Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2023 22:44:21 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 342

Part 342: "Millie screaming shoot..."


`He said he could tell you were never going to pass,' the BBC reporter
continued, holding the red tip of the mic closer to his face and smiling
at him in a way that he could almost mistake for flirtatious, as
flustered and excited as he was; the 19-year-old footballer grinned
eagerly back at her, trying not to become too distracted by this, his
pulse already racing from the attention of the camera fixed on his sweaty
mop and grinning face, not to mention the hard-fought FA cup win that had
passed tonight in Wolverhampton.

`Oh yeah, Millie was screaming shoot,' Liverpool's celebrated young
midfielder admitted, as she questioned him about his goal, the team's
solitary achievement to sweep past their West Midlands opposition.
`..and yeh...' he persisted uncertainyl, pausing to half-laugh at
himself, `ha, if he's screaming that, then I'm gonna have to do
it...!' He scratched at the light reddish brown of his beard hair and
tilted his face, pulling some of the curling noodles of hair away from
his sweaty brow. `I had the perfect opportunity to do that,' he told
her, stumbling cheerily over the topic and finishing, `Maybe I'll have
a word with him later and he can encourage me to shoot more, ha...'

And in a minute or so, the post-match interview was over, and the
attractive BBC reporter was thanking him for his time and backing away,
already moving across to the sullen-faced representatives of
Wolverhampton Wanderers to discuss their cup knockout.

Shivering in spite of the heavy puffer jacket wrapped about his athletic
body, the 5ft7 teen stood where he was for a minute, waiting for someone
important-looking to dismiss him, but then having to shuffle aside from
the frantic TV crew when nobody paid him much more attention - well,
other than the remnants of the travelling Liverpool fans in the away
stand who were still applauding, seemingly mainly for him. On his way
past, the teenager waved jovially to what was left to the travelling
Scousers, absolutely buzzing at his latest goal for his beloved club, and
for the whole experience of the cup replay.

In he went, replaying the short interview in his head as he crossed the
pitch and moved towards the last few Liverpool figures at the dugout,
realising that pretty much the rest of the squad were already gone in to
change, whilst he'd been hopping about in the cold in his puffer jacket,
waiting for his little bit of media attention. On the way into the tunnel
mouth, he was grabbed and hugged by any number of men, a few
tracksuit-clad substitutes who hadn't quite made it onto the pitch, and
by members of Klopp's extensive management team. He was jostled happily
by resting goalkeeper Alisson and big lad Nat Philips, steered indoors by
the pair of taller blokes, who were telling him that he was the future of
the club. A little red flush in his cheeks, the curly-haired Chertsey
youth yanked one boot off at a time and chuckled protestations at the
praise of the other two. At the door to the away changing rooms of the
Molineux, this buzz was joined by a little round of applause from the
reclining figures of two more resting subs, brash Scotsman Andy Robertson
and his bulky pal Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. The big hands of the
midfielder shook him by the shoulder whilst Robbo ruffled his mop of hair
and gave him a swift slap to the arse on the way in, probably unaware of
the private thrill it sent up his spine.

And in the locker-room, he began to yank sweaty kit away from his body
after shucking off the chunky coat, joining the steamy heat that exuded
from the nearby showers, but the attention followed him, little whoops
and chants of his name, making the 19-year-old feel on top of the fucking
world. Sweat-damp socks were yanked down his thick lower legs and off his
sore feet, and he flopped down into a seated position on the bench below
his locker, glad to get off his feet even for a moment.

Next to him, he found himself looking at the big toothy grin of
`Millie' himself, with the words of his interview responses still
shuffling through his brain cells. The ageing Premiership star beamed at
him, a couple of spaces down the sparse row, in the middle of grabbing
his towel from a shelf in front of him. Harvey returned the smile with a
bashful grin of his own, pushing twirls of hair out of his eyes and
straightening up his weary posture - something about the incredibly
ripped physique of the versatile seasoned player always made a lad try to
be a few inches taller and puff out the chest a bit. Especially right
now, when the older man's shirt was off, his sturdy 5ft9 body glistening
with the sweat of his 66-minute contribution to the win.

`How'd the interview go?' the 37-year-old Leeds man demanded gruffly.

`Oh - good, I think - er - you definitely got a shoutout, old man,' he
added more smoothly, slightly jarred by the question just because it was
exactly what he was asking himself; he'd signed a couple of sportswear
modelling jobs lately and he was keen to pick up more of that sort of
thing, so he really wanted to come across well on camera, the pretty boy
future of an iconic Merseyside team. He chucked in the jokey age insult
because he thought he could, having developed a much better friendship
with the `old man' of the Anfield squad in the months since that
drunken party and sober Milner's lift home.

`Ah, nice one - good to remind people I'm still bossing the game,
ey...'

`Bossing? It was my goal, big fella, ha...'

`Less of that cheek,' Milner chuckled, discreetly throwing the towel
about his thick waist before continuing to wriggle out of his shorts and
underpants beneath its cover, though certain shapes and outlines were
still obvious under the white fluff. `You little toe-rag.' A friendly
wink from the older man, making Elliott smirk a bit to himself, and shrug
his shoulders before starting to tug his beloved Liverpool shirt up and
off: `That's me, grandpa,' he retorted in a happy wheeze - and off
went Millie, the night's sturdy right-back marching off for the showers,
from which other rippling wet bodies were already emerging.

For a moment, Harvey paused with his shirt still about his muscled upper
arms, exposing the sweaty toned strength of his upper body to the warm
damp air of the changing rooms; he was in a little reverie, distracted by
the side of the 37-year-old adonis in his towel, and the memory of that
night when Milner had driven him home from the party, the night he'd
temporarily fallen out with Carvalho. It still stunned the Surrey teen
that he'd fallen into that exciting tryst with the older man, having
more-or-less hated him from afar since their previous episode together -
but things had totally been reversed and redeemed, and the whole incident
had even changed Harvey's perspective on what had happened between them
in the past. A misunderstanding, he thought of it now, with burly James
over-estimating his experience and readiness, and Harvey simply learning
what he couldn't cope with; whilst last time, in the teen's own
bedroom, the so-called king of boring had lay down for him and offered
himself up willingly, allowing the young stud to fuck his first arsehole.

It was a memory that had tickled and tantalised him ever since, and there
was a dollop of self-confidence and ambition about Harvey Elliott that
wouldn't let him relegate it to a complete one-off. He'd wanked over it
twice daily for the first week or two after, and then found himself
making half-joking remarks about it to Millie at training: never quite
suggesting round 2, as such, but making the odd comment on how big and
muscular the older man's bottom looked in a certain tracksuit, or trying
to make boastful little comments to his manly friend about how hard he'd
banged a bird last weekend. But every signal from James was a calm and
patient rejection - Milner was making it loud and clear to Harvey that it
had been a special treat, a generous gift to patch up their friendship,
and a solution to the stress and frustration of a night where Elliott had
almost got in serious trouble.

Getting up to finish undressing and snatch up his own towel, the young
central midfielder let out a private sigh of longing, annoyed that he
couldn't repeat that amazing experience, being mentored through the
experience of topping by James' infinite confidence and security, rather
than the frantic mania of his younger experiences, making his first
dabbles with an equally stoned Neco, or becoming a cum-slut for the likes
of Mo Salah, whose chiselled tan form was drifting right past him at that
moment with steam rising off every ultra-defined muscle. Ignoring him and
enjoying his own moment of glory, Harvey whipped off his pants,
momentarily naked with a relaxed exhibitionism that separated him from
most of the other young players and their natural coyness, and then
covering himself up with a wrap of towel, ready to go and shower down.

As he headed that way, he brushed past other exciting physiques, sharing
a nod with big sexy Joe Gomez and a damp side-hug with his Greek pal
Tsimikas, then high-fiving a happy-faced Fabio Carvalho, their boyhood
friendship restored after last year's misunderstanding. And then he was
briefly face-to-face with Milner already, the older man apparently opting
for a pretty brief shower - he aped Carvalho's eager high-five, slapping
one of his huge paws against Harvey's smaller mitt, and giving him an
almost smug smile of physical superiority before brushing past. The two
men exchanged that knowing look of people who've experienced each other
in a way far more intimate than simply being naked under towels, one that
sent yet another thrill through Harvey's battle-weary body, and made it
hard to keep his cock soft as he vanished into the steam himself.

He thought of the patient smiles and dormant power of the
well-established Liverpool hero during those fleeting one-to-one moments
on the training pitch or in the rec room, where he'd tried and failed to
hint at his need for a second go on his Anfield daddy; he was bright
enough to read the firmness of the no, but then there was such friendly
banter and new mentoring between he and the flexible senior midfielder,
and part of him couldn't quite accept that he would never fuck him
again.


What young Harvey did not appreciate, though, was that every time James'
eyes and smile said a firm no... they almost said yes.

Milner was surprised at himself. After all these years! It had been over
a decade since he'd taken it, and if he looked back through the football
seasons of his illustrious career, he'd probably be able to pin down
exactly how long. Regardless, he'd shocked himself when he went in for
it with the kid, but it had been... a good laugh, more than that. He'd
really fucking enjoyed himself, in a lot of ways. Being so trusted by an
eager newbie like that, feeling the respect and reliance of a wannabe;
the way it had melted the tension and hostility that had lingered between
them since his own rash misunderstandings in the past; and, of course,
the intense physical satisfaction of it all, fuckin' hell.

He thought about this, striding across the guest changing rooms of the
Wolves stadium, rubbing the big hand that had slapped and enclosed
Harvey's against one of his firm pecs, and then bringing it up to stroke
against his square jaw and stubby chin. The `old man' of LFC took his
place at one side of the room, picking up another towel to drape about
his broad wet shoulders, and glancing idly about him while his mind
turned it over: it had been something different, hadn't it, something
out of a long-gone past really, so no wonder it had preoccupied him a bit
over the winter.

The trouble was... well... Harvey was a nice lad, right enough, and James
was keen to mentor and steer the young talent, just like so many of the
other seasoned blokes at Anfield, everybody wanted the best for their
plucky midfield sensation. He'd come back from his Championship loan
with even more promise and confidence, and he wasn't the naughty
braggart who'd caused trouble and controversy in his younger teens, not
least for his teammate host after that first family kicked his
weed-smoking arse out on the streets. Cockiness had turned to quiet
confidence, and rebellion had been ironed out as determination and
resilience. James liked him a lot, everyone did.

But, he thought, the trouble was just that: he was a great kid, but he
was a kid, and he had an ego that needed to be kept in check. Sure,
Milner had got creative in his efforts to reassure and befriend the
little bugger, but he was damned if he was gonna stoke that smug
cockiness back to life, and be responsible for moulding an even more
irritating teen troublemaker like Elliott had been when he first poked
his nose into the Liverpool first team...! He wasn't about to enter into
some kinda regular thing with the lad, nor give in and admit to the young
lout just how good it had felt to- Well, mentor him. So to speak.

No, James Milner, 37-year-old Premier League veteran, was not about to
become the fucking bitch of a 19-year-old upstart who he was helping to
mould and steer at their struggling giant of a football club, no way.
That was NOT on the agenda. Every cheeky little comment or knowing look
that the teen pushed his way, he had deflected with the practised cool of
someone who's experimental dabbling had spanned almost as long as
Harvey's 19 years. The cheeky little bugger.

And still... Liverpool's ageing ace had found himself with a persistent
and irritating temptation to... well, try that novelty again. He thought
about it even as he nailed his wife quietly in bed on a Saturday morning
before training, wondering why it had felt so surprisingly good to give
in to something he'd barely tried a few times in his early twenties, and
never looked back on until now. He scowled at himself judgmentally in the
bathroom mirror over the thought of it, brushing his teeth, and
unconsciously clenching his big muscly glutes in the loose fit of his Fat
Face pyjama bottoms. Let it go, the thickset Yorkshireman advised his
reflection, this is gonna be trouble.

But the thought had plagued him for the rest of that recent Saturday, out
onto the frost-touched training ground where his heavy panting breaths
crystallised in front of him. And for a minute or so he'd even doubted
his rational resolve, watching as diminutive but sturdy Elliott scampered
about in tight legging with a couple of the other youngsters, stammering
Curtis Jones and looming Nat Philips, tackled then by a quick-moving
Trent Alexander-Arnold; and next to him, Milner realised, he wasn't the
only one looking down the field at this cluster of their fellow players.
To his left, paused with hands at his hips and one boot resting atop a
ball, was their team's biggest international star. Mohamed Salah was
frowning slightly as he watched, one of his hands coming up to stroke his
thickening beard, and a long plume of warm breath escaping his pursed
lips.

`He hasn't been giving you any bother?' Milner murmured
confidentially, giving a thoughtful glance to the Egyptian god of the
Liverpool attack.

`Hmm? What? Oh - James, no, no.' Still, the forward looked vaguely
troubled, scratching and pulling at his dark facial hair, and then
hanging his head a little, no longer looking at the tussle of young
footballers half a field away from them. Milner watched him, rolling his
rounded shoulders and stretching thick arms across his chest, one at a
time - he was thinking with a little guilt about the way he'd tried to
`help' Salah, and himself, by encouraging young Elliott's exile from
Merseyside. But it had all worked out, he often reminded himself, and the
Blackburn experience had been the making of the new Harvey.

But that's not all the 37-year-old was thinking about this chilly
Saturday a couple of weekends ago, because other thoughts had harassed
him since he first sprung an erection and rolled expectantly closer to
his missus. The Yorkshireman scratched his thick stubble across the
blocky frame of his jaw, and glanced back at Mohamed, who was adjusting
his shorts and shifting his posture, and raising questions in the
forefront of Milner's mind. These urges that had been nudging at his
mind and his crotch and the seat of his tight tracksuit, well they
didn't have to mean giving an inch to the young upstart, did they? Close
by him in the same LFC training gear, the Egyptian man tugged again at
the crotch of his shorts and let out a huffy sigh that condensed in the
air between them. Mo looked this way and frowned directly at him.

`What is it?' the striker asked quietly.

`Nothing, mate,' he murmured, pulling his eyes up from below the waist,
and smiling blandly at his friend and teammate. `Just thinking about
something my wife said this morning, that's all.' Mo shrugged and
looked nonplussed, turning his attention instead to the ball at his feet,
while Milner pulled his long sleeves further down about his chilly fists,
and thought aloud, inching closer to his ally: `She was talking about
how much she loves taking my big Yorkshire cock, that's all.' Thick
eyebrows lifting, the Muslim man turned and gave him a look of arch
prudishness, and Milner just smirked ironically into his face, patting
him on one shoulder, already knowing a little too much about the
forward's private life to buy this innocent reaction - and beginning to
form a plan.


The large square locker-room was filling up as the showers emptied, and
Mohamed dressed himself at some speed, first pulling the long fit black
boxer briefs up his hairy thighs and about his waist, then shedding the
privacy of the towel to add the soft comfortable club tracksuit of
sweatpants and hoodie. Around him, men in various lesser states of dress
moved about noisily, all of them still high on the 1-0 win over
Wolverhampton, and many still loudly praising the youngster who had
secured it - not a topic that the goalless 30-year-old was rushing to
join in on, tonight, having joined the fray and made minimal impact
himself towards the end of the fixture. He was not selfish enough to
really resent Elliott his success, he'd congratulated him as heartily as
anyone else out there, but he had the same ego of any successful striker,
and he mourned the goals he'd failed to score, and felt somewhat
ambivalent to their FA Cup progress when their league position was such a
headache.

Not for the first time, the international star felt that some of his
British and European colleagues lacked the competitive edge at the
moment, the hunger for the win, the winner's instinct. But even so... it
wasn't just football making Salah a little more tense and quiet than the
men that surrounded him, all whipping towels and unfolding leisurewear;
it was the plans he'd agreed to tonight.

Standing there, his hard muscular form still just a little damp beneath
the fresh clothes, Mo thought back to the coach that had delivered them
to Wolverhampton, and the way James had leaned in closer to him between
the headrests even as they parked up at the appointed hotel, his grin
huge and confident, and his hand resting on one of his shoulders.

`Are we still sharing, then?' the older guy asked him pointedly.

For a moment, Salah just stared back, a slight frown lining his bearded
face. But then, `We need to check with Klopp at check-in.'

Milner's hand gripped his shoulder a little more firmly. `But we are,
right?' chuckled the other player. `You haven't wussed out from what
we were talking about...?'

The 37-year-old spoke a bit too calmly and loudly for his liking and for
a moment he flared his nostrils and stared quite confrontationally at
him, other tracksuit-clad bodies brushing past the side of them as every
member of the squad now started spilling out in the hotel car park and
collecting the luggage they were presented with; still in his seat, the
Egyptian forward continued to glare at the man in the pair of seats
behind him, leaning heavily over the headrests to grin at him.

`Milner,' he grunted, his tone a warning.

`Ey,' chuckled the Leeds-born athlete, `if anyone should be wussing
out, it should be me, hey?' And he burst out laughing quite heartily,
sliding to one side, from the pair of seats into the central isle of the
bus, queuing up behind Van Dijk, but still looking down at the awkward
seated posture with which Mohamed now hesitated. `But I'm still game if
you are, Mo, so you just say the word, king.' A wink, somehow as loud as
his voice, as excruciatingly public and unsubtle, compared to the quietly
whispered conversations on the training ground this week, or the hastily
deleted text messages sent last thing at night. Salah stared intensely at
him before pulling himself up to standing in the aisle, right behind him;
right behind his broad powerful back muscles that filled out his
tracksuit jersey, and below it, his-

In the present, Mohamed slapped cool handfuls of moisturising cream onto
his face, and then expensive beard oil onto his facial hair. He closed
his eyes and breathed deeply as he rubbed both in with a ritualistic
semblance of calm, hyperactive players muscling into hooded tops to his
left and his right. He let the breath out, and dismissed the rising
temper of that conversation this morning, which had continued in fits and
starts on the way into the hotel reception, and during the brief time
they'd had to settle into their assigned room - and he thought too about
the way Milner had broached the idea to him at the start of the week,
almost as a joke, but now...

Players who were ready were being beckoned to the exit, with a player
liaison guy mouthing off about the traffic between the stadium and the
hotel, and Salah moved slowly in that direction, hoisting the sports bag
with the rest of his things in over one shoulder. But he stopped, halfway
across the room, and watched as Milner's head popped through the
neck-hole of his top and came out facing right this way, smiling
immediately at him. It was a broad friendly face full of expectation and
promise, and it made Salah mouth a silent prayer of contrition to himself
before hurrying out of the room.


Harvey excused himself from his hotel room, mouthing his apologies to
Fabio, his roomie, whilst feigning attention to the non-existent call on
his mobile; from there, out into the long straight corridor of identical
doors, and on his way to the number that he'd inked on the back of his
hand after dinner, copying it from a rooming list clipboard that someone
had left on the next table. He'd felt daft and secretive doing so, but
somehow LESS daft than he would have sending a text to ask which room, as
if that would make him look desperate and inept, and not... not... Well,
the young alpha that he was! Goal-scorer of the night! The future of
Liverpool FC! And stuff like that.

He'd been surprised and not surprised when he got the invitation. Not
surprised, on account of the fact he was the fucking toast of the team
tonight; from the boss to the junior physio, literally everyone had told
him his goal was a masterpiece, and he was finding it hard to hold on to
humility in the face of that. At the start of the late supper at the
hotel, literally the whole travelling entourage had clapped for his
arrival, and half of the manager's closing remarks had been about the
zeal he showed in the match, and how that was what Liverpool needed to
recapture in the remainder of the season.

And yet... after these weeks and weeks of smiling rejection, he'd been
pretty shocked after all when he was walking across the dark damp car
park with everybody else, and his arm was grabbed from behind, and
suddenly the heavy figure of James Milner was at his side, calling him
`Starboy' and asking him how it felt to be the Messiah for the night.
And then, pulling closer, squeezing him about the shoulders of his
hoodie, the bloke leaning right in and whispering in his ear, `Come by
room at curfew, you smug twit, and I might let you in, hey?' After that,
he'd said no more, nor even looked at him properly, speeding ahead to
join Ox and Robbo and leap aboard the coach, while Elliott dwindled in a
moment of disbelief, questioning exactly what Millie had said in his ear.

The 19-year-old had been restless all the way back to their
accommodation, fidgeting in his seat and rising up to crane his neck and
look searchingly down the bus for a glimpse of Milner; the insecure part
of him thought he was being punked, whilst the ego of a rising football
star was telling him that sure, he'd scored a worldy and saved the day,
and of course that meant the big burly bastard was craving his meat,
sure!

So now, Fabio ditched, he was checking the smudged ink on his hand and
making his way through the hotel, going slowly and treading lightly
because curfew had passed and he was supposed to be getting ready for
bed. So, he supposed, was Millie, but the invitation had definitely
happened, he'd definitely heard what he'd heard; and he was pretty sure
he wasn't misreading the double entendre in it. `And I might let you
in, hey?' old James had gruffly murmured in his ear as he squeezed those
muscles about his shoulders, and surely he wasn't mad to think that the
senior player was talking about more than just his ROOM.

But here he was, this was it, room 405, and now he had to pause and wipe
sweaty palms on the thighs of his jogger bottoms and pull on the neck of
his print t-shirt, before lifting his knuckles and rapping them across
the surface of the door; it was only as he knocked on Milner's suite
that he wondered where the big man's own roommate would be, having
ditched Carvalho back in their shared one. But as the door to room 405
swung inwards, Elliott was forced to become very aware of this fact.

There he was, holding the door open: Mo Salah, frowning slightly at him,
muscular shoulders on show against the thin dark straps of his vest top.
But beyond him, Harvey quickly saw, was the room's other occupant,
lounged back on one double bed with his head and shoulders propped up on
two pillows. One thick arm was lifted to wave a hand in greeting, and the
teenager just stood there for a moment in confusion, glancing from
Salah's quietly serious bearded face, and across the shared room of the
two senior players. `Come in,' barked Milner quietly, and he hesitated
only briefly before doing so, slightly surprised as Mo's face mellowed
and the forward stepped aside to let him in. The door closed behind him
and he stood still, biting his lip slightly as he stared questioningly
over at the lounged figure of one bloke and the tense stance of the
other. Okay, there was a change of plan, or he'd misinterpreted what
Millie had to say in his ear...

`Alright fellas,' the 19-year-old said slowly, pulling loosely on the
printed front of his t-shirt, and shifting from one flip-flop foot to
another, waiting for Milner to explain.

`Hullo,' was Salah's dull greeting, something moody and aloof in the
manner of the 5ft9 striker, who folded arms across the front of his vest
and took a few steps away, hovering at the foot of Milner's bed, as if
just pausing on his way to sulk over in his half of the room; this left
Elliott feeling more uncertain and he paused there, between them and the
closed door, and he pushed both hands into the pockets of his grey
sweatpants, giving beady eyes at Millie and hoping for a way out.

On his bed, James let out a complacent yawn, and he slid his hands behind
his head, the posture really showing off the definition of his upper
arms, and exposing a little hairy pit where the sleeves of his charcoal
t-shirt ran up. He smiled and blinked, and then whistled. `Well, isn't
this magic, having you two in my room? Ha.' He seemed to stifle another
yawn and then loosened one hand from behind his resting head, placing it
instead just above the waist, where his dark t-shirt met the bunched-up
sweat-shorts about his thighs and crotch.

Harvey was quick with a quip of false confidence. `Yeah, lucky you, the
greatest goal-scorers of next season,' he tried, giving another curious
look at Mo, and then back at the `old man' of Liverpool. `I think I
got the wrong end of the stick,' he admitted, trying to keep his voice
light.

`Hmm? What? Well - you got here, so I don't think so.' One of James'
large hands slid lower to scratch his balls in the short, his 5ft9
muscular frame stretched out quite leisurely on the nearby bed. At the
foot of it, Mo unfolded those lean defined arms and let them hang
awkwardly at his sides - he was also staring quite accusingly at Milner,
as if he wasn't the only one here who'd been blindsided.

`Am I missing a joke, fellas?' Harvey muttered faintly.

`Not at all, but this should be fun,' Milner told him in a low voice.
`Why don't you get started, then?' he added, nodding this way. `Go on
- get your chops round Mr Egypt's cock, will ya?' The cheeky demand was
followed by a huge grin across Millie's face and Harvey paused
awkwardly, his cheeks flushing red, and sharing an awkward look with
stony-faced Mohamed. He let out a single awkward laugh, scratched his
beard, and then shook his head.

`Nah,' he blurted. `That was a different time, boss.'

`Wasn't so long ago,' came Mo's surprisingly sultry remark, and he
hesitated.

`Go on,' James insisted, quietly but firmly.

`What the fuck?' Harvey couldn't help but mutter - this sure wasn't
the little night visit that he'd envisaged when Milner accosted him in
the car park, it wasn't the little fantasy he'd been relying on ever
since last time. He felt mugged off and he tensed up, wondering if he
should back off immediately and get back to his own room. What the hell
was the old fucker playing at? Who did Salah think he was, glowering
indignantly at him like that, as if the smug prick hadn't been pushed
firmly away now?

`Go on,' James said again, his voice rich with warm chuckles. `Suck
him off a bit, Harvey lad.' A short pause. `Otherwise, how's he gonna
get hard enough to give me a good stuffing?'

Stood at an angle to them both, only part-way into the room, Harvey
Elliott froze, and a little ripple of excitement replaced the nervous
tension that had gripped his whole body of compact muscle. He blinked
twice and stared first at smirking Milner, and then across at intense,
sultry Salah, whose eyes were fixed on the beefcake on the bed. Oh, he
thought, WOW.


Milner grinned happily and watched it begin: the nervous and jumpy
demeanour of the young visitor shifted, and there was something more of
his cocky bravado as he took a couple of steps closer to Salah now, and
gave a light punch to the muscles of the man's arm. Salah seemed to tear
his dark eyes off Milner's lounging posture, and look the youth properly
up and down. Oh, James knew all about the old arrangement between elite
striker and rowdy teenager; it had been a vague awareness once, but over
time he'd wormed the full story out of his cautious Muslim pal, right
back to the moment dirty Elliott crept into the marital bed and woke up
his thick North African cock while Mrs S slept on. Brilliant.

Now, the 37-year-old footballer took a good grab of his cock through the
loose grey shorts, giving his semi a good stroke, and watching as Harvey
gave a stroke to one of Mo's arms, sidling in next to him with a
snigger, and lifting the front of that vest a little with the other hand.
He'd known how quickly Harv would comply once the lad knew what was
really at stake here - and after all, it was hard to believe that the kid
was REALLY over the taste of Salah's evident treasure.

This was the thing: he'd itched for another little go at bottoming ever
since he surprised himself and enjoyed it on Harvey's bed, but he really
couldn't bring himself to admit this properly to the young lad. But a
colleague like Mohamed, well that was different... They were all, in their
own ways, submissive to a legend in the making like Salah, there wasn't
a lad on the squad who wouldn't give anything to keep him at Anfield.
So... if big Millie was going to let that happen again, so soon, then...
yeah, he knew which cock was king at LFC, and he'd known how to make it
happen.

`Get on your knees for him,' he called playfully at Harvey. `We both
know he's good at it,' he added teasingly at Mo himself, `so just let
him at it, matey.'

It was like a free porn show at the foot of the bed, and James gave his
hardening cock another good squeeze and tug in his shorts. Harvey was
wriggling unnecessarily out of his t-shirt, exposing the pocket-sized
physique of his developing upper body and rather obnoxious arm tats, then
going down on his knees, leaning one hand on the bedframe as he did; and
in one smooth exhibitionist motion, Mo removed the black vest to toss
away, exposing the only ripped body on the squad that could make
37-year-old Milner in any way yearn for a youth he had conscientiously
maintained. Instantly, Elliott was kissing at the ridiculous six-pack of
Salah, and one of the 30-year-old's hands was on his head, rubbing at
his curls and guiding the kisses downwards. Over Harvey's descending
head, Milner smirked insistently over at Salah, their gazes meeting, and
he rubbed himself visibly to show his enjoyment and approval, though the
thick Yorkshire meat at the front was NOT what he'd promised his friend.

He could still picture Salah's expression when he'd let slip the idea
between throaty chuckles and idle humour, and again when he'd repeated
the offer at the end of that day. Mo had looked at him then with a
surprising ferocity in his eyes, and it was back there now. Milner felt
excited to be so desired, in spite of his usually relaxed confidence, and
his long-matured ambivalence towards the man-to-man experiments of his
younger seasons. Well, no point kidding himself about anything right here
right now - he'd been aching to get fucked again ever since he let
Harvey in, and the perfect curious top was staring right at him.
Brilliant.


This wasn't quite the night Mo had expected, but he couldn't deny it:
he was delighted to have his cock wet in the mouth of Harvey Elliott
again, and he tore his curious eyes away from the musclebound enigma on
the bed, and down at the mass of poodle curls covering his crotch, whilst
the talented teen slobbered up and down his cock over the taut waist of
his loose pyjama pants. He moaned quietly, stroking quite gently at the
honey and brown of Harvey's hair, and letting his uncertain gaze flicker
upwards to check that James was still enjoying them, grabbing himself
quite roughly in his short and leering with an almost unnerving
enthusiasm. It was occurring to Mohamed that he might have been led
astray after all - it had been too good to be true to believe that steady
dependable Milner, the most trustworthy man in his team, was actually
willing to... in spite of his excitement, the Egyptian still couldn't
quite say it to himself. He'd wanted to try fucking a man for about a
year now, and yet his lust was matched by his terror.

So, he thought, maybe James lied, but if he did, he supplied an exciting
alternative...

Harvey looked up at him, eyes hooded, and lips almost sneering as they
slid off the big fat mushroom head of his circumcised cock, drool
trailing from that pink helmet to his parted lips and over his furry
chin. Mo stared briefly and intensely at him, then shoved his fingers
into that shaggy mop and pushed him back onto it, impaling the long thick
monster and its veiny shaft into that hot wet mouth, just as he'd done
so regularly for a while. He'd kept a safe distance from Elliott for a
while, ever since the arrogant teen had bested him in that European
hotel, and briefly pushed him into... ugh, reciprocating, getting his
first awkward taste of- Forget it, he'd been mad with lust, and he
should never have slipped and given in to the teen's demand. This, he
thought, was back to normal, the English boy on his knees with a
mouthful, and Mohamed looming over him, his king. Dominating him like
he'd once dominated Trent, who now barely looked at him twice.

But when he looked up, letting out a louder and fuller groan, he saw that
James had moved off the bed. The bulky older man was stood beside it, and
removing his dark grey t-shirt in a slow peel, inching it away from the
impressive physique that kept the 37-year-old playing top-flight football
well past average retirement for their profession, powerful and ripped
enough to make even Salah envious. Off went the top, twirled briefly and
tossed away, and still Milner smirked knowingly at him. Down went the
grey sweat-shorts, and Mo looked briefly at the juddering spring of the
released cock, glad somehow that it was not quite so long or impressive
as his own, but then keen to look anywhere but at it - he certainly
wouldn't be teased and tricked into tasting another, god-damn this kid
and his beautiful lips running down Mo's cock.

He shivered, really satisfied by the work of the tongue on the head of
his cock, and he couldn't help but push both hands down to grip
Harvey's face into his crotch, gritting his teeth and maintaining eye
contact with Milner as he forced the 19-year-old to deep-throat him that
little bit longer and deeper, then releasing him in a flurry of gasps and
chuckles, and clearing his own throat emphatically.

Naked, James was back on the bed, up on his knees, stroking himself
gently, and casting his eyes about for something. He found it, and he
reached away, bending over to fetch something, and treating Mo to a
side-on view of his muscular sides and flexing limbs, and then, for a
great moment, a proper view of his big arse, glutes so intensely muscular
that they looked like something from an anatomy textbook, and a hairy
darkness disappearing between them. Then James was turning back around,
still on his knees, and holding a little tub of vaseline in one hand as
he looked this way and winked.

Harvey's mouth was closing back about his cock, but he pushed his face
unceremoniously away, and took hold of his own heavy hard-on in one hand.
He lunged forward and, unfazed, the teen helped him out of the drooping
pyjamas, allowing him to climb naked over the foot of the bed and to join
the older hunk on the sheets, staring him down and making ready to claim
what had been promised. `Keen,' remarked Milner simply, and Salah
ignored him, pushing one hand roughly into his broad chest. `Bend
over,' the striker snapped imperiously, breathless with urgency. James
just grinned and complied.


`You can't just go in for it,' Harvey said, pulling himself up onto
the bed. `You gotta try a finger or two first, it won't go in
otherwise.' He said it sagely as if a man of great experienced, dragging
himself across the duvet and hovering beside them, red-faced with
excitement and rock-hard in his boxer briefs now he'd shed the grey
sweatpants too. He crouched there in pants and socks, right beside the
action, and staring insistently at a frowning Salah. `Go on, try a
finger,' he urged eagerly.

`Lad's right,' Milner grunted. `I'm tight, for fuck's sake - this
isn't gonna be like mounting your missus, Mohamed. Gotta start slow.
Show him, Harv.'

The invitation didn't need to be offered twice. Shaky with horny energy,
Harvey muscled in next to the powerful kneeling figure of the other stud,
and he slapped a cheeky hand against one of James' big hard glutes. He
snatched the little tub of vaseline and smeared it onto one finger, then
poked it into Milner's hard crack, smearing it over his whole and making
the man laugh then moan - he nudged his elbow into one of Mo's muscular
arms and grinned conspiratorially at the beautiful Egyptian icon.
`See?'

He was elbowed aside with the same mindless dismissal as the end of the
blowie, but he laughed confidently and recovered, hunkering down next to
them, more than happy to watch as Salah lubed up two digits and dug them
into Milner's backside, making the Yorkshireman groan deeply and go red
in the cheeks as he looked over his shoulder. Fucking hell, this was
amazing. Harvey shoved a hand into the front of his Diesel boxer briefs
to play with his cock and balls, and he let his eyes rove every bare
muscle of the scene.

The teen was in prime position to watch all of it. The way Milner dragged
his powerful athletic body into doggy style, hands and knees on the plain
duvet; the eager smirk on the older bloke's face, repeatedly looking
over one bulging shoulder, and also staring this way, winking secretively
at him, perhaps turned on to be watched! The cautious jerkiness of
movement from Salah, positioned behind him, frigging his bum-hole with
two fingers when Harvey would have tenderly started with one, and wanking
off his impressive prick at the same time, a perfect North African god
about to go wild. Harvey couldn't stop himself but get more involved: he
pawed at James' backside on the way down and pushed his face over the
washboard abs to suck on Salah's cock again, bobbing up and down on it
and using his mouth to keep him hard while he explored his first man-hole
with those fingers - there was a bit of Harvey that couldn't help but
wanna feel them in him, but the only thing he remembered about losing his
virginity was the pain and regret after, and the teenager was adamant
that he wasn't gonna try it again, fuck no.

Yet again, he was yanked by his hair and pushed aside, though a bit less
firmly. Mo was nudging forward, taking hold of James by the hips. Fuck,
yes. Harvey groaned and muttered his encouragement, pushing his pants
down his furry thighs a bit, and tossing himself off rapidly, spitting
down onto it for lube. On his knees like the other two, hunched forward
slightly, a rabid voyuer right now, Harvey wanked off and panted over it,
watching as the king of Egypt angled his big helmet between those firm
cheeks and into the greasy lubed crack, rubbing and pressing it into the
hole. He was too hurried, too imposing, he thought, unsure that Mohamed
was up to his - but also appreciating how clueless and clumsy he'd been,
drunk that night, needing every word of advice and instruction from his
muscular mentor who was now replacing him with a bigger star. He was too
aroused to be jealous.

He was also wrong: Salah was hurried, imposing, but he was so powerful.
In it went. Milner coughed and swore and blasphemed, but he took it, his
glutes parting. In it went. Mo's face was an absolute picture of unholy
bliss, eyes almost closed and lips quivering open. He threw his head back
as he edged forward, his clock sliding slowly into the tightest hole it
had ever experienced. Fuuuuuck. Harvey almost came there and then, but he
stopped himself, holding his hand still on his prick, and shuffling side
to side to admire them both, reaching out his other hand stroking the
power of Mo's arm, and then James' back, and then giving in and jerking
frantically off.


Milner breathed deeply in and out, composing himself and bracing against
the initial pain; he felt less relaxed and in control of it than when
guiding clumsy Elliott through the job, but he also felt horny and
triumphant. It wasn't just scratching his own itch and having his tight
hole stretched - it was the successful temptation of this godly prude,
whose distress and conflict he had quietly observed ever since they first
discussed the naughty influence of the same horny teen who was wanking
hard next to them, eyes agog.

For a while, James remained on elbows and knees, bracing himself against
the slow powerful shoves with which Salah's thick equipment entered him,
but then he needed to change it up and be more comfortable. He could hear
and see the disappointment of both the 30- and 19-year-old for a few
moments as he moved his body away and turned, but then he flopped himself
onto his back and parted his legs, lifting them up with fingers pressed
under his hairy thighs. Mo moved quickly in, directing his cock like a
weapon, and Harvey shuffled too, up against the headboard so he was
basically wanking over his side and shoulder, sweat appearing on his face
and in his curly fringe.

With a begrudging chuckle, Milner reached up and played with his balls,
then took his cock in hand to jerk slowly, making the teen whine and
groan appreciatively - all while Milner's hole stretched once more to
accommodate the clumsy push of that big North African tool, Salah bearing
down over him and unable to make eye contact, just concentrating on
breaking in and filling up his arse, then trying to find some rhythm,
pumping his monster in and out of him, all three of them sweating and
groaning, the bed starting to creak.

Harvey got over-excited and tried to push his cock closer, trying to rise
up and direct his crotch at his face, but Milner was having none of that;
he shoved him in the midriff and laughed, and focused instead on lifting
and parting his big legs more to give Salah better access. He smirked at
Elliott but shook his head. `Nah, I don't do that,' he grunted firmly
at him, and gave the youth the cold shoulder, instead just focusing his
attention on Salah. `Fuck me harder,' he growled at the young forward.
`Fucking pound that hole, mate.' Out of the corner of his eye, he could
see Harv looking snubbed and awkward, but shiny with sweat on his smooth
chest, and jerking his dick like a madman; but he swivelled his eyes back
to meet the dark serious gaze of the Eygptian, and he nodded, `That's
it, Harder, fuck me properly - I'm not some bitch you have to be careful
with, Go for it!'


Salah's mind swum with desire and recrimination, but he didn't let the
doubts stop him. He ploughed into his first man, unable to believe how
good and tight anal felt on his mighty cock, and finding some special
satisfaction in overpowering a man as mighty and impressive as Milner
still was. Harvey was like a fly to be swatted, pushed away when the
arrogant keen got too close or tried to touch his arm, his back, his own
bottom; pushed away, and yet tolerated, an audience to his dominance, and
the beautiful lips that had woken his cock up for the task at hand. When
next the 19-year-old moved excitedly in, he grabbed him in an almost hug,
and pulled that head in to kiss appreciatively on the crown, only to then
shove him quite roughly away and apply himself more ferociously to
fucking James.

He withdrew, panting, and forcibly encouraged James to turn over again.
Not back into doggy, but face-down on the bed flat, so that he could lie
fully on top of him and bury his cock between those cheeks, slamming down
on him and dripping sweat on every inch of his broad neck and back. He
forgot all about Harvey then, just powering down, and feeling his cock
get more intense pleasure than ever in his mouth, even that first hot
summer night with his teenage lodger crawling into his bed and risking
everything.

Next, he lifted James up, helping the heavy muscles forward and against
the headboard, and he fucked him harder and faster, bodies tight
together, humping bunnies at a frantic speed, really baking the hotel bed
wince and squeak under their knees, only to slow down and flop over onto
their sides. Side-on, he pulverised Milner's arse with the juddering
rhythm of his hips, fucking into him at an angle that made it feel all
the better, and beginning to moan very loudly as he felt his stamina give
way and climax approach. He was distracted briefly by making eye contact
again with Elliott, who was stood to one side of the bed, his face pink
and shiny, and his hand pumping his cock like a machine, the poor lad
looking like he might pass out from forgetting to breath. Again, he made
the perfect audience, and his earnest stance was the final straw.

`I'm - gonna - ugh-'

Milner pulled roughly away from him at that warning, yelling `Not in
me!', and so Salah collapsed onto his back and held his cock at the base
it twitched and throbbed and then exploded thick cream all over the
golden-brown of his toned tummy. He closed his eyes and convulsed against
the sweat-damp sheets, gripping his cock in both hands, spewing cum over
his knuckles and hairy wrists, and into the grooves of his six-pack. He
cursed and swore and flinched, knowing he had sinned deeply, and unsure
how he would face his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

For a few elastic moments, the 30-year-old forward lay in a vague daze,
head swimming, but then he became aware that he was hardly alone, and
that the others still occupied the bed. He brought his clammy hands up,
smearing cum on the pillows, then dragging his palms over his hot face,
and drumming them onto his waxed pecs, before planting them to the bed
and pushing himself up to look between his spread hairy legs.

Harvey was lying down on his back and facing away, his head crowned by
that halo of curls, positioned between Mo's spread ankles. The muscular
little teen stretched on down the bed, but only parts of his pale strong
body were on show, because - fuck - James Milner was squatting over him
and bouncing up and down, jerking and bobbing in a way that took dazed
Salah a long hazy minute to understand. When he did, he felt a surge of
envy, but his cock was floppy and leaking and not up to fucking anyone -
instead, he just panted and stared, and watch Milner ride Elliott's
cock.

And then, shivering uncomfortably, he dragged himself off the bed and
lurched away into the en suite, desperate for a cold shower.


Harvey lay there in ecstasy, fucking his mentor again, but in no way in
control of the situation. The weight of the hunk pinned him to the bed
and even without that, he had Milner's huge paws pressing down on his
arms, while that strong arse rode up and down on his tender cock, which
had been on the verge of shooting from the moment they climbed atop the
bed.

He was imprisoned by the bigger man's strength, but what a prison to be
in. He had no sense of Salah's proximity or exit, and certainly not the
sound of a guilty cold shower; he could only stare up into Milner's
masterful face and the sight of his twitching pecs, or the bulging
muscles of the arms that pinned him; and he could feel every movement of
that powerful body, bouncing up and down on him with a hole loosened by
Salah's equipment first.

Only one problem with this devastatingly brilliant position - he was so
breathless that he couldn't get a word out of his shaking pink lips. He
just opened and closed his mouth, a sweaty outline against the bedding,
unable to lift his hands to hold and treasure the arse that rode his
sensitive cock. And as he mounted towards orgasm, he couldn't even get
out of the scream of pleasure that started in his six-pack and welled up
into his chest. It just came and exploded, and then must have been
totally evident on his blissful face.

`Fuckin' hell, lad - nah, really? Shit - you could have said - oh
FUCK-'

The pressure on his cock and the weight on his body departed, his eyes
blinking slowly open and shut, too high on pleasure to fully register
Milner's approbation,  the fact that he'd spunked inside his Liverpool
daddy. He lay there, cock dribbling, and his whole body as shattered as
he'd just fallen from a great height. His brain tuned in and out of
Milner's ranting voice, and then he came to properly just in time to
roll onto his side and watch the big Leeds bloke march angrily into the
en suite bathroom, clutching his arse cheeks behind him.

Dazed, the teen slid off the bed, still in his gym socks, and he pulled
damp sweaty hair away from his brows. It was like a farce comedy: no
sooner had Milner exploded into the bathroom, swearing his head off, but
Salah was emerging, shivering in a small towel and with a haunted look on
his face as he raced past. In the en suite, James was still grunting and
shouting in annoyance, now about the temperature of the water as he hosed
himself down and cleaned his arse; but Elliott just stood there with a
cocky smirk on his sweaty lips and a little drop of cum hanging from the
tip of his own young rod. Well, he thought, that had been almost as
insane as tonight's goal.

Quietly, he plucked his items of clothing from where they had dropped,
glancing over to where Mo Salah muttered to himself in a frenzy whilst
drying down his cold body, and James Milner came marching through the
bathroom door, wagging a finger at him. `What'd I tell you?' the older
man demanded furiously. `Just - don't - cum in me - okay? For fuck's
sake, Harvey, you gimp...!'

He grinned sheepishly at him, unable to find an apology, and just swayed
away, wrestling back into his t-shirt and letting it stick to the sweat
patches on his back and his chest. Up went the sweatpants, his fading
erection obvious in the pale grey. `Right,' he slurred, ignored by the
two angry men. `I'll leave you to it.' And out he went, giggling to
himself as if he was drunk, because the interview was replaying in his
mind - but not with insecurity and self-evaluation as it had earlier, but
with irony and daft puns. `Millie telling me to shoot,' he sniggered on
his way down the corridor, letting the room door slam behind him and
forgetting to worry about the curfew, `more like the fucking opposite!'

And off he went, happy with himself and glad he'd taken Salah's
seconds, but vaguely unsure either of the imposing older fellas would be
keen to play with him again in future. Didn't matter, he thought
impetuously. He was the team's Star-boy, the future of this bloody
football club. He was a hot sexy young alpha and he'd fuck who he
wanted, and those two could whinge and repress themselves all they
wanted. On he strutted back to his room, picturing what he'd witnessed
and then experienced, and absolutely convinced that he was the biggest
stud in the whole of England.




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