Date: Fri, 15 Sep 2023 21:30:07 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 370 Part 370: England Camp, Day Nine Taking the fresh drink from the attractive and minimally dressed waitress, the young superstar settled back into the boxy leather armchair and made himself perfectly comfortable, rightly feeling that the entire world was at his talented feet - or more specifically tonight, the VIP section of the most boujie nightclub in Glasgow's trendy West End, enjoying the fuss that their presence was making up here in the elevated mezzanine overlooking the main dancefloor of throbbing drunken bodies. He put the ice cold glass to his lips and took a long sip of the heady cocktail, resting his elbows on the broad arms of the chair, and smiling placidly at the party atmosphere around him. It wasn't a large outing of the night's winning England squad, fresh from their victory at Hampden Park in the heritage friendly. A lot of the guys had early journeys planned and family commitments before returning to their professional clubs, a few even setting off from the airport tonight almost immediately after the 3-1 win. But there were enough of them, a fresh-faced cluster of the squad's younger stars, and the rising king of La Liga the magnetic centre of their group. Jude Bellingham surveyed his scant party pals for the night, noting the raucous merriment of his buddy and past playmate Phil Foden by the balcony edge, chatting away with a couple of wealthy England fans who had bumped into them in the previous bar and secured their entrance to this swanky joint; he eyed Chelsea duo Gallagher and Colwill, both poised at the centre of a group of attractive girls closer to the bar, regaling them with some highlights from the game; he glanced casually across to the sight of Arsenal buddies Ramsdale and Saka being similarly surrounded by admirers, but with much less flirtatious effort between them than their West London counterparts. And that was it, he thought - a couple of others had joined them to the first bar, Chilwell and Rice and Nketiah, only to limp off at 1am for the safety of the hotel. Jude, who was beginning to adapt to the siestas and late nights of Madrid, had been disappointed not to rouse a bigger party from his senior colleagues, but he was still enjoying the night, the atmosphere, the drink, the attention. When the 6ft1 youngster clutched his negroni and got up from his perch, he could feel the eyes on him, including from chatty girls who were otherwise showing interest in Levi or Conor or big Aaron; he could feel their interest trailing after him as he took his strut across the mezzanine, even if most of them were in their later 20s or 30s, and might scoff at the idea of chatting to a 20-year-old in any other circumstances. Jude knew that he exuded a powerful maturity even off the football pitch, and the thought of turning on an audience of attractive older women was just fine for him. The dark silk shirt and loose-fit summer trousers hanging loosely from his lean muscular physique, he moved to the rail and held it with one hand, overlooking the dancefloor and feeling as if he could take his pick - any tipsy or high girl dancing with her pals down there would drop all patriotism for a session with a hot young thing like him, he thought, and he felt like fucking royalty. The relative shyness and reserve that had clung to Bellingham in his formative Bundesliga years was falling away, bit by bit, and the young man who had arrived in Spain this summer was not the same boy who had joined Harry Kane by the swimming pool that night in Doha. The thought of that transformative experience made the 20-year-old smirk to himself, and re-evaluate his cocky assessment of the dancefloor below: it wasn't just the hot girls dancing away who might drop their knickers for a ride on this football stallion, was it? Half their boyfriends would probably turn bi-curious at the prospect of footy's new poster boy. Jude could grin at the swell of arrogance in his train of thoughts, he hadn't lost all humility and common sense - but he really did feel unstoppable lately, stampeding into his new Spanish league and asserting himself with relative ease into a super-club like Real Madrid. And then coming here to this brief international camp with the Three Lions and consolidating his near-guaranteed spot in Southgate's plans. His cock-hungry captain aside, he could see the respect and even awe that many of the senior England players regarded him, and knew he'd properly made it now - he was the future of football, and one day his image would be as iconic as Messi or Ronaldo were now. For all of this simmering confidence, Jude was not getting approached in the same way his cluster of teammates were, and he suspected there was something intimidating or unapproachable in his aloof complacency. He didn't mind. He felt sure that when he saw what he wanted, he would just have to look across and smile. It all sounded so vain and idiotic, but then... not two nights ago the Stourbridge youth had woken from his first moments of slumber to find a `straight' roommate sniffing his bulge. He'd enjoyed winding Kalvin Phillips up since without overtly mentioning what had happened, and been a little disappointed when the Leeds lad had been among the first to escape camp and fly to Manchester tonight - he suspected his own hot young body had something to do with it, but he could hardly take any blame. The greedy slut had pawed and licked his body while he was pretending to sleep, and now Kal was just ashamed of himself. Dirty bugger. Jude felt horny just thinking about it, staring down his body and watching the greed on the older fella's face, before dropping the bombshell of his conscious enjoyment once the City guy was huddled across in the next bed. Here in the VIP section, he sniggered to himself, and stretched out his long arms against the rail, enjoying the memory. Turning away from the view, indifferent to the party-hard Scottish girls that he could see from here, he was about to go and round up the Lions for a set of Jager-bombs, when he noticed that they weren't the only ones being tailed by security. A small huddle of other conspicuous young men had entered the arena, and Jude recognised them immediately: a parallel handful of younger squad members from the Scottish side who his team had spanked only hours ago at Hampden Park. Grinning delightedly, Jude deliberately crossed their path on his way to the bar, pausing briefly in front of them, and flashing a wordless smile of victory at their gormless faces; almost as one, the small crew of Caledonians nodded acknowledgement and gave him a somewhat meek staring down, nobody mouthing a single word against the crashing dance music below them. Jude grinned and nodded too, and then stepped casually away from them, gesturing coolly at Ramsdale and Saka to join him for more drinks. As if they didn't have numerous friends and teammates in common, the small camps of England and Scotland players kept a cool distance in the relative confines of the VIP bar, as if their national side's so-called rivalry was anything that mattered to fellow Brits who largely played in the Premier League. The presence of the Scots seemed to delight Jude's drinking companions in different ways, with only treble-winner Foden seeming to be above gloating - but he was more interested in funny videos of his kids that his partner was sending him, the league's youngest boring family man. Jude had hoped he might get a little more attention from the Stockport scally at some point this week, like in their Qatari hotel, but there was something disappointingly chaste about Phil's behaviour this year. The Chelsea and Arsenal lads, however, were full of quiet banter and amusing bristling machismo, as if waiting for a West Side Story dance-off with a rival gang. Maybe it was their own pathetic London rivalry, Bellingham supposed, and bantering about the Scottish thistle-fuckers was a great way to bond and find common ground. For himself, he found himself looking at the self-conscious celebrity huddle with a particular idea in mind. The five Scotland players were mobbed now, all grateful selfies and hugged condolences with home turf fans, though it was more beery blokes than the hot women who were orbiting Jude's own crew. Staring past this, Bellingham found himself looking at the rival footballers in the same way that he'd surveyed his view from the balcony, because a particular kind of cocksure vanity was taking over; it was one thing lying back and having his cock worshipped by sluttish captain Kane or awkwardly curious Phillips, but he was now entertaining a particular fantasy of dominance: asserting that same precocious authority over an opponent who just couldn't resist his manhood. Drinking a fresh cocktail by the bar and ignoring the flirty group around him, the Madridista sized up his options here. The brashest and most attention-seeking of the Scots was Ryan Porteous, the Watford centre-back striking various muscular poses in group photos with glassy-eyed drunk fans - hmm, nah, too fucking full of himself, Jude thought unironically. Ex-Chelsea and now Brighton midfielder Billy Gilmour was a quieter presence, perhaps made more awkward by the fact his former teammates had done nothing to approach him since his arrival - hmm, nah, a bit too much of a skinny rat, not worth dominating! Then there were Serie A's Lewis Ferguson and Everton's Nathan Patterson, both ordering in ostentatious trays of drinks at the other end of the bar, surrounded by hangers-on - nah, he concluded, thinking that both hefty lads looked a bit too drunk to function, and not worth his effort or attention. Nah, it was the fifth of the Scotland footballers in their little clique that caught his eye and stirred his imagination, making him rub his thumb across his chin and lower lip, and wonder if anyone on the Scottish team could suck dick half as well as Harry Kane or Phil Foden. Apart from anything else, Scot Number 5 had something very important in common with him: both young men were new arrivals to La Liga, and the prospect of awkward reunion on a Spanish pitch gave Jude far more thrill than caution. He strutted calmly from the bar and the conversations of his teammates, and made a beeline for Kieran Tierney. The awkward distance between the rival teams was broken as soon as Jude approached Kieran: conversations were struck up among the other football players too and the athletes formed a ragged circle at the heart of the VIP area, bantering with each other and courting their fans and admirers quite happily, with only joking fisticuffs and aggressive photo poses as tribute to the ancient rivalry that tonight's game had celebrated. Jude chatted lightly and playfully with the 26-year-old Lanarkshire lad, teasing him with snatches of his own slow-progress Spanish, and enjoying the Real Sociedad player's stilting attempts to respond. There was plenty for the two of them to discuss, comparing notes on how they had been received in their different corners of a new country, commenting on the football culture and the language barriers, and discussing their respective club's upcoming fixtures in a shared league. Jude was a perceptive lad and he quickly picked up on the subtleties of Kieran's mood, easily detecting that the Arsenal man was somewhat annoyed at being initially snubbed by Aaron and Bukayo... Also, that Tierney was taking the Scotland defeat a bit more to heart than the other four, who were definitely more drunk than him, a more fierce patriot in spite of being born on the Isle of Man. Whilst the other four were loudly wasted and partying nearby, there was something impenetrably dour and serious about the 5ft10 full-back, and a certain interesting vulnerability. Lastly, Jude was quick to pick up on the way his seated neighbour kept checking his phone with a frown, and playing with a ring on his pinky finger - the fella was missing a girlfriend somewhere, in London or Spain, and less interested in the club girls than his younger teammates. They'd been chatting for a while now, slightly detached from the assembled footballers and their mixed fans, and Jude felt he had a good measure of the lad next to him. More drunk on his own blooming ego than the cocktails he'd been sipping, Jude was utterly sure of his own irresistible persona, completely convinced that the footballing world was his to command - and he was much more interested in asserting his macho power over a grumpy Scot than he was in the dozen 10/10 young ladies who were eyeing him up from different corners of the bar. He wanted Kieran Tierney to struggle to look him in the eye when their two Real teams next met in La Liga. Discreetly, he laid one calm hand on the shoulder of Kieran's crisp white shirt and leaned slightly closer so that he didn't have to shout over the music. `Do you want to get some air, KT?' he asked coolly, his own expression unreadable. Tierney seemed to frown briefly at the idea but turn this way and nod his head. `Aye,' he grunted over the tunes, `that makes sense.' Jude shrugged off the tail of two different security personnel, one from each national side's entourage, who tried to follow them - he also eschewed the door to the actual VIP smoking terrace where they were directed. `The last thing either of us need is a picture of us surrounded by smokers and vapers,' he said simply, shouldering the security door that took them into the broad dark side-street to the rear of the club. The night was cooler than recently, and both football men stepped away from the doorway to enjoy this light breeze. Jude slid his hands into the deep pockets of his trousers and paced away from the doorway, taking in the graffiti murals of the high-stretching ex-industrial buildings around them, aware of Kieran's slow steps and brooding quiet as he followed him. Out here, the nightclub felt both close and miles away, the air still ringing with suppressed music and the smell of sweat and aftershave, but the throbbing lights and manic crowd lost; the 3am street was deserted and empty, nobody to be seen on this side of the club but the two of them, and the few parked cars. `We might have trouble getting back in,' Tierney remarked ambivalently. Bellingham stopped in the middle of the street and look back at him. `Maybe.' `You don't sound arsed.' Jude smiled faintly at this, looking the lean defender up and down, and shrugging his own broad shoulders. `Well, the night is almost over, isn't it?' `Dunno, pal,' Kieran murmured oddly, hugging his arms about his chest. He seemed about to make some retort at this and then stop himself. `You lot are the winners,' he pointed out with ironic grace, `so you might go on celebrating until sunrise. Us losers, on the other hand, should probably be getting home soon.' He made a scoffing noise and looked about to turn back towards the club fire exit, still slightly ajar as they'd left it. Noise and lighting leaked manically from it, a reminder of the chaotic hedonism they'd left behind in search of fresh air. Jude smiled at this reminder of the game, and his international success, but he took a few casual steps back closer to the 26-year-old, enjoying the way he towered several inches over the old lad in height. `Winners and losers,' he mused quietly. `What?' `Nothing. Just thinking, that's all.' `You're acting odd, pal,' the grumpy jock told him bluntly. Jude ignored this, his smile unflinching. He slid one hand from his pocket and brought it to play idly with the thick gold chain about his neck, playing slightly at the open collar of his silk shirt; he studied the flicker and uncertainty of Kieran's almost aggressive eyes, knowing that he'd captured his interest. He left the hand loosely at his own neck and with the other he played with one button halfway down his front. Kieran's eyes didn't seem to know where to go, before coming up to meet his. `You're the one who followed me out here,' he said quietly. The Arsenal loanee started at this. His voice was husky and irritable. `You invited me out here for some air?' He let out a long huffy breath. `I thought we were having a good chat in there, pal. We've a fair bit in common. But if you just wanna gloat, then-' `Who's gloating?' Jude asked sweetly. `You're the one chatting about losers and winners.' Kieran huffed again. He pawed at the front of his ill-fitting chinos, somehow contriving to look like a working-class basic lad out on the town and nothing like the well-paid sportstar his senior career had made him, right up to the un-trendy chestnut tufts of his stable haircut. The Scottish Arsenal defender looked like a laddish embodiment of the Sunday League, and Jude knew that he oozed Champions League charm. He pulled lightly at the draped material of his shirt and laughed quietly under his breath, still locking eyes with the full-back. `What?' Sociedad's new transfer demanded hotly. `Nothing, nothing...' `Fuck this. You're high, or something. I'm going back in there to round up the lads - we shouldn't have come out tonight after that shit-show game, I told them. See you in Spain, or whatever, mate - I'm as big a fan of your footy as anyone else, but nobody told me you were such an arrogant prick.' He said all of this in one red-cheeked rush, then entirely failed to turn around and march back to the fire door that would return him to the nightclub and the safety of the VIP. Jude held a patient smile on his face and toyed with the top button of his shirt, and then nodded away over his shoulder; behind him, on the opposite side of the street from the fire exit, a narrow alley darted away, darker and more hidden than this road. He said nothing more but just grinned at the other footballer, and Kieran scowled back at him. There was a long moment there of self-doubt that cracked through Jude's new superstar mindset... the kind of insecurity and social anxiety that had plagued him through his mid- and late-teens, once utterly dependent on the more outgoing Jadon Sancho to steer him through German social life. Behind the glaze of superstardom was a gangly young lad who'd been terrified to leave Birmingham and take that career risk, and who still couldn't quite believe he got to wear the Three Lions on his chest. But that young boy from Stourbridge only took over for a faint moment, because the 6ft1 La Liga star was taking a cool step backwards, both hands in his pockets, and smirking with his head tilted playfully to one side - and with a long huffy sigh, Kieran Tierney was prowling across the pavement after him, following him into the cool Glaswegian shadows. `Come here and feel how hard I'm getting,' Bellingham instructed him coolly, flopping his tall physique casually back into a wall of concrete, and grabbing Tierney's hand on the way to his crotch, helping it to grab the bulge in his trousers, and grinning down into the flushed angular face of the frowning Scotsman. `Give it a good feel... loser.' Tierney's nostrils flared angrily and he pouted, but he grabbed and stroked it like he was told, helping the semi to quickly get even harder. Jude brought his hand up and clutched the side of Kieran's face instead. `Knew you'd be keen on tasting some English dick tonight, Scottie. Now - you gonna get down on your knees?' `You're so fucking in love with yourself,' the 26-year-old accused him in a growl, close up against him in the shadows, and rubbing furiously at his tenting hard-on, and Jude laughed gently in response, resting hands on his strong shoulders. `And so is everybody else, buddy, so get down there and suck my dick.' He was thrilled to hear the authority and power in his voice, and unsurprised when the Scot kneeled down to obey. Jude sighed with complacent triumph, resting back into the wall and unbuttoning his shirt in no hurry, whilst the front of his trousers was unbuttoned and unzipped with more furtive effort by Kieran's fingers. Soon the loose-fitting pants were sliding down mighty brown legs of muscle and the kneeling Scot was tugging down on dark grey boxer briefs, gasping a bit when face-to-face with the gently rising strength of Jude's erection. He grinned down, eyes adjusting to the gloom. `Give it a kiss, bitch.' He moaned loudly as the Arsenal reject did as he was told, and Jude's ego was stoked further in its ascent. He'd eyed Tierney as a moody slut across the VIP bar. He'd picked his target, and it had been that easy. He thought back to storming into that hotel gym in Doha, greedily confronting the England skipper - Harry Kane had made a man of him that night, going down on him and initiating him as a true Lion. Of course buggers like Kalvin were fondling him at night, and sluts like Kieran here were gonna gobble him down back-alleys - he was the King of Spain. He put his hands down there, scratching his fingers through Tierney's shite hair, taking control and feeding his long girthy piece into that greedy mouth, pushing deep enough to make him gag, and only briefly allowing him to cough and catch his breath before fucking his mouth again, gently pushing with his hips to plough the Scotsman's hungry mouth. He moaned and sighed and enjoyed himself, pleased with just how pleasingly eager and submissive the man on his knees had become, exactly as he'd fantasised: his big English prick filling up the throat of the Scottish loser, fucking his gob like his team had fucked them at Hampden Park! Unbidden, KT began to lap at his balls, and he moaned happily, wanking his wet cock as the hungry mouth kissed around his sack and briefly visited the glistening muscle of each thigh. He grinned down into Kieran's hot face of lust, slapping the weight of his cock on his protruding tongue and then forcing it back in between his lips. He ragged at his head like he was a sex toy, choking him on his meat, his shirt hanging open about his ripped abs, and his dominance making him want to prolong the pleasure - sure, he wanted to bust a nut, but he really wanted to let this linger, to assert himself fully over the representative Scotsman, and to feel like England's great fucking hope of future glory. To that end, he let the other player scrabbled upwards off his knees, but pulled his face away then the shorter lad stretched upwards and tried to kiss him - he had no interest in kissing another guy and he certainly didn't want to taste his own pre-cum on those sluttish lips! But when Kieran tried instead to kiss him on the neck, he let him, enjoying the hungry pecks at the side of his throat, and holding firm on Kieran's shoulders to control and contain him, whilst one of the older lad's hands pumped his spit-wet prick down below. `You fucking slut,' Jude groaned victoriously at him. `Knew you'd go down on me. Hah.' `Smug English prick,' Kieran muttered with the bitterness of someone who hadn't dropped to his knees at the slightest hint. `You suck dick pretty good,' Bellingham complimented him. `Does your whole team? Should I get Porteous or Patterson out here to suck my balls next?' `Fuck off...' `God you can't stop wanking it, can you? You love how it feels.' `You smug bastard...' `And you fucking LOVE IT, Arsenal reject, don't you?!' He heard the brash violence in his voice here, perhaps pushing it too far, perhaps enjoying his power trip that bit too much, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the cocksucking full-back tore away from him and fled at that insult, instead of tightening his grip about the base of his big alpha cock - and hissing back in a throaty whine, `I'll eat your load, but you ain't fucking me.' As yet, the prospect of fucking this fella hadn't even occurred to Jude - even after his England exploits and his occasional playmate back at Dortmund, it hadn't REALLY occurred to the youth that he might push this transgression any further, not in any explicit or definite way. It had not been in his thoughts as he singled Kieran out or led him here into the shadows to enjoy his submission. But now that the words were out there... `What?' he heard himself mumble in a moment of disrupted authority, his voice full of nervous energy and youthful inexperience. Kieran did not seem to pick up on the wobble. Rubbing a hand across his shame-red face and licking his lips, he muttered out his limits again, `I'll suck your big cock, pal, but I'm not taking it up me arse - I've got- er- I've got- uh - a boyfriend.' This admission seemed a difficult truth for him to spit out, and Jude could only begin to guess at the journey of self-discovery that his Tuesday-night slut had been on to say that word out loud to anyone in the world. But what KT could only begin to guess at was how much he had just handed real power to England's young hero. `You sure about that?' Bellingham purred, instantly reaching around to grab the older footballer's pert backside through his ugly chinos. `You don't want to bend over for daddy?' `Daddy?' grunted Tierney, outraged. `How old are you, 18?' `Fuck,' the Madrid midfielder growled back, hugging him into the wall, `never noticed what a nice booty you got, defender boy - why don't we see how tight that hole is?' He wasn't sure where his words were coming from. An unknown desire had been unlocked, or a quick new path to dominance. `Fuck off,' Kieran murmured, `and let me suck you again...' `Nah,' Jude insisted, arms about his waist, holding their faces super-close. `I know you want it, fella - your arse cheeks are clenched like crazy just thinking about it, haha. Turn around and drop the pants. I'm gonna fuck you like we fucked your whole team on the pitch.' The only response from the Scotsman was a deep angsty moan. `Come on,' he hissed. `I know you want my big dick, bitch.' And in seconds, the Sociedad transfer was spinning around, lifting up the back of his shirt. Hands moving at speed, Jude reached about his waist and undid the buckle of his belt, wrenching at the button flies - it was all happening so fast, tugging away the ugly chino pants and then the tighty whities below, til he was standing there with his cock in his hand and the pert pale cheeks of the Scotsman's arse down in front of him, pushed back as the slut leant into the concrete wall. `Fuck's sake,' panted Kieran, when Jude began to push the pink head of his member between these fleshy white globes, `I won't be able to take it like that!' For all his dominant energy, Jude was suddenly nervous, hyper-aware of his own relative virginity, and he pulled back with his hips, staring down at his monster cock and the firm arse cheeks like it was an unsolvable puzzle. His other hand held a fistful of white shirt just below the collar, pushing Kieran roughly forward as if he was 100% in charge, even as he stared wonderingly at his dick and the buttocks, and wondered if he could really cross this boundary. Kieran's eager hiss cut into his indecision: `Just rub a bit of spit down there or something, for fuck's sake - haven't you done this before?' Jude paused only briefly before snapping back arrogantly, `Your boyfriend's pencil-cock must be easier', then spitting noisily down on his cock. He spat more onto two fingers then shoved them very roughly between the glutes, making the Scot squeal and shudder. Without any grace, he thrust his fingers in against the tight knot of hole in the furry crack, and he felt muscle give way to his exploring digits, two thick fingers going straight inside the Scottish slut - the wild secret knowledge that Kieran Tierney was gay and had a boyfriend was blowing his mind but he was trying to ignore it. He preferred to think of the rival player as hetero and unavailable, yet conquered by his undeniable charisma and sheer footballing prowess! `Hows' that?' he growled, frigging the strong muscular arse. `Fucking hell,' Kieran moaned, and then, `that's it!' For a few minutes, Jude just kept on with this. Partly, he was thrilled by the way his two digging fingers could send absolute spasms through the 5ft10 figure of the Arsenal reject, and the way Tierney was now begging under his breath for him. But also he was delaying the terrifying true transgression, knowing that something irreversible was happening when he broke into this lovely tight arse with his own cock... Had he really never considered this next step? He'd been furious when Salih Ozcan tried to ask it of him in shared German hotel rooms, begging for more than a mouthful, and it had left their football bromance on thin ice as Jude departed the Bundesliga. But as soon as Tierney had tried to deny it him, it had been all he wanted. Dominance, that was the thing, and it didn't matter how he took it... `Please,' Kieran begged him in a rough yelp, `put that monster in me!' `So much for that boyfriend,' he hissed aggressively, and he took a tight hold of the man's bare hips, then shoved his cock between the spit-slicked cheeks, pressing his head in against the hole, which felt so impossibly tight and small all over again, as if he hadn't just had his knuckles against it - he hesitated, holding the 26-year-old tight, and trying to press forward, but as worried about hurting his own dick as he was the strong-arsed Scot bending before him... Growling ambiguous moans from KT, and his own ragged breaths hot in the air, and a slight moment of panic where he thought he might have to run impotently from the encounter, unable to commit this final act of dominance. And then he felt something in Kieran's backside yield to him, some slight relaxing of powerful muscles, and he felt his dick go in - wow - sliding slowly but surely into the other man, filling him up, and their bodies drawing closer and more fixed in a snarling posture against the wall. `Oh god yes,' howled Kieran, and Jude could just pant wordless ecstasy into the dark air. All doubt and panic was gone. Jude was an animal unleashed. He held tightly to the strong lean body of the other player as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, and he pumped his powerful cock in and out of his muscular arse in hard rapid movements, thumping him into the wall and making him sigh and gasp and yelp. Like the well-oiled machine of Southgate's England squad tonight, Jude pummelled Kieran, ploughing deep into him and throwing him back and forward with every aggressive thrust. He couldn't last for long, but even once he began to jet hot cum into the other man, he kept thrusting with the same rhythm and force, caught up in the pounding hurricane of his own alpha male energy. Eventually he was exhausted, his twitching cock still balls-deep in Tierney's arse, and his arms wrapped about the creased white shirt, sweating profusely against the cheap polyester, his face buried in the crick of the older lad's neck, sweating over his collar and shoulder. He stilled, feeling Kieran's orgasmic moans shake through into his grip, knowing that he'd fucked the man to completion, but unsure if Kieran had even touched his own dick more than once or twice in that - but slowly, gasping and sweaty, he unpeeled his body from the other, struggling a little to retrieve his throbbing cock from the tight entrance, and staggering apart, one hand clutched to his soaked brow. In front of him, he was reassured by the sight of hunched KT, still collapsed forward into the wall, shirt halfway up his back, tighty whiteys midway down his calves, chinos about his ankles. His big white arse bulged there, the prize that Jude had claimed. He felt surprisingly okay to stare at it now, knowing he'd been deep in it, after the momentary post-climax disgust of being so yoked to another man's body. He reached down and gave his sticky cock a stroke, then began to pull up his undies and baggy trousers, leaving his shirt unbuttoned while the wet perspiration cooled on his pecs and abs. Breathing heavily, he took slow swaggering steps down the alley, and paused only to land a single spank on Kieran's strong backside. `Scotland really got fucked tonight,' was all he could wheeze smugly before staggering on, heading at first for the other side of the broader road and the slightly ajar fire exit; but then pausing midway and deviating from this path, unable to face going back indoors. He glanced back behind him into the mouth of the alley, catching the dim outline of the other footballer, who was dressing in a hurry, and still moaning heavily as if he was still being fucked. Jude didn't want to stay here to listen to his guilty muttering about a boyfriend, and instead he strolled confidently up the road with his shirt wide open, pulling a phone from his pocket and loading up a taxi app as quickly as he could... but then, at the junction ahead, catching sight of his England teammates piling into a hire car with a couple of girls. `Hey,' he called out, hoarse from panting, and dashed in their direction. `Hey, wait up guys - where are we partying next?!' 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share