Date: Wed, 24 Feb 2021 23:36:47 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 241

Part 241: The Crush


In the cosy tweeness of the Essex master bedroom, a lamp was switched
off, and kisses goodnight were shared. The man of the house slid gently
apart from his wife, resting the back of his head on the pillow and
sighing a breath into the dark sexless air. He lay restlessly still,
holding his arms over the thick duvet, eyes wide open, controlling the
quiet excitement of his breath... and waiting.

Waiting for his wife, curled softly away from him, lulled gently away by
bedtime reading, to fall fully asleep. He knew her well enough to
recognise the shifts in breathing, but he still rolled his neck and
glanced across at her to check before he made any careful movements,
pulling the covers away from the tight white t-shirt and patterned pyjama
shorts. Out of the bed and onto his feet, which he slid into slippers
just to quieten his steps -- and then a silk dressing gown cautiously
unhooked from its place and pulled about his warm body.

The 40-year-old stood looking guiltily back to the bed, slowly fastening
the cords across the front of the gown, listening to the sleepy sighs of
the missus, then pulling gently away one step at a time, one slippered
foot after the other, until he was out on the landing. He daren't shut
the bedroom door after him, leaving it open an inch, edging out onto the
landing where he knew quite well which floorboard had a giveaway creak
and could avoid it as he passed through the large family home to the
stairway.

Downstairs, the former England star hesitated in the corridor, eyeing the
little glimmers of security lamp and moonlight that sometimes flickered
through windows by the porch and in the open lounge; then, more
decisively, moving alongside the staircase bannister and to the long row
of coat-hooks fastened against its panelled side, finding his own waxed
Barbour coat that he'd worn in and out of London today on the commute to
his management job.

Again, Scott Parker stopped, shooting sharp glances up and down the empty
entrance hall of his home, his wife and children fast asleep in the two
floors above, but an important caution still slowing and holding his
movements. But he poppered open a side-pocket of the hanging coat and dug
his fist inside, grabbing at some soft cottony material within, and then
tugging it furtively out and holding it across the heat of his chest,
where the robe opened across the front of his t-shirt. He stopped like
that, controlling his deep snorting breaths, then gradually lifting the
hand towards his face, taking a deep musty breath from the wrinkled
fabric in his hands: breathing in the manly odours of the stolen
underpants clutched in his fist.

The Fulham manager closed his furtive eyes and breathed it in, the dirty
crotch-smell of his crush.



The scene of the crime: the Fulham training ground, midweek. Spirits high
in the West London football team's Wednesday sessions, sandwiched
between one weekend's much-needed win over Sheffield and the approaching
derby against Crystal Palace on Sunday. It was another tough season for
Parker's squad, but they were adamantly holding on to their place in the
Premiership and unwilling to face another demotion to the lower leagues.

Scott found himself alone in the changing rooms, mid-morning. He was
bouncing along at a pace, caught by the infectious good mood of his
players, and passing through the changing areas to re-join the men out on
the main pitch, where a number of his assistants were breaking the squad
into sub-groups for drills before he took control of the day's main
sessions. It was only his second season as the gaffer and every part of
it was still a novelty to the former midfielder.

He certainly hadn't ended up in the changing rooms with any seedy
intentions. It was an environment the retired footballer had grown up in
and spent all of his adult life in and out of, he knew how to behave and
control himself in a locker-room! All of those long seasons suppressing
his curiosities had given him an iron will in that department, really;
keep your eyes up above the waste, mate, never look down, never stare at
anyone for more than two seconds. Behave. Repression, shame, fear, the
holy trinity of self-control.

But he was only human.

He passed through the scruffy collection of lockers, benches, discarded
things -- footballers ranged from militaristic tidiness to slobbish
destruction, and so there were neat piles of bags and clothing, and
extensive bombsites of masculine attire and paraphernalia. The position
in the cluttered changing room that caught his attention as he passed
through the room, his Barbour coat flapping openly at his sides over his
own slim-fit tracksuit, was towards the former of these two extremes, a
neat and particular spot in the centre of a row of five, partly
reflecting the slick urbane persona of its occupant. Parker stopped in
his rapid footsteps and stared fondly at the name `Bryan' on the back
of a spare jersey on a hanger, over his No.23.

Tidy, but not weirdly so. It still projected the casual masculinity of
the player, one of the squad's rotational defenders, a man who had still
been quite new to Fulham when Parker himself took the reins eighteen
months ago. He looked the spot up and down, from the football shirt and
other hanging items by the wall, to the scruffy pile of items on the
bench and then the kit-bag stuffed underneath it. On top of the pile, he
couldn't help but notice, was the casual clothes Joe Bryan had arrived
at training in -- a slightly mangled fold of denim, the ripples of a
black shirt, and over them, the dumpy form of some discarded pale grey
Calvin Kleins.

Parker swayed a little on his feet, clearing his throat loudly, Bryan's
name glaring at him from among the row of other Fulham players against
that wall. He fingered nervously at the neck of his top, taking three
slow steps to the left and approaching the wall, then reached out with
his other hand and brushing his knuckles aimlessly against the hanging
shirt, over the printed 23. His reached curved downwards as if out of his
control, and his fingertips ran gently over the material, soft and worn,
lifting the boxer briefs by the branded waistband... and bringing them
very very slowly to himself, letting them open and dangle from his
fingers, these shed undies that his left-back had dropped here as he
kitted up for training.

Scott closed his hand more fully about the CKs and dragged them up
towards his face, taking a quick furtive breath of the ambiguous bodily
smell they contained -- a rash and sleazy move born of too much
self-discipline and suppression over the years. After all, how many times
had he angrily torn his eyes away from the sight of this defender,
correcting his own inclinations with a fierce determination for
normality? So now he sucked in the scent, a mixture of spiced soap, stale
sweat and something else, and then -- oh shit -- the swish and rustle of
clothing followed by the click of boot studs, and he jerked the hand
rapidly away from his face, practically throwing the pants down against
the floor.

The inexperienced head coach turned sharply to look down the row of
things, startled as a tall black lad burst around the corner, breathing
heavily and dropping into an immediate crouch a few spaces down the wall
from him, rifling through the bag whilst looking this way. `Chief,' the
young man barked at him, `what you up to?' It was asked innocently
enough, but it was firm and jarring enough against Parker's paranoia to
make him open and close his mouth in a series of stammering failures.
Then, before he could get his words out, the 25-year-old player was
rising up to his tall frame and nodding downwards with a hesitant smile
playing on his handsome features.

`Gaffer?' he asked with a tickle of laugh in his voice.

Scott looked down. The grey Calvins were lying on top of one of his
trainers where he had tossed them downwards, hanging incriminatingly over
his footwear as he stood there, his high cheekbones probably colouring in
embarrassment. `Er...'

A soft half-laugh from the player. `Boss?'

A reckless autopilot bypassed Scott's awkward terror. `Honestly,' he
barked in his dad voice, `this lot, what are they all like?' And with a
footballer's deftness he jerked his knees and foot and flipped the
garment upwards onto the stack of Joe Bryan's clothing, shaking his head
and rolling his eyes and taking a couple of steps towards the other
Fulham lad. `The mess in here, it's ridiculous, total bunch of slobs,
right?' He gave a stretched, white-toothed grin at the young guy and
reached to pat his shoulder, nodding to the doors. `Come on, you've got
what you come for yeah, let's get out there with the rest of them and-`
He paused, staring at the younger guy's expression and then guiltily
back across the row of lockers, faltering in his lie, but needing to
plough on: `Tidying up after them like they're all my sons, what a
fucking state. Come on, big lad, time to prep for that win!'



Parker was still cringing at the encounter by the end of the afternoon,
staring blindly at a slew of emails in his office. He rubbed at his sharp
jaw and clicked pointlessly at the mouse, not tearing his eyes from the
monitor and letting the minutes tick by up here, away from the busyness
of the training centre -- the final warm-downs of the afternoon in the
capable hands of his deputy so that he could get back to some admin and
stop tormenting himself with the horror of his little slip of
self-control!

God, what are you playing at?!

He felt more harshly disappointed himself than last year when he'd made
the mad mistake of downloading that app. To think, he'd almost met up
with that younger guy on it, actually gone all the way into Shoreditch
after a late night in this very office... and lying about his own age,
edging it down through his 30s as if his age was the problem, not his
wife, family, career... years of denial! He squirmed in his seat, reliving
the frustrations of that unused app, the download-and-delete cycle of
curiosity and failure. As if he would ever use it properly, how could he
take that risk?! How could he dip his toe in that dangerous water? He
could feel the sharks circling even as he carefully cropped his face out
of the pictures he'd dared to send to that one guy, the stranger who had
stood him up.

Idiocy. Control yourself.

He cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, tried to return his focus to
the scouting reports in his inbox, and then- knuckles were rapping on the
office door and breaking his sluggish train of thought. `Come in,' he
called impatiently without looking away from the computer. The door
swished open and a grassy outdoor scent flooded in with the huffing and
panting arrival, swinging brightly into the room and drawing his
attention across... oh, for fuck's sake. It was him.

`Boss,' breathed Joe Bryan heavily, `can I have a minute, yeah?'

Parker froze, his hands an inch over the keyboard, furrowing his brow and
turning his head firmly towards the kitted footballer in the centre of
his square office. Fuck fuck fuck. He knew. He'd heard. He'd been told.
That prick had seen him going for it, having a sniff, or- Fuck fuck fuck,
what would he say? How could he explain this? Oh jesus joseph and mary...

`That ok? You got a minute? I don't wanna disturb you,' the
27-year-old Bristolian said, his voice softening and his dark brows
lifting questioningly. A nervous smile broke his weary post-training
expression and he tilted his head. `Everything alright, boss?'

Recovering himself and pushing his chair back from the desk, Scott
blinked away his horrified expression and readjusted to the friendly
uncertainty of the left-back's manner. He waved clumsily at  the spare
chair by his desk and stammered out his reassurance. `Absolutely fine,
Bryan, all good -- have a seat, you know I always have a minute for any
player who needs to talk.' He got up aimlessly from his seat, still
waving at the other one, and stared widely at Joe as he reached across
and flopped down into it, shorts riding up his thick thighs as he did.
The short muscular defender made himself comfortable with a series of
deep sighs, adjusting the waterproof jacket over his training shirt and
fiddling with the beanie hat that half-covered his tufty light brown
hair.

Scott sank slowly back into his own chair, stared away at the screen to
centre himself, then dared a welcoming smile at Joe, who clearly knew
nothing about his indiscretion of earlier. `What can I do for you, Joey?
What's up? Training end okay down there?' He did a bad job of relaxing
his body language, leaning one hand on the desk and twisting his chair to
show he was snubbing the emails and devoting his managerial attention to
his player in a calm and supportive manner, and definitely not
remembering the smell of his Calvin Kleins.

Except it was quite hard to listen to Bryan's casual response, the
handsome man pawing at his mud-grimed face and adjusting the crotch of
his Fulham shorts where they rode up his thigh muscles; his every twitch
drawing the manager's eyes across the settled muscular presence of the
5ft7 lad, taking in the smell of grass and sweat that poured off his
mud-streaked legs. He swayed in and out of this appreciative stare,
tuning in as Joe cut the small talk and made his almost apologetic point:
he'd not even made the subs bench for a couple of games now, and was
hoping to get a lot more minutes under his belt (his belt, Scott thought,
picturing the sweat-stained inner waistband of those grey CK boxer
briefs) in the Palace game this coming Sunday.

`Ah,' Parker responded with a wariness that had nothing to do with
squad rotation or strategic priorities, and everything to do with the
fact he was wondering what underpants the Bristol bloke was wearing under
those shorts right now. He drew himself back in his smart office chair
and cleared his throat, then smiled apologetically at Bryan when he
realised how ominous his reaction might seem. `Well, you know you're
always in contentious when you're feeling fit, Bryan, so don't you
worry -- I haven't quite settled on the names for Sunday, of course,
it's only Wednesday, but...'

`I know, I know,' insisted Joe in his charming lightly accented way,
shifting his weight in the other seat and rubbing both hands down the
creased front of his waterproof. `It's terrible of me coming in here
and even asking, I know that chief, not the done thing, eh? Sorry, boss,
I am sorry -- I don't wanna be THAT player, pushing and complaining, you
know I just like to keep my head down and work hard, that's my
style...!'

`It is,' Scott agreed, a little too quickly and breathily. `It is.
Don't apologise. I respect your... forwardness. Ahem.'

`That's kind of you, chief-`

`Please, please, call me Scott. I tell everyone that. I don't stand by
no formality, mate.' The `mate' sounded odd and forced and he flinched
self-consciously at how wrong his own natural Lambeth patter sounded in
the close confines of the office, full of the smell and presence and
gently heaving breath of the 27-year-old defender. `I'm sorry that you
have been feeling snubbed.'

`No, no,' Joe corrected quickly, `I don't think that, well, not a
lot, I just mean -- ah, shit, you know how it is, Scott. I'm sure you
remember. But... forget I said anything. It's well awkward. I'm making a
tit of myself in here, aren't I...?'

`No, not at all,' he told him urgently, scratching at his neck and
tearing his eyes to the side, since he couldn't seem to hold Joe's gaze
without letting his eyes swivel downwards to the spread posture of his
footballer's legs in the chair. He stared at the bland boxes of his
computer screen without reading a word and cleared his throat again.
`You don't ask, you don't get.'

You don't ask, you don't get?! What shite are you talking, Scotty
lad?!

He cringed hard at himself, rubbing at one temple and swinging his seat a
little, preoccupied and uncomfortable, and clearly conveying that to his
office visitor, since Joe was frowning slightly and pulling back where he
sat, patting his bare scratched knees with each hand. He began to pick
himself up, tugging unconsciously at the ruffled black nylon of the
shorts, yanking too at some unseen elasticated layer beneath, adjusting
the flop of his crotch as he straightened to his feet and backed off,
almost knocking the chair aside. Scott rose instinctively a second later,
embarrassed by his fidgety discomfit and the fact he was mentally
stripping that anorak and training kit from the left-back's
tight-muscled body.

Joe just gave him an earnest half-smile and lifted off his woollen hat to
scratch at his overgrown hair. `Seriously, forget I said it, I'm too
old for this sulky diva act,' he said warmly. `You know I just want to
work hard and earn my minutes, and keep the team going. That's all.
I'll leave you to it, chief, you seem pretty busy.'

`I'm not,' Scott said, again too rapidly, and he stopped himself
awkwardly, coughed, tugged at the sleeves of his tracksuit top. `I mean
-- yes, quite busy, but... It's good to see you, Joe.' IT'S GOOD TO SEE
YOU -- OH MY GOD, JUST SHUT UP, SCOTT. `But I really should, erm, you
know, er-`

`Yeah, yeah.' Bryan backed away with a respectful nod, fumbling the hat
in both hands and backing to the door. `Sorry again!' And then he was
wrenching it open and backing into the corridor with a rattle and a
rustle and Parker was sinking slowly to his arse, mortified by the
stilting little exchange and what a gormless weirdo he must have seemed
to the under-used defender -- slick, sophisticated Scott Parker, England
hero turned Premier League manager, gibbering on like a teenage girl in
front of one of his own minor players...! Oh, what a day of embarrassments
and idiocy, he cursed inwardly, his eyes pausing on the faint
buttock-shaped sweat patches that lingered on the black padding of the
other chair, watching them fade into invisibility.



He could still remember the first time he'd met Bryan, stumbling across
the West Country football stud relaxing in the sun at Craven Cottage with
a book in his hands; one of the first Fulham players to greet and
congratulate him as he settled into his first managerial job at the West
London yoyo club.

He'd noticed the guy's handsomeness and peak physicality, he wasn't
fucking blind, but he could also remember the second first impression,
the moment where he'd more fully `noticed' the man, and this stupid
fixation had begun. This... crush, as of a lovesick teenage girl,
Shakespeare's Juliet mooning after the masquerade. God, it was all so
embarrassing.

It had been on one of Parker's first away ventures with the club, at
some bleakly corporate hotel in the north, where he had been really
beginning to feel the pressure of his new role, a major coach in his late
30s with everyone watching his first steps. Not that he was self-pitying
or regretful, just tense in every muscle of his 5ft9 midfielder's body.
A late swim had seemed the only solution and so the new Fulham boss had
padded down to the basement fitness suites of the hotel, clutching his
towel and trunks under one arm and inspecting the rather impressive pool
that stretched away to his left, surrounded by probably-false lush
tropical greenery that gleamed with dappled coloured lighting.

The then-25-year-old footballer had emerged from this pool like some
Greek god landing on foreign shores. Scott hadn't even noticed the pool
was in use, so caught up by the vivid colours and his own physical
yearning for the gently heated water on his body, rather than more
worrying and over-thinking in his own suit two dozen floors above them.
But here he came, gliding out of the blue waters with his wet fists
gripping metallic rails -- he mounted the ladder and poolside in a
vertical rush of water that fell through his bulging arms and chest
muscles, bare feet planting against the rough faux stone. Weighed by
pool-water, short zebra-print trunks stuck to the tops of his legs and
the evident shape of his privates, and both hands came up to rub wetness
from the golden-brown peaks of his short hair. Joe huffed his lips and
blinked chlorine from his eyes, then seemed to start at their close
proximity on the edge of the swimming pool, the manager sucking in oxygen
in an awe-struck rush.

`Gaffer.'

`Bryan,' he'd said, stiff with the formality of his new authority.
`Good swim?'

Painfully, their paths had converged: muscle-bound 25-year-old footballer
traipsing through to the changing room with dripping footsteps, sexually
repressed coach stepping carefully along behind him and seeing the way
those wet trunks clung to the alternating melons of his glutes. In the
long thin men's changing space, Bryan moved ahead, swaggering under some
thin cool showerheads to blast the chemicals from his lightly tanned
physique; Parker stopped near the door, dropping his gear onto the shelf
and letting his eyes follow the other man's body intensely.

At that point, the curiosities were really just beginning to simmer and
surface -- maybe it was the pressure of the new, the return to the fray
after the twilight years of his playing career and the obscure period of
nabbing his coaching qualifications. Maybe under that pressure, his
carefully crafted ignorance of what the men around him looked like and
might offer was... melting. Or maybe, he sometimes reflected, this bastard
was just too beautiful.

In the eerie hotel basement, Scott watched the footballer douse his back
and shoulders down, and then his chest. Joe seemed oblivious to his
wandering eyes, whistling quite cheerfully as he did. With some
difficulty, he tore his eyes off the adonis, and began instead to
unbutton his shirt, overcome with guilt and irritation at the way he was
devouring the visuals. He thought restoratively of his loyal wife at home
on the edge of London, peeling away his smart shirt and folding it neatly
onto the shelf, abandoning the fascination with Joe's physique -- not
just that, he supposed, having become quite intrigued by his bookish
character and quiet confidence as he began to get the measure of all the
players under his care. But he took his mind away from it, thinking about
how he might push himself in the pool, how many lengths he would aim for
to tire out his body and mind. He unclasped his expensive watch and
frowned at it, remembering his own rules and realising that the player
shouldn't even really be down here -- the boys were under curfew and Joe
should be in bed.

`Sorry boss,' came the Bristolian accent, alarmingly close to him, and
suddenly one of those wet arms was jutting at the locker inches to his
right, and he shifted away to give a bit more space. `I know I
shouldn't, I just really needed it, y'know?' Joe was next to him and
smiling earnestly his way, trying to charm his way out of any guilt.
`I'll be straight back up to my room, though. Promise!' He laughed at
his own boyish pleading.

`It's fine,' Scott had mumbled, or something similar, stood close to
the younger man. He was stripped to the waist, but Joe was just in those
short shorts, and then... well, they went to, pushed downwards at the
front to expose the short golden stubble where his pubes should be, and
swept down over his thighs, one of them decorated with tattoo even then.
And then, just for a moment, the new Fulham manager was staring at his
loosed cock, the thick droop of it between his legs, glistening damp;
then side-profile, the dong still visible, but the jut of his muscular
arse too. Scott's nostrils flared and he actually closed his eyes
full-on, needing to do that to block out the view of the short muscular
man beside him, only opening them when he was sure he was just staring at
his own feet, and unbuckling his leather belt.

But in the corner of his eye was the bold white of Bryan's bottom, tan
lines from summer holiday very visible; it jiggled a little as sweatpants
were dragged upwards against it and then it was tucked within them, the
grey material stretched across both muscles. Joe shook himself into an
oversized sweatshirt and stood straight to adjust and tidy it, while
Scott had to lower himself to sit on the bench behind them, his breath
momentarily taken away.

`Right. Enjoy the pool, chief.'

`Er, yes. Yeah. I will. Goodnight.'

`Night!' A jokey salute, a cheery grin -- did he know? Had he noticed?
Had Scott's lusty inappropriate stares been obvious and outrageous? No,
surely not, he was just totally imagining it. No way could Joe have
noticed his staring, it had been so brief and furtive! But... well, what
the young lad might more realistically have noticed was the hard-on now
jutting against the inner leg of his chinos. He stared at it in dismay,
questioning when it had sprung up and if it had been witnessed by the
dressing swimmer. No, surely not. But perhaps? It was a question that
would haunt him for some weeks before eventually ceasing to expect the
worst and await the accusations. And that night he had just sat furiously
in the changing room and willed it to shrunken softness, then gone for
his swim, lapped his way to exhaustion, crashed into bed.



This afternoon, locking up his office... a few important Zoom calls and a
bit of online shopping distancing himself from the awkward conversation
with Bryan. He had almost recovered form his day's mortification, coat
pulled back on over his Fulham tracksuit, ready for the slow drive around
the capital and into near Essex.

As he often did, Scott had dismissed his earlier curiosity as a madness,
a stupidity created by boredom; it was easily done, he'd been doing it
for about 20 years. It was easy to reassure yourself that you were normal
and straightforward once the mad heat had cooled off and you were
thinking rationally again. He thought that in a day or two he might find
himself laughing about it, even, wrinkling his nose disgust in the rash
whim that had made him sniff at a fella's undies!

Again though, his thoughts were interrupted. A player was approaching him
up the quiet corridor, the training centre largely emptied now as the
evening unfolded. He didn't react, sliding the key away and backing off
from the door, stifling the start of a yawn and deciding what podcast he
would be listening to on the journey home -- it was hardly odd or
surprising for him to be approached by another player or staff member at
the end of the day, badgering him with questions. Even Joe's visit
earlier had been pretty every-day, charged simply by his own guilt.

But then he recognised exactly who was coming up close to him, and
stopped.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek flashed him one of his broad trademark smiles, full of
youthful confidence; the Chelsea loan player was enjoying a great run of
form under Parker's leadership, his long injury phase behind him and the
prominence of this temporary London transfer doing him a world of good.
He was always grinning and positive -- but his smile here was loaded and
knowing, and the young man's 6ft3 frame practically towered over the
boss as he came to a halt next to him, also zipped up in his puffer coat
and looking ready to go.

`Oh,' he said in a measured voice, `Lofty...'

In the changing rooms earlier on, he had been so sure that the
25-year-old would have seen nothing, just couldn't have, but standing
before him now and that almost leering expression, the certainty was very
weak. Lofty could be here to talk to him about a dozen things, anything
really, but his eyes were full of smirking secrecy, and he was digging
his hands into his pockets. `Hey boss,' the midfielder said brightly,
`glad I caught ya!'

Concerned by the vague looming threat of his expression, Scott looked
back at him quite sternly. `Oh -- and why's that? Shouldn't be on your
way home, mate?'

`On my way out now,' Ruben told him, hands still shoved in his pockets,
elbows stuck out a little -- such a tall well-built fella, a real
powerful presence on the pitch and, as it happens, in a corridor. `Just
wanted to drop something off with you before I do, gaffer.'

Scott raised one eyebrow. `And that is...?' He was steeling himself,
ready for an awkward conversation; his affable cover-up in the
mid-morning had failed, then, he needed to spin something more convincing
to explain why he might have been handling anyone's gear in the
locker-room, something that would convince and silence the swaggering
London athlete. `Ruben?'

Loftus-Cheek had a likeable and attractive laugh, but right now it was
quite unnerving. He bunched his big shoulders, winked, and tugged one
hand out of a pocket. Parker reached instinctively to receive what he was
given, feeling the bundle of material shoved against his palm, while his
heartbeat seemed to just halt in his tight chest. `Thought you might
like these better,' whispered the Lewisham footballer, grinning ear to
ear, `Grabbed `em in the changing rooms just now while he was
showering. Enjoy, fella.'

Scott could have rejected this lewd offer and laughed off Ruben's
advance, but he didn't say a thing. He clutched the gift firmly in his
hand and stared woodenly at the retreating figure of the big, muscled
man, who flashed him one last cheeky smile before turning his back and
hurrying on to the stairway at the far end of the corridor. Only once the
Chelsea property was disappeared down these stairs and the gaffer was
alone properly in the silent corridor did he stare down at what his
apparent accomplice had seized: the silky stretchy black of the sports
briefs unfurling in his hand, a little damp still with the sweat of the
body that had stretched them all day, and the tiny white tag against the
rear waist daubed with faded ink initials `JB'.



Tonight, he draped them in his face and breathed it in, the manly smell
of Bryan's perspiration and hard work. He clutched the stretchy
UnderArmour briefs against his face, holding the strappy material to his
nose and lips; his other hand was engaged with his bare cock, jerking it
over the waist of his pyjama shorts, wanking himself quite furiously in
the creaking seat of his home office at the back of the house, heels
digging into the wooden floorboards.

Scott Parker gasped and sighed into the fistful of stolen property, far
too aroused and excited to return to the big questions of the day. He
couldn't think about the horror of Ruben having caught him in the act,
or the implications of how perceptively he had interpreted his discovery;
he couldn't dare question what Loftus-Cheek really knew or didn't know.
He definitely couldn't remember the awkwardness of speaking to Joe in
his office, watching his shorts-clad bottom rub sweatily against the
spare seat as they spoke in fits and starts. Instead, his mind played
over two years of ogling the handsome left-back, his physique often
bulging and rippling in close-fitting kits -- he dredged up the memories
of the hotel pool in the north, the demigod emerging from the chlorine.

And he wanked his cock, finally dropping the pants down there and
wrapping the fabric about his own meat rather than against his gasping
face, pulling the briefs around his nob and wanking into it like a sock,
excited by the proxy contact between he and the much-desired young man
who had sat across from him earlier in the day, oh god. Parker's cum
oozed and leaked against the stretchy black material, ruining them with
the liquid excitement of the night. He winced at every squeak of the
chair beneath his arse and back, trying to limit its wiggling motion as
he pulled a few final times on himself, satisfied and dazed... his mind's
eye just imagining the droplets of pool-water that trickled over that
firm chest and down into those zebra-print trunks. Damn that beautiful
bastard. Damn this fucking crush.



BIT OF A FRESH START IN FULHAM HERE... LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT OF
THE NEW STORYLINE. DO WE WANT MORE FROM SCOTT PARKER AND HIS CRUSH? THANK
YOU FOR ALL THE EMAILS LATELY, KEEP ENJOYING THE FANTASY!​


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

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