Date: Sun, 5 Feb 2023 12:49:49 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 348

Part 348: Rematch


It was hardly the first time the two Premiership sides had faced off in
the past two and a half years, but it was the first time in a while that
he'd found the professional reunion quite so difficult to blink
impassively away; filing past each other on the way out of the tunnel,
his opponent in the crisp blue kit of Leicester City, whilst his own gear
was layered under the warm-up tracksuit of the Aston Villa subs bench. As
always, the Foxes winger carefully averted his eyes as the two young men
passed close to each other, suddenly very busy untying and retying a
drawstring on his footy shorts, and then leaning down to examine the
laces of his boots, anything but glance up and share the standard nods or
handshakes of acknowledgement shared between opposing players at this
point. And, as always, the Villa defender himself was pretty happy to
strut on by, his body language stiffening, and his mind flashing back
briefly to October 2020, and the close encounters that had set the two
up-and-coming players at odds with each other. A bad tackle on the pitch,
and a worse one in the stadium car park.

Ordinarily, it was just a moment's discomfort and hazy regret - how many
times had Aston Villa come up against their Midlands rivals in the league
and the cup since that October weekend between national lockdowns...? It
was a memory that Matty Cash had increasingly learnt to suppress and
ignore, and laugh at internally, even if bumping into Harvey Barnes
through their competitive sport also gave him a jolt and a little colour
in his cheeks. But ordinarily it would pass in moments and the
25-year-old could just focus on his game time, shrugging off the fact
that once upon a time a scuffle between them had gone in a strange
direction and given him paranoid night sweats for the rest of the month.
Ordinarily.

Today, taking his place in a comfortable seat at the edge of the home
pitch, the Slough-born Poland national found it difficult to relax his
6ft1 body and tune back in to the quiet muttering of his fellow
substitutes, and instead watched intently as the Leicester starting
line-up first formed a discreet huddle of discussion and then began to
take their places on one side of the Villa Park pitch.

For almost 60 minutes of the Saturday afternoon game he was stuck on the
sidelines like this, the inactivity allowing him to wallow in recurring
images of the memory: the aggressive tackle of his own that had
instigated everything, and the rough scrappy dog aggression of the
Burnley lad who'd pulled him aside and squared up to him; the brief
silly fisticuffs and bloodied lips between them, and then the
inappropriate and totally unwanted kiss that Harvey Barnes had landed on
his own shocked lips. Matty's memory always honed in on his own words,
angrily spitting back at the weirdo that HE should be the one to get on
his knees - it had been Harvey who made it weird and sexual or whatever,
but Cash could always hear himself spitting angrily back at the short
lad, and then pushing him roughly down and taking everything out on his
mouth. His mouth. Swaddled in tracksuit and puffer coat, the
country-swapping World Cup upstart shivered, and turned anxiously to the
men on either side of him to see what they were discussing, anything to
lift his mind out of a memory from over two years ago.

To his left, Calum Chambers was chatting quite contentedly to John McGinn
about their plans for tomorrow, attention leaving the game behind, and on
his right, Phil Coutinho was speaking rapid Spanish to the newcomer
Moreno, pausing and faltering when they caught Matt's eye, and
immediately apologising for being rude. He tried to laugh off the
language barrier and shrug casually at the Latino men, conscious yet
again of his limited languages skill - he'd been assigned as a welcome
buddy to Alexandre Moreno, the club's January signing from Real Betis,
and tried his best to befriend the new left-back, only to find that the
newcomer's English was even worse than his attempted Spanish, and to
have to be replaced in the job by Coutinho here. Though Spanish was not
the South American man's first language, he was clearly a lot more
broadly spoken than the average Englishman. Not a big deal, but Cash had
been chuffed to be asked, and seen it as a chance to start proving he was
captain material.

And of course, these days language barriers and feeling lost in
translation were pretty regular experiences for the English 25-year-old,
from every Poland training session to his promotional TV appearances in
the mother country of his maternal grandparents. He was still getting
regularly roasted here at Villa with impressions of the Polish TV
Christmas advert he'd recorded, with various gobbledegook outbursts
lampooning his handling of a complex new language.

After a short mumbled exchange to include him, the Brazilian and Spanish
players went back to quicker discourse in their native language, Coutinho
sounding quite aggressively critical of the manager's decision to leave
them on the bench - the former Liverpool icon had been fiercely loyal to
the ill-fated Steven Gerrard in his tenure, and made no secrets of the
fact he'd only signed for the mid-table Birmingham club to honour his
retired teammate. Though he'd yet to secure a high-profile transfer out
of Villa Park, he was quietly vicious about the coaches and management
now, and it was a bit worrying that he might be passing such attitudes on
to the newbie.

This left Matty feeling out of place next to them, and reflective about
how often he'd been in this position since his 2021 passport grab for
his Polish roots. And this, he reflected, was probably the reason his
mood was a bit off today, and why his eyes couldn't stop picking Harvey
Barnes out of the football melee, and thinking back to when they'd both
been just 22, and full of youthful aggression. A memory that Cash had
long been able to file away as a freakish one-off had been brought back
front and centre, and he was pretty sure he could blame it on the
language barrier...


After all, he thought, he must have misunderstood something that day,
shortly before Poland were knocked out of the World Cup, otherwise he
wouldn't have ended up in the sauna with them. Probably Robert
Lewandowski had said something a bit more clear to him, and he'd
misunderstood: the international star striker had oddly become his
closest ally on the team, since media exposure and league-flitting had
given the experienced 34-year-old a better grasp of English than the
majority of their teammates. But even big Lewy slipped casually from
English to Polish, often jokingly trying to educate and encourage him by
emphasising key Polish expressions to him, and laughing a bit less
resentfully than others when he struggled with the pronunciation.

Thinking back to that tense afternoon before their last game, Matty now
suspected that the Barcelona forward must have said something to suggest
what was going on, had maybe warned him or tried to sound out his
readiness, and he'd missed it. On Poland duty, the Slough lad had
quickly fallen into a habit of just nodding and smiling, always desperate
to convey his pride and pleasure to play with them, and his determination
to represent this ancestral country, even if some critics in the Polish
FA wanted to sneer at his loyalty-switching in order to get into
international footy.

At the time, though, Cash had just thought it was another standard part
of the training recovery, another way for the team members to relax and
gather strength before the following day's knockout match that would end
their Qatar run. And, he mused uncomfortably, in a sense, it was.
Certainly for Lewandowski, he thought, it was a great way to relax and
gather strength, and... maybe for him too. But for Zurkowski...?

In a way, this memory from late November was dimmer than that of October
2020, the aggressive intimacy that haunted him right now at the
Villa-Leicester game. This more recent memory was awash with thick steamy
air and the heady euphoria of the whole World Cup debutant experience,
every day of it a new adventure for the full-back. One minute he was
accepting Lewandowski's invite and nodding eagerly at the other 6ft1
man, then undressing with him and a few others, who were all laughing and
bantering in their shared language, Cash barely able to take hold of a
key word or phrase. And then they were all sat in the wood-lined sauna in
their towels, and still there was much hearty laughter and chatter, and
most of it directed at midfielder Szymon Zurkowski - there seemed to be
an in-joke between the blokes that he couldn't follow, and one that made
the midfield player squirm and blush and do a lot less laughing than
everybody else, though his apparent discomfort soon turned out to be a
kind of feverish eagerness, when the first of the other blokes undid his
towel and flicked it playfully at Zurkowski's sweaty chest.

When Szymon then began to get down on his knees and wrap his mouth about
Jan Bednarek's soft prick, Matty must have looked shocked and horrified,
his mouth hanging open and the rivulets of sweat coursing down either
side of his face. One large calm hand rested on his thigh, gripping him
lightly through the dampening towel, and Robert had just given him a
friendly expansive look. `You want to be next?' came the striker and
captain's simple question, and Matty had felt entirely out of his depth,
lost in the Polish chatter of these other footballers, overwhelmed by
heat and sweat.

He didn't know what he'd said to Lewandowski in that moment, if he'd
said anything at all, but he knew what he hadn't said: `Oh, sorry old
chap, I think I misunderstood what was going on - we don't do this sort
of thing in England, you see, so I'll just go take a cold shower and-'
Nope. None of that. A moment later he'd been gently parting his huge
thighs and pressing his back fearfully into the wooden slats of the wall,
looking down into Szymon's shiny face, and hearing the gruff encouraging
laughter and slurred speech fo the Polish men around him, and just a
couple of words of English from a beaming Lewandowski: `Relax, enjoy it,
haha.' His cock was taken between the hot lips and when he'd peered
nervously down his gleaming torso, it wasn't Szymon Zurkowski he
pictured gobbling on his nervous semi, but a pink-cheeked redhead from
Lancashire, and the distant memory had become a lot less distant.


For a short while, the hosts led 2-1, a goal from his best pal Watkins
being seconded by a Souttar own goal; but then Maddison's effort was
joined by three more from other Foxes players, and the final result
arrived at a dispiriting 4-2 defeat. Try as he might, Cash couldn't make
any impact in the final third of the match, and he lost his footing a few
times when midfield action brought him into awkward contact with a
particular winger; the first few times he and Barnes went head-to-head,
he fluffed it, far too self-conscious to play at his most aggressively
defensive, but then on the fourth encounter, close to the final whistle,
he went in very over-excitedly for a heavy tackle that might earn an
instant red card, but was so stupidly physical and bullish that he went
crashing down over the turf instead while the ginger lad sped away with
the ball and almost assisted a fifth Leicester goal, while Cash was
wiping mud and grass off the taut arse and thighs of his Villa home kit
shorts.

Moments later, Barnes stalked past him, his face blotchy red and his eyes
wild, and the two 25-year-old players looked sharply at one another for
the first time in over two years, rather than the awkward politeness of
ignorance that they had always opted for in the tunnel for two whole
seasons. And Cash himself stared back, still adjusting his shirt and
shorts, sore and grazed from the way he'd slid to a fall, and his heart
rate spiking excitedly as he thought back to the pugnacious intimacy
they'd found against a concrete pillar in the shadows of the car park.
But then the final whistle was going, and the moment was broken, Harvey
shouting excitedly and running to join the huge pile-on celebrations of
the other Leicester players, whilst Matty could only trudge slowly in
towards the consoling hugs of the defeated hosts, waving apologetically
to their fans before disappearing sadly indoors.


In the sauna of their Qatari hotel, he'd gripped a rough hand over the
back of Zurkowski's head, cheered by the three other men for this
dominant gesture; Lewandowski had clapped him roughly on the back and
shook at his shaggy wet hair, calling him a `Boss' and a `King' as he
thrust up with his hips and fucked Szymon in the mouth, returning to the
scrappy violence of that day two Octobers ago. He'd cum quickly, his
entire body overheated and quivering, and he'd had to blink the sweat
out of his eyes several times to see who it was reeling away from his
crotch, lips glossy and dirty, seeing the earnest blond lad, coughing and
choking, and not the angry features of the Burnley bugger. Spent and
overwhelmed, Matty had poured back against the wall and clutched hands to
his head, ashamed of the red mist that had descended over him, but
surrounded by encouraging laughter and noise from the big men of the
Poland squad, who fully approved, and even Zurkowski, dazed and still
coughing, was slapping one of his big thigh muscles and saying one of the
few Polish words that he could use with confidence: `Thanks.'


The sauna incident had sort of vanished into the rush of new experiences.
The next day they were defeated and almost immediately preparing to leave
Doha. There was much pride and joy in the Poland camp even at this
defeat, lots of self-congratulation for making it so far, and there was
so much for Cash to enjoy - he hardly had a moment to reflect on the
sauna episode until he was enjoying a few days off on his own, lingering
at a nearby beach resort and soaking up a little more Middle Eastern sun
before returning to bleak UK winter. But even in a deckchair with a
cocktail and no football excitement to distract him, Matty found himself
unable to form a proper thought about what he'd been encouraged to do;
if he'd felt so inclined, it was almost as if he could have happily just
written it off as an odd dream, and dismissed it as fiction. There had
been no oddness between him and Zurkowski in the final game or the team
goodbyes, nor with Lewy or any of the other senior players who'd also
enjoyed their turn in that steamy box; no oddness or even the slightest
acknowledgement.

No serious thought or worry on that beach, nor on his flight to
Birmingham International, nor as he returned to training with Aston
Villa; not a thought over Christmas or New Year or for the entirety of
January 2023, and now this. The first Saturday of February, losing 4-2 to
Leicester City, and... here he was, marching down a broad windy street of
different chain hotels, hood pulled up and beanie pulled low for
discretion, reading the big neon signs to find the right accommodation
that had been named in Harvey's message.

It was the Poland experience, he told himself again, that had made today
different, made it harder to ignore Barnes or the madness they'd once
shared. That was why he'd sent the first DM on social media, sat
shrouded in towels in the home locker-room, and ignoring the slew of
positive messages from his own friends, family, and fans. `Thought you
were gonna start on me again for that bad tackle - sorry bro' followed
by a crying-laughing emoji, thrown hastily into Barnes' inbox before
either time had even exited the Villa Park stadium; there'd been no
quick reply, and he'd even wondered if his opponent had sensibly blocked
him in the years that had passed. (He certainly hadn't blocked him
immediately; back in the winter of 2020, Cash had received any number of
vague reacts and half-formed messages from the Lancashire lad via the
same app, never actually referencing what had happened, but seeming to
beg for his attention, and usually sent in the small hours of the
morning.)

But later that evening, whilst Matty was at a big meal with his
girlfriend and her family, the replies had started to come through.
First, the series of ROFL images and gifs, and then the `As if you could
bring me down now' and `Put on a lot of muscle since then' comments,
to which he could only LOL and send back his own gifs of some braindead
gym bloke flexing and posing. Distracted from being the perfect boyfriend
at the Thai restaurant, Matty had found himself taking too long in the
loos, stood over the urinal long after the last drop of piss, composing
the next short message to the lad he'd fought with, and really unsure of
where he was heading with his comments of `We've both grown up since
then' and `I'd still have you whimpering in a corner, haha'.

Now, in the chill winds of the central Birmingham street, he paused and
shivered despite the layers he wore, and wondered if he should be in the
car home with his girlfriend. She'd looked furious when he
apologetically told her he had to meet the lads for a conciliatory drink
after such a harsh defeat, but she'd kinda understood. And, he told
himself, it wasn't even a full lie: Martinez was hosting a party of
sorts at his city centre penthouse, a few blocks away, so at least he
hadn't invented the occasion that he'd ditched her for, after failing
to make much chat during the dinner with her folks and siblings. Sure, he
wasn't actually heading there, but still...

Instead, he was looking up at the logo and signage of the right upmarket
hotel, the last on this block of similar buildings, and then reopening
the messaging thread with the Leicester player, checking that he wasn't
getting the wrong end of the stick. `U up for a rematch?' was the
message from Barnes that had made him pause only a moment after using the
phone to make contactless payment on the restaurant bill for everybody,
and it hadn't really moved much past this euphemism and innuendo: `I'm
feeling pretty cheeky - you should come put me in my place' had really
got his cock semi in his ripped skinny jeans.

Now, stood out on the pavement, the 25-year-old defender thumbed in a
cautious last message to the winger. `Wot bout ur roomm8?' He paused,
device in both hands, wrinkling his nose and biting his lip, and glancing
side to side as if someone was going to catch him loitering outside the
Leicester City hotel base on a Saturday night. I shouldn't be here, he
reminded himself, I shouldn't be digging up this nonsense. But Qatar...

`Not here,' pinged the reply on the messaging app, then `Just me'. A
moment, and then, `U outside? Think I can see from window'. And,
inevitably, Cash looked warily up, his eyes scanning the inscrutable rows
of tinted windows that towered over the entrance, none of them showing
him anything. He shivered again and hesitated. He could switch apps and
summon a taxi and follow his missus home at speed, saying he'd changed
his mind and felt bad; fuck, he could even just walk on a couple of
streets more and be at the Martinez party, if it was even still
happening...!

But the memory haunted him now, the memory that he'd totally buried
until today, after the initial regret and anxiety that it had caused him
two winters ago. He thought of being in that sauna, grabbed and
encouraged by a football icon like Lewandowski himself, his towel being
pulled aside for him by somebody else, and Zurkowski's gently opening
mouth... Fuck.

With a long huff of breath, the Villa player bundled himself in through
the automatic doors and across the foyer of the hotel, letting himself
into the first of the elevators before anybody could spot or recognise
him. On the swift journey up to the right floor, he felt sweaty under his
clothes, and he had some instant regret; the floors he was travelling to
would be full of Foxes players, and how easily would he find the room
that Barnes had named for him? What was he after here? A fight, or a
blow-job? For a moment, his memory focused uncomfortably on a different
element of that close encounter, remembering how shuddering Harvey had
grabbed and tried to snog him before being forced to his knees, and it
made him queasy with internalised homophobia. There'd be none of that...!

But the lift doors were opening on the sixth floor and it was too late,
he thought, stepping out into the corridor and then following it quickly
to the left, tracing the room numbers and triple-checking the message
from Harvey before he knocked on the wrong one. But when he found it,
darting his grey eyes back and forth down the endless Shining-esque
corridor, the correct door was actually open by an inch or two,
apparently waiting for him - he wasn't sure why this little touch gave
him a shudder of transgressive excitement, but it did, and he lost some
of his nervous indecision, though the sweat remained in his pits and the
crotch of his Ted Baker boxer briefs.

Inside the hotel suite, Cash shoved the door shut firmly behind him, and
stared heatedly ahead: there he was, the ruddy features of Harvey Barnes,
currently stood pouring a miniature rum into two glasses of cola, his top
already off to expose the surprising muscle definition of his upper body,
and baggy jogging bottoms drooping from his slim waist. He looked up, all
pink cheeks and shifty eyes, and smirked a greeting. `Hey, Mr Poland,'
he remarked against the icy tinkle of poured alcohol.

Matty went to speak but found his mouth dry and cottony and just a dim
gurgle came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for a
really gruff and assertive voice. `Hey, scrappy,' he said, taking
another couple of steps into the room. `Do I have to pop your lip this
time, or are you just gonna get straight on your knees?' He could hear
the needless violence in it, sounding a little hollow and forced, but he
also felt excited by it, his cock twitching inside his trunks and denim.
He grinned his wolfish grin at the other 25-year-old footballer, stood
tall and bulky in his layers, and watching Harvey's gently blushing
features and toned upper body muscle. And then, like a bucket of cold
water over him, was the sound of a toilet being flushed, and a jaunty
whistle, alarming him to the presence of another City player - the
roommate he'd briefly worried about, denied and dismissed. His
suggestive smirk turned into a furious glare, fixed anxiously on Harvey -
what kinda stunt was this punk playing on him now?

`Oh, here he is,' chimed the third voice as it entered the room, and
Matty glared suspiciously that way; out of the adjoining door slid
another shirtless figure with a pretty ripped upper body, loose joggers
of a dark shade of grey still worn, and an open beer bottle clutched in
one hand while the other adjusting the crotch of his pants. `Took your
time, didn't you? Ginge here has been fuckin' buzzing all night,
waiting for ya.'

The Villa and Poland defender blinked and boggled and didn't know what
to say to the shirtless Jamie Vardy, the Premier League legend waltzing
casually over and pausing only to take his free hand and give Barnes a
good spank across the rump, then coming right up to Cash and squaring up
to him, somehow an imposing figure at 5ft10. The 36-year-old striker gave
him a lewd grin and scratched lightly at the impressive abs that cut
across his midriff, seeming to assess him with a long look up and down.

Cash coughed slightly and took a short step back, then stared from
Vardy's leering face over to Barnesy, who was holding the two glasses of
rum and coke. `What the fuck?' was all the Aston Villa player could
think to say, losing the aggressive edge to his tone, and just sounding
as lost and unsure as he really felt. Harvey smiled a weak smile at him,
and gestured forward with one of the drinks, as if that would make
everything okay.

But older Jamie was laughing. `Oh, relax,' the Sheffield-born striker
chuckled. `The ginger cunt is still gonna suck you off, big lad. He's
been going on about it since we checked in.' The ageing Prem player
rolled his eyes and tittered like a frustrated parent or older brother.
`You have to give them what they want, these young pups, otherwise they
get very angsty. Like back when he was getting into scraps with nobheads
like you, haha, before I... tamed him, if you get me.' Another nasty grin
from Vardy, and then a fresh chuckle. `Suppose you actually thought the
whole team was crashing here, did ya? You know Leicester is an hour down
the road, you mug? I booked this suite for Princess Harvey here, just so
he could get your cock between his lips. You must feel honoured.'

Cash stared stupidly at the older man, trying to take all this in, and
then looked again at the nervously grinning Barnes, who'd moved closer
and was pushing the glass of rum and coke into his shaky hand. `Here,'
Harvey said quietly. `Get a bit of that down you.' And then the ruddy
Burnley lad giggled a bit, and moved away to sit on the one huge bed.

Slowly, Matty took the glass and took one slow slip, his eyes following
Harvey and then snapping back to stare challengingly at grinning Jamie.
`Right,' he said slowly. `So-' He was determined to sound chilled and
confident, even if he was weighing up the decision to flee the room and
scamper back into the lift - `what are you doing here with him, old
timer?' Some remnant of the assertive confidence he'd felt sat beside
Lewandowski returned to him - he was a World Cup star! `You gonna nosh
me off too, grandpa?' he quipped at the 36-year-old, taking another sip
of the rum drink, and undermining his bravado as the strength of the mix
made him cough and splutter a little.

Vardy just laughed lightly at this and moved away, swigging from his beer
and grabbing the crotch of his joggers. `Nah, not today,' the goal
machine told him. `But you see, Harv here is kinda mine, if you know
what I mean, so he only gets to suck other cocks if I'm watchin'. That
alright with you, Polski?'

Matty didn't know what to say; he didn't know what he felt. He
definitely still felt worryingly horny, that same aggressive urge that
he'd felt when they fought, and again when he was in the sauna and the
surprise had sprung on him. But he also felt like Jamie Vardy's presence
shone an ugly realistic light on what was happening, made it something he
wouldn't be able to shrug off and dismiss - he was struck by a very
clear and prescient thought that he wasn't going to be able to walk out
of this hotel quite the same lad who'd stumbled into it, one way or
another. Hmm.

Lewandowski was so chill about it, he reminded himself, and Bednarek, and
Bereszynski - and Zurkowski himself, grazing his knees on the sauna
floor. And now, really making his head spin, here was Jamie Vardy,
another married fella, as blokey as they came in the English football
top-flight, and he was... his words spun about in Matty's head, the
possessive way he was referring to Harvey, the casual way he'd stood
there grabbing himself in his joggers, and now... his eyes bulged as he
followed Vardy to the bedside, where the 5ft10 striker stood over seated
Barnes, reaching down to stroke his face quite tenderly, before pushing
two fingers into his mouth and allowing the young winger to suck quite
hungrily on the digits, Jamie's fingers and thumbs rubbing over his
tongue and lips very suggestively, then prising his mouth open to lean
over and let a small drop of spit fall into it for him as a treat.

Cash was horny in spite of himself, increasingly hard in his skinny
jeans.

`Well,' Vardy said, `are you gonna take your coat off, pal?'

`Please stay,' Barnes said, more quietly and quite nervously. `You
promised you were gonna teach me a lesson, Matty.' He licked his damp
lips, hunched forward slightly in his shirtless pose, while his face was
stroked by Vardy's wet fingers and then pushed playfully side to side.
Next to him, the striker was reaching inside of his joggers and then
pulling it out, his equipment - Matty just stood there and watched as the
long semi was flopped out and then fed into Harvey's willing gob, making
Jamie purr and chuckle.

Almost unconsciously, Matty moved forward, and began to follow his
hosts' suggestions: off came the designer coat, shrugged away and
falling to the carpet, and he pawed next at the thick expensive hoodie,
wrestling with it until it was off and on the floor too. Only a thin
print t-shirt remained, clinging to his lithe muscle as he stepped in
close to them at the bed, and took a grip of the hard outline in his
skinny jeans.

`That's it,' Vardy sighed, and it sounded like a moment as if he was
just praising Barnesy, but he winked this way. `Get your kit off, Villa
lad, this one is so horny for ya. Honest, he was leaking pre-cum on the
bus up here, for fuck's sake - how long has it been since he sucked you
off, eh?'

Cash was hardly about to reminisce about the finer details with this
opposition player who had been part of Leicester's afternoon win, but he
was gripped by taboo desire and he was fiercely jealous of the way the
other man's cock was being tended to. He reached down to undo his belt
and flies, licking his lips, and making aggressive eye contact with
Harvey's bright blues. Instantly, those pouting lips were slurping away
from Vardy, and gaping open for him. `Fuck yes,' whined the winger.
`You gonna fuck my mouth again, Matty sir?'

The extra little `sir' did it for him, making Cash almost frenzied as
he yanked his t-shirt up and off, joining the other two men in baring his
smooth defined chest and six-pack, his skin notably more olive-tanned
than their pale Celtic skin. His breathing was heavy with anticipation
and he pushed his jeans down a few inches, grabbing his big hard-on
through his dark grey undies, then pulling it out and free, pointing its
heavy veiny shaft towards Harvey's gaping mouth and rolling tongue.
Fuck, yes.

In just a few moment's time, the jeans were about his ankles, and the
25-year-old defensive stud was lounged quite comfortably on the hotel
bed, propped up at the shoulders by an array of cushions. He stared down
the hard-earned muscles of his torso, into the shaven stubble of his
crotch, and the sight of his glistening wet erection; Harvey's mouth
moved up and down it, spitting on the head and shaft and then tonguing
all over it, really slow and sloppy and indulgent. This wasn't the quick
rough action of last time, he thought, this was something else, and he
just lay there, ready to enjoy it. He still shook with nervousness that
he couldn't hide, but his cock knew what it liked, and fellatio had
always been top of the list; and Harvey was SO GOOD AT IT, pausing now
and then to stoop lower and give his heavy balls a good suck too, the way
his girlfriend never would!

`Fuck,' moaned Barnes sluttishly, `you taste so good.' He was a
chatty bitch, and his greedy comments did even more to turn Cash on,
knowing how eager this lad was for him - it was mad to think that perhaps
the ginger git had been fantasising about this ever since October `20,
all the time that Matty himself was trying to forget it...!

And then there was Vardy, too, whose presence... well, kinda made things
more exciting, even if that shouldn't be the case. Cash had been
horrified to find him here, and yet... well, the older man seemed to get
so much voyeuristic pleasure out of this, and just like every slutty
moaning comment from cock-hungry Barnes, the dirty grin on Vardy's face
and the way he now stood wanking beside them, it just highlighted the
seedy thrill of it all. So Harvey was now the striker's bitch,
apparently, and yet Jamie was letting him have a turn on this hungry
mouth? None of it quite made sense to horny Matty, but it was driving him
wild, making his balls twitch as if he could already empty his load, and
he had to brace himself not to go sliding down that path to climax
already. He reached down and gripped his cock to wank it more
conservatively, only letting Harvey swirl his tongue about the head and
foreskin instead, his clammy hands rubbing up and down the fuzzy insides
of Matty's mighty thighs.

`Fuck,' growled the 36-year-old, `that's it - lick it good,
Barnsey.'

`Mmm,' Cash joined in awkwardly, `you've got better at this, fella!'

`Fuckin' hell,' grumbled Barnes himself, `I need your load on my
tongue!'

For a moment, Matty thought obscurely about his girlfriend, perhaps
arriving home right now and sulking at his absence, and the fact he was
gonna have to lie more to her when he got home, his cock dirty with
another man's saliva. He didn't care - he hadn't told her about what
happened in the Qatar sauna, had he? Everything at the World Cup had been
in its own bubble, and he'd barely even thought about Zurkowski's mouth
as cheating...! He looked at Vardy and thought about his famous
(infamous?) wife of his own, how casual he must be about having his
lad-on-the-side - it must be a thing, he told himself, for proper
big-time footballers like him and Lewy. Why shouldn't Cash enjoy the
same luxury...?

Staring at the tightly muscled physique of Jamie, he couldn't help but
let his eyes slide down and note just how lengthy the older bloke's
piece was, pumped furiously in one tight fist, its tip shiny wet. God,
the dirty bastard was really turned on by sharing his slut, huh! Matty
stared for a moment too long at the wanking, and averted his eyes, but
found them connecting instead with Jamie's face, which was leering his
way now instead of down at the bobbing redhead over his crotch. Matty
moaned irresistibly and broke awkwardly eye contact with the horny
voyeur, horrified that Vardy might have caught him looking too long at
his long prick - the ageing striker was wheezing out dirty laughter, but
was it at the sluttish wet motion of Harvey's mouth, or at his own
wandering eyes?

`It's okay,' grunted Jamie placidly in spite of the angry red of his
chest and cheeks, stopping in the frantic wanking of his cock. He lifted
one knee up onto the side of the bed, moving in closer to where they lay.
`You can look all you like - take a pic if you want it.' He yanked
slowly and teasingly on himself and Matty's eyes were briefly drawn back
to it as the centre of attention, making him baulk.

`Fuck off,' he said back, forcing out a matey laugh, and reaching one
hand for the back of Barnsey's head, taking more control of the oral
service, getting rougher with him like he had before, but not quite
feeling the same mindless aggression - he was distracted and confused,
and Vardy was inching closer, up on his knees on the bedding next to
them, looming over at the left, pulling slowly on himself and drooling
spit down onto it as lube. Barnes at least was oblivious, face-down in
Matty's crotch, gobbling down on his thick Polish sausage.

Vardy's eyes were seeking his, full of the authority and mischief that
defined him, and Cash found it hard to look away. The striker was a
charismatic guy, he really was, and there was a bit of him that thought
he might be more turned on by the legend's attention than by the
sensation of pushing his thick tool into Barnesy's throat; hadn't he
felt something the same in the sauna, sweat dribbling down his muscular
body? Lewandowski was a pretty powerful alpha, one of the top dogs in
European footy, but there he'd been, grabbing at him and encouraging
him, and pushing Zurkowski into his crotch- but nah, he told himself, a
mouth is just a mouth, a blow-job felt good from any slut willing to
offer it, that's all...!

`Go on,' murmured the Leicester icon hoarsely. `Grab it.'

He did, he couldn't stop himself. With his left hand, and at an awkward
angle, he reached up for it, the striker leaning so close at his side. He
moaned as he did, because Harvey's mouth felt SO GOOD on his cock,
sending shudders all up and down his 6ft1 frame, whilst his hand closed
tentatively around the warm stiffness of Vardy's long but slender tool.
He gave an experimental tug on it, then looked up to meet the older
fella's smirk; he chuckled awkwardly at himself and let go of it, wiping
the hand instinctively on one of the strong lean thighs of the slim
ripped striker, cringing at what he'd done.

`Felt good for me,' sniggered Vardy, giving himself a good tug, `even
if you didn't like it.'

Cash moaned again, unable to stop himself: Barnes was licking and
mouthing at his bollocks again, wanking a hand up and down the wet shaft
as he did, and it was bringing him closer and closer, no matter how he
braced himself. And at his side, Vardy was pressing closer, sniggering
and smirking, and pulling slowly but firmly on himself, edging it closer,
and hoisting his body up so that one thigh jutted over Matty's shoulder.
Too close.

`You know you want to,' sneered the Leicester ace.

`Want what?' he puffed back through his moans of pleasure, but he knew.

It hovered close to his face, shiny at the tip, a strong curve of muscle,
and he was transfixed by it like the prey of a hypnotic cobra. Closer it
came, and his eyes rolled up, meeting Jamie's. That dirty leer, the
chuckle escaping his pursed lips. The compact power of his 5ft10 body,
still all muscle at his age, refusing to let go of his prime - but what a
fucking legend, Matty thought, a working-class hero whose career every
young footy lad had enjoyed. His cock all hard and excited for him, and
right there.

`Suck it,' urged Vardy, and Barnes must have caught this, because the
attention to Matty's cock stopped for a moment. But he couldn't fully
make out the ginger lad's expression of amazement, because he was
glancing up and down between the striker's lewd smile and the pressing
stiffness of his cock, inches from his face. `Give it a try, mate,'
urged Vardy in a tense whisper. `Just a little taste, Polski.'

`Go on,' urged Harvey's thick accent.

`Shut up and nosh him,' snapped Vardy powerfully.

Matty ignored them. He closed his eyes and let his head lean to one side,
pressing down into the bedding with one elbow. He let his lips part
cautiously and he stuck his tongue out a little. He inched very carefully
and he felt the hot damp tip of it reach his mouth, rolling against the
tip of his tongue and his lips. It tasted salty already. He pulled back
slightly, but then opened his mouth forward and edged forward, testing
his tongue against it, taking some of it into his mouth, excited by the
heat and stiffness, and gratified by Vardy's instant loud moan overhead.
`That's it - good lad - just a taste, see what you think, good lad!'

He gagged a bit at the feeling of more inches of it in his mouth, and he
pulled back; but he couldn't, because one of Vardy's hands was on the
back of his head, keeping him there, and then pulling him in a bit,
making him choke on it, filling his mouth with it, hitting the back of
his throat and making him splutter. His ears filled with Vardy's
dominant laughter and the pressure released, allowing him to pull back
and gasp and cough, the salty taste remaining on his tongue; his own cock
was being lavishly sucked now and his balls tickled and stroked, and he
knew he'd cum any moment.

`Knew it would be too much for ya,' teased Jamie. `You're a total
newbie, huh?'

Something in the mocking tone hit the right note of challenge for him.
Matty gripped a hand more securely about the base of the older man's
dick and held it tightly, then pushed his lips awkwardly about the tip
and took about half of the length in, rubbing it over his tongue, and
hearing the instant happy moan from him. It tasted and felt weird, but he
loved the heavy `Ugh mmmmm ugh mmmm!' that sounded from the king chav.

But he couldn't keep up this second attempt, had to pull back, even if
his hand remained about the base of the weapon. His mouth opened in a
silent cry and he felt the convulsions of peaking excitement. Between his
big thighs, Barnesy groaned and gurgled, getting a creamy mouthful. A
cold sweat flushed across his torso and legs and Cash felt dizzy with the
pleasure and wildness, staring at the cock in his hand, all glistening
wet with his own spit, and then anxiously up the ripped torso towards
Jamie's dirty grin. `Good lad,' he echoed softly, pushing his hand
away to wank it himself, edging it forward as if Matty should open to
receive it, but he pulled his face away, unable to hide the wrinkling of
disgust, mad at the thought of putting it in his mouth again, but aware
that it had helped to push him over the edge of his excitement.

`Fuck,' Barnes groaned, `you taste good, mmm, let me lick it all...'

But Cash was pulling away, wriggling over the bed with some difficulty
since he couldn't properly moved his legs, jeans wrapped at the ankles.
He wiped his mouth hurriedly on the hairy back of a forearm, and he
glared disgustedly at Vardy, then more ambiguously at Barnes, then went
skipping off the side of the bed too quickly and tripped over his own
ankles and went down to the carpet, more or less naked for their
enjoyment. In a second he was up again, steady himself and dragging the
pants and jeans up his hairy legs, his hard-on bouncing as he did and
flicking a few last drops of cum away from the angry red tip. His face
was redder, and his cheeks glossy with fresh sweat.

`Did my boy get a good mouthful?' Vardy cooed, and when Cash look over,
he saw that Harvey already had his mouth full again, pulled over and bent
down to his master's crotch; there was still something in the
25-year-old that felt thrilled and dominant, but he also felt repulsed
and light-headed. Still struggling with his pants, he muscled around the
bed and past them and into the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold
water on his face and chest, the air thick with Vardy's moans and
Barnesy's slurps.

`Good lad,' the Leicester striker was purring, but for a different boy
- Cash thought about how much he'd like hearing those words from the
older player, and cringed. He rubbed more cold water between his palms
and rubbed them across his burning face, then through his hair. Fuck,
fuck, fuck. His cock still throbbed uncomfortably in his undies, and he
finished buttoning up the flies of his jeans and re-buckling the belt.
When he moved back through into the room, Jamie was on the bed with
Harvey, cuddling and spooning him, and giving a good grab at his rounded
bottom.

`Where are you going?' called one of their voices, or both of them, as
he made for the door, but Matty ignored them, yanking on his t-shirt and
just bundling the coat and hoodie under one arm, desperate to be out in
the cold February winds. All he could think as he hurried through the
quiet hotel was how dumb he'd been to believe that the Leicester team
were here, given the proximity of the two Premiership clubs; but then he
was thinking about the implications of this, that both Barnes and Vardy
had made a special effort to get at his cock like this, and that the
whole suite had really just been booked to host his hard-on and let him
empty his big Polish balls. The thought almost made him hard again
already, ambiguously semi and sensitive in his skinny jeans, as his
elevator descended through the hotel building and led him out into the
cold drizzle. For a sweaty moment, he considered actually getting to the
party, wondering how many of his teammates were enjoying a drink still,
but a taxi passed by, and he hailed it with frantic gestures - all he
wanted was to be home with his sexy girlfriend and enjoying her body, and
putting his dirty mouth to a more heterosexual purpose. Half an hour
later he was tonguing at her clit, thinking about anything but cock, and
apologising to her when he couldn't actually get his dick hard for the
main event - blushing as he made his excuses, telling her anything but
that he'd shot his load in a lad's mouth.


By the time the 25-year-old turned up at the Sunday training and recovery
session a short journey from his suburban home, he was feeling quite
chipper - like the sauna incident before it, the three-way encounter in
the hotel suite felt like a fever dream, so separate from real life that
it could be compartmentalised and, perhaps, forgotten. When Barnes had
chowed down on his cock years ago, it had really troubled him to begin
with, so much so that he'd had to turn to Ollie Watkins for advice and
have the brash forward convince him that these mad things could happen,
but not to worry about it - as if to confirm the wisdom, Watkins and he
had jacked off side by side in the car one night, somehow confirming that
neither lad needed to worry about his sexuality. And so Cash had laughed
it off and buried it, and never wasted a moment worrying about it until
yesterday. But this could be the same, he thought, stepping out of his
car on a crisp bright zero degree morning - he'd been tricked into that
nonsense with those two blokes, that's all!

Plus, he told himself as he checked in at reception, if anyone had seen
the way he'd selflessly pleasured his girl to orgasm after orgasm in
their bed at midnight, then they'd know full well how hetero and
female-oriented he was! Jesus Christ. So what if he hadn't been able to
penetrate her? He'd drowned in pussy juice and let her ride his face
until she was screaming, then fingered her in between fits of
cunnilingus.

A confident smile beamed from his goateed face, red-brown hair slicked
back, and slapping at friendly high-fives with each teammate who he
passed on his way into the locker-rooms to get ready for the light
water-based pool therapy that would begin their day. In the locker-rooms,
he pulled off his own loungewear, confident in his tall athletic body,
and changed into the pair of colourful Dior swimming trunks, a towel
folded neatly over one broad shoulder as he made his way into the heated
space of their indoor pool.

One by one, members of the Aston Villa squad were splashing their way
into the water, those who hadn't played yesterday showing a little more
energy and enthusiasm, whilst the bulk of the team were lolling at the
edges of the pool or still seated nearby, more interested in the physio
rub-downs that would be going on before lunch. Cash strutted through it,
glad to get a few compliments and his contributions to the game
yesterday, even if he hadn't helped anyone reach the goals that might
have equalised. For some reason, the 25-year-old just felt happy and
confident, and he didn't want to confront that his ego had taken a boost
from the attention of two men.

Rather than leaping dramatically into the waters like some - McGinn had
just bombed into the centre of the pool and caused some unrest to those
who were splashed - he grabbed onto a steel ladder and descended more
gracefully into the showers, briefly grimacing at the cool temperature
but then beginning to stretch out his limbs one at a time.

`Hey,' said the voice of gigantic Tyrone Mings close by, and he
returned the greeting to the 6ft5 centre-back, getting on with his own
preliminary stretches, but letting his vision drift over the rippling
water to check exactly how his colleague was preparing. The thing about a
man of Ty's stature, he thought idly, was that this shallow end of the
pool barely met his waistline, and it made the big confident lad's black
speedos all the more visible, dipping over and under the surface of the
water as he did some leg stretches - for a dazed moment, Matty found
himself looking at the big dark bulge as it surfaced and sunk at
intervals, and then he had to shake himself and look away, letting out a
small private laugh - that big fucker's fault for wearing stupid skimpy
speedos, he thought.

But then the former Villa captain wasn't the only one to opt for the
skintight smaller trunks, he noticed, his eyes wandering again: his own
best pal Watkins was strutting along the poolside in a similar pair, dark
taut nylon over the caramel brown of his hips and thighs, strutting
confidently towards the same ladder that had led Cash into the water.
Ollie paused at the top of it and waved his way, clearly glad to see him,
and stupidly cutting a muscle pose for a moment before deciding to eschew
the ladder and leap into the water more freely. For a moment before he
leapt, Matty's eyes traced down the 27-year-old's six-pack and tried to
decide whether Ollie filled the speedos as well as Ty did - the answer
was no, but it was still very confident of him to swagger about wearing
so little.

Into the pool he crashed, and the splash of cool water made Matty check
himself, mildly concerned that he'd taken any seconds at all to glance
inspecting at either of the other football players nearest to him. Daft
lad, he told himself severely.

`Everything all right?' demanded his other buddy, Calum Chambers,
patting him on one wet shoulder as he waded past. A friendly smile
through the light brown beard of the 28-year-old, and Matty nodded
vaguely; before the other defender had shuffled past to find space in the
water, Cash couldn't help himself. No sooner had he peered under the
rippling surface to clock what swimming trunks the former Arsenal man was
wearing, than he was looking wildly away in any other direction, calling
himself a stupid dick-head for wanting to see anything down there.

Flustered and fidgety, he splashed cool water up into his face and
blinked away the sting of chlorine, stretching each of his powerful legs
up so that his heels touched his buttocks, and staring around the large
indoor pool - but everywhere he looked, of course, were undressed
athletic guys, submerged or exposed to various levels as they played
about in the pool-water and awaited instruction from the recovery coach
who was to lead this aqua session. It was an exercise Cash had been in
many times before, a common feature of post-match recovery - god, he
shared locker rooms with his teammates week after week! Just keep your
eyes to yourself, dickhead!

Increasingly uncomfortable, Cash manoeuvred himself to a slightly more
remote position in the rear left corner of the pool, blinking his eyes
furiously and trying not to think about bulging speedos. Or, he thought
briefly, that odd salty taste on the tip of his tongue. `Good lad,'
sighed a voice at the back of his mind, and he winced, rubbing a damp
hand across his hot flushed cheeks.

The slappy footsteps of flip-flops dragged his attention to one side, the
two last squad members approaching his corner to join them in the water.
Closest to view came the confident strut of the team's Brazilian ace;
like Mings and Watkins and others, the 30-year-old attacker came
strutting forth in speedos, but not the conservative black skimpies worn
by Ty or Ollie. These were obnoxiously bright in Brazilian colours, and
they squashed a compact but overt mound at the front between his inked
thighs. In he hopped, taking a swift elegant plunge into the shallow
water and darting past where Matty lingered, relieved that Coutinho's
impressive compact body of Latino muscle was disappeared beneath the
water and away from him. Bright red in the cheeks, Matty cursed his odd
mood and wandering thoughts, and glanced awkwardly at the final entrant,
who had paused just behind Philippe, and was lowering himself hesitantly
down the short ladder face-first.

For a moment, Matty caught eyes with the last-arriving player to the pool
physio, and earned a bright warm smile from their Spanish import. He was
oddly glad to be greeted so warmly by Alex Moreno, having failed to
strike up any rapport with the 29-year-old left-winger. The older lad
fixed this charming grin on him very briefly as he gripped the rails and
lowered his body down to the water - unlike inked show-off Coutinho, this
Spaniard had gone for a relatively loose-fitting pair of coloured shorts,
more like Cash's own casual trunks, and yet... it apparently didn't
matter what this latest Aston Villa arrival chose to wore for his pool
session, because the red-and-blue striped trunks sagged heavily at the
front, a huge and visible mound accentuated even further as they tautened
about his thighs on the way down, bulging obscenely in a way that made
Matty realise subconsciously how many times he'd noticed it in shorts or
trackies before.

But then Moreno's loaded shorts were gone beneath the surface like
everybody else's, and the heavily-tanned defender was wading in next to
him, greeting him with a heavily accented `Good morning' and then
looking a little worried as he searched his vocab for another phrase.
Instead of helping him out, Cash backed away a little and turned to stare
away across the pool, his face burning scarlet, and his shorts straining
a little around his mid-morning erection.

Somewhere close by, one of the gaffer's second coaches was shouting out
some initial instructions and telling them what they would be doing, but
`Good lad,' growled the voice in Matty's head, and he pictured himself
opening his mouth for imperious Jamie Vardy - oh, fuck.




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