall, his back so wet or sweaty
that it slid a little against it; he pushed his crotch forward, letting
his thick meat slide further into Ryan's open mouth, his facial
expression distorted by a struggle to open wide and do it, to try this
new thing -- not so long ago he had been grabbing him in his shorts and
jerking him off in a secret moment of trust, and now he was sucking on
his slippery wet erection, in front of so many influential teammates...
The 28-year-old stared about said teammates, taking in the dim hazy
shapes in the steam, the one strip of lighting in the ceiling glinting
off wet muscle in various shades of pale pink and brown.

Closest to them, so much so that the two kneeling men's bodies rubbed
and knocked as they performed, was Andy, bent down to blow the captain,
who stroked and grabbed at his hair and panted with loud bursts of
energy. Just beyond them, the two 6ft3 goalies had their backs to the
walls beneath a roaring showerhead, soaking them and contributing to the
steam -- it took Callum's eyes a long few moments to register that two
cocks were in action there, but both hands belonged to the No.1. It was
Martin Dubravka jerking on both his own immensely long weapon and
Darlow's shorter, thicker one, with the younger English `keeper
writhing back against the wall and squeezing shut his eyes. And the
circle was completed, directly opposite this big pair, with the shorter
stockier frames of the younger men and a far more equitable act: the
contrast in Saint-Maximin's dark skin and the pale blotchiness of
Anderson's exaggerated the shapes of their crossed arms as the two
midfield players wanked each other mutually and in surprising
synchronicity, facial expressions indistinguishable in the steam, but the
bounce and flop of the Frenchman's distinctive hair very visible.

The striker's eyes rolled back to the more immediate surrealism of the
short guy crouched in front of him, clumsily licking and spitting at his
dick, struggling to take much of it in his mouth, but trying his very
best. Wilson stroked his sturdy fingers through the wire-wool bleached
thickness of Fraser's hair, not pulling him aggressively in like he had
done to wild and confident Carroll, but stroking more gently and
encouragingly... `Yes mate, yes,' he kept muttering over and over,
thinking not just about the Sheffield incident, but about the
long-suppressed memory that had provoked it; he pictured them clinging to
each other in cool dawn light on the seafront, rather than in this
sweatbox of hot steam and laddish grunts. `Yes, Ry,' he growled, as his
cock was lifted, pressed back almost flat against the base of his tummy,
so that the Scotsman could push his short thick tongue against his balls
instead, which it turned out he was much better at. The roll of his
tongue and the tickle of his stubble, oh FUCK...

`This is mad,' someone shouted; it was Darlow, pushing away from
Dubravka and then teetering away from them through the spray and steam,
giving Wilson a brief view of his long toned back and rounded bottom
disappearing around the corner, towel in hand. He was followed out by
several booms of laughter from the senior goalkeeper, lurching forward
with dick in hand, pressing imposingly forward to make some use of
Carroll instead... Wilson watched as the long-haired Tynesider swapped
mouth from dick to dick, jerking on the captain as he sucked on the
goalkeeper...

But the 30-year-old giant's exit had freaked another uncertain member of
this sordid scene: Callum saw Eliot pull away from Allan with a string of
muttered profanities, a look on the teen's face like he'd seen a ghost.
He skidded and stumbled hurriedly away until he too was bursting out of
the steam, though in his youthful stupidity he didn't even grab his
towel where it hung waiting, just bursting away from them naked and
slippery wet... and leaving Saint-Maximin, wanking a rather sizeable black
dick in one hand, to turn his attention to the kneeling cock-suckers with
a frenzied expression in his wide young eyes. The talented 23-year-old
joined them in surrounding and looming over the two white men on their
knees... as if playing a number of musical instruments, he saw Andy shift
between them, his mouth concentrating on Dubravka but his long arms
stretching out and his supple hands taking both Lascelles and Saint to
task, but then switching, leaning over to the left to chow down on the
French brute, who cooed with enjoyment and cursed loudly in his own
language. Briefly abandoned, Callum was shocked to see the skipper take
hold of the goalie's dick and jerk them both, his tight squeal
indicating he was close to cumming.

That, he realised, was not something the shockingly submissive Geordie
giant was about to miss out on -- as the captain's cries became more
pronounced, Carroll abandoned his new taste of French meat, swinging
clumsily around and almost knocking Fraser aside. He went down on
Lascelles apparently just in time: Wilson watched the 6ft2 brickhouse of
a centre-back throw his head back and punch the air as he unloaded, IN A
LAD'S GOB...

All the while, Fraser licked and spat and kissed, and now tried again,
stretching his mouth open and taking in a good half of Wilson's lengths,
gagging then and pulling back with coughs and splutters... while behind
him, Callum realised, Dubravka was cumming too, emptying his balls
somewhere on the tall crouching shape of the other striker... and
Saint-Maximin too, or was he just really enjoying Carroll's return to
his crotch?!

Wilson ground his back muscles into the wall and reached fingers to
stroke the downy hair of Fraser's cheek, then pushed them up more
roughly into his coarse hair, angling his face down and shoving his dick
in there as far as he possibly could, until he heard the Scottish bugger
struggle for breath and he pushed him away to recover... Now, he saw, Andy
was returning to them, clambering side-by-side with Ryan. Behind him, big
mighty Martin and hunched Allan were dim figures in the thickness of the
steam, but clearly satisfied. The greasy damp of their semen was visible
around Andy's face, his mouth hanging open below those high cheekbones
and intense eyes. Wilson could hardly believe what he was seeing in the
beloved Geordie bloke who he'd joined and rather replaced here, but
never seen as anything other than straightforward and blokey...

And the pair of them were kneeling for him, grabbing at his legs and
hips, their faces meeting at his crotch. Ryan stooped and lapped his
tongue between Callum's loose, heavy balls, and Andy more expertly took
the shaft into his mouth, while one of his strong hands dragged upwards
over the gentle bumps of Callum's six-pack. Teamwork, pleasuring the
goal-scorer together. Callum could see less and less as the steam
thickened, or his head span, his eyes misted. He just rested back and
groaned, a deep chesty noise that he couldn't control, feeling his balls
tighten and his prostate tingle.

Out of instinct more than fussiness, he reached down for his own meat,
needing to regain some control or some certainty. Wrapping his bulky fist
about the wet, slathered rod, pumping it tightly and gritting his teeth,
eyes half-open but fixed on the sight of those two manly faces, gurning
and gasping, Ryan copying Andy in opening his mouth wide and sticking his
tongue out just a little... onto this waiting surface fell the thick drops
of his load, spattering chins and lips and rolling pink tongues. Oh fuck,
oh fuck, oh fuck.



Another shower, another fold of steamy air, the watery blast in the
background slowly fading to a trickle as the timer ran down. Most of the
Everton players were long gone from here, not wishing to linger on their
defeat; most of them were already in fresh clothes and either departing
Goodison Park or assembling gloomily with soft drinks in a meeting room
upstairs. Only two of them remained in the Home changing rooms, one who
had taken too long to shower alone in his fiery sulk, and one who had
returned here in a quiet rage, needing this confrontation.

`It's all your fault, you fucking idiot.'

`Fuck you, you smug poser.'

`You know it -- that's why you're in such a fucking mood, you
idiot.'

`Don't you come here, talking shit like that to me, you-`

`Shut up, baby arms, shut up and face it -- you're dragging this team
down! Jesus. England's No.1?'

`Piss off -- you smug little bastard, who do you actually think you
are?'

`I think I'm the one who made yer wife CUM.'

`Fuck off-`

`You tiny-cock bastard. Get on your knees.'

`Fuck off, Dom, you prissy little-`

`Get on your knees you stupid cuckold cunt!'

Jordan Pickford stared at the taller bastard he had just referred to as
`little', locking his bulky shoulders and snarling fiercely at the
stuck-up youngster who now faced him in the showers; fully dressed in a
pristine designer tracksuit, whereas the defeated goalie was
bollock-naked and still dripping hot water from his muscles and privates.
He matched the lad's glare and curled his hands into fists, ready to
give him a smack if needed.

`You're gonna taste the cock that satisfied your stupid bitch,'
snarled the upstart who was daring to disrespect him like this.

`I satisfy her plenty,' Pickford snapped back. `We just like
corrupting young idiots for extra fun.'

`Extra fun?' spat Dominic Calvert-Lewin, moving closer to him through
the steamy air.

`Yeah, young idiots like you, cunt,' the England goalkeeper spat at
this pretender, this posing fashionista. He bared his teeth and tensed
every pale muscle against the blotchy white skin of his body. `You think
you're something special?'

`Nah,' the young Yorkshireman returned, looming over him with his
intimidating 6ft2 physique. `I just think you're a piece of trash,
Pickers. You played like shite today, and you still lord it over everyone
like you're king of the fuckin' world. Disgrace. You think you corrupt
young lads sharing your missus with them? I know you really just want the
dicks for yerself.'

`Fuck off-`

`I know it,' the big 23-year-old striker bellowed in his face. `On yer
knees. I know you want me, I know you wanted Jonjoe too. I know you kept
trying to touch us while we fucked her. You were looking at us all the
time, never at her. You're pathetic. Get on your knees little man. I see
through you, Jordan -- you old pervert. ON YOUR KNEES.'

`That's bullshit,' the angry Mackem ranted back, but the nervous
excitement making his small dick stiff and wet spoke for itself. He
gritted his teeth and stared hard at the youngster looming over him in
his crisp clean clothes, which rustled as he reached into the front of
the bottoms and unfurled his semi out loose. `You don't know a thing,
Dominic, you little mug...'

The handsome lad, normally such a gentle giant, faced him down silently.
Simply nodded south. Pickford felt his heart and his breathing quicken in
a mixture of thrill and terror. All the different lads he'd invited into
that bedroom -- youth players, blokes from the pub, friends of his bird,
all of them far more well-hung than he could ever pretend to be, their
big cocks ready to make her squeal and cry, while he watched and wanked
and-

`On. Your. Knees.'

`Yes,' the angry little man answered pathetically, his resolve
collapsing against the truth of what he wanted. All of the bluster and
try-hard masculinity melted away and the naked goalkeeper sank to his
knees, coming face-to-face with the long caramel snake of
Calvert-Lewin's manhood, the one that he had witnessed piledrive his
woman. Jordan closed his eyes, opened his mouth, leaned forward, and in
it went -- and above, the ascending young striker just grunted and spat
messily down at his face, and began to thrust his still-floppy thing in
and out of his lips until it was harder and longer and now he was fucking
him, fucking him in the mouth like he'd fucked his wife. Jordan kept his
mouth open and took it miserably, submitting entirely to this powerful
prince of the sport, knowing it was what he'd craved for years, and
exactly what he deserved after letting the club down so badly. The angry
Mackem goalie opened wide and made himself an oral slut for one of the
dumb young studs who'd shared his woman in his own master bedroom...
until his mouth was full of the lad's rich cum, which tasted even better
than when he'd licked it from her cunt, mingled with Kenny's.

Feeling it drool over his lips, he remained on his knees, kissing around
the stubble of Dominic's pubes and whimpering pathetically. `You're a
dirty old fucker,' the striker told him simply, and spat on him again.
`You were shit today. Sort it out.' He slapped his cock against
Jordan's face, making him shudder and whimper and reach down for his own
undersized erection. He mouthed a silent `yes, sir' and wanked himself,
while Dom just stared dismissively at him and took hold of his fat
wilting tool, cupping his fingers under the shaft and his compact hairy
balls. When he began to piss, Jordan just kept his face obediently in
place and took it, his eyes fluttering open and shut and his mouth gently
parted to let the striker's golden liquid course over his pale blotchy
face and down his hard-muscled wet body.

`You dirty little rat,' Calvert-Lewin told him simply, and wiped his
cock on his cheek, then pushed it back inside his neat clean pants, and
backed off with a swagger in his step. The big gentlemanly striker, so
dominant and terrifying in the dark steamy showers, and Pickford left on
his knees, shivering and thinking about how desperately he had denied his
cock-hunger for all the years of his football career, until now.



**WHAT NEXT FOR WILSON AND FRASER'S FRIENDSHIP...? WILL CARROLL CARRY ON
MAKING A SLUT OF HIMSELF AFTER BEING SHEARER'S BITCH...? IS DCL NOW A
NASTY DOM? WHO KNOWS... LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT AND WHAT YOU WANT TO
SEE NEXT... ??   **


'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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