Date: Tue, 28 Mar 2023 23:19:12 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 356

Part 356: The Lion Cub


On the banks of the Thames, a whistle blew and marked the end of the
friendly game; the Croatian visitors were victorious 2-1, in spite of the
English team's last-minute resurgence, and the white-clad young players
could do nothing but grimace respectfully and lift their hands in vague
applause to the opposition players and the thin crowd of spectators
inside Craven Cottage, the riverside Fulham ground that was hosting this
fixture. This was not the full Three Lions force that had dominated its
two qualifier games in the last week, but the next generation who might
carry that mantle: a bold and ambitious Under-21s side who had been
representing the country at their own level over a handful of games.

He raised his hands and clapped with as much quiet honour as any of his
teammates, moving through the centre of the youth squad's slow retreat,
leaving the Croatians to enjoy themselves - a bit excessively, in his
opinion, for a fucking friendly on a damp Tuesday night - and making way
for the tunnel. It was a stadium he knew fairly well, and the 5ft7 winger
could certainly claim to play more first-team minutes than most young
lads on this squad, even as one of their younger members at 19. He
strutted to the tunnel mouth and took the hugs and handshakes of the U21
management crew, a slightly less celebrated cluster of coaches than
Southgate or his entourage - and indoors the young footballer went, his
mane of curly hair bouncing a little as he shucked off one boot at a time
and then swung them at his side, following the loose line of future
England hopefuls towards the home changing rooms that they'd been
assigned.

In this locker-room was an uneasy positivity as the boys collectively
shrugged away the defeat, keen to dismiss it as unimportant, but
disappointed nonetheless by their lacklustre stats against the visitors -
and Harvey Elliott was a little less quick to dismiss or laugh away the
result, perhaps a bit more proud and ambitious than some of the `small
club' players who formed his comrades on this short tour.

The 19-year-old stripped away sweaty white kit from his compact muscular
body, thinking eagerly about the prospect of replacing it with proper
senior kit come the next big tournament - could he really be out there in
the 2024 Euros, kicking it with the big boys and replacing his own
captain Jordan Henderson in the starting line-up of Southgate's Lions...?
Harvey liked to think so, charting his own trajectory from 16-year-old
upstart to successful Championship loanee and now regular starter for a
club as prestigious as his beloved LFC. He scrunched up the England shirt
in his clammy hands and stared thoughtfully at his name and number on the
back, more than ready to fight for that first senior cap - after all,
he'd sighted a fellow 19-year-old upstart across the more communal areas
of St George's Park last week, and watched enviously as lanky Jude
Bellingham jostled and bantered with the likes of Hendo, Walker and
Stones, clearly an established part of the Three Lions already. Huh. A
natural competitiveness in Elliott riled at this fact, and at the strong
rumours that still suggested the Birmingham sensation might sign for
Liverpool and join him at Anfield - did Harvey really want another teen
prodigy in the midfield to take the fans' adoration away from his plucky
fight...? An ambiguous no, because he wasn't blind, and he could see what
a rising force the other lad was.

Shorts off, Harvey lingered at his spot in the square room, still staring
ruminatively at his discarded white kit, and wanting this to be the last
time he donned the U21 version of the real thing - if Jude could prove
himself in a World Cup campaign, then it was surely time for Liverpool's
current `Star Boy' to make his claim too.

Still... this past week had been fun. The curly-headed lad stood there in
his tight-fitting Puma compression shorts, unable to contain a knowing
little smirk, glancing about him at the stripping players who were
disappearing into the showers one by one. Oh yeah, he thought with a
silent chuckle, quite the week of fun.


Some of it, he supposed, was barely more than a gentle tease of
possibility: early last week, at the end of the first day's full
training together, and a brief thrilling episode in the shower block of
their changing facilities. An ego boost, he admitted to himself, given
that he'd been training only one pitch away from the sight of the senior
England squad warming up and beginning to bond ahead of their Italian
jaunt - he'd heard it said that the proximity and occasionally
intermingling of the squad levels was meant to be motivational and
inspiring, but he was just starting to find it fucking annoying. At 19,
he was no longer thrilled by the novelty of youth positions, just as
he'd been at the top of the Liverpool Academy - he wanted the real
thing, not some childish warm-up. He couldn't help but cringe scornfully
at the fact so many of his teammates here were 22 or 23, ageing past the
name of the team, and still not cutting their teeth under Southgate.

Hot showers that day, steaming almost painfully against cold skin,
because it had been constant drizzle and mist through the afternoon.
Harvey was as glad as anyone to soak himself beneath the heat and to
scrub flecks of mud and turf away from his shins and calves, to soap up
lightly aching muscles, and to shake his shaggy young lion's mane under
the blast of his shower.

It was just as he rinsed the lather of shampoo from his curls, running
fingers vigorously through the styled mop, that he noticed it. He was
showering at the end of a central line of positions, where the wall cut
off and there was a steamy tiled space before the adjacent wall and the
next row of showerheads. At the nearest of those, he caught sight of a
slim figure about as pale as his own, but noticeable in turning around to
look this way - there were others there, fixedly facing the wall as they
washed themselves and disappeared in a fair hurry, loud masculine voices
echoing against the gushing sounds of plumbing.

Elliott was a natural exhibitionist, it turned out, because he
immediately loved the suggestion that this other lad was specifically
looking his way - his position at the end of this wall put him in perfect
view, essentially at the centre of the rectangular room, half-exposed to
the view form that corner. Without flinching, the 19-year-old winger
turned his stubby goateed face and grinned across the haze, acknowledging
the lingering look...

It was that skinny twink, Luke Thomas, half-turned this way with an
almost stricken look on his lean face. Definitely looking this way, that
was for sure, and seemingly not at head height, but looking downwards -
the Liverpool player couldn't stop himself, he took one shampoo-slicked
paw and rubbed it down the centre of his tummy, along the faint trail of
hair that was sprouting there, and then ran it teasingly against the
droop of his soft cock and chubby balls, watching the shifting gaze of
the lad's thin face. And then the Leicestershire 21-year-old seemed to
collect himself, blink and start, and look sharply back upwards - for
just a moment their eyes met, though Harvey supposed Luke's view must be
as steam-obscured as his own, and he could see the faint pantomime of
horror and shame on the LFC left-back's long face. And then the
dark-haired taller lad turned sharply away, back to the wall, and the
passing physique of two U21 goalkeepers blocked Harvey's view... he could
just turn back to finishing the rinse down of his crotch and gently
sniggering to himself, loving the idea that some curious young Fox had
been eyeing him up.

However... it led to nothing. He tried very hard to catch Luke's eye back
in the humid warmth of the locker-room, or over the team meal that they
were taken for at a local Thai restaurant for bonding, and yet he found
that Thomas evaded him at every opportunity for the rest of the camp. If
the 21-year-old left-back WAS curious, or whatever, then he'd been so
freaked out to be caught looking that he'd retreated into his shell like
a frightened tortoise - no real fun there for young Elliott, just a
momentary ego boost and a lingering semi.


And there were the moments in his hotel room too, though these were not
so novel: after all, it was hardly the first time he'd shared a room
with the slightly older Academu graduate and genuine Scouser, Curtis
Jones. That being said, it WAS the first time he'd roomed with the lanky
dope for such a number of days, across multiple hotels, and noticed how
fucking careless his stuttering buddy was...

Careless in a lot of ways, from leaving towels on the floor to using the
wrong toothpaste, to realising he'd forgotten to bring deodorant - all
that kinda shit. But also careless with his kit, and his bedding, so that
one morning when a full bladder dragged Harvey out of bed at 5am, he had
to stop himself in the exuded glow of the en suite, looking at the
magnificent sight on the neighbouring bed - the 6ft1 young man was
stretched out in a typically awkward pose on his bedding, with his duvet
quite disturbed and misplaced, so much so that it was crossing his
midriff and knees, but pulled away around the crotch area, so that Harvey
could see the lad's impressively long python coiled against a hairy
thigh. It was obvious from the way that the lanky fuck's long legs
jutted out at the foot of the bed that he didn't typically sleep in the
nude, but had pushed his pants down for one reason or another - there was
only one reason though, surely - and they now dwelt about his ankles, so
that Harvey could stroll back across the bedroom, leaving the bathroom
light on, and pause between their beds, looking at a perfect confirmation
of just how well-hung the dopey Scouse bugger was.

There was a deliciously tempting moment in this pre-dawn fug when Elliott
hovered next to Jones' bed and was well tempted to just steal a little
grab or stroke of the monster that he always had to watch bouncing about
like a ferret in his pal's shorts or tracksuits - but he thought better
of such naughtiness and played kind bro instead, pulling the duvet back
into place and giving Curtis some dignity that was rather undermined by
his chainsaw snoring. With a chuckle and zero chance of getting back to
sleep, Harvey climbed back into bed and tugged himself off, enjoying both
the dormant serpent that he'd seen at close range, and the growing
mental certainty that the Leicester player had a crush on him.


And there'd been some more successful shared looks of naughtiness in
locker rooms, towards the end of the training week, but before the France
fixture on the Saturday. Harvey thought he was the initiator of what
happened, but it was hard to tell, perhaps the others had already been
mustering the idea or intimating the mood to one another - but he was
certainly the one who sat there under the rack of kit-hooks with his top
off and his shorts tight about his thick fluffy hands, popping a hand
over his bulge and loudly declaring that he wasn't used to a whole week
with no girls to look after his needs. It wasn't a lewd comment out of
nowhere - he'd noticed the way that the other lads kept grabbing at
themselves, a simmering undercurrent of frustration which he understood
but which also got him really excited.

No sooner had Elliott made this bold claim about his usual sex life when
the most senior of this small post-gym gathering started trolling him in
a deep voice, stripping off just a few feet to his left. But one
Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder was down to his black briefs,
he took the bulge in the front of them in one hand and muttered his
conclusion: `But I know what you mean, bruv, I got some FULL balls, you
get me?' Stood there with a hand over his big thick package, Morgan
Gibbs-White turned and flashed a toothy smile at him, and then shot
thoughtful looks at the others.

`TMI?' suggested one of the others, 6ft2 centre-back Levi Colwell - a
Chelsea youth who was currently moonlight at Bright & Hove Albion.

`What, you don't feel the same?' chuckled another lofty centre-back in
his deep Lancashire accent - this was another loanee, Leeds' Charlie
Cresswell, currently at Millwall or some shithole like that - Harvey
could hardly keep up with these lads' yo-yo fledgling careers, adding to
his frustration for a senior call-up.

And so Harvey moved things along, staying sat on the bench where he was,
but pushing a blatant hand into the front of his tight training shorts,
and grinning from lad to lad before flashing a meaningful wink back at
Gibbs-White. `I'm just gonna have to tug one off now before dinner,'
he announced coolly, ready to turn his sultry expression into hysterical
laughter if the notion didn't meet with grunting approval - there was
definitely a long quiet pause where it might have been met with jeers and
insults, but Morgan's ensuing laugh was lusty and frustrated, and it was
Leeds export Charlie who loudly called it - `Yeah, time for a
circle-jerk, haha?'

Maybe the 20-year-old giant from Preston was joking, but Harvey just got
up and pushed his shorts down his thighs and off, his bare young body a
little glossy with sweat from the workout, and his cock already semi in
his trunks. Minutes later, he had his dick out and in his hand, seated
back down and the others occupying positions about this same corner of
the room, parallel pairs at a perpen-dick-ular angle.

The grunts were interspersed with bursts of rough laddish laughter,
mingled with self-conscious efforts to suppress the natural moans of
self-pleasure. Harvey exaggerated his own confidence and certainty - as
experienced as he was becoming around other horny men, he still knew this
was risky and pushing boundaries, and he was conscious of only
half-knowing any of these other lads. He was also a little stuck with the
dilemma of enjoying the sordid little scene and not being a Luke Thomas
and staring too overtly at any of his pal's members, giving away too
much of his own... tastes.

This wasn't as hardcore as some games he'd been embroiled in, to put it
lightly, this was just four horny footy lads jerking off after a tough
workout, letting off a bit of steam before showering down and being
called to a fairly formal dinner where they would be meeting a bunch of
FA representatives who wanted to drill them about professionalism in the
France fixture. Professionalism could wait - these were four
testosterone-drunk youths with heavy balls and rabid appetites, wanking
themselves silly and stinking of gym-sweat.

Harvey was so excited by it all that he had to slow down very
deliberately and hold onto his orgasm, and he was glad he did - long
enough at least to see that big 6ft3 defender on loan from Leeds cum
first, spewing spunk up his tummy and cackling as he did so; and then
Brighton's Levi too, the 20-year-old who had been the most marginally
hesitant of them, but was now groaning quite heavily as he spunked into a
handful of tissue, none of Charlie's confident mirth. But Harvey himself
came after this, unable to stop himself, and spurting white streaks over
the downy hair of his thighs; thus he watched Morgan, the 23-year-old
Forest stud, nut all over the floor in a messy puddle whilst in a daze of
post-orgasmic bliss, almost losing his self-discipline and rushing
forward to lick up the drops of jizz that lingered on the stout 5ft7
lad's chunky tool.

The group wank was over almost as soon as it had started, ending in a
chorus of brash laughter and a few self-conscious groans of `Did we just
do that?' - and Harvey just thought idly how it was a shame that his
buddy Curtis had left the gym early, and not had a chance to show off his
brute to these other lads, haha.


But things had gotten more intense just the next day, during an afternoon
rest period before they had to travel from hotel to stadium to face the
young Frenchmen. This one seemed to happen just as rapidly and
convenient, and Harvey was hardly sure how he went from chatting to a
casual mate in the foyer to being knuckle-deep in tight pink hole about
forty-five minutes later.

`That's it,' he gasped, digging his single digit in deeper, feeling
the strong muscles grip his finger, and jabbing it in and out in a rapid
and purposeful fashion, almost drooling with excitement.

The other body lay naked beneath him on the bed - the lad had stripped
naked almost within seconds of them getting into the room and slamming
the door shut behind them. How had it gone from a bit of banter about the
France team being a bunch of daft slags to this handsome redhead asking
Harvey what he liked doing to slags, to Harvey daring him to take him
back to his room and find out? The conversation had moved quickly and
fluidly, and opportunity had thrown itself in the 19-year-old lion cub's
lap.

He dug his finger in deeper, poised over him on the gently squeaking bed.
`Take my finger, you slag,' he giggled, twisting and pushing it, really
taking over the tight little hole that lay between the pale smooth
cheeks. He grinned eagerly to himself, unwilling to remove his finger
from the hot tightness, but poising over him so he could appreciate the
slim strong beauty of the pale freckled body beneath him on the bedding.
With his other hand, he reached for the soft gingery hair and pushed the
lad's face down into the covers, whilst finally withdrawing his finger
so he could land a light spank on one white week and leave a faint red
print where he did. Then back at it, but not one finger, two - a bit more
spit for lube should help. On the bed, his teammate squealed.

Harvey was less naked, only his jumper and vest discarded by the door,
but shorts still tenting around his erection, and socks and trainers
leaving dirty marks on the pale blue bedding. He'd been in such a rush
to follow this earnest-looking 21-year-old in here and across to the
room, and he was so excited at the prospect of topping again - he'd been
desperate for it since that second time of being allowed between
Milner's adamantium glutes.

This afternoon's slut was different though, slim but a little softer at
the edges, and his bottom so doughy and jiggly, great - Harvey pushed too
fingers into his hole and gasped eagerly, gripping his thick strong
erection through his shorts, hovering over him and muttering out more
dirty talk - `You taking those two fingers, wanna try three?' he
rasped. `God you're a good slag after all, ain't you, Tommy fella!'

Under him, Manchester City's ginger-haired local lad groaned and yelped,
turning his face a little but unable to fully look at him - those blue
eyes were wide and needy, his cheeks flushed scarlet, god he was quite
cute like this, though he'd never caught Harvey's eye before. He dug
his two fingers deep into Tommy Doyle, frigging the loaned midfielder and
prodding at his intimate hole, readying it to try and thrust his cock
into any moment now. He was leaking pre-cum against his undies and his
shorts, and he couldn't believe that he'd discovered a willing bottom
in this Sheffield United midfield player!

Any moment, Harvey would have pushed down the shorts and tried to replace
the two sphincter-grippy fingers with the real deal, except the beep of a
keycard and the click of a lock marked the beginning of the interruption
- Harvey only half-heard it through his own pants, and pinned between him
and the bed, Thomas was perhaps entirely deaf to it, still gasping and
telling him `Yes, try three!'

But then they were both of them looking up and across, the hotel room
door shutting with a louder thump than its opening. Harvey knelt there,
hard and leaking, and still pressing two digits into the doughy bottom of
the Man City lad. But Doyle was instantly wriggling and rising up,
exclaiming `James!' at the top of his voice. With some reluctance,
Harvey pulled away his greasy fingers and slid aside, holding hands up
innocently like a bystander at a bank robbery - whilst the 5ft8 naked
youth scampered and stumbled from the bed into the centre of the room,
and their interrupter froze at the doorway, head to toe in England
training gear, and his face a picture of outrage.

`Whoa, how did my fingers get in there?' was all Elliott could find to
joke, leaping awkwardly off the bed himself and reaching down to grab up
his bundle of clothes with his clean hand, forcing out a cocky laugh and
wavering between the obstacle of the other two - one naked and red-faced,
the other practically shaking in shock.

`James,' Tommy insisted in a rushing voice, `it ain't what it looks
like!' The Manc lad had a real panic and fear in his voice, one that
Harvey himself refused to give in to - fuck it, he'd been caught
frigging a lad's arse, but who was James fucking McAtee to judge him? He
was, like Doyle, another Pep Guardiola reject who'd been indefinitely
loaned out to lame old Sheffield United, for fuck's sake - what could
either of them say to a regular Liverpool starter like himself? Pricks.
The 19-year-old was, of course, ready for a fight. But he'd
misunderstood the dynamic slightly.

`Tommy,' gasped 20-year-old James, his eyes suddenly shiny. `What the
fuck?'

`It ain't like that,' the first Manc lad called at him, rushing
forward, but instantly held back by McAtee's hands on his shoulders and
biceps; Harvey blinked slowly at them in comprehension, registering the
intense emotion on the Salford lad's tanned features, and the rough and
tumble of the other two players. `How could you?' James was shouting
accusingly, whilst Tommy just kept repeating his name. Elliott stared at
them for a moment and then wiped his two dirty fingers across his tummy
and pulled his vest and jumper over his head, dashing past them for the
door.

`Er, sorry about this fellas,' the winger told them, before wrenching
open the door and skipping out in the corridor, leaving their little
domestic behind - okay, okay, two City loan players stuck in Sheffield,
apparently a bit more than just buddies. As he walked quickly away from
the room, he couldn't help but swell with selfish pride - so ginger had
a boyfriend to room with, and he STILL wanted a ride on the Star-Boy?
Hehe.


Harvey didn't have to wait long to get his cock in a peachy bum, though
he didn't risk enquiring about relationship status in the room of McAtee
and Doyle; this later interaction was one fuelled a bit more by hotel bar
beer, the win over France allowing for such a party. A 4-0 win, for
fuck's sake - allez that, Frogs. Although he was a tiny bit pissed off
not to add his name to that score-sheet, the teenager was fucking chuffed
to have been part of the gaffer's starting line-up, and he was keen to
enjoy himself at the squad party - he was smart and tactful enough to see
that many of these lads might join him when he ascended to the senior
Three Lions team, and he needed to make good buddies here who would
support him when he was winning the 2026 World Cup.

The energy of the celebration drinks gravitated inevitably around the
team's four goal-scorers, and Harvey begrudgingly went with that flow, a
little envious and resentful to hear repeated and embellished accounts of
each goal from the lot of them. From his own Liverpool colleague Curtis
Jones, he could take it more comfortably, and he was happy to slap the
big fella on the back and cheer him on, just glad to hear the 22-year-old
brave some semi-public speaking and get through his account without
stumbling too much on his words; for his lanky big-dicked pal, he felt a
more genuine and warm pride, though smug Arsenal prick Emile Smith-Rowe
was a bit more challenging. ESR had been full of himself all week, in
Harvey's opinion, which didn't make sense since the Arsenal winger had
made a full England debut with the big boys and yet fallen back here to
Under-21. With Madueke and Ramsey, Elliott found he really had to feign
interest, wanting a bit of limelight and glory for himself, but without
much to show for his performance in the game.

He wasn't sure how he ended up seated on barstools with Norwich City's
Max Aarons, but they had been substituted at similarly annoying moments
in the game, both sure that they could have stayed on the pitch and
contributed more, even if the 4-0 score somewhat justified their bosses'
decisions. The disgruntled pair hardly sat there on the barstools and
turned into a pair of old grouches, but they did find themselves in a
kind of mutually subdued mode compared to the loud drunken enjoyment of
the other lads. Harvey wasn't even openly flirting with the 23-year-old
Londoner - just stretching out his sweatpants-clad legs and leaning
casually back on the bar with his arms at his sides. But the other U21
player kept giving him what can only be described as The Look. Checking
him out? Without a few beers in him, Harvey might have paused to check
himself - it was possible that Max was just admiring his cool hair or his
neatly styled goatee or his designer gear. But the way the week was
going, Harvey's ego was swelling like his bulge.

`What you say we go have a drink up in my room?' Elliott said with just
enough brazenness, stroking the shoulder of Aarons' loose-fitting top
quite discreetly. And that was that: about fifteen minutes later, twenty
at most, the 19-year-old Liverpool starlet was ploughing the Canary in
the en suite bathroom of his suite - he didn't want to make a mess of
his bedding and have to explain it to a gormlessly believing Jones.

With his sweatpants and his undies about his ankle, he held the other lad
forward against the sink unit, gripping him just above the hips, and
shoving his crotch rapidly and eagerly into the big bouncy cheeks of
Max's perfect brown rump; in response, the 23-year-old Londoner gasped
and moaned for him, his screwed-up face of ecstasy reflected beautifully
in the mirror over the sink. His big cheeks jiggled and shook with each
powered-up thrust of Harvey's tight muscular middle, and he was loving
the mirror reflection that added to it - as well as seeing the groaning
delight on the defender's face, he could see his own shimmering mask of
dominant energy, and the bounce and flick of his messy hair.

He fucked him with all of the enthusiasm that he might have topped Doyle,
and a few spoonfuls more, the additional testosterone and attack that had
built up in the course of the France game and his restricted involvement
there. He fucked him like he wanted to fuck the France goal and add a 5th
goal to that tally, and really earn the attention of the senior squad
reps who always followed Under-21 action, ready to report back to the top
gaffer.

`That's it,' whined the Norwich player, who had sucked and wanked him
very eagerly after the beers from the mini-bar were opened, but now
sitting untouched back in the main bedroom. As soon as Max's willingness
was obvious, both of them hard in their sweats, Harvey had been hurrying
him in here and tearing down his bottoms, slapping and grabbing at one of
the roundest bubble butts in the English leagues. In and out of it he
pumped, thrusting hard against the sexy 23-year-old, really making him
moan for it, asking him illogically who his daddy was, despite being four
years his junior. `You are,' Max confirmed in a shaky gasp, staring
eye-to-eye with him in the mirror. `You are, Harv!' Fuck yes, he
thought, this bitch knows the truth!


Shooting his load up the perfect brown skin of Max's back was one
special climax, but the camp held one even more satisfying orgasm for the
19-year-old, and this was really the one that lingered with him as he
showered and changed in the Craven Cottage home locker-room, tossing
dirty England kit into his bag to keep as souvenirs, and saying his
goodbyes to the lads as they went their separate ways.

This one had happened on Sunday, checked in to the same North London
hotel complex as their senior parallels - like the main squad, the
Under-21s were making use of the Tottenham Hotspur ground as a training
base for the day, and the younger team were to have VIP tickets for
England-Ukraine at Wembley that night. Again, motivation and inspiration
ahead of their Croatia game... but for Elliott, a dazzling view into what
he saw as his own inevitable destiny.

Lunchtime, and the quarter of the large Spurs training rectory where
Harvey's youth team had been placed for their buffet of healthy salads:
echoes of cheerful chatter from the tables around him, and the more muted
voices of senior players from the other side of the room. There was a
good mood among the U21s, still riding on last night's 4-0 win, and a
sense that visiting Wembley to watch their counterparts was a symbol of
transition, a readying for some of them to make their leap at the next
call-up - Harvey thought this was largely bollocks, and that some of
these loan-meisters had already peaked. He wasn't mean, just realistic.

Cynicism, hangover, exhaustion from an hour-long fuck session in Max
Aarons' hole; there were a few reasons why the 19-year-old felt jaded
and faded at his lunch table, sitting between an unusually chatty Curtis,
and City's Cole Palmer. Whichever reason was top of the list, he wasn't
paying attention to the talk of his neighbours, but watching the room in
a vague yet observant way - observant enough to spot one other team
member get up and slip away from the next table without actually saying
anything to anyone. This in itself was not that odd, they weren't at
school or military camp, but there was something quite furtive and
discreet about the way that Arsenal's Emile Smith-Rowe detached himself
from the table of his friends and teammates, and made for one of the
exits; furtive and discreet enough to arouse Harvey's natural curiosity.
Not observant enough to spot who had got up and slipped away form the
other end of the dining hall, mind.

After a moment's pause, the Liverpool player murmured a half-formed
excuse to Curtis and Cole, and he too left his table in a manner designed
to attract minimal attention; hopefully nobody was as bored and curious
in his direction as he'd been in Emile's. Scratching a little at the
front of his shorts, the 5ft7 stud exited the refectory in a quick but
casual strut, trying to somehow project the need for a piss to explain
his departure - out through the same exit that he'd spied the Arsenal
player dip through, out of the dining hall and down a long narrow
corridor. It broke off into multiple routes through the expensive-looking
training complex of the North London losers, but he saw a door narrowly
close and knew which way he needed to go... he held back, careful not to
alert or panic the other lad, but pausing before that and the next door,
and listening ahead to the steps, and then... the voices.

He was at the door to one of the physio rooms, and he could hear Emile
for sure: `This needs to be quick', it sounded like. Another voice:
muffled, or inarticulate, and less immediately recognisable to him.
Older?

Having followed his teammate this far, Harvey paused before pushing
further in his nosiness... what was he actually doing? What did he
suspect? Why did he care? Was this just some specific hangover of his
mild resentment at Emile last night, just because his rival winger had
secured an important goal, the first of the night? Yep, definitely a
dollop of that last one. But also... he was a nosy bastard. He leaned in
close to the door, straining to hear the voices more clearly.

`You said you needed a gobful of me,' came Smith-Rowe's almost
sneering voice.

Again, the other voice was less clear, but in the muffle was a `Yes'
and a `Please', and now Harvey was really intrigued - fuck, this was
getting dirty. He grabbed himself loosely in his shorts and pushed closer
to the door, pressing his ear against it, fingering the handle and
wondering if he could risk opening it a crack or so. `Well get going,'
he heard the Arsenal midfielder say in a voice that was all challenge and
confrontation - there was something sexy about the demanding confidence
in it, something that had never quite struck him about the 6ft fellow
Surrey lad; yeah, they'd fooled about slightly when they were younger,
that time in the toilets at the Emirates, but Harvey wasn't that lad any
more, some cock-sucking bitch... he was the stud who'd topped James
fucking Milner, LFC daddy supreme, and who'd forced Mo Salah into his
first tiny taste of salty cock, even just for a few seconds.

Without meaning to, he leaned forward a bit too heavily, and his sweaty
hand pulled tighter about the door-handle, until it jerked down. The door
swung inwards a little and Harvey pushed forward through it, right into
the room beyond, and treated to quite a view: Emile standing by the
physio bed with his back this way, a framed view of his sturdy pale tan
arse on show beneath the hem of his training top, his shorts halfway down
thick blond thighs... and hands clutching at them, belonging to the tall
man on his knees for him, whose long face was leaning to one side to
stare this way in abject horror. A distinctively bearded face with small
eyes and a neat sweep of honey-brown hair. A man who'd already been an
England icon before his new goal record on Thursday night. Fucking hell.

`Come in,' hissed Emile, bossy but also calm, nodding in a beckoning
way.

`Fuck,' mouthed Harry Kane, married dad, very quietly.

`Fuck,' echoed Harvey Elliott, eyes lighting up with excitement. In he
went, tugging the door after him, and flicking the latch that his Arsenal
counterpart had failed to. He grabbed at his crotch in case the semi
there wasn't obvious enough, and he stepped forward until he was
side-by-side with the 6ft Croydon lad. Emile towered over him, but 6ft2
striker Harry was down on his knees before them, dwarfed by two U21s. In
a rush, Harvey looked from Harry's worried long face to Emile's
confident grin, then back down at the cock in his mate's hand, and to
his own fist, curled about the outline of his.

`Hungry enough for two?' Smith-Rowe purred at Kane, whose worry seemed
to recede. England's all-time top goal-scorer didn't look frightened
any more, he looked... greedy. And without much ceremony, Emile fed him.
Harvey watched, wide-eyed, and wasted no time in reaching into his shorts
and pulling out his sweaty erection, the same one that had fucked Aarons
until he squealed.

It turned out that Emile, far less smug than last night, was pretty good
at sharing, and the two up-and-coming studs shared the greedy mouth
equally, neither taking much more than a minute with their cock in it,
smearing their heads and foreskins against his lips and facial hair. His
eyes still looked panicked, because Harvey was clearly not something
he'd planned or begged for - Harvey's mind was spiralling with
questions about the arrangement between these two, and the sense that
this wasn't even a one-off or a new thing, but some ongoing affair
between the Spurs talisman and the Arsenal youth. But those were
questions that would hit him more fully later, when he was in the VIP
stands of Wembley, suited up like the rest of the squad, cheering on
Harry Kane as the big masculine England captain, the most prolific
striker in their history... and a fucking great cock-sucker, it turned
out, slobbering all over Harvey's prick in blissful moments before
returning to the thick meat that Emile was thrusting into his face.

More shocking, and more exciting: `Fuck me,' Kane begged at one point,
twisting his neck to stare obediently up at Smith-Rowe. `No,' the
Arsenal player was growling at the kneeling striker, and Harvey had to
stop himself interjecting and putting up a hand: `I volunteer as
tribute!' No fucking, or at least not of the tall older man's broad
arse - just of his eager mouth, and cocks slapped against his cheeks and
rubbed against the tip of his nose or the lines of his chin.

Yeah, it had been fun for Harvey to wank and cum in that four-way jerk
after the gym, or to finger Tommy's ginger-flecked arse, or to smash Max
in his en suite and watch it in the mirror; it had been fun to see
Curtis' big member and wonder if he should try and lead his buddy
astray, and even more fun to think that a skinny Leicester twink was
watching him wash his balls in the shower... but this was the moment that
really inflated Harvey's ego and made him smirk to himself as he exited
Craven Cottage for a late train back to Liverpool, sure that his
international future was bright.

Breathless, rosy-cheeked, balls pulsing; he emptied his watery load over
the face of the 29-year-old, smearing cum across Harry's long nose, over
his tufty facial hair and open lips, his poking tongue. Harvey's cum
mingled with Emile's in painting the features of the striker hero, their
future captain, and claiming some kind of dominance over the senior
player. Harvey gasped and moaned in both sexual and ambitious climax. If
he'd been a bit more rational and less drunk on arousal, he might have
paused to note that feeding cum to Harry Kane hadn't stopped his
friend-rival from languishing here in the Under-21s, but that was a
complex thought for a 19-year-old who was in the process of dumping his
cum over the face of a world-famous national captain.

Harvey groaned dizzily and leaned on Emile for support, who grabbed him
about the shoulders and laughed, pushing both of their dirty nobs into
Harry's mouth to get licked clean, and growling down at him: `Eat it
up, slut, taste that manly juice... yeah, that's it... haha... lovely...'
And Harvey blinked and stared in disbelief, and carried that image with
him for days and weeks to come, sure now that his senior call-up was
around the corner.




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

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