Date: Mon, 22 Feb 2021 22:41:16 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 240

Part 240: Teenage Kicks


The voicemail played in his ear and brought a light smirk to his lips;
the Egyptian accent gave Salah's voice a faltering and pleading tone
even as he railed angrily in a secretive whisper that cut out every other
word. It was enough for him to get the gist, though; the Liverpool
striker was in a foul mood but also horny as fuck, and both were somehow
entirely Harvey Elliott's fault.

`What is it?' demanded his neighbour in the away changing rooms that he
and his Blackburn Rovers teammates now occupied, the mood low and tetchy
after a hard-fought loss. The other teenage player against this wall
scowled at him unhappily as if his cheeky smirk was an insult to the
Rovers' failure -- though like Harvey, this 18-year-old lad was another
`temp', as the older lads kept calling them, a loaned young talent from
a bigger club.

`The missus?' asked the lad on his other side with a less moody tone,
in the middle of drying his hair with his towel and in doing so exposing
his neatly trimmed pubes and pendulous private parts.

`Yeah,' Elliott responded quickly but casually, latching on to that
cover with a touch of amusement, unable to wipe the smirk from his mouth;
there was something really delicious and gratifying to have had this
impact on the severe and focused authority of Mohamed Salah, though he
could do without being blamed for any bad mood or lapse in form. `The
girl,' he mused in a quiet, playful voice, `wanting me to know how sexy
I looked on the pitch, obvs.' He winked at both neighbouring lads,
locking the phone and sliding it back into the bum-bag case hanging from
a hook in front of him, and beginning to undo the towel that was tied
loosely about his slim strong hips.

The Liverpool match must be underway now, he supposed, not that he had
any quick intention of responding to Salah's voice-message -- let the
pious bugger sweat! Salah had hung up on him on his last attempt at a
late call for phone sex, leaving him bored and toying with his full
bollocks on his own, how annoying. He grinned mischievously to himself
but also experienced another little twang of... guilt? No, not quite
guilt, it took two to tango; not guilt, but something approaching regret
or dissatisfaction. What was the point in winding up the Muslim football
hero anyway since he was unlikely to get anywhere near him `til later
this year...?

The 17-year-old winger quit wasting his thoughts on fuming Mo, getting on
with the business of loosening the towel and scrubbing it across his damp
torso and shoulders instead, comfortably exposing himself naked and
drying off here next to the two 18-year-olds -- Jarrod Braithwaite and
Taylor Harwood-Bellis, loaned defenders from Everton (ugh) and Man City
(ugh) respectively, but decent enough lads who counted as his crew here
in the rough-and-ready Championship squad he had joined since September.
Handsome feckers too, he thought idly, not for the first time, checking
out the stocky blond Cumbrian to his left and the Mancunian scally drying
his fluffy brown hair on the right.

Harvey lifted the towel to dry his own shaggy brown hair, trimmed down
from its old style but still a fierce mane that needed to be banded back
during play to keep it out of his eyes. He slung the towel on the next
hook and set about tying back his hair into a small knot, still bollock
naked, but with no shyness around his toned 5ft7 body or the droop of his
youthful equipment; he'd quickly learned that it was crucial he threw
himself around with confidence here or he'd be treated like a nobody or
an intruder, and he had chosen to ignore his age when making his presence
felt in the Blackburn team. And as the joint highest performing player in
England's second tier of football, he felt his cockiness was now more
than vindicated -- and matched in varying levels of respect or adoration
from the other Rovers, including these two Premiership loan teens that
he'd befriended. Neither Braithwaite or Harwood-Bellis had enjoyed his
spotlight at Liverpool, and the slightly older lads were in awe of
Harvey's stellar rise.

`Alright, H,' jibed one of them now, `put your cock away and find your
undies, will ya?'

Elliott sniggered and winked. `Thanks for noticing it, babes.'

`Oh fuck off, Liver Bird.'

`You're an arsehole, Harvey, get your keks on like everybody else.'

He giggled to himself as he stretched out a pair of boxer briefs and
yanked them up his softly haired leg muscles, letting them twang at his
waist then pulling on item after item of the Rovers traveling tracksuit,
trying to perk up the mood with some banter towards the other two, even
if the rest of the changing rooms were quiet and gloomy with the
difficult loss to Nottingham Forest. One key player had been hospitalised
through injury and there was a slightly bitter atmosphere among the men
as they pulled up tracksuit bottoms and zipped jerseys across broad
chests. Harvey felt the truth of his divided loyalties, annoyed with the
Blackburn result but secretly far more interested in the Merseyside derby
going on elsewhere, and his thoughts turned briefly back to Mo Salah and
that ridiculous muttered voicemail: good to know he was having such an
impact!



Harvey's sniggered satisfaction in the voice-message slightly belied the
reality of his current situation. He actually hadn't enjoyed any
`contact' with another lad in that way since the summer. He told
himself that was to do with his increasingly serious relationship with an
attractive model a couple of years older than him, the attractive WAG to
his teenage stardom, and because of the careful transition from
Premiership substitute to Championship first-team hero -- but in his
heart of hearts, he knew he'd freaked out and retreated it a bit after
what had happened between he and James Milner.

In short, losing his virginity to the big muscular father figure of the
Liverpool squad had been a shock and a lot more difficult than
anticipated. It had been the natural conclusion to his teasing and
experimenting last year, but it had also been a rushed and unexpected
twist in his antics; he never would have dared to think boring old Milner
could be a target, and then the big Yorkshireman had taken him forcefully
in his own walk-in wardrobe, leaving him limping for days and questioning
whether he actually had it in him to take that, erm, role.

It was weird and contradictory -- in most ways, Harvey had grown
immensely in the past six months, really flourishing on the pitch in the
smaller pond of Championship football, and growing into his short stocky
frame, broadening and building his strength. But he'd recoiled a little
from his sense of adventure and sexual conquest, the ridiculous boldness
that had led him to experiment with so many different fellas last season
-- from his wide-eyed roommate Neco Williams to the almost phantom figure
of Ross Barkley on that strange night in his car, via the likes of Gomez,
Trent, Salah. The Harvey who had crawled dangerously into Mo's bed and
sucked him off while his wife slept next to them... that devilish spirit
seemed to have left him a bit in the months since Milner broke him in and
he was promptly removed from the Liverpool roster to serve his dues at a
smaller club.

Men at his new team caught his eye quite regularly, but he held back from
looking for any hints or clues, and made no risky moves himself. He
enjoyed the laddish clique he'd formed with Jarrod and Taylor, but he
didn't think it worth the risk of any stoned experimentation like in
those attic bedrooms with Neco; he'd wanked off a few times thinking
about older blokes like the Leeds loanee Barry Douglas too, sensing
something seedy and promiscuous in the jeering Scotsman, but he hadn't
pushed to see just how much of a man-whore the Glaswegian actually was;
even some of the gaffer's assistant coaches had a certain DILFy charm to
the inquisitive teenager, but their wedding rings shone ominously on
their fingers and Elliott had continued, for whatever reason, to behave
himself.



And back at their hotel on the outskirts of Nottingham, the 17-year-old
was disappointingly well-behaved in another way: sitting at one table in
the hotel bar clutching a thin highball of orange juice, while everybody
else around him drained a pint of beer. It had been a twin shock to
Harvey: managerial attitudes to player drinking seemed way laxer here in
the second-tier, or at least at Rovers, and yet everyone's attitude to
the legal drinking age, well... For the dozenth time this season, the
underage lad was on a J2O vibe while the `men' of the squad were
downing legally dubious pints in a hotel bar that was officially closed,
but not to the `bubble' of sportsmen on tour.

This evening, the state of affairs was particularly galling; the
Liverpool score had been distressing to follow on the Sky Sports coverage
showing on half a dozen different screens, and even the gentle ribbing
from some of his Blackburn pals was a little much to stomach. Braithwaite
was particularly smug of course, seeming to really enjoy the fact that
his parent club had bested Elliott's, as if it somehow inverted the
levels of their talent and potential -- bollocks! The fact that Jarrod
and Taylor could order legal drinks and join in the sorrow-drowning beers
of the other men, while Harvey had to skulk about with soft drinks like a
kid at a family wedding, well that was just the icing on the urinal
cake.

So now he had given those two mates the slip, not keen to be the third
wheel to the room-sharing pair who were giddy on their third pint, and it
was easier for him to stick close to the gaffer and skipper and just sit
quietly in the corner of the table behaving himself. He could hardly bare
to acknowledge it, but this was only partly a choice -- there were some
very strict instructions in his loan contract that said he had to be
under supervision in hotel settings like this because of his age, a weird
carefulness that took him back to those surrogate families and broken
rules of last summer, the trouble he had wreaked for himself and Williams
with his weed purchasing.

The result: Harvey sitting with his arms folded and taking slow sips of
orange-and-passion-fruit, staring dead-eyed into the downbeat
conversation of the older men at the table, then shooting envious glances
about the bar where clusters of the other players were flagrantly
exceeding a two-drink limit laid out by the boss, and looking
considerably merrier than they had in the immediate aftermath of today's
defeat. He spied his own roommate for this away trip, the club's
prominent striker Adam Armstrong, holding court to Davenport, Travis and
Bell, telling god-knows-what anecdote and making the other blokes hoot
with laughter; further down the bar, his mates Braithwaite and H-B were
competing with Dack and Dolan to get the attention of a solitary and
face-masked barmaid, jesus!

It was a post-dinner scene that the teenager soon chose to quit,
swallowing his pride and asking the manager for permission to head up to
his room early. Permission! Honestly, as much as he loved the regular
minutes and attacking accolades he was experiencing here at his loan
team, life off the pitch was annoyingly schooly and patronising, and he
regularly fantasised about returning to Anfield in the summer as a
self-assured 18-year-old, an actual `man' who didn't have to be
treated as a boy!

He made his way up through the second-rate hotel and to his room, which
was sour with an unidentifiable smell in all of its furniture, and he
loaded up a film on his iPad. Briefly he thought about giving a cheeky
call or message to Salah to keep that flirtation going, but he decided
against it; he knew that the Egyptian hunk would be in no mood to be
wound up after the derby loss, and Harvey himself felt gloomy and
listless with the double defeats of the day. He couldn't be arsed to
return some missed calls from his mum or girlfriend either, just changing
into a grey t-shirt and baggy black jogger shorts and crawling into bed
to watch a new thriller on the streaming service.



Though he'd sneered enviously at him in the bar area, he quite liked his
assigned roommate of this and several past away ventures -- Armstrong was
a rugged Geordie man who often seemed older than his 24 years, quite
well-established in his third season with Blackburn Rovers and full of
adventurous tales from his career to date. The Newcastle-born striker had
quickly taken him under his wing as part of the attacking line-up and was
always full of praise for the young winger's contribution. His good
looks didn't hurt, from a room-sharing point of view, though Harvey
tried to keep his glances subtle and stolen, rather than openly ogling
the bearded and tattooed bruiser who strutted about hotel suites in
slobbish undress, burping and scratching his balls like he'd fallen out
of a 90s lads' mag.

At some point in the onset of night, Harvey must have drifted off, his
match-weary young body relaxing against the hotel bedding and the
thriller film failing to maintain his attention; and his shallow sleep
was broken by a loud clobbering at the door, fleshy thumps against the
wood and metallic scratching as of a key. Harvey's limbs stiffened up
and he blinked blearily at the darkened screen of his device, the little
`Are you still watching...?' message that had been ignored in his
snoozing. More loud but furtive clumsiness from beyond the hotel room
door opposite his bed as he began to take stock of his surroundings and
lift out of a pleasantly forgotten dream.

The teen footballer screwed up his eyes and then squinted down at his
sports watch, realising he'd actually dozed off for a few hours rather
than a few minutes. It was after midnight and well past the team hotel
curfew... He pushed the inactive tablet away from him, letting it fall
with a soft thud into the carpet beside his bed, then knuckling at his
sleepy eyes and trying to shake some life into his stretched out legs.
Then, at last, he stumbled out of bed and across the room, beginning to
recognise the slurring mutter of his roommate's voice at the heart of
the noise -- a peek through the peephole confirmed this and he quickly
wrenched the door open to let the bloke in.

The first thing that hit him, other than quite literally the force of the
other man's stumbling body, was the intense stale beeriness of his
breath, mingled with tobacco smoke. Adam Armstrong crashed into him quite
hard, almost bearing him backwards, while slurring, `Harrrrrvey...!' in
tones of extreme Geordie drunkenness.

Harvey regained his balance and shoved the hotel door shut after the
stumbling arrival -- then, realising that Adam looked set to fall
straight face-forward into his bed without another guy supporting him, he
lunged back from the door and swung an arm about the broad lad's chest
to steady him. `Whoa, hold up there, matey,' he remarked sleepily at
the older player, still adjusting to the sudden scenario, and balking a
little at the strong smell of lager and cigarettes pouring off the
Tynesider. Adam was not a tall guy, 5ft6 and so just a little shorter
than himself, but broader with heavy muscle and quite difficult to still
as he swayed and staggered and pushed about with his hairy bare arms. A
swipe of his tattooed left one almost sent Harvey skidding back into the
wall and he laughed in shock, righted himself, then grabbed more firmly
at Adam's body to prop him up. `Oi!' he barked. `Where the hell have
you been partying, big man?'

`Harrrrvey, man,' grumbled Armstrong in a low voice a little like whale
music, pushing heavily at him with his shoulders, but then swapping
resistance for a grasping embrace. Again, the weight of the 24-year-old
striker's body pressing against him almost sent the teenager staggering
stupidly backwards and he had to fight to wake himself up and keep them
both properly on their feet.

`Mate,' he snapped a bit less patiently, `how much have you fuckin'
had?'

A low burring laugh. `I'm soberrrr as a judgggge...'

`Jesus!' With some effort, he redirected Adam from his own bed towards
the other, helping him across the space and then basically letting go so
that the short stocky forward toppled back with a series of deep laughs,
before letting out a loud belch. Harvey staggered beside him, reeling
from the effort of steering the bloke, and straightening back up himself.
He reached up to pull some of his loosened hair out of his eyes and took
in the sprawling sight of the other footballer -- burly and bearded, his
Blackburn polo shirt seeming to be smeared with alcoholic or food stains
and riding up over the bottom of his flat thick tummy. He was alternating
between nauseous groans and giddy laughs, but somehow Harvey began to
coax at least key words of explanation out of him -- `barmaid', `lock
in', `too many', `vodka shots'.

`Keep it down a bit,' Elliott muttered at the other guy, conscious of
the hotel's thin walls -- he had that horrible feeling that if
Armstrong's late-night antics created more of a disturbance then he
would only be tarnished with the incident and get in trouble despite a
dull sober night on his own. His plea made no impact on the Geordie
lad's laughter or grumbling though, and now Adam was trying to get up
off the bed too instead of just collapsing into the mire of his drunken
state -- oh, fucking hell.

Harvey moved instinctively closer, not actually pushing the lumbering oaf
back to his bed, but cradling one of his curled arms and wincing
irritably at his bullish state. No sooner was on his feet than he was
pressing heavily into him and almost shoving him back onto his own so
that the two men would just end up tangled together until the drunken
Geordie yob was snoring and drooling into him... he couldn't resist a
seedy smirk at this image, begrudgingly supporting Adam on some shaky
steps out from between the beds and towards the dim rectangle of their en
suite bathroom. `Think... am... gonna be... ugh...' The 5ft6 brick tried to
lunge away from him, thought better of his own poor balance, and leaned
pathetically into him, aided in a rickety three-legged race until they
were bursting through the doorway into the cramped space of the bathroom
and Armstrong could drop to his knees in front of the toilet, retching
unsuccessfully and making a series of self-pitying moans while Elliott
just stood grimly over him, screwing up his goateed young face. What was
it about other people's drunkenness that made you want to swear a vow of
sobriety?

Harvey punched at a light switch to illuminate the bathroom but then
found it harsh and garish to his own sleepy eyes, never mind the groaning
hulk below him; he turned it back off and disappeared back into the
bedroom, where he switched on a couple of lamps and let their glow leak
into the en suite before returning to stand over the glum caricature,
arms folded like a stern parent. In spite of everything, he found himself
looking down and reminding himself how attractive Adam actually was, a
young bear of a lad, his face thickly clouded with dark beard, his body
strong and stout as he hunched by the toilet bowl with no sign of
actually committing to his threat to vomit. Thank fuck, Harvey thought,
not sure he fancied playing nursemaid or cleaner right now.

Still -- the drunken oaf didn't look right. And if he just dragged him
to bed, might he not be sick in the night and choke on it? Some relic of
a mid-teens horror story warning from his Fulham youth days resurfaced
and he felt a pang of care for the moaning bloke. He knew with a dollop
of resentment that if the tables were turned, Adam would be all throaty
laughter and supportive gestures, brotherly and protective; but then
Harvey was the bloody 17-year-old here, the `underage drinker' barred
from joining the post-match pints...! He scowled more then made his
decision.

`Right, prick. Cold shower for you!'

He went across to the shower that took up one end of the narrow bathroom
and twisted the head into life, dialling down the temperature, then
squatting to push his arms beneath Adam's pits, feeling his clammy body
heat through the Blackburn polo shirt clinging to his torso. With some
effort, he hoisted the heavier man upright, spinning them and shoving him
gracelessly towards the shower, resenting every push but also finding
himself quite enjoying the sweaty-aftershave smell laced with beer and
fags, and the heavy muscle pressing against his own lithe physique. The
pragmatic decision to try and pull the stained top up and off for him was
not entirely free from these distracting thoughts: tangling it up past
the navel and encouraging those thick arms up high so he could wrestle
the shirt away from Adam's oddly smooth chest. `Come on,' he grunted,
wresting it from him and dropping it distastefully to the bathroom floor
-- Adam immediately slumped forward into him with a miserable groan,
resting his hot face on one shoulder and trying to wrap his arms about
him.

`Nah,' Harvey told him sternly, `let's get you under that cold water,
you'll thank me for it tomorrow, chief...!'

`Fuck off, man,' came the mumbling unappreciative response. Harvey just
rolled his eyes and pressed the lad back until he was leaning against the
towel rail; then squatting down again and unlacing his chunky trainers,
helping one smelly socked foot after another out of them. He didn't
bother removing the off-white socks, no appetite for their grubbiness,
but he did look up and down the pale grey sweatpants that clung to thick
striker's legs -- he was weighing up how annoying they would be once
soaking wet and cold, but not blind to the heavy bulge pressing into the
front between the two legs. Thank Jesus for grey sweatpants: a small
mercy to make him tolerant and helpful.

`Get these off,' he grunted instructively, giving them a pull near the
knees; Adam's clumsy paws shoved down roughly at the waist to do so,
compliant in his drunken state, but inept. Harvey dragged the fabric
away, exposing the contrast between the thickly haired thighs and the
waxed-smooth expanse of his tummy and hard chest. Exposing too the
striped stretchy boxer trunks he wore beneath, and then rising up to help
him into the shower. Adam made a dim groan of protest whilst leaning
heavily on him, but ultimately did as pressed -- stepping under the cold
blast of water with an instant dizzy whimper. `Fuck, fuck, what the
fuck,' was his rapid, foggy outrage, and Harvey quickly took pity,
reaching for the knob to twist a warmer temperature into the showerhead,
the cold water currently spraying against his own t-shirt and skin.

`Oh god, my head,' yowled Armstrong, collapsing backwards against the
shower wall, and tugging on his arm as he did, so that Harvey was half in
the shower, sprayed too by the cold-to-lukewarm gush.

He shook his face, straggles of his hair falling into his eyes, and
growled wordlessly at the drunken 24-year-old, resentful but also amused.
And blinking wet eyes at the slipper gloss of Adam's bare chest and
shoulders, the lilt of his bearded face and... below, he saw, the soaking
wet cling of those stripy boxer briefs, all the tighter and heavier
looking for this effect...! So wet and tight that the outline of a chunky
flaccid cock was insanely visible for a moment before more water was
splashed into his face and he had to pull away to get his balance and
drag hair out of his face. Adjusting his eyes again, he stared at the
accidental pose of the other man's writhing wet body, and made a choice
that was far less charitable and pitying.

He grabbed the hotel-brand shower gel from its hook and squirted some
into one palm, then nodded abruptly. `Turn around, then,' he said, and
Adam made a vague response before turning his back on him, pushing elbows
and forearms into the wall. Harvey slapped the handful of colourful gel
into his broad thick shoulders and felt the water warm gently against
them as he rubbed it side to side, lathering his palm against the hot
sweaty skin -- all the while, his own grey tshirt becoming more splashed
and streaked and then quite sodden. He left it on and ignored the
irritating dangling of his own fringe, moving both hands across the
bulging muscle of Adam's upper back, his eyes dancing with the little
rivers of foam that coursed downwards.

Downwards, against the Ted Baker waistband of those stripy pants, which
were absolutely taut and soaked against the broad rump... Harvey was
giving it a slow grab before he knew what he was doing, earning just a
low giggle from the drunken idiot against him, then `Oi, ha'... Harvey
was completely soaked now against him, and he pulled his hand away to
knock at the shower controls, lessening the flow, shaking wet hair out of
his face, and returning his hands to the soapy hips just above the
waistband. Another low snigger and a soft groan from drunken Adam. In
spite of his better judgement, Harvey slid his hands downwards and he
gripped at the elastic, pulling down an inch, then another inch, then...

Fuck, it was a lovely arse. Big and rounded and quite hairy. He let the
elastic sit comfortably beneath this fuzzy peach, stood awkwardly behind
him with water still splashing at one side, and soap suds pooling around
his bare feet and Armstrong's drenched darkened socks. He laid his hands
on the lower back and guided his thumbs in slow arcs down against the top
of each cheek: a ragged little moan from Armstrong, an angry twitch of
semi-hardness for Elliott. `You daft prick,' he found himself muttering
playfully at his drunk roomie, cupping hands against the soft hair of his
buttocks, while the man just pressed harder into the wall and made a
detached groan of, `I feel like SHITE...'

Harvey was possessed with a midnight curiosity that quickly made him
press things further. One hand moving up in massaging gestures across
those broad shoulders, but the other dipping low... slipping a single wet
finger in between those perfect mounds. Adam burst into laughter,
simultaneously pressing back a little with his back muscles -- `Ah,
fuck, the wife loves a poke down there!' The uninhibited outburst filled
the horny teenager with curiosity and he dug his finger in deeper to the
furry crack, through which it slid neatly, really exploring the wetness...
his own dick pressed tightly against his bed-shorts and he stifled an
excited snigger. `Oi,' laughed Adam, `oi, haha... tickly bastard...!'
His grumbled loudness was playful and bleary, not censorious. Harvey
tickled his fingertip over the man's bud, digging the thumb of his other
hand across the top of his spine and pushing him into a more sensual moan
of relaxation.

`Just getting you nice and clean,' the 17-year-old found himself saying
in a ragged excited voice -- he was saying it as if to convince himself,
since the older lad was far too pissed to react. He pushed his finger a
bit more and felt the hole start to give way; instantly Adam was making a
growl of response that melted into more clunky laughter. Laughter and
kinda groaning... Harvey could hardly believe he was doing this, probing
his index finger inside the hot tightness and leaning in close to the
other footballer, who sniggered and belched.

`Aye, just like that,' Armstrong mumbled, `she gets reet handsy doon
there...'

`Like this?' Harvey grunted in his ear, pushing it right in to the
knuckle.

`Ahhhh... aye... dirty bitch... ha ha... mmmm...'

`Bet she is,' he sniggered, wiggling his finger exploratively,
prolonging and deepening the `Mmmm!' escaping from the drunkard's
lips. Wow. He pulled his finger out a bit, feeling the ring tighten even
more, then pushed it back in, fingering his hole like he'd tried on his
own in dark curious moments before first making an experimental move on
Neco. He could remember how much he'd loved having the Welsh beauty's
fingers up him that weed-addled night, though his own anal fixation had
been killed by the force and pain of being deflowered in his closet, ha.
But fingering another lad like this was pretty fun...

`Awww,' groaned Armstrong deeply, `fuckkkk...' It was unclear quite
what he thought was going on, but he wasn't pushing him away, wasn't
really making any sign that this was unwelcome. Elliott couldn't quite
believe this, but he gave in to the temptation to lean in closer and
plant a soft tester kiss on the back of his neck, which was met with a
muffled `Mmmmph ayyyye...' and he matched with more twisting and pushing
of his one inserted finger.

Now he moved his other hand, slipping it down and around, brushing across
the front of the tummy, down into the bristly crotch and... ah, there it
was, lifting and thickening, Adam's cock. His wet fingers slid around it
in a loose hold, unsure what he could get away with, but all the Geordie
striker did was groan deeply and press his forehead into the glistening
wall, his body perfectly postured to allow Harvey two-handed control of
his pleasure... slow soapy strokes of his cock and plunging gestures of
his one stiff finger. He let out long wheezy breaths of his own risqué
excitement, hunched up against the older man, kissing him on the back of
the neck again and expecting to be thrown violently back at any moment...
This was the old Harvey, the teenager thought, remembering the
recklessness of 2020 and the things he had tried. Where had this wicked
streak been all season...? Hehe, if Mo fucking Salah could see him now!

`Oh shit,' grunted Armstrong, some hint of clarity or awareness
entering his slurred voice, `oh fuckkk, mate...' But Harvey began to
push his finger in and out of the tight hot hole with more speed and
force, and that just cut off the shaky words, replacing them with a long
deep `Ohhhhh...'

But Adam's hands were reaching pushily down, guiding his own wet
knuckles aside so he could grab his own cock, which he began to jerk with
very wet fleshy noises. Harvey rapidly grabbed his own tool through his
wet shorts, stroking it at an awkward angle and maintaining the punchy
rhythm of his frigging finger... could he slide in a second? Well, only
one way to find out, innit...

`OH FUCK,' moaned Armstrong at this difficult doubling, `Yes mate,'
Harvey whispered in unison, resting his head in against the other man's,
really fighting the tight constrictive muscles to get two digits in
there. Adam was bending instinctively forward, pushing his large hairy
rear back, and still one arm bulging and rippling as it reached down to
jerk off his meat. Harvey reached his left hand inside his shorts to feel
himself, then pulled it out clear.

There was a dazzling moment where the prospect of taking this even
further seemed possible and perfect: he had two fingers stuffed right up
inside the lad's snatch, and his other hand squeezing around the shaft
of his own hard-on, and the combination of the two danced in his head,
but he guiltily rejected the plan, mixed terror and guilt making him
reject the temptation to try and fuck this meaty bugger. But even the
thought of it was making his cock leak and froth in his clumsy left hand,
and he found himself digging the two fingers in deeper and harder, so
much that Armstrong was really straightening up against the wall and
gasping loudly and wildly.

`Aye,' the Geordie whimpered now, his voice urgent, `that's it babe,
that's good...!' None of the jokey dismissal of the `dirty bitch' who
slid a finger in him during whatever missionary shag the couple enjoyed,
but a real lusty submission to the anal pleasure. And the idea, rejected
for a moment, was back in Harvey's guilty mind, his cock absolutely
twitching against his palm. `Aye,' Adam gasped, `awwww fuckkk...'

`You like that?' Harvey hissed.

`Ayyyye, man...'

`Mmm...!'

The temptation burned at him, but he was so uncertain -- what were they
really playing at here, and what the hell did Armstrong actually think
was happening? But the dilemma was eradicated as Elliott found himself
arriving premature. He'd hardly wanked at himself, but he was so excited
and horny that he was already firing sloppy jizz against the man's left
buttock, little threads of his watery cum, perhaps unfelt as they struck
the skin and hair. He swallowed his gasps and shuddered behind his
teammate, still knuckles-deep in his hole and hearing his deep gasps and
growls.

Harvey, partly in feat at having spunked on this chunky straight arse,
lashed out to the right, knocking the shower back to full force -- it had
heated up considerably now as it steamed and roared against their bodies,
and he slid downwards whilst tugging at the hairy thighs, turning around
at the dazed figure until he was getting a faceful of cock. He opened
wide and took its wet girth in between his open lips, hearing no
expression of either excited surprise or disgusted shock from the other
player, simply a deep animal moan of satisfaction. In seconds, Harvey was
getting a mouthful of cum, his first in quite a while, so salty and tangy
on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, while the cascade of the shower
rained against his face and his hair, and then one of Adam's strong
hands tugged aggressively through his roots and held onto his crown.
`Yes babe,' came the ambiguous growl, perhaps he thought he was being
noshed by a girl, `yesss...'

Harvey pulled away, letting the hot water wash over his face, spitting
some of the strong-tasting load at the shower floor, then dragging
himself away and upright, sucking in steamy air and leaning against the
pipes, a moment to recover from the head-rush of orgasm and swallowing.
Then reaching down with nurse-like concern to pull up Adam's tight wet
underpants and his own disturbed shorts, elbowing off the shower and
standing in the lingering steam for a moment -- beside him, Adam had his
eyes shut tightly and his head lolling back to the wall, his mouth wide
open as he gasped and moaned, a mixture of post-coital bliss and nauseous
suffering.

The Liverpool exile left the shower first, his tshirt and shorts wet and
heavy on his body, reaching for the piled towels and unfurling one ready
as Adam staggered after him. He held it wide and wrapped it about his
upper body in a simple hug. Within this fluffy grip, the drunkard sighed,
and whispered one brief trace of recognition. `Mmm, thanks Harv,' he
sighed, and the 17-year-old found himself deeply confused as to whether
the thank you was for the towel or the other services...

Armstrong was pulling away from him then, shaking and groaning, wrapping
the towel about his upper body while water dribbled down his hairy legs.
His steps were tottering but independent, shifting away from Elliott's
support and leaving the bathroom, dropping wet footprints to the carpet
beyond. He had to linger behind him, a bit breathless, leaning on the
doorframe and catching a look at himself in the steamed mirror, the
dishevelled mop of his brown hair hanging over his concerned blushing
face -- he sneered at his own panic, but felt genuine bewilderment at
what had unfolded. He forced a laugh for his own benefit and grabbed at
the other towels, pulling them against his face and hair and clothes,
then discarding the wet garments and wrapping one towel about his waist.
Moving between the en suite and the bathroom, he caught a full look at
Adam's naked form from behind, a lamplit profile of bulky muscle and
hairy arse, then he collapsed face-first onto the far bed with a shaky
laugh.

Harvey sniggered uncertainly to himself, a little unsure of the madness
in the showers. He dragged the towels against himself, naked too, then
crawled wearily into bed, surprised by how quickly his brain shut back
down and descended into sleep.



It was the singing that woke him, tuneless and out of sync with the tinny
speaker blasting indie music from some corner of the room. Well, the
singing woke him, but the gentle slap to the cheek really disturbed him
and made him open his eyes. It was Adam, naked but for fresh underpants,
a toothbrush shoved into his mouth, stood over the bed, reaching his free
hand down to pat his chops while he laughed through a mouthful of white
foam.

`Oi, lazy git, get up -- we have to be down for breakfast in ten!'

Harvey Elliott groaned dimly and pulled his face away, while Armstrong
shifted away, bouncing buttocks in white cotton, and moved around the
room in his pants. The teen lifted himself against the pillows, naked
below the sheets, watching as the striker disappeared into the bathroom
then returned, a single smear of toothpaste still on his bottom lip.
Harvey felt a little dull headache and blinked his eyes, screwed up his
nose, taking in how fresh and chirpy the older player was this morning --
he felt almost as if he'd caught the hangover by proxy, but he'd never
been a good morning person. His own greasy discombobulation was nothing
weird, but the other fella's cheery alertness was downright bonkers.

`Ads,' he grumbled sleepily, `you not feeling rough?'

`Hmm? Nahhhh, actually feel fuckin' sweet, man.'

`Oh. Right. You were pretty, erm, fucked last night, so-`

`Oh god man, was I? Did I wake you? Ha ha. Shit, I don't even remember
coming back to the room, like! Ha ha, fuckin' helllll...'

Harvey dropped his arms over his knees, grimacing a bit and training his
eyes on the more established Rover, who was pulling on shorts and jumper
at the foot of the bed, not looking this way but just grinning brightly
at himself in a mirror. What?

`You don't remember?' he thought aloud. `Er -- you were pretty loud
and clumsy, it was...'

`Aww shit!' The bearded young bear turned and grinned warmly at him.
`Did I fuckin' wake you then? Sorry lad! Bloody hell. What a mess. What
time was that? God, dunno how my head feels so clear this mornin'...! I
am DYING for a cooked breakfast, mate, get your arse out of bed and
ready, okay...? I am NOT waiting for a lazy teenager, haha...'

He shuffled on, pulling on his socks and moving away towards the windows,
which were open to the early Nottingham morning. Harvey shielded his eyes
from winter sun and sank slowly back against the pillows, weighing up two
options: the Geordie bloke was absolutely bullshitting and forced amnesia
was the only way to cover up the fact he'd had his fat hairy arse
fingered to climax... or Harvey had really taken advantage of his state
last night. He wasn't sure which option galled him more. He cringed at
them both and screwed up his face, then hopped out of bed whilst Adam was
looking away, slinking naked across the room and into the bathroom, the
scene of their debauchery. Straight into the shower, where he washed
himself down, thinking about how good it had been to shove his fingers
inside that man's crack -- he had to think boring thoughts until his
semi went away when he was finished and drying.

Back in the hotel room, Armstrong was indeed waiting on a lazy teenager.
`Come on,' he complained restlessly, fully dressed and lounging on his
bed beside his packed bag, whilst Elliott quietly pulled on his gear and
awkwardly avoided looking over his way too much.

Then, on the way out of the room and into the corridor, the voices of
teammates echoing slightly at the far end by the lifts, Adam laid one
heavy hand on his shoulder, steering him along. `You're a good kid,
Harvey,' he said simply. `You know that?' He gave a broad,
disingenuously casual smile through his thick beard, and Harvey stared
cynically back, nodding slowly, and following his teammate down towards
the jokey morning banter of the others. To breakfast.



'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
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