Date: Wed, 26 Apr 2023 21:37:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership LAds, Part 360

Part 360: Losers of North London


It was just getting fully dark as their chartered jet touched down in an
airfield on the northern fringes of the capital; he'd never been gladder
at Tottenham's decision to fly them to and from the Sunday afternoon
fixture, figuring that the whole miserable host of them could still be
halfway down the motorway, travelling miserably from Newcastle to London.
The tall 29-year-old felt the sting of the defeat as sharply as anyone
disembarking the plane, but he felt a certain pressure to restrain the
severity of his mood and expression, a responsibility to model a more
philosophical mindset to some of the younger and less resilient Spurs
players who were filing past him in the twilit airfield.

Harry Kane's own second-half goal counted for very little, not even in
his own selfish imagination; his team had received a thorough kicking
from their North East hosts this afternoon, a 6-1 defeat at St James'
Park which had been over in the first twenty minutes. Kane, like so many
of the blokes now trudging across the cooling tarmac, was thoroughly
ashamed of the performance - before they'd even boarded the plane for
take-off, there had been talk of how they were going to apologise to the
fans, and Harry himself had fielded the idea of clubbing together to
refund the disappointed travelling supporters. Though not captain here
like he was with the Three Lions, the record-breaking striker still felt
a special responsibility to be a leader and role model... It was that
pressure and responsibility that could really eat at the 6ft2 Londoner,
and make him crave an obliterating escape from the ordinary.

Thinking about that escape, Harry couldn't help but let one hand stray
thoughtfully to the blocky outline of his muted phone in the pocket of
his sweatpants, fingering its hard edges through the fabric, and facing
the shapeless internal struggle over whether he could or should make the
call.

`We go again,' Kane heard one of the others call with lacklustre and
generic encouragement, pumping a weak fist in the air whilst lugging his
overnight bag in the other hand; the Spurs striker turned and half-smiled
at Eric Dier, admiring his close friend's earnest little effort at
positivity, but seeing every shred of embarrassment on that handsomely
bearded face - like so many others, Harry's best pal and ex-boyfriend
had endured a long shit performance on the Tyneside pitch, and his
muscular bulk looked deflated.

`Fucking Saudi money, innit,' muttered another Tottenham man, brushing
between them, and then adjusting the straps of his backpack before
hurrying ahead - Ben Davies continuing to mutter moodily to himself as he
made his way towards the fence and gates that connected the airstrip to
the car park.

`I wish we could blame that,' Eric huffed wistfully.

`We can't blame anyone but ourselves,' Harry agreed sternly, having
accepted this honest line in the away changing rooms and deciding they
had no choice but to stick with it. `Got to take the flak and just move
on, as always.' They'd all seen the footage of their own fans exiting
the stadium after the first few Newcastle goals, and Harry hardly felt he
could blame them.

With a defeated sag in his posture, Pierre-Emile Hojbjerg was trying to
rouse some interest in a couple of Sunday night drinks on the other side
of the gates, hesitating at the side of his Land Rover and calling loudly
to likely customers. `We can drink in my garden,' he was suggesting,
`and not face a kicking in some bar where we might find our own gutted
followers.' Harry grimaced at the prospect, feeling that he'd never
felt less inclined towards such team-building social time - but a voice
in his head told him that the Danish fella was spot-on and of course they
should be attempting to salvage morale and togetherness in the wake of
that shit-show up north.

Kane paused between the vehicles and shot a questioning look over at
Dier, who was passing him by. The other 6ft2 footballer lifted his moody
gaze from the damp floor and met his eyes. `What do you think?' Harry
asked him quietly. `A couple of drinks at Pierre's place, like he says?
He might have a point.' Even as he said it, the England striker was also
fingering at that pocket, feeling the cool solid rectangle of his dormant
phone, and thinking about his chosen drug.

A slight groan from the struggling defender. `Not for me - the fiancee
is back in London tonight and we haven't hung out in almost two weeks,'
he announced, and his voice was a detached monotone - it occurred to
Harry that a 29-year-old stud like him should sound a bit more
enthusiastic about being reunited with his supermodel girlfriend on a
Sunday night, but then they were all in shitty moods and leaving the game
behind was much easier said than done. Still bristling and glum, Eric
pushed ahead and lifted a car key to beep at his vehicle, before turning
to whack a quick fist-bump into Harry's knuckles: `Not sure I'd be
good company for anyone else,' the defensive midfielder said weakly, and
then made a beeline for the driver's door of his car.

Around Kane, the reactions to Hojbjerg's suggestion were mixed. Dier was
hardly the only guy making a hurried shuffle towards their high-spec
motor, keen to hit the suburban roads and head back to their various
mansions and townhouses; but there was clearly some agreement with the
Dane's sentiment, as he could see him texting his home address to Romero
and Perisic, and pleading with Skipp and Sarr to give it a go and just
swing by for one. Harry teetered on the brink of the idea, letting his
overnight bag swing from one broad shoulder, and waving a lazy hand as
Eric's vehicle lurched past him, gently splashing the lower legs of his
club tracksuit from a puddle.

Harry grimly pictured the scene of a few drinks at Pierre-Emile's place,
with the Danish midfielder playing an earnest host to the dejected lads -
and he, their talismanic goal machine, burdened by the need to be upbeat
and constructive, finding faint praise for the day's performances, and
reassuring others with all of the cliches of their footballing banter.
Something about the mental image pushed him one way on the briefly
difficult decision, and the 29-year-old forward backed off and neared his
own car, not even voicing a clear response to the vague shouty invite
from Hojbjerg - there was a general fuss of noise and interaction around
them in the car park as plans were made or hurried exits were made, and
Kane's was just one more such escape, pulling the car door firmly shut
after him and starting up the engine with the push of a single button.

In there, his tall frame falling into a miserable slump that he'd had to
avoid on the flight down, Kane could miserably relax and pull out his
smartphone whilst the car's fancy systems geared up and lights flickered
into existence all over the dashboard. Quiet and grumpy-faced, the
all-time top goal-scorer of club and country thumbed two separate
messages into his device, the car growling into life under his exhausted
limbs.

Firstly, to his wife: `Sorry babe, got to stick with team a bit longer -
I won't be late though, promise xxx' sent in rapid guilty haste.

And then secondly, to a number which was not saved or named in this
phone, because he was a husband who sort of learned from his mistakes:
`Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?' He didn't need to wait
here in the rain-soaked car park of the private airport and check for an
answer - his need was too urgent for that, and he was on the road in
seconds, beating the rush and slipping away from the main assembly of his
defeated teammates. Harry Kane, England captain and Spurs hero, but today
one of many North London losers, was on his way to get high and let go of
his responsibilities and pressures.

Some men in powerful positions like his might opt for coke or weed or
more exciting psychedelics, or even the hardcore downers... but for Harry,
there was only one thing that would alleviate this cloud and let him
really lose himself, and it was the chunky cock of a strapping young
Gunner.


The Tottenham Hotspur men weren't the only ones smarting from a football
failure, though, and not the only guys who were trying to hold together
some team spirit in the wake of disappointment - the Arsenal squad were
coming to the end of a fairly downcast weekend of their own, triggered by
their awkward Friday night battle against relegation fodder Southampton.
A hard-fought draw had felt like a severe loss in the context, and
yesterday's recovery sessions had been bitter and tetchy, a situation
which captain Martin Odegaard was trying to solve by inviting as many
lads as possible over to his for a Sunday evening barbecue. The
optimistic Norwegian had not quite factored in the April weather, making
the plan on a bright hot Saturday, and then facing a sudden downpour that
had kept most of his garden party inside the cream-furnished sterility of
his expansive home.

With night falling and the party running out of steam, the drier end to
the Sunday had brought some of the beer-drinking lads back outdoors into
the washed-out luxury of the Odegaards' garden, and one 22-year-old
regular of the table-topping side was perched on the arm of an outdoor
sofa fiddling with his phone, and craving an illicit cigarette to round
off the bevvies he'd consumed.

Emile Smith-Rowe was no less sour than any other Arsenal player about the
way their Friday night fixture had gone, but he was also hoping that the
self-pity and navel-gazing would be left behind when they reassembled for
proper training tomorrow; as had come up three dozen times during the
chat and banter of Martin's attempted party, they all needed to fix
their minds on this coming Wednesday, and their late-season clash with
Man City... a game which many were seeing as the decider for the Premier
League title 22/23, even if that wasn't quite mathematically the case.
`We'll fuck them pretty boys up,' Smith-Rowe had found himself
grunting at anyone who would listen after his third beer, thinking about
the likes of twiglet Foden and hairband Grealish, and mentally
obstructing the Predator-like spectre of Erling Haaland.

Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows of the rear lounges, the
Croydon youth could see how thinned-out the Arsenal party was becoming,
and there were only a few odds and ends out here on the fringes of the
garden with him - plenty of lads and their WAGs had already called taxis
and headed out, ditching the rained-over festivity of Odegaard's
admirable effort, and calling it quits on the recovery drinks.

When the text buzzed into the grip of his palm, Emile was just weighing
up his options: he could hit up a different party that one of his own
pals was hosting further into the city, though it would be rife with weed
and pills and he'd have to be careful to behave himself; he could swing
by a recent casual girlfriend's place and see if she was feeling any
less frigid; he could move on from the crappy healthy snacks of Martin's
smorgasbord and drive into Surrey to see whether his mum had cooked a
decent roast for the fam; he could go back to his own apartment and fire
up the PS5, and go fuck up some arrogant tweens on online video games
until he was tired enough to sleep. And there, in the palm of his hand,
lit up a much better option than any of these, raising a dirty smirk on
his toothy mouth, and making the young winger look suspiciously around
him in case some dickhead was looking over his shoulder and seeing the
text that had flashed across the top of his screen:

`Need some asap - meet me at the usual spot?'

Unlike the older man, Emile had indeed saved this number, and even the
contact name made him leer smugly to himself: `Spurs MILF'. It was how
he liked to refer her to the likes of Tierney and White in the
locker-room, or when he wanted to shock baby-faced Saka and prudish
Zinchenko. They were always pushing to know who she was, and speculating
about whether he was really shagging the missus of a Tottenham first team
fella - there were a lot of jibes and doubts expressed, but Emile didn't
care, and he thought that most of them believed him, and he was even more
sure that none of the cunts had even half-guessed the truth: that he was
still making Harry fucking Kane his personal cum-bucket cock-sucking
sissy slut, even sharing him with Harvey Elliott behind the scenes of
their recent England U21s experience.

It didn't take ESR long to make a choice, yet he knew better than to
respond immediately and appear too keen; instead, he slid the phone away
and cracked his knuckles, and then picked his half-finished lager can
from the wet cushions and drifted across the decking, making the odd
comment to the other lads here, and then spilling into the kitchen and
chatting idly to a couple of fellas there too - planting the seeds of his
exit by remarking loudly about a booty call that just wouldn't leave him
alone - then fetching his denim jacket from the closet and pulling it
over the retro Arsenal shirt that hugged his toned upper body.

And then, once enough time had elapsed, he swerved any more definite
goodbyes, and slipped back out of Martin's house through the same
kitchen entrance, and then made his way quietly to the painted gate that
would lead down the side of the Barnet mansion onto the gravel driveway;
he made sure his Uber was booked before he bothered opening the `Spurs
MILF' message and thumbing in his response: `Be there on yer dirty
knees, and let me thrash ya 6-1, LOL'


Moments after Smith-Rowe's trainers crunched over the gravel and
departed the gentle crowd noise of the diminishing house party, so did
another pair; and this party-ditching figure slowly approached the
pavement, peering out after the departing Uber taxi halfway down the
quiet cul de sac, and then climbing into his own car to set off and
follow.

He'd felt a little out of place at Martin's party, for obvious reasons;
he wasn't really one of the gang any more, though he'd found himself
unable to resist the invite, and he'd ditched family commitments in
favour of driving up here to take part in the so-called barbecue that
turned into a washout and sedate indoor buffet. Still, it had been an
entertaining enough evening, and for a few moments of banter and bonding,
he'd felt like he was really still just a young lad like the rest of
them. He was barely 31, after all, though Arteta's squad of men were
largely in their early-to-mid 20s.

He'd skulked about on the fringes of the party for a while when he first
arrived, glancing soberly at the grey clouds and the initial slow drops
of the eventual downpour. But his natural charm and extroversion had
quickly led him into a few excitable chats with key members of the
playing squad - he'd always been pretty good at assessing a crowd and
knowing who you had to get in with to feel like the centre of the party,
and that had hardly changed in these last few weird years as his career
took its latest turn.

He supposed that's how he'd got to hear about the `Spurs MILF', stood
tossing peanuts into his mouth in the kitchen of Martin's place,
sandwiched between Aaron Ramsdale and Benjamin White, and hearing both
the goalie and defender scoff at the latest claims of Emile Smith-Rowe.
He'd seen the opportunity and wedged himself into their conversation,
entertaining both young lads with a few choice anecdotes from his years
in their position, a hot-blooded young lad in a Gunners kit, surrounded
by the attractive other halves of his senior teammates. `Never fucked a
Tottenham slag though,' he'd pointed out in between bursts of coarse
laughter, elbowing both younger lads, `I've always had standards.' But
then, in between his own contributions, Rambo and Whitey had made more
snide comments about Smithy, who they suspected was just in a committed
relationship with his right hand and an XXL bottle of cheap lube. Ben was
particularly dismissive and scathing, though Aaron just seemed tipsy and
more interested in creating imaginative jokes about the Spurs kit sex
doll that he believed their buddy had bought online.

Something about the mystery of it had grabbed his interest, more so than
anything else going at the pretty pedestrian party - the two lads'
fiances had walked into the room at that point and killed the locker-room
banter of it all, which was what he missed more than anything, obviously.
But the thought had stayed with him as the rain stopped and the dry
evening deepened, with more beers and cocktails served and a bunch of
patisserie desserts unveiled for him to pick at. There were advantages to
retirement, he supposed, as he helped himself to sweet treats whilst the
nearest footballers just glared covetously at these options and then
backed away in moody discipline.

At some point towards the end of the party, he found himself at the
window, first admiring a couple of design features of the Odegaards'
garden, and then criticising himself internally for being such a boring
bastard; his eyes had settled on the shifty figure of the team's young
winger, the 6ft Croydon lad sitting apart from others and playing on his
phone on the arm of a sofa - fair enough, he thought, getting away from
these dull married fuckers in here, who are all comparing which box-sets
they've binged and which photographers they used for which birth
announcement in the family.

He'd finished his beer at that point and went into the kitchen, where he
talked distractedly to Saliba, and looked sharply over as Emile came
indoors - the 6ft lad was a striking figure in the tight 90s Arsenal
shirt that hugged his biceps, and the loose-fit grey jeans below. A curt
nod from the 22-year-old on the way past, and he lingered curiously
there, thinking about a couple of things reported by Ramsdale and White,
who were through in the rear lounge being grilled about their separate
wedding plans.

When Smith-Rowe came back through, a distressed-look denim jacket pulled
over his tight 90s footy shirt, Jack Wilshere was halfway through his
last beer of the night, and not paying attention to what French
centre-back next to him had to say - instead, the retired Arsenal star
and current youth coach was watching Smith's discreet exit through the
door, and thinking about the digs and aspersions of his teammates. The
31-year-old former midfielder turned around and made his excuses to
William Saliba, telling the 22-year-old defender that he was way past his
curfew from the wifey - and out he went, across the rain-glossy rear of
the house, and towards the half-open gate in the corner... down the narrow
path that ran alongside the big house, and onto its driveway, to a point
where he could watch the smirking youngster climbing into the back of a
taxi. Jack grinned and tossed the rest of his beer into a hedge,
self-assessing that he was still sober enough to drive, and very curious
to follow Emile into the night - on a mission to find out the identity of
the `Spurs MILF'.


Despite their respective hefty salaries, `the usual place' was little
better than a shed structure, located only a few streets away from the
big family home that Harry Kane was too cautious to ever let his visitor
into; things had been different when he had been shagging Eric, his best
mate, and he'd taken many a silly risk back then. Okay, what he did now
was hardly SAFE, but this extra garage was entirely disused by the
neighbour who owned it, and Harry had never actually returned the spare
key that he'd borrowed when it was loaned him to house a particularly
beautiful sports car one London summer. And now, since hotel bookings
were too traceable and the young lad had flatmates, this damp square room
within shouting distance of his marital home was the setting for the
sporadic hookups... the mad ill-advised encounters... the desperate dick
appointments.

He'd sworn to himself that it was over after what happened on the last
international break, though it was far from the first time Kane had made
such a promise to himself - but still, noshing off both Smithy and that
young Liverpool troublemaker...! In a side-room of St George's Park where
ANYBODY could have found them...!

He was becoming too foolish and greedy, he knew that - the carry-on in
Qatar during the World Cup was enough evidence of that, the way he'd
fawned over Jude Bellingham and the group session that had graced him
when England eventually bowed out. He greatly appreciated the way Dier
had organised that sordid little party for him in the hotel sauna, and
yet he also felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever - the little
bukkake party, sweat and cum dribbling down his face, had shown him on
his knees to some prime alpha lads from up and down the Premiership, and
he had been tempted to scold Eric for such risk-taking at the end of
their tournament. Except that he couldn't bear to hurt the other lad's
feelings, as sure as he was that the bearded hunk was having a hard time
and keeping something from him lately.

But in here, that was just another worry for Kane to forget about - that
was the whole point. In here, his parked car taking up most of the space,
he could stop being the country-leading strike force, and let go of
himself. He understood his own needs far better now than in those heady
days when Eric had first seduced him in the Russian summer, or any of the
submissive sexual encounters since.

He paced, as far as one could pace in the narrow track of space that
surrounded his car, and then settled in the gap between its rear and the
roller-door that fronted this rectangular parking shed. He rested his
rump against the boot of the car and toyed with the zip of his hooded
top, thinking that it was a little chilly still in here - and maybe he
should be finding somewhere a bit more luxe for his trysts with the
player from the rival club. For a few moments, a silly fantasy spiralled
in his head: he could perhaps buy an `investment property' somewhere
close to the Arsenal training ground, and then more easily meet up with
the sexy 22-year-old prince, and use it to have a permanent escape from-

There it was, the rattling knock on the front of the garage, and he
stooped to undo the catch and start tugging it upwards, a quick fluid
motion that brought him face to face with Emile's smirk, immediately
enjoying the 90s gear of the surly younger player, and knowing that he
needed this as badly as he'd claimed in his message. Smith-Rowe just
gave him a light nod. `Hope yer hungry,' the Emirates player laughed
quietly, and reached down to tug meaningfully at the crotch of his baggy
jeans.

One of his hands pushed Harry just below the chest, and he went back
against the boot of his car, arse to the metal, and dick semi-hard inside
his travel-worn underpants. Deftly, Emile was reaching behind himself to
start shoving the garage door back downwards, whilst with the other hand
lifting the front of his Arsenal shirt against his toned tummy, and
undoing the top buttons of his jeans fly. Harry, licking his lips,
allowed his meaty arse to slide against the cool metal until he could
bend his knees and sink to a kneeling position on the hard concrete of
this shabby space, his tall body brought low and tucked between the car
and the drooping jeans. Above, Emile had chucked his jacket aside and
lifted the 90s shirt further up his washboard abs; his jeans hung open at
the front and Harry could get his hands in there, and then his face,
rubbing and kissing the bulging front of the smart laddish boxer briefs
inside, black cotton enclosing the meaty privates of the young winger.

In moments like this, Harry Kane could entirely lose himself - down on
his knees, slobbering against loaded undies, greedily pulling at cotton
and elastic and getting his lips against a fat swollen cock, tilting his
face and rolling his eyes and staring submissively up into the almost
sullen aggression of Emile's lowered face. The angle accentuated the
muscle definition across his midriff and the slight bulge of his chest
and upper arms, and Harry opened his mouth wide and stuck out his tongue,
letting the fat cock roll and rub against it as it hardened and grew for
him, the high he needed to get over today's defeat. Except...

`Suck that cock,' the Arsenal player growled. `Suck on that, loser -
you're gonna let me fuck your mouth like your bitch boys got fucked by
the Magpies, eh?'

Okay, maybe not everything could be forgotten here - but the day's
result went from sporting humiliation to submissive turn-on, and he
nodded enthusiastically, just as Emile spat against his face and gave his
hair a rough rub. `Well come on,' growled the Arsenal winger. `Open
wide and gimme a suck, captain.'


Emile loved being a bit nasty and extra with Harry; he'd never been
vocal and rough like this with a girlfriend, and he wasn't sure if he'd
feel comfortable with it. He might feel silly or he might go too far and
upset her, and he'd be too scared of getting into some scandal. But with
a bloke seven years and seven seasons his senior, the all-time top scorer
for their national team? That was different. So he muttered on, jibing at
Kane for his team's humiliation to Newcastle, and telling him exactly
how he liked to have his dick sucked - when in reality, he was fucking
delighted anytime he got it wet at all, like any other horny 22-year-old!

For several moments, he was lost in it, his dick enclosed in Harry's
soft wet mouth, his balls heavy and tingling, and his own team's
difficult few days fading away - enjoying himself so much, in fact, that
he didn't immediately hear the rattle and shift of the roller-door
behind him, which he had pushed down so roughly and carelessly, and not
pushed quite to the threshold when he reached to close it; it remained a
good few inches off the ground and was quite easily pulled upwards by an
intruder, and it was only as said intruder ducked low and barged in next
to them that Emile realised that his back had been briefly exposed to the
night, and to discovery.

His face a mask of panic, Smith turned to his left, and gawped at the
other man who now joined them in this cramped space behind the parked
car; below, it seemed that Kane had no idea, his eyes closed and his
mouth rushing back and forth over the shiny wet shaft of a big young
cock. In a rushed few moments of horror, the 22-year-old stared from this
and back up to the face of the other bloke, now stood next to him and
laying a hand on his shoulder, the door slid back down and hitting the
threshold with a dull metallic clink. This heavier noise did disturb the
cock-sucker and Harry's face pulled away, gossamer traces of spit
hanging between his trembling lips and the fat purple head of Emile's
rocket cock.

`Well, well, well,' chuckled Wilshere.

`Fuck,' moaned Kane, sharply.

Smith-Rowe himself said nothing, though he was already panting. He was
caught between the rough dominant persona that he loved to throw at his
England captain, and the more breezy respect that he always tried to show
to this faded Arsenal legend - and sheer panic at being caught with his
nob out and a man polishing his helmet with his tongue. He just didn't
know what to say. But he was quick enough to read Jack's expression and
know that this wasn't quite the disaster it could be - it was like at St
George's, he thought, with that cheeky bastard Harvey following him out
of the canteen, and...

He recovered himself sufficiently to grunt out his invitation to the
shorter, stockier figure at his left side, and to reach down and grip the
base of his hard-on, rubbing the tip across Harry's dumbly gaping lips.
`You want a turn on his pussy mouth?' he barked at Jack Wilshere, an
inspiration to any young Arsenal player, and his heart skipped a beat
whilst he waited for the alpha male to clip him across the face and tell
him he was a perv - faced with his shiny cock, Harry's face seemed to be
frozen in the same dread expectation. But cheeky Jack the lad just burst
out laughing and reached down to grab the bulging fornt of his black
skinny jeans, nodding enthusiastically.

`Fuck yes, mate,' he announced. `Where the hell was my invite? As if I
had to follow you out here like a stalker, you dark horse. So...' Jack
was smirking down at the Tottenham player at their feet, his eyes alight
with glee. `THis is the famous Spurs MILF, is it? Haha. Brilliant. Here,
Harry, get your chops around THIS.' And Emile watched as the jeans were
unzipped and pushed down bulging thighs, and the tighty whiteys were
given a good grab and jiggle by one of Wilshere's hands, presenting
their massive contents to the kneeling striker. Emile's eyes bulged a
little at the sight of Jack's cock being whipped out, and he held
tightly at the base of his prick, before reaching that hand forward and
pushing Harry's face to the side, guiding it over and down to kiss the
trouser-snake of the young coach. `Yeah,' Emile growled eagerly, `give
Jackie boy a good suck, why don't you? That's it. If only there were 6
of us to your 1, eh, you Spurs loser!'


This, Jack thought, was part of what he'd missed: coming to this party
today, knowing he'd be something of an outsider to the current squad, he
was chasing the things he'd given up as his playing career stuttered to
its premature end. And he was loving his new role as a coach, sure, but
you had to put on a different act for that, and you'd never be just one
of the lads, especially not when you were coaching a bunch of teens.
He'd felt prematurely aged by his sporting retirement, bewildered by the
likes of Messi and Ronaldo who were bossing the sport into their mid or
late 30s, whilst he was stuck in the dugout shouting tactics at 31 - and
worse, strangely emasculated by the secret contract that tied his current
Arsenal role to a weekly session getting his balls emptied in Mikel
Arteta's office. He felt like a glorified gigolo in the shadows of the
club he'd loved since boyhood, especially in this season where it might
still top the league.

But here in this shady garage, side by side with young Emile, he was like
a beast unleashed again - a cocksure 5ft8, his waterproof jacket shrugged
to the floor, and his tight white t-shirt pulled up to his nipples to
show off his six-pack, pushing his massive hard-on into Kane's wet
mouth, and turning to wink and leer at his young accomplice before
passing Harry's blotchy stunned face between them. They could take it in
turns shoving their cocks in between his lips and pushing back into the
striker's throat until he gagged, and then wank themselves off and rub
their cocks against his cheeks and the soft fur of his chinstrap beard -
all the while muttering contentious obscenities at him, bantering about
the real bottlers of North London, the trophy-less losers of White Hart
Lane, the bitches who'd just been fucked senseless on Tyneside.

`Fuck he's good,' Wilshere purred. `Who knew?'

`Been my bitch for ages,' Smith-Rowe boasted next to him, `ever since
I made my England debut, pretty much - fuckkkk, yes Harry mate, mmm-'

`What a good slut,' he cooed and laughed, taking over and pulling Kane
in close to his crotch, really hitting the back of his throat with the
fat head of his own big meat. `Fuck this feels great, you big Spurs slag
- what a MILF you've got here, Smithy kid! Haha.'

Hot in spite of the damp cool night outside, Jack wrestled out of his
muscle-fit t-shirt, glad to show off how thick and toned his body was in
spite of his retirement, and glad that Emile seemed to note or even
admire this out of the corner of his eye - yeah, Jack thought, I could
run you and some of those other 22-year-old pricks ragged, you little
bastard wannabes...! He pulled out of HArry's mouth, slapping his long
fat tool against the side of his face, and then shuffled sideways a bit,
kicking his jeans down properly and yanking his trainer-clad feet out of
them, then his undies, so he was naked but for black gym socks and his
chunky New Balances. Down below, Harry Kane seemed to be taking this as
an invite for the same, shrugging away his Spurs hoodie, and then
dragging his unbranded dark t-shirt up and over his long strong torso.

Laughing, Wilshere snatched the hoody and rubbed it against his cock a a
big fistful of material, telling the other two that it felt good to wipe
his dick on a rag. `Fucking Spurs,' he muttered with real feeling, and
spat on the hoodie before chucking it to the side and whacking his cock
against one of Harry's cheeks again, then pushing roughly at Emile and
telling him it was his turn. Harry lurched this way and began to suck him
yet again, and Jack stared at the younger lad in a moment of naughty
inspiration.

`Here,' he yelped. `Give him that shirt off your back, mate.'

`What?' was the youth's immediate rasping response, breathless and
pink-cheeked.

`Give him the Arsenal shirt to wear,' Jack said, more authoritatively,
`and we'll really show him what a bitch he is.' He reached down and
gave a light slap against the side of Kane's face, feeling the impact on
his own gobbled cock. `You're gonna be an Arsenal slut tonight, Harry
boy, how you feel about that? Hah.'

He looked back up, and saw that Smith-Rowe was still oddly hesitant,
pawing at the front of the distinctive 90s footy shirt; Wilshere grinned
wickedly at him, licking his lips, and stared the taller Gunner down,
insistent and excited. And then in a flurry of motion, Emile followed the
idea, wriggling out of the vintage top and holding it out in front of
him, whilst Jack pushed Harry aside and stepped back, wanking himself
slowly and laughing some more. `Go on,' he urged loudly. `Put it on,
Kane, and then you can bend over that car boot and really take the same
fucking as your team.'


At the word `fucking', Emile felt a tension in his muscles and his
ball-sack, and his excitement briefly wavered. Harry was always begging
for it, and needing silenced with a mouthful of cock or ball to shut up
the greedy demands for more. Anal was a bit much for Emile to consider,
for some reason, even after all these months of regular oral service from
the Hotspur striker. He hadn't been sure he'd ever give in and properly
fuck the married England captain, not really - it just seemed too much,
too gay, too real. But here in this moment, flanked by Jack fucking
Wilshere, well...

`That's it!' Jack was exclaiming. `God, don't he look cute in it,
haha? Good boy...!'

Emile kinda got the point, though he'd been hesitant and wary; it was
fucking horny, actually, to see this 6ft2 bloke on his knees, his hard-on
evident in his sweatpants, his face now hidden as he struggled into a 90s
vintage shirt that was two sizes too small for him. It was a tight fit on
Emile's lean build, and this man was taller and broader than him; once
Harry was in it, it clung tightly to his waist and chest and upper arms,
and made him look very uncomfortable, more than physically: their
Tottenham bitch, forced to wear Arsenal colours, on his knees to serve
stars of present and past, fuck yes.

`Jesus,' the striker moaned ambiguously, and it was hard to tell if he
was cursing the humiliation of pulling on the wrong kit, or just excited
by the two hard studs standing over him, wanking their equipment, and
staring expectantly at him - or, more specifically, was he really just
excited by Jack's suggestion?

`Get up,' Wilshere told him now, firm and commanding, `and show us yer
big arse.'

Fuck, he meant it, he really meant it; Emile was shocked at all of this,
although he'd always guessed that the retired player was a total shagger
and party animal, but he'd thought the sordid experiences that had come
his own way were more rare and extreme. Now he was wondering if loads of
players got up to shit like this - what naughty stuff had Wilshere done
in his heyday, when he was a real Arsenal player himself?


Harry Kane wasted no time in getting up to his feet. For a moment he
towered against the two Arsenal men, hard as a rock in his pants, and
still licking his lips and a little dazed by taking the big and bigger
cocks so roughly and submissively from the lads in here with him - he was
too excited to question Wilshere's sudden presence with him, ignoring
the danger and madness of expanding this playtime beyond he and his
regular cum-supplier.

Jack seemed unhappy to be loomed over by Harry's superior height,
classic small man syndrome; he screwed up his face, all frowns and
aggression, and pushing him by the arm slightly. `Bend over the car then
you big slut,' he barked roughly, and the gravelly excitement of his
voice sent delicious shudders all through Harry's body.

But Emile, he thought, looked less certain - of course, he'd always
resisted the begging for a proper fuck, as Harry's arse ached for it,
and he reached back to finger himself sometimes whilst chowing down on
the fat Croydon meat. Would Smithy really give it to him from behind, and
was Jack bloody Wilshere really up to that too? He desperately wanted to
find out. The ridiculous vintage Arsenal top clinging uncomfortably to
his upper body, he turned around and gripped his pants at the sides of
the waist - he needn't have, because hands, Jack's surely, helped him
out, and started tugging the club sweatpants and the white CKs beneath,
until his big pale bottom was exposed and then slapped. He moaned
luxuriously at this and bent forward as gruntingly commanded, splaying
himself across the boot and sticking his arse up in the air, baring it to
these two alpha males.

Quickly, he felt one cheek squeezed and slapped again, and then heard
Wilshere spit loudly. In went one finger, pushing roughly into his hole,
and he groaned loudly, spreading out where he lay against the car,
pushing back with his hips, letting the retired player finger him good
and proper - he could hear Jack's dirty moans and Emile's almost
nervous gasps. Harry knew that his young regular wasn't half as
confident or dominant as he liked to act, though it was a fantasy both of
them were eager to maintain; he knew that there was this hesitation and
nervousness to the Arsenal winger, and he could hear and feel it in him
even without turning to look. He wanted to grab and reassure him, to tell
him it was okay if he didn't want to fuck, but he didn't want to
embarrass him in front of a club legend; and he also really really wanted
to feel his cock inside him.


Jack moved from one finger to two, and leered at Emile. `You need to
feel this pussy,' he told him confidently. `God it's good. Here.' He
pulled out and gave the broad backside another good spank. `Put a finger
in there, kid - give him a little prod before we dick him. Yeah, go on -
don't be so fucking shy, what are you?' He grabbed and shook the
younger man by the shoulder, practically dragging his hand forward by the
wrist, until he was leaning over and biting his lip and feeling his cock,
horny as hell as he watched the formerly brutish youngster push a
tentative digit in between the cheeks and rub it against Kane's hole
with an expression of bewilderment on his awkward face. Okay, so the
dick-head hasn't fucked a lad before, jesus christ.

`Go on, lad,' he encouraged roughly. `Give him a good finger-fucking,
will ya?' He continued to grab and shake at Emile, by the shoulder and
the neck, and then reaching down and giving HIS meaty bottom a bit of a
slap too, which really made the lad wince and grimace and shuffle from
foot to foot. He didn't repeat it, in case it really freaked him out,
but he did deliver a good stinging slap across one of Harry's cheeks
instead, and then become impatient. `Turn around,' he barked at the
striker. `Lie sideways so we can both have a hole to play with, eh? Come
on. Let's spitroast the bastard.'

Soon, he was grinning across the width of the car at his young buddy,
with Harry stretched between them. At this end, his head was bowed low,
mouth wide open so that Jack would slide his thick monster in and out of
his gob, one hand planted between his shoulder blades to grip a portion
of Arsenal shirt; the shirt that ended just above the base of his spine,
where his big cheeks were exposed, and Emile was pulling two greasy
fingers out of his hole, and staring down at his hand like a guilty
Macbeth. But now the young stud was taking a hold of his own cock and
looking across at him with a question in his eyes.

`Shove it in him, kid,' Jack hollered. `He's fucking begging for it,
isn't he? Go on, fuck this Hotspur loser and show him what we're
packing in the Arsenal, right?' As he spoke, he fucked his own dick
harder into Harry's mouth and really made him gag and struggle. `Go
on,' he urged, excited and filthy, `just push it in and give him a
proper hard fuck, mate, it's what he wants and deserves - fuck him like
Joelinton in front of goal, haha.'


And sprawled sideways across the back of his car, Harry Kane happily took
it. At first he could feel the nervous tension of the 22-year-old, the
same as when he let his tongue wander from his cock and gave too much
attention to his balls, or when he tried to climb up and kiss or nip his
nipples a little mid-blowjob; but then, as he relaxed himself and felt
the thick young head push against his fingered hole, he could sense the
growing confidence and authority behind the movement. Very soon, Smithy
was deep in him, not yet thrusting, but just holding it there, tight
against him and pawing at the footy shirt on his back, seeming really
turned on by it, and adjusting to the sensation of being balls-deep
inside an arse, tighter and stronger than any pussy.

Kane wanted to tell him how good it felt, but he had a very full mouth.
Over his head and back, Wilshere did it for him: `That's it, kid, give
it to him good. Now go for it. Pound this bitch.'

`Fuck,' Smithy was moaning. `Fuck, it feels...'

`Shut up and fuck him. Go hard. Come on.'

`Agh, it's so TIGHT!'

`Yeah, don't it feel GREAT?'

`Fuck...'

`That's it - but go harder. Go faster, mate!'

`Ughh... ohhh... fuckin' hell...'

`Don't go soft on him, just keep smashing it, come on. Yes lad, that's
it!'

And between them Harry moaned and ached, doing his best to keep sucking
lavishly on the delightfully huge Wilshere cock, whilst his bottom
bounced and jiggled with each heavy thrust of the Arsenal winger who was
buried inside him, gathering strength and confidence. In fact, he was
just beginning to pick up real assertiveness in what he was doing, when
Harry's mouth was suddenly emptied and deprived of cock, and Jack was
demanding that they swapped ends. Harry felt the mixed disappointment and
delight, sad to have Emile withdraw from him, but then pretty chuffed
when the beautiful blond lad was in front of him, looming over him, and
feeding him his slick cock - and double delight, really, because now an
even bigger and thicker cock was being pushed between his buttocks, and a
man who really knew how to use his body was taking charge. With a mouth
full of Smith, Harry's back arched and his every muscle twitched and
juddered - Jack Wilshere was full of the energy of someone who hadn't
played 90 minutes in a while, and he was now giving a performance of
fuckery that belied his injury-prone squib of a career. Fucking hell,
what a sexy little bastard he was!


For some time, Emile watched the older Arsenal guy go for it, and he
wondered if he looked half as powerful and masterful when he took Kane
from behind: Wilshere was an impressive figure, so thickly muscular and
such a large presence, even if he was notably shorter than the strapping
striker he was topping. He went for it, he really went for it, slamming
into him and making the car shudder on its suspension, making it creak
and whine, really powering into the Spurs player's body. He kept
grabbing fistfuls of the 90s shirt, as excited by it as Emile felt too.

And as he watched, feeling the voyeur's pleasure, he was slurped and
kissed at the crotch, Harry drooling all over his trimmed pubes and his
heavy balls and up and down the length of his veiny shaft. Not so much
sucking any more, as if Kane could tell how frustratingly close he was to
climax, but just teasing and servicing, just keeping him rock-hard and
ready... and absent-mindedly, Emile couldn't help but reach down and
stroke more gently and affectionately at the married DILF's hair and
beard, really stroking him rather than roughly tussling at him like he
normally would.

`FUCK,' growled Wilshere. `I'm gonna cum soon. Shall I dump in him?'

Emile found he didn't know what to say to that for a minute, just
totally dazed and overwhelmed - he couldn't believe he'd crossed that
line and put himself inside a man's arse. More, he couldn't believe
just how amazing it had felt, and how long he'd resisted allowing
himself that taboo pleasure. Wow.

Recovering himself again, he frowned thoughtfully over at the other man,
and shouted `No!' and then, slapping his cock more roughly against
HArry's cheek, he reached down to pat the shoulder of the vintage top.
`We're cumming on this,' he thought aloud, suddenly sure of it.
`We're cumming on it, and this bitch is gonna be our Arsenal slut for
sure!'


Jack felt tonight like he'd found a kindred spirit in Emile's horny and
nasty nature, and he hugged an arm against the strong shoulders of the
6ft lad as they stood over crouching Harry, all three of them wanking
their dicks as hard as they could. There was a strong bond between them
in the moment, all so excited and sweaty, two Arsenal stars and an
honorary Arsenal slag. Jack came first, so in need of it: he pumped three
solid bursts of thick creamy load, most of which hit Harry's beard and
neck, but some of which spilled and trickled down the chest of the old
Gunners shirt, staining it. He wasn't sure why Emile wanted his own
vintage item soiled this way, but he was so fucking horny for it,
especially when the young lad joined him and exploded with jizz of his
own, aiming it well so that it painted the neckline and down the
colourful sponsors, trails of oozing cum all over the tight-fitting kit.

Jack gasped and groaned, rolling his neck muscles and stretching out his
arms, and then looked down to watch as Harry too came, arching his body
and pulling his cock back so that he too jizzed onto the glossy 90s
nylon, adding to the cum-stains on the shirt. `Fucking hot,' he groaned
aloud, amazed and delighted. `Sexy fucking stuff. Fuck yeah, get that
top as dirty as you, our little Arsenal slut.' He grabbed and shook the
Spurs DILF by his hair and laughed, enjoying feeling so powerful and
dominant over the 6ft2 icon. He was sure he would never watch an England
match in the same way again.

WIlshere shook himself and stepped aside, still playing idly with his
meat. `You two are good fun,' he whistled a bit more weakly, suddenly
exhausted and spent, but still chuckling to himself, leaning on the sides
of the car to support his trembling bare body. `Fuck, I needed that...!'
He leaned down, elbows to the boot, and rested his clammy face in his
hands, needing a moment to recover and find his balance - when he pulled
back and righted himself, he found the the other two both standing at
angles from him, looking very awkward and uncomfortable with each other.
Harry looked different now, transformed from the greedy slut on his knees
to the awkward masculine football captain; Emile just looked dazed and
kinda lost.

Jack pulled a hairy forearm against his sweaty mouth, then nodded in
Smithy's direction. `You need a lift back to yours, ESR?'


Emile sat stiffly in the passenger seat, not even looking back as
Wilshere's ride pulled them out of the elite neighbourhood and back onto
the artery road into the north-east corner of the city. Next to him, Jack
was chatty and alert, his hand playing quite lightly against the steering
wheel and the gearstick - his monologue skipped lightly from pointing out
North London landmarks to telling him about his plans for training
tomorrow morning, then abruptly and briefly back to what had just taken
place: `He's a fucking great cocksucker, isn't he? Who knew! Harry
Kane, what a dirty bastard.'

Smith-Rowe didn't know what to say to him, other than cursory laughs.
He'd wound his window down a little and he tilted his head towards the
strip of cool air that it let in, glad of it on his sweaty features and
the side of his neck. His cock ached in the front of his jeans and he was
now wearing Harry's dark t-shirt under his denim jacket. The vintage
Arsenal shirt, as per Jack's giggling demands, had stayed glued to
Harry's body, even as he zipped up his hoodie. `He should keep it,'
Wilshere had cackled in the garage. `Remind him of us two. Wear it under
his shitty Spurs gear sometime, haha. Yeah? Yeah?'

For a moment, Emile had thought that Harry might actually punch Jack, but
then... the big tall striker had just nodded and got on with it, seemingly
cowed and shamefaced, though hopefully also satisfied. The goodbyes had
been oddly strained, with Harry sitting against the car on his own and
the two of them striding off down the street to where Jack had parked.
Emile hadn't looked over his shoulder, unsure what he would feel when he
looked back at the Hotspur.

Wilshere finally quietened down and put on the radio, and his car cruised
them through the late traffic of Sunday night in the capital. Half-asleep
in the passenger seat, Emile tried to process it all: so, he enjoyed
fucking a bloke as much as he enjoyed getting his dick blown, so that
was... interesting. He thought about the next time he met up with Kane,
and what he would say when the big fella inevitably begged for more of
it. He thought he might give in, given how amazing it had felt on his
prick, and how heavily it had made him eventually cum. And it must be
okay, he told himself, because Jack here has a wife and loads of sprogs,
and he's a proper macho bloke, so...?

Still, his goodbyes to the youth coach were awkward too as Jack dropped
him off on the corner by his building, and Emile couldn't help but kinda
regret that he'd exposed his private pleasure to this rowdy outsider -
what would Harry be thinking about it all right now? How would he be
feeling? Emile knew he'd be fucking chuffed to have taken two dicks like
that, and yet... he'd seemed so strange at the end, humiliated by them
and lingering there in the cum-slicked vintage shirt, the one that Emile
himself had been so excited to source and to wear about the city, proud
of his club.

In a daze, he let himself into the foyer and then the lift, finding his
way up to the apartment he shared with several old school pals, and
paused a few yards from his front door when the phone in his pocket rang.
It was, of course, the `Spurs MILF' - who else? He answered it with
breathy nervousness, unsure why the man would be calling - had he left
something else there, other than his jizz and his footy shirt?

`Emile?' rattled the England captain's voice down the line.

He paused. Then, `Yeah?' He tried to sound brash and confident, but he
suspected he just sounded tired and vulnerable.

`That's it,' Kane announced in a hiss. `It's over. That's the last
time.'

He paused again. Then. `You;ve said that before, mate.'

`I mean it,' snapped the striker down the line. And he sounded like he
did. There was a strange severity to his voice. `How dare you bring him
here? A guy like that. You don't know the kind of trouble he could bring
for me...'

`Hey,' Emile grunted sleepily. `I didn't bring him, he-'

`It's over,' Kane told him again, his voice quiet and icy. He sounded
so distant and unpleasant, and it confused the young footballer - he
thought of the groans and delight of the sluttish older man when he was
being shared by Emile and Jack, compared to his apparent distaste now it
was over. Perhaps the jizzy shirt had been too much? But... he'd felt
wary of Jack too, hadn't he, climbing out of his car, so...?

`Sorry,' Kane muttered. `It's been fun, mate, but - it was madness.
I'm glad you enjoyed yourself tonight. Goodbye.' Click, gone. That was
that. And Emile was too tired and confused to really react, just holding
the device to his ear and staring blearily at his own front door, his
mind full of strange sensations and vivid snapshots of the three-way
action in the garage. He locked the phone and shook his head, and let
himself into his flat, staggering in the direction of his bed.




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