Date: Sun, 14 Mar 2021 09:45:27 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 246

Part 246: D-bag and T-dog


Back in the soulless luxury of the town centre apartment he had been
given by the club, he could throw off his jacket and collapse lengthways
onto a pristine velvety sofa in the centre of the open-plan room, looking
out on Ipswich's gleaming harbour. The grin that had been plastered on
his chiselled young features almost all day would not fade away, buoyed
and enthralled by the afternoon's breakthrough: his first senior goal!

Okay, at Ipswich Town, and not the North London Premiership club who
owned him, but it was still a momentous turning point for the
19-year-old's career over here in Ireland. It had felt such a long
season of drought for the Irish lad, whose rise through youth teams for
club and country had been studded with hat-tricks; his loan time at
Millwall had been rendered sporadic with injury and whilst he had
received many positive reviews in these recent months here at Town,
today's 4th minute winner was his first proper professional goal since
turning 18 and signing an adult contract. Fucking hell it had felt good,
the silky run-up to it and the powerful moment of accomplishment -- and
all of the praise and camaraderie that had followed! Well... almost all of
it.

Troy Parrott beamed with allowed smugness, relaxing his 6ft1 young body
against the sofa and wishing he'd visited the physios before leaving the
stadium grounds at the end of the afternoon -- and also wishing times
were a little easier, that he could be knocking back a pint with some of
his teammates in a Suffolk beer garden right now, rather than alone in
his apartment and faced with the choice of a solitary evening or driving
down to the East London suburbs where his transplanted Irish family were
living in their new home.

He was far too tired for the latter, and his striker's legs throbbed.
Instead, the dark-haired young athlete rested back against the arm of the
sofa, bringing one arm up behind his head, and sliding out his iPhone
with the other hand. His messaging and social media were going crazy with
messages of support and encouragement, some of which he had already
enjoyed at the stadium and on the way home through the town, but others
he had yet to read, or was happy to read again -- particularly the DMs
from a host of attractive young models who were slithering all over his
Instagram, keen to WAG up with a hot young talent. He sniggered at their
flirty communication and then fixated on a string of messages from his
own ex-girlfriend back in Dublin, who he hadn't heard from since
Christmas.

It wasn't just the female attention that made the tall teen smirk and
gloat where he lounged, kicking his trainers off one at a time and
rubbing his heels against the far arm of the sofa, his body hugged by a
tight Adidas tracksuit. No, there were also messages from a few guys that
were enough to make him chuckle and colour, both titillated and
embarrassed to think how he'd courted that attention in the past and,
erm, more recently -- the messages seeming to strike him as hints of his
prick-teasing exhibitionism rather than reminders of his own sexual
transgression.

Well, Eric was a pal, wasn't he? A proper pal. No reason to feel weird
about the very formally written congratulatory note from him, sweet as it
was and ending in a string of kisses -- there was a real warmth in
hearing from the Spurs defender, who had been so reassuring and positive
with him when they met up earlier in the year. But almost awkwardly there
was also a message from Eric's ex: a blunt but sincere well done and set
of emojis from that other Spurs and England hero, Harry Kane, which gave
Troy more amusement and embarrassment. Probably the prolific striker was
just acting up to his status as a role model and leader, rather than
anything actually flirtatious! But knowing what he did about the big
guy's antics, it was tough for the 19-year-old stud not to dare harbour
suspicion. Then there were the other messages: from Shane Long, the Irish
legend now loaned to Bournemouth, and his fellow party animal Charlie
Austin, who Troy was shocked even still had his number. One of the blokes
from his brief Millwall stint had sent him a notably `friendly'
congrats message too -- oh, calm yourself down, he thought with a laugh,
just cos all of these men have shown a bit of interest in you, stop being
such an egotistical cliché!

After all, only Eric Dier had `pursued' him with any vigour, and it was
clear that it was just a rather, ahem, beneficial friendship that existed
between the youth and the experienced defensive midfielder, who was
clearly mad for some other bloke. Well... Long had seemed QUITE intensely
interested at one point, he supposed, remembering incidents like those
weird recordings of his marital sex during the first lockdown, but having
heard so little from his Irish hero in the last six months. It was all
just mad shit, Troy reminded himself, stupid teenage nonsense. He'd been
telling himself that more and more lately after his disastrous attempt to
`return the favour' in Dier's master bedroom, when trying to replicate
the blowies he'd received had just made him gag and feel nauseous,
stupid, out of place. Nah, just crazy little escapades, teenage excess,
nothing to be thought about for long.

With that in mind, he returned to a particularly fruity set of messages
from a local Suffolk it girl with massive tits who had been sending him
cheeky picture messages for two weeks now, and wanted to meet up for a
`walk' as soon as possible. Walk, hah, right. She wanted the D, for
sure.

The phone in his hand began to vibrate against his fingers and there was
a moment of stupid panic that seemed to go with his self-absorbed musing,
as if his dismissive thoughts had summoned a pushy phone call out of one
of those older blokes whose hands or mouths had strayed where they
shouldn't during his formative year of the top English leagues. But the
phone call was from none of those fellas, and the caller's name was
joined on-screen by an aged selfie of he and his former London housemate,
the two of them 17 at the time, fisting the air at the end of a Spurs
youth victory: Dilan Kumar Markanday, one of his closest pals from the
Tottenham Academy, and his housemate for his first couple of years living
in the UK.

`D-bag!' he whooped into the phone as he picked up the call.

`T-doggggg,' came the other young sportsman's excited North London
drawl. `He shoots, he SCORES -- sweet work out there, Troy, you
beaut.'

`Well, you know me, comes easy,' Parrott joked and laughed, too
conscious of the ended drought to worry that this may sound conceited to
his friend. So many good memories of he and Markanday up front of the
Under 18s then Under 23s of the Premier League club, racking up the goals
and assists and then reliving them over the dinner table of the Barnet
lad's conservative Indian family. He'd been housed with them for that
very reason, a quiet and serious North London family who would host and
protect him as an impressionable newbie in the English capital -- it had
often irked him with its rules and restrictions, but he found himself now
missing the homemade curry and naan and the quiet comfort of living with
the Markandays.

`Seriously, though,' panted Dilan down the phone, `what a belter. Four
minutes in! Singlehanded win, that, bro. Ah fuck, you love to see it,
yeh!'

`Thanks buddy, thanks,' Troy told him gladly, surprised at how nice and
uplifting it was to hear from a friend who he'd not found much time for
since making his senior debut back at Tottenham and then being shipped
out on two loan spells. There was a touch of guilt there, not wanting to
be one of those competitive wankers who snubs old teammates after moving
on up; after all, Troy's graduation to the first team had been
short-lived, and he wasn't sure that Championship football was much
better than regular Under-23s Spurs action like Dilan was getting.

`What a day you're having,' Dilan cooed at him as they spoke, slipping
into old jokey patter and the casually abusive language of teenage boys
everywhere, in between the bursts of praise and admiration from his
former wingman. `This will be one for the memories,' the British Indian
lad went on keenly, `a proper big day for you there, you'll go down in
Ipswich Town history, haha...'

`Huh, dunno about that,' Troy found himself mumbling less brightly, his
thoughts drifting.

`Just a perfect day!' yelped the other aspirational young footballer.

`Dunno about perfect,' Troy muttered back, `just... erm, an odd day, in
a way, apart from, y'know, my first senior goal, just...' He broke off
into fragments of burry Irish laughter, not really wanting to spell out
the problem that sat in his memories of this momentous afternoon.

`Oh?' There was a very casual note of friendly concern in Dilan's
voice, but nothing more. `Heh -- must be something in the air, then.
Pretty weird day for me too, if I'm honest, but...' And then the other
lad was trailing off hesitantly down the phone connection, though Troy
was a little too distracted and irritated to register the shift in the
other forward's tone. He was staring out at his harbour view under the
patchy sunshine, reflecting on the tarnishing stain on today's
achievements -- would the two memories always be interconnected, or would
the moment of his breakthrough goal soon override the embarrassing
incident that had followed it...?

`You get surrounded by some weird shit in this football bubble, don't
you?' mused Dilan's thoughtful voice, reminding Troy of the long
speculative conversations he'd always shared with the intelligent
teenager, something of a geek in secret away from the football ground.

`You do,' Troy acknowledged in a gritty voice, torn for a moment
between offloading some of the day's disaster side onto his
understanding and supportive friend, and the desire to charge ahead and
shove laddish humour into the conversation instead. But Dilan was picking
up the dialogue quickly, muttering into the phone in the same voice of
idle thought: `And sometimes you just have to put it down to a
high-pressured macho environment and laugh it off, right?' he asked, and
for the first time in the short conversation, Troy stopped thinking about
himself and wondered what `weird shit' his friend had encountered that
day, and if it was as problematic as his own...



At the sprawling outer London training grounds of Tottenham Hotspurs,
Dilan had spent the morning getting aggressively stuck into a warm-up
game between two halves of the Under 23s squad, one of the leading
figures in that line-up now he had made his occasional steps to train
with and substitute among the proper senior squad. He was eager to prove
himself too tough, too talented, too promising to stick it out here in
the juniors, and that led to a particularly ferocious playing style: and
today in particular, to a few excessive tackles and then to the awkward
stumble that made his right ankle twinge and throb with worrying pain.

That was how the 19-year-old Londoner found himself limping off the pitch
early, boots dangling from the fingers of one hand, and a disappointed
scowl marring the handsome bearded features of his face. He was annoyed
only at himself, overdoing it in some delusion that today would be the
day one of the coaching staff really sat back and thought `Fuck, he
needs to be a Premiership star!' He hadn't quite gone so far in his
mental fantasy to expect that he was going to be urgently transferred
into Mourinho's tactics for a North London derby against Arsenal
tomorrow, with Kane, Bale and Son on such fine form, but the idealised
prospect hung there at the edge of his thoughts now that he was
struggling along on one sore ankle and trying to work out how serious it
was.

Dilan had typical teenage impatience with how his career was moving.
He'd felt hyped up in his mid-teens, a local boy getting excitable
feedback form the club regime, but at 19 that promise already felt
jeopardised and stagnant. Being something of a realist, he tried hard not
to indulge too much in the prospect of playing up-front alongside Kane
and co, and had begun to hope that he might follow his former housemate
Parrott and be sent to a promising Championship side come the summer
transfer window -- Troy had excitedly explained to him how even Harry
Kane had cut his teeth on low-profile temporary contracts before breaking
into prominence here at Tottenham. It made sense.

But while his big Irish pal, who he heard so little from these days, was
bouncing between lower league sides and battling for that important first
goal to make his mark, Markanday was malingering here, becoming bored by
the standard of Under 23s football and resentful of the younger lads that
he usually shared the pitch with.

He left the training pitch in a minor strop, walking uncomfortably up the
elevated path between the demarcated playing areas. With unamusing irony,
he was literally treading the paved line that ran between where his own
teammates were still battling it out, and the Spurs first team were
engaged in some serious-looking drills ahead of tomorrow. The Asian lad
frowned across this view of the club's bigger names, from his mildly
idolised Kane to the likes of Alderweireld and Winks, Lloris and Lamela.
It seemed as though Harry Kane had just scored a goal as part of whatever
exercise they were engaged in, and was currently being lifted off his
feet in some manly squeeze by that big Welshman Gareth Bale -- and
seeming to have been beaten in the challenge, Harry Winks was skulking
away and bemoaning something to a coach-turned-referee. Part of him was
tempted to rest his ankle by slumping down on the neat grassy verge and
watching the top-flight big guns in action, but he thought it might look
a bit sad and fanboying. Instead, he marched on, trying to maintain a
steady gait and exercise whatever cramp or jolt was now giving him
shooting pain in the lower half of his right leg.

The injured lad made his way indoors, grubby socks smacking against the
lino floor and scraps of mud dropping from the boots he carried, his
other hand scratching at his youthful beard and rifling through the dark
shag of his hair. He dropped the sulky expression and stopped feeling so
hard-done-by as he wound his way through the quiet cool corridors and
into the sprawling changing rooms along the side of the building,
deciding that an early shower might give him some time later for a chat
with his manager where he could apologise for his overwrought performance
just now. He just hoped that the ankle would be okay and he wouldn't be
seen limping about the place in the afternoon, making their Monday game
unlikely -- never mind his fantasies about joining the seniors tomorrow
for Arsenal!

Markanday moved through the scruffy chambers of the dressing rooms, very
fully occupied with hanging and heaped clothes and bags, with so much
parallel training going on this bright breezy Saturday. He was headed for
the far end, the `bubble' where he and some of his other young Spurs
pals had kitted up not so long before, but he found himself looking
longingly at the obvious property of some other players -- their names
and numbers printed boldly on the back of hanging jerseys. Dilan fought
with that surly impatience for his own spot in their midst, but stomped
on -- until his socked foot kicked awkwardly at something on the floor
and send it skidding with a bump into the nearest wall. He was passing
the particularly messy clothing-dumps of a few other experienced pros,
and he'd obviously kicked someone's possessions into a corner -- with
the well-raised politeness that overcame his teenage sulk, Dilan moved
aside and stooped and reached instinctively for the item, grabbing it up
off the floor and then turned confusedly to the mess of gear that spilled
alongside this wall, hanging off the shelving and bench in such a way
that one man's things seemed to blur with another.

It was only then, stumped by working out whose gear he had accidentally
trampled through, that the 19-year-old actually looked at what he was
holding. It felt odd and rubbery against his sweaty fingers, a thick and
pliable sorta material, and... well, what the heck actually was it? He'd
been expecting something mundane, like a gumshield or a glasses case,
or... not... erm, what was it? Like... a wrist support, or...? Nah, surely
not! It was basically a sorta latex tube, about six inches in length, and
it felt like it was bumpy or ridged, but maybe on the inside rather than
the outside?

With the innocence of a lad raised in a strict Hindu household, Markanday
stared at the wanking sleeve with a very gradual understanding of the
male toy in his hand.



The atmosphere in the home changing rooms of the League One
promotion-chasers had been, unsurprisingly, raucous and joyful. Parrott
had joined the other guys late, taken aside for a very positive debrief
with the chiefs, and he entered the locker rooms to rowdy applause and a
series of increasingly violent grabs and hugs that made him laugh and
gasp, finally recapturing some of the glory moments of his talented youth
and seeing that he might still yet live up to his potential. He said
little himself, not wanting to dwell arrogantly on the goal, not when
everyone else was so ready to wax lyrical about it and boast that the
`Handsome Leprechaun Fucker' would be the one to take Town into the
Championship and -- in some of the more excitable moments -- eventually
to the UEFA Champions League. Troy, who balked a little at the thought of
a long-term future here rather than back at Tottenham, laughed along and
took his time to undress, peeling away the blue kit from his lean strong
body.

He was in no rush for the heady post-match atmosphere to end, taking his
time to unlace his boots and tuck away his used shinpads. But before long
his shorts were off and he was twanging the elastic waist of his sports
briefs, ready to chuck them off and waltz brazenly into the showers with
everyone else. If his Millwall months had taught him anything, it was
that you couldn't skulk around the edges playing to your youth and
vulnerability -- after those tough first experiences with the suspicious
and cynical Millwall players, he had learned swagger and showiness about
his physique and his more specific endowment, trying to command himself
as one of the men rather than just a boy. And such swagger and
self-confidence was especially easy when your 4th minute goal had sealed
the day's victory and you were hyped up by every League One fella around
you!

Towel over shoulder, the 19-year-old marched on into the showers, and it
began almost immediately. `Here he is,' barked their 35-year-old
defender Luke Chambers, twisting his head away from the shower he was
basking below, `the big-dicked bastard himself, our boy Parrott...!' A
ripple of hollers and whoops accompanied Troy's steps into the steamy
shower block, joining their laughter despite a note of surprise at such a
blunt and crass greeting, even from the yobbish older man.

`Yup, everyone make space,' quipped another guy nearby, Welsh winger
Gwion Edwards. `Careful it don't whip you as he goes past.'

`Fuck off guys,' chuckled Troy as he hung up his towel and joined the
carefully spaced mass of male bodies, muscles glittering beneath hot
water and steam, bottles of shower gel and shampoo squirting and belching
gently into waiting hands. With a twin streak of self-consciousness and
pride, he adjusted the way his schlong hung from his trimmed pubes,
keeping his head bashfully low as he passed through the centre of the
showers and was followed by more jokey remarks -- `He'll be scoring
with that third leg before we fucking know it,' said Andre Dozzell
giddily, and `What do they feed them over there in Leprechaun land?'
demanded Teddy Bishop before descending into fits of giggles and slapping
him on the back.

Shaking his head and refusing to rise further to it, the young striker
found his place in the only remaining gap and punched the button to dowse
himself in hot water, squelching some shower gel into his palms and
rubbing them against his flat pecs, where a thin patch of dark hair had
recently sprouted between his vivid pink nipples, all stark against the
pale Irish muscle.

`Ignore `em,' laughed Jack Lankester to his left, but the guy to his
right was grabbing him roughly by one shoulder and letting out a wheezy
manly laugh before picking up the joke: `Hey, do you have to shower next
to me and make mine look so tiny, Trojan?' roared his fellow burly
Irishman, Alan Judge -- the argumentative Dublin-born winger who had only
just been cleared of another aggressive incident against a League One
referee. He shook Troy by the shoulder, leering at him through his auburn
beard and flashing him a wink. The laughter boomed and echoed in the
steam behind their backs, but even when it had dissipated into the buzz
of general conversation, he found that the 32-year-old fellow Dubliner
was smirking his way with a face of mischief, rubbing a soapy hand to his
own average privates and seeming to stare interestedly down this way --
at the way Troy's heavy appendage hung between his dark-haired thighs,
dripping with suds that coursed down his long torso. He stared at himself
and then, raising his eyebrows in bemusement, back at the married older
man who had positioned himself as something of a rough mentor in the past
two months, but was now winking gracelessly and shaking with a dirty
chuckle.



He undressed for his shower, dragging the Spurs shirt up over his broad
brown body -- the bulking of his chest and arms just a testament to
lockdown boredom and the extra fitness hours he had been putting in both
here and at home, turning the dining room into a home gym and pumping
iron to make himself a more ferocious and unstoppable forward player. He
tossed the match-worn shirt at the door of his locker, rolling his
shoulders and cricking his thick neck, then stared confusedly down again
at the item that lay next to his rolled socks and neat clean trainers.
Well, he could hardly have put it back, could he? He didn't even know
where it had come from. Once he'd felt an inkling of what it actually
was, he'd become obsessively embarrassed of standing there with it in
his hand, and yet also too embarrassed to just toss it in the pile of
men's things and cause someone else that same mortification! He'd
thought about just chucking it under the lockers but then decided to just
take it with him into the next vestibule of lockers and hangers, and now
it sat absurdly among his own things, the rubbery tube that looked like
it might stretch quite comfortably over a- Fucking hell. Whose was it?!

The corner where he'd almost tripped on the stupid thing had been so
ambiguous. Not clear and ordered like the other end of the row, where
`Dier' and `Alli' and `Son' were so distinctly printed on the
hanging garments -- but staring around him, the dropped item could have
belonged to Bale or Davies, or to legendary goalie Joe Hart, it was too
hard to say. Or none of them, of course -- was it just a prank or
something, or was it not even what he thought it was...? Where did people
buy things like that? His eyes had bulged at the windows of London sex
shops like any other teen lad's, but at the lingerie and more feminine
apparatus, he'd never even considered that something might exist for a
bloke to wank into.

Dilan huffed prudishly and brought up one meaty leg at a time to the
bench to roll down his socks, peeling them away from his thickly furred
legs, so shockingly hairy for his age but perhaps not for his heritage.
Then down came the shorts, stood there now in just the long clingy
under-shorts for a moment, his eyes falling back for a moment to the
tube. Then, grabbing up and unfurling a towel, he used one hand to push
down the tight elastic of the under-layer, going naked and throwing the
fluffy white cotton about his waist, naked and alone and curious.

First, he walked to the communal showers behind him, passing through the
big round arch into the spacious tiled space where he could hose his
sweaty young body down -- but then he walked back towards his locker,
glancing furtively back through the passage into the other changing
spaces where he'd passed through and kicked at the offending item. Then
he snatched it up in one hand and went the other way, past the communal
showers, moving on to the handful of more private cubicles at the very
end of the changing facilities -- yanking one cubicle door open and
hanging his towel on the back of it, stepping bollock naked into the
cuboid of space.

With one hand, he twisted on the shower and felt for it to heat up, and
in the other he turned over and squished at the odd rubbery device,
gripped in the curiosity of a... Ugh, he hated the word, felt so ashamed
of it when the other sporty lads went on about the girls they'd been
banging, even during lockdown restrictions. Nobody knew that at 19 he was
still a virgin, though he supposed his former lodger Troy Parrott might
suspect, given the lengthy time they spent together between 16 and 18 --
and god what a fuss the Irish playboy had made about losing his own
cherry to that Dublin sweetheart when he was on a visit back home! It had
made Dilan freshly uncomfortable about his own inexperience and forced
him into direct lies about it, which his pal had just grinned and nodded
at with ambivalent acceptance.

`Fuck it,' the Barnet lad muttered to himself. He stepped his body
under the warming spray, letting it cascade from broad young shoulders
and down the smooth rise of his chest -- and with his free hand he
reached down to rub gently at his privates, the thick loose snake and
drooping wrinkled balls beneath it, topped with a shaggy aurora of dark
pubes. He grunted self-consciously for all the claustrophobic privacy of
the shower cubicle and slowly brought his fat virgin cock to a fuller
length and girth, feeling it respond to his careful self-touch... the
fingers of his other hand kneaded and twisted at the found item,
exploring the bumpy ridges on its inner lining, and becoming more sure
that they were for the exact stimulation he was imagining. Shit.

Once his cock was hard, standing proudly away from his bush, he stretched
the sheath and pushed it at the glaring pink of his head, immediately
uncomfortable. But then, stepping from foot to foot under the shower, he
reached enterprisingly for the little pump dispenser of shower gel, and
slapped some as lubricant to the shaft of his cock, letting it tingle and
sting a little as he ran his palm over the head of his deck. When he
tried again, the tube stretched and pulled over his member, and then he
was inside it, and WOW... `Ohhhh,' he couldn't help but vocalise the
reaction, squeezing the tight latex around his shaft and feeling the
intense new stimulation of it over his meat. Wow.

`Fuck,' Dilan murmured to himself, pushing his head back to soak his
thick hair and let rivulets pour down his clammy face, while he began to
slide his hand gently back and forward, letting the design of the sleeve
rub attentively back and forward over his thick tool, making his heavy
balls tingle in the heat of the shower. `FUCK.' The pink rounded tip of
his cock burst repeatedly through the end of the translucent rubber as he
fucked into it and his fist, seizing the moment and himself.



Did he linger too long in the shower because he was enjoying the
attention, or because he was particularly sore and sweaty after today's
match? Both, maybe.

Judge kept looking his way, with such obviousness that it actually seemed
to put off and distress Lankester on the other side of him, one of the
first lads to quit the showers and lead the banter back through into the
locker-rooms. And one by one, so did everyone else, until somehow it was
just the two Irish blokes left, Troy standing there very aware that his
6ft1 body was sparkling clean and there was really no need to remain
under the blast, except that he quite liked the way the married
footballer kept glancing meaningfully down at his crotch, his face a
mixture of resentment and admiration, looks that the teenager was become
quite used to.

Lifting his hands to stroke at the damp fluff of his beard and sideburns,
he let his dick swing a bit more freely as he turned to half-face the
other guy, then glanced over his shoulder through the thick steam,
confirming that they were really alone in here now -- and partly screened
too, by the short blunt wall dividers that broke the communal block into
needless segments. With that bit of cover in mind, he stretched a hand
down experimentally to fumble beneath the sag of his balls and make his
dong bounce a bit, watching Alan's beady eyes swivel to follow the
motion.

Judge was a real bruiser, the kind of guy who seems to have gone into
sport mainly for the bust-ups and confrontations -- but he was also a
funny and charming guy, someone who had gone out of his way to welcome
Parrott after his disappointed arrival in Ipswich at the end of the
transfer window. It was typical Irish compatriotism, Judge remarking on
the difficulties of settling into English life in a similar way to
conversations he'd once had with his hero Shane Long. And now, to his
bewildered delight, it seemed as if maybe the 32-year-old guy was fixing
him with the same subversive interest and appreciation, and bringing out
his natural exhibitionism.

At his right, the stocky shorter guy was still leering this way but
saying nothing, and so Troy rode the days wave of egotism and gave him
the nod. `I don't mind you staring,' he said simply, keeping his voice
low and confidential.

At first, Judge didn't really react, closing his eyes and rolling his
head under the spray, then he laughed and shrugged. `You think you're
something special then, do ya?' he muttered in that belligerent fashion
of his -- but he was fondling at his own limp dick and balls as he aid
it, and when his eyes opened, he was ogling the oversized piece with even
more obviousness.

`Why, you reckon yours is bigger?' Parrott returned challengingly.
He'd never quite rose to meet the challenge of the older guy's banter
in the weeks of training together, happy to take the role of earnest
protegee picking up his seeds of dubious advice and wisdom, utterly
determined not to end up a washed-out League One could-have-been like
Alan clearly was.

`What, you wanting to see it hard?' grunted Judge with quiet
aggression.

`You're the one staring,' Troy said smoothly back. The happy sounds of
the changing rooms felt close, but the steamy showers felt oddly private,
and they were screened from the entrance waist-down by one of the
dividers, so... he pulled very firmly at his member, willing it to stiffen
and pick up, and matching Judge's leering chuckle. `Let's see who's
got the bigger rod then, shall we...?' He could have laughed at his own
vanity and readiness there, but it was what he'd learned, starting with
that time in the sauna with Eric, and when he'd been pushed against the
wall and jerked off by strange fierce Austin in the brothel; experience
was teaching him to enjoy his gifts and just laugh at the way other guys
seemed enthralled by... it.

`Aye,' agreed the older Irishman, `and whoever is bigger has to wank
the other.' It was said with such speed and discomfort that it sounded
like something he'd been rehearsing in his head -- Troy couldn't help
but laugh, and he didn't mean to be patronising or a twat, but... well,
it was kinda obvious who was gonna win, so was this just Judge's way of
forcing himself to reach out and...? `Well?' Alan was demanding in a
fierce whisper.

`Aye,' echoed Parrott with calm confidence, gently coaxing his prize
cock into its full length and thickness, toying with the foreskin and
tracing his fingers under the ostentatious shaft. `Sounds fair.' He
watched with mild curiosity as the older bloke played roughly with
himself; he half expected a shock here, a real `grower not shower'
reveal that would make him eat his words and force him into offering out
a begrudging handjob. He felt no urge to do so, but he supposed he would
if he was proven wrong here, and he privately suspected that Judge would
not live up to his stupid gauntlet and reach for him...

Troy kept glancing back to the entrances, wondering just how silly and
risqué this was; wouldn't other players already be wondering why he was
STILL showering, despite having been the last one to head in and start
washing off? When he looked back, Alan seemed to be fully erect, his cock
very stiff and red but distinctively average in length and really quite
slim compared to the fat proportions of his own equipment; he shrugged
pleasantly at his older teammate, as if to convey that he wasn't that
bothered after all, and was perfectly humble about what God had
apparently given him.

But nope, here came the grasping curious hand, reaching across the space
between them, and while glaring quite intensely at him with an unreadable
expression, the brutish winger took hold of his dick and began to fumble
at it as well as his own, teeth gritted and beard dripping wet.



He'd had to take extra time in the shower, intensely washing away the
globs of cum from his hand, his thigh hair, from the stupid thing itself,
which felt slimy and difficult -- it burst from his hand three times, too
lubed by frothy shower gel and perhaps his own spunky mess. But
eventually, feeling clean on the outside but dirty and silly on the
inside, the teenager left the shower cubicle and moved back into the
locker-room to towel himself, glad it was still silent and the training
games must still be raging to their natural conclusion outdoors.

It wasn't the first time he'd jerked off on club property, that was
true, but still he felt naughty and foolish, and now that he'd shot his
load, the toy in his hand seemed offensive and ridiculous. He pushed it
down among his things with an accusing glare and then dragged the towel
almost punishingly over his body, rubbing it aggressively into his face
an dover his torso and arms, then taking it in both hands and dragging it
vigorously against his hairy arse. It seemed like the more he roughly
dried himself, the more he could scrub away the private shame of his
stolen moments there in the shower!

It was this brief manic effort that meant he didn't hear the footsteps
and jumped quite literally at the polite enquiring voice behind him.
`Hey, pal?' was an innocent enough opening, but he juddered awkwardly
at the interrupting voice and whirled round in a panic at the other lad
entering his changing space -- pink-faced and match-sweaty in full kit
beneath a big baggy overcoat, a very earnest expression on his face. His
layers of clothing threw Dilan's own state into contrast, standing their
stark bollock naked with the towel held behind him so that his heavy
privates were very much on show, his teen cock probably still a little
engorged and weighty from his earlier climax and handling. He wrapped the
towel rapidly forward about it and stared expectantly at the
interrupter.

`Daniel, is it?' Harry Winks asked with a hint of caution in his voice,
as if he knew he was getting it wrong.

`Dilan. Erm. No, don't worry.'

`Right, right,' the senior player laughed distractedly, `my bad. Erm
-- you haven't seen anything lying about, have you?'

`What? No. Course not. What?'

`Just, I was looking for... Ahem, well, it's always a bit hard to keep
track of your things in these changing rooms, I think I might have
dropped an, errrrm, haha...' The 25-year-old midfielder flashed one of
his Ken Doll smiles and hopped back a little, rubbing his hands together
awkwardly and starting to cast his eyes around the room, as if until then
he'd only been staring at embarrassed nude Markanday, who was now
stepping anxiously back towards the locker and thinking about what was
behind him.

`What did you say you'd lost?' he asked heavily, his voice strained
with the performance of innocent confusion. He took another shuffling
step back, one hand struggling to knot the towel in the centre of his
waist, the other starting to reach behind him, past the curve of his
rump, fumbling at the edge of his trainers and folded jeans, looking for
it...

`Oh, just some random stuff,' Winks said quietly, `it's nothing
major, I just thought... well, you know how shit falls out of your bag
sometimes and rolls away, so...' Was he blushing or was he just coloured
from the training drills he'd been performing out there with the rest of
his Premiership buddies?

`Yeah, it does happen,' Markanday said dully. His thumb caught the
still-damp rubbery texture of it and knocked it discreetly to the floor
behind his bare heels -- it made the slightest textured slap against the
flooring and he stared hard ahead of him at the older lad, who made no
sign of registering the noise, but then began to look about more
intensely, his neat brow furrowing for a moment -- `I guess it could be
anywhere, it's just that I thought...'

`Well if you don't tell me what it is, I can hardly help you, can I?'
Dilan found himself barking quite rudely at the affable England star, who
glanced sharply at him and then cleared his throat before taking a couple
of steps backwards. With a short sharp motion, Dilan kicked one heel
backwards and knocked the wank sleeve rolling away into the dusty murk
beneath the lockers, lost in the cobwebs and grime. He righted his
posture and then, having been struggling to form a knot with one hand,
slacked again as his towel fell revealingly open and away from his body,
making him snatch awkwardly for it -- ahead, Harry's nervous expression
seemed to shift and he was, gladly, too visibly alarmed by the little
moment of exposure to carry on asking questions.

`No,' coughed Winks awkwardly while Dilan fought to cover up his crotch
again and wrap the towel more tightly against one muscular hip, `I'll
just leave you to it, kid, I didn't mean to... Erm, not to worry, forget
about it...' And with a series of head-scratches and furtive glances, the
25-year-old was on his way, striding back through the divides and into
the other changing area, presumably back to the messy corner of his
colleagues where Markanday had kicked mindlessly at his dropped
possession, the embarrassing personal item that had tumbled from his kit
bag... and now languished in dirty shadows under the locker, to be found
by some industrious cleaner in the far-flung future. The Asian teenager
groaned and winced and rubbed embarrassedly at his face, questioning what
had possessed him to take and use the thing, and not just leave it where
he'd found it!



Judge was slow to make him cum -- his touch was grasping and rough and
badly angled, and actually Troy had jerked off early that morning in bed,
bored and alone. But he did cum, excited more by the older man's
inappropriate attention and the risk of the setting than the awkward
physicality itself; he leaned his elbow to the left, supporting himself
against the low divide, and pressed his right hand into the wet tiles of
the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a series of satisfised gasps
before he burst a lazy stream of thick white against the winger's hand,
and against the shower wall. `Oh fuck,' the big teen growled into the
steam, feeling the deep tingle run down his cock and below his balls.

Next to him, Judge seemed to have wanked himself into a softie, pulling
rope and just tugging aimlessly at his privates with his right hand,
whilst his awkward left fist had pumped so desperately at Troy's own
manhood. And now he stood there, still holding it, cum sticky and
dribbling against his fingers, a weird expression on his face. Troy
caught the odd look and wondered what the hell was going through his
unofficial mentor's head -- he really was a slightly strange and
unpredictable fella, the way he clashed with teammates and opposition and
officials alike. But Troy was not clear-headed or evaluative -- his body
was racked with the slow waves of relief as a last drop of spunk was
squeezed from his monster by Judge's hand, and he leaned more heavily to
the left, gasping for air. A loud peal of laughter from the changing
rooms brought an exciting but terrifying reminder of how mad it had been
to stand here and be tossed off, when another player could have wandered
back through at any moment...!

The shower had timed out while he was jerked, and so now he twisted it
back on, smirking a bit to himself at this (literal) icing on the cake of
his first professional goal, even in meagre League One rather than his
desired top-flight. Losing interest in Judge for a moment, he pressed his
face and body beneath the water to make sure he was clean, grabbing and
angling his cock so the spunky tip could be washed clean... his breathing
still ragged and heavy, and his cock remaining huge and ugly before it
would eventually soften and dangle.

He'd lost track of where Judge was but then he caught him in the corner
of his eye, stood away from him, a towel in his hands and that strange
alarmed expression still on his bearded face. Did the older Dubliner
regret what he'd done? Had he done anything like that before? Was he a
bit bi or just a real eccentric? Troy had no idea and in the moments
before it happened, he felt a little twist of unease, a sense that maybe
this time he'd taken one risk too many, or put himself in a bad position
-- and then suddenly Judge was shouting.

`FUCKIN' HELL LAD, NAH -- I ain't into that! Geroff me!'

Troy stared blankly at him, his jaw hanging. And then Alan was bursting
towards the doorways, grabbing his towel, and Troy stumbled after him to
follow. `What the fuck, kid?' the winger was roaring, and suddenly they
were breaking through the steam and dozens of eyes were on him. `Fucking
kinky bastard -- why would I want to touch your donkey dick, you perv?
Jesus, what is wrong with this lad?' Parrott trailed behind him and
waited for the punchline, realising too late that his not-quite-softened
brute cock was still swinging heavily at his crotch as he left the
showers without a towel and stood stark naked in front of the variously
naked or dressed Ipswich players. And through them all burst Judge in his
sudden and inexplicable temper. He pointed an accusing finger back this
way. `Queer as owt, that one,' Judge hollered, `trying to make me
touch his junk! Fucking freak...' And then it was even more chaotic, as
two or three of the more established Town players were huddling around
the shower-soaked Irishman in order to calm him down or hold him back, or
maybe to find out more; and around the room, so many puzzled or worried
faces fixed on Troy, who was just stood lame and naked in the doorway to
the showers, wondering where he'd gone wrong here.

But then suddenly a couple of younger teammates were at his side, one
shoving a damp used towel into his hands to cover his dignity. `Fucks'
sake, cover yourself up, kid,' grunted Bishop, who had been so keen to
mock and point out his endowment at the start of the shower. And on the
other side, squeezing his shoulder supportively and giving him a
concerned look, was Chambers, captain: `Hey, what the hell happened?
What's that lunatic on about? You okay?'

And it spilled on like that, fraught and strange, with the team seeming
to break suddenly into camps of thought: from people who looked at him
like a leper and said nothing more on the way out of the stadium, to guys
like Luke who seemed appalled by Judge's behaviour and totally
sympathetic to what must surely be a nasty prank against the new kid. And
those in between, with suspicious eyes and hesitant assurances. And Judge
himself, wild-eyed and dangerous, clearly a total nutjob. When he was
dressed and ready, the 19-year-old got away from the rest of them as
quickly as he could, trying to salvage his joy over the goal and win, and
trying to believe the captain when he patted him on the shoulder and
insisted that whatever stupid idea had got into Alan's head would be
forgotten by training on Monday.



`And sometimes you just have to put it down to a high-pressured macho
environment and laugh it off, right?' Dilan thought aloud down the phone
line, sitting on the back doorstep of his parents' home in Barnet, his
kit-bag still sitting on the patio next to him, not having bothered to
head indoors yet after returning from the Saturday training session.

`Totally,' Troy was agreeing down the phone very quickly in that
charming Irish burr.

`I mean, it's all just mad, innit,' murmured the Spurs youth player,
staring ahead down the neat square garden of the Markanday family home,
remembering the casual kickabouts he and Troy had enjoyed here over the
two and a bit years of living together -- laughed at by his family for
wanting to spend MORE time with a football after their long academy
training days. It was sure good to speak to him, especially after a day
of disappointments and oddness like this: his ankle still twinging as he
squatted down on the doorstep, and the image of that latex toy in his
fist seeming to be scorched on the back of his eyelids.

`Sure,' Parrott said, `sure.' He paused, and his silence seemed to
reflect Markanday's own worried indecision. They had been almost like
brothers at one point, he thought, spending so much time together in and
out of football, and Troy really accepted into the family as more than a
guest, despite all of the formalities and house rules that so obviously
horrified him. So surely, if anyone, Dilan could tell HIM about what
embarrassing mischief he'd gotten up to at the club...?

`You okay there, D-bag?' asked Troy in the prim reluctance that
amounted for friendly concern between teenaged lads.

`Of course,' he barked dismissively back. `Was just thinking about
some of the goals you got when we were on the Under 18s, that's all.
Fucking belters, all of them. Can't believe it took you ten games to get
your first at Town, you loser.' The moment was gone -- he couldn't
bring himself to broach such a private and embarrassing topic with
Parrott! The Irish playboy would not be half so shocked as he was by the
existence of such a silly toy, no doubt. There was an odd quiet on the
phone call, and he wasn't sure why Troy sounded so distant and unhappy
for a moment.

`Yeah well, that was then,' the other young footballer was saying, as
if to himself.

`I better go, T-dog,' he told him, finding some fun and enjoyment in
their stupid old nicknames, or at least trying to force it in his voice.
Today would just be one of those embarrassing incidents to be buried in
the back of his head, there was literally no point explaining it to
anyone, not even a close mate like this one. `Well done again on the
goal, though. Seriously bro. Love it.'

`Aye,' said Parrott, sounding unsure. `Great day, like you say. Good
times.'

`Enjoy it,' Dilan advised him. `Your teammates there must fucking love
you.'

`Hmm.'

`See you soon hopefully -- let me know when you're back in London, will
ya?'

`Sure, sure. Been too long, D-bag.'

`Fuck you, T-dog. Peace.'



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