Date: Tue, 20 Sep 2022 22:53:26 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 315

Part 315: Lights Out at St George's Park


Almost at the very second the door, marked with a brass number 9, fell
shut and locked out the bright hotel corridor beyond, the occupants of
the suite moved quickly towards each other; theirs was one of the first
rooms that you would come to at the top of the broad internal stairway of
the high-end hotel that sat alongside England's prized training camp,
and so it was important the two men held back until the firm thud and
click of this door's safety, closing them into Room 9 and allowing them
to leap at each other. Passion that had been held in with difficulty
during the short day of training and this evening's meal and bonding
activities, now unleashed...

Once the kiss had subsided long enough, Jordan Henderson's well-groomed
beard tickling deliciously at Trent Alexander-Arnold's smooth-shaven
features, they held their bodies close and breathed heavily against one
another, the older man wrapping strong arms about the sides of Trent's
thick torso and pulling him in, faces nuzzling and rubbing and lips
puckering for a flurry of further snogs before either of them spoke.

`I've never been gladder of a mate's injury,' rasped
Alexander-Arnold, followed by a guilty chuckle of pleasure, running his
hands inside the warm of the older man's unzipped England hoodie,
feeling his firm upper body through the Liverpool t-shirt beneath; his
captain smiled and moaned and stroked the back of his neck with both
hands. `I mean, I wasn't exactly dreading sharing a room with Kal,
but... if the poor guy has to have surgery, I'm just glad it's YOU that
the boss called up...'

Hendo had been today's last-minute addition to the England squad for
this international break, summoned by Southgate after the absence of
strong young City midfielder Phillips. Jordan Henderson, an old faithful
of this national team, more than willing to give up his week off to
represent England, and perhaps even more, to be holed up with his sexy
young defender every night in hotels. At Liverpool, his captain's duties
meant that Jordan felt too conspicuous rooming with the Scouse right-back
too regularly, forcing him to alternate room-mates every now and then -
although, he admitted to himself, that had never been the case when his
best mate Lallana was on the scene, but he'd been less paranoid and
self-conscious then, and now he felt he had something private and special
to protect. And he didn't want Trent to be sullied or mistrusted by
other lads, considered anyone's special favourite, so he kept a
respectable distance from the Liverpudlian lad for the majority of the
time.

Not now, though, alone in Room 9, and holding each other like this. He
had the slim-fitting England t-shirt off the smaller lad's body in
moments, so that he could kiss his neck, and the swell of his shoulder
muscles, and all of that smooth chest, sucking briefly on each nipple and
enjoying the sniggers and gasps as his beard hair stroked the pale brown
perfection of Trent's skin, eventually throwing him to the bed and
clambering over him to interlock their warm bodies. Tonight would be the
first of many, a week or so of these private nights, where nobody could
disturb their togetherness.

Henderson knew that other such secrets simmered under the surface of
Three Lions life, having once overlapped in private with his seasoned
England colleague Harry Maguire, swapping partners with him and
exchanging Neco for Luke - but Hendo felt shy and possessive, and
couldn't imagine himself falling into a similar excitable trap now. He
didn't want to even think of another man touching his Trent, though he
knew this was unfair when he went to bed with his wife most nights.

He gasped, feeling Trent's hand inside the front of his slack tracksuit
bottoms, gripping his semi through his taut underpants, and grinding
against its touch. He kissed his young man again, deeply and noisily, and
pinned him even more firmly to the bed, as if protecting him from the
wandering hands and eyes of over-sexed teammates like Maguire or whoever
else - the thought that other hot-blooded footballing men here had
discovered this type of intimacy was comforting in some ways, but
threatening in others.

`I'm glad to be here,' the Sunderland-born midfielder groaned into
Trent's ear, pinching one nipple and kissing him on the jawline. `I
wouldn't sleep at night thinking of you here without me, your body and
everythin'... mmm.' He rubbed his crotch even more vigorously against
Trent's hand, against his hip, pressing down on him heavily, still quite
warm and sweaty from their busy day. `I'm gonna fuck you so hard
tonight,' he promised in a quiet growl, pressing down on the handsome
Scouser, and Trent grinned up at him with glittering dark eyes and a
satisfied smirk on his lips, nodding eagerly.


A couple of rooms down the corridor, the light was also going out - it
was curfew time, on the instructions of the gaffer. An early night, all
things considered, to make sure that the men were well-rested for
tomorrow's first full itinerary of training, with today having been
little more than light kick-about and team-building exercises. Exercises
intended to integrate the newest call-ups to the squad, and to
re-initiate those who were returning after some absence from the national
side.

Specifically, returning players like Eric Dier, who had been snubbed by
Southgate for several years now following a fairly prolific young run in
England shirts, and who had been giddy with excitement today as he pulled
on the new training gear and enjoyed numerous compliments from the other
blokes about his recent good form at Tottenham.

Eric's good mood was not 100%, though he was doing his best to enjoy the
experience - after all, he was far from guaranteed a place on that flight
to the World Cup in December, and he had to enjoy this week's games and
the slim opportunity he had to fully restore Gareth's faith in him! But
as he left London to be driven here in Surrey, he'd had an argument over
the phone with his Ross, and it had left him more than a little bit
moody...

He tried so hard to be patient and understanding with Barkley, always
knew that he needed to, so conscious of the other stud's insecurities
and hidden vulnerability behind that rugged facade, but the truth was
that his long-distance boyfriend had been a bit of a twat these past few
days. Eric had rang him almost immediately, sure that Ross should be the
first guy he shared the good news with once he'd received his call-up to
this international camp - but instead of being overjoyed and supportive,
as Dier assumed he would be for Barkley, the other footballer had been
hesitant and questioning. `But I'm meant to visit you this week,' was
all the new Nice midfielder had said after a few pauses and grunts, and
his evident disappointment had blindsided the Spurs man. It's not that
he didn't share some of Barkley's dismay - they'd planned a romantic
weekend together in the Peak District, hiking with the dogs and staying
in a couple of B&Bs he'd found, all scheduled and paid for whilst their
teams released them from training during an international break.

`The trip,' Ross had moaned at him down the phone.

`It's England,' Eric had grunted back, immediately tense.

A short argument - no, a series of short arguments really, had followed,
haunting him on his way here to St George's Park, and all through the
afternoon's football and the evening's attempted relaxation. He was
determined not to let it spoil his excitement and pleasure at being back
in an England shirt, but the emotional blur of it nagged at his thoughts
and disturbed his peace as he settled down in bed in t-shirt and boxer
shorts, waiting for his roommate to finish making unpleasant gargling
noises in the bathroom.

Restless and gripped with this funny mood - he felt both guilty for
arguing with his boyfriend and a searing resentment that Ross would say
or do anything to spoil his big comeback - Eric climbed out of bed
impatiently, strutting about the hotel suite, dark but for the glow that
emanated from the adjoining en suite. It was perhaps a bit forward of him
to stride in there and whip out his cock at the toilet, pissing whilst
the other occupant finished up at the sink, but... Eric's gentleman mode
was switched off around this guy, with whom he'd once shared so much.

`Charming,' chuckled the stalwart England captain and his long-time
Spurs ally, his tall form hunched over a little as the sink as he wiped
frothy toothpaste from his lips and washed his hands in a splash of cold
water. `Always such a gent, Jeremy Edgar.'

The little-used old nickname jolted Eric as he pissed, making him aware
of how odd it was to be sharing a room with Harry after all this time.
Much of their torrid affair had taken place under the duty of national
football, really, more-so than back in London at their shared club, and
perhaps he should have insisted on a different rooming when he found out
this arrangement on arrival at midday. `Jeremy Edgar' had been a
codename of his when he was married Kane's bit on the side, before the
England striker let him go and broke his heart. Great, he thought, more
bullshit to tarnish my enjoyment of this week.

`It's only you,' Dier quipped, holding his meaty cock in both hands as
he aimed his stream into the bowl of the toilet, and glanced over his
shoulder at the slightly gormless smile of the other footballer,
lingering at the sink and fussing with his toiletries on a shelf above
it. For a moment, their eyes connected, and suddenly the public urination
did seem a bit off-colour, he really should have just waited for the
bathroom to be free and left Kane to finish his ablutions in peace.

He turned back, looking down into the lavatory as he finished up his wee
and flushed it away, and then stuffed his prick inside his loose-fitting
check boxer shorts, turning to join Harry at the sink and washing his
hands with soap; the other 6ft2 player remained close beside him at the
narrow space, rather than retreating into the main room and giving him
room to wash up.

`What?' Eric laughed stiffly, their arms brushing in matching plain
white t-shirts with short sleeves, two burly bodies too much for the
narrow bathroom space that flanked their shared bedroom.

`Nothing,' Harry muttered, after their eyes briefly connected in the
mirror.

An awkward moment passed, the two big sturdy blokes standing close
together, skin brushing, and feeling each other's body heat; Harry had
lowered his eyes and looked embarrassed, so Eric finished drying his
hands and shoved the small square towel in his friend's direction for
him to use, bumping elbows with him as he did. `It's just-' the
much-capped striker began, just as the towel was thrust into his grip,
and Eric stared sharply at him, almost sensing what he had to say before
it came out of his mouth: `It just feels a bit like old times, being
here with you...'

`Don't,' the defensive midfielder barked quickly, cutting across his
voice. `Just don't.'

He barged away, muscling past the lofty forward, and back into the
half-light of the curfew-struck bedroom, towards the nearer of the two
beds, sheets disturbed by his restlessness. Kane followed him with a
couple of quick steps, and was right behind him when he glared over his
shoulder, their eyes meeting fiercely.

`That was a lot of water under the bridge ago,' Eric told him in a low
voice, each word clipped and decisive. And yet even as he said it, his
heavy cock swung and brushed against the loose cotton of his boxers, as
sensitive and neglected as it had felt between his fingers as he pissed;
and Harry loomed thoughtfully in front of him, this man who he had once
been so loyal and devoted to as the fucked their way through the previous
World Cup.

`I know,' Kane mumbled back, a mournful distance in his voice. He was
nodding firmly, and stepping back slightly, and then moving on to the
other bed, his back to Dier, who found himself standing restlessly at the
food of his own bed. He flared both nostrils in a huffing sigh and then
climbed quickly under the duvet, rolling on his side and glaring away
from the direction of Kane's bed - he heard the other Spurs-England star
sigh heavily, and he restrained himself from making another bitter
remark. They were friends now, good friends again, and he had no desire
to fight - but how dare Harry nudge at those memories in the close
quarters of their en suite bathroom...? He had no right.

Eric reached one muscular arm out to the bedside table, snatching at his
dormant phone, and opening up his messages. Right at the top, the little
sad-face emoji next to `New message from RB'. He opened it up properly:
`Sorry - am a dickhead and a klutz. Dunno y I said dat on fone today. So
proud for you, made up. U deserve to be there.' Then a lot of kisses. He
huffed loudly and hit reply, thumbing his late-night response in as
quickly as he could: `It's ok baby. I'm sorry I snapped too. Love you
xxxx' and then, even more hurried, `Missing you lots xxxxx' - and the
phone was placed a little too firmly and emphatically down on the
bedside, as if to send a sulky `goodnight' across Room 11.


Exactly above Room 11 was Room 18, though the old hotel building was far
too solidly built for much noise to travel through walls, never mind
floors - which was pretty good, given the loud giggles and gasps between
the two writhing bodies on one of the double beds, the Chelsea twink
subjected to a furious bout of tickling from the taller body of his West
Ham lover, a jokey punishment for his apparent flirtiness over the dinner
table earlier.

`Oi, oi,' sniggered Mason Mount, wriggling playfully away from the
insistent hands of his gorgeous man, tormented and titillated in equal
measures by the dancing motion of Declan Rice's fingers at his smooth
skin, and shoving frantically back at the other 23-year-old, and almost
falling off the edge of the bed as a result. `I can't help that I'm a
charmer - hehe, hey! - and you can hardly talk, the way you were gushing
over Hendo being here, hehe - owch! Oi, stop it, hehe...'

`What?!' exclaimed Rice, his face and bare chest a bit sweaty, finally
pausing in his silly tickle torture of the other lithe midfield player,
and pausing on top of him, the crotches of their boxer briefs rubbing
delightfully, two heavy bulges that were already more than semi.

`You heard me,' teased Mount beneath him, holding and rubbing at his
sturdy forearms. `Oh Jorrrrdan, so good that you're here, we'd be lost
without you Daddy, ohhhh yehhh...' And the Chelsea youngster burst into a
fit of wild giggles that provoked Declan, grinning and blushing, into
grasping his wrists and hoisting them above his head in one locked grip,
then using his other hand to tickle one of the surprisingly bushy pits
before dropping closer and kissing him on the lips.

`You daft prick,' he jibed after. `You're the one who couldn't stop
flirting your arse off with every other player who passed our table, you
little tart... Hehe...' They kissed again, and both men wrapped loving
arms about the other, so glad that this was just banter and stupidity
between them - Dec was a far less worried and jealous man that he'd been
in the earlier stages of their relationship, finally able to believe that
the handsome Portsmouth prince was all his, or at least was his proper
boyfriend. He wasn't sure if someone as hyper-active and cheeky as his
Mase could ever be 100% faithful, but Mason knew to report any
behavioural slips to him ASAP, and seemed to love begging Dec to spank
him hard as punishment as soon as they were back in their shared
apartment, a big new place that they'd bought together right in the
centre of London, equidistant from their rival clubs.

`It's just my way,' Mount defended weakly, thrusting up at him with
his crotch, rubbing their hard-ons together, and scratching his blunt
nails over the defined muscles of Rice's back; the two lads kissed and
cuddled, simply killing time before the underpants came off and the West
Ham captain hoisted up those increasingly muscular Chelsea legs to thrust
his cock between the pert cheeks below. The fuck was inevitable, and they
both loved to long out the foreplay as much as their insatiable appetites
could manage, because neither lad could lost long before exploding with
cum once they were at it: they simply knew each other's bodies and needs
too well!

`Just messing, just messing,' grunted Dec needlessly, wanting to
reassure his perfect boy that he wasn't the same jealous loser any more,
and he did really know that Mase was just a flirty fucker with everyone,
from their teammates to the nutrition staff and every member of the media
team. `I love you, you tit.' He gnawed lightly at his boyfriend's lip
and reached down to start sliding his black designer undies over his
hips, wanting to get his hands on that bubble-butt.

`Love you more,' challenged Mason, shifting his thighs and bottoms to
allow his pants off, and lifting his mighty young legs up high to give
Declan that access, eager for his hole to be played with and then
ravaged. `Now fuck me like you mean it, Rice-Cakes...!'


`So,' asked one of the occupants of Room 19, one thick wall away from
the rapidly moving antics of Mount and Rice; `how come you aren't
sharing with your usual buddy? I thought you two United defenders were
pretty fuckin' inseparable, y'know? Bit of a lovers' tiff, or...?' He
turned across to the other side of the room, grinning jovially at the
suite's other footballer resident, and a bit surprised when he saw the
gloomy face of big broad Harry Maguire giving him such a filthy and
disapproving glance.

`Alright,' Kieran Trippier whistled instantly, turning back to the
window where he'd been twitching the curtain and idly inspecting their
view of the grounds, `I'm sorry I spoke.' He kept his voice light and
playful, but he was actually quite alarmed by how angrily his roommate of
the camp had just glared at him from where he sat on his bed, looking
through a fitness brochure from their welcome pack. Kieran had known big
Harry for years, since the massive centre-back had debuted in his
Leicester peak, before he became the standing joke of Manchester United,
back in Trippier's own neck of the woods.

Of course, he knew that the 6ft4 beast had hardly come to this camp in
the best of moods or mindsets - his call-up had earned derision from
numerous corners, with a number of other Premiership defenders named as
more in-form and credible replacements for the Old Trafford bench-warmer.
But it wasn't like Slabhead to take any of that seriously, as far as
Kieran had seen, he'd always impressed the big Yorkshire fella's
ability to shut out the noise and get on with a job. Besides, as shite as
his United season might be going, Maguire had never really disappointed
when wearing the Three Lions on his mighty chest, and everybody here knew
that just as well as their mild-mannered head coach.

`Soz,' the Mancunian Newcastle star said, without looking back across
at his pal, just lingering by the window and then yanking the curtains
fully shut. As he turned, he peeled his polo shirt away from his
compactly muscular upper body and dropped it lazily to the carpeted floor
beside his bed, stuffing one hand down the front of his sweatpants and
giving his cock and balls an idle fiddle.

On the other bed, Maguire was still hunched over the dull brochure,
flicking mindlessly through its glossy pages, sat there like some hulking
gargoyle, still fully dressed in the new England leisure-wear that
they'd all been handed on arrival over the course of the day. His craggy
face was downcast and thoughtful, and Trippier hesitated before saying
more. `I was just making a joke,' he pointed out quietly, wondering
what nerve his generic banter had actually hit, `cos I've never seen
you and Lukey boy apart since the kid got back into the squad, y'know.'
He shrugged his bare shoulders, still readjusting the contents of his
sports briefs, and loitering beside his own bed. `You okay, big man?'

The embattled Man Utd captain looked up from his apparent reading, and
gave him a strange look, his expression dark and unreadable, and then
just staring back down into the pages in his meaty fists. `All good,'
the big Sheffield bloke grunted, unconvincing. He sat there, fixated on
the brochure, still in his polo shirt and sweatpants, trainers still on
as his legs crossed beneath his bulky torso.

`Right,' Kieran said cynically, half-smiling, and wondering if this was
the standard of conversation he would get out of the other England
regular this week. It was a little odd for Trippier these days on England
camps, as he'd spent so long joining the sessions as a relative outsider
- touched somewhat by the glamour of his Madrid years and his distance
from Premiership life after departing Tottenham. When he'd first began
to play for his country, he'd been one of the many Spurs names on the
roster, but then he'd been one of few non-UK league players, and now he
was the solitary Newcastle representative. He didn't mind this, but it
had often put him outside the club politics and private gossip of the
other England guys, which had its pros and cons. Now he found himself
wondering what was going on with Slabhead, although the public details
were obvious enough - was he just a grumpy git because of life at Old
Trafford...? It was believable enough, of course, but he'd looked furious
when Kieran made the little joke about Luke.

`Good to switch up roomies, I guess,' the 32-year-old right-back aired
quietly, undoing the drawstring of his sweats and tugging them down, clad
only in tight black briefs as he slid his body under the covers of his
bed and relaxed against the pillows, rubbing himself idly under the
sheets with one hand, no intention of a proper wank tonight, but taking
that typical masculine comfort in a bit of self-contact.

A non-committal grunt from the other bed, and then the slow rustling
sounds of the bigger man getting up to undress and prepare for bed, still
saying nothing. Well, cheery bugger would be good company, fuck's sake.
Kieran smiled tightly to himself as he closed his eyes, wondering if
he'd be able to put the United git into a better mood with a bit of
better banter over the next few days; he certainly didn't think he'd be
able to put up with stony silence and random glares, it just wasn't his
vibe. `Night, Slab,' he called in a cheery singsong that faded out to
his escaping yawn, and he heard the grunted `G'night' back from big
Harry before the other defender disappeared moodily into their bathroom.


In Room 23, a little further down that same corridor, another Manchester
United defender was readying for bedtime in a very different way, and a
player from the other side of their city' football divide was really
overwhelmed by his current situation: Raheem Sterling was bent against
the porcelain white sink with both hands clutching its rim, his sweaty
face hanging forward very close to the mirror, treated to a close-up of
his wide eyes and trembling lip, and every muscle of his tight little
body clenching as he took the violent thrusts from behind, fucking him
hard and fast where he stood.

It had all happened so fast: one minute the ex-City player had been
taking his usual pre-bed shower, singing casually to himself, and then
towelling himself down in the cramped bathroom with the door open; and
then his roommate, a strangely brooding Luke Shaw, had been in the
doorway, staring at his arse and touching himself in his pyjama bottoms.
Almost no words had been shared between the occasional national teammates
and ostensible League enemies, but their powerful bodies had communicated
plenty.

Shaw had quickly been behind him, kissing at the neck and shoulders of
his dark skin, and slapping and squeezing at his big bare buttocks.
Sterling, after a moment's complete alarm, wondering what his old United
opponent had heard about him, quickly adjusted to the opportunity,
pushing back with his arse and groaning encouragingly once one of Luke's
fingers was inside his ring. Still without either of them really speaking
- the two had barely shared a word when they unpacked in the room this
afternoon, a comfortable silence at that point - Luke had quite quickly
and vigorously entered him, holding tightly onto his shorter stature, and
thrusting into him before with the pace and power of a pneumatic drill.

For Chelsea's new goal-maker, this sudden and unexpected encounter was
the stuff of his midnight fantasies. Luke Shaw was one of many rugged
blokes on the England roster who had featured in his fantasies, though
generally the Jamaican-Londoner had a taste for men with foreign accents
and a little more mystery, like his former City colleague Kevin de
Bruyne; it had been in part to break away from that dead-end crush that
Raheem had finally severed ties with his mega-successful former club, and
made his move down to West London and Stamford Bridge, which he hadn't
regretted for a second so far.

In the bathroom of Room 23, Sterling clutched the sink and took it, his
tight dark body jolting against the rhythm of Luke's grunting thrusts,
this weird unspoken passion erupting between them, and Raheem's arse
opening up for a gorgeously thick cock that was pushing deep inside him
and hitting his g-spot magnificently. A shy and inconsistent player of
man-to-man experiments, Raheem hadn't been fucked in too long, only once
or twice since he'd been deliriously spitroasted by Walker and Stones
after a drunken party - though that allegedly forgotten incident as the
big defenders' plaything had been far from his first experience of it,
it was certainly his favourite, and he'd continued to stare jealously at
the intimate pair across City training grounds for the couple of years
since. Another good reason to be away in Chelsea, he would tell himself,
still trying to size up who on his new squad might be willing and able to
satisfy his guilty lust.

Sexless and businesslike, his life at Chelsea, but no matter; here he
was, being fucked like an animal, pushed so hard against the sink and
taps that they might have to call a plumber, his face almost bashing
against the steamed-up glass of the mirror. He wondered if he was
actually in the midst of a sex dream, and supposed that tomorrow that may
as well be the case; no doubt this rapid fuck session would end as
abruptly as it had begun, and Luke Shaw would slink moodily into his bed,
and pretend nothing had even happened. Raheem found that he didn't care,
happy for now to have his hole plundered, and to feel the big
left-back's hot heavy breathing against the nape of his neck - oh god
yes.


`Okay, fair enough,' Conor Coady said in the ominously numbered Room
13, on the floor below; he didn't find himself particularly interested
in his current roommate's announcement that he was going to take a walk
of the grounds and get some fresh air, but then he was busy attending to
his own business. The Everton loan stud was perched in the desk chair of
their shared suit, his socked feet up on the desk, and his phone cradled
in his lap, focused intently on a thread of messaging with his worried
wife: checking up on him again, still anxious and bewildered by what
she'd walked in on in Wolverhampton, when she caught him with his
Portuguese cock-worshipper.

His roomie, Jarrod Bowen, had been on his phone too, the two of them sat
apart in comfortable quiet, a single lamp on in the suite after
Southgate's `lights out' curfew passed them by. If he gave it any
thought, Conor might have assumed that Bowen was off to make a phone call
to his Z-list girlfriend, Dani Dyer, after being so intensely involved in
bashing text messages into the screen of his iPhone, before getting up
and announcing his need to `walk a bit' and `get a breather'. But in
reality, Coady was too busy to acknowledge the burly West Ham lad's
exit, and he hardly noticed the door close after him.

Coady just sighed and got on with sending the reassuring messages to Mrs
C, promising her that he was tucked up in his room and about to have a
mandated early night, primed for more intensive training work tomorrow;
she kept asking him about his friends on the England squad, and he
flinched when he thought about how her worries were not ENTIRELY
unwarranted. After all, he could hardly forget what he'd done to secure
his first match appearance in an England shirt, could he? And he'd
caught big Kane eyeing him across the dining point at a couple of moments
during dinner, making him confident that he could probably take the
inarticulate striker up the arse again any time he chose to! Not that he
would, he reminded himself, eager to keep his promises to his missus.
That blow-out in the Everton training centre had been... regrettable.
He'd only got involved to protect Dom and Tom, he assured himself, and
it was hardly his fault he'd ended up in a big circle-jerk, cumming on
another player's face and watching even his new manager get involved...!
Regrettable, he told himself, his mind's eye wandering.

Despite his commitment to regaining his wife's trust, and his
determination to be a more conventional hetero bloke as before, he
couldn't help but smirk to himself when he thought of Harry Kane's long
morose face, trying not to be obvious as he checked him out in the
dressing room earlier on today. It was obvious that England's lauded
striker was still as hot for him now as he'd been when he bent over and
urged Coady to tup him, swapping sexual favour for a word in Southgate's
ear. `All quiet,' he texted to his wife, even as that Icelandic memory
played in his head, and the grin split his handsome face from ear to ear.

He could have big Kane any time he needed to unload... Of course, what he
didn't know was the terse messages that had passed between the striker
and his own roommate, and that even now young Bowen was stomping down
through the hotels to a quiet gentlemen's toilet in the dark empty bar
area, ready to meet their national captain for a little one-to-one, and
not for the first time.


`You're sure this isn't too weird?' came the tremulous voice from the
parallel double bed, Room 12 now completely dark after lights out; the
question from the other bed had been sparked by the thudding of a door at
the next room and creaking footsteps in the corridor, the sound of Jarrod
Bowen exiting Room 13 for his secret tryst - clearly the thud and steps
had alarmed the lad, though their door was firmly locked and bolted and
there was complete privacy in here between the two of them, Chelsea's
fine young defenders.

`It's fine,' Ben Chilwell answered, pulling on his oversized member in
long slow tugs, a little spit lubing his palm as he did so. `What, do
you think it's naughty or summat?' His polite home counties accent
sounded mocking but friendly, trying to relax his somewhat uptight
roommate and club colleague, but knowing that a little challenge or
banter was needed to do so. `Do you think it's a sin or something
stupid?' he added, continuing to slowly wank himself under the weight of
his duvet, his knuckles rustling against the cotton.

Unseen, Reece James' breathy voice came from the next bed: `Well, it's
not exactly what you think of, when you get an England call-up, but...'
It was obvious from the breathy catch to the 22-year-old Londoner's
tone, and the similar gentle rustling of his sheets, that he was playing
with himself in the same way as the room's more fluid occupant.

With the curfew in place and the two young defensive players climbed into
their separate doubles, Chilwell had found himself with no choice to make
the decision. He was simply too horny for the other options: he couldn't
jerk himself discreetly enough under these weighty bedcovers in the
comfortable ease of the hotel, and he also couldn't hold back and weight
to hear James' snores before doing so. He'd considered faking a shower
and locking himself in the en-suite whilst he dealt with his hard-on, but
he'd taken one just before dinner, and he knew the other Chelsea
defender would find that very weird.

And so Ben had blurted the truth out as soon as they were both
comfortable in their beds. `I'm gonna need to wank off,' he'd said,
the crude language jarring in his polite manner and Milton Keynes RP, and
the shock and disbelief in his pal's follow-up questions had been
obvious. Bit by bit, Chilwell had insisted to James that such a quiet bit
of self-love in a shared room was no biggie, and he wasn't exaggerating
much; on youth team away trips, horny teenagers did it all the time, and
surely Reece had experienced that too? So now the pair of them were
tossing themselves off in the separate beds, hearing every movement from
one to another, but unable to even squint across the gap and watch the
shifting of duvets and sheets.

`It's just a bit weird,' chuckled the 22-year-old London lad very
quietly. `I feel like I don't need to hear you fapping away at that
stupidly big thing, Chilly!' He could hardly miss the little compliment
tucked away in the outrage, and he smiled to himself at Reece's
observation, filing that one for later. Internally, he also laughed:
`just a bit weird', if only the straight-laced Chelsea talent knew just
how varied and active Ben's sex life had been at points in the past
three seasons, since one cock-comparing bit of silliness in Harry
Maguire's garage.

`Put your earbuds in then,' the 25-year-old left-back called across,
beginning to tug a bit more firmly on himself, liking the way the wet tip
of his rocket cock rubbed and chafed against the bottom of his bed-covers
as he did.

Of course, what he'd not told Reece James, as he began to toy with
himself through his bedclothes, was why he'd come up to their room quite
so horny. That, he thought, was a more complicated thing to reveal to his
close friend. Reece was a bit too innocent and conventional for THAT
truth, he guessed - `oh buddy, I'm just a bit randy cos I had to sit
next to Grealish at dinner, is that okay?!' That fact was too loaded:
with the intimate details of his bisexuality, and with the up-and-down
romance that had strained his closest football friendship for over two
years.

This afternoon's training session had been the first reunion between the
former boyfriends since Jack's overnight visit to him at his London
townhouse, a discreet one-off that had haunted Ben's erotic imagination
for months now. And whilst the two old pals had greeted each other warmly
and behaved much as they would before through training and the team
meetings, Ben found it incredibly difficult: it was as if Jack had got
even sexier in his year and a bit at City, more physically grown-up and
yet also more mercurial and exciting. Ben, who knew him so well, supposed
it was to do with his role there, no longer a captain, and just one of
many superstars on that line-up - maybe it had freed Jack up in a way,
and made him even more of a party animal? (Ben couldn't quite allow
himself the other line of thought: that Jack was acting out and going
back to his wilder ways since their split, because he really did miss
that blissful time when they'd been each other's rock?)

And somehow the two of them had ended up close together at dinner. Thigh
to thigh, in fact. Jack, of course, in tight-fitting football shorts
whilst everyone else was in tracky pants or sweats, and his bulging thigh
muscles bouncing with nervous energy, rubbing against Ben's own leg for
the entire duration of the meal and welcome speeches. And that slurring
dopey Brum accent, and Jack's lively whoops of laughter, his cat-calls
and clapping - all of his rowdy behaviour, in fact, had been so
titillating and close to him, that Ben had endured a rock-hard erection
for the best part of an hour before willing it temporarily away.

He had no intention of sharing these private thoughts with Jack. They'd
moved on, hadn't they? Other than that one sensual blip. It was over,
Ben was trying to accept that. Had been trying for a long while now. He
didn't need to tell Grealish, or anyone else, that he'd spent the
entire evening in a state of high erotic alarm, and was now wanking
furiously to the image of Jack bursting out of those damned shorts! When
he spurted against the underside of his duvet, jaw clenched and nostrils
flaring, Ben was thinking about the bouncing bulge and the perfectly
framed globes of his bottom in white nylon, all of this on show as
Grealish cavorted about the dining room at the end of the evening,
play-fighting with other guys and trying to engage Ben in a little tussle
too. Chilly groaned now, emptying his fat balls against the cotton,
stifling his cries of eruption, and almost forgetting that he wasn't
alone in the bedroom.

As he lay there and sighed, he couldn't help but listen to the muted
moan and swallowed gurgle of equal climax from the next bed, and he knew
that Reece was similarly stickying his bedding. And then it was just both
of them, lying in their parallel beds, staring at the ceiling and panting
with their recovery breath, and Reece eventually letting out an awkward
laugh that broke this horny quiet. `Damn, I did need that,' the other
defender confided through a groan, and Ben loudly agreed. `Night mate,'
he yawned, smearing his cum-slicked hand against the far side of the bed,
and rolling onto his front, willing away the image of Jack in his loaded
shorts, and annoyed with himself for getting so worked up.


Ben probably would have cum even more strenuously, and regretted it even
more bitterly, if he'd known how synchronised his orgasm was with one on
the far side of the hotel, in Room 28: those big low balls and the long
thick cock that flopped so visibly in Jack's under-sized white shorts,
put to use in his sweaty hands, and ejaculating all over the ripped
muscle of his roommate's midriff and gradually developing pectorals.
Grealish was on his knees beside the other City player, head thrown back
and sweat gushing down his freckled features and lithe torso, the last
few drops of his seed flicking from the tip of his cock as he continued
to jerk his pipe, which minutes ago had been buried deep in the other
England hopeful.

He was watched in these moments of climax by Phil Foden, who was grinning
like the proverbial cat who got the literal cream, sprawled on his back
in the bed, with Jack's precious seed speckling his six-pack and the
area between his dark pink nipples. As for his own hard-on, the
22-year-old City prodigy was tugging up and down the shaft in a hurry,
keen to burst with his own excitable spunk, his eyes drinking in the
sight of football's most wanted man, still his regular playmate. It had
long ceased to be a secret mission on Guardiola's behalf, he could admit
to himself, but it was hard to put a label on what exactly it HAD become.
A bromance with benefits, more or less?

`Fuck, I'm close,' Guardiola's Golden Boy groaned loudly, lifting his
knees and digging his blisters heels in against the mattress. He jerked
his own sizeable tool so fast that it stung, biting at his lip, feeling
the pools of Jack's seed cool against his pale skin and toned muscle.
`I'm gonna cum, I'm so close, mmm...'

Jack's slow lurching laugh sounded over him, a lopsided grin and those
pretty eyes hanging over him between the lank curtain of sweaty hair.
`Go on,' urged the £100 million midfielder, still on a cheerful high,
having come to this international period fresh from his startling City
goal at the weekend. `Cum for, Philly, go on lad.' It was hardly
romantic or passionate, more matey and goading, and typical of the
dynamic between them - apart from the fucking, it was more brotherly than
anything else. Even so, it pushed Foden over the edge. He shot his load,
staring up Jack's broad hairy thighs and his tightly toned tummy and
chest, up to that stubbled handsome face and the dimpled grin. Foden let
out a strangled cry of pleasure as he spunked over his own body and
against Jack's mighty legs, some streaks of his off-white load mingling
with Jack's in the ridges between his abs.

And then, hooting with happy laughter, Grealish was slapping him on the
arm and huffing out deep sighs, then hopping backwards off the bed, a
naked swaggering adonis in the centre of the hotel room - and Foden could
only stare after him, admiring the rear view and those perfect round
cheeks, with his hand still on his trembling cock, and both of their
loads dribbling down his flanks, sticky on the sheets. He let out a long
satisfied sigh and dropped his head and calves against the bedding,
collapsed and spent, and wishing that neither of them had finished, so
that he could bend over again and take Jack's cock inside him one more
time before sleep claimed him.

Pep knew they were still at it. Phil had been quite honest with his Papi
on that front. He had never quite confided his stronger and less physical
feelings towards beautiful Jack, of course, but he could tell that Pep
suspected, and... weirdly, that seemed to be okay. Things had cooled
somewhat between the young City star and his sexy Spaniard. Not, that is,
when they actually managed to get together: they were still capable of
rampant steamy action that made Foden scream with pleasure, but those
opportunities felt few and far between, and things were... changing. Pep,
he could tell, was starting to let him go, and would make comments about
how young and free Phil really was, a sad spark in his wise older eyes.
Phil couldn't bear to think that his intense affair with his Papi was
over, but something had certainly transitioned in the relationship. He
still felt like he belonged to Guardiola, was still his Golden Boy, but
he was... not on such a tight leash any more, or something. And since the
new season had begun, Pep had given him no more `missions' to complete,
no interfering in his sex life or using him as his secret weapon.

How did Phil feel about that? He didn't really know. Part of him missed
the exciting secrecy of it, the thrill of being tasked with seducing
someone as hot as Jack, but he also knew he was in a difficult phase of
complicated feelings. He'd fallen quite in love with Grealish, that was
the awkward truth of it, but he could tell that the Premiership playboy
was more neutral in return; sure, they hooked up pretty regularly, but
Jack wouldn't linger over cuddles, and often made casual references to
previous lovers in a way that suggested Phil was nothing special, just
another convenience at his newer club. Jack had even openly compared him
to Aston Villa's John McGinn, declaring how `lovesick' the bug-eyed
Scotsman was, and the parallel had mortified Foden for a while. So, did
Jack know his feelings, or had that just been a jokey comparison based
more on sexual activity...? He really didn't know that, either. There was
a lot that seemed unclear to Phil now. What was clear, though, was how
much he could enjoy himself with City's expensive Brummie, and he tried
his best to just live in the present, tossed between his manager and
teammate.

Foden was becoming weighted with sleepiness, but he still rolled to one
side to watch as Grealish, still stark naked, returned from pissing in
the bathroom, then proceeded to snatch up a bag of crisps from their
mini-bar and stuff them into his face, cock swinging as he walked to his
own bed. Confident and sated, the ex-Villa captain threw his gorgeous
body upon the bed and lay there, playing on his phone with one hand and
extracting Hula-Hoops with the other, apparently almost oblivion to
Phil's presence. It would be hurtful if watching him wasn't so damned
enjoyable.


They weren't the only City men who'd fucked their way into a sleepy
daze, ready to submit to Southgate's early night. Walker had taken
Stones against the headboard in a long slow session and was now soaping
down his boyfriend's tall body in the narrow shower cubicle of the Room
24 en suite, the two defenders chattering on in a casual manner about the
upcoming England fixtures - the conversation utterly generic for a pair
of Premiership hunks, even if they were both wet and naked and massaging
soap suds against one another's bulging muscles in a scene of
post-coital pornography.

The conversation between the pair alternated easy from this amateur
punditry to snaps of banter, teasing each other over anything and
everything: from Kyle's thinning and receding hair to the fact he was
already starting to spring another hard-on between his monster thighs;
from John's general knowledge faux pas during a quiz game after dinner
to the fact he'd cum disappointingly quickly after Kyle began to hump
him into the wall. It was the sort of fast-paced patter that marked their
relationship, more comfortable than ever now, and it was no different
here on England duty than it was in their Man City exploits. One of the
more provocative jokes that cropped up between them was when Walker dared
to mention how old he was getting, and how he would soon have to retire
from the Three Lions: `Who's gonna fuck you then, Stonesy?' he'd
asked with puppy dog eyes and an exaggerated pout, whilst flicking soapy
water into his face and kissing him on the throat. And John would chortle
back at this and tease his old age, but then start to look worried,
clearly contemplating England campaigns without his sidekick.

Tonight, they towelled each other down in the bathroom, sniggering and
swearing as they elbowed each other and bumped into the sink and towel
rack in the narrow space, then sloped through back into the main room.
Their bodies were still damp as they fell against one bed and spread
apart with just hands touching, both of them quite exhausted now, but
still talking shite.

`I wonder if we can have another four-way with the United defenders,'
John sniggered lazily through a yawn, stroking his own pecs as he asked
it with his free hand, and the other held gently in Kyle's.

`I dunno,' grunted Kyle, his tone unusually serious for a moment. `I
smell trouble that way, y'know. The way the two of them looked during
dinner. Miserable fuckers.'

`I'd be miserable if played for United,' his big boyfriend joked
instantly, and they both laughed heavily, weary little barks of
amusement, tinged with friendly concern for their counterparts. Kyle fell
quiet, and so did John, and he guessed they were both reminiscing on a
couple of fun incidents where they'd partnered up with Maguire and Shaw,
delighted to find that the Man Utd defensive line contained a pairing as
hot and rugged as their own. Almost, anyway, those two were just a bit
too... serious.

Kyle didn't spare too much thought for that situation, since it was
really none of his business, and he was tired. He rubbed and stroked his
fingers against John's hand, twisting his head to stare fondly at his
pretty man, whose eyes were already drooping shut, his huge baked body
sprawled out on top of the creased duvet, all of him on show. Fuck, he
was gorgeous, and truly Kyle's best friend in life. There had been many
moments of jeopardy where they thought that the League market might
separate them, but remained together for club and country - but Walker,
edging further into his 30s, couldn't help but wonder about the
long-term, given their partners and families and all of those pressures.
What WOULD happen when he retired from first England and later from City?
John was only a few years younger, really, but there might soon come a
point where Kyle was too old for a team as competitive as theirs, and how
would their bond fare at that point...?

For someone as naturally happy-go-lucky as Walker, these thoughts were
quite alien. He rarely thought this seriously about his heterosexual
relationships, hence the adultery and trouble that had plagued him over
the years! But there was something about Stonesy, and the way they were
with each other, that made him wonder about the future, about life beyond
football, and how he could make sure that it still included plenty of
sweaty muscle-to-muscle love for the both of them.

The 28-year-old was snoring now, and he leaned over and planted a single
crisp kiss against the temples of the Barnsley lad, informing him of how
beautiful he was. John just made a sleepy `hmm' in response and reached
one clumsy arm for him, and Kyle gladly spooned against his side, rubbing
their damp physiques together and nuzzling into his broad shoulder,
closing his eyes.


`Who's that, still up and about at this time?' yawned the other
Arsenal star, and lifting his attention from the book he was trying to
read in bed by lamplight. His roommate, Bukayo Saka, was up and on his
laptop at the desk by the window, quietly playing some online video game
with friends back in London, but now staring at the locked door to Room
8.

Lowering the book in his large goalkeeper's hands, Aaron Ramsdale also
stared at that door, wearily growling, `Let me try my X-ray vision,
shall I?' before bursting into indulgent chuckles, the shake of his
muscular shoulders rattling the wooden headboard even through the pile of
pillows that propped him up to read. Saka laughed too, shooting him a
mean look from his position at the desk, then returning to
keyboard-bashing at whatever strategy game he was deeply involved in.

Aaron looked back at the door, still grinning, and briefly joined Bukayo
in wondering who had just stomped noisily past their room, the second
footsteps to do so in about fifteen minutes; maybe the same person,
returning to their room from a nocturnal walk. Aaron found himself
smirking at the thought of someone getting in trouble with Southgate for
wandering about at this time, and the idea felt ridiculous, as if they
were all teens at some Hogwarts-shit boarding school, and not grown men
and professional athletes. Ramsdale had been far from disappointed by the
gaffer's demands for lights out, tired out and needing a good rest - he
was absolutely determined that he would beat Dean Henderson and Nick Pope
to the coveted `Number 1' position for the first England fixture of the
season. The World Cup was on the horizon, and Pickford's supremacy
seemed up for grabs, and Aaron knew his own stats were pretty hard to
match in the Premier League.

It was a shame that Ben White wasn't here, he thought for the fourth
time today. He'd heard a lot of footy media chatting about the
defender's snub from the line-up, and the scandal that someone like
Maguire had made the cut instead. Hah. Ramsdale, relatively new to the
national squad, would never vocalise any criticism of a towering figure
like Harry, but he did resent that his Arsenal bestie hadn't joined him
on this call-up, and was at risk of missing out on the unique winter
World Cup too. It wasn't just a shame, it felt like a bloody injustice.
The pair of them were becoming closer pals as the season churned on, and
had held joint engagement parties with their fiances just a couple of
weeks ago.

There wasn't really another lad at Arsenal who Ramsdale felt he could
chat with as openly as White, to be honest. Especially since... Well, what
had gone on in the sauna that time, with Ben's stupid sex questions and
that little slip-up with his bird. Aaron smirked and shook his head to
think of them, two big lads playing with themselves in the sauna, and the
way Ben's idea had encouraged him to poke amateurishly at his bum-hole.
He'd been tempted to suggest it to his own girlfriend since, cos it
hadn't felt half bad while he wanked, but they were such vanilla lovers
that the moment never quite arose. Not that it mattered, it was just a
daft bit of fun, and he'd only even tried it to make silly Ben feel
better about himself, hadn't he? Daft nonsense, nowt more.

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by more footsteps out in the
corridor, and for some reason Aaron's curiosity shot up more urgently
this time, perhaps because he was glad at a distraction to disrupt the
mental image of himself and Ben being caught wanking by a furious Mikel
Arteta, who had fined them both a week's wages for inappropriate conduct
on the training campus. Yikes! At least the disciplinary hadn't been
announced more publicly or leaked to the media or anything, although both
of the lads had found themselves having to explain it to their partners
whilst scrutinising joint bank accounts. Another little bonding
experience, really.

Dressed in a thin black vest and baggy boxers, the tall goalie lumped
across the room, glanced at by Saka. He wrenched open the door, book
still in one hand, and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor. It was
none other than the captain, shuffling past with one hand in the pockets
of his sweatpants, and the other wiping or fussing at his beard and
mouth, as if dusting away the crumbs of some midnight snack. Confronted
by Aaron hanging out of Room 8, Harry Kane paused and glanced sharply
this way, his beady eyes bright with alarm, and then relaxing when faced
with Aaron's huge chummy grin.

`Alright, skipper,' the Arsenal keeper said with a deferential nod.
`Just wondered who was stomping about - you checking up on us all for
the boss, are ya?' He hung against the doorframe, examining the
suspicious expression on Kane's face, and then glancing left and right
down the corridor. Had all of the loud footsteps been his, pacing up and
down this passage? It made a sense of sorts.

Harry stared at him and took a moment too long to answer. `What? Oh -
yes. Just - checking everyone has their lights out. Ahem.' He rubbed
again at his lips, at his goatee, at his cheek. He looked sheepish,
tired. And he was glancing up the corridor too, making Aaron check that
way, half-expecting to see someone else, but the corridor was empty.
`Yes,' said Kane slowly, `just me. Been doing my rounds.'

`Like a prefect,' Ramsdale teased gently, leaning heavily into the
doorframe and patting the open book gently against one of his thighs.
`Haha, ignore me, just being daft. Too much Harry Potter when I was a
kid. Er, good night, skipper, yup?' And he retreated into the room,
giving the befuddled-looking older bloke a quizzical look, then shutting
the door on him.

`What was that about?' Saka asked him distractedly, not looking away
from his laptop. Aaron stood in front of the closed door, smiling
absently at it, and thinking about the guilty look on their captain's
face, and the slightly different tread of creaking footsteps that had
travelled that corridor over the last half hour. `No idea,' he grunted
honestly, retreating to his bed and dismissing it as none of his
business. `I'm reading the rest of this chapter then lamp's going off,
kiddo, you better wrap up that game. Otherwise Citizen Kane will be
coming back for us, ha ha.'


A keycard swiped at the electronic lock of Room 14, a couple of minutes
later, and another member of the latest England assembly glanced
awkwardly up and down the corridor, checking that nobody else was about,
before letting himself into this matching suite with its large curtained
windows overlooking the grounds.

Jude Bellingham was braced for a question about his whereabouts from the
footballer he was sharing with this week, but it turned out that new
Newcastle goalie Nick Pope was fast asleep, and snoring like a buzzsaw in
the bed by the windows. That was a relief.

The Borussia Dortmund 19-year-old shut the door behind him and slid the
keycard into the pockets of his Three Lions sweatpants, resting briefly
against the hardwood of the door, recovering from the little moments of
panic that had followed him back through the hotel just now. After a
minute, he moved slowly across the room, navigating furniture in the
dark, and began stripping off his jumper and t-shirt, down to his Emporio
Armani underpants, and then clambering quickly into bed, keen to be
comfortable and asleep, just like Pope in the other bed.

In these tight black trunks, his cock still twitched as it settled down,
and he could feel the little wet patch of some leaked cum or saliva. It
had been a quick and urgent little wank, really, secreted in one of the
more communal toilets downstairs. He was 19 and horny all the time, he'd
just had to go do it, but he didn't think that someone as dull and
serious as Nick Pope would get it, so he'd faked a phone call from
contacts back in Germany.

There he'd been, not long ago, panting and wanking in a toilet cubicle
of the bar, when he'd heard the low male voices of the other two moving
into the next division. Kane's voice had been more instantly
recognisable to him, and also a little less surprising; it had taken him
a while to be sure that the other groaning voice was that of Bowen, only
certain when he heard the West Ham warrior groan out `Yes, fuck yes' as
he, presumably, climaxed. And Jude had just squatted there on a toilet
lid, holding his own erection and remaining silent whilst the unseen
action rattled on in the next cubicle, only resuming his own teenage
masturbation once he was sure that the other two had left the bar toilets
and he was alone once more. The tension and shock of it had sped him to
completion, cumming quickly on the floor and then instantly stuffing his
slim veiny prick back into its prison of clothing.

Kane wasn't a full surprise. He'd been there that sordid night when
Jude had played about with a few of the others, and been noshed off by
that slimy git Jordan Pickford. He'd been the youngest there, he
thought, after getting roaring drunk with Emile Smith-Rowe, who was
disappointingly absent from this week's schedule; but there had also
been both Harrys Maguire and Kane in that hotel room, all of them taking
it in turn to fuck Pickford in his smug face, taboo and brilliant.

Working hard in the Bundesliga, Bellingham had counted curiously down to
this international break, and his reunion with all these Premiership
fellas. He was the only one on the current squad to play outside of the
UK, though last year he had always been second to his then-teammate Jadon
Sancho, also missing in action. And it had been Jadon, he thought
sleepily, who'd first began to push his boundaries, getting his help in
playing with a sex toy once, though Jude had been furious with him and
stormed out; but Jadon was a mischievous and charismatic friend, and
he'd instilled a certain level of curiosity in the Brummie youth, which
had finally found its outlet in that London hotel when he watched Maguire
face-fuck a goalkeeper and urge him to do the same.

So he'd counted down to this trip, and wondered if he might be able to
repeat the dirty deed, unsure how drunk Pickford would need to be. But,
strangely, the Everton keeper was another missing name from the squad,
and Jude had quietly nursed his disappointment - it's not that he
couldn't hook up with plenty of girls in Germany who were willing to
suck him off, he just didn't feel like he could ever be as rough or
obnoxious with them as he'd been encouraged to be that night with
Maguire and Kane and Smith-Rowe. But Emile and Jordan weren't here, and
he was quite intimidated by moody Maguire, so he'd abandoned the memory
as a drunk one-off, mad tabloid shit of another era.

Until, that is, tonight... He was pretty sure he knew what Harry Kane had
been up to with Jarrod Bowen in that night cubicle. He'd recognised the
wet sounds and the moans, and he was astounded. That night he'd been
with the others, Kane had been just another proper bloke, making use of
Pickford as their willing slut, hadn't he? It was all a blur, and Jude
had been mostly focused on his own pleasure and satisfaction, not so much
the behaviour of his accomplices. Lying in bed, face pressed into his
pillow, he thought about the grunts and moans of Bowen in the toilets,
and the knocks and bumps that sounded like Harry fucking Kane getting
down to his knees.

Jude listened to Pope's snoring and stared blindly into the dark,
turning it over in his head: maybe he WOULD get his sloppy international
blowjob this week after all, even if Jordan Pickford wasn't here...?



** I KNOW THAT WAS A WHOLE LOT OF TEASING... BUT I GET SO OVER-STIMULATED
BY THE OPTIONS OF INTERNATIONAL BREAK, AND I THOUGHT I'D GIVE YOU ALL A
MONTAGE OF UPDATES ON SO MANY KEY CHARACTERS. LET ME KNOW WHO NEEDS MORE
ACTION OVER THE NEXT WEEK... **​


'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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