Date: Tue, 6 Jul 2021 19:19:33 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 270

Part 270: When in Rome


The room to the hotel door burst open and in he stumbled, taking long
clumsy steps across the room and then hurrying over to open up two of the
big windows along one side. They did little to welcome a breeze and
disturb the Roman heat of the hotel suite, but they did let in a little
flutter of winged insects to invade the quiet.

Grinning from ear to ear, Luke Shaw turned around from the window and
watched as his fellow occupant of the room entered at a slower pace, lazy
and swaggering with the drink imbibed several floors below in the hotel
bar. Like a big annoyed bear, Harry Maguire lifted one strong arm and
batted a fluttering little invader away from his face with a brief gurn
of irritation, then he turned his crooked leer of hunger this way, and
Luke melted a little bit inside.

`You're letting all sorts in,' the Manchester United skipper grumbled
disapprovingly.

`It's just so fucking hot,' Luke complained in a small voice, relaxing
his bulky muscular body against the window sills and imagining a trace of
cool air coming in from the settled Italian night, longing for a breeze
against the back of his thick neck where the collar of his grey t-shirt
gave way to sweat-glossy skin and the close crop of his skinhead. `It's
too stuffy in here,' he added, leaving the windows behind and moving
back across the room, approaching to meet Harry halfway across the big
chamber they would be sharing.

Both men were a little drunk, both literally on the beer and wine that
had flowed with supper, and on the infectious it's-coming-home energy of
tonight's quarter-final win against the Ukraine. The mood in the squad
had been ecstatic in the stadium and verging on rowdy upon return to
their nearby accommodation, barely subdued by the calm confidence and
cautious work ethic of their manager; he had slipped away early tonight
to allow more relaxed drinking and celebration among the Englishmen who
were plodding into the final rounds of the tournament.

Shaw grinned admiringly at his 6ft4 hunk, the slabhead winner of the
night's decisive goal -- Maguire's header at the start of the second
half had shifted things from a solid 2-0 win to the 4-0 massacre it
became -- and thought about the hug they had shared on the pitch, his
club captain and secret boyfriend enclosing him in manic strength and
practically going to snog him right on the pitch in front of the whole of
Europe. It had been all the younger defender could do to contain the
excitement in his privates, glad of tight under-shorts and briefs that
restrained his would-be erection after he'd been clamped in Harry's
bear-hug on the field.

`You got a bit excited,' he told Harry with quiet and playful
accusation now. `Cuddling me like that on the field, you big romantic. I
could have dropped to my knees and sucked you off in front of the
cameras, you were grabbing me so rough.' He smirked and winked.

`That so?' the 28-year-old returned with a sleazy light in his deep-set
eyes. `You keep throwing out all those assists and I can't come hug you
for it?' He slid his arms against Luke's in a replay of that manly
celebration, holding their bodies close through the thin sweaty t-shirts
that covered their warm torsos. `Stop worrying -- nobody would know a
thing watching that, you fanny.' Luke relaxed happily into the drunken
confidence of the hug now that they were securely up here in their
retreat away from the world.

`I'm just messing...'

`I know you are. Almost messed your pants too, didn't you?'

`Fuck off...'

`Mate, I was the same. Watching you pull your shirt off at the end.'

`Ah, shut it...'

`Getting that body out,' Harry growled, grabbing and rubbing at the
fabric folds of his t-shirt, knuckles rubbing into the thick flesh of his
chest. `What were you trynna do, make me rock hard and spunk down my
shin-pads, you showy cunt...?'

Luke writhed against the bigger man, both enjoying and squirming at the
comments; it had been long while since he felt confident stripping off
like that in public, but he'd wanted to please the loyal fan chanting
his name, and off his England top had come, and the skinny lycra beneath,
until he was stomping about the pitch shirtless, stocky figure on show
and sweat gushing over the stubble of his chest. He both loved and hated
how much Harry had noticed it, glad to have returned the ill-timed lust
but also crippled by self-consciousness that other people might have been
looking at and judging him, compared to the more traditionally lean lads
on the squad.

`Fuck, I couldn't stop picturing it all the way out of the fuckin'
stadium,' Harry breathed in his ear whilst kissing at his clammy cheek,
lips dragging across the short stiff beard hair; Luke shivered against
him at his dirty voice and rough touch, letting his insecurities be
kissed and pushed away. `And every time I fuckin' looked at ya down in
the bar,' the Sheffield accent went on, `I nearly jizzed my fucking
boxer shorts just thinkin' about it...'

`Mmm, man,' he moaned uncontrollably, dragging his hands up Harry's
sides and over his back, feeling his intense body heat there where the
broad muscles pushed at the white fabric of his tee. He dragged up on
this material and they men simultaneously wrenched each other's tops up
and off, discarding them aside and cuddling properly, skin to skin,
lifting their faces and locking lips in a long passionate kiss that had
not dulled after the many months of secret love.

Harry proceeded to prove his point: after kissing his way down the side
of Luke's neck, he puckered his lips all the way across his chest,
sucking briefly on each nipple and making him giggle at the tickling rub
of stubble against stubble. Kneeling, the lofty centre-back kissed all
the way down his tummy and around his navel and just leaned his face
there, breathing and murmuring over his waistline, calling him 'his
Lukey' and rubbing big hands on his chunky arse through the rustling
retro shorts he was wearing. Luke's cock stretched his trunks and shorts
and felt Harry's chin and then lips play against it before he was back
up on his feet, holding him and grinning at him.

`This is fucking amazing,' Shaw confided to him, not for the first time
this month. `Being out here. With you. This is everything.'

Harry was becoming too horny and motivated for more loving words, but he
nodded eagerly and the needy expression on his rugged face was enough to
confirm his agreement... as were his hands now pushing inside Luke's
shorts and shoving them downwards until they were dropping to his ankles.
The two men had shared a room every night of the international tournament
and its warm-ups, and though they were being careful not to exhaust one
another, it was the longest Luke had ever spent able to wake up in his
man's arms EVERY FUCKING MORNING. It was paradise.

Stepping a short distance from him now, Harry's big fists were fighting
with a belt buckle and undoing the front of his baggy cargo shorts until
they were dropping away. The two well-built England defenders stared each
other down with drunk hungry eyes, having held back form a full shag
since the night they had beaten Germany in the round of sixteen on
Tuesday... nights of wandering hands and lips since but resisting the real
action that both hot-blooded footballers really needed. Luke shuddered
decadently and looked his man up and down, enjoying the muscular stretch
of those hairy legs and the impressive upper physique, all of it bared
for him and the loose black boxer shorts already shaping very evidently
about that massive boner; his own cock was equally hard, slanting
diagonally through his pale blue trunks and making a little tip-stain
where his pre-cum leaked against the cotton.

Harry Maguire licked his lips impatiently. `Get the fuck on that bed,
babe.'

Luke Shaw nodded with a fire in his eyes, leaping into action. `Yes,
captain!'



In the next room along that corridor, another of the night's
goal-scoring heroes was thrumming with the adrenaline of it all, and
wondering if he would really be able to sleep at all. Like Luke and
Harry, Liverpool's Jordan Henderson felt hot and itchy with the mixture
of continental heat, hastily swigged red wine, and the fact that he'd
FINALLY got his first international goal after over 60 appearances for
the Three Lions.

Like Luke, his face was stretched and awkward with the smile that he
couldn't quite get rid of, but there was a difficult difference for
30-year-old Hendo in the neighbouring suite: he wasn't directing his
joyous smile at the one man he wanted to share his victory with.

He sat restlessly on the side of his allocated bed, undoing the laces of
his trainers and then kicking them off, rubbing a bit at sore feet
through his thin white trainer socks, waiting for the en suite bathroom
to free up so he could get ready for bed. Jordan stared restlessly out of
the window at the pale night sky over Rome, then started very slightly at
a heavy wooden thud through the wall beside their room; for a moment, the
Liverpool captain wondered if that next room was occupied by any of the
England lot, he couldn't quite remember, and he wondered what had banged
the wall to make such a brief muffled thump. But his attention was
swiftly diverted from whatever was going on next door (namely, Harry
Maguire throwing Luke Shaw about the bed and wrestling his underpants off
him) because his roomie was stomping back through from the bathroom in
his keks, yawning out a loud `done mate, bathroom's yours innit'.

His fellow Mackem bloke strayed across the room, stripped ostentatiously
to saggy white briefs, fiddling with his shaggy blond curtains of hair
growth, and Hendo got up from where he sat with a vague murmur of
acknowledgement. He left the other Sunderland-born Jordan, Pickford,
fussing with his bedding and personal items, and went through into the
bathroom alone, almost bursting out laughing at the smug expression still
frozen into his facial features.

Looking away from his own goal-scoring grin, Jordan shucked off his
unbuttoned shirt and chucked it onto the towel rail, stooping at the sink
to wash his face clean and then brush his teeth. He took his time,
feeling more fully free in the privacy of the bathroom to reflect on how
much he wished he was able to see Neco tonight and share with him the
excitement of that brilliant strike. He hadn't even been able to call
the young Welsh right-back; Neco was on a lads' holiday with mates and
not actually picking up his calls while he was there, just in case, and
Jordan had to settle for only the briefest and most conservative exchange
of text messages with the beautiful lad.

Straightening his posture, Henderson looked critically at the lean muscle
tone of his upper body, a little glossy with the sweat of the hot night,
and felt even more urge to see, hold, kiss, anything with Neco Williams.
He pushed back the lust guiltily, thinking about the long video call he
had enjoyed with his wife whilst in the bar below, and how that should
definitely be enough for him!

At last, the idiot grin that had beamed from him since the ball went in
to the Ukrainian net was disturbed from Henderson's face, and he huffed
frustratedly at himself in the mirror, leaning shirtless on the white rim
of the sink; he felt incredibly restless and horny tonight, wanted to do
anything but climb into his lonely bed and listen to Pickford's nasal
snoring all night while sleep escaped him and he waited for some proper
privacy, or a late summer reunion with Williams on Merseyside... that was
if the handsome youth wasn't already shipped out of Anfield by the point
they were both in the UK together. Hendo was hearing rumour after rumour
about loan deals that might involve his boy, taking beautiful Neco away
from Liverpool and away from him, now that they had finally taken their
affair to the next level...

Henderson pushed these ominous thoughts away and glowered at himself,
irritated by his own needy desires and the fact that his punch-drunk
brain could only think about how much he needed his cock and balls
serviced tonight. He fiddled uncomfortably with his privates in the front
of his nylon shorts and then washed some toothpaste from his lips and
stubble, leaving the bathroom behind and switching the light off.

In the room, Pickford was lying on top of his ruffled bedcovers, looking
very involved in a text messaging conversation on the screen in his
hands. Hendo turned off the main light, adjusted the weak air-con unit in
the corner, then climbed into his own bed. He quickly realised why his
roomie was not under the sheets properly, and he compromised, hugging
some duvet over his abs and chest but letting one of his thick
midfielder's legs jut out into the exposed air, catching little air-con
tickles across the knee and shin as he fought for a more comfortable
position in the dark; dark but for the blueish glow of a phone-screen in
the adjacent bed, where the other Jordan was still typing quietly away.
Jordan let out a frustrated sigh into the hot night air.

`I won't be long,' the other Mackem fella mumbled distractedly.

`Hmm? Oh. Don't worry. Not sighing at you.'

`Right. Just... the heat?'

`Er. Yeah. Too much tonight.'

`So British. Hah.'

`I guess. Huh. Hmmph.'

`You sound so frustrated.'

`Guess I am.'

`Even after your big moment tonight...?'

`...Especially after that...!'

`Got you horny, has it?'

`Er -- what?'

A light rasping laugh from the other player. The blueish light
disappeared. Jordan lay on his back, staring awkwardly at the ceiling,
very conscious of the semi in his striped boxer briefs, lingering just
under the hem of the duvet where it spanned his crotch. He didn't turn
his head, just listened to Pickford's little snigger and wheeze.
`Horny,' the other England star repeated, but more quietly. `Nothing
like a big win to get the bollocks going, huh.'

`Guess not,' Jordan sighed longingly into the night. He was picturing
the Mediterranean villa where Neco might be going to bed right now,
hopefully alone but perhaps with some local girl he'd met in the Greek
resort's beach bars...

`You not going to do anything about it?' came Pickford's sharp whisper
in the night.

Henderson tensed, felt his dick twitch against the cupping fabric of his
pants. `Hmmm...?'



In the next room along the corridor, one occupant was sprawled across the
small couch below the same row of windows, a few beads of sweat on his
concentrating face as he played the video games on his iPad, dressed in
loose grey sweat-shorts and a baggy American basketball vest that draped
about his tall athletic build. His toes tapped idly against one arm of
the couch, the shorts riding up a little high so that most of his long
footballer's legs were exposed in an accidental flex of his body to the
eyes watching him from the other side of the room.

Ogling the West Ham defensive midfielder from the far side of the warm
stuffy suite, Mason Mount stopped rubbing the light moisturiser into his
youthful features, lingering by the full height mirror in just a pair of
Adidas shorts. He looked from the lounging sight of Declan Rice to the
two separate doubles that dominated the overheated Roman room, feeling a
lurch of sadness in him at the thought of another night with a two-metre
gulf between where they slept.

There had been no firm separation or change in the status of the pair,
and in public at least Declan had just carried on to stick close by him...
but one night the other 22-year-old Lion had just crawled into the unused
other bed of their room at St George's Park and not said a word of
explanation or even anger, just silently separated himself from their
nocturnal intimacy. Ben Chilwell was the heart-breaking elephant in the
room, and Mason could not take back what he'd said, or what he'd failed
to say quickly enough.

Mason's dilemma felt like a real tangle. Frankly, he DID fancy Ben --
how could he not? But not as much as he adored Dec. And Ben was now
firmly his closest pal at Chelsea, by some way, and he could hardly see
himself pulling away from that pairing when he was back training and
playing with him weekend after weekend in the League. He was as shocked
as anyone that handsome Ben seemed to have developed some feelings for
him, and though he knew that it was Dec he loved, it had been hard not to
have his head turned by the attentions of cool, charismatic Chilwell...
He'd THOUGHT that by admitting it all fully to his Deccers, then he
could exorcise the problem and get rid of it: he'd imagined Declan angry
but fair, taking his side and maybe warning Ben away, protective but
loyal and devoted. He hadn't realised how crushed and deflated his West
Ham beau would actually be after that night of awkward truths.

And then there'd been the isolation period -- he and Ben
`contaminated' after a catch-up with Billy Gilmour after the Scotland
game -- where he'd been trapped with only the Chelsea player. It had
felt so ridiculously unfair and fateful, that, and it had given Mason
some very frustrating days. As cheeky and sociable as he was, he'd
inevitably found it tough to be cordoned off from his England teammates
in that way in the midst of the campaign... and then to be allowed only to
train physically with Ben, his tight peachy rear bouncing about in
England kit in front of him all the time! And those blazing little
glances from the Chelsea defender when nobody else was looking. It had
tested Mason on many levels, but he'd saved himself by calling up Dec
whenever he felt like he might accidentally follow Chilly into his
bedroom...

And what was his reward for that self-discipline, now he was back in the
fold and out here in Rome with the whole gang? Mild friendly treatment
from his more-than-brother in public, and this cold bare shoulder in
private.

The attacking midfielder moped on the spot by his bed, looking from its
empty expanse back to where Rice lounged and thumbed away at his
shoot-em-up. Fuelled by the same 4-0 beer-drinking as the other hotel
rooms on this hot Roman corridor, Mase felt a little burn of decision and
determination fire through his slender body. Before he really knew what
he was doing, he was crossing the room. Stepping beyond the other bed and
up to the window area, the slim chiselled Chelsea lad stood demandingly
by the couch and rested his hands on his hips, blocking the light and
looming beside the reclining figure of his childhood best friend. Rice
stopped, but his eyes and attention remained on the device in his hands
-- that is, until Mason reached decisively forward and snatched it away
from him, then threw it with a crack against the sideboard.

`Mase,' hissed Declan crossly, perhaps more at losing his high score or
the tech damage, but then flashing his moody features upwards at him,
looking actually angry for the first time since things had wilted between
them that night back in Surrey.

`Game over,' Mount told him simply. And then he lifted one leg and
straddled the other player in one smooth move, nestling himself upon his
buddy's lap and grabbing at his strong forearms to balance himself
there. Dec paused and sucked in a hiss of breath, staring at him in that
stormy way beneath his craggy brows; ignoring this, Mase just pulled
himself forward and back, rubbing his muscular arse in small tight
circles over the crotch of the other lad's grey shorts.

`Whoa-`

`Just- shut up.' He said it forcefully and insistently, none of the
quiet pleading of his conversational attempts with the Kingston boy in
the past week or two. No. No more begging or half-hearted apologising.
Mason ground his bottom over the waking lap of the 6ft1 defensive player,
whose mouth fell open into a little `O' of surprise, his eyes softening
beneath creased brows. `Shut up and hold on,' Mason purred
instructively to him, rubbing firmly forward, riding him in cowboy, and
pushing his palms in against the crooks of his arms. He glowered fiercely
down at the other young star, running his cheeks against the outline of a
firm prick. Mason wanted his man back, and he was not taking `no' for
an answer.



`Fuck it,' he yowled excitedly, briefly distracted by an odd little
thud sound from the next hotel room, as if someone had dropped their
phone or laptop to the floor in a hurry -- but this wasn't what made him
yelp and wriggle out of the hold a bit, choking on laughter and pinning
his hands against the waist of the other man. `Careful,' the
27-year-old Barnsley lad huffed out into the stale warm air, `or you'll
give me a fuckin' hicky, lad...!' He twisted further away whilst keeping
his hands tight against the muscles of Kyle Walker's lower torso,
smirking at him. `No lovebites for the semi-final, please...'

`Got more than a fuckin' semi,' growled Kyle into his ear as he lifted
his soft sexy mouth from the side of his neck and nibble at his earlobe
instead, his strong hands running up and down John Stones' back under
his England training top, the two powerful defenders teetering about
between their two beds in the stuffy hotel suite.

The 6ft2 centre-back sniggered at the lewd pun, although his handful told
him this wasn't strictly true; Kyle's fat circumcised cock was not yet
hard, deliciously full and grabbable as it was in the front of his
close-fitting trackies. Neither was John's, not yet, but it would be in
moments. The rugged pair had snogged and groped at each other from the
minute the hotel room door fell shut after them, the last up from the
hotel bar and having eye-fucked one another across the room for much of
the night.

They were as rabid and excitable as any other men in the squad, and John
began dragging his Man City wingman down to the bed, pulling on his bare
upper body and running his long fingers on the hot curves of muscle and
bone. Kyle kissed roughly again at his throat, making him squirm and
guggle and then push him reluctantly away. `No hickeys!' he insisted
again through his chortles, imagining the scandal if he was seen with a
massive love-bite on their journey back to England tomorrow morning. Not
to mention the scandalous truth he'd soon be on the papers for suspected
rule-breaking in times of strict social distancing.

Walker made a little whine of dismay, playful and rough, settling for
more kisses to his cheek and ear and the side of his head. Stones pushed
a hand inside those trackies and briefs to properly fondle his chubby
dick, then applied the other to his own, rubbing and stroking them both.
In clumsy bursts and rolls, their bodies spread over the bedding,
tracksuit bottoms being yanked over thick tattooed thighs and past bare
ankles. Rough grasping hands felt up the contents of both men's
underpants, Kyle's tight black CK briefs and the looser check boxer
shorts John had opted for tonight.

`I want you so fuckin' bad,' Kyle growled deeply in his ear.

`You fucking better,' John egged him on. `I watched your cock bounce
all the way through that fucking massive game, you sexy dickhead....
Mmm...'

`Showering next to ya,' moaned Walker, `it's just too much...'

`Mmm. Come on, I wanna feel you in me again, Walks...'

`Oh yes. I'm so fuckin' hard for you.'

`Erm, mate,' he felt himself point out, `you're not.' As soon as he
said the potentially awkward words, he burst out laughing, the loud
laddish hoots that the pair's banter always provoked in him. He had
ended up on his side, his legs pushed open and one of Kyle's hands
tucked into the leg of his boxers to tickle his balls; and he had pulled
Kyle's member out and into his palm. But, as he was now laughingly
pointing out, both cocks were pretty flaccid in their clammy grip. He
gurned into Kyle's face and broke out in fresh laughter. `We're too
fucking drunk,' he pointed out, seeing and quite enjoying the little
flare of self-conscious panic on the older lad's face, `we're not
fucking tonight, are we?' And he broke off his own laughter by slapping
his mouth to Kyle's, both of their thickly muscled forms shaking with
mirth as they realised just how pissed they were from the last line of
shots at the bar once all of their teammates had pissed off to their
rooms, being boring.

John laughed and cuddled at the other defender, burying his face against
the side of his neck and just squeezing their bodies together, horny in
spite of his drunk cock's floppy laze, amused rather than frustrated by
their failure to step up to the task. After all, he thought, if they were
too drunk to fuck now... then the hangover horns would be really quite
delicious...



She tasted good, delicious even, but every now and then he still felt
like he should be pulling back and pinching himself, because this whole
Euros experience was such a mad ride -- a normal Leeds lad like himself,
playing in the Championship what felt like five mins ago, and now a
tournament stalwart for his national side! Kalvin Phillips was shocked at
his firm place in Southgate's strategy and the plaudits it was earning
him from the once sceptical followers -- and right now he was
specifically shocked that he was risking all of this by getting up to no
good with another England breakthrough star and burying his face between
the spread tanned thighs of the Italian chambermaid they were sharing in
this sweat-tangled bed.

But Kalvin didn't pinch himself, he pinched instead at her soft skin --
lifting and pushing at the insides of her shapely legs and rolling his
large sloppy tongue across her labia, snuffling his mouth against her
cunt and making her wetter and wetter. His own body, his broad strong
chest of smooth and freckled skin, pressed flat on the folds of bedding
and he tensed all of his back muscles as he pushed his face in more and
tongued her more fiercely.

She moaned, but the sounds of this were interspersed with the wet kisses
of her other lips, and the 25-year-old midfielder flicked his eyes over
the bare beauty of the Italian girl, up her splayed body and past the
gentle fall of her perky tits, to where she was grabbed and cuddled by
the room's other occupant, who was snogging ferociously with her and
moaning too, lying side by side with her as Kalvin continued to eat her
out.

It wasn't Phillips' first three-way like this, being the fiercely horny
fucker he was all through his youth career, but this was the sort of
nasty nonsense he'd gotten up to as a randy 18-year-old first breaking
into the Leeds squads, never imaged he'd be up to this in a foreign
hotel with a pair of official England trackies clinging to his arse and
leg muscles where they spread behind him off the edge of the bed. Fucking
mental, really.

While Kalvin kissed and slobbered between her legs, he could see the
other lad's hands rove over her tits and tummy, and her reciprocal touch
reaching for him. It drew the corner of Kalvin's gaze down the toned
front of the other player and to the clingy salmon-pink boxer briefs that
he was wearing, their front so loaded and bulging. Instantly, Kalvin's
gaze recoiled and he closed his eyes to better enjoy pushing his tongue
against her lips and clit, tasting more of her and really making her
judder on the bed in enjoyment of his talents. He shouldn't be checking
out his wingman in the middle of action, he reminded himself stupidly,
feeling that little touch of paranoia that had been left with him this
year... there had just been that stupid odd night in the Pennines, hadn't
there, with his Leeds teammate getting a little bit... ugh.

He still couldn't quite believe that he'd let his pal Stuart Dallas
toss him off like that... in fact, sometimes he thought of it and did
laugh, viewing it like a weird dream that had crept into his conscious
and something that could just be sniggered at as a moment of weirdness.
But he knew in his heart of hearts that it HAD happened, that the two of
them had shared that phone screen of porno in a remote dump of a hotel,
and that in the chilly darkness of the winter night, Dallas had grabbed
for him and, erm, given him some help.

Stuff like that happens, he kept telling himself. Just a stupid
spur-of-the-moment kinda thing, nowt more. Nothing to be worried about.
Bloody hell.

Phillips had to put this little self-conscious tremor aside as the bed
rocked and they moved position, touches and kisses shared against the
moaning beauty between them, so easily picked up and sneaked up here
after all of the celebratory fun. It was hard, though, not to
occasionally brush contact with each other, lad to lad -- a knuckle here
and a clash of shin or elbow there, little tumbles in the greedy
enjoyment of her body. And even when he was on his knees beside her,
feeding his hard cock into her plump lips and holding back her dark
masses of hair, he felt so conscious of how close the other guy was,
piling into her with long eager thrusts so that their bodies almost
touched each time. And kneeling there with his cock gladly sucked, Kalvin
stole confused little glances at that handsome bugger who was fucking her
first, momentarily catching eyes with the other player.

Jack Grealish had looked so gloomy and distracted on the way out here to
Italy, and not seemed exactly himself even tonight during the celebration
drinks. But here and now he looked in his element, his face a picture of
naughtiness and the highlighted curtains of his shaggy hair flopping all
over as his body pounded back and forth on her. The two men exchanged a
brief silent look and then the other 25-year-old had eyes only for her
their signora, who was still slurping on Kalvin's cock, licking and
kissing his meat just as eagerly as he'd gone down on her.



Declan stood beside the bed, not quite sure where to put his hands and
rocking a bit on his bare heels. Blowjobs from his Mason always felt
good, but this was excruciating; he hadn't touched his cock in over a
week, and the sexy Chelsea star was going as slowly and delicately as
possible, having teased him into life for ages on the couch before
manipulating them into this new position. Rice stood by the bed with his
vest pulled up and his shorts about his ankle, and Mount kneeled at his
feet, servicing his cock and ball in long indulgent licks and slurping
kisses; his saliva glistened in kiss marks up Dec's six-pack right up to
each hard pink nipple, and all over the fluffy insides of his thighs
too.

Standing here, shivering with enjoyment and anticipation, it was very
hard for Declan to feel the righteous annoyance that he partly wanted to
hold onto: he KNEW he was in the right, he KNEW that things had been a
bit shit and unfair, and that he'd been made to look a mug next to the
goings-on at Chelsea and with their other mates here. He knew that Mase
wasn't 100% trustworthy somehow, for all his innocent airs, and that his
own lingering insecurities were not entirely misplaced. But he also knew
that he wanted nobody in the world more than the lad now rolling his
tongue in circles about the head of his cock, making him gasp out little
`Ohs' and `Masons' into the stuffy air.

He wanted to hold his ground and keep making a point about how Mase had
side-lined him for the enjoyment of that good-looking prick Chilwell,
but... well... mmm...

The 22-year-old looked down as the precious lips left his cock, which
jutted out hard and curved and angry red, and just beyond it smirked the
angelic face of his best friend, smiling up at him with shiny lips and
wide eyes. Mason's hands stroked lightly at his thighs and he remained
there on his knees, staring up at him with a smile that was all sweetness
and submission, transformed from the fierce pushiness with which he had
approached and mounted him on the couch, tossing aside his gaming and
asserting his need for reunion.

Rice let out the shaky sigh of emotion. `You twat,' he sighed lovingly,
`how am I supposed to stay angry at when you go do that...?'

Mount pouted cheekily from behind his erection, which he stuck out his
tongue and lapped once at the tip, then took gently in his hand.
`You're not,' he instructed simply, and went back to sucking on it,
while Declan could only grab and roll up his basketball top until it was
fully off. Making a resigned sigh of open desire, he stooped down and
pulled Mason up and back with him, throwing both of their athletic bodies
against the bed now. In one smooth grab, he had Mason's shorts off,
stripping them both naked and unfolding himself on top of the other
smooth stud.

`I bloody love you,' Rice hissed almost resentfully in their closeness,
cuddling and grabbing at him, reaching a hand all the way down his back
until he was kneading two fingers into his crack, finding and pressing on
the ring that belonged to him. NOT Benjamin.

Mason was grabbing at him, moaning at the entering of his fingers, and
giving him deep sincere eyes and pursed lips. `I really am all yours, I
promise,' he murmured deliciously, and Declan felt himself falling for
those words all over again -- as he'd told himself before, did it matter
if his boy strayed and got excited, if he always came home to him...? Not
right now, it didn't, knuckle-deep in his arse and his cock aching to
replace his fingers. He answered his boyfriend with just a kiss and
pushed him onto his back, hoisting his legs and rubbing spit into the
hole before pushing his cock at it, lubed by Mason's own spit and drool,
sliding into him and connecting their bodies once more, both of them
feeling complete.



Pickford moved across the dark quiet room in slow shifts, first across
his bed, and then over the short gap of carpet between them, and then
onto the other big double. He kept his cock in his hand as he did, his
under-sized member stiff and leaking in his right palm, his briefs
bunched up beneath the swell of his balls and still hugging at his chunky
rump. He lowered himself onto the other bed, his breaths long and
laboured, and let himself slight towards the other Jordan.

Henderson had been surprisingly quick to respond to his suggestions and
hints, joining him in wanking, discreetly and discretely. But now
Pickford was closing the gap between them, taking advantage of how much
his fellow Sunderland export was lost in masturbation, groaning to
himself with his eyes shut as he lounged back in his bed, reaching the
climax of the parallel wanks the two England blokes had been indulging
in, sweaty and drunk and unself-conscious in their separate nests.

The England No.1 goalkeeper was drunk, of course he was -- they'd all
been pretty pissed by the time they spilled out of the coaches and into
the hotel, gripping ice-cold beers on the drive through the Roman traffic
-- but it was something else that gave him the nerve to risk this,
creeping across the other player's bed and letting his fingers brush at
the hairy muscle of his parted thighs. He was more shocked at his own
boldness than by the fact that the 31-year-old did not react a bit to his
exploratory strokes, and then shocked more still when he slid his hand up
to cup those heavy swollen bollocks, far more shocked at himself than the
way Jordan Henderson completely ignored him and continued to tug on his
thick erection in long meaningful strokes.

Pickford had been letting his curiosities simmer and bubble all the way
through their Euros campaign, most of his attention still fixating on his
own powerful clubmate, watching Dominic from afar and wishing the tall
stud would ravage and use him again like he had months ago in the Everton
showers, emptying balls and bladder all over him as he'd secretly wanted
for years.

Full of conflict and shame, the ace goalie stooped and kissed the balls
instead of stroking them, then moved his face against the cock. Hendo's
knuckles and unfurled from the big handful of meat, still not saying or
doing anything to resist this advance... and so Pickford just opened his
lips and wrapped them about it from the side, opening his gob wide and
pulling upwards until the whole thing was popping into his mouth, rubbing
at his tongue and then the roof of his mouth. Drunk on its manly smell as
much as booze or success, he let it fill his mouth and throat, and
clutched his sweaty hands at each of the Liverpool hero's thighs.
Hendo's only response was a series of terse grunting noises that could
have been disapproval or demand.

With little noise but for the wet slavering of his own wide lips, Jordan
Pickford sucked off his tense roommate, hunched against him and reaching
back down to jerk himself off whilst his mouth slid
up-down-up-down-up-down. It happened fast and awkwardly, his whole
posture full of his own nervous terror responding to the brooding consent
of the horizontal hunk. On and on he sucked, desperate to taste another
man's cum, just like he licked his own from his rough fingers in the
middle of the night, unable to forget about that salty treat since he'd
first got on his knees for big sexy Calvert-Lewin.



With the same gigantic physical presence that he tried to dominate the
football pitch, Harry Maguire slammed into his prized lad, holding him
tightly with one arm and pushing the other against the headboard to hold
it still, using his own thick knuckles to stop it from clattering against
the wall. His hips and arse muscles pulled back and forth like pistons,
allowing him to drive his big cock in and out of Luke Shaw's slippery
hole, fucking him hard and fast and dripping sweat over his bare back.
Their breathing was in sync, his own animal groans matching the hot quick
pants of pleasure from the thickset left-back clutched beneath him and
clamped about his hard-on.

The bed groaned and buckled under it, but held firm. The sheets slid
against his knees and shins, so slick with his own oily sweat were his
muscles as he drove it into Shaw's big butt, squeezing his waist and
pulling him in more tightly so he could really bury himself in him and
stretch that hole. Every time he fucked him in beautiful privacy, he
thought about first trying to mount him in the snowy Cheshire woods, that
painful and failed first effort when things between them had been so
fragile and dangerous; not like this comfort where both men felt totally
exposed and understood as they humped like rabbits in the chaos of their
hotel room.

Harry let his arm and hand wander his front, feeling up his tummy and big
pecs, up to his neck which he held gently, twisting Luke's face around
so he could kiss him again, tasting their salty sweat on each other's
parched lips. Thirsty for water, but thirstier for each other.

Wordless and breathless in his lust, Harry pulled back, letting his cock
slide back out of the well-fucked entrance, taking it just in his hand
and jerking it instead, desperate to cum. He rolled Luke over, throwing
his backside down to the sheets and then grabbing at his cock and balls.
He stared briefly at him, giving him in an intense and possessive look,
then dropped down to suck him off, tonguing his cock wildly whilst
pumping his cock in his hand, going wild until both of them were cumming,
his own juices spilling all over his fist while Luke's seed filled his
mouth, a sensation that had once repulsed and scared him, by now seemed
such a natural way of appreciating the 25-year-old beauty.

And then, wild in the Roman night, Maguire was lifting up on his elbows,
his mouth hanging open a little to smile at his lover, one trickle of
salty goo leaking from his bottom lip and onto his blocky chin. Luke
smirked back at him with that trademark big smile, his eyes wrinkling in
pleasure, and Harry's cum-damp hand rubbing it over his broad thigh.
Neither bloke said a word, the two United and England teammates just
looking loyally at another as they heaved with recovery breaths and let
the shiny sweat cool and dry across their naked skin.



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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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