Date: Tue, 7 Nov 2023 21:26:29 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads: Part 374

Part 374: A Damp Tuesday in Kirby


Heavy November rain pelted against the tall windows of the fitness suite,
outdoor floodlights forming dispersed halos of light against the
cataracts on the panes. Indoors, the outer conditions could bring a
shiver to the body of someone born for different climes, even if the gyms
of the AXA Training Centre were adequately heated. Well, he thought,
I'll just have to warm myself up more by pushing myself on the weights -
he was hardly a slacker in that department as it was, attested by the
intensely ripped physique beneath the clingy red of his Liverpool FC
training gear. He pushed away thoughts of a hot break on the Egyptian
coast or a transfer escape to a hotter country's league, and moved back
instead to the free weights, needing to finish his strict regimen before
calling it a day.

Mohamed Salah was far from the only squad member still putting a shift in
at the training centre, in spite of the gaffer's rather loose
instructions at the end of the afternoon; in theory the lads could leave
early and have more of an evening off, since tomorrow would see them
travel to France ready for their Europa fixture against Toulouse. But
senior stoics of the LFC first team were pushing themselves to end the
day with a last burst of physical effort, and so a cluster of their
younger wannabes were also hear, filling the fitness suites and passages
of the slick modern training complex with idle chat and laddish bursts of
laughter.

Mo knew that there few names on this squad whom such youngsters respected
and admired more fervently than himself - it was hardly egotism, it was
just facts. And he was not immune to enjoying it, the way they deferred
to him and ogled at the intensity of his musculature. Right now, lifting
heavy free weights up against his pumped chest, the 31-year-old goal
machine could tell that a couple of the nearest were glancing
comparatively his way, conscious of his superior strength and
determination.

Young Ben Doak, for example, was staring this way whilst doing bicep
curls with lighter weights, the young Scotsman frowning studiously in
comparison and then blushing a little as Mo's complacent smile swung his
way; and he could see other young midfielders McConnell and Clark
struggling with the weight setting he'd left on the leg press machine,
clearly too proud to lower the setting and accept their weaker young
limbs versus the challenge that Salah had set himself about ten minutes
ago, sweating profusely onto the leathery cushions of the machine.

Mo reached the last of his reps and he clanked the gear away, panting
lightly, and strolling in front of the mirrors on the far wall to inspect
the way that certain muscles bulged through his clingy top and the short
shorts that exposed much of his densely haired thighs. No doubt a few
pairs of eyes were shifting this way to further admire him as one of the
supreme fitness leaders of this ambitious team... but Mohamed didn't
flicker his deep brown eyes away from his own reflection to acknowledge
this, too confidently sure in the attention that he would never admit to
loving. Hmm, he thought, perhaps it's been a long time since my last
muscle selfie after the gym? The Egyptian king loved nothing more than
dripping his superlative six-pack on social media and scrutinising the
stupid thirsty messages that would explode into his DMs.

All this attention, and yet Salah was a frustrated man. A man without...
outlets. It was the Milner exit, he supposed, having struck up a quiet
deal of sorts with the big muscle-bound elder statesman of Anfield,
furious when the quietly confident champion moved away to his final
challenges at Brighton. It was disgusting to Mohamed that he should
suddenly be without an... `assistant' of that kind, having fucked James
regularly in the mouth and arse for the final months of his Liverpool
tenure, and enjoyed the casual readiness of the burly Yorkshireman, even
when he initially shared it with that scamp Harvey.

Mohamed couldn't help but glance sharply about the gym to see if young
Elliott himself was still around, but there no longer seemed to be any
sign of the mop-headed young star - a bright superficial friendship
existed between the superstar striker and the up-and-coming winger, but
it was a showy affection which no longer translated into private
satisfaction. When he had most overtly approached the smirking young
English boy about inviting him to a hotel room on a previous Europa trip,
the 20-year-old had laughed and punched him in the bicep, and asked if
King Mo would be returning the favour and 69ing him... The gall and
confidence of the kid! So Mo had given up trying to rekindle that, just
as he'd given up trying to lure a submissive Trent Alexander-Arnold back
into his crotch, both former cock-suckers seemingly too sure of themself
to be willing greedy sluts for their Pharoah.

As these thoughts chipped through Salah's mind, he tugged irritably at
the mesh inners of his gym shorts and turned frustratedly away from that
hypermasculine reflection, no longer interested in the admiring or
envious eyes of other gym-goers - the 31-year-old was bored and horny and
suspected he would just have to go home and hope his wife was in the mood
hours later. So fucking unfair!


Said Trent certainly was a more confident and relaxed guy than in the
days in which he had nightly taken Salah's thick cut cock between his
lips - that was a very different era of nervous self-discovery for the
Scouser, messed around by guy after guy. Sure, the handsome young
footballer had experienced his first real heartbreak this summer, but he
was slowly recovering, doing his best to move on from the horror of being
so unceremoniously abandoned by his former captain. Day by day,
Alexander-Arnold found it more possible to put Henderson's love behind
him, though the prospect of joining him at another international camp
still gave him a sickly feeling and the threat of private tears in the
night.

But he was confident and sure of himself, that was still true, and he
could swagger around this training centre as one of the most senior and
respected players, still aged only 25; Liverpool FC felt so much like
home to him, and he was utterly comfortable in his private preference for
guys, no longer torn-up about this secret as he'd been when dallying
with Jonjo Kenney and being taken for granted by the likes of Salah or
Gomez.

And yet...

There was someone new next to whom that confidence melted like
candle-wax.

`I should have done less on my shoulders,' barked the gruff Eastern
European accent of his newer teammate, swaggering alongside him in the
passage from the gyms to the main locker-rooms; both young men had their
training tops pulled off and draped over one shoulder, and Trent
couldn't help but admire the long strong torso of the other bloke as
they walked, and the tattoo decoration of the nearer arm. Dominik
Szoboszlai turned his way with one of his handsomely pouting smiles, and
continued to complain about the pain in his muscular shoulders: `That
last rep was one too many, you know what I say?'

And Alexander-Arnold giggled along happily with him as he always did,
following the Hungarian 23-year-old through into the large central
changing rooms of the building, calling the bigger athlete a `Weakling'
and `Pussy' then whipping him in the centre of his back with the sweaty
nylon of his own gym top. The pair of them, increasingly inseparable
pals, squared up to their lockers, and big Dominik continued to rub
irritably at his upper arms and shoulders and make semi-exaggerated
flinches of suffering.

With the singsong voice of flirtation that he couldn't seem to avoid
around the big guy, Trent yelped at him, `Hey, I offered you a massage,
what more can I do?!'

The Liverpudlian dropped down to sit on the slatted bench below the
lockers, Szlobo still stood up next to him at his left, a strapping
figure in close-fitting red shorts. The Hungarian frowned and laughed and
dropped his sweaty shirt to the floor between his trainers, resting his
large hands at the hips of his shorts and underpants. `A massage from a
weed like you?' the 23-year-old demanded with the full manly confidence
with which he carried himself. He scoffed. `I don't think that would
help, Trentie.'

TAA giggled and shrugged and laughed, desperate to show that it was all
just a daft joke; he certainly didn't waste many an hour in bed
fantasising about properly getting his hands on the big hetero Hungarian,
his new go-to buddy in a squad that had lost some big personalities in
recent seasons.

Next to him, the RB Leipzig import continued to undress, kicking out of
his trainers and rolling down white socks from his big bulky feet,
flashes of those forested legs rising and falling in the corner of
Trent's eye - and then down went the skimpy shorts, so that the hefty
midfielder was in nothing but tight grey briefs that bulged impossibly at
the front, a package that drooped weightily between hairy upper thighs.
Unselfconscious of this, the relative newcomer turned partly this way and
waved a dismissive hand at him. `No,' Dominik told him firmly, `I
would need someone as strong as Mohamed to massage me!' Big throaty
laugh and then he was looming forward, bringing his hips and underpants
closer to Trent, reaching into his locker for the towel, and then
throwing it over his shoulder as he backed away. `You make me laugh,'
Dom said for the hundredth time, giving him a wink and a thumbs up, and
then striding away - as he often did, away from the steamy archway of the
communal showers, eschewing that for some privacy. Must be a Bundesliga
thing!

And this left Trent as deeply frustrated as Mo, but in a different place
- he was conscious of being hot, young, and single, and he tried his very
best to embrace the freedom of being spurned by Jordan Henderson, finally
able to fuck his way around Liverpool like the 25-year-old prince he was.
So... where were all the interested hunks for him to enjoy?!


A younger member of the LFC squad, and another resented former playmate
of frustrated Mo, was suffering no such crisis: a matter of yards away
from Trent's sweat-sheened body slumped against his locker, locked
safely inside a cleaning cupboard around the corner from said changing
rooms, the 20-year-old wunderkind was on his knees in baggy sweatpants
and only his white vest, other layers shrugged off for ease as he knelt
down there and lapped hungrily at the big cock which he held at the base.

Above him, one hand clutched against the sweaty skin of his lean face,
Curtis Jones groaned and tried to muffle the noise as best he could, far
more nervously conscious of their risky setting than the cock-hungry
winger on his knees.

With none of the frustration of Trent or Mohamed, Harvey Elliot noshed
happily on the big circumcised weapon of his dopey buddy, glad that he'd
discovered Curtis' delicious cock through that wild night with the Young
Lions. Sure, sucking just one big cock wasn't half the wild thrill of
the bukkake party with the future stars of the Three Lions, but he was
very happy to foster this special intimacy with well-hung geek Curtis, a
gangly stud who hardly seemed to understand how blessed he was with big
cock and balls, and who still looked traumatised for every second of a
blowjob apart from the joyous moment he emptied his sticky mess against
Harvey's lips and tongue.

As he had at semi-regular intervals since that decadent night with the
England U-21s, Elliott had made quick work of luring Jones aside, nudging
and winking at the lanky 22-year-old in the gym until the pair of them
were slipping away and finding this perfect spot, one they'd utilised
three or four times before. And here, on his knees, the goateed young
stud went to town, spitting messily on the head and shaft, then taking as
much of it as he could into his hungry gob, pausing only to lick and nip
at the low-hanging balls beneath Curtis' trimmed bush, or to kiss the
lower section of his tight six-pack, or his darkly-haired thighs, or to
stare seductively upwards whilst tonguing below the tip, making wild
devil eyes at the excited panicky face of his tall lean friend.

For all of Curtis' high tension, there was something routine and
familiar already about these scenes, as Harvey had made such greedy use
of the big cock for a snack; so when he rose up to his feet and wiped his
wet lips on the back of one arm, Jones actually looked a bit panicked and
dismayed - Harvey never failed to finish him and earn his mouthful, and
the questions were wide in Curtis' eyes.

`God you taste good,' drawled the Surrey lad, hardly measuring up to
the lofty figure of the sweating 22-year-old.

`Ugh,' whimpered the Scouser, before stammering, `b-b-but you
stopped?'

Harvey sniggered at this, stroking his pal's wet cock in one hand, and
nuzzling in close, kissing chest muscles through a clingy gym top, and
nuzzling against a long neck in a way that tickled and panicked the less
sexually open guy. Curtis shifted uncomfortably against him, as if
considering bursting out of the cupboard to escape the intimacy - but he
was sizeably rock-hard, so that was hardly an option, he was trapped here
by his own lust, all Harvey's, which made the young pup smirk and laugh
more, still quietly. `Come on,' he urged in a low growl, `you keep
saying you'll try returning the favour.'

This was the thing with Harvey, though he was less sex-starved than Trent
or Mo - he was still quite sure that he was meant to be a powerful top
lad, having bummed James fucking Milner. He had thought his dick-sucking
days were behind him after discovering the pleasure of being the one
being serviced. And then there'd been that wild episode with the U-21s,
several of whom hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since, and now
he was regularly eating loads from this gangly fuckwit - so there was a
slightly desperate edge to his cajoling now as he rubbed himself in his
sweats and pulled at the material of his mate's training top, writhing
close to him. `Just try it,' he urged, more forcefully than he'd
risked before - big Curtis was like a baby deer who might burst into a
frightened run if you spooked him.

Harvey looked him in the eye and he saw the mixture of feelings on his
mate's face, maybe some disgust and horror alongside the nervousness and
shyness - but there was also something so pliable and loyal about the
stuttering 22-year-old, and Harv knew it. As he saw the frown of
resignation furrow that acne-marked face, he almost felt bad and
manipulative, but fuck it - he deserved a bit of sucking after the
attention he'd lavished on big Curtis down there...!

`I dunno how,' Jones began to say.

`You ever had an ice lolly, for fuck's sake?' Harvey sniped back,
unable to contain his impatience and sense of entitlement. He pushed a
hand into the sweaty front of his pants, tugging out his stiff prick,
which had been leaking pre-cum on his inner thigh as he noshed Curtis. He
leant sideways, pressing himself against some shelves of gear, and nodded
urgently downwards. `Come on, just a taste!' he hissed.

Jones looked at him quite miserably, but he was a loyal guy, and Elliott
knew he would follow through. Slowly, the lanky git folded down, holding
on to a shelf for balance as he went down on his haunches, and Harvey
leaned his head back with eyes shut, making a pre-emptive moan of
enjoyment. `Mm, go on,' he purred, `just give it a lick, will you?
Phwor - I can feel your breath on it, you tease.' Nothing yet. `Go
on,' he urged, a bit more forcefully, `you promised, and I've been so
good at making you cum, big fella.'

All at once, he felt the hot wet lick of the nervous lad's mouth on his
cock, and it felt so long since he'd had a blowie himself that he
shuddered in enjoyment and let out a long genuine `Ohhhh' of pleasure.
`Come on,' he moaned, `that's it, bet you like it.' He opened his
eyes and looked down, seeing the conflict on Curtis' long face - he was
looking the dick in the eye like a mongoose and a snake, and Harvey
couldn't help but laugh. `It won't bite ya, dick-face,' he rebuked.

Eyes squeezed shut and face a grimace, Curtis leaned in and took the
shorter thicker cock in his mouth, and for all his clumsiness, it felt
GOOD - seeing his newness and discomfort just made it all the more
exciting for Harvey, who had been so giving with his own mouth as he
progressed through his teens. He resisted the urge to push forward, just
letting his friend explore with his lips, if not quite his tongue, and
moaning heavily to show him how good it already felt. `That's it,' he
breathed. `Just give it a go, big fella, just a little go, mmm...'

Just as the sensation was getting really good, Curtis pulled away,
screwing his face up. `You taste so sweaty,' he complained, and then he
was unfolding upright, back on his feet, spitting on the ground and
grimacing some more - Harvey could have been annoyed, but he couldn't
help just laughing at this, and grabbing his cock for a few wet tugs.
`And what do you think YOU taste of, mate?' he retorted, all the while
giving Curtis' dick a grab and tug, and starting to bend his knees.

`I tried it,' Jones muttered resentfully.

`Yeah you did,' he applauded. `Good lad. Now - are you gonna feed me
that salty goodness, CJ?' He licked his lips provocatively and stooped
low, ready to finish the job, locking eye contact with the nervous
twitches of the other lad's face - and Curtis just nodded eagerly,
blinking his heavy lashes, and leaning forward to bring his cock closer
to Harvey's mouth, which opened responsively. It had been brief, but it
was a start - he'd got a little payback from this big-dicked bastard,
and it was something to work with. So he opened wide and worked the big
veiny weapon, eager for another mouthful.


He heard the faint clanks and bangs from behind the cupboard door, but he
was distracted and somewhat naive, so he didn't really question it
beyond assuming a member of the site-staff were in there - the
24-year-old Argentine was hardly going to imagine that two young academy
graduates were trading oral sex and sweating profusely in the dark
confines of the cupboard, was he?

No, Alexis Mac Allister was hurrying on into the changing rooms, a man on
a mission. He'd been happy enough to follow the example of some more
established teammates and ignore Klopp's suggestion of an early finish,
since guys like Salah and van Dijk were, but now it had worn thin and the
World Cup winner was keen to get out of the AXA Training Centre. Quite
specifically, he was keen to get onto the rainswept motorway and back
home to his fiancee, who had begun to message him quite provocatively as
he sweated on a treadmill.

Now, the Celtic-tinged South American was peeling away his gym top in a
hurry, tottering through the scattered occupants of the changing rooms -
past some loud banter between Trent Alexander-Arnold and Diogo Jota, and
past a jokey argument between Andy Robertson and the much younger Scot,
Doak, whose accents Alexis absolutely struggled with in spite of his Fife
roots.

Urgently excited about what awaited him at home, Mac Allister found his
things and continued to strip, deciding that there was no point
showering. He'd be in a horny hot sweat all through the drive home, so
he may as well just pull his clean clothes over his lithe muscular body
even in this musty condition, sweat trails on his chest and back, and a
rugged dampness in his thick beard and wispy hairstyle.

Mac was down to his stretchy Under-Armour pants and some dirty black
socks when the buzzing impatience of his mobile phone alerted him again
and the World Cup star sat down to pluck it out and open the latest
messages, not paying much attention to the other lads who were undressing
next to him, fresh in from the same fitness suite as he. Younger and
impressionable Liverpool upstarts who had stayed too long because they
were keen not to be judged by the likes of Mo Salah.

And so the 24-year-old had no idea that one such lad was looking over his
shoulder as he opened first one and then several more dirty picture
messages, very visual evidence to confirm that his girlfriend was `wet
af' for him. The horny Argentine stared hungrily at the skilfully
snapped pics of his fiancee's eager pussy, and he licked his lips
unconsciously - theirs was a relationship of rabid sexual appetite,
something that had got him in trouble when he posted about it in the
comments under one of his World Cup celebration posts last year. As
boyish and innocent as his awkward laugh could make him appear, Alexis
was a ridiculously horny bastard, and this sort of urgent sexting was far
from rare for he and his partner - and still, he jumped in shock as the
lad just to his left cawed in appreciation and congratulated him,
`Fuck's sake fella! Whose cunt is that?'

Mac Allister started in a panic and then turned his awkward polite frown
to the teen, locking and sliding away his phone screen of intimate porn.
`Nobody for you,' the Argentine barked at the youngster, laughing
throatily to cover his embarrassment; but the kid's loud comment had
drawn attention, and the South American found himself the centre of
focus. He stood up in his strretchy pants and began to clamber into jeans
and hoody, ignoring them.

The accidental voyeur sounded excited and appreciative. `That looked so
hot,' 18-year-old Bobby Clark enthused, wide-eyed and admiring at his
side, in the process of peeling away his long training pants, exposing
his black boxers.

`What was it?' Northern Irish lad Conor Bradley was demanding.

`I didn't see, but it sounds hot,' chuckled Cumbrian James McConnell
on the other side. `You dirty dog, Alex Mac!'

Wriggling into his things, Alexis laughed off their comments and shook
his head, partly embarrassed, but more-so just eager to get on the road.
`You saw nothing,' he assured Clark falsely, refusing to engage. `But
I DO have plans.' He winked once at the nosy bastard, finishing up the
button fly of his Diesel jeans. The 24-year-old was somewhat shy now, but
he really just didn't want to hang around and indulge the locker-room
remarks of these veritable kids - he wanted out of here, before his cock
was hard, and in that damp traffic, rushing home to lick the prize in the
photo.


The uproarious laughter of dirty banter rippling through the changing
rooms COULD be heard in the separate shower cubicles at one end, but only
JUST; the hissy roar of plumbing obscured peals of laughter and raised
voices, and besides, blasted beneath this comforting heat, a guy could
only be half-interested in what was entertaining an assortment of his
teammates. Especially, that was, as a soapy hand slid past your wet pubes
and toyed with the thickening weight of your semi, indulging in a little
private fondle beneath the showerhead, as Dominik was now.

Szoboszlai was loving life in Liverpool, by and large, and not just on
the pitch; he was glad that he had fitted well into the sociable squad
and established easy friendships with several influential figures, not
least a local like Trent who could show him around the fun city. Dom was
fitting in well and he who would be laughing heartily without any concern
if he was out there and in on the joke. But instead he was in here,
scrubbing himself, and giving in to the temptation of rubbing his full
balls and massaging the oversized meaty snake above them, because... well,
why not? His model girlfriend was out of the country this week and he
would be heading back to an empty flat tonight, perhaps to video call his
Hungarian family, or to play some video games and get an early night -
why not pause here in the privacy of this shower cubicle and... have a
play?

It was an advantage to showering alone, he supposed, rather than the
standard exhibitionism of the communal shower block - not that Slzobo
fully avoided this sportsman ritual, he didn't want to seem weird or
antisocial, or to cause any fuss and demand special treatment. Though
there were oddities in their sport who really disliked the shared showers
and drew a line at it, these men were somewhat ostracised by wary
teammates who always interpreted it in a certain way - and Dominik had no
intention of being viewed in such a way! No, no, not him, not a
hot-blooded Hungarian like he. Bracing his handsome face against the hot
spray and rubbing a soapy hand over his chest, the big strong midfielder
quailed a little to think of certain memories, and the reasons why he now
sometimes preferred to shower solo like this - it wasn't just for the
sake of the odd secretive jerk-off.

Ostensibly, the 23-year-old was thinking of his girlfriend as he pulled
his dick into life, or a couple of key celebrity crushes, famous MILFs
who got him going; but the awareness of his privacy here, and the growing
aversion he had for the communal shower, it drew him inexorably back to
the incident that had started the habit, in his final weeks at Leipzig -
and for a moment he was back there in the Bundesliga, cleaning muck off
his big body in the steamy showers, and only half-listening to the chat
behind him. And in his mind's eye, he could see clearly enough the
shuffling closeness of the next player, edging to him, and the curious
expression as he'd half-turned to face his then-teammate: the spark in
those troublesome eyes next to him, and the lilting grin as a low
muttered voice in broken German delivered the intimate compliment: `Big
guy!'

The memory in the steam flickered away from Dominik's fractured
attention, but was replaced by something worse: himself in a hotel bed,
lying awake in the dark, and his cock as hard as it was now, but with the
hand of another on it. It was just a wank, just a hand-job, nothing else,
and yet it had troubled him every night since it happened - that same
sparky look from the other Leipzig player, glanced even in the near-dark
of the away match hotel suite. And his own self just lying there, letting
it happen, having silently assented to the curious fondle in the night,
to the murmured curiosity, the sharp broken German of the Croat he roomed
with. Here under the hot shower, Dominik awkwardly let go of his heavy
erection, ashamed to touch himself as his female fantasies were obscured
by this one guilty memory: and all he could see was the awkward bearded
grin of the other player, fellow quitter of the German league for
Premiership glory this season.

Szoboszlai grunted unhappily and did his best to wipe away the memory of
allowing Josko Gvardiol so close to him that night, shortly before they
had both confirmed their transfer deals to Liverpool and Manchester
respectively - and he shuddered in spite of the heat, ignoring his
throbbing hard-on, glad he was privately here in this solitary shower
cubicle to grimace and flinch, and try his best to forget what he'd let
happen in Germany. That, he reminded himself, was in the past, left in
the Bundesliga. Nobody here needed to know that he'd allowed the Croat
so close to him!


The pair of them were still laughing as they entered the showers, their
voices echoing in against damp tiles and gurgling pipes; 19-year-old
Morpeth lad James couldn't actually believe that the other teen had seen
such saucy details on Mac Allister's phone, and he was a bit shocked at
how exciting he found the lewd gossip. He undid the knot of his white
towel on the way across the tiled rectangle, taking his place at a free
spot and knocking on the hot water, briefly shivering as it heated up in
its blast against his slim muscular body. To his mild surprise, the other
teenage football player took the spot right next to him, when surely it
was more ordinary to use up the space of the quiet showers when they
didn't have to pack in like slippery wet sardines.

But it was clear that 18-year-old Bobby Clark still wanted to gossip
about their teammate. `The dirty bastard!' the aspiring midfielder
chuckled stupidly, knocking elbows with him and then reaching past him to
grab the soap. `Not even showering - gonna go home and fuck her still
sweaty from training!'

McConnell laughed back, waiting to retrieve the stolen soap, and watching
as dampness unfurled the tight blond curls of Clark's hair. `Well,
yeh,' he grumbled through his laughter, `I guess some ladies are into
that?!'

`Not my bird,' the other young player confided, raising his voice over
the watery roar. `She makes me shower before and after every shag,
y'know - clean freak, haha.'

`Oh, right,' newly single McConnell said vaguely, missing the brief
period of regular sex that she'd enjoyed with his ex, and thinking how
envious he was of the hot local social media influencer that Clark had
begun dating. `Well - I'm sure she's worth it.'

`Fuck yeah,' Bobby told him, `but she don't send me filth like THAT
at training.'

`No,' he murmured, thinking the same of his ex. He took back the soap
and lathered it up and down each arm, then across his chest, letting the
suds gather and dribble, and paying little attention to the varied bodies
around him. But next to him, Bobby was elbowing at his side again, and
leaning in too close. `Hey,' the Surrey lad insisted, `where the fuck
did Doaky go, wasn't he coming in to shower with us?'

`Uh - was he? Oh, er, dunno.' McConnell could become a bit shy and
self-conscious once he was stark bollock naked in here, even when there
wasn't many guys around, and no ridiculous Mens Health modelling going
on from Mo Salah's six-pack or obnoxiously large circumcised prick. He
glanced around, clocking the few others who were showering close to them,
then back at shiny wet Bobby, who looked intrigued and puzzled. `He
musta changed his mind,' James concluded disinterestedly, but Bobby
snorted with amusement and had another theory. `Too shy about his tiny
cock,' Clark theorised, and McConnell's instinctive reaction came soon
too filter: `His cock isn't t-'

Laughter exploded mockingly from the 18-year-old and from the other
nearest guys, and James went beetroot under his shower, forced to join
the laughter because he had no choice - oh for fuck's sake, there goes a
comment he'd never live down...!


In fact, Ben Doak had failed to follow his friends into the showers
because he was guilty of his own separate hero worship apart from the
cult of Salah; it was a Scotland thing, and the 17-year-old received much
gentle teasing from his buddies from his puppy-dog following of his
country's captain. Whilst Ben was stripped down and clad only in towel,
the 29-year-old guy was still in the baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit that
he'd worn to his physio appointment, drawing a big contrast between them
as the younger player followed his hero.

`Here it is,' Robbo told him pleasantly, fishing through the locker.
They were in an adjoining changing room to the main one, which the
Scotland skipper had only used because he wasn't involved in their main
day's activity - Robertson was only here as part of his developing rehab
program, following his international duty injury crisis, and had strolled
through into the main gym for a bit of socialising as Doak and others
finished up.

`For real?' the teen asked breathily, unable to believe his luck.

`Yeah, I told you I'd bring it!' the older man insisted happily.

Doak could only let out a sigh of appreciation, clutching the knot his
white towel, feeling a bit silly without clothes on - but he'd been
interrupted by the gruff bark of Robbo, just about to follow his mates
into the showers. But he was so impatient to get hold of this that he'd
happily followed his hero away, even if it was cooler in this changing
area, making his skin pimple and his dark pink nipples stand erect on his
scantly-haired chest.

Robbo turned to hold the item out wide, displaying it to him. `Yeah?'
he grunted, his wide-smiling face a picture of pride and generosity.

`You're sure?' Ben asked again. `You don't wanna keep it?'

`Fuck no,' Andrew told him. `I'm not a nostalgic guy - surprised I
still have it.'

`But... doesn't it mean loads to you?'

`Pftt -not like it does to you, matey!'

The 17-year-old gladly took the dated Scotland jersey from his hero,
clutching it in his fist: Andrew Robertson's match-worn shirt from his
Scotland debut, now passed on as a good luck relic to the young
right-winger. The Dalry youth clutched the treasured footy shirt in both
hands, his rugged features alight with respect and admiration for the
senior defender. Jesus, he thought, I'm gonna wear this to the next
family party and look so boss, and all the lads back home will- Aloud, he
gushed with gratitude and awkwardness, hardly able to believe that he was
developing this close friendship with the wiry Glaswegian who he aspired
to playing with it at club and country level.

`Just fished it out of an attic,' Robbo told him dismissively, but
beaming proudly. Doak was still astonished that his own naive hero
worship was met with such willing mentoring from the Scotland hero, and
he wasn't even sure how their training canteen chat last week had
spiralled to the older fella offering him this shirt - but now he had it
and he wanted to try it on, to slip into the legendary garment of his
Scotland hero. Robbo seemed to sense this desire and just chuckled
vaguely at him, scratching at the reddish-brown beard that was developing
thickly upon his face. `Go on,' he said with a nod.

And so Doak did, struggling into the slightly undersized footy shirt,
making it fit, pulling it across his broad shoulders and back, stretching
and writhing at it, suddenly paranoid it would be a terrible fit - and
getting a quick helping hand from Andy too to pull it right down and onto
him. It was taut on his slightly broader young build, but it felt good,
and he could see a real pride glow in Andrew's face at seeing it worn.

But- Ben could hardly have noticed it happened, wriggling and stretching
to get into the gifted shirt, but the knot of his towel had loosened, and
then loosened some more - so that now, stood in this empty room right in
front of his injured idol, the rough white material shed away from his
waistline. He'd covered up his pale upper body and perky nipples, but he
was suddenly stood there with white legs on show, and bushy pale brown
pubes, and soft dangling phallus - and he froze up in awkward
mortification, wondering why he'd pranced through here in just a towel,
then let it fall away!

They both of them stood there, Robertson half-leaning on the open door of
his locker, a frozen grin on his lips, other hand still scratching at his
facial hair - Doak stared at him, frozen still with his young dick out,
willing the older player to laugh, or say something, say anything,
instead of just staring ambiguously at him. The moment's silence seemed
to last forever, the narrow space between them filling with tension. Was
Andy actually staring judgmentally down at his flaccid cock, distinctly
average in size, but obviously miniscule in the teen's paranoid
imagination - he got enough jokes to that effect from boisterous fellow
players like Clark. Probably, it was only 15 or 20 seconds before Robbo
burst into his trademark gruff cackle, but it felt like an hour's naked
exposure.

`Lad!' guffawed the Scotland hero, `Get your towel back on and put
that big beast away, will ya? Jesus, put someone's eye out with that!'
More heavy laughter and a slapping hand to the shoulder. `Come on, big
fella, get outta here and have yer shower - fucking show-off bastard,
haha!'

No choice, Ben laughed along, loudly and anxiously, and he scrabbled for
his towel, throwing it about his waist and covering up. He was shaken not
only by his clumsy error, but by the long moment's tension - what kind
of tension? He wasn't sure - but he did his best to laugh it off and not
turn scarlet, backing away with both hands clamped to the seam of the
towel. `Oh shurrup,' he scoffed, feeling weirdly buoyed by the tone of
Robbo's banter - it made a joke for a fella to be laughing about his
cock by claiming it was annoyingly big, even if he couldn't quite
believe that to be true.

And as Robbo said, he did make a swift exit, needing to put this
treasured new shirt in his backpack, and to get that hot shower on his
muscles; but he glanced back at Robertson, the injured left-back
remaining at the open locker with an odd mixed expression on his face. He
was still grinning and chuckling, sure, but there was a slightly distant
look in his eyes - thoughtful, wistful, jarring. But Doak was too
embarrassed to pause and consider it for long, rushing through and
wriggling out of the shirt, not wanting to get it too sweaty on his bulky
young physique.


The training centre was emptying, player after player scampering out into
the rain, heading for solitary or shared cars, of varying levels of
extreme luxury - a world-weary and head-hanging Dominik sloped across the
wet car park on his own, troubled by the interrupting thoughts in the
shower, and a wistful Trent watched him from inside the soundtracked
interior of his own vehicle; a slow-moving Robertson emerged from a
different exit, moving his injured shoulder experimentally as he clicked
a button on his keys to unlock his motor; Salah's vehicle was already
skidding out of the gates and, playfighting like schoolboys, Elliott and
Jones were emerging from the main exit.

But inside, the gyms had not been entirely abandoned - not everyone had
made their slow way to the changing rooms and showers, communal or
otherwise.

Unseen by most, two of the lingering players had continued to work
quietly at their machines, exchanging silent intense stares behind the
backs of others. And those two, right now, were finishing up their very
specific muscular exercise, bodies interlocking, in a dark corner of the
furthest gym, behind stacked shelves of dumbbells. It was a ridiculous
risky spot, but that was half the fun, wasn't it?

Fucking like this, he could see himself in fragmented reflections,
snatches of mirror between the shelves and weights shining their bodies
back at him: the tight pale tan muscle of the slighter lad in his arms,
and his own dark bulk, pounding and slamming behind him. He had a hand
clamped over the bitch's mouth, because risks had to be calculated, but
their bodies made plenty of noise, the slam of meeting muscles and the
puckered noise of his big cock sliding in and out of the tight masculine
arse.

He was close to finishing, and he held his thickly-muscled arms all the
tighter around the lean frame of the other player, making the Uruguayan
squeal into the clammy palm that silenced his lips. It was tough to
suppress all that noise, when he enjoyed knowing how powerfully he was
penetrating the 24-year-old, slamming into his jiggling buttocks over and
over, cock buried deep in him and about to unload. Darwin Nunez was a
ragdoll in his grip, fucked hard and fast against the shelves and
mirrors, his face a picture of abjection and ecstasy. And over him,
pounding and slamming, Joe Gomez could only grin and growl at his own
dominant reflection, the big sexual beast of Liverpool Football Club - he
slammed a few more times into his tight new bottom, a recent discovery,
and then emptied his balls into the South American slut.

Having silenced and muffled squealing Darwin for the last ten minutes,
the 26-year-old Londoner now let out a long bestial groan of his own, and
released the slim striker from his bear-hug, retreating with a swing of
his strong arms, and a stroke of his sweaty pecs. Slowly, he stuffed his
sticky cock back into the mesh of his gym shorts, and let out a long low
laugh. Nunez glanced at him over his shoulder, pale and shiny in the
face, and Gomez winked - he'd fucked the man good, just like he'd
fucked Robbo and others before him. Whilst Mohamed and Trent sat around
getting stressed by lust and romance, the big man from Catford saw what
he wanted and took it.

`On you go,' Joe purred. `Get showered and wash my cum out of your
slut hole.'

Darwin nodded in exhausted silence and pulled up his shorts, reached for
his discarded vest. And off he went. Joe chuckled, felt the outline of
his wilting cock in his shorts, and found his own dropped gym shirt
somewhere on the carpet. He fought into it, covering up the bulging black
muscles of his torso, and then slowly padding through the deserted gyms,
feeling like a fucking king. At an open exit, he looked smilingly out in
the car park, watching cars disappear through the rain, and then stepping
outside to let some of the chill November downpour sizzle against his
overheated body - he paused, eyes closed, and remembered how good it felt
to be balls-deep in Darwin Nunez. God love Liverpool, the Londoner
thought, and he walked to his car.




'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