Date: Mon, 5 Apr 2021 07:56:15 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 254

Part 254: Mr England & Mr Wales


From the broad windows of their hotel room, the lights of the city and
its bridges twinkled over the broad Tyne -- the team's hotel was the
Hilton on the Gateshead side and the two treasured forwards were sharing
one of the bigger suites available to the traveling London side, huge
floor-to-ceiling windows treating them to this view across at Newcastle.
Tomorrow, Spurs would face and scratch a draw with their Geordie hosts,
but tonight there was an attitude of expectation and ambition -- all of
the club's men were determined to seize a win and protect their intense
manager's job, entering the top 4 and re-joining some real contest at
the top of the Premier League. And no men were more intent on being
central to that win than the two talismanic players sharing this suite,
fresh from international spells for England and Wales.

Harry Kane twitched at the curtains, reluctant to pull them shut and
block out the attractive cityscape -- after all, their room was high up
in the riverside hotel and there was no real fear of privacy for them.
There was more to be feared by his own loud yelps and the rattling of a
headboard than being seen through these big windows! The England captain
sniggered eagerly to himself at this thought and left the curtain where
it was, turning to grin across the room -- his bedfellow was emerging
from the bathroom, freshly showered with a little steam lifting from his
fresh skin. The 31-year-old Welsh beast was still tying back his knot of
dark brown hair, exaggerating the brutal features of his attractive face,
his dark gaze falling this way.

`I've missed this,' the goal-scoring Londoner said quietly, hearing
the sensitive and vulnerable self that always seemed to emerge from him
around men who excited him this much; perhaps that was some of what he
loved in these dynamics, the contrast and freedom. There was such
expectation on Kane to be powerful and manly in other aspects of his life
and work, it was a true escape giving himself over to these dominant men
who always caught his attention -- most recently and powerfully, Gareth
Bale.

Harry kept his distance and watched as Gareth, clad in a thick dark
bathrobe, crossed to the table and squirted his thick neck with some rich
aftershave, dabbing a little onto his wrists. It was a small gesture of
effort that excited and warmed the England striker, seeing this majestic
man want to be clean, fresh and scented for their pre-match night
together. Neither feared the consequences of breaking a sex ban, too
strong and athletic to feel their energy levels dented even by the
athletic shagging they had achieved in the months since that first time
in the flowerbeds of his garden.

Kane, who had showered first, was still just in a towel, thick and white
and knotted at his waist, his long sturdy trunk on show and his arms
swinging loosely at his sides. He fiddled with his overgrown lockdown
combover of hair and stroked at the soft golden-brown hair of his beard,
waiting for Bale to make any real gesture or move his way -- there was
always such a brooding silence about the Cardiff-born winger, a sort of
feigned disinterest in public that could give Harry an erection in
seconds when he watched him across stadiums and training grounds.

`It's just great to be sharing a room,' the Tottenham legend shared in
the same quiet tone, coming to the foot of the bigger bed, fiddling with
the knot of his towel, unsure if he should expose himself yet and present
his ready nudity to the more dominant member of this pairing.

Gareth looked up with a strange half-smile, nodded his agreement.
`Yep,' he said in his thick Welsh accent, putting down the small bottle
of aftershave. He let one of his large hands toy with the cord tied
across the front of his robe, its broad lapels falling further open about
his broad chest, flecked with a few dark hairs. `Perfect warm-up for
tomorrow's win. The England captain, all to myself.'

Harry loved it when Gareth called him that and referenced his high
status, which he did often. `Yep,' he agreed in a clunky growl, `and
the Welsh dragon ready to overpower me... he he...'

Bale cringed visibly at this attempted nickname but laughed softly,
following the outline of the bed to join him -- taking one of his loosely
hanging hands and sliding it inside the front of the robe so that Kane
was now brushing his fingers across the soft warm chub of his equipment.
`Here's your dragon,' the borrowed Real Madrid hunk purred for him.
`Now stop talking shit and put that mouth to better use, mate.' A
gentle wink beneath the scraped back neatness of his man-bun. `No point
having this sexy room to ourselves and wasting it on small talk, man.'

The seasoned striker nodded his head firmly, glassy-eyed in his
subservient eagerness. He let his wrist be gripped tightly and ran his
fingers against the dormant weight of his current lover's weapon, hoping
to tickle it into firmer life, and wanting to pull that robe open and
stare down at it properly -- but knowing he ought to take his time and
follow Bale's lead, always nervous of being rushed or needy and scaring
away this great sexy man who had fallen into his life. He could faintly
remember the edge of physical attraction that had tinged his admiration
for the Welshman when he was a young wannabe arriving at Tottenham; it
had been long years before anyone who had woken those desires in Kane
enough for him to acknowledge why certain sportsmen excited him so much,
but in retrospect he could see the beginnings of his bisexuality in his
early career. Since then, so many different men had come to excite him,
though few with the power of the one bloke who'd snapped him out of his
daze and liberated his sexuality -- though his feelings for this Welsh
beast were rapidly overtaking and eclipsing that ill-fated romance,
gladly.

Kane grinned impatiently at the older footballer, the 31-year-old loan
hero, and craved everything he had to offer, interested now in little
other than satisfying this man he had rushed to befriend and, gradually,
seduce. He thought of that sweaty hungover dawn in Joe Hart's lodge, the
first foray that had initiated contact for them, but the many secretive
moments they had shared since -- oh yes, he thought, this was it, this
was just what he wanted...



Not that his head hadn't been turned at moments during the week and a
bit of international duty. After all, he was not blind nor a monk. A
return to his captaincy for the Three Lions had come with many moments of
distraction and longing, not least in the first major day of training at
St George's Park... particularly by a meaty foursome in the England
defence.

Harry Maguire was a man who stood out easily on height alone, and Kane
had squinted eagerly at him throughout the casual first day, and then
again during the more intense work of the first proper morning. For much
of the day, he watched the towering figure of the Manchester United
defender from a distance, often in different sectors because of their
different roles -- thinking back to the things that had happened between
he and Maguire last year, first in the damp echoes of a basement recovery
pool room, then again in the chaotic bedroom orgy that had left him
contentedly limping.

When the two powerful 27-year-old men came closer, in the early
afternoon, Kane took every opportunity to ogle him. Away from the
upsetting rivalries and enemy kits, he found the big Yorkshireman all the
more sexy in tight-fitting England gear -- there were no tight tracksuit
bottoms in the world, Harry theorised to himself, his own muscular rear
and long legs gripped tightly by matching gear. He paused, hands on hips
and ball poised beneath one boot, his eyes lingering on the bouncing
active physique of the big centre-back for too long, long enough to earn
impatient barks from the other attacking players he was supposed to be
working with. Harry returned the pass and got involved but still took
many long moments to look hungrily at the other big Harry, who was
lunging into a ferocious tackle with a fellow defender, in a heated
display of testosterone and aggression that almost made Kane stiffen in
his briefs.

The competitor was Kyle Walker, and it was seeing the pair of them in
heated combat that really got his motor running -- they were two such
brutish alpha males, exactly the kind of man to quicken his pulse and
make pre-cum leak at his foreskin. Both Sheffield-born studs were
cackling playfully, but their expressions and body language was ferocious
and warrior-like -- muscles bulging through training shirts and tight
trackies as they fought over the ball. Harry Kane wanted them to be
fighting over him!

But as Walker won the ball and dashed away, their two fellow defenders
zoomed in on the action, and the subsequent battle for possession was a
four-way tussle of jabbing kicks and thrusting elbows, breaking apart
into two hugging and laughing pairs in a moment. He watched the break-up
and pairing of the four men, his small sharp eyes lit with curiosity.
Perhaps he read too much into little shows of manly affection, but the
way short thickset Kyle grabbed and lifted at lofty John Stones, and the
way Harry's powerful arm draped about young Luke Shaw... watching the
four of them move further away in these two embracing pairs, Kane could
not help but tug and adjust the crotch of his pants, pushing and angling
his semi to make it less apparent to the guys around him.

Yes, he thought curiously, there was definitely something about the way
the two alpha defenders seemed to trat the two returning England
hopefuls, likeable and handsome younger players who everybody was chuffed
to see back in the family. Distracted again from his own play, he watched
the four men from behind, the hugs breaking apart and replaced with more
laddish slaps and shoves, but still something tactile and subtle in the
way they interacted...

There was a loud `Oi' and he snapped back to stop the ball with a top
then lob it carefully at another attacking player, then glancing over his
shoulder at the defenders' exit -- excited and a little jealous at what
he suspected between them, but then stopping those thoughts. After all,
he had something new and interesting in his life, he did not need to
submit himself desperately to the whims of slightly dangerous fellas like
Walker or Maguire now, not with some prime Welsh beef waiting for him
when he returned to North London! The England captain grinned lustily and
thought about how sexy the reunion with his Gareth might be, though his
wholesome loyalty still fluttered as he spotted massive Tyrone Mings jog
past to catch up with the other defenders too, the other huge stud who
had queued up to rail him that night last autumn!

A stray football bashed noisily against the side of his face and brought
his guilty attention back to the important training -- a karmic reaction
to his wandering eyes and insatiable submissive lust, convincing him to
stay loyal and passionate about his budding relationship with his Welsh
counterpart.



Other temptations during the England camp were a little more... personal.

As his heated entanglement with Bale continued and grew, the moments he
wasted on regretting the end of his Eric Dier affair became less frequent
and less painful. But he was far from immune to his double teammate, and
there came one night in the grounds of their hotel, the last night of
prep before the Poland game, where he found himself particularly drawn to
the handsome English Viking.

Eric was in the quiet bar area, playing yet another chess duel with the
impossibly handsome young Chelsea defender Ben Chilwell -- both men
looked particularly sexy and interesting as they hunched over their
shared table and moved piece after piece. Harry had limited understanding
of the tactical board game, though he knew Eric had playfully tried to
teach him on more than one occasion, but he could read all sorts of
tension and uncertainty into the body language of the two Premiership
studs. But then Chilwell was hooting with bitter laughter, slapping both
hands on the table and pushing his seat back, defeated but full of
admiration for the victor.

Harry, who was passing through the bar on the way to his room after a
late solitary gym session on an exercise bike, found himself lingering
where he stood, adjacent to the unmanned bar -- watching with more than a
little interest as the men got up and hugged and shook hands. He had a
great rear view of the tight tshirt and sweatpants that were hugging
Dier's broad strong body to him, and hear snatches of the men's
conversation -- something about a Zoom call to the `Villa boys' from
their room.

Chilwell was soon departing, all thoughtful grins and fiddling with the
short curtains of his hair; Dier heading this way, and Kane briefly
thought he'd been caught spying quietly on them, but he realised his
former lover was just carrying two empty glasses and some crisp packets
with him. He stopped a couple of yards away when their eyes met, lifting
his brows silently, then closing the gap and joining Harry against the
unmanned bar.

`Didn't realise we had an audience for that big clash,' Eric said in a
voice that was unreadable.

`Winning again?' Harry grunted.

His ex-boyfriend shrugged his muscular shoulders, dumping the glasses and
packaging on the surface of the bar. He patted his broad hands there a
couple of times then shot him a thoughtful look that made his strong
features particularly handsome in the low light. `What?' Kane asked
him, always so unsure what he was thinking or doing now; there'd been a
short period where he felt he knew Dier inside out, though perhaps they
had never really understood each other so much.

`Nothing,' Eric said quietly, `just wondering why you aren't busy
being spit-roasted somewhere.' The comment was jokey rather than
resentful these days.

Harry made an awkward hollow laugh, scared of such a vocal remark even
when there was nobody anywhere near the pair of them. `Fancied a quiet
night on the exercise bike,' he said dismissively. `Just going back to
my room now.' He felt the need to clarify this further, just in case --
`My room with Trippier. Not... with, um, any of that lot...' He flushed,
scratched his beard, hung his head shamefully, aware of what his ex must
think about him after walking in on that group action.

`You don't need to tell me what you're up to,' Eric said, his voice a
deep sigh. `I'm just messing with you. I don't care if you were riding
a bike or riding-`

`Stop that,' Harry mumbled. `You don't care...?'

`You know what I mean. We're past that, big man. I hope.'

Kane nodded his agreement, but it was a vague nod, and he found his
expression and mood becoming wistful and nostalgic. How was he supposed
to look at this rugged man and not remember those hot Russian nights when
they'd found each other? He was already sweaty under the collar from his
cycling, but he felt it prickle more at his skin as he stood there in the
low lamps beside the other Tottenham man.

`You enjoying sharing with Ben?' he asked softly.

Eric gave him another of those wry looks, pulling away slightly with his
body language. `Do you mean, am I sleeping with as well as beating him
at chess...?'

`No,' Harry said instantly, `I was just...' Well, he HAD meant that --
he'd been trying to read the body language between the two defensive
players, curious about their sudden closeness and room-sharing with Jack
Grealish unfortunately absent. He grimaced awkwardly at Eric, who just
gave a single harsh laugh and patted him on the arm. `I just like to see
you happy. Enjoying yourself. And looking so well,' he added lamely,
taking in the strong profile of the other 6ft2 athlete, and returning the
gentle touch to his arm, feeling the outline of a bicep beneath his polo
shirt. He let his fingers tighten a little there, resting on the tensile
strength of it, then reaching a little higher for the shoulder.

`Looking well?' the defensive midfielder echoed in a very low voice.

`Looking handsome as fuck,' Harry told him with painful honesty.

`Harry, don't.'

`Sorry, can't help it... you are.'

`Handsome as fuck but in the worst form of my life,' his colleague
muttered back grimly.

`You'll be back,' Kane told him instantly, `don't let it get you
down, you still got the call-up...'

`And then my name was rubbished by every pundit in England,' muttered
the sensitive 27-year-old, pulling his strong arm away and backing a few
inches from the bar. `Don't give me that look, H. We can't go back
there now, you know that.'

Harry let his fingers trail uselessly against the other man's elbow,
biting back to the further words of praise, reassurance, desire... it was
just a moment in the quiet low-lit atmosphere, something about the hotel
environment taking him back to Russia several years ago in the swirl of a
previous World Cup. He pulled his hand back sharply and rubbed it over
his bearded chin, nodding and lowering his eyes and backing away a
little, reopening the rift between them. Why has he dwelling on this and
longing for that old connection, when something new was on his
horizon...?

`I gotta go,' coughed his ex, slapping the bartop once more and backing
away. `Zoom chat with, erm, Jack Grealish and, erm, Ross too. Me and Ben
having a nightcap with the Villa guys.' He looked for a moment like he
wanted to say more, explain more, but Eric had made it repeatedly clear
that he didn't intend to share details of his new personal life with
Harry, not yet when there was still this little simmering tension between
them -- Harry just nodded, sighed, let him go, leaning on the bar and
then rubbing at the sweaty back of his neck, resisting the urge to call
Eric back and find a quiet corner where he could get his hands inside
those arse-hugging shorts.



But the biggest test of Kane's loyalty came only fifteen minutes later,
that same penultimate night of the international break -- and this was
the closest he came to giving in to the brain in his cock-and-balls,
always so highly sexed and in need of physical contact.

He was on the way back to the room he shared with fellow seasoned England
star Kieran Trippier, strolling up one of the long grand hotel hallways
thinking about the little resurfacing sexual tension between he and Dier,
when his path was suddenly blocked by another member of the Three Lions
squad -- another bloke in tight-fitting dark blue tracksuit bottoms and a
looser white polo shirt, a half-empty beer bottle in one hand as he
placed himself in the centre of the corridor.

Kane looked him up and down in mild surprise, lifted from his
self-indulgent musing. `Nightcap,' he remarked simply, a weak attempt
at a captain's discipline as he noted that the defensive player was in
the middle of downing a beer on the night before their third World Cup
qualifier match. This particular call-up was not seeing a lot of minutes
under Southgate's management this time, but that was still no excuse for
an illicit booze-up the night before their hardest qualifying game...!

Conor Coady, who was generally one of the most affable and charming
members of this elite group, was fixing him with a moody stare that was
normally only seen from him when in the middle of a tough game for
Wolverhampton; the 28-year-old centre-back and club captain advanced on
him with a noisy glug of beer from the glass bottle, bringing up his
other hand with a single jabbing finger in Kane's direction. `Been
looking for you,' he drawled in his potent Scouse accent. `You got a
minute, skipper...?'

Kane took a measured pause, rubbing again at his sweaty neck and tugging
at the collar of his polo shirt. He frowned at the strange mood of the
Wolves leader and recent England call-up, glancing past him in the
direction of his own room door, then addressed the 28-year-old with an
awkwardly formal tone. `Should you be drinking, Coady? I haven't seen
the team sheet for tomorrow evening yet, you might be in that back line,
so...'

`It's just a beer,' muttered Conor with a little more of his usual
Mersey charm, a crackle of mischief to his voice and a strange glint in
his eyes. `And only my second. Maybe third.' A blunt laugh which Harry
awkwardly echoed. `Hey, my roommate is out for a long walk, you know,'
Coady told him now. `He's a real moody kid, that Kalvin Phillips, he
goes for these long night walks to clear his head. So what I'm saying,
basically, is my room is free for a good half hour now before curfew. Eh,
la'?'

With slow steps and shifting body language, Conor was shifting forward,
sipping the dregs of his beer, and Harry felt his posture stiffen up in
response, the 6ft1 defender coming very close to him, all blocky muscle
and short-cropped dark hair about his ruggedly gorgeous features -- a
very similar type to his Eric, really, and that must have been what made
him so irresistible when Kane had bent over for him in Iceland last year,
exchanging his influence on the manager for a quick passionless fuck in
another hotel. That had been the nail in the coffin of his closeness with
Dier, being discovered on the receiving end of this muscular Scouser.

Since then, there had never been the slightest suggestion of a replay
between them. It had been a strange and cynical incident, a very
transactional encounter -- he was still unsure how Conor had become so
perceptively aware of his tastes, but he knew he had been manipulated.
There had been absolutely no sense that the attractive Scouse centre-back
wanted to play with him, just that he wanted someone to guarantee his
full England debut, and pounding the captain was the quickest and
simplest way of doing so -- a purely transactional fuck, Kane offering up
his broad rear and going on to twist the coach's arm and get Coady
exactly what he desired. The two senior players were in little to no
contact beyond that and though Conor was a playful, likeable new member
of the national squad, there had been no one-to-one interaction between
them since that night's promise -- until now.

Coady, tipsy and overheated, was leering and confidential in his wink.
`Empty room, I'm saying, lad,' he said again, lifting his free hand to
pat the side of Kane's arm. `Plenty of time to...'

`I dunno if I can influence the team tomorrow,' Harry muttered quickly
back, and this point seemed to confuse or daze the inebriated northerner
a little.

`I'm not asking for anything,' the other man muttered reproachfully.
This surprised Harry, but the smell of beer on his breath suggested this
was more than his third. But it was true, he realised; something had
changed here, though it was hard to say what. The implication of Conor's
comments was obvious, but it was not about a calculated agreement or
promise -- there was just the usual over-sexed testosterone and
selfishness of a Premier League player away from the missus, Kane had
seen it on so many faces and in so much banter. He breathed in the beery,
sweaty perfume of the other man, tensing against his lewd wink.

`Conor...'

`Don't tell me you don't want it,' Coady snapped -- he seemed annoyed
he was having to drop more hints. Whatever had driven him to this
confrontation, he had clearly expected it to be far more easily. `Am I
wasting my time here, lad?'

Kane made to move past him, tall and strong but cowed, unsure what to say
or do. But Coady's arm jutted out, touching the wall and barring his
path. They were so close now, Harry turning his head to face the tall
defender who almost met his own stature, frowning with conflicted lust at
him, thinking about what it might be like to follow him to his quiet room
and just yank down his undies and then bend over and- He couldn't act
like such a slut! He couldn't just offer himself up in the desperate
ways he had last year, used by the likes of Maguire, Walker, Mings! He
thought of stern serious Bale and the great willpower it seemed to take
him to cheat on his wife.

`I don't know what you're talking about,' he grunted coolly at Coady,
pushing his arm away and stepping past him -- he settled on a guiltless
amnesia as the easiest attitude to the attractive Scouser's brooding
sexual complacency. He would never acknowledge what had happened, the
shameful way he'd sold out his captain status because he was lonely and
attracted to him. But Conor was insistent, pushing at him until they were
both pressing into the wall of the corridor, bashing against the
panelling between room numbers.

`Come on,' gurned Conor, totally out of character, a wildness in his
eyes. Harry glared back at him, alarmed by the change in his manner and
behaviour -- this was not to the attractively good-humoured Scouse lad
who bounced around training and took funny pot-shots at the egos of
players from the `bigger' clubs. Sure, he'd seen the steely
determination beneath all of that charm, but this pushy side...

`Fuck off mate,' the England captain grunted at him, pulling free from
his odd grasp. `Stop embarrassing yourself -- what happened to all those
morals and standards? Go take a cold shower and stop making a tit of
yourself!' He'd slipped into the harsh brusque voice of captain at
half-time, and something about it jolted and affected the clearly
intoxicated footballer, who gripped at his arm still but backed off --
Harry could see the conflict and regret in his face, heard the immediate
shift in his voice.

`Just a joke,' slurred Coady, lowering his eyes and stumbling back,
`was jus' kiddin' with ya, Kano, no need to be... erm... Fuck.' He
punched one fist into the palm of the other hand and stumbled off,
turning his back sharply on him, muttering something to himself about
`that fucking Portuguese kid' then marched off, leaving a confused and
troubled Kane resting against the wall panels, catching his breath and
trying to ignore the raging erection in his pants, wanting a repeat
performance of the power he'd felt from Coady back in the Icelandic
winter. He went and took his own advice, avoiding Trippier and taking a
cold shower himself to cool off the evening's temptations and fix his
mind on his Welsh beau.



Gareth Bale undid the cord belt of his bathrobe in one move and let it
fall open and off, slipping away from the hard smooth muscles of his
shoulders, arms, back, exposing the meaty expanse of his 6ft1 body --
he'd never been particularly showy about it in the past, but the
devouring attention of someone like Kane made him revel in his own manly
strength. It reminded him of the early days of his relationship with his
wife, feeling adored and revered rather than taken for granted -- it made
him rock hard, as his large member was already testament to in Kane's
hand.

`Well,' the winger purred authoritatively, `are you just gonna rub it,
or are you gonna get on your knees, striker...?' He grinned smugly at the
prominent Tottenham player, the once-scrawny young wannabe he remembered
noticing in his own Spurs prime, before the big money lured him into La
Liga. And though Harry was now 27 and one of the top goal-scorers in
Europe, here was ready to serve and pleasure him like a bird.

He brought his own hands up, stroking the sides of Kane's face with a
gradual gentleness that the married man seemed to enjoy, then gripping
his chin and jaw a bit more masterfully and rubbing their foreheads
together with the teasing near prospect of a kiss, which he refused right
now to concede. He just let the tips of their noses rub slightly then
pulled his face away again, and began pushing down on the broad naked
shoulders of the football hero's body, directing him downwards in the
direction of his own rising erection...



Obviously, Bale's own international duty had not been without
temptations and interest; the Real Madrid man was always treated as a
famed hero when he spent time with his home team, where he was given due
respect for his talents and achievements over the years, a far cry from
life on the side-lines in Madrid or even in his temporary new presence in
London. Not only did the less worldly and experienced Wales players covet
and admire Bale's success they relished his patriotism and open
preference for Welsh football over Real.

This always meant that the team's many younger members were a bit
awe-struck and awkward with him, hero worship brimming in their smiles
and attempts at banter -- a dynamic that Bale had previously taken with a
smirk of gladness for the ego boost but little more. Now though... the
attention was a little more welcome and enjoyable in other ways, he had
to admit, having begun to lighten up after the prudish difficulty of
those strange experiments in the Madrid heat: with Hazard, with Ramos,
with their friends.

He became quickly accustomed to the way promising young lads like Harry
Wilson and David Brooks buzzed about him at the training camp and on
their trips to stadiums, eager to hear titbits of his advice and wisdom
from him. It was amusing at 31 to be treated as the `old dog' of this
national side, but he was learning to like the respect and status of
that, rather than worry about his bald spot. He'd also come to like the
high regard of the coaching staff, though Giggs himself was on extended
leave over some criminal accusations in his personal life, and Bale
missed the trust and closeness with which the disgraced Man Utd legend
had handled him last year.

There was one of Bale's young admirers who caught his eye more than
others, though, and gave him more pause for thought. It was Sunday, the
day after their 1-0 victory over Mexico in the middle of the
international break, and already preparing to host the Czech Republic in
two days' time; all of the men were hard at work in the rural base north
of Cardiff, playing hard in bright cool sunshine. The late afternoon
broke into less organised work, though, with men directed into different
activities and training routes by the acting manager, meaning that Bale
ended up doing strength work in a gym almost entirely alone, and arrived
in the nearest changing facilities without the bustling company of the
other Welshmen for a change. Undressing alone, stretching out his aching
arm and chest muscles alone, dropping sweat-drenched boxers to his thick
ankles alone -- wandering into the shower blocks and jerking on a blast
of lukewarm water alone.

The winger remained alone for a minute, carefully avoiding getting his
tied-up hair wet, and just lathering up the breadth of his pecs to wash
his body down. But then a pitchy whistle indicated that someone else was
using these changing rooms, and he glanced to the right just as a second
Wales footballer entered the boxy rectangle of metal and pipes and steam.
The slim youngster was discarding his towel in one quick move and then
pausing, whistling stopped, as he realised who he was going to shower
beside -- Bale saw his hesitation and the now-familiar starstruck
expression on his wide-eyed face, but just grinned welcomingly and
continued to wash each armpit carefully, giving the young defender a nod
of greeting.

Neither man said much: the pipes roared and the water hissed, and light
conversation would be drowned in those noises if they tried. But Bale
found himself confidently able to survey and assess the young lad to his
right, appreciating the attractiveness of the male physique in a way that
he hadn't particularly bothered to before in his life. This amused
rather than troubled him, and he tried to convince himself there was
almost something feminine or at least androgynous in the fey beauty of
the dark-haired teen -- his full pouting lips, the heavy dark lashes of
his eyes, the thick crown of curls that became bedraggled and long under
the spray of his shower.

Bale looked him up and down, saw him flinch a little at this stare. He
was thin but tightly muscled, very pale white apart from the heated
blotches from his workout or the slowly increasing water heat. Bale knew
he shouldn't examine the 19-year-old so openly but with just the two of
them in here, he wasn't sure what was to stop him. He particularly
admired the perky round white of the lad's buttocks, edged with the dark
fuzz of his surprisingly thick leg hair. Wilting a little beneath this
admiring stare, the 6ft teen looked his way, flashing those
deer-in-headlights eyes and pursing the dark pink lips.

There was no need to be patronising to this one, Gareth knew -- Neco
Williams was one of Liverpool's bright new hopes, even in their troubled
season, and this developing right-back must regularly play alongside some
of the League's most talented blokes. But still, he'd seen the Wrexham
youth stare and gawp at him in the same way as Brooks, Wilson, everyone.
But now, the two of them butt naked in the showers, he wondered if there
was something a bit more specific and reciprocal in the way Williams now
returned his stare -- a little flutter of those lashes, a shift in the
self-consciousness of his posture, almost posing rather than hiding.

`Alright,' Gareth growled simply, allowing his own large fists to run
down the ridges of his six-pack, moving towards the curving adonis belt
of muscles that sank into his furry crotch and low-swinging privates. He
ran his fingers against the base of his swinging cock a little, narrowing
his eyes and twisting his lip into a grin. He saw the surprise and
interest in Neco's face, but the younger football player didn't make
any move either towards or away from him.

He was about to say something more, something over the background roar of
the shower system, something to amuse or endear the attractive young
Liverpool player -- but then other dim voices echoed through the hiss and
grumble, the sounds of other players assembling in the nearby changing
rooms. Gareth just let out a little growling laugh at this interruption
to the strange intense privacy of their shower, and turned off his,
letting the last of its jetting water course down his muscles and onto
his hips. He exited, patting Williams once on the back, feeling him
tremble a little at the touch. All he said to him on the way out,
swaggering naked out into the jumble of their teammates, `Another time
maybe, Neco.'



Another moment of near-contact came three days later, the morning of
their next 1-0 victory, a relaxed morning in the sprawling country hotel
that the Welsh FA booked out for them each time -- training was not to
start until after lunchtime today as a reward for the previous modest
victory and the hard prep for this final game, meaning uncharacteristic
lie-ins for hard-worked Premiership men like Gareth and his assigned
roommate, who was perfectly good company other than his snoring.

It had been suggested by club rather than country, a pairing of Bale with
the less experienced Welshman, but again he was happy to assume a `big
brother' role to the 23-year-old centre-back from Carmarthen. Gareth had
not particularly bonded with young Joe Rodon much in his one-season Spurs
loan, but he admired the up-and-coming defender's work ethic and
ambition, and was glad to get to know him a little better during the
camp. This morning though, it was the chainsaw growl of Rodon's snoring
that struck him and after tolerating it for nearly an hour, he wrenched
up a spare pillow in his bare muscular arms and threw it viciously
between their beds to disturb and correct the stupidly growling figure of
his younger teammate.

Rodon, disturbed, made a series of spluttering noises then lifted his
dopy face from the bedding, propped on both arms, mouth hanging open and
eyes puffy with sleep. As he always did in the morning, he looked lost
and bewildered, rolling onto his side with his thickly tattooed arms,
blinking and groaning and then seizing the weaponised pillow to lob
clumsily back. It fell with a squish into the gap between their beds and
then Joe spluttered with chuckles. `Was it bad again? Sorry, chief. My
girlfriend goes fucking crazy about it.'

Bale stifled a yawn of his own and just grinned across at him. `Noisy
cunt,' he said simply, folding both hands behind his head and knotted
hair, and stretching out his thick body and legs under the covers,
satisfied by the extra rest and the lack of pressure on them to move
quickly. There was a late-running brunch buffet that they would both need
to hit (this Joe kid seemed to eat half his bodyweight every morning,
Gareth thought) but other than that, they were free to lounge about and
be slobs.

Instinctively, Bale thought that what he most wanted to do with the
gained time was blow a load and fully relax himself -- he could feel a
lazy semi developing where his curved prick sat in his shorts, and he
reached one hand unsubtly under the covers to rummage with it, yawning
again and giving a thoughtful glance to the stretching and grunting of
sleepy Joe Rodon. His fellow Spurs player, bought last year from Swansea,
was clambering out of bed and tugging idly at himself -- a 6ft4 giant, he
unfurled his strong legs and clambered up into the space between the
beds, writhing at the front of his taut grey CK pants, accidentally
dragging them low enough to reveal just a hint of his soft dick.

But then he was turning to stagger with sleepy footsteps towards the
other side of the room and the door to their bathroom, and in doing so
exposing a much better view to Gareth's half-asleep eyes -- Rodon had a
very chubby rump that was held tightly in the stretched grey fabric and
almost bounced with his walk. Looking at it made Bale just grin lazily to
himself and clutch a little more tightly at the slowly stretching muscle
of his prick -- he was beginning to really appreciate a muscular man's
arse as much as the wider curves of an attractive lady.

`That booty,' the winger barked out loudly to catch Joe's attention,
keeping one hand on his dick and watching Rodon pause to turn and face
him in the bathroom door. The 23-year-old burst out laughing at the
laddish joke, still scratching the outline of his privates and giving
ugly sleepy expressions.

`Oh yes,' the Carmarthen boy trilled back, `they all love the junk in
my trunk, you know. Fuck off.'

`It's seriously chunky,' Gareth sniggered complacently. `But I bet
your cock's much smaller than mine.' He tossed this cheeky gambit of
conversation out there, aware of the growing size in his hand, and
interested to see the plucky Spurs defender react to it. He grinned at
him, seeing more amusement than offence in the younger Welshman's
bullish face.

`Probably, you old bastard,' Joe grunted, charmingly free of the
respect and admiration that seemed to stunt most of Gareth's younger
countrymen here in the valleys. `Are you playing with yourself, you old
perv?'

`Maybe,' Bale said with a soft laugh, letting the movements of his hand
show more obviously through thick duvet, again staring across to judge
Rodon's level of comfort or disgust at this openness as he hovered there
in his clingy pants and scratched lazily at his lower tummy. `You not
gonna join me, kiddo?' He let the sleepy question hang in the musty
bedroom air, eyes trained carefully on Joe's puffy eyes and twisted
smirk.

`Join you?' demanded Rodon. `Fucking hell, what do they teach you out
there in Spain, mate?'

`Oh, all sorts,' Bale jibed back playfully, slipping his fingers inside
the shorts to begin pulling his semi out into his palm, beginning to
wonder how quickly he could convince Rodon to take over the job for him
instead...

`Yeah, I bet, fucking weirdos,' Rodon sniggered, briefly stepping
further back into the room and shoving one hand unhygienically into his
undies, wriggling it about with tantalising possibility, then just
slapping it against his flat hard tummy and then retreating into the
doorway. `But I'll leave you to it, slime dog, you can jerk yourself
silly while I piss in the shower and sing to the radio, eh? Dirty fuck.
I'll knock before I come back through...!' With that, the young
centre-back retreated into their en suite, dragging the door firmly shut
behind him while he laughed happily at his own banter and abandoned Bale
to a wank -- completed unhooked or tempted by the gentle flirtation of
Bale's half-asleep humour.

`Stupid young prick,' the winger laughed to himself as he toyed
half-interestedly in his dick, hearing the opening notes of a song and
the sounds of plumbing as Rodon went to enjoy himself in the shower
cubicle rather than being drawn into the 31-year-old's increasingly
self-absorbed sexual needs.



So far in the Wales camp, Bale had more or less ignored the obvious
interest of one Daniel James -- after all, the boyishly handsome Man Utd
player was just so overt and available, so clearly hung up on what had
gone on between them once in the semi-privacy of a pool changing room. He
was cute but gormless, interested but boringly easy prey. There was just
the vague sense with Dan James that he might be a little TOO interested,
that toying with him might bring trouble and intensity that the
31-year-old was not ready to handle outside his own picture-perfect
marriage. That night, however, things were different.

Returning to the hotel after the 1-0 win, it was the national squad's
last night together before properly reconvening in summer. The locked
down hotel bar was discreetly reopened for their purposes and the booze
did flow; temptation was against thrown interestingly in Gareth's path,
but the simple difference between his experience and Harry Kane's was
that he had no intention of resisting it. Gareth was a man only just
coming to terms with his own attractiveness and influence, and the
options that were open to him if his mind was a little less narrow than
it had been a year ago... he had moved a long way from having his dick
sucked by that slutty Belgian on his living room floor. (Gareth had hoped
to confront Eden when they played Belgium last week, but only the Madrid
whore's younger brother had been present for that clash,
disappointingly.)

So when Dan James was suddenly thrown in front of him, bumping into him
on his way back from a piss to re-join the scatty party of half-asleep
footballers, coaches and physios, he had no hesitation in pushing the
short muscular lad to the wall and asking him how hungry for cock he was.
The 23-year-old honorary Welshman stared respectfully up at him, a
diminutive 5ft7 next to Bale's full height; the speedy younger player
had secured the night's single winning goal, but Bale was in no mood to
congratulate or fuss over the under-used United spare, rather he needed
his own ego stoked and a return to the meaningless lust they had shared
once before.

`My room,' murmured Dan in his reedy Yorkshire accent, fumbling for a
key in the pocket of his skinny sweatpants, clutching at a thin gold
chain about his neck, all glistening lips and wide eyes.

In moments, they were there, the party abandoned and Dan's actual
roommate ignored -- just in case, Gareth aggressively took a seat from by
the window and wedged it at the door handle, locking them in so that they
were safe from discovery as he threw the smaller man to the bed and
climbed on top of him. He cuddled and pawed at James, allowing him to
kiss about his neck and chest and then suck on his nipples through his
t-shirt until there were little wet patches over each tit -- then the
garment was peeled off and thrown aside so that Dan could lick them for
real and then push his face into each hairy pit for a good sniff.

But soon they were moving on from such crude foreplay. Dan's pants were
off and his glorious bottom exposed, so broad and almost womanly, a
really meaty booty on such a little white boy; Gareth enjoyed fingering
him, thick knuckles deep in the ring that was as tight as he remembered,
whispering filth in his ears and demanding to know how much he'd craved
a fucking since last year when Gareth had him up against the changing
room wall. Daniel seemed enthralled by the difference in his confidence
and openness, whining and begging through it all until finally he was up
against the wall with his legs apart, and a spit-lubed big cock was being
pushed roughly between the chubby glutes, his face pushed painfully
against the paintwork while Bale mounted him.



And now here he was in a different bed in a different hotel, and the same
long thick bone was being buried in the broader, flatter backside of
Harry Kane. As he had each time, Bale felt the full thrill of mastering
such an important guy -- it was as if every time he ploughed Harry, he
was really ploughing the whole smug country of England, some provincial
vengeance against their inflated self-worth and elitist league. Fucking
and emasculating their striker and captain made him feel a godlike power
that didn't fade when he finished, and he especially enjoyed brushing
aside Harry's physical affection and needy murmuring in the afterglow.

He held him by the hips and fucked him powerfully forward. Kane was
clinging to the headboard with one hand, adding to its creaks and
judders, with the other hand splayed up against the pale paint of the
wall. His back glistened with fresh sweat even though he had showered
before they started, and his overgrown hair flopped and messed about his
head as it bashed forward, knocking gently against the upper curve of the
headboard. Bale pounded him with slow but sturdy thrusts, really slapping
into his flesh at each new push of his barely lubed cock, breathing
heavily and not bothering to feed Harry's hunger for dirty talk.

`Yes,' whimpered the bearded England captain, rendered pathetic and
submissive by Bale's dominant spirit, `oh yes, keep going, oh yes,
it's what I need... oh baby...' Baby? He sneered at the pet name and
pushed even more forcefully, really knocking his head against the wood
and tightening the grip of his thumbs at the back of his hips, pausing
with his whole shaft buried in him and just enjoying the sensation of
filling up this manly bastard. `God,' whined Kane, his inarticulate
captain's mumble, `never stop fucking me, Bale, I need it SO FUCKING
BAD...'

`Yeah you do,' the Welshman grunted simply, slapping one of his arse
cheeks side-on, then picking up a bit more speed before twisting him
about to change positions, moving almost onto their sides so that he
could slam him quite athletically but really see his twisted face of
pained enjoyment as he did so, dripping sweat from his own muscles as he
bore down on him, fucking Kane and fucking England. Fucking Tottenham!



Harry stared adoringly over his shoulder, besotted with the shiny gritty
expression on the slightly older player's face, loving the firmness of
his cock so deep in his bottom, his own piece rock-hard and very close to
spurting. He whined and begged in the strange almost feminised voice that
sex brought out of him, hearing himself as if distorted, not the
aggressive masculinity he had fought to project while captaining his
national team all last week!

When he did climax, however, the groans and yelps were all manly, all
Walthamstow lad, collapsing forward with his face buried in a pillow, his
arse clamping tightly around Bale's cock while his own oozed spunk
against the sheets and he stretched his hands away to either side, lying
very still and passive to be humped a few more times before the trademark
finish -- Gareth withdrawing from him and then squatting over his middle
so that he could unload his own Welsh seed over Harry's chest and
nipples, painting his upper body in grey-white rivulets of satisfaction.

`You fucking bitch,' the Wales legend groaned above him.

`Yes,' the England captain gasped enthusiastically, `I'm your bitch.
Yes...'

He pushed himself up on both elbows, reaching for the kiss that was not
reciprocated, and instead kissing his lips awkwardly against the hard
abs, finding the faint furry trail that ran up the centre of them, until
his head was pushed dismissively away and Gareth was thrusting him onto
his side to spoon and cuddle and rub his still-hard cock against his
stinging throbbing arse. Gareth moaned happily to hold him, but was so
sparing and inconsistent with his physical attention, so that every touch
felt generous and electrifying to his `bitch'.

Kane thought happily about how much effort it had taken to resist the
opportunities of international duty, choosing not to pursue the appetites
of Kyle Walker or Harry Maguire or any other secretive fuckers in that
squad of beefcakes -- thought too about how empowering it was to flirt
closely with Eric Dier and yet not make any mortifying move on the lad
who had once meant everything to him -- thought at last about the weird
turn in Conor Coady and why he had been so drunk and horny for no reason
that penultimate night, when not so long ago he had been business-like
and cold in his decision to swap a neat fucking for a bit of internal
politics. The 27-year-old grinned happily to himself, arse still aching
and cock leaking a little more jizz, thinking how worth it that was for
this excitement with his new man, growling behind him and stroking down
his side.

The secretively romantic Englishman sighed into the pillow and dared to
hope that this could be the marvellous affair that would keep him going,
safely outside of his important marriage and professional duty, but more
sustainable and equitable than the mad hot lust of his first experimental
relationship with `Jeremy Edgar'. This, he thought, was more like it,
and surely Gareth Bale felt the same...?