Date: Sat, 10 Dec 2022 14:03:43 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 335

Part 335: Three Years On


Final preparations: tomorrow evening held the Quarter Final match against
France, and their biggest challenge yet of the World Cup. After a few
particularly gruelling days, Southgate was now being careful not to tire
out the Three Lions, and this afternoon was a relatively sedate affair on
the training ground after a morning in the gym and a long lazy lunch.
Still, the tension of the French challenge hung dangerously in the air,
laddish bravado masking the fragile optimism of the Quarter Final clash.

Harry Maguire felt it as much as anyone else, knowing that the England
defence would be tested for every single one of the 90+ minutes it would
take to decide the next Semi Finalist of Qatar `22. He knew that he'd
done well so far at the centre of that defence, but he pictured the
famous talents of the French attack and knew that tomorrow night could go
either way, would be decisive and hard-fought. He was nervous, but ready
for it, and proud of both his own efforts and those of his teammates.

It was a world away from club life at the minute, for Harry, though who
knew what atmosphere he would return to at Carrington, given Ronaldo's
high-profile departure; Maguire felt more free and comfortable with his
England buddies, under Southgate's leadership, and he knew he was a
different guy in these training sessions, as if half a decade had been
shaved from his 29 years. In the unusually dull cloudy humidity of the
Doha afternoon, the centre-back romped cheerily with the others, playing
silly variations on tag while the coaches laughed on, and engaging in
more careless kickabout in front of goal, rather than the rigid
repetition of drills that had dominated the week of build-up.

The big Yorkshireman paused after having the ball swept away from his
feet, and he grinned admiringly at the speedy efforts of City's little
boy wizard, Phil Foden, speeding it away before firing it expertly past
Aaron Ramsdale and into goal; admiringly, but not just of the young
lad's remarkable talent, but also his tightly muscled little body, the
chavvy charms of his sharp grin and fresh trim. And Aaron, panting in
goal and shouting banter at them to cover up his mistake, was attractive
too, maybe more Harry's `type': solidly built and all blond fluff,
just like his Luke when he hadn't `done' his hair.

They were just two of the lads who kept catching his eye. It was the
tension and the heat, he thought, making him quite so horny, making his
big floppy cock twitch and yearn in the front of his tight white sports
briefs, bouncing visibly in the front of his England shorts as he broke
into a jog to track the action back across the field.

It was hard to share a pitch with Jack Grealish, who had the ball now,
without feeling a stirring: those mighty calf muscles glistening with
thick sweaty hair as they motored him through the thick of the England
squad, and the bouncy flop of his careless hair as he spun around a few
times and wriggled away from the tackling efforts of a few other guys.
And then a perfect view of his meaty arse, brief-lines cutting across
each cheek, as he took his shot on target; this one deflected by
Ramsdale, for a change, and earning a rampant applause from Pickford and
Pope on the side-lines.

But it was hardly just Jack's arse to make a hot-blooded man drool this
afternoon under the heat. At that moment, Chelsea's Mason Mount came
haring past him, returning to the field and determined to take control of
the ball, which Ramsdale had passed lightly back into the fray. Harry's
eyes trained on the surprisingly chunky muscles of the Stamford Bridge
twink, throwing himself into contention for the ball, and then watching
the young guy get brushed aside by the bulky strength of John Stones and
then Eric Dier, both big defenders stealing it away from him to make
their own attempts on goal.

It didn't help that most of the guys, like John and Eric, had stripped
down for this last bout of cardio and practice, only black compression
vests hugging at the upper body strength of their increasingly tanned
torsos, all gleaming muscle as they took it in turns to pop shots at the
Arsenal goalie, each failing once and then Dier managing to boot one past
Ramsdale and running back this way in his over-the-top celebration,
peeling even the tight compression vest away from his pecs and twirling
it overhead in his playful victory.

Stood to the edge of this action, Maguire ran one hand across his dry
lips and then pulled it massaging over the back of his thick neck,
kneading at tense muscles and resisting the urge to reach down and
rearrange his privates in the shorts and briefs, for fear that he'd have
a full boner in no time and have to limp awkwardly indoors until it gave
up. In front of him, Eric and John were violently testing his patience by
taking a big sweaty hug, an equally bared Kyle Walker piling heavily onto
them to join the moment; he'd go and join in the half-joking
celebrations himself if he didn't think he'd have to grab those burly
lads about the arse in doing so. Kyle's rose prominently behind him as
he rode on John's sweaty shoulders, a huge round rump that was crying
out for his shorts to be peeled off it.

Phew, calm down...!

Maguire retreated slightly and picked up his water bottle from the turf,
taking long glugs from it and then squirting some of its contents against
his face and the chest of his shirtless training top, seeking a salve
against his rising sexual desire. He could feel his big cock straining at
the front of his briefs and he shuffled his hips, moving from foot to
foot, willing it to stay down and stop thickening - but Grealish was
pulling his vest off and twirling it at his side, whilst throwing an arm
about the shoulders of Declan Rice, and their team captain Harry Kane was
striding along in a wobbly hug with young Jude Bellingham, both lifting
up their shirts a little as they stroked their six-packs - and nearby,
Trent Alexander-Arnold had his shorts pulled right up to expose as much
of his thick brown legs as possible, folding his arms and squaring
dramatically up to his teammate Jordan Henderson, some private banter
passing between the hunky Liverpool players, and-

`Enjoying the view?'

His boyfriend's husky voice sliced through his thoughts and brought him
nervously back to reality; immediately, the 6ft4 defender twisted and
looked in slight alarm at the other United player, who had appeared out
of nowhere next to him at a run, so sweaty from the heat that you could
see almost every detail of his abs and pecs through the clingy wet
material of his blue training shirt. Harry felt like he'd been caught
doing something wrong, and was ashamed how overtly lusty his expression
must have been as his eyes journeyed from one Lion to another.

`What?' the big man mumbled awkwardly, defensively. `Nah, nah -
just-'

But Luke Shaw was laughing at him through his pants, and pulling on the
chest of his shirt. He was smiling quite lightly, but Maguire still felt
the bolt of paranoia and guilt, having been caught eyeing up so many of
their teammates, some past playmates and some fresh meat, and he knew
from the dirty smirk on the 27-year-old's face that it had been obvious.
How bad was the bulge in his loose-fitting shorts, he wondered.

`Relax,' sighed Shaw indulgently, moving closer to him,
shoulder-to-shoulder, and turning to survey the fresh action as someone
else took control of the ball and began dribbling it away from the pack.
`There's plenty to enjoy.'

Maguire still stood awkwardly, two feelings competing in him, the rising
sexual tension of the afternoon now battling with self-discipline and his
nervous hold on his boyfriend's loyalty. He had come so close to ruining
things between them this last year, and he still couldn't quite believe
how good it had been again these last few weeks. He looked closely at
Luke's trademark toothy smile, and tried to relax, realising that there
was nothing to worry about here after all - the 27-year-old was surveying
the same crop of lads and perhaps thinking similar thoughts, but now
turning that smile this way and just giving him a look of total joyous
devotion.

`You big perv,' Luke teased quietly, bumping arms with him. `Is that a
semi in your shorts...?'

Harry made a self-conscious grunt and grinned bashfully at the other
defensive player, folding his arms across his chest and murmuring back,
`You wanna dip into the shadows and I'll let you check...?' Now he had
Luke at his side, he thought, feeling so madly horny was a lot less
frustrating.

But Shaw just made an indecisive `hmm' noise and matched his posture,
arms folded and head tilted to one side. `Nah,' the outer Londoner
declared casually, `I'll pass.' Harry glanced awkwardly at him,
wondering what new passive aggression this was, over his obvious lusting
over their fellow England players... but Luke was still smirking quite
happily and knowingly at him, and dropping his voice even more
discreetly. `I'll wait until later, when I can enjoy it properly.
I've... got a bit of a surprise for you, actually.'

Harry blinked and stared curiously at him, and then cleared his throat
loudly, rather than letting out the little anticipatory moan that rose up
in his mouth. He bit his lip and stared thoughtfully at the other man,
then glanced back at the ball action, since it was rapidly moving in
their direction. `What's that?' he demanded quietly, leaning in closer
to the 6ft1 left-back.

`If I told you,' the other player hissed at him, `then it wouldn't be
much of a surprise, would it?' And then, his voice now a playful bark,
`Right, I'm gonna get that ball off Trips and score a worldie, just you
watch...' And the muscle-bound lad was bursting explosively forward
across the field, laughing as he did, and Maguire just loped after him,
back into the fray, semi bouncing about in his briefs, and his eyes now
fixed entirely on one tower of rippling sweaty muscle: Grealish and co
could melee about him as they went in to fight Shaw for the ball, but
Maguire only had eyes for his boyfriend after all, and his thoughts were
all on `later'.


Luke refused to join him in their shared room in the lull before dinner,
telling him to wait for tonight, and going to the pool with a couple of
others - Harry spent about an hour on his own, playing with his cock
through his training shorts, and stopping short every time he was about
to yank them down and wank off properly on his own, refusing to let
himself empty his balls. He took a cold shower instead and went down to
the pool, wearing thick sweatpants to hide the constant semi in his
boxers, and engaging in bland chat with the lads who were there: a smiley
but anxious Kalvin Phillips, and an oddly intimate pairing of Dier and
Coady, sniggering and muttering at each other on parallel loungers. He
found a more serious-faced Rashford enjoying an orange juice at an
outdoor table in front of the bar and joined him, talking to the Man Utd
ace about the Premiership challenges that awaited them at home, rather
than the more imminent threat of Mbappe's France.

At dinner, he tried not to get too frustrated when his boyfriend sat at a
different table from him, hanging out with the younger crew and tittering
over the stupid spelling bee ran by Bukayo Saka - but he spent the entire
meal looking hungrily across the patio at Luke's slumped posture and
relaxed chatter, struggling to engage with the guys on his own,
uninterested in Hendo monologuing about how important Jude Bellingham was
to the team, or in Pickford predicting penalties.

Luke only looked at him once, and when he did it was electric, and Harry
grinned back across the dark terrace like a schoolboy with a crush in
science class. He knew how weak his feelings for the beautiful man could
make him, just 6ft4 of gelatine, but he'd learned to just lean into it,
and not fight to cover it up or put it in a corner of his heart. He was
utterly smitten with the gorgeous younger lad, and he was happy to admit
that to himself now; all he could think about was the question of what
Luke's surprise was, and what they might get up to back in their room
when the whole squad took an early night ahead of match-day.

A fresh fuss rippled through the camp as a delayed Raheem Sterling was
dropped off at the hotel gates, rejoining the team after a brief
emergency return to the UK. Harry was as pleased as anyone to have Raz
back in the gang, but even then he was preoccupied, wanting the reunion
cheer to pass by quickly and for the gaffer to announce a curfew time
when they all needed to be in their room, lights out.

His big powerful body ached with longing, though they'd had sex only
yesterday, and the day before that, he was hardly being starved out here,
even without their four-way fumble with Rice and Mount! But he felt as if
he'd been in a dry spell for weeks or months, suddenly, so fiery and
urgent was his need to take Luke in his arms, ridiculous. Hugging and
chatting to Sterling, he was thinking more about getting on top of Shaw;
pulled aside for a quick pep talk with Southgate, he was picturing
Luke's six-pack through his England shirt; video calling to his wife, he
was imagining how long he could pleasure his Kingston stud tonight in
bed, guiltlessly flitting between romantic partners. And climbing the
steps of the hotel at the end of the evening, saying his goodbyes to a
few others on the landing, he could hardly stop himself from beginning to
peel off his clothes one item at a time on the way down the corridor,
correctly assuming that Luke had slipped away already, and was waiting
for him there.

He was practically panting and drooling when he let himself into the
suite, pushing it shut behind him and drowning out the echoey banter of
Walker and Stones further down the corridor. True to his hopes, his boy
Shaw was already here, top off and just in his casual shorts, rising up
from where he sat by the windows to greet him. There was a mischievous
smile on Luke's gently bearded face, the same naughty expression he'd
worn on the pitch this afternoon, and Harry shuffled eagerly towards him,
restraining his urge to grab the other strong athlete and throw him
against the bed.

`Hey,' the Manchester United captain growled.

`Hey,' returned the left-back. `Here we are.'

Harry moistened his lips and reached tender hands for Luke's upper arms.
`Yeah, thank fuck. All to myself now.'

`You know what this weekend is, right?' breathed Shaw's quiet voice,
their bodies pulling closer together and warm hands contacting toned
skin. Maguire paused at this, hearing the sliver of an accusation in the
question, and a few slow cogs turning until he could guess at what his
boyfriend meant. Oh. But it hardly felt like December here, did it, in
the Qatari heat and the madness of a winter tournament...? He could never
have guessed at...

`Three years,' Luke said quietly, and he didn't sound accusing or
guilt-tripping at all, actually. He was just beaming at him, running his
fingers beneath his t-shirt and feeling his muscular sides. Harry stared
back and nodded slowly. `I should have remembered,' he began to murmur
out as an apology, but the other man's mouth was on his and they were
just kissing instead of bickering, as they might have until recently.

`It's hard to pick an anniversary when things started so slow,' Luke
sighed against his cheek, `but December 9th... that's when I knew how
much I wanted you, so... I knew we needed to mark the occasion.' He
pulled away slightly, resisting Harry's strong grip on his sides, and he
moved towards the foot of the bed, flicking a corner of duvet away aside
to reveal his surprise on the bedding. Harry looked down and grinned
wickedly, watching as Luke held up the pair of fluffy handcuffs, dangling
them from his pinky finger. The sight of the mild kink made Harry chuckle
and his cock throb, and he looked at the blindfold on the bedding, and
the small riding crop that was poking out from further under the covers.

`It's been a while,' he grunted eagerly, thinking about the few small
occasions when they'd dabbled in a little bondage, like when he
`punished' Luke for an own goal in Newcastle one night, and...

But Luke had clicked one of the fluffy cuffs about his own large wrist,
quickly and discreetly, and he still held onto the other side of them as
he grinned authoritatively into his face. `It has,' Shaw agreed in a
sexy whisper, `but I've been wanting you all tied up to myself for
ages, big man, so get on the bed. This is gonna be fun.'


Harry did as he was told without even questioning it, abandoning his
every dominant instinct. He was blinded now by the mask over his eyes,
and both of his wrists were cuffed to one post of the bed's headboard.
Luke, having guided him into this position, was now gone about the room,
leaving him in only his black underpants and white socks, shackled to the
bed and eager to find out what his boyfriend had in store for him.

Luke spoke to him in purrs as he undressed, returning from the ensuite
bathroom. `You just relax and enjoy everything, my big Harry.'

Harry tried to discover his other senses becoming suddenly more acute,
but he just felt like a big lost oaf, unable to see anything but
darkness. He was aware of Luke's movements around the sides of the bed,
but not with any great specificity, and he couldn't help but giggle and
gurn awkwardly as he lay there on his back, arms pulled up over his head.
He wasn't exactly trying to `escape', but he could not physically
resist the urge to drag his wrists away from the bedpost and test the
surprising strength of these cuffs, unsure if he was excited by the mild
bondage or by simply being alone in here with Luke, as he'd been craving
all evening long.

When he finally felt Luke touch him, he couldn't help but jump slightly,
his big 6ft body jolting against the bed; but the other man was only
brushing and stroking at one of his calves, and he could feel/hear the
sensation of the other muscular figure climbing onto the bed with him.
One at a time, Luke was peeling off his socks, exposing his large hairy
feet to the warm air of the room, and making only a vague hum as he did.
And then, making Harry convulse and chuckle thickly, he gave his feet a
quick slight tickle, both of them laughing at the unsexy start, and
Maguire muttering an `Oi' when it became too irritating. But then, as
soon as Luke's hands weren't on him, he was left craving his touch, and
even a little tickling of his big soles would be better than an absence
of physical contact, seconds feeling dragged into minutes by the blind
darkness of his mask.

Next, he felt something not quite touch: just breath, blown gently on his
skin, somewhere just above his navel. Luke blew on his hairy skin in
short puffs, circling that area, and Harry finally let out the little
moan of anticipation that he'd been holding in since the afternoon. The
puffs of breath travelled back up the centre of his body, to his chest,
to the sensitive stubble left by waxing that hair, and then over each of
his broad dark nipples, then stopping. Not a single graze of touch from
Luke's hands or limbs as he moved over him, though Harry WAS becoming
more sensitive: he could FEEL the shifting weight on the mattress and
covers as one body circled over his own, and he could feel his skin
pimple and ache for something more tangible between them.

`Come on,' he growled, `let's get naughtier than just this...'

`Now now,' came Luke's soft growl, `you're forgetting I'm in charge
tonight...'

`Hmm... is that so...?'

`Yes.' A sharp tweak of nipple supported this simple answer, making
Harry grin and laugh, and begin to ask, `So what do you have in store
for me, sir-' until he felt the soft material of the sock, well he
guessed it was a sock, being pushed into his mouth as a gag. He felt a
surge of odd panic until he remembred who he was with, and he calmed
himself, allowing Luke this dominant flourish, his mouth suddenly stuffed
with material that made it hard for him to give more than a wheezing
laugh. And once he'd fell still and quiet, he felt Luke's breath on his
chest again, close to one of his nipples - an aching moment later, breath
became wet touch, as the tongue darted over his nipple once and then
twice, making it stiff and sensitive, and then swapping very slowly over
to the other one. Just a slow puff of breath, long pause, then the same
delicate lick of contact.

`Fuck,' he wanted to groan, but it was just a vague stupid noise
through his makeshift gag. His cock communicated his feelings instead,
rock hard against the black cotton of his undies, pressing upwards at a
stiff angle, wanting out. But Luke, for now, was focused entirely on his
chest: soft slow kisses moving in lines between his stiff nipples and up
close to his throat, and then back down again. Instinctively, Harry
pulled against the hold of the cuffs, but couldn't do anything but lie
there, even as Luke briefly came in to sniff and kiss in first one hairy
pit and then the other - and then his biceps and under-arms, kissing up
to the elbow on the both and stroking a single hand about Harry's face.
He parted his lips and twisted his mouth to try and kiss or lick at those
fingers, but they evaded him, stroking only his jawline and cheeks and
then about his thick neck. Restless irritation surged through his body as
he began to appreciate the confines of his position, just a huge physical
toy for Luke to play with, fuckkkk.

Luke was kissing down his chest again and onto his tummy, really taking
his time, and he began to move his heavy legs, hoping to brush them
against his unseen lover. But now Luke's hands were clamped on his upper
thighs to still them, as he kissed about his belly button and lower with
agonising slowness, drawing inexorably closer to Harry's undies from
every direction. The hands stroked and massaged at his inner thighs and
the lips played just above the waistband of the Diesel trunks; inside
them, his huge thick meat stretched and throbbed, neglected or
tantalised.

But Luke skipped past his crotch and took his legs one at a time instead,
holding and kissing at it, snogging down his hairy thighs and then
licking even his knees, before doing the same with each shin and calf,
torturing him with soft affection, and playing lightly with his solid
feet again, whilst Harry's big body twitched and fidgeted in the hold of
the cuffs. He was more and more restless, but if his legs kicked and
flexed too much, Luke drew back into the invisible dark, and murmured to
him, `Stay still, Harry, or I'll go take a stroll in the city.'
Luke's voice was strained with a rare authority, humourless and sexy,
and it sent shivers over Harry's bare frame, making him value every
brushing touch and pecking little kiss.

Then, `Roll over'. Luke's hands helped him with this, twisting onto
his front with his arms still stretched out by the cuffs. And now Luke
kissed slowly up and down his spine in the same frustrating way before,
AT LAST, pulling gently on his undies and rolling them down over his
large furry cheeks. He heard the wet pop of Luke sucking on a finger and
then, after another eternal pause, felt it slide between his cheeks to
tickle his crack, which felt so intense and wonderful in this blinded
sensitivity. He moaned into his mouthful of sock and pillow as his
clenched cheeks were parted and his hairy crack was tickled and rubbed,
and then his tight private hole given the lightest prod. Luke drooled
spit in against it and rubbed it some more, then just as he felt himself
becoming receptive, stopped, and just focused on kissing at each of his
full glutes, and then...

Harry had never been spanked or whipped before, and he hadn't given much
thought to glimpsing the extra toy, more stunned by Luke latching one
then two cuffs about his wrists. But now the crop smacked sharply against
one cheek, and then the other, little lines of sting crossing the
muscular mound of his arse cheeks. But, after those light hits, it
wasn't the silly crop, it was Luke's hand, smacking one cheek and then
the other, much more firmly and loudly than he'd managed with the toy.
Harry's cheeks quivered and tensed and he found that, oddly, he quite
liked it, the brief stinging contact of hand on buttock, though he ached
to feel Luke's wet finger in against his hole again. But he was being
turned over again now, hands on his nips, and the boxer briefs were
coming down, down, down, and off.

Free, Maguire's big dick stood to attention, and it felt the same puffs
of hot breath against its tip and sides, Shaw's face surely an inch from
the needy skin. Just as he had over his tight hole, Luke drooled spit
against it, the lightest of sensations crawling over Harry's bell-end
and making his whole body arc and shake, and then - ohhhh yes, and then
the tongue, Luke's unseen face pulling in closer and licking him from
the base to the tip of his cock, then back down, then sucking once on
each of his heavy bollocks.

Harry managed to spit out the mouthful of sock, which had come loose in
the dragging of his face over the pillows. `Yes,' he gasped, `that
feels so good...'

Luke was lifting his legs up, while he continued to lick and tease his
hard prick, not QUITE blowing him, just teasing him. `How good?' Shaw
demanded quietly between slow experimental licks.

`SO GOOD,' the United captain insisted heavily. `Oh, fuck...'

Now Luke was fingering his bum as he licked, one finger darting in
against his hole at the same time as his lips and tongue danced about the
big Maguire meat. This went on for some time, and Harry leaked pre-cum
against his gorgeous man's talented mouth, while his quivering hole
accommodated the slow pokes of that bold finger. Loudly, he moaned
Luke's name, and begged for more, until a shift in their bodies on the
bed silenced him, because Luke was up here now, over his chest and arms,
and feeding his cock to him, pushing it into his mouth and making him gag
on it, a better silencer. Harry opened wide for it, shocked to find
himself in this subjugated position, but willing to take it for his man,
doing his best to swallow Luke's thick erection and not choke too badly.

Whenever he would start to gag, Luke would pull back, and just tease the
tip of his dick about his lips and chin and groan down at him: `My sexy
bastard, mmm yes, suck my cock, suck it good...'

Harry thought about how much it had shocked and impressed him, being
taken from behind by his Luke on the train from London to Manchester at
the start of autumn, the powerful resolution to their difficult patch.
Since, the dynamic had largely reverted to norm, but lying here like
this, Maguire was absolutely desperate to feel his man inside him again,
and he told him so, begging for his cock in a way he never had. `Just
fuck me,' he found himself panting depserately. `I need to feel you
inside me, baby. I'm ready, I'm ready now.'

`Nah,' Luke told him coolly, `you're not yet.'

Back on his front, face pushed into the pillows, with Luke on top of him,
kissing the small of his back, whilst kneading his cheeks and rubbing a
finger gently over his hole but never going in. His cock, hard and eager,
pressed flat between his body and the bed, unattended, leaking pre-cum on
his skin and the covers. Luke teased and relaxed his hole with slow
motion, and let his mouth rove his broad back with kisses and rubs. Harry
was driven mad by it, and he pulled on the cuffs again, trying to resist
their deeply frustrating hold, wanting to take back some control and
dynamism - but entirely Luke's prisoner to pleasure here!

He thought Shaw was going to fuck him, but it was just more teasing: his
buttocks pulled wide open and the head of Luke's cock rolling repeatedly
against his entrance, but nothing more. He groaned, his voice muffled by
the pillows, and pulled more on the shackles, as Luke chuckled and
murmured, `Nearly ready, babe, nearly ready...'

Maguire wanted to shout that he was so ready, but he could only groan
through a face of pillow, his body pressed down by Luke's hands, and his
wrists locked tight to the bedpost. His hole, he imagined, was gaping for
Luke's cock, just teased and tested, but not yet fucked. He pushed back
with his cheeks as best he could, making Luke laugh and groan, and then
yesss, at last... Luke pushed his shaft into him, just a little, and then
withdrew. And again: thrusting into him, and retreating, opening him up
bit by bit. Ohhhhhh yes. Harry wanted the blindfold off, more than to
free his wrists, because he wanted to see his big sexy lad over him,
taking this more dominant role, not the shy pup who he'd claimed as his
own almost three years ago. He remembered an icy cold hotel room in
Europe, the first time anything had happened between them, almost three
years ago to the day, and the way Luke's hand had wandered onto his cock
for the very first time.

Harry was flipped again, on his back, and his hole left alone again
without the proper fucking he now craved. It was Luke's finger in him
instead, but his mouth at last fully about his cock, sucking on him so
greedily that Harry feared he would cum already. He groaned and yelped
and warned him of this, begging him to slow down or stop, and getting
some response. Luke, silent and masterful, just pulled on his wet shaft
in long slow movements, drooling more spit onto it from above, but
avoiding bringing him to an early climax. Then he left his dick alone and
hoisted his legs and the tip of his cock was back between his cheeks.
`Yes,' Harry heard himself whine, made a bitch for the night, `ohhh
yesss.'

Now Luke DID fuck him properly, powering into him and shaking his
imprisoned body with each thrust, hard and fast like it had been in the
Virgin train toilet cubicle. Harry couldn't see it, but he could imagine
every detail, could visualise how muscular and powerful his lad must
look, tupping him like this and hoisting his big might legs up to give
him access. He pictured the sweat on those pecs and that six-pack, and
the wild look on Luke's usually chilled face, pummeling his hole with
all of his left-back strength. And Harry's cock ACHED through it all,
untouched, his hands too trapped to reach for it, and Luke ignoring it,
just holding his body tight and ramming his cock in and out of him in
rapid movements.

Luke stopped quite suddenly, but kept his dick buried deep in him, just
holding it there and hugging his thighs to his body. `You feel that?'
he was growling. `You feel me in you?'

`Fuck yes,' Harry panted for him. `Fuck yes, don't stop.'

`You like being fucked by your man?'

`Yesss, yess.'

`You like being all mine like this?'

`Fuck YES.'

But despite his throaty begs, Luke stopped fucking him, and starting
sucking him off again, in quick bursts that alternated with slow handjob
pauses, kissing at the furry insides of his thighs instead. All of it
made Harry groan and whine, unable to take any of his usual control over
proceedings, just relenting to Luke's whims and appetite - fucked,
sucked, kissed, and manhandled. And with every fresh pang of ecstasy,
Harry constantly feeling on the verge of cumming, he would pull on the
cuffs that held him, and against the corner of the headboard, his huge
body flexing and shifting, straining for relief.

Somehow, in some undefined way, Luke's slow teasing pushed him too far.
The 27-year-old stud was on top of him, kissing in circles about his
nipples, whilst rubbing their hard cocks together and really making him
leak pre-cum. After everything else, apparently this closeness was just
too much. Harry wrenched down with both arms and heard the thud and
crack. And then his arms, liberated partly, were swinging forward, but
still tied at the wrists; he had his arms around Luke and he was free
from the bedpost. He couldn't remove the blindfold with his hand
shackled, but he could take a proper hold of his man, and pull him
insistently close, overpowering his more teasing action, and grinding
their bodies together instead. He heard Luke's gasp of surprise and
confusion, but it would be many minutes before the blindfold was off and
he could see the irreparable damage he'd done to the headboard.

They rolled side to side, locked in this new embarace, and kissing deep
and long. Harry felt exhilarated by the sudden freedom of movement, even
with the continued lock about his wrists, and the blindness of the mask;
he rolled on top of Luke, returning himself to a position of some power,
pressing down on top of the other lad as they kissed and bit at each
other, pecs and cocks rubbing as they did. Luke's hands clawed at the
strap of the blindfold until it was off, and they could stare hungrily
into each other's eyes - the games were over, this was the serious lust
that connected them. Maguire kissed him roughly and then pulled back, up
onto his knees, and he powered his arms apart. The chain connecting the
furry cuffs snapped with a small noise and his hands were free, and Luke
just stared at him wild-eyed, clearly incredibly aroused by the show of
strength.

With none of the slow build-up tortured against him, Harry just grabbed
at Luke's body as if it weighed nothing and pushed him back against the
top of the bed, against the damaged lopsided headboard with its cracked
corner post. He pulled himself in against his gorgeous man and slid his
cock against his back and between his plump smooth cheeks. He grabbed
Luke about the throat and kissed the nape of his neck. And he fucked him
with even more power than the hunky left-back had managed on his exposed
arse while he was cuffed to the bed, rough and urgent and dominating.

And Luke, for his part, growled and yelped with desire for him, no
protest at the switch-up of the dynamic he'd played with. After these
three exciting years, both of them just loved their capacity to play
around and to push boundaries, but some things were constant: the sheer
force of Harry's will and lust, and Luke's need to take it from him at
every opportunity. Grunting without words, the two big defenders fucked
into the headboard and the wall, and whoever's room lay beyond it just
had to deal with the bangs and knocks. Not a tiny thoughts in Harry
Maguire's Slabhead for the England teammates who had drawn his eyes and
his cock in the afternoon heat: not Grealish, not Mount, not Dier, not
Foden. Just Shaw, all Shaw, always Shaw.

When he came, he kept going, kept on pumping his cock into that hole,
kept making Luke shudder and shake against the wall, until he knew that
his baby too was spraying his jizz against the damaged wood, and down
onto the creased pillows. And even then they humped in slow simulation of
the sex that had raged, holding and kissing each other in this
interlocked position, until exhaustion pulled them falling back against
the bed, limbs locking and muscles wrapping around each other. Harry
paused the kisses only so he could look Luke deep in his eyes.

The 27-year-old smirked. One of his hands crashed against Harry's butt
cheek in a single harsh spank, a symbolic reminder of his dominant streak
and the shift in their sex, but his body held in Harry's stronger arms,
and satisfied grins on both of their faces. `Happy anniversary,' the
centre-back grunted heavily, unable to tear his eyes away from Luke's
bright blue irises. `Three fucking years.'

Luke nodded slowly and licked his sweaty upper lip. `That was
incredible.'

`You were incredible,' Maguire told him quietly but earnestly. `I'm
sorry I-'

`Don't be,' breathed Shaw. `Don't be sorry for anything. It was...
perfect.'

`It always is,' Harry told him soppily, hugging him more tightly.

The moment of perfection was broken by the vibration of a mobile phone
somewhere on the floor by the bed. Harry loosened his grip and Luke slid
away to lean over the edge and reach for his forgotten device. Lying here
in the centre of the bed, Harry stroked his back and gave his arse a good
squeeze. Up Luke came, back next to him, unlocking the screen and
immediately chuckling at the message. `Keep it down in there,' he read
aloud through his sniggers. `Oops - think we've been keeping Jack and
Phil up, by the sound of it...'

Harry laughed at this, and he thought of the two City lads in the next
suite, the last on this passage, but he couldn't muster any interest in
the attacking players, not with Luke in his arms, smirking gently at him.
Sure, he thought, it had been fun sharing Dec and Mase after the recovery
day dare, but he didn't need other men to satisfy him, not really. He'd
wasted too much time on that, and taken too many risks, putting the
domination of Ronaldo ahead of his great love affair. Now, he thought,
they would only play about with others when it was what Luke wanted, and
he would dedicate himself entirely to his beautiful man. Well, except for
his wife, admittedly.

Cuddling and kissing, the two big United defenders got under the covers
and brushed away the blindfold and the damaged cuffs, and the jagged
wooden splinters of the broken headboard, which would have to be reported
and (somehow) explained to hotel staff in the morning; hopefully the
business and the fuss of match-day would somehow allow them to play down
that expense and mystery. But Harry wasn't thinking about match-day,
France and their challenges was a universe away, folding in next to his
Luke and just reminiscing about three years of sex and conflict and
romance.




** Yesterday was actually the 3rd anniversary of posting the original
Luke story to Nifty, so definitely had to mark the occasion...! Fingers
crossed England can beat France tonight and keep the party going : ) **

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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
  https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share