Date: Mon, 20 Mar 2023 20:39:00 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 353 Part 353: (Dis)allowed A Friday night fixture like this would often involve an overnight stay, but the bosses had decided that getting straight back up the East coast was a better plan, and nobody in the winning squad was in opposition; few of the well-paid football players who relish a bland shared hotel room on the outskirts of the East Midlands city of Nottingham, when they could be delivered to the edge of Newcastle and arrive in their various luxury accommodation, even if it was in the small hours of the morning. The mood on the main player coach was one of muted celebration, tiredness battling with the high spirits - not so long ago, the travelling Newcastle United squad had been in full chorus of excitement and enjoyment, following their recent tradition of marking every win like it was some tournament finale, urged by Howe to face every match with that ambition and passion, even if it was just a Friday night scraped win over Forest, one that had gone right down to the wire with Isak's second goal in the 3rd minute of extra time. It had almost been a different kind of 3pt outcome for the Magpies, though, and this fact was especially evident to one of the lads that climbed aboard the bus, freshly showered but a little hot and already sweaty under the dark tracksuit that covered his 5ft10 body. He clasped the handshake with the gaffer and received a hearty slap to the back, congratulation for his second-half shift and his almost-goal, then hurried aboard and directed down the aisle to find his place with a cursory pat on the bottom, the usual odd tactile laddishness of their sport. 20-year-old Elliot Anderson had almost opened his Premiership account with a headed goal that could have carried Newcastle to victory, until it was disallowed and he was robbed of his exciting moment - sure, the rugged young midfielder had been proper chuffed for Isak to get another and the game to break deadlock at 2-1... but he'd be way MORE chuffed if his own bold effort had pushed them over the edge and closed the deal, and there was something a little deflating in that knowledge, clambering down the aisle of the coach and fingering at the headrests for balance. Disallowed or no, Elliot kept getting the credit for his overruled goal, now on the vehicle as much as on the pitch or in the Away quarters of the City Ground. Just like the sweaty muscular hugs as the team posed for their latest victory photo, the walk down the bus now was accompanied by grabs of his arms and yelped encouragement from a host of teammates, more experienced blokes who were all like encouraging big brothers to the local lad who'd broken into the first team in spite of the incoming talent. On his way towards the back of the coach, Anderson was met with a tight earnest handshake from the Brazilian passion of Bruno Guimaraes, half-lifting off his seat to power the grip and tell him that his moment was `destined' to be around the corner, his face briefly serious before breaking into the more typical expression of gleeful enjoyment that made the central player so endearing; just past him, also occupying a pair of seats to himself, the forward who he'd replaced on pitch raised a fist of a salute at him and told him in syrupy French that he'd been `robbed' tonight, before Saint-Maximin leaned the other way to get comfortable against the cushion at his window; and perhaps more enthusiastically than anyone, Dan Burn and Sean Longstaff jostled and punched at him from either side midway down the coach, fellow Geordie lads who knew like he did that football was religion on Tyneside. It should clear the disappointment, the Whitley Bay lad told himself, this endorsement and support from his cheery mates, and he was even pretty sure that the support would be as rich and vocal if the game had ended 1-1 and his failed goal had been the only shot at dominance. But the deflation that Elliot felt was internal, his own competition and ambition, his own craving for moments of glory that would set him up as... well, the next Shearer, he dared to think, as devoted to the sacred idol of that Newcastle old boy as ever, even after the rather profane experiences at his Gosforth mansion earlier this year. `To Newcastle!' boomed big Dan Burn's voice shortly behind him, still loud and alert even if many of the other squad members looked wiped out; `Aye, out of this shite-hole!' Longstaff agreed very eagerly, setting up a great laugh across the bus and a series of terrible impressions of the guys' North East accents by some of their honorary Geordies. Anderson laughed at this but was glad to be out of it, his own coastal dialect a regular source of banter from the South American and European men on the team, having to join Big Dan and Longy in explaining various colloquialisms to astonished Bruno and sceptical Sven Botman. He was to take up one of the two-seaters right at the back of the coach, glad that the players and entourage were spread across two buses to allow such space, and thinking that he was likely to kip for the three hours or so that would carry them home. He unhooked the backpack from his shoulders and pushed it up onto the overhead space then swung his sturdy body into the window seat, stretching out his limbs as best as he could in this limited space. There were still a few guys getting on this coach, although Elliot could see the other vehicle starting up and leading the way out of the windy car park; he rested his head to the window and brought up one achey knee at a time to slide off his chunky trainers, releasing his thick-socked big feet and making himself more comfortable. It was pretty warm so he wriggled out of his jumper too and rolled it up into a cushion that he could jam between his warm face and the cool glass. In front of him, cool-as-ice Swiss defender Fabian Schar was taking a seat in the next double, pausing to smile respectfully over the headrests at him and offer a little silent salute of approval before sinking down to get into his own comfortable position for the trip; across the aisle from him, spare goalkeeper Martin Dubravka was already in place, but ignoring them as he spoke on the phone to his family in his own native Slovakian. And here came the team's somewhat displaced captain, and one of tonight's several unused subs, big Lascelles, who was also on the phone, clearly speaking to his wife about dinner that was being set aside for him - into the other side of the back seat he piled, and Anderson just nodded deferentially to the big bloke, still very aware of the guy as a leader, even if his appearances this season were minimal, the position more or less ceded in the new regime. Lascelles was an impressively committed player though, Anderson thought, very conscious of the older man's influence and motivation even from a backgrounded position, and also his recent outing against Man City to fight for his space on the first team. So that was the youth's company at the rear end of the coach, which grumbled now into movement, but it didn't really matter - it had been a long process getting organised after the game, with everyone too busy celebrating to hurry their showers, and a good number of beers shared out in the changing rooms from a cooler-box, and so Elliot was as zonked as anyone else, ready to just fall quiet and drift into fitful traffic sleep until deposited at the north end of Newcastle, ready for a taxi to the coast. To that end, he was just about to pull his strong legs up onto the seating and slump into his corner, feeling the heavy throb of engine through the cushion and support, when grazed knuckles gripped the edges of the free headrest in front and a fifth figure joined them at the back of the bus - it was the de facto captain of the top 4 hopefuls, grinning down at his way and swaying slightly as the bus eased its way through Nottingham traffic. `How are we doing back here?' Kieran Trippier asked, in a generalised way, but his smile and sleepy eyes fixed decidedly on Anderson himself, who gave a quick nod and lifted a hand in greeting to the skipper; after all, Dubravka and Lascelles were on the phone, and Schar had slipped into one of his aloof quiets - Elliot found himself stifling a yawn so wide that it looked like a deliberate effort to dismiss the grinning skipper, but asking back, `You all good, chief?' The simple question was taken as a sort of invitation. In the same club tracksuit, Trips came lurching in and dropping into the seat next to him, over which Anderson was slightly spread; he pulled back with stiff politeness, adjusting his slouched angle into the corner, and staring vaguely at the 32-year-old Manc bloke, who could be napping up front or making a call to his own missus. `All the better for a win,' Kieran told him. `Sure,' Elliot agreed. `The feeling isn't getting old.' `Would have been even better 3-1,' his sort-of captain told him firmly, turning partly this way and planting a supportive hand against his shoulder. `That's not a dig - I just wanted to tell you how fucking great that header could have been. Disallowed, for fuck's sake. Don't take it to heart, kid.' Sure... They'd already been through this, he thought, with the bare tattoos of Kieran's chest on show as he cornered him in the locker-room to share his own frustrating experiences of having goals discounted in similar circumstances - Trips and half a dozen others, all giving him the benefit of their wisdom in the aftermath of the win. Not that patient, respectful Elliot resented or distrusted any of it - he was eager to learn - but he was a bit confused at why he was getting it all over again from the right-back, and why his older teammate was making himself comfortable in the spare seat that should now be allowing Elliot to lounge out and find a sleepy position for the next few hours. In front of them, Schar was quiet enough to perhaps be asleep already, and he realised that Lascelles had finished his call already; glancing past Trippier, he could see the hulking figure of the official skipper turning in against the far window, getting as comfortable as he should be. In the background, the often harsh sound of Martin's Slovakian was a low murmur as he spoke on to his wife, and then Anderson tuned back into what he was being told. `Before the season is out,' Kieran Trippier was predicting, `you'll have bagged that goal and got off the starting blocks, fella.' `Sure,' he agreed, his voice a little slow and low with the fug of tiredness. `Big career ahead of ya,' Kieran insisted, lowering his voice, and elbowing at him from the side. `Sure hope so. Like yours, skip. I mean - something like that. Hopefully a lot of seasons at St James Park apart from anything else.' He shot an earnest smile at the older man, pinned here between his open thighs and the coach corner - trying in some vague weary way to signal his lack of conversational energy with the senior man, who had a similarly laconic air about him, but had chosen to come swaggering back here to speak to him anyhow - perhaps the chat at the front of the coach was just boring as fuck. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to query that, but just blinked slowly and tried to relax about it - he should just be glad that the captain continued to take such a supportive interest in him. A hand fell against the swell of his thigh muscle, and though it was a fairly innocent-looking pat, it was more than enough to make Anderson pause and consider that... supportive interest. That had been some night at Shearer's, he mused, in the early weeks of the year, and in the glorious optimism of the Carabao Cup, long before Man Utd stole the silverware from under their noises at Wembley Stadium. So much drunken enjoyment, and then... for a moment, blinking his eyes, the 20-year-old was back in that dark sultry lounge room of the big Gosforth house, and it was just the three of them... Kieran's hand didn't quickly leave his leg, and he looked down at it... the casual drape of the hand, those grazed knuckles and scuffed nails, resting there at an angle a few inches north of his knee; he looked at the bumps and thickness of the wrist above it and then the cuff of the tracksuit jumper, and he followed the hidden tattoos of that arm up until he was looking Trippier back in the face, and studying the lazy lopsided grin on those thin lips, the air of mischief in the ocean-blue eyes. It was, he considered, the same look of brewing trouble as at the end of tonight's game, when the skipper had toyed with Forest, mind games and shithousery as he fake-prepared for a penalty that would be handed over - successfully - to Isak instead. A low grunting laugh of sorts from the defender, twelve years his senior. `What's that look for?' challenged Trips, quietly. `Nowt,' the young Geordie grunted back, his freckled face one of frown and uncertainty - the hand was still there, but he shouldn't read too much into it. They were at the back of the team coach, for fuck's sake. `It's okay, is it?' he was asked. `Me, havin' me hand here, eh?' The grin deepend, and so did the little lines about those blue eyes. Elliot kept his face as impassive as he could, meeting Kieran's playful stare with his own bold apathy. He wasn't sure what else to do, although it was tempting to yank his right leg inward and push on the limited gap between their coach seats. Instead, he found himself twisting his head a little to look past Trips - yeah, Lascelles was definitely trying to get into a comfortable position and set sail for naptime, his big heavy form draped across both parallel seats, just as Anderson would quite like to be. `You're not going to... disallow it?' the 32-year-old chuckled next to him. Anderson shot quizzical eyes at him, hesitantly intrigued. `Come on,' he grumbled back very quietly, the edge of a laugh in his own accented voice, `very funny, chief, but-' `Wonder if I'd be allowed to move my hand up a bit?' Trippier breathed, and the placement of his hand on the thigh became far less casual, a bit more of a squeeze as it shifted just a fraction up the leg, making Anderson's physique tense into the backrest. Again, he stared more at the hand, taking in the finger details of the rugged defender's digits where they spread over the fabric, and over his own bulging muscle. `Sure you're allowed,' the 20-year-old found himself muttering. `Dunno why you'd want to.' They were speaking quietly, but... well, Fabian was just in front, a simple backrest away from him, stooped against the window in the same awkward lounge as Jamaal. And Dubravka's quiet voice was absent now. Three other senior players so close by, and here were the two of them, side by side in the corner, and Newcastle's plucky leader stroking his hand gently up the curve of his right thigh, smirking at him without saying anything for a moment. `Good to know,' Kieran told him coolly. `Wonder what else I'm allowed.' His hand, creeping up the broad platform of the resting thigh, went an inch too far, its journey seeming destined for the crotch, then stopping just short, tantalising, and sliding back down again, squeezing at his upper leg. Anderson realised he'd been holding his breath and he let it out in one ragged sigh, glancing between the offending hand and the freckles and lines of the 32-year-old's playful features. `Mate,' he coughed slightly. `You said this was allowed?' `Huh. Erm.' `You're gonna smash plenty of goals in, lad,' the Mancunian defender informed him, as if that was still the topic in questin - and now his hand was just patting at Elliot's upper leg in a very casual manner, and he was left feeling kinda foolish, as if the homoerotic tension of the moment was just in his imagination - but NO, he thought with an ambiguous shudder, that shit in Shearer's place had really happened, and- The pat turned into more of a squeeze, and then the hand left his leg after all. For a moment, it seemed as if Trippier was tensing to get up and hoist himself between the seats to march off down the aisle to wherever he was meant to be - but nah, not that. He was reaching further across, his hand passing momentarily over Anderson's crotch, but landing on the OTHER thigh, high and just on the inside of it, stroking and squeezing him there. The space between their seated bodies was narrower. He felt even more warm beneath his black tee and his leg-hugging sweatpant trackies. `Is this allowed...?' There was something of a challenge in Trips' face, behind the innocent grin. Anderson stared ambiguously back, genuinely unsure what to say or do, but clinging to the aloofness or disinterest this might imply. He wasn't just thinking about Shearer's; he was thinking about what Ryan Fraser had done, crouched between his legs in the darkness. He'd been quietly relieved when the diminutive Scotsman was sidelined into NUFC's b-team, training with the under-21s where Elliot himself might belong if he hadn't impressed the right coaches at the right time. He hadn't liked the way Fraser looked at him across the training ground sometimes, his line of vision dipping a little too low. A little too low, and right at the point where Kieran's hand now, quite abruptly brushed, finally crossing between his legs, and loitering against material without quite making contact with the vague outline there. Elliot's chest rose and fell and he stared down his front. Kieran's hand shuffled and left his crotch and was back on his right thigh again, where it had begun. He coughed uncomfortably. `Dunno if it was allowed there,' he mumbled honestly. `No?' growled the skipper. `Hmm.' Up his hand came, glancing over the crotch area, and catching instead at the fabric over his tummy - `And what `bout here, mate...?' He pulled gently on the material of the lad's t-shirt and lifted it just enough so that he could reach in and stroke just his fingertips across a thin band of exposed skin, making goosebumps spread rapidly all over Elliot's body. `Hmm,' he breathed uncertainly. They were on the bus, he reminded himself; this couldn't go far, the captain was just TEASING him, that was it. He set his jaw and looked more confrontationally at the man next to him. `I suppose I'd allow that,' he said, keeping his voice deep and quiet, and staring the other man down, trying not to quail against Trippier's laidback smirk and quiet self-assurance. He was hardly the most imposing of defenders or team leaders in the Premier League, when you compared him to some of the other big names on the pitch, a slight 5ft10 and very compactly built - and yet he was a big presence all the same, a much-admired deputy to their beloved manager. And, Anderson thought, he was hard to look at and not think about the shady lighting and sticky leather sofa of Shearer's study; hard not to picture the satisfied grin on the grey-flecked stubble of Big Al's face when they are all done and finished, the little wheezing laugh from their legendary senior. Kieran's fingertips tickled at the bottom of his tummy, reaching under the front of his tee; he felt the defined ridges of his six-pack stroked at their lower end, and one finger circle about his belly button. The older man's hand was rough and warm on his skin and, in doing this, the right-back had leaned in even closer so that their shoulders rubbed, and he was getting big lungfuls of a manly expensive eau de toilette. `Allowed for now,' Elliot grunted. `But you should probably stop.' `Probably should,' Kieran agreed in a thin sigh. `But not sure I'm gonna.' As he spoke, down went his fingers, his body turning a little so that his left hand had some leverage; down it scooped, out from the warmth of the t-shirt and creeping in against the waistline. Pushing at first the soft thick waist of the sweatpants and then at the taut elastic underneath - not yet invading the lad's underpants, but making his leg muscles tense even more against his seat, and making his cock and balls throb expectantly inside the tight black Diesel boxer briefs that were already dampening with sweat. `Fuck,' the 20-year-old hissed; his feigned indifference and coolness was dissolved, and he was sure that Trips could hear the thump of his heart in his bulky chest. `Mate - what are we doing?' he asked weakly, the tips of Kieran's fingers toying against the grip of the elastic, nudging into the waistband very slightly. `We're...' He shuddered anxiously, knowing that even as he pointed out the risk of the wandering touch, he could be alerting the attention of the other nearby players, tough Fabian was hardly staring back over his seat, and there was no remark forthcoming from Lascelles or Dubravka, so... Kieran also dropped his cheeky smirk, the smile on his face looking warmer and more earnest, even as his fingers crept in, tickling against the short bristles of Elliot's trimmed and re-growing pubes, but not dipping in far enough to touch his chubby semi. `Need you to know you're a big lad on this team, with a big future,' murmured the Manc bloke. `A real big lad.' Now his hand went in properly, inside both layers, and cupped about his cock, taking soft hold of it - when Anderson looked down, he could see the mound of the groping hand bulge up obviously in the dark sweatpants, and see the strong arm that emerged from there and up his front. He turned his face and grimaced nervously into the encouraging smile that split the captain's rugged features. `And getting bigger...?' `What if...?' The question trembled unfinished on his dry lips, because the Geordie lad couldn't think through the consequences, never mind articulate it. The Slovakian goalkeeper alone would probably beat him black and blue in disgust! Not to mention the big rugby-built centre-back who could still claim the captaincy, or- but fuck, his cock felt so good in Kieran's fingers, and he didn't think he knew how to say an emphatic `No' to the older man. After all, how could he convince Trippier of what was so blatantly obvious, that this was mad and dangerous...? Trippier's hand came out of his underpants and he couldn't help but sigh in disappointment - but a moment later, in went the other. The right-back leaned in now properly and his left hand, the one that had teased him into this, came up about his neck and onto hsi far shoulder, hugging him side-on, and Kieran's right hand came over to rub the crotch of his pants and then slide into them. `Feels like I'm allowed to do this?' Trippier muttered, giving his cock a long stroke inside the stretched undies, then jiggling the folded resting position of his heavy shaven balls. `Mmm.' Wide-eyed and shaky, Elliot stared at him and nodded. `Yer allowed, man, but-' Out came Kieran's hand again, but only briefly. He spat on his palm, quietly but heavily, and brought the slicked hand back against the fattening length inside Elliot's sweats. He sat there, pinned in position by nervousness and the physicality of Trippier's presence, feeling the muscles of his left shoulder kneaded by one hand, and the other teasing and stroking him inside his clothes. The 32-year-old's body heat and perfume overwhelmed him in this warm comfortable corner of the coach, and the vibrations of the engine pulsed dizzyingly at their resting physiques. `Aw man,' moaned the youth as quietly as he could, `this is too risky...' `Isn't that why you're getting hard?' They were both whispering very quietly and discreetly, and he was starting to doubt his own fear: could he really let this happen, get wanked off at the back of the coach by another man, and nobody would know? Surely not! But... was everyone basically asleep but for them? Hardly the quietest voice could be heard over the general noise of the vehicle on the motorway, and the dull bass of someone's over-loud headphones a few rows ahead. All Elliot could really hear was his own bloodrush and heavy breathing. Fuck. Suddenly, Trippier made a disappointed-sounding grunt. He seemed to have read a decision into Anderson's face or took his complaint at face value. His muscular body, a good match for Elliot's own, pulled back an inch or so, though his left arm remained jammed behind his neck and shoulders - but the all-important right hand was gone, leaving behind it a rock-hard angle that bulged obviously in the sweats, and the 20-year-old sat there with sweat beading on his red-flushed features. He blinked his eyes repeatedly and stared pleadingly to his right, meeting the older bloke's ambivalent expression. `Like you said,' murmured the former Atletico Madrid defender, `too risky.' `Uh...' In the confines of his pants, Anderson's cock throbbed and twitched, visible through the thick layers. He sat there feeling heavy and worried, but incredibly horny. He'd been teased into this bloodrush and then left to throb and ache. Next to him, Trips stayed still, and whistled very quietly to himself. In a hot rush of thought, Elliot found himself glancing to the left instead - his folded jumper was squashed in against the condensation of the window, where he'd planned to rest his head and spread out. With his left hand, he grasped at the folded garment and threw it loosely over his lap. He needed to hide the big tenting shape in his pants, essentially, but did he have other plans too? He wasn't entirely sure, but when he glanced back at Kieran and saw his grin, he realised what he'd facilitated. `Good thinking,' the right-back muttered. The unfolded jumper formed a blanket of sorts over Elliot's lap and if he shifted aside just a bit, and let their seated bodies squash together, a wandering hand could reach quite discretely under it, and suddenly Kieran was stroking him again - just on the outside of his sweats now, but more vigorously and assertively, the action gently hidden beneath the heap of jumper, unless someone looked too closely. `Hey there.' It was Jamaal's light Derbyshire accent, and it made Elliot tingle and tauten from head to toe. Here he was, seated in the corner, blocked in there by the relaxed posture of seated Kieran, and they were being addressed across the back of the bus by the other skipper. Sweaty-faced, the 20-year-old couldn't bear to look right and acknowledge Lascelles. He just stared weakly ahead, right into the outline of the head-rest that divided him from Schar. Under the folds of his jumper, Kieran's hand was pushing inside the sweats and the boxer briefs, taking a proper hold of him - even as one captain addressed the other. `Thought you were asleep already, mate,' Trippier said to Lascelles. `Maybe for a few moments. What you doing back here, Trips?' yawned the voice of the big centre-back, and on they chatted, their voices light and sleepy - and Elliot could just sit here, petrified, whilst his hard-on throbbed and trembled under the rough callused fingers of the right-back's paw. And right beside him, across the back of the bus, the Newcastle's squads two collaborative captains were chatting lightly about the game - `Three points is three points, after all,' Trips was saying, and as he did, he gave a good tight grip to the mighty girth of Anderson's prick, making him tremble and shift position noisily against his corner. He was glad to glance aside and realise that Kieran was sitting very carefully with one foot up on the seat, so that his thick folded leg provided extra screen to what his hand was up to. The conversation between the other two men quickly fell quiet, but this left Elliot just as tense and anxious, unsure if Jamaal was looking their way, or had tried again at sleep. Still, Kieran's hand worked him, pulling back and forth on his cock and making his bared red head rub sensitively against the cotton of his pants. He bit on his lip to stop himself from groaning, increasingly conscious of the closeness of other guys. But the sweat pooled on his neck and in his pits, and his body shook. This time when he looked pleadingly into Kieran's face, he didn't know what he was pleading for: to be left alone, or to be finished off. Trippier winked at him. `All good,' he whispered. In response, Anderson could barely whimper out his `Yeh'. When he looked at the senior player, he was alarmed by the thought that pressed at him: not that he shouldn't be letting a bloke play with him at all, never mind here; nope, rather that he wanted to feel that mouth on his dick again instead. Those thin chapped lips were hardly his usual porno babe fantasy, and yet - he could remember how it had felt to stand there with his muscles and hard-on out, side by side with hairy older Shearer, and sucked off by the surprisingly experimental guy here at his side. His captain, his mentor. Not on the bus, he reprimanded himself, but he couldn't get rid of the thought. `Just relax,' Trippier told him, impossibly. He tried. But his body was in full fight-or-flight mode. His cock felt so good it was almost agonising, stroked slowly and firmly; under the cover of the jumper, it was out of his pants now, to give Trips better long pulls on it, and he was sweating profusely through his tee. He couldn't help but let out a strangled little groan of pleasure. Almost instantly, the narrow space between headrests in front of them was occupied: it was the team's highly-rated Swiss defender, glaring sternly back at them. What exactly could he see? At Anderson's side, Trippier was one big grin. `Ahoy there, supermodel,' he quipped at the tall handsome 31-year-old. The sharp features of the dark-haired centre-back studied them through the gap in the seats before asking, `What was that noise?' in his clipped accent - could he see Trippier's arm disappearing in the folds of the jumper-blanket? Anderson didn't know and, his face shiny and red, he could just stare awkwardly back at the senior defender, gormlessly silent. Even now, stared down by the centre-back, Kieran's thumb was rubbing over the sticky wet head of his cock, smearing in the pre-cum that oozed from his slit! `Just elbowed this dafty,' grumbled Kieran casually, somehow able to communicate blandly with Fabian even as he made Elliot's privates burn with pleasure. `Thought you were having some kip before your weekend off, Toblerone.' `Some of us are trying!' came Martin Dubravka's deep voice from the other side of that row, and Anderson trembled all the more - god, they were surrounded by their teammates, and his cock felt like it was going to explode. But with an odd suspicious expression, Schar's face had disappeared after all, and the Swiss man could be heard sighing and yawning heavily through the seats; Schar and Dubravka must have no idea what was going on here, and he was safe after all, and next to him Trips was just beaming with illicit pleasure on his face. But as Elliot turned to look at him in sweaty relief, he glanced past him, and... Lascelles was sat up and facing this way with his legs stretched out, a thoughtful expression on his big bearded face. He was looking RIGHT THIS WAY. His eyes were focused and knowing, staring them down across the interrupted row of four seats. Fuck. Elliot blinked awkwardly back at him, and saw Kieran turn that way, though he couldn't read his expression... but the freckled dimpled grin came back his way and one of the blue eyes winked. The hand on his cock gripped tighter. Suddenly, accidentally or on purpose, the motion of Trippier's fist around his big veiny prick was too rough, too keen, enough to dislodge and shift the folds of the jumper. And in spite of Fabian's suspicion in front of, Elliot was sitting there in the corner being openly wanked, his cock on show and the knuckles slipping up and down his shaft. And he stared past Trippier's smirk and saw Lascelles watching intently. Both captains staring him down, one wanking him at furious speed, and the other... did one of Jamaal's big tattooed arms extend down and reach into his sweats...? A glistening moment of intensity followed in which Anderson knew he could be exposed, knew that the Swiss defender might lean back to look through that gap, or that the big Slovak goalkeeper could rise up and peer back this way out of curiosity - that in fact any fella on the coach could come this way and catch them at it. And so he focused on silence, his mouth clamped shut and sweat dribbling down his temples. But the moment was not going to stretch painfully on, because his balls were ready to unload. In a few more seconds of agonised tension, spurts of hot salty cum were landing on the front of his t-shirt, fired up his body by the angle of his cock. Hot and wet on the cotton, already damp with sweat. He gasped for air but as silently as he could. `Good lad,' trembled Kieran's hot whisper. For all of his nervous tension, Elliot was suddenly insensible to the danger of his position, his breaths becoming more audible pants, his large pectorals heaving in his taut tee; the marks of greasy cum darkening where they'd streaked the front of it. In the giddy high of his orgasm, the 5ft10 youth might have just panted and groaned there with his hard dick out, exposed and corrupted at the back of the bus - but he was nudged into fuller consciousness by a jab of Kieran's elbow, and the jumper was being draped generously over the juddering throb of his erection. `Here, put that thing away, and go clean yourself up, big lad,' grunted the skipper's low growl, nudging him again. Anderson did as he was told, stunned - he reached a shaky hand under the jumper to thrust his cock and balls into his Diesel pants, and dangled the jumper awkwardly there in front of him before scrambling upwards. The tug of his paw on the back of a headrest brought Fabian Schar's face back into the gap, demanding `What now?' loudly. The Geordie youth didn't quite hear what answer Trippier gave to the centre-back, clambering past him with the jumper dangling in front of him to obscure the outline of his spent erection and the dirty marks on his top, though anyone looking closely would see the gleam of sweat on his forearms and his reddened neck. All he could do was stagger into the space between their seats at the back of the aisle, swaying a little as the bus trembled down the motorway. He looked sharply to the other side of the back: there was the hulking figure of Lascelles, lounged back into his corner, an ambiguous smile across his serious face. His large hands rested over his raised knees, and Anderson wondered if he'd imagined the glimpse of one being pushed idly inside his pants - no doubt now that the defender had seen him jerked to completion by their teammate, but no certainty on what Jamaal thought about it. His smile was certainly quite approving, or was it just amused? Fucking hell. `Go have your piss,' the centre-back told him loudly, talking over the light buzz of conversation from Schar and Trippier. `You've been holding it in long enough.' He stared gratefully at the Derby man, twigging the effort to provide him cover. But he paused a moment longer, awkward and clumsy on his feet, to look at Kieran instead - the right-back was lifted up form his seat, arms folded down on the spare headrest so he could lean in and speak to Fabian, distracting him from any noises he might have heard. For a brief moment, the stubby freckled face of the skipper turned this way and shot him another wink, then chatted easily on to the Swiss bloke. Elliot looked at him, watching as he got properly to his feet and casually adjusted the front of his sweatpants, studying thoughtfully whether that was the outline of a hard-on. Underfoot, the bus rocked and swayed, and the 20-year-old stumbled on, past Burn and Longstaff, one of whom gave him a good smack on the arse of his sweatpants, before shouting `You going to be sick or something, Andy, you look awful?' `Bursting for a slash,' he yelled over his shoulder at them and hurried to the few descending steps that took him into the tiny toilet cubicle midway down the bus. In the cramped space, he let out a series of gulping pants, shoving the jumper in next to the tiny sink; off came the dirty t-shirt, which he thought must stink of his seed, and he dragged the jumper onto the taut sweaty muscles of his torso instead, glad of its baggy fit over his flushed skin. He lobbed his still-swollen cock from his pants and pissed loudly into the bowl, struggling for balance and accuracy against the motorway speed of the coach. His head moved at the same speed, rapidly replaying the dirty deed, allowed by himself. A splash of cold water on his face and neck, and a long pause staring himself down in a scruffy mirror, and Newcastle's Academy graduate midfielder could unlock the narrow door and clamber back into the centre of the bus, still self-conscious but glad that his bulge was back to normal. He hesitated, looking both ways down the aisle - the back looked a bit emptier, and towards the front, he could see Trippier on his feet, hovering by the front rows of seats, chatting to Howe and another member of the coaching staff. Anderson stared awkwardly that way for a moment, blinking back the rush of panic that he felt, then he clomped on down towards his own seat, pausing only to inform Burn and Longstaff that he'd almost pissed his pants before, then getting jostled on his way by the other two Tyneside lads. At the back, he found Martin and Fabian disinterested, and even Jamaal now giving him no attention - he was just slumped into his corner as if trying to sleep. Elliot slid into his own pair of seats, feeling that the musty air must still smell of his cum, and then slid right into the corner, hugging himself and letting the warm buzz of physical satisfaction flood through his physique. In mere minutes, the dull vibration of the coach had numbed him and the nap he'd expected could take over, but not without some flickering fragments of dream - thinking about how much he'd wanted to grab Kieran by the head and push his mouth down there to take care of him properly again, wanting to be sucked off by his strangely attentive right-back. He thought of Trippier and he thought of Shearer, and he thought of Fraser too - it was all happening so fast, and he would still be thinking of it in the early hours of Saturday when they were deposited in a damp car park in Newcastle, and he was bundled into one of many black cabs. Anderson was shaken and intrigued, but Trippier had been very successful in his aim: on his way to bed in the early hours of the morning, the young football player was not giving a second's thought to his disallowed goal against Nottingham. 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