Date: Thu, 11 Mar 2021 00:15:29 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 244

Part 244: M25


He swung gently off the motorway and into the entrance lane of the
Oxfordshire services, leaving behind the steady early evening traffic of
the M25 and swapping it for the relative quiet of the sprawling car park
and drive-thrus that formed a mundane courtyard on the edge of the busy
highway. Gentle rain was pattering the windscreen, swished aside in slow
strokes by the wiper, as the 27-year-old driver fixed his eyes on the
sporadic vehicles and sought out a suitable spot a little way from the
small complex of buildings. He turned the car, a little surreptitious in
its expensive model, down a narrow gap and pulled into an isolated space
that backed onto thorny hedges and faced towards the rising cubes of the
service station.

Eric Dier let the engine idle for a moment, resting his hands on the
wheel and sitting very still in his driver's seat, wondering yet again
if he'd just driven up the motorway for no reason and was about to be
disappointed. A nervous tension held his tall athletic body as he poised
there, procrastinating switching off the engine and accepting that he'd
really come all this way, that he was here, halfway between London and
Birmingham, and setting himself up to be... let down.

The rain grew a little heavier and the noise of it on the roof of his BMW
snapped him out of his nervous reverie a little bit. He rested his back
muscles through his fleecy top into the cushioned seat and then turned
off the engine with a twist of car key, retrieving it and gripping the
cool blunt metal to his palm as he chewed on his bottom lip. Here you are
then, he told himself anxiously, and where is he...?

Ahead of him, vehicles came and went against the purple-blue twilight of
the spring evening, and he checked the time on both his wristwatch and
his phone (no notifications there, not yet) before deciding that he would
need to get out and stretch his legs. After all, he would need to repeat
that drive before long, and then it would be hours of sitting around as
he and the rest of the Hotspurs boarded their flight to the continent and
tomorrow night's Europa League game against Dinamo Zagreb.

Eric opened the glovebox, fetching a large woolly hat that could be
pulled down love over his short honey-coloured hair and the shaggy
sideburns that joined his patchy beard. Then he zipped up the neck of his
fleece, elbowed his way out of the driver's door, and hunched his body
instinctively against the rainfall. Patting needlessly at the bulge of
his wallet and keys in the pockets of the tight dark blue tracksuit pants
that hugged his footballer's legs, he ditched the car and began crossing
the car park, head bowed low to create some shielding anonymity in the
ebb and flow of motorway travellers that occupied this concrete paradise.
The cloth face-mask over his mouth and nose helped, and he relaxed his
body language a bit more as he neared the automatic doors and headed
inside.

Inside, the defensive midfielder moved slowly, almost deliberately
slowly, killing the precious minutes that he had before he had to hit the
road again; he would be heading straight to Stansted and the link-up with
his teammates, ready to check in his motor and join the chartered flight
that would take them to Croatia. He didn't have so long here, not
really; it had been a daft plan, a stupid use of his free afternoon and
evening before the surprisingly late journey abroad, when he was meant to
have his feet up and be getting extra sleep at home to make sure he was
fresh and alert tomorrow. That was if he actually made it onto the pitch,
he reflected grumpily, conscious of his own poor form and the heavy
criticism inside and outside of the North London club. He knew he was
likely to sit on the bench tomorrow night, but hopefully the boss would
bring him on and show some faith...

The professional worry was almost light relief to Dier as he milled
through the miniature shopping mall of the services, marvelling at the
tat on sale and the strange mix of people who drifted in and out of it on
their `essential' journeys across the country. Stupidly, thinking about
his own poor run of matches for Tottenham and the question marks hanging
over his regular starting spot in centre-mid was actually refreshing and
distracting, rather than concentrating on the soppy fool who had
whimsically suggested this meet-up and committed to the traffic-laden
drive up the M25. A cynical and negative voice in his head began to point
out that the two issues were perhaps not totally unrelated: the lovesick
butterflies behind his steely abs and the fact he was ruining his
reputation in the Premiership of late. In the past week or two, he had
even begun to doubt if he would receive a call-up to the England squad
for the Euros, having been an almost permanent fixture in the national
team for much of his senior career.

Flashing his credit card, he bought a couple of bottled soft drinks, a
bag of foamy sweets, a tube of crisps, a men's fashion mag and then, in
a giddy little flash of impulse, he bought a stupid bug-eyed stuffed
animal of indiscriminate species that hung provocatively at him from a
cage of merchandise by the tills. `And this,' he grunted at the spotty
teen cashier, caught between his exaggerating his masculinity and
subduing any hint of his Premier League persona. He'd made sure he
wasn't wearing any Tottenham-branded stuff, even though he would need to
be in his matching tracksuit when he joined the other guys at the
airport. It was not a great climate to be caught miles from where he was
meant to be with no credible reason to be travelling outside of London,
threatening the `bubble' of elite sport that would allow them to make
the Croatian trip tonight.

Dier tucked the stupid stuffed animal under one strong arm and cradled
the other items in his hands. As he strolled past the fast-food
concessions and blocked-off seating areas of the food court, he realised
he had almost entirely given up on the evening's plan. It wasn't going
to happen, he felt instinctively, it had been a daft thing to suggest and
try to organise, and the responses had hardly been enthusiastic or
certain, had they? He left the services expecting to sit and snack alone
in the car for the next fifteen minutes or so, and then turn back onto
the M25 and head south-east.

But there it was: a second high-spec car parked parallel to his own, on
that far row of spaces, backing onto the shaggy undergrowth that divided
the parking from the edges of the motorway, a forest of litter and junk.
The two expensive vehicles could be considered indiscreet and
eye-catching, but the mixture of motors in places like this was so random
and improbable that his worries were dampened. Service stations like this
were in their own special veil of anonymity, nowhere places in between
the more definite territory of proper towns and cities. Nobody here was
paying any attention to anybody else, and it was both depressing and
deeply reassuring.

But there it was, the car next to his -- and as he approached, weaving
through the patchy car park with an arm full of his purchases, he could
dimly make out the silhouette of the driver through the rain-speckled
windscreen, staring this way from behind some dark sunglasses. Ross
Barkley was distinctive in his blocky shoulders and head, sat stiffly
there in his parked car; closer to, Eric could make out the shifting
motion of his knuckles on the wheel, twitching and fidgeting and, he
realised, not yet aware of Eric's own approach.

The Spurs player slid into the narrow canyon between their vehicles and
squatted slightly, bringing himself down against the front passenger
window and grinning through the lightly tinted glass. A moment's pause
and then the window was scrolling down, removing the sepia barrier
between himself and the Scouser. Still behind those shades, Barkley
turned this way, knuckles still twitching on the wheel, and gave him an
oddly formal nod of greeting. `Wondered where you'd gone,' the
Liverpudlian lad muttered then, turning back to stare out of the
windscreen across the car park, then glancing sharply back Eric's way.
`What's that?' he demanded.

Eric had almost forgotten the fluffy beast under his arm, and he stifled
an embarrassed laugh, then shoved it through the open window like a rugby
pass, letting the bear, or whatever it was, bounce and spill into the
passenger seat then into the gap by the gearstick, landing against Ross'
thigh. `For you,' he mumbled coyly, and then more easily, `I got us
some snacks and stuff, that's all.' Ross was staring at the toy where
it had fallen, bringing one hand down to stroke it uncertainly, not
looking up and making eye contact with him, not even through the
sunglasses.

`So,' Dier said, keen to ease the tension, both his own and Barkley's
-- `So, your place or mine?' He grinned at the other bloke, hunched
still to bring his smiling face up against the open car window. There was
a slightly awkward pause and then the Aston Villa player seemed to catch
on, fiddling with a control until the passenger door clicked unlocked and
Eric could finger it open, struggling a little with his armful of
supplies, but swinging his body into the seat next to the driver and then
letting the bottles and snacks spill into that gap between them with the
furry toy, his anxious haul that he had half-expected to eat alone.

In the driver's seat, Ross seemed to shift his weight and lean away a
little, resting his body into the door and window, and finally removing
those stupid RayBans, still staring speculatively at the Pringles tube
and sweets packet, and the almost offensively cute animal that rode
against one of his bulging thighs. Eric caught his nervous eyes and he
laughed warmly, a noise that Ross finally echoed and agreed with, some
hint of relaxation or comfort in his shaky voice. `Hey,' he said
uncomfortably. Just `hey', but it made Eric smile broadly and feel very
glad to be in here with him. `Hey,' he said back, and he reached one
hand over the space between them, letting it rest over his.



Barkley looked down at it, his hand where it hovered amongst the rustle
of packaging, with Eric's paler fingers now resting and stroking over
his grazed knuckles, hand over hand, warm and a little rough as their
skin brushed together. When he looked up, he found the other football lad
was giving him a measured, cautious stare. `I'm glad you made it,'
Eric said in a serious monotone, and Ross found he could only nod slowly
in response, all possible verbal responses feeling moronic before they
could leave his mouth.

He pulled his hand away then, disrupting the comforting feel of Dier's
over his, and he found he instantly regretted it -- it was a rude,
unwelcoming gesture, and he only realised how pleasant and reassuring the
touch was once he'd shed it. But he didn't know how to initiate it
again, couldn't bring himself to actually reach down and grab at Eric's
hand himself. Instead, he just rested his paws in the lap of his
close-fitting grey sweatpants and shifted his weight side to side,
staring at the car park and buildings instead of at his temporary
passenger. It was a little busier here than he'd like, though not so
much at this end of the car park -- the number of people flitting in and
out of vehicles and visiting the shops and food services was more than
he'd pictured when he looked up this spot off the M25, picked from
Google Maps as roughly equidistant. Roughly -- he knew it had been a
longer drive for Eric than him, and he felt self-conscious about that
compromise.

Beside him, one of the soft drink bottles fizzed weakly at the twist of
its opening, and then the sound of Eric glugging back some of its
contents in an over-eagre manner, as if it was better than the oppressive
silence of the car. In his own stupid gesture to ease it, Ross found
himself pushing thick blunt fingers at the controls and switching his
music back on, a low thrum of dance music that instantly felt too upbeat
and urban in this strange peripheral spot. He left it on but gave Eric
what he hoped looked like a friendly, apologetic stare -- probably it
just looked a bit dead-eyed and stupid, he thought embarrassedly.

Eric was licking his lips and lowering the bottle in his fist. `What?'
he asked quietly.

`Nothing,' Ross mumbled immediately. He snatched up the tube of crisps
and popped off its round plastic lid, then preceded to stuff
four-at-a-time into his mouth, crunching them loudly and staring
aimlessly at the wood-effect laminate of the dashboard.

`You feeling good for Friday?' Dier asked him.

Barkley shrugged, not meaning to be rude or dismissive, but unsure how to
put into words his edgy anticipation of another Premiership game for his
loan club, this time away in the North East -- he was struggling to
regain his early promise from the start of the season, where his Midlands
move had felt reinvigorating and restorative. Now he was hearing rumours
that Villa had lost all interest in a permanent purchase, and he could
hardly see a vacancy waiting for him back at Stamford Bridge when the
one-season deal expired. He needed to make a bit more impact in the next
few weeks if he was to spark interest in the Villa management and their
chequebook. If that was what he even wanted... he stared back at Dier,
conscious that this important friend lived back in London, where his life
had seemed based until last autumn. Hmm.

`It's Newcastle,' Eric pointed out fairly, unfazed by the lack of
response, `I'm sure you'll all be fine!' He grinned and winked.
`It's not like Steve Bruce has any tricks left up his sleeve. Here,
give me some of those before you pig them all, will ya...?' Eric punched
him playfully in the arm and he tilted the tube over to him with a guilty
expressions, crumbs and seasoning speckling his stubble.

They actually hadn't seen each other, or even really spoken in any
detail, since their important meeting in Euston station. There had been
messages, short and heartfelt, of support or interest, vague and
euphemistic comments on what had happened between them in the station
loos, but no proper discussion of the misunderstandings and anguish that
had preceded it, or the deeper feelings that clearly surrounded that
weekend's conflict. Oddly, since connecting so powerfully that Sunday
evening in the London terminus, communication between the two football
stars had dropped into a bland simplicity, as if neither of them really
knew what to say or do next.

Now they were here together, sat in his car in the middle of the M25,
both of them straying beyond the carefully controlled routine of their
professional lives, risking exposure and very minor scandal just by being
here -- and Eric had to be on a flight to Croatia in a matter of hours!
And yet there hardly seemed anything to say. Ross winced and cowered a
little in his driver's seat, thumbing at his thighs through the grey
fabric, flexing his upper body so that the sports jacket hugged his
shoulders and chest -- he was staring at Eric and thinking how rugged and
wholesome the defensive player looked, how clean and sophisticated he
smelled, how much he might like to touch and hold him a bit more, and yet
he couldn't think of anything to say. It seemed as if any weak
conversational attempts he made would come out in the awkward crackling
stammer that sometimes dominated his speech in unexpected interviews or
public attention. Instead of trying to speak, he just watched the other
footballer munch on the same cheap crisps, and wondered if he'd made a
mistake in driving down here after all.

`Alright, don't worry,' Eric grunted playfully, `I won't eat them
all.' He was pushing the cardboard tube of snacks back into Ross's
hand, and their fingers brushed and rubbed as he did. The Spurs player
gave him a lopsided grin and left their fingers touching where they did.
Ross moved the tube away but left his right hand there, and then pushed a
bit more boldly until their digits interlocked, dangling in the space
between the seats. `That's nice,' his passenger pointed out casually.

Ross squeezed their hands together, gripping it too tightly for a moment,
adjusting his grip, letting it become more easy and natural there, and
nodded his strong silent agreement. `How long you got?' he asked in a
low voice. `I don't want you late to the flight. In trouble, or
nothin'.'

`Very sensible of you,' teased Eric. `I've got time. Don't you
worry.'

`Right,' Ross said lamely. Eric was teasing a thumbprint over his palm
in a way that was both tickling and soothing, their knuckles locking
together as he did. It felt good. Safe.

`Time for what, that's the question,' sighed the other 27-year-old.

Ross shrugged a bit uncomfortably at that. `It's... just nice to, erm,
see you, erm.'

`Stop it, Shakespeare...'

`Oh, fuck off. Huh. Erm.'

`No, I feel the same,' Dier assured him in a warm low growl. `You
fucking sexy bastard.'

`Shurrup, daft prick.'

`Mmm, love it when you talk dirty to me, Scouser...'

`Idiot,' Barkley mumbled through his bashful laughter, letting his
posture relax a bit more against the driver's seat, edging his legs a
bit further apart so that their knees almost (but not quite) touched in
the middle, two sturdy legs jutting inwards as they sat and just held
hands, two uncertain lovers united by a motorway.

Dier leaned over, quite as if he was about to inspect the info panels in
the centre of the dashboard, or reach for one of the scrappy parking
permits tucked in against the windscreen, or something; but once he was
leaning this way, he brought his right arm over and laid his free hand
possessively against the inside of Barkley's right thigh, holding it
there on the grey sweatpants while his left hand thumbed and teased
inside his own strong grip. The hand remained there and the passenger
hunched this way across the car interior, a gentle inviting smile curling
his lips between the blond tufts of his beard.

`Here?' Ross found himself asking in an anxious hiss.

`We don't have to do anything,' Eric told him simply, his hand
stroking his thigh but not moving any more dangerously inwards into the
crotch region, not yet. `You know that's not what I drove up here for.
I meant it when I said I just wanted to hang out with you for a bit, you
know. We don't have to do anything dodgy or risky, not here.'

`No,' Ross agreed tentatively. `It'd be a bit stupid, wouldn't
it?'

`Terribly,' the Spurs defender confirmed, then slid his right hand a
bit further up, nudging at the edges of the vague bulge between those
slightly parted legs. Ross bit his lip and stared hard at him, their eyes
meeting, the grip of their locked hands tightening. `Terribly stupid,'
purred Dier. `But I'm feeling kinda stupid, aren't you...?'

Ross tried and failed to control his breathing: slow, growling snorts. He
inched his legs open a little bit more, felt Eric's fingers push and
explore between the folds of grey, finding the mound in the front of his
boxer briefs. He squeezed his hand vicelike about the other man's. `We
have to be careful,' he muttered, even as he shifted his thigh muscles
that bit more open, easing the reach of Eric's hand in against his
bulge, pushing his strong back into the seat to support himself.

`I know, but... you are a sexy cunt, aren't you...? Mmm.' And Eric sank
back into his own seat a little, swapped arms, broke the grip of their
other hands; they sat side by side, with Eric's left hand dipped into
his crotch, fondling and stroking at the swelling outline of his cock. He
made a shaky sigh and did what seemed polite and proper, crossing his
right arm over the other man's, reaching down into the front of those
blue trackies -- where his fingers fell against the rock-hard diagonal
meat that stretched the material there. Already totally engorged, almost
breaking through the tracksuit bottoms.

`You feel that?' murmured Eric. `You feel how fucking hard I am for
you, Ross?'

He gasped and nodded his head, their eyes meeting in the rear-view mirror
that hung in front of them both in the centre. `Yeah,' he grunted back,
squeezing and gripping it, somehow stunned by its size and hardness even
though he had held (and more) it before. `Bloody hell, Eric.'



Eric sat back and enjoyed it: the stern clumsy touch of Barkley's hand
on his dick, making it shudder sensitively beneath two thin layers of
clothing. He kept up his half of this mutual enjoyment, really rubbing at
the fat package now, wanting it to match his own earnest stiffness. And
apart from the mutual touching of their big manly dicks, he enjoyed the
way their arms rubbed near the elbow, friction between his fleecy top and
the stiff waterproof material of the other bloke's jacket.

They both kept cautious watch, eyes fixed ahead on the nearer cars, both
of them ready to adjust and correct if someone returned to those vehicles
or came striding across the tarmac in front of them. But Eric was not
FULLY alert, and nor was Ross, because every few moments their eyes would
skip back to the strip and connect intensely in the reflection, Eric
besotted with the aggressive square-jawed set of the other player's
face, flushed a bit red in a mixture of nervousness or enjoyment. And
then, conscious of Barkley's safety and reputation even more than his
own, he would snap back to watching their surroundings instead, loving
the controlled risk of this fumbled wanking through their pants. His
excitable mind raced ahead, wondering how far things could be pushed here
and now.

`Ross,' he said.

`Erm, yeh?'

`Get your cock out,' he said. It was as much suggestion as command. He
turned to the left and smirked. The other lad's expression was
questioning, but he brought both hands back into his lap, and Eric
stopped stroking at the growing outline of his member. `Go on,' he
encouraged. `Get that fucking beast out so I can look at it properly,
will you?'

Barkley quite swiftly obliged, despite the nervous frown set on his face.
He pushed down at the front of his sweats and the trunks beneath,
releasing his veiny hard-on up into a curving rise, his balls squashing
heavily against the elasticated waist. Dier whistled admiringly. He left
his hand resting by his hip but did not immediately reach to touch or
hold the cock, instead letting Barkley himself take it in hand and stroke
it a few times. Then Eric took his hand, pulled it across, and spat
heavily into his palm for lube. Ross took his hand back and spread the
saliva up his thick shaft in a few more long jerks of the impressive
Merseyside meat.

`That's it. Fuck. Here. Let me...' And he spat more frothy liquid into
the hand for him. Then, when Ross was beginning to wank himself properly
in wet sliding motion, Eric reached his left hand back and squeezed it in
against the small of his back, finding the edge of the jacket just by the
base of his spine. He lifted it, prodded his fingers in against the
tailbone through the waistband of his undies. `You keep your eyes out
for anyone getting too close,' he said, trying to keep his tone casual.
He brought that hand back, spat on his finger, and then went back in
there -- edging it inside the taut elastic, nudging downwards. Ross made
a funny little moan, really squeezing his huge rod, but nodding his
agreement, face fixed ahead on the car park.

The almost infamous buttocks of the attacking midfielder felt huge and
hard there beneath the waist of his pants, making the narrow entrance at
their top almost impossible. Eric just pushed his wet fingertip at it,
tickling at this fuzzy skin where his spine dipped into the crease. He
circled it in tight little motions, playing with the gap that wasn't
even properly his crack, until Barkley shifted his posture just a little,
and those mighty glutes relaxed ever so slightly -- allowing Dier's one
wet finger to slide a bit further downwards between them. He knew he
wouldn't go much further, not like this, not in this situation, but
still... he slid his finger up and down in the top of that tight crack,
running his damp finger against the hard smooth muscle and the fuzzy hint
of hair between, for now just enjoying the tantalus of what lay deeper
down.
`Cum for me?' he said.

`Yeah,' Ross agreed instantly.

`Are you close already?'

`Yeah,' grunted the Scouse footballer, tinged with shame.

`That's good. I want you to. Go on. Mess up those pants.'

`Fuckkkk.'

Eric pushed his finger in a bit more, forcing it just between those taut
globes, tickling his way just a little further into the crack. He bit his
lip and stared hard into Ross' lap, watching his cock bounce and his tip
glisten wet. `Go on,' he urged in a gravelly voice, `spill that
massive load for me, you sexy bastard. Mmmm...' He pushed a bit more
authoritatively with his finger, feeling the sweaty moistness between the
clenched cheeks, unable to even get in there and make the slightest
tickle of his ring, but still loving the feel of his finger between the
buttocks... next to him, Barkley groaned, and strained to keep his eyes
open and focused on the car park, while several ropes of thick cum shot
in a little arc and splashed against the pale grey of his sweats.
`That's it,' purred Eric, `make a mess for me, beautiful.'



Beautiful?! The faintly effeminate compliment rang confusingly in his
head. His balls ached and his cock tingled, the last oozing rush of his
seed welling against the tip and dribbling about the glans until it
brushed his fingers. He gasped and moaned again, resisting the urge to
close his eyes and lean back on the headrest, instead fixing his
watchman's gaze on the concrete ahead of them, wary of pedestrian or
nearing vehicle.

Then he looked almost pleadingly at the man beside him, whose finger was
still jutting invasively in against the very top of his arse-crack. In
some vague effort to show that he was okay with this, he pressed his back
muscles into his seat, temporarily trapping Eric's wandering hand there.
He stared at him while he gasped, then looked furtively back ahead of
them, conscious of his exposed cock trembling and lolling over his pants,
cum still dribbling down one side of his shaft.

`Oh yes,' Dier was murmuring for him appreciatively. `You are so
fucking perfect, Ross.'

Perfect! Beautiful? Bloody hell. He laughed it off awkwardly.
`Shurrup.'

He shifted his body, allowing Dier's hand out from behind his lower
back. He looked on as the single finger was brought slowly back to the
mouth; Eric slowly and sensuously sucked on his own index finger a
moment, then smirked. Ross shuddered with the seedy knowledge that it had
been questing down between his glutes a little bit, and that really Eric
was tasting his own odour there. Then he was looking down at the obvious
erection there in his lap and wondering if he now needed to sort it out,
or what -- but in a moment, Dier was doing it for himself, pulling his
own cock out and staring firmly ahead of them at the miraculously empty
corner of the car park. Ross just sat there, his dick wilting and his cum
drying on his sweatpants, unsure of what he could or should do -- did he
actually want to bend down there and take it frighteningly into his
mouth, like he had at Euston, or did he just feel like that was what Eric
wanted...? It was so hard to know his own thoughts, especially in the
headrush after that premature orgasm.

`Do you want me to-?' he began, but was cut off. `Just sit there and
be fucking beautiful,' snapped Eric almost crossly, wanking his own long
member in slow forceful jerks with his right hand; his left came over and
clamped at his thigh, rubbing against the wet sticky patches there. Then,
still wanking himself, he brought that hand back up and rubbed it over
his nose and mouth, sniffing and licking at the traces of spunk. Another
sordid shudder of excitement ran through every inch of Ross's body, and
he made sidelong glances back to the windows, but then stared back at
Eric instead, just fixated on the muscular Cheltenham boy wanking off at
his side.

Eric's hand left his thigh, and he felt a weird little buzz of
disappointment as the grip left his muscled leg; he was, oddly enough,
reaching again for the tube of crisps. Slipping clumsy fingers into it
and removing one of the curved discs. Taking it and holding it between
his legs. When he came, stifling his moan, his spunk splashed and
dribbled against the curve of it, icing it with his own salty flavour.
Ross knew instantly what was expected of him, and he sat there, giddy in
the aftermath of his own ejaculate. When the curved serving was brought
slowly up towards him, he just dipped his head and opened his mouth, his
eyes meeting Eric's, and allowed it to be pushed roughly between his
lips, crunching into his mouth, coated in the strong salty cream that
he'd lapped and swallowed in the station toilets. He shuddered at the
strength of its taste, its fading warmth on his lips and tongue, but he
ate it all up, and then rolled his tongue against the crumbs and
stickiness of Eric's fingers, cleaning them against his mouth before
pulling slowly, shakily back. `Oh fuck,' he murmured through the
mouthful of jarring tastes: cum, and cream cheese and chive. He felt a
bit queasy but also immensely satisfied.

Now that the moment was complete, Eric actually looked a bit embarrassed
and guilty, rather than rugged and authoritative. They were both taking
their limp fat dicks and pushing them back inside their pants, hands
grimy with their own loads. `Sorry,' Dier said very quietly, `I think
I got carried aw-`

`No, no,' Ross mumbled quickly, lifting his sleeve and wiping some
crumbs from his lip. `It's... okay.'

`Is it?' asked Dier, and it felt like a question loaded with so much
more discussion. Ross grimaced uncertainly at him and tried to force a
smile that could convey his confused but deep pleasure at what had
happened.



Not so long later, he watched the Scouser munching on a more conventional
treat, sauce and cheese dripping from the greasy burger as he chowed down
on it. They were sat on a kerb at a different corner of the car park,
clothed arses against the damp concrete and a few specks of rain still
dropping against their faces as they relaxed in the dying light. Eric
himself had felt ravenous when he ordered for them at the Burger King --
oh, so romantic -- but now found himself quite disinterested in the meal
on his lap, and all he wanted to was stare amorously at the other
footballer, enraptured even by the hurried and ungentlemanly way he
wolfed through his dinner of burger, chips, mozzarella sticks.

Barkley stopped then, wiping some ketchup from his chin. `Sorry,' he
grunted, suddenly seeming mortified and on edge.

`For what? Go crazy. I just like looking at you.'

A huffy noise and then he was speaking through a new mouthful of fries.
`You say some daft things, Dier. You dafty.'

`Mmm. Maybe. But... you don't think you're handsome as fuck, then...?'

`God, shurrup. Stop that. Ha bloody ha. Mmm.'

Eric smiled fondly and shook his head. `I'll convince you somehow,
sexy.'

`Fuck off and eat your Whopper.'

They both paused, the innuendo unavoidable. Ross cringed and sniggered
and relaxed all at once, picking at his food a little more slowly. Eric
dabbed at his own, but without enthusiasm, his appetite far more fixated
on what he wished he was allowed to do to the strapping footy hunk across
the kerb from him, taut and muscular in his stained sweatpants and zipped
up waterproof. He thought about how good his clenched arse cheeks had
felt. Tasted.

`You'll have to go soon, I guess,' Ross mumbled. He sounded... sad?
Relieved? Hard to tell with him.

`Yeah,' Eric quietly agreed. `But... not yet. Another ten?'



Ten became fifteen became twenty, but Barkley eventually insisted,
pushing and laughing at him and making earnest predictions about a fussy
scene at the terminal if a player was late for checking in on a European
tournament trip. He was overthinking it now, sitting in his own car and
watching the registration plate of Dier's BMW disappear into the
settling darkness -- had he sounded too keen to get rid of him, or had it
been obvious that he just didn't want to be responsible for him getting
in trouble...? Ross was always very insecure about his communication
skills and whether the things he said and did came across as he wanted
to, since they so rarely seemed to hit the mark.

The car park and the interior of his car suddenly felt stupidly lonely
and bleak, sat here behind the wheel with burger grease around his mouth
and on his fingers, thinking about how bad the traffic might be as he
made his way towards the outskirts of Birmingham. But still he was slow
to start the engine and leave this spot, which for all its sudden
loneliness, also felt... erm, what was the word? It felt like a special
spot, this dodgy car park corner where he had reconnected with the Spurs
player and tasted his spunk again. As if he'd done that. So dirty. So
weird. So good.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and whistled tunelessly, then looked
into the passenger seat and into the foot-space beneath it, where a pair
of cartoonish eyes bulged and stared at him. He made a single blunt laugh
and reached down, fishing the furry teddy from where it had fallen, and
sitting it on the leather cushioning beside him, a miniature substitute
for the masculine figure who had sat there and played for him. Ross
stared at it: such a stupid gift, so odd and out of place, so sickeningly
twee and childish. But also... He grabbed it and pulled it in against his
chest, squeezing it firmly to him, and taking a deep breath of the
lingering smell of whatever posh boy aftershave Dier doused himself in
these days, the stupid stuck-up ponce. Mmm.

He leaned back in the driver's seat, hugging the stuffed animal to his
chest, closing his eyes for a moment, and picturing the moment Eric had
appeared at the car window, grinning with relief and pleasure and proud
of his purchased delights. Soppy romantic bastard! What a daft lad! He
squeezed the teddy a bit more tightly inside his arm, and felt a
satisfied sigh leave his lips, wondering how soon they could arrange to
meet again.



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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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